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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: "_'Cecily! Cecily!' Murmured a Voice_"
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel]
+The Mysteries of Paris.+
_ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS
BY MERCIER, BICKNELL, POITEAU,
AND ADRIAN MARCEL._
_BY EUGENE SUE_
_IN SIX VOLUMES
VOLUME V._
_PRINTED FOR
FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
BOSTON_
+Edition de Luxe+
_This edition is limited to one thousand copies,
of which this is_
No.______
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE PRESENTATION 11
II. MURPHY AND POLIDORI 35
III. THE CLERK'S OFFICE 57
IV. AVOID TEMPTATION 69
V. LA FORCE 99
VI. PIQUE-VINAIGRE 114
VII. MAITRE BOULARD 139
VIII. FRANCOIS GERMAIN 148
IX. THE LIONS' DEN 169
X. THE STORY-TELLER 193
XI. GRINGALET AND CUT-IN-HALF 211
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
"'CECILY! CECILY!' MURMURED A VOICE" _Frontispiece_
"SLOWLY DANCING AND WHIRLING AROUND ME" 26
"THEN LEFT ME" 126
"TOUCHED WITH HIS LIPS THROUGH THE GRATING" 167
"THE SKELETON STAGGERED AT FIRST" 243
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
CHAPTER I.
THE PRESENTATION.
A few days after the murder of Madame Seraphin, the death of the
Chouette, and the arrest of the gang of desperadoes taken by surprise at
Bras-Rouge's house, Rodolph paid another visit to the house in the Rue
du Temple.
We have already observed that, with the view of practising artifice for
artifice with Jacques Ferrand, discovering his hidden crimes, obliging
him to repair them, and inflicting condign punishment should the guilty
wretch, either by skill or hypocrisy, continue to evade the just
punishment of the laws, Rodolph had sent to fetch from one of the
prisons in Germany a young and beautiful creole, the unworthy wife of
the negro David. This female, lovely in person as depraved in mind, as
fascinating as dangerous, had reached Paris the preceding evening, and
had received the most minute instructions from Baron de Grauen.
The reader will recollect that in the last interview between Rodolph and
Madame Pipelet, the latter having very cleverly managed to propose
Cecily to Madame Seraphin, as a servant to the notary in place of Louise
Morel, her proposition had been so well received that the _femme de
charge_ had promised to speak to Jacques Ferrand on the subject; and
this she had done, in terms most flattering to Cecily, the very morning
of the day on which she (Madame Seraphin) had been drowned at the Isle
du Ravageur.
The motive for Rodolph's visit was, therefore, to inquire the result of
Cecily's introduction. To his great astonishment, he found, on entering
the lodge, that although eleven o'clock in the morning had struck by all
the neighbouring dials, Pipelet had not yet risen, while Anastasie was
standing beside his bed, offering him some sort of drink.
As Alfred, whose forehead and eyes were entirely concealed beneath his
huge cotton nightcap, did not reply to his wife's inquiries, she
concluded he slept, and therefore closed the curtains of his bed.
Turning around, she perceived Rodolph, and, as usual, gave him a
military salute, by lifting the back of her left hand up to her wig.
"Ah, my king of lodgers! Service to you! How are you? As for me, I'm
upset--bewildered--stupefied. Pretty doings have there been in the house
since you was here. And my poor Alfred,--obliged to keep his bed ever
since yesterday!"
"Why, what has happened?"
"Positively, don't you guess? Still going on in the old way with that
monster of a painter, who is more bitter than ever against Alfred. He
has quite muddled his brains, till I declare I don't know what to do
with him."
"Cabrion again?"
"Oh, _he'll_ never leave off."
"He must be the very devil!"
"Really, M. Rodolph, I shall very soon think so; for he always knows the
very instant I quit the house. Scarcely is my back turned, than there he
is, in the twinkling of an eye, worrying and tormenting my poor old dear
of a husband, who is as helpless and frightened as a babby. Only last
night, when I had just stepped out as far as M. Ferrand's the
notary's--Ah, there's pretty work there, too!"
"But Cecily?" said Rodolph, with some little impatience. "I called to
know--"
"Hold hard, my king of lodgers! Don't be in such a hurry, or you'll put
me out. And I've such a deal to tell you, I don't know when I shall have
done; and if once I'm interrupted in a story, I never know when to begin
again."
"There now, go on as fast as you can; I'm listening."
"Well, then, first and foremost, what do you think has happened in the
house? Ah, you'll never guess, so I'll tell you. Only imagine, old
Mother Burette's being taken up!"
"What, the female pawnbroker?"
"Oh, Lord, she seems to have had a curious mixture of trades: for
besides being a money-lender, she was a receiver of stolen goods, a
melter of gold and silver, a fortune-teller, a cheat, a dealer in
second-hand clothes, and any sort of contraband articles. The worst of
the story is that M. Bras-Rouge, her old sweetheart and our principal
lodger, is also arrested. I tell you the house is thoroughly upset with
these strange doings."
