THE VICTIMS OF AN ABUSE OF TRUST.
Let the reader imagine a closet situated on the fourth story of the
house. A pale, gloomy light hardly penetrated this narrow apartment,
through a little window of cracked, dirty glass, with a single
shutter; a yellowish, dilapidated paper covered the walls; from the
broken ceiling hung long spider-webs. The floor, broken in several
places, showed the beams and laths of the room below. A deal table, a
chair, an old trunk without a lock, and a flock bed with coarse sheets
and an old woolen covering--such was the furniture. On the chair was
seated the Baroness de Fermont. In the bed reposed Claire de Fermont
(such were the names of the two victims of Jacques Ferrand).
Possessing but one narrow bed, the mother and daughter slept by turns,
dividing thus the hours of the night. The mother had too much anguish,
too many inquietudes, to get much repose; but the daughter found some
moments of rest and forgetfulness.
She was now asleep. Nothing could be more touching, more sorrowful,
than the sight of this misery, imposed by the cupidity of the notary
on two women, until then accustomed to the sweet enjoyments of a life
of ease, and surrounded in their native town with that consideration
which an honorable and honored family always inspire.
The Baroness de Fermont was about thirty-six years of age; her
countenance at once expresses mildness and excellence; her features,
formerly of remarkable beauty, are now sadly changed; her black hair,
divided on her forehead and confined behind her head, already shows
some tresses of silver. Clothed in a dress of mourning, tattered in
several places, the Baroness de Fermont, with her hand supporting her
head, leaned against the wretched bed of her child, and regarded her
with inexpressible anguish.
Claire was only sixteen; her complexion had lost its dazzling purity;
her beautiful dark eyelashes reached to her hollow cheeks. Once humid
and rosy, but now dry and pale, her lips, half-opened, displayed the
enamel of her teeth; the rude contact of the bedclothes had given a
red appearance in several places to the delicate neck, arms, and
shoulders of the young girl. From time to time a slight shudder passed
over her, as if she had some painful dream. For a long period the
Baroness de Fermont had not wept; she looked on her daughter with a
dry and inflamed eye, consumed by a slow fever, which was undermining
her. Each day she found herself weaker; but fearing to alarm Claire,
and not willing, we may say, to alarm herself, she struggled with all
her strength against the first symptoms of her sickness. Through
motives of similar generosity, the daughter endeavored to conceal her
sufferings. These two unhappy creatures, afflicted with the same
griefs, were yet to be afflicted with the same disease.
In misfortunes there are often moments when the future prospect is so
frightful, that the most energetic minds dare not look it in the face,
but shut their eyes, and endeavor to deceive themselves by mad
illusions. Such was the position of the Fermonts. To express the
tortures of this woman, during the long hours when she was thus
contemplating her sleeping child, thinking of the past, the present,
and the future, would be to describe what, in the holy and sacred
griefs of a mother, there is the most poignant, the most desperate,
the most insane; enchanting recollections, sinister fears, terrible
foresights, bitter regrets, extreme dejectedness, ejaculations of
powerless rage against the author of so much misery, vain
supplications, violent prayers, and, finally, frightful doubts of the
all-powerful justice of Him who remains inexorable to this cry,
dragged from the bottom of the maternal heart--to this sacred cry, of
which the echo ought to reach Heaven, "Pity for my child!"
"How cold she is now!" said the poor mother, touching lightly the icy
hand and arm of her daughter. "She is very cold; one hour ago she was
burning; it is fever; happily, she does not know she has it. How cold
she is! this covering is so thin! I would put my old shawl on the bed;
but if I take it from the door, where I have hung it, some of those
drunken men will come and look through the cracks, as they did
yesterday. What a horrible house! If I had known what kind of place it
was before I paid in advance, we should not have stayed here; but I
did not know--when one has no papers--could I think that I should ever
have need of a passport? When I left Angers in my own carriage, could
I have thought--but this infamous--because the notary has pleased to
rob me, I am reduced to the most frightful extremity, and against him
I can do nothing. Oh, the notary, he does not know the frightful
consequences of his robbery!
