situation which she was about to occupy. No more jewels, no more
flowers, no superfluous wardrobe; in a simple dress and a straw hat tied
with a modest ribbon, with her daughter on one arm and a small bundle on
the other,--thus did Madame Murville set out for Guillot’s farm.
XXVII
ADELINE FINDS A PROTECTOR
The farmer’s family were in despair at Madame Murville’s flight. Since
the day that Dufresne had been driven from the village, Adeline, buried
in the most profound melancholy, had not left her home; she took no
diversion whatever, and the solicitations of the peasants had failed to
induce her to emerge from her retirement.
Jacques did not know what to think of his brother’s conduct. He easily
guessed that he made his wife unhappy; but he was still far from
suspecting the extent of his misbehavior! Edouard’s brother dared not
question Adeline, but she read in his eyes his sympathy with her
distress, and her grateful heart rewarded the honest laborer with the
most sincere friendship. Every two days Jacques went to the village to
enquire for Madame Murville’s health. One morning when he rang as usual
at the courtyard gate, the old gardener answered the bell, with tears in
his eyes.
“What’s the matter, Père Forêt, what has happened to Madame Murville
now?” Jacques asked anxiously; “can it be that that scamp of the other
day has come again?”
“Ah! my dear monsieur, more than one scamp has come to-day! And they
have turned my mistress out of doors!”
“Turned her out! That isn’t possible, ten thousand dead men!”
“It is true, however.”
“What were they? brigands, robbers?”
“No, no, monsieur, they were bailiffs, creditors, what do I know? They
showed madame some papers, and told her that she wasn’t in her own house
any longer. Poor woman! she cried, but she didn’t make any answer; she
just did her clothes up in a bundle, took her daughter in her arms, and
left.”
“Left! She has gone away? Is it possible? The villain! he has reduced
her to destitution!”
“Monsieur Jacques, I tell you there was a lot of them. Look, here’s the
placard; this house is for sale now, and they left me here, so that
there might be some one to show it to people.”
“Do you know where Madame Murville has gone?”
“Bless me! she took the Paris road.”
“She has gone to join him.”
“Yes, no doubt she has gone to her husband; but look you, between
ourselves, they say that he is a regular good-for-nothing; that he
raises the devil at Paris; and you must agree, Monsieur Jacques, that
when one has a pretty, good, young wife like madame--For, bless my soul,
she is virtue and goodness personified! And then a child, which will be
its mother’s portrait; well, I say, when a man has all that, and forgets
them all the year round, it ain’t right, and it don’t speak well for
him.”
Jacques, having taken his leave of the gardener, cast a last glance at
the house and walked sadly away from the village. A thousand plans
passed through his mind; he thought of going to Paris to look for
Adeline; he thought of speaking to his brother, reproaching him for his
evil conduct, and making him ashamed of the destitution in which he had
left his wife; with his mind filled with such thoughts as these, he
arrived at the farm. His friends there questioned him; they grieved with
him, but still they hoped that Madame Murville would come to see them.
Sans-Souci shared that hope; he encouraged his comrade, and urged him to
wait a few days before taking any steps.
Jacques’s patience was beginning to be exhausted; he was on the point of
leaving the farm and going to Paris, when one morning the joyous outcry
of the children announced some good news. It was Adeline, who appeared
at the farm with her little Ermance.
Everybody ran to meet her; they surrounded her, pressed against her,
embraced her, and manifested the most sincere joy. Adeline, deeply moved
by the attachment of the peasants, found that she could still feel a
sensation of pleasure.
“Ah!” she said to them, “I have not lost all, since I still have sincere
friends.”
Jacques did not know what he was doing; he seized Adeline’s hands,
kissed them, swore, cried, stamped, and turned away to hide his tears.
Sans-Souci, overjoyed by Adeline’s return, and by the pleasure which his
comrade felt, leaped and gamboled about among the hens and the ducks,
and played with all the children; which he did only in moments of good
humor.
“My friends,” said Adeline to the people of the farm, as they crowded
about her, “I am no longer what I was; unfortunate events have deprived
me of my fortune, and I have nothing now but courage to endure this
reverse, and my conscience, which tells me that I did not deserve it. I
must work now, to earn my living and to bring up my child; you made me
welcome when I was rich; you will not turn me away now that I am poor;
and I come to you confidently, to beg you to give me work. Oh! do not
refuse me! On no other terms will I consent to remain here.”
