by Eugène Sue
“I can understand those regrets, madame, for it is impossible to see Fleur-de-Marie without being charmed with her grace and sweetness. The woman who saved her, and has since watched her night and day as she would an infant, is a courageous and devoted person, but of a disposition so excitable that she has been called La Louve.”
“I know La Louve,” said the marquise, smiling as she thought of the pleasure she had in store for the prince. What would have been her ecstasy, had she known she was the daughter he believed dead that she was about to restore to Rodolph! Then, addressing the nun who had given some spoonfuls of a draught to Mlle. de Fermont, she said, “Well, sister, is she recovering?”
“Not yet, madame, she is so weak. Poor, young thing! One can scarcely feel her pulse beat.”
“I will wait, then, until she is sufficiently restored to be put into my carriage; but tell me, sister, amongst these unfortunate patients, do you know any who particularly deserve interest and pity, and to whom I could be useful before I leave the hospital?”
“Ah, madame, Heaven has sent you here!” said the sister. “There,” and she pointed to the bed of Pique-Vinaigre’s sister, “is a poor woman much to be pitied, and very bad; she only came in when quite exhausted, and is past all comfort, because she has been obliged to abandon her two small children, who have no other support in the world. She said just now to the doctor that she must go out, cured or not, in a week, because her neighbours had promised to take care of her children for that time only and no longer.”
“Take me to her bed, I beg of you, sister,” said Madame d’Harville, rising and following the nun.
Jeanne Duport, who had scarcely recovered from the violent shock which the investigations of Doctor Griffon had caused her, had not remarked the entrance of Madame d’Harville; what, then, was her astonishment, when the marquise, lifting up the curtains of her bed, and looking at her with great pity and kindness, said:
“My good woman, do not be uneasy about your children, I will take care of them; so only think of getting well, that you may go to them.”
Poor Jeanne thought she was in a dream, she could only clasp her hands in speechless gratitude, and gaze on her unknown benefactress.
“Once again assure yourself, my worthy woman, and have no uneasiness,” said the marquise, pressing in her small and delicate white hands the burning hand of Jeanne Duport; “and, if you prefer it, you shall leave the hospital this very day and be nursed at home; everything shall be done for you, so that you need not leave your children; and, if your lodging is unhealthy or too small, you shall have one found that is more convenient and suitable, so that you may be in one room and your children in another; you shall have a good nurse, who will watch them whilst she attends to you, and when you entirely recover, if you are out of work, I will take care that you are provided for until work comes, and I will also take care of your children for the future.”
“Ah, what do I hear?” said Jeanne Duport, all trembling and hardly daring to look her benefactress in the face. “Why are so many kindnesses showered on me? It is not possible! I leave the hospital, where I have wept and suffered so much, and not leave my children again! Have a nurse! Why, it is a miracle!”
“It is no miracle, my good woman,” said Clémence, much affected. “What I do for you,” she added, blushing slightly at the remembrance of Rodolph, “is inspired by a generous spirit, who has taught me to sympathise with misfortune, and it is he whom you should thank.”
“Ah, madame, I shall ever bless you!” said Jeanne, weeping.
“Well, then, you see, Jeanne,” said Lorraine, much affected, “there are also amongst the rich Rigolettes and Goualeuses with good hearts.”
Madame d’Harville turned with much surprise towards Lorraine when she heard her mention the two names.
“Do you know La Goualeuse and a young workwoman called Rigolette?” she inquired of Lorraine.
“Yes, madame; La Goualeuse — good little angel! — did for me last year, according to her small means, what you are going to do for Jeanne. Yes, madame, and it does me good to say and repeat it to everybody, La Goualeuse took me from a cellar in which I had been brought to bed on the straw, and — dear, good girl! — placed me and my child in a room where there was a good bed and a cradle; La Goualeuse spent the money from pure charity, for she scarcely knew me, and was poor herself. But how good it was! Was it not, madame?” said Lorraine.
“Yes, yes; charity from the poor to the poor is great and holy!” said Clémence, with her eyes moistened by soft tears.
