Then addressing her husband, who was walking before her with Madame Georges, she said, "Don't walk so very fast, Germain, you will tire our mother!" And, with a look of proud satisfaction, she said, turning to Louise, "Does not he deserve to have a good wife? See how attentive he is to his mother! He certainly is very handsome, too,—a thousand times more so than Cabrion, or M. Girandeau, the travelling clerk! You remember him, don't you, Louise?
"Talking of Cabrion puts me in mind to ask you whether M. Pipelet and his wife have arrived yet? The doctor wished them to come here to-day with us, because your father has talked much about them during his wanderings."
"No, they are not here at present, but they will not be long. When we called for them they had already set out."
"And then as for being punctual in keeping an appointment, M. Pipelet is as exact as a clock to the hour and minute! But let me tell you a little more about my marriage and M. Rodolph. Only think, Louise, it was he who sent me with the order for Germain's liberation! You can imagine our delight at quitting that horrid prison. Well, we went home to my room, and there Germain and I together prepared a nice little bit of dinner; but, bless you! we might just as well have spared ourselves the trouble, for, after it was ready,neither of us could eat a bit for joy. When evening came Germain left me, promising to return the next day.
"Well, at five o'clock next morning, I got up and sat down to my work, for I was terribly behindhand with it. As eight o'clock struck some one knocked at the door; who should it be but M. Rodolph! Directly I saw him, I began to thank him from the bottom of my heart for all he had done for Germain and myself. He would not allow me to proceed. 'My kind neighbour,' said he, 'I wish you to give this letter to Germain, who will soon be here. Then you will take afiacre, and proceed without delay to a small village, near Ecouen, called Bouqueval. Once there, inquire for Madame Georges; and I wish you all imaginable pleasure from your trip.' 'M. Rodolph,' I said, 'pray excuse me, but that will make me lose another day's work and I have already got two to make up for.' 'Make yourself perfectly easy, my pretty neighbour,' said he, you will find plenty of work at Madame Georges's, I promise you; she will prove an excellent customer, I have no doubt, and I have particularly recommended you to her.' 'Oh, that alters the case, M. Rodolph, then I'm sure I shall be but too glad to go.' 'Adieu, neighbour,' said M. Rodolph. 'Good-bye,' cried I, 'and many thanks for so kindly recommending me.'
"When Germain came, I told him all about it; so as we were quite sure M. Rodolph would not send us upon any foolish errand, we set off as blithe as birds. Only imagine, Louise, what a surprise awaited us on our arrival! I declare I can scarcely think of it without tears of happiness coming into my eyes. We went to the very Madame Georges you see walking before us, and who should she turn out to be but the mother of Germain!"
"His mother?"
"Yes, his own very mother, from whom he had been taken when quite a baby! You must try to fancy theirmutual joy! Well, when Madame Georges had wept over her son, and embraced and gazed at him a hundred times, my turn came to be noticed.
"No doubt M. Rodolph had written something very favourable about me, for, clasping me in her arms, she said, 'She was acquainted with my conduct towards her son.' 'Then, mother,' interposed Germain, 'it only rests with you to ask her, and Rigolette will be your child as well as I.' 'And I do ask her to be my daughter with all my heart,' replied his mother, 'for you will never find a better or a prettier creature to love as your wife.'
"So there I was quite at home, in such a sweet farm, along with Germain, his mother, and my birds; for I had taken the poor, little, dear things with me, just to hear how delightedly they would sing when they found themselves in the country. The days passed like a dream. I did only just what I liked,—helped Madame Georges, walked about with Germain, and danced and sung like a wild thing.
"Well, our marriage was fixed to take place on yesterday fortnight; the evening before, who should arrive but a tall, elderly, bald-headed gentleman, who looked so kind; and he brought me acorbeille de mariagefrom M. Rodolph. Only think, Louise, what a beauty it must have been,—made like a large rosewood box, with these words written in letters of gold, on medallion of blue china, 'Industry and Prudence—Love and Happiness.' And what do you suppose this charming box contained? Why, a number of lace caps similar to the one I have now on, pieces for gowns, gloves, ornaments, a beautiful shawl, and this pretty scarf. Oh, I thought I should lose my senses with delight! But that is not all. At the bottom of the box I found a handsome pocketbook, with these words written on a bit of paper affixed to it, 'From a friend to a friend.' Inside were two folded papers, one addressed to Germain, and the other to me. In that addressed to Germain was an order for his appointmentas director of a bank for the poor with a salary of four thousand francs a year; while he found under the envelope, directed to me, a money order for forty thousand francs on the treasury,—yes, that's the word; it was called my marriage portion.
"I did not like to take so large a sum, but Madame Georges said to me, 'My dear child, you both can and must accept it, as a recompense for your prudence, industry, and devotion to those who were in misfortune; for did you not run the risk of injuring your health, and probably deprive yourself of your only means of support, by sitting up all night at work, in order to make up for the time you spent in attending to others?'"
"Oh, that is quite true," exclaimed Louise, with fervour. "I do not think there is any one upon earth who would have done all that you have done, Mademoi—Madame Germain!"
"There's a good girl, she has learned her lesson at last! Well, I said to the elderly gentleman that I did not merit such a reward, that what little I had done was purely because it afforded me pleasure. To which he answered, 'That makes no difference; M. Rodolph is immensely rich, and he sends you this dowry as a mark of his friendship and esteem, and your refusal of it would pain him very much indeed. He will himself be present at your marriage, and then he will compel you to take it.'"
"What a blessing that so charitable a person as M. Rodolph should be possessed of such riches!"
"Of course it is! But I haven't told you all yet. Oh, Louise, you never can guess who and what M. Rodolph turns out to be; and to think of my making him carry large parcels for me! But have a little patience, you will hear about it directly.
"The night before the marriage the elderly gentleman came again very late, and in great haste,—it was to tell us that M. Rodolph was ill, and could not attendthe wedding, but that his friend, the bald-headed gentleman, would take his place. And then only, my dear Louise, did we learn that our benefactor was—guess what—a prince! A prince, do I say? Bless you, ever so much higher than that! A royal highness!—a reigning duke!—a sort of a second-rate king! Germain explained all about his rank to me!"
"M. Rodolph a prince!—a duke!—almost a king!"
"Just think of that, Louise! And imagine my having asked him to help me to clean my room! A pretty state of confusion it threw me into when I recollected all that, and how free I had spoken to him! So of course you know when I found that he was as good as a king, I did not dare refuse his gracious wedding present.
"Well, my dear, when we had been married about a week, M. Rodolph sent us word that he should be glad if Germain, his mother, and myself would pay him a wedding visit; so we did. I can tell you my heart beat as though it would come through my side! Well, we stopped at a fine palace in the Rue Plumet, and were ushered into a number of splendid apartments, filled with servants in liveries, all covered with gold lace, gentlemen in black, with silver chains around their necks and swords by their sides, officers in rich uniforms, and all sorts of gay looking people. The rooms we passed through were all gilt, and filled with such beautiful things they quite dazzled my eyesight only to look at them.
