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 anexecution. 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.
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.
The gossips and the young girls who crowded Place du Palais forgot the 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 shewas 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 shehad 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 havedisappeared. 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 tocomfort 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 skillcould 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 byit; 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.
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 honestplowman 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.
“What are we going to do now?” asked Sans-Souci at last; “we are sitting here like two lost sentinels; but we must make up our minds to something.”
“Let us hunt for Adeline and her child,” said Jacques, in a gloomy voice, “and forget Edouard. I am beginningto fear that the wretch—let us look for Adeline; she will never make me blush.”
“Oh! for her I would rush into the hottest fire.”
“Poor woman! poor little Ermance! Where are they now? Perhaps her grief at learning that her husband—oh! why did you tell her that, Sans-Souci?”
“Don’t mention it. I would to God that you would use my tongue for a cartridge.”
“There is no rest for me until I know what has become of them. Let us search Paris and enquire at every house if necessary; and if we don’t find them in this city, let us search the whole of France, towns, hamlets, villages.”
“Corbleu! yes, we will go to the devil if necessary! But we will find them, comrade, we will find them, I tell you that.”
Jacques and his companion took rooms at a poor inn; they were on foot with the dawn, and scoured every quarter of the city, enquiring everywhere for Adeline and her child; but no one could give them any information concerning the young woman whom they sought. The sight of unfortunate people is so common that little attention is paid to them. However, sometimes the abode of some poor mother was pointed out to them; they would visit her, and find that she was not the object of their search.
On the eleventh day after their arrival in Paris, Jacques and Sans-Souci were walking on the boulevard, always thinking of Adeline and cudgeling their brains to divine what could have become of her.
Suddenly the people on the sidewalk pressed toward the driveway, seemingly awaiting some curious sight.
“What is going by?” Sans-Souci asked a workman who had stopped near him.
“It’s the chain of convicts, starting from Bicêtre to go to the galleys at Toulon,” was the reply. “See, here, here’s the wagon coming now; we shall see them in a minute.”
“It is hardly worth while to crowd so to see a parcel of villains,” said Sans-Souci.
“They ask for alms on the road.”
“If they had any pluck, they would ask to be shot.—Come, Jacques, let’s not stay here; I haven’t any pity for those fellows.”
“I want to stay,” said Jacques with emotion; “I want to see them.”
The vehicle came forward slowly, and Jacques, impelled by a secret presentiment, drew very near, and took a few sous from his pocket. Soon the convicts were before him; they held out their crime-stained hands, imploring the pity of the passers-by. Jacques scrutinized them closely, and noticed one who did not imitate his companions in infamy, but who tried on the contrary to avoid the eyes of the crowd; but the villain with whom he was shackled was one of those who displayed the most effrontery; he jerked him violently, and that movement afforded Jacques an opportunity to see the poor wretch’s features; it seemed to him that he recognized his brother. The cold sweat stood on his forehead; and with a movement swifter than thought, he put his hand to his buttonhole and removed his decoration, which he instantly thrust into his breast.
The wagon had gone on, and Jacques followed it with his eyes. Sans-Souci pulled his arm.
“Come,” he said to him; “how in the devil can you take any pleasure in looking at those beggars?—But what’s the matter with you? Your face is all distorted.”
“Ah! I am ruined, Sans-Souci! dishonored!”
“You, dishonored! that is impossible; do be reasonable.”
“My brother——”
“Well?”
Jacques dared not utter the fatal words; but with his hand he pointed to the chain of convicts, who could still be seen in the distance.
“It wasn’t he, my friend, you made a mistake.”
“Ah! would to God I had! But no, it was no mistake; and the words of that kindhearted messenger, his compassionate air as he spoke to me and shook my hand.—There is no more doubt; I understand everything now.”
“Well! even if your brother is a miserable villain, is it your fault? Did you fight for your country any the less, and thrash its enemies? And have the scars vanished from your face and your breast? Ten thousand million citadels! Who could ever blush for having known you? I will make the man swallow ten inches of my sword!”
“Ah! my name is sullied, my friend. O father! if you knew!”
