Collected works of eugen.., p.100
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 100
“That it will,” answered Amandine. “And just see, François, how charming I shall look with my sweet pretty handkerchief tied around my head, — so, brother.”
“What a rage the little children at the lime-kilns will be in when they see you pass by!” said Calabash, fixing her malignant glances on the poor children to ascertain whether they comprehended the full and spiteful meaning of her words, — the hateful creature seeking, by the aid of vanity, to stifle the last breathings of virtue within their young minds. “The brats at the lime-kilns,” continued she, “will look like beggar children beside you, and be ready to burst with envy and jealousy at seeing you two looking like a little lady and gentleman with your pretty silk handkerchiefs.”
“So they will,” cried François. “Ah, and I like my new cravat ever so much the better, Sister Calabash, now you have told me that the children at the kilns will be so mad with me for being smarter than they; don’t you, Amandine?”
“No, François, I don’t find that makes any difference. But I am quite glad I have got such a nice new pretty marmotte as that will make, all the same.”
“Go along with you, you little mean-spirited thing!” cried Calabash, disdainfully; “you have not a grain of proper pride in you.” Then, snatching from the table a morsel of bread and cheese, she thrust them into the children’s hands, saying, “Now, get off to bed, — there is a lanthorn; take care you don’t set fire to anything, and be sure to put it out before you go to sleep.”
“And hark ye,” added Nicholas, “remember that if you dare to say one word to Martial of the box, the copper, or the clothes, I’ll make you dance upon red-hot iron; and, besides that, your pretty silk handkerchiefs shall be taken from you.”
After the departure of the children, Nicholas and his sister concealed the box, with its contents, the clothes, and lumps of copper, in a sort of cellar below the kitchen, the entrance to which was by a low flight of steps not far from the fireplace.
“That’ll do!” cried the hardened youth. “And now, mother, give us a glass of your very best brandy; none of your poor, every-day stuff, but some of the real right sort, and plenty of it. Faith! I think I’ve earned a right to eat and to drink whatever you happen to have put by for grand occasions. Come, Calabash, look sharp, and let’s have supper. Never mind Martial, he may amuse himself with picking the bones we may leave; they are good enough for him. Now, then, for a bit of gossip over the affair of the individual I went to meet on the Quai de Billy, because that little job must be settled at once if I mean to pouch the money he promised me. I’ll tell you all about it, mother, from beginning to end. But first give me something to moisten my throat. Give me some drink, I say! Devilish hard to be obliged to ask so many times, considering what I have done for you all to-day! I tell you I can stand treat, if that’s what you are waiting for.”
And here Nicholas again jingled the five-franc pieces he had in his pocket; then flinging his goatskin waistcoat and black woollen cap into a distant part of the room, he seated himself at table before a huge dish of ragout made of mutton, a piece of cold veal, and a salad. As soon as Calabash had brought wine and brandy, the widow, still gloomy and imperturbable, took her place at one side of the table, having Nicholas on her right hand and her daughter on her left; the other side of the table had been destined for Martial and the two younger children. Nicholas then drew from his pocket a long and wide Spanish knife, with a horn handle and a trenchant blade. Contemplating this murderous weapon with a sort of savage pleasure, he said to the widow:
“There’s my bread-earner, — what an edge it has! Talking of bread, mother, just hand me some of that beside you.”
“And talking of knives, too,” replied Calabash, “François has found out — you know what — in the wood-pile!”
“What do you mean?” asked Nicholas, not understanding her.
“Why, he saw — one of the feet!”
“Phew!” whistled Nicholas; “what, of the man?”
“Yes,” answered the widow, concisely, at the same time placing a large slice of meat on her son’s plate.
“That’s droll enough,” returned the young ruffian; “I’m sure the hole was dug deep enough; but I suppose the ground has sunk in a good deal.”
“It must all be thrown into the river to-night,” said the widow.
“That is the surest way to get rid of further bother,” said Nicholas.
“Yes,” chimed in Calabash, “throw it in the river, with a heavy stone fastened to it, with part of an old boat-chain.”