“It was the same with Mademoiselle Rigolette, who, according to her little means as a sempstress,” said Lorraine, “some days ago offered her kind services to Jeanne.”
“How singular!” said Clémence to herself, more and more affected, for each of these two names, Goualeuse and Rigolette, reminded her of a noble action of Rodolph. “And you, my child, what can I do for you?” she said to Lorraine; “I could wish that the names you pronounce with so much gratitude should also bring you good fortune.”
“Thank you, madame,” said Lorraine, with a smile of bitter resignation. “I had a child, it is dead; I am in a decline and past all hope.”
“What a gloomy idea! At your age there is always hope.”
“Oh, no, madame, I saw a consumptive patient die last night. Yet as you are so good, a great lady like you must be able to do anything.”
“Tell me, what do you wish?”
“Since I have seen the actress who is dead so distressed at the idea of being cut in pieces after her death, I have the same fear. Jeanne had promised to claim my body, and have me buried.”
“Ah, this is horrible!” said Clémence, shuddering. “Be tranquil, although I hope the time is far distant, yet, when it comes, be assured that your body shall rest in holy ground.”
“Oh, thank you — thank you, madame!” exclaimed Lorraine. “Might I beg to kiss your hand?”
Clémence presented her hand to the parched lips of Lorraine.
Half an hour afterwards, Madame d’Harville, who had been painfully affected by Lorraine’s condition, accompanied by M. de Saint-Remy, took with her the young orphan, from whom she concealed her mother’s death.
The same day, Madame d’Harville’s man of business, after having obtained favourable particulars respecting Jeanne Duport’s character, hired for her some large and airy rooms, and the same evening she was conveyed to her new residence, where she found her children and a nurse. The same individual was instructed to claim and inter the body of Lorraine when she died. After having conveyed Mlle. de Fermont to her own house, Madame d’Harville started for Asnières with M. de Saint-Remy, in order to go to Fleur-de-Marie, and take her to Rodolph.
CHAPTER V.
HOPE.
SPRING WAS APPROACHING, and already the sun darted a more genial warmth, the sky was blue and clear, while the balmy air seemed to bring life and breath upon its invigorating wings. Among the many sick and suffering who rejoiced in its cheering presence was Fleur-de-Marie, who, leaning on the arm of La Louve, ventured to take gentle exercise in the little garden belonging to Doctor Griffon’s house; the vivifying rays of the sun, added to the exertion of walking, tinged the pale, wasted countenance of La Goualeuse with a faint glow that spoke of returning convalescence. The dress she had worn when rescued from a watery grave had been destroyed in the haste with which the requisite attempts had been made for her resuscitation, and she now appeared in a loose wrapping dress of dark blue merino, fastened around her slender waist by worsted cord of the same colour as the robe.
“How cheering the sun shines!” said she to La Louve, as she stopped beneath a thick row of trees, planted beside a high gravelled walk facing the south, and on which was a stone bench. “Shall we sit down and rest ourselves here a few minutes?”
“Why do you ask me?” replied La Louve, almost angrily; then taking off her nice warm shawl, she folded it in four, and, kneeling down, placed it on the ground, which was somewhat moist from the
extreme shelter afforded by the overhanging trees, saying, as she did so, “Here, put your feet on this.”
“Oh, but La Louve!” said Fleur-de-Marie, perceiving too late the kind intention of her companion, “I cannot suffer you to spoil your beautiful shawl in that way.”
“Don’t make a fuss about nothing; I tell you the ground is cold and moist. There, that will do.” And, taking the tiny feet of Fleur-de-Marie, she forcibly placed them on her shawl.
“You spoil me terribly, La Louve.”
“It is not for your good behaviour, if I do; always trying to oppose me in everything I try to do for your good. Are you not very much tired? We have been walking more than half an hour; I heard twelve o’clock just strike from Asnières.”
“I do feel rather weary, but still the walk has done me good.”
“There now — you were tired, and yet could not tell me so!”
“Pray don’t scold me; I assure you I was not conscious of my weariness until I spoke. It is so delightful to be able to walk out in the air, after being confined by sickness to your bed, to see the trees, the green fields, and the beautiful country again, when you had given up all hope of ever enjoying that happiness, or of feeling the warm beams of the sun fill you with strength and hope!”