“Your father is dead; if he was alive, your glory would console him for your brother’s shame.”
“No, Sans-Souci, consolation for such a calamity is impossible. There is but one thing left for me to do, and that is to overtake those wretched creatures, to find some way to approach the man whom I can no longer call my brother, and to blow his brains out, and then do the same by myself.”
“That’s a very pretty scheme of yours. But you won’t carry it out. You will remember that you have a sister, for that dear Adeline loves you like a brother; you will remember little Ermance, whom you danced on your knees; you will not deprive those poor creatures of thelast friend who is left to them; you will forget your grief in order to allay theirs, and with them you will feel that you have not lost everything.—But we shall find them, comrade; we will search every corner of the earth; how do you know that they are not at the farm now, or in some poor cabin where they need our help? and you would leave this world when there are unfortunate mortals here who rely upon you? No, sacrebleu! that shall not be! You surrender, you are touched. Come, Jacques, be brave in grief as you were under fire, and forward march!”
Jacques allowed himself to be persuaded by his comrade, who took advantage of that circumstance to induce him to leave a city where they had lost all hope of discovering Adeline; and they returned to the farm, still flattering themselves that they would find the young fugitive there.
But that last hope was soon destroyed; the sadness of the peasants left them in no doubt. Jacques insisted upon starting off again at once in search of Adeline and her child, and only with great difficulty did they persuade him to remain one night at the farm. They saw that Brother Jacques was gloomy and melancholy since he had been in Paris; but the peasants attributed his gloom to the non-success of his search.
Sans-Souci made all their preparations for a journey which he thought with good reason would be likely to last a long while. Louise was greatly grieved to have her cousin go away, but she realized that he ought not to abandon his friend. The farmer’s wife thrust a well-filled purse into the bag of each of the travellers. It was simply their wages for all the time that they had worked at the farm; but she dared not offer it to them, for she knew that the method that she employed wasthe best one to avoid a refusal. Kindhearted folk are always shrewd and clever, when it is a question of doing a kind act.
At dawn Jacques was up. Sans-Souci soon joined him. He appeared with his bag over his shoulder, and a stout staff in his hand, and said to his comrade:
“Whenever you are ready, forward march!”
The two friends were about to start. The farmer and his family came forward weeping, to bid them adieu. The children, who had long been accustomed to play with Jacques’s moustaches and to roll on the grass with Sans-Souci, clung to the legs of both travellers, and would not let them go. Louise held a corner of her apron to her eyes, and her sighs said much more than her words. Guillot was no less sorrowful than the rest.
“I say! I’m going to be left alone with my wife, am I?” he said; “what a stupid time I shall have!—Here, comrade Jacques, let me give you a little present for your journey; it may be of some use to you; for you don’t know where you may be.”
As he spoke, Guillot handed Jacques a pair of small pocket pistols.
“I bought them second-hand in the village not long ago, of an old soldier; my idea was to give ’em to you on your birthday, but so long as you’re going away, why take ’em now.”
Jacques thanked the honest farmer and accepted his present; then, after embracing everybody, he set forth with Sans-Souci, swearing not to return to the farm without Adeline, and to take no rest until he had found her.
Jacques was not mistaken when he thought he saw his brother among the convicts. The unhappy Edouard had undergone his punishment for the crime which he had allowed himself to be led into committing. His sentence condemned him to twenty years hard labor, to be branded and exposed to public view.
Lampin, who had already been in prison for theft, was sentenced to the galleys for life. In vain did he repeat to Edouard his lesson, and urge him to deny everything; Edouard had not enough strength of character to form a resolution. He contradicted himself, betrayed himself, and allowed himself to be easily convicted of his crime. The miserable wretch recognized his wife and child at the moment that he was branded with the mark of infamy. He saw Adeline fall unconscious before him; that heartrending picture was long present in his mind; the image of a woman who adored him and whose life he had wrecked, the sight of a child whom he condemned to the shame of not being able to mention her father without a shudder, and the memory of the happiness he had once enjoyed in his home,—all these overwhelmed the unhappy felon and made him feel more keenly the horror of his situation.
