THE PORTRAIT.
Thomas Seyton, the brother of the Countess Sarah Macgregor, was walking
impatiently on the boulevards near the Observatory, when he saw the
Chouette arrive. The horrible beldame had on a white cap and her usual
plaid shawl. The point of a stiletto, as round as a thick swan's quill,
and very sharp, having perforated a hole at the bottom of her large
straw basket which she carried on her arm, the extremity of this
murderous weapon, which had belonged to the Schoolmaster, might be seen
projecting. Thomas Seyton did not perceive that the Chouette was armed.
"It has just struck three by the Luxembourg," said the old woman. "Here
I am, like the hand of the clock."
"Come," replied Thomas Seyton. And, preceding her, he crossed some open
fields; and turning down a deserted alley near the Rue Cassini, he
stopped half way down the lane, which was barred by a turnstile, opened
a small door, motioned to the Chouette to follow him; and, after having
advanced with her a few steps down a path overgrown by thick trees, he
said, "Wait here," and disappeared.
"That is, if you don't keep me on the 'waiting lay' too long," responded
the Chouette; "for I must be at Bras Rouge's at five o'clock to meet the
Martials, and help silence the diamond-matcher. It's very well I have my
'gulley' (poniard). Oh, the vagabond, he has got his nose out of
window!" added the hag, as she saw the point of the stiletto coming
through the seam in the basket. And taking the weapon, which had a
wooden handle, from the basket, she replaced it so that it was
completely concealed. "This is _fourline's_ tool," she continued, "and
he has asked me for it so many times to kill the rats who came skipping
about him in his cellar. Poor things! They have no one but the old blind
man to divert them and keep them company. They ought not to be hurt if
they play about a bit; and so I will not let him hurt the dears, and I
keep his tool to myself. Besides, I shall soon want it for this woman,
perhaps. Thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds,--what a 'haul' for
each of us! It'll be a good day's work, and not like that of the other
day with that old notary whom I thought to squeeze. It was no use to
threaten him if he would not 'stand some blunt' that I would lay
information that it was his housekeeper who had sent La Goualeuse to me
by Tournemine when she was a little brat. Nothing frightened the old
brute, he called me an old hag, and shoved me out-of-doors. Well, well,
I'll send an anonymous letter to these people at the farm where
Pegriotte was, to inform them that it was the notary who formerly
abandoned her to me. Perhaps they know her family; and when she gets out
of St. Lazare, why, the matter will get too hot for that old brute,
Jacques Ferrand. Some one comes,--ah, it is the pale lady who was
dressed in men's clothes at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, and with
the tall fellow who just left me, the same that the _fourline_ and I
robbed by the excavations near Notre-Dame," added the Chouette, as she
saw Sarah appear at the extremity of the walk. "Here's another job for
me, I see; and this little lady must have something to do with our
having carried off La Goualeuse from the farm. If she pays well for
another job of work, why, that will be 'the ticket.'"
As Sarah approached the Chouette, whom she saw again for the first time
since their rencontre at the _tapis-franc_, her countenance expressed
the disdain, the disgust, which persons of a certain rank feel when they
come in contact with low wretches whom they take as tools or
accomplices.
Thomas Seyton, who, until now, had actively served the criminal
machinations of his sister, although he considered them as all but
futile, had refused any longer to continue this contemptible part,
consenting, nevertheless, for the first and last time to put his sister
in communication with the Chouette, without himself interfering in the
fresh projects they might plan. The countess, unable to win back Rodolph
to her by breaking the bonds or the affections which she believed so
dear to him, hoped, as we have seen, to render him the dupe of a base
deceit, the success of which might realise the vision of this obstinate,
ambitious, and cruel woman. Her design was to persuade Rodolph that
their daughter was not dead, and to substitute an orphan for the child.
We know that Jacques Ferrand--having formally refused to participate in
this plot in spite of Sarah's menaces--had resolved to make away with
Fleur-de-Marie, as much from the fear of the Chouette's disclosure, as
from fear of the obstinate persistence of the countess. But the latter
had by no means abandoned her design, feeling persuaded that she should
corrupt or intimidate the notary when she should be assured of having
obtained a young girl capable of filling the character which she desired
her to assume.
After a moment's silence Sarah said to the Chouette, "You are adroit,
discreet, and resolute?"
"Adroit as a monkey, resolute as a bulldog, and mute as a fish; such is
the Chouette, and such the devil made her; at your service if you want
her,--and you do," replied the old wretch, quickly. "I hope we have
managed well with the young country wench who is now in St. Lazare for
two good months."
"We are not talking of her, but of something else."
