The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 6 of 6

Doctor Griffon then, throwing off the bed-clothes, nearly denuded poor Jeanne. It would be repugnant to describe the struggle of the unfortunate creature, who, in her shame, implored the doctor and his auditory. But at the threat, "You will be turned out of the hospital, if you do not submit to the established usages," – a threat so terrible for those to whom the hospital is the sole and last refuge, – Jeanne submitted to a public scrutiny, which lasted a long time, very long, for Doctor Griffon analysed and explained every symptom; and then the most studious of the pupils declared their wish to unite practice with theory, and also examine the patient. The end of this scene was that poor Jeanne felt such extreme emotion that she fell into a nervous crisis, for which Doctor Griffon gave an extra prescription.

The round continued, and the doctor soon reached the bed of Mlle. Claire de Fermont, a victim, like her mother, to the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand.

Mlle, de Fermont, dressed in a cap of the hospital, was leaning her head languidly on the bolster of the bed. In spite of the ravages of her malady, there might be detected on her open and sweet countenance the traces of a beauty full of distinction. After a night of keen anguish, the poor girl had fallen into a kind of feverish stupor, and when the doctor and his scientific train entered the ward she was not aroused by the noise.

"Another first subject, gentlemen," said the prince of science. "Disease, a slow nervous fever; if the receiving surgeon is not mistaken in the symptoms, this is a real godsend. For a long time I have desired a slow nervous fever, for that is not an ordinary complaint amongst the poor. These affections are usually produced after severe trouble in the social position of the subject, and I need hardly add that the higher the position of the patient, the more deep is the disease. It is, moreover, a complaint the more remarkable from its peculiar characteristics. It is traced to the very remotest antiquity, and the writings of Hippocrates have no doubt reference to it. This fever, I repeat, has almost always been produced from the most violent grief, and grief is as old as the world. Yet, strange to say, before the eighteenth century, this disease was never accurately described by any author; it was Huxham, whom the science of medicine of the age so highly honours, – Huxham, I say, who first defined accurately nervous fever; and yet it is a malady of the olden time," added the doctor, jocosely. "Eh, eh, eh! It belongs to the great, antique, and illustrious family of febris, whose origin is lost in the darkness of ages. But we may be rejoicing too soon; let us see if really we have the good fortune to possess here a sample of this curious affection; it would be doubly desirable, inasmuch as, for a very long time, I have been anxious to try the effect of the internal use of phosphorus. Yes, gentlemen," continued the doctor, hearing amongst his auditory a kind of shudder of curiosity, – "yes, gentlemen, of phosphorus; it is a singular experiment that I wish to try, and a bold one, and but audaces fortuna juvat, and the opportunity would be excellent. We will first try if the subject offers in all parts of the body, and particularly in the chest, that miliary eruption, so symptomatic according to Huxham, and you will assure yourselves, by feeling the subject, of the kind of uneven surface which this eruption produces. But do not let us sell the skin of our bear before we have killed it," added the prince of science, who was decidedly in very high spirits. And he shook Mlle. de Fermont's shoulder very gently, in order to wake her.

The young girl started and opened her large eyes, hollowed by the malady. It is impossible to describe her amaze and alarm. Whilst a crowd of men surrounded her bed, all fixing their eyes upon her, she felt the doctor's hand gliding under the quilt into her bed, in order to take her hand and feel her pulse. Mlle. de Fermont, collecting all her strength, in a cry of anguish, exclaimed:

"Mother! Help! Mother! Mother!"

By an almost providential chance, at the moment when the cries of Mlle. de Fermont made the old Count de Saint-Remy spring from his chair, for he recognised the voice, the door of the apartment opened, and a young lady, dressed in mourning, entered very hastily, accompanied by the governor of the hospital; this lady was the Marquise d'Harville.

"I beg of you, sir," she said to him, "to lead me to Mlle. de Fermont."

"Be so kind as to follow me," he replied, respectfully; "the young lady is in No. 17."

"Unhappy girl! Here – here!" said Madame d'Harville, drying her tears. "Ah, this is really frightful!"

The marquise, preceded by the governor, rapidly approached the group assembled beside the bed of Mlle. de Fermont, when they heard these words uttered with indignation:

"I tell you it is infamous murder; you will kill her, sir!"

