fond they were of him; and he was so moved to find himself the object of
such sweet and loving attentions, that he could not speak; but he looked
from one to the other of the girls who stood beside his bed, and his
eyes probably told them all that was taking place in his heart, for
Bastringuette exclaimed, with her customary bluntness:
"Oh, well! if we're going to be sentimental, and all three of us cry, we
shall make a pretty mess of it; it'll give him the fever, and he won't
get well. The doctor said he mustn't be excited, and we've done nothing
else!"
Elina sat down beside the bed, took one of the injured man's hands in
hers, and said to him in a low, very low tone:
"Does it do you any harm to see how much I love you? More's the pity if
it does; I'll tell you every day. And if my aunt should find out that I
come to see you, why, I'll say: 'Paul is going to be my husband, aunt;
and a woman has a right to nurse her husband.'"
While the little dressmaker said to her lover all that her heart
prompted her to say, Bastringuette went to one of her neighbors and
borrowed a wretched mattress, which she carried into her closet; then
she threw some old clothes on it, and said to herself:
"I shall sleep well enough there; anyway, a nurse can't sleep much."
Elina, having to return to her aunt, left them with regret, saying:
"Until to-morrow!"
Then, after administering to her patient a draught prescribed by the
doctor, Bastringuette lay down on the mattress on the floor of the
closet.
"I'll be on hand if you make the least movement," she said to Paul.
Early the next morning, Elina was at the flower girl's, bringing some
sugar and a small jar of preserve.
"It's my right to help take care of him," she said to Bastringuette. "My
aunt gives me so much a day for my food, and I can afford to pinch
myself a little for my poor Paul."
That seemed natural enough to Bastringuette, for she would have done as
much.
If the certainty of being loved had been sufficient to restore the young
messenger's health, Paul would have been cured in a very short time. But
such was not the case; unluckily, the patient's mind was constantly
occupied by other thoughts. He was worried and alarmed by his helpless
plight, and the wound on his head, instead of cicatrizing, became more
serious, because it was complicated by a sharp attack of fever.
The two girls redoubled their zealous attentions to the patient;
Bastringuette passed part of the night with him; Elina sometimes arrived
before daybreak, and often remained very late in the evening, having
succeeded in making her aunt believe that she worked late at Madame
Dumanchon's. Both of them deprived themselves of the most essential
necessities of life, so that the sick man need lack nothing; but neither
of them complained nor would have consented to surrender the place she
occupied.
One evening, after a day during which the fever had not left him for an
instant, Paul looked about and saw that Bastringuette was alone in the
room. She had gone into a corner, so that the invalid might not see her
eat the piece of dry bread of which her evening meal consisted. Paul
called her, and she hastened to his side after thrusting her bread into
her pocket.
"What day is it?" he asked, fixing his eyes, bright with fever, on
Bastringuette's.
"What day? This is Tuesday."
"No, not that; what day of the month?"
"Oh! it's the twenty-fourth."
"The twenty-fourth! Why, how long have I been sick?"
"It was the fifth you got so used up! I remember it very well; it was a
Thursday."
"The fifth; so I've been here nineteen days?"
"Well, what if it was fifty? I can understand that it bores you to be
sick, but ain't you well taken care of here? Don't Mamzelle Elina and I
do all that's necessary, all the doctor says?"
"Ah! yes, my good Bastringuette--indeed you do too much! But to-morrow's
the twenty-fifth. Great God! It can't be postponed. That thought,
Bastringuette, is what gives me the fever and keeps me from getting
well."
"What thought? Come, speak out, tell me what you want me to do. I'll do
it right away."
"Oh! yes, yes! you will do it, won't you?"
"Do you want me to swear?"
"No. Listen: that old lady, at whose rooms you met me, on Vieille Rue du
Temple----"
"Madame Desroches?"
"Yes; I absolutely must send her some money."
"Money! Mon Dieu! as if----"
"Oh! I am well aware that you haven't any, my poor girl! I know that you
and Elina deprive yourselves of everything in order to take care of me."
"No, no--nonsense! The druggist gives me the medicines for nothing."
"Listen. To-morrow morning, early, you must go to my room--the key is in
the pocket of my jacket. It's on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, No. 10.
Go up to the fifth floor, the door on the left. There you will find
sixty francs in the table drawer."
"Ah! what luck!"
