Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “But were you not afraid of losing his employ?”

  “He knew too well what he was about for that; we had him in a fix, we knew where his ‘madame’ lived, and had he said anything to us, we should have threatened to expose the whole affair. And who do you think for his beggarly twelve francs would have undertaken to attend to his rooms, — a stranger? No! That we would have prevented; we would soon have made the place too hot to hold any person he might appoint, — poor, shabby fellow that he is! What do you think? He actually had the meanness to examine his wood and put out the quantity he should allow to be burnt while he was away. He is nothing but an upstart, I am sure, — a nobody, who has suddenly tumbled into money he does not know how to spend properly, — a rich man’s head and a beggar’s body, who squanders with one hand and nips and pinches with the other. I do not wish him any harm, but it amuses me immensely to think how he has been befooled; and he will go on believing and expecting from day to day, because he is too vain to imagine he is being laughed at. At any rate, if the lady ever comes in reality, I will let my friend the oyster-woman next door know; she enjoys a joke as well as I do, and is quite as curious as myself to find out what sort of person she is, whether fair or dark, pretty or plain. And — who knows? — this woman may be cheating some easygoing simpleton of a husband for the sake of our two-penny-halfpenny of a commandant! Well, that is no concern of mine, but I am sorry, too, for the poor, dear, deceived individual, whoever he may be. Dear me! Dear me! My pot is boiling over, — excuse me a minute, I must just look to it. Ah, it is time Alfred was in, for dinner is quite ready, and tripe, you know, should never be kept waiting. This tripe is done to a turn. Do you prefer the thick or thin tripe? Alfred likes it thick. The poor darling has been sadly out of spirits lately, and I got this dainty dish to cheer him up a bit; for, as Alfred says himself, that for a bribe of good thick tripe he would betray France itself, — his beloved France. Yes, the dear old pet would change his country for such fine fat tripe as this, he would.”

  While Madame Pipelet was thus delivering her domestic harangue upon the virtues of tripe and the powerful influence it possessed over even the patriotism of her husband, Rodolph was buried in the deepest and most sombre reflections. The female, whose visits to the house had just been detailed, be she the Marquise d’Harville or any other individual, had evidently long struggled with her imprudence ere she had brought herself to grant a first and second rendezvous, and then, terrified at the probable consequences of her imprudence, a salutary remorse had, in all probability, prevented her from fulfilling her dangerous engagement. It might be that the fine person this M. Charles was described as possessing had captivated the senses of Madame d’Harville, whom Rodolph knew well as a woman of deep feeling, high intellect, and superior taste, of an elevated turn of mind, and a reputation unsullied by the faintest breath of slander. After long and mature consideration, he succeeded in persuading himself that the wife of his friend had nothing to do with the unknown female in the blue fiacre. Madame Pipelet, having completed her culinary arrangements, resumed her conversation with Rodolph.

  “And who lives on the second floor?” inquired he of the porteress.

  “Why, Mother Burette does, — a most wonderful woman at fortune-telling; bless you, she can read in your hand the same as a book, and many quite first-rate people come to her to have the cards consulted when they are anxious about any particular matter. She earns her weight in gold, and that is not a trifle, for she is a rare bundle of an old body. However, telling fortunes is only one of her means of gaining a livelihood.”

  “Why, what does she do besides?”

  “She keeps what you would call a pawnbroker’s shop upon a small scale.”

  “I see; your second-floor lodger lends out again the money she derives from her skill in foretelling events by reading the cards.”

  “Exactly so; only she is cheaper and more easy to deal with than the regular pawnbrokers: she does not confuse you with a heap of paper tickets and duplicates, — nothing of the sort. Now suppose: Some one brings Mother Burette a shirt worth three francs; well, she lends ten sous upon condition of being paid twenty at the end of the week, otherwise she keeps the shirt for ever. That is simple enough, is it not? Always in round figures, you see, — a child could understand it. And the odd things she has brought her as pledges you would scarcely believe. You can hardly guess what she sometimes is asked to lend upon. I saw her once advance money upon a gray parrot that swore like a trooper, — the blackguard did.”

