The child shouldered his basket and ran on. Turning the corner and out of sight of his fierce protectress, if we may call her so, he stopped, poor little fellow! His basket and hook dropped to the ground, as with a gesture of despair he threw up his hands toward heaven and cried aloud, "O my father! my father!"
The cry and the gesture were not addressed to that Heavenly Father whose eye was then as ever upon him, full of pity and mercy though unseen and incomprehensible, for the unhappy orphan knew not how to pray; but we can believe that it was heard and answered, as if it had been a direct supplication to the throne of grace; not then, perhaps, but in the fulness of that time which he hath chosen for our consolation. A moment after, the boy gathered up his fallen basket and hook and diligently set to work. Not a rag or scrap of paper escaped his searching eye. Nails and metal buttons, and bits of old iron, and many a flattened bullet that had probably done some deadly work, all found their way into his basket or his leathern bag.
Toward twelve o'clock he found himself near the fountain in St. Michael's Place; tired and hot, he took a drink, and, seating himself on the curbstone near by, began to eat the piece of bread that Pelagie had given him that morning. His appetite was good, and he enjoyed his dry crust better than many a rich man did his sumptuous dinner that day. His little teeth went so busily and vigorously to work, that a hackney-coachman belonging to the coach-stand in the place, and who was lazily contemplating humanity from his box-seat, after watching him awhile with admiration, threw him a sou, telling him to buy some sausage, because he deserved something for the way in which he attacked that piece of brick-bat.
"He has teeth like a rat," cried the coachman, grinning, to one of his comrades; "the way he nibbles that crust, that's as hard as the stone he's sitting on, is a sight!"
Marcel took the sou, and returned a look of such smiling gratitude that the observant coachman again remarked to his friend that that little chap had eyes like the gazelle's in the Garden of Plants; "they're just as soft and tender," added he, "only blue." But the child dared not spend the money on himself—had not Pelagie told him to bring her back everything he got? So he put it into the bag with the old iron, and once more went to work. Steadily and earnestly he plodded on, all his little faculties concentrated on his task, so that at five in the afternoon his leathern bag was full, and his basket piled up and pressed down.
Glad and triumphant, with some hope of kind words this time at least, he turned toward the Rue de la Parcheminerie, and reached the wretched house just as Pelagie was pushing her empty handcart through the narrow passage into the yard, where it was put up under a shed for the night. He climbed the staircase and stood waiting for her on the landing-place before the door of her room.
"You here!" she cried when she perceived him. "What's brought you back so soon, you littlevaurien?" [Footnote 114]
[Footnote 114: Worth-nothing.]
"My basket and my bag are both full, madam," replied Marcel, trembling as he looked up into the furious eyes of the drunken virago.
"I shall soon see that." She pushed him violently into the room. "Now, give me the bag."
She snatched it from him as she spoke and emptied out the contents on the floor.
"Why, what is this?" she exclaimed as she caught sight of the sou. "Did you find this? don't you know what it is?"
"I know what it is, madam; it was given to me to buy some sausage with to flavor my bread."
"To flavor your bread, you little beggar! Good bread's not good enough for you, then! I'll flavor your bread, you idiot." And with her strong right hand she dealt him a blow on the side of the head that felled him instantly to the floor.
He hid his bruised face in his little trembling hands and lay there weeping silently.
"Get up, get up, you idle dog; you're not going to stay there, I can tell you! Come, take your basket and hook and be off again." The unfeeling woman pulled up the wretched child as she spoke. "What! crying! I'll have none of that! Come, be off! You'll get no supper, I promise you, until your basket's full again."
Down the crazy staircase once more the little orphan stumbled into the street—hungry and tired, his cheek blue with the cruel blow, and his young heart swelling with the sense of so much injustice and oppression. The thought came to him suddenly that he would not return again to that wicked woman; but then, where should he go? Who would take care of him? He wandered through many dirty, narrow streets while he thus meditated, and at last found himself before the old church of St. Etienne du Mont. He saw some children going in, and followed them. There was so profound a silence in the sacred edifice, such a soft, subdued light streamed in from the beautiful painted windows, that the child's agitated, angry heart seemed calmed almost by a miracle. He slunk into a dark corner, and there, doing as he saw the happier children with whom he had entered do, he knelt. He did not pray; he had never known a mother's care, never been taught to lisp "Our Father who art in heaven" at his mother's knee; but peace and forgiveness entered into the orphan's soul as he knelt, silent, unheeded, in that dark corner of God's house.