"Wait a moment: you are to take that money, also a frock-coat, a pair of
black trousers, and a black waistcoat, which you will find in a small
wardrobe. They are all in good condition, almost new, I wear them so
seldom. However, if you think they are not enough, take all the linen
you can find--four shirts, some sheets----"
"Mon Dieu! what am I to do with all those things?"
"Take them to the Mont-de-Piété, and get forty francs on them, which you
will put with the sixty; for to-morrow,--yes, to-morrow, the
twenty-fifth,--you must carry a hundred francs to Madame Desroches. You
must do it, do you hear?"
"Noble young man! What! you mean to go on doing without everything,
to----"
"Hush, Bastringuette! you must carry that sum to-morrow to the widow of
my benefactor. If that isn't done, I feel that I shall never get well."
"Oh! in that case, I'll go. Never you fear! I'll do everything you've
told me, and she shall have the money to-morrow. But suppose your
concierge won't let me carry the things away?"
"There isn't any concierge."
"In that case, it will soon be fixed up."
"Good! I thank you, Bastringuette. And you won't mention this to Elina?"
"Oh! dear me, no! as long as you don't want her to know your good
deeds."
"I am simply doing my duty. If only heaven will permit me to finish what
I have undertaken! I was so happy to think that, in a few months
more---- However, you'll go to-morrow, won't you, Bastringuette?--By the
way, one word more: Madame Desroches will ask you, no doubt, why I
haven't been to see her for so long a time, and why I have sent you with
the money. You must tell her that I sent you because I had to leave
Paris, to go on a short journey for the house in which I am employed.
Don't forget that."
"No, I won't forget anything."
Paul slept more quietly, thinking that the person whose self-constituted
protector he was would not have to suffer by reason of the misfortune
that had befallen him. That night his sleep refreshed him, and when he
woke he saw Elina's pretty face leaning over him, and, in the
background, Bastringuette, whose eyes seemed to express a wish to speak
to him.
"Oh! what joy!" cried Elina; "you have slept till much later to-day.
It's almost eleven o'clock. Luckily, I had a dress to deliver, so I was
able to come back."
"And I feel much better," said Paul.
Bastringuette seized the opportunity, when she was giving the invalid
his draught, to whisper in his ear:
"Your errand is done. She has the hundred francs."
Paul could not reply, but his look expressed his satisfaction. From that
day the fever abated, and the young man soon became convalescent.
XXVIII
THE INEVITABLE HAPPENS
It was only a few days since Albert had returned to Paris, and he had
hardly had time to see his closest friends, when he disappeared again,
and no one knew the reason of his abrupt departure.
When the jovial Mouillot chanced to meet Balivan or Dupétrain or
Célestin, it rarely happened that they did not discuss the conduct of
young Vermoncey.
"What sort of a life is he leading now?" said Mouillot; "he goes off,
and is gone nearly three months; then he comes back, we see him two or
three times, and off he goes again without a word, just at the beginning
of winter, when all sorts of amusements have centred in the capital."
Monsieur Célestin, who had not given out that he had had a definitive
rupture with Albert, contented himself with some such reply as this:
"As I have been entirely unable to understand Albert's moods of late, I
have seen very much less of him. He's a queer fish: one of those people
who fly into a passion without any idea what it's all about; and I
bother my head very little as to what he does or what becomes of him!"
"For my part," said Balivan, "I am very fond of the fellow. He's
heedless and light-headed, but I am sure that he's as straight as a
string, and he's most obliging. He's a mighty bright fellow, too; and if
he'd like, I'd be glad to take a trip to Italy with him."
"If Monsieur Albert had chosen," said Monsieur Dupétrain, "he would have
made a first-class subject for magnetism; he had just the right look in
his eyes to put himself in communication with a somnambulist."
"How about the fair lady that you were paying court to not long ago?"
said Monsieur Célestin, in a sarcastic tone; "have you magnetized her?"
"Madame Baldimer? No; I tried, but I couldn't make it work; she's a
woman who is absolutely free from nervousness."
They asked one another about Tobie Pigeonnier also, who was still
undiscoverable.
"Gad!" said Mouillot; "I wouldn't give five sous for that olive stone
that poor Monsieur Varinet persists in carrying about in his purse."
Madame Plays was not disturbed about Albert, but she was fully
determined to be revenged on little Tobie, who had hoodwinked her so
completely with his alleged duel and was responsible for her having
exhaled an odor of tobacco for two months. Every morning, she sent for a
carriage, entered it with her husband, and took him to a shooting
gallery, thence to a fencing school; and there the submissive husband
was compelled to practise an hour with the pistol, and another hour with
the sword; and his wife constantly scolded him because he could never
succeed in hitting the target or in learning to parry a thrust.
