by Eugène Sue
“Kind girl! Well, and I, also, met by chance with such another, a young, hard-working sempstress. I was going to see my poor brother, who is a prisoner,” said Jeanne, after a moment’s hesitation, “and met this work-girl in the prison; and when she heard me tell my brother that I was not happy, she came to me and offered me all in her power, poor girl! I accepted her offer, and she gave me her address; and two days afterwards dear little Mlle. Rigolette — she is called Rigolette — sent me an order.”
“Rigolette!” exclaimed Lorraine; “how strange! The young girl who was so generous to me often mentioned the name of Mlle. Rigolette in my hearing; they were great friends.”
“Well, then,” said Jeanne, smiling sadly, “since we are neighbours in bed, we should be friends like our two benefactresses.”
“With all my heart! My name is Annette Gerbier, called La Lorraine, a washerwoman.”
“And I am Jeanne Duport, a fringe-maker. Oh, it is so fortunate to find in this melancholy place some one not quite a stranger to you, especially when you come for the first time, and are very full of trouble. But don’t let us talk of that! Tell me, Lorraine, what was the name of the young girl who was so kind to you?”
“She was called Goualeuse, and was exceedingly handsome, with light brown hair and blue eyes, so soft — oh, so soft! Unfortunately, in spite of her assistance, my poor babe died at two months old. It was so puny, it could hardly breathe!” and La Lorraine wiped a tear from her eye.
“And your husband?”
“I am not married. I washed by the day at a rich tradesman’s in my country, and had always been prudent; but the master’s son whispered his tales in my ear, and then — When I found in what a state I was, I dared not remain any longer in the country, and M. Jules gave me fifty francs to take me to Paris, assuring me that he would send me twenty francs every month for my lying-in; but since I left I have not had one sou, not even a message. I wrote to him once, but he sent me no answer; and I was afraid to write again, as I saw he did not wish to hear any more of me.”
“At least he ought not to have forgotten you, if it was only for the sake of the child!”
“That was the reason; he was angry with me for being in the family way, because it embarrassed him. I regret my child for myself, but not on its own account, poor little darling! It must have been miserable, and have been an orphan very early, for I have not long to live.”
“Oh, you ought not to have such ideas at your age. Have you been long ill?”
“Nearly three months. Why, when I had to work for myself and my child, I began too soon. The winter was very cold; I was attacked with a cold on my chest. I lost my child at this time, too; and nursing her, I neglected myself, and then my sorrow; so that I fell into a consumption — decided — like the actress who has just died.”
“There’s always hope at your age!”
“The actress was only two years older than I am.”
“What, was she an actress who is just dead?”
“Yes. And see what fate is! She had been as beautiful as daylight, and had money, carriages, diamonds; but, unfortunately, the smallpox disfigured her, and then came want and misery, and, at last, death in a hospital. No one ever came to see her; and yet, four or five days ago, she told me, she had written to a gentleman whom she had formerly known in her gay days, and who had been much in love with her. She wrote to him to beg him to claim her dead body, because she was wretched at the idea of thinking she would be dissected — cut in pieces.”
“And did the gentleman come?”
“No. Every moment she was asking for him and perpetually saying, ‘Oh, he’ll come! Oh, he’ll be sure to come!’ And yet she died without any one coming, and what she so much dreaded will befall her poor frame. After having been rich and happy, to die so is very terrible! We, at least, only change our miseries!”
“I wish,” said Lorraine, after a moment’s hesitation, “I wish you would render me a service!”
“What is it?”
“If I die, as is probable, before you go from here, will you claim my body? I have the same dread as the actress, and have laid aside the small sum of money necessary to bury me.”
“Oh, do not have such ideas!”
“Still promise me, all the same!”
“But let us hope the case will not happen!”
“Yes; but if it does happen — thanks to you, I shall not have the same misery as the actress.”
“Poor woman! After having been rich to come to such an end!”
