by Eugène Sue
“You are hungry, I doubt not?”
“No; I feel myself too weak for that. What I have suffered most cruelly from has been want of air. At last I felt suffocating, strangling, choking. Oh, it was dreadful!”
“But now?”
“I live again. I come forth from the very tomb itself; and that, too, thanks to you!”
“And these cuts upon your poor bleeding hands! For God’s sake, what have they done to you?”
“Nicholas and Calabash, not daring to attack me openly a second time, fastened me up in my chamber to allow me to perish of hunger in it. I tried to prevent their nailing up my shutters, and my sister chopped my fingers with a hatchet.”
“The monsters! They wished to make it appear that you had died of sickness. Your mother had spread the report of your being in a hopeless state. Your mother, my man, — your own mother!”
“Hold!” cried Martial, with bitterness; “mention her not.” Then for the first time remarking the wet garments and singular state of La Louve’s attire, he added, “But what has happened to you? Your hair is dripping wet; you have only your underclothes on; and they are drenched through.”
“No matter, no matter what has happened to me, since you are saved. Oh, yes, — saved!”
“But explain to me how you became thus wet through.”
“I knew you were in danger, and finding no boat—”
“You swam to my rescue?”
“I did. But your hands? Give them to me that I may heal them with my kisses! You are in pain, I fear? Oh, the monsters! And I not here to help you!”
“Oh, my brave Louve!” exclaimed Martial, enthusiastically; “bravest and best of all brave creatures!”
“Did not your hand trace on my arm ‘Death to the cowardly?’ See!” cried La Louve, showing her tattooed arm, on which these very words were indelibly engraved.
“Yes, you are bold and intrepid; but the cold has seized you, — you tremble!”
“Indeed, it is not with cold.”
“Never mind, — go in there. You will find Calabash’s cloak; wrap yourself well in it.”
“But—”
“I insist!”
In an instant La Louve, who had quickly flown at her lover’s second command, returned wrapped in a plaid mantle.
“To think you ran the risk of drowning yourself, — and all for me!” resumed Martial, gazing on her with enthusiastic delight.
“Oh, no, not altogether for you. A poor girl was nearly perishing in the river, and I saved her as I landed.”
“Saved her also. And where is she?”
“Below with the children, who are taking care of her.”
“And who is she?”
“Oh, dear, you can scarcely credit what a singular and lucky chance brought me to her rescue! She was one of my companions at St. Lazare, — a most extraordinary sort of girl. Oh, you don’t half know—”
“How so?”
“Only conceive my both hating and loving her; for she had introduced happiness and death into my heart and thoughts.”
“Who? This girl?”
“Yes; and all on your account.”
“On mine?”
“Hark ye, Martial!” Then interrupting her proposed speech, La Louve continued, “No, no; I never, never can—”
“What?”
“I had a request to make to you, and for that purpose I came hither; because when I quitted Paris I knew nothing of your danger.”
“Then speak, — pray do!”
“I dare not.”
“Dare not, — after all you have done for me?”
“No; for then it would appear as though I claimed a right to be rewarded.”
“A right to be rewarded? And have you not already earned that right? Do I not already owe you much? And did you not tend my sick bed with unfailing watchfulness, both night and day during my illness of the past year?”
“Are you not ‘my man, — my own dear man?’”
“And for the reason that I am and ever shall be ‘your man,’ are you not bound to speak openly and candidly to me?”
“For ever, Martial?”
“Yes, for ever; as true as my name is Martial. I shall never care for any other woman in the world but you, my brave Louve. Never mind what you may have been, or what you may have done; that is nobody’s affair but mine. I love you, and you love me; and, moreover, I owe you my life. But somehow, do you know, since you have been in prison I have not been like the same person. All sorts of fresh thoughts have come into my mind. I have thought it well over, and I have resolved that you shall no more be what you have been.”
“What can you mean?”
“That I will never more quit you; neither will I part from François and Amandine.”
“Your young sister and brother?”
“Yes; from this day forward I must be as a second father to these poor children. Don’t you see, by imposing on myself fresh duties, I am compelled to alter and amend what is amiss in my way of conducting myself? But I consider it my positive task to take charge of these young things, or they will be made artful thieves. And the only way to save them is to take them from here.”
“Where to?”
“That I know not; but certainly far from Paris.”
“And me?”
“You? Why, of course, you go with me!”
“With you?” exclaimed La Louve, with joyful surprise, — she could not credit the reality of such happiness. “And shall I never again be parted from you?”
“No, my brave girl — never! You will help me to bring up my little sister and young brother. I know your heart. When I say to you, ‘I greatly wish my poor little Amandine to grow up a virtuous and industrious woman. Just talk to her about it, and show her what to do,’ I am quite sure and certain that you will be to her all the best mother could be to her own child.”
“Oh, thanks, Martial, — thanks, thanks!”
“We shall live like honest workpeople. Never fear but we shall find work; for we will toil like slaves to content our employers; but, at least, these children will not be depraved and degraded beings like their parents. I shall not continually hear myself taunted with my father and brother’s disgraceful end, neither shall I go through streets where you are known. But what is the matter, — what ails you?”
“Oh, Martial, I feel as though I should go mad.”
“Mad! — for what?”
“For joy.”
“And why should you go mad with joy?”
“Because — because, — it is too much—”
“What?”
“I mean that what you propose is too great happiness for one like me to hope for. Oh, indeed, indeed, it is more than I can bear! But who knows? Perhaps saving La Goualeuse has brought me good luck, — that’s it, I am sure and certain.”
“Still, I ask you, what is the matter, and why are you thus agitated?” exclaimed Martial.
“Oh, Martial, Martial, the very thing you have been proposing—”
“Well?”
“I was going to ask you.”
“To quit Paris?”
“Yes,” replied she, in a hurried tone; “and to try your consent to accompany you to the forests, where we should have a nice, neat little house, and children whom I should love as La Louve would the children of her man — or, if you would permit me,” continued La Louve, in a faltering voice, “instead of calling you ‘my man,’ to say ‘my husband?’ For,” added she, confusedly and rapidly, “for without that change, we should not obtain the place.”
Martial, in his turn, regarded La Louve with deep astonishment, unable to comprehend her meaning.
“What place are you speaking of?” said he, at length.
“Of that of gamekeeper.”
“That I should have?”
“Yes.”
“And who would give it to me?”
“The protector of the young girl I saved.”
“They do not know me.”
“But I have told her
all about you, and she will recommend us to her protector.”
“And what have you told her about me?”
“Oh, Martial, can you not guess? Of what could I speak but of your goodness — and my love for you?”
“My excellent Louve!”
“And then, you know, being in prison together makes folks talk to each other, and open their hearts in the way of confidence. Besides which, there was something so gentle and engaging about this young creature, that I could not help feeling drawn towards her, even in spite of myself; for I very quickly discovered she was a very different person to such as you and I have been used to.”
“And who is she?”
“I know not, neither can I guess; but certainly I never met with any one like her. Bless you, she can read the very thoughts of your heart, the same as if she were a fairy. I merely told her of my love for you, and she immediately interested herself in us. She made me feel ashamed of my past life; not by saying harsh and severe things, — you know very well that would not have done much good with me, — but by talking of the pleasures of a life passed in hard but peaceful labour, tranquilly within the quiet shades of deep forests, where you might be occupied according to your tastes and inclinations; only, instead of your being a poacher, she made you a gamekeeper, and in place of my being only your mistress, she pictured me as your true and lawful wife. And then we were to have fine, healthy children who ran joyfully to meet you when you returned at night, followed by your faithful dogs, and carrying your gun on your shoulder. Then we all sat down so gay and happy, to eat our supper beneath the cool shade of the large trees that overhung our cottage door, while the fresh wind blew, and the moon peeped at us from amongst the thick branches, and the little ones prattled and you related to us all you had seen and done during the day, while wandering in the forests; until, at last, cheerful and contented, we retired to rest, to rise the following day, and with light hearts to recommence our labours. I cannot tell you how it was, but I listened and listened to these delightful pictures till I quite believed in their reality. I seemed bound by a spell when she spoke of happiness like this, though I tried ever so much against it. I always found it impossible to disbelieve that it would surely come to pass. Oh, but you have no idea how beautifully she described it all! I fancied I saw it — you — our children — our forest home. I rubbed my eyes, but it was ever before them, although a waking dream.”
“Ah, yes!” said Martial, sighing; “that would, indeed, be a sweet and pleasant life! Without being bad at heart, poor François has been quite enough in the society of Calabash and Nicholas to make it far better he should dwell in the solitude of woods and forests, rather than be exposed to the further contamination of great towns. Amandine would help you in your household duties, and I should make a capital gamekeeper, from the very fact of my having been a poacher of some notoriety. I should have you for my housekeeper and companion, my good Louve; and then, as you know, we should have our children also. Bless their little hearts, I doubt not our having a fine flock about us! And what more could we wish for or desire? When once we got used to a forest life, it would seem as though we had always lived there; and fifty or a hundred years would glide away like a single day. But you must not talk to me of such happiness; it makes one so full of sadness and regrets that it cannot be realised. No, no, don’t let us ever mention it again; because, don’t you see, La Louve, it comes over one like — I should soon work myself up to madness if I allowed my thoughts to dwell on it.”
“Ah, Martial, I let you go on because I thought I was quite as bad myself. I said just those very words to La Goualeuse.”
“Did you, really?”
“I did, indeed. For, after listening to all these tales of enchantment, I said to her, ‘What a pity, La Goualeuse, that these castles in the air, as you call them, are not true!’ And what do you think, Martial,” asked La Louve, her eyes flashing with joy, “what do you think she answered me?”
“I don’t know.”
“‘Why,’ said she, ‘only let Martial marry you, and give me your promise to live honestly and virtuously henceforward, and directly I quit the prison I will exert myself to get the place I have been speaking of for him.’”
“Get me a gamekeeper’s place?”
“Yes; I declare to you, Martial, she said so.”
“Oh, but as you say, that can be but a dream — a mere fancy. If, indeed, nothing were requisite for our obtaining the place but our being married, my good girl, that should be done to-morrow, if I had the means; though, from this very day and hour, I consider you as my true and lawful wife.”
“Oh, Martial! I your lawful wife?”
“The only woman who shall ever bear that title. And, for the future, I wish you to call me ‘husband;’ for such I am in word and heart, as firmly and lastingly as though we had been before the maire.”
“Oh, La Goualeuse was right. A woman feels so proud and happy to say ‘My husband!’ Oh, Martial, you shall see what a good, faithful, devoted wife I will be to you; how hard I will work! Oh, I shall be so delighted to labour for you!”
“And do you really think there is any chance of our getting this place?”
“If the poor dear Goualeuse deceives herself about it, it is that others deceive her; for she seemed quite sure of being able to fulfil her promises. And besides, when I was quitting the prison a little while ago, the inspectress told me that the protectors of La Goualeuse, who were people of rank and consequence, had removed her from confinement that very day. Now that proved her having powerful friends; so that she can keep her word to us if she likes.”
“But,” cried Martial, suddenly rising, “I don’t know what we have been thinking of all this time!”
“Thinking about — what do you mean, Martial?”
“Why, the poor girl you saved from drowning is down-stairs — perhaps dying; and, instead of rendering her any assistance, we are attending to our own affairs up-stairs.”
“Make yourself perfectly easy; François and Amandine are there watching her, and they would have come to call us had there been any danger or necessity. Still you are right; let us go to her. You must see her to whom we shall, perhaps, owe all our future happiness.”
And Martial, supported by La Louve, descended to the lower part of the house. Before they have reached the kitchen, let us in a few words describe what had occurred there from the time when Fleur-de-Marie had been confided to the charge of the two children.
CHAPTER XVII.
DOCTOR GRIFFON.
FRANÇOIS AND AMANDINE had contrived to convey Fleur-de-Marie near the fire, when M. de Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon, who had crossed the river in Nicholas’s boat, entered the house. Whilst the children were making the fire burn up, Doctor Griffon bestowed on the young girl his utmost care.
“The poor girl cannot be more than seventeen at most!” exclaimed the count, who was looking on. “What do you think of her, doctor?”
“Her pulse is scarcely perceptible; but, strange to say, the skin of the face is not livid in the subject, as is usually the case in asphyxia from submersion,” replied the doctor, with professional calmness, and contemplating Fleur-de-Marie with a deeply meditative air.
Doctor Griffon was a tall, thin man, pallid and completely bald, except two tufts of thin black hair, carefully brushed back on the poll, and flattened on the temples. His countenance, wrinkled and furrowed by the fatigues of study, was calm, intelligent, and reflective. Profoundly learned, of great experience, and a skilful practitioner, first surgeon at a civil hospital, where we shall again encounter him, Doctor Griffon had but one defect, that of completely abstracting himself from the patient, and only considering the disease. Young or old, rich or poor, was no matter, — he only thought of medical fact, more or less remarkable, which the subject presented. For him there was nothing but subjects.
“What a lovely face! How beautiful she is in spite of this frightful paleness!” said M. de Saint-Remy. “Did you ever see milder or more expressive fe
atures, my dear doctor? And so young — so young!”
“Age is no consequence,” said the doctor, abruptly, “no more than the presence of water in the lungs, which was formerly thought fatal. It was a gross error, which the admirable experiments of Goodwin — the famous Goodwin — incontestably detected and exposed.”
“But doctor—”
“But it is a fact,” replied M. Griffon, absorbed by the love of his art. “To detect the presence of any foreign liquid in the lungs, Goodwin plunged some cats and dogs several times into tubs filled with ink for some seconds, taking them out alive, and then, after a time, dissected the animals. Well, he was convinced from the dissection that the ink had penetrated the lungs, and that the presence of this liquid in the respiratory organs had not caused the death of the subject.”
The count knew the doctor was a worthy creature at heart, but that his mad passion for science made him often appear harsh and cruel.
“Have you any hope?” inquired M. de Saint-Remy, impatiently.
“The extremities of the subject are very cold,” said the doctor; “there is but very slight hope.”
“Ah, poor child! To die at that age is indeed terrible!”
“Pupil fixed — dilated!” observed the doctor, impassive, and pushing up the frigid eyelid of Fleur-de-Marie with his forefinger.
“What a singular man!” exclaimed the comte, almost with indignation. “One would suppose you pitiless, and yet I have seen you watch by my bedside for nights together. Had I been your brother, you could not have been more generously devoted to me.”
Doctor Griffon, still occupied in doing all that was requisite and possible for Fleur-de-Marie, replied to the comte without looking at him, and with imperturbable phlegm:
“Parbleu! Do you think one meets with an intermittent fever so wonderfully complicated as that you had! It was wonderful, my dear friend — astonishing! Stupor, delirium, muscular action of the tendons, syncopes, — that important fever combined the most varied symptoms. You were, indeed, affected by a partial and momentary attack of paralysis; and, if it had presented nothing else, why, your attack was entitled to all the attention in my power. You presented a magnificent study; and, truth to say, my dear friend, what I desire most in the world is to meet with such another glorious fever. But that is a piece of good fortune that never occurs twice!”