BICETRE.
A fortnight had elapsed since Sarah's death, and it was mid-Lent Sunday.
This date established, we will conduct the reader to Bicetre, an immense
building, which, though originally designed for the reception of insane
persons, is equally adapted as an asylum for seven or eight hundred poor
old men, who are admitted into this species of civil invalid hospital
when they have reached the age of seventy years, or are afflicted with
severe infirmities.
The entrance to Bicetre is by a large court, planted with high trees,
and covered in the centre by a mossy turf, intersected with flower beds
duly cultivated. Nothing can be imagined more healthful, calm, or
cheerful than the promenade thus devoted to the indigent old beings we
have before alluded to. Around this square are the spacious and airy
dormitories, containing clean, comfortable beds; these chambers form the
first floor of the building, and immediately beneath them are the neatly
kept and admirably arranged refectories, where the assembled community
of Bicetre partake of their common meal, excellent and abundant in its
kind, and served with a care and attention that reflects the highest
praise on the directors of this fine institution.
In conclusion of this short notice of Bicetre, we will just add that at
the period at which we write the building also served as the abode of
condemned criminals, who there awaited the period of their execution.
It was in one of the cells belonging to the prison that the Widow
Martial and Calabash were left to count the hours till the following
day, on which they were to suffer the extreme penalty of the law.
Nicholas, the Skeleton, and several of the same description of ruffians
had contrived to escape from La Force the very night previous to the day
on which they were to have been transferred to Bicetre.
Eleven o'clock had just struck as two _fiacres_ drew up before the outer
gate; from the first of which descended Madame Georges, Germain, and
Rigolette, and from the second Louise Morel and her mother. Germain and
Rigolette had now been married for some fifteen days.
We must leave the reader to imagine the glow of happiness that
irradiated the fair face of the grisette, whose rosy lips parted but to
smile, or to lavish fond words upon Madame Georges, whom she took every
occasion of calling "her dear mother." The countenance of Germain
expressed a more calm and settled delight. With his sincere affection
for the merry-hearted being to whom he was united was mingled a deep and
grateful sense of the kind and disinterested conduct of Rigolette
towards him when in prison, although the charming girl herself seemed to
have completely forgotten all about it, and even when Germain spoke of
those days she would entreat him to change the subject, upon the plea of
finding all such recollections so very dull and dispiriting. Neither
would the pretty grisette substitute a bonnet for the smart little cap
worn before her marriage, and certainly never was humility and avoidance
of pretension better rewarded; for nothing could have been invented more
becoming to the piquant style of Rigolette's beauty than the simple cap
_a la paysanne_, trimmed with a large orange-coloured rosette at each
side, contrasting so tastefully with the long tresses of her rich dark
hair, now worn in long hanging curls; for, as she said, "she could now
allow herself to take a little pains with her appearance."
The fair bride wore a handsome worked muslin collar, while a scarf, of
similar colour to the trimmings of her cap, half concealed her graceful,
pliant figure, which, notwithstanding her having leisure to adorn
herself, was still unfettered by the artificial restraints of stays;
although the tight gray silk dress she wore fitted without a fold or a
crease over her lightly rounded bosom, resembling the beautiful statue
of Galatea in marble. Madame Georges beheld the happiness of the newly
married pair with a delight almost equal to their own.
As for Louise Morel, she had been set at liberty after undergoing a most
searching investigation, and when a post-mortem examination of her
infant had proved that it had come to its death by natural means; but
the countenance of the poor victim of another's villainy had lost all
the freshness of youth, and bore the impress of deep sorrow, now
softened and subdued by gentleness and resignation. Thanks to Rodolph,
and the excellent care that had been taken of her through his means, the
mother of Louise, who accompanied her, had entirely recovered her
health.
Madame Georges having informed the porter at the lodge that she had
called by the desire of one of the medical officers of the
establishment, who had appointed to meet herself and the friends by whom
she was accompanied at half past eleven o'clock, she was requested to
choose whether she would await the doctor within doors or in the large
square before the building; determining to do the latter, and supporting
herself on the arm of her son, while the wife of Morel walked beside
her, she sauntered along the shady alleys that bordered this delightful
spot, Louise and Rigolette following them.
"How very glad I am to see you again, dear Louise," said the bride.
"When we came to fetch you on our arrival from Bouqueval, I wanted to
run up-stairs to you, but my husband would not let me; he said I should
tire myself, so I stayed in the coach, and that is the reason why we
meet now for the first time since--"
"You so kindly came to console me in prison, Mlle. Rigolette," cried
Louise, deeply affected. "You are so feeling for all in trouble, whether
of body or mind!"
"In the first place, my dear Louise," replied the grisette, hastily
interrupting praises that were to her oppressive, "I am not Mlle.
Rigolette any longer, but Madame Germain. I do not know whether you
heard--"
"That you were married? Oh, yes, I did. But pray let me thank you as you
deserve."
"Ah, but Louise," persisted Madame Germain, "I am quite sure you have
not learnt all the particulars; how my marriage is all owing to the
generosity of him who was at once the protector and benefactor of
yourself and family, Germain, his mother, and my own self."
"Ah, yes, M. Rodolph,--we bless his name morning and evening. When I
came out of prison the lawyer who had been to see me from time to time,
by M. Rodolph's order, told me that, thanks to the same kind friend who
had already interested himself so much for us, M. Ferrand (and here at
the very mention of the name an involuntary shudder passed over the poor
girl's frame) had settled an annuity on my poor father and myself,--some
little reparation for the wrongs he had done us. You are aware that my
poor dear father is still confined here, though still improving in
health."
"And I also know that the kind doctor who has appointed our being here
to-day even hopes your dear parent may be enabled to return with you to
Paris; he thinks that it will be better to take some decided steps to
throw off this malady, and that the unexpected presence of persons your
father was in the daily habit of seeing may produce the most favourable
effects,--perhaps cure him; and that is what I think will be the case."
"Ah, mademoiselle, I dare not hope for so much happiness."