  “A parrot? But to what amount did she advance money?”

  “I’ll tell you; the parrot was well known; it belonged to a Madame Herbelot, the widow of a factor, living close by, and it was also well understood that Madame Herbelot valued the parrot as much as she did her life. Well, Mother Burette said to her, ‘I will lend you ten francs on your bird, but if by this day week at twelve o’clock I do not receive twenty francs with interest (it would amount to that in round numbers), if I am not paid my twenty francs, with the expenses of his keep, I shall give your Polly a trifling dose of arsenic mixed with his food.’ She knew her customer well, bless you! However, by this threat Mother Burette received her twenty francs at the end of seven days, and Madame Herbelot got back her disagreeable, screaming parrot.”

  “Mother Burette has no other way of living besides the two you have named, I suppose?”

  “Not that I know of. I don’t know, however, what to say of some rather sly and secret transactions, carried on in a small room she never allows any one to enter, except M. Bras Rouge and an old one-eyed woman, called La Chouette.”

  Rodolph opened his eyes with unmixed astonishment as these names sounded on his ear, and the porteress, interpreting the surprise of her future lodger according to her own notions, said:

  “That name would make any one stare with astonishment. Certainly La Chouette is uncommonly odd; is it not?”

  “It is, indeed. Does the woman who is so styled come here frequently?”

  “We saw her the day before yesterday, for the first time these six weeks. She was rather lame, I observed.”

  “And what do you suppose she wants with the fortune-telling woman?”

  “That I do not know; at least, as to what takes place in the little room I was telling you of, where La Chouette alone is admitted with M. Bras Rouge and Mother Burette. I have, however, particularly observed that on those occasions the one-eyed woman always has a large bundle with her in her basket, and that M. Bras Rouge also carries a parcel of some size beneath his cloak, and that they always return empty-handed.”

  “And what can these packets contain?”

  “The Lord above knows, for I don’t; only they kick up the devil’s own row with them, whatever they are. And then such whiffs of sulphur, charcoal, and melted lead, as you go up the stairs; and blow, blow, blow, like a smith’s forge. I verily believe Mother Burette has dealings with the old one, and practises magic in this private apartment; leastways, that is what M. César Bradamanti, our third-floor lodger, said to me. A very clever individual is M. César. When I say an ‘individual,’ I mean an Italian, though he speaks as good French as you or me, excepting his accent, and that is nothing. Oh, he is very clever, indeed! knows all about physic; and pulls out teeth, not for the sake of the money but the honour of his profession, — yes, really, sir, for downright honour. Now, suppose you had six decayed teeth, — and he says the same thing to all who choose to listen to him, — well, then he will take out five for nothing, and only charge you for the sixth. Besides which, he sells all manner of remedies for all sorts of complaints, — diseases of the lungs, coughs, colds, every complaint you can name; but then he makes his own drugs, and he has for his assistant the son of our principal lessee, little Tortillard. He says that his master is going to buy himself a horse and a red coat, and to sell his drugs in the market-places, and that young Tortillard is to be dressed like a page and be at the drum, to attract customers.”

  “This seems to me a very h
umble occupation for the son of your principal lessee.”

  “Why, his father says unless he gets a pretty strong hand over him, and a tolerably powerful taste of whipcord, in the way of a sound thrashing, every now and then, he is safe to come to the scaffold. And he is about the ugliest, most spiteful, ill-disposed young rascal one would wish to meet: he has played more than one abominable trick upon poor M. César Bradamanti, who is the best creature possible; for he cured Alfred of a rheumatic attack, and I promise you we have not forgotten it. Yet there are some people wicked enough to — But no, I will not tell you: it would make the hair of your head stand on end. As Alfred says, if it were true, it would send him to the galleys.”