Remorse gnawed at Edouard’s heart, and led him, so far as he was able, to avoid the society of the other prisoners, who laughed at his grief and sneered at hiscowardice. A hundred times the poor wretch formed a plan to put an end to his existence, but only in fear and trembling did he invent methods which his weak character instantly spurned. In this frame of mind Murville made the journey from Bicêtre to Toulon, without observing that his brother gave alms to his companions as they passed through Paris.
Lampin was always the same; at the galleys he retained his recklessness and gayety; shame was to him nothing more than an empty word, and he strove every day to lift Edouard above what he called prejudice.
The penitent culprit never receives useful advice in the society of galley slaves. For one criminal who knows the pangs of remorse, how many are there who become hardened in crime and take pleasure in corrupting entirely those whom sincere repentance might have led back into the paths of virtue!
The image of Adeline and her daughter gradually faded from Edouard’s mind, and gave way to the schemes of which his companions talked to him day after day. He banished a remorse which they proved to be useless, in order to invent some plan of escape; and after six months of imprisonment, distaste for life was replaced in his mind by an ardent longing for liberty.
A bold scheme was formed. Even at the galleys, prisoners find a way of establishing relations with those of their friends who are momentarily enjoying their freedom; and these latter brave everything to serve their comrades, because they know that they are likely at any day to demand a similar service from them.
It was Lampin who supervised the execution of the plot. Forced to be sober, he was in full possession of his wits. The day, the moment arrived. A keeper, who had been bribed, left a door unlocked; the convicts, suppliedwith files, removed their fetters; they assembled at midnight, killed three watchmen, and made their way into a yard, the wall of which was easily scaled by men accustomed to climb walls. Lampin went up first; Edouard followed him, clinging to the chain which his companion still had attached to his feet; several convicts had thus passed over the wall and jumped into the ditch which was on the other side. But musket shots were heard, the alarm was given, the garrison was under arms, soldiers ran to the walls and fired at the prisoners. Several fell dead, others surrendered, the revolt was put down; but it was some time before they could ascertain the number of those who had escaped.
Lampin and Edouard had heard the report of shots. They succeeded in getting out of the ditch, but where should they go? How could they make their escape quickly enough? Already soldiers were scouring the city and the harbor; soon they would fall into their hands. Edouard was in despair, and Lampin was cudgeling his brains, swearing that they should not take him alive. But at that moment they heard the sound of bells on a horse, and soon an open wagon, loaded with vegetables and driven by a young peasant, passed them. The peasant was seated in the front of the wagon, fast asleep, with his reins lying on the back of the horse, which followed at a slow pace its accustomed road.
“Do as I do,” said Lampin, running after the wagon. “We are saved.”
He climbed up behind, made a great hole in the peas, cabbages and carrots, and climbed into it, followed by Edouard, leaving hardly enough space to give them air. The peasant turned, rubbed his eyes, and saw nothing, for he was still half asleep; and he was preparing to snore louder than ever, when some soldiers passed the wagon.
“Did you meet anyone, my friend?” asked the sergeant of the peasant.
“No, no, no one, messieurs, no one but donkeys, wagons and people from our place.”
“Be on the lookout; some convicts have escaped; if you see any of them, call for help and notice which way they go.”
The soldiers passed on. The peasant lay down again, mumbling between his teeth:
“Oh, yes! I think I see myself watching convicts! I would much rather dream about my dear Manette; anyway I ain’t afraid of them; those fellows don’t amuse themselves stealing cabbages and carrots.”
“We are saved!” said Edouard to his companion, in an undertone.
“Not yet,” said Lampin; “this peasant is taking his vegetables to market, and if he should uncover us, I don’t believe he would take us for two bunches of onions.”
“What are we to do then?”
“Parbleu! we must take to the fields; but let’s wait until this rascal snores well; it won’t be long, as he is thinking of his dear Manette.”
In fact, the peasant was soon sound asleep. Thereupon Lampin put one hand out from under the vegetables, seized the rein, and pulled the horse to the other side of the road. The beast knew but two roads, the one to market and the one to his stable. When he was jerked violently away from the former, he supposed that his master was going home, so he turned back toward the village without hesitation.
