The Mysteries of Paris. Эжен Сю

      "And this evening, at ten o'clock, meet me at the corner of the Champs Elysées and the Allée des Veuves, and I will tell you more."

      "If it is a trap, look out! The Schoolmaster is a scoundrel. You have beaten him, and, no doubt, he will kill you if he can."

      "Have no fear."

      "By Jove! it is a 'rum start;' but do as you like with me. I do not hesitate, for something tells me that there is a rod in pickle for the Schoolmaster and the Chouette. One word, though, if you please, M. Rodolph."

      "Say it."

      "I do not think you are the man to lay a trap, and set the police on the Schoolmaster. He is an arrant blackguard, who deserves a hundred deaths; but to have them arrested, that I will not have a hand in."

      "Nor I, my boy; but I have a score to wipe off with him and the Chouette, because they are in a plot with others against me; but we two will baffle them completely, if you will lend me your assistance."

      "Of course I will; and, if that is to be the game, I am your man. But quick, quick," cried the Chourineur, "down there I see the head of the Chouette. I know it is her bonnet. Go, go, and I will drop into my hole."

      "To-night, then, at ten o'clock."

      "At the corner of the Champs Elysées and the Allée des Veuves; all right."

      Fleur-de-Marie had not heard a word of the latter part of the conversation between the Chourineur and Rodolph, and now entered again into the coach with her travelling companion.

      CHAPTER X.

      CASTLES IN THE AIR.

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      For some time after this conversation with the Chourineur, Rodolph remained preoccupied and pensive, while Fleur-de-Marie, too timid to break the silence, continued to gaze on him with saddened earnestness. At length Rodolph looked up, and, meeting her mournful look, smiled kindly on her, and said, "What are you thinking of, my child? I fear our rencontre with the Chourineur has made you uncomfortable, and we were so merry, too."

      "Oh, no, M. Rodolph, indeed, I do not mind it at all; nay, I even believe the meeting with the Chourineur may be useful to you."

      "Did not this man pass amongst the inhabitants of the tapis-franc as possessing some good points among his many bad ones?"

      "Indeed, I know not, M. Rodolph; for although, previously to the scene of yesterday, I had frequently seen him, I had scarcely ever spoken to him. I always looked upon him as bad as all the rest."

      "Well, well, do not let us talk any more about him, my pretty Fleur-de-Marie. I should be sorry, indeed, to make you sad—I, who brought you out purposely that you might spend a happy day."

      "Oh, I am happy. It is so very long since I have been out of Paris."

      "Not since your grand doings with Rigolette."

      "Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph; but that was in the spring. Yet, though it is now autumn, I enjoy it quite as much. How beautifully the sun shines! Only look at the gold-coloured clouds out there—there, I mean; and then that hill, with its pretty white houses half hid among the trees, and the leaves still so green, though we are in the middle of the month of October. Do not you think it is wonderful, M. Rodolph, they should so well preserve their verdure? In Paris, all the leaves wither so soon. Look! look at those pigeons! how many there are! and how high they fly! Now they are settling on that old mill. One is never tired in the open fields of looking at all these amusing sights."

      "It, is, indeed, a pleasure to behold the delight you seem to take in all these trifling matters, Fleur-de-Marie; though they, in reality, constitute the charm of a landscape."

      And Rodolph was right; for the countenance of his companion, while gazing upon the fair, calm scene before her, was lit up with an expression of the purest joy.

      "See!" she exclaimed, after intently watching the different objects that unfolded themselves to her eager look, "see how beautifully the clear white smoke rises from those cottages, and ascends to the very clouds themselves; and there are some men ploughing the land. What a capital plough they have got, drawn by those two fine gray horses. Oh, if I were a man, how I should like to be a husbandman, to go out in the fields, and drive one's own plough; and then when you look to see the blue skies, and the green shiny leaves of the neighbouring forests—such a day as to-day, for instance, when you feel half inclined to weep, without knowing why, and begin singing old and melancholy songs, like 'Geneviève de Brabant.' Do you know 'Geneviève de Brabant,' M. Rodolph?"

      "No, my child; but I hope you will have the kindness to sing it to me before the day is over. You know our time is all our own."

      At these words, which reminded the poor Goualeuse that her newly tasted happiness was fast fleeting away, and that, at the close of this, the brightest day that had ever shone on her existence, she must return to all the horrors of a corrupt city, her feelings broke through all restraint, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. Much surprised at her emotion, Rodolph kindly inquired its cause.

      "What ails you, Fleur-de-Marie? What fresh grief have you found?"

      "Nothing—nothing indeed, M. Rodolph," replied the girl, drying her eyes and trying to smile. "Pray forgive me for being so sad, and please not to notice it. I assure you I have nothing at all to grieve about—it is only a fancy; and now I am going to be quite gay, you will see."

      "And you were as gay as could be a few minutes ago."

      "Yes, I know I was; and it was my thinking how soon—" answered Fleur-de-Marie, naïvely, and raising her large, tearful blue eyes, with touching candour, to his face.

      The look, the words, fully enlightened Rodolph as to the cause of her distress, and, wishing to dissipate it, he said, smilingly:

      "I would lay a wager you are regretting your poor rose-tree, and are crying because you could not bring it out walking with you, as you used to do."

      La Goualeuse fell into the good-natured scheme for regaining her cheerfulness, and by degrees the clouds of sadness cleared away from her fair young face; and once again she appeared absorbed in the pleasure of the moment, without allowing herself to recollect the future that would succeed it. The vehicle had by this time almost arrived at St. Denis, and the tall spires of the cathedral were visible.

      "Oh, what a fine steeple!" exclaimed La Goualeuse.

      "It is that of the splendid church of St. Denis: would you like to see it? We can easily stop our carriage."

      Poor Fleur-de-Marie cast down her eyes. "From the hour I went to live with the ogress," said she, in a low tone, while deep blushes dyed her cheek, "I never once entered a church—I durst not. When in prison, on the contrary, I used to delight in helping to sing the mass; and, against the Fête-Dieu, oh, I made such lovely bouquets for the altar!"

      "But God is merciful and good; why, then, fear to pray to him, or to enter his holy church?"

      "Oh, no, no, M. Rodolph! I have offended God deeply enough; let me not add impiety and sacrilege to my sins."

      After a moment's silence, Rodolph again renewed the conversation, and, kindly taking the hand of La Goualeuse, said, "Fleur-de-Marie, tell me honestly, have you ever known what it is to love?"

      "Never, M. Rodolph."

      "And how do you account for this?"

      "You saw the kind of persons who frequented the tapis-franc. And then, to love, the object should be good and virtuous—"

      "Why do you think so?"

      "Oh, because one's lover, or husband, would be all in all to us, and we should seek no greater happiness than devoting our life to him. But, M. Rodolph, if you please, we will talk of something else, for the tears will come into my eyes."

      "Willingly,