The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 2 of 6

"With your permission, I shall except the Morels from your jurisdiction; you shall resign them to my care, and, above all things, promise me not again to enter that miserable place, for, to tell you the truth, I live there."

"You, my lord? What an idea!"

"Nay, but you really must believe me when I say I live there, for it is actually true. I confess mine is somewhat a humble lodging, a mere matter of eight pounds a year, in addition to which I pay the large and liberal sum of six francs a month to the porteress, Madame Pipelet, that ugly old woman you saw; but, to make up for all this, I have as my next neighbour, Mlle. Rigolette, the prettiest grisette in the Quartier du Temple. And you must allow that, for a merchant's clerk, with a salary of only seventy-two pounds a year (I pass as a clerk), such a domicile is well suited to my means."

"Your unhoped-for presence in that fatal house proves to me that you are speaking seriously, my lord; some generous action leads you there, no doubt! But what good action do you reserve for me? What part do you propose for me to sustain?"

"That of an angel of consolation, and – pray excuse and allow me the word – a very demon of cunning and manœuvres! For there are some wounds so painful, as well as delicate, that the hand of a woman only can watch over and heal them. There are, also, unfortunate beings so proud, so reserved, and so hidden from observation, that it requires uncommon penetration to discover them, and an irresistible charm to win their confidence."

"And when shall I have an opportunity of displaying the penetration and skill for which you give me credit?" asked Madame d'Harville, impatiently.

"Soon, I hope, you will have to make a conquest worthy of you; but, to succeed, you must employ all your most ingenious resources."

"And when, my lord, will you confide this great secret to me?"

"Let me see! You perceive, we have already got as far as arranging our rendezvous. Could you do me the favour to grant me an audience in four days' time?"

"Dear me! so long first?" said Clémence, innocently.

"But what would become of the mystery of the affair, and all the strict forms and appearances necessary to be kept up, if we were to meet sooner? Just imagine! If our partnership were suspected, people would be on their guard, and we should seldom achieve our purpose. I may very probably have to write to you. Who was that aged female who brought me your note?"

"An old servant of my mother's, the very personification of prudence and discretion."

"I will then address my letters under cover to her, and she will deliver them into your hands. If you are kind enough to return any answer, address 'To M. Rodolph, Rue Plumet,' and let your maid put your letters in the post."

"I will do that myself, my lord, when taking my usual morning's walk."

"Do you often walk out alone?"

"In fine weather nearly every day."

"That's right! It is a custom all young women should observe from the very earliest period of their marriage, – either from a good or an improper provision against future evil. The habit once established, it becomes what the lawyers style a precedent; and, in subsequent days, these habitual promenades excite no dangerous interpretations. If I had been a woman, – and, between ourselves, I fear I should have been very charitable, but equally flighty, – the very day after my marriage I should, in all possible innocence, have taken the most mysterious steps, and, with perfect simplicity, have involved myself in all manner of suspicious and compromising proceedings, for the purpose of establishing the precedent I spoke of, in order to be at liberty either to visit my poor pensioners or to meet my lover."

"But that would be downright perfidy to one's husband, would it not, my lord?" said Madame d'Harville, smiling.

"Fortunately for you, madame, you have never been driven to the necessity of admitting the utility of such provisionary measures."

Madame d'Harville's smile left her lips. She cast down her eyes, and, blushing deeply, said, in a low and sad voice, "This is not generous, my lord!"

