Monsieur Du Harpin let more than a month drift by, that is to say, he waited until the end of my second year with him, and waited without showing the least hint of
resentment1 at the refusal I had given him, when one evening, having just
retired2 to my room to taste a few hours of
repose3, I suddenly heard my door burst opens and there, not without terror, I saw Monsieur du Harpin and four soldiers of the watch
standing4 by my bed. "Perform your duty, Sirrah," said he to the men of the law, "this
wretch5 has stolen from me a diamond worth a thousand crowns, you will find it in her
chamber6 or upon her person, the fact is certain."
"I have robbed you, Monsieur!" said I, sore troubled and springing from my bed, "I! Great Heaven! Who knows better than you the contrary to be true! Who should be more deeply aware than you to what point I
loathe7 robbery and to what degree it is unthinkable I could have committed it." But du Harpin made a great
uproar8 to drown out my words; he continued to order perquisitions, and the
miserable9 ring was discovered in my
mattress10. To evidence of this strength there was nothing to reply; I was seized instantly,
pinioned11, and led to prison without being able to prevail upon the authorities to listen to one word in my favor.
The trial of an unfortunate creature who has neither influence nor protection is conducted with dispatch in a land where
virtue12 is thought
incompatible13 with
misery14, where poverty is enough to convict the accused; there, an unjust prepossession causes it to be supposed that he who ought to have committed a crime did indeed commit it; sentiments are proportioned according to the guilty one's estate; and when once gold or titles are wanting to establish his
innocence15, the impossibility that he be innocent then appears self-evident.
I defended myself, it did no good, in vain I furnished the best material to the lawyer whom a
protocol18 of form required be given me for an instant or two; my employer accused me, the diamond had been discovered in my room; it was plain I had stolen it. When I wished to describe Monsieur du Harpin's awful traffic and prove that the misfortune that had struck me was
naught19 but the fruit of his
vengeance20 and the consequence of his eagerness to be rid of a creature who, through possession of his secret, had become his master, these pleadings were interpreted as so many recriminations, and I was informed that for twenty years Monsieur du Harpin had been known as a man of integrity,
incapable21 of such a horror. I was transferred to the Conciergerie, where I saw myself upon the
brink22 of having to pay with my life for having refused to participate in a crime; I was shortly to perish; only a new misdeed could save me:
Providence23 willed that Crime serve at least once as an
aegis24 unto Virtue, that crime might preserve it from the abyss which is some-day going to
engulf25 judges together with their imbecility.
I had about me a woman, probably forty years old, as
celebrated26 for her beauty as for the variety and number of her villainies; she was called Dubois and, like the unlucky Therese, was on the eve of paying the capital penalty, but as to the exact form of it the judges were yet
mightily27 perplexed28: having rendered herself guilty of every imaginable crime, they found themselves virtually obliged to invent a new torture for her, or to expose her to one whence we ordinarily
exempt29 our sex. This woman had become interested in me, criminally interested without doubt, since the basis of her feelings, as I learned
afterward30, was her extreme desire to make a proselyte of me.
Only two days from the time set for our execution, Dubois came to me; it was at night. She told me not to lie down to sleep, but to stay near her side. Without attracting attention, we moved as close as we could to the prison door. "Between seven and eight," she said, "the Conciergerie will catch fire, I have seen to it; no question about it, many people will be burned; it doesn't matter, Therese," the evil creature went on, "the fate of others must always be as nothing to us when our own lives are at stake; well, we are going to escape here, of that you can be sure; four men my confederates will join us and I guarantee you we will be free."
I have told you, Madame, that the hand of God which had just punished my innocence, employed crime to protect me; the fire began, it spread, the blaze was horrible, twenty-one persons were consumed, but we made a successful sally. The same day we reached the cottage of a poacher, an intimate friend of our band who dwelt in the forest of Bondy.
