pleasant spectacle they had come to see, and turned their attention to
the young woman who lay unconscious on the ground.
Adeline and her child were carried to the nearest café, and there
everything that could be done was done for the poor mother. Everybody
formed his or her own conjectures concerning the incident.
“Perhaps it was the crowd, or the heat, which was too much for this
pretty young lady,” said some. Others thought with more reason that the
stranger’s trouble seemed to be too serious to have been caused by so
simple a matter.
“Perhaps,” they said, “she saw among those poor devils someone she once
knew and loved.”
While they all tried to guess the cause of the accident, little Ermance
uttered piercing shrieks, and although she was too young to appreciate
her misfortune, she wept bitterly none the less because her mother did
not kiss her.
They succeeded at last in restoring the young woman to consciousness.
The unhappy creature! Did they do her a service thereby? Everybody
waited with curiosity to see what she would say; but Adeline gazed about
her with expressionless eyes; then, taking her daughter in her arms, as
if she wished to protect her from some peril, she started to leave the
café without uttering a word.
This extraordinary behavior surprised all those who were present.
“Why do you go away so soon, madame?” said one kindhearted old woman,
taking Adeline’s arm; “you must rest a little longer, and recover your
wits entirely.”
“Oh! I must go, I must go and join him,” Adeline replied, looking toward
the street; “he is there waiting for me; he motioned for me to rescue
him from that place, to take off those chains. I can still hear his
voice; yes, he is calling me. Listen, don’t you hear? He is
groaning--ah! that heartrending cry! Poor fellow! How they are hurting
him!”
Adeline fell motionless on a chair; her eyes turned away in horror from
a spectacle which she seemed to have constantly in her mind. All those
who stood about her shed tears; they saw that she had lost her reason;
one and all pitied the unfortunate creature and tried to restore peace
to her mind; but to no purpose did they offer her such comfort as they
could; Adeline did not hear them, she recognized no one but her
daughter, and persisted in her purpose to fly with her.
What were they to do? How could they find out who the family or the
kindred of the poor woman were? Her dress did not indicate wealth; the
bundle of clothes, containing in addition to her garments the jewels
that she had taken away, was not found by Adeline’s side when they
picked her up; doubtless some spectator, observing in anticipation the
place that he was likely to occupy some day, had found a way to abstract
Adeline’s property. So she seemed to be without means, and as with many
people, emotion is always sterile, they were already talking of taking
the poor woman to a refuge, and her child to the Foundling Hospital,
when the arrival of a new personage suspended their plans.
An old man entered the café and enquired the cause of the gathering.
Everyone tried to tell him the story. The stranger walked in, forcing
his way through the curious crowd of spectators who surrounded the
unfortunate young woman; he approached Adeline, and uttered a cry of
surprise when he recognized the person with whom he had travelled from
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges to Paris.
“It is really she!” he cried; and little Ermance held out her arms to
him with a smile; for she recognized the man who had given her bonbons
but a few hours before.
Thereupon the old man became an interesting character to the crowd, who
were most eager to learn the poor mother’s story. They all plied the old
gentleman with questions, and he, annoyed and wearied by their
importunities, sent for a carriage, and after learning from the keeper
of the café exactly what had happened to the young stranger, he put
Adeline and her child into the cab, and thus removed them from the
scrutiny of the curiosity seekers.
Adeline had fallen into a state of listless prostration. She allowed
herself to be taken away, without uttering a word; she seemed to pay no
heed to what was taking place about her, and even her daughter no longer
engaged her attention.
Monsieur Gerval--such was the old man’s name--gazed at the young woman
with deep emotion; he could not as yet believe that she whom he had seen
in the morning, sad, it is true, but in the full enjoyment of her
senses, could so soon be deprived of her reason. He lost himself in
conjectures as to the cause of that strange occurrence.
The cab stopped in front of a handsome, furnished lodging house. It was
where Monsieur Gerval stopped when he was in Paris. He was well known in
the house, and everyone treated him with the regard which his years and
his character deserved.
He caused Adeline and her daughter to alight and took them to his
hostess.
“Look you, madame,” he said, “here is a stranger whom I beg you to take
care of until further orders.”
“Ah! mon Dieu! how pretty she is! But what a melancholy expression! what
an air of depression!--Can’t she speak, Monsieur Gerval?”
“She is ill; she has undergone some great misfortune; they say even that
her mind----”
“Merciful heaven! what a pity!”
“I hope that with the best care, we shall succeed in calming her
excitement. I commend this unfortunate woman and her child to you.”
“Never fear, Monsieur Gerval, she shall have everything she
needs.--Another unfortunate of whom you have taken charge, I see.”
“What would you have, my dear hostess; a man must needs make himself
useful when he can. I have no children, and I am growing old; what good
would all my wealth do me, if I did not assist the unfortunate?
Moreover, it is a source of enjoyment to myself. I am like Florian’s
man: ‘I often do good for the pleasure of it.’”
“Ah! if all the rich men thought as you do, Monsieur Gerval!”
“Tell me, madame, has my old Dupré come in?”
“Yes, monsieur, he is waiting for you in your room.”
“I will go up to him. Look after this young woman, I beg you, and see
that she lacks nothing.”
“Rely upon me, monsieur.”
Worthy Monsieur Gerval went up to his apartment, where he found his old
servant Dupré impatiently awaiting his master’s return.
“Ah! here you are, monsieur; I was anxious because you stayed away so
long. Have you had a pleasant journey? Have you learned anything?”
“No, my friend; the house where the Murville family used to live is now
for sale. I was told that one Edouard Murville lived there for some time
with his wife, but no one knows what has become of them. And you,
Dupré?”
“I have found out nothing more, monsieur. Your old friends are dead; and
their children are nobody knows where. Several people did mention a
Murville, who was a business agent, then a swindler, and all-in-all a
thoroughly bad fellow. But no one was able or willing to tell me what
has become of him. Perhaps he may have been the younger of the two sons,
the one who ran away from his father’s house at fifteen; such an
escapade as that promises nothing good for the future.”
“I should be very sorry if it were so; I would have liked--but I see
that I have returned too late. My travels kept me away from Paris ten
years, and it was only within a year that, on retiring from business, I
was able to return to this city. But what changes ten years have
produced! My friends--to be sure they were quite old when I went
away--my friends are dead or else they have disappeared. That depresses
me, Dupré; there is nothing left for me in this city but memories. I
think we will leave it, and go back to my little place in the Vosges to
live; I propose to end my life there.--But let us drop this subject; I
have something to tell you, for my journey has not been altogether
without fruit; it has made me acquainted with a very interesting young
woman, who seems most unfortunate too.”
“Indeed! Where did monsieur meet her?”
“We returned to Paris in the same carriage; for notwithstanding your
advice, I made the trip in one of those miserable cabriolets.”
“Oh! the idea of subjecting yourself to such a jolting! That is
unreasonable!”
“Nonsense! nonsense! I’m perfectly well, and I congratulate myself that
I did not take your advice, as I travelled with a poor woman, whom I
found afterward by chance in a most melancholy plight.”
Monsieur Gerval told the servant what had happened to him, and the
chance which had led to his finding the traveller again in a café, just
as those present were talking of taking her to a refuge. Dupré, whose
heart was as soft as his master’s, was very impatient to see the young
woman and her pretty little girl; he followed his master, who asked to
be taken to the room which had been given to Adeline.
Edouard’s wife was pacing the floor excitedly, while little Ermance was
lying in an armchair. The entrance of Monsieur Gerval and Dupré caused
Adeline a moment’s terror; she ran to her daughter and seemed to be
afraid that it was their intention to take her away from her.
“Don’t be alarmed, madame,” said the old man gently, as he approached
her; “it is a friend who has come to comfort you. Tell me your
troubles; I shall be able to lighten them, I hope.”
“What a crowd there is about me!” said Adeline, glancing wildly about;
“what a multitude of people! Why this gathering? Ah! I will not, no, I
will not stop on this square. They have come here to gaze on those poor
wretches. Let me go! But I cannot; the cruel crowd forces me back. Ah! I
must close my eyes, and not look! He is there, close to me!”
She fell upon a chair and put her hands before her face.
“Poor woman!” said Dupré; “some horrible thing must have happened to
her. Do you know, monsieur, that it seems to me that this unfortunate
creature belongs to a good family? Her clothes are very simple, almost
like a peasant’s; but for all that, I will bet that this woman is no
peasant.”
“Why, of course not; I can see that as well as you. But how are we to
find out who she is? If this child could talk better----”
“The little girl is waking up, monsieur; give her some bonbons and try
to make out the name she mentions.”
Gerval went to Ermance and kissed her; the child recognized him and went
to him of her own accord. He gave her bonbons, danced her on his knees,
and she lisped the name of Jacques; for it was Jacques who played with
her and danced with her every evening.
“One would say that she knows you, monsieur,” said Dupré to his master;
“I believe it is Jacques she says; just listen.”
“Poor child; it is true. Perhaps that is her father’s name. Let us try
to find out if that is really the name she is lisping; if it is, her
mother knows it without any question.”
The old man walked toward Adeline, uttering the name of Jacques in a
loud voice. The young woman instantly arose and repeated the name.
“Good! she understood us,” whispered Dupré.
“You are looking for Jacques,” said Adeline to Monsieur Gerval; “oh! in
pity’s name, do not tell him this horrible secret; let him always remain
ignorant of his shame! Poor Jacques! he would die of grief. Oh! promise
me that you will say nothing to him.”
Honest Gerval promised, and Dupré sadly shook his head.
“It is of no use,” he said to his master, “there is no hope.--But what
is your plan?”
“We must make all possible investigations. You, Dupré, will go to
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, and inquire about all the Jacqueses there are
in the village; in short, you will try to find out something. If we
cannot discover anything then, I will see what----”
“Ah! I am very sure, my dear master, that you won’t abandon this young
woman and this poor child.”
“No, Dupré, no, I shall not abandon them. But it is late and I am tired.
I am going to bed, and to-morrow we will begin our search.”
Having once more commended Adeline and her daughter to the people of the
house, honest Gerval retired.
During the night as during the day, Adeline was intensely excited at
times, talking incoherently, and sometimes in a state of the most
complete prostration, seeming to see nothing of what took place about
her. They observed, however, that any noise, the sound of a loud voice,
or the faintest cry, made her jump, and threw her into the wildest
delirium.
The next day a doctor summoned by Monsieur Gerval came to see the
unhappy young woman, but all his skill could accomplish nothing more
than to calm her a little; he thought that a tranquil existence would
make the alarming outbursts of her mania less frequent. But he gave
little hope of the restoration of her reason, as he knew nothing of the
cause which had led to its being unseated.
Dupré went to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges and inquired concerning all the
Jacqueses in the neighborhood. Only two peasants bore that name, and
they had no idea what he meant by his questions about the young woman
and her daughter. Dupré was unable to learn anything, and he returned to
his master.
Monsieur Gerval had made no further progress in his investigations in
Paris; the newspapers did not mention the disappearance of a young woman
and her daughter from their home, and he could obtain no information
concerning the name and family of his protégées.
Ten days passed, and Adeline was still in the same condition. Her
prostration was less frequently disturbed by violent outbreaks; but when
by chance a cry reached her ear, her delirium became terrible to see,
and her condition was horrifying. Only her daughter’s voice never acted
unfavorably upon her; that voice always went to the heart of the poor
mother, who never mistook her child’s accents.
“My dear Dupré,” said Monsieur Gerval to his servant, at the end of
those ten days, “I see that we must abandon the hope of ever finding out
who this interesting young woman is. I have made up my mind what to do,
my friend: I have determined to take these unfortunate creatures with
me. As you know, I am going to retire to my estate in the Vosges. That
solitary place, surrounded by woods, is best suited to our poor invalid.
That is the doctor’s opinion, and we must be guided by it; and at all
events nothing will disturb the tranquillity which the poor creature
requires. We will look to it that she hears no cries there. We will
bring up her daughter; Catherine, who is so fond of children, will look
after the poor child, and the innocent darling’s caresses will pay me
for what I do for her mother.--Well, what do you think of my plan,
Dupré?”
“It delights me, monsieur, and I recognize yourself in it. Always kind
and always doing good! You give all you have to the unfortunate.”
“That is my pleasure; I have no family, the unfortunate are my children.
As you know, I came to Paris with the hope of learning something of a
certain little boy whom I loved in his infancy, and who besides is
entitled to my protection. But faith, as I can’t find him, this little
girl shall take his place. From this moment I adopt her; I take charge
of her mother, and I thank Providence for selecting me to be their
protector.”
The next day honest Gerval put his plan into execution: he bought a
large and commodious berlin, placed in it everything that the young
woman and her daughter would need on the journey; and then, having left
his address with the landlady, so that she might write to him in case
she should learn anything concerning the strangers, the protector of
Adeline and Ermance left Paris with them and his old servant, for the
country residence where he proposed to end his days in peace.
XXXI
JACQUES AND SANS-SOUCI
While honest Gerval’s carriage bore Adeline and her daughter toward the
north of France, what were Jacques’s thoughts concerning the sudden
disappearance of the two persons whom he loved best? In order to
ascertain, let us return to the farm.
On his return from the fields, surprised to find that Adeline and her
daughter, who were always the first to reward his labors with a caress,
did not come to meet him, Jacques looked about for his sister. Disturbed
to find that she was not in the living room, he asked Louise if she were
not well.
“I hope nothing’s the matter with her,” said the farmer’s wife, “but I
haven’t seen her all day; you know sometimes she likes to stay by
herself in her room, and I don’t dare to disturb her. But she ought to
be with us before this.”
“I will go and look for her,” said Jacques; and he hurried up to
Adeline’s room.
The peasants also began to fear that Adeline was ill. Sans-Souci said
nothing, but he was more anxious than the rest, for he remembered what
he had told Adeline that morning, and he suspected that she had done
something on impulse. They all impatiently awaited Jacques’s return. He
came down at last, but grief and melancholy were expressed on his
features, his eyes were moist and his brow was dark.
“What has happened?” cried the peasants.
“She has gone, she has left us,” said Jacques, pacing the floor, raising
his eyes to the ceiling, clenching his fists, and pausing now and then
to stamp the floor violently.
“She has gone!” repeated the whole family sadly.
“Oh! that ain’t possible,” said Guillot.
“Here, read this;” and Jacques threw down in front of the farmer the
paper that Adeline had left. Guillot took it and gazed at it earnestly
for some moments.
“Well!” said Sans-Souci, walking toward him, “what does she say?”
“You see, I don’t know how to read,” replied Guillot, still staring at
the paper. Sans-Souci snatched it from his hands and read it aloud.
“You see she tells us not to be worried about her absence,” said Louise;
“she will come back soon, I’m sure.”
“Oh! so far as that goes, I will answer for it too,” said Guillot; “she
wouldn’t leave us without saying good-bye to us, that’s sure!”
Sans-Souci agreed with the peasants, and he tried to comfort his friend.
“But where has she gone?” said Jacques. “Why this sudden departure? She
didn’t seem to have any idea of it yesterday; and for a young woman,
weak as she is, to travel with a child that has to be carried--She will
make herself sick. Ah! she must have had some news from Paris. Ten
thousand bayonets! If I knew that anything had been kept from me----”
As he said this, Jacques’s eyes turned toward Sans-Souci, who looked at
the floor, twisted his moustache and utterly failed to conceal his
embarrassment.
“Come, come, Brother Jacques, let us wait before we lose hope,” said the
farmer’s wife, urging the honest plowman to go to bed; “perhaps she
will be back to-morrow.”
“Yes,” said Guillot, “and we will have a famous soup to celebrate, and
we will drink some of last year’s wine, which is beginning to be just
right.”
Sans-Souci dared not say anything; he was afraid of becoming confused
and betraying himself; his comrade’s glances closed his mouth.
“I will wait a few days,” said Jacques; “but if she doesn’t come back,
then I will go to find her, even if I have to go to the end of the
world.”
They parted for the night sadly enough. Several days passed, and Adeline
did not return. All pleasure and peace of mind had vanished from the
farm; Jacques neglected his work, Guillot his fields, the farmer’s wife
her household duties; Sans-Souci neglected the farmer’s wife, and
everybody was unhappy. No more ballads, merry meals, amusing stories, or
descriptions of battles. Sans-Souci was losing hope of Adeline’s return;
he bitterly repented having told her of her husband, and he hovered
about Jacques, but dared not confess the truth to him.
On the eighth day Jacques announced that he was going to start out in
search of his sister. Sans-Souci decided then to speak; he took his
comrade aside and began by tearing out a handful of hair, and heaving a
profound sigh.
“What is the meaning of all this groaning?” asked Jacques; “speak, and
stop your nonsense.”
“Look you, comrade, I am an infernal brute! I am corked up like the
barrel of Guillot’s gun, and yet I did everything for the best.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am the cause of your dear sister’s leaving the farm.”
“You! you villain!”
“If you don’t forgive me, I’ll put five pounds of lead between my
eyebrows.”
“Nonsense! Speak, I implore you.”
“I found out that your brother was in prison; I didn’t dare to tell you
and I didn’t mean to tell his wife either; but she urged me so hard, and
you know that women do whatever they want to with me, especially the
ones that I respect; and then I thought that she might comfort her
husband a little.”
“And do you think that I have an iron heart? My brother is unfortunate,
that ends it; I forget the way he received me; I too must comfort him.”
“Poor Jacques! I was sure of it.”
“And yet you kept your mouth shut, you idiot, and you left me consumed
with anxiety--Poor woman! Perhaps she is with him!”
“Parbleu! there’s no doubt of that!”
“Is he in prison in Paris?”
“Yes--wait--he is at the Conciergerie.”
“He must have spent and sold everything, and his creditors had him
arrested!--Ah! if I were rich, brother, how happy I would be to be of
some use to you! But fate has willed it otherwise.--No matter; I can at
least prove to you that you still have a friend.--Sans-Souci, I am going
to Paris.”
“So am I; morbleu! I will go with you; I don’t propose to leave you.”
“Very well. We won’t say anything to the peasants about my brother’s
imprisonment; those excellent people would be quite capable of insisting
upon doing still more to assist us, and we must not accept it; they have
done enough for us already.”
“You are always right. I agree with you; let us go and say good-bye to
them; forward!”
Jacques and Sans-Souci embraced the peasants and told them that they
were going to look for Adeline; then they started for Paris, where they
arrived that afternoon.
“You know the way,” said Jacques to his comrade; “take me to the prison.
I will ask to speak to the commander, the captain, the governor; in
fact, to speak to everybody, if necessary; this honorable decoration
will serve as my safe-conduct.”
“Look you, I don’t know the prison any better than you do, but I’ll take
you to my old friend, who is the messenger to the prisoners; he will
tell us how we must go to work to see your brother.”
“Very well, let us speak to your friend; I trust that we may find him.”
“Yes,” said Sans-Souci; “I see him now, over yonder.”
They quickened their pace and accosted the messenger, who recognized his
friend, and shook hands with him, asking him what brought him to Paris.
“Let us sit down on this stone bench and talk,” said Sans-Souci; “this
is my comrade, a fine fellow----”
“He has some scars and a bit of ribbon which say enough.--Can I help you
in any way, messieurs?”
“Yes, we have come on important business--we want to see a prisoner. You
know, that Edouard Murville, whom you mentioned to me the last time I
saw you; well, my comrade is his brother.”
“You are his brother?” said the messenger, looking at Jacques with
compassion. “I am sorry for you.”
“I am not the one to be sorry for,” said Jacques; “he is the one, since
he is unfortunate; for he has not been guilty of any dishonorable act, I
trust?”
“What have you come here for?” said the messenger, without answering
Jacques’s question.
“Morbleu! we have come to see my brother; his wife and child have been
here already to console him.”
“No woman has been here to see him, I assure you; in fact, no woman has
attempted to see him.”
“Is it possible?”
“It would be useless now to try to see him, for--he is no longer at the
Conciergerie.”
“He isn’t there? Where is he then?”
“Why, why--I cannot--tell you exactly.”
“What! Damnation! Can’t I find out where my brother is?”
“Come, come, my poor Jacques, don’t be discouraged,” said Sans-Souci;
“my friend isn’t well posted; we will try to find out something more.”
“I tell you again, messieurs, that Edouard Murville is no longer in this
prison, and that he must have left Paris before this. Adieu, my good
Jacques, take my advice and return to your village; do not try to learn
anything more, and forget a brother who is altogether unworthy of you.”
The messenger, deeply moved, pressed Jacques’s hand, and turned away
from the friends, after saying this.
Jacques stood in deep thought; his brow darkened, his glance became more
stern. Sans-Souci also was silent; he began to fear that it was not
simply for debt that his comrade’s brother had been arrested. The two
honest fellows dared not communicate their thoughts to each other, and
the darkness surprised them seated on the stone bench and lost in their
reflections.