Jacque Ferrand had easily and promptly obtained the liberty of
Fleur-de-Marie.

Instructed by La Chouette of the sojourn of La Goualeuse in Saint Lazare, he had immediately addressed himself to one of his clients, an influential man, telling him that a girl, led astray but sincerely repentant, and recently confined in Saint Lazare, ran the risk, from contact with the other prisoners, of having her good resolutions weakened. This girl had been strongly recommended to him by some respectable people, who would take charge of her as soon as she left the prison. Jacques Ferrand had added, he begged his all-powerful client, in the name of morality, of religion, and of the future rehabilitation of this unfortunate, to solicit her discharge. Finally, the notary, so as to completely conceal his part in the transaction, particularly requested his client not to name him in the accomplishment of this good work; this wish, attributed to the philanthropic modesty of Jacques Ferrand, was scrupulously observed; the release of Fleur-de-Marie was demanded and obtained solely in the name of the client, who, as soon as it was received, sent it to Jacques Ferrand that he might address it to the protectors of the girl.

Mrs. Seraphin, on giving this order to the directors of the prison, added that she was charged to conduct La Goualeuse to her friends. From the excellent account given by the inspectress to Madame d'Harville, no one doubted that she owed her freedom to the intervention of the marchioness. Thus the notary's housekeeper could in no way excite the suspicions of her victim.

Mrs. Seraphin had, as occasion required, the air of a good soul; it required very close observation to remark something insidious, false and cruel in her crafty look, her hypocritical smile.

In spite of her profound wickedness, which had made her the accomplice or confidante of her master's crimes, Mrs. Seraphin could not help being struck with the touching beauty of this girl, delivered by herself when quite a child to La Chouette, whom she was then about to conduct to certain death.

"Well, my dear," said she, in honeyed tones, "you must be delighted to get out of prison."

"Oh! yes, ma'am; and, doubtless, I owe my deliverance to the protection of Madame d'Harville, who has been so kind to me?"

"You are not mistaken. But come, we are rather late, and we have got a long road to travel."

"We are going to Bouqueval Farm, to Madame George, ma'am?" cried La
Goualeuse.

"Yes, certainly, we are going to the country—to Madame George," said the housekeeper, to drive away every suspicion from the mind of Fleur-de-Marie; then she added, with malicious good nature, "But this is not all; before you see Madame George, a little surprise awaits you. Come, come, our hack is below. What delight you must feel at leaving this place, dear. Come, let us go. Your servant, sirs." And Mrs. Seraphin, after having exchanged salutations with the warders, descended with La Goualeuse, followed by an officer to open the doors. The last one was closed on the two females, and they found themselves under the large porch which faces the Rue du Faubourg Saint Denis, when they met a girl who was coming, doubtless, to visit a prisoner. It was Rigolette, ever neat and coquettish. A little plain cap, very clean, and trimmed with cherry-colored ribbons, which harmonized wonderfully with her jet-black hair, surrounded her pretty face; a very white collar was turned over her long brown tartan. She carried on her arm a straw basket, and, thanks to her neat and graceful manner of walking, her thick-soled boots were of marvelous cleanliness, although she came, alas, very far.

"Rigolette!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, at once recognizing her.

"La Goualeuse!" exclaimed the grisette in her turn. And the girls threw themselves into each other's arms. Nothing could be more enchanting than the contrast between these young creatures of sixteen, tenderly embracing, both so charming, and yet so different in expression and beauty. The one fair, with large, blue, melancholy eyes, and a profile of angelic pureness; the other a lively brunette, with round and rosy cheeks, pretty black eyes, a charming picture of youth and gayety, a rare and touching example of happiness in indigence, of virtue in destitution, and of joy in industry.

When Fleur-de-Marie, dragged up, rather than brought up, had run away from a hag known as Old One-eye, she had been arrested and committed to prison for eight years. Taught sewing there, she had saved up some three hundred francs. Ignorant, childishly fond of flowers and the open air of the country, she had made Rigolette's acquaintance, with hardly a deeper object than to have a companion in her jaunts. Her money spent, Fleur-de-Marie had fallen in with the Ogress, the keeper of the Lapin Blanc Tavern, who had kept her for the sinful purposes which had blemished all her life.

After an exchange of their mutual caresses, the girls looked at each other. Rigolette was joyful at the encounter, Fleur-de-Marie confused.

