gold makes me ill! Look you, Giovanni--I must needs love you very dearly
to be still in the room with you after the confession you have made to
me! And yet, I am grateful to you for having confided this terrible
secret to me; I thank you for having such confidence in me.--Ah! you
know full well that I will not betray it!--Yes, my love is so great that
I can forgive everything, forget everything! But, in pity's name! for
the love of God! renounce this ghastly career; leave this path of crime
in which, sooner or later, you will meet your punishment! You wanted
wealth--well, have you not enough? Take what you have acquired by such
evil means, since you have the courage to make use of it without
remorse. But come with me; let us leave Paris, and France,
to-morrow--nay, this very night! I will stay with you, to watch over
your safety, to turn aside the dangers that may threaten you. When all
danger is at an end, then I will leave you, if my presence annoys you;
but, near or far, I will watch over you, and every morning and every
evening I will pray God to forgive your crimes and open your heart to
repentance.--Giovanni, my Giovanni, do not spurn my entreaties; trust a
secret voice which tells me that death awaits you in the frightful trade
you ply. I beg you on my knees--abandon it, and let us fly--far, far
from Paris--to the end of the world--so far that you will be in no
danger.--Oh! I was mad just now when I preferred to know that you were a
criminal rather than in love with another woman; heaven is punishing me
for that blasphemy.--Giovanni, I give you back your liberty, your
oaths; I will forgive you if you do love another woman. But, in the name
of the Madonna who presided over your birth, tell me, oh! tell me that
you will abandon this career, which will surely lead you to the
scaffold!"
The girl had thrown herself at her lover's feet, she held his hands, she
raised to his face her eyes wet with tears; and at that moment there was
something sublime in the expression of her features.
But Giovanni had listened to her with no outward evidence of emotion.
When she ceased to speak, he raised her, seated her on the sofa, took
his seat beside her, and said with perfect tranquillity:
"My dear love, I forbade you to follow me, to come to France. I was wise
to do so; I anticipated some such scene as this. If you will take my
advice, you will return instantly to Milan."
"With you?"
"No; without me."
"Never! My mind is made up: I shall remain where you are. I have nothing
left to lose! I have sacrificed to you a maiden's most precious
treasure, and it is easy for me to give you now my repose and my life."
"But I do not ask you for either. You are too excitable, my poor
Miretta! you have an ardent imagination. Now, I am thoroughly practical.
You choose to remain in Paris--very good! But you must understand that
it is impossible for you to live with me; you would embarrass me; in
this trade of mine, a woman is always in the way; when she thinks that
she is helping us, she ruins us!"
"So you are not willing to abandon this--this infamous trade?"
Giovanni darted a glance at the girl which almost made her shudder, as
he replied:
"No woman will ever change my resolutions; when it pleases me to enjoy
my wealth, to return to Italy, the robber will vanish, and Giovanni,
favored of fortune, assuming a stately name and title, will make a
brilliant appearance in the world, where everyone will cringe to him
without trying to ascertain the source of his fortune.--You have heard
me, Miretta; so never recur to this subject, or you will see me no
more."
Miretta made no other reply than to let her head sink sadly on her
breast.
"You have a place in Paris, I am told: you are in the service of
Mademoiselle Valentine de Mongarcin?"
"Yes; how do you know that?"
"I know much more! It was Cédrille, your cousin, who brought you to
Paris?"
"Yes; and I had arranged to meet him in front of the house this evening,
at dusk; I thought that he would be my escort and would take me to see a
young girl who lives on Rue Saint-Jacques, where her father keeps baths;
for that girl rendered us a great service this morning, when we arrived
in Paris. You do not know that----"
"I know all! the miserable jests, the jibes that they discharged at your
travelling companion, poor Cédrille; and the compliments they paid to
the pretty foreigner; and the quarrel and the battle that followed!--Oh!
I recognized in all that the untamed highborn youth, which is determined
to be master in France--more master than the king, in truth! But let
them beware! There is at the head of the government a certain Cardinal
de Richelieu, who, I fancy, will straighten all this out! He will be
called a tyrant, for every man is so called who attempts to put down
abuses, to put a curb on license and disorder, to give power to the
laws, and, above all, to have them executed, whatever the name, the
rank, or the exalted position of the person whom they strike!--But the
man of genius, the strong man, is not at all disturbed by the clamor
which he stirs up about him; he goes his way and reaches his goal, often
calumniated by his contemporaries; it is posterity that takes it upon
itself to do him justice!--Well! it seems to me, Miretta, that I reason
rather well for a robber, eh? You see that, even though one lives at war
with society, that does not prevent one from doing justice to those who
are able to protect it.--But let us return to yourself: you waited in
vain for Cédrille, for I was plying him with drink at a wine shop, with
a certain Gascon chevalier, as long and lean as a beanpole, who claims
also to be your liberator."