"But, my dear Saint-Remy, do pray hear me!"

"I repeat, sir, that your conduct is atrocious! I consider Mlle. de Fermont as my daughter, and I forbid you going near her; I will have her immediately removed hence."

"But, my dear friend, it is a case of slow nervous fever, very rare; I am desirous of trying phosphorus. It is a unique occasion. Promise me, at least, that I shall have the care of her, and take her where you like, since you are determined to deprive us of so valuable a clinical subject."

"If you were not a madman, you would be a monster!" replied the count.

Clémence listened to these words with increasing anguish, but the crowd was so dense around the bed that the governor was obliged to say, in a loud voice:

"Make way, if you please, for the Marquise d'Harville, who has come to see No. 17."

At these words, the pupils made way with equal haste and respectful admiration when they saw Clémence's lovely face, which was radiant with so much emotion.

"Madame d'Harville!" exclaimed the Count de Saint-Remy, pushing the doctor rudely aside, and going hastily towards Clémence. "Ah, it is God who sends one of his angels here! Madame, I knew you took an interest in these two unfortunate beings, and, more happy than me, you have found them, whilst it was chance only that led me hither, to be present at a scene of unparalleled barbarity. Unhappy child! See, madame; and you, gentlemen, in the name of your sisters and daughters, have pity, I entreat, on a girl of sixteen, and leave her alone with madame and these good sisters; when she recovers her senses, I will have her conveyed hence."

"Very well, let it be so; I will sign her discharge!" exclaimed the doctor; "but I will not lose sight of her; she is a subject of mine, and I will attend her, do what you will. I'll not risk the phosphorus, I promise that; but I will pass my nights, if needs be, as I passed them with you, ungrateful Saint-Remy, for this fever is as curious as yours was; they are two sisters, who have an equal right to my interest."

"Confound the man! Why has he so much science?" said the count, knowing that he could not confide the young girl to more able hands.

"Eh! It is simple enough," said the doctor, in a whisper. "I have a great deal of science because I study, because I experimentalise, because I risk and practise a great deal on my subjects; and so, old fellow, I shall still have my slow nervous fever, – eh?"

"Yes; but is it safe to move this young girl?"

"Certainly."

"Then, for the love of heaven, disappear with your train!"

"Come, gentlemen," said the prince of science, "we shall be deprived of a precious study; but I will make my reports on it to you." And Doctor Griffon, with his suite, continued his round, leaving M. de Saint-Remy and Madame d'Harville with Mlle. de Fermont.

During this scene, Mlle. de Fermont, still in a swoon, had been attended to by Clémence and the two nuns. Saint-Remy said in a low tone to Clémence:

"And the mother of this unhappy girl, madame?"

The marchioness replied, in a voice deeply affected:

"She has no longer a mother, sir. I learnt yesterday only, on my return, the address of Madame de Fermont, and her dying condition; at one o'clock in the morning I went to her with a medical man. Ah, sir, what a fiction! It was misery in all its horror! And no hope of saving the poor mother, whose last words were, 'My daughter!'"

"What a death! Good heaven! And she so tender, so devoted a mother, – it is frightful!"

"I will watch her until she can be moved," said Clémence, "and, when she can be removed, I will take her with me."

"Ah, madame, bless you for what you say and do!" said M. de Saint-Remy. "But excuse me for not having before mentioned my name to you, I am the Comte de Saint-Remy; Madame de Fermont's husband was my most intimate friend. I live at Angers, and left that city from uneasiness at not receiving any news of these two noble and excellent women; they had until then lived in that city, and were said to be completely ruined, which was the more terrible as until then they had lived in ease and plenty."

"Ah, sir! you do not know all; Madame de Fermont was shamefully robbed."

"By her notary, perhaps? I had my suspicions."

"That man was a monster, sir! Alas! that was not the only crime he committed; but fortunately," said Clémence, with excitement, as she thought of Rodolph, "a providential genius had compelled him to do justice, and I was enabled to close Madame de Fermont's eyes, assuring her as to the future provision for her daughter; thus her death was rendered less cruel."

"I understand; knowing her daughter to have your support henceforth, my poor friend died more tranquil."

"Not only is my interest excited for ever towards Mlle. de Fermont, but her fortune will be restored to her."

