________________________________________________
_ "I have told you that I heard much of this story from a friend of the
Intendant of the De Crequys, whom he met with in London. Some years
afterwards--the summer before my lord's death--I was travelling with
him in Devonshire, and we went to see the French prisoners of war on
Dartmoor. We fell into conversation with one of them, whom I found
out to be the very Pierre of whom I had heard before, as having been
involved in the fatal story of Clement and Virginie, and by him I was
told much of their last days, and thus I learnt how to have some
sympathy with all those who were concerned in those terrible events;
yes, even with the younger Morin himself, on whose behalf Pierre
spoke warmly, even after so long a time had elapsed.
"For when the younger Morin called at the porter's lodge, on the
evening of the day when Virginie had gone out for the first time
after so many months' confinement to the conciergerie, he was struck
with the improvement in her appearance. It seems to have hardly been
that he thought her beauty greater: for, in addition to the fact
that she was not beautiful, Morin had arrived at that point of being
enamoured when it does not signify whether the beloved one is plain
or handsome--she has enchanted one pair of eyes, which henceforward
see her through their own medium. But Morin noticed the faint
increase of colour and light in her countenance. It was as though
she had broken through her thick cloud of hopeless sorrow, and was
dawning forth into a happier life. And so, whereas during her grief,
he had revered and respected it even to a point of silent sympathy,
now that she was gladdened, his heart rose on the wings of
strengthened hopes. Even in the dreary monotony of this existence in
his Aunt Babette's conciergerie, Time had not failed in his work, and
now, perhaps, soon he might humbly strive to help Time. The very
next day he returned--on some pretence of business--to the Hotel
Duguesclin, and made his aunt's room, rather than his aunt herself, a
present of roses and geraniums tied up in a bouquet with a tricolor
ribbon. Virginie was in the room, sitting at the coarse sewing she
liked to do for Madame Babette. He saw her eyes brighten at the
sight of the flowers: she asked his aunt to let her arrange them; he
saw her untie the ribbon, and with a gesture of dislike, throw it on
the ground, and give it a kick with her little foot, and even in this
girlish manner of insulting his dearest prejudices, he found
something to admire.
"As he was coming out, Pierre stopped him. The lad had been trying
to arrest his cousin's attention by futile grimaces and signs played
off behind Virginie's back: but Monsieur Morin saw nothing but
Mademoiselle Cannes. However, Pierre was not to be baffled, and
Monsieur Morin found him in waiting just outside the threshold. With
his finger on his lips, Pierre walked on tiptoe by his companion's
side till they would have been long past sight or hearing of the
conciergerie, even had the inhabitants devoted themselves to the
purposes of spying or listening.
"'Chut!' said Pierre, at last. 'She goes out walking.'
"'Well?' said Monsieur Morin, half curious, half annoyed at being
disturbed in the delicious reverie of the future into which he longed
to fall.
"'Well! It is not well. It is bad.'
"'Why? I do not ask who she is, but I have my ideas. She is an
aristocrat. Do the people about here begin to suspect her?'
"'No, no!' said Pierre. 'But she goes out walking. She has gone
these two mornings. I have watched her. She meets a man--she is
friends with him, for she talks to him as eagerly as he does to her--
mamma cannot tell who he is.'
"'Has my aunt seen him?'
"'No, not so much as a fly's wing of him. I myself have only seen
his back. It strikes me like a familiar back, and yet I cannot think
who it is. But they separate with sudden darts, like two birds who
have been together to feed their young ones. One moment they are in
close talk, their heads together chuckotting; the next he has turned
up some bye-street, and Mademoiselle Cannes is close upon me--has
almost caught me.'
"'But she did not see you?' inquired Monsieur Morin, in so altered a
voice that Pierre gave him one of his quick penetrating looks. He
was struck by the way in which his cousin's features--always coarse
and common-place--had become contracted and pinched; struck, too, by
the livid look on his sallow complexion. But as if Morin was
conscious of the manner in which his face belied his feelings, he
made an effort, and smiled, and patted Pierre's head, and thanked him
for his intelligence, and gave him a five-franc piece, and bade him
go on with his observations of Mademoiselle Cannes' movements, and
report all to him.
