Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 39
“Oh, M. le Curé,” replied the kind Madame Georges, “Marie will be quite wretched if she is not allowed to accompany you; she so much enjoys the happiness of escorting you home every evening.”
“Indeed, Monsieur le Curé,” added the Goualeuse, timidly raising her large blue eyes to the priest’s countenance, “I shall fear you are displeased with me if you do not permit me to accompany you as usual.”
“Well, then, my dear child, wrap yourself up very warm, and let us go.”
Fleur-de-Marie hastily threw over her shoulders a sort of cloak of coarse white cloth, edged with black velvet, and with a large hood, to be drawn at pleasure over the head. Thus equipped, she eagerly offered her arm to her venerable friend.
“Happily,” said he, in taking it, “the distance is but trifling, and the road both good and safe to pass at all hours.”
“As it is somewhat later to-night than usual,” said Madame Georges, “will you have one of the farm-people to return with you, Marie?”
“Do you take me for a coward?” said Marie, playfully. “I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, madame. No, pray do not let any one be called away on my account. It is not a quarter of an hour’s walk from here to the rectory. I shall be back long before dark.”
“Well, as you like. I merely thought it would be company for you; for as to fearing, thank heaven, there is no cause. Loose vagabond people, likely to interrupt your progress, are wholly unknown here.”
“And, were I not equally sure of the absence of all danger, I would not accept this dear child’s arm,” added the curé, “useful as, I confess, I find it.”
And, leaning on Fleur-de-Marie, who regulated her light step to suit the slow and laboured pace of the old man, the two friends quitted the farm.
A few minutes’ walk brought the Goualeuse and the priest close to the hollow road in which the Schoolmaster, the Chouette, and Tortillard, were lying in ambush.
CHAPTER IV.
THE AMBUSCADE.
THE CHURCH AND parsonage of Bouqueval were placed on the side of a hill covered with chestnut-trees, and commanded an entire view of the village. Fleur-de-Marie and the abbé reached a winding path which led to the clergyman’s home, crossing the sunken road by which the hill was intersected diagonally. The Chouette, the Schoolmaster, and Tortillard, concealed in one of the hollows of the road, saw the priest and Fleur-de-Marie descend into the ravine, and leave it again by a steep declivity. The features of the young girl being hidden under the hood of her cloak, the Chouette did not recognise her old victim.
“Silence, my old boy,” said the old harridan to the Schoolmaster; “the young ‘mot’ and the ‘black slug’ are just crossing the path. I know her by the description which the tall man in black gave us; a country appearance, neither tall nor short; a petticoat shot with brown, and a woollen mantle with a black border. She walks every day with a ‘devil-dodger’ to his ‘crib,’ and returns alone. When she come back, which she will do presently by the end of the road, we must spring upon her and carry her off to the coach.”
“If she cries for help,” replied the Schoolmaster, “they will hear her at the farm, if, as you say, the out-buildings are visible from here; for you — you can see,” he added, in a sullen tone.
“Oh, yes, we can see the buildings from here quite plainly,” said Tortillard. “It is only a minute ago that I climbed to the top of the bank, and, lying down on my belly, I could hear a carter who was talking to his horses in the yard there.”
“I’ll tell you, then, what we must do,” said the Schoolmaster, after a moment’s silence. “Let Tortillard have the watch at the entrance to the path. When he sees the young girl returning, let him go and meet her, saying that he is the son of a poor old woman who has hurt herself by falling down the hollow road, and beg the girl to come to her assistance.”
“I’m up to you, fourline; the poor old woman is your darling Chouette. You’re ‘wide-awake!’ My man, you are always the king of the ‘downy ones’ (têtards). What must I do afterwards?”
“Conceal yourself in the hollow way on the side where Barbillon is waiting with the coach. I will be at hand. When Tortillard has brought the wench to you in the middle of the ravine, leave off whimpering and spring upon her, put one ‘mauley’ round her ‘squeeze,’ and the other into her ‘patter-box,’ and ‘grab’ her ‘red rag’ to prevent her from squeaking.”
