Authors: Elizabeth Gaskell
"'See, my child,' said Virginie. 'Thou must do me a great favour. Go to
the gardener's shop in the Rue des Bons-Enfans, and look at the nosegays
in the window. I long for pinks; they are my favourite flower. Here are
two francs. If thou seest a nosegay of pinks displayed in the window, if
it be ever so faded—nay, if thou seest two or three nosegays of pinks,
remember, buy them all, and bring them to me, I have so great a desire
for the smell.' She fell back weak and exhausted. Pierre hurried out.
Now was the time; here was the clue to the long inspection of the nosegay
in this very shop.
"Sure enough, there was a drooping nosegay of pinks in the window. Pierre
went in, and, with all his impatience, he made as good a bargain as he
could, urging that the flowers were faded, and good for nothing. At last
he purchased them at a very moderate price. And now you will learn the
bad consequences of teaching the lower orders anything beyond what is
immediately necessary to enable them to earn their daily bread! The
silly Count de Crequy,—he who had been sent to his bloody rest, by the
very canaille of whom he thought so much,—he who had made Virginie
(indirectly, it is true) reject such a man as her cousin Clement, by
inflating her mind with his bubbles of theories,—this Count de Crequy
had long ago taken a fancy to Pierre, as he saw the bright sharp child
playing about his court—Monsieur de Crequy had even begun to educate the
boy himself to try work out certain opinions of his into practice,—but
the drudgery of the affair wearied him, and, beside, Babette had left his
employment. Still the Count took a kind of interest in his former pupil;
and made some sort of arrangement by which Pierre was to be taught
reading and writing, and accounts, and Heaven knows what besides,—Latin,
I dare say. So Pierre, instead of being an innocent messenger, as he
ought to have been—(as Mr. Horner's little lad Gregson ought to have
been this morning)—could read writing as well as either you or I. So
what does he do, on obtaining the nosegay, but examine it well. The
stalks of the flowers were tied up with slips of matting in wet moss.
Pierre undid the strings, unwrapped the moss, and out fell a piece of wet
paper, with the writing all blurred with moisture. It was but a torn
piece of writing-paper, apparently, but Pierre's wicked mischievous eyes
read what was written on it,—written so as to look like a
fragment,—'Ready, every and any night at nine. All is prepared. Have
no fright. Trust one who, whatever hopes he might once have had, is
content now to serve you as a faithful cousin;' and a place was named,
which I forget, but which Pierre did not, as it was evidently the
rendezvous. After the lad had studied every word, till he could say it
off by heart, he placed the paper where he had found it, enveloped it in
moss, and tied the whole up again carefully. Virginie's face coloured
scarlet as she received it. She kept smelling at it, and trembling: but
she did not untie it, although Pierre suggested how much fresher it would
be if the stalks were immediately put into water. But once, after his
back had been turned for a minute, he saw it untied when he looked round
again, and Virginie was blushing, and hiding something in her bosom.
"Pierre was now all impatience to set off and find his cousin, But his
mother seemed to want him for small domestic purposes even more than
usual; and he had chafed over a multitude of errands connected with the
Hotel before he could set off and search for his cousin at his usual
haunts. At last the two met and Pierre related all the events of the
morning to Morin. He said the note off word by word. (That lad this
morning had something of the magpie look of Pierre—it made me shudder to
see him, and hear him repeat the note by heart.) Then Morin asked him to
tell him all over again. Pierre was struck by Morin's heavy sighs as he
repeated the story. When he came the second time to the note, Morin
tried to write the words down; but either he was not a good, ready
scholar, or his fingers trembled too much. Pierre hardly remembered,
but, at any rate, the lad had to do it, with his wicked reading and
writing. When this was done, Morin sat heavily silent. Pierre would
have preferred the expected outburst, for this impenetrable gloom
perplexed and baffled him. He had even to speak to his cousin to rouse
him; and when he replied, what he said had so little apparent connection
with the subject which Pierre had expected to find uppermost in his mind,
that he was half afraid that his cousin had lost his wits.
"'My Aunt Babette is out of coffee.'
"'I am sure I do not know,' said Pierre.
"'Yes, she is. I heard her say so. Tell her that a friend of mine has
just opened a shop in the Rue Saint Antoine, and that if she will join me
there in an hour, I will supply her with a good stock of coffee, just to
give my friend encouragement. His name is Antoine Meyer, Number One
hundred and Fifty at the sign of the Cap of Liberty.'