"Arrested! Bras-Rouge arrested?"
"That he was, I can promise you. Why, even his mischievous little imp of
a son--the lame boy we call Tortillard--has also been locked up. They
say that lots of murders have been planned and managed at his house,
which was the well-known resort of a gang of ruffians; that the
Chouette, one of Mother Burette's most particular friends, has been
strangled; and that, if assistance had not arrived in time, Mother
Mathieu, the dealer in precious stones for whom Morel worked, would also
have been murdered. Come, I think there's a pretty penn'orth of news for
you,--and cheap, too, at the price!"
"Bras-Rouge arrested and the Chouette dead!" murmured Rodolph to
himself, in deep astonishment at the tidings. "Well, the vile old hag
deserved her fate, and poor Fleur-de-Marie is at least avenged!"
"So that is the state of things here," continued Anastasie. "As for M.
Cabrion and his devil's tricks, I'll tell you all about it. Oh, you
never knew such a bold howdacious willin as he is! But you shall
hear,--I'll go straight on with my story. But there never,--no, there
never was his feller for inperence! So when Mother Burette was took up,
and we heard how that M. Bras-Rouge, our principal lodger, was quodded
also, I says to my old boy, 'Alfred, darling,' says I, 'you must toddle
off to the landlord and let him know as M. Bras-Rouge is in the stone
jug.' Well, Alfred goes; but in about two hours' time back he comes--in
such a state!--such a state! White as a sheet and puffing like an ox!"
"Why, what was the matter?"
"I'm a-going to tell you. I suppose, M. Rodolph, you recollect the high
wall about ten steps from here? Well, my poor, dear, darling husband was
going along thinking of nothing, when, quite by chance, he just looked
upon this wall. And what do you think he saw written in great staring
letters with a piece of charcoal?--why, 'Pipelet and Cabrion!'--the two
names joined together by a sort of true-lover's knot. (Ah, it is that
true-lover's knot which sticks so tight in the gizzard of my poor old
chick!) That sight rather upset him; but still he tried to act like a
man and not mind it. So on he went. But hardly had he proceeded ten
steps farther when, on the principal entrance to the Temple, there again
were the same hateful words, 'Pipelet and Cabrion,' united as before!
Still he walked on; but at every turn he saw the same detestable writing
on the walls, doors, and even shutters of houses! Everywhere Pipelet
and Cabrion danced before his eyes, for ever bound in the same tender
tie of love or friendship! My poor dear Alfred's head began to turn
around, and his eyes to grow dizzy; all sorts of horrid objects seemed
to meet him and laugh him to scorn. He fancied the very people in the
streets were laughing at him. So, quite confused and ashamed, he pulled
his hat over his face, and took the road towards the Boulevards,
believing that the scamp Cabrion would have confined his abominations to
the Rue du Temple. But no--not he! All along the Boulevards, wherever a
blank spot remained or a place could be found to hold the words, had he
written 'Pipelet and Cabrion!'--sometimes adding, 'till death!' At last
my poor dear man arrived at the house of the landlord, but so bewildered
and stupefied that, after hammering and stammering and bodgering about
without being able to utter a clear sentence, the landlord, having tried
for nearly half an hour to bring him sufficiently to his senses to say
what had made him come to his house, got quite in a passion, and called
him a stupid old fool, and told him to go home and send his wife or
somebody who could speak common sense. Well, poor dear Alfred left as he
was ordered, thinking, at any rate, he would return by a different road,
so as to escape those dreadful words that had so overcome him going. Do
you believe he could get rid of them, though? No; there they were, large
as life, scrawled upon every place, and united by the lover's band as
before."
"What, Pipelet and Cabrion still written along the walls?"
"Precisely so, my king of lodgers. The end of it was that my poor
darling came home to me regularly brain-struck, talked in the wildest
and most desperate way of leaving France, exiling himself for ever, and
no one knows what. Well, I persuaded him to tell me all that had
happened; then I did my best to quiet him, and persuade him not to
worry himself about such a beggar as that Cabrion; and when I found he
had grown a little calmer, I left him, and went to take Cecily to the
notary's, before I proceeded on to the landlord to finish poor Alfred's
message. Now, perhaps, you think I've done? But I haven't, though. No; I
had hardly quitted the place, than that abominable Cabrion, who must
have watched me out, sent a couple of impudent great creatures, who
pursued Alfred with the most determined villainy. Oh, bless you, it
makes my very hair stand on end when I think of it! I'll tell you all
about their proceedings another time; let me first finish about the
notary. Well, off I started with Cecily in a hackney-coach,--as you told
me to do, you know. She was dressed in her pretty costume of a German
peasant; for having only just arrived, she had not had time to procure
any other, which I was to explain to M. Ferrand, and beg of him to
excuse. You may believe me or not, just as you please, my king of
lodgers, but though I have seen some pretty girls in my time,--myself,
for instance,--yet I never saw one (not even myself) comparable to
Cecily. And then she has such a way of using those wicked black eyes of
hers! She throws into them a look--a look--that seems--to mean--I know
not what--only they seem to pierce you through, and make you feel so
strange; I never saw such eyes in my life! Why, there's my poor, dear,
darling Alfred, whose virtue has never been suspected; well, the first
time that she fixed her looks on him, the dear fellow turned as red as a
carrot, and nothing in the world could have induced him to gaze in her
face a second time. I'm sure for more than an hour afterwards he kept
fidgeting about in his chair, as though he were sitting upon nettles. He
told me afterwards he could not account for it, but that somehow the
look Cecily bestowed on him seemed to bring to his thoughts all the
dreadful stories that shameless Bradamanti used to tell about the female
savages, and which used to make my poor dear simpleton of an Alfred
blush to his very fingers' ends."
