The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 2 of 6. Эжен Сю
will take an opportunity of learning her sentiments on the subject as we walk back to the rectory. I shall then apprise her that the holy ceremony will take place probably in about a fortnight from hence."
"How gratefully she will receive such an information; her religious feelings are the strongest I have ever met with."
"Alas, poor thing! she has deep and heavy expiation to make for the errors of her past life."
"Nay, M. l'Abbé, consider. Abandoned so young, without resource, without friends, almost without a knowledge of good or evil, plunged involuntarily into the very vortex of crime, what was there to prevent her from falling the bitter sacrifice she has been?"
"The clear, moral sense of right and wrong implanted by the Creator in every breast should have withheld her; and, besides, we have no evidence of her having even sought to escape from the horrible fate into which she had fallen. Is there no friendly hand to be found in Paris to listen to the cries of suffering virtue? Is charity so rare, so hard to obtain in that large city?"
"Let us hope not, M. l'Abbé; but how to discover it is the difficulty. Ere arriving at the knowledge of one kind, commiserating Christian, think of the refusals, the rebukes, the denials to be endured. And, then, in such a case as our poor Marie's, it was no passing temporary aid that could avail her, but the steady, continued patronage and support, the being placed in the way to earn an honest livelihood. Many tender and pitying mothers would have succoured her had they known her sad case, I doubt not, but it was first requisite to secure the happiness of knowing where to meet with them. Trust me, I, too, have known want and misery. But for one of those providential chances which, alas! too late, threw poor Marie in the way of M. Rodolph, – but for one of those casualties, the wretched and destitute, most commonly repulsed with rude denial on their first applications, believe pity irretrievably lost, and, pressed by hunger, fierce, clamorous hunger, often seek in vice that relief they despair to obtain from commiseration."
At this moment the Goualeuse entered the parlour.
"Where have you been, my dear child?" inquired Madame Georges, anxiously.
"Visiting the fruit-house, madame, after having shut up the hen-houses and gates of the poultry-yard. All the fruit has kept excellently, – all but those I ran away with and ate."
"Now, Marie, why take all this fatigue upon yourself? You should have left all this tiring work to Claudine; I fear you have quite tired yourself."
"No, no! dear Madame Georges; I wouldn't let Claudine help me for the world. I take so much delight in my fruit-house, – the smell of the beautiful ripe fruit is so delicious."
"M. le Curé," said Madame Georges, "you must go some day and see Marie's fruit-house. You can scarcely imagine the taste with which she has arranged it; each different variety of fruit is separated by rows of grapes, and the grapes are again divided off by strips of moss."
"Oh, yes, M. le Curé; pray do come and see it," said the Goualeuse, innocently; "I am sure you would be pleased with it. You would be surprised what a pretty contrast the moss makes to the bright rosy apples or the rich golden pears. There are some such lovely waxen apples, quite a pure red and white; and really, as they lie surrounded by the soft green moss, I cannot help thinking of the heads of little cherubim just peeping out from the glorious clouds of heaven," added the delighted Goualeuse, speaking with all the enthusiasm of an artist of the work of her creation.
The curé looked at Madame Georges, then smilingly replied to Fleur-de-Marie:
"I have already admired the dairy over which you preside, my child, and can venture to declare it perfect in its way; the most particular dairy-woman might envy you the perfection to which you have brought it. Ere long, I promise myself the pleasure of visiting your fruit-house, and passing a similar compliment on your skill in arrangement. You shall then introduce me to those charming rosy apples and delicious golden pears, as well as to the little cherubim pippins so prettily peeping from their mossy beds. But see! the sun has already set; you will scarcely have sufficient time to conduct me back to the rectory-house and return before dark. Come, my child, fetch your cloak, and let us be gone; or, now I think of it, do you remain at home this cold bitter night, and let one of the farm servants go home with me."
"Oh, M. le Curé," replied the kind Madame Georges, "Marie will be quite wretched if she is not allowed to accompany you; she so much enjoys the happiness of escorting you home every evening."
"Indeed, Monsieur le Curé," added the Goualeuse, timidly raising her large blue eyes to the priest's countenance, "I shall fear you are displeased with me if you do not permit me to accompany you as usual."
"Well, then, my dear child, wrap yourself up very warm, and let us go."
Fleur-de-Marie hastily threw over her shoulders a sort of cloak of coarse white cloth, edged with black velvet, and with a large hood, to be drawn at pleasure over the head. Thus equipped, she eagerly offered her arm to her venerable friend.
"Happily," said he, in taking it, "the distance is but trifling, and the road both good and safe to pass at all hours."
"As it is somewhat later to-night than usual," said Madame Georges, "will you have one of the farm-people to return with you, Marie?"
"Do you take me for a coward?" said Marie, playfully. "I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, madame. No, pray do not let any one be called away on my account. It is not a quarter of an hour's walk from here to the rectory. I shall be back long before dark."
"Well, as you like. I merely thought it would be company for you; for as to fearing, thank heaven, there is no cause. Loose vagabond people, likely to interrupt your progress, are wholly unknown here."
"And, were I not equally sure of the absence of all danger, I would not accept this dear child's arm," added the curé, "useful as, I confess, I find it."
And, leaning on Fleur-de-Marie, who regulated her light step to suit the slow and laboured pace of the old man, the two friends quitted the farm.
A few minutes' walk brought the Goualeuse and the priest close to the hollow road in which the Schoolmaster, the Chouette, and Tortillard, were lying in ambush.
CHAPTER IV
THE AMBUSCADE
The church and parsonage of Bouqueval were placed on the side of a hill covered with chestnut-trees, and commanded an entire view of the village. Fleur-de-Marie and the abbé reached a winding path which led to the clergyman's home, crossing the sunken road by which the hill was intersected diagonally. The Chouette, the Schoolmaster, and Tortillard, concealed in one of the hollows of the road, saw the priest and Fleur-de-Marie descend into the ravine, and leave it again by a steep declivity. The features of the young girl being hidden under the hood of her cloak, the Chouette did not recognise her old victim.
"Silence, my old boy," said the old harridan to the Schoolmaster; "the young 'mot' and the 'black slug' are just crossing the path. I know her by the description which the tall man in black gave us; a country appearance, neither tall nor short; a petticoat shot with brown, and a woollen mantle with a black border. She walks every day with a 'devil-dodger' to his 'crib,' and returns alone. When she come back, which she will do presently by the end of the road, we must spring upon her and carry her off to the coach."
"If she cries for help," replied the Schoolmaster, "they will hear her at the farm, if, as you say, the out-buildings are visible from here; for you – you can see," he added, in a sullen tone.
"Oh, yes, we can see the buildings from here quite plainly," said Tortillard. "It is only a minute ago that I climbed to the top of the bank, and, lying down on my belly, I could hear a carter who was talking to his horses in the yard there."
"I'll tell you, then, what we must do," said the Schoolmaster, after a moment's silence. "Let Tortillard have the watch at the entrance to the path. When he sees the young girl returning, let him go and meet her, saying that he is the son of a poor old woman who has hurt herself by falling down the hollow road, and beg the girl to come to her assistance."
"I'm up to you, fourline; the poor old woman is your darling Chouette. You're 'wide-awake!' My man, you are always the king of the 'downy