The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 2 of 6

These not very clear physiognomical reflections of Claudine, touching the effect of light or dark skins in the human and animal race, were interrupted by the return of Jean René, blowing his fingers with animation as he had before blown his soup.

"Oh, how cold! how cold it is this night!" exclaimed he, on entering; "it is enough to freeze one to death; it is a pretty deal more snug and comfortable in-doors than out this bitter night. Oh, how cold it is!"

"Why, —

'The frost that cometh from North and EastBiteth the most and ceaseth the least.'

Don't you know that, my lad?" said the old superintendent Châtelain. "But who was it that rang so late?"

"A poor blind man and a boy who leads him about, Father Châtelain."

"And what does this poor blind man want?" inquired Châtelain.

"The poor man and his son were going by the cross-road to Louvres, and have lost themselves in the snow; and as the cold is enough to turn a man into an icicle, and the night is pitch dark, the poor blind father has come to entreat permission for himself and lad to pass the night on the farm; he says he shall be for ever thankful for leave to lie on a little straw under a hovel, or in any out-building."

"Oh, as for that, I am quite sure that Madame Georges, who never refuses charity to any unfortunate being, will willingly permit them to do so; but we must first acquaint her with it; go, Claudine, and tell her the whole story." Claudine disappeared.

"And where is this poor man waiting?" asked Father Châtelain.

"In the little barn just by."

"But why in the barn? why put him there?"

"Bless you, if I had left him in the yard, the dogs would have eaten him up alive! Why, Father Châtelain, it was no use for me to call out 'Quiet, Médor! come here, Turk! down, Sultan!' I never saw dogs in such a fury. And, besides, we don't use our dogs on the farm to fly at poor folks, as they are trained to do at other places."

"Well, my lads, it seems that the 'share for the poor' has not been laid aside in vain to-night. But try and sit a little closer; there, that'll do; now put two more plates and knives and forks for this blind traveller and his boy, for I feel quite certain what Madame Georges's answer will be, and that she will desire them to be housed here for the night."

"It is really a thing I can't make out," said Jean René, "about the dogs being so very violent, especially Turk, who went with Claudine this evening to the rectory. Why, when I stroked him, to try and pacify him, I felt his coat standing up on end like so many bristles of a porcupine. Now, what do you say to that, eh, Father Châtelain – you who know almost everything?"

"Why, my lad, I, 'who know everything,' say just this, that the beasts know far more than I do, and can see farther. I remember, in the autumn, when the heavy rains had so swollen the little river, I was returning with my team-horses one dark night – I was riding upon Cuckoo, the old roan horse, and deuce take me if I could make out any spot it would be safe to wade through, for the night was as dark as the mouth of a pit. Well, I threw the bridle on old Cuckoo's back, and he soon found what, I'll answer for it, none of us could have discovered. Now, who taught the dumb brute to know the safe from the unsafe parts of the stream, let me ask you?"

"Ay, Father Châtelain, that's what I was waiting to ask you. Who taught the old roan to discover danger and escape from it so cleverly?"

"The same Almighty wisdom which instructs the swallow to build in our chimneys, and guides the marten to make his nest among the reeds of our banks, my lad. Well, Claudine," said the ancient oracle of the kitchen to the blooming dairymaid, who just then entered, bearing on her arms two pairs of snowy white sheets, from which an odoriferous smell of sage and thyme was wafted along, – "well, I make no doubt but Madame Georges has sent permission for these poor creatures, the blind man and his child, to sleep here, has she not?"

"These sheets are to prepare beds for them, in the little room at the end of the passage," said Claudine.

"Go and bid them come in, then, Jean René; and you, Claudine, my good girl, put a couple of chairs near the fire – they will be glad of a good warm before sitting down to table."

The furious barking of the dogs was now renewed, mingled with the voice of Jean René, who was endeavoring to pacify them; the door of the kitchen was abruptly opened, and the Schoolmaster and Tortillard entered with as much precipitation as though they feared a pursuit from some dangerous foe.

"For the love of heaven, keep off your dogs!" cried the Schoolmaster, in the utmost terror; "they have been trying to bite us!"

"They have torn a great bit out of my blouse," whined Tortillard, shivering with cold and pale with fear.

