attentively. Lampin resumed his singing, and tried to put to his lips a
glass which his hand was no longer strong enough to raise. Suddenly
Edouard seemed to become more excited.
“What is it?” Dufresne asked in an undertone.
“I hear several voices whispering; the noise is coming nearer--yes, they
are coming up these stairs. Ah! there is no more doubt; they are coming
to arrest us,--we are discovered!”
“Silence! what imprudence!” said Dufresne, trying to overcome his own
alarm; “if they are really coming here, let us not lose our heads, and
be careful what you say; above all things, do not call me Dufresne.”
“I don’t know where I am,” said Edouard, whose terror redoubled as the
noise drew nearer.
“Well! I--I don’t know what my name is, myself,” said Lampin, dropping
his glass; “but I tell you that they don’t want us.”
At that moment there was a ring at the door on the landing. Edouard
fell, almost lifeless, on a chair; Dufresne remained standing in the
middle of the room, motioning to the others not to stir. Soon there was
another ring, accompanied by violent knocking.
“There’s no one here,” cried Lampin; “go to the devil!”
“Damn!” said Dufresne, “we must open the door now.--Who’s there?”
“Open, messieurs, or we shall be obliged to break in the door.”
“Break away, my friend!” said Lampin; “it’s all one to me! The house
ain’t mine.”
Dufresne, seeing that there was no way to avoid it, decided to open the
door, after motioning to the others to be prudent; but Lampin could no
longer see, and Murville had lost his head completely.
Several gendarmes and a sergeant entered the apartment. At sight of them
Dufresne turned pale. Edouard uttered a cry of alarm, and Lampin rolled
from his chair to the floor.
“You must come with us, monsieur,” said the sergeant, addressing
Dufresne. He tried to put a bold face upon the matter and asked
insolently by what right they came to disturb his rest.
“Yes, by what right do you disturb respectable people in their
pleasures?” stammered Lampin; “why, I will answer for my friend, body
for body!”
“Your guarantee is of no value; we know you, Master Lampin.”
“Well, then you have a pleasant acquaintance, I flatter myself.”
“You must come with us, too.”
“I? Ah! that will be rather hard; I wouldn’t walk a step for a bowl of
punch; judge whether I will go to prison.”
“As for monsieur,” said the sergeant, turning to Edouard, “I have no
orders to arrest him, but I advise him to select his acquaintances more
wisely.”
Edouard stood in a corner of the room, trembling, and with downcast
eyes. He did not hear what was said to him, he was so thoroughly
convinced that they were going to take him away that he fancied himself
already confined in a dungeon, and had decided to confess his crime, in
the hope that his outspokenness would move his judges to pity.
Dufresne was furious to find that he was to be arrested and that Edouard
would not accompany him to prison.
“You have made a mistake, messieurs,” said he; “I have done nothing to
be arrested for.”
“You are Dufresne, who lived with Madame Dolban?”
“You are mistaken, my name is Vermontré.”
“Oh! that’s the truth,” said Lampin, trying to stand up without the help
of the gendarmes; “it’s at least two months that he’s been calling
himself that.”
“It’s of no use for you to try to deny it. The police have been watching
you for a long while, and when we heard of the murder of which you are
accused, it was not difficult for us to find you, despite all the false
names you have assumed.”
“Murder! murder!” exclaimed Lampin; “one moment, messieurs, I haven’t
got anything to do with that. I thought that you came about the matter
of the scrap of paper, which is only a trifle. But a murder! Damnation!
let us understand each other. I am as white as snow, and Fluet, who’s
over there in the corner, will tell you as much. We only worked on the
writings, we two.”
“On the writings?”
“Yes; when I say we--why it was La Valeur, who stands shaking over
there, that did most of it; but he writes mighty well! Ah! that was a
good job! And the old Jew tumbled into it; so that we’ve eaten and drunk
the stuff all up. If you would like to join us, I’m your man.”
The sergeant listened attentively, and Edouard’s terror, combined with
Lampin’s fragments of sentences, led him to guess that those gentry were
the authors of some rascality of a different sort from the affair which
had brought him thither. The crime committed upon Madame Dolban was the
occasion of that midnight visit, undertaken because they wished to make
sure of Dufresne; the forgery had only been discovered the day before,
and the police had not yet found the tracks of the culprits.
