Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “She’s going out again, I do believe, and—”

  But she fell asleep again without finishing the sentence.

  Mariette stood for a moment silent and motionless, then opening the door with great care she stole out, locking it behind her and removing the key, which she left in the porter’s room as she passed. She then hastened to the Mont de Piété, where they loaned her fifty sous on her dress and fichu, and, armed with this money, Mariette flew back to the Charnier des Innocents to find the scrivener.

  Since Mariette’s departure, and particularly since he had read the letter received from Dreux that morning, the old man had been reflecting with increasing anxiety on the effect this secret which he had discovered by the merest chance would have upon certain projects of his own. He was thus engaged when he saw the same young girl suddenly reappear at the door of his shop, whereupon, without concealing his surprise, though he did not betray the profound uneasiness his client’s speedy return caused him, the scrivener said:

  “What is it, my child? I did not expect you back so soon.”

  “Here is a letter from M. Louis, sir,” said the young girl, drawing the precious missive from her bosom, “and I have come to ask you to read it to me.”

  Trembling with anxiety and curiosity, the girl waited as the scrivener glanced over the brief letter, concealing with only a moderate degree of success the genuine consternation its contents excited; then, uttering an exclamation of sorrowful indignation, he, to Mariette’s intense bewilderment and dismay, tore the precious letter in several pieces.

  “Poor child! poor child!” he exclaimed, throwing the fragments under his desk, after having crumpled them in his hands.

  “What are you doing, monsieur?” cried Mariette, pale as death.

  “Ah, my poor child!” repeated the old man, with an air of deep compassion.

  “Good heavens! Has any misfortune befallen M. Louis?” murmured the girl, clasping her hands imploringly.

  “No, my child, no; but you must forget him.”

  “Forget him?”

  “Yes; believe me, it would be much better for you to renounce all hope, so far as he is concerned.”

  “My God! What has happened to him?”

  “There are some things that are much harder to bear than ignorance, and yet I was pitying you a little while ago because you could not read.”

  “But what did he say in the letter, monsieur?”

  “Your marriage is no longer to be thought of.”

  “Did M. Louis say that?”

  “Yes, at the same time appealing to your generosity of heart.”

  “M. Louis bids me renounce him, and says he renounces me?”

  “Alas! yes, my poor child. Come, come, summon up all your courage and resignation.”

  Mariette, who had turned as pale as death, was silent for a moment, while big tears rolled down her cheeks; then, stooping suddenly, she gathered up the crumpled fragments of the letter and handed them to the scrivener, saying, in a husky voice:

  “I at least have the courage to hear all. Put the pieces together and read the letter to me, if you please, monsieur.”

  “Do not insist, my child, I beg of you.”

  “Read it, monsieur, in pity read it!”

  “But—”

  “I must know the contents of this letter, however much the knowledge may pain me.”

  “I have already told you the substance of it. Spare yourself further pain.”

  “Have pity on me, monsieur. If you do really feel the slightest interest in me, read the letter to me, — in heaven’s name, read it! Let me at least know the extent of my misfortune; besides, there may be a line, or at least a word, of consolation.”

  “Well, my poor child, as you insist,” said the old man, adjusting the fragments of the letter, while Mariette watched him with despairing eyes, “listen to the letter.”

  And he read as follows:

  “‘My dear Mariette: — I write you a few lines in great haste. My soul is full of despair, for we shall be obliged to renounce our hopes. My father’s comfort and peace of mind, in his declining years, must be assured at any cost. You know how devotedly I love my father. I have given my word, and you and I must never meet again.

  “‘One last request. I appeal both to your delicacy and generosity of heart. Make no attempt to induce me to change this resolution. I have been obliged to choose between my father and you; perhaps if I should see you again, I might not have the courage to do my duty as a son. My father’s future is, consequently, in your hands. I rely upon your generosity. Farewell! Grief overpowers me so completely that I can no longer hold my pen.

  “‘Once more, and for ever, farewell.

  “‘Louis.’”

