THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING.
Before the reader is made acquainted with the _denouement_ of the drama
then passing in Nicholas's boat, we shall beg leave to retrace our
steps.
Shortly after Fleur-de-Marie had quitted St. Lazare in company of Madame
Seraphin, La Louve also left that prison. Thanks to the recommendations
of Madame Armand and the governor, who were desirous of recompensing her
for her kindness towards Mont Saint-Jean, the few remaining days the
beloved of Martial had still to remain in confinement were remitted her.
A complete change had come over this hitherto depraved, degraded, and
intractable being. Forever brooding over the description of the
peaceful, wild, and retired life, so beautifully depictured by
Fleur-de-Marie, La Louve entertained the utmost horror and disgust of
her past life. To bury herself with Martial in the deep shades of some
vast forest, such was her waking and dreaming thought,--the one fixed
idea of her existence, against which all her former evil inclinations
had in vain struggled when, separating herself from La Goualeuse, whose
growing influence she feared, this singular creature had retired to
another part of St. Lazare.
To complete this sincere though rapid conversion, still more assured by
the ineffectual resistance attempted by the perverse and froward habits
of her companion, Fleur-de-Marie, following the dictates of her own
natural good sense, had thus reasoned:
"La Louve, a violent and determined creature, is passionately fond of
Martial. She would, then, hail with delight the means of quitting the
disgraceful life she now, for the first time, views with shame and
disgust, for the purpose of entirely devoting herself to the rude,
unpolished man whose taste she so entirely partakes of, and who seeks to
hide himself from the world, as much from inclination as from a desire
of escaping from the universal reprobation in which his family is
viewed."
Assisted by these small materials, gleaned during her conversation with
La Louve, Fleur-de-Marie, in giving a right direction to the unbridled
passion and restraining the daring hardihood of the reckless creature,
had positively converted a lost, wretched being into an honest woman;
for what could the most virtuous of her sex have desired more than to
bestow her undivided affections on the man of her choice, to dwell with
him in the silence and solitude of woods, where hard labour, privations
and poverty, would all be cheerfully borne and shared for his dear sake,
to whom her heart was given?
And such was the constant, ardent prayer of La Louve. Relying on the
assistance which Fleur-de-Marie had assured her of in the name of an
unknown benefactor, La Louve determined to make her praiseworthy
proposal to her lover, not, indeed, without the keen and bitter
apprehension of being rejected by him, for La Goualeuse, while she
brought her to blush for her past life, awakened her to a just sense
also of her position as regarded Martial.
Once at liberty, La Louve thought only of seeing "her man," as she
called him. He took exclusive possession of her mind; she had heard
nothing of him for several days. In the hopes of meeting with him in the
Isle du Ravageur, and with the determination of waiting there until he
came, should she fail to find him at first, she paid the driver of a
cabriolet liberally to conduct her with all speed to the bridge of
Asnieres, which she crossed about a quarter of an hour before Madame
Seraphin and Fleur-de-Marie (they having walked from the barrier) had
reached the banks of the river near the lime-kilns. As Martial did not
present himself to ferry La Louve across to the Isle du Ravageur, she
applied to an old fisherman, named Father Ferot, who lived close by the
bridge.
It was about four o'clock in the day when a cabriolet stopped at the
entrance of a small street in the village of Asnieres. La Louve leaped
from it at one bound, threw a five-franc piece to the driver, and
proceeded with all haste to the dwelling of old Ferot, the ferryman. La
Louve, no longer dressed in her prison garb, wore a gown of dark green
merino, a red imitation of cashmere shawl with large, flaming pattern,
and a net cap trimmed with riband; her thick, curly hair was scarcely
smoothed out, her impatient longing to see Martial having rendered an
ordinary attention to her toilet quite impossible. Any other female
would, after so long a separation, have exerted her very utmost to
appear becomingly adorned at her first interview with her lover; but La
Louve knew little and cared less for all these coquettish arts, which
ill accorded with her excitable nature. Her first, her predominating
desire was to see "her man" as quickly as possible, and this impetuous
wish was caused, not alone by the fervour of a love which, in minds as
wild and unregulated as hers, sometimes leads on to madness, but also
from a yearning to pour into the ear of Martial the virtuous resolutions
she had formed, and to reveal to him the bright vista of happiness
opened to both by her conversation with Fleur-de-Marie.
The flying steps of La Louve soon conducted her to the fisherman's
cottage, and there, seated tranquilly before the door, she found Father
Ferot, an old, white-headed man, busily employed mending his nets. Even
before she came close up to him, La Louve cried out:
"Quick, quick, Father Ferot! Your boat! Your boat!"
