Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “How dost thou prove a waif of the streets a holy thing?” enquired Pierre curiously.

  Patoux shrugged his shoulders, and gave a wide deprecatory wave of both hands.

  “Ah, that is more than I can tell you!” he said,— “It is a matter beyond my skill. But the boy was a fair-faced boy, — I never saw him myself—”

  Midon laughed outright.

  “Never saw him thyself!” he cried,— “And yet thou dost make the sign of the cross at the thought of him! Diantre! Patoux, thou art crazy!”

  “Maybe — maybe,” said Patoux mildly, — they were walking together out of the cemetery by this time in the wake of the rapidly dispersing crowd,— “But I have always taken my wife’s word, — and I take it now. And she has said over and over again to me that the boy had a rare sweet nature. And then — the child whom the Cardinal healed, — Fabien Doucet, — will always insist upon it that it was the touch of that same boy which truly cured him and not the Cardinal at all!”

  “Mere fancy!” said Pierre carelessly,— “And truly if it were not for knowing thee to be honest, I should doubt the miracle altogether!”

  “And thou wouldst be of the majority!” said Patoux equably— “For our house has been a very bee-hive of buzz and trouble ever since a bit of good was done in it — and Martine Doucet, the mother of the cured child, has led the life of the damned, thanks to the kindness of her neighbours and friends! And will you believe me, the Archbishop of Rouen himself took the trouble to walk into the market-place and assure her she was a wicked woman, — that she had taught her boy to play the cripple in order to excite pity, — and I believe he thinks she is concerned in the strange disappearance of his clerk, Claude Cazeau. For this same Cazeau came to our house one night when Martine was there, and told her he had instructions to take her to Rome to see the Pope, and her child with her, for the purpose of explaining the miracle in her own words, and giving the full life-history of herself and the little one. And she was angry, — ah, she can be very angry, poor Martine! — she has a shrill tongue and a wild eye, and she said out flatly that she would not go, and furthermore that she would not be caught in a priest’s trap, or words to that effect. And this clerk, Cazeau, — a miserable little white-livered rascal, crawled away from my door in a rage with us all, and was never seen again. The police have hunted high and low for trace of him, but can find none. But I have my suspicions—”

  “What are they?” enquired Midon,— “That he went out like Judas, and hanged himself?”

  “Truly he might have done that without loss or trouble to anyone!” said Patoux tranquilly,— “But he thought too well of himself to be quite so ready for a meeting with le bon Dieu! No! — I will tell you what I think. There was a poor girl who used to roam about the streets of our town, called Marguerite, she was once a sensible, bright creature enough, the only daughter of old Valmond the saddler, who died from a kick from his favourite horse one day, and left his child all alone in the world. She was a worker in a great silk-factory, and was happy and contented, so it seemed, till — well! It is the old story — a man with a woman, and the man is most often the devil in it. Anyway, this Marguerite went mad on her love-affair, — and we called her ‘La Folle,’ — not harshly — for all the town was kind to her. I mentioned her name once in the presence of this man Cazeau, and he started as if an adder had bitten him. And now — he has disappeared — and strange to say, so has she!”

  “So has she!” echoed Midon, opening his eyes a little wider— “Then what do you suppose?—”

  “Just this,” said Patoux, emphasizing his words by marking them out with a fat thumb on the palm of the other hand— “That Cazeau was the villain of the piece as they say in the theatres, and that she has punished him for his villainy. She used to swear in her mad speech that if ever she met the man who had spoilt her life for her, she would kill him; and that is just what I believe she has done!”

  “But would she kill herself also?” demanded Pierre— “And what has become of one or both bodies?”

  “Ah! There thou dost ask more than I can answer!” said Patoux. “But what is very certain is, that both bodies, living or dead, have disappeared. And as I said to my wife when she put these things into my head, — for look you, my head is but a dull one, and if my wife did not put things into it, it would be but an emptiness altogether, — I said to my wife that if she were right in her suspicions — and she generally is right — this Marguerite had taken but a just vengeance. For you will not prove to me that there is any man living who has the right to take the joy out of a woman’s soul and destroy it.”

