GOOD-BYE IN PRISON.
The morning after these last-mentioned events a touching scene took
place in Saint Lazare, at the hour of the recreation of the prisoners.
On this day, during the promenade of her companions, Fleur-de-Marie
was seated on a bench near the basin, already called hers. By a sort
of tacit agreement, the prisoners abandoned this place, which she
loved, for the sweet influence of the girl had much increased.
Goualeuse preferred this seat near the fountain, because the moss
which grew around the border of the reservoir recalled to her mind the
verdure of the fields, and even the limpid water with which it was
filled made her think of the little river of Bouqueval village.
To the sad gaze of a prisoner, a tuft of grass is a meadow, a flower
is a garden.
Confiding in the kind promise of Madame d'Harville, Fleur-de-Marie had
been expecting for two days to leave Saint Lazare. Although she had no
reason for inquietude at the delay, she from her habitual misfortunes,
hardly dared to hope soon for freedom.
Naturally, from the expectation of so soon seeing her friends at
Bouqueval and Rudolph, Fleur-de-Marie should have been transported
with joy.
It was not so. Her heart beat sadly; her thoughts returned without
ceasing to the words and lofty looks of Madame d'Harville, when the
poor prisoner had spoken with so much enthusiasm of her benefactor.
With singular intuition, Goualeuse had thus discovered a part of the
lady's secret.
"The warmth of my gratitude for M. Rudolph has wounded this young
lady, so handsome, and of a rank so elevated," thought Fleur-de-Marie.
"Now I comprehend the bitterness of her words! she expressed
disdainful jealousy! She, jealous of me! then she loves him, and I
love him, also! My love must have betrayed itself in spite of me! To
love him--I--a creature forever ruined! ungrateful, and wretch that I
am! Oh! if that were so, rather death a hundred times."
Let us hasten to say, the unhappy child, who seemed doomed to every
kind of martyrdom, exaggerated what she called her love. To her
profound gratitude toward Rudolph was joined an involuntary admiration
of the grace, strength, and beauty which distinguished him above all;
nothing less material, nothing more pure than this admiration, but it
existed lively and powerful, because physical beauty is always
attractive.
And then, besides, the voice of blood, so often denied, mute, unknown,
or disowned, sometimes makes itself heard; these bursts of passionate
tenderness, which drew Fleur-de-Marie toward Rudolph, and alarmed her
because in her ignorance she misconstrued their tendency, resulted
from mysterious sympathies as evident, but also as inexplicable, as
the resemblance of features. In a word, Fleur-de-Marie, learning that
she was Rudolph's daughter, could have at once accounted for her
feelings toward him; then, completely enlightened, she could admire
without any scruple the beauty of her father.
Thus is explained the dejectedness of Fleur-de-Marie, although she
expected at any moment to leave Saint Lazare.
Fleur-de-Marie, melancholy and pensive, was then seated on a bench
near the basin, regarding with a kind of mechanical interest the
gambols of two daring birds that came to sport on the curbstone. She
ceased for a moment to work on a little child's frock which she was
hemming. It is necessary to say that this belonged to the generous
offering made to Mont Saint Jean by the prisoners, thanks to the
touching intervention of Fleur-de-Marie.
The poor, deformed _protegee_ of La Goualeuse was seated at her
feet; quite busy in making a little cap; from time to time she cast on
her benefactress a look at once grateful, timid, and devoted--the look
of a dog to his master.
The beauty, charms, and adorable sweetness of Fleur-de-Marie inspired
this degraded woman with as much affection as respect.
There is always something holy and grand, even in the aspirations of a
heart debased, which, for the first time, opens itself to gratitude;
and, until then, no one had caused Mont Saint Jean to experience the
religious ardor of a sentiment so new to her. At the end of a few
moments, Fleur-de-Marie shuddered slightly, wiped away a tear, and
resumed her sewing.
"You will not, then, take a little rest during the recreation, my
angel?" said Mont Saint Jean to Goualeuse.
"As I have given no money to buy the lavette, I must furnish my
proportion in work," answered the girl.