"Alas! yes, I never dare tell my child my fears--not to grieve her;
but I suffer; I have fever; I can hardly sustain myself; I feel within
me the germs of a malady--dangerous, perhaps--my bosom is on fire; my
heart throbs. Oh, if I should fall sick--if I should die! No, no! I
will not--I cannot die--leave Claire--alone, abandoned in Paris--can
it be possible? No! I am not sick, after all--what do I feel? A little
heat, a heaviness about the head, caused, no doubt, from my
uneasiness--from cold--oh, it is nothing serious!
"Come, come, no more of such weakness. It is by cherishing such ideas,
it is in listening thus, that one falls really sick. And I have the
time, truly! Must I not occupy myself in finding some work for Claire
and myself, since this man, who gave us engravings to color--"
Then, after a pause, she added, with indignation, "Oh! this is
abominable, to offer this work at the price of Claire's--to take from
us this miserable means of existence, because I would not allow my
child to go and work at his rooms! Perhaps we may find work elsewhere;
but when one knows nobody, it is so difficult! When one is so
miserably lodged they inspire no confidence; and yet, the small sum
that remains once gone, what shall we do? what will become of us?
"If the laws leave this crime unpunished, I will not--for, if fate
pushes me to the end--if I do not find the means to emerge from the
atrocious position in which this wretch has placed me and my child, I
do not know what I shall do--I shall be capable of killing him--I--
this man--then they can do what they will with me. Yes--but my child?
my child?
"To leave her alone, abandoned--ah! no, I do not wish to die! for
this, I cannot kill this man. What would become of her? She, at
sixteen--she is young, and pure as an angel; but she is handsome--but
misery, hunger, abandonment--what may they not cause? and then--and
then--into what abyss may she not fall?
"Oh! it is frightful--poverty! frightful enough for any one; but
perhaps more so for those who have always lived in opulence. I cannot
beg--I must absolutely see my child starve before I can beg! What a
coward--yet--"
Two or three violent knocks at the door made her tremble, and awoke
her daughter with a start.
"Mamma, what is that?" cried Claire, sitting up in bed; then, throwing
her arms around her mother's neck, who, very much alarmed, pressed her
child to her bosom, "Mamma, what is it?" repeated Claire.
"I do not know, my child; but do not be afraid, it is nothing: some
one knocked; it is, perhaps, the letter we expect."
At this moment the worm-eaten door shook again, under repeated blows
with the fist.
"Who is there?" said Madame de Fermont in a trembling voice.
A coarse, rough voice answered, "Are you deaf, neighbors?"
"What do you want? I do not know you," said Madame de Fermont, trying
to conceal the agitation of her voice.
"I am Robin, your neighbor; give me some fire to light my pipe: come,
make haste!"
"It is that lame man, who is always drunk," said the mother to her
child.
"Are you going to give me any fire! or I'll break all open, in the
name of thunder?"
"Sir, I have no fire."
"You must have some matches, then; everybody has them; do you open--
come?"
"Sir, go away."
"You won't open?--one, two--"
"I beg you to go away, or I will call."
"Once--twice--three times--no, you won't! Then I'll break all down,
then."
And the wretch gave such a furious kick against the door, he burst it
in, the miserable lock breaking at the first assault. The two women
screamed with alarm. Madame de Fermont, notwithstanding her weakness,
threw herself before the rough, and barred his entrance.
"This is outrageous: you shall not come in," cried the unhappy mother;
"I shall cry for help."
"For what--for what?" answered he: "mustn't we be neighborly? If you
had opened, I should not have broken in."
Then, with the stupid obstinacy of drunkenness, he added staggering,
"I wish to come in; I will come in, and I will not go out until I
light my pipe."
"I have neither fire nor matches. In the name of heaven, sir, retire."
"It's not true; you say that so I sha'n't see the little one in bed.
Yesterday you stopped up all the holes in the door. She is pretty; I
want to see her. Take care of yourself; I'll scratch your face if you
don't let me come in. I tell you that I will see the little one in
bed, and I will light my pipe, or I'll smash everything, and you along
with it!"
"Help! help!" cried Madame de Fermont, who felt the door giving way
under the violent push of the lame man.
Intimidated by the cries, the man stepped backward and shook his fist
at Madame de Fermont, saying, "You shall pay me for this; I will
return to-night--I'll catch hold of your tongue, and you cannot cry."