Half an hour after he slunk out again into the street, feeling better, he knew not why, poor ignorant boy, and only anxious to try to satisfy his task-mistress.
All the evening he went to and fro, filling his basket from the heaps of rubbish thrown into the streets as soon as night comes by the numerous inhabitants of Parisian houses. At last, when ten o'clock had struck from all the church-towers in the quarter, he again climbed to the third story. The door was ajar, he entered softly, and saw, by the light of a gas-lamp that was on the opposite side of the street, Pelagie Vautrin lying extended on her bed, and snoring the heavy sleep of the drunkard.
He crept, tired and hungry, to his heap of rags, and soon happily forgot for a few hours that he was motherless and fatherless, a little waif adrift on the sea of life.
Thus passed and ended Marcel's first day of labor.
"Thus liv'd the lad, in hunger, peril, pain,His tears despis'd, his supplications vain.…Strange that a frame so weak could bear so longThe grossest insult and the foulest wrong;But there were causes."Crabbe.
"Thus liv'd the lad, in hunger, peril, pain,His tears despis'd, his supplications vain.…Strange that a frame so weak could bear so longThe grossest insult and the foulest wrong;But there were causes."Crabbe.
Marcel had continued to ply this business for the profit of Pelagie Vautrin about two years, most times half-starved, and ofttimes beaten, and had become one of the quickest-sighted and quickest-witted of the little rag-pickers of Paris, when one wet winter's night, as he passed near St. Michael's Bridge, he put his foot on something hard.
To pick it up, to see by the nearest gaslight that it was a coarse linen bag, containing a quantity of gold coin, was the work of a minute; the next saw him running as if for dear life to the office of the Commissary of Police in the Rue des Noyers; he knew the place well by the red-glass lamp over the door. Almost breathless he handed his prize to the worthy magistrate, telling him at the same time where he had found it.
The commissary looked into his little, eager, intelligent face while he told his story, then taking his hand kindly, "You are a good boy," said he, "and, mark my words, your honesty will bring you good luck."
Marcel blushed with pleasure and surprise to be praised, but stood nervously twirling his ragged cap round and round.
"The man who lost the bag of gold," continued the commissary, "was here half an hour since; he is a poor clerk, and is in despair; he is afraid of going back to his employers to tell them that he has lost their money. You have saved him and his poor wife and children from much misery. Go, you are a good boy; but first tell me your name and where you live."
The child told him, it was written carefully down, and he then went away happier than he had ever been since that dreadful day when he had convulsively fastened himself to his father's dead body as it lay on the barricade.
But as he approached his miserable home, this happy feeling decreased; and he began to think of what Pelagie would say if she knew what he had been doing. To tell or not to tell, that was the question, and it was not yet decided when he opened the door of the dismal room, where Pelagie, drunk as usual, was making her preparations for going to bed.
"And where do you come from,vaurien?" asked she as he came in.
He did not reply; he was not prepared with a lie, and he feared to tell the truth. Pelagie, accustomed to prompt and ready answers from her victims, turned round and stared at him, surprised beyond measure at this unwonted hesitation.
"Do you hear, little beast, do you hear!" she screamed presently. "Where do you come from? Why don't you answer me?" And she seized him violently by the arm.
"Pray don't beat me!" said the child imploringly. "I will tell you. As I was passing over St. Michael's Bridge, I—I found—a bag—"
"A bag!" exclaimed Pelagie, still holding him fast. "A bag of what? Quick! quick! Speak faster!"
"Of gold," whispered the child, trembling, for heknewnow that he should suffer for what he had done.
"Of gold? of gold? Where is it? Give it to me!" And she fumbled about his little breast, as if she thought it must be hidden there.
"I haven't got it!" said the boy, whose cheeks waxed paler and paler, but whose blue eyes met hers for once undauntedly. "I carried it to the Commissary of Police."
For one moment the drunken fury looked at him silently, and then burst forth in bitter curses and bitterer blows. Hard and fast they fell on the young head and tender face; he was knocked down and kicked up again—hurled against the wall—pushed into the fire-place—and at last thrown upon the cranky table, which fell with so terrible a crash that the noise fortunately brought up the tenants of the story beneath in time to prevent a murder; for it is too probable that would have been the end of this frightful scene, if no one had come to save poor Marcel.
"Madame, Madame Vautrin!" cried M. Poquet, as he rushed into the room, followed by his wife and a number of the neighbors, "what is the matter here? Pray, be calm. You've beaten that child too much! Now, stop, or I'll go for the police." And the strong man seized the furious woman in his arms, while his wife and one or two other women got hold of Marcel and carried him down-stairs, covered with blood and bruises, to the Poquets' room.
