Notre-Dame De Paris

  At the epoch of this history, the cell in the Tour-Roland was occupied.If the reader desires to know by whom, he has only to lend an ear to theconversation of three worthy gossips, who, at the moment when we havedirected his attention to the Rat-Hole, were directing their stepstowards the same spot, coming up along the water's edge from theChatelet, towards the Greve.

  Two of these women were dressed like good _bourgeoises_ of Paris. Theirfine white ruffs; their petticoats of linsey-woolsey, striped red andblue; their white knitted stockings, with clocks embroidered in colors,well drawn upon their legs; the square-toed shoes of tawny leather withblack soles, and, above all, their headgear, that sort of tinsel horn,loaded down with ribbons and laces, which the women of Champagne stillwear, in company with the grenadiers of the imperial guard of Russia,announced that they belonged to that class wives which holds the middleground between what the lackeys call a woman and what they term a lady.They wore neither rings nor gold crosses, and it was easy to see that,in their ease, this did not proceed from poverty, but simply fromfear of being fined. Their companion was attired in very much the samemanner; but there was that indescribable something about her dress andbearing which suggested the wife of a provincial notary. One could see,by the way in which her girdle rose above her hips, that she had notbeen long in Paris.--Add to this a plaited tucker, knots of ribbonon her shoes--and that the stripes of her petticoat ran horizontallyinstead of vertically, and a thousand other enormities which shockedgood taste.

  The two first walked with that step peculiar to Parisian ladies, showingParis to women from the country. The provincial held by the hand a bigboy, who held in his a large, flat cake.

  We regret to be obliged to add, that, owing to the rigor of the season,he was using his tongue as a handkerchief.

  The child was making them drag him along, _non passibus Cequis_, asVirgil says, and stumbling at every moment, to the great indignation ofhis mother. It is true that he was looking at his cake more than at thepavement. Some serious motive, no doubt, prevented his biting it (thecake), for he contented himself with gazing tenderly at it. But themother should have rather taken charge of the cake. It was cruel to makea Tantalus of the chubby-checked boy.

  Meanwhile, the three demoiselles (for the name of dames was thenreserved for noble women) were all talking at once.

  "Let us make haste, Demoiselle Mahiette," said the youngest of thethree, who was also the largest, to the provincial, "I greatly fear thatwe shall arrive too late; they told us at the Chatelet that they weregoing to take him directly to the pillory."

  "Ah, bah! what are you saying, Demoiselle Oudarde Musnier?" interposedthe other Parisienne. "There are two hours yet to the pillory. We havetime enough. Have you ever seen any one pilloried, my dear Mahiette?"

  "Yes," said the provincial, "at Reims."

  "Ah, bah! What is your pillory at Reims? A miserable cage into whichonly peasants are turned. A great affair, truly!"

  "Only peasants!" said Mahiette, "at the cloth market in Reims! We haveseen very fine criminals there, who have killed their father and mother!Peasants! For what do you take us, Gervaise?"

  It is certain that the provincial was on the point of taking offence,for the honor of her pillory. Fortunately, that discreet damoiselle,Oudarde Musnier, turned the conversation in time.

  "By the way, Damoiselle Mahiette, what say you to our FlemishAmbassadors? Have you as fine ones at Reims?"

  "I admit," replied Mahiette, "that it is only in Paris that suchFlemings can be seen."

  "Did you see among the embassy, that big ambassador who is a hosier?"asked Oudarde.

  "Yes," said Mahiette. "He has the eye of a Saturn."

  "And the big fellow whose face resembles a bare belly?" resumedGervaise. "And the little one, with small eyes framed in red eyelids,pared down and slashed up like a thistle head?"

  "'Tis their horses that are worth seeing," said Oudarde, "caparisoned asthey are after the fashion of their country!"

  "Ah my dear," interrupted provincial Mahiette, assuming in her turn anair of superiority, "what would you say then, if you had seen in '61, atthe consecration at Reims, eighteen years ago, the horses of the princesand of the king's company? Housings and caparisons of all sorts; someof damask cloth, of fine cloth of gold, furred with sables; others ofvelvet, furred with ermine; others all embellished with goldsmith's workand large bells of gold and silver! And what money that had cost! Andwhat handsome boy pages rode upon them!"

  "That," replied Oudarde dryly, "does not prevent the Flemings havingvery fine horses, and having had a superb supper yesterday withmonsieur, the provost of the merchants, at the Hotel-de-Ville, wherethey were served with comfits and hippocras, and spices, and othersingularities."

  "What are you saying, neighbor!" exclaimed Gervaise. "It was withmonsieur the cardinal, at the Petit Bourbon that they supped."

  "Not at all. At the Hotel-de-Ville.

  "Yes, indeed. At the Petit Bourbon!"

  "It was at the Hotel-de-Ville," retorted Oudarde sharply, "and Dr.Scourable addressed them a harangue in Latin, which pleased themgreatly. My husband, who is sworn bookseller told me."

