by Eugène Sue
“Why, in truth, you look very pale, and appear as though you had been weeping.”
“Indeed, I have been weeping, and for a good reason. Poor Germain! There — read!” And Rigolette handed the letter of the prisoner to Rodolph. “Is not that enough to break one’s heart? You told me you took an interest in him, — now’s the time to prove it!” she added, whilst Rodolph was attentively reading the letter. “Is that wicked old M. Ferrand at war with all the world? First he attacked that poor Louise, and now he assails Germain. Oh, I am not ill-natured; but if some great harm happened to this notary, I should really be glad! To accuse such an honest young man of having stolen fifteen thousand francs from him! Germain, too! He who was honesty itself! And such a steady, serious young man; and so sad, too! Oh, he is indeed to be pitied, in the midst of all these wretches in his prison! Ah, M. Rodolph, from to-day I begin to see that life is not all couleur-de-rose.”
“And what do you propose to do, my little neighbour?”
“What do I mean to do? Why, of course, all that Germain asks of me, and as quickly as possible. I should have been gone before now, but for this work, which is required in great haste, and which I must take instantly to the Rue St. Honoré, on my way to Germain’s room, where I am going to get the papers he speaks of. I have passed part of the night at work, that I might be forward. I shall have so many things to do besides my usual work that I must be excessively methodical. In the first place, Madame Morel is very anxious that I should see Louise in prison. That will be a hard task, but I shall try to do it. Unfortunately, I do not know to whom I should address myself.”
“I had thought of that.”
“You, neighbour?”
“Here is an order.”
“How fortunate! Can’t you procure me also an order for the prison of poor, unhappy Germain? He would be so delighted!”
“I will also find you the means of seeing Germain.”
“Oh, thank you, M. Rodolph.”
“You will not be afraid, then, of going to his prison?”
“Certainly not; although my heart will beat very violently the first time. But that’s nothing. When Germain was free, was he not always ready to anticipate all my wishes, and take me to the theatre, for a walk, or read to me of an evening? Well, and now he is in trouble, it is my turn. A poor little mouse like me cannot do much, I know that well enough; but all I can do I will do, that he may rely upon. He shall find that I am a sincere friend. But, M. Rodolph, there is one thing which pains me, and that is that he should doubt me, — that he should suppose me capable of despising him! I! — and for what, I should like to know? That old notary accuses him of robbery. I know it is not true. Germain’s letter has proved to me that he is innocent, even if I had thought him guilty. You have only to see him, and you would feel certain that he is incapable of a bad action. A person must be as wicked as M. Ferrand to assert such atrocious falsehoods.”
“Bravo, neighbour; I like your indignation.”
“Oh, how I wish I were a man, that I might go to this notary and say to him, ‘Oh, you say that Germain has robbed you, do you? Well, then, that’s for you! And that he cannot steal from you, at all events?’ And thump — thump — thump, I would beat him till I couldn’t stand over him.”
“You administer justice very expeditiously,” said Rodolph, smiling.
“Because it makes my blood boil. And, as Germain says in his letter, all the world will side with his employer, because he is rich and looked up to, whilst Germain is poor and unprotected, unless you will come to his assistance, M. Rodolph, — you who know such benevolent persons. Do not you think that something could be done?”
“He must await his sentence. Once acquitted, as I believe he will be, he will not want for proofs of the interest taken in him. But listen, neighbour; for I know I may rely on your discretion.”
“Oh, yes, M. Rodolph, I never blab.”
“Well, then, no one must know — not even Germain himself — that he has friends who are watching over him, — for he has friends.”
“Really!”
“Very powerful and devoted.”
“It would give him much courage to know that.”
“Unquestionably; but perhaps he might not keep it to himself. Then M. Ferrand, alarmed, would be on his guard, — his suspicions would be aroused; and, as he is very cunning, it would become very difficult to catch him, which would be most annoying; for not only must Germain’s innocence be made clear, but his denouncer must be unmasked.”
“I understand, M. Rodolph.”
“It is the same with Louise; and I bring you this order to see her, that you may beg of her not to tell any person what she disclosed to me. She will know what that means.”
“I understand, M. Rodolph.”
“In a word, let Louise beware of complaining in prison of her master’s wickedness. This is most important. But she must conceal nothing from the barrister who will come from me to talk with her as to the grounds of her defence. Be sure you tell her all this.”
“Make yourself easy, neighbour, I will forget nothing; I have an excellent memory. But, when we talk of goodness, it is you who are so good and kind. If any one is in trouble, then you come directly.”
“I have told you, my good little neighbour, that I am but a poor clerk; but when I meet with good persons who deserve protection, I instantly tell a benevolent individual who has entire confidence in me, and they are helped at once. That’s all I do in the matter.”
“And where are you lodging, now you have given up your chamber to the Morels?”
“I live in a furnished lodging.”
“Oh, how I should hate that! To be where all the world has been before you, it is as if everybody had been in your place.”
“I am only there at nights, and then—”
“I understand, — it is less disagreeable. Yet I shouldn’t like it, M. Rodolph. My home made me so happy, I had got into such a quiet way of living, that I did not think it was possible I should ever know a sorrow. And yet, you see — But no, I cannot describe to you the blow which Germain’s misfortune has brought upon me. I have seen the Morels, and others beside, who were very much to be pitied certainly. But, at best, misery is misery; and amongst poor folk, who look for it, it does not surprise them, and they help one another as well as they can. To-day it is one, to-morrow it is another. As for oneself, what with courage and good spirit, one extricates oneself. But to see a poor young man, honest and good, who has been your friend for a long time, — to see him accused of robbery, and imprisoned and huddled up with criminals! — ah, really, M. Rodolph, I cannot get over that; it is a misfortune I had never thought of, and it quite upsets me.”
“Courage, courage! Your spirits will return when your friend is acquitted.”
“Oh, yes, he must be acquitted. The judges have only to read his letter to me, and that would be enough, — would it not, M. Rodolph?”
“Really, this letter has all the appearance of truth. You must let me have a copy of it, for it will be necessary for Germain’s defence.”
“Certainly, M. Rodolph. If I did not write such a scrawl, in spite of the lessons which good Germain gave me, I would offer to copy it myself; but my writing is so large, so crooked, and has so many, many faults.”
“I will only ask you to trust the letter with me until to-morrow morning.”
“There it is; but you will take great care of it, I hope. I have burnt all the notes which M. Cabrion and M. Girandeau wrote me in the beginning of our acquaintance, with flaming hearts and doves at the top of the paper, when they thought I was to be caught by their tricks and cajoleries; but this poor letter of Germain’s I will keep carefully, as well as the others, if he writes me any more; for they, you know, M. Rodolph, will show in my favour that he has asked these small services, — won’t they, M. Rodolph?”
“Most assuredly; and they will prove that you are the best little friend any one can desire. But, now I think of it, instead of going alone to Germain’
s room, shall I accompany you?”
“With pleasure, neighbour. The night is coming on, and, in the evening, I do not like to be alone in the streets; besides that, I have my work to carry nearly as far as the Palais Royal. But perhaps it will fatigue and annoy you to go so far?”
“Not at all. We will have a coach.”
“Really! Oh, how pleased I should be to go in a coach if I had not so much to make me melancholy! And I really must be melancholy, for this is the first day since I have been here that I have not sung during the day. My birds are really quite astonished. Poor little dears! They cannot make it out. Two or three times Papa Crétu has piped a little to try me; I endeavoured to answer him, but, after a minute or two, I began to cry. Ramonette then began; but I could not answer one any better than the other.”
“What singular names you have given your birds: Papa Crétu and Ramonette!”
“Why, M. Rodolph, my birds are the joy of my solitude, — my best friends; and I have given them the names of the worthy couple who were the joy of my childhood, and were also my best friends, not forgetting that, to complete the resemblance, Papa Crétu and Ramonette were gay, and sang like birds.”
