The Flower Girl of The Chateau d'Eau Volume Ii Part 29

"Mon Dieu! I don't know, monsieur; but as you spoke to her one day, in Paris, I thought that perhaps she might have something to say to you.

But it wasn't she who came here and of course that makes a difference; excuse me, monsieur."

At that moment Pongo appeared in the count's apartment, all out of breath, crying:

"Master! master! girl from Paris--I no bring her back, her gone."

"All right, I know it."

"Oh yes; but me know from Thomas,--he meet her in the country, and her out in all the storm! he call to her: 'stop, mamzelle; come, get under cover.' But her run all the time just like her not hear, and her all soaked with water. Poor girl, her get sick for sure!"

The count turned pale, but he concealed his emotion and requested to be left alone. Pongo went back to Carabi, saying:

"He want to go out too; but me no want him to get wet like the young girl; poor girl, in the fields when it storm; that not right!"

Georget said no more; but although Monsieur de Brevanne had a.s.sured him that the girl was not Violette, although he dared not doubt his protector's words, yet he felt sad and oppressed, and he deeply regretted that he had not seen the poor girl who had gone away weeping.

Early the next morning, without a word to anybody, the count started for Paris; and he had no sooner arrived than he betook himself to Boulevard du Chateau d'Eau. The weather was cold but fine; it was one of those beautiful autumn mornings when the sun s.h.i.+nes on the yellow leaves and promises a fine day.

It was not a flower market day; but some of the flower girls were in their places, none the less. As the count approached, he looked about for Violette, but in vain. The girl, who was ordinarily so faithful to her occupation, had not opened her booth, had not appeared in her place.

Monsieur de Brevanne waited for a long time, walking back and forth on the boulevard; he entered a cafe nearby, breakfasted, read the newspapers, and then returned to the place where the flower girl always stood; but Violette did not come.

"She is probably kept away to-day by the necessity of buying flowers for her trade," said the count to himself; "I will go back to Nogent and I will see her to-morrow."

But on the next day, the young flower girl was not in her place, and the count was again obliged to go away without seeing her.

The girl's health had been seriously impaired by the events and the agitation resulting from her journey to Nogent. One does not experience a violent disappointment with impunity; one does not defy the storm and wind without feeling the effects of it. On leaving the coal barge, Violette s.h.i.+vered on her companion's arm, and he noticed it; on reaching her room, the girl had gone to bed at once, and on the next day, despite her earnest desire to attend to her business, it had been impossible for her to rise.

Luckily, Mere Lamort was always at the service of her tenants. The concierge pa.s.sed her time going up and down the six flights of stairs in her house. Her dog kept her lodge, and barked when anyone entered and attempted to ascend the staircase. At that signal from her subst.i.tute, Mere Lamort instantly went to the window of the floor where she happened to be, and conversed from there with the persons who came to see some of the tenants.

Chicotin, who was now deeply interested in Violette's health, finding that she did not come to the boulevard on the day following the evening when he had prevented her from accomplis.h.i.+ng her fatal design, did not fail to go and enquire of the concierge, who replied:

"The girl's sick and in bed; I am making her some herb tea, because that breaks up a fever."

The young messenger, whom Mere Lamort's information failed to rea.s.sure, climbed the six flights rapidly and entered Violette's room; he found her in bed, with the flushed face and hollow, burning eyes which indicate a violent attack of fever. But the girl smiled at Chicotin and offered him her hand, saying in a weak voice:

"Thanks, Chicotin, for coming to see me; what you said last night was true; that shower has made me sick; but it won't amount to anything."

"Don't you want me to fetch a doctor, mamzelle?"

"No, it's not necessary; it won't amount to anything. Besides, the concierge is very kind, she takes good care of me."

"She is going to bring you up some herb tea; but I will come every day to find out how you are getting on,--twice a day rather than once."

"I don't want to interfere with your work, my friend."

"Oh! that won't interfere with me. In fact, I have a customer in your house, just below you,--a gentleman who isn't always steady on his legs; but just at present he seems to walk very well. Would you like me to tell him to come up to see you? You see, he is no fool; he talks better than I do."

"Thanks, Chicotin, I don't need any company; I am never bored when I'm alone, for I know how to read, I like to read; and besides that, I have plenty to think about."

"But not about such miserable things as you thought about yesterday?"

"No, no; that's all over."

"Good. I spoke to you about your neighbor because he ain't a young man and it wouldn't make any gossip; but if you don't want him to come--Ah!

here's Mere Lamort with a pitcher in each hand. You will have something nice.--Good-by, mamzelle, I'll come again soon."

On leaving Violette, Chicotin met Monsieur de Roncherolle on the stairs, going up to his room.

"Ah! are you coming from my room, my boy?" said the gouty gentleman when he recognized his usual messenger.

"No, bourgeois, no; I am coming from the room over yours."

"Over mine? What, are there people perched higher than I am? I thought that I acted as lightning rod for the house."

"Oh, no, monsieur, there's a very pretty young girl, who lives all alone above you."

"Ah! you rascal! I see,--this girl is your mistress!"

"No, monsieur, you don't see at all. The poor girl is adored by one of my friends, and I should never think of such a thing as making love to her, because, you see, I ain't capable of being false to a friend, although I'm only a messenger."

"You are right, my boy, you are right," murmured Roncherolle, hanging his head, "for that doesn't bring good luck."

"But if you knew all that has happened to the poor girl! Just imagine, monsieur, that if it hadn't been for me, she would have jumped into the ca.n.a.l last night."

"Indeed! for what reason? Desperate with love--her lover has abandoned her, I suppose?"

"No, he still loves her, he thinks of nothing but her; he thinks that she was unfaithful to him; he is convinced that she has listened to a fine young dandy who makes eyes at her, and who has boasted of having been her lover."

"And why do you think that it isn't true?"

"Why, bourgeois? Because, last night, when she went aboard the coal barge, with the intention of carrying out her fatal plan, she couldn't have suspected that I was there, hidden behind the coal; and before she jumped into the water, she knelt down, to make a last prayer to the good Lord. She asked Him to forgive her for putting an end to her life, but she said that she didn't feel strong enough to live, despised and humiliated by everybody, abandoned by everybody she loved, when she had done nothing to reproach herself for. When she said that, she couldn't guess that anyone was listening to her, and she was getting ready to die. Well, I say that at such a time she couldn't lie; ain't that right, monsieur?"

Roncherolle tapped Chicotin on the shoulder and smiled.

"He doesn't reason badly, the rascal.--But what does your little protegee do?"

"She is a flower girl, monsieur. Now I think of it, you know her; she is the one you bought a bouquet of the first time I had the honor of meeting you,--when you told me to come with you."

"The deuce! is it possible that it is that pretty, attractive girl? for she is remarkably lovely, this friend of yours."

"Yes, monsieur, yes; she's the one; Violette, they call her."

"But wait a moment--if it's she, why the young dandy who claims to be her lover must be a certain Monsieur Jericourt."

"Just so, master; Jericourt's his name--a man who writes plays; do you know him?"

"I dined with him a short time ago."