"Alas, it is no use repining! We must take life as we find it. Well, when my husband had left me I seemed to regain my courage, for I had no longer the constant dread of being crippled by him, and so prevented from earning bread for my children. For want of money to buy a mattress (for one must live and pay one's rent before thinking of other things), and poor Catherine (my eldest girl) working with me fifteen hours a day, we could scarcely earn twenty pence a day both together, and my other two children were too young to be able to earn anything; so, as I was saying, for want of a mattress we slept upon straw we picked up from time to time before the door of a large furniture packer in the neighbourhood."
"And to think that I have spent and squandered all my money as I have done!"
"Pray do not reproach yourself. How could you possibly imagine I was in want or difficulties when I never said a word to lead you to conclude so? So poor dear Catherine and I set to work again with redoubled courage and determination. If you only knew what a dear, good child she is, so honest, industrious, and good, watching me with her eyes to try and find out what I wish her to do. Never has a murmur escaped her lips; and yet she has seen much want and misery, though scarcely fifteen years of age! She has consoled me in the midst of my severest troubles. Oh, brother," added Jeanne, drying her eyes, "such a child is enough to repay one for the severest trials!"
"You were just such another yourself at her age; and it is but fair you should have some consolation amidst your troubles!"
"Believe me, 'tis rather on her account than mine I grieve; for it really seems out of nature to see a young creature like her slaving herself to death. For months together she has never quitted her work, except once a week, when she goes to wash the trifle of linen we possess in the river, near the Pont-au-Charge, where they only charge three sous an hour for the use of the boats, beaters, etc. All the rest of her time she is working like a galley-slave. Ah, she has known misfortune too early! I know well that troubles must come; but then a poor girl should be able to look back upon a happy childhood, at least! And another thing that grieves and vexes me almost as much as that, is not being able to render you any assistance. Still I will endeavour."
"Nonsense; don't talk so! Do you suppose I would accept of anything from you? On the contrary, I'll tell you what I'll do to help you. From this time forward I'll insist upon being paid for my amusing tales and wonderful recitals; and those who object to pay from one to two sous for hearing shall no more be treated to the entertaining histories of Pique-Vinaigre. I shall soon collect a pretty little sum for you, I know. But why don't you take furnished lodgings, so that your husband could not molest you by selling your little possessions?"
"Furnished lodgings! Only consider, there are four, and for such a number we should have to pay at least twenty sous (ten pence) a day. What should we have to live upon if we paid all that for rent? And now we give but fifty francs a year for the rooms we occupy."
"True, my girl," replied Pique-Vinaigre, with bitter irony. "That's right,—work, slave, begrudge yourself necessary rest or food, in order to refurnish your place. And directly you have once more got things comfortably about you, your husband will come and strip you of everything; and when he has deprived you almost of the garments you wear, he will take your dear Catherine from you and sell her also."
"No, no, brother; he should take my life ere I would suffer him to injure my good, my virtuous child."
"Oh, but he does not wish to do her any bodily harm; he only wants to sell her. And then, remember, as the lawyer said, he is master until you can find five hundred francs to be legally separated from him. So, as that is not the case, at present you must make up your mind to submit to what cannot be helped. It seems that, by law, your husband has a right to take his child from you and send her where he pleases. And if he and his mistress are bent upon the ruin of the poor girl, doubtless they will stop at nothing to achieve it."
"Merciful God!" exclaimed the almost frantic mother, "surely such wickedness can never be tolerated in a Christian land! Justice itself would interpose if a father could insist upon selling his daughter's honour."
"Justice!" repeated Pique-Vinaigre, with a sardonic laugh, "justice! No, no, that meat is too dear for poor folks like you and I. Only, do you see, if it refers to sending a parcel of poor wretches to prison or the galleys, then it is quite a different affair; and they have justice without its costing them anything,—nay, it becomes a matter of life and death. An unhappy criminal gets his head shaved off by the guillotine for nothing; not a single farthing are they or their friends, whether rich or poor, tailed upon to pay for this act of impartial justice. The object of it only gives his head! All other expenses are defrayed by a liberal and justice-loving legislature. But the justice that would protect a worthy and ill-treated mother of a family from being beaten and pillaged to support the vices of a man who seeks even to sell the honour of his innocent child,—such justice as that costs five hundred francs! So, my dear Jeanne, you must do without it."
"Brother, brother," exclaimed the poor woman, bursting into tears, "you break my heart by such words as these!"
"Well, and my own heart aches even to bursting as I think of your fate and that of your children, while I recollect that I am powerless to help you. I seem always gay and merry; but don't you be deceived by appearances, Jeanne! I tell you what, I have two descriptions of gaiety, my gay gaiety, and my sad gaiety. I have neither the strength or the courage to indulge in envy, hatred, or malice, like the other prisoners; I never go beyond words, more or less droll as occasion requires. My cowardice and bodily weakness would never have allowed me to be worse than I am. And nothing but the opportunity presenting itself of robbing that poor little lone house, where there was neither a cat nor a dog to frighten one, would have drawn me into the scheme that brought me here. And then, again, by chance it was a brilliant moonlight night; for if ever there was a poor devil afraid of being alone in the dark it is me."
"Ah, dear brother, I have always told you you are better than you yourself think! Well, I trust the judges will be of my opinion and deal mercifully with you."
"Mercy! What, for me, a liberated convict? Don't reckon too much on that or you'll be disappointed. But, hang it, what care I? Here or elsewhere is all the same to me! Let my judges do as they will with me, I shall bear them no ill-will. For you are right; I am not a bad sort of fellow at heart; and those who are worse than myself I hate with all the hatred of a good man, and show my dislike by raillery of every sort. You can imagine, can you not, that, by dint of relating stories in which, to please my auditors, I always make those who wantonly torment others receive the reward of their wickedness in the end, I get into the habit of feeling all the indignation and virtuous desire for vengeance I relate?"
"I should never have thought such persons as your prison companions would have been interested in such recitals!"
"Oh, but I'm awake to how to tickle their fancies. If I were to relate to them the story of a man who committed no end of crimes, robbery and murder being among the mildest, and got scragged at last, they would get into a downright passion and not allow me to go on; but if I make up a tale of a woman or child, or a poor, cowardly fellow like myself, that a breath of wind would knock over, being pursued by an atrocious persecutor,—a sort of Blackbeard, who torments them to death, for the pure pleasure of the thing! Oh, how they roar and stamp for joy when I make Mr. Blackbeard in the end served out as he deserves. I have got a story they have never yet heard, called 'Gringalet and Cut-in-Half,' which used to delight all the folks at Melun. I have promised to tell it to them here to-night. But, before I begin, I shall see that they come down pretty handsome when I send the box around collecting; and you may depend upon being all the better for its contents. And, besides that, I will write out the story itself to amuse your children. Poor dears! How pleased they will be with it! 'Gringalet and Cut-in-Half,'—there's a title for you! And, bless you, it is so virtuous and moral that an abbé might read it from his pulpit! So make yourself quite happy in every respect."