"Pierre returned home with a light heart, tossing up his five-franc
piece as he ran. Just as he was at the conciergerie door, a great
tall man bustled past him, and snatched his money away from him,
looking back with a laugh, which added insult to injury. Pierre had
no redress; no one had witnessed the impudent theft, and if they had,
no one to be seen in the street was strong enough to give him
redress. Besides, Pierre had seen enough of the state of the streets
of Paris at that time to know that friends, not enemies, were
required, and the man had a bad air about him. But all these
considerations did not keep Pierre from bursting out into a fit of
crying when he was once more under his mother's roof; and Virginie,
who was alone there (Madame Babette having gone out to make her daily
purchases), might have imagined him pommeled to death by the loudness
of his sobs.
"'What is the matter?' asked she. 'Speak, my child. What hast thou
done?'
"'He has robbed me! he has robbed me!' was all Pierre could gulp out.
"'Robbed thee! and of what, my poor boy?' said Virginie, stroking his
hair gently.
"'Of my five-franc piece--of a five-franc piece,' said Pierre,
correcting himself, and leaving out the word my, half fearful lest
Virginie should inquire how he became possessed of such a sum, and
for what services it had been given him. But, of course, no such
idea came into her head, for it would have been impertinent, and she
was gentle-born.
"'Wait a moment, my lad,' and going to the one small drawer in the
inner apartment, which held all her few possessions, she brought back
a little ring--a ring just with one ruby in it--which she had worn in
the days when she cared to wear jewels. 'Take this,' said she, 'and
run with it to a jeweller's. It is but a poor, valueless thing, but
it will bring you in your five francs, at any rate. Go! I desire
you.'
"'But I cannot,' said the boy, hesitating; some dim sense of honour
flitting through his misty morals.
"'Yes, you must!' she continued, urging him with her hand to the
door. 'Run! if it brings in more than five francs, you shall return
the surplus to me.'
"Thus tempted by her urgency, and, I suppose, reasoning with himself
to the effect that he might as well have the money, and then see
whether he thought it right to act as a spy upon her or not--the one
action did not pledge him to the other, nor yet did she make any
conditions with her gift--Pierre went off with her ring; and, after
repaying himself his five francs, he was enabled to bring Virginie
back two more, so well had he managed his affairs. But, although the
whole transaction did not leave him bound, in any way, to discover or
forward Virginie's wishes, it did leave him pledged, according to his
code, to act according to her advantage, and he considered himself
the judge of the best course to be pursued to this end. And,
moreover, this little kindness attached him to her personally. He
began to think how pleasant it would be to have so kind and generous
a person for a relation; how easily his troubles might be borne if he
had always such a ready helper at hand; how much he should like to
make her like him, and come to him for the protection of his
masculine power! First of all his duties, as her self-appointed
squire, came the necessity of finding out who her strange new
acquaintance was. Thus, you see, he arrived at the same end, via
supposed duty, that he was previously pledged to via interest. I
fancy a good number of us, when any line of action will promote our
own interest, can make ourselves believe that reasons exist which
compel us to it as a duty.
"In the course of a very few days, Pierre had so circumvented
Virginie as to have discovered that her new friend was no other than
the Norman farmer in a different dress. This was a great piece of
knowledge to impart to Morin. But Pierre was not prepared for the
immediate physical effect it had on his cousin. Morin sat suddenly
down on one of the seats in the Boulevards--it was there Pierre had
met with him accidentally--when he heard who it was that Virginie
met. I do not suppose the man had the faintest idea of any
relationship or even previous acquaintanceship between Clement and
Virginie. If he thought of anything beyond the mere fact presented
to him, that his idol was in communication with another, younger,
handsomer man than himself, it must have been that the Norman farmer
had seen her at the conciergerie, and had been attracted by her, and,
as was but natural, had tried to make her acquaintance, and had
succeeded. But, from what Pierre told me, I should not think that
even this much thought passed through Morin's mind. He seems to have
been a man of rare and concentrated attachments; violent, though
restrained and undemonstrative passions; and, above all, a capability
of jealousy, of which his dark oriental complexion must have been a
type. I could fancy that if he had married Virginie, he would have
coined his life-blood for luxuries to make her happy; would have
watched over and petted her, at every sacrifice to himself, as long
as she would have been content to live with him alone. But, as
Pierre expressed it to me: 'When I saw what my cousin was, when I
learned his nature too late, I perceived that he would have strangled
a bird if she whom he loved was attracted by it from him.'
