ONE Sunday morning Norine and Cécile--who, though it was rightly a day of
rest, were, nevertheless, working on either side of their little table,
pressed as they were to deliver boxes for the approaching New Year
season--received a visit which left them pale with stupor and fright.
Their unknown hidden life had hitherto followed a peaceful course, the
only battle being to make both ends meet every week, and to put by the
rent money for payment every quarter. During the eight years that the
sisters had been living together in the Rue de la Fédération near the
Champ de Mars, occupying the same big room with cheerful windows, a room
whose coquettish cleanliness made them feel quite proud, Norine's child
had grown up steadily between his two affectionate mothers. For he had
ended by confounding them together: there was Mamma Norine and there was
Mamma Cécile; and he did not exactly know whether one of the two was more
his mother than the other. It was for him alone that they both lived and
toiled, the one still a fine, good-looking woman at forty years of age,
the other yet girlish at thirty.
Now, at about ten o'clock that Sunday, there came in succession two loud
knocks at the door. When the latter was opened a short, thick-set fellow,
about eighteen, stepped in. He was dark-haired, with a square face, a
hard prominent jaw, and eyes of a pale gray. And he wore a ragged old
jacket and a gray cloth cap, discolored by long usage.
"Excuse me," said he; "but isn't it here that live Mesdames Moineaud, who
make cardboard boxes?"
Norine stood there looking at him with sudden uneasiness. Her heart had
contracted as if she were menaced. She had certainly seen that face
somewhere before; but she could only recall one old-time danger, which
suddenly seemed to revive, more formidable than ever, as if threatening
to spoil her quiet life.
"Yes, it is here," she answered.
Without any haste the young man glanced around the room. He must have
expected more signs of means than he found, for he pouted slightly. Then
his eyes rested on the child, who, like a well-behaved little boy, had
been amusing himself with reading, and had now raised his face to examine
the newcomer. And the latter concluded his examination by directing a
brief glance at the other woman who was present, a slight, sickly
creature who likewise felt anxious in presence of that sudden apparition
of the unknown.
"I was told the left-hand door on the fourth floor," the young man
resumed. "But, all the same, I was afraid of making a mistake, for the
things I have to say can't be said to everybody. It isn't an easy matter,
and, of course, I thought it well over before I came here."
He spoke slowly in a drawling way, and after again making sure that the
other woman was too young to be the one he sought, he kept his pale eyes
steadily fixed on Norine. The growing anguish with which he saw her
quivering, the appeal that she was evidently making to her memory,
induced him to prolong things for another moment. Then he spoke out: "I
am the child who was put to nurse at Rougemont; my name is
Alexandre-Honoré."
There was no need for him to say anything more. The unhappy Norine began
to tremble from head to foot, clasped and wrung her hands, while an ashen
hue came over her distorted features. Good heavens--Beauchêne! Yes, it
was Beauchêne whom he resembled, and in so striking a manner, with his
eyes of prey, his big jaw which proclaimed an enjoyer consumed by base
voracity, that she was now astonished that she had not been able to name
him at her first glance. Her legs failed her, and she had to sit down.
"So it's you," said Alexandre.
As she continued shivering, confessing the truth by her manner, but
unable to articulate a word, to such a point did despair and fright
clutch her at the throat, he felt the need of reassuring her a little,
particularly if he was to keep that door open to him.
"You must not upset yourself like that," said he; "you have nothing to
fear from me; it isn't my intention to give you any trouble. Only when I
learnt at last where you were I wished to know you, and that was natural,
wasn't it? I even fancied that perhaps you might be pleased to see
me.... Then, too, the truth is that I'm precious badly off. Three years
ago I was silly enough to come back to Paris, where I do little more than
starve. And on the days when one hasn't breakfasted, one feels inclined
to look up one's parents, even though they may have turned one into the
street, for, all the same, they can hardly be so hard-hearted as to
refuse one a plateful of soup."
Tears rose to Norine's eyes. This was the finishing stroke, the return of
that wretched cast-off son, that big suspicious-looking fellow who
accused her and complained of starving. Annoyed at being unable to elicit
from her any response but shivers and sobs, Alexandre turned to Cécile:
"You are her sister, I know," said he; "tell her that it's stupid of her
to go on like that. I haven't come to murder her. It's funny how pleased
she is to see me! Yet I don't make any noise, and I said nothing whatever
to the door-porter downstairs, I assure you."
Then as Cécile, without answering him, rose to go and comfort Norine, he
again became interested in the child, who likewise felt frightened and
turned pale on seeing the grief of his two mammas.
"So that lad is my brother?"
Thereupon Norine suddenly sprang to her feet and set herself between the
child and him. A mad fear had come to her of some catastrophe, some great
collapse which would crush them all. Yet she did not wish to be harsh,
she even sought kind words, but amid it all she lost her head, carried
away by feelings of revolt, rancor, instinctive hostility.
"You came, I can understand it. But it is so cruel. What can I do? After
so many years one doesn't know one another, one has nothing to say. And,
besides, as you can see for yourself, I'm not rich."
Alexandre glanced round the room for the second time. "Yes, I see," he
answered; "and my father, can't you tell me his name?"
She remained thunderstruck by this question and turned yet paler, while
he continued: "Because if my father should have any money I should know
very well how to make him give me some. People have no right to fling
children into the gutter like that."
All at once Norine had seen the past rise up before her: Beauchêne, the
works, and her father, who now had just quitted them owing to his
infirmities, leaving his son Victor behind him.
And a sort of instinctive prudence came to her at the thought that if she
were to give up Beauchêne's name she might compromise all her happy life,
since terrible complications might ensue. The dread she felt of that
suspicious-looking lad, who reeked of idleness and vice, inspired her
with an idea: "Your father? He has long been dead," said she.
He could have known nothing, have learnt nothing on that point, for, in
presence of the energy of her answer, he expressed no doubt whatever of
her veracity, but contented himself with making a rough gesture which
indicated how angry he felt at seeing his hungry hopes thus destroyed.
"So I've got to starve!" he growled.
Norine, utterly distracted, was possessed by one painful desire--a desire
that he might take himself away, and cease torturing her by his presence,
to such a degree did remorse, and pity, and fright, and horror now wring
her bleeding heart. She opened a drawer and took from it a ten-franc
piece, her savings for the last three months, with which she had intended
to buy a New Year's present for her little boy. And giving those ten
francs to Alexandre, she said: "Listen, I can do nothing for you. We live
all three in this one room, and we scarcely earn our bread. It grieves me
very much to know that you are so unfortunately circumstanced. But you
mustn't rely on me. Do as we do--work."
He pocketed the ten francs, and remained there for another moment swaying
about, and saying that he had not come for money, and that he could very
well understand things. For his part he always behaved properly with
people when people behaved properly with him. And he repeated that since
she showed herself good-natured he had no idea of creating any scandal. A
mother who did what she could performed her duty, even though she might
only give a ten-sous piece. Then, as he was at last going off, he
inquired: "Won't you kiss me?"
She kissed him, but with cold lips and lifeless heart, and the two
smacking kisses which, with noisy affectation, he gave her in return,
left her cheeks quivering.
"And _au revoir_, eh?" said he. "Although one may be poor and unable to
keep together, each knows now that the other's in the land of the living.
And there is no reason why I shouldn't come up just now and again to wish
you good day when I'm passing."
When he had at last disappeared long silence fell amid the infinite
distress which his short stay had brought there. Norine had again sunk
upon a chair, as if overwhelmed by this catastrophe. Cécile had been
obliged to sit down in front of her, for she also was overcome. And it
was she who, amid the mournfulness of that room, which but a little while
ago had held all their happiness, spoke out the first to complain and
express her astonishment.
"But you did not ask him anything; we know nothing about him," said she.
"Where has he come from? What is he doing? What does he want? And, in
particular, how did he manage to discover you? These were the interesting
things to learn."
"Oh! what would you have!" replied Norine. "When he told me his name he
knocked all the strength out of me; I felt as cold as ice! Oh! it's he,
there's no doubt of it. You recognized his likeness to his father, didn't
you? But you are right; we know nothing, and now we shall always be
living with that threat over our heads, in fear that everything will
crumble down upon us."
All her strength, all her courage was gone, and she began to sob,
stammering indistinctly: "To think of it! a big fellow of eighteen
falling on one like that without a word of warning! And it's quite true
that I don't love him, since I don't even know him. When he kissed me I
felt nothing. I was icy cold, as if my heart were frozen. O God! O God!
what trouble to be sure, and how horrid and cruel it all is!"
Then, as her little boy, on seeing her weep, ran up and flung himself;
frightened and tearful, against her bosom, she wildly caught him in her
arms. "My poor little one! my poor little one! if only you don't suffer
by it; if only my sin doesn't fall on you! Ah! that would be a terrible
punishment. Really the best course is for folks to behave properly in
life if they don't want to have a lot of trouble afterwards!"
In the evening the sisters, having grown somewhat calmer, decided that
their best course would be to write to Mathieu. Norine remembered that he
had called on her a few years previously to ask if Alexandre had not been
to see her. He alone knew all the particulars of the business, and where
to obtain information. And, indeed, as soon as the sisters' letter
reached him Mathieu made haste to call on them in the Rue de la
Fédération, for he was anxious with respect to the effect which any
scandal might have at the works, where Beauchêne's position was becoming
worse every day. After questioning Norine at length, he guessed that
Alexandre must have learnt her address through La Couteau, though he
could not say precisely how this had come about. At last, after a long
month of discreet researches, conversations with Madame Menoux, Céleste,
and La Couteau herself, he was able in some measure to explain things.
The alert had certainly come from the inquiry intrusted to the
nurse-agent at Rougemont, that visit which she had made to the hamlet of
Saint-Pierre in quest of information respecting the lad who was supposed
to be in apprenticeship with Montoir the wheelwright. She had talked too
much, said too much, particularly to the other apprentice, that Richard,
another foundling, and one of such bad instincts, too, that seven months
later he had taken flight, like Alexandre, after purloining some money
from his master. Then years elapsed, and all trace of them was lost. But
later on, most assuredly they had met one another on the Paris pavement,
in such wise that the big carroty lad had told the little dark fellow the
whole story how his relatives had caused a search to be made for him, and
perhaps, too, who his mother was, the whole interspersed with
tittle-tattle and ridiculous inventions. Still this did not explain
everything, and to understand how Alexandre had procured his mother's
actual address, Mathieu had to presume that he had secured it from La
Couteau, whom Céleste had acquainted with so many things. Indeed, he
learnt at Broquette's nurse-agency that a short, thickset young man with
pronounced jaw-bones had come there twice to speak to La Couteau.
Nevertheless, many points remained unexplained; the whole affair had
taken place amid the tragic, murky gloom of Parisian low life, whose mire
it is not healthy to stir. Mathieu ended by resting content with a
general notion of the business, for he himself felt frightened at the
charges already hanging over those two young bandits, who lived so
precariously, dragging their idleness and their vices over the pavement
of the great city. And thus all his researches had resulted in but one
consoling certainty, which was that even if Norine the mother was known,
the father's name and position were certainly not suspected by anybody.
When Mathieu saw Norine again on the subject he terrified her by the few
particulars which he was obliged to give her.
"Oh! I beg you, I beg you, do not let him come again," she pleaded. "Find
some means; prevent him from coming here. It upsets me too dreadfully to
see him."
Mathieu, of course, could do nothing in this respect. After mature
reflection he realized that the great object of his efforts must be to
prevent Alexandre from discovering Beauchêne. What he had learnt of the
young man was so bad, so dreadful, that he wished to spare Constance the
pain and scandal of being blackmailed. He could see her blanching at the
thought of the ignominy of that lad whom she had so passionately desired
to find, and he felt ashamed for her sake, and deemed it more
compassionate and even necessary to bury the secret in the silence of the
grave. Still, it was only after a long fight with himself that he came to
this decision, for he felt that it was hard to have to abandon the
unhappy youth in the streets. Was it still possible to save him? He
doubted it. And besides, who would undertake the task, who would know how
to instil honest principles into that waif by teaching him to work? It
all meant yet another man cast overboard, forsaken amid the tempest, and
Mathieu's heart bled at the thought of condemning him, though he could
think of no reasonable means of salvation.
"My opinion," he said to Norine, "is that you should keep his father's
name from him for the present. Later on we will see. But just now I
should fear worry for everybody."
She eagerly acquiesced. "Oh! you need not be anxious," she responded. "I
have already told him that his father is dead. If I were to speak out
everything would fall on my shoulders, and my great desire is to be left
in peace in my corner with my little one."
With sorrowful mien Mathieu continued reflecting, unable to make up his
mind to utterly abandon the young man. "If he would only work, I would
find him some employment. And I would even take him on at the farm later,
when I should no longer have cause to fear that he might contaminate my
people. However, I will see what can be done; I know a wheelwright who
would doubtless employ him, and I will write to you in order that you may
tell him where to apply, when he comes back to see you."
"What? When he comes back!" she cried in despair. "So you think that he
will come back. O God! O God! I shall never be happy again."
He did, indeed, come back. But when she gave him the wheelwright's
address he sneered and shrugged his shoulders. He knew all about the
Paris wheelwrights! A set of sweaters, a parcel of lazy rogues, who made
poor people toil and moil for them. Besides, he had never finished his
apprenticeship; he was only fit for running errands, in which capacity he
was willing to accept a post in a large shop. When Mathieu had procured
him such a situation, he did not remain in it a fortnight. One fine
evening he disappeared with the parcels of goods which he had been told
to deliver. In turn he tried to learn a baker's calling, became a mason's
hodman, secured work at the markets, but without ever fixing himself
anywhere. He simply discouraged his protector, and left all sorts of
roguery behind him for others to liquidate. It became necessary to
renounce the hope of saving him. When he turned up, as he did
periodically, emaciated, hungry, and in rags, they had to limit
themselves to providing him with the means to buy a jacket and some
bread.
Thus Norine lived on in a state of mortal disquietude. For long weeks
Alexandre seemed to be dead, but she, nevertheless, started at the
slightest sound that she heard on the landing. She always felt him to be
there, and whenever he suddenly rapped on the door she recognized his
heavy knock and began to tremble as if he had come to beat her. He had
noticed how his presence reduced the unhappy woman to a state of abject
terror, and he profited by this to extract from her whatever little sums
she hid away. When she had handed him the five-franc piece which Mathieu,
as a rule, left with her for this purpose, the young rascal was not
content, but began searching for more. At times he made his appearance in
a wild, haggard state, declaring that he should certainly be sent to
prison that evening if he did not secure ten francs, and talking the
while of smashing everything in the room or else of carrying off the
little clock in order to sell it. And it was then necessary for Cécile to
intervene and turn him out of the place; for, however puny she might be,
she had a brave heart. But if he went off it was only to return a few
days later with fresh demands, threatening that he would shout his story
to everybody on the stairs if the ten francs were not given to him. One
day, when his mother had no money in the place and began to weep, he
talked of ripping up the mattress, where, said he, she probably kept her
hoard. Briefly, the sisters' little home was becoming a perfect hell.
