LOUISE BEFORE NOTRE DAME
In the days following her immurement in the dreadful sub-cellar, Louise became the Frochards’ breadwinner. Her pathetic blindness, lovely face and form, and sweet young voice attracted sympathy from each passer-by. The offerings all went into the capacious pocket of La Frochard, whence indeed most of them were stolen or cajoled by her worthless scamp of a Jacques.
The old hag feared only lest she lose her precious acquisition of the blind girl. She guarded her ceaselessly, and warded off dangerous questioners.
It was not easy, however, to avoid the good Doctor from La Force, who gave them a donative and looked at the girl with deep professional interest. Despite the beggar’s tactics, he insisted on examining the pupils, then called La Frochard aside.
“Don’t encourage her too much,” said the old gentlemen kindly, “but bring her to me. I am quite sure that she can be cured.”
Rejoining Louise and smiling her wheedling 68 beggar’s smile at the departing Doctor, the features of Widow Frochard suddenly contorted in black rage––she shook her fist at the physician directly his back was turned. Monstrous––to restore sight, and thus make the girl worthless as object of charity! La Frochard felt she had good reason for her rage.
“Can the Doctor do anything?” ventured Louise to the hag, timidly.
“No, he said your case is hopeless.”
They were standing now near the snowy steps of Notre Dame, awaiting worshippers whose pity would be stirred by the girl’s misfortune. Half-drunken Jacques had reeled out of a cabaret to exact his share of the plunder. Mother and first-born cursed heartily the scissors-grinder Pierre who came limping up, saying he could get no jobs on account of the bitter cold, wintry day. Kicking the cripple and twisting Louise’s arm were the favorite pastimes of Jacques and the Widow.
On this occasion the hag snatched the covering from the wretched girl’s shoulders and put it around her own. “You’ll shiver better without that shawl!” she said, brutally 69 setting the scene for the worshippers’ charity.
“Jacques and I,” she continued, “are going to get a little drink to warm our frozen bodies.
“Guard her there, you good-for-nothing Pierre, or I’ll break every bone of your body!” They departed to spend the Doctor’s gold-piece.
Pierre tried vainly to comfort the girl. He could but find her a seat in a pile of snow! He warmed her hands with his own, strove to speak cheering words. But teeth were chattering, and her frail form was quivering as with the ague.
A great wave of pity and love overwhelmed the cripple. He peeled off his coat, beneath which were but the thinnest rags. He wrapped it around her, saying:
“There, there! this will help you keep warm. I really do not need it––I––I-am-not-c-c-cold!”
His own teeth were chattering now, and his pinched features were purple.
The blind girl touched his icy arm, half exposed by his ragged shirt, as she rose to sing for the charity of those who attended mass.
“No, no, Pierre,” she cried, removing the coat from her shoulders, “I will not let you freeze. Oh, how selfish I am to permit you to suffer, who have been so kind to me!”
Rejecting his entreaties, she made him put it on again, hiding her own suffering.
“Hearken! there sounds the organ for the recessional!” she continued. “Soon the people will be coming out. I will sing the same songs that my sister Henriette and I used to sing. Perhaps some one will recognize the melody, and lead me back to her!”
A beautifully majestic, ermined figure stepped graciously out of the church, as La Frochard rejoined Louise and began whining: “Charity! In the name of God, Charity!” whilst the girl’s voice lifted up in an old plaintive melody.
The lady was the Countess de Linieres, returning from her devotions.
The song evoked memories of a bitter past and of a long lost daughter snatched from her in infancy. Bending over poor Louise, she asked: “My child, can you not see me?”
“No, Madame, I am blind,” was the low, sad answer.
MARQUIS DE PRAILLE PLYING HIS ART WITH THE LADIES.
A strange sympathy stirred in the Countess for this girl. There seemed to be some hidden link between them, the nature of which baffled her. She felt the impulse to protect and cherish––was it the voice of Mother Love obscurely speaking?
“Alas!” said Louise. “Blindness is not the worst of my misfortunes. I––I––”
La Frochard administered a terrible pinch that pulled Louise away, then “mothered” her cutely. “We are starving, my beautiful lady,” she whined, “and the poor girl is out of her head. What is that you say? Not my daughter? Yes, indeed she is––the precious––and the youngest of seven. Charity, charity! In the name of God, charity!” she sniffled.
Reluctantly Countess de Linieres stifled the impulse to mother this kindred and hapless young being, averred to be the beggar’s daughter. She placed a golden louis on the palm of the singer, saying:
“Give this to your mother, child.”