Marat’s Portress.
THE DOOR opened and Dame Grivette entered. This woman, whom we have not before taken the trouble to sketch, because she was one of those characters whom the painter keeps in the background, so long as he has no occasion for them — this woman now advances in the moving picture of this history, and demands her place in the immense picture we have undertaken to enroll before the eyes of our readers, in which, if our genius equaled our good will, we would introduce all classes of men, from the beggar to the king, from Caliban to Ariel.
We shall now therefore attempt to delineate Dame Grivette, who steps forth out of the shade, and advances toward us.
She was a tall withered creature, of from thirty to five-and-thirty years of age, with dark, sallow complexion, and blue eyes encircled with black rings — the fearful type of that decline, that wasting away, which is produced in densely-populated towns by poverty, bad air, and every sort of degradation, mental as well as bodily, among those creatures whom God created so beautiful, and who would otherwise have become magnificent in their perfect development, as all living denizens of earth, air, and sky are when man has not made their life one long punishment — when he has not tortured their limbs with chains and their stomachs with hunger, or with food almost as fatal.
Thus Marat’s portress would have been a beautiful woman, if, from her fifteenth year, she had not dwelt in a den without air or light — if the fire of her natural instincts, fed by this oven-like heat, or by the icy cold, had not ceaselessly burned. She had long, thin hands, which the needle of the seamstress had furrowed with little cuts, which the suds of the wash-house had cracked and softened — which the burning coals of the kitchen had roasted and tanned — but in spite of all, hands which, by their form, that indelible trace of the divine mold, would have been called royal, if, instead of being blistered by the broom, they had wielded the scepter. So true is it that this poor human body is only the outward sign of our profession.
But in this woman, the mind, which rose superior to the body, and which consequently had resisted external circumstances better, kept watch like a lamp; it illumined, as it were, the body by a reflected light, and at times a ray of beauty, youth, intelligence, and love was seen to glance from her dulled and stupid eyes — a ray of all the finest feelings of the human heart.
Balsamo gazed attentively at the woman, or rather at this singular nature, which had from the first struck his observing eye.
The portress entered holding the letter in her hand, and in a soft insinuating voice, like that of an old woman — for women condemned to poverty are old at thirty — said:
“M. Marat, here is the letter you asked for.”
“It was not the letter I wanted,” said Marat; “I wished to see you.”
“Well! here I am at your service. Monsieur Marat,” (Dame Grivette made a curtsey), “what do you want with me?”
“You know very well what I want. I wish to know something about my watch.”
“Ah, dame! I can’t tell what has become of it. I saw it all day yesterday hanging from the nail over the mantelpiece.”
“You mistake; all day yesterday it was in my fob; but when I went out at six o’clock in the evening I put it under the candlestick, because I was going among a crowd, and I feared it might be stolen.”
“If you put it under the candlestick, it must be there yet.”
And with feigned simplicity, which she was far from suspecting to be so transparent, she raised the very candlestick, of the pair which ornamented the mantelpiece, under which Marat had concealed his watch.
“Yes, that is the candlestick, sure enough,” said the young man; “but where is the watch?”
“No; I see it is no longer there. Perhaps you did not put it there, M. Marat.”
“But when I tell you I did.”
“Look for it carefully.”
“Oh. I have looked carefully enough,” said Marat, with an angry glance.
“Then you have lost it.”
“But I tell you that yesterday I put it under that candlestick myself.”
“Then some one must have entered,” said Dame Grivette; “you see so many people, so many strangers.”
“All an excuse!” cried Marat, more and more enraged. “You know very well that no one has been here since yesterday. No, no; my watch is gone where the silver top of my last cane went, where the little silver spoon you know of is gone to, and my knife with the six blades. I am robbed, Dame Grivette! I have borne much, but I shall not tolerate this; so take notice.”
“But, sir,” said Dame Grivette, “do you mean to accuse me?”
“You ought to take care of my effects.”
“I have not even the key.”
“You are the portress.”
“You give me a crown a month, and you expect to be as well served as if you had ten domestics.”
“I do not care about being badly served; but I do care whether I am robbed or not.”
“Sir, I am an honest woman.”
“Yes, an honest woman whom I shall give in charge to the police, if my watch is not found in an hour.”
“To the police?”
“Yes.”
“To the police — an honest woman like me?”
“An honest woman do you say? Honest! that’s good.”
“Yes; and of whom nothing bad can be said! do you hear that?”
“Come, come! enough of this. Dame Grivette.”
“Ah! I thought that you suspected me, when you went out.”
“I have suspected you ever since the top of my cane disappeared.”
“Well! M. Marat, I will tell you something, in my turn.”
“What will you tell me?”
“While you were away I have consulted my neighbors.”
“Your neighbors! — for what purpose?”
“Respecting your suspicions.”
“I had said nothing of them to you at the time.”
“But I saw them plainly.”
“And the neighbors? I am curious to know what they said.”
“They said that if you suspect me, and have even gone so far as to impart your suspicions to another, you must pursue the affair to the end.”
“Well!”