"At last we got to the apartment where the bald-headed old gentleman was sitting, with a quantity of grand folks, all covered with gold lace and embroidery. Well, when our elderly friend saw us, he rose and conducted us to an adjoining room, where we found M. Rodolph—I mean the prince—dressed so simply, and looking so good and kind—just like the M. Rodolph we first knew—that I did not feel at all frightened atthe recollection of how I had set him to pin my shawl for me, mend my pens, and walked with him arm in arm in the street, just like two equals, as, certainly, then I thought we were."
"Oh, I should have trembled like a leaf if I had been you!"
"Well, I did not mind it at all, he smiled so encouragingly; and, after kindly welcoming Madame Georges, he held out his hand to Germain, and then said, smilingly, to me, 'Well, neighbour, and how are "Papa Crétu" and "Ramonette?"' (Those were the names I called my birds by. Was it not kind of him to recollect them?)
"'I feel quite sure,' added he, 'that yourself and Germain can sing as merry songs as your birds.' 'Yes, indeed, my lord,' replied I (Madame Georges had taught me as we came along how I was to address the prince), 'we are as happy as it is possible to be, and our happiness is the greater because we owe it to you.'
"'Nay, nay, my good child,' said he, 'you may thank your own excellent qualities and that of Germain for the felicity you enjoy,' etc. I need not go on with that part of the story, Louise, because it would oblige me to repeat all the charming praises I received; and, certainly, I cannot recollect ever doing more than my strict duty, though the prince was pleased to think differently.
"Well, we all came away more sorrowful than we went, for we found it was to be our farewell visit to our benefactor, he being about to return to Germany. Whether or not he has gone I cannot tell you, but, absent or present, our most grateful remembrance and respectful esteem will ever attend him.
"I forgot to tell you that a dear, good girl I knew when we were both in prison together had been living at the farm with Madame Georges; it seems my young friend had, fortunately, found a friend in M. Rodolph, who had placed her there. But Madame Georges particularlycautioned me not to say a word on the subject to the prince, who had some reason for desiring it should not be talked about,—no doubt because he could not bear his benevolent deeds should be known. However, I learnt one thing that gave me extreme pleasure, that my sweet Goualeuse had found her parents, and that they had taken her a great, great way from Paris; I could not help feeling grieved, too, that I had not been able to wish her good-bye before she went.
"But forgive me, dear Louise, for being so selfish as to keep talking to you of every one's happiness when you have so much reason to be sorrowful yourself."
"Had my child but been spared to me," said poor Louise, sadly, "it would have been some consolation to me; for how can I ever hope to find any honest man who would make me his wife, although I have got money enough to tempt any one."
"For my part, Louise, I feel quite sure that one of these days I shall see you happily married to a good and worthy partner, who will pity you for your past troubles, and love and esteem you for the patience with which you endured them."
"Ah, Madame Germain, you only say so to try and comfort me; but whether you really believe what you say or no, I gratefully feel and thank you for your kindness. But who are these? I declare, M. and Madame Pipelet! How very gay he looks; so different from the sad, dejected appearance he always wore, while M. Cabrion was tormenting him as he did!"
Louise was right. Pipelet advanced in high spirits, and as though treading on air; on his head he wore the well-known bell-crowned hat, a superb grass-green coat adorned his person, while a white cravat, with embroidered ends, was folded around his throat, in such a manner as to permit the display of an enormous collar, reaching nearly up to his eyes, and quite concealing his cheeks. A large, loose waistcoat, of bright buff, with broadmaroon-coloured stripes, black trousers, somewhat short for the wearer, snowy white stockings, and highly polished shoes completed his equipment.
Anastasie displayed a robe of violet-coloured merino, tastefully contrasted with a dark blue shawl. She proudly exhibited her freshly curled Brutus wig to the gaze of all she met, while her cap was slung on her arm by its bright green strings, after the manner of a reticule.
The physiognomy of Alfred—ordinarily so grave, thoughtful, and dejected—was now mirthful, jocund, and hilarious. The moment he caught a glimpse of Rigolette and Louise, he ran towards them, exclaiming in his deep, sonorous voice, "Delivered! Gone!"
"How unusually joyful you seem, M. Pipelet," said Rigolette. "Do pray tell us what has occasioned such a change in your appearance!"
"Gone! I tell you, mademoiselle,—or, rather, madame, as I may, do, and ought to say, now that, like my Anastasie, you are tied up for life."
"You are very polite, M. Pipelet; but please to tell me who has gone?"
"Cabrion!" responded M. Pipelet, inspiring and respiring the air with a look of indescribable delight, as though relieved of an enormous weight; "he has quitted France for ever—for a perpetuity! At length he has departed, and I am myself again."
"Are you quite sure he has gone?"
"I saw him with my eyes ascend the diligence, en route for Strasburg with all his luggage and baggage; that is to say, a hat-case, a maul-stick, and a box of colours."
"What is my old dear chattering about?" cried Anastasie, as she came puffing and panting to the spot where the little group were assembled; "I'll be bound he was giving you the history of Cabrion's going off—I'm sure he has talked of nothing else all the way we came."
"Because I'm half wild with delight; I seem to have got into another world,—such a lightness has come over me. A little while ago my hat used to seem as though loaded with lead, and as if it pressed forwards in spite of me; now I seem as though borne on the breeze towards the firmament, to think that he is gone—actually set out—and never to return!"
"Yes, the blackguard is off at last!" chimed in Madame Pipelet.
"Anastasie," cried her husband, "spare the absent! Happiness calls for mercy and forbearance on our parts. I will obey its dictates, and merely allow myself to remark that Cabrion was a—a—worthless scoundrel!"
"But how do you know that he has gone to Germany?" inquired Rigolette.
"By a friend of our 'king of lodgers.' Talking of that dear man, you haven't heard that, owing to the handsome manner in which he recommended us, Alfred has been appointed house-porter to a sort of charitable bank, established in our house by a worthy Christian, who wishes, like M. Rodolph, to do all the good he can?"
"Ah!" replied Rigolette. "And, perhaps, you don't know, either, that my dear Germain is appointed manager of this same bank? All owing to the kind intervention of M. Rodolph."
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Madame Pipelet, "all our good luck comes together; and I'm sure I'm heartily glad we shall keep old friends and acquaintances around us. I hate fresh faces, for my part. I'm certain I would not change my old duck of a husband even for your young handsome one, Madame Germain.
