It will be remembered that Fleur-de-Marie, saved by La Louve, had been conveyed not far from the Isle du Ravageur to the country-house of Doctor Griffon, one of the surgeons of the hospital, to whom we shall now introduce the reader. This learned doctor, who had obtained from high influence his position in the hospital, considered the wards as a kind of school of experiments, where he tried on the poor the remedies and applications which he afterwards used with his rich clients.
These terrible experiments were, indeed, a human sacrifice made on the altar of science; but Doctor Griffon did not think of that. In the eyes of this prince of science, as they say in our days, the hospital patients were only a matter of study and experiment; and as, after all, there resulted from his essays occasionally a useful fact or a discovery acquired by science, the doctor showed himself as ingenuously satisfied and triumphant as a general after a victory which has been costly in soldiers.
Nothing could be more melancholy than the sombre appearance of the vast ward of the hospital, into which we now introduce the reader. The length of its high, dark walls, pierced here and there with grated windows like those of a prison, was filled with two rows of beds parallel, and faintly lighted by the sepulchral glare of a lamp hanging from the ceiling. The atmosphere is so nauseous, so heavy, that the fresh patients frequently didnot become accustomed to it without danger, and this increase of suffering is a sort of tax which every newcomer invariably pays for his miserable sojourn in the hospital. In one of the beds was the corpse of a patient who had just died.
Amongst the females who did not sleep, and who had been present whilst the priest performed the last rites with the dying woman, were three persons whose names have been already mentioned in this history,—Mlle. de Fermont, the daughter of the unfortunate widow ruined by the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand; La Lorraine, the poor laundress, to whom Fleur-de-Marie had formerly given the small sum of money she had left; and Jeanne Duport, the sister of Pique-Vinaigre.
La Lorraine was a woman about twenty, with mild and regular features, but extremely pale and thin; she was consumptive to the last degree, and there was no hope of saving her. She was aware of her condition, and was slowly dying.
"There is another gone!" said La Lorraine, in a faint voice, and speaking to herself. "She will suffer no more; she is very happy!"
"She is very happy if she has no children!" added Jeanne.
"Aren't you asleep, neighbour?" asked La Lorraine. "How are you after your first night here? Last night, when you came in, they made you go to bed directly, and I dared not speak to you, because I heard you sob so."
"Yes, I cried a good deal; but I went to sleep at last, and only awoke when the noise of the doors roused me; and when the priest and the sisters came in and knelt down; I saw it was some woman who was dying, and I said aPaterandAvefor her."
"And so did I; and, as I am ill with the same complaint as she had, I could not help crying out, 'There is one who suffers no more; she is very happy!'"
"Yes, as I said, if she has no children."
"Then you have children?"
"Three!" said Pique-Vinaigre's sister with a sigh. "And you?"
"I had a little girl, but I did not keep her long. The poor babe was injured before she was born,—and I was so wretched during my pregnancy! I am a washerwoman in the boats, and worked as long as I could. But everything has an end, and when my strength failed me, bread failed me also. They turned me out of my lodging; and I do not know what would have become of me if a poor woman had not taken me into a cellar, where she was hiding from her husband, who had sworn he would kill her. There I was brought to bed on the straw; but, thanks to goodness, the good woman knew a young girl as good and charitable as an angel from heaven. This young girl had a little money, and took me from the cellar, and put me in a furnished room, where she paid a month in advance, and gave me, besides, a wicker cradle for my baby, and forty francs, with a little linen besides. Thanks to her, I was enabled to resume my work."
"Kind girl! Well, and I, also, met by chance with such another, a young, hard-working sempstress. I was going to see my poor brother, who is a prisoner," said Jeanne, after a moment's hesitation, "and met this work-girl in the prison; and when she heard me tell my brother that I was not happy, she came to me and offered me all in her power, poor girl! I accepted her offer, and she gave me her address; and two days afterwards dear little Mlle. Rigolette—she is called Rigolette—sent me an order."
"Rigolette!" exclaimed Lorraine; "how strange! The young girl who was so generous to me often mentioned the name of Mlle. Rigolette in my hearing; they were great friends."
"Well, then," said Jeanne, smiling sadly, "since weare neighbours in bed, we should be friends like our two benefactresses."
"With all my heart! My name is Annette Gerbier, called La Lorraine, a washerwoman."
"And I am Jeanne Duport, a fringe-maker. Oh, it is so fortunate to find in this melancholy place some one not quite a stranger to you, especially when you come for the first time, and are very full of trouble. But don't let us talk of that! Tell me, Lorraine, what was the name of the young girl who was so kind to you?"
"She was called Goualeuse, and was exceedingly handsome, with light brown hair and blue eyes, so soft—oh, so soft! Unfortunately, in spite of her assistance, my poor babe died at two months old. It was so puny, it could hardly breathe!" and La Lorraine wiped a tear from her eye.
"And your husband?"
"I am not married. I washed by the day at a rich tradesman's in my country, and had always been prudent; but the master's son whispered his tales in my ear, and then—When I found in what a state I was, I dared not remain any longer in the country, and M. Jules gave me fifty francs to take me to Paris, assuring me that he would send me twenty francs every month for my lying-in; but since I left I have not had one sou, not even a message. I wrote to him once, but he sent me no answer; and I was afraid to write again, as I saw he did not wish to hear any more of me."
"At least he ought not to have forgotten you, if it was only for the sake of the child!"
"That was the reason; he was angry with me for being in the family way, because it embarrassed him. I regret my child for myself, but not on its own account, poor little darling! It must have been miserable, and have been an orphan very early, for I have not long to live."
"Oh, you ought not to have such ideas at your age. Have you been long ill?"
"Nearly three months. Why, when I had to work for myself and my child, I began too soon. The winter was very cold; I was attacked with a cold on my chest. I lost my child at this time, too; and nursing her, I neglected myself, and then my sorrow; so that I fell into a consumption—decided—like the actress who has just died."
"There's always hope at your age!"
"The actress was only two years older than I am."
"What, was she an actress who is just dead?"
"Yes. And see what fate is! She had been as beautiful as daylight, and had money, carriages, diamonds; but, unfortunately, the smallpox disfigured her, and then came want and misery, and, at last, death in a hospital. No one ever came to see her; and yet, four or five days ago, she told me, she had written to a gentleman whom she had formerly known in her gay days, and who had been much in love with her. She wrote to him to beg him to claim her dead body, because she was wretched at the idea of thinking she would be dissected—cut in pieces."
"And did the gentleman come?"
"No. Every moment she was asking for him and perpetually saying, 'Oh, he'll come! Oh, he'll be sure to come!' And yet she died without any one coming, and what she so much dreaded will befall her poor frame. After having been rich and happy, to die so is very terrible! We, at least, only change our miseries!"
"I wish," said Lorraine, after a moment's hesitation, "I wish you would render me a service!"