"What! Is it you, my girl? Well, how are you? I have not seen you this
long while."
"I know, I know; but where is your boat? and take me across to the isle
as fast as you can row."
"My boat? Well to be sure! Now, how very unlucky! As if it was to be so.
Bless you, my girl, it is quite out of my power to ferry you across
to-day."
"But why? Why is it?"
"Why, you see, my son has taken my boat to go up to the boat-races held
at St. Ouen. Bless your heart, I don't think there's a boat left all
along the river's side."
"Distraction!" exclaimed La Louve, stamping her foot and clenching her
hand. "Then all is lost; I shall not be able to see him!"
"'Pon my honour and word, it's true, though," said old Ferot. "I am
extremely sorry I am unable to ferry you over, because, no doubt, by
your going on so, he is very much worse."
"Who is much worse? Who?"
"Why, Martial!"
"Martial!" exclaimed La Louve, snatching the sleeve of old Ferot's
jacket, "My man ill?"
"Bless me! Did you not know it?"
"Martial? Do you mean Martial?"
"To be sure I do; but don't hold me so tight, you'll tear my blouse. Now
be quiet, there's a good girl. I declare you frighten me, you stare
about so wildly."
"Ill! Martial ill? And how long has he been so?"
"Oh, two or three days."
"'Tis false! He would have written and told me of it, had it been so."
"Ah, but then, don't you see? He's been too bad to handle a pen."
"Too ill to write! And he is on the isle! Are you sure--quite sure he is
there?"
"Why, I'll tell you. You must know, this morning, I meets the widow
Martial. Now you are aware, my girl, that most, in general, when I
notice her coming one way, I make it my business to go the other, for I
am not particular fond of her,--I can't say I am. So then--"
"But my man--my man! Tell me of him!"
"Wait a bit,--I'm coming to him. So when I found I couldn't get away
from the mother, and, to speak the honest truth, that woman makes me
afraid to seem to slight her. She has a sort of an evil look about her,
like one as could do you any manner of harm for only wishing for; I
can't account for it, I don't know what it is, for I am not timorous by
nature, but somehow the widow Martial does downright scare me. Well,
says I, thinking just to say a few words and pass on, 'I haven't seen
anything of your son Martial these last two or three days,' says I, 'I
suppose he's not with you just now?' upon which she fixed her eyes upon
me with such a look! 'Tis well they were not pistols, or they would have
shot me, as folks say."
"You drive me wild! And then--and what said she?"
Father Ferot was silent for a minute or two, and then added:
"Come, now, you are a right sort of a girl; if you will only promise me
to be secret, I will tell you all I know."
"Concerning my man?"
"Ay, to be sure, for Martial is a good fellow, though somewhat
thoughtless; and it would be a sore pity should any mischance befall him
through that old wretch of a mother or his rascally brother!"
"But what is going on? What have his mother or brother done? And where
is he, eh? Speak, I tell you! Speak!"
"Well, well, have a little patience! And, I say, do just let my blouse
alone! Come, take your hands off, there's a good girl; if you keep
interrupting me, and tear my clothes in this way, I shall never be able
to finish my story, and you will know nothing at last."
"Oh, how you try my patience!" exclaimed La Louve, stamping her foot
with intense passion.
"And you promise never to repeat a word of what I am about to tell you?"
"No, no, I never will!"
"Upon your word of honour?"
"Father Ferot, you will drive me mad!"
"Oh, what a hot-headed girl it is! Well, now, then, this is what I have
got to say; but, first and foremost, I must tell you that Martial is
more than ever at variance with his family; and, if he were to get some
foul play at their hands, I should not be at all surprised; and that
makes me the more sorry my boat is not at hand to help you across the
water, for, if you reckon upon either Nicholas or Calabash taking you
over to the isle, why, you'll just find yourself disappointed, that's
all."
"I know that as well as you do; but what did my man's mother tell you?
He was in the isle, then, when he fell ill, was he not?"
"Don't you put me out so with your questions; let me tell my story my
own way. This morning I says to the widow,'Why,' says I,'I have seen
nothing of Martial these last two or three days. I mark his boat is
still moored,--he don't seem to use it as usual; I suppose he's gone
away a bit? Maybe he's in Paris upon his business?' Upon which the widow
gave me, oh, such a devil's look! So says she,'He's bad a-bed in the
isle, and we don't look for him to get better!' 'Oh, oh!' says I to
myself,'that's it, is it? It's three days since--' Holla! stop, I say!"
cried old Ferot, interrupting himself; "where the deuce are you going?
What is the girl after now?"
