The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6

"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."

"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 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 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:

"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 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, he looked at me with an air of utter astonishment, and asked me what three hundred thousand francs I alluded to. 'To those which my brother placed in your hands eighteen months ago, sir, and of which I have, till now, received the interest paid by you through my brother,' I replied, not comprehending his question. The notary shrugged his shoulders, smiled disdainfully, as if my words were not serious, and replied that, so far from depositing any money with him, my brother had borrowed two thousand francs from him.

"It is impossible for me to express to you my horror at this reply. 'What, then, has become of this sum?' I exclaimed. 'My daughter and myself have no other resource, and, if we are deprived of that, nothing remains for us but complete wretchedness. What will become of us?' 'I really don't know,' replied the notary, coldly. 'It is most probable that your brother, instead of placing this sum with me, as you say, has used it in those unfortunate speculations in which, unknown to any one, he was engaged.' 'It is false, sir!' I exclaimed. 'My brother was honour itself, and, so far from despoiling me and my daughter, he would have sacrificed himself for us. He would never marry, in order that he might leave all he had to my child.' 'Dare you to assert, madame, that I am capable of denying a deposit confided in me?' inquired the notary, with indignation, which seemed so honourable and sincere that I replied, 'No, certainly not, sir; your reputation for probity is well known; but yet I can never accuse my brother of so cruel an abuse of confidence.' 'What are your proofs of this claim?' inquired M. Ferrand. 'I have none, sir. Eighteen months since, my brother, who undertook the management of my affairs, wrote to me, saying, "I have an excellent opportunity of obtaining six per cent.; send me your power of attorney to sell your stock, and I will deposit the three hundred thousand francs, which I will make up, with M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary." I sent the papers which he asked for to my brother, and a few days afterwards he informed me that the investment was made by you, and at the end of six months he remitted to me the interest due.' 'At least, then, you have some letters on this subject, madame?' 'No, sir; they were only on family matters, and I did not preserve them.' 'Unfortunately, madame, I cannot do anything in this matter,' replied the notary. 'If my honesty was not beyond all suspicion, all attack, I should say to you, the courts of law are open to you, – attack me; the judges will have to choose between the word of an honourable man, who for thirty years has had the esteem of worthy men, and the posthumous declaration of a man who, after being ruined in most foolish undertakings, has found refuge only in suicide. I say to you now, attack me, madame, if you dare, and your brother's memory will be dishonoured! But I believe you will have the good sense to resign yourself to a misfortune which, no doubt, is very severe, but to which I am an entire stranger.' 'But, sir, I am a mother! If my fortune is lost, my daughter and I have nothing left but a small stock of furniture; if that is sold, we have nothing left, sir, – nothing, but the most frightful destitution staring us in the face.' 'You have been cheated, – it is a misfortune, but I can do nothing in the matter,' answered the notary. 'Once more, madame, your brother has deceived you. If you doubt between his word and mine, attack me; go to law, and the judges will decide.' I quitted the notary's in the deepest despair. What could I do in this extremity? I had no means of proving the validity of my claim; I was convinced of the strict honour of my brother, and confounded at the assertion of M. Ferrand, and having no person to whom I could turn for advice (for you were travelling), and knowing that I must have money to pay for legal opinions and advice, and desiring to preserve the very little that I had left, I dared not commence a suit at law. It was at this juncture – "