"What is it?"
"If I die, as is probable, before you go from here, will you claim my body? I have the same dread as the actress, and have laid aside the small sum of money necessary to bury me."
"Oh, do not have such ideas!"
"Still promise me, all the same!"
"But let us hope the case will not happen!"
"Yes; but if it does happen—thanks to you, I shall not have the same misery as the actress."
"Poor woman! After having been rich to come to such an end!"
"The actress is not the only one in this room who has been rich."
"Who else?"
"A young girl of about fifteen or so, brought here yesterday evening. She was so weak that they were obliged to support her. The sister said that the young lady and her mother were very reputable persons, who had been ruined."
"And is her mother here, too?"
"No, the mother was too ill to be moved. The poor girl would not leave, so they took advantage of her fainting to convey her. The proprietor of a wretched lodging-house, for fear they should die in his rooms, made the report at the police station. She is there—in the bed opposite you."
"And she is fifteen? The age of my eldest girl!" And Jeanne Duport wept bitterly.
"Pardon me," said La Lorraine, "if I have given you pain unconsciously in speaking of your children! Are they, too, ill?"
"Alas! I do not know. What will become of them if I remain here for a week?"
"And your husband?"
"As we are friends together, Lorraine, I will tell you my troubles, as you have told me yours, and that will comfort me. My husband was an excellent workman, but became dissipated, and forsook me and my children, after having sold everything we possessed. I went to work; some good souls aided me, and I began to get easy again, and was bringing up my little family as wellas I could, when my husband returned with a vile creature, his mistress, and again stripped me of everything; and so I had to begin all over again."
"Poor Jeanne! You could not help it."
"I ought to have separated myself from him in law,—but, as my brother says, the law is too dear! I went to see my brother one day, and he gave me three francs, which he had collected amongst the prisoners on telling his tales. So I took courage, believing my husband would not return for a very long time, as he had taken all he could from us. But I was mistaken," added the poor creature, with a shudder; "there was my poor Catherine still to take!"
"Your daughter?"
"You will hear—you will hear! Three days ago, as I was at work with my children around me, my husband came in. I saw by his look that he had been drinking. 'I have come for Catherine,' says he. I took my daughter's arm, and I said to Duport, 'Where do you want to take her to?' 'What's that to you? She's my daughter. Let her make up her bundle and come along with me.' At these words my blood ran cold in my veins; for you must know, Lorraine, that that bad woman is still with my husband, and it makes me shudder all over to say it. But so it was; she had long been urging him to earn something by our daughter, who is young and pretty. 'Take away Catherine?' said I to Duport; 'Never! I know what that wicked woman would do with her.' 'I say,' said my husband, whose lips were white with rage, 'do not oppose me or I'll kill you!' and then he seized my daughter by the arm, saying, 'Come along, Catherine!' The poor child threw her arms around my neck, and burst into tears, exclaiming, 'I will stay with mother!' When he saw this, Duport became furious, tore my daughter from me, and hit me a blow in my stomach, which knocked me down; and when I was on the ground—he was very drunk,you may be sure—he trampled on me and hurt me dreadfully. My poor children begged for mercy on their knees,—Catherine, too; and then he said to her, swearing like a lunatic, 'If you will not come with me I'll do for your mother!' I was spitting blood; I felt half dead, and could not move an inch. But I cried to Catherine, 'Let him kill me first!' 'What, you won't be quiet?' said Duport, giving me another kick, which deprived me of all consciousness; and when I returned to myself, I found my two little boys crying bitterly."
"And your daughter?"
"Gone!" exclaimed the unhappy mother, with convulsive sobs. "Yes; gone. My other children told me that their father had beaten them and threatened to finish me. Then the poor girl was quite distracted and embraced me and her brothers, weeping dreadfully; and then my husband dragged her away. Ah, that bad woman was waiting for him on the stairs, I know!"
"And didn't you complain to the police?"
"At first I felt only grief at Catherine's departure; but I felt soon great pain in all my limbs,—I could not walk. Alas, what I had so long dreaded had happened! Yes, I told my brother that one day my husband would beat me so that I should be obliged to go to the hospital,—and then what would become of my children? And now here I am in the hospital, and what, indeed, will become of my children? The neighbours went for the commissary, who came. I didn't like to denounce Duport, but I was obliged, in consequence of my daughter; only I said that in our quarrel about our daughter he had pushed me, that it was nothing, but I wanted my daughter Catherine because I feared the bad woman with whom my husband lived would be the ruin of her."
"Well, and what did the commissary say?"
"Why, that my husband had a right to take away hisdaughter, as we were not separated; that it would be a misfortune if my daughter turned out badly from evil counsels, but that they were only suppositions, after all, and that was not sufficient for a complaint against my husband. 'You have but one way—plead in the courts, demand a separation—and then the beatings your husband has given you, his behaviour with a vile woman, will be in your favour, and they will force him to restore your daughter to you; but, otherwise, he has a right to keep her with him.' 'But how can I plead when I have my children to feed?' 'What can be done?' said the clerk; 'that's the only way!'" and poor Jeanne sobbed bitterly, adding, "And he is right—that is the only way! And so, in three months, my daughter may be walking the streets, whilst if I could plead and be separated it would not happen. Alas, poor Catherine, so gentle and so affectionate!"
"Oh, you have, indeed, a bitter sorrow; and yet I was complaining!" said La Lorraine, drying her eyes. "And your other children?"
"Why, on their account, I did all I could to bear the pains I was suffering, and not go to the hospital; but I could not go on. I vomited blood three or four times a day, and a fever took away the use of my arms and legs, and I was at last unable to work. If I am quickly cured I may return to my children, if they are not first dead from hunger or locked up as beggars. Who will maintain them whilst I am here?"
"Oh, it is very terrible! Have you no kind neighbours?"
"They are as poor as myself, and have five children already. It is very hard, but they promised to do a little something for them for a week; that is all they could do. And so, cured or not cured, I must go out in a week."
"But your friend, Mademoiselle Rigolette?"
"Unfortunately, she is in the country, and going tobe married, the porter said. No, I must be cured in eight days; and I asked all the doctors who spoke to me yesterday, but they laughed as they replied, 'You must ask the principal surgeon.' When will he come, Lorraine?"
"Hush! I think I hear him now. And no one is allowed to speak during his visit," replied Lorraine, in a low voice.
The daylight had appeared during the conversation of the two women. A bustle announced the arrival of Doctor Griffon, who entered the room accompanied by his friend, the Comte de Saint-Remy, who took so warm an interest in Madame de Fermont and her daughter, but was very far from expecting to find the unfortunate young lady in the hospital. As he entered the ward, the cold and harsh features of Doctor Griffon seemed to expand. Casting around him a look of satisfaction and authority, he answered the obsequious reception of the sisters by a protecting nod. The coarse and austere countenance of the old Comte de Saint-Remy was imprinted with the deepest sorrow. His ineffective attempts to find any traces of Madame de Fermont, and the ignominious baseness of the vicomte, who had preferred a life of infamy to death, overwhelmed him with grief.
