himself who refuses to wipe out his crime and make you his wife."
"He refuses--Albert! Oh! no, my dear brother, that is impossible; at all
events, when he knows--and I haven't dared to tell him that yet--I hoped
to make him very happy when he came back, with such a pleasant
surprise--ah! brother, when he knows that I am going to be a mother, do
you think he will refuse to give a name to his child?"
As she spoke, Adeline hid her face on her brother's shoulder, and he
held her for a moment in his arms.
"A mother!" he murmured; "you, a mother! Ah! yes, he must be
hard-hearted indeed to abandon you if that is so; and yet--the young men
of these days care as little about leaving a poor girl in trouble as
they do about changing a coat. Never mind; I'll see this gentleman, I'll
speak to him, and, sacrebleu! if he has any decent feelings left, I'll
rake 'em up from the bottom of his heart. But meanwhile you must go with
me; we must start this very minute."
"I must leave here--but suppose Albert should come back?"
"Don't you be alarmed! he'll be in Paris before long, and Paris is where
I'm going to take you. Remember that you must trust me, believe what I
say, and obey me. You know perfectly well that I won't deceive you; you
know that your happiness and the honor of our family are what I care
most about."
"Oh! yes, I do know it, brother."
"Then do what I tell you. Make haste and get together what things belong
to you. But leave all the money and jewels that man has given you; for
we'll show him that he's mistaken if he thinks he can pay for your
dishonor with them. If he deserts you, you will stay with me; I have
strong arms, and I'm no longer the sot and loafer I used to be. No, no;
I've had troubles of my own, you see; and trouble is like lead--it makes
your head heavy. I'll tell you about it some day; meanwhile, I'll work
to support you--and your child--and what I give you won't make you
blush, at any rate. Go and do what I say, and be quick; there's a
carriage waiting for us."
Adeline made no reply, but hastened to do her brother's bidding; she
very soon got her things together and made a package of them, which
Sans-Cravate took under one arm; he supported his sister with the other
and said to the peasant, who stared at them with a stupefied expression:
"If the gentleman comes back and asks for the young lady he brought
here, tell him that she went away with her brother--her brother, do you
hear? As for her money and jewelry, he'll find them upstairs;--for you
haven't taken any of 'em, have you, Liline?"
"No, brother," replied the girl, putting her hand to her breast;
"nothing, except this little souvenir, with some of his hair in it."
As she spoke, she showed him a small glass locket, set in gold, in which
there was a lock of hair. But Sans-Cravate put out his hand to take it,
crying:
"No, no; keep nothing that came from him! What do you want of this
souvenir?"
"Oh! brother, let me keep it, I beg you!" faltered the girl, falling on
her knees; "for if he casts me off, it will be the only thing I shall
have to give my child; he will have nothing else that belongs to his
father!"
Sans-Cravate raised his sister, and turned his head aside so that she
might not see the tears which he wiped away with his sleeve.
"All right! keep it," he said; "but let us go," and he led his sister
away.
They soon reached the place where the carriage awaited them.
Sans-Cravate helped his sister in, took his place beside her, and said
to the driver:
"Now for Paris, corner of Rue Saint-Lazare and Rue Saint-Georges; a
magnificent house, between a fruiterer and a grocer. If you go fast,
I'll pay for a good big drink for you."
It was dark, and the journey was melancholy enough; for the brother and
sister, both of whom were suffering the same torments, did not choose to
talk about them, each for fear of increasing the other's unhappiness.
They arrived at last; Sans-Cravate kept his promise to the driver, and
would have given him money too; but he declined it, for he was paid in
advance. He drove away with his carriage, and the messenger, taking his
sister's hand, said to her:
"Follow me, and we'll climb up to my diggings. Look you: don't expect to
find anything very fine, and you'll be less surprised."
Sans-Cravate's lodging would have made an excellent pendant for
Bastringuette's: it was under the eaves, like hers, and consisted of a
bedroom and a closet; there was just the same amount of furniture, not a
piece more; yet there was a vast difference between them, and they had
not the same aspect at all: Sans-Cravate's quarters were as dirty and
disordered as the flower girl's were clean and neat.
Having procured a light, the messenger said to his sister, who was
looking sadly about:
"_Dame!_ this is pretty bad, eh? you don't find any nice furniture here,
like what your seducer gave you. But you're in your brother's room, and
you can give your address without blushing."