"But I want to hear what passed at the notary's. Never mind Alfred's
modesty just now, but tell me."
"I was just going, M. Rodolph. It was just seven o'clock in the evening
when we arrived at M. Ferrand's, and I told the porter to let his master
know that Madame Pipelet was there with the young woman she had spoke to
Madame Seraphin about, and by whose orders she had brought her. Upon
which the porter heaved a deep sigh, and asked me if I knew what had
happened to Madame Seraphin? I told him, 'No; I hadn't heard of anything
being the matter with her.' Ah, M. Rodolph, prepare for another strange
event,--a most astounding circumstance!"
"What can it be?"
"Why, Madame Seraphin was drowned while on a party of pleasure to which
she had gone with her relations."
"Drowned, and on a party of pleasure in the winter?" exclaimed Rodolph,
much surprised.
"Yes, drowned, M. Rodolph. For my part I must say that I was more
astonished than distressed at the news; for since that affair of poor
Louise, who was taken to prison entirely through her information, I
downright hated Madame Seraphin. So when I heard what had befallen her,
all I did was to say to myself, 'Oh, she's drowned, is she,--drowned?
Well, I don't mean to make myself ill with crying, that's very sure. I
sha'n't die of grief,--that's my disposition.'"
"And M. Ferrand?"
"The porter said at first he did not think I could see his master, and
begged me to wait in his lodge while he went to see. But he almost
directly came back to fetch me. We crossed the courtyard, and entered an
apartment on the ground floor, where a single miserable candle was
twinkling its best to light it, but without success. The notary was
sitting beside the fireplace, and on the hearth a few smouldering ashes
still sent out a small degree of warmth. But such a wretched hole I
never saw! It was my first view of M. Ferrand. Oh, my stars, what a
downright ugly fellow he is! Such a man as he might have offered to make
me Queen of Arabia before I would have played Alfred false."
"And tell me, did the notary appear much struck with Cecily when she
entered?"
"Why, how can any one tell what he thinks while he keeps those great
green spectacles on? Besides, a godly saint such as he passes for has no
business to know whether a woman is handsome or ugly. However, when we
both walked into the room and stood before him, he gave quite a spring
up from his seat. Most likely, he was astonished at Cecily's dress, for
she looked for all the world (only a hundred thousand times better) like
one of those 'buy-a-broom' girls with her short petticoats and her
handsome legs set off by her blue stockings with red clocks. My
conscience, what a leg she has! Such a slender ankle!--and then, oh,
such a calf! With a foot as small and delicate as an opera dancer's. I
can tell you that the notary seemed almost speechless with surprise,
after he had looked at her through his green specs from head to toe."
"Doubtless, as you say, he was struck by the whimsicality of Cecily's
costume."
"Well, maybe so; however, I felt that the critical moment had arrived,
and began to feel rather queer; fortunately, just as my courage began to
fail me, M. Rodolph, I recollected a maxim I learned from you, and that
got me safe through my difficulty."
"What maxim do you mean,--I don't remember teaching you any?"
"Don't you know?--'It is always enough for one to wish, for the other to
refuse; or, for one to desire, for the other to be unwilling.' 'So,'
said I to myself, 'here goes to rid my king of lodgers of his German
niece, and to burthen the hard-hearted master of poor Louise with her.
Now, then, for a good piece of shamming;' and, without giving the notary
breathing time, I began by saying, in a polite and insinuating tone, 'I
hope, sir, you'll excuse my niece being dressed as she is, but she has
only just arrived, and has brought nothing with her but the costume of
her country; and I am sure it don't lay in my power to provide her with
others; and, besides, it would not be worth while, since we have merely
called to thank you for having allowed Madame Seraphin to say you would
see Cecily, in consequence of the favourable character I had given her.
Still, sir, I don't think, after all, she would suit you.'"
"Capital, Madame Pipelet; go on."
