home, and all the way she kept asking him if he knew what she had done
with the piece of a cigar that had belonged to Albert; she declared that
she would give a thousand francs to anybody who would find it for her.
During the next few days, Madame Plays told everybody she saw that it
was Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier who had killed young Albert Vermoncey in a
duel; and as nobody contradicted the story, and as he who was reported
to be the victor was the first to confirm it, it soon came to be
regarded as authentic; and in society little Tobie was looked upon as a
duellist whom it was not prudent to provoke.
XXX
AN OLD LADY
Adeline was still as melancholy as ever, but she had ceased to weep,
before her brother at all events, for she realized that it added to his
sorrow and regret that, for her sake, he had been obliged to do
something which filled his heart with remorse, even while he told
himself that he could not have acted differently.
Sans-Cravate worked with the greatest zeal and courage; he was not the
same man as before. Since his duel he had become as gentle as a child,
and, far from seeking a quarrel with anyone, he was always the first to
try to compose the disputes that arose in his presence. Instead of
getting tipsy, as he used frequently to do, he avoided the temptation to
drink, never entered a wine shop, and ate all his meals with his sister,
to whom he carried faithfully each day all the money he had earned.
In accordance with her brother's advice, Adeline had written to her
father, confessing her fault and telling him frankly the whole story of
her conduct, as well as the events that had resulted from it. She had
not long to wait for a reply; old Père Renaud wrote his daughter that he
forgave her, and that his arms would always be open to her whenever she
chose to come back to him.
"When your child is born," said Sans-Cravate, "and you are strong enough
to stand the journey, we will go back to the province; I will settle
down there, too; I won't leave you any more, for a strong man with
plenty of courage can work anywhere, and I've had quite enough of Paris!
When you no longer have a friend or a woman you care for in a place, you
leave it without regret."
A few days after Albert's death, a messenger from Monsieur Vermoncey
came to the humble apartment occupied by the brother and sister. He
brought a letter addressed to Adeline, which contained these words:
"MADEMOISELLE:
"My unfortunate son did not forget you before he died; as he was
going out to fight, he wrote a few lines leaving you the unexpended
portion of the property he inherited from his mother, and
recommending you to my generosity. It is my purpose to carry out
my poor son's last wishes. He had less than twelve hundred francs a
year remaining; but from this day I settle an income of six
thousand francs upon you, as a charge upon my own estate; the first
year's will be paid to you at any time.
"VERMONCEY."
After reading the letter, Adeline handed it to Sans-Cravate, who read it
in his turn, then looked his sister in the eye. They understood each
other without a word, and Adeline immediately wrote to Albert's father
the following reply:
"I am grateful for your kindness, monsieur, but I do not desire nor
can I accept anything from you. What I desired was Albert's love,
and his name for my child. Heaven has denied me these, and the
money you offer me now would seem to be the price of my dishonor."
Adeline gave the letter to her brother to read.
"Well done!" he cried; "sacrebleu! I couldn't have done it better
myself."
Monsieur Vermoncey's messenger went away with the letter, and since then
they had heard nothing more from him.
Sans-Cravate did his utmost to cheer his sister, to bring an occasional
smile to her lips; but his task was the more difficult because he
himself was oppressed by a burden of grief which he could not succeed in
dislodging.
At night, when he went home to Adeline, and sat down with her, intending
to divert her by describing some incidents that he had witnessed during
the day, his thoughts would go back to the past; after he had said a
few words, he would fall into a profound reverie, and seem to forget
that his sister was by his side.
One evening, when he had been for a long time lost in thought, Adeline
went to him, laid her hand gently on his shoulder, and said:
"You too have troubles, my dear, besides those I have caused you. I
remember what you said to me, coming from Lagny: 'I have troubles of my
own, and I'll tell you about them some day.'--Has not that day come? I
can't promise to comfort you, but I shall understand your suffering, and
it is something to have a friend who understands what we feel."
