like Mlle. Rigolette; well, then, young people will be young people—sometimes you want a light, sometimes a few live coals to kindle up your fire, maybe a little water—for one is sure always to find plenty of fresh spring water at Mlle. Rigolette's, she is never without it; it is her only luxury—she is like a little duck, always dabbling in it; and if she does happen to have a little leisure, such a washing down of floors and cleaning of windows! Never the least soil or neglect about either herself or her apartment, and so you will find."
"And so M. Germain, by reason of his close proximity to Mlle. Rigolette, became what you style upon perfectly neighbourly terms with her?"
"Oh, bless you, yes! Why, the two seemed cut out for each other, so young and so good-looking! It was quite a pleasure to look at them as they came down-stairs of a Sunday to take the only walk, poor things! they could afford themselves throughout the week; she dressed in a smart little cap and a gown that cost, probably, not more than twenty-five sous the ell, but made by herself, and that so tastily that it became her as much as though it had been of satin; he, mind ye, dressed and looking like a regular gentleman."
"And M. Germain has not been to see Mlle. Rigolette, I suppose, since he quitted the house?"
"No, monsieur; unless on Sunday, for Mlle. Rigolette has no time during the other six days of the week to think of sweethearting. Why, the poor girl rises at five or six o'clock, and works incessantly till ten or eleven o'clock at night, never once leaving her room except for a few minutes in the morning, when she goes out to buy food for herself and her two canary-birds; and the three eat but very little, just a penn'orth of milk, a little bread, some chickweed, bird-seed, and clear fresh water, and the whole three of them sing away as merrily as though they fared ever so sumptuously. And Mlle. Rigolette is kind and charitable, too, as far as lies in her power; that is to say, she gives her time, her sleep, and her services; for, poor girl! she can scarcely manage to keep herself by working closely for twelve hours a day. Those poor, unfortunate creatures in the attics, whom M. Bras Rouge is going to turn into the streets in two or three days' time, if even he wait so long—why, Mlle. Rigolette and M. Germain sat up with the children night after night!"
"You have a distressed family, then, here?"
"Distressed! Oh, God bless you, my good sir, I think we have, indeed. Why, there are five young children, an almost dying mother, an idiotic grandmother, and their only support a man who, though he slaves like a negro, cannot even get bread enough to eat—and a capital workman he is, too; three hours' sleep out of the twenty-four is all he allows himself—and what sleep it is! broken by his children crying for food, by the groans of his sick wife tossing on her miserable straw bed, or the idiotic screams of the poor bedridden old grandmother, who sometimes howls like a wolf—from hunger, too—for, poor creature! she has not sense or reason to know better, and when she gets very hungry you may hear cries and screams all down the staircase."
"Horrible!" exclaimed Rodolph, with a shudder; "and does no one afford them any assistance?"
"Truly, sir, we do all we can; we are but poor ourselves; however, since the commandant has allowed me his paltry twelve francs a month for looking after his apartments, I have managed once a week to make a little broth for these poor, unfortunate creatures. Mlle. Rigolette deprives herself of her night's rest, and sits up, poor girl (though it burns her candles), contriving out of one bit and the other of her cutting out, to make up a few clothes for the children; sometimes from the morsels left of her work she manages a small nightcap or gown; and M. Germain, who had not a franc more than he knew what to do with, used to pretend, from time to time, that he had received a present of a few bottles of wine from his friends; and Morel (that is the name of the workman with the sick family) was sure to be invited to share it with him; and it was really wonderful to see how refreshed and strengthened poor Morel used to seem after M. Germain had made him take a good pull at his wine, to put, as he used to say, a little life and soul into his half-exhausted body."
"And the surgeon-dentist, what did he do for this wretched family?"
"M. Bradamanti?" said the porter. "Ah! he cured my rheumatism, and I owe him my eternal gratitude; but from that day I said to my wife, 'Anastasia, M. Bradamanti'—hum!—hum!—did I not say so, Anastasia?"
"Exactly; that is precisely what you did say."
"But I want to know what this M. Bradamanti did to assist the poor starving beings in your garrets."
"Why, you see, monsieur, when I mentioned to M. Bradamanti the misery and utter destitution of poor Morel—by the way, he first began the conversation by complaining that the raving and screaming of the old idiot woman throughout the night for food prevented him from sleeping, and that he found it very unpleasant; however, he listened to my description of the state the whole family was in, and then he said, 'Well, if they are so much distressed, you may tell them that if they want any teeth drawn, I will excuse them paying even for the sixth.'"
"I tell you what, Madame Pipelet," said Rodolph, "I have a decidedly bad opinion of this man. And your female pawnbroker, was she more charitable?"
"Very much after the fashion of M. Bradamanti," said the porteress; "she lent a few sous upon their wretched clothes; every garment they had has passed into her hands, and even their last mattress; but they were not long coming to the last, for they never had but two."
"But she gave them no further aid?"
"Help them, poor creatures! Not she. Mother Burette is as great a brute in her way as her lover, M. Bras Rouge, is in his; for between you and I," added the porteress, with an uncommonly knowing wink of the eye and sagacious shake of the head, "there is something rather tender going on between these two."
"Really!" cried Rodolph.
"I think so—I do, upon my life. And why not? Why, the folks in St. Martin are as loving as the rest of the world; are they not, my old pet?"
A melancholy shake of the head, which produced a corresponding motion in the huge black hat, was M. Pipelet's only answer. As for Madame Pipelet, since she had begun expressing sympathy for the poor sufferers in the attics, her countenance had ceased to strike Rodolph as repulsive, and he even thought it wore an agreeable expression.
"And what is this poor Morel's trade?"
"A maker of false jewelry; he works by the piece; but, dear me! that sort of work is so much imitated, and so cheaply got up that—For a man can but work his best, and he cannot do more than he can; besides, when you have got to find bread for seven persons without reckoning yourself, it is rather a hard job, I take it. And though his eldest daughter does her best to assist the family, she has but very little in her power."
"How old is this daughter?"
"About eighteen, and as lovely a young creature as you would see in a long summer's day. She lives as servant with an old miserly fellow, rich enough to buy and sell half Paris—a notary, named M. Jacques Ferrand."
"M. Jacques Ferrand!" exclaimed Rodolph, surprised at the fresh coincidence which brought under his notice the very individual from whom, or from whose confidential housekeeper, he expected to glean so many particulars relative to La Goualeuse. "M. Jacques Ferrand, who lives in the Rue du Sentier, do you mean?" inquired he.
"The very same; are you acquainted with him?"
"Not at all; but he does the law business for the firm I belong to."
"Ah! then you must know that he is a regular money-grubbing old usurer; but then, let me do the man justice. He is strictly religious, and devout as a monk; never absent from mass or vespers, making his Easter offerings, and going regularly