Covered with blood and bruises! Such was this wretched child's reward for the first act of probity he had as yet found an opportunity of performing!
Be gentle, then, in your judgment of his future errings. O children of happier fortunes! ye who are encouraged in every generous thought and honest deed by the tender caresses of a mother and the approving smiles of a father, remember thathewas an ignorant, homeless orphan, whose first good impulses were beaten out of him, or stifled by the vicious influences which surrounded him.
Monsieur and Madame Poquet were—it is a pity to be obliged to say it of such a kind-hearted couple—no better than they should be, rather, indeed, far worse. M. Poquet called himself a cobbler, but few, very few were the boots or shoes that could show trace of his handiwork. Talking politics in thecabaret[Footnote 115] at the corner, with idlers like himself, seemed to be his principal occupation; but there were rumors afloat that, at night, when honest men were sleeping peacefully in their beds, he and his companions were dodging the police, and trying tofindthe money they would notworkfor. Certain it is he generally had a forty-sous piece in his pocket, and few people knew how he got it.
[Footnote 115: Wine-shop.]
Madame Poquet earned or rather thieved her living as afemme de ménage[Footnote 116] and a very good living she made too; for, not satisfied with stuffing herself as full as she could of victuals at her employer's house, she regularly brought back every evening in a great basket, that was continually suspended at her arm, such a supply of cheese, charcoal, sugar, garlic, bread, cigars, cold meat, and such like, that there was not a better furnished cupboard nor better fed children than hers in the neighborhood.
[Footnote 116: Charwoman.]
These children consisted of a boy and a girl—Polycarpe and Loulou—cunning, ready-witted, unprincipled, and idle. Never had they heard a word of truth; their only teaching since they came into the world had been to lie and steal, but like their parents they were naturally merry and good-tempered; they had never been ill-treated, as children generally are among the vicious poor, and they were well-disposed to be generous with their pilfered plenty.
Such were the people who had rescued the orphan from Pelagie Vautrin's murderous hands, and who now washed away the blood from several cuts on his head, and applied such remedies to his poor bruised limbs as they were acquainted with. And Madame Poquet had a kind, motherly way with her that comforted poor Marcel wonderfully, and Polycarpe and Loulou showed much sympathy; and at last he was put into bed (a dirty one, it is true, but warm) with Polycarpe; and the boy fell asleep happier, notwithstanding his aches and pains, than he had been for many a year of his short life.
For three whole days Marcel remained quietly with the Poquets, who would willingly have kept him altogether, and only hoped that Pelagie would let things be as they were. The fourth morning, however, brought a change. Scarcely had Madame Poquet taken herself and her great basket off for her day's work and pilfering, and M. Poquet slunk off a moment after to thecabaretat the corner, when Madame Vautrin appeared suddenly before the frightened eyes of the three children. She was sober, and in few words ordered Marcel to get his basket and hook and go to work. The trembling boy silently obeyed.
"Alas! regardless of their doom,The little victims play!No sense have they of ills to come,Nor care beyond to-day.Yet see how all around them waitThe ministers of human fateAnd black misfortune's baleful train."Gray.
"Alas! regardless of their doom,The little victims play!No sense have they of ills to come,Nor care beyond to-day.Yet see how all around them waitThe ministers of human fateAnd black misfortune's baleful train."Gray.
But Polycarpe Poquet did not drop the acquaintance so well begun; far from it; he seemed to have become really attached to the pale, weak child, who was about a year younger than himself, and proved his friendship by becoming a kind of amateur rag-picker and helping to fill the dreadful basket and leathern bag that Pelagie exacted twice a day. This business finished, he would lead off Marcel in quest of amusement, with the understood intention also of picking up a few sous as he best could, and Polycarpe was not at all particular.
All was new to Marcel; he had never yet had time to stroll through the great thoroughfares at the hours when the magnificent shops of Paris display their wonderful merchandise to tempt the luxurious rich. He had not even ever crossed the bridges since that fatal 26th of June, 1848, and knew nothing of beautiful Paris but the narrow and busy streets of the "Quartier Latin," the quarter of the great schools, of the College of France, the Sorbonne, and the Institute.
