The mysteries of Marseilles. A love story

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I. HOW BLANCHE DE CAZALIS PLED WITH

PHILIPPE CAYOL 21

Chapter II. Marius Cayol

Marius CAYOL, the brother of Blanche’s husband was about twenty-five years of age. He was short, thin and of unobtrusive bearing. His yellowish face, pierced with long and narrow black eyes, lighted up at times with a good-natured smile of devotedness and resignation. He walked, a trifle bent, with infantile hesitation and timidity. When the hatred of evil, the love of right, caused him to straighten up, he became almost handsome.

He had assumed all the hard tasks of the family, allowing his brother to obey his ambitious and impassioned instincts. He crouched beside him, saying, as a matter-of-course, that he was ugly and ought to remain in his ugliness ; he added that it was pardonable in Philippe to love to display his lofty stature and the pronounced beauty of his visage. But, on occasion, he showed severity towards that grown-up unruly child, who was his elder and to whom he gave the advice and tenderness of a father.

Their mother, a widow, was without fortune. She lived with difficulty on the wreck of a dowry which her husband had impaired in trade. This money, invested with a banker, gave her a small income which

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enabled her to educate her two sons. But, when the children had grown up, she showed them her empty hands and brought them face to face with the struggles of life.

The two brothers, thrown thus amid the turmoil of existence, urged on by their different temperaments, took two opposite routes.

Philippe, who had the appetites of wealth and freedom, could not bend himself to work. He wished to gain fortune by a single stroke; he dreamed of making a rich marriage. That was, in his view, an excellent expedient, a speedy way of acquiring an income and a pretty wife. Then he lived in the sunshine ; he transformed himself into a lover and even became somewhat of a high liver. He experienced the infinite enjoyment of being finely dressed, of promenading in Marseilles his elegant rudeness, his garments of an original cut, and his glances and words of love. His mother and brother, who indulged him, strove to minister to his caprices. But Philippe acted in good faith : he adored women ; it seemed to him perfectly natural to be loved and abducted some fine day by a noble, rich and beautiful young girl.

Marius, while his brother was displaying his good looks, had entered in the capacity of clerk the establishment of M. Martelly, a ship-owner who dwelt in the Rue de la Darse. He was satisfied in the gloom of his office ; his whole ambition consisted in gaining a modest competence, in living quietly and unknown. Besides, he felt a secret delight when he aided his

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mother or his brother. The money he made was dear to him, for he could give it away, make people happy with it and himself taste the profound bliss of devotedness. He had taken the straight road in life, the rugged pathway which leads to peace, joy and dignity.

He had gone to his office when he received the letter in which his brother announced to him his flight and marriage with Mademoiselle de Cazalis. He was seized with dolorous astonishment; he sounded at a glance the abyss into the depths of which the two lovers had cast themselves. He went with the utmost haste to Saint-Barnab^.

The dwelling of the gardener Ayasse had before the door an arbor which formed a little bower; two large mulberry trees, trimmed in the shape of a parasol, stretched out their knotty branches and threw their shadows upon the threshold. Marius found Philippe beneath the arbor, gazing with uneasiness and love at Blanche de Cazalis, seated beside him ; the young girl, already weary, was plunged in the oppression of first cares and first delights.

The interview was painful, full of anguish and shame. Philippe had arisen.

‘‘ Do you blame me ? ” asked he, offering his hand to his brother.

“ Yes, I blame you,” answered Marius, emphatically. '‘You have committed a rash action. Pride has carried you away and love ruined you. You have not reflected upon the evils you are about to draw down upon your family and yourself.”

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Philippe showed signs of rebellion.

“You are afraid/’ said he, bitterly. “I have not calculated ; I loved Blanche and Blanche loved me. I said to her: ‘Will you be my wife? — will you come with me?’ and she came. That’s the whole story. Neither of us is culpable.”

