Оноре де Бальзак
The Brotherhood of Consolation
Godefroid was silent.
“From what you say,” went on the doctor, “the lady in question is the granddaughter of that imbecile who had no courage but that of fighting, and who took part in delivering over his country to Catherine II?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Well, be at her house Monday next at three o’clock,” said Halpersohn, taking out a note-book in which he wrote a few words. “You will give me then two hundred francs; and if I promise to cure the patient you will give me three thousand. I am told,” he added, “that the lady has shrunk to almost nothing.”
“Monsieur, if the most celebrated doctors in Paris are to be believed, it is a neurotic case of so extraordinary a nature that they denied the possibility of its symptoms until they saw them.”
“Ah! yes, I remember now what the young lad told me. To-morrow, monsieur.”
Godefroid withdrew, after bowing to the man who seemed to him as odd as he was extraordinary. Nothing about him indicated a physician, not even the study, in which the most notable object was the iron safe, made by Huret or Fichet.
Godefroid had just time to get to the passage Vivienne before the shops closed for the day, and there he bought a superb accordion, which he ordered sent at once to Monsieur Bernard, giving the address.
XVI. A LESSON IN CHARITY
From the doctor’s house Godefroid made his way to the rue Chanoinesse, passing along the quai des Augustins, where he hoped to find one of the shops of the commission-publishers open. He was fortunate enough to do so, and had a long talk with a young clerk on books of jurisprudence.
When he reached the rue Chanoinesse, he found Madame de la Chanterie and her friends just returning from high mass; in reply to the look she gave him Godefroid made her a significant sign with his head.
“Isn’t our dear father Alain here to-day?” he said.
“No,” she replied, “not this Sunday; you will not see him till a week from to-day – unless you go where he gave you rendezvous.”
“Madame,” said Godefroid in a low voice, “you know he doesn’t intimidate me as these gentlemen do; I wanted to make my report to him – ”
“And I?”
“Oh you! I can tell you all; and I have a great deal to tell. For my first essay I have found a most extraordinary misfortune; a cruel mingling of pauperism and the need for luxuries; also scenes of a sublimity which surpasses all the inventions of our great novelists.”
“Nature, especially moral nature, is always greater than art, just as God is greater than his creatures. But come,” said madame de la Chanterie, “tell me the particulars of your first trip into worlds unknown to you.”
Monsieur Nicolas and Monsieur Joseph (for the Abbe de Veze had remained a few moments in Notre-Dame) left Madame de la Chanterie alone with Godefroid, who, being still under the influence of the emotions he had gone through the night before, related even the smallest details of his story with the force and ardor and action of a first experience of such a spectacle and its attendant persons and things. His narrative had a great success; for the calm and gentle Madame de la Chanterie wept, accustomed as she was to sound the depths of sorrows.
“You did quite right to send the accordion,” she said.
“I would like to do a great deal more,” said Godefroid; “inasmuch as this family is the first that has shown me the pleasures of charity, I should like to obtain for that splendid old man a full return for his great book. I don’t know if you have confidence enough in my capacity to give me the means of undertaking such an affair. From information I have obtained, it will cost nine thousand francs to manufacture an edition of fifteen hundred copies, and their selling value will be twenty-four thousand francs. But as we should have to pay off the three thousand and some hundred francs due to Barbet, it would be an outlay of twelve thousand francs to risk. Oh! madame, if you only knew what bitter regrets I feel for having dissipated my little fortune! The spirit of charity has appeared to me; it fills me with the ardor of an initiate. I wish to renounce the world, I long to embrace the life of these gentlemen and be worthy of you. Many a time during the last two days I have blessed the chance that brought me to this house. I will obey you in all things until you judge me fit to be one of yours.”
“Then,” said Madame de la Chanterie, after reflecting for a time, “listen to me, for I have important things to tell. You have been allured, my child, by the poesy of misfortune. Yes, misfortunes are often poetical; for, as I think, poesy is a certain effect on the sensibilities, and sorrows affect the sensibilities, – life is so intense in grief!”
“Yes, madame, I know that I have been gripped by the demon of curiosity. But how could I help it? I have not yet acquired the habit of penetrating to the heart of these great misfortunes; I cannot go among them with the calmness of your three soldiers of the Lord. But, let me tell you, it is since I have recovered from that first excitement that I have chiefly longed to devote myself to your work.”
