Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “What is the matter, sir?” inquired the astonished porter.

  “That cry!” said Rodolph; “did you not hear it?”

  “Yes, yes, I heard it; I dare say it is some person whose teeth M. Bradamanti is taking out; perhaps he may be taking out several, — and it is painful!”

  This explanation, though a probable one, did not satisfy Rodolph as to the horrid scream which still resounded in his ears. Though he had rung the bell with considerable violence, no person had as yet replied to his summons; he could distinctly hear the shutting of several doors, and then, behind a small oval glass let in beside the door, and on which Rodolph had mechanically kept his eyes fixed, he saw the haggard, cadaverous countenance of a human being; a mass of reddish hair strongly mixed with gray, and a long beard of the same hue, completed the hideous ensemble; the face was seen but for an instant, and vanished as quickly as though it had been a mere creation of fancy, leaving Rodolph in a state of perturbation impossible to describe.

  Short as had been the period of this apparition’s visit, he had yet in those brief instants recalled features precisely similar and for ever engraved on his memory, — the eyes shining with the colour and brilliancy of the aqua marina beneath their bushy sandy eyebrows, the livid complexion, the nose thin, projecting, and curving like an eagle’s beak, with its nostrils so curiously expanded and carved out till they exposed a portion of the nasal cartilage, resembled closely a certain Polidori, whose name had been so unceremoniously committed by Murphy, in his conversation with Graün, to regions not mentionable to polite ears. Though Rodolph had not seen Polidori during the last sixteen or seventeen years, he had a thousand reasons for keeping every feature well in his remembrance. The only thing that told against the identity of the individual he believed existed under the disguised name of this quack dentist was the circumstance of his having red hair, while the Polidori of Rodolph’s acquaintance had almost black. That Rodolph experienced no wonder (always supposing his conjectures as to the identity correct) at finding a man whose profound learning, rare talent, and vast intelligence he well knew, sunk to such a degradation, — it might even be infamy, — was because he knew equally well that all these high attainments and noble gifts were allied to such entire perversity, such wild and irregular passions, inclinations so corrupt, and, above all, an affected scorn and contempt for the opinion of the world, which might lead this man, when want and misery overtook him, to seek, from choice, the lowest and least honourable paths of subsistence, and to enjoy a sort of malevolent satisfaction in the idea of him, the talented, the learned, burying all these precious treasures beneath the ignoble calling to which he had devoted his vast powers of mind and body. Still, be it remembered that, spite of the close resemblance between the charlatan surgeon-dentist and the Polidori of bygone years, there still existed discrepancies so great that Rodolph balanced, in deep uncertainty, respecting their proving to be one and the same person.

  At length, turning to Pipelet, he inquired:

  “How long has this M. Bradamanti been an inmate of this house?”

  “About a year, sir, as nearly as I can remember, — yes, it is a year; I recollect he took the lodgings in the January quarter. Oh, he is a very regular and exact lodger; he cured me of a desperate attack of rheumatism.”

  “Madame Pipelet was telling me of the reports which are circulated of him.”

  “How could she be so foolish?”

  “Nay, pray do not fear me! I assure you I may safely be trusted.”

  “But, really, sir,” rejoined Pipelet, “I do not think there is the least dependence to be placed in such reports. I do not believe them, for one. I never can believe them; my modesty would not let me,” added M. Pipelet, turning very red, and preceding his new lodger to the floor above.

  The more resolved upon clearing up his doubts in proportion to the very great annoyance he felt that the residence of Polidori in the same house would prove to him, and becoming momentarily more disposed to affix a painful solution to the enigma of the piercing cry he had heard from the apartments of the Italian, Rodolph bound himself by a rigid promise to investigate the matter, so as to place it beyond the power of a doubt, and followed the porter to the upper floor, where was situated the chamber he was desirous of engaging.

