Collected Works of Eugène Sue Page 3

  The Goualeuse was, perhaps, about sixteen and a half years old. A forehead, of the purest and whitest, surmounted a face of perfect oval and angel-like expression; a fringe of eyelids, so long that they curled slightly, half veiled her large blue eyes, which had a melancholy expression. The down of early youth graced cheeks lightly coloured with a scarlet tinge. Her small and rosy mouth, which hardly ever smiled, her nose, straight, and delicately chiselled, her rounded chin, had, in their combined expression, a nobility and a sweetness such as we can only find in the most beautiful of Raphael’s portraits. On each side of her fair temples was a band of hair, of the most splendid auburn hue, which descended in luxuriant ringlets half way down her cheeks, and was then turned back behind the ear, a portion of which — ivory shaded with carnation — was thus visible, and was then lost under the close folds of a large cotton handkerchief, with blue checks, tied, as it is called, en marmotte. Her graceful neck, of dazzling whiteness, was encircled by a small necklace of grains of coral. Her gown, of brown stuff, though much too large, could not conceal a charming form, supple and round as a cane; a worn-out small orange-coloured shawl, with green fringe, was crossed over her bosom.

  The lovely voice of the Goualeuse had made a strong impression on her unknown defender, and, in sooth, that voice, so gentle, so deliciously modulated and harmonious, had an attraction so irresistible that the horde of villains and abandoned women, in the midst of whom this unfortunate girl lived, often begged her to sing, and listened to her with rapture.

  The Goualeuse had another name, given, doubtless, to the maiden sweetness of her countenance, — she was also called Fleur-de-Marie.

  The defender of La Goualeuse (we shall call the unknown Rodolph) appeared about thirty-six years of age; his figure, tall, graceful, and admirably proportioned, yet did not betoken the astonishing vigour which he had displayed in his rencounter with the Chourineur.

  It would have been difficult to assign a decided character to the physiognomy of Rodolph. Certain wrinkles in his forehead betokened a man of meditation; and yet the firm expression of his mouth, the dignified and bold carriage of the head, assured us of the man of action, whose physical strength and presence of mind would always command an ascendancy over the multitude.

  The Chourineur, Rodolph, and La Goualeuse

  Etching by Adrian Marcel, after the drawing by Frank T. Merrill

  In his struggle with the Chourineur, Rodolph had neither betrayed anger nor hatred. Confident in his own strength, his address, and agility, he had only shown a contempt for the brute beast which he subdued.

  We will finish this bodily picture of Rodolph by saying that his features, regularly handsome, seemed too beautiful for a man. His eyes were large, and of a deep hazel, his nose aquiline, his chin rather projecting, his hair bright chestnut, of the same shade as his eyebrows, which were strongly arched, and his small moustache, which was fine and silky. Thanks to the manners and the language which he assumed with so much ease, Rodolph was exactly like the other guests of the ogress. Round his graceful neck, as elegantly modelled as that of the Indian Bacchus, he wore a black cravat, carelessly tied, the ends of which fell on the collar of his blue blouse. A double row of nails decorated his heavy shoes, and, except that his hands were of most aristocratic shape, nothing distinguished him from the other guests of the tapis-franc; though, in a moral sense, his resolute air, and what we may term his bold serenity, placed an immense distance between them.

  On entering the tapis-franc, the Chourineur, laying one of his heavy hands on the shoulders of Rodolph, cried, “Hail the conqueror of the Chourineur! Yes, my boys, this springald has floored me; and if any young gentleman wishes to have his ribs smashed, or his ‘nob in Chancery,’ even including the Schoolmaster and the Skeleton, here is their man; I will answer for him, and back him!”

  At these words, all present, from the ogress to the lowest ruffian of the tapis-franc, contemplated the victor of the Chourineur with respect and fear. Some, moving their glasses and jugs to the end of the table at which they were seated, offered Rodolph a seat, if he were inclined to sit near them; others approached the Chourineur, and asked him, in a low voice, for the particulars of this unknown, who had made his entrance into their world in so striking a manner.

