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Transcriber's Notes:
1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.
2. Passages in Gothic Bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs.
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[Illustration: _The Abduction._
Original Etching by Mercier.]
+The Mysteries of Paris.+
_ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS
BY MERCIER, BICKNELL, POITEAU,
AND ADRIAN MARCEL._
_BY EUGENE SUE_
_IN SIX VOLUMES
VOLUME IV._
_PRINTED FOR
FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
BOSTON_
+Edition de Luxe+
_This edition is limited to one thousand copies,
of which this is_
No.____
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW 11
II. THE WILL 33
III. L'ILE DU RAVAGEUR 48
IV. THE FRESHWATER PIRATE 60
V. THE MOTHER AND SON 82
VI. FRANCOIS AND AMANDINE 101
VII. A LODGING-HOUSE 119
VIII. THE VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE 132
IX. THE RUE DE CHAILLOT 156
X. THE COMTE DE SAINT-REMY 170
XI. THE INTERVIEW 185
XII. THE SEARCH 204
XIII. THE ADIEUX 226
XIV. RECOLLECTIONS 239
XV. THE BOATS 262
XVI. THE HAPPINESS OF MEETINGS 273
XVII. DOCTOR GRIFFON 298
XVIII. THE PORTRAIT 305
XIX. THE AGENT OF SAFETY 315
XX. THE CHOUETTE 321
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
THE ABDUCTION _Frontispiece_
THE BRIGAND DASHED AT HIS BROTHER 87
HE EXHIBITED SUCH FEROCIOUS JOY 168
WAS ABOUT TO EMBRACE HIS FATHER 199
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
CHAPTER I.
RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW.
Rigolette's apartment was still in all its extreme nicety; the large
silver watch placed over the mantelpiece, in a small boxwood stand,
denoted the hour of four. The severe cold weather having ceased, the
thrifty little needlewoman had not lighted her stove.
From the window, a corner of blue sky was scarcely perceptible over the
masses of irregularly built roofs, garrets, and tall chimneys, which
bounded the horizon on the other side of the street. Suddenly a sunbeam,
which, as it were, wandered for a moment between two high gables, came
for an instant to purple with its bright rays the windows of the young
girl's chamber.
Rigolette was at work, seated by her window; and the soft shadow of her
charming profile stood out from the transparent light of the glass as a
cameo of rosy whiteness on a silver ground. Brilliant hues played on her
jet black hair, twisted in a knot at the back of her head, and shaded
with a warm amber colour the ivory of her industrious little fingers,
which plied the needle with incomparable activity. The long folds of her
brown gown, confined at the waist by the bands of her green apron, half
concealed her straw-seated chair, and her pretty feet rested on the edge
of a stool before her.
Like a rich lord, who sometimes amuses himself in hiding the walls of a
cottage beneath splendid hangings, the setting sun for a moment lighted
up this little chamber with a thousand dazzling fires, throwing his
golden tints on the curtains of gray and green stuff, and making the
walnut-tree furniture glisten with brightness, and the dry-rubbed floor
look like heated copper; whilst it encircled in a wire-work of gold the
grisette's bird-cage. But, alas! in spite of the exciting splendour of
this sun-ray, the two canaries (male and female) flitted about uneasily,
and, contrary to their usual habit, did not sing a note. This was
because, contrary to her usual habit, Rigolette did not sing. The three
never warbled without one another; almost invariably the cheerful and
matin song of the latter called forth that of the birds, who, more lazy,
did not leave their nests as early as their mistress. Then there were
rivalries,--contentions of clear, sonorous, pearly, silvery notes, in
which the birds had not always the advantage.
Rigolette did not sing, because, for the first time in her life, she
experienced a sorrow. Up to this time, the sight of the misery of the
Morels had often affected her; but such sights are too familiar to the
poorer classes to cause them any very lasting melancholy. After having,
almost every day, succoured these unfortunates as far as was in her
power, sincerely wept with and for them, the young girl felt herself at
the same time moved and satisfied,--moved by their misfortunes, and
satisfied at having shown herself pitiful. But this was not a sorrow.
Rigolette's natural gaiety soon regained its empire; and then, without
egotism, but by a simple fact of comparison, she found herself so happy
in her little chamber, after leaving the horrible den of the Morels,
that her momentary sadness speedily disappeared.
This lightness of impression was so little affected by personal feeling,
that, by a mode of extremely delicate reasoning, the grisette considered
it almost a duty to aid those more unhappy than herself, that she might
thus unscrupulously enjoy an existence so very precarious and entirely
dependent on her labour, but which, compared with the fearful distress
of the lapidary's family, appeared to her almost luxurious.
"In order to sing without compunction, when we have near us persons so
much to be pitied," she said, naively, "we must have been as charitable
to them as possible."
