The Mysteries Of Paris Volume I Part 16

Now they are settling on that old mill. One is never tired in the open fields of looking at all these amusing sights."

"It, is, indeed, a pleasure to behold the delight you seem to take in all these trifling matters, Fleur-de-Marie; though they, in reality, const.i.tute the charm of a landscape."

And Rodolph was right; for the countenance of his companion, while gazing upon the fair, calm scene before her, was lit up with an expression of the purest joy.

"See!" she exclaimed, after intently watching the different objects that unfolded themselves to her eager look, "see how beautifully the clear white smoke rises from those cottages, and ascends to the very clouds themselves; and there are some men ploughing the land. What a capital plough they have got, drawn by those two fine gray horses. Oh, if I were a man, how I should like to be a husbandman, to go out in the fields, and drive one's own plough; and then when you look to see the blue skies, and the green shiny leaves of the neighbouring forests,--such a day as to-day, for instance, when you feel half inclined to weep, without knowing why, and begin singing old and melancholy songs, like 'Genevieve de Brabant.' Do you know 'Genevieve de Brabant,' M. Rodolph?"

"No, my child; but I hope you will have the kindness to sing it to me before the day is over. You know our time is all our own."

At these words, which reminded the poor Goualeuse that her newly tasted happiness was fast fleeting away, and that, at the close of this, the brightest day that had ever shone on her existence, she must return to all the horrors of a corrupt city, her feelings broke through all restraint, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. Much surprised at her emotion, Rodolph kindly inquired its cause.

"What ails you, Fleur-de-Marie? What fresh grief have you found?"

"Nothing,--nothing indeed, M. Rodolph," replied the girl, drying her eyes and trying to smile. "Pray forgive me for being so sad, and please not to notice it. I a.s.sure you I have nothing at all to grieve about,--it is only a fancy; and now I am going to be quite gay, you will see."

"And you were as gay as could be a few minutes ago."

"Yes, I know I was; and it was my thinking how soon--" answered Fleur-de-Marie, navely, and raising her large, tearful blue eyes, with touching candour, to his face.

The look, the words, fully enlightened Rodolph as to the cause of her distress, and, wishing to dissipate it, he said, smilingly:

"I would lay a wager you are regretting your poor rose-tree, and are crying because you could not bring it out walking with you, as you used to do."

La Goualeuse fell into the good-natured scheme for regaining her cheerfulness, and by degrees the clouds of sadness cleared away from her fair young face; and once again she appeared absorbed in the pleasure of the moment, without allowing herself to recollect the future that would succeed it. The vehicle had by this time almost arrived at St. Denis, and the tall spires of the cathedral were visible.

"Oh, what a fine steeple!" exclaimed La Goualeuse.

"It is that of the splendid church of St. Denis: would you like to see it? We can easily stop our carriage."

Poor Fleur-de-Marie cast down her eyes. "From the hour I went to live with the ogress," said she, in a low tone, while deep blushes dyed her cheek, "I never once entered a church,--I durst not. When in prison, on the contrary, I used to delight in helping to sing the ma.s.s; and, against the Fete-Dieu, oh, I made such lovely bouquets for the altar!"

"But G.o.d is merciful and good; why, then, fear to pray to him, or to enter his holy church?"

"Oh, no, no, M. Rodolph! I have offended G.o.d deeply enough; let me not add impiety and sacrilege to my sins."

After a moment's silence, Rodolph again renewed the conversation, and, kindly taking the hand of La Goualeuse, said, "Fleur-de-Marie, tell me honestly, have you ever known what it is to love?"

"Never, M. Rodolph."

"And how do you account for this?"

"You saw the kind of persons who frequented the _tapis-franc_. And then, to love, the object should be good and virtuous--"

"Why do you think so?"

"Oh, because one's lover, or husband, would be all in all to us, and we should seek no greater happiness than devoting our life to him. But, M.

Rodolph, if you please, we will talk of something else, for the tears will come into my eyes."

"Willingly, Fleur-de-Marie; let us change the conversation. And now tell me, why do you look so beseechingly at me with those large, tearful eyes? Have I done anything to displease you?"

"On the contrary, 'tis the excess of your goodness that makes me weep; indeed, I could almost fancy that you had brought me out solely for my individual pleasure and enjoyment, without thinking of yourself. Not content with your generous defence of me yesterday, you have to-day procured for me happiness such as I never hoped to enjoy."

