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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: _Took my head between his hands._
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 III._
_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. THE TEMPLE 11
II. THE ARREST 52
III. JACQUES FERRAND 108
IV. THE OFFICE 116
V. THE CLIENTS 137
VI. THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 167
VII. REFLECTIONS 197
VIII. THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST 211
IX. ST. LAZARE 225
X. MONT SAINT-JEAN 240
XI. LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE 255
XII. THE PROTECTRESS 285
XIII. THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP 300
XIV. CECILY 313
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
TOOK MY HEAD BETWEEN HIS HANDS _Frontispiece_
DREW CAREFULLY OUT A SHEET OF PAPER 35
MOREL FELL BACK ON THE STOOL 83
HE WILL SCOLD YOU AWFULLY 134
M. D'HARVILLE HAD BLOWN HIS BRAINS OUT 222
LA GOUALEUSE IN THE PRISON 279
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
CHAPTER I.
THE TEMPLE.
To the deep snow which had fallen during the past night had succeeded a
very sharp wind, so that the ordinarily muddy pavement was hard and dry,
as Rigolette and Rodolph wended onwards to the immense and singular
bazar called the Temple, the young girl leaning unceremoniously on the
arm of her cavalier, who, on his part, appeared as much at his ease as
though they had been old familiar friends.
"What a funny old woman Madame Pipelet is!" observed the grisette to her
companion; "and what very odd things she says!"
"Well, I thought her remarks very striking, as well as appropriate."
"Which of them, neighbour?"
"Why, when she said 'Young people would be young people,' and '_Vive
l'amour!_'"
"Well?"
"Well! I only mean to say those are precisely my sentiments."
"Your sentiments?"
"Yes, I should like nothing better than to pass my youth with you,
taking '_Vive l'amour!_' for my motto."
"I dare say, for certainly you are not hard to please."
"Why, where would be the harm,--are we not near neighbours? Of course we
are, or else I should not be seen walking out with you in this manner in
broad day."
"Then you allow me to hope--"
"Hope what?"
"That you will learn to love me."
"Oh, bless you, I do love you already!"
"Really?"
"To be sure I do. Why, how can I help it? You are good and gay; though
poor yourself, you have done all in your power by interesting rich
people in the fate of the Morels; your appearance pleases me; and you
have altogether a nice look, and a sort of air such as one is glad to
find in a person we expect to go about with a great deal. So there, I
think, are abundant reasons for my loving you."
Then, suddenly breaking into loud fits of laughter, Rigolette abruptly
exclaimed, "Look there, only look at that fat woman with the furred
shoes! What does she remind you of? I'll tell you,--of a great sack
being drawn along by two cats without tails!" and again she laughed
merrily.
"I would rather look at you, my pretty neighbour, than at all the fat
old women or tailless cats in Europe. I am so delighted to find you
already love me."
"I only tell you the truth; if I disliked you, I should speak just as
plainly. I cannot reproach myself with ever having deceived or flattered
any one; but, if a person pleases me, I tell them so directly."
Again interrupting the thread of her discourse, the grisette drew up
suddenly before the windows of a shop, saying, "Oh, do pray only look at
that pretty clock and those two handsome vases! I had already saved up
three francs and a half, and had put it in my money-box, to buy such a
set as that. In five or six years I might have been able to buy them."
"Saved up, do you say? Then, I suppose, you earn--"
"At least thirty sous a day,--sometimes forty; but I never reckon upon
more than thirty, which is the more prudent; and I regulate all my
expenses accordingly," said Rigolette, with an air as important as
though she was settling the financial budget.
"But with thirty sous a day, how do you manage to live?"
"Oh, bless you! that is easily reckoned. Shall I tell you how I manage,
neighbour? I fancy you are rather extravagant in your notions; so,
perhaps, it may serve as a lesson for you."
"Yes, pray do."
"Well, then, thirty sous a day make five and forty francs a month, do
they not?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, out of that I pay twelve francs for lodging; that leaves me
twenty-three francs for food, etc."
"Is it possible? Twenty-three francs for one month's food!"
"Yes, really, all that! Certainly, for such a person as myself, it does
seem an enormous sum; but then, you see, I deny myself nothing."
"Oh, you little glutton!"
"Ah! but then, remember, I include the food for both my birds in that
sum."
"Certainly it seems less exorbitant, when you come to reckon, for three
than for one; but just tell me how you manage day by day, that I may
profit by your good example."
"Well, then, be attentive, and I will go over the different things I
spend in it. First of all, one pound of bread, that costs four sous;
then two sous' worth of milk make six; four sous' worth of vegetables in
winter, or fruit and salad in summer,--I am very found of salad,
because, like vegetables, it is such a nice clean thing to prepare, and
does not soil the hands; there goes ten sous at once; then three sous
for butter, or oil and vinegar, to season the salad with, that makes
thirteen sous; a pail of nice fresh water,--oh, I must have that! it is
my principal extravagance,--that brings it to fifteen sous, don't you
see? Then add two or three sous a week for chickweed and seed for my
birds, who generally have part of my bread and milk; all this comes to
exactly twenty-three francs a month, neither more nor less."
"And do you never eat meat?"
"Meat, indeed! I should think not. Why, it costs from ten to twelve sous
a pound! A likely thing for me to buy! Besides, there is all the
nuisance and smell of cooking; instead of which, milk, vegetables, or
fruit, are always ready when you wish for them. I tell you what is a
favourite dish of mine, without being troublesome to prepare, and which
I excel in making."
"Oh, pray let me know what it is?"
"Why, I get some beautiful ripe, rosy apples, and put them at the top of
my little stove; when they are quite tender, I bruise them with a little
milk, and just a taste of sugar. It is a dish for an emperor. If you
behave well, I will let you taste it some day."
"Prepared by your hands, it can scarcely fail being excellent; but let
us keep to our reckoning. Let me see, we counted twenty-three francs for
living, etc., and twelve francs for lodging; that makes thirty-five
francs a month."
"Well, then, out of the forty-five or fifty francs I earn, there remains
from ten to fifteen francs a month for my wood and oil during the
winter, as well as for my clothes and washing; that is to say, for soap
and other requisites; because, excepting my sheets, I wash my own
things; that is another of my extravagances,--a good laundress would
pretty well ruin me; while, as I am a very quick and good ironer, the
expense is principally that of my own time. During the five winter
months I burn a load and a half of wood, while I consume about four or
five sous' worth of oil for my lamp daily; that makes it cost me about
eighty francs a year for fire and lights."
"So that you have, in fact, scarcely one hundred francs to clothe
yourself, and find you in pocket money."
"No more; yet out of that sum I managed to save my three francs and a
half."
"But your gowns, your shoes,--this smart little cap?"
"As for caps, I never wear one but when I go out, so that is not
ruinous; and, at home, I go bareheaded. As for my gowns and boots, have
I not got the Temple to go to for them?"
"Ah, yes, this convenient, handy Temple! So you buy there?"
"All sorts of pretty and excellent dresses. Why, only imagine, great
ladies are accustomed to give their old, cast-off gowns, etc., to their
maids. When I say old, I mean that, perhaps, they have worn them for a
month or two, just to ride out in the carriage. Well, and then the
ladies' maids sell them to the persons who have shops at the Temple for
almost nothing. Just look at the nice dark merino dress I have on; well,
I only gave fourteen francs for it, when, I make no doubt, it cost at
least sixty, and had scarcely been put on. I altered it to fit myself;
and I flatter myself it does me credit."
"Indeed, it does, and very great credit, too. Yes, I begin to see now,
thanks to the Temple, you really may contrive to make a hundred francs a
year suffice for your dress."
"To be sure; why, I can buy in the summer sweet pretty gowns for five or
six francs; boots, like these I have on, and almost new, for two or
three francs a pair; just look at my boots. Now, would not any one say
they had been made for me?" said Rigolette, suddenly stopping, and
holding up one of her pretty little feet, really very nicely set off by
the well-fitting boot she wore.
"It is, indeed, a charming foot; but you must have some difficulty in
getting fitted. However, I suppose, at the Temple, they keep shoes and
boots of all sizes, from a woman's to a child's."
