THE MARQUISE.
Forty-eight hours have elapsed since the scenes we have described in the
last chapter, and the day is Mardi Gras. Opposite the Cafe Turc, which
in 1824 had a European reputation, stood a house of squalid appearance,
inhabited, because of the low rent at which rooms could be obtained, by
a number of modest tradespeople, who for the greater part of the year
carried on the numerous booths on the Square.
Before describing this picturesque corner of old Paris, unknown to the
present generation, we will enter this house to which we have alluded,
and which bore the number 42 of the Boulevard du Temple. In a room on
the fifth floor, the girl who was called the Marquise was finishing her
toilette before the mirror. A poor little room enough, with its faded
wall paper, its narrow bed pushed into the corner, its two chairs and
pine table. The window closed but imperfectly, and the wind blew out the
curtain like a sail. Colored prints were fastened against the wall, and
everything was exquisitely clean. A white napkin was spread upon the
table, and the bed had snowy curtains. The mirror at this moment was
worth more than any from Venice, for it reflected a charming Greuze-like
face.
The singer was twisting up her rebellious curls, and endeavoring to
bring her hair into some kind of order. Her complexion was exquisite,
her big dark eyes were full of sunshine, and her lips were beautiful and
fresh. She fastened on her muslin cap, and then the graceful hands
fluttered about her dress arranging that also.
Suddenly a deep sigh, apparently from the next room, reached her ear.
She ran to the communicating door, and, opening it cautiously, looked
in.
"Poor woman!" she said to herself, "she is awake. I wonder if she
suffers still."
Then a voice called, "Cinette! little Cinette!"
"How strange!" said the girl, "when I hear her speak that name, it seems
to me the voice is familiar."
"Come, Cinette!"
This time the girl entered the room. She beheld a woman vainly seeking
to raise herself in her bed.
Her face was hideously scarred and seared, while the bloodshot eyes
could not endure the light. It was clear that the poor creature had been
the victim of a horrible accident.
"I am thirsty," she faintly articulated.
"Yes, mamma," answered the girl who was called Cinette.
And the woman smiled. She was mad in addition to her helplessness. No
one knew who she was, nor whence she came.
The reader has recognized in the girl who ministered to her needs,
little Cinette, the child of Simon Fougere and Francoise. She had run
distractedly through those subterranean vaults when she lost Jacques,
and finally escaped from the labyrinth to fall into the hands of those
people whom Hugo has immortalized.
These people--a husband, wife and children--were pillaging the dead on a
battle-field, but when Cinette appeared they smiled upon her.
The little girl could give no explanation as to why she was thus alone
and deserted. To all questions she could only reply by the words "papa
Simon," and "mamma Francoise." Of course this was too indefinite for
these people to act upon; besides, at that time they had much to do--the
invasion promised them much spoil. They took Cinette away, and after the
peace they continued to keep her. They had amassed quite a little
property, and bought a farm in Blaisois. Cinette was happy in these
days, for she was too young to remember her woes.
In the village there was an old soldier whose violin and songs had often
enlivened the bivouac. He soon discovered that Cinette, for she still
went by that name, possessed a wonderful voice. He took it into his head
to start a musical school; he had three pupils, only two of which paid a
sou; on the third, Cinette, he built many projects. He was making
arrangements to transport his pupil to a wider stage, when an epidemic
broke out in the village, and the girl was left alone in the world.
The "Good Sisters" offered her a home in the convent, but she had always
been accustomed to the open air, to flowers that nodded a welcome to her
as she passed, and to sunshine, and was afraid of the cloister, of its
dimness, and of watchful eyes.
She finally took her departure, and begged her way to Paris. Some one
gave her an old guitar that had been left behind by some wanderer, which
the child had gazed at with longing eyes. She escaped the many snares
that were laid for her, and finally found shelter in a house where only
the very poor lived, but they were all honest, industrious people. She
obtained the necessary permission to sing on the street, and then had
another idea. In the part of the city where she lived there was a great
deal of poverty, and she undertook the care of a poor woman, she was so
confident in her ability to make money.
"But the person you propose to take care of has been dreadfully
disfigured, and is unpleasant to look upon," said one of the neighbors.
The child asked to be told all that was known of the unfortunate
creature.
She had been found among the mountains long before, and the people who
had found her were dead, but she was still taken care of by these kind,
good creatures who, however, found the burthen a heavy one.
Francine went to see this poor creature. There was a long silence, the
girl seemed to hesitate, then, suddenly, she stooped and kissed her.
