THE STRANGER.
The following scene took place on the morrow of the day in which Father
d'Aigrigny had been so rudely degraded by Rodin to the subaltern position
formerly occupied by the socius.
It is well known that the Rue Clovis is one of the most solitary streets
in the Montagne St. Genevieve district. At the epoch of this narrative,
the house No. 4, in this street, was composed of one principal building,
through which ran a dark passage, leading to a little, gloomy court, at
the end of which was a second building, in a singularly miserable and
dilapidated condition. On the ground-floor, in front of the house, was a
half-subterraneous shop, in which was sold charcoal, fagots, vegetables,
and milk. Nine o'clock in the morning had just struck. The mistress of
the shop, one Mother Arsene, an old woman of a mild, sickly countenance,
clad in a brown stuff dress, with a red bandanna round her head, was
mounted on the top step of the stairs which led down to her door, and was
employed in setting out her goods--that is, on one side of her door she
placed a tin milk-can, and on the other some bunches of stale vegetables,
flanked with yellowed cabbages. At the bottom of the steps, in the
shadowy depths of the cellar, one could see the light of the burning
charcoal in a little stove. This shop situated at the side of the
passage, served as a porter's lodge, and the old woman acted as portress.
On a sudden, a pretty little creature, coming from the house, entered
lightly and merrily the shop. This young girl was Rose-Pompon, the
intimate friend of the Bacchanal Queen.--Rose-Pompon, a widow for the
moment, whose bacchanalian cicisbeo was Ninny Moulin, the orthodox
scapegrace, who, on occasion, after drinking his fill, could transform
himself into Jacques Dumoulin, the religious writer, and pass gayly from
dishevelled dances to ultramontane polemics, from Storm-blown Tulips to
Catholic pamphlets.
Rose-Pompon had just quitted her bed, as appeared by the negligence of
her strange morning costume; no doubt, for want of any other head-dress,
on her beautiful light hair, smooth and well-combed, was stuck jauntily a
foraging-cap, borrowed from her masquerading costume. Nothing could be
more sprightly than that face, seventeen years old, rosy, fresh, dimpled,
and brilliantly lighted up by a pair of gay, sparkling blue eyes. Rose
Pompon was so closely enveloped from the neck to the feet in a red and
green plaid cloak, rather faded, that one could guess the cause of her
modest embarrassment. Her naked feet, so white that one could not tell if
she wore stockings or not, were slipped into little morocco shoes, with
plated buckles. It was easy to perceive that her cloak concealed some
article which she held in her hand.
"Good-day, Rose-Pompon," said Mother Arsene with a kindly air; "you are
early this morning. Had you no dance last night?"
"Don't talk of it, Mother Arsene; I had no heart to dance. Poor
Cephyse--the Bacchanal Queen--has done nothing but cry all night. She
cannot console herself, that her lover should be in prison."
"Now, look here, my girl," said the old woman, "I must speak to you about
your friend Cephyse. You won't be angry?"
"Am I ever angry?" said Rose-Pompon, shrugging her shoulders.
"Don't you think that M. Philemon will scold me on his return?"
"Scold you! what for?"
"Because of his rooms, that you occupy."
"Why, Mother Arsene, did not Philemon tell you, that, in his absence, I
was to be as much mistress of his two rooms as I am of himself?"
"I do not speak of you, but of your friend Cephyse, whom you have also
brought to occupy M. Philemon's lodgings."
"And where would she have gone without me, my good Mother Arsene? Since
her lover was arrested, she has not dared to return home, because she
owes ever so many quarters. Seeing her troubles. I said to her: 'Come,
lodge at Philemon's. When he returns, we must find another place for
you.'"
"Well, little lovey--if you only assure me that M. Philemon will not be
angry--"
"Angry! for what? That we spoil his things? A fine set of things he has
to spoil! I broke his last cup yesterday--and am forced to fetch the milk
in this comic concern."