"But to go back to Cabrion. Only imagine a bald-headed, stout, elderly gentleman, coming to tell us of Alfred's new situation, and at the same time inquiring if a talented artist of the name of Cabrion did not once lodge in the house with us. Oh, my poor darling! Directly Cabrion's name was mentioned down wentthe boot he was mending, and if I had not caught him he would have swooned away. But, fortunately, the bald gentleman added, 'This young painter has been engaged by a very wealthy person to do some work, which will occupy him for years, and he may, very probably, establish himself in another country.' In confirmation of which the old gentleman gave my Alfred the date of Cabrion's departure, with the address of the office from which he started."
"And I had the unhoped-for satisfaction of reading on the ticket, 'M. Cabrion, artist in painting, departs for Strasburg, and further, by the company's diligence.' The hour named was for this morning. I need not say I was in the inn yard with my wife."
"And there we saw the rascal take his seat on the box beside the driver."
"Just as the vehicle was set in motion Cabrion perceived me, turned around, and cried,'Yours for ever! I go to return no more.' Thank heaven! The loud blast of the guard's horn nearly drowned these familiar and insulting words, as well as any others he might have intended to utter. But I pity and forgive the wretched man,—I can afford to be generous, for I am delivered from the bane and misery of my life."
"Depend upon it, M. Pipelet," said Rigolette, endeavouring to restrain a loud fit of laughter,—"depend upon it, you will see him no more. But listen to me, and I will tell you something I am sure you are ignorant of and which it will be almost difficult for you to credit. What do you think of our M. Rodolph not being what we took him for, but a prince in disguise,—a royal highness!"
"Go along with you!" said Anastasie. "That is a joke!"
"Oh, but really," cried Rigolette, "I am not joking; it is as true as—as—that I am married to my dear Germain."
"Goodness gracious me!" exclaimed Anastasie. "My king of lodgers a royal highness! Oh, dear, here's a pretty go! And I asked him to mind the lodge for me. Oh, pardon! Pardon! Pardon!" And then, carried away by the excess of her reverence and regret for having so undervalued a prince, though a disguised one, Madame Pipelet placed her cap on her head, as though she imagined herself in the presence of royalty.
Alfred, on the contrary, manifested his respect for royalty in a manner diametrically the reverse of the form adopted by his wife. Snatching off his hat, that hat which had never before been seen to quit his head, he commenced bowing to empty space, as though standing in the presence of the august personage he apostrophised, while he exclaimed, "Have I, then, been honoured by a visit from royalty? Has my poor lodge been so far favoured? And to think of his illustrious eyes having seen me in my bed, when driven thither by the vile conduct of Cabrion!"
At this moment Madame Georges, turning around, cried out:
"My children, the doctor comes."
Doctor Herbin, the individual alluded to, was a man of about the middle age, with a countenance expressive of great kindness and benevolence, united to extreme skill and penetration in discovering the extent of malady with which his unfortunate patients were affected. His voice, naturally harmonious, assumed a tone of gentle suavity when he spoke to the poor lunatics; who, however bereft of reason, seemed always to listen with peculiar delight to his soft, soothing words, which frequently had the effect of subduing the invariable irritability attendant on this fearful complaint. M. Herbin had been among the first to substitute, in his treatment of madness, sympathy and commiseration for the frightful remedies ordinarily employed. He abandoned the coercive system, so repugnant to every principle of humanity, for kindwords, conciliating looks, and a ready attention to every request that could reasonably be granted. He banished chains, whips, drenching with cold water, and even solitary confinement, except in cases of urgent necessity.
"Monsieur," said Madame Georges, addressing the doctor, "I have ventured hither with my son and daughter, although personally unknown to M. Morel; but my interest in his unfortunate state made me desirous of witnessing the experiment you are about to make to restore his reason. You have every hope of succeeding, have you not?"
"I certainly reckon much, madame, on the good effects likely to be produced by the sight of his daughter and the persons he has been in the constant habit of seeing."
"When my husband was arrested," said Morel's wife, pointing to Rigolette, "our kind young friend here was nursing me and my children."
"And my father knew M. Germain quite well," said Louise; then directing the attention of M. Herbin to Alfred and Anastasie, she added, "Monsieur and madame here were porters at the house, and assisted our family to the utmost of their ability."
"I am greatly obliged to you, my worthy friend," said the doctor, addressing Alfred, "for quitting your occupation to come hither; but I see by your amiable countenance that you have cheerfully sacrificed your time to visit your poor lodger here."
"Sir-r!" replied Pipelet, gravely bowing. "Men should help each other in this sublunary world, and remember that all are brothers; added to which your unfortunate patient was the very cream and essence of an honest man, and therefore do I respect him."
"If you are not afraid, madame," said Doctor Herbin to Madame Georges, "of the sight of the poor creatures here, we will cross some of the yards leading to thatpart of the building where I have deemed it advisable to remove Morel, instead of allowing him to accompany the others to the farm as usual."
"The farm!" exclaimed Madame Georges. "Have you a farm here?"
"Your surprise is perfectly natural, madame. Yes, we have a farm, the produce of which is most serviceable to the establishment, although entirely worked by the patients."
"Is it possible? Can you make these lunatics work, and allow them to be at liberty while they do so?"
"Certainly; exercise, the calm tranquillity of the fields, with the aspect of nature, are among our most certain means of cure. Only one keeper goes with them, and we have rarely had an instance of any patient endeavouring to get away; they are delighted to be employed, and the trifling reward they gain serves still to improve their condition, by enabling them to purchase different little indulgences. But we have reached the gate conducting to one of these courts." Then perceiving a slight appearance of alarm on the countenance of Madame Georges, the doctor added, "Lay aside all apprehension, madame; in a very few minutes you will feel as tranquil as I do myself."
"I follow you, sir. Come, my children."
"Anastasie," whispered Pipelet, "when I think that, had the persecutions of that odious Cabrion continued, your poor dear Alfred might have become mad, like the unhappy wretches we are about to behold, clad in the most wild and singular state, chained up by the middle, or confined in dens like the wild beasts in the 'Jardin des Plantes—'"
"Oh, bless your dear old heart, don't talk of such a thing! La! I've heard say that them as has gone mad for love are for all the world like born devils directly they see a woman; dashing against the bars of their dens, and making all sorts of horrid noises, tillthe keepers are forced to flog them till they drop, or else turn great taps of water on their heads before they can quiet them."
"Anastasie," rejoined Pipelet, gravely, "I desire you will not go too close to these dreadful creatures, an accident so soon happens."
"Besides," answered Anastasie, with a tone of sentimental melancholy, "poor things, I have no business to show myself just for the sake of tantalising them. 'Tis woman's beauty and fascination reduces them to this horrid state. I declare I feel a cold shudder creep over me as I reflect that, perhaps, if I had refused to make you a happy man, Alfred, you might at this very minute be raving mad for love, and shut up in one of these dens, roaring out the moment you caught sight of a woman; while as it is, my poor old duck is glad to get out of the way of the naughty females that will be trying to make him notice them."