“Listen to me, my dear angel!” said Madame de la Chanterie, who uttered the last three words with a gentle solemnity that touched the young man strangely. “We have forbidden ourselves absolutely, – and we do not trifle with words here; what is forbidden no longer occupies our minds, – we have forbidden ourselves to enter into any speculations. To print a book for sale on the chance of profit is a matter of business, and any operation of that kind would throw us into all the entanglements of commerce. Certainly your scheme seems to me feasible, – even necessary. But do you think it is the first that has offered itself? A score of times, a hundred times, we have come upon just such ways of saving families, or firms. What would have become of us if we had taken part in such affairs? We should be merchants. No, our true partnership with misfortune is not to take the work into our own hands, but to help the unfortunate to work themselves. Before long you will meet with misfortunes more bitter still than these. Would you then do the same thing, – that is, take the burdens of those unfortunates wholly on yourself? You would soon be overwhelmed. Reflect, too, my dear child, that for the last year even the Messieurs Mongenod find our accounts too heavy for them. Half your time would be taken up in merely keeping our books. We have to-day over two thousand debtors in Paris, and we must keep the record of their debts. Not that we ask for payment; we simply wait. We calculate that if half the money we expect is lost, the other half comes back to us, sometimes doubled. Now, suppose your Monsieur Bernard dies, the twelve thousand francs are probably lost. But if you cure his daughter, if his grandson is put in the way of succeeding, if he comes, some day, a magistrate, then, when the family is prosperous, they will remember the debt, and return the money of the poor with usury. Do you know that more than one family whom we have rescued from poverty, and put upon their feet on the road to prosperity by loans of money without interest, have laid aside a portion for the poor, and have returned to us the money loaned doubled, and sometimes tripled? Those are our only speculations. Moreover, reflect that what is now interesting you so deeply (and you ought to be interested in it), namely, the sale of this lawyer’s book, depends on the value of the work. Have you read it? Besides, though the book may be an excellent one, how many excellent books remain one, two, three years without obtaining the success they deserve. Alas! how many crowns of fame are laid upon a grave! I know that publishers have ways of negotiating and realizing profits which make their business the most hazardous to do with, and the most difficult to unravel, of all the trades of Paris. Monsieur Joseph can tell you of these difficulties, inherent in the making of books. Thus, you see, we are sensible; we have experience of all miseries, also of all trades, for we have studied Paris for many years. The Mongenods have helped us in this; they have been like torches to us. It is through them that we know how the Bank of France holds the publishing business under constant suspicion; although it is one of the most profitable trades, it is unsound. As for the four thousand francs necessary to save this noble family from the horrors of penury, – for that poor boy and his grandfather must be fed and clothed properly, – I will give them to you at once. There are sufferings, miseries, wants, which we immediately relieve, without hesitation, without even asking whom we help; religion, honor, character, are all indifferent to us; but when it comes to lending money to the poor to assist them in any active form of industry or commerce, then we require guarantees, with all the sternness of usurers. So you must, my dear child, limit your enthusiasm for this unhappy family to finding for the father an honest publisher. This concerns Monsieur Joseph. He knows lawyers, professors, authors of works on jurisprudence; I will speak to him, and next Sunday he will be sure to have some good advice to give you. Don’t feel uneasy; some way will certainly be found to solve the difficulty. Perhaps it would be well, however, if Monsieur Joseph were to read the lawyer’s book. If you think it can be done, you had better obtain the manuscript.”
Godefroid was amazed at the good sense of this woman, whom he had thought controlled by the spirit of charity only. He took her beautiful hand and kissed it, saying: —
“You are good sense and judgment too!”
“We must be all that in our business,” she replied, with the soft gaiety of a real saint.
There was a moment’s silence, and then Godefroid exclaimed: —
“Two thousand debtors! did you say that, madame? two thousand accounts to keep! why, it is immense!”
“Oh! I meant two thousand accounts which rely for liquidation, as I told you, on the delicacy and good feeling of our debtors; but there are fully three thousand other families whom we help who make us no other return than thanks to God. This is why we feel, as I told you, the necessity of keeping books ourselves. If you prove to us your discretion and capacity you shall be, if you like, our accountant. We keep a day-book, a ledger, a book of current accounts, and a bank-book. We have many notes, but we lose a great deal of time in looking them up. Ah! here are the gentlemen,” she added.
Godefroid, grave and thoughtful, took little part in the general conversation which now followed. He was stunned by the communication Madame de la Chanterie had just made to him, in a tone which implied that she wished to reward his ardor.
“Five thousand families assisted!” he kept repeating to himself. “If they were to cost what I am to spend on Monsieur Bernard, we must have millions scattered through Paris.”
This thought was the last expiring movement of the spirit of the world, which had slowly and insensibly become extinguished in Godefroid. On reflection he saw that the united fortunes of Madame de la Chanterie, Messieurs Alain, Nicolas, Joseph, and that of Judge Popinot, the gifts obtained through the Abbe de Veze, and the assistance lent by the firm of Mongenod must produce a large capital; and that this capital, increased during the last dozen years by grateful returns from those assisted, must have grown like a snowball, inasmuch as the charitable stewards of it spent so little on themselves. Little by little he began to see clearly into this vast work, and his desire to co-operate in it increased.
He was preparing at nine o’clock to return on foot to the boulevard du Mont-Parnasse; but Madame de la Chanterie, fearing the solitude of that neighborhood at a late hour, made him take a cab. When he reached the house Godefroid heard the sound of an instrument, though the shutters were so carefully closed that not a ray of light issued through them. As soon as he reached the landing, Auguste, who was probably on the watch for him, opened the door of Monsieur Bernard’s apartment and said: —
“Mamma would like to see you, and my grandfather offers you a cup of tea.”
When Godefroid entered, the patient seemed to him transfigured by the pleasure she felt in making music; her face was radiant, her eyes were sparkling like diamonds.
“I ought to have waited to let you hear the first sounds,” she said to Godefroid, “but I flung myself upon the little organ as a starving man flings himself on food. You have a soul that comprehends me, and I know you will forgive.”
Vanda made a sign to her son, who placed himself in such a way as to press with his foot the pedal which filled the bellows; and then the invalid, whose fingers had for the time recovered all their strength and agility, raising her eyes to heaven like Saint Cecilia, played the “Prayer of Moses in Egypt,” which her son had bought for her and which she had learned by heart in a few hours. Godefroid recognized in her playing the same quality as in Chopin’s. The soul was satisfied by divine sounds of which the dominant note was that of tender melancholy. Monsieur Bernard had received Godefroid with a look that was long a stranger to his eyes. If tears were not forever dried at their source, withered by such scorching sorrows, that look would have been tearful.
The old man sat playing with his snuff-box and looking at his daughter in silent ecstasy.
“To-morrow, madame,” said Godefroid, when the music ceased; “to-morrow your fate will be decided. I bring you good news. The celebrated Halpersohn is coming to see you at three o’clock in the afternoon. He has promised,” added Godefroid in a low voice to Monsieur Bernard, “to tell me the exact truth.”
The old man rose, and grasping Godefroid’s hand, drew him to a corner of the room beside the fireplace.
“Ah! what a night I shall pass! a definitive decision! My daughter cured or doomed!”
“Courage!” said Godefroid; “after tea come out with me.”
“My child, my child, don’t play any more,” said the old man; “you will bring on an attack; such a strain upon your strength must end in reaction.”
He made Auguste take away the instrument and offered a cup of tea to his daughter with the coaxing manner of a nurse quieting the petulance of a child.
“What is the doctor like?” she asked, her mind already distracted by the prospect of seeing a new person.
Vanda, like all prisoners, was full of eager curiosity. When the physical phenomena of her malady ceased, they seemed to betake themselves to the moral nature; she conceived the strangest fancies, the most violent caprices; she insisted on seeing Rossini, and wept when her father, whom she believed to be all powerful, refused to fetch him.
Godefroid now gave her a minute account of the Jewish doctor and his study; of which she knew nothing, for Monsieur Bernard had cautioned Auguste not to tell his mother of his visits to Halpersohn, so much had he feared to rouse hopes in her mind which might not be realized.
Vanda hung upon Godefroid’s words like one fascinated; and she fell into a sort of ecstasy in her passionate desire to see this strange Polish doctor.
“Poland has produced many singular, mysterious beings,” said Monsieur Bernard. “To-day, for instance, besides this extraordinary doctor, we have Hoene Wronski, the enlightened mathematician, the poet Mickievicz, Towianksi the mystic, and Chopin, whose talent is supernatural. Great national convulsions always produce various species of dwarfed giants.”
“Oh! dear papa; what a man you are! If you would only write down what we hear you say merely to amuse me you would make your reputation. Fancy, monsieur, my dear old father invents wonderful stories when I have no novels to read; he often puts me to sleep in that way. His voice lulls me, and he quiets my mind with his wit. Who can ever reward him? Auguste, my child, you ought for my sake, to kiss the print of your grandfather’s footsteps.”
The young man raised his beautiful moist eyes to his mother, and the look he gave her, full of a long-repressed compassion, was a poem. Godefroid rose, took the lad’s hand, and pressed it.
“God has placed two angels beside you, madame,” he said.
“Yes, I know that. And for that reason I often reproach myself for harassing them. Come, my dear Auguste, and kiss your mother. He is a child, monsieur, of whom all mothers might be proud; pure as gold, frank and honest, a soul without sin – but too passionate a soul, alas! like that of his poor mother. Perhaps God has fastened me in this bed to keep me from the follies of women – who have too much heart,” she added, smiling.
Godefroid replied with a smile and a bow.
“Adieu, monsieur; and thank your friend for the instrument; tell him it makes the happiness of a poor cripple.”
“Monsieur,” said Godefroid, when they were alone in the latter’s room. “I think I may assure you that you shall not be robbed by that trio of bloodsuckers. I have the necessary sum to free your book, but you must first show me your written agreement with them. And after that, in order to do still more for you, you must let me have your work to read, – not I myself, of course, I have not knowledge enough to judge of it, but a former magistrate, a lawyer of eminence and of perfect integrity, who will undertake, according to what he thinks of the book, to find you an honorable publisher with whom you can make an equitable agreement. This, however, I will not insist upon. Meantime here are five hundred francs,” he added, giving a bank-note to the stupefied old man, “to meet your present needs. I do not ask for any receipt; you will be under obligations to your own conscience only, and that conscience is not to move you until you have recovered a sufficient competence, – I undertake to pay Halpersohn.”
“Who are you, then?” asked the old man, dropping into a chair.
“I myself,” replied Godefroid, “am nothing; but I serve powerful persons to whom your distress is known, and who feel an interest in you. Ask me nothing more about them.”
“But what induces them to do this?” said the old man.
“Religion.”
“Religion! is it possible?”
“Yes, the catholic, apostolic, and Roman religion.”
“Ah! do you belong to the order of Jesus?”
“No, monsieur,” replied Godefroid. “Do not feel uneasy; these persons have no designs upon you, except that of helping you to restore your family to prosperity.”
“Can philanthropy be anything but vanity?”
“Ah! monsieur,” said Godefroid, hastily; “do not insult the virtue defined by Saint Paul, sacred, catholic Love!”
Monsieur Bernard, hearing this answer, began to stride up and down with long steps.
“I accept,” he said suddenly, “and I have but one way of thanking you, and that is to offer you my work. The notes and citations are unnecessary to the magistrate you speak of; and I have still two months’ work to do in arranging them for the press. To-morrow I will give you the five volumes,” he added, offering Godefroid his hand.
“Can I have made a conversion?” thought Godefroid, struck by the new expression which he saw on the old man’s face.
XVII. HALPERSOHN
The next afternoon at three o’clock a cabriolet stopped before the house, and Godefroid saw Halpersohn getting out of it, wrapped in a monstrous bear-skin pelisse. The cold had strengthened during the night, the thermometer marking ten degrees of it.
The Jewish doctor examined with curious eyes, though furtively, the room in which his client of the day before received him, and Godefroid detected the suspicious thought which darted from his eyes like the sharp point of a dagger. This rapid conception of distrust gave Godefroid a cold chill, for he thought within himself that such a man would be pitiless in all relations; it is so natural to suppose that genius is connected with goodness that a strong sensation of disgust took possession of him.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I see that the simplicity of my room makes you uneasy; therefore you need not be surprised at my method of proceeding. Here are your two hundred francs, and here, too, are three notes of a thousand francs each,” he added, drawing from his pocket-book the money Madame de la Chanterie had given him to release Monsieur Bernard’s book; but in case you still feel doubtful of my solvency I offer you as reference Messrs. Mongenod, bankers, rue de la Victoire.”
