by Eugène Sue
“I will buy it of you, Madame Bouvard.”
“Will you though? So much the better, sir, for it is else likely to stay with me for some time; I took it, as I say, only to oblige the poor lady. I told her then what I would give for the things, and I expected that she would haggle a bit and ask me something more, I did. Then it was that I saw she was not one of the common; she was in downright misery, she was, and no mistake about it, I am sure! I says to her, ‘It’s worth so much,’ She answers me, and says, ‘Very well; let us go back to your shop, and you can pay me there, for we shall not return here again to this house.’ Then she says to her daughter, who was sitting on the trunk a-crying, ‘Claire, take this bundle.’ I remember her name, and I’m sure she called her Claire. Then the young lady got up, but, as she was crossing the room, as she came to the little secrétaire she went down on her knees before it, and, dear heart! how the poor thing did sob! ‘Courage, my dear child; remember some one sees you,’ said her mother to her, in a low voice, but yet I heard her. You may tell, sir, they were poor, but very proud notwithstanding. When the lady gave me the key of the little secrétaire, I saw a tear in her red eyes, and it seemed as if her very heart bled at parting with this old piece of furniture; but she tried to keep up her courage, and not seem downcast before strangers. Then she told the porter that I should come and take away all that the landlord did not keep, and after that we came back here. The young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried in her hand the small bundle, which contained all they possessed in the world. I handed them their three hundred and fifteen francs, and then I never saw them again.”
“But their name?”
“I don’t know; the lady sold me the things in the presence of the porter, and so I had no occasion to ask her name, for what she sold belonged to her.”
“But their new address?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“No doubt they know at their old lodging?”
“No, sir; for, when I went back to get the things, the porter told me, speaking of the mother and daughter, ‘that they were very quiet people, very respectable, and very unfortunate, — I hope no misfortune has happened to them! They appeared to be very calm and composed, but I am sure they were quite in despair.’ ‘And where are they gone now to lodge?’ I asked. ‘Ma foi, I don’t know!’ was the answer; ‘they left without telling me, and I am sure they will not return here.’”
The hopes which Rodolph had entertained for a moment vanished; how could he go to work to discover these two unfortunate females, when all the trace he had of them was that the young daughter’s name was Claire, and the fragment of a letter, of which we have already made mention, and at the bottom of which were these words:
“To write to Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy?”
The only, and very remote chance of discovering the traces of these unfortunates was through Madame de Lucenay, who, fortunately, was on intimate terms with Madame d’Harville.
“Here, ma’am, be so good as to take your money,” said Rodolph to the shopkeeper, handing her a note for five hundred francs.
“I will give you the change, sir. What is your address?”
“Rue du Temple, No. 17.”
“Rue du Temple, No. 17; oh, very well, very well, I know it.”
“Have you ever been to that house?”
“Often. First I bought the furniture of a woman there, who lent money on wages; it is not a very creditable business, to be sure, but that’s no affair of mine, — she sells, I buy, and so that’s settled. Another time, not six weeks ago, I went there again for the furniture of a young man, who lived on the fourth floor, and was moving away.”
“M. François Germain, perhaps?” said Rodolph.
“Just so. Did you know him?”
“Very well; and, unfortunately, he has not left his present address in the Rue du Temple, so I do not know where to find him. But where shall we find a cart to take the goods?”
“As it is not far, a large truck will do, and old Jérome is close by, my regular commissionaire. If you wish to know the address of M. François Germain, I can help you.”
“What? Do you know where he lives?”
“Not exactly, but I know where you may be sure to meet with him.”
“Where?”
“At the notary’s where he works.”
“At a notary’s?”
“Yes, who lives in the Rue du Sentier.”
“M. Jacques Ferrand?” exclaimed Rodolph.
“Yes; and a very worthy man he is. There is a crucifix and some holy boxwood in his study; it looks just as if one was in a sacristy.”