The greatest misfortune of all, however, was that in the Rue de la
Fédération Alexandre made the acquaintance of Alfred, Norine's youngest
brother, the last born of the Moineaud family. He was then twenty, and
thus two years the senior of his nephew. No worse prowler than he
existed. He was the genuine rough, with pale, beardless face, blinking
eyes, and twisted mouth, the real gutter-weed that sprouts up amid the
Parisian manure-heaps. At seven years of age he robbed his sisters,
beating Cécile every Saturday in order to tear her earnings from her.
Mother Moineaud, worn out with hard work and unable to exercise a
constant watch over him, had never managed to make him attend school
regularly, or to keep him in apprenticeship. He exasperated her to such a
degree that she herself ended by turning him into the streets in order to
secure a little peace and quietness at home. His big brothers kicked him
about, his father was at work from morning till evening, and the child,
thus morally a waif, grew up out of doors for a career of vice and crime
among the swarms of lads and girls of his age, who all rotted there
together like apples fallen on the ground. And as Alfred grew he became
yet more corrupt; he was like the sacrificed surplus of a poor man's
family, the surplus poured into the gutter, the spoilt fruit which spoils
all that comes into contact with it.
Like Alexandre, too, he nowadays only lived chancewise, and it was not
even known where he had been sleeping, since Mother Moineaud had died at
a hospital exhausted by her long life of wretchedness and family cares
which had proved far too heavy for her. She was only sixty at the time of
her death, but was as bent and as worn out as a centenarian. Moineaud,
two years older, bent like herself, his legs twisted by paralysis, a
lamentable wreck after fifty years of unjust toil, had been obliged to
quit the factory, and thus the home was empty, and its few poor sticks
had been cast to the four winds of heaven.
Moineaud fortunately received a little pension, for which he was indebted
to Denis's compassionate initiative. But he was sinking into second
childhood, worn out by his long and constant efforts, and not only did he
squander his few coppers in drink, but he could not be left alone, for
his feet were lifeless, and his hands shook to such a degree that he ran
the risk of setting all about him on fire whenever he tried to light his
pipe. At last he found himself stranded in the home of his daughters,
Norine and Cécile, the only two who had heart enough to take him in. They
rented a little closet for him, on the fifth floor of the house, over
their own room, and they nursed him and bought him food and clothes with
his pension-money, to which they added a good deal of their own. As they
remarked in their gay, courageous way, they now had two children, a
little one and a very old one, which was a heavy burden for two women who
earned but five francs a day, although they were ever making boxes from
morn till night, There was a touch of soft irony in the circumstance that
old Moineaud should have been unable to find any other refuge than the
home of his daughter Norine--that daughter whom he had formerly turned
away and cursed for her misconduct, that hussy who had dishonored him,
but whose very hands he now kissed when, for fear lest he should set the
tip of his nose ablaze, she helped him to light his pipe.
All the same, the shaky old nest of the Moineauds was destroyed, and the
whole family had flown off, dispersed chancewise. Irma alone, thanks to
her fine marriage with a clerk, lived happily, playing the part of a
lady, and so full of vanity that she no longer condescended to see her
brothers and sisters. Victor, meantime, was leading at the factory much
the same life as his father had led, working at the same mill as the
other, and in the same blind, stubborn way. He had married, and though he
was under six-and-thirty, he already had six children, three boys and
three girls, so that his wife seemed fated to much the same existence as
his mother La Moineaude. Both of them would finish broken down, and their
children in their turn would unconsciously perpetuate the swarming and
accursed starveling race.
At Euphrasie's, destiny the inevitable showed itself more tragic still.
The wretched woman had not been lucky enough to die. She had gradually
become bedridden, quite unable to move, though she lived on and could
hear and see and understand things. From that open grave, her bed, she
had beheld the final break-up of what remained of her sorry home. She was
nothing more than a thing, insulted by her husband and tortured by Madame
Joseph, who would leave her for days together without water, and fling
her occasional crusts much as they might be flung to a sick animal whose
litter is not even changed. Terror-stricken, and full of humility amid
her downfall, Euphrasie resigned herself to everything; but the worst was
that her three children, her twin daughters and her son, being abandoned
to themselves, sank into vice, the all-corrupting life of the streets.