"Oh, yes! I remember; a tall man, and very thin; he almost knelt in
front of our horse; he insisted on kissing my hand and on my accepting
him for my knight! But he is horribly ugly!"
"That is true; but that does not prevent him from being in love with
you. Ah! Seigneur Passedix--that is this hero's name--is not discreet in
his love affairs. Beware, Miretta! he has sworn to triumph over your
rigor."
"He is not dangerous! But even if he were the handsomest, most
fascinating man in the kingdom of France, you well know that my heart is
no longer mine to give!"
Giovanni bestowed an affectionate glance on the girl and pressed her
hand lovingly, murmuring:
"Poor girl! I know well that that is true! You are not like other
women!"
But soon, as if regretting that momentary weakness, the Italian resumed
his indifferent air and began to pace the floor.
"Well," he said, "have you been to see the bath keeper's daughter on Rue
Saint-Jacques?"
"Mon Dieu! no; in the first place, I waited for Cédrille a long while;
and when he did not come, I decided to go alone, for I am not timid, as
you know. But when I found myself all alone, at night, in the streets of
this great city, of which I have heard so many terrible things, I felt
troubled, my heart beat fast; however, I walked on, thinking that I knew
my road. At last, as I was afraid of going astray, I spoke to a
gentleman who was passing, and asked him to direct me to Master
Hugonnet's baths, on Rue Saint-Jacques.--Ah! how I regretted speaking to
that man! If you knew how he treated me!--'Aha! you wanton!' he said;
'going to the baths so late? then the assignation must be very
important!'--And he added a lot of insulting remarks, and tried to put
his arm about my waist and to detain me by force. But anger gave me
strength; I pushed the man away so violently that he seemed dazed, and I
fled, running at random; then it was that I lost my way altogether. I
walked a long, long while, trying to find my way back to the Hôtel de
Mongarcin; but I would have passed the whole night in the street rather
than ask my way again! Then you met me."
"This should serve you as a lesson, Miretta; you must not venture out
alone in Paris at night; it is dangerous for a man, much more so for a
pretty young girl; and if the watch had fallen in with you, they would
have taken you to the Filles Repenties. But the clock struck ten long
ago; I will take you back to the Hôtel de Mongarcin. Do you know that
they will form a strange opinion of you there? On the very day of your
arrival, you disappear for a large part of the evening."
"I shall tell my young mistress what happened to me; I shall tell her
the whole truth; Mademoiselle Valentine will forgive me, for I will
promise to be more prudent hereafter."
"You will tell her the _whole_ truth?" repeated Giovanni, fastening his
eyes on the girl's face.
"Yes, but without naming you. Oh! never fear: I will not tell--your
secret."
"I rely upon it; come! But wait a moment."
Giovanni took the horrible hairy cap, the huge beard, and the
olive-green cloak, and held them all up before Miretta, saying:
"Look at these carefully; if you should ever see a man dressed in these
clothes, fly, fly at once--do not go near that man!--Do you swear,
Miretta?"
"I swear," faltered the girl, in a trembling voice.
"On that condition, you will see me again sometimes, now as a wealthy
gentleman, now as a simple artisan, or a bourgeois; but I will speak
first to you."
With that, the Italian hastily resumed the costume of an old Bohemian;
when that was done, he said:
"Come, now, let us make haste; but, above all things, make no noise."
Giovanni quickly extinguished the candles and replaced in its corner the
smoking lamp, which but dimly lighted the apartment. Then he took
Miretta's hand and led her from the room and the house with the same
precautions and without meeting anybody. Once in the street, he drew his
companion's arm through his and forced her to walk rapidly.
They walked the whole distance in silence; the girl was oppressed by
grief and alarm; when they met anyone, she pressed her guide's arm
tight, for she imagined that he would be recognized and arrested. But
Giovanni knew Paris and its most crooked streets perfectly; in a very
short time he and his companion stopped in front of a large house, and
he said to her:
"This is the place; here is the Hôtel de Mongarcin; you are at home."