“After what I have heard, you will have to come with us too, monsieur,”
said the sergeant to Edouard; “if you are innocent, it will be easy for
you to clear your skirts.”
“Oh! I will confess everything,” said Edouard, allowing the gendarmes to
lay hold of him.
“Well! you’re nothing but a fool, on the faith of Lampin! For my part, I
won’t confess anything.--Come, my friends, carry me, if you want me to
go with you.”
They dragged away Dufresne, who tried to resist. Edouard, on the
contrary, allowed himself to be led away without uttering a word. As for
Lampin, they were obliged to carry him; for he could not stand on his
legs. The three men passed the rest of the night in prison.
Taken the next morning before an examining magistrate, in order to
undergo a preliminary examination, Edouard trembled and stammered, but
he had not the courage to deny his crime; in vain did Lampin, now
thoroughly sober, impress upon him the importance of the replies he was
to make, and teach him his lesson; Edouard promised him to be steadfast
and to follow his advice; but in the magistrate’s presence the miserable
wretch lost courage, and did not know what he said.
Edouard was confined with Lampin at La Force, until judgment should be
pronounced upon him for the forgery. Dufresne was not with them; being
accused of having poisoned Madame Dolban, he was to be tried before his
two friends, and he had been taken to the Conciergerie.
Edouard, who had not taken the precaution to supply himself with money,
was confined with Lampin in a pestilential room, in the midst of a
multitude of wretches, all arrested for theft or offences of that
nature. He slept upon a handful of straw, and his food was that supplied
by the prison to those awaiting trial. Lampin gaily made the best of it;
he sang and shouted and played the devil with the outcasts who
surrounded him. But Edouard had not the courage of crime; he felt
remorse and regret in the depths of his soul. He wept at night on the
stone which served him as a bed, and his tears were a source of jest and
witticisms to the miserable creatures confined with him.
During the day the prisoners were allowed to walk in a large courtyard;
Edouard did not go with them, in order that he might be alone for a few
moments, and at all events lament at liberty. He saw no one from
outside; he had no friends; his companions in dissipation did not come
to visit him in prison; and yet the other prisoners, who were no better
than he, received visits every day and were not deserted by their worthy
comrades. But Edouard bore the reputation among them of a weak and
pusillanimous creature; men of that description are good for nothing;
the slightest reverse discourages them, and cowards are as much despised
by criminals as they are ignored by respectable people.
The memory of Adeline and her daughter recurred to Edouard’s mind; it is
when we are unhappy that we remember those who truly love us. He had
spurned his wife and child, and had abandoned them without taking pains
to ascertain whether the unfortunate creatures could find means of
subsistence; but he felt sure that Adeline would hasten to his side, to
comfort him, and to mingle her tears with his, if she knew that he was
in prison. Despite all the injury that he had done her, he knew enough
not to doubt the warmth of her heart.
One day, Lampin approached Murville, and his joyous air seemed to
announce good news.
“Are we pardoned?” Edouard at once asked him.
“Pardoned! oh, no! we needn’t expect that. Besides, you jackass, you
made our affair so clear, that unless they are blind, they can’t help
convicting us. Ah! if you had been another kind of man; if you had
simply recited your lesson, we would have mixed the whole thing up so
that they wouldn’t have seen anything but smoke; but you chatter like a
magpie.”
“Do you forget that it was your fault that I was arrested? It was you
who put those officers on the track.”
“Oh! my boy, that’s different; I was drunk, like a good fellow; I drank
for you too, and in wine, as the proverb says,--_in vino_--the
truth.--But after all, that isn’t what I wanted to talk about: our
friend Dufresne is luckier than we are.”
“Have they given him his liberty?”
“Oh, no! but he has taken it. In other words, he has escaped from prison
with two other prisoners. Bless my soul! my son, what a fellow that
Dufresne is! He is a solid rascal, I tell you, and not soft like you. I
will bet that he would set the prison on fire rather than stay there.
When a man is like that, he don’t lack friends. Dufresne found
acquaintances there; he has escaped, and he has done well; for they say
that he is certain to be sentenced to death.”
“To death! Why, what has he done?”
“What has he done? Well, well! that’s a good one, that is. Have you just
come out of a rat-hole? Do you mean to say that you don’t know why they
pinched him?”