Believing the life of Martial in danger from the inhabitants of the
isle, and unable longer to endure the twaddle of the old fisherman, La
Louve rushed, half frantic with rage and fear, towards the banks of the
Seine. Some topographical descriptions will be requisite for the perfect
understanding of the ensuing scene.
The Isle du Ravageur was nearer to the left bank of the river than it
was to the right, from which Fleur-de-Marie and Madame Seraphin had
embarked. La Louve stood on the left bank. Without being extremely high,
the surface of the isle completely prevented those on one side the river
from seeing what was passing on the opposite bank; thus La Louve had
been unable to witness the embarkation of La Goualeuse, while the
Martial family had been equally prevented from seeing La Louve, who, at
that very instant, was rushing in wild desperation along the banks of
the other side of the river.
Let us also recall to the reader, that the country-house belonging to
Doctor Griffon, and temporarily occupied by the Count Saint-Remy was
midway between the land and that part of the shore where La Louve
arrived half wild with apprehension and impatience. Unconsciously she
rushed past two individuals, who, struck with her excited manner and
haggard looks, turned back to watch her proceedings. These two
personages were the Count Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon.
The first impulse of La Louve, upon learning the danger which threatened
her lover, was to hurry towards the spot from whence the peril
proceeded; but, as she reached the water's edge, she became painfully
sensible of the difficulties that stood in the way of her reaching the
opposite land. As the old fisherman had assured her, she well knew the
folly of expecting any strangers to pass by, and none of the Martial
family would take the trouble of rowing over to fetch her to the isle.
Heated and breathless, her eyes sparkling with eager excitement, she
stopped opposite that point of the isle which, taking a sudden bend in
this direction, was the nearest approach from the shore. Through the
leafless branches of the willows and poplars, La Louve could see the
roof of the very house where Martial perhaps lay dying.
At this distracting idea La Louve uttered a wild cry of desperation,
then, snatching off her shawl and cap, she slipped out of her gown; and,
undressed as she was to her petticoat, she threw herself intrepidly into
the river, waded until she got out of her depth, and then, fearlessly
striking out, she swam determinedly towards the isle, affording a
strange spectacle of wild and desperate energy. At each fresh impulsion
of the arms the long, thick hair of La Louve, unfastened by the violent
exercise she was using, shook and waved about her head like the rich
mane of a war-horse. But for the fixedness of her gaze, constantly
riveted on the house which contained Martial, and the contraction of her
features, drawn together by almost the convulsive agonies of fear and
dreadful anticipation of arriving too late, the poacher's mistress might
have been supposed to have been merely enjoying the cool refreshment of
the water for her own sport and diversion, so boldly and freely did she
swim.
Tattooed in remembrance of her lover, her white but sinewy arms, strong
as those of a man, divided the waters with a stroke which sent the
sparkling element in rushing streams of liquid pearls over her broad
shoulders and strong, expansive chest, resembling a block of
half-submerged marble. All at once, from the other side of the isle,
rose a cry of distress,--a cry of agony at once fearful and despairing.
La Louve started, and suddenly stopped in her rapid course; then
supporting herself with one hand, with the other she pushed back her
thick, dripping hair, and listened. Again the cry was repeated, but
more feebly, supplicatory, convulsive, and expiring; and then the most
profound silence reigned around.
"'Tis Martial--'tis his cry! He calls me to his aid!" exclaimed La
Louve, swimming with renewed vigour, for, in her excited state of mind,
the voice which had rent the air, and sent a pang through her whole
frame, seemed to her to be that of her lover.
The count and the doctor, whom La Louve had rushed so quickly by, were
quite unable to overtake her in time to prevent her daring attempt; but
both arrived immediately opposite the isle at the moment when those
frightful cries were heard. Both stopped, as perfectly shocked and
startled as La Louve had been. Observing the desperate energy with which
she battled with the water, they exclaimed:
"The unfortunate creature means to drown herself!"
But their fears were vain. Martial's mistress swam like an otter, and,
with a few more vigorous strokes, the intrepid creature had reached the
land. She gained her feet, and, to assist her in climbing up the bank,
she took hold of one of the stakes used as a sort of protecting stockade
at the extremity of the isle, when at that instant, as partially in the
water and holding on by one hand, she saw drifting along the form of a
young female, dressed after the fashion of the country girls who come to
Paris with their wares. The body floated slowly on with the current,
which drove it against the piles, while the garments served to render it
buoyant. To cling to one of the strongest stakes, and with the hand left
free to snatch at the clothes of the female as it was passing, was the
instantaneous impulse of La Louve,--an impulse executed as rapidly as
conceived. In her extreme eagerness, however, she drew the unfortunate
being she sought to save so suddenly and violently towards herself and
within the small enclosure formed by the piles, that the body sunk
completely under water, though here it was shallow enough to walk to
land. Gifted with skill and strength far from common, La Louve raised La
Goualeuse (for she it was, although not as yet recognised by her late
friend), took her up in her powerful arms as though she had been a
child, and laid her on the grassy banks of the isle.