"Mon Dieu! dear brother," replied the girl, seizing the messenger's
hand, "you are mistaken if you think that I regret the luxurious life I
have been leading. What do I care whether my furniture is walnut or
mahogany? I never placed any value on that. Ah! the most beautiful
apartment is the one to which one brings a joyful heart!"
"You are right, Liline. When the heart is satisfied, everything seems
beautiful! But, still, it didn't use to be so bad here--because it was
neat and clean and well dusted; there was a person who undertook to take
care of my room, but--that person don't come any more, and since then I
haven't had the heart to look after it--so it ain't surprising that it
looks the way it does!"
"Well! I'll take that person's place, my dear, and you will see that I
too know something about keeping house."
Sans-Cravate kissed his sister and installed her in his room; he gave
her his bed, reserving for himself the closet, where he meant to throw a
few bundles of straw on the floor; he was not hard to suit, and, so long
as his sister could sleep tranquilly, he would be comfortable anywhere.
After a night which seemed very long to them both, because grief and
anxiety banished sleep from their eyelids, Sans-Cravate left his closet
on tiptoe and listened: his sister had fallen into a doze. He walked
softly, in order not to rouse her, and placed on the table beside the
bed all the money he possessed.
"There's enough for a little while," he thought; "our expenses won't be
very large. I've put a few pieces away, thank God! since I've stopped
going to the wine shop, and with Jean Ficelle; I'm mighty proud to have
'em to give her to-day. I'm beginning to think that it ain't the
drinking men that have the most fun, but that the pleasures that work
affords a man are the best and last the longest."
Sans-Cravate went to his usual place, where he sat down and waited.
"She promised to send me word," he said to himself, "as soon as he's
back in Paris, and I'm sure she'll keep her word; for that woman looks
to me like a hussy who has thought a long while about what she intended
to do, and who won't falter on the road."
The day passed, and brought no change in the situation of the messenger
and his sister. After sawing a cord of wood and doing several errands,
Sans-Cravate returned to his sister and gave her the money he had
earned.
"Here," he said, "this is what I'll do every day, and you must look
after the food."
"And Albert?" queried the girl, sadly.
"No news. Patience. We must wait."
"But his father--why haven't you been to see him?"
"I have no business with the father now, but with the son; the father
ain't the one who's got to marry you! He's given his consent, that's all
we can ask of him; he can't force the young man."
"Force him! Oh! I don't want him to be forced, if he no longer loves me;
he would be unhappy after he married me."
"Don't you worry, and don't you bother your head any more about it. It's
my business now."
Liline wept and held her peace. Sans-Cravate let her weep, because his
own experience taught him that there are griefs which admit of no
consolation.
The next day, Sans-Cravate had been at his stand less than an hour when
he saw Madame Baldimer's maid coming toward him. His heart gave a leap
under his waistcoat, because he felt that he was about to learn
something of importance.
Rosa went up to him and handed him a folded paper.
"My mistress told me to give you this," she said.
"Thanks, mamzelle," replied Sans-Cravate, taking the paper with a
trembling hand.
The maid walked away, while the messenger unfolded the paper and read
these words:
"He arrived last night; he is at home."
"At last!" exclaimed Sans-Cravate, crumpling the paper in his fingers;
then he sprang to his feet, folded his _crochets_, and strode away
toward Albert's residence. He was intensely excited, although he exerted
himself to the utmost to control his emotion. He felt that his sister's
future was about to be decided, and it was for her that he trembled.
Under the porte cochère he stopped, uncertain whether he ought not to
call first upon Monsieur Vermoncey. But he reflected that, if Albert's
father were warned of his intention, he would have his son watched and
would prevent him from giving him satisfaction; and the result of his
reflections was that he ought now to deal with Albert alone.
Sans-Cravate went rapidly up to the young man's apartment. He rang, and
a new servant opened the door.
"I wish to speak to Monsieur Albert," said Sans-Cravate.
"Monsieur Albert is not in," replied the servant, in an almost insolent
tone.
"He must be, for me."
"But my master returned from travelling last night. He is tired, and
cannot receive anyone."
"He will receive me, for I must speak to him. Go and tell him that
Sans-Cravate is here, and that I won't leave the house without seeing
him. He must know that we have got to have an interview, and it's better
to have it now. Go, my boy. I know that there's two entrances, but I've
got my eye on the courtyard; and if your master should try to skip, I'll
jump through the window and land on his shoulders; that would interfere
with his running."
The servant stared at Sans-Cravate in amazement, but went and told his
master. He returned in a very short time, beckoned to Sans-Cravate to
follow him, and ushered him into Albert's bedroom.
Young Vermoncey had just risen; he was dressed in a robe de chambre, and
was lying back carelessly in a capacious easy-chair. His face was
slightly pale when Sans-Cravate entered the room; but he seemed
perfectly placid, and said, with an unembarrassed manner, and with
something very like a smile:
"Is it you, Sans-Cravate? I expected a call from you. Come and sit down,
and let us have a talk."
Surprised at this reception, which aroused the most cheering hopes in
his heart, Sans-Cravate seated himself on the edge of the chair that the
young man indicated, and stammered:
"Yes--yes, Monsieur Albert, it's me. You certainly had good reason to
think I would come; for, you see, this thing's got to be settled! And I
love my sister, my poor Liline, so dearly! But I hope that you still
love her, too?"
Albert threw himself back in his chair and held his feet to the fire, as
he replied:
"Yes, my dear Sans-Cravate; your sister is fascinating--and as gentle
and sweet as an angel. I loved her dearly, and I still love her. So I
mean her to be happy--that is my most earnest desire."
"Oh! then it's all right, monsieur!" cried the messenger, joyfully; "you
mean to make my sister happy--that is to say, you will keep the promise
you made to her when you took her away from Auvergne. Ah! you make me
very happy, too, and you are an excellent young man."
"When I say that I want to see your sister happy, Sans-Cravate,"
rejoined Albert, balancing himself in his chair, "I mean that, to atone
for my thoughtlessness, I propose to assure her comfort, her future. If
I made promises, they were mere words, such as all young men say to
pretty girls, which do not bind one to anything."
Sans-Cravate pushed his chair away; he turned pale, but fastened his
eyes on Albert, and exclaimed, without a trace of his former hesitation:
"We have got to a point where we don't agree, but, _sacrédié!_ we must
settle on something. Monsieur Albert, didn't you seduce my sister, a
simple, innocent maid, who had no idea of love? Will you deny that you
abused her innocence, and that you induced her to leave her home and her
patroness, only by swearing that you would marry her?"
"Mon Dieu! I won't deny anything! I have told you already that I admit
all that. But, once more, every young man takes fifty such oaths; so
much the worse for those who believe them!"
"Then you don't intend to marry my sister?"
Albert threw himself back in his chair again and began to laugh.
"Marry your sister!" he exclaimed. "Nonsense, Sans-Cravate! Why, you
can't think of such a thing! Would such a marriage be well-assorted?
Come, be reasonable; you are an excellent fellow--I have no doubt of
that; but what would people say if I should make you my brother-in-law?
They would say that I'd gone crazy!"
"Take care, monsieur!" said Sans-Cravate, struggling to control his
anger. "Don't throw insults in my face. Messenger as I am, I'm a better
man than you are at this moment!"
"But, for God's sake, Sans-Cravate, listen to me! Is it possible for a
young man to marry all the women he makes love to? Since when have your
morals been so severe? Haven't you been in the habit of carrying my love
letters for me? haven't you been in the secret of all my intrigues? You
knew that I had three or four mistresses at once, and, far from blaming
me, you were the first to laugh about it."
"True--you are right, monsieur. I did your dirty work for you. I was
wrong--and there was someone who told me so at the time. And yet, that
same someone deceived me."
"I tell you again, Sans-Cravate, that I am sorry I ever spoke to your
sister, who was an innocent, virtuous girl. But still we must have mercy
on all sinners. Once more, I will settle a handsome allowance on her,
and----"
Sans-Cravate rose and stamped on the floor, crying:
"Ten thousand devils! Don't talk about money! You fine gentlemen think
you have done everything, when you have undone the strings of your
purse. I tell you that marriage, and nothing else, can undo the wrong
you have done. Your father felt it, for he gave his consent to the
marriage. So you see, monsieur, there's nothing to prevent it."
"Yes," said Albert, with some irritation, "I know that you have seen my
father and extorted his consent; furthermore, I will not deny that, when
I came home last night, after embracing me, he told me of the promise he
had given you; but I told him what my intentions were, and swore that
nothing would induce me to change them."