How wonder-stricken was he the day that Polycarpe conducted him to the Place de la Concorde! The sky was blue, the sun bright, the two beautiful fountains were spouting their many waters in feathery spray, the grand old chestnut-trees of the Tuileries gardens were in full bloom behind him, palaces on either side of him, and before him stretched away the magnificent avenue of the Champs Elysées, bordered by trees and flowers and grassy lawns, and bounded in the far distance by the Arch of Triumph! The boy's heart swelled within him, for the love of the beautiful was hidden in it, as well as the sense of the good and true, and he could not speak. He had never gazed before on so brilliant a scene, and he could find no words to express his feelings.
Polycarpe understood nothing of this silent admiration, and after loitering a short time around some of thecafésamong the trees in the avenue, proposed going down on the quay to look at the river. They stopped for a glass of brandy at the nearestcabaret—for Marcel had learnt this dreadful habit from his friend, who had been accustomed to tipple from his very birth—and then, ready for any mischief, descended to the river's side. An old lady was standing there, gazing at the swift-flowing water, as if she were longing to throw into it a very apoplectic-looking little dog she held by a string.
"Marcel, Marcel," whispered Polycarpe, "I'm going to have some fun with that old woman. I'll squeeze some sous out of her, you see if I don't!"
He started off running as he spoke, then suddenly stopped close to the dog.
"What a love of a dog!" cried he in apparent ecstasy. "I never saw a prettier little animal in my life! What kind of a dog do you call that, madam?"
"It is a Scotch dog, my young friend," replied the old lady, evidently much flattered; "you have very good taste, for he is really a very pretty creature."
"He is a love!" ejaculated Polycarpe.
"I have brought him here for a bath," continued the old lady. "I think that it would do him good if he would swim a little."
"That it would, madam," answered Polycarpe, stroking and kissing the fat, wheezy little animal; "but it would be well to give him a little rubbing first; his skin is rather dirty, I perceive, madam, on looking close. I'll wash him for you, if you like. I'm used to washing dogs. I wash my mother's dog every Saturday, madam."
"Really!" said the old lady. "Well, Ishouldbe glad to give Zozor a good washing, but I'm afraid he's difficult; he don't like it; he never did."
"That's nothing, madam. Julius Caesar—that's my mother's dog— don't like it, but he's obliged to, for it's for his good. You should just see Julius Caesar when I've washed and dressed him! He's perfectly beautiful! He's a poodle, quite white, and I've cut his coat so that he has a flounce round each ankle, three rows of fringe on his hips, a fine bandelet on his side, a frill on his chest, and a magnificent tassel at the end of his tail."
"He must be very handsome," remarked the old lady, who had listened with much interest to this description.
"He is, madam. My mother says no one can dress a dog better than I can. So I'll wash Zozor, if you like; I'll not hurt him in the least."
"You're very kind, indeed," said the old lady. "I really shall be very much obliged to you. Now then, Zozor, don't be naughty; it will do you good, Zozor."
So saying, the trustful old lady undid the string attached to her pet's collar, and delivered the victim into the hypocrite's hands. In an instant the wretched little creature was smeared from head to tail with a villanous compound of black soap and soot that Polycarpe drew from one of his dirty pockets. The poor animal howled dismally as his tormentor daubed him all over, and more vehemently still when his eyes, nose, and mouth were crammed with the nasty, stinging mixture.
"Now, madam," said Polycarpe, when the poor beast was well plastered and utterly unrecognizable, "that's the first operation; and if you want me to go on, and wash it off, my charge is forty sous, paid in advance. I never give credit: it's a bad system; I've learnt that by experience."
"You wicked boy!" screamed the old lady, "you little impostor! you've killed my poor Zozor!"
The unlucky pet was rolling himself in the mud, in an agony of pain.
"You cruel, wicked boy! Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?"
"Why, you've only to pay me the forty sous," said Polycarpe, who stood calmly contemplating the contortions of his victim, "and I'll continue my operations. Forty sous is not dear, madam, especially as I provide the soap."
The old lady, unable to endure any longer the sight of her darling's sufferings, at last drew from her purse a piece of forty sous, and put it into the outstretched palm of the young scamp, who no sooner had closed his dirty fingers on the coin than he burst into an insulting laugh and took to his heels, leaving Zozor's mistress inarticulate with astonishment and rage.
Marcel had stood a little distance off while this scene was enacting. At first he laughed; but when he saw how much the poor dog suffered, the innate humanity of his nature was awakened, and as soon as his friend had disappeared he approached the yelling animal, and, with much difficulty and no little danger of being bitten, managed to seize him by the nape of the neck and throw him into the water. The miserable animal struggled desperately, and so got rid of a great part of the soap and soot; with the help of a boatman who had come up just in time, Marcel got him out again, and, after a little rubbing and rinsing, restored him to his weeping mistress, clean, but with blood-shot eyes and inflamed nostrils, and certainly very much the worse for his adventure.