  While this note was being read, Mariette might have served as a model for a statue of grief. Standing motionless beside the scrivener’s desk, with inertly hanging arms, and clasped hands, her downcast eyes swimming with tears, and her lips agitated by a convulsive trembling, the poor creature still seemed to be listening, long after the old man had concluded his reading.

  He was the first to break the long silence that ensued.

  “I felt certain that this letter would pain you terribly, my dear child,” he said, compassionately.

  But Mariette made no reply.

  “Do not tremble so, my child,” continued the scrivener. “Sit down; and here, take a sip of water.”

  But Mariette did not even hear him. With her tear-dimmed eyes still fixed upon vacancy, she murmured, with a heart-broken expression on her face:

  “So it is all over! There is nothing left for me in the world. It was too blissful a dream. I am like my godmother, happiness is not for such as me.”

  “My child,” pleaded the old man, touched, in spite of himself, by her despair, “my child, don’t give way so, I beg of you.”

  The words seemed to recall the girl to herself. She wiped her eyes, then, gathering up the pieces of the torn letter, she said, in a voice she did her best to steady:

  “Thank you, monsieur.”

  “What are you doing?” asked Father Richard, anxiously. “What is the use of preserving these fragments of a letter which will awaken such sad memories?”

  “The grave of a person one has loved also awakens sad memories,” replied Mariette, with a bitter smile, “and yet one does not desert that grave.”

  After she had collected all the scraps of paper in the envelope, Mariette replaced it in her bosom, and, crossing her little shawl upon her breast, turned to go, saying, sadly: “I thank you for your kindness, monsieur;” then, as if bethinking herself, she added, timidly:

  “Though this letter requires no reply, monsieur, after all the trouble I have given you, I feel that I ought to offer—”

  “My charge is ten sous, exactly the same as for a letter,” replied the old man, promptly, accepting and pocketing the remuneration with unmistakable eagerness, in spite of the conflicting emotions which had agitated him ever since the young girl’s return. “And now au revoir, my child,” he said, in a tone of evident relief; “our next meeting, I hope, will be under happier circumstances.”

  “Heaven grant it, monsieur,” replied Mariette, as she walked slowly away, while Father Richard, evidently anxious to return home, closed the shutters of his stall, thus concluding his day’s work much earlier than usual.

  Mariette, a prey to the most despairing thoughts, walked on and on mechanically, wholly unconscious of the route she was following, until she reached the Pont au Change. At the sight of the river she started suddenly like one awaking from a dream, and murmured, “It was my evil genius that brought me here.”

  In another moment she was leaning over the parapet gazing down eagerly into the swift flowing waters below. Gradually, as her eyes followed the course of the current, a sort of vertigo seized her. Unconsciously, too, she was slowly yielding to the fascination such a scene often exerts, and, with her head supported on her hands, she leaned farther and farther over the stream.
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  “I could find forgetfulness there,” the poor child said to herself. “The river is a sure refuge from misery, from hunger, from sickness, or from a miserable old age, an old age like that of my poor godmother. My godmother? Why, without me, what would become of her?”

  Just then Mariette felt some one seize her by the arm, at the same time exclaiming, in a frightened tone:

  “Take care, my child, take care, or you will fall in the river.”

  The girl turned her haggard eyes upon the speaker, and saw a stout woman with a kind and honest face, who continued, almost affectionately:

  “You are very imprudent to lean so far over the parapet, my child. I expected to see you fall over every minute.”

  “I was not noticing, madame—”

  “But you ought to notice, child. Good Heavens! how pale you are! Do you feel sick?”

  “No, only a little weak, madame. It is nothing. I shall soon be all right again.”

  “Lean on me. You are just recovering from a fit of illness, I judge.”

  “Yes, madame,” replied Mariette, passing her hand across her forehead. “Will you tell me where I am, please?”

  “Between the Pont Neuf and the Pont au Change, my dear. You are a stranger in Paris, perhaps.”

  “No, madame, but I had an attack of dizziness just now. It is passing off, and I see where I am now.”

