by Eugène Sue
“What! La Goualeuse?”
“Yes, madame.”
“In what way?”
“Frequently, when the prisoners are asleep, I walk through the dormitories. You would scarcely believe, my lady, how the countenances of these women differ in expression whilst they are slumbering. A good number of them, whom I have seen during the day, saucy, careless, bold, insolent, have appeared entirely changed when sleep has removed from their features all exaggeration of bravado; for, alas, vice has its pride! Oh, madame, what sad revelations on those dejected, mournful, and gloomy faces! What painful sighs, involuntarily elicited by some dream. I was speaking to your ladyship just now of the girl they call La Louve, — an untamed, untamable creature. It is but a fortnight since that she abused me in the vilest terms before all the prisoners. I shrugged up my shoulders, and my indifference whetted her rage. Then, in order to offend me more sorely, she began to say all sorts of disgraceful things of my mother, whom she had often seen come here to visit me.”
“What a shameful creature!”
“I confess that, although this attack was not worth minding, yet it made me feel uncomfortable. La Louve perceived this, and rejoiced in it. The same night, about midnight, I went to inspect the dormitories; I went to La Louve’s bedside (she was not to be put in the dark cell until next day) and I was struck with her calmness, — I might say the sweetness of her countenance, — compared with the harsh and daring expression which is habitual to it. Her features seemed suppliant, filled with regret and contrition; her lips were half open, her breast seemed oppressed, and — what appeared to me incredible, for I thought it impossible — two tears, two large tears, were in the eyes of this woman, whose disposition was of iron! I looked at her in silence for several minutes, when I heard her say, ‘Pardon! Pardon! Her mother!’ I listened more attentively, but all I could catch, in the midst of a murmur scarcely intelligible, was my name, ‘Madame Armand,’ uttered with a sigh.”
“She repented, during her sleep, of having uttered this bad language about your mother.”
“So I believe; and that made me less severe. No doubt she desired, through a miserable vanity, to increase her natural insolence in her companions’ eyes, whilst, perhaps, a good instinct made her repent in her sleep.”
“And did she evince any repentance for her bad behaviour next day?”
“Not the slightest, but conducted herself as usual, and was coarse, rude, and obstinate; but I assure your ladyship that nothing disposes us more to pity than the observations I have mentioned to you. I am persuaded (I may deceive myself, perhaps) that, during their sleep, these unfortunates become better, or rather return to themselves, with all their faults, it is true, but also with certain good instincts, no longer masked by the detestable assumption of vice. From all I have observed, I am led to believe that these creatures are generally less wicked than they affect to be; and, acting upon this conviction, I have often attained results it would have been impossible to realise, if I had entirely despaired of them.”
Madame d’Harville could not conceal her surprise at so much good sense, and so much just reasoning, joined to sentiments of humanity so noble and so practical, in an obscure inspectress of degraded women.
“But my dear madame,” observed Clémence, “you must have a great deal of courage, and much strength of mind, not to be repulsed by the ungratefulness of the task, which must so very seldom reward you by satisfactory results!”
“The consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and encourages, and sometimes we are recompensed by happy discoveries; now and then we find some rays of light in hearts which have hitherto been supposed to be in utter darkness.”
“Yet, madame, persons like you are very rarely met with?”
“No, I assure your ladyship, others do as I do, with more success and intelligence than I have. One of the inspectresses of the other division of St. Lazare, which is occupied by females charged with different crimes, would interest you much more. She told me this morning of the arrival of a young girl accused of infanticide. I never heard anything more distressing. The father of the unhappy girl, a hard-working, honest lapidary, has gone mad with grief on hearing his daughter’s shame. It seems that nothing could be more frightful than the destitution of all this family, who lived in a wretched garret in the Rue du Temple.”
“The Rue du Temple!” exclaimed Madame d’Harville, much astonished; “what is the workman’s name?”
“His daughter’s name is Louise Morel.”
“’Tis as I thought, then!”