"Anything you please, my handsome lady, provided there's money at the
end of what you mean to propose, and then we shall be as right as my
fingers."
Sarah could not control a movement of disgust. "You must know," she
resumed, "many people in the lower ranks of life,--persons who are in
misfortune?"
"There are more of them than there are of millionaires; you may pick and
choose. We have plentiful wretchedness in Paris."
"I want to meet with a poor orphan girl, and particularly if she lost
her parents young. She must be good-looking, of gentle disposition, and
not more than seventeen years of age."
The Chouette gazed at Sarah with amazement.
"Such an orphan girl must be by no means difficult to meet with,"
continued the countess; "there are so many foundling children!"
"Why, my good lady, you forget La Goualeuse. She is the very thing."
"Who is La Goualeuse?"
"The young thing we carried off from Bouqueval."
"We are not talking of her now, I tell you."
"But hear me, and be sure you pay me well for my advice. You want an
orphan girl, as quiet as a lamb, as handsome as daylight, and who is
only seventeen, you say?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then, take La Goualeuse when she leaves St. Lazare; she is the
very thing for you, as if we had made her on purpose. For she was about
six years of age when that scamp, Jacques Ferrand (and it's now ten
years ago), gave her to me with a thousand francs, in order to get rid
of her,--that is to say, it was Tournemine, who is now at the galleys at
Rochefort, who brought her to me, saying there was no doubt she was
some child they wanted to get rid of or pass off for dead."
"Jacques Ferrand, do you say?" exclaimed Sarah, in a voice so choked
that the Chouette receded several paces. "The notary, Jacques Ferrand,
gave you this child--and--?" She could not finish, her emotion was too
violent; and with her two clasped hands extended towards the Chouette,
she trembled convulsively, surprise and joy agitating her features.
"I don't know what it is that makes you so much in earnest, my good
lady," replied the old hag; "but it is a very simple story. Ten years
ago Tournemine, an old pal of mine, said to me: 'Have you a mind to take
charge of a little girl that they want to get out of the way? No matter
whether she slips her wind or not. There's a thousand francs for the
job, and do what you like with the 'kinchin.'"
"Ten years ago?" cried Sarah.
"Ten years."
"A little fair girl?"
"A little fair girl."
"With blue eyes?"
"Blue eyes--as blue as blue bells."
"And it was she who was at the farm?"
"And we packed her up and carted her off to St. Lazare. I must say,
though, that I didn't expect to find her--Pegriotte--in the country as I
did, though."
"Oh, _mon Dieu!_ _mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Sarah, falling on her knees, and
elevating her hands and eyes to heaven, "Thy ways are inscrutable, and I
bow down before thy providence! Oh, if such happiness be possible! But,
no, I cannot yet believe it; it would be too fortunate! No!" Then rising
suddenly she said to the Chouette, who was gazing at her with the utmost
astonishment, "Follow me!" And Sarah walked before her with hasty steps.
At the end of the alley she ascended several steps that led by a glass
door to a small room sumptuously furnished. At the moment when the
Chouette was about to enter, Sarah made a sign to her to remain outside,
and then rang the bell violently. A servant appeared.
"I am not at home to anybody, and let no one enter here,--no one, do you
hear?"
The servant bowed and retired. Sarah, for the sake of greater security,
pushed to the bolt. The Chouette heard the order given to the servant,
and saw Sarah fasten the bolt. The countess then turning towards her,
said: "Come in quickly, and shut the door."
The Chouette did as she was bidden.
Hastily opening a _secretaire_, Sarah took from it an ebony coffer,
which she placed on a writing-table in the centre of the room, and
beckoned the Chouette towards her. The coffer was filled with small
caskets lying one upon the other, and containing splendid jewelry. Sarah
was in so much haste to arrive at the bottom of the coffer, that she
hastily scattered over the table these jewel-cases, splendidly filled
with necklaces, bracelets, tiaras of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds,
which sparkled with a thousand fires.
The Chouette was dazzled. She was armed, was alone with the countess;
escape was easy--certain. An infernal idea shot through the brain of
this monster. But to put this new crime into execution it was necessary
to extricate her stiletto from her basket, and approach Sarah without
exciting her suspicions.
With the craft of the tiger-cat, who grovels along treacherously towards
its prey, the beldame profited by the countess's preoccupation to move
imperceptibly around the table which separated her from her victim. The
Chouette had already begun her perfidious movement, when she was
compelled suddenly to stop short. Sarah took a locket from the bottom of
the box, leaned over the table, and, handing it to the Chouette with a
trembling hand, said:
"Look at this portrait."