  "It was at the Petit Bourbon," replied Gervaise, with no less spirit,"and this is what monsieur the cardinal's procurator presented to them:twelve double quarts of hippocras, white, claret, and red; twenty-fourboxes of double Lyons marchpane, gilded; as many torches, worth twolivres a piece; and six demi-queues* of Beaune wine, white and claret,the best that could be found. I have it from my husband, who is acinquantenier**, at the Parloir-aux Bourgeois, and who was this morningcomparing the Flemish ambassadors with those of Prester John and theEmperor of Trebizond, who came from Mesopotamia to Paris, under the lastking, and who wore rings in their ears."

  * A Queue was a cask which held a hogshead and a half.

  ** A captain of fifty men.

  "So true is it that they supped at the Hotel-de-Ville," replied Oudardebut little affected by this catalogue, "that such a triumph of viandsand comfits has never been seen."

  "I tell you that they were served by Le Sec, sergeant of the city, atthe Hotel du Petit-Bourbon, and that that is where you are mistaken."

  "At the Hotel-de-Ville, I tell you!"

  "At the Petit-Bourbon, my dear! and they had illuminated with magicglasses the word hope, which is written on the grand portal."

  "At the Hotel-de-Ville! At the Hotel-de-Ville! And Husson-le-Voir playedthe flute!"

  "I tell you, no!"

  "I tell you, yes!"

  "I say, no!"

  Plump and worthy Oudarde was preparing to retort, and the quarrel might,perhaps, have proceeded to a pulling of caps, had not Mahiette suddenlyexclaimed,--"Look at those people assembled yonder at the end of thebridge! There is something in their midst that they are looking at!"

  "In sooth," said Gervaise, "I hear the sounds of a tambourine. I believe'tis the little Esmeralda, who plays her mummeries with her goat. Eh,be quick, Mahiette! redouble your pace and drag along your boy. Youare come hither to visit the curiosities of Paris. You saw the Flemingsyesterday; you must see the gypsy to-day."

  "The gypsy!" said Mahiette, suddenly retracing her steps, and claspingher son's arm forcibly. "God preserve me from it! She would steal mychild from me! Come, Eustache!"

  And she set out on a run along the quay towards the Greve, until she hadleft the bridge far behind her. In the meanwhile, the child whom she wasdragging after her fell upon his knees; she halted breathless. Oudardeand Gervaise rejoined her.

  "That gypsy steal your child from you!" said Gervaise. "That's asingular freak of yours!"

  Mahiette shook her head with a pensive air.

  "The singular point is," observed Oudarde, "that _la sachette_ has thesame idea about the Egyptian woman."

  "What is _la sachette_?" asked Mahiette.

  "He!" said Oudarde, "Sister Gudule."

  "And who is Sister Gudule?" persisted Mahiette.

  "You are certainly ignorant of all but your Reims,
not to know that!"replied Oudarde. "'Tis the recluse of the Rat-Hole."

  "What!" demanded Mahiette, "that poor woman to whom we are carrying thiscake?"

  Oudarde nodded affirmatively.

  "Precisely. You will see her presently at her window on the Greve. Shehas the same opinion as yourself of these vagabonds of Egypt, who playthe tambourine and tell fortunes to the public. No one knows whencecomes her horror of the gypsies and Egyptians. But you, Mahiette--why doyou run so at the mere sight of them?"

  "Oh!" said Mahiette, seizing her child's round head in both hands,"I don't want that to happen to me which happened to Paquette laChantefleurie."

  "Oh! you must tell us that story, my good Mahiette," said Gervaise,taking her arm.