"'And why so?' inquired the notary, who had established himself by the
warmest corner of the fire, and seemed to be looking very attentively at
us from over his green spectacles, 'why should you suppose your niece
not likely to suit me?' 'Because, sir, Cecily is already quite homesick;
she has only been here three days and yet she wants to go back; and so,
she says, she will, too, if she is obliged to beg her way, or sing songs
and sell little brooms, like the rest of her countrywomen.' 'But bless
me!' answered M. Ferrand, 'do you, who are her principal relation, mean
to allow of that?' 'I don't see how I am to hinder her, sir,' said I.
'Certainly, I am the nearest relation she has, for the poor thing is an
orphan, as I told good Madame Seraphin; but then she is twenty years of
age, and, of course, mistress of her own actions.' 'Stuff and nonsense!'
interrupted he, quite impatiently; 'don't tell me about being her own
mistress; at her time of life she is bound to obey her relations, and
take their advice in all things.' Upon which Cecily began to cry and to
creep up to me, all of a tremble, as if she was quite afraid of the
notary."
"And what said Jacques Ferrand further?"
"Oh, he kept muttering in a grumbling tone, 'A young creature at that
age left to her own guidance! Why, it would be the ruin of her! And, as
for begging her way back to Germany--a pretty idea! And you mean to call
yourself her aunt, and say that you would sanction such conduct?' 'All
right,' says I to myself; 'you are falling into the trap as neat as
ninepence, you miserly old hunks, and if I do not saddle you with
Cecily, my name is not what it is!' 'Yes,' cried I, in a discontented
voice, 'I'm her aunt, sure enough, and worse luck to me for having such
an encumbrance; I have difficulty enough to earn my bread, without
having a great overgrown girl like that, to take it out of my mouth; and
I would much rather she went back to her own country than stop here to
be a burthen to me. The deuce take people who can't manage to maintain
their own children, but just send them for others to work for and keep
without even so much as paying their travelling expenses!' And then, as
if Cecily were up to my schemes, and desirous of playing into my hands,
she burst out into such a fit of crying and sobbing as quite touched the
notary, who began in a sniffling, whining tone, as though preaching a
sermon, 'Let me tell you that you are accountable before Providence for
the charge he has entrusted to your care and keeping, and you are
answerable for any false step this poor girl may take. Now I am willing
to join you in a charitable action; and if your niece will promise me to
be honest, industrious, virtuous, pious, and, above all, never upon any
occasion to desire to leave the house, I will take pity on her, and
receive her into my service.' 'No, no!' said Cecily, crying more
violently than ever, 'I don't want to stop here with this gentleman; I
wish to go back to my home; and I will, too!'"
"Ah, ah," thought Rodolph, "her dangerous falsehood has not deserted
her,--the depraved creature has, evidently, fully comprehended the
instructions she received from Baron de Grauen." Then, speaking aloud,
the prince continued, "Did Cecily's resistance appear to displease M.
Jacques Ferrand?"
"Yes, M. Rodolph, it seemed to make him as savage as could be, and he
muttered something between his teeth I could not make out. Then he said,
abruptly, 'It is not what you would prefer, young woman, but what is
most suitable and creditable that is to be considered. Providence will
never forsake you, so long as you conduct yourself respectably and
virtuously, and carefully attend to your religious duties. You will be
here in a family as pious as it is strict in all such matters; and if
your aunt has any real regard for your welfare, she will take advantage
of my offer. Your wages will be trifling at first, but hereafter I may
be induced to increase them should your good behaviour render you
deserving of encouragement.' 'Bravo!' thinks I to myself, 'I've
regularly hooked the miser, and fixed him with Cecily as right as a
trivet. Why, you old curmudgeon! You old skinflint! You miserable,
hard-hearted old hypocrite! You know very well that Seraphin was your
slave for years, and yet you seem to have forgotten her death, and the
dreadful manner of it, as much as though nothing had happened.' Then I
said out loud, 'No doubt, sir, yours is a very good place, and one as
many would be thankful to have, but if this girl is so homesick, what am
I to do?' 'Oh, take no notice of it,' replied the notary, 'and it will
soon wear away. But make up your minds,--just say one way or the other;
if you decide upon your niece entering my service, bring her here
to-morrow evening at the same hour you came to-night; and my porter will
show her about the premises, and also explain her work to her. As for
her wages, I shall begin with twenty francs a month and her food.' 'Oh,
sir, I hope you will make it twenty-five francs,--twenty is really too
little!' 'No, no, not at present; by and by perhaps I may, if I am
satisfied. One thing, however, I must impress upon you, and that is,
that your niece will never go beyond these walls, neither will she be
allowed to receive any visitors.' 'Bless your heart, sir! Who could come
to see her? Why, she does not know a single soul in Paris, except
myself, and I am obliged to stay at home to mind my lodge. I have been
terribly put about to come out this evening, so you will see nothing of
me; and as for my niece, she will be as great a stranger to me as though
she was in her own country; and the best way to prevent her going out
will be to make her wear the costume of her country,--she could not
venture in the streets dressed in that manner.' 'You are quite right,'
replied the notary; 'it is, besides, always respectable to wear the
dress of our own country; your niece shall, therefore, continue to dress
as she now is.' 'Come, my girl,' said I to Cecily, who, with her head
hanging down, and her finger in the corner of her mouth, was keeping up
a continual weeping, 'come, make up your mind. A good place with a
worthy master is not to be found every day; so, if you choose to refuse
it, do, but don't look to me for any further support; I'll have nothing
to do with you, I can tell you!' Upon which Cecily, swelling as though
her heart would burst, replied, sobbing, 'Very well, then, if aunt was
so particular, she should stay, but only on condition that, if she did
not find herself comfortable, she might come away at the end of a
fortnight.' 'Don't be alarmed,' answered the notary, 'I shall not force
you to stop against your will. I can promise you there are too many
young persons would be thankful to have my situation; but I pity your
position as an orphan, and, therefore, give you the preference. There,
take your earnest money; and let your aunt bring you here about this
time to-morrow evening.' Cecily was too busy crying to take the two
francs' piece the old starvemouse offered, so I took it for her. We made
our courtesies and came away."
