Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Indeed, we can’t go to him; we are locked in,” said Amandine. “They must be doing something wrong to him, as he calls us.”

  “Oh, as to that, if I could hinder them,” exclaimed François, resolutely, “I would, even if they were to cut me to pieces!”

  “But our brother does not know that they have double-locked our door, and he will believe that we would not go to his help. Call out to him that we are locked in, François.”

  The lad was just going to do as his sister bade him, when a violent blow was struck outside the shutter of the window of the room in which the two children were.

  “They are coming in by the window to kill us!” cried Amandine, and, in her fright, she threw herself on her bed and hid her head between her hands.

  François remained motionless, although he shared his sister’s terror. However, after the violent blow we have mentioned, the shutter was not opened, and the most profound silence reigned throughout the house. Martial had ceased calling to the children.

  A little assured, and excited by intense curiosity, François ventured to open the window a little way, and tried to look out through the leaves of the blind.

  “Mind, brother!” said Amandine, in a low voice, and sitting up when she heard François open the shutter.

  “Can you see anything?” she added.

  “No, the night is too dark.”

  “Don’t you hear anything?”

  “No, the wind is too high.”

  “Come in, then; come in.”

  “Oh, now I see something!”

  “What?”

  “The light of a lantern, which moves backwards and forwards.”

  “Who’s carrying it?”

  “I can only see the light. Ah, she comes nearer, — she is speaking!”

  “Who?”

  “Listen, — listen! It is Calabash.”

  “What does she say?”

  “She says the ladder must be fixed securely.”

  “Oh, it was then in taking away the high ladder that was placed against our shutter that they made that noise just now.”

  “I don’t hear anything now.”

  “What have they done with the ladder?”

  “I can’t see it now.”

  “Can you hear anything?”

  “No.”

  “François, perhaps they are going to use it to enter our Brother Martial’s room by the window!”

  “Very likely.”

  “If you could open our window a little more you might see.”

  “I am afraid.”

  “Only a little bit.”

  “Oh, no, no! If mother saw us!”

  “It is so dark, there is no danger.”

  François, much against his will, did as his sister requested, and pushing the shutter back, looked out.

  “Well, brother?” said Amandine, surmounting her fears, and approaching François on tiptoe.

  “By the gleam of the lantern,” said he, “I see Calabash, who is holding the foot of the ladder, which is resting against Martial’s window.”

  “Well?”

  “Nicholas is going up the ladder with his axe in his hand. I see it glitter.”

  “Ah, you are not in bed, then, but watching us!” exclaimed the widow, addressing François and his sister from outside. As she was returning to the kitchen she saw the light, which escaped through the open window.

  The unfortunate children had neglected putting out the lantern.

  “I am coming,” added the widow, in a terrible voice; “I am coming to you, you little spies!”

  Such were the events which passed in the Isle du Ravageur on the evening of the day before that on which Madame Séraphin was to take Fleur-de-Marie thither.

  CHAPTER VII.

  A LODGING-HOUSE.

  THE PASSAGE DE la Brasserie, a dark street, narrow, and but little known, although situated in the centre of Paris, runs at one end into the Rue Traversière St. Honoré, and at the other into the Cour St. Guillaume.

  Towards the middle of this damp thoroughfare, muddy, dark, and unwholesome, and where the sun but rarely penetrates, there was a furnished house (commonly called a garni, lodging-house, in consequence of the low price of the apartments). On a miserable piece of paper might be read, “Chambers and small rooms furnished.” To the right hand, in a dark alley, was the door of a store, not less obscure, in which constantly resided the principal tenant of this garni.

  Father Micou was ostensibly a dealer in old metal (“marine stores”), but secretly purchased and received stolen metal, iron, lead, brass, and tin. When we mention that Father Micou was connected in business and friendship with the Martial family, we give a tolerable idea of his morality. The tie that binds — the sort of affiliation, the mysterious communion, which connects — the malefactors of Paris, is at once curious and fearful. The common prisons are the great centres whence flow, and to which reflow, incessantly those waves of corruption which gradually gain on the capital, and leave there such pernicious waifs and strays.