"One thing gives me great pleasure, dear brother, and that is to see that your disposition keeps you from being as unhappy as the rest of your companions here."
"Why, I am quite sure if I were like a poor fellow who is a prisoner in our ward, I should be tempted to lay violent hands on myself. Poor young man! I really am sorry for him,—he seems so very wretched; and I am seriously afraid that before the day is over he will have sustained some serious mischief at the hands of the other prisoners, whom he refuses to associate with, and they owe him a grudge for it; and I know that a plan is arranged to serve him out this very evening."
"Dear me, how shocking! But you, brother, do not mean to take any part in it, I hope?"
"No, thank you, I am not such a fool; I should be sure to catch some of the good things intended for another. All I know about it I picked up while going to and fro. I heard them talking among themselves of gagging him to hinder him from crying out, and in order to prevent any one from seeing what is going on they mean to form a circle around him, making believe to be listening to one of their party, who should pretend to be reading a newspaper or anything they liked out loud."
"But why should they thus ill-treat the poor man?"
"Because, as he is always alone, never speaks to any person, and seems to hold everybody in disgust, they have taken it into their heads he is a spy, which is immensely stupid on their parts, because a spy would naturally hook on with them the better to find out all they said and did; but I believe that the principal cause of their spite against him is that he has the air of a gentleman, which is a thing they hold in abhorrence. It is the captain of the dormitory, who is known by the name of the Walking Skeleton, who is at the head of this plot; and he is like a wild beast after this Germain, for so the object of their dislike is called. But let them all do as they like; it is no affair of mine. I can be of no use, therefore let them go their own way. But then you see, Jeanne, it is of no use being dull and mopish in prison, or the others are sure to suspect you of something or other. They never had to find fault with my want of sociability, and for that reason never suspected me or owed me a grudge. But come, my girl, you had better return home; we have gossiped long enough. I know very well how it takes up your time to come hither. I have nothing to do but to idle away my days; it is very different with you; so good night. Come and see me again when you can; you know how happy it always makes me."
"Nay, but, brother, pray do not go yet; I wish you to stay."
"Nonsense, Jeanne; your children are wanting you at home. I say—I hope you have not told the poor, dear, little innocent things that their 'nunky' is in prison?"
"No, indeed, I have not; the children believe you are abroad, and as such I can always talk to them of you."
"That's all right. Now then, be off, and get back to your family and your employment as fast as you can."
"But listen to me, brother,—my poor Fortuné. I have not much to give, God knows! but still I cannot bear to see you in so deplorable a plight as you are at present. Your feet must be half frozen without any stockings; and that wretched old waistcoat you have on makes my heart ache to see it. Catherine and I together will manage to get a few things together for you. You know, Fortuné, that at least we do not want for good will—to—"
"To what—to give me better clothes? Lord love you, I've got boxes full of everything you can mention, and directly they come I shall be able to dress like a prince! There, now; come, give me one little smile,—there's a good girl! You won't? Well, then, you shall make me and bring me what you like; only remember, directly the tale of 'Gringalet and Cut-in-Half' has replenished my money-box, I am to return all you expend upon me. And now once more, dear Jeanne, fare you well! And the next time you come to see me, may I lose the name of Pique-Vinaigre if I don't make you laugh! But be off now; cut your stick, there's a good girl! I know I have kept you too long already."
"No, no, dear brother, indeed you have not. Pray hear what I have to say!"
"Hallo, here! I say, my fine fellow," cried Pique-Vinaigre to the turnkey, who was waiting in the lobby, "I have said my say, and I want to go in again. I've talked till I'm tired."
"Oh, Fortuné," cried Jeanne, "how cruel you are to send me thus from you!"
"No, no; on the contrary, I am kinder than you give me credit for."
"Good-bye; keep up your spirits; and to-morrow morning tell the children you have been dreaming of their uncle who is abroad, and that he desired you to give his kind love to them. There—good-bye—good-bye!"
"Good-bye, Fortuné!" replied the poor woman, bursting into tears, as her brother entered the interior of the prison.
From the moment when the bailiff seated himself between her and Jeanne, Rigolette had been unable to overhear a word more of the conversation between Pique-Vinaigre and his sister; but she continued to gaze intently on the latter, her thoughts busied with devising some plausible pretext for obtaining the poor woman's address, for the purpose of recommending her as a fit object for Rodolph's benevolence. As Jeanne rose from her seat to quit the place, Rigolette timidly approached her, and said, in a kind voice:
"Pray excuse my addressing you, but a little while ago I could not avoid overhearing your conversation, and by that I found that you were a maker of fringe and fancy trimmings."
"You heard rightly," replied Jeanne, somewhat surprised, but, at the same time, much prepossessed in favour of the open, frank expression of Rigolette's charming countenance, as well as won to confidence by her kind and friendly manner.
"And I," continued Rigolette, "am a dressmaker. And just now that fringes and gimps are so much worn, I am frequently requested by my customers to get a particular sort for them; so it occurred to me that perhaps you who make at home could supply me with what I required cheaper than the shops, while, on the other hand, you might obtain a better price from me than you get from the warehouse you work for."
"Certainly, I should make a small profit by buying the silk myself, and then making it up to order. You are very kind to have made me the proposal; but I own I feel unable to account for your being so well acquainted with my manner of gaining a living."
"Oh, I will soon explain all that to you. You must know I am waiting to see the person I came here to visit. Being quite alone, I could not help hearing all you said to your brother,—of your many trials, also of your dear children. So then, thinks I to myself, poor people should always be ready to assist each other. I hope you believe that I did not try to listen? And after that gentleman came and placed himself between us, I lost all that passed between your brother and yourself. So I tried to hit upon some way of being useful to you, and then it struck me that you being a fancy trimming-maker, I might be able to put work in your way more profitable than working for shops,—they pay so very little. So, if you are agreeable, we will take each other's address. This is where I live; now please to tell me where to send to you directly I have any work for you."
With these words Rigolette presented one of her businesslike cards to the sister of Pique-Vinaigre, who, deeply touched by the words and conduct of the grisette, exclaimed with much feeling:
"Your face does not belie your kind heart; and pray do not set it down for vanity if I say that there is something about you that reminds me so forcibly of my eldest daughter that when you first came in I could not help looking at you several times. I am very much obliged to you; and should you give me any work, you may rely on my doing it in my best possible manner. My name is Jeanne Duport, and I live at No. 1 Rue de la Barillerie,—No. 1, that is not a difficult number to recollect."