"Nothing!" muttered Sans-Cravate; "nothing! Not even if I should tell
you that you are a father--that my sister is carrying a child--that she
implores you to give it its father's name? and that is the truth!"
Albert lowered his eyes; he was deeply moved, and tried in vain to
conceal his emotion. Sans-Cravate walked toward him.
"Well! will you cast off that innocent creature?"
Albert was silent for some moments. At last he replied, in a low voice:
"I will provide for the child as well as the mother. But I cannot--it is
impossible for me to marry Adeline, for such a marriage would cover me
with ridicule."
"That is your last word, monsieur?"
"Yes, Sans-Cravate."
The messenger took from his pocket the pistols Madame Baldimer had given
him, and called Albert's attention to them.
"Then this is my last word," he said. "I am ready when you are."
The young man seemed more surprised than alarmed.
"What's this? do you want to fight me, Sans-Cravate?" he said, glancing
at the weapons.
"That surprises you, does it? You thought that I would allow myself to
be dishonored and say nothing; that I would be satisfied with your
excuses? No, no, I must have something more than that. Come, I am
waiting for you, monsieur."
"I am sorry, Sans-Cravate, that I cannot give you the satisfaction you
ask; but it is out of the question. A young man in my position doesn't
fight duels with a messenger!"
"Then a man of your position is content to be a coward and a blackguard.
Then he prefers to be struck and beaten and strangled; and that's what
I'll do to you, if you refuse to fight me."
As he spoke, Sans-Cravate, beside himself with rage, sprang at Albert,
seized him by the collar, shook him violently, and struck him across
the face with the butt of one of his pistols. The young man turned
purple, and shouted:
"I will fight you, monsieur; yes, you are right; we must fight."
"Ah! that's very lucky!" said the messenger, relaxing his grasp. "Shall
it be right away? I'm in a hurry, you see!"
"One always has some arrangements to make before fighting, monsieur."
"I haven't got any."
"I will be ready in two hours. It isn't nine o'clock yet; at eleven, at
the latest, be----"
"Behind Romainville Forest, on the slope from Pantin; there are some
quarries near there, and we shan't be disturbed."
"Very good; I will be there. Shall you have a second?"
"What for?"
"True; between us, seconds are unnecessary. I shall come in a carriage,
with my servant only."
"As you choose. I will go and wait for you, monsieur, and I hope you
won't let me take cold."
Sans-Cravate left the house and started at once for the rendezvous. He
walked less quickly now, knowing that he had plenty of time before him.
Moreover, he was less excited; the certainty that his vengeance was near
at hand appeased his anger. He reflected profoundly. At the moment one
is about to risk his life he remembers the persons whom it would be most
painful to him to leave forever; and, in spite of himself, Sans-Cravate
found that Bastringuette's face often forced its way in among his
recollections.
It was hardly half-past ten when the messenger reached the spot agreed
upon. He sat on the ground and waited. He was on the slope of
Romainville Forest; at his feet were plaster kilns and a brick kiln; in
front of him was the village of Pantin; but the road in that direction,
bordered with high hedges enclosing gardens, was silent and deserted. To
the right were the low hills upon which stands the fortress that
commands the whole plain; and in the hollow at the left, four rows of
poplar trees, forming a rectangle, seemed to indicate a private estate
or a promenade: it was the Pantin cemetery.
Sans-Cravate let his eyes wander in all directions, but frequently
turned them toward Pantin, for that was the only direction from which a
carriage could reach the rendezvous; so he presumed that Albert would
come that way. He took his pistols from his pocket, made sure that they
were properly loaded, and heaved a profound sigh.
The weather was fine, but cold. The trees were without leaves, and few
people passed through the wood; now and then, a peasant went down the
hill toward Pantin, a quarryman appeared at the door of his hut, or a
soldier on the fortifications; but none of them paid any attention to
the messenger.
But as he looked about, Sans-Cravate saw a woman come out of the wood
and walk slowly down toward the cemetery. She was a long distance from
him, but he could tell by her dress and her bearing that she was not a
peasant. A large hat, over which a veil was thrown, made it impossible
to distinguish her features; and still Sans-Cravate said to himself as
he looked after her:
"It seems to me that I know that woman."
