THE ADIEUX.
The day after that on which the Comte de Saint-Remy had been so
shamefully tricked by his son, a touching scene took place at St. Lazare
at the hour of recreation amongst the prisoners.
On this day, during the walk of the other prisoners, Fleur-de-Marie was
seated on a bench close to the fountain of the courtyard, which was
already named "La Goualeuse's Bench." By a kind of taciturn agreement,
the prisoners had entirely given up this seat to her, as she had evinced
a marked preference for it,--for the young girl's influence had
decidedly increased. La Goualeuse had selected this bench, situated
close to the basin, because the small quantity of moss which velveted
the margin of the reservoir reminded her of the verdure of the fields,
as the clear water with which it was filled reminded her of the small
river of Bouqueval. To the saddened gaze of a prisoner a tuft of grass
is a meadow, a flower is a garden.
Relying on the kind promises of Madame d'Harville, Fleur-de-Marie had
for two days expected her release from St. Lazare. Although she had no
reason for being anxious about the delay in her discharge, the young
girl, from her experience in misfortune, scarcely ventured to hope for a
speedy liberation. Since her return amongst creatures whose appearance
revived at each moment in her mind the incurable memory of her early
disgrace, Fleur-de-Marie's sadness had become more and more
overwhelming. This was not all. A new subject of trouble, distress, and
almost alarm to her, had arisen from the impassioned excitement of her
gratitude towards Rodolph.
It was strange, but she only fathomed the depth of the abyss into which
she had been plunged, in order to measure the distance which separated
her from him whose perfection appeared to her more than human, from this
man whose goodness was so extreme, and his power so terrible to the
wicked. In spite of the respect with which her adoration for him was
imbued, sometimes, alas! Fleur-de-Marie feared to detect in this
adoration the symptoms of love, but of a love as secret as it was deep,
as chaste as it was secret, and as hopeless as it was chaste. The
unhappy girl had not thought of reading this withering revelation in her
heart until after her interview with Madame d'Harville, who was herself
smitten with a love for Rodolph, of which he himself was ignorant.
After the departure and the promises of the marquise, Fleur-de-Marie
should have been transported with joy on thinking of her friends at
Bouqueval, of Rodolph whom she was again about to see. But she was not.
Her heart was painfully distressed, and to her memory occurred
incessantly the severe language, the haughty scrutiny, the angry looks,
of Madame d'Harville, as the poor prisoner had been excited to
enthusiasm when alluding to her benefactor. By singular intuition La
Goualeuse had thus detected a portion of Madame d'Harville's secret.
"The excess of my gratitude to M. Rodolph offended this young lady, so
handsome and of such high rank," thought Fleur-de-Marie; "now I
comprehend the severity of her words, they expressed a jealous disdain.
She jealous of me! Then she must love him, and I must love, too--him?
Yes, and my love must have betrayed itself in spite of me! Love
him,--I--I--a creature fallen for ever, ungrateful and wretched as I
am! Oh, if it were so, death were a hundred times preferable!"
Let us hasten to say that the unhappy girl, thus a martyr to her
feelings, greatly exaggerated what she called her love.
To her profound gratitude towards Rodolph was united involuntary
admiration of the gracefulness, strength, and manly beauty which
distinguished him from other men. Nothing could be less gross, more
pure, than this admiration; but it existed in full and active force,
because physical beauty is always attractive. And then the voice of
blood, so often denied, mute, unknown, or misinterpreted, is sometimes
in full force, and these throbs of passionate tenderness which attracted
Fleur-de-Marie towards Rodolph, and which so greatly startled her,
because in her ignorance she misinterpreted their tendency, these
feelings resulted from mysterious sympathies, as palpable, but as
inexplicable, as the resemblance of features. In a word, Fleur-de-Marie,
on learning that she was Rodolph's daughter, could have accounted to
herself for the strong affection she had for him, and thus, completely
enlightened on the point, she would have admired without a scruple her
father's manly beauty.
Thus do we explain Fleur-de-Marie's dejection. Although she was every
instant awaiting, according to Madame d'Harville's promise, her release
from St. Lazare, Fleur-de-Marie, melancholy and pensive, was seated on
her bench near the basin, looking with a kind of mechanical interest at
the sports of some bold little birds who came to play on the margin of
the stone-work. She had ceased for an instant to work at a baby's
nightgown, which she had just finished hemming. Need we say that this
nightgown belonged to the lying-in clothes so generously offered to Mont
Saint-Jean by the prisoners, through the kind intervention of
Fleur-de-Marie? The poor misshapen protegee of La Goualeuse was sitting
at her feet, working at a small cap, and, from time to time, casting at
her benefactress a look at once grateful, timid, and confiding, such a
look as a dog throws at his master. The beauty, attraction, and
delicious sweetness of Fleur-de-Marie had inspired this fallen creature
with sentiments of the most profound respect.
There is always something holy and great in the aspirations of a heart,
which, although degraded, yet feels for the first time sensations of
gratitude; and, up to this time, no one had ever given Mont Saint-Jean
the opportunity of even testifying whether or not she could comprehend
the religious ardour of a sentiment so wholly unknown to her. After some
moments Fleur-de-Marie shuddered slightly, wiped a tear from her eyes,
and resumed her sewing with much activity.
"You will not then leave off your work even during the time for rest, my
good angel?" said Mont Saint-Jean to La Goualeuse.
"I have not given you any money towards buying your lying-in clothes,
and I must therefore furnish my part with my own work," replied the
young girl.
"Your part! Why, but for you, instead of this good white linen, this
nice warm wrapper for my child, I should have nothing but the rags they
dragged in the mud of the yard. I am very grateful to my companions who
have been so very kind to me; that's quite true! But you!--ah, you!--how
can I tell you all I feel?" added the poor creature, hesitating, and
greatly embarrassed how to express her thought. "There," she said,
"there is the sun, is it not? That is the sun?"
"Yes, Mont Saint-Jean; I am attending to you," replied Fleur-de-Marie,
stooping her lovely face towards the hideous countenance of her
companion.
"Ah, you'll laugh at me," she replied, sorrowfully. "I want to say
something, and I do not know how."
"Oh, yes, say it, Mont Saint-Jean!"
"How kind you look always," said the prisoner, looking at
Fleur-de-Marie in a sort of ecstasy; "your eyes encourage me,--those
kind eyes! Well, then, I will try and say what I wish: There is the sun,
is it not? It is so warm, it lights up the prison, it is very pleasant
to see and feel, isn't it?"
"Certainly."
"But I have an idea,--the sun didn't make itself, and if we are grateful
to it, why, there is greater reason still why--"
"Why we should be grateful to him who created it; that is what you mean,
Mont Saint-Jean? You are right; and we ought to pray to, adore him,--he
is God!"
"Yes, that is my idea!" exclaimed the prisoner, joyously. "That is it! I
ought to be grateful to my companions, but I ought to pray to, adore
you, Goualeuse, for it is you who made them so good to me, instead of
being so unkind as they had been."
"It is God you should thank, Mont Saint-Jean, and not me."
"Yes, yes, yes, it is you, I see you; and it is you who did me such
kindness, by yourself and others."
"But if I am as good as you say, Mont Saint-Jean, it is God who has made
me so, and it is he, therefore, whom we ought to thank."
"Ah, indeed, it may be so since you say it!" replied the prisoner, whose
mind was by no means decided; "and if you desire it, let it be so; as
you please."
"Yes, my poor Mont Saint-Jean, pray to him constantly, that is the best
way of proving to me that you love me a little."
"If I love you, Goualeuse? Don't you remember, then, what you said to
those other prisoners to prevent them from beating me?--'It is not only
her whom you beat, it is her child also!' Well, it is all the same as
the way I love you; it is not only for myself that I love you, but also
for my child."
"Thanks, thanks, Mont Saint-Jean, you please me exceedingly when you say
that." And Fleur-de-Marie, much moved, extended her hand to her
companion.
"What a pretty, little, fairy-like hand! How white and small!" said Mont
Saint-Jean, receding as though she were afraid to touch it with her
coarse and clumsy hands.
Yet, after a moment's hesitation, she respectfully applied her lips to
the end of the slender fingers which Fleur-de-Marie extended to her,
then, kneeling suddenly, she fixed on her an attentive, concentrated
look.
"Come and sit here by me," said La Goualeuse.
"Oh, no, indeed; never, never!"
"Why not?"
"Respect discipline, as my brave Mont Saint-Jean used to say; soldiers
together, officers together, each with his equals."
"You are crazy; there is no difference between us two."
"No difference! And you say that when I see you, as I do now, as
handsome as a queen. Oh, what do you mean now? Leave me alone, on my
knees, that I may look at you as I do now. Who knows, although I am a
real monster, my child may perhaps resemble you? They say that sometimes
happens from a look."
Then by a scruple of incredible delicacy in a creature of her position,
fearing, perhaps, that she had humiliated or wounded Fleur-de-Marie by
her strange desire, Mont Saint-Jean added, sorrowfully:
"No, no, I was only joking, Goualeuse; I never could allow myself to
look at you with such an idea,--unless with your free consent. If my
child is as ugly as I am, what shall I care? I sha'n't love it any the
less, poor little, unhappy thing; it never asked to be born, as they
say. And if it lives what will become of it?" she added, with a mournful
and reflective air. "Alas, yes, what will become of us?"
La Goualeuse shuddered at these words. In fact, what was to become of
the child of this miserable, degraded, abased, poor, despised creature?
"What a fate! What a future!"
"Do not think of that, Mont Saint-Jean," said Fleur-de-Marie; "let us
hope that your child will find benevolent friends in its way."
"That chance never occurs twice, Goualeuse," replied Mont Saint-Jean,
bitterly, and shaking her head. "I have met with you, that is a great
chance; and then--no offence--I should much rather my child had had that
good luck than myself, and that wish is all I can do for it!"
"Pray, pray, and God will hear you."
"Well, I will pray, if that is any pleasure to you, Goualeuse, for it
may perhaps bring me good luck. Indeed, who could have thought, when La
Louve beat me, and I was the butt of all the world, that I should meet
with my little guardian angel, who with her pretty soft voice would be
even stronger than all the rest, and that La Louve who is so strong and
so wicked--"
"Yes, but La Louve became very good to you as soon as she reflected that
you were doubly to be pitied."
"Yes, that is very true, thanks to you; I shall never forget it. But,
tell me, Goualeuse, why did she the other day request to have her
quarters changed,--La Louve, she, who, in spite of her passionate
temper, seemed unable to do without you?"
"She is rather wilful."
"How odd! A woman, who came this morning from the quarter of the prison
where La Louve now is, says that she is wholly changed."
"How?"
"Instead of quarrelling and contending with everybody, she is sad, quite
sad, and sits by herself, and if they speak to her she turns her back
and makes no answer. It is really wonderful to see her quite still, who
used always to be making such a riot; and then the woman says another
thing, which I really cannot believe."
"And what is that?"
"Why, that she had seen La Louve crying; La Louve crying,--that's
impossible!"
"Poor Louve! It was on my account she changed her quarters; I vexed her
without intending it," said La Goualeuse, with a sigh.
"You vex any one, my good angel?"
At this moment, the inspectress, Madame Armand, entered the yard. After
having looked for Fleur-de-Marie, she came towards her with a smiling
and satisfied air.
"Good news, my child."
"What do you mean, madame?" said La Goualeuse, rising.
"Your friends have not forgotten you, they have obtained your discharge;
the governor has just received the information."
"Can it be possible, madame? Ah, what happiness!"
Fleur-de-Marie's emotion was so violent that she turned pale, placed her
hand on her heart, which throbbed violently, and fell back on the seat.
"Don't agitate yourself, my poor girl," said Madame Armand, kindly.
"Fortunately these shocks are not dangerous."
"Ah, madame, what gratitude!"
"No doubt it is Madame d'Harville who has obtained your liberty. There
is an elderly female charged to conduct you to the persons who are
interested in you. Wait for me, I will return for you; I have some
directions to give in the work-room."
It would be difficult to paint the expression of extreme desolation
which overcast the features of Mont Saint-Jean, when she learned that
her good angel, as she called La Goualeuse, was about to quit St.
Lazare. This woman's grief was less caused by the fear of becoming
again the ill-used butt of the prison, than by her anguish at seeing
herself separated from the only being who had ever testified any
interest in her.
Still seated at the foot of the bench, Mont Saint-Jean lifted both her
hands to the sides of her matted and coarse hair, which projected in
disorder from the sides of her old black cap, as if to tear them out;
then this deep affliction gave way to dejection, and she drooped her
head and remained mute and motionless, with her face hidden in her
hands, and her elbows resting on her knees.
In spite of her joy at leaving the prison, Fleur-de-Marie could not help
shuddering when she thought for an instant of the Chouette and the
Schoolmaster, recollecting that these two monsters had made her swear
never to inform her benefactors of her wretched fate. But these
dispiriting thoughts were soon effaced from Fleur-de-Marie's mind before
the hope of seeing Bouqueval once more, with Madame Georges and Rodolph,
to whom she meant to intercede for La Louve and Martial. It even seemed
to her that the warm feeling which she reproached herself for having of
her benefactor, being no longer nourished by sadness and solitude, would
be calmed down as soon as she resumed her rustic occupations, which she
so much delighted in sharing with the good and simple inhabitants of the
farm.
Astonished at the silence of her companion, a silence whose source she
did not suspect, La Goualeuse touched her gently on the shoulder, saying
to her:
"Mont Saint-Jean, as I am now free, can I be in any way useful to you?"
The prisoner trembled as she felt La Goualeuse's hand upon her, let her
hands drop on her knees, and turned towards the young girl, her face
streaming with tears. So bitter a grief overspread the features of Mont
Saint-Jean that their ugliness had disappeared.
"What is the matter?" said La Goualeuse. "You are weeping!"
"You are going away!" murmured the poor prisoner, with a voice broken by
sobs. "And I had never thought that you would go away, and that I should
never see you more,--never, no, never!"
"I assure you that I shall always think of your good feeling towards me,
Mont Saint-Jean."
