THE LETTER.
The hour of nine had struck on the Bouqueval clock, when Madame Georges
softly entered the chamber of Fleur-de-Marie. The light slumber of the
young girl was quickly broken, and she awoke to find her kind friend
standing by her bedside. A brilliant winter's sun darted its rays
through the blinds and chintz window-curtains, the pink linings of which
cast a bright glow on the pale countenance of La Goualeuse, giving it
the look of health it so greatly needed.
"Well, my child," said Madame Georges, sitting down and gently kissing
her forehead, "how are you this morning?"
"Much better, madame, I thank you."
"I hope you were not awoke very early this morning?"
"No, indeed, madame."
"I am glad of it; the blind man and his son, who were permitted to sleep
here last night, insisted upon quitting the farm immediately it was
light, and I was fearful that the noise made in opening the gates might
have woke you."
"Poor things! why did they go so very early?"
"I know not. After you became more calm and comfortable last night, I
went down into the kitchen for the purpose of seeing them, but they had
pleaded extreme weariness, and begged permission to retire. Father
Châtelain tells me the blind man does not seem very right in his head;
and the whole body of servants were unanimous in praising the tenderness
and care with which the boy attended upon his blind parent. But now, my
dear Marie, listen to me; you must not expose yourself to the risk of
taking fresh cold after the attack of fever you suffered from last
night, and, therefore, I recommend your keeping quite quiet all day, and
not leaving the parlour at all."
"Nay, madame, I have promised M. le Curé to be at the rectory at five
o'clock; pray allow me to go, as I am expected."
"Indeed I cannot, it would be very imprudent; I can perceive you have
passed a very bad night, your eyes are quite heavy."
"I have not been able to rest through the most frightful dreams which
pursued me whenever I tried to sleep. I fancied myself in the power of a
wicked woman who used to torment me most cruelly when I was a child; and
I kept starting up in dread and alarm. I am ashamed of such silly
weakness as to allow dreams to frighten me, but, indeed, I suffered so
much during the night that when I awoke my pillow was wetted with my
tears."
"I am truly sorry for this weakness, as you justly style it, my dear
child," said Madame Georges, with affectionate concern, seeing the eyes
of Fleur-de-Marie again filling fast, "because I perceive the pain it
occasions you."
The poor girl, overpowered by her feelings, threw her arms around the
neck of her adopted mother and buried her sobs in her bosom.
"Marie, Marie! my child, you terrify me; why, why is this?"
"Pardon me, dear madame, I beseech you! Indeed, I know not myself what
has come over me, but for the last two days my heart has seemed full
almost to bursting. I cannot restrain my tears, though I know not
wherefore I weep. A fearful dread of some great evil about to befall me
weighs down my spirits and resists every attempt to shake it off."
"Come! come! I shall scold you in earnest if you thus give way to
imaginary terrors."
At this moment Claudine, whose previous tap at the door had been
unheard, entered the room.
"What is it, Claudine?"
"Madame, Pierre has just arrived from Arnouville, in Madame Dubreuil's
chaise; he brings a letter for you which he says is of great
importance."
Madame Georges took the paper from Claudine's hand, opened it and read
as follows:
"MY DEAR MADAME GEORGES:
"You could do me a considerable favour, and assist me under very
perplexing circumstances, by hastening to the farm here without
delay. Pierre has orders to wait till you are ready, and will
drive you back after dinner. I really am in such confusion that I
hardly know what I am about. M. Dubreuil has gone to the
wool-fair at Pontoise; I have, therefore, no one to turn to for
advice and assistance but you and Marie. Clara sends her best
love to her very dear adopted sister, and anxiously expects her
arrival. Try to be with us by eleven o'clock, to luncheon.
"Ever yours most sincerely,
"F. DUBREUIL."
"What can possibly be the matter?" asked Madame Georges of
Fleur-de-Marie; "fortunately the tone of Madame Dubreuil's letter is not
calculated to cause alarm."
"Do you wish me to accompany you, madame?" asked the Goualeuse.
"Why, that would scarcely be prudent, so cold as it is. But, upon second
thoughts," continued Madame Georges, "I think you may venture if you
wrap yourself up very warm; it will serve to raise your spirits, and
possibly the short ride may do you good."
The Goualeuse did not immediately reply, but, after a few minutes'
consideration, she ventured to say:
"But, madame, M. le Curé expects me this evening, at five o'clock, at
the rectory."
"But I promise you to be back in good time for you to keep your
engagement; now will you go?"
"Oh, thank you, madame! Indeed, I shall be so delighted to see Mlle.
Clara."
"What! again?" uttered Madame Georges, in a tone of gentle reproach.
"Mlle. Clara? She does not speak so distantly to you when she addresses
you."
"Oh, no, madame!" replied the poor girl, casting down her eyes, while a
bright flush rose even to her temples; "but there is so great a
difference between us that--"
"Dear Marie! you are cruel and unkind thus needlessly to torment
yourself. Have you so soon forgotten how I chided you but just now for
the very same fault? There, drive away all such foolish thoughts! dress
yourself as quickly as you can, and pray wrap up very carefully. If we
are quick, we may reach Arnouville before eleven o'clock."
Then, leaving Fleur-de-Marie to perform the duties of her simple toilet,
Madame Georges retired to her own chamber, first dismissing Claudine
with an intimation to Pierre that herself and niece would be ready to
start almost immediately.
Half an hour afterwards, Madame Georges and Marie were on their way to
Arnouville, in one of those large, roomy cabriolets, in use among the
rich farmers in the environs of Paris; and briskly did their comfortable
vehicle, drawn by a stout Norman horse, roll over the grassy road which
led from Bouqueval to Arnouville. The extensive buildings and numerous
appendages to the farm, tenanted by M. Dubreuil in the latter village,
bore testimony to the wealth and importance of the property bestowed as
a marriage-portion on Mlle. Césarine de Noirmont upon her union with the
Duke de Lucenay.
The loud crack of Pierre's whip apprised Madame Dubreuil of the arrival
of her friend, Madame Georges, with Fleur-de-Marie, who were most
affectionately greeted by Clara and her mother. Madame Dubreuil was a
good-looking woman of middle age, with a countenance expressive of
extreme gentleness and kindness; while her daughter Clara was a handsome
brunette, with rich hazel eyes, and a happy, innocent expression for
ever resting on her full, rosy lips, which seemed never to open but to
utter words of sweetness and amiability. As Clara eagerly threw her arms
around her friend's neck as she descended the vehicle, the Goualeuse saw
with extreme surprise that the kind-hearted girl had laid aside her more
fashionable attire, and was habited as a simple country maiden.
"Why, Clara!" said Madame Georges, affectionately returning her embrace,
"what is the meaning of this strange costume?"
"It is done in imitation and admiration of her sister Marie," answered
Madame Dubreuil; "I assure you she let me have no peace till I had
procured her a woollen bodice, and a fustian skirt exactly resembling
your Marie's. But, now we are talking of whims and caprices, just come
this way with me," added Madame Dubreuil, drawing a deep sigh, "while I
explain to you my present difficulty, as well as the cause of my so
abruptly summoning you hither; but you are so kind, I feel assured you
will not only forgive it, but also render me all the assistance I
require."
