by Eugène Sue
“All reflections on such a dreadful event are useless. We can only remain overwhelmed at the inscrutable decrees of Providence.”
We quote this journal in order to show the general opinion which attributed the death of Clémence’s husband to fatal and lamentable imprudence.
Is there any occasion to say that M. d’Harville alone carried with him to the tomb the mysterious secret of his voluntary death, — yes, voluntary and calculated upon, and meditated with as much calmness as generosity, in order that Clémence might not conceive the slightest suspicion as to the real cause of his suicide?
Thus the projects of which M. d’Harville had talked with his steward and his friends, — those happy confidences to his old servant, the surprise which he proposed for his wife, were all but so many precautions for the public credulity.
How could it be supposed that a man so preoccupied as to the future, so anxious to please his wife, could think of killing himself? His death was, therefore, attributed to imprudence, and could not be attributed to anything else.
As to his determination, an incurable despair had dictated that. By showing herself as affectionate towards him, and as tender as she had formerly been cold and disdainful, by again appearing to entertain a high regard, Clémence had awakened in the heart of her husband deep remorse.
Seeing her so sadly resigned to a long life without love, passed with a man visited by an incurable and frightful malady, and utterly persuaded that, after her solemn conversation, Clémence could never subdue the repugnance with which he inspired her, M. d’Harville was seized with a profound pity for his wife, and an entire disgust for himself and for life.
In the exasperation of his anguish, he said to himself:
“I only love, — I never can love, — but one woman in the world, and she is my own wife. Her conduct, full of noble-heartedness and high mind, would but increase my mad passion, if it be possible to increase it. And she, my wife, can never belong to me! She has a right to despise, — to hate me! I have, by base deceit, chained this young creature to my hateful lot! I repent it bitterly. What, then, should I do for her? Free her from the hateful ties which my selfishness has riveted upon her. My death alone can break those rivets; and I must, therefore, die by my own hand!”
This was why M. d’Harville had accomplished this great, — this terrible sacrifice.
The inexorable immutability of the law sometimes makes certain terrible positions irremediable, and, as in this case (as divorce was unattainable), only allows the injury to be effaced by an additional crime.
CHAPTER IX.
ST. LAZARE.
THE PRISON OF St. Lazare, especially devoted to female thieves and prostitutes, is daily visited by many ladies, whose charity, whose names, and whose social position command universal respect. These ladies, educated in the midst of the splendours of fortune, — these ladies, properly belonging to the best society, — come every week to pass long hours with the miserable prisoners of St. Lazare; watching in these degraded souls for the least indication of an aspiration towards good, the least regret for a past criminal life, and encouraging the good tendencies, urging repentance, and, by the potent magic of the words, Duty, Honour, Virtue, withdrawing from time to time one of these abandoned, fallen, degraded, despised creatures, from the depths of utter pollution.
Accustomed to delicacy and the most polished breeding of the highest circles, these courageous females quit their homes, after having pressed their lips on the virgin foreheads of their daughters, pure as the angels of heaven, and go into dark prisons to brave the coarse indifference or infamous language of these thieves and lost women.
Faithful to their tasks of high morality, they boldly plunge into the tainted soil, place their hands on those gangrened hearts, and, if any feeble pulsation of honour reveals to them a slight hope of recovery, they contend for and snatch from irrevocable perdition the wretched soul of which they have never despaired.
Having said so much by way of introduction to the new scenes to which we are about to direct attention, we will introduce the reader to St. Lazare, an immense edifice of imposing and repulsive aspect, situated in the Faubourg St. Denis.
Ignorant of the shocking drama that was passing at her own house, Madame d’Harville had gone to the prison, after having received certain information from Madame de Lucenay as to the two unhappy females whom the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand had plunged into misery. Madame de Blinval, one of the patronesses of the charity of the young prisoners, being on this day unable to accompany Clémence to St. Lazare, she had gone thither alone. She was received with great attention by the governor and the several female superintendents, who were distinguished by their black garments and the blue riband with the silver medal which they wore around their necks. One of these superintendents, a female of mature age, with a serious but kind expression of countenance, remained alone with Madame d’Harville, in a small room attached to the registry office.
We may easily suppose that there is often unrecognised devotion, understanding, commiseration, and sagacity amongst the respectable females who devote themselves to the humble and obscure function of superintendent of the prisoners. Nothing can be more excellent, more practical, than the notions of order, work, and duty which they endeavour to instil into the prisoners, in the hope that these instructions may survive their term of imprisonment. In turns indulgent and firm, patient and severe, but always just and impartial, these females, incessantly in contact with the prisoners, end, after the lengthened experience of years, by acquiring such a knowledge of the physiognomy of these unfortunates that they can judge of them almost invariably from the first glance, and can at once classify them according to their degree of immorality.
