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The Mysteries of Paris V2

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




"Hold up the dish!"

"I put fine potatoes in the oven of my stove; when they are done, I
mash them with a little butter and milk, and a pinch of salt. It is a
meal for the gods! If you are well behaved I will let you taste them
some day."

"Prepared by your pretty hands, it cannot fail to be excellent. But
let us see neighbor; we have already reckoned twenty-three francs for
living, 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
remain to me ten or fifteen francs for wood and oil during winter, as
well as for my dress and washing--that is to say for soap--as,
excepting my sheets, I wash for myself: that is another luxury--a
laundress would pretty well ruin me; and as I also iron very well, I
thereby save my money. During the five winter months I burn a load and
a half of wood, and four or five sous-worth of oil in the day for my
lamp; that makes nearly eighteen francs a year for my light and fire."

"So that there remain to you more than a hundred francs for your
clothing?"

"Yes; and it is from that I have saved the three francs and a half."

"But your dresses--your shoes and stockings--this pretty cap?"

"My caps I only wear when I go out, and that does not ruin me, for I
make them myself; at home I am satisfied with my hair. As to my
dresses and boots--is there not the Temple?"--"Oh, yes, that
contentment, excellent Temple! Well, you buy there--"

"Very good and pretty dresses. You must know that rich ladies are
accustomed to give their old dresses to their waiting maids--when I
say old, I mean that maybe they have worn them in their carriages a
month or two--and their servants go and sell them to people who keep
shops at the Temple for almost nothing. Thus, you see, I have a nice
merino dress that I bought for fifteen francs, which perhaps cost
sixty; it has hardly been put on and is beautifully fine. I altered it
to fit me, and I flatter myself it does me credit."

"Indeed you do it much credit! Thanks to the resources of the Temple,
I begin to think you can manage to dress respectably with a hundred
francs a year."

"To be sure I can. Why, I can buy charming dresses for five or six
francs; and boots, the same that I have on now, and almost new, for
two or three francs. Look! would not any one say that they were made
for me?" said Miss Dimpleton, stooping and showing the tip of her
pretty little foot, very nicely set off by the well-made and well-fitting
boot.

"The foot is charming, truly; but you must find a difficulty in
fitting it. After that you will doubtless tell me that they sell
children's shoes at the Temple."

"You are a sad flatterer, neighbor; however, after what I have told
you, you will acknowledge that a girl, quite alone and well, can live
respectably on thirty sous a day? I must tell you, by-the-by, the four
hundred and fifty francs which I brought from prison assisted
materially in establishing me. When once known that I possessed
furniture, it inspired confidence and I had work intrusted to me to
take home; but it was necessary to wait a long time before I could
meet with employment. Fortunately I kept sufficient money to live upon
for three months, without earning anything."

"Spite of your gay, heedless manner, allow me to say that you possess
a great deal of good sense, neighbor."

"Nay, when one is alone in the world, and would not be under
obligation to any one, you must exercise some management to build your
nest well, and take care of it when it is built, as the saying is."

"And your nest is delightful!"

"Is it not? for, as I have said, I refuse myself nothing; I consider I
have a lodging above my station. Then, again, I have birds; in summer
always at least two pots of flowers on the mantelpiece, besides the
boxes in the windows; and then, as I told you, I had three francs or
more in my money-box, toward ornaments I hoped one day to be able to
purchase for the chimney-piece."

"And what became of these savings?"

"Why, latterly I have seen those poor Morels so unhappy, so very
unhappy, that I said to myself: 'There is no sense in having these
ugly pieces of money idling in a box, whilst poor people are perishing
of hunger beside you,' so I lent them to Morel. When I say lent, I
mean I told him I only lent them, in order to spare his feelings, for
I assure you I gave them freely."

"Yes, neighbor, but as they are no longer in want, you surely will not
refuse to allow them to repay you?"

"True, I shall not refuse it; it will be something toward the purchase
of chimney-ornaments--my dream."

"And then, again, you ought to think a little of the future."

"The future?"

"Should you fall ill, for instance."

And, at the bare idea, Miss Dimpleton burst into an immoderate fit of
laughter, so loud, that a fat man, who was walking before her,
carrying a dog under his arm, turned round quite angrily, believing
himself to be the butt. Miss Dimpleton, resuming her composure, made a
half-courtesy to the stout person, and pointing to the animal under
his arm, said: "Is your dog so very tired, sir?"

The fat man grumbled something, and continued to walk.

"Come, come, neighbor," said Rudolph; "are you losing your senses?"

"It is your fault if I am."

"My fault?"

