CHAPTER X
MARTIAL AND THE CHOURINEUR
Before we proceed we have a few words to say as to the acquaintance recently established between the Chourineur and Martial.
When Germain had left the prison, the Chourineur proved very easily that he had robbed himself; and making a statement of his motive for this singular mystification to the magistrate, he was set at liberty, after having been severely admonished.
Desirous of recompensing the Chourineur for this fresh act of devotion, Rodolph, in order to realise the wishes of his rough protégé, had lodged him in the hôtel of the Rue Plumet, promising that he should accompany him on his return to Germany.
The Chourineur's blind attachment to Rodolph was like that of a dog for his master. When, however, the prince had found his daughter, all was changed, and, in spite of his warm gratitude for the man who had saved his life, he could not make up his mind to take with him to Germany the witness of Fleur-de-Marie's fallen state; yet, determined to carry out the Chourineur's wishes, he sent for him, and told him that he had still another service to ask of him. At this the Chourineur's countenance brightened up; but he was greatly distressed when he learned that he must quit the hôtel that very day, and would not accompany the prince to Germany.
It is useless to mention the munificent compensations which Rodolph offered to the Chourineur, – the money he intended for him, the farm in Algeria, anything he could desire. The Chourineur was wounded to the heart, refused, and (perhaps for the first time in his life) wept. Rodolph was compelled to force his presents on him.
Next day the prince sent for La Louve and Martial, and inquired what he could do for them. Remembering what Fleur-de-Marie had told him of the wild taste of La Louve and her husband, he proposed to the hardy couple either a considerable sum of money, or half the sum and land in full cultivation adjoining the farm he had bought for the Chourineur, believing that by bringing them together they would sympathise, from their desire to seek solitude, the one in consequence of the past, and the other from the crimes of his family.
He was not mistaken. Martial and La Louve accepted joyfully; and then, talking the matter over with the Chourineur, they all three rejoiced in the prospects held out to them in Algeria. A sincere good feeling soon united the future colonists. Persons of their class judge quickly of each other, and like one another as speedily.
The Chourineur accompanied his new friend Martial to the Bicêtre and awaited him in the hackney-coach, which conducted them back to Paris after Martial, horror-struck, had left the dungeon of his mother and sister.
The countenance of the Chourineur had completely changed; the bold expression and jovial humour which usually characterised his harsh features had given way to extreme dejection; his voice had lost something of its coarseness; a grief of heart, until then unknown to him, had broken down his energetic temperament. He looked kindly at Martial, and said:
"Courage! You have done all that good intentions could do; it is ended. Think now of your wife, and the children whom you have prevented from becoming criminals like their father and mother. To-night we leave Paris never to return to it, and you will never again hear of what so much distresses you now."
"True – true! But, after all, they are my sister and mother!"
"Yes; but when things must be, we must submit!" said the Chourineur, checking a deep sigh.
After a moment's silence, Martial said, kindly, "And I ought, in my turn, to try and console you who are so sad. My wife and I hope that when we have left Paris this will cease."
"Yes," said the Chourineur, with a shudder, "if I leave Paris!"
"Why, we go this evening!"
"Yes, – you do; you go this evening!"
"And have you changed your intention, then?"
"No! Yet, Martial, you'll laugh at me; but yet I will tell you all. If anything happens to me it will prove that I am not deceived. When M. Rodolph asked if we would go to Algeria together, I told you my mind at once, and also what I had been."
"Yes, you did; let us mention it no more. You underwent your punishment, and are now as good as any one. But, like myself, I can imagine you would like to go and live a long way off, instead of living here, where, however honest we may be, they might at times fling in your teeth a misdeed you have atoned for and repented, and, in mine, my parents' crimes, for which I am by no means responsible. The past is the past between us, and we shall never reproach each other."
"With you and me, Martial, the past is the past; but, you see, Martial, there is something above, – I have killed a man!"
"A great misfortune, assuredly; but, at the moment, you were out of your senses, – mad. And besides, you have since saved the lives of other persons, and that will count in your favour."
"I'll tell you why I refer to my misdeed. I used to have a dream, in which I saw the sergeant I killed. I have not had it for a long time until last night, and that foretells some misfortune for to-day. I have a foreboding that I shall not quit Paris."