Sans-Cravate gazed sadly at his sister, kissed her on the forehead, ran
his hands through his hair, and said:
"_Sacrédié!_ you are right. I will tell you the story. It's a very
simple story, however, and won't take long.--I loved a woman, and my
love was returned, at least I thought so. At all events, Bastringuette
was mine, as you were Monsieur Albert's--except that I did not seduce
her; because, you see, in Paris, a girl knows well enough what she's
doing when she gives her heart away; you may please her, but you don't
seduce her. Bastringuette was a good girl, a little free in her manners,
and a little bold in her talk; but I loved her as she was, and she--she
loved me as I was, and yet I must admit that I didn't live the kind of
life then that I do now. I gambled and drank and got drunk, and fought
for a word, for nothing at all; and I spent in one day all I'd earn in a
week; but she forgave my foolishness, and she took care of my room, and
my linen--and all without a trace of selfishness, for sometimes she had
to give me money for my dinner, although she had none too much for
herself; she was a _marchande des quatre saisons_, and didn't always
earn in a week as much as I'd spend in one evening with Jean Ficelle and
other tipplers."
"Poor girl!" said Adeline; "she loved you dearly!"
"You think so! and I thought so too. But you'll see in a minute that I
was mistaken. I had a friend too, a comrade, younger than me; his name
was Paul, he was a messenger, like me, and his stand was alongside of
mine. This Paul had such a sweet, gentle way with him--and such
manners--something that attracted you right away. And with it all, a
hard worker--never loafed, never got drunk, and never gave me anything
but good advice. So I looked on him as my brother; I'd have fought for
him or jumped into the fire for him! Well, Bastringuette left me, to go
with Paul; and he, swearing all the time that he never saw her, that he
loved another woman, made assignations with Bastringuette--met her in a
different quarter, where they didn't think they'd be seen."
"Are you quite sure of that, brother?"
"Ah! if anyone had told me, I wouldn't have believed it! but I saw
'em--saw 'em with my own eyes! and then I couldn't doubt it any longer.
I intended at first to be content with despising 'em, but one day--I had
been off with Jean Ficelle, and I was a little light-headed--I saw Paul
on a street corner with my faithless wench. Gad! I couldn't hold myself
back; I insisted on fighting; I jumped at him, and he didn't defend
himself----"
"O mon Dieu! did you kill him?"
"No, no; he was only wounded, and that by a mere chance: he fell on a
paving stone. But he's been well a long while. Luckily, I never see him
now; he's taken another stand, near Rue Taitbout, I think."
"But if you should see him, my dear, you wouldn't fight with him again,
I hope; once is quite enough--ah! sometimes it's too much."
Adeline put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Sans-Cravate replied:
"Oh, no, no! I'm done with him! I shall never speak to him again. But
heaven has--oh! it's a very strange thing!"
"What is, my dear brother?"
"Just imagine that, by the merest chance, I discovered, not long ago, a
secret which would give this Paul a name, a father, and a great fortune,
if he knew it; for he's a foundling, who don't know anything about his
family; and it's only me that knows it; I should only have to say a word
to make him happy and rich and distinguished."
"Well, brother?"
"Well! I won't say it!"
"Ah! that is very wrong, my dear, to deprive anyone of his rightful
fortune, and, what is much worse, of his father's caresses! Look you,
brother; I am sure that in the bottom of your heart this troubles you,
because you feel that you are doing wrong!"
"That may be; but that don't prevent me from keeping my secret. He'd
give Bastringuette hats and shawls and jewelry; he'd take her about in a
carriage, and they'd play the swell at restaurants, and she'd be all the
more pleased that she threw me over for him. No, sacrebleu! no! I won't
have that!"
"But, brother----"
"That's enough; don't say anything more about it, don't ever mention it
again! you can't change my determination, and you would simply make me
furious with myself and them and everybody else, that's all!"
More than three weeks had passed since this conversation, and had
brought about no change in the condition of the brother and sister,
when, on a fine winter's morning, Sans-Cravate--who was alone at his
stand, Jean Ficelle having failed to appear there for more than a
week--saw an elderly woman coming toward him, looking from side to side
as if she were not perfectly sure where she wanted to go.
She was a small, thin, pale-faced woman, somewhat over sixty, evidently
in feeble health. Her dress was very simple and modest, but of bourgeois
cut; it did not denote poverty, but pointed to an economical habit not
far removed therefrom. Despite that, she carried herself with
distinction; and the amiability of her expression and manner imparted to
her person that general aspect of gentility which is apparent beneath
the humblest garments, and which the most fashionable and gorgeous
costume cannot give to those who have not received it from nature or by
education.
This lady, having at last decided to address Sans-Cravate, walked up to
him and said:
"I wonder if you could tell me, monsieur? You see, I am not quite
sure--I don't quite know how to explain it to you."
