by Eugène Sue
“But, indeed, it is; why, a place is a place, and, if the young person I mentioned to you should not like it, she is not obliged to stay there; and then, don’t you see, she would at once be able to maintain herself, while I should have no further uneasiness about her?”
“Oh, as far as that goes, M. Rodolph, it is your affair, not mine; and, whatever happens, remember I warned you. If, after all you have heard, you still think the place would suit your young friend, why, of course, you can please yourself; and, then, to be sure, as far as regards the notary, there are always two sides to every picture, a for and against to every tale; he is hard-hearted as a flint-stone, obstinate as a jackass, bigoted as a Jesuit, that’s true enough; but then he is of the most scrupulous punctuality in all his affairs; he gives very low wages, but, then, he pays on the nail; the living is very bad at his house, still it is the same one day as another. In a word, though it is a house where a servant must work like a horse, yet, at the same time, it is one of those dull, quiet, stupid places, where there is certainly nothing to tempt a girl to get into mischief. Certainly, Louise managed to go wrong, but that was all a chance.”
“Madame Pipelet, I am going to confide a great secret to your honour.”
“Well, then, upon the word and honour of Anastasie Pipelet, whose maiden name was Gulimard, as true as there is a God and heaven, and that Alfred always wears green coats, I will be silent as a stockfish!”
“You must not breathe a word to M. Pipelet.”
“That I won’t, I swear by the head of that dear old duck himself, if it relates to a proper and correct affair.”
“Surely, Madame Pipelet, you have too good an opinion of me to suppose, for a minute, that I would insult your chaste ears with anything that was not?”
“Well, then, go it! Let’s know all about it, and, I promise you, Alfred shall never be the wiser, be it what it may. Bless you! he is as easy to cheat as a child of six years old.”
“I rely implicitly on you; therefore listen to my words.”
“I will, my king of lodgers; and remember that we are now sworn friends for life or for death. So go on with your story.”
“The young person I spoke to you about has, unfortunately, committed one serious fault.”
“I was sure of it! Why, Lord bless you, if I had not married Alfred when I was fifteen years of age, I dare say I should have committed, fifties and hundreds of faults! I? There, just as you see. I was like a barrel of gunpowder at the very sight or mention of a smart young fellow. Luckily for me, Pipelet extinguished the warmth of my nature in the coolness of his own virtue; if he had not, I can’t say what might have happened, for I did dearly love the gay deceivers! I merely mention this to say that, if the young person has only done wrong once, then there are great hopes of her.”
“I trust, indeed, she will atone for her past misconduct. She was living in service, in Germany, with a relation of mine, and the partner of her crime was the son of this relative. Do you understand?”
“Do I? Don’t I? Go along with you! I understand as well as though I had committed the fault myself.”
“The angry mistress, upon discovering her servant’s guilt, drove her from her house; but the young man was weak enough to quit his paternal roof, and to bring the unfortunate girl to Paris.”
“Well, la, M. Rodolph! What else could you expect? Why, young people will be young people. I’m sure I—”
“After this act of folly came stern reflection, rendered still more severe by the fact of the slender stock of money he possessed being exhausted. In this dilemma, my young relation applied to me; and I consented to furnish him with the means of returning home, on condition of his leaving behind him the companion of his flight, whom I undertook to place out in some respectable capacity.”
“Well, I declare, I could not have done more for a son, if it had pleased Heaven — and Pipelet — that I should have had one!”
“I am delighted that you approve of my conduct; still, as the young girl is a stranger, and has no one to give her a recommendation, I fear it will be rather difficult to get her placed. Now, if you would tell Madame Séraphin that a relation of yours, living in Germany, has sent her to you, with a very excellent character, the notary would, possibly, take her into his service; and I should be doubly delighted. Cecily (for that is her name), having only once gone astray, would, doubtless, soon regain the right path in a house as severe and saintly as that of the notary’s; and it is for that reason I am desirous of seeing the poor girl enter into the service of M. Ferrand; and, of course, if introduced by so respectable a person as yourself, Madame Pipelet, there would be no fear of her obtaining the place.”
“Oh, M. Rodolph!”
“Yes, indeed, my good madame, I am sure that one word from so justly esteemed an individual as you—”
“Oh, my king of lodgers!”