The poor lady was profuse in her thanks. "You have saved his life," she cried; "I shall be eternally grateful to you; I will never forget you!" And she pressed her dripping darling to her heart, while she hastily climbed the steep that led from the river's side to the quay above.
Marcel followed when she was out of sight, and soon perceived Polycarpe waiting for him, and half-hidden behind one of the kiosks on the sidewalk in which newspapers are sold in Paris.
"So you washed that old woman's little monster!" cried he, as soon as he saw Marcel. "You needn't have done that. Here I've been waiting for you to go to Mother Crapaud's for a real blow-out. Come along, now, I'm as hungry as a wolf. Did you ever see an old woman so nicely done? O my eye! poor Zozor! wasn't he well soaped?"
"Let not Ambition mock their humble toil,Their vulgar crimes and villany obscure;Nor rich folks hear with a disdainful smileThe low and petty knaveries of the poor."The titled villain and the thief of power,The greatest rogue that ever bore a name,Awaits alike the inevitable hour:The paths of wickedness but lead to shame."Parody On Gray's Elegy.
"Let not Ambition mock their humble toil,Their vulgar crimes and villany obscure;Nor rich folks hear with a disdainful smileThe low and petty knaveries of the poor."The titled villain and the thief of power,The greatest rogue that ever bore a name,Awaits alike the inevitable hour:The paths of wickedness but lead to shame."Parody On Gray's Elegy.
Polycarpe's favorite dining-saloon, the gargote, or eating-house, of the Mère Crapaud, was situated in the Rue de la Huchette, one of the narrowest, darkest, and dirtiest of the old streets of Paris. It was a large, low room, opening from the street; the whole length of one side of it was taken up by four great furnaces which cooked the contents of the four great marmites, or boilers, that were constantly suspended over them. The contents of three of these marmites consisted of beef-soup, flavored with carrots, turnips, cabbage, onions, and garlic. The fourth generally contained stewed beans, a favorite accompaniment to the boiled beef. A kind of counter, on which stood baskets of cut bread and bowls of salad, separated the furnaces and marmites from the other part of the room, which was furnished with tables of six places each, and benches, all painted dark green. The place was smoky and grimy, and not rendered pleasanter by the presence of the Mère Crapaud herself, an enormously fat, blear-eyed old woman, possessed of a most abusive tongue. Indeed, she would have seemed better fitted to drive away than to attract customers. The Mère Crapaud, however, was very popular, and with good reason; for not only were her beef and soup the very best that could be bought for the money, but she also could be depended on in critical moments, when those whom she recognized as regular customers were in difficulties with the authorities.
Fifteen or sixteen customers, of all ages and of both sexes, were seated at the tables when the two boys entered, and the Mère Crapaud, brandishing the great spoon with which she measured her soup, was busy behind the counter, assisted by two perspiring marmitons. [Footnote 117]
[Footnote 117: Scullions.]
"Bonjour, la mère," said Polycarpe, as he entered with the ease and swagger of a well-known and favored guest; "how goes it with you?"
"Bonjour, mauvais sujet," returned the hostess; "what brings you here, to-day?"
"Well, I followed my nose, good mother, which was attracted by the smell of your bouillon and beef, and brought me straight here. Permit me to present my friend M. Marcel, a young gentleman who is as yet unacquainted with the mysteries of your marmites."
"Mysteries! what do you mean by that, you little polisson? There are no mysteries in my soup-pots; good beef and good vegetables; find any better if you can."
"Why, I know I can't, Mother Crapaud, and that's why I've come."
"I don't intend running up a score for you, M. Polycarpe, I can tell you; so clear out, you and your friend, if you've nothing to pay with."
"But I have, Mother Crapaud. I'm a millionaire to-day, or very nearly so, and so I'm going to treat my friend and myself to two sous apiece of soup, and we'll see presently if you can give me change for this." And he tossed up into the air and caught again the silver piece he had extorted from poor Zozor's mistress.
The boys then seated themselves at one of the tables, and were presently served with a bowl of good bouillon and a hunk of bread.
"Now for a slice of fat beef, la mère," said Polycarpe, when the soup had disappeared; "six sous' worth will be enough for us two, and two sous each of stewed beans. What a cram! isn't it, Marcel?"
