Mysteries of Paris - Volume 4 — Ch. 8 The Victims of Misplaced Confidence - Part 1

THE VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE.

[6] Let the reader picture to himself a small chamber on the fourth floor of the wretched house in the Passage de la Brasserie.

Scarcely could the faint glimmers of early morn force their pale rays through the narrow casements forming the only window to this small apartment; the three panes of glass that apology for a window contained were cracked and almost the colour of horn, a dingy and torn yellow paper adhered in some places to the walls, while from each corner of the cracked ceiling hung long and thick cobwebs; and to complete the appearance of wretchedness so evident in this forlorn spot, the flooring was broken away, and, in many places, displayed the beams which supported it, as well as the lath and plaster forming the ceiling of the room beneath.

A deal table, a chair, an old trunk, without hinges or lock, a truckle-bed, with a wooden headboard, covered by a thin mattress, coarse sheets of unbleached cloth, and an old rug,--such was the entire furniture of this wretched chamber.

[6] "The average punishment awarded to such as are convicted of breach of trust is two months' imprisonment and a fine of twenty-five francs."

--_Art.

406 and 408 of the "Code Penal."

_ On the chair sat the Baroness de Fermont, and in the bed reposed her daughter, Claire de Fermont.

Such were the names of these two victims of the villainy of Jacques Ferrand.

Possessing but one bed, the mother and child took it by turns to sleep.

Too much uneasiness and too many bitter cares prevented Madame de Fermont from enjoying the blessing of repose;

but her daughter's young and elastic nature easily yielded to the natural impulse which made her willingly seek in short slumbers a temporary respite from the misery by which she was surrounded during her waking hours.

At the present moment she was sleeping peacefully.

Nothing could be imagined more touchingly affecting than the picture of misery imposed by the avarice of the notary on two females hitherto accustomed to every comfort, and surrounded in their native city by that respect which is ever felt for honourable and honoured families.

Madame de Fermont was about six and thirty years of age, with a countenance at once expressive of gentleness and intelligence, mingled with an indescribably noble and majestic air.

Her features, which had once boasted extreme beauty, were now pale and careworn; her dark hair was separated on her forehead, and formed two thick, lustrous bandeaux, which, after shading her pallid countenance, were twisted in with her back hair, whose tresses the hand of sorrow had already mingled with gray.

Dressed in an old shabby black dress, patched and pieced in various places, Madame de Fermont, her head supported by her hand, was surveying her child with looks of ineffable tenderness.

Claire was but sixteen years of age, and her gentle and innocent countenance, thin and sorrowful as that of her mother, looked still more pallid as contrasted with the coarse, unbleached linen which covered her bolster, filled only with sawdust.

The once brilliant complexion of the poor girl had sickened beneath the privations she endured; and, as she slept, the long, dark lashes which fringed her large and lustrous eyes stood out almost unnaturally upon her sunken cheek; the once fresh and rosy lips were now dry, cracked, and colourless, yet, half opened as they were, they displayed the faultless regularity of her pearly teeth.

The harsh contact of the rough linen which covered her bed had caused a temporary redness about the neck, shoulders, and arms of the poor girl, whose fine and delicate skin was marbled and spotted by the friction both of the miserable sheets and rug.

A sensation of uneasiness and discomfort seemed to pervade even her slumbers; for the clearly defined eyebrows, occasionally contracted, as though the sleeper were under the influence of an uneasy dream, and the pained expression observable on the features, foretold the deadly nature of the disease at work within.

Madame de Fermont had long ceased to find relief in tears, but, like her suffering daughter, she found that weakness, languor, and dejection, which is ever the precursor of severe illness, rapidly and daily increasing; but, unwilling to alarm Claire, and wishing, if possible, even to conceal the frightful truth from herself, the wretched mother struggled against the first approaches of her malady, while, from a similar feeling of devotion and affection, Claire sought to hide from her parent the extreme suffering she herself experienced.

To attempt to describe the tortures endured by the tender mother, as, during the greater part of the night, she watched her slumbering child, her thoughts alternately dwelling on the past, the present, and the future, would be to paint the sharpest, bitterest, wildest agony that ever crossed the brain of a loving and despairing mother; to give alternately her reminiscences of bygone happiness, her shuddering dread of impending evil, her fearful anticipations, her bitter regrets, and utter despondency, mingled with bursts of frenzied rage against the author of all her sorrows, vain supplications, eager, earnest prayers, ending at last fearfully and dreadfully in openly expressed mistrust of the omnipotence and justice of the Great Being who could thus remain insensible to the cry which arose from a mother's breaking heart, to that holy plea whose sound should reach the throne of grace,--"Pity, pity, for my child!"

"How cold she is!"

cried the poor mother, lightly touching with her icy hand the equally chill arm of her child; "how very, very cold!

and scarcely an hour ago just as hot!

