FRANCOIS GERMAIN.
Although the features of Germain could not be styled regular, it was
scarcely possible to see a more interesting countenance. There was an
air of ease and elegance about him, while his slight, graceful figure,
plain but neatly arranged dress (consisting of a pair of gray trousers
and black frock coat, buttoned up to the chin), formed a striking
contrast to the slovenliness and neglect to which the occupants of the
prison generally gave themselves up; his white hands and well-trimmed
nails evinced an attention to his personal appearance which had still
further excited the ill-will of the prisoners against him, for bodily
neglect is almost invariably the accompaniment of moral perversion. He
wore his long and naturally curling chestnut hair parted on one side of
his forehead, according to the fashion of the day, a style that well
became his pale and melancholy countenance, and large, clear blue eyes,
beaming with truth and candour; his smile, at once sweet and mournful,
expressed benevolence of heart, mingled with a habitual dejection, for,
though young, the unfortunate youth had already deeply tasted
affliction.
Nothing could be imagined more touching than the look of suffering
impressed on his features, while the gentle and resigned cast of his
whole physiognomy was but a fair transcript of the mind within, for a
better, purer, or more upright heart could scarcely have beaten in human
form.
The very cause of his imprisonment (divested of the calumnious
aggravations affixed to it by Jacques Ferrand) proved the goodness of
his nature, and left him worthy of blame only for suffering himself to
be led astray by his feelings to commit an action decidedly wrong, but
still excusable if it be remembered that the son of Madame Georges felt
perfectly sure of replacing on the following morning the sum temporarily
taken from the notary's cash-box, for the purpose of saving Morel the
lapidary, from being dragged from his family and confined in a prison.
Germain coloured slightly as he perceived, through the grating of the
visitor's room, the bright and charming countenance of Rigolette, who
strove, as usual, to appear gay, in hopes of encouraging and enlivening
her protege a little; but the poor girl was too bad a dissembler to
conceal the sorrow and agitation she invariably experienced upon
entering the prison. She was seated on a bench at the outside of the
grating, holding her straw basket on her lap.
Instead of remaining in the adjoining passage, from whence every word
could be heard, the old turnkey retired to the stove placed at the very
extremity of the visiting-room, closed his eyes, and in a very few
seconds was (as his breathing announced) fast asleep, leaving Germain
and Rigolette at perfect liberty to converse at their ease.
"Now then, M. Germain," cried the grisette, placing her pretty face as
closely as she could to the grate, the better to examine the features of
her friend, "let me see what sort of a countenance you have got to-day,
and whether it is less sad than it was? Humph, humph--only middling!
Now, do you know that I've a great mind to be very angry with you?"
"Oh, no, you are too good for that. But how very kind of you to come
again so soon!"
"So soon! Does it seem to you so soon? You mean by those words to
reproach me for coming so frequently. Well--"
"Have I not good cause to find fault with you for taking so much pains
and trouble for me, while I, alas! can merely thank you for all your
goodness?"
"That is a little mistake of yours, my fussy friend, because the little
services in my power to render you afford me quite as much pleasure as
they do you; so that, you see, I am as much bound to say 'Thank you for
all favours,' as you are. So, you see, I am not to be cheated that way.
And now I think of it, the best way to punish you for such very improper
ideas will be not to give you what I have brought for you."
"What! Another proof of your thoughtful care of me? Oh, you spoil
me--you do, indeed! I shall be fit for nothing but to be somebody's pet
when (if ever, alas!) I get out of prison. A thousand thanks! Nay, you
must pardon my using that word, although it does displease you. But,
indeed, you leave me nothing else to say."
"Ah, but don't be in such a hurry to thank me, before you even know what
I have brought!"
"Why, what do I care what it is?"
"Well, I'm sure that's very civil, M. Germain!"
"Nay, I only meant to say that, be it what it may, it must needs be dear
and precious to me, since it comes from you. Oh, Mlle. Rigolette, your
unwearied kindness, your touching sympathy, fills me with the deepest
gratitude, and--and--" But finding it impossible to conclude the
sentence, Germain cast down his eyes and remained silent.