“I thought it was on account of that miserable note,--for the same
reason that they took us.”
“Oh, no! it’s something better than that. But I do remember now, that
fright acted on you like wine; you didn’t know what was going on. Let me
tell you that Dufresne is accused of poisoning a certain Madame Dolban,
with whom he used to live.”
“Great God! the monster!”
“It seems that his case is serious; he will be sentenced to death in
default; but you understand that he won’t return to these diggings, to
be caught. We shan’t see him again; I am sorry for that, for he is a
smart fellow; it’s a pity that he went too far.”
“And we?”
“We are to be transferred to the Conciergerie before long, to be tried.
That’s the place, my man, where you will need firmness and eloquence. If
you weep there as you do here, it’s all over; we shall take a sea voyage
in the service of the government.”
“You villain! is it possible?”
“Hush, they’re listening to us; enough said.”
While the wretched Edouard was in the throes of all the anguish of
terror and remorse, and, surrounded by vile criminals who plumed
themselves upon their crimes and their depravity, found himself the
object of their contempt, so that not one of them addressed a word of
compassion to him or deigned to sympathize with his sufferings, Adeline
passed peaceful days at Guillot’s farm. She watched the growth of her
daughter, who was already beginning to lisp a few words which only a
mother could understand. Jacques, still overflowing with zeal and
courage, insisted upon doing the hardest work; he did more than two farm
hands, and to him toil was a pleasure. At night he returned to Adeline;
he took his little niece on his knees, and danced her up and down to the
refrain of a military ballad. Everybody loved Brother Jacques; for that
is what he was called in the village after he was known to be Madame
Murville’s brother-in-law; and the peasants were proud to have under
their humble roof a woman like Adeline, and a fine fellow like Jacques.
But that peaceful life could not endure; a certain trip of Sans-Souci’s
to Paris was destined to cause a great change. Jacques’s excellent
comrade set out one day for the great city, intrusted as usual with
secret commissions from Adeline and her brother-in-law, both of whom,
although without communicating with each other, had the same thought,
the same desire, and burned to know what Edouard was doing.
Hitherto Sans-Souci had been unable to obtain any information, but an
unlucky chance led this time to his meeting a friend whom he had not
seen for a very long time. This friend, after practising divers trades,
had become a messenger at the Conciergerie. He was employed by those
prisoners who were still allowed to communicate with the outside world.
Sans-Souci mentioned the name of Edouard Murville; his friend informed
him that he was in the prison, and that his sentence was to be
pronounced on the following day.
“In prison!” cried Sans-Souci; “my brave comrade’s brother! Ten thousand
cartridges! this will be a sad blow to Jacques.”
The messenger, seeing that Sans-Souci was deeply interested in Edouard,
regretted having said so much.
“But why is he in prison?” asked Sans-Souci anxiously; “what has he
done? Speak! tell me. Is it for debt?”
“Yes, yes; I believe it’s about a note,” replied the messenger,
hesitating, and resolved not to disclose the truth; and he tried, but in
vain, to change the subject.
“Morbleu! his brother--her husband--in prison! Poor little woman! Poor
fellow!”
“Don’t say anything about it to them, my friend, don’t mention it to
them. I am sorry myself that I told you this distressing news.”
“You are right, I will hold my tongue, I won’t say anything. After all,
they can’t help it. That Edouard is a bad fellow! So much the worse for
him.”
“Oh, yes! he is a very bad fellow, and they will do well to forget him.”
“Yes, of course, we can think that, we fellows; but a wife, a brother,
they have hearts, you see, and when it’s a question of someone you love,
the heart always drives you on.--Good-bye, old man; I am going back to
the farm, very sorry that I met you, although it isn’t your fault. My
heart is heavy, and the trouble is that I am too stupid to
make-believe.”
Sans-Souci left his friend and returned to the farm. Adeline and Jacques
questioned him according to their custom, and Sans-Souci replied that he
knew no more than at other times; but in vain did he try to dissemble;
his sadness betrayed him; his embarrassment, when Adeline spoke to him
of Edouard, aroused her suspicions; a woman easily divines our secret
thoughts. Edouard’s wife, convinced that Sans-Souci was concealing from
her something unpleasant about her husband, was constantly at his heels;
she urged him, she implored him to tell her all.
