else. Has one ever seen anything like? You believed perhaps that I was
going to lodge you and keep you for your pretty face? No, my dear. I have
been done already in that way, and you don't catch me any more. There was a
respectable gentleman, very polite, rich, and wearing a red ribbon, who was
answerable for you, if you had been willing to make an arrangement with
him; but instead of making an arrangement with him, you have a dispute; so
much the worse for you, your family quarrels don't concern me. What I want
is the money, that is all that I know; pay me my bill and get out, you
little prostitute.
--Come, dear Madame, I will try and arrange this little matter, said
Monsieur Tibulle, appearing again; the little one is going to think better
of it, I feel sure. Let me reason with her.
Madame Connard withdrew complacently.
--You see, you see in what a position you are placing yourself, said the
excellent old gentleman, crossing his arms and looking at the young girl
with all the dignity and sorrow of a father who has detected his child in
some shameful act.
--Say rather into what an ambush you have driven me, you old scoundrel.
--Oh, oh, oh! no bad word, my girl. Bad words are no use. I am going away
to pay the bill.
--A fig for you and your money.
--What! a fig for me and my money! In the first place you should never
despise money, my girl; we can do nothing without money in this world. And
then you are wrong to despise me, who only wish you well, my dear; yes,
yes, wish you well.
--I tell you to leave me alone.
--Look now, don't be naughty, for I am going to settle the matter.
--I don't want you. Don't touch me....
--And how are you going to get yourself out of this scrape, if you will not
let me get you out. You rebuff me again, though I only want to make you
happy.
--I tell you not to come near me.
--Come, be pacified, you little angry cat; only a kiss and that shall be
all.
He wanted to take hold of her waist, but she pushed him back. But he had
gone too far to believe that he ought to beat a retreat, and he retained to
the charge with renewed vigour. In the struggle she seized him by the neck,
his waistcoat came undone, and a little square bit of painted canvas, of a
dubious colour, remained in her hand. She threw it back in his face in
disgust.
--My scapular! he cried. You throw my scapular about in this way. Stay, you
are a little wretch, a street-walker, a hussy, a reprobate. You will perish
miserably, and I leave you to your fate. Ah, you throw away my scapular!
When he had said this, the good gentleman piously recovered his scapular,
buttoned up his overcoat, and retired full of dignity.
XCIII.
FROM THE DARK TO THE FAIR.
"Moderation should preside over
pleasure: let us seek in new pleasures
a refuge against the satiety of our
souls."
KALVOS DE ZANTE (_Odes nouvelles_).
Zulma had remembered Marcel and had gone to him boldly.
--You have been crying then, my child? said the priest who noticed her red
eyes.
The young girl in a few words informed him of her adventure.
--Who would ever have believed that? she said. Such a kind man! Such an
obliging lady! The old gentleman said to me at Vic: "I shall not concern
myself about you if you do not go to Confession, if you do not receive the
Communion, if you do not say your prayers." Whom can one trust?
And that Madame Connard: "Eat what you like, and don't stand on ceremony.
Monsieur Tibulle wishes it so. Old men are made to pay." And with all these
fine words, I owe her ten _francs_.
Marcel could not help laughing at the girl's artlessness.
--Then you have come to ask me for them.
--Yes, said Zulma blushing; have I not done right? She has kept my
band-box, the old thief; what it contains is not worth ten _francs_, but I
don't want to leave it with her.
--And what will you give me in exchange?
--Everything you want.
--That is a great deal to promise; but you have nothing.
--It is true, I have nothing, she said piteously. Well, I will kiss you and
will love you very much. One may kiss a Curé, may one not?
Marcel thought she was getting to business very quickly.
--Priests do not receive kisses from anybody, he replied.
--From nobody? not even from a sister?
--But you are not my sister.
--Well, I will be your comrade.
--No more do they have a comrade.
--Oh, well, if I were a man I should not like to be in your position; one
must get awfully tired of being all alone. What are you able to do all the
blessed day? For my part, in the first place I must have a lover.
--Ha, ha! and who is your lover?
--A rider at the Loyal Circus. A handsome boy too. A tall dark fellow like
you. He is a little too proud, but I like that in a man.
--And for how long has he been your lover?
--Ever since I have seen him. It is nearly two years ago at the fête at
Mirecourt. Our booth was beside the Circus.
