by Eugène Sue
“And who is this protector?”
“I do not know, madame.”
“You do not know?”
“He only makes himself known, they tell me, by his inexhaustible goodness. Thanks be to Heaven, he found me in his path!”
“And when did you first meet?”
“One night, — in the Cité, madame,” said Goualeuse, lowering her eyes, “a man was going to beat me; this unknown benefactor defended me courageously; this was my first meeting with him.”
“Then he was one of the people?”
“The first time I saw him he had the dress and language; but afterwards—”
“Afterwards?”
“The way in which he spoke to me, the profound respect with which he was treated by the persons to whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had only assumed the exterior disguise of one of the men who are seen about the Cité.”
“But with what motive?”
“I do not know.”
“And do you know the name of this mysterious protector?”
“Oh, yes, madame,” said La Goualeuse, with excitement; “thank Heaven! For I can incessantly bless and adore that name. My preserver is called M. Rodolph, madame.”
Clémence blushed deeply.
“And has he no other name,” she asked, quickly, of Fleur-de-Marie.
“I know no other, madame. In the farm, where he sent me, he was only known as M. Rodolph.”
“And his age?”
“Still young, madame.”
“And handsome?”
“Oh, yes! Handsome, — noble as his own heart.”
The grateful and impassioned accent with which Fleur-de-Marie uttered these words caused a deeply painful sensation in Madame d’Harville’s bosom. An unconquerable and inexplicable presentiment told her that it was indeed the prince. “The remarks of the inspectress were just,” thought Clémence. “Goualeuse loves Rodolph; that was the name which she pronounced in her sleep. Under what strange circumstance had the prince and this unfortunate girl met? Why did Rodolph go disguised into the Cité?”
The marquise could not resolve these questions. She only remembered what Sarah had wickedly and mendaciously told her as to the pretended eccentricities of Rodolph. Was it not, in fact, strange that he should have extricated from the dregs of society a girl of such excessive loveliness, and evidently so intelligent and sensible?
Clémence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, and deeply loved Rodolph, although she had resolved to bury that secret in her heart’s very core.
Without reflecting that this was unquestionably but one of those generous actions which the prince was accustomed to do by stealth, without considering that she was, perchance, confounding with love a sentiment that was but excess of gratitude, without considering that, even if this feeling were more tender, Rodolph must be ignorant of it, the marchioness, in the first moment of bitterness and injustice, could not help looking on Goualeuse as her rival. Her pride revolted when she believed she was suffering, in spite of herself, with such a humiliating rivalry; and she replied, in a tone so harsh as to contrast cruelly with the affectionate kindness of her first words:
“And how is it, then, mademoiselle, that your protector leaves you in prison? How comes it that you are here?”
“Oh, madame,” said Fleur-de-Marie, struck at this sudden change of tone, “have I done anything to displease you?”
“In what could you have displeased me?” asked Madame d’Harville, haughtily.
“It appeared to me just now that you spoke to me so kindly, madame.”
“Really, mademoiselle, is it necessary that I should weigh every word I utter? Since I take an interest in you, I have, I think, a right to ask you certain questions!”
Scarcely had Clémence uttered these words, than she regretted their severity; first from a praiseworthy return of generosity, and then because she thought by being harsh with her rival she might not learn any more of what she was so anxious to know. In fact, Goualeuse’s countenance, just now so open and confiding, became suddenly alarmed. Like the sensitive plant, which, on the first touch, curls up its leaves and withdraws within itself, the heart of Fleur-de-Marie became painfully contracted. Clémence replied, gently, in order that she might not awaken her protégée’s suspicions by too sudden a return to a milder tone:
“Really I must repeat that I cannot understand why, having so much to praise your benefactor for, you are left here a prisoner. How is it that, after having returned with all sincerity to the paths of rectitude, you could have been apprehended, at night, in a forbidden place? All this, I confess to you, appears to me very extraordinary. You speak of an oath, which has bound you to silence; but this very oath is so strange!”