“That is to say, you must prove that the watch has been taken.”
“It has been taken, since it was there and is now gone.”
“Yes, but taken by me — taken by me; do you understand? Oh! justice requires proofs; your word will not be sufficient. M. Marat; you are no more than one of ourselves, M. Marat.”
Balsamo, calm as ever, looked on during this scene. He saw that though Marat’s conviction was not altered, he had, nevertheless, lowered his tone.
“Therefore,” continued the portress, “if you do not render justice to my probity — if you do not make some reparation to my character — it is I who will send for the police, as our landlord just now advised me to do.”
Marat bit his lips. He knew there was a real danger in this. The landlord was an old, rich, retired merchant. He lived on the third story; and the scandal-mongers of the quarter did not hesitate to assert that, some ten years before, he had not been indifferent to the charms of the portress, who was then kitchen-maid to his wife.
Now, Marat attended mysterious meetings. Marat was a young man of not very settled habits, besides being addicted to concealment and suspected by the police; and, for all these reasons, he was not anxious to have an affair with the commissary, seeing that it might tend to place him in the hands of M. de Sartines, who liked much to read the papers of young men such as Marat, and to send the authors of such noble writings to houses of meditation, such as Vincennes, the Bastille, Charenton, and Bicetre.
Marat, therefore, lowered his tone; but, in proportion as he did so, the portress raised hers. The result was that this nervous and hysterical woman raged like a flame which suddenly meets with a current of fresh air.
Oaths, cries, tears — she employed all in turn; it was a regular tempest.
Then Balsamo judged that the time had come for him to interfere. He advanced toward the woman, and looking at her with an ominous and fiery glance, he stretched two fingers toward her, uttering, not so much with his lips as with his eyes, his thought, his whole will, a word which Marat could not hear.
Immediately Dame Grivette became silent, tottered, and, losing her equilibrium, staggered backward, her eyes fearfully dilated, and fell upon the bed without uttering a word.
After a short interval her eyes closed and opened again, but this time the pupil could not be seen; her tongue moved convulsively, but her body was perfectly motionless, and yet her hands trembled as if shaken by fever.
“Ha!” said Marat; “like the wounded man in the hospital!”
“Yes.”
“Then she is asleep?”
“Silence!” said Balsamo.
Then addressing Marat:
“Sir,” said he, “the moment has now come when all your incredulity must cease. Pick up that letter which this woman was bringing you, and which she dropped when she fell.”
Marat obeyed.
“Well?” he asked.
“Wait!”
And taking the letter from Marat’s hands:
“You know from whom this letter comes?” asked Balsamo of the somnambulist.
“No, sir,” she replied.
Balsamo held the sealed letter close to the woman. “Read it to M. Marat, who wishes to know the contents.”
“She cannot read,” said Marat.
“Yes, but you can read?”
“Of course.”
“Well, read it, and she will read it after you in proportion as the words are engraven upon your mind.”
Marat broke the seal of the letter and read it, while Dame Grivette, standing, and trembling beneath the all-powerful will of Balsamo, repeated word for word, as Marat read them to himself, the following words:
“MY DEAR HIPPOCRATES — Apellas has just finished his portrait; he has sold it for fifty francs, and these fifty francs are to be eaten to-day at the tavern in the Rue Saint Jacques. Will you come?
“P. S. — It is understood that part is to be drunk. — Your friend,
“L. DAVID.”
It was word for word what was written.
Marat let the paper fall from his hand.
“Well,” said Balsamo, “you see that Dame Grivette also has a soul, and that this soul wakes while she sleeps.”
“And a strange soul,” said Marat; “a soul which can read when the body cannot.”
“Because the soul knows everything — because the soul can reproduce by reflection. Try to make her read this when she is awake — that is to say, when the body has wrapped the soul in its shadow — and you will see.”
Marat was dumb; his whole material philosophy rebelled within him, but he could not find a reply.
“Now,” continued Balsamo, “we shall pass on to what interests you most; that is to say, as to what has become of your watch. Dame Grivette,” said he, turning to her, “who has taken M. Marat’s watch?”
The somnambulist made a violent gesture of denial.
“I do not know,” said she.
“You know perfectly well,” persisted Balsamo, “and you shall tell me.”
Then, with a more decided exertion of his will:
“Who has taken M. Marat’s watch? — speak! Dame Grivette has not stolen M. Marat’s watch. Why does M. Marat believe she has?”
“If it is not she who has taken it, tell me who has?”
“I do not know.”
“You see,” said Marat, “conscience is an impenetrable refuge.”
“Well, since you have only this last doubt,” said Balsamo, “you shall be convinced.”
Then, turning again to the portress:
“Tell me who took the watch; I insist upon it.”
“Come, come,” said Marat, “do not ask an impossibility!
“You heard?” said Balsamo; “I have said you must tell me.”
Then, beneath the pressure of this imperious command, the unhappy woman began to wring her hands and arms as if she were mad; a shudder like that of an epileptic fit ran through her whole body; her mouth was distorted with a hideous expression of terror and weakness; she threw herself back, rigid as if she were in a painful convulsion, and fell upon the bed.