Alas, 'tis the cruel fever which has seized upon her!

Happily the dear creature is as yet unconscious of her malady!

Gracious heaven, she is becoming cold as death itself!

What shall I do to bring warmth to her poor frame?

The bed-coverings are so slight!

A good thought!

I will throw my old shawl over her.

But no, no!

I dare not remove it from the door over which I have hung it, lest those men so brutally intoxicated should endeavour, as they did yesterday, to look into the room through the disjointed panels or openings in the framework.

"What a horrible place we have got into!

Oh, if I had but known by what description of persons it was inhabited before I paid the fortnight in advance!

Certainly, we would not have remained here.

But, alas, I knew it not; and when we have no vouchers for our respectability, it is so difficult to obtain furnished lodgings.

Who could ever have thought I should have been at a loss,--I who quitted Angers in my own carriage, deeming it unfit my daughter should travel by any public conveyance?

How could I have imagined that I should experience any difficulty in obtaining every requisite testimonial of my honour and honesty?"

Then bursting into a fit of anger, she exclaimed, "'Tis too, too hard, that because this unprincipled, hard-hearted notary chooses to strip us of all our possessions, I have no means of punishing him!

Yes; had I money I might sue him legally for his misconduct.

But would not that be to bring obloquy and contempt on the memory of my good, my noble-minded brother; to have it publicly proclaimed that he consummated his ruin by taking away his own life, after having squandered my fortune and that of my child; to hear him accused of reducing us to want and wretchedness?

Oh, never,--never!

Still, however dear and sacred is the memory of a brother, should not the welfare of my child be equally so?

"And wherefore, too, should I give rise to useless tales of family misery, unprovided as I am with any proofs against the notary?

Oh, it is, indeed, a cruel,--a most cruel case.

Sometimes, too, when irritated, goaded by my reflections almost to madness, I find myself indulging in bitter plaints against my brother, and think his conduct more culpable than even the notary's, as though it were any alleviation of my woes to have two names to execrate instead of one.

But quickly do I blush at my own base and unworthy suspicions of one so good, so honourable, so noble-minded as my poor brother!

This infamous notary knows not all the fearful consequences of his dishonesty.

He fancies he has but taken from us our worldly goods, while he has plunged a dagger in the hearts of two innocent, unoffending victims, condemned by his villainy to die by inches.

Alas, I dare not breathe into the ear of my poor child the full extent of my fears, lest her young mind should be unable to support the blow!

"But I am ill,--very, very ill; a burning fever is in my veins; and 'tis only with the greatest energy and resolution I contrive to resist its approaches.

But too certainly do I feel aware that the germs of a possibly mortal disease are in me.

I am aware of its gaining ground hourly.

My throat is parched, my head burns and throbs with racking pains.

These symptoms are even more dangerous than I am willing to own even to myself.

Merciful God!

If I were to be ill,--seriously, fatally ill,--if I should die!

But no, no!"

almost shrieked Madame Fermont, with wild excitement; "I cannot,--I will not die!

To leave Claire at sixteen years of age, alone, and without resource, in the midst of Paris!

Impossible!

Oh, no, I am not ill; I have mistaken the effects of sorrow, cold, and want of rest, for the precursory symptoms of illness.

Any person similarly placed would have experienced the same.

It is nothing, nothing worth noticing.

There must be no weakness on my part.

'Tis by yielding to such dismal anticipations that one becomes really attacked by the very malady we dread.

And besides, I have not time to be ill.

Oh, no!

On the contrary, I must immediately exert myself to find employment for Claire and myself, since the wretch who gave us the prints to colour has dared to--" After a short silence, Madame de Fermont, leaving her last sentence unfinished, indignantly added: "Horrible idea!

To ask the shame of my child in return for the work he doles out to us, and to harshly withdraw it because I will not suffer my poor Claire to go to his house unaccompanied, and work there during the evening alone with him!

Possibly I may succeed in obtaining work elsewhere, either in plain or ornamental needlework.

Yet it is so very difficult when we are known to no one; and very recently I tried in vain.

Persons are afraid of entrusting their materials to those who live in such wretched lodgings as ours.

And yet I dare not venture upon others more creditable; for what would become of us were the small sum we possess once exhausted?

What could we do?

We should be utterly penniless; as destitute as the veriest beggar that ever walked the earth.

"And then to think I once was among the richest and wealthiest!

Oh, let me not think of what has been; such considerations serve but to increase the already excited state of my brain.

It will madden me to recollect the past; and I am wrong--oh, very wrong--thus to dwell on ideas that sadden and depress instead of raising and invigorating my enfeebled mind.

Had I gone on thus weakly indulging regrets, I might, indeed, have fallen ill,--for I am by no means so at present.

