Part 59 (2/2)
”Neither,” replied Patoux slowly, ”But only just the thought of another child--a waif and stray whom the good Cardinal found in the streets of Rouen, outside our great Cathedral door. A gentle lad!--my wife was greatly taken with him;--and he was present in my house too, when the miracle of healing was performed.”
”And for that, is there any need to cross thyself like a mumbling old woman afraid of the devil?” enquired his cousin.
Patoux smiled a slow smile.
”Gently, Pierre--gently!” he said. ”Thou art of Paris,--I of the provinces. That makes all the difference in the way we look at life.
There are very few holy things in great cities,--but there are many in the country. Every day when I am at home I go out of the town to work in my field,--and I feel the clean breath of the wind, the scent of the earth and the colours of the sky and the flowers,--and I know quite well there is a G.o.d, or these blessings could not be. For if there were only Chance and a Man to manage the universe, a pretty muddle we should have of it! And when I see or think of a holy thing, I sign the cross out of old childhood's habit,--so just now, when I remembered the boy whom the Cardinal rescued from the streets, I knew I was thinking of a holy thing; and that explains my action.”
”How dost thou prove a waif of the streets a holy thing?” enquired Pierre curiously.
Patoux shrugged his shoulders, and gave a wide deprecatory wave of both hands.
”Ah, that is more than I can tell you!” he said,--”It is a matter beyond my skill. But the boy was a fair-faced boy,--I never saw him myself--”
Midon laughed outright.
”Never saw him thyself!” he cried,--”And yet thou dost make the sign of the cross at the thought of him! Diantre! Patoux, thou art crazy!”
”Maybe--maybe,” said Patoux mildly,--they were walking together out of the cemetery by this time in the wake of the rapidly dispersing crowd,--”But I have always taken my wife's word,--and I take it now.
And she has said over and over again to me that the boy had a rare sweet nature. And then--the child whom the Cardinal healed,--Fabien Doucet,--will always insist upon it that it was the touch of that same boy which truly cured him and not the Cardinal at all!”
”Mere fancy!” said Pierre carelessly,--”And truly if it were not for knowing thee to be honest, I should doubt the miracle altogether!”
”And thou wouldst be of the majority!” said Patoux equably--”For our house has been a very bee-hive of buzz and trouble ever since a bit of good was done in it--and Martine Doucet, the mother of the cured child, has led the life of the d.a.m.ned, thanks to the kindness of her neighbours and friends! And will you believe me, the Archbishop of Rouen himself took the trouble to walk into the market-place and a.s.sure her she was a wicked woman,--that she had taught her boy to play the cripple in order to excite pity,--and I believe he thinks she is concerned in the strange disappearance of his clerk, Claude Cazeau. For this same Cazeau came to our house one night when Martine was there, and told her he had instructions to take her to Rome to see the Pope, and her child with her, for the purpose of explaining the miracle in her own words, and giving the full life-history of herself and the little one. And she was angry,--ah, she can be very angry, poor Martine!--she has a shrill tongue and a wild eye, and she said out flatly that she would not go, and furthermore that she would not be caught in a priest's trap, or words to that effect. And this clerk, Cazeau,--a miserable little white-livered rascal, crawled away from my door in a rage with us all, and was never seen again. The police have hunted high and low for trace of him, but can find none. But I have my suspicions--”
”What are they?” enquired Midon,--”That he went out like Judas, and hanged himself?”
”Truly he might have done that without loss or trouble to anyone!” said Patoux tranquilly,--”But he thought too well of himself to be quite so ready for a meeting with le bon Dieu! No!--I will tell you what I think. There was a poor girl who used to roam about the streets of our town, called Marguerite, she was once a sensible, bright creature enough, the only daughter of old Valmond the saddler, who died from a kick from his favourite horse one day, and left his child all alone in the world. She was a worker in a great silk-factory, and was happy and contented, so it seemed, till--well! It is the old story--a man with a woman, and the man is most often the devil in it. Anyway, this Marguerite went mad on her love-affair,--and we called her 'La Folle,'--not harshly--for all the town was kind to her. I mentioned her name once in the presence of this man Cazeau, and he started as if an adder had bitten him. And now--he has disappeared--and strange to say, so has she!”
”So has she!” echoed Midon, opening his eyes a little wider--”Then what do you suppose?--”
”Just this,” said Patoux, emphasizing his words by marking them out with a fat thumb on the palm of the other hand--”That Cazeau was the villain of the piece as they say in the theatres, and that she has punished him for his villainy. She used to swear in her mad speech that if ever she met the man who had spoilt her life for her, she would kill him; and that is just what I believe she has done!”
”But would she kill herself also?” demanded Pierre--”And what has become of one or both bodies?”
”Ah! There thou dost ask more than I can answer!” said Patoux. ”But what is very certain is, that both bodies, living or dead, have disappeared. And as I said to my wife when she put these things into my head,--for look you, my head is but a dull one, and if my wife did not put things into it, it would be but an emptiness altogether,--I said to my wife that if she were right in her suspicions--and she generally is right--this Marguerite had taken but a just vengeance. For you will not prove to me that there is any man living who has the right to take the joy out of a woman's soul and destroy it.”
”It is done every day!” said Midon with a careless shrug,--”Women give themselves too easily!”
”And men take too greedily!” said Patoux obstinately--”What virtue there is in the matter is on the woman's side. For she mostly gives herself for love's sake,--but the man cares naught save for his own selfish pleasure. As a man myself, I am on the side of the woman who revenges herself on her betrayer.”
”For that matter so am I!” said Midon. ”Women have a hard time of it in this world, even under the best of circ.u.mstances,--and whatever man makes it harder for them, should be horse-whipped within an inch of his life, if I had my way. I have a wife--and a young daughter--and my old mother sits at home with us, as cheery and bright a body as you would find in all France,--and so I know the worth of women. If any rascal were to insult my girl by so much as a look, he would find himself in the ditch with a sore back before he had time to cry 'Dieu merci!'”
He laughed;--Patoux laughed with him, and then went on,--
”I told thee of the miracle in my house, and of the boy the Cardinal found in the streets,--well!--these things have had their good effect in my own family. My two children, Henri and Babette--ah! What children! G.o.d be praised for them! As bright, as kind as the sunlight,--and their love for me and their mother is a great thing--a good thing, look you!--one cannot be sufficiently grateful for it. For nowadays, children too often despise their parents, which is bad luck to them in their after days; but ours, wild as they were a while ago, are all obedience and sweetness. I used often to wonder what would become of them as they grew up--for they were wilful and angry-tempered, and ofttimes cruel in speech--but I have no fear now.
Henri works well at his lessons, and Babette too,--and there is something better than the learning of lessons about them,--something new and bright in their dispositions which makes us all happy. And this has come about since the Cardinal stayed with us; and also since the pretty boy was found outside the Cathedral!”
”That boy seems to have impressed thee more than the Cardinal himself!”
said Midon--”but now I remember well--on the day the Abbe Vergniaud preached his last sermon, and was nearly shot dead by his own son, there was a rumour that his life had been saved by some boy who was an attendant on the Cardinal, and who interposed himself between the Abbe and the flying bullet,--that must have been the one you mean?”
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