CHAPTER VII
"YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE."
The noise which was made by the shutting of the door aroused Tom and Sarah from their reverie, and they rose, and, having thanked the Chourineur for the information he had given them, the fellow went out, the wind blowing very strongly, and the rain falling in torrents. The Schoolmaster and the Chouette, hidden in an alley opposite the tapis-franc, saw the Chourineur go down the street, in the direction of the street in which the house in ruins was situated. His steps, which were somewhat irregular, in consequence of the frequent libations of the evening, were soon unheard amidst the whistling of the storm and the sheets of rain which dashed against the walls. Sarah and Tom left the tavern in spite of the tempest, and took a contrary direction to the Chourineur.
"They're done for," said the Schoolmaster, in a low key, to the Chouette; "out with your vitriol, and mind your eye."
"Let us take off our shoes, and then they won't hear us as we follow," suggested the Chouette.
"You are right, – always right; let us tread like cats, my old darling."
The two monsters took off their shoes, and moved stealthily along, keeping in the shadows of the houses. By means of this stratagem they followed so closely, that, although within a few steps of Sarah and Tom, they did not hear them.
"Fortunately our hackney-coach is at the end of the street; the rain falls in torrents. Are you not cold, Sarah?"
"Perhaps we shall glean something from this smuggler, – this Bras Rouge," said Sarah, in a thoughtful tone, and not replying to her brother's inquiry.
He suddenly stopped, and said, "I have taken a wrong turning; I ought to have gone to the right when I left the tavern; we must pass by a house in ruins to reach the fiacre. We must turn back."
The Schoolmaster and the Chouette, who followed on the heels of their intended victims, retreated into the dark porch of a house close at hand, so that they might not be perceived by Tom and Sarah, who, in passing, almost touched them with their elbows.
"I am glad they have gone that way," said the Schoolmaster, "for if the 'cove' resists, I have my own idea."
Sarah and her brother, having again passed by the tapis-franc, arrived close to the dilapidated house, which was partly in ruins, and its opened cellars formed a kind of gulf, along which the street ran in that direction. In an instant, the Schoolmaster, with a leap resembling in strength and agility the spring of a tiger, seized Seyton with one hand by the throat, and exclaimed, "Your money, or I will fling you into this hole!"
Then the brigand, pushing Seyton backwards, shoved him off his balance, and with one hand held him suspended over the mouth of the deep excavation; whilst, with his other hand, he grasped the arm of Sarah, as if in a vice. Before Tom could make the slightest struggle, the Chouette had emptied his pockets with singular dexterity. Sarah did not utter a cry, nor try to resist; she only said, in a calm tone, "Give up your purse, brother;" and then accosting the robber, "We will make no noise; do not do us any injury."
The Chouette, having carefully searched the pockets of the two victims of this ambush, said to Sarah, "Let's see your hands, if you've got any rings. No," said the old brute, grumblingly, "no, not one ring. What a shame!"
Tom Seyton did not lose his presence of mind during this scene, rapidly and unexpectedly as it had occurred.
"Will you strike a bargain? My pocketbook contains papers quite useless to you; return it to me, and to-morrow I will give you twenty-five louis d'ors," said Tom to the Schoolmaster, whose hand relaxed something of its fierce gripe.
"Oh! ah! to lay a trap to catch us," replied the thief. "Be off, without looking behind you, and be thankful that you have escaped so well."
"One moment," said the Chouette; "if he behaves well, he shall have his pocketbook. There is a way." Then, addressing Thomas Seyton, "You know the plain of St. Denis?"
"I do."
"Do you know where St. Ouen is?"
"Yes."
"Opposite St. Ouen, at the end of the road of La Revolte, the plain is wide and open. Across the fields, one may see a long way. Come there to-morrow, quite alone, with your money in your hand; you will find me and the pocketbook ready. Hand me the cash, and I will hand you the pocketbook."
"But he'll trap you, Chouette."
"Oh, no, he won't; I'm up to him or any of his dodges. We can see a long way off. I have only one eye, but that is a piercer; and if the 'cove' comes with a companion, he won't find anybody; I shall have 'mizzled.'"
A sudden idea seemed to strike Sarah, and she said to the brigand, "Will you like to gain some money?"
"Yes."