"Ah, neighbour, I begin to find out what a terrible flatterer you are.
However, after what I have told you, you must see now that a young girl,
who is careful, and has only herself to keep, may manage to live
respectably on thirty sous a day; to be sure, the four hundred and fifty
francs I brought out of prison with me helped me on famously, for when
people saw that I had my own furniture in my apartments, they felt more
confidence in entrusting me with work to take home. I was some time,
though, before I met with employment. Fortunately for me, I had kept by
me as much money as enabled me to live three months without earning
anything."
"Shall I own to you that, under so gay and giddy a manner, I scarcely
expected to hear so much sound sense as that uttered by your pretty
mouth, my good neighbour?"
"Ah! but let me tell you that, when one is all alone in the world, and
has no wish to be under any obligation, it is quite necessary, as the
proverb says, to mind how we build our nest, to take care of it when it
is built."
"And certainly yours is as charming a nest as the most fastidious bird
could desire."
"Yes, isn't it? for, as I say, I never refuse myself anything. Now, I
consider my chamber as above my means; in fact, too handsome for one
like me; then I have two birds; always, at least, two pots of flowers on
my mantelpiece, without reckoning those on the window-ledges; and yet,
as I told you, I had actually got three francs and a half in my
money-box, towards the ornaments I hoped some day to be able to buy for
my mantelpiece."
"And what became of this store?"
"Oh, why, lately, when I saw the poor Morels so very, very wretched, I
said to myself, 'What is the use of hoarding up these stupid pieces of
money, and letting them lie idle in a money-box, when good and honest
people are actually starving for want of them?' So I took out the three
francs, and lent them to Morel. When I say lent, I mean I told him I
only lent them, to spare his feelings; but, of course, I never meant to
have them back again."
"Yes, but my dear neighbour, you cannot refuse to let them repay you,
now they are so differently situated."
"Why, no; I think if Morel were to offer them to me now, I should not
refuse them; it will, at any rate, enable me to begin my store for
buying the chimney ornaments I do so long to possess. You would scarcely
believe how silly I am; but I almost dream of a beautiful clock, such a
one as I showed you just now, and two lovely vases, one on each side."
"But, then, you should think a little of the future."
"What future?"
"Suppose you were to be ill, for instance."
"Me ill? Oh, the idea!" And the fresh, hearty laugh of Rigolette
resounded through the street.
"Well, why should you not be?"
"Do I look like a person likely to be sick?"
"Certainly I never saw a more bright or blooming countenance."
"Well, then, what could possibly have put it into your head to talk such
nonsense as to suppose I could ever be ill?"
"Nay, but--"
"Why, I am only eighteen years of age, and, considering the sort of life
I lead, there is no chance of such a thing. I rise at five o'clock,
winter or summer; I am never up after ten, or, at latest, eleven; I eat
sufficient to satisfy my appetite, which certainly is not a very great
one; I do not suffer from exposure to cold; I work all day, singing as
merrily as a lark; and at night I sleep like a dormouse. My heart is
free, light, and happy. My employers are so well satisfied with what I
do for them, that I am quite sure not to want for work; so what is there
for me to be ill about? It really is too amusing to hear you try to talk
sense, and only utter nonsense! Me ill!" And, at the very absurdity of
the idea, Rigolette again burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, so
loud and prolonged that a stout gentleman who was walking before her,
carrying a dog under his arm, turned around quite angrily, believing all
this mirth was excited by his presence.
Resuming her composure, Rigolette slightly curtseyed to the stout
individual, and pointing to the animal under his arm, said:
"Is your dog so very tired, sir?"
The fat man grumbled out some indistinct reply, and continued on his
way.
"My dear neighbour," said Rodolph, "are you losing your senses?"
"It is your fault if I am."
"How so?"
"Because you talk such nonsense to me."
"Do you call my saying that perhaps you might be ill, talking
foolishly?"
And, once more overcome by the irresistible mirth awakened by the
absurdity of Rodolph's suggestion, Rigolette again relapsed into long
and hearty fits of laughter; while Rodolph, deeply struck by this blind,
yet happy reliance upon the future, felt angry with himself for having
tried to shake it, though he almost shuddered as he pictured to himself
the havoc a single month's illness would make in this peaceful mode of
life. Then the implicit reliance entertained by Rigolette on the
stability of her employ, and her youthful courage, her sole treasures,
struck Rodolph as breathing the very essence of pure and contented
innocence; for the confidence expressed by the young dressmaker arose
neither from recklessness nor improvidence, but from an instinctive
dependence and belief in that divine justice which would never forsake a
virtuous and industrious creature,--a simple girl, whose greatest crime
was in relying too confidently on the blessed gifts of youth and health,
the precious boon of a heavenly benefactor. Do the birds of the air
remember, as they flit on gay and agile wing amidst the blue skies of
summer, or skim lightly over the sweet-smelling fields of blooming
lucerne, that bleak, cold winter must follow so much enjoyment?
"Then," said Rodolph to the grisette, "it seems you have no wish for
anything more than you already possess?"
"No, really I have not."
"Positively, nothing you desire?"
"No, I tell you. Stay, yes, now I recollect, there are those sweet
pretty chimney ornaments; but I shall be sure to have them some of these
days, though I do not know exactly when; but still, they do so run in my
head, that, sooner than be disappointed, I will sit up all night to
work."
"And besides these ornaments?"
"Oh, nothing more; no, I cannot recollect any one other thing I care for
more especially now."
"Why now, particularly?"
"Because, yesterday, if you had asked me the same question, I should
have replied, there was nothing I wanted more than an agreeable
neighbour in your apartments, to give me an opportunity of showing all
the little acts of kindness I have been accustomed to perform, and to
receive nice little attentions in return."
"Well, but you know, my dear neighbour, we have already entered into an
agreement to be mutually serviceable to each other; you will look after
my linen for me, and I shall clean up and polish your chamber for you;
and besides attending to my linen, you are to wake me every morning
early by tapping against the wainscot."
"And do you think you have named all I shall expect you to do?"
"What else can I do?"
"Oh, bless you, you have not yet come to the end of your services! Why,
do you not intend to take me out every Sunday, either to the Boulevards
or beyond the barriers? You know that is the only day I can enjoy a
little pleasure."
"To be sure I do; and when summer comes we will go into the country."
"No, no, I hate the country! I cannot bear to be anywhere but in Paris.
Yet I used, once upon a time, to go, out of good nature, with a young
friend of mine, who was with me in prison, to visit Meudon and St.
Germain. My friend was a very nice, good girl, and because she had such
a sweet voice, and was always singing, people used to call her the
Goualeuse."
"And what has become of her?"
"I don't know. She spent all the money she brought with her out of
prison, without seeming to have much pleasure for it; she was inclined
to be mournful and serious, though kind and sympathising to every one.
At the time we used to go out together I had not met with any work to
do, but directly I procured employment, I never allowed myself a
holiday. I gave her my address, but, as she never came to see me, I
suppose she, like myself, was too busy to spare the time. But I dare say
you don't care to hear any more about her; I only mentioned it because I
wanted to show you that it is no use asking me to go into the country
with you, for I never did, and never will go there, except with the
young friend I was telling you about; but whenever you can afford to
take me out to dinner or to the play, I shall be quite ready to
accompany you, and when it does not suit you to spend the money, or when
you have none to spend, why then we will take a walk, and have a good
look at the shops, which is almost the nicest thing I know, unless it is
buying at them. And I promise you, you shall have no reason to feel
ashamed of my appearance, let us go out among ever such company. Oh,
when I wear my dark blue levantine silk gown, I flatter myself I _do_
look like somebody! It is such a love of a dress, and fits me so
beautifully! I never wear it but on Sundays, and then I put on such a
love of a lace cap, trimmed with shaded orange-colour riband, which
looks so well with dark hair like mine; then I have some such elegant
boots of satin hue, made for me, not bought at the Temple! And last of
all comes such a shawl! Oh, neighbour, I doubt if you ever walked with
any one in such perfect beauty; it is a real _bourre-de-soie_, in
imitation of cashmere. I quite expect we shall be stared at and admired
by every one as we go along; the men will look back as they pass me, and
say, 'Upon my word that's an uncommon pretty-looking girl,--she is, 'pon
honour!' Then the women will cry, 'What a stylish-looking man! Do you
see that tall, thin person? I declare, he has such a fashionable
appearance that he might pass as somebody if he liked; what a becoming
and handsome moustachio he has!' And between ourselves, neighbour, I
quite agree with these remarks, and especially about the moustachio, for
I dearly love to see a man wear them. Unfortunately M. Germain did not
wear a moustachio, on account of the situation he held; I believe his
employer did not permit his young men to wear them. To be sure, M.
