"Ma foi! No, that is not the worst. To hear the wind whistle all night in the forest, and the wolves howl from time to time far off, very far off, – I shouldn't tire of that; provided I was at the fireside with my man and my children, or even quite alone, if my man was going his rounds. Ah, I am not afraid of a gun! If I had my children to defend, I could do that, – the wolf would guard her cubs!"
"Oh, I can well believe you! You are very brave – you are; but I am a coward. I prefer spring to the winter, when the leaves are green, when the pretty wild flowers bloom, and they smell so sweet, so sweet that the air is quite scented; and then your children would roll about so merrily in the fresh grass; and then the forest would be so thick that you could hardly see your house in the midst of the foliage, – I can fancy that I see it now. In front of the house is a vine full of leaves, which your husband has planted, and which shades the bank of turf where he sleeps during the noonday heat, whilst you are going backwards and forwards desiring the children not to wake their father. I don't know whether you have remarked it, but in the heat of summer about midday there is in the woods as deep silence as at midnight, you don't hear the leaves shake, nor the birds sing."
"Yes, that's true," replied La Louve, almost mechanically, who became more and more forgetful of the reality, and almost believed she saw before her the smiling pictures which the poetical imagination of Fleur-de-Marie, so instinctively amorous of the beauties of nature, presented before her.
Delighted at the deep attention which her companion lent her, La Goualeuse continued, allowing herself to be drawn on by the charm of the thoughts which she called up:
"There is one thing which I love almost as well as the silence of the woods, and that is the noise of the heavy drops of rain falling on the leaves; do you like that, too?"
"Oh, yes! I am very fond of a summer shower."
"So am I; and when the trees, the moss, and the grass, are all moistened, what a delightfully fresh odour they give out! And then, how the sun, as it passes over the trees, makes all the little drops of water glisten as they hang from the leaves! Have you ever noticed that?"
"Yes; I remember it now because you tell me of it. Yet, how droll all this is! But, Goualeuse, you talk so well that one seems to see everything, – to see everything just as you talk; and then, I really do not know how to explain it all. But now, what you say seems good, it is quite pleasant, – just like the rain we were talking of."
"Oh, don't suppose that we are the only creatures who love a summer shower! The dear little birds, how delighted they are! How they shake their feathers, whilst they warble so joyously; not more joyously, though, than your children, – your children as free, and gay, and light-hearted as they! And then, look! as the day declines the youngest children run across the wood to meet the elder, who brings back the two heifers from pasture, for they have heard the tinkling of the bell in the distance!"
"Yes, Goualeuse, and I think I see the smallest and boldest, whom his brother has put astride on the back of one of the cows."
"And one would say that the poor animal knows what burden she bears, she steps so carefully. But it is supper-time; your eldest child, whilst he has been tending the cows at pasture, has amused himself with gathering for you a basket of beautiful strawberries, which he has brought quite fresh under a thick covering of wild violets."
"Strawberries and violets, – ah, what a lovely smell they have! But where the deuce did you find all these ideas, La Goualeuse?"
"In the woods, where the strawberries ripen and the violets blow, you have only to look and gather them – But let us go on with our housekeeping. It is night, and you must milk your heifers, prepare your supper under the shelter of the vine, for you hear your husband's dogs bark, and then their master's voice, who, tired as he is, comes home singing, – and who could not sing when on a fine summer's eve with cheerful heart you return to the house where a good wife and five children are waiting for you? – eh, Madame Martial?"
"True, true; one could not but sing," replied La Louve, becoming more and more thoughtful.
"Unless one weeps for joy," continued Fleur-de-Marie, herself much touched, "and such tears are as sweet as songs. And then, when night has completely come, what a pleasure to sit in the arbour and enjoy the calmness of a fine evening, to breathe the sweet odour of the forest, to hear the prattle of the children, to look at the stars, then the heart is so full, – so full that it must pour out its prayer; it must thank him to whom we are indebted for the freshness of the evening, the sweet scent of the woods, the gentle brightness of the starry sky! After this thanksgiving or this prayer, we go to sleep tranquilly till the next day, and then again thank our Creator. And this poor, hard-working, but calm and honest life, is the same each and every day."
"Every day!" repeated La Louve, with her head drooping on her chest, her look fixed, her breast oppressed, "for it is true the good God is good to give us wherewithal to live upon, and to make us happy with so little."