“We are not quite such fools as that either,” returned Nicholas, pouring out for himself a brimming glass of wine. Then, holding the bottle up, he said, addressing the widow: “Come, mother, let’s touch glasses, and drink to each other. You seem a cup too low, and it will cheer you up.”
The widow drew back her glass, shook her head, and said to her son:
“Tell me of the man you met on the Quai de Billy.”
“Why, this is it,” said Nicholas, without ceasing to eat and drink: “When I got to the landing-place, I fastened my boat, and went up the steps of the quay as the clock was striking seven at the military bakehouse at Chaillot. You could not see four yards before you, but I walked up and down by the parapet wall for a quarter of an hour, when I heard footsteps moving softly behind me. I stopped, and a man, completely wrapped up in a mantle, approached me, coughing as he advanced. As I paused, he paused; and all I could make out of him was that his cloak hid his nose, and his hat fell over his eyes.”
We will inform our readers that this mysterious personage was Jacques Ferrand, the notary, who, anxious to get rid of Fleur-de-Marie, had, that same morning, despatched Madame Séraphin to the Martials, whom he hoped to find the ready instruments of his fresh crime.
“‘Bradamanti,’ said the man to me,” continued Nicholas; “that was the password agreed upon by the old woman, that I might know my man. ‘Ravageur,’ says I, as was agreed. ‘Is your name Martial?’ he asked. ‘Yes, master.’ ‘A woman was at your isle to-day: what did she say to you?’ ‘That you wished to speak to me on the part of M. Bradamanti.’ ‘You have a boat?’ ‘We have four, that’s our number: boatmen and ravageurs, from father to son, at your service.’ ‘This is what I want you to do if you are not afraid—’ ‘Afraid of what, master?’ ‘Of seeing a person accidentally drowned. Only you must assist with the accident. Do you understand?’ ‘Perfectly, master; we must make some individual have a draught of the Seine, as if by accident? I’ll do it; only, as the dish to be dressed is a dainty one, why, the seasoning will cost rather dear.’ ‘How much for two?’ ‘For two? What! are there two persons who are to have a mess of broth in the river?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Five hundred francs a head, master; that’s not too dear.’ ‘Agreed, for a thousand francs.’ ‘Money down, master?’ ‘Two hundred francs now, and the rest afterwards.’ ‘Then you doubt me, master?’ ‘No; you may pocket the two hundred francs, without completing the bargain.’ ‘And you may say, after it’s done, “Don’t you wish you may get it?”’ ‘That as may be; but does it suit you? yes or no. Two hundred francs down, and on the evening of the day after to-morrow, here, at nine o’clock, I will give you the eight hundred francs.’ ‘And who will inform you that I have done the trick with these two persons?’ ‘I shall know; that is my affair. Is it a bargain?’ ‘Yes, master.’ ‘Here are two hundred francs. Now listen to me; you will know again the old woman who was at your house this morning?’ ‘Yes, master.’ ‘To-morrow, or next day at latest, you will see her come, about four o’clock in the evening, on the bank in face of your island with a young fair girl. The old woman will make a signal to you by waving her handkerchief.’ ‘Yes, master.’ ‘What time does it take to go from the bank-side to your island?’ ‘Twenty minutes, quite.’ ‘Your boats are flat-bottomed?’ ‘Flat as your hand, master.’ ‘Then you must make, very skilfully, a sort of large hole in the bottom of one of these boats, so that, when you open it, the water may flow in rapidly. Do you understand?’ ‘Quite well, master; how clever you are! I have by me a worn-out old boat, half rotten, that I was going to break up, but it will just do for this one more voyage.’ ‘You will then leave the island with this boat, with the hole prepared; let a good boat follow you, conducted by some one of your family. Go to the shore, accost the old woman and the fair young girl, and take them on board the boat with the hole in it; then go back towards your island; but, when you are at some distance from the bank, pretend to stoop for some purpose, open the hole, and leap into the other boat, whilst the old woman and the fair young girl—’ ‘Drink out of the same cup, — that’s it, — eh, master?’ ‘But are you sure you will not be interrupted? Suppose some customers should come to your house?’ ‘There is no fear, master. At this time, and especially in winter, no one comes, it is our dead time of year; and, if they come, that would not be troublesome; on the contrary, they are all good friends.’ ‘Very well. Besides, you in no way compromise yourselves; the boat will be supposed to have sunk from old age, and the old woman who brings the young girl will disappear with her. In order to be quite assured that they are drowned (by accident, mind! quite by accident), you can, if they rise to the surface, or if they cling to the boat, appear to do all in your power to assist them, and—’ ‘Help them — to sink again! Good, master!’ ‘It will be requisite that the passage be made after sunset, in order that it may be quite dark when they fall into the water.’ ‘No, master; for if one does not see clear, how shall we know if the two women swallow their doses at one gulp, or want a second?’ ‘True; and, therefore, the accident will take place before sunset.’ ‘All right, master; but the old woman has no suspicion, has she?’ ‘Not the slightest. When she arrives, she will whisper to you: “The young girl is to be drowned; a little while before you sink the boat, make me a signal, that I may be ready to escape with you.” You will reply to the old woman in such a way as to avoid all suspicion.’ ‘So that she may suppose the young ‘un only is going to swallow the dose?’ ‘But which she will drink as well as the fair girl.’ ‘It’s “downily” arranged, master.’ ‘But mind the old woman has not the slightest suspicion.’ ‘Be easy on that score, master; she will be done as nicely as possible.’ ‘Well, then, good luck to you, my lad! If I am satisfied, perhaps I shall give you another job.’ ‘At your service, master.’ Then,” said the ruffian, in conclusion, “I left the man in the cloak, and ‘prigged the swag’ I’ve just brought in.”
We may glean from Nicholas’s recital that the notary was desirous, by a twofold crime, of getting rid at once of Fleur-de-Marie and Madame Séraphin, by causing the latter to fall into the snare which she thought was only spread for the Goualeuse. It is hardly necessary to repeat that, justly alarmed lest the Chouette should inform Fleur-de-Marie at any moment that she had been abandoned by Madame Séraphin, Jacques Ferrand believed he had a paramount interest in getting rid of this young girl, whose claims might mortally injure him both in his fortune and in his reputation. As to Madame Séraphin, the notary, by sacrificing her, got rid of one of his accomplices (Bradamanti was the other), who might ruin him, whilst they ruined themselves, it is true; but Jacques Ferrand believed that the grave would keep his secrets better than any personal interests.
The felon’s widow and Calabash had listened attentively to Nicholas, who had not paused except to swallow large quantities of wine, and then he began to talk with considerable excitement.
“That is not all,” he continued. “I have begun another affair with the Chouette and Barbillon of the Rue aux Fêves. It is a capital job, well planted; and if it does not miss fire, it will bring plenty of fish to net, and no mistake. It is to clean out a jewel-matcher, who has sometimes as much as fifty thousand francs in jewelry in her basket.”
“Fifty thousand francs!” cried the mother and daughter, whose eyes sparkled with cupidity.
“Yes — quite. Bras Rouge is in it with us. He yesterday opened upon the woman with a letter which we carried to her — Barbillon and I — at her house, Boulevard St. Denis. He’s an out-and-outer, Bras Rouge is! As he appears — and, I believe, is — well-to-do, nobody mistrusts him. To make the jewel-matcher bite he has already sold her a diamond worth four hundred francs. She’ll not be afraid to come towards nightfall to his cabaret in the Champs Elysées. We shall be concealed there. Calabash may come with us, and take care of my boat along the side of the Seine. If we are obliged to carry her off, dead or alive, that will be a convenient conveyance, and one that leaves no traces. There’s a plan for you! That beggar Bras Rouge is nothing but a good ‘un!”
“I have always distrusted Bras Rouge,” said the widow. “After that affair of the Rue Montmartre your brother Ambroise was sent to Toulon, and Bras Rouge was set at liberty.”
“Because he’s so downy there’s no proofs against him. But betray others? — never!”
The widow shook her head, as if she were only half convinced of Bras Rouge’s probity. After a few moments’ reflection she said:
“I like much better that affair of the Quai de Billy for to-morrow or next day evening, — the drowning the two women. But Martial will be in the way as usual.”