Bénard, tired out, distracted by the wreck of his home, had taken to
drinking with Madame Joseph; and afterwards they would fight together,
break the furniture, and drive off the children, who came home muddy, in
rags, and with their pockets full of stolen things. On two occasions
Bénard disappeared for a week at a time. On the third he did not come
back at all. When the rent fell due, Madame Joseph in her turn took
herself off. And then came the end. Euphrasie had to be removed to the
hospital of La Salpétrière, the last refuge of the aged and the infirm;
while the children, henceforth without a home in name, were driven into
the gutter. The boy never turned up again; it was as if he had been
swallowed by some sewer. One of the twin girls, found in the streets,
died in a hospital during the ensuing year; and the other, Toinette, a
fair-haired scraggy hussy, who, however puny she might look, was a
terrible little creature with the eyes and the teeth of a wolf, lived
under the bridges, in the depths of the stone quarries, in the dingy
garrets of haunts of vice, so that at sixteen she was already an expert
thief. Her fate was similar to Alfred's; here was a girl morally
abandoned, then contaminated by the life of the streets, and carried off
to a criminal career. And, indeed, the uncle and the niece having met by
chance, ended by consorting together, their favorite refuge, it was
thought, being the limekilns in the direction of Les Moulineaux.
One day then it happened that Alexandre upon calling at Norine's there
encountered Alfred, who came at times to try to extract a half-franc from
old Moineaud, his father. The two young bandits went off together,
chatted, and met again. And from that chance encounter there sprang a
band. Alexandre was living with Richard, and Alfred brought Toinette to
them. Thus they were four in number, and the customary developments
followed: begging at first, the girl putting out her hand at the
instigation of the three prowlers, who remained on the watch and drew
alms by force at nighttime from belated _bourgeois_ encountered in dark
corners; next came vulgar vice and its wonted attendant, blackmail; and
then theft, petty larceny to begin with, the pilfering of things
displayed for sale by shopkeepers, and afterwards more serious affairs,
premeditated expeditions, mapped out like real war plans.
The band slept wherever it could; now in suspicious dingy doss-houses,
now on waste ground. In summer time there were endless saunters through
the woods of the environs, pending the arrival of night, which handed
Paris over to their predatory designs. They found themselves at the
Central Markets, among the crowds on the boulevards, in the low taverns,
along the deserted avenues--indeed, wherever they sniffed the possibility
of a stroke of luck, the chance of snatching the bread of idleness, or
the pleasures of vice. They were like a little clan of savages on the
war-path athwart civilization, living outside the pale of the laws. They
suggested young wild beasts beating the ancestral forest; they typified
the human animal relapsing into barbarism, forsaken since birth, and
evincing the ancient instincts of pillage and carnage. And like noxious
weeds they grew up sturdily, becoming bolder and bolder each day,
exacting a bigger and bigger ransom from the fools who toiled and moiled,
ever extending their thefts and marching along the road to murder.
Never should it be forgotten that the child, born chancewise, and then
cast upon the pavement, without supervision, without prop or help, rots
there and becomes a terrible ferment of social decomposition. All those
little ones thrown to the gutter, like superfluous kittens are flung into
some sewer, all those forsaken ones, those wanderers of the pavement who
beg, and thieve, and indulge in vice, form the dung-heap in which the
worst crimes germinate. Childhood left to wretchedness breeds a fearful
nucleus of infection in the tragic gloom of the depths of Paris. Those
who are thus imprudently cast into the streets yield a harvest of
brigandage--that frightful harvest of evil which makes all society
totter.
When Norine, through the boasting of Alexandre and Alfred, who took
pleasure in astonishing her, began to suspect the exploits of the band,
she felt so frightened that she had a strong bolt placed upon her door.
And when night had fallen she no longer admitted any visitor until she
knew his name. Her torture had been lasting for nearly two years; she was
ever quivering with alarm at the thought of Alexandre rushing in upon her
some dark night. He was twenty now; he spoke authoritatively, and
threatened her with atrocious revenge whenever he had to retire with
empty hands. One day, in spite of Cécile, he threw himself upon the
wardrobe and carried off a bundle of linen, handkerchiefs, towels,
napkins, and sheets, intending to sell them. And the sisters did not dare
to pursue him down the stairs. Despairing, weeping, overwhelmed by it
all, they had sunk down upon their chairs.
That winter proved a very severe one; and the two poor workwomen,
pillaged in this fashion, would have perished in their sorry home of cold
and starvation, together with the dear child for whom they still did
their best, had it not been for the help which their old friend, Madame
Angelin, regularly brought them. She was still a lady-delegate of the
Poor Relief Service, and continued to watch over the children of unhappy
mothers in that terrible district of Grenelle, whose poverty is so great.
But for a long time past she had been unable to do anything officially
for Norine. If she still brought her a twenty-franc piece every month, it
was because charitable people intrusted her with fairly large amounts,
knowing that she could distribute them to advantage in the dreadful
inferno which her functions compelled her to frequent. She set her last
joy and found the great consolation of her desolate, childless life in
thus remitting alms to poor mothers whose little ones laughed at her
joyously as soon as they saw her arrive with her hands full of good
things.
