by Eugène Sue
Rodolph took advantage of his invisibility to cast a curious eye around him, and he found the apartment even beyond the praises which Madame Pipelet had bestowed on the extreme cleanliness of the humble home of Rigolette. Nothing could be more lively or better arranged than this apartment. A gray paper, with green garlands, covered the walls; the floor, painted of a red colour, shone like a looking-glass; a small earthenware stone was placed in the chimney, where was piled up, very symmetrically, a small store of wood, cut so short, so thin, that, without exaggeration, each piece might have been compared to a very large match. On the stone mantelpiece, painted gray marble, there were, for ornaments, two pots of common flowers, covered in with green moss; a small case of boxwood contained a silver watch instead of a pendule. On one side was a brass candlestick, shining like gold, and having in it a small piece of wax-light; and, on the other side, no less resplendently, one of those lamps formed by a cylinder and a brass reflector, supported by a bar of steel, and having a base of lead. A tolerably large square glass, in a black wood frame, was over the mantelpiece. Curtains of gray and green Persian cloth, with a woollen-fringed border, cut and worked by Rigolette, and hung in light rings of black iron, decorated the windows; and the bed was covered with a counterpane of the same make and material. Two closets, with glass doors, and painted white, were in each side of the recess, enclosing, no doubt, household utensils, — the portable stove, the fountain, brooms, etc.; for none of these things spoiled the neat appearance of the chamber. A chest of drawers of well veined and shining walnut-tree; four chairs of the same wood; a large table for ironing and working, covered with one of those green woollen coverings which we sometimes see in a peasant’s cottage; a straw armchair, with a stool to match, the constant seat of the workwoman, — such was the unpretending furniture. There was, too, in one of the window-seats, a cage with two canary birds, the faithful companions of Rigolette. By one of those notable ideas which occur to the poor, this cage was placed in the middle of a large wooden chest, about a foot deep, placed on a table. This chest, which Rigolette called her bird’s garden, was filled with mould, covered with moss during the winter, and in spring the young girl sowed grass seeds, and planted flowers there. Rodolph examined the place with interest, and entered fully into the cheerful disposition of the grisette. He pictured to himself this solitude, enlivened by the song of the birds and of Rigolette herself. In summer, no doubt, she worked at the open window, half veiled by a verdant curtain of sweet peas, roses, nasturtiums, and blue and white convolvulus. In winter she warmed herself near her small stove, by the soft light of her lamp.
Rodolph was thus reflecting, when, looking mechanically at the door, he saw there a large bolt, — a bolt which would not have been out of place on the door of a prison. This bolt made him reflect. It might have two meanings, two very distinct uses: to close the door on the lover within; to close the door on the lover without. Rodolph was aroused from his reflections by Rigolette, who, turning her head, saw him, and, without changing her attitude, said to him:
“What, neighbour, are you there?” Then the well-formed ankle instantly disappeared beneath the ample skirt of the plum-coloured gown, and Rigolette added, “Ah, Mr. Cunning!”
“I was here admiring in silence.”
“Admiring what, neighbour?”
“This pretty little room; for, neighbour, you are lodged like a queen.”
“Why, you must know that is my enjoyment. I never go out, and so I can do no less than make my home comfortable.”
“But really I never saw anything half so nice. What pretty curtains! and the drawers as handsome as mahogany! You must have spent a great deal of money here.”
“Oh, don’t mention it! I had, of my own, four hundred and twenty-five francs when I left the prison, and almost all has been spent.”
“When you left the prison! — you?”
“Yes, but it is a very long story. Of course, you do not suppose that I was in prison for anything wrong?”
“Of course not; but how was it?”
“After the cholera, I was quite alone in the world. I was then, I think, ten years of age.”
“But who had taken care of you till then?”
“Ah, some excellent people! But they died of the cholera;” here Rigolette’s large eyes became moistened. “They had sold the little they possessed to pay their small debts, and I remained without having any one who would take care of me. Not knowing what to do, I went to the guard-house, opposite to our house, and said to the sentinel: ‘Sir, my relations are dead, and I do not know where to go to; what must I do?’ Then the officer came, and he took me to the commissary, who put me in prison as a vagabond, and I did not go out until I was sixteen years old.”
“But your relations?”
“I do not know who my father was, and I was six years old when I lost my mother, who had recovered me from the Enfants Trouvés (Foundling Hospital), where she had been compelled at first to place me. The kind people of whom I spoke to you lived in our house; they had no children, and, seeing me an orphan, they took care of me.”
“And what were they? What was their business or pursuit?”
“Papa Crétu, so I always called him, was a house-painter, and his wife worked at her needle.”
“Then they were pretty well off?”
“Oh, like other people in their station, though they were not married; but they called each other husband and wife. They had their ups and downs; to-day plenty, if there was work to be had; to-morrow short commons, if there was none; but that did not prevent the couple from being content and always cheerful;” at this remembrance Rigolette’s face brightened up. “There was not such a household in the quarter, — always merry, always singing, and, with it all, as good as they could be. What they had any one was welcome to share. Mamma Crétu was a plump body, about thirty years old, as neat as a penny, as active as an eel, as merry as a lark. Her husband was a regular good-tempered fellow, with a large nose, a wide mouth, and always a paper cap on his head, and such a funny face, — oh, so funny, — you could not look at him without laughing. When he came home after work, he did nothing but sing, and make faces, and gambol like a child. He used to dance me on his knees, and play with me like a child of my own age; and his wife spoiled me, as if I had been a blessing to her. They both required only one thing from me, and that was to be in a good humour; and in that I never thwarted them, thank Heaven. So they called me Rigolette, and the name has stuck to me. As to mirth, they set me the example, for I never saw them sorrowful. If ever there was a word, it was the wife who said to her husband, ‘Crétu, you silly fellow, do be quiet, you make me laugh too much.’ Then he said to her, ‘Hold your foolish tongue, Ramonette,’ — I don’t know why he called her Ramonette,— ‘do be still, you really make my sides ache, you are so funny.’ And then I laughed to see them laugh, and in this way I was brought up, and in this way they formed my disposition; and I hope I have profited by it.”
The French verb rigoler is “to be merry.” — E. T.
“Most assuredly you have, neighbour. So there never were any disputes between them?”
“Never, oh, never! Sunday, Monday, and sometimes on Tuesday, they made holiday, or kept wedding-day, as they called it, and always took me with them. Papa Crétu was an excellent workman, and, when he chose to work, he could earn what he pleased, and so could his wife, too. If they had got enough to do for Sunday and Monday, and live on pretty comfortably, they were perfectly satisfied. If, after this, they were on short allowance for a time, they didn’t mind it. I remember, when we had only bread and water, Papa Crétu took from his library—”
“He had a library, then?”
“Oh, he used to call a little box so, in which he put his collection of new songs; for he bought all the new ones, and knew them every one. When, then, there was nothing but bread in the house, he used to take an old cookery book from his library, and say to us, ‘Well, now, let us see, what shall we eat to-day? This, or that?’ And then he u
sed to read out a long list of good things. Each of us chose a dish, and then Papa Crétu took an empty saucepan, and, with the funniest airs and gestures in the world, pretended to put into the saucepan all the ingredients requisite for making a capital stew; and then he used to pretend to pour it all out into a dish — also empty — which he placed on the table, with still the same drolleries, which almost split our sides. Then he took up his book again, and, whilst he was reading to us, for instance, the recipe of a good fricassée of chicken, which we had chosen, and which made our mouths water, we ate our bread, all laughing like so many mad people.”
“And, in this happy household, were there any debts to trouble them?”
“None whatever. So long as the money lasted, they ate, drank, and made merry, and, when it was all gone, they lived upon ‘make believe,’ as before.”
“And did they never think of the future?”
“Oh, yes, they thought of it, of course; but what is the future to such as we? Present and future are like Sunday and Monday; the one we spend gaily and happily outside the barriers, the other is got over in the faubourgs.”