No, no," continued the unfortunate parent, placing her fingers upon the wrist of her left hand, "my fever has left me,--my pulse beats tranquilly."

Alas!

the quick, irregular, and hurried pulsation perceptible beneath the parched yet icy skin allowed not of such flattering hopes; and, after pausing in deep and heartfelt wretchedness for a short space, the unhappy Madame de Fermont thus continued: "Wherefore, O God of Mercies, thus visit with thine anger two wretched and helpless creatures, utterly unconscious of having merited thy displeasure?

What has been the crime that has thus drawn down such heavy punishments upon our heads?

Was not my child a model of innocent piety, as her father was of honour?

Have I not ever scrupulously fulfilled my duties both as wife and mother?

Why, then, permit us to become the victims of a vile, ignoble wretch,--my sweet, my innocent child more especially?

Oh, when I remember that, but for the nefarious conduct of this notary, the rising dawn of my daughter's existence would have been clear and unclouded, I can scarcely restrain my tears.

But for his base treachery we should now be in our own home, without further care or sorrow than such as arose from the painful and unhappy circumstances attending the death of my poor brother.

In two or three years' time I should have begun to think of marrying my sweet Claire, that is, if I could have found any one worthy of so good, so pure-minded, and so lovely a creature as herself.

Who would not have rejoiced in obtaining such a bride?

And further, after having merely reserved to myself a trifling annuity, sufficient to have enabled me to live somewhere in the neighbourhood, I intended, on her marriage, to bestow on her the whole of my remaining possessions, amounting to at least one hundred thousand crowns; for I should have been enabled to lay by something.

And, when a lovely and beautiful young creature, like my Claire, gifted with all the advantages of a superior education, can, in addition, boast of a dowry of more than one hundred thousand crowns--" Then, as she again returned to the realities of her present position, altogether overcome by the painful contrast, Madame de Fermont exclaimed, almost frantically: "Still, it is not to be supposed that, because the notary so wills it, I shall sit tamely by and see my only and beloved child reduced to the most abject misery, entitled as she is to a life of the most unalloyed felicity.

If I can obtain no redress from the laws of my country, I will not permit the infamous conduct of this man to escape unpunished.

For if I am driven to desperation, if I find no means of extricating my daughter and myself from the deplorable condition to which the villainy of this man has brought us, I cannot answer for myself, or what I may do.

I may be driven by madness to retaliate on this man, even by taking his life.

And what if I did, after all I have endured, after all the scalding tears he has caused me to shed, who could blame me?

At least I should be secure of the pity and sympathy of all mothers who loved their children as I do my Claire.

Yes; but, then, what would be her position,--left alone, friendless, unexperienced, and destitute?

Oh, no, no, that is my principal dread; therefore do I fear to die.

"And for that same reason dare I not harm the traitor who has wrought our ruin.

What would become of her at sixteen?

--pure and spotless as an angel, 'tis true.

But then she is so surpassingly lovely; and want, desolation, cold, and misery are fearful things to oppose alone and unaided.

How fearful a conflict might be presented to one of her tender years, and into how terrible an abyss might she not fall?

Oh, want,--fatal word!

As I trace it, a crowd of sickening images rise before me, and distract my senses.

Destitution, dreadful as it is to all, is still more formidable to those who have lived surrounded not only with every comfort, but even luxury.

One thing I cannot pardon myself for, and that is that, in the face of all these overwhelming trials, I have not yet been able to subdue my unfortunate pride; and I feel persuaded that nothing but the sight of my child, actually perishing before my eyes for want of bread, could induce me to beg.

How weak, how selfish and cowardly!

Still--" Then, as her thoughts wandered to the source of all her present sufferings and anguish, she mournfully continued: "The notary has reduced me to a state of beggary; I must, therefore, yield to the stern necessity of my situation.

There must be an end of all delicacy as well as scruples.

They might have been well enough in bygone days; but my duty is now to stretch forth my hand to solicit charitable aid for both my daughter and myself.

And if I fail in procuring work, I must make up my mind to implore the charity of my fellow creatures, since the roguery of the notary has left me no alternative.

Doubtless in that, as in other trades, there is an art, an expertness to be acquired, and which experience alone can bestow.

Never mind," continued she, with a sort of feverish wildness, "one must learn one's craft, and only practice can make perfect.

Surely mine must be a tale to move even the most unfeeling.

I have to tell of misfortunes alike severe and unmerited,--of an angelic child, but sixteen years of age, exposed to every evil of life.

But then it requires a practised hand to set forth all these qualifications, so as best to excite sympathy and compassion.

No matter; I shall manage it, I feel quite sure.

And, after all," exclaimed the half distracted woman, with a gloomy smile, "what have I so much to complain of?

Fortune is perishable and precarious; and the notary will, at least, if he has taken my money, have compelled me to adopt a trade."

For several minutes Madame de Fermont remained absorbed in her reflections, then resumed more calmly: "I have frequently thought of inquiring for some situation.

What I seem to covet is just such a place as a female has here who is servant to a lady living on the first floor.

Had I that situation I might probably receive wages sufficient to maintain Claire; and I might even, through the intervention of the mistress I served, be enabled to obtain occupation for my daughter, who then would remain here.

Neither should I be obliged to quit her.

Oh, what joy, could it be so arranged!

But no, no, that would be happiness too great for me to expect; it would seem like a dream.

And then, again, if I obtained the place, the poor woman now occupying it must be turned away.

Possibly she is as poor and destitute as ourselves.

Well, what if she be?

No scruple has arisen to save us from being stripped of our all, and my child's preservation outweighs all fastidious notions of delicacy in my breast.

The only difficulty consists in obtaining an introduction to the lady on the first floor, and contriving to dispossess the servant of a place which would be to me the very perfection of ease and comfort."

Several loud and hasty knocks at the door startled Madame de Fermont, and made her daughter spring up with a sudden cry.

"For heaven's sake, dear mother," asked poor Claire, trembling with fear, "what is the matter?"

And then, without giving her agitated parent time to recover herself, the terrified girl threw her arms around her mother's neck, as if she sought for safety in that fond, maternal bosom, while Madame de Fermont, pressing her child almost convulsively to her breast, gazed with terror at the door.

"Mamma, mamma," again moaned Claire, "what was that noise that awoke me?

And why do you seem so much alarmed?"

"I know not, my child, what it was.

But calm yourself, there is nothing to fear; some one merely knocked at the door,--possibly to bring us a letter from the post-office."

At this moment the worm-eaten door shook and rattled beneath the blows dealt against it by some powerful fist.

"Who is there?"

inquired Madame de Fermont, in a trembling tone.

A harsh, coarse, and vulgar voice replied, "Holloa, there!

What, are you so deaf there's no making you hear?

Holloa, I say, open your door; and let's have a look at you.

Hip, hip, holloa!

Come, sharp's the word; I'm in a hurry."

"I know you not," exclaimed Madame de Fermont, striving to command herself sufficiently to speak with a steady voice; "what is it you seek here?"

"Not know me?

Why, I'm your opposite neighbour and fellow lodger, Robin.

I want a light for my pipe.

Come, cut about.

Whoop, holloa!

Don't go to sleep again, or I must come in and wake you."

"Merciful heavens!"

whispered the mother to her daughter, "'tis that lame man, who is nearly always intoxicated."

"Now, then, are you going to give me a light?

Because, I tell you fairly, one I will have if I knock your rickety old door to pieces."

"I have no light to give you."

"Oh, bother and nonsense!

If you have no candle burning you must have the means of lighting one.

Nobody is without a few lucifer matches, be they ever so poor.

Do you or do you not choose to give me a light?"

"I beg of you to go away."

"You don't choose to open your door, then?

Once,--twice,--mind, I will have it."

"I request you to quit my door immediately, or I will call for assistance."

"Once,--twice,--thrice,--you will not?

Well, then, here goes!

Now I'll smash your old timbers, into morsels too small for you to pick up.

Hu!

--hu!

--hallo!

Well done!

Bravo!"

And suiting the action to the word, the ruffian assailed the door so furiously that he quickly drove it in, the miserable lock with which it was furnished having speedily broken to pieces.

The two women shrieked loudly; Madame de Fermont, in spite of her weakness, rushed forward to meet the ruffian at the moment when he was entering the room, and stopped him.

"Sir, this is most shameful; you must not enter here," exclaimed the unhappy mother, keeping the door closed as well as she could.

"I will call for help."

And she shuddered at the sight of this man, with his hideous and drunken countenance.

"What's all this?

What's all this?"

said he.

"Oughtn't neighbours to be obliging?

You ought to have opened; I shouldn't have broken anything."

Then with the stupid obstinacy of intoxication, he added, reeling on his tottering legs: "I wanted to come in, and I will come in; and I won't go out until I've lighted my pipe."

"I have neither fire nor matches.

In heaven's name, sir, do go away."

"That's not true.

You tell me that I may not see the little girl who's in bed.

Yesterday you stopped up all the holes in the door.

She's a pretty chick, and I should like to see her.

So mind, or I shall hurt you if you don't let me enter quietly.

I tell you I will see the little girl in her bed, and I will light my pipe, or I'll smash everything before me, and you into the bargain."

"Help, help, help!"

exclaimed Madame de Fermont, who felt the door yielding before the broad shoulders of the Gros-Boiteux.

Alarmed by her cries, the man retreated a step; and clenching his fist at Madame de Fermont, he said: "You shall pay me for this, mind.

I will come back to-night and wring your tongue out, and then you can't squall out."