"Thank you, madame."
"Nay, 'tis rather for me to express thanks for having had the goodness even to think of serving a stranger like myself. But still I cannot help saying it does surprise me to be taken notice of by a young person like you, who most likely has never known what trouble was."
"But, my dear Madame Duport," cried Rigolette, with a winning smile, "there is really nothing so astonishing in the affair. Since you fancy I bear some resemblance to your daughter Catherine, why should you be surprised at my wish to do a good action?"
"What a dear, sweet creature it is!" cried Madame Duport, with unaffected warmth. "Well, thanks to you, I shall return home less sad than I expected; and perhaps we may have the pleasure of meeting here again before long, for I believe you, like me, come to this dreadful place to visit a prisoner?"
"Yes, indeed, I do," replied Rigolette, with a sigh, which seemed to proceed from the very bottom of her heart.
"Then farewell for the present; we shall very shortly meet again, I hope, Mlle.—Rigolette!" said Jeanne Duport, after having referred for the necessary information to the card she held in her hand.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure I trust so, too. Good-bye, then, till we meet again, Madame Duport."
"Well," thought Rigolette, as she returned and reseated herself on the bench, "at least I know this poor woman's address; and I feel quite sure M. Rodolph will assist her directly he knows what trouble she is in, for he always told me whenever I heard of a case of real distress to let him know, and I am sure this is one if ever there was." And here Rigolette suddenly changed the current of her ideas by wondering when it would be her turn to ask to see Germain.
A few words as to the preceding scene. Unfortunately it must be confessed that the indignation of the unhappy brother of Jeanne Duport was quite legitimate. Yes, when he said that the law was too dear for the poor he spoke the truth. To plead before the civil tribunals incurs enormous expenses, impossible for workpeople to meet when they can scarcely subsist on the wages they earn.
Ought not civil as well as criminal justice to be accessible to all? When persons are too poor to be able to invoke the benefits of any law which is eminently preservative and beneficial, ought not society at its own cost to enable them to attain it out of respect for the honour and repose of families?
But let us speak no longer of the woman who must be, for all her life, the victim of a brutal and depraved husband, and speak of Jeanne Duport's brother. This freed prisoner leaves a den of corruption to reënter the world; he had submitted to his punishment, payed his debt by expiation. What precaution has society taken to prevent him from falling again into crime? None! If the freed convict has the courage to resist evil temptations, he will give himself up to one of those homicidal trades of which we have spoken.
Then the condition of the freed convict is much more terrible, painful, and difficult than it was before he committed his first fault. He is surrounded by perils and rocks,—he must have refusal, disdain, and often even the deepest misery. And if he relapses and commits a second crime, you are more severe towards him than for his first fault a thousand times. This is unjust, for it is always the necessity you impose on him that makes him commit the second crime. Yes, for it is demonstrated that, instead of correcting, your penitentiary system depraves; instead of ameliorating, it renders worse; instead of curing slight moral defects, it renders them incurable.
The severe punishment inflicted on offenders for the second time would be just and logical if your prisons, rendered moral, purified the prisoners, and if, at the termination of their punishment, good conduct was, if not easy, at least possible for them. If we are astonished at the contradictions of the law, what is it when we compare certain offences with certain crimes, either from the inevitable consequences, or from the immense disproportions which exist between the punishments, awarded to each?
The conversation of the prisoner who came to see the bailiff will present one of these overwhelming contrasts.
The prisoner who entered the reception-room at the moment when Pique-Vinaigre left it was a man about thirty, with reddish brown hair, a jovial countenance, florid and full; and his short stature made his excessive fatness still more conspicuous. This prisoner, so rosy and plump, was attired in a long and warm dressing-gown of gray kersey, with pantaloons of the same down to his feet. A kind of cap of red velvet, called Perinet-Leclerc, completed this personage's costume, when we add that his feet were thrust into comfortable furred slippers. His gold chain supported a number of handsome seals with valuable stones, and several rings with real stones shone on the red fingers of the détenu, who was called Maître Boulard, a huissier (a law-officer), and accused of breach of trust.
The person who had come to see him was, as we have said, Pierre Bourdin, one of the gardes de commerce (bailiffs) employed to arrest poor Morel, the lapidary. This bailiff was usually employed by Maître Boulard, the huissier of M. Petit-Jean, the man of straw of Jacques Ferrand.
Bourdin, shorter and quite as stout as the huissier, formed himself on the model of his employer, whose magnificence he greatly admired. Very fond as he was of jewelry, he wore on this occasion a superb topaz pin, and a long gilt chain was visible through the buttonholes of his waistcoat.
"Good day, my faithful friend, Bourdin, I was sure you would not fail to come at my summons!" said Maître Boulard, in a joyful tone, and in a small, shrill voice, which contrasted singularly with his large carcass and full-moon face.
"Fail at your summons!" replied the bailiff; "I am incapable of such behaviour, mon général."
This was the appellation by which Bourdin, with a joke at once familiar and respectful, called the huissier, under whose orders he acted; this military appellation being very frequently used amongst certain classes of clerks and civil practitioners.
"I observe with pleasure that friendship remains faithful to misfortune!" said Maître Boulard, with gay cordiality. "However, I was getting a little uneasy, as three days had elapsed, and no Bourdin."
"Only imagine, mon général!—it is really quite a history. You remember that dashing vicomte in the Rue de Chaillot?"
"Saint-Remy?"
"Yes; you know how he laughed at all our attempts to 'nab' him?"
"Yes; he behaved very ill in that way."
"Well, this vicomte has got another title."
"What, is he a comte?"
"No, but from swindler he has become thief!"
"Ah, bah!"
"They are after him for some diamonds he has stolen; and, by the way, they belonged to the jeweller who used to employ that vermin of a Morel, the lapidary we were going to arrest in the Rue du Temple, when a tall, thin chap, with black moustaches, paid for this half-starved devil, and very nearly pitched me and Malicorne headlong down-stairs."
"Ah, yes, yes, I remember; you told me all about it, Bourdin,—it was really very droll! But as to this dashing vicomte?"
"Why, as I tell you, Saint-Remy was charged with robbery, after having made his worthy old father believe that he wished to blow out his brains. A police agent of my acquaintance, knowing that I had been long on the traces of the vicomte, asked me if I could not give him information so that he could 'grab' the dandy. I had learned (too late for myself) that he had 'run to earth' in a farm at Arnouville, five leagues from Paris; but when we got there the bird had flown!"
"But next day he paid that acceptance,—thanks, as I have heard say, to some rich woman!"
"Yes, general; but still I knew the nest, and he might have gone there again, and so I told my friend in the police. He proposed to me to give him a friendly cast of my office and show him the farm, and as I had nothing to do and it was a rural trip, I agreed."
