have I read any thing so affecting. What an interesting creature that
Claire was! and what a pity that she died! Ah, her death grieved me
much; one might say that it frightened me; but that would not be
astonishing in such a great lonely room as this. I hate these great
rooms, I do;” added the nurse, looking cautiously around her, and gazing
with a look of affright at the window the most distant from where she
and her mistress were sitting.
“Oh how the curtain moves! did you not leave the shutters badly closed,
madam?”
“It was not I who shut them,” tranquilly replied Madam Cottin, for it
was of her old Marianne asked the question.
“Not you?” cried Marianne, in a frightened voice. “Who then could have
shut them?”
“You, most probably, Marianne.”
“Me! I tell you, madam, I swear to you, as true as I am a good and
sincere Christian, I swear to you, upon my soul—”
“Do not swear at all, Marianne; there is no one here but we two; if it
were not me, it could have been no one else but you, and it was not
me—”
“I am not a fool, out of my senses!” replied the Bordelaise. “I believe,
rather,” she added in a solemn tone, “that there is some mystery behind
the curtain—”
“We will admit that it was I who closed the shutters,” interrupted Madam
Cottin, impatiently again taking up the papers, and reading them.
“But was it _really_ you?” importuned the nurse.
“Why do you wish me to tell a lie? Shall I read you another page of my
romance?”
“Oh yes, I love to hear you read,” replied the old woman. “But what are
you going to do with that romance, as you call it?”
“Ah, Marianne, if I dared, if I did not fear the ridicule attached to
the name of a female author, I would have it published, and the money
that it would bring would ameliorate our condition. I would buy some
articles of furniture—a piano, for instance—lonely and sad as I now
am, music would charm my retreat.”
“Ah yes, Sophie, buy a piano; that will enliven you a little—may I call
you Sophie?—for what else should I call you? It always seems as if I
saw you as you looked when you were a child. I see now the house at
Tonniens—the two steps you had to ascend on entering, then the little
green gate, opening upon a lawn; then the garden to the right; upon the
ground-floor was the kitchen, the dining-room and the parlor; on the
first floor, the chamber of your mother, Madame Ristaud, that of your
father, and yours, which was also mine. O, yes, I see it all! and your
little bed with the figured coverlet! And the day you were born, it
seems to me as yesterday! It was the fifteenth of August, 1773—that was
twenty years ago. And then the day of your wedding at Bordeaux, (we
lived then at Bordeaux;) didn’t your marriage make a noise?—you
recollect it?—the little Ristaud, who married a rich banker of the
capital, Monsieur Cottin. ‘Well, what is there astonishing about that?’
said I, ‘the little Ristaud is worth a banker of the capital two or
three times over!’ I had only one fear, which I kept to myself, and that
was, that when you should once be married and in Paris, you would not
want your old nurse any longer. ‘Leave my nurse!’ you said, when you saw
me weeping, and found why, ‘leave my nurse! no, no, I couldn’t do
without her; I should feel lost if I should lose her.’ And you were
right, my dear little one; your mother died, and your father, and then,
in three years and six months after your wedding, your husband died; and
now your fortune is gone, no one knows where, and not one is left but
your nurse, your old nurse, who would give her blood, her life, every
thing, that she might see you more happy. Yes, if you had a piano here,
you could sing; you have such a sweet voice, and that would do well for
us both. If by selling my cross of gold we might have one—what do you
say?”
“It would need twelve hundred francs to purchase a piano, and the cross
would not procure them; _these_” she added, striking her hand upon the
papers scattered upon the table, “these would give them to me if I had
the courage to go and sell them; but I dare not, I would only get a
refusal.”
“Do you wish me to go, Sophie?” replied the nurse, “only tell me where,
and it shall be done quickly—there!—what was that? This chamber is
very gloomy, and that curtain is always moving!”
“I will go myself to-morrow,” said Madam Cottin, looking at her watch.
“It is eleven o’clock—I must work a little longer; leave me, Marianne,
and go to your rest.”
“Ah! now you are quite sure it was you who closed the shutters and drew
down the curtains?” asked Marianne, reluctantly complying with her
mistress’s command—“you are not afraid?”
“No!” answered Madam Cottin, who, as soon as she found herself alone,
resumed her labor; but, whether it was the solitude and silence of the
place, or because Marianne had really frightened her, she paused from
her writing every few moments to look around her. By chance her eyes
rested on the window-curtain, which, by the position of the lights, was
thrown into the shade, and the words of Marianne recurred to her mind,
“that, if she had left the window open on going out to walk, who could
have shut it?” She thought, all at once, that she saw the cloth falling
in numberless folds upon the floor, and moving in a most mysterious way.
