“I have told you that I heard much of this story from a friend of the
Intendant of the De Crequys, whom he met with in London. Some years
afterwards—the summer before my lord’s death—I was travelling with him
in Devonshire, and we went to see the French prisoners of war on
Dartmoor. We fell into conversation with one of them, whom I found out
to be the very Pierre of whom I had heard before, as having been involved
in the fatal story of Clement and Virginie, and by him I was told much of
their last days, and thus I learnt how to have some sympathy with all
those who were concerned in those terrible events; yes, even with the
younger Morin himself, on whose behalf Pierre spoke warmly, even after so
long a time had elapsed.
“For when the younger Morin called at the porter’s lodge, on the evening
of the day when Virginie had gone out for the first time after so many
months’ confinement to the conciergerie, he was struck with the
improvement in her appearance. It seems to have hardly been that he
thought her beauty greater: for, in addition to the fact that she was not
beautiful, Morin had arrived at that point of being enamoured when it
does not signify whether the beloved one is plain or handsome—she has
enchanted one pair of eyes, which henceforward see her through their own
medium. But Morin noticed the faint increase of colour and light in her
countenance. It was as though she had broken through her thick cloud of
hopeless sorrow, and was dawning forth into a happier life. And so,
whereas during her grief, he had revered and respected it even to a point
of silent sympathy, now that she was gladdened, his heart rose on the
wings of strengthened hopes. Even in the dreary monotony of this
existence in his Aunt Babette’s conciergerie, Time had not failed in his
work, and now, perhaps, soon he might humbly strive to help Time. The
very next day he returned—on some pretence of business—to the Hotel
Duguesclin, and made his aunt’s room, rather than his aunt herself, a
present of roses and geraniums tied up in a bouquet with a tricolor
ribbon. Virginie was in the room, sitting at the coarse sewing she liked
to do for Madame Babette. He saw her eyes brighten at the sight of the
flowers: she asked his aunt to let her arrange them; he saw her untie the
ribbon, and with a gesture of dislike, throw it on the ground, and give
it a kick with her little foot, and even in this girlish manner of
insulting his dearest prejudices, he found something to admire.
“As he was coming out, Pierre stopped him. The lad had been trying to
arrest his cousin’s attention by futile grimaces and signs played off
behind Virginie’s back: but Monsieur Morin saw nothing but Mademoiselle
Cannes. However, Pierre was not to be baffled, and Monsieur Morin found
him in waiting just outside the threshold. With his finger on his lips,
Pierre walked on tiptoe by his companion’s side till they would have been
long past sight or hearing of the conciergerie, even had the inhabitants
devoted themselves to the purposes of spying or listening.
“‘Chut!’ said Pierre, at last. ‘She goes out walking.’
“‘Well?’ said Monsieur Morin, half curious, half annoyed at being
disturbed in the delicious reverie of the future into which he longed to
fall.
“‘Well! It is not well. It is bad.’
“‘Why? I do not ask who she is, but I have my ideas. She is an
aristocrat. Do the people about here begin to suspect her?’
“‘No, no!’ said Pierre. ‘But she goes out walking. She has gone these
two mornings. I have watched her. She meets a man—she is friends with
him, for she talks to him as eagerly as he does to her—mamma cannot tell
who he is.’
“‘Has my aunt seen him?’
“‘No, not so much as a fly’s wing of him. I myself have only seen his
back. It strikes me like a familiar back, and yet I cannot think who it
is. But they separate with sudden darts, like two birds who have been
together to feed their young ones. One moment they are in close talk,
their heads together chuchotting; the next he has turned up some
bye-street, and Mademoiselle Cannes is close upon me—has almost caught
me.’
“‘But she did not see you?’ inquired Monsieur Morin, in so altered a
voice that Pierre gave him one of his quick penetrating looks. He was
struck by the way in which his cousin’s features—always coarse and
common-place—had become contracted and pinched; struck, too, by the
livid look on his sallow complexion. But as if Morin was conscious of
the manner in which his face belied his feelings, he made an effort, and
smiled, and patted Pierre’s head, and thanked him for his intelligence,
and gave him a five-franc piece, and bade him go on with his observations
of Mademoiselle Cannes’ movements, and report all to him.