"When Pierre had told Morin of his discovery, Morin sat down, as I
said, quite suddenly, as if he had been shot. He found out that the
first meeting between the Norman and Virginie was no accidental,
isolated circumstance. Pierre was torturing him with his accounts of
daily rendezvous: if but for a moment, they were seeing each other
every day, sometimes twice a day. And Virginie could speak to this
man, though to himself she was coy and reserved as hardly to utter a
sentence. Pierre caught these broken words while his cousin's
complexion grew more and more livid, and then purple, as if some
great effect were produced on his circulation by the news he had just
heard. Pierre was so startled by his cousin's wandering, senseless
eyes, and otherwise disordered looks, that he rushed into a
neighbouring cabaret for a glass of absinthe, which he paid for, as
he recollected afterwards, with a portion of Virginie's five francs.
By-and-by Morin recovered his natural appearance; but he was gloomy
and silent; and all that Pierre could get out of him was, that the
Norman farmer should not sleep another night at the Hotel Duguesclin,
giving him such opportunities of passing and repassing by the
conciergerie door. He was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to
repay Pierre the half franc he had spent on the absinthe, which
Pierre perceived, and seems to have noted down in the ledger of his
mind as on Virginie's balance of favour.
"Altogether, he was much disappointed at his cousin's mode of
receiving intelligence, which the lad thought worth another five-
franc piece at least; or, if not paid for in money, to be paid for in
open-mouthed confidence and expression of feeling, that he was, for a
time, so far a partisan of Virginie's--unconscious Virginie--against
his cousin, as to feel regret when the Norman returned no more to his
night's lodging, and when Virginie's eager watch at the crevice of
the closely-drawn blind ended only with a sigh of disappointment. If
it had not been for his mother's presence at the time, Pierre thought
he should have told her all. But how far was his mother in his
cousin's confidence as regarded the dismissal of the Norman?
"In a few days, however, Pierre felt almost sure that they had
established some new means of communication. Virginie went out for a
short time every day; but though Pierre followed her as closely as he
could without exciting her observation, he was unable to discover
what kind of intercourse she held with the Norman. She went, in
general, the same short round among the little shops in the
neighbourhood; not entering any, but stopping at two or three.
Pierre afterwards remembered that she had invariably paused at the
nosegays displayed in a certain window, and studied them long: but,
then, she stopped and looked at caps, hats, fashions, confectionery
(all of the humble kind common in that quarter), so how should he
have known that any particular attraction existed among the flowers?
Morin came more regularly than ever to his aunt's; but Virginie was
apparently unconscious that she was the attraction. She looked
healthier and more hopeful than she had done for months, and her
manners to all were gentler and not so reserved. Almost as if she
wished to manifest her gratitude to Madame Babette for her long
continuance of kindness, the necessity for which was nearly ended,
Virginie showed an unusual alacrity in rendering the old woman any
little service in her power, and evidently tried to respond to
Monsieur Morin's civilities, he being Madame Babette's nephew, with a
soft graciousness which must have made one of her principal charms;
for all who knew her speak of the fascination of her manners, so
winning and attentive to others, while yet her opinions, and often
her actions, were of so decided a character. For, as I have said,
her beauty was by no means great; yet every man who came near her
seems to have fallen into the sphere of her influence. Monsieur
Morin was deeper than ever in love with her during these last few
days: he was worked up into a state capable of any sacrifice, either
of himself or others, so that he might obtain her at last. He sat
'devouring her with his eyes' (to use Pierre's expression) whenever
she could not see him; but, if she looked towards him, he looked to
the ground--anywhere--away from her and almost stammered in his
replies if she addressed any question to him.'
"He had been, I should think, ashamed of his extreme agitation on the
Boulevards, for Pierre thought that he absolutely shunned him for
these few succeeding days. He must have believed that he had driven
the Norman (my poor Clement!) off the field, by banishing him from
his inn; and thought that the intercourse between him and Virginie,
which he had thus interrupted, was of so slight and transient a
character as to be quenched by a little difficulty.