"'Tis true, my modesty is easily alarmed. But, Anastasie, the door opens, I tremble with dread of what we are about to witness; no doubt the most hideous looking people, and all sorts of dreadful noises, rattling of chains, and grinding of teeth."
The door being opened admitted them into a long courtyard, planted with rows of trees, under which benches were placed. On each side was a well-constructed and spacious portico, or covered stone terrace, with which a range of large, airy cells communicated. A number of men, all alike clad in a gray dress, were walking, talking, or conversing in this pleasant retreat, while others were seated on the benches, enjoying the refreshing shade and fresh open air.
At the sight of Doctor Herbin a number of the unfortunate lunatics pressed around him, with every manifestation of joy and delight, extending to him their hands with an expression of grateful confidence, to which he cordially responded, by saying:
"Good day—good day, my worthy fellows! I am glad to see you all so well and happy."
Some of the poor lunatics, too far from the doctor to be able to seize his hand, ventured, with a sort of timid hesitation, to offer theirs to the persons who were with him.
"Good morning, friends," said Germain, shaking hands in a manner so cordial as to fill the unfortunate beings with happiness.
"Are these the mad patients?" inquired Madame Georges.
"Nearly the worst belonging to the establishment," answered the doctor, smiling; "they are permitted to be together during the day, but at night they are locked up in the cells you see there."
"Can it be possible that these men are really mad! But when are they violent?"
"Generally at the first outbreak of their malady, when they are brought here. After a short time the soothing treatment they experience, with the society of their companions, calms and amuses them, so that their paroxysms become milder and less frequent, until at length, by the blessing of God, they recover their senses."
"What are those individuals talking so earnestly about?" inquired Madame Georges. "One of them seems referring to a blind man, who, in addition to the loss of sight, seems likewise deprived of speech and reason. Have you such a one among your patients, or is the existence of this person but a mere coinage of the brain?"
"Unhappily, madame, it is a fact but too true, and the history connected with it is a most singular one. The blind man concerning whom you inquire was found in a low haunt in the Champs Elysées, in which a gang of robbers and murderers of the worst description were apprehended; this wretched object was discovered, chained in the midst of an underground cave, andbeside him lay stretched the dead body of a woman, so horribly mutilated that it was wholly impossible to attempt to identify it. The man himself was hideously ugly, his features being quite destroyed by the application of vitriol. He has never uttered a single word since he came hither; whether his dumbness be real or affected I know not, for, strange to say, his paroxysms always occur during the night, and when I am absent, so as to baffle all conjecture as to his real situation; but his madness seems occasioned by violent rage, the cause of which we cannot find out, for, as I before observed, he never speaks or utters an articulate sound. But here he is."
The whole of the party accompanying the doctor started with horror at the sight of the Schoolmaster, for he it was, who merely feigned being dumb and mad to procure his own safety. The dead body found beside him was that of the Chouette, whom he had murdered, not during a paroxysm of madness, but while under the influence of such a burning fever of the brain as had produced the fearful dream he had dreamed the night he passed at the farm of Bouqueval.
After his apprehension in the vaults of the tavern in the Champs Elysées, the Schoolmaster had awakened from his delirium to find himself a prisoner in one of the cells of the Conciergerie, where mad persons are temporarily placed under restraint. Hearing all about him speak of him as a raving and dangerous lunatic, he resolved to continue to enact the part, and even feigned absolute dumbness for the purpose of avoiding the chance of any questions being attempted to be put to him.
His scheme succeeded. When removed to Bicêtre he affected occasional fits of furious madness, taking care always to select the night for these outrageous bursts, the better to escape the vigilant eye of the head surgeon; the house doctor, hastily summoned, never arriving in time to witness either the beginning or ending of these attacks.
The few of his accomplices who knew either his name, or the fact of his having escaped from the galleys at Rochefort, were ignorant of what had become of him; and even if they did, what interest could they have in denouncing him? Neither would it have been possible to establish his identity—burnt and mutilated as he was—with the daring felon of Rochefort. He hoped, therefore, by continuing to act the part of a madman, to be permitted to abide permanently at Bicêtre; such was now the only desire of the wretch, unable longer to indulge his appetite for sinful and violent deeds.
During the solitude in which he lived in Bras Rouge's cellar, remorse gradually insinuated itself into his strong heart; and, cut off from all communication with the outer world, his thoughts fled inwards, and presented him with ghastly images of those he had destroyed, till his brain burned with its own excited torture.
And thus this miserable creature, still in the full vigour and strength of manhood, before whom were, doubtless, long years of life, and enjoying the undisturbed possession of his reason, was condemned to linger out the remainder of his days as a self-imposed mute, and in the company of fools and madmen; or if his imposition was discovered, his murderous deeds would conduct him to a scaffold, or condemn him to perpetual banishment among a set of villains, for whom his newly awakened penitence made him feel the utmost horror.
The Schoolmaster was sitting on a bench; a mass of grizzled, tangled locks hung around his huge and hideous head; leaning his elbow on his knee, he supported his cheek in his hand. Spite of his sightless eyes and mutilated features, the revolting countenance still expressed the most bitter and overwhelming despair.
"Dear mother," observed Germain, "what a wretched looking object is this unfortunate blind man!"
"The Schoolmaster Was Sitting on a Bench" Original Etching by Porteau"The Schoolmaster Was Sitting on a Bench"Original Etching by Porteau
"Oh, yes, my son!" answered Madame Georges; "it makes one's heart ache to behold a fellow creature so heavily afflicted. I know not when anything has so completely shocked me as the sight of this deplorable being."
Scarcely had Madame Georges given utterance to these words than the Schoolmaster started, and his countenance, even despite its cicatrised and disfigured state, became of an ashy paleness. He rose and turned his head in the direction of Madame Georges so suddenly that she could not refrain from faintly screaming, though wholly unsuspicious of who the frightful creature really was; but the Schoolmaster's ear had readily detected the voice of his wife, and her words told him she was addressing her son.
"Mother!" inquired Germain, "what ails you? Are you ill?"
"Nothing, my son; but the sudden movement made by that man terrified me. Indeed, sir," continued she, addressing the doctor, "I begin to feel sorry I allowed my curiosity to bring me hither."
"Nay, dear mother, just for once to see such a place cannot hurt you!"
"I tell you what, Germain," interposed Rigolette, "I don't feel very comfortable myself; and I promise you neither your mother nor I will desire to come here again—it is too affecting!"
"Nonsense! You are a little coward! Is she not, M. le Docteur?"
"Why, really," answered M. Herbin, "I must confess that the sight of this blind lunatic affects even me, who am accustomed to such things."
"What a scarecrow, old ducky! Isn't he?" whispered Anastasie; "but, la! to my eyes every man looks as hideous as this dreadful blind creature in comparison with you, and that is why no one can ever boast of my having granted him the least liberty,—don't you see, Alfred?"