"Her fortune! The notary – "

"Has been compelled to refund the money. This man had caused the assassination of Madame de Fermont's brother, in order to make it appear that the unhappy man had committed suicide, after having dissipated his sister's fortune; but he has now placed the sum in the hands of the worthy curé of Bonne-Nouvelle, and it will be given to Mlle. de Fermont. The infamous wretch has committed another murder equally infamous!"

"What mean you, madame?"

"But a few days since he got rid of an unfortunate young girl, whom he had an interest in drowning, assured that her death would be attributed to accident."

M. de Saint-Remy started, looked at Madame d'Harville with surprise, as he recollected Fleur-de-Marie, and exclaimed:

"Ah, madame, what a singular coincidence! This young girl they sought to drown – "

"In the Seine, near Asnières, as I am told."

"'Tis she! 'Tis she!" cried Saint-Remy.

"Of whom do you speak, sir?"

"Of the young girl whom this monster sought to drown. Do you know her, madame?"

"Poor dear! I love her tenderly. Ah, if you knew, sir, how lovely, how prepossessing she was! But tell me what you mean."

"Doctor Griffon and I gave her the first assistance."

"First assistance to her! And in what way?"

"At the Isle du Ravageur, where she was saved."

"Saved! Fleur-de-Marie saved?"

"By a worthy creature, who, at the risk of her life, saved her from the Seine. But what ails you, madame?"

"Ah, sir, I fear to believe in such good fortune; but, I pray of you, tell me what is the appearance of this young girl?"

"Singularly beautiful!"

"Large, blue eyes, – light brown hair?"

"Yes, madame."

"And when she was drowned, there was an elderly woman with her?"

"It was only yesterday she was well enough to speak, and she is still very weak; she said an elderly woman accompanied her."

"Praised be Heaven!" said Clémence, clasping her hands with fervour; "I can now tell him that his protégée still lives! What joy for him who, in his last letter, spoke to me of this poor child with such bitter regrets! Excuse me, sir, but you know not how happy your intelligence renders me, and will make a person who, more than myself, has loved and protected Fleur-de-Marie. But, for mercy's sake, tell me, where is she at this moment?"

"Near Asnières, in the house of one of the surgeons of this hospital, Doctor Griffon; she was taken there, and has had every attention."

"And is she out of danger?"

"Yes, madame, but only during the last two or three days, and to-day she will be permitted to write to her protector."

"Oh, I will undertake to do that, sir; or, rather, I shall have the pleasure of taking her to those who, believing her dead, regret her so bitterly!"

"I can understand those regrets, madame, for it is impossible to see Fleur-de-Marie without being charmed with her grace and sweetness. The woman who saved her, and has since watched her night and day as she would an infant, is a courageous and devoted person, but of a disposition so excitable that she has been called La Louve."

"I know La Louve," said the marquise, smiling as she thought of the pleasure she had in store for the prince. What would have been her ecstasy, had she known she was the daughter he believed dead that she was about to restore to Rodolph! Then, addressing the nun who had given some spoonfuls of a draught to Mlle. de Fermont, she said, "Well, sister, is she recovering?"

"Not yet, madame, she is so weak. Poor, young thing! One can scarcely feel her pulse beat."

"I will wait, then, until she is sufficiently restored to be put into my carriage; but tell me, sister, amongst these unfortunate patients, do you know any who particularly deserve interest and pity, and to whom I could be useful before I leave the hospital?"

"Ah, madame, Heaven has sent you here!" said the sister. "There," and she pointed to the bed of Pique-Vinaigre's sister, "is a poor woman much to be pitied, and very bad; she only came in when quite exhausted, and is past all comfort, because she has been obliged to abandon her two small children, who have no other support in the world. She said just now to the doctor that she must go out, cured or not, in a week, because her neighbours had promised to take care of her children for that time only and no longer."

"Take me to her bed, I beg of you, sister," said Madame d'Harville, rising and following the nun.

Jeanne Duport, who had scarcely recovered from the violent shock which the investigations of Doctor Griffon had caused her, had not remarked the entrance of Madame d'Harville; what, then, was her astonishment, when the marquise, lifting up the curtains of her bed, and looking at her with great pity and kindness, said:

"My good woman, do not be uneasy about your children, I will take care of them; so only think of getting well, that you may go to them."

