LIGHT RAYS IN THE DARKNESS
Henriette was nursed through a severe mental and bodily illness by
Sister Genevieve directed by the visiting prison Doctor, none other
than him who had examined the eyes of Louise before Notre Dame.
During this period it was quite impossible for the attendants to get
her story. She herself in lucid moments could hardly realize her
situation, nor in any wise remember how she had come to it.
But one day new strength seemed to be hers. Feverish and with hair
unbound and a wild light in her eyes, she sprang out of her cot,
sought Genevieve in the main prison, and knelt before her.
"Oh, Madame!" cried Henriette in imploring accents, "if you are the
mistress here, have pity on me, and order them to set me free. I ask
you on my knees!"
"You are still ill, my child," said Sister Genevieve tenderly,
stroking Henriette's, long hair with a gentle, loving touch.
"Certainly you are," confirmed the Doctor, who was just then on his
way to the hospital ward. "Why have you left your bed without my
permission?"
"Oh, monsieur!" said the poor girl, turning to the gentle-voiced,
pleasant-faced man who spoke so kindly, "have you attended me in my
illness? Look--thanks to your care--I have recovered!" she affirmed
confidently, though her hectic features and weak motions belied it.
"They left me alone for a few moments, and I arose and dressed myself.
Now that you see I am quite well, you will tell them to let me go,
will you not?"
The Doctor gazed at her compassionately before answering:
"That is impossible. To release you from this place requires a far
greater power than mine."
"This place?" asked the young girl in surprise. "Why, what is it? Is
it not a hospital?"
"A hospital and a prison," replied the physician gravely.
"A prison!" exclaimed Henriette in terror, striving to remember how
she came to be in such a place.
At last the events that preceded her illness gradually came back to
her mind, until she understood all.
"Ah, I remember," she said at length. "Yes, I remember the soldiers
who dragged me here, and him who commanded.... And Maurice--was he too
condemned? Alas, poor Louise--my last sight of her showed her in the
power of vile, unscrupulous wretches! Oh, dear God, what have I done
to be crushed like this!"
She dropped, weeping and wailing, to the floor.
"Sister," said the Doctor, turning away to hide his tears, "this is
not a case for my care. You must be the physician here."
"I know virtue and innocence when I see it, surely this child has done
nothing worthy of a term at Salpetriere!" replied the kind Genevieve
softly, lifting up the stricken girl and embracing her.
"Come, dear, you must rest yet a little longer in order to acquire the
full strength so as to be able to tell me everything. Assuredly we
will help you!"
* * * * *
In the course of convalescence Henriette told her complete story to
Sister Genevieve. The narrative included the girls' journey to Paris,
her kidnapping and rescue, the disappearance of Louise, de Vaudrey's
suit and the objections of his family, the recognition of her sister
as the Countess's long-lost daughter, Louise's recapture by the
beggars, and the peremptory act of the Police Prefect whereby mother
and daughter, and beloved foster-sisters, were cruelly parted, and
Henriette branded with the mark of the fallen woman by incarceration
in La Salpetriere.
Sister Genevieve was strangely moved by it, as was the Doctor to whom
she repeated it.
"Against the will of the Police Prefect we can do nothing!" said the
Doctor, soberly. "If only his wrath has cooled, we may possibly get
her term shortened--"
"What monstrous wickedness!" interrupted the Sister, ordinarily mild
and loyal, but worked up to near-democracy by these and other
injustices. "To imprison a pure girl--her only offence a nobleman's
honorable suit and her own ceaseless search for her blind sister, lost
in the streets of Paris!"
"This girl Henriette was her blind sister's sole support," suggested a
nurse.
"I had found her--Louise--at the moment when they arrested me,"
exclaimed Henriette sorrowfully. "I heard her voice. I saw her. She
was covered with rags. Her beautiful golden hair fell in disorder on
her shoulders. She was being dragged along by a horrible old woman,
who I know ill-treats her--beats her, perhaps, and they would not let
me go to her. Now I have lost her forever--forever!"