"Well, tell me now," continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently, – "tell me, ought not he to be blessed, after God, who should give you this peaceable and laborious life, instead of the wretched existence you lead in the mud of the streets of Paris?"
This word Paris suddenly recalled La Louve to reality.
A strange phenomenon had taken place in the mind of this creature.
The simple painting of a humble and rude condition – the mere recital by turns – lighted up by the soft rays from the domestic hearth, gilded by some joyful sunbeams, refreshed by the breeze of the great woods, or perfumed by the odour of wild flowers, – this narrative had made on La Louve a more profound or more sensible impression than could an exhortation of the most pious morality have effected.
In truth, in proportion as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had longed to be, and meant to be, an indefatigable manager, a worthy wife, an affectionate and devoted mother.
To inspire, even for an instant, a violent, immoral, and degraded woman with a love of home, respect for duty, a taste for labour, and gratitude towards her Creator; and that, by only promising her what God gives to all, the sun, the sky, and the depths of the forest, – what society owes to those who lack a roof and a loaf, – was, indeed, a glorious triumph for Fleur-de-Marie! Could the most severe moralist – the most overpowering preacher – have obtained more in threatening, in their monotonous and menacing orations, all human vengeances – all divine thunders?
The painful anger with which La Louve was possessed when she returned to the reality, after having allowed herself to be charmed by the new and wholesome reverie in which, for the first time, Fleur-de-Marie had plunged her, proved the influence of her words on her unfortunate companion. The more bitter were La Louve's regrets when she fell back from this consoling delusion to the horrors of her real position, the greater was La Goualeuse's triumph. After a moment's silence and reflection, La Louve raised her head suddenly, passed her hand over her brow, and rose threatening and angry.
"See, see! I had reason to mistrust you, and to desire not to listen to you, because it would turn to ill for me! Why did you talk thus to me? Why make a jest of me? Why mock me? And because I have been so weak as to say to you that I should like to live in the depths of a forest with my man. Who are you, then, that you should make a fool of me in this way? You, miserable girl, don't know what you have done! Now, in spite of myself, I shall always be thinking of this forest, the house, and – and – the children – and all that happiness which I shall never have – never – never! And if I cannot forget what you have told me, why, my life will be one eternal punishment, – a hell, – and that by your fault! Yes, by your fault!"
"So much the better! Oh, so much the better!" said Fleur-de-Marie.
"You say, so much the better!" exclaimed La Louve, with her eyes glaring.
"Yes, – so much the better! For if your present miserable life appears to you a hell, you will prefer that of which I have spoken to you."
"What is the use of preferring it, since it is not destined for me? What is the use of regretting that I walk the streets, since I shall die in the streets?" exclaimed La Louve, more and more irritated, and taking in her powerful grasp the small hand of Fleur-de-Marie. "Answer – answer! Why do you try to make me desire that which I cannot have."
"To desire an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of that life, as I have already told you," replied Fleur-de-Marie, without attempting to disengage her hand.
"Well, and what then? Suppose I am worthy, what does that prove? How much the better off will that make me?"
"To see realised what you consider as a dream," answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so serious and full of conviction that La Louve, again under control, let go La Goualeuse's hand, and gazed at her in amazement.
"Listen to me, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, in a voice full of feeling; "do you think me so wicked as to excite such ideas and hopes in you, if I were not sure that, whilst I made you blush at your present condition, I gave you the means to quit it?"
"You! You can do this?"
"I! No; but some one who is good, and great, and powerful."
"Great and powerful?"
"Listen, La Louve. Three months ago I was, like you, a lost, an abandoned creature. One day he of whom I speak to you with tears of gratitude," – and Fleur-de-Marie wiped her eyes, – "one day he came to me, and he was not afraid, abased and despised as I was, to say comforting words to me, the first I had ever heard. I told him my sufferings, my miseries, my shame; I concealed nothing from him, just as you have related to me all your past life, La Louve. After having listened to me with kindness, he did not blame, but pitied me; he did not even reproach me with my disgraceful position, but talked to me of the calm and pure life which was found in the country."
"As you did just now?"
"Then my situation appeared to me the more frightful, in proportion as the future he held out to me seemed more beautiful."
"Like me?"
"Yes, and so I said as you did, – What use, alas! is it to make me fancy this paradise, – me, who am chained to hell? But I was wrong to despair; for he of whom I speak is so good, so just, that he is incapable of making a false hope shine in the eyes of a poor creature who asked no one for pity, happiness, or hope."
