"You surprise and interest me very much, Monsieur. Shall I be indiscreet
if I ask you to tell me the facts of the case? If I am troubling you,
think that I have said nothing about the matter."
The gentleman took my arm familiarly.
"Not at all, not at all. Let us stop a little behind the others, and I
will tell it you, although it is a very sad story. We have plenty of
time before getting to the cemetery, whose trees you see up yonder, for
it is a stiff pull up this hill."
And he began:
"This young woman, Madame Paul Hamot, was the daughter of a wealthy
merchant in the neighborhood, Monsieur Fontanelle. When she was a mere
child of eleven, she had a terrible adventure; a footman violated her.
She nearly died, in consequence, and the wretch's brutality betrayed
him. A terrible criminal case was the result, and it was proved that for
three months the poor young martyr had been the victim of that brute's
disgraceful practices, and he was sentenced to penal servitude for life.
"The little girl grew up stigmatized by disgrace, isolated without any
companions, and grown-up people would scarcely kiss her, for they
thought that they would soil their lips if they touched her forehead,
and she became a sort of monster, a phenomenon to all the town. People
said to each other in a whisper: 'You know, little Fontanelle,' and
everybody turned away in the streets when she passed. Her parents could
not even get a nurse to take her out for a walk, as the other servants
held aloof from her, as if contact with her would poison everybody who
came near her.
"It was pitiable to see the poor child. She remained quite by herself,
standing by her maid, and looking at the other children amusing
themselves. Sometimes, yielding to an irresistible desire to mix with
the other children, she advanced, timidly, with nervous gestures, and
mingled with a group, with furtive steps, as if conscious of her own
infamy. And, immediately, the mothers, aunts and nurses used to come
running from every seat, who took the children entrusted to their care
by the hand and dragged them brutally away.
"Little Fontanelle remained isolated, wretched, without understanding
what it meant, and then she began to cry, nearly heart-broken with
grief, and then she used to run and hide her head in her nurse's lap,
sobbing.
"As she grew up, it was worse still. They kept the girls from her, as if
she were stricken with the plague. Remember that she had nothing to
learn, nothing; that she no longer had the right to the symbolical
wreath of orange-flowers; that almost before she could read, she had
penetrated that redoubtable mystery, which mothers scarcely allow their
daughters to guess, trembling as they enlighten them, on the night of
their marriage.
"When she went through the streets, always accompanied by her governess,
as if her parents feared some fresh, terrible adventure, with her eyes
cast down under the load of that mysterious disgrace, which she felt was
always weighing upon her, the other girls, who were not nearly so
innocent as people thought, whispered and giggled as they looked at her
knowingly, and immediately turned their heads absently, if she happened
to look at them. People scarcely greeted her; only a few men bowed to
her, and the mothers pretended not to see her, whilst some young
blackguards called her _Madame Baptiste_, after the name of the footman
who had outraged and ruined her.
"Nobody knew the secret torture of her mind, for she hardly ever spoke,
and never laughed, and her parents themselves appeared uncomfortable in
her presence, as if they bore her a constant grudge for some irreparable
fault.
"An honest man would not willingly give his hand to a liberated convict,
would he, even if that convict were his own son? And Monsieur and Madame
Fontanelle looked on their daughter as they would have done on a son who
had just been released from the hulks. She was pretty and pale, tall,
slender, distinguished-looking, and she would have pleased me very much,
Monsieur, but for that unfortunate affair.
"Well, when a new sub-prefect was appointed here eighteen months ago, he
brought his private secretary with him. He was a queer sort of fellow,
who had lived in the _Latin Quarter_[21], it appears. He saw
Mademoiselle Fontanelle, and fell in love with her, and when told of
what occurred, he merely said: 'Bah! That is just a guarantee for the
future, and I would rather it should have happened before I married her,
than afterwards. I shall sleep tranquilly with that woman.'
[Footnote 21: The students' quarter in France, where so many of them
lead rackety, fast lives.--TRANSLATOR.]
"He paid his addresses to her, asked for her hand, and married her, and
then, not being deficient in boldness, he paid wedding-calls,[22] as if
nothing had happened. Some people returned them, others did not, but, at
last, the affair began to be forgotten, and she took her proper place in
society.
[Footnote 22: In France and Germany, the newly-married couple pay the
wedding-calls, which is the direct opposite to our custom.--TRANSLATOR.]
"She adored her husband as if he had been a god, for, you must remember,
he had restored her to honor and to social life, that he had braved
public opinion, faced insults, and, in a word, performed such a
courageous act, as few men would accomplish, and she felt the most
exalted and uneasy love for him.
"When she became pregnant, and it was known, the most particular people
and the greatest sticklers opened their doors to her, as if she had been
definitely purified by maternity.
"It is funny, but so it is, and thus everything was going on as well as
possible, when, the other day, was the feast of the patron saint of our
town. The Prefect, surrounded by his staff and the authorities, presided
at the musical competition, and when he had finished his speech, the
distribution of medals began, which Paul Hamot, his private secretary,
handed to those who were entitled to them.
"As you know, there are always jealousies and rivalries, which make
people forget all propriety. All the ladies of the town were there on
the platform, and, in his proper turn, the bandmaster from the village
of Mourmillon came up. This band was only to receive a second-class
medal, for one cannot give first-class medals to everybody, can one? But
when the private secretary handed him his badge, the man threw it in his
face and exclaimed:
"'You may keep your medal for Baptiste. You owe him a first-class one,
also, just as you do me.'
"There were a number of people there who began to laugh. The common herd
are neither charitable nor refined, and every eye was turned towards
that poor lady. Have you ever seen a woman going mad, Monsieur? Well, we
were present at the sight! She got up and fell back on her chair three
times following, as if she had wished to make her escape, but saw that
she could not make her way through the crowd, and then another voice in
the crowd exclaimed:
"'Oh I Oh! Madame Baptiste!'
"And a great uproar, partly laughter, and partly indignation, arose. The
word was repeated over and over again; people stood on tip-toe to see
the unhappy woman's face; husbands lifted their wives up in their arms,
so that they might see the unhappy woman's face, and people asked:
"'Which is she? The one in blue?'
"The boys crowed like cocks, and laughter was heard all over the place.
"She did not move now on her state chair, just as if she had been put
there for the crowd to look at. She could not move, nor disappear, nor
hide her face. Her eyelids blinked quickly, as if a vivid light were
shining in her face, and she panted like a horse that is going up a
steep hill, so that it almost broke one's heart to see it. Meanwhile,
however, Monsieur Hamot had seized the ruffian by the throat, and they
were rolling on the ground together, amidst a scene of indescribable
confusion, and the ceremony was interrupted.
"An hour later, as the Hamots were returning home, the young woman, who
had not uttered a word since the insult, but who was trembling as if all
her nerves had been set in motion by springs, suddenly sprang on the
parapet of the bridge, and threw herself into the river, before her
husband could prevent her. The water is very deep under the arches, and
it was two hours before her body was recovered. Of course, she was
dead."
The narrator stopped, and then added:
"It was, perhaps, the best thing she could do in her position. There are
some things which cannot be wiped out, and now you understand why the
clergy refused to have her taken into church. Ah! If it had been a
religious funeral, the whole town would have been present, but you can
understand that her suicide added to the other affair, and made families
abstain from attending her funeral; and then, it is not an easy matter,
here, to attend a funeral which is performed without religious rites."
We passed through the cemetery gates and I waited, much moved by what I
had heard, until the coffin had been lowered into the grave, before I
went up to the poor fellow who was sobbing violently, to press his hand
vigorously. He looked at me in surprise through his tears, and then
said:
"Thank you, Monsieur." And I was not sorry that I had followed the
funeral.