"'I could go with you now. I can carry a few pounds of coffee better
than my mother,' said Pierre, all in good faith. He told me he should
never forget the look on his cousin's face, as he turned round, and bade
him begone, and give his mother the message without another word. It had
evidently sent him home promptly to obey his cousins command. Morin's
message perplexed Madame Babette.
"'How could he know I was out of coffee?' said she. 'I am; but I only
used the last up this morning. How could Victor know about it?'
"'I am sure I can't tell,' said Pierre, who by this time had recovered
his usual self-possession. 'All I know is, that monsieur is in a pretty
temper, and that if you are not sharp to your time at this Antoine
Meyer's you are likely to come in for some of his black looks.'
"'Well, it is very kind of him to offer to give me some coffee, to be
sure! But how could he know I was out?'
"Pierre hurried his mother off impatiently, for he was certain that the
offer of the coffee was only a blind to some hidden purpose on his
cousin's part; and he made no doubt that when his mother had been
informed of what his cousin's real intention was, he, Pierre, could
extract it from her by coaxing or bullying. But he was mistaken. Madame
Babette returned home, grave, depressed, silent, and loaded with the best
coffee. Some time afterwards he learnt why his cousin had sought for
this interview. It was to extract from her, by promises and threats, the
real name of Mam'selle Cannes, which would give him a clue to the true
appellation of The Faithful Cousin. He concealed the second purpose from
his aunt, who had been quite unaware of his jealousy of the Norman
farmer, or of his identification of him with any relation of Virginie's.
But Madame Babette instinctively shrank from giving him any information:
she must have felt that, in the lowering mood in which she found him, his
desire for greater knowledge of Virginie's antecedents boded her no good.
And yet he made his aunt his confidante—told her what she had only
suspected before—that he was deeply enamoured of Mam'selle Cannes, and
would gladly marry her. He spoke to Madame Babette of his father's
hoarded riches; and of the share which he, as partner, had in them at the
present time; and of the prospect of the succession to the whole, which
he had, as only child. He told his aunt of the provision for her (Madame
Babette's) life, which he would make on the day when he married Mam'selle
Cannes. And yet—and yet—Babette saw that in his eye and look which
made her more and more reluctant to confide in him. By-and-by he tried
threats. She should leave the conciergerie, and find employment where
she liked. Still silence. Then he grew angry, and swore that he would
inform against her at the bureau of the Directory, for harbouring an
aristocrat; an aristocrat he knew Mademoiselle was, whatever her real
name might be. His aunt should have a domiciliary visit, and see how she
liked that. The officers of the Government were the people for finding
out secrets. In vain she reminded him that, by so doing, he would expose
to imminent danger the lady whom he had professed to love. He told her,
with a sullen relapse into silence after his vehement outpouring of
passion, never to trouble herself about that. At last he wearied out the
old woman, and, frightened alike of herself and of him, she told him
all,—that Mam'selle Cannes was Mademoiselle Virginie de Crequy, daughter
of the Count of that name. Who was the Count? Younger brother of the
Marquis. Where was the Marquis? Dead long ago, leaving a widow and
child. A son? (eagerly). Yes, a son. Where was he? Parbleu! how
should she know?—for her courage returned a little as the talk went away
from the only person of the De Crequy family that she cared about. But,
by dint of some small glasses out of a bottle of Antoine Meyer's, she
told him more about the De Crequys than she liked afterwards to remember.
For the exhilaration of the brandy lasted but a very short time, and she
came home, as I have said, depressed, with a presentiment of coming evil.
She would not answer Pierre, but cuffed him about in a manner to which
the spoilt boy was quite unaccustomed. His cousin's short, angry words,
and sudden withdrawal of confidence,—his mother's unwonted crossness and
fault-finding, all made Virginie's kind, gentle treatment, more than ever
charming to the lad. He half resolved to tell her how he had been acting
as a spy upon her actions, and at whose desire he had done it. But he
was afraid of Morin, and of the vengeance which he was sure would fall
upon him for any breach of confidence. Towards half-past eight that
evening—Pierre, watching, saw Virginie arrange several little things—she
was in the inner room, but he sat where he could see her through the
glazed partition. His mother sat—apparently sleeping—in the great easy-
chair; Virginie moved about softly, for fear of disturbing her. She made
up one or two little parcels of the few things she could call her own:
one packet she concealed about herself—the others she directed, and left
on the shelf. 'She is going,' thought Pierre, and (as he said in giving
me the account) his heart gave a spring, to think that he should never
see her again. If either his mother or his cousin had been more kind to
him, he might have endeavoured to intercept her; but as it was, he held
his breath, and when she came out he pretended to read, scarcely knowing
whether he wished her to succeed in the purpose which he was almost sure
she entertained, or not. She stopped by him, and passed her hand over
his hair. He told me that his eyes filled with tears at this caress.
