Mysteries of Paris Volume II Part 40

One of these, a woman of advanced age, of a soft and grave expression, remained alone with Madame d'Harville, in a small room adjoining the office.

Madame Armand, the inspectress who had remained alone with Madame d'Harville, possessed to an extreme degree of foreknowledge and insight into the character of the prisoners. Her word and judgment was of paramount authority in the house.

She said to Clemence: "Since your ladys.h.i.+p has been kind enough to request me to point out those inmates who, from good conduct or sincere repentance, should merit your interest, I believe I can recommend one unfortunate, whom I believe more unhappy than culpable; for I do not think I deceive myself in affirming, that it is not too late to save this girl, a poor child of sixteen, or seventeen at most."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE INSPECTION OF THE DORMITORY]

"For what has she been confined?"

"She is guilty of being found on the Champs Elysees in the evening. As it is forbidden her cla.s.s, under very severe penalties, to frequent, either day or night, certain places, and the Champs Elysees is among the number of these prohibited places, she was arrested."

"And she appears interesting to you?"

"I have never seen more regular or more ingenuous features. Imagine, my lady, a picture of the Virgin. What gave still more to her appearance a most modest expression was, that when she came here she was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of Paris."

"She is, then, a country girl?"

"No, my lady. The inspectors recognized her. She lived in a horrible house in the city, from which she was absent two or three months but as she had not her name erased from the police registers, she remained under the control of the officers, who sent her here."

"But perhaps she left Paris to endeavor to reinstate herself?"

"I think so. I felt at once interested in her. I interrogated her as to the past; I asked her if she came from the country, telling her to be of good cheer, if, as I hoped, she wished to return to the paths of virtue."

"What did she reply?"

"Lifting on me her large blue, melancholy eyes, full of tears, she said to me, in a tone of angelic sweetness, 'I thank you, madame, for your kindness, but I cannot speak of the past; I have been arrested--I was wrong--I do not complain.' 'But where do you come from? Where have you been since you left the city; if you have been to the country to seek an honest existence, say so; prove it: we will write to the police to obtain your discharge. You shall be erased from the police lists, and your good resolutions shall be encouraged.' 'I entreat you, madame, do not question me; I cannot answer you,' she replied. 'But when you leave here, do you wish to return to that horrible house again?' 'Oh, never,' she cried, 'What will you do then?' 'Heaven knows!' she replied, letting her head fall on her breast."

"This is very strange! She expresses herself--"

"In very good terms, madame; her deportment is timid, respectful, but without meanness. I will say more. Notwithstanding the extreme sweetness of her voice and her look, there is at times in her accent, in her att.i.tude, a kind of sorrowful pride which confounds me. If she did not belong to the unhappy cla.s.s of which she is a part, I should almost think that this pride is that of a soul conscious of its elevation."

CHAPTER XIII.

MONT SAINT JEAN.

The clock of the prison struck two.

To the severe frost which had reigned for some days, a temperature soft, mild, almost spring-like, had succeeded; the sunbeams were reflected on the water of a large square basin, with a stone margin, situated in the middle of the yard, planted with trees, and surrounded by high, gloomy walls, pierced with a number of grated windows; wooden benches were placed here and there in this vast inclosure, which served as the prisoners' exercise ground.

The tinkling of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the prisoners noisily rushed into the court through a strong wicket-door which was opened for them. These women, dressed in uniform, wore black caps and long blue woolen frocks, confined by a belt and iron buckle.

There were two hundred prost.i.tutes there, condemned for infringements of the laws which register them, and place them without the common law.

At the sight of this collection of lost creatures, one cannot prevent the sad thought, that many among them have been pure and virtuous, at least some time. We make this restriction, because a great number have been vitiated, corrupted, depraved, not only from their youth, but from their most tender infancy.

When the prisoners rushed into the court, screeching and shouting, it was easy to see that joy alone at escaping from labor did not render them so noisy. After having pushed through the only door that led to the yard, the crowd separated, and made a circle around a deformed being, whom they overwhelmed with hootings.

