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Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue

E >> Eugene Sue >> Mysteries of Paris, V3




"Come, M. Germain," said the grisette, approaching her face as close as she
could to the grating, the better to examine the features of her friend,
"let me see if I am satisfied with your face. Is it less sorrowful? Hum!
hum! so, so; take care; you will make me angry."

"How kind you are to come again to-day!"

"Again! what! that is a reproach."

"Ought I not, in truth, reproach you for doing so much for me--for me, who
can do nothing but thank you?"

"An error, sir; for I am also as happy from my visits as you are. So I
must, in my turn, thank you. Ah! ah! there is where I have caught you,
Master Unjust. I have half a mind to punish you for your wicked ideas, by
not giving you what I have brought."

"Another kindness! how you spoil me!--oh! thank you. Pardon me if I repeat
so often this word, which you dislike!--but you leave me nothing else to
say."

"In the first place, you do not know what I have brought."

"What is that to me?"

"Well, you are polite!"

"Whatever it may be, does it not come from you? Your touching kindness,
does it not fill me with gratitude, and----"

Germain could not finish, but cast down his eyes.

"And with what?" asked Rigolette, blushing.

"And with--and with devotion," stammered Germain.

"Why not add respect at once, like at the end of a letter," said Rigolette
impatiently. "You deceive me; it was not that which you intended to say.
You stopped short."

"I assure you----"

"You assure me!--you assure me! I see you blush through the grating. Am I
not your little friend, your neighbor? Why do you conceal anything? Be
frank, then, with me; tell me all," added the grisette, timidly; for she
only waited for an avowal from Germain to tell him openly that she loved
him. An honest and generous love, which the misfortunes of Germain had
called into existence.

"I assure you," answered the prisoner, with a sigh, "that I conceal nothing
from you!"

"Fie, the false man!" cried Rigolette, stamping her foot. "Well, you see
this large cravat of white wool that I brought for you?" and she took it
from her basket. "To punish you for your dissimulation, you shall not have
it. I knit it for you. I said to myself, it must be so cold, so damp, in
those large prison yards, that at least he will be protected nicely with
this; he is so chilly."

"How, you?"

"Yes, you are liable to cold," said Rigolette, interrupting him. "Perhaps I
recollect it well! that did not, however, prevent you hindering me (out of
delicacy) from putting any more wood in my stove when you passed the
evening with me. Oh, I have a good memory!"

"And I also-only too good!" said Germain, in an agitated voice, passing his
hand over his eyes.

"Come, now, there you are becoming sad again, although I forbid it."

"How; do you wish me not to be touched, even to tears, when I think of all
that you have done for me since my detention here? And this new attention,
is it not charming? Do I not know that you encroach upon your nights to
make time to come and see me? On my account you impose upon yourself extra
labor."

"That is it! Pity me then, quickly, because every two or three days I take
a fine walk to come and visit my friends, I, who adore a walk. It is so
amusing to look at the shops along the streets!"

"And to come out on such a day; such a wind!"

"A reason the more; you have no idea what funny figures you meet! Some
holding on their hats with both hands, so that the wind shall not carry
them off; others, with their umbrellas turned wrong side out like a tulip,
are making incredible grimaces, shutting their eyes, while the rain beats
in their faces. Ah! this morning, during my whole walk, it was a real
comedy! I promised myself to make you laugh by telling it you. But you will
not even force a smile."

"It is not my fault; pardon me, but the kind interest you have manifested
for me touches my very heart. You know it; my emotions are never gay; they
are stronger than--"

Rigolette, not wishing to let him observe that, notwithstanding her
prattle, she was very near partaking his agitation, hastened to change the
conversation, and replied:

"You say that your feelings are stronger than you; but there is another
thing that you will not master, although I have begged and supplicated
you," added Rigolette.

"Of what do you speak?"

"Of your obstinacy in always keeping yourself apart from the other
prisoners; in never speaking to them. The warder has just told me again
that, for your own interest, you should associate with them. I am sure you
will not do it. You are silent. You see well it is always the same thing!
You will not be contented until these frightful men have done you some
harm!"

"You do not know the horror with which they inspire me. You do not know
all the personal reasons that I have to fly and execrate them and their
fellows!"

"Alas! yes; I think I know them--these reasons. I have read the papers
which you wrote for me, and which I went to your lodgings to get after
your imprisonment. There I have learned the dangers you have incurred
since your arrival in Paris, because you would not associate yourself in
crime with the scoundrel who brought you up. It was on account of the
trap set for you that you left the Rue du Temple, only telling me where
you were going to reside. In those papers I have also read something
else," added Rigolette, blushing anew, and casting down her eyes; "I
have read some things--that--"

"Oh! that you should have been always ignorant of, I swear it," cried
Germain, quickly, "but for the misfortune which has fallen upon me--Ah! I
interest you; be generous; pardon me these follies; forget them. In happier
times I allowed myself these dreams, as wild as they were."

Rigolette had a second time endeavored to extract an avowal from the lips
of Germain, by making allusion to passages filled with tenderness and
passion, which he had formerly written and dedicated to the recollections
of the grisette; for, as we have said, he had always felt for her a lively
and sincere affection; but to enjoy the cordial intimacy of his sweet
neighbor, he had concealed this love under the mask of friendship. Rendered
by misfortune still more suspicious and timid, he could not imagine that
Rigolette loved him with love: he, a prisoner, he, withering under a
terrible accusation, while before these misfortunes she had never evinced
any attachment stronger than that of a sister. The grisette, seeing herself
so little understood, suppressed a sigh, waiting--hoping for a better
occasion to unfold to Germain the wishes of her heart. She answered, then,
with embarrassment: "I can easily comprehend that the society of these bad
people causes you horror, but that is no reason for you to brave useless
dangers."

"I assure you that in order to follow your advice, I have several times
tried to address some of them who seemed the least criminal; but if you
knew what language! what men!"

"Alas! it is true, it must be terrible."

"What is still more terrible is, to find I become more and more accustomed,
habituated to the frightful conversations which, in spite of myself, I hear
all the day; yes, now I listen with a sad apathy to the horrors which,
during my first days here, aroused my indignation; thus, I begin to doubt
myself," cried he, with bitterness.

"Oh! M. Germain, what do you say?"

"By constantly living in these horrid places, our minds become accustomed
to criminal thoughts, as our hearing becomes habituated to the gross words
which resound continually around us. I comprehend now that one can enter
here innocent, although accused, and leave it perverted."

"Yes, but not you--not you?"

"Yes, I; and others a thousand times better than I. Alas! those who, before
conviction, condemn us to this odious association, are ignorant of its
mournful and fatal effects. They are ignorant that almost in all cases the
air which is breathed here becomes contagious--fatal to honor!"

"I pray you do not talk thus; you cause me too much sorrow."

"You ask me the cause of my growing sadness, there you have it. I did not
wish to tell you; but I have only one way of acknowledging your pity for
me."

"My pity--my pity!"

"Yes, it is to conceal nothing from you. Ah, well! I acknowledge it with
affright. I no longer recognize myself. I have good reason to despise, to
fly these wretches. Their presence, their contact affects me, in spite of
myself. One would say that they have the fatal power to vitiate the
atmosphere they breathe. It