“I repeat that, if you would patronise the young girl so far as to introduce her to Madame Séraphin, I have no fears but that she would be accepted; whereas, you know, if I were to accompany her to the notary’s house—”
“I see what you mean; to be sure, it would look just as queer as if I were to introduce a young man. Well, I will do what you wish; it will be serving old Séraphin out as she deserves. I can tell you I have had a crow to pluck with her a long time, and this seems a famous way of serving her out; besides, it’s a good lark, any way. So look upon the thing as done, M. Rodolph. I’ll cram the old woman well. I will tell her that a relation of my own, long established in Germany, has just died, as well as her husband, leaving a daughter wholly dependent on me.”
“Capital! Well, then, without saying anything more to Madame Séraphin, you shall take Cecily to M. Ferrand. All you will have to say is, that, not having seen or heard anything of your relation during the last twenty years, you consider it best to let her speak for herself.”
“Ah, but then, if the girl only jabbers German?”
“I assure you she speaks French perfectly well. I will give her proper instructions, therefore you need do nothing more than strongly recommend her to Madame Séraphin, — or, stay, upon second thoughts, perhaps you had better not say any more than you have done on the subject, for fear she should suspect you want to force the girl upon her. You know that, frequently, the very asking a thing produces a refusal.”
“I should think I did, too! Why, that was the way I got rid of all the flattering lovers that came about me. If they had never asked me a favour, I don’t know what I might have done.”
“It is always the case; therefore say nothing more to Madame Séraphin than just this, that Cecily is an orphan, and a stranger here, very young and very pretty, that she will be a heavy burden to you, and that you are not particularly fond of her, in consequence of having long since quarrelled with her mother, and, consequently, not retaining a very great affection for the charge bequeathed to your care.”
“What a deep one you are! But never mind, there’s a pair of us! I say, M. Rodolph, is it not odd you and I should understand each other so well? Ah, we two should have suited one another to a hair! Gracious, M. Rodolph, when I think what might have happened, if we had chanced to have met when I was such a tender-hearted, susceptible young creature, and so fond of handsome young men, — don’t you fancy we should have seemed like made for one another, — eh, M. Rodolph?”
“Hush! Suppose M. Pipelet—”
“I forgot him, poor old duck! His brain is half turned since this last abominable prank of Cabrion’s; but I’ll tell you about that another time. As for your young relation, make yourself quite easy; I will undertake to play my part so well that old Séraphin shall come to me, and beg to have her as a servant.”
“And if you succeed, Madame Pipelet, I have one hundred francs quite at your service. I am not rich, but—”
“Are you making fun of me, M. Rodolph, or do you imagine I am doing what I do for the sake of gain? I declare to God it’s out of nothing but pure friendship! One hundred francs! That’s handso
me, however!”
“Why, I consider it but an act of justice, as well as gratitude, to offer you a sum which, if left several months on my hands, the girl must soon have cost me.”
“Ah, well, then, since I can serve you by accepting your hundred francs, of course I have no further objection, M. Rodolph; but we drew a famous prize in the lottery when you came into the house, and I don’t care who hears me say it, for I’d as lief cry it on the housetops. You are the very prince and king of good lodgers! Halloa, there is a hackney-coach! No doubt, the lady M. Bradamanti expects; I could not manage to see her well when she came yesterday, but I’ll have a precious good stare at her this time; added to which, I’ve got a capital plan for finding out her name. Come, you shall see me go to work; it will be a famous lark for us!”
“No, I thank you, Madame Pipelet; I have not the slightest curiosity respecting either the name or features of this lady,” returned Rodolph, withdrawing to the very end of the lodge.
“Where do you wish to go, madame?” cried Anastasie, rushing towards the female, who was entering.
“I am going to M. Bradamanti’s,” returned the person addressed, visibly annoyed at having her progress thus arrested.
“He is not at home.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Oh, no, I am not!” said the porteress, skilfully contriving so to place herself as to command a perfect view of the stranger’s features. “M. Bradamanti has gone out, positively, absolutely gone out; that is to say, he is not at home, except to one lady.”
“’Tis I, he expects me; and pray, my good woman, allow me to pass; you are really troublesome!”
