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The Mysteries of Paris. Эжен Сю
Читать онлайн.Название The Mysteries of Paris
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isbn 4064066394370
Автор произведения Эжен Сю
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
The same day on which the conversation passed between the Baron de Graün and Murphy, Rodolph, plainly and unpretendingly dressed, wended his way about three o'clock, on a gloomy November afternoon, towards the Rue du Temple.
Situated in a district of much business and dense population, the house in question had nothing remarkable in its appearance; it was composed of a ground floor, occupied by a man keeping a low sort of dram-shop, and four upper stories, surmounted by attics. A dark and narrow alley led to a small yard, or, rather, a species of square well, of about five or six feet in width, completely destitute of either air or light, and serving as a pestilential receptacle for all the filth thrown by the various occupants of the respective chambers from the unglazed sashes with which each landing-place was provided.
At the bottom of a damp, dismal-looking staircase, a glimmering light indicated the porter's residence, rendered smoky and dingy by the constant burning of a lamp, requisite, even at midday, to enlighten the gloomy hole, into which Rodolph entered for the purpose of asking leave to view the apartment then vacant.
A lamp, placed behind a glass globe filled with water, served as a reflector; and by its light might be seen, at the far end of the "lodge" (as in courtesy it was styled), a bed, covered with a sort of patchwork counterpane, exhibiting a mingled mass of every known colour and material. A walnut-tree table graced the side of the room, bearing a variety of articles suited to the taste and ornamental notions of its owners. First in order appeared a little waxen Saint John, with a very fat lamb at his feet, and a large peruke of flowing white curls on his head, the whole enclosed in a cracked glass case, the joinings of which were ingeniously secured by slips of blue paper; secondly, a pair of old plated candlesticks, tarnished by time, and bearing, instead of lights, two gilded oranges—doubtless an offering to the porteress on the last New Year's day; and, thirdly, two boxes, the one composed of variegated straw, the other covered with multitudinous shells, but both smelling strongly of the galleys or house of correction[10] (let us hope, for the sake of the morality of the porteress in the Rue du Temple, that these precious specimens were not presented to her from the original owners and fabricators of them); and, lastly, between the two boxes, and just beneath a circular clock, was suspended a pair of red morocco dress-boots, small enough for the feet of fairies, but elaborately and skilfully designed and completed. This chef-d'œuvre, as the ancient masters of the craft would style them, joined to the fantastic designs sketched on the walls representing boots and shoes, abundantly indicated that the porter of this establishment devoted his time and his talents to the repairing of shoes and shoe leather.
At the instant when Rodolph ventured into the smoky den, M. Pipelet, the porter, temporarily absent, had left his better half, Madame Pipelet, as his representative. This individual was seated by the stove in the centre of the lodge, deeply engrossed in watching the boiling of a pot placed over it. The description of Madame Pipelet may be given in a few words. She was the most ugly, forbidding, wrinkled, toothless old hag one might meet in the course of a long life. Her dress was dirty, tawdry, and untidy; while her head-dress was composed of a Brutus wig, originally of a blond colour, but changed by time into every shade of red, brown, and yellow, the stiff ends of the perished hair standing out like the ears of wheat in a wheat-sheaf. Much did Madame Pipelet pride herself upon this tasteful covering to her sexagenarian skull; nor was it believed she ever laid it aside, whether sleeping or waking.
At the sight of Rodolph the porteress inquired, in a surly tone:
"Well, and pray what do you want?"
"I believe, madame," replied Rodolph, laying a profound emphasis on the word madame, "I believe there is an apartment to be let in this house?"
The deep respect implied in his voice and words somewhat mollified the porteress, who answered, rather less sourly:
"This Individual Was Seated by the Stove" Original Etching by Adrian Marcel
"Yes, there is a room to let on the fourth floor, but you cannot see it now—Alfred has gone out."
"You are speaking of your son, I presume, madame; may I take the liberty of asking whether he is expected in shortly?"
"I am not speaking of my son, but my husband. I suppose there is no act of parliament why my Pipelet should not be called 'Alfred.' Is there, pray?"
"None, certainly, madame, that I am aware of; but, with your kind permission, I will await his return. I am very desirous of taking the vacant chamber—both the street and neighbourhood suit me; and the admirable order in which the house seems kept pleases me excessively. But, previously to viewing the lodging I am anxious to take, I should be very glad to ascertain whether you, madame, could do me the favour to take the management of my little housekeeping off my hands? I never like to have any one about me but the authorised housekeeper belonging to the house, when such arrangements meet with their approbation."
This proposition, so flatteringly expressed, and the word "housekeeper" completely won Madame Pipelet, who replied:
"With the greatest of pleasure, sir, I will attend to all you require. I am sure I shall be proud to wait upon such a gentleman; and, for the small charge of six francs a month, you shall be treated like a prince."
"Then for six francs a month, I may reckon upon your valuable services. Will you permit me to ask your name?"
"Pomona Fortunata Anastasia Pipelet."
"Well, then, Madame Pipelet, having agreed as to your own terms, will you be pleased to tell me those for the apartment I wish to engage?"
"With the adjoining small closet, one hundred and fifty francs a month—not a farthing less. The principal lessee is a screw—a regular skinflint."
"What is his name?"
"M. Bras Rouge."
This name, and the remembrances so unexpectedly presented by it, made Rodolph start.
"I think, Madame Pipelet, you were saying that the principal lessee of the house is——"
"M. Bras Rouge."
"And he lives——"
"Rue aux Fêves, No. 13. He also keeps an estaminet near the Champs Elysées."
All doubt was then at an end—it was the Bras Rouge of infamous notoriety; and singular indeed did the circumstance of thus coming across him strike Rodolph.
"But though M. Bras Rouge is your principal lessee, he is not, I presume, the owner of the house; may I ask who is?"
"M. Bourdon; but I have never had communication with any one besides M. Bras Rouge."
With the design of still further ingratiating himself with the porteress, Rodolph resumed:
"My dear madame, this cold day would make a little of something warm and comfortable very acceptable. Might I venture to solicit the favour of your stepping as far as the spirit-shop, kept so conveniently at hand, and bring a bottle of cassia and two glasses? For I feel very tired, and the cold has quite seized me. Stay, madame, we will have three glasses, if you please; because I hope your husband will join us when he returns."
So saying, he placed a franc in the fat, dirty hand of the porteress.
"Ah, monsieur, you are determined to make us all fall in love with you!" cried Madame Pipelet, nodding her approval of the commission, and thereby sending the flush of pleasure into a face glowing with all the fiery honours of an excited Bacchante.
"To be sure! There is nothing like a drop of really good cordial such a day as this; and they do keep most excellent here at hand. I'll go—of course I will; but I shall only bring a couple of glasses, for Alfred and I always drink out of the same glass. Poor old darling!