“She was in the service of a respectable lawyer named M. Jacques Ferrand.”
“This poor family has been recommended to me,” said Clémence, blushing; “but I was far from expecting to see it bowed down by this fresh and terrible blow. And Louise Morel—”
“Declares her innocence, and affirms her child was born dead; and it seems as if hers were accents of truth. Since your ladyship takes an interest in this family, if you would be so good as to see the poor girl, perhaps this mark of your kindness might soothe her despair, which they tell me is really alarming.”
“Certainly I will see her; then I shall have two protégées instead of one, Louise Morel and La Goualeuse, for all you tell me relative to this poor girl interests me excessively. But what must be done to obtain her liberty? I will then find a situation for her. I will take care of her in future.”
“With your connections, madame, it will be very easy for you to obtain her liberty the day after to-morrow, for it is at the discretion of the Prefect of Police, and the application of a person of consequence would be decisive with him. But I have wandered from the observation which I made on the slumber of La Goualeuse; and, with reference to this, I must confess that I should not be astonished if, to the deeply painful feeling of her first error, there is added some other grief no less severe.”
“What mean you, madame?”
“Perhaps I am deceived; but I should not be astonished if this young girl, rescued by some circumstance from the degradation in which she was first plunged, has now some honest love, which is at the same time her happiness and her torment.”
“What are your reasons for believing this?”
“The determined silence which she keeps as to where she has passed the three months which followed her departure from the Cité makes me think that she fears being discovered by the persons with whom she in all probability found a shelter.”
“Why should she fear this?”
“Because then she would have to own to a previous life, of which they are no doubt ignorant.”
“True; her peasant’s dress.”
“And then a subsequent circumstance has confirmed my suspicions. Yesterday evening, when I was walking my round of inspection in the dormitory, I went up to La Goualeuse’s bed. She was in a deep sleep, and, unlike her companions, her features were calm and tranquil. Her long, light hair, half disengaged from their bands, fell in profusion down her neck and shoulders. Her two small hands were clasped, and crossed over her bosom, as if she had gone to sleep whilst praying. I looked for some moments with interest at her lovely face, when, in a low voice, and with an accent at once respectful, sad, and impassioned, she uttered a name.”
“And that name?”
After a moment’s silence, Madame Armand replied, gravely:
“Although I consider that anything learnt during sleep is sacred, yet you interest yourself so generously in this unfortunate girl, madame, that I will confide this name to your secrecy. It was Rodolph.”
“Rodolph!” exclaimed Madame d’Harville, thinking of the prince. Then, reflecting that, after all, his highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein could have no connection with the Rodolph of the poor Goualeuse, she said to the inspectress, who seemed astonished at her exclamation:
“The name has surprised me, madame, for, by a singular chance, it is that of a relation of mine; but what you tell me of La Goualeuse interests me more and more. Can I see her to-day? now — directly?”
“Yes, madame, I will go, as you wish it, and ask her; I can also learn more of Louise Morel, who is in the other side of the prison.”
“I shall, indeed, be greatly obliged to you, madame,” replied Madame d’Harville, who the next moment was alone.
“How strange!” she said. “I cannot account for the singular impression which this name of Rodolph makes upon me! I am really quite insane! What connection can there be between him and such a creature?” Then, after a moment’s silence, the marchioness added, “He was right; how all this does interest me! The mind, the heart, expand when they are occupied so nobly! ’Tis as he said; we seem to participate somewhat in the power of Providence when we aid those who deserve it; and, then, these excursions into a world of which we had no idea are so attractive, — so amusing, as he said so pleasantly! What romance could give me such deep feelings, excite my curiosity to such a pitch? This poor Goualeuse, for instance, has inspired me with deep pity, after all I have heard of her; and I will blindly follow up this commiseration, for the inspectress has too much experience to be deceived with respect to our protégée. And the other unhappy girl, — the artisan’s daughter, whom the prince has so generously succoured in my name! Poor people! their bitter suffering has served as a pretext to save me. I have escaped shame, perhaps death, by a hypocritical falsehood. This deceit weighs on my mind, but I will expiate my fault by my charity, though that may be too easy a mode. It is so sweet to follow Rodolph’s noble advice! It is to love as well as to obey him. Oh, I feel it with rapture! His breath, alone, animates and fertilises the new existence which he has given me in directing me to console those who suffer. I experience an unalloyed delight in acting but as he directs, in having no ideas but his; for I love him, — ah, yes, I love him! And yet he shall always be in ignorance of this, the lasting passion of my life.”
