Project Gutenberg's The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6, by Eugène Sue This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6 Author: Eugène Sue Illustrators: G. Mercier Bicknell Léon Poiteau Adrian Marcel Release Date: September 22, 2010 [EBook #33802] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS, V.3 *** Produced by David Edwards, Christine Aldridge and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Stanford University, SUL Books in the Public Domain) 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, [Pg 11] [Pg 12] [Pg 13] 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?" [Pg 13] [Pg 14] [Pg 15] "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 [Pg 16] [Pg 17] [Pg 18] 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 [Pg 19] [Pg 20] 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!'" [Pg 21] [Pg 22] [Pg 23] "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 Crétu'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 café, 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." [Pg 24] [Pg 25] [Pg 26] "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 [Pg 27] [Pg 28] [Pg 29] 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 Percée; 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 dégagé 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 [Pg 30] [Pg 31] [Pg 32] necessity of carrying a basket on the head. Farther on, at the sign of the Goût 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 à 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 à 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 déshabillés 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: [Pg 33] [Pg 34] 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 secrétaire 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 secrétaire 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 secrétaire 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 (12,000l.), 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 [Pg 35] [Pg 36] 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, h...