Volume III
Part VII. Continued
CAPTER VII.
THE PORTRAIT
At the name of Ferand , Sarah’ voice faltered so that La Chouette stepped back wit alarm. “The notary”, repeated Sarah, “gave you this child and – “ she could not finished. Her emotion was too violent; with her hands stretched towards La Chouette, trembling violently, surprise and joy were expressed on her countenance.
“But I did not you were going to fire up in this manner, my little lady,” said the old woman. “Yet it is very plain. Ten years ago, an old acquaintance, Tournemine, said to me, ‘Do you want to take charge of a little girl that some one wants to get rid off? If she lives or dies, all the same; there is a thousand francs to gain; you may do with the child what you please.”
“Ten years ago?” cried Sarah. “Ten years.” “A little blonde.” “A little blonde.” “With blue eyes?” “With blue eyes, blue as the bleuets.” “And it is she, who, at the farm – “ “We packed up for Saint Lazare. I must say that I did not expect to find her there – this Pegriotte.”
“Oh! my God!” cried Sarah, falling on her knees, and raising her hands and eyes toward heaven; “Thy ways are impenetrable. I bow before thy mysterious providence. Oh ! if such happiness were possible – but no, I cannot believe it; it would be too much – no!” Then suddenly rising, she said to La Chouette, who looked at her with amazement, “Come.” And Sarah walked before the old man with hurried steps. At the end of the alley she ascended some steps leading to the glass door of a cabinet, sumptuously furnished. At the moment when La Chouette was about to enter, Sarah made her a sign to remain without. Then she rung the bell violently. A servant appeared.
“I am not at home for anyone; let no one in; do you understand? absolutely no one.” The domestic retired, and Sarah, to be more secure, locked the door. La Chouette heard the orders given to the servant, and saw Sarah lock the door. The countess, turning to her, said, “Come in quickly, and shut the door.” La Chouette obeyed. Hastily opening a secretary, Sarah took from it an ebony casket, which she placed on a desk in the middle of the room, an made a sign for La Chouette to come near her. The casket contained contained many jewel many jewel boxes, placed one on the other, enclosing magnificent ornaments. Sarah was too impatient to reach the bottom of the casket, that she threw out on the table these boxes, splendidly furnished wit necklaces, bracelets, and diamonds, sparkled with a thousand fires. La Chouette was astounded. She was armed, she was shut up alone with the countess, her flight was easy, secure. An infernal idea crossed the mind of this monster. But to execute this new misdeed, she must get her poniard from the basket, and draw near to Sarah, without exciting suspicion.
With the cunning of a tiger-cat, who crawls and treacherously advanced on its prey, the old woman profited by the pre-occupation of the countess to steal round the bureau which separated her from her victim. She had already commenced this treacherous revolution, when she was obliged to stop suddenly, Sarah drew a medallion from the bottom of the box, leaned on the table, handed it La Chouette with a trembling hand, and said, “Look at this portrait.” “It is La Pegriotte!” cried La Chouette, struck with the great likeness; “it is the little girl who was given to me; I see her as she was when Tournemine brought her to me. There is her thick, curly hair which I cut off at once, and sold well!” “You recognize her, it was she?” Oh! I conjure you, do not deceive me!” “I tell you, my little lady, that it is La Pegriotte; it is as if I could see her before me,” said La Chouette, trying to approach Sarah without being remarked; “even now she looks like this portrait. If you saw her, you would be struck with it.”
Sarah had experienced no sorrow, no fright on learning that her child had, during the years, lived miserable and abandoned. No remorse on thinking that she herself had torn her from peaceful retreat where Rodolphe had placed her. This unnatural mother did not at once interrogate La Chouette with terrible anxiety as to the past life of her child. No; ambition with Sarah had for a long time stifled maternal tenderness.
It was not joy at finding her daughter which transported her, it was the certain hope of seeing realized the proud dream of all her life. Rodolphe was interested for this unfortunate creature, had protected without knowing her, what would be his joy when he discovered her to be his child! He was free, the countess a widow – Sarah already saw glisten before her eyes a sovereign’s crown. La Chouette, still advancing with cautious steps, had already reached one end of the table, and placed her dagger perpendicularly in her basket, the handle close to the opening, quite ready. She was only a few steps from the countess. When the later suddenly said, “Do know how to write?” And pushing back with her hand the boxes and jewels, she opened a blotter placed before an inkstand. “No madam, I cannot write”, answered La Chouette at all hazard. “I am going to write, than, from your dictation.” Tell me all the circumstances attending the abandonment of this little girl.” And Sarah, seated herself in an arm chair before the desk, took a pen, and made a motion for the old woman to draw near her.
The eyes of La Chouette twinkled. At length, she was standing erect alongside of Sarah’s seat. She, bending over the table, prepared to write. “I will read aloud slowly,” said the countess, “you will correct my mistakes.” “Yes madam,” answered La Chouette, watching every movement. Then she slipped her right hand into her basket, so as to take hold of the dagger without being seen. The countess began to write – “I declare that –“
But interrupting herself, and turning towards La Chouette, who already had hold handle of her dagger, Sarah added, “At what time was this child delivered to you?” “In the month of February, 1827.” “And by whom?” asked Sarah, with her face still tourned towards La Chouette. “By Pierre Tournemine, now in the galleys at Rochefort.” Madam Seraphin, housekeeper of the notary, gave the little girl to him.” The countess turned to write, and read in a loud voice. “I declare that, in the month of February, 1827, the named –“
La Chouette had drawn the dagger. Already she raised it to strike her victim between the shoulders. Sarah again turned. La Chouette, not to be discovered, placed quickly her right arm on the back of the chair, and leaned towards her to answer her new question. “I have forgotten the name of the man who confided the child to you.” “Pierre Tournemine” answered la Chouette. “Pierre Tournemine” repeated Sarah, continuing to write, “now in the galleys at Rochefort, placed in my hands a child who had been confided to him by the housekeeper of –“
The countess could not finish. La Chouette, after having softly disencumbered herself of the basket by dropping it on the ground, had thrown herself on the countess with as much rapidity as fury; with her left hand she caught her by the throat, and, holding her face down to the table, she had, with her right hand, planted the dagger between the shoulders. This horrid deed was executed so quickly, that the countess did not utter a single cry or groan. Still seated, she remained with her face on the table. The pen had fallen from her hand.
“The same blow as Fourline’s, the little man of the Rue de Roule,” said the monster. “Another one who will talk no more; her account is made.” And la Chouette, gathering in haste the jewels, which she threw into her basket, did not perceive that her victim still breathed. The murder and robbery accomplished, the horrible old woman opened the glass door, disappeared rapidly in the green alley, went out by a small door, and reached the waste ground. Near the observatory she took a hack, which conveyed her to Bras-Rouge’s. The widow Martial, Nicolas, Calebasse, and Barbillon had, as the reader knows, given a randez-vous to La Chouette in this den, to rob and kill the diamond broker.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE A
The reader is
already acquainted with the tavern of the Bleeding Heart, situated in the
Placed as
sentinel on the top of the staircase, the little cripple was to notify the
arrival of Martial by a concerted signal, Bras-Rouge being then in secret conference
with an agent of police named Narcisse Borel, who, it will be remembered, was
seen at the tapis-franc of the Ogresse, when he came there to arrest two
villains accused of murder. This agent, a man about forty years, strong and
thick set, had his skin stained, a sharp and piercing eye, and face completely
shaved, so as to be able to assume the different disguises necessary to his
dangerous expeditions; for it was often necessary for him to unite the sudden
transformation of a comedian with the energy and courage of a soldier, to
surprise certain banditti whom he was obliged to match in courage and
determination. Narcisse Borel was, in a word, one of the most useful, most
active instruments of
* * * * * *
Let us turn to he interview between Borel and Bras-Rouge,
…
(THE MYSTERIES
OF
No comments:
Post a Comment