Then she stood for a moment looking at the sleeping Madame Babette, and
stooped down and softly kissed her on the forehead. Pierre dreaded lest
his mother should awake (for by this time the wayward, vacillating boy
must have been quite on Virginie's side), but the brandy she had drunk
made her slumber heavily. Virginie went. Pierre's heart beat fast. He
was sure his cousin would try to intercept her; but how, he could not
imagine. He longed to run out and see the catastrophe,—but he had let
the moment slip; he was also afraid of reawakening his mother to her
unusual state of anger and violence."
"Pierre went on pretending to read, but in reality listening with acute
tension of ear to every little sound. His perceptions became so
sensitive in this respect that he was incapable of measuring time, every
moment had seemed so full of noises, from the beating of his heart up to
the roll of the heavy carts in the distance. He wondered whether
Virginie would have reached the place of rendezvous, and yet he was
unable to compute the passage of minutes. His mother slept soundly: that
was well. By this time Virginie must have met the 'faithful cousin:' if,
indeed, Morin had not made his appearance.
"At length, he felt as if he could no longer sit still, awaiting the
issue, but must run out and see what course events had taken. In vain
his mother, half-rousing herself, called after him to ask whither he was
going: he was already out of hearing before she had ended her sentence,
and he ran on until, stopped by the sight of Mademoiselle Cannes walking
along at so swift a pace that it was almost a run; while at her side,
resolutely keeping by her, Morin was striding abreast. Pierre had just
turned the corner of the street, when he came upon them. Virginie would
have passed him without recognizing him, she was in such passionate
agitation, but for Morin's gesture, by which he would fain have kept
Pierre from interrupting them. Then, when Virginie saw the lad, she
caught at his arm, and thanked God, as if in that boy of twelve or
fourteen she held a protector. Pierre felt her tremble from head to
foot, and was afraid lest she would fall, there where she stood, in the
hard rough street.
"'Begone, Pierre!' said Morin.
"'I cannot,' replied Pierre, who indeed was held firmly by Virginie.
'Besides, I won't,' he added. 'Who has been frightening mademoiselle in
this way?' asked he, very much inclined to brave his cousin at all
hazards.
"'Mademoiselle is not accustomed to walk in the streets alone,' said
Morin, sulkily. 'She came upon a crowd attracted by the arrest of an
aristocrat, and their cries alarmed her. I offered to take charge of her
home. Mademoiselle should not walk in these streets alone. We are not
like the cold-blooded people of the Faubourg Saint Germain.'
"Virginie did not speak. Pierre doubted if she heard a word of what they
were saying. She leant upon him more and more heavily.
"'Will mademoiselle condescend to take my arm?' said Morin, with sulky,
and yet humble, uncouthness. I dare say he would have given worlds if he
might have had that little hand within his arm; but, though she still
kept silence, she shuddered up away from him, as you shrink from touching
a toad. He had said something to her during that walk, you may be sure,
which had made her loathe him. He marked and understood the gesture. He
held himself aloof while Pierre gave her all the assistance he could in
their slow progress homewards. But Morin accompanied her all the same.
He had played too desperate a game to be baulked now. He had given
information against the ci-devant Marquis de Crequy, as a returned
emigre, to be met with at such a time, in such a place. Morin had hoped
that all sign of the arrest would have been cleared away before Virginie
reached the spot—so swiftly were terrible deeds done in those days. But
Clement defended himself desperately: Virginie was punctual to a second;
and, though the wounded man was borne off to the Abbaye, amid a crowd of
the unsympathising jeerers who mingled with the armed officials of the
Directory, Morin feared lest Virginie had recognized him; and he would
have preferred that she should have thought that the 'faithful cousin'
was faithless, than that she should have seen him in bloody danger on her
account. I suppose he fancied that, if Virginie never saw or heard more
of him, her imagination would not dwell on his simple disappearance, as
it would do if she knew what he was suffering for her sake.