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The Mysteries of Paris V2

E >> Eugene Sue >> The Mysteries of Paris V2




"Very well. You will take Cecily yourself to M. Ferrand, without
saying anything more to Mrs. Seraphin. As it is twenty years since you
have seen your cousin, you will have nothing to answer, except that
since her departure for Germany you have received no news from her."

"Ah, now! but if the young woman only jabbers German?"

"She speaks French perfectly; I will give her her lesson; all you have
to do is to recommend her strongly to Mrs. Seraphin; or, rather, I
think, no--for she would suspect, perhaps, that you wished to force
her. You know it suffices often merely to ask for a thing to have it
refused."

"To whom do you tell this? That's the way I always served cajolers. If
they had asked nothing, I do not say--"

"That always happens. You must say, then, that Cecily is an orphan and
a stranger, very young and very handsome; that she is going to be a
heavy charge for you; that you feel but slight affection for her, as
you had quarreled with your cousin, and that you are not much obliged
for such a present as she has made you."

"Oh, my! how cunning you are. But be easy--we two'll fix the pair. I
say, Mr. Rudolph, how we understand each other. When I think that if
you had been of my age in the time when I was a train of powder--_ma
foi_, I don't know--and you?"

"Hush! if Mr. Pipelet--"

"Oh, yes! poor dear man! You don't know a new infamy of Cabrion's? But
I will tell you directly. As to your young girl, be easy; I bet that
I'll lead old Seraphin to ask me to place my relation with them."

"If you succeed, my dear Mrs. Pipelet, there is a hundred francs for
you. I am not rich, but--"

"Do you mock at me, Mr. Rudolph? Do you think I do this from
interested feelings? It is pure friendship--a hundred francs!"

"But remember that if I had this girl for a long time under my charge
it would cost me more than that at the end of some months."

"It is only to oblige you that I shall take the hundred francs, Mr.
Rudolph; but it was a famous ticket in the lottery for us when you
came to this house. I can cry from the roof, you are the prince of
lodgers. Holloa! a hack! It is doubtless the little lady for M.
Bradamanti. She came yesterday; I could not see her. I am going to
trifle with her, to make her show her face; without counting that I
have invented a way to find out her name. You'll see me work; it will
amuse you."

"No, no, Mrs. Pipelet, the name and face of this lady are of no
importance to me," said Rudolph, retreating to the back part of the
lodge.

"Madame!" cried Anastasia, rushing out before the lady who entered,
"where are you going, madame?"

"To M. Bradamanti's," said the female, visibly annoyed at thus being
stopped in the passage.

"He is not at home."

"It is impossible; I have an appointment with him."

"He is not at home."

"You are mistaken."

"I am not mistaken at all," trying all the time to catch a glimpse of
her face. "M. Bradamanti has gone out, certainly gone out--very
certainly gone out--that is to say, except for a lady."

"Well! it is I! you annoy me; let me pass."

"Your name, madame? I shall soon know if it is the person M.
Bradamanti told me to pass in. If you have not that name, you must
step over my body before you shall enter."

"He told you my name?" cried the lady, with as much surprise as
inquietude.

"Yes, madame."

"What imprudence!" murmured the lady; then, after a moment's pause,
she added impatiently, in a low voice, as if she feared to be
overheard, "Well! I am Lady d'Orbigny!"

At this name Rudolph started. It was the stepmother of Madame
d'Harville. Instead of remaining in the shade he advanced; and, by the
light of the day and the lamp, he easily recognized her, from the
description Clemence had more than once given him.

"Lady d'Orbigny!" repeated Mrs. Pipelet, "that's the name; you can go
up, madame."

The step-mother of Clemence passed rapidly before the lodge.

"Look at that!" cried the portress, in a triumphant manner; "gammoned
the citizen! know her name--she is called D'Orbigny; my means were not
bad, Mr. Rudolph? But what is the matter? You are quite pensive!"

"This lady has been here before?" asked Rudolph.

"Yes, last night; as soon as she was gone, M. Bradamanti went out,
probably to take his place in the diligence for to-day; for on his
return, last night, he begged me to go with his trunk to the office,
as he could not depend upon that little devil Tortillard."

"And where is M. Bradamanti going to? do you know?"

"To Normandy--to Alencon."

Rudolph remembered that the estate of Aubiers, where M. d'Orbigny
resided, was situated in Normandy. There could be no doubt the quack
was going to see the father of Clemence for no good purpose.