  "Gladly," replied Mahiette, "but you must be ignorant of all but yourParis not to know that! I will tell you then (but 'tis not necessary forus to halt that I may tell you the tale), that Paquette la Chantefleuriewas a pretty maid of eighteen when I was one myself, that is to say,eighteen years ago, and 'tis her own fault if she is not to-day, likeme, a good, plump, fresh mother of six and thirty, with a husband and ason. However, after the age of fourteen, it was too late! Well, she wasthe daughter of Guybertant, minstrel of the barges at Reims, the samewho had played before King Charles VII., at his coronation, when hedescended our river Vesle from Sillery to Muison, when Madame the Maidof Orleans was also in the boat. The old father died when Paquette wasstill a mere child; she had then no one but her mother, the sister ofM. Pradon, master-brazier and coppersmith in Paris, Rue Farm-Garlin, whodied last year. You see she was of good family. The mother was a goodsimple woman, unfortunately, and she taught Paquette nothing but a bitof embroidery and toy-making which did not prevent the little one fromgrowing very large and remaining very poor. They both dwelt at Reims,on the river front, Rue de Folle-Peine. Mark this: For I believe itwas this which brought misfortune to Paquette. In '61, the year of thecoronation of our King Louis XI. whom God preserve! Paquette was so gayand so pretty that she was called everywhere by no other name than "laChantefleurie"--blossoming song. Poor girl! She had handsome teeth, shewas fond of laughing and displaying them. Now, a maid who loves to laughis on the road to weeping; handsome teeth ruin handsome eyes. So she wasla Chantefleurie. She and her mother earned a precarious living;they had been very destitute since the death of the minstrel; theirembroidery did not bring them in more than six farthings a week, whichdoes not amount to quite two eagle liards. Where were the dayswhen Father Guybertant had earned twelve sous parisian, in a singlecoronation, with a song? One winter (it was in that same year of '61),when the two women had neither fagots nor firewood, it was very cold,which gave la Chantefleurie such a fine color that the men calledher Paquette!* and many called her Paquerette!** and she wasruined.--Eustache, just let me see you bite that cake if you dare!--Weimmediately perceived that she was ruined, one Sunday when she came tochurch with a gold cross about her neck. At fourteen years of age! doyou see? First it was the young Vicomte de Cormontreuil, who has hisbell tower three leagues distant from Reims; then Messire Henride Triancourt, equerry to the King; then less than that, Chiart deBeaulion, sergeant-at-arms; then, still descending, Guery Aubergeon,carver to the King; then, Mace de Frepus, barber to monsieur thedauphin; then, Thevenin le Moine, King's cook; then, the men growingcontinually younger and less noble, she fell to Guillaume Racine,minstrel of the hurdy gurdy and to Thierry de Mer, lamplighter. Then,poor Chantefleurie, she belonged to every one: she had reached the lastsou of her gold piece. What shall I say to you, my damoiselles? At thecoronation, in the same year, '61, 'twas she who made the bed of theking of the debauchees! In the same year!"

  * Ox-eye daisy.

  ** Easter daisy.

  Mahiette sighed, and wiped away a tear which trickled from her eyes.

  "This is no very extraordinary history," said Gervaise, "and in thewhole of it I see nothing of any Egyptian women or children."

  "Patience!" resumed Mahiette, "you will see one child.--In '66, 'twillbe sixteen years ago this month, at Sainte-Paule's day, Paquette wasbrought to bed of a little girl. The unhappy creature! it was a greatjoy to her; she had long wished for a child. Her mother, good woman, whohad never known what to do except to shut her eyes, her mother was dead.Paquette had no longer any one to love in the world or any one to loveher. La Chantefleurie had been a poor creature during the five yearssince her fall. She was alone, alone in this life, fingers were pointedat her, she was hooted at in the streets, beaten by the sergeants,jeered at by the little boys in rags. And then, twenty had arrived: andtwenty is an old age for amorous women. Folly began to bring her in nomore than her trade of embroidery in former days; for every wrinkle thatcame, a crown fled; winter became hard to her once more, wood becamerare again in her brazier, and bread in her cupboard. She could nolonger work because, in becoming voluptuous, she had grown lazy; and shesuffered much more because, in growing lazy, she had become voluptuous.At least, that is the way in which monsieur the cure of Saint-Remyexplains why these women are colder and hungrier than other poor women,when they are old."

  "Yes," remarked Gervaise, "but the gypsies?"

  "One moment, Gervaise!" said Oudarde, whose attention was lessimpatient. "What would be left for the end if all were in the beginning?Continue, Mahiette, I entreat you. That poor Chantefleurie!"

  Mahiette went on.

  "So she was very sad, very miserable, and furrowed her cheeks withtears. But in the midst of her shame, her folly, her debauchery,it seemed to her that she should be less wild, less shameful, lessdissipated, if there were something or some one in the world whom shecould love, and who could love her. It was necessary that it should be achild, because only a child could be sufficiently innocent for that. Shehad recognized this fact after having tried to love a thief, the onlyman who wanted her; but after a short time, she perceived that the thiefdespised her. Those women of love require either a lover or a child tofill their hearts. Otherwise, they are very unhappy. As she could nothave a lover, she turned wholly towards a desire for a child, and as shehad not ceased to be pious, she made her constant prayer to the goodGod for it. So the good God took pity on her, and gave her a littledaughter. I will not speak to you of her joy; it was a fury oftears, and caresses, and kisses. She nursed her child herself, madeswaddling-bands for it out of her coverlet, the only one which shehad on her bed, and no longer felt either cold or hunger. She becamebeautiful once more, in consequence of it. An old maid makes ayoung mother. Gallantry claimed her once more; men came to see laChantefleurie; she found customers again for her merchandise, and outof all these horrors she made baby clothes, caps and bibs, bodiceswith shoulder-straps of lace, and tiny bonnets of satin, without eventhinking of buying herself another coverlet.--Master Eustache, I havealready told you not to eat that cake.--It is certain that little Agnes,that was the child's name, a baptismal name, for it was a long timesince la Chantefleurie had had any surname--it is certain thatthat little one was more swathed in ribbons and embroideries than adauphiness of Dauphiny! Among other things, she had a pair of littleshoes, the like of which King Louis XI. certainly never had! Her motherhad stitched and embroidered them herself; she had lavished on them allthe delicacies of her art of embroideress, and all the embellishments ofa robe for the good Virgin. They certainly were the two prettiest littlepink shoes that could be seen. They were no longer than my thumb, andone had to see the child's little feet come out of them, in order tobelieve that they had been able to get into them. 'Tis true that thoselittle feet were so small, so pretty, so rosy! rosier than the satin ofthe shoes! When you have children, Oudarde, you will find that there isnothing prettier than those little hands and feet."

