Avarice--Anger: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins. Эжен Сю
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poor creature still seemed to be listening, long after the old man had concluded his reading.
He was the first to break the long silence that ensued.
"I felt certain that this letter would pain you terribly, my dear child," he said, compassionately.
But Mariette made no reply.
"Do not tremble so, my child," continued the scrivener. "Sit down; and here, take a sip of water."
But Mariette did not even hear him. With her tear-dimmed eyes still fixed upon vacancy, she murmured, with a heart-broken expression on her face:
"So it is all over! There is nothing left for me in the world. It was too blissful a dream. I am like my godmother, happiness is not for such as me."
"My child," pleaded the old man, touched, in spite of himself, by her despair, "my child, don't give way so, I beg of you."
The words seemed to recall the girl to herself. She wiped her eyes, then, gathering up the pieces of the torn letter, she said, in a voice she did her best to steady:
"Thank you, monsieur."
"What are you doing?" asked Father Richard, anxiously. "What is the use of preserving these fragments of a letter which will awaken such sad memories?"
"The grave of a person one has loved also awakens sad memories," replied Mariette, with a bitter smile, "and yet one does not desert that grave."
After she had collected all the scraps of paper in the envelope, Mariette replaced it in her bosom, and, crossing her little shawl upon her breast, turned to go, saying, sadly: "I thank you for your kindness, monsieur;" then, as if bethinking herself, she added, timidly:
"Though this letter requires no reply, monsieur, after all the trouble I have given you, I feel that I ought to offer—"
"My charge is ten sous, exactly the same as for a letter," replied the old man, promptly, accepting and pocketing the remuneration with unmistakable eagerness, in spite of the conflicting emotions which had agitated him ever since the young girl's return. "And now au revoir, my child," he said, in a tone of evident relief; "our next meeting, I hope, will be under happier circumstances."
"Heaven grant it, monsieur," replied Mariette, as she walked slowly away, while Father Richard, evidently anxious to return home, closed the shutters of his stall, thus concluding his day's work much earlier than usual.
Mariette, a prey to the most despairing thoughts, walked on and on mechanically, wholly unconscious of the route she was following, until she reached the Pont au Change. At the sight of the river she started suddenly like one awaking from a dream, and murmured, "It was my evil genius that brought me here."
In another moment she was leaning over the parapet gazing down eagerly into the swift flowing waters below. Gradually, as her eyes followed the course of the current, a sort of vertigo seized her. Unconsciously, too, she was slowly yielding to the fascination such a scene often exerts, and, with her head supported on her hands, she leaned farther and farther over the stream.
"I could find forgetfulness there," the poor child said to herself. "The river is a sure refuge from misery, from hunger, from sickness, or from a miserable old age, an old age like that of my poor godmother. My godmother? Why, without me, what would become of her?"
Just then Mariette felt some one seize her by the arm, at the same time exclaiming, in a frightened tone:
"Take care, my child, take care, or you will fall in the river."
The girl turned her haggard eyes upon the speaker, and saw a stout woman with a kind and honest face, who continued, almost affectionately:
"You are very imprudent to lean so far over the parapet, my child. I expected to see you fall over every minute."
"I was not noticing, madame—"
"But you ought to notice, child. Good Heavens! how pale you are! Do you feel sick?"
"No, only a little weak, madame. It is nothing. I shall soon be all right again."
"Lean on me. You are just recovering from a fit of illness, I judge."
"Yes, madame," replied Mariette, passing her hand across her forehead. "Will you tell me where I am, please?"
"Between the Pont Neuf and the Pont au Change, my dear. You are a stranger in Paris, perhaps."
"No, madame, but I had an attack of dizziness just now. It is passing off, and I see where I am now."
"Wouldn't you like me to accompany you to your home, child?" asked the stout woman, kindly. "You are trembling like a leaf. Here, take my arm."
"I thank you, madame, but it is not necessary. I live only a short distance from here."
"Just as you say, child, but I'll do it with pleasure if you wish. No? Very well, good luck to you, then."
And the obliging woman continued on her way.
Mariette, thus restored to consciousness, as it were, realised the terrible misfortune that had befallen her all the more keenly, and to this consciousness was now added the fear of being cruelly reproached by her godmother just at a time when she was so sorely in need of consolation, or at least of the quiet and solitude that one craves after such a terrible shock.
Desiring to evade the bitter reproaches this long absence was almost sure to bring down upon her devoted head, and remembering the desire her godmother had expressed that morning, Mariette hoped to gain forgiveness by gratifying the invalid's whim, so, with the forty sous left of the amount she had obtained at the Mont de Piété still in her pocket, she hastened to a rôtisseur's, and purchased a quarter of a chicken there, thence to a bakery, where she bought a couple of crisp white rolls, after which she turned her steps homeward.
A handsome coupé was standing at the door of the house in which Mariette lived, though she did not even notice this fact, but when she stopped at the porter's room as usual, to ask for her key, Madame Justin exclaimed:
"Your key, Mlle. Mariette? Why, that gentleman called for it a moment ago."
"What gentleman?"
"A decorated gentleman. Yes, I should say he was decorated. Why, the ribbon in his buttonhole was at least two inches wide. I never saw a person with such a big decoration."
"But I am not acquainted with any decorated gentleman," replied the young girl, much surprised. "He must have made a mistake."
"Oh, no, child. He asked me if the Widow Lacombe didn't live here with her goddaughter, a seamstress, so you see there could be no mistake."
"But didn't you tell the gentleman that my godmother was an invalid and could not see any one?"
"Yes, child, but he said he must have a talk with her on a very important matter, all the same, so I gave him the key, and let him go up."
"I will go and see who it is, Madame Justin," responded Mariette.
Imagine her astonishment, when, on reaching the fifth floor, she saw the stranger through the half-open door, and heard him address these words to Madame Lacombe:
"As your goddaughter has gone out, my good woman, I can state my business with you very plainly."
When these words reached her ears, Mariette, yielding to a very natural feeling of curiosity, concluded to remain on the landing and listen to the conversation, instead of entering the room.
CHAPTER IV.
THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER.
The speaker was a man about forty-five years of age, with regular though rather haggard features and a long moustache, made as black and lustrous by some cosmetic as his artistically curled locks,