Chapter III.

"Thus liv'd the lad, in hunger, peril, pain, His tears despis'd, his supplications vain. ... Strange that a frame so weak could bear so long The grossest insult and the foulest wrong; But there were causes." Crabbe.

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Marcel had continued to ply this business for the profit of Pelagie Vautrin about two years, most times half-starved, and ofttimes beaten, and had become one of the quickest-sighted and quickest-witted of the little rag-pickers of Paris, when one wet winter's night, as he passed near St. Michael's Bridge, he put his foot on something hard.

To pick it up, to see by the nearest gaslight that it was a coarse linen bag, containing a quantity of gold coin, was the work of a minute; the next saw him running as if for dear life to the office of the Commissary of Police in the Rue des Noyers; he knew the place well by the red-glass lamp over the door. Almost breathless he handed his prize to the worthy magistrate, telling him at the same time where he had found it.

The commissary looked into his little, eager, intelligent face while he told his story, then taking his hand kindly, "You are a good boy," said he, "and, mark my words, your honesty will bring you good luck."

Marcel blushed with pleasure and surprise to be praised, but stood nervously twirling his ragged cap round and round.

"The man who lost the bag of gold," continued the commissary, "was here half an hour since; he is a poor clerk, and is in despair; he is afraid of going back to his employers to tell them that he has lost their money. You have saved him and his poor wife and children from much misery. Go, you are a good boy; but first tell me your name and where you live."

The child told him, it was written carefully down, and he then went away happier than he had ever been since that dreadful day when he had convulsively fastened himself to his father's dead body as it lay on the barricade.

But as he approached his miserable home, this happy feeling decreased; and he began to think of what Pelagie would say if she knew what he had been doing. To tell or not to tell, that was the question, and it was not yet decided when he opened the door of the dismal room, where Pelagie, drunk as usual, was making her preparations for going to bed.

"And where do you come from, _vaurien?_" asked she as he came in.

He did not reply; he was not prepared with a lie, and he feared to tell the truth. Pelagie, accustomed to prompt and ready answers from her victims, turned round and stared at him, surprised beyond measure at this unwonted hesitation.

"Do you hear, little beast, do you hear!" she screamed presently. "Where do you come from? Why don't you answer me?" And she seized him violently by the arm.

"Pray don't beat me!" said the child imploringly. "I will tell you. As I was passing over St. Michael's Bridge, I--I found--a bag--"

"A bag!" exclaimed Pelagie, still holding him fast. "A bag of what? Quick! quick! Speak faster!"

"Of gold," whispered the child, trembling, for he _knew_ now that he should suffer for what he had done.

"Of gold? of gold? Where is it? Give it to me!" And she fumbled about his little breast, as if she thought it must be hidden there.

"I haven't got it!" said the boy, whose cheeks waxed paler and paler, but whose blue eyes met hers for once undauntedly. "I carried it to the Commissary of Police."

For one moment the drunken fury looked at him silently, and then burst forth in bitter curses and bitterer blows. Hard and fast they fell on the young head and tender face; he was knocked down and kicked up again--hurled against the wall--pushed into the fire-place--and at last thrown upon the cranky table, which fell with so terrible a crash that the noise fortunately brought up the tenants of the story beneath in time to prevent a murder; for it is too probable that would have been the end of this frightful scene, if no one had come to save poor Marcel.

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"Madame, Madame Vautrin!" cried M. Poquet, as he rushed into the room, followed by his wife and a number of the neighbors, "what is the matter here? Pray, be calm. You've beaten that child too much! Now, stop, or I'll go for the police." And the strong man seized the furious woman in his arms, while his wife and one or two other women got hold of Marcel and carried him down-stairs, covered with blood and bruises, to the Poquets' room.

Covered with blood and bruises! Such was this wretched child's reward for the first act of probity he had as yet found an opportunity of performing!

Be gentle, then, in your judgment of his future errings. O children of happier fortunes! ye who are encouraged in every generous thought and honest deed by the tender caresses of a mother and the approving smiles of a father, remember that _he_ was an ignorant, homeless orphan, whose first good impulses were beaten out of him, or stifled by the vicious influences which surrounded him.

Monsieur and Madame Poquet were--it is a pity to be obliged to say it of such a kind-hearted couple--no better than they should be, rather, indeed, far worse. M. Poquet called himself a cobbler, but few, very few were the boots or shoes that could show trace of his handiwork. Talking politics in the _cabaret_ [Footnote 115] at the corner, with idlers like himself, seemed to be his principal occupation; but there were rumors afloat that, at night, when honest men were sleeping peacefully in their beds, he and his companions were dodging the police, and trying to _find_ the money they would not _work_ for. Certain it is he generally had a forty-sous piece in his pocket, and few people knew how he got it.

[Footnote 115: Wine-shop.]

Madame Poquet earned or rather thieved her living as a _femme de ménage_ [Footnote 116] and a very good living she made too; for, not satisfied with stuffing herself as full as she could of victuals at her employer's house, she regularly brought back every evening in a great basket, that was continually suspended at her arm, such a supply of cheese, charcoal, sugar, garlic, bread, cigars, cold meat, and such like, that there was not a better furnished cupboard nor better fed children than hers in the neighborhood.

[Footnote 116: Charwoman.]

These children consisted of a boy and a girl--Polycarpe and Loulou--cunning, ready-witted, unprincipled, and idle. Never had they heard a word of truth; their only teaching since they came into the world had been to lie and steal, but like their parents they were naturally merry and good-tempered; they had never been ill-treated, as children generally are among the vicious poor, and they were well-disposed to be generous with their pilfered plenty.

Such were the people who had rescued the orphan from Pelagie Vautrin's murderous hands, and who now washed away the blood from several cuts on his head, and applied such remedies to his poor bruised limbs as they were acquainted with. And Madame Poquet had a kind, motherly way with her that comforted poor Marcel wonderfully, and Polycarpe and Loulou showed much sympathy; and at last he was put into bed (a dirty one, it is true, but warm) with Polycarpe; and the boy fell asleep happier, notwithstanding his aches and pains, than he had been for many a year of his short life.

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For three whole days Marcel remained quietly with the Poquets, who would willingly have kept him altogether, and only hoped that Pelagie would let things be as they were. The fourth morning, however, brought a change. Scarcely had Madame Poquet taken herself and her great basket off for her day's work and pilfering, and M. Poquet slunk off a moment after to the _cabaret_ at the corner, when Madame Vautrin appeared suddenly before the frightened eyes of the three children. She was sober, and in few words ordered Marcel to get his basket and hook and go to work. The trembling boy silently obeyed.