"It is the departure of M. Bradamanti that will finely provoke old
Seraphin!" said Madame Pipelet. "She is like a mad wolf after M.
Cesar, who avoids her as much as he can; for he told me to conceal
from her that he was going to leave to-night; thus, when she returns,
she will find nobody at home! I'll profit by this to speak of your
young woman. Apropos, how is she called--Ciec?"

"Cecely."

"It is the same as if you said Cecile with an _i_ at the end. All
the same; I must put a piece of paper in my snuff-box to remember this
name--Cici--Casi--Cecily, good, I have it."

"Now I go to see Mlle. Rigolette," said Rudolph; and, singularly
preoccupied with the visit of Madame d'Orbigny to Polidori, he
ascended to the fourth story.




CHAPTER XIX.

RIGOLETTE'S FIRST GRIEF.


Rigolette's chamber shone with coquettish nicety; a heavy silver
watch, placed on the chimney, marked four o'clock; the very cold
weather having passed, the economical workwoman had not put any fire
in her stove. Hardly could one see from the window any part of the
sky, the rough, irregular mass of roofs, garrets, and high chimneys,
on the other side of the street, forming the horizon.

Suddenly a ray of the sun, astray as it were, glancing between two
high roofs, came to light up, for some moments, with its purple tints,
the windows of the room.

Rigolette was working, seated near the casement, sewing, with her feet
on a stool, placed before her. Thus, as a noble amuses himself
sometimes, through caprice, in concealing the walls of a cottage by
the most splendid draperies, for a moment the setting sun illuminated
the little apartment with a thousand sparkling fires, cast its golden
rays on the gray and green chintz curtains, made the highly-polished
furniture sparkle, the waxed floor to glisten like brass, and
surrounded with gilded wire the bird-cage.

But, alas! notwithstanding the provoking joyousness of this ray of the
sun, its two canaries flew about with an unquiet air, and, contrary to
custom, did not sing.

It was because, contrary to custom, also, Rigolette did not sing. None
of the three warbled without the others. Almost always the fresh and
matinal song of one awoke the song of the others, who, more lazy, did
not leave their nests at so early an hour. Then it was a challenge, a
contest of clear, sonorous, brilliant, silvery notes, in which the
birds did not always have the advantage.

Rigolette sung no more, because, for the first time in her life, she
experienced a _sorrow_.

Until then, the sight of the misery of the Morels had often afflicted
her, but such scenes are too familiar to the poorer classes to make
any durable impression.

After having each day assisted these unfortunates as much as was in
her power, sincerely wept with them, and for them, the girl felt
affected, yet satisfied; affected with their misfortunes, and
satisfied with her conduct toward them. But this was no _sorrow_.

Soon the natural gayety of her character resumed its empire. And
besides, without egotism, but from comparison, she found herself so
happy in her little chamber, on leaving the horrible den of the
Morels, that her ephemeral sadness was soon dissipated.

Before we inform the reader of the cause of the first grief of
Rigolette, we wish to assure him completely as to the virtue of this
young girl. We regret to use the word virtue--a grave, pompous, and
solemn word, which always carries along with it ideas of a grievous
sacrifice, of a painful contest with the passions, austere meditations
on the end of things here below. Such was not the virtue of Rigolette.
She had neither struggled nor meditated. She had worked, laughed, and
sung.

It depended on a question of time. She had no leisure to be in love.

Before all--gay, industrious, managing--order, work, gayety, had,
unknown to her, defended, sustained, and saved her. Perhaps this
morality will be found light, easy, and joyous; but what matters the
cause, provided the effect subsists? What matters the direction of the
roots, if the flower blooms brilliant and perfumed. But let us descend
from our Utopian sphere, and return to the cause of Rigolette's first
grief.

Except Germain, a good and serious young man, the neighbors of the
grisette had taken, at first, her familiarity and neighborly kindness
for very significant encouragement; but these gentlemen had been
obliged to acknowledge, with as much surprise as vexation, that they
found in Rigolette an amiable and gay companion for their Sunday
recreations, a kind neighbor, and "nice little girl," but nothing
more. Their surprise and their vexation quailed by degrees to the
frank and charming disposition of the grisette, and her neighbors were
proud on Sunday to have on their arm a pretty girl who did them honor
(Rigolette cared little for appearances), and who only cost the
partaking of their modest pleasures, which her presence and
sprightliness enhanced. Besides, the dear girl was so easily
contented; in the days of penury she dined so well and so gayly on a
piece of hot cake, nipped with all the force of her little white
teeth; after which she amused herself so much with a walk on the
boulevards or streets.