Marcel did indeed like his good hot dinner. Poor fellow! it was only when Polycarpe treated him that he knew what it was to eat his fill. No conscientious scruples prevented his full enjoyment of the present. Conscience, that mirror of the soul, which never flatters, never deceives, was veiled in him by the thick mists of ignorance, and the only kindnesses he ever received were from the hands of thieves.
They were finishing their beef and beans when two big, rough boys, dressed in dirty blue blouses and dirtier trousers of some nondescript color, rushed into the gargote and bellowed for something to eat. Throwing themselves on the bench opposite to that on which Polycarpe and Marcel were seated, they commenced a series of contortions, elbow nudges, whispers, and loud guffaws, which were only stopped by the arrival of their victuals. The elder of the two presently looked up, and, catching Polycarpe's fixed gaze, after a moment's hesitation exclaimed, "Well, yes! 'tis you, Polycarpe! I thought I remembered your face. I'm glad to meet you; you're a good one, I know."
Polycarpe was evidently much flattered by this recognition. "I thought I knew your face too, as soon as you sat down, Guguste, but you were so full of fun that I wouldn't interrupt you."
"I'll make you laugh presently," replied Guguste, bursting out afresh, as did his companion also. "I'll tell you something that'll tickle you. Come now, stop your noise," he continued to his friend, who wriggled and choked in a convulsion of merriment, "or I'll punch you quiet. I'll tell you, Polycarpe, when I've put this plateful away. My eyes, what fun!"
So saying, he and his friend fell to again, and had soon finished both beef and beans. When the plates were empty, Guguste leaned his two elbows on the table and took breath. "That matter being happily finished," said he presently, "I'll tell you the other; it's a joke, a real good joke, in my opinion; what old Gorgibus the shoemaker calls it, is another thing. What do you think he calls it, eh! Touton? A riddle, perhaps. Ha, ha, a riddle!"
His friend Touton twisted and wriggled and giggled so heartily at this idea, that he fell off the bench in his ecstasy. "What a fellow you are for fun!" exclaimed Guguste, pulling him up; "but really I don't wonder at you, to-day! You must know, Poly, that I haven't had a shoe to my feet that was decent for an age, and you'll agree thatthatwas uncomfortable and unpleasant, not to say inconvenient, especially for a man of business like myself—ha, ha! So when I got up, this morning, I said to myself—while I shaved, you know, ha, ha, ha!—that I really must find some kind of covering for my trotters. But where? That was the question. So, to settle it, Touton and I strolled about the streets until we found ourselves pretty far in the Rue St. Antoine. What should we come upon all at once but a shoe-shop, and there in the window the very kind of shoes that suited my taste. Gorgibus was the name over the door. I shall always remember it; sha'n't you, Touton?"
"Don't speak to me, Guguste; I shall burst with laughing," replied Touton. "Poor old Gorgibus, at the sign of holy Saint Crispin! Oh! don't we owe him a candle, Guguste?"
"That we do, Touton, and you shall go to the church of St. Severin, it's close by, and pay it to the good saint!"
"Not now, Guguste. Go on with the story, do; I want to know how you got your shoes," cried Polycarpe.
"Well, then," continued the young reprobate, "Touton and I consulted together for a minute, and then in we went. 'I want a good pair of shoes, monsieur,' said I very politely. 'I'm just going as clerk to a notary, and I must be well shod. What is the price of this pair?'
"Ten francs,' said he.
"So I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my cash, and counted it over with him, and I had just nine francs. 'That's all I have,' said I, putting the money back again into my pocket; 'will you give them to me for nine francs, if they fit me?'
"'Well, yes, I will, my boy,' said the old fellow good-naturedly. Upon that I sat down and put on both shoes; they went on like gloves, so comfortable, you have no idea! Then said I, 'Now, let me see if nothing hurts when I walk;' so I walked up and down the shop, old Gorgibus standing by admiring the fit, when, just as I was passing near the door, this great vaurien of a Touton gave me a punch in the nose!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" screamed Touton, unable any longer to restrain himself, "how I cut up the street when I'd done it! and Guguste cried, 'Stop, you rascal, I'll make you pay for that!' And he ran and I ran, and old Gorgibus looked after us and laughed till he cried, and he's crying still very likely!—ha, ha, ha!—and waiting for Guguste to come back and pay for the shoes! Ha, ha, ha!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed the listeners.
