THE VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE.[6]
Let the reader picture to himself a small chamber on the fourth floor of
the wretched house in the Passage de la Brasserie. Scarcely could the
faint glimmers of early morn force their pale rays through the narrow
casements forming the only window to this small apartment; the three
panes of glass that apology for a window contained were cracked and
almost the colour of horn, a dingy and torn yellow paper adhered in some
places to the walls, while from each corner of the cracked ceiling hung
long and thick cobwebs; and to complete the appearance of wretchedness
so evident in this forlorn spot, the flooring was broken away, and, in
many places, displayed the beams which supported it, as well as the lath
and plaster forming the ceiling of the room beneath. A deal table, a
chair, an old trunk, without hinges or lock, a truckle-bed, with a
wooden headboard, covered by a thin mattress, coarse sheets of
unbleached cloth, and an old rug,--such was the entire furniture of this
wretched chamber.
[6] "The average punishment awarded to such as are convicted
of breach of trust is two months' imprisonment and a fine of
twenty-five francs."--_Art. 406 and 408 of the "Code Penal."_
On the chair sat the Baroness de Fermont, and in the bed reposed her
daughter, Claire de Fermont. Such were the names of these two victims of
the villainy of Jacques Ferrand. Possessing but one bed, the mother and
child took it by turns to sleep. Too much uneasiness and too many bitter
cares prevented Madame de Fermont from enjoying the blessing of repose;
but her daughter's young and elastic nature easily yielded to the
natural impulse which made her willingly seek in short slumbers a
temporary respite from the misery by which she was surrounded during her
waking hours. At the present moment she was sleeping peacefully.
Nothing could be imagined more touchingly affecting than the picture of
misery imposed by the avarice of the notary on two females hitherto
accustomed to every comfort, and surrounded in their native city by that
respect which is ever felt for honourable and honoured families.
Madame de Fermont was about six and thirty years of age, with a
countenance at once expressive of gentleness and intelligence, mingled
with an indescribably noble and majestic air. Her features, which had
once boasted extreme beauty, were now pale and careworn; her dark hair
was separated on her forehead, and formed two thick, lustrous bandeaux,
which, after shading her pallid countenance, were twisted in with her
back hair, whose tresses the hand of sorrow had already mingled with
gray. Dressed in an old shabby black dress, patched and pieced in
various places, Madame de Fermont, her head supported by her hand, was
surveying her child with looks of ineffable tenderness.
Claire was but sixteen years of age, and her gentle and innocent
countenance, thin and sorrowful as that of her mother, looked still more
pallid as contrasted with the coarse, unbleached linen which covered her
bolster, filled only with sawdust. The once brilliant complexion of the
poor girl had sickened beneath the privations she endured; and, as she
slept, the long, dark lashes which fringed her large and lustrous eyes
stood out almost unnaturally upon her sunken cheek; the once fresh and
rosy lips were now dry, cracked, and colourless, yet, half opened as
they were, they displayed the faultless regularity of her pearly teeth.
The harsh contact of the rough linen which covered her bed had caused a
temporary redness about the neck, shoulders, and arms of the poor girl,
whose fine and delicate skin was marbled and spotted by the friction
both of the miserable sheets and rug. A sensation of uneasiness and
discomfort seemed to pervade even her slumbers; for the clearly defined
eyebrows, occasionally contracted, as though the sleeper were under the
influence of an uneasy dream, and the pained expression observable on
the features, foretold the deadly nature of the disease at work within.
Madame de Fermont had long ceased to find relief in tears, but, like her
suffering daughter, she found that weakness, languor, and dejection,
which is ever the precursor of severe illness, rapidly and daily
increasing; but, unwilling to alarm Claire, and wishing, if possible,
even to conceal the frightful truth from herself, the wretched mother
struggled against the first approaches of her malady, while, from a
similar feeling of devotion and affection, Claire sought to hide from
her parent the extreme suffering she herself experienced.
To attempt to describe the tortures endured by the tender mother, as,
during the greater part of the night, she watched her slumbering child,
her thoughts alternately dwelling on the past, the present, and the
future, would be to paint the sharpest, bitterest, wildest agony that
ever crossed the brain of a loving and despairing mother; to give
alternately her reminiscences of bygone happiness, her shuddering dread
of impending evil, her fearful anticipations, her bitter regrets, and
utter despondency, mingled with bursts of frenzied rage against the
author of all her sorrows, vain supplications, eager, earnest prayers,
ending at last fearfully and dreadfully in openly expressed mistrust of
the omnipotence and justice of the Great Being who could thus remain
insensible to the cry which arose from a mother's breaking heart, to
that holy plea whose sound should reach the throne of grace,--"Pity,
pity, for my child!"
"How cold she is!" cried the poor mother, lightly touching with her icy
hand the equally chill arm of her child; "how very, very cold! and
scarcely an hour ago just as hot! Alas, 'tis the cruel fever which has
seized upon her! Happily the dear creature is as yet unconscious of her
malady! Gracious heaven, she is becoming cold as death itself! What
shall I do to bring warmth to her poor frame? The bed-coverings are so
slight! A good thought! I will throw my old shawl over her. But no, no!
I dare not remove it from the door over which I have hung it, lest those
men so brutally intoxicated should endeavour, as they did yesterday, to
look into the room through the disjointed panels or openings in the
framework.
"What a horrible place we have got into! Oh, if I had but known by what
description of persons it was inhabited before I paid the fortnight in
advance! Certainly, we would not have remained here. But, alas, I knew
it not; and when we have no vouchers for our respectability, it is so
difficult to obtain furnished lodgings. Who could ever have thought I
should have been at a loss,--I who quitted Angers in my own carriage,
deeming it unfit my daughter should travel by any public conveyance? How
could I have imagined that I should experience any difficulty in
obtaining every requisite testimonial of my honour and honesty?"
Then bursting into a fit of anger, she exclaimed, "'Tis too, too hard,
that because this unprincipled, hard-hearted notary chooses to strip us
of all our possessions, I have no means of punishing him! Yes; had I
money I might sue him legally for his misconduct. But would not that be
to bring obloquy and contempt on the memory of my good, my noble-minded
brother; to have it publicly proclaimed that he consummated his ruin by
taking away his own life, after having squandered my fortune and that of
my child; to hear him accused of reducing us to want and wretchedness?
Oh, never,--never! Still, however dear and sacred is the memory of a
brother, should not the welfare of my child be equally so?
"And wherefore, too, should I give rise to useless tales of family
misery, unprovided as I am with any proofs against the notary? Oh, it
is, indeed, a cruel,--a most cruel case. Sometimes, too, when irritated,
goaded by my reflections almost to madness, I find myself indulging in
bitter plaints against my brother, and think his conduct more culpable
than even the notary's, as though it were any alleviation of my woes to
have two names to execrate instead of one. But quickly do I blush at my
own base and unworthy suspicions of one so good, so honourable, so
noble-minded as my poor brother! This infamous notary knows not all the
fearful consequences of his dishonesty. He fancies he has but taken from
us our worldly goods, while he has plunged a dagger in the hearts of two
innocent, unoffending victims, condemned by his villainy to die by
inches. Alas, I dare not breathe into the ear of my poor child the full
extent of my fears, lest her young mind should be unable to support the
blow!
"But I am ill,--very, very ill; a burning fever is in my veins; and 'tis
only with the greatest energy and resolution I contrive to resist its
approaches. But too certainly do I feel aware that the germs of a
possibly mortal disease are in me. I am aware of its gaining ground
hourly. My throat is parched, my head burns and throbs with racking
pains. These symptoms are even more dangerous than I am willing to own
even to myself. Merciful God! If I were to be ill,--seriously, fatally
ill,--if I should die! But no, no!" almost shrieked Madame Fermont, with
wild excitement; "I cannot,--I will not die! To leave Claire at sixteen
years of age, alone, and without resource, in the midst of Paris!
Impossible! Oh, no, I am not ill; I have mistaken the effects of sorrow,
cold, and want of rest, for the precursory symptoms of illness. Any
person similarly placed would have experienced the same. It is nothing,
nothing worth noticing. There must be no weakness on my part. 'Tis by
yielding to such dismal anticipations that one becomes really attacked
by the very malady we dread. And besides, I have not time to be ill. Oh,
no! On the contrary, I must immediately exert myself to find employment
for Claire and myself, since the wretch who gave us the prints to colour
has dared to--"
After a short silence, Madame de Fermont, leaving her last sentence
unfinished, indignantly added:
"Horrible idea! To ask the shame of my child in return for the work he
doles out to us, and to harshly withdraw it because I will not suffer my
poor Claire to go to his house unaccompanied, and work there during the
evening alone with him! Possibly I may succeed in obtaining work
elsewhere, either in plain or ornamental needlework. Yet it is so very
difficult when we are known to no one; and very recently I tried in
vain. Persons are afraid of entrusting their materials to those who live
in such wretched lodgings as ours. And yet I dare not venture upon
others more creditable; for what would become of us were the small sum
we possess once exhausted? What could we do? We should be utterly
penniless; as destitute as the veriest beggar that ever walked the
earth.
"And then to think I once was among the richest and wealthiest! Oh, let
me not think of what has been; such considerations serve but to increase
the already excited state of my brain. It will madden me to recollect
the past; and I am wrong--oh, very wrong--thus to dwell on ideas that
sadden and depress instead of raising and invigorating my enfeebled
mind. Had I gone on thus weakly indulging regrets, I might, indeed, have
fallen ill,--for I am by no means so at present. No, no," continued the
unfortunate parent, placing her fingers upon the wrist of her left
hand, "my fever has left me,--my pulse beats tranquilly."
Alas! the quick, irregular, and hurried pulsation perceptible beneath
the parched yet icy skin allowed not of such flattering hopes; and,
after pausing in deep and heartfelt wretchedness for a short space, the
unhappy Madame de Fermont thus continued:
"Wherefore, O God of Mercies, thus visit with thine anger two wretched
and helpless creatures, utterly unconscious of having merited thy
displeasure? What has been the crime that has thus drawn down such heavy
punishments upon our heads? Was not my child a model of innocent piety,
as her father was of honour? Have I not ever scrupulously fulfilled my
duties both as wife and mother? Why, then, permit us to become the
victims of a vile, ignoble wretch,--my sweet, my innocent child more
especially? Oh, when I remember that, but for the nefarious conduct of
this notary, the rising dawn of my daughter's existence would have been
clear and unclouded, I can scarcely restrain my tears. But for his base
treachery we should now be in our own home, without further care or
sorrow than such as arose from the painful and unhappy circumstances
attending the death of my poor brother. In two or three years' time I
should have begun to think of marrying my sweet Claire, that is, if I
could have found any one worthy of so good, so pure-minded, and so
lovely a creature as herself. Who would not have rejoiced in obtaining
such a bride? And further, after having merely reserved to myself a
trifling annuity, sufficient to have enabled me to live somewhere in the
neighbourhood, I intended, on her marriage, to bestow on her the whole
of my remaining possessions, amounting to at least one hundred thousand
crowns; for I should have been enabled to lay by something. And, when a
lovely and beautiful young creature, like my Claire, gifted with all the
advantages of a superior education, can, in addition, boast of a dowry
of more than one hundred thousand crowns--"
Then, as she again returned to the realities of her present position,
altogether overcome by the painful contrast, Madame de Fermont
exclaimed, almost frantically:
"Still, it is not to be supposed that, because the notary so wills it, I
shall sit tamely by and see my only and beloved child reduced to the
most abject misery, entitled as she is to a life of the most unalloyed
felicity. If I can obtain no redress from the laws of my country, I will
not permit the infamous conduct of this man to escape unpunished. For if
I am driven to desperation, if I find no means of extricating my
daughter and myself from the deplorable condition to which the villainy
of this man has brought us, I cannot answer for myself, or what I may
do. I may be driven by madness to retaliate on this man, even by taking
his life. And what if I did, after all I have endured, after all the
scalding tears he has caused me to shed, who could blame me? At least I
should be secure of the pity and sympathy of all mothers who loved their
children as I do my Claire. Yes; but, then, what would be her
position,--left alone, friendless, unexperienced, and destitute? Oh, no,
no, that is my principal dread; therefore do I fear to die.
"And for that same reason dare I not harm the traitor who has wrought
our ruin. What would become of her at sixteen?--pure and spotless as an
angel, 'tis true. But then she is so surpassingly lovely; and want,
desolation, cold, and misery are fearful things to oppose alone and
unaided. How fearful a conflict might be presented to one of her tender
years, and into how terrible an abyss might she not fall? Oh,
want,--fatal word! As I trace it, a crowd of sickening images rise
before me, and distract my senses. Destitution, dreadful as it is to
all, is still more formidable to those who have lived surrounded not
only with every comfort, but even luxury. One thing I cannot pardon
myself for, and that is that, in the face of all these overwhelming
trials, I have not yet been able to subdue my unfortunate pride; and I
feel persuaded that nothing but the sight of my child, actually
perishing before my eyes for want of bread, could induce me to beg. How
weak, how selfish and cowardly! Still--"
Then, as her thoughts wandered to the source of all her present
sufferings and anguish, she mournfully continued:
"The notary has reduced me to a state of beggary; I must, therefore,
yield to the stern necessity of my situation. There must be an end of
all delicacy as well as scruples. They might have been well enough in
bygone days; but my duty is now to stretch forth my hand to solicit
charitable aid for both my daughter and myself. And if I fail in
procuring work, I must make up my mind to implore the charity of my
fellow creatures, since the roguery of the notary has left me no
alternative. Doubtless in that, as in other trades, there is an art, an
expertness to be acquired, and which experience alone can bestow. Never
mind," continued she, with a sort of feverish wildness, "one must learn
one's craft, and only practice can make perfect. Surely mine must be a
tale to move even the most unfeeling. I have to tell of misfortunes
alike severe and unmerited,--of an angelic child, but sixteen years of
age, exposed to every evil of life. But then it requires a practised
hand to set forth all these qualifications, so as best to excite
sympathy and compassion. No matter; I shall manage it, I feel quite
sure. And, after all," exclaimed the half distracted woman, with a
gloomy smile, "what have I so much to complain of? Fortune is perishable
and precarious; and the notary will, at least, if he has taken my money,
have compelled me to adopt a trade."
For several minutes Madame de Fermont remained absorbed in her
reflections, then resumed more calmly:
"I have frequently thought of inquiring for some situation. What I seem
to covet is just such a place as a female has here who is servant to a
lady living on the first floor. Had I that situation I might probably
receive wages sufficient to maintain Claire; and I might even, through
the intervention of the mistress I served, be enabled to obtain
occupation for my daughter, who then would remain here. Neither should I
be obliged to quit her. Oh, what joy, could it be so arranged! But no,
no, that would be happiness too great for me to expect; it would seem
like a dream. And then, again, if I obtained the place, the poor woman
now occupying it must be turned away. Possibly she is as poor and
destitute as ourselves. Well, what if she be? No scruple has arisen to
save us from being stripped of our all, and my child's preservation
outweighs all fastidious notions of delicacy in my breast. The only
difficulty consists in obtaining an introduction to the lady on the
first floor, and contriving to dispossess the servant of a place which
would be to me the very perfection of ease and comfort."
Several loud and hasty knocks at the door startled Madame de Fermont,
and made her daughter spring up with a sudden cry.
"For heaven's sake, dear mother," asked poor Claire, trembling with
fear, "what is the matter?" And then, without giving her agitated parent
time to recover herself, the terrified girl threw her arms around her
mother's neck, as if she sought for safety in that fond, maternal bosom,
while Madame de Fermont, pressing her child almost convulsively to her
breast, gazed with terror at the door.
"Mamma, mamma," again moaned Claire, "what was that noise that awoke me?
And why do you seem so much alarmed?"
"I know not, my child, what it was. But calm yourself, there is nothing
to fear; some one merely knocked at the door,--possibly to bring us a
letter from the post-office."
At this moment the worm-eaten door shook and rattled beneath the blows
dealt against it by some powerful fist.
"Who is there?" inquired Madame de Fermont, in a trembling tone.
A harsh, coarse, and vulgar voice replied, "Holloa, there! What, are you
so deaf there's no making you hear? Holloa, I say, open your door; and
let's have a look at you. Hip, hip, holloa! Come, sharp's the word; I'm
in a hurry."
"I know you not," exclaimed Madame de Fermont, striving to command
herself sufficiently to speak with a steady voice; "what is it you seek
here?"
"Not know me? Why, I'm your opposite neighbour and fellow lodger, Robin.
I want a light for my pipe. Come, cut about. Whoop, holloa! Don't go to
sleep again, or I must come in and wake you."
"Merciful heavens!" whispered the mother to her daughter, "'tis that
lame man, who is nearly always intoxicated."
"Now, then, are you going to give me a light? Because, I tell you
fairly, one I will have if I knock your rickety old door to pieces."
"I have no light to give you."
"Oh, bother and nonsense! If you have no candle burning you must have
the means of lighting one. Nobody is without a few lucifer matches, be
they ever so poor. Do you or do you not choose to give me a light?"
"I beg of you to go away."
"You don't choose to open your door, then? Once,--twice,--mind, I will
have it."
"I request you to quit my door immediately, or I will call for
assistance."
"Once,--twice,--thrice,--you will not? Well, then, here goes! Now I'll
smash your old timbers, into morsels too small for you to pick up.
Hu!--hu!--hallo! Well done! Bravo!"
And suiting the action to the word, the ruffian assailed the door so
furiously that he quickly drove it in, the miserable lock with which it
was furnished having speedily broken to pieces.
The two women shrieked loudly; Madame de Fermont, in spite of her
weakness, rushed forward to meet the ruffian at the moment when he was
entering the room, and stopped him.
"Sir, this is most shameful; you must not enter here," exclaimed the
unhappy mother, keeping the door closed as well as she could. "I will
call for help." And she shuddered at the sight of this man, with his
hideous and drunken countenance.
"What's all this? What's all this?" said he. "Oughtn't neighbours to be
obliging? You ought to have opened; I shouldn't have broken anything."
Then with the stupid obstinacy of intoxication, he added, reeling on his
tottering legs:
"I wanted to come in, and I will come in; and I won't go out until I've
lighted my pipe."
"I have neither fire nor matches. In heaven's name, sir, do go away."
"That's not true. You tell me that I may not see the little girl who's
in bed. Yesterday you stopped up all the holes in the door. She's a
pretty chick, and I should like to see her. So mind, or I shall hurt you
if you don't let me enter quietly. I tell you I will see the little girl
in her bed, and I will light my pipe, or I'll smash everything before
me, and you into the bargain."
"Help, help, help!" exclaimed Madame de Fermont, who felt the door
yielding before the broad shoulders of the Gros-Boiteux.
Alarmed by her cries, the man retreated a step; and clenching his fist
at Madame de Fermont, he said:
"You shall pay me for this, mind. I will come back to-night and wring
your tongue out, and then you can't squall out."
And the Gros-Boiteux, as he was called at the Isle du Ravageur, went
down the staircase, uttering horrible threats.
Madame de Fermont, fearing that he might return, and seeing that the
lock was broken, dragged the table across the room, in order to
barricade it. Claire had been so alarmed, so agitated, at this horrible
scene, that she had fallen on her bed almost senseless, and overcome by
a nervous attack. Her mother, forgetting her own fears, ran to her,
embraced her, gave her a little water to drink, and by her caresses and
attentions revived her. When she saw her gradually recovering she said
to her:
"Calm yourself; don't be alarmed, my dearest child, this wicked man has
gone." Then the unfortunate mother exclaimed, in a tone of indescribable
indignation and grief, "And it is that notary who is the first cause of
all our sufferings."
Claire looked about her with as much astonishment as fear.
"Take courage, my child," said Madame de Fermont, embracing her
tenderly; "the wretch has gone."
"Oh, mamma, if he should come back again! You see, though you cried so
loud for help, no one came. Oh, pray let us leave this house, or I shall
die with fear!"
"How you tremble; you are quite in a fever."
"No, no," said the young girl, to reassure her mother, "it is
nothing--only fright,--and that will soon pass away. And you,--how do
you feel? Give me your hands. Oh, how they burn! It is, indeed, you who
are suffering; and you try to conceal it from me!"
"Don't think so; I feel better than I did. It is only the fright that
man caused me which makes me so. I was sleeping soundly in my chair,
and only awoke when you did."
"Yet, mamma, your poor eyes look so red and inflamed!"
"Why, you see, my dear, one does not sleep so refreshingly in a chair."
"And you really do not suffer?"
"No, no, I assure you. And you?"
"Nor I either. I only tremble with fear. Pray, mamma, let us leave this
house!"
"And where shall we go to? You know what trouble we had to find this
miserable chamber; for, unfortunately, we have no papers,--and, besides,
we have paid a fortnight in advance. They will not return our money; and
we have so very, very little left, that we must take all possible care
of it."
"Perhaps M. de Saint-Remy will answer you in a day or two."
"I cannot hope for that. It is so long since I wrote to him."
"He cannot have received your letter. Why did not you write to him
again? From here to Angers is not so far, and we should soon have his
answer."
"My poor child, you know how much that has cost me already!"
"But there's no risk; and he is so good in spite of his roughness.
Wasn't he one of the oldest friends of my father? And then he is a
relation of ours."
"But he is poor himself,--his fortune is very small. Perhaps he does not
reply to us that he may avoid the pain of a refusal."
"But he may not have received your letter, mamma!"
"And if he has received it, my dear,--one of two things, either he is
himself in too painful a position to come to our aid, or he feels no
interest in us. What, then, is the use of exposing ourselves to a
refusal or humiliation?"
"Come, come, courage, mamma; we have still a hope left. Perhaps this
very morning will bring us a kind answer."
"From M. d'Orbigny?"
"Yes; the letter of which you had made the rough copy was so simple and
touching. It showed our miserable condition so naturally that he will
have pity on us. Really, I don't know why, but something tells me you
are wrong to despair of him."
"He has so little motive for taking any interest in us. It is true he
formerly knew your father, and I have often heard my poor brother speak
of M. d'Orbigny as a man with whom he was on good terms before the
latter left Paris to retire into the country with his young wife."
"It is that which makes me hope. He has a young wife, and she will be
compassionate. And then in the country one can do so much good. He will
take you, I should think, as a housekeeper, and I could work in the
needle-room. Then M. d'Orbigny is very rich, and in a great house there
is always so much to do."
"Yes; but we have so little claim on his kind interest!"
"We are so unfortunate!"
"It is true that is a claim in the eyes of charitably disposed persons."
"Let us hope that M. d'Orbigny and his wife are so."
"Then if we do not have any or an unfavorable answer from him, I will
overcome my false shame, and write to the Duchesse de Lucenay."
"The lady of whom M. de Saint-Remy has spoken so often, and whose
kindness and generosity he so much, praised?"
"The same,--daughter of the Prince de Noirmont. He knew her when she was
very young, and treated her almost always as if she were his own child,
for he was on terms of the closest intimacy with the prince. Madame de
Lucenay must have many acquaintances, and, no doubt, could easily find
situations for us."
"No doubt, mamma. But I understand your delicacy; you do not know her,
whilst, at least, my father and my uncle both knew a little of M.
d'Orbigny."
"Well, but in case Madame de Lucenay cannot do anything for us, I have
still another resource."
"What is that, mamma?"
"A very poor one,--a very weak hope, perhaps. But why should I not try
it? M. de Saint-Remy's son is--"
"Has M. de Saint-Remy a son?" exclaimed Claire, interrupting her mother
with great astonishment.
"Yes, my dear, he has a son."
"Yet he never spoke of him when he used to come to Angers."
"True, and, for reasons which you cannot understand, M. de Saint-Remy,
having quitted Paris fifteen years ago, has not seen his son since that
period."
"Fifteen years without seeing his father! Is that possible?"
"Alas, yes! As you see, the son of M. de Saint-Remy, being very much
sought after in society, and very rich--"
"Very rich, whilst his father is poor?"
"All young M. de Saint-Remy's wealth came from his mother."
"What of that,--how could he leave his father?"
"His father would not accept anything from him."
"Why?"
"That is a question to which I cannot reply, my dear child; but I have
heard it said by my poor brother that this young man was reputed vastly
generous. Young and generous, he ought to be good. Learning from me that
my husband had been his father's intimate friend, perhaps he will
interest himself in trying to find us work or employment. He has such
high and extensive connections, that this would be no trouble to him."
"And then, perhaps, too, we could learn from him if M. de Saint-Remy,
his father, had not quitted Angers before you wrote to him: that would
account for his silence."
"I think, my dear, that M. de Saint-Remy has not kept up any connection
with--Still, we cannot but try."
"Unless M. d'Orbigny replies to you favourably, and I repeat, I don't
know why, but I have hopes, in spite of myself."
"It is now many days, my dear, since I wrote to him, telling him all the
causes of our misfortunes, and yet to this time we have no reply,--none.
A letter put in the post before four o'clock in the evening reaches
Aubiers next morning, and thus we might have had his answer five days
ago."
"Perhaps, before he replies, he is considering in what way he can best
be useful to us."
"May Heaven hear thee, my child!"
"It appears to me plain enough, mamma, if he could not do anything for
us, he could have written at once, and said so."
"Unless he will do nothing."
"Oh, mamma, is that possible? to refuse to answer us, and leave us in
hope for four days--eight days, perhaps; for when one is miserable we
always hope."
"Alas, my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the
miseries persons have never known!"
"But your letter--"
"My letter cannot give him any idea of our actual disquietude, our
constant sufferings; my letter will not depict to him our unhappy life,
our constant humiliations, our existence in this horrid house,--the
fright we have but this instant experienced. My letter will not describe
the horrible future which is in store for us, if--But, my love, do not
let us talk of that. You tremble,--you are cold."
"No, mamma, don't mind me; but tell me, suppose all fails us, the
little money we have in the box is spent,--is it possible that, in a
city as rich as Paris, we shall both die of hunger and misery--for want
of work, and because a wicked man has taken from you all you had in the
world?"
"Oh, be silent, my unfortunate child!"
"But really, mamma, is it possible?"
"Alas!"
"But God, who knows all, who can do all, will he abandon us, who have
never offended him?"
"I entreat you, my dearest girl, do not give way to these distressing
ideas. I would prefer seeing you hope, without great reason, either.
Come, come, comfort me rather with your consoling ideas; I am but too
apt to be discouraged, as you well know."
"Yes, yes, let us hope, that is best. No doubt the porter's nephew will
return to-day from the _Poste-Restante_ with a letter. Another errand to
pay out of your little stock, and through my fault. If I had not been so
weak yesterday and to-day we should have gone to the post-office
ourselves, as we did the day before yesterday; but you will not leave me
here alone and go yourself."
"How could I, my dear? Only think, just now, that horrid man who burst
open the door! Suppose you had been alone?"
"Oh, mamma, pray don't talk of it; it quite frightens me only to think
of it."
At this moment some one knocked suddenly at the door.
"Heaven, it is he again!" exclaimed Madame de Fermont, still under her
first fears; and she pushed the table against the door with all her
strength. Her fears ceased when she heard the voice of Father Micou:
"Madame, my nephew, Andre, has come from the _Poste-Restante_. He has
brought a letter with an 'X' and a 'Z.' It comes a long way; there are
eight sous for postage, and commission makes twenty sous."
"Mamma, a letter from the country,--we are saved! It is from M. de
Saint-Remy or M. d'Orbigny. Poor mother! You will not suffer any more;
you will no longer be uneasy about me, you will be so happy! God is
just! God is good!" exclaimed the young girl, and a ray of hope lighted
up her mild and lovely face.
"Oh, sir, thank you; give it to me quickly!" said Madame de Fermont,
moving the table as well as she could, and half opening the door.
"Twenty sous," said the man, giving her the anxiously desired letter.
"I will pay you, sir."
"Oh, madame, there's no hurry, I am going up higher; in ten minutes I
shall be down again, and can call for the money as I pass."
"The letter is from Normandy, with the postmark of 'Les Aubiers.' It is
from Madame d'Orbigny!" exclaimed Madame de Fermont, examining the
address, "To Madame X. Z., _Poste-Restante_, a Paris."
"Well, mamma, am I right? Oh, how my heart beats!"
"Our good or bad fate is in it," said Madame de Fermont; and twice her
trembling hand was extended to break the seal; she had not courage.
How can we describe the terrible agony to which they are a prey who,
like Madame de Fermont, expect a letter which brings them either hope or
despair? The burning, fevered excitement of the player whose last pieces
of gold are hazarded on a card, and who, breathless, with inflamed eye,
awaits for a decisive cast which brings his ruin or his fortune,--this
emotion, violent as it is, may perhaps give some idea of the painful
anguish of which we speak. In a second the soul is elevated to the most
radiant hope or relapses into the most mortal discouragement. According
as he hopes to be aided, or fears to be refused, the unhappy wretch
suffers in turn emotions of a most contrary nature,--unutterable
feelings of happiness and gratitude to the generous heart which pities
his miserable condition--bitter and intense resentment against selfish
indifference!
When it is a question of deserving sufferers, those who give often would
perhaps give always, and those who always refuse would perhaps give
frequently, if they knew or saw that the hope of benevolent aid or the
fear of a haughty refusal--that their decision, indeed--can excite all
that is distressing or encouraging in the hearts of their petitioners.
"What weakness!" said Madame de Fermont, with a deep sigh, seating
herself by her daughter; "once again, my poor Claire, our destiny is in
this envelope; I burn with anxiety to know its contents, and yet I dare
not read it. If it be a refusal, alas, it will be soon enough!"
"And if it be a promise of assistance, then, mamma--If this poor little
letter contain consoling words, which shall assure us for the future, by
promising us a humble employment in the establishment of M. d'Orbigny,
every moment lost is a moment of happiness lost,--is it not?"
"Yes, my love; but on the other hand--"
"No, mamma, you are mistaken; I told you that M. d'Orbigny had only
delayed so long that he might mention something certain to you. Let me
see the letter, mamma. I am sure I can guess if it is good or bad by the
writing. And I am sure," said Claire, looking at the letter, "that it is
a kind and generous hand, accustomed to execute benevolence towards
those who suffer."
"I entreat you, Claire, not to give way to vain hopes; for, if you do, I
shall not have the courage to open the letter."
"My dear mother, without opening it, I can tell you almost word for word
what it contains. Listen: 'Madame,--Your fate and that of your daughter
are so worthy of interest, that I beg you will come to me, in case you
should like to undertake the superintendence of my house.'"
"Pray, my dearest, I beseech you, do not give way to vain hopes; the
disappointment would be terrible!" said Madame de Fermont, taking the
letter.
"Come, dear mamma," said Claire, smiling, and excited by one of those
feelings of certainty so natural to her age, "give me the letter; I have
courage to read it!"
"No," said Madame de Fermont, "I will read it! It is from the Comtesse
d'Orbigny."
"So much the better," replied Claire.
"We shall see." And Madame de Fermont read as follows in a trembling
voice:
"'MADAME:--M. the Comte d'Orbigny, who has been a great invalid
for some time, could not reply to you during my absence--'"
"You see, mamma, it was no one's fault."
"Listen, listen!
"'On arriving from Paris this morning, I hasten to write to you,
madame, after having discussed your letter with M. d'Orbigny. He
recollects but very indistinctly the intimacy you allude to as
having subsisted between him and your brother. As to the name of
your husband, madame, it is not unknown to M. d'Orbigny; but he
cannot recall to mind under what circumstances he has heard it.