"I tell you what, Anastasie," replied Pipelet, "I shall dream of this frightful figure. I know he will give mean attack of nightmare. I won't eat tripe for supper till I have quite forgot him."
"And how do you find yourself now, friend?" asked the doctor of the Schoolmaster; but he asked in vain, no attempt was made to reply. "Come, come!" continued the doctor, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, "I am sure you hear what I say; try to make me a sign at least, or speak,—something tells me you can if you will!"
But the only answer made to this address was by the Schoolmaster suddenly drooping his head, while from the sightless eyes rolled a tear.
"He weeps!" exclaimed the doctor.
"Poor creature!" murmured Germain, in a compassionate tone.
The Schoolmaster shuddered; again he heard the voice of his son, breathing forth commiseration for his wretched, though unknown parent.
"What is the matter?" inquired the doctor; "what is it grieves you?"
But, without taking any notice of him, the Schoolmaster hid his face with his hands.
"We shall make nothing of him," said the doctor. Then, perceiving how painfully this scene appeared to affect Madame Georges, he added, "Now, then, madame, we will go to Morel, and, if my expectations are fulfilled, you will be amply rewarded for the pain you have felt hitherto, in witnessing the joy of so good a husband and father in being restored to his family."
With these words the doctor, followed by the party that had accompanied him, proceeded on his way, leaving the Schoolmaster a prey to his own distracting thoughts, the most bitter of which was the certainty of having heard his son's voice, and that of his wife, for the last time. Aware of the just horror with which he inspired them, the misery, shame, and affright with which they would have heard the disclosure of his name made himprefer a thousand deaths to such a revelation. One only, but great, consolation remained in the certainty of having awakened the pity of his son; and, with this thought to comfort him, the miserable being determined to endure his sufferings with repentance and submission.
"We are now about to pass by the yard appropriated to the use of the idiot patients," said the doctor, stopping before a large grated door, through which the poor idiotic beings might be seen huddled together, with every appearance of the most distressing imbecility.
Spite of Madame Georges's recent agitation, she could not refrain from casting a glance through the railing.
"Poor creatures!" said she, in a gentle, pitying voice; "how dreadful to think their sufferings are hopeless! for I presume there is no remedy for such an affliction as theirs?"
"Alas, none, madame!" replied the doctor. "But I must not allow you to dwell too long on this mournful picture of human misery. We have now arrived at the place where I expect to find Morel, whom I desired should be left entirely alone, in order to produce a more startling effect in the little project on which I build my hopes for his restoration to reason."
"What idea principally occupies his mind?" asked Madame Georges.
"He believes that if he cannot earn thirteen hundred francs by his day's work, in order to pay off a debt contracted with one Ferrand, a notary, his daughter will perish on a scaffold."
"That man Ferrand was, indeed, a monster!" exclaimed Madame Georges; "poor Louise Morel and her father were not the only victims to his villainy, he has persecuted my son with the bitterest animosity."
"I have heard the whole story from Louise," replied the doctor. "Happily the wretch can no more wring your hearts with agony. But be so good as to await me here while I go to ascertain the state of Morel." Then,addressing Louise, he added, "You must carefully watch for my calling out 'Come!' Appear instantly; but let it be alone. When I call out 'Come!' for the second time, the rest of the party may make their appearance."
"Alas, sir, my heart begins to fail me!" replied Louise, endeavouring to suppress her tears. "My poor father! What if the present trial fail!"
"Nay, nay, keep up your courage! I am most sanguine of success in the scheme I have long meditated for the restoration of your father's reason. Now, then, all you have to do for the present is carefully to attend to my directions." So saying, the doctor, quitting his party, entered a small chamber, whose grated window looked into the garden.
Thanks to rest, care, sufficiency of nourishing diet, Morel was no longer the pale, careworn, haggard creature that had entered those walls; the tinge of health began to colour his before jaundiced cheek, but a melancholy smile, a fixed, motionless gaze, as though on some object for ever present to his mental view, proved too plainly that Reason had not entirely resumed her empire over him.
When the doctor entered, Morel was sitting at a table, imitating the movements of a lapidary at his wheel.
"I must work," murmured he, "and hard, too. Thirteen hundred francs! Ay, thirteen hundred is the sum required, or poor Louise will be dragged to a scaffold! That must not be! No, no, her father will work—work—work! Thirteen hundred francs! Right!"
"Morel, my good fellow," said the doctor, gently advancing towards him, "don't work so very hard; there is no occasion now, you know that you have earned the thirteen hundred francs you required to free Louise. See, here they are!" and with these words the doctor laid a handful of gold on the table.
"Saved! Louise saved!" exclaimed the lapidary,catching up the money, and hurrying towards the door; "then I will carry it at once to the notary."
"Come!" called out the doctor, in considerable trepidation, for well he knew the success of his experiment depended on the manner in which the mind of the lapidary received its first shock.
Scarcely had the doctor pronounced the signal than Louise sprang forwards, and presented herself at the door just as her father reached it. Bewildered and amazed, Morel let fall the gold he clutched in his hands, and retreated in visible surprise. For some minutes he continued gazing on his daughter with a stupefied and vacant stare, but by degrees his memory seemed to awaken, and, cautiously approaching her, he examined her features with a timid and restless curiosity.
Poor Louise, trembling with emotion, could scarcely restrain her tears; but a sign from the doctor made her exert herself to repress any manifestation of feeling calculated to disturb the progress of her parent's thoughts.
Meanwhile Morel, bending over his daughter, and peering, with uneasy scrutiny, into her countenance, became very pale, pressed his hands to his brows, and then wiped away the large damp drops that had gathered there. Drawing closer and closer to the agitated girl, he strove to speak to her, but the words expired on his lips. His paleness increased, and he gazed around him with the bewildered air of a person awakening from a troubled dream.
"Good, good!" whispered the doctor to Louise; "now, when I say 'Come,' throw yourself into his arms and call him 'father!'"
The lapidary, pressing his two hands on his breast, again commenced examining the individual before him from head to foot, as if determined to satisfy his mind as to her identity. His features expressed a painful uncertainty, and, instead of continuing to watch the features ofhis daughter, he seemed as if trying to hide himself from her sight, saying, in a low, murmuring, broken tone:
"No, no! It is a dream! Where am I? It is impossible! I dream,—it cannot be she!" Then, observing the gold strewed on the floor, he cried, "And this gold! I do not remember,—am I then awake? Oh, my head is dizzy! I dare not look,—I am ashamed! She is not my Louise!"
"Come!" cried the doctor, in a loud voice.
"Father! Dearest father!" exclaimed Louise. "Do you not know your child,—your poor Louise?" And as she said these words she threw herself on the lapidary's neck, while the doctor motioned for the rest of the group to advance.
"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Morel, while Louise loaded him with caresses. "Where am I? What has happened to me? Who are all these persons? Oh, I cannot—dare not believe the reality of what I see!"
