The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 2 of 6

"Madame la Duchesse speaks of carpets, furniture, and many et cœteras; now we have no carpets here, and our furniture is of the most homely description. Neither can I make out by the letter whether the person I am to expect is a male or female; and yet every thing must be prepared by to-morrow evening. What shall I do? What can I do? I can get nothing here. Really, Madame Georges, it is enough to drive one wild to be placed in such an awkward situation."

"But, mother," said Clara, "suppose you take the furniture out of my room, and whilst you are refurnishing it I will go and pass a few days with dear Marie at Bouqueval."

"My dear child, what nonsense you talk! as if the humble fittings-up of your chamber could equal what Madame la Duchesse means by the word 'comfortable,'" returned Madame Dubreuil, with a disconsolate shrug of the shoulders. "Lord! Lord! why will fine ladies puzzle poor folks like me by going out of their way to find such expressions as comfortable?"

"Then I presume the pavilion in question is ordinarily uninhabited?" said Madame Georges.

"Oh, yes! There, you see that small white building at the end of the orchard – that is it. The late Prince de Noirmont, father of Madame la Duchesse, caused it to be built for his daughter when, in her youthful days, she was accustomed to visit the farm, and she then occupied it. There are three pretty chambers in it, and a beautiful little Swiss dairy at the end of the garden, where, in her childish days, Madame la Duchesse used to divert herself with feigning to manage. Since her marriage, she has only been twice at the farm, but each time she passed several hours in the pavilion. The first time was about six years ago, and then she came on horseback with – " Then, as though the presence of Clara and Fleur-de-Marie prevented her from saying more, Madame Dubreuil interrupted herself by saying, "But I am talking instead of doing; and that is not the way to get out of my present difficulty. Come, dear, good Madame Georges, and help a poor bewildered creature like myself!"

"In the first place," answered Madame Georges, "tell me how is this pavilion furnished at the present moment."

"Oh, scarcely at all! In the principal apartment there is a straw matting on the centre of the floor; a sofa, and a few arm-chairs composed of rushes, a table, and some chairs, comprise all the inventory, which, I think you will allow, falls far short of the word comfortable."

"Well, I tell you what I should do in your place. Let me see; it is eleven o'clock. I should send a person on whom you can depend to Paris."

"Our overseer!² There cannot be a more active, intelligent person."

"Exactly! just the right sort of messenger. Well, in two hours at the utmost, he may be in Paris. Let him go to some upholsterer in the Chaussée d'Antin – never mind which – and give him the list I will draw out, after I have seen what is wanting for the pavilion; and let him be directed to say that, let the expense be what it may – "

"I don't care about expense, if I can but satisfy the duchess."

"The upholsterer, then, must be told that, at any cost, he must see that every article named in the list be sent here either this evening or before daybreak to-morrow, with three or four of his most clever and active workmen to arrange them as quickly as possible."

"They might come by the Gonesse diligence, which leaves Paris at eight o'clock every evening."

"And as they would only have to place the furniture, lay down carpets, and put up curtains, all that could easily be done by to-morrow evening."

"Oh, my dear Madame Georges, what a load you have taken off my mind! I should never have thought of this simple yet proper manner of proceeding. You are the saving of me! Now, may I ask you to be so kind as to draw me out the list of articles necessary to render the pavilion – what is that hard word? I never can recollect it."

"Comfortable! Yes, I will at once set about it, and with pleasure."

"Dear me! here is another difficulty. Don't you see we are not told whether to expect a lady or a gentleman? Madame de Lucenay, in her letter, only says 'a person.' It is very perplexing, isn't it?"

"Then make your preparations as if for a lady, my dear Madame Dubreuil; and, should it turn out a gentleman, why he will only have better reason to be pleased with his accommodations."

"Quite right; right again, as you always are."

A servant here announced that breakfast was ready.

"Let breakfast wait a little," said Madame Georges. "And, while I draw out the necessary list, send some person you can depend upon to take the exact height and width of the three rooms, that the curtains and carpets may more easily be prepared."

"Thank you. I will set our overseer to work out this commission."

"Madame," continued the servant, speaking to her mistress, "the new dairy-woman from Stains is here with her few goods in a small cart drawn by a donkey. The beast has not a heavy load to complain of, for the poor body's luggage seems but very trifling."

"Poor woman!" said Madame Dubreuil, kindly.