“I have spoken the truth, madame—”
“I am sure of that; it is only to see and hear you to be convinced that you are incapable of falsehood; but what is so incomprehensible in your situation makes me the more curious and impatient to have it cleared up; and to this alone must you attribute the abruptness of my language just now. I was wrong, I feel I was, for, although I have no claim to your confidence beyond my anxious desire to be of service to you, yet you have offered to disclose to me what you have not yet told to any person; and I can assure you, my poor girl, that this proof of your confidence in the interest I feel for you touches me very nearly. I promise you to keep your secret most scrupulously, if you confide it to me, and I will do everything in my power to effect what you may wish to have done.”
Thanks to this skilful patching up (the phrase will be excused, we trust), Madame d’Harville regained La Goualeuse’s confidence, which had been for a moment repressed. Fleur-de-Marie, in her candour, reproached herself for having wrongly interpreted the words which had wounded her.
“Excuse me, madame,” she said to Clémence; “I was, no doubt, wrong not to tell you at once what you desired to know, but you asked me for the name of my preserver, and, in spite of myself, I could not resist the pleasure of speaking of him.”
“Nothing could be more praiseworthy, and it proves how truly grateful you are to him. Tell me how it was that you left the worthy people with whom you were, no doubt, placed by M. Rodolph? Is it to this event that the oath you were compelled to take, refers?”
“Yes, madame; but, thanks to you, I think I may still keep my word faithfully, and, at the same time, inform my benefactors as to my disappearance.”
“Now, then, my poor girl, I am all attention to you.”
“It is three months nearly since M. Rodolph placed me at a farm, which is situated four or five leagues from Paris—”
“Did M. Rodolph take you there himself?”
“Yes, madame, and confided me to the charge of a worthy lady, as good as she was venerable; and I loved her like my mother. She and the curé of the village, at the request of M. Rodolph, took charge of my education.”
“And M. — Rodolph, — did he often come to the farm?”
“No, madame, he only came three times during the whole time I was there.”
Clémence’s heart throbbed with joy.
“And when he came to see you that made you very happy, did it not?”
“Oh, yes, madame! It was more than happiness to me; it was a feeling mingled with gratitude, respect, adoration, and even a degree of fear.”
“Of fear?”
“Between him and me, between him and others, the distance is so great!”
“But what, then, was his rank?”
“I do not know that he had any rank, madame.”
“Yet you allude to the distance which exists between him and others.”
“Oh, madame, what places him above all the rest of the world is the elevation of his character, his inexhaustible generosity towards those who suffer, the enthusiasm which he inspires in every one. The wicked, even, cannot hear his name without trembling, and respect as much as they dread him! But forgive me, madame, for still speaking of him. I ought to be silent, for I seek to give you an adequ
ate idea of him who ought to be adored in silence. I might as well try to express by words the goodness of Heaven!”
“This comparison—”
“Is, perhaps, sacrilegious, madame; but will it offend the good God to compare to him one who has given me the consciousness of good and evil, one who has snatched me from the abyss, one, in fact, to whom I owe a new existence?”
“I do not blame you, my child; I can understand all your noble exaggerations. But how was it that you abandoned this farm, where you must have been so happy?”
“Alas, not voluntarily, madame!”
“Who, then, forced you away?”
“One evening, some days since,” said Fleur-de-Marie, trembling even as she spoke, “I was going towards the parsonage-house in the village, when a wicked woman, who had used me very cruelly during my infancy, and a man, her accomplice, who had concealed themselves in a ravine, threw themselves upon me, and, after having gagged me, carried me off in a hackney-coach.”
“For what purpose?”
“I know not, madame. My ravishers, as I think, were acting in conformity to orders from some powerful personages.”
“What followed this?”
“Scarcely was the hackney-coach in motion, than the wicked creature, who is called La Chouette, exclaimed, ‘I have some vitriol here, and I’ll rub La Goualeuse’s face, to disfigure her with it!’”
“Oh, horrible! Unhappy girl! And who has saved you from this danger?”