"It is Pegriotte!" exclaimed the Chouette, struck with the strong
resemblance; "it is the little girl who was handed to me! I think I see
her just as she was when Tournemine brought her to me. That's just like
her long curling hair, which I cut off and sold directly, _ma foi!_"
"You recognise her; it is really she? Oh, I conjure you, do not deceive
me--do not deceive me!"
"I tell you, my good lady, it is Pegriotte, as if I saw herself there,"
said the Chouette, trying to draw nearer to Sarah without being
remarked. "And even now she is very like this portrait; if you saw her
you would be struck by the likeness."
Sarah had not uttered one cry of pain or alarm when she learned that her
daughter had been for ten years leading a wretched existence, forsaken
as she was. Not one feeling of remorse was there when she reflected that
she herself had snatched her away disastrously from the peaceful retreat
in which Rodolph had placed her. This unnatural mother did not eagerly
question the Chouette with terrible anxiety as to the past life of the
child. No! In her heart ambition had long since stifled every sentiment
of maternal tenderness. It was not joy at again being restored to a lost
daughter that transported her,--it was the hope of seeing at length
realised the vain dream of her whole existence. Rodolph had felt deeply
interested in this unfortunate girl, had protected her without knowing
her; what would then be his feelings when he discovered that she
was--his daughter? He was free--the countess was a widow! Sarah already
saw the sovereign crown sparkling on her brow.
The Chouette, still stealing on with slow steps, had at length reached
one end of the table, and had her stiletto perpendicularly in her
basket, its handle on a level with the opening, and within her clutch.
She was but a step or two from the countess.
"Do you know how to write?" inquired Sarah of her; and, pushing from her
the casket and gems, she opened a blotting-book, which was by an
inkstand.
"No, madame; I do not!" replied the Chouette, at all risks.
"I will write, then, at your dictation. Tell me all the circumstances of
the abandonment of this little girl."
And Sarah, sitting in an armchair before the writing-table, took up a
pen, and made a sign to the Chouette to come close to her. The old
wretch's one eye sparkled. At last she was standing up, close to the
seat on which Sarah was sitting, and, stooping over a table, was
preparing to write.
"I will read aloud, and then," said the countess, "you can correct any
mistakes."
"Yes, madame," replied the Chouette, narrowly watching every motion of
Sarah; and she furtively introduced her hand into her basket, that she
might be able to grasp the poniard without being observed.
The countess commenced writing.
"I declare that--"
Then interrupting herself, and turning towards the Chouette, who was at
the moment touching the handle of her poniard, Sarah added:
"At what period was the child brought to you?"
"In the month of February, 1827."
"And by whom?" continued Sarah, turning towards the Chouette.
"By Pierre Tournemine, now at the galleys at Rochefort. It was Madame
Seraphin, the notary's housekeeper, who brought the young girl to him."
The countess continued writing, and then read aloud:
"I declare that, in the month of February, 1827, a person named--"
The Chouette had drawn the poniard; already had she raised her arm to
strike her victim between the shoulders; Sarah turned again. The
Chouette, that she might not be off her guard, leaned her right hand,
armed as it was, on the back of Sarah's armchair, and then stooped
towards her, as if in attitude to reply to her question.
"Tell me again the name of the man who handed the child to you?" said
the countess.
"Pierre Tournemine," repeated Sarah, as she wrote it down, "at this time
at the galleys of Rochefort, brought me a child, which had been confided
to him by the housekeeper of--"
The countess could not finish. The Chouette having got rid of her basket
by allowing it to slide from her arm onto the floor, threw herself on
the countess with equal fury and rapidity; and having grasped the back
of her neck with her left hand, forced her face down on the table, and
then with her right hand drove the stiletto in between her two
shoulders.
This atrocious assassination was so promptly effected that the countess
did not utter a cry--a moan. Still sitting, she remained with her head
and the front of her body on the table. Her pen fell from her fingers.
"Just the very blow which _fourline_ gave the little old man in the Rue
du Roule!" said the monster. "One more who will never wag tongue again!
Her account is settled!" And the Chouette, gathering up the jewels
together, huddled them into her basket, not perceiving that her victim
still breathed.
The murder and robbery effected, the horrid old devil opened the glass
door, ran swiftly along the tree-covered path, went out by the small
side door, and reached the lone tract of ground. Near the Observatory
she took a hackney-coach, which drove her to Bras-Rouge's in the Champs
Elysees.
The widow Martial, Nicholas, Calabash, and Barbillon had, as we know, an
appointment with the Chouette in this den of infamy, in order to rob and
murder the diamond-matcher.