Before we inform our reader the cause of Rigolette's first sorrow, we
are desirous to assure him, or her, completely as to the virtue of this
young girl. We are sorry to use the word virtue,--a serious, pompous,
solemn word, which almost always brings with it ideas of painful
sacrifice, of painful struggle against the passions, of austere
meditations on the final close of all things here below. Such was not
the virtue of Rigolette. She had neither deeply struggled nor meditated;
she had worked, and laughed, and sung. Her prudence, as she called it,
when speaking frankly and sincerely to Rodolph, was with her a question
of time,--she had not the leisure to be in love. Particularly lively,
industrious, and orderly, order, work, and gaiety had often, unknown to
herself, defended, sustained, saved her.
It may be deemed, perchance, that this morality is light, frivolous,
casual; but of what consequence is the cause, so that the effect
endures? Of what consequence are the directions of the roots of a plant,
provided the flower blooms pure, expanded, and full of perfume?
Apropos of our utopianisms, as to the encouragement, help, and
recompenses which society ought to grant to artisans remarkable for
their eminent social qualities, we have alluded to that protection of
virtue (one of the projects of the Emperor, by the way). Let us suppose
this admirable idea realised. One of the real philanthropists whom the
Emperor proposed to employ in searching after worth has discovered
Rigolette. Abandoned without advice, without aid, exposed to all the
perils of poverty, to all the seductions with which youth and beauty are
surrounded, this charming girl has remained pure; her honest,
hard-working life might serve for a model and example. Would not this
young creature deserve, not a mere recompense, not succour only, but
some impressive words of approbation and encouragement, which would give
her a consciousness of her own worth, exalt her in her own eyes, and lay
on her obligations for the future? At least she would know that she was
followed by eyes full of solicitude and protection in the difficult path
in which she is progressing with so much courage and serenity; she would
know that, if one day the want of work or sickness threatened to destroy
the equilibrium of the poor and occupied life, which depends solely on
work and health, a slight help, due to her former deserts, would be
given to her.
People, no doubt, will exclaim against the impossibility of this
tutelary surveillance, which would surround persons particularly worthy
of interest through their previous excellent lives. It seems to us that
society has already resolved this problem. Has it not already imagined
the superintendence of the police, for life or for a period, for the
most useful purpose of constantly controlling the conduct of dangerous
persons, noted for the infamy of their former lives? Why does not
society exercise also a superintendence of moral charity?
But let us leave the lofty stilts of our utopianisms, and return to the
cause of Rigolette's first sorrow.
With the exception of Germain, a well-behaved, open-hearted young man,
the grisette's neighbours had all, at first, begun on terms of
familiarity, believing her offers of good neighbourship were little
flirtations; but these gentlemen had been compelled to admit, with as
much astonishment as annoyance, that they found in Rigolette an amiable
and mirthful companion for their Sunday excursions, a pleasant
neighbour, and a kind-hearted creature, but not a mistress. Their
surprise and their annoyance, at first very great, gradually gave way
before the frank and even temper of the grisette; and then, as she had
sagaciously said to Rodolph, her neighbours were proud on Sundays to
have on their arms a pretty girl, who was an honour to them in every way
(Rigolette was quite regardless of appearances), and who only cost them
the share of the moderate pleasures, whose value was doubled by her
presence and nice appearance. Besides, the dear girl was so easily
contented! In her days of penury she dined well and gaily off a morsel
of warm cake, which she nibbled with all the might of her little white
teeth; after which, she amused herself so much with a walk on the
boulevards or in the arcades.
If our readers feel but little sympathy with Rigolette, they will at
least confess that a person must be very absurd, or very cruel, to
refuse once a week these simple amusements to so delightful a creature,
who, besides having no right to be jealous, never prevented her
cavaliers from consoling themselves for her cruelty by flirtations with
other damsels.
Francois Germain alone never founded any vain hopes on the familiarity
of the young girl, but, either from instinct of heart or delicacy of
mind, he guessed from the first day how very agreeable the singular
companionship of Rigolette might be made.
What might be imagined happened, and Germain fell passionately in love
with his neighbour, without daring to say a word to her of his love.
Far from imitating his predecessors, who, convinced of the vanity of
their pursuit, had consoled themselves with other loves, without being
on that account the less on good terms with their neighbour, Germain had
most supremely enjoyed his intimacy with the young girl, passing with
her not only his Sunday but every evening when he was not engaged.
During these long hours Rigolette was, as usual, merry and laughing;
Germain tender, attentive, serious, and often somewhat sad. This
sadness was his only drawback, for his manners, naturally good, were not
to be compared with the foppery of M. Girandeau, the commercial
traveller, alias bagman, or with the noisy eccentricities of Cabrion;
but M. Girandeau by his unending loquacity, and the painter by his
equally interminable fun, took the lead of Germain, whose quiet
composure rather astonished his little neighbour, the grisette.
Rigolette then had not, as yet, testified any decided preference for any
one of her beaux; but as she was by no means deficient in judgment, she
soon discovered that Germain alone united all the qualities requisite
for making a reasonable woman happy.