  “It is done every day!” said Midon with a careless shrug,— “Women give themselves too easily!”

  “And men take too greedily!” said Patoux obstinately— “What virtue there is in the matter is on the woman’s side. For she mostly gives herself for love’s sake, — but the man cares naught save for his own selfish pleasure. As a man myself, I am on the side of the woman who revenges herself on her betrayer.”

  “For that matter so am I!” said Midon. “Women have a hard time of it in this world, even under the best of circumstances, — and whatever man makes it harder for them, should be horse-whipped within an inch of his life, if I had my way. I have a wife — and a young daughter — and my old mother sits at home with us, as cheery and bright a body as you would find in all France, — and so I know the worth of women. If any rascal were to insult my girl by so much as a look, he would find himself in the ditch with a sore back before he had time to cry ‘Dieu merci!’”

  He laughed; — Patoux laughed with him, and then went on, —

  “I told thee of the miracle in my house, and of the boy the Cardinal found in the streets, — well! — these things have had their good effect in my own family. My two children, Henri and Babette — ah! What children! God be praised for them! As bright, as kind as the sunlight, — and their love for me and their mother is a great thing — a good thing, look you! — one cannot be sufficiently grateful for it. For nowadays, children too often despise their parents, which is bad luck to them in their after days; but ours, wild as they were a while ago, are all obedience and sweetness. I used often to wonder what would become of them as they grew up — for they were wilful and angry-tempered, and ofttimes cruel in speech — but I have no fear now. Henri works well at his lessons, and Babette too, — and there is something better than the learning of lessons about them, — something new and bright in their dispositions which makes us all happy. And this has come about since the Cardinal stayed with us; and also since the pretty boy was found outside the Cathedral!”

  “That boy seems to have impressed thee more than the Cardinal himself!” said Midon— “but now I remember well — on the day the Abbe Vergniaud preached his last sermon, and was nearly shot dead by his own son, there was a rumour that his life had been saved by some boy who was an attendant on the Cardinal, and who interposed himself between the Abbe and the flying bullet, — that must have been the one you mean?”

  “No doubt — no doubt!” said Patoux, nodding gravely— “There was something about him that seemed a sort of shield against evil — or at least, so said my wife, — and so say my children. Only the other day, my boy Henri — he is big and full of mischief as boys will be — was playing with two or three younger lads, and one of them like a little sneak, stole up behind him and gave him a blow with a stick, which broke in two with the force of the way the young rascal went to work with it. Now, thought I, there will be need for me to step out and stop this quarrel, for Henri will beat that miserable little wretch into a jelly! But nothing of the sort! My boy turned round with a bright laugh — picked up the two pieces of the stick and gave them back to the little coward with a civil bow “Hit in front next time!” he said. And the little wretch turned tail and began to boo-hoo in fine fashion — crying as if he had been hurt instead of Henri. But they are the best friends in the world now. I asked Henri about it afterwards, and he turned as red as an apple
in the cheeks. ‘I wanted to kill him, father,’ he said,— ‘but I knew that the boy who was with Cardinal Bonpre would not have done it — and so I did not!’ Now look you, for a rough little fellow such as Henri, that was a great victory over his passions — and there is no doubt the Cardinal’s little foundling was the cause of his so managing himself.”

  Pierre Midon had nothing to say in answer, — the subject was getting beyond him, and he was a man who, when thought became difficult, gave up thinking altogether.

  And while these two simple-minded worthies were thus talking and strolling together home through the streets of Paris, Cyrillon Vergniaud, having parted from the few friends who had paid him the respect of their attendance at his father’s grave, was making his way towards the Champs Elysees in a meditative frame of mind, when his attention was suddenly caught and riveted by a placard set up in front of one of the newspaper kiosks at the corner of a boulevard, on which in great black letters, was the name “Angela Sovrani.” His heart gave one great bound — then stood still — the streets of the city reeled round him, and he grew cold and sick. “Meurtre de la celebre Angela Sovrani!”

  Hardly knowing what he was about, he bought the paper. The news was in a mere paragraph briefly stating that the celebrated artist had been found stabbed in her studio, and that up to the present there was no trace of the unknown assassin.