So saying, laughing with all her might, Rose-Pompon drew her pretty
little white arm from under her cloak, and presented to Mother Arsene one
of those champagne glasses of colossal capacity, which hold about a
bottle.
"Oh, dear!" said the greengrocer in amazement; "it is like a glass
trumpet."
"It is Philemon's grand gala-glass, which they gave him when he took his
degrees in boating," said Rose-Pompon, gravely.
"And to think you must put your milk in it--I am really ashamed," said
Mother Arsene.
"So am I! If I were to meet any one on the stairs, holding this glass in
my hand like a Roman candlestick, I should burst out laughing, and break
the last remnant of Philemon's bazaar, and he would give me his
malediction."
"There is no danger that you will meet any one. The first-floor is gone
out, and the second gets up very late."
"Talking of lodgers," said Rose-Pompon, "is there not a room to let on
the second-floor in the rear house? It might do for Cephyse, when
Philemon comes back."
"Yes, there is a little closet in the roof--just over the two rooms of
the mysterious old fellow," said Mother Arsene.
"Oh, yes! Father Charlemagne. Have you found out anything more about
him?"
"Dear me, no, my girl! only that he came this morning at break of day, and
knocked at my shutters. 'Have you received a letter for me, my good
lady?' said he--for he is always so polite, the dear man!--'No, sir,'
said I.'--'Well, then, pray don't disturb yourself, my good lady!' said
he; 'I will call again.' And so he went away."
"Does he never sleep in the house?"
"Never. No doubt, he lodges somewhere else--but he passes some hours
here, once every four or five days."
"And always comes alone?"
"Always."
"Are you quite sure? Does he never manage to slip in some little puss of
a woman? Take care, or Philemon will give you notice to quit," said
Rose-Pompon, with an air of mock-modesty.
"M. Charlemagne with a woman! Oh, poor dear man!" said the greengrocer,
raising her hands to heaven; "if you saw him, with his greasy hat, his
old gray coat, his patched umbrella, and his simple face, he looks more
like a saint than anything else."
"But then, Mother Arsene, what does the saint do here, all alone for
hours, in that hole at the bottom of the court, where one can hardly see
at noon-day?"
"That's what I ask myself, my dovey, what can he be doing? It can't be
that he comes to look at his furniture, for he has nothing but a flock
bed, a table, a stove, a chair, and an old trunk."
"Somewhat in the style of Philemon's establishment," said Rose-Pompon.
"Well, notwithstanding that, Rosey, he is as much afraid that any one
should come into his room, as if we were all thieves, and his furniture
was made of massy gold. He has had a patent lock put on the door, at his
own expense; he never leaves me his key; and he lights his fire himself,
rather than let anybody into his room."
"And you say he is old?"
"Yes, fifty or sixty."
"And ugly?"
"Just fancy, little viper's eyes, looking as if they had been bored with
a gimlet, in a face as pale as death--so pale, that the lips are white.
That's for his appearance. As for his character, the good old man's so
polite!--he pulls off his hat so often, and makes you such low bows, that
it is quite embarrassing."
"But, to come back to the point," resumed Rose-Pompon, "what can he do
all alone in those two rooms? If Cephyse should take the closet, on
Philemon's return, we may amuse ourselves by finding out something about
it. How much do they want for the little room?"
"Why, it is in such bad condition, that I think the landlord would let it
go for fifty or fifty-five francs a-year, for there is no room for a
stove, and the only light comes through a small pane in the roof."
"Poor Cephyse!" said Rose, sighing, and shaking her head sorrowfully.
"After having amused herself so well, and flung away so much money with
Jacques Rennepont, to live in such a place, and support herself by hard
work! She must have courage!"
"Why, indeed, there is a great difference between that closet and the
coach-and-four in which Cephyse came to fetch you the other day, with all
the fine masks, that looked so gay--particularly the fat man in the
silver paper helmet, with the plume and the top boots. What a jolly
fellow!"
"Yes, Ninny Moulin. There is no one like him to dance the forbidden
fruit. You should see him with Cephyse, the Bacchanal Queen. Poor
laughing, noisy thing!--the only noise she makes now is crying."
