Chapter XXXIV: The Coal Barge

They had all returned to their duties. But hardly an hour had passed since the count's return, when a young woman appeared at the gate. The gardener happened to be alone in front of the house at that moment, and he admitted Violette, for it was she who had arrived at Nogent and had succeeded in finding the house she had sought.

"Is this Monsieur Malberg's house?" the girl asked timidly.

"Yes, mamzelle, this is the place."

"Is Monsieur Malberg at home?"

"Yes, he came back from Paris about an hour ago."

"And could I--could I speak to him?"

"Oh, yes! I think so. But come in, mamzelle, and I will go and tell monsieur."

Violette passed through the gate tremblingly; the gardener, who had taken a step or two toward the house, returned to her and said:

"Who shall I tell monsieur? What is your name?"

"My name, monsieur--but it isn't worth while; Monsieur Malberg won't remember my name; or else, perhaps then he wouldn't want to,--and in that case I would rather--oh dear! I don't know!"

"Bless my soul! I don't know either."

"Just be kind enough to tell Monsieur Malberg that it's a girl who has come from Paris, and who would like to speak to him."

"Very good."

The gardener went into the house; Violette glanced timidly about, hoping that in those beautiful avenues which she admired, in the fields which she saw in the distance, she might catch a glimpse of Georget; then she said to herself with a sigh:

"No, it is much better that he shouldn't see me, for he would think that I came here after him, and he would be quite capable of running away from this house too."

"If mamzelle will come this way, monsieur is ready to receive her," said the gardener, returning.

Violette was greatly agitated, but she followed her guide toward the house.

The count was in his study on the ground floor; all the curtains at the windows were drawn, night was coming on, and the room was dark and silent.

"Here's the young woman," said the gardener, pushing Violette before him, as she did not dare go in, and saying in her ear:

"Don't be afraid, he won't eat you!"

"Who is it who wishes to see me?" said the count, who was seated at his desk.

"Excuse me, monsieur, it is I."

Violette had finally made up her mind to enter the room; she was then close to Monsieur de Brevanne's desk, and he, as he raised his eyes, was thunderstruck to see the young flower girl before him.

"What! you? you here, in my house?" he cried, almost angrily.

"Yes, monsieur, yes; you recognize me, do you not, monsieur?"

"Recognize you? oh, yes; your features are too deeply engraven in my memory!--But once more, mademoiselle, why have you come here? Who sent you?"

"Sent me? No one sent me, monsieur; I have come of my own accord. It is very bold on my part, no doubt, but when one does not know which way to turn, when one receives fresh insults every day, which one does not deserve--for I swear to you, monsieur, that I have no fault to reproach myself with, that I can walk with my head erect, that I can look my comrades in the face without blushing; and yet I am suspected, and more than that, people say that I am a good-for-nothing, and those who ought to defend me are the first to abandon me, to despise me. Oh! I am very unhappy, monsieur. Excuse me for coming to tell you this; I know that it doesn't interest you, and yet, if you would take up my defence, monsieur, I am very sure that people would believe you; and he--he who is here at your house, with his mother, if you should tell him that it's horrible to say unkind things about me--for what he believes he tells to others, to his friends, and yesterday Chicotin, who is a good fellow, although he loafs too much, Chicotin, who has always been friendly to me, why, even he insulted me, he treated me with contempt! Ah! that was too much; I felt that my courage was giving way; and to get back a little of it, I thought of you, monsieur, who like so much to do good; I said to myself that you would take pity on a poor girl without parents, without friends, without anybody on earth to help her; that you would defend her; and that is why I came, monsieur."

Violette ceased to speak and waited for the count to answer her; but he seemed absorbed in his thoughts, his head had fallen upon his breast, and he said nothing.

After a pause, the girl continued:

"Monsieur seemed the other day to take a little interest in me, and that is what encouraged me to come here."

"Ah! in my house! you!" cried Brevanne, roused from his meditations by these words; "why, you know very well, mademoiselle, that my house is no place for you; that you less than any other ought to come here; that it's like defying me, like hurling an insult in my face, to come here!"

Violette felt her strength giving way; as she was utterly unable to understand the indignation of this man who had been described to her as so kind-hearted, she lowered her eyes and faltered:

"Monsieur, I did not know--I did not think--God knows that I had no such intention as you suppose. Excuse me, monsieur, I see that I did wrong to come, as it makes you angry; but I thought that you would have pity on me, a poor girl, alone on earth, without----"

"Without parents? Who told you that you were without parents? I am almost certain that you have parents, for I know them."