“ Why do you tell an untruth ? ” resumed Marius, with greater severity. “You are not a child. You well know that your duty was to defend this young girl against herself; you should have stopped her on the brink of the gulf, prevented her from following you. Ah ! don’t talk to me of love. I know only justice and honor.”

Philippe smiled disdainfully. He drew Blanche upon his bosom.

“ My poor Marius,” said he, “ you are a good fellow, but you have never adored a woman ; you know nothing of love’s fever. Behold my defence.”

And he allowed himself to be embraced by Blanche, who clung to him tremblingly. The unfortunate girl felt that her only hope now was in this man. She had married him, she belonged to him ; she had followed him as her sovereign master. Now she adored him like a slave; she crawled towards him, loving and timid.

Marius, in despair, comprehended that he would gain nothing by talking wisdom to the newly wedded couple. He resolved to act by himself ; he wished to know all the facts of the case. Philippe answered his questions with docility.

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‘‘I have been acquainted with Blanche nearly eight months,” said he. ‘‘I saw her for the first time at a public fete. She smiled at the crowd, and I thought her smile was addressed to me. From that day I loved her ; I sought every occasion to approach her, to talk to her.”

Did you not write to her ? ” asked Marius.

‘‘ Yes, many times.”

‘‘ Where are your letters ? ”

“ She burned them. Each time I bought a bouquet of Fine, the flower-girl of the Cours Saint-Louis, and slipped my letter among the flowers. The milkmaid Marguerite took the bouquets to Blanche.”

And j^our letters remained unanswered ? ”

“ At first, Blanche refused the dowsers. Then she accepted them ; at last, she replied to me. I was mad with love. I dreamed of marrying Blanche, of adoring her forever.”

Marius shrugged his shoulders. He drew Philippe a few paces away and there continued the conversation with more firmness in his voice.

“You are an imbecile or a liar,” said he, calmly; “ you know that M. de Cazalis, a deputy, a millionaire and the all-powerful master in Marseilles, would never have given his niece in marriage to Philippe Cayol, poor, untitled and a republican as the climax of vulgarity. Admit that you have counted upon the scandal attending your flight to force the uncle to give you Blanche’s hand.”

“And what if I have ! ” responded Philippe, impet-

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Tiously. “‘Blanche loves me ; I did not force her to act against her will. She has freely chosen me for her husband.”

“Yes, 5^es, I am aware of that. You repeat it too often for me not to know what I should believe in the premises. But you have not thought of M. de Cazalis’ anger; that anger will fall terribly on you and your family — I know the man ; this very evening he will have displayed his outraged pride throughout all Marseilles. The best thing you can do will be to take the 5"Oung girl back to Saint- Joseph.”

“No, I will not, I will not. Blanche would never dare to return home. She was in the country scarcely a week; I sawlier as often as twice a day in a little grove of pines; we enjoyed in peace the freedom of the fields. Her uncle knew nothing, and the blow must have been severe for him. We cannot present ourselves at this moment.”

“Well, listen: give me the letter for the Abb^ Chastanier. I will see that priest ; if necessary, I will go with him to M. de Cazalis. We must stifle the gossip. I have a task to accomplish, the task of repairing your error. Swear to me that you will not leave this house, that you will await here my orders, my prayers.”

“ I promise you that I will wait, if no danger threatens me.”

Marius- took Philippe’s hand and looked him squarely in the face.

“Love that child well,” said he, in a deep voice,

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pointing to Blanche ; “ you can never repair the injury you have done her.”

He was about departing when Mademoiselle de Cazalis advanced. She clasped her hands supplicatingly, forcing back her tears.

“Monsieur,” stammered she, “if you see my uncle, tell him that I love him. I am married. I wish to remain Philippe’s wife and return to our house with him.

Marius bowed calmly,

“ Hope,” said he.

And he went away, moved and troubled, knowing that he had deceived her and that hope was out of the question.