"What woman is it?" inquired Madame Georges.

"A poor creature from Stains, who once had four cows of her own, and used to go every morning to Paris to sell her milk. Her husband was a blacksmith, and one day accompanied her to Paris to purchase some iron he required for his work, agreeing to rejoin her at the corner of the street where she was accustomed to sell her milk. Unhappily, as it afterwards turned out, the poor woman had selected a very bad part of Paris; for, when her husband returned, he found her in the midst of a set of wicked, drunken fellows, who had, for mere mischief's sake, upset all her milk into the gutter. The poor blacksmith tried to reason with them upon the score of their unfair conduct, but that only made matters worse; they all fell on the husband, who sought in vain to defend himself from their violence. The end of the story is, that, in the scuffle which ensued, the man received a stab with a knife, which stretched him a corpse before the eyes of his distracted wife."

"Dreadful, indeed!" ejaculated Madame Georges. "But, at least, the murderer was apprehended?"

"Alas, no! He managed to make his escape during the confusion which ensued, though the unfortunate widow asserts she should recognise him at any minute she might meet him, having repeatedly seen him in company with his associates, inhabitants of that neighbourhood. However, up to the present hour all attempts to discover him have been useless. But, to end my tale, I must tell you that, in consequence of the death of her husband, the poor widow was compelled, in order to pay various debts he had contracted, to sell not only her cows but some little land he possessed. The bailiff of the château at Stains recommended the poor creature to me as a most excellent and honest woman, as deserving as she was unfortunate, having three children to provide for, the eldest not yet twelve years of age. I happened, just then, to be in want of a first-rate dairy-woman, therefore offered her the place, which she gladly accepted, and she has now come to take up her abode on the farm."

"This act of real kindness on your part, my dear Madame Dubreuil, does not surprise me, knowing you as well as I do."

"Here, Clara," said Madame Dubreuil, as though seeking to escape from the praises of her friend, "will you go and show this good woman the way to the lodge she is to occupy, while I hasten to explain to our overseer the necessity for his immediate departure for Paris?"

"Willingly, dear mother! Marie can come with me, can she not?"

"Of course," answered Madame Dubreuil, "if she pleases." Then added, smilingly, "I wonder whether you two girls could do one without the other!"

"And now," said Madame Georges, seating herself before a table, "I will at once begin my part of the business, that no time may be lost; for we must positively return to Bouqueval at four o'clock."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Madame Dubreuil; "how early! Why, what makes you in such a hurry?"

"Marie is obliged to be at the rectory by five o'clock."

"Oh, if her return relates to that good Abbé Laporte, I am sure it is a sacred duty with which I would not interfere for the world. Well, then, I will go and give the necessary orders for everything being punctual to that hour. Those two girls have so much to say to each other that we must give them as much time as we can."

"Then we shall leave you at three o'clock, my dear Madame Dubreuil?"

"Yes; I promise not to detain you since you so positively wish it. But pray let me thank you again and again for coming. What a good thing it was I thought of sending to ask your kind assistance," rejoined Madame Dubreuil. "Now then, Clara and Marie, off with you!"

As Madame Georges settled herself to her writing, Madame Dubreuil quitted the room by a door on one side, while the young friends, in company with the servant who had announced the arrival of the milkwoman from Stains, went out by the opposite side.

"Where is the poor woman?" inquired Clara.

"There she is, mademoiselle, in the courtyard, near the barns, with her children and her little donkey-cart."

"You shall see her, dear Marie," said Clara, taking the arm of la Goualeuse. "Poor woman! she looks so pale and sad in her deep widow's mourning. The last time she came here to arrange with my mother about the place she made my heart ache. She wept bitterly as she spoke of her husband; then suddenly burst into a fit of rage as she mentioned his murderer. Really, she quite frightened me, she looked so desperate and full of fury. But, after all, her resentment was natural. Poor thing! I am sure I pity her; some people are very unfortunate, are they not, Marie?"

"Alas, yes, they are, indeed!" replied the Goualeuse, sighing deeply. "There are some persons who appear born only to trouble and sorrow, as you justly observe, Miss Clara."

"This is really very unkind of you, Marie," said Clara, colouring with impatience and displeasure. "This is the second time to-day you have called me 'Miss Clara.' What can I have possibly done to offend you? For I am sure you must be angry with me, or you would not do what you know vexes me so very much."