Having stated all these facts, we will inquire why Rigolette was sad,
and why neither she nor her birds sang. Her oval and fresh-looking face
was rather pale; her large black eyes, usually gay and brilliant, were
slightly dulled and veiled; whilst her whole look bespoke unusual
fatigue. She had been working nearly all the night; from time to time
she looked sorrowfully at a letter which lay open on a table near her.
This letter had been addressed to her by Germain, and contained as
follows:
"PRISON OF THE CONCIERGERIE.
"MADEMOISELLE:--The place from which I address you will
sufficiently prove to you the extent of my misfortune,--I am
locked up as a robber. I am guilty in the eyes of all the world,
and yet I am bold enough to write to you! It is because it
would, indeed, be dreadful to me to believe that you consider me
as a degraded criminal. I beseech you not to condemn me until
you have perused this letter. If you discard me, that will be
the final blow, and will indeed overwhelm me. I will tell you
all that has passed. For some time I had left the Rue du Temple,
but I knew through poor Louise that the Morel family, in whom
you and I took such deep interest, were daily more and more
wretched. Alas, my pity for these poor people has been my
destruction! I do not repent it, but my fate is very cruel. Last
night I had stayed very late at M. Ferrand's, occupied with
business of importance. In the room in which I was at work was a
bureau, in which my employer shut up every day the work I had
done. This evening he appeared much disturbed and troubled, and
said to me, 'Do not leave until these accounts are finished, and
then put them in the bureau, the key of which I will leave with
you;' and then he left the room. When my work was done I opened
the drawer to put it away, when, mechanically, my eyes were
attracted by an open letter, on which I read the name of Jerome
Morel, the lapidary. I confess that, seeing that it referred to
this unfortunate man, I had the indiscretion to read this
letter; and I learnt that the artisan was to be arrested next
day on an overdue bill of thirteen hundred francs, at the suit
of M. Ferrand, who, under an assumed name, had imprisoned him.
This information was from an agent employed by M. Ferrand. I
knew enough of the situation of the Morel family to be aware of
the terrible blow which the imprisonment of their only support
must inflict upon them, and I was equally distressed and
indignant. Unfortunately I saw in the same drawer an open box,
with two thousand francs in gold in it. At this moment I heard
Louise coming up the stairs, and without reflecting on the
seriousness of my offence, but profiting by the opportunity
which chance offered, I took thirteen hundred francs, went to
her in the passage, and put the money in her hand, saying, 'They
are going to arrest your father to-morrow at daybreak, for
thirteen hundred francs,--here they are. Save him, but do not
say that the money comes from me. M. Ferrand is a bad man.' You
see, mademoiselle, my intention was good, but my conduct
culpable. I conceal nothing from you, but this is my excuse. By
dint of saving for a long time I had realised, and placed with a
banker, the sum of fifteen hundred francs, but the cashier of
the banker never came to the office before noon. Morel was to be
arrested at daybreak, and therefore it was necessary that she
should have the money so as to pay it in good time; if not, even
if I could have gone in the day to release him from prison,
still he would be arrested and carried off in presence of his
wife, whom such a blow must have killed. Besides, the heavy
costs of the writ would have been added to the expenses of the
lapidary. You will understand, I dare say, that all these new
misfortunes would not have befallen me if I had been able to
restore the thirteen hundred francs I had taken back again to
the bureau before M. Ferrand discovered anything; unfortunately,
I fell into that mistake. I left M. Ferrand's, and was no longer
under the impression of indignation and pity which had impelled
me to the step. I began to reflect upon all the dangers of my
position. A thousand fears then came to assail me. I knew the
notary's severity, and he might come after I left and search in
his bureau and discover the theft; for in his eyes--in the eyes
of the world--it is a theft. These thoughts overwhelmed me, and,
late as it was, I ran to the banker's to supplicate him to give
me my money instantly. I should have found an excuse for this
urgent request, and then I should have returned to M. Ferrand
and replaced the money I had taken. By an unlucky chance, the
banker had gone to Belleville for two days, to his
country-house, where he was engaged in some plantations.
