The Mysteries of Paris. Volume 4

CHAPTER I. RIGOLETTE’S FIRST SORROW.-2

“François Germain.

“P. S.—If you reply, address your letter to me at the prison of La Force.”

We may now divine the cause of Rigolette’s first sorrow.

Her excellent heart was deeply wounded at a misfortune of which she had no suspicion until that moment. She believed unhesitatingly in the entire veracity of the statement of Germain, the unfortunate son of the Schoolmaster.

Not very strait-laced, she thought her old neighbour exaggerated his fault immensely. To save the unhappy father of a family, he had momentarily appropriated a sum which he thought he could instantly r****d. This action, in the grisette’s eyes, was but generous.

By one of those contradictions common to women, and especially to women of her class, this young girl, who until then had not felt for Germain more than her other neighbours, but a kind and mirthful friendship, now experienced for him a decided preference. As soon as she knew that he was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a prisoner, his remembrance effaced that of all his former rivals. Yet Rigolette did not all at once feel intense love, but a warm and sincere affection, full of pity and determined devotion,—a sentiment which was the more new with her in consequence of the better sensations it brought with it.

Such was the moral position of Rigolette when Rodolph entered her chamber, having first rapped very discreetly at the door.

“Good morning, neighbour,” said Rodolph to Rigolette; “do not let me disturb you.”

“Not at all, neighbour. On the contrary, I am delighted to see you, for I have had something to vex me dreadfully.”

“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 Germainsays 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 ofgoodness, 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 beganto 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.”