“The woman’s confederate, a blind man called the Schoolmaster.”
“And he defended you?”
“Yes, madame, this and another time also. On this occasion there was a struggle between him and La Chouette: exerting his strength, the Schoolmaster compelled her to throw out of window the bottle which held the vitriol. This was the first service he rendered me, after having, however, aided in carrying me off. The night was excessively dark. At the end of an hour and a half the coach stopped, as I think, on the highroad which traverses the Plain St. Denis, and here was a man on horseback, evidently awaiting us. ‘What!’ said he, ‘have you got her at last?’ ‘Yes, we’ve got her,’ answered La Chouette, who was furious because she had been hindered from disfiguring me. ‘If you wish to get rid of the little baggage at once, it will be a good plan to stretch her on the ground, and let the coach wheels pass over her skull. It will appear as if she had been accidentally killed.’”
“You make me shudder.”
“Alas, madame, La Chouette was quite capable of doing what she said! Fortunately, the man on horseback replied that he would not have any harm done to me, and all he wanted was to have me confined somewhere for two months in a place whence I could neither go out nor be allowed to write to any one. Then La Chouette proposed to take me to a man’s called Bras Rouge, who keeps a tavern in the Champs Elysées. In this tavern there are several subterranean chambers, and one of these, La Chouette said, would serve me for a prison. The man on horseback agreed to this proposition; and he promised me that, after remaining two months at Bras Rouge’s, I should be properly taken care of, and not be sorry for having quitted the farm at Bouqueval.”
“What a strange mystery!”
“This man gave money to La Chouette, and promised her more when she should bring me from Bras Rouge’s, and then galloped away. Our hackney-coach continued its way on to Paris; and a short time before we reached the barrier the Schoolmaster said to La Chouette, ‘You want to shut Goualeuse up in one of Bras Rouge’s cellars, when you know very well that, being so close to the river’s side, these cellars are always under water in the winter! Do you wish to drown her?’ ‘Yes,’ replied La Chouette.”
“Poor girl! What had you ever done to this horrid woman?”
“Nothing, madame; and from my very infancy she had always been so full of hatred towards me. The Schoolmaster replied, ‘I won’t have Goualeuse drowned! She sha’n’t go to Bras Rouge’s!’ La Chouette was as astonished as I was, madame, to hear this man defend me thus, and she flew into a violent rage, and swore she would take me to Bras Rouge’s in spite of the Schoolmaster. ‘I defy you!’ said he, ‘for I have got Goualeuse by the arm, and I will not let go my hold of her; and, if you come near her, I’ll strangle you!’ ‘What do you mean, then, to do with her,’ cried La Chouette, ‘since she must be concealed somewhere for two months, so that no one may know where she is?’ ‘There’s a way,’ said the Schoolmaster. ‘We are going by the Champs Elysées; we will stop the coach a little way off the guard-house, and you shall go to Bras Rouge’s tavern. It is midnight, and you will be sure to find him; bring him here, and he shall lead La Goualeuse to the guard-house, declaring that she is a fille de la Cité, whom he has found loitering about his house. As girls are sentenced to three months’ imprisonment if found in the Champs Elysées, and as La Goualeuse is still on the police books, she will be apprehended and sent to St. Lazare, where she will be better taken care of and concealed than in Bras Rouge’s cellar.’ ‘But,’ answered La Chouette, ‘Goualeuse will not allow herself to be arrested even at the corps-de-garde. She will declare that we have carried her off, and give information against us; and, supposing even that she goes to prison, she will write to her protectors, and all will be discovered.’ ‘No, she will go to prison willingly,’ answered the Schoolmaster; ‘and she shall take an oath not to give any information against any person as long as she is in St. Lazare, nor afterwards, either. This is a debt she owes me, for I prevented you from disfiguring her, La Chouette, and saved her from being drowned at Bras Rouge’s; but if, after having sworn not to speak, she dares to do so, we will attack the farm at Bouqueval with fire and blood!’ Then, addressing me, the Schoolmaster added,’Decide, then: take the oath I demand of you, and you shall get off for three months in prison; if not, I abandon you to La Chouette, who will take you to Bras Rouge’s, where you will be drowned, and we will set Bouqueval farm on fire. So, come, decide. I know, if you take the oath, you will keep it.’”