“And why, since this couple seemed so well assorted, did they never marry?”
“A friend of theirs once put that very question in my presence.”
“Well, and what did they say?”
“‘Oh,’ said they, ‘if ever we have any children, it may be all very well to marry, but as far as we are concerned, we do very well as we are. And why should we make an obligation of that which we now perform willingly? Besides, getting married costs money, and we have none to spare in unnecessary expenses.’ But, my goodness,” added Rigolette, “how I am running on. But, really, when once I begin to talk of these kind people, who were so good to me, I never know when to leave off. Here, neighbour, will you give me my shawl off the bed, and put it nicely over my shoulders, then pin it underneath the collar of my habit-shirt with this large pin, and then we will set off, for it will take us some time to select the different things you wish to buy for the poor Morels.”
Rodolph readily obeyed the directions of Rigolette. First he took from the bed a large plaid shawl, which he placed with all imaginable care on the well-formed shoulders of Rigolette.
“That will do, neighbour. Now, lift up my collar, and press the shawl and dress together; then stick in the pin; but pray try not to prick me with it.”
The prince executed the orders given with zealous accuracy; then observed, smilingly, to the grisette:
“Ah, Mlle. Rigolette, I should not like to be your femme de chambre; there is danger in it!”
“Yes, I know,” answered Rigolette gaily; “there is great danger for me of having a pin run in by your awkwardness. But now,” added she, after they had left the room, and carefully locked the door after them, “take my key; it is so large, I always expect it will burst my pocket; it is as large as a pistol,” and here the light-hearted girl laughed merrily at her own conceit.
Rodolph accordingly “took charge” (that is the prescribed form of speech) of an enormous key, which might well have figured in one of those allegorical devices in which the vanquished are represented as humbly offering the keys of their lost cities to the conquerors. Although Rodolph believed himself too much changed by years to run any risk of being recognised by Polidori, he still deemed it prudent to draw up the collar of his paletot as he passed by the door of the apartments belonging to the quack, Bradamanti.
“Neighbour,” said Rigolette, “don’t forget to tell M. Pipelet that you are about to send in some things which are to be carried at once up to your chamber.”
“You are right, my good friend; let us step into the porter’s lodge for an instant.”
M. Pipelet, with his everlasting bell-shaped hat on his head, dressed, as usual, in the accustomed green coat, and seated before a table covered with scraps of leather and fragments of boots and shoes, was occupied in fixing a new sole on a boot, his whole look and manner impressed with the same deeply meditative air which characterised his usual proceedings. Anastasie was just then absent from the lodge.
“Well, M. Pipelet,” said Rigolette, “I hope you will be pleased to hear the good news. Thanks to my good neighbour here, the poor Morels have got out of trouble. La! when one thinks of that poor man being taken off to prison — oh, those bailiffs have no hearts!”
“Nor manners either, mademoiselle,” rejoined M. Pipelet, in an angry tone, wrathfully brandishing the boot then in progress of repair, and into which he had inserted his left hand and arm. “No! I have no hesitation in declaring, in the face of all mankind, that they are a set of mannerless scoundrels. Why, taking advantage of the darkness of our stairs, they actually carried their indecent violence so far as to lay their audacious fingers upon the waist of my wife. When I first heard the cries of her insulted modesty, I could not restrain myself, and, spite of all efforts to restrain myself, I yielded to the natural impetuosity of my disposition. Yes, I will frankly confess, my first impulse was to remain perfectly motionless.”
“But, I suppose, afterwards,” said Rigolette, who had much ado to preserve a serious air, “afterwards, M. Pipelet, you pursued them, and bestowed the punishment they so well deserved?”
“I’ll tell you, mademoiselle,” answered Pipelet, deliberately; “when these shameless ruffians passed before my lodge, my blood boiled, and I could not prevent myself from hastily covering my face, that I might not be shocked by the sight of these luxurious malefactors; but, afterwards, I ceased to be astonished; for well I knew I might expect some sight or sound to shock my senses; full well I was prepared for some direful misfortune ere the day had passed, for I dreamed last night of Cabrion.”