"But he appears to have felt that he had made but little way, and he
awkwardly turned to Pierre for help--not yet confessing his love,
though; he only tried to make friends again with the lad after their
silent estrangement. And Pierre for some time did not choose to
perceive his cousin's advances. He would reply to all the roundabout
questions Morin put to him respecting household conversations when he
was not present, or household occupations and tone of thought,
without mentioning Virginie's name any more than his questioner did.
The lad would seem to suppose, that his cousin's strong interest in
their domestic ways of going on was all on account of Madame Babette.
At last he worked his cousin up to the point of making him a
confidant: and then the boy was half frightened at the torrent of
vehement words he had unloosed. The lava came down with a greater
rush for having been pent up so long. Morin cried out his words in a
hoarse, passionate voice, clenched his teeth, his fingers, and seemed
almost convulsed, as he spoke out his terrible love for Virginie,
which would lead him to kill her sooner than see her another's; and
if another stepped in between him and her!--and then he smiled a
fierce, triumphant smile, but did not say any more.
"Pierre was, as I said, half-frightened; but also half-admiring.
This was really love--a 'grande passion,'--a really fine dramatic
thing,--like the plays they acted at the little theatre yonder. He
had a dozen times the sympathy with his cousin now that he had had
before, and readily swore by the infernal gods, for they were far too
enlightened to believe in one God, or Christianity, or anything of
the kind,--that he would devote himself, body and soul, to forwarding
his cousin's views. Then his cousin took him to a shop, and bought
him a smart second-hand watch, on which they scratched the word
Fidelite, and thus was the compact sealed. Pierre settled in his own
mind, that if he were a woman, he should like to be beloved as
Virginie was, by his cousin, and that it would be an extremely good
thing for her to be the wife of so rich a citizen as Morin Fils,--and
for Pierre himself, too, for doubtless their gratitude would lead
them to give him rings and watches ad infinitum.
"A day or two afterwards, Virginie was taken ill. Madame Babette
said it was because she had persevered in going out in all weathers,
after confining herself to two warm rooms for so long; and very
probably this was really the cause, for, from Pierre's account, she
must have been suffering from a feverish cold, aggravated, no doubt,
by her impatience at Madame Babette's familiar prohibitions of any
more walks until she was better. Every day, in spite of her
trembling, aching limbs, she would fain have arranged her dress for
her walk at the usual time; but Madame Babette was fully prepared to
put physical obstacles in her way, if she was not obedient in
remaining tranquil on the little sofa by the side of the fire. The
third day, she called Pierre to her, when his mother was not
attending (having, in fact, locked up Mademoiselle Cannes' out-of-
door things).
"'See, my child,' said Virginie. 'Thou must do me a great favour.
Go to the gardener's shop in the Rue des Bons-Enfans, and look at the
nosegays in the window. I long for pinks; they are my favourite
flower. Here are two francs. If thou seest a nosegay of pinks
displayed in the window, if it be ever so faded--nay, if thou seest
two or three nosegays of pinks, remember, buy them all, and bring
them to me, I have so great a desire for the smell.' She fell back
weak and exhausted. Pierre hurried out. Now was the time; here was
the clue to the long inspection of the nosegay in this very shop.
"Sure enough, there was a drooping nosegay of pinks in the window.
Pierre went in, and, with all his impatience, he made as good a
bargain as he could, urging that the flowers were faded, and good for
nothing. At last he purchased them at a very moderate price. And
now you will learn the bad consequences of teaching the lower orders
anything beyond what is immediately necessary to enable them to earn
their daily bread! The silly Count de Crequy,--he who had been sent
to his bloody rest, by the very canaille of whom he thought so much,-
-he who had made Virginie (indirectly, it is true) reject such a man
as her cousin Clement, by inflating her mind with his bubbles of
theories,--this Count de Crequy had long ago taken a fancy to Pierre,
as he saw the bright sharp child playing about his court--Monsieur de
Crequy had even begun to educate the boy himself to try work out
certain opinions of his into practice,--but the drudgery of the
affair wearied him, and, beside, Babette had left his employment.