  Then the ogress, accosting Rodolph with one of her most gracious smiles, — a thing unheard of, and almost deemed fabulous, in the annals of the White Rabbit, — rose from the bar to take the orders of her guest, and know what he desired to have for the refreshment of his party, — an attention which she did not evince either to the Schoolmaster or the Skeleton, two fearful ruffians, who made even the Chourineur tremble.

  One of the men with the villainous aspect, whom we have before described as being very pale, hiding his left hand, and continually pulling his cap over his brows, leaned towards the ogress, who was carefully wiping the table where Rodolph had taken his seat, and said to her, in a hoarse tone, “Hasn’t the Gros-Boiteux been here to-day?”

  “No,” said Mother Ponisse.

  “Nor yesterday?”

  “Yes, he came yesterday.”

  “Was Calebasse with him, — the daughter of Martial, who was guillotined? You know whom I mean, — the Martials of the Ile de Ravageur?”

  “What! do you take me for a spy, with your questions? Do you think I watch my customers?” said the ogress, in a brutal tone.

  “I have an appointment to-night with the Gros-Boiteux and the Schoolmaster,” replied the fellow; “we have some business together.”

  “That’s your affair, — a set of ruffians, as you are, altogether.”

  “Ruffians!” said the man, much incensed; “it is such ruffians you get your living by.”

  “Will you hold your jaw?” said the Amazon, with a threatening gesture, and lifting, as she spoke, the pitcher she held in her hand.

  The man resumed his place, grumbling as he did so.

  “The Gros-Boiteux has, perhaps, stayed to give that young fellow Germain, who lives in the Rue du Temple, his gruel,” said he, to his companion.

  “What, do they mean to do for him?”

  “No, not quite, but to make him more careful in future. It appears he has ‘blown the gaff’ in the job at Nantes, so Bras Rouge declares.”

  “Why, that is Gros-Boiteux’s affair; he has only just left prison, and has his hands full already.”

  Fleur-de-Marie had followed the Chourineur into the tavern of the ogress, and he, responding to a nod given to him by the young scamp with the jaded aspect, said, “Ah, Barbillon! what, pulling away at the old stuff?”

  “Yes; I would rather fast, and go barefoot any day, than be without my drops for my throttle, and the weed for my pipe,” said the rapscallion, in a thick, low, hoarse voice, without moving from his seat, and puffing out volumes of tobacco-smoke.

  “Good evening, Fleur-de-Marie,” said the ogress, looking with a prying eye on the clothes of the poor girl, — clothes which she had lent her. After her scrutiny, she said, in a tone of coarse satisfaction, “It’s really a pleasure — so it is — to lend one’s good clothes to you; you are as clean as a kitten, or else I would never have trusted you with that shawl. Such a beauty as that orange one is, I would never have trusted it to such gals as Tourneuse and Boulotte; but I have taken every care on you ever since you came here six weeks ago; and, if the truth must be said, there is not a tidier nor more nicer girl than you in all the Cité; that there ain’t; though you be al’ays so sad like, and too particular.”

  The Goualeuse sighed, turned her head, and said nothing.

  “Why, mother,” said Rodolph to the old hag, “you have got some holy boxwood, I see, over your cuckoo,” and he pointed with his finger to the consecrated bough behind the old clock.

  “Why, you heathen, would you have us live like dogs?” replied the ogress. Then addressing Fleur-de-Marie, she added, “Come, now, Goualeuse, tip us one of your pretty little ditties” (goualantes).

  “Supper, supper first, Mother Ponisse,” sa
id the Chourineur.

  “Well, my lad of wax, what can I do for you?” said the ogress to Rodolph, whose good-will she was desirous to conciliate, and whose support she might, perchance, require.

  “Ask the Chourineur; he orders, I pay.”

  “Well, then,” said the ogress, turning to the bandit, “what will you have for supper, you ‘bad lot?’”

  “Two quarts of the best wine, at twelve sous, three crusts of wheaten bread, and a harlequin,” said the Chourineur, after considering for a few moments what he should order.

  A “harlequin” is a collection of odds and ends of fish, flesh, and fowl, after they come from table, which the Parisian, providing for the class to which the Chourineur belongs, finds a profitable and popular composition.