The sight of her friend recalled to her mind the few days of calm enjoyment which had preceded her first degradation. "It is you—what happiness!" said the grisette.

"Goodness me! what a delightful surprise, it is so long since we have seen one another," answered La Goualeuse.

"Oh! now I am no longer astonished at not having met you for six months," remarked Rigolette, observing the rustic clothes of La Goualeuse; "you live in the country?"

"Yes, since some time," said Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes.

"And you come, like me, to see some one in prison?"

"Yes—I came—I came to see some one," answered Fleur-de-Marie, stammering and blushing with shame.

"And you are returning home, far from Paris, without doubt. Dear little Goualeuse, always good, I recognize you there. Do you remember the poor woman to whom you gave your mattress, linen, and the small amount of money you had, which we were about to spend in the country? for then you were crazy after the country, you little village girl!"

"And you did not like it much, Rigolette. How kind you were, for it was on my account you went."

"And for mine also; for you, who were always a little serious, became so contented, gay, and lively, once in the midst of the fields or woods; if it were only to see you there, it was pleasure to me. But let me look at you again! How this little round cap becomes you! how pretty you look. Decidedly, it was your vocation to wear a peasant's cap, as it was mine to wear the grisette's. Now you are according to your wishes, you must be happy, it does not surprise me. When I did not see you any more, I said to myself, 'Good little Goualeuse is not made for Paris; she is a real flower of the forest, as the song says, and these flowers cannot live in the capital; the air is not good enough for them. La Goualeuse has got a place with some good people in the country.' This is what you have done, is it not?"

"Yes," said Fleur-de-Marie, blushing.

"Only I have a reproach to make you."

"To me?"

"You should have advised me; one does not leave in this way, at least, without sending some word."

"I—I left Paris so quick," said Fleur-de-Marie, more and more confused, "that I could not."

"Oh! I did not wish it; I am too happy to see you again. In truth, you did right to leave Paris, it is so difficult to live here quietly, without reckoning that a poor girl, isolated as we are, might turn to evil without wishing it. When one has nobody to advise with, one has so few means of defense; the men make such fine promises; and then, sometimes poverty is so hard. Do you remember little Julie, who was so pretty? and Rosine, the blonde with black eyes?"

"Yes, I recollect them."

"Well! my poor Goualeuse, they have both been deceived, then abandoned, and, finally, from misfortune, to misfortune, they have fallen to be such wretched women as are shut up here."

"Oh!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, who held down her head and became purple with shame.

Rigolette, deceived in the sense of the exclamation of her friend, resumed: "Don't be as sad as me, don't cry."

"You have sorrows?"

"I? Oh, you know me, a regular Roger Bontemps. I am not changed, but, unfortunately, everybody is not like me; and as others have their troubles, that causes me to have some."

"Always kind!"

"Now just imagine, I came here for a poor girl—a neighbor—a very lamb, who is accused wrongfully, and much to be pitied; she is Louise Morel, daughter of an honest workman who has become crazy from his misfortunes." At the name of Louise Morel, one of the victims of the notary, Mrs. Seraphin shuddered and looked at Rigolette attentively. The face of the grisette was absolutely unknown to her; nevertheless, from that moment she paid great attention to the conversation.

"Poor thing," replied the songstress, "how happy she must be at your not forgetting her in her trouble."

"This is not all—it is a fatality, just as you met me, I came a great distance—and from another prison—a prison for men."

"You?"

"Oh! yes, I have there another very sad friend. You see my basket" (and she showed it) "is divided in two; each one has a side; to-day I bring Louise a little linen, and just now I carried something to poor Germain; my prisoner is called Germain. I cannot think of what has just passed between us without having a desire to weep; it is foolish—I know it is of no use, but indeed, it is my nature."

"And why do you feel like weeping?"

"Only think, Germain is so unfortunate as to be associated with all the prison rogues; it quite overcomes him; he has a taste for nothing, eats nothing, and is growing thinner every day. I saw that, and I said to myself, 'He is not hungry; I will make him a nice little dainty bit, which he liked so much when he was my neighbor; that will give him an appetite.' When I say a dainty bit, just understand me, it was just some nice potatoes, mashed up with a little milk and sugar; I filled a pretty cup with it, and just now I took it to him in prison, telling him that I had prepared this myself, just as I used to do in our happy days—you understand; I thought, perhaps, I could thus induce him to eat, but it caused him to weep; when he saw the cup in which I had so often taken my milk before him, he burst into tears; and, more than the bargain, I finished by doing as he did, although I tried all I could to prevent it; you see my luck. I thought I was doing good—consoling him, and I made him more sad than before."

"Yes, but those tears must have been so sweet to him?"

"All the same, I should have preferred to console him differently; but I speak of him without telling you who he is; he was an old neighbor of mine, the most honest lad in the world, as gentle and timid as a young girl, and whom I loved as a companion, as a brother."

"Oh! then I can imagine how his sorrows are yours."

"But you will see what a good heart he has. When I left him, I asked him, as I always do, for his commissions, saying to him with a laugh, just to raise his spirits a little, that I was his little housekeeper, and that I should be very exact, very active, to keep his custom. Then he, trying to smile, asked me to bring him one of the romances of Walter Scott, which he used to read to me in the evenings when I worked. This romance is called 'Ivan—Ivanhoe:' yes, that is the name. I liked this book so much, that he read it to me twice. He begged me to go to the same library, not to hire, but to buy the volumes we used to read together—yes, to buy them—and you may judge it is a sacrifice for him, for he is as poor as we are."

"Excellent heart!" said Goualeuse, quite affected.

"There! you are as much moved as I was, when he gave me this commission, my good little Goualeuse; but you comprehend, the more I felt a desire to weep, the more I tried to laugh; for to weep twice in a visit made expressly to enliven him was too much. So to drive this gloom away, I recalled to his mind the comic story of a Jew, one of the characters of this romance, which formerly had so much amused us. But the more I talked, the more he looked at me with the big, big tears in his eyes. It touched my heart. I had restrained my tears for a quarter of an hour; I ended by doing as he did. When I left him he was sobbing; and I said to myself, furious at my stupidity, 'If this is the way I cheer and console him, it is hardly worth while to go and see him; I, who promised myself to make him laugh! It is astonishing how I have succeeded!'"

At the name of Francois Germain, Mrs. Seraphin redoubled her attention.

"And what has this young man done to be in prison?" asked
Fleur-de-Marie.

"He!" cried Rigolette, whose compassion gave place to indignation; "he is persecuted by an old monster of a notary, who is also the denouncer of Louise."

"Of Louise, whom you came here to see?"

"The same. She was the servant of the notary, and Germain was his cashier. It would be too long a story to tell you of what they unjustly accuse this poor boy. But what is quite sure is, that this bad man is very angry with these two unfortunates, who have never injured him. But patience—patience; every dog has his day."

Rigolette pronounced these last words with an expression which made Mrs. Seraphin uneasy. Engaging in the conversation, instead of remaining quiet, she said to Fleur-de-Marie in a wheedling manner, "My dear child, it is late; we must go; we are waited for. I can well comprehend that what your friend says interests you, for I, who do not know this young girl and this young man, am much affected. Is it possible people can be so wicked! And what is the name of this bad notary of whom you speak, please?"

Rigolette had no reason to be suspicious of Mrs. Seraphin; nevertheless, remembering the recommendations of Rudolph, who had enjoined on her the greatest reserve on the subject of the secret protection which he extended to Germain and Louise, she regretted she had suffered herself to say, "Patience—every dog has his day."

"This bad man is one M. Ferrand, madame," answered Rigolette; adding very adroitly, to repair her slight indiscretion, "and it is so much the more wicked in him to persecute Louise and Germain thus, as they have no one to interest themselves in their behalf except me, who can be of no use to them."

"What a pity!" said Mrs. Seraphin. "I had hoped the contrary when you said 'But patience.' I thought that you reckoned on some protector to sustain these two unfortunates against this wicked notary."

"Alas! no, madame," answered Rigolette, in order to completely lull the suspicions of Mrs. Seraphin. "Who would be generous enough to take the part of these two poor young folks against a rich and powerful man like M. Ferrand?"

"Oh, there are hearts generous enough for that!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflection, and with constrained warmth.

"I know some one who makes it a duty to protect those who suffer, and defend them, for he of whom I speak is as charitable to honest people, as he is formidable to the wicked."

Rigolette looked at Goualeuse with astonishment, and was on the point of saying (thinking of Rudolph) that she also knew some one who courageously took the part of the weak against the strong; but, still faithful to the requests of her neighbor, she answered Fleur-de-Marie, "Really! you do know some one generous enough to come to the aid of the poor?"

