Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  So saying, he placed a franc in the fat, dirty hand of the porteress.

  “Ah, monsieur, you are determined to make us all fall in love with you!” cried Madame Pipelet, nodding her approval of the commission, and thereby sending the flush of pleasure into a face glowing with all the fiery honours of an excited Bacchante.

  “To be sure! There is nothing like a drop of really good cordial such a day as this; and they do keep most excellent here at hand. I’ll go, — of course I will; but I shall only bring a couple of glasses, for Alfred and I always drink out of the same glass. Poor old darling! he is so very nice and particular in showing all those sort of delicate attentions to women.”

  “Then go along, my good Madame Pipelet, and we will wait till Alfred comes.”

  “But, then, suppose any one wants me whilst I am out, who will mind the lodge?”

  “Oh, I’ll take care of the lodge.”

  The old woman departed on her agreeable errand.

  At the termination of a few minutes the postman tapped at the lodge window, and putting his hand into the apartment, presented two letters, merely saying, “Three sous.”

  “Six sous, you mean, for two letters,” replied Rodolph.

  “One is free,” answered the man.

  Having paid and dismissed the postman, Rodolph mechanically examined the two letters thus committed to his charge; but at a further glance they seemed to him worthy a more attentive observation. The epistle addressed to Madame Pipelet exhaled through its hot-pressed envelope a strong odour of Russia leather; it bore, on a seal of red wax, the initials “C. R.” surmounted by a helmet, and supported by a cross of the Legion of Honour. The direction was written in a firm, bold hand. The heraldic device of the commingled casque and cross made Rodolph smile, and confirmed him in the idea that the writer of the letter in question was not a female. Who was this scented, emblazoned correspondent of old Anastasia Pipelet? Rodolph felt an undefinable curiosity to know. The other epistle, written upon coarse and common paper, was united only by a common wafer, pricked over with the point of a pin, and was addressed to “M. César Bradamanti, Operating Dentist.” Evidently disguised, the superscription was entirely composed of capital letters. Whether founded on a true or false presage, this letter seemed to Rodolph to wear a mournful look, as though evil or misery were contained within its shabby folds. He perceived that some of the letters in the direction were fainter than the others, and that the paper there seemed a little rumpled: a tear had evidently fallen upon it.

  Madame Pipelet returned, bearing the bottle of cassia and two glasses.

  “I have dawdled, — have I not, monsieur?” said she, gaily. “But let you once get into that good Père Joseph’s shop, and it is hard work to get out again. Oh, that old man is a very insinuating — —”

  “Here, madame,” interrupted Rodolph, “here are two letters the postman left while you were gone.”

  “Dear me! Two letters! Pray excuse me, monsieur. I suppose you paid for them?”

  “I did.”

  “You are very good. I tell you what, then, we will settle that out of the first money you have to pay me; how much was it?”

  “Three sous,” answered Rodolph, much amused at the ingenious method of reimbursement employed by Madame Pipelet. “But may I, without offence, observe that one of the letters is addressed to you, and that you possess in the writer a correspondent whose billets-doux are marvellously well perfumed?”

  “Let us see what it is about,” said the porteress, taking the epistle in the scented envelope. “Yes, upon my word, it is scented up like a real billet-doux! Now, I should very much like to know who would dare write me a love-letter! He must be a villain!”

  “And suppose it had fallen into your husband’s hands, Madame Pipelet?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake don’t mention that, or I shall faint away in your arms! But how stupid I am! Now I know all about it,” replied the fat porteress, shrugging her shoulders. “To be sure! to be sure! it comes from the Commandant! Lord bless me, what a fright I have had! for Alfred is as jealous as a Turk.”

  “Here is another letter addressed to M. César Bradamanti.”

  “Ah! to be sure, the dentist on the third floor. I will put it in the letter-boot.”

  Rodolph fancied he had not caught the right words, but, to his astonishment, he saw Madame Pipelet gravely throw the letter alluded to into an old top-boot hanging up against the wall. He looked at her with surprise.

  “Do you mean,” said he at length, “to put the gentleman’s letter in — —”

  “Oh, yes, that is all right,” replied the porteress. “I have put it in the letter-boot, — there, you see. So now nobody’s letters can be mislaid; and when the different lodgers return home, Alfred or myself turns the boot upside down, — we sort them out, and everybody gets his own.”