"Your part! why, without you, instead of this fine white linen, and
warm fustian, to clothe my child, I should only have had those rags
which were trampled in the mud. I am very grateful toward my
companions; they have been very kind to me, it is true: but you! oh,
you! How, then, shall I explain myself?" added the poor creature,
hesitatingly, and very much embarrassed to express her thoughts.
"Hold!" resumed she; "there is the sun, is it not? there is the sun!"
"Yes, Mont Saint Jean, I listen," answered Fleur-de-Marie, inclining
her enchanting face toward the hideous visage of her companion.
"You will laugh at me," answered she, sadly; "I want to speak, and I
don't know how."
"Say on, Mont Saint Jean."
"Have you not the eyes of an angel!" said the prisoner, looking at
Fleur-de-Marie in a kind of ecstasy; "your beautiful eyes encourage
me. Come, I will try to say what I wish. There is the sun, is it not?
It is very warm, it makes our prison gay, it is pleasant to see and
feel, is it not?"
"Without doubt."
"Well, let us suppose--this sun did not make itself, and if one is
grateful to it, so much the more reason--"
"To be grateful toward Him who created it, you mean, Mont Saint Jean!
You are right; hence, you should pray to Him, adore Him--it is God."
"That's it, there's my idea," cried the prisoner, joyfully; "that's
it; I ought to be grateful to my companions, but I ought to pray to
you, adore you, La Goualeuse, for it is you who have rendered them
good to me, instead of being wicked as they were."
"But, if I am good, as you say, Mont Saint Jean, it is God who has
made me so; it is, then, He whom you must thank."
"Ah! marry--perhaps so, then, since you say so," answered the
prisoner; "if it pleases you to have it so, very well."'
"Yes, my poor Mont Saint Jean, pray to Him often. This will be the
best way of proving to me that you love me a little."
"Love you, La Goualeuse! But, do you not recollect what you told the
others, to prevent them from beating me? 'It is not her alone you
beat, it is also her child.' Well! for the same reason, I do not love
you for myself alone, but also for my child."
"Thank you, thank you, Mont Saint Jean; you give me pleasure to hear
you say that."
At this moment, Madame Armand, the inspectress, entered the court.
After having sought for Fleur-de-Marie with her eyes, she came to her
with a satisfied and smiling air. "Good news, my child!"
"What do you say, madame?" cried La Goualeuse, rising.
"Your friends have not forgotten you; they have obtained your liberty.
The director has just received the notice."
"Can it be possible, madame! Oh! what happiness!" The emotion of
Fleur-de-Marie was so violent, that she turned pale, put her hand to
her heart, which beat violently, and fell back on her seat.
"Calm yourself, my child," said Madame Armand, kindly: "happily, such
shocks are without danger."
"Ah, madame, how grateful I ought to be!"
"It is, doubtless, Madame d'Harville who has obtained your liberty.
There is an old lady here who is charged to conduct you to your
friends. Wait for me; I will return for you; I have a few words to say
in the workroom." It would be difficult to describe the expression of
deep grief which spread over the features of Mont Saint Jean on
learning that her good angel was to leave Saint Lazare.
The grief of this woman was caused less by the fear of a renewal of
her torments, than by the sorrow at parting from the sole being who
had ever evinced any interest for her. Still seated at the foot of the
bench, she took bold of the two tufts of tangled hair which escaped
from under her old black cap, as if to tear them out; then, this
violent affliction giving way to dejection, she let her head fall, and
remained dumb and immovable, with her face buried in her hands.
Notwithstanding her joy at leaving the prison, Fleur-de-Marie could
not prevent a shudder at the remembrance of La Chouette and the Maître
d'Ecole; recollecting that these two monsters had made her swear not
to inform her benefactors of her sad fate.
But these sad thoughts were soon dispelled at the hope of seeing
Bouqueval, Madame George, and Rudolph again; to the latter she wished
to recommend La Louve and Martial; it even seemed to her that the
sentiment which she reproached herself for having felt towards her
benefactor, being no longer nourished by sorrow and by solitude, would
be calmed and modified as soon as she should resume the rustic
occupations which she loved so much to partake with the good and
honest inhabitants of the farm.