"Courage! Courage!" shouted M. de Saint-Remy, from the opposite side,
having, as well as Doctor Griffon, witnessed this bold deliverance. "We
will make all haste to cross the bridge of Asnieres, and bring a boat to
your assistance."
After thus speaking, both the count and his companion proceeded as
quickly as they were able in the direction of the bridge; but La Louve
heard not the words addressed to her.
Let us again repeat, that, from the right bank of the Seine, on which
Nicholas, Calabash, and their mother assembled after the commission of
their atrocious crime, it was impossible, owing to its steepness, to
observe what was passing on the opposite shore. Fleur-de-Marie, abruptly
drawn by La Louve within the piles, having first sunk completely from
the eyes of her murderers, was thus in safety from any further pursuit
on their part, they believing that she had effectually perished.
A few instants after, the current, as it swept by, carried with it a
second body, floating near to the surface of the water; but La Louve
perceived it not. It was the corpse of Madame Seraphin, the notary's
_femme de charge_. She, however, was perfectly dead.
It was as much the interest of Nicholas and Calabash as it was of
Jacques Ferrand to remove so formidable a witness as well as sharer of
their crime; seizing the opportunity, therefore, when the boat sunk with
Fleur-de-Marie, to spring into that rowed by his sister, and in which
was Madame Seraphin, he contrived to give the small vessel so great a
shock as almost threw the _femme de charge_ into the water, and, while
struggling to recover herself, he managed to thrust her overboard, and
then to finish her with his boat-hook.
* * * * *
Breathless and exhausted, La Louve, kneeling on the grass beside
Fleur-de-Marie, tried to recover her strength, and, at the same time, to
make out the features of her she had saved from certain death. Who can
describe her surprise, her utter astonishment, as she recognised her
late prison companion,--she who had exercised so beneficial an influence
on her mind, and produced so complete a change in her conduct and ideas?
In the first bewilderment of her feelings even Martial was forgotten.
"La Goualeuse!" exclaimed she, as, with head bent down, her hair
dishevelled, her garments streaming with wet, she, kneeling,
contemplated the unhappy girl stretched almost dying before her on the
grass.
Pale, motionless, her half closed eyes vacant and senseless, her
beautiful hair glued to her pallid brows, her lips blue and livid, her
small, delicate hands stiff and cold, La Goualeuse might well have
passed for dead to any but the watchful eye of affection.
"La Goualeuse!" again cried La Louve. "What a singular chance that I
should have come hither to relate to my man all the good and harm she
has done me with her words and promises, as well as the resolution I
have taken, and to find the poor thing thus to give me the meeting! Poor
girl! She is cold and dead. But, no, no!" exclaimed La Louve, stooping
still more closely over Fleur-de-Marie, and, as she did so, finding a
faint--indeed, almost imperceptible--breath escape her lips; "no, she
lives! Merciful Father, she breathes! And 'tis I have snatched her from
death! I, who never yet saved any one! Oh, how happy the thought makes
me! My heart glows with a new delight. How thankful I feel that none but
I saved her! Ha! but my man,--I must save him also. Perhaps he is even
now in his death-throes--his mother and brother are even wretches
enough to murder him! What shall I do? I cannot leave this poor creature
here,--I will carry her to the widow's house. She must and she shall
succour the poor Goualeuse and let me see Martial, or I will smash
everything in my way. No mother, brother, or sister shall hinder me from
going wherever my man is!"
And, springing up as she spoke, La Louve raised Fleur-de-Marie in her
strong arms. Charged with this slender burthen, she hurried towards the
house, never for a moment doubting that, spite of their hard and wicked
natures, the widow and her daughter would bestow on Fleur-de-Marie every
requisite care.
When Martial's mistress had reached that point of the isle from which
both sides of the Seine were distinguishable, Nicholas, his mother, and
Calabash had quitted the place, certain of the accomplishment of their
double crime; they then repaired, in all haste, to the house of
Bras-Rouge.
At this moment a man who, hidden in one of the recesses of the river
concealed by the lime-kiln, had, without being seen himself, witnessed
the whole progress of this horrible scene, also disappeared; believing,
as well as the guilty perpetrators, that the fell deed had been fully
achieved. This man was Jacques Ferrand.
One of Nicholas's boats was rocking to and fro, moored to a stake on the
river's bank, just by where Madame Seraphin and La Goualeuse had
embarked.