"Did you see, in the cabaret we have just left – for I know you again – the man whom the charcoal-man came to seek?"
"A dandy with moustaches? Yes, I would have stuck it into the fellow, but he did not give me time. He stunned me with two blows of his fists, and upset me on the table, – for the first time that any man ever did so. Curses on him! but I will be revenged."
"He is the man I mean," said Sarah.
"He?" cried the Schoolmaster, "a thousand francs, and I'll kill him."
"Wretch! I do not seek his life," replied Sarah to the Schoolmaster.
"What, then, would you have?"
"Come to-morrow to the plain of St. Denis; you will there find my companion," she replied; "you will see that he is alone, and he will tell you what to do. I will not give you one thousand, but two thousand, francs, if you succeed."
"Fourline," said the Chouette, in a low tone, to the Schoolmaster, "there's 'blunt' to be had; these are a 'swell' lot, who want to be revenged on an enemy, and that enemy is the beggar that you wished to 'floor.' Let's go and meet him. I would go, if I were you. Fire and smoke! Old boy, it will pay for looking after."
"Well, my wife shall be there," said the Schoolmaster; "you will tell her what you want, and I shall see – "
"Be it so; to-morrow at one."
"At one o'clock."
"In the plain of St. Denis?"
"In the plain of St. Denis."
"Between St. Ouen and the road of La Revolte, at the end of the road?"
"Agreed."
"I will bring your pocketbook."
"And you shall have the five hundred francs I promised you, and we will agree in the other matter, if you are reasonable."
"Now, you go to the right, and we to the left hand. Do not follow us, or else – "
The Schoolmaster and the Chouette hurried off, whilst Tom and the countess went in the other direction, towards Notre Dame.
A concealed witness had been present at this transaction; it was the Chourineur, who had entered the cellars of the house to get shelter from the rain. The proposal which Sarah made to the brigand respecting Rodolph deeply interested the Chourineur, who, alarmed for the perils which appeared about to beset his new friend, regretted that he could not warn him of them. Perhaps his detestation of the Schoolmaster and the Chouette might have something to do with this feeling.
The Chourineur resolved to inform Rodolph of the danger which threatened him; but how? He had forgotten the address of the self-styled fan-painter. Perhaps Rodolph would never again come to the tapis-franc, and then how could he warn him? Whilst he was conning all this over in his mind, the Chourineur had mechanically followed Tom and Sarah, and saw them get into a coach which awaited them near Notre Dame.
The fiacre started. The Chourineur got up behind, and at one o'clock it stopped on the Boulevard de l'Observatoire, and Thomas and Sarah went down a narrow entrance, which was close at hand. The night was pitch dark, and the Chourineur, that he might know the next day the place where he then was, drew from his pocket his clasp-knife, and cut a deep notch in one of the trees at the corner of the entrance, and then returned to his resting-place, which was at a considerable distance.
For the first time for a very long while, the Chourineur enjoyed in his den a comfortable sleep, which was not once interrupted by the horrible vision of the "Sergeant's slaughter-house," as, in his coarse language, he styled it.
CHAPTER VIII
THE WALK
On the day after the evening on which the various events we have described had passed, a bright autumnal sun shone from a pure sky; the darkness of the night had wholly disappeared. Although always shaded by the height of the houses, the disreputable neighbourhood into which the reader has followed us seemed less horrible when viewed in the light of open day.
Whether Rodolph no longer feared meeting with the two persons whom he had evaded the over-night, or did not care whether he faced them or not, about eleven o'clock in the morning he entered the Rue aux Fêves, and directed his steps towards the tavern of the ogress.
Rodolph was still in a workman's dress; but there was a decided neatness in his costume. His new blouse, open on his chest, showed a red woollen shirt, closed by several silver buttons; whilst the collar of another shirt, of white cotton, fell over a black silk cravat, loosely tied around his neck. From under his sky blue velvet cap, with a bright leather peak, several locks of chestnut hair were seen; and his boots, cleaned very brightly, and replacing the heavy iron shoes of the previous evening, showed off to advantage a well-formed foot, which seemed all the smaller from appearing out of a loose pantaloon of olive velveteen. The costume was well calculated to display the elegant shape and carriage of Rodolph, which combined so much grace, suppleness, and power. The ogress was airing herself at her door when Rodolph presented himself.
