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      CHAPTER III.

      HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE.

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      "Let us begin at the beginning," said the Chourineur.

      "Yes; your parents?" added Rodolph.

      "I never knew them," said Fleur-de-Marie.

      "The deuce!" said the Chourineur. "Well, that is odd, Goualeuse! you and I are of the same family."

      "What! you, too, Chourineur?"

      "An orphan of the streets of Paris like you, my girl."

      "Then who brought you up, Goualeuse?" asked Rodolph.

"I don't know, sir. As far back as I can remember—I was, I think, about six or seven years old—I was with an old one-eyed woman, whom they call the Chouette,[6] because she had a hooked nose, a green eye quite round, and was like an owl with one eye out."

      "Ha! ha! ha! I think I see her, the old night-bird!" shouted the Chourineur, laughing.

      "The one-eyed woman," resumed Fleur-de-Marie, "made me sell barley-sugar in the evenings on the Pont Neuf; but that was only an excuse for asking charity; and when I did not bring her in at least ten sous, the Chouette beat me instead of giving me any supper."

      "Are you sure the woman was not your mother?" inquired Rodolph.

      "Quite sure; for she often scolded me for being fatherless and motherless, and said she picked me up one day in the street."

      "So," said the Chourineur, "you had a dance instead of a meal, if you did not pick up ten sous?"

      "Yes. And after that I went to lie down on some straw spread on the ground; when I was cold—very cold."

      "I do not doubt it, for the feather of beans (straw) is a very cold sort of stuff," said the Chourineur. "A dung-heap is twice as good; but then people don't like your smell, and say, 'Oh, the blackguard! where has he been?'"

      This remark made Rodolph smile, whilst Fleur-de-Marie thus continued: "Next day the one-eyed woman gave me a similar allowance for breakfast as for supper, and sent me to Montfauçon to get some worms to bait for fish; for in the daytime the Chouette kept her stall for selling fishing-lines, near the bridge of Notre Dame. For a child of seven years of age, who is half dead with hunger and cold, it is a long way from the Rue de la Mortellerie to Montfauçon."

      "But exercise has made you grow as straight as an arrow, my girl; you have no reason to complain of that," said the Chourineur, striking a light for his pipe.

      "Well," said the Goualeuse, "I returned very, very tired; then, at noon, the Chouette gave me a little bit of bread."

      "Ah, eating so little has kept your figure as fine as a needle, girl; you must not find fault with that," said Chourineur, puffing out a cloud of tobacco-smoke. "But what ails you, comrade—I mean, Master Rodolph? You seem quite down like; are you sorry for the girl and her miseries? Ah, we all have, and have had, our miseries!"

      "Yes, but not such miseries as mine, Chourineur," said Fleur-de-Marie.

      "What! not I, Goualeuse? Why, my lass, you were a queen to me! At least, when you were little you slept on straw and ate bread; I passed my most comfortable nights in the lime-kilns at Clichy, like a regular vagabond; I fed on cabbage-stumps and other refuse vegetables, which I picked up when and where I could; but very often, as it was so far to the lime-kilns at Clichy, and I was tired after my work, I slept under the large stones at the Louvre; and then, in winter, I had white sheets—that is, whenever the snow fell."

      "A man is stronger; but a poor little girl—" said Fleur-de-Marie. "And yet, with all that, I was as plump as a skylark."

      "What! you remember that, eh?"

      "To be sure I do. When the Chouette beat me I fell always at the first blow; then she stamped upon me, screaming out, 'Ah, the nasty little brute! she hasn't a farden's worth of strength—she can't stand even two thumps!' And then she called me Pegriotte (little thief). I never had any other name—that was my baptismal name."

      "Like me. I had the baptism of a dog in a ditch, and they called me 'Fellow,' or 'You, sir,' or 'Albino.' It is really surprising, my wench, how much we resemble each other!" said the Chourineur.

      "That's true—in our misery," said Fleur-de-Marie, who addressed herself to the Chourineur almost always, feeling, in spite of herself, a sort of shame at the presence of Rodolph, hardly venturing to raise her eyes to him, although in appearance he belonged to that class with whom she ordinarily lived.

      "And when you had fetched the worms for the Chouette, what did you do?" inquired the Chourineur.

      "Why, she made me beg until night; then, in the evening, she went to sell fried fish on the Pont Neuf. Oh, dear! at that time it was a long while to wait for my morsel of bread; and if I dared to ask the Chouette for something to eat, she beat me and said, 'Get ten sous, and then you shall have your supper.' Then I, being very hungry, and as she hurt me very much, cried with a very full heart and sore body. The Chouette tied my little basket of barley-sugar round my neck, and stationed me on the Pont Neuf, where, in winter, I was frozen to death. Yet sometimes, in spite of myself, I slept as I stood—but not long; for the Chouette kicked me until I awoke. I remained on the bridge till eleven o'clock, my stock of barley-sugar hanging round my neck, and often crying heartily. The passengers, touched by my tears, sometimes gave me a sou; and then I gained ten and sometimes fifteen sous, which I gave to the Chouette, who searched me all over, and even looked in my mouth, to see if I had kept back anything."

      "Well, fifteen sous was a good haul for a little bird like you."

      "It was. And then the one-eyed woman seeing that—"

      "With her one eye?" said the Chourineur, laughing.

      "Of course, because she had but one. Well, then, she finding that when I cried I got most money, always beat me severely before she put me on the bridge."

      "Brutal, but cunning."

      "Well, at last I got hardened to blows; and as the Chouette got in a passion when I did not cry, why I, to be revenged upon her, the more she thumped me the more I laughed, although the tears came into my eyes with the pain."

      "But, poor Goualeuse, did not the sticks of barley-sugar make you long for them?"

      "Ah, yes, Chourineur; but I never tasted them. It was my ambition, and my ambition ruined me. One day, returning from Montfauçon, some little boys beat me and stole my basket. I came back, well knowing what was in store for me; and I had a shower of thumps and no bread. In the evening, before going to the bridge, the Chouette, savage because I had not brought in anything the evening before, instead of beating me as usual to make me cry, made me bleed by pulling my hair from the sides of the temples, where it is most tender."

      "Tonnerre! that was coming it too strong," said the bandit, striking his fist heavily on the table, and frowning sternly. "To beat a child is no such great thing, but to ill-use one so—Heaven and earth!"

      Rodolph