“And you did swear?”
“Alas, yes, madame! I was so fearful they would do my protectors at the farm an injury, and then I so much dreaded being drowned by La Chouette in a cellar, it seemed so frightful to me; another death would have seemed to me less horrid, and, perhaps, I should not have tried to escape it.”
“What a dreadful idea at your age!” said Madame d’Harville, looking at La Goualeuse with surprise. “When you have left this place, and have been restored to your benefactors, shall you not be very happy? Has not your repentance effaced the past?”
“Can the past ever be effaced? Can the past ever be forgotten? Can repentance kill memory, madame?” exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so despairing that Clémence shuddered.
“But all faults are retrieved, unhappy girl!”
“And the remembrance of stain, madame, does not that become more and more terrible in proportion as the soul becomes purer, in proportion as the mind becomes more elevated? Alas, the higher we ascend, the deeper appears the abyss which we have quitted!”
“Then you renounce all hope of restoration — of pardon?”
“On the part of others — no, madame, your kindness proves to me that remorse will find indulgence.”
“But you will be pitiless towards yourself?”
“Others, madame, may not know, pardon, or forget what I have been, but I shall never forget it!”
“And do you sometimes desire to die?”
“Sometimes!” said Goualeuse, smiling bitterly. Then, after a moment’s silence, she added, “Sometimes, — yes, madame.”
“Still you were afraid of being disfigured by that horrid woman; and so you wish to preserve your beauty, my poor little girl. That proves that life has still some attraction for you; so courage! Courage!”
“It is, perhaps, weakness to think of it, but if I were handsome, as you say, madame, I should like to die handsome, pronouncing the name of my benefactor.”
Madame d’Harville’s eyes filled with tears. Fleur-de-Marie had said these last words
with so much simplicity; her angelic, pale, depressed features, her melancholy smile, were all so much in accord with her words, that it was impossible to doubt the reality of her sad desire. Madame d’Harville was endued with too much delicacy not to feel how miserable, how fatal, was this thought of La Goualeuse: “I shall never forget what I have been!” — the fixed, permanent, incessant idea which controlled and tortured Fleur-de-Marie’s life. Clémence, ashamed at having for an instant misconstrued the ever disinterested generosity of the prince, regretted also that she had for a moment allowed herself to be actuated by any feeling of absurd jealousy against La Goualeuse, who, with such pure excitement, expressed her gratitude towards her protector. It was strange that the admiration which this poor prisoner felt so deeply towards Rodolph perhaps increased the profound love which Clémence must for ever conceal from him. She said, to drive away these thoughts:
“I trust that, for the future, you will be less severe towards yourself. But let us talk of this oath, for now I can explain your silence. You will not denounce these wretches?”
“Although the Schoolmaster shared in my carrying off, yet he twice defended me, and I would not be ungrateful towards him.”
“Then you lent yourself to the plans of these monsters?”
“Yes, madame, I was so frightened! The Chouette went to seek for Bras Rouge, who conducted me to the guard-house, saying he had found me roving near his cabaret. I did not deny it, and so they took me into custody and brought me here.”
“But your friends at the farm must be in the utmost anxiety about you!”
“Alas, madame, in my great alarm, I did not reflect that my oath would prevent me from assuring them of my safety. Now that makes me wretched! But I think (and hope you think so, too) that, without breaking my word, I may beg of you to write to Madame Georges at the farm of Bouqueval, and assure her that she need have no fears for me, without informing her where I am; for I have promised to be silent.”
“My child, these precautions will be useless if, at my recommendation, you are pardoned. To-morrow you will return to the farm without having betrayed your oath by that; and you may consult your friends hereafter to know how far you are bound by a promise which was extorted from you by a threat.”