Scarcely had Jacques Ferrand quitted the lime-kiln to return to Paris
than M. de Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon hastily crossed the bridge of
Asnieres, for the purpose of reaching the isle; which they contemplated
doing by means of Nicholas's boat, which they had discerned from afar.
To the extreme astonishment of La Louve, when she arrived at the house
in the Isle du Ravageur, she found the door shut and fastened. Placing
the still inanimate form of Fleur-de-Marie beneath the porch, she more
closely examined the dwelling. The window of Martial's chamber was well
known to her; what was her surprise to find the shutters belonging to it
closed, and sheets of tin nailed over them, strongly secured from
without by two bars of iron!
Suspecting a part of the cause of this, La Louve, in a loud, hoarse
voice of mingled fury and deep tenderness, screamed out as loudly as she
could:
"Martial! My man!"
No answer was returned.
Terrified at this silence, La Louve began pacing round and round the
house like a wild beast who scents the spot whither her mate has been
entrapped, and with deep roars and savage growls demands admittance to
him.
Still pursuing her agitated search, La Louve kept shouting from time to
time, "My man! Are you there, my man?" And in her desperate fury she
shook and rattled the bars of the kitchen windows, beat against the
walls, and knocked long and loudly at the door. All at once a dull,
indistinct noise was heard from withinside the house. Eagerly and
attentively La Louve listened; the noise, however, ceased.
"My man heard me! I must and will get in somehow, if I gnaw the door
away with my teeth."
And again she reiterated her frantic cries and adjurations to Martial.
Several faint blows struck inside the closed shutters of Martial's
chamber replied to the yells and screams of La Louve.
"He is there!" cried she, suddenly stopping beneath the window of her
lover. "He is there! I am sure of it; and if all other means fail I will
strip off that tin with my nails, but I will wrench those shutters
open!"
So saying, she glanced frantically around in search of something to aid
her efforts to free her lover, when her eye caught sight of a ladder
partly hanging against one of the outside shutters of the sitting-room.
Hastily pulling the shutter, the more quickly to disengage the ladder,
the key of the outer door, left by the widow on the sill of the window,
fell to the ground.
"Oh, if this be only the right key!" cried La Louve, trying it in the
lock of the entrance door; "I can go straight up stairs to his chamber.
Oh, it turns! It opens!" exclaimed La Louve, with delight; "and my man
is saved!"
Once in the kitchen she was struck by the cries of the two children,
who, shut up in the cellar, and hearing an unusual noise, called loudly
for help. The widow, persuaded that no person would visit the isle or
her dwelling, had contented herself with double-locking the door upon
Francois and Amandine, leaving the key in the lock.
Released by La Louve, the two children hurried from the cellar to the
kitchen.
"Oh, La Louve!" exclaimed Francois, "save our dear Brother Martial; they
want him to die! For two days he has been shut up in his room!"
"They have not wounded him, have they?"
"No, no, I think not!"
"I have arrived just in time, it seems," cried La Louve, rushing towards
the staircase, and hastily mounting the stairs. Then, suddenly stopping,
she exclaimed, "Ah, but La Goualeuse! I quite forgot her. Amandine, my
child, light a fire directly; and then do you and your brother fetch a
poor, half-drowned girl you will find lying outside the door under the
porch, and place her before the fire. She would have been quite dead, if
I had not saved her. Francois, quick! Bring me a crowbar, a hatchet, an
axe, anything, that I may break in the door that confines my man!"
"There is the cleaver we split wood with, but it is too heavy for you,"
said the lad, dragging forward an enormous chopper.
"Too heavy! I don't even feel it!" cried La Louve, swinging the
ponderous weapon, which, at another time, she would have had much
difficulty in lifting, as though it had been a feather.
Then, proceeding with hurried steps up-stairs, she called out to the
children:
"Go and fetch the young girl I told you of, and place her by the fire."
And, with two bounds, La Louve reached the corridor, at the end of which
was situated the apartment of Martial.
"Courage! Courage, my man! Your Louve is here!" cried she, and, lifting
the cleaver with both hands, she dashed it furiously against the door.
"It is fastened on the outside," moaned Martial, in a feeble voice;
"draw out the nails,--you cannot open it otherwise."
Throwing herself upon her knees in the passage, by the help of the edge
of the cleaver, her nails, which she almost tore bleeding from their
roots, and her fingers, which were lacerated and torn, La Louve
contrived to extract the huge nails which fastened the door all around.
At length her heroic exertions were crowned with success,--the door
yielded to her efforts, and Martial, pale, bleeding, and almost
exhausted, fell into the arms of his mistress.