“I know them,” said Halpersohn, putting the ten gold pieces into his pocket.
“He’ll inquire of them,” thought Godefroid.
“Where is the patient?” asked the doctor, rising like a man who knows the value of time.
“This way, monsieur,” said Godefroid, preceding him to show the way.
The Jew examined with a shrewd and suspicious eye the places he passed through, giving them the keen, rapid glance of a spy; he saw all the horrors of poverty through the door of the room in which the grandfather and the grandson lived; for, unfortunately, Monsieur Bernard had gone in to change his clothes before entering his daughter’s room, and in his haste to open the outer door to the doctor, he had forgotten to close that of his lair.
He bowed in a stately manner to Halpersohn, and opened the door of his daughter’s room cautiously.
“Vanda, my child, here is the doctor,” he said.
Then he stood aside to allow Halpersohn, who kept on his bear-skin pelisse, to pass him. The Jew was evidently surprised at the luxury of the room, which in this quarter, and more especially in this house, was an anomaly; but his surprise only lasted for an instant, for he had seen among German and Russian Jews many instances of the same contrast between apparent misery and hoarded wealth. As he walked from the door to the bed he kept his eye on the patient, and the moment he reached her he said in Polish: —
“You are a Pole?”
“No, I am not; my mother was.”
“Whom did your grandfather, Colonel Tarlowski, marry?”
“A Pole.”
“From what province?”
“A Soboleska, of Pinsk.”
“Very good; monsieur is your father?”
“Yes.”
“Monsieur,” he said, turning to the old man; “your wife – ”
“Is dead;” said Monsieur Bernard.
“Was she very fair?” said Halpersohn, showing a slight impatience at being interrupted.
“Here is her portrait,” said Monsieur Bernard, unhooking from the wall a handsome frame which enclosed several fine miniatures.
Halpersohn felt the head and handled the hair of the patient while he looked at the portrait of Vanda Tarlowska, born Countess Sobolewska.
“Relate to me the symptoms of your illness,” he said, placing himself on the sofa and looking fixedly at Vanda during the twenty minutes the history, given alternately by the father and daughter, lasted.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Ah! good!” he cried, rising; “I will answer for the cure. Mind, I do not say that I can restore the use of her legs; but cured of the disease, that she shall be. Only, I must have her in a private hospital under my own eye.”
“But, monsieur, my daughter cannot be moved!”
“I will answer for her,” said Halpersohn, curtly; “but I will answer for her only on those conditions. She will have to exchange her present malady for another still more terrible, which may last a year, six months at the very least. You may come and see her at the hospital, since you are her father.”
“Are you certain of curing her?” said Monsieur Bernard.
“Certain,” repeated the Jew. “Madame has in her body an element, a vitiated fluid, the national disease, and it must be eliminated. You must bring her to me at Challot, rue Basse-Saint-Pierre, private hospital of Doctor Halpersohn.”
“How can I?”
“On a stretcher, just as all sick persons are carried to hospitals.”
“But the removal will kill her!”
“No.”
As he said the word in a curt tone he was already at the door; Godefroid rejoined him on the staircase. The Jew, who was stifling with heat, said in his ear:
“Besides the three thousand francs, the cost will be fifteen francs a day, payable three months in advance.”
“Very good, monsieur. And,” continued Godefroid, putting one foot on the step of the cabriolet, into which the doctor had sprung, “you say you will answer for the cure?”
“I will answer for it,” said the Jewish doctor. “Are you in love with the lady?”
“No,” replied Godefroid.
“You must not repeat what I am about to say to you; I only say it to prove to you that I am certain of a cure. If you are guilty of the slightest indiscretion you will kill her.”
Godefroid replied with a gesture only.
“For the last seventeen years she has been a victim to the element in her system called plica polonica,5 which has produced all these ravages. I have seen more terrible cases than this. Now, I alone in the present day know how to bring this disease to a crisis, and force it outward so as to obtain a chance to cure it – for it cannot always be cured. You see, monsieur, that I am disinterested. If this lady were of great importance, a Baronne de Nucingen, or any other wife or daughter of a modern Croesus, this cure would bring me one hundred – two hundred thousand francs; in short, anything I chose to ask for it. However, it is only a trifling loss to me.”
“About conveying her?”
“Bah! she’ll seem to be dying, but she won’t die. There’s life enough in her to last a hundred years, when the disease is out of her system. Come, Jacques, drive on! quick, – rue de Monsieur! quick!” he said to his man.
Godefroid was left on the boulevard gazing stupidly after the cabriolet.
“Who is that queer man in a bearskin?” asked Madame Vauthier, whom nothing escaped; “is it true, what the man in the cabriolet told me, that he is one of the greatest doctors in Paris?”
“What is that to you?”
“Oh! nothing at all,” she replied, making a face.
“You made a great mistake in not putting yourself on my side,” said Godefroid, returning slowly to the house; “you would have made more out of me than you will ever get from Barbet and Metivier; from whom, mark my words, you’ll get nothing.”
“I am not for them particularly,” said Madame Vauthier, shrugging her shoulders; “Monsieur Barbet is my proprietor, that’s all!”
It required two days’ persuasion to induce Monsieur Bernard to separate from his daughter and take her to Chaillot. Godefroid and the old man made the trip walking on each side of the litter, canopied with blue and white striped linen, in which was the dear patient, partly bound to a mattress, so much did her father dread the possible convulsions of a nervous attack. They started at three o’clock and reached their destination at five just as evening was coming on. Godefroid paid the sum demanded for three months’ board in advance, being careful to obtain a receipt for the money. When he went back to pay the bearers of the litter, he was followed by Monsieur Bernard, who took from beneath the mattress a bulky package carefully sealed up, and gave it to Godefroid.
“One of these men will fetch you a cab,” said the old man; “for you cannot carry these four volumes under your arm. That is my book; give it to your reader; he may keep it the whole of the coming week. I shall stay at least that time in this quarter; for I cannot leave my daughter in such total abandonment. I trust my grandson; he can take care of our rooms; especially if you keep an eye on him. If I were what I once was I would ask you the name of my critic, the former magistrate you spoke of; there were but few of them whom I did not know.”
“Oh, there’s no mystery about it!” said Godefroid, interrupting Monsieur Bernard. “Now that you have shown this entire confidence in trusting me with your book, I will tell you that your censor is the former president, Lecamus de Tresnes.”
“Oh, yes! – of the Royal Court of Paris. Take him the book; he is one of the noblest characters of the present day. He and the late Popinot, a judge of the Lower Court, were both worthy of the days of the old Parliaments. All my fears, if I had any, are dissipated. Where does he live? I should like to go and thank him for the trouble he is taking.”
“You will find him in the rue Chanoinesse, under the name of Monsieur Joseph. I am going there now. Where is that agreement you made with your swindlers?”
“Auguste will give it to you,” said the old man, re-entering the courtyard of the hospital.
A cab was now brought up by the porter, and Godefroid jumped into it, – promising the coachman a good pourboire if he would get him to the rue Chanoinesse in good time, for he wanted to dine there.
Half an hour after Vanda’s departure, three men dressed in black, whom Madame Vauthier let into the house by the door on the rue Notre-Dame des Champs, filed up the staircase, accompanied by their female Judas, and knocked gently at the door of Monsieur Bernard’s lodging. As it happened to be a Thursday, Auguste was at home. He opened the door, and the three men glided in like shadows.
“What do you want, messieurs?” asked the lad.
“These are the rooms of Monsieur Bernard, – that is, Monsieur le baron, – are they not?”
“Yes; but what do you want?”
“You know very well, young man, what we want! We are informed that your grandfather has left this house with a covered litter. That’s not surprising; he had the right to do so. But I am the sheriff, and I have come to seize everything he has left. On Monday he received a summons to pay three thousand francs, with interest and costs, to Monsieur Metivier, under pain of arrest for debt duly notified to him, and like an old stager who is up to the tricks of his own trade, he has walked off just in time. However, if we can’t catch him, his furniture hasn’t taken wings. You see we know all about it, young man.”
“Here are the stamped papers your grandpapa didn’t choose to take,” said Madame Vauthier, thrusting three writs into Auguste’s hand.
“Remain here, madame,” said the sheriff; “we shall make you legal guardian of the property. The law gives you forty sous a day, and that’s not to be sneezed at.”
“Ha! now I shall see the inside of that fine bedroom!” cried the Vauthier.
“You shall not go into my mother’s room!” said the young lad, in a threatening voice, springing between the door and the three men in black.
At a sign from the sheriff, two of the men seized Auguste.