The Mysteries Of Paris Volume Ii Part 18

"The woman of the Ca.n.a.l St. Martin! Murder! murder! murder!"

The vision of the drowned woman disappears. The lake of blood, through which the Schoolmaster still constantly beholds Rodolph, becomes of a bronzed, black colour, then red again, and then changes instantaneously into a liquid, furnace-like, molten metal. Then that lake of fire rises--rises--rises towards the sky like an immense whirlpool. There is now a fiery horizon like iron at a white heat. This immense, boundless horizon dazzles and scorches the very eyes of the Schoolmaster, who, fascinated, fastened to the spot, cannot turn away his gaze. Then, at the bottom of this burning lava, whose reflection seems to consume him, he sees pa.s.s and repa.s.s, one by one, the black and giant spectres of his victims.

"The magic-lanthorn of remorse! remorse! remorse!" shrieks the night-bird, flapping her hideous wings, and laughing mockingly.

Notwithstanding the intolerable anguish which his impatient gaze creates, the Schoolmaster has his eyes fixed on the grisly phantoms which move in the blazing sheet. Then an indefinable horror steals over him. Pa.s.sing through every step of indescribable torture, by dint of contemplating this blazing sight, he feels his eyeb.a.l.l.s--which have replaced the blood with which his...o...b..ts were filled at the commencement of his dream--he feels his eyeb.a.l.l.s grow hot, burning, and melt in this furnace--to smoke and bubble--and at last to become calcined in their cavities like two crucibles filled with red fire. By a fearful power, after having seen as well as felt the successive transformations of his eyeb.a.l.l.s into ashes, he falls into the darkness of his actual blindness.

But now, suddenly, his intolerable agonies are a.s.suaged as though by enchantment. An odorous air of delicious freshness pa.s.ses over his burning eyeb.a.l.l.s. This air is a lovely admixture of the scents of springtime, which exhale from flowers bathed in evening dew. The Schoolmaster hears all about him a gentle murmur, like that of the breeze which just stirs the leaves--like that of a brook of running waters, which rushes and murmurs on its bed of stone and moss "in the leafy month of June." Thousands of birds warble the most enchanting melodies. They are stilled, and the voices of children, of angelic tone, sing strange, unknown words--words that are "winged" (if we may use the expression), and which the Schoolmaster hears mount to heaven with gentle motion. A feeling of moral health, of tranquillity, of undefined languor, creeps over him by degrees. It is an expansion of the heart, an elevation of the mind, an effort of the soul, of which no physical feeling, how delicious soever it may be, can impart the least idea. He feels himself softly soaring in a heavenly sphere; he seems to rise to an immeasurable height.

After having for some moments revelled in this unspeakable felicity he again finds himself in the dark abyss of his habitual thoughts. His dream continues; but he is again but the muzzled miscreant who blasphemes and curses in the paroxysm of his impotent rage. A voice is heard--sonorous--solemn. It is Rodolph's. The Schoolmaster starts "like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons." He has the vague consciousness of a dream; but the alarm with which Rodolph inspires him is so great that he tries, but vainly, to escape from this fresh vision. The voice speaks--he listens. The tone of Rodolph is not severe; it is "rather in sorrow than in anger."

"Unhappy man," he says to the Schoolmaster, "the hour of your repentance has not yet sounded. G.o.d only knows when it will strike. The punishment of your crimes is still incomplete; you have suffered, but not expiated.

Destiny follows out its work of full justice. Your accomplices have become your tormentors. A woman, a child, tame, subdue, conquer you.

When I sentenced you to a terrible punishment for your crimes I said--do you remember my words?--'You have wickedly abused the great bodily strength bestowed upon you; I will paralyse that strength. The strongest have trembled before you; I will make you henceforward shrink in the presence of the weakest of beings.' You have left the obscure retreat in which you might have dwelt for repentance and expiation. You were afraid of silence and solitude. You sought to drown remembrance by new crimes.

Just now, in a fearful and bloodthirsty access of pa.s.sion, you have wished to kill your wife. She is here under the same roof as yourself.

She sleeps without defence. You have a knife. Her apartment is close at hand. There was nothing to prevent you from reaching her. Nothing could have protected her from your rage--nothing but your impotence. The dream you have had, and in which you are still bound, may teach you much, may save you. The mysterious phantoms of this dream bear with them a most pregnant meaning. The lake of blood, in which your victims have appeared, is the blood you have shed. The molten lava which replaced it is the gnawing, eating remorse, which must consume you before one day, that the Almighty, having mercy on your protracted tortures, shall call you to himself, and let you taste the ineffable sweetness of his gracious forgiveness. But this will not be. No, no! these warnings will be useless. Far from repenting, you regret every day, with horrid blasphemies, the time when you could commit such atrocities. Alas! from this continual struggle between your bloodthirsty desires and the impossibility of satisfying them,--between your habits of fierce oppression and the compulsion of submitting to beings as weak as they are depraved,--there will result to you a fate so fearful, so appalling.

Ah, unhappy wretch!"