  "I ask no better," said Oudarde with a sigh, "but I am waiting until itshall suit the good pleasure of M. Andry Musnier."

  "However, Paquette's child had more that was pretty about it besides itsfeet. I saw her when she was only four months old; she was a love! Shehad eyes larger than her mouth, and the most charming black hair
, whichalready curled. She would have been a magnificent brunette at the ageof sixteen! Her mother became more crazy over her every day. She kissedher, caressed her, tickled her, washed her, decked her out, devouredher! She lost her head over her, she thanked God for her. Her pretty,little rosy feet above all were an endless source of wonderment, theywere a delirium of joy! She was always pressing her lips to them, andshe could never recover from her amazement at their smallness. She putthem into the tiny shoes, took them out, admired them, marvelled atthem, looked at the light through them, was curious to see them try towalk on her bed, and would gladly have passed her life on her knees,putting on and taking off the shoes from those feet, as though they hadbeen those of an Infant Jesus."

  "The tale is fair and good," said Gervaise in a low tone; "but where dogypsies come into all that?"

  "Here," replied Mahiette. "One day there arrived in Reims a very queersort of people. They were beggars and vagabonds who were roaming overthe country, led by their duke and their counts. They were browned byexposure to the sun, they had closely curling hair, and silver rings intheir ears. The women were still uglier than the men. They had blackerfaces, which were always uncovered, a miserable frock on their bodies,an old cloth woven of cords bound upon their shoulder, and their hairhanging like the tail of a horse. The children who scrambledbetween their legs would have frightened as many monkeys. A band ofexcommunicates. All these persons came direct from lower Egypt toReims through Poland. The Pope had confessed them, it was said, and hadprescribed to them as penance to roam through the world for seven years,without sleeping in a bed; and so they were called penancers, and smelthorribly. It appears that they had formerly been Saracens, which waswhy they believed in Jupiter, and claimed ten livres of Tournay from allarchbishops, bishops, and mitred abbots with croziers. A bull from thePope empowered them to do that. They came to Reims to tell fortunes inthe name of the King of Algiers, and the Emperor of Germany. You canreadily imagine that no more was needed to cause the entrance to thetown to be forbidden them. Then the whole band camped with good graceoutside the gate of Braine, on that hill where stands a mill, beside thecavities of the ancient chalk pits. And everybody in Reims vied with hisneighbor in going to see them. They looked at your hand, and told youmarvellous prophecies; they were equal to predicting to Judas that hewould become Pope. Nevertheless, ugly rumors were in circulation inregard to them; about children stolen, purses cut, and human fleshdevoured. The wise people said to the foolish: "Don't go there!" andthen went themselves on the sly. It was an infatuation. The fact is,that they said things fit to astonish a cardinal. Mothers triumphedgreatly over their little ones after the Egyptians had read in theirhands all sorts of marvels written in pagan and in Turkish. One had anemperor; another, a pope; another, a captain. Poor Chantefleurie wasseized with curiosity; she wished to know about herself, and whetherher pretty little Agnes would not become some day Empress of Armenia,or something else. So she carried her to the Egyptians; and the Egyptianwomen fell to admiring the child, and to caressing it, and to kissing itwith their black mouths, and to marvelling over its little band, alas!to the great joy of the mother. They were especially enthusiastic overher pretty feet and shoes. The child was not yet a year old. She alreadylisped a little, laughed at her mother like a little mad thing, wasplump and quite round, and possessed a thousand charming little gesturesof the angels of paradise.