Francois Germain alone founded no foolish hopes on the girl's
familiarity. Either from penetration or delicacy of mind, he saw at
once all that could be agreeable in the mode of living offered by
Rigolette. That which, of course, would happen, happened. He became
desperately in love with his neighbor, without daring to speak of this
love. Far from imitating his predecessors, who, soon convinced of the
vanity of their pursuits, had consoled themselves elsewhere, Germain
had deliciously enjoyed his intimacy with the girl, passing with her
not only Sundays, but every evening that he was not occupied.

During these long hours, Rigolette had conducted herself, as always,
lively and gay; Germain tender, attentive, serious, and often a little
melancholy. This sadness was the only inconvenience; for his manners,
naturally uncommon, could not be compared to the ridiculous
pretensions of Girandeau, the traveling clerk, nor to the noisy
eccentricities of Cabrion; M. Girandeau by his inexhaustible
loquacity, and the painter by his hilarity not less so, had the
advantage of Germain, whose gentle gravity awed a little his lively
neighbor.

Rigolette had not, until now, any marked preference for either of her
three lovers; but as she was not wanting in judgment, she found that
Germain alone united all the qualities necessary to make a reasonable
woman happy.

These antecedents disposed of, we will say why Rigolette was sad, and
why neither she nor her birds sung.

Her round, blooming face was rather pale; her large black eyes,
ordinarily bright and sparkling, were cast down and dull; her
expression showed unaccustomed fatigue. She had worked more than half
the night. From time to time she regarded sadly a letter placed open
upon a table beside her; this letter was from Germain, and contained
what follows:

"Conciergerie Prison.

"MADEMOISELLE.--The place whence I write will tell you the extent of
my misfortune. I am incarcerated as a thief--I am criminal in the eyes
of the world, though I dare to write to you. It would be frightful for
me to think that you also looked upon me as a degraded and guilty
being. I implore you, do not condemn me before having read this
letter. If you cast me off, this last blow will overwhelm me quite.

"For some time past I have not lived in the Rue du Temple, but I knew
through poor Louise that the Morel family, in whom we were so much
interested, were more and more wretched. Alas I my pity for these poor
people has ruined me! I do not repent it, but my fate is a cruel one.
Yesterday, I remained quite late at M. Ferrand's, occupied with some
pressing writings. In the room where I worked was a desk; each day my
patron locked up in it the work I had done. This night he appeared
restless and agitated; he said to me, 'Do not go until these accounts
are finished; you will place them in the desk, of which I leave you
the key,' and he went out.

"My work being finished I opened the drawer to put it away;
mechanically my eyes fell upon an open letter, where I read the name
of Jerome Morel, the artisan. I confess, seeing that it referred to
that unfortunate man, I had the indiscretion to read this letter; I
thus learned that the artisan was to be arrested the next morning for
a note of thirteen hundred francs, at the suit of M. Ferrand, who,
under an assumed name, would cause him to be imprisoned. This notice
was from the agent of my patron. I knew the situation of the family
well enough to foresee what a horrible blow this would be for them. I
was as sorry as I was indignant. Unfortunately, I saw in the same
drawer an open box containing some gold; there was about two thousand
francs. At this moment I heard Louise on the staircase; without
reflecting on the gravity of my action, profiting by the occasion
which chance offered, I took thirteen hundred francs; I went into the
passage and placed the money in the hand of Louise, telling her, 'Your
father is to be arrested to-morrow at daylight for thirteen hundred
francs: here they are; save him, but do not say you had this money
from me. M. Ferrand is a bad man.'

"You see, mademoiselle, my intention was good though my conduct was
culpable; I conceal nothing. Now hear my excuse.

"During a long time, by economy, I have saved and placed at a banker's
the small sum of fifteen hundred francs. About a week ago he notified
me that the term of his obligation toward me being arrived, he held my
funds subject to my order, if I did not wish them to remain with him.

"I thus possessed more than I took from the notary. I could the next
day replace it; but the cashier of the bank did not reach his office
before twelve o'clock, and at daybreak they were to arrest poor Morel.
It was necessary to place him in a situation to pay, otherwise, even
if I were to go and take him from prison, the arrest might have
already killed his wife; besides, the very considerable expenses
attending this would have been at the cost of the artisan. You
comprehend that all these misfortunes would not have happened, if I
could have returned the thirteen hundred francs before M. Ferrand
discovered their loss.