"At last--I have you--I hold you--I press you to my heart!" exclaimed La
Louve, as she received and tenderly pressed Martial in her arms, with a
joy of possession that partook almost of savage energy. She supported,
or, rather, carried him to a bench placed in the corridor. For several
minutes Martial remained weak and haggard, endeavouring to recover from
the violent surprise which had proved nearly too much for his exhausted
strength. La Louve had come to the succour of her lover at the very
instant when, worn-out and despairing, he felt himself dying,--less from
want of food than air, which it was impossible to obtain in so small an
apartment, unprovided with a chimney or any other outlet, and
hermetically closed, thanks to the fiendish contrivance of Calabash, who
had stopped even the most trifling crevices in the door and window with
pieces of old rag.
Trembling with joy and apprehension, her eyes streaming with tears, La
Louve, kneeling beside Martial, watched his slightest movements, and
intently gazed on his features. The unfortunate youth seemed gradually
to recover as his lungs inhaled a freer and more healthful atmosphere.
After a few convulsive shudderings he raised his languid head, heaved a
deep sigh, and, opening his eyes, looked eagerly around him.
"Martial! 'Tis I!--your Louve! How are you now?"
"Better!" replied he, in a feeble voice.
"Thank God! Will you have a little water or some vinegar?"
"No, no," replied Martial, speaking more naturally; "air, air! Oh, I
want only air!"
At the risk of gashing the backs of her hands, La Louve drove them
through the four panes of a window she could not have opened without
first removing a large and heavy table.
"Now I breathe! I breathe freely! And my head seems quite relieved!"
said Martial, entirely recovering his senses and voice.
Then, as if recalling for the first time the service his mistress had
rendered him, he exclaimed, with a burst of ineffable gratitude:
"But for you, my brave Louve, I should soon have been dead!"
"Oh, never mind thinking of that! But tell me, how do you find yourself
now?"
"Better--much better!"
"You are hungry, I doubt not?"
"No; I feel myself too weak for that. What I have suffered most cruelly
from has been want of air. At last I felt suffocating, strangling,
choking. Oh, it was dreadful!"
"But now?"
"I live again. I come forth from the very tomb itself; and that, too,
thanks to you!"
"And these cuts upon your poor bleeding hands! For God's sake, what have
they done to you?"
"Nicholas and Calabash, not daring to attack me openly a second time,
fastened me up in my chamber to allow me to perish of hunger in it. I
tried to prevent their nailing up my shutters, and my sister chopped my
fingers with a hatchet."
"The monsters! They wished to make it appear that you had died of
sickness. Your mother had spread the report of your being in a hopeless
state. Your mother, my man,--your own mother!"
"Hold!" cried Martial, with bitterness; "mention her not." Then for the
first time remarking the wet garments and singular state of La Louve's
attire, he added, "But what has happened to you? Your hair is dripping
wet; you have only your underclothes on; and they are drenched through."
"No matter, no matter what has happened to me, since you are saved. Oh,
yes,--saved!"
"But explain to me how you became thus wet through."
"I knew you were in danger, and finding no boat--"
"You swam to my rescue?"
"I did. But your hands? Give them to me that I may heal them with my
kisses! You are in pain, I fear? Oh, the monsters! And I not here to
help you!"
"Oh, my brave Louve!" exclaimed Martial, enthusiastically; "bravest and
best of all brave creatures!"
"Did not your hand trace on my arm 'Death to the cowardly?' See!" cried
La Louve, showing her tattooed arm, on which these very words were
indelibly engraved.
"Yes, you are bold and intrepid; but the cold has seized you,--you
tremble!"
"Indeed, it is not with cold."
"Never mind,--go in there. You will find Calabash's cloak; wrap yourself
well in it."
"But--"
"I insist!"
In an instant La Louve, who had quickly flown at her lover's second
command, returned wrapped in a plaid mantle.
"To think you ran the risk of drowning yourself,--and all for me!"
resumed Martial, gazing on her with enthusiastic delight.
"Oh, no, not altogether for you. A poor girl was nearly perishing in the
river, and I saved her as I landed."
"Saved her also. And where is she?"
"Below with the children, who are taking care of her."
"And who is she?"
"Oh, dear, you can scarcely credit what a singular and lucky chance
brought me to her rescue! She was one of my companions at St. Lazare,--a
most extraordinary sort of girl. Oh, you don't half know--"
"How so?"
"Only conceive my both hating and loving her; for she had introduced
happiness and death into my heart and thoughts."
"Who? This girl?"
"Yes; and all on your account."
"On mine?"
"Hark ye, Martial!" Then interrupting her proposed speech, La Louve
continued, "No, no; I never, never can--"
"What?"