"Don't be frightened, good man," said Jean René, shutting the door securely; "but I never before saw our dogs in such a perfect fury – it must be the cold makes them so spiteful; perhaps, being half frozen, they fancied biting you would serve to warm them – there is no knowing what mere animals may mean by what they do."

"Why, are you going to begin, too?" exclaimed the old farmer, as Lysander, who had hitherto lain perfectly happy in the radiance of the glowing fire, started up, and, growling fiercely, was about to fly at the strangers. "This old dog is quiet enough, but, having heard the other dogs make such a furious noise, he thinks he must do the same. Will you lie down and be quiet, you old brute? Do you hear, sir? lie down!"

At these words from Father Châtelain, accompanied by a significant motion of the foot, Lysander, with a low, deep growl of dissatisfaction, slowly returned to his favourite corner by the hearth, while the Schoolmaster and Tortillard remained trembling by the kitchen-door, as though fearful of approaching farther. The features of the ruffian were so hideous, from the frightful effects produced by the cold, that some of the servants in the kitchen shuddered with alarm, while others recoiled in disgust; this impression was not lost on Tortillard, who felt reassured by the terrors of the villagers, and even felt proud of the repulsiveness of his companion. This first confusion over, Father Châtelain, thinking only of worthily discharging the duties of hospitality, said to the Schoolmaster:

"Come, my good friend – come near the fire and warm yourself thoroughly, and then you shall have some supper with us; for you happened to come very fortunately, just as we were sitting down to table. Here, sit down, just where I have placed your chair. But what am I thinking about?" added the worthy old labourer. "I ought to have spoken to your son, not you, seeing that it has pleased God to take away your eyesight – a heavy loss, a heavy loss; but let us hope all for your good, my friend, though you may not now think so. Here, my boy, lead your father to that snug place in the chimney-corner."

"Yes, kind sir," drawled out Tortillard, with a nasal twang and canting, hypocritical tone; "may God bless you for your charity to the poor blind! Here, father, take my arm; lean on my shoulder, father; take care, take care, gently;" and, with affected zeal and tenderness, the urchin guided the steps of the brigand till they reached the indicated spot. As the pair approached Lysander, he uttered a low, growling noise; but as the Schoolmaster brushed past him, and the sagacious animal had full scent of his garments, he broke out into one of those deep howls with which, it is asserted by the superstitious, dogs frequently announce an approaching death.

"What, in the devil's name, do all these cursed animals mean by their confounded noise?" said the Schoolmaster to himself. "Can they smell the blood on my clothes, I wonder? for I now recollect I wore the trousers I have on at present the night the cattle-dealer was murdered."

"Did you notice that?" inquired Jean René of Father Châtelain. "Why, I vow that, as often as old Lysander had caught scent of the wandering stranger, he actually set up a regular death-howl."