  So saying, the porteress proceeded to break the seal of the letter addressed to her; which having done, she turned it round and round, looked at it in every direction, then, after a short appearance of embarrassment and uncertainty, she said to Rodolph:

  “Alfred generally reads my letters for me, because I do not happen to be able to read them myself; perhaps you would not mind just looking over this for me?”

  “With the utmost pleasure!” quickly replied Rodolph, curious to dive into the mysteries of who Madame Pipelet’s correspondent might be; and forthwith he read what follows, written upon hot-pressed paper, stamped in its right-hand corner with the helmet, the letters “C. R.,” the heraldic supporters, and the cross of honour.

  “To-morrow (Friday), about eleven o’clock, let there be a good (not an overfierce) fire lighted in both rooms; have everything well dusted, and remove the coverings from the furniture, taking especial care not to scratch the gilding, or to soil or burn the carpet while lighting the fires. If I should not be in about one o’clock, when a lady will arrive in a hackney-coach and inquire for me by the name of M. Charles, let her be shown up to the apartment; after which the key is to be taken down-stairs again, and kept till my arrival.”

  Spite of the want of finished composition displayed in this billet, Rodolph perfectly comprehended to whom and what it alluded, and merely added, after perusing it:

  “Who lives on the first floor, then?”

  The old woman placed her yellow, shrivelled finger upon her pendulous lip, and replied, by a half-malicious grin:

  “Hush! There is a woman in the way, — silence!”

  “Oh, my dear Madame Pipelet, I merely asked because, before living in a house, one likes to know a little.”

  “Yes, yes! Of course, everybody likes to know all they can; that is all fair enough; and I am sure I have no objection to tell you all I know myself, and that is but very little. Well, but to begin. About six weeks ago a carpet-maker came here to look at the first floor, which was then to let, and to ask the price, and other particulars about it. Next day he came again, accompanied by a young man of fair complexion, small moustaches, and wearing a cross of honour and very fine linen. The carpet-maker called him commandant.”

  “A military man, I suppose?” said Rodolph.

  “Military!” exclaimed Madame Pipelet, with a chuckle. “Not he! Why, Alfred might as well call himself porter to a prince.”

  “How so?”

  “Why, he is only in the National Guard! The carpet-maker only called him commandant to flatter him: just the same as it tickles up Alfred’s vanity to be styled concierge instead of porter. So when the commandant (that is the only name we know him by) had looked over the rooms, he said to the upholsterer, his friend, ‘Well, I think the place will do for me, — just see the landlord, and arrange all about it.’ ‘Yes, commandant,’ says the other. And the very next day the upholsterer-man signed the lease with M. Bras Rouge (in his own name, mind you); and, further, paid six months in advance, because, he said, the gentleman did not wish to be bored about references. And such a power of fine furniture as was sent into the first floor! Sophesus (sarcophagus
) curtains, all silk; glasses set in gold, and everything you can mention, all beautiful enough to astonish you; just, for all the world, like one of them grand cafes on the Boulevards! As for the carpets, — oh, you never trod on the like of them, I’ll be bound. Put your foot on them, and you’d fancy you was stepping on velvet, and take it off again for fear of spoiling it. When everything was completed, the commandant came to look at it, — just to see if he could find out anything more he wanted; but he could not. So then he spoke to Alfred, and says he, ‘Could you take charge of my rooms and keep them in nice order, light fires from time to time, and get them ready for me when I wish to occupy them? I shall not be here often,’ says he, ‘and would always write you a line before coming, to give you time to prepare them.’ ‘Yes, commandant, I can,’ answers my flatterer of an Alfred. ‘And what shall you charge?’ ‘Twenty francs a month, commandant.’ ‘Twenty francs!’ exclaimed the commandant. ‘Why, porter, you are jesting, surely!’ And hereupon he began bating Alfred down in the most shabby manner, trying to squeeze poor people like us out of two or three miserable francs, when he had been squandering thousands in fitting up his grand apartments, which, after all, he did not mean to live in! However, after a deal of battling, we got twelve francs a month out of him, — a paltry, pitiful, two-farthing captain! What a difference, now, between you and him!” added the porteress, addressing Rodolph with an admiring glance. “You don’t call yourself fine names and titles, — you only look like a plain body, — you must be poor, or you would not perch yourself on the fourth floor; and yet you agreed with me for six francs, without attempting to bate me down!”