  "She was very much frightened by the Egyptians, and wept. But her motherkissed her more warmly and went away enchanted with the good fortunewhich the soothsayers had foretold for her Agnes. She was to be abeauty, virtuous, a queen. So she returned to her attic in the RueFolle-Peine, very proud of bearing with her a queen. The next day shetook advantage of a moment when the child was asleep on her bed, (forthey always slept together), gently left the door a little way open, andran to tell a neighbor in the Rue de la Sechesserie, that the day wouldcome when her daughter Agnes would be served at table by the King ofEngland and the Archduke of Ethiopia, and a hundred other marvels. Onher return, hearing no cries on the staircase, she said to herself:'Good! the child is still asleep!' She found her door wider open thanshe had left it, but she entered, poor mother, and ran to the bed.---Thechild was no longer there, the place was empty. Nothing remained of thechild, but one of her pretty little shoes. She flew out of the room,dashed down the stairs, and began to beat her head against the wall,crying: 'My child! who has my child? Who has taken my child?' The streetwas deserted, the house isolated; no one could tell her anything aboutit. She went about the town, searched all the streets, ran hither andthither the whole day long, wild, beside herself, terrible, snuffing atdoors and windows like a wild beast which has lost its young. She wasbreathless, dishevelled, frightful to see, and there was a fire in hereyes which dried her tears. She stopped the passers-by and cried: 'Mydaughter! my daughter! my pretty little daughter! If any one will giveme back my daughter, I will be his servant, the servant of his dog, andhe shall eat my heart if he will.' She met M. le Cure of Saint-Remy, andsaid to him: 'Monsieur, I will till the earth with my finger-nails, butgive me back my child!' It was heartrending, Oudarde; and IL saw a veryhard man, Master Ponce Lacabre, the procurator, weep. Ah! poor mother!In the evening she returned home. During her absence, a neighbor hadseen two gypsies ascend up to it with a bundle in their arms, thendescend again, after closing the door. After their departure, somethinglike the cries of a child were heard in Paquette's room. The mother,burst into shrieks of laughter, ascended the stairs as though on wings,and entered.--A frightful thing to tell, Oudarde! Instead of her prettylittle Agnes, so rosy and so fresh, who was a gift of the good God, asort of hideous little monster, lame, one-eyed, deformed, was crawlingand squalling over the floor. She hid her eyes in horror. 'Oh!' saidshe, 'have the witches transformed my daughter into this horribleanimal?' They hastened to carry away the little club-foot; he would havedriven her mad. It was the monstrous child of some gypsy woman, who hadgiven herself to the devil. He appeared to be about four years old,and talked a language which was no human tongue; there were words in itwhich were impossible. La Chantefleurie flung herself upon the littleshoe, all that remained to her of all that she loved. She remained solong motionless over it, mute, and without breath, that they thought shewas dead. Suddenly she trembled all over, covered her relic with furiouskisses, and burst out sobbing as though her heart were broken. I assureyou that we were all weeping also. She said: 'Oh, my little daughter! mypretty little daughter! where art thou?'--and it wrung your very heart.I weep still when I think of it. Our children are the marrow of ourbones, you see.---My poor Eustache! thou art so fair!--If you only knewhow nice he is! yesterday he said to me: 'I want to be a gendarme,that I do.' Oh! my Eustache! if I were to lose thee!--All at once laChantefleurie rose, and set out to run through Reims, screaming: 'To thegypsies' camp! to the gypsies' camp! Police, to burn the witches!' Thegypsies were gone. It was pitch dark. They could not be followed. On themorrow, two leagues from Reims, on a heath between Gueux and Tilloy, theremains of a large fire were found, some ribbons which had belonged toPaquette's child, drops of blood, and the dung of a ram. The nightjust past had been a Saturday. There was no longer any doubt thatthe Egyptians had held their Sabbath on that heath, and that they haddevoured the child in company with Beelzebub, as the practice is amongthe Mahometans. When La Chantefleurie learned these horrible things, shedid not weep, she moved her lips as though to speak, but could not. Onthe morrow, her hair was gray. On the second day, she had disappeared.

  "'Tis in truth, a frightful tale," said Oudarde, "and one which wouldmake even a Burgundian weep."

  "I am no longer surprised," added Gervaise, "that fear of the gypsiesshould spur you on so sharply."

  "And you did all the better," resumed Oudarde, "to flee with yourEustache just now, since these also are gypsies from Poland."

  "No," said Gervais, "'tis said that they come from Spain and Catalonia."

  "Catalonia? 'tis possible," replied Oudarde. "Pologne, Catalogue,Valogne, I always confound
those three provinces, One thing is certain,that they are gypsies."

  "Who certainly," added Gervaise, "have teeth long enough to eat littlechildren. I should not be surprised if la Smeralda ate a little of themalso, though she pretends to be dainty. Her white goat knows tricks thatare too malicious for there not to be some impiety underneath it all."

  Mahiette walked on in silence. She was absorbed in that revery which is,in some sort, the continuation of a mournful tale, and which ends onlyafter having communicated the emotion, from vibration to vibration, evento the very last fibres of the heart. Nevertheless, Gervaise addressedher, "And did they ever learn what became of la Chantefleurie?" Mahiettemade no reply. Gervaise repeated her question, and shook her arm,calling her by name. Mahiette appeared to awaken from her thoughts.

  "What became of la Chantefleurie?" she said, repeating mechanicallythe words whose impression was still fresh in her ear; then, ma king aneffort to recall her attention to the meaning of her words, "Ah!" shecontinued briskly, "no one ever found out."