“Ah, now, yes, I remember, your adopted parents were called so.”
“Yes, neighbour, they are ridiculous names for birds, I know; but that concerns no one but myself. And besides, it was in this very point that Germain showed his good heart.”
“In what way?”
“Why, M. Girandeau and M. Cabrion — especially M. Cabrion — were always making their jokes on the names of my birds. To call a canary Papa Crétu! There never was such nonsense as M. Cabrion made of it, and his jests were endless. If it was a cock bird, he said, ‘Why, that would be well enough to call him Crétu. As to Ramonette, that’s well enough for a hen canary, for it resembles Ramona.’ In fact, he quite wore my patience out, and for two Sundays I would not go out with him in order to teach him a lesson; and I told him very seriously, that if he began his tricks, which annoyed me so much, we should never go out together again.”
“What a bold resolve!”
“Yes, it was really a sacrifice on my part, M. Rodolph, for I was always looking forward with delight to my Sundays, and I was very much tried by being kept in all alone in such beautiful weather. But that’s nothing. I preferred sacrificing my Sundays to hearing M. Cabrion continue to make ridicule of those whom I respected. Certainly, after that, but for the idea I attached to them, I should have preferred giving my birds other names; and, you must know, there is one name which I adore, — it is Colibri. I did not change, because I never will call those birds by any other name than Crétu and Ramonette; if I did, I should seem to make a sacrifice, that I forgot my good, adopted parents, — don’t you think so, M. Rodolph?”
Colibri is a celebrated chanson of Béranger, the especial poet of grisettes. — English Translator.
“You are right a thousand times over. And Germain did not turn these names into a jest, eh?”
“On the contrary, the first time he heard them he thought them droll, like every one else, and that was natural enough. But when I explained to him my reasons, as I had many times explained them to M. Cabrion, tears started to his eyes. From that time I said to myself, M. Germain is very kind-hearted, and there is nothing to be said against him, but his weeping so. And so, you see, M. Rodolph, my reproaching him with his sadness has made me unhappy now. Then I could not understand why any one was melancholy, but now I understand it but too well. But now my packet is completed, and my work is ready for delivery. Will you hand me my shawl, neighbour? It is not cold enough to take a cloak, is it?”
“We shall go and return in a coach.”
“True; we shall go and return very quickly, and that will be so much gained.”
“But, now I think of it, what are you to do? Your work will suffer from your visits to the prison.”
“Oh, no, no; I have made my calculations. In the first place, I have my Sundays to myself, so I shall go and see Louise and Germain on those days; that will serve me for a walk and a change. Then, in the week, I shall go again to the prison once or twice. Each time will occupy me three good hours, won’t it? Well, to manage this comfortably, I shall work an hour more every day, and go to bed at twelve o’clock instead of eleven o’clock; that will be a clear gain of seven or eight hours a week, which I can employ in going to see Louise and Germain. You see I am richer than I appear,” added Rigolette, with a smile.
“And you have no fear that you will be overfatigued?”
“Bah! Not at all; I shall manage it. And, besides, it can’t last for ever.”
“Here is your shawl, neighbour.”
“Fasten it; and mind you don’t prick me.”
“Ah, the pin is bent.”
“Well, then, clumsy, take another then, — from the pincushion. Ah, I forgot! Will you do me a great favour, neighbour?”
“Command me, neighbour.”
“Mend me a good pen, with a broad nib, so that when I return I may write to poor Germain, and tell him I have executed all his commissions. He will have my letter to-morrow morning in the prison, and that will give him pleasure.”
“Where are your pens?”
“There, — on the table; the knife is in the drawer. Wait until I light my taper, for it begins to grow dusk.”
“Yes, I shall see better how to mend the pen.”
“And I how to tie my cap.”
Rigolette lighted a lucifer-match, and lighted a wax-end in a small bright candlestick.
“The deuce, — a wax-light! Why, neighbour, what extravagance!”
“Oh, what I burn costs but a very small trifle more than a candle, and it’s so much cleaner!”
“Not much dearer?”
“Indeed, they are not! I buy these wax-ends by the pound, and a half a pound lasts nearly a year.”
“But,” said Rodolph, who was mending the pen very carefully, whilst the grisette was tying on her cap before the glass, “I do not see any preparations for your dinner.”
“I have not the least appetite. I took a cup of milk this morning, and I shall take another this evening, with a small piece of bread, and that will be enough for me.”
“Then you will not take a dinner with me quietly after we have been to Germain’s?”
“Thank you, neighbour; but I am not in spirits, — my heart is too heavy, — another time with pleasure. But the evening when poor Germain leaves his prison, I invite myself, and afterwards you shall take me to the theatre. Is that a bargain?”
“It is, neighbour; and I assure you I will not forget the engagement. But you refuse me this to-day?”
“Yes, M. Rodolph. I should be a very dull companion, without saying a word about the time it would occupy me; for, you see, at this moment, I really cannot afford to be idle, or waste one single quarter of an hour.”
“Then, for to-day I renounce the pleasure.”
“There is my parcel, neighbour. Now go out first, and I will lock the door.”
“Here’s a capital pen for you; and now for the parcel.”
“Mind you don’t rumple it; it is pout-de-soie, and soon creases. Hold it in your hand, — carefully, — there, in that way; that’s it. Now go, and I will show you a light.”
And Rodolph descended the staircase, followed by Rigolette.
At the moment when the two neighbours were passing by the door of the porter’s lodge they saw M. Pipelet, who, with his arms hanging down, was advancing towards them from the bottom of the passage, holding in one hand the sign which announced his Partnership of Friendship with Cabrion, and in the other the portrait of the confounded painter. Alfred’s despair was so overwhelming that his chin touched his breast, so that the wide crown of his bell-shaped hat was easily seen. Seeing him thus, with his head lowered, coming towards Rodolph and Rigolette, he might have been compared to a ram, or a brave Breton, preparing for combat.
Anastasie soon appeared on the threshold of the lodge, and exclaimed, at he
r husband’s appearance:
“Well, dearest old boy, here you are! And what did the commissary say to you? Alfred, Alfred, mind what you’re doing, or you’ll poke your head against my king of lodgers. Excuse him, M. Rodolph. It is that vagabond of a Cabrion, who uses him worse and worse. He’ll certainly turn my dear old darling into a donkey! Alfred, love, speak to me!”
At this voice, so dear to his heart, M. Pipelet raised his head. His features were impressed with a bitter agony.
“What did the commissary say to you?” inquired Anastasie.
“Anastasie, we must collect the few things we possess, embrace our friends, pack up our trunk, and expatriate ourselves from Paris, — from France, — from my beautiful France; for now, assured of impunity, the monster is capable of pursuing me everywhere, throughout the length and breadth of the departments of the kingdom.”
“What, the commissary?”
“The commissary,” exclaimed M. Pipelet, with fierce indignation,— “the commissary laughed in my teeth!”
“At you, — a man of mature age, with an air so respectable that you would appear as silly as a goose if one did not know your virtues?”
“Well, notwithstanding that, when I had respectfully deposed in his presence my mass of complaints and vexations against that infernal Cabrion, the magistrate, after having looked and laughed — yes, laughed, and, I may add, laughed indecorously — at the sign and the portrait which I brought with me as corroborative testimony, — the magistrate replied, ‘My good fellow, this Cabrion is a wag, — a practical joker. But pay no attention to his pleasantries. I advise you to laugh at him, and heartily, too, for really there is ample cause to do so.’ ‘To laugh at it, sir-r-r!’ I exclaimed,— ‘to laugh at it, when grief consumes me, — when this scamp poisons my very existence; he placards me, and will drive me out of my wits. I demand that they imprison, exile the monster, — at least from my street!’ At these words the commissary smiled, and politely pointed to the door. I understood the magistrate, sighed, and — and — here I am!”
“Good-for-nothing magistrate!” exclaimed Madame Pipelet.