Fear bound her to the spot where she was standing, and for some moments
she was unable to move; but at length, with a desperate effort, she
advanced toward the curtain, and raised it up with a stifled cry. _A man
was standing behind_ with his back placed against the window-panes.
[Illustration]
“Do not cry out, madam,” he said, “or I am a dead man.”
“What would you have me do?” said Madam Cottin, pale, but determined. “I
am poor, and have nothing to tempt the cupidity of any one,
nevertheless, if you are in want, here is a little money. But depart
instantly, without approaching me; in Heaven’s name, go—go instantly!”
To the great astonishment of Madam Cottin, in place of taking the silver
which she had offered him, the man threw back his cloak, and in a
trembling, broken voice, said to her,
“Pardon me, madam, for having frightened you; can it be that you have
forgotten me?”
“I do not know you,” replied Madam Cottin, scrutinizing the intruder, an
old man, and whose disordered clothes, long, ragged beard, disheveled,
gray hair, and the livid palor which overspread his features, prevented
her from recognizing him.
“I am Monsieur de Fombelle,” said he, “proscribed and pursued—”
“Ah, good heaven!” interrupted Madam Cottin, running to bolt the door,
“ah, sir, what can I do to assist you?”
“Alas! nothing, madam,” replied Monsieur de Fombelle, “for I have heard
your conversation with your nurse, and can ask nothing of you.”
“If it is money you want, alas! I have none, sir! but approach the fire,
and pardon me for not having recognized you sooner.”
Her visiter mechanically complied, while he abruptly addressed her.—
“Denounced by the law—pursued, tracked as a wild beast—finding no
where an asylum, not even daring to seek one amongst my best friends, I
wander in the streets of Paris—and—and—since yesterday I have not
tasted food,” speaking with the air of a man with whom hunger stifled
the shame of avowing it.
Madam Cottin immediately brought from a cupboard some bread, a pot of
preserves, and a bottle of wine, saying as she did so,
“Believe me, this is the best I have.”
And she looked, with tears in her eyes, and a sad heart, upon that old
man, whom she had known in better times, so polished, so dignified, so
amiable, and so well beloved. He spoke not a word while eating, and when
he looked up, at the end of his meal, he saw that she wept.
“Is it for me, or for yourself that you weep?” said he.
“For both of us,” replied Madam Cottin; “for you, that you suffer so
much in your old age, and for me, that I am unable to assist a sincere
friend of my husband.”
“Do you know no one?” he demanded.
“No one, sir; since my widowhood, I have seen no one.”
“Alas!” said Monsieur de Fombelle, lifting his eyes despondingly toward
the ceiling, “and when I saw into what company I was cast, I believed I
had found some assistance.”
“Was it not of your own accord that you came to me?”
“No, madam. A friend, who is actively endeavoring to assist me, but who
scarcely has the means, for, like me, he is without money, appointed a
place of rendezvous, after night-fall, in the open fields behind _la rue
Ceruti_. I was returning from this rendezvous, when suddenly I found
myself confronted face to face with my most mortal enemy—the same who
had denounced me, and caused the decree against me. I endeavored to
elude him, and had been running until almost exhausted, when a window,
low and opened, attracted my attention. I obeyed my first impulse, made
a spring, and found myself here. There was no one in the room, and, to
guard against discovery, I closed the casement and the outer shutters; I
lowered the curtains and concealed myself behind them. Scarcely had I
done this, when you entered. As soon as you spoke, I recognized you, the
wife of my best friend; I should certainly not have hesitated to have
presented myself before you, but your good nurse was with you, and I
believed it prudent to await her departure. In overhearing your
conversation, I learned how your condition, once so happy, had changed
since the sad events which have desolated our dear country, and I
resolved to escape, if possible, without causing you fear or danger.
Hence my immovability while you lifted the curtain; for I supposed that
in the obscurity of the place you would not perceive me. But I ought
not, madam, longer to interrupt your repose.”
“No, do not go,” replied Madam Cottin, “until you tell me if I can in
any way assist you.”
“In three days I am to quit France; all is arranged, and my flight is
certain, if I can accomplish what seems to be an impossibility—I must
raise twelve hundred francs.”