"And what did he do for you?"
"He treated me like a sick child. I was, like you, immersed in a corrupted air, and he sent me to breathe a wholesome and reviving atmosphere. I was also living amongst hideous and criminal beings, and he confided me to persons as good as himself, who have purified my soul and elevated my mind; for he communicates to all those who love and respect him a spark of his own refined intelligence. Yes, if my words move you, La Louve, if my tears make your tears flow, it is that his mind and thought inspire me. If I speak to you of the happier future which you will obtain by repentance, it is because I can promise you this future in his name, although, at this moment, he is ignorant of the engagement I make. In fact, I say to you, Hope! because he always listens to the voice of those who desire to become better; for God sent him on earth to make people believe in his providence!"
As she spoke, Fleur-de-Marie's countenance became radiant, and her pale cheeks suffused with a delicate carnation; her beautiful eyes sparkled, and she appeared so touchingly beautiful that La Louve gazed on her with respectful admiration, and said:
"Where am I? Do I dream? Who are you, then? Oh, I was right when I said you were not one of us! But, then, you talk so well, – you, who can do so much, you, who know such powerful people, how is it that you are here, a prisoner with us?"
Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame Armand came up and interrupted her, to conduct her to Madame d'Harville. La Louve remained overwhelmed with surprise, and the inspectress said to her:
"I see, with pleasure, that the presence of La Goualeuse in the prison has brought good fortune to you and your companions. I know you have made a subscription for poor Mont Saint-Jean; that is kind and charitable, La Louve, and will be of service to you. I was sure that you were better than you allowed yourself to appear. In recompense for this kind action, I think I can promise you that the term of your imprisonment shall be shortened by several days."
Madame Armand then walked away, followed by Fleur-de-Marie.
We must not be astonished at the almost eloquent language of Fleur-de-Marie, when we remember that her mind, so wonderfully gifted, had rapidly developed itself, thanks to the education and instruction she had received at Bouqueval farm.
The young girl was, indeed, strong in her experience.
The sentiments she had awakened in the heart of La Louve had been awakened in her own heart by Rodolph, and under almost similar circumstances.
Believing that she detected some good instincts in her companion, she had endeavoured to lure her back to honesty, by proving to her (according to Rodolph's theory, applied to the farm at Bouqueval) that it was her interest to become honest, by pointing out to her restitution to the paths of rectitude in smiling and attractive colours.
And here let us repeat that, in our opinion, an incomplete as well as stupid and inefficacious mode is employed to inspire the poor and ignorant classes with a hatred of evil and a love of good.
In order to turn them away from the bad path, they are incessantly threatened with divine and human vengeance; incessantly a sinister clank is sounded in their ears: prison-keep, fetters, handcuffs; and, in the distance, in dark shadow, at the extreme horizon of crime, they have their attention directed to the executioner's axe glittering amidst the glare of everlasting flames. We observe that the intimidation is constant, fearful, and appalling. To him who does ill, imprisonment, infamy, punishment. This is just. But to him who does well does society award noble gifts, glorious distinctions? No.
Does society encourage resignation, order, probity, in that immense mass of artisans who are for ever doomed to toil and privation, and almost always to profound misery, by benevolent rewards? No.
Is the scaffold which the criminal ascends a protection for the man of integrity? No.
Strange and fatal symbol! Justice is represented as blind, bearing in one hand a sword to punish, and in the other scales in which she weighs accusation and defence. This is not the image of Justice. This is the image of Law, or, rather, of the man who condemns or acquits according to his conscience. Justice should hold in one hand a sword, and in the other a crown, – one to strike the wicked, and the other to recompense the good. The people would then see that, if there is a terrible punishment for evil, there is a brilliant recompense for good; whilst as it is, in their plain and simple sense, the people seek in vain for the contrary side of tribunals, gaols, galleys, and scaffolds. The people see plainly a criminal justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, enlightened men, always employed in searching out, detecting, and punishing the evil-doers. They do not see the virtuous justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, and enlightened men, always searching out and rewarding the honest man. All says to him, Tremble! Nothing says to him, Hope! All threatens him; nothing consoles him!