--Two years! cried Marcel: but at what age did you begin?
--Begin what? to dance on the tight-rope?
--To have lovers.
--But I have only had one, and that is he.
--Well, how old were you when you had him?
--I have never had him.
--Look, dear child, you have told me that you are sixteen.
--Yes, sir.
--Then you began at fourteen.
--Began what?
--With your lover.
--We never began anything. I have told you that he was too proud. I wanted
to speak to him once, and he answered, "Go along."
--But he is not your lover.
--But he is, because I love him.
--And you have not had others.
--No, because I love him.
--Well, you are a good girl, and if what you have said is true, you are
worth your weight in gold.
--My weight in gold! cried Zulma laughing; then buy me, for it is true, and
I shall be rich.
--But how shall I know if what you say is true?
--Ah, that is embarrassing, she said thoughtfully. What can I do to prove
it?
--I believe you without proof. But I am not rich enough to pay you.
--It doesn't matter, to you I give myself for nothing.
Marcel was bewildered and hurriedly gave her the ten _francs_.
--How kind you are; I should like all the same to do something for you.
--You wish to please me? Well, remain good.
--Only that! And till when?
--Until I give you permission not to be so any longer.
--I will certainly.
She took a few steps towards the door, opened it, then turning back
suddenly, she advanced her bust, as though she were making a bow to the
crowd, and placing the tips of her fingers on her lips, she wafted a
gracious kiss to the priest.
--There is pleasant and easy love-making, said Marcel to himself. Why did I
not know it sooner?
He ran to the door.
--Wait, my child. Where are you going to sleep to-night? It is late. Have
you a lodging?
--Stay, my word no, I had forgotten it.
--This is what you will do. First, settle your account with this landlady,
without making allusion to anything. A scandal must always be avoided.
Monsieur Tibulle is a man, highly esteemed, with a considerable position in
the world, and anything you might say against him, would only turn against
you. Do not tell this story then to anybody; and do not tell anybody that
you know me. Now take these two _louis_, my dear child, and buy yourself a
few little articles of dress. You must be dressed properly. Go, and come
back here. Monsieur Patin!
The landlord appeared.
--Monsieur Patin, said Marcel, I confide this young person to you, or
rather, to Madame Patin here. She has been recommended specially to me by
some ladies of high rank. She is going to fetch her small articles of
luggage, and will soon be back again. Be careful of her. Give her a room
and her meals; I am answerable for her. Mademoiselle, I shall see you again
to-morrow.
What were Marcel's intentions?
Had he felt the appetite for the unknown awakening?
He who had just poured forth his bitterness upon woman and upon love, had
be come to the conclusion in the presence of this stranger that he could
not do without woman or without love!
But the other?
The other was not there, and the absent are in the wrong.
Could this one make him forget the other? Could a new fancy destroy the
strong love which bound him and was ruining him? Could a love facile and
without risk soothe the hidden mischief and diminish the fury of a
dangerous passion? She had all that was required for that, this little fair
girl with the tempting lips.
Like Suzanne she was young and charming, like Suzanne she would be loving,
and unlike Suzanne, she would be submissive.
Her eyes swimming in their azure, her aquiline nose with its mobile
nostrils, her scarlet fleshly lips, her golden hair like ripened corn, her
rosy cheeks in which coursed health and life, the slimness of her waist,
the delicacy and whiteness of her hand; it all said: Love me.
And she was a fresh woman ... a fresh woman, eternal temptation.
When he returned to the hotel, he found the Comtesse anxiously waiting for
him.
With a smile she handed a large packet, sealed with the episcopal arms.
It was his nomination to the Curé of St. Marie. He would have to take
possession of it immediately.
XCIV.
THE CHANGE.
"Prayer on that day is said within the gothic church,
The old men mourn beneath the ancient oak.
Resisted are the games but just begun.
The village maidens will no longer dance."
MME. DE GIRARDIN (_Elgire_).
The worshippers at Althausen were much surprised the next day to see a
priest whom they did not know, officiating without ceremony in the place of
their Curé. He was stout and plain, with an inflamed face, bloated lips, a
cynical look, and a thundering voice: he said Mass in such a hasty and
indecorous manner that they went away scandalized. The handsome Marcel
certainly was no longer there, with his sweet and unctuous voice, his
evangelic piety, and his eyes which stirred their hearts.