"Well," said Doctor Griffon to him, with an air of triumph, "what do you think of my hospital?"
"Really," replied M. de Saint-Remy, "I do not know why I yielded to your desire; nothing is more harrowing than the sight of rooms filled with sick persons. Since I entered, my feelings have been severely distressed."
"Bah, bah! In a quarter of an hour you will think no more of it. You, who are a philosopher, will find here ample matter for observation; and besides, it would have been a shame for you, one of my oldest friends, not to have known the theatre of my glory, my labours,and seen me at work. I take pride in my profession—is that wrong?"
"No, certainly; and after your excellent care of Fleur-de-Marie, whom you have saved, I could refuse you nothing."
"Well, have you ascertained anything as to the fate of Madame de Fermont and her daughter?"
"Nothing!" replied M. de Saint-Remy, with a sigh. "And my last hope is in Madame d'Harville, who takes such deep interest in these two unfortunates; she may find some traces of them. Madame d'Harville, I hear, is expected daily at her house; and I have written to her on the subject, begging her to reply as soon as possible."
During the conversation between M. de Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon, several groups were formed gradually around a large table in the middle of the apartment, on which was a register in which the pupils of the hospital (who were to be recognised by their long white aprons) came in their turns to sign the attendance-sheet.
"You see, my dear Saint-Remy, that my staff is pretty considerable."
"It is indeed! But all these beds are occupied by women, and the presence of so many men must inspire them with painful confusion!"
"All these fine feelings must be left at the door, my dear Alcestis. Here we begin on the living those experiments and studies which we complete on the dead body in the amphitheatre."
"Doctor, you are one of the best and worthiest of men, and I owe you my life, and I recognise all your excellent qualities; but the practice and love of your art makes you take views of certain questions which are most revolting to me. I leave you. These are things which disgust and pain me; and I foresee that it would be a real punishment to me to be present at your visit. I will wait for you here at the table."
"What a strange person you are with these scruples! But I will not let you have quite your own way. So remain here till I come for you."
"Now, then, gentlemen," said Doctor Griffon; and he began his round, followed by his numerous auditory.
On reaching the first bed on the right hand, the curtains of which were closed, the sister said to the doctor:
"Sir, No. 1 died at half past four o'clock this morning."
"So late? It astonishes me. Yesterday morning I would not have given her the day through. Has her body been claimed?"
"No, sir."
"So much the better. It is a very fine one; we will not dissect it, but I will make a man happy." Then turning to one of the pupils, "My dear Dunoyer, you have long desired a subject; your name is down for the first, and it is yours."
"Oh, sir, you are too good."
"I am only desirous of rewarding your zeal, my dear fellow; but mark the subject—take possession; there are so many who covet it."
As the doctor passed onwards, the pupil, with his scalpel, incised very delicately an F. and D. (his initials) on the arm of the defunct actress, in order "to take possession," as the doctor termed it. And the round continued.
"Lorraine," said Jeanne Duport, in a low voice, to her neighbour, "who is all this crowd of people with the surgeon?"
"It is pupils and students."
"Oh, will all these young men look on whilst the doctor asks me questions and examines me?"
"Alas, yes!"
"But it is in my chest that I am ill; will they examine me before all these men?"
"Yes—yes—it must be so. I cried bitterly thefirst time, and thought I should have died of shame. I resisted, and they threatened to send me away, and that made me so ill. Only imagine, almost naked before everybody! It is very painful."
"Before the doctor alone I can easily comprehend it is necessary, and even that is a great deal to submit to; but why before all these young men?"
"They learn and practise on us; that is why we are here,—why they admit us into the hospital."
"Ah, I understand," said Jeanne Duport, with bitterness; "they give us nothing for nothing. Yet still there are times when even that could not be. Suppose my poor girl Catherine, who is only fifteen, were to come to the hospital, would they dare with her, before so many young men, to—Oh, no! I would rather see her die at home!"
"Oh, if she came here she must make up her mind to do as the others do,—as you and I. But hold your tongue; if the poor young lady in front hears you—they say she was rich, and, perhaps, has never left her mother before,—and yet her turn comes now. Only think how confused and distressed she will be."
"I shudder when I think of her! Poor child!"
"Hush, Jeanne! Here is the doctor!" said Lorraine.
After having quickly visited several patients who presented nothing remarkable in their cases, the doctor at last came to Jeanne. At the sight of this crowd coming around her bed, anxious to see and learn, the poor creature, overcome with fear and shame, pulled the bed-clothes tightly around her. The severe and meditative countenance of the doctor, his penetrating glance, his eyebrows, always drawn down by his reflective habit, his abrupt mode of speech, impatient and quick, increased the alarm of poor Jeanne.
"A new subject!" said the doctor, as he read the placard in which was inscribed the nature of the patient'smalady, and throwing on Jeanne a lengthened look of scrutiny. There was a profound silence amongst the assistants, who, in imitation of the prince of science, fixed a scrutinising glance on the patient. After an examination of several minutes, the doctor, remarking something wrong in the yellow tint of the patient's eyeball, approached her more closely, and, raising the lid with his finger, examined it silently. Then several of the students, responding to the kind of mute invitation of their professor, drew near, and gazed at Jeanne's eye with attention. The doctor then began:
"Your name?"
"Jeanne Duport," she murmured, more and more alarmed.
"Are you married?"
"Alas, yes, sir!" with a profound sigh.
"Have you any children?"
Here, instead of replying, the poor mother gave way to a flood of tears.
"It is no use crying,—answer! Have you any children?"
"Yes, sir,—two little boys, and a girl of sixteen."
Then followed a string of questions impossible to repeat, but to which Jeanne could only reply in stammering, and after many severe rebukes from the doctor. The poor woman was overwhelmed with shame, compelled as she was to reply aloud to such questions before such a numerous auditory.
The doctor, completely absorbed by scientific feelings, did not give the smallest heed to Jeanne's distress, and continued:
"How long have you been ill?"
"Four days, sir," replied Jeanne, drying her tears.
"Tell us how your illness first disclosed itself."
"Sir,—why,—there are so many persons here, that I dare not."
"Pooh! Where do you come from, my dear woman?"inquired the doctor, impatiently; "would you like to have a confessional brought? Come, come, make haste!"
"Sir, these are family matters."
"Oh, be easy, we are all family men here; a large family, too, as you see," added the prince of science, who was in very high spirits that day. "Come, come, let us have an end of this."