"There you are, Therese," Dubois says to me, "free. You may now choose the kind of life you wish, but were I to have any advice to give you, it would be to
renounce31 the practice of virtue which, as you have noticed, is the courting of disaster; a misplaced
delicacy32 led you to the foot of the scaffold, an
appalling33 crime rescued you from it; have a look about and see how useful are good deeds in this world, and whether it is really worth the trouble
immolating34 yourself for them. Therese, you are young and attractive,
heed35 me, and in two years I'll have led you to a fortune; but don't suppose I am going to guide you there along the paths of virtue: when one wants to get on, my dear girl, one must stop at nothing; decide, then, we have no security in this cottage, we've got to leave in a few hours."#p#分页标题#e#
"Oh Madame," I said to my benefactress, "I am greatly indebted to you, and am far from wishing to disown my obligations; you saved my life; in my view, 'tis
frightful36 the thing was achieved through a crime and, believe me, had I been the one charged to commit it, I should have preferred a thousand deaths to the
anguish37 of participating in it; I am aware of all the dangers I risk in trusting myself to the honest sentiments which will always remain in my heart; but whatever be the thorns of virtue, Madame, I prefer them unhesitatingly and always to the
perilous38 favors which are crime's accompaniment. There are religious principles within me which, may it please Heaven, will never desert me; if Providence renders difficult my career in life, 'tis in order to
compensate39 me in a better world. That hope is my
consolation40, it sweetens my griefs, it
soothes41 me in my sufferings, it
fortifies42 me in
distress43, and causes me confidently to face all the ills it pleases God to visit upon me. That joy should straightway be extinguished in my soul were I perchance to
besmirch44 it with crime, and together with the fear of chastisements in this world I should have the painful
anticipation45 of
torments46 in the next, which would not for one instant
procure47 me the
tranquillity48 I thirst after."
"Those are absurd
doctrines49 which will have you on the dung heap in no time, my girl," said Dubois with a frown; "believe me: forget God's justice, His future punishments and rewards, the lot of those
platitudes50 lead us nowhere but to death from starvation. O Therese, the
callousness51 of the Rich
legitimates52 the bad conduct of the Poor; let them open their purse to our needs, let
humaneness53 reign54 in their hearts and
virtues55 will take root in ours; but as long as our misfortune, our patient endurance of it, our good faith, our
abjection56 only serves to double the weight of our chains, our crimes will be their doing, and we will be fools indeed to
abstain57 from them when they can
lessen58 the
yoke59 wherewith their cruelty bears us down. Nature has caused us all to be equals born, Therese; if fate is pleased to upset the primary scheme of the general law, it is up to us to correct its caprices and through our skill to repair the usurpations of the strongest. I love to hear these rich ones, these titled ones, these
magistrates60 and these priests, I love to see them preach virtue to us. It is not very difficult to forswear theft when one has three or four times what one needs to live; it is not very necessary to plot murder when one is surrounded by nothing but adulators and
thralls61 unto whom one's will is law; nor is it very hard to be
temperate62 and sober when one has the most succulent dainties constantly within one's reach; they can well
contrive63 to be sincere when there is never any apparent advantage in falsehood... But we, Therese, we whom the barbaric Providence you are mad enough to idolize, has
condemned64 to slink in the dust of
humiliation65 as doth the serpent in grass, we who are
beheld66 with
disdain67 only because we are poor, who are tyrannized because we are weak; we, who must
quench68 our thirst with
gall69 and who, wherever we go, tread on the thistle always, you would have us
shun70 crime when its hand alone opens up unto us the door to life, maintains us in it, and is our only protection when our life is threatened; you would have it that, degraded and in perpetual abjection, while this class dominating us has to itself all the
blessings71 of fortune, we reserve for ourselves naught but pain, beatings, suffering, nothing but want and tears, brandings and the gibbet. No, no, Therese, no; either this Providence you
reverence72 is made only for our scorn, or the world we see about us is not at all what Providence would have it. Become better acquainted with your Providence, my child, and be convinced that as soon as it places us in a situation where evil becomes necessary, and while at the same time it leaves us the possibility of doing it, this evil harmonizes quite as well with its decrees as does good, and Providence gains as much by the one as by the other; the state in which she has created us is equality: he who disturbs is no more guilty than he who seeks to re-establish the balance; both act in accordance with received impulses, both have to obey those impulses and enjoy them."
I must confess that if ever I was shaken it was by this clever woman's seductions; but a yet stronger voice, that of my heart to which I gave heed, combatted her
sophistries73; I declared to Dubois that I was
determined74 never to allow myself to be
corrupted75. "Very well!" she replied, "become what you wish, I abandon you to your sorry fate; but if ever you get yourself hanged, which is an end you cannot avoid, thanks to the
fatality76 which
inevitably77 saves the criminal by sacrificing the
virtuous78, at least remember before dying never to mention us."