“Your name, madame, if you please? I shall soon see if it is the name of the person M. Bradamanti desired me to admit. Should yours not be the right name, you don’t go up-stairs, unless you first trample on my body!”
“Is it possible he could be so imprudent as to tell you my name?” cried the female, with as much surprise as uneasiness.
“Certainly he did, madame, or how should I know it?”
“How very thoughtless!” murmured the stranger. Then, after a momentary hesitation, she said, impatiently, in a low voice, and as if fearful of being overheard, “My name is D’Orbigny.”
Rodolph started at the word, as it reached his ear, for it was the name of Madame d’Harville’s mother-in-law. Advancing, therefore, from the dark corner in which he stood, he managed, by the light of the lamp, to obtain a clear view of the stranger, in whose features he easily traced the portrait so skilfully drawn by Clémence of the author of all her sufferings.
“Madame d’Orbigny!” repeated Madame Pipelet, in a loud tone. “Ah, then you may go up-stairs; that is the name M. Bradamanti gave me.”
Madame d’Harville’s mother-in-law waited for no second bidding, but rapidly passed by the lodge.
“Well done us!” shouted the porteress, with a triumphant air; “I have caught my fish, done the great lady! Now, then, I know her name, — she is Madame d’Orbigny. That wasn’t a bad scheme of mine, was it, M. Rodolph? But what the plague is the matter with you? How sad and thoughtful you have grown all of a minute!”
“This lady has been to see M. Bradamanti before, has she not?”
“Yes, she was here yesterday evening; and, directly she was gone, M. Bradamanti went out, most probably, to take his place in the diligence for to-day, because, when he came back, he asked me to take his trunk to the coach office, as he could not trust that little rascal, Tortillard.”
“And do you know where M. Bradamanti is going?”
“To Normandy, by way of Alençon.”
Rodolph called to his remembrance that Aubiers, the seat of M. d’Orbigny, was situated in Normandy. There was no longer a doubt that the charlatan was proceeding to the paternal home of Clémence, and, as a matter of course, to aid and assist in some scheme of wickedness.
“The departure of M. Bradamanti will put old Séraphin out preciously!” resumed Madame Pipelet. “I can’t make out what she wants with him; but she seems as much bent upon seeing him as he is on avoiding her; for he charged me particularly not to tell her that he leaves Paris to-night at six o’clock. So, when she calls again, she will find nobody at home; that will give me an opportunity of talking to her about your young person. Let’s see, what is her name? Cissy—”
“Cecily!”
“Ah, I see! Just clap two more letters to the word I said, — that’ll do. I must tie a knot in the corner of my handkerchief, that I may be able to recollect this bother of a name. Ciss — Cissy — Cecily — I’ve got it!”
“Well, now, I think it is time for me to visit Mlle. Rigolette,” said Rodolph to Madame Pipelet, as he quitted the lodge.
“And when you come down-stairs, M. Rodolph, I hope you will just speak a word or two to my dear old darling of a husband. He has had a deal of trouble lately, and I know it will be a great relief to him to tell you all about it. That beast of a Cabrion has been at his old tricks again!”
“Be assured, Madame Pipelet, I shall always be ready to sympathise with your worthy husband in all his troubles.”
And with these words Rodolph, strangely preoccupied with the recent visit of Madame d’Orbigny to Polidori, slowly pursued his way to the apartment of Mlle. Rigolette.
VOLUME IV.
CHAPTER I.
RIGOLETTE’S FIRST SORROW.
RIGOLETTE’S APARTMENT WAS still in all its extreme nicety; the large silver watch placed over the mantelpiece, in a small boxwood stand, denoted the hour of four. The severe cold weather having ceased, the thrifty little needlewoman had not lighted her stove.
From the window, a corner of blue sky was scarcely perceptible over the masses of irregularly built roofs, garrets, and tall chimneys, which bounded the horizon on the other side of the street. Suddenly a sunbeam, which, as it were, wandered for a moment between two high gables, came for an instant to purple with its bright rays the windows of the young girl’s chamber.