“The actress is not the only one in this room who has been rich.”
“Who else?”
“A young girl of about fifteen or so, brought here yesterday evening. She was so weak that they were obliged to support her. The sister said that the young lady and her mother were very reputable persons, who had been ruined.”
“And is her mother here, too?”
“No, the mother was too ill to be moved. The poor girl would not leave, so they took advantage of her fainting to convey her. The proprietor of a wretched lodging-house, for fear they should die in his rooms, made the report at the police station. She is there — in the bed opposite you.”
“And she is fifteen? The age of my eldest girl!” And Jeanne Duport wept bitterly.
“Pardon me,” said La Lorraine, “if I have given you pain unconsciously in speaking of your children! Are they, too, ill?”
“Alas! I do not know. What will become of them if I remain here for a week?”
“And your husband?”
“As we are friends together, Lorraine, I will tell you my troubles, as you have told me yours, and that will comfort me. My husband was an excellent workman, but became dissipated, and forsook me and my children, after having sold everything we possessed. I went to work; some good souls aided me, and I began to get easy again, and was bringing up my little family as well as I could, when my husband returned with a vile creature, his mistress, and again stripped me of everything; and so I had to begin all over again.”
“Poor Jeanne! You could not help it.”
“I ought to have separated myself from him in law, — but, as my brother says, the law is too dear! I went to see my brother one day, and he gave me three francs, which he had collected amongst the prisoners on telling his tales. So I took courage, believing my husband would not return for a very long time, as he had taken all he could from us. But I was mistaken,” added the poor creature, with a shudder; “there was my poor Catherine still to take!”
“Your daughter?”
“You will hear — you will hear! Three days ago, as I was at work with my children around me, my husband came in. I saw by his look that he had been drinking. ‘I have come for Catherine,’ says he. I took my daughter’s arm, and I said to Duport, ‘Where do you want to take her to?’ ‘What’s that to you? She’s my daughter. Let her make up her bundle and come along with me.’ At these words my blood ran cold in my veins; for you must know, Lorraine, that that bad woman is still with my husband, and it makes me shudder all over to say it. But so it was; she had long been urging him to earn something by our daughter, who is young and pretty. ‘Take away Catherine?’ said I to Duport; ‘Never! I know what that wicked woman would do with her.’ ‘I say,’ said my husband, whose lips were white with rage, ‘do not oppose me or I’ll kill you!’ and then he seized my daughter by the arm, saying, ‘Come along, Catherine!’ The poor child threw her arms around my neck, and burst into tears, exclaiming, ‘I will stay with mother!’ When he saw this, Duport became furious, tore my daughter from me, and hit me a blow in my stomach, which knocked me down; and when I was on the ground — he was very drunk, you may be sure — he trampled on me and hurt me dreadfully. My poor children begged for mercy on their knees, — Catherine, too; and then he said to her, swearing like a lunatic, ‘If you will not come with me I’ll do for your mother!’ I was spitting blood; I felt half dead, and could not move an inch. But I cried to Catherine, ‘Let him kill me first!’ ‘What, you won’t be quie
t?’ said Duport, giving me another kick, which deprived me of all consciousness; and when I returned to myself, I found my two little boys crying bitterly.”
“And your daughter?”
“Gone!” exclaimed the unhappy mother, with convulsive sobs. “Yes; gone. My other children told me that their father had beaten them and threatened to finish me. Then the poor girl was quite distracted and embraced me and her brothers, weeping dreadfully; and then my husband dragged her away. Ah, that bad woman was waiting for him on the stairs, I know!”
“And didn’t you complain to the police?”