Then, after a short silence, he abruptly took the head of Louise between his two hands, gazed earnestly and searchingly at her for some moments, then cried, in a voice tremulous with emotion, "Louise?"
"He is saved!" said the doctor.
"My dear Morel,—my dear husband!" exclaimed the lapidary's wife, mingling her caresses with those of her daughter.
"My wife! My child and wife both here!" cried Morel.
"Pray don't overlook the rest of your friends, M. Morel," said Rigolette, advancing; "see, we have all come to visit you at once!"
"I for one am delighted to renew my acquaintance with the worthy M. Morel," said Germain, coming forward and extending his hand.
"And your old acquaintances at the lodge beg that they may not be overlooked," chimed in Anastasie, leading Alfred up to the astonished and delighted lapidary."You know us, don't you, M. Morel,—the Pipelets—the hearty old Pipelets, and your everlasting friends? Come, pluck up courage, and look about you, M. Morel! Hang it all, Daddy Morel, here's a happy meeting! May we see many such!Ail-l-l-l-ez donc!"
"M. Pipelet and his wife! Everybody here! It seems to me so long since—but—but no matter—'tis you, Louise, my child—'tis you, is it not?" exclaimed he, joyfully pressing his daughter in his arms.
"Oh, yes, my dearest father, 'tis your own poor Louise! And there is my mother; here are all our kind friends. You will never quit us more, never know sorrow or care again, and henceforward we shall all be happy and prosperous!"
"Happy? Let me try and recollect a little of past things. I seem to have a faint recollection of your being taken to prison—and—and then, Louise, all seems a blank and confusion here," continued Morel, pressing his hand to his temples.
"Never mind all that, dearest father! I am here and innocent,—let that comfort and console you."
"Stay, stay! That note of hand I gave! Ah, now I remember it all!" cried the lapidary, with shuddering horror. Then, in a voice of assumed calmness, he said, "And what has become of the notary?"
"He is dead, dearest father," murmured Louise.
"Dead? He dead? Then indeed I may hope for happiness! But where am I? How came I here? How long have I left my home, and wherefore was I brought hither? I have no recollection of any of these things!"
"You were extremely ill," said the doctor, "and you were brought here for air and good nursing. You have had a severe fever, and been at times a little lightheaded."
"Yes, yes, I recollect now; and when I was taken ill I remember I was talking with my daughter, and someother person,—who could it be? Ah, now I know!—a kind, good man, named M. Rodolph, who saved me from being arrested. Afterwards, strange to say, I cannot recall a single circumstance."
"Your illness was attended with an entire absence of memory," said the doctor.
"And in whose house am I now?"
"In that of your friend, M. Rodolph," interposed Germain, hastily; "it was thought that country air would be serviceable to you, and promote your recovery."
"Excellent!" said the doctor, in a low tone; then speaking to a keeper who stood near him, he said, "Send the coach around to the garden-gate to prevent the necessity of taking our recovered patient through the different courts, filled with those less fortunate than himself."
As frequently occurs in cases of madness, Morel had not the least idea or recollection of the aberration of intellect under which he had suffered.
Shortly afterwards, Morel, with his wife and daughter, ascended thefiacre, attended also by a surgeon of the establishment, who, for precaution's sake, was charged to see him comfortably settled in his abode ere he left him; and in this order, and followed by a second carriage, conveying their friends, the lapidary quitted Bicêtre without entertaining the most remote suspicion of ever having entered it.
"And do you consider this poor man effectually cured?" asked Madame Georges of the doctor, as he led her to the coach.
"I hope so, at least; and I wished to leave him wholly to the beneficial effects of rejoining his family, from whom it would now be almost dangerous to attempt to separate him; added to which, one of my pupils will remain with him and give the necessary directions for his regimen and treatment. I shall visit him myself daily, until his cure is confirmed, for not only do I feel much interested in him, but he was most particularly recommendedto me when he first came here by thechargé d'affairesof the Grand Duke of Gerolstein."
A look of intelligence was exchanged between Germain and his mother.
Much affected with all they had seen and heard, the party now took leave of the doctor, reiterating their gratification at having been present during so gratifying a scene, and their grateful acknowledgments for the politeness he had shown them in conducting them over the establishment.
As the doctor was reëntering the house, he was met by one of the superior officers of the place, who said to him,—
"Ah, my dear M. Herbin, you cannot imagine the scene I have just witnessed; it would have afforded an inexhaustible fund of reflection for so skilful an observer as yourself."
"To what do you allude?"
"You are aware that we have here two females, a mother and a daughter, who are condemned to death, and that their execution is fixed for to-morrow. Well, in my life, I never witnessed such a cool indifference as that displayed by the mother; she must be a female fiend!"
"You allude to the Widow Martial, I presume; what fresh act of daring has she committed?"
"You shall hear. She had requested permission to share her daughter's cell until the final moment arrived; her wish was complied with. Her daughter, far less hardened than her parent, appeared to feel contrition as the hour of execution approached, while the diabolical assurance of the old woman seemed, if possible, to augment. Just now the venerable chaplain of the prison entered their dungeon to offer to them the consolations of religion. The daughter was about to accept them, when the mother, without for one instant losing her coolness or frigid self-possession, began to assail the chaplainwith such insulting and derisive language that the venerable priest was compelled to quit the cell, after trying in vain to induce the violent and unmanageable woman to listen to one word he said.
"It is a fearful fact connected with this family that a sort of depravity seems to pervade it. The father was executed, a son is now in the galleys, a second has only escaped a public and disgraceful end by flight; while the eldest son and two young children have alone been able to resist this atmosphere of moral contagion.
"What a singular circumstance connected with this double execution it is that the day of mid-Lent should have been selected. At seven o'clock to-morrow, the hour fixed, the streets will be filled with groups of masqueraders, who, having passed the night at the different balls and places of entertainment beyond the barriers, will be just returning home; added to which, at the place of execution, the Barrière St. Jacques, the noise of the revels still being kept up in honour of the carnival can be distinctly heard."
The following morning's sun rose bright and cloudless. At four o'clock in the morning various troops of soldiers surrounded the approaches to Bicêtre.
We shall now return to Calabash and her mother in their dungeon.
The condemned cell of Bicêtre was situated at the end of a gloomy passage, into which a trifling portion of light and air was admitted by means of small gratings let into the lower part of the wall. The cell itself would have been wholly dark but for a kind of wicket, let into the upper part of the door, which opened into the corridor before mentioned.
In this wretched dungeon, whose crumbling ceiling, damp, mouldy walls, and stone-paved floor struck a death-chill like that of the grave, were confined the Widow Martial, and her daughter Calabash.
The harsh, angular features of the widow stood out amidst the imperfect light of the place, cold, pale, and immovable as those of a marble statue. Deprived of the use of her hands, which were fastened beneath her black dress by the strait-waistcoat of the prison, formed of coarse gray cloth and tightly secured behind her, she requested her cap might be taken off, complaining of an oppression and burning sensation in her head; this done, a mass of long, grizzled hair fell over her shoulders.