The spoliation of which you so unhesitatingly accuse M. Jacques
Ferrand, whom we have the happiness to call our solicitor, is,
in the eyes of M. d'Orbigny, a cruel calumny, whose effects you
have by no means calculated upon. My husband, as well as myself,
madame, know and admire the extreme probity of the respectable
and pious individual whom you so blindly assail; and I am
compelled to tell you, madame, that M. d'Orbigny, whilst he
regrets the painful situation in which you are placed, and the
real cause of which it is not his business to find out, feels it
impossible to afford you the assistance requested. Accept,
madame, with the expression of M. d'Orbigny's regrets, my best
compliments.
"'COMTESSE D'ORBIGNY.'"
The mother and daughter looked at each other perfectly stupefied, and
incapable of uttering a word. Father Micou rapped at the door, and said:
"Madame, may I come in for the postage and commission? It's twenty
sous."
"Ah, true, such good news is worth a sum on which we exist for two
days," said Madame de Fermont, with a bitter smile, laying the letter
down on her daughter's bed, and going towards an old trunk without a
lock, to which she stooped down and opened. "We are robbed!" exclaimed
the unhappy woman, with alarm. "Nothing--not a sou left!" she added, in
a mournful voice; and, overwhelmed, she supported herself on the trunk.
"What do you say, mamma,--the bag with the money in it?"
But Madame de Fermont, rising suddenly, opened the room door, and,
addressing the receiver, who was on the landing-place:
"Sir," she said, whilst her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were flushed
with indignation and alarm, "I had a bag of silver in this trunk; it was
stolen from me, no doubt, the day before yesterday, when I went out for
an hour with my daughter. The money must be restored, I tell you,--you
are responsible for it!"
"You've been robbed! That's false, I know. My house is respectable,"
said the fellow, in an insolent and brutal tone; "you only say that in
order not to pay me my postage and commission."
"I tell you, sir, that this money was all I possessed in the world; it
has been stolen from me, and I must have it found and restored, or I
will lodge an information. Oh, I will conceal nothing--I will respect
nothing--I tell you!"
"Very fine, indeed! You who have got no papers. Go and lay your
information,--go at once. Why don't you? I defy you, I do!"
The wretched woman was thunderstruck. She could not go out and leave
her daughter alone, confined to her bed as she was by the fright the
Gros-Boiteux had occasioned her in the morning, and particularly after
the threats with which the receiver of stolen goods had menaced her. He
added:
"This is a fudge! You'd as much a bag of silver there as a bag of gold.
Will you pay me for the letter,--will you or won't you? Well, it's just
the same to me. When you go by my door, I'll snatch off your old black
shawl from your shoulders. It's a precious shabby one; but I daresay I
can make twenty sous out of it."
"Oh, sir," exclaimed Madame de Fermont, bursting into tears, "I beseech
you have pity upon us! This small sum is all we possess, my daughter and
I, and, that stolen, we have nothing left--nothing--I say nothing,
but--to die of starvation!"
"What can I do? If it's true that you have been robbed, and of silver,
too (which appears to me very unlikely), why, the silver has been melted
long since, rely on it."
"_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_"
"The chap who did the trick was not so soft, rely on it, as to mark the
pieces, and keep 'em here, to lead to his own detection. Supposing it's
any one in the house, which I don't believe (for, as I was a-saying this
morning to the uncle of the lady on the first floor, this is really a
village), if any one has robbed you, it is a pity. You may lay a hundred
informations, but you won't recover a centime. You won't do any good by
that, I tell you, and you may believe me. Well, but I say--" exclaimed
the receiver, stopping short, and seeing Madame de Fermont stagger.
"What's the matter? How pale you are! Mademoiselle, your mother's taken
ill!" added Micou, just advancing in time to catch the unhappy mother,
who, overcome by this last shock, felt her senses forsake her,--the
forced energy which had supported her so long failed before this fresh
blow.
"Mother, dear, oh, what ails you?" exclaimed Claire, still in her bed.
The receiver, still vigorous in spite of his fifty years, seized with a
momentary feeling of pity, took Madame de Fermont in his arms, pushed
the door open with his knee, and, entering the chamber, said:
"Your pardon, mademoiselle, for entering whilst you are in bed, but I
was obliged to bring in your mother; she has fainted, but it won't last
long."
On seeing the man enter, Claire shrieked loudly, and the unhappy girl
hid herself as well as she could under the bedclothes. The huckster
seated Madame de Fermont in a chair beside the bed, and then went out,
leaving the door ajar, for the Gros-Boiteux had broken the lock.
* * * * *
One hour after this last shock, the violent malady which had so long
hung over and threatened Madame de Fermont had developed itself. A prey
to a burning fever and to fearful delirium, the unhappy woman was placed
beside her daughter, who, horror-struck, aghast, alone, and almost as
ill as her mother, had neither money nor recourse, and was in an agony
of fear every moment lest the ruffian who lodged on the same floor
should enter the apartment.