Cabrion did wear moustachios, but then, his were quite red, like his
great bushy beard, and I hate those huge beards; and besides, I did not
like Cabrion for two other reasons; one was, he used to play all kinds
of scampish tricks out in the street, and the other thing I disliked
was his tormenting poor old Pipelet as he did. Certainly, M. Giraudeau,
the person who lived next to me before M. Cabrion, was rather a
smart-looking man, and dressed very well; but then he squinted, and at
first that used to put me out very much, because he always seemed to be
looking past me at some one by my side, and I always found myself,
without thinking of it, turning around to see who it could be."
And here Rigolette indulged in another peal of merry laughter.
As Rodolph listened to all this childish and voluble talk, he felt
almost at a loss how to estimate the pretensions of the grisette to be
considered of first-rate prudence and virtue; sometimes the very absence
of all reserve in her communications, and the recollection of the great
bolt on her door, made him conclude that she bore a general and platonic
affection only for every occupant of the chamber adjoining her own, and
that her interest in them was nothing more than that of a sister; but
again he smiled at the credulity which could believe such a thing
possible, when the unprotected condition of the young dressmaker, and
the fascinations of Messrs. Giraudeau, Cabrion, and Germain were taken
into account. Still, the frankness and originality of Rigolette made him
pause in the midst of his doubts, and refuse to allow him to judge
harshly of the ingenuous and light-hearted being who tripped beside him.
"I am delighted at the way you have disposed of my Sundays," said
Rodolph, gaily. "I see plainly we shall have some capital treats."
"Stop a little, Mr. Extravagance, and let me tell you how I mean to
regulate our expenses; in the summer we can dine beautifully, either at
the Chartreuse or the Montmartre hermitage, for three francs, then half
a dozen quadrilles or waltzes, and a ride upon the wooden horses,--oh, I
do so love riding on horseback!--well, that will bring it altogether to
about five francs, not a farthing more, I assure you. Do you waltz?"
"Yes, very well."
"I am glad of that. M. Cabrion always trod on my toes, so that he quite
put me out; and then, too, by way of a joke, he used to throw
fulminating balls about on the ground; so at last the people at the
Chartreuse would not allow us to be admitted there."
"Oh, I promise you to be very well behaved whenever we are met together;
and as for the fulminating balls, I promise you never to have anything
to do with them; but when winter comes, how shall we manage then?"
"Why, in the winter we shall be able to dine very comfortably for forty
sous. I think people never care so much for eating in the winter as
summer; so then we shall have three francs left to pay for our going to
the play, for I shall not allow you to exceed a hundred sous for the
whole of our expenses, and that is a great deal of money to spend in
pleasure; but then, if you were out alone, it would cost you much more
at the tavern or billiard-rooms, where you would only meet a parcel of
low, ignorant men, smelling of tobacco enough to choke you. Is it not
much better for you to pass a pleasant day with a nice little, cheerful,
good-tempered companion, who, in return for the holiday you so agreeably
pass with her, will contrive to make up the extra expense she costs you
by hemming your handkerchiefs, and looking after your domestic affairs?"
"Nothing can be more advantageous, as far as I am concerned; but suppose
any of my friends should meet me walking with my pretty neighbour, what
then?"
"What then! Why, they would just look at you, and then at me; and then
they would smile and say, 'That's a lucky fellow, that Rodolph!'"
"You know my name, do you?"
"Why, of course, when I heard that the chamber adjoining mine was let,
I inquired the name of the person who had taken it."
"Yes, I dare say every one who met us out together would remark, as you
observe, what a lucky fellow I was; then the next thing would be to envy
me."
"So much the better."
"They would believe I was perfectly happy."
"Of course, of course they would."
"All the while I should only be so in appearance."
"Well, what does that signify? As long as people think you happy, what
does it matter whether you are really so or not? Men neither require nor
care for more than outward show."
"But your reputation might suffer."
Rigolette burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
"The reputation of a grisette!" said she. "Do you suppose that any
person believes in such a phenomenon? Ah, if I had either father,
mother, brother, or sister, for their sakes I should fear what people
might say of me, and be anxious about the world's opinion; but I am
alone in the world, and have no person to consider but myself, so, while
I know myself to be free from blame or reproach, I care not for what any
one may say of me, or think either."
"But still I should be very unhappy."
"What for?"
"To pass for being a happy as well as a lucky fellow, when, after the
fashion of Papa Cretu's dinner, I should be expected to make a meal off
a dry crust, while all the tempting dishes contained in a cookery-book
were being read to me."
"Oh, nonsense! you will be quite contented to live as I describe. You
will find me so grateful for every little act of kindness, so easily
pleased, and so little troublesome, that I know you will say, 'Why,
after all, I may as well spend my Sunday with her as with any one else.'
If you have any time in the evening, and have no objection to come and
sit with me, you can have the use of my fire and light. If it would not
tire you to read aloud, you would amuse me by reading some nice novel or
romance. Better do that than lose your money at cards or billiards;
otherwise, if you are occupied at your office, or prefer going to a
cafe, you can just bid me good night when you come in, if I happen still
to be up; but should I have gone to bed, why then I will wish you good
morning at an early hour next day, by tapping against your wainscot to
awaken you. Why, M. Germain, my last fellow lodger, used to pass all his
evenings with me in that manner, and never complained of their being
dull. He read me all Walter Scott's novels in the course of the winter,
which was really very amusing. Sometimes, when it chanced to be a wet
Sunday, he would go and buy something at the pastry-cook's, and we used
to have a nice little dinner in my room; and afterwards we amused
ourselves with reading; and we liked that almost as well as going to the
theatre. You see by this that I am not hard to please, but, on the
contrary, am always ready to do what I can to make things pleasant and
agreeable. And then you were talking about illness. Oh, if ever you
should be ill, then, indeed, I should be a comfort to you, a real Sister
of Charity! Only ask the Morels what sort of a nurse I am. You don't
half know your own good fortune, M. Rodolph; you have drawn a real prize
in the lottery of good luck to have me for a neighbour, I can assure
you."
"I quite agree with you; but I always was lucky. Apropos of your late
fellow lodger, M. Germain, where is he at present?"
"In Paris, I believe."
"Then you do not see much of him now?"
"No, he has never been to see me since he quitted the house."
"But where is he living? And what is he doing at present?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because," said Rodolph, smiling, "I am jealous of him, and I wish--"
"Jealous!" exclaimed Rigolette, bursting into a fit of laughter. "La,
bless you, there is no occasion for that, poor fellow!"
"But, seriously, my good neighbour, I wish most particularly to obtain
M. Germain's address, or to be enabled to meet him. You know where he
lives; and without any boast, I think I have good reason to expect you
would trust me with the secret of his residence, and to believe me quite
incapable of revealing again the information I ask of you, assuring you
most solemnly it is for his own interest more than mine I am solicitous
of finding him."
"And seriously, my good neighbour, although it is probable and possible
your intentions towards M. Germain are as you report them, I am not at
liberty to give you the address of M. Germain, he having strictly and
expressly forbidden my so doing to any person whatever; therefore, when
I refuse to tell _you_, you may be quite sure it is because I really am
not at liberty to do so; and that ought not to make you feel offended
with me. If you had entrusted me with a secret, you would be pleased,
would you not, to have me as careful of it, and determined not to reveal
it, as I am about M. Germain's affair?"
"Nay, but--"
"Neighbour, once and for all, do not say anything more on this subject.