“At first I felt only grief at Catherine’s departure; but I felt soon great pain in all my limbs, — I could not walk. Alas, what I had so long dreaded had happened! Yes, I told my brother that one day my husband would beat me so that I should be obliged to go to the hospital, — and then what would become of my children? And now here I am in the hospital, and what, indeed, will become of my children? The neighbours went for the commissary, who came. I didn’t like to denounce Duport, but I was obliged, in consequence of my daughter; only I said that in our quarrel about our daughter he had pushed me, that it was nothing, but I wanted my daughter Catherine because I feared the bad woman with whom my husband lived would be the ruin of her.”
“Well, and what did the commissary say?”
“Why, that my husband had a right to take away his daughter, as we were not separated; that it would be a misfortune if my daughter turned out badly from evil counsels, but that they were only suppositions, after all, and that was not sufficient for a complaint against my husband. ‘You have but one way — plead in the courts, demand a separation — and then the beatings your husband has given you, his behaviour with a vile woman, will be in your favour, and they will force him to restore your daughter to you; but, otherwise, he has a right to keep her with him.’ ‘But how can I plead when I have my children to feed?’ ‘What can be done?’ said the clerk; ‘that’s the only way!’” and poor Jeanne sobbed bitterly, adding, “And he is right — that is the only way! And so, in three months, my daughter may be walking the streets, whilst if I could plead and be separated it would not happen. Alas, poor Catherine, so gentle and so affectionate!”
“Oh, you have, indeed, a bitter sorrow; and yet I was complaining!” said La Lorraine, drying her eyes. “And your other children?”
“Why, on their account, I did all I could to bear the pains I was suffering, and not go to the hospital; but I could not go on. I vomited blood three or four times a day, and a fever took away the use of my arms and legs, and I was at last unable to work. If I am quickly cured I may return to my children, if they are not first dead from hunger or locked up as beggars. Who will maintain them whilst I am here?”
“Oh, it is very terrible! Have you no kind neighbours?”
“They are as poor as myself, and have five children already. It is very hard, but they promised to do a little something for them for a week; that is all they could do. And so, cured or not cured, I must go out in a week.”
“But your friend, Mademoiselle Rigolette?”
“Unfortunately, she is in the country, and going to be married, the porter said. No, I must be cured in eight days; and I asked all the doctors who spoke to me yesterday, but they laughed as they replied, ‘You must ask the principal surgeon.’ When will he come, Lorraine?”
“Hush! I think I hear him now. And no one is allowed to speak during his visit,” replied Lorraine, in a low voice.
The daylight had appeared during the conversation of the two women. A bustle announced the arrival of Doctor Griffon, who entered the room accompanied by his friend, the Comte de Saint-Remy, who took so warm an interest in Madame de Fermont and her daughter, but was very far from expecting to find the unfortunate young lady in the hospital. As he entered the ward, the cold and harsh features of Doctor Griffon seemed to expand. Casting around him a look of satisfaction and authority, he answered the obsequious reception of the sisters by a protecting nod. The coarse and austere countenance of the old Comte de Saint-Remy was imprinted with the deepest sorrow. His ineffective attempts to find any traces of Madame de Fermont, and the ignominious baseness of the vicomte, who had preferred a life of infamy to death, overwhelmed him with grief.
“Well,” said Doctor Griffon to him, with an air of triumph, “what do you think of my hospital?”
“Really,” replied M. de Saint-Remy, “I do not know why I yielded to your desire; nothing is more harrowing than the sight of rooms filled with sick persons. Since I entered, my feelings have been severely distressed.”
“Bah, bah! In a quarter of an hour you will think no more of it. You, who are a philosopher, will find here ample matter for observation; and besides, it would have been a shame for you, one of my oldest friends, not to have known the theatre of my glory, my labours, and seen me at work. I take pride in my profession — is that wrong?”
“No, certainly; and after your excellent care of Fleur-de-Marie, whom you have saved, I could refuse you nothing.”
“Well, have you ascertained anything as to the fate of Madame de Fermont and her daughter?”