"Madame Germain, my dear Louise, if it is all the same to you; but to go
on with what I was telling you, you have no idea, I am sure, who M.
Rodolph really is?"
"Yes, I have,--the friend and protector of all who are unhappy."
"True, but that is not all. Well, as I see you really are ignorant of
many things concerning our benefactor, I will tell you all about it."
Then addressing her husband, who was walking before her with Madame
Georges, she said, "Don't walk so very fast, Germain, you will tire our
mother!" And, with a look of proud satisfaction, she said, turning to
Louise, "Does not he deserve to have a good wife? See how attentive he
is to his mother! He certainly is very handsome, too,--a thousand times
more so than Cabrion, or M. Girandeau, the travelling clerk! You
remember him, don't you, Louise?
"Talking of Cabrion puts me in mind to ask you whether M. Pipelet and
his wife have arrived yet? The doctor wished them to come here to-day
with us, because your father has talked much about them during his
wanderings."
"No, they are not here at present, but they will not be long. When we
called for them they had already set out."
"And then as for being punctual in keeping an appointment, M. Pipelet is
as exact as a clock to the hour and minute! But let me tell you a little
more about my marriage and M. Rodolph. Only think, Louise, it was he who
sent me with the order for Germain's liberation! You can imagine our
delight at quitting that horrid prison. Well, we went home to my room,
and there Germain and I together prepared a nice little bit of dinner;
but, bless you! we might just as well have spared ourselves the trouble,
for, after it was ready, neither of us could eat a bit for joy. When
evening came Germain left me, promising to return the next day.
"Well, at five o'clock next morning, I got up and sat down to my work,
for I was terribly behindhand with it. As eight o'clock struck some one
knocked at the door; who should it be but M. Rodolph! Directly I saw
him, I began to thank him from the bottom of my heart for all he had
done for Germain and myself. He would not allow me to proceed. 'My kind
neighbour,' said he, 'I wish you to give this letter to Germain, who
will soon be here. Then you will take a _fiacre_, and proceed without
delay to a small village, near Ecouen, called Bouqueval. Once there,
inquire for Madame Georges; and I wish you all imaginable pleasure from
your trip.' 'M. Rodolph,' I said, 'pray excuse me, but that will make me
lose another day's work and I have already got two to make up for.'
'Make yourself perfectly easy, my pretty neighbour,' said he, you will
find plenty of work at Madame Georges's, I promise you; she will prove
an excellent customer, I have no doubt, and I have particularly
recommended you to her.' 'Oh, that alters the case, M. Rodolph, then I'm
sure I shall be but too glad to go.' 'Adieu, neighbour,' said M.
Rodolph. 'Good-bye,' cried I, 'and many thanks for so kindly
recommending me.'
"When Germain came, I told him all about it; so as we were quite sure M.
Rodolph would not send us upon any foolish errand, we set off as blithe
as birds. Only imagine, Louise, what a surprise awaited us on our
arrival! I declare I can scarcely think of it without tears of happiness
coming into my eyes. We went to the very Madame Georges you see walking
before us, and who should she turn out to be but the mother of Germain!"
"His mother?"
"Yes, his own very mother, from whom he had been taken when quite a
baby! You must try to fancy their mutual joy! Well, when Madame Georges
had wept over her son, and embraced and gazed at him a hundred times, my
turn came to be noticed.
"No doubt M. Rodolph had written something very favourable about me,
for, clasping me in her arms, she said, 'She was acquainted with my
conduct towards her son.' 'Then, mother,' interposed Germain, 'it only
rests with you to ask her, and Rigolette will be your child as well as
I.' 'And I do ask her to be my daughter with all my heart,' replied his
mother, 'for you will never find a better or a prettier creature to love
as your wife.'
"So there I was quite at home, in such a sweet farm, along with Germain,
his mother, and my birds; for I had taken the poor, little, dear things
with me, just to hear how delightedly they would sing when they found
themselves in the country. The days passed like a dream. I did only just
what I liked,--helped Madame Georges, walked about with Germain, and
danced and sung like a wild thing.
"Well, our marriage was fixed to take place on yesterday fortnight; the
evening before, who should arrive but a tall, elderly, bald-headed
gentleman, who looked so kind; and he brought me a _corbeille de
mariage_ from M. Rodolph. Only think, Louise, what a beauty it must have
been,--made like a large rosewood box, with these words written in
letters of gold, on medallion of blue china, 'Industry and
Prudence--Love and Happiness.' And what do you suppose this charming box
contained? Why, a number of lace caps similar to the one I have now on,
pieces for gowns, gloves, ornaments, a beautiful shawl, and this pretty
scarf. Oh, I thought I should lose my senses with delight! But that is
not all. At the bottom of the box I found a handsome pocketbook, with
these words written on a bit of paper affixed to it, 'From a friend to a
friend.' Inside were two folded papers, one addressed to Germain, and
the other to me. In that addressed to Germain was an order for his
appointment as director of a bank for the poor with a salary of four
thousand francs a year; while he found under the envelope, directed to
me, a money order for forty thousand francs on the treasury,--yes,
that's the word; it was called my marriage portion.
"I did not like to take so large a sum, but Madame Georges said to me,
'My dear child, you both can and must accept it, as a recompense for
your prudence, industry, and devotion to those who were in misfortune;
for did you not run the risk of injuring your health, and probably
deprive yourself of your only means of support, by sitting up all night
at work, in order to make up for the time you spent in attending to
others?'"
"Oh, that is quite true," exclaimed Louise, with fervour. "I do not
think there is any one upon earth who would have done all that you have
done, Mademoi--Madame Germain!"
"There's a good girl, she has learned her lesson at last! Well, I said
to the elderly gentleman that I did not merit such a reward, that what
little I had done was purely because it afforded me pleasure. To which
he answered, 'That makes no difference; M. Rodolph is immensely rich,
and he sends you this dowry as a mark of his friendship and esteem, and
your refusal of it would pain him very much indeed. He will himself be
present at your marriage, and then he will compel you to take it.'"
"What a blessing that so charitable a person as M. Rodolph should be
possessed of such riches!"