And this remark was followed up by a most singular confirmation of the fact; the cries of Lysander were so loud and mournful that the other dogs caught the sound (for the farmyard was only separated from the kitchen by a glazed window in the latter), and, according to the custom of the canine race, they each strove who should outdo the other in repeating and prolonging the funereal wail, which, according to vulgar belief, always foretells death. Though but little given to superstitious dread, the farm-people looked from one to another with a feeling of wonder not unmixed with awe. Even the Schoolmaster himself, diabolically hardened as he was, felt a cold shudder steal over him at the thought that all these fatal sounds burst forth upon the approach of him – the self-convicted murderer! while Tortillard, too audacious and hardened to enter into such alarms, with all the infidelity in which he had been trained, even from his mother's arms, looked on with delighted mockery at the universal panic, and was, perhaps, the only person present devoid of an uneasy feeling; but, once freed from his apprehensions of suffering from the violence of the animals, he listened even with pleasure to the horrible discord of their long-drawn-out wailings, and felt almost tempted to pardon them the fright they had originally occasioned him, in consideration of the perfect terror they had struck into the inhabitants of the farm, and for the gratification he derived from the convulsive horror of the Schoolmaster. But after the momentary stupor had passed away Jean René again quitted the kitchen, and the loud cracking of his whip soon put an end to the prophetic howlings of Médor, Turk, and Sultan, and quickly dispersed them to their separate kennels, and as the noise ceased, the gloomy cloud passed away from the kitchen, and the peasants looked up with the same honest cheerfulness they had worn upon the entrance of the two travellers. Ere long they had left off wondering at the repulsive ugliness of the Schoolmaster, and only thought with pity of his great affliction, in being blind; they commiserated the lameness of the poor boy, admired the interesting sharpness of his countenance, the deep, cute glance of his ever-moving eye, and, above all, loaded him with praises for the extreme care and watchfulness with which he attended to his afflicted parent. The appetite of the labourers, which had been momentarily forgotten, now returned with redoubled violence, and for a time nothing could be heard but the clattering of plates and rattling of knives and forks. Still, however busily employed with their suppers, the servants assembled round the table, both male and female, could not but remark, with infinite pleasure, the tender assiduity of the lad towards the blind creature who sat beside him. Nothing could exceed the devoted affection and filial care with which Tortillard prepared his meat for him, cutting both that and his bread with most accurate nicety, pouring out his drink, and never attempting even to taste a morsel himself, till his father expressed himself as having completed his supper. But, for all this dutiful attention, the young ruffian took ample and bitter revenge. Instigated as much by an innate spirit of cruelty as the desire of imitation natural to his age, Tortillard found an equal enjoyment with the Chouette in having something to torment (a bête de souffrance); and it was a matter of inexpressible exultation to his wretched mind that he, a poor, distorted, crippled, abject creature, should have it in his power to tyrannise over so powerful and ferocious a creature as the Schoolmaster, – it was like torturing a muzzled tiger. He even refined his gratification, by compelling his victim to endure all the agonies he inflicted, without wincing or exhibiting the slightest external sign of his suffering. Thus he accompanied each outward mark of devoted tenderness towards his supposed parent, by aiming a severe kick against the Schoolmaster's legs, on one of which there was (in common with many who had long worked in the galleys) a deep and severe wound, the effect of the heavy iron chain worn during the term of punishment around the right leg; and, by way of compelling the miserable sufferer to exercise a greater degree of stoical courage, the urchin always seized the moment when the object of his malice was either drinking or speaking.

"Here, dear father! here is a nice peeled nut," said Tortillard, placing on the plate of his supposed parent a nut carefully prepared.

"Good boy," said old Châtelain, smiling kindly at him. Then, addressing the bandit, he added: "However great may be your affliction, my friend, so good a son is almost sufficient to make up even for the loss of sight; but Providence is so gracious, he never takes away one blessing without sending another."

"You are quite right, kind sir! My lot is a very hard one, and, but for the noble conduct of my excellent child, I – "

A sharp cry of irrepressible anguish here broke from the quivering lips of the tortured man; the son of Bras Rouge had this time aimed his blow so effectually, that the point of his heavy-nailed shoe had reached the very centre of the wound, and produced unendurable agony.

"Father! dear father! what is the matter?" exclaimed Tortillard, in a whimpering voice; then, suddenly rising, he threw both his arms round the Schoolmaster's neck, whose first impulse of rage and pain was to stifle the limping varlet in his Herculean grasp; and so powerfully did he compress the boy's chest against his own, that his impeded respiration vented itself in a low moaning sound. A few minutes, and Tortillard's last prank would have been played; but, reflecting that the lad was for the present indispensable to the furtherance of the schemes he had on hand, the Schoolmaster, by a violent effort, controlled his desire to annihilate his tormentor, and contented himself with pushing him off his shoulders back into his own chair. The sympathising group around the table were far from seeing through all this, and merely considered these close embraces as an interchange of paternal and filial tenderness, while the half suffocation and deadly pallor of Tortillard they attributed to emotion caused by the sudden illness of his beloved father.

"What ailed you just now, my good man?" inquired Father Châtelain; "only see, you have quite frightened your poor boy. Why, he looks pale as death, and can scarcely breathe. Come, my little man; you must not take on so – your father is all right again."

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen all," replied the Schoolmaster, controlling himself with much difficulty, for the pain he was still enduring was most excruciating. "I am better now. I'll tell you, with your kind leaves, all about it. You see I am by trade a working locksmith, and, one day that I was employed in beating out a huge bar of red hot iron, it fell over on my two legs, and burnt them so dreadfully that it has never healed; unfortunately, just now, I happened to strike the leg that is worst against the table, and the sudden agony it occasioned me drew forth the sudden cry which so much disturbed all this good company, and for which I humbly beg pardon."