"Yes. And although I have already implored his pity, his benevolence for other persons, I am sure if he knew the unmerited misfortunes of Louise and M. Germain, he would save them and punish their persecutor; for his justice and goodness are almost as inexhaustible as God's."

Mrs. Seraphin looked at her victim with surprise.

"This little girl would be still more dangerous than we thought," said she to herself. "If I had taken pity on her, what she has just said would render the accident inevitable which will rid us of her."

"My good little Goualeuse, since you have such a good acquaintance, I beg you will recommend my Louise and my Germain to him, for they do not deserve their fate," said Rigolette, thinking that her friends might gain by having two defenders instead of one.

"Be tranquil; I promise you to do what I can for your proteges with M. Rudolph," said Fleur-de-Marie.

"M. Rudolph!" cried Rigolette, strangely surprised.

"Certainly," said La Goauleuse.

"M. Rudolph, a traveling clerk?"

"I do not know what he is. But why this astonishment?"

"Because I know a M. Rudolph also."

"Perhaps it is not the same."

"Let us see; what does he look like?"

"Young?"

"Exactly!"

"A face full of nobleness and goodness?"

"That's it; just like mine!" said Rigolette, more and more surprised; and she added, "Is he dark? Has he small mustaches?"

"Yes."

"Is he tall and slender, fine figure, and an air too stylish for a traveling clerk? Does yours look just so?"

"Without a doubt it is he," answered Fleur-de-Marie; "only, what is strange is, that you think him a traveling clerk."

"As to that, I am sure of it; he told me so."

"You know him?"

"I know him. He is my neighbor!"

"M. Rudolph?"

"He has a chamber on the fourth floor, alongside of mine."

"He! he!"

"What is so astonishing in all this? It is very simple: he only earns fifteen or eighteen hundred francs a year; he can only hire a modest room, although he has very little regularity about him, for he does not know what his clothes cost him, my dear."

"No, no; it is not the same," said Fleur-de-Marie, reflecting.

"Yours, then, is a phoenix for order?"

"He of whom I speak, Rigolette," said Fleur-de-Marie, with enthusiasm, "is all-powerful; his name is only pronounced with love and veneration, his appearance is imposing, and one is almost tempted to kneel before his grandeur and his goodness."

"Then I am at fault, my poor Goualeuse; I say as you do, it is not the same; for mine is neither all-powerful nor imposing. He is a very good sort, very lively, and no one kneels before him—just the contrary; for he has promised to help me wax my floor, and take me a walk on Sunday. You see he is no great lord. But what am I thinking about? I have truly the heart for a walk! And Louise and my poor Germain, as long as they are in prison, there can be no pleasure for me."

For some moments, Fleur-de-Marie reflected profoundly; she recalled to her mind that when she first saw Rudolph he had the appearance and language of the guests of the Ogress, her keeper. Might he not play the part of a traveling clerk with Rigolette? What could be the object of this new transformation? The grisette, seeing the pensive air of Fleur-de-Marie, said:

"There is no use of cracking your head on this account, my good Goualeuse, we shall soon find out if we know the same M. Rudolph; when you see yours, speak to him of me; when I see mine, I will speak to him of you. In this way we can satisfy ourselves at once."

"And where do you live, Rigolette?"

"Rue du Temple, No. 17."

"Now this is strange, and worth remembering," said Madame Seraphin to herself, having attentively listened to this conversation. "This M. Rudolph, a mysterious and all-powerful personage, who doubtless makes himself pass for a clerk, occupies a room adjoining that of this little sewing-girl, who knows more than she chooses to say. Good, good; if the grisette and the pretended clerk meddle with what does not concern them, we know where to find them."

"When I have spoken to M. Rudolph I will write you,'" said La Goualeuse; "and I will give you my address, so that you can answer: but repeat your address, for fear I should forget it."

"Here, I have one of my cards that I leave at my customers';" and she gave Fleur-de-Marie a little card, on which was written, in magnificent italics, "Mademoiselle Rigolette, Dressmaker, 17, Rue du Temple."

"It is just as if it were printed, is it not?" added the grisette.

"It was poor Germain who wrote them for me—he was so kind, so thoughtful. Now, look you, it seems as if it were done purposely; one would say I never found out his good qualities until he was unfortunate, and now I am always reproaching myself for having put off so long loving him."

"You love him, then?"

"Oh, dear, yes. I must have a pretext to go and see him in prison. Confess that I am a strange girl!" said Rigolette, stifling a sigh, and laughing through her tears, as the poets say.