“Nothing!” replied M. de Saint-Remy, with a sigh. “And my last hope is in Madame d’Harville, who takes such deep interest in these two unfortunates; she may find some traces of them. Madame d’Harville, I hear, is expected daily at her house; and I have written to her on the subject, begging her to reply as soon as possible.”
During the conversation between M. de Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon, several groups were formed gradually around a large table in the middle of the apartment, on which was a register in which the pupils of the hospital (who were to be recognised by their long white aprons) came in their turns to sign the attendance-sheet.
“You see, my dear Saint-Remy, that my staff is pretty considerable.”
“It is indeed! But all these beds are occupied by women, and the presence of so many men must inspire them with painful confusion!”
“All these fine feelings must be left at the door, my dear Alcestis. Here we begin on the living those experiments and studies which we complete on the dead body in the amphitheatre.”
“Doctor, you are one of the best and worthiest of men, and I owe you my life, and I recognise all your excellent qualities; but the practice and love of your art makes you take views of certain questions which are most revolting to me. I leave you. These are things which disgust and pain me; and I foresee that it would be a real punishment to me to be present at your visit. I will wait for you here at the table.”
“What a strange person you are with these scruples! But I will not let you have quite your own way. So remain here till I come for you.”
“Now, then, gentlemen,” said Doctor Griffon; and he began his round, followed by his numerous auditory.
On reaching the first bed on the right hand, the curtains of which were closed, the sister said to the doctor:
“Sir, No. 1 died at half past four o’clock this morning.”
“So late? It astonishes me. Yesterday morning I would not have given her the day through. Has her body been claimed?”
“No, sir.”
“So much the better. It is a very fine one; we will not dissect it, but I will make a man happy.” Then turning to one of the pupils, “My dear Dunoyer, you have long desired a subject; your name is down for the first, and it is yours.”
“Oh, sir, you are too good.”
“I am only desirous of rewarding your zeal, my dear fellow; but mark the subject — take possession; there are so many who covet it.”
As the doctor passed onwards, the pupil, with his scalpel, incised very delicately an F. and D. (his initials) on the arm of the defunct actress, in order “to take possession,” as the doctor termed it. And the round continued.
“Lorraine,” said Jeanne Duport, in a low voice, to her neighbour, “who is all this crowd of people with the surgeon?”
“It is pupils and students.”
“Oh, will all these youn
g men look on whilst the doctor asks me questions and examines me?”
“Alas, yes!”
“But it is in my chest that I am ill; will they examine me before all these men?”
“Yes — yes — it must be so. I cried bitterly the first time, and thought I should have died of shame. I resisted, and they threatened to send me away, and that made me so ill. Only imagine, almost naked before everybody! It is very painful.”
“Before the doctor alone I can easily comprehend it is necessary, and even that is a great deal to submit to; but why before all these young men?”
“They learn and practise on us; that is why we are here, — why they admit us into the hospital.”
“Ah, I understand,” said Jeanne Duport, with bitterness; “they give us nothing for nothing. Yet still there are times when even that could not be. Suppose my poor girl Catherine, who is only fifteen, were to come to the hospital, would they dare with her, before so many young men, to — Oh, no! I would rather see her die at home!”
“Oh, if she came here she must make up her mind to do as the others do, — as you and I. But hold your tongue; if the poor young lady in front hears you — they say she was rich, and, perhaps, has never left her mother before, — and yet her turn comes now. Only think how confused and distressed she will be.”
“I shudder when I think of her! Poor child!”
“Hush, Jeanne! Here is the doctor!” said Lorraine.
After having quickly visited several patients who presented nothing remarkable in their cases, the doctor at last came to Jeanne. At the sight of this crowd coming around her bed, anxious to see and learn, the poor creature, overcome with fear and shame, pulled the bed-clothes tightly around her. The severe and meditative countenance of the doctor, his penetrating glance, his eyebrows, always drawn down by his reflective habit, his abrupt mode of speech, impatient and quick, increased the alarm of poor Jeanne.