  Father Micou was a stout man, about fifty years of age, with a mean and cunning countenance, a mulberry nose, and wine-flushed cheeks. He wore a fur cap and an old green long-skirted coat. Over his small stove, near which he was standing, there was a board fastened to the wall, and bearing a row of figures, to which were affixed the keys of the chambers of the absent lodgers. The panes of glass in the door which opened on to the street were so painted that from the outside no one could see what was going on within.

  The whole of this extensive store was very dark. From the damp walls there hung rusty chains of all sizes; and the floor was strewed with iron and other metals. Three blows struck at the door in a particular way attracted the attention of the landlord, huckster, receiver.

  “Come in!” he cried.

  It was Nicholas, the son of the felon’s widow. He was very pale, his features looked even more evil than they did on the previous evening, and yet he feigned a kind of overgaiety during the following conversation. (This scene takes place on the day after his quarrel with. Martial.)

  “Ah, is it you, my fine fellow?” said Micou, cordially.

  “Yes, Father Micou, I have come to see you on a trifle of business.”

  “Then shut the door, — shut the door.”

  “My dog and cart are there outside with the stuff.”

  “What do you bring me, double tripe (sheet lead)?”

  “No, Father Micou.”

  “What is it, scrapings? but no, you’re too downy now, you’ve left off work. Perhaps it is a bit of hard (iron)?”

  “No, Daddy Micou, it’s some flap (sheet copper). There must be, at least, a hundred and fifty pounds weight, as much as my dog could stagger along with.”

  “Go and fetch the flap, and let’s weigh it.”

  “You must lend a hand, daddy, for I’ve hurt my arm.”

  And, at the recollection of his contest with his brother Martial, the ruffian’s features expressed, at once, the resentment of hatred and savage joy, as if his vengeance were already satisfied.

  “What’s the matter with your arm, my man?”

  “Nothing, — only a sprain.”

  “You must heat an iron in the fire, and plunge it red-hot into the water, then put your arm in the water as hot as you can bear it. It is an iron-dealer’s remedy, but none the worse for that.”

  “Thank ye, Father Micou.”

  “Go and fetch the flap, and I’ll come and help you, idle-bones.”

  At twice the copper was brought out of the cart, drawn by an enormous dog, and conveyed into the shop.

  “That cart of yours is a good idea,” said the worthy Micou, as he adjusted the wooden frames of an enormous pair of scales that hung from a beam in the ceiling.

  “Yes; when I’ve anything to bring, I put my dog and cart into the punt, and harness them as we come along. A hackney-coach might, perhaps, tell a tale, but my dog never chatters.”

  “And they’re all pretty well at home, — eh?” inqui
red the receiver, weighing the copper; “mother and sister, both pretty bobbish?”

  “Yes, Father Micou.”

  “And the little uns?”

  “Yes, the little uns, too. And your nephew, André, where is he?”

  “Don’t mention him; he was out on a spree yesterday. Barbillon and Gros-Boiteux brought him back this morning. He is out for a walk now towards the General Post-office in the Rue St. Jacques Rousseau. And your brother, Martial, is he just such a rum un as ever?”

  “Ma foi! I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know?”

  “No,” replied Nicholas, assuming an indifferent air; “we have seen nothing of him for the last two days. Perhaps he’s gone poaching in the woods again; unless his boat, which was very, very old, has sunk in the river, with him in it.”

  “At which you would not be dreadfully affected, you bad lot, for you can’t bear your brother, I know.”

  “True; we have strange likes and dislikes. How many pounds of metal d’ye make?”

  “You’re right to a hair, just a hundred and fifty pounds, my lad.”

  “And you owe me—”

  “Just thirty francs.”