"Oh, you regret at leaving our benefactor! The thought of coming with me to the Bicêtre agitated you; and so your dream recurred to you."
The Chourineur shook his head sorrowfully and said, "It has come to me just as M. Rodolph is going to start, – for he goes to-day. Yesterday I sent a messenger to his hôtel, not daring to go myself. They sent me word that he went this morning at eleven o'clock by the barrier of Charenton, and I mean to go and station myself there to try and see him once more, – for the last time!"
"He seems so good that I easily understand your love for him."
"Love for him!" said the Chourineur, with deep and concentrated emotion. "Yes, yes, Martial, – to lie on the earth, eat black bread, be his dog, to be where he was, I asked no more. But that was too much, – he would not consent."
"He has been very generous towards you!"
"Yet it is not for that I love him, but because he told me I had heart and honour. Yes, and that at a time when I was as fierce as a brute beast. And he made me understand what was good in me, and that I had repented, and, after suffering great misery, had worked hard for an honest livelihood, although all the world considered me as a thorough ruffian, – and so, when M. Rodolph said these words to me, my heart beat high and proudly, and from this time I would go through fire and water to serve him."
"Why, it is because you are better than you were that you ought not to have any of those forebodings. Your dream is nothing."
"We shall see. I shall not try and get into any mischief, for I cannot have any worse misfortune than not to see again M. Rodolph, whom I hoped never again to leave. I should have been in my way, you see, always with him, body and soul, – always ready. Never mind, perhaps he was wrong, – I am only a worm at his feet; but sometimes, Martial, the smallest may be useful to the greatest."
"One day, perhaps, you may see him."
"Oh, no; he said to me, 'My good fellow, you must promise never to seek nor see me, – that will be doing me a service.' So, of course, Martial, I promised; and I'll keep my word, though it is very hard."
"Once at Algeria, you will forget all your vexations."
"Yes, yes; I'm an old trooper, Martial, and will face the Bedouins."
"Come, come, you'll soon recover your spirits. We'll farm and hunt together, and live together, or separate, just as you like. We'll bring up the children like honest people, and you shall be their uncle, – for we are brothers, and my wife is good at heart; and so we'll be happy, eh?" And Martial extended his hand to the Chourineur.
"So we will, Martial," was the reply; "and my sorrow will kill me, or I shall kill my sorrow."
"It will not kill you. We shall pass our days together; and every evening we will say, 'brother, thanks to M. Rodolph,' – that shall be our prayer to, him."
"Martial, you comfort me."
"Well, then, that is all right; and as to that stupid-dream, you will think no more of it, I hope?"
"I'll try."
"Well, then, you'll come to us at four o'clock; the diligence goes at five."
"Agreed. But I will get out here and walk to the barrier at Charenton, where I will await M. Rodolph, that I may see him pass."
The coach stopped, and the Chourineur alighted.
CHAPTER XI
THE FINGER OF PROVIDENCE
The Chourineur had forgotten that it was the day after mid-Lent, and was consequently greatly surprised at the sight, at once hideous and singular, which presented itself to his view when he arrived at the exterior boulevard, which he was traversing to reach the barrier of Charenton.
He found himself suddenly in the thickest of a dense throng of people, who were coming out of the cabarets of the Faubourg de la Glacière, in order to reach the Boulevard St. Jacques, where the execution was to take place.
Although it was broad daylight, there was still heard the noisy music of the public-houses, whence issued particularly the loud echoes of the cornets-à-piston. The pencil of Callot, of Rembrandt, or of Goya is requisite to limn the strange, hideous, and fantastical appearance of this multitude.
Almost all of them, men, women, and children, were attired in old masquerade costumes. Those who could not afford this expense had on their clothes rags of bright colours. Some young men were dressed in women's clothes, half torn and soiled with mud. All their countenances, haggard from debauchery and vice, and furrowed by intoxication, sparkled with savage delight at the idea that, after a night of filthy orgies, they should see two women executed on the scaffold prepared for them.