"Mon Dieu! can it be possible, monsieur, that you know my parents, that you can tell me whether my mother is still alive? Oh! for heaven's sake, do not deceive me, do not give me a false hope! See, monsieur, as your questions the other day led me to think that you might help me to find my family, to-day, when I came here, I thought I would bring with me the only object that I have that belonged to my parents."

"Ah! you have something that proves to whom you belong--a paper, a letter, no doubt? Give it to me, give it to me; I shall recognize their handwriting."

"No, monsieur, it isn't handwriting, it's nothing but a handkerchief. It seems that it was among the things they gave my nurse to procure clothes for me; you see I had a very strange kind of _layette_, monsieur; there were trousers in it and waistcoats and cravats; probably my parents thought I was a boy."

"But this handkerchief--"

"The handkerchief my nurse thought was so beautiful, so nicely embroidered, that she did not cut it up to make me a cap, but she kept it for me. Mon Dieu! now I can't find it; but I am sure that I brought it. Ah! here it is, monsieur, here it is."

And Violette handed the count a handkerchief of the finest linen, with embroidery in each corner. The count walked to a window, examined the embroidery, and recognized his wife's monogram and his own, as well as his coat of arms and his coronet.

That proof was convincing; it removed Monsieur de Brevanne's last doubt; and although he was previously almost certain that Violette was the daughter of his wife and of Roncherolle, on recognizing the monogram, he felt a violent wrench at his heart, and a shudder ran through his veins; for, however suspicious one may be of a fact, there is a vast distance between that and certainty.

"Does monsieur see on the handkerchief anything that helps him to identify my parents, and to tell whether they are still alive?" murmured Violette, while the count kept his eyes fixed on the handkerchief.

"Yes, yes, I have no doubt whatever now, and I had rightly divined who you were."

"In that case, monsieur will certainly tell me----"

"But whoever entrusted you to a nurse must have given you some name, have told her the name of your parents, or given her their address. Tell me, mademoiselle, what name did they give? Answer; I insist that you conceal nothing from me!"

The count's wrathful expression, and the tone in which he questioned the girl, made her tremble; poor Violette dared not meet the angry glances that were bent upon her, and she hardly had the strength to reply:

"Mon Dieu, monsieur, I am not concealing anything; on the contrary, I came here to find out. I don't remember my nurse, but the kind lady who took me in, and who brought me up and took me to Paris, was careful to write down all that the nurse had told her. That is how I know that the gentleman who placed me in the nurse's charge told her that my name was Evelina de Paulausky; but he didn't give any address; he said that he would come to see me, that he would write; but no one came, no one ever wrote, they forgot me, abandoned me; that is all that I know, monsieur, absolutely all; for if I knew anything else, why should I not tell it to you, monsieur, as it might help me to find out who my parents are?"

"Evelina de Paulausky!" exclaimed the count, pacing the floor. "At least they had the decency to conceal their names! But Roncherolle? Why didn't he give her his?--Because, after doing the wrong, he did not choose to take the consequences, and they considered that the simplest way was to abandon the child. Ah! the wretches!"

Violette waited in fear and trembling for the count to speak to her; for she saw from his excitement, and from the threatening expression of his face, that he was still angry, and she dared not question him further; but, as time passed and the count, absorbed in his reflections, continued to pace the floor and to pay no attention to the girl, she mustered all her courage and said to him at last:

"Since you know my parents, monsieur, in pity's name be kind enough to tell me who they are. Is my mother still alive?"

"Your parents?" cried Brevanne, halting suddenly in front of the girl; "your parents? Ah! you want to know who they are, do you? Well, learn that you are the child of crime--treachery! Your mother was false to all her duties, she was false to the oaths she had taken to an honorable man, she was obliged to lay aside the name which she had sullied. Your father! ah! your father betrayed friendship in the most dastardly way; believing in nothing, respecting nothing, mocking at all that is held sacred in the world, turning to ridicule the most sacred sentiments, he betrayed his best friend!"

"Oh! pity, pity for them, monsieur!"

"Pity! why, you see that they had no pity for you;--for they abandoned you--and now you think that I will take care of you,--of you, their child, the fruit of their adulterous intercourse!--No, no! I do not want to see you again; your presence reopens all my wounds.--Leave my house, mademoiselle, and enter it no more."

"Oh! pardon, pardon, monsieur! if I had known----"

"As for this handkerchief, which belonged to your mother, I will keep it, for there are monograms on it and a coat of arms which you have no right to retain. Go, go; I do not want to see you any more; your presence distresses me."

Violette felt as if she were dying; but the count's wrath terrified her; utterly crushed by what she had learned, she had not the strength to say a word; she left the study and the house; two streams of tears flowed from her eyes, and she did not think of wiping them away. She crossed the lawn and went toward the gate; the gardener, who was still there, struck by the girl's suffering, called to her, asked her why she was weeping, and urged her to stop a moment in the summer-house, observing that the weather was very threatening and that a storm was brewing. Violette did not listen, or did not hear, but walked on at a rapid pace, and soon passed through the gate and left the count's residence behind.

Despairing, humiliated, distressed beyond measure at having been so maltreated by the man who had made Georget and his mother welcome, Violette walked for a long time without any idea where she was going. But what did it matter to her? She paid no heed to the road that she was following, but she walked very quickly; not to gain shelter from the rain which was beginning to fall, for she did not feel it; her head was on fire, her limbs shook with fever; but she walked on, saying to herself:

"I am a child of crime! my mother was guilty, my father was false to friendship! ah! no doubt that is the reason why he drives me from his house, and forbids me to ask help and protection from him. Well, in that case, it is not worth while to live; it was not enough to have been abandoned by my parents; now that people know who I am, I must expect to be turned away with contempt wherever I go. How he treated me, that gentleman who is said to be so kind! Oh, no! I cannot live like this, I am too unhappy. Despised by the whole world,--I had done nothing to deserve that; and now my birth is thrown in my face! Did I ask to be born?"

Violette walked on, but darkness came on rapidly and soon she could see nothing, and kept running against trees. She had gone astray in the wood of Vincennes, and the rain was falling in torrents. The poor girl leaned against a small tree, whose foliage was insufficient to protect her from the storm; but she did not notice the water which drenched her garments, for she was absorbed by her grief. A little covered wagon, drawn by a meagre horse, passed along the road by the side of which Violette had stopped; a peasant, who was inside, saw the girl exposed to the fury of the storm; he stopped his wagon and called out to her:

"You are not in a very good place there; you are getting the whole of it; get in with me; if you are going to Paris, I'll put you down at the Barriere de Belleville."

"Thanks, monsieur, thanks, it isn't worth while;" replied Violette in a feeble voice. "I am all right here."

"All right! oh, yes! you are all right to catch a sickness; I won't leave a woman in the woods at this time of night, and in such weather as this!--Oho! you don't want to get in, don't you?--Well, I am going to make you! yes, I tell you you've got to get in!"

The peasant jumped down from his wagon, took the girl under the arms, forced her to the step, put one foot upon it and at last succeeded in making her get in. Violette submitted like a child. The peasant seated her upon his cabbages and carrots, saying:

"You will be better in here than under that little tree, catching all the rain; you're wet through already, and I'm sure that's what made you numb. Poor girl, she can't talk nor move her legs; but the jolting of the wagon will warm her up.--Come on, get up, Blanchet!"

Blanchet started; the cart, having no springs, did in fact shake its occupants in a fashion well calculated to rouse their wits. Violette submitted to the jolting, and said nothing; she seemed indifferent to all that went on about her; she understood but one thing, and that was that she ought not to live any longer, because she would be despised by everybody; she was unhappy enough when she went to Nogent in the morning; now she was desperate, and she came away from there with death in her heart; she had hoped to find consolation and protection there, but she had found shame and contempt; she had been turned away, and she did not feel that she had the strength to endure that last affront.

The peasant who had taken the girl into his wagon did not notice her gloomy despair; as he talked all the time, as he asked questions and answered them all himself, other persons did not need to open their mouths with him; his mouth was a word-mill, which was always at work. Thus they arrived at the Barriere de la Courtille, where the peasant stopped Blanchet, and said to the girl:

"My child, this is where I stop; I can't take you any further. But here you are in Paris, and the best part of it is that the rain has stopped; indeed I believe that the weather is going to be fine again; it wouldn't surprise me. I will help you down, for you must have limbered up by now, haven't you? My wagon always produces that effect. Come, lean on me--that's the way! You see, there's Faubourg du Temple in front of you, and the boulevard's at the end of it. That's the way you want to go; all right, good luck; but you'd better dry yourself as soon as you get home."

The peasant left the young girl and entered a wine shop. Violette had not even found a word of thanks to say to the good-natured man; she was in the street, she looked at the barrier, passed her hand over her forehead as if to collect her thoughts, then entered Paris, saying to herself:

"I know where I am, the canal is over yonder!"

Violette was no longer weeping, her eyes were dry. She walked rapidly through the faubourg, and when she reached the canal, instead of crossing the bridge, she turned to the left and walked for some time along the bank. It was ten o'clock at night, and there were few people on the path that she followed. A fatal idea had taken possession of the girl's mind--she was determined to die; she thought that she was dishonored because the man whose assistance she had implored had turned her out of his house. She said to herself that Georget could never love her again now, and she was resolved to rid herself of an existence which would henceforth be nothing but torture to her.

Suddenly she stopped and looked about her; no one was passing. She stepped over the chain which was between her and the edge of the canal. In front of her there was a large coal barge; she hesitated a moment, then she reflected that she could throw herself into the water from the barge without being seen. She crossed a plank and was soon aboard of the barge; and before jumping into the water, she fell to her knees and murmured this prayer:

"O my God! forgive me; it is a crime that I am about to commit, but I no longer feel strong enough to endure life, to be despised by everybody, although I have not committed the sins of which I am accused. He can no longer love me, for his protector turns me out of his house; but perhaps he will regret me, and will learn some day that I was innocent."

She had no sooner finished these words than she rose and rushed forward; but someone who was hidden within a few steps of her and who had heard her prayer, stepped out and stopped her, holding her in a powerful grasp, and exclaiming:

"Upon my word! jump into the water! by all that's good! you shan't do it. God help me! how glad I am that I happened to be here, and that I took Pere Chiffon's place as watchman on the barge! Poor Mamzelle Violette! you--mean to die?"

"Yes, because I am despised by everyone."

"Oh! you won't be any more, mamzelle, you won't be any more! In the first place, not by me, Chicotin, for I heard you just now talking to the good Lord, and people don't lie to Him. I heard you, poor girl! you are innocent, and I understand how you must have suffered; but I will be one of the first to do you justice."

And Chicotin fell on his knees before the girl, took off his cap, and said to her in a humble voice:

"Mamzelle, I ask your pardon for suspecting you, for believing ugly things that were said about you. To-day I would swear before all the magistrates that you have never ceased to be virtuous. So forgive me, mamzelle, for suspecting you."

Chicotin's touching act, the words that he had uttered, revolutionized Violette's whole being; her tears flowed afresh, but this time they were soothing and relieved her; her heart expanded, she breathed more freely, it seemed to her that she had returned to life. She held out her hands to the young messenger, saying:

"Thanks, thanks, my friend; what you have done is well, I feel greatly relieved; yes, I no longer feel as I did; it seems to me as if you had relieved me of a heavy load that I was carrying here on my breast. Ah! I do not want to die now."

"Is that really so, Mamzelle Violette, is it really so? I tell you, that if I was still uneasy about that, I wouldn't leave you any more than your shadow."

"No, Chicotin, I no longer want to die, I swear; you have brought me back to life; and now, I will tell you that I am glad that you prevented me from carrying out my fatal design."

"Ah! that's what I call talking; but what was the cause of this attack of despair? Has somebody else been making you unhappy?"

Violette told Chicotin about her trip to Nogent, and of how she had been treated by Georget's protector.

"Mamzelle," said the young messenger, "that isn't natural; to make that gentleman, that people tell so much good about, get so angry with you, there must be something about your birth that isn't clear, and that worries him tremendously. Ah! if Georget had seen you sent away like that, I am very sure that he would have taken up your defence!"

"No, for he believes me guilty, he despises me."

"Oh, I will open his eyes, I will!"

"What I regret is that Monsieur Malberg kept that handkerchief, which was all that I had that belonged to my parents; for he said he wouldn't give it back to me."

"Oh! never fear, mamzelle, he'll have to give it back to you; I'll see to that.--But come, mamzelle, let's go away from here; I will take you home. The coal can look out for itself; besides, you live here in the faubourg, I believe."

"No, Chicotin; I have taken another room in a quieter house, on Rue de Crussol, and I've been living there a week."

"Rue de Crussol! I have a customer there. It would be funny if it was the same house. Come, mamzelle, take my arm; you are trembling and cold; I'll bet that you've got a fever."

"Perhaps so, a little; I got wet through; I have just come from Nogent, and I was out in part of the storm."

"You must go to bed at once when you get home, and try to keep very warm."

Violette took the young messenger's arm. They crossed the bridge at Rue d'Angouleme, and soon reached Rue de Crussol. The girl stopped in front of the house where Chicotin had found rooms for Roncherolle.

"This is the place," said Violette.

"Ah! what a coincidence! this is my customer's house. Which floor do you live on?"

"Oh! way up at the top, under the eaves; I believe it's the sixth floor; but the room is very pleasant, I assure you."

"That must be right over my gouty man. Is Mere Lamort your concierge?"

"Yes, a very good-hearted woman who always wants to get my breakfast."

"Well, mamzelle, take my advice and tell her to bring you up a mulled egg to-night; that will prevent you from being sick. Good-night, mamzelle; when I go to see my old gentleman, I'll ask the concierge about you. You don't bear me any grudge, mamzelle, do you?"

"Oh! no indeed, Chicotin; on the contrary, you prevented me from committing a crime, and you have brought hope back to my heart."

"Good-night then, mamzelle; I'll go back to look after the coal."