  “Thirty francs! when copper is twenty sous a pound? Thirty francs!”

  “Say thirty-five francs, and there’s an end of the matter, or go to the devil with you! you, and your copper, and your dog, and your cart.”

  “But, Father Micou, you are really chiselling me down; that’s not the right thing by no means.”

  “If you’ll tell me how you came by your copper, I’ll give you fifteen sous a pound for it.”

  “That’s the old strain. You are all alike, a regular lot of cheats. How can you bear to ‘do’ your friends in this way? But that’s not all; if I swap with you for some things, you ought to give me good measure.”

  “To a hair’s turn. What do you want? Chains and hooks for your punts?”

  “No, I want four or five sheets of stout iron, as if to line shutters with.”

  “I’ve just the thing, a quarter of an inch thick; a pistol-ball wouldn’t go through it.”

  “Just what I want.”

  “What size?”

  “Why, altogether about seven or eight feet square.”

  “Good, and what else?”

  “Three bars of iron, from three to four feet long, and two inches square.”

  “I have just broken up an iron wicket; nothing can be better for you. What next?”

  “Two strong hinges and a latch, so that I can open or shut an opening two feet square when I wish.”

  “A trap, you mean?”

  “No, a valve.”

  “I don’t understand what you can want with a valve.”

  “Never you mind; I know what I want.”

  “That’s all right; you have only to choose; there’s a heap of hinges. What’s the next thing?”

  “That’s all.”

  “And not much, either.”

  “Get it all ready, Father Micou, and I’ll take it as I come back; for I’ve got some other places to call at.”

  “With your cart? Why, you dog, I saw a bundle underneath. What, some little trifle you have taken from the world’s wardrobe? Ah, you sly rogue!”

  “Just as you say, Father Micou; but you don’t deal in such things. Don’t keep me waiting for the iron goods, for I must be back at the island before noon.”

  “I’ll be ready. It is only eight, and, if you are not going far, come back in an hour, and you shall find everything prepared, — money and goods. Won’t you take a drain?”

  “Thank ye, I won’t say no, for I think you owe it me.”

  Father Micou took from an old closet a bottle of brandy, a cracked glass, and a cup without a handle, and filled them.

  “Here’s to you, Daddy Micou!”

  “And to you likewise, my boy, and the ladies at home!”

  “Thank ye. And the lodging-house goes on well, eh?”

  “Middling, — middling. I have always some lodgers for whom I am always fearing a visit from the commissary; but they pay in proportion.”

  “How d’ye mean?”

  “Why, are you stupid? I sometimes lodge as I buy, and don’t ask them for their passport, any more than I ask you for your bill of parcels.”

  “Good; but to them you let as dear as you have bought cheaply of me.”

  “I must look out. I have a cousin who has a handsome furnished house in the Rue St. Honoré. His wife is a milliner in a large way, and employs, perhaps, twenty needlewomen, either in the house, or having the work at home.”

  “I say, old boy, I dare say there’s some pretty uns among ’em?”

  “I believe you. There’s two or three that I have seen bring home work sometimes, — my eyes, ain’t they pretty, though? One little one in particular, who works at home, and is always a-laughing, and they calls her Rigolette, oh, my pippin, what a pity one ain’t twenty years old all over again!”

  “Halloa, daddy, how you are going it!”

  “Oh, it’s all right, my boy, — all right!”

  “‘Walker!’ old boy. And you say your cousin—”

  “Does uncommon well with his house, and, as it is the same number as that of the little Rigolette—”

  “What, again?”

  “Oh, it’s all right and proper.”

  “‘Walker!’”

  “He won’t have any lodgers but those who have passports and papers; but if any come who haven’t got ’em, he sends me those customers.”

  “And they pays accordingly?”

  “In course.”

  “But they are all in our line who haven’t got their riglar papers?”

  “By no manner of means! Why, very lately, my cousin sent me a customer, — devil burn me if I can make him out! Another drain?”