"You have managed admirably, Madame Pipelet; and I do not forget my
promise; here is what I promised you, if you managed to get this girl
taken off my hands."
"Wait till to-morrow before you give it me, my king of lodgers!" cried
Madame Pipelet, putting back the money Rodolph offered her; "perhaps,
when I go to take Cecily this evening, M. Ferrand may have changed his
mind."
"Not he, depend upon it! But where is she?"
"In the small room adjoining the apartments of the commandant; she will
not stir out after the orders you gave. She seems mild and gentle as a
lamb; but then, her eyes! Oh, dear! It is difficult to fancy her either
one or the other, when one looks at those--Talking of the commandant,
what a plotting, mysterious person he is! Would you believe it? When he
came here to superintend the packing up of his furniture, he told me
that if any letters came addressed to 'Madame Vincent,' they were for
him, and that I was to send them to the Rue Mondine, No. 5. The idea of
the pretty creature having his letters addressed as if for a female!
What a conceited jackanapes he is! But the best of it was, he asked me
what had become of his wood! 'Your wood?' said I, 'why don't you ask
after your forest when you are about it?' Oh, I said it so flat and
plain! A mean, grasping hound, to trouble himself to ask after two
pitiful loads of wood,--his wood, indeed! 'What has become of your
wood?' repeated I, still working him on, till he got quite white with
passion, 'why, I burnt it to keep your things from the damp, which would
otherwise have made mushrooms grow upon your fine embroidered cap, and
the mildew from rotting your smart, glittering _robe de chambre_, which
you must love so dearly, because you have put it on so many times when
you were fool enough to wait for those who never meant to come, but were
only laughing at you,--like the lady who made believe she was going to
pay you a visit, and then passed your door, though you had set it wide
open to show yourself decked in all your finery. Your wood, indeed! I
like that! You poor squeeze-penny of a commandant,--enough to disgust
one with men altogether.'"
A deep, plaintive groan, something between a grunt and a sigh, from the
bed on which Alfred reposed, here interrupted Madame Pipelet.
"Ah, there's the old duck beginning to stir; he will not be long before
he wakes now. Will you excuse me, my king of lodgers?"
"Certainly; but I have yet some particulars to inquire of you."
"Oh, very well," answered Madame Pipelet. Then going up to her husband,
she drew back the curtains, saying, "How are you by this time, my old
chick? Look! there's M. Rodolph, who has heard all about this fresh
villainy of Cabrion's, and is as sorry about it as can be."
"Ah, M. Rodolph," murmured Alfred, languidly turning his head towards
the announced visitor, "this time the monster has struck at my heart; I
shall quit this bed no more. I am now the object of all the placards of
this vast city; my name is blazoned upon every wall in Paris, linked
with that of a wretch unworthy of mention. Yes, _mossieur_, there you
may see 'Pipelet and Cabrion,' bound together by an enormous band of
union. Yes, I--I--the injured Pipelet--united in bonds of seeming amity
and intimacy with that fellow Cabrion! Oh, _mossieur_, pity me! My name
joined with his in the eyes of all the dwellers of this great
capital,--the leading city of Europe!"
"Ah, M. Rodolph knows all about that; but he has yet to be told of your
yesterday's adventures with those two singular women, or whatever they
were."
"Alas, monsieur," sighed Alfred, in a mournful voice, "he reserved his
master-stroke of wickedness and fiendish malice till the last. This,
however, passes all bounds, and human patience can bear no more!"
"Come, my dear M. Pipelet, calm yourself, and endeavour to relate this
fresh annoyance to me."
"All that he has hitherto done to vex and insult me is as nothing
compared to his last malignant scheme to break my heart and ruin my
peace. But now the shameless monster has gone the full extent of
fiendish provocation. I know not whether I have the power of describing
to you the scene of last night; when I attempt to speak, shame,
confusion, and outraged modesty seem to deprive me of voice and breath."