"Of course it is! But I haven't told you all yet. Oh, Louise, you never
can guess who and what M. Rodolph turns out to be; and to think of my
making him carry large parcels for me! But have a little patience, you
will hear about it directly.
"The night before the marriage the elderly gentleman came again very
late, and in great haste,--it was to tell us that M. Rodolph was ill,
and could not attend the wedding, but that his friend, the bald-headed
gentleman, would take his place. And then only, my dear Louise, did we
learn that our benefactor was--guess what--a prince! A prince, do I say?
Bless you, ever so much higher than that! A royal highness!--a reigning
duke!--a sort of a second-rate king! Germain explained all about his
rank to me!"
"M. Rodolph a prince!--a duke!--almost a king!"
"Just think of that, Louise! And imagine my having asked him to help me
to clean my room! A pretty state of confusion it threw me into when I
recollected all that, and how free I had spoken to him! So of course you
know when I found that he was as good as a king, I did not dare refuse
his gracious wedding present.
"Well, my dear, when we had been married about a week, M. Rodolph sent
us word that he should be glad if Germain, his mother, and myself would
pay him a wedding visit; so we did. I can tell you my heart beat as
though it would come through my side! Well, we stopped at a fine palace
in the Rue Plumet, and were ushered into a number of splendid
apartments, filled with servants in liveries, all covered with gold
lace, gentlemen in black, with silver chains around their necks and
swords by their sides, officers in rich uniforms, and all sorts of gay
looking people. The rooms we passed through were all gilt, and filled
with such beautiful things they quite dazzled my eyesight only to look
at them.
"At last we got to the apartment where the bald-headed old gentleman was
sitting, with a quantity of grand folks, all covered with gold lace and
embroidery. Well, when our elderly friend saw us, he rose and conducted
us to an adjoining room, where we found M. Rodolph--I mean the
prince--dressed so simply, and looking so good and kind--just like the
M. Rodolph we first knew--that I did not feel at all frightened at the
recollection of how I had set him to pin my shawl for me, mend my pens,
and walked with him arm in arm in the street, just like two equals, as,
certainly, then I thought we were."
"Oh, I should have trembled like a leaf if I had been you!"
"Well, I did not mind it at all, he smiled so encouragingly; and, after
kindly welcoming Madame Georges, he held out his hand to Germain, and
then said, smilingly, to me, 'Well, neighbour, and how are "Papa Cretu"
and "Ramonette?"' (Those were the names I called my birds by. Was it not
kind of him to recollect them?)
"'I feel quite sure,' added he, 'that yourself and Germain can sing as
merry songs as your birds.' 'Yes, indeed, my lord,' replied I (Madame
Georges had taught me as we came along how I was to address the prince),
'we are as happy as it is possible to be, and our happiness is the
greater because we owe it to you.'
"'Nay, nay, my good child,' said he, 'you may thank your own excellent
qualities and that of Germain for the felicity you enjoy,' etc. I need
not go on with that part of the story, Louise, because it would oblige
me to repeat all the charming praises I received; and, certainly, I
cannot recollect ever doing more than my strict duty, though the prince
was pleased to think differently.
"Well, we all came away more sorrowful than we went, for we found it was
to be our farewell visit to our benefactor, he being about to return to
Germany. Whether or not he has gone I cannot tell you, but, absent or
present, our most grateful remembrance and respectful esteem will ever
attend him.
"I forgot to tell you that a dear, good girl I knew when we were both in
prison together had been living at the farm with Madame Georges; it
seems my young friend had, fortunately, found a friend in M. Rodolph,
who had placed her there. But Madame Georges particularly cautioned me
not to say a word on the subject to the prince, who had some reason for
desiring it should not be talked about,--no doubt because he could not
bear his benevolent deeds should be known. However, I learnt one thing
that gave me extreme pleasure, that my sweet Goualeuse had found her
parents, and that they had taken her a great, great way from Paris; I
could not help feeling grieved, too, that I had not been able to wish
her good-bye before she went.
"But forgive me, dear Louise, for being so selfish as to keep talking to
you of every one's happiness when you have so much reason to be
sorrowful yourself."
"Had my child but been spared to me," said poor Louise, sadly, "it would
have been some consolation to me; for how can I ever hope to find any
honest man who would make me his wife, although I have got money enough
to tempt any one."
"For my part, Louise, I feel quite sure that one of these days I shall
see you happily married to a good and worthy partner, who will pity you
for your past troubles, and love and esteem you for the patience with
which you endured them."
"Ah, Madame Germain, you only say so to try and comfort me; but whether
you really believe what you say or no, I gratefully feel and thank you
for your kindness. But who are these? I declare, M. and Madame Pipelet!
How very gay he looks; so different from the sad, dejected appearance he
always wore, while M. Cabrion was tormenting him as he did!"
Louise was right. Pipelet advanced in high spirits, and as though
treading on air; on his head he wore the well-known bell-crowned hat, a
superb grass-green coat adorned his person, while a white cravat, with
embroidered ends, was folded around his throat, in such a manner as to
permit the display of an enormous collar, reaching nearly up to his
eyes, and quite concealing his cheeks. A large, loose waistcoat, of
bright buff, with broad maroon-coloured stripes, black trousers,
somewhat short for the wearer, snowy white stockings, and highly
polished shoes completed his equipment.
Anastasie displayed a robe of violet-coloured merino, tastefully
contrasted with a dark blue shawl. She proudly exhibited her freshly
curled Brutus wig to the gaze of all she met, while her cap was slung on
her arm by its bright green strings, after the manner of a reticule.
The physiognomy of Alfred--ordinarily so grave, thoughtful, and
dejected--was now mirthful, jocund, and hilarious. The moment he caught
a glimpse of Rigolette and Louise, he ran towards them, exclaiming in
his deep, sonorous voice, "Delivered! Gone!"
"How unusually joyful you seem, M. Pipelet," said Rigolette. "Do pray
tell us what has occasioned such a change in your appearance!"
