A strange phenomenon had just been occurring in the mind, the soul of this creature. A natural picture of an humble working life, a simple recital, now lighted up by the soft glimmerings of a domestic fireside, gilded by some joyous rays of the sun, refreshed by the gentle winds of the forest, or perfumed by the odor of wild flowers, had made on La Louve an impression more profound, more striking, than all the exhortations of transcendent morality could have effected.
Yes, as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had yearned to be an indefatigable housekeeper, an honest wife, a pious and devoted mother.
To inspire, even for a moment, a violent, immoral, degraded woman, with a love of family, the respect of duty, the desire to labor, grat.i.tude toward the Creator, and that by promising her merely what G.o.d gives to all, the sun of Heaven and the shade of the forest, what man owes to the sweat of his brow, bread and shelter--was it not a triumph for Fleur-de-Marie? Would the moralist the most severe, the preacher the most fulminating, have obtained more by their menacing threats of every vengeance, human and Divine?
The angry feelings shown by La Louve when she awoke from her dream to the reality, showed the effects or influence of the words of her companion. The more her regrets were bitter on awakening to the sense of her horrible position, the more the triumph of the Goualeuse was manifest.
After a moment of silent reflection, La Louve suddenly raised her head, pa.s.sed her hand over her face, and arose from her seat, threatening and angry.
"You see that I had reason to avoid you, and not listen to you, because it only does me harm! Why have you talked in this way to me?-- to laugh at me? to torment me? And because I was fool enough to tell you that I would like to live in a forest with Martial! But who are you, then? Why do you turn my head in this way? You do not know what you have done, unlucky girl! Now in spite of myself, I shall always be thinking of that wood, that house, those children, all that happiness, which I never shall have--never, never! And if I cannot forget what you have told me, my life will be a torment, a h.e.l.l; and all by your fault--yes, by your fault!"
"So much the better!--oh! so much the better!" said Fleur-de-Marie.
"You dare to say so?" cried La Louve, with threatening eyes.
"Yes, so much the better; for if your miserable mode of living from henceforth proves a h.e.l.l, you will prefer that of which I have spoken."
"And what good for me to prefer it, since I cannot enjoy it? why regret being a girl of the streets, since I must die one?" cried La Louve, more and more irritated, seizing hold of the small hand of Fleur-de-Marie. "Answer--answer! Why have you made me wish for a life I cannot have?"
"To wish for an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of such a life, I have told you," answered Fleur-de-Marie, without seeking to disengage her hand.
"Well, what then, when I shall be worthy? what does it prove? how advance me?"
"To see realized that which you regard as a dream," said Fleur-de-Marie, in a voice so serious and convincing that La Louve, again overpowered, abandoned the hand of La Goualeuse, and remained struck with astonishment. "Listen to me, La Louve," added Marie, in a voice full of compa.s.sion; "do not think me so cruel as to awaken in you these thoughts, these hopes, if I were not sure, in making you ashamed of your present condition, to give you the means to escape from it."
"You cannot do that!"
"I--no; but some one who is good, great, almost all-powerful."
"All-powerful?"
"Listen again, La Louve. Three months since, like you, I was a poor, lost, abandoned creature. One day, he, of whom I speak with tears of grat.i.tude,"--Fleur-de-Marie wiped her tears--"came to me; he was not afraid, debased and despised although I was, to speak to me words of consolation--the first I ever heard! I told him my sufferings, misery, and shame, without concealing anything, just as you have now related to me your life, La Louve. After having listened to me with kindness, he did not blame--but pitied me, he did not deride me for my degradation, but extolled the happy and peaceful life of the country."
"Like you just now."
"Then my situation appeared the more frightful, as the possible future which he pointed out seemed to me more enchanting."
"Like me also."
"Yes; and like you I said, "What good, alas! to show this Paradise to me, who am condemned to a h.e.l.l upon earth?" But I was wrong to despair; for he of whom I speak is sovereignly just, sovereignly good, and incapable of causing a false hope to shine in the eyes of a poor creature who asked neither pity, nor hope, nor happiness from any one."
"And what did he do for you?"
"He treated me like a sick child; I was, like you, plunged in air corrupt, he sent me to respire a salubrious and vivifying atmosphere; I lived also among hideous and criminal beings; he confided me to beings made after his own image, who have purified my soul, elevated my mind; for, to all those he loves and respects, he gives a spark of his celestial intelligence. Yes, if my words move you, La Louve, if my tears cause your tears to flow, it is his mind, his thoughts inspire me! if I speak to you of a future more happy, which you will obtain by repentance, it is because I can promise you this future in his name, although he is now ignorant of the engagement I make. In short, if I say to you, "Hope!" it is because he always hears the voice of those who desire to become better; for G.o.d has sent him on this earth to further the belief in Providence."
Thus speaking, the countenance of Fleur-de-Marie became glowing and inspired; her pale cheeks were colored for a moment with a slight carnation; her beautiful blue eyes softly sparkled; she beamed forth a beauty so n.o.ble, so touching, that La Louve, profoundly affected at this conversation, looked at her companion with admiration, and cried, "Where am I? Do I dream? I have never heard nor seen anything like this; it is not possible! but who are you, once more? oh! I said truly that you were not one of us! But how is it that you who speak so well, who can do so much, who know such powerful people, are here, a prisoner with us? is it to tempt us? You are, then, for good--what the devil is for evil!"
Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame Armand came and interrupted her to conduct her to Madame d"Harvile. She said to La Louve, who remained dumb from surprise, "I see with pleasure that the presence of La Goualeuse in this prison has been beneficial to you and your companions. I know that you have made a collection for poor Mont Saint Jean; that is good and charitable, La Louve. It shall be reckoned to you. I was sure that you were better than you appeared to be. In recompense for your good action, I think I can promise you that your imprisonment shall be abridged by many days." And Madame Armand departed, followed by Fleur-de-Marie.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE PROTECTRESS.
The inspectress entered, with Goualeuse, the room where Clemence was; the pale cheeks of the girl were slightly flushed from her earnest conversation with La Louve.
"My lady the marchioness, pleased with the excellent accounts I have given of you," said Madame Armand to Fleur-de-Marie, "desires to see you, and perhaps will deign to obtain permission for you to leave here before the expiration of your time."
"I thank you, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, to Madame Armand, who left her alone with the n.o.ble lady.
Clemence, struck with the beautiful features of her _protegee_, and her graceful and modest bearing, could not help remembering that the Goualeuse had, in her sleep, p.r.o.nounced the name of Rudolph, and that the inspectress believed her to be preyed upon by a deep and concealed love. Although perfectly convinced that the Grand Duke Rudolph could not be in question, Clemence allowed that, at least in point of beauty, La Goualeuse was worthy of the love of a prince. At the sight of her protectress, whose expression, as we have said, was that of ineffable goodness, Fleur-de-Marie felt herself irresistibly drawn toward her.
"My child," said Clemence, "in praising much the sweetness of your disposition and the exemplary propriety of your conduct, Madame Armand complains of your want of confidence in her."
Fleur-de-Marie held down her head without replying.
"The peasant dress in which you were clothed when you were arrested, your silence on the subject of where you resided before you came here, prove that you conceal something."
"Madame--"
"I have no right to your confidence, my poor child; I wish to ask you no improper questions; only I am a.s.sured, that if I ask your release from prison it will be granted. Before I ask, I wish to talk with you of your projects and resources for the future. Once free, what will you do? If, as I doubt not, you are decided to follow in the good path you have entered, have confidence in me--I will put you in a way to gain your living honorably."
La Goualeuse was affected to tears at the interest Madame d"Harville evinced for her. She said, after a moment"s thought, "You deign, madame, to show yourself so benevolent and generous, that I ought, perhaps, to break the silence which I have hitherto preserved as to the past. An oath compelled me."
"An oath?"
"Yes, madame; I have sworn to conceal from justice, and from the persons employed in this prison, in what manner I have been brought here; yet, if you will, madame, make me a promise--"
"What promise?"
"To keep my secret. I can, thanks to you, madame, without breaking my oath, relieve some respectable people, who, doubtless, are very uneasy about me."
"Count on my discretion; I will only tell what you authorize me to say."
"Oh, thank you, madame! I feared so much that my silence toward my benefactors would look like ingrat.i.tude."
The sweet tears of Fleur-de-Marie, her language, so well chosen, struck Madame d"Harville with renewed astonishment.
"I cannot conceal from you," said she, "that your bearing, your words, all astonish me much. How, with an education such as you appear to have had, how could you---"
"Fall so low, madame?" said the Goualeuse, bitterly.
"Yes, alas!"
"It is but a short time since I received it. I owe it to a generous protector, who, like you, madame, without knowing me, without ever having the favorable accounts which they have given you here of me, took compa.s.sion on me."
"And who is this protector?"