THE MARQUISE.

Forty-eight hours have elapsed since the scenes we have described in the last chapter, and the day is Mardi Gras. Opposite the Cafe Turc, which in 1824 had a European reputation, stood a house of squalid appearance, inhabited, because of the low rent at which rooms could be obtained, by a number of modest tradespeople, who for the greater part of the year carried on the numerous booths on the Square.

Before describing this picturesque corner of old Paris, unknown to the present generation, we will enter this house to which we have alluded, and which bore the number 42 of the Boulevard du Temple. In a room on the fifth floor, the girl who was called the Marquise was finishing her toilette before the mirror. A poor little room enough, with its faded wall paper, its narrow bed pushed into the corner, its two chairs and pine table. The window closed but imperfectly, and the wind blew out the curtain like a sail. Colored prints were fastened against the wall, and everything was exquisitely clean. A white napkin was spread upon the table, and the bed had snowy curtains. The mirror at this moment was worth more than any from Venice, for it reflected a charming Greuze-like face.

The singer was twisting up her rebellious curls, and endeavoring to bring her hair into some kind of order. Her complexion was exquisite, her big dark eyes were full of sunshine, and her lips were beautiful and fresh. She fastened on her muslin cap, and then the graceful hands fluttered about her dress arranging that also.

Suddenly a deep sigh, apparently from the next room, reached her ear.

She ran to the communicating door, and, opening it cautiously, looked in.

"Poor woman!" she said to herself, "she is awake. I wonder if she suffers still."

Then a voice called, "Cinette! little Cinette!"

"How strange!" said the girl, "when I hear her speak that name, it seems to me the voice is familiar."

"Come, Cinette!"

This time the girl entered the room. She beheld a woman vainly seeking to raise herself in her bed.

Her face was hideously scarred and seared, while the bloodshot eyes could not endure the light. It was clear that the poor creature had been the victim of a horrible accident.

"I am thirsty," she faintly articulated.

"Yes, mamma," answered the girl who was called Cinette.

And the woman smiled. She was mad in addition to her helplessness. No one knew who she was, nor whence she came.

The reader has recognized in the girl who ministered to her needs, little Cinette, the child of Simon Fougere and Francoise. She had run distractedly through those subterranean vaults when she lost Jacques, and finally escaped from the labyrinth to fall into the hands of those people whom Hugo has immortalized.

These people--a husband, wife and children--were pillaging the dead on a battle-field, but when Cinette appeared they smiled upon her.

The little girl could give no explanation as to why she was thus alone and deserted. To all questions she could only reply by the words "papa Simon," and "mamma Francoise." Of course this was too indefinite for these people to act upon; besides, at that time they had much to do--the invasion promised them much spoil. They took Cinette away, and after the peace they continued to keep her. They had ama.s.sed quite a little property, and bought a farm in Blaisois. Cinette was happy in these days, for she was too young to remember her woes.

In the village there was an old soldier whose violin and songs had often enlivened the bivouac. He soon discovered that Cinette, for she still went by that name, possessed a wonderful voice. He took it into his head to start a musical school; he had three pupils, only two of which paid a sou; on the third, Cinette, he built many projects. He was making arrangements to transport his pupil to a wider stage, when an epidemic broke out in the village, and the girl was left alone in the world.

The "Good Sisters" offered her a home in the convent, but she had always been accustomed to the open air, to flowers that nodded a welcome to her as she pa.s.sed, and to sunshine, and was afraid of the cloister, of its dimness, and of watchful eyes.

She finally took her departure, and begged her way to Paris. Some one gave her an old guitar that had been left behind by some wanderer, which the child had gazed at with longing eyes. She escaped the many snares that were laid for her, and finally found shelter in a house where only the very poor lived, but they were all honest, industrious people. She obtained the necessary permission to sing on the street, and then had another idea. In the part of the city where she lived there was a great deal of poverty, and she undertook the care of a poor woman, she was so confident in her ability to make money.

"But the person you propose to take care of has been dreadfully disfigured, and is unpleasant to look upon," said one of the neighbors.

The child asked to be told all that was known of the unfortunate creature.

She had been found among the mountains long before, and the people who had found her were dead, but she was still taken care of by these kind, good creatures who, however, found the burthen a heavy one.

Francine went to see this poor creature. There was a long silence, the girl seemed to hesitate, then, suddenly, she stooped and kissed her.

"Will you go with me, mamma?" she said.

Why did she use the word mamma? She could not have told herself, and yet this woman was really her mother. Yes, this unfortunate, this mad woman was Francoise, the wife of Simon. After the agony of that fearful night, she lost her memory and her reason. She did not know how she had escaped, and yet she was here and restored to her child. Fate had brought the two together. Mother and daughter were alike victims of the Talizacs.

Francine took this woman, whom she had volunteered to support, and installed her next her own room. Day and night she watched over her with a solicitude that was absolutely filial.

The elder woman was happy only when Cinette was with her, and when the girl was away, she repeated the name over and over.

Francine worked hard. She now had her regular audiences, and could be heard at certain places at certain hours. Her programmes were regularly made out. The name that had been given her of the Marquise was not given unkindly. She was neither vain nor proud, but she wore her simple woolen gown in such a dainty fashion, and put the little kerchief on her head in such a way, that the people called her the Marquise. But to return to our tale.

"I am going out, mamma," said Francine, "and you will be very good while I am away, will you not?"

"Yes, Cinette--yes."

"You will not try to get up?"

"No, Cinette."

"And to-morrow you shall have a pretty new cap--"

"With ribbons?"

"Yes, with ribbons."

The woman laughed with delight, but presently she uttered a cry of distress.

"The box! the box!--where is the box?"

Francine had heard this same exclamation over and over again, and attached no significance to it, but to humor the invalid, she answered:

"Oh! you shall have the box."

"Yes, I must have it. Everything is in it--fortune, money, t.i.tles. Where have I put it?"

Her voice dropped so low that Francine could hardly hear her.

It was time for the girl to go out, and, as it was Mardi Gras, she hoped for large receipts. She returned to her chamber and took her guitar.

Just as she was going out, she heard a knock on her door. She started, and called out:

"Who is it?"

"A friend?"

"Your name?"

"You do not know me."

"Tell me your name."

A stifled oath was the reply.