  “And when did the commandant pay you his next visit?”

  “I’ll tell you, — and good fun it is, too. My gentleman must have been nicely choused by somebody. Three times did he write (same as to-day), ordering us to light a fire and have everything ready for the reception of a lady he expected would come. Come! Yes, I daresay he may expect a long time first, I rather think.”

  “Nobody came then?”

  “Listen. The first time the commandant arrived, strutting and swelling like a turkey-cock, humming and singing, after his manner, all the gay tunes of the day, walking up and down his fine room with his hands stuck in his pockets, and occasionally stopping to arrange his hair before the glass, — we were watching him all the time. Well, this went on for two or three hours, when, I suppose, he knew it was no use waiting any longer; so he came down-stairs very softly, and with quite a different manner to the pride and consequence he had marched up with. By way of teasing him, Pipelet and I went out to him and said, ‘Commandant, there has been no lady whatever to inquire for you,’ ‘Very well! Very well!’ exclaimed he, half mad and half ashamed of being laughed at, and, buttoning up his coat, he walked off as fast as he could. The next time, before he came himself, a small note was brought here by a man, directed to M. Charles; I strongly suspected he was done again, and Pipelet and me were enjoying a hearty good laugh over it when the commandant arrived. ‘Captain,’ says I, putting the back of my hand up to my wig, by way of military salute, ‘here is a letter for you, but I am afraid it contains news of a second countermarch against you.’ He looked at me sour as a crab, snatched the letter from my hand, read it, turned scarlet as a boiled lobster, then walked off, pretending to whistle; but he was finely vexed, — ready to hang himself, I could see he was, — and it was rare nuts to me. ‘Go, and swallow that pill, my two-farthing captain,’ says I to myself; ‘that serves you right for only giving twelve francs a month for minding your apartments.’”

  “And the third time?”

  “Ah, the third time I really thought it was all right. The commandant arrived more stuck up with pride than ever; his eyes staring with self-satisfied admiration at himself and the certainty of not being disappointed this time. Let me tell the truth about him; he really is a good-looking man, and dresses well, though he stinks of musk like a civet cat. Well, there was my gentleman arrayed in all his finery, and scarcely condescending to look at us poor folks; he seemed as though he conferred a favour on the earth by deigning to walk on it, and went, sticking his nose into the air, as if he meant to touch the clouds with it. He took the key, and said to us, as he passed up-stairs, in a jeering, self-complacent tone, as though to revenge himself for having been laughed at twice before, ‘You will direct the lady to my apartments when she comes.’ Well, Pipelet and I were so anxious to see the lady he expected, though we did not much reckon upon her keeping her appointment, even if she ever made one, that we went and hid ourselves behind the little door that belongs to the alley; and, behold! in a short time a blue hackney-coach, with its blinds drawn down, stopped at the entrance to the house. ‘There she is!’ says I to Alfred. ‘There is his madame; let’s keep back a bit for fear we frighten her away.’ The coachman got off his box and opened the door. Then we saw a female, closely covered with a black veil, and carrying a muff; she had apparently been crying, for she kept her handkerchief to her face; for when the steps were let down, instead of alighting, she said some few words to the driver, who, much surprised, shut the door up again.”

  “Then the lady did not get out?”

  “No! she threw herself back in the coach and pressed her handkerchief tightly to her eyes. I rushed out, and before the coachman had time to get on his seat again, I called out, ‘Hallo, there, coachy! are you going back again?’ ‘Yes,’ says he. ‘Where?’ says I. ‘Where I came from,’ answers he. ‘And where did you come from?’ asks I again. ‘From the Rue St. Dominique, corner of the Rue Belle Chasse.’”

  Rodolph started at these words. His dearest friend, the Marquis d’Harville, who, as elsewhere stated, had been for some time labouring under a deep melancholy none could penetrate, lived in the very place just mentioned by Madame Pipelet. Could this mysterious female in the blue fiacre be the Marquise d’Harville? And was it from the lightness and frivolity of her conduct that the mind of her excellent husband was bowed down by doubts and misgivings? These painful suggestions crowded on Rodolph’s mind, but, although well acquainted with all the various guests received by the marquise, he could recollect no one answering the description of the commandant; added to which, any female might have taken a hackney-coach from that spot without necessarily living in the street. There was really nothing to identify the unknown of the blue fiacre with Madame d’Harville, and yet a thousand vague fears and painful suspicions crossed his mind; his uneasy manner and deep abstraction did not escape the porteress.

  “What are you thinking of, sir?” asked she at length.

  “I was wondering what could have induced the lady, after coming to the very door, to change her mind so suddenly.”

  “There is no saying; some sudden thought, — dread or fear, — for we poor women are but weak, cowardly things,” said the porteress, assuming a timid, frightened manner. “Well, I think if it had been myself now, coming secretly to visit Alfred, I should have had to try back a great many times before I could have screwed up my courage to venture in. But then, as for visiting your great dons in this kind of way, I never could have done such a thing. No, never! I am sure there is nobody under the face of heaven can say I ever give them the least freedom, — I should think not, indeed, while my poor dear old darling of a husband is left.”

  “No doubt, — no doubt, Madame Pipelet; but about the young person you were describing in the blue fiacre?”

  “Oh! mind, I don’t know whether she was young or old; I could not even catch a glimpse of the tip of her nose; all I can say is she went as she came, and that is all about it. As for Alfred and me, we were better pleased than if we had found ten francs.”

  “Why so?”

  “By enjoying the rage and confusion of the commandant when he found himself a third time disappointed; but, instead of going and telling him at once that his ‘madame’ had been and gone, we allowed him to fume and fret for a whole hour. Then I went softly up-stairs with only my list slippers on. I reached his door, which I found half shut;
as I pushed against it, it creaked; the staircase is as black as night, and the entrance to the apartment quite as obscure. Scarcely had I crept into the room, when the commandant caught me in his arms, saying, in a languishing voice, ‘My dearest angel! what makes you so late?’”

  Spite of the serious nature of the thoughts crowding upon his mind, Rodolph could not restrain a smile as he surveyed the grotesque periwig and hideously wrinkled, carbuncled visage of the heroine of this comic scene.

  Madame Pipelet, however, resumed her narration with a mirthful chuckle that increased her ugliness:

  “That was a go, wasn’t it? But stop a bit. Well, I did not make the least reply, but, almost keeping in my breath, I waited to see what would be the end of this strange reception. For a minute or two the commandant kept hugging me up, then, all of a sudden, the brute pushed me away, exclaiming with as much disgust as though he had touched a toad, ‘Who the devil are you?’ ‘Me, commandant, — the porteress, — Madame Pipelet; and, as such, I will thank you to keep your hands off my waist, and not to call me your angel, and scold me for being late. Suppose Alfred had heard you, a pretty business we should have made of it!’ ‘What the deuce brings you here?’ cried he. ‘Merely to let you know the lady in the hackney-coach has just arrived!’ ‘Well, then, you stupid old fool, show her up directly. Did I not tell you to do so?’ ‘Yes, commandant; you said I was to show her up.’ ‘Then why do you not obey me?’ ‘Because the lady—’ ‘Speak out, woman, if you can!’ ‘The lady has gone again.’ ‘Something you have said or done, then, to offend her, I am sure!’ roared he in a perfect fury. ‘Not at all, commandant. The lady did not alight, but when the coach stopped and the driver opened the door, she desired him to take her back to where she came from.’ ‘The vehicle cannot have got far by this time,’ exclaimed the commandant, hastening towards the door. ‘It has been gone upwards of an hour,’ answered I, enjoying his fury and disappointment. ‘An hour! an hour! and what, in the devil’s name, hindered you from letting me know this sooner?’ ‘Because, commandant, Alfred and I thought we would spare you as long as we could the tidings of this third breakdown, which we fancied might be too much for you.’ Come, thinks I, there is something to make you remember flinging me out of your arms, as though it made you sick to touch me. ‘Begone!’ bawled out the commandant. ‘You hideous old hag! You can neither say nor do the thing that is right,’ and with this he pulled off his dressing-gown and threw his beautiful Greek cap, made of velvet embroidered with gold, on the ground: it was a real shame, for the cap was a downright beauty; and as for the dressing-gown, oh, my! it would set anybody longing. Meanwhile the commandant kept pacing the room, with his eyes glaring like a wild beast and glowing like two glow-worms.”