2.M.8.3. QUADRIFRONS
THAT evening, as he was undressing preparatory to going
to bed, his hand came in contact, in the pocket of his coat,
with the packet which he had picked up on the boulevard. He
had forgotten it. He thought that it would be well to open
it, and that this package might possibly contain the address
of the young girls, if it really belonged to them, and, in any
case, the information necessary to a restitution to the person
who had lost it.
He opened the envelope.
It was not sealed and contained four letters, also
unsealed.
They bore addresses.
All four exhaled a horrible odor of tobacco.
The first was addressed: "To Madame, Madame la
Marquise
de Grucheray, the place opposite the Chamber of Deputies,
No. — "
Marius said to himself, that he should probably find in it
the information which he sought, and that, moreover, the
letter being open, it was probable that it could be read without
impropriety.
It was conceived as follows: —
MADAME LA MARQUISE: The virtue of clemency and piety is that
which most closely unites sosiety. Turn your Christian spirit
and
cast a look of compassion on this unfortunate Spanish victim of
loyalty and attachment to the sacred cause of legitimacy, who has
given with his blood, consecrated his fortune, evverything, to
defend
that cause, and to-day finds himself in the greatest missery. He
doubts not that your honorable person will grant succor to
preserve
an existence exteremely painful for a military man of education
and
honor full of wounds, counts in advance on the humanity which
animates
you and on the interest which Madame la Marquise bears
to a nation so unfortunate. Their prayer will not be in vain,
and
their gratitude will preserve theirs charming souvenir.
My respectful sentiments, with which I have the honor to
be
Madame,
DON ALVARES, Spanish Captain
of Cavalry, a royalist who
has take refuge in France,
who finds himself on travells
for his country, and the
resources
are lacking him to
continue his travells.
No address was joined to the signature. Marius hoped to
find the address in the second letter, whose superscription
read: A Madame, Madame la Comtesse de Montvernet, Rue
Cassette, No. 9. This is what Marius read in it: —
MADAME LA COMTESSE: It is an unhappy mother of a family
of six children the last of which is only eight months old. I
sick since my last confinement, abandoned by my husband five
months ago, haveing no resources in the world the most frightful
indigance.
In the hope of Madame la Comtesse, she has the honor to
be,
Madame, with profound respect,
MISTRESS BALIZARD.
Marius turned to the third letter, which was a petition like
the preceding; he read: —
Monsieur PABOURGEOT, Elector, wholesale stocking
merchant,
Rue Saint-Denis on the corner of the Rue aux Fers.
I permit myself to address you this letter to beg you to
grant
me the pretious favor of your simpaties and to interest yourself
in a man of letters who has just sent a drama to the Theatre-Francais.
The subject is historical, and the action takes place
in Auvergne in the time of the Empire; the style, I think, is
natural, laconic, and may have some merit. There are couplets
to be sung in four places. The comic, the serious, the
unexpected,
are mingled in a variety of characters, and a tinge of
romanticism
lightly spread through all the intrigue which proceeds
misteriously,
and ends, after striking altarations, in the midst of
many beautiful strokes of brilliant scenes.
My principal object is to satisfi the desire which
progressively
animates the man of our century, that is to say, the fashion,
that
capritious and bizarre weathervane which changes at almost every
new wind.
In spite of these qualities I have reason to fear that
jealousy,
the egotism of priviliged authors, may obtaine my exclusion from
the theatre, for I am not ignorant of the mortifications with
which
new-comers are treated.
Monsiuer Pabourgeot, your just reputation as an
enlightened
protector of men of litters emboldens me to send you my daughter
who will explain our indigant situation to you, lacking bread and
fire in this wynter season. When I say to you that I beg you to
accept the dedication of my drama which I desire to make to you
and of all those that I shall make, is to prove to you how great
is
my ambition to have the honor of sheltering myself under your
protection, and of adorning my writings with your name. If you
deign to honor me with the most modest offering, I shall
immediately
occupy myself in making a piesse of verse to pay you my
tribute of gratitude. Which I shall endeavor to render this
piesse
as perfect as possible, will be sent to you before it is inserted
at
the beginning of the drama and delivered on the stage.
To Monsieur
and Madame PABOURGEOT,
My most respectful complements,
GENFLOT, man of letters.
P. S. Even if it is only forty sous.
Excuse me for sending my daughter and not presenting
myself,
but sad motives connected with the toilet do not permit me, alas!
to go out.
Finally, Marius opened the fourth letter. The address ran:
To the benevolent Gentleman of the church of
Saint-Jacques-du-haut-Pas. It contained the following lines: —
BENEVOLENT MAN: If you deign to accompany my daughter, you
will behold a misserable calamity, and I will show you my
certificates.
At the aspect of these writings your generous soul will be
moved with a sentiment of obvious benevolence, for true
philosophers
always feel lively emotions.
Admit, compassionate man, that it is necessary to suffer
the
most cruel need, and that it is very painful, for the sake of
obtaining
a little relief, to get oneself attested by the authorities as
though one were not free to suffer and to die of inanition while
waiting to have our misery relieved. Destinies are very fatal
for
several and too prodigal or too protecting for others.
I await your presence or your offering, if you deign to
make one,
and I beseech you to accept the respectful sentiments with which
I have the honor to be,
truly magnanimous man,
your very humble
and very obedient servant,
P. FABANTOU, dramatic
artist.
After perusing these four letters, Marius did not find himself
much further advanced than before.
In the first place, not one of the signers gave his
address.
Then, they seemed to come from four different individuals,
Don Alveras, Mistress Balizard, the poet Genflot, and
dramatic artist Fabantou; but the singular thing about these
letters was, that all four were written by the same hand.
What conclusion was to be drawn from this, except that
they all come from the same person?
Moreover, and this rendered the conjecture all the more
probable, the coarse and yellow paper was the same in all four,
the odor of tobacco was the same, and, although an attempt
had been made to vary the style, the same orthographical
faults were reproduced with the greatest tranquillity, and the
man of letters Genflot was no more exempt from them than
the Spanish captain.
It was waste of trouble to try to solve this petty
mystery.
Had it not been a chance find, it would have borne the air of a
mystification. Marius was too melancholy to take even a
chance pleasantry well, and to lend himself to a game which
the pavement of the street seemed desirous of playing with
him. It seemed to him that he was playing the part of the
blind man in blind man's buff between the four letters, and
that they were making sport of him.
Nothing, however, indicated that these letters belonged to
the two young girls whom Marius had met on the boulevard.
After all, they were evidently papers of no value. Marius
replaced them in their envelope, flung the whole into a corner
and went to bed. About seven o'clock in the morning, he
had just risen and breakfasted, and was trying to settle down
to work, when there came a soft knock at his door.
As he owned nothing, he never locked his door, unless
occasionally,
though very rarely, when he was engaged in some
pressing work. Even when absent he left his key in the lock.
"You will be robbed," said Ma'am Bougon. "Of what?"
said Marius. The truth is, however, that he had, one day,
been robbed of an old pair of boots, to the great triumph of
Ma'am Bougon.
There came a second knock, as gentle as the first.
"Come in," said Marius.
The door opened.
"What do you want, Ma'am Bougon?" asked Marius, without
raising his eyes from the books and manuscripts on his
table.
A voice which did not belong to Ma'am Bougon replied: —
"Excuse me, sir — "
It was a dull, broken, hoarse, strangled voice, the voice
of
an old man, roughened with brandy and liquor.
Marius turned round hastily, and beheld a young girl.