“Twelve hundred francs,” said Madam Cottin, thoughtfully.
“Otherwise, since I cannot hope always to elude my enemies, I shall be
lost.”
“Monsieur de Fombelle,” said Madam Cottin, after a moment of silence, “I
have but few means, yet I have such a desire to assist you, that perhaps
God will aid me. Day after to-morrow, at this same hour, you will find
my window open; enter, and perhaps I will then have some good news for
you. And now, adieu, sir! be of good cheer;—stop, take under your cloak
this bread, and this bottle of wine. Leave me to close the window—the
street is deserted, and not a soul is passing. Remember, on the night of
day after to-morrow, at eight o’clock, be under my window; strike three
times on the glass. If I have succeeded, I will reply to you; if not, I
will not have the courage to answer. Go, now, and be assured that I will
do all in my power to assist you.”
Too much moved to venture a single word in reply, M. de Fombelle pressed
her hand, leaped out of the window, and disappeared at the corner of a
street yet inhabited by the _Chaussée d’Antin_.
The next morning had scarcely dawned, when Madam Cottin importuned her
nurse to get breakfast; as soon as it was over, she gave her no time to
arrange the furniture of the room.
“Come with me,” she said; “come with me, it is absolutely necessary that
I sell _Claire d’Albe_ this morning.”
“Ah, these young women!” exclaimed the nurse, as she complied; “these
young women! when they once take a fancy, they have neither quiet nor
reason. If the bookseller is as impatient to buy, as you are to sell, we
shall soon have a piano, I see.”
From _la rue Chanteriene_ to the quay, where, from time immemorial, the
booksellers have had their shops, the walk was long, and Marianne harped
upon the one idea of getting a piano, until they arrived at the place of
their destination. After scrutinizing the long row of shops for a few
moments, Madam Cottin selected one which had the most promising
exterior.
“I can but fail,” said she, as she crossed the threshold. But as soon as
she entered, she stopped, and remained, blushing, and with downcast
eyes, before the bookseller, who advanced toward her, asking her what
work she wished to purchase.
“It is not to purchase, but to sell, sir,” said Marianne, replying for
her mistress, who could not overcome her embarrassment. “We have written
a romance, and we have come to see if you wish to buy it. It is superb!
I assure you, you have nothing in your shop which can compare with it.”
“Tut, tut, Marianne!” interrupted Madam Cottin, now sufficiently
reassured to continue the negotiation. “Do you never buy manuscripts,
sir?”
“Yes—no—that is—what is the name of the author?”
“The name of the book, sir, you mean to say?” timidly observed the young
woman.
“No, of the author, not having time to read our books ourselves, you
understand, it is almost always the name of the author that we buy.”
“But, sir, the work is written by me, and my name is not known,” said
Madam Cottin, almost discouraged; “if you would take the trouble to read
it,” and she presented, hesitatingly, a little roll of papers.
“I have no doubt,” replied the bookseller, blandly, “it is a
master-piece; it would be useless for me to read it—I would find it
perfect. But business is not profitable just at this time. Some other
time, when you shall have become known—”
“If all booksellers were like you, we would never be known,” impatiently
interrupted Marianne. “Let us go, we have not got the piano yet.”
“No,” replied Madam Cottin, “but God always places good and bad fortune
side by side; we will go in here,” and she boldly crossed the threshold
of a second shop.
The appearance of this bookseller was more engaging than that of his
neighbor. On seeing a lady enter, he advanced courteously toward her.
“What can I do to serve you?” he asked; then offering a seat to
Marianne, and one to Sophie, he remained standing before the latter, who
said to him,
“I am afraid of a disappointment, sir, after one failure to-day. I have
written a little story—”
“Which you wish to have printed?” asked the bookseller.
“If you think it worthy of it, sir.”
“It will be necessary to see it, madam—have you the manuscript?”
Sophie’s hand trembled as she presented it to him.
“It is very small,” said the bookseller, glancing at it; “it will make a
very small volume. It is a romance, in letters. Will you allow me to
look at it?”
“Certainly. I am ignorant of the value of the work; having written it
within the last five days, I have not bestowed upon it either the time
or labor of retouching it; but I am in need of twelve hundred francs. I
need it by to-morrow evening; see, sir, if you can give them to me.”
“Since you request so early a decision, I will ask only time to read
three letters—one at the commencement, one in the middle, and one at
the end of the book; and I will then be able to give you my opinion of
the rest.”