"Well, and the vicomte?"
"Not to be found. After having lurked about the farm for some time, we gained admittance, and returned as wise as we went; and this is why I could not come to your orders sooner, general."
"I was sure it was something of this sort, my good fellow."
"But, if I may be allowed to ask, how the devil did you get here?"
"Wretches, my dear fellow, a set of wretches who, for a miserable sixty thousand francs of which they declare I have wronged them, have charged me with a breach of trust and compelled me to resign my office."
"Really, general! Well, that's unfortunate! And shall I then work for you no longer?"
"I am on half pay now, Bourdin,—on the retired list."
"But who are these vindictive persons?"
"Why, only imagine, one of the most savage of all is a liberated convict, who employed me to recover the amount of a bill of seven hundred miserable francs, for which it was requisite to bring an action. Well, I brought the action, and got the money and used it; and because, in consequence of some unsuccessful speculations, I swamped that money and several other sums, all these blackguards have assailed me with warrants; and so you find me here, my dear fellow, neither more nor less than a malefactor."
"And does it not alarm you, general?"
"Yes; but the oddest thing of all is that this convict wrote me word some days ago that this money being his sole resource for bad times, and these bad times having arrived (I don't know what he means by that), I was responsible for the crimes he might commit in order to escape from starvation."
"Amusing, 'pon my soul!"
"Very; and the fellow is capable of saying this, but fortunately the law does not recognise any such accompliceships."
"After all, you are only charged with breach of trust?"
"That is all. Do you take me for a thief, Maître Bourdin?"
"Oh, dear general! I meant to say there was nothing very serious in this."
"Why, I don't look very down, do I, my boy?"
"By no means; never saw you looking better. Indeed, if you are found guilty, you will only have two or three months, imprisonment and twenty-five francs fine. I know the law, you see!"
"And these two or three months I shall contrive, I know, to pass quietly in some infirmary. I have a deputy at my elbow."
"Oh, then, you're all right."
"Yes, Bourdin; and I can scarcely help laughing to think what little good the fools who put me here have done themselves,—they will not recover a sou of the money they claim. They compel me to sell my post,—what do I care?"
"True, general; it is only so much the worse for them."
"Yes, my boy. And now for the subject on which I was anxious to see you, Bourdin; it is a very delicate affair,—there is a lady in the case!" said Maître Boulard, with mysterious self-complacency.
"Oh, you gay deceiver! But, be it what it may, you may rely on me."
"I am greatly interested in the welfare of a young actress at the theatre of the Folies-Dramatiques. I pay her rent; but, you know, the absent are always in the wrong! Alexandrine has applied to me for money. Now I have never been a very gay fellow, but yet I do not like to be made a fool of; so, before I comply, I should like to know if the lady is faithful. I know there is nothing more absurd and uncommon than fidelity, and so you will do me a friendly service if you could just watch her for a few days and let me know your opinion, either by a talk with the porter at her abode or—"
"I understand, general," said Bourdin; "this is no worse than watching a debtor. Rely on me; I will have an eye to Mlle. Alexandrine,—although, I should say, you are too generous and too good-looking not to be adored!"
"My good looks are no use, my friend, so long as I am absent; and so I rely on you to discover the truth."
"Rely on me."
"How can I, my dear fellow, prove my gratitude?"
"Don't mention it, general."
"Pray understand, my dear Bourdin, that your fees in this case will be the same as if you were after an arrest."
"I can't allow it, general. As long as I act under your orders, have you not allowed me to shear the debtor to his very skin,—to double, treble, the costs of arrests? And have you not sued for those costs for me as eagerly as if they were due to yourself?"
"But, my dear fellow, this is very different; and, in my turn, I declare I will not allow it."
"Mon général, you will really make me quite ashamed if you do not allow me to make these inquiries as to Mlle. Alexandrine as a poor proof of my gratitude."
"Well, well; be it so. I will no longer contend with your generosity; and your devotion will be a sweet reward to me for considerations I have always mixed up in our transactions."
"Very good, general; and now we understand each other. Is there anything else I can do for you? You must be very uncomfortable here. I hope you are à la pistole (in a private room)?"
"Yes; I came just in time to get the only empty room,—the others are being repaired. I have made myself as comfortable as possible in my cell, and am not so very miserable. I have a stove and a very nice easy chair; I make three long meals a day, and my digestion is good; then I walk and go to sleep. Except my uneasiness about Alexandrine I have not so much to complain of."
"But for you who were such an epicure, general, the prison diet is very poor."
"Why, there is an excellent cookshop in my street, and I have a running account with him, and so every two days he sends me a very nice supply. And, by the way, I would get you to ask his wife—a nice little woman is Madame Michonneau—to put into the basket a bit of pickled thunny. It is in season now, and relishes one's wine."
"Capital idea!"
"And tell Madame Michonneau to send me a basket of various wines,—burgundy, champagne, and bordeaux,—like the last; she'll know what I mean. And tell her to put in two bottles of old cognac of 1817, and a pound of pure Mocha, fresh roasted and ground."
"I'll put down the date of the cognac, lest I should forget it," said Bourdin, taking a memorandum-book from his pocket.
"As you are writing, my good fellow, be so good as make a minute of my wish to have an eider-down quilt from my house."
"All shall be done to the letter, general; make your mind easy. And now I shall be comfortable about your living. But your walks; you are compelled to take them along with those ruffians confined here?"
"Yes; and it's really very lively and animated. I go down after breakfast; sometimes I go into one yard, sometimes another, and I mix with the mob. Really they appear very good sort of fellows! Some of them are very amusing. The most ferocious are collected in what is called the Fosse aux Lions. Ah, my good fellow, what hang-dog-looking fellows there are amongst them. There's one they call the Skeleton,—I never saw such a creature."
"What a singular name!"
"He is so thin, or rather bare of flesh, that this is the nickname which has been given to him; he is really frightful. He is, besides, director of his ward, and, moreover, an infernal villain. He has just left the galleys, and went directly to murder and assassination. But his last murder was really horrible, as he knew he should be condemned to death without chance of remission; but he laughs at it."
"What a scoundrel!"
"All the prisoners admire and tremble before him. I got into his good graces at once by offering him some cigars, and so he made a friend of me at once, and offered to teach me slang; and I have made considerable progress."
"Oh, what an idea!—my general learning slang!"
"I amuse myself as much as I can, and all these fellows adore me. I am not proud like a young fellow they call Germain, who gives himself the airs of a lord."
"But he must be delighted at meeting with such a gentleman as you, even if he is disgusted with the others."
"Why, really, he did not seem even to notice that I was there; but, if he had, I should have taken care how I took any notice of him. He is the bête noire of the whole prison, and some day or other they'll play him a slippery trick; and, pardieu! I have no wish to come in for my share of what may befall him."