"I had a request to make to you, and for that purpose I came hither;
because when I quitted Paris I knew nothing of your danger."
"Then speak,--pray do!"
"I dare not."
"Dare not,--after all you have done for me?"
"No; for then it would appear as though I claimed a right to be
rewarded."
"A right to be rewarded? And have you not already earned that right? Do
I not already owe you much? And did you not tend my sick bed with
unfailing watchfulness, both night and day during my illness of the past
year?"
"Are you not 'my man,--my own dear man?'"
"And for the reason that I am and ever shall be 'your man,' are you not
bound to speak openly and candidly to me?"
"For ever, Martial?"
"Yes, for ever; as true as my name is Martial. I shall never care for
any other woman in the world but you, my brave Louve. Never mind what
you may have been, or what you may have done; that is nobody's affair
but mine. I love you, and you love me; and, moreover, I owe you my life.
But somehow, do you know, since you have been in prison I have not been
like the same person. All sorts of fresh thoughts have come into my
mind. I have thought it well over, and I have resolved that you shall no
more be what you have been."
"What can you mean?"
"That I will never more quit you; neither will I part from Francois and
Amandine."
"Your young sister and brother?"
"Yes; from this day forward I must be as a second father to these poor
children. Don't you see, by imposing on myself fresh duties, I am
compelled to alter and amend what is amiss in my way of conducting
myself? But I consider it my positive task to take charge of these young
things, or they will be made artful thieves. And the only way to save
them is to take them from here."
"Where to?"
"That I know not; but certainly far from Paris."
"And me?"
"You? Why, of course, you go with me!"
"With you?" exclaimed La Louve, with joyful surprise,--she could not
credit the reality of such happiness. "And shall I never again be parted
from you?"
"No, my brave girl--never! You will help me to bring up my little sister
and young brother. I know your heart. When I say to you, 'I greatly wish
my poor little Amandine to grow up a virtuous and industrious woman.
Just talk to her about it, and show her what to do,' I am quite sure and
certain that you will be to her all the best mother could be to her own
child."
"Oh, thanks, Martial,--thanks, thanks!"
"We shall live like honest workpeople. Never fear but we shall find
work; for we will toil like slaves to content our employers; but, at
least, these children will not be depraved and degraded beings like
their parents. I shall not continually hear myself taunted with my
father and brother's disgraceful end, neither shall I go through streets
where you are known. But what is the matter,--what ails you?"
"Oh, Martial, I feel as though I should go mad."
"Mad!--for what?"
"For joy."
"And why should you go mad with joy?"
"Because--because,--it is too much--"
"What?"
"I mean that what you propose is too great happiness for one like me to
hope for. Oh, indeed, indeed, it is more than I can bear! But who knows?
Perhaps saving La Goualeuse has brought me good luck,--that's it, I am
sure and certain."
"Still, I ask you, what is the matter, and why are you thus agitated?"
exclaimed Martial.
"Oh, Martial, Martial, the very thing you have been proposing--"
"Well?"
"I was going to ask you."
"To quit Paris?"
"Yes," replied she, in a hurried tone; "and to try your consent to
accompany you to the forests, where we should have a nice, neat little
house, and children whom I should love as La Louve would the children of
her man--or, if you would permit me," continued La Louve, in a faltering
voice, "instead of calling you 'my man,' to say 'my husband?' For,"
added she, confusedly and rapidly, "for without that change, we should
not obtain the place."
Martial, in his turn, regarded La Louve with deep astonishment, unable
to comprehend her meaning.
"What place are you speaking of?" said he, at length.
"Of that of gamekeeper."
"That I should have?"
"Yes."
"And who would give it to me?"
"The protector of the young girl I saved."
"They do not know me."
"But I have told her all about you, and she will recommend us to her
protector."
"And what have you told her about me?"
"Oh, Martial, can you not guess? Of what could I speak but of your
goodness--and my love for you?"
"My excellent Louve!"
"And then, you know, being in prison together makes folks talk to each
other, and open their hearts in the way of confidence. Besides which,
there was something so gentle and engaging about this young creature,
that I could not help feeling drawn towards her, even in spite of
myself; for I very quickly discovered she was a very different person to
such as you and I have been used to."
"And who is she?"