I have made a promise which I will keep faithfully and honourably; so
now you know my mind, and if you ask me a hundred times, I shall answer
you just the same."
Spite of her thoughtlessness and frivolity, the young dressmaker
pronounced these last words with so much firmness that, to his great
regret, Rodolph perceived the impossibility of gaining the desired
information respecting Germain through her means; and his mind revolted
at the idea of laying any snare to entrap her into a betrayal of her
secret; he therefore, after a slight pause, gaily replied:
"Well, let us say no more about it, then; but, upon my life, I don't
wonder at you, who can so well keep the secrets of others, guarding your
own so closely."
"Me have secrets?" cried Rigolette. "I only wish I had some more secrets
of my own; it must be very amusing to have secrets."
"Do you really mean to assert that you have not a 'nice little secret'
about some love-affair?"
"Love-affair!"
"Are you going to persuade me you have never been in love?" said
Rodolph, looking fixedly at Rigolette, the better to read the truth in
her telltale features.
"Been in love? Why, of course I have, with M. Giraudeau, M. Cabrion, M.
Germain, and you!"
"Are you sure you loved them just as you do me, neither more nor less?"
"Oh, really, I cannot tell you so very exactly! If anything, I should
say less; because I had to become accustomed to the squinting eyes of M.
Giraudeau, the disagreeable jokes and red beard of M. Cabrion, and the
low spirits and constant dejection of M. Germain, for the poor young man
was very sad, and always seemed to have a heavy load on his mind, while
you, on the contrary, took my fancy directly I saw you."
"Come now, my pretty neighbour, you must not be angry with me; I am
going to speak candidly and sincerely, like an old friend."
"Oh, don't be afraid to say anything to me; I am very good-natured; and
besides, I feel certain you are too kind; you could never have the heart
to say anything to me that would give me pain."
"You are quite right; but do tell me truly, have you never had any
lovers?"
"Lovers! I should think not! What time have I for such things?"
"What has time got to do with it?"
"Why, everything, to be sure. In the first place, I should be jealous as
a tigress; and I should be continually worrying myself with one idea or
another; and let me ask you whether you think it is likely I could
afford to lose two or three hours a day in fretting and grieving. And
then, suppose my lover were to turn out false! Oh, what tears it would
cost me; how wretched I should be! All that sort of thing would put me
sadly behindhand with my work, I can tell you."
"Well, but all lovers are not faithless and a cause of grief and sorrow
to their mistress."
"Oh, bless you! It would be still worse for me, if he were all goodness
and truth. Why, then I should not be able to live without him for a
single hour; and as most probably he would be obliged to remain all day
in his office, or shop, or manufactory, I should be like some poor,
restless spirit all the time of his absence. I should imagine all sorts
of things, picture to myself his being at that moment pleasantly engaged
in company with one he loved better than myself. And then, if he forsook
me, oh, Heaven only knows what I might be tempted to do in my despair,
or what might become of me. One thing is very certain, that my work
would suffer for it; and then what should I do? Why, quietly as I live
at present, it is much as I can manage to live by working from twelve to
fifteen hours a day. Where should I be, if I were to lose three or four
days a week by tormenting myself? How could I ever catch up all that
time? Oh, I never could; it would be quite impossible! I should be
obliged, then, to take a situation, to live under the control of a
mistress; but no, no, I will never bring myself to that,--I love my
liberty too well."
"Your liberty?"
"Yes, I might go as forewoman to the person who keeps the warehouse for
which I work; she would give me four hundred francs a year, with board
and lodging."
"And you will not accept it?"
"No, indeed! I should then be the slave and servant of another; whereas,
however humble my home, at least there is no one there to control me. I
am free to come and go as I please. I owe nothing to any one. I have
good health, good courage, good heart, and good spirits; and now that I
can say a good neighbour also, what is there left to desire?"
"Then you have never thought of marriage?"
"Marriage, indeed! Why, what would be the use of my thinking about it,
when, poor as I am, I could not expect to meet with a husband better off
than myself? Look at the poor Morels; just see the consequences of
burthening yourself with a family before you have the means of providing
for one; whilst, so long as there is only oneself to provide for, one
can always manage somehow."
"And do you never build castles in the air?--never dream?"
"Dream? Oh, yes!--of my chimney ornaments; but, besides them, what can I
have to wish for?"
"But, suppose now some relation you never heard of in your life were to
die, and leave you a nice little fortune--twelve hundred francs a year,
for instance--you have made five hundred sufficient to supply all your
wants?"
"Perhaps it might prove a good thing; perhaps a bad one."
"How could it be a bad one?"
"Because I am happy and contented as I am; but I do not know what I
might be if I came to be rich. I can assure you that, when, after a hard
day's work, I go to bed in my own snug little room, when my lamp is
extinguished, and by the glimmer of the few cinders left in my stove I
see my neat, clean little apartment, my curtains, my chest of drawers,
my chairs, my birds, my watch, my table covered with the work confided
to me, left all ready to begin the first thing in the morning, and I say
to myself, all this is mine,--I have no one to thank for it but
myself,--oh, neighbour, the very thoughts lull me into such a happy
state of mind that I fall asleep believing myself the most fortunate
creature on earth to be so surrounded with comforts. But, I declare,
here we are at the Temple! You must own it is a beautiful object?"
Although not partaking of the profound admiration expressed by Rigolette
at the first glimpse of the Temple, Rodolph was, nevertheless, much
struck by the singular appearance of this enormous bazar with its many
diverging passages and dependencies. Towards the middle of the Rue du
Temple, not far from the fountain which stands in the corner of a large
square, may be seen an immense parallelogram, built of wood, and
surmounted with a slated roof. This building is the Temple, bounded on
the left by the Rue du Petit Thouars, and on the right by the Rue
Percee; it leads to a large circular building,--a colossal rotunda,
surrounded with a gallery, forming a sort of arcade. A long opening,
intersecting this parallelogram in its length and breadth, divides it
into two equal parts, which are again divided and subdivided into an
infinity of small lateral and transverse openings, crossing each other
in all directions, and sheltered by the roof of the building from all
severity of weather. In this bazar new merchandise is generally
prohibited; but the smallest fragment of any sort of material, the
merest morsel of iron, brass, lead, or pewter, will here find both a
buyer and a seller.
Here are to be found dealers in pieces of every coloured cloth, of all
ages, qualities, shades, and capabilities, for the service of such as
wish to repair or alter damaged or ill-fitting garments. Some of the
shops present huge piles of old shoes, some trodden down of heel,
others twisted, torn, worn, split, and in holes, presenting a mass of
nameless, formless, colourless objects, among which are grimly visible
some species of fossil soles about an inch thick, studded with thick
nails, resembling the door of a prison and hard as a horse's hoof, the
actual skeletons of shoes whose other component parts have long since
been consumed by the devouring hand of Time. Yet all this mouldy, dried
up accumulation of decaying rubbish will find a willing purchaser, an
extensive body of merchants trading in this particular line.
Then there are the vendors of gimps, fringes, bindings, cords, tassels,
and edgings of silk, cotton, or thread, arising out of the demolition of
curtains past all cure and defying all reparation. Other enterprising
individuals devote themselves to the sale of females' hats and bonnets,
these articles only reaching their emporium by the means of the dealers
in old clothes, and after having performed the strangest journeys and
undergone the most surprising transformations, the most singular changes
of colour.
In order that the article traded in may not take up too much room in a
warehouse ordinarily the size of a large box, these bonnets are
carefully folded in half, then flattened and laid upon each other as
closely as they can be packed, with the exception of the brim. They are
treated in every respect the same as herrings, requiring to be stowed in
a cask. By these means it is almost incredible what a quantity of these
usually fragile articles may be accommodated in a small space of about
four feet square.
Should a purchaser present himself, the various specimens are removed
from the high pressure to which they have been exposed, the vendor, with
a _degage_ air, gives the crown a dexterous blow with his fist, which
makes the centre rise to its accustomed situation, then presses the
front out upon his knee, concluding by holding up, with an air of
intense satisfaction at his own ingenuity, an object so wild, so
whimsical, and withal so irresistibly striking, as to remind one of
those traditional costumes ascribed for ages past to fishwomen,
apple-women, or any whose avocation involves the necessity of carrying a
basket on the head.
Farther on, at the sign of the Gout du Jour, beneath the arcades of the
Rotunda, elevated at the end of the large opening which intersects the
Temple and divides it into two parts, are suspended myriads of vestments
of all colours, forms, and fashions, even more various and extraordinary
in their respective styles than the bonnets just described. There may be
seen stylish coats of unbleached linen, adorned with three rows of brass
buttons _a la hussarde_, and sprucely ornamented with a small fur collar
of fox-skin; great-coats, originally bottle-green, but changed, by age
and service, to the hue of the pistachio nut, edged with black braid,
and set off with a bright flaming lining of blue and yellow plaid,
giving quite a fresh and youthful appearance, and producing the most
genteel and tasty effect; coats that, when new, bore the appellation, as
regards their cut, of being _a queue de Morue_, of a dark drab colour,
with velvet, shag, or plush collar, and further decorated with buttons,
once silver-gilt, but now changed to a dull coppery hue. In the same
emporium may be observed sundry pelisses or polonaises of
maroon-coloured cloth, with cat-skin collar, trimmed with braiding, and
rich in brandenburgs, tassels, and cords. Not far from these are
displayed a great choice of dressing-gowns most artistically constructed
out of old cloaks, whose triple collars and capes have been removed, the
inside lined with remnants of printed cotton, the most in request being
blue or dark green, made up here and there with pieces of various
distinct shades, and embroidered with old braid, and lined with red
cotton, on which is traced a flowing design in vivid orange, collar and
cuffs similarly adorned; a cord for the waist, made out of an old
bell-rope, serves as a finish to these elegant _deshabilles_ so
exultingly worn by Robert Macaire. We shall briefly pass over a mass of
costumes more or less uncouth, in the midst of which may be found some
real and authentic relics of royalty or greatness, dragged by the
revolution of time from the palaces of the rich and mighty to the dingy
shelves of the Rotunda of the Temple.
These displays of old shoes, hats, and coats are the grotesque parts of
the bazar,--the place where rags and faded finery seek to set up their
claim to notice. But it must be allowed, or rather distinctly asserted,
that the vast establishment we are describing is of immense utility to
the poor or persons in mediocre circumstances. There they may purchase,
at an amazing decrease of price, most excellent articles, nearly new,
and whose wear has been little or none. One side of the Temple was
devoted to articles of bedding, and contained piles of blankets, sheets,
mattresses, and pillows. Farther on were carpets, curtains, every
description of useful household utensil. Close at hand were stores of
wearing apparel, shoes, stockings, caps, and bonnets, for all ages, as
well as all classes and conditions.
All these articles were scrupulously clean and devoid of anything that
could offend or shock the most fastidious person. Those who have never
visited this bazar will scarcely credit in how short a space of time,
and with how little money, a cart may be filled with every requisite for
the complete fitting out of two or three utterly destitute families.
Rodolph was particularly struck with the manner, at once attentive,
eager, and cheerful, of the various dealers, as, standing at the door of
their shops, they solicited the patronage and custom of the passers-by.
Their mode of address, at once familiar and respectful, seemed
altogether unlike the tone of the present day. Scarcely had Rigolette
and her companion entered that part of the place devoted to the sale of
bedding, than they were surrounded by the most seducing offers and
solicitations.
"Walk in, sir, and look at my mattresses, if you please," said one.
"They are quite new. I will just open a corner to show you how
beautifully white and soft the wool is,--more like the wool of a lamb
than a sheep."
"My pretty lady, step in and see my beautiful, fine white sheets. They
are better than new, for the first stiffness has been taken out of them.
They are soft as a glove, and strong as iron."
"Come, my new-married couple, treat yourselves to one of my handsome
counterpanes. Only see how soft, light, and warm it is,--quite as good
as eider-down,--every bit the same as new,--never been used twenty
times. Now, then, my good lady, persuade your husband to treat you to
one. Let me have the pleasure of serving you, and I will fit you up for
housekeeping as cheaply as you can desire. Oh, you'll be pleased, I
know,--you'll come again to see Mother Bouvard! You will find I keep
everything. I bought a splendid lot of second-hand goods yesterday. Pray
walk in and let me have the pleasure of showing them to you. Come, you
may as well see if you don't buy. I shall charge you nothing for looking
at them."
"I tell you what, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette, "this fat old
lady shall have the preference. She takes us for husband and wife. I am
so pleased with her for the idea that I decide upon laying out my money
at her shop."
"Well, then, let it be the fat old lady," said Rigolette. "I like her
appearance, too."
Rigolette and her companion then went into Mother Bouvard's. By a
magnanimity, perhaps unexampled before in the Temple, the rivals of
Mother Bouvard made no disturbance at the preference awarded to her. One
of her neighbours, indeed, went so far as to say:
[Illustration: _Drew carefully out a sheet of paper._
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.]
"So long as it is Mother Bouvard, and no one else, that has this
customer; she has a family, and is the dowager and the honour of the
Temple."
It was, indeed, impossible to have a face more prepossessing, more open,
and more frank than that of the dowager of the Temple.
"Here, my pretty little woman," she said to Rigolette, who was looking
at sundry articles with the eye of a connoisseur, "this is the
second-hand bargain I told you of: two bed furnitures and bedding
complete, and as good as new. If you would like a small old _secretaire_
very cheap, here is one (and Mother Bouvard pointed to one). I had it in
the same lot. I do not usually buy furniture, but I could not refuse
this, for the poor people of whom I had it appeared to be so very
unhappy! Poor lady! it was the sale of this piece of furniture which
seemed to cut her to the very heart. I dare say it was a family piece of
'furniture.'"
At these words, and whilst the shopkeeper was settling with Rigolette as
to the prices of the various articles of purchase, Rodolph was
attentively looking at the _secretaire_ which Mother Bouvard had pointed
out. It was one of those ancient pieces of rosewood furniture, almost
triangular in shape, closed by a front panel, which let down, and,
supported by two long brass hinges, served for a writing-table. In the
centre of this panel, which was inlaid with ornaments of wood of
different patterns, Rodolph observed a cipher let in, of ebony, and
which consisted of an M. and an R., intertwined and surmounted with a
count's coronet. He conjectured, therefore, that the last possessor of
this piece of furniture was a person in an elevated rank of society. His
curiosity increased, and he looked at the _secretaire_ with redoubled
scrutiny; he opened the drawers mechanically, one after the other, when,
having some difficulty in drawing out the last, and trying to discover
the obstacle, he perceived, and drew carefully out, a sheet of paper,
half shut up between the drawer and the bottom of the opening. Whilst
Rigolette was concluding her bargain with Mother Bouvard, Rodolph was
engrossed in examining what he had found. From the numerous erasures
which covered this paper, he perceived that it was the copy of an
unfinished letter. Rodolph, with considerable difficulty, made out what
follows:
"SIR: Be assured that the most extreme misery alone could compel
me to the step which I now take. It is not mistaken pride which
causes my scruples, but the absolute want of any and every claim
on you for the service which I am about to ask. The sight of my
daughter, reduced, as well as myself, to the most frightful
destitution, has made me throw aside all hesitation. A few words
only as to the cause of the misfortunes which have overwhelmed
me. After the death of my husband, all my fortune was three
hundred thousand francs (12,000_l._), which was placed by my
brother with M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary; I received at
Angers, whither I had settled with my daughter, the interest of
this sum, remitted to me by my brother. You know, sir, the
horrible event which put an end to his days. Ruined, as it
seems, by secret and unfortunate speculations, he put an end to
his existence eight months since. After this sad event, I
received a few lines, written by him in desperation before this
awful deed. 'When I should peruse them,' he wrote, 'he should no
longer exist.' He terminated this letter by informing me that he
had not any acknowledgment of the sum which he had placed, in my
name, with M. Jacques Ferrand, as that individual never gave any
receipt, but was honour and piety itself; that, therefore, it
would be sufficient for me to present myself to that gentleman,
and my business would be regularly and satisfactorily adjusted.