"Wait a minute, my child," exclaimed the physician, as a sudden
thought flashed over him. "I believe I have met that very same girl."
"You, monsieur?" exclaimed Henriette in surprise.
"Yes--yes, a young girl led by an old woman who calls her Louise--"
"Yes--yes, that's her name," and the young girl became breathless with
excitement.
"I know the old woman, too," continued the Doctor. "She is called La
Frochard--an old hag who goes about whining for alms in the name of
Heaven and seven small children.
"Where did I last see them?" he mused. Suddenly he recollected a
little scene on the steps of Notre Dame one morning before mass. "Oh,
yes," he continued, "they were begging for charity of the churchgoers
at Notre Dame. I noticed that the young girl was blind--professionally
interested, I examined her pupils and discovered she was merely
suffering from cataracts which could be readily removed. I told the
old woman so, asked her to bring the girl for treatment to La Force,
but they have never shown up--"
"Quick! Quick!" cried Henriette. "Tell me, Doctor, where Mere Frochard
lives?"
"Oh, they inhabit an old boathouse at the end of the Rue de Brissac
down on the banks of the river Seine. There's a cellar entrance to
their hovel near the Paris-Normandy coach house. But what would you
do?" he inquired solicitously.
"Oh, Sir," said Henriette piteously, "if you could use your influence
to get me out of here some way, I would--would run there and recover
my little lost sister! You don't know how I love her, nor my fears
that they will kill her. Please, please--" The little voice broke off
in sobs.
Patting the girl's shoulder and smiling at her as if to try to impart
confidence in a very difficult matter, the good Doctor drew apart with
Sister Genevieve and conferred earnestly for a few moments. On their
return, the physician spoke again:
"'Twould be of no use to invoke the police, as the Count has probably
instructed them not to hunt for Louise. Nor is it in our power to
release you from here. But we shall get up a petition signed by all of
us for your reprieve, very likely Count de Linieres will not venture
to refuse it--"
Henriette was overjoyed even with this slender resource, and warmly
thanked them. At once her busy little brain laid plans for invading
the lair of the Frochards. And then--a most unexpected ray in the
darkness--arrived at Salpetriere the quaint valet Picard and brought
her comfort too.
No longer a spy for the Count, he had been converted from base
suspicion by the Chevalier's honorable suit and the exile the latter
had suffered. He now delivered this little message from his master at
Caen:
Dearest, never will I marry anyone but you, my heart's desire!
Should I escape, it will be to your arms. Picard knows my secret
plan and will tell you--until then, courage! A thousand kisses
from your Maurice.
Henriette kissed the little paper fervently.
Countess de Linieres decided to make a clean breast of her wretched
past to her husband. "It was not that I--I sinned," she sobbed,
kneeling at his feet, "In the sight of God I am innocent, though
erring!
"In early girlhood," she continued, "I loved and was loved by a
Commoner, a man of the people. The good Cure married us secretly. We
were blessed by an infant daughter.
"The family pride of the de Vaudreys was outraged by the so-called
dishonor. Two of the clan found our hiding-place and slew my husband,
then took my baby Louise from my helpless arms. I was brought back to
the chateau and given in marriage to you, after threats of death if I
should ever divulge the secret! Twenty years after, I saw my daughter
as Louise the blind singer--the girl Henriette, whom you sent to
Salpetriere, is her foster-sister. Oh, forgive, forgive--put me away
if you wish, but consider what I have suffered!..."
The strong man, whom neither the fate of Maurice nor of Henriette had
melted, was crying. Gently he lifted up the Countess and clasped her
sobbing in his arms.
"If you had only told me before--" was the only word to which he could
give utterance.
The hellish aspect of his persecutions now stood revealed. Count de
Linieres, in the act of divine forgiveness, resolved to undo wrongs.
But History struck faster.
The avenger Jacques-Forget-Not annihilated pardons. The Linieres and
the other aristocrats were soon to flee for their lives.