A SISTER OF MERCY
Some betterment of his circumstances must have come to Vandecque
between the time when he had returned from the South and now (how it
had come, whether by villainy or honest labour, if he ever turned his
hand to such a thing, it would be impossible to say), since the
garret, though still poor and miserable, presented a better appearance
than it had previously done. There were, to wit, some chairs in it at
this time; cheap common things, yet fit to sit upon; a table with the
pretence of a cloth upon it; also a carpet, with a pattern that must
once have been so splendid that the beholder could but conclude that
it had passed from hand to hand in its descent, until it had at last'
reached this place. A miserable screen also shut off a bed in which,
doubtless, Vandecque reposed, while a large cupboard was fitted up as
a small bedroom, or closet, in which possibly the child slept.
In one of these chairs the owner of the room invited his visitor to be
seated, in the other he placed himself, the table between them. Then,
after a pause, while Vandecque's eyes sought again and again those of
the sister's, as though their owner was wondering what the next
revelation would be, the latter recommenced the conversation. She
repeated, too, the purport of her former words, if not the words
themselves.
"Doubtless Madame Jasmin told you that you might expect my coming. It
has been delayed longer than it should have been. Yet--yet--even in
the circumstances of my--of the person for whom I act--money is not
always quite easy to be obtained," and she looked at Vandecque as
though expecting an answer in assent.
"Naturally. Naturally," he made haste to reply, his quick wits
prompting him to understand what that reply should be, while also they
told him that this explanation, coupled with the presence here of the
visitor, gave an almost certain testimony to the fact that the money
mentioned had been now obtained. "Naturally. And--and--it was of no
import. Since my poor wife passed away we have managed to struggle
through our existence somehow."
Yet he would have given those ears which had so often been in peril of
the executioner's knife to know from what possible source any money
could have become due to his late wife. Her first husband had died in
almost poverty, he recalled; they had soon spent what little he had
had to leave his widow. Then, even as he thus pondered, the sister's
voice broke in on him again.
"It is understood that this is the last sum. And that it is applied,
as agreed upon with your late wife, to the proper bringing up and
educating of the child, and to her support by you. You understand
that; you give your promise as a man of honour? Your wife said that
you were a 'sailor'--sailors are, I have heard, always honourable
men."
"I--I was a sailor at the time she took charge of little Laure. As
one--as a man of honour--I promise. She shall have nought to complain
of. And I have come to love her. I--believe me--I have been good to
her, as good as, in my circumstances, I could be."
And, knave as Vandecque was, he was speaking the truth now. He had
been good to the child. These two, so strangely brought together, had
grown fond of each other, and the vagabond not only found a place in
his heart for the little thing, but, which was equally as much to the
purpose, found for himself a place in hers. If he had ever seriously
thought, in the first days of finding her in his garret, of sending
her to the home for abandoned children, he had long since forgotten
those ideas. He would not have parted with her now for that possible
sum of money which it seemed extremely likely he was going to become
the possessor of for having retained her.
"I do not doubt it. Yet, ere I can give you the money, there are
conditions to be complied with. First, I must see the child; next, you
must give me your solemn promise--a promise in writing--that you will
conform to my demands as to the bringing of her up. You will not
refuse?"
"Refuse!" said Vandecque. "Refuse! Madame, what is there to refuse?
That which you demand is that which I have ever intended, not
knowing that you were--not knowing when to expect your coming. Now
you have brought the money--you have brought it, have you not?"
speaking a little eagerly (for the life of him he could not help that
eagerness)--"my dearest desire can be accomplished."
"Yes, I have brought it," the woman answered. "It is here," and she
took from out her pocket a little canvas sack or bag, that to
Vandecque's eyes looked plump and fat. "It contains the promised sum,"
she said, "and it is--should be--enough. With that the child can be
fed, clothed, educated, if you husband it well. Fitted for a decent,
if simple, life. You agree that it is so, Monsieur Jasmin?"
Vandecque bowed his head courteously, acquiescingly, while muttering,
"Without doubt it is enough with careful husbanding." Yet, once more
he would have given everything, all he had in the world--though 'twas
little enough--to know what that small canvas bag contained. While, as
for acquiescing in its sufficiency, he would have done that even
though it contained but a handful of silver, as he thought might after
all be the case.
"Take it then," she said, passing it across the table to him, while
the principal thought in Vandecque's mind as she did so was that,
whosoever had chosen this simpleton for his, or her agent, must be a
fool, or one who had but little choice in the selection of a
go-between, "and, if you choose, count the gold; you will find it as
promised."
Count the gold! So it was gold! A bag full! Some two or three hundred
pieces at least, or he, whose whole life had been spent in getting
such things by hook or by crook, in gambling hells, or by, as that
accursed advocate had said who prosecuted for the King, theft and
larceny, or as a coiner, was unable to form any judgment. And they
were his, must be his, now. Were they not in his own room, to his
hand? Even though this idiotic Sister of Charity should decide to
repossess herself of them, what chance would she have of doing so.
Against him, the ex-galley slave. Him! the knave.
Yet he had to play a part, to reserve his efforts for something more
than this present bag of louis'. If one such was forthcoming, another
might be, in spite of what the foolish woman had said about it being
the last; for were there not such things as spyings and trackings, and
the unearthing of secrets; would there not be, afterwards, such things
as the discovery of some wealthy man or woman's false step? Oh that it
might be a woman's, since they were so much easier to deal with. And
then, extortion; blackmail. Ha! there was a bird somewhere in France
that laid golden eggs--that would lay golden eggs so long as it lived;
one that must be nourished and fed with confidence--at least, at
first--not frightened away.
He pushed the bag back towards the Sister, remembering he could wrench
it from her again at any moment. With a calm dignity, which might well
have become the most highbred gentleman of the Quartier St. Germain
hard by, he muttered that, as for counting, such an outrage was not to
be thought upon. Also he said:
"Madame has not seen the child. She stipulated that she should do so.
Had she not thus stipulated, I must myself have requested her to see
her."
Then he quitted the room, leaving the bag of money lying on the table,
and, descending one or two of the flights of stairs, sent a child whom
he knew, and whom he happened to observe leaving another room, to seek
for little Laure and bid her return at once. At one moment ere he
descended he had thought of turning the key (which he had left outside
when he and his visitor entered the apartment) softly in the lock and
thereby preventing her from escaping; but he remembered that he would
be on the stairs between her and the street, and that he did not mean
to go farther than the doorstep. She was safe.
He returned, therefore, saying that the child would be with them
shortly. Then to expedite matters (as he said), he asked if it would
not be well for him to sign the receipt as desired? The receipt or
promise, as to what he undertook to perform.
"That, too, is here," she replied, while Vandecque's shrewd eye
noticed, even as she spoke, that the bag of louis' lay untouched as he
had left it. "Read it, then sign."
He did read it, laughing inwardly to himself meanwhile, though showing
a grave, thoughtful face outwardly, since his sharp intelligence told
him that it was a document of no value whatever. It was made out in
the form of a receipt from Madame Jasmin--who had had no legal
existence for twelve years, and was now dead--to a person whose name
was carefully and studiously omitted from the paper (though that, he
knew, would afterwards be filled up) on behalf of a female child,
"styled Laure by the woman Jasmin." A piece of paper, he told himself,
not worth the drop of ink spilt upon it. Or, even though it were so,
not ever likely to be used or produced by the individual who took such
pains to shroud himself, or herself, in mystery. A worthless document,
which he would have signed for a franc, let alone a bag of golden
louis.'
Aloud, however, he said:
"To make it legal in the eyes of his Majesty's judges, the name of my
dear wife must be altered to that of mine. Shall I do it or will you?"
"You, if it pleases you."
Whereon Vandecque altered the name of "la femme Jasmin" to that of "le
Sieur Jasmin," householder, since, as he justly remarked aloud, he was
no longer a sailor, and then, with many flourishes--he being a master
hand at penmanship of all kinds--signed beneath the document the
words, "Christophe Jasmin." Christophe was not his name, but, as he
said to himself saturninely, no more was Jasmin, wherefore he might as
well assume the one as the other. Moreover, he reflected that should
the paper ever see the light again, it might be just as well for him
to be able to deny the whole name as a part of it.
As he finished this portion of the transaction, the door opened and
little Laure came in, hot and flushed with the games she had been
playing with the other _gamines_ of the court, yet with already upon
her face the promise of that beauty which was a few years later to
captivate the hearts of all who saw her, including the Duc Desparre
and the English exile, Walter Clarges. Only, there was as yet no sign
upon that face of the melancholy and sorrow which those later years
brought to it as she came to understand the life her guardian led; to
understand, too, the rottenness of the existence by which she was
surrounded. Instead, she was bright and merry as a child of her years
should be, gay and insouciant, not understanding nor foreseeing how
dark an opening to Life's future was hers. As for externals, she was
well enough dressed; better dressed, indeed, than those among whom she
mixed. Her little frock of dark Nimes serge--the almost invariable
costume of the lowly in France--was not a mass of rags and filth, her
boots and thread stockings not altogether a mockery.
"Madame sees," Vandecque remarked, as the child ran towards him with
her hands outstretched and her eyes full of gladness, until she
stopped, embarrassed at the sight of the strange lady with the solemn
glance; "Madame sees; she recognises that she need have no fear, no
apprehension."
"I see." Then, because she was a woman, she called Laure to her and
kissed and fondled the child, muttering, "Poor child; poor little
thing," beneath her breath. And, though she would have shuddered and
besought pardon for days and nights afterwards on her knees, had she
recognised what was passing through her mind, she was in truth
uttering maledictions on the mother who could thus send away for ever
from her so gentle and helpless a little creature as this; who could
send her forth to the life she was now leading, to the life that must
be before her.
The interview was at an end, and the sister rose from her seat. As for
Vandecque, he would willingly have given half of whatever might be in
that bag of money still lying on the table--his well-acted
indifference to the presence of such a thing preventing him from even
casting the most casual glance at it--could he have dared to ask one
question, or throw out one inquiry as to whom the principal might be
in the affair. Yet it was impossible to do so since he was supposed to
know all that his wife had known, while actually not aware if she
herself had been kept in ignorance of the child's connections or, on
the contrary, had been confided in. "If she had only known more," he
thought; "or, knowing more, had only divulged all to me."
But she was in her grave now, and, rascal though he had been, he could
not bring himself to curse the poor drudge lying in that grave for
having held her peace against such a man as he was, and knew himself
to be. If she knew all, then, he acknowledged, it was best she should
be silent; if she knew nothing--as he thought most likely--so, also,
it was best.
But, still, he meant to know himself, if possible, something about the
child's origin. He, at least, was under no promised bond of secrecy
and silence; he had never been confided in. For, to know everything
was, he felt certain, to see a comfortable future unroll itself before
him; a future free from all money troubles--the only discomfort which
he could imagine was serious in this world. The person who had sent
that bag of louis'--the woman had said it contained gold!--he repeated
to himself, could doubtless provide many more. He must know who that
person was.
With still an easy grace which seemed to be the remnant of a higher
life than that in which he now existed, he held the door open for his
visitor to pass out; with equally easy politeness he followed her down
the ricketty stairs and would have escorted her to the end of the
court, or alley, and afterwards, unknown to her, have followed the
simple creature to whatever portion of Paris she might have gone,
never losing sight of his quarry, but that, at the threshold, she
stopped suddenly and bade him come no farther.
"It must not be," she said. "Monsieur Jasmin, return. And--forget not
your duty to the child."
For a moment he paused dumfoundered, perceiving that this simpleton
was, in sober truth, no such fool as he had supposed her. Then he
bowed, wished her good day, promising all required of him as he did
so, and retired back into the passage of the house. Nor could any
glance thrown through the crack of the open door aid him farther. He
saw her pause at the entrance to the court, and, standing still, look
back for some minutes or so, as though desirous of observing if he was
following her; also, he saw her glance directed to the window of his
room above, as though seeking to discover if he was glancing out of
it; if he had rushed up there to spy upon her.
Then, a moment later, she was gone from out the entrance to the court.
And, creeping swiftly now to that entrance, and straining his eyes up
and down the long street, he observed that no sign of the woman was
visible.
He had lost all trace of her.
Amidst the hackney coaches and the hucksters' carts, and, sometimes, a
passing carriage of the nobility from the neighbouring Quartier St.
Germain, she had disappeared, leaving no sign behind.