“Well, we are safe now,” said Edouard, softly putting his head out from under the vegetables which covered him, and seeing nothing but trees and fields about him,—no houses.
“You always think that you are safe, you idiot,” said Lampin, “but we are not out of danger yet; we have just left Toulon; this peasant is taking us to his village, where we shall be pinched.”
“We must get out of the wagon and hide.”
“A fine thing to do! hide! Where, I should like to know? In the trees, like parrots? We must gain ground first, and with these chains on our feet, we shan’t go far.”
“We will file them.”
“Have we got the time? Come, let’s make a bold stroke; we are in a sunken road, and I don’t see any houses, and—first of all, get down, quick.”
“And then?”
“Get down, I tell you, and stop the horse quietly; meanwhile I will begin by searching our driver.”
Edouard got down from the wagon. Lampin drew in the reins, and the horse stopped.
“We must unharness him, and escape on him,” said Lampin; “let’s make haste.”
As he spoke, he searched the peasant’s pockets and took possession of his knife and a few pieces of money. Edouard, being very awkward and unskilled in the art of unharnessing a horse, called Lampin to his assistance. He seemed to be meditating a new plan as he looked at the peasant’s clothes.
“I am in mortal terror that he will wake,” said Edouard.
“If he wakes, he is a dead man,” said Lampin, as he hastily alighted and unfastened the straps that held the horse in the shafts. But the peasant was so accustomed to the movement of the wagon that he woke a few moments after it stopped.
“Go on, go on, I say!” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“We are lost!” whispered Edouard. Lampin did not reply, but he darted toward the wagon, and as the hapless peasant started to rise, he buried his knife in his breast.
The man uttered but one feeble cry. Edouard was horrorstruck.
“You wretch! what have you done?” he said with a shudder.
“What was necessary,” said Lampin; “the worst of it now is that I can’t take his clothes, which are drenched with blood; I must be content with the hat and the blouse.”
As he said this, the villain stripped his victim, put on his blouse, and hastily mounted the horse; then he turned toward Edouard, who had not yet recovered from his stupor.
“Now, my boy,” he said, “get out of it how you can.”
And he at once pricked his horse with the point of his knife, and disappeared, leaving Edouard beside the unfortunate man whom his companion had murdered.
The night was drawing toward its close. Edouard was still beside the wagon, dismayed by Lampin’s flight, and so disturbed by all that had happened to him within a few hours that he had no idea what he had better do.
The unfortunate peasant still breathed; from time to time he uttered feeble groans. Edouard could not decide whether he ought to help him or to take to flight. Hewavered and hesitated and the first rays of dawn found him in that condition. Glancing at himself, he shuddered at sight of his coat, which at once identified him as an escaped convict; and he trembled lest he should be taken for the murderer of the peasant. That thought froze his blood with terror; the sight of the peasant was horrible to him, and he walked away as rapidly as his strength permitted, until he reached a small tract of woodland, where he hoped to elude pursuit.
His first care was to file his fetters and throw them away; but he could not rid himself of his costume also, and he realized that he could not show himself without risk of being arrested. That thought drove him to frenzy for an instant. He regretted that he had not stripped the peasant entirely.
Day broke, and the peasants began to go to their work. Edouard plunged into the wood, picked figs and olives and climbed into a tree to await the return of night.
But how long that day was! and how many times did he shudder with apprehension as he saw peasants come into the wood and sit down to rest not far from the tree in which he was hiding! He heard them talking about the poor wagoner’s murder.
“It was a convict who did the job,” said the peasants; “a number of them escaped last night from the galleys at Toulon, but they’re on their tracks, and they can’t fail to take them soon.”
Edouard realized only too well the difficulty he would have in escaping, and he abandoned himself to despair. The night arrived at last; he descended from his protecting tree and resumed his journey. Every time that the faintest noise reached his ear, he stopped and buried himself in the thickest bushes. His face and hands were torn by thorns and brambles; but he did not feel thepain; he would have been glad to hide in the bowels of the earth. He walked as fast as his strength permitted, picking up fruit of which he retained some for the following day, stopping only in the most solitary places, and hiding during the day in the top of some densely-leaved tree.
On the fourth day, toward morning, he passed a small cottage surrounded by a garden; he cast a glance over the wall in the hope of discovering fruit; but what was his joy when he saw linen and clothes hanging on lines; the idea of taking possession of them and getting rid of his convict’s costume, at once occurred to his mind; the thought of theft no longer frightened him; he justified it by his plight. Only a half ruined wall, four feet high, separated him from the priceless garments; for the first time, he did not stop to consider the danger. He climbed the wall, took whatever he needed, and made his escape without the slightest twinge of remorse; for what he had done seemed to him a mere trifle to what he had seen done.
Having reached a dense wood, he removed his accusing costume and donned the clothes which he had stolen. Thereupon, being a little more at ease in his mind, and thinking that he must already be very far from Toulon, he set forth again, determined to ask hospitality for the night of some peasant, and hoping that they would give him a crust of bread, which seemed to him a priceless treasure capable of restoring his strength. As he did not choose, however, to take the risk of entering a village, where he feared to meet gendarmes who were in pursuit of him, he decided to knock at the door of an isolated cabin, surrounded by dense woods.
A peasant answered his knock and asked him what he could do for him.
“A great deal,” said Edouard; “I am an unfortunate man, worn out with fatigue and hunger; allow me to pass the night in your house, and you will save my life.”
“It’s a fact,” said the peasant, scrutinizing him with attention, “you seem very tired and very sick. But who are you? For a body must know who he takes in.”
“I am—I am an unfortunate deserter; I trust my secret to you; don’t betray me!”
“A deserter—the devil! It isn’t right to desert! But I’m not capable of betraying you; come, come in, and you can tell me why you deserted.”
Edouard entered the cabin, conscious of a keen sense of delight in being once more under a roof.
“Look you,” said the peasant, “I’ll give you half of what I have got and that won’t be very good; but you hadn’t ought to be hard to suit. I’m a poor wood-cutter; I ain’t rich, I live from day to day, but I am glad to share my supper and my bed with you. I’ve got some bread and some cheese and the remains of a bottle of wine, and we’ll finish it. My bed ain’t bad; it’s the best thing in my house, and I’ll bet you won’t wake up. Come, my friend, tell me your adventures. I have been in the army myself; yes, I used to be a soldier, and I flatter myself that I didn’t desert; I’d like to know what reason you had for doing such a miserable thing as that.”
Edouard invented a fable, which he told the wood-cutter, who listened with attention.
The strangeness of Edouard’s story, the improbability of his adventures, his embarrassment when his host asked him for details concerning his regiment and the place where they had been in garrison, all tended to arouse the wood-cutter’s suspicions, and he began to fear that he had been duped by some vagabond.
However, as he owned nothing that was likely to tempt cupidity, the peasant shared his supper with Edouard none the less; then he invited him to undress and go to bed. Edouard accepted this invitation with a good heart; he had taken off his jacket and was about to remove his waistcoat, when a sudden reflection stopped him, and he stood before the wood-cutter, speechless with confusion.
“Well, have you got over wanting to go to bed?” said the peasant, noticing Edouard’s sudden terror.
“I beg pardon; I am going—I am going to lie down.”
“It seems to me that you started to undress yourself, and now you stand there as if you didn’t know what to do.”
“Oh! the fact is, I thought better of it; it will be wiser for me to stay dressed, so that I can get ready quicker to go away in the morning.”
“As you please! suit yourself.”
Edouard threw himself on the bed, and the wood-cutter did the same; but not with the purpose of going to sleep; he was secretly anxious, for he was afraid that he had offered shelter to a scoundrel, and he was trying to think how he could set his doubts at rest.
The miserable wretch, who was overdone with fatigue, and who had not slept on so soft a couch for a weary while, soon yielded to the sleep that took possession of him. The wood-cutter, who had pretended to do the same, rose softly as soon as he was certain that the stranger whom he had made welcome was asleep.