M. Pipelet, having managed with some difficulty to raise himself in his
bed, modestly buttoned his flannel waistcoat up to his throat, and began
in the following terms:
"My wife had just gone out, absorbed in the bitter reflections arising
from the sight of my name so disgracefully prostituted on every wall in
Paris; I sought to while away my solitary hours by attending to the new
soling of a boot twenty times commenced and as often abandoned,--thanks
to the unceasing persecutions of my pitiless persecutor. Well, sir, I
was sitting at a table with the boot on my arm, though my thoughts were
far otherwise engaged, when I saw the lodge door open and a female
enter. The person who had just come in was wrapped in a large hooded
cloak, and, without thinking any harm, I civilly rose from my seat, and
put my hand to my hat. Then I observed another female, also attired in a
similar cloak, with a large hood, enter the lodge and shut the door
after her. Although somewhat astonished at the familiarity of such a
proceeding, and the silence maintained by both the women, I rose a
second time from my chair, and a second time I lifted my hand to my hat.
And then, sir,--but no, no, I can never finish the recital; my wounded
modesty chokes my utterance."
"Come, come, old pet," said Madame Pipelet, encouragingly, "get on with
your story; we are all men here."
"Well, then," stammered forth Alfred, his face becoming scarlet as the
fullest blown peony, "then their mantles fell to the ground. And what do
you think I saw? Why, a couple of sirens, or nymphs, or witches of one
kind or the other, with no sort of clothing except a petticoat made of
leaves, while a wreath of similar descriptions decorated their heads.
And then the two advanced towards me with outstretched arms, as though
inviting me to throw myself into them."
"Oh, the impudent sluts!" exclaimed Anastasie.
"Their impure advances disgusted me," continued Alfred, animated with a
chaste indignation; "and, in conformity with a habit which has ever
attended the most critical moments of my life, I remained still and
motionless on my chair. Then, profiting by my surprise and stupor, the
two sirens came gently forward to a sort of low music, turning and
twisting and extending their arms and legs in all directions. I became
petrified, as though changed to stone; I waited their approach in silent
agony. They came nearer and nearer, till at last they wrapped me tight
in their arms."
"Did they, though?" cried Anastasie. "Oh, the hussies! I only wish I had
been there with my broomstick; I'd have taught them how to come hopping
and skipping, and holding out their arms for an innocent, virtuous,
married man to tumble into,--I would, the bold-faced beggars!"
[Illustration: "_Slowly Dancing and Whirling around Me_"
Original Etching by Porteau]
"When I felt myself in a manner half stifled between them, I gave myself
up for lost. My blood retreated from my heart,--I felt as if struck with
death; when one of the sirens--a great, fair girl, and the boldest of
the two--leaned upon my shoulder, took off my hat, and, still slowly
dancing and whirling around me, left me bald-headed and defenceless.
Then the other one, accompanying the action with all sorts of attitudes
and singular dances, and waving of the arms, draws out a pair of
scissors she must have hid somewhere,--for I'm quite sure she had no
pockets,--came close behind me, and grasping with one hand all my
remaining hair, snipped it all off with one cut of her huge scissors;
yes, all,--every lock,--every hair I had to cover my poor old head;
dancing, and wheeling, and balancing, first on one foot, then on the
other, swaying out legs and arms in all sorts of stage-struck ways; then
joining voices, the pair of audacious spirits began singing, ''Tis for
Cabrion,--for Cabrion; we take your locks for Cabrion,--your dear friend
Cabrion!' Whilst the second voice repeated in a louder strain, 'Your
head is shorn for Cabrion,--for Cabrion, your friend!'"
After a pause, interrupted by repeated sighs and groans, Alfred resumed:
"During this impudent spoliation I once ventured to raise my eyes, and
then I saw flat against the windows of the lodge the detestable
countenance of Cabrion, with his large beard and pointed-crowned hat. He
was laughing, too,--laughing with all his might. Oh, how I shuddered at
the horrible vision! To escape from so harrowing a sight I closed my
eyes. When I opened them again all had disappeared, and I found myself
seated on my chair, bald-headed and completely disfigured for life. You
see, monsieur, that, by dint of obstinacy, impudence, and cunning,
Cabrion has at length effected his fell design. But by what fearful,
what diabolical means, has he succeeded! He wishes the world to believe
he is my accepted friend; began by sticking up a notice here in my
immediate neighbourhood to the effect that he and I had entered into a
treaty of friendship! Then, not content with so infamous an assertion,
he has caused my name, in conjunction with his own, to be displayed on
every wall in Paris, binding them together with an enormous band of
union, so that at this moment the whole of this vast capital is
impressed with the most perfect belief of my close intimacy with this
scoundrel. Then he desired locks of my hair, and he has every hair off
my head,--no doubt with the view, the guilty view, of exhibiting them as
proofs of our sworn friendship. Thanks to the merciless exaction of his
bold-faced dancing women, my last lock is stolen. So now, monsieur, you
see plainly there is nothing left for me but to quit France,--my lovely
and beloved France,--in whose dear bosom I had hoped to live and die!"