Whilst Madame d’Harville is waiting for La Goualeuse, we will conduct the reader into the presence of the prisoners.
CHAPTER X.
MONT SAINT-JEAN.
IT WAS JUST two o’clock by the dial of the prison of St. Lazare. The cold, which had lasted for several days, had been succeeded by soft, mild, and almost spring weather; the rays of the sun were reflected in the water of the large square basin, with its stone corners, formed in the centre of a courtyard planted with trees, and surrounded by dark, high walls pierced with a great many iron-barred windows. Wooden benches were fastened here and there in this large paved enclosure, which served for the walking-place of the prisoners. The ringing of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the prisoners came in throngs by a thick wicket-door which was opened to them. These women, all clad alike, wore black skull-caps and long loose gowns of blue woollen cloth, fastened around the waist by a band and iron buckle. There were there two hundred prostitutes, sentenced for breach of the particular laws which control them and place them out of the pale of the common law. At first sight their appearance had nothing striking, but, after regarding them with further attention, there might be detected in each face the almost ineffaceable stigmas of vice, and particularly that brutishness which ignorance and misery invariably engender. Whilst contemplating these masses of lost creatures, we cannot help recollecting with sorrow that most of them have been pure and honest, at least at some former period. We say “most of them,” because there are some who have been corrupted, vitiated, depraved, not only from their youth, but from tenderest infancy, — even from their very birth, if we may say so; and we shall prove it as we proceed.
We ask ourselves, then, with painful curiosity, what chain of fatal causes could thus debase these unhappy creatures, who have known shame and chastity? There are so many declivities, alas, which verge to that fall! It is rarely the passion of the depraved for depravity; but dissipation, bad example, perverse education, and, above all, want, which lead so many unfortunates to infamy; and it is the poor classes alone who pay to civilisation this impost on soul and body.
When the prisoners came into the yard, running and crying out, it was easy to discern that it was not alone the pleasure of leaving their work that made them so noisy. After having hurried forth by the only gate which led to this yard, the crowd spread out and made a ring around a misshapen being, whom they assailed with shouts. She was a small woman, from thirty-six to forty years of age; short, round-shouldered, deformed, and with her neck buried between shoulders of unequal height. They had snatched off her black cap, and her hair, which was flaxen, or rather a pale yellow, coarse, matted, and mingled with gray, fell over her low and stupid features. She was clad in a blue loose gown, like the other prisoners, and had under her right arm a small bundle, wrapped up in a miserable, ragged, checked pocket-handkerchief. With her left elbow she endeavoured to ward off the blows aimed at her. Nothing could be more lamentably ludicrous than the visage of this unhappy woman. She was hideous and distorted in figure, with projecting features, wrinkled, tanned, and dirty, which were pierced with two holes for nostrils, and two small, red, bloodshot eyes. By turns wrathful and imploring, she scolded and entreated; but they laughed even more at her complaints than her threats. This woman was the plaything of the prisoners. One thing ought, however, to have protected her from such ill-usage, — she was evidently about to become a mother; but her ugliness, her imbecility, and the custom they had of considering her as a victim intended for common sport, rendered her persecutors implacable, in spite of their usual respect for maternity.