Astonished at the silence of her companion, of which she did not
suspect the cause, she touched her slightly on the shoulder, and said,
"Mont Saint Jean, since I am now free, can I be of any service to
you?"
On feeling the hand of La Goualeuse, the prisoner shuddered, let her
arms fall, and turned toward the young girl, her face streaming with
tears.
"Listen to me, Mont Saint Jean," said Fleur-de Marie, touched at the
affection of this poor creature. "I can promise you nothing for
yourself, although I know some very charitable people; but for your
child it is different; it is innocent of every evil; he, and the
persons of whom I speak, would, perhaps, take the charge of it when
you can part with it."
"Part from it--never, oh, never!" cried Mont Saint Jean, with warmth.
"What would become of me then, now that I have counted on him?"
"But how will you support it? son or daughter, it must be honest, and
for that----"
"It must eat honest bread, is it not so, La Goualeuse? I think so; it
is my ambition. I say it to myself every day, thus: on leaving here I
shall not let the grass grow under my feet. I will become a rag-picker,
a crossing-sweeper, but I'll be correct; one owes that, if not
to one's self, at least to one's children, when one has the honor of
having any," said she with a kind of pride. "And who will take care of
your child while you work?" answered La Goualeuse; "would it not be
better, if that is possible, as I hope it is, to place it in the
country with some good people, who would make it a good farmer's girl
or a plowboy? You can come from time to time to see it, and some day,
perhaps, you would find the means to remain altogether--in the country
it costs so little to live."
"But to part with it, to part with it! All my joy is in it. I, who
have no one to love me!" "You must think more for it than for
yourself, my poor Mont Saint Jean; in two or three days I will write
to Madame Armand, and if the demand I mean to make in favor of your
child succeeds, you will never have occasion to say again, what you
said just now, 'Alas! what will become of it?'"
The inspectress, Madame Armand, interrupted this conversation; she
came to seek Fleur-de-Marie.
After having again burst into sobs, and bathed with tears of despair
the hands of the girl, Mont Saint Jean fell back on the bench quite
overcome with sorrow, not even thinking of the promise just made to
her by Fleur-de-Marie.
"Poor creature!" said Madame Armand, leaving the yard, followed by La
Goualeuse; "poor creature, her gratitude toward you gives me a better
opinion of her."
On learning that Fleur-de-Marie was pardoned, the other prisoners,
instead of being jealous, expressed their joy; some of them surrounded
her, and bade her farewell in a cordial manner, congratulating her
frankly on her quick deliverance from prison.
"All the same," said one of them, "she has made us do some good; it
was when we collected for Mont Saint Jean. This will be remembered in
Saint Lazare."
When Fleur-de-Marie had left the prison buildings under the conduct of
the inspectress, the latter said to her, "Now, my child, go to the
wardrobe, where you will leave your prison garments, and resume the
peasant's costume, which, from its rustic simplicity, becomes you so
well; adieu. You go to be happy, for you go under the protection of
worthy people, and you leave this house never to return. But--hold--I
am not unreasonable," said Madame Armand, whose eyes were bathed in
tears, "it is impossible for me to conceal from you how much I am
already attached to you, poor child!" Then, seeing Fleur-de-Marie much
affected, she added, "You do not wish me thus to sadden your
departure?"
"Ah! madame, is it not to your recommendation that this young lady, to
whom I owe my liberty, interested herself in my fate?"
"Yes, and I am happy at what I have done; my presentiments have not
deceived me." At this moment a bell rang. "Ah! this is the signal for
them to resume their work; I must go in. Adieu! once more adieu, my
dear child!"
And Madame Armand, quite as much affected as Fleur-de-Marie, embraced
her tenderly; she then said to one of the attendants, "Conduct her to
the wardrobe."
A quarter of an hour afterward, Fleur-de-Marie, clothed as a peasant,
entered the office where Mrs. Seraphin awaited her. This woman,
housekeeper of Jacques Ferrand, came to take the unfortunate child to
Ravageur's Island.