Following Madame Georges and her mother to their sitting-room, Clara
lovingly conducted the Goualeuse also thither, placing her in the
warmest corner of the fireside, and tenderly chafing her hands to
prevent the cold from affecting her; then fondly caressing her, and
styling her again and again her very dear sister Marie, she playfully
reproached her for allowing so long an interval to pass away without
paying her a visit. After the recent conversation which passed between
the poor Goualeuse and the curé (no doubt fresh in the reader's
memory), it will easily be believed that these tender marks of affection
inspired the unfortunate girl with feelings of deep humility, combined
with a timid joy.
"Now, then, dear Madame Dubreuil," said Madame Georges, when they were
comfortably seated, "do pray tell me what has happened, and in what
manner I can be serviceable to you."
"Oh, in several ways! I will tell you exactly how. In the first place, I
believe you are not aware that this farm is the private property of the
Duchesse de Lucenay, and that we are accountable to her alone, having
nothing whatever to do with the duke or his steward."
"No, indeed, I never heard that before."
"Neither should I have troubled you with so unimportant a matter now,
but that it forms a necessary part of the explanation I am about to give
you of my present pressing need of your kind services. You must know,
then, that we consider ourselves as the tenants of Madame de Lucenay,
and always pay our rent either to herself or to Madame Simon, her head
_femme de chambre_; and, really, spite of some little impetuosity of
temper, Madame la Duchesse is so amiable that it is delightful to have
business with her. Dubreuil and I would go through fire and water to
serve her: but, la! that is only natural, considering we have known her
from her very cradle, and were accustomed to see her playing about as a
child during the visits she used annually to pay to the estate during
the lifetime of her late father, the Prince de Noirmont. Latterly she
has asked for her rent in advance. Forty thousand francs is not 'picked
up by the roadside,' as the old proverb says; but happily we had laid
that sum by as Clara's dowry, and the very next morning after the
request reached us we carried madame her money in bright, shining,
golden louis. These great ladies spend so much, you see, in luxuries
such as you and I have no idea of. Yet it is only within the last
twelvemonth Madame de Lucenay has wished to be paid beforehand, she used
always to seem as though she had plenty of money; but things are very
different now."
"Still, my dear Madame Dubreuil, I do not yet perceive in what way I can
possibly assist you."
"Don't be in a hurry! I am just coming to that part of my story; but I
was obliged to tell you all this that you might be able to understand
the entire confidence Madame la Duchesse places in us. To be sure, she
showed her great regard for us by becoming, when only thirteen years of
age, Clara's godmother, her noble father standing as the other sponsor;
and, ever since, Madame de Lucenay has loaded her godchild with presents
and kind attentions. But I must not keep you--I see you are impatient;
so I will at once proceed with the business part of my tale. You must
know, then, that last night I received by express the following letter
from Madame de Lucenay:
"MY DEAR MADAME DUBREUIL:
"'You must prepare the small pavilion in the orchard for
occupation by to-morrow evening. Send there all the requisite
furniture, such as carpets, curtains, etc., etc. Let nothing be
wanted to render it, in every respect, as _comfortable_ as
possible.'
"Do you mark the word 'comfortable,' Madame Georges?" inquired Madame
Dubreuil, pausing in the midst of her reading; "it is even underlined."
Then looking up at her friend with a thoughtful, puzzled expression of
countenance, and receiving no answer, she continued the perusal of her
letter:
"'It is so long since the pavilion has been used that it will
require large and constant fires both night and day to remove the
dampness from the walls. I wish you to behave in every respect to
the person who will occupy the apartments as you would do to
myself. And you will receive by the hands of the new visitant a
letter from me explanatory of all I expect from your well-known
zeal and attachment. I depend entirely on you and feel every
assurance that I may safely reckon on your fidelity and desire to
serve me. Adieu, my dear Madame Dubreuil; remember me most kindly
to my pretty goddaughter; and believe me ever,
"'Yours, sincerely and truly,
"'NOIRMONT DE LUCENAY.
"'P.S. The person whom I so strongly recommend to your best care
and attention will arrive the day after to-morrow, about dusk.
Pray do your very utmost to render the pavilion as _comfortable_
as you possibly can.'
"Comfortable again, you see, and underlined as before," said Madame
Dubreuil, returning the letter of Madame de Lucenay to her pocket.
"Well," replied Madame Georges, "all this is simple enough!"
"How do you mean, simple enough? you cannot have heard me read the
letter. Madame la Duchesse wishes particularly 'that the pavilion should
be rendered as comfortable as possible.' Now that is the very reason of
my asking you to come to me to-day; Clara and I have been knocking our
heads together in vain to discover what 'comfortable' can possibly mean,
but without being able to find it out. Yet it seems odd, too, that Clara
should not know its meaning, for she was several years at school at
Villiers le Bel, and gained a quantity of prizes for history and
geography; however, she knows as little as I do about that outlandish
word. I dare say it is only known at court, or in the fashionable world.
However, be that as it may, Madame la Duchesse has thrown me into a
pretty fuss by making use of it; she says, and you see twice repeats the
words, and even underlines it, 'that she requests I will furnish the
pavilion as comfortably as possible.' Now what are we to do when we have
not the slightest notion of the meaning of that word?"
"Well, heaven be praised, then, that I can relieve your perplexity by
solving this grand mystery!" said Madame Georges, smiling. "Upon the
present occasion the word comfortable merely means an assemblage of
neat, well-chosen, well-arranged, and convenient furniture, so placed,
in apartments well warmed and protected from cold or damp, that the
occupant shall find every thing that is necessary combined with articles
that to some might seem superfluities."
"Thank you. I perfectly understand what comfortable means as regards
furnishing apartments; but your explanation only increases my
difficulties."
"How so?"
"Madame la Duchesse speaks of carpets, furniture, and many _et
coeteras_; now we have no carpets here, and our furniture is of the
most homely description. Neither can I make out by the letter whether
the person I am to expect is a male or female; and yet every thing must
be prepared by to-morrow evening. What shall I do? What can I do? I can
get nothing here. Really, Madame Georges, it is enough to drive one wild
to be placed in such an awkward situation."
"But, mother," said Clara, "suppose you take the furniture out of my
room, and whilst you are refurnishing it I will go and pass a few days
with dear Marie at Bouqueval."
"My dear child, what nonsense you talk! as if the humble fittings-up of
your chamber could equal what Madame la Duchesse means by the word
'comfortable,'" returned Madame Dubreuil, with a disconsolate shrug of
the shoulders. "Lord! Lord! why will fine ladies puzzle poor folks like
me by going out of their way to find such expressions as comfortable?"
"Then I presume the pavilion in question is ordinarily uninhabited?"
said Madame Georges.