"How is it possible that you could ever offend me?"

"Then why do you say 'miss?' You know very well that both Madame Georges and my mother have scolded you for doing it. And I give you due warning, if ever you repeat this great offence, I will have you well scolded again. Now then, will you be good or not? Speak!"

"Dear Clara, pray pardon me! Indeed, I was not thinking when I spoke."

"Not thinking!" repeated Clara, sorrowfully. "What, after eight long days' absence you cannot give me your attention even for five minutes? Not thinking! That would be bad enough; but that is not it, Marie. And I tell you what, it is my belief you are too proud to own so humble a friend as myself."

Fleur-de-Marie made no answer, but her whole countenance assumed the pallor of death.

A woman, dressed as a widow, and in deep mourning, had just caught sight of her, and uttered a cry of rage and horror which seemed to freeze the poor girl's blood. This woman was the person who supplied the Goualeuse with her daily milk, during the time the latter dwelt with the ogress at the tapis-franc.

The scene which ensued took place in one of the yards belonging to the farm, in the presence of all the labourers, both male and female, who chanced just then to be returning to the house to take their mid-day meal. Beneath a shed stood a small cart, drawn by a donkey, and containing the few household possessions of the widow; a boy of about twelve years of age, aided by two younger children, was beginning to unload the vehicle. The milk-woman herself was a woman of about forty years of age, her countenance coarse, masculine, and expressive of great resolution. She was, as we before stated, attired in the deepest mourning, and her eyelids looked red and inflamed with recent weeping. Her first impulse at the sight of the Goualeuse had been terror; but quickly did that feeling change into grief and rage, while the most violent anger contracted her features. Rapidly darting towards the unhappy girl, she seized her by the arm, and, presenting her to the gaze of the farm servants, she exclaimed:

"Here is a creature who is acquainted with the assassin of my poor husband! I have seen her more than twenty times speaking to the ruffian when I was selling my milk at the corner of the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie; she used to come to buy a ha'porth every morning. She knows well enough who it was struck the blow that made me a widow, and my poor children fatherless. 'Birds of a feather flock together,' and such loose characters as she is are sure to be linked in with thieves and murderers. Oh, you shall not escape me, you abandoned wretch!" cried the milk-woman, who had now lashed herself into a perfect fury, and who, seeing poor Fleur-de-Marie confused and terror-stricken at this sudden attack, endeavouring to escape from it by flight, grasped her fiercely by the other arm also. Clara, almost speechless with surprise and alarm at this outrageous conduct, had been quite incapable of interfering; but this increased violence on the part of the widow seemed to restore her to herself, and angrily addressing the woman she said:

"What is the meaning of this improper behaviour? Are you out of your senses? Has grief turned your brain? Good woman, I pity you! But let us pass on; you are mistaken."

"Mistaken!" repeated the woman, with a bitter smile. "Me mistaken! No, no, there is no mistake! Just look at her pale, guilty looks! Hark how her very teeth rattle in her head! Ah, she knows well enough there is no mistake! Ah, you may hold your wicked tongue if you like, but justice will find a way to make you speak. You shall go with me before the mayor; do you hear? Oh, it is not worth while resisting! I have good strong wrists; I can hold you. And sooner than you should escape I would carry you every step of the way."

"You good-for-nothing, insolent woman! How dare you presume to speak in this way to my dear friend and sister?"

"Your sister, Mlle. Clara! Believe me, it is you who are deceived – it is you who have lost your senses," bawled the enraged milk-woman, in a loud, coarse voice. "Your sister! A likely story a girl out of the streets, who was the companion of the very lowest wretches in the worst part of the Cité, should be a sister of yours!"

At these words the assembled labourers, who naturally enough took that part in the affair which concerned a person of their own class, and who really sympathised with the bereaved milk-woman, gave utterance to deep, threatening words, in which the name of Fleur-de-Marie was angrily mingled. The three children, hearing their mother speaking in a loud tone, and fearing they knew not what, ran to her, and, clinging to her dress, burst out into a loud fit of weeping. The sight of these poor little fatherless things, dressed also in deep mourning, increased the pity of the spectators for the unfortunate widow, while it redoubled their indignation against Fleur-de-Marie; while Clara, completely frightened by these demonstrations of approaching violence, exclaimed, in an agitated tone, to a group of farm labourers:

"Take this woman off the premises directly! Do you not perceive grief has driven her out of her senses? Marie! dear Marie! never mind what she says. She is mad, poor creature, and knows not what she does!"

The poor Goualeuse, pale, exhausted, and almost fainting, made no effort to escape from the powerful grasp of the incensed milk-woman; she hung her head, as though unable or unwilling to meet the gaze of friend or foe. Clara, attributing her condition to the terror excited by so alarming a scene, renewed her commands to the labourers, "Did you not hear me desire that this mad woman might be instantly taken away from the farm? However, unless she immediately ceases her rude and insolent language, I can promise her, by way of punishment, she shall neither have the situation my mother promised her nor ever be suffered to put her foot on the premises again."

Not a person stirred to obey Clara's orders; on the contrary, one of the boldest among the party exclaimed:

"Well, but, Miss Clara, if your friend there is only a common girl out of the streets, and, as such, acquainted with the murderer of this poor woman's husband, surely she ought to go before the mayor to give an account of herself and her bad companions!"

"I tell you," repeated Clara, with indignant warmth, and addressing the milk-woman, "you shall never enter this farm again unless you this very instant, and before all these people, humbly beg pardon of Mlle. Marie for all the wicked things you have been saying about her!"

"You turn me off the premises then, mademoiselle, do you?" retorted the widow with bitterness. "Well, so be it. Come, my poor children, let us put the things back in the cart, and go and seek our bread elsewhere. God will take care of us. But, at least, when we go, we will take this abandoned young woman with us. She shall be made to tell the mayor, if she won't us, who it was that took away your dear father's life; for she knows well enough – she who was the daily companion of the worst set of ruffians who infest Paris. And you, miss," added she, looking spitefully and insolently at Clara, "you should not, because you choose to make friends with low girls out of the streets, and because you happen to be rich, be quite so hard-hearted and unfeeling to poor creatures like me!"

"No more she ought," exclaimed one of the labourers; "the poor woman is right!"

"Of course she is, – she is only standing up for her own!"

"Poor thing, she has no one now to do so for her! Why, they have murdered her husband among them! I should think that might content them, without trampling the poor woman under foot."

"One comfort is, nobody can stop her from doing all in her power to bring the murderers of her husband to justice."

"It is a shame to send her away in this manner, like a dog!"

"Can she help it, poor creature, if Miss Clara thinks proper to take up with common girls and thieves, and make them her companions?"

"Infamous to turn an honest woman, a poor widow with helpless children, into the streets for such a base girl as that!"

These different speeches, uttered nearly simultaneously by the surrounding crowd, were rapidly assuming a most hostile and threatening tone, when Clara joyfully exclaimed:

"Thank God, here comes my mother!"

It was, indeed, Madame Dubreuil, who was crossing the courtyard on her return from the pavilion.

"Now, then, my children," said Madame Dubreuil, gaily approaching the assembled group, "will you come in to breakfast? I declare it is quite late! I dare say you are both hungry? Come, Marie! – Clara!"

"Mother," cried Clara, pointing to the widow, "you are fortunately just in time to save my dear sister Marie from the insults and violence of that woman. Oh, pray order her away instantly! If you only knew what she had the audacity to say to Marie!"

"Impossible, Clara!"

"Nay, but, dear mother, only look at my poor dear sister! See how she trembles! She can scarcely support herself. Oh, it is a shame and disgrace such conduct should ever have been offered to a guest of ours! My dear, dear friend – Marie, dear! – look up, and say you are not angry with us. Pray tell me you will try and forget it!"

"What is the meaning of all this?" inquired Madame Dubreuil, looking around her with a disturbed and uneasy look, after having observed the despairing agony of the Goualeuse.

"Ah, now we shall have justice done the poor widow woman!" murmured the labourers. "Madame will see her righted, no doubt about it!"

"Now, then," exclaimed the milk-woman, exultingly, "here is Madame Dubreuil. Now, my fine miss," continued she, addressing Fleur-de-Marie, "you will have your turn of being turned out-of-doors!"

"Is it true, then," cried Madame Dubreuil, addressing the widow, who still kept firm hold of Fleur-de-Marie's arm, "that you have dared to insult my daughter's friend, as she asserts? Is this the way you show your gratitude for all I have done to serve you? Will you leave that young lady alone?"

