THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
the poor child, “I do not deserve pity. I have dealt a blow at the one I love and who will never love me more. Ah! for mercy’s sake, if he one day become your husband, speak to him of my tears, ask him to forgive me. What drives me mad is that I cannot tell him I worship him: he would laugh, he would not understand all my cowardice. No, do not speak to him of me. Let him forget me: I shall be alone to weep.”
There was a painful silence.
“And your child?” asked Fine.
“My child,” said Blanche bewildered, “I don’t know. My uncle will take it away from me.”
“Shall I act as a mother to it?”
The flower-girl uttered these words in a tender and grave voice. Mademoiselle clasped her in her arms in a passionate embrace.
“Oh! you are good,” she said. “You know how to love. Try to see me at Marseille when the hour arrives, I will trust in you.”
At this moment, the elderly relative returned, after having sought in vain for Blanche in the crowd. Fine promptly withdrew and reascended the Cours. As she reached the Place des Carmelites, she perceived Marius from afar conversing with Philippe’s lawyer.
The young man was in despair. He would never have believed that they could pass such a severe sentence on his brother. The five years’ imprisonment terrified him; but he was perhaps still more painfully overcome at the thought of the public exhibition on a square at Marseille. He recognised the deputy’s hand in this punishment.
M. de Cazalis had above all wished to deprive Philippe of the power of pleasing, to render him for ever unworthy of woman’s love.
The crowd surrounding Marius were clamouring about injustice, the public with one voice protesting against the enormity of the punishment, and while the young man was engaged in a heated discussion with the lawyer, losing his temper and showing symptoms of despair, he felt a soft hand on his arm. He turned sharply round and perceived Fine at his side, calm and smiling.
“Hope, and follow me,” she said to him in an undertone. “Your brother is saved.”
CHAPTER XII
WHICH SHOWS THAT A GAOLER’S HEART IS NOT ALWAYS MADE OF STONE
WHILE Marius was running over the town before the trial to no purpose, Fine had been labouring on her side at the work of deliverance. She had engaged in a regular campaign against the conscience of her uncle, the gaoler Revertégat.
She had taken up her quarters with him, and passed her days at the prison. She did her best from morning to night to make herself useful, to be beloved by her uncle, who lived alone like a growling bear, with his two young daughters. She attacked him in his paternal love, she was full of charming ways with the children, and spent all her savings in toys, sweets, and small articles of dress.
The little ones were not in the habit of being spoiled. They showed riotous tenderness for their big cousin, who danced them on her knees and distributed such nice, beautiful things amongst them. The father felt affected and thanked Fine effusively.
He experienced the young girl’s penetrating influence in spite of himself, and was ill-tempered when he had to leave her. She seemed to have brought the sweet perfume of her roses and violets with her. The lodge smelt nice since she was there, merry and light of foot; her bright petticoats appeared to bring light, air, and gaiety. All was smiling, now, in the dark room, and Revertégat remarked, with a broad grin, that spring had taken up its abode with him.
The worthy man forgot himself in the caressing effluvia of this spring; his heart softened and he lost the harshness and severity of his calling.
Fine was too smart a girl not to play her part with fondling prudence. She did not hasten events, she brought the gaoler little by little to feelings of compassion and kindness. Then she pitied Philippe before him, and obliged him to acknowledge that they were detaining him unjustly in prison.
When she held her uncle in her power, off his guard and disposed to be obedient to her wishes, she asked him if she could not visit the poor young man’s cell. He dared not say no, but conducted her there, allowed her to enter, and remained watching at the door.
Fine stood before Philippe like a silly thing. She gazed at him, confused and blushing, forgetting what she wanted to say to him. The young man recognised her, and hastened towards her with a movement full of tenderness and delight.
“You here, my dear child?” he exclaimed. “Ah! how kind of you to have come to see me. Will you allow me to kiss your hand?”
Philippe assuredly imagined himself in his little apartment in the Rue Sainte, and he was not perhaps far from dreaming of a fresh adventure. The flower-girl, surprised, almost wounded, withdrew her hand and gravely contemplated Blanche’s lover.
“You must be mad, Monsieur Philippe,” she answered. “You know very well that you are married now, for me. Let us speak of serious things.”
She lowered her voice and continued rapidly:
“The gaoler is my uncle, and I have been working at your deliverance for the past week. I wanted to see you to tell you that your friends have not forgotten you. So hope.”
Philippe, on hearing this good news, regretted his amorous welcome.
“Give me your hand,” he said, in an unsteady voice, “It is a friend who asks you for it, to clasp it as an old comrade. Do you forgive me?”
The flower-girl smiled without answering.
“I think,” she resumed, “that I shall soon be able to throw the gate wide open to you. On what day would you like to run away?”
“Run away! But I shall be acquitted. What is the use of running away? If I were to escape I should be acknowledging my guilt.”
Fine had not thought of this reasoning. To her mind Philippe was condemned beforehand; but, as a matter of fact, he was right, he must await the judgment. As she preserved silence, pensive and irresolute, Revertégat gave two gentle knocks at the door to beg her to leave the cell.
“Well!” she resumed, addressing the prisoner, “be ready all the same. If you are condemned, we will prepare your flight, your brother and me. Have faith.”
She withdrew, leaving Philippe almost in love. She had now time before her to win over her uncle. She continued the same tactics, bewitching the worthy man with her goodness of heart and gracefulness, and exciting his pity on his prisoner’s lot. In the end she even drew her two little cousins into the conspiracy, and they at a word would have left their father to follow her.
One evening, after having softened Revertégat’s heart by all the cajoling she was capable of, she ended by boldly asking him for Philippe’s liberty.
“Of course,” exclaimed the gaoler, “if it only depended on me, I would open the door to him immediately.”
“But it does only depend on you, uncle,” Fine innocently answered.
“Ah! so you think. But the next morning they would turn me adrift and send me starving with my two daughters.”
These words made the flower-girl look quite serious.
“But,” she resumed, after a moment, “if I gave you money! Supposing I loved this youth? supposing I were to implore you with joined hands, to give him back to me?”
“You, you!” exclaimed the astonished gaoler. He had risen, he gazed at his niece to see if she were not laughing at him. When he observed her grave and troubled manner he bent forward, vanquished, softened, consenting by a sign.
“Faith,” he added, “I’ll do what you like. You are too good and pretty a girl for me to refuse.”
Fine kissed him and spoke of something else. Henceforward she was sure of victory. On several occasions she returned to the conversation, accustoming Revertégat to