The Mysteries of Paris. Эжен Сю
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ingrate! How?"
"That you may understand me, I must begin and tell you of my first day at the farm."
"Then let us talk as we walk on."
"You will be indulgent to me, my father? What I shall say may perhaps be wrong."
"The Lord has shown his mercy unto you. Be of good heart."
"When," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflection, "I knew that, on arriving here, I should not again leave the farm and Madame Georges, I believed it was all a dream. At first I felt giddy with my happiness, and thought every moment of M. Rodolph. Very often when I was alone, and in spite of myself, I raised my eyes to heaven, as if to seek him there and thank him. Afterwards—and I was wrong, father—I thought more of him than God, attributing to him what God alone could do. I was happy—as happy as a creature who had suddenly and entirely escaped from a great danger. You and Madame Georges were so kind to me, that I thought I deserved pity rather than blame."
The curé looked at the Goualeuse with an air of surprise. She continued:
"Gradually I became used to my sweet course of life. I no longer felt fear when I awoke, of finding myself at the ogress's. I seemed to sleep in full security, and all my delight was to assist Madame Georges in her work, and to apply myself to the lesson you gave me, my father, as well as to profit by your advice and exhortation. Except some moments of shame, when I reflected on the past, I thought myself equal to all the world, because all the world was so kind to me. When, one day—"
Here sobs cut short poor Fleur-de-Marie's narration.
"Come, come, my poor child, calm yourself. Courage, courage!"
The Goualeuse wiped her eyes, and resumed:
"You recollect, father, during the fêtes of the Toussaints, that Madame Dubreuil, who superintends the Duke de Lucenay's farm at Arnouville, came, with her daughter, to pass some time with us?"
"I do; and I was delighted to see you form an acquaintance with Clara Dubreuil, who is a very excellent girl."
"She is an angel—an angel, father. When I knew that she was coming to stay for some days at the farm, my delight was so great that I could think of nothing else but the moment when she should arrive. At length she came. I was in my room, which she was to share with me; and, whilst I was putting it into nice order I was sent for. I went into the saloon, my heart beating excessively, when Madame Georges, presenting me to the pretty young lady, whose looks were so kind and good, said, 'Marie, here is a friend for you.' 'I hope,' added Madame Dubreuil, 'that you and my daughter will soon be like two sisters;' and hardly had her mother uttered these words, than Mademoiselle Clara came and embraced me. Then, father," continued Fleur-de-Marie, weeping, "I do not know what came over me; but, when I felt the fresh and fair face of Clara pressed against my cheek of shame, that cheek became scorching with guilt—remorse. I remembered who and what I was;—I—I—to receive the caresses of a good and virtuous girl!"
"Why, my child?"
"Ah, my father," cried Fleur-de-Marie, interrupting the curé with painful emotion, "when M. Rodolph took me away from the Cité, I began vaguely to be conscious of the depth of my degradation. But do you think that education, advice, the examples I receive from Madame Georges and yourself, have not, whilst they have enlightened my mind, made me, alas! to comprehend but too clearly that I have been more culpable than unfortunate? Before Clara's arrival, when these thoughts grew upon me, I drove them away by seeking to please Madame Georges and you, father. If I blushed for the past it was only in my own presence. But the sight of this young lady of my own age, so charming, so virtuous, has conjured up the recollection of the distance that exists between us; and, for the first time, I have felt that there are wrongs which nothing can efface. From that time the thought has haunted me perpetually, and, in spite of myself, I recur to it. From that day I have not had one moment's repose." The Goualeuse again wiped her eyes, that swam in tears.
After having looked at her for some moments with a gaze of the tenderest pity, the curé replied:
"Reflect, my child, that if Madame Georges desired to see you the friend of Mademoiselle Dubreuil, it was that she felt you were worthy of such a confidence from your good conduct. Your reproaches, addressed to yourself, seem almost to impugn your second mother."
"I feel that, father, and was wrong, no doubt; but I could not subdue my shame and fear. When Clara was once settled at the farm, I was as sad as I had before thought I should be happy, when I reflected on the pleasure of having a companion of my own age. She, on the contrary, was all joy and lightness. She had a bed in my apartment; and the first evening before she went to bed she kissed me, saying that she loved me already, and felt every kind sentiment towards me. She made me to call her Clara, and she would call me Marie. Then she said her prayers, telling me that she would join my name with hers in her prayers, if I would also unite her name with mine. I did not dare to refuse; and, after talking for some time, she went to sleep. I had not got into my bed, and, approaching her bedside, I contemplated her angel face with tears in my eyes; and then, reflecting that she was sleeping in the same chamber with me—with one who had been at the ogress's, mixed up with robbers and murderers, I trembled as if I had committed some crime, and a thousand nameless fears beset me. I thought that God would one day punish me. I went to sleep and had horrid dreams. I saw again those frightful objects I had nearly forgotten—the Chourineur, the Schoolmaster, the Chouette—that horrible, one-eyed woman who had tortured my earliest infancy. Oh, what a night! Mon Dieu!—what a night! What dreams!" said the Goualeuse, shuddering at their very recollection.
"Poor Marie!" said the curé with emotion. "Why did you not earlier tell me all this? I should have found comfort for you. But go on."
"I slept so late, that Mademoiselle Clara awoke me by kissing me. To overcome what she called my coldness, and show her regard, she told me a secret—that she was going to be married when she was eighteen to the son of a farmer at Goussainville, whom she loved very dearly, and the union had long been agreed upon by the two families. Then she added a few words of her past life, so simple, calm, and happy! She had never quitted her mother, and never intended to do so, for her husband was to take part in the management of the farm with M. Dubreuil. 'Now, Marie,' she said, 'you know me as well as if you were my sister. So tell me all about your early days.'
"I thought when I heard the words that I should have died of them; I blushed and stammered; I did not know what Madame Georges had said of me, and I was fearful of telling a falsehood; I answered vaguely, that I had been an orphan, educated by a very rigid person; and that I had not been happy in my infancy; and that my happiness was dated from the moment when I had come to live with Madame Georges; then Clara, as much by interest as curiosity, asked me where I had been educated, in the city or the country, my father's name, and, above all, if I remembered anything of my mother. All these questions embarrassed as much as they pained me, for I was obliged to reply with falsehood, and you have taught me, father, how wicked it is to lie; but Clara did not think that I was deceiving her; she attributed the hesitation of my answers to the pain which my early sorrows renewed; she believed me and pitied me with a sincerity that cut me to the soul. Oh, father, you never can know what I suffered in this conversation, and how much it cost me only to reply in language of falsehood and hypocrisy!"
"Unfortunate girl! The anger of heaven will weigh heavily on those who, by casting you into the vile road of perdition, have compelled you to undergo all your life the sad consequences of a first fault."
"Oh, yes, they were indeed cruel, father," replied Fleur-de-Marie, bitterly, "for my shame is ineffaceable. As Clara talked to me of the happiness that awaited her—her marriage, her peaceful joys of home, I could not help comparing my lot with hers; for, in spite of the kindness showered upon me, my fate must always be miserable. You and Madame Georges, in teaching me what virtue is, have taught me the depth of that abasement into which I had fallen; nothing can take from me the brand of having been the refuse of all that is vilest in the world. Alas! if the knowledge of good and evil was to be so sad to me, why not have abandoned me to my unhappy fate?"
"Oh, Marie, Marie!"
"Father, I speak ill, do I not? Alas! I dare not