As soon as I was able to turn my attention to anything besides
the mournful end of my poor brother, I came to Paris, where I
knew no one, sir, but yourself, and you only by the connection
that had subsisted between yourself and my husband. I have told
you that the sum deposited with M. Jacques Ferrand was my entire
fortune, and that my brother forwarded to me every six months
the interest which arose from that sum. More than a year had
elapsed since the last payment, and, consequently, I went to M.
Jacques Ferrand to ask the amount of him, as I was greatly in
want of it. Scarcely was I in his presence, than, without any
consideration of my grief, he accused my brother of having
borrowed two thousand francs of him, which he had lost by his
death, adding, that not only was suicide a crime before God and
man, but, also, that it was an act of robbery, of which he, M.
Jacques Ferrand, was the victim. I was indignant at such
language, for the remarkable probity of my poor brother was well
known; he had, it is true, unknown to me and his friends, lost
his fortune in hazardous speculations, but he had died with an
unspotted reputation, deeply regretted by all, and not leaving
any debt except to his notary. I replied to M. Ferrand, that I
authorised him at once to take the two thousand francs, which he
claimed from my brother, from the three hundred thousand francs
of mine, which had been deposited with him. At these words, he
looked at me with an air of utter astonishment, and asked me
what three hundred thousand francs I alluded to. 'To those which
my brother placed in your hands eighteen months ago, sir, and of
which I have, till now, received the interest paid by you
through my brother,' I replied, not comprehending his question.
The notary shrugged his shoulders, smiled disdainfully, as if my
words were not serious, and replied that, so far from depositing
any money with him, my brother had borrowed two thousand francs
from him.
"It is impossible for me to express to you my horror at this
reply. 'What, then, has become of this sum?' I exclaimed. 'My
daughter and myself have no other resource, and, if we are
deprived of that, nothing remains for us but complete
wretchedness. What will become of us?' 'I really don't know,'
replied the notary, coldly. 'It is most probable that your
brother, instead of placing this sum with me, as you say, has
used it in those unfortunate speculations in which, unknown to
any one, he was engaged.' 'It is false, sir!' I exclaimed. 'My
brother was honour itself, and, so far from despoiling me and my
daughter, he would have sacrificed himself for us. He would
never marry, in order that he might leave all he had to my
child.' 'Dare you to assert, madame, that I am capable of
denying a deposit confided in me?' inquired the notary, with
indignation, which seemed so honourable and sincere that I
replied, 'No, certainly not, sir; your reputation for probity is
well known; but yet I can never accuse my brother of so cruel an
abuse of confidence.' 'What are your proofs of this claim?'
inquired M. Ferrand. 'I have none, sir. Eighteen months since,
my brother, who undertook the management of my affairs, wrote to
me, saying, "I have an excellent opportunity of obtaining six
per cent.; send me your power of attorney to sell your stock, and
I will deposit the three hundred thousand francs, which I will
make up, with M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary." I sent the papers
which he asked for to my brother, and a few days afterwards he
informed me that the investment was made by you, and at the end
of six months he remitted to me the interest due.' 'At least,
then, you have some letters on this subject, madame?' 'No, sir;
they were only on family matters, and I did not preserve them.'
'Unfortunately, madame, I cannot do anything in this matter,'
replied the notary. 'If my honesty was not beyond all suspicion,
all attack, I should say to you, the courts of law are open to
you,--attack me; the judges will have to choose between the word
of an honourable man, who for thirty years has had the esteem of
worthy men, and the posthumous declaration of a man who, after
being ruined in most foolish undertakings, has found refuge only
in suicide. I say to you now, attack me, madame, if you dare,
and your brother's memory will be dishonoured! But I believe you
will have the good sense to resign yourself to a misfortune
which, no doubt, is very severe, but to which I am an entire
stranger.' 'But, sir, I am a mother! If my fortune is lost, my
daughter and I have nothing left but a small stock of furniture;
if that is sold, we have nothing left, sir,--nothing, but the
most frightful destitution staring us in the face.' 'You have
been cheated,--it is a misfortune, but I can do nothing in the
matter,' answered the notary. 'Once more, madame, your brother
has deceived you. If you doubt between his word and mine, attack
me; go to law, and the judges will decide.' I quitted the
notary's in the deepest despair. What could I do in this
extremity? I had no means of proving the validity of my claim; I
was convinced of the strict honour of my brother, and confounded
at the assertion of M. Ferrand, and having no person to whom I
could turn for advice (for you were travelling), and knowing
that I must have money to pay for legal opinions and advice, and
desiring to preserve the very little that I had left, I dared
not commence a suit at law. It was at this juncture--"
This sketch of the letter ended here, for what followed was covered with
ink erasures, which completely blotted out the lines. At the bottom of
the page, and in the corner, Rodolph found this kind of memorandum:
"To write to the Duchesse de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy."
Rodolph remained deeply thoughtful after the perusal of this fragment of
a letter, in which he had found two names whose connection struck him.
Although the fresh infamy which appeared to accuse Jacques Ferrand was
not proved, yet this man had proved himself so pitiless towards the
unhappy Morel, had behaved so shamefully to Louise, his daughter, that
the denial of a deposit, protected by certain impunity, on the part of
such a wretch, appeared to him by no means improbable. This mother, who
claimed a fortune which had disappeared so strangely, was, doubtless,
used to a life of ease and comfort. Ruined by a sudden blow, and knowing
no one in Paris, as the letter said, what must have been the existence
of these two females, perhaps utterly destitute and alone in the midst
of this vast metropolis!
The prince had, as we know, promised sure occupation to madame, by
giving her accidentally, and to employ her mind, a part to play in some
future work of charity, being certain to find sure misery for her to
curtail before his next meeting with that lady. He thought that,
perhaps, chance might bring before him some unfortunate and worthy
person, who would, as he trusted, interest the heart and imagination of
Madame d'Harville. The sketch of the letter which he held in his hands,
and the copy of which had, doubtless, never been sent to the person
whose assistance was implored, evinced a high and resigned mind, which
would revolt from an offer of alms. So, then, how many precautions, how
many plans, how much delicacy, must be employed to conceal the source of
such generous succour, or to make it accepted! And, then, how much
address to introduce oneself to such a female, in order to judge if she
really merited the interest which she seemed capable of inspiring!
Rodolph foresaw in the development of this mysterious affair a multitude
of new and touching emotions, which would singularly attract Madame
d'Harville in the way he had previously proposed to her.
"Well, husband," said Rigolette, gaily, to Rodolph, "what is there so
interesting in that piece of paper, which you are reading there?"
"My little wife," replied Rodolph, "you are very inquisitive; I will
tell you by and by. Have you bought all you want?"
"Yes; and your poor friends will be set up like kings. There is nothing
to do now but to pay; Madame Bouvard has made every allowance, I must do
her that credit."
"My little wife, an idea occurs to me; whilst I am paying, suppose you
go and choose the clothes for Madame Morel and her children? I confess
my ignorance on the subject of such purchases. You can tell them to
bring everything here, and then all the things will be together, and the
poor people will have everything at once."
"You are right, husband. Wait here, and I shall not be long; I know two
shopkeepers here, where I am a regular customer, and I shall find in
their shops all I require."
And Rigolette went out, saying:
"Madame Bouvard, take care of my husband, and do not flirt with him,
mind, whilst I am gone."
And then came the laugh, and away the merry maiden ran.
"I must say, sir," said Mother Bouvard to Rodolph, "that you have a
capital little manager there. _Peste!_ she knows how to make a bargain!
And then she is so prettily behaved and pretty-looking! red and white,
with those large, beautiful black eyes, and such hair!"
"Is she not charming? and ain't I a happy husband, Madame Bouvard?"
"As happy a husband as she is a wife, I am sure of that."
"You are not mistaken. But tell me how much I owe you."
"Your little lady would only give me three hundred and thirty francs for
the whole; as true as heaven's above us, I only make fifteen francs by
the bargain, for I did not try to get the things as cheaply as I might,
for I hadn't the heart to bate 'em down; the people who sold 'em seemed
so uncommon miserable!"