“Pierre returned home with a light heart, tossing up his five-franc piece
as he ran. Just as he was at the conciergerie door, a great tall man
bustled past him, and snatched his money away from him, looking back with
a laugh, which added insult to injury. Pierre had no redress; no one had
witnessed the impudent theft, and if they had, no one to be seen in the
street was strong enough to give him redress. Besides, Pierre had seen
enough of the state of the streets of Paris at that time to know that
friends, not enemies, were required, and the man had a bad air about him.
But all these considerations did not keep Pierre from bursting out into a
fit of crying when he was once more under his mother’s roof; and
Virginie, who was alone there (Madame Babette having gone out to make her
daily purchases), might have imagined him pommeled to death by the
loudness of his sobs.
“‘What is the matter?’ asked she. ‘Speak, my child. What hast thou
done?’
“‘He has robbed me! he has robbed me!’ was all Pierre could gulp out.
“‘Robbed thee! and of what, my poor boy?’ said Virginie, stroking his
hair gently.
“‘Of my five-franc piece—of a five-franc piece,’ said Pierre, correcting
himself, and leaving out the word my, half fearful lest Virginie should
inquire how he became possessed of such a sum, and for what services it
had been given him. But, of course, no such idea came into her head, for
it would have been impertinent, and she was gentle-born.
“‘Wait a moment, my lad,’ and going to the one small drawer in the inner
apartment, which held all her few possessions, she brought back a little
ring—a ring just with one ruby in it—which she had worn in the days
when she cared to wear jewels. ‘Take this,’ said she, ‘and run with it
to a jeweller’s. It is but a poor, valueless thing, but it will bring
you in your five francs, at any rate. Go! I desire you.’
“‘But I cannot,’ said the boy, hesitating; some dim sense of honour
flitting through his misty morals.
“‘Yes, you must!’ she continued, urging him with her hand to the door.
‘Run! if it brings in more than five francs, you shall return the surplus
to me.’
“Thus tempted by her urgency, and, I suppose, reasoning with himself to
the effect that he might as well have the money, and then see whether he
thought it right to act as a spy upon her or not—the one action did not
pledge him to the other, nor yet did she make any conditions with her
gift—Pierre went off with her ring; and, after repaying himself his five
francs, he was enabled to bring Virginie back two more, so well had he
managed his affairs. But, although the whole transaction did not leave
him bound, in any way, to discover or forward Virginie’s wishes, it did
leave him pledged, according to his code, to act according to her
advantage, and he considered himself the judge of the best course to be
pursued to this end. And, moreover, this little kindness attached him to
her personally. He began to think how pleasant it would be to have so
kind and generous a person for a relation; how easily his troubles might
be borne if he had always such a ready helper at hand; how much he should
like to make her like him, and come to him for the protection of his
masculine power! First of all his duties, as her self-appointed squire,
came the necessity of finding out who her strange new acquaintance was.
Thus, you see, he arrived at the same end, via supposed duty, that he was
previously pledged to via interest. I fancy a good number of us, when
any line of action will promote our own interest, can make ourselves
believe that reasons exist which compel us to it as a duty.
“In the course of a very few days, Pierre had so circumvented Virginie as
to have discovered that her new friend was no other than the Norman
farmer in a different dress. This was a great piece of knowledge to
impart to Morin. But Pierre was not prepared for the immediate physical
effect it had on his cousin. Morin sat suddenly down on one of the seats
in the Boulevards—it was there Pierre had met with him accidentally—when
he heard who it was that Virginie met. I do not suppose the man had the
faintest idea of any relationship or even previous acquaintanceship
between Clement and Virginie. If he thought of anything beyond the mere
fact presented to him, that his idol was in communication with another,
younger, handsomer man than himself, it must have been that the Norman
farmer had seen her at the conciergerie, and had been attracted by her,
and, as was but natural, had tried to make her acquaintance, and had
succeeded. But, from what Pierre told me, I should not think that even
this much thought passed through Morin’s mind. He seems to have been a
man of rare and concentrated attachments; violent, though restrained and
undemonstrative passions; and, above all, a capability of jealousy, of
which his dark oriental complexion must have been a type. I could fancy
that if he had married Virginie, he would have coined his life-blood for
luxuries to make her happy; would have watched over and petted her, at
every sacrifice to himself, as long as she would have been content to
live with him alone. But, as Pierre expressed it to me: ‘When I saw what
my cousin was, when I learned his nature too late, I perceived that he
would have strangled a bird if she whom he loved was attracted by it from
him.’
