Pierrette by Honoré de Balzac (best ebook reader for laptop txt) 📕

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This letter so affected Pierrette that she sat for more than an hour reading and re-reading and gazing at it. Then she remembered with anguish that she had nothing to write with. She summoned courage to make the difficult journey from her garret to the dining-room, where she obtained pen, paper, and ink, and returned safely without waking her terrible cousin. A few minutes before midnight she had finished the following letter:--

My Friend,--Oh! yes, my friend; for there is no one but you,
Jacques, and my grandmother to love me. God forgive me, but you
are the only two persons whom I love, both alike, neither more nor
less. I was too little to know my dear mamma; but you, Jacques,
and my grandmother, and my grandfather,--God grant him heaven, for
he suffered much from his ruin, which was mine,--but you two who
are left, I love you both, unhappy as I am. Indeed, to know how
much I love you, you will have to know how much I suffer; but I
don't wish that, it would grieve you too much. _They_ speak to me
as we would not speak to a dog; _they_ treat me like the worst of
girls; and yet I do examine myself before God, and I cannot find
that I do wrong by them. Before you sang to me the marriage song I
saw the mercy of God in my sufferings; for I had prayed to him to
take me from the world, and I felt so ill I said to myself, "God
hears me!" But, Jacques, now you are here, I want to live and go
back to Brittany, to my grandmamma who loves me, though _they_ say
she stole eight thousand francs of mine. Jacques, is that so? If
they are mine could you get them! But it is not true, for if my
grandmother had eight thousand francs she would not live at
Saint-Jacques.

I don't want to trouble her last days, my kind, good grandmamma,
with the knowledge of my troubles; she might die of it. Ah! if she
knew they made her grandchild scrub the pots and pans,--she who
used to say to me, when I wanted to help her after her troubles,
"Don't touch that, my darling; leave it--leave it--you will spoil
your pretty fingers." Ah! my hands are never clean now. Sometimes
I can hardly carry the basket home from market, it cuts my arm.
Still I don't think my cousins mean to be cruel; but it is their
way always to scold, and it seems that I have no right to leave
them. My cousin Rogron is my guardian. One day when I wanted to
run away because I could not bear it, and told them so, my cousin
Sylvie said the gendarmes would go after me, for the law was my
master. Oh! I know now that cousins cannot take the place of
father or mother, any more than the saints can take the place of
God.

My poor Jacques, what do you suppose I could do with your money?
Keep it for our journey. Oh! how I think of you and Pen-Hoel, and
the big pong,--that's where we had our only happy days. I shall
have no more, for I feel I am going from bad to worse. I am very
ill, Jacques. I have dreadful pains in my head, and in my bones,
and back, which kill me, and I have no appetite except for horrid
things,--roots and leaves and such things. Sometimes I cry, when I
am all alone, for they won't let me do anything I like if they
know it, not even cry. I have to hide to offer my tears to Him to
whom we owe the mercies which we call afflictions. It must have
been He who gave you the blessed thought to come and sing the
marriage song beneath my window. Ah! Jacques, my cousin heard you,
and she said I had a lover. If you wish to be my lover, love me
well. I promise to love you always, as I did in the past, and to
be

Your faithful servant,
Pierrette Lorrain.

You will love me always, won't you?

She had brought a crust of bread from the kitchen, in which she now made a hole for the letter, and fastened it like a weight to her string. At midnight, having opened her window with extreme caution, she lowered the letter with the crust, which made no noise against either the wall of the house or the blinds. Presently she felt the string pulled by Brigaut, who broke it and then crept softly away. When he reached the middle of the square she could see him indistinctly by the starlight; but he saw her quite clearly in the zone of light thrown by the candle. The two children stood thus for over an hour, Pierrette making him signs to go, he starting, she remaining, he coming back to his post, and Pierrette again signing that he must leave her. This was repeated till the child closed her window, went to bed, and blew out the candle. Once in bed she fell asleep, happy in heart though suffering in body,--she had Brigaut's letter under her pillow. She slept as the persecuted sleep,--a slumber bright with angels; that slumber full of heavenly arabesques, in atmospheres of gold and lapis-lazuli, perceived and given to us by Raffaelle.