"Well," said Rigolette, "and what else?"
"And--devotion!" stammered out Germain.
"Why could you not have said 'respect,' as people write at the end of a
letter?" asked Rigolette, impatiently. "Ah, but I know very well that
was not what you were going to say, else why did you stop all of a
sudden?"
"I assure you--"
"There, don't endeavour to assure me of anything; I can see you are
blushing through this grating. Now why can't you speak out, and tell me
every thought and wish of your heart? Am I not your true and faithful
friend as well as old companion?" continued the grisette, timidly, for
she but waited the confession of Germain's love for her to tell him
frankly and sincerely how truly she returned his affection with a
passion as true and as generous as his own.
"I assure you Mlle. Rigolette," said the poor prisoner with a sigh,
"that I had nothing else to say, and that I am concealing nothing
whatever from you."
"For shame for shame," cried Rigolette, stamping her foot; "don't tell
such stories. Now, look here," continued she, drawing a large, white,
woollen neck wrapper from her basket; "do you see this beautiful thing?
Well, I brought it on purpose for you. But now--to punish you for being
so deceitful and sly--I will not give it to you. I knitted it on purpose
for you, too; for, said I, it must be so damp and cold in those yards in
the prison. And this nice, soft, woollen handkerchief is just the thing
to keep him warm; he is so delicate!"
"And is it possible you--"
"Yes, sir, I said you were delicate--and so you are," cried Rigolette,
interrupting him. "I suppose I may recollect, if I please, how chilly
you used to be of an evening, though all the time you tried to conceal
it, that you might hinder me from putting more wood on my fire when you
came to sit with me. I've got a good memory, I can tell you; so don't
contradict me."
"And so have I," replied Germain, in a voice of deep feeling "far too
good for my present position;" and, with these words, he passed his hand
across his eyes.
"Now then, I declare, I believe you are falling into low spirits again,
though I so strictly forbade it."
"How is it possible for me to avoid being moved even to tears, when I
recollect all you have done for me ever since I entered this prison? And
is not your last kind attention another proof of your amiable care for
me? And do I not know that you are obliged to work at night to make up
for the time it occupies for you to visit me in my misfortunes, and that
on my account you impose additional labour and fatigue on yourself?"
"Oh, if that be all you have to be miserable about I beg you will make
very short work of it. Truly, I deserve a great deal of pity for taking
a nice refreshing walk two or three times a week just to see a friend--I
who so dearly love walking--and having a good stare at all the pretty
shops as I come along."
"And see, to-day, too, what weather you have ventured out in! Such wind
and rain! Oh, it is too selfish of me to permit you thus to sacrifice
your health for me!"
"Oh, bless you, the wind and rain only make the walk more amusing. You
have no idea what very droll sights one sees,--first comes a party of
men holding on their hats with both hands, to prevent the storm from
carrying them away; then you see an unfortunate individual with his
umbrella blown inside out, making the most ludicrous grimaces, and
shutting his eyes while the wind drives him about like a peg-top. I
declare, all the way I came along this morning, it was more diverting
than going to a play. I thought I should make you laugh by telling you
of it; but there you are looking more dull, and solid, and serious than
ever!"
"Pray forgive me if I cannot be as mirthful as your kind heart would
have me; you know I never have what is styled high spirits, and just now
I feel it impossible even to affect them."
Rigolette was very desirous of concealing that, spite of her lively
prattle, she was to the full as sad and heavy-hearted as Germain
himself could be. She therefore hastened to change the conversation by
saying:
"You say it is impossible for you to conquer your low spirits, but there
are other things you choose to style impossibilities I have begged and
prayed of you to do, because I very well know you could, if you chose."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean your obstinate avoidance of all the other prisoners, and never
speaking to one of them; the turnkey has just been talking to me about
it, and he says that for your own sake you ought to associate with them
a little. I am sure it would not do you any harm; you do not speak; it
is always the way. I see very well you will never be satisfied till
these dreadful men have played you some dangerous trick in revenge."