"Your servant, young man; you have come, no doubt, for your change of the twenty francs," she said, with some show of respect, not venturing to forget that the conqueror of the Chourineur had handed her a louis d'or the previous evening. "There is seventeen francs ten sous coming to you; but that's not all. There was somebody here asking after you last night, – a tall gent, well dressed, and with him a young woman in men's clothes. They drank my best wine along with the Chourineur."
"Oh, with the Chourineur, did they? And what could they have to say to him?"
"When I say they drank, I make a mistake; they only just sipped a drain or so, and – "
"But what did they say to the Chourineur?"
"Oh, they talked of all manner of things, – of Bras Rouge, and the rain, and fine weather."
"Do they know Bras Rouge?"
"Not by no means; the Chourineur told 'em all about him, and as how as you – "
"Well, well, that is not what I want to know."
"You want your change."
"Yes, and I want to take Goualeuse to pass the day in the country."
"Oh, that's impossible!"
"Why?"
"Why? Because she may never come back again. Her things belong to me, not including as she owes me a matter of ninety francs as a balance for her board and lodging, for the six weeks as she has lodged with me; and if I didn't know her to be as honest a gal as is, I should never let her go out of sight."
"Goualeuse owes you ninety francs?"
"Ninety francs ten sous; but what's that to you, my lad? Are you a-going to come 'my lord,' and pay it for her?"
"Yes," said Rodolph, throwing five louis on the ogress's bar, "and what's your price for the clothes she wears?"
The old hag, amazed, looked at the louis one after the other, with an air of much doubt and mistrust.
"What! do you think I have given you bad money? Send and get change for one of them; but make haste about it. I say, again, how much for the garments the poor girl is wearing?"
The ogress, divided between her desire to make a good harvest, her surprise to see a workman with so much money, the fear of being cheated, and the hopes of still greater gain, was silent for an instant, and then replied, "Oh, them things is well worth a hundred francs."
"What! those rags? Come, now, you shall keep the change from yesterday, and I'll give you another louis, and no more. If I give you all I have, I shall cheat the poor, who ought to get some alms out of me."
"Well, then, my fine fellow, I'll keep my things, and Goualeuse sha'n't go out. I have a right to sell my things for what I choose."
"May Lucifer one day fry you as you deserve! Here's your money; go and look for Goualeuse."
The ogress pocketed the gold, thinking that the workman had committed a robbery, or received a legacy, and then said, with a nasty leer, "Well, indeed! Why not go up-stairs, and find Goualeuse yourself; she'll be very glad to see you, for, on my life, she was much smitten with you yesterday?"
"Do you go and fetch her, and tell her I will take her into the country; that's all you need say; not a word about my having paid you her debt."
"Why not?"
"What's that to you?"
"Oh, nothing; it's no matter to me; I would rather that she still believed herself in my clutch – "
"Will you hold your tongue, and do as I bid you?"
"Oh, what a cross creetur you are! I pity anybody who is under you. Well, I'm going, I'm going;" and the ogress went up-stairs.
After a few minutes she came down again.
"Goualeuse would not believe me, and really turned quite crimson when she knew you were here; and when I told her that I would give her leave to pass the day in the country, I thought she would have gone crazy, – for the first time in her life she was inclined to throw her arms about my neck."
"That was her delight at leaving you."
Fleur-de-Marie entered at this moment, dressed as she was the over-night, with her gown of brown stuff, her little orange shawl tied behind her, and her handkerchief of red checks over her head, leaving only two thick bands of light hair visible. She blushed when she saw Rodolph, and looked down with a confused air.
"Would you like to pass the day in the country with me, my lass?" asked Rodolph.
"Very much, indeed, M. Rodolph," said Goualeuse, "since madame gives me leave."
"Yes, yes, you may go, my little duck, because you're such a good gal. Come and kiss me afore you go."
And the old beldam offered her bloated lips to Fleur-de-Marie. The poor girl, overcoming her disgust, bent her forehead to the ogress, but Rodolph, giving a sudden push with his elbow, shoved the hag back on her seat, took Fleur-de-Marie's arm, and left the tapis-franc, amidst the loud maledictions of Mother Ponisse.
"Mind, M. Rodolph," said Goualeuse; "the ogress will, perhaps, throw something at you, – she is very spiteful."
"Oh, don't heed her, my girl. But what's the matter with you? You seem embarrassed, sad. Are you sorry for having come out with me?"
"Oh, dear, no; but – but – you give me your arm!"
"Well, and what of that?"
"You are a workman, and some one may tell your master that they met you with me, and harm may come of it; masters do not like their workmen to be unsteady." And Goualeuse gently removed her arm from that of Rodolph, adding, "Go on by yourself; I will follow you to the barrier; when we are once in the fields I can walk with you."
"Do not be uneasy," said Rodolph, touched by the poor girl's consideration, and taking her arm again; "my master does not live in this quarter, and we shall find a coach on the Quai aux Fleurs."
"As you please, M. Rodolph; I only said so that you might not get into trouble."
"I am sure of that, and thank you very much. But tell me, is it all the same to you what part of the country we go into?"
"Yes, quite so, M. Rodolph, so that it be the country. It is so fine and it is so nice to breathe the open air! Do you know that I have not been farther than the flower-market for these six weeks? And now, if the ogress allows me to leave the Cité, she must have great confidence in me."
"And when you came here, was it to buy flowers?"
"Oh, no, I had no money; I only came to look at them, and breathe their beautiful smell. During the half-hour which the ogress allowed me to pass on the quay on market-days, I was so happy that I forgot everything else."
"And on returning to the ogress, and those filthy streets?"
"Oh, why, then I returned more sad than when I set out; but I wiped my eyes, that I might not be beaten for crying. Yet, at the market, what made me envious – oh, so envious! – was to see neat, clean little workwomen, who were going away so gaily with a beautiful pot of flowers in their hands."
"I am sure that if you had had but a few flowers in your own window, they would have kept you company."
"What you say is quite true, M. Rodolph. Only imagine, one day, on her birthday, the ogress, knowing my taste, gave me a little rose-tree. If you only knew how happy it made me, – I was never tired of looking at it, – my own rose-tree! I counted its leaves, its flowers; but the air of the Cité is bad, and it began to wither in two days. Then – but you'll laugh at me, M. Rodolph."
"No, no; go on."
"Well, then, I asked the ogress to let me go out, and take my rose-tree for a walk, as I would have taken a child out. Well, then, I carried it to the quay, thinking that to be with other flowers in the fresh and balmy air would do it good. I bathed its poor fading leaves in the clear waters of the fountain, and then to dry it I placed it for a full quarter of an hour in the sun. Dear little rose-tree! it never saw the sun in the Cité any more than I did, for in our street it never descends lower than the roof. At last I went back again, and I assure you, M. Rodolph, that, thanks to these walks, my rose-tree lived at least ten days longer than it would have done, had I not taken such pains with it."
"No doubt of it. But when it died, what a loss it must have been to you!"
"I cried heartily, for it grieved me very, very much; and you see, M. Rodolph, – for you know one loves flowers, although one hasn't any of one's own, – you see, I felt grateful to it, that dear rose-tree, for blooming so kindly for me, although I was so – "
Goualeuse bent her head, and blushed deeply.
"Unhappy child! With this feeling of your own position, you must often – "
"Have desired to end it, you mean, sir?" said Goualeuse, interrupting her companion. "Yes, yes, more than once. A month ago I looked over the parapet at the Seine; but then, when I looked at the flowers, and the sun, then I said, 'The river will be always there; I am but sixteen and a half, – who knows?'"
"When you said 'who knows,' you had hope?"
"Yes."
"And what did you hope?"
"To find some charitable soul who would get me work, so that I might be enabled to leave the ogress; and this hope comforted me. Then I said to myself, I am very wretched, but I have never injured anybody, and if I had any one to advise me I should not be as I am. This lightened my sorrow a little, though it had greatly increased at the loss of my rose-tree," added Goualeuse, with a sigh.
"Always so very sad."
"Yes; but look, here it is."
And Goualeuse took from her pocket a little bundle of wood trimmed very carefully, and tied with a rose-coloured bow.
"What, have you kept it?"
"I have, indeed; it is all I possess in the world."
"What, have you nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"This coral necklace?"
"Belongs to the ogress."
"And you have not a piece of riband, a cap, or handkerchief?"
"No, nothing, – nothing but the dead branches of my poor rose-tree; and that is why I love it so."