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Chapter III. The Abbe Chastanier

Marius, on arriving at Marseilles, hastened to the Saint-Victor Church to which the Abbd Chastanier was attached. Saint-Victor is one of the oldest churches in Marseilles ; its black, lofty and embattled walls make it look like a fortress; one might think that it was fashioned entirely with ax strokes by the rude people of the port, who have a special veneration for it.

The young man found the Abbd Chastanier in the sacristy. This priest was a tall old man, with a long, thin face as white as wax ; his sad and humble eyes had the vague fixedness of suffering and poverty. He had returned from a burial and was slowly removing his surplice.

His history was brief and sorrowful. The son of peasants, as mild and innocent as a child, he had taken holy orders, urged on by his mother’s pious wishes. In becoming a priest, he had wished to perform an act of humility, of entire devotion. He believed, in the simplicity of his soul, that a minister of God ought to shut himself up in the infinitude of the divine love, renounce the ambition and intrigues of this world and live in the depths of a sanctuary,

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pardoning sins with one hand and distributing alms with the other.

Ah ! the poor abb^ ! They showed him that simple souls are good only to suffer and remain in the shade ! He soon learned that ambition is a sacerdotal virtue, and that young priests frequently love God for the worldly favors distributed by His church. He saw all his seminary comrades use their nails and teeth, and tear off here and there strips of silk and lace. He witnessed these private struggles, these secret intrigues, which make a diocese a little turbulent kingdom. As he remained humbly upon his knees, did not seek to please the ladies, demanded nothing and appeared stupidly pious, they threw him a miserable benefice as one casts a bone to a dog.

He remained thus more than forty years in a small village, situated between Aubagne and Cassis. His church was a sort of barn, whitewashed and glacially bare ; in the winter, when the wind broke one of the window panes, the good God was cold for many weeks, as the poor cur^ did not always possess the few sous required to restore the glass. But he never complained; he lived peacefully in poverty and solitude; he even felt a deep joy in suffering, in feeling himself the brother of the beggars of his parish.

He was sixty when one of his sisters, who was a workwoman at Marseilles, grew infirm. She wrote to him and begged him to come to her. The old priest devoted himself so far as to ask his bishop for a little corner in one of the city churches. He was kept wait-

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ing for this little corner several months, and finally was called to Saint-Victor. He was destined to do there, so to speak, all the heavy work, all the labors to which but little fame and profit were attached. He prayed over the coffins of the poor and took them to the cemetery; he even served as sexton upon occasion.

It was then that he began to suffer in earnest. While in his desert, he had been allowed to be simple, poor and old at his ease. Now, he felt that his poverty and innocence were considered a crime, and his heart was torn when he comprehended that there could be servants in the church. He saw plainly that he was looked upon with derision and pity. He bowed his head still lower, made himself more humble and wept to feel his faith shaken by the acts and words of the worldly priests who surrounded him.

Happily, in the evening, he had comfortable hours. He took care of his sister ; he consoled himself in his way by devoting himself. He surrounded the poor infirm woman with a thousand little satisfactions. He took refuge beside her and lost himself in his tender-^ ness. Then another joy came to him : M. de Cazalis, who distrusted young abbes, chose him to be the director of his niece. The old priest had hitherto taken charge of no penitent and very rarely confessed any one ; he was moved to tears by the proposition of the deputy and questioned him; he loved Blanche as if she had been his own child.

Marius gave him the young girl’s letter and watched his face to see what emotions that letter would excite

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ill him. He saw keen grief paint itself there. But the priest did not seem to experience that stupor caused by overwhelming and unexpected news, and Marius thought that Blanche, in confessing herself to him, had avowed the relations existing between her and Philippe.

“ You have done well to count upon me, Monsieur,” said the Abb^ Chastanier to Marius. ‘‘ But I am very weak and awkward. I should have shown more energy.”

The head and hands of the poor man had that gentle and sad trembling peculiar to old people.

