by Eugène Sue
“You are right, it is painful to leave such an abandoned creature unpunished, but a law proceeding is impossible.”
“I easily persuaded my father to leave Aubiers the same day,”
resumed Rodolph, continuing the perusal of Madame d’Harville’s letter,
“as too many painful feelings were excited by his being where he was. His weak health will be benefited by a few days’ change of air and scene, as the doctor saw, whom Polidori had succeeded, and for whom I sent from the neighbouring town. My father wished him to analyse the contents of the phial, without giving him any information as to what had passed. The doctor informed us that he must do this at home, and that in two hours we should know the result of his scrutiny; which was that several doses of this liquor, composed with devilish skill, would, within a certain time, cause death, without leaving any traces beyond those of an ordinary malady, which he mentioned. In a few hours, monseigneur, I go with my father and daughter to Fontainebleau, where we shall remain for some time; then my father wishes to return to Paris, but not to my house, for I could not reside there after the late appalling event. As I mentioned in the beginning of my letter, monseigneur, facts prove all I shall owe to your inexhaustible care and solicitude. Forewarned by you, aided by your advice, strong in the assistance of your excellent and high-couraged Sir Walter, I have been enabled to snatch my father from certain death, and am again assured of his love. Adieu, monseigneur, it is impossible for me to say more; my heart is too full, and I explain but faintly all I feel.”
“D’Orbigny d’Harville.”
“I open my letter to repair something I had, I regret to say, forgotten. According to your noble suggestion, I went to the prison of St. Lazare, to visit the poor women prisoners, and I found there an unhappy girl in whom you are interested. Her angelic mildness, her pious resignation, were the admiration of the respectable women who superintend the prisoners. To say that she is called La Goualeuse is to urge you to obtain her liberty instantly. The poor girl will tell you under what circumstances she was carried off from the asylum in which you had placed her, and was put in prison, where, at least, the candour and sweetness of her disposition have been appreciated. Permit me, also, to recall to you my two future protégées, the unhappy mother and daughter despoiled by the notary Ferrand, — where are they? I pray of you to try and discover them, so that, on my return to Paris, I may pay the debt I have contracted towards all unfortunate beings.”
“What! Has La Goualeuse, then, left the Bouqueval farm?” inquired Murphy, as much astonished as Rodolph at this fresh discovery.
“Just now I was informed that she had been seen quitting St. Lazare,” replied Rodolph. “I am quite bewildered on the subject; Madame Georges’s silence surprises and disturbs me. Poor little Fleur-de-Marie, what fresh disasters can have befallen her? Send a man on horseback directly to the farm, and write to Madame Georges that I beg of her to come to Paris instantly. Request M. de Graün to procure for me a permission to visit St. Lazare. By what Madame d’Harville says to me, Fleur-de-Marie must be confined there. Yet, no,” he added, “she cannot be there, for Rigolette saw her leave the prison with an aged woman. Could it be Madame Georges? If not, who could be the woman that accompanied La Goualeuse?”
“Patience, monseigneur; before the evening you will know all about it. Then to-morrow you can interrogate that vagabond Polidori, who has, he assures me, important disclosures to make, — but to you alone.”
“This interview will be most odious to me!” said Rodolph, sorrowfully; “for I have never seen this man since the fatal day when I—”
Rodolph, unable to finish, hid his face in his hands.
“But, monseigneur, why accede to Polidori’s request? Threaten him with the justice of the French law, or immediate surrender to your authority, and then he will reveal to me what he now declares he will only reveal to you.”
“You are right, my worthy friend; for the presence of this wretch would make my terrible recollections even still more distressing, connected as they are with incurable griefs, — from my father’s death to that of my daughter. I know not how it is, but as I advance in life the more I seem to miss that dear child. How I should have adored her! How very dear and precious to me she would have been, this offspring of my first love, of my earliest and purest beliefs — or, rather, my young illusions! I should have poured out on this innocent creature those treasures of affection of which her hateful mother is so unworthy; and it seems to me that, as I have dreamt, this child, by the beauty of her mind, the charm of her qualities, would have soothed and softened all my griefs, all these pangs of remorse, which are, alas, attached to her fatal birth.”