And the Big Cripple, as they called him at Ravageurs' Island,
descended the stairs, uttering horrible oaths. Madame de Fermont,
fearing that he might return, and seeing the lock broken, drew the
table against the door to barricade it. Claire had been so alarmed at
this horrible scene that she had fallen on her cot almost without
emotion, with a violent attack of the nerves. Madame de Fermont,
forgetting her own alarm, ran to her daughter, pressed her in her
arms, made her drink a little water, and, with the most tender
caresses, succeeded in calming her.
"Be composed, my poor child--the bad man has gone away." Then the
wretched mother cried, with a touching accent, "Yet it is this notary
who is the cause of all our troubles. Compose yourself, my child,"
resumed she, tenderly embracing her daughter; "this wretch is gone."
"Oh, mamma, if he should come back again? You see you have called for
help, and no one has come. Oh! I entreat you; let us leave this house.
I shall die here with fear."
"How you tremble! you have a fever!"
"No, no," said the young girl, to pacify her mother; "it is nothing;
it is fright; it will pass over; and you, how are you? Give me your
hands. How burning hot they are! Ah! you are suffering; you wish to
conceal it from me."
"Do not think so: I am better than ever; it is the emotion which this
man has caused me which makes me thus. I slept on the chair very
soundly; I only awoke when you did."
"Yet, mamma, your poor eyes are very red, much inflamed!"
"Ah! well, my child, on a chair sleep is not so refreshing, you know!"
"Really, do you not suffer?"
"No, no, I assure you; and you?"
"Nor I; only I tremble still from fear. I entreat you, mamma, let us
leave this house."
"And where shall we go to? You know with how much trouble we found
this wretched place; and, besides, we have paid two weeks in advance;
they will not return us our money; and we have so little left--so
little, that we should manage as closely as possible."
"Perhaps some day M. de Saint Remy will answer your letter."
"I no longer hope it; it is so long since I have written."
"He might not have received your letter: why do you not write him
again? From hence to Angers is not so far; we shall soon have an
answer."
"My poor child, you know how much this has cost me already."
"What do you risk? he is so good, notwithstanding his roughness. Was
he not one of my father's old friends, and, besides, he is our
relation."
"But he is poor himself; his fortune is very small. Perhaps he does
not reply, to avoid the mortification of being obliged to refuse us."
"But if he has not received your letter, mamma?"
"And if he has received it, my child; of two things choose one: either
he is in such a situation that he cannot come to our aid, or he feels
no interest for us; then why expose ourselves to a refusal or a
humiliation?"
"Come, courage, mamma, we have one hope left. Perhaps this morning
will bring us a happy answer."
"From Lord d'Orbigny?"
"Without doubt. This letter, of which you formerly made a draught, was
so simple, so touching--exposed so naturally our misfortunes, that he
will have pity on us. Really, I do not know what tells me you are
wrong to despair of assistance."
"He has so little reason to interest himself about us: he had, it is
true, formerly known your father, and I had often heard my brother
speak of Lord d'Orbigny as of a man with whom he had been on friendly
terms before he left Paris with his young wife."
"It is just on that account that I have hopes; he has a young wife,
she will be compassionate; and, besides, in the country one can do so
much good. He will take you, I suppose, for housekeeper; I will take
care of the linen. Since Lord d'Orbigny is very rich, in a large house
there is always employment."
"Yes; but we have so little right to his interest. We are so
unfortunate."
"That is frequently a title in the eyes of charitable people. Let us
hope that Lord d'Orbigny and his wife are so."
"Well, in case we need expect nothing from him, I will overcome my
false shame, and will write to the Duchess de Lucenay--this lady of
whom M. de Saint Remy spoke so often, whose generosity and good heart
he so often praised. Yes, the daughter of the Prince de Noirmont. He
knew her when she was very small, and he treated her almost as his
child, for he was intimately connected with the prince. Madame de
Lucenay must have many-acquaintances; she could, perhaps, find us a
place."
"Doubtless, mamma, but I understand your reserve; you do not know her
at all, while my poor father and uncle knew Lord d'Orbigny a little."
"Finally, in the case that Madame d'Orbigny can do nothing for us, I
will have recourse to a last resource."