"Oh, and to think how I loved you, when I was sitting there at your feet
on the ground! It seemed as if I was saved,--that I had nothing more to
fear! It was not for the blows which the other women may, perhaps, begin
again to give me that I said that I have led a hard life; but it seemed
to me that you were my good fortune, and would bring good luck to my
child, just because you had pity on me. But, then, when one is used to
be ill-treated, one is then more sensible than others to kindness."
Then, interrupting herself, to burst again into a loud fit of
sobs,--"Well, well, it's done,--it's finished,--all over! And so it must
be some day or other. I was wrong to think any otherwise. It's
done--done--done!"
"Courage! Courage! I will think of you, as you will remember me."
"Oh, as to that, they may tear me to pieces before they shall ever make
me forget you! I may grow old,--as old as the streets,--but I shall
always have your angel face before me. The first word I will teach my
child shall be your name, Goualeuse; for but for you it would have
perished with cold."
"Listen to me, Mont Saint-Jean!" said Fleur-de-Marie, deeply affected by
the attachment of this unhappy woman. "I cannot promise to do anything
for you, although I know some very charitable persons; but, for your
child, it is a different thing; it is wholly innocent; and the persons
of whom I speak will, perhaps, take charge of it, and bring it up, when
you can resolve on parting from it."
"Part from it! Never, oh, never!" exclaimed Mont Saint-Jean, with
excitement. "What would become of me now, when I have so built upon it?"
"But how will you bring it up? Boy or girl, it ought to be made honest;
and for that--"
"It must eat honest bread. I know that, Goualeuse,--I believe it. It is
my ambition; and I say so to myself every day. So, in leaving here, I
will never put my foot under a bridge again. I will turn rag-picker,
street-sweeper,--something honest; for I owe that, if not to myself, at
least to my child, when I have the honour of having one," she added,
with a sort of pride.
"And who will take care of your child whilst you are at work?" inquired
the Goualeuse. "Will it not be better, if possible, as I hope it will
be, to put it in the country with some worthy people, who will make a
good country girl or a stout farmer's boy of it? You can come and see it
from time to time; and one day you may, perhaps, find the means to live
near it constantly. In the country, one lives on so little!"
"Yes, but to separate myself from it,--to separate myself from it! It
would be my only joy,--I, who have nothing else in the world to
love,--nothing that loves me!"
"You must think more of it than of yourself, my poor Mont Saint-Jean. In
two or three days I will write to Madame Armand, and if the application
I mean to make in favour of your child should succeed, you will have no
occasion to say to it, as you said so painfully just now, 'Alas! What
will become of it?'"
Madame Armand interrupted this conversation, and came to seek
Fleur-de-Marie. After having again burst into sobs, and bathed with her
despairing tears the young girl's hands, Mont Saint-Jean fell on the
seat perfectly overcome, not even thinking of the promise which
Fleur-de-Marie had just made with respect to her child.
"Poor creature!" said Madame Armand, as she quitted the yard,
accompanied by Fleur-de-Marie, "her gratitude towards you gives me a
better opinion of her."
Learning that La Goualeuse was discharged, the other prisoners, far from
envying her this favour, displayed their delight. Some of them
surrounded Fleur-de-Marie, and took leave of her with adieux full of
cordiality, frankly congratulating her on her speedy release from
prison.
"Well, I must say," said one, "this little fair girl has made us pass an
agreeable moment, when we agreed to make up the basket of clothes for
Mont Saint-Jean. That will be remembered at St. Lazare."
When Fleur-de-Marie had quitted the prison buildings, the inspectress
said to her:
"Now, my dear child, go to the clothing-room, and leave your prison
clothes. Put on your peasant girl's clothes, whose rustic simplicity
suits you so well. Adieu! You will be happy, for you are going to be
under the protection of good people, and leave these walls, never again
to return to them. But I am really hardly reasonable," said Madame
Armand, whose eyes were moistened with tears. "I really cannot conceal
from you how much I am attached to you, my poor girl!" Then, seeing the
tears in Fleur-de-Marie's eyes, the inspectress added, "But we must not
sadden your departure thus."
"Ah, madame, is it not through your recommendation that this young lady
to whom I owe my liberty has become interested in me?"
"Yes, and I am happy that I did so; my presentiments had not deceived
me."
At this moment a clock struck.
"That is the hour of work; I must return to the rooms. Adieu! Once more
adieu, my dear child!"
Madame Armand, as much affected as Fleur-de-Marie, embraced her
tenderly, and then said to one of the women employed in the
establishment:
"Take mademoiselle to the vestiary."
A quarter of an hour afterwards, Fleur-de-Marie, dressed like a peasant
girl, as we have seen her at the farm at Bouqueval, entered the
waiting-room, where Madame Seraphin was expecting her. The housekeeper
of the notary, Jacques Ferrand, had come to seek the unhappy girl, and
conduct her to the Isle du Ravageur.