She was a woman of about thirty-six or forty, short, thick-set, crooked, her neck sunk between unequal shoulders. They had pulled off her cap, and her hair, of a rather faded yellow, uncombed, tangled, striped with gray, fell over her low and stupid face. She was dressed in a blue frock, like the other prisoners, and carried under her arm a bundle tied up in a miserable, ragged handkerchief. She tried to ward off the threatened blows with her left arm.

Nothing could be more sadly grotesque than the features of this poor creature. It was a ridiculous and hideous face, lengthened to a snout, wrinkled, tanned, and dirty, pierced with nostrils, and small red eyes, squinting and bloodshot; by turns supplicating or angry, she implored and scolded; but they laughed more at her complaints than at her threats. This woman was the b.u.t.t of the prisoners. One fact alone, however, should have saved her from their bad treatment; she was about to become a mother. But her ugliness and imbecility, and the habit they had of looking upon her as a victim devoted to the general amus.e.m.e.nt, rendered her persecutors implacable, notwithstanding their ordinary respect for maternity.

Among the most furious of the enemies of Mont Saint Jean (this was the name of the drudge) could have been remarked La Louve--a tall girl of about twenty, active, masculine, with rather regular features; her coa.r.s.e, black hair was shaded with red; her face was disfigured with pimples; her thick lips were slightly covered with a bluish down; her dark eyebrows, very thick and heavy, met above her large brown eyes; something violent, ferocious, and brutal in her expression, a kind of habitual laugh, which, lifting her upper lip when she was angry, showing her white and scattering teeth, explains her surname of La Louve (She-Wolf). Nevertheless, this face expressed more audacity and insolence than cruelty--in a word, rather vicious than thoroughly bad, this woman was yet susceptible of some good feelings.

"Oh, dear, what have I done to you?" cried Mont Saint Jean. "Why do you treat me so?"

"Because it amuses us. Because you are only fit to be tormented. It is your trade. Look at yourself; you will see you have no right to complain."

"But you know I do not complain until I can't stand it any longer."

"Well, we'll leave you alone if you will tell us why you are called Mont Saint Jean."

"Yes, yes, tell us that."

"I have told you this-a hundred times. An old soldier, whom I once loved, was called so because he was wounded in the battle of Mont Saint Jean. I took his name. Are you content now? You make me repeat the same things."

"If he looked like you he was a beauty! He must have been one of the invalids."

"I am ugly, I know. Say what you please: all the same to me; but don't strike me, that's all I ask."

"What have you got in that old handkerchief?" said La Louve.

"Yes, yes, what is it? Come, show it."

"Oh no, I entreat you!" said the poor creature, holding the bundle tightly in her hands.

"You must give it up."

"Yes; take it from her, La Louve."

"What is it?"

"Well, it is baby's clothes I have commenced for my child. I make them with the old pieces of linen I pick up. It is of no consequence to you, is it?"

"Oh, let us see the baby-linen of Mont Saint Jean! Come, come," cried La Louve, s.n.a.t.c.hing the bundle from the hands of Mont Saint Jean.

The wretched handkerchief was torn to pieces in the struggle, and its contents, composed of rags and bits of stuff of all colors, were strewn on the ground and trampled under foot, amid shouts of laughter.

"What rags! What tras.h.!.+ An old rag shop! Takes more thread than stuff!

Here, pick up your duds, Mont Saint Jean!"

"How wicked you are! How bad you must be!" cried the poor creature running here and there after the sc.r.a.ps and rags, which she tried to pick up, notwithstanding the blows they gave her. "I have never harmed any one," said she, weeping. "I have offered, if they would let me alone, to do anything for them they wanted; to give them half of my rations, although I am very hungry. Ah, well! no, no, it is just the same. But what must I do for peace? They have not even pity on a poor woman in my condition! They must be more savage than wild beasts! I had so much trouble to collect those little sc.r.a.ps of linen. How do you think I shall do, since I have no money to buy anything?" Suddenly she cried, in an accent of joy, "Oh, now you have come, La Goualeuse, I am saved! Speak to them for me! They will listen to you, surely, for they love you as much as they hate me."

The Goualeuse (the Songstress) arriving, the last of the prisoners had entered the yard.