“Certainly, you were desperately ill, and for two days we despaired of your life. I don’t mind telling you, now the danger is over.”
“Only imagine, La Louve, that, when I found myself in the water, I could not help thinking of a very bad, wicked woman, who used to torment me when I was young, and frighten me by threatening to throw me to the fishes that they might eat me, and, even after I had grown up, she wanted to drown me; and I kept thinking that it was my destiny to be devoured by fishes, and that it was no use to try and escape from it.”
“Was that really your last idea when you believed yourself perishing?”
“Oh, no!” replied Fleur-de-Marie, with enthusiasm; “when I believed I was dying, my last thought was for him whom I so reverence, and to whom I owe so much, and, when I came to myself after you had saved me, my first thought was of him likewise.”
“It is a pleasure to render you any service, you think so much of it.”
“No, La Louve; the pleasure consists in falling asleep with our grateful recollection of kind acts, and remembering them upon waking!”
“Ah, you would induce people to go through fire and water to serve you! I’m sure I would, for one.”
“I can assure you that one of the causes which made me thankful for life was the hope of being able to advance your happiness. Do you recollect the castles in the air we used to build at St. Lazare?”
“Oh, as for that, there is time enough to think about that.”
“How delighted I should be, if the doctor would only allow me to write a few lines to Madame Georges, I am sure she must be so very uneasy; and so must M. Rodolph, too,” added Fleur-de-Marie, pensively sighing. “Perhaps they think me dead.”
“As those wretches do who were set on to murder you!”
“Then you still believe my falling into the water was not an accident?”
“Accident! Yes, one of the Martial family’s accidents; — mind, when I say that, you must bear in mind that my Martial is not at all like the rest of his relations, any more than François and Amandine.”
“But what interest could they have had in my death?”
“I don’t care for that; the Martials are such a vile set that they would murder any one, provided they were well paid for it. A few words the mother let drop when my man went to see her in prison prove that.”
“Has he really been to see that dreadful woman?”
“Yes; and he tells me there is no hope of pardon for herself, Calabash, or Nicholas. A great many things have been discovered against them; and all the judges and those kind of people say they want to make a public example of them, to frighten others from doing such things.”
“How very shocking for nearly a whole family to perish in this way.”
“And they certainly will, unless, indeed, Nicholas manages to make his escape; he is in the same prison with a monstrous ruffian whom they call the Skeleton, and this man is getting up a plot to escape with several of his companions. Nicholas sent to tell Martial of this, by a prisoner who was discharged from prison the other day, for I must tell you, my man had been weak enough to go and see his brother in La Force; so, encouraged by this visit, that hateful wretch Nicholas sent to tell my man that he might effect his escape at any minute, and that his brother was to send money and clothes to disguise himself in, ready for him, to Father Micou’s.”
“Ah, your Martial is so kind-hearted, I’m sure he will do it!”
“A fig for such kind-heartedness! I call it downright foolery to help the very man who tried to take his life. No, no, Martial shall do no such thing; quite enough if he does not tell of the scheme for breaking out of prison, without furnishing clothes and money, indeed. Besides, now you are out of danger, myself, Martial, and the two children are about to start on our rambles over France in search of work, and, depend upon it, we never mean to set our feet in Paris again. Martial found it quite galling enough to be called the son of a man who was guillotined; how, then, could he endure being taunted with the disgraceful ends of all his family?”
“Well, but, at least, you will defer your departure till I have been enabled to see and speak with M. Rodolph; you have returned to virtue, and I promised you a reward if you would but forsake evil ways, and I wish to keep my word. You saved me from death, and, not satisfied with that, have nursed me with the tenderest care during my severe illness.”
“Suppose I did; well, it would seem as though I had done the little good in my power for the sake of gain, were I to allow you to ask your friends for anything for me! No, no; I say again, I am more than repaid in seeing you safe and likely to do well.”
“My kind Louve, make yourself perfectly easy; it shall not be said that you were influenced by interested motives, but that I was desirous of proving my gratitude to you.”