Poor Monsieur Plays would return home tired to death.
"My dear love," he would say to his wife, "I assure you that I prefer to
learn whist; I understand it much better than I do fencing."
"Whether you understand it or not," the fair Herminie would reply,
"you've got to fight with that little Tobie, who isn't likely to be very
formidable. Remember, monsieur, that you are to challenge him, wherever
you meet him!"
And Monsieur Plays would bend his head with an air of resignation; and
when he was on the street, or driving, if he saw a man who resembled
Tobie, he would hasten away in the opposite direction.
Meanwhile, two months had passed since Sans-Cravate had found his
sister, only to lose her again at once. During that time the messenger
had called frequently at Monsieur Vermoncey's, to ask if he had heard
from his son, and if he knew where he had taken his sister. But Albert
had written only two letters to his father; they were very short, and
did not mention the girl he had abducted. One was dated in Alsace, and
the other in Switzerland; he simply said that he was travelling, and
gave no address.
As time passed, Sans-Cravate's hopes grew fainter and fainter; often,
after questioning Monsieur Vermoncey, he would shake his head sadly, and
mutter:
"This looks bad! I tell you, monsieur, I'm very much afraid Monsieur
Albert don't intend to do what's right. I don't like this keeping my
sister away from me and preventing her from writing--for if he didn't
forbid her to do it, I'm sure she'd have let me know where she is before
this. And then, his not making any attempt to get you to forgive him for
what he's done! I'm only a poor devil, without any education, but it
don't seem to me that all that looks like a purpose to keep his
promises."
Monsieur Vermoncey strove to reassure him, saying:
"You can always rely on my word!"
And the messenger would return to his stand, reflecting thus:
"The father's an honorable man, that's sure; he'll never go back on what
he says; but what good does it do me to have the father's word, if the
son don't keep his?"
Since he had seen his sister, since he had conceived the hope that she
would be received into the Vermoncey family, Sans-Cravate had entirely
changed his ways: he no longer drank too much; he had ceased to frequent
wine shops; he was neither quarrelsome nor noisy as before; lastly, he
had ceased to consort with Jean Ficelle, and all that worthy's
insistence was powerless to induce him to leave his place or neglect his
work.
Once only he had met Paul, who was then convalescent, and was crawling
painfully along, on Bastringuette's arm; for it was the middle of the
day, when Elina could not be with her lover.
Sans-Cravate felt that he quivered all over, and that his hand trembled,
when he saw his former comrade's pale, emaciated face. If Paul had been
alone, it is probable that Sans-Cravate would have thrown his arms about
him and begged him to forgive the injury he had done him; but the
presence of Bastringuette reawakened all the pangs of jealousy in his
heart, and he walked quickly away, cursing anew his former friend and
his former mistress.
But, whether because he was still too weak to work, or because he
preferred not to encounter the man who had nearly killed him, Paul did
not return to his former stand.
The cold was sharp, the snow fell in large flakes, and the people on the
streets and the boulevard walked quickly and did not often stop.
Sans-Cravate was in his place, seated on his _crochets_; on his head was
a broad-brimmed woollen hat, which protected him from the snow; but,
despite the severity of the weather, his neck was bare, as on the
warmest day in summer.
"I say, well-named!" cried Jean Ficelle, as he drew near, blowing on his
fingers; "do you propose to stay here just to let the snow fall on your
nose? This is no weather for customers to take the trouble to come after
us. Let's go and get under cover in a wine shop."
"No, I'm done with wine shops," replied Sans-Cravate, shortly.
"Oho! so it's all up with you, is it? You're not a man at all; you've
forgotten how to laugh or drink or play cards. Good-day! you're lost to
society."
Jean Ficelle walked away. Sans-Cravate had not been alone on the corner
three minutes, when, in spite of the bad weather, a young woman in a
coquettish little cap and silk apron, and struggling with a large
umbrella to shelter her from the snow, walked up to the messenger and
said to him:
"Are you Monsieur Sans-Cravate?"
"Yes, mamzelle."
"My mistress would like to speak to you right away."
"Your mistress! Oh! I guess I know you; aren't you with a lady who lives
in Rue Neuve-Vivienne?"
"Yes, with Madame Baldimer."