‘‘ I am at your disposal,” continued he. “ How can I aid the unhappy child ? ”

“Monsieur,” answered Marius, “I am the brother of the young fool who has fled with and wedded Mademoiselle de Cazalis, and I have sworn to repair the error, to stifle the talk. Will you unite with me? The young girl is lost if her uncle has already handed the case over to justice. Go to him, try to quiet his anger and tell him his niece is about to be restored to him.”

“Why did you not bring the child with you? I know the violence of M. de Cazalis ; he will desire certainties.”

“ It is that very violence which has frightened my brother. But we cannot reason now. The facts accomplished overwhelm us. Rest assured that I am as indignant as you are, and that I fully realize my brother’s wretched action. But, in mercy, let us

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hasten. Afterwards, we will speak of justice and right.”

“It is well,” said the abbd, simply. “I will go with you.”

They passed along the Boulevard de la Corderie and reached the Cours Bonaparte, where was situated the deputy’s city residence. M. de Cazalis, the day after the flight, had returned to Marseilles, in the morning, a prey to terrible anger and despair.

The Abb^ Chastanier stopped Marius at the door of the house.

“Do not enter,” said he. “Your visit might, perhaps, be regarded as an insult. Let me act and wait for me.”

Marius, for a whole hour, walked the pavement excitedly. He would have preferred to enter, explain the facts himself and ask pardon in Philippe’s name. But, while the misfortune of his family was being agitated in that house, he was forced to remain where he was, idle and impatient, in all the anguish of waiting.

At last the Abbe Chastanier appeared. He had been weeping ; his eyes were red, his lips quivering.

“ M. de Cazalis would listen to nothing,” said he, in a troubled voice. “ I found him in a blind rage. He has already been to the Procureur du Roi.”

What the poor priest did not say was that M. de Cazalis received him with the bitterest reproaches, venting his anger upon him and accusing him, in his furyj'^of having given evil counsel to his niece.

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The abbe bent before him ; he almost went upon his knees, not defending himself, but asking pity fox others.

“ Tell me all,” cried Marius, in despair.

“ It seems,” replied the priest, that the peasant with whom your brother left his horse guided M. de Cazalis in his investigations. This morning a complaint was made, and searches have been instituted at your residence in the Hue Sainte and at your mother’s country-house in the district of Saint-Just.”

‘‘ My God ! my God ! ” groaned Marius.

“ M. de Cazalis swears that he will crush your family. I vainly strove to bring him to more merciful feelings. He talks of arresting your mother.”

‘‘ My mother ! Why ? ”

He claims that she is an accomplice, that she aided your brother to abduct Mademoiselle Blanche.”

‘‘What is to be done — how is the falsity of all this to be proven? Ah! wretched Philippe I This will cause our mother’s death.”

And Marius began to sob in his clasped hands. The Abbd Chastanier saw his despair with affecting pity ; he understood the tenderness and integrity of this poor fellow who wept in the open street.

. “ Courage, my child,” said he.

“You are right, father,” cried Marius; “it is courage that I must have. I was a coward this morning. I should have torn the young girl from Philippe’s arms and brought her back to her uncle. A voice told me to do this act of justice, and I am punished for

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not having heeded that voice. They spoke to me of their love and marriage. I allowed myself to be softened.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Listen,” said Marius, suddenly: “come with me — we two will have sufficient strength to separate them.”

“ So be it,” answered the Abbe Chastanier.

And, without even thinking to take a carriage, they followed the Rue Breteuil, the Quai du Canal, the Quai Napoleon, and ascended the Cannebiere. They walked with rapid strides, without speaking.

As they reached the Cours Saint-Louis, a clear voice made them turn their heads. It was Fine, the flower-girl, who was calling Marius.

Josephine Cougourdan, who was called familiarly by the caressing diminutive of Fine, was one of those dark children of Marseilles, short and plump, whose fine and regular features have preserved all the delicate purity of the Greek type. Her round head rose above slightly sloping shoulders; her pale face between the bands of her black hair expressed a sort of disdainful mockery; there was a passionate energy in her great sombre eyes which a smile now and then softened. She might have been from twenty-two to twenty-four years old.