  “Just one; the liquor’s good. Here’s t’ye again, Daddy Micou!”

  “Here’s to you again, my covey! I was saying that the other day my cousin sent me a customer whom I can’t make out. Imagine a mother and daughter, who looked very queer and uncommon seedy; they had their whole kit in a pocket-handkerchief. Well, there warn’t much to be expected out of this, for they had no papers, and they lodge by the fortnight; yet, since they’ve been here, they haven’t moved any more than a dormouse. No men come to see them; and yet they’re not bad-looking, if they weren’t so thin and pale, particularly the daughter, about sixteen, — with such a pair of black eyes, — oh, such eyes!”

  “Halloa, dad! You’re off again. What do these women do?”

  “I tell you I don’t know; they must be respectable, and yet, as they receive letters without any address, it looks queer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They sent, this morning, my nephew André to the Poste-Restante to inquire for a letter addressed to ‘Madame X. Z.’ The letter was expected from Normandy, from a town called Aubiers. They wrote that down on paper, so that André might get the letter by giving these particulars. You see, it does not look quite the thing for women to take the name of ‘X.’ and ‘Z.’ And yet they never have any male visitors.”

  “They won’t pay you.”

  “Oh, my fine fellow, they don’t catch an old bird like me with chaff. They took a room without a fireplace, and I made them pay the twenty francs down for the fortnight. They are, perhaps, ill, for they have not been down for the last two days. It is not indigestion that ails them, for I don’t think they have cooked anything since they came here.”

  “If you had all such customers, Father Micou—”

  “Oh, they go and come. If I lodge people without passports, why, I also have different people. I have now two travelling gents, a postman, the leader of the band at the Café des Aveugles, and a lady of fortune, — all most respectable persons, such as save the reputation of a house, if the commissary is inclined to look a little too closely into things; they are not night-lodgers, but tenants of the broad sunshine.”

  “When it comes into your alley, Father Micou.”r />
  “You’re a wag. Another drain, yes, just one more.”

  “Well, it must be my last, for then I must cut. By the way, doesn’t Robin, the Gros-Boiteux, lodge here still?”

  “Yes, up-stairs, on the same landing as the mother and daughter. He’s pretty nearly run through his money he earned in gaol.”

  “I say, mind your eye, — he’s outlawed.”

  “I know it, but I can’t get rid of him. I think he’s got something in hand, for little Tortillard came here the other night along with Barbillon. I’m afraid he’ll do something to my lodgers, so, when his fortnight is up, I shall bundle him, telling him his room is taken for an ambassador, or the husband of Madame Saint-Ildefonse, my independent lady.”

  “An independent lady?”

  “I believe you! Three rooms and a cabinet in the front, — nothing less, — newly furnished, to say nothing of an attic for her servant. Eighty francs a month, and paid in advance by her uncle, to whom she gives one of her spare rooms when he comes up from the country. But I believe his country-house is about the Rue Vivienne, or the Rue St. Honoré.”

  “I twig! She’s independent because the old fellow pays.”

  “Hush! Here’s her maid.”

  A middle-aged woman, wearing a white apron of very doubtful cleanliness, entered the dealer’s warehouse.

  “What can I do for you, Madame Charles?”

  “Father Micou, is your nephew within?”

  “He has gone to the post-office; but I expect him in immediately.”

  “M. Badinot wishes him to take this letter to its address instantly. There’s no answer, but it is in great haste.”

  “In a quarter of an hour he will be on his way thither, madame.”

  “He must make great haste.”

  “He shall, be assured.”

  The servant went away.

  “Is she the maid of one of your lodgers, Father Micou?”

  “She is the bonne of my independent lady, Madame Saint-Ildefonse. But M. Badinot is her uncle; he came from the country yesterday,” said the respectable Micou, who was looking at the letter, and then added, reading the address, “Look, now, what grand acquaintances! Why, I told you they were high folks; he writes to a viscount.”