  “Ah! you are a dainty dog, I know, and as fond as ever of them harlequins.”

  “Well, now, Goualeuse,” said the Chourineur, “are you hungry?”

  “No, Chourineur.”

  “Would you like anything better than a harlequin, my lass?” said Rodolph.

  “No, I thank you; I have no appetite.”

  “Come, now,” said the Chourineur, with a brutal grin, “look my master in the face like a jolly wench. You have no objection, I suppose?”

  The poor girl blushed, and did not look at Rodolph. A few moments afterwards, and the ogress herself placed on the table a pitcher of wine, bread, and a harlequin, of which we will not attempt to give an idea to the reader, but which appeared most relishing to the Chourineur; for he exclaimed, “Dieu de Dieu! what a dish! What a glorious dish! It is a regular omnibus; there is something in it to everybody’s taste. Those who like fat can have it; so can they who like lean; as well as those who prefer sugar, and those who choose pepper. There’s tender bits of chicken, biscuit, sausage, tarts, mutton-bones, pastry crust, fried fish, vegetables, woodcock’s heads, cheese, and salad. Come, eat, Goualeuse, eat; it is so capital! You have been to a wedding breakfast somewhere this morning.”

  “No more than on other mornings. I ate this morning, as usual, my ha’porth of milk, and my ha’porth of bread.”

  The entrance of another personage into the cabaret interrupted all conversation for a moment, and everybody turned his head in the direction of the newcomer, who was a middle-aged man, active and powerful, wearing a loose coat and cap. He was evidently quite at home in the tapis-franc, and, in language familiar to all the guests, requested to be supplied with supper. He was so placed that he could observe the two ill-looking scoundrels who had asked after Gros-Boiteux and the Schoolmaster. He did not take his eyes off them; but in consequence of their position, they could not see that they were the objects of such marked and constant attention.

  The conversation, momentarily interrupted, was resumed. In spite of his natural audacity, the Chourineur showed a deference for Rodolph, and abstained from familiarity.

  “By Jove,” said he to Rodolph, “although I have smarted for it, yet I am very glad to have met with you.”

  “What! because you relish the harlequin?”

  “Why, may be so; but more because I am all on the fret to see you ‘serve out’ the Schoolmaster. To see him who has always crowed over me, crowed over in his turn would do me good.”

  “Do you suppose, then, that for your amusement I mean to spring at the Schoolmaster, and pin him like a bull-dog?”

  “No, but he’ll have at you in a moment, when he learns that you are a better man than he,” replied the Chourineur, rubbing his hands.

  “Well, I have coin enough left to pay him in full,” said Rodolph, in a careless tone; “but it is horrible weather: what say you to a cup of brandy with sugar in it?”

  “That’s the ticket!” said the Chourineur.

  “And, that we may be better acquainted, we will tell each other who we are,” added Rodolph.

  “The Albinos called the Chourineur a freed convict, worker at the wood that floats at St. Paul’s Quay; frozen in the winter, scorched in the summer, from twelve to fifteen hours a day in the water; half man, half frog; that’s my description,” said Rodolph’s companion, making him a military salute with his left hand. “Well, now, and you, my master, this is your first appearance in the Cité. I don’t mean anything to offend; but you entered head foremost against my skull, and beating the drum on my carcass. By all that’s ugly, what a rattling you made, especially with these blows with which you doubled me up! I never can forget them — thick as buttons — what a torrent! But you have some trade besides ‘polishing off’ the Chourineur?”

  “I am a fan-painter, and my name is Rodolph.”

  “A fan-painter! Ah! that’s the reason, then, that your hands are so white,” added the Chourineur. “If all your fellow workmen are like you, there must be a tidy lot of you. But, as you are a workman, what brings you to a tapis-franc in the Cité, where there are only prigs, cracksmen or freed convicts like myself, and who only come here because we cannot go elsewhere? This is no place for you. Honest mechanics have their coffee-shops, and don’t talk slang.”

  “I come here because I like good company.”

  “Gammon!” said the Chourineur, shaking his head with an air of doubt. “I found you in the passage of Bras Rouge. Well, man, never mind. You say you don’t know him?”