“When Pierre had told Morin of his discovery, Morin sat down, as I said,
quite suddenly, as if he had been shot. He found out that the first
meeting between the Norman and Virginie was no accidental, isolated
circumstance. Pierre was torturing him with his accounts of daily
rendezvous: if but for a moment, they were seeing each other every day,
sometimes twice a day. And Virginie could speak to this man, though to
himself she was coy and reserved as hardly to utter a sentence. Pierre
caught these broken words while his cousin’s complexion grew more and
more livid, and then purple, as if some great effect were produced on his
circulation by the news he had just heard. Pierre was so startled by his
cousin’s wandering, senseless eyes, and otherwise disordered looks, that
he rushed into a neighbouring cabaret for a glass of absinthe, which he
paid for, as he recollected afterwards, with a portion of Virginie’s five
francs. By-and-by Morin recovered his natural appearance; but he was
gloomy and silent; and all that Pierre could get out of him was, that the
Norman farmer should not sleep another night at the Hotel Duguesclin,
giving him such opportunities of passing and repassing by the
conciergerie door. He was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to repay
Pierre the half franc he had spent on the absinthe, which Pierre
perceived, and seems to have noted down in the ledger of his mind as on
Virginie’s balance of favour.
“Altogether, he was much disappointed at his cousin’s mode of receiving
intelligence, which the lad thought worth another five-franc piece at
least; or, if not paid for in money, to be paid for in open-mouthed
confidence and expression of feeling, that he was, for a time, so far a
partisan of Virginie’s—unconscious Virginie—against his cousin, as to
feel regret when the Norman returned no more to his night’s lodging, and
when Virginie’s eager watch at the crevice of the closely-drawn blind
ended only with a sigh of disappointment. If it had not been for his
mother’s presence at the time, Pierre thought he should have told her
all. But how far was his mother in his cousin’s confidence as regarded
the dismissal of the Norman?
“In a few days, however, Pierre felt almost sure that they had
established some new means of communication. Virginie went out for a
short time every day; but though Pierre followed her as closely as he
could without exciting her observation, he was unable to discover what
kind of intercourse she held with the Norman. She went, in general, the
same short round among the little shops in the neighbourhood; not
entering any, but stopping at two or three. Pierre afterwards remembered
that she had invariably paused at the nosegays displayed in a certain
window, and studied them long: but, then, she stopped and looked at caps,
hats, fashions, confectionery (all of the humble kind common in that
quarter), so how should he have known that any particular attraction
existed among the flowers? Morin came more regularly than ever to his
aunt’s; but Virginie was apparently unconscious that she was the
attraction. She looked healthier and more hopeful than she had done for
months, and her manners to all were gentler and not so reserved. Almost
as if she wished to manifest her gratitude to Madame Babette for her long
continuance of kindness, the necessity for which was nearly ended,
Virginie showed an unusual alacrity in rendering the old woman any little
service in her power, and evidently tried to respond to Monsieur Morin’s
civilities, he being Madame Babette’s nephew, with a soft graciousness
which must have made one of her principal charms; for all who knew her
speak of the fascination of her manners, so winning and attentive to
others, while yet her opinions, and often her actions, were of so decided
a character. For, as I have said, her beauty was by no means great; yet
every man who came near her seems to have fallen into the sphere of her
influence. Monsieur Morin was deeper than ever in love with her during
these last few days: he was worked up into a state capable of any
sacrifice, either of himself or others, so that he might obtain her at
last. He sat ‘devouring her with his eyes’ (to use Pierre’s expression)
whenever she could not see him; but, if she looked towards him, he looked
to the ground—anywhere—away from her and almost stammered in his
replies if she addressed any question to him.
“He had been, I should think, ashamed of his extreme agitation on the
Boulevards, for Pierre thought that he absolutely shunned him for these
few succeeding days. He must have believed that he had driven the Norman
(my poor Clement!) off the field, by banishing him from his inn; and
thought that the intercourse between him and Virginie, which he had thus
interrupted, was of so slight and transient a character as to be quenched
by a little difficulty.