And with these pathetic words Alfred clasped his hands, closed his eyes,
and threw himself back upon his bed.
"Oh, nonsense, you old duck!" cried Anastasie. "On the contrary, now the
villain has gained his point and stolen your hair, he will let you alone
for the future. He has no further cause to disturb and torment you."
"Let me alone?" exclaimed M. Pipelet, with a convulsive spring upwards.
"Oh, you know him not; he is insatiable. True, he has got the hair he so
much desired to obtain; but who can say what he may further require of
me?"
The appearance of Rigolette at the entrance to the lodge put a stop to
the lamentations of M. Pipelet.
"Stay where you are, mademoiselle!" cried he, faithful to his habitual
chaste delicacy. "Pray don't think of coming in, for I am undressed and
in bed!" So saying, he covered himself up almost to his eyes, while
Rigolette, surprised and bewildered, remained at the threshold of the
door.
"Oh, my pretty neighbour," said Rodolph, pitying her confusion, "I was
just coming up to speak with you. Can you wait for me one minute?" Then
addressing Anastasie, he said, "Pray let nothing prevent your taking
Cecily to Jacques Ferrand's this evening."
"Make yourself perfectly easy, my king of lodgers; at seven o'clock
precisely she shall be duly placed there. Now that Morel's wife is able
to get about, I will ask her to mind the lodge for me while I am away;
for, bless you, Alfred would not stay by himself,--not for a 'varsal
crown!"
The bright freshness of Rigolette's complexion was daily fading away,
while her once round, dimpled cheek had sunk and given place to a pale,
careworn countenance, the usually gay, mirthful expression of which had
changed into a grave, thoughtful cast, more serious and mournful still
since her meeting with Fleur-de-Marie at the gate of St. Lazare.
"I am so glad to see you," said Rigolette to Rodolph, when they were at
a convenient distance from the lodge of Madame Pipelet. "I have so much
to say to you; I have, indeed."
"Well, then, first of all, tell me of yourself and your health. Let me
look at this pretty face, and see whether it is as gay and blooming as
usual. No, indeed. I declare you have grown quite pale and thin; I am
sure you work too hard."
"Oh, no, indeed, M. Rodolph, it is not that. On the contrary, my work
does me good; it hinders me from thinking too much, for I am obliged to
attend to what I am about. But it is grief, M. Rodolph, and nothing
else, that has altered me so much. And how can I help it? Every time I
see that poor Germain, I grieve more and more."
"He is still as desponding as ever, then?"
"Oh, worse than ever, M. Rodolph. And what is the most distressing is,
that, whatever I try to do to cheer him up, takes quite the contrary
effect; it seems as though a spell hung over me!" And here the large,
dark eyes of Rigolette were filled with tears.
"How do you know, my dear neighbour?"
"Why, only yesterday I went to see him, and to take him a book he was
desirous of having; it was a romance we read together when we lived
happily as near neighbours and dear friends. Well, directly he saw the
book, he burst into tears; but that did not astonish me,--it seemed
natural enough. Poor fellow! I dare say it brought back to his
recollection those happy evenings when he used to sit beside the fire in
my nice, pretty little room; while now he was in a horrid prison, the
companion of vile and wicked men, who only jeered at his melancholy.
Poor, dear Germain! It is very, very hard!"
"Take courage, my dear friend," said Rodolph. "When Germain quits his
prison, and his innocence is proved, he will find his mother and many
dear friends, in whose society, as well as in yours, he will soon forget
his present sufferings, as well as the hard trials he has undergone."
"That's all very pleasant when it arrives, but that won't stop his
tormenting himself till it does. But that is not all, neither."
"What other uneasiness has he?"
"Why, he being the only innocent man among all the bad people there,
they are always annoying and behaving ill to him, because he will not
join in their idle and vicious amusements. The head turnkey, who is a
very good sort of man, advised me to recommend Germain, for his own
sake, not to keep himself at quite such a distance from his companions,
but to try and familiarise himself with these bad men. However, it is no
use trying; he cannot bring himself to endure their company or
conversation. And I am constantly tormented with the dread that some of
these days they will do him some harm out of spite."
Then all at once interrupting herself, and drying her tears, Rigolette
resumed:
"But, dear me, how selfish I am! I keep talking of my own concerns
without ever recollecting to speak to you about the Goualeuse."
"The Goualeuse!" exclaimed Rodolph, with surprise.
"I met her the day before yesterday, when I went to see Louise at St.
Lazare."
"The Goualeuse?"
"Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph."
"At St. Lazare?"
"She was leaving the prison in company with an elderly female."
