Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  EPILOGUE.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  THE LAST CHAPTER.

  The title page for the first illustrated edition

  The original frontispiece for the first English edition, featured in this eBook

  VOLUME I.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE TAPIS-FRANC.

  IT WAS ON a cold and rainy night, towards the end of October, 1838, that a tall and powerful man, with an old broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head, and clad in a blue cotton carter’s frock, which hung loosely over trousers of the same material, crossed the Pont au Change, and darted with a hasty step into the Cité, that labyrinth of obscure, narrow, and winding streets which extends from the Palais de Justice to Notre Dame.

  Tapis-franc: literally, a “free carpet;” a low haunt equivalent to what in English slang is termed “a boozing ken.”

  Although limited in space, and carefully watched, this quarter serves as the lurking-place, or rendezvous, of a vast number of the very dregs of society in Paris, who flock to the tapis-franc. This word, in the slang of theft and murder, signifies a drinking-shop of the lowest class. A returned convict, who, in this foul phraseology, is called an “ogre,” or a woman in the same degraded state, who is termed an “ogress,” generally keep such “cribs,” frequented by the refuse of the Parisian population; freed felons, thieves, and assassins are there familiar guests. If a crime is committed, it is here, in this filthy sewer, that the police throws its cast-net, and rarely fails to catch the criminals it seeks to take.

  On the night in question, the wind howled fiercely in the dark and dirty gullies of the Cité; the blinking and uncertain light of the lamps which swung to and fro in the sudden gusts were dimly reflected in pools of black slush, which flowed abundantly in the midst of the filthy pavement.

  The murky-coloured houses, which were lighted within by a few panes of glass in the worm-eaten casements, overhung each other so closely that the eaves of each almost touched its opposite neighbour, so narrow were the streets. Dark and noisome alleys led to staircases still more black and foul, and so perpendicular that they could hardly be ascended by the help of a cord fixed to the dank and humid walls by holdfasts of iron.

  Stalls of charcoal-sellers, fruit-sellers, or venders of refuse meat occupied the ground floor of some of these wretched abodes. Notwithstanding the small value of their commodities, the fronts of nearly all these shops were protected by strong bars of iron, — a proof that the shopkeepers knew and dreaded the gentry who infested the vicinity.

  The man of whom we have spoken, having entered the Rue aux Fêves, which is in the centre of the Cité, slackened his pace: he felt he was on his own soil. The night was dark, and strong gusts of wind, mingled with rain, dashed against the walls. Ten o’clock struck by the distant dial of the Palais de Justice. Women were huddled together under the vaulted arches, deep and dark, like caverns; some hummed popular airs in a low key; others conversed together in whispers; whilst some, dumb and motionless, looked on mechanically at the wet, which fell and flowed in torrents. The man in the carter’s frock, stopping suddenly before one of these creatures, silent and sad as she gazed, seized her by the arm, and said, “Ha! good evening, La Goualeuse.”

  Sweet-throated: in reference to the tone of her voice.

  The girl receded, saying, in a faint and fearful tone, “Good evening, Chourineur. Don’t hurt me.”

  One who strikes with the knife; the stabber, or slasher.

  This man, a liberated convict, had been so named at the hulks.

  “Now I have you,” said the fellow; “you must pay me the glass of ‘tape’ (eau d’aff), or I’ll make you dance without music,” he added, with a hoarse and brutal laugh.

  “Oh, Heaven! I have no money,” replied Goualeuse, trembling from head to foot, for this man was the dread of the district.

  “If you’re stumped, the ogress of the tapis-franc will give you tick for your pretty face.”

  “She won’t; I already owe her for the clothes I’m wearing.”

  “What, you want to shirk it?” shouted the Chourineur, darting after La Goualeuse, who had hid herself in a gully as murk as midnight.

  “Now, then, my lady, I’ve got you!” said the vagabond, after groping about for a few moments, and grasping in one of his coarse and powerful hands a slim and delicate wrist; “and now for the dance I promised you.”

  “No, it is you who shall dance!” was uttered by a masculine and deep voice.

  “A man! Is’t you, Bras Rouge? Speak, why don’t you? and don’t squeeze so hard. I am here in the entrance to your ‘ken,’ and you it must be.”

  “’Tis not Bras Rouge!” said the voice.

  “Oh! isn’t it? Well, then, if it is not a friend, why, here goes at you,” exclaimed the Chourineur. “But whose bit of a hand is it I have got hold of? It must be a woman’s!”

  “It is the fellow to this,” responded the voice.

  And under the delicate skin of this hand, which grasped his throat with sudden ferocity, the Chourineur felt himself held by nerves of iron. The Goualeuse, who had sought refuge in this alley, and lightly ascended a few steps, paused for an instant, and said to her unknown defender, “Thanks, sir, for having taken my part. The Chourineur said he would strike me because I could not pay for his glass of brandy; but I think he only jested. Now I am safe, pray let him go. Take care of yourself, for he is the Chourineur.”

  “If he be the Chourineur, I am a bully boy who never knuckles down,” exclaimed the unknown.

  All was then silent for a moment, and then were heard for several seconds, in the midst of the pitchy darkness, sounds of a fierce struggle.

  “Who the devil is this?” then said the ruffian, making a desperate effort to free himself from his adversary, whose extraordinary power astonished him. “Now, then, now you shall pay both for La Goualeuse and yourself!” he shouted, grinding his teeth.

  “Pay! yes, I will pay you, but it shall be with my fists; and it shall be cash in full,” replied the unknown.

  “If,” said the Chourineur, in a stifled voice, “you do but let go my neckcloth, I will bite your nose off.”

  “My nose is too small, my lad, and you haven’t light enough to see it.”

  “Come under the ‘hanging glim’ there.”

  Under the lamp, called reverbère.

  “That I will,” replied the unknown, “for then we may look into the whites of each other’s eyes.”

  He then made a desperate rush at the Chourineur, whom he still held by the throat, and forced him to the end of the alley, and then thrust him violently into the street, which was but dimly lighted by the suspended street-lamp. The bandit stumbled; but, rapidly recovering his feet, he threw himself furiously upon the unknown, whose slim and graceful form appeared to belie the possession of the irresistible strength he had displayed. After a struggle of a few minutes, the Chourineur, although of athletic build, and a first-rate champion in a species of pugilism vulgarly termed the savate, found that he had got what they call his master. The unknown threw him twice with immense dexterity, by what is called, in wrestling, the leg-pass, or crook. Unwilling, however, to acknowledge the superiority of his adversary, the Chourineur, boiling with rage, returned again to the charge. Then the defender of La Goualeuse, suddenly altering his mode of attack, rained on the head and face of the bandit a shower of blows with his closed fist, as hard and heavy as if stricken by a steel gauntlet. These blows, worthy of the admiration of Jem Belcher, Dutch Sam, Tom Cribb, or any other celebrated English pugilist, were so entirely different from the system of the savate, that the Chourineur dropped like an ox on the pavement, exclaiming, as he fell, “I’m floored!” (Mon linge est lavé!)

  “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Have pity on him!” exclaimed La Goualeuse, who, during the contest, h
ad ventured on the threshold of the alley, adding, with an air of astonishment, “But who are you, then? Except the Schoolmaster and Skeleton, there is no one, from the Rue Saint Eloi to Notre Dame, who can stand against the Chourineur. I thank you very, very much, sir, for, indeed, I fear that, without your aid, he would have beaten me.”

  The unknown, instead of replying, listened with much attention to the voice of this girl. Perhaps a tone more gentle, sweet, and silvery never fell on human ear. He endeavoured to examine the features of La Goualeuse; but the night was too dark, and the beams of the street-lamp too flickering and feeble. After remaining for some minutes quite motionless, the Chourineur shook his legs and arms, and then partly rose from the ground.

  “Pray be on your guard!” exclaimed the Goualeuse, retreating again into the dark passage, and taking her champion by the arm; “take care, or he will have his revenge on you.”

  “Don’t be frightened, my child; if he has not had enough, I have more ready for him.”

  The brigand heard these words.