The foul and fetid scum of the population of Paris, – this vast mob – was formed of thieves and abandoned women, who every day tax crime for their daily bread, and every evening return to their lairs with their vicious spoils.1
The crowd entirely choked up the means of circulation, and, in spite of his gigantic strength, the Chourineur was compelled to remain almost motionless in the midst of this compact throng. He was, however, willing to remain so, as the prince would not pass the barrier of Charenton until eleven o'clock, and it was not yet seven; and he had a singular spectacle before him.
In a large, low apartment, occupied at one end by musicians, surrounded by benches and tables laden with the fragments of a repast, broken plates, empty bottles, etc., a dozen men and women, in various disguises and half drunk, were dancing with the utmost excitement that frantic and obscene dance called La Chahut.
Amongst the dissipated revellers who figured in this saturnalia, the Chourineur remarked two couples who obtained the most overwhelming applause, from the revolting grossness of their attitudes, their gesticulations, and their language. The first couple consisted of a man disguised as a bear, and nearly covered with a waistcoat and trousers of black sheepskin. The head of the animal, being too troublesome to carry, had been replaced by a kind of hood with long hair, which entirely covered his features; two holes for his eyes, and a long one for his mouth, allowed him to see, speak, and breathe.
This man – one of the prisoners escaped from La Force (amongst whom were Barbillon and the two murderers arrested at the ogress's at the tapis-franc, at the beginning of this recital) – this man so masked was Nicholas Martial, the son and brother of the two women for whom the scaffold was prepared but a few paces distant.
Induced into this act of atrocious insensibility and infamous audacity by one of his associates, this wretch had dared with this disguise to join in the last revels of the carnival. The woman who danced with him, dressed as a vivandière, wore a round leather cap with ragged ribands, a kind of bodice of threadbare red cloth, ornamented with three rows of brass buttons, a green skirt, and trousers of white calico. Her black hair fell in disorder all about her head, and her haggard and swollen features evinced the utmost effrontery and immodesty. The vis-à-vis of these dancers were no less disgusting.
The man, who was very tall, and disguised as Robert Macaire, had so begrimed his features with soot that it was impossible to recognise him, and, besides, a large bandage covered his left eye; the white of the right eye being thus the more heightened, rendered him still more hideous. The lower part of the Skeleton's countenance (for it was he) disappeared in a high neckcloth made of an old red shawl.
Wearing an old, white, napless hat with a crushed side, dirty, and without a crown, a green coat in rags, and tight mulberry-coloured pantaloons, patched in every direction, and tied around the instep with pieces of packthread, this assassin outraged the most outré and revolting attitudes of the Chahut, darting from right to left, before and behind, his lanky limbs as hard as steel, and twisting and twining, and springing and bounding with such vigour and elasticity, that he seemed set in motion by steel springs.
A worthy coryphée of this filthy saturnalia, his lady partner, a tall and active creature with impudent and flushed features, attired en débardeur, wore a flat cap on one side of a powdered wig with a thick pigtail, a waistcoat and trousers of worn green velvet, adjusted to her shape by an orange scarf, with long ends flowing down her back.
A fat, vulgar, coarse woman, the brutal ogress of the tapis-franc, was seated on one of the benches, holding on her knees the plaid cloaks of this creature and the vivandière, whilst they were rivalling the bounds, and jumps, and gross postures of the Skeleton and Nicholas Martial.
Amongst the other dancers there was a lame boy, dressed like a devil, by means of a black net vest, much too large for him, red drawers, and a green mask hideous and grotesque. In spite of his infirmity, this little monster was wonderfully agile, and his precocious depravity equalled, if it could not exceed, that of his detestable companions, and he gambolled as impudently as any of them before a fat woman, dressed as a shepherdess, who excited her partner the more by her shouts of laughter.
No charge having been raised against Tortillard (our readers have recognised him), and Bras Rouge having been for the while left in prison, the boy, at his father's request, was reclaimed by Micou, the receiver of the passage of the Brasserie, who had not been denounced by his accomplices.
As secondary figures in this picture, let imagination conceive all there is of the lowest, most shameful, and most monstrous, in this idle, wanton, insolent, rapacious, atheistical, sanguinary assemblage of infamy, which is most hostile to social order, and to which we would call the attention of all thinking persons as our recital draws to a close.