"Gone! I tell you, mademoiselle,--or, rather, madame, as I may, do, and
ought to say, now that, like my Anastasie, you are tied up for life."
"You are very polite, M. Pipelet; but please to tell me who has gone?"
"Cabrion!" responded M. Pipelet, inspiring and respiring the air with a
look of indescribable delight, as though relieved of an enormous weight;
"he has quitted France for ever--for a perpetuity! At length he has
departed, and I am myself again."
"Are you quite sure he has gone?"
"I saw him with my eyes ascend the diligence, en route for Strasburg
with all his luggage and baggage; that is to say, a hat-case, a
maul-stick, and a box of colours."
"What is my old dear chattering about?" cried Anastasie, as she came
puffing and panting to the spot where the little group were assembled;
"I'll be bound he was giving you the history of Cabrion's going off--I'm
sure he has talked of nothing else all the way we came."
"Because I'm half wild with delight; I seem to have got into another
world,--such a lightness has come over me. A little while ago my hat
used to seem as though loaded with lead, and as if it pressed forwards
in spite of me; now I seem as though borne on the breeze towards the
firmament, to think that he is gone--actually set out--and never to
return!"
"Yes, the blackguard is off at last!" chimed in Madame Pipelet.
"Anastasie," cried her husband, "spare the absent! Happiness calls for
mercy and forbearance on our parts. I will obey its dictates, and merely
allow myself to remark that Cabrion was a--a--worthless scoundrel!"
"But how do you know that he has gone to Germany?" inquired Rigolette.
"By a friend of our 'king of lodgers.' Talking of that dear man, you
haven't heard that, owing to the handsome manner in which he recommended
us, Alfred has been appointed house-porter to a sort of charitable bank,
established in our house by a worthy Christian, who wishes, like M.
Rodolph, to do all the good he can?"
"Ah!" replied Rigolette. "And, perhaps, you don't know, either, that my
dear Germain is appointed manager of this same bank? All owing to the
kind intervention of M. Rodolph."
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Madame Pipelet, "all our good luck comes
together; and I'm sure I'm heartily glad we shall keep old friends and
acquaintances around us. I hate fresh faces, for my part. I'm certain I
would not change my old duck of a husband even for your young handsome
one, Madame Germain.
"But to go back to Cabrion. Only imagine a bald-headed, stout, elderly
gentleman, coming to tell us of Alfred's new situation, and at the same
time inquiring if a talented artist of the name of Cabrion did not once
lodge in the house with us. Oh, my poor darling! Directly Cabrion's name
was mentioned down went the boot he was mending, and if I had not
caught him he would have swooned away. But, fortunately, the bald
gentleman added, 'This young painter has been engaged by a very wealthy
person to do some work, which will occupy him for years, and he may,
very probably, establish himself in another country.' In confirmation of
which the old gentleman gave my Alfred the date of Cabrion's departure,
with the address of the office from which he started."
"And I had the unhoped-for satisfaction of reading on the ticket, 'M.
Cabrion, artist in painting, departs for Strasburg, and further, by the
company's diligence.' The hour named was for this morning. I need not
say I was in the inn yard with my wife."
"And there we saw the rascal take his seat on the box beside the
driver."
"Just as the vehicle was set in motion Cabrion perceived me, turned
around, and cried,'Yours for ever! I go to return no more.' Thank
heaven! The loud blast of the guard's horn nearly drowned these familiar
and insulting words, as well as any others he might have intended to
utter. But I pity and forgive the wretched man,--I can afford to be
generous, for I am delivered from the bane and misery of my life."
"Depend upon it, M. Pipelet," said Rigolette, endeavouring to restrain a
loud fit of laughter,--"depend upon it, you will see him no more. But
listen to me, and I will tell you something I am sure you are ignorant
of and which it will be almost difficult for you to credit. What do you
think of our M. Rodolph not being what we took him for, but a prince in
disguise,--a royal highness!"
"Go along with you!" said Anastasie. "That is a joke!"
"Oh, but really," cried Rigolette, "I am not joking; it is as true
as--as--that I am married to my dear Germain."
"Goodness gracious me!" exclaimed Anastasie. "My king of lodgers a royal
highness! Oh, dear, here's a pretty go! And I asked him to mind the
lodge for me. Oh, pardon! Pardon! Pardon!" And then, carried away by the
excess of her reverence and regret for having so undervalued a prince,
though a disguised one, Madame Pipelet placed her cap on her head, as
though she imagined herself in the presence of royalty.
Alfred, on the contrary, manifested his respect for royalty in a manner
diametrically the reverse of the form adopted by his wife. Snatching off
his hat, that hat which had never before been seen to quit his head, he
commenced bowing to empty space, as though standing in the presence of
the august personage he apostrophised, while he exclaimed, "Have I,
then, been honoured by a visit from royalty? Has my poor lodge been so
far favoured? And to think of his illustrious eyes having seen me in my
bed, when driven thither by the vile conduct of Cabrion!"
At this moment Madame Georges, turning around, cried out:
"My children, the doctor comes."
Doctor Herbin, the individual alluded to, was a man of about the middle
age, with a countenance expressive of great kindness and benevolence,
united to extreme skill and penetration in discovering the extent of
malady with which his unfortunate patients were affected. His voice,
naturally harmonious, assumed a tone of gentle suavity when he spoke to
the poor lunatics; who, however bereft of reason, seemed always to
listen with peculiar delight to his soft, soothing words, which
frequently had the effect of subduing the invariable irritability
attendant on this fearful complaint. M. Herbin had been among the first
to substitute, in his treatment of madness, sympathy and commiseration
for the frightful remedies ordinarily employed. He abandoned the
coercive system, so repugnant to every principle of humanity, for kind
words, conciliating looks, and a ready attention to every request that
could reasonably be granted. He banished chains, whips, drenching with
cold water, and even solitary confinement, except in cases of urgent
necessity.
"Monsieur," said Madame Georges, addressing the doctor, "I have ventured
hither with my son and daughter, although personally unknown to M.