"I left the house, no longer under the impression of indignation and
pity which had made me act in this manner. I reflected on all the
dangers of my position; a thousand fears assailed me. I knew the
severity of the notary; he could, after my departure, return and go to
the bureau, find out the _theft_; for in his eyes, to the eyes of
everybody, it is a theft.

"These ideas quite upset me; although it was late, I ran to the
banker's to beg him to return my money instantly. I should have
explained this extraordinary demand; afterward I would have returned
to M. Ferrand, and replaced the money I had taken.

"The banker, by a fatal chance, had been for two days at Belleville,
his country house. I awaited the daylight with increasing agony; at
length I arrived at Belleville. Everything seemed leagued against me;
the banker had left for Paris; I flew back, I got my money; I went to
M. Ferrand's--all was discovered.

"But this is only a part of my misfortunes; now the notary accuses me
of having stolen fifteen thousand francs in notes, which were, he
said, in the drawer with the two thousand francs in gold. It is a
false accusation, an infamous lie. I avow myself guilty of the first
charge; but by all that is sacred, I swear to you, mademoiselle, that
I am innocent of the second. I have seen no bills in the drawer; there
was only the gold, as I said before.

"Such is the truth, mademoiselle; I am under the charge of an
overwhelming accusation, and yet I affirm that you ought to think me
incapable of telling a falsehood. But who will believe me? Alas! as M.
Ferrand told me, he who has stolen a small sum can easily steal a
large one, and his words deserve no confidence.

"I have always found you so good and devoted to the unfortunate,
mademoiselle, I know you are so faithful and frank, that your heart
will guide you, I hope, in the appreciation of the truth--I ask
nothing more. Give faith to my words, and you will find me as much to
be pitied as blamed; for, I repeat, my intention was good;
circumstances impossible to foresee have ruined me.

"Oh, Mile. Rigolette, I am very unhappy. If you knew what kind of
people I am destined to live among until the day of my trial!
Yesterday they took me to a place which is called the station-house of
the Prefecture of Police. I cannot tell you what I experienced when,
after having mounted a gloomy staircase, I arrived before a door with
an iron wicket, which they opened, and soon closed upon me. I was so
much troubled, that at first I could distinguish nothing. A hot,
disagreeable air struck me in the face; I heard a great noise of
voices mingled with sinister laughs, accents of rage and low songs; I
held myself immovable near the door, looking at the stone flaggings,
daring neither to advance nor raise my eyes, believing that every one
was looking at me. They did not trouble themselves about me; one
prisoner more or less is of no consequence to them; at length I raised
my head. What horrible figures! how many clothed in rags! how many
ragged clothes soiled with mud! All the externals of vice and misery.
There were about forty or fifty, seated, standing, or lying on benches
fastened to the walls; vagabonds, robbers, assassins, in fine, all who
had been arrested that night or day.

"When they perceived me, I found a sad consolation in seeing that they
did not recognize me as one of their fellows. Some of them looked at
me with an insolent and jeering air; then they began to talk among
themselves, in a low tone, and in a hideous language I did not
comprehend. At the end of a short time, the most audacious of them
came and struck me on the shoulder, and asked me for some money to pay
my footing.

"I gave them some money, in hopes to purchase repose; it was not
enough; they required more; I refused. Then several of them surrounded
me, loading me with threats and insults; they were about to throw
themselves upon me, when happily, attracted by the noise, a keeper
entered. I complained to him; he made them give up the money I had
given them, and told me that, if I wished, I could, for a small
amount, be put alone in a cell. I accepted with gratitude, and left
these bandits in the midst of their threats for the future. The keeper
placed me in a cell, where I passed the rest of the night. It is hence
that I write to you this morning, Mlle. Rigolette. Immediately after
my examination, I shall be conducted to another prison, which is
called La Force, where I fear I shall meet many of my lock-up
companions. The keeper, interested by my grief and tears, has promised
me to send you this letter, although it is strictly forbidden. I
expect, Mlle. Rigolette, a last service of our old friendship, if now
you should not blush at this friendship.

"If you are willing to grant my demand, here it is.

"You will receive with this a small key, and a line for the porter of
the house where I reside, Boulevard Saint Denis, No. 11. I inform him
that you can dispose of all that belongs to me, and that he must obey
your orders. He will show you my room. You will have the kindness to
open my secretary with the key I send you; you will find a large
envelope covering many papers, which I wish you to take care of; one
of them was destined for you, as you will see by the address; others
have been written concerning you, in our happy days. Do not be angry--
you never else would have known it.