“But he appears to have felt that he had made but little way, and he
awkwardly turned to Pierre for help—not yet confessing his love, though;
he only tried to make friends again with the lad after their silent
estrangement. And Pierre for some time did not choose to perceive his
cousin’s advances. He would reply to all the roundabout questions Morin
put to him respecting household conversations when he was not present, or
household occupations and tone of thought, without mentioning Virginie’s
name any more than his questioner did. The lad would seem to suppose,
that his cousin’s strong interest in their domestic ways of going on was
all on account of Madame Babette. At last he worked his cousin up to the
point of making him a confidant: and then the boy was half frightened at
the torrent of vehement words he had unloosed. The lava came down with a
greater rush for having been pent up so long. Morin cried out his words
in a hoarse, passionate voice, clenched his teeth, his fingers, and
seemed almost convulsed, as he spoke out his terrible love for Virginie,
which would lead him to kill her sooner than see her another’s; and if
another stepped in between him and her!—and then he smiled a fierce,
triumphant smile, but did not say any more.
“Pierre was, as I said, half frightened; but also half-admiring. This
was really love—a ‘grande passion,’—a really fine dramatic thing,—like
the plays they acted at the little theatre yonder. He had a dozen times
the sympathy with his cousin now that he had had before, and readily
swore by the infernal gods, for they were far too enlightened to believe
in one God, or Christianity, or anything of the kind,—that he would
devote himself, body and soul, to forwarding his cousin’s views. Then
his cousin took him to a shop, and bought him a smart second-hand watch,
on which they scratched the word Fidelite, and thus was the compact
sealed. Pierre settled in his own mind, that if he were a woman, he
should like to be beloved as Virginie was, by his cousin, and that it
would be an extremely good thing for her to be the wife of so rich a
citizen as Morin Fils,—and for Pierre himself, too, for doubtless their
gratitude would lead them to give him rings and watches ad infinitum.
“A day or two afterwards, Virginie was taken ill. Madame Babette said
it was because she had persevered in going out in all weathers, after
confining herself to two warm rooms for so long; and very probably this
was really the cause, for, from Pierre’s account, she must have been
suffering from a feverish cold, aggravated, no doubt, by her impatience
at Madame Babette’s familiar prohibitions of any more walks until she
was better. Every day, in spite of her trembling, aching limbs, she
would fain have arranged her dress for her walk at the usual time; but
Madame Babette was fully prepared to put physical obstacles in her
way, if she was not obedient in remaining tranquil on the little sofa
by the side of the fire. The third day, she called Pierre to her, when
his mother was not attending (having, in fact, locked up Mademoiselle
Cannes’ out-of-door things).
“‘See, my child,’ said Virginie. ‘Thou must do me a great favour. Go to
the gardener’s shop in the Rue des Bons-Enfans, and look at the nosegays
in the window. I long for pinks; they are my favourite flower. Here are
two francs. If thou seest a nosegay of pinks displayed in the window, if
it be ever so faded—nay, if thou seest two or three nosegays of pinks,
remember, buy them all, and bring them to me, I have so great a desire
for the smell.’ She fell back weak and exhausted. Pierre hurried out.
Now was the time; here was the clue to the long inspection of the nosegay
in this very shop.
“Sure enough, there was a drooping nosegay of pinks in the window. Pierre
went in, and, with all his impatience, he made as good a bargain as he
could, urging that the flowers were faded, and good for nothing. At last
he purchased them at a very moderate price. And now you will learn the
bad consequences of teaching the lower orders anything beyond what is
immediately necessary to enable them to earn their daily bread! The
silly Count de Crequy,—he who had been sent to his bloody rest, by the
very canaille of whom he thought so much,—he who had made Virginie
(indirectly, it is true) reject such a man as her cousin Clement, by
inflating her mind with his bubbles of theories,—this Count de Crequy
had long ago taken a fancy to Pierre, as he saw the bright sharp child
playing about his court—Monsieur de Crequy had even begun to educate the
boy himself to try work out certain opinions of his into practice,—but
the drudgery of the affair wearied him, and, beside, Babette had left his
employment. Still the Count took a kind of interest in his former pupil;
and made some sort of arrangement by which Pierre was to be taught
reading and writing, and accounts, and Heaven knows what besides,—Latin,
I dare say. So Pierre, instead of being an innocent messenger, as he
ought to have been—(as Mr. Horner’s little lad Gregson ought to have
been this morning)—could read writing as well as either you or I. So
what does he do, on obtaining the nosegay, but examine it well. The
stalks of the flowers were tied up with slips of matting in wet moss.
