by Eugène Sue
“Come!” cried the doctor, in a loud voice.
“Father! Dearest father!” exclaimed Louise. “Do you not know your child, — your poor Louise?” And as she said these words she threw herself on the lapidary’s neck, while the doctor motioned for the rest of the group to advance.
“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Morel, while Louise loaded him with caresses. “Where am I? What has happened to me? Who are all these persons? Oh, I cannot — dare not believe the reality of what I see!”
Then, after a short silence, he abruptly took the head of Louise between his two hands, gazed earnestly and searchingly at her for some moments, then cried, in a voice tremulous with emotion, “Louise?”
“He is saved!” said the doctor.
“My dear Morel, — my dear husband!” exclaimed the lapidary’s wife, mingling her caresses with those of her daughter.
“My wife! My child and wife both here!” cried Morel.
“Pray don’t overlook the rest of your friends, M. Morel,” said Rigolette, advancing; “see, we have all come to visit you at once!”
“I for one am delighted to renew my acquaintance with the worthy M. Morel,” said Germain, coming forward and extending his hand.
“And your old acquaintances at the lodge beg that they may not be overlooked,” chimed in Anastasie, leading Alfred up to the astonished and delighted lapidary. “You know us, don’t you, M. Morel, — the Pipelets — the hearty old Pipelets, and your everlasting friends? Come, pluck up courage, and look about you, M. Morel! Hang it all, Daddy Morel, here’s a happy meeting! May we see many such! Ail-l-l-l-ez donc!”
“M. Pipelet and his wife! Everybody here! It seems to me so long since — but — but no matter— ’tis you, Louise, my child— ’tis you, is it not?” exclaimed he, joyfully pressing his daughter in his arms.
“Oh, yes, my dearest father, ’tis your own poor Louise! And there is my mother; here are all our kind friends. You will never quit us more, never know sorrow or care again, and henceforward we shall all be happy and prosperous!”
“Happy? Let me try and recollect a little of past things. I seem to have a faint recollection of your being taken to prison — and — and then, Louise, all seems a blank and confusion here,” continued Morel, pressing his hand to his temples.
“Never mind all that, dearest father! I am here and innocent, — let that comfort and console you.”
“Stay, stay! That note of hand I gave! Ah, now I remember it all!” cried the lapidary, with shuddering horror. Then, in a voice of assumed calmness, he said, “And what has become of the notary?”
“He is dead, dearest father,” murmured Louise.
“Dead? He dead? Then indeed I may hope for happiness! But where am I? How came I here? How long have I left my home, and wherefore was I brought hither? I have no recollection of any of these things!”
“You were extremely ill,” said the doctor, “and you were brought here for air and good nursing. You have had a severe fever, and been at times a little lightheaded.”
“Yes, yes, I recollect now; and when I was taken ill I remember I was talking with my daughter, and some other person, — who could it be? Ah, now I know! — a kind, good man, named M. Rodolph, who saved me from being arrested. Afterwards, strange to say, I cannot recall a single circumstance.”
“Your illness was attended with an entire absence of memory,” said the doctor.
“And in whose house am I now?”
“In that of your friend, M. Rodolph,” interposed Germain, hastily; “it was thought that country air would be serviceable to you, and promote your recovery.”
“Excellent!” said the doctor, in a low tone; then speaking to a keeper who stood near him, he said, “Send the coach around to the garden-gate to prevent the necessity of taking our recovered patient through the different courts, filled with those less fortunate than himself.”
As frequently occurs in cases of madness, Morel had not the least idea or recollection of the aberration of intellect under which he had suffered.
Shortly afterwards, Morel, with his wife and daughter, ascended the fiacre, attended also by a surgeon of the establishment, who, for precaution’s sake, was charged to see him comfortably settled in his abode ere he left him; and in this order, and followed by a second carriage, conveying their friends, the lapidary quitted Bicêtre without entertaining the most remote suspicion of ever having entered it.
“And do you consider this poor man effectually cured?” asked Madame Georges of the doctor, as he led her to the coach.
“I hope so, at least; and I wished to leave him wholly to the beneficial effects of rejoining his family, from whom it would now be almost dangerous to attempt to separate him; added to which, one of my pupils will remain with him and give the necessary directions for his regimen and treatment. I shall visit him myself daily, until his cure is confirmed, for not only do I feel much interested in him, but he was most particularly recommended to me when he first came here by the chargé d’affaires of the Grand Duke of Gerolstein.”
A look of intelligence was exchanged between Germain and his mother.
Much affected with all they had seen and heard, the party now took leave of the doctor, reiterating their gratification at having been present during so gratifying a scene, and their grateful acknowledgments for the politeness he had shown them in conducting them over the establishment.
As the doctor was reëntering the house, he was met by one of the superior officers of the place, who said to him, —
“Ah, my dear M. Herbin, you cannot imagine the scene I have just witnessed; it would have afforded an inexhaustible fund of reflection for so skilful an observer as yourself.”
“To what do you allude?”
“You are aware that we have here two females, a mother and a daughter, who are condemned to death, and that their execution is fixed for to-morrow. Well, in my life, I never witnessed such a cool indifference as that displayed by the mother; she must be a female fiend!”