"You know not the horror with which they inspire me, any more than you
can guess the personal reasons I have for avoiding and execrating them,
and all who resemble them."
"Indeed, but I do know your reasons! I read the accounts you wrote for
me, and which I went to fetch away from your lodgings after your
imprisonment; from them I learned all the dangers you had incurred upon
your arrival in Paris, because, when you were in the country, you
refused to participate in the crimes of the bad man who had brought you
up; and that it was in consequence of the last snare they laid to catch
you that you quitted the Rue du Temple, without telling any one but me
where you had gone to. And I read something else, too, in those papers,"
said Rigolette, casting down her eyes, while a bright blush dyed her
cheeks; "I read things that--that--"
"You would never have known, I solemnly declare," exclaimed Germain,
eagerly, "had it not been for the misfortune which befell me. But let me
ask you to be as generous as you are good; forget and pardon my past
follies, my insane hopes. 'Tis true, in times past I ventured to
indulge such dreams, wild and unfounded as they were."
Rigolette had endeavoured a second time to draw a confession of his love
from the lips of Germain by alluding to those tender and passionate
effusions written by him, and dedicated to the remembrance of the
grisette, for whom, as we have before stated, he had always felt the
sincerest affection; but, the better to preserve the confiding
familiarity with which he was treated by his pretty neighbour, he
concealed his regard under the semblance of friendship.
Rendered more timid and sensitive by imprisonment, he could not for an
instant believe it possible for Rigolette to reciprocate the attachment
of a poor prisoner like himself, whose character was, moreover,
tarnished by so foul an accusation as he laboured under, while previous
to this calamity she had never manifested more than a sisterly interest
in him. The grisette, finding herself so little understood, stifled a
sigh, and awaited with hopeful eagerness a better opportunity of opening
the eyes of Germain to the real state of her heart. She contented
herself, therefore, with merely replying:
"To be sure, it is quite natural the sight of these wicked men should
fill you with horror and disgust; but that is no reason for your
exposing yourself to unnecessary dangers."
"I assure you that, in order to follow your advice, I have endeavoured
to force myself to converse with such as seemed the least depraved among
them; but you can form no notion what dreadful men they are, or what
shocking language they talk."
"I dare say they do, poor unfortunate creatures! It must be horrid to
hear them."
"But there is something more terrible than that, the getting gradually
used to the disgusting conversations which, in spite of yourself, you
are compelled to hear all day long. Yes, I am sorry to say, I now hear
with gloomy indifference horrible remarks and speeches that would have
excited my utmost indignation when I first came here. So, you see,"
continued Germain, bitterly, "I begin to be more afraid of myself than I
am of them."
"Oh, M. Germain!"
"I am sure of it," pursued the unfortunate young man. "After a residence
within a prison in company with such as are always to be found assembled
there, the mind becomes accustomed to guilty thoughts, in the same
manner as the ear gets inured to the coarse and vulgar expressions
continually in use. Oh, God, I can well believe how possible it is to
enter these walls innocent of the crimes ascribed to one, and to leave
them with principles utterly and irretrievably perverted!"
"But you never could be so changed! Oh, no, not you!"
"Ay, me, and others twenty times better than myself! Alas, alas! those
who condemn men to this fearful association little think that they
expose their fellow creatures to breathe an air laden with the direst
moral contagion, and inevitably fatal to every right or honourable
feeling!"
"Pray do not go on so! You know not how you grieve me!"
"Nay, I but wished to explain to you why I am daily more and more
melancholy. I wished not to have said so much, but I have only one way
of repaying the pity you have evinced for me."
"Pity? Pity? Indeed--"
"Pardon me for interrupting you, but the only way by which I can acquit
myself towards you is to speak with perfect candour; and, with
shuddering alarm, I confess that I am no longer the same person I was.