  She added, after a pause,--

  "Some said that she had been seen to quit Reims at nightfall by theFlechembault gate; others, at daybreak, by the old Basee gate. A poorman found her gold cross hanging on the stone cross in the field wherethe fair is held. It was that ornament which had wrought her ruin, in'61. It was a gift from the handsome Vicomte de Cormontreuil, her firstlover. Paquette had never been willing to part with it, wretched as shehad been. She had clung to it as to life itself. So, when we saw thatcross abandoned, we all thought that she was dead. Nevertheless, therewere people of the Cabaret les Vantes, who said that they had seen herpass along the road to Paris, walking on the pebbles with her bare feet.But, in that case, she must have gone out through the Porte de Vesle,and all this does not agree. Or, to speak more truly, I believe thatshe actually did depart by the Porte de Vesle, but departed from thisworld."

  "I do not understand you," said Gervaise.

  "La Vesle," replied Mahiette, with a melancholy smile, "is the river."

  "Poor Chantefleurie!" said Oudarde, with a shiver,--"drowned!"

  "Drowned!" resumed Mahiette, "who could have told good FatherGuybertant, when he passed under the bridge of Tingueux with thecurrent, singing in his barge, that one day his dear little Paquettewould also pass beneath that bridge, but without song or boat.

  "And the little shoe?" asked Gervaise.

  "Disappeared with the mother," replied Mahiette.

  "Poor little shoe!" said Oudarde.

  Oudarde, a big and tender woman, would have been well pleased to sigh incompany with Mahiette. But Gervaise, more curious, had not finished herquestions.

  "And the monster?" she said suddenly, to Mahiette.

  "What monster?" inquired the latter.

  "The little gypsy monster left by the sorceresses in Chantefleurie'schamber, in exchange for her daughter. What did you do with it? I hopeyou drowned it also."

  "No." replied Mahiette.

  "What? You burned it then? In sooth, that is more just. A witch child!"

  "Neither the one nor the other, Gervaise. Monseigneur the archbishopinterested himself in the child of Egypt, exorcised it, blessed it,removed the devil carefully from its body, and sent it to Paris, to beexposed on the wooden bed at Notre-Dame, as a foundling."

  "Those bishops!" grumbled Gervaise, "because they are learned, they donothing like anybody else. I just put it to you, Oudarde, the idea ofplacing the devil among the foundlings! For that little monster wasassuredly the devil. Well, Mahiette, what did they do with it in Paris?I am quite sure that no charitable person wanted it."

  "I do not know," replied the Remoise, "'twas just at that time that myhusband bought the office of notary, at Bern, two leagues from the town,and we were no longer occupied with that story; besides, in frontof Bern, stand the two hills of Cernay, which hide the towers of thecathedral in Reims from view."

  While chatting thus, the three worthy _bourgeoises_ had arrived at thePlace de Greve. In their absorption, they had passed the public breviaryof the Tour-Roland without stopping, and took their way mechanicallytowards the pillory around which the throng was growing more dense withevery moment. It is probable that the spectacle which at that momentattracted all looks in that direction, would have made them forgetcompletely the Rat-Hole, and the halt which they intended to make there,if big Eustache, six years of age, whom Mahiette was dragging along bythe hand, had not abruptly recalled the object to them: "Mother," saidhe, as though some instinct warned him that the Rat-Hole was behind him,"can I eat the cake now?"

  If Eustache had been more adroit, that is to say, less greedy, hewould have continued to wait, and would only have hazarded that simplequestion, "Mother, can I eat the cake, now?" on their return to theUniversity, to Master Andry Musnier's, Rue Madame la Valence, when hehad the two arms of the Seine and the five bridges of the city betweenthe Rat-Hole and the cake.

  This question, highly imprudent at the moment when Eustache put it,aroused Mahiette's attention.

  "By the way," she exclaimed, "we are forgetting the recluse! Show me theRat-Hole, that I may carry her her cake."

  "Immediately," said Oudarde, "'tis a charity."

  But this did not suit Eustache.

  "Stop! my cake!" said he, rubbing both ears alternatively with hisshoulders, which, in such cases, is the supreme sign of discontent.

  The three women retraced their steps, and, on arriving in the vicinityof the Tour-Roland, Oudarde said to the other two,--

  "We must not all three gaze into the hole at once, for fear of alarmingthe recluse. Do you two pretend to read the _Dominus_ in the breviary,while I thrust my nose into the aperture; the recluse knows me a little.I will give you warning when you can approach."

  She proceeded alone to the window. At the moment when she looked in,a profound pity was depicted on all her features, and her frank, gayvisage altered its expression and color as abruptly as though it hadpassed from a ray of sunlight to a ray of moonlight; her eye becamehumid; her mouth contracted, like that of a person on the point ofweeping. A moment later, she laid her finger on her lips, and made asign to Mahiette to draw near and look.

  Mahiette, much touched, stepped up in silence, on tiptoe, as thoughapproaching the bedside of a dying person.

  It was, in fact, a melancholy spectacle which presented itself tothe eyes of the two women, as they gazed through the grating of theRat-Hole, neither stirring nor breathing.