  “Why, what do they accuse him of?”

  “Oh, I really cannot tell you! I can’t, indeed; for it is so—”

  “Then we will drop the subject.”

  “And to say such things of a young man! Upon my life and soul, it is too bad.”

  “Pray, Madame Pipelet, do not give yourself the trouble of saying any more about it: let us speak of other matters.”

  “Why, I don’t know but, as you are to live in the house, it is only fair and right to prepare you for any falsehoods you may hear. I suppose you are sufficiently well off to make the acquaintance of M. César Bradamanti, and unless you are put on your guard against these reports, they might lead to your breaking off with him. So, just put your ear down and I’ll whisper what it is people say about him.”

  And the old woman, in a low tone, muttered a few words as Rodolph inclined his head; he started from her, with mingled disgust and horror.

  “Impossible!” exclaimed he. “Surely human nature is not capable of such crimes!”

  “Shocking! Is it not? But treat it as I do, — all scandal and lies. What, do you think the man who cured Alfred’s rheumatism, — who draws five teeth out of six for nothing, — who has testimonies (testimonials) from every prince and king in the world, — and, above all, pays as he goes, down on the nail, would go for to do such things? Not he! I’ll stake my blessed life upon it.”

  While Madame Pipelet thus vented her indignant opinion concerning the reports in circulation, Rodolph recalled to his memory the letter he had seen addressed to the quack dentist; he remembered the counterfeited writing and the coarse, common paper, stained with tears, which had well-nigh obliterated part of the address, — too well did he see in the mysterious grief-stained epistle the opening of a drama of deep and fearful import; and while these sad presages filled his mind, a powerful impression whispered within him that the dreadful doings ascribed to the Italian were not altogether unfounded.

  “Oh, I declare, here comes Alfred!” exclaimed the porteress. “Now he will tell you his opinion of all these spiteful stories about poor M. Bradamanti. Bless you! Alfred thinks him as innocent as a lamb, ever since he cured his rheumatics.”

  M. Pipelet entered the lodge with a grave, magisterial air. He was about sixty years of age, comfortably fat, with a large, broad countenance, strongly resembling in its cast and style the faces carved upon the far-famed nutcrackers of Nuremberg; a nose, of more than ordinary proportions, helping to complete the likeness. An old and dingy-looking hat, with a very deep brim, surmounted the whole. Alfred, who adhered to this upper ornament as tenaciously as his wife did to her Brutus wig, was further attired in an ancient green coat, with immense flaps turned up with grease, — if so might be described the bright and shiny patches of long-accumulated dirt, which had given an entirely different hue to some portions of the garment. But, though clad in a hat and coat esteemed by Pipelet and his wife as closely resembling full dress, Alfred had not laid aside the modest emblem of his trade, but from his waist uprose the buff-coloured triangular front of his leathern apron, partly concealing a waistcoat boasting nearly as great a variety of colours as did the patchwork counterpane of Madame Pipelet.

  The porter’s recognition of Rodolph as he entered was gracious in the extreme; but, alas! he smiled a melancholy welcome, and his countenance and languid air marked a man of secret sorrow.

  “Alfred,” said Madame Pipelet, when she had introduced her two companions, “here is a gentleman after the apartment on the fourth floor, and we have only been waiting for you to drink a glass of cordial he sent for.”

  This delicate attention won for Rodolph the entire trust and confidence of the melancholy porter, who, touching the brim of his hat, said, in a deep bass voice worthy of being employed in a cathedral:

  “We shall give the gentleman every satisfaction as porters, and, doubtless, he will act the same by us as a lodger; ‘birds of a feather flock together,’ as the proverb says.” Then, interrupting himself, M. Pipelet anxiously added, “Providing, sir, you are not a painter!”

  “No, I am not a painter, but a plain merchant’s clerk.”

  “My most humble duty to you, sir. I congratulate you that Nature did not make you one of those monsters called artists.”

  “Artists, monsters!” returned Rodolph. “Tell me, pray, why you style them so.”

  Instead of replying, M. Pipelet elevated his clasped hands towards the ceiling, and allowed a heavy sound, between a grunt and a groan, to escape his overcharged breast.

  “You must know, sir,” said Madame Pipelet, in a low tone, to Rodolph, “that painters have embittered Alfred’s life; they have worried my poor old dear almost out of his senses, and made him half stupefied, as you see him now.” Then speaking loud, she added, in a caressing tone, “Oh, never mind the blackguard, there’s a dear, but try and forget all about it, or you will be ill, and unable to eat the nice tripe I have got for your dinner.”

  “Let us hope I shall have courage and firmness enough for all things,” replied M. Pipelet, with a dignified and resigned air; “but he has done me much harm; he has been my persecutor, almost my executioner, — long have I suffered, but now I despise him! Ah,” said he, turning to Rodolph, “never allow a painter to enter your doors; they are the plague — the ruin — the destruction of a house!”

  “You have, then, had a painter lodging with you, I presume?”

  “Unhappily, sir, I did have one,” replied M. Pipelet, with much bitterness, “and that one named Cabrion. Ah!”

  At the recollections brought back by this name, the porter’s declaration of courage and endurance utterly failed him, and again his clenched fists were raised, as though to invoke the vengeance he had so lately described himself as despising.

  “And was this individual the last occupant of the chamber I am about engaging?” inquired Rodolph.

  “No, no! The last lodger was an excellent young man named M. Germain. No, this Cabrion had the room before he came. Ah, sir, since Cabrion left, he has all but driven me stark staring mad!”

  “Did you, then, so much regret him?” asked Rodolph.

  “Regret him! Regret Cabrion!” screamed the astounded porter; “why, only imagine, M. Bras Rouge paid him two quarters’ rent to induce him to quit the place, for, unluckily, he had taken his apartments for a term. What a scamp he was! You have no idea of the horrible tricks he played off upon all the lodgers as well as us. Why, just to give you one little proof of his villainy, there was hardly a single wind instrument he did not make use of as a sort of annoyance to the lodgers; from the French horn to the flageolet, he made use of all, and even carried his rascality so far as to play false and to keep blowing the same note for hours together; it was enough to worry one out of one’s senses. Well, I suppose there were upwards of twenty different petitions sent to our chief lessee, M. Bras Rouge, to turn the beggar out; and, at last, he was only got rid of by paying him two quarters’ rent, — rather droll, is it not, for a landlord to pay his lodger? But, bless you, the house was so upset by him that he might have had any price so he would but take himself off; however, he did go. And now you suppose we were clear of M. Cabrion? I’ll tell you. Next night, about eleven o’clock, I was in bed, when rap, rap, rap, comes to the gate. I pulls up the string, — somebody walks up to my door, ‘How do
you do, porter?’ says a voice; ‘will you oblige me with a lock of your hair?’ ‘Somebody has mistaken the door,’ says my wife. So I calls out to the stranger, ‘You are wrong, friend, you want next door.’ ‘I think not,’ returns the voice; ‘this is No. 17, is it not, and the porter’s name is Pipelet? I’m all right; so please to open the door and oblige me with a lock of your beautiful hair.’ ‘My name is Pipelet, certainly,’ answers I. ‘Well, then, friend Pipelet, Cabrion has sent me for a piece of your hair; he says he must and he will have it.’”

  As Pipelet uttered the last words he gave his head a mournful shake, and, folding his arms, assumed an attitude of martyrlike resolution.

  “Do you perceive, sir? He sends to me, his mortal enemy, whom he overwhelmed with insults and continually outraged in every way, to beg a lock of my hair, — a favour which even ladies have been known to refuse to a lover!”

  “But, supposing this Cabrion had been as good a lodger as was M. Germain,” replied Rodolph, with some difficulty preserving the gravity of countenance, “do you think you might have accorded him the favour?”