More and more alarmed, Jeanne, stammering and hesitating at each moment, said:
"I had—a quarrel with my husband—about the children; I mean my eldest daughter, that he wanted to take away; and I wouldn't agree, because of a wicked woman he lived with, and who might give bad advice to my daughter. So then, my husband, who was tipsy,—yes, sir,—for if not, he'd never have done it,—my husband gave me a very hard push, and I fell; and then, soon after, I began to vomit blood."
"Pooh, pooh, pooh! Your husband pushed you, and you fell; you describe it very nicely! Why, he did more than push you; he must have struck you in the stomach; perhaps trampled on you, or kicked you? Come, answer,—let's have the truth."
"Oh, sir, I assure you that he was tipsy; but for that he would never have been so wicked."
"Good or wicked, drunk or sober, it is not to the purpose, my good woman. I am not a public officer, and only want a fact accurately described. Now, were you not knocked down, and trampled under foot?"
"Yes!" said Jeanne, weeping; "and yet I never gave him any cause of complaint. I worked as long as I could, and—"
"The epigastrium must be very painful. Don't you feel great heat around that region?—uneasiness, lassitude, nausea?"
"Yes, sir. I was quite worn out when I gave up, if not, I should never have left my children; and then, my Catherine! Oh, if you—"
"Put out your tongue," said the doctor, again interrupting the patient.
This appeared so strange to Jeanne, who thought to excite the doctor's pity, that she did not reply immediately, but looked at him with alarm.
"Show me your tongue, which you know so well how to use," said the doctor, with a smile; and he pushed down Jeanne's lower jaw with the end of his finger. After having had his pupils successively, and for some time, feel and examine the subject's tongue, in order to ascertain its colour and dryness, Jeanne, overcoming her fear for a moment, said, in a tremulous voice:
"Sir, I was going to say to you, my neighbours, who are as poor as myself, have been so kind as to take care of my children for a week only, which is a great deal; so at the end of that time I must be back home again. So I beg of you, in God's name, to cure me as quickly as you can, or nearly so, that I may return to work; and I have but a week before me,—for—"
"Discoloured face,—complete state of prostration,—yet the pulse strong, quick, and regular," said the doctor, imperturbably, and pointing to Jeanne. "Remark her well, gentlemen: oppression, heat in the epigastric regions. All these symptoms certainly betoken hæmatemesis, probably complicated by hepatitis, caused by domestic troubles, as is indicated by the yellow discoloration of the eyeball. The subject has had violent blows in the regions of the epigastrium and abdomen; the vomiting blood is the necessary consequence of some organic injury to the viscera. On this point let me call your attention to a very curious, remarkably curious, feature. The post-mortem appearances of those who die of the injuries under which the subject is suffering frequently present remarkable appearances; frequently the malady, very severe and very dangerous, carries off the patient in a few days, and then no trace of it is found."
Doctor Griffon then, throwing off the bed-clothes, nearly denuded poor Jeanne. It would be repugnant to describe the struggle of the unfortunate creature, who, in her shame, implored the doctor and his auditory. But at the threat, "You will be turned out of the hospital, if you do not submit to the established usages,"—a threat so terrible for those to whom the hospital is the sole and last refuge,—Jeanne submitted to a public scrutiny, which lasted a long time, very long, for Doctor Griffon analysed and explained every symptom; and then the most studious of the pupils declared their wish to unite practice with theory, and also examine the patient. The end of this scene was that poor Jeanne felt such extreme emotion that she fell into a nervous crisis, for which Doctor Griffon gave an extra prescription.
The round continued, and the doctor soon reached the bed of Mlle. Claire de Fermont, a victim, like her mother, to the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand.
Mlle, de Fermont, dressed in a cap of the hospital, was leaning her head languidly on the bolster of the bed. In spite of the ravages of her malady, there might be detected on her open and sweet countenance the traces of a beauty full of distinction. After a night of keen anguish, the poor girl had fallen into a kind of feverish stupor, and when the doctor and his scientific train entered the ward she was not aroused by the noise.
"Another first subject, gentlemen," said the prince of science. "Disease, a slow nervous fever; if the receiving surgeon is not mistaken in the symptoms, this is a real godsend. For a long time I have desired a slow nervous fever, for that is not an ordinary complaint amongst the poor. These affections are usually produced after severe trouble in the social position of the subject, and I need hardly add that the higher the position of the patient, the more deep is the disease. It is, moreover,a complaint the more remarkable from its peculiar characteristics. It is traced to the very remotest antiquity, and the writings of Hippocrates have no doubt reference to it. This fever, I repeat, has almost always been produced from the most violent grief, and grief is as old as the world. Yet, strange to say, before the eighteenth century, this disease was never accurately described by any author; it was Huxham, whom the science of medicine of the age so highly honours,—Huxham, I say, who first defined accurately nervous fever; and yet it is a malady of the olden time," added the doctor, jocosely. "Eh, eh, eh! It belongs to the great, antique, and illustrious family offebris, whose origin is lost in the darkness of ages. But we may be rejoicing too soon; let us see if really we have the good fortune to possess here a sample of this curious affection; it would be doubly desirable, inasmuch as, for a very long time, I have been anxious to try the effect of the internal use of phosphorus. Yes, gentlemen," continued the doctor, hearing amongst his auditory a kind of shudder of curiosity,—"yes, gentlemen, of phosphorus; it is a singular experiment that I wish to try, and a bold one, and butaudaces fortuna juvat, and the opportunity would be excellent. We will first try if the subject offers in all parts of the body, and particularly in the chest, that miliary eruption, so symptomatic according to Huxham, and you will assure yourselves, by feeling the subject, of the kind of uneven surface which this eruption produces. But do not let us sell the skin of our bear before we have killed it," added the prince of science, who was decidedly in very high spirits. And he shook Mlle. de Fermont's shoulder very gently, in order to wake her.
The young girl started and opened her large eyes, hollowed by the malady. It is impossible to describe her amaze and alarm. Whilst a crowd of men surrounded her bed, all fixing their eyes upon her, she felt the doctor's hand gliding under the quilt into her bed, inorder to take her hand and feel her pulse. Mlle. de Fermont, collecting all her strength, in a cry of anguish, exclaimed:
"Mother! Help! Mother! Mother!"
By an almost providential chance, at the moment when the cries of Mlle. de Fermont made the old Count de Saint-Remy spring from his chair, for he recognised the voice, the door of the apartment opened, and a young lady, dressed in mourning, entered very hastily, accompanied by the governor of the hospital; this lady was the Marquise d'Harville.
"I beg of you, sir," she said to him, "to lead me to Mlle. de Fermont."
"Be so kind as to follow me," he replied, respectfully; "the young lady is in No. 17."
"Unhappy girl! Here—here!" said Madame d'Harville, drying her tears. "Ah, this is really frightful!"
The marquise, preceded by the governor, rapidly approached the group assembled beside the bed of Mlle. de Fermont, when they heard these words uttered with indignation:
"I tell you it is infamous murder; you will kill her, sir!"
"But, my dear Saint-Remy, do pray hear me!"
"I repeat, sir, that your conduct is atrocious! I consider Mlle. de Fermont as my daughter, and I forbid you going near her; I will have her immediately removed hence."
"But, my dear friend, it is a case of slow nervous fever, very rare; I am desirous of trying phosphorus. It is a unique occasion. Promise me, at least, that I shall have the care of her, and take her where you like, since you are determined to deprive us of so valuable a clinical subject."
"If you were not a madman, you would be a monster!" replied the count.
Clémence listened to these words with increasing anguish, but the crowd was so dense around the bed that the governor was obliged to say, in a loud voice:
"Make way, if you please, for the Marquise d'Harville, who has come to see No. 17."
At these words, the pupils made way with equal haste and respectful admiration when they saw Clémence's lovely face, which was radiant with so much emotion.
"Madame d'Harville!" exclaimed the Count de Saint-Remy, pushing the doctor rudely aside, and going hastily towards Clémence. "Ah, it is God who sends one of his angels here! Madame, I knew you took an interest in these two unfortunate beings, and, more happy than me, you have found them, whilst it was chance only that led me hither, to be present at a scene of unparalleled barbarity. Unhappy child! See, madame; and you, gentlemen, in the name of your sisters and daughters, have pity, I entreat, on a girl of sixteen, and leave her alone with madame and these good sisters; when she recovers her senses, I will have her conveyed hence."
"Very well, let it be so; I will sign her discharge!" exclaimed the doctor; "but I will not lose sight of her; she is a subject of mine, and I will attend her, do what you will. I'll not risk the phosphorus, I promise that; but I will pass my nights, if needs be, as I passed them with you, ungrateful Saint-Remy, for this fever is as curious as yours was; they are two sisters, who have an equal right to my interest."
"Confound the man! Why has he so much science?" said the count, knowing that he could not confide the young girl to more able hands.
"Eh! It is simple enough," said the doctor, in a whisper. "I have a great deal of science because I study, because I experimentalise, because I risk and practise a great deal on my subjects; and so, old fellow, I shall still have my slow nervous fever,—eh?"
"Yes; but is it safe to move this young girl?"
"Certainly."
"Then, for the love of heaven, disappear with your train!"
"Come, gentlemen," said the prince of science, "we shall be deprived of a precious study; but I will make my reports on it to you." And Doctor Griffon, with his suite, continued his round, leaving M. de Saint-Remy and Madame d'Harville with Mlle. de Fermont.
During this scene, Mlle. de Fermont, still in a swoon, had been attended to by Clémence and the two nuns. Saint-Remy said in a low tone to Clémence:
"And the mother of this unhappy girl, madame?"
The marchioness replied, in a voice deeply affected:
"She has no longer a mother, sir. I learnt yesterday only, on my return, the address of Madame de Fermont, and her dying condition; at one o'clock in the morning I went to her with a medical man. Ah, sir, what a fiction! It was misery in all its horror! And no hope of saving the poor mother, whose last words were, 'My daughter!'"
"What a death! Good heaven! And she so tender, so devoted a mother,—it is frightful!"
"I will watch her until she can be moved," said Clémence, "and, when she can be removed, I will take her with me."
"Ah, madame, bless you for what you say and do!" said M. de Saint-Remy. "But excuse me for not having before mentioned my name to you, I am the Comte de Saint-Remy; Madame de Fermont's husband was my most intimate friend. I live at Angers, and left that city from uneasiness at not receiving any news of these two noble and excellent women; they had until then lived in that city, and were said to be completely ruined, which was the more terrible as until then they had lived in ease and plenty."
"Ah, sir! you do not know all; Madame de Fermont was shamefully robbed."
"By her notary, perhaps? I had my suspicions."
"That man was a monster, sir! Alas! that was not the only crime he committed; but fortunately," said Clémence, with excitement, as she thought of Rodolph, "a providential genius had compelled him to do justice, and I was enabled to close Madame de Fermont's eyes, assuring her as to the future provision for her daughter; thus her death was rendered less cruel."
"I understand; knowing her daughter to have your support henceforth, my poor friend died more tranquil."
"Not only is my interest excited for ever towards Mlle. de Fermont, but her fortune will be restored to her."
"Her fortune! The notary—"
"Has been compelled to refund the money. This man had caused the assassination of Madame de Fermont's brother, in order to make it appear that the unhappy man had committed suicide, after having dissipated his sister's fortune; but he has now placed the sum in the hands of the worthy curé of Bonne-Nouvelle, and it will be given to Mlle. de Fermont. The infamous wretch has committed another murder equally infamous!"
"What mean you, madame?"
"But a few days since he got rid of an unfortunate young girl, whom he had an interest in drowning, assured that her death would be attributed to accident."
M. de Saint-Remy started, looked at Madame d'Harville with surprise, as he recollected Fleur-de-Marie, and exclaimed:
"Ah, madame, what a singular coincidence! This young girl they sought to drown—"
"In the Seine, near Asnières, as I am told."
"'Tis she! 'Tis she!" cried Saint-Remy.
"Of whom do you speak, sir?"
"Of the young girl whom this monster sought to drown. Do you know her, madame?"
"Poor dear! I love her tenderly. Ah, if you knew, sir, how lovely, how prepossessing she was! But tell me what you mean."
"Doctor Griffon and I gave her the first assistance."
"First assistance to her! And in what way?"
"At the Isle du Ravageur, where she was saved."
"Saved! Fleur-de-Marie saved?"
"By a worthy creature, who, at the risk of her life, saved her from the Seine. But what ails you, madame?"
"Ah, sir, I fear to believe in such good fortune; but, I pray of you, tell me what is the appearance of this young girl?"
"Singularly beautiful!"
"Large, blue eyes,—light brown hair?"
"Yes, madame."
"And when she was drowned, there was an elderly woman with her?"
"It was only yesterday she was well enough to speak, and she is still very weak; she said an elderly woman accompanied her."
"Praised be Heaven!" said Clémence, clasping her hands with fervour; "I can now tell him that his protégée still lives! What joy for him who, in his last letter, spoke to me of this poor child with such bitter regrets! Excuse me, sir, but you know not how happy your intelligence renders me, and will make a person who, more than myself, has loved and protected Fleur-de-Marie. But, for mercy's sake, tell me, where is she at this moment?"
"Near Asnières, in the house of one of the surgeons of this hospital, Doctor Griffon; she was taken there, and has had every attention."
"And is she out of danger?"
"Yes, madame, but only during the last two or three days, and to-day she will be permitted to write to her protector."
"Oh, I will undertake to do that, sir; or, rather, I shall have the pleasure of taking her to those who, believing her dead, regret her so bitterly!"
"I can understand those regrets, madame, for it is impossible to see Fleur-de-Marie without being charmed with her grace and sweetness. The woman who saved her, and has since watched her night and day as she would an infant, is a courageous and devoted person, but of a disposition so excitable that she has been called La Louve."