Still the Count took a kind of interest in his former pupil; and made
some sort of arrangement by which Pierre was to be taught reading and
writing, and accounts, and Heaven knows what besides,--Latin, I dare
say. So Pierre, instead of being an innocent messenger, as he ought
to have been--(as Mr. Horner's little lad Gregson ought to have been
this morning)--could read writing as well as either you or I. So
what does he do, on obtaining the nosegay, but examine it well. The
stalks of the flowers were tied up with slips of matting in wet moss.
Pierre undid the strings, unwrapped the moss, and out fell a piece of
wet paper, with the writing all blurred with moisture. It was but a
torn piece of writing-paper, apparently, but Pierre's wicked
mischievous eyes read what was written on it,--written so as to look
like a fragment,--'Ready, every and any night at nine. All is
prepared. Have no fright. Trust one who, whatever hopes he might
once have had, is content now to serve you as a faithful cousin;' and
a place was named, which I forget, but which Pierre did not, as it
was evidently the rendezvous. After the lad had studied every word,
till he could say it off by heart, he placed the paper where he had
found it, enveloped it in moss, and tied the whole up again
carefully. Virginie's face coloured scarlet as she received it. She
kept smelling at it, and trembling: but she did not untie it,
although Pierre suggested how much fresher it would be if the stalks
were immediately put into water. But once, after his back had been
turned for a minute, he saw it untied when he looked round again, and
Virginie was blushing, and hiding something in her bosom.
"Pierre was now all impatience to set off and find his cousin, But
his mother seemed to want him for small domestic purposes even more
than usual; and he had chafed over a multitude of errands connected
with the Hotel before he could set off and search for his cousin at
his usual haunts. At last the two met and Pierre related all the
events of the morning to Morin. He said the note off word by word.
(That lad this morning had something of the magpie look of Pierre--it
made me shudder to see him, and hear him repeat the note by heart.)
Then Morin asked him to tell him all over again. Pierre was struck
by Morin's heavy sighs as he repeated the story. When he came the
second time to the note, Morin tried to write the words down; but
either he was not a good, ready scholar, or his fingers trembled too
much. Pierre hardly remembered, but, at any rate, the lad had to do
it, with his wicked reading and writing. When this was done, Morin
sat heavily silent. Pierre would have preferred the expected
outburst, for this impenetrable gloom perplexed and baffled him. He
had even to speak to his cousin to rouse him; and when he replied,
what he said had so little apparent connection with the subject which
Pierre had expected to find uppermost in his mind, that he was half
afraid that his cousin had lost his wits.
"'My Aunt Babette is out of coffee.'
"'I am sure I do not know,' said Pierre.
"'Yes, she is. I heard her say so. Tell her that a friend of mine
has just opened a shop in the Rue Saint Antoine, and that if she will
join me there in an hour, I will supply her with a good stock of
coffee, just to give my friend encouragement. His name is Antoine
Meyer, Number One hundred and Fifty at the sign of the Cap of
Liberty.'
"'I could go with you now. I can carry a few pounds of coffee better
than my mother,' said Pierre, all in good faith. He told me he
should never forget the look on his cousin's face, as he turned
round, and bade him begone, and give his mother the message without
another word. It had evidently sent him home promptly to obey his
cousins command. Morin's message perplexed Madame Babette.
"'How could he know I was out of coffee?' said she. 'I am; but I
only used the last up this morning. How could Victor know about it?'
"'I am sure I can't tell,' said Pierre, who by this time had
recovered his usual self-possession. 'All I know is, that monsieur
is in a pretty temper, and that if you are not sharp to your time at
this Antoine Meyer's you are likely to come in for some of his black
looks.'
"'Well, it is very kind of him to offer to give me some coffee, to be
sure! But how could he know I was out?'
"Pierre hurried his mother off impatiently, for he was certain that
the offer of the coffee was only a blind to some hidden purpose on
his cousin's part; and he made no doubt that when his mother had been
informed of what his cousin's real intention was, he, Pierre, could
extract it from her by coaxing or bullying. But he was mistaken.