At first Rodolph regarded the marquise with astonishment, then added, "I understand you, madame. But, once for all, let us weigh well your position as regards M. Charles Robert. I will just imagine that one of your acquaintances may one day have pointed out to you one of those pitiable-looking mendicants who roll their eyes most sentimentally, and play on the clarionet with desperate energy, to awaken the sympathy of the passers-by. 'That is really and truly a genuine case of distress,' observes your friend. 'That interesting musician has at least seven children, and a wife deaf, dumb, blind,' etc. 'Ah, poor fellow!' you reply, charitably aiding him with your purse. And so, each time you meet this case of genuine distress, the clarionet-player, the moment he discerns you from afar, fixes his imploring eyes upon you, while the most touching strains of his instrument are directed to touch your charitable sympathies, and that, too, so successfully, that again your purse opens at this fresh appeal. One day, more than usually disposed to pity this very unfortunate object by the importunities of the friend who first pointed him out to you, and who is most wickedly abusing your generous heart, you resolve to visit this case of genuine distress, as your false friend terms it, and to behold the poor object of your solicitude in the midst of his misery. Well, you go. But, lo! the grief-stricken musician has vanished; and in his place you find a lively, rollicking fellow, enjoying himself over some of the good things of this world, and mirthfully carolling forth the last new alehouse catch. Then disgust succeeds to pity; for you have bestowed your sympathy and charity alike upon an impostor, neither more nor less. Is it not so?"

Madame d'Harville could not restrain a smile at this singular apologue. She, however, soon checked it, as she added:

"However grateful I may feel for this mode of justifying my great imprudence, my lord, I can but confess I dare not avail myself of so favourable a pretext as that of mistaken charity."

"Yet, after all, yours was an error based upon motives of noble and generous pity for the wounded feelings of one you believed a genuine object for commiseration. Fortunately, there are so many ways left you of atoning for one indiscretion, that your regret need be but small. Shall I not have the pleasure of seeing M. d'Harville this evening?"

"No, my lord. The scene of this morning has so much affected him that he is – ill," said the marquise, in a low, tremulous tone.

"Ah," replied Rodolph, sadly, "I understand! Come, courage! you were saying that you required an aim, a motive, a means of directing your thoughts. Permit me to hope that all this will be accomplished by following out the plan I have proposed. Your heart will be then so filled with the delightful recollection of all the happiness you have caused, and all the good you have effected, that, in all probability, you will find no room for resentment against your husband. In place of angry feelings, you will regard him with the same sorrowing pity you look on your dear child. And as for the interesting little creature herself, now you have confided to me the cause of her delicate health, I almost think myself warranted in bidding you yet to entertain hopes of overcoming the fearful complaint which has hitherto affected her tender frame."

"Oh, my lord!" exclaimed Clémence, clasping her hands with eagerness, "can it be possible? How? In what manner can my child be saved?"

"I have, as physician to myself and household, a man almost unknown, though possessed of a first-rate science. Great part of his life was passed in America; and I remember his speaking to me of some marvellous cures performed by him on slaves attacked by this distressing complaint."

"And do you really think, my lord – "

"Nay, you must not allow yourself to dwell too confidently upon success; the disappointment would be so very severe. Only, do not let us wholly despair."

Clémence d'Harville cast a hasty glance of unutterable gratitude over the noble features of Rodolph, the firm, unflinching friend, who reconciled her to herself with so much good sense, intelligence, and delicacy of feeling. Then she asked herself how, for one instant, she could ever have been interested in the fate of such a being as M. Charles Robert, – the very idea was hateful to her.

"What do I not owe you, my lord?" cried she, in a voice of thrilling emotion; "you console me for the past; you open to me a glimpse of hope for my child; and you place before me a plan of future occupation which shall afford me both consolation and the delight of doing my duty. Ah, was I not right when I said that, if you would come here to-night, you would finish the day as you had begun it, – by performing a good action?"

"And pray, madame, do not omit to add, – an action after my own heart, where all is pleasure and unmixed enjoyment in its performance. And now, adieu!" said Rodolph, rising as the clock struck half-past eleven.

"Adieu, my lord, and pray do not forget to send me news ere long of those poor people in the Rue du Temple."

"I will see them to-morrow, for, unfortunately, I knew not of that little limping rascal having stolen your purse; and I fear that the unhappy creatures are in the most deplorable want. Have the kindness to bear in mind that, in the course of four days, I shall come to explain to you the nature of the part you will be required to undertake. One thing I must prepare you for; and that is, the probability of its being requisite for you to assume a disguise on the occasion."

"A disguise? Oh, how charming! What sort of one, my lord?"

"I cannot tell you at present. I will leave the choice to you."

"All that is requisite," said the prince, on his return home, "to save this excellent woman from the perils of another attachment, is to fill her mind with generous thoughts; and, since an invincible repugnance separates her from her husband, to employ her love for the romantic in such charitable actions as shall require being enshrouded in mystery."

CHAPTER XII

MISERY

The reader has probably not forgotten that the garret in the Rue du Temple was occupied by an unfortunate family, the father of whom was a working lapidary, named Morel. We shall now endeavour to describe the wretched abode of Morel and his children.

It was six o'clock in the morning; a deep silence dwelt around. The streets were still deserted, for the snow fell fast, and the cold, biting wind froze as it blew. A miserable candle, stuck upon a small block of wood, and supported by two slips of the same material, scarcely penetrated with its yellow, flickering light the misty darkness of the garret, – a narrow, low-built place, two-thirds of which was formed by the sloping roof, which communicated by a sharp angle with the wretched flooring, and freely exposed the moss-covered tiles of the outer roof. Walls covered with plaster, blackened by time, and split into countless crevices, displayed the rotten, worm-eaten laths, which formed the frail division from other chambers, while in one corner of this deplorable habitation a door off the hinges opened upon a narrow staircase. The ground, of a nameless colour, but foul, fetid, and slippery, was partly strewed with bits of dirty straw, old rags, and bones, the residue of that unwholesome and vitiated food sold by the dealers in condemned meat, and frequently bought by starving wretches, for the purpose of gnawing the few cartilages that may adhere.[4 - It is no uncommon thing to meet, in densely crowded parts of Paris, with persons who openly sell the flesh of animals born dead, as well as of others who have died of disease, etc.]

So wretched a condition either arises from improvidence and vice, or from unavoidable misery, – misery so great, so overwhelming and paralysing, as to enfeeble every energy, and to render the unhappy object of it too hopeless, too despairing, even to attempt to extricate himself from the squalor of his utter destitution, and he crouches in his dirt and desolation like an animal in its den.

During the day, Morel's garret was lighted by a species of long, narrow skylight formed in the descending roof, framed and glazed, and made to open and shut by means of a pulley and string; but, at the hour which we are describing, a heavy fall of snow encumbered the window, and effectually prevented its affording any light. The candle placed on Morel's working-table, which stood in the centre of the chamber, diffused a kind of halo of pale, sickly beams, which, gradually diminishing, was at last lost in the dim shadow which overspread the place, in whose murky duskiness might be seen the faint outline of several white-looking masses. On the work-table, which was merely a heavy and roughly cut wooden block of unpolished oak, covered with grease and soot, lay, loosely scattered about, a handful of rubies and diamonds, of more than ordinary size and brilliancy, while, as the mean rays of the small candle were reflected on them, they glittered and sparkled like so many coruscating fires.

Morel was a worker of real stones, and not false ones, as he had given out, and as was universally believed, in the Rue du Temple. Thanks to this innocent deception, the costly jewels entrusted to him were merely supposed to be so many pieces of glass, too valueless to tempt the cupidity of any one. Such riches, confided to the care of one as poor and miserably destitute as Morel, will render any reference to the honesty of his character quite unnecessary.

Seated on a high stool, and wholly overcome by fatigue, cold, and weariness, after a long winter's night, passed in unceasing labour, the poor lapidary had fallen asleep on his block, with his head upon his half-frozen arms, and his forehead resting against a small grindstone, placed horizontally on the table, and generally put in motion by a little hand-wheel, while a fine steel saw, and various other tools belonging to his trade, were lying beside him. The man himself, of whom nothing but the skull, surrounded by a fringe of gray hairs, was visible, was dressed in a shabby fustian jacket, without any species of linen or garment beneath it, and an old pair of cloth trousers, while his worn-out slippers scarcely concealed the blue, cold feet they partially covered, from resting solely on the damp, shiny floor; and so bitter, so freezing, was the sharp winter wind which freely entered into this scarcely human dwelling, that, spite of the weariness and exhaustion of the overworked artisan, his frame shuddered and shivered with involuntary frequency. The length of the wick of the unsnuffed candle bespoke the length of time even this uneasy slumber must have lasted, and no sound save his troubled and irregular breathing broke the deathlike silence that prevailed; for, alas! the other occupants of this mean abode were not so fortunate as to be able to forget their sufferings in sleep. Yet this narrow, pent-up, unwholesome spot contained no less than seven other persons, – five children, the youngest of whom was four years of age, the eldest twelve, a sick and declining wife, with an aged grandmother, the parent of Morel's wife, now in her eightieth year, and an idiot!

The cold must have been intense, indeed, when the natural warmth of so many persons, so closely packed together in so small a place, could not in any way affect the freezing atmosphere; it was evident, therefore, to speak scientifically, that but little caloric was given out by the poor, weak, emaciated, shivering creatures, all suffering and almost expiring with cold and hunger, from the puny infant to the idiotic old grandmother.

With the exception of the father of the family, who had temporarily yielded to the aching of his heavy eyelids, no other creature slept, – no other; because cold, starvation, and sickness will not allow so sweet an enjoyment as the closing the eyes in peaceful rest. Little does the world believe how rarely comes that sound, healthful, and refreshing slumber to the poor man's pillow, which at once invigorates the mind and body, and sends the willing labourer back to his toil refreshed and recruited by the blessing of a beneficent Creator. To taste of nature's sweet, refreshing, balmy sleep, sickness, sorrow, poverty, and mental disquietude must not share the humble pallet.

In contrasting the deep misery of the poor artisan, with whose woes we are now occupying the reader, with the immense value of the jewelry confided to him, we are struck by one of those comparisons which afflict while they elevate the mind. With the distracting spectacle of his family's want and wretchedness, embracing a wide field from cold and hunger to drivelling idiocy, constantly before his eyes, this man, in the pursuance of his daily labour, is compelled to touch and handle and gaze upon bright and sparkling gems, the smallest of which would be a mine of wealth to him, and save those dearest to him from sufferings and privations which wring his very heart; would snatch them from the slow and lingering death which is consuming them before his eyes. Yet, amid all these trials and temptations, the artisan remains firmly, truly, and unflinchingly honest, and would no more appropriate one of the glittering stones entrusted to him than he would satisfy his hunger at the expense of his starving babes. Doubtless the man but performed his duty to his employer, – his simple duty; but because it is enjoined to all to be honest and faithful in that which is committed to them, does that render the action itself less noble, magnanimous, or praiseworthy? Is not this unfortunate artisan, so courageously, so bravely upright and honest while entrusted with the property of another, the type and model of an immense class of working people, who, doomed to a life of continual poverty and privation, see, with calm, patient looks, thousands of their brethren rolling in splendour and abounding in riches, yet they toil on, resigned and unenvying, but still industriously striving for bread their hardest efforts cannot always procure? And is there not something consolatory, as well as gratifying to our feelings, to consider that it is neither force nor terror, but good natural sense and a right mind which alone restrain this formidable ocean, this heaving mass, whose bounds once broken, a moral inundation would ensue, in which society itself would be swallowed up? Shall we, then, refuse to cooperate with all the powers of our mind and body with those generous and enlightened spirits, who ask but a little sunshine for so much misfortune, courage, and resignation?

Let us now return to the, alas! too true specimen of distressing want we shall endeavour to describe in all its fearful and startling reality.