"You are, then, truly and entirely happy?"

"Never, never shall I forget to-day."

"Happiness does not often attend us on earth," said Rodolph, sighing.

"Alas, no! Seldom, perhaps never."

"For my own part, to make up for a want of reality in its possession, I often amuse myself with pictures of what I would have if I could, saying to myself, this is how, and where, I should like to live,--this is the sort of income I should like to enjoy. Have you never, my little Fleur-de-Marie, amused yourself with building similar 'castles in the air?'"

"Yes, formerly, when I was in prison, before I went to live with the ogress,--then I used to do nothing all day but dance, sing, and build these fairy dreams; but I very seldom do so now. Tell me, M. Rodolph, if you could have any wish you liked, what should you most desire?"

"Oh, I should like to be rich, with plenty of servants and carriages; to possess a splendid hotel, and to mix in the first circles of fashion; to be able to obtain any amus.e.m.e.nt I pleased, and to go to the theatres and opera whenever I chose."

"Well, then, you would be more unreasonable than I should. Now I will tell you exactly what would satisfy me in every respect: first of all, sufficient money to clear myself with the ogress, and to keep me till I could obtain work for my future support; then a pretty, little, nice, clean room, all to myself, from the window of which I could see the trees while I sat at my work."

"Plenty of flowers in your cas.e.m.e.nt, of course?"

"Oh, certainly! And, if it could be managed, to live in the country always. And that, I think, is all I should want."

"Let me see: a little room, and work enough to maintain you,--those are positive necessaries; but, when one is merely wishing, there is no harm in adding a few superfluities. Should you not like such nice things as carriages, diamonds, and rich clothes?"

"Not at all! All I wish for is my free and undisturbed liberty,--a country life, and the certainty of not dying in a hospital. Oh, that idea is dreadful! Above all things, I would desire the certainty of its never being my fate. Oh, M. Rodolph, that dread often comes across me and fills me with terror."

"Alas! poor folks, such as we are, should not shrink from such things."

"'Tis not the dying in a charitable inst.i.tution I dread, or the poverty that would send me into it, but the thoughts of what they do to your lifeless remains."

"What do they do that shocks you so much?"

"Is it possible, M. Rodolph, you have never been told what will become of you if you die in one of those places?"

"No, indeed, I have not; do you tell me."

"Well, then, I knew a young girl, who had been a sort of companion to me when I was in prison; she afterwards died in a hospital, and what do you think? Her body was given to the surgeons for dissection!" murmured the shuddering Fleur-de-Marie.

"That is, indeed, a frightful idea! And do these miserable antic.i.p.ations often trouble you, my poor girl?"

"Ah, M. Rodolph, it surprises you that, after my unhappy life, I can feel any concern as to what becomes of my miserable remains! G.o.d knows, the feeling which makes me shrink from such an outrage to modesty is all my wretched fate has left me!"

The mournful tone in which these words were uttered, and the bitter feelings they contained, went to the heart of Rodolph; but his companion, quickly perceiving his air of dejection, and blaming herself for having caused it, said, timidly:

"M. Rodolph, I feel that I am behaving very ill and ungratefully towards you, who so kindly brought me out to amuse me and give me pleasure; in return for which I only keep talking to you about all the dull and gloomy things I can think of! I wonder how I can do so!--to be able even to recollect my misery, when all around me smiles and looks so gay! I cannot tell how it is, words seem to rise from my lips in spite of myself; and, though I feel happier to-day than I ever did before in my life, my eyes are continually filling with tears! You are not angry with me, are you, M. Rodolph? See, too, my sadness is going away as suddenly as it came. There now, it is all gone, and shall not return to vex you any more, I am determined. Look, M. Rodolph, just look at my eyes,--they do not show that I have been crying, do they?"

And here Fleur-de-Marie, having repeatedly closed her eyes to get rid of the rebellious tears that would gather there, opened them full upon Rodolph, with a look of most enchanting candour and sweetness.

"Put no restraint on yourself, I beseech you, Fleur-de-Marie: be gay, if you really feel so; or sad, if sadness most suits your present state of mind. I have my own hours of gloom and melancholy, and my sufferings would be much increased were I compelled to feign a lightness of heart I did not really possess."