“No, no,” said she; “I would rather die!”
“Well,” said Balsamo, with a burst of anger which made the fire flash from his eyes, “you shall die if necessary, but you shall speak. Your silence and your obstinacy are sufficient indications for me; but for an incredulous person we must have irrefragable proofs. Speak! — I will it; who has taken the watch?”
The nervous excitement was at its height; all the strength and power of the somnambulist struggled against Balsamo’s will, inarticulate cries escaped from her lips, which were stained with a reddish foam.
“She will fall into an epileptic fit,” said Marat.
“Fear nothing; it is the demon of falsehood who is in her, and who refuses to come out.”
Then, turning toward the woman, and throwing in her face as much fluid as his hands could contain:
“Speak,” said he; “who has taken the watch?”
“Dame Grivette,” replied the somnabulis in an almost inaudible voice.
“When did she take it?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“Where was it?”
“Underneath the candlestick.”
“What has she done with it?”
“She has taken it to the Rue Saint Jacques.”
“Where in the Rue Saint Jacques?”
“To No, 29.”
“Which story?”
“The fifth.”
“To whom did she give it?”
“To a shoemaker’s apprentice.”
“What is his name?”
“Simon.”
“What is this man to her?”
The woman was silent.
“What is this man to her?”
The somnambulist was again silent.
“What is this man to her?” repeated Balsamo.
The same silence.
Balsamo extended toward her his hand, impregnated with the fluid, and the unfortunate woman, overwhelmed by this terrible attack, had only strength to murmur:
“Her lover!”
Marat uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
“Silence!” said Balsamo; “allow conscience to speak.”
Then, continuing to address the woman, who was trembling all over, and bathed in perspiration:
“And who advised Dame Grivette to steal the watch?” asked he.
“No one. She raised the candlestick by accident, she saw the watch, and the demon tempted her.”
“Did she do it from want?”
“No; for she did not sell the watch.”
“She gave it away, then?”
“Yes.”—”To Simon?”
The somnambulist made a violent effort.
“To Simon,” said she.
Then she covered her face with her hands, and burst into a flood of tears.
Balsamo glanced at Marat, who, with gaping mouth, disordered hair, and dilated eyes, was gazing at the fearful spectacle.
“Well, sir!” said he; “you see, at last, the struggle between the body and the soul. You see conscience forced to yield, even in a redoubt which it had believed impregnable. Do you confess now that God has forgotten nothing in this world, and that He is in everything. Then deny no longer that there is a conscience — deny no longer that there is a soul — deny no longer the unknown, young man! Above all, do not deny faith, which is power supreme; and since you are ambitious, M. Marat, study; speak little, think much, and do not judge your superiors lightly. Adieu; my words have opened a vast field before you; cultivate this field, which contains hidden treasures. Adieu! Happy will you be if you can conquer the demon of incredulity which is in you, as I have conquered the demon of falsehood which was in this woman.”
And with these words, which caused the blush of shame to tinge the young man’s cheeks, he left the room.
Marat did not even think of taking leave of him. But after his first stupor was over, he perceived that Dame Grivette was still sleeping. This sleep struck terror to his soul. Marat would rather have seen a corpse upon his bed, even if M. de Sartines should interpret the fact after his own fashion.
He gazed on this lifeless form, these turned-up eyes, these palpitations, and he felt afraid. His fear increased when the living corpse rose, advanced toward him, took his hand, and said:
“Come with me, M. Marat.”
“Where to?”
“To the Rue St. Jacques.”
“Why?”
“Come, come; he commands me to take you.”
Marat, who had fallen upon a chair, rose.
Then Dame Grivette, still asleep, opened the door, and descended the stairs with the stealthy pace of a cat, scarcely touching the steps.
Marat followed, fearing every moment that she would fall, and in falling break her neck.
Having reached the foot of the stairs, she crossed the threshold, and entered the street, still followed by the young man, whom she led in this manner to the house and the garret she had pointed out.
She knocked at the door; Marat felt his heart beat so violently that he thought it must be audible.
A man was in the garret; he opened the door. In this man Marat recognized a workman of from five-and-twenty to thirty years of age, whom he had several times seen in the porter’s lodge.
Seeing Dame Grivette followed by Marat, he started back.
But the somnambulist walked straight to the bed, and putting her hand under the thin bolster, she drew out the watch, which she gave to Marat, while the shoemaker Simon, pale with terror, dared not utter a word, and watched with alarmed gaze the least movements of this woman, whom he believed to be mad.
Scarcely had her hand touched Marat’s, in returning him the watch, than she gave a deep sigh and murmured:
“He awakes me! He awakes me!” Her nerves relaxed like a cable freed from the capstan, the vital spark again animated her eyes, and finding herself face to face with Marat, her hand in his, and still holding the watch — that is to say, the irrefragable proof of her crime — she fell upon the floor of the garret in a deep swoon.
“Does conscience really exist, then?” asked Marat of himself, as he left the room, doubt in his heart and reverie in his eyes.