"Are you looking for somebody, or for some address in this quarter,
madame? I have had my stand here for a long time, and I can probably
tell you what you want to know."
"It isn't an address, but a certain person whom I would like to obtain
some information about; in fact, to find out something that interests me
very deeply. First of all, monsieur, tell me this: are you the only
messenger on this street?"
"No, madame; there's Jean Ficelle--but he don't happen to be here now;
in fact, he hasn't been to work for several days; I suppose he's
tippling somewhere."
"What sort of looking man is this Jean Ficelle?"
"Oh! he ain't handsome--a little, short, thin man, near thirty years
old."
"He's not the man I want. The one I am looking for is only twenty-three,
and looks less than that; you would hardly think he was twenty; he has a
graceful figure and a fine face, and his voice is as sweet as his eyes."
Sans-Cravate frowned slightly as he replied:
"Ah! you are talking about a man named Paul."
"Paul!" cried the old woman; "that's the name. Do you know him?"
"I should say so! as he used to stand here alongside of me. It ain't so
very long since he went somewhere else to stand."
"He is a messenger! it is all true, then! poor boy! he did it for me, I
am sure of it!"
Tears prevented the old lady from going on. Sans-Cravate was obliged to
support her until her emotion had subsided. At last, having recovered
herself to some extent, she grasped Sans-Cravate's hand and said:
"Thanks, monsieur, thanks. If you knew what a fine fellow you had for
your comrade, if you knew what a noble heart he has, and of all he has
done for me! But I must tell you, monsieur, for I want everybody to know
it; such noble conduct deserves to be known, if for nothing else than to
lead others to imitate it.--My name is Desroches; my husband was a
tradesman, deservedly esteemed as well for his kindly nature as for his
strict probity in business. One day--we were well off, then--my husband,
happening to see the procession of the poor children who had been
abandoned by their families, was deeply touched and interested by the
face of one of them; it was young Paul, who was then ten years old at
most. We had no children; our happiness was perfect but for that fact;
my husband offered to take charge of that child, and his offer was
readily accepted."
"I knew all this, madame," said Sans-Cravate; "Paul has told me how he
was taken into Monsieur Desroches's family, and became his clerk; and
then how your husband was crushed by misfortunes and bankruptcies, and
died--of grief, perhaps, because he was obliged to break his
engagements."
"Yes, monsieur; yes, that is all true, still it isn't all; but it's all
you know, I am sure; for Paul would not have told you of his noble
conduct."
"No; I have told you all I know."
"Well, monsieur, Paul, who was eighteen and a half when I lost my
husband, said to me then: 'Don't be distressed, my dear mother; not only
will I take care of you, but I propose that my benefactor's memory shall
be respected; I propose to pay all that he owed, and by working hard I
can do it.'--And, sure enough, the poor boy called my husband's
creditors together, and promised to pay them if they would give him
time. They were so moved by his self-sacrificing spirit, that they told
him to arrange his own terms. The debts amounted to only eight thousand
francs. Paul asked for five years in which to pay the whole; then he
told me not to worry about myself, that he would provide for all my
needs--and he left me, to seek employment. I didn't see him for several
days; at last he came and told me that he was employed in a business
house in Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and that he was obliged to live near by,
but that he would come to see me at least twice a week, and would keep
his agreement with my husband's creditors. And from that time on,
monsieur, every three months he paid the amount he had promised, and
brought me the receipts. 'Take these, my dear mother,' he would say; 'I
am as happy as can be, because through me my benefactor's name is
respected;'--and I, monsieur, never had a suspicion that the poor boy
hadn't found any employment, but had become a messenger in order to
fulfil his engagements; and that he worked without rest, and took no
pleasure at all, so that he could put aside for me, for my husband's
honor, all the money he earned!"
Again Madame Desroches could not hold back her tears; she drew her
handkerchief, and paused a moment to wipe her eyes.
Sans-Cravate, for his part, tried in vain to avoid being moved; despite
his grimaces, despite the churlish manner which he struggled to
maintain, and although he twisted his mouth and bit his lips, two great
tears escaped from his eyes, while he muttered between his teeth:
"By all that's good! It was well done of him, all the same! that's what
I call honor! And to think that a man will get ugly and lose a friend,
just for a wink of a woman's eye, for an infernal petticoat and what's
underneath it! Bah! what a fool! Well, I can't stand it, I must let the
cat out of the bag!--How did you find out that Paul was a messenger?" he
asked aloud, after pretending to blow his nose in order to wipe his eyes
unobserved.
"In this way, monsieur. Four or five months ago, I was sick, and Paul
stayed with me and nursed me; he did not go to work at all. 'Don't you
worry,' he'd say; 'there's another clerk, who has promised to take my
place and do my work.'--I must tell you, monsieur, that I live on
Vieille Rue du Temple, near Rue Barbette----"
"Near Rue Barbette!" cried Sans-Cravate; "a very high house, with a
passageway, and a grocery on the street floor?"
"Yes, monsieur; that's the house."
"Go on, madame, go on."
"Well! one morning, when I had been getting better for some days, Paul,
who had gone back to his office,--at least, so he told me,--came to make
sure that I was still improving. He had been with me a little while,
when a tall girl came in with some fruit I had ordered of my regular
fruit dealer, on Rue Barbette.--But what's the matter, monsieur? you
seem agitated."
"It's nothing, madame; I'll tell you in a minute. Go on, please, and
finish your story."
"This tall girl gave a cry of surprise when she saw Paul; I saw that she
knew him and that she was astonished to find him dressed so well. I
noticed that Paul whispered a few words to her, but I found out nothing
then. But when Bastringuette--that was the girl's name--came again to
bring something from the fruit woman, who is her cousin, she cried out:
'Ah! madame, that's a mighty fine fellow, that Monsieur Paul!' And--but
why are you weeping, monsieur?"
"Go on--pray go on, madame."
"Well, monsieur, some little time ago, Paul ceased to come as usual; I
was anxious and worried, when Bastringuette appeared and brought me the
money Paul was to pay that day to one of the creditors; she told me that
he had been obliged to take a short journey, and would come to see me
when he returned. To cut the story short, monsieur, time passed and Paul
did not come, but Bastringuette continued to bring me money from him. I
questioned her; she was embarrassed and confused in her answers, and I
thought that I understood that Paul no longer owned his good clothes,
and that he would not come to see me in his jacket for fear I should
discover his occupation. I caught the word _messenger_, and several
times she mentioned the name of this street----"
"Enough, enough, madame!--Ah! Paul! my poor Paul! So it is true, after
all! You never deceived me; it wasn't to see Bastringuette that you went
to that house!"
"What do you mean, monsieur?"
"What do I mean: that I am a beggarly brute--a cur! that I struck Paul
and wounded him, because I thought he was living with my mistress, when
he was thinking of nobody but you and of his benefactor's good name!
Damnation! but I will make up for it all; I will make him as happy as he
deserves to be."
"What do you mean, monsieur?"
"Oh! let us go and find him first; I long to embrace him--if only he'll
forgive me. Come, my good woman, come along; if you can't run, I'll
carry you; but let's make haste, for I can't hold in any longer!"
Sans-Cravate seized Madame Desroches's arm and dragged her away. To keep
pace with the messenger, who said that it was in his power to make her
adopted son happy, the old lady seemed to have recovered the strength
and agility of youth.
They reached Paul's new stand, and found him seated on a stone bench,
lost in thought. Sans-Cravate dropped Madame Desroches's arm, ran to
Paul, threw his arms about him, and kissed him again and again, shedding
tears, and saying in a broken voice:
"Do you forgive me--my poor Paul? I know all--I was in the wrong, and I
struck you. If you don't forgive me, I'll jump into the water! Take care
of my sister."
Paul was utterly at a loss to understand what had happened, until he saw
Madame Desroches and divined that his conduct was known. The old lady
likewise embraced the young man, weeping freely. Thereupon the
passers-by and idlers began to gather about them, wondering what that
young messenger had done to be embraced thus effusively; and
Sans-Cravate took Madame Desroches's arm and Paul's, and led them away.
"Come away," he said; "I have something important to tell you; and all
these people, who probably think that we're going to show them some
tricks, are beginning to make me mad."
These three persons, who were so overjoyed to be together, soon reached
Sans-Cravate's humble lodging, where poor Liline, taken by surprise by
that visit, strove to do the honors of her bedroom as best she could. He
presented Paul to her, saying:
"This is the man I was jealous of, sister; I have found out to-day that
he never deceived me. So you can imagine how happy I shall be to put him
in the way of recovering his father, his name, and his fortune!"