“Will not the devil’s thunder ever rid us of him?” exclaimed Nicholas, half drunk, and striking his long knife savagely on the table.
“I have told mother that we had enough of him, and that we could not go on in this way,” said Calabash. “As long as he is here we can do nothing with the children.”
“I tell you that he is capable of one day denouncing us, — the villain!” said Nicholas. “You see, mother, if you would have believed me,” he added, with a savage and significant air, “all would have been settled!”
“There are other means—”
“This is the best!” said the ruffian.
“Now? No!” replied the widow, with a tone so decided that Nicholas was silent, overcome by the influence of his mother, whom he knew to be as criminal, as wicked, but still more determined than himself.
The widow added, “To-morrow he will quit the island for ever.”
“How?” inquired Nicholas and Calabash at the same time.
“When he comes in pick a quarrel with him, — but boldly, mind, — out to his face, as you have never yet dared to do. Come to blows, if necessary. He is powerful, but you will be two, for I will help you. Mind, no steel, — no blood! Let him be beaten, but not wounded.”
“And what then, mother?” asked Nicholas.
“We shall then explain afterwards. We will tell him to leave the island next day; if not, that the scenes of the night before will occur over and over again. I know him; these perpetual squabbles disgust him; until now we have let him be too quiet.”
“But he is as obstinate as a mule, and is likely enough to insist upon staying, because of the children,” observed Calabash.
“He’s a regular hound; but a row don’t frighten him,” said Nicholas.
“One? No!” said the widow. “But every day — day by day — it is hell in earth, and he will give way.”
“Suppose he don’t?”
“Then I have another sure means to make him go away, — this very night or to-morrow at farthest,” replied the widow, with a singular smile.
“Really, mother!”
“Yes, but I prefer rather to annoy him with a row; and, if that don’t do, why, then, it must be the other way.”
“And if the other way does not succeed, either, mother?” said Nicholas.
“There is one which always succeeds,” replied the widow.
Suddenly the door opened, and Martial entered. It blew so strong without that they had not heard the barkings of the dogs at the return of the first-born son of the felon’s widow.
CHAPTER V.
THE MOTHER AND SON.
UNAWARE OF THE evil designs of his family, Martial entered the kitchen slowly.
Some few words let fall by La Louve in her conversation with Fleur-de-Marie have already acquainted the reader with the singular existence of this man. Endowed with excellent natural instincts, incapable of an action positively base or wicked, Martial did not, however, lead a regular life: he poached on the water; but his strength and his boldness inspired so much fear that the keepers of the river shut their eyes on this irregularity.
To this illegal occupation Martial joined another that was equally illicit. A redoubtable champion, he willingly undertook — and more from excess of courage, from love of the thing, than for gain — to avenge in pugilistic or single-stick encounters those victims who had been overcome by too powerful opponents.
We should add that Martial was very particular in the selection of those causes which he pleaded by strength of fist, and usually took the part of the weak against the strong.
La Louve’s lover was very much like François and Amandine. He was of middle height, stout, and broad-shouldered; his thick red hair, cropped short, came in five points over his open brow; his close, harsh, short beard, his broad, bluff cheeks, his projecting nose, flattened at the extremity, his blue and bold eyes, gave to his masculine features a singularly resolute expression.
He was covered with an old glazed hat; and, despite the cold, he had only a worn-out blouse over his vest, and a pair of velveteen trousers, which had seen considerable service. He held in his hand a very thick, knotted stick, which he put down beside him near the dresser.
A large dog, half terrier, half hound, with crooked legs and a black hide, marked with bright red, came in with Martial, but he remained close to the door, not daring to approach the fire, nor the guests who were sitting at table, experience having proved to old Miraut (that was the name of Martial’s poaching companion) that he, as well as his master, did not possess much of the sympathy of the family.
“Where are the children?” were Martial’s first words, as he sat down to table.
“Where they ought to be,” replied Calabash, surlily.
“Where are the children, mother?” said Martial again, without taking the slightest notice of his sister’s reply.