  Passionate and emotional as his warm nature was, the great tears rushed to Cyrillon’s eyes. In one moment he realized what he had been almost unconsciously cherishing in his own mind ever since Angela’s beautiful smile had shone upon him. When in the few minutes of speech he had had with her she admitted herself to be the mysterious correspondent who had constantly written to him as “Gys Grandit,” fervently sympathising with his theories, and urging him on to fresh and more courageous effort, he had been completely overcome, not only with surprise, but also with admiration. It had taken him some time to realize that she, the greatest artist of her day, was actually his unknown friend of more than two years’ correspondence. He knew she was engaged to be married to her comrade in art, Florian Varillo, but that fact did not prevent him from feeling for her all the sudden tenderness, the instinctive intimacy of spirit with spirit, which in the highest natures means the highest love. Then, — they had all been brought together so strangely! — his father, and himself, with Cardinal Bonpre, — and she — the Cardinal’s fair niece, daughter of a proud Roman house, — she had not turned away from the erring and repentant priest whom the Church had cast out; she had given him her hand at parting, and had been as sweetly considerate of his feelings as though she had been his own daughter. And when he was ill and dying at the Chateau D’Agramont, she had written to him two or three times in the kindest and tenderest way, and her letters had not been answered, because the Abbe was too ill to write, and he, Cyrillon, had been afraid — lest he should say too much! And now — she was dead? — murdered? No! — he would not believe it!

  “God is good!” said Cyrillon, crushing the paper in his hand and raising his eyes to the cloudy heavens— “He does nothing that is unnecessarily cruel. He would not take that brilliant creature away till she had won the reward of her work — happiness! No! — something tells me this news is false! — she cannot be dead! But I will start for Rome to-night.”

  He returned to the cheap pension where he had his room, and at once packed his valise. With all his fame he was extremely poor; he had for the most part refused to take payment for his books and pamphlets which had been so freely spread through France, preferring to work for his daily bread in the fields of an extensive farm near his birthplace in Touraine. He had begun there as a little lad, earning his livelihood by keeping the birds away from the crops — and had steadily risen by degrees, through his honesty and diligence, to the post of superintendent or bailiff of the whole concern. No one was more trusted than he by his employers, — no one more worthy of trust. But his wages were by no means considerable, — and though he saved as much as he could, and lived on the coarsest fare, it was a matter of some trouble for him to spare the money to take him from Paris to Rome. What cash he had, he carried about him in a leathern bag, and this he now emptied on the table to estimate the strength of his finances. Any possibility of changing his mind and waiting for further news from Rome did not occur to him. One of his chief characteristics was the determined way he always carried through anything he had set his mind upon. In one of his public speeches he had once said— “Let all the powers of hell oppose me, I will storm them through and pass on! For the powers of Heaven are on MY side!” — the audacity and daring of this utterance carrying away his audience in a perfect whirlwind of enthusiasm. And though it is related of a certain cynical philosopher, that when asked by one of his scholars for a definition of hell, he dashed into the face of his enquirer an empty purse for answer, the lack of funds was no obstacle to Cyrillon’s intended journey.

  “Because if I can go no other way, I will persuade the guard to let me ride in the van, or travel in company with a horse or dog — quite as good animals as myself in their way,” he thought.

  With a characteristic indifference to all worldly matters he had entirely forgotten that the father whom he had just buried had died wealthy, and that his entire fortune had been left to the son whom he had so lately and strangely acknowledged. And when, — while he was still engaged in counting up his small stock of money, — a knock came at the door, and a well-dressed man of business-like appearance entered with a smiling and propitiatory air, addressing him as “Monsieur Vergniaud,” Cyrillon did not know at all what to make of his visitor. Sweeping his coins together with one hand, he stood up, his flashing eyes glancing the stranger over carelessly.

  “Your name, sir?” he demanded— “I am not acquainted with you.”

  The smiling man unabashed, sought about for a place to put down his shiny hat, and smiled still more broadly.