In vain do I fly these unfortunate wretches, their very presence, their
contact seems to take effect on me; in spite of myself, I seem to feel a
fatal influence in breathing the same atmosphere, as though the moral
pestilence entered at every pore, and rested not till it had mingled
with the heart's blood. Should I even be acquitted on my trial, the very
sight of, and association with, good and virtuous men would cover me
with shame and confusion; for, though I have not yet been able to find
pleasure in the society of my companions, I have, at least, learned to
dread the day when I shall again mix with persons of respectability,
because now I am conscious of my weakness and cowardice; for is not he
guilty of both who dares to make a compromise with his duties or his
honesty? And have not I done so? When I first came here I did not
deceive myself as to the extent of my fault, however excusable the
circumstances under which it was committed might have seemed to make it;
but now it appears to me an offence of a trifling description when
compared with the crimes of which the robbers and murderers by whom I am
surrounded make daily boast. And I sometimes surprise myself envying
their audacious indifference, and blaming myself with my own weak
regrets for so insignificant an action."
"And so it was an insignificant action, far more generous than wrong.
Why, what did you do but borrow for a few hours a sum of money you knew
you could replace on the following morning; and that, too, not for
yourself, but to save a whole family from ruin, perhaps death."
"That matters not, it was a theft in the eyes of the law and all honest
men. Doubtless it is better to rob with a good motive than a bad one,
but it is a fearful thing to be obliged to seek an excuse for oneself by
comparing one's own guilt with that of persons far beneath ourselves. I
can no longer venture to compare my actions with those of upright
persons, consequently, then, I am compelled to institute a comparison
between myself and the degraded beings with whom I live; so that I
plainly perceive in the end the conscience becomes hardened and is put
to sleep. The next theft I commit, probably without the prospect of
replacing the money, but from mere cupidity, I might still find an
excuse for myself by comparing my conduct with that of a man who adds
murder to theft; and yet at this moment there is as great a difference
between me and a murderer as there is between a person of untainted
character and myself. So, because there are beings a thousand times more
degraded and debased than I am, by degrees my own degradation would
become diminished in my estimation; instead of being able to say, as I
once could, 'I am as honest a man as any I meet with,' I shall be
obliged to content myself with saying I am the least guilty of the vile
wretches among whom I am condemned for ever to live."
"Oh, do not say for ever! Once released from this place--"
"What should I gain even then? The lost creatures by whom I am
surrounded are perfectly well acquainted with my person, and, were I
even to be set free, I am exposed to the chance of meeting them again,
and being hailed as a prison associate; and even though the fact of my
imprisonment might be unknown, these unprincipled beings would be for
ever threatening me to divulge it, thereby holding me completely in
their power, by bands too firm for me to hope to break; while, on the
other hand, had I been kept confined in my cell until my trial, they
would have known nothing of me, or I of them; so that I should have
escaped the fears which may paralyse my best resolutions. And, besides,
had I been permitted to contemplate my fault in the solitude of my cell,
instead of decreasing in my eyes, its enormity would have appeared still
greater; and in the same proportion would the expiation I proposed to
make have been augmented; and as my sin grew more and more apparent to
my unbiassed view, so also would my earnest determination to atone for
it by every means my humble sphere afforded have been strengthened; for
well I know it takes a hundred good deeds to efface the recollection of
one bad.
"But how can I ever expect to turn my thoughts towards expiating a crime
which scarcely awakens in me the smallest remorse? I tell you again--and
I feel what I say--that I seem acting under some irresistible influence,
against which I have long and fruitlessly struggled. I was brought up
for evil, and, alone, friendless, and powerless to resist, I yield to my
destiny. What matters it whether that destiny be accomplished by honest
or dishonest means? Yet Heaven knows my thoughts and intentions were
ever pure and upright; and I felt the greater satisfaction in the
possession of an unsullied reputation, from recollection of all the
attempts that had been made to lead me to a life of infamy; and mine has
been a course of infinite difficulty while seeking to free myself from
the odious wretches who wished to degrade me, and render me as vile as
themselves.