“Hark!” said La Louve, hastily rising, “I fancy I hear the sound of a carriage coming this way; yes — yes, there it is! Did you observe the lady who was in it?”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, “I fancy I recognised a young and beautiful lady I saw at St. Lazare.”
“Then she knows you are here, does she?”
“I cannot tell you whether she does or no, but one thing is very certain, that she is acquainted with the person I have so often mentioned to you, who, if he pleases, and I hope that he will please, can realise all those schemes of happiness we used to build when in prison.”
“What about getting a gamekeeper’s place for my man?” asked La Louve, with a sigh; “and a cottage in the middle of the woods for us all to live in? Oh, no! That is too much like what we read of in fairy tales, and quite impossible ever to happen to a poor creature like myself.”
Quick steps were heard advancing rapidly from behind the trees, and in a minute François and Amandine (who, thanks to the kind consideration of the Count de Saint-Remy, had been permitted to remain with La Louve, during her attendance on La Goualeuse) presented themselves, quite out of breath, exclaiming:
“La Louve, here is a beautiful lady come along with M. de Saint-Remy to see Fleur-de-Marie, and they want to see her directly!”
At the same moment, Madame d’Harville, accompanied by M. de Saint-Remy, appeared from the side of the walk, the impatience of the former not allowing her to wait the arrival of Fleur-de-Marie. Directly the marquise saw her, she ran and embraced her, exclaiming:
“My poor dear child! What happiness does it not afford me to find you thus in life and safety, when I believed you dead!”
“Be assured, madame,” answered Fleur-de-Marie, as she gracefully and modestly returned the affectionate pressure of Madame d’Harville, “that I have equal pleasure in seeing again one whose former kindness has made so deep an impression on my heart!”
&
nbsp; “Ah, you little imagine the joy and rapture with which the intelligence of your existence will be welcomed by those who have so bitterly bewailed your supposed loss!”
Fleur-de-Marie, taking La Louve, who had withdrawn to a distance from the affecting scene, by the hand, and presenting her to Madame d’Harville, said:
“Since, madame, my benefactors are good enough to take so lively an interest in my welfare and preservation, permit me to solicit their kindness and favour for my companion, who saved my life at the expense of her own.”
“Make yourself perfectly easy on that score, my child; your friends will amply testify to the worthy La Louve how fully they appreciate the service they well know she has rendered you, and that ’tis to her they owe the delight of seeing you again.”
Confused and blushing, La Louve ventured neither to reply nor raise her eyes towards Madame d’Harville, so completely did the presence of that dignified person abash and overpower her. Yet, at hearing her very name pronounced, La Louve could not restrain an exclamation of astonishment.
“But we have not a minute to lose,” resumed the marquise. “I am dying with impatience to carry off Fleur-de-Marie, and I have a cloak and warm shawl for her in the carriage. So come, my child, come!” Then, addressing the count, she said, “May I beg of you to give my address to this brave woman, that she may be enabled to come to-morrow to say good-bye to Fleur-de-Marie? That will oblige you to pay us a visit,” continued Madame d’Harville, speaking to La Louve.
“Depend upon my coming, madame,” replied the person addressed. “Since it is to bid adieu to La Goualeuse, I should be grieved, indeed, if I were to miss that last pleasure.”
A few minutes after this conversation, Madame d’Harville and La Goualeuse were on the road to Paris.
After witnessing the frightful death by which Jacques Ferrand atoned for the heinous offences of his past life, Rodolph had returned home deeply agitated and affected. After passing a long and sleepless night, he sent to summon Sir Walter Murphy, in order to relieve his overcharged heart by confiding to this tried and trusty friend the overwhelmingly painful discovery of the preceding evening relative to Fleur-de-Marie. The honest squire was speechless with astonishment; he could well understand the death-blow this must be to the prince’s best affections, and as he contemplated the pale, careworn countenance of his unhappy friend, whose red, swollen eyes and convulsed features amply bespoke the agony of his mind, he ransacked his brain for some gleam of comfort, and his invention for words of hope and comfort.