  “Wouldn’t you like me to accompany you to your home, child?” asked the stout woman, kindly. “You are trembling like a leaf. Here, take my arm.”

  “I thank you, madame, but it is not necessary. I live only a short distance from here.”

  “Just as you say, child, but I’ll do it with pleasure if you wish. No? Very well, good luck to you, then.”

  And the obliging woman continued on her way.

  Mariette, thus restored to consciousness, as it were, realised the terrible misfortune that had befallen her all the more keenly, and to this consciousness was now added the fear of being cruelly reproached by her godmother just at a time when she was so sorely in need of consolation, or at least of the quiet and solitude that one craves after such a terrible shock.

  Desiring to evade the bitter reproaches this long absence was almost sure to bring down upon her devoted head, and remembering the desire her godmother had expressed that morning, Mariette hoped to gain forgiveness by gratifying the invalid’s whim, so, with the forty sous left of the amount she had obtained at the Mont de Piété still in her pocket, she hastened to a rôtisseur’s, and purchased a quarter of a chicken there, thence to a bakery, where she bought a couple of crisp white rolls, after which she turned her steps homeward.

  A handsome coupé was standing at the door of the house in which Mariette lived, though she did not even notice this fact, but when she stopped at the porter’s room as usual, to ask for her key, Madame Justin exclaimed:

  “Your key, Mlle. Mariette? Why, that gentleman called for it a moment ago.”

  “What gentleman?”

  “A decorated gentleman. Yes, I should say he was decorated. Why, the ribbon in his buttonhole was at least two inches wide. I never saw a person with such a big decoration.”

  “But I am not acquainted with any decorated gentleman,” replied the young girl, much surprised. “He must have made a mistake.”

  “Oh, no, child. He asked me if the Widow Lacombe didn’t live here with her goddaughter, a seamstress, so you see there could be no mistake.”

  “But didn’t you tell the gentleman that my godmother was an invalid and could not see any one?”

  “Yes, child, but he said he must have a talk with her on a very important matter, all the same, so I gave him the key, and let him go up.”

  “I will go and see who it is, Madame Justin,” responded Mariette.

  Imagine her astonishment, when, on reaching the fifth floor, she saw the stranger through the half-open door, and heard him address these words to Madame Lacombe:

  “As your goddaughter has gone out, my good woman, I can state my business with you very plainly.”

  When these words reached her ears, Mariette, yielding to a very natural feeling of curiosity, concluded to remain on the landing and listen to the conversation, instead of entering the room.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER.

  THE SPEAKER WAS a man about forty-five years of age, with regular though rather haggard features and a long moustache, made as black and lustrous by some cosmetic as his artistically curled locks, which evidently owed their raven hue to artificial means. The stranger’s physiognomy impressed one as being a peculiar combination of deceitfulness, cunning, and impertinence. He had large feet and remarkably large hands; in short, despite his very evident pretensions, it was easy to see that he was one of those vulgar persons who cannot imitate, but only parody real elegance. Dressed in execrable taste, with a broad red ribbon in the buttonhole of his frock coat, he affected a military bearing. With his hat still on his head, he had seated himself a short distance from the bed, and as he talked with the invalid he gnawed the jewelled handle of a small cane that he carried.

  Madame Lacombe was gazing at the stranger with mingled surprise and distrust. She was conscious, too, of a strong aversion, caused, doubtless, by his both insolent and patronising air.

  “As your goddaughter is out, my good woman, I can state my business with you very plainly.”

  These were the words that Mariette overheard on reaching the landing. The conversation that ensued was, in substance, as follows:

  “You asked, monsieur, if I were the Widow Lacombe, Mariette Moreau’s godmother,” said the sick woman tartly. “I told you that I was. Now, what do you want with me? Explain, if you please.”

  “In the first place, my good woman—”

  “My name is Lacombe, Madame Lacombe.”

  “Oh, very well, Madame Lacombe,” said the stranger, with an air of mock deference, “I will tell you first who I am; afterwards I will tell you what I want. I am Commandant de la Miraudière.” Then, touching his red ribbon, he added, “An old soldier as you see — ten campaigns — five wounds.”