"And then the neighbors," continued Guguste, wiping his eyes, "came to their doors, and kept calling out, 'He'll catch him, he'll catch him!' O Lord! what fun! And what a capital pair of shoes!" And the scamp put a foot on the table to show his prize, while the numerous customers around who had overheard the story applauded him with enthusiasm. Excited by the universal admiration, Guguste now invited the two boys to accompany him and his friend to the cabaret at the corner of the street to take a glass, an invitation most willingly accepted. The four unfortunate children accordingly, after paying for their dinners, adjourned to the wine-shop, where, in the society of bad men and worse women, they were initiated still deeper into the mysteries and the practice of crime.
Poor Marcel! poor little orphan!
To Be Continued.
By Saint Catharine Of Genoa.
[Footnote 118]
[Footnote 118: The month of November is usually set apart by pious Catholics for commemoration of the souls in purgatory, and for prayers and offerings in their behalf. As specially befitting the season, therefore, we republish anew the beautifulTreatise on Purgatoryby St. Catharine of Genoa, with the above prefatory remarks by the translator. There have been several translations of the treatise heretofore published, and it might seem a needless work to give another. But besides its appropriateness to the season, and that many will read it in the pages ofThe Catholic Worldwho might not elsewhere see it, the new translation we now give has special merits of its own which will justify its publication.—ED. C. W.]
When the gates of purgatory opened to Dante and his companion with awful thunderous roar, he heard mingling with the sound a chorus of voices—"We praise thee, O God!"—rising and fading away like a solemn chant and sound of the organ under the arches of some vast cathedral.
And afterward, while pursuing their journey, they felt the whole mountain of purgatory tremble. A shout arose—"Glory be to God in the Highest!"—swelled by the voice of every suffering soul in that vast realm. It was the expression of universal, unselfish joy over the deliverance of one soul from its bounds.
Such are the tones that ring all through theTreatise on Purgatoryby St. Catharine of Genoa—full of praise, of holy joy, and of unselfish love. It ought to be read beneath the mild eyes of the Madonna in some old church, to the sound of solemn music. If you do not meet in it the dazzling angels of the great Florentine poet, you feel their presence, and you rejoice like him in the nooks of beauty where "spring sweet, pale flowers of penitence," refreshed by the fragrant dews of God's mercy.
The patient, silent suffering of the tried souls she describes, which are living on the glimpse they had of the divine Splendor at the moment of death, is full of eloquence. They suffer intensely, but peace and joy rise above pain, as in the beautiful bay of Spezia, we are told, the sweet water rises up out of the salt and bitter sea.
While reading this production of genius and of inspiration, we no longer shrink from that dark region, lighted up, as it is, by rays of God's wonderful goodness. With St. Catharine, we regard it as a provision of great mercy which the soul gladly avails itself of as a means of purification, which will fit it for the awful presence of him in whose sight the very stars are not pure—a presence the soul could not endure till it had purged "the world's gross darkness off." As Faber says, "The moment that in his sight it perceives its own unfitness for heaven, it wings its voluntary flight to purgatory, like a dove to her proper nest in the shades of the forest." It cries:
"Take me away, and in the lowest deepThere let me be,And there in hope the lone night-watches keep,Told out for me.There, motionless and happy in my pain,Lone, not forlorn,There will I sing my sad perpetual strain,Until the morn.There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast,Which ne'er can ceaseTo throb, and pine, and languish, till possessedOf its sole peace.There will I sing my absent Lord and Love:—Take me away,That sooner I may rise, and go above,And see him in the truth of everlasting day." [Footnote 119]
"Take me away, and in the lowest deepThere let me be,And there in hope the lone night-watches keep,Told out for me.There, motionless and happy in my pain,Lone, not forlorn,There will I sing my sad perpetual strain,Until the morn.There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast,Which ne'er can ceaseTo throb, and pine, and languish, till possessedOf its sole peace.There will I sing my absent Lord and Love:—Take me away,That sooner I may rise, and go above,And see him in the truth of everlasting day." [Footnote 119]
[Footnote 119:Dream of Gerontius, by Father Newman.]
M. le Vicomte de Bussierre, in writing of this treatise, says: "But is the state described by the saint that of all the souls detained by divine justice in this place of expiation?" The reply to this question requires some preliminary observations.
The dogma of the church respecting purgatory is very brief. The Holy Council of Trent is satisfied with declaring that there is a purgatory, and that the souls therein detained are helped by the suffrages of the faithful.
