The man who either disdains or fears to walk up a dark entry may be
an excellent, good man, and fit for a hundred things, but he will
not do to make a sentimental traveler. I count little of the many
things I see pass at broad noonday, in large and open streets;
Nature is shy, and hates to act before spectators; but in such an
unobservable corner you sometimes see a single short scene of hers
worth all the sentiments of a dozen French plays compounded
together; and yet they are ABSOLUTELY fine, and whenever I have a
more brilliant affair upon my hands than common, as they suit a
preacher just as well as a hero, I generally make my sermon out of
them, and for the text, "Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and
Pamphilia," is as good as anyone in the Bible.
There is a long, dark passage issuing out from the Opera Comique
into a narrow street. It is trod by a few who humbly wait for a
fiacre* or wish to get off quietly o' foot when the opera is done.
At the end of it, toward the theater, 'tis lighted by a small
candle, the light of which is almost lost before you get halfway
down, but near the door--it is more for ornament than use--you see
it as a fixed star of the least magnitude; it burns, but does
little good to the world that we know of.
*Hackney coach.
In returning [from the opera] along this passage, I discerned, as I
approached within five or six paces of the door, two ladies
standing arm in arm with their backs against the wall, waiting, as
I imagined, for a fiacre. As they were next the door, I thought
they had a prior right, so I edged myself up within a yard or
little more of them, and quietly took my stand. I was in black and
scarce seen.
The lady next me was a tall, lean figure of a woman of about
thirty-six; the other, of the same size and make of about forty.
There was no mark of wife or widow in any one part of either of
them. They seemed to be two upright vestal sisters, unsapped by
caresses, unbroke in upon by tender salutations. I could have
wished to have made them happy. Their happiness was destined, that
night, to come from another quarter.
A low voice with a good turn of expression and sweet cadence at the
end of it, begged for a twelve-sous piece between them for the love
of heaven. I thought it singular that a beggar should fix the
quota of an alms, and that the sum should be twelve times as much
as what is usually given in the dark. They both seemed astonished
at it as much as myself. "Twelve sous," said one. "A twelve-sous
piece," said the other, and made no reply.
The poor man said he knew not how to ask less of ladies of their
rank, and bowed down his head to the ground.
"Pooh!" said they, "we have no money."
The beggar remained silent for a moment or two, and renewed his
supplication.
"Do not, my fair young ladies," said he, "stop your good ears
against me."
"Upon my word, honest man," said the younger, "we have no change."
"Then God bless you," said the poor man, "and multiply those joys
which you can give to others without change."
I observed the older sister put her hand into her pocket. "I will
see," said she, "if I have a sous."
"A sous! Give twelve," said the suppliant. "Nature has been
bountiful to you; be bountiful to a poor man."
"I would, friend, with all my heart," said the younger, "if I had
it."
"My fair charitable," said he, addressing himself to the elder,
"what is it but your goodness and humanity which make your bright
eyes so sweet that they outshine the morning even in this dark
passage? And what was it which made the Marquis de Santerre and
his brother say so much of you both, as they just passed by?"
The two ladies seemed much affected, and impulsively at the same
time they put their hands into their pockets and each took out a
twelve-sous piece.
The contest between them and the poor suppliant was no more. It
was continued between themselves which of the two should give the
twelve-sous piece in charity, and, to end the dispute, they both
gave it together, and the man went away.