  “That is nothing to me.”

  “I have many influential acquaintances in Paris, dukes, counts, and marquises.”

  “What do I care about that?”

  “I keep a carriage, and spend at least twenty thousand francs a year.”

  “While my goddaughter and I starve on twenty sous a day, when she can earn them,” said the sick woman, bitterly. “That is the way of the world, however.”

  “But it is not fair, my good Mother Lacombe,” responded Commandant de la Miraudière, “it is not fair, and I have come here to put an end to such injustice.”

  “If you’ve come here to mock me, I wish you’d take yourself off,” retorted the sick woman, sullenly.

  “Mock you, Mother Lacombe, mock you! Just hear what I have come to offer you. A comfortable room in a nice apartment, a servant to wait on you, two good meals a day, coffee every morning, and fifty francs a month for your snuff, if you take it, or for anything else you choose to fancy, if you don’t, — well, what do you say to all this, Mother Lacombe?”

  “I say — I say you’re only making sport of me, that is, unless there is something behind all this. When one offers such things to a poor old cripple like me, it is not for the love of God, that is certain.”

  “No, Mother Lacombe, but for the love of two beautiful eyes, perhaps.”

  “Whose beautiful eyes?”

  “Your goddaughter’s, Mother Lacombe,” replied Commandant de la Miraudière, cynically. “There is no use beating about the bush.”

  The invalid made a movement indicative of surprise, then, casting a searching look at the stranger, inquired:

  “You know Mariette, then?”

  “I have been to Madame Jourdan’s several times to order linen, for I am very particular about my linen,” added the stranger, glancing down complacently at his embroidered shirt-front. “I have consequently often seen your g
oddaughter there; I think her charming, adorable, and—”

  “And you have come to buy her of me?”

  “Bravo, Mother Lacombe! You are a clever and sensible woman, I see. You understand things in the twinkling of an eye. This is the proposition I have come to make to you: A nice suite of rooms, newly furnished for Mariette, with whom you are to live, five hundred francs a month to run the establishment, a maid and a cook who will also wait on you, a suitable outfit for Mariette, and a purse of fifty louis to start with, to say nothing of the other presents she will get if she behaves properly. So much for the substantials. As for the agreeable part, there will be drives in the park, boxes at the theatre, — I know any number of actors, and I am also on the best of terms with some very high-toned ladies who give many balls and card-parties, — in short, your goddaughter will have a delightful, an enchanted life, Mother Lacombe, the life of a duchess. Well, how does all this strike you?”

  “Very favourably, of course,” responded the sick woman, with a sardonic smile. “Such cattle as we are, are only fit to be sold when we are young, or to sell others when we are old.”

  “Ah, well, Mother Lacombe, to quiet your scruples, if you have any, you shall have sixty francs a month for your snuff, and I shall also make you a present of a handsome shawl, so you can go around respectably with Mariette, whom you are never to leave for a moment, understand, for I am as jealous as a tiger, and have no intention of being made a fool of.”

  “All this tallies exactly with what I said to Mariette only this morning. ‘You are an honest girl,’ I said to her, ‘and yet you can scarcely earn twenty sous a day making three hundred franc chemises for a kept woman.’”

  “Three hundred franc chemises ordered from Madame Jourdan’s? Oh, yes, Mother Lacombe, I know. They are for Amandine, who is kept by the Marquis de Saint-Herem, an intimate friend of mine. It was I who induced her to patronise Madame Jourdan, — a regular bonanza for her, though the marquis is very poor pay, but he makes all his furnishers as well as all his mistresses the fashion. This little Amandine was a clerk in a little perfumery shop on the Rue Colbert six months ago, and Saint-Herem has made her the rage. There is no woman in Paris half as much talked about as Amandine. The same thing may happen to Mariette some day, Mother Lacombe. She may be wearing three hundred franc chemises instead of making them. Don’t it make you proud to think of it?”