Morel; but my interest in his unfortunate state made me desirous of
witnessing the experiment you are about to make to restore his reason.
You have every hope of succeeding, have you not?"
"I certainly reckon much, madame, on the good effects likely to be
produced by the sight of his daughter and the persons he has been in the
constant habit of seeing."
"When my husband was arrested," said Morel's wife, pointing to
Rigolette, "our kind young friend here was nursing me and my children."
"And my father knew M. Germain quite well," said Louise; then directing
the attention of M. Herbin to Alfred and Anastasie, she added, "Monsieur
and madame here were porters at the house, and assisted our family to
the utmost of their ability."
"I am greatly obliged to you, my worthy friend," said the doctor,
addressing Alfred, "for quitting your occupation to come hither; but I
see by your amiable countenance that you have cheerfully sacrificed your
time to visit your poor lodger here."
"Sir-r!" replied Pipelet, gravely bowing. "Men should help each other in
this sublunary world, and remember that all are brothers; added to which
your unfortunate patient was the very cream and essence of an honest
man, and therefore do I respect him."
"If you are not afraid, madame," said Doctor Herbin to Madame Georges,
"of the sight of the poor creatures here, we will cross some of the
yards leading to that part of the building where I have deemed it
advisable to remove Morel, instead of allowing him to accompany the
others to the farm as usual."
"The farm!" exclaimed Madame Georges. "Have you a farm here?"
"Your surprise is perfectly natural, madame. Yes, we have a farm, the
produce of which is most serviceable to the establishment, although
entirely worked by the patients."
"Is it possible? Can you make these lunatics work, and allow them to be
at liberty while they do so?"
"Certainly; exercise, the calm tranquillity of the fields, with the
aspect of nature, are among our most certain means of cure. Only one
keeper goes with them, and we have rarely had an instance of any patient
endeavouring to get away; they are delighted to be employed, and the
trifling reward they gain serves still to improve their condition, by
enabling them to purchase different little indulgences. But we have
reached the gate conducting to one of these courts." Then perceiving a
slight appearance of alarm on the countenance of Madame Georges, the
doctor added, "Lay aside all apprehension, madame; in a very few minutes
you will feel as tranquil as I do myself."
"I follow you, sir. Come, my children."
"Anastasie," whispered Pipelet, "when I think that, had the persecutions
of that odious Cabrion continued, your poor dear Alfred might have
become mad, like the unhappy wretches we are about to behold, clad in
the most wild and singular state, chained up by the middle, or confined
in dens like the wild beasts in the 'Jardin des Plantes--'"
"Oh, bless your dear old heart, don't talk of such a thing! La! I've
heard say that them as has gone mad for love are for all the world like
born devils directly they see a woman; dashing against the bars of their
dens, and making all sorts of horrid noises, till the keepers are
forced to flog them till they drop, or else turn great taps of water on
their heads before they can quiet them."
"Anastasie," rejoined Pipelet, gravely, "I desire you will not go too
close to these dreadful creatures, an accident so soon happens."
"Besides," answered Anastasie, with a tone of sentimental melancholy,
"poor things, I have no business to show myself just for the sake of
tantalising them. 'Tis woman's beauty and fascination reduces them to
this horrid state. I declare I feel a cold shudder creep over me as I
reflect that, perhaps, if I had refused to make you a happy man, Alfred,
you might at this very minute be raving mad for love, and shut up in one
of these dens, roaring out the moment you caught sight of a woman; while
as it is, my poor old duck is glad to get out of the way of the naughty
females that will be trying to make him notice them."
"'Tis true, my modesty is easily alarmed. But, Anastasie, the door
opens, I tremble with dread of what we are about to witness; no doubt
the most hideous looking people, and all sorts of dreadful noises,
rattling of chains, and grinding of teeth."
The door being opened admitted them into a long courtyard, planted with
rows of trees, under which benches were placed. On each side was a
well-constructed and spacious portico, or covered stone terrace, with
which a range of large, airy cells communicated. A number of men, all
alike clad in a gray dress, were walking, talking, or conversing in this
pleasant retreat, while others were seated on the benches, enjoying the
refreshing shade and fresh open air.
At the sight of Doctor Herbin a number of the unfortunate lunatics
pressed around him, with every manifestation of joy and delight,
extending to him their hands with an expression of grateful confidence,
to which he cordially responded, by saying:
"Good day--good day, my worthy fellows! I am glad to see you all so well
and happy."
Some of the poor lunatics, too far from the doctor to be able to seize
his hand, ventured, with a sort of timid hesitation, to offer theirs to
the persons who were with him.
"Good morning, friends," said Germain, shaking hands in a manner so
cordial as to fill the unfortunate beings with happiness.
"Are these the mad patients?" inquired Madame Georges.
"Nearly the worst belonging to the establishment," answered the doctor,
smiling; "they are permitted to be together during the day, but at night
they are locked up in the cells you see there."
"Can it be possible that these men are really mad! But when are they
violent?"
"Generally at the first outbreak of their malady, when they are brought
here. After a short time the soothing treatment they experience, with
the society of their companions, calms and amuses them, so that their
paroxysms become milder and less frequent, until at length, by the
blessing of God, they recover their senses."
"What are those individuals talking so earnestly about?" inquired Madame
Georges. "One of them seems referring to a blind man, who, in addition
to the loss of sight, seems likewise deprived of speech and reason. Have
you such a one among your patients, or is the existence of this person
but a mere coinage of the brain?"
"Unhappily, madame, it is a fact but too true, and the history connected
with it is a most singular one. The blind man concerning whom you
inquire was found in a low haunt in the Champs Elysees, in which a gang
of robbers and murderers of the worst description were apprehended; this
wretched object was discovered, chained in the midst of an underground
cave, and beside him lay stretched the dead body of a woman, so
horribly mutilated that it was wholly impossible to attempt to identify
it. The man himself was hideously ugly, his features being quite
destroyed by the application of vitriol. He has never uttered a single
word since he came hither; whether his dumbness be real or affected I
know not, for, strange to say, his paroxysms always occur during the
night, and when I am absent, so as to baffle all conjecture as to his
real situation; but his madness seems occasioned by violent rage, the
cause of which we cannot find out, for, as I before observed, he never
speaks or utters an articulate sound. But here he is."