"That's the name."
"Will you come?"
"Right away, mamzelle."
Sans-Cravate followed the lady's-maid, and as he walked along he
remembered that he had often carried letters for Albert to the lady in
question; he presumed that she had been the mistress of his sister's
seducer, and he wondered what she could have to say to him. The thought
disturbed and worried him, and he had a feeling of something like terror
as he entered the house, which he recognized perfectly.
Mademoiselle Rosa showed the messenger into her mistress's apartment,
instead of leaving him, as usual, in the anteroom; in the small salon,
she pointed to a chair and said:
"Sit down and wait; madame will come directly."
When the maid had left him, Sans-Cravate looked about in surprise; he
was exceedingly curious to know what this lady, who made him wait in a
salon, could possibly have to say to him. Soon a door opened, and Madame
Baldimer appeared.
She was handsomely dressed, as always, but her face was paler than
usual, and her mind seemed to be absorbed by unpleasant thoughts. Having
made sure that all the doors were closed, she walked toward
Sans-Cravate, and, motioning to him to remain seated, took a chair and
placed it in front of him.
The messenger was confounded; he hardly dared to raise his eyes to the
beautiful woman's face, but waited for her to explain herself. She
speedily broke the silence.
"You are Sans-Cravate?"
"Yes, madame."
"But that name is only a sobriquet which your comrades have given you;
your true name is Étienne Renaud, and you are of Auvergne?"
"Yes, madame."
"You have a sister, of whom a lady at Clermont took charge, and that
sister, who is now seventeen years old and very pretty, a young man from
Paris fell in love with; he seduced her, ran away with her----"
"What, madame!--you know?"
"I know everything; I know all about Albert's conduct. Keep your seat,
and listen to me. For a long time past, led by motives which you cannot
understand, I have had Albert's every movement watched. I knew of his
return to Paris a little more than two months ago; and of your sister's
residence on Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and of her removal. Lastly,
I know of your interview on Rue Grange-aux-Belles."
"But who can have told you--unless it was my sister--or Monsieur
Albert?"
"Neither the one nor the other! Mon Dieu! you are a messenger, and yet
you do not know that by the free use of money one can be informed of
every act of a person whom one chooses to have watched! Now, listen to
me: you flattered yourself that Albert would keep the promise he made
your sister, that he would repair the wrong he had done her, by marrying
her. He will do nothing of the sort. Albert is like most young men,
inconstant and unfaithful. Possession very soon extinguishes his love.
He was very much in love with your sister when he abducted her, but now
he would cry out at the idea of being faithful to her; as for marrying
her, he never dreamed of it; and since he has learned that Adeline is
the sister of a messenger, he can't understand how anyone else can dream
of such a marriage."
"The coward! the sneak!"
"And now, what do you suppose he has done, after travelling with your
sister for two months, regretting his liberty and the pleasures of Paris
every day, and cursing his folly?"
"Finish, madame, finish!"
"He has hired a little cottage at Lagny for the poor girl, and, after
giving her a sum of money and promising to return, he has left her
there, fully determined never to see her again."
"Great God! the villain! Ah! if that was true!"
"It is all true, and it rests only with you to be with your sister in a
very short time. Here is her address at Lagny, on this paper; if you
need money, take this purse. Take it; I am not offering you alms, but
assisting you to avenge your sister, because your revenge is mine as
well; because, if you have an outrage to wipe out, I have a crime, an
infamous crime, to punish, and I have sworn a solemn oath to attain my
object."
"I shall attain mine too, but I don't need money for that, madame,"
replied Sans-Cravate, pushing away the purse.
"At all events, you will not refuse these pistols; I fancy that they may
be necessary to you."
As she spoke, Madame Baldimer took from her belt a magnificent pair of
pistols and offered them to the messenger, fastening her eyes upon him,
already aflame with the hope of vengeance.
Sans-Cravate pounced upon the weapons, crying:
"Ah! yes, madame; yes, these are what I want most of all! But where is
he? where is he hiding? you must know that too. Oh! I mustn't let him
escape me now!"
"Never fear; trust to me to bring you together. At this moment he is
prowling about the outskirts of Paris; but he is likely to return at any
time, for he is terribly bored to have to stay away. Wait until he is in
Paris; I will let you know of his arrival. But go at once to your
sister. Remember that she is alone, abandoned, and that she dares not
appeal to you now."