Amongst the fiercest enemies of Mont Saint-Jean (that was the unhappy wretch’s name), La Louve was conspicuous. La Louve was a strapping girl of twenty, active, and powerfully grown, with regular features. Her coarse black hair was varied by reddish shades, whilst her blood suffused her skin with its hue; a brown down shaded her thin lips; her chestnut eyebrows, thick and projecting, were united over her large and fierce eyes. There was something violent, savage, and brutal in the expression of this woman’s physiognomy, — a sort of habitual sneer, which curled her upper lip during a fit of rage, and, exposing her white and wide-apart teeth, accounted for her name of La Louve (the she-wolf). Yet in that countenance there was more of boldness and insolence than cruelty; and, in a word, it was seen that, rather become vicious than born so, this woman was still susceptible of certain good impulses, as the inspectress had told Madame d’Harville.
“Alas! alas! What have I done?” exclaimed Mont Saint-Jean, struggling in the midst of her companions. “Why are you so cruel to me?”
“Because it is so amusing.”
“Because you are only fit to be teased.”
“It is your business.”
“Look at yourself, and you will see that you have no right to complain.”
“But you know well enough that I don’t complain as long as I can help it; I bear it as long as I can.”
“Well, we’ll let you alone, if you will tell us why you call yourself Mont Saint-Jean.”
“Yes, yes; come, tell us all that directly.”
“Why, I’ve told you a hundred times. It was an old soldier that I loved a long while ago, and who was called so because he was wounded at the battle of Mont Saint-Jean; so I took his name. That’s it; now are you satisfied? You will make me repeat the same thing over, and over, and over!”
“If your soldier was like you, he was a beauty!”
“I suppose he was in the Invalids?”
“The remains of a man—”
“How many glass eyes had he?”
“And wasn’t his nose of block tin?”
“He must have been short of two arms and two legs, besides being deaf and blind, if he took up with you.”
“I am ugly, — a monster, I know that as well as you can tell me. Say what you like, — make game of me, if you choose, it’s all one to me; only don’t beat me, that’s all, I beg!”
“What have you got in that old handkerchief?” asked La Louve.
“Yes, yes! What is it?”
“Show it up directly!”
“Let’s see! Let’s see!”
“What! Must we take it from you?”
“Yes, snatch it from her, La Louve!”
“Oh, you won’t be so wicked? Let it go! Let it go, I say!”
“What is it?”
“Why, it’s the beginning of my baby linen; I make it with the old bits of linen which no one wants, and I pick up. It’s nothing to you, is it?”
“Oh, the baby linen of Mont Saint-Jean’s little one! That must be a rum set out!”
“Let’s look at it.”
“The baby clothes! The baby clothes!”
“She has taken measure of the keeper’s little dog, no doubt.”
“Here’s your baby clothes,” cried La Louve, snatching the bundle from Mont Saint-Jean’s grasp.
The handkerchief, already torn, was now rent to tatters, and a quantity of fragments of stuff of all colours, and old pieces of linen half cut out, flew around the yard, and were trampled under feet by the prisoners, who holloaed and laughed louder than before.
“Here’s your rags!”
“Why, it is a ragpicker’s bag.”
“Patterns from the ragman’s.”
“What a shop!”
“And to sew all that rubbish!”
“Why, there’s more thread than stuff.”
“What nice embroidery!”
“Here, pick up your rags and tatters, Mont Saint-Jean.”
“Oh, how wicked! Oh, how cruel!” exclaimed the poor ill-used creature, running in every direction after the pieces, which she endeavoured to pick up in spite of pushes and blows. “I never did anybody any harm,” she added, weeping. “I have offered, if they would let me alone, to do anything I could for anybody, to give them half my allowance, although I am always so hungry; but, no! no! it’s always so. What can I do to be left in peace? They haven’t even pity of a poor woman in the family way. They are more cruel than the beasts. Oh, the trouble I had to collect these little bits of linen! How else can I make the clothes for my baby, for I have no money to buy them with? What harm was there in picking up what nobody else wanted when it was thrown away?” Then Mont Saint-Jean exclaimed suddenly, with a ray of hope, “Oh, there you are, Goualeuse! Now, then, I’m safe; do speak to them for me; they will listen to you, I am sure, for they love you as much as they hate me.”