"Yes; because you say such silly things to me."

"What, because I tell you that you may fall ill?"

"I ill?"

"Why not?"

"Am I a likely-looking person to be sick then?"

"Never have I beheld a face more rosy and fresh!"

"Very well then, why do you think I shall be ill?"

"Nay, but--"

"At eighteen years of age, leading the life I do, how can that be
possible? I rise at five o'clock, winter and summer; I go to bed at
ten or eleven; I eat to satisfy my hunger, which is not very great, it
is true; I sing like a lark all day, and at night I sleep like a
dormouse: I have a mind free, joyful, and contented, with the
certainty of plenty of work, because my employers are pleased with
what I have done. Why should I be sick! What an idea! Well, I never!"

And Miss Dimpleton again relapsed into long and hearty laughter.
Rudolph, struck with this blind, yet happy confidence in the future,
reproached himself with having attempted to shake it. He thought, with
horror, that an illness of a month could ruin this merry, peaceful
mode of existence. Miss Dimpleton's deep faith in her health and her
eighteen years, her only treasures, appeared to Rudolph something akin
to holiness; for, on the young girl's part, it was neither
carelessness nor improvidence, but an instinctive reliance on the
commiseration of Divine justice, which could not abandon an
industrious and virtuous creature, whose only error was a too
confident dependence on the youth and health she enjoyed. The birds,
as they cleave with gay and agile wings the azure skies in spring, or
skim lightly over the blooming fields, do they think of the cheerless
winter?

"Then," said Rudolph to the grisette, "you are not ambitious to
possess more than you have?"

"Nothing."

"Absolutely nothing?"

"No--that is to say, I should like to have my chimney-ornaments, and I
shall have them, though I do not know when; but I have it in my head
to possess them, and I will, if I should have to sit up to work all
night to do it."

"And besides these ornaments--"

"I want for nothing; I cannot recollect a single thing more that I
care about possessing now."

"How now?"

"Because, if you had asked me the same question yesterday, I should
have told you I was longing for a suitable neighbor; so that I could
arrange with him comfortably, as I have always done, to perform little
services for him, that he might return nice little attentions to me."

"Well, it is already agreed, my pretty neighbor, that you shall take
charge of my linen, and that I shall clean your room--without naming
your waking me early in the morning, by tapping at the wall."

"And do you think that will be all?'

"What else is there?"

"Oh, bless your heart, you have not arrived at the end of what I
expect of you. Is it not necessary that on Sundays you take me for a
walk on the Boulevards?--you know that is the only day I have for
recreation."

"To be sure. In summer we will go into the country."

"No, I detest the country. I like no place so well as Paris.
Nevertheless, I went, once upon a time, out of good nature, with a
young friend of mine, who was my companion in prison, to visit Meudon
and Saint-Germain. My friend was a very pleasant, good girl, whom they
called Sweet-throat, because she was always singing."

"And what has become of her?"

"I do not know. She spent all the money she brought from prison,
without appearing to be much amused; she was always sad, but
sympathizing and charitable. When we used to go out together, I had
not then any work; but when I succeeded in obtaining some, I did not
stir from home. I gave her my address, but as she has not been to see
me, doubtless she has also some occupation, and, like me, is too busy
to get out. I only mention this to let you know, neighbor, that I love
Paris above every other place. So whenever you can, on Sunday, you may
take me to dine at the ordinary, sometimes to the play; or, if you
have not any money, you can take me to see the fashionable shops,
which will amuse me almost as much. Rest satisfied, that in our little
excursions I shall not disgrace you. You will see how smart I shall
look in my pretty dress of blue levantine, that I only wear on
Sundays: it suits me to perfection. With that I wear a pretty little
cap, trimmed with lace and orange-colored ribbon, which does not
contrast badly with my black hair; satin boots, that I have made for
me; an elegant shawl of silk imitation Cashmere! Indeed, I expect,
neighbor, people will turn round to look after us as we pass along.
Men will say: 'Really, that is a pretty little girl, upon my word!'
And the women, on their part, will exclaim: 'Look at that tall young
man! what an elegant shape! He has an air that is truly fashionable!
and his little brown mustache becomes him exceedingly!' And I shall be
of their opinion, for I adore mustaches. Unfortunately, M. Germain did
not wear one, because of the situation he held. M. Cabrion did, but
then it was red, like his long beard, and I do not like those great
beards; besides, he made himself so ridiculously conspicuous in the
streets, and teased poor M. Pipelet so much. Now, M. Giraudeau, who
was my neighbor before M. Cabrion, dressed well, and altogether had a
very good appearance, but he squinted. At first it annoyed me very
much, because he always appeared to be looking at some one at the side
of me, and without thinking, I often turned round to see who--" And
again Miss Dimpleton laughed.

Rudolph, as he listened to this prattle, asked himself, for the third
or fourth time, what he ought to think of the _virtue_ of Miss
Dimpleton. Sometimes the frankness of the grisette, and the
remembrance of the large bolt, made him almost believe that she loved
her neighbors merely as _brothers_ or _companions_, and that
Mrs. Pipelet had caluminated her; then again he smiled at his
credulity, in thinking it probable that a girl so young, so pretty, so
solitary, should have escaped the seductions of Giraudeau, Cabrion,
and Germain. Still, for all that, Miss Dimpleton's frankness and
originality disposed him to think favorably of her.

"You delight me, neighbor, by your manner of disposing of my Sundays,"
said Rudolph, gayly; "we will have some famous treats."

"Stop a moment, Mr. Spendthrift. I warn you that I shall keep house.
In summer, we can dine very well--yes, very well--for three francs, at
the Chartreuse or at the Montmartre Hermitage, half a dozen country
dances, or valses included, with a ride upon the wooden horses:--oh, I
do so love riding on horseback! That will makeup your five francs--not
a farthing more, I assure you. Do you valse?"

"Very well."

"Oh, this pleases me! M. Cabrion always trod on my feet, and then for
fun he would throw fulminating balls on the ground, which was the
reason they would not let him go any more to the Chartreuse."

"Be assured, I will answer for my discretion wherever we go together;
and as to the fulminating balls, I will have nothing to do with them.
But in winter, what shall we do?" "In winter, we are less hungry, and
can dine luxuriously for forty sous; then we shall have three francs
left for the play, for I would not have you exceed a hundred sous--
that is indeed too much to spend in pleasure; but if alone, you would
spend much more at the wine-shop or the billiard-rooms, with low
fellows, who smell horribly of tobacco. Is it not better to pass the
day pleasantly with a young friend, very laughter-loving and discreet,
who will save you some expense, by hemming your cravats, and taking
care of your other little domestic affairs?"

"It is clearly a gaining for me, neighbor; only if my friends should
meet me with my pretty little friend on my arm, what then?"

"Well, they will look at us and say: 'He is not at all unlucky, that
rogue Rudolph!'"

"You know my name?"

"Why, to be sure I do. When I learned that the next room was let, I
asked to whom!"

"Yes, when people meet us together, no doubt, as you say, they will
remark: 'What a lucky fellow that Rudolph is!' and will envy me."

"So much the better."

"They will think me perfectly happy."

"Of course they will; and so much the better!"

"And if I should not be so happy as I seem?"

"What does that matter, provided they believe it; men require nothing
further than mere outward show."

"But your reputation?"

Miss Dimpleton burst into an immoderate fit of laughter.

"The reputation of a grisette! Would any one believe in such a
phenomenon?" answered she. "If I had father or mother, brother or
sister, for them I should be careful of what people would say: but I
am alone in the world, and it's my own look out. As long as I am
satisfied with myself, I don't care a snap for others!"

"But still I should be very uncomfortable."

"What for?"

"In being thought happy in having you for a companion, while, on the
contrary, I love you. It would be something like taking dinner with
Papa Cretu--eating dry bread, whilst a cookery book was being read to
me."

"Nonsense, nonsense! You will be very happy to live after my fashion.
I shall prove so mild, grateful, and unwearying, that you will say:
'After all, it is as well to pass my Sunday, with her as with any one
else.' If you should be disengaged in the evenings, during the week,
and it would not annoy you, you might pass them in my room, and have
the advantage of my fire and lamp, you could hire romances, and read
them aloud to me. Better than go and lose your money at billiards.
Otherwise, if you were kept late at your business, or you liked better
to go to the _cafe_, you could wish me good-night on your return,
if I were still up. But should I be in bed, at an early hour next day
I would say good-morning, by tapping at the wall to waken you. M.
Germain, my last neighbor, spent all his evenings in that manner with
me, and did not complain; he read all Walter Scott's works to me,
which were very interesting. Sometimes on Sunday, when the weather was
bad, instead of leaving home, he bought something nice, and we made a
downright banquet in my room; after which we amused ourselves with
reading, and I was almost as much pleased as if I had been at the
theater. This is to show you that it would not be difficult to live
with me, and that I will do what I can to make things pleasant and
agreeable. And then, you, who talk of illness, if ever you should be
laid up, I'll be a real Sister of Charity; only ask the Morels what
sort of a nurse I am! So, you see, you are not aware of all your
happiness; it is as good as a lucky hit in the lottery to have me for
a neighbor."

"That is true, I have always been lucky; but, speaking of M. Germain,
where is he now?"

"In Paris, I believe."

"Then you never see him now?"

"Since he left this house, he has not been to see me."

"But where does he live, and what is he doing?"

"Why do you ask those questions, neighbor?"

"Because I feel jealous of him," said Rudolph, smiling, "and I would--"

"Jealous!" exclaimed Miss Dimpleton, laughing. "There is no reason for
that, poor fellow!"

"Seriously, then, I have the greatest interest in knowing the address
of M. Germain; you know where he lives, and I may, without boasting,
add, that I am incapable of abusing the secret I ask of you; it will
be for his interest also." "Seriously, neighbor, I believe you wish
every good to M. Germain, but he made me promise not to give his
address to any one; therefore, be assured, that as I do not give it to
you, it is because I cannot. You ought not to be angry with me; if you
had intrusted a secret to me, you would be pleased to find I acted as
I am now doing."

"But--"

"Stop, neighbor! Once for all, do not speak to me any more on that
subject; I have made a promise, I intend to keep it, and, whatever you
may say to me, I shall still answer you in the same way."

In spite of her giddiness and frivolity, the girl pronounced these
last words so decisively, that Rudolph felt, to his great regret, that
he would never obtain from her the desired information about Germain;
and he felt a repugnance to employ artifice in surprising her
confidence. He paused a moment, and then resumed: "Do not let us speak
of it again, neighbor. Upon my soul, you keep so well the secrets of
others, that I am no longer surprised at your keeping your own."

"Secrets! I have secrets! I wish I had some; it must be so very
amusing."

"Do you mean to say that you have not a little secret of the heart?"

"A secret of the heart!"

"In a word, have you never loved?" said Rudolph, looking steadfastly
at Miss Dimpleton, to read the truth in her tell-tale face.

"Loved!--have I not loved M. Giraudeau, M. Cabrion, M. Germain, and
you?"

"And did you love them the same as you love me--neither more nor
less?"

"Oh, I cannot tell you that, exactly--less, perhaps; for I had to
habituate myself to the squint of M. Giraudeau, to the red beard and
disagreeable jests of M. Cabrion, and the melancholy of M. Germain,
for he was so very sad, poor young man: while you, on the contrary,
pleased me instantly."

"You will not feel angry, neighbor, if I speak to you as a friend?"

"Oh, no, don't be afraid--I am very good-natured; and then you are so
kind, that I am sure you have not the heart to say anything that would
cause me pain."

"Certainly not; but now, frankly, have you never had--a lover?"

"Lovers! Now, is that very likely? Have I time for that?"

"But what has time to do with it?"

"Everything. First of all, I should be as jealous as a tiger, and I
should be constantly worrying myself with one idea or the other. Then,
again, do I earn money enough to enable me to lose two or three hours
a day in grief and tears?--and if he deceived me, what weeping, what
sorrow! All that would throw me pretty well behindhand, you may
guess."

"But all lovers are not unfaithful, and do not cause their mistresses
to weep."

"That would be still worse. If he were very good and loving, could I
live a moment away from him? And then, as most likely he would be
obliged to stay all day, either at the desk, manufactory, or shop, I
should be like a poor restless spirit during his absence. I should
invent a thousand chimeras; imagine that others loved him, and that he
was with them. Heaven only knows what I might be tempted to do in my
despair! Certain it is, that my work would be neglected, and what
would become of me then? I can manage, quiet as I am, to live by
working twelve or fourteen hours a day; but, were I to lose two or
three days in the week by tormenting myself, how could I make up the
lost time? Impossible! I must then take a situation. Oh, no, I love my
liberty too well."

"Your liberty?"

"Yes; I could enter as forewoman to the person who now employs me; I
should receive four hundred francs a year, with board and lodging."

"And you will not accept that?"

"No, indeed. I should be dependent on others; instead of which,
however humble my home may be, it is my own. I owe no one anything; I
have courage, health and gayety: with an agreeable neighbor like
yourself, what do I want more?"

"Then you have never thought of marrying?"

"I marry! I could only expect to meet with a husband as poor as
myself; and look at the unhappy Morels--see where it ends! When you
have but yourself to look to, you can always manage somehow."

"Then you never build castles in the air--never dream?"

"Yes, I dream of my chimney-ornaments; besides them what can I
desire?"

"But suppose, now, some relation, of whom you have never heard, should
die and leave you a fortune--say twelve hundred francs a year--to you,
who live upon five hundred francs----"

"It might prove a good thing--perhaps an evil."

"An evil?"

"I am very happy as I am; I can enjoy the life I now lead, but I do
not know how I should pass my time if I were rich. After a hard day's
work, I go to bed, my lamp extinguished, and, by a few light embers
that remain in my stove, I see my room neat--curtains, drawers,
chairs, birds, watch, and my table spread with goods intrusted to me--
and then I say to myself, `All this I owe to myself.' Truly, neighbor,
these thoughts cradle me softly, and sometimes I go to sleep with
pride, always with content. But here we are at the Temple! You must
confess, now, that it is a very superb show!"

Although Rudolph did not participate in the deep veneration expressed
by Miss Dimpleton at the sight of the Temple, he was nevertheless
struck by the singular appearance of this enormous bazaar, with its
numerous divisions and passages. Toward the middle of the Rue du
Temple, not far from a fountain which was placed in the angle of a
large square, might be seen an immense parallelogram built of timber,
surmounted with a slated roof. That building is the Temple. Bounded on
the left by the Rue du Petit Thouars, on the right by the Rue Percee,
it finished in a vast rotunda, surrounded with a gallery, forming a
sort of arcade. A long opening, intersecting this parallelogram in its
length, divided it in two equal parts; these were in their turn
divided and subdivided by little lateral and transverse courts,
sheltered from the rain by the roof of the edifice. In this bazaar new
merchandise is generally prohibited; but the smallest rag of any
stuff, the smallest piece of iron, brass, or steel, there found its
buyer or seller.

There you saw dealers in scraps of cloth of all colors, ages, shades,
qualities, and fashion, to assimilate either with worn-out or ill-fitting
garments. Some of the shops presented mountains of old shoes,
some trodden down at heel, others twisted, torn, split, and in holes,
presenting a mass of nameless, formless, colorless objects, among
which were grimly visible some species of _fossil_ soles, about
an inch thick, studded with thick nails, like a prison door, and hard
as a horseshoe, the actual skeletons of shoes whose other component
parts had long since been devoured by Time. Yet all this moldy, rusty,
dried-up accumulation of decaying rubbish found a willing purchaser,
an extensive body of _merchants_ trading in this particular line.

There existed retailers of trimming, fringes, cords, ravelings of
silk, cotton, or thread, during the destruction of curtains, etc.,
rendered unfit for use. Other industrious persons occupied themselves
in the business of women's bonnets; these bonnets never came to their
shop but in the bags of the retailer, after the most singular changes,
the most extraordinary transformations, the most unheard-of
discolorations. To prevent the merchandise taking up too much room in
a shop usually of the size of a large box, they folded these bonnets
in two, after which they smoothed them and pressed them down
excessively tight--saving the salt, it is positively the same process
as is used in the preservation of herrings: thus you may imagine how
much, thanks to this method of stowage, may be contained in a space of
four square feet.

When the purchaser presents himself, they withdraw these bags from the
pressure to which they are subject; the merchant, with a careless air,
gives a slight push with his fist to the bottom of the crown, to raise
it up, smooths the front upon his knee, and presents to your eyes an
object at once whimsically fantastical, which recalls confusedly to
your memory those fabulous head-dresses favored by box-keepers, aunts
of opera dancers, or duennas of provincial theaters. Further on, at
the sign of the _Gout du jour_, under the arcades of the Rotunda,
elevated at the end of the wide opening which separates the Temple in
two parts, were hanging, like _exotics_, numerous clothes, in
color, shape, and make still more extravagant than those of the
bonnets just described. Here were seen frock-coats, flashily set off
by three rows of hussar-jacket buttons, and warmly ornamented with a
little fur collar of fox's skin. Great-coats, formerly of bottle-green,
rendered by time _invisible_, edged with a black cord, and
brightened by a lining of plaid, blue and yellow, which had a most
laughable effect. Coats, formerly styled the "swallow-tails," of a
reddish-brown, with a handsome collar of plush, ornamented with
buttons, once gilt, but now of a copper color. There were also to be
seen Polish cloaks, with collars of cat-skin, frogged, and faced with
old black cotton-velvet; not far from these were dressing-gowns,
cunningly made of watchmen's old great-coats, from which were taken
the many capes, and lined with pieces of printed cotton; the better
sort were of dead blue and dark green, patched up with sundry pieces
of variegated colors, and fastened round the waist with an old woolen
bell-rope serving for a girdle, making a finish to these elegant
_deshabilles_, so exultingly worn by Robert Macaire.

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