LITMIR.BIZ

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too; three hours' sleep out of the twenty-four is all he allows himself—and what sleep it is! broken by his children crying for food, by the groans of his sick wife tossing on her miserable straw bed, or the idiotic screams of the poor bedridden old grandmother, who sometimes howls like a wolf—from hunger, too—for, poor creature! she has not sense or reason to know better, and when she gets very hungry you may hear cries and screams all down the staircase."

      "Horrible!" exclaimed Rodolph, with a shudder; "and does no one afford them any assistance?"

      "Truly, sir, we do all we can; we are but poor ourselves; however, since the commandant has allowed me his paltry twelve francs a month for looking after his apartments, I have managed once a week to make a little broth for these poor, unfortunate creatures. Mlle. Rigolette deprives herself of her night's rest, and sits up, poor girl (though it burns her candles), contriving out of one bit and the other of her cutting out, to make up a few clothes for the children; sometimes from the morsels left of her work she manages a small nightcap or gown; and M. Germain, who had not a franc more than he knew what to do with, used to pretend, from time to time, that he had received a present of a few bottles of wine from his friends; and Morel (that is the name of the workman with the sick family) was sure to be invited to share it with him; and it was really wonderful to see how refreshed and strengthened poor Morel used to seem after M. Germain had made him take a good pull at his wine, to put, as he used to say, a little life and soul into his half-exhausted body."

      "And the surgeon-dentist, what did he do for this wretched family?"

      "M. Bradamanti?" said the porter. "Ah! he cured my rheumatism, and I owe him my eternal gratitude; but from that day I said to my wife, 'Anastasia, M. Bradamanti'—hum!—hum!—did I not say so, Anastasia?"

      "Exactly; that is precisely what you did say."

      "But I want to know what this M. Bradamanti did to assist the poor starving beings in your garrets."

      "Why, you see, monsieur, when I mentioned to M. Bradamanti the misery and utter destitution of poor Morel—by the way, he first began the conversation by complaining that the raving and screaming of the old idiot woman throughout the night for food prevented him from sleeping, and that he found it very unpleasant; however, he listened to my description of the state the whole family was in, and then he said, 'Well, if they are so much distressed, you may tell them that if they want any teeth drawn, I will excuse them paying even for the sixth.'"

      "I tell you what, Madame Pipelet," said Rodolph, "I have a decidedly bad opinion of this man. And your female pawnbroker, was she more charitable?"

      "Very much after the fashion of M. Bradamanti," said the porteress; "she lent a few sous upon their wretched clothes; every garment they had has passed into her hands, and even their last mattress; but they were not long coming to the last, for they never had but two."

      "But she gave them no further aid?"

      "Help them, poor creatures! Not she. Mother Burette is as great a brute in her way as her lover, M. Bras Rouge, is in his; for between you and I," added the porteress, with an uncommonly knowing wink of the eye and sagacious shake of the head, "there is something rather tender going on between these two."

      "Really!" cried Rodolph.

      "I think so—I do, upon my life. And why not? Why, the folks in St. Martin are as loving as the rest of the world; are they not, my old pet?"

      A melancholy shake of the head, which produced a corresponding motion in the huge black hat, was M. Pipelet's only answer. As for Madame Pipelet, since she had begun expressing sympathy for the poor sufferers in the attics, her countenance had ceased to strike Rodolph as repulsive, and he even thought it wore an agreeable expression.

      "And what is this poor Morel's trade?"

      "A maker of false jewelry; he works by the piece; but, dear me! that sort of work is so much imitated, and so cheaply got up that—For a man can but work his best, and he cannot do more than he can; besides, when you have got to find bread for seven persons without reckoning yourself, it is rather a hard job, I take it. And though his eldest daughter does her best to assist the family, she has but very little in her power."

      "How old is this daughter?"

      "About eighteen, and as lovely a young creature as you would see in a long summer's day. She lives as servant with an old miserly fellow, rich enough to buy and sell half Paris—a notary, named M. Jacques Ferrand."

      "M. Jacques Ferrand!" exclaimed Rodolph, surprised at the fresh coincidence which brought under his notice the very individual from whom, or from whose confidential housekeeper, he expected to glean so many particulars relative to La Goualeuse. "M. Jacques Ferrand, who lives in the Rue du Sentier, do you mean?" inquired he.

      "The very same; are you acquainted with him?"

      "Not at all; but he does the law business for the firm I belong to."

      "Ah! then you must know that he is a regular money-grubbing old usurer; but then, let me do the man justice. He is strictly religious, and devout as a monk; never absent from mass or vespers, making his Easter offerings, and going regularly to confession. If he ever enjoys himself, it is only along with the priests, drinking holy water, and eating blessed bread. Oh, he is almost a saint in the strictness of his life; but, then, his heart is as hard as iron, and as stern and rigid towards others as he is severe towards himself. Why, poor Louise, daughter to our sick lodger, has been his only servant for the last eighteen months. And what a good girl she is! Gentle as a lamb in temper and disposition, but willing as a horse to work; and he only gives this poor thing, who slaves herself to death for him, eighteen francs a month—not a farthing more, I give you my word; and out of this she only keeps back six francs for her own maintenance, and hands over the other twelve to her starving family; that has been all their dependence for some time past; but when seven persons have to live upon it, it does not go far."

      "But what does the father earn—I mean, provided he is industrious?"

      "Industrious! God bless you, he has always overworked himself; he is the soberest, steadiest creature alive; and I verily believe that if he had the promise of obtaining any favour he liked to ask of Heaven, it would be that the day might be made doubly as long as it now is, that he might earn bread enough to stop the cries of his starving brats."

      "Then the father cannot earn enough if he were to try ever so hard, it seems?"

      "Why, the poor man was ill abed for three months, and that threw them all behind; his wife's health was quite ruined by the fatigue of nursing him and the severe want she experienced of common necessaries for herself and family. She now lies in a dying state; they have had nothing for all that period besides Louise's wages and what they could obtain from Mother Burette upon the few wretched articles they could dispose of. True, the master for whom Morel had worked advanced them a trifle, out of respect for a man he had always found punctual and honest when he could work. But, la! Eight people only to be found in bread, that is what I say—just imagine how hard it must be to keep life and soul together upon such small means; and if you could only see the hole they are all huddled together in—But do not let us talk any more about that, monsieur, for our dinner is ready, and the very thought of their wretched garret turns my stomach. However, happily, M. Bras Rouge is going to clear the house of them—when I say happily, I don't mean it ill-naturedly in the least; but since these poor Morels have fallen into such misery, and it is quite out of our power to help them, why let them go and be miserable elsewhere; it will be a heartache the less for us all."

      "But, if they are turned out from here, where will they go to?"

      "Truly, I don't know."

      "And how much can this poor workman earn daily when in health, and without any calls upon his time or attention?"

      "Why, if he had not to attend to his old mother, nurse his sick wife, and look after the five children, he could earn his three or four francs a day, because he works like a downright slave; but now that at least three-quarters of his time are taken up with the family, he can hardly manage to earn forty sous."

      "That is little, indeed—poor creatures!"

      "Yes,

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