"Poor dear father!" whined out Tortillard, casting a look of fiendish malice at the shivering Schoolmaster, and wholly recovered from his late attack of excessive emotion. "Poor father! you have indeed got a bad leg nobody can cure. Ah, kind gentlemen, I hope you will never have such a shocking wound, and be obliged to hear all the doctors say it never will get well. No! never – never. Oh, my dear, dear father! how I wish I could but suffer the pain instead of you!"

At this tender, moving speech, the females present expressed the utmost admiration for the dutiful speaker, and began feeling in their vast pockets for some more substantial mark of their regard.

"It is unlucky, my honest friend," said old Châtelain, addressing the Schoolmaster, "you had not happened to come to this farm about three weeks ago, instead of to-night."

"And why so, if you please?"

"Because we had staying for a few days in the house a celebrated Paris doctor, who has an infallible remedy for all diseases of the legs. A worthy old woman, belonging to our village, had been confined to her bed upwards of three years with some affection of the legs. Well, this doctor, being here, as I said, heard of the case, applied an unguent to the wounds, and now, bless you, she is as surefooted, ay, and as swift, too, as any of our young girls; and the first holiday she makes she intends walking to the house of her benefactor, in the Allée des Veuves, at Paris, to return her grateful thanks. To be sure it is a good step from hence, but then, as Mother Anica says – Why, what has come over you again, my friend? Is your leg still so painful?"

The mention of the Allée des Veuves had recalled such frightful recollections to the Schoolmaster, that, involuntarily, a cold shudder shook his frame, while a fearful spasm, by contracting his ghastly countenance, made it appear still more hideous.

"Yes," replied he, trying to conceal his emotion, "a sudden darting pain seized me, and – Pray excuse my interrupting your kind and sensible discourse, and be pleased to proceed."

"It really is a great pity," resumed the old labourer, "that this excellent doctor should not be with us at present; but I tell you what, he is as good as he is skilful, and I am quite sure if you let your little lad conduct you to his house when you return to Paris, that he will cure you. His address is not difficult to recollect, it is 17 Allée des Veuves. Even should you forget the number, it will not matter, for there are but very few doctors in the neighbourhood, and no other negro surgeon, – for, only imagine, this clever, kind, and charitable man is a black, but his heart is white and good. His name is David, – Doctor David, – you will be able to remember that name, I dare say."

The features of the Schoolmaster were so seamed and scarred that it was difficult to perceive when his colour varied. He did, however, on the present occasion, turn ghastly pale as he first heard the exact number mentioned of Rodolph's house, and afterwards the description of the black doctor, – of David, the negro surgeon, who, by Rodolph's orders, had inflicted on him the fearful punishment, the terrible results of which were each hour more painfully developed. Father Châtelain, however, was too much interested in his subject to notice the deadly paleness of the Schoolmaster, and proceeded with his discourse:

"When you leave us, my poor fellow, we will be sure to write his address on a slip of paper and give it to your son, for I know that, besides putting you in a certain way to be cured of your painful wound, it would be gratifying to M. David to be able to relieve your sufferings. Oh, he is so good, – never so happy as when he has rendered any person a service. I wish he had not always that mournful and dejected look. I fear he has some heavy care near his heart; and he is so good, so full of pity for all who suffer. Well, well, Providence will bless him in another world; but come, friend, let us drink to the health and happiness of your future benefactor, – here take this mug."

"No, thank you!" returned the Schoolmaster, with a gloomy air; "none for me. I – I am not thirsty, and I never drink unless I am."

"Nay, friend, but this is good old wine I have poured out for you; not cider," said the labourer. "Many tradespeople do not drink as good. Bless your heart, this farm is not conducted as other farms are, – what do you think of our style of living, by the by? have you relished your supper?"

"All very good," responded the Schoolmaster mechanically, more and more absorbed in the painfulness of his ideas.

"Well, then, as we live one day, so we do another. We work well, we live well, we have a good conscience, and an equally good bed to rest upon after the labours of the day. Our lives roll on in peace and contentment. There are seven labourers constantly employed on the farm, who are paid almost double wages to what others get; but then I can venture to assert, that if we are paid double, we do as much work among us as fourteen ordinary labourers would do. The mere husbandry servants have one hundred and fifty crowns a year, the dairy-women and other females engaged about the place sixty crowns, and a tenth share of the produce of the farm is divided among us all. You may suppose we do not idle away much time, or fail to make hay while the sun shines, for Nature is a bountiful mother, and ever returns a hundredfold to those who assiduously seek her favour; the more we give her, the more she returns."

"Your master cannot get very rich if he treats you and pays you thus liberally," said the Schoolmaster.

"Oh, our master is different to all others, and has a mode of repaying himself peculiarly his own."

"From what you say," answered the blind man, hoping by engaging in conversation to escape from the gloominess of his own thoughts, "your master must be a very extraordinary person."

"Indeed he is, my good man, a most uncommon master to meet with. Now, as chance has brought you among us, and a strange though a lucky chance for you it has proved, lying out of the highroad as this village does, it is so very seldom any stranger ever finds it out. Well, I was going to say, here you are, and no fault to find with your quarters, is there? Now, in all human probability, when you turn your back upon the place you will never return to it, but you shall not depart without hearing from me a description of our master and all he has done for the farm, upon condition that you promise to repeat it again wherever you go, and to whomsoever you may meet with. You will see, I mean, I beg pardon, you will then be able to understand."

"I listen to you," answered the Schoolmaster; "proceed."

"And I can promise you you will not be throwing away your time by listening," replied the venerable Châtelain. "Now, one day our master thought all at once: 'Here am I, rich enough to eat two dinners a day if I liked, but I don't. Now, suppose I were to provide a meal for those who have none at all, and enable such as can hardly procure half a dinner to enjoy as much good food as they desired, would not that be better than over-indulging myself? So it shall be,' says he, and away he goes to work, and, first thing, he buys this farm, which was not much of a concern then, and scarcely kept a couple of ploughs at work; and, being born and bred on the place, I ought to know something about it. Next, master made considerable additions to the farm. I'll tell you all about that by and by. At the head of the farm he placed a most worthy and respectable female, who had known a great deal of trouble in her past life – master always chose out people for their goodness and their misfortunes – and, when he brought the person I am telling you of here, he said to her in my hearing, 'I wish this place to be like the Temple of our great Maker, open to the deserving and the afflicted, but closed against the wicked and hardened reprobate.' So idle beggars are always turned from the gate; but those who are able and willing to work have always the opportunity set before them: the charity of labour, our master says, is no humiliation to him who receives it, but a favour and service conferred on the person whose labour is thus done; and the rich man who does not act upon this principle but ill employs his wealth. So said our master. But he did more than talk – he acted. There was formerly a road from here to Ecouen, which cut off a good mile of distance, but, Lord love you! it was one great rutty bog, impossible to get up or down it; it was the death of every horse, and certain destruction to every vehicle that attempted to pass through it. A little labour, and a trifling amount of money from each farmer in the adjoining country would soon have repaired the road; but they never could be brought to any unanimity on the subject, and, in proportion as one farmer would be anxious to contribute towards putting the road in order, the others would invariably decline sending either men or money to assist. So our master, perceiving all this, said, 'The road shall be repaired; but as those who can afford to contribute will not, and as it is more for convenience and accommodation to the rich than necessity for the poor, it shall first become useful to those who would work if they could get it to do, who have heart, and hands, and courage, but no employ. Well, this road shall be reserved as a constant occupation for persons of this description. Horsemen and carriages belonging to the rich and affluent, who care not how roads are repaired, so that they can travel at their ease, may go round by the farther side.' So, for example, whenever a strong, sturdy fellow presented himself at the farm, pleading hunger and want of work, I'd say to him, 'Here, my lad; here is a basin of warm nourishing soup – take it and welcome; then, if you wish for work, here is a pickaxe and spade; one of our people will show you the Ecouen road; make every day twelve feet of it good, by spreading and breaking the flints; and every evening, after your work is examined, you shall receive at the rate of forty sous for the quantity named; twenty sous for half as much; ten sous for a quarter; for less than that, nothing at all.' Then, towards evening, upon my return from labour, I used to go on the road, measure their work, and examine whether it was well done."