“You allude to the Widow Martial, I presume; what fresh act of daring has she committed?”
“You shall hear. She had requested permission to share her daughter’s cell until the final moment arrived; her wish was complied with. Her daughter, far less hardened than her parent, appeared to feel contrition as the hour of execution approached, while the diabolical assurance of the old woman seemed, if possible, to augment. Just now the venerable chaplain of the prison entered their dungeon to offer to them the consolations of religion. The daughter was about to accept them, when the mother, without for one instant losing her coolness or frigid self-possession, began to assail the chaplain with such insulting and derisive language that the venerable priest was compelled to quit the cell, after trying in vain to induce the violent and unmanageable woman to listen to one word he said.
“It is a fearful fact connected with this family that a sort of depravity seems to pervade it. The father was executed, a son is now in the galleys, a second has only escaped a public and disgraceful end by flight; while the eldest son and two young children have alone been able to resist this atmosphere of moral contagion.
“What a singular circumstance connected with this double execution it is that the day of mid-Lent should have been selected. At seven o’clock to-morrow, the hour fixed, the streets will be filled with groups of masqueraders, who, having passed the night at the different balls and places of entertainment beyond the barriers, will be just returning home; added to which, at the place of execution, the Barrière St. Jacques, the noise of the revels still being kept up in honour of the carnival can be distinctly heard.”
The following morning’s sun rose bright and cloudless. At four o’clock in the morning various troops of soldiers surrounded the approaches to Bicêtre.
We shall now return to Calabash and her mother in their dungeon.
CHAPTER IX.
THE TOILET.
THE CONDEMNED CELL of Bicêtre was situated at the end of a gloomy passage, into which a
trifling portion of light and air was admitted by means of small gratings let into the lower part of the wall. The cell itself would have been wholly dark but for a kind of wicket, let into the upper part of the door, which opened into the corridor before mentioned.
In this wretched dungeon, whose crumbling ceiling, damp, mouldy walls, and stone-paved floor struck a death-chill like that of the grave, were confined the Widow Martial, and her daughter Calabash.
The harsh, angular features of the widow stood out amidst the imperfect light of the place, cold, pale, and immovable as those of a marble statue. Deprived of the use of her hands, which were fastened beneath her black dress by the strait-waistcoat of the prison, formed of coarse gray cloth and tightly secured behind her, she requested her cap might be taken off, complaining of an oppression and burning sensation in her head; this done, a mass of long, grizzled hair fell over her shoulders.
Seated at the side of her bed, she gazed earnestly and fixedly at her daughter, who was separated from her by the width of the dungeon, and, wearing like her mother the customary strait-waistcoat, was partly reclining and partly supporting herself against the wall, her head bent forward on her breast, her eye dull and motionless, and her breathing quick and irregular. From time to time a convulsive tremor rattled her lower jaw, while her features, spite of their livid hue, remained comparatively calm and tranquil.
Within the cell, and immediately beneath the wicket of the entrance door, was seated an old, gray-headed soldier, whose rough, sunburnt features betokened his having felt the scorch of many climes, and borne his part in numerous campaigns. His duty was to keep constant watch over the condemned prisoners.
“How piercing cold it is here!” exclaimed Calabash; “yet my eyes burn in my head, and I have a burning, quenchless thirst!” Then addressing the bald-headed veteran, she said, “Water! Pray give me a drink of water!”
The old soldier filled a cup of water from a pitcher placed near him, and held it to her lips. Eagerly swallowing the draught, she bowed her head in token of thankfulness, and the soldier proceeded to offer the same beverage to the mother.
“Would you not like to moisten your lips?” asked he, kindly.
With a rough, repulsive gesture, she intimated her disinclination, and the old man sat down again.
“What’s o’clock?” inquired Calabash.
“Nearly half past four,” replied the soldier.
“Only three hours!” replied Calabash, with a sinister and gloomy smile. “Three hours more! And then—” She could proceed no further.
The widow shrugged up her shoulders. Her daughter divined her meaning, and said, “Ah, mother, you have so much more courage than I have, — you never give way, you don’t.”
“Never!”
“I see it, and I know you too well to expect it. You look at this moment as calm and collected as if we were sitting sewing by our own fireside. Ah! those happy days are gone, — gone forever!”
“Folly! Why prate thus?”
“Nay, mother, I cannot bear to rest shut up with my own wretched thoughts! It relieves my heart to talk of bygone times, when I little expected to come to this.”
“Mean, cowardly creature!”
“I know I am a coward, mother. I am afraid to die! Every one cannot boast of your resolution. I do not possess it. I have tried as much as I could to imitate you. I refused to listen to the priest because you did not like it. Still I may have been wrong in sending the holy man away; for,” added the wretched creature, with a shudder, “who can tell what is after death? Mother, do you hear me? After, I say! And it only wants—”
“Exactly three hours, and you will know all about it!”
“How can you speak so indifferently on such a dreadful subject? Yet true enough; in three short hours, we who now sit talking to each other, who, if at liberty, should ail nothing, but be ready to enjoy life, must die. Oh, mother, can you not say one word to comfort me?”