"Oh! these young people--these young people!" said the greengrocer.
"Easy, Mother Arsene; you were young once."
"I hardly know. I have always thought myself much the same as I am now."
"And your lovers, Mother Arsene?"
"Lovers! Oh, yes! I was too ugly for that--and too well taken care of."
"Your mother looked after you, then?"
"No, my girl; but I was harnessed."
"Harnessed!" cried Rose-Pompon, in amazement, interrupting the dealer.
"Yes,--harnessed to a water-cart, along with my brother. So, you see,
when we had drawn like a pair of horses for eight or ten hours a day, I
had no heart to think of nonsense."
"Poor Mother Arsene, what a hard life," said Rose-Pompon with interest.
"In the winter, when it froze, it was hard enough. I and my brother were
obliged to be rough-shod, for fear of slipping."
"What a trade for a woman! It breaks one's heart. And they forbid people
to harness dogs!" added Rose-Pompon, sententiously.[21]
"Why, 'tis true," resumed Mother Arsene. "Animals are sometimes better
off than people. But what would you have? One must live, you know. As you
make your bed, you must lie. It was hard enough, and I got a disease of
the lungs by it--which was not my fault. The strap, with which I was
harnessed, pressed so hard against my chest, that I could scarcely
breathe: so I left the trade, and took to a shop, which is just to tell
you, that if I had had a pretty face and opportunity, I might have done
like so many other young people, who begin with laughter and finish--"
"With a laugh t'other side of the mouth--you would say; it is true,
Mother Arsene. But, you see, every one has not the courage to go into
harness, in order to remain virtuous. A body says to herself, you must
have some amusement while you are young and pretty--you will not always
be seventeen years old--and then--and then--the world will end, or you
will get married."
"But, perhaps, it would have been better to begin by that."
"Yes, but one is too stupid; one does not know how to catch the men, or
to frighten them. One is simple, confiding, and they only laugh at us.
Why, Mother Arsene, I am myself an example that would make you shudder;
but 'tis quite enough to have had one's sorrows, without fretting one's
self at the remembrance."
"What, my beauty! you, so young and gay, have had sorrows?"
"Ah, Mother Arsene! I believe you. At fifteen and a half I began to cry,
and never left off till I was sixteen. That was enough, I think."
"They deceived you, mademoiselle?"
"They did worse. They treated me as they have treated many a poor girl,
who had no more wish to go wrong than I had. My story is not a three
volume one. My father and mother are peasants near Saint-Valery, but so
poor--so poor, that having five children to provide for, they were
obliged to send me, at eight years old, to my aunt, who was a charwoman
here in Paris. The good woman took me out of charity, and very kind it
was of her, for I earned but little. At eleven years of age she sent me
to work in one of the factories of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. I don't
wish to speak, ill of the masters of these factories; but what do they
care, if little boys and girls are mixed up pell-mell with young men and
women of eighteen to twenty? Now you see, there, as everywhere, some are
no better than they should be; they are not particular in word or deed,
and I ask you, what art example for the children, who hear and see more
than you think for. Then, what happens? They get accustomed as they grow
older, to hear and see things, that afterwards will not shock them at
all."
"What you say there is true, Rose-Pompon. Poor children! who takes any
trouble about them?--not their father or mother, for they are at their
daily work."
"Yes, yes, Mother Arsene, it is all very well; it is easy to cry down a
young girl that has gone wrong; but if they knew all the ins and outs,
they would perhaps pity rather than blame her. To come back to myself--at
fifteen years old I was tolerably pretty. One day I had something to ask
of the head clerk. I went to him in his private room. He told me he would
grant what I wanted, and even take me under his patronage, if I would
listen to him; and he began by trying to kiss me. I resisted. Then he
said to me:--'You refuse my offer? You shall have no more work; I
discharge you from the factory.'"
"Oh, the wicked man!" said Mother Arsene.