  “Thanks,” he murmured; “I’m half throttled, and one eye is closed, — that is quite enough for one day. Some other time, perhaps, when we may meet again—”

  “What! not content yet, — grumbling still?” said the unknown, with a menacing tone.

  “No, no, — not at all; I do not grumble in the least. You have regularly served me out, — you are a lad of mettle,” said the Chourineur, in a coarse tone, but still with that sort of deference which physical superiority always finds in persons of his grade. “You are the better man, that’s clear. Well, except the Skeleton, who seems to have bones of iron, he is so thin and powerful, and the Schoolmaster, who could eat three Herculeses for his breakfast, no man living could boast of having put his foot on my neck.”

  “Well, and what then?”

  “Why, now I have found my master, that’s all; you will find yours some day sooner or later, — everybody does. One thing, however, is certain; now that you are a better man than the Chourineur, you may ‘go your length’ in the Cité. All the women will be your slaves; ogres and ogresses will give you credit, if it is only for fear; you may be a king in your way! But who and what are you? You ‘patter flash’ like a family man! If you are a ‘prig’ I’ll have nothing to do with you. I have used the knife, it is true, because, when the blood comes into my eyes, I see red, and I must strike, in spite of myself; but I have paid for my slashing, by going to the hulks for fifteen years. My time is up, and I am free from surveillance. I can now live in the capital, without fear of the ‘beaks;’ and I have never prigged, — have I, La Goualeuse?”

  “No, he was never a thief,” said the girl.

  “Come along, then, and let us have a glass of something together, and I’ll tell you who I am,” said the unknown. “Come, don’t let us bear malice.”

  “Bear malice! Devil a bit! You are master, — I confess it. You do know how to handle your fists; I never knew anything like it. Thunder and lightning! how your thumps fell on my sconce, — I never felt anything like it. Yours is a new game, and you must teach it to me.”

  “I will recommence whenever you like.”

  “Not on me, though, thank ye, — not on me,” exclaimed the Chourineur, laughing; “your blows fell as if from a sledge-hammer; I am still giddy from them. But do you know Bras Rouge, in whose passage you were?”

  “Bras Rouge?” said the unknown, who appeared disagreeably surprised at the question; adding, however, with an indifferent air, “I do not know Bras Rouge. Is he the only person who inhabits this abode? It rained in torrents, and I took shelter in the alley. You meant to beat this poor girl, and I have thrashed you, — that’s all.”

  “You’re right; I have nothing to do with your affairs. Bras Rouge has a room here, but does not occupy it often. He is usually at his estaminet in the Champs Elysées. But what’s the good of talking about him?” Then turning to the Goualeuse, “On my word, you are a good wench, and I would not have beaten you; you know I would not harm a child, — it was only my joke. Never mind; it was very good of you not to set on this friend of yours against me when I was down, and at his mercy. Come and drink with us; he pays for all. By the way, my trump,” said he to the unknown, “what say you, instead of going to tipple, shall we go and have a crust for supper with the ogress at the White Rabbit? It is a tapis-franc.”

  “With all my heart. I will pay for the supper. You’ll come with us, Goualeuse?” inquired the unknown.

  “Thanks, sir,” she replied, “but, after having seen your struggle, it has made my heart beat so that I have no appetite.”

  “Pooh! pooh! one shoulder of mutton pokes the other down,” said the Chourineur; “the cookery at the White Rabbit is first-rate.”

  The three personages then, in perfect amity, bent their steps together towards the tavern.

  During the contest between the Chourineur and the unknown, a charcoal-seller, of huge size, ensconced in another passage, had contemplated with much anxiety the progress of the combat, but without attempting to offer the slightest assistance to either antagonist. When the unknown, the Chourineur, and the Goualeuse proceeded to the public-house, the charcoal-man followed them.

  The beaten man and the Goualeuse first entered the tapis-franc; the unknown was following, when the charcoal-man accosted him, and said, in a low voice, in the German language, and in a most respectful tone of remonstrance, “Pray, your highness, be on your guard.”

  The unknown shrugged his shoulders, and rejoined his new companion. The charcoal-dealer did not leave the door of the cabaret, but listened attentively, and gazed from time to time through a small hole which had been accidentally made in the thick coat of whitening, with which the windows of such haunts as these are usually covered on the inside.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE OGRESS.

  THE WHITE RABBIT is situated in the centre of the Rue aux Fêves. This tavern occupies the ground floor of a lofty house, the front of which is formed by two windows, which are styled “a guillotine.” Hanging from the front of the door leading to a dark and arched passage, was an oblong lamp, on the cracked panes of which were written, in red letters, “Nightly Lodgings Here.”

  The Chourineur, the unknown, and the Goualeuse entered into a large but low apartment, with the ceiling smoked, and crossed by black rafters, just visible by the flickering light of a miserable suspended lamp. The cracked walls, formerly covered with plaster, were now ornamented in places with coarse drawings, or sentences of flash and obscenity.

  The floor, composed of earth beaten together with saltpetre, was thick with dirt; an armful of straw — an apology for a carpet — was placed at the foot of the ogress’s counter, which was at the right hand of the door, just beneath the dim lantern.

  On each side of this room there were six tables, one end of each of which was nailed to the wall, as well as the benches on either side of them. At the farther end was a door leading to a kitchen; on the right, near the counter, was a passage which led into a den where persons slept for the night at three halfpence a head.

  A few words will describe the ogress and her guests. The lady was called Mother Ponisse; her triple trade consisted in letting furnished apartments, keeping a public-house, and lending clothes to the miserable creatures who infest these foul streets.

  The ogress was about forty years of age, bulky, fat, and heavy. She had a full colour, and strong symptoms of a beard. Her deep voice, her enormous arms, and coarse hands betokened uncommon strength. She wore on her cap a large red and yellow handkerchief; a shawl of rabbit-skin was crossed over her bosom, and tied behind; her woollen gown fell upon black wooden shoes, scorched almost black by the small stove at which she warmed her feet; and, to crown her beauty, she had a copper complexion, which the use of strong liquors had materially tended to heighten.

  The counter, covered with lead, was decked with jugs with iron hoops, and various pewter measures. In an open cupboard, fastened to the wall, there were several flasks of glass, s
o fashioned as to represent the pedestrian figure of the Emperor. These bottles contained sundry cordials, red and green in colour, and known by the names of “Drops for the Brave,” “Ratafia of the Column,” etc., etc.

  A large black cat, with green eyes, was sitting near the ogress, and seemed the familiar demon of the place. Then, in strange contrast, a holy branch of boxwood, bought at church by the ogress, was suspended at the back of an old cuckoo clock.

  Two marvellously ill-favoured fellows, with unshaven beards, and their garb all in tatters, hardly tasted of the pitcher of wine before them, and conversed together in low voices, and with uneasy aspect. One of the two, very pale and livid, pulled, from time to time, his shabby skull-cap over his brows, and concealed as much as possible his left hand, and, even when compelled to use it, he did so with caution.

  Further on there was a young man, hardly sixteen years of age, with beardless chin, and a countenance wan, wrinkled, and heavy, his eye dull, and his long black hair straggling down his neck. This youthful rake, the emblem of precocious vice, was smoking a short black pipe. His back was resting against the wall, and his two hands were in the pockets of his blouse, and his legs stretched along the bench. He did not cease smoking for a moment, unless it was to drink from a cannikin of brandy placed before him.

  The other inmates of the tapis-franc, men and women, presented no remarkable characteristics. There was the ferocious or embruted face, — the vulgar and licentious mirth; but from time to time there was a deep and dull silence. Such were the guests of the tapis-franc when the unknown, the Chourineur, and the Goualeuse entered.

  These three persons play such important parts in our recital, that we must put them in relief.

  The Chourineur was a man of lofty stature and athletic make, with hair of a pale brown, nearly white; thick eyebrows, and enormous whiskers of deep red. The sun’s rays, misery, and the severe toil of the galleys had bronzed his skin to that deep and olive hue which is peculiar to convicts. In spite of his horrible nickname, his features did not express ferocity, but a sort of coarse familiarity and irrepressible audacity. We have said already that the Chourineur was clothed in trousers and frock of blue cotton, and on his head he had one of those large straw hats usually worn by workmen in timber-yards, and barge-emptiers.