Excited by the shouts of laughter and the cheers of the mob assembled around the windows, the actors in the infamous dance cried to the orchestra for a finale galop. The musicians, delighted to reach the end of their labours, complied with the general wish, and played a galoppade with the utmost energy and rapidity. At this the excitement redoubled; the couples encircled each other and dashed away, following the Skeleton and his partner, who led off their infernal round amidst the wildest cries and acclamations.
The crowd was so thick, so dense, and the evolutions so multiplied and rapid, that these creatures, inflamed with wine, exercise, and noise, their intoxication became delirious frenzy, and they soon ceased to have space for their movements. The Skeleton then cried, in a breathless voice, "Look out at the door! We will go out on to the boulevard."
"Yes, yes!" cried the mob at the windows; "a galop as far as the Barrière St. Jacques!"
"The two 'mots' will soon be here."
"The headsman cuts double! How funny!"
"Yes, with a cornet-à-piston accompaniment."
"I'll ask the widow to be my partner."
"And I the daughter."
"Death to the informers!"
"Long live the prigs and lads of steel!" cried the Skeleton in a voice of thunder, as he and the dancers, forcing their way in the midst of the mass, set the whole body in motion; and then were heard cries, and imprecations, and shouts of laughter, which had nothing human in their sound.
Suddenly this uproar reached its height by two fresh incidents. The vehicle which contained the criminals, accompanied by its escort of cavalry, appeared at the angle of the boulevard, and then all the mob rushed in that direction, shouting and roaring with ferocious delight.
At this moment, also, the crowd was met by a courier coming from the Boulevard des Invalides, and galloping towards the Barrière de Charenton. He was dressed in a light blue jacket with yellow collar, with a double row of silver lace down the seams, but, as a mark of deep mourning, he wore black breeches and high boots; his cap also, with a broad band of silver, was encircled with crape, and on the winkers of his horse were the arms of Gerolstein.
He walked his horse, his advance becoming every moment more difficult, and he was almost obliged to stop when he found himself in the midst of the sea of people we have described. Although he called to them, and moved his horse with the greatest caution, cries, abuse, and threats were soon directed against him.
"Does he want to ride us down, that vagabond?"
"He's got lots o' silver on his precious body!" cried Tortillard.
"If he comes against us we'll make him alight and strip the 'tin' off his jacket to go to the melter's," said Nicholas.
"And we'll take the seams out of your carcase if you are not careful, you cursed jockey!" added the Skeleton, addressing the courier and seizing the bridle of his horse, – for the crowd was so dense that the ruffian had given up his idea of dancing to the barrier.
The courier, who was a powerful and resolute fellow, said to the Skeleton, lifting the handle of his whip, "If you do not let go my bridle I'll lay my whip over you. Let me pass; my lord's carriage is coming close behind. Let me go forward, I say."
"Your lord!" said the Skeleton; "what is your lord to me? I'll slit his weasand if I like! I never did for a lord; I should like to try my hand."
"There are no more lords now. Vive la Charte!" shouted Tortillard; and as he said so he whistled a verse of the "Parisienne," and clinging to one of the courier's legs nearly drew him out of his saddle. A blow with the handle of his whip on Tortillard's head punished his insolence; but the populace instantly attacked the courier, who in vain spurred his horse, – he could not advance a step.
Dismounted, amidst the shouts of the mob, he would have been murdered but for the arrival of Rodolph's carriage, which took off the attention of these wretches.
The prince's travelling carriage, drawn by four horses, had for some time past advanced at only a foot pace, and one of the two footmen had got down from the rumble and was walking by the side of the door, which was very low; the postilions kept crying out to the people, and went forward very cautiously.
Rodolph was dressed in deep mourning, as was also his daughter, one of whose hands he held in his own, looking at her with affection. The gentle and lovely face of Fleur-de-Marie was enclosed in a small capot of black crape, which heightened the dazzling brilliancy of her skin and the beautiful hue of her lovely brown hair; and the azure of this bright day was reflected in her large eyes, which had never been of more transparent and softened blue. Although her features wore a gentle smile, and expressed calmness and happiness when she looked at her father, yet a tinge of melancholy, and sometimes of undefinable sadness, threw its shadow over her countenance when her eyes were not fixed on her father.