“Be bold, girl, and die as you have lived, a true Martial!”
“You should not talk thus to your daughter,” interposed the old soldier, with a serious air; “you would have acted more like a parent had you allowed her to listen to the priest when he came.”
Again the widow contemptuously shrugged her shoulders, and, without deigning to notice the soldier further than by bestowing on him a look of withering contempt, she repeated to Calabash:
“Pluck up your courage, my girl, and let the world see that women have more courage than men, with their priests and cowardly nonsense!”
“General Leblond was one of the bravest officers of the regiment he belonged to. Well, this dauntless man fell at the siege of Saragossa, covered with wounds, and his last expiring act was to sign himself with the cross,” said the veteran. “I served under him. I only tell you this to prove that to die with a prayer on our lips is no sign of cowardice!”
Calabash eyed the bronzed features of the speaker with deep attention. The scarred and weather-beaten countenance of the old man told of a life passed in scenes of danger and of death, encountered with calm bravery. To hear those wrinkled lips urging the necessity of prayer, and associating religion with the memory of the good and valiant, made the miserable, vacillating culprit think that, after all, there could be no cowardice in recommending one’s soul to the God who gave it, and breathing a repentant supplication for the past.
“Alas, alas!” cried she. “Why did I not attend to what the priest had to say to me? It could not have done me any harm, and it might have given me courage to face that dreadful afterwards, that makes death so terrible.”
“What! Again?” exclaimed the widow, with bitter contempt. “’Tis a pity time does not permit of your becoming a nun! The arrival of your brother Martial will complete your conversion; but that honest man and excellent son will think it sinful to come and receive the last wishes of his dying mother!”
As the widow uttered these last words, the huge lock of the prison was heard to turn with a loud sound, and then the door to open.
“So soon!” shrieked Calabash, with a convulsive bound. “Surely the time here is wrong, — it cannot be the hour we were told! Oh, mother! Mother! Must we die at least two hours before we expected?”
“So much the better if the executioner’s watch deceives me! It will put an end to your whining folly, which disgraces the name you bear!”
“Madame,” said an officer of the prison, gently opening the door, “your son is here, — will you see him?”
“Yes,” replied the widow, without turning her head.
Martial entered the cell, the door of which was left open that those without in the corridor might be within hearing, if summoned by the old soldier, who still remained with the prisoners.
Through the gloom of the corridor, lighted only by the faint beams of the early morning, and the dubious twinkling of a single lamp, several soldiers and gaolers might be seen, the former standing in due military order, the later sitting on benches.
Martial looked as pale and ghastly as his mother, while his features betrayed the mental agony he suffered at witnessing so afflicting a sight. Still, spite of all it cost him, as well as the recollection of his mother’s crimes and openly expressed aversion for himself, he had felt it imperatively his duty to come and receive her last commands. No sooner was he in the dungeon than the widow, fixing on him a sharp, penetrating look, said, in a tone of concentrated wrath and bitterness, with a view to rouse all the evil passions of her son’s mind:
“Well, you see what the good people are going to do with your mother and sister!”
“Ah, mother, how dreadful! Alas, alas! Have I not warned you that such would be the end—”
Interrupting him, while her lips became blanched with rage, the widow exclaimed:
“Enough! ’Tis sufficient that your mother and sister are about to be murdered, as your father was!”
“Merciful God!” cried Martial. “And to think that I have no power to prevent it! ’Tis past all human interference. W
hat would you have me do? Alas! Had you or my sister attended to what I said, you would not now have been here.”
“Oh, no doubt!” returned the widow, with her usual tone of savage irony. “To you the spectacle of mine and your sister’s sufferings is a matter of delight to your proud heart; you can now tell the world without a lie that your mother is dead, — you will have to blush for her no more!”
“Had I been wanting in my duty as a son,” answered Martial, indignant at the unjust sarcasms of his mother, “I should not now be here.”
“You came but from curiosity! Own the truth if you dare!”
“No, mother! You desired to see me, and I obeyed your wish.”
“Ah, Martial,” cried Calabash, unable longer to struggle against the agonising terror she endured, “had I but listened to your advice, instead of being led by my mother, I should not be here!” Then losing all further control of herself, she exclaimed, “’Tis all your fault, accursed mother! Your bad example and evil counsel have brought me to what I am!”
“Do you hear her?” said the widow, bursting into a fiendish laugh. “Come, this will repay you for the trouble of paying us a last visit! Your excellent sister has turned pious, repents of her own sins, and curses her mother!”
Without making any reply to this unnatural speech, Martial approached Calabash, whose dying agonies seemed to have commenced, and, regarding her with deep compassion, said:
“My poor sister! Alas, it is now too late to recall the past!”
“It is never too late to turn coward, it seems!” cried the widow, with savage excitement. “Oh, what a race you are! Happily Nicholas has escaped; François and Amandine will slip through your fingers; they have already imbibed vice enough, and want and misery will finish them!”
“Oh, Martial,” groaned forth Calabash, “for the love of God, take care of those two poor children, lest they come to such an end as mother’s and mine!”