The church does not define the nature of the sufferings endured there, but this is our idea of them:
This world is a place of probation. In it are prepared the materials for the construction of the New Jerusalem. Not only stones are wanted for its walls, but jewels for its decoration. Diamonds are not cut in the same manner as common stones. Thence we can perceive the necessity of different ways of preparing the righteous for a higher state of existence. The place each one will occupy in heaven is irrevocably fixed at the moment of death, but, before taking possession of it, he must have the highest polish of which he is susceptible, and be without any defect or stain.
Take two persons who are entering purgatory. One has passed his life in gross sensual pleasures, but absolution with the necessary dispositions has restored him to the paths of righteousness; the other has always lived in innocence and in the closest union with God, but slight imperfections deprive him for a time of the beatific vision. Shall it be said that the manner of purifying these two souls is the same, and that their purgatory only differs in point of duration? It does not seem probable. We do not use the same means for removing a stain from a garment that we should for a particle of dust on a polished mirror.
This explanation will better enable us to understand St. Catharine's treatise. Most Christians believe there are sensible pains in purgatory. It is the view commonly taken of that state by our preachers. Our saint does not contradict this opinion. She speaks of a special purification for certain souls, but without excluding any. The soul in question in her treatise is a diamond already cut with wonderful exactness, and from which the Divine Artist is removing the last stain before placing it among his choicest jewels.
Faber says there are two views of purgatory prevailing among Christians, indicative of the peculiar tone of the mind of those who have embraced them.
One is, that it is a place of sensible torture, where the least pain is greater than all the pains of earth put together—an intolerable prison-house, full of wailing and horror; visited by angels, indeed, but only as the instruments of God's awful justice. The spirit of this view is a horror of offending Almighty God, a habitual trembling before his judgments, and a great desire for bodily austerities.
The second view does not deny any of these features, but it gives more prominence to other considerations. "The spirit of this view is love, an extreme desire that God should not be offended, and a yearning for the interests of Jesus." It is not so much a question of selfish consideration with the soul, as of God's will and glory. "Its sweet prison, its holy sepulchre, is in the adorable will of its Heavenly Father, and there it abides the term of its purification with the most perfect contentment and the most unutterable love."
In short, this second view is that of St. Catharine of Genoa, which comes home to our hearts, as we read her treatise, with joyful conviction—giving new conceptions of that holy realm of pain.
This treatise is not the production of human vanity. St. Catharine only wrote by the express wish of her spiritual director, who fathomed her genius and knew her familiarity with the secrets of the Most High. It is, in the estimation of judges of the highest authority, one of the most astonishing and admirable productions of mystical theology, says M. de Bussierre. And it has been approved of by the Holy See, and by the Sacred Congregation of Rites.
It was one of the favorite books of St. Francis de Sales, with whose spirit it is so greatly in harmony, and he calls the authoress a seraph.
And Faber styles her, "The Great Doctress of Purgatory."
St. Catharine was contemporary with Christopher Columbus, being born a few years later in the same city. And she was the grand-niece of Pope Innocent IV., who first gave, authoritatively, the name of Purgatory to the Intermediate State, and who was, like her, of the noble house of the Fieschi.
The French author so often quoted says: "There are many expressions in this work to which a forced meaning is not to be given. St. Catharine represents a soul as strictly united to God as it can be without being absorbed in the divinity. But she does not annihilate individuality. She does not teach pantheism. She only expresses the doctrine of St. Paul, 'In ipso vivimus, et movemur, et sumus:' 'In him we live, and we move, and we are.'"
How she makes us long for that union, and welcome all that hastens it! We would join with all our earth-worn heart in that "liturgy of hallowed pain." "O world!" we cry with Faber—"O weary, clamorous, sinful world! who would not break away, if he could, like an uncaged dove, from thy perilous toils and unsafe pilgrimage, and fly with joy to the lowest place in that most pure, most safe, most holy land of suffering and of sinless love?"
(Hector Vernaccia, who first published the works of St. Catharine of Genoa, wrote the following preface to herTreatise on Purgatory:)
"The soul of Catharine, still clad in the flesh, was plunged in the furnace of God's ardent love, which consumed and purified her from every imperfection, so that at the end of her life she was fitted to pass at once into the presence of God, the only object of her affection. This interior fire made her comprehend that the souls in purgatory are placed there to be purified from the rust and stain of the sins which they had not expiated on earth. Swallowed up in this divine and purging fire, she acquiesced in the will of God, rejoicing in all his love wrought in her; she clearly understood what must be the state of the souls in purgatory, and thus wrote thereof:"