"But what avails my having been a person of unblemished honour and
unspotted reputation? What am I now? Oh, dreadful, dreadful contrast!"
exclaimed the unhappy prisoner, in an agony of tears and sobs, which
drew a plenteous shower of sympathising drops from the tender-hearted
grisette, who, guided by her natural right-mindedness, her woman's wit,
as well as warmed by her deep affection for Germain, clearly perceived
that, although as yet her protege had lost none of the scrupulous
notions of honour and probity he had ever entertained, yet that he spoke
truly when he expressed his dread that the day might come when he would
behold with guilty indifference those words and actions he now shuddered
even to think of.
Drying her eyes, therefore, and addressing Germain, who was still
leaning his forehead against the grating, she said, in a voice and
manner more touchingly serious than Germain had ever before observed:
"Listen to me, Germain! I shall not, perhaps, be able to express myself
as I could wish, for I am not a good speaker like you, but what I do say
is uttered in all sincerity and truth; but first I must tell you you
have no right to call yourself alone and friendless."
"Oh, think not I can ever forget all your generous compassion has
induced you to do to serve me!"
"Just now, when you used the word pity, I did not interrupt you; but now
that you repeat the word, or at least one quite as bad, I must tell you
quite plainly that I feel neither pity nor compassion for you, but quite
a different--Stay, I will try and explain myself as well as I can. While
we were next-door neighbours, I felt for you all the regard due to one I
esteemed as a friend and brother. We mutually aided each other; you
shared with me all your Sunday amusements, and I did my very best to
look as well and be as gay and entertaining as I could, in order to show
how much I was gratified; so there again we were quits."
"Quits? Oh, no, no! I--"
"Now, do hold your tongue, and let me speak! I'm sure you have had all
the talk to yourself this long while. When you were obliged to quit the
house we lodged in, I felt more sorrow at your departure than I had ever
done before."
"Is it possible?"
"Yes, indeed, for all the other persons who had lived in your apartments
were careless creatures, whom I did not care a pin for; while you, from
the very first of our acquaintance, seemed just the sort of person I
wanted to be my neighbour, because you could understand that I wished us
to be good friends, and nothing more. Then you were so ready to pass all
your spare time with me, teaching me to write, giving me good advice,--a
little serious, to be sure, but all the better for that. You were ever
kind and good, yet never presumed upon it in any way; and even when
compelled to change your lodging, you confided to me a secret you would
not have trusted to any one else,--the name of your new abode; and that
made me so proud and happy, to think you should have so much reliance on
the silence and friendship of a giddy girl like myself. I used to think
of you so constantly that at last every other person seemed to be
banished from my recollection, and you alone to occupy my memory. Pray
don't turn away as if you did not believe me. You know I always speak
the truth."
"Indeed, indeed, I can scarcely believe that you were kind enough thus
to remember me."
"Oh, but I did, though; and I should have been very ungrateful had I
acted otherwise. Sometimes I used to say to myself, 'M. Germain is the
very nicest young man I know, though he is rather too serious at times;
but never mind that. If I had a friend whom I wished to be very, very
happy when she was married, I certainly should recommend her marrying M.
Germain, who would make just such a husband as a good wife deserves to
meet with.'"
"You remembered me then, it seems, for the sake of bestowing me on
another," murmured poor Germain, almost involuntarily.
"Yes, and I should have been delighted to have helped you to obtain a
good wife, because I felt a real and friendly interest in your
happiness. You see I speak without any reserve; you know I never could
disguise my thoughts."
"Well, I can but thank you for caring enough about me even to wish to
dispose of me in marriage to one of your acquaintances."
"This was the state of things when your troubles came upon you, and you
sent me that poor, dear letter in which you acquainted me with what you
styled your fault, but which, to an ignorant mind like my own, seemed a
noble and generous action. That letter directed me to go and fetch away
your papers, among which I found the confession of your love for me,--a
love you had never ventured to reveal; and there, too," continued
Rigolette, unable longer to restrain her tears, "I learned that, kindly
considering my future prospects (illness or want of employ might render
so distressing), you wished, in the event of your dying a violent death
(as your fears foretold might be the case), to secure to me the trifle
you had accumulated by industry and care."
"I did; and surely if, during my lifetime, you had been overtaken by
sickness or any other misfortune, you would sooner have accepted
assistance from me than from any other living creature, would you not? I
flattered myself so, at least. Tell me, tell--I was right, that to me
you would have turned for succour and support as to any true and devoted
friend?"
"Of course I should! Who else should I have thought of in any hour of
need or sorrow but you, M. Germain?"
"Thanks, thanks! Your words fall like healing drops upon my heart, and
console me for all I have suffered."
"But how shall I attempt to describe to you what I felt while reading
that--oh, it is a dreadful word to utter!--that will, each word of which
breathed only care and solicitude for my future welfare? And yet these
tender, touching proofs of your sincere regard were to have been
concealed from me till your death. Surely it was not strange that
conduct so generous and delicate should at once have converted my
feelings towards you into those of an affection sincere and fervent as
your own for me. That is easily understood, is it not, M. Germain?"
The large dark eyes of Rigolette were fixed on Germain with an
expression so earnest and tender, her sweet voice pronounced the simple
confession of her love in a tone so touchingly true to nature, that
Germain, who had never for one instant flattered himself with having
awakened so warm an interest in the heart of the grisette, gazed on her
for an instant in utter inability to believe the words he heard; then,
as the bright beaming look he encountered conveyed the truth to his
mind, his colour varied from deepest red to deadly pale, he cried out in
a voice quivering with emotion:
"Can it be? Do I hear aright? Ah, repeat those dear words that I may
feel convinced of their reality."
"Why should I hesitate to assure you again and again that when I learned
your kind consideration for me, and remembered how miserable and
wretched you were, I no longer felt for you the calm feelings of
friendship? And certainly, M. Germain," added Rigolette, smilingly,
while a rosy blush mantled her intelligent features, "if I had a friend
now I wished to see well married, I should be very sorry indeed to
recommend her choosing you, because, because--"
"You would marry me yourself!" exclaimed the delighted young man.
"You compel me to tell you so myself, since you will not ask it of me."
"Can this be possible?"
"It is not from not having put you in the direct path more than once to
make you understand. But you will not take a hint, and so, sir, I am
compelled to confess the thing myself. It is wrong, perhaps; but, as
there is no one but yourself to reprove my boldness, I have less fear;
and then," added Rigolette, in a more serious tone, and with tender
emotion, "you just now appeared to me so greatly overcome, so
despairing, that I could no longer repress my feelings; and I had vanity
enough to believe that this avowal, frankly made and from my heart,
would prevent you from being unhappy in future. I said to myself, 'Until
now I had been able to amuse or comfort him--' Ah, _mon Dieu!_ what is
the matter?" exclaimed Rigolette, seeing Germain conceal his face in
his hands. "Is not this cruel?" she added; "whatever I do, whatever I
say, you are still as wretched as ever, and that is being too
unkind--too selfish; it is as if it were you only who suffered from
sorrows!"
"Alas, what misery is mine!" exclaimed Germain, with despair; "you love
me when I am no longer worthy of you."
"Not worthy of me? Why, how can you talk so absurdly? It is just as if I
said that I was not formerly worthy of your friendship because I had
been in prison; for, after all, I have been a prisoner also; but am I
the less an honest girl?"
"But you were in prison because you were a poor forsaken girl; whilst
I--alas, what a difference!"
"Well, then, as to prison, we shall neither of us ever have anything to
reproach each other with. It is I who am the more ambitious of the two;
for, in my position, I have no right to think of any person but a
workman for my husband. I was a foundling, and have nothing but my small
apartment and my good spirits, and yet I come and boldly offer myself to
you as a wife."
"Alas, formerly such a destiny would have been the dream--the happiness
of my life! But now I am under the odium of an infamous accusation; and
should I take advantage of your excessive generosity, your
commiseration, which no doubt misleads you? No, no!"
"But," exclaimed Rigolette, with pained impatience, "I tell you that it
is not pity I feel for you, it is love! I think of you only; I no longer
sleep or eat. Your sad and gentle countenance follows me everywhere. Can
that be pity only? Now, when you speak to me, your voice, your look, go
to my very heart. There are a thousand things in you now which please
me, and which I had not before marked. I like your face, I like your
eyes, your appearance, your disposition, your good heart. Is that pity?
Why, after having loved you as a friend, do I love you as a lover? I
cannot say. Why was I light and gay when I liked you as a friend? Why am
I quite a different being now I love you as a lover? I do not know. Why
have I been so slow in finding you at once handsome and good,--in loving
you at once with eyes and heart? I cannot say--or rather, yes--I can; it
is because I have discovered how much you love me without having told me
of it,--how generous and devoted you were. Then love mounted from my
heart to my eyes, as a tear does when the heart is softened."
"Really, I seem to be in a dream when I hear you speak thus!"
"And I never could have believed that I could have told you all this,
but your despair has forced me to it. Well, sir, now you know I love you
as my friend, my lover--as my husband! Will you still call it pity?"
The generous scruples of Germain were overcome in an instant before this
plain and devoted confession, a hopeful joy prevailed over his painful
reflections.
"You love me?" he cried; "I believe you; your accent, your
look,--everything proclaims it! I will not ask how I have merited such
happiness, but I abandon myself to it blindly; my life, my whole life,
will not suffice to pay my debt to you! Oh, I have greatly suffered
already, but this moment effaces all!"
"Then you will be comforted at last? Oh, I was sure I should contrive to
do so!" cried Rigolette, in a transport of joy.
"And it is in the midst of the horrors of a prison, and when all
conspires to overwhelm me, that such happiness--"
Germain could not conclude. This thought reminded him of the reality of
his position. His scruples, for a moment lost sight of, returned more
severe than ever, and he said, with despair:
"But I am a prisoner--I am accused of robbery; I shall be
sentenced--dishonoured, perhaps! And I cannot accept of your generous
sacrifice--profit by your noble excitement. Oh, no, no; I am not such a
villain as that!"
"What do you say?"
"I may be sentenced to several years' imprisonment."
"Well," replied Rigolette, with calmness and firmness, "they shall see
that I am an honest girl, and they will not refuse to marry us in the
prison chapel."
"But I may be put in prison at a distance from Paris."
"Once your wife, I will follow you and settle in the city where you may
be. I shall find work there, and can see you every day."
"But I shall be disgraced in the eyes of all."
"You love me better than any one--don't you?"
"Can you ask me such a question?"
"Then of what consequence is it? So far from considering you as
disgraced in my eyes, I shall consider you as the victim of your own
kind heart."
"But the world will accuse, condemn, calumniate your choice."
"The world! Are not you the world to me--I to you? So let it say as it
may!"
"Well, quitting prison at length, my life will be precarious--miserable.
Repulsed on all sides, I may, perhaps, find no employment, and then it
is appalling to think! But if this corruption which besets me should
seize on me in spite of myself, what a future for you!"
"You will never grow corrupted. No; for now you know that I love you,
this thought will give you the power of resisting bad examples. You will
reflect that if all repulse you when you quit your prison, your wife
will receive you with love and gratitude, assured, as she will be, that
you will still be an honest man. This language astonishes you, does it
not? It astonishes even myself. I do not know whence I derive all I say
to you; from the bottom of my soul, assuredly--and that must convince
you! That is, if you do not reject an offer made you most unreservedly,
if you do not desire to reject the love of a poor girl who has only--"
Germain interrupted Rigolette with impassioned voice:
"Yes, indeed--I do accept--I do accept! Yes, I feel it. I am assured it
is sometimes cowardly to refuse certain sacrifices; it is to avow
oneself unworthy of them. I accept them, noble, brave girl!"