“But how did you know that M. Germain worked at this notary’s?”
“Why, this way: this young man came to me to ask me to buy his little lot of furniture all of a lump. So that time, too, though rather out of my line, I bought all his kit, and brought it here, because he seemed a nice young fellow, and I had a pleasure in obliging him. Well, I bought him right clean out, and I paid him well; he was, no doubt, very well satisfied, for, a fortnight afterwards, he came again, to buy some bed furniture from me. A commissionaire, with a truck, went with him, everything was packed: well, but, at the moment he was going to pay me, lo and behold! he had forgotten his purse; but he looked so like an honest man that I said to him, ‘Take the things with you, — never mind, I shall be passing your way, and will call for the money.’ ‘Very good,’ says he; ‘but I am never at home, so call to-morrow in the Rue du Sentier, at M. Jacques Ferrand’s, the notary, where I am employed, and I will pay you.’ I went next day, and he paid me; only, what was very odd to me was that he sold his things, and then, a fortnight afterwards, he buys others.”
Rodolph thought that he was able to account for this singular fact. Germain was desirous of destroying every trace from the wretches who were pursuing him: fearing, no doubt, that his removal might put them on the scent of his fresh abode, he had preferred, in order to avoid this danger, selling his goods, and afterwards buying others.
The prince was overjoyed to think of the happiness in store for Madame Georges, who would thus, at length, see again that son so long and vainly sought.
Rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling lips.
“Well, did not I tell you so?” she exclaimed. “I am not deceived: we shall have spent six hundred and forty francs all together, and the Morels will be set up like princes. Here come the shopkeepers; are they not loaded? Nothing will now be wanting for the family; they will have everything requisite, even to a gridiron, two newly tinned saucepans, and a coffee-pot. I said to myself, since they are to have things done so grandly, let them be grand; and, with all that, I shall not have lost more than three hours. But come, neighbour, pay as quickly as you can, and let us be gone. It will soon be noon, and my needle must go at a famous rate to make up for this morning.”
Rodolph paid, and quitted the Temple with Rigolette.
At the moment when the grisette and her companion were entering the passage, they were almost knocked over by Madame Pipelet, who was running out, frightened, troubled, and aghast.
“Mercy on us!” said Rigolette, “what ails you, Madame Pipelet? Where are you running to in that manner?”
“Is it you, Mlle. Rigolette?” exclaimed Anastasie; “it is Providence that sends you; help me to save the life of Alfred.”
“What do you mean?”
“The darling old duck has fainted. Have mercy on us! Run for me, and get me two sous’ worth of absinthe at the dram-shop, — the strongest, mind; it is his remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus, — that generally sets him up again. Be kind, and do not refuse me, I can then return to Alfred; I am all over in such a fluster.”
Rigolette let go Rodolph’s arm, and ran quickly to the dram-shop.
“But what has happened, Madame Pipelet?” inquired Rodolph, following the porteress into the lodge.
“How can I tell, my worthy sir? I had gone out to the mayor’s, to church, and the cook
-shop, to save Alfred so much trotting about; I returned, and what should I see but the dear old cosset with his legs and arms all in the air! There, M. Rodolph,” said Anastasie, opening the door of her dog-hole, “say if that is not enough to break one’s heart!”
Lamentable spectacle! With his bell-crowned hat still on his head, even further on than usual, for the ambiguous castor, pushed down, no doubt, by violence, to judge by a transverse gap, covered M. Pipelet’s eyes, who was on his back on the ground at the foot of his bed. The fainting was over, and Alfred was beginning to make some slight gesticulations with his hands, as if he sought to repulse somebody or something, and then he tried to push off this troublesome visor, with which he had been bonneted.