Madame Armand, the inspectress who remained with Madame d’Harville, possessed in a remarkable degree this almost supernatural prescience as to the character of the prisoners; her words and decisions had very great weight in the establishment.
Madame Armand said to Clémence:
“Since madame wishes me to point out to her such of our prisoners as have by good conduct, or sincere repentance, deserved that an interest should be taken in them, I believe I can mention to her a poor girl whom I believe to be more unfortunate than culpable; for I am not deceived when I say that it is not too late to save this young girl, an unhappy creature of not more than sixteen or seventeen years of age.”
“And for what is she imprisoned?”
“She is guilty of being found in the Champs Elysées in the evening. As it is prohibited to such females, under very severe penalties, to frequent, by day or night, certain public places, and as the Champs Elysées are in the number of the forbidden promenades, she was apprehended.”
“And does she appear to you interesting?”
“I never saw features more regular, more ingenuous. Picture to yourself, my lady, the face of a Virgin; and what adds still more to the expression of modesty in her countenance is that, on coming here, she was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of Paris.”
“She is, then, a country girl?”
“No, my lady; the inspectors knew her again. She had lived for some weeks in a horrible abode in the Cité, from which she has been absent for two or three months; but, as she had not demanded the erasure of her name from the police registries, she comes under the power of that body, which has sent her hither.”
“But, perhaps, she had quitted Paris to try and reinstate herself?”
“I think so, madame; and it is therefore I have taken such an interest in her. I have questioned her as to her past life, inquired if she came from the country, and told her to hope, as I did myself, that she might still return to a course of good life.”
“And what reply did she make?”
“Lifting her full and melancholy blue eyes on me, filled with tears, she said, with angelic sweetness, ‘I thank you, madame, for your kindness; but I cannot say one word as to the past; I was apprehended, — I was doing wrong, and I do not therefore complain.’ ‘Bu
t where do you come from? Where have you been since you quitted the Cité? If you went into the country to seek an honest livelihood, say so, and prove it. We will write to the prefect to obtain your liberty, your name will be scratched off the police register, and you will be encouraged in your good resolutions.’ ‘I beseech you, madame, do not ask me; I cannot answer you,’ she replied. ‘But, on leaving this house, would you return again to that place of infamy?’ ‘Oh, never!’ she exclaimed. ‘What, then, will you do?’ ‘God only knows!’ she replied, letting her head fall on her bosom.”
“Very singular! And she expresses herself—”
“In very excellent terms, madame; her deportment is timid and respectful, but without servility; nay, more, in spite of the extreme gentleness of her voice and look, there is in her accent and her attitude a sort of proud sorrow which puzzles me. If she did not belong to that wretched class of which she forms one, I should say that her haughtiness announces a soul which has a consciousness of dignity.”
“But this is all a romance!” exclaimed Clémence, deeply interested, and finding, as Rodolph had told her, that nothing was more interesting than to do good. “And how does she behave with the other prisoners? If she is endowed with that dignity of soul that you imagine, she must suffer excessively in the midst of her wretched associates.”
“Madame, for me, who observe all from my position, and from habit, all about this young girl is a subject of astonishment. Although she has been here only three days, yet she already possesses a sort of influence over the other prisoners.”
“In so short a time?”
“They feel for her not only interest, but almost respect.”
“What! these unhappy women—”
“Have sometimes the instinct of a remarkable delicacy in recognising and detecting noble qualities in others; only, they frequently hate those persons whose superiority they are compelled to admit.”
“But do they hate this poor girl?”
“Far from it, my lady; none of them knew her before she came here. They were at first struck with her appearance. Her features, although of singular beauty, are, if I may so express myself, covered with a touching and sickly paleness; and this melancholy and gentle countenance at first inspired them with more interest than jealousy. Then she is very silent, another source of surprise for these creatures, who, for the most part, always endeavour to banish thought by making a noise, talking, and moving about. In fact, although reserved and retiring, she showed herself compassionate, which prevented her companions from taking offence at her coldness of manner. This is not all: about a month since, an intractable creature, nicknamed La Louve (the she-wolf), such is her violent and brutal character, became a resident here. She is a woman of twenty years of age, tall, masculine, with good-looking but strongly marked features, and we are sometimes compelled to place her in the black-hole to subdue her violence. The day before yesterday, only, she came out of the cell, still irritated at the punishment she had undergone; it was meal-time, the poor girl of whom I speak could not eat, and said, sorrowfully, to her companions, ‘Who will have my bread?’ ‘I will!’ said La Louve. ‘I will!’ then said a creature almost deformed, called Mont Saint-Jean, who is the laughing-stock and, sometimes in spite of us, the butt of the other prisoners, although several months advanced in pregnancy. The young girl gave her bread to this latter, to the extreme anger of La Louve. ‘It was I who asked you for the allowance first!’ she exclaimed, furiously. ‘That is true; but this poor woman is about to become a mother, and wants it more than you do,’ replied the young girl. La Louve, notwithstanding, snatched the bread from the hands of Mont Saint-Jean, and began to wave her knife about, and to vociferate loudly. As she is very evil-disposed and much feared, no one dared take the part of the poor Goualeuse, although all the prisoners silently sided with her.”