“I know, I know, fourline; as we did with the woman at the canal of St. Martin, when we gave her cold water for supper (drowned her), after having ‘prigged’ her ‘negress’ (the parcel wrapped in black oil-skin) which she had under her arm, — the same ‘dodge,’ isn’t it?”
“Yes, precisely. But mind, grab the girl tight whilst Tortillard comes and fetches me. We three will then bundle her up in my cloak, carry her to Barbillon’s coach, from thence to the plain of St. Denis, where the man in black will await us.”
“That’s the way to do business, my fourline; you are without an equal! If I could, I would let off a firework on your head, and illuminate you with the colours of Saint Charlot, the patron of ‘scragsmen.’ Do you see, you urchin? If you would be an ‘out-and-outer,’ make my husband your model,” said the Chouette, boastingly to Tortillard. Then, addressing the Schoolmaster, “By the way, do you know that Barbillon is in an awful ‘funk’ (fright)? He thinks that he shall be had up before the ‘beaks’ on a swinging matter.”
“Why?”
“The other day, returning from Mother Martial’s, the widow of the man who was scragged, and who keeps the boozing-ken in the Ile du Ravageur, Barbillon, the Gros-Boiteux, and the Skeleton had a row with the husband of the milkwoman who comes every morning from the country in a little cart drawn by a donkey, to sell her milk in the Cité, at the corner of the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie, close to the ogress’s of the ‘White Rabbit,’ and they ‘walked into him with their slashers’ (killed him with their knives).”
The son of Bras Rouge, who did not understand slang, listened to the Chouette with a sort of disappointed curiosity.
“You would like to know, little man, what we are saying, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. You were talking of Mother Martial, who is at the Ile du Ravageur, near Asnières. I know her very well, and her daughter Calebasse and François and Amandine, who are about as old as I am, and who are made to bear everybody’s snubs and thumps in the house. But when you talked of ‘walking into (buter) any one,’ that’s slang, I know.”
“It is; and, if you’re a very good chap, I’ll teach you to ‘patter flash.’ You’re just the age when it may be very useful to you. Would you like to learn, my precious lambkin?”
“I rather think I should, too, and no mistake; and I would rather live with you than with my old cheat of a mountebank, pounding his drugs. If I knew where he hides his ‘rat-poison for men,’ I’d put some in his soup, and then that would settle the quarrel between us.”
The Chouette laughed heartily, and said to Tortillard, drawing him towards her:
“Come, chick, and kiss his mammy. What a droll boy it is — a darling! But, my manikin, how didst know that he had ‘rat-poison for men’?”
“Why, ‘cause I heard him say so one day when I was hid in the cupboard in the room where he keeps his bottles, his brass machines, and where he mixes his stuffs together.”
“What did you hear him say?” asked the Chouette.
“I heard him say to a gentleman that he gave a powder to, in a paper, ‘When you are tired of life, take this in three doses, and you will sleep without sickness or sorrow.’”
“Who was the gentleman?” asked the Schoolmaster.
“Oh, a very handsome gentleman with black moustachios, and a face as pretty as a girl’s. He came another time; and then, when he left, I followed him, by M. Bradamanti’s order, to find out where he perched. The fine gentleman went into the Rue de Chaillot, and entered a very grand house. My master said to me, ‘No matter where this gentleman goes, follow and wait for him at the door. If he comes out again, still keep your eye on him, until he does not come out of the place where he enters, and that will prove that he lives there. Then Tortillard, my boy, twist (tortille) yourself about to find out his name, or I will twist your ears in a way that will astonish you.’”
“Well?”
“Well, I did twist myself about, and found out his name.”
“How did you manage it?” inquired the Schoolmaster.