When Rodolph and Goualeuse had reached the Quai aux Fleurs, a coach was waiting there, into which Rodolph handed Goualeuse. He got in himself, saying to the driver:
"To St. Denis; I will tell you presently which road to take."
The coach went on. The sun was bright, and the sky cloudless, whilst the air, fresh and crisp, circulated freely through the open windows.
"Here is a woman's cloak!" said Goualeuse, remarking that she had seated herself on the garment without having at first noticed it.
"Yes, it is for you, my child; I brought it with me for fear you should be cold."
Little accustomed to such attention, the poor girl looked at Rodolph with surprise.
"Mon Dieu! M. Rodolph, how kind you are; I am really ashamed – "
"Because I am kind?"
"No; but you do not speak as you did yesterday; you appear quite another person."
"Tell me, then, Fleur-de-Marie, which do you like best, – the Rodolph of yesterday, or the Rodolph of to-day?"
"I like you better now; yet yesterday I seemed to be more your equal." Then, as if correcting herself, and fearing to have annoyed Rodolph, she said to him, "When I say your equal, M. Rodolph, I do not mean that I can ever be that."
"One thing in you astonishes me very much, Fleur-de-Marie."
"And what is that, M. Rodolph?"
"You appear to have forgotten that the Chouette said to you yesterday that she knew the persons who had brought you up."
"Oh! I have not forgotten it; I thought of it all night, and I cried bitterly; but I am sure it is not true; she invented this tale to make me unhappy."
"Yet the Chouette may know more than you think. If it were so, should you not be delighted to be restored to your parents?"
"Alas, sir! if my parents never loved me, what should I gain by discovering them? They would only see me and – But if they did ever love me, what shame I should bring on them! Perhaps I should kill them!"
"If your parents ever loved you, Fleur-de-Marie, they will pity, pardon, and still love you. If they have abandoned you, then, when they see the frightful destiny to which they have brought you, their shame and remorse will avenge you."
"What is the good of vengeance?"
"You are right; let us talk no more on the subject."
At this moment the carriage reached St. Ouen, where the road divides to St. Denis and the Revolte. In spite of the monotony of the landscape, Fleur-de-Marie was so delighted at seeing the fields, as she called them, that, forgetting the sad thoughts which the recollection of the Chouette had awakened in her, her lovely countenance grew radiant with delight. She leaned out of the window, clasping her hands, and crying:
"M. Rodolph, how happy I am! Grass! Fields! May I get out? It is so fine! I should so like to run in the meadows."
"Let us run, then, my child. Coachman, stop."
"What! You, too? Will you run, M. Rodolph?"
"I'm having a holiday."
"Oh! What pleasure!"
And Rodolph and Goualeuse, taking each other's hand, ran as fast as they could over a long piece of latter-grass, just mowed. It would be impossible to describe the leaps and exclamations of joy, the intense delight, of Fleur-de-Marie. Poor lamb! so long a prisoner, she inspired the free air with indescribable pleasure. She ran, returned, stopped, and then raced off again with renewed happiness. At the sight of the daisies and buttercups Goualeuse could not restrain her transport, – she did not leave one flower which she could gather. After having run about in this way for some time, she became rather tired, for she had lost the habit of exercise, and stopped to take breath, sitting down on the trunk of a fallen tree which was lying at the edge of a deep ditch.
The clear and white complexion of Fleur-de-Marie, generally rather pale, was now heightened by the brightest colour. Her large blue eyes sparkled brightly, her vermilion lips, partly opened to recover her breath, displayed two rows of liquid pearls; her bosom throbbed under her worn-out little orange shawl, and she placed one of her hands upon her heart, as if to restrain its quickened pulsation, whilst with the other hand she proffered to Rodolph the bouquet of field flowers which she had just gathered. Nothing could be more charming than the combination of innocence and pure joy which beamed on her expressive countenance. When Fleur-de-Marie could speak, she said to Rodolph, with an accent of supreme happiness and of gratitude, almost amounting to piety:
"How good is the great God to give us so fine a day!"
A tear came into Rodolph's eye when he heard this poor, forsaken, despised, lost creature utter a cry of happiness and deep gratitude to the Creator, because she enjoyed a ray of sunshine and the sight of a green field. He was roused from his reverie by an unexpected occurrence.
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