"I know La Louve," said the marquise, smiling as she thought of the pleasure she had in store for the prince. What would have been her ecstasy, had she known she was the daughter he believed dead that she was about to restore to Rodolph! Then, addressing the nun who had given some spoonfuls of a draught to Mlle. de Fermont, she said, "Well, sister, is she recovering?"
"Not yet, madame, she is so weak. Poor, young thing! One can scarcely feel her pulse beat."
"I will wait, then, until she is sufficiently restored to be put into my carriage; but tell me, sister, amongst these unfortunate patients, do you know any who particularly deserve interest and pity, and to whom I could be useful before I leave the hospital?"
"Ah, madame, Heaven has sent you here!" said the sister. "There," and she pointed to the bed of Pique-Vinaigre's sister, "is a poor woman much to be pitied, and very bad; she only came in when quite exhausted, and is past all comfort, because she has been obliged to abandon her two small children, who have no other support in the world. She said just now to the doctor that she must go out, cured or not, in a week, because herneighbours had promised to take care of her children for that time only and no longer."
"Take me to her bed, I beg of you, sister," said Madame d'Harville, rising and following the nun.
Jeanne Duport, who had scarcely recovered from the violent shock which the investigations of Doctor Griffon had caused her, had not remarked the entrance of Madame d'Harville; what, then, was her astonishment, when the marquise, lifting up the curtains of her bed, and looking at her with great pity and kindness, said:
"My good woman, do not be uneasy about your children, I will take care of them; so only think of getting well, that you may go to them."
Poor Jeanne thought she was in a dream, she could only clasp her hands in speechless gratitude, and gaze on her unknown benefactress.
"Once again assure yourself, my worthy woman, and have no uneasiness," said the marquise, pressing in her small and delicate white hands the burning hand of Jeanne Duport; "and, if you prefer it, you shall leave the hospital this very day and be nursed at home; everything shall be done for you, so that you need not leave your children; and, if your lodging is unhealthy or too small, you shall have one found that is more convenient and suitable, so that you may be in one room and your children in another; you shall have a good nurse, who will watch them whilst she attends to you, and when you entirely recover, if you are out of work, I will take care that you are provided for until work comes, and I will also take care of your children for the future."
"Ah, what do I hear?" said Jeanne Duport, all trembling and hardly daring to look her benefactress in the face. "Why are so many kindnesses showered on me? It is not possible! I leave the hospital, where I have wept and suffered so much, andnot leave my children again! Have a nurse! Why, it is a miracle!"
"It is no miracle, my good woman," said Clémence, much affected. "What I do for you," she added, blushing slightly at the remembrance of Rodolph, "is inspired by a generous spirit, who has taught me to sympathise with misfortune, and it is he whom you should thank."
"Ah, madame, I shall ever bless you!" said Jeanne, weeping.
"Well, then, you see, Jeanne," said Lorraine, much affected, "there are also amongst the rich Rigolettes and Goualeuses with good hearts."
Madame d'Harville turned with much surprise towards Lorraine when she heard her mention the two names.
"Do you know La Goualeuse and a young workwoman called Rigolette?" she inquired of Lorraine.
"Yes, madame; La Goualeuse—good little angel!—did for me last year, according to her small means, what you are going to do for Jeanne. Yes, madame, and it does me good to say and repeat it to everybody, La Goualeuse took me from a cellar in which I had been brought to bed on the straw, and—dear, good girl!—placed me and my child in a room where there was a good bed and a cradle; La Goualeuse spent the money from pure charity, for she scarcely knew me, and was poor herself. But how good it was! Was it not, madame?" said Lorraine.
"Yes, yes; charity from the poor to the poor is great and holy!" said Clémence, with her eyes moistened by soft tears.
"It was the same with Mademoiselle Rigolette, who, according to her little means as a sempstress," said Lorraine, "some days ago offered her kind services to Jeanne."
"How singular!" said Clémence to herself, more and more affected, for each of these two names, Goualeuseand Rigolette, reminded her of a noble action of Rodolph. "And you, my child, what can I do for you?" she said to Lorraine; "I could wish that the names you pronounce with so much gratitude should also bring you good fortune."
"Thank you, madame," said Lorraine, with a smile of bitter resignation. "I had a child, it is dead; I am in a decline and past all hope."
"What a gloomy idea! At your age there is always hope."
"Oh, no, madame, I saw a consumptive patient die last night. Yet as you are so good, a great lady like you must be able to do anything."
"Tell me, what do you wish?"
"Since I have seen the actress who is dead so distressed at the idea of being cut in pieces after her death, I have the same fear. Jeanne had promised to claim my body, and have me buried."
"Ah, this is horrible!" said Clémence, shuddering. "Be tranquil, although I hope the time is far distant, yet, when it comes, be assured that your body shall rest in holy ground."
"Oh, thank you—thank you, madame!" exclaimed Lorraine. "Might I beg to kiss your hand?"
Clémence presented her hand to the parched lips of Lorraine.
Half an hour afterwards, Madame d'Harville, who had been painfully affected by Lorraine's condition, accompanied by M. de Saint-Remy, took with her the young orphan, from whom she concealed her mother's death.
The same day, Madame d'Harville's man of business, after having obtained favourable particulars respecting Jeanne Duport's character, hired for her some large and airy rooms, and the same evening she was conveyed to her new residence, where she found her children and a nurse. The same individual was instructed to claimand inter the body of Lorraine when she died. After having conveyed Mlle. de Fermont to her own house, Madame d'Harville started for Asnières with M. de Saint-Remy, in order to go to Fleur-de-Marie, and take her to Rodolph.
Spring was approaching, and already the sun darted a more genial warmth, the sky was blue and clear, while the balmy air seemed to bring life and breath upon its invigorating wings. Among the many sick and suffering who rejoiced in its cheering presence was Fleur-de-Marie, who, leaning on the arm of La Louve, ventured to take gentle exercise in the little garden belonging to Doctor Griffon's house; the vivifying rays of the sun, added to the exertion of walking, tinged the pale, wasted countenance of La Goualeuse with a faint glow that spoke of returning convalescence. The dress she had worn when rescued from a watery grave had been destroyed in the haste with which the requisite attempts had been made for her resuscitation, and she now appeared in a loose wrapping dress of dark blue merino, fastened around her slender waist by worsted cord of the same colour as the robe.
"How cheering the sun shines!" said she to La Louve, as she stopped beneath a thick row of trees, planted beside a high gravelled walk facing the south, and on which was a stone bench. "Shall we sit down and rest ourselves here a few minutes?"
"Why do you ask me?" replied La Louve, almost angrily; then taking off her nice warm shawl, she folded it in four, and, kneeling down, placed it on the ground, which was somewhat moist from the extremeshelter afforded by the overhanging trees, saying, as she did so, "Here, put your feet on this."