The whole of the party accompanying the doctor started with horror at
the sight of the Schoolmaster, for he it was, who merely feigned being
dumb and mad to procure his own safety. The dead body found beside him
was that of the Chouette, whom he had murdered, not during a paroxysm of
madness, but while under the influence of such a burning fever of the
brain as had produced the fearful dream he had dreamed the night he
passed at the farm of Bouqueval.
After his apprehension in the vaults of the tavern in the Champs
Elysees, the Schoolmaster had awakened from his delirium to find himself
a prisoner in one of the cells of the Conciergerie, where mad persons
are temporarily placed under restraint. Hearing all about him speak of
him as a raving and dangerous lunatic, he resolved to continue to enact
the part, and even feigned absolute dumbness for the purpose of avoiding
the chance of any questions being attempted to be put to him.
His scheme succeeded. When removed to Bicetre he affected occasional
fits of furious madness, taking care always to select the night for
these outrageous bursts, the better to escape the vigilant eye of the
head surgeon; the house doctor, hastily summoned, never arriving in time
to witness either the beginning or ending of these attacks.
The few of his accomplices who knew either his name, or the fact of his
having escaped from the galleys at Rochefort, were ignorant of what had
become of him; and even if they did, what interest could they have in
denouncing him? Neither would it have been possible to establish his
identity--burnt and mutilated as he was--with the daring felon of
Rochefort. He hoped, therefore, by continuing to act the part of a
madman, to be permitted to abide permanently at Bicetre; such was now
the only desire of the wretch, unable longer to indulge his appetite for
sinful and violent deeds.
During the solitude in which he lived in Bras Rouge's cellar, remorse
gradually insinuated itself into his strong heart; and, cut off from all
communication with the outer world, his thoughts fled inwards, and
presented him with ghastly images of those he had destroyed, till his
brain burned with its own excited torture.
And thus this miserable creature, still in the full vigour and strength
of manhood, before whom were, doubtless, long years of life, and
enjoying the undisturbed possession of his reason, was condemned to
linger out the remainder of his days as a self-imposed mute, and in the
company of fools and madmen; or if his imposition was discovered, his
murderous deeds would conduct him to a scaffold, or condemn him to
perpetual banishment among a set of villains, for whom his newly
awakened penitence made him feel the utmost horror.
The Schoolmaster was sitting on a bench; a mass of grizzled, tangled
locks hung around his huge and hideous head; leaning his elbow on his
knee, he supported his cheek in his hand. Spite of his sightless eyes
and mutilated features, the revolting countenance still expressed the
most bitter and overwhelming despair.
"Dear mother," observed Germain, "what a wretched looking object is this
unfortunate blind man!"
[Illustration: "The Schoolmaster Was Sitting on a Bench"
Original Etching by Porteau]
"Oh, yes, my son!" answered Madame Georges; "it makes one's heart ache
to behold a fellow creature so heavily afflicted. I know not when
anything has so completely shocked me as the sight of this deplorable
being."
Scarcely had Madame Georges given utterance to these words than the
Schoolmaster started, and his countenance, even despite its cicatrised
and disfigured state, became of an ashy paleness. He rose and turned his
head in the direction of Madame Georges so suddenly that she could not
refrain from faintly screaming, though wholly unsuspicious of who the
frightful creature really was; but the Schoolmaster's ear had readily
detected the voice of his wife, and her words told him she was
addressing her son.
"Mother!" inquired Germain, "what ails you? Are you ill?"
"Nothing, my son; but the sudden movement made by that man terrified me.
Indeed, sir," continued she, addressing the doctor, "I begin to feel
sorry I allowed my curiosity to bring me hither."
"Nay, dear mother, just for once to see such a place cannot hurt you!"
"I tell you what, Germain," interposed Rigolette, "I don't feel very
comfortable myself; and I promise you neither your mother nor I will
desire to come here again--it is too affecting!"
"Nonsense! You are a little coward! Is she not, M. le Docteur?"
"Why, really," answered M. Herbin, "I must confess that the sight of
this blind lunatic affects even me, who am accustomed to such things."
"What a scarecrow, old ducky! Isn't he?" whispered Anastasie; "but, la!
to my eyes every man looks as hideous as this dreadful blind creature in
comparison with you, and that is why no one can ever boast of my having
granted him the least liberty,--don't you see, Alfred?"
"I tell you what, Anastasie," replied Pipelet, "I shall dream of this
frightful figure. I know he will give me an attack of nightmare. I
won't eat tripe for supper till I have quite forgot him."
"And how do you find yourself now, friend?" asked the doctor of the
Schoolmaster; but he asked in vain, no attempt was made to reply. "Come,
come!" continued the doctor, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, "I am
sure you hear what I say; try to make me a sign at least, or
speak,--something tells me you can if you will!"
But the only answer made to this address was by the Schoolmaster
suddenly drooping his head, while from the sightless eyes rolled a tear.
"He weeps!" exclaimed the doctor.
"Poor creature!" murmured Germain, in a compassionate tone.
The Schoolmaster shuddered; again he heard the voice of his son,
breathing forth commiseration for his wretched, though unknown parent.
"What is the matter?" inquired the doctor; "what is it grieves you?"
But, without taking any notice of him, the Schoolmaster hid his face
with his hands.
"We shall make nothing of him," said the doctor. Then, perceiving how
painfully this scene appeared to affect Madame Georges, he added, "Now,
then, madame, we will go to Morel, and, if my expectations are
fulfilled, you will be amply rewarded for the pain you have felt
hitherto, in witnessing the joy of so good a husband and father in being
restored to his family."
With these words the doctor, followed by the party that had accompanied
him, proceeded on his way, leaving the Schoolmaster a prey to his own
distracting thoughts, the most bitter of which was the certainty of
having heard his son's voice, and that of his wife, for the last time.