While Adeline was speaking, profound emotion was depicted on the
features of those who surrounded her; Louise could not restrain her
tears; Guillot, with wide-open mouth and eyes fastened upon Madame
Murville, heaved profound sighs every moment, and Sans-Souci twisted his
moustaches and passed his hand over his eyes.
But Jacques, more deeply moved, more touched than they, at sight of the
resignation of a lovely woman, who came to bury herself in a farm-house,
renouncing all the pleasures of the capital and all the customs of
aristocratic society, without uttering a word of reproach against the
man who was responsible for her misfortunes,--honest Jacques could not
restrain himself; he pushed away Louise and Guillot, who stood beside
Adeline, and, shaking the young woman’s arm violently, as she gazed at
him in amazement:
“No, sacrebleu!” he cried; “you shall not work, you shall not risk your
health, you shall not roughen that soft skin by labor beyond your
strength; I will take it upon myself to look after the support of you
and your child. I will take care of you, I will watch over you both; and
morbleu! so long as there is a drop of blood in my veins, I shall find a
way to do my duty.”
“What do you say, Jacques? your duty?”
“Yes, madame, yes, my duty; my brother has ruined your life, and the
least that I can do will be to devote my life to you, and to try to
repair his villainy.”
“Is it possible? You are----”
“Jacques Murville, the boy who began his travels at fifteen, giving way
to quick passions, and to his desire to see the world; and I confess,
between ourselves, groaning in secret at his mother’s coldness, and
jealous of the caresses which were lavished upon his brother and
unjustly denied to him. But none the less I possessed a heart,
sensitive in the matter of honor, from which I have never departed, even
in the midst of my youthful follies.--That is my story; embrace me; I
feel that I am worthy of your affection, and you can bestow it upon me
without blushing.”
Adeline embraced Jacques warmly; she felt the keenest joy in meeting her
husband’s brother, and the peasants exclaimed aloud in surprise, while
Sans-Souci shouted at the top of his lungs as he rubbed his hands:
“I knew it! I knew it! but my comrade closed my mouth and I wouldn’t
have said a word for all of the great Sultan’s pipes!”
“But why conceal from me so long the bond that unites us?” Adeline asked
Jacques; “did you doubt it would please me to embrace my husband’s
brother?”
“No,” replied Jacques, somewhat embarrassed, “no; but I wanted first of
all to know you better; people sometimes blush for their relations.”
“Ah! my friend, when a man wears this symbol of honor, can he conceive
such fears?”
“Ten thousand bombs! that’s what I have been killing myself telling him
every day,” said Sans-Souci; “but he is a little pig-headed, is my
friend; when he gets a thing into his head, he won’t let it go again.”
“You have found me now that I can be useful to you; that is all that is
necessary. Let us embrace again, and look upon me as your brother, as
the father of this poor child; since he who ought to cherish her, and to
adore you, has not a heart like other men; since he is unworthy
to--Well, well! you want me to hold my tongue; you love him still, I
see. Well! I am done; we won’t talk about him any more, and we will try
to forget him.”
“Oh! if he had seen you,” said Adeline; “if he had found his brother,
perhaps your advice----”
“If he had seen me!--But I must let that drop.--Let us forget an
ingrate, who is not worthy of a single one of the tears you shed for
him.”
“Yes, yes, let’s be merry and joyful,” said Guillot; “morgué! we mustn’t
be groaning all the time; that makes a body stupid as a fool. Let’s sit
down at the table, and to-night Brother Jacques will tell us about one
of his battles, to amuse us. That’s amusing, I tell you! When I have
been listening to him, I dream about battles all night long, I take my
wife’s rump for a battery of artillery, and her legs for a battalion of
infantry; and I think I hear the cannon.”
“Hold your tongue, my man.”
After the meal, they set about making the preparations required by
Adeline’s presence at the farm. Louise arranged for her a small room
looking on the fields; she tried to make it as pleasant as possible, by
carrying thither such pretty things as she could find in the house. In
vain did Adeline try to prevent her; when Louise had determined upon
anything, that thing must be done; she refused to listen to the young
woman when she implored her to look upon her as nothing but a poor
peasant woman; the farmer’s wife desired to make Madame Murville forget
her change of fortune, by redoubling her efforts to serve her with zeal
and affection. Jacques did not thank the farmer’s wife, but he took her
hands and pressed them fondly every time that she did anything for his
sister, and Sans-Souci cried, bringing his hand down upon Guillot’s
back:
“Morbleu! you have a fine wife, cousin! She manages things right well!”