"Oh, but La Louve!" said Fleur-de-Marie, perceiving too late the kind intention of her companion, "I cannot suffer you to spoil your beautiful shawl in that way."
"Don't make a fuss about nothing; I tell you the ground is cold and moist. There, that will do." And, taking the tiny feet of Fleur-de-Marie, she forcibly placed them on her shawl.
"You spoil me terribly, La Louve."
"It is not for your good behaviour, if I do; always trying to oppose me in everything I try to do for your good. Are you not very much tired? We have been walking more than half an hour; I heard twelve o'clock just strike from Asnières."
"I do feel rather weary, but still the walk has done me good."
"There now—you were tired, and yet could not tell me so!"
"Pray don't scold me; I assure you I was not conscious of my weariness until I spoke. It is so delightful to be able to walk out in the air, after being confined by sickness to your bed, to see the trees, the green fields, and the beautiful country again, when you had given up all hope of ever enjoying that happiness, or of feeling the warm beams of the sun fill you with strength and hope!"
"Certainly, you were desperately ill, and for two days we despaired of your life. I don't mind telling you, now the danger is over."
"Only imagine, La Louve, that, when I found myself in the water, I could not help thinking of a very bad, wicked woman, who used to torment me when I was young, and frighten me by threatening to throw me to the fishes that they might eat me, and, even after I had grown up, she wanted to drown me; and I kept thinkingthat it was my destiny to be devoured by fishes, and that it was no use to try and escape from it."
"Was that really your last idea when you believed yourself perishing?"
"Oh, no!" replied Fleur-de-Marie, with enthusiasm; "when I believed I was dying, my last thought was for him whom I so reverence, and to whom I owe so much, and, when I came to myself after you had saved me, my first thought was of him likewise."
"It is a pleasure to render you any service, you think so much of it."
"No, La Louve; the pleasure consists in falling asleep with our grateful recollection of kind acts, and remembering them upon waking!"
"Ah, you would induce people to go through fire and water to serve you! I'm sure I would, for one."
"I can assure you that one of the causes which made me thankful for life was the hope of being able to advance your happiness. Do you recollect the castles in the air we used to build at St. Lazare?"
"Oh, as for that, there is time enough to think about that."
"How delighted I should be, if the doctor would only allow me to write a few lines to Madame Georges, I am sure she must be so very uneasy; and so must M. Rodolph, too," added Fleur-de-Marie, pensively sighing. "Perhaps they think me dead."
"As those wretches do who were set on to murder you!"
"Then you still believe my falling into the water was not an accident?"
"Accident! Yes, one of the Martial family's accidents;—mind, when I say that, you must bear in mind that my Martial is not at all like the rest of his relations, any more than François and Amandine."
"But what interest could they have had in my death?"
"I don't care for that; the Martials are such a vile set that they would murder any one, provided they were well paid for it. A few words the mother let drop when my man went to see her in prison prove that."
"Has he really been to see that dreadful woman?"
"Yes; and he tells me there is no hope of pardon for herself, Calabash, or Nicholas. A great many things have been discovered against them; and all the judges and those kind of people say they want to make a public example of them, to frighten others from doing such things."
"How very shocking for nearly a whole family to perish in this way."
"And they certainly will, unless, indeed, Nicholas manages to make his escape; he is in the same prison with a monstrous ruffian whom they call the Skeleton, and this man is getting up a plot to escape with several of his companions. Nicholas sent to tell Martial of this, by a prisoner who was discharged from prison the other day, for I must tell you, my man had been weak enough to go and see his brother in La Force; so, encouraged by this visit, that hateful wretch Nicholas sent to tell my man that he might effect his escape at any minute, and that his brother was to send money and clothes to disguise himself in, ready for him, to Father Micou's."
"Ah, your Martial is so kind-hearted, I'm sure he will do it!"
"A fig for such kind-heartedness! I call it downright foolery to help the very man who tried to take his life. No, no, Martial shall do no such thing; quite enough if he does not tell of the scheme for breaking out of prison, without furnishing clothes and money, indeed. Besides, now you are out of danger, myself, Martial, and the two children are about to start on our rambles over France in search of work, and, depend upon it, we never mean to set our feet in Paris again. Martial found it quite galling enough to be called theson of a man who was guillotined; how, then, could he endure being taunted with the disgraceful ends of all his family?"
"Well, but, at least, you will defer your departure till I have been enabled to see and speak with M. Rodolph; you have returned to virtue, and I promised you a reward if you would but forsake evil ways, and I wish to keep my word. You saved me from death, and, not satisfied with that, have nursed me with the tenderest care during my severe illness."
"Suppose I did; well, it would seem as though I had done the little good in my power for the sake of gain, were I to allow you to ask your friends for anything for me! No, no; I say again, I am more than repaid in seeing you safe and likely to do well."
"My kind Louve, make yourself perfectly easy; it shall not be said that you were influenced by interested motives, but that I was desirous of proving my gratitude to you."
"Hark!" said La Louve, hastily rising, "I fancy I hear the sound of a carriage coming this way; yes—yes, there it is! Did you observe the lady who was in it?"
"Dear me!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, "I fancy I recognised a young and beautiful lady I saw at St. Lazare."
"Then she knows you are here, does she?"
"I cannot tell you whether she does or no, but one thing is very certain, that she is acquainted with the person I have so often mentioned to you, who, if he pleases, and I hope that he will please, can realise all those schemes of happiness we used to build when in prison."
"What about getting a gamekeeper's place for my man?" asked La Louve, with a sigh; "and a cottage in the middle of the woods for us all to live in? Oh, no! That is too much like what we read of in fairytales, and quite impossible ever to happen to a poor creature like myself."
Quick steps were heard advancing rapidly from behind the trees, and in a minute François and Amandine (who, thanks to the kind consideration of the Count de Saint-Remy, had been permitted to remain with La Louve, during her attendance on La Goualeuse) presented themselves, quite out of breath, exclaiming:
"La Louve, here is a beautiful lady come along with M. de Saint-Remy to see Fleur-de-Marie, and they want to see her directly!"
At the same moment, Madame d'Harville, accompanied by M. de Saint-Remy, appeared from the side of the walk, the impatience of the former not allowing her to wait the arrival of Fleur-de-Marie. Directly the marquise saw her, she ran and embraced her, exclaiming:
"My poor dear child! What happiness does it not afford me to find you thus in life and safety, when I believed you dead!"
"Be assured, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, as she gracefully and modestly returned the affectionate pressure of Madame d'Harville, "that I have equal pleasure in seeing again one whose former kindness has made so deep an impression on my heart!"
"Ah, you little imagine the joy and rapture with which the intelligence of your existence will be welcomed by those who have so bitterly bewailed your supposed loss!"
