Baron Trigault's Vengeance [92]
to the baron, softening the truth as much as he could without concealing it. But prevarication was useless. Madame Ferailleur's indignation and disgust were none the less evident. "That woman is a shameless creature," she said, coldly, when her son's narrative was concluded.
Pascal made no reply. He knew only too well that his mother was right, and yet it wounded him cruelly to hear her speak in this style. For the baroness was Marguerite's mother after all.
"So," continued Madame Ferailleur, with increasing indignation, "creatures do exist who are destitute even of the maternal instincts of animals. I am an honest woman myself; I don't say it in self-glorification, it's no credit to me; my mother was a saint, and I loved my husband; what some people call duty was my happiness, so I may be allowed to speak on this subject. I don't excuse infidelity, but I can understand how such a thing is possible. Yes, I can understand how a beautiful young woman, who is left alone in a city like Paris, may lose her senses, and forget the worthy man who has exiled himself for her sake, and who is braving a thousand dangers to win a fortune for her. The husband who exposes his honor and happiness to such terrible risk, is an imprudent man. But when this woman has erred, when she has given birth to a child, how she can abandon it, how she can cast it off as if it were a dog, I cannot comprehend. I could imagine infanticide more easily. No, such a woman has no heart, no bowels of compassion. There is nothing human in her! For how could she live, how could she sleep with the thought that somewhere in the world her own child, the flesh of her flesh, was exposed to all the temptations of poverty, and the horrors of shame and vice? And she, the possessor of millions, she, the inmate of a palace, thinking only of dress and pleasure! How was it that she didn't ask herself every minute, 'Where is my daughter now, and what is she doing? What is she living on? Has she shelter, clothes and food? To what depths of degradation she may have sunk? Perhaps she has so far lived by honest toil, and perhaps at this very moment this support fails her, and she is abandoning herself to a life of infamy.' Great God! how does this woman dare to step out of doors? On seeing the poor wretches who have been driven to vice by want, how can she fail to say to herself: 'That, perhaps, is my daughter!'"
Pascal turned pale, moved to the depths of his soul by his mother's extraordinary vehemence. He trembled lest she should say: "And you, my son, would you marry the child of such a mother?" For he knew his mother's prejudices, and the great importance she attached to a spotless reputation transmitted from parent to child, from generation to generation. "The baroness knew that her husband adored her, and hearing of his return she became terrified; she lost her senses," he ventured to say in extenuation.
"Would you try to defend her?" exclaimed Madame Ferailleur. "Do you really think one can atone for a fault by a crime?"
"No, certainly not, but----"
"Perhaps you would censure the baroness more severely if you knew what her daughter has suffered--if you knew the perils and miseries she has been exposed to from the moment her mother left her on a door-step, near the central markets, till the day when her father found her. It is a miracle that she did not perish."
Where had Madame Ferailleur learned these particulars? Pascal asked himself this question without being able to answer it. "I don't understand you, mother," he faltered.
"Then you know nothing of Mademoiselle Marguerite's past life. Is it possible she never told you anything about it?"
"I only know that she has been very unhappy."
"Has she never alluded to the time when she was an apprentice?"
"She has only told me that she earned her living with her own hands at one time of her life."
"Well, I am better informed on the subject."
Pascal's amazement was changed to terror. "You, mother, you!"
"Yes; I--I have been to the asylum where she was received and educated.
Pascal made no reply. He knew only too well that his mother was right, and yet it wounded him cruelly to hear her speak in this style. For the baroness was Marguerite's mother after all.
"So," continued Madame Ferailleur, with increasing indignation, "creatures do exist who are destitute even of the maternal instincts of animals. I am an honest woman myself; I don't say it in self-glorification, it's no credit to me; my mother was a saint, and I loved my husband; what some people call duty was my happiness, so I may be allowed to speak on this subject. I don't excuse infidelity, but I can understand how such a thing is possible. Yes, I can understand how a beautiful young woman, who is left alone in a city like Paris, may lose her senses, and forget the worthy man who has exiled himself for her sake, and who is braving a thousand dangers to win a fortune for her. The husband who exposes his honor and happiness to such terrible risk, is an imprudent man. But when this woman has erred, when she has given birth to a child, how she can abandon it, how she can cast it off as if it were a dog, I cannot comprehend. I could imagine infanticide more easily. No, such a woman has no heart, no bowels of compassion. There is nothing human in her! For how could she live, how could she sleep with the thought that somewhere in the world her own child, the flesh of her flesh, was exposed to all the temptations of poverty, and the horrors of shame and vice? And she, the possessor of millions, she, the inmate of a palace, thinking only of dress and pleasure! How was it that she didn't ask herself every minute, 'Where is my daughter now, and what is she doing? What is she living on? Has she shelter, clothes and food? To what depths of degradation she may have sunk? Perhaps she has so far lived by honest toil, and perhaps at this very moment this support fails her, and she is abandoning herself to a life of infamy.' Great God! how does this woman dare to step out of doors? On seeing the poor wretches who have been driven to vice by want, how can she fail to say to herself: 'That, perhaps, is my daughter!'"
Pascal turned pale, moved to the depths of his soul by his mother's extraordinary vehemence. He trembled lest she should say: "And you, my son, would you marry the child of such a mother?" For he knew his mother's prejudices, and the great importance she attached to a spotless reputation transmitted from parent to child, from generation to generation. "The baroness knew that her husband adored her, and hearing of his return she became terrified; she lost her senses," he ventured to say in extenuation.
"Would you try to defend her?" exclaimed Madame Ferailleur. "Do you really think one can atone for a fault by a crime?"
"No, certainly not, but----"
"Perhaps you would censure the baroness more severely if you knew what her daughter has suffered--if you knew the perils and miseries she has been exposed to from the moment her mother left her on a door-step, near the central markets, till the day when her father found her. It is a miracle that she did not perish."
Where had Madame Ferailleur learned these particulars? Pascal asked himself this question without being able to answer it. "I don't understand you, mother," he faltered.
"Then you know nothing of Mademoiselle Marguerite's past life. Is it possible she never told you anything about it?"
"I only know that she has been very unhappy."
"Has she never alluded to the time when she was an apprentice?"
"She has only told me that she earned her living with her own hands at one time of her life."
"Well, I am better informed on the subject."
Pascal's amazement was changed to terror. "You, mother, you!"
"Yes; I--I have been to the asylum where she was received and educated.