"Oh, yes! There, you see that small white building at the end of the
orchard--that is it. The late Prince de Noirmont, father of Madame la
Duchesse, caused it to be built for his daughter when, in her youthful
days, she was accustomed to visit the farm, and she then occupied it.
There are three pretty chambers in it, and a beautiful little Swiss
dairy at the end of the garden, where, in her childish days, Madame la
Duchesse used to divert herself with feigning to manage. Since her
marriage, she has only been twice at the farm, but each time she passed
several hours in the pavilion. The first time was about six years ago,
and then she came on horseback with--" Then, as though the presence of
Clara and Fleur-de-Marie prevented her from saying more, Madame Dubreuil
interrupted herself by saying, "But I am talking instead of doing; and
that is not the way to get out of my present difficulty. Come, dear,
good Madame Georges, and help a poor bewildered creature like myself!"
"In the first place," answered Madame Georges, "tell me how is this
pavilion furnished at the present moment."
"Oh, scarcely at all! In the principal apartment there is a straw
matting on the centre of the floor; a sofa, and a few arm-chairs
composed of rushes, a table, and some chairs, comprise all the
inventory, which, I think you will allow, falls far short of the word
comfortable."
"Well, I tell you what I should do in your place. Let me see; it is
eleven o'clock. I should send a person on whom you can depend to Paris."
"Our overseer![2] There cannot be a more active, intelligent person."
[2] A species of overseer employed in most of the large farming
establishments in the environs of Paris.
"Exactly! just the right sort of messenger. Well, in two hours at the
utmost, he may be in Paris. Let him go to some upholsterer in the
Chaussée d'Antin--never mind which--and give him the list I will draw
out, after I have seen what is wanting for the pavilion; and let him be
directed to say that, let the expense be what it may--"
"I don't care about expense, if I can but satisfy the duchess."
"The upholsterer, then, must be told that, at any cost, he must see that
every article named in the list be sent here either this evening or
before daybreak to-morrow, with three or four of his most clever and
active workmen to arrange them as quickly as possible."
"They might come by the Gonesse diligence, which leaves Paris at eight
o'clock every evening."
"And as they would only have to place the furniture, lay down carpets,
and put up curtains, all that could easily be done by to-morrow
evening."
"Oh, my dear Madame Georges, what a load you have taken off my mind! I
should never have thought of this simple yet proper manner of
proceeding. You are the saving of me! Now, may I ask you to be so kind
as to draw me out the list of articles necessary to render the
pavilion--what is that hard word? I never can recollect it."
"Comfortable! Yes, I will at once set about it, and with pleasure."
"Dear me! here is another difficulty. Don't you see we are not told
whether to expect a lady or a gentleman? Madame de Lucenay, in her
letter, only says 'a person.' It is very perplexing, isn't it?"
"Then make your preparations as if for a lady, my dear Madame Dubreuil;
and, should it turn out a gentleman, why he will only have better reason
to be pleased with his accommodations."
"Quite right; right again, as you always are."
A servant here announced that breakfast was ready.
"Let breakfast wait a little," said Madame Georges. "And, while I draw
out the necessary list, send some person you can depend upon to take the
exact height and width of the three rooms, that the curtains and carpets
may more easily be prepared."
"Thank you. I will set our overseer to work out this commission."
"Madame," continued the servant, speaking to her mistress, "the new
dairy-woman from Stains is here with her few goods in a small cart drawn
by a donkey. The beast has not a heavy load to complain of, for the poor
body's luggage seems but very trifling."
"Poor woman!" said Madame Dubreuil, kindly.
"What woman is it?" inquired Madame Georges.
"A poor creature from Stains, who once had four cows of her own, and
used to go every morning to Paris to sell her milk. Her husband was a
blacksmith, and one day accompanied her to Paris to purchase some iron
he required for his work, agreeing to rejoin her at the corner of the
street where she was accustomed to sell her milk. Unhappily, as it
afterwards turned out, the poor woman had selected a very bad part of
Paris; for, when her husband returned, he found her in the midst of a
set of wicked, drunken fellows, who had, for mere mischief's sake, upset
all her milk into the gutter. The poor blacksmith tried to reason with
them upon the score of their unfair conduct, but that only made matters
worse; they all fell on the husband, who sought in vain to defend
himself from their violence. The end of the story is, that, in the
scuffle which ensued, the man received a stab with a knife, which
stretched him a corpse before the eyes of his distracted wife."
"Dreadful, indeed!" ejaculated Madame Georges. "But, at least, the
murderer was apprehended?"
"Alas, no! He managed to make his escape during the confusion which
ensued, though the unfortunate widow asserts she should recognise him at
any minute she might meet him, having repeatedly seen him in company
with his associates, inhabitants of that neighbourhood. However, up to
the present hour all attempts to discover him have been useless. But, to
end my tale, I must tell you that, in consequence of the death of her
husband, the poor widow was compelled, in order to pay various debts he
had contracted, to sell not only her cows but some little land he
possessed. The bailiff of the château at Stains recommended the poor
creature to me as a most excellent and honest woman, as deserving as she
was unfortunate, having three children to provide for, the eldest not
yet twelve years of age. I happened, just then, to be in want of a
first-rate dairy-woman, therefore offered her the place, which she
gladly accepted, and she has now come to take up her abode on the farm."
"This act of real kindness on your part, my dear Madame Dubreuil, does
not surprise me, knowing you as well as I do."
"Here, Clara," said Madame Dubreuil, as though seeking to escape from
the praises of her friend, "will you go and show this good woman the way
to the lodge she is to occupy, while I hasten to explain to our overseer
the necessity for his immediate departure for Paris?"
"Willingly, dear mother! Marie can come with me, can she not?"
"Of course," answered Madame Dubreuil, "if she pleases." Then added,
smilingly, "I wonder whether you two girls could do one without the
other!"
"And now," said Madame Georges, seating herself before a table, "I will
at once begin my part of the business, that no time may be lost; for we
must positively return to Bouqueval at four o'clock."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Madame Dubreuil; "how early! Why, what makes you in
such a hurry?"
"Marie is obliged to be at the rectory by five o'clock."
"Oh, if her return relates to that good Abbé Laporte, I am sure it is a
sacred duty with which I would not interfere for the world. Well, then,
I will go and give the necessary orders for everything being punctual
to that hour. Those two girls have so much to say to each other that we
must give them as much time as we can."
"Then we shall leave you at three o'clock, my dear Madame Dubreuil?"
"Yes; I promise not to detain you since you so positively wish it. But
pray let me thank you again and again for coming. What a good thing it
was I thought of sending to ask your kind assistance," rejoined Madame
Dubreuil. "Now then, Clara and Marie, off with you!"
As Madame Georges settled herself to her writing, Madame Dubreuil
quitted the room by a door on one side, while the young friends, in
company with the servant who had announced the arrival of the milkwoman
from Stains, went out by the opposite side.
"Where is the poor woman?" inquired Clara.
"There she is, mademoiselle, in the courtyard, near the barns, with her
children and her little donkey-cart."