"I went home all in tears, and my poor aunt encouraged me not to yield,
and she would try to place me elsewhere. Yes--but it was impossible; the
factories were all full. Misfortunes never come single; my aunt fell ill,
and there was not a sou in the house; I plucked up my courage, and
returned to entreat the mercy of the clerk at the factory. Nothing would
do. 'So much the worse,' said he; 'you are throwing away your luck. If
you had been more complying, I should perhaps have married you.' What
could I do, Mother Arsene?--misery was staring me in the face; I had no
work; my aunt was ill; the clerk said he would marry me--I did like so
many others."
"And when, afterwards, you spoke to him about marriage?"
"Of course he laughed at me, and in six months left me. Then I wept all
the tears in my body, till none remained--then I was very ill--and
then--I console myself, as one may console one's self for anything. After
some changes, I met with Philemon. It is upon him that I revenge myself
for what others have done to me. I am his tyrant," added Rose-Pompon,
with a tragic air, as the cloud passed away which had darkened her pretty
face during her recital to Mother Arsene.
"It is true," said the latter thoughtfully. "They deceive a poor
girl--who is there to protect or defend her? Oh! the evil we do does not
always come from ourselves, and then--"
"I spy Ninny Moulin!" cried Rose-Pompon, interrupting the greengrocer,
and pointing to the other side of the street. "How early abroad! What can
he want with me?" and Rose wrapped herself still more closely and
modestly in her cloak.
It was indeed Jacques Dumoulin, who advanced with his hat stuck on one
side, with rubicund nose and sparkling eye, dressed in a loose coat,
which displayed the rotundity of his abdomen. His hands, one of which
held a huge cane shouldered like a musket, were plunged into the vast
pockets of his outer garment.
Just as he reached the threshold of the door, no doubt with the intention
of speaking to the portress, he perceived Rose-Pompon. "What!" he
exclaimed, "my pupil already stirring? That is fortunate. I came on
purpose to bless her at the rise of morn!"
So saying, Ninny Moulin advanced with open arms towards Rose-Pompon who
drew back a step.
"What, ungrateful child!" resumed the writer on divinity. "Will you
refuse me the morning's paternal kiss?"
"I accept paternal kisses from none but Philemon. I had a letter from him
yesterday, with a jar of preserves, two geese, a bottle of home-made
brandy, and an eel. What ridiculous presents! I kept the drink, and
changed the rest for two darling live pigeons, which I have installed in
Philemon's cabinet, and a very pretty dove-cote it makes me. For the
rest, my husband is coming back with seven hundred francs, which he got
from his respectable family, under pretence of learning the bass viol,
the cornet-a-piston, and the speaking trumpet, so as to make his way in
society, and a slap-up marriage--to use your expression--my good child."
"Well, my dear pupil, we will taste the family brandy, and enjoy
ourselves in expectation of Philemon and his seven hundred francs."
So saying, Ninny Moulin slapped the pockets of his waistcoat, which gave
forth a metallic sound, and added: "I come to propose to you to embellish
my life, to-day and to-morrow, and even the day after, if your heart is
willing."
"If the announcements are decent and fraternal, my heart does not say
no."
"Be satisfied; I will act by you as your grandfather, your great
grandfather, your family portrait. We will have a ride, a dinner, the
play, a fancy dress ball, and a supper afterwards. Will that suit you?"
"On condition that poor Cephyse is to go with us. It will raise her
spirits."
"Well, Cephyse shall be of the party."
"Have you come into a fortune, great apostle?"
"Better than that, most rosy and pompous of all Rose-Pom, pons! I am head
editor of a religious journal; and as I must make some appearance in so
respectable a concern, I ask every month for four weeks in advance, and
three days of liberty. On this condition, I consent to play the saint for
twenty-seven days out of thirty, and to be always as grave and heavy as
the paper itself."
"A journal! that will be something droll, and dance forbidden steps all
alone on the tables of the cafes."