  “No!” he said— “No! You would not be likely to know me. I have not the celebrity of Gys Grandit! I am only Andre Petitot — a lawyer, residing in the Boulevard Malesherbes. I have just come from your father’s funeral.”

  Cyrillon bowed gravely, and remained silent.

  “I have followed you,” pursued Monsieur Petitot affably, “as soon as I could, according to the instructions I received, to ask when it will be convenient for you to hear me read your father’s will?”

  The young man started.

  “His will!” he ejaculated. He had never given it a thought. “Yes. May I take a chair? There are only two in the room, I perceive! Thanks!” And the lawyer sat down and began drawing off his gloves,— “Your father had considerable means, — though he parted with much that he might have kept, through his extraordinary liberality to the poor—”

  “God bless him!” murmured Cyrillon.

  “Yes — yes — no doubt God will bless him!” said Monsieur Petitot amicably— “According to your way of thinking, He ought to do so. But personally, I always find the poor extremely ungrateful, and God certainly does not bless ME whenever I encourage them in their habits of idleness and vice! However, that is not a question for discussion at present. The immediate point is this — your father made his will about eighteen months ago, leaving everything to you. The wording of the will is unusual, but he insisted obstinately on having it thus set down—”

  Here the lawyer drew a paper out of his pocket, fixed a pair of spectacles on his nose, and studied the document intently— “Yes! — it reads in this way:—’ Everything of which I die possessed to my son, Cyrillon Vergniaud, born out of wedlock, but as truly my son in the sight of God, as Ninette Bernadin was his mother, and my wife, though never so legalised before the world, but fully acknowledged by me before God, and before the Church which I have served and disobeyed.’ A curious wording!” said Petitot, nodding his head a great many times— “Very curious! I told him so — but he would have it his own way, — moreover, I am instructed to publish his will in any Paris paper that will give it a pl
ace. Now this clause is to my mind exceedingly disagreeable, and I wish I could set it aside.”

  “Why?” asked Cyrillon quietly.

  “My dear young man! Can you ask? Why emphasise the fact of your illegitimacy to the public!”

  “Why disguise it?” returned Cyrillon. “You must remember that I have another public than the merely social, — the people! They all know what I am, and who I am. They have honoured me. They shall not despise me. And they would despise me if I sought to hold back from them what my father bade me tell. Moreover, this will gives my mother the honour of wifehood in the sight of God, — and I must tell you, monsieur l’avocat, that I am one of those who care nothing what the world says so long as I stand more or less clear with the world’s Creator!”

  His great dark eyes were brilliant, — his face warm with the fire of his inward feeling. Monsieur Petitot folded up his document and looked at him with an amiable tolerance.

  “Wonderful — wonderful!” he said— “But of course eccentricities WILL appear in the world occasionally! — and you must pardon me if I venture to think that you are certainly one of them. But I imagine you have nograsped the whole position. The money — I should saythe fortune — which your father has left to you, will make you a gentleman—”

  He paused, affrighted. Drawing himself up to his full height, young Vergniaud confronted him in haughty amazement.

  “Gentleman!” he cried— “What do you mean by the term? A loafer? — a lounger in the streets? — a leerer at women? Or a man who works for daily food from sunrise to sunset, and controls his lower passions by hard and honest labour! Gentleman! What is that? Is it to live lazily on the toil of others, or to be up and working one’s self, and to eat no bread that one has not earned? Will you answer me?”

  “My dear sir, you must really excuse me!” said Petitot nervously—” I am quite unable to enter into any sort of discussion with you on these things! Please recollect that my life as a lawyer, depends entirely on men’s stupidities and hypocrisies, — if they all entertained your views I should have to beg in the streets, or seek another profession. In my present business I should have nothing whatever to do. You perceive the position? Yes, of course you do!” For Cyrillon with one of the quick changes of mood habitual to him, smiled, as his temporary irritation passed like a cloud, and his eyes softened— “You see, I am a machine, — educated to be a machine; and I am set down to do certain machine-like duties, — and one of these duties is, — regardless of your fame, your eccentric theories, your special work which you have chosen to make for yourself in the world, — to put you in possession of the money your father left you—”