One day when the weather was frightful, all rain and wind, Madame Angelin
lingered for a little while in Norine's room. It was barely two o'clock
in the afternoon, and she was just beginning her round. On her lap lay
her little bag, bulging out with the gold and the silver which she had to
distribute. Old Moineaud was there, installed on a chair and smoking his
pipe, in front of her. And she felt concerned about his needs, and
explained that she would have greatly liked to obtain a monthly relief
allowance for him.
"But if you only knew," she added, "what suffering there is among the
poor during these winter months. We are quite swamped, we cannot give to
everybody, there are too many. And after all you are among the fortunate
ones. I find some lying like dogs on the tiled floors of their rooms,
without a scrap of coal to make a fire or even a potato to eat. And the
poor children, too, good Heavens! Children in heaps among vermin, without
shoes, without clothes, all growing up as if destined for prison or the
scaffold, unless consumption should carry them off."
Madame Angelin quivered and closed her eyes as if to escape the spectacle
of all the terrifying things that she evoked, the wretchedness, the
shame, the crimes that she elbowed during her continual perambulations
through that hell of poverty, vice, and hunger. She often returned home
pale and silent, having reached the uttermost depths of human
abomination, and never daring to say all. At times she trembled and
raised her eyes to Heaven, wondering what vengeful cataclysm would
swallow up that accursed city of Paris.
"Ah!" she murmured once more; "their sufferings are so great, may their
sins be forgiven them."
Moineaud listened to her in a state of stupor, as if he were unable to
understand. At last with difficulty he succeeded in taking his pipe from
his mouth. It was, indeed, quite an effort now for him to do such a
thing, and yet for fifty years he had wrestled with iron--iron in the
vice or on the anvil.
"There is nothing like good conduct," he stammered huskily. "When a man
works he's rewarded."
Then he wished to set his pipe between his lips once more, but was unable
to do so. His hand, deformed by the constant use of tools, trembled too
violently. So it became necessary for Norine to rise from her chair and
help him.
"Poor father!" exclaimed Cécile, who had not ceased working, cutting out
the cardboard for the little boxes she made: "What would have become of
him if we had not given him shelter? It isn't Irma, with her stylish hats
and her silk dresses who would have cared to have him at her place."
Meantime Norine's little boy had taken his stand in front of Madame
Angelin, for he knew very well that, on the days when the good lady
called, there was some dessert at supper in the evening. He smiled at her
with the bright eyes which lit up his pretty fair face, crowned with
tumbled sunshiny hair. And when she noticed with what a merry glance he
was waiting for her to open her little bag, she felt quite moved.
"Come and kiss me, my little friend," said she.
She knew no sweeter reward for all that she did than the kisses of the
children in the poor homes whither she brought a little joy. When the
youngster had boldly thrown his arms round her neck, her eyes filled with
tears; and, addressing herself to his mother, she repeated: "No, no, you
must not complain; there are others who are more unhappy than you. I know
one who if this pretty little fellow could only be her own would
willingly accept your poverty, and paste boxes together from morning till
night and lead a recluse's life in this one room, which he suffices to
fill with sunshine. Ah! good Heavens, if you were only willing, if we
could only change."
For a moment she became silent, afraid that she might burst into sobs.
The wound dealt her by her childlessness had always remained open. She
and her husband were now growing old in bitter solitude in three little
rooms overlooking a courtyard in the Rue de Lille. In this retirement
they subsisted on the salary which she, the wife, received as a
lady-delegate, joined to what they had been able to save of their
original fortune. The former fan-painter of triumphant mien was now
completely blind, a mere thing, a poor suffering thing, whom his wife
seated every morning in an armchair where she still found him in the
evening when she returned home from her incessant peregrinations through
the frightful misery of guilty mothers and martyred children. He could no
longer eat, he could no longer go to bed without her help, he had only
her left him, he was her child as he would say at times with a despairing
irony which made them both weep.
A child? Ah, yes! she had ended by having one, and it was he! An old
child, born of disaster; one who appeared to be eighty though he was less
than fifty years old, and who amid his black and ceaseless night ever
dreamt of sunshine during the long hours which he was compelled to spend
alone. And Madame Angelin did not only envy that poor workwoman her
little boy, she also envied her that old man smoking his pipe yonder,
that infirm relic of labor who at all events saw clearly and still lived.
"Don't worry the lady," said Norine to her son; for she felt anxious,
quite moved indeed, at seeing the other so disturbed, with her heart so
full. "Run away and play."
She had learnt a little of Madame Angelin's sad story from Mathieu. And
with the deep gratitude which she felt towards her benefactress was
blended a sort of impassioned respect, which rendered her timid and
deferent each time that she saw her arrive, tall and distinguished, ever
clad in black, and showing the remnants of her former beauty which sorrow
had wrecked already, though she was barely six-and-forty years of age.
For Norine, the lady-delegate was like some queen who had fallen from her
throne amid frightful and undeserved sufferings.
"Run away, go and play, my darling," Norine repeated to her boy: "you are
tiring madame."