  The cell was small, broader than it was long, with an arched ceiling,and viewed from within, it bore a considerable resemblance to theinterior of a huge bishop's mitre. On the bare flagstones which formedthe floor, in one corner, a woman was sitting, or rather, crouching. Herchin rested on her knees, which her crossed arms pressed forcibly toher breast. Thus doubled up, clad in a brown sack, which envelopedher entirely in large folds, her long, gray hair pulled over in front,falling over her face and along her legs nearly to her feet, shepresented, at the first glance, only a strange form outlined against thedark background of the cell, a sort of dusky triangle, which the ray ofdaylight falling through the opening, cut roughly into two shades, theone sombre, the other illuminated. It was one of those spectres,half light, half shadow, such as one beholds in dreams and in theextraordinary work of Goya, pale, motionless, sinister, crouching over atomb, or leaning against the grating of a prison cell.

  It was neither a woman, nor a man, nor a living being, nor a definiteform; it was a figure, a sort of vision, in which the real and thefantastic intersected each other, like darkness and day. It was withdifficulty that one distinguished, beneath her hair which spread tothe ground, a gaunt and severe profile; her dress barely allowed theextremity of a bare foot to escape, which contracted on the hard, coldpavement. The little of human form of which one caught a sight beneaththis envelope of mourning, caused a shudder.

  That figure, which one might have supposed to be riveted to theflagstones, appeared to possess neither movement, nor thought, norbreath. Lying, in January, in that th
in, linen sack, lying on a granitefloor, without fire, in the gloom of a cell whose oblique air-holeallowed only the cold breeze, but never the sun, to enter from without,she did not appear to suffer or even to think. One would have said thatshe had turned to stone with the cell, ice with the season. Her handswere clasped, her eyes fixed. At first sight one took her for a spectre;at the second, for a statue.

  Nevertheless, at intervals, her blue lips half opened to admit a breath,and trembled, but as dead and as mechanical as the leaves which the windsweeps aside.

  Nevertheless, from her dull eyes there escaped a look, an ineffablelook, a profound, lugubrious, imperturbable look, incessantly fixed upona corner of the cell which could not be seen from without; a gaze whichseemed to fix all the sombre thoughts of that soul in distress upon somemysterious object.

  Such was the creature who had received, from her habitation, the name ofthe "recluse"; and, from her garment, the name of "the sacked nun."

  The three women, for Gervaise had rejoined Mahiette and Oudarde, gazedthrough the window. Their heads intercepted the feeble light in thecell, without the wretched being whom they thus deprived of it seemingto pay any attention to them. "Do not let us trouble her," said Oudarde,in a low voice, "she is in her ecstasy; she is praying."

  Meanwhile, Mahiette was gazing with ever-increasing anxiety at that wan,withered, dishevelled head, and her eyes filled with tears. "This isvery singular," she murmured.

  She thrust her head through the bars, and succeeded in casting a glanceat the corner where the gaze of the unhappy woman was immovably riveted.

  When she withdrew her head from the window, her countenance wasinundated with tears.

  "What do you call that woman?" she asked Oudarde.

  Oudarde replied,--

  "We call her Sister Gudule."

  "And I," returned Mahiette, "call her Paquette la Chantefleurie."

  Then, laying her finger on her lips, she motioned to the astoundedOudarde to thrust her head through the window and look.

  Oudarde looked and beheld, in the corner where the eyes of therecluse were fixed in that sombre ecstasy, a tiny shoe of pink satin,embroidered with a thousand fanciful designs in gold and silver.

  Gervaise looked after Oudarde, and then the three women, gazing upon theunhappy mother, began to weep.

  But neither their looks nor their tears disturbed the recluse. Her handsremained clasped; her lips mute; her eyes fixed; and that little shoe,thus gazed at, broke the heart of any one who knew her history.

  The three women had not yet uttered a single word; they dared not speak,even in a low voice. This deep silence, this deep grief, this profoundoblivion in which everything had disappeared except one thing, producedupon them the effect of the grand altar at Christmas or Easter. Theyremained silent, they meditated, they were ready to kneel. It seemed tothem that they were ready to enter a church on the day of Tenebrae.

  At length Gervaise, the most curious of the three, and consequently theleast sensitive, tried to make the recluse speak:

  "Sister! Sister Gudule!"

  She repeated this call three times, raising her voice each time. Therecluse did not move; not a word, not a glance, not a sigh, not a signof life.

  Oudarde, in her turn, in a sweeter, more caressing voice,--"Sister!"said she, "Sister Sainte-Gudule!"

  The same silence; the same immobility.

  "A singular woman!" exclaimed Gervaise, "and one not to be moved by acatapult!"

  "Perchance she is deaf," said Oudarde.

  "Perhaps she is blind," added Gervaise.

  "Dead, perchance," returned Mahiette.

  It is certain that if the soul had not already quitted this inert,sluggish, lethargic body, it had at least retreated and concealed itselfin depths whither the perceptions of the exterior organs no longerpenetrated.

