The Mysteries of Paris. Эжен Сю
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continually before my eyes? In vain I try to push it away; it is still there, fixed, immovable; and on its surface I see the pale, ghastly features of those—"
He shuddered, and said in a low, hoarse voice, "Chourineur, did I quite do for that man last night?"
"No."
"So much the better," observed the robber. And then, after some minutes' silence, he exclaimed, under a fresh impulse of ungovernable fury, "And it is you I have to thank for all this! Rascal! scoundrel! I hate you! But for you, I should have 'stiffened' my man and walked off with his money. My very blindness I owe to you; my curses upon you for your meddling interference! But through you I should have had my blessed eyes to see my own way with. How do I know what devil's trick you are planning at this moment?"
"Try to forget all that is past—it can't be helped now; and do not put yourself in such a terrible way—it is really very bad for you. Come, come along—now, no nonsense—will you? yes or no?—because I am regularly done up, and must get a short snooze somewhere. I can tell you I have had a bellyful of such doings, and to-morrow I shall get back to my timber-pile, and earn an honest dinner before I eat it. I am only waiting to take you wherever you decide upon going, and then on goes my nightcap and I goes to sleep."
"But how can I tell you where to take me, when I do not know myself? My lodging—No, no, that will not do; I should be obliged to tell—"
"Well, then, hark ye. Will you, for a day or two, make shift with my crib? I may meet with some decent sort of people, who, not knowing who you really are, would receive you as a boarder; and we might say you were a confirmed invalid, and required great care and perfect retirement. Now I think of it, there is a person of my acquaintance, living at Port St. Nicolas, has a mother, a very worthy woman, but in humble circumstances, residing at St. Mandé: very likely she would be glad to take charge of you. What do you say—will you come or not?"
"One may trust you, Chourineur. I am not at all fearful of going, money and all, to your place; happily you have kept yourself honest, amidst all the evil example others have set you."
"Ay, and even bore the taunts and jests you used to heap upon me, because I would not turn prig like yourself."
"Alas! who could foresee?"
"Now, you see, if I had listened to you, instead of trying to be of real service to you, I should clean you out of all your cash."
"True, true. But you are a downright good fellow, and have neither malice nor hatred in your heart," said the unhappy Schoolmaster, in a tone of deep dejection and humility. "You are a vast deal better to me than, I fear, I should have been to you under the same circumstances."
"I believe you, too. Why, M. Rodolph himself told me I had both heart and honour."
"But who the devil is this M. Rodolph?" exclaimed the Schoolmaster, breaking out fresh at the mention of his name. "He is not a man; he is a monster—a fiend—a—"
"Hold, hold!" cried the Chourineur. "Now you are going to have another fit, which is bad for you and very disagreeable to me, because it makes you abuse my friends. Come, are you ready? Shall we set forth on our journey?"
"We are going to your lodging, are we not, Chourineur?"
"Yes, yes, if you are agreeable."
"And you swear to me that you bear me no ill-will for the events of the last twelve hours?"
"Swear it? Of course I swear it. Why, I have no ill-will against you nor anybody."
"And you are certain that he (the man, I mean) is not dead?"
"I am as sure of it as that I am living myself."
"That will at least give me one crime the less to answer for. If they only knew—And that little old man of the Rue du Roule—and that woman of the Canal St. Martin—But it is useless thinking of all those things now; I have enough to occupy my thoughts without trying to recall past misfortunes. Blind! blind!" repeated the miserable wretch, as, leaning on the arm of the Chourineur, he slowly took his departure from the house in the Allée des Veuves.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ISLE-ADAM.
A month has elapsed since the occurrence of the events we have just narrated. We now conduct the reader into the little town of the Isle-Adam, situated in a delightful locality on the banks of the Oise, and at the foot of a forest.
The least things become great events in the country; and so the idlers of Isle-Adam, who were on the morning before us walking in the square before the church, were very anxiously bestirring themselves to learn when the individual would arrive who had recently become the purchaser of the most eligible premises for a butcher in that town, and which were exactly opposite to the church.
One of those idlers, more inquisitive than his companions, went and asked the butcher-boy, who, with a merry face and active hands, was very busy in completing the arrangements of the shop. This lad replied that he did not know who was the new proprietor, for he had bought the property through an agent. At this moment two persons, who had come from Paris in a cabriolet, alighted at the door of the shop.
The one was Murphy, quite cured of his wound, and the other the Chourineur. At the risk of repeating a vulgar saying, we will assert that the impression produced by dress is so powerful, that the guest of the "cribs" of the Cité was hardly to be recognised in his present attire. His countenance had undergone the same change; he had put off, with his rags, his savage, coarse, and vulgar air; and to see him walk with both his hands in the pockets of his long and warm coat of dark broadcloth, he might have been taken for one of the most inoffensive citizens in the world.
"'Faith, my fine fellow, the way was long and the cold excessive; were they not?"
"Why, I really did not perceive it, M. Murphy; I am too happy, and joy keeps one warm. Besides, when I say happy, why—"
"What?"
"Yesterday you came to seek for me at the Port St. Nicolas, where I was unloading as hard as I could to keep myself warm. I had not seen you since the night when the white-haired negro had put out the Schoolmaster's eyes. By Jove! it quite shook me, that affair did. And M. Rodolph, what a countenance!—he who looked so mild and gentle! I was quite frightened at that moment; I was, indeed—"
"Well, what then?"
"You said to me, 'Good day, Chourineur.' 'Good day, M. Murphy,' says I. 'What, you are up again, I see! So much the better—so much the better. And M. Rodolph?' 'He was obliged to leave Paris some days after the affair of the Allée des Veuves, and he forgot you, my man.' 'Well, M. Murphy, I can only say that if M. Rodolph has forgotten me, why—I shall be very sorry for it, that's all.' 'I meant to say, my good fellow, that he had forgotten to recompense your services, but that he should always remember them.' So, M. Murphy, those words cheered me up again directly. Tonnerre! I—I shall never forget him. He told me I had heart and honour—that's enough."
"Unfortunately, my lad, monseigneur left without giving any orders about you. I have nothing but what monseigneur gives me, and I am unable to repay as I could wish all that I owe you personally."
"Come, come, M. Murphy, you are jesting with me."
"But why the devil did you not come back again to the Allée des Veuves after that fatal night? Then monseigneur would not have left without thinking of you."
"Why, M. Rodolph did not tell me to do so, and I thought that perhaps he had no further occasion for me."
"But you might have supposed that he would, at least, desire to express his gratitude to you."
"Did you not tell me that M. Rodolph has not forgotten me, M. Murphy?"
"Well, well, don't let us say another word about it; only I have had a great deal of trouble to find you out. You do not now go to the ogress's?"