"Tiring me, oh no!" exclaimed Madame Angelin, conquering her emotion. "On
the contrary, he does me good. Kiss me, kiss me again, my pretty fellow."
Then she began to bestir and collect herself.
"Well, it is getting late, and I have so many places to go to between now
and this evening! This is what I can do for you."
She was at last taking a gold coin from her little bag, but at that very
moment a heavy blow, as if dealt by a fist, resounded on the door. And
Norine turned ghastly pale, for she had recognized Alexandre's brutal
knock. What could she do? If she did not open the door, the bandit would
go on knocking, and raise a scandal. She was obliged to open it, but
things did not take the violent tragical turn which she had feared.
Surprised at seeing a lady there, Alexandre did not even open his mouth.
He simply slipped inside, and stationed himself bolt upright against the
wall. The lady-delegate had raised her eyes and then carried them
elsewhere, understanding that this young fellow must be some friend,
probably some relative. And without thought of concealment, she went on:
"Here are twenty francs, I can't do more. Only I promise you that I will
try to double the amount next month. It will be the rent month, and I've
already applied for help on all sides, and people have promised to give
me the utmost they can. But shall I ever have enough? So many
applications are made to me."
Her little bag had remained open on her knees, and Alexandre, with his
glittering eyes, was searching it, weighing in fancy all the treasure of
the poor that it contained, all the gold and silver and even the copper
money that distended its sides. Still in silence, he watched Madame
Angelin as she closed it, slipped its little chain round her wrist, and
then finally rose from her chair.
"Well, _au revoir_, till next month then," she resumed. "I shall certainly
call on the 5th; and in all probability I shall begin my round with you.
But it's possible that it may be rather late in the afternoon, for it
happens to be my poor husband's name-day. And so be brave and work well."
Norine and Cécile had likewise risen, in order to escort her to the door.
Here again there was an outpouring of gratitude, and the child once more
kissed the good lady on both cheeks with all his little heart. The
sisters, so terrified by Alexandre's arrival, at last began to breathe
again.
In point of fact the incident terminated fairly well, for the young man
showed himself accommodating. When Cécile returned from obtaining change
for the gold, he contented himself with taking one of the four five-franc
pieces which she brought up with her. And he did not tarry to torture
them as was his wont, but immediately went off with the money he had
levied, whistling the while the air of a hunting-song.
The 5th of the ensuing month, a Saturday, was one of the gloomiest, most
rainy days of that wretched, mournful winter. Darkness fell rapidly
already at three o'clock in the afternoon, and it became almost night. At
the deserted end of Rue de la Fédération there was an expanse of waste
ground, a building site, for long years enclosed by a fence, which
dampness had ended by rotting. Some of the boards were missing, and at
one part there was quite a breach. All through that afternoon, in spite
of the constantly recurring downpours, a scraggy girl remained stationed
near that breach, wrapped to her eyes in the ragged remnants of an old
shawl, doubtless for protection against the cold. She seemed to be
waiting for some chance meeting, the advent it might be of some
charitably disposed wayfarer. And her impatience was manifest, for while
keeping close to the fence like some animal lying in wait, she
continually peered through the breach, thrusting out her tapering
weasel's head and watching yonder, in the direction of the Champ de Mars.
Hours went by, three o'clock struck, and then such dark clouds rolled
over the livid sky, that the girl herself became blurred, obscured, as if
she were some mere piece of wreckage cast into the darkness. At times she
raised her head and watched the sky darken, with eyes that glittered as
if to thank it for throwing so dense a gloom over that deserted corner,
that spot so fit for an ambuscade. And just as the rain had once more
begun to fall, a lady could be seen approaching, a lady clad in black,
quite black, under an open umbrella. While seeking to avoid the puddles
in her path, she walked on quickly, like one in a hurry, who goes about
her business on foot in order to save herself the expense of a cab.
From some precise description which she had obtained, Toinette, the girl,
appeared to recognize this lady from afar off. She was indeed none other
than Madame Angelin, coming quickly from the Rue de Lille, on her way to
the homes of her poor, with the little chain of her little bag encircling
her wrist. And when the girl espied the gleaming steel of that little
chain, she no longer had any doubts, but whistled softly. And forthwith
cries and moans arose from a dim corner of the vacant ground, while she
herself began to wail and call distressfully.
Astonished, disturbed by it all, Madame Angelin stopped short.
"What is the matter, my girl?" she asked.
"Oh! madame, my brother has fallen yonder and broken his leg."
"What, fallen? What has he fallen from?"
"Oh! madame, there's a shed yonder where we sleep, because we haven't any
home, and he was using an old ladder to try to prevent the rain from
pouring in on us, and he fell and broke his leg."
Thereupon the girl burst into sobs, asking what was to become of them,
stammering that she had been standing there in despair for the last ten
minutes, but could see nobody to help them, which was not surprising with
that terrible rain falling and the cold so bitter. And while she
stammered all this, the calls for help and the cries of pain became
louder in the depths of the waste ground.