He left the room, and struck a light in a small cave. He lighted a lamp, took his gun, and noiselessly returned to the small room where Edouard lay. The unhappy man’s sleep was disturbed and restless; he struggled and twisted violently on his couch, and broken sentencesescaped from his lips; the wood-cutter listened and distinctly heard these words:
“On the road—in the middle of the night—he was murdered—take off these irons, relieve me of these chains which prevent me from escaping.”
“Murdered!” echoed the peasant between his teeth. “Damnation! I have taken in a highway robber! And that scoundrel is sleeping on an honest man’s bed! Who knows that he hasn’t made an appointment with all his gang at my house? Indeed, they say that the neighborhood has been infested with robbers for some time. Perhaps they mean to take possession of my cabin and turn it into one of their dens. The devil! if I was sure of it, I’d begin by getting rid of this fellow, while he is alone. But let me see; I must try to verify this suspicion of mine.”
The wood-cutter walked toward Edouard; with great care he slit the back of the unfortunate convict’s waistcoat, put aside the portion which covered the shoulder, and held his lamp to it, concealing with the other hand the rays of light which might have fallen on the stranger’s eyes. Holding his breath, he put his head forward and with a shudder of horror saw the fatal brand.
“I wasn’t mistaken,” said the wood-cutter, setting his lamp down on the hearth and cocking his gun. “He is a villain, but by all the devils, he shan’t stay in my house any longer! Even if I have to run the risk of other dangers, I will drive this rascal out of my cabin.”
He returned to the bed and pushed Edouard roughly with the butt of his gun. The convict woke, sat up in bed and gazed in terror at his host, who was aiming the gun at him, and whose eyes were blazing with anger.
“Leave my house this minute!” cried the wood-cutter in a loud voice, with his gun still leveled at Edouard;“clear out! and don’t think of coming back, or I will blow your brains out.”
“What’s the matter? why this outbreak?” said Edouard, gazing about him in surprise. “Am I no longer in the cabin where I was made welcome? Are you the man who deigned to share your food and your bed with an unfortunate fellow-creature? And now you turn me out! What have I done to be treated like this?”
“You know well enough, you villain; go and join your comrades on the highroads, go and rob and murder travellers; but you will find no shelter under my roof.”
“You are mistaken, monsieur, you are wrong; I swear to you, I am not a robber, I am not capable of evil designs!”
“Indeed! and perhaps you’re an honest man? What about that mark that you bear? Was it for your brave acts that you were decorated like that?”
“Great God!” said Edouard, putting his hand to his waistcoat and discovering that it was cut; “what—you dared——”
“I wanted to make sure what you were; your conduct aroused my suspicion and I had to see if I was right. Come, you can see that your talk and your stories won’t deceive me any longer. Come now, off with you, I can’t sleep with a man like you.”
“Unhappy wretch that I am,” said Edouard, leaving the bed and beating his brow, “I have no resources left; I am lost, cast out by the whole world. Obliged to shun society, which spurns me, reduced to the necessity of living in the darkness, this infamous mark drives me to crime; only among brigands can I find shelter now; only by committing new crimes can I prolong my existence! The road of repentance is closed to me; I have no choice but to be a criminal!”
As he spoke, he threw himself on the ground and writhed in despair at the wood-cutter’s feet. The latter was moved for a moment, when he saw the mental distress of the wretch before him; he laid down his gun, and would perhaps have yielded to compassion, when two whistles rang out and were repeated loudly in different parts of the forest.
Instantly the wood-cutter’s suspicion and rage revived in full force. He had no doubt that the signal that he had heard was that of the brigands come to join their comrade. He took his gun again; Edouard tried once more to implore his compassion; he approached his host, raising his hands in entreaty; but the wood-cutter, mistaking the meaning of the miserable wretch, whom he deemed capable of murdering him, stepped back and pulled the trigger.
The gun was discharged! being badly aimed, the murderous bullet did not strike its victim, but whistled over his shoulder as he knelt on the floor, and buried itself in the wall. Thereupon rage and despair revived Edouard’s courage; he determined to sell his life dearly; he seized an axe which he saw in a corner of the cabin, and as his host returned toward him to strike him with the butt of his gun, he dealt him a blow in the head which stretched him lifeless at his feet. The wood-cutter fell without uttering a sound; his blood spurted upon Edouard, who was horrified to find himself covered with it.
At the same moment the door of the cabin was broken in; four men, clothed with rags, but armed to the teeth and wearing hideous masks, appeared in the doorway and put their heads into the room, gazing for some moments in surprise at the spectacle which met their eyes.
“Oho!” said the one who seemed to be their chief, “it seems to me that strange things are happening here,and that we have comrades in the neighborhood. Thunder and guns! Here’s a fellow who looks to me as if he had done a good job!”
Edouard was standing motionless in the middle of the room, still holding in his hand the bloody axe with which he had struck down the wood-cutter.
The brigands entered the room. The leader scrutinized Edouard and uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight.
“It is he!” he cried at last; “it is really he! Look at him, comrade,—you should recognize him too.”
“Parbleu! yes, it’s our friend; come, Murville, embrace your old acquaintances, your faithful companions in pleasure and adversity.”
Edouard heard voices which were familiar to him; he raised his eyes and saw Lampin before him; but he did not recognize the other brigand, whose voice had caught his attention. The latter took his hand and shook it violently; Edouard looked at him again, and sought upon the horribly mutilated face features which were not unknown to him.
“What,” said Lampin; “don’t you recognize Dufresne, our old friend?”
“Dufresne!” cried Edouard; “is it possible?”
“Yes, Murville, it is himself,” said Dufresne, untying a number of bands which disfigured his face by representing scars, and taking off a plaster which concealed one eye and a part of his forehead, as well as a beard which covered his chin and his upper lip. “I’m delighted that you don’t recognize me, for that demonstrates my talent for disguising myself; and that’s something, especially when one has a death sentence hanging over him. But you, my rascal, you seem to have limbered up a little since we met. The devil! this does you credit.”
“Comrades,” said Lampin, who had been prowling about the cabin, “there’s nothing of any good to us here; the shot we heard may bring people in this direction, whom we should not be pleased to meet. Take my advice and let us quit this hovel and go back into the woods; we can talk more safely there.”
Lampin’s advice being adjudged prudent, the robbers left the cabin, taking with them Edouard, who had hardly recovered from his surprise and could not believe that he had found Dufresne again in the person of the chief of a band of outlaws.
After walking for some time through the thickest part of the forest, the robbers stopped in a clearing; they built a fire, produced provisions which they spread on the grass, and having prepared their weapons in case of surprise, they seated themselves about the flame, which alone lighted their meal.
“I don’t know,” said Dufresne, gazing at Edouard with savage joy, “what presentiment led me to hope that we should be united some day. In fact, I have always acted with that end in view; isn’t that so, Lampin?”
Lampin was eating ravenously, and according to his custom, drinking even more ravenously; he contented himself with a glance at Edouard, accompanied by a laugh. Edouard observed his new companions, uncertain as yet if he ought to congratulate himself upon meeting them.
“How does it happen that I meet you with Lampin in this forest?” he asked Dufresne at last; “what has led you to embrace such a dangerous life?”
“What’s that? what other sort of life do you expect a man to embrace when he is outlawed from society, as we are? You’re not going to play the innocent, are you, you who have just killed a poor wood-cutter, whose death was of no benefit to you?”
“I did nothing but defend myself; that man had fired at me and was threatening me again; I had to parry his blows.”
“The deuce, comrade, you have a pretty way of parrying!—But no matter, let us return to ourselves. You must know that I have been sentenced to death; luckily I didn’t wait for my sentence before escaping from prison, thanks to these two faithful friends whom I had helped long ago. We could not appear in the daylight; so we selected the woods and the highways to carry on our trade; a man must do something. A little while ago, we stopped a traveller who was riding through these woods, and I recognized Lampin, who asked nothing better than to join us. You must join us too, my dear Murville, for there is nothing else for you to do; you ought to be enchanted to have met us.”