"Already!"
"You say _already_, and you are trembling like a leaf, my poor girl!"
"Oh! not for myself! For now I must leave you; but when shall I see you
again?"
Giovanni made a movement with his head which seemed to indicate that he
did not himself know. Then, before Miretta had had time to detain him,
he disappeared, and she soon ceased to hear his footsteps.
Thereupon Miretta gave free vent to her sobs and went into the house,
murmuring:
"Ah! the unhappy man!"
XVII
THE FIRE OF SAINT-JEAN
Long before the reign of King Louis XIII, the sheriffs of Paris were
wont, on Saint-Jean's Eve, to cause huge piles of sticks of all
dimensions, with thorn bushes and small twigs quick to ignite, to be
constructed on Place de Grève, whither the king would come, in solemn
state, to set fire to that enormous mass with his own hand.
In 1471, Louis XI followed the example of his predecessors and presided
at that ceremony, which eventually came to be attended with fêtes and
entertainments to which the good people of Paris always looked forward
with impatience.
The Fire of Saint-Jean in 1573 was a magnificent ceremony, so it is
said. A mast about sixty feet in height had been erected on Place de
Grève, with many wooden crossbars, to which an enormous quantity of
fagots and bundles of brushwood was attached. A number of loads of wood
and countless bundles of straw were heaped about the base of this
structure. The whole was decorated, or rather disguised, by wreaths and
garlands. Bouquets were distributed to the king and his suite, to the
notables of the city, and to the magistrates. Fireworks also were
placed under the fagots. A hundred and twenty archers from the city, a
hundred bowmen, and a hundred arquebusiers kept order. Lastly, they hung
on the mast a large basket containing two dozen cats and a fox. This
last then was, no doubt, the _ne plus ultra_ of the fête. Poor cats!
poor foxes! We leave you in peace now when we have public rejoicings;
and to say the truth, I am persuaded that they are none the less
attractive for that reason.
Under Cardinal de Richelieu, the ceremony of the Fire of Saint-Jean had
lost much of its brilliancy; cats were no longer burned, as it was
natural that they should not be, the first minister having a deep
affection for those animals, by which he loved to be surrounded.
However, the ceremony continued to take place, and still attracted a
goodly number of sightseers, idlers, students, young girls, and even
young gentlemen, who came thither in search of adventures, or to play
tricks on rustics.
A few weeks after the events we have narrated, the Place de Grève was
adorned by a pile of combustibles, which, while it could not be compared
with those which we have described, was very presentable none the less.
When the night began to fall, there was a large number of people
assembled on the square; but that was a mere nothing, for every moment
thereafter the quays or the narrow streets leading into the square
poured forth a constant stream of bourgeois parties, bands of young
clerks of the Basoche, young men arm in arm, people of the lower
classes, esquires, pages, and elegant young gentlemen carefully
enveloped in their cloaks, beneath which they tried to conceal the
richness of their costumes, but always betrayed it by the too gorgeous
plumes that adorned their hats or the magnificence of the spurs attached
to their boots.
By the time that it was quite dark, the square was crowded, and one
could not move without difficulty, especially in the direction of the
pile. But what life! what animation! what a fusillade of voices! what a
din of remarks and questions bandied about in all directions! It was an
incessant humming sound.
Many people reflected aloud, in order to be overheard by everybody
within earshot; for at all times there have been plenty of those fine
talkers, those pretentious personages who deem themselves called upon to
declaim, to put themselves forward, and who often put forward nothing
but their folly or their conceit!
"This way, father; let us go this way; I promise you that we shall have
a much better place to see the fire!" said a tall, fine-looking girl, in
whom we meet once more a pleasant acquaintance from Rue Saint-Jacques.
It was Ambroisine, whose right arm was passed through the arm of a girl
even prettier than herself, but with a shy, timid air, who was evidently
surprised beyond measure to find herself in the midst of that tumult.
That girl was Bathilde, the daughter of Landry the bath keeper of Rue
Dauphine.
How did it happen that she was so far from home, and without her mother,
in the midst of that bold and curious crowd, where beauty and youth were
the objective point of the glances of most of the sightseers? How did it
happen that she was arm in arm with Ambroisine, upon whom Dame Ragonde
had looked coldly for so long a time, and with whom she seemed afraid to
allow her daughter to talk?
The reason was that Bathilde's mother had an old kinswoman in Normandie,
who had always manifested much affection for her, and had refrained from
marrying, with the intention of leaving all her property to Ragonde some
day. That property consisted of a few acres of land and a wretched
house--the whole being worth, perhaps, fifteen hundred livres; but we
must remember that in those days fifteen hundred livres was equal to six
thousand to-day; that Landry had no other property than his business;
and lastly, that in Ragonde's eyes that fifteen hundred livres would be
a sufficient dowry to obtain for Bathilde the hand of some respectable
Parisian tradesman.
It happened that one fine day a message arrived from Caudebec, the old
kinswoman's residence. A neighbor of hers wrote to Dame Landry, to
inform her that her cousin was very ill, and was most anxious to have
her by her side, to close her eyes. He added that haste was important,
because the old maid seemed to have only a short time to live.
On receipt of this message, Dame Ragonde instantly made preparations for
her journey; the famous inheritance being at stake, she felt that she
must not hesitate! But as she was about to start, she thought of
Bathilde, whom in her absorption she had forgotten. Should she take her
or leave her with her father? To trust the old trooper of Henri IV to
watch over a young girl was imprudent, perhaps. But, on the other hand,
to take on a journey the child whom she had guarded so carefully up to
that time was to expose her to the risk of listening to the chatter of
every comer; of being the object of gallant attentions, perhaps even of
bold enterprises, on the part of their fellow travellers. For Dame
Ragonde had not the means to travel in a litter; and in those days
travel was so slow, the means of transport so difficult, that one was
obliged to pass a long time in a coach or other vehicle, even when one
had not a long distance to travel. And then there was the matter of
expense, which was of great importance to the bath keeper's wife. It
cost a great deal to travel; and the expense would be doubled if she
should take her daughter.
The result of her reflections was that Dame Ragonde set out alone, but
not without saying to her husband many times:
"Keep a sharp eye on your daughter! Don't let her leave the house or
receive any visits; make no change in the order which I have
established in our household, so that no one may notice that I am
absent! And always tell everyone that I am coming back in the course of
the day."
If the person who goes away knew how soon her injunctions are forgotten,
she would not take the trouble to repeat them so many times. It is not
always disinclination to comply with them on the part of those whom you
leave in your place; but when you give your instructions, you cannot at
the same time impart your habits, your intelligence, your rigidity, your
searching glance, your observant mind--in a word, your nature; and
everyone acts according to his nature.
Landry, despite his moustaches and his surly manner, had a softer heart
than his wife; and then, too, this persistent watching, this making
one's self a spy upon one's daughter, is much more consonant with a
woman's habit than with a man's. Moreover, as the old soldier had not
the slightest doubt of his child's virtue, he did not understand why he
must be incessantly on his guard, as with a prisoner who is always
trying to escape.
The first days that followed Dame Ragonde's departure brought about no
change in Bathilde's usual mode of life, for it did not occur to her to
ask leave to go out, and no one came to divert her.
But one morning Ambroisine came to Landry's establishment, and was much
surprised to be able to reach Bathilde's room without meeting her
mother's sour face and hearing her say:
"My daughter is busy; don't stay long, for it disturbs her."
When she learned that her friend's mother was away from Paris,
Ambroisine uttered a cry of joy, and said to Bathilde:
"What! you have been free for several days, and you haven't sent me word
or come to see me?"
"You know very well that I never go out."
"Because your mother is not willing; but when she is away----"
"Oh! father wouldn't let me go out, either; mother is sure to have told
him not to!"
"Well, I will bet that he would; I will bet that your father will not be
so strict, that he will understand that you have no pleasure, no
distraction at all, and that it is not fair that a poor girl should pass
her best days shut up in her room. Look you, I have a godmother, a nice
old woman, a farmer's wife, who lives in the village of Vincennes. I
never have time to go there, nor does my father; and yet Mère
Moulineau--that is my godmother--often sends us little cheeses and
cream, and begs us to come to see her. The poor woman is old and infirm
and can't come to Paris. Every day, I say to father: 'To-morrow I will
go to see my godmother Moulineau;' and he says: 'Go, my child.'--Well,
Bathilde, if you like, I will take you with me, and we will sleep at
godmother's. Ah! she will give us a warm welcome; she will be so glad to
see me!"
"Oh! father wouldn't allow me to sleep away from our house."
"After all, perhaps you would find it tiresome at my godmother's.--By
the way, it just occurs to me--the day after to-morrow is the day for
the Fire of Saint-Jean on Place de Grève. Father has promised to take me
there; I have never seen it, and they say it's beautiful; will you come
with us?"
"Will I! Why, you know very well that I should be overjoyed--I who know
nothing and have never seen anything. But I shall never dare to ask
father to let me go; he would refuse."
"Perhaps so, if you asked him; but if my father, his friend, his
comrade, should undertake the mission----"
"Your father! do you think that he would be willing to ask him that?"
"Why not? Father is kind-hearted, he loves me dearly, he sees no harm in
his daughter having a little enjoyment sometimes. When it is a
respectable kind of pleasure, where is the harm? Because one enjoys
one's self a little, does that prevent one from behaving decently. Never
fear--I will send him here, to your father, to-morrow, and the day after
to-morrow you will come with us."
"Oh! if it might be true!"
"I have made up my mind, and it shall be. I have a will of my own, you
see!"
And in fact, on the day following this interview, Master Hugonnet, to
gratify his daughter's wish, betook himself to his confrère Landry's
shop, and, while emptying a jug of wine with him, said:
"I have a request to make of you, comrade."
"Speak; you know that if I can be of service to you in any way, I am at
your disposal--I and my old blade, which is still serviceable at need!"
"Oh! I know the worth of your blade and the strength of your arm, but
there is no question of them in what I have to ask.--You know that my
girl is a friend of yours, that it is her greatest joy to be with
her--for they have known each other a number of years; they were
children when their acquaintance began; but now they are big girls, and
their friendship has grown like their bodies!"
While Master Hugonnet was speaking, Landry played with his moustache,
but did not frown.
"I know all that," he said at last, when his friend paused to take a
drink. "Well! what then?"
"Well! I myself seize every opportunity that presents itself to provide
my daughter with a little pleasure; for Ambroisine deserves it! The
wench keeps my house in fine shape! she has brains and activity and
character! She's a good girl, I tell you, and doesn't let the coxcombs
and gallants, no, nor the grands seigneurs themselves,--and many of them
come to my shop, God knows!--talk nonsense to her. When they try to be
too free in their manners with Ambroisine--jernidié! she has a tongue
and nails, and a stout fist. You should see how she makes them dance!"
"She does well. But what then?"
"Why, to-morrow is the ceremony of the Fire of Saint-Jean on Place de
Grève; Ambroisine has never seen it, so she asked me to take her there,
and I promised; but she told me, too, that she would be much happier if
her young friend Bathilde could come with us, because she knew it would
be a great pleasure for your daughter, who--who--who has none too many!
You see, comrade, it isn't right to work all the time and never have any
amusement; on the contrary, when one is young is when one should enjoy
one's self. We old fellows still make merry once in a way, when we have
an opportunity; and then, after all, where's the harm in a young girl
having a little amusement, when it's with the knowledge of her parents
and under their eyes? To cut it short, comrade, the purpose of all this
is to ask you to confide your daughter Bathilde to me to-morrow, in the
latter part of the afternoon, so that I may take her with Ambroisine to
see the Fire of Saint-Jean; unless you will come with us, which would be
much better."
As he listened to this request from his old friend, the ex-trooper's
brow became clouded, and he caressed his gray moustache for a long while
before replying:
"But, you see, I promised Ragonde not to let Bathilde go out."
"Alone! I understand that; but won't she be as safe with me and my
daughter as with you? Come, come! jernidié! let us not be so strict with
our children; if our parents had always been so with us, it wouldn't
have tended to make us worship them."
"Well!" Landry said at last, after a moment's hesitation; "come
to-morrow and fetch Bathilde; I will try to join you later."
You know now by what concatenation of circumstances Bathilde found
herself on Ambroisine's arm on the square where the Fire of Saint-Jean
was to be celebrated.
XVIII
THE CROWD
"I say, Bahuchet! come this way; we can see the show explode much
better!"
"Just wait, Plumard; before I can pass, this lady in front of me will
have to move; and her equilibrium is stable, I tell you! Once planted,
she's like the tower of Notre-Dame! there's no way of moving her."