The moral nature had such empire over that frail physical nature that on the morrow Pierrette rose light and joyous as a lark, as radiant and as gay. Such a change could not escape the vigilant eye of her cousin Sylvie, who, this time, instead of scolding her, set about watching her with the scrutiny of a magpie. "What reason is there for such happiness?" was a thought of jealousy, not of tyranny. If the colonel had not been in Sylvie's mind she would have said to Pierrette as formerly, "Pierrette, you are very noise, and very regardless of what you have often been told." But now the old maid resolved to spy upon her as only old maids can spy. The day was still and gloomy, like the weather that precedes a storm.

"You don't appear to be ill now, mademoiselle," said Sylvie at dinner. "Didn't I tell you she put it all on to annoy us?" she cried, addressing her brother, and not waiting for Pierrette's answer.

"On the contrary, cousin, I have a sort of fever--"

"Fever! what fever? You are as gay as a lark. Perhaps you have seen some one again?"

Pierrette trembled and dropped her eyes on her plate.

"Tartufe!" cried Sylvie; "and only fourteen years old! what a nature! Do you mean to come to a bad end?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Pierrette, raising her sweet and luminous brown eyes to her cousin.

"This evening," said Sylvie, "you are to stay in the dining-room with a candle, and do your sewing. You are not wanted in the salon; I sha'n't have you looking into my hand to help your favorites."

Pierrette made no sign.

"Artful creature!" cried Sylvie, leaving the room.

Rogron, who did not understand his sister's anger, said to Pierrette: "What is all this about? Try to please your cousin, Pierrette; she is very indulgent to you, very gentle, and if you put her out of temper the fault is certainly yours. Why do you squabble so? For my part I like to live in peace. Look at Mademoiselle Bathilde and take pattern by her."

Pierrette felt able to bear everything. Brigaut would come at midnight and bring her an answer, and that hope was the viaticum of her day. But she was using up her last strength. She did not go to bed, and stood waiting for the hour to strike. At last midnight sounded; softly she opened the window; this time she used a string made by tying bits of twine together. She heard Brigaut's step, and on drawing up the cord she found the following letter, which filled her with joy:--

My dear Pierrette,--As you are so ill you must not tire yourself
by waiting for me. You will hear me if I cry like an owl. Happily
my father taught me to imitate their note. So when you hear the
cry three times you will know I am there, and then you must let
down the cord. But I shall not come again for some days. I hope
then to bring you good news.

Oh! Pierrette, don't talk of dying! Pierrette, don't think such
things! All my heart shook, I felt as though I were dead myself at
the mere idea. No, my Pierrette, you must not die; you will live
happy, and soon you shall be delivered from your persecutors. If I
do not succeed in what I am undertaking for your rescue, I shall
appeal to the law, and I shall speak out before heaven and earth
and tell how your wicked relations are treating you. I am certain
that you have not many more days to suffer; have patience, my
Pierrette! Jacques is watching over you as in the old days when we
slid on the pond and I pulled you out of the hole in which we were
nearly drowned together.

Adieu, my dear Pierrette; in a few days, if God wills, we shall be
happy. Alas, I dare not tell you the only thing that may hinder
our meeting. But God loves us! In a few days I shall see my dear
Pierrette at liberty, without troubles, without any one to hinder
my looking at you--for, ah! Pierrette, I hunger to see you
--Pierrette, Pierrette, who deigns to love me and to tell me so.
Yes, Pierrette, I will be your lover when I have earned the
fortune you deserve; till then I will be to you only a devoted
servant whose life is yours to do what you please with it. Adieu.

Jacques Brigaut.

Here is a letter of which the major's son said nothing to Pierrette. He wrote it to Madame Lorrain at Nantes:--

Madame Lorrain,--Your granddaughter will die, worn-out with
ill-treatment, if you do not come to fetch her. I could scarcely
recognize her; and to show you the state of things I enclose a
letter I have received from Pierrette. You are thought here to
have taken the money of your granddaughter, and you ought to
justify yourself. If you can, come at once. We may still be happy;
but if delay Pierrette will be dead.

I am, with respect, your devoted servant,
Jacques Brigaut.

At Monsieur Frappier's, Cabinet-maker, Grand'Rue, Provins.

Brigaut's fear was that the grandmother