"Yes, madame," replied the woman, relinquishing her grasp of Fleur-de-Marie, "at your bidding I will; for I respect you too much to disobey you. And, besides, I owe you much gratitude for all your kindness to a poor, friendless creature like myself. But, before you blame me, and drive me off the premises with my poor children, just question that wretched creature that has caused all this confusion what she knows of me. I know a pretty deal more of her than is to her credit!"

"For Heaven's sake, Marie," exclaimed Madame Dubreuil, almost petrified with astonishment, "What does this woman allude to? Do you hear what she says?"

"Are you, or are you not known by the name of the Goualeuse?" said the milk-woman to Marie.

"Yes," said the wretched girl, in a low, trembling voice, and without venturing to lift up her eyes towards Madame Dubreuil, – "yes, I am called so."

"There you see!" vociferated the enraged labourers. "She owns it! she owns it!"

"What does she own?" inquired Madame Dubreuil, half frightened at the assent given by Fleur-de-Marie.

"Leave her to me, madame," resumed the widow, "and you shall hear her confess that she was living in a house of the most infamous description in the Rue-aux-Fêves in the Cité, and that she every morning purchased a half-pennyworth of milk of me. She cannot deny either having repeatedly spoken in my presence to the murderer of my poor husband. Oh, she knows him well enough, I am quite certain; a pale young man, who smoked a good deal, and always wore a cap and a blouse, and wore his hair very long; she could tell his name if she chose. Is this true, or is it a lie?" vociferously demanded the milk-woman.

"I may have spoken to the man who killed your husband," answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice; "for, unhappily, there are more than one in the Cité capable of such a crime. But, indeed, I know not of whom you are speaking!"

"What does she say?" asked Madame Dubreuil, horror-struck at her words. "She admits having possibly conversed with murderers?"

"Oh, such lost wretches as she is," replied the widow, "have no better companions!"

At first, utterly stupefied by so singular a discovery, confirmed, indeed, by Fleur-de-Marie's own admission, Madame Dubreuil seemed almost incapable of comprehending the scene before her; but quickly the whole truth presented itself to her mental vision, and shrinking from the unfortunate girl with horror and disgust, she hastily seized her daughter by the dress, as she was about to sustain the sinking form of the poor Goualeuse, and, drawing her towards her with sudden violence, she exclaimed:

"Clara! For Heaven's sake approach not that vile, that abandoned young woman! Oh, dreadful, indeed, ever to have admitted her here! But how came Madame Georges to have her under her roof? And how could she so far insult me as to bring her here, and allow my daughter to – This is, indeed, disgraceful! I hardly know whether to trust the evidence of my own senses. But Madame Georges must have been as much imposed on as myself, or she never would have permitted such an indignity! No, no! She is incapable of such dishonourable conduct. It would, indeed, be a disgrace for one female so to have deceived another."

Poor Clara, terrified and almost heart-broken at this distressing scene, could scarcely believe herself awake. It seemed as though she were under the influence of a fearful dream. Her innocent and pure mind comprehended not the frightful charges brought against her friend; but she understood enough to fill her with the most poignant grief at the unfortunate position of La Goualeuse, who stood mute, passive and downcast, like a criminal in the presence of the judge.

"Come, come, my child," repeated Madame Dubreuil, "let us quit this disgraceful scene." Then, turning towards Fleur-de-Marie, she said:

"As for you, worthless girl, the Almighty will punish you as you deserve for your deceit! That my child, good and virtuous as she is, should ever have been allowed to call you sister or friend. Her sister! You – the very vilest of the vile! the outcast of the most depraved and lost wretches! What hardihood, what effrontery you must have possessed, to dare to show your face among good and honest people, when your proper place would have been along with your bad companions in a prison!"

"Ay, ay!" cried all the labourers at once; "let her be sent off to prison at once. She knows the murderer! Let her be made to declare who and what he is."

"She is most likely his accomplice!"

"You see," exclaimed the widow, doubling her fist in the face of the Goualeuse, "that my words have come true. Justice will overtake you before you can commit other crimes."

"As for you, my good woman," said Madame Dubreuil to the milk-woman, "far from sending you away I shall reward you for the service you have done me in unmasking this infamous girl's real character."

"There, I told you," murmured the voices of the labourers, "our mistress always does justice to every one!"