For two days the honest soldier’s courage held good against Adeline’s
prayers. But he reflected upon the plight of Edouard, whom he believed
to be in prison for debt; he thought that his wife might have
acquaintances in Paris, through whom she could probably alleviate
Edouard’s situation. Edouard had been guilty; but perhaps misfortune
would have matured his character. And it was not right to deprive him of
help and encouragement. These reflections caused Sans-Souci to decide to
conceal no longer from Adeline what he knew. The opportunity soon
presented itself; the next day the young woman entreated him again to
tell her what her husband was doing; Sans-Souci surrendered, on
condition that she would not mention it to Jacques, by whom he feared to
be scolded. Adeline promised, and then he told her all that he had
learned in Paris.
As soon as Adeline heard that her husband was in prison, she made up her
mind what course to pursue; she left Sans-Souci, went to her chamber,
collected a few jewels, the last remnant of her past fortune, made a
little bundle of her clothes, and after writing on a sheet of paper that
they must not be disturbed by her absence, she took her little Ermance
in her arms and secretly left the farm house, resolved to leave no stone
unturned to obtain her husband’s freedom, or to share his captivity.
It was then nine o’clock in the morning; Jacques was in the fields, and
the peasants were occupied in different directions. Adeline was on the
Paris road before the people at the farm had discovered her departure.
XXIX
THE PLACE DU PALAIS
Adeline did not know as yet what method she should employ to obtain
access to her husband; she had formed no plan; she had no idea what
steps she must take in order to speak with a prisoner; a single thought
filled her mind: her Edouard was unhappy, he was languishing in prison,
deprived of all consolation. For Adeline knew the world, she had shrewd
suspicions that those people who crowded about Edouard in his prosperity
would have abandoned him in his distress. Who then would wipe away the
poor prisoner’s tears, if not his wife and his daughter? To be sure, he
had cast them aside; he had formerly avoided their caresses. But when
the man we love is crushed beneath the weight of misfortune, a generous
soul never remembers his wrongdoing.
Sans-Souci had mentioned the Conciergerie; so it was to the Conciergerie
she must go. Adeline believed that her prayers, her tears, and the sight
of her child, would move the jailers; she had no doubt that they would
allow her to see her husband. That hope redoubled her courage. After
walking to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, carrying little Ermance, who was
not yet a year-and-a-half old, Adeline at last fell in with one of those
wretched carriages which take Parisians into the suburbs, and to the
open-air festivals. For a modest sum the driver agreed to take the young
woman and her child, and headed his nags toward Paris.
There was a single other traveller in the carriage with Adeline; it was
an old man of about seventy years, but with a pleasant face, and an
open, kindly expression which inspired confidence and respect. His dress
indicated wealth without ostentation, and his manners, while they were
not those of fashionable society, denoted familiarity with good company.
Adeline bowed to her travelling companion and seated herself beside him,
without speaking.
The old gentleman scrutinized her at first with attention, then with
interest. Adeline had such a noble and appealing countenance that it was
impossible to look upon her without being prepossessed in her favor, and
without desiring to know her better.
Little Ermance was on her mother’s knees; her childish graces fascinated
the old man, who gave her bonbons and bestowed some caresses upon her.
Adeline thanked the old gentleman for his kindness, smiled at her
daughter, then relapsed into her reflections.
The traveller tried to engage the young woman in conversation; but her
replies were so short, she seemed so preoccupied, that her companion
feared to intrude. He said no more, but he noticed Adeline’s melancholy,
he heard her sighs, and he saw that her lovely eyes were constantly
turned toward Paris, and often wet with tears. He dared not try to
divert her thoughts from her trouble, but he pitied her in silence.
Adeline found the journey very long; the wretched horses went at their
ordinary pace, nothing on earth could have induced them to gallop.
Sometimes, Adeline, giving way to her impatience, was on the point of
alighting from the vehicle, in the hope that she would reach Paris
sooner on foot. But she would have to carry little Ermance, and her
strength was not equal to her courage. So she remained in the carriage
and reflected that each turn of the wheels brought her nearer to her
husband.
The old gentleman looked at his watch, and at that Adeline addressed
him:
“Monsieur, would you kindly tell me what time it is?”
“Almost one o’clock, madame.”
“Are we still far from Paris?”
“Why, no, only a short league; in three-quarters of an hour you will be
there.”
“In three-quarters of an hour! Oh! how slowly the time goes!”
“I see that madame has some important business calling her to Paris?”
“Yes, monsieur, oh, yes! I long to be there!”
“Of course madame has friends there? If not, if I could be of any
service to madame----”
Adeline made no reply; she did not hear her companion; she was once more
absorbed in thought, she was with her husband.
The old gentleman profited nothing by his offer of his services; but far
from taking offence, he felt all the deeper interest in the young woman,
who seemed beset by such profound sorrow.
At last they reached Paris, and the carriage stopped. Adeline alighted
hastily, took her child in her arms, and paid the driver; then she bowed
to her companion, and disappeared before the old gentleman had had time
to put his foot on the little stool which a street urchin had placed on
the ground to help him to alight from the vehicle.
“Poor young woman!” said the old man, looking in the direction in which
Adeline had disappeared; “how she runs! how excited she seems! dear me!
I hope that she will not learn any bad news.”
Adeline went as fast as it is possible to go when one has a child in
one’s arms. She asked the way to the Conciergerie; it was pointed out to
her, and she hurried on without stopping. Love and anxiety redoubled her
strength; she drew near at last; she saw a square--it was that in front
of the Palais de Justice.
That square was surrounded by people; the crowd was so dense that one
could hardly walk.
“And I must pass through,” said Adeline sadly to herself; “well, as
there is no other road, I must make one last effort and try to force my
way through.”
But why had so many people assembled there? Was it a fête-day, some
public rejoicing? Had some charlatan established his travelling booth
there? Was that multitude attracted by singers or jugglers, with their
music or their tricks? No, it was none of those things; our Parisian
idlers would show less interest, if it were a matter of pleasant
diversion only. It was an execution which was to take place; several
miserable wretches were to be branded, and exposed to public view upon
the fatal stool of repentance; and it was to gaze on that spectacle,
distressing to mankind, that those children, those young maidens, those
old men, hastened thither so eagerly! Are you surprised to hear it? Do
you not know that La Grève is crowded, that the windows which look on
the square are rented, when a criminal is to undergo capital punishment
there? And whom do we see gloat with the greatest avidity over these
ghastly spectacles? Women, young women, whose faces are instinct with
gentleness and sensitiveness.--What takes place in the depths of the
human heart, if this excess of stoicism is to be found in a weak and
timid sex?
But let us do justice to those who shun such abhorrent spectacles, and
who cannot endure to look upon an execution. Adeline was one of these;
she did not know what was about to happen on the square, and she paid no
attention to the cries of the mob that surrounded her.
“Here they come! here they come!” cried the people; “ah! just wait and
see what faces they will make in a minute, when they feel the red hot
iron!”
Adeline tried to cross the square, but she could not do it; the crowd
either forced her back or dragged her in the opposite direction; thus,
without intention, she found herself quite near the gendarmes who
surrounded the culprits. She raised her eyes, and saw the miserable
wretches, marked with the brand of infamy. She instantly looked away,
she preferred not to see that horrid spectacle. At that moment a piteous
cry arose; it came from one of the wretches who had just been branded.
That cry went to Adeline’s heart, it revolutionized all her senses; she
heard it constantly, for she had recognized the griefstricken tone. A
sentiment which she could not control caused her to turn her eyes toward
the culprits. A man, still young, but pale, downcast, disfigured, was
bound upon the stool in front of her. Adeline gazed at him. She could
not fail to recognize him. The miserable wretch’s eyes met hers. It was
Edouard, it was her husband, who had been cast out from society, and
whom she found upon the stool of repentance.
A shriek of horror escaped from the young woman’s lips. The criminal
dropped his head on his breast, and Adeline, beside herself, bereft of
her senses, succumbed at last to the violence of her grief, and fell
unconscious to the ground, still pressing her child to her bosom with a
convulsive movement.
XXX
GOODMAN GERVAL
The French, especially the lower classes, have this merit, that they
pass readily from one sensation to another; after witnessing an
execution, they will stop in front of a Punch and Judy show; they laugh
and weep with amazing rapidity; and the same man who has just pushed his
neighbor roughly aside because he prevented him from seeing a criminal
led to the gallows, will eagerly raise and succor the unfortunate mortal
whom destitution or some accident causes to fall at his feet.