Rodolph's voice faltered, and for a moment he was silent, as if emotion and horror had hindered him from proceeding. The Schoolmaster's hair bristled on his brow. What could be--would be--that fate, which even his executioner pitied?

"The fate that awaits you is so horrible," resumed Rodolph, "that, if the Almighty, in his inexorable and all-powerful vengeance, would make you in your person expiate all the crimes of all mankind, he could not devise a more fearful punishment! Ah, woe for you! woe for you!"

At this moment the Schoolmaster uttered a piercing shriek, and awoke with a bound at this horrid, frightful dream.

CHAPTER IX.

THE LETTER.

The hour of nine had struck on the Bouqueval clock, when Madame Georges softly entered the chamber of Fleur-de-Marie. The light slumber of the young girl was quickly broken, and she awoke to find her kind friend standing by her bedside. A brilliant winter's sun darted its rays through the blinds and chintz window-curtains, the pink linings of which cast a bright glow on the pale countenance of La Goualeuse, giving it the look of health it so greatly needed.

"Well, my child," said Madame Georges, sitting down and gently kissing her forehead, "how are you this morning?"

"Much better, madame, I thank you."

"I hope you were not awoke very early this morning?"

"No, indeed, madame."

"I am glad of it; the blind man and his son, who were permitted to sleep here last night, insisted upon quitting the farm immediately it was light, and I was fearful that the noise made in opening the gates might have woke you."

"Poor things! why did they go so very early?"

"I know not. After you became more calm and comfortable last night, I went down into the kitchen for the purpose of seeing them, but they had pleaded extreme weariness, and begged permission to retire. Father Chatelain tells me the blind man does not seem very right in his head; and the whole body of servants were unanimous in praising the tenderness and care with which the boy attended upon his blind parent. But now, my dear Marie, listen to me; you must not expose yourself to the risk of taking fresh cold after the attack of fever you suffered from last night, and, therefore, I recommend your keeping quite quiet all day, and not leaving the parlour at all."

"Nay, madame, I have promised M. le Cure to be at the rectory at five o'clock; pray allow me to go, as I am expected."

"Indeed I cannot, it would be very imprudent; I can perceive you have pa.s.sed a very bad night, your eyes are quite heavy."

"I have not been able to rest through the most frightful dreams which pursued me whenever I tried to sleep. I fancied myself in the power of a wicked woman who used to torment me most cruelly when I was a child; and I kept starting up in dread and alarm. I am ashamed of such silly weakness as to allow dreams to frighten me, but, indeed, I suffered so much during the night that when I awoke my pillow was wetted with my tears."

"I am truly sorry for this weakness, as you justly style it, my dear child," said Madame Georges, with affectionate concern, seeing the eyes of Fleur-de-Marie again filling fast, "because I perceive the pain it occasions you."

The poor girl, overpowered by her feelings, threw her arms around the neck of her adopted mother and buried her sobs in her bosom.

"Marie, Marie! my child, you terrify me; why, why is this?"

"Pardon me, dear madame, I beseech you! Indeed, I know not myself what has come over me, but for the last two days my heart has seemed full almost to bursting. I cannot restrain my tears, though I know not wherefore I weep. A fearful dread of some great evil about to befall me weighs down my spirits and resists every attempt to shake it off."

"Come! come! I shall scold you in earnest if you thus give way to imaginary terrors."

At this moment Claudine, whose previous tap at the door had been unheard, entered the room.

"What is it, Claudine?"

"Madame, Pierre has just arrived from Arnouville, in Madame Dubreuil's chaise; he brings a letter for you which he says is of great importance."

Madame Georges took the paper from Claudine's hand, opened it and read as follows:

"MY DEAR MADAME GEORGES:

"You could do me a considerable favour, and a.s.sist me under very perplexing circ.u.mstances, by hastening to the farm here without delay. Pierre has orders to wait till you are ready, and will drive you back after dinner. I really am in such confusion that I hardly know what I am about. M. Dubreuil has gone to the wool-fair at Pontoise; I have, therefore, no one to turn to for advice and a.s.sistance but you and Marie. Clara sends her best love to her very dear adopted sister, and anxiously expects her arrival. Try to be with us by eleven o'clock, to luncheon.

"Ever yours most sincerely, "F. DUBREUIL."

"What can possibly be the matter?" asked Madame Georges of Fleur-de-Marie; "fortunately the tone of Madame Dubreuil's letter is not calculated to cause alarm."

"Do you wish me to accompany you, madame?" asked the Goualeuse.

"Why, that would scarcely be prudent, so cold as it is. But, upon second thoughts," continued Madame Georges, "I think you may venture if you wrap yourself up very warm; it will serve to raise your spirits, and possibly the short ride may do you good."

The Goualeuse did not immediately reply, but, after a few minutes'

consideration, she ventured to say:

"But, madame, M. le Cure expects me this evening, at five o'clock, at the rectory."

"But I promise you to be back in good time for you to keep your engagement; now will you go?"

"Oh, thank you, madame! Indeed, I shall be so delighted to see Mlle.

Clara."

"What! again?" uttered Madame Georges, in a tone of gentle reproach.

"Mlle. Clara? She does not speak so distantly to you when she addresses you."