Mysteries of Paris - Volume 5 — Ch. 6 Pique Vinaigre - Part 2

Rigolette, alone and pensively inclined, had not lost a word of all that tale of woe breathed by the poor, suffering, and patient wife into her brother's ear; while her naturally kind heart deeply sympathised with all she heard, and she fully resolved upon relating the whole history to Rodolph the very first time she saw him, feeling quite sure of his ready and benevolent aid in succouring them.

Deeply interested in the mournful fate of the sister of Pique-Vinaigre, she could not take her eyes from the poor woman's face, and was endeavouring to draw a little closer to her; but unluckily, just at that moment, a fresh visitant, entering the room, inquired for a prisoner, and while the person he wished to see was sent for, he very coolly seated himself on the bench between Jeanne and the grisette, who, at the sight of the individual who so unceremoniously interrupted her making closer acquaintance with her neighbour, felt a degree of surprise almost amounting to fear, for in him she recognised one of the bailiffs sent by Jacques Ferrand to arrest poor Morel, the lapidary.

This circumstance, recalling as it did to the mind of Rigolette the implacable enemy of Germain, redoubled her sadness, which had been in some manner diverted while listening to the touching recital of the unfortunate sister of Pique-Vinaigre.

Retreating from the fresh arrival as far as she could, the grisette leaned her back against the wall, and once more relapsed into her mournful ruminations.

"Look here, Jeanne!"

cried Pique-Vinaigre, whose mirthful, pleasure-loving countenance was suddenly overcast by a deep gloom; "I am by nature neither very strong nor very courageous; but, certainly, if I had chanced to have been by when your husband so shamefully treated you, I don't think I should have let him slip through my fingers without leaving my mark.

But you were too good for him, and you put up with more than you ought!"

"Why, what would you have had me do?

I was obliged to endure what I could not avoid.

So long as there remained an article that would fetch money did my husband sell it, even to the frock of my little girl, and then repair to the alehouse with his mistress."

"But why did you give him your daily earnings?

--you should have hid them from him."

"So I did; but he beat me so dreadfully that I was obliged to give them to him.

I cared less for the blows he gave me than because I dreaded his doing me some bodily injury, such as breaking my arm and dislocating my wrist, that would have hindered me from working; and then, what would have become of my poor children?

Suppose I had been compelled to go to a hospital, they must have perished with hunger.

So, you see, brother, I thought it was better to give up my earnings to my husband than run the risk of being lamed by him."

"Poor woman!

People talk of martyrs, but what martyrdom can exceed what you have endured?"

"And yet I can truly say I never injured a living creature, and my only desire was to work hard and do my duty to my husband and children.

But it is no use thinking about it; there are fortunate and unfortunate persons, just the same as there are good people and bad people in the world!"

"True; and it is a beautiful sight to see how happy and prosperous the good always are,--aren't they, sister?

And do you now believe yourself for ever freed from your scoundrel of a husband?"

"I trust so.

He staid till he had sold even my bedstead and the cradle in which my youngest child lay.

But when I think that, even more than that, he wished--" "What did he wish?"

"When I say he, I ought rather to tell you that it was rather that wicked woman who urged him on.

One day he said to me, 'I tell you what, when folks have a pretty girl of fifteen belonging to them, they are cursed fools if they do not turn her to good account.'

" "Oh, to be sure!

When he had sold the poor girl's clothes, he was willing to sell her also."

"When I heard him say those dreadful words I lost all command over myself, and, I promise you, I did not spare him all the reproaches he merited.

And when his vile paramour took upon herself to interfere, and say that my husband had a right to do what he liked with his own child, I could contain myself no longer; but I fell with all my fury on the wretched creature.

This obtained for me a severe beating from my husband, who then left me; and I have never seen him since."

"I tell you, Jeanne, that there are men condemned to ten years' punishment and imprisonment who have not done so much to deserve it as your husband has done."

"Still he had not a bad heart.

It was his frequenting alehouses, and the bad companions he met there who made him the lost creature he is."

"True, he would not hurt a child; but a grown-up person he was not so very particular."

[Illustration: "_Then Left Me_" Original Etching by Adrian Marcel] "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 abbe 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 Fortune.

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, Fortune, 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, Fortune," 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, Fortune!"

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 re-enter 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.

CHAPTER VII.