The report spread through the village that the handsome Curé had gone away,
and all the gossips at bay grouped in the market-place and watched for
Veronica to assail her with questions. But the old maid-servant to her
mortification knew no more about it than the gossips. She ventured to
interrogate her new master, but he slapped her on the back and sent her
away to her kitchen-stove.
--He is disgusting, this old fellow, she said. For my part I am not going
to remain here. I prefer the Corporal.
Durand had just sat down at table with his daughter, when Marianne with a
scared air, looked at Suzanne in a mysterious way, and said to the Captain:
--Do you know? Monsieur le Curé has gone away.
--Pleasant journey, said Durand.
--There is a new Curé already in his place. He said Mass this morning.
--A new Curé, cried Suzanne; then he has gone away not to return again?
--Gone away without hope of coming back, said the Captain, that is
discouraging! It surprises you then, little girl, that the handsome priest
has disappeared with neither drum nor trumpet, and with no touching
farewells to his flock. For my part, I am not surprised at it, and I wager
that he has committed some act of blackguardism, and has absconded.
--Oh, father!
--He has not absconded, Marianne said quickly; he went away on Friday very
quietly with another Curé.
--Let him go to the devil!
Suzanne had difficulty in hiding her palor and her distress. She pretended
to have a head-ache, left the table, ran to her room and burst into tears.
Why this decisive departure? Why had she not received a single warning from
Marcel? No doubt, he had done it for the best, but that best was
incomprehensible to her; her heart was broken, and her self-love received a
cruel wound.
Soon the news arrived. The new Curé announced Marcel's change in the
sermon, and said farewell for him to his parishioners. Everybody was in
consternation. He might have announced the seven plagues of Egypt.
For her part Marianne received a mysterious packet which was intended for
Suzanne. The priest, in cautious terms informed her of his change, and said
it was necessary to wait. Wait for what? Suzanne waited.
But one morning she awoke full of dismay; she had felt something give a
start in her entrails. She wrote a long letter to Marcel, and Marcel
answered: Wait.
Wait for what? She waited again.
XCV.
THE CURÉ OF ST. MARIE.
"The white ground and the gloomy sky
Blended their heads sepulchral;
The rough north winds of winter
Breathed to the heart despair."
CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Poèmes parisiens_).
Weeks and then months passed away. One rainy winter's evening a young
woman, in deep mourning, with her face covered with a thick veil, stopped
at the Curé of St. Marie's door.
She had hesitated for a long time; several times she had passed in front of
the tall gray house, casting a furtive glance on the lofty windows,
slackening her walk and seeming to say: "Ought I to go in? Yes, I must go
in." But each time she pursued her way again. At length, as the rain kept
falling ever colder as night came on, she controlled herself by en effort,
slowly retraced her step and rang gently.
The door was opened at once, and an old woman with a face the colour of
leather, invited her in mysteriously, "Whom shall I announce?" she
asked.--"Do not announce me. I am expected."
The old woman smiled discreetly and showed her into a large parlour, the
door of which she closed upon her.
It was a bare wainscoted room, gloomy, lighted by two candle-ends.
A _prie-Dieu_, a table, some straw chairs, a few rows of old books on
shelves painted black, composed all the furniture.
A large crucifix of wood which stretched its thin arms from one window to
the other, contributed no little to give a sorrowful and monastic look to
the room.
The young girl approached the chimney-piece, where a few brands were
burning at the bottom of a huge grate. She shivered, perhaps more from
emotion than from cold, for she remained there, thoughtful, forgetting even
to warm her feet, soaked by the rain.
A door opened soon at the other end of the room and Marcel entered.
He had greatly changed during these few months.
His eye shot forth a gloomy fire, his cheeks were hollow, and numerous
threads of silver showed themselves in his dark locks. It was evident that
anxiety, watchings and cares, contended on his wrinkled brow.
At the sight of the young woman he assumed a livid palor.
--You, he murmured in a stifled voice, you here, Mademoiselle?
--I am, replied Suzanne; did you not reckon then on seeing me again?
--Not now, dear child, I confess to you. I had said to you: Wait.
--And I have waited. And weary of waiting, I decided to come and to know
finally from your own mouth what I must wait for, and on what I most count.