“He kicks, — that’s a beautiful symptom! He comes to!” exclaimed the porteress, who, stooping down, bawled in his ears, “What’s the matter with my Alfred? It’s his ‘Stasie who is with him. How goes it now? There’s some absinthe coming, that will set you up.” Then, assuming a falsetto voice of much endearment, she added: “What, did they abuse and assassinate him, — the dear old darling, the delight of his ‘Stasie, eh?”
Alfred heaved an immense sigh, and, with a mighty groan, uttered the fatal word:
“Cabrion!”
And his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of repulsing the fearful vision.
“Cabrion! What, that cussed painter again?” exclaimed Madame Pipelet. “Alfred dreamed of him all night long, so that he kicked me almost to death. This monster is his nightmare; not only does he poison his days, but he poisons his nights also, — he pursues him in his very sleep; yes, sir, as though Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom may Heaven confound! was his unceasing remorse.”
Rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak of Rigolette’s former neighbour.
“Alfred! answer me; don’t remain mute, you frighten me,” said Madame Pipelet; “let’s try and get you up. Why, lovey, do you keep thinking of that vagabond fellow? You know that, when you think of that fellow, it has the same effect on you that cabbage has, — it fills up your pylorus and stifles you.”
“Cabrion!” repeated M. Pipelet, pushing up, with an effort, the hat which had fallen so low over his eyes, which he rolled around him with an affrighted air.
Rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe.
“Thankee, ma’amselle, you are so kind!” said the old body; and then she added, “Come, deary, suck this down, that will make you all right.”
And Anastasie, presenting the phial quickly to M. Pipelet’s lips, contrived to make him swallow the absinthe. In vain did Alfred struggle vigorously. His wife, taking advantage of the victim’s weakness, held up his head firmly with one hand, whilst with the other she introduced the neck of the little bottle between his teeth, and compelled him to swallow the absinthe, after which she exclaimed, triumphantly:
“Ther-r-r-r-e, now-w-w! you’re on your pins again, my ducky!”
And Alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, opened his eyes, rose, and inquired, in accents of alarm:
“Have you seen him?”
“Who?”
“Is he gone?”
“Who, Alfred?”
“Cabrion!”
“Has he dared—” asked the porteress.
M. Pipelet, as mute as the statue of the commandant, like that redoubtable spectre, bowed his head twice with an affirmative air.
“What! has M. Cabrion been here?” inquired Rigolette, repressing a violent desire to laugh.
“What! has the monster been unchained on Alfred?” said Madame Pipelet. “Oh, if I had been there with my broom, he should have swallowed it, handle and all! But tell us, Alfred, all about this horrid affair.”
M. Pipelet made signs with his hand that he was about to speak, and they listened to the man with the bell-crowned hat in religious silence, whilst he expressed himself in these terms, and in a voice of deep emotion:
“My wife had left me, to save me the trouble of going out, according to the request of monsieur,” bowing to Rodolph, “to the mayor’s, to church, and the cook-shop.”
“The dear old darling had had the nightmare all night, and I wished to save him the journey,” said Anastasie.
“This nightmare was sent me as a warning from on high,” responded the porter, religiously. “I had dreamed of Cabrion, and I was to suffer from Cabrion. Here was I sitting quietly in front of my table, reflecting on an alteration which I wished to make in the upper leather of this boot confided to my hands, when I heard a noise, a rustling, at the window of my lodge, — was it a presentiment, a warning from on high? My heart beat, I lifted up my head, and, through the pane of glass, I saw — I saw—”
“Cabrion!” exclaimed Anastasie, clasping her hands.
“Cabrion!” replied M. Pipelet, gloomily. “His hideous face was there, pressed close against the window, and he was looking at me with eyes like a cat’s — what do I say? — a tiger’s! just as in my dream. I tried to speak, but my tongue clave to my mouth; I tried to rise, I was nailed to my seat. My boot fell from my hands, and, as in all the critical and important events of my life, I remained perfectly motionless. Then the key turned in the lock, the door opened, — Cabrion entered!”
