The Mysteries of Paris. Эжен Сю
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know my ideas on the subject of the good which a man ought to do who has the knowledge, the will, and the power. To succour unhappy, but deserving, fellow creatures is well; to seek after those who are struggling against misfortune with energy and honour, and to aid them, sometimes without their knowledge—to prevent, in right time, misery and temptation, is better; to reinstate such perfectly in their own estimation—to lead back to honesty those who have preserved in purity some generous and ennobling sentiments in the midst of the contempt that withers them, the misery that eats into them, the corruption that encircles them, and, for that end, to brave, in person, this misery, this corruption, this contagion, is better still; to pursue, with unalterable hatred, with implacable vengeance, vice, infamy, and crime, whether they be trampling in the mud, or be clothed in purple and fine linen, that is justice; but to give aid inconsiderately to well-merited degradation, to prostitute and lavish charity and commiseration, by bestowing help on unworthy and undeserving objects, is most infamous; it is impiety—very sacrilege! it is to doubt the existence of the Almighty; and so, he who acts thus ought to be made to understand."
"My lord, I pray you do not think that I would for a moment assert that you have bestowed your benefits unworthily."
"One word more, my old friend. You know well that the child whose death I daily deplore—that that daughter whom I should have loved the more, as her unworthy mother, Sarah, had shown herself so utterly indifferent about her—would have been sixteen years of age, like this unhappy girl. You know, too, that I cannot prevent the deep, and almost painful, sympathy I feel for young girls of that age."
"True, my lord; and I ought so to have interpreted the interest you evince for your protégée. Besides, to succour the unfortunate is to honour God."
"It is, my friend, when the objects deserve it; and thus nothing is more worthy of compassion and respect than a woman like Madame Georges, who, brought up by a pious and good mother in the strict observance of all her duties, has never failed—never! and has, moreover, courageously borne herself in the midst of the most severe trials. But is it not to honour God in the most acceptable way, to raise from the dust one of those beings of the finest mould, whom he has been pleased to endow richly? Does not she deserve compassion and respect—yes, respect—who, unhappy girl! abandoned to her own instinct—who, tortured, imprisoned, degraded, sullied, has yet preserved, in holiness and pureness of heart, those noble germs of good first implanted by the Almighty? If you had but seen, poor child! how, at the first word of interest expressed for her—the first mark of kindness and right feeling—the most charming natural impulses, the purest tastes, the most refined thoughts, the most poetic ideas, developed themselves abundantly in her ingenuous mind, even as, in the early spring, a thousand wild flowers lift up their heads at the first rays of the sun! In a conversation of about an hour with Fleur-de-Marie, I have discovered treasures of goodness, worth, prudence—yes, prudence, old Murphy. A smile came to my lips, and a tear in my eye, when, in her gentle and sensible prattle, she urged on me the necessity of saving forty sous a day, that I might be beyond want or evil temptations. Poor little creature! she said all this with so serious and persuasive a tone. She seemed so delighted to give me good advice, and experienced so extreme a pleasure in hearing me promise to follow it! I was moved even to tears; and you—it affects you, my old friend."
"It does, my lord; the idea of making you lay by forty sous a day, thinking you a workman, instead of urging you to spend money on her; that does touch me."
"Hush; here are Madame Georges and Marie. Get all ready for our departure; we must be in Paris in good time."
Thanks to the care of Madame Georges, Fleur-de-Marie was no longer like her former self. A pretty peasant's cap, and two thick braids of light brown hair, encircled her charming face. A large handkerchief of white muslin crossed her bosom, and disappeared under the high fold of a small shot taffetas apron, whose blue and red shades appeared to advantage over a dark nun's dress, which seemed expressly made for her. The young girl's countenance was calm and composed. Certain feelings of delight produce in the mind an unspeakable sadness—a holy melancholy. Rodolph was not surprised at the gravity of Fleur-de-Marie; he had expected it. Had she been merry and talkative, she would not have retained so high a place in his good opinion. In the serious and resigned countenance of Madame Georges might easily be traced the indelible marks of long-suffering; but she looked at Fleur-de-Marie with a tenderness and compassion quite maternal, so much gentleness and sweetness did this poor girl evince.
"Here is my child, who has come to thank you for your goodness, M. Rodolph," said Madame Georges, presenting Goualeuse to Rodolph.
At the words, "my child," Goualeuse turned her large eyes slowly towards her protectress, and contemplated her for some moments with a look of unutterable gratitude.
"Thanks for Marie, my dear Madame Georges; she deserves this kind interest, and always will deserve it."
"M. Rodolph," said Goualeuse, with a trembling voice, "you understand, I know, I feel that you do, that I cannot find anything to say to you."
"Your emotion tells me all, my child."
"Oh, she feels deeply the good fortune that has come to her so providentially," said Madame Georges, deeply affected; "her first impulse on entering my room was to prostrate herself before my crucifix."
"Because now, thanks to you, M. Rodolph, I dare to pray," said Goualeuse.
Murphy turned away hastily; his pretensions to firmness would not allow of any one seeing to what extent the simple words of Goualeuse had touched him.
Rodolph said to her, "My child, I wish to have some conversation with Madame Georges. My friend Murphy will lead you over the farm, and introduce you to your future protégés. We will join you presently. Well, Murphy, Murphy, don't you hear me?"
The worthy gentleman turned his back, and pretended to blow his nose with a very loud noise, then put his handkerchief in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyes, and, turning half around, offered his arm to Marie, managing so skilfully that neither Rodolph nor Madame Georges could see his face. Taking the arm of Marie, he walked away with her towards the farm buildings, and so quickly, that, to keep up with him, Goualeuse was obliged to run, as in her infant days she ran beside the Chouette.
"Well, Madame Georges, what do you think of Marie?" inquired Rodolph.
"M. Rodolph, I have told you: she had scarcely entered my room, when, seeing the crucifix, she fell on her knees before it. It is impossible for me to tell you, to describe the spontaneous and naturally religious feeling that evidently dictated this. I saw in an instant that hers was no degraded soul. And then, M. Rodolph, the expression of her gratitude to you had nothing exaggerated in it; but it is not the less sincere. And I have another proof of how natural and potent is this religious instinct in her. I said to her, 'You must have been much astonished, and very happy, when M. Rodolph told you that you were to remain here for the future? What an effect it must have had on you!' 'Yes, oh, yes,' was her reply; 'when M. Rodolph told me so, I cannot describe what passed within me; but I felt that kind of holy happiness which I experience in going into a church. When I could go there,' she added, 'for you know, madame—' 'I know, my child, for I shall always call you my child (I could not let her go on when I saw her cover her face for shame), I know that you have suffered deeply; but God blesses those who love and fear him, those who have been unhappy, and those who repent.'"
"Then, my good Madame Georges, I am doubly happy at what I have done. This poor girl will greatly interest you, her disposition is so excellent, her instincts so right."
"What has besides affected me, M. Rodolph, is that she has not allowed one single question to escape her about you, although her curiosity must be so much excited. Struck with a reserve so full of delicacy, I wished to know what she felt. I said to her, 'You must be very curious to know who your mysterious benefactor is?' 'Know him!' she replied, with delightful simplicity; 'he is my benefactor.'"
"Then you will love her. Excellent woman! she will find some interest in your heart."
"Yes, I shall occupy my heart with her as I should with him," said Madame Georges, in a broken voice.
Rodolph took her hand.
"Do