Seated at the side of her bed, she gazed earnestly and fixedly at her daughter, who was separated from her by the width of the dungeon, and, wearing like her mother the customary strait-waistcoat, was partly reclining and partly supporting herself against the wall, her head bent forward on her breast, her eye dull and motionless, and her breathing quick and irregular. From time to timea convulsive tremor rattled her lower jaw, while her features, spite of their livid hue, remained comparatively calm and tranquil.
Within the cell, and immediately beneath the wicket of the entrance door, was seated an old, gray-headed soldier, whose rough, sunburnt features betokened his having felt the scorch of many climes, and borne his part in numerous campaigns. His duty was to keep constant watch over the condemned prisoners.
"How piercing cold it is here!" exclaimed Calabash; "yet my eyes burn in my head, and I have a burning, quenchless thirst!" Then addressing the bald-headed veteran, she said, "Water! Pray give me a drink of water!"
The old soldier filled a cup of water from a pitcher placed near him, and held it to her lips. Eagerly swallowing the draught, she bowed her head in token of thankfulness, and the soldier proceeded to offer the same beverage to the mother.
"Would you not like to moisten your lips?" asked he, kindly.
With a rough, repulsive gesture, she intimated her disinclination, and the old man sat down again.
"What's o'clock?" inquired Calabash.
"Nearly half past four," replied the soldier.
"Only three hours!" replied Calabash, with a sinister and gloomy smile. "Three hours more! And then—" She could proceed no further.
The widow shrugged up her shoulders. Her daughter divined her meaning, and said, "Ah, mother, you have so much more courage than I have,—you never give way, you don't."
"Never!"
"I see it, and I know you too well to expect it. You look at this moment as calm and collected as if we were sitting sewing by our own fireside. Ah! those happy days are gone,—gone forever!"
"Folly! Why prate thus?"
"Nay, mother, I cannot bear to rest shut up with my own wretched thoughts! It relieves my heart to talk of bygone times, when I little expected to come to this."
"Mean, cowardly creature!"
"I know I am a coward, mother. I am afraid to die! Every one cannot boast of your resolution. I do not possess it. I have tried as much as I could to imitate you. I refused to listen to the priest because you did not like it. Still I may have been wrong in sending the holy man away; for," added the wretched creature, with a shudder, "who can tell what is after death? Mother, do you hear me? After, I say! And it only wants—"
"Exactly three hours, and you will know all about it!"
"How can you speak so indifferently on such a dreadful subject? Yet true enough; in three short hours, we who now sit talking to each other, who, if at liberty, should ail nothing, but be ready to enjoy life, must die. Oh, mother, can you not say one word to comfort me?"
"Be bold, girl, and die as you have lived, a true Martial!"
"You should not talk thus to your daughter," interposed the old soldier, with a serious air; "you would have acted more like a parent had you allowed her to listen to the priest when he came."
Again the widow contemptuously shrugged her shoulders, and, without deigning to notice the soldier further than by bestowing on him a look of withering contempt, she repeated to Calabash:
"Pluck up your courage, my girl, and let the world see that women have more courage than men, with their priests and cowardly nonsense!"
"General Leblond was one of the bravest officers of the regiment he belonged to. Well, this dauntless man fell at the siege of Saragossa, covered with wounds, and his last expiring act was to sign himself with the cross,"said the veteran. "I served under him. I only tell you this to prove that to die with a prayer on our lips is no sign of cowardice!"
Calabash eyed the bronzed features of the speaker with deep attention. The scarred and weather-beaten countenance of the old man told of a life passed in scenes of danger and of death, encountered with calm bravery. To hear those wrinkled lips urging the necessity of prayer, and associating religion with the memory of the good and valiant, made the miserable, vacillating culprit think that, after all, there could be no cowardice in recommending one's soul to the God who gave it, and breathing a repentant supplication for the past.
"Alas, alas!" cried she. "Why did I not attend to what the priest had to say to me? It could not have done me any harm, and it might have given me courage to face that dreadful afterwards, that makes death so terrible."
"What! Again?" exclaimed the widow, with bitter contempt. "'Tis a pity time does not permit of your becoming a nun! The arrival of your brother Martial will complete your conversion; but that honest man and excellent son will think it sinful to come and receive the last wishes of his dying mother!"
As the widow uttered these last words, the huge lock of the prison was heard to turn with a loud sound, and then the door to open.
"So soon!" shrieked Calabash, with a convulsive bound. "Surely the time here is wrong,—it cannot be the hour we were told! Oh, mother! Mother! Must we die at least two hours before we expected?"
"So much the better if the executioner's watch deceives me! It will put an end to your whining folly, which disgraces the name you bear!"
"Madame," said an officer of the prison, gently opening the door, "your son is here,—will you see him?"
"Yes," replied the widow, without turning her head.
Martial entered the cell, the door of which was left open that those without in the corridor might be within hearing, if summoned by the old soldier, who still remained with the prisoners.
Through the gloom of the corridor, lighted only by the faint beams of the early morning, and the dubious twinkling of a single lamp, several soldiers and gaolers might be seen, the former standing in due military order, the later sitting on benches.
Martial looked as pale and ghastly as his mother, while his features betrayed the mental agony he suffered at witnessing so afflicting a sight. Still, spite of all it cost him, as well as the recollection of his mother's crimes and openly expressed aversion for himself, he had felt it imperatively his duty to come and receive her last commands. No sooner was he in the dungeon than the widow, fixing on him a sharp, penetrating look, said, in a tone of concentrated wrath and bitterness, with a view to rouse all the evil passions of her son's mind:
"Well, you see what the good people are going to do with your mother and sister!"
"Ah, mother, how dreadful! Alas, alas! Have I not warned you that such would be the end—"
Interrupting him, while her lips became blanched with rage, the widow exclaimed:
"Enough! 'Tis sufficient that your mother and sister are about to be murdered, as your father was!"
"Merciful God!" cried Martial. "And to think that I have no power to prevent it! 'Tis past all human interference. What would you have me do? Alas! Had you or my sister attended to what I said, you would not now have been here."
"Oh, no doubt!" returned the widow, with her usual tone of savage irony. "To you the spectacle of mine and your sister's sufferings is a matter of delight to your proud heart; you can now tell the world without a liethat your mother is dead,—you will have to blush for her no more!"
"Had I been wanting in my duty as a son," answered Martial, indignant at the unjust sarcasms of his mother, "I should not now be here."
"You came but from curiosity! Own the truth if you dare!"
"No, mother! You desired to see me, and I obeyed your wish."