"What is it, mamma?"
"It is a very weak one--a very foolish hope, perhaps; but why not try
it? the son of M. de Saint Remy is---"
"M. de Saint Remy has a son!" cried Claire, with astonishment.
"Yes, my child, he has a son."
"He never spoke of him--he never came to Angers."
"True, for reasons you cannot know. M. de Saint Remy, having left
Paris fifteen years ago, has not seen his son since."
"Fifteen years without seeing his father! can it be possible?"
"Alas! yes, you see. I tell you that the son of M. de Saint Remy,
being well known in the fashionable world, and very rich--"
"Very rich! and his father is poor?"
"All the fortune of M. de Saint Remy, the son, came from his mother."
"But no matter; how can he leave his father--"
"His father would accept nothing from him."
"Why is that?"
"This is once more a question to which I cannot reply, my dear child;
but I heard my poor brother say that the generosity of this young man
was generally praised. Young and generous, he ought to be good. Thus,
learning from me that my husband was the intimate friend of his
father, perhaps he might interest himself in procuring us some work or
employment; he has so many brilliant and numerous relations, that this
would be easy."
"And then we could find out from him, perhaps, if M. de Saint Remy,
his father, should have left Angers before you wrote to him; that
would explain his silence."
"I believe that M. de Saint Remy, my child, has no intercourse with
his father. In fine, it is only to try."
"Unless M. d'Orbigny should answer you in a favorable manner; and I
repeat it, I do not know why, but, in spite of myself, I have hope."
"But already many days have elapsed, my child, since I have written,
and nothing--nothing yet. A letter put in the office before four
o'clock in the afternoon, arrives the next morning at Aubiere; five
days have now passed since we might have received an answer."
"Perhaps he is thinking, before he writes, in what way he can be
useful to us."
"God hear you, my child!"
"It appears very plain to me, mamma, if he could do nothing for us, he
would have informed you at once."
"Unless he will do nothing at all."
"Ah, mamma, can it be possible? not deign to answer us, and leave us
to hope four days, eight days perhaps--for when one is unfortunate
they hope always."
"Alas! my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the woes
which one does not know!"
"But your letter."
"My letter cannot give him an idea of our troubles, of our sufferings
of each moment. Can my letter picture to him our unfortunate life, our
humiliations of every description, our existence in this frightful
house, the alarm we have experienced even just now? Can my letter
describe to him the horrible future which awaits us, if--but stop, my
child, do not let us speak of this. Mon Dieu! you tremble--you are
cold."
"No, mamma; pay no attention to it; but tell me, suppose everything
fails, that the little money which remains in that trunk is spent, can
it be possible that in a rich place like Paris we should both die of
hunger and misery, for want of work, and because a bad man has taken
what you had?"
"Hush, poor child."
"But, mamma, could It be?"
"Alas!"
"But God, who knows all, who can do all, how could He abandon us, He
whom we have not offended?"
"I entreat you, my child, do not have such gloomy ideas; I would
rather see you hope, even against hope. Come, rouse me up with your
dear illusions; but I am but too apt to be discouraged, you know
well."
"Yes, yes; let us hope; it is better. The nephew of the porter will
soon return from the post-office with a letter. One more errand to pay
from your little treasure, and through my fault. If I had not been so
feeble to-day and yesterday, we could have gone ourselves, as we did
before, but you would not leave me alone here to go yourself."
"Could I, my child? Judge then, just now this wretch who broke in the
door, if you had been alone."
"Oh! mamma, hush; only to think of it makes me shudder."
At this moment some one knocked sharply at the door.
"Heavens, it is he," cried Madame de Fermont, and she pushed with all
her strength the table against the door. Her fears, however, ceased
when she heard the voice of Micou.
"Madame, my nephew, Andre, has come from the post-office. It is a
letter with an X and a Z for address; it comes from a distance. There
are eight sous postage and the commission--it is twenty sous."
"Mamma, a letter from the country; we are saved; it is from M. de
Saint Remy or M. d'Orbigny. Poor mother, you shall suffer no more, no
longer be uneasy about me; you shall be happy. God is just--God is
good!" cried the young girl, and a ray of hope lighted up her sweet
and charming face.