  It was easy to ascertain the abode of his next-door neighbour Mlle. Rigolette. Thanks to the charming gallantry of the painter, Pipelet’s mortal foe, the door of her chamber was ornamented after the manner of Watteau, with a panel design representing about half a dozen fat little chubby Loves, grouped round a space painted sky blue, and on which was traced, in pink letters, “Mademoiselle Rigolette, Dressmaker.” These plump little Cupids had all a task to perform besides encircling this important announcement. One held the thimble of Mlle. Rigolette upon his tiny finger; another held her scissors; a third was provided with a smoothing-iron for her use; whilst a fourth held up a mirror, as if to tempt the young sempstress to forsake her work for the more gratifying view of her own pretty countenance. The whole was surrounded with a well-chosen wreath of flowers, whose gay colours contrasted agreeably with the sea-green colour of the door; the whole offering a very unfavourable contrast to the mean and shabby-looking staircase. At the risk of opening anew the bleeding wounds of Alfred, Rodolph ventured to observe, while pointing to the door of Mlle. Rigolette:

  “This, I suppose, is the work of M. Cabrion?”

  “It is; he destroyed the painting of the door by daubing it over with a parcel of fat, indecent children he called his loves. Had it not been for the entreaties of Mlle. Rigolette, and the weakness of M. Bras Rouge, I would have scratched it all off, as well as this palette filled with horrid monsters, with their equally abominable master, whom you can see drawn amongst them. You may know him by his steeple-crowned hat.”

  And there, sure enough, on the door of the room Rodolph was about to hire, might be seen a palette surrounded by all kinds of odd and whimsical creatures, the witty conceit of which might have done honour to Callot. Rodolph followed the porter into a tolerably good-sized room, accessible by a small entrance-closet, or antechamber, having two windows opening into the Rue du Temple. Some fantastic sketches from the pencil of M. Cabrion, on the second door, had been scrupulously respected by M. Germain. Rodolph saw too many reasons for desiring to obtain this lodging to hesitate further; therefore, modestly placing a couple of francs in the hand of the porter, he said:

  “‘This, I Suppose, Is the Work of M. Cabrion’”

  Etching by Mercier, after the drawing by Frank T. Merrill

  “This chamber will exactly suit me. Here is a deposit to complete the bargain. To-morrow I will send in my furniture; but let me beg of you not to destroy the merry creatures painted on the palette at the entrance. It is really very droll! Don’t you think so?”

  “Droll!” groaned poor Pipelet; “not I! Ah, sir, how would you like to dream night after night that you were being hunted by a legion of little ugly devils like these on the door, with Cabrion at their head urging them on, and then fancying you are trying to get away, and cannot? Oh, I have woke all in a perspiration from such dreams hundreds of times since that infamous Cabrion began persecuting me.”

  “Why, honestly speaking, I cannot say the chase would be a very agreeable one, even though but a dream. However, tell me, have I any need to see M. Bras Rouge — your great man here — about renting this apartment?”

  “None whatever, sir. He rarely comes near the place, except when he has any private matters to arrange with Mother Burette. I am the only person to treat with about hiring apartments. I must beg the favour of your name.”

  “Rodolph.”

  “Rodolph what?”

  “Plain Rodolph, M. Pipelet, — nothing more, if you please.”

  “Just as you please, sir. I did not ask from curiosity. Every man has a right to his own free will, as well as to decide upon the name he chooses to be called.”

  “What do you think, M. Pipelet, as to the propriety of my going t
o-morrow, as a new neighbour of Morel’s, to inquire whether I can be of any service to them? Since my predecessor, M. Germain, was permitted to assist them according to his means, why should they not accept of what trifling help I can afford?”

  “Why, sir, I see no harm in your going to call on the Morels, because it may please the poor things; but I hardly see much good it can do, as they are so shortly to be turned out of the house.” Then, as if suddenly struck with a new idea, M. Pipelet exclaimed, winking at Rodolph with what he intended should be a very facetious and penetrating look, “I see, I see, — you mean to begin making acquaintance with the lodgers at the top of the house, that you may be able to work your way down to Mlle. Rigolette. Ah, I’ve found you out, you see, — pretty girl—”

  “Well, I think you have discovered my intentions, so I will confess at once that I mean to try and be on friendly terms with my agreeable neighbour.”