“Why, so. I’m not a fool; so I went to the porter at the house in the Rue de Chaillot, where this gentleman had gone in and not come out again. The porter had his hair finely powdered, with a fine brown coat with a yellow collar trimmed with silver. So I says to him, ‘Good gentleman, I have come to ask for a hundred sous which the gentleman of the house has promised me for having found his dog and brought it back to him — a little black dog called Trumpet; and the gentleman with dark features, with black moustachios, a white riding-coat, and light blue pantaloons, told me he lived at No. 11 Rue de Chaillot, and that his name was Dupont.’ ‘The gentleman you’re talking of is my master, and his name is the Viscount de St. Remy, and we have no dog here but yourself, you young scamp; so “cut your stick,” or I’ll make you remember coming here, and trying to do me out of a hundred sous,’ says the porter to me; and he gave me a kick as he said it. But I didn’t mind that,” added Tortillard most philosophically, “for I found out the name of the handsome young gentleman with black moustachios, who came to my master’s to buy the ‘rat-poison for men’ who are tired of living. He is called the Viscount de St. Remy, — my — my — St. Remy,” added the son of Bras Rouge, humming the last words, as was his usual habit.
“Clever little darling — I could eat him up alive!” said the Chouette, embracing Tortillard. “Never was such a knowing fellow. He deserves that I should be his mother, the dear rascal does.”
And the hag embraced Tortillard with an absurd affectation. The son of Bras Rouge, touched by this proof of affection, and desirous of showing his gratitude, eagerly answered:
“Only you tell me what to do, and you shall see how I’ll do it.”
“Will you, though? Well, then, you sha’n’t repent doing so.”
“Oh, I should like always to stay with you!”
“If you behave well, we may see about that. You sha’n’t leave us if you are a good boy.”
“Yes,” said the Schoolmaster, “you shall lead me about like a poor blind man, and say you are my son. We will get into houses in this way, and then — ten thousand slaughters!” added the assassin with enthusiasm; “the Chouette will assist us in making lucky hits. I will then teach that devil of a Rodolph, who blinded me, that I am not yet quite done for. He took away my eyesight, but he could not, did not remove my bent for mischief. I would be the head, Tortillard the eyes, and you the hand, — eh, Chouette? You will help me in this, won’t you?”
“Am I not with you to gallows and rope, fourline? Didn’t I, when I left the hospital, and learnt that you had sent the ‘yokel’ from St. Mandé to ask for me at the ogress’s — didn’t I run to you at the village directly, telling those chawbacons of labourers that I was your rib?”
These words of the “one-eyed’s” reminded the Schoolmaster of an unpleasant affair, and, altering his tone and language with the Chouette, he said, in a surly tone:
“Yes, I was getting tired of being all by myself with these honest people. After a month I could not stand it any longer; I was frightened. So then I thought of trying to find you out; and a nice thing I did for myself,” he added, in a tone of increasing anger; “for the day after you arrived I was robbed of the rest of the money which that devil in the Allée des Veuves had given me. Yes, some one stole my belt full of gold whilst I was asleep. It was only you who could have done it; and so now I am at your mercy. Whenever I think of it, I can hardly restrain myself from killing you on the spot — you cursed old robber, you!” and he stepped towards the old woman.
“Look out for yourself, if you try to do any harm to the Chouette!” cried Tortillard.
“I will smash you both — you and she — base vipers as you are!” cried the ruffian, enraged; and, hearing the boy mumbling near him, he aimed at him so violent a blow with his fist, as must have killed him if it had struck him. Tortillard, as much to revenge himself as the Chouette, picked up a stone, took aim, and struck the Schoolmaster on the forehead. The blow was not dangerous, but very painful. The brigand grew furious with passion, raging like a wounded bull, and, rushing forward swiftly and at random, stumbled.
“What, break your own back?” shouted the Chouette, laughing till she cried.
Despite the bloody ties which bound her to this monster, she saw how entirely, and with a sort of savage delight, this man, formerly so dreaded, and so proud of his giant strength, was reduced to impotence. The old wretch, by these feelings, justified that cold-blooded idea of La Rochefoucauld’s, that “there is something in the misfortunes of our best friends which does not displease us.” The disgusting brat, with his tawny cheeks and weasel face, enjoyed and participated in the mirth of the one-eyed hag. The Schoolmaster tripped again, and the urchin exclaimed:
“Open your peepers, old fellow; look about you. You are going the wrong way. What capers you are cutting! Can’t you see your way? Why don’t you wipe your eye-glasses?”
Unable to seize on the boy, the athletic murderer stopped, struck his foot violently on the ground, put his enormous and hairy fists to his eyes, and then uttered a sound which resembled the hoarse scream of a muzzled tiger.