"Oh! sir, thank you; give--give me quickly," said Madame de Fermont,
pushing back the table and half opening the door.
"It is twenty sous, madame," said the fence, showing the letter so
impatiently desired.
"I am going to pay you, sir."
"Oh! madame, there is no hurry. I am going to the roof; in ten minutes
I will descend, and take the money as I pass." Micou handed the letter
to Madame de Fermont, and disappeared.
"The letter is from Normandy. On the stamp is _Aubiers_; it is
from M. d'Orbigny!" cried Madame de Fermont examining the address.
"Well, mamma, was I right?"
"Oh, how my heart beats! Our good or bad fortune is, however, here,"
said Madame de Ferment, in a faltering voice, showing the letter.
Twice her trembling hand approached the seal to break it. She had not
the courage. Can one hope to paint the terrible anguish suffered by
those who, like Madame de Fermont, await from a letter hope or
despair?
The burning and feverish emotion of a player whose last pieces of gold
are staked on a single card, and who, breathless, the eye inflamed,
awaits the decisive throw which saves or ruins him forever: this
emotion, so violent, would hardly give an idea of the terrible anguish
of which we speak. In an instant the soul is lifted up with the most
radiant hopes, or plunged into the blackest despair. The unfortunate
being passes in turn through the most contrary emotions; ineffable
feelings of happiness and gratitude toward the generous heart which
had pity on his sorrows--a sad and bitter resentment against the
selfish or indifferent.
"What weakness!" said Madame de Fermont, with a sad smile, seating
herself on the bed of her daughter: "once more, my poor Claire, our
fate is there. I burn to know it, and I dare not. If it is a refusal,
alas! it will be always soon enough."
"And if it should be a promise of succor? say, mamma; if this poor
little letter contains good and consoling words, which will assure us
as to the future, in promising us a modest employ in the house of M.
d'Orbigny, each minute we lose, is it not a moment of happiness lost?"
"Yes, my child; but if, on the contrary--"
"No, mamma; you are mistaken, I am sure of it--when I told you that M.
d'Orbigny would not have waited, so long to answer your letter, except
to give you a favorable answer. Let me look at the letter, mamma; I am
sure to guess, only from the writing, if the news is good or bad.
Hold, I am sure of it now," said Claire, taking the letter; "you have
only to look at the bold, good, and strong hand, to see that the
writer must be accustomed to give to those who suffer."
"I entreat you, Claire, no more of these foolish hopes, or I can never
open the letter."
"My God! good little mamma, without opening it I can tell you what it
contains; listen: 'Madame, your condition and that of your daughter is
so worthy of interest, that I beg you will have the goodness to come
immediately to me, in case you would like to take charge of my
house.'"
"My child, once more I entreat you--no insane hopes; the reverse will
be frightful. Come, courage," said Madame de Fermont, taking the
letter from her daughter, and preparing to break the seal.
"Courage for you--very well!" said Claire, smiling, and carried away
by a feeling of confidence so natural at her age. "As for me, I have
no need of it: I am so sure of what I advance. Stop, do you wish me to
open the letter? shall I read it? give it me, timid mamma."
"Yes--I would rather--here. But no, no; it is better that I should."
Madame de Fermont broke the seal with indescribable emotion. Her
daughter, also, in spite of her apparent confidence, could hardly
breathe.
"Read it aloud, mamma," said she.
"The letter is not long; it is from the Countess d'Orbigny," said
Madame de Fermont looking at the signature.
"So much the better; it is good. Do you see, mamma, this excellent
young lady has been pleased to answer you herself."
"We shall see."
"MADAME-M. le Comte d'Orbigny, very much indisposed for some time
past, could not reply to you during my absence."
"You see, mamma, it was not his fault."
"Listen, listen."
"Having arrived this morning from Paris, I hasten to write to you,
madame, after having conferred on the subject of your letter with M.
d'Orbigny. He has but a faint recollection of the relation which you
suppose to have existed between him and your brother. As to the name
of your husband, madame, it is not unknown to M. d'Orbigny; but he
cannot recollect under what circumstances he heard it mentioned. The
pretended spoliation, of which so lightly you accuse M. Jacques
Ferrand, whom we have the good fortune to have for a notary, is, in
the eyes of M. d'Orbigny, a cruel calumny, of which, doubtless, you
have not counted the bearing. My husband, as well as myself, madame,
know and admire the well-known probity of the respectable and pious
man you attack so blindly. This is to inform you, madame, that M.
d'Orbigny, feeling, doubtless, for the unfortunate position in which you
are placed, and of which it is not in his province to find out the
real cause, finds it out of his power to assist you.