Fleur-de-Marie, taking La Louve, who had withdrawn to a distance from the affecting scene, by the hand, and presenting her to Madame d'Harville, said:
"Since, madame, my benefactors are good enough to take so lively an interest in my welfare and preservation, permit me to solicit their kindness and favour for my companion, who saved my life at the expense of her own."
"Make yourself perfectly easy on that score, my child; your friends will amply testify to the worthy La Louve how fully they appreciate the service they well know she has rendered you, and that 'tis to her they owe the delight of seeing you again."
Confused and blushing, La Louve ventured neither to reply nor raise her eyes towards Madame d'Harville, so completely did the presence of that dignified person abash and overpower her. Yet, at hearing her very name pronounced, La Louve could not restrain an exclamation of astonishment.
"But we have not a minute to lose," resumed the marquise. "I am dying with impatience to carry off Fleur-de-Marie, and I have a cloak and warm shawl for her in the carriage. So come, my child, come!" Then, addressing the count, she said, "May I beg of you to give my address to this brave woman, that she may be enabled to come to-morrow to say good-bye to Fleur-de-Marie? That will oblige you to pay us a visit," continued Madame d'Harville, speaking to La Louve.
"Depend upon my coming, madame," replied the person addressed. "Since it is to bid adieu to La Goualeuse, I should be grieved, indeed, if I were to miss that last pleasure."
A few minutes after this conversation, Madame d'Harville and La Goualeuse were on the road to Paris.
After witnessing the frightful death by which Jacques Ferrand atoned for the heinous offences of his past life, Rodolph had returned home deeply agitated and affected. After passing a long and sleepless night, he sent to summon Sir Walter Murphy, in order to relieve his overcharged heart by confiding to this tried and trusty friend the overwhelmingly painful discovery of the preceding evening relative to Fleur-de-Marie. The honest squire was speechless with astonishment; he could well understand the death-blow this must be tothe prince's best affections, and as he contemplated the pale, careworn countenance of his unhappy friend, whose red, swollen eyes and convulsed features amply bespoke the agony of his mind, he ransacked his brain for some gleam of comfort, and his invention for words of hope and comfort.
"Take courage, my lord," said he at last, drying his eyes, which, spite of all his accustomed coolness, he had not been able to prevent from overflowing, "take courage; yours is indeed an infliction, one that mocks at all vain attempts at consolation; it is deep, lasting, and incurable!"
"You are right; what I felt yesterday seems as nothing to my sense of misery to-day."
"Yesterday, my lord, you were stunned by the blow that fell on you, but as your mind dwells more calmly on it, so does the future seem more dark and dispiriting. I can but say, rouse yourself, my lord, to bear it with courage, for it is beyond all attempts at consolation."
"Yesterday the contempt and horror I felt for that woman,—whom may the Great Being pardon, before whose tribunal she now stands,—mingled with surprise, disgust, and terror, occasioned by her hideous conduct, repressed those bursts of despairing tenderness I can no longer restrain in your sympathising presence, my faithful friend. I fear not to indulge the natural emotions of my heart, and my hitherto pent-up tears may now freely vent themselves. Forgive my weakness, and excuse my thus cowardly shrinking from the trial I am called upon to endure, but it seems to have riven my very heart-strings, and to have left me feeble as an infant! Oh, my child! My loved, my lost child! Long must these scalding tears flow ere I can forget you!"
"Ah, my lord, weep on, for your loss is indeed irreparable!"
"What joy to have atoned to her for all the wretchedness with which her young days have been clouded!What bliss to have unfolded to her the happy destiny that was to recompense her for all her past sorrows! And, then, I should have used so much care and precaution in opening her eyes to the brilliant lot that was to succeed her miserable youth, for the tale, if told too abruptly, might have been too much for her delicate nerves to sustain; but, no, I would by degrees have revealed to her the history of her birth, and prepared her to receive me as her father!"
Then, again bursting into an agony of despair, Rodolph continued: "But what avails all that I would have done, when I am tortured by the cruel reflection that, when I had my child all to myself during the ill-fated day I conducted her to the farm, when she so innocently displayed the rich treasures of her pure and heavenly nature, no secret voice whispered to me that in her I beheld my cherished and lamented daughter? I might have prevented this dreadful calamity by keeping her with me instead of sending her to Madame Georges. Oh, if I had, I should have been spared my present sufferings, and needed only to have opened my arms and folded her to my heart as my newly found treasure,—more really great and noble by the beauty of her heart and mind, and perhaps more worthy to fill the station to which I should raise her, than if she had always been reared in opulence and with a knowledge of her rank! I alone am to blame for her death; but mine is an accursed existence. I seem fated to trample on every duty,—a bad son and a bad father!"
Murphy felt that grief such as Rodolph's admitted of no ordinary consolation. He did not therefore attempt to interrupt its violence by any hackneyed phrases or promises of comfort he well knew could never be realised.
After a long silence, Rodolph resumed, in an agitated voice:
"I cannot stay here after what has happened. Paris is hateful to me; I will quit it to-morrow."
"You are quite right in so doing, my lord."
"We will go by a circuitous route, and I will stop at Bouqueval as I pass, that I may spend some few hours alone with my sad thoughts, in the chamber where my poor child enjoyed the only peaceful days she was ever permitted to taste. All that was hers shall be carefully collected together,—the books from which she studied, her writings, clothes, even the very articles of furniture and hangings of the chamber; I will make a careful sketch of the whole, and when I return to Gerolstein I will construct a small building containing the fac-simile of my poor child's apartment, with all that it contained, to be erected in the private ground in which stands the monument built by me in memory of my outraged parent; there I will go and bewail my daughter. These two funeral mementos will for ever remind me of my crime towards my father, and the punishment inflicted on me through my own child."
After a fresh silence, Rodolph said, "Let all be got ready for my departure to-morrow."
Anxious, if possible, to create if but a momentary change of ideas in the prince's mind, Murphy said, "All shall be prepared, my lord, according to your desire; only you appear to have forgotten that to-morrow is fixed for the celebration of the marriage of Rigolette with the son of Madame Georges, and that the ceremony was to take place at Bouqueval. Not contented with providing for Germain as long as he lives, and liberally endowing his bride, you also promised to be present to bestow the hand of your young protégée on her lover."
"True, true,—I did engage to do so; but I confess I have not sufficient courage to venture in a scene of gaiety. I cannot, therefore, visit the farm to-morrow, for to join in the wedding festivities is impossible."
"Perhaps the scene might serve to calm your wounded feelings, with the thought that, if miserable yourself, you have made others happy."
"No, my friend, no! Grief is ever selfish, and loves to indulge itself in solitude. You shall supply my place to-morrow; and beg of Madame Georges to collect together all my poor child's possessions; then when the room is fitly arranged, you will have an exact copy taken of it, and cause it to be sent to me in Germany."