Aware of the just horror with which he inspired them, the misery, shame,
and affright with which they would have heard the disclosure of his name
made him prefer a thousand deaths to such a revelation. One only, but
great, consolation remained in the certainty of having awakened the pity
of his son; and, with this thought to comfort him, the miserable being
determined to endure his sufferings with repentance and submission.
"We are now about to pass by the yard appropriated to the use of the
idiot patients," said the doctor, stopping before a large grated door,
through which the poor idiotic beings might be seen huddled together,
with every appearance of the most distressing imbecility.
Spite of Madame Georges's recent agitation, she could not refrain from
casting a glance through the railing.
"Poor creatures!" said she, in a gentle, pitying voice; "how dreadful to
think their sufferings are hopeless! for I presume there is no remedy
for such an affliction as theirs?"
"Alas, none, madame!" replied the doctor. "But I must not allow you to
dwell too long on this mournful picture of human misery. We have now
arrived at the place where I expect to find Morel, whom I desired should
be left entirely alone, in order to produce a more startling effect in
the little project on which I build my hopes for his restoration to
reason."
"What idea principally occupies his mind?" asked Madame Georges.
"He believes that if he cannot earn thirteen hundred francs by his day's
work, in order to pay off a debt contracted with one Ferrand, a notary,
his daughter will perish on a scaffold."
"That man Ferrand was, indeed, a monster!" exclaimed Madame Georges;
"poor Louise Morel and her father were not the only victims to his
villainy, he has persecuted my son with the bitterest animosity."
"I have heard the whole story from Louise," replied the doctor. "Happily
the wretch can no more wring your hearts with agony. But be so good as
to await me here while I go to ascertain the state of Morel." Then,
addressing Louise, he added, "You must carefully watch for my calling
out 'Come!' Appear instantly; but let it be alone. When I call out
'Come!' for the second time, the rest of the party may make their
appearance."
"Alas, sir, my heart begins to fail me!" replied Louise, endeavouring to
suppress her tears. "My poor father! What if the present trial fail!"
"Nay, nay, keep up your courage! I am most sanguine of success in the
scheme I have long meditated for the restoration of your father's
reason. Now, then, all you have to do for the present is carefully to
attend to my directions." So saying, the doctor, quitting his party,
entered a small chamber, whose grated window looked into the garden.
Thanks to rest, care, sufficiency of nourishing diet, Morel was no
longer the pale, careworn, haggard creature that had entered those
walls; the tinge of health began to colour his before jaundiced cheek,
but a melancholy smile, a fixed, motionless gaze, as though on some
object for ever present to his mental view, proved too plainly that
Reason had not entirely resumed her empire over him.
When the doctor entered, Morel was sitting at a table, imitating the
movements of a lapidary at his wheel.
"I must work," murmured he, "and hard, too. Thirteen hundred francs! Ay,
thirteen hundred is the sum required, or poor Louise will be dragged to
a scaffold! That must not be! No, no, her father will work--work--work!
Thirteen hundred francs! Right!"
"Morel, my good fellow," said the doctor, gently advancing towards him,
"don't work so very hard; there is no occasion now, you know that you
have earned the thirteen hundred francs you required to free Louise.
See, here they are!" and with these words the doctor laid a handful of
gold on the table.
"Saved! Louise saved!" exclaimed the lapidary, catching up the money,
and hurrying towards the door; "then I will carry it at once to the
notary."
"Come!" called out the doctor, in considerable trepidation, for well he
knew the success of his experiment depended on the manner in which the
mind of the lapidary received its first shock.
Scarcely had the doctor pronounced the signal than Louise sprang
forwards, and presented herself at the door just as her father reached
it. Bewildered and amazed, Morel let fall the gold he clutched in his
hands, and retreated in visible surprise. For some minutes he continued
gazing on his daughter with a stupefied and vacant stare, but by degrees
his memory seemed to awaken, and, cautiously approaching her, he
examined her features with a timid and restless curiosity.
Poor Louise, trembling with emotion, could scarcely restrain her tears;
but a sign from the doctor made her exert herself to repress any
manifestation of feeling calculated to disturb the progress of her
parent's thoughts.
Meanwhile Morel, bending over his daughter, and peering, with uneasy
scrutiny, into her countenance, became very pale, pressed his hands to
his brows, and then wiped away the large damp drops that had gathered
there. Drawing closer and closer to the agitated girl, he strove to
speak to her, but the words expired on his lips. His paleness increased,
and he gazed around him with the bewildered air of a person awakening
from a troubled dream.
"Good, good!" whispered the doctor to Louise; "now, when I say 'Come,'
throw yourself into his arms and call him 'father!'"
The lapidary, pressing his two hands on his breast, again commenced
examining the individual before him from head to foot, as if determined
to satisfy his mind as to her identity. His features expressed a painful
uncertainty, and, instead of continuing to watch the features of his
daughter, he seemed as if trying to hide himself from her sight, saying,
in a low, murmuring, broken tone:
"No, no! It is a dream! Where am I? It is impossible! I dream,--it
cannot be she!" Then, observing the gold strewed on the floor, he cried,
"And this gold! I do not remember,--am I then awake? Oh, my head is
dizzy! I dare not look,--I am ashamed! She is not my Louise!"
"Come!" cried the doctor, in a loud voice.
"Father! Dearest father!" exclaimed Louise. "Do you not know your
child,--your poor Louise?" And as she said these words she threw herself
on the lapidary's neck, while the doctor motioned for the rest of the
group to advance.
"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Morel, while Louise loaded him with
caresses. "Where am I? What has happened to me? Who are all these
persons? Oh, I cannot--dare not believe the reality of what I see!"
Then, after a short silence, he abruptly took the head of Louise between
his two hands, gazed earnestly and searchingly at her for some moments,
then cried, in a voice tremulous with emotion, "Louise?"
"He is saved!" said the doctor.
"My dear Morel,--my dear husband!" exclaimed the lapidary's wife,
mingling her caresses with those of her daughter.
"My wife! My child and wife both here!" cried Morel.