The state annually expends many millions for the sterile punishment of crimes. With this enormous sum it keeps prisoners and gaolers, galley-slaves and galley-sergeants, scaffolds and executioners. This is necessary? Agreed. But how much does the state disburse for the rewards (so salutary, so fruitful) for honest men? Nothing. And this is not all, as we shall demonstrate when the course of this recital shall conduct us to the state prison; how many artisans of irreproachable honesty would attain the summit of their wishes if they were assured of enjoying one day the bodily comforts of prisoners, always certain of good food, good bed, and good shelter? And yet, in the name of their dignity, as honest men, long and painfully tried, have they not a right to claim the same care and comforts as criminals, – such, for instance, as Morel, the lapidary, who had toiled for twenty years, industrious, honest, and resigned, in the midst of bitter misery and sore temptations? Do not such men deserve sufficiently well of society, that society should try and find them out, and if not recompense them, for the honour of humanity, at least support them in the painful and difficult path which they tread so courageously? Is the man of worth so modest that he finds greater security than the thief or assassin? and are not these always detected by criminal justice? Alas, it is a utopia, but it is consoling!
Suppose, for the moment, a society were so organised that it would hold an assizes of virtue, as we have assizes of crime, – a public ministry pointing out noble actions, disclosing them to the view of all, as we now denounce crimes to the avenging power of the laws. We will give two instances – two justices – and let our readers say which is most fruitful in instruction, in consequences, in positive results. One man has killed another, for the purpose of robbing him; at break of day they stealthily erect the guillotine in an obscure corner of Paris and cut off the assassin's head before the dregs of the populace, which laughs at the judge, the sufferer, and the executioner. This is the last resort of society. This is the chastisement she bestows on the greatest crime which can be committed against her. This is the most terrible, the most wholesome warning she can give to her population, – the only one, for there is no counterpoise to this keen axe, dripping with blood; no, society has no spectacle, mild and benevolent, to oppose to this funereal scene.
Let us go on with our utopia. Would it not be otherwise if almost every day the people had before their eyes some illustrious virtues greatly glorified and substantially rewarded by the state? Would it not be to encourage good continually, if we often saw an august, imposing, and venerable tribunal summon before it, in presence of an immense multitude, a poor and honest artisan, whose long, intelligent, and enduring life should be described, whilst he was thus addressed:
"For twenty years you have manfully struggled against misfortune, your family has been brought up by you in the principles of honour and rectitude, your superior virtues have greatly distinguished you, – you merit praise and recompense. Society, always vigilant, just, and all-powerful, never leaves in oblivion either good or evil. Every man is recompensed according to his works. The state assures to you a pension sufficient for your wants. Obtaining this deserved mark of public notice, you will end in leisure and ease a life which is an example to all; and thus are and will be exalted those who, like yourself, shall have struggled for many years with an admirable persistence in good, and given proof of rare and grand moral qualities. Your example will encourage a great many to imitate you; hope will lighten the painful burden which their destiny imposes on them for so many years of their life. Animated by a salutary emulation, they will energetically struggle to accomplish the most arduous duties, in order that one day they may be distinguished from the rest, and rewarded as you are."
We ask, which of the two sights – the beheaded assassin, or the good man rewarded – would act on the million with more salutary and more fruitful effect?
No doubt many delicate minds will be indignant at the bare thought of these ignoble substantial rewards awarded to the most ethereal thing in the world, – Virtue! They will find all sorts of arguments, more or less philosophical, platonic, theological, and especially economic, against such a proposition; such as, "Virtue is its own reward;" "Virtue is a priceless gem;" "The satisfaction of the conscience is the noblest of recompenses;" and, finally, this triumphant and unanswerable objection, "The eternal happiness which awaits the just in another life ought to be sufficient to encourage mankind to do well." To this we reply that society, in order to intimidate and punish the guilty, does not appear to us to rely entirely and exclusively on the divine vengeance, which they tell us will visit them in another world. Society anticipates the last judgment by human judgments. Awaiting the inexorable hour of the archangels in armour, with sounding trumpets and fiery swords, society modestly comforts herself with —gens-d'armes.
We repeat, to terrify the wicked, we materialise, or rather we reduce to human, perceptible, and visible proportions, the anticipated effects of divine wrath. Why should we not do the same with the divine rewards to worthy and virtuous people?
But let us leave these mad, absurd, stupid, impracticable utopianisms, like real utopianisms, as they are. Society is as well as it is. Ask those merry souls, who, with uncertain step, stupid look, and noisy laugh, have just quitted the gay banquet, if it is not.