"Ah! you are right, madame; poor Liline! I will go to her at once, and
bring her back with me; this time she shan't leave me, I promise you."
"I anticipated your answer. Take this paper; at this address you will
find a man with a carriage. I have engaged him for you, and he will take
you to Lagny and bring you back with your sister."
"Thanks, madame, thanks a thousand times! I am off. My little Liline,
who believed so fully in his promises! But you will surely let me know,
madame, as soon as he's in Paris?"
"You cannot doubt it."
"If I'm not at my stand, I live on Rue Saint-Lazare, corner of Rue
Saint-Georges."
"I know where you live; and I tell you again that, as soon as Albert is
in Paris, I will send you word."
"I count on it, madame; now, I will hurry off and get my sister; after
that, I will find a way to avenge her."
Sans-Cravate put the pistols in his pocket; Madame Baldimer handed him
the address, and he ran at full speed to the place indicated, where he
found a carriage waiting; he jumped in, and shouted to the driver:
"To Lagny! you have been notified, engaged for me. Go at full speed,
kill your horses; I am going after my poor sister, and then I'm going to
kill the blackguard who seduced her, unless he consents to marry her."
The driver seemed indifferent to all this; but as he had been well paid,
he drove rapidly and hardly stopped on the road; so that Sans-Cravate
arrived at Lagny in a very short time.
He glanced at the address Madame Baldimer had given him, and inquired of
a village woman, who directed him to "The Poplars," which was the name
of the cottage he sought. He pointed out an inn and said to the driver:
"Go there and feed your horses; but do it at once and take what you want
yourself in a hurry, for I shall return soon with my sister, and you
must take us back to Paris on the run."
Sans-Cravate followed the directions he had received, and soon
discovered a pretty little cottage surrounded by tall poplar trees,
whose topmost branches waved back and forth over the roof. It had the
aspect of a bourgeois residence; the shutters were painted green, there
was a pretty gate, and flowering plants were in profusion on all sides.
"He was bound to give her a pretty cage, the villain!" thought
Sans-Cravate, as he drew near to the house, "hoping that she would like
it and keep quiet. Ah! he forgot that she had a brother, and that that
brother is Sans-Cravate!"
The messenger rang at the gate, and a peasant girl answered the bell.
"Where is my sister? take me to my sister!" cried Sans-Cravate, pushing
the girl roughly before him. She stared at him with a terrified
expression; she thought that she had to do with a robber, and she was
on the point of shrieking and calling for help. But Adeline had already
appeared in the doorway, for, whenever the bell rang, she flattered
herself that Albert had returned; she ran forward when she saw that it
was a man; then fell into Sans-Cravate's arms, murmuring in a voice
stifled by joy and tears:
"It is my brother! Oh! he will not abandon me!"
Sans-Cravate gazed at his sister, whose pale, thin face had undergone so
great a change in two months that he would have hesitated before
recognizing her.
Adeline led him into a room on the ground floor, and there, gazing at
him anew, with her eyes full of tears, she said:
"You are angry with me, of course; the last time I saw you, you made me
promise to wait for you, and, in spite of that, I went away. But he came
back--and when he learned that I had found you, and that you had gone to
beg his father to forgive us, he cried out that that was ridiculous,
that his father would be furious, that he would separate us or prevent
him from seeing me, and that there was nothing for us to do but leave
Paris at once; I believed him--he urged me so hard--and I went with him.
We travelled a long time; I kept imploring him to write to you to find
out if you had been successful with his father, but he told me we must
wait. At last, about a week ago, he brought me here, to this house, told
me that I should have everything I desired, left me a lot of money, and
went away, saying that he would return soon; so I am always expecting
him, and when you rang I thought it was he."
"Poor sister!" said Sans-Cravate, gazing mournfully at the girl, who
tried to banish the traces of her tears with a smile; "you will wait for
him in vain; he won't come back, the dastard! he has abandoned you,
because he don't mean to repair his crime."
"O my God! can it be possible that Albert doesn't love me? It can't be
true!"
"Oh! you had guessed it already, I am sure; your pale face, the terrible
change in your features since our last meeting, your eyes all red from
crying. Oh! you've been unhappy, you've been grieving a long
time--that's easy to see."
"Well! yes, brother; I admit that I have noticed for some time that
Albert was not so pleasant and loving with me; in fact, he no longer
seemed happy, but I thought he was afraid of his father's anger."
"His father! why, he has consented to your marriage."
"Can that be true? what happiness!"