  “What do you mean with all your nonsense about your Bras Rouge? Let him go to the—”

  “Stay, master of mine. You, perhaps, distrust me; but you are wrong, and if you like I will tell you my history; but that is on condition that you teach me how to give those precious thumps which settled my business so quickly. What say you?”

  “I agree, Chourineur; tell me your story, and Goualeuse will also tell hers.”

  “Very well,” replied the Chourineur; “it is not weather to turn a mangy cur out-of-doors, and it will be an amusement. Do you agree, Goualeuse?”

  “Oh, certainly; but my story is a very short one,” said Fleur-de-Marie.

  “And you will have to tell us your history, comrade Rodolph,” added the Chourineur.

  “Well, then, I’ll begin.”

  “Fan-painter!” said Goualeuse, “what a very pretty trade!”

  “And how much can you earn if you stick close to work?” inquired the Chourineur.

  “I work by the piece,” responded Rodolph; “my good days are worth three francs, sometimes four, in summer, when the days are long.”

  “And you are idle sometimes, you rascal?”

  “Yes, as long as I have money, though I do not waste it. First, I pay ten sous for my night’s lodging.”

  “Your pardon, monseigneur; you sleep, then, at ten sous, do you?” said the Chourineur, raising his hand to his cap.

  The word monseigneur, spoken ironically by the Chourineur, caused an almost imperceptible smile on the lips of Rodolph, who replied, “Oh, I like to be clean and comfortable.”

  “Here’s a peer of the realm for you! a man with mines of wealth!” exclaimed the Chourineur; “he pays ten sous for his bed!”

  “Well, then,” continued Rodolph, “four sous for tobacco; that makes fourteen sous; four sous for breakfast, eighteen; fifteen sous for dinner; one or two sous for brandy; that all comes to about thirty-four or thirty-five sous a day. I have no occasion to work all the week, and so the rest of the time I amuse myself.”

  “And your family?” said the Goualeuse.

  “Dead,” replied Rodolph.

  “Who were your friends?” asked the Goualeuse.

  “Dealers in old clothes and marine stores under the pillars of the market-place.”

  “How did you spend what they left you?” inquired the Chourineur.

  “I was very young, and my guardian sold the stock; and, when I came of age, he brought me in his debtor for thirty francs; that was my inheritance.”

  “And who is now your employer?” the Chourineur demanded.

  “His name is Gauthier, in the Rue des Bourdonnais, a beast — brute — thief — miser! He would almost as soon lose the sight of an eye as pay his workmen. Now t
his is as true a description as I can give you of him; so let’s have done with him. I learned my trade under him from the time when I was fifteen years of age; I have a good number in the Conscription, and my name is Rodolph Durand. My history is told.”

  “Now it’s your turn, Goualeuse,” said the Chourineur; “I keep my history till last, as a bonne bouche.”

  CHAPTER III.

  HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE.

  “LET US BEGIN at the beginning,” said the Chourineur.

  “Yes; your parents?” added Rodolph.

  “I never knew them,” said Fleur-de-Marie.

  “The deuce!” said the Chourineur. “Well, that is odd, Goualeuse! you and I are of the same family.”

  “What! you, too, Chourineur?”

  “An orphan of the streets of Paris like you, my girl.”

  “Then who brought you up, Goualeuse?” asked Rodolph.

  “I don’t know, sir. As far back as I can remember — I was, I think, about six or seven years old — I was with an old one-eyed woman, whom they call the Chouette, because she had a hooked nose, a green eye quite round, and was like an owl with one eye out.”

  The Screech-owl.

  “Ha! ha! ha! I think I see her, the old night-bird!” shouted the Chourineur, laughing.

  “The one-eyed woman,” resumed Fleur-de-Marie, “made me sell barley-sugar in the evenings on the Pont Neuf; but that was only an excuse for asking charity; and when I did not bring her in at least ten sous, the Chouette beat me instead of giving me any supper.”

  “Are you sure the woman was not your mother?” inquired Rodolph.

  “Quite sure; for she often scolded me for being fatherless and motherless, and said she picked me up one day in the street.”