Madame Babette returned home, grave, depressed, silent, and loaded
with the best coffee. Some time afterwards he learnt why his cousin
had sought for this interview. It was to extract from her, by
promises and threats, the real name of Mam'selle Cannes, which would
give him a clue to the true appellation of The Faithful Cousin. He
concealed the second purpose from his aunt, who had been quite
unaware of his jealousy of the Norman farmer, or of his
identification of him with any relation of Virginie's. But Madame
Babette instinctively shrank from giving him any information: she
must have felt that, in the lowering mood in which she found him, his
desire for greater knowledge of Virginie's antecedents boded her no
good. And yet he made his aunt his confidante--told her what she had
only suspected before--that he was deeply enamoured of Mam'selle
Cannes, and would gladly marry her. He spoke to Madame Babette of
his father's hoarded riches; and of the share which he, as partner,
had in them at the present time; and of the prospect of the
succession to the whole, which he had, as only child. He told his
aunt of the provision for her (Madame Babette's) life, which he would
make on the day when he married Mam'selle Cannes. And yet--and yet--
Babette saw that in his eye and look which made her more and more
reluctant to confide in him. By-and-by he tried threats. She should
leave the conciergerie, and find employment where she liked. Still
silence. Then he grew angry, and swore that he would inform against
her at the bureau of the Directory, for harbouring an aristocrat; an
aristocrat he knew Mademoiselle was, whatever her real name might be.
His aunt should have a domiciliary visit, and see how she liked that.
The officers of the Government were the people for finding out
secrets. In vain she reminded him that, by so doing, he would expose
to imminent danger the lady whom he had professed to love. He told
her, with a sullen relapse into silence after his vehement outpouring
of passion, never to trouble herself about that. At last he wearied
out the old woman, and, frightened alike of herself and of him, she
told him all,--that Mam'selle Cannes was Mademoiselle Virginie de
Crequy, daughter of the Count of that name. Who was the Count?
Younger brother of the Marquis. Where was the Marquis? Dead long
ago, leaving a widow and child. A son? (eagerly). Yes, a son.
Where was he? Parbleu! how should she know?--for her courage
returned a little as the talk went away from the only person of the
De Crequy family that she cared about. But, by dint of some small
glasses out of a bottle of Antoine Meyer's, she told him more about
the De Crequys than she liked afterwards to remember. For the
exhilaration of the brandy lasted but a very short time, and she came
home, as I have said, depressed, with a presentiment of coming evil.
She would not answer Pierre, but cuffed him about in a manner to
which the spoilt boy was quite unaccustomed. His cousin's short,
angry words, and sudden withdrawal of confidence,--his mother's
unwonted crossness and fault-finding, all made Virginie's kind,
gentle treatment, more than ever charming to the lad. He half
resolved to tell her how he had been acting as a spy upon her
actions, and at whose desire he had done it. But he was afraid of
Morin, and of the vengeance which he was sure would fall upon him for
any breach of confidence. Towards half-past eight that evening--
Pierre, watching, saw Virginie arrange several little things--she was
in the inner room, but he sat where he could see her through the
glazed partition. His mother sat--apparently sleeping--in the great
easy-chair; Virginie moved about softly, for fear of disturbing her.
She made up one or two little parcels of the few things she could
call her own: one packet she concealed about herself--the others she
directed, and left on the shelf. 'She is going,' thought Pierre, and
(as he said in giving me the account) his heart gave a spring, to
think that he should never see her again. If either his mother or
his cousin had been more kind to him, he might have endeavoured to
intercept her; but as it was, he held his breath, and when she came
out he pretended to read, scarcely knowing whether he wished her to
succeed in the purpose which he was almost sure she entertained, or
not. She stopped by him, and passed her hand over his hair. He told
me that his eyes filled with tears at this caress. Then she stood
for a moment looking at the sleeping Madame Babette, and stooped down
and softly kissed her on the forehead. Pierre dreaded lest his
mother should awake (for by this time the wayward, vacillating boy
must have been quite on Virginie's side), but the brandy she had
drunk made her slumber heavily. Virginie went. Pierre's heart beat
fast. He was sure his cousin would try to intercept her; but how, he
could not imagine. He longed to run out and see the catastrophe,--
but he had let the moment slip; he was also afraid of reawakening his
mother to her unusual state of anger and violence." _
Read next: CHAPTER VIII
Read previous: CHAPTER VI
Table of content of My Lady Ludlow
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