With these words the bookseller retired behind a railing, hung with
green curtains, and applied himself to reading the manuscript. Meanwhile
Madam Cottin remained seated with her old nurse, unable to conceal the
anxiety which devoured her.
“You are afraid that you will not get your piano, are you not, madam?”
“Yes, yes,” she replied, without knowing what she was saying.
“But why is it necessary for you to have the money to-morrow evening? Is
it because the poor countess, who offers to sell you one, demands it
immediately? Jean Paul, her porter, told me that she would give long
time. You have spoken of it, then, to the countess?”
“Yes, yes, he seems satisfied!” exclaimed Sophie, anxiously scrutinizing
the countenance of the bookseller.
At this moment the bookseller rose from his seat. Sophie’s heart beat as
he approached.
“It is good, madam, very good! the conception is perfect; only one can
see that you are not in the habit of writing, and it seems to me
impossible to print it without corrections. As to the price, it is
rather dear; but as you are in need of money, I will not deny it you.
You will repay the difference in some other book which you will write
for me, will you not?”
“Oh, yes, sir, yes!” eagerly replied Madam Cottin. “Give me the
manuscript, sir; to-morrow, at six o’clock, you shall have it
corrected.”
“And to-morrow, at six o’clock, your money shall be ready. Shall I bring
it to you, that you may avoid going out at that hour? Do you wish this
little sum in paper, in gold, or in silver?”
“In gold, sir. Oh! you have saved more than my life!” said Madam Cottin,
departing.
“At last we shall have the piano!” said Marianne, running by the side of
her mistress, scarcely able to keep even with her rapid pace.
“Jean Paul,” said she, when they had arrived opposite to the countess’s
residence, stopping a moment behind her mistress, “Jean Paul, you may
tell the countess we will purchase the piano, and that we will pay her
to-morrow evening—do you hear, Jean Paul?”
“What have you been doing this morning, that you have found so much
money to-day?” replied the porter, with a sneer; “has your mistress
found a treasure?”
“No, sir,” replied Marianne, angrily, “it is in her mind that she has a
treasure—it is in her head.”
“A trifle, citizen Marianne—a trifle! You told me she wrote, did you
not? Now look you, I’ll put both of my hands into the fire, if your
mistress is not a conspirator!”
“What!—a conspirator! Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Jean Paul?”
“Perfectly, citizen Marianne; and since your mistress loves ink, they
are going to give her and her nurse some. Listen; I do not meddle—I say
nothing, but I see all. This morning I had a little talk with the
officer who lives near, and he is of my opinion concerning your
mistress. She holds correspondence with the enemy—the English!
Otherwise, why should she be writing all day? It is not natural for a
woman to write so much. My wife never writes; it is true, she does not
know how to write—but that makes no difference. Now I have an idea—I
may have an idea, may I not?—well, I have an idea that she wishes to
sell France; who knows but that she has already sold it, and that it is
with some of the money she is going to buy the piano! O, my country—my
poor country! into what hands have you fallen!”
“You are either a fool, or you don’t love music, which is the same
thing; for if I understand a word you say, I hope my head may be cut
off!” With this retort, Marianne turned toward Madam Cottin’s
apartments.
Madam Cottin did not go to bed that night, but labored without
relaxation to have her book ready by the appointed hour, and to receive
the twelve hundred francs, by which she was to aid the escape of her
husband’s friend. Morning and noon passed, the sun began to decline, and
as the clock sounded five, she finished the last letter. The same moment
the door of her chamber was opened with violence, and Marianne, weeping,
rushed in, followed by a motley crowd of soldiers and “citizens,” the
porter at their head.
“In the name of the law, search every where,” said a municipal officer;
and in an instant they were ransacking every corner of the apartment. As
soon as Madam Cottin could recover her self-possession, which had
deserted her at first sight of these intruders, she demanded,
“What do you here—and what do you wish of me, sirs?”
Carrying his hand to his cap with a military air, the officer replied,
“Citizen, you are accused of holding correspondence with the enemies of
France, and we are ordered to seize your papers.”
“Me, sir, holding correspondence with the enemy!” cried Madam Cottin, in
a tone of surprise; “me, a poor widow, without friends and without
experience! Who has been so base as to invent this falsehood?”
“If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,” replied the officer,
“and the examination of your papers will clear you without doubt.”
“Take them, then,” said Madam Cottin, assisting them in the search. The
officer examined packages of letters from her husband, her mother, her
schoolmates, some large writing books in which were registered the
fruits of her studies, and some loose papers in her port-folio, without
finding any thing which could excite suspicion.
At length the manuscript of _Claire d’Albe_, lying on the table,
attracted his eye, and approaching it, he laid his hand upon it. Madam
Cottin could not refrain from a cry of affright.
“Oh, for pity! pity! do not touch that!”
“Ah! we have reached the hiding-place at last!” said the officer,
beginning to collect the scattered leaves.
“Sir,” said the lady, anxiously, “those papers do not endanger in any
way the security of the state, I assure you; nay, I will most solemnly
swear it!”
“Why then this fear?” said the officer, still gathering up the leaves.
“Because—because—they are invaluable to me, though they can be of
little use to you. Oh! I am telling you the truth! Give them back, I
beseech you!”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Officer!” interposed Marianne, “that is nothing but a
romance, which my mistress sold yesterday for twelve hundred francs, to
buy a piano. This is all the mystery, and if I were to die to-day, I
have told you the exact truth. But if you do not believe what I have
said, here comes the bookseller, and you can ask him yourselves.”
As she spoke, this personage entered the apartment.
“Speak, sir,” cried Marianne, rushing toward the bookseller, “make clear
the innocence of my mistress. Say to these gentlemen what these papers
are.”
The bookseller looking at the packet which the officer held in his hand,
replied, “That is a romance which I bought yesterday of madam.”
Madam Cottin, seemingly insensible to what was passing around her,
followed with her eyes the minute-hand of the clock, which was
approaching nearer and nearer to the eighth hour. There was a short
interval of silence, when the officer replied,
“I am inclined to believe, sir, that this is, as you say, a romance; but
what difference can it make to you or madam, if I carry it to the
_Section_? I will return it in the morning.”
Madam Cottin grew desperate. The hands on the dial-plate marked seven
o’clock and five minutes.
“Let me read you one of the letters, sirs, and if you find in it a line
to suspect, I will give the book into your hands.”
“I see no objection,” replied the officer, and accordingly, Madam
Cottin, taking up the first letter, commenced reading. As she proceeded,
the attention of her audience became more and more profound; their
countenances betrayed emotion; soon tears started from their eyes, and
at length one of the auditors, interrupting the fair reader, threw
himself upon his knees before her.
“I am a miserable wretch, madam, do what you please with me! It was I
who denounced you—I who first suspected your daily habit of writing;
no, there is no torture that I do not deserve! Oh! what you have written
is beautiful! it is beautiful! I will buy the book when it is printed; I
will learn to read—I, and my wife, and my children. Sir,” he added,
turning toward the bookseller, “I wish the first copy you send out of
your shop, and I will pay you any price you ask. I am Jean Paul, porter
of house number forty-six, in _la rue Chanteriene_. And now, madam,
pardon me—will you say that you pardon me?”
Madam Cottin cast a look at the dial—_it wanted but five minutes of
eight!_ She rose hastily.
“Yes, yes, I pardon you. Sir Officer, you leave me my manuscript, do you
not?” added she, turning to the officer, who wiped his eyes, while the
porter remained sobbing in his place.
“Certainly, madam,” replied he; “I leave you all your papers. I see that
the republic of France has nothing to fear from you; and in taking my
leave; I beg you to excuse our seeming rudeness.”
At this moment three blows were struck upon the window. Madam Cottin
turned pale as death—
“Not yet—not yet!” said she, recovering herself instantly, and
intending the words to have a meaning which should apply to the person
without, as well as to those within. As she turned toward her secretary,
the bookseller, unobserved by the rest, slipped a small roleau of gold
into her hand—the price of the romance.
“We fear we are abusing your politeness,” said the officer, rising to
leave. A second blow, stronger than the first, rattled upon the glass.
Sophie turned paler than before.
“I pray you remain,” she replied, in a loud voice, adding, in a lower
tone, “and you also, Jean Paul. Marianne, bring some of the wine of our
country—Bordeaux. Gentlemen, you can not refuse to drink the prosperity
of France? And now,” added she, “the excitement I have undergone—this
fire, which is so warm—you will excuse me, if I step to the window a
moment for fresh air.”
So saying, she went to the window, and opened the shutters, letting the
curtains fall before her.
“Stop!” she said to M. de Fombelle, restraining him from entering the
chamber, which he attempted, and handing him the rouleau of
_louis-d’ors_—the price of her first book—“take this, and begone
quickly; you are in danger if you remain. Adieu!”