"I beg you also to take the small sum of money which is in the
secretary, also a sachet of satin, inclosing a little cravat of orange
silk, that you wore on our last Sunday walk, and gave me the day I
left the Rue du Temple. I wish that, with the exception of some linen,
which you will send to La Force, you would sell the furniture and
effects I possess: acquitted or condemned, I shall not be the less
ruined and obliged to leave Paris. Where shall I go? What are my
resources? Heaven only knows!

"Madame Bouvard, as saleswoman in the Temple, who has already sold and
bought for me, will doubtless arrange all this: she's an honest woman;
this arrangement will spare you much embarrassment, for I know how
precious your time is.

"I have paid my rent in advance; I beg you to give a small gratuity to
the porter. Pardon me, mademoiselle, for imposing on you with these
details, but you are the only person in the world to whom I dare and
can address myself.

"I might have asked this service from one of the clerks at M.
Ferrand's, but I feared his discretion respecting sundry papers: many
of them concerning you, as I have already told you; others have
reference to some sad events of my life.

"Oh! believe me, Mlle. Rigolette, if you grant it, this last proof of
your former affection will be my sole consolation in the great trouble
which crushes me; in spite of myself, I hope you will not refuse me.

"I ask, also, permission to write you sometimes--it will be so
soothing, so precious, to be able to pour out, to disclose to a
benevolent heart, the sorrows which overwhelm me.

"Alas! I am alone in the world; no one feels any interest in me. This
isolated condition was always painful--judge now what it is!

"And yet I am honest; and I have the consciousness of never having
injured any one; of having always, even at the peril of my life, shown
my aversion for evil, as you will see by the papers, which I beg you
to keep and read. But when I say this, who will believe me? M. Ferrand
is respected by everybody; his reputation is well established; he will
crush me; I resign myself, in advance, to my fate.

"In brief, Mlle. Rigolette, if you believe me, you will not have, I
hope, any contempt for me; you will pity me, and you will sometimes
think of a sincere friend; then, if I cause you much--much pity,
perhaps you will push your generosity so far as to come, some day-_a
Sunday_ (alas! what recollections does not the word awaken)--to
brave the reception-room of my prison.

"But, no, no! to see you in such a place--I never can dare. Yet you
are so kind, that--

"I am obliged to stop, and send you this, with the key and the note to
the porter, which I shall write in haste, as the keeper has come to
tell me I am to be taken before the judge. Adieu, adieu, Mlle.
Rigolette.

"Do not cast me off. I have no hope but in you--in you alone.

"FRANCOIS GERMAIN.

"P.S.--If you answer address your letter to the prison of La Force."

The reader can now comprehend the cause of the first grief of La
Rigolette. Her excellent heart was profoundly affected at a calamity
of which she had not had until then any suspicion. She believed
implicitly in the entire veracity of the story of Germain. Not very
severe, she even found that her old neighbor enormously exaggerated
his fault. To save an unfortunate father, he had taken the money,
which he knew he could return. This action, in the eyes of the
grisette, was only generous.

By one of those inconsistencies natural to women, and above all, to
those of her class, this girl, who until then had felt for Germain, as
for her other neighbors, a joyous and cordial friendship, now
acknowledged a decided preference.

As soon as she knew he was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a
prisoner, she thought no more of his rivals.

With Rigolette it was not yet love; it was a lively, sincere
affection, filled with commiseration and resolute devotion: a very new
sentiment for her, from the bitterness which was joined to it. Such
was her mental situation when Rudolph entered her room, after having
discreetly knocked at the door.

"Good-day, my neighbor," said Rudolph; "I hope I do not disturb you?"

"No, neighbor; I am, on the contrary, very glad to see you, for I have
much sorrow!"

"Why do I find you pale? you seem to have been weeping!"

"I should think I have wept! There is reason for it. Poor Germain!
Here, read;" and Rigolette handed to Rudolph the letter. "If this is
not enough to break one's heart! You told me you were interested in
him. Now is the time to show it," added she, while Rudolph read
attentively. "Is this villain, Ferrand, thirsting for the blood of
everybody? First it was Louise, now it is Germain. Oh! I am not cruel;
but if some misfortune should happen to this notary I should be
content! To accuse such an honest young man of having stolen one
thousand three hundred francs! Germain! truth and honesty itself, and
then so regular, so mild, so sad--is he not to be pitied, among all
these scoundrels-in prison! Oh! M. Rudolph, from to-day I begin to see
that all is not _couleur de rose_ in life."

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