"Yes, it will be droll enough; but not for everybody. They are rich
sacristans, who pay the expenses. They don't look to money, provided the
journal bites, tears, burns, pounds, exterminates and destroys. On my
word of honor, I shall never have been in such a fury!" added Ninny
Moulin, with a loud, hoarse laugh. "I shall wash the wounds of my
adversaries with venom of the finest vintage, and gall of the first
quality."
For his peroration, Ninny Moulin imitated the pop of uncorking a bottle
of champagne--which made Rose-Pompon laugh heartily.
"And what," resumed she, "will be the name of your journal of
sacristans?"
"It will be called 'Neighborly Love.'"
"Come! that is a very pretty name."
"Wait a little! there is a second title."
"Let us hear it."
"'Neighborly Love; or, the Exterminator of the Incredulous, the
Indifferent, the Lukewarm, and Others,' with this motto from the great
Bossuet: 'Those who are not for us are against us.'"
"That is what Philemon says in the battles at the Chaumiere, when he
shakes his cane."
"Which proves, that the genius of the Eagle of Meaux is universal. I only
reproach him for having been jealous of Moliere."
"Bah! actor's jealousy," said Rose-Pompon.
"Naughty girl!" cried Ninny Moulin, threatening her with his finger.
"But if you are going to exterminate Madame de la Sainte-Colombo, who is
somewhat lukewarm--how about your marriage?"
"My journal will advance it, on the contrary. Only think! editor-In chief
is a superb position; the sacristans will praise, and push, and support,
and bless me; I shall get La-Sainte-Colombe--and then, what a life I'll
lead!"
At this moment, a postman entered the shop, and delivered a letter to the
greengrocer, saying: "For M. Charlemagne, post-paid!"
"My!" said Rose-Pompon; "it is for the little mysterious old man, who has
such extraordinary ways. Does it come from far?"
"I believe you; it comes from Italy, from Rome," said Ninny Moulin,
looking in his turn at the letter, which the greengrocer held in her
hand. "Who is the astonishing little old man of whom you speak?"
"Just imagine to yourself, my great apostle," said Rose-Pompon, "a little
old man, who has two rooms at the bottom of that court. He never sleeps
there, but comes from time to time, and shuts himself up for hours,
without ever allowing any one to enter his lodging, and without any one
knowing what he does there."
"He is a conspirator," said Ninny Moulin, laughing, "or else a comer."
"Poor dear man," said Mother Arsene, "what has he done with his false
money? He pays me always in sous for the bit of bread and the radish I
furnish him for his breakfast."
"And what is the name of this mysterious chap?" asked Dumoulin.
"M. Charlemagne," said the greengrocer. "But look, surely one speaks of
the devil, one is sure to see his horns."
"Where's the horns?"
"There, by the side of the house--that little old man, who walks with his
neck awry, and his umbrella under his arm."
"M. Rodin!" ejaculated Ninny Moulin, retreating hastily, and descending
three steps into the shop, in order not to be seen. Then he added. "You
say, that this gentleman calls himself--"
"M. Charlemagne--do you know him?" asked the greengrocer.
"What the devil does he do here, under a false name?" said Jacques
Dumoulin to himself.
"You know him?" said Rose-Pompon, with impatience. "You are quite
confused."
"And this gentleman has two rooms in this house, and comes here
mysteriously," said Jacques Dumoulin, more and more surprised.
"Yes," resumed Rose-Pompon; "you can see his windows from Philemon's
dove-cote."
"Quick! quick! let me go into the passage, that I may not meet him," said
Dumoulin.
And, without having been perceived by Rodin, he glided from the shop into
the passage, and thence mounted to the stairs, which led to the apartment
occupied by Rose-Pompon.
"Good-morning, M. Charlemagne," said Mother Arsene to Rodin, who made his
appearance on the threshold. "You come twice in a day; that is right, for
your visits are extremely rare."
"You are too polite, my good lady," said Rodin, with a very courteous
bow; and he entered the shop of the greengrocer.
[21] There are, really, ordinances, full of a touching interest for the
canine race, which forbid the harnessing of dogs.