by Eugène Sue
Then, as she again returned to the realities of her present position, altogether overcome by the painful contrast, Madame de Fermont exclaimed, almost frantically:
“Still, it is not to be supposed that, because the notary so wills it, I shall sit tamely by and see my only and beloved child reduced to the most abject misery, entitled as she is to a life of the most unalloyed felicity. If I can obtain no redress from the laws of my country, I will not permit the infamous conduct of this man to escape unpunished. For if I am driven to desperation, if I find no means of extricating my daughter and myself from the deplorable condition to which the villainy of this man has brought us, I cannot answer for myself, or what I may do. I may be driven by madness to retaliate on this man, even by taking his life. And what if I did, after all I have endured, after all the scalding tears he has caused me to shed, who could blame me? At least I should be secure of the pity and sympathy of all mothers who loved their children as I do my Claire. Yes; but, then, what would be her position, — left alone, friendless, unexperienced, and destitute? Oh, no, no, that is my principal dread; therefore do I fear to die.
“And for that same reason dare I not harm the traitor who has wrought our ruin. What would become of her at sixteen? — pure and spotless as an angel, ’tis true. But then she is so surpassingly lovely; and want, desolation, cold, and misery are fearful things to oppose alone and unaided. How fearful a conflict might be presented to one of her tender years, and into how terrible an abyss might she not fall? Oh, want, — fatal word! As I trace it, a crowd of sickening images rise before me, and distract my senses. Destitution, dreadful as it is to all, is still more formidable to those who have lived surrounded not only with every comfort, but even luxury. One thing I cannot pardon myself for, and that is that, in the face of all these overwhelming trials, I have not yet been able to subdue my unfortunate pride; and I feel persuaded that nothing but the sight of my child, actually perishing before my eyes for want of bread, could induce me to beg. How weak, how selfish and cowardly! Still—”
Then, as her thoughts wandered to the source of all her present sufferings and anguish, she mournfully continued:
“The notary has reduced me to a state of beggary; I must, therefore, yield to the stern necessity of my situation. There must be an end of all delicacy as well as scruples. They might have been well enough in bygone days; but my duty is now to stretch forth my hand to solicit charitable aid for both my daughter and myself. And if I fail in procuring work, I must make up my mind to implore the charity of my fellow creatures, since the roguery of the notary has left me no alternative. Doubtless in that, as in other trades, there is an art, an expertness to be acquired, and which experience alone can bestow. Never mind,” continued she, with a sort of feverish wildness, “one must learn one’s craft, and only practice can make perfect. Surely mine must be a tale to move even the most unfeeling. I have to tell of misfortunes alike severe and unmerited, — of an angelic child, but sixteen years of age, exposed to every evil of life. But then it requires a practised hand to set forth all these qualifications, so as best to excite sympathy and compassion. No matter; I shall manage it, I feel quite sure. And, after all,” exclaimed the half distracted woman, with a gloomy smile, “what have I so much to complain of? Fortune is perishable and precarious; and the notary will, at least, if he has taken my money, have compelled me to adopt a trade.”
For several minutes Madame de Fermont remained absorbed in her reflections, then resumed more calmly:
“I have frequently thought of inquiring for some situation. What I seem to covet is just such a place as a female has here who is servant to a lady living on the first floor. Had I that situation I might probably receive wages sufficient to maintain Claire; and I might even, through the intervention of the mistress I served, be enabled to obtain occupation for my daughter, who then would remain here. Neither should I be obliged to quit her. Oh, what joy, could it be so arranged! But no, no, that would be happiness too great for me to expect; it would seem like a dream. And then, again, if I obtained the place, the poor woman now occupying it must be turned away. Possibly she is as poor and destitute as ourselves. Well, what if she be? No scruple has arisen to save us from being stripped of our all, and my child’s preservation outweighs all fastidious notions of delicacy in my breast. The only difficulty consists in obtaining an introduction to the lady on the first floor, and contriving to dispossess the servant of a place which would be to me the very perfection of ease and comfort.”
Several loud and hasty knocks at the door startled Madame de Fermont, and made her daughter spring up with a sudden cry.
“For heaven’s sake, dear mother,” asked poor Claire, trembling with fear, “what is the matter?” And then, without giving her agitated parent time to recover herself, the terrified girl threw her arms around her mother’s neck, as if she sought for safety in that fond, maternal bosom, while Madame de Fermont, pressing her child almost convulsively to her breast, gazed with terror at the door.
“Mamma, mamma,” again moaned Claire, “what was that noise that awoke me? And why do you seem so much alarmed?”
“I know not, my child, what it was. But calm yourself, there is nothing to fear; some one merely knocked at the door, — possibly to bring us a letter from the post-office.”
At this moment the worm-eaten door shook and rattled beneath the blows dealt against it by some powerful fist.
“Who is there?” inquired Madame de Fermont, in a trembling tone.
A harsh, coarse, and vulgar voice replied, “Holloa, there! What, are you so deaf there’s no making you hear? Holloa, I say, open your door; and let’s have a look at you. Hip, hip, holloa! Come, sharp’s the word; I’m in a hurry.”
“I know you not,” exclaimed Madame de Fermont, striving to command herself sufficiently to speak with a steady voice; “what is it you seek here?”
“Not know me? Why, I’m your opposite neighbour and fellow lodger, Robin. I want a light for my pipe. Come, cut about. Whoop, holloa! Don’t go to sleep again, or I must come in and wake you.”
“Merciful heavens!” whispered the mother to her daughter, “’tis that lame man, who is nearly always intoxicated.”
“Now, then, are you going to give me a light? Because, I tell you fairly, one I will have if I knock your rickety old door to pieces.”
“I have no light to give you.”
“Oh, bother and nonsense! If you have no candle burning you must have the means of lighting one. Nobody is without a few lucifer matches, be they ever so poor. Do you or do you not choose to give me a light?”
“I beg of you to go away.”
“You don’t choose to open your door, then? Once, — twice, — mind, I will have it.”
“I request you to quit my door immediately, or I will call for assistance.”
“Once, — twice, — thrice, — you will not? Well, then, here goes! Now I’ll smash your old timbers, into morsels too small for you to pick up. Hu! — hu! — hallo! Well done! Bravo!”
And suiting the action to the word, the ruffian assailed the door so furiously that he quickly drove it in, the miserable lock with which it was furnished having speedily broken to pieces.
The two women shrieked loudly; Madame de Fermont, in spite of her weakness, rushed forward to meet the ruffian at the moment when he was entering the room, and stopped him.
“Sir, this is most shameful; you must not enter here,” exclaimed the unhappy mother, keeping the door closed as well as she could. “I will call for help.” And she shuddered at the sight of this man, with his hideous and drunken countenance.
“What’s all this? What’s all this?” said he. “Oughtn’t neighbours to be obliging? You ought to have opened; I shouldn’t have broken anything.”
Then with the stupid obstinacy of intoxication, he added, reeling on his tottering legs:
“I wanted to come in, and I will come in; and I won’t go out until I’ve lighted my pipe.”
“I have neither fi
re nor matches. In heaven’s name, sir, do go away.”
“That’s not true. You tell me that I may not see the little girl who’s in bed. Yesterday you stopped up all the holes in the door. She’s a pretty chick, and I should like to see her. So mind, or I shall hurt you if you don’t let me enter quietly. I tell you I will see the little girl in her bed, and I will light my pipe, or I’ll smash everything before me, and you into the bargain.”
“Help, help, help!” exclaimed Madame de Fermont, who felt the door yielding before the broad shoulders of the Gros-Boiteux.
Alarmed by her cries, the man retreated a step; and clenching his fist at Madame de Fermont, he said:
“You shall pay me for this, mind. I will come back to-night and wring your tongue out, and then you can’t squall out.”
And the Gros-Boiteux, as he was called at the Isle du Ravageur, went down the staircase, uttering horrible threats.
Madame de Fermont, fearing that he might return, and seeing that the lock was broken, dragged the table across the room, in order to barricade it. Claire had been so alarmed, so agitated, at this horrible scene, that she had fallen on her bed almost senseless, and overcome by a nervous attack. Her mother, forgetting her own fears, ran to her, embraced her, gave her a little water to drink, and by her caresses and attentions revived her. When she saw her gradually recovering she said to her:
“Calm yourself; don’t be alarmed, my dearest child, this wicked man has gone.” Then the unfortunate mother exclaimed, in a tone of indescribable indignation and grief, “And it is that notary who is the first cause of all our sufferings.”
Claire looked about her with as much astonishment as fear.
“Take courage, my child,” said Madame de Fermont, embracing her tenderly; “the wretch has gone.”
“Oh, mamma, if he should come back again! You see, though you cried so loud for help, no one came. Oh, pray let us leave this house, or I shall die with fear!”
“How you tremble; you are quite in a fever.”
“No, no,” said the young girl, to reassure her mother, “it is nothing — only fright, — and that will soon pass away. And you, — how do you feel? Give me your hands. Oh, how they burn! It is, indeed, you who are suffering; and you try to conceal it from me!”
“Don’t think so; I feel better than I did. It is only the fright that man caused me which makes me so. I was sleeping soundly in my chair, and only awoke when you did.”
“Yet, mamma, your poor eyes look so red and inflamed!”
“Why, you see, my dear, one does not sleep so refreshingly in a chair.”
“And you really do not suffer?”
“No, no, I assure you. And you?”
“Nor I either. I only tremble with fear. Pray, mamma, let us leave this house!”
“And where shall we go to? You know what trouble we had to find this miserable chamber; for, unfortunately, we have no papers, — and, besides, we have paid a fortnight in advance. They will not return our money; and we have so very, very little left, that we must take all possible care of it.”
“Perhaps M. de Saint-Remy will answer you in a day or two.”
“I cannot hope for that. It is so long since I wrote to him.”
“He cannot have received your letter. Why did not you write to him again? From here to Angers is not so far, and we should soon have his answer.”
“My poor child, you know how much that has cost me already!”
“But there’s no risk; and he is so good in spite of his roughness. Wasn’t he one of the oldest friends of my father? And then he is a relation of ours.”
“But he is poor himself, — his fortune is very small. Perhaps he does not reply to us that he may avoid the pain of a refusal.”
“But he may not have received your letter, mamma!”
“And if he has received it, my dear, — one of two things, either he is himself in too painful a position to come to our aid, or he feels no interest in us. What, then, is the use of exposing ourselves to a refusal or humiliation?”
“Come, come, courage, mamma; we have still a hope left. Perhaps this very morning will bring us a kind answer.”
“From M. d’Orbigny?”
“Yes; the letter of which you had made the rough copy was so simple and touching. It showed our miserable condition so naturally that he will have pity on us. Really, I don’t know why, but something tells me you are wrong to despair of him.”
“He has so little motive for taking any interest in us. It is true he formerly knew your father, and I have often heard my poor brother speak of M. d’Orbigny as a man with whom he was on good terms before the latter left Paris to retire into the country with his young wife.”
“It is that which makes me hope. He has a young wife, and she will be compassionate. And then in the country one can do so much good. He will take you, I should think, as a housekeeper, and I could work in the needle-room. Then M. d’Orbigny is very rich, and in a great house there is always so much to do.”
“Yes; but we have so little claim on his kind interest!”
“We are so unfortunate!”
“It is true that is a claim in the eyes of charitably disposed persons.”
“Let us hope that M. d’Orbigny and his wife are so.”
“Then if we do not have any or an unfavorable answer from him, I will overcome my false shame, and write to the Duchesse de Lucenay.”
“The lady of whom M. de Saint-Remy has spoken so often, and whose kindness and generosity he so much, praised?”
“The same, — daughter of the Prince de Noirmont. He knew her when she was very young, and treated her almost always as if she were his own child, for he was on terms of the closest intimacy with the prince. Madame de Lucenay must have many acquaintances, and, no doubt, could easily find situations for us.”
“No doubt, mamma. But I understand your delicacy; you do not know her, whilst, at least, my father and my uncle both knew a little of M. d’Orbigny.”
“Well, but in case Madame de Lucenay cannot do anything for us, I have still another resource.”
“What is that, mamma?”
“A very poor one, — a very weak hope, perhaps. But why should I not try it? M. de Saint-Remy’s son is—”
“Has M. de Saint-Remy a son?” exclaimed Claire, interrupting her mother with great astonishment.
“Yes, my dear, he has a son.”
“Yet he never spoke of him when he used to come to Angers.”
“True, and, for reasons which you cannot understand, M. de Saint-Remy, having quitted Paris fifteen years ago, has not seen his son since that period.”
“Fifteen years without seeing his father! Is that possible?”
“Alas, yes! As you see, the son of M. de Saint-Remy, being very much sought after in society, and very rich—”
“Very rich, whilst his father is poor?”
“All young M. de Saint-Remy’s wealth came from his mother.”
“What of that, — how could he leave his father?”
“His father would not accept anything from him.”
“Why?”
“That is a question to which I cannot reply, my dear child; but I have heard it said by my poor brother that this young man was reputed vastly generous. Young and generous, he ought to be good. Learning from me that my husband had been his father’s intimate friend, perhaps he will interest himself in trying to find us work or employment. He has such high and extensive connections, that this would be no trouble to him.”
“And then, perhaps, too, we could learn from him if M. de Saint-Remy, his father, had not quitted Angers before you wrote to him: that would account for his silence.”
“I think, my dear, that M. de Saint-Remy has not kept up any connection with — Still, we cannot but try.”
“Unless M. d’Orbigny replies to you favourably, and I repeat, I don’t know why, but I have hopes, in spite of myself.”
“It is now many days, my dear, since I wrote to him, telling him all the cau
ses of our misfortunes, and yet to this time we have no reply, — none. A letter put in the post before four o’clock in the evening reaches Aubiers next morning, and thus we might have had his answer five days ago.”
“Perhaps, before he replies, he is considering in what way he can best be useful to us.”
“May Heaven hear thee, my child!”
“It appears to me plain enough, mamma, if he could not do anything for us, he could have written at once, and said so.”
“Unless he will do nothing.”
“Oh, mamma, is that possible? to refuse to answer us, and leave us in hope for four days — eight days, perhaps; for when one is miserable we always hope.”
“Alas, my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the miseries persons have never known!”
“But your letter—”
“My letter cannot give him any idea of our actual disquietude, our constant sufferings; my letter will not depict to him our unhappy life, our constant humiliations, our existence in this horrid house, — the fright we have but this instant experienced. My letter will not describe the horrible future which is in store for us, if — But, my love, do not let us talk of that. You tremble, — you are cold.”
“No, mamma, don’t mind me; but tell me, suppose all fails us, the little money we have in the box is spent, — is it possible that, in a city as rich as Paris, we shall both die of hunger and misery — for want of work, and because a wicked man has taken from you all you had in the world?”
“Oh, be silent, my unfortunate child!”
“But really, mamma, is it possible?”
“Alas!”
“But God, who knows all, who can do all, will he abandon us, who have never offended him?”
“I entreat you, my dearest girl, do not give way to these distressing ideas. I would prefer seeing you hope, without great reason, either. Come, come, comfort me rather with your consoling ideas; I am but too apt to be discouraged, as you well know.”
“Yes, yes, let us hope, that is best. No doubt the porter’s nephew will return to-day from the Poste-Restante with a letter. Another errand to pay out of your little stock, and through my fault. If I had not been so weak yesterday and to-day we should have gone to the post-office ourselves, as we did the day before yesterday; but you will not leave me here alone and go yourself.”