Rigolette smiled, while the heavy groans which broke from the oppressed mind of the porter were mingled with blows of his hammer, as he vigorously applied it to the sole of the boot he was mending.
“You wisely chose the wisest part, my dear M. Pipelet, that of despising offences, and holding it beneath you to revenge them; but try to forget these ill-conducted bailiffs, and oblige me by doing me a great favour.”
“Man is born to help his fellow man,” drawled out Pipelet, in a melancholy and sententious tone; “and he is still further called upon so to do when a good and worthy gentleman, moreover, a lodger in one’s house, is concerned.”
“What I have to request of you is to carry up to my apartments for me several things I am about to send in, and which are for the Morels.”
“Make yourself easy upon that point, monsieur,” replied Pipelet. “I will faithfully perform your wishes.”
“And afterwards,” said Rodolph, mournfully, “you must obtain a priest to watch by a little girl the Morels have lost in the night. Go and give the requisite notification of the death, and bespeak a suitable funeral.”
“Make your mind easy, monsieur,” replied Pipelet, more gravely even than before; “directly my wife returns, I will go to the mayor, the church, and the traiteur’s: to the church, for the soul of the dead; to the traiteur’s, for the body of the living,” added M. Pipelet, philosophically and poetically. “Consider it done in both cases; my good sir, consider it done.”
At the entrance to the alley, Rodolph and Rigolette encountered Anastasie returning from market with a huge basket of provisions.
“That’s right! That’s right!” cried the porteress, looking at the pair with a knowing and significant air; “there you go, arm in arm already. To be sure, look and love, love and look. Young people will be young people, no doubt on’t. Me and Alfred was just the same. Whoever heard of a pretty girl without a beau? So, go along, my dears, and make yourselves happy while you can.” Then, after gazing after them some minutes, the old woman disappeared in the depths of the alley, crying out, “Alfred, my old darling! Don’t worry yourself; ‘Stasie’s coming to bring you something nice, — oh, so nice!”
VOLUME III.
CHAPTER I.
THE TEMPLE.
TO THE DEEP snow which had fallen during the past ni
ght had succeeded a very sharp wind, so that the ordinarily muddy pavement was hard and dry, as Rigolette and Rodolph wended onwards to the immense and singular bazar called the Temple, the young girl leaning unceremoniously on the arm of her cavalier, who, on his part, appeared as much at his ease as though they had been old familiar friends.
“What a funny old woman Madame Pipelet is!” observed the grisette to her companion; “and what very odd things she says!”
“Well, I thought her remarks very striking, as well as appropriate.”
“Which of them, neighbour?”
“Why, when she said ‘Young people would be young people,’ and ‘Vive l’amour!’”
“Well?”
“Well! I only mean to say those are precisely my sentiments.”
“Your sentiments?”
“Yes, I should like nothing better than to pass my youth with you, taking ‘Vive l’amour!’ for my motto.”
“I dare say, for certainly you are not hard to please.”
“Why, where would be the harm, — are we not near neighbours? Of course we are, or else I should not be seen walking out with you in this manner in broad day.”
“Then you allow me to hope—”
“Hope what?”
“That you will learn to love me.”
“Oh, bless you, I do love you already!”
“Really?”
“To be sure I do. Why, how can I help it? You are good and gay; though poor yourself, you have done all in your power by interesting rich people in the fate of the Morels; your appearance pleases me; and you have altogether a nice look, and a sort of air such as one is glad to find in a person we expect to go about with a great deal. So there, I think, are abundant reasons for my loving you.”
Then, suddenly breaking into loud fits of laughter, Rigolette abruptly exclaimed, “Look there, only look at that fat woman with the furred shoes! What does she remind you of? I’ll tell you, — of a great sack being drawn along by two cats without tails!” and again she laughed merrily.