At fifteen she had been left an orphan, burdened with the support of a brother not more than ten. She had stoutly continued her mother’s trade, and, three days after the funeral, still all in tears, was seated in a kiosk of the Cours Saint-Louis, making and selling bouquets as she uttered heavy sighs.

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The little flower-girl soon became the spoiled child of Marseilles. She had the popularity of youth and grace. Her flowers, people said, had a sweeter and more penetrating perfume than others. The gallants thronged about her ; she sold them her roses, her violets and her pinks. Thus she was enabled to bring up her brother Cadet and place him, at the age of eighteen, in the employ of a master porter.

The two young folks dwelt upon the Place aux OEufs, in the heart of the popular quarter. Cadet was now a tall fellow who worked on the wharves; Fine, developed, embellished and become a woman, had the lively manners and nonchalant cajolery of the Marseillaises, and reigned, by virtue of her beauty, over all the girls of the people, her companions.

She knew the Cayols from having sold them flowers, and spoke to them with that tender familiarity imparted by the warm air and the soft dialect of Provence. Besides, if all must be told, Philippe of late had so frequently bought roses of her that at last she had grown to feel little thrills in his presence. The young man, a lover by instinct, laughed with her, stared at her so intently as to make her blush and threw her a fragment of a decUjation as he passed, all this that he might not lose the habit of loving. And the poor child, who until then had terribly maltreated lovers, allowed herself to be caught by this game. At night she dreamed of Philippe; she asked herself with anguish where all the flowers she sold him could go to.

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When Marius stepped up to her, he found her blushing and troubled. She was half hidden behind her bouquets. She looked adorably fresh beneath the large lappets of her little lace cap.

“ Monsieur Marius,” said she, in a hesitating voice, “ is it true that your brother has fled with a young lady, as they have been repeating around me since morning? ”

Who says that ? ” asked Marius, quickly.

‘‘Everybody. It is the general talk.”

As the young man seemed to be as much troubled as she and as he remained silent, Fine continued, with a slight bitterness :

“I have often been told that M. Philippe was inconstant. He spoke too sweetly not to lie.”

She was on the point of weeping, but forced back her tears. Then, with dolorous resignation, she added, in a milder tone :

“ I see clearly that you are in trouble. If you have need of me, come to me.”

Marius looked her in the face and thought he understood the anguish of her heart.

“You are a good girl,” cried he. “I thank you and, perhaps, may accept your services.”

He gave her hand a strong grasp, as he would have done with a comrade, and hastened to rejoin the AbbI Chastanier, who was waiting for him on the edge of the sidewalk.

“We have no time to lose,” said he to the priest. “The rumor of the flight is spreading throughout Marseilles. Let us take a hackney-coach.”

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It was night when they arrived at St.-Barnab^. They found only the wife of the gardener Ayasse, knitting in a low room. This woman tranquilly informed them that the gentleman and the young lady had grown afraid and departed on foot in the direction of Aix. She added that they had taken her son to act as their guide among the hills.

So the last hope was destroyed. Marius, overwhelmed, returned to Marseilles, without hearing the Abb^ Chastanier’s words of encouragement. He was thinking of the fatal consequences of Philippe’s folly; he was protesting against the misfortunes which threatened his family.

“ My child,” said the priest on quitting him, “ I am but a poor man. Dispose of me. I am going to pray.”

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Chapter IV

HOW M. DE CAZALIS AVENGED HIS

niece’s runaway.

r HE lovers had fled on Wednesday. The following

A. Friday all Marseilles knev/ of the affair ; the babbling women at the doors ornamented the recital with the most unheard-of commentaries ; the nobility were indignant and the citizens made merry over the matter. M. de Cazalis, in his rage, had neglected nothing to augment the noise and make of his niece’s flight a frightful scandal.