Paul stared at Sans-Cravate with an exclamation of surprise; he feared
that he had not heard aright. Madame Desroches begged the messenger to
explain himself. He asked nothing better, and, in order to make his
story clearer, he began by telling of the relations of Albert with his
sister, his visit to Monsieur Vermoncey, his duel with Adeline's
seducer, and, lastly, what he had heard Madame Baldimer say to the elder
Vermoncey--the names, the cross on the forearm, and all the
corroborative circumstances.
"But my heart seems to have divined the truth," said Paul, joyfully;
"and Monsieur Vermoncey himself--he showed so much friendship and
interest."
"Does he know you?" asked Sans-Cravate.
Paul gave the particulars of his visit to Monsieur Vermoncey; whereupon
Sans-Cravate clapped his hands, jumped up and down, swore, wept, and
shouted:
"Let us go, my friends, let us go at once to Monsieur Vermoncey; he has
suffered and groaned long enough; we must hurry up and give him a son to
comfort him a little for the loss of his other children. Madame
Desroches must come with us; it will be better for her to be there, to
confirm what I say.--You stay here, sister, and wait for me. I shall
soon be back, and with good news, I am sure."
Sans-Cravate whispered to his sister, who smiled and promised to obey;
then he ran out to fetch a cab, into which he put Madame Desroches and
Paul, got in after them, and ordered the driver to take them to Monsieur
Vermoncey's house.
"You must let me speak first," he said to them on the way; "the sight of
me will be painful to him at the outset, but afterward, I trust, he
won't be sorry that he's seen me again."
When they reached the house, Sans-Cravate took the servant by storm, and
compelled him to usher him into his master's study.
Monsieur Vermoncey started back in surprise; his eyes assumed an
expression of hopeless melancholy when he saw Sans-Cravate, but he
motioned to him to come forward.
"Your sister has reflected on my offer, no doubt," he said. "I am still
prepared to abide by it, for I should be very glad to repair my son's
wrong-doing."
"Let us say nothing about that, monsieur," replied Sans-Cravate; "if
your son did wrong, heaven has attended to the expiation, and
that--event made me as wretched as it did you. But I have come to-day to
make you happy, and it is the least I can do after causing you so much
sorrow."
Monsieur Vermoncey stared at the messenger in amazement, but
Sans-Cravate went on:
"Monsieur, chance made me acquainted with the whole story of a misstep
of your younger days, for which that Madame Baldimer was so bent on
punishing you. Well! the child you had at that time by a poor girl named
Marie Delbart, that--abandoned child I have found, and I have brought
him back to you!"
"Is it possible?" faltered Monsieur Vermoncey, rising and going to
Sans-Cravate's side. "Oh! monsieur, is this true? are you quite sure of
what you say?"
"Sacrebleu! yes, I am sure of my facts, sure of what I say!"
"You are aware of his existence--where is he?"
"Oh! he ain't far away!"
And Sans-Cravate opened the door behind him, took Paul by the hand, and
pushed him into his father's arms.
"I robbed you of one son," he said, "but I give you back another. That
goes a little way toward reconciling me to myself."
Monsieur Vermoncey strained Paul to his heart, then gazed affectionately
into his face, crying:
"I am not mistaken--it is the same young man who aroused such a deep
interest in my heart. Yes, yes, he is my son, my heart divined it long
ago; and the more I look at him, the more clearly I recognize the
unhappy Marie's features in his."
"Yes, but we want you to be certain of the fact," said Sans-Cravate.
"Here is Madame Desroches, the widow of the excellent man who took Paul
away from--where he was; she will tell you what paper he had about him
when they--and then you will see the cross on his left arm. You'll find
that it's all just as that beautiful lady--who is so vindictive--told
you the other day; and you'll find out, too, that you not only have
recovered your son, but that he's the finest fellow on earth; and if
they gave the cross to everyone that deserves it, it would have been
shining on his breast long ago."
Monsieur Vermoncey needed no further proofs to convince him that Paul
was his son; however, he listened with profound interest to good Madame
Desroches, who did not fail to tell of the young messenger's noble
conduct toward herself.
When the old lady had finished, Monsieur Vermoncey took his son's hand
and gazed proudly at him. But in a moment he said, in a faltering tone: