Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “So,” said the Chourineur, “you had a dance instead of a meal, if you did not pick up ten sous?”

  “Yes. And after that I went to lie down on some straw spread on the ground; when I was cold — very cold.”

  “I do not doubt it, for the feather of beans (straw) is a very cold sort of stuff,” said the Chourineur. “A dung-heap is twice as good; but then people don’t like your smell, and say, ‘Oh, the blackguard! where has he been?’”

  This remark made Rodolph smile, whilst Fleur-de-Marie thus continued: “Next day the one-eyed woman gave me a similar allowance for breakfast as for supper, and sent me to Montfauçon to get some worms to bait for fish; for in the daytime the Chouette kept her stall for selling fishing-lines, near the bridge of Notre Dame. For a child of seven years of age, who is half dead with hunger and cold, it is a long way from the Rue de la Mortellerie to Montfauçon.”

  “But exercise has made you grow as straight as an arrow, my girl; you have no reason to complain of that,” said the Chourineur, striking a light for his pipe.

  “Well,” said the Goualeuse, “I returned very, very tired; then, at noon, the Chouette gave me a little bit of bread.”

  “Ah, eating so little has kept your figure as fine as a needle, girl; you must not find fault with that,” said Chourineur, puffing out a cloud of tobacco-smoke. “But what ails you, comrade — I mean, Master Rodolph? You seem quite down like; are you sorry for the girl and her miseries? Ah, we all have, and have had, our miseries!”

  “Yes, but not such miseries as mine, Chourineur,” said Fleur-de-Marie.

  “What! not I, Goualeuse? Why, my lass, you were a queen to me! At least, when you were little you slept on straw and ate bread; I passed my most comfortable nights in the lime-kilns at Clichy, like a regular vagabond; I fed on cabbage-stumps and other refuse vegetables, which I picked up when and where I could; but very often, as it was so far to the lime-kilns at Clichy, and I was tired after my work, I slept under the large stones at the Louvre; and then, in winter, I had white sheets, — that is, whenever the snow fell.”

  “A man is stronger; but a poor little girl—” said Fleur-de-Marie. “And yet, with all that, I was as plump as a skylark.”

  “What! you remember that, eh?”

  “To be sure I do. When the Chouette beat me I fell always at the first blow; then she stamped upon me, screaming out, ‘Ah, the nasty little brute! she hasn’t a farden’s worth of strength, — she can’t stand even two thumps!’ And then she called me Pegriotte (little thief). I never had any other name, — that was my baptismal name.”

  “Like me. I had the baptism of a dog in a ditch, and they called me ‘Fellow,’ or ‘You, sir,’ or ‘Albino.’ It is really surprising, my wench, how much we resemble each other!” said the Chourineur.

  “That’s true, — in our misery,” said Fleur-de-Marie, who addressed herself to the Chourineur almost always, feeling, in spite of herself, a sort of shame at the presence of Rodolph, hardly venturing to raise her eyes to him, although in appearance he belonged to that class with whom she ordinarily lived.

  “And when you had fetched the worms for the Chouette, what did you do?” inquired the Chourineur.

  “Why, she made me beg until night; then, in the evening, she went to sell fried fish on the Pont Neuf. Oh, dear! at that time it was a long while to wait for my morsel of bread; and if I dared to ask the Chouette for something to eat, she beat me and said, ‘Get ten sous, and then you shall have your supper.’ Then I, being very hungry, and as she hurt me very much, cried with a very full heart and sore body. The Chouette tied my little basket of barley-sugar round my neck, and stationed me on the Pont Neuf, where, in winter, I was frozen to death. Yet sometimes, in spite of myself, I slept as I stood, — but not long; for the Chouette kicked me until I awoke. I remained on the bridge till eleven o’clock, my stock of barley-sugar hanging round my neck, and often crying heartily. The passengers, touched by my tears, sometimes gave me a sou; and then I gained ten and sometimes fifteen sous, which I gave to the Chouette, who searched me all over, and even looked in my mouth, to see if I had kept back anything.”

  “Well, fifteen sous was a good haul for a little bird like you.”

  “It was. And then the one-eyed woman seeing that—”

  “With her one eye?” said the Chourineur, laughing.

  “Of course, because she had but one. Well, then, she finding that when I cried I got most money, always beat me severely before she put me on the bridge.”

  “Brutal, but cunning.”

  “Well, at last I got hardened to blows; and as the Chouette got in a passion when I did not cry, why I, to be revenged upon her, the more she thumped me the more I laughed, although the tears came into my eyes with the pain.”

  “But, poor Goualeuse, did not the sticks of barley-sugar make you long for them?”

  “Ah, yes, Chourineur; but I never tasted them. It was my ambition, and my ambition ruined me. One day, returning from Montfauçon, some little boys beat me and stole my basket. I came back, well knowing what was in store for me; and I had a shower of thumps and no bread. In the evening, before going to the bridge, the Chouette, savage because I had not brought in anything the evening before, instead of beating me as usual to make me cry, made me bleed by pulling my hair from the sides of the temples, where it is most tender.”

  “Tonnerre! that was coming it too strong,” said the bandit, striking his fist heavily on the table, and frowning sternly. “To beat a child is no such great thing, but to ill-use one so — Heaven and earth!”

  Rodolph had listened attentively to the recital of Fleur-de-Marie, and now looked at the Chourineur with astonishment: the display of such feeling quite surprised him.

  “What ails you, Chourineur?” he inquired.

  “What ails me? Ails me? Why, have you no feeling? That devil’s dam of a Chouette who so brutally used this girl! Are you as hard as your own fists?”

  “Go on, my girl,” said Rodolph to Fleur-de-Marie, without appearing to notice the Chourineur’s appeal.

  “I have told you how the Chouette ill-used me to make me cry. I was then sent on to the bridge with my barley-sugar. The one-eyed was at her usual spot, and from time to time shook her doubled fist at me. However, as I had not broken my fast since the night before, and as I was very hungry, at the risk of putting the Chouette in a passion, I took a piece of barley-sugar, and began to eat it.”

  “Well done, girl!”

  “I ate another piece—”

  “Bravo! go it, my hearties!”

  “I found it so good, not from daintiness, but real hunger. But then a woman, who sold oranges, cried out to the one-eyed woman, ‘Look ye there, Chouette; Pegriotte is eating the barley-sugar!’”

  “Oh, thunder and lightning!” said the Chourineur; “that would enrage her, — make her in a passion! Poor little mouse, what a fright you were in when the Chouette saw you! — eh?”

  “How did you get out of that affair, poor Goualeuse?” asked Rodolph, with as much interest as the Chourineur.

  “Why, it was a serious matter to me, — but that was afterwards; for the Chouette, although boiling over with rage at seeing me devour the barley-sugar, could not leave her stove, for the fish was frying.”

  “Ha! ha! ha! True, true, — that was a difficult position for her,” said the Chourineur, laughing heartily.

  “At a distance, the Chouette threatened me with her long iron fork; but when her fish was cooked, she came towards me. I had only collected three sous, and I had eaten six sous’ worth. She did not say a word, but took me by the hand and dragged me away with her. At this moment, I do not know how it was that I did not die on the spot with fright. I remember it as well as if it was this very moment, — it was very near to New Year’s day, and there were a great many shops on the Pont Neuf, all filled with toys, and I had been looking at them all the evening with the greatest delight, — beautiful dolls, little furnished houses, — you know how very amusing such things are fo
r a child.”

  “You had never had any playthings, had you, Goualeuse?” asked the Chourineur.

  “I? Mon Dieu! who was there to give me any playthings?” said the girl, in a sad tone. “Well, the evening passed. Although it was in the depth of winter, I only had on a little cotton gown, no stockings, no shift, and with wooden shoes on my feet: that was not enough to stifle me with heat, was it? Well, when the old woman took my hand, I burst out into a perspiration from head to foot. What frightened me most was, that, instead of swearing and storming as usual, she only kept on grumbling between her teeth. She never let go my hand, but made me walk so fast — so very fast — that I was obliged to run to keep up with her, and in running I had lost one of my wooden shoes; and as I did not dare to say so, I followed her with one foot naked on the bare stones. When we reached home it was covered with blood.”

  “A one-eyed old devil’s kin!” said the Chourineur, again thumping the table in his anger. “It makes my heart quite cold to think of the poor little thing trotting along beside that cursed old brute, with her poor little foot all bloody!”

  “We lived in a garret in the Rue de la Montellerie; beside the entrance to our alley there was a dram-shop, and there the Chouette went in, still dragging me by the hand. She then had a half pint of brandy at the bar.”

  “The deuce! Why, I could not drink that without being quite fuddled!”

  “It was her usual quantity; perhaps that was the reason why she beat me of an evening. Well, at last we got up into our cock-loft; the Chouette double-locked the door; I threw myself on my knees, and asked her pardon for having eaten the barley-sugar. She did not answer me, but I heard her mumbling to herself, as she walked about the room, ‘What shall I do this evening to this little thief, who has eaten all that barley-sugar? Ah, I see!’ And she looked at me maliciously with her one green eye. I was still on my knees, when she suddenly went to a shelf and took down a pair of pincers.”

  “Pincers!” exclaimed the Chourineur.

  “Yes, pincers.”

  “What for?”

  “To strike you?” inquired Rodolph.

  “To pinch you?” said the Chourineur.

  “No, no,” answered the poor girl, trembling at the very recollection.

  “To pull out your hair?”

  “No; to take out one of my teeth.”

  The Chourineur uttered a blasphemous oath, accompanied with such furious imprecations that all the guests in the tapis-franc looked at him with astonishment.

  “Why, what is the matter with you?” asked Rodolph.

  “The matter! the matter! I’ll skin her alive, that infernal old hag, if I can catch her! Where is she? Tell me, where is she? Let me find her, and I’ll throttle the old—”

  “And did she really take out your tooth, my poor child, — that wretched monster in woman’s shape?” demanded Rodolph, whilst the Chourineur was venting his rage in a volley of the most violent reproaches.

  “Yes, sir; but not at the first pull. How I suffered! She held me with my head between her knees, where she held it as if in a vice. Then, half with her pincers, half with her fingers, she pulled out my tooth, and then said, ‘Now I will pull out one every day, Pegriotte; and when you have not a tooth left I will throw you into the river, and the fish shall eat you.’”

  “The old devil! To break and pull out a poor child’s teeth in that way!” exclaimed the Chourineur, with redoubled fury.

  “And how did you escape her then?” inquired Rodolph of the Goualeuse.

  “Next day, instead of going to Montfauçon, I went on the side of the Champs Elysées, so frightened was I of being drowned by the Chouette. I would have run to the end of the world, rather than be again in the Chouette’s hands. After walking and walking, I fairly lost myself; I had not begged a farthing, and the more I thought the more frightened did I become. At night I hid myself in a timber-yard, under some piles of wood. As I was very little, I was able to creep under an old door and hide myself amongst a heap of logs. I was so hungry that I tried to gnaw a piece of the bark, but I could not bite it, — it was too hard. At length I fell asleep. In the morning, hearing a noise, I hid myself still further back in the wood-pile. It was tolerably warm, and, if I had had something to eat, I could not have been better off for the winter.”

  “Like me in the lime-kiln.”

  “I did not dare to quit the timber-yard, for I fancied that the Chouette would seek for me everywhere, to pull out my teeth and drown me, and that she would be sure to catch me if I stirred from where I was.”

  “Stay, do not mention that old beast’s name again, — it makes the blood come into my eyes! The fact is, that you have known misery, — bitter, bitter misery. Poor little mite! how sorry I am that I threatened to beat you just now, and frightened you. As I am a man, I did not mean to do it.”

  “Why, would you not have beaten me? I have no one to defend me.”

  “That’s the very reason, because you are not like the others, — because you have no one to take your part, — that I would not have beaten you. When I say no one, I do not mean our comrade Rodolph; but his coming was a chance, and he certainly did give me my full allowance when we met.”

  “Go on, my child,” said Rodolph. “How did you get away from the timber-yard?”

  “Next day, about noon, I heard a great dog barking under the wood-pile. I listened, and the bark came nearer and nearer; then a deep voice exclaimed, ‘My dog barks, — somebody is hid in the yard!’ ‘They are thieves,’ said another voice; and the men then began to encourage the dog, and cry, ‘Find ’em! find ’em, lad!’ The dog ran to me, and, for fear of being bitten, I began to cry out with all my might and main. ‘Hark!’ said one of them; ‘I hear the cry of a child.’ They called back the dog; I came out from the pile of wood, and saw a gentleman and a man in a blouse. ‘Ah, you little thief! what are you doing in my timber-yard?’ said the gentleman, in a cross tone. I put my hands together and said, ‘Don’t hurt me, pray. I have had nothing to eat for two days, and I’ve run away from the Chouette, who pulled out my tooth, and said she would throw me over to the fishes. Not knowing where to sleep, I was passing before your door, and I slept for the night amongst these logs, under this heap, not thinking I hurt anybody.’

  “‘I’m not to be gammoned by you, you little hussy! You came to steal my logs. Go and call the watch,’ said the timber-merchant to his man.”

  “Ah, the old vagabond! The old reprobate! Call the watch! Why didn’t he send for the artillery?” said the Chourineur. “Steal his logs, and you only eight years old! What an old ass!”

  “‘Not true, sir,’ his man replied. ‘Steal your logs, master! How can she do that? She is not so big as the smallest piece!’ ‘You are right,’ replied the timber-merchant; ‘but if she does not come for herself, she does for others. Thieves have a parcel of children, whom they send to pry about and hide themselves to open the doors of houses. She must be taken to the commissary, and mind she does not escape.’”

  “Upon my life, this timber-merchant was more of a log than any log in his own yard,” said the Chourineur.

  “I was taken to the commissary,” resumed Goualeuse. “I accused myself of being a wanderer, and they sent me to prison. I was sent before the Tribunal, and sentenced, as a rogue and vagabond, to remain until I was sixteen years of age in a house of correction. I thank the judges much for their kindness; for in prison I had food, I was not beaten, and it was a paradise after the cock-loft of the Chouette. Then, in prison I learned to sew; but, sad to say, I was idle: I preferred singing to work, and particularly when I saw the sun shine. Ah, when the sun shone on the walls of the prison I could not help singing; and then, when I could sing, I seemed no longer to be a prisoner. It was after I began to sing so much that they called me Goualeuse, instead of Pegriotte. Well, when I was sixteen, I left the gaol. At the door, I found the ogress here, and two or three old women, who had come to see my fellow prisoners, and who had always told me that when I left the prison they wo
uld find work for me.”

  “Yes, yes, I see,” said the Chourineur.

  “‘My pretty little maid,’ said the ogress and her old companions, ‘come and lodge with us; we will give you good clothes, and then you may amuse yourself.’ I didn’t like them, and refused, saying to myself, ‘I know how to sew very well, and I have two hundred francs in hand. I have been eight years in prison, I should like to enjoy myself a bit, — that won’t hurt anybody; work will come when the money is spent.’ And so I began to spend my two hundred francs. Ah, that was my mistake,” added Fleur-de-Marie, with a sigh. “I ought first to have got my work; but I hadn’t a soul on earth to advise me. At sixteen, to be thrown on the city of Paris, as I was, one is so lonely; and what is done is done. I have done wrong, and I have suffered for it. I began then to spend my money: first, I bought flowers to put in my room, — I do love flowers! — then I bought a gown, a nice shawl, and I took a walk in the Bois de Boulogne, and I went to St. Germains, Vincennes, and other country places. Oh, how I love the country!”

  “With a lover by your side, my girl?” asked the Chourineur.

  “Oh, mon Dieu! no! I like to be my own mistress. I had my little excursions with a friend who was in prison with me, — a good little girl as can be: they call her Rigolette, because she is always laughing.”

  “Rigolette! Rigolette! I don’t know her,” said the Chourineur, who appeared to be appealing to his memory.

  “I didn’t think you knew her. I am sure Rigolette was very well behaved in prison, and always so gay and so industrious, she took out with her when she left the prison at least four hundred francs that she had earned. And then she is so particular! — you should see her! When I say I had no one to advise me, I am wrong: I ought to have listened to her; for, after having had a week’s amusement together, she said to me, ‘Now we have had such a holiday, we ought to try for work, and not spend our money in waste.’ I, who was so happy in the fields and the woods, — it was just at the end of spring, this year, — I answered, ‘Oh, I must be idle a little longer, and then I will work hard.’ Since that time I have not seen Rigolette, but I heard a few days since that she was living near the Temple, — that she was a famous needlewoman, and earned at least twenty-five sous a-day, and has a small workroom of her own; but now I could not for the world see her again, — I should die with shame if I met her.”