"Pray don't overlook the rest of your friends, M. Morel," said
Rigolette, advancing; "see, we have all come to visit you at once!"
"I for one am delighted to renew my acquaintance with the worthy M.
Morel," said Germain, coming forward and extending his hand.
"And your old acquaintances at the lodge beg that they may not be
overlooked," chimed in Anastasie, leading Alfred up to the astonished
and delighted lapidary. "You know us, don't you, M. Morel,--the
Pipelets--the hearty old Pipelets, and your everlasting friends? Come,
pluck up courage, and look about you, M. Morel! Hang it all, Daddy
Morel, here's a happy meeting! May we see many such! _Ail-l-l-l-ez
donc!_"
"M. Pipelet and his wife! Everybody here! It seems to me so long
since--but--but no matter--'tis you, Louise, my child--'tis you, is it
not?" exclaimed he, joyfully pressing his daughter in his arms.
"Oh, yes, my dearest father, 'tis your own poor Louise! And there is my
mother; here are all our kind friends. You will never quit us more,
never know sorrow or care again, and henceforward we shall all be happy
and prosperous!"
"Happy? Let me try and recollect a little of past things. I seem to have
a faint recollection of your being taken to prison--and--and then,
Louise, all seems a blank and confusion here," continued Morel, pressing
his hand to his temples.
"Never mind all that, dearest father! I am here and innocent,--let that
comfort and console you."
"Stay, stay! That note of hand I gave! Ah, now I remember it all!" cried
the lapidary, with shuddering horror. Then, in a voice of assumed
calmness, he said, "And what has become of the notary?"
"He is dead, dearest father," murmured Louise.
"Dead? He dead? Then indeed I may hope for happiness! But where am I?
How came I here? How long have I left my home, and wherefore was I
brought hither? I have no recollection of any of these things!"
"You were extremely ill," said the doctor, "and you were brought here
for air and good nursing. You have had a severe fever, and been at times
a little lightheaded."
"Yes, yes, I recollect now; and when I was taken ill I remember I was
talking with my daughter, and some other person,--who could it be? Ah,
now I know!--a kind, good man, named M. Rodolph, who saved me from being
arrested. Afterwards, strange to say, I cannot recall a single
circumstance."
"Your illness was attended with an entire absence of memory," said the
doctor.
"And in whose house am I now?"
"In that of your friend, M. Rodolph," interposed Germain, hastily; "it
was thought that country air would be serviceable to you, and promote
your recovery."
"Excellent!" said the doctor, in a low tone; then speaking to a keeper
who stood near him, he said, "Send the coach around to the garden-gate
to prevent the necessity of taking our recovered patient through the
different courts, filled with those less fortunate than himself."
As frequently occurs in cases of madness, Morel had not the least idea
or recollection of the aberration of intellect under which he had
suffered.
Shortly afterwards, Morel, with his wife and daughter, ascended the
_fiacre_, attended also by a surgeon of the establishment, who, for
precaution's sake, was charged to see him comfortably settled in his
abode ere he left him; and in this order, and followed by a second
carriage, conveying their friends, the lapidary quitted Bicetre without
entertaining the most remote suspicion of ever having entered it.
"And do you consider this poor man effectually cured?" asked Madame
Georges of the doctor, as he led her to the coach.
"I hope so, at least; and I wished to leave him wholly to the beneficial
effects of rejoining his family, from whom it would now be almost
dangerous to attempt to separate him; added to which, one of my pupils
will remain with him and give the necessary directions for his regimen
and treatment. I shall visit him myself daily, until his cure is
confirmed, for not only do I feel much interested in him, but he was
most particularly recommended to me when he first came here by the
_charge d'affaires_ of the Grand Duke of Gerolstein."
A look of intelligence was exchanged between Germain and his mother.
Much affected with all they had seen and heard, the party now took leave
of the doctor, reiterating their gratification at having been present
during so gratifying a scene, and their grateful acknowledgments for the
politeness he had shown them in conducting them over the establishment.
As the doctor was reentering the house, he was met by one of the
superior officers of the place, who said to him,--
"Ah, my dear M. Herbin, you cannot imagine the scene I have just
witnessed; it would have afforded an inexhaustible fund of reflection
for so skilful an observer as yourself."
"To what do you allude?"
"You are aware that we have here two females, a mother and a daughter,
who are condemned to death, and that their execution is fixed for
to-morrow. Well, in my life, I never witnessed such a cool indifference
as that displayed by the mother; she must be a female fiend!"
"You allude to the Widow Martial, I presume; what fresh act of daring
has she committed?"
"You shall hear. She had requested permission to share her daughter's
cell until the final moment arrived; her wish was complied with. Her
daughter, far less hardened than her parent, appeared to feel contrition
as the hour of execution approached, while the diabolical assurance of
the old woman seemed, if possible, to augment. Just now the venerable
chaplain of the prison entered their dungeon to offer to them the
consolations of religion. The daughter was about to accept them, when
the mother, without for one instant losing her coolness or frigid
self-possession, began to assail the chaplain with such insulting and
derisive language that the venerable priest was compelled to quit the
cell, after trying in vain to induce the violent and unmanageable woman
to listen to one word he said.
"It is a fearful fact connected with this family that a sort of
depravity seems to pervade it. The father was executed, a son is now in
the galleys, a second has only escaped a public and disgraceful end by
flight; while the eldest son and two young children have alone been able
to resist this atmosphere of moral contagion.
"What a singular circumstance connected with this double execution it is
that the day of mid-Lent should have been selected. At seven o'clock
to-morrow, the hour fixed, the streets will be filled with groups of
masqueraders, who, having passed the night at the different balls and
places of entertainment beyond the barriers, will be just returning
home; added to which, at the place of execution, the Barriere St.
Jacques, the noise of the revels still being kept up in honour of the
carnival can be distinctly heard."
* * * * *
The following morning's sun rose bright and cloudless. At four o'clock
in the morning various troops of soldiers surrounded the approaches to
Bicetre.
We shall now return to Calabash and her mother in their dungeon.