E-text prepared by Al Haines
A CARDINAL SIN
by
EUGENE SUE
Translated by Alexina Loranger
Chicago
W. B. Conkey Company
Copyright, 1892
by Morrill, Higgins & Co.
Copyright, 1893
by W. B. Conkey Company
A CARDINAL SIN.
CHAPTER I.
On a beautiful, bright morning of the month of May, 18--, a young girl
of eighteen years or thereabouts, whose pale, melancholy face reflected
only too plainly the wretchedness and privations of her daily life, was
wending her way, timidly and with hesitating steps, through that
populous quarter of the city known as the _Charnier des Innocents_, a
dreary spot, principally noted for its large number of public scribes,
who make a precarious living by acting as secretaries to the ignorant
people of the vicinity.
Two or three times she paused, undecided, before an open door; then,
thinking perhaps that the writer was either too young or
unprepossessing, she slowly resumed her search. She had reached the
last of the row, and was on the point of retracing her steps, when her
gaze fell on a venerable old man, whose benign countenance beamed
kindly on her from his desk; and without further hesitation she
resolutely entered the little shop.
Struck by the touching beauty and modest attitude of the young girl,
the scribe greeted her with paternal affability, and discreetly drawing
the curtain over the dingy window, motioned her to a seat, while he
sank back into his old leather-covered arm-chair and waited for her to
speak.
The girl's pretty face flushed and she cast down her large, blue eyes
in embarrassment, while a painful silence followed. She was evidently
agitated by a deep emotion, for her breast heaved visibly beneath the
worn merino shawl she wore over her faded gingham dress, and her hands
trembled slightly as she folded them on her lap.
"Why this embarrassment, my dear child?" said the old man kindly. "Do
you wish me to draw up a petition, a request, or write a letter?"
"Yes, monsieur, I want a letter written," she replied in a low, soft
voice, her face flushing still more painfully.
"Can you not write?"
She shook her head and cast down her eyes once more.
Fearing he had needlessly humiliated his client, the old man hastened
to add:
"Poor child, do you suppose me capable of blaming your ignorance?"
"Monsieur!--" she began in protestation.
"Ah! believe me," he interrupted, "I feel a great deal of compassion
for persons who, having no education, are forced to have recourse to
men of my profession, to admit them into their confidence, and reveal
their most secret and dearest thoughts! It is very painful, is it not?"
"Yes, indeed, monsieur!" exclaimed the girl, touched by these words.
"To be obliged to address myself to a stranger, to--"
Her eyes filled with tears and she paused in confusion.
"My dear child, pray recover your composure," entreated the scribe.
"You need fear neither indiscretion nor ridicule with me. The
confidence reposed in me by persons whom chance or misfortune has
deprived of the benefits of education, has always been considered as
sacred to me."
"Oh! thank you, monsieur; you relieve me of half my grief by
understanding and excusing my embarrassment," said Mariette,
gratefully. "Oh! yes," she went on with a sigh, "it is very cruel to
know neither how to read nor write; but alas! it is not my fault."
"Ah! my poor child, like many others who come to me, it is the want of
opportunity, and not the absence of good will, which has deprived you
of knowledge. Some are forced to assume the care of younger brothers
and sisters while the parents work; others are sent out as apprentices
at an early age--"
"I was placed as an apprentice at the age of nine," sighed Mariette,
"and until that time I was retained at home to care for a little
brother, who died shortly before my parents."
"Poor child, your story is similar to those of your companions that
come to me. But why did you not try to gain some education when you
had finished your apprenticeship?"
"Where would I find the time, monsieur? I work almost day and night to
provide for my godmother and myself--"
"Time, alas! is the bread of the poor!" broke in the old man; "they
must starve to death or live in ignorance."
He paused for a moment, then asked with renewed interest: "You speak of
your godmother; have you no other relative?"
"No, Monsieur," replied the girl sadly.
"But forgive me, I am taking up your time uselessly instead of coming
to the purpose of my visit."
"My time could not be better employed than in listening to you, my
child; for I am sure you are a good and honest girl. Now let us see
about the letter. Will you merely state what you wish to write, or do
you prefer to dictate to me?"
"I prefer to dictate the letter."
"Very well, I am ready," declared the old man, adjusting his glasses
and bending over his desk that he might not increase his pretty
client's confusion.
With down-cast eyes, and after a moment of hesitation, Mariette began:
"Monsieur Louis--"
At the name of Louis the old man started, but said quietly: "It is
written, my child."