“What do you call her name, madame?”
“La Goualeuse; it is the name, or rather the nickname, under which they brought her here who is my protégée, and will, I hope, my lady, soon be yours. Almost all of them have borrowed names.”
“This is a very singular one.”
“It signifies in their horrid jargon ‘the singer,’ for the young girl has, they told me, a very delightful voice; and I believe it, for her speaking tones are sweetness itself.”
“But how did she escape from this wretch, La Louve?”
“Rendered still more furious by the composure of La Goualeuse, she rushed towards her, uttering menaces, and with her uplifted knife in her hand. All the prisoners cried out with fear; La Goualeuse alone, looking at this fierce creature without alarm, smiled at her bitterly and said, in her sweet voice, ‘Oh, kill me! Kill me! I am willing to die. But do not make me suffer too great pain!’ These words, they told me, were uttered with a simplicity so affecting, that almost all the prisoners burst into tears.”
“I can imagine so,” said Madame d’Harville, deeply moved.
“The worst characters,” continued the inspectress, “have, fortunately, occasional good feelings. When she heard these words, bearing the stamp of such painful resignation, La Louve, touched (as she afterwards declared) to her inmost core, threw her knife on the ground, fell at her feet and exclaimed, ‘It was wrong — shameful to threaten you, Goualeuse, for I am stronger than you! You are not afraid of my knife; you are bold — brave! I like brave people; and now, from this day forth, if any dare to molest you, let them beware, for I will defend you.’”
“What a singular being!”
“This incident strengthened La Goualeuse’s influence still more and more. A thing almost unexampled here, none of the prisoners accost her familiarly. The majority are respectful to her, and even proffer to do for her all the little services that prisoners can render to one another. I spoke to some of the women of her dormitory, to learn the reason of this deference which was evinced towards her. ‘It is hardly explicable to ourselves,’ they replied; ‘but it is easy to perceive she is not one of us.’ ‘But who told you so?’ ‘No one told us; it is easy to discover it.’ ‘By what?’ ‘By a thousand things. In the first place, before she goes to bed, she goes down on her knees and says her prayers; and if she pray, as La Louve says, why, she must have a right to do so.’”
“What a strange observation!”
“These unhappy creatures have no religious feeling, and still they never utter here an impious or irreligious word. You will see, madame, in all our rooms small altars, where the statue of the Virgin is surrounded with offerings and ornaments which they have made. Every Sunday they burn a quantity of wax candles before them in ex-voto. Those who attend the chapel behave remarkably well; but generally the very sight of holy places frightens them. To return to La Goualeuse; her companions said to me, ‘We see that she is not one of us, by her gentle ways, her sadness, and the manner in which she talks.’ ‘And then,’ added La Louve (who was present at this conversation), abruptly, ‘it is quite certain that she is not one of us, for this morning, in the dormitory, without knowing why, we were all ashamed of dressing ourselves before her.’”
“What remarkable delicacy in the midst of so much degradation!” exclaimed Madame d’Harville.
“Yes, madame, in the presence of men, and amongst themselves, modesty is unknown to them, and yet they are painfully confused at being seen half dressed by us or the charitable visitors who come, like your ladyship, to the prison. Thus the profound instinct of modesty, which God has implanted in us, reveals itself even in these fallen creatures, at the sight of those persons whom they can respect.”
“It is at least consolatory to find some good and natural feelings, which are stronger even than depravity.”
“Assuredly it is; and these women are capable of devoted attachments which, were they worthily placed, would be most honourable. There is also another sacred feeling with them, who respect nothing, fear nothing, and that is maternity. They honour it, rejoice at it; and they are admirable mothers, considering nothing a sacrifice to keep their children near the
m. They will undergo any trouble, difficulty, or danger that they may bring them up; for, as they say, these little beings are the only ones who do not despise them.”
“Have they, then, so deep a sense of their abject condition?”
“They are not half so much despised by others as they despise themselves. With those who sincerely repent, the original blot of sin is ineffaceable in their own eyes, even if they should find themselves in a better position; others go mad, so irremediably is this idea imprinted in their minds; and I should not be surprised, madame, if the heartfelt grief of La Goualeuse is attributable to something of this nature.”
“If so, how she must suffer! — a remorse which nothing can soothe!”
“Fortunately, madame, this remorse is more frequent than is commonly believed. The avenging conscience is never completely lulled to sleep; or, rather, strange as it may appear, sometimes it would seem that the soul is awake whilst the body is in a stupor; and this remark I again made last night in reference to my protégée.”