“He entered? Owdacious monster!” replied Madame Pipelet, as much astonished as her spouse at such audacity.
“He entered slowly,” resumed Alfred, “stopped a moment at the threshold, as if to fascinate me with his look, atrocious as it was, then he advanced towards me, pausing at each step, and piercing me through with his eye, but not uttering a word, — straight, mute, and threatening as a phantom!”
“I declare, my very heart aches to hear him,” said Anastasie.
“I remained still more motionless, and glued to my chair; Cabrion still advanced slowly towards me, fixing his eye as the serpent glares at the bird; he so frightened me that, in spite of myself, I kept my eye on him; he came close to me, and then I could no longer endure his revolting aspect, it was too much, and I could not. I shut my eyes, and then I felt that he dared to place his hands upon my hat, which he took by the crown and lifted gently off my head, leaving it bare. I began to be seized with vertigo, my breathing was suspended, there was a singing in my ears, and I was completely fastened to my seat, and I closed my eyes still closer and closer. Then Cabrion stooped, took my head between his hands, which were as cold as death, and on my forehead, covered with an icy damp, he deposited a brazen kiss, indecent wretch!”
Anastasie lifted her hands towards heaven.
“My enemy, the most deadly, imprinted a kiss on my forehead; such a monstrosity overcame and paralysed me. Cabrion profited by my stupor to place my hat on my head, and then, with a blow of his fist, drove it down over my eyes, as you saw. This last outrage destroyed me; the measure was full, all about me was turning around, and I fainted at the moment when I saw him, from under the rim of my hat, leave the lodge as quietly and slowly as he had entered.”
Then, as if the recital had exhausted all his strength, M. Pipelet fell back in his chair, raising his hands to heaven in a manner of mute imprecation. Rigolette went out quickly; she could not restrain herself any longer; her desire to laugh almost stifled her. Rodolph had the greatest difficulty to keep his countenance.
Suddenly there was a confused murmur, such as announces the arrival of a mob, heard from the street, and a great noise came from the door at the top of the entrance, and then butts of grounded muskets were heard on the steps of the door.
CHAPTER II.
THE ARREST.
“GOOD GRACIOUS! M. Rodolph,” exclaimed Rigolette, running in, pale and trembling, “a commissary of police and the guard have come here.”
“Divine justice watches over me,” said M. Pipelet, in a transport of pious gratitude. “They have come to arrest Cabrion; unfortunately it is too late.”
A commissary of police, wearing his tricoloured scarf around his waist underneath his black coat, entered the lodge. His countenance w
as impressive, magisterial, and serious.
“M. le Commissaire is too late; the malefactor has escaped,” said M. Pipelet, in a sorrowful voice; “but I will give you his description, — villainous smile, impudent look, insulting—”
“Of whom do you speak?” inquired the magistrate.
“Of Cabrion, M. le Commissaire; but, perhaps, if you make all haste, it is not yet too late to catch him,” added M. Pipelet.
“I know nothing about any Cabrion,” said the magistrate, impatiently. “Does one Jérome Morel, a working lapidary, live in this house?”
“Yes, mon commissaire,” said Madame Pipelet, putting herself into a military attitude.
“Conduct me to his apartment.”
“Morel, the lapidary!” said the porteress, excessively surprised; “why, he is the mildest lambkin in the world. He is incapable of—”
“Does Jérome Morel live here or not?”
“He lives here, sir, with his family, in one of the attics.”
“Lead me to his attic.”
Then, addressing himself to a man who accompanied him, the magistrate said:
“Let two of the municipal guard wait below, and not leave the entrance. Send Justing for a hackney-coach.”
The man left the lodge to put these orders in execution.
“Now,” continued the magistrate, addressing himself to M. Pipelet, “lead me to Morel.”
“If it is all the same to you, mon commissaire, I will do that for Alfred; he is indisposed from Cabrion’s behaviour, which, just as the cabbage does, troubles his pylorus.”