Poor Jeanne thought she was in a dream, she could only clasp her hands in speechless gratitude, and gaze on her unknown benefactress.

"Once again assure yourself, my worthy woman, and have no uneasiness," said the marquise, pressing in her small and delicate white hands the burning hand of Jeanne Duport; "and, if you prefer it, you shall leave the hospital this very day and be nursed at home; everything shall be done for you, so that you need not leave your children; and, if your lodging is unhealthy or too small, you shall have one found that is more convenient and suitable, so that you may be in one room and your children in another; you shall have a good nurse, who will watch them whilst she attends to you, and when you entirely recover, if you are out of work, I will take care that you are provided for until work comes, and I will also take care of your children for the future."

"Ah, what do I hear?" said Jeanne Duport, all trembling and hardly daring to look her benefactress in the face. "Why are so many kindnesses showered on me? It is not possible! I leave the hospital, where I have wept and suffered so much, and not leave my children again! Have a nurse! Why, it is a miracle!"

"It is no miracle, my good woman," said Clémence, much affected. "What I do for you," she added, blushing slightly at the remembrance of Rodolph, "is inspired by a generous spirit, who has taught me to sympathise with misfortune, and it is he whom you should thank."

"Ah, madame, I shall ever bless you!" said Jeanne, weeping.

"Well, then, you see, Jeanne," said Lorraine, much affected, "there are also amongst the rich Rigolettes and Goualeuses with good hearts."

Madame d'Harville turned with much surprise towards Lorraine when she heard her mention the two names.

"Do you know La Goualeuse and a young workwoman called Rigolette?" she inquired of Lorraine.

"Yes, madame; La Goualeuse – good little angel! – did for me last year, according to her small means, what you are going to do for Jeanne. Yes, madame, and it does me good to say and repeat it to everybody, La Goualeuse took me from a cellar in which I had been brought to bed on the straw, and – dear, good girl! – placed me and my child in a room where there was a good bed and a cradle; La Goualeuse spent the money from pure charity, for she scarcely knew me, and was poor herself. But how good it was! Was it not, madame?" said Lorraine.

"Yes, yes; charity from the poor to the poor is great and holy!" said Clémence, with her eyes moistened by soft tears.

"It was the same with Mademoiselle Rigolette, who, according to her little means as a sempstress," said Lorraine, "some days ago offered her kind services to Jeanne."

"How singular!" said Clémence to herself, more and more affected, for each of these two names, Goualeuse and Rigolette, reminded her of a noble action of Rodolph. "And you, my child, what can I do for you?" she said to Lorraine; "I could wish that the names you pronounce with so much gratitude should also bring you good fortune."

"Thank you, madame," said Lorraine, with a smile of bitter resignation. "I had a child, it is dead; I am in a decline and past all hope."

"What a gloomy idea! At your age there is always hope."

"Oh, no, madame, I saw a consumptive patient die last night. Yet as you are so good, a great lady like you must be able to do anything."

"Tell me, what do you wish?"

"Since I have seen the actress who is dead so distressed at the idea of being cut in pieces after her death, I have the same fear. Jeanne had promised to claim my body, and have me buried."

"Ah, this is horrible!" said Clémence, shuddering. "Be tranquil, although I hope the time is far distant, yet, when it comes, be assured that your body shall rest in holy ground."

"Oh, thank you – thank you, madame!" exclaimed Lorraine. "Might I beg to kiss your hand?"

Clémence presented her hand to the parched lips of Lorraine.

Half an hour afterwards, Madame d'Harville, who had been painfully affected by Lorraine's condition, accompanied by M. de Saint-Remy, took with her the young orphan, from whom she concealed her mother's death.

The same day, Madame d'Harville's man of business, after having obtained favourable particulars respecting Jeanne Duport's character, hired for her some large and airy rooms, and the same evening she was conveyed to her new residence, where she found her children and a nurse. The same individual was instructed to claim and inter the body of Lorraine when she died. After having conveyed Mlle. de Fermont to her own house, Madame d'Harville started for Asnières with M. de Saint-Remy, in order to go to Fleur-de-Marie, and take her to Rodolph.