"Come, Clara," resumed Madame Dubreuil, "let us retire and seek Madame Georges, that she may clear up her share of this disgraceful business, or she and I never meet again; for either she has herself been most dreadfully deceived, or her conduct towards us is of the very worst description."

"But, mother, only look at poor Marie!"

"Oh, never mind her! Let her die of shame, if she likes, – there will be one wicked, hardened girl less in the world. Treat her with the contempt she deserves. I will not suffer you to remain another instant where she is. It is impossible for a young person like you to notice her in any way without disgracing herself."

"My dear mother," answered Clara, resisting her mother's attempts to draw her away, "I do not understand what you mean. Marie must be wrong in some way, since you say so! But look, only look at her – she is fainting! Pity her! Oh, mother, let her be ever so guilty, pray take pity on her present distress!"

"Oh, Mlle. Clara, you are good – very, very good – to pardon me and care for me," uttered poor Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice, casting a look of unutterable gratitude on her young protectress. "Believe me, it was sorely against my will ever to deceive you; and daily, hourly, have I reproached myself for so doing."

"Mother," exclaimed Clara, in the most piteous tones, "are you then so merciless? Can you not pity her?"

"Pity!" returned Madame Dubreuil, scornfully. "No, I waste no pity on such as she is. Come, I say! Were it not that I consider it the office of Madame Georges to clear the place of so vile a creature, I would have her spurned from the doors, as though she carried the plague about with her." So saying, the angry mother seized her daughter's hand, and, spite of all her struggles, led her away, Clara continually turning back her head, and saying:

"Marie, my sister, I know not what they accuse you of, but I am quite convinced of your innocence. Be assured of my constant love, whatever they may say or do."

"Silence! silence! I command!" cried Madame Dubreuil, placing her hand over her daughter's mouth. "Speak not another word, I insist! Fortunately, we have plenty of witnesses to testify that, after the odious discovery we have just made, you were not suffered to remain a single instant with this lost and unfortunate young woman. You can all answer for that, can you not, my good people?" continued she, speaking to the assembled labourers.

"Yes, yes, madame," replied one of them, "we all know well enough that Mlle. Clara was not allowed to stop with this bad girl a single instant after you found out her wickedness. No doubt she is a thief or she would not be so intimate with murderers."

Madame Dubreuil led Clara to the house, while the Goualeuse remained in the midst of the hostile circle which had now formed around her. Spite of the reproaches of Madame Dubreuil, her presence, and that of Clara, had, in some degree, served to allay the fears of Fleur-de-Marie as to the probable termination of the scene. But, after the departure of both mother and daughter, when she found herself so entirely at the mercy of the enraged crowd, her strength seemed to forsake her, and she was obliged to keep herself from falling by leaning on the parapet of the deep watering-place where the farm cattle were accustomed to drink.

Nothing could be conceived more touching than the attitude of the unfortunate girl, nor could a more threatening appearance have been displayed than was exhibited in the words and looks of the countrymen and women who surrounded her. Seated, or rather supporting herself on the narrow margin of the wall which enclosed the drinking-place, her head hanging down, and concealed by both hands, her neck and bosom hid by the ends of the little red cotton handkerchief which was twisted around her cap, the poor Goualeuse, mute and motionless, presented a most touching picture of grief and resignation.

At some little distance from Fleur-de-Marie stood the widow of the murdered man. Triumphant in her vindictive rage, and still further excited by the indignation expressed by Madame Dubreuil, she pointed out the wretched object of her wrath to the labourers and her children, with gestures of contempt and detestation. The farm servants, who had now formed into a close circle, sought not to conceal their disgust and thirst for vengeance; their rude countenances expressed at once rage, desire for revenge, and a sort of insulting raillery. The women were even still more bitter, and bent upon mischief. Neither did the striking beauty of the Goualeuse tend to allay their wrath. But neither men nor women could pardon Fleur-de-Marie the heinous offence of having, up to that hour, been treated by their superiors as an equal; and some of the men now present, having been unsuccessful candidates for the vacant situations at Bouqueval, and attributing their failure to Madame Georges, when, in reality, their disappointment arose entirely from their recommendations not being sufficiently satisfactory, determined to avail themselves of the opportunity now before them to wreak their vexation and ill-will on the head of one she was known to protect and love. The impulses of ignorant minds always lead to extremes either of good or bad. But they speedily put on a most dangerous form, when the fury of an enraged multitude is directed against those who may already have awakened their personal anger or aversion.