“Monseigneur, I see with grief the increasing empire which these regrets, as vain as they are bitter, assume over your mind.”
After some moments’ silence, Rodolph said to Murphy:
“I will now make a confession to you, my old friend. I love — yes, I passionately love — a woman worthy of the noblest, the most devoted affection. Since my heart has again expanded to all the sweetness of love, since I am thus again affected by tender emotions, I feel more deeply than ever the loss of my daughter. I might have feared that an attachment of the heart would weaken the bitterness of my regrets. It is not so; all my loving qualities — my affections — are but the keener. I feel myself better, more charitable; and more than ever is it afflicting to me not to have my daughter to adore.”
“Nothing more easily explained, monseigneur, — forgive me the comparison, — but, as certain men have a joyous and benevolent intoxication, so you have good and generous love.”
“Still, my hatred of the wicked has become more intense; my aversion for Sarah increases, in proportion, no doubt, to the grief I experience at my daughter’s death. I imagine to myself that that wretched mother must have neglected her, and that, when once her ambitious hopes were ruined by my marriage, the countess, in her pitiless selfishness, abandoned our daughter to mercenary hands, and, perhaps, my child died from actual neglect. It is my fault, also. I did not then think of the sacred duties which paternity imposes. When Sarah’s real character was suddenly revealed to me, I ought instantly to have taken my daughter from her, and watched over her with love and anxiety. I ought to have foreseen that the countess would make but a very unnatural mother. It is my fault, — yes, indeed, my fault.”
“Monseigneur, grief distracts you! Could you, after the sad event you know of, delay for a day the long journey imposed on you, as—”
“As an expiator! You are right, my friend,” said Rodolph, greatly agitated.
“You have not heard anything of the Countess Sarah since my departure, monseigneur?”
“No; since those infamous plots which twice nearly destroyed Madame d’Harville, I have heard nothing of her. Her presence here is hateful to me, — oppresses me; it seems as though my evil demon was near me, and some new misfortune threatens me.”
“Patience, patience, monseigneur! Fortunately Germany is forbidden ground to her, and Germany awaits us.”
“Yes, we shall go very soon. At least, during my short residence in Paris, I shall have accomplished a sacred vow, and have made some steps in the meritorious path which an august and merciful will has traced for my redemption. As soon as Madame Georges’s son is restored to her tender arms, free and innocent; as soon as Jacques Ferrand shall be convicted and punished for his crimes; as soon as I am assured of the good prosperity of all the honest and hard-working creatures who, by their resignation, courage, and probity, have deserved my interest, we will return to Germany, and then my journey will not have been wholly unfruitful.”
“Particularly if you achieve the exposure of that abominable wretch, Jacques Ferrand, monseigneur, — the angular stone, the pivot on which turn so many crimes.”
“Although the end justifies the means, and scruples with such a scoundrel are absurd, yet I sometimes regret that I have allowed Cecily to become an instrument in working out this just and avenging reparation.”
“She ought to be here very shortly.”
“She has arrived.”
“Cecily?”
“Yes; I refused to see her. De Graün has given her ample instructions, and she has promised to comply with them.”
“Will she keep that promise?”
“Why, everything conspires to make me think so. There is the hope of ameliorating her future condition, and the fear of being instantly sent back to Germany to prison; for De Graün will not lose sight of her, and the least defection on her part will cause her being handed over to justice.”
“True, she comes here as an escaped criminal, and when we know the crimes that have led to her perpetual imprisonment, she would be at once surrendered to our demand.”
“And then, even if it were not her interest to aid our schemes, the task which is assigned to her being one which can only be effected by stratagem, perfidy, and the most devilish seduction, Cecily must be (and the baron assures me she really is) overjoyed at such an opportunity for playing off those infernal advantages with which she is so liberally endowed.”
“Is she as handsome as she was, monseigneur?”
