Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  The painful anger with which La Louve was possessed when she returned to the reality, after having allowed herself to be charmed by the new and wholesome reverie in which, for the first time, Fleur-de-Marie had plunged her, proved the influence of her words on her unfortunate companion. The more bitter were La Louve’s regrets when she fell back from this consoling delusion to the horrors of her real position, the greater was La Goualeuse’s triumph. After a moment’s silence and reflection, La Louve raised her head suddenly, passed her hand over her brow, and rose threatening and angry.

  “See, see! I had reason to mistrust you, and to desire not to listen to you, because it would turn to ill for me! Why did you talk thus to me? Why make a jest of me? Why mock me? And because I have been so weak as to say to you that I should like to live in the depths of a forest with my man. Who are you, then, that you should make a fool of me in this way? You, miserable girl, don’t know what you have done! Now, in spite of myself, I shall always be thinking of this forest, the house, and — and — the children — and all that happiness which I shall never have — never — never! And if I cannot forget what you have told me, why, my life will be one eternal punishment, — a hell, — and that by your fault! Yes, by your fault!”

  “So much the better! Oh, so much the better!” said Fleur-de-Marie.

  “You say, so much the better!” exclaimed La Louve, with her eyes glaring.

  “Yes, — so much the better! For if your present miserable life appears to you a hell, you will prefer that of which I have spoken to you.”

  “What is the use of preferring it, since it is not destined for me? What is the use of regretting that I walk the streets, since I shall die in the streets?” exclaimed La Louve, more and more irritated, and taking in her powerful grasp the small hand of Fleur-de-Marie. “Answer — answer! Why do you try to make me desire that which I cannot have.”

  “To desire an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of that life, as I have already told you,” replied Fleur-de-Marie, without attempting to disengage her hand.

  “Well, and what then? Suppose I am worthy, what does that prove? How much the better off will that make me?”

  “To see realised what you consider as a dream,” answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so serious and full of conviction that La Louve, again under control, let go La Goualeuse’s hand, and gazed at her in amazement.

  “Listen to me, La Louve,” said Fleur-de-Marie, in a voice full of feeling; “do you think me so wicked as to excite such ideas and hopes in you, if I were not sure that, whilst I made you blush at your present condition, I gave you the means to quit it?”

  “You! You can do this?”

  “I! No; but some one who is good, and great, and powerful.”

  “Great and powerful?”

  “Listen, La Louve. Three months ago I was, like you, a lost, an abandoned creature. One day he of whom I speak to you with tears of gratitude,” — and Fleur-de-Marie wiped her eyes,— “one day he came to me, and he was not afraid, abased and despised as I was, to say comforting words to me, the first I had ever heard. I told him my sufferings, my miseries, my shame; I concealed nothing from him, just as you have related to me all your past life, La Louve. After having listened to me with kindness, he did not blame, but pitied me; he did not even reproach me with my disgraceful position, but talked to me of the calm and pure life which was found in the country.”

  “As you did just now?”

  “Then my situation appeared to me the more frightful, in proportion as the future he held out to me seemed more beautiful.”

  “Like me?”

  “Yes, and so I said as you did, — What use, alas! is it to make me fancy this paradise, — me, who am chained to hell? But I was wrong to despair; for he of whom I speak is so good, so just, that he is incapable of making a false hope shine in the eyes of a poor creature who asked no one for pity, happiness, or hope.”

  “And what did he do for you?”

  “He treated me like a sick child. I was, like you, immersed in a corrupted air, and he sent me to breathe a wholesome and reviving atmosphere. I was also living amongst hideous and criminal beings, and he confided me to persons as good as himself, who have purified my soul and elevated my mind; for he communicates to all those who love and respect him a spark of his own refined intelligence. Yes, if my words move you, La Louve, if my tears make your tears flow, it is that his mind and thought inspire me. If I speak to you of the happier future which you will obtain by repentance, it is because I can promise you this future in his name, although, at this moment, he is ignorant of the engagement I make. In fact, I say to you, Hope! because he always listens to the voice of those who desire to become better; for God sent him on earth to make people believe in his providence!”

  La Goualeuse in the prison.

  Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.

  As she spoke, Fleur-de-Marie’s countenance became radiant, and her pale cheeks suffused with a delicate carnation; her beautiful eyes sparkled, and she appeared so touchingly beautiful that La Louve gazed on her with respectful admiration, and said:

  “Where am I? Do I dream? Who are you, then? Oh, I was right when I said you were not one of us! But, then, you talk so well, — you, who can do so much, you, who know such powerful people, how is it that you are here, a prisoner with us?”

  Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame Armand came up and interrupted her, to conduct her to Madame d’Harville. La Louve remained overwhelmed with surprise, and the inspectress said to her:

  “I see, with pleasure, that the presence of La Goualeuse in the prison has brought good fortune to you and your companions. I know you have made a subscription for poor Mont Saint-Jean; that is kind and charitable, La Louve, and will be of service to you. I was sure that you were better than you allowed yourself to appear. In recompense for this kind action, I think I can promise you that the term of your imprisonment shall be shortened by several days.”

  Madame Armand then walked away, followed by Fleur-de-Marie.

  We must not be astonished at the almost eloquent language of Fleur-de-Marie, when we remember that her mind, so wonderfully gifted, had rapidly developed itself, thanks to the education and instruction she had received at Bouqueval farm.

  The young girl was, indeed, strong in her experience.

  The sentiments she had awakened in the heart of La Louve had been awakened in her own heart by Rodolph, and under almost similar circumstances.

  Believing that she detected some good instincts in her companion, she had endeavoured to lure her back to honesty, by proving to her (according to Rodolph’s theory, applied to the farm at Bouqueval) that it was her interest to become honest, by pointing out to her restitution to the paths of rectitude in smiling and attractive colours.

  And here let us repeat that, in our opinion, an incomplete as well as stupid and inefficacious mode is employed to inspire the poor and ignorant classes with a hatred of evil and a love of good.

  In order to turn them away from the bad path, they are incessantly threatened with divine and human vengeance; incessantly a sinister clank is sounded in their ears: prison-keep, fetters, handcuffs; and, in the distance, in dark shadow, at the extreme horizon of crime, they have their attention directed to the executioner’s axe glittering amidst the glare of everlasting flames. We observe that the intimidation is constant, fearful, and appalling. To him who does ill, imprisonment, infamy, punishment. This is just. But to him who does well does society award noble gifts, glorious distinctions? No.

  Does society encourage resignation, order, probity, in that immense mass of artisans who are for ever doomed to toil and privation, and almost always to profound misery, by benevolent rewards? No.

  Is the scaffold which the criminal ascends a protection for the man of integrity? No.

  Strange and fatal symbol! Justice is represented as blind, bearing in one hand a sword to punish, and in the other scales in which she weighs accusation and defence. This is not the image o
f Justice. This is the image of Law, or, rather, of the man who condemns or acquits according to his conscience. Justice should hold in one hand a sword, and in the other a crown, — one to strike the wicked, and the other to recompense the good. The people would then see that, if there is a terrible punishment for evil, there is a brilliant recompense for good; whilst as it is, in their plain and simple sense, the people seek in vain for the contrary side of tribunals, gaols, galleys, and scaffolds. The people see plainly a criminal justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, enlightened men, always employed in searching out, detecting, and punishing the evil-doers. They do not see the virtuous justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, and enlightened men, always searching out and rewarding the honest man. All says to him, Tremble! Nothing says to him, Hope! All threatens him; nothing consoles him!

  The state annually expends many millions for the sterile punishment of crimes. With this enormous sum it keeps prisoners and gaolers, galley-slaves and galley-sergeants, scaffolds and executioners. This is necessary? Agreed. But how much does the state disburse for the rewards (so salutary, so fruitful) for honest men? Nothing. And this is not all, as we shall demonstrate when the course of this recital shall conduct us to the state prison; how many artisans of irreproachable honesty would attain the summit of their wishes if they were assured of enjoying one day the bodily comforts of prisoners, always certain of good food, good bed, and good shelter? And yet, in the name of their dignity, as honest men, long and painfully tried, have they not a right to claim the same care and comforts as criminals, — such, for instance, as Morel, the lapidary, who had toiled for twenty years, industrious, honest, and resigned, in the midst of bitter misery and sore temptations? Do not such men deserve sufficiently well of society, that society should try and find them out, and if not recompense them, for the honour of humanity, at least support them in the painful and difficult path which they tread so courageously? Is the man of worth so modest that he finds greater security than the thief or assassin? and are not these always detected by criminal justice? Alas, it is a utopia, but it is consoling!

  Suppose, for the moment, a society were so organised that it would hold an assizes of virtue, as we have assizes of crime, — a public ministry pointing out noble actions, disclosing them to the view of all, as we now denounce crimes to the avenging power of the laws. We will give two instances — two justices — and let our readers say which is most fruitful in instruction, in consequences, in positive results. One man has killed another, for the purpose of robbing him; at break of day they stealthily erect the guillotine in an obscure corner of Paris and cut off the assassin’s head before the dregs of the populace, which laughs at the judge, the sufferer, and the executioner. This is the last resort of society. This is the chastisement she bestows on the greatest crime which can be committed against her. This is the most terrible, the most wholesome warning she can give to her population, — the only one, for there is no counterpoise to this keen axe, dripping with blood; no, society has no spectacle, mild and benevolent, to oppose to this funereal scene.

  Let us go on with our utopia. Would it not be otherwise if almost every day the people had before their eyes some illustrious virtues greatly glorified and substantially rewarded by the state? Would it not be to encourage good continually, if we often saw an august, imposing, and venerable tribunal summon before it, in presence of an immense multitude, a poor and honest artisan, whose long, intelligent, and enduring life should be described, whilst he was thus addressed:

  “For twenty years you have manfully struggled against misfortune, your family has been brought up by you in the principles of honour and rectitude, your superior virtues have greatly distinguished you, — you merit praise and recompense. Society, always vigilant, just, and all-powerful, never leaves in oblivion either good or evil. Every man is recompensed according to his works. The state assures to you a pension sufficient for your wants. Obtaining this deserved mark of public notice, you will end in leisure and ease a life which is an example to all; and thus are and will be exalted those who, like yourself, shall have struggled for many years with an admirable persistence in good, and given proof of rare and grand moral qualities. Your example will encourage a great many to imitate you; hope will lighten the painful burden which their destiny imposes on them for so many years of their life. Animated by a salutary emulation, they will energetically struggle to accomplish the most arduous duties, in order that one day they may be distinguished from the rest, and rewarded as you are.”