Nothwithstanding her confidence in the old man, the girl instinctively
shrank from revealing her inmost thoughts to a stranger. But after a
momentary pause, she went on hesitatingly:
"I have received no word from you, and I am very sad. Yet, you had
promised to write during your voyage--"
"During your voyage," repeated the writer, who had become suddenly
thoughtful. "A strange coincidence," he said to himself, with growing
anxiety. "His name is Louis, and he is away."
"I hope that you are well," continued the girl, "and that your silence
is not caused by illness, for my grief would be doubled."
"To-day is the sixth of May, Monsieur Louis--_the sixth of May_--and I
would not let the day pass without reminding you of me. Perhaps you
had the same thought also, and I may receive a letter from you when you
receive this from me, the day after to-morrow. Then I shall know that
the delay was not caused by illness or forgetfulness, and how happy I
shall be! I shall therefore await the day after to-morrow with much
impatience. May heaven protect me from disappointment, Monsieur
Louis--"
Mariette stifled a sigh and wiped a tear from her pale cheek.
The features of the writer, who still bent low over his desk, were
invisible to the young girl, and she was unconscious of the expression
of alarm that had crept over them. Two or three times, while writing,
he had cast furtive, scrutinizing glances at his client; and it was
evident that his first impulse of sympathetic interest was changing to
restraint caused by serious apprehensions.
Folding her hands once more on her lap, Mariette resumed:
"I have nothing new to tell you, Monsieur Louis. My godmother is still
ill, she suffers very much, and the torture she undergoes embitters her
character more and more. That I may be near her as much as possible, I
now work at home instead of going to Mme. Jourdan. The days seem
wretchedly long and sad, for working at the shop with my companions is
much more cheerful, and I can accomplish more. I am therefore obliged
to stay up very late; and I sleep but little, as my godmother always
suffers more at night and, consequently needs more care. Sometimes I
fail to hear her first call, I sleep so soundly; then she scolds me,
which is only natural when she suffers so much.
"I tell you these things to show you that my life is not a happy one,
and that one word of friendship from you would encourage and console me
for so many sad things.
"Farewell, Monsieur Louis. I counted on Augustine to write; but she
has gone away and I am dictating this letter to another person. Ah!
never have I so much regretted my inability to read and write as at
this moment. Farewell, once more, Monsieur Louis; think of me I beg
you, for I think of you always."
"Is this all, my child?" queried the old man, after a moment of silence.
"Yes, monsieur."
"And what name shall I sign?"
"Mariette."
"Mariette only?"
"Mariette Moreau, if you please."
"Mariette Moreau," repeated the old man, as he inscribed the name.
Then folding the letter, he made a violent effort to conceal the secret
anguish with which he awaited the reply to his question, and asked:
"To whom shall I address it?"
"To M. Louis Richard, at Dreux, to be called for."
"No more doubt of it," thought the old man, as he prepared to address
the letter.
Had the young girl been less pre-occupied with her, own thoughts, she
could not have failed to remark the harsh expression which darkened the
public writer's countenance when he learned beyond doubt to whom this
innocent missive was addressed. In fact, he seemed unable to make up
his mind to inscribe the name given, for when he had written the word
"Monsieur," he suddenly dropped the pen and looked up.
"My dear child," he began, trying to smile with his usual benevolence,
that he might not betray his resentment and apprehensions, "although
this is the first time we meet, it seems to me that I have inspired
confidence in you."
"Indeed you have, monsieur," she assured him. "Before entering your
house I feared I would not find the courage to dictate the letter to a
total stranger; but you received me with so much kindness that my
embarrassment has almost completely melted away."
"Why should you have felt any embarrassment, my child? Even though I
were your father, I could not find a word to reproach you in what you
have written to--to M. Louis--and it I did not fear to abuse your
confidence in me I would ask--but no--it would be an indiscretion."
"What would you ask, monsieur?"
"Who this M. Louis Richard is."
"Oh! that's no secret, I assure you. M. Louis is a student; the
notary's office in which he is employed is in the same building as the
shop in which I work. That is how we met, just one year ago to-day."
"Ah! I now understand why you insisted on the date of your letter;
to-day is the anniversary of your first meeting!"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And you love each other. There, don't blush, my child--I suppose you
will marry some day?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Has M. Louis' family consented to the marriage?"
"M. Louis has no one to consult but his father, and we hope he will not
refuse his consent."