Pierre undid the strings, unwrapped the moss, and out fell a piece of wet
paper, with the writing all blurred with moisture. It was but a torn
piece of writing-paper, apparently, but Pierre’s wicked mischievous eyes
read what was written on it,—written so as to look like a
fragment,—‘Ready, every and any night at nine. All is prepared. Have
no fright. Trust one who, whatever hopes he might once have had, is
content now to serve you as a faithful cousin;’ and a place was named,
which I forget, but which Pierre did not, as it was evidently the
rendezvous. After the lad had studied every word, till he could say it
off by heart, he placed the paper where he had found it, enveloped it in
moss, and tied the whole up again carefully. Virginie’s face coloured
scarlet as she received it. She kept smelling at it, and trembling: but
she did not untie it, although Pierre suggested how much fresher it would
be if the stalks were immediately put into water. But once, after his
back had been turned for a minute, he saw it untied when he looked round
again, and Virginie was blushing, and hiding something in her bosom.
“Pierre was now all impatience to set off and find his cousin, But his
mother seemed to want him for small domestic purposes even more than
usual; and he had chafed over a multitude of errands connected with the
Hotel before he could set off and search for his cousin at his usual
haunts. At last the two met and Pierre related all the events of the
morning to Morin. He said the note off word by word. (That lad this
morning had something of the magpie look of Pierre—it made me shudder to
see him, and hear him repeat the note by heart.) Then Morin asked him to
tell him all over again. Pierre was struck by Morin’s heavy sighs as he
repeated the story. When he came the second time to the note, Morin
tried to write the words down; but either he was not a good, ready
scholar, or his fingers trembled too much. Pierre hardly remembered,
but, at any rate, the lad had to do it, with his wicked reading and
writing. When this was done, Morin sat heavily silent. Pierre would
have preferred the expected outburst, for this impenetrable gloom
perplexed and baffled him. He had even to speak to his cousin to rouse
him; and when he replied, what he said had so little apparent connection
with the subject which Pierre had expected to find uppermost in his mind,
that he was half afraid that his cousin had lost his wits.
“‘My Aunt Babette is out of coffee.’
“‘I am sure I do not know,’ said Pierre.
“‘Yes, she is. I heard her say so. Tell her that a friend of mine has
just opened a shop in the Rue Saint Antoine, and that if she will join me
there in an hour, I will supply her with a good stock of coffee, just to
give my friend encouragement. His name is Antoine Meyer, Number One
hundred and Fifty at the sign of the Cap of Liberty.’
“‘I could go with you now. I can carry a few pounds of coffee better
than my mother,’ said Pierre, all in good faith. He told me he should
never forget the look on his cousin’s face, as he turned round, and bade
him begone, and give his mother the message without another word. It had
evidently sent him home promptly to obey his cousins command. Morin’s
message perplexed Madame Babette.
“‘How could he know I was out of coffee?’ said she. ‘I am; but I only
used the last up this morning. How could Victor know about it?’
“‘I am sure I can’t tell,’ said Pierre, who by this time had recovered
his usual self-possession. ‘All I know is, that monsieur is in a pretty
temper, and that if you are not sharp to your time at this Antoine
Meyer’s you are likely to come in for some of his black looks.’
“‘Well, it is very kind of him to offer to give me some coffee, to be
sure! But how could he know I was out?’
“Pierre hurried his mother off impatiently, for he was certain that
the offer of the coffee was only a blind to some hidden purpose on
his cousin’s part; and he made no doubt that when his mother had been
informed of what his cousin’s real intention was, he, Pierre, could
extract it from her by coaxing or bullying. But he was mistaken.
Madame Babette returned home, grave, depressed, silent, and loaded
with the best coffee. Some time afterwards he learnt why his cousin
had sought for this interview. It was to extract from her, by promises
and threats, the real name of Mam’selle Cannes, which would give him
a clue to the true appellation of The Faithful Cousin. He concealed
the second purpose from his aunt, who had been quite unaware of his
jealousy of the Norman farmer, or of his identification of him with
any relation of Virginie’s. But Madame Babette instinctively shrank
from giving him any information: she must have felt that, in the
lowering mood in which she found him, his desire for greater knowledge
of Virginie’s antecedents boded her no good. And yet he made his aunt
his confidante—told her what she had only suspected before—that he
was deeply enamoured of Mam’selle Cannes, and would gladly marry her.
He spoke to Madame Babette of his father’s hoarded riches; and of the
share which he, as partner, had in them at the present time; and of
the prospect of the succession to the whole, which he had, as only
child. He told his aunt of the provision for her (Madame Babette’s)
life, which he would make on the day when he married Mam’selle Cannes.
And yet—and yet—Babette saw that in his eye and look which made her
more and more reluctant to confide in him. By-and-by he tried threats.
She should leave the conciergerie, and find employment where she
liked. Still silence. Then he grew angry, and swore that he would
inform against her at the bureau of the Directory, for harbouring an
aristocrat; an aristocrat he knew Mademoiselle was, whatever her real
name might be. His aunt should have a domiciliary visit, and see how
she liked that. The officers of the Government were the people for
finding out secrets. In vain she reminded him that, by so doing, he
would expose to imminent danger the lady whom he had professed to love.
He told her, with a sullen relapse into silence after his vehement
outpouring of passion, never to trouble herself about that. At last
he wearied out the old woman, and, frightened alike of herself and of
him, she told him all,—that Mam’selle Cannes was Mademoiselle Virginie
de Crequy, daughter of the Count of that name. Who was the Count?
Younger brother of the Marquis. Where was the Marquis? Dead long ago,
leaving a widow and child. A son? (eagerly). Yes, a son. Where was he?
Parbleu! how should she know?—for her courage returned a little as
the talk went away from the only person of the De Crequy family that
she cared about. But, by dint of some small glasses out of a bottle
of Antoine Meyer’s, she told him more about the De Crequys than she
liked afterwards to remember. For the exhilaration of the brandy lasted
but a very short time, and she came home, as I have said, depressed,
with a presentiment of coming evil. She would not answer Pierre,
but cuffed him about in a manner to which the spoilt boy was quite
unaccustomed. His cousin’s short, angry words, and sudden withdrawal
of confidence,—his mother’s unwonted crossness and fault-finding, all
made Virginie’s kind, gentle treatment, more than ever charming to the
lad. He half resolved to tell her how he had been acting as a spy upon
her actions, and at whose desire he had done it. But he was afraid of
Morin, and of the vengeance which he was sure would fall upon him for
any breach of confidence. Towards half-past eight that evening—Pierre,
watching, saw Virginie arrange several little things—she was in the
inner room, but he sat where he could see her through the glazed
partition. His mother sat—apparently sleeping—in the great easy-chair;
Virginie moved about softly, for fear of disturbing her. She made up
one or two little parcels of the few things she could call her own:
one packet she concealed about herself—the others she directed, and
left on the shelf. ‘She is going,’ thought Pierre, and (as he said
in giving me the account) his heart gave a spring, to think that he
should never see her again. If either his mother or his cousin had
been more kind to him, he might have endeavoured to intercept her; but
as it was, he held his breath, and when she came out he pretended to
read, scarcely knowing whether he wished her to succeed in the purpose
which he was almost sure she entertained, or not. She stopped by him,
and passed her hand over his hair. He told me that his eyes filled
with tears at this caress. Then she stood for a moment looking at the
sleeping Madame Babette, and stooped down and softly kissed her on the
forehead. Pierre dreaded lest his mother should awake (for by this time
the wayward, vacillating boy must have been quite on Virginie’s side),
but the brandy she had drunk made her slumber heavily. Virginie went.
Pierre’s heart beat fast. He was sure his cousin would try to intercept
her; but how, he could not imagine. He longed to run out and see the
catastrophe,—but he had let the moment slip; he was also afraid of
reawakening his mother to her unusual state of anger and violence.”