"You're right."
"It would interfere with my pleasures, for my walk with the prisoners is really a pleasure to me; only these ruffians have no great opinion of me morally. You see, my accusation of a simple breach of trust is contemptible in the eyes of these out-and-outers; and they look on me as a nobody."
"Why, really, with such criminals you are—"
"A mere chicken, my dear fellow. But do not forget my commissions."
"Make your mind easy, general. First, Mlle. Alexandrine; second, the fish-pie and basket of wine; third, the old cognac of 1817, the ground coffee, and the eider-down quilt; you shall have it all. Is there anything else?"
"Yes, I forgot. You know the address of M. Badinot?"
"The agent? Yes."
"Well, be so kind as to call on him, and say that I rely on his friendship to find me a barrister such as my case requires, and that I shall not stand for forty or fifty pounds."
"I'll see M. Badinot, depend upon it, general; and all your commissions shall be attended to this evening, and to-morrow you shall receive all you wish for. So good day, and a happy meeting to us soon, mon général."
"Good-bye, my worthy friend!" And the prisoner quitted the parlour at one door, and the visitor by the other.
Let us now compare the crime of Pique-Vinaigre with that of M. Boulard, the huissier. Compare the beginning of the two, and the reasons, the necessities, which impelled them to evil. Compare, too, the punishment which awaited them respectively. The one, driven by his hunger and need, robs. He is apprehended, judged, and sentenced to fifteen or twenty years of hard labour and exposure. Property is sacred, and he who, in the night, breaks for plunder should undergo sacred punishment. But ought not the well-informed, intelligent, rich man who robs—not to satisfy hunger, but his caprices or gambling in the stocks—to be punished? Yet for the public spoliator there is two months' imprisonment; for the relapsed convict twenty years' hard labour and exposure. What can we add to these facts, which speak for themselves?
The old turnkey kept his word; and when Boulard left the parlour, Germain entered, and Rigolette was only separated from him by a light wire grating.
Although the features of Germain could not be styled regular, it was scarcely possible to see a more interesting countenance. There was an air of ease and elegance about him, while his slight, graceful figure, plain but neatly arranged dress (consisting of a pair of gray trousers and black frock coat, buttoned up to the chin), formed a striking contrast to the slovenliness and neglect to which the occupants of the prison generally gave themselves up; his white hands and well-trimmed nails evinced an attention to his personal appearance which had still further excited the ill-will of the prisoners against him, for bodily neglect is almost invariably the accompaniment of moral perversion. He wore his long and naturally curling chestnut hair parted on one side of his forehead, according to the fashion of the day, a style that well became his pale and melancholy countenance, and large, clear blue eyes, beaming with truth and candour; his smile, at once sweet and mournful, expressed benevolence of heart, mingled with a habitual dejection, for, though young, the unfortunate youth had already deeply tasted affliction.
Nothing could be imagined more touching than the look of suffering impressed on his features, while the gentle and resigned cast of his whole physiognomy was but a fair transcript of the mind within, for a better, purer, or more upright heart could scarcely have beaten in human form.
The very cause of his imprisonment (divested of the calumnious aggravations affixed to it by Jacques Ferrand) proved the goodness of his nature, and left him worthy of blame only for suffering himself to be led astray by his feelings to commit an action decidedly wrong, but still excusable if it be remembered that the son of Madame Georges felt perfectly sure of replacing on the following morning the sum temporarily taken from the notary's cash-box, for the purpose of saving Morel the lapidary, from being dragged from his family and confined in a prison.
Germain coloured slightly as he perceived, through the grating of the visitor's room, the bright and charming countenance of Rigolette, who strove, as usual, to appear gay, in hopes of encouraging and enlivening her protégé a little; but the poor girl was too bad a dissembler to conceal the sorrow and agitation she invariably experienced upon entering the prison. She was seated on a bench at the outside of the grating, holding her straw basket on her lap.
Instead of remaining in the adjoining passage, from whence every word could be heard, the old turnkey retired to the stove placed at the very extremity of the visiting-room, closed his eyes, and in a very few seconds was (as his breathing announced) fast asleep, leaving Germain and Rigolette at perfect liberty to converse at their ease.
"Now then, M. Germain," cried the grisette, placing her pretty face as closely as she could to the grate, the better to examine the features of her friend, "let me see what sort of a countenance you have got to-day, and whether it is less sad than it was? Humph, humph—only middling! Now, do you know that I've a great mind to be very angry with you?"
"Oh, no, you are too good for that. But how very kind of you to come again so soon!"
"So soon! Does it seem to you so soon? You mean by those words to reproach me for coming so frequently. Well—"
"Have I not good cause to find fault with you for taking so much pains and trouble for me, while I, alas! can merely thank you for all your goodness?"
"That is a little mistake of yours, my fussy friend, because the little services in my power to render you afford me quite as much pleasure as they do you; so that, you see, I am as much bound to say 'Thank you for all favours,' as you are. So, you see, I am not to be cheated that way. And now I think of it, the best way to punish you for such very improper ideas will be not to give you what I have brought for you."
"What! Another proof of your thoughtful care of me? Oh, you spoil me—you do, indeed! I shall be fit for nothing but to be somebody's pet when (if ever, alas!) I get out of prison. A thousand thanks! Nay, you must pardon my using that word, although it does displease you. But, indeed, you leave me nothing else to say."
"Ah, but don't be in such a hurry to thank me, before you even know what I have brought!"
"Why, what do I care what it is?"
"Well, I'm sure that's very civil, M. Germain!"
"Nay, I only meant to say that, be it what it may, it must needs be dear and precious to me, since it comes from you. Oh, Mlle. Rigolette, your unwearied kindness, your touching sympathy, fills me with the deepest gratitude, and—and—" But finding it impossible to conclude the sentence, Germain cast down his eyes and remained silent.
"Well," said Rigolette, "and what else?"
"And—devotion!" stammered out Germain.
"Why could you not have said 'respect,' as people write at the end of a letter?" asked Rigolette, impatiently. "Ah, but I know very well that was not what you were going to say, else why did you stop all of a sudden?"
"I assure you—"
"There, don't endeavour to assure me of anything; I can see you are blushing through this grating. Now why can't you speak out, and tell me every thought and wish of your heart? Am I not your true and faithful friend as well as old companion?" continued the grisette, timidly, for she but waited the confession of Germain's love for her to tell him frankly and sincerely how truly she returned his affection with a passion as true and as generous as his own.
"I assure you Mlle. Rigolette," said the poor prisoner with a sigh, "that I had nothing else to say, and that I am concealing nothing whatever from you."