"It cannot be," exclaimed Rodolph, in extreme astonishment; "you must be
mistaken."
"I assure you it was herself, M. Rodolph."
"You really must be in error."
"Oh, no, I was not mistaken; although she was dressed as a country girl
I recollected her again directly. She looked beautiful as ever, though
pale; and she had just the same melancholy look she used to have."
"How very strange that she should be in Paris without my having heard of
it! I can scarcely credit it. And what had she been doing at St.
Lazare?"
"I suppose, like myself, she had been to see some one confined there;
but I had not time to ask her many questions, for the person who was
with her seemed so very cross, and to be in such a hurry! Then it seems
you know the Goualeuse as well as myself, M. Rodolph?"
"I do, certainly."
"Oh, then, that settles the matter! And it must have been of you she
spoke."
"Of me?"
"Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph. For, you see, I was just mentioning to her
what had happened to poor Louise and Germain,--both so good, yet so
persecuted by that wicked Jacques Ferrand,--taking care to do as you bid
me, and not say a word of your being interested in their welfare so then
the Goualeuse told me if a generous person she knew were once acquainted
with their hard fate, and how little they deserved it, he would be sure
to assist them. And then I asked her the name of the person she alluded
to, and she named you, M. Rodolph."
"Oh, then, it was her, sure enough."
"You can't imagine how much surprised we both were at this discovery,
either of resemblance or name; and before we parted we agreed to let
each other know whether our M. Rodolph was one and the same. And it
seems you are the very identical Rodolph both of La Goualeuse and
myself. Are you not, neighbour?"
"I believe so; and I can, at least, assure you I take the greatest
possible interest in the fate of this poor girl,--still I am much
surprised to find, by what you say, that she is in Paris. And so great
is my astonishment that, had you not so faithfully related your
interview, I should have persisted in believing you were mistaken. But I
must say good-bye for the present,--what you tell me respecting La
Goualeuse obliges me to quit you. Be as careful as ever in not
mentioning to any one that there are certain unknown friends watching
over the welfare both of Louise and Germain, who will come forward at a
right moment and see them safe through their troubles; it is more
essential than ever that strict secrecy should be kept on this point. By
the way, how are the Morel family getting on?"
"Oh, extremely well, M. Rodolph. The mother has quite got about again,
and the children are daily improving. Ah, the whole family owe their
life and happiness to you! You are so good and so generous to them."
"And how is poor Morel himself? Does he get any better?"
"Oh, dear, yes; I heard of him yesterday, he seems from time to time to
have some lucid moments, and hopes are entertained of his madness being
curable. So be of good heart, neighbour, take care of yourself, and
good-bye for the present."
"But first tell me truly, are you quite sure you want for nothing? Are
you still able to maintain yourself with the profits of your needle?"
"Oh, yes, thank you, M. Rodolph. I work rather later at night to make up
for my lost time during the day. But it does not matter much, for if I
go to bed I don't sleep."
"Poor, dear neighbour! Why, you have grown sadly out of spirits. I am
afraid that Papa Cretu and Ramonette don't sing much, if they wait for
you to set them the example."
"You are right enough, M. Rodolph, my birds have quite left off singing,
as well as myself. Now I know you will laugh at me, but I'll tell you
what I firmly think and believe,--the poor little creatures are aware
that I am dull and out of spirits, and instead of singing and warbling
as if their little throats would burst for joy when they see me, they
just give a little gentle twitter, as though they would not disturb me
for the world, but would be so glad to console me if they had the power.
It is very stupid of me to fancy such things, is it not, M. Rodolph?"
"Not at all! And I am quite sure that your affectionate friends the
birds have observed your being less happy than usual."
"Well, I'm sure I shouldn't wonder! The poor, dear things are so very
clever," said Rigolette, innocently, delighted to find her own opinion
as to the sagacity of her companions in solitude thus powerfully
confirmed.
"Oh, I am quite sure about it, nothing is more intelligent than
gratitude. But once more, good-bye,--I shall see you again soon, I hope,
and by that time, I trust your pretty eyes will have grown brighter,
your cheeks regained their usual roses, and your merry voice have
recovered all its gaiety, till Papa Cretu and Ramonette will scarcely be
able to keep up with you."
"Heaven grant you may prove a true prophet, M. Rodolph!" said Rigolette,
heaving a deep sigh. "But, good-bye, neighbour, don't let me keep you."
"Fare you well, for the present!"
Rodolph, wholly at a loss to understand why Madame Georges should have
brought or sent Fleur-de-Marie to Paris without giving him the least
intimation of her intention, hastened home for the purpose of
despatching a special messenger to the farm at Bouqueval.
Just as he entered the Rue Plumet he observed a travelling carriage
drawn up before the entrance of his hotel. The vehicle contained Murphy,
who had that instant returned from Normandy, whither he had gone, as the
reader is already aware, to counteract the base schemes of the stepmother
of Madame d'Harville and her infamous confederate, Bradamanti.