name would make any one stare with astonishment. Certainly La Chouette is uncommonly odd; is it not?"
"It is, indeed. Does the woman who is so styled come here frequently?"
"We saw her the day before yesterday, for the first time these six weeks. She was rather lame, I observed."
"And what do you suppose she wants with the fortune-telling woman?"
"That I do not know; at least, as to what takes place in the little room I was telling you of, where La Chouette alone is admitted with M. Bras Rouge and Mother Burette. I have, however, particularly observed that on those occasions the one-eyed woman always has a large bundle with her in her basket, and that M. Bras Rouge also carries a parcel of some size beneath his cloak, and that they always return empty-handed."
"And what can these packets contain?"
"The Lord above knows, for I don't; only they kick up the devil's own row with them, whatever they are. And then such whiffs of sulphur, charcoal, and melted lead, as you go up the stairs; and blow, blow, blow, like a smith's forge. I verily believe Mother Burette has dealings with the old one, and practises magic in this private apartment; leastways, that is what M. César Bradamanti, our third-floor lodger, said to me. A very clever individual is M. César. When I say an 'individual,' I mean an Italian, though he speaks as good French as you or me, excepting his accent, and that is nothing. Oh, he is very clever, indeed! knows all about physic; and pulls out teeth, not for the sake of the money but the honour of his profession—yes, really, sir, for downright honour. Now, suppose you had six decayed teeth—and he says the same thing to all who choose to listen to him—well, then he will take out five for nothing, and only charge you for the sixth. Besides which, he sells all manner of remedies for all sorts of complaints—diseases of the lungs, coughs, colds, every complaint you can name; but then he makes his own drugs, and he has for his assistant the son of our principal lessee, little Tortillard. He says that his master is going to buy himself a horse and a red coat, and to sell his drugs in the market-places, and that young Tortillard is to be dressed like a page and be at the drum, to attract customers."
"This seems to me a very humble occupation for the son of your principal lessee."
"Why, his father says unless he gets a pretty strong hand over him, and a tolerably powerful taste of whipcord, in the way of a sound thrashing, every now and then, he is safe to come to the scaffold. And he is about the ugliest, most spiteful, ill-disposed young rascal one would wish to meet: he has played more than one abominable trick upon poor M. César Bradamanti, who is the best creature possible; for he cured Alfred of a rheumatic attack, and I promise you we have not forgotten it. Yet there are some people wicked enough to—But no, I will not tell you: it would make the hair of your head stand on end. As Alfred says, if it were true, it would send him to the galleys."
"Why, what do they accuse him of?"
"Oh, I really cannot tell you! I can't, indeed; for it is so—"
"Then we will drop the subject."
"And to say such things of a young man! Upon my life and soul, it is too bad."
"Pray, Madame Pipelet, do not give yourself the trouble of saying any more about it: let us speak of other matters."
"Why, I don't know but, as you are to live in the house, it is only fair and right to prepare you for any falsehoods you may hear. I suppose you are sufficiently well off to make the acquaintance of M. César Bradamanti, and unless you are put on your guard against these reports, they might lead to your breaking off with him. So, just put your ear down and I'll whisper what it is people say about him."
And the old woman, in a low tone, muttered a few words as Rodolph inclined his head; he started from her, with mingled disgust and horror.
"Impossible!" exclaimed he. "Surely human nature is not capable of such crimes!"
"Shocking! Is it not? But treat it as I do—all scandal and lies. What, do you think the man who cured Alfred's rheumatism—who draws five teeth out of six for nothing—who has testimonies (testimonials) from every prince and king in the world—and, above all, pays as he goes, down on the nail, would go for to do such things? Not he! I'll stake my blessed life upon it."
While Madame Pipelet thus vented her indignant opinion concerning the reports in circulation, Rodolph recalled to his memory the letter he had seen addressed to the quack dentist; he remembered the counterfeited writing and the coarse, common paper, stained with tears, which had well-nigh obliterated part of the address—too well did he see in the mysterious grief-stained epistle the opening of a drama of deep and fearful import; and while these sad presages filled his mind, a powerful impression whispered within him that the dreadful doings ascribed to the Italian were not altogether unfounded.
"Oh, I declare, here comes Alfred!" exclaimed the porteress. "Now he will tell you his opinion of all these spiteful stories about poor M. Bradamanti. Bless you! Alfred thinks him as innocent as a lamb, ever since he cured his rheumatics."
M. Pipelet entered the lodge with a grave, magisterial air. He was about sixty years of age, comfortably fat, with a large, broad countenance, strongly resembling in its cast and style the faces carved upon the far-famed nutcrackers of Nuremberg; a nose, of more than ordinary proportions, helping to complete the likeness. An old and dingy-looking hat, with a very deep brim, surmounted the whole. Alfred, who adhered to this upper ornament as tenaciously as his wife did to her Brutus wig, was further attired in an ancient green coat, with immense flaps turned up with grease—if so might be described the bright and shiny patches of long-accumulated dirt, which had given an entirely different hue to some portions of the garment. But, though clad in a hat and coat esteemed by Pipelet and his wife as closely resembling full dress, Alfred had not laid aside the modest emblem of his trade, but from his waist uprose the buff-coloured triangular front of his leathern apron, partly concealing a waistcoat boasting nearly as great a variety of colours as did the patchwork counterpane of Madame Pipelet.
The porter's recognition of Rodolph as he entered was gracious in the extreme; but, alas! he smiled a melancholy welcome, and his countenance and languid air marked a man of secret sorrow.
"Alfred," said Madame Pipelet, when she had introduced her two companions, "here is a gentleman after the apartment on the fourth floor, and we have only been waiting for you to drink a glass of cordial he sent for."
This delicate attention won for Rodolph the entire trust and confidence of the melancholy porter, who, touching the brim of his hat, said, in a deep bass voice worthy of being employed in a cathedral:
"We shall give the gentleman every satisfaction as porters, and, doubtless, he will act the same by us as a lodger; 'birds of a feather flock together,' as the proverb says." Then, interrupting himself, M. Pipelet anxiously added, "Providing, sir, you are not a painter!"
"No, I am not a painter, but a plain merchant's clerk."
"My most humble duty to you, sir. I congratulate you that Nature did not make you one of those monsters called artists."
"Artists, monsters!" returned Rodolph. "Tell me, pray, why you style them so."
Instead of replying, M. Pipelet elevated his clasped hands towards the ceiling, and allowed a heavy sound, between a grunt and a groan, to escape his overcharged breast.
"You must know, sir," said Madame Pipelet, in a low tone, to Rodolph, "that painters have embittered Alfred's life; they have worried my poor old dear almost out of his senses, and made him half stupefied, as you see him now." Then speaking loud, she added, in a caressing tone, "Oh, never mind the blackguard,