"For shame for shame," cried Rigolette, stamping her foot; "don't tell such stories. Now, look here," continued she, drawing a large, white, woollen neck wrapper from her basket; "do you see this beautiful thing? Well, I brought it on purpose for you. But now—to punish you for being so deceitful and sly—I will not give it to you. I knitted it on purpose for you, too; for, said I, it must be so damp and cold in those yards in the prison. And this nice, soft, woollen handkerchief is just the thing to keep him warm; he is so delicate!"
"And is it possible you—"
"Yes, sir, I said you were delicate—and so you are," cried Rigolette, interrupting him. "I suppose I may recollect, if I please, how chilly you used to be of an evening, though all the time you tried to conceal it, that you might hinder me from putting more wood on my fire when you came to sit with me. I've got a good memory, I can tell you; so don't contradict me."
"And so have I," replied Germain, in a voice of deep feeling "far too good for my present position;" and, with these words, he passed his hand across his eyes.
"Now then, I declare, I believe you are falling into low spirits again, though I so strictly forbade it."
"How is it possible for me to avoid being moved even to tears, when I recollect all you have done for me ever since I entered this prison? And is not your last kind attention another proof of your amiable care for me? And do I not know that you are obliged to work at night to make up for the time it occupies for you to visit me in my misfortunes, and that on my account you impose additional labour and fatigue on yourself?"
"Oh, if that be all you have to be miserable about I beg you will make very short work of it. Truly, I deserve a great deal of pity for taking a nice refreshing walk two or three times a week just to see a friend—I who so dearly love walking—and having a good stare at all the pretty shops as I come along."
"And see, to-day, too, what weather you have ventured out in! Such wind and rain! Oh, it is too selfish of me to permit you thus to sacrifice your health for me!"
"Oh, bless you, the wind and rain only make the walk more amusing. You have no idea what very droll sights one sees,—first comes a party of men holding on their hats with both hands, to prevent the storm from carrying them away; then you see an unfortunate individual with his umbrella blown inside out, making the most ludicrous grimaces, and shutting his eyes while the wind drives him about like a peg-top. I declare, all the way I came along this morning, it was more diverting than going to a play. I thought I should make you laugh by telling you of it; but there you are looking more dull, and solid, and serious than ever!"
"Pray forgive me if I cannot be as mirthful as your kind heart would have me; you know I never have what is styled high spirits, and just now I feel it impossible even to affect them."
Rigolette was very desirous of concealing that, spite of her lively prattle, she was to the full as sad and heavy-hearted as Germain himself could be. She therefore hastened to change the conversation by saying:
"You say it is impossible for you to conquer your low spirits, but there are other things you choose to style impossibilities I have begged and prayed of you to do, because I very well know you could, if you chose."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean your obstinate avoidance of all the other prisoners, and never speaking to one of them; the turnkey has just been talking to me about it, and he says that for your own sake you ought to associate with them a little. I am sure it would not do you any harm; you do not speak; it is always the way. I see very well you will never be satisfied till these dreadful men have played you some dangerous trick in revenge."
"You know not the horror with which they inspire me, any more than you can guess the personal reasons I have for avoiding and execrating them, and all who resemble them."
"Indeed, but I do know your reasons! I read the accounts you wrote for me, and which I went to fetch away from your lodgings after your imprisonment; from them I learned all the dangers you had incurred upon your arrival in Paris, because, when you were in the country, you refused to participate in the crimes of the bad man who had brought you up; and that it was in consequence of the last snare they laid to catch you that you quitted the Rue du Temple, without telling any one but me where you had gone to. And I read something else, too, in those papers," said Rigolette, casting down her eyes, while a bright blush dyed her cheeks; "I read things that—that—"
"You would never have known, I solemnly declare," exclaimed Germain, eagerly, "had it not been for the misfortune which befell me. But let me ask you to be as generous as you are good; forget and pardon my past follies, my insane hopes. 'Tis true, in times past I ventured to indulge such dreams, wild and unfounded as they were."
Rigolette had endeavoured a second time to draw a confession of his love from the lips of Germain by alluding to those tender and passionate effusions written by him, and dedicated to the remembrance of the grisette, for whom, as we have before stated, he had always felt the sincerest affection; but, the better to preserve the confiding familiarity with which he was treated by his pretty neighbour, he concealed his regard under the semblance of friendship.
Rendered more timid and sensitive by imprisonment, he could not for an instant believe it possible for Rigolette to reciprocate the attachment of a poor prisoner like himself, whose character was, moreover, tarnished by so foul an accusation as he laboured under, while previous to this calamity she had never manifested more than a sisterly interest in him. The grisette, finding herself so little understood, stifled a sigh, and awaited with hopeful eagerness a better opportunity of opening the eyes of Germain to the real state of her heart. She contented herself, therefore, with merely replying:
"To be sure, it is quite natural the sight of these wicked men should fill you with horror and disgust; but that is no reason for your exposing yourself to unnecessary dangers."
"I assure you that, in order to follow your advice, I have endeavoured to force myself to converse with such as seemed the least depraved among them; but you can form no notion what dreadful men they are, or what shocking language they talk."
"I dare say they do, poor unfortunate creatures! It must be horrid to hear them."
"But there is something more terrible than that, the getting gradually used to the disgusting conversations which, in spite of yourself, you are compelled to hear all day long. Yes, I am sorry to say, I now hear with gloomy indifference horrible remarks and speeches that would have excited my utmost indignation when I first came here. So, you see," continued Germain, bitterly, "I begin to be more afraid of myself than I am of them."
"Oh, M. Germain!"
"I am sure of it," pursued the unfortunate young man. "After a residence within a prison in company with such as are always to be found assembled there, the mind becomes accustomed to guilty thoughts, in the same manner as the ear gets inured to the coarse and vulgar expressions continually in use. Oh, God, I can well believe how possible it is to enter these walls innocent of the crimes ascribed to one, and to leave them with principles utterly and irretrievably perverted!"
"But you never could be so changed! Oh, no, not you!"
"Ay, me, and others twenty times better than myself! Alas, alas! those who condemn men to this fearful association little think that they expose their fellow creatures to breathe an air laden with the direst moral contagion, and inevitably fatal to every right or honourable feeling!"
"Pray do not go on so! You know not how you grieve me!"
"Nay, I but wished to explain to you why I am daily more and more melancholy. I wished not to have said so much, but I have only one way of repaying the pity you have evinced for me."