"Really! Were they the same people that you bought this little
_secretaire_ of?"
"Yes, sir; and it cuts my heart to think of it! Only imagine, the day
before yesterday there came here a young and still pretty girl, but so
pale and thin one could almost see through her; and you know that pains
people that have any feeling at all. Although she was, as they say, neat
as a new-made pin, her old threadbare black worsted shawl, her black
stuff gown, which was also worn bare, her straw bonnet, in the month of
January, for she was in mourning, all showed what we call great
distress, for I am sure she was a real lady. At last, blushing up to the
very eyes, she asked me if I would buy two beds and bedding complete,
and a little old _secretaire_. I said that, as I sold, of course I
bought, and that if they would suit me I would have them, but that I
must see the things. She then asked me to go with her to her apartment,
not far off, on the other side of the Boulevards, in a house on the Quay
of St. Martin's Canal. I left my niece in the shop, and followed the
lady until we reached a smallish house at the bottom of a court; we went
up to the fourth floor, and, the lady having knocked, the door was
opened by a young girl about fourteen years of age, who was also in
mourning, and equally pale and thin, but still very, very pretty, so
much so that I was quite astonished."
"Well, and this young girl?"
"Was the daughter of the lady in mourning. Though it was very cold, yet
a thin gown of black cotton with white spots, and a small, shabby
mourning shawl, that was all she had on her."
"And their rooms were wretched?"
"Imagine, sir, two little rooms, very neat, but nearly empty, and so
cold that I was almost froze; there was not a spark of fire in the
grate, nor any appearance of there having been any for a very long time.
All the furniture was two beds, two chairs, a chest of drawers, an old
portmanteau, and the small _secretaire_, and on the chest was a parcel,
wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief. This small parcel was all the mother
and child had left when their furniture was once sold. The landlord had
taken the two bedsteads, the chairs, a trunk, and a table, for what was
due to him, as the porter said, who had gone up-stairs with us. Then the
lady begged me fairly to estimate the mattresses, sheets, curtains, and
quilts; and, as I am an honest woman, sir, although it is my business to
buy cheap and sell dear, yet, when I saw the poor young thing with her
eyes full of tears, and her mother, who, in spite of her affected
calmness, seemed to be weeping in her heart, I offered for the things
fifteen francs more than they were worth to sell again, I swear I did; I
agreed, too, just to oblige them, to take this small _secretaire_,
although it is not a sort of thing I ever deal in."
"I will buy it of you, Madame Bouvard."
"Will you though? So much the better, sir, for it is else likely to stay
with me for some time; I took it, as I say, only to oblige the poor
lady. I told her then what I would give for the things, and I expected
that she would haggle a bit and ask me something more, I did. Then it
was that I saw she was not one of the common; she was in downright
misery, she was, and no mistake about it, I am sure! I says to her,
'It's worth so much,' She answers me, and says, 'Very well; let us go
back to your shop, and you can pay me there, for we shall not return
here again to this house.' Then she says to her daughter, who was
sitting on the trunk a-crying, 'Claire, take this bundle.' I remember
her name, and I'm sure she called her Claire. Then the young lady got
up, but, as she was crossing the room, as she came to the little
_secretaire_ she went down on her knees before it, and, dear heart! how
the poor thing did sob! 'Courage, my dear child; remember some one sees
you,' said her mother to her, in a low voice, but yet I heard her. You
may tell, sir, they were poor, but very proud notwithstanding. When the
lady gave me the key of the little _secretaire_, I saw a tear in her red
eyes, and it seemed as if her very heart bled at parting with this old
piece of furniture; but she tried to keep up her courage, and not seem
downcast before strangers. Then she told the porter that I should come
and take away all that the landlord did not keep, and after that we came
back here. The young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried in her
hand the small bundle, which contained all they possessed in the world.
I handed them their three hundred and fifteen francs, and then I never
saw them again."
"But their name?"
"I don't know; the lady sold me the things in the presence of the
porter, and so I had no occasion to ask her name, for what she sold
belonged to her."
"But their new address?"
"I don't know that either."
"No doubt they know at their old lodging?"
"No, sir; for, when I went back to get the things, the porter told me,
speaking of the mother and daughter, 'that they were very quiet people,
very respectable, and very unfortunate,--I hope no misfortune has
happened to them! They appeared to be very calm and composed, but I am
sure they were quite in despair.' 'And where are they gone now to
lodge?' I asked. '_Ma foi_, I don't know!' was the answer; 'they left
without telling me, and I am sure they will not return here.'"
The hopes which Rodolph had entertained for a moment vanished; how could
he go to work to discover these two unfortunate females, when all the
trace he had of them was that the young daughter's name was Claire, and
the fragment of a letter, of which we have already made mention, and at
the bottom of which were these words:
"To write to Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy?"
The only, and very remote chance of discovering the traces of these
unfortunates was through Madame de Lucenay, who, fortunately, was on
intimate terms with Madame d'Harville.
"Here, ma'am, be so good as to take your money," said Rodolph to the
shopkeeper, handing her a note for five hundred francs.
"I will give you the change, sir. What is your address?"
"Rue du Temple, No. 17."
"Rue du Temple, No. 17; oh, very well, very well, I know it."
"Have you ever been to that house?"
"Often. First I bought the furniture of a woman there, who lent money on
wages; it is not a very creditable business, to be sure, but that's no
affair of mine,--she sells, I buy, and so that's settled. Another time,
not six weeks ago, I went there again for the furniture of a young man,
who lived on the fourth floor, and was moving away."
"M. Francois Germain, perhaps?" said Rodolph.
"Just so. Did you know him?"
"Very well; and, unfortunately, he has not left his present address in
the Rue du Temple, so I do not know where to find him. But where shall
we find a cart to take the goods?"
"As it is not far, a large truck will do, and old Jerome is close by, my
regular commissionaire. If you wish to know the address of M. Francois
Germain, I can help you."
"What? Do you know where he lives?"
"Not exactly, but I know where you may be sure to meet with him."
"Where?"
"At the notary's where he works."
"At a notary's?"
"Yes, who lives in the Rue du Sentier."
"M. Jacques Ferrand?" exclaimed Rodolph.
"Yes; and a very worthy man he is. There is a crucifix and some holy
boxwood in his study; it looks just as if one was in a sacristy."
"But how did you know that M. Germain worked at this notary's?"
"Why, this way: this young man came to me to ask me to buy his little
lot of furniture all of a lump. So that time, too, though rather out of
my line, I bought all his kit, and brought it here, because he seemed a
nice young fellow, and I had a pleasure in obliging him. Well, I bought
him right clean out, and I paid him well; he was, no doubt, very well
satisfied, for, a fortnight afterwards, he came again, to buy some bed
furniture from me. A commissionaire, with a truck, went with him,
everything was packed: well, but, at the moment he was going to pay me,
lo and behold! he had forgotten his purse; but he looked so like an
honest man that I said to him, 'Take the things with you,--never mind, I
shall be passing your way, and will call for the money.' 'Very good,'
says he; 'but I am never at home, so call to-morrow in the Rue du
Sentier, at M. Jacques Ferrand's, the notary, where I am employed, and I
will pay you.' I went next day, and he paid me; only, what was very odd
to me was that he sold his things, and then, a fortnight afterwards, he
buys others."
Rodolph thought that he was able to account for this singular fact.
Germain was desirous of destroying every trace from the wretches who
were pursuing him: fearing, no doubt, that his removal might put them on
the scent of his fresh abode, he had preferred, in order to avoid this
danger, selling his goods, and afterwards buying others.
The prince was overjoyed to think of the happiness in store for Madame
Georges, who would thus, at length, see again that son so long and
vainly sought.
Rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling lips.
"Well, did not I tell you so?" she exclaimed. "I am not deceived: we
shall have spent six hundred and forty francs all together, and the
Morels will be set up like princes. Here come the shopkeepers; are they
not loaded? Nothing will now be wanting for the family; they will have
everything requisite, even to a gridiron, two newly tinned saucepans,
and a coffee-pot. I said to myself, since they are to have things done
so grandly, let them be grand; and, with all that, I shall not have lost
more than three hours. But come, neighbour, pay as quickly as you can,
and let us be gone. It will soon be noon, and my needle must go at a
famous rate to make up for this morning."