  We ask, which of the two sights — the beheaded assassin, or the good man rewarded — would act on the million with more salutary and more fruitful effect?

  No doubt many delicate minds will be indignant at the bare thought of these ignoble substantial rewards awarded to the most ethereal thing in the world, — Virtue! They will find all sorts of arguments, more or less philosophical, platonic, theological, and especially economic, against such a proposition; such as, “Virtue is its own reward;” “Virtue is a priceless gem;” “The satisfaction of the conscience is the noblest of recompenses;” and, finally, this triumphant and unanswerable objection, “The eternal happiness which awaits the just in another life ought to be sufficient to encourage mankind to do well.” To this we reply that society, in order to intimidate and punish the guilty, does not appear to us to rely entirely and exclusively on the divine vengeance, which they tell us will visit them in another world. Society anticipates the last judgment by human judgments. Awaiting the inexorable hour of the archangels in armour, with sounding trumpets and fiery swords, society modestly comforts herself with — gens-d’armes.

  We repeat, to terrify the wicked, we materialise, or rather we reduce to human, perceptible, and visible proportions, the anticipated effects of divine wrath. Why should we not do the same with the divine rewards to worthy and virtuous people?

  But let us leave these mad, absurd, stupid, impracticable utopianisms, like real utopianisms, as they are. Society is as well as it is. Ask those merry souls, who, with uncertain step, stupid look, and noisy laugh, have just quitted the gay banquet, if it is not.

  CHAPTER XII.

  THE PROTECTRESS.

  THE INSPECTRESS SOON entered with Goualeuse into the little room where Clémence was staying. The pale cheek of the young girl was still slightly coloured in consequence of her conversation with La Louve.

  “Madame la Marquise, pleased with the excellent character I have given of you,” said Madame Armand to Fleur-de-Marie, “has desired to see you, and will, perhaps, be so good as to have you released from here before the expiration of your time.”

  “I thank you, madame,” replied Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, to Madame Armand, who left her alone with the marchioness.

  The latter, struck by the candid expression of her protégée’s features, and by her carriage, so full of grace and modesty, could not help remembering that La Goualeuse had pronounced the name of Rodolph in her sleep, and that the inspectress believed the youthful prisoner to be a prey to deep and hidden love. Although perfectly convinced that it could not be a question as to the Grand Duke Rodolph, Clémence acknowledged to herself that, with regard to beauty, La Goualeuse was worthy of a prince’s love.

  At the sight of her protectress, whose physiognomy, as we have said, displayed excessive goodness, Fleur-de-Marie felt herself sympathetically attracted towards her.

  “My girl,” said Clémence to her, “whilst commending the gentleness of your disposition and the discreetness of your behaviour, Madame Armand complains of your want of confidence in her.”

  Fleur-de-Marie bowed her look, but did not reply.

  “The peasant’s dress in which you were clad when you were apprehended, your silence on the subject of the place where you resided before you were brought here, prove that you conceal certain particulars from us.”

  “Madame—”

  “I have no right to your confidence, my poor child, nor would I ask you any question that would distress you; but, as I am assured th
at if I request your discharge from prison it will be accorded to me, before I do so I should wish to talk to you of your own plans, your resources for the future. Once free, what do you propose to do? If, as I doubt not, you decide on following the good path you have already entered upon, have confidence in me, and I will put you in the way of gaining an honest subsistence.”

  La Goualeuse was moved to tears at the interest which Madame d’Harville evinced for her. After a moment’s hesitation, she replied:

  “You are very good, madame, to show so much benevolence towards me, — so generous, that I ought, perhaps, to break the silence which I have hitherto kept on the past, to which I was forced by an oath—”

  “An oath?”

  “Yes, madame, I have sworn to be secret to justice, and the persons employed in this prison, as to the series of events by which I was brought hither. Yet, madame, if you will make me a promise—”

  “Of what nature?”

  “To keep my secret. I may, thanks to you, madame, without breaking my oath, comfort most worthy persons who, no doubt, are excessively uneasy on my account.”

  “Rely on my discretion. I will only say what you authorise me to disclose.”

  “Oh, thanks, madame! I was so fearful that my silence towards my benefactors would appear like ingratitude!”

  The gentle accents of Fleur-de-Marie, and her well-selected phrases, struck Madame d’Harville with fresh surprise.

  “I will not conceal from you,” said she, “that your demeanour, your language, all surprise me in a remarkable degree. How could you, with an education which appears polished, — how could you—”

  “Fall so low, you would say, madame?” said Goualeuse, with bitterness. “Alas! It is but a very short time that I have received this education. I owe this benefit to a generous protector, who, like you, madame, without knowing me, without even having the favourable recommendation which you have received in my favour, took pity upon me—”