"Ah, Martial," cried Calabash, unable longer to struggle against the agonising terror she endured, "had I but listened to your advice, instead of being led by my mother, I should not be here!" Then losing all further control of herself, she exclaimed, "'Tis all your fault, accursed mother! Your bad example and evil counsel have brought me to what I am!"
"Do you hear her?" said the widow, bursting into a fiendish laugh. "Come, this will repay you for the trouble of paying us a last visit! Your excellent sister has turned pious, repents of her own sins, and curses her mother!"
Without making any reply to this unnatural speech, Martial approached Calabash, whose dying agonies seemed to have commenced, and, regarding her with deep compassion, said:
"My poor sister! Alas, it is now too late to recall the past!"
"It is never too late to turn coward, it seems!" cried the widow, with savage excitement. "Oh, what a race you are! Happily Nicholas has escaped; François and Amandine will slip through your fingers; they have already imbibed vice enough, and want and misery will finish them!"
"Oh, Martial," groaned forth Calabash, "for the love of God, take care of those two poor children, lest they come to such an end as mother's and mine!"
"He may watch over them as much as he likes," criedthe widow, with settled hatred in her looks, "vice and destitution will have greater effect than his words, and some of these days they will avenge their father, mother, and sister!"
"Your horrible expectations, mother, will never be fulfilled," replied the indignant Martial; "neither my young brother, sister, nor self have anything to fear from want. La Louve saved the life of the young girl Nicholas tried to drown, and the relations of the young person offered us either a large sum of money or a smaller sum and some land at Algiers; we preferred the latter, and to-morrow we quit Europe, with the children, for ever."
"Is that absolutely true?" asked the widow of Martial, in a tone of angry surprise.
"Mother, when did I ever tell you a falsehood?"
"You are doing so now to try and put me into a passion!"
"What, displeased to learn that your children are provided for?"
"Yes, to find that my young wolves are to be turned into lambs, and to hear that the blood of father, mother, and sister have no prospect of being avenged!"
"Do not talk so—at a moment like this!"
"I have murdered, and am murdered in my turn,—the account is even, at any rate."
"Mother, mother, let me beseech you to repent ere you die!"
Again a peal of fiendish laughter burst from the pallid lips of the condemned woman.
"For thirty years," cried she, "have I lived in crime; would you have me believe that thirty years' guilt is to be repented of in three days, with the mind disturbed and distracted by the near approach of death? No, no, three days cannot effect such wonders; and I tell you, when my head falls its last expression will be rage and hatred!"
"Brother, brother," ejaculated Calabash, whose brain began to wander, "help, help! Take me from hence," moaned she in an expiring voice; "they are coming to fetch me—to kill me! Oh, hide me, dear brother, hide me, and I will love you ever more!"
"Will you hold your tongue?" cried the widow, exasperated at the weakness betrayed by her daughter. "Will you be silent? Oh, you base, you disgraceful creature! And to think that I should be obliged to call myself your parent!"
"Mother," exclaimed Martial, nearly distracted by this horrid scene, "will you tell me why you sent for me?"
"Because I thought to give you heart and hatred; but he who has not the one cannot entertain the other. Go, coward, go!"
At this moment a loud sound of many footsteps was heard in the corridor; the old soldier looked at his watch.
A rich ray of the golden brightness, which marked the rising of that day's sun, found its way through the loopholes in the walls, and shed a flood of light into the very midst of the wretched cell, rendered now completely illumined by means of the opening of the door at the opposite end of the passage to that in which the condemned cell was situated. In the midst of this blaze of day appeared two gaolers, each bearing a chair; an officer also made his appearance, saying to the widow in a voice of sympathy:
"Madame, the hour has arrived."
The mother arose on the instant, erect and immovable, while Calabash uttered the most piercing cries. Then four more persons entered the cell; four of the number, who were very shabbily dressed, bore in their hands packets of fine but very strong cord. The taller man of the party was dressed in black, with a large cravat; he handed a paper to the officer. This individual wasthe executioner, and the paper a receipt signifying his having received two females for the purpose of guillotining them. The man then took sole charge of these unhappy creatures, and, from that moment, was responsible for them.
To the wild terror and despair which had first seized Calabash, now succeeded a kind of stupefaction; and so nearly insensible was she that the assistant executioners were compelled to seat her on her bed, and to support her when there; her firmly closed jaws scarcely enabled her to utter a sound, but her hollow eyes rolled vacantly in their sockets, her chin fell listlessly on her breast, and, but for the support of the two men, she would have fallen forwards a lifeless, senseless mass.
After having bestowed a last embrace on his wretched sister, Martial stood petrified with terror, unable to speak or move, and as though perfectly spellbound by the horrible scene before him.
The cool audacity of the widow did not for an instant forsake her; with head erect, and firm, collected manner, she assisted in taking off the strait-waistcoat she had worn, and which had hitherto fettered her movements; this removed, she appeared in an old black stuff dress.
"Where shall I place myself?" asked she, in a clear, steady voice.
"Be good enough to sit down upon one of those chairs," said the executioner, pointing to the seats arranged at the entrance of the dungeon.
With unfaltering step, the widow prepared to follow the directions given her, but as she passed her daughter she said, in a voice that betokened some little emotion:
"Kiss me, my child!"
But as the sound of her mother's voice reached her ear, Calabash seemed suddenly to wake up from her lethargy, she raised her head, and, with a wild and almost frenzied cry, exclaimed:
"Away! Leave me! And if there be a hell, may it receive you!"
"My child," repeated the widow, "let us embrace for the last time!"
"Do not approach me!" cried the distracted girl, violently repulsing her mother; "you have been my ruin in this world and the next!"
"Then forgive me, ere I die!"
"Never, never!" exclaimed Calabash; and then, totally exhausted by the effort she had made, she sank back in the arms of the assistants.
A cloud passed over the hitherto stern features of the widow, and a moisture was momentarily visible on her glowing eyeballs. At this instant she encountered the pitying looks of her son. After a trifling hesitation, during which she seemed to be undergoing some powerful internal conflict, she said:
"And you?"
Sobbing violently, Martial threw himself into his mother's arms.
"Enough!" said the widow, conquering her emotion, and withdrawing herself from the close embrace of her son; "I am keeping this gentleman waiting," pointing to the executioner; then, hurrying towards a chair, she resolutely seated herself, and the gleam of maternal sensibility she had exhibited was for ever extinguished.
"Do not stay here," said the old soldier, approaching Martial with an air of kindness. "Come this way," continued he, leading him, while Martial, stupefied by horror, followed him mechanically.
The almost expiring Calabash having been supported to a chair by the two assistants, one sustained her all but inanimate form, while the other tied her hands behind with fine but excessively strong whipcord, knotted into the most inextricable meshes, while with a cord of the same description he secured her feet, allowing her just so much liberty as would enable her toproceed slowly to her last destination. The widow having borne a similar pinioning with the most imperturbable composure, the executioner, drawing from his pocket a pair of huge scissors, said to her with considerable civility: