Chapter XXXVII: The Concierge-Nurse

In a hasty, violent, nervous disposition, wrath is quick to come; it bursts out violently, but it does not last long; the heart that feels the most profoundly the wounds that it receives, is also the most sensitive to the tears that it sees shed, and it very speedily repents of the pain it has inflicted.

The Comte de Brevanne, who had only a few hours before acquired the certainty that his wife had had a child by Roncherolle, had been unable to control his wrath and his jealousy when their child appeared before him; at the first blush, he had imagined that it was a fresh insult, an additional affront purposely put upon him. All his sufferings, all his anguish had returned to his mind and to his heart, and we have seen how, as a result of all these circumstances, he had received poor Violette.

But when a half hour had passed after the young girl's departure, the count, who had remained alone in his study, had had time to grow calm; moreover, the storm that was in the air had broken, the rain was falling in torrents; at such times nervous people always feel relieved, they breathe more freely, their brain becomes clearer and their irritation falls with the rain.

Brevanne looked about him, passed his hand over his forehead, and said to himself:

"So that girl has gone. How I treated her! why, I must have lost my reason. She came here to ask me for help, for protection, and I brutally sent her away, drove her out of doors. Poor child! is it her fault that she is the fruit of adultery? She does not know who her mother is, as she came to ask me for information concerning her parents. They shamelessly abandoned her, and I turn her out of doors! Can it be that I propose to be as shameless as they? Ah! I behaved very badly. And this storm--great heavens! the rain is falling in sheets. Can she have gone away in such weather?"

The count rang violently and Pongo quickly answered.

"Master, he ring?"

"Yes; that young girl from Paris who came just now to speak to me--where is she? Go and find her, and bring her back; I don't want her to go away."

"Yes, master."

And the mulatto, who had seen no girl, ran all over the house, the courtyard and the garden, shouting at the top of his voice:

"Young girl from Paris! come right back. Master ask for you; master want to see you. She no answer.--Oh! me find you!"

Georget spied Pongo just at the moment that he was applying to a great chestnut tree, saying to it:

"You see young lady who come to speak to master?"

"What are you doing there, Pongo?"

"Monsieur Georget, me look for someone master want, and me no find."

"And you are applying to that tree to learn where she is?"

"Oh! he understand all right; he no speak, but he understand."

"Whom are you looking for?"

"A young girl from Paris, who come to speak to master; he no longer want her to go away."

"A young girl from Paris has been here to see Monsieur Malberg?"

"Yes."

"What was she like, Pongo? Describe her to me."

"Me no see her. It was master, him tell me."

"Who let her in then? Ah! there's the gardener."

Georget ran to the gardener, and Pongo ran about the garden, talking to the trees and the flowers.

"Did you see this girl who came from Paris to speak to monsieur?"

"Yes, to be sure; it was me who let her in and took her to the master."

"What was she like?"

"Pretty as a picture, on my word; she's a fine slip of a girl."

"Did she tell you her name before you let her in?"

"No, she said it wasn't worth while."

"Did she stay long with monsieur?"

"Why, yes, quite a while."

"And she has gone?"

"Yes, as much as half an hour ago; the storm was just beginning, and when I saw that, I asked her to wait in my house; I told her she'd get wet; but she wouldn't stop; she made me feel bad because she was crying."

"She was crying? What! she was crying when she left Monsieur Malberg?"

"I should say so! big tears too! she looked as if she was in very great trouble, but she started off all the same."

Georget waited to hear no more; he ran to the count, and could hardly say what he wished to, he was so excited.

"Monsieur, the girl who came--a young girl came from Paris,--and talked with you, monsieur?"

"To be sure; well?"

"Why, she went away again, monsieur; and the gardener noticed that when she went away, she was crying, she was very unhappy."

"Ah! she was crying?"

"Yes, monsieur. I ask your pardon, monsieur, for questioning you; but this girl--was it she, monsieur?"

"She--who?"

"Violette, monsieur, the little flower girl; the one that--you know, monsieur."

"No, no, it wasn't she;" replied the count, trying to calm Georget's excitement. "Why do you suppose that that girl would come to see me?"

"Mon Dieu! I don't know, monsieur; but as you spoke to her one day, in Paris, I thought that perhaps she might have something to say to you. But it wasn't she who came here and of course that makes a difference; excuse me, monsieur."

At that moment Pongo appeared in the count's apartment, all out of breath, crying:

"Master! master! girl from Paris--I no bring her back, her gone."

"All right, I know it."

"Oh yes; but me know from Thomas,--he meet her in the country, and her out in all the storm! he call to her: 'stop, mamzelle; come, get under cover.' But her run all the time just like her not hear, and her all soaked with water. Poor girl, her get sick for sure!"

The count turned pale, but he concealed his emotion and requested to be left alone. Pongo went back to Carabi, saying:

"He want to go out too; but me no want him to get wet like the young girl; poor girl, in the fields when it storm; that not right!"

Georget said no more; but although Monsieur de Brevanne had assured him that the girl was not Violette, although he dared not doubt his protector's words, yet he felt sad and oppressed, and he deeply regretted that he had not seen the poor girl who had gone away weeping.

Early the next morning, without a word to anybody, the count started for Paris; and he had no sooner arrived than he betook himself to Boulevard du Chateau d'Eau. The weather was cold but fine; it was one of those beautiful autumn mornings when the sun shines on the yellow leaves and promises a fine day.

It was not a flower market day; but some of the flower girls were in their places, none the less. As the count approached, he looked about for Violette, but in vain. The girl, who was ordinarily so faithful to her occupation, had not opened her booth, had not appeared in her place.

Monsieur de Brevanne waited for a long time, walking back and forth on the boulevard; he entered a cafe nearby, breakfasted, read the newspapers, and then returned to the place where the flower girl always stood; but Violette did not come.

"She is probably kept away to-day by the necessity of buying flowers for her trade," said the count to himself; "I will go back to Nogent and I will see her to-morrow."

But on the next day, the young flower girl was not in her place, and the count was again obliged to go away without seeing her.

The girl's health had been seriously impaired by the events and the agitation resulting from her journey to Nogent. One does not experience a violent disappointment with impunity; one does not defy the storm and wind without feeling the effects of it. On leaving the coal barge, Violette shivered on her companion's arm, and he noticed it; on reaching her room, the girl had gone to bed at once, and on the next day, despite her earnest desire to attend to her business, it had been impossible for her to rise.

Luckily, Mere Lamort was always at the service of her tenants. The concierge passed her time going up and down the six flights of stairs in her house. Her dog kept her lodge, and barked when anyone entered and attempted to ascend the staircase. At that signal from her substitute, Mere Lamort instantly went to the window of the floor where she happened to be, and conversed from there with the persons who came to see some of the tenants.

Chicotin, who was now deeply interested in Violette's health, finding that she did not come to the boulevard on the day following the evening when he had prevented her from accomplishing her fatal design, did not fail to go and enquire of the concierge, who replied:

"The girl's sick and in bed; I am making her some herb tea, because that breaks up a fever."

The young messenger, whom Mere Lamort's information failed to reassure, climbed the six flights rapidly and entered Violette's room; he found her in bed, with the flushed face and hollow, burning eyes which indicate a violent attack of fever. But the girl smiled at Chicotin and offered him her hand, saying in a weak voice:

"Thanks, Chicotin, for coming to see me; what you said last night was true; that shower has made me sick; but it won't amount to anything."

"Don't you want me to fetch a doctor, mamzelle?"

"No, it's not necessary; it won't amount to anything. Besides, the concierge is very kind, she takes good care of me."

"She is going to bring you up some herb tea; but I will come every day to find out how you are getting on,--twice a day rather than once."

"I don't want to interfere with your work, my friend."

"Oh! that won't interfere with me. In fact, I have a customer in your house, just below you,--a gentleman who isn't always steady on his legs; but just at present he seems to walk very well. Would you like me to tell him to come up to see you? You see, he is no fool; he talks better than I do."

"Thanks, Chicotin, I don't need any company; I am never bored when I'm alone, for I know how to read, I like to read; and besides that, I have plenty to think about."

"But not about such miserable things as you thought about yesterday?"

"No, no; that's all over."

"Good. I spoke to you about your neighbor because he ain't a young man and it wouldn't make any gossip; but if you don't want him to come--Ah! here's Mere Lamort with a pitcher in each hand. You will have something nice.--Good-by, mamzelle, I'll come again soon."

On leaving Violette, Chicotin met Monsieur de Roncherolle on the stairs, going up to his room.

"Ah! are you coming from my room, my boy?" said the gouty gentleman when he recognized his usual messenger.

"No, bourgeois, no; I am coming from the room over yours."

"Over mine? What, are there people perched higher than I am? I thought that I acted as lightning rod for the house."

"Oh, no, monsieur, there's a very pretty young girl, who lives all alone above you."

"Ah! you rascal! I see,--this girl is your mistress!"

"No, monsieur, you don't see at all. The poor girl is adored by one of my friends, and I should never think of such a thing as making love to her, because, you see, I ain't capable of being false to a friend, although I'm only a messenger."

"You are right, my boy, you are right," murmured Roncherolle, hanging his head, "for that doesn't bring good luck."

"But if you knew all that has happened to the poor girl! Just imagine, monsieur, that if it hadn't been for me, she would have jumped into the canal last night."

"Indeed! for what reason? Desperate with love--her lover has abandoned her, I suppose?"

"No, he still loves her, he thinks of nothing but her; he thinks that she was unfaithful to him; he is convinced that she has listened to a fine young dandy who makes eyes at her, and who has boasted of having been her lover."

"And why do you think that it isn't true?"

"Why, bourgeois? Because, last night, when she went aboard the coal barge, with the intention of carrying out her fatal plan, she couldn't have suspected that I was there, hidden behind the coal; and before she jumped into the water, she knelt down, to make a last prayer to the good Lord. She asked Him to forgive her for putting an end to her life, but she said that she didn't feel strong enough to live, despised and humiliated by everybody, abandoned by everybody she loved, when she had done nothing to reproach herself for. When she said that, she couldn't guess that anyone was listening to her, and she was getting ready to die. Well, I say that at such a time she couldn't lie; ain't that right, monsieur?"

Roncherolle tapped Chicotin on the shoulder and smiled.

"He doesn't reason badly, the rascal.--But what does your little protegee do?"

"She is a flower girl, monsieur. Now I think of it, you know her; she is the one you bought a bouquet of the first time I had the honor of meeting you,--when you told me to come with you."

"The deuce! is it possible that it is that pretty, attractive girl? for she is remarkably lovely, this friend of yours."

"Yes, monsieur, yes; she's the one; Violette, they call her."

"But wait a moment--if it's she, why the young dandy who claims to be her lover must be a certain Monsieur Jericourt."

"Just so, master; Jericourt's his name--a man who writes plays; do you know him?"

"I dined with him a short time ago."

"Do you know him well?"

"No, thank God! Why do you ask me that?"

"Oh! not for any reason; that is to say, I was thinking that if he was a friend of yours, he might not lie so much to you, that's all."

"No, he isn't a friend of mine by any means.--By the way, you say that this girl is sick; has she enough money to be well taken care of?"

"Oh! yes, bourgeois; she ain't hard up, she sells all she wants to; and then, she has money put by."

"So much the better; who is taking care of her?"

"Your concierge, Mere Lamort."

"I don't know that one can have much confidence in her as a doctor. I will go myself to see this girl, for what you have told me has aroused my interest in her."

"I am sorry, bourgeois, but that can't be."

"What is it that can't be?"

"You can't go to see Mamzelle Violette, because she forbids it."

"How can she have forbidden it? I have never been there."

"Excuse me, but this is how it is: you see, when I was talking with her this morning, I took the liberty to mention you; I told her that she had a very pleasant neighbor."

"Ah! you say such things about me, do you?"

"That you were my customer.--By the way, bourgeois, shall I take a bouquet to Madame de Grangeville from you to-day?"

"No, no, that's all over; you won't take her any more bouquets--from me at least.--But let us return to the flower girl; you said to her----"

"I said to her: 'you have a very distinguished neighbor, who is--who is no fool.'"

"Really, you don't think me a fool?"

"No, monsieur."

"I am very much flattered that you have such a good opinion of me."

"You are joking; but I know what I'm talking about, I tell you!"

"And this girl doesn't choose to receive me because you told her that I was no fool?"

"Oh! it isn't that. I said: 'If you wish, mamzelle, Monsieur de Roncherolle won't refuse to come now and then to sit with you, and he'll be splendid company for you;' and then I added: 'you can receive him without compromising yourself, because in the first place, he ain't young, in the second place, he's gouty, and in the third place---- '"

"Go on, while you are about it!"

"In short, I meant to say that you didn't look like a rake."

"It is certain that I should find it rather difficult to play that part now.--But this extravagant eulogy of my person did not make your friend disposed to see me?"

"No; she said that she didn't need company, that she preferred to think all by herself."

"In that case, my boy, we will let her alone; we must never annoy anybody, especially the sick."

Monsieur de Roncherolle entered his room, and Chicotin returned to the boulevard, saying to himself:

"Shall I go to Nogent and tell Georget all that has happened? If I do, he won't be able to think badly of Violette any more. On the other hand, if I tell him that she's sick, he'll worry and torment himself; he'll want to come back to Paris and perhaps that will displease his employer. I think that I'd better wait until Violette is well before I go to see Georget."

But the next day, the young flower girl, very far from being well, had a higher fever and was slightly delirious; she hardly recognized Chicotin when he came to see her. He said to the concierge, when she approached with several jugs in her hand:

"It seems to me that your patient ain't doing very well, Mere Lamort?"

"Oh, yes! oh, yes!"

"What's that? oh, yes? Why she hardly recognized me, and then she says things that don't mean anything."

"It's the delirium going away; but I've got three kinds of herb tea for her and--ah! there's Mirontaine barking; somebody's coming."

And the concierge put her head out of the round window on the sixth floor overlooking the courtyard.

"Who's there? Who do you want?" she cried.

An old man who had entered the house, looked up and answered in a quavering voice which only reached the fourth floor:

"Have you a Monsieur Dupuis in the house?"

"What? What's that? is there a well--_puits_--in the house?"

"He used to be an advocate."

"You say it's your trade?"

"He has several children."

"Are you looking for lodgings?"

"Aren't you coming down?"

"You say that you stuff mattresses? What a miserable voice! I wonder if the man has got a cold in his head!--Ah! there's Mirontaine barking again; I must go down.--Coming!--What a nuisance!"

The concierge went downstairs, and Chicotin, after examining Violette again, shook his head and said to himself:

"I don't know whether it's wise to trust to Madame Lamort's three kinds of tea; I don't know much about such things myself, but I see well enough that this poor girl has a devil of a fever. No matter what happens, I shall go down and fetch the old fellow from the floor below."

Chicotin went down to Roncherolle's room, and found him all ready to go out.

"Have you come again to see if you are to carry a bouquet to the baroness?" he asked with a smile; "I told you that that was all gone by; I shan't have any more bouquets to send to anybody."

"No, bourgeois, no, I ain't come for that, but because of your little neighbor upstairs, Mamzelle Violette."

"Well, how is she to-day?"

"Not well; she's as wild as a hawk; the concierge says that that's a good sign, but I don't agree with her; I came to ask you if you would have the kindness to go to see her, because you're better able than I am to judge of her condition."

"So you think that she will be willing to receive me to-day, do you?"

"Pardi! yes, as she don't know whether there's anyone near her, and as just now she thought she was in the country, under the trees."

"I am not a doctor, but no matter, I will go to see this girl, and if I can be of any use to her, I ask nothing better; show me the way."

"Come, bourgeois, we haven't got far to go."

"I can believe that."

Roncherolle followed the young messenger, who ushered him into Violette's room. The attic chamber was not elegant, but it was neat and clean; the furniture was decent and in good condition; in short, nothing in the room indicated poverty, or made the heart ache; on the contrary, there were two large bouquets in two pretty vases.

Roncherolle approached the spotless white bed on which the sick girl lay; she seemed to be in a very agitated sleep. He took one hand which was moist and burning, he felt her pulse, then shook his head, saying:

"The fever is very high, but the skin is not dry; I am glad of that, it is less dangerous."

"You don't like dry skins?"

"I say that I don't think that this fever is dangerous. But what do I see on the mantel?"

"Those are flowers, some of Mamzelle Violette's stock."

"Such enormous bunches of flowers in a sick room! why, there's enough there to kill her, and I'm not surprised that she is out of her head; take them all away at once, throw the flowers out of the window."

"You see, Mamzelle Violette adores flowers, and Mere Lamort, instead of leaving them in a corner of the courtyard, by the pump, where Violette always keeps them, she said yesterday: 'I'll just take two big bunches, and she'll enjoy looking at them as long as she is lying in her bed.'"

"Mere Lamort seems to me too well named; if that's the way that she takes care of sick people, I must congratulate her.--Take all these flowers away, my boy, and give the girl nothing to drink except a very weak infusion of linden, with a few orange leaves: I am no doctor, but I have an idea that that will be enough, and that she will be better to-morrow. But take all these flowers away, don't leave a single one here!"

While Chicotin hastily removed all the flowers from the vases, Roncherolle gazed at the sleeping girl and murmured:

"It would be a pity; she is very pretty, is this child. Where the devil have I seen that face?--Come, my boy, we'll let her sleep; I am going down to give Mere Lamort a talking to."