“De Graün declares that she is more attractive than ever; he told me that he was really quite dazzled at her beauty, to which the Alsatian costume she had chosen gave even more piquancy. The glance of this devil in petticoats, he says, has still the same really magic expression.”
“Why, monseigneur, I have never been what is called a dissipated fellow, a man without heart or conduct, but if at twenty years of age I had met with Cecily, even knowing her then to be as dangerous, as wicked as I do now, I assure you I would not have answered for myself, if I had been for any time exposed to the fire of her large, black, and brilliant eyes, sparkling in the centre of her pale and ardent countenance. Yes, by heaven! I dare not think of the extremities into which so fatal an amour might have urged me.”
“I am not astonished, my dear Murphy, for I know this woman. Moreover, the baron was really frightened at the quickness with which Cecily understood — or, rather guessed — the part, at once inciting and platonic, which she was to play with the notary.”
“But will she, think you, be introduced as easily as you wish, monseigneur, by the intervention of Madame Pipelet? Individuals like Jacques Ferrand are so suspicious.”
“I had relied, with reason, on the sight of Cecily to overcome and dissipate the notary’s distrust.”
“What! Has he already seen her?”
“Yesterday. And from what Madame Pipelet told me, I have no doubt but he was fascinated by the creole, for he instantly took her into service.”
“Then, monseigneur, the game is won, and ours.”
“I hope so. A ferocious cupidity, a brutal passion, have impelled the injurer of Louise Morel to the most odious crimes. It is in his passion and his cupidity that he shall find the terrible punishment of his crimes, — a punishment which, moreover, shall not be without fruit for his victims, for you know the aim of all the Creole’s wiles.”
“Cecily! Cecily! Never did greater wickedness, never more dangerous corruption, never blacker soul have served for the accomplishment of a more strict morality, a more just result! And David, monseigneur, what does he say to this arrangement?”
“Approves of everything. At the pitch of contempt and horror which he has reached for this creature, he sees in her only the instrument of a just vengeance. ‘If this accursed woman ever could deserve any commiseration after all the ill she has done me,’ he said to me, ‘it would be by devoting herself to the remorseless punishment of this scoundrel, whose exterminating demon she may become.’”
A servant having knocked at the door, Murphy went out, but soon returned with two letters, only one of which was for Rodolph.
“A line from Madame Georges,” he said, as he hastily perused it.
“Well, monseigneur, and La Goualeuse?”
“There can be no further doubt,” exclaimed Rodolph, after having read, “there is some dark plot afoot. On the evening of the day when the poor girl disappeared from the farm, and at the instant when Madame Georges was about to inform me of this event, a man unknown to her, sent express and on horseback, came as from me to tell her that I was aware of the sudden disappearance of Fleur-de-Marie, and that in a few days I should take her back to the farm. In spite of this, Madame Georges, uneasy at my silence with respect to her protégée, cannot, as she says, resist the desire to hear how her dear daughter is, for so she calls her.”
“It is very strange, monseigneur.”
“What could be the motive for carrying off Fleur-de-Marie?”
“Monseigneur!” said Murphy, suddenly, “the Countess Sarah is no stranger to this carrying off.”
“Sarah! And what makes you think so?”
“Compare this event with her denunciations against Madame d’Harville.”
“You are right!” cried Rodolph, struck with a sudden light, “it is evident — now I understand. Yes, constantly the one calculation. The countess persists in thinking that by breaking down all the affections which she supposes me to form, she will make me feel the necessity of attaching myself to her. This is as odious as it is absurd. Still, such unworthy persecution must be put a stop to. It is not only myself, but all that deserve respect, interest, and pity, that this woman assails. Send M. de Graün instantly and officially to the countess and let him say that I have the certain assurance that she has been instrumental in carrying off Fleur-de-Marie, and if she does not give me at once such information as is necessary for me to find the poor girl, I will show no mercy; and then M. de Graün will go to the law officers of the crown.”
“According to Madame d’Harville’s letter, La Goualeuse must be in St. Lazare.”
“Yes, but Rigolette declares that she saw her free, and quit the prison. There is some mystery which I must clear up.”