"And what kind of a man is he?"
"The best of fathers--so M. Louis tells me--and a man who endures his
poverty most courageously, although he once had a comfortable home.
But M. Louis and his father are now as poor as godmother and myself;
and this is why we expect no opposition to our marriage. No difficulty
can arise between poor people."
"It seems to me that your godmother does not make life very happy for
you, my child."
"What will you? it is so natural to be ill-humored when one suffers
incessantly and life is but a continual round of misfortunes."
"Is she a cripple?"
"She has lost one hand, besides being afflicted with a lung disease
which has kept her confined to her bed for more than a year."
"How did she lose that hand?"
"She pricked her finger with a mattress needle, and as she could not
stop work, blood poisoning followed, and she was forced to have her arm
amputated."
"Poor woman," broke in the old man, absent-mindedly.
"As for her lung trouble, it is very common among women who continually
breathe the dust arising from the wool used in mattresses. My
godmother is almost bent double, and during her long paroxysms of
coughing I am sometimes obliged to support her in my arms for hours."
"You alone, then, contribute to her support?"
"Certainly, since she is unable to work."
"Such devotion on your part is very generous."
"I only do my duty, monsieur. She gave me shelter after my parents
died, and paid for my three years of apprenticeship in the shop. Is it
not just that I should now care for her?"
"You must work very hard to earn sufficiently."
"From fifteen to eighteen hours a day."
"And instead of taking a much needed rest at night, you watch over your
godmother?"
"Who would care for her if I did not?"
"Why not try to place her in the hospital?"
"She would not be admitted, as her case is incurable. Besides, I
scarcely think I would have the courage to desert her thus."
"You are indeed a noble girl, my child, and I judged you rightly,"
declared the old man, grasping her hand in his.
"Oh! my God!" cried Mariette, as she saw his sleeve catch the inkstand,
spilling the contents over the precious letter. "Ah! monsieur, what a
misfortune!"
"What awkwardness!" exclaimed the writer angrily. "But never mind, I
can copy it in a very few minutes. I shall read it aloud as I go on,
so that you may suggest any change you may think proper."
"I am so grieved to give you all this trouble," she murmured, evidently
much distressed.
"It serves me right, my dear,--I alone am to blame."
As he resumed his work, a violent internal conflict seemed reflected on
his features; from time to time a sigh of relief and satisfaction
escaped his lips; then again he appeared confused and avoided
Mariette's limpid gaze; while she leaned on the table, her head
supported on one hand, anxiously and enviously following the rapid pen
of the writer, as he traced the magic characters that would convey her
thoughts to her lover.
"How much do I owe you, monsieur?" she asked timidly, when he had
folded the missive and addressed it.
"Fifty centimes," rejoined the old man, after a moment of hesitation,
"and remember that I charge you for one of the letters only. I alone
am responsible for my awkwardness."
"You are very kind, monsieur," said Mariette, touched by what she
considered a proof of generosity on his part. "Indeed," she added, as
she replaced her slender purse into her pocket, "you have been so good
to me that I shall ask you a very great service--"
"Go on, my child."
"If I have more letters to send, it will be almost impossible for me to
go to a stranger--"
"I shall always be at your service, my child."
"What I wished to say was, that my godmother is also unable to write or
read, and the friend who was my confidante has gone to the country. So
if I should receive a letter from M. Louis, would you have the goodness
to read it for me? I would then dictate the answer at once."
"Certainly, my child; bring me all your letters," rejoined the old man,
dissimulating his satisfaction. "I am indeed much gratified by the
confidence you show in me. Good-bye, then. I hope you feel less
embarrassment now than when you entered?"
"I did not expect so much kindness, monsieur."
"Try to look on me as your reader and secretary, my child. Does it not
seem as though we had known each other for ten years."
"Indeed it does--Good-bye, monsieur."
Mariette had scarcely vanished, when the postman pushed the door open
and handed in a letter, saying: "Here is a letter from Dreux, père
Richard."
"A letter from Dreux!" exclaimed the old man, grasping it eagerly and
examining the writing closely. "Ah! it comes from Ramon," he muttered
to himself. "I wonder what he thinks of my son? Alas! what will now
become of the fine projects so long formed between us!"
"Six sous, père Richard," observed the postman, arousing him from his
reverie.
"Six sous!" cried the old man. "The devil! was it not prepaid? Ah!
true enough," he sighed, as he regretfully handed the man the coin he
had just received from Mariette.