Rodolph paid, and quitted the Temple with Rigolette.
At the moment when the grisette and her companion were entering the
passage, they were almost knocked over by Madame Pipelet, who was
running out, frightened, troubled, and aghast.
"Mercy on us!" said Rigolette, "what ails you, Madame Pipelet? Where are
you running to in that manner?"
"Is it you, Mlle. Rigolette?" exclaimed Anastasie; "it is Providence
that sends you; help me to save the life of Alfred."
"What do you mean?"
"The darling old duck has fainted. Have mercy on us! Run for me, and get
me two sous' worth of absinthe at the dram-shop,--the strongest, mind;
it is his remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus,--that generally
sets him up again. Be kind, and do not refuse me, I can then return to
Alfred; I am all over in such a fluster."
Rigolette let go Rodolph's arm, and ran quickly to the dram-shop.
"But what has happened, Madame Pipelet?" inquired Rodolph, following the
porteress into the lodge.
"How can I tell, my worthy sir? I had gone out to the mayor's, to
church, and the cook-shop, to save Alfred so much trotting about; I
returned, and what should I see but the dear old cosset with his legs
and arms all in the air! There, M. Rodolph," said Anastasie, opening the
door of her dog-hole, "say if that is not enough to break one's heart!"
Lamentable spectacle! With his bell-crowned hat still on his head, even
further on than usual, for the ambiguous castor, pushed down, no doubt,
by violence, to judge by a transverse gap, covered M. Pipelet's eyes,
who was on his back on the ground at the foot of his bed. The fainting
was over, and Alfred was beginning to make some slight gesticulations
with his hands, as if he sought to repulse somebody or something, and
then he tried to push off this troublesome visor, with which he had been
bonneted.
"He kicks,--that's a beautiful symptom! He comes to!" exclaimed the
porteress, who, stooping down, bawled in his ears, "What's the matter
with my Alfred? It's his 'Stasie who is with him. How goes it now?
There's some absinthe coming, that will set you up." Then, assuming a
falsetto voice of much endearment, she added: "What, did they abuse and
assassinate him,--the dear old darling, the delight of his 'Stasie, eh?"
Alfred heaved an immense sigh, and, with a mighty groan, uttered the
fatal word:
"Cabrion!"
And his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of repulsing the fearful
vision.
"Cabrion! What, that cussed painter again?" exclaimed Madame Pipelet.
"Alfred dreamed of him all night long, so that he kicked me almost to
death. This monster is his nightmare; not only does he poison his days,
but he poisons his nights also,--he pursues him in his very sleep; yes,
sir, as though Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom may
Heaven confound! was his unceasing remorse."
Rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak of Rigolette's
former neighbour.
"Alfred! answer me; don't remain mute, you frighten me," said Madame
Pipelet; "let's try and get you up. Why, lovey, do you keep thinking of
that vagabond fellow? You know that, when you think of that fellow, it
has the same effect on you that cabbage has,--it fills up your pylorus
and stifles you."
"Cabrion!" repeated M. Pipelet, pushing up, with an effort, the hat
which had fallen so low over his eyes, which he rolled around him with
an affrighted air.
Rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe.
"Thankee, ma'amselle, you are so kind!" said the old body; and then she
added, "Come, deary, suck this down, that will make you all right."
And Anastasie, presenting the phial quickly to M. Pipelet's lips,
contrived to make him swallow the absinthe. In vain did Alfred struggle
vigorously. His wife, taking advantage of the victim's weakness, held up
his head firmly with one hand, whilst with the other she introduced the
neck of the little bottle between his teeth, and compelled him to
swallow the absinthe, after which she exclaimed, triumphantly:
"Ther-r-r-r-e, now-w-w! you're on your pins again, my ducky!"
And Alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, opened his
eyes, rose, and inquired, in accents of alarm:
"Have you seen him?"
"Who?"
"Is he gone?"
"Who, Alfred?"
"_Cabrion!_"
"Has he dared--" asked the porteress.
M. Pipelet, as mute as the statue of the commandant, like that
redoubtable spectre, bowed his head twice with an affirmative air.
"What! has M. Cabrion been here?" inquired Rigolette, repressing a
violent desire to laugh.
"What! has the monster been unchained on Alfred?" said Madame Pipelet.
"Oh, if I had been there with my broom, he should have swallowed it,
handle and all! But tell us, Alfred, all about this horrid affair."
M. Pipelet made signs with his hand that he was about to speak, and they
listened to the man with the bell-crowned hat in religious silence,
whilst he expressed himself in these terms, and in a voice of deep
emotion:
"My wife had left me, to save me the trouble of going out, according to
the request of monsieur," bowing to Rodolph, "to the mayor's, to church,
and the cook-shop."
"The dear old darling had had the nightmare all night, and I wished to
save him the journey," said Anastasie.
"This nightmare was sent me as a warning from on high," responded the
porter, religiously. "I had dreamed of Cabrion, and I was to suffer from
Cabrion. Here was I sitting quietly in front of my table, reflecting on
an alteration which I wished to make in the upper leather of this boot
confided to my hands, when I heard a noise, a rustling, at the window of
my lodge,--was it a presentiment, a warning from on high? My heart beat,
I lifted up my head, and, through the pane of glass, I saw--I saw--"
"Cabrion!" exclaimed Anastasie, clasping her hands.
"Cabrion!" replied M. Pipelet, gloomily. "His hideous face was there,
pressed close against the window, and he was looking at me with eyes
like a cat's--what do I say?--a tiger's! just as in my dream. I tried to
speak, but my tongue clave to my mouth; I tried to rise, I was nailed to
my seat. My boot fell from my hands, and, as in all the critical and
important events of my life, I remained perfectly motionless. Then the
key turned in the lock, the door opened,--Cabrion entered!"
"He entered? Owdacious monster!" replied Madame Pipelet, as much
astonished as her spouse at such audacity.
"He entered slowly," resumed Alfred, "stopped a moment at the threshold,
as if to fascinate me with his look, atrocious as it was, then he
advanced towards me, pausing at each step, and piercing me through with
his eye, but not uttering a word,--straight, mute, and threatening as a
phantom!"
"I declare, my very heart aches to hear him," said Anastasie.
"I remained still more motionless, and glued to my chair; Cabrion still
advanced slowly towards me, fixing his eye as the serpent glares at the
bird; he so frightened me that, in spite of myself, I kept my eye on
him; he came close to me, and then I could no longer endure his
revolting aspect, it was too much, and I could not. I shut my eyes, and
then I felt that he dared to place his hands upon my hat, which he took
by the crown and lifted gently off my head, leaving it bare. I began to
be seized with vertigo, my breathing was suspended, there was a singing
in my ears, and I was completely fastened to my seat, and I closed my
eyes still closer and closer. Then Cabrion stooped, took my head between
his hands, which were as cold as death, and on my forehead, covered with
an icy damp, he deposited a brazen kiss, indecent wretch!"
Anastasie lifted her hands towards heaven.
"My enemy, the most deadly, imprinted a kiss on my forehead; such a
monstrosity overcame and paralysed me. Cabrion profited by my stupor to
place my hat on my head, and then, with a blow of his fist, drove it
down over my eyes, as you saw. This last outrage destroyed me; the
measure was full, all about me was turning around, and I fainted at the
moment when I saw him, from under the rim of my hat, leave the lodge as
quietly and slowly as he had entered."
Then, as if the recital had exhausted all his strength, M. Pipelet fell
back in his chair, raising his hands to heaven in a manner of mute
imprecation. Rigolette went out quickly; she could not restrain herself
any longer; her desire to laugh almost stifled her. Rodolph had the
greatest difficulty to keep his countenance.
Suddenly there was a confused murmur, such as announces the arrival of a
mob, heard from the street, and a great noise came from the door at the
top of the entrance, and then butts of grounded muskets were heard on
the steps of the door.