"Be pleased to receive, madame, with this expression of the regrets of
M. d'Orbigny the assurance of my most distinguished sentiments.
"COMTESSE D'ORSIGNY."
The mother and daughter looked at each other, incapable of uttering a
word.
Micou knocked at the door and said, "Madame, can I come in for the
postage and commission? It is twenty sous."
"Oh! it is right; such good news! well worth what we spend in two days
for our living," said Madame de Fermont, with a bitter smile; and
leaving the letter on the bed, she went toward an old trunk without a
lock, stooped down, and opened it. "We are robbed!" cried the unhappy
woman, with horror. "Nothing--no more;" added she, in a mournful tone.
And powerless, she leaned on the trunk.
"What do you say, mamma? The bag of money?"
But Madame de Fermont arose quickly, went out of the chamber, and,
addressing the receiver, she said, with a sparkling eye, and cheeks
colored with indignation and alarm, "Sir, I had a bag of money in this
trunk; some one has robbed me--yesterday, doubtless, for I went out
for an hour with my daughter. This money must be found. Do you hear?
You are responsible."
"Some one robbed you! It is not true; my house is honest," said the
receiver, harshly and insolently. "You say that, so as not to pay me
the twenty sous."
"I tell you that this money, all that I possessed in the world, some
one has stolen; it must be found, or I'll make a complaint. Oh! I
shall spare nothing, respect nothing--I notify you!"
"That would be very fine of you, who have no papers; go and make your
complaint; go at once! I defy you." The unhappy woman was overcome.
She could not go out and leave her daughter alone in bed, since the
fright she had received in the morning, and, above all, after the
threats addressed to her by the receiver. He continued, "It is a
cheat; you had no more a bag of silver than a bag of gold; you don't
want to pay me the postage, hey? Good! all the same; when you pass
before my door, I will tear off your old black shawl from your
shoulders; it is very threadbare, but it is worth at least twenty
sous."
"Oh! sir," cried Madame de Fermont, bursting into tears, "have pity on
us. This small sum was all we had--my daughter and I; that stolen, we
have nothing left--nothing, do you understand? nothing-but to starve."
"What would you have me to do? If it is true that you are robbed, and
silver, too, it has been spent long since: the money--"
"Alas!"
"The lad who stole them would not have been simple enough to mark the
money and keep it here, so that he might be caught--if it is some one
in this house, which I do not believe--for, as I said only this
morning to the uncle of the lady on the first floor, here is no place
for plunder! if you are robbed, it is your misfortune. For should you
make a hundred thousand complaints, you would not recover a sou--you
would gain nothing by it, I tell you--believe me. Well," cried the
receiver, seeing Madame de Fermont stagger, "what's the matter? You
turn pale? Take care of your mother, she is sick," added he, advancing
in time to save her from falling. The fictitious energy which had so
long sustained her gave way under this new affliction.
"Mother, what is the matter?" cried Claire, still in bed.
The receiver, yet active and strong for his age, seized with a
transitory feeling of pity, took Madame de Fermont in his arms, pushed
open the door, and entered, saying, "Mademoiselle, pardon me for
coming in while you are in bed, but I must bring in your mother; she
has fainted; it can't last."
On seeing this man enter, Claire uttered a cry of alarm, and concealed
herself as well as she could under the bedclothes. The receiver seated
Madame de Fermont on the chair near the bed, and retired, leaving the
door half-open, the Big Cripple having broken the lock.
One hour after this, the violent malady, which for so long a time had
threatened Madame de Fermont, showed itself. Attacked by a violent
fever and frightful delirium, the unfortunate woman was laid in the
bed of her child, who, alone, alarmed and almost as ill as her mother,
had neither money nor resources, and feared at any moment to see the
ruffian enter who lived upon the same floor.