committing suicide. She ran upstairs, broke in the door by a push with her peasant strength, and found the lodger writhing on a camp-bed in the convulsions of death. She extinguished the brazier; the door was open, the air rushed in, and the exile was saved. Then, when Lisbeth had put him to bed like a patient, and he was asleep, she could detect the motives of his suicide in the destitution of the rooms, where there was nothing whatever but a wretched table, the camp-bed, and two chairs.
On the table lay a document, which she read:
“I am Count Wenceslas Steinbock, born at Prelia, in Livonia.
“No one is to be accused of my death; my reasons for killing myself are, in the words of Kosciusko, Finis Polonioe!
“The grand-nephew of a valiant General under Charles XII. could not beg. My weakly constitution forbids my taking military service, and I yesterday saw the last of the hundred thalers which I had brought with me from Dresden to Paris. I have left twenty-five francs in the drawer of this table to pay the rent I owe to the landlord.
“My parents being dead, my death will affect nobody. I desire that my countrymen will not blame the French Government. I have never registered myself as a refugee, and I have asked for nothing; I have met none of my fellow-exiles; no one in Paris knows of my existence.
“I am dying in Christian beliefs. May God forgive the last of the Steinbocks!
“WENCESLAS.”
Mademoiselle Fischer, deeply touched by the dying man’s honesty, opened the drawer and found the five five-franc pieces to pay his rent.
“Poor young man!” cried she. “And with no one in the world to care about him!”
She went downstairs to fetch her work, and sat stitching in the garret, watching over the Livonian gentleman.
When he awoke his astonishment may be imagined on finding a woman sitting by his bed; it was like the prolongation of a dream. As she sat there, covering aiguillettes with gold thread, the old maid had resolved to take charge of the poor youth whom she admired as he lay sleeping.
As soon as the young Count was fully awake, Lisbeth talked to give him courage, and questioned him to find out how he might make a living. Wenceslas, after telling his story, added that he owed his position to his acknowledged talent for the fine arts. He had always had a preference for sculpture; the necessary time for study had, however, seemed to him too long for a man without money; and at this moment he was far too weak to do any hard manual labor or undertake an important work in sculpture. All this was Greek to Lisbeth Fischer. She replied to the unhappy man that Paris offered so many openings that any man with will and courage might find a living there. A man of spirit need never perish if he had a certain stock of endurance.
“I am but a poor girl myself, a peasant, and I have managed to make myself independent,” said she in conclusion. “If you will work in earnest, I have saved a little money, and I will lend you, month by month, enough to live upon; but to live frugally, and not to play ducks and drakes with or squander in the streets. You can dine in Paris for twenty-five sous a day, and I will get you your breakfast with mine every day. I will furnish your rooms and pay for such teaching as you may think necessary. You shall give me formal acknowledgment for the money I may lay out for you, and when you are rich you shall repay me all. But if you do not work, I shall not regard myself as in any way pledged to you, and I shall leave you to your fate.”
“Ah!” cried the poor fellow, still smarting from the bitterness of his first struggle with death, “exiles from every land may well stretch out their hands to France, as the souls in Purgatory do to Paradise. In what other country is such help to be found, and generous hearts even in such a garret as this? You will be everything to me, my beloved benefactress; I am your slave! Be my sweetheart,” he added, with one of the caressing gestures familiar to the Poles, for which they are unjustly accused of servility.
“Oh, no; I am too jealous, I should make you unhappy; but I will gladly be a sort of comrade,” replied Lisbeth.
“Ah, if only you knew how I longed for some fellow-creature, even a tyrant, who would have something to say to me when I was struggling in the vast solitude of Paris!” exclaimed Wenceslas. “I regretted Siberia, whither I should be sent by the Emperor if I went home. – Be my Providence! – I will work; I will be a better man than I am, though I am not such a bad fellow!”
“Will you do whatever I bid you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I will adopt you as my child,” said she lightly. “Here I am with a son risen from the grave. Come! we will begin at once. I will go out and get what I want; you can dress, and come down to breakfast with me when I knock on the ceiling with the broomstick.”
That day, Mademoiselle Fischer made some inquiries, at the houses to which she carried her work home, as to the business of a sculptor. By dint of many questions she ended by hearing of the studio kept by Florent and Chanor, a house that made a special business of casting and finishing decorative bronzes and handsome silver plate. Thither she went with Steinbock, recommending him as an apprentice in sculpture, an idea that was regarded as too eccentric. Their business was to copy the works of the greatest artists, but they did not teach the craft. The old maid’s persistent obstinacy so far succeeded that Steinbock was taken on to design ornament. He very soon learned to model ornament, and invented novelties; he had a gift for it.
Five months after he was out of his apprenticeship as a finisher, he made acquaintance with Stidmann, the famous head of Florent’s studios. Within twenty months Wenceslas was ahead of his master; but in thirty months the old maid’s savings of sixteen years had melted entirely. Two thousand five hundred francs in gold! – a sum with which she had intended to purchase an annuity; and what was there to show for it? A Pole’s receipt! And at this moment Lisbeth was working as hard as in her young days to supply the needs of her Livonian.
When she found herself the possessor of a piece of paper instead of her gold louis, she lost her head, and went to consult Monsieur Rivet, who for fifteen years had been his clever head-worker’s friend and counselor. On hearing her story, Monsieur and Madame Rivet scolded Lisbeth, told her she was crazy, abused all refugees whose plots for reconstructing their nation compromised the prosperity of the country and the maintenance of peace; and they urged Lisbeth to find what in trade is called security.
“The only hold you have over this fellow is on his liberty,” observed Monsieur Rivet.
Monsieur Achille Rivet was assessor at the Tribunal of Commerce.
“Imprisonment is no joke for a foreigner,” said he. “A Frenchman remains five years in prison and comes out, free of his debts to be sure, for he is thenceforth bound only by his conscience, and that never troubles him; but a foreigner never comes out. – Give me your promissory note; my bookkeeper will take it up; he will get it protested; you will both be prosecuted and both be condemned to imprisonment in default of payment; then, when everything is in due form, you must sign a declaration. By doing this your interest will be accumulating, and you will have a pistol always primed to fire at your Pole!”
The old maid allowed these legal steps to be taken, telling her protege not to be uneasy, as the proceedings were merely to afford a guarantee to a money-lender who agreed to advance them certain sums. This subterfuge was due to the inventive genius of Monsieur Rivet. The guileless artist, blindly trusting to his benefactress, lighted his pipe with the stamped paper, for he smoked as all men do who have sorrows or energies that need soothing.
One fine day Monsieur Rivet showed Mademoiselle Fischer a schedule, and said to her:
“Here