"Pity? Pity? Indeed—"
"Pardon me for interrupting you, but the only way by which I can acquit myself towards you is to speak with perfect candour; and, with shuddering alarm, I confess that I am no longer the same person I was. In vain do I fly these unfortunate wretches, their very presence, their contact seems to take effect on me; in spite of myself, I seem to feel a fatal influence in breathing the same atmosphere, as though the moral pestilence entered at every pore, and rested not till it had mingled with the heart's blood. Should I even be acquitted on my trial, the very sight of, and association with, good and virtuous men would cover me with shame and confusion; for, though I have not yet been able to find pleasure in the society of my companions, I have, at least, learned to dread the day when I shall again mix with persons of respectability, because now I am conscious of my weakness and cowardice; for is not he guilty of both who dares to make a compromise with his duties or his honesty? And have not I done so? When I first came here I did not deceive myself as to the extent of my fault, however excusable the circumstances under which it was committed might have seemed to make it; but now it appears to me an offence of a trifling description when compared with the crimes of which the robbers and murderers by whom I am surrounded make daily boast. And I sometimes surprise myself envying their audacious indifference, and blaming myself with my own weak regrets for so insignificant an action."
"And so it was an insignificant action, far more generous than wrong. Why, what did you do but borrow for a few hours a sum of money you knew you could replace on the following morning; and that, too, not for yourself, but to save a whole family from ruin, perhaps death."
"That matters not, it was a theft in the eyes of the law and all honest men. Doubtless it is better to rob with a good motive than a bad one, but it is a fearful thing to be obliged to seek an excuse for oneself by comparing one's own guilt with that of persons far beneath ourselves. I can no longer venture to compare my actions with those of upright persons, consequently, then, I am compelled to institute a comparison between myself and the degraded beings with whom I live; so that I plainly perceive in the end the conscience becomes hardened and is put to sleep. The next theft I commit, probably without the prospect of replacing the money, but from mere cupidity, I might still find an excuse for myself by comparing my conduct with that of a man who adds murder to theft; and yet at this moment there is as great a difference between me and a murderer as there is between a person of untainted character and myself. So, because there are beings a thousand times more degraded and debased than I am, by degrees my own degradation would become diminished in my estimation; instead of being able to say, as I once could, 'I am as honest a man as any I meet with,' I shall be obliged to content myself with saying I am the least guilty of the vile wretches among whom I am condemned for ever to live."
"Oh, do not say for ever! Once released from this place—"
"What should I gain even then? The lost creatures by whom I am surrounded are perfectly well acquainted with my person, and, were I even to be set free, I am exposed to the chance of meeting them again, and being hailed as a prison associate; and even though the fact of my imprisonment might be unknown, these unprincipled beings would be for ever threatening me to divulge it, thereby holding me completely in their power, by bands too firm for me to hope to break; while, on the other hand, had I been kept confined in my cell until my trial, they would have known nothing of me, or I of them; so that I should have escaped the fears which may paralyse my best resolutions. And, besides, had I been permitted to contemplate my fault in the solitude of my cell, instead of decreasing in my eyes, its enormity would have appeared still greater; and in the same proportion would the expiation I proposed to make have been augmented; and as my sin grew more and more apparent to my unbiassed view, so also would my earnest determination to atone for it by every means my humble sphere afforded have been strengthened; for well I know it takes a hundred good deeds to efface the recollection of one bad.
"But how can I ever expect to turn my thoughts towards expiating a crime which scarcely awakens in me the smallest remorse? I tell you again—and I feel what I say—that I seem acting under some irresistible influence, against which I have long and fruitlessly struggled. I was brought up for evil, and, alone, friendless, and powerless to resist, I yield to my destiny. What matters it whether that destiny be accomplished by honest or dishonest means? Yet Heaven knows my thoughts and intentions were ever pure and upright; and I felt the greater satisfaction in the possession of an unsullied reputation, from recollection of all the attempts that had been made to lead me to a life of infamy; and mine has been a course of infinite difficulty while seeking to free myself from the odious wretches who wished to degrade me, and render me as vile as themselves.
"But what avails my having been a person of unblemished honour and unspotted reputation? What am I now? Oh, dreadful, dreadful contrast!" exclaimed the unhappy prisoner, in an agony of tears and sobs, which drew a plenteous shower of sympathising drops from the tender-hearted grisette, who, guided by her natural right-mindedness, her woman's wit, as well as warmed by her deep affection for Germain, clearly perceived that, although as yet her protégé had lost none of the scrupulous notions of honour and probity he had ever entertained, yet that he spoke truly when he expressed his dread that the day might come when he would behold with guilty indifference those words and actions he now shuddered even to think of.
Drying her eyes, therefore, and addressing Germain, who was still leaning his forehead against the grating, she said, in a voice and manner more touchingly serious than Germain had ever before observed:
"Listen to me, Germain! I shall not, perhaps, be able to express myself as I could wish, for I am not a good speaker like you, but what I do say is uttered in all sincerity and truth; but first I must tell you you have no right to call yourself alone and friendless."
"Oh, think not I can ever forget all your generous compassion has induced you to do to serve me!"
"Just now, when you used the word pity, I did not interrupt you; but now that you repeat the word, or at least one quite as bad, I must tell you quite plainly that I feel neither pity nor compassion for you, but quite a different—Stay, I will try and explain myself as well as I can. While we were next-door neighbours, I felt for you all the regard due to one I esteemed as a friend and brother. We mutually aided each other; you shared with me all your Sunday amusements, and I did my very best to look as well and be as gay and entertaining as I could, in order to show how much I was gratified; so there again we were quits."
"Quits? Oh, no, no! I—"
"Now, do hold your tongue, and let me speak! I'm sure you have had all the talk to yourself this long while. When you were obliged to quit the house we lodged in, I felt more sorrow at your departure than I had ever done before."
"Is it possible?"
"Yes, indeed, for all the other persons who had lived in your apartments were careless creatures, whom I did not care a pin for; while you, from the very first of our acquaintance, seemed just the sort of person I wanted to be my neighbour, because you could understand that I wished us to be good friends, and nothing more. Then you were so ready to pass all your spare time with me, teaching me to write, giving me good advice,—a little serious, to be sure, but all the better for that. You were ever kind and good, yet never presumed upon it in any way; and even when compelled to change your lodging, you confided to me a secret you would not have trusted to any one else,—the name of your new abode; and that made me so proud and happy, to think you should have so much reliance on the silence and friendship of a giddy girl like myself. I used to think of you so constantly that at last every other person seemed to be banished from my recollection, and you alone to occupy my memory. Pray don't turn away as if you did not believe me. You know I always speak the truth."
"Indeed, indeed, I can scarcely believe that you were kind enough thus to remember me."
"Oh, but I did, though; and I should have been very ungrateful had I acted otherwise. Sometimes I used to say to myself, 'M. Germain is the very nicest young man I know, though he is rather too serious at times; but never mind that. If I had a friend whom I wished to be very, very happy when she was married, I certainly should recommend her marrying M. Germain, who would make just such a husband as a good wife deserves to meet with.'"