At this moment the carriage came amongst the crowd and began to slacken its pace. Rodolph lowered the window, and said in German to the lackey who was walking by the window, "Well, Frantz, what is the meaning of this?"
"Monseigneur, there is such a crowd that the horses cannot move."
"What has this assemblage collected for?"
"Monseigneur, there is an execution going on."
"Ah, frightful!" said Rodolph, throwing himself back in his carriage.
"What is it, my dear father?" asked Fleur-de-Marie with uneasiness.
"Nothing – nothing, dearest."
"Only listen, – these threatening cries approach us! What can it be?"
"Desire them to reach Charenton by another road," said Rodolph.
"Monseigneur, it is too late, the crowd has stopped the horses."
The footman could say no more. The mob, excited by the savage encouragement of the Skeleton and Nicholas, suddenly surrounded the carriage, and, in spite of the threats of the postilions, stopped the horses, and Rodolph saw on all sides threatening, furious countenances, and above them all the Skeleton, who came to the door of the carriage.
"Take care, my dear father!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, throwing her arms around Rodolph's neck.
"Oh, you are the 'my lord,' are you?" said the Skeleton, thrusting his hideous head into the carriage.
Had it not been for his daughter's presence, Rodolph would have given way to the natural impetuosity of his character at this insolence; but he controlled himself, and coolly replied:
"What do you want, and why do you stop my carriage?"
"Because we choose," said the Skeleton. "Each in his turn. Yesterday you trampled on the mob, and to-day the mob will crush you if you stir."
"Father, we are lost!" murmured Fleur-de-Marie.
"Take courage, love! I understand," replied the prince; "it is the last day of the carnival, – these fellows are tipsy; I will get rid of them."
"I say, my 'covey,' come, get out, and your 'mot' with you!" cried Nicholas; "why should you trample upon a parcel of poor people!"
"You seem to have drunk a good deal, and to desire to drink more," said Rodolph; "here, take this, and do not delay my carriage any longer," and he threw out his purse, which Tortillard caught.
"Oh, what, you are going to travel, eh? Well, then, you've got your pockets well lined, no doubt. Come, shell out, my blade, or I'll have your life." And he opened the door suddenly.
Rodolph's patience was exhausted. Alarmed for Fleur-de-Marie, whose alarm increased every moment, and believing that a display of vigour would daunt the wretch, whom he believed to be only drunk, he sprung from the carriage, intending to seize the Skeleton by the throat. The latter suddenly receded, and then, drawing a long knife-dirk from his pocket, rushed at Rodolph. Fleur-de-Marie, seeing the dirk raised to stab her father, gave a shriek, sprung from the carriage, and threw her arms around him.
Her father's life must have been sacrificed but for the Chourineur, who at the commencement of this tumult, having recognised the livery of the prince, had contrived, by superhuman efforts, to reach the Skeleton; and at the moment when that ruffian menaced the prince with his knife the Chourineur seized on his arm with one hand, and, with the other grasping his collar, threw him backwards.
Although surprised, and from behind too, the Skeleton turned around, and, recognising the Chourineur, cried, "What! the man in the gray blouse from La Force? This time, then, I'll do for you!" and rushing furiously at the Chourineur, he plunged his knife in his breast. The Chourineur staggered, but did not fall. The crowd kept him on his legs.
"The guard! Here come the guard!" exclaimed several voices in alarm.
At these words, and at the sight of the murder of the Chourineur, all this dense crowd, fearing to be compromised in the assassination, dispersed as if by magic, and fled in every direction; the Skeleton, Nicholas, Martial, and Tortillard amongst the earliest.
When the guard came up, guided by the courier (who had escaped when the crowd had let him go to surround the prince's carriage), there only remained in this sad scene, Rodolph, his daughter, and the Chourineur, bathed in his blood. The two servants of the prince had seated him on the ground, with his back to a tree.
All this passed more quickly than it can be described, and at a few paces from the guinguette from which the Skeleton and his band had issued.
The prince, pale and agitated, held in his arms Fleur-de-Marie, half fainting, whilst the postilions were repairing the harness broken in the scuffle.