CHAPTER V

HOPE

Spring was approaching, and already the sun darted a more genial warmth, the sky was blue and clear, while the balmy air seemed to bring life and breath upon its invigorating wings. Among the many sick and suffering who rejoiced in its cheering presence was Fleur-de-Marie, who, leaning on the arm of La Louve, ventured to take gentle exercise in the little garden belonging to Doctor Griffon's house; the vivifying rays of the sun, added to the exertion of walking, tinged the pale, wasted countenance of La Goualeuse with a faint glow that spoke of returning convalescence. The dress she had worn when rescued from a watery grave had been destroyed in the haste with which the requisite attempts had been made for her resuscitation, and she now appeared in a loose wrapping dress of dark blue merino, fastened around her slender waist by worsted cord of the same colour as the robe.

"How cheering the sun shines!" said she to La Louve, as she stopped beneath a thick row of trees, planted beside a high gravelled walk facing the south, and on which was a stone bench. "Shall we sit down and rest ourselves here a few minutes?"

"Why do you ask me?" replied La Louve, almost angrily; then taking off her nice warm shawl, she folded it in four, and, kneeling down, placed it on the ground, which was somewhat moist from the extreme shelter afforded by the overhanging trees, saying, as she did so, "Here, put your feet on this."

"Oh, but La Louve!" said Fleur-de-Marie, perceiving too late the kind intention of her companion, "I cannot suffer you to spoil your beautiful shawl in that way."

"Don't make a fuss about nothing; I tell you the ground is cold and moist. There, that will do." And, taking the tiny feet of Fleur-de-Marie, she forcibly placed them on her shawl.

"You spoil me terribly, La Louve."

"It is not for your good behaviour, if I do; always trying to oppose me in everything I try to do for your good. Are you not very much tired? We have been walking more than half an hour; I heard twelve o'clock just strike from Asnières."

"I do feel rather weary, but still the walk has done me good."

"There now – you were tired, and yet could not tell me so!"

"Pray don't scold me; I assure you I was not conscious of my weariness until I spoke. It is so delightful to be able to walk out in the air, after being confined by sickness to your bed, to see the trees, the green fields, and the beautiful country again, when you had given up all hope of ever enjoying that happiness, or of feeling the warm beams of the sun fill you with strength and hope!"

"Certainly, you were desperately ill, and for two days we despaired of your life. I don't mind telling you, now the danger is over."

"Only imagine, La Louve, that, when I found myself in the water, I could not help thinking of a very bad, wicked woman, who used to torment me when I was young, and frighten me by threatening to throw me to the fishes that they might eat me, and, even after I had grown up, she wanted to drown me; and I kept thinking that it was my destiny to be devoured by fishes, and that it was no use to try and escape from it."

"Was that really your last idea when you believed yourself perishing?"

"Oh, no!" replied Fleur-de-Marie, with enthusiasm; "when I believed I was dying, my last thought was for him whom I so reverence, and to whom I owe so much, and, when I came to myself after you had saved me, my first thought was of him likewise."

"It is a pleasure to render you any service, you think so much of it."

"No, La Louve; the pleasure consists in falling asleep with our grateful recollection of kind acts, and remembering them upon waking!"

"Ah, you would induce people to go through fire and water to serve you! I'm sure I would, for one."

"I can assure you that one of the causes which made me thankful for life was the hope of being able to advance your happiness. Do you recollect the castles in the air we used to build at St. Lazare?"

"Oh, as for that, there is time enough to think about that."

"How delighted I should be, if the doctor would only allow me to write a few lines to Madame Georges, I am sure she must be so very uneasy; and so must M. Rodolph, too," added Fleur-de-Marie, pensively sighing. "Perhaps they think me dead."

"As those wretches do who were set on to murder you!"

"Then you still believe my falling into the water was not an accident?"

"Accident! Yes, one of the Martial family's accidents; – mind, when I say that, you must bear in mind that my Martial is not at all like the rest of his relations, any more than François and Amandine."

"But what interest could they have had in my death?"

"I don't care for that; the Martials are such a vile set that they would murder any one, provided they were well paid for it. A few words the mother let drop when my man went to see her in prison prove that."

"Has he really been to see that dreadful woman?"

"Yes; and he tells me there is no hope of pardon for herself, Calabash, or Nicholas. A great many things have been discovered against them; and all the judges and those kind of people say they want to make a public example of them, to frighten others from doing such things."