“That’s so,” said Guillot; “that’s why I don’t meddle with anything, not
even with the children. Well, well, morgué, they come along well, all
the same!”
Thus Adeline became an inmate of the farm house; she worked rapidly with
the needle, and Louise was obliged to allow her to employ her whole day,
either in sewing or spinning. Jacques felt that his strength was
increased twofold since his brother’s wife and his little niece were
with him. He alone was worth three farm hands; having become expert in
the labor of the farm, he added to the farmer’s income by the pains that
he took with everything which he did. Sans-Souci for his part imitated
his comrade; he would have been ashamed to remain idle while the others
employed their time to such good purpose. So that everything went well
at the farm; Guillot and his wife scolded Adeline because she worked too
much, and forbade Jacques to do so large a share of the work. But no
heed was paid to them, and they had the agreeable certainty that they
were not a burden to the worthy peasants.
Several months passed thus, without bringing any change in the situation
of the people at the farm. Adeline would have been content with her lot,
if she could sometimes have heard from her husband; for she still loved
the man who had wrecked her life, and the memory of Edouard constantly
disturbed her repose. “What is he doing now?” she would ask herself each
day; and the thought that Dufresne was with him added to her unhappiness
and redoubled her anxiety. Often she formed the plan of going to Paris
to make inquiries concerning her husband’s conduct; but she was afraid
of offending Jacques, who, being bitterly angry with his brother, did
not wish to hear his name mentioned, and had begged Adeline never to
talk to him about Edouard.
Jacques feigned an indifference which he was far from feeling. In secret
he thought of his brother, and he would have given anything in the world
to know that he had repented of his errors, and to have him return and
beg for a forgiveness which was already accorded him.
So Adeline and Jacques concealed from each other the thoughts that
engrossed them, because each of them feared to distress the other by
renewing the memory of his or her grief. Sans-Souci was the confidant of
them both; Guillot sometimes had errands to be done in Paris, either to
sell his grain, or to buy things that were needed at the farm; it was
always Sans-Souci who was sent, because Jacques refused to go, lest he
should meet his brother. But every time that Sans-Souci was to pay a
visit to the capital, Adeline took him aside and begged him to ascertain
what her husband was doing; Jacques dared not give the same commission
to his comrade, but he would overtake Sans-Souci a little way from the
farm, stop him a moment and say in an undertone:
“If you learn anything unpleasant about the man who has forgotten us,
remember to hold your tongue, sacrebleu! If you breathe a word of it to
my sister, you are no longer my friend.”
And Sans-Souci would depart, charged with this twofold commission; but
he always returned without learning anything. As Edouard had changed his
name, no one could tell him what had become of him.
XXVIII
THE AUDACIOUS VILLAIN.--THE COWARD.--THE DRUNKARD
Fortune seemed to smile anew upon the wretches who, to obtain money, had
been false to honor and had defied all the laws of society; it was a
fresh temptation, which impelled them toward crime and prevented them
from turning back. The first success seems to warrant impunity for the
future; the guilty man grows bolder, and one who enters in fear and
trembling the path of vice soon casts aside all shame and seeks to
surpass those who have led him on to dishonor.
The gaming table, to which Edouard abandoned himself more madly than
ever, had ceased to be unfavorable to him; he won constantly, and the
wretch congratulated himself upon having found an expedient to restore
his fortune. Dufresne and Lampin taught him all the methods employed by
blacklegs to play, without risk of loss, with such gulls as would play
with them. Then the worthy trio would laugh among themselves at the
expense of the dupes they had ruined, and each of them tried to invent
some more rascally trick, in order to outdo his comrades.
Lampin lived with his two friends; Dufresne had convinced Edouard that
it was not safe to break with him. Moreover, Lampin was endowed with an
imagination fertile in stratagems and in skilful devices; he was a great
help to swindlers.
When fortune had been favorable, or they had found some new dupe, they
thought only of enjoying themselves. They would take to their rooms some
of those women who go everywhere, and who, for money, sell themselves to
the mason, the pensioner, the banker, or the bootblack,
indiscriminately. Such women alone were suitable companions for men who
took part in the most horrible orgies, the most unbridled debauchery.
One evening, when they were waiting for Lampin before taking their seats
at the table, he arrived laughing, and hastened to inform his friends,
as a very amusing piece of news, that a certain note had been declared a
forgery, and that the discounter was out of pocket to the amount of the
note. Edouard was horrified and turned pale; Dufresne reassured him by
declaring that they could never be discovered; they had changed their
names and abode since then, and no one could recognize them; there were
no proofs to be produced against them. Lampin alone might be sought for;
but he was so accomplished in changing his face and his whole person,
that he snapped his fingers at the police.
Edouard was not reassured; however, he tried to divert his thoughts and
to drive away his fears. Two young women, frequent guests of these
gentlemen, arrived opportunely to enliven the company.
“Parbleu,” said Lampin, “Véronique-la-Blonde must tell us some amusing
story; she always knows the most interesting news; that will brace up
our friend Bellecour--this was Edouard’s new name--who is rather in the
dumps to-night.”
“Oh! I am not just in the mood for fooling,” replied Véronique, with a
sigh; “I am sort of upside down myself to-day.”
“It seems to me that you ought to be used to that.”
“Oh! don’t talk a lot of nonsense. Really, my heart is terribly sore.”
“The deuce you say! Have you had trouble with the beaks?”
“No, it ain’t that; but I’ve got a friend who’s mixed up in a bad piece
of business, and that troubles me.”
“What business is it? Tell us; perhaps we can help her out of it.”
“Oh, no! The law has got its hand on her, and yet the poor child is as
innocent as you and me.”
“The devil! that’s saying a good deal; but tell us what it’s all about.”
“You must know that my friend, who has only been in the business a
little while, was formerly a servant, a lady’s maid in several houses;
among others she worked for a widow lady who died a little while ago.
Well, would you believe that they have taken it into their heads, in the
quarter, that that lady was poisoned! That report came to the ears of
the authorities; they dug up the dead woman, and it seems that the
doctors say the same thing as the neighbors. So they looked into the
matter, and they’ve arrested my friend, because she worked for the lady
at that time; but the poor child is as pure as this glass of wine, I
swear.”
Dufresne listened attentively to Véronique’s story, while Lampin toyed
with the other young woman, and Edouard, who had relapsed into his
reflections concerning a forgery of which he knew that he was guilty,
had thrown himself into an easy-chair in a corner of the room, paying no
heed to a story which did not interest him in the least.
“This affair seems to me to be a most remarkable one,” said Dufresne,
drawing his chair nearer to Véronique’s; “but what is your friend’s
name?”
“Suzanne; she is a good child, on my honor, and incapable of tearing a
hair from anybody’s head, I don’t care whose.”
At the name of Suzanne, Dufresne showed signs of perturbation. But
instantly recovering himself, he glanced about the room, saw that
Murville was not listening, and that Lampin was busy; and he continued
to question Véronique.
“It seems to me that your Suzanne will have difficulty in getting out of
the scrape, if, as you say, this lady had no other servant than her?”
“Oh! that don’t make any difference; Suzanne suspects who it was that
did the job.”
“Really?”
“Yes, my friend. A young man, a friend of the widow, her lover, used to
come to see her; he was a gambler, a rascal, a sharper.”
“All right! all right! I understand!--Well?”
“The poor woman ruined herself for the good-for-nothing!--Wait a minute,
I know her name--Madame Dou--Dol------”
“No matter! no matter!” said Dufresne, abruptly interrupting Véronique,
“I don’t need to know her name.”
“That’s so, that don’t make any difference about the business. However,
this lady was mad over her lover, who didn’t care anything for her and
robbed her all he could. It seems that they had a row toward the end,
and that the monster must have poisoned her to revenge himself because
she proposed to tell about all his goings-on.”
“That is very probable.”
“Ah! men are vile dogs nowadays. They kill a woman as quick as a fly!”
“What does your Suzanne intend to do?”
“Oh! she has already told the police all this, so that they can get
track of the criminal, who is now I don’t know where.”
“That is very wise, and I hope they will discover the truth.”
Dufresne said these last words in an undertone. Despite the assurance
which he affected, the discomposure of his features betrayed the
sensations that agitated him.