"Really, really--are you really in earnest?"
"I swear to you; and you have, too, said something which greatly struck
me, and gives me the courage I want."
"Delightful! And what did I say?"
"That, for your sake, I should in future continue an honest man. Yes, in
this thought I shall find strength to resist the detestable influences
which surround me. I shall brave contagion, and know how to keep worthy
of your love the heart which belongs to you."
"Oh, Germain, how happy I am! If I have ever done anything for you, how
you recompense me now!"
"And then, observe, although you excuse my fault I shall never forget
it. My future task will be double: to expiate the past and deserve the
happiness I owe to you. For that I will do my best, and, as poor as I
may be, the opportunity will not fail me, I am sure."
"Alas! that is true; for we always find persons more unfortunate than
ourselves."
"And if we have no money, why--"
"We give our tears, as I did for the poor Morels."
"And that is holy alms. 'Charity of the soul is quite equal to that
which bestows bread.'"
"You accept, then, and will never retract?"
"Never, never, my love--my wife! My courage returns to me, and I seem as
though awaking from a dream, and no longer doubt myself. My heart would
not beat as it does if it had lost its noblest energies."
"Oh, Germain, how you delight me in speaking so! How you assure me, not
for yourself but for myself. So you will promise me, now you have my
love to urge you on, that you will no longer be afraid to speak to these
wicked men, so that you may not excite their anger against you?"
[Illustration: "_Touched with His Lips through the Grating_"
Original Etching by Mercier]
"Take courage! When they saw me sad and sorrowful, they accused me, no
doubt, of being a prey to my remorse; but when they see me proud and
joyous, they will believe their pernicious example has gained on me."
"That's true; they will no longer suspect you, and my mind will be easy.
So mind, no rashness, no imprudence, now you belong to me,--for I am
your little wife."
At this moment the turnkey awoke.
"Quick," said Rigolette, in a low voice, and with a smile full of grace
and modest tenderness, "quick, my dear husband, and give me a loving
kiss on my forehead through the grating; that will be our betrothing."
And the young girl, blushing, bowed her forehead against the iron
trellis.
Germain, deeply affected, touched with his lips through the grating her
pure and white forehead.
* * * * *
"Oh, oh! What, three o'clock already?" said the turnkey; "and visitors
ought to leave at two! Come, my dear little girl," he added, addressing
the grisette, "it's a pity, but you must go."
"Oh, thanks, thanks, sir, for having allowed us thus to converse alone!
I have given Germain courage, and now he will look livelier, and need
not fear his wicked companions."
"Make yourself easy," said Germain, with a smile; "I shall in future be
the gayest in the prison."
"That's all right, and then they will no longer pay any attention to
you," said the guardian.
"Here is a cravat I have brought for Germain, sir," said Rigolette.
"Must I leave it at the entrance?"
"Why, perhaps you should; but still it is such a very small matter! So,
to make the day complete, give him your present yourself." And the
turnkey opened the door of the corridor.
"This good man is right, and the day will be complete," said Germain,
receiving the cravat from Rigolette's hands, which he pressed tenderly.
"Adieu; and to our speedy meeting! Now I am no longer afraid to ask you
to come and see me as soon as possible."
"Nor I to promise you. Good-bye, dear Germain!"
"Good-bye, my dear girl!"
"Wear the cravat, for fear you should catch cold; it is so damp!"
"What a pretty cravat! And when I reflect that you knitted it for me!
Oh, I will never let it leave me!" said Germain, pressing it to his
lips.
"Now, then, your spirits will revive, I hope! And so good-bye, once
more. Thank you, sir. And now I go away, much happier and more assured.
Good-bye, Germain!"
"Farewell, my dear little wife!"
"Adieu!"
A few minutes afterwards, Rigolette, having put on her goloshes and
taken her umbrella, left the prison more joyfully than she had entered
it. During the conversation of Germain and the grisette, other scenes
were passing in one of the prison yards, to which we will now conduct
the reader.