  "Then we must leave the cake on the window," said Oudarde; "some scampwill take it. What shall we do to rouse her?"

  Eustache, who, up to that moment had been diverted by a little carriagedrawn by a large dog, which had just passed, suddenly perceived that histhree conductresses were gazing at something through the window, and,curiosity taking possession of him in his turn, he climbed upon a stonepost, elevated himself on tiptoe, and applied his fat, red face to theopening, shouting, "Mother, let me see too!"

  At the sound of this clear, fresh, ringing child's voice, the reclusetrembled; she turned her head with the sharp, abrupt movement of a steelspring, her long, fleshless hands cast aside the hair from her brow,and she fixed upon the child, bitter, astonished, desperate eyes. Thisglance was but a lightning flash.

  "Oh my God!" she suddenly exclaimed, hiding her head on her knees, andit seemed as though her hoarse voice tore her chest as it passed fromit, "do not show me those of others!"

  "Good day, madam," said the child, gravely.

  Nevertheless, this shock had, so to speak, awakened the recluse. A longshiver traversed her frame from head to foot; her teeth chattered; shehalf raised her head and said, pressing her elbows against her hips, andclasping her feet in her hands as though to warm them,--

  "Oh, how cold it is!"

  "Poor woman!" said Oudarde, with great compassion, "would you like alittle fire?"

  She shook her head in token of refusal.

  "Well," resumed Oudarde, presenting her with a flagon; "here is somehippocras which will warm you; drink it."

  Again she shook her head, looked at Oudarde fixedly and replied,"Water."

  Oudarde persisted,--"No, sister, that is no beverage for January. Youmust drink a little hippocras and eat this leavened cake of maize, whichwe have baked for you."

  She refused the cake which Mahiette offered to her, and said, "Blackbread."

  "Come," said Gervaise, seized in her turn with an impulse of charity,and unfastening her woolen cloak, "here is a cloak which is a littlewarmer than yours."

  She refused the cloak as she had refused the flagon and the cake, andreplied, "A sack."

  "But," resumed the good Oudarde, "you must have perceived to someextent, that yesterday was a festival."

  "I do perceive it," said the recluse; "'tis two days now since I havehad any water in my crock."

  She added, after a silence, "'Tis a festival, I am forgotten. People dowell. Why should the world think of me, when I do not think of it? Coldcharcoal makes cold ashes."

  And as though fatigued with having said so much, she dropped her head onher knees again. The simple and charitable Oudarde, who fancied thatshe understood from her last words that she was complaining of the cold,replied innocently, "Then you would like a little fire?"

  "Fire!" said the sacked nun, with a strange accent; "and will you alsomake a little for the poor little one who has been beneath the sod forthese fifteen years?"

  Every limb was trembling, her voice quivered, her eyes flashed, she hadraised herself upon her knees; suddenly she extended her thin,white hand towards the child, who was regarding her with a look ofastonishment. "Take away that child!" she cried. "The Egyptian woman isabout to pass by."

  Then she fell face downward on the earth, and her forehead struck thestone, with the sound of one stone against another stone. The threewomen thought her dead. A moment later, however, she moved, and theybeheld her drag herself, on her knees and elbows, to the corner wherethe little shoe was. Then they dared not look; they no longer saw her;but they heard a thousand kisses and a thousand sighs, mingled withheartrending cries, and dull blows like those of a head in contact witha wall. Then, after one of these blows, so violent that all three ofthem staggered, they heard no more.

  "Can she have killed herself?" said Gervaise, venturing to pass her headthrough the air-hole. "Sister! Sister Gudule!"

  "Sister Gudule!" repeated Oudarde.

  "Ah! good heavens! she no longer moves!" resumed Gervaise; "is she dead?Gudule! Gudule!"

  Mahiette, choked to such a point that she could not speak, made aneffort. "Wait," said she. Then bending towards the window, "Paquette!"she said, "Paquette l
e Chantefleurie!"

  A child who innocently blows upon the badly ignited fuse of a bomb, andmakes it explode in his face, is no more terrified than was Mahietteat the effect of that name, abruptly launched into the cell of SisterGudule.

  The recluse trembled all over, rose erect on her bare feet, and leapedat the window with eyes so glaring that Mahiette and Oudarde, and theother woman and the child recoiled even to the parapet of the quay.

  Meanwhile, the sinister face of the recluse appeared pressed to thegrating of the air-hole. "Oh! oh!" she cried, with an appalling laugh;"'tis the Egyptian who is calling me!"

  At that moment, a scene which was passing at the pillory caught her wildeye. Her brow contracted with horror, she stretched her two skeletonarms from her cell, and shrieked in a voice which resembled adeath-rattle, "So 'tis thou once more, daughter of Egypt! 'Tis thouwho callest me, stealer of children! Well! Be thou accursed! accursed!accursed! accursed!"

  CHAPTER IV. A TEAR FOR A DROP OF WATER.