"Quick!" said the prince to his servants engaged in aiding the Chourineur, "convey this poor fellow to the cabaret; and you," he added, turning to the courier, "get on the box, and gallop back for Doctor David at the hôtel; you will find him there, as he does not leave until eleven o'clock."
The carriage went away at a great speed, and the two servants conveyed the Chourineur to the low apartment in which the orgies had taken place; several of the women were still there.
"My poor, dear child!" said Rodolph, to his daughter, "let me take you to some room in this place where you can await me, for I cannot abandon this brave fellow, who has again saved my life."
"Oh, my dearest father, I entreat you do not leave me!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, with alarm, and seizing Rodolph's arm. "Do not leave me alone! I should die with fright! Where you go I will go!"
"But this frightful spectacle?"
"Yes, thanks to this worthy man, you still live for me, my father, and therefore allow me to join you in thanking and consoling him."
The prince's perplexity was very great. His daughter evinced so much just fear of remaining alone in a room in this low haunt that he made up his mind to allow her to enter with him into the apartment, where they found the Chourineur.
The mistress of the tavern and many of the women who had remained (and amongst whom was the ogress of the tapis-franc) had hastily laid the wounded man on a mattress, and then stanched and bound his wound with napkins. The Chourineur opened his eyes as Rodolph entered. At the sight of the prince his features, pale with approaching death, became animated. He smiled painfully, and said in a low voice:
"Ah, M. Rodolph, it was very fortunate I was there!"
"Brave and devoted as ever!" said the prince, in an accent of despair. "Again you have saved my life!"
"I was going to the barrier of – Charenton – to try and see you go by – see you for the last time. Fortunately – I was unable to get in for the crowd – besides – it was – to happen – I told Martial so – I had a presentiment."
"A presentiment?"
"Yes, M. Rodolph – the dream – of the sergeant – last night."
"Oh, try and forget such ideas! Let us hope the wound is not mortal."
"Oh, yes, the Skeleton struck home! Never mind – I told Martial that a worm of the earth like me – might sometimes be useful – to a great lord – like you."
"But my life – I owe my life again to you!"
"We are quits, M. Rodolph. You told me – that I had – heart and honour. That word, you see – oh, I am choking! Sir, without – my asking – do me the honour – to give me your hand – I feel I am sinking."
"No, no! Impossible!" exclaimed the prince, bending towards the Chourineur, and clasping in his hands the icy hand of the dying man, "no – you will live – you will live!"
"M. Rodolph, there is something, you see, above – I killed – with a blow of a knife – I die from the blow of a knife!" said the Chourineur, who was sinking fast.
At this moment his eyes turned towards Fleur-de-Marie, whom he had not before perceived. Amazement was depicted on his dying features; he made a movement, and said:
"Ah! – the Goualeuse!"
"Yes, my daughter, who blesses you for having preserved her father!"
"She – your daughter – here? That reminds me of how our acquaintance began – M. Rodolph – and the blows – with the fist; but this blow with a knife will be the last – last blow. I slashed – and in my turn am slashed – stabbed. It is just." He heaved a deep sigh – his head fell back – he was dead.
The sound of horses without was heard; Rodolph's carriage had met that of Murphy and David, who, in their desire to rejoin the prince, had anticipated the hour fixed for their departure.
"David," said Rodolph, wiping his eyes, and pointing to the Chourineur, "is there no hope?"
"None, monseigneur," replied the doctor, after a moment's examination.
During this moment there passed a mute and terrible scene between Fleur-de-Marie and the ogress, whom Rodolph had not observed. When the Chourineur had uttered the name of La Goualeuse, the ogress had raised her head and looked at Fleur-de-Marie. The horrid hag had already recognised Rodolph; he was called monseigneur – he called La Goualeuse his daughter. Such a metamorphosis astounded the ogress, who obstinately fixed her stupid, wondering eyes on her former victim.
Fleur-de-Marie, pale and overcome, seemed fascinated by her gaze. The death of the Chourineur, the unexpected appearance of the ogress, which came to awaken more painfully than ever the remembrance of her former degradation, appeared to her a sinister presage. From this moment, Fleur-de-Marie was struck with one of those presentiments which, in dispositions like hers, have most frequently an irresistible influence.
A few days after these events and Rodolph and his daughter quitted Paris for ever.