"You shall see her, dear Marie," said Clara, taking the arm of la
Goualeuse. "Poor woman! she looks so pale and sad in her deep widow's
mourning. The last time she came here to arrange with my mother about
the place she made my heart ache. She wept bitterly as she spoke of her
husband; then suddenly burst into a fit of rage as she mentioned his
murderer. Really, she quite frightened me, she looked so desperate and
full of fury. But, after all, her resentment was natural. Poor thing! I
am sure I pity her; some people are very unfortunate, are they not,
Marie?"
"Alas, yes, they are, indeed!" replied the Goualeuse, sighing deeply.
"There are some persons who appear born only to trouble and sorrow, as
you justly observe, Miss Clara."
"This is really very unkind of you, Marie," said Clara, colouring with
impatience and displeasure. "This is the second time to-day you have
called me 'Miss Clara.' What can I have possibly done to offend you?
For I am sure you must be angry with me, or you would not do what you
know vexes me so very much."
"How is it possible that you could ever offend me?"
"Then why do you say 'miss?' You know very well that both Madame Georges
and my mother have scolded you for doing it. And I give you due warning,
if ever you repeat this great offence, I will have you well scolded
again. Now then, will you be good or not? Speak!"
"Dear Clara, pray pardon me! Indeed, I was not thinking when I spoke."
"Not thinking!" repeated Clara, sorrowfully. "What, after eight long
days' absence you cannot give me your attention even for five minutes?
Not thinking! That would be bad enough; but that is not it, Marie. And I
tell you what, it is my belief you are too proud to own so humble a
friend as myself."
Fleur-de-Marie made no answer, but her whole countenance assumed the
pallor of death.
A woman, dressed as a widow, and in deep mourning, had just caught sight
of her, and uttered a cry of rage and horror which seemed to freeze the
poor girl's blood. This woman was the person who supplied the Goualeuse
with her daily milk, during the time the latter dwelt with the ogress at
the _tapis-franc_.
The scene which ensued took place in one of the yards belonging to the
farm, in the presence of all the labourers, both male and female, who
chanced just then to be returning to the house to take their mid-day
meal. Beneath a shed stood a small cart, drawn by a donkey, and
containing the few household possessions of the widow; a boy of about
twelve years of age, aided by two younger children, was beginning to
unload the vehicle. The milk-woman herself was a woman of about forty
years of age, her countenance coarse, masculine, and expressive of
great resolution. She was, as we before stated, attired in the deepest
mourning, and her eyelids looked red and inflamed with recent weeping.
Her first impulse at the sight of the Goualeuse had been terror; but
quickly did that feeling change into grief and rage, while the most
violent anger contracted her features. Rapidly darting towards the
unhappy girl, she seized her by the arm, and, presenting her to the gaze
of the farm servants, she exclaimed:
"Here is a creature who is acquainted with the assassin of my poor
husband! I have seen her more than twenty times speaking to the ruffian
when I was selling my milk at the corner of the Rue de la
Vieille-Draperie; she used to come to buy a ha'porth every morning. She
knows well enough who it was struck the blow that made me a widow, and
my poor children fatherless. 'Birds of a feather flock together,' and
such loose characters as she is are sure to be linked in with thieves
and murderers. Oh, you shall not escape me, you abandoned wretch!" cried
the milk-woman, who had now lashed herself into a perfect fury, and who,
seeing poor Fleur-de-Marie confused and terror-stricken at this sudden
attack, endeavouring to escape from it by flight, grasped her fiercely
by the other arm also. Clara, almost speechless with surprise and alarm
at this outrageous conduct, had been quite incapable of interfering; but
this increased violence on the part of the widow seemed to restore her
to herself, and angrily addressing the woman she said:
"What is the meaning of this improper behaviour? Are you out of your
senses? Has grief turned your brain? Good woman, I pity you! But let us
pass on; you are mistaken."
"Mistaken!" repeated the woman, with a bitter smile. "Me mistaken! No,
no, there is no mistake! Just look at her pale, guilty looks! Hark how
her very teeth rattle in her head! Ah, she knows well enough there is
no mistake! Ah, you may hold your wicked tongue if you like, but
justice will find a way to make you speak. You shall go with me before
the mayor; do you hear? Oh, it is not worth while resisting! I have good
strong wrists; I can hold you. And sooner than you should escape I would
carry you every step of the way."
"You good-for-nothing, insolent woman! How dare you presume to speak in
this way to my dear friend and sister?"
"Your sister, Mlle. Clara! Believe me, it is you who are deceived--it is
you who have lost your senses," bawled the enraged milk-woman, in a
loud, coarse voice. "Your sister! A likely story a girl out of the
streets, who was the companion of the very lowest wretches in the worst
part of the Cité, should be a sister of yours!"
At these words the assembled labourers, who naturally enough took that
part in the affair which concerned a person of their own class, and who
really sympathised with the bereaved milk-woman, gave utterance to deep,
threatening words, in which the name of Fleur-de-Marie was angrily
mingled. The three children, hearing their mother speaking in a loud
tone, and fearing they knew not what, ran to her, and, clinging to her
dress, burst out into a loud fit of weeping. The sight of these poor
little fatherless things, dressed also in deep mourning, increased the
pity of the spectators for the unfortunate widow, while it redoubled
their indignation against Fleur-de-Marie; while Clara, completely
frightened by these demonstrations of approaching violence, exclaimed,
in an agitated tone, to a group of farm labourers:
"Take this woman off the premises directly! Do you not perceive grief
has driven her out of her senses? Marie! dear Marie! never mind what she
says. She is mad, poor creature, and knows not what she does!"
The poor Goualeuse, pale, exhausted, and almost fainting, made no effort
to escape from the powerful grasp of the incensed milk-woman; she hung
her head, as though unable or unwilling to meet the gaze of friend or
foe. Clara, attributing her condition to the terror excited by so
alarming a scene, renewed her commands to the labourers, "Did you not
hear me desire that this mad woman might be instantly taken away from
the farm? However, unless she immediately ceases her rude and insolent
language, I can promise her, by way of punishment, she shall neither
have the situation my mother promised her nor ever be suffered to put
her foot on the premises again."
Not a person stirred to obey Clara's orders; on the contrary, one of the
boldest among the party exclaimed:
"Well, but, Miss Clara, if your friend there is only a common girl out
of the streets, and, as such, acquainted with the murderer of this poor
woman's husband, surely she ought to go before the mayor to give an
account of herself and her bad companions!"
"I tell you," repeated Clara, with indignant warmth, and addressing the
milk-woman, "you shall never enter this farm again unless you this very
instant, and before all these people, humbly beg pardon of Mlle. Marie
for all the wicked things you have been saying about her!"
"You turn me off the premises then, mademoiselle, do you?" retorted the
widow with bitterness. "Well, so be it. Come, my poor children, let us
put the things back in the cart, and go and seek our bread elsewhere.
God will take care of us. But, at least, when we go, we will take this
abandoned young woman with us. She shall be made to tell the mayor, if
she won't us, who it was that took away your dear father's life; for she
knows well enough--she who was the daily companion of the worst set of
ruffians who infest Paris. And you, miss," added she, looking spitefully
and insolently at Clara, "you should not, because you choose to make
friends with low girls out of the streets, and because you happen to be
rich, be quite so hard-hearted and unfeeling to poor creatures like
me!"
"No more she ought," exclaimed one of the labourers; "the poor woman is
right!"
"Of course she is,--she is only standing up for her own!"
"Poor thing, she has no one now to do so for her! Why, they have
murdered her husband among them! I should think that might content them,
without trampling the poor woman under foot."
"One comfort is, nobody can stop her from doing all in her power to
bring the murderers of her husband to justice."
"It is a shame to send her away in this manner, like a dog!"
"Can she help it, poor creature, if Miss Clara thinks proper to take up
with common girls and thieves, and make them her companions?"
"Infamous to turn an honest woman, a poor widow with helpless children,
into the streets for such a base girl as that!"
These different speeches, uttered nearly simultaneously by the
surrounding crowd, were rapidly assuming a most hostile and threatening
tone, when Clara joyfully exclaimed:
"Thank God, here comes my mother!"
It was, indeed, Madame Dubreuil, who was crossing the courtyard on her
return from the pavilion.
"Now, then, my children," said Madame Dubreuil, gaily approaching the
assembled group, "will you come in to breakfast? I declare it is quite
late! I dare say you are both hungry? Come, Marie!--Clara!"
"Mother," cried Clara, pointing to the widow, "you are fortunately just
in time to save my dear sister Marie from the insults and violence of
that woman. Oh, pray order her away instantly! If you only knew what she
had the audacity to say to Marie!"
"Impossible, Clara!"
"Nay, but, dear mother, only look at my poor dear sister! See how she
trembles! She can scarcely support herself. Oh, it is a shame and
disgrace such conduct should ever have been offered to a guest of ours!
My dear, dear friend--Marie, dear!--look up, and say you are not angry
with us. Pray tell me you will try and forget it!"
"What is the meaning of all this?" inquired Madame Dubreuil, looking
around her with a disturbed and uneasy look, after having observed the
despairing agony of the Goualeuse.
"Ah, now we shall have justice done the poor widow woman!" murmured the
labourers. "Madame will see her righted, no doubt about it!"
"Now, then," exclaimed the milk-woman, exultingly, "here is Madame
Dubreuil. Now, my fine miss," continued she, addressing Fleur-de-Marie,
"you will have your turn of being turned out-of-doors!"
"Is it true, then," cried Madame Dubreuil, addressing the widow, who
still kept firm hold of Fleur-de-Marie's arm, "that you have dared to
insult my daughter's friend, as she asserts? Is this the way you show
your gratitude for all I have done to serve you? Will you leave that
young lady alone?"
"Yes, madame," replied the woman, relinquishing her grasp of
Fleur-de-Marie, "at your bidding I will; for I respect you too much to
disobey you. And, besides, I owe you much gratitude for all your
kindness to a poor, friendless creature like myself. But, before you
blame me, and drive me off the premises with my poor children, just
question that wretched creature that has caused all this confusion what
she knows of me. I know a pretty deal more of her than is to her
credit!"
"For Heaven's sake, Marie," exclaimed Madame Dubreuil, almost petrified
with astonishment, "What does this woman allude to? Do you hear what she
says?"
"Are you, or are you not known by the name of the Goualeuse?" said the
milk-woman to Marie.
"Yes," said the wretched girl, in a low, trembling voice, and without
venturing to lift up her eyes towards Madame Dubreuil,--"yes, I am
called so."
"There you see!" vociferated the enraged labourers. "She owns it! she
owns it!"
"What does she own?" inquired Madame Dubreuil, half frightened at the
assent given by Fleur-de-Marie.
"Leave her to me, madame," resumed the widow, "and you shall hear her
confess that she was living in a house of the most infamous description
in the Rue-aux-Fêves in the Cité, and that she every morning purchased a
half-pennyworth of milk of me. She cannot deny either having repeatedly
spoken in my presence to the murderer of my poor husband. Oh, she knows
him well enough, I am quite certain; a pale young man, who smoked a good
deal, and always wore a cap and a blouse, and wore his hair very long;
she could tell his name if she chose. Is this true, or is it a lie?"
vociferously demanded the milk-woman.
"I may have spoken to the man who killed your husband," answered
Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice; "for, unhappily, there are more than
one in the Cité capable of such a crime. But, indeed, I know not of whom
you are speaking!"
"What does she say?" asked Madame Dubreuil, horror-struck at her words.
"She admits having possibly conversed with murderers?"
"Oh, such lost wretches as she is," replied the widow, "have no better
companions!"
At first, utterly stupefied by so singular a discovery, confirmed,
indeed, by Fleur-de-Marie's own admission, Madame Dubreuil seemed almost
incapable of comprehending the scene before her; but quickly the whole
truth presented itself to her mental vision, and shrinking from the
unfortunate girl with horror and disgust, she hastily seized her
daughter by the dress, as she was about to sustain the sinking form of
the poor Goualeuse, and, drawing her towards her with sudden violence,
she exclaimed:
"Clara! For Heaven's sake approach not that vile, that abandoned young
woman! Oh, dreadful, indeed, ever to have admitted her here! But how
came Madame Georges to have her under her roof? And how could she so far
insult me as to bring her here, and allow my daughter to--This is,
indeed, disgraceful! I hardly know whether to trust the evidence of my
own senses. But Madame Georges must have been as much imposed on as
myself, or she never would have permitted such an indignity! No, no! She
is incapable of such dishonourable conduct. It would, indeed, be a
disgrace for one female so to have deceived another."
Poor Clara, terrified and almost heart-broken at this distressing scene,
could scarcely believe herself awake. It seemed as though she were under
the influence of a fearful dream. Her innocent and pure mind
comprehended not the frightful charges brought against her friend; but
she understood enough to fill her with the most poignant grief at the
unfortunate position of La Goualeuse, who stood mute, passive and
downcast, like a criminal in the presence of the judge.
"Come, come, my child," repeated Madame Dubreuil, "let us quit this
disgraceful scene." Then, turning towards Fleur-de-Marie, she said:
"As for you, worthless girl, the Almighty will punish you as you deserve
for your deceit! That my child, good and virtuous as she is, should ever
have been allowed to call you sister or friend. Her sister! You--the
very vilest of the vile! the outcast of the most depraved and lost
wretches! What hardihood, what effrontery you must have possessed, to
dare to show your face among good and honest people, when your proper
place would have been along with your bad companions in a prison!"
"Ay, ay!" cried all the labourers at once; "let her be sent off to
prison at once. She knows the murderer! Let her be made to declare who
and what he is."
"She is most likely his accomplice!"
"You see," exclaimed the widow, doubling her fist in the face of the
Goualeuse, "that my words have come true. Justice will overtake you
before you can commit other crimes."
"As for you, my good woman," said Madame Dubreuil to the milk-woman,
"far from sending you away I shall reward you for the service you have
done me in unmasking this infamous girl's real character."
"There, I told you," murmured the voices of the labourers, "our mistress
always does justice to every one!"
"Come, Clara," resumed Madame Dubreuil, "let us retire and seek Madame
Georges, that she may clear up her share of this disgraceful business,
or she and I never meet again; for either she has herself been most
dreadfully deceived, or her conduct towards us is of the very worst
description."
"But, mother, only look at poor Marie!"
"Oh, never mind her! Let her die of shame, if she likes,--there will be
one wicked, hardened girl less in the world. Treat her with the contempt
she deserves. I will not suffer you to remain another instant where she
is. It is impossible for a young person like you to notice her in any
way without disgracing herself."
"My dear mother," answered Clara, resisting her mother's attempts to
draw her away, "I do not understand what you mean. Marie must be wrong
in some way, since you say so! But look, only look at her--she is
fainting! Pity her! Oh, mother, let her be ever so guilty, pray take
pity on her present distress!"
"Oh, Mlle. Clara, you are good--very, very good--to pardon me and care
for me," uttered poor Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice, casting a look
of unutterable gratitude on her young protectress. "Believe me, it was
sorely against my will ever to deceive you; and daily, hourly, have I
reproached myself for so doing."
"Mother," exclaimed Clara, in the most piteous tones, "are you then so
merciless? Can you not pity her?"
"Pity!" returned Madame Dubreuil, scornfully. "No, I waste no pity on
such as she is. Come, I say! Were it not that I consider it the office
of Madame Georges to clear the place of so vile a creature, I would have
her spurned from the doors, as though she carried the plague about with
her." So saying, the angry mother seized her daughter's hand, and, spite
of all her struggles, led her away, Clara continually turning back her
head, and saying:
"Marie, my sister, I know not what they accuse you of, but I am quite
convinced of your innocence. Be assured of my constant love, whatever
they may say or do."
"Silence! silence! I command!" cried Madame Dubreuil, placing her hand
over her daughter's mouth. "Speak not another word, I insist!
Fortunately, we have plenty of witnesses to testify that, after the
odious discovery we have just made, you were not suffered to remain a
single instant with this lost and unfortunate young woman. You can all
answer for that, can you not, my good people?" continued she, speaking
to the assembled labourers.
"Yes, yes, madame," replied one of them, "we all know well enough that
Mlle. Clara was not allowed to stop with this bad girl a single instant
after you found out her wickedness. No doubt she is a thief or she would
not be so intimate with murderers."
Madame Dubreuil led Clara to the house, while the Goualeuse remained in
the midst of the hostile circle which had now formed around her. Spite
of the reproaches of Madame Dubreuil, her presence, and that of Clara,
had, in some degree, served to allay the fears of Fleur-de-Marie as to
the probable termination of the scene. But, after the departure of both
mother and daughter, when she found herself so entirely at the mercy of
the enraged crowd, her strength seemed to forsake her, and she was
obliged to keep herself from falling by leaning on the parapet of the
deep watering-place where the farm cattle were accustomed to drink.
Nothing could be conceived more touching than the attitude of the
unfortunate girl, nor could a more threatening appearance have been
displayed than was exhibited in the words and looks of the countrymen
and women who surrounded her. Seated, or rather supporting herself on
the narrow margin of the wall which enclosed the drinking-place, her
head hanging down, and concealed by both hands, her neck and bosom hid
by the ends of the little red cotton handkerchief which was twisted
around her cap, the poor Goualeuse, mute and motionless, presented a
most touching picture of grief and resignation.
At some little distance from Fleur-de-Marie stood the widow of the
murdered man. Triumphant in her vindictive rage, and still further
excited by the indignation expressed by Madame Dubreuil, she pointed out
the wretched object of her wrath to the labourers and her children, with
gestures of contempt and detestation. The farm servants, who had now
formed into a close circle, sought not to conceal their disgust and
thirst for vengeance; their rude countenances expressed at once rage,
desire for revenge, and a sort of insulting raillery. The women were
even still more bitter, and bent upon mischief. Neither did the striking
beauty of the Goualeuse tend to allay their wrath. But neither men nor
women could pardon Fleur-de-Marie the heinous offence of having, up to
that hour, been treated by their superiors as an equal; and some of the
men now present, having been unsuccessful candidates for the vacant
situations at Bouqueval, and attributing their failure to Madame
Georges, when, in reality, their disappointment arose entirely from
their recommendations not being sufficiently satisfactory, determined to
avail themselves of the opportunity now before them to wreak their
vexation and ill-will on the head of one she was known to protect and
love. The impulses of ignorant minds always lead to extremes either of
good or bad. But they speedily put on a most dangerous form, when the
fury of an enraged multitude is directed against those who may already
have awakened their personal anger or aversion.
Although the greater number of the labourers now collected together
might not have been so strictly virtuous and free from moral blame as to
be justified in throwing the first stone at the trembling, fainting
girl, who was the object of all their concentrated wrath, yet, on the
present occasion, they unanimously spoke and acted as though her very
presence was capable of contaminating them; and their delicacy and
modesty alike revolted at the bare recollection of the depraved class to
which she had belonged, and they shuddered to be so near one who
confessed to having frequently conversed with assassins. Nothing, then,
was wanting to urge on a blind and prejudiced crowd, still further
instigated by the example of Madame Dubreuil.
"Take her before the mayor!" cried one.
"Ay, ay! and, if she won't walk, we'll drag her."
"And for her to have the impudence to dress herself like one of us
honest girls!" said an awkward, ill-looking farm-wench.
"I'm sure," rejoined another female, with her mock-modest air, "one
might have thought she would go to heaven, spite of priest or
confession!"
"Why, she had the assurance even to attend mass!"
"No! Did she? Why did she not join in the communion afterwards then, I
should like to know?"
"And then she must play the young lady, and hold up her head as high as
our betters!"
"As though we were not good company enough for her!"
"However, every dog has his day!"
"Oh, I'll make you find your tongue, and tell who it was took my
husband's life!" vociferated the enraged widow, breaking out into a
fresh storm, now she felt her party so strong. "You all belong to one
gang; and I'm not sure but I saw you among them at the very time and
place when the bloody deed was done! Come, come; don't stand there
shedding your crocodile tears; you are found out, and may as well leave
off shamming any more. Show your face, I say! You are a beauty, ain't
you?" And the infuriated woman, suiting the action to the word,
violently snatched the two hands of poor Fleur-de-Marie from the pale
and grief-worn countenance they concealed, and down which tears were
fast streaming.
The Goualeuse, sinking under a sense of shame, and terrified at finding
herself thus at the mercy of her persecutors, joined her hands, and,
turning towards the milk-woman her supplicating and timid looks, she
said, in a gentle voice:
"Indeed, indeed, madam, I have been at the farm of Bouqueval these last
two months. How could I, then, have been witness to the dreadful
misfortune you speak of? And--"
The faint tones of Fleur-de-Marie's voice were drowned in the loud
uproarious cries of the surrounding multitude.
"Let us take her before the mayor! She can speak; and she shall, too, to
some purpose. March, march, my fine madam! On with you!"
So saying, the menacing crowd pressed upon the poor girl, who,
mechanically crossing her hands on her bosom, looked eagerly around, as
though in search of help.
"Oh," cried the milk-woman, "you need not stare about in that wild way.
Mlle. Clara is not here now to take your part. You don't slip through
my fingers, I promise you!"
"Alas! madam," uttered Fleur-de-Marie, trembling violently, "I seek not
to escape from you. Be assured, I am both ready and willing to answer
all the questions put to me, if I can be of any service to you by so
doing. But what harm have I done to these people, who surround and
threaten me in this manner?"
"What have you done?" repeated a number of voices, "why, you have dared
to stick yourself up with our betters, when we, who were worth thousands
more than such as you, were made to keep our distance,--that's what you
have done!"
"And what right had you to cause this poor woman to be turned away with
her fatherless children?" cried another.
"Indeed, it was no fault of mine. It was Mlle. Clara, who wished--"
"That is not true!" interrupted the speaker. "You never even opened your
mouth in her favour. No, not you? You were too well pleased to see her
bread taken from her."
"No, no! no more she did," chimed in a burst of voices, male and female.
"She is a regular bad one!"
"A poor widow-woman, with three helpless children!"
"If I did not plead for her with Mlle. Clara, it was because I had not
power to utter a word."
"You could find strength enough to talk to a set of thieves and
murderers!"
And, as is frequently the case in public commotions, the country people,
more ignorant than vicious, actually talked themselves into a fury,
until their own words and violence excited them to fresh acts of rage
and vengeance against their unhappy victim.
The menacing throng, gesticulating, and loudly threatening, advanced
closer and closer towards Fleur-de-Marie, while the widow appeared to
have lost all command over herself. Separated from the deep pond only by
the parapet on which she was leaning, the Goualeuse shuddered at the
idea of their throwing her into the water; and, extending towards them
her supplicating hands, she exclaimed:
"Good, kind people! what do you want with me? For pity's sake do not
harm me!"
And as the milk-woman, with fierce and angry gestures, kept coming
nearer and nearer, holding her clenched fist almost in the face of
Fleur-de-Marie, the poor girl, drawing herself back in terror, said, in
beseeching tones:
"Pray, pray, do not press so closely on me, or you will cause me to fall
into the water."
These words suggested a cruel idea to the rough spectators. Intending
merely one of those practical jokes which, however diverting to the
projectors, are fraught with serious harm and suffering to the
unfortunate object of them, one of the most violent of the number called
out, "Let's give her a plunge in! Duck her! duck her!"
"Yes, yes!" chimed several voices, accompanied with brutal laughter, and
noisy clapping of hands, with other tokens of unanimous approval. "Throw
her in!--in with her!"
"A good dip will do her good! Water won't kill her!"
"That will teach her not to show her face among honest people again!"
"To be sure. Toss her in!--fling her over!"
"Fortunately, the ice was broken this morning!"
"And when she has had her bath she may go and tell her street companions
how the folks at Arnouville farm serve such vile girls as she is!"
As these unfeeling speeches reached her ear, as she heard their
barbarous jokes, and observed the exasperated looks of the brutally
excited individuals who approached her to carry their threat into
execution, Fleur-de-Marie gave herself over for lost. But to her first
horror of a violent death succeeded a sort of gloomy satisfaction. The
future wore so threatening and hopeless an aspect for her that she
thanked heaven for shortening her trial. Not another complaining word
escaped her; but gently falling on her knees, and piously folding her
hands upon her breast, she closed her eyes, and meekly resigned herself
to her fate.
The labourers, surprised at the attitude and mute resignation of the
Goualeuse, hesitated a moment in the accomplishment of their savage
design; but, rallied on their folly and irresolution by the female part
of the assemblage, they recommenced their uproarious cries, as though to
inspire themselves with the necessary courage to complete their wicked
purpose.
Just as two of the most furious of the party were about to seize on
Fleur-de-Marie a loud, thrilling voice was heard, exclaiming:
"Stop! I command you!"
And at the very instant Madame Georges, who had forced a passage through
the crowd, reached the still kneeling Goualeuse, took her in her arms,
and, raising her, cried:
"Rise up, my child! Stand up, my beloved daughter! the knee should be
bent to God alone!"
The expression and attitude of Madame Georges were so full of courageous
firmness that the actors in this cruel scene shrunk back speechless and
confounded. Indignation coloured her usually pale features, and casting
on the labourers a stern look she said to them, in a loud and
threatening voice:
"Wretches! Are you not ashamed of such brutal conduct to a helpless girl
like this?"
"She is--"
"My daughter!" exclaimed Madame Georges, with severity, and abruptly
interrupting the man who was about to speak, "and, as such, both
cherished and protected by our worthy curé, M. l'Abbé Laporte, whom
every one venerates and loves; and those whom he loves and esteems ought
to be respected by every one!"
These simple words effectually imposed silence on the crowd. The curé of
Bouqueval was looked upon throughout his district almost as a saint, and
many there present were well aware of the interest he took in the
Goualeuse. Still a confused murmur went on, and Madame Georges, fully
comprehending its import, added:
"Suppose this poor girl were the very worst of creatures--the most
abandoned of her sex--your conduct is not the less disgraceful! What
offence has she committed? And what right have you to punish her?--you,
who call yourselves men, to exert your strength and power against one
poor, feeble, unresisting female! Surely it was a cowardly action all to
unite against a defenceless girl! Come, Marie! come, child of my heart!
let us return home; there, at least, you are known, and justly
appreciated."
Madame Georges took the arm of Fleur-de-Marie, while the labourers,
ashamed of their conduct, the impropriety of which they now perceived,
respectfully dispersed. The widow alone remained; and, advancing boldly
to Madame Georges, she said, in a resolute tone:
"I don't care for a word you say; and, as for this girl, she does not
quit this place until after she has deposed before the mayor as to all
she knows of my poor husband's murder."
"My good woman!" said Madame Georges, restraining herself by a violent
effort, "my daughter has no deposition to make here, but, at any future
period that justice may require her testimony let her be summoned, and
she shall attend with myself; until then no person has a right to
question her."
"But, madame, I say--"
Madame Georges prevented the milk-woman from proceeding by replying, in
a severe tone:
"The severe affliction you have experienced can scarcely excuse your
conduct, and you will one day regret the violence you have so improperly
excited. Mlle. Marie lives with me at the Bouqueval farm; inform the
judge who received your deposition of that circumstance, and say that we
await his further orders."
The widow, unable to argue against words so temperately and wisely
spoken, seated herself on the parapet of the drinking-place, and,
embracing her children, began to weep bitterly. Almost immediately after
this scene Pierre brought the chaise, into which Madame Georges and
Fleur-de-Marie mounted, to return to Bouqueval.
As they passed before the farmhouse of Arnouville, the Goualeuse
perceived Clara, who had hid herself behind a partly closed shutter,
weeping bitterly. She was evidently watching for a last glimpse of her
friend, to whom she waved her handkerchief in token of farewell.
"Ah, madame! what shame to me, and vexation to you, has arisen this
morning from our visit to Arnouville!" said Fleur-de-Marie to her
adopted parent, when they found themselves in the sitting-room at
Bouqueval; "you have probably quarrelled for ever with Madame Dubreuil,
and all on my account! Oh, I foresaw something terrible was about to
happen! God has justly punished me for deceiving that good lady and her
daughter! I am the unfortunate cause of perpetual disunion between
yourself and your friend."
"My dear child, my friend is a warm-hearted, excellent woman, but rather
weak; still I know her too well not to feel certain that by to-morrow
she will regret her foolish violence of to-day."
"Alas! madame, think not that I wish to take her part in preference to
yours. No, God forbid! but pardon me if I say that I fear your great
kindness towards me has induced you to shut your eyes to--Put yourself
in the place of Madame Dubreuil--to be told that the companion of your
darling daughter was--what I was--Ah, could any one blame such natural
indignation?"
Unfortunately Madame Georges could not find any satisfactory reply to
this question of Fleur-de-Marie's, who continued with much excitement:
"Soon will the degrading scene of yesterday be in everybody's mouth! I
fear not for myself, but who can tell how far it may affect the
reputation of Mlle. Clara? Who can answer for it that I may not have
tarnished her fair fame for ever? for did she not, in the face of the
assembled crowd, persist in calling me her friend--her sister? I ought
to have obeyed my first impulse, and resisted the affection which
attracted me towards Mlle. Dubreuil, and, at the risk of incurring her
dislike, have refused the friendship she offered me. But I forgot the
distance which separated me from her, and now, as you perceive, I am
suffering the just penalty; I am punished--oh, how cruelly punished! for
I have perhaps done an irreparable injury to one so virtuous and so
good."
"My child," said Madame Georges, after a brief silence, "you are wrong
to accuse yourself so cruelly. 'Tis true your past life has been
guilty--very highly so; but are we to reckon as nothing your having, by
the sincerity of your repentance, obtained the protection and favour of
our excellent curé? and was it not under his auspices and mine you were
introduced to Madame Dubreuil? and did not your own amiable qualities
inspire her with the attachment she so voluntarily professed for you?
was it not she herself who requested you to call Clara your sister? and,
finally, as I told her just now, for I neither wished nor ought to
conceal the whole truth from her, how could I, certain as I felt of your
sincere repentance--how could I, by divulging the past, render your
attempts to reinstate yourself more painful and difficult, perhaps
impossible, by throwing you, in despair of being again received by the
good and virtuous, back upon the scorn and derision of those who,
equally guilty, equally unfortunate as you have been, would not perhaps
like you have preserved the secret instinct of honour and virtue? The
disclosure made by the woman to-day is alike to be lamented and feared;
but could I, in anticipation of an almost impossible casualty, sacrifice
your present comfort and future repose?"
"Ah, madame, a convincing proof of the false and miserable position I
must ever hold may be found in the fact of your being obliged to conceal
the past; and that the mother of Clara despises me for that past; views
me in the same contemptuous light all will henceforward behold me, for
the scene at the farm of Arnouville will be quickly spread
abroad,--every one will hear of it! Oh, I shall die with shame! never
again can I meet the looks of any human being!"
"Not even mine, my child?" said Madame Georges, bursting into tears, and
opening her arms to Fleur-de-Marie, "you will never find in my heart any
other feeling than the devoted tenderness of a mother. Courage, then,
dear Marie! console yourself with the knowledge of your hearty and
sincere repentance; you are here surrounded with true and affectionate
friends, let this home be your world. We will anticipate the exposure
you dread so much; our worthy abbé shall assemble the people about the
farm, who all regard you with love and respect, and he shall tell them
the sad history of your past life; and, trust me, my child, told as the
tale would be by him, whose word is law here, such a disclosure will but
serve to increase the interest all take in your welfare."
"I would fain think so, dear madame, and I submit myself. Yesterday,
when we were conversing together, M. le Curé predicted to me that I
should be called upon painfully to expiate my past offences; I ought
not, therefore, to be astonished at their commencement. He told me also
that my earthly trials would be accepted as some atonement for the great
wrong I have done; I would fain hope so. Supported through these painful
ordeals by you and my venerable pastor, I will not--I ought not to
complain."
"You will go to his presence ere long, and never will his counsels have
been more valuable to you. It is already half-past four; prepare
yourself for your visit to the rectory, my child. I shall employ myself
in writing to M. Rodolph an account of what occurred at the farm at
Arnouville, and send my letter off by express; I will then join you at
our venerable abbé's, for it is most important we should talk over
matters together."
Shortly after the Goualeuse quitted the farm in order to repair to the
rectory by the hollow road, where the old woman, the Schoolmaster, and
Tortillard had agreed to meet.
* * * * *
As may have been perceived in her conversations with Madame Georges and
the curé of Bouqueval, Fleur-de-Marie had so nobly profited by the
example of her benefactors, so assimilated herself with their
principles, that, remembering her past degradation, she daily became
more hopeless of recovering the place she had lost in society. As her
mind expanded so did her fine and noble instincts arrive at mature
growth, and bring forth worthy fruits in the midst of the atmosphere of
honour and purity in which she lived. Had she possessed a less exalted
mind, a less exquisite sensibility, or an imagination of weaker quality,
Fleur-de-Marie might easily have been comforted and consoled; but,
unfortunately, not a single day passed in which she did not recall, and
almost live over again, with an agony of horror and disgust, the
disgraceful miseries of her past life. Let the reader figure to himself
a young creature of sixteen, candid and pure, and rejoicing in that very
candour and purity, thrown, by frightful circumstances, into the
infamous den of the ogress, and irrecoverably subjected to the dominion
of such a fiend,--such was the reaction of the past on the present on
Fleur-de-Marie's mind. Let us still further display the resentful
retrospect, or, rather, the moral agony with which the Goualeuse
suffered so excruciatingly, by saying that she regretted, more
frequently than she had courage to own to the curé, the not having
perished in the midst of the slough of wickedness by which she was
encompassed.
However little a person may reflect, or however limited his knowledge of
life may be, he will not refuse to assent to our remarks touching the
commiseration which such a case as Fleur-de-Marie's fully called for.
She was deserving of both interest and pity, not only because she had
never known what it was to have her affections fairly roused, but
because all her senses were torpid, and as yet unawakened by noble
impulses--untaught, unaided, unadvised. Is it not wonderful that this
unfortunate girl, thrown at the tender age of sixteen years in the midst
of the herd of savage and demoralised beings who infest the Cité, should
have viewed her degrading position with horror and disgust, and have
escaped from the sink of iniquity morally pure and free from sin?