But ... sir.... I am tired: will you allow me to sit down?
--Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I mean to say, dear Suzanne, but your coming has
filled me with such confusion....
He handed her a chair, and sat down facing her.
--Ah! dear child, you do not know with what cares I am overwhelmed.
--They must indeed be very serious, sir, since they have made you forgetful
of your duties, even to the care of your honour and of mine ... for the
moment is approaching when I shall no longer he able to hide the
consequences of your....
--Of our fault, dear Suzanne, of both our faults. Do not overwhelm me
alone, for it was your pretty face which made me mad. But is it really
possible? Can it be true? what, you are....
--I have let you know it, sir, a long time ago, and you have not deigned to
give any answer on that subject. I have read and read again your letters
many times, seeking for a word which might console me, for a hope, for a
light, but there was nothing. You have told me to wait; you have tried,
like a coward, to gain time, you have reckoned on something unforeseen
occurring, which might settle the question without your aid ... and you
would have washed your hands of it in peace in your broad conscience. But
the time has gone on, the unexpected has not come, and now here I am, and I
come to ask you: What do you intend to do with me?
--In truth, dear Suzanne, I had not believed ... Ah, you are more beautiful
than ever ... No, I had not believed that the case was so desperate.
--You have not believed. No doubt, amidst your life of lies, surrounded by
hypocrites and criminals, you have included me charitably in the number,
and supposed that I lied.
--Suzanne, dear Suzanne, do not be offended ... I believed that you wished
to terrify me ... Ah, how lovely you are like this ... Ah, it is a terrible
misfortune. We must guard against it. And your father, does he suspect?
--Not yet, sir, but the moment is approaching when I shall no longer be
able to hide the truth.
--It is true then. What is to be done? What is to be done?
--Stop; you would make me laugh, if I did not pity you. I am come to ask
you, for the last time, if I ought to count upon you.
--Count upon me? But, my dear child, upon whom would you count if not upon
me? There is no doubt but that you have only me to count on. I am your
friend, your only friend. Always the same, dear Suzanne. I am ready for
anything, in order to get you out of this scrape. But judge yourself. I am
observed by all here, the slightest report would re-echo terribly and would
ruin me. I am surrounded by those who envy me and consequently are my
enemies. In a year or two, perhaps, I may be Grand-Vicar. You see how
careful I have to be of my position. I will do everything, be well assured
of it, it is my interest as well as yours, but I cannot do the impossible.
What do you ask?
--You have a short memory, sir, but I remember, I remember with what
infernal art you induced me, not to yield to you--for you well know, and
God is witness to it, that I yielded only to violence--but to listen to you
with a too trustful ear. No, I see you do not remember it: you have
forgotten so many things that it would be lost time to try and refresh your
memory. You do not answer? For in truth, sir, the parts are strangely
altered, and if I am ashamed of it for myself, I blush still more for your
sake. But since you are so careful of your future and of your fortune, I am
come to tell you this: I am rich, sir, do not then fear anything, do not
dread poverty; I have inherited from an aunt, who leaves me enough to
provide me with a husband. But what I want is a father for my child....
--Mademoiselle, dear and fondly-loved Suzanne, yes, ever fondly-loved
Suzanne, I am full of confusion and remorse; I thank you from the bottom of
my heart for your generous offer ... but ... can I accept it? I make you
the judge of it yourself. Do I belong to myself? I am the Church's, bound
from head to foot, body and soul; not a thought belongs to myself, I am but
the infinitesimal portion of an immense wheel which carries me away in
spite of myself. How can I loosen myself from the gear? Can I do it? Can I
defy such a scandal? My honour, my dignity as a man....
--Ah, you are appealing to your honour now ... but, sir, your duty, is not
that your honour? And what is your duty? Stay, you are a wretch....
As she uttered these words, a young girl's head, fair, charming, rosy
looked inquisitively through the half-open door. Suzanne saw it and grew
pale. Her brows contracted and a bitter smile passed across her lips.
--I understand, she said, I understand your hesitation, your honour and
your scruples. Farewell, sir....
And she went out, without turning her head, stifling her sobs.
Marcel followed her with his eyes, and ran to the door:
--Suzanne, Mademoiselle, to-morrow you shall have an answer. Another
word...
She made no reply and he heard the street-door close.
A tear rolled to the edge of his eyelid.
He rushed to the window to call her back, but a hand laid hold of his and
the fair girl stood before him.
--Well, Monsieur my uncle, well! And who is that handsome dark girl?
--Ah, my poor Zulma, do not be jealous of her.
--I am jealous of everything, and I want to know.
XCVI.
FINIS CORONAT OPUS.
"No mortal can foresee his fate
Let none despair. Comrades, good night."
BYRON (_Mazeppa_).
The following evening, the canal toll-collector on the Malzeville road
discerned a black shadow which, despite the icy rain, remained for a long
time leaning on the parapet of the turn-bridge, then all at once
disappeared. He called for help and, a few minutes afterwards, they drew
out of the water the body of a young girl of remarkable beauty.
A portion of a letter was found upon her which at first aroused a thousand
comments.
This is what was written:
"I have just celebrated the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and during the
Elevation, I prayed God to inspire me with a good idea. I likewise asked of
the Queen of Angels what I could do for this unfortunate one. The
All-pitying God and the Mother chaste and pure hearkened to me. Let my
sister in Jesus Christ whose image will never be effaced from the heart of
her spiritual friend, go and knock at the gate of the Convent of Our Lady
of the Seven Sorrows, in the parish of St. Marie; there, the cares which
her interesting condition demand, will be afforded her. It will be easy to
explain her temporary absence, and, in case of need, to obtain the
permission of a parent who wished to place an obstacle in the way of this
pious necessity. Divine Providence will assist in this as it assists all
those who have recourse to it. The ladies of the Seven Sorrows are
informed, and they await the new sheep with mothers' and sisters' hearts.
"Let it be thus done in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the
Holy Ghost:
"Jesus, Mary, Joseph."
On applying at the Convent of the Seven Sorrows, the good sisters said that
in fact they had received a letter, sealed with the episcopal arms,
announcing the arrival of a young lady. They were unable to say more.
Monseigneur, when questioned, summoned the Abbé Marcel who gave the
examining magistrate the most satisfactory explanations, acknowledging that
he was the author of the letter, and that she was a young girl whose honour
he desired to save.
This event did the greatest good to the reputation of the former Curé of
Althausen. His discretion, his wisdom and his virtue were lauded more than
ever.
[Illustration]
Afterword.
OTHER WORKS IN ENGLISH
BY HECTOR FRANCE
MANSOUR'S CHASTISEMENT;
THE ATTACK ON THE BROTHELS;
MUSK, HASHISH AND BLOOD;
THE DAUGHTER OF THE CHRIST;
UNDER THE BURNOUS.
THE AUTHOR AND HIS WORKS.
Hector France alighted upon this planet some fifty years ago and chose his
home in the midst of a family renowned for generations as fighters. From
this preliminary statement we may deduce two facts: firstly, that baby
Hector was not destined by his stern-visaged, paternal sire for any other
than the martial profession, and secondly, that the squealing youngster of
those days is now a man in the prime of life.
Strongly-built, upright and vigorous, Hector France looks every inch just
what he really is--a Soldier and a Gentleman, as ready to handle the Sword
as to smite smooth-faced Lie and Hypocrisy with the Pen.
The qualities of his mind are faithfully delineated in his features. He has
the same leonine look that distinguished the famous English iconoclast,
Charles Bradlaugh. The massive brow, the firm, determined jaw, the large,
luminous eyes, the wavy hair and big shoulders would anywhere mark him out
at once, though unknown, as a Philosopher, Fighter, Orator and Leader of
men. The career of the two men also offers points in common.
If Charles Bradlaugh was a soldier so was Hector France, with the
difference that the latter really did face sabre-flash and cannon-smoke
whereas his English prototype early bought himself out of the Service. Both
men, too, mixed in the game of Politics, only Bradlaugh's luck landed him
at last in Parliament while France led a forlorn hope that ended, after
many a narrow escape for life, in twenty years of weary exile from his
beloved country. Finally both men hold nearly identical opinions with
regard to Religious Questions, only Bradlaugh imagined he had a special
mission to assail the world's historic faiths, and Hector France, like
Ernest Renan, smiles in a curious Oriental way, when these things are
broached, quite content for you to believe anything you please so that you
do not bother him overmuch with your reasons.