Everything seemed to conspire against me. I waited for daybreak
with intense anxiety, and hastened to Belleville,--the banker
had just left for Paris. I returned, saw him, obtained my money,
hastened to M. Ferrand; everything was discovered. But this is
only a portion of my misfortunes. The notary at once accused me
of having robbed him of fifteen thousand francs in bank-notes,
which, he declared, were in the drawer of the bureau, with the
two thousand francs in gold. This was a base accusation,--an
infamous lie! I confess myself guilty of the first abstraction,
but, by all that is most sacred in the world, I swear to you,
mademoiselle, that I am innocent of the second. I never saw a
bank-note in the drawer. There were only two thousand francs in
gold, from which I took the thirteen hundred francs I have
mentioned. This is the truth, mademoiselle. I am under this
terrible accusation, and yet I affirm that you ought to know me
incapable of a lie. But will you,--do you believe me? Alas, as
M. Ferrand said, 'he who has taken a small sum may equally have
taken a large amount, and his word does not deserve belief.' I
have always seen you so good and devoted to the unhappy,
mademoiselle, and I know you are so frank and liberal-minded,
that your heart will guide you in the just appreciation of the
truth, I hope. I do not ask any more. Give credit to my words,
and you will find in me as much to pity as to blame; for, I
repeat to you, my intention was good, and circumstances
impossible to foresee have destroyed me. Oh, Mlle. Rigolette, I
am very unhappy! If you knew in the midst of what a set of
persons I am doomed to exist until my trial is over! Yesterday
they took me to a place which they call the depot of the
prefecture of police. I cannot tell you what I felt when, after
having gone up a dark staircase, I reached a door with an iron
wicket, which was opened and soon closed upon me. I was so
troubled in my mind that I could not, at first, distinguish
anything. A hot and fetid air came upon me, and I heard a loud
noise of voices mingled with sinister laughs, angry
exclamations, and depraved songs. I remained motionless at the
door for awhile, looking at the stone flooring of the apartment,
and neither daring to advance nor lift up my eyes, thinking
that everybody was looking at me. They were not, however,
thinking of me; for a prisoner more or less does not at all
disturb these men. At last I ventured to look up, and, oh, what
horrid countenances! What ragged wretches! What dirty and
bespattered garments! All the exterior marks of misery and vice!
There were forty or fifty seated, standing, or lying on benches
secured to the wall,--vagrants, robbers, assassins, and all who
had been apprehended during the night and day. When they
perceived me I found a sad consolation in seeing that they did
not recognise me as belonging or known to them. Some of them
looked at me with an insulting and derisive air, and then began
to talk amongst themselves in a low tone, and in some horrible
jargon, not one word of which did I understand. After a short
time one of the most brutal amongst them came, and, slapping me
on the shoulder, asked me for money to pay my footing. I gave
them some silver, hoping thus to purchase repose; but it was not
enough, and they demanded more, which I refused. Then several of
them surrounded me and assailed me with threats and
imprecations, and were proceeding to extremities, when,
fortunately for me, a turnkey entered, who had been attracted by
the noise. I complained to him, and he insisted on their
restoring to me the money I had given them already, adding that,
if I liked to pay a small fee, I should go to what is called the
pistole; that is, be in a cell to myself. I accepted the offer
gratefully, and left these ruffians in the midst of their loud
menaces for the future; 'for,' said they, 'we are sure to meet
again, when I could not get away from them.' The turnkey
conducted me to a cell, where I passed the rest of the night. It
is from here that I now write to you, Mlle. Rigolette. Directly
after my examination I shall be taken to another prison, called
La Force, where I expect to meet many of my companions in the
station-house. The turnkey, interested by my grief and tears,
has promised me to forward this letter to you, although such
kindnesses are strictly forbidden. I ask, Mlle. Rigolette, a
last service of your friendship, if, indeed, you do not blush
now for such an intimacy. In case you will kindly grant my
request, it is this: With this letter you will receive a small
key, and a line for the porter of the house I live in, Boulevard
St. Denis, No. 11. I inform him that you will act as if it were
myself with respect to everything that belongs to me, and that
he is to attend to your instructions. He will take you to my
room, and you will have the goodness to open my _secretaire_
with the key I send you herewith. In this you will find a large
packet containing different papers, which I beg of you to take
care of for me. One of them was intended for you, as you will
see by the address; others have been written of you, in happier
days. Do not be angry. I did not think they would ever come to
your knowledge. I beg you, also, to take the small sum of money
which is in this drawer, as well as a satin bag, which contains
a small orange silk handkerchief, which you wore when we used to
go out on Sundays, and which you gave me on the day I quitted
the Rue du Temple. I should wish that, excepting a little linen
which you will be so good as send to me at La Force, you would
sell the furniture and things I possess; for, whether acquitted
or found guilty, I must of necessity be obliged to quit Paris.
Where shall I go? What are my resources? God only knows. Madame
Bouvard, the saleswoman of the Temple, who has already sold and
bought for me many things, will perhaps take all the furniture,
etc., at once. She is a very fair-dealing woman, and this would
save you a great deal of trouble, for I know how precious your
time is. I have paid my rent in advance, and I have, therefore,
only to ask you to give a small present to the porter. Excuse,
mademoiselle, the trouble of these details; but you are the only
person in the world to whom I dare and can address myself. I
might, perhaps, have asked one of M. Ferrand's clerks to do this
service for me, as we were on friendly terms, but I feared his
curiosity as to certain papers. Several concern you, as I have
said, and others relate to the sad events in my life. Ah,
believe me, Mlle. Rigolette, if you grant me this last favour,
this last proof of former regard, it will be my only consolation
under the great affliction in which I am plunged; and, in spite
of all, I hope you will not refuse me. I also beg of you to give
me permission to write to you sometimes. It will be so
consoling, so comforting to me, to be able to pour out my heavy
sorrows into a kind heart. Alas, I am alone in the world,--no
one takes the slightest interest in me! This isolation was
before most painful to me. Think what it must be now! And yet I
am honest, and have the consciousness of never having injured
any one, and of always having, at the peril of my life,
testified my aversion for what is wicked and wrong; as you will
see by the papers, which I pray of you to take care of, and
which you may read. But when I say this, who will believe me? M.
Ferrand is respected by all the world; his reputation for
probity is long established; he has a just cause of accusation
against me, and he will crush me. I resign myself at once to my
fate. Now, Mlle. Rigolette, if you do believe me, you will not,
I hope, feel any contempt for me, but pity me; and you will,
perhaps, carry your generosity so far as to come one day,--some
Sunday (alas, what recollections that word brings up!)--some
Sunday, to see me in the reception-room of my prison. But no,
no; I never could dare to see you in such a place! Yet you are
so good, so kind, that--if--I am compelled to break off this
letter and send it to you at once, with the key, and a line for
the porter, which I write in great haste. The turnkey has come
to tell me that I am going directly before the magistrate.
Adieu, adieu, Mlle. Rigolette! Do not discard me, for my hope is
in you, and in you only!
"FRANCOIS GERMAIN.
"P. S.--If you reply, address your letter to me at the prison
of La Force."
We may now divine the cause of Rigolette's first sorrow.
Her excellent heart was deeply wounded at a misfortune of which she had
no suspicion until that moment. She believed unhesitatingly in the
entire veracity of the statement of Germain, the unfortunate son of the
Schoolmaster.
Not very strait-laced, she thought her old neighbour exaggerated his
fault immensely. To save the unhappy father of a family, he had
momentarily appropriated a sum which he thought he could instantly
refund. This action, in the grisette's eyes, was but generous.
By one of those contradictions common to women, and especially to women
of her class, this young girl, who until then had not felt for Germain
more than her other neighbours, but a kind and mirthful friendship, now
experienced for him a decided preference. As soon as she knew that he
was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a prisoner, his remembrance
effaced that of all his former rivals. Yet Rigolette did not all at once
feel intense love, but a warm and sincere affection, full of pity and
determined devotion,--a sentiment which was the more new with her in
consequence of the better sensations it brought with it.
Such was the moral position of Rigolette when Rodolph entered her
chamber, having first rapped very discreetly at the door.
"Good morning, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette; "do not let me
disturb you."
"Not at all, neighbour. On the contrary, I am delighted to see you, for
I have had something to vex me dreadfully."
"Why, in truth, you look very pale, and appear as though you had been
weeping."
"Indeed, I have been weeping, and for a good reason. Poor Germain!
There--read!" And Rigolette handed the letter of the prisoner to
Rodolph. "Is not that enough to break one's heart? You told me you took
an interest in him,--now's the time to prove it!" she added, whilst
Rodolph was attentively reading the letter. "Is that wicked old M.
Ferrand at war with all the world? First he attacked that poor Louise,
and now he assails Germain. Oh, I am not ill-natured; but if some great
harm happened to this notary, I should really be glad! To accuse such an
honest young man of having stolen fifteen thousand francs from him!
Germain, too! He who was honesty itself! And such a steady, serious
young man; and so sad, too! Oh, he is indeed to be pitied, in the midst
of all these wretches in his prison! Ah, M. Rodolph, from to-day I begin
to see that life is not all _couleur-de-rose_."
"And what do you propose to do, my little neighbour?"
"What do I mean to do? Why, of course, all that Germain asks of me, and
as quickly as possible. I should have been gone before now, but for this
work, which is required in great haste, and which I must take instantly
to the Rue St. Honore, on my way to Germain's room, where I am going to
get the papers he speaks of. I have passed part of the night at work,
that I might be forward. I shall have so many things to do besides my
usual work that I must be excessively methodical. In the first place,
Madame Morel is very anxious that I should see Louise in prison. That
will be a hard task, but I shall try to do it. Unfortunately, I do not
know to whom I should address myself."
"I had thought of that."
"You, neighbour?"
"Here is an order."
"How fortunate! Can't you procure me also an order for the prison of
poor, unhappy Germain? He would be so delighted!"
"I will also find you the means of seeing Germain."
"Oh, thank you, M. Rodolph."
"You will not be afraid, then, of going to his prison?"
"Certainly not; although my heart will beat very violently the first
time. But that's nothing. When Germain was free, was he not always ready
to anticipate all my wishes, and take me to the theatre, for a walk, or
read to me of an evening? Well, and now he is in trouble, it is my turn.
A poor little mouse like me cannot do much, I know that well enough; but
all I can do I will do, that he may rely upon. He shall find that I am a
sincere friend. But, M. Rodolph, there is one thing which pains me, and
that is that he should doubt me,--that he should suppose me capable of
despising him! I!--and for what, I should like to know? That old notary
accuses him of robbery. I know it is not true. Germain's letter has
proved to me that he is innocent, even if I had thought him guilty. You
have only to see him, and you would feel certain that he is incapable of
a bad action. A person must be as wicked as M. Ferrand to assert such
atrocious falsehoods."
"Bravo, neighbour; I like your indignation."
"Oh, how I wish I were a man, that I might go to this notary and say to
him, 'Oh, you say that Germain has robbed you, do you? Well, then,
that's for you! And that he cannot steal from you, at all events?' And
thump--thump--thump, I would beat him till I couldn't stand over him."
"You administer justice very expeditiously," said Rodolph, smiling.
"Because it makes my blood boil. And, as Germain says in his letter,
all the world will side with his employer, because he is rich and looked
up to, whilst Germain is poor and unprotected, unless you will come to
his assistance, M. Rodolph,--you who know such benevolent persons. Do
not you think that something could be done?"
"He must await his sentence. Once acquitted, as I believe he will be, he
will not want for proofs of the interest taken in him. But listen,
neighbour; for I know I may rely on your discretion."
"Oh, yes, M. Rodolph, I never blab."
"Well, then, no one must know--not even Germain himself--that he has
friends who are watching over him,--for he has friends."
"Really!"
"Very powerful and devoted."
"It would give him much courage to know that."
"Unquestionably; but perhaps he might not keep it to himself. Then M.
Ferrand, alarmed, would be on his guard,--his suspicions would be
aroused; and, as he is very cunning, it would become very difficult to
catch him, which would be most annoying; for not only must Germain's
innocence be made clear, but his denouncer must be unmasked."
"I understand, M. Rodolph."
"It is the same with Louise; and I bring you this order to see her, that
you may beg of her not to tell any person what she disclosed to me. She
will know what that means."
"I understand, M. Rodolph."
"In a word, let Louise beware of complaining in prison of her master's
wickedness. This is most important. But she must conceal nothing from
the barrister who will come from me to talk with her as to the grounds
of her defence. Be sure you tell her all this."
"Make yourself easy, neighbour, I will forget nothing; I have an
excellent memory. But, when we talk of goodness, it is you who are so
good and kind. If any one is in trouble, then you come directly."
"I have told you, my good little neighbour, that I am but a poor clerk;
but when I meet with good persons who deserve protection, I instantly
tell a benevolent individual who has entire confidence in me, and they
are helped at once. That's all I do in the matter."
"And where are you lodging, now you have given up your chamber to the
Morels?"
"I live in a furnished lodging."
"Oh, how I should hate that! To be where all the world has been before
you, it is as if everybody had been in your place."
"I am only there at nights, and then--"
"I understand,--it is less disagreeable. Yet I shouldn't like it, M.
Rodolph. My home made me so happy, I had got into such a quiet way of
living, that I did not think it was possible I should ever know a
sorrow. And yet, you see--But no, I cannot describe to you the blow
which Germain's misfortune has brought upon me. I have seen the Morels,
and others beside, who were very much to be pitied certainly. But, at
best, misery is misery; and amongst poor folk, who look for it, it does
not surprise them, and they help one another as well as they can. To-day
it is one, to-morrow it is another. As for oneself, what with courage
and good spirit, one extricates oneself. But to see a poor young man,
honest and good, who has been your friend for a long time,--to see him
accused of robbery, and imprisoned and huddled up with criminals!--ah,
really, M. Rodolph, I cannot get over that; it is a misfortune I had
never thought of, and it quite upsets me."
"Courage, courage! Your spirits will return when your friend is
acquitted."
"Oh, yes, he must be acquitted. The judges have only to read his letter
to me, and that would be enough,--would it not, M. Rodolph?"
"Really, this letter has all the appearance of truth. You must let me
have a copy of it, for it will be necessary for Germain's defence."
"Certainly, M. Rodolph. If I did not write such a scrawl, in spite of
the lessons which good Germain gave me, I would offer to copy it myself;
but my writing is so large, so crooked, and has so many, many faults."
"I will only ask you to trust the letter with me until to-morrow
morning."
"There it is; but you will take great care of it, I hope. I have burnt
all the notes which M. Cabrion and M. Girandeau wrote me in the
beginning of our acquaintance, with flaming hearts and doves at the top
of the paper, when they thought I was to be caught by their tricks and
cajoleries; but this poor letter of Germain's I will keep carefully, as
well as the others, if he writes me any more; for they, you know, M.
Rodolph, will show in my favour that he has asked these small
services,--won't they, M. Rodolph?"
"Most assuredly; and they will prove that you are the best little friend
any one can desire. But, now I think of it, instead of going alone to
Germain's room, shall I accompany you?"
"With pleasure, neighbour. The night is coming on, and, in the evening,
I do not like to be alone in the streets; besides that, I have my work
to carry nearly as far as the Palais Royal. But perhaps it will fatigue
and annoy you to go so far?"
"Not at all. We will have a coach."
"Really! Oh, how pleased I should be to go in a coach if I had not so
much to make me melancholy! And I really must be melancholy, for this is
the first day since I have been here that I have not sung during the
day. My birds are really quite astonished. Poor little dears! They
cannot make it out. Two or three times Papa Cretu has piped a little to
try me; I endeavoured to answer him, but, after a minute or two, I
began to cry. Ramonette then began; but I could not answer one any
better than the other."
"What singular names you have given your birds: Papa Cretu and
Ramonette!"
"Why, M. Rodolph, my birds are the joy of my solitude,--my best friends;
and I have given them the names of the worthy couple who were the joy of
my childhood, and were also my best friends, not forgetting that, to
complete the resemblance, Papa Cretu and Ramonette were gay, and sang
like birds."
"Ah, now, yes, I remember, your adopted parents were called so."
"Yes, neighbour, they are ridiculous names for birds, I know; but that
concerns no one but myself. And besides, it was in this very point that
Germain showed his good heart."
"In what way?"
"Why, M. Girandeau and M. Cabrion--especially M. Cabrion--were always
making their jokes on the names of my birds. To call a canary Papa
Cretu! There never was such nonsense as M. Cabrion made of it, and his
jests were endless. If it was a cock bird, he said, 'Why, that would be
well enough to call him Cretu. As to Ramonette, that's well enough for a
hen canary, for it resembles Ramona.' In fact, he quite wore my patience
out, and for two Sundays I would not go out with him in order to teach
him a lesson; and I told him very seriously, that if he began his
tricks, which annoyed me so much, we should never go out together
again."
"What a bold resolve!"
"Yes, it was really a sacrifice on my part, M. Rodolph, for I was always
looking forward with delight to my Sundays, and I was very much tried by
being kept in all alone in such beautiful weather. But that's nothing. I
preferred sacrificing my Sundays to hearing M. Cabrion continue to make
ridicule of those whom I respected. Certainly, after that, but for the
idea I attached to them, I should have preferred giving my birds other
names; and, you must know, there is one name which I adore,--it is
Colibri.[1] I did not change, because I never will call those birds by
any other name than Cretu and Ramonette; if I did, I should seem to make
a sacrifice, that I forgot my good, adopted parents,--don't you think
so, M. Rodolph?"
[1] Colibri is a celebrated chanson of Beranger, the especial
poet of grisettes.--_English Translator_.
"You are right a thousand times over. And Germain did not turn these
names into a jest, eh?"
"On the contrary, the first time he heard them he thought them droll,
like every one else, and that was natural enough. But when I explained
to him my reasons, as I had many times explained them to M. Cabrion,
tears started to his eyes. From that time I said to myself, M. Germain
is very kind-hearted, and there is nothing to be said against him, but
his weeping so. And so, you see, M. Rodolph, my reproaching him with his
sadness has made me unhappy now. Then I could not understand why any one
was melancholy, but now I understand it but too well. But now my packet
is completed, and my work is ready for delivery. Will you hand me my
shawl, neighbour? It is not cold enough to take a cloak, is it?"
"We shall go and return in a coach."
"True; we shall go and return very quickly, and that will be so much
gained."
"But, now I think of it, what are you to do? Your work will suffer from
your visits to the prison."
"Oh, no, no; I have made my calculations. In the first place, I have my
Sundays to myself, so I shall go and see Louise and Germain on those
days; that will serve me for a walk and a change. Then, in the week, I
shall go again to the prison once or twice. Each time will occupy me
three good hours, won't it? Well, to manage this comfortably, I shall
work an hour more every day, and go to bed at twelve o'clock instead of
eleven o'clock; that will be a clear gain of seven or eight hours a
week, which I can employ in going to see Louise and Germain. You see I
am richer than I appear," added Rigolette, with a smile.
"And you have no fear that you will be overfatigued?"
"Bah! Not at all; I shall manage it. And, besides, it can't last for
ever."
"Here is your shawl, neighbour."
"Fasten it; and mind you don't prick me."
"Ah, the pin is bent."
"Well, then, clumsy, take another then,--from the pincushion. Ah, I
forgot! Will you do me a great favour, neighbour?"
"Command me, neighbour."
"Mend me a good pen, with a broad nib, so that when I return I may write
to poor Germain, and tell him I have executed all his commissions. He
will have my letter to-morrow morning in the prison, and that will give
him pleasure."
"Where are your pens?"
"There,--on the table; the knife is in the drawer. Wait until I light my
taper, for it begins to grow dusk."
"Yes, I shall see better how to mend the pen."
"And I how to tie my cap."
Rigolette lighted a lucifer-match, and lighted a wax-end in a small
bright candlestick.
"The deuce,--a wax-light! Why, neighbour, what extravagance!"
"Oh, what I burn costs but a very small trifle more than a candle, and
it's so much cleaner!"
"Not much dearer?"
"Indeed, they are not! I buy these wax-ends by the pound, and a half a
pound lasts nearly a year."
"But," said Rodolph, who was mending the pen very carefully, whilst the
grisette was tying on her cap before the glass, "I do not see any
preparations for your dinner."
"I have not the least appetite. I took a cup of milk this morning, and I
shall take another this evening, with a small piece of bread, and that
will be enough for me."
"Then you will not take a dinner with me quietly after we have been to
Germain's?"
"Thank you, neighbour; but I am not in spirits,--my heart is too
heavy,--another time with pleasure. But the evening when poor Germain
leaves his prison, I invite myself, and afterwards you shall take me to
the theatre. Is that a bargain?"
"It is, neighbour; and I assure you I will not forget the engagement.
But you refuse me this to-day?"
"Yes, M. Rodolph. I should be a very dull companion, without saying a
word about the time it would occupy me; for, you see, at this moment, I
really cannot afford to be idle, or waste one single quarter of an
hour."
"Then, for to-day I renounce the pleasure."
"There is my parcel, neighbour. Now go out first, and I will lock the
door."
"Here's a capital pen for you; and now for the parcel."
"Mind you don't rumple it; it is _pout-de-soie_, and soon creases. Hold
it in your hand,--carefully,--there, in that way; that's it. Now go, and
I will show you a light."
And Rodolph descended the staircase, followed by Rigolette.
At the moment when the two neighbours were passing by the door of the
porter's lodge they saw M. Pipelet, who, with his arms hanging down, was
advancing towards them from the bottom of the passage, holding in one
hand the sign which announced his Partnership of Friendship with
Cabrion, and in the other the portrait of the confounded painter.
Alfred's despair was so overwhelming that his chin touched his breast,
so that the wide crown of his bell-shaped hat was easily seen. Seeing
him thus, with his head lowered, coming towards Rodolph and Rigolette,
he might have been compared to a ram, or a brave Breton, preparing for
combat.
Anastasie soon appeared on the threshold of the lodge, and exclaimed, at
her husband's appearance:
"Well, dearest old boy, here you are! And what did the commissary say to
you? Alfred, Alfred, mind what you're doing, or you'll poke your head
against my king of lodgers. Excuse him, M. Rodolph. It is that vagabond
of a Cabrion, who uses him worse and worse. He'll certainly turn my dear
old darling into a donkey! Alfred, love, speak to me!"
At this voice, so dear to his heart, M. Pipelet raised his head. His
features were impressed with a bitter agony.
"What did the commissary say to you?" inquired Anastasie.
"Anastasie, we must collect the few things we possess, embrace our
friends, pack up our trunk, and expatriate ourselves from Paris,--from
France,--from my beautiful France; for now, assured of impunity, the
monster is capable of pursuing me everywhere, throughout the length and
breadth of the departments of the kingdom."
"What, the commissary?"
"The commissary," exclaimed M. Pipelet, with fierce indignation,--"the
commissary laughed in my teeth!"
"At you,--a man of mature age, with an air so respectable that you would
appear as silly as a goose if one did not know your virtues?"
"Well, notwithstanding that, when I had respectfully deposed in his
presence my mass of complaints and vexations against that infernal
Cabrion, the magistrate, after having looked and laughed--yes, laughed,
and, I may add, laughed indecorously--at the sign and the portrait
which I brought with me as corroborative testimony,--the magistrate
replied, 'My good fellow, this Cabrion is a wag,--a practical joker. But
pay no attention to his pleasantries. I advise you to laugh at him, and
heartily, too, for really there is ample cause to do so.' 'To laugh at
it, sir-r-r!' I exclaimed,--'to laugh at it, when grief consumes
me,--when this scamp poisons my very existence; he placards me, and will
drive me out of my wits. I demand that they imprison, exile the
monster,--at least from my street!' At these words the commissary
smiled, and politely pointed to the door. I understood the magistrate,
sighed, and--and--here I am!"
"Good-for-nothing magistrate!" exclaimed Madame Pipelet.
"It is all over, Anastasie,--all is ended,--hope ceases. There's no
justice in France; I am really atrociously sacrificed."
And, by way of peroration, M. Pipelet dashed the sign and portrait to
the farther end of the passage with all his force. Rodolph and Rigolette
had in the shade smiled at M. Pipelet's despair. After having said a few
words of consolation to Alfred, whom Anastasie was trying to calm as
well as she could, the king of lodgers left the house in the Rue du
Temple with Rigolette, and they both got into a coach to go to Francois
Germain's.