"I know not, neither can I guess; but certainly I never met with any one
like her. Bless you, she can read the very thoughts of your heart, the
same as if she were a fairy. I merely told her of my love for you, and
she immediately interested herself in us. She made me feel ashamed of my
past life; not by saying harsh and severe things,--you know very well
that would not have done much good with me,--but by talking of the
pleasures of a life passed in hard but peaceful labour, tranquilly
within the quiet shades of deep forests, where you might be occupied
according to your tastes and inclinations; only, instead of your being a
poacher, she made you a gamekeeper, and in place of my being only your
mistress, she pictured me as your true and lawful wife. And then we were
to have fine, healthy children who ran joyfully to meet you when you
returned at night, followed by your faithful dogs, and carrying your gun
on your shoulder. Then we all sat down so gay and happy, to eat our
supper beneath the cool shade of the large trees that overhung our
cottage door, while the fresh wind blew, and the moon peeped at us from
amongst the thick branches, and the little ones prattled and you related
to us all you had seen and done during the day, while wandering in the
forests; until, at last, cheerful and contented, we retired to rest, to
rise the following day, and with light hearts to recommence our labours.
I cannot tell you how it was, but I listened and listened to these
delightful pictures till I quite believed in their reality. I seemed
bound by a spell when she spoke of happiness like this, though I tried
ever so much against it. I always found it impossible to disbelieve that
it would surely come to pass. Oh, but you have no idea how beautifully
she described it all! I fancied I saw it--you--our children--our forest
home. I rubbed my eyes, but it was ever before them, although a waking
dream."
"Ah, yes!" said Martial, sighing; "that would, indeed, be a sweet and
pleasant life! Without being bad at heart, poor Francois has been quite
enough in the society of Calabash and Nicholas to make it far better he
should dwell in the solitude of woods and forests, rather than be
exposed to the further contamination of great towns. Amandine would help
you in your household duties, and I should make a capital gamekeeper,
from the very fact of my having been a poacher of some notoriety. I
should have you for my housekeeper and companion, my good Louve; and
then, as you know, we should have our children also. Bless their little
hearts, I doubt not our having a fine flock about us! And what more
could we wish for or desire? When once we got used to a forest life, it
would seem as though we had always lived there; and fifty or a hundred
years would glide away like a single day. But you must not talk to me of
such happiness; it makes one so full of sadness and regrets that it
cannot be realised. No, no, don't let us ever mention it again; because,
don't you see, La Louve, it comes over one like--I should soon work
myself up to madness if I allowed my thoughts to dwell on it."
"Ah, Martial, I let you go on because I thought I was quite as bad
myself. I said just those very words to La Goualeuse."
"Did you, really?"
"I did, indeed. For, after listening to all these tales of enchantment,
I said to her, 'What a pity, La Goualeuse, that these castles in the
air, as you call them, are not true!' And what do you think, Martial,"
asked La Louve, her eyes flashing with joy, "what do you think she
answered me?"
"I don't know."
"'Why,' said she, 'only let Martial marry you, and give me your promise
to live honestly and virtuously henceforward, and directly I quit the
prison I will exert myself to get the place I have been speaking of for
him.'"
"Get me a gamekeeper's place?"
"Yes; I declare to you, Martial, she said so."
"Oh, but as you say, that can be but a dream--a mere fancy. If, indeed,
nothing were requisite for our obtaining the place but our being
married, my good girl, that should be done to-morrow, if I had the
means; though, from this very day and hour, I consider you as my true
and lawful wife."
"Oh, Martial! I your lawful wife?"
"The only woman who shall ever bear that title. And, for the future, I
wish you to call me 'husband;' for such I am in word and heart, as
firmly and lastingly as though we had been before the _maire_."
"Oh, La Goualeuse was right. A woman feels so proud and happy to say 'My
husband!' Oh, Martial, you shall see what a good, faithful, devoted wife
I will be to you; how hard I will work! Oh, I shall be so delighted to
labour for you!"
"And do you really think there is any chance of our getting this place?"
"If the poor dear Goualeuse deceives herself about it, it is that others
deceive her; for she seemed quite sure of being able to fulfil her
promises. And besides, when I was quitting the prison a little while
ago, the inspectress told me that the protectors of La Goualeuse, who
were people of rank and consequence, had removed her from confinement
that very day. Now that proved her having powerful friends; so that she
can keep her word to us if she likes."
"But," cried Martial, suddenly rising, "I don't know what we have been
thinking of all this time!"
"Thinking about--what do you mean, Martial?"
"Why, the poor girl you saved from drowning is down-stairs--perhaps
dying; and, instead of rendering her any assistance, we are attending to
our own affairs up-stairs."
"Make yourself perfectly easy; Francois and Amandine are there watching
her, and they would have come to call us had there been any danger or
necessity. Still you are right; let us go to her. You must see her to
whom we shall, perhaps, owe all our future happiness."
And Martial, supported by La Louve, descended to the lower part of the
house. Before they have reached the kitchen, let us in a few words
describe what had occurred there from the time when Fleur-de-Marie had
been confided to the charge of the two children.