“Got a bad cough, I’m afraid, old chap!” said Bras Rouge’s brat. “You’re hoarse, I’m afraid? I have some capital liquorice which a gen-d’arme gave me. P’raps you’d like to try it?” and, taking up a handful of sand, he threw it in the face of the ruffian.
Struck full in his countenance by this shower of gravel, the Schoolmaster suffered still more severely by this last attack than by the blow from the stone. Become pale, in spite of his livid and cicatrised features, he extended his two arms suddenly in the form of a cross, in a moment of inexpressible agony and despair, and, raising his frightful face to heaven, he cried, in a voice of deep suffering:
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
This involuntary appeal to divine mercy by a man stained by every crime, a bandit in whose presence but very recently the most resolute of his fellows trembled, appeared like an interposition of Providence.
“Ha! ha! ha!” said the Chouette, in a mocking tone; “look at the thief making the crucifix! You mistake your road, my man. It is the ‘old one’ you should call to your help.”
“A knife! Oh, for a knife to kill myself! A knife! since all the world abandons me!” shrieked the wretch, gnawing his fists for very agony and rage.
“A knife! — there’s one in your pocket, cut-throat, and with an edge, too. The little old man in the Rue du Roule, you know, one moonlight night, and the cattle-dealer in the Poissy road, could tell the ‘moles’ all about it. But if you want it, it’s here.”
The Schoolmaster, when thus instructed, changed the conversation, and replied, in a surly and threatening tone:
“The Chourineur was true; he did not rob, but had pity on me.”
“Why did you say that I had ‘prigged your blunt’?” inquired the Chouette, hardly able to restrain her laughter.
“It was only you who came into my room,” said the miscreant. “I was robbed on the night of your arrival, and who else could I suspect? Those country people could not have done such a thing.”
“Why should not country people steal as well as other folks? Is it because they drink milk and gather grass for their rabbits?”
“I don’t know. I only know I’m robbed.”
“And is that the fault of your own Chouette? What! suspect me? Do you think if I had got your belt that I should stay any longer with you. What a fool you are! Why, if I had chosen to ‘pouch your blunt,’ I could, of course; but, as true as I’m Chouette, you would have seen me again when the ‘pewter’ was spent, for I like you as well now with your eyes white, as I did — you rogue, you! Come, be decent, and leave off grinding your ‘snags’ in that way, or you’ll break ’em.”
“It’s just as if he was a-cracking nuts,” said Tortillard.
“Ha! ha! ha! what a droll baby it is! But quiet, now, quiet, my man of men; let him laugh, it is but an infant. You must own you have been unfair; for when the tall man in mourning, who looks like a mute at a funeral, said to me, ‘A thousand francs are yours if you carry off this young girl from the farm at Bouqueval, and bring her to the spot in the Plain of St. Denis that I shall tell you,’ say, cut-throat, didn’t I directly tell you of the affair and agree to share with you, instead of choosing some ‘pal’ with his eyesight clear? Why, it’s like making you a handsome present for doing nothing; for unless to bundle up the girl and carry her, with Tortillard’s assistance, you would be of no more use to me than the fifth wheel to an omnibus. But never mind; for, although I could have robbed you if I would, I like, on the contrary, to do you service. I should wish you to owe everything to your darling Chouette — that’s my way, that is. We must give two hundred ‘bob’ to Barbillon for driving the coach, and coming once before with the servant of the tall man in mourning, to look about the place and determine where we should hide ourselves whilst we waited for the young miss; and then we shall have eight hundred ‘bob’ between us. What do you say to that old boy? What! still angry with your old woman?”
“How do I know that you will give me a ‘mag’ when once the thing’s done? Why! — I” — said the ruffian, in a tone of gloomy distrust.
“Why, if I like, I need not give you a dump, that’s true enough; for you are on my gridiron, my lad, as I once had the Goualeuse; and so I will broil you to my own taste, till the ‘old one’ gets the cooking of my darling — ha! ha! ha! What, still sulky with your Chouette?” added the horrible woman, patting the shoulder of the ruffian, who stood mute and motionless.