“I will instantly go and give the Baron de Graün your orders, monseigneur. But allow me to open this letter, which comes from my correspondent at Marseilles, to whom I had recommended the Chourineur, as he was to facilitate the passage of the poor devil to Algeria.”
“Well, has he set sail?”
“Monseigneur, it is really singular!”
“What is it?”
“After having waited for a long time at Marseilles for a ship to convey him to Algeria, the Chourineur, who seemed every day more sad and serious, suddenly protested, on the very day fixed for his embarkation, that he should prefer returning to Paris.”
“What a whim!”
“Although my correspondent had, as agreed, placed a considerable sum at the disposal of the Chourineur, he had only taken sufficient for his return to Paris, where he must shortly arrive.”
“Then he will explain to us his change of resolution. But despatch De Graün immediately to the Countess Macgregor, and go yourself to St. Lazare, and inquire about Fleur-de-Marie.”
After the lapse of an hour, the Baron de Graün returned from the Countess Sarah Macgregor’s. In spite of his habitual and official sang-froid, the diplomatist seemed overwhelmed; the groom of the chambers had scarcely admitted him before Rodolph observed his paleness.
“Well, De Graün, what ails you? Have you seen the countess?”
“Your royal highness must prepare for very painful intelligence — so unexpected — the Countess Macgregor—”
“The countess, then, is dead?”
“No, but her life is despaired of; she has been stabbed with a stiletto.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Rodolph. “Who committed the crime?”
“That is not ascertained; the murder was accompanied with robbery; a large quantity of jewels have been stolen.”
“And how is she now?”
“She has not recovered her senses yet; her brother is in despair.”
“Send some one daily to make inquiries, my dear De Graün.”
At this moment Murphy entered, having returned from St. Lazare.
“Sad news!” said Rodol
ph to him; “Sarah has been stabbed.”
“Ah, monseigneur, though very guilty, one must still pity her.”
“Yes, such a fearful end! And La Goualeuse?”
“Set at liberty by the intercession of Madame d’Harville.”
“That is impossible! for Madame d’Harville entreats me to take the necessary steps for getting the poor, unhappy girl out of prison.”
“Yet an elderly woman came to St. Lazare, bringing an order to set Fleur-de-Marie at liberty, and they both quitted the prison together.”
“As Rigolette said. But this elderly woman, who can she be? The Countess Sarah alone can clear this up, and she is in no state to afford us particulars.”
“But her brother, Tom Seyton, may throw some light on it, he has always been in his sister’s confidence.”
“His sister is dying, and if there is any fresh plot, he will not say a word. But,” added Rodolph, “we must learn the name of the person who liberated Fleur-de-Marie, and then we shall arrive at something.”
“True, monseigneur.”
“Try, then, and find out this person, my dear De Graün; and if you do not succeed, put your M. Badinot on the scent.”
“Your royal highness may rely on my zeal.”
“Upon my word, monseigneur,” said Murphy, “it is, perhaps, fortunate that the Chourineur returns to us, his services may be useful.”
“You are right; and now I am impatient to see my brave preserver arrive in Paris, for I never can forget that I owe my life to him.”
CHAPTER III.
THE CLERK’S OFFICE.
SEVERAL DAYS HAD elapsed since Jacques Ferrand had taken Cecily into his service. We will conduct the reader (who already knows the place) into the notary’s office, whilst his clerks are at breakfast. Unheard of, extravagant, wonderful thing! Instead of the meagre and repulsive broth brought each morning to these young men by the late Madame Séraphin, an enormous cold roast turkey, placed in a large box, was enthroned in the centre of one of the office-tables, flanked by two new loaves, a Dutch cheese, and three bottles of wine; an ancient leaden inkstand served to hold a mixture of pepper and salt. Each clerk, provided with a knife and a strong appetite, awaited the arrival of the head clerk with hungry impatience, without whom they could not, without a breach of etiquette, begin to breakfast. A revolution so radical in Jacques Ferrand’s office bespoke some extraordinary domestic mutation. The following conversation may throw some light on this phenomenon: