RECOLLECTIONS.
Jacques Ferrand had quickly and readily obtained the liberty of
Fleur-de-Marie, which, indeed, only required a simple official order.
Instructed by the Chouette of La Goualeuse being at St. Lazare, he had
immediately applied to one of his clients, an honourable and influential
man, saying that a young female who had once erred, but afterwards
sincerely repented, being now confined in St. Lazare, was in danger of
forgetting her good resolutions, in consequence of her association with
the other prisoners. This young girl having been (added the notary)
strongly recommended to him by persons of high respectability, who
wanted to take care of her when she quitted the prison, he besought his
client, in the name of religion, virtue, and the future return to
goodness of the poor girl, to interest himself in obtaining her
liberation. And, further to screen himself from all chance of future
consequences, the notary most earnestly charged his client not to allow
his name to transpire in the business on any account, as he was desirous
of avoiding any mention of having been employed in the furtherance of so
good and charitable a work.
This request, which was attributed to the unassuming modesty and
benevolence of Jacques Ferrand, a man equally esteemed for his piety as
for honour and probity, was strictly complied with, the liberation of
Fleur-de-Marie being asked and obtained in the client's name alone; and
by way of evincing a still greater regard for the shrinking delicacy of
the notary's nature, the order for quitting the prison was sent under
cover to Jacques Ferrand, that he might send it on to the parties
interesting themselves for the young girl. And when Madame Seraphin
presented the order to the directors of the prison, she stated herself
to have been sent by the parties feeling a desire to save the young
person it referred to.
From the favourable manner in which the matron of the prison had spoken
to Madame d'Harville of Fleur-de-Marie, not a doubt existed as to its
being to that lady La Goualeuse was indebted for her return to freedom.
There was, therefore, no chance of the appearance of Madame Seraphin
exciting any mistrust in the mind of her victim. Madame Seraphin could
so well assume the look and manner of what is commonly styled "a nice
motherly kind of person," that it required a more than ordinary share of
penetration to discover a strong proportion of falsehood, deceit, and
cunning behind the smooth glance or the hypocritical smile; but, spite
of the hardened villainy with which she had shared so long and deeply in
the nefarious practices of her employer, Madame Seraphin, old and
hackneyed as she was, could not view without emotion the exquisite
loveliness of the being her own hand had surrendered, even as a child,
to the cruel care of the Chouette, and whom she was now leading to an
inevitable death.
"Well, my dear," cried Madame Seraphin, speaking in a tone of honeyed
sweetness, as Fleur-de-Marie drew near, "I suppose you are very glad to
get away from prison."
"Oh, yes, indeed, ma'am. I presume it is Madame d'Harville who has had
the goodness to obtain my liberty for me?"
"You are not mistaken in your guess. But, come, we are already a little
behindhand, and we have still some distance to go."
"We are going to Madame Georges at the farm at Bouqueval, are we not,
madame?" cried La Goualeuse.
"Oh, yes, certainly, by all means!" answered the _femme de charge_, in
order to avert all suspicion from the mind of her victim. "Yes, my dear,
we are going into the country, as you say;" and then added, with a sort
of good-humoured teasing, "But that is not all; before you see Madame
Georges, a little surprise awaits you--Come, come, our coach is waiting
below! Ah, how you will be astonished by and by! Come, then, let us go.
Your most obedient servant, gentlemen!"
And, with a multitude of bows and salutations from Madame Seraphin to
the registrar, his clerk, and all the various members of the
establishment then and there assembled, she descended the stairs with La
Goualeuse, followed by an officer, to command the opening of the gates
through which they had to pass. The last had just closed behind them,
and the two females found themselves beneath the vast porch which looks
out upon the street of the Faubourg St. Denis, when they nearly ran
against a young female, who appeared hurrying towards the prison, as
though full of anxiety to visit one of its inmates. It was Rigolette, as
pretty and light-footed as ever, her charming face set off by a simple
yet becoming cap, tastefully ornamented with cherry-coloured riband;
while her dark brown hair was laid in bright glossy bands down each
clear and finely rounded cheek. She was wrapped in a plaid shawl, over
which fell a snowy muslin collar, secured by a small knot of riband. On
her arm she carried a straw basket; while, thanks to her light, careful
way of picking her steps, her thick-soled boots were scarcely soiled;
and yet the poor girl had walked far that day.
"Rigolette!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, as she recognised her old prison
companion, and the sharer in her rural excursions.[7]
[7] The reader will, perhaps, recollect that in the recital
made by La Goualeuse to Rodolph, at their first meeting at the
ogress's, of the early events of her life, she spoke to him of
Rigolette, who, a friendless child like herself, had been
(with her) confined in a _maison de detention_ until she had
reached the age of sixteen.
"La Goualeuse!" returned the grisette, and with one accord the two girls
threw themselves into each other's arms.
Nothing more touchingly beautiful could be imagined than the contrast
between these two young creatures, both so lovely, though differing so
entirely from one another in appearance: the one exquisitely fair, with
large, melancholy blue eyes, and an outline of feature of faultless
purity, the pale, pensive, intellectual cast of the whole countenance
reminding the observer of one of those sweet designs of a village maid
by Greuze,--the same clear delicacy of complexion, the same ineffable
mixture of graceful pensiveness and candid innocence; the other a
sparkling brunette, with round rosy cheek and bright black eyes, set off
by a laughing, dimpled face and mirthful air,--the very impersonation of
youthful gaiety and light-heartedness, the rare and touching specimen of
happy poverty, of contented labour, and honest industry!
After the first burst of their affectionate greetings had passed away,
the two girls regarded each other with close and tender scrutiny. The
features of Rigolette were radiant with the joy she experienced at this
unexpected meeting; Fleur-de-Marie, on the contrary, felt humbled and
confused at the sight of her early friend, which recalled but too
vividly to her mind the few days of peaceful calm she had known previous
to her first degradation.
"Dear, dear Goualeuse!" exclaimed the grisette, fixing her bright eyes
with intense delight on her companion. "To think of meeting you at
last, after so long an absence!"
"It is, indeed, a delightful surprise!" replied Fleur-de-Marie. "It is
so very long since we have seen each other."
"Ah, but now," said Rigolette, for the first time remarking the rustic
habiliments of La Goualeuse, "I can account for seeing nothing of you
during the last six months,--you live in the country, I see?"
"Yes," answered Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes, "I have done so
for some time past."
"And I suppose that, like me, you have come to see some friend in this
prison?"
"Yes," stammered poor Fleur-de-Marie, blushing up to her eyes with shame
and confusion; "I was going--I mean I have just been seeing some one,
and, of course, am now returning home."
"You live a good way out of Paris, I dare say? Ah, you dear, kind girl!
It is just like you to come all this distance to perform a good action.
Do you remember the poor lying-in woman to whom you gave, not only your
mattress, with the necessary baby-clothes, but even what money you had
left, and which we meant to have spent in a country excursion; for you
were then crazy for the country, my pretty village maid?"
"And you, who cared nothing about it, how very good-natured and obliging
of you to go thither, merely for the sake of pleasing me!"
"Well, but I pleased myself at the same time. Why, you, who were always
inclined to be grave and serious, when once you got among the fields, or
found yourself in the thick shade of a wood, oh, then, what a wild,
overjoyed little madcap you became! Nobody would have fancied it the
same person,--flying after the butterflies,--crowding your hands and
apron with more flowers than either could hold. It made me quite
delighted to see you! It was quite treat enough for a week to recollect
all your happiness and enjoyment. But do let me have another look at
you: how sweetly pretty you look in that nice little round cap! Yes,
decidedly, you were cut out to be a country girl,--just as much as I was
to be a Paris grisette. Well, I hope you are happy, since you have got
the sort of line you prefer; and, certainly, after all, I cannot say I
was so very much astonished at your never coming near me. 'Oh,' said I,
'that dear Goualeuse is not suited for Paris; she is a true wild flower,
as the song says; and the air of great cities is not for them. So,' said
I, 'my pretty, dear Goualeuse has found a place in some good honest
family who live in the country.' And I was right, was I not, dear?"
"Yes," said Fleur-de-Marie, nearly sinking with confusion, "quite
right."
"There is only one thing I have to reproach you for."
"Reproach me?" inquired Fleur-de-Marie, looking tearfully at her
companion.
"Yes, you ought to have let me know before you went. You should have
said 'good-bye,' if you were only leaving me at night to return in the
morning; or, at any rate, you should have sent me word how you were
going on."
"I--I--quitted Paris so suddenly," stammered out Fleur-de-Marie,
becoming momentarily more and more embarrassed, "that, indeed--I--was
not able--"
"Oh, I'm not at all angry! I don't speak of it to scold you! I am far
too happy in meeting you unexpectedly; and, besides, I commend you for
getting out of such a dangerous place as Paris, where it is so difficult
to earn a quiet livelihood; for, you know, two poor friendless girls
like you and me might be led into mischief, without thinking of, or
intending, any harm. When there is no person to advise, it leaves one so
very defenceless; and then come a parcel of deceitful, flattering men,
with their false promises, when, perhaps, want and misery are staring
you in the face. There, for instance, do you recollect that pretty girl
called Julie?--and Rosine, who had such a beautiful fair skin, and such
coal black eyes?"
"Oh, yes, I recollect them very well!"
"Then, my dear Goualeuse, you will be extremely sorry to hear that they
were both led astray, seduced, and deserted, till at last, from one
unfortunate step to another, they have become like the miserable
creatures confined in this prison!"
"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, hanging down her head, and
blushing the deep blush of shame.
Rigolette, misinterpreting the real cause of her friend's exclamation,
continued:
"I admit that their conduct is wrong, nay wicked; but then, you know, my
dear Goualeuse, because you and I have been so fortunate as to preserve
ourselves from harm,--you, because you have been living with good and
virtuous people in the country, out of the reach of temptation; and I,
because I had no time to waste in listening to a set of make-believe
lovers; and also because I found greater pleasure in having a few birds,
and in trying to get things a little comfortable and snug around me,--I
say, it is not for you and me to be too severe with others; and God
alone knows whether opportunity, deceit, and destitution may not have
had much to do in causing the misery and disgrace of Julie and Rosine!
And who can say whether, in their place, we might not have acted as they
have done?"
"Alas!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, "I accuse them not; on the contrary, I
pity them from my heart!"
"Come, come, my dear child!" interrupted Madame Seraphin, impatiently
offering her arm to her victim, "you forget that I said we were already
behind our time."
"Pray, madame, grant us a little more time," said Rigolette. "It is so
very long since I saw my dear Goualeuse!"
"I should be glad to do so," replied Madame Seraphin, much annoyed at
this meeting between the two friends; "but it is now three o'clock, and
we have a long way to go. However, I will manage to allow you ten
minutes longer gossip. So pray make the best of your time."
"And tell me, I pray, of yourself," said Fleur-de-Marie, affectionately
pressing the hands of Rigolette between her own. "Are you still the same
merry, light-hearted, and happy creature I always knew you?"
"I was happy and gay enough a few days ago; but now--"
"You sorrowful? I can hardly believe it."
"Ah, but indeed I am! Not that I am at all changed from what you always
found me,--a regular Roger Bontemps,--one to whom nothing was a trouble.
But then, you see, everybody is not like me; so that, when I see those I
love unhappy, why, naturally, that makes me unhappy, too."
"Still the same kind, warm-hearted girl!"
"Why, who could help being grieved as I am? Just imagine my having come
hither to visit a poor young creature,--a sort of neighbouring lodger in
the house where I live,--as meek and mild as a lamb she was, poor thing!
Well, she has been most shamefully and unjustly accused,--that she has;
never mind of what just now! Her name is Louise Morel. She is the
daughter of an honest and deserving man, a lapidary, who has gone mad in
consequence of her being put in prison."
At the name of Louise Morel, one of the victims of the notary's
villainy, Madame Seraphin started, and gazed earnestly at Rigolette. The
features of the grisette were, however, perfectly unknown to her;
nevertheless, from that instant, the _femme de charge_ listened with an
attentive ear to the conversation of the two girls.
"Poor thing," continued the Goualeuse; "how happy it must make her to
find that you have not forgotten her in her misfortunes!"
"And that is not all; it really seems as though some spell hung over me!
But, truly and positively, this is the second poor prisoner I have left
my home to-day to visit! I have come a long way, and also from a
prison,--but that was a place of confinement for men."
"You, Rigolette,--in a prison for men?"
"Yes, I have, indeed. I have a very dejected customer there, I can
assure you. There,--you see my basket; it is divided in two parts, and
each of my poor friends has an equal share in its contents. I have got
some clean things here for poor Louise, and I have left a similar packet
with Germain,--that is the name of my other poor captive. I cannot help
feeling ready to cry when I think of our last interview. I know it will
do no good, but still, for all that, the tears will come into my eyes."
"But what is it that distresses you so much?"
"Why, because, you see, poor Germain frets so much at being mixed up in
his prison with the many bad characters that are there, that it has
quite broken his spirits; he seems to have no taste, no relish for
anything, has quite lost his appetite, and is wasting away daily. So,
when I perceived the change, I said to myself: 'Oh, poor fellow, I see
he eats nothing. I must make him something nice and delicate to tempt
his appetite a little; he shall have one of those little dainties he
used to be so fond of when he and I were next-room neighbours.' When I
say dainties, of course I don't mean such as rich people expect by that
name. No, no, my dish was merely some beautiful mealy potatoes, mashed
with a little milk and sugar. Well, my dear Goualeuse, I prepared this
for him, put it in a nice little china basin and took it to him in his
prison, telling him I had brought him a little titbit he used once to be
fond of, and which I hoped he would like as well as in former days. I
told him I had prepared it entirely myself, hoping to make him relish
it. But alas, no! What do you think?"
"Oh, what?"
"Why, instead of increasing his appetite, I only set him crying; for,
when I displayed my poor attempts at cookery, he seemed to take no
notice of anything but the basin, out of which he had been accustomed to
see me take my milk when we supped together; and then he burst into
tears, and, by way of making matters still better, I began to cry, too,
although I tried all I could to restrain myself. You see how everything
went against me. I had gone with the intention of enlivening his
spirits, and, instead of that, there I was making him more melancholy
than ever."
"Still, the tears he shed were, no doubt, sweet and consoling tears!"
"Oh, never mind what sort of tears they were, that was not the way I
meant to have consoled him. But la! All this while I am talking to you
of Germain as if you knew him. He is an old acquaintance of mine, one of
the best young men in the world, as timid and gentle as any young girl
could be, and whom I loved as a friend and a brother."
"Oh, then, of course, his troubles became yours also."
"To be sure. But just let me show you what a good heart he must have.
When I was coming away, I asked him as usual what orders he had for me,
saying jokingly, by way of making him smile, that I was his little
housekeeper, and that I should be very punctual and exact in fulfilling
whatever commissions he gave me, in order to remain in his employ. So
then he, trying to smile in his turn, asked me to bring him one of
Walter Scott's romances, which he had formerly read to me while I
worked,--that romance was called 'Ivan--' 'Ivanhoe,' that's it. I was so
much amused with this book that Germain read it twice over to me. Poor
Germain! How very, very kind and attentive he was!"
"I suppose he wished to keep it as a reminiscence of bygone days?"
"No doubt of it; for he bade me go to the library from whence we had had
it, and to purchase the very same volumes that had so much entertained
us, and which we had read together,--not merely to hire them,--yes,
positively to buy them out and out; and you may imagine that was
something of a sacrifice for him, for he is no richer than you or I."
"He must have a noble and excellent heart to have thought of it," said
the Goualeuse, deeply touched.
"I declare you are as much affected by it as I was, my dear, kind
Goualeuse! But then, you see, the more I felt ready to cry, the more I
tried to laugh; for, to shed tears twice during a visit, intended to be
so very cheering and enlivening as mine was, was rather too bad. So, to
drive all those thoughts out of my head, I began to remind him of the
amusing story of a Jew,--a person we read about in the romance I was
telling you of. But the more I rattled away, and the greater nonsense I
tried to talk, the faster the large round tears gathered in his eyes,
and he kept looking at me with such an expression of misery as quite
broke my heart. And so--and so--at last my voice quite failed me, and I
could do nothing but mingle my sobs with his. He had not regained his
composure when I left him, and I felt quite provoked with myself for my
folly. 'If that is the way,' said I,'that I comfort and cheer up poor
Germain, I think I had better stay away!' Really, when I remember all
the fine things I intended to have said and done, by way of keeping up
his spirits, I feel quite spiteful towards myself for having so
completely failed."
At the name of Germain, another victim of the notary's unprincipled
persecution, Madame Seraphin redoubled her before close attention.
"And what has this poor young man done to deserve being put in prison?"
inquired Fleur-de-Marie.
"What has he done?" exclaimed Rigolette, whose grief became swallowed up
in indignation; "why, he has had the misfortune to fall into the hands
of a wicked old notary,--the same as persecutes poor Louise."
"Of her whom you have come to see?"
"To be sure; she lived as servant with this notary, and Germain was also
with him as cashier. It is too long a story to tell you now, how or of
what he unjustly accuses the poor fellow; but one thing is quite
certain, and that is, that the wretch of a notary pursues these two
unfortunate beings, who have never done him the least harm, with the
most determined malice and hatred. However, never mind,--a little
patience, 'every one in their turn,'--that's all." Rigolette uttered
these last words with a peculiarity of manner and expression that
created considerable uneasiness in the mind of Madame Seraphin. Instead,
therefore, of preserving the distance she had hitherto observed, she at
once joined in the conversation, saying to Fleur-de-Marie, with a kind
and maternal air:
"My dear girl, it is really growing too late for us to wait any
longer,--we must go; we are waited for, I assure you, with much anxiety.
I am sorry to hurry you away, because I can well imagine how much you
must be interested in what your friend is relating; for even I, who know
nothing of the two young persons she refers to, cannot help feeling my
very heart ache for their undeserved sufferings. Is it possible there
can be people in the world as wicked as the notary you were mentioning?
Pray, my dear mademoiselle, what may be the name of this bad man,--if I
may make so bold as to ask?"
Although Rigolette entertained not the slightest suspicion of the
sincerity of Madame Seraphin's affected sympathy, yet, recollecting how
strictly Rodolph had enjoined her to observe the utmost secrecy
respecting the protection he bestowed on both Germain and Louise, she
regretted having been led away by her affectionate zeal for her friends
to use such words,--"Patience; every one has his turn!"
"His name, madame, is Ferrand,--M. Jacques Ferrand, Notary," replied
Rigolette, skilfully adding, by way of compensation for her indiscreet
warmth, "and it is the more wicked and shameful of him to torment Louise
and Germain as he does, because the poor things have not a friend upon
earth but myself, and, God knows, it is little I can do besides wishing
them well out of their troubles!"
"Dear me,--poor things!" observed Madame Seraphin. "Well, I'm sure I
hoped it was otherwise when I heard you say, 'Patience; every one has
their turn!' I supposed you reckoned for certain upon some powerful
protector to defend these people against that dreadful notary."
"Alas, no, madame!" answered Rigolette, hoping to destroy any suspicion
Madame Seraphin might still harbour; "such, I am sorry to say, is not
the case. For who would be generous and disinterested enough to take the
part of two poor creatures like my unfortunate friends against a rich
and powerful man like M. Ferrand?"
"Oh, there are many good and noble-minded persons capable of performing
so good an action," pursued Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's
consideration, and with ill-restrained excitement; "I myself know one to
whom it is equally a duty and a pleasure to succour and assist all who
are in need or difficulty,--one who is beloved and valued by all good
persons, as he is dreaded and hated by the bad."
Rigolette gazed on the Goualeuse with deep astonishment, and was just on
the point of asserting that she, too (alluding to Rodolph), knew some
one capable of courageously espousing the cause of the weak against the
strong; but, faithful to the injunctions of her neighbour (as she styled
the prince), she contented herself with merely saying, "Really, do you
indeed know anybody capable of generously coming forward in defence of
poor oppressed individuals, such as we have been talking of?"
"Indeed, I do. And, although I have already to solicit his goodness in
favour of others also in severe trouble, yet, I am quite sure that, did
he but know of the undeserved misfortunes of Louise and Germain, he
would both rescue them from misery and punish their wicked persecutor;
for his goodness and justice are inexhaustible."
Madame Seraphin surveyed her victim with surprise. "This girl," said
she, mentally, "might be even more dangerous than we thought for. And,
even if I had been weak enough to feel inclined to pity her, what I have
just heard would have rendered the little 'accident,' which is to rid us
of her, quite inevitable."
"Then, dear Goualeuse, since you have so valuable an acquaintance, I
beseech of you to recommend poor Louise and Germain to his notice," said
Rigolette, wisely considering that her two protegees would be all the
better for obtaining two protectors instead of one. "And pray say that
they do not in the least deserve their present wretched fate."
"Make yourself perfectly easy," returned Fleur-de-Marie; "I promise to
try to interest M. Rodolph in favour of your poor friends."
"Who did you say?" exclaimed Rigolette, "M. Rodolph?"
"Yes," replied La Goualeuse; "do you know him?"
"M. Rodolph?" again repeated Rigolette, perfectly bewildered; "is he a
travelling clerk?"
"I really don't know what he is. But why are you so much astonished?"
"Because I know a M. Rodolph!"
"Perhaps it is not the same."
"Well, describe yours. What is he like?"
"In the first place, he is young."
"So is mine."
"With a countenance full of nobleness and goodness."
"Precisely," exclaimed Rigolette, whose amazement increased. "Oh, it
must be the very man! Is your M. Rodolph rather dark-complexioned, with
a small moustache?"
"Yes, yes."
"Is he tall and thin, with a beautiful figure, and quite a fashionable,
gentlemanly sort of air,--wonderfully so, considering he is but a clerk?
Now, then, does your M. Rodolph answer to that description?"
"Perfectly," answered Fleur-de-Marie; "and I feel quite sure that we
both mean the same. The only thing that puzzles me is your fancying he
is a clerk."
"Oh, but I know he is. He told me so himself."
"And you know him intimately?"
"Why, he is my next-door neighbour."
"M. Rodolph is?"
"I mean next-room neighbour; because he occupies an apartment on the
fourth floor, next to mine."
"He--M. Rodolph--lodges in the next room to you?"
"Why, yes. But what do you find so astonishing in a thing as simple as
that? He only earns about fifteen or eighteen hundred francs a year,
and, of course, he could not afford a more expensive lodging,--though,
certainly, he does not strike me as being a very careful or economical
person; for, bless his dear heart, he actually does not know the price
of the clothes he wears."
"No, no, it cannot be the same M. Rodolph I am acquainted with," said
Fleur-de-Marie, reflecting seriously; "oh, no, quite impossible!"
"I suppose yours is a pattern of order and exactness?"
"He of whom I spoke, I must tell you, Rigolette," said Fleur-de-Marie,
with enthusiasm, "is all-powerful; his name is never pronounced but with
love and veneration; there is something awe-inspiring in his very
aspect, giving one the desire to kneel in his presence and offer humble
respect to his goodness and greatness."
"Ah, then, it is no use trying the comparison any further, my dear
Goualeuse; for my M. Rodolph is neither powerful, great, nor imposing.
He is very good-natured and merry, and all that; but oh, bless you, as
for being a person one would be likely to go on one's knees to, why, he
is quite the reverse. He cares no more for ceremony than I do, and even
promised me to come and help me clean my apartment and polish the floor.
And then, instead of being awe-inspiring, he settled with me to take me
out of a Sunday anywhere I liked to go. So that, you see, he can't be a
very great person. But, bless you, what am I thinking of? It seems as if
my heart were wholly engrossed by my Sunday pleasures, instead of
recollecting these poor creatures shut up and deprived of their liberty
in a prison. Ah, poor dear Louise--and poor Germain, too! Until they are
restored to freedom there is no happiness for me!"
For several minutes Fleur-de-Marie remained plunged in a deep reverie;
she all at once recalled to her remembrance that, at her first interview
with Rodolph, at the house of the ogress, his language and manners
resembled those of the usual frequenters of the _tapis-franc_. Was it
not, then, possible that he might be playing the part of the travelling
clerk, for the sake of some scheme he had in view? The difficulty
consisted in finding any probable cause for such a transformation. The
grisette, who quickly perceived the thoughtful meditation in which
Fleur-de-Marie was lost, said, kindly:
"Never mind puzzling your poor brains on the subject, my dear Goualeuse;
we shall soon find out whether we both know the same M. Rodolph. When
you see yours, speak of me to him; when I see mine, I will mention you;
by these means we shall easily discover what conclusion to come to."
"Where do you live, Rigolette?"
"No. 17 Rue du Temple."
"Come!" said Madame Seraphin (who had attentively listened to all this
conversation) to herself, "that is not a bad thing to know. This
all-powerful and mysterious personage, M. Rodolph, who is, no doubt,
passing himself off for a travelling clerk, occupies an apartment
adjoining that of this young mantua-maker, who appears to me to know
much more than she chooses to own to; and this defender of the
oppressed, it seems, is lodging in the same house with Morel and
Bradamanti. Well, well, if the grisette and the travelling clerk
continue to meddle with what does not concern them, I shall know where
to lay my hand upon them."
"As soon as ever I have spoken with M. Rodolph," said the Goualeuse, "I
will write to you, and give you my address where to send your answer;
but tell me yours over again, I am afraid of forgetting it."
"Oh, dear, how fortunate! I declare I have got one of my cards with me!
I remember a person I work for asked me to leave her one, to give a
friend who wished to employ me. So I brought it out for that purpose;
but I will give it to you, and carry her one another time." And here
Rigolette handed to Fleur-de-Marie a small card, on which was written,
in beautiful text-hand, "Mademoiselle Rigolette, Dressmaker, 17 Rue du
Temple." "There's a beauty!" continued the grisette. "Oh, isn't it
nicely done? Better, a good deal, than printing! Ah, poor dear Germain
wrote me a number of cards long ago! Oh, he was so kind, so attentive! I
don't know how it could have happened that I never found out half his
good qualities till he became unfortunate; and now I continually
reproach myself with having learned to love him so late."
"You love Germain, then?"
"Oh, yes, that I do! Why, you know, I must have some pretext for
visiting him in prison. Am I not an odd sort of girl?" said Rigolette,
choking a rising sigh, and smiling, like an April shower, amid the tears
which glittered in her large dark eyes.
"You are good and generous-hearted, as you ever were!" said
Fleur-de-Marie, tenderly pressing her friend's hands within her own.
Madame Seraphin had evidently learned all she cared to know, and feeling
very little interest in any further disclosure of Rigolette's love for
young Germain, hastily approaching Fleur-de-Marie, she abruptly said:
"Come, my dear child, do not keep me waiting another minute, I beg; it
is very late, and I shall be scolded, as it is, for being so much behind
my time; we have trifled away a good quarter of an hour, and must
endeavour to make up for it."
"What a nasty cross old body that is!" said Rigolette, in a whisper, to
Fleur-de-Marie. "I don't like the looks of her at all!" Then, speaking
in a louder voice, she added, "Whenever you come to Paris, my dear
Goualeuse, be sure to come and see me. I should be so delighted to have
you all to myself for a whole day, to show you my little home and my
birds; for I have got some, such sweet pretty ones! Oh, that is my chief
indulgence and expense!"
"I will try to come and see you, but certainly I will write you. So
good-bye, my dear, dear Rigolette! Adieu! Oh, if you only knew how happy
I feel at having met with you again!"
"And, I am sure, so do I; but I trust we shall soon see each other
again; and, besides, I am so impatient to know whether your M. Rodolph
is the same as mine. Pray write to me very soon upon this subject, will
you? Promise you will!"
"Indeed I will! Adieu, dear Rigolette!"
"Farewell, my very dear Goualeuse!"
And again the two poor girls, each striving to conceal their distress at
parting, indulged in a long and affectionate embrace. Rigolette then
turned away, to enter the prison for the purpose of visiting Louise,
according to the kind permission obtained for her by Rodolph, while
Fleur-de-Marie, with Madame Seraphin, got into the coach which was
waiting for them. The coachman was instructed to proceed to Batignolles,
and to stop at the barrier. A cross-road of inconsiderable length
conducted from this spot almost directly to the borders of the Seine,
not far from the Isle du Ravageur. Wholly unacquainted with the locality
of Paris, Fleur-de-Marie was unable to detect that the vehicle did not
take the road to the Barrier St. Denis; it was only when the coach
stopped at Batignolles, and she was requested by Madame Seraphin to
alight, that she said:
"It seems to me, madame, that we are not in the road to Bouqueval; and
how shall we be able to walk from hence to the farm?"
"All that I can tell you, my dear child," answered the _femme de
charge_, kindly, "is, that I am obeying their orders given me by your
benefactors, and that you will pain them greatly if you keep your
friends waiting."
"Oh, not for worlds would I be so presuming and ungrateful as to oppose
their slightest wish!" exclaimed poor Fleur-de-Marie, with kindling
warmth, "and I beseech you, madame, to pardon my seeming hesitation;
but, since you plead the commands of my revered protectors, depend upon
my following you blindly and silently whithersoever you are pleased to
take me. Only tell me, is Madame Georges quite well?"
"Oh, in most excellent health and spirits!"
"And M. Rodolph?"
"Perfectly well, also."
"Then you know him? But, madame, when I was speaking to Rigolette
concerning him just now, you did not seem to be acquainted with him; at
least, you did not say so."
"Because, in pursuance with the directions given me, I affected to be
ignorant of the person you alluded to."
"And did M. Rodolph, himself, give you those orders?"
"Why, what a dear, curious little thing this is!" said the _femme de
charge_, smilingly; "I must mind what I am about, or, with her innocent
ways of putting questions, she will find out all my secrets!"
"Indeed, madame, I am ashamed of seeming so inquisitive, but if you
could only imagine how my heart beats with joy at the bare thoughts of
seeing my beloved friends again, you would pardon me; but, as we have
only to walk on to the place whither you are taking me, I shall soon be
able to gratify my wishes, without tormenting you by further inquiries."
"To be sure you will, my dear, for I promise you that in a quarter of an
hour we shall have reached the end of our journey."
The _femme de charge_, having now left behind the last houses in the
village of Batignolles, conducted Fleur-de-Marie across a grassy road,
bordered on each side by lofty walnut-trees. The day was warm and fine,
the sky half covered by the rich purple clouds of the setting sun, which
now cast its declining rays on the heights of the _colombes_, situated
on the other side of the Seine. As Fleur-de-Marie approached the banks
of the river, a delicate bloom tinged her pale cheeks, and she seemed to
breathe with delight the pure fresh air that blew from the country.