Though Madame Angelin was terribly upset, she nevertheless hesitated, as
if distrustful.
"You must run to get a doctor, my poor child," said she, "I can do
nothing."
"Oh! but you can, madame; come with me, I pray you. I don't know where
there's a doctor to be found. Come with me, and we will pick him up, for
I can't manage it by myself; and at all events we can lay him in the
shed, so that the rain sha'n't pour down on him."
This time the good woman consented, so truthful did the girl's accents
seem to be. Constant visits to the vilest dens, where crime sprouted from
the dunghill of poverty, had made Madame Angelin brave. She was obliged
to close her umbrella when she glided through the breach in the fence in
the wake of the girl, who, slim and supple like a cat, glided on in
front, bareheaded, in her ragged shawl.
"Give me your hand, madame," said she. "Take care, for there are some
trenches.... It's over yonder at the end. Can you hear how he's
moaning, poor brother?... Ah! here we are!"
Then came swift and overwhelming savagery. The three bandits, Alexandre,
Richard, and Alfred, who had been crouching low, sprang forward and threw
themselves upon Madame Angelin with such hungry, wolfish violence that
she was thrown to the ground. Alfred, however, being a coward, then left
her to the two others, and hastened with Toinette to the breach in order
to keep watch. Alexandre, who had a handkerchief rolled up, all ready,
thrust it into the poor lady's mouth to stifle her cries. Their intention
was to stun her only and then make off with her little bag.
But the handkerchief must have slipped out, for she suddenly raised a
shriek, a loud and terrible shriek. And at that moment the others near
the breach gave the alarm whistle: some people were, doubtless, drawing
near. It was necessary to finish. Alexandre knotted the handkerchief
round the unhappy woman's neck, while Richard with his fist forced her
shriek back into her throat. Red madness fell upon them, they both began
to twist and tighten the handkerchief, and dragged the poor creature over
the muddy ground until she stirred no more. Then, as the whistle sounded
again, they took the bag, left the body there with the handkerchief
around the neck, and galloped, all four of them, as far as the Grenelle
bridge, whence they flung the bag into the Seine, after greedily
thrusting the coppers, and the white silver, and the yellow gold into
their pockets.
When Mathieu read the particulars of the crime in the newspapers, he was
seized with fright and hastened to the Rue de la Fédération. The murdered
woman had been promptly identified, and the circumstance that the crime
had been committed on that plot of vacant ground but a hundred yards or
so from the house where Norine and Cécile lived upset him, filled him
with a terrible presentiment. And he immediately realized that his fears
were justified when he had to knock three times at Norine's door before
Cécile, having recognized his voice, removed the articles with which it
had been barricaded, and admitted him inside. Norine was in bed, quite
ill, and as white as her sheets. She began to sob and shuddered
repeatedly as she told him the story: Madame Angelin's visit the previous
month, and the sudden arrival of Alexandre, who had seen the bag and had
heard the promise of further help, at a certain hour on a certain date.
Besides, Norine could have no doubts, for the handkerchief found round
the victim's neck was one of hers which Alexandre had stolen: a
handkerchief embroidered with the initial letters of her Christian name,
one of those cheap fancy things which are sold by thousands at the big
linendrapery establishments. That handkerchief, too, was the only clew to
the murderers, and it was such a very vague one that the police were
still vainly seeking the culprits, quite lost amid a variety of scents
and despairing of success.
Mathieu sat near the bed listening to Norine and feeling icy cold. Good
God! that poor, unfortunate Madame Angelin! He could picture her in her
younger days, so gay and bright over yonder at Janville, roaming the
woods there in the company of her husband, the pair of them losing
themselves among the deserted paths, and lingering in the discreet shade
of the pollard willows beside the Yeuse, where their love kisses sounded
beneath the branches like the twittering of song birds. And he could
picture her at a later date, already too severely punished for her lack
of foresight, in despair at remaining childless, and bowed down with
grief as by slow degrees her husband became blind, and night fell upon
the little happiness yet left to them. And all at once Mathieu also
pictured that wretched blind man, on the evening when he vainly awaited
the return of his wife, in order that she might feed him and put him to
bed, old child that he was, now motherless, forsaken, forever alone in
his dark night, in which he could only see the bloody spectre of his
murdered helpmate. Ah! to think of it, so bright a promise of radiant
life, followed by such destiny, such death!
"We did right," muttered Mathieu, as his thoughts turned to Constance,
"we did right to keep that ruffian in ignorance of his father's name.
What a terrible thing! We must bury the secret as deeply as possible
within us."
Norine shuddered once more.
"Oh! have no fear," she answered, "I would die rather than speak."
Months, years, flowed by; and never did the police discover the murderers
of the lady with the little bag. For years, too, Norine shuddered every
time that anybody knocked too roughly at her door. But Alexandre did not
reappear there. He doubtless feared that corner of the Rue de la
Fédération, and remained as it were submerged in the dim unsoundable
depths of the ocean of Paris.