Rigolette was at work, seated by her window; and the soft shadow of her charming profile stood out from the transparent light of the glass as a cameo of rosy whiteness on a silver ground. Brilliant hues played on her jet black hair, twisted in a knot at the back of her head, and shaded with a warm amber colour the ivory of her industrious little fingers, which plied the needle with incomparable activity. The long folds of her brown gown, confined at the waist by the bands of her green apron, half concealed her straw-seated chair, and her pretty feet rested on the edge of a stool before her.
Like a rich lord, who sometimes amuses himself in hiding the walls of a cottage beneath splendid hangings, the setting sun for a moment lighted up this little chamber with a thousand dazzling fires, throwing his golden tints on the curtains of gray and green stuff, and making the walnut-tree furniture glisten with brightness, and the dry-rubbed floor look like heated copper; whilst it encircled in a wire-work of gold the grisette’s bird-cage. But, alas! in spite of the exciting splendour of this sun-ray, the two canaries (male and female) flitted about uneasily, and, contrary to their usual habit, did not sing a note. This was because, contrary to her usual habit, Rigolette did not sing. The three never warbled without one another; almost invariably the cheerful and matin song of the latter called forth that of the birds, who, more lazy, did not leave their nests as early as their mistress. Then there were rivalries, — contentions of clear, sonorous, pearly, silvery notes, in which the birds had not always the advantage.
Rigolette did not sing, because, for the first time in her life, she experienced a sorrow. Up to this time, the sight of the misery of the Morels had often affected her; but such sights are too familiar to the poorer classes to cause them any very lasting melancholy. After having, almost every day, succoured these unfortunates as far as was in her power, sincerely wept with and for them, the young girl felt herself at the same time moved and satisfied, — moved by their misfortunes, and satisfied at having shown herself pitiful. But this was not a sorrow. Rigolette’s natural gaiety
soon regained its empire; and then, without egotism, but by a simple fact of comparison, she found herself so happy in her little chamber, after leaving the horrible den of the Morels, that her momentary sadness speedily disappeared.
This lightness of impression was so little affected by personal feeling, that, by a mode of extremely delicate reasoning, the grisette considered it almost a duty to aid those more unhappy than herself, that she might thus unscrupulously enjoy an existence so very precarious and entirely dependent on her labour, but which, compared with the fearful distress of the lapidary’s family, appeared to her almost luxurious.
“In order to sing without compunction, when we have near us persons so much to be pitied,” she said, naïvely, “we must have been as charitable to them as possible.”
Before we inform our reader the cause of Rigolette’s first sorrow, we are desirous to assure him, or her, completely as to the virtue of this young girl. We are sorry to use the word virtue, — a serious, pompous, solemn word, which almost always brings with it ideas of painful sacrifice, of painful struggle against the passions, of austere meditations on the final close of all things here below. Such was not the virtue of Rigolette. She had neither deeply struggled nor meditated; she had worked, and laughed, and sung. Her prudence, as she called it, when speaking frankly and sincerely to Rodolph, was with her a question of time, — she had not the leisure to be in love. Particularly lively, industrious, and orderly, order, work, and gaiety had often, unknown to herself, defended, sustained, saved her.
It may be deemed, perchance, that this morality is light, frivolous, casual; but of what consequence is the cause, so that the effect endures? Of what consequence are the directions of the roots of a plant, provided the flower blooms pure, expanded, and full of perfume?
Apropos of our utopianisms, as to the encouragement, help, and recompenses which society ought to grant to artisans remarkable for their eminent social qualities, we have alluded to that protection of virtue (one of the projects of the Emperor, by the way). Let us suppose this admirable idea realised. One of the real philanthropists whom the Emperor proposed to employ in searching after worth has discovered Rigolette. Abandoned without advice, without aid, exposed to all the perils of poverty, to all the seductions with which youth and beauty are surrounded, this charming girl has remained pure; her honest, hard-working life might serve for a model and example. Would not this young creature deserve, not a mere recompense, not succour only, but some impressive words of approbation and encouragement, which would give her a consciousness of her own worth, exalt her in her own eyes, and lay on her obligations for the future? At least she would know that she was followed by eyes full of solicitude and protection in the difficult path in which she is progressing with so much courage and serenity; she would know that, if one day the want of work or sickness threatened to destroy the equilibrium of the poor and occupied life, which depends solely on work and health, a slight help, due to her former deserts, would be given to her.