Indeed, so strongly was the look of happiness imprinted on her
countenance, that even Madame Seraphin could not avoid noticing it.
"You seem full of joy, my dear child; I declare it is quite a pleasure
to see you."
"Oh, yes, indeed, I am overflowing with gratitude and eagerness at the
thoughts of seeing my dear Madame Georges so soon, and perhaps, too, M.
Rodolph! I trust I may, for, besides my own happiness at beholding him,
I want to speak to him in favour of several poor unfortunate persons I
should be so glad to recommend to his kindness and protection. How,
then, can I be sad when I have so many delightful things to look forward
to? Oh, who could be unhappy, with such a prospect as mine? And see,
too, how gay and beautiful the sky is, all covered with bright, golden
clouds! And the dear soft green grass,--I think it seems greener than
ever, spite of the season. And look--look out there! See, where the
river flows behind those willow-trees! Oh, how wide and sparkling it
seems; and, when the sun shines on it, it almost dazzles my eyes to gaze
on it! It seems like a sheet of gold. Ah, I saw it shining in the same
way in the basin of the prison a little while ago! God does not forget
even the poor prisoners, but allows them to have a sight of his wondrous
works. Though they are separated by high stone walls from their fellow
creatures, the glorious sun shows them his golden face, and sparkles and
glitters upon the water there, the same as in the gardens of a king!"
added Fleur-de-Marie, with pious gratitude. Then, incited by a reference
to her captivity still more to appreciate the charms of liberty, she
exclaimed, with a burst of innocent delight: "Oh, pray, madame, do look
there, just in the middle of the river, at that pretty little island,
bordered with willows and poplars, and that sweet little white house,
almost close to the water's edge! How delicious it must be to live there
in the summer, when all the leaves are on the trees and the birds sing
so sweetly among the branches! Oh, how quiet and cool it must be in that
nice place!"
"Well, really, now, my dear," said Madame Seraphin, with a grim smile,
"it is singular enough your being so much struck with that little isle!"
"Why, madame?"
"Because it is there we are actually going to."
"Going to that island?"
"Yes; does that astonish you?"
"Rather so, madame."
"But suppose you found your friends there?"
"Oh, what do you mean?"
"Suppose, I say, you found all your friends had assembled there, to
welcome you on your release from prison, should you not then be greatly
surprised?"
"Oh, if it were but possible! My dear Madame Georges?--M. Rodolph?"
"Upon my word, my dear, I am just like a baby in your hands, and you
turn and twist me just as you please; it is useless for me to try to
conceal anything, for, with your little winning ways, you find out all
secrets."
"Then I shall soon see them again? Dear madame, how can I ever thank you
sufficiently for your goodness to a poor girl like me? Feel how my heart
beats! It is all with joy and happiness!"
"Well, well, my love, be as wild with delight as you please, but pray do
not hurry on so very fast. You forget, you little mad thing, that my old
bones cannot run as fast as your nimble young feet."
"I beg your pardon, madame; but I cannot help being quite impatient to
arrive where we are going."
"To be sure you cannot; don't fancy I mean to blame you for it; quite
the contrary."
"The road slopes a little now, madame, and it is rather rough, too; will
you accept of my arm to assist you down?"
"I never refuse a good offer, my dear; for I am somewhat infirm, as well
as old, while you are young and active."
"Then pray lean all your weight on me, madame; don't be afraid of tiring
me."
"Many thanks, my child! Your help was really very serviceable, for the
descent is so extremely rapid just here. Now, then, we are once more on
smooth, level ground."
"Oh, madame, can it, indeed, be true that I am about to meet my dear
Madame Georges? I can scarcely persuade myself it is reality."
"A little patience,--another quarter of an hour, and then you will see
whether it is true or false."
"But what puzzles me," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflection,
"is, why Madame Georges should have thought proper to meet me here,
instead of at the farm."
"Still curious, my dear child, still wanting to know everybody's
reasons."
"How very foolish and unreasonable I am, am I not, madame?" said
Fleur-de-Marie, smiling.
"And, by way of punishing you, I have a great mind to tell you what the
surprise is that your friends have prepared for you."
"For me, madame, a surprise?"
"Be quiet, you little chatterbox! You will make me reveal the secret, in
spite of myself."
We shall now leave Madame Seraphin and her victim proceeding along the
road which led to the river's side, while we precede them, by a few
minutes, to the Isle du Ravageur.