"You remembered me then, it seems, for the sake of bestowing me on another," murmured poor Germain, almost involuntarily.
"Yes, and I should have been delighted to have helped you to obtain a good wife, because I felt a real and friendly interest in your happiness. You see I speak without any reserve; you know I never could disguise my thoughts."
"Well, I can but thank you for caring enough about me even to wish to dispose of me in marriage to one of your acquaintances."
"This was the state of things when your troubles came upon you, and you sent me that poor, dear letter in which you acquainted me with what you styled your fault, but which, to an ignorant mind like my own, seemed a noble and generous action. That letter directed me to go and fetch away your papers, among which I found the confession of your love for me,—a love you had never ventured to reveal; and there, too," continued Rigolette, unable longer to restrain her tears, "I learned that, kindly considering my future prospects (illness or want of employ might render so distressing), you wished, in the event of your dying a violent death (as your fears foretold might be the case), to secure to me the trifle you had accumulated by industry and care."
"I did; and surely if, during my lifetime, you had been overtaken by sickness or any other misfortune, you would sooner have accepted assistance from me than from any other living creature, would you not? I flattered myself so, at least. Tell me, tell—I was right, that to me you would have turned for succour and support as to any true and devoted friend?"
"Of course I should! Who else should I have thought of in any hour of need or sorrow but you, M. Germain?"
"Thanks, thanks! Your words fall like healing drops upon my heart, and console me for all I have suffered."
"But how shall I attempt to describe to you what I felt while reading that—oh, it is a dreadful word to utter!—that will, each word of which breathed only care and solicitude for my future welfare? And yet these tender, touching proofs of your sincere regard were to have been concealed from me till your death. Surely it was not strange that conduct so generous and delicate should at once have converted my feelings towards you into those of an affection sincere and fervent as your own for me. That is easily understood, is it not, M. Germain?"
The large dark eyes of Rigolette were fixed on Germain with an expression so earnest and tender, her sweet voice pronounced the simple confession of her love in a tone so touchingly true to nature, that Germain, who had never for one instant flattered himself with having awakened so warm an interest in the heart of the grisette, gazed on her for an instant in utter inability to believe the words he heard; then, as the bright beaming look he encountered conveyed the truth to his mind, his colour varied from deepest red to deadly pale, he cried out in a voice quivering with emotion:
"Can it be? Do I hear aright? Ah, repeat those dear words that I may feel convinced of their reality."
"Why should I hesitate to assure you again and again that when I learned your kind consideration for me, and remembered how miserable and wretched you were, I no longer felt for you the calm feelings of friendship? And certainly, M. Germain," added Rigolette, smilingly, while a rosy blush mantled her intelligent features, "if I had a friend now I wished to see well married, I should be very sorry indeed to recommend her choosing you, because, because—"
"You would marry me yourself!" exclaimed the delighted young man.
"You compel me to tell you so myself, since you will not ask it of me."
"Can this be possible?"
"It is not from not having put you in the direct path more than once to make you understand. But you will not take a hint, and so, sir, I am compelled to confess the thing myself. It is wrong, perhaps; but, as there is no one but yourself to reprove my boldness, I have less fear; and then," added Rigolette, in a more serious tone, and with tender emotion, "you just now appeared to me so greatly overcome, so despairing, that I could no longer repress my feelings; and I had vanity enough to believe that this avowal, frankly made and from my heart, would prevent you from being unhappy in future. I said to myself, 'Until now I had been able to amuse or comfort him—' Ah, mon Dieu! what is the matter?" exclaimed Rigolette, seeing Germain conceal his face in his hands. "Is not this cruel?" she added; "whatever I do, whatever I say, you are still as wretched as ever, and that is being too unkind—too selfish; it is as if it were you only who suffered from sorrows!"
"Alas, what misery is mine!" exclaimed Germain, with despair; "you love me when I am no longer worthy of you."
"Not worthy of me? Why, how can you talk so absurdly? It is just as if I said that I was not formerly worthy of your friendship because I had been in prison; for, after all, I have been a prisoner also; but am I the less an honest girl?"
"But you were in prison because you were a poor forsaken girl; whilst I—alas, what a difference!"
"Well, then, as to prison, we shall neither of us ever have anything to reproach each other with. It is I who am the more ambitious of the two; for, in my position, I have no right to think of any person but a workman for my husband. I was a foundling, and have nothing but my small apartment and my good spirits, and yet I come and boldly offer myself to you as a wife."
"Alas, formerly such a destiny would have been the dream—the happiness of my life! But now I am under the odium of an infamous accusation; and should I take advantage of your excessive generosity, your commiseration, which no doubt misleads you? No, no!"
"But," exclaimed Rigolette, with pained impatience, "I tell you that it is not pity I feel for you, it is love! I think of you only; I no longer sleep or eat. Your sad and gentle countenance follows me everywhere. Can that be pity only? Now, when you speak to me, your voice, your look, go to my very heart. There are a thousand things in you now which please me, and which I had not before marked. I like your face, I like your eyes, your appearance, your disposition, your good heart. Is that pity? Why, after having loved you as a friend, do I love you as a lover? I cannot say. Why was I light and gay when I liked you as a friend? Why am I quite a different being now I love you as a lover? I do not know. Why have I been so slow in finding you at once handsome and good,—in loving you at once with eyes and heart? I cannot say—or rather, yes—I can; it is because I have discovered how much you love me without having told me of it,—how generous and devoted you were. Then love mounted from my heart to my eyes, as a tear does when the heart is softened."
"Really, I seem to be in a dream when I hear you speak thus!"
"And I never could have believed that I could have told you all this, but your despair has forced me to it. Well, sir, now you know I love you as my friend, my lover—as my husband! Will you still call it pity?"
The generous scruples of Germain were overcome in an instant before this plain and devoted confession, a hopeful joy prevailed over his painful reflections.
"You love me?" he cried; "I believe you; your accent, your look,—everything proclaims it! I will not ask how I have merited such happiness, but I abandon myself to it blindly; my life, my whole life, will not suffice to pay my debt to you! Oh, I have greatly suffered already, but this moment effaces all!"
"Then you will be comforted at last? Oh, I was sure I should contrive to do so!" cried Rigolette, in a transport of joy.
"And it is in the midst of the horrors of a prison, and when all conspires to overwhelm me, that such happiness—"
Germain could not conclude. This thought reminded him of the reality of his position. His scruples, for a moment lost sight of, returned more severe than ever, and he said, with despair:
"But I am a prisoner—I am accused of robbery; I shall be sentenced—dishonoured, perhaps! And I cannot accept of your generous sacrifice—profit by your noble excitement. Oh, no, no; I am not such a villain as that!"