  “There is no harm in that, sir, — it is customary; only all correct, all right and honourable, — you understand. Between you and me, I strongly suspect Mlle. Rigolette heard us coming up-stairs, and that she is watching to have a look as we go down. I will make a noise purposely in locking the door; if you look sharp, you will see her as we pass the landing.” And, true to the porter’s suspicions, the door so tastefully enlivened by the fat Cupids, à la Watteau, was seen to open gently, and Rodolph had a brief view of a little, turned-up nose, and a pair of large, staring black eyes, peeping through the narrow space; but, as he slacked his steps, the door was hastily shut. “I told you she was watching us,” said the porter. Then added, “Excuse me one instant, sir; I want to step up to my warehouse.”

  “Where is that?”

  “At the top of this ladder is the landing-place, on which the door of Morel’s garret opens, and in the wainscoting of this landing is a small dark cupboard, where I keep my leather, and the wall is so full of cracks, that when I am in this hole I can see and hear everything, the same as if I was in Morel’s room. Not that I wish to spy what the poor creatures are about, God knows, — quite the contrary. But please to excuse me for a few minutes, sir, whilst I fetch my bit of leather. If you will have the goodness to go down-stairs, I will rejoin you.”

  And, so saying, Pipelet commenced ascending the steep ladder communicating with his warehouse, as he styled it, — a somewhat perilous feat for a person of his age.

  Rodolph, thus left alone, cast another glance towards the chambers of Mlle. Rigolette, remembering with deep interest all he had heard of her being the favourite companion of the poor Goualeuse, and recalling also the information she was said to possess touching the residence of the Schoolmaster’s son, when the sound of some person quitting the apartments of the quack doctor below attracted his attention, and he could distinctly hear the light step of a female, with the rustling of a silk dress. Rodolph paused till the sounds had died away, and then descended the stairs. Something white had fallen about half-way down; it had evidently been dropped by the person who had just quitted Polidori. Rodolph picked it up, and carried it to one of the narrow windows which lighted the staircase. It was a pocket-handkerchief, of the finest cambric, trimmed with costly lace, and bearing in one corner the initials “L. N.” beautifully embroidered, and surmounted with a ducal coronet. The handkerchief was literally soaked in tears.

  Rodolph’s first impulse was to follow the person from whose hand this mute evidence of deep woe had fallen, with the view of restoring it, but, reflecting that such a step might be mistaken for impertinent curiosity, he determined to preserve it carefully, as the first link in an adventure he found himself almost involuntarily engaged in, and from which he augured a painful and melancholy termination. As he returned to the porteress, he inquired whether a female had not just come down-stairs.

  “A female! No indeed, sir, — it was a fine, tall, slender-looking lady, not a female, and covered over with a thick black veil. She has come from M. Bradamanti. Little Tortillard fetched a coach for her, and she has just driven away in it. What struck me was the impudence of that little beggar to seat himself behind the coach. I dare say, though, it was to see where the lady went to, for he is as mischievous as a magpie, and as prying as a ferret, for all his club-foot.”

  “So, then,” thought Rodolph, “the name and address of this unhappy lady will soon be known to this imposter, since it is, doubtless, by his directions she is followed and watched by this imp of an emissary.”

  “Well, sir, and what do you think of the apartment? Will it suit you?” inquired Madame Pipelet.

  “Nothing could have suited me better. I have taken it, and to-morrow I shall send in my furniture.”

  “Well, then, thank God for a good lodger! I am sure it was a lucky chance for us sent you here.”

  “I hope you will find it so, madame. I think it is well understood between us that you undertake to manage all my little domestic matters for me. I shall come and superintend the removal of my goods. Adieu!”

  So saying, Rodolph left the lodge. The results of his visit to the house in the Rue du Temple were highly important, both as regarded the solution of the deep mystery he so ardently desired to unravel, and also as affording a wide field for the exercise of his earnest endeavours to do good and to prevent evil. After mature calculation, he considered himself to have achieved the following results:

  First, he had ascertained that Mlle. Rigolette was in possession of the address of Germain, the Schoolmaster’s son. Secondly, a young female, who, from appearances, might unhappily be the Marquise d’Harville, had made an appointment with the commandant for the morrow, — perhaps to her own utter ruin and disgrace; and Rodolph had (as we have before mentioned) numerous reasons for wishing to preserve the honour and peace of one for whom he felt so lively an interest as he took in all concerning M. d’Harville. An honest and industrious artisan, crushed by the deepest misery, was, with his whole family, about to be turned into the streets through the means of Bras Rouge. Further, Rodolph had undesignedly caught a glimpse of an adventure in which the charlatan César Bradamanti (possibly Polidori) and a female, evidently of rank and fashion, were the principal actors. And, finally, La Chouette, having lately quitted the hospital, where she had been since the affair in the Allée des Veuves, had reappeared on the stage, and was evidently engaged in some underhand proceedings with the fortune-teller and female money-lender who occupied the second floor of the house.

