A MOTHER’S SIN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume IX, Issue 41, 8 October 1892, Page 1010

A MOTHER’S SIN.

BY LIEt TENANT MVRRAV. -G N bright Sunday morning I stood lingering (7 ''^C', J • on the Pont des Invalids in Paris, and lookj ,■• * n ? at the interesting view that lay to the eastward. Towering above the green and turbid waters of the Seine the walls of the Louvre stretched in grey perspective, while beyond was seen the dome of the Institute, the pointed turrets of that famous prison, the t onciergerie, the bulky towers of Notre Dame, the dome of the Sorbonne, and the sharp, serrated spire of St. < hapelle, each and all historical. Memory was very busy with the scene and the thoughts which it suggested, when suddenly I felt a hand at my pocket. Turning suddenly, I grasped the arm of a lad at my side. He struggled for a moment to escape from me, but when he found this impossible he stood silent and sulky. I knew not why, but as I regarded the little rogue I did not feel the least anger at his audacity, but watched him with not a little interest. He wore the inevitable blouse, coming half down to his knees, the type of the humble class of artisans, with a slouch hat, much the worse for wear. The fellow might have been good-looking, though it was difficult to judge upon this point, so thick was the coating of dirt upon his face. As I looked at his hands, his wrist being grasped firmly in my right, I observed that they were small and well formed ; not those of one accustomed to labour, though in the matter of want of cleanliness they rivalled bis face. He was rather tall, quite slim, and I should have judged not over seventeen or eighteen years of Neither of us had spoken a word while I was making these observations, and I was rather surprised that the fellow did not show tight, or at least struggle to get away. Rut he saw that I was more than a match for him, and I kept a firm grip upon his wrist, determined not to let him go. • You are hurting my wrist.' he said at last. ■ Very likely,’ I replied. ‘ You put it where you had no right to just now.’ ■ I didn't take anything.’ ‘ No : I was too quick for you.' ‘ What are you going to do with me ■ Hand you over to the police. • Don't do that, said he, drawing closer to my side. ■ Yon are not a bard man—l can see that.' • You deserve punishment.' ‘ Ah, bur you will also punish those at home ; they are not to blame, poor things :' I was interested at once, and told the lad that I would like to see his home. If he would show me to it, and promise not to run away, I would let go his wrist and not band him over to the police. He looked at me with a searching glance, and thought for a moment before he answered, then said : • You have a right to make terms. I don't see what good it will do, but I promise, and you can follow me.' I released his wrist and followed him across the bridge to the other side of the Seine. After crossing the boulevard St. Michael we struck into a labyrinth of streets that lie in this part of the city, the famous St. Giles of Paris, and finally stopped before a tumble down house, into which my guide" entered, and I followed him up a narrow flight of stairs to the garret. Here, taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a door, and we entered a low room, in the middle of which, upon the floor, were a little girl and toy at play with some toy blocks. My guide disappeared at once through a side door into what appeared to be an anteroom, saving he would be back in one moment, and I turned toward the children, both of whom had left their play to regard me with curious eyes. The oldest could not have been more than four years of age, a bright and pretty faced boy, while his sister was perhaps a year younger, and extremely beautiful. They were coarsely dressed, but were clean and neat in appearance. The apartment, which contained little or no furniture beyond a bedstead and two chairs, with a sort of bureau, surmounted by a looking-glass, showed unmistakeable evidences of poverty, but yet no want of neatness outraged the eve.

I had hardly made these obseivations when the door opened again, and there entered the room a young woman, scarcely more than twenty years of age. She was rather delicate in appearance, and quite pretty, not to say handsome : her dress, like that of the children, was coarse, but neat, and as she sat down upon one of the chairs, after placing the other for me. the two children ran to her knees with the instinct and affection of offspring of their tender years. I had looked at her but a moment before 1 discovered that the pickpocket of the Pont des Invalides was a woman ! • Did you not suspect my sex ?' she asked, after a moment. • I certainly did not.' ‘ It is my one resort, she said, sadly, 'and never adopted until I am driven to it to fill those little months ’.' ‘ Dangerous business —you might have fallen into very different hands, as yon must be aware. • True, but I work by instinct. I saw your face, and I said I must have money. He is not a hard man : if detected I may, perhaps, appeal to his mercy. • Why do you not ask for ai l in place of being thus a thief ?' • That i* a hard word, but it i« merited. Do you not know that beggars are treated in Paris like thieves? The law punishes both nearly alike.' • I fear that yon speak truly. Are these your children ?' • Yes.' and she kissed them both tenderly. • Are you married ?’ • Monsieur !’ • I mean no reproach. • I am a widow,' • How did you lose your husband?' • He was one of the Commune, was tried, con iemned, and fell by the muskets of the soldiery.' • Alas, for these civil wars !’ • Ah. but he was right.' said she, with all the obstinacy of conviction and loyalty to memory. I then listened to her story. Her husband had been an engraver with good wages, and had been able to support his little family comfortably until the war, which was fol-

lowed by the intestine trouble. He was arrested with the Communists, and suffered the punishment of death. Since then she had lived and supported her children by selling off everything that would bring money ; had got some work to do with her needle occasionally, but at last all seemed to fail her, and by means of disguising her sex she had successfully consummated several small robberies of money, and once or twice had made attempts similar to that which had failed in my instance. She reasoned with me very coolly, and said : * If it were not for these dear children I should cease to suffer very soon, for,' said she, ‘the Seine is always there with open arms.' Shetsaid. tenderly: ‘My husband is in heaven, but he is my husband still, and I shall live and die faithful to him.’ Notwithstanding her noble sense of honour in this respect she felt no compunctions as to stealing. ‘ The world owes me and my children bread. I take nothing from the poor, only from such as can well afford to lose it.’ Honesty, as a matter of principle, she could not recognize. ‘ Have you no friends ?' • None here. ’ ‘ Have you any elsewhere ?’ ‘ I have a sister at Rouen, the wife of a farmer. If I conld get there she would give me a home for myself and children in return for the work I could do for her.' ‘ You shall go there,’ said I. ‘ Monsieur !' ‘ I say you'shall go to your sister.' ‘ It will cost fifty francs.' ‘ Just about.’ You will pay this for me, who would have robbed you half-an-hour since ?’ ' I will. But I exact from you one promise.’ She looked at me suspiciously for a moment. ‘ What is it ?' • That you will learn to be as honest and true in relation to the rights and property of others as vou are with regard to your own honour.' ‘ I believe I understand you,' she said, thoughtfully, ‘ and I will promise to try and do as you have said.’ ‘ That is all I can ask.' She carae toward me, now leading the children, and said : ‘ Monsieur, let them kiss you. I believe, after all, that there is disinterested benevolence in the world. I have been more than once offered assistance, but it has been coupled with conditions so hateful that I have felt insulted. Kiss him. Marie—kiss him, Gustave : he is good—good, like your papa.' I had been surprised at the excellent manner in which she expressed betself, while, as she stood there now, her cheeks suffused with a slight colour, and her eyes lighted up by animation and a feeling of trust and gratitude, I thought that she was extremely beautiful. ‘ I am going to Havre to-morrow, bv the wav of Rouen,’ said I : ‘ can you be ready so soon with your children ?' ‘ I can be ready in one hour.' ‘ Pack up whatever is necessary for yon to carry. Here is money to get you a good-sized trunk. Be ready tomorrow at noon, and I will come for you.' She attempted to thank me, but her lips quivered, and she turned away to hide the tears that coursed down her cheeks. As I passed toward the door she followed, and taking ray hand her own pressed it earnestly as she said : ‘ There is reward somewhere for such kindness.’ As I looked upon her now it seemed impossible that this was the pickpocket of the Font des Invalides, the dirty lad in a blouse, whom I had detained by force. Stopping over for a few hours at Rouen enabled me to witness the meeting of the young mother with her sister at the very comfortable Norman farm house, as she had described. Pressing a purse of fifty francs upon her, I left the sisters together, both happy at the re union which should make them share the same home together, even as they had dene in childhood. ‘ Keep your resolve and the secret of the past.’ I said to her. in a low voice. ‘ With Heaven's help, I will,' she said.