Clear-sighted people easily guessed the reason of all this anger. M. de Cazalis, deputy of the opposition, had been named at Marseilles by a majority composed of republicans, priests and nobles. Devoted to the legitimist cause, bearing one of the most ancient names of Provence, and bowing humbly before the all-powerful influence of the church, he had felt deep repugnance at flattering the liberals and at accepting their voices. These people, in his view, were clowns and servants who ought to be whipped in public. His indomitable pride suffered at the thought of descending to their level.

He was, however, forced to submit. The republicans placed a high value on their services ; once, as a show

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of disdaining their aid was made, they spoke of embarrassing the election, of causing one of their own number to be named. M. de Cazalis, driven by the circumstances of the case, shut up all his hatred in the depths of his heart, promising himself to be avenged some day. Then ensued shameful intrigues; the clergj^ took the field, votes were snatched right and left, and, thanks to a thousand reverences and a thousand promises, M. de Cazalis was elected.

And now Philippe Cayol, one of the chiefs of the liberal party, had fallen into his hands. At last he could satisfy his hatred upon one of those clowns who had bargained with him for his election. This man should pay for all ; his family should be ruined and crushed ; and, as for him, he should be cast into prison, he should be precipitated from the height of his dream of love upon the straw of a dungeon.

What ! a common citizen had dared to let himself be loved by the niece of a Cazalis ! He had borne her away with him, and now they were running about the highways, playing love’s truant. It was a fact that should be made widely known. A man without standing would, perhaps, have preferred to stifle the matter, conceal the deplorable circumstance as much as possible, but a Cazalis, a deputy and a millionaire, had enough influence and pride to cry aloud, without blushing, the shame of his family.

What mattered the fate of a young girl ! Everybody might know that Blanche de Cazalis had been the friend of Philippe Cayol, but nobody, at all events,

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should say that she was his wife, that she had made a mesalliance by marrying a poor devil without a title. Pride desired that the child should remain disgraced and that her disgrace should be placarded upon the walls of Marseilles.

M. de Cazalis caused to be posted at the corners of the city streets bills in which he promised a reward of ten thousand francs to whoever should bring him his niece and Philippe bound hand and foot. When one loses a blooded dog, one advertises it thus by means of posters.

Among the high classes the matter was noised about with still greater violence. M. de Cazalis exhibited his fury everywhere. He called into requisition all the influence of his friends the priests and nobles. As the guardian of Blanche, who was an orphan and whose fortune he had charge of, he stimulated the investigations of justice and made preparations for the criminal trial. He appeared to be making every effort to give the greatest publicity possible to the free spectacle which was on the eve of commencing.

One of the first steps taken by M. de Cazalis had been to cause the arrest of Philippe Cayol’s mother. When the Procureur du Roi presented himself at her house, the poor woman’s only answer to all his questions was that she knew not what had become of her son. Her trouble, her anguish and her maternal fears, which made her hesitate, were considered as proofs of complicity. They imprisoned her, seeing in her a hostage and hoping, perhaps, that her son would deliver himself up to free her.

At the news of his mother’s arrest, Marius was driven wild. He knew that her health was not good, and his terrified imagination pictured her in the depths of a bare and icy cell ; she would die there ; she would be tortured there by all the anguish of misery and despair.

Marius was himself disturbed for a moment; but his firm responses and the bail his emploj^er, the ship-owner Martelly, offered to enter for him saved him from imprisonment. He wished to remain free to work for the safety of his family.

Little by little, his just mind saw the facts clearly. At first, he had been overwhelmed by Philippe’s culpability and had distinguished only his brother’s irreparable error ; then he had humbled himself, thinking soleh" of calming Blanche’s uncle and giving him every possible satisfaction.

But before the rigor of M. de Cazalis, before the gossip which roused his indignation, Marius had revolted. He had seen the fugitives, he knew that Blanche had followed Philippe of her own free will and he was enraged to hear his brother accused of abduction. Abuse was poured into his ear: Philippe was called a scoundrel and a wretch ; his mother experienced no better treatment. At length, the knowledge of the truth forced him to defend the lovers, to take the part of the culprits against justice itself.