  Having carefully noted down all these particulars, Rodolph returned to his house, Rue Plumet, deferring till the following day his visit to the notary, Jacques Ferrand.

  It will be no doubt fresh in the memory of our readers, that on this same evening Rodolph was engaged to be present at a grand ball given by the ambassador of —— . Before following our hero in this new excursion, let us cast a retrospective glance on Tom and Sarah, — personages of the greatest importance in the development of this history.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  TOM AND SARAH.

  SARAH SEYTON, WIDOW of Count Macgregor, and at this time thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age, was of an excellent Scotch family, daughter of a baronet, and a country gentleman. Beautiful and accomplished, an orphan at seventeen years old, she had left Scotland with her brother, Thomas Seyton of Halsbury. The absurd predictions of an old Highland nurse had excited almost to madness the two leading vices in Sarah’s character, — pride and ambition; the destiny predicted for her, and in which she fully believed, was of the highest order, — in fact, sovereign rank. The prophecy had been so often repeated, that the young Scotch girl eventually fully credited its fulfilment; and she constantly repeated to herself, to bear out her ambitious dream, that a fortune-teller had thus promised a crown to the handsome and excellent creature who afterwards sat on the throne of France, and who was queen as much by her graces and her kind heart as others have been by their grandeur and majesty.

  Strange to say, Thomas Seyton, as superstitious as his sister, encouraged her foolish hopes, and resolved on devoting his life to the real
isation of Sarah’s dream, — a dream as dazzling as it was deceptive. However, the brother and sister were not so blind as to believe implicitly in this Highland prophecy, and to look absolutely for a throne of the first rank in a splendid disdain of secondary royalties or reigning principalities; on the contrary, so that the handsome Scotch lassie should one day encircle her imperial forehead with a sovereign crown, the haughty pair agreed to condescend to shut their eyes to the importance of the throne they coveted. By the assistance of the Almanach de Gotha for the year of grace 1819, Seyton arranged, before he left Scotland, a sort of synopsis of the ages of all the kings and ruling powers in Europe then unmarried.

  Although very ridiculous, yet the brother and sister’s ambition was freed from all shameful modes; Seyton was prepared to aid his sister Sarah in snatching at the thread of the conjugal band by which she hoped eventually to fasten a crown upon her brows. He would be her participator in any and all stratagems which could tend to consummate this end; but he would rather have killed his sister than see her the mistress of a prince, even though the liaison should terminate in a marriage of reparation.

  The matrimonial inventory that resulted from Seyton and Sarah’s researches in the Almanach de Gotha was satisfactory. The Germanic Confederation furnished forth a numerous contingent of young presumptive sovereigns. Seyton was not ignorant of the sort of German wedlock which is called a “left-handed marriage,” to which, as being legitimate to a certain extent, he would, as a last resource, have resigned his sister. To Germany, then, it was resolved to bend their steps, in order to commence this search for the royal spouse.

  If the project appears improbable, such hopes ridiculous, let us first reply by saying that unbridled ambition, excited by superstitious belief, rarely claims for itself the light of reason in its enterprises, and will dare the wildest impossibilities; yet, when we recall certain events, even in our own times, from high and most reputable morganatic marriages between sovereigns and female subjects, down to the loving elopement of Miss Penelope Smith and the Prince of Capua, we cannot refuse some chance of fortunate result to the imagination of Seyton and Sarah. Let us add that the lady united to a very lovely person, singular abilities and very varied talents; whilst there were added a power of seduction the more dangerous as it was united to a mind unbending and calculating, a disposition cunning and selfish, a deep hypocrisy, a stubborn and despotic will, — all covered by the outward show of a generous, warm, and impassioned nature.