"Will you go with me, mamma?" she said.
Why did she use the word mamma? She could not have told herself, and yet
this woman was really her mother. Yes, this unfortunate, this mad woman
was Francoise, the wife of Simon. After the agony of that fearful night,
she lost her memory and her reason. She did not know how she had
escaped, and yet she was here and restored to her child. Fate had
brought the two together. Mother and daughter were alike victims of the
Talizacs.
Francine took this woman, whom she had volunteered to support, and
installed her next her own room. Day and night she watched over her with
a solicitude that was absolutely filial.
The elder woman was happy only when Cinette was with her, and when the
girl was away, she repeated the name over and over.
Francine worked hard. She now had her regular audiences, and could be
heard at certain places at certain hours. Her programmes were regularly
made out. The name that had been given her of the Marquise was not given
unkindly. She was neither vain nor proud, but she wore her simple woolen
gown in such a dainty fashion, and put the little kerchief on her head
in such a way, that the people called her the Marquise. But to return to
our tale.
"I am going out, mamma," said Francine, "and you will be very good while
I am away, will you not?"
"Yes, Cinette--yes."
"You will not try to get up?"
"No, Cinette."
"And to-morrow you shall have a pretty new cap--"
"With ribbons?"
"Yes, with ribbons."
The woman laughed with delight, but presently she uttered a cry of
distress.
"The box! the box!--where is the box?"
Francine had heard this same exclamation over and over again, and
attached no significance to it, but to humor the invalid, she answered:
"Oh! you shall have the box."
"Yes, I must have it. Everything is in it--fortune, money, titles. Where
have I put it?"
Her voice dropped so low that Francine could hardly hear her.
It was time for the girl to go out, and, as it was Mardi Gras, she hoped
for large receipts. She returned to her chamber and took her guitar.
Just as she was going out, she heard a knock on her door. She started,
and called out:
"Who is it?"
"A friend?"
"Your name?"
"You do not know me."
"Tell me your name."
A stifled oath was the reply.
"Open the door, I say. My name is Robeccal."
The young girl drew a breath of relief, for she was becoming sorely
frightened by the pursuit of the Vicomte, and an unusual knock made her
feel that it was he. But the voice and the name of Robeccal
tranquillized her fears. She opened the door--our old friend of the
circus stood before her. He began to grumble and scold.
"I beg your pardon," said the girl, gently, "but I am in haste, and
if--"
"Suppose you offer me a chair, young lady! What manners!"
Francine repeated that she was in haste, and would be glad to know the
occasion of his visit. Her manner was so decided that Robeccal saw that
he must speak.
"I have come," he said, "to put you in the way of earning a little
money."
"Go on."
"I assist in restaurants on fete days. I am an 'extra,' you understand,
and am now at the _Veau Saute_, at the corner. You know--"
"I know the establishment, certainly."
"Well, the master wishes to give a little entertainment to his customers
to-night, and I thought of you. He will give you twenty francs."
Twenty francs! It was quite a fortune to the child, and yet she
hesitated.
"Did the master give you no note for me?" she asked, at length.
"How suspicious you are! What are you afraid of!"
"Nothing. I will call at the restaurant now, when I go out."
"You must decide now, for if you decline I am to go for the man who has
no arms, but who sings so well."
Robeccal showed her a card on which was written the girl's address and
that of the armless singer.
Francine's hesitation vanished--she accepted the proposition.
"I will go," she said, "and at what hour?"
"At eight o'clock, sharp," Robeccal replied.
"And how long shall I be wanted?"
A wicked light came into the man's eyes.
"I don't know exactly--until ten or eleven, I suppose."
"But I must be home before midnight."
"Oh! of course; and if you are afraid to come alone, I am at your
service. And now, good-bye."
He ran lightly down the stairs. When he reached the street he looked
around. A man wrapped in a large cloak, a disguise much employed at that
time, and wearing a broad-brimmed hat, approached him.
"Well?" he said, quickly.
"It is all right!" answered Robeccal. "She will come."
This man, who was none other than Fernando, the worthy friend of the
Vicomte de Talizac, now slipped a gold piece into the scoundrel's hand.
"Twenty louis more," he said, "when the affair is accomplished!"
"Very good, sir. When I undertake anything, it is sure, let me tell you.
La Roulante will see to everything."
The two men separated.
While these two accomplices were talking, Francine had reached the
Square where she was to sing.