"You are as good and generous as ever," said Fleur-de-Marie, pressing tenderly the hands of her friend.

Old Seraphin had doubtless heard enough of the conversation of the young girl, for she said, almost roughly, to Fleur-de-Marie, "Come, come, my dear, let us go; it is late; here is a quarter of an hour lost."

"What a surly look this old woman has! I don't like her face," whispered Rigolette to Fleur-de-Marie. Then she added, aloud, "When you come to Paris, my good Goualeuse, do not forget me; your visit will give me so much pleasure. I shall be so happy to pass a day with you, to show you my housekeeping, my room, my birds! I have birds—it is my luxury."

"I will try to come and see you, but I will certainly write. Good-bye,
Rigolette, good-bye. If you knew how happy I am to have met you!"

"And I too! But this shall not be the last time, I hope; and then I am so impatient to know if your M. Rudolph is the same as mine. Write me soon on this subject, I entreat you!"

"Yes, yes. Adieu, Rigolette."

"Adieu, my good little Goualeuse;" and the two girls embraced each other tenderly, concealing their emotion. Rigolette entered the prison to see Louise, and Fleur-de-Marie got into a hackney-coach with old Seraphin, who ordered the coachman to go to Batignolles, and to stop at the city gate.

A cross-road led from this place almost in a straight line to the banks of the Seine, not far from the Ravageurs' Island. Fleur-de-Marie, being unacquainted with Paris, did not perceive that the carriage was driven on a different road from that to Saint Denis. It was only when the vehicle stopped at Batignolles that she said to Mrs. Seraphin, who invited her to get out—

"But it seems to me, madame, that this is not the road to Bouqueval; and then, how can we go from hence to the farm on foot?"

'"All I can say to you, my dear," answered the housekeeper, "is, that I execute the orders of your benefactors, and that you would cause them much trouble if you hesitate to follow me."

"Oh! madame, do not think it," cried Fleur-de-Marie; "you are sent by them—I have no question to ask—I follow you blindly; only tell me if Madame George is well!"

"She is perfectly so."

"And—M. Rudolph?"

"Perfectly well also."

"You know him, then, ma'am? Yet just now, when I spoke of him with
Rigolette, you said nothing."

"Because I must say nothing—I have my orders."

"Did he give them to you?"

"Isn't she curious, the dear; isn't she curious?" said the housekeeper, laughing.

"You are right; pardon my questions, ma'am. Since we go on foot to the place to which you conduct me," added Fleur-de-Marie, sweetly, "I shall know what I so much desire to know."

"In fact, my dear, before a quarter of an hour we shall have arrived."

The housekeeper, having left behind her the last houses of Batignolles followed, with Fleur-de-Marie, a grassy footpath. The day was calm and beautiful, the sky toward the west half concealed by red and purple clouds; the sun, beginning to decline, cast his oblique rays on the heights of Colombe, on the other side of the Seine. As Fleur-de-Marie drew near the banks of the river, her pale cheeks became slightly colored; she inhaled with delight the sharp, pure air of the country, and cried, in a burst of artless joy, "Oh! there in the middle of the river, do you see that pretty little island covered with willows and poplars, with the white house on the shore? How charming this habitation must be in summer, when all the trees are covered with leaves! What repose, what refreshing air must be found there."

"Verily!" said Mrs. Seraphin with a strange smile, "I am delighted that you find the island pretty."

"Why, madame?"

"Because we are going there."

"To that island?"

"Yes; does it surprise you?"

"A little, ma'am."

"And if you should find your friends there?"

"What do you say?"

"Your friends collected there, to celebrate your deliverance from prison! would you not be more agreeably surprised?"

"Can it be possible: M. Rudolph? Ah! is it true I go to see Madame
George? I cannot believe it."

"Yet a little patience—in fifteen minutes you will see her, and then you will believe."

"What I cannot comprehend," added Fleur-de-Marie, thoughtfully, "is that Madame George awaits me there, instead of at the farm."

"Always so curious, the dear—always so curious!"

"How indiscreet I am, ma'am!" said Fleur-de-Marie, smiling.

"To punish you, I have a mind to tell you of a surprise that your friends intend for you."

"A surprise? for me, madame?"

"Hold, leave me alone, little spy—you will make me speak in spite of myself."

We will leave Mrs. Seraphin and her victim on the road which led to the river. We will precede them both for some moments to the island.