The evening came to an end earlier than usual. Edouard was anxious, and
Dufresne also seemed greatly excited. They sent the two young women
away. Lampin, who alone had retained his good spirits, poured out bumper
after bumper for his friends, making fun of their gloom. Edouard drank
to forget himself, but Dufresne was not inclined to bear them company,
and Lampin got tipsy alone, trying in vain to make his companions laugh.
“Come, come, my boys, this won’t work,” he said, filling the glasses;
“you’re as solemn to-night as gallows-birds! I forgive Bellecour,
who is only a chicken-hearted fellow anyway! But you over
there--Vermontré--Courval--Dufresne--or whatever you choose to call
yourself----”
“Hold your tongue, you idiot!” cried Dufresne angrily; “I forbid you to
call me by that last name now!”
“You forbid me! Well, upon my soul! what a savage look! You used to call
yourself that, when you lived with that poor Dolban, who thought you
really loved her, and who----”
“Hold your tongue, I say, you sot!”
“Sot! ah! it sounds well for you to call me a sot, when you slept under
the table last night! and when you drink punch like a hole in the
ground! But never mind, I don’t quarrel with my friends, and we are
friends, after all. It is plain enough that you are both out of temper;
Edouard on account of that scrap of paper which worries him so, and
you--Oh! as to you, I don’t know what the matter is; it must be some
martingale that didn’t work, or some friend that took you in, or else
it’s--But I say, what was that Véronique was telling you, about her
poisoning, and her widow, and the lover who wasn’t her lover? Do you
know that’s as like your intimacy with old Dolban as one drop of water
is like another! If it was you--Ha! ha! you’re quite capable of such a
game!”
“For heaven’s sake, go to bed, Lampin; you see that Edouard is asleep
already, and you will wake him up with your laughter.”
“Well! what’s the harm if I should wake him? The deuce! You’re terribly
careful of him to-night! But I propose to laugh, to laugh and drink; and
I don’t propose to go to bed, do you understand? I feel in the mood for
raising the deuce! I’m sorry I let our girls go; I’m just the man to
deal with ’em.--Tra la la la.”
“Do you mean that you don’t propose to go to bed at all to-night?”
“I will go to bed when I please, you fox. Oh! I see that you’re in an
ugly mood, I tell you. You are keeping something from us; Véronique’s
story dried you up altogether, my poor Dufresne!”
“You villain, will you hold your tongue?” cried Dufresne, seizing Lampin
by the throat; he struggled, stepped back and almost fell upon Edouard,
who had fallen asleep in a corner of the room, and who, being awakened
with a start, glanced about him in terror, crying:
“Here they are! here they are! they have come to arrest me!”
“To arrest you,” said Dufresne; “who, for God’s sake?”
“Ha! ha! what fools you are!” cried Lampin, rising and trying to
maintain his equilibrium; “one of them is dreaming and the other one
doesn’t see it!”
“Ah! it was only a dream,” said Edouard, passing his hand across his
brow.
“Why, yes! you are a couple of babies; but, my boy, don’t take it into
your head to grasp my windpipe again, or I shall lose my temper for good
and all.”
“It’s getting late, messieurs,” said Dufresne; “I’m tired and I’m going
to lie down!”
“Well, go! Our friend here will keep me company and finish up this
bottle of rum.”
“No, I’m going to bed too; my head is in a whirl already.”
“Go to the devil! I will drink all by myself.”
“Once more, Lampin, don’t make so much noise; it may annoy the
neighbors.”
“Let the neighbors go to grass! I don’t care a hang, and I’ll make more
noise than ever.--Tra la la.”
Lampin sang at the top of his voice, as he drank a large glass of rum.
Edouard and Dufresne had taken candles, to go to their bedroom, when
there came three very loud knocks at the street door.
Dufresne started back in dismay, Edouard listened, trembling from head
to foot, and Lampin threw himself on a couch.
“Somebody’s knocking,” said Edouard, looking at Dufresne.
“Yes, I heard it.”
“Well! so did I; I ain’t deaf, and they knocked loud enough anyway, but
what difference does it make to us? We don’t expect anybody, for it’s
nearly three o’clock in the morning; unless it’s our lady friends come
back to rock us to sleep.”
“Hush! somebody is opening the door, I think.”
“Somebody must open the door to let them in! In a furnished lodging
house, especially one of this kind, don’t people come in at all hours of
the night? However, come what may, I snap my fingers at it, and I
propose to keep on drinking.”
“I don’t hear anything more,” said Dufresne; “it evidently wasn’t for
us.”