While he was trying to think who it could be, he heard the sound of
carriage wheels in the direction of Pantin; and in a moment a cab
appeared on the village street, and stopped as near as possible to the
foot of the hill leading to the wood.
Sans-Cravate paid no further attention to the woman; he hurried down the
slope and soon found himself face to face with Albert, who had left his
carriage.
The young man greeted the messenger with a friendly nod, in which there
was no trace of resentment or anger, and said, pointing to the cemetery:
"Let us go there; nobody but the men working in the brick kiln can see
us, and they will not think of interfering with us; on the contrary,
they will be grateful to us for affording them such an entertaining
spectacle."
Sans-Cravate made no reply, but went with Albert; the servant walked
behind, carrying a case of pistols.
When they reached the road that skirted the cemetery, Albert said:
"I see no reason why we should go any farther.--Give me my pistols,
Joseph."
The servant opened the case and, trembling like a leaf, handed the
pistols to his master. Meanwhile, the messenger, who had taken his from
his pocket, offered them to his adversary, saying:
"Would you prefer to take one of these and give me one of yours? It
shall be as you choose."
Albert glanced at Sans-Cravate's weapons, and exclaimed:
"The devil! you have some very handsome pistols there, Sans-Cravate!
It's a strange thing, but the more I examine them, the more certain I
feel that I know them, that I have seen them somewhere."
"It's quite possible, monsieur, for I got them from an acquaintance of
yours. It was Madame Baldimer who gave them to me."
"Baldimer!" ejaculated Albert. "Ah! yes, it was in her hands that I saw
them. I can remember her saying to me laughingly, more than once: 'I
mean to kill you with these pistols.'--It seems that she did not say it
in jest. Clearly that woman has a bitter grudge against me.--Keep your
own weapons, and I will keep mine, and let us take our places."
Albert walked away some fifteen paces, then asked:
"Is this satisfactory to you?"
"Yes, monsieur," Sans-Cravate replied, in a trembling voice.
"Pull yourself together, my poor Sans-Cravate; you seem agitated."
"It's true, monsieur, I am trembling; though you may be sure that it
ain't with fear. I've never fought with anything but fists, you see. A
man gets hurt that way, but not killed. At all events, I never tried to
fight unfair. And when I think that with this little steel tube I may
kill you---- Look you, monsieur--if you would--it rests with you----"
"Enough! enough, Sans-Cravate! let's not continue our conversation of
this morning. You are the insulted party--fire first."
"No, monsieur; I won't begin."
"It's your right."
"I insulted you this morning, by shaking you; it's your place to begin."
"Listen: my servant will clap his hands three times, and at the third we
will fire together."
"That's all right."
Albert told his servant what he was to do. He clapped his hands, turning
his head so that he could not see the combatants. At the third signal,
Sans-Cravate fired; there was no second report, but Albert fell in the
road.
Sans-Cravate ran to the young man, who had received the bullet in his
side and was bleeding freely. He threw himself on his knees, weeping;
but Albert held out his hand to him and tried to smile.
"You have done your duty--don't be cut up. If I die, you will see that I
haven't forgotten your sister."
"Oh! you won't die, I hope. This wound may not be fatal----"
"Take me to the carriage, and tell them to take me back to my father."
Albert had no strength to say more; he lost consciousness. Sans-Cravate
raised him from the ground, and two plasterers, attracted by the report
of the pistol, helped him to carry the wounded man to the carriage.
Sans-Cravate tried to stop the flow of blood by tying his handkerchief
over the wound. Joseph entered the carriage, and seated himself so that
he could support his master. Sans-Cravate thought of going with them,
but he felt that he lacked courage to take Albert back to his father, so
he allowed the carriage to drive away without him.
Two hours had passed since the duel, and Sans-Cravate was still
wandering about the fields, uncertain what to do, and praying fervently
that Albert would not die of his wound. At last, he decided to return to
Paris. But when he reached the city, he dared not go to his sister; for
he feared that when she saw him she would divine what had happened, and
he did not wish to confess that he had fought with her seducer, until he
had some definite information as to the wounded man's condition. To go
to his usual stand and remain there quietly would have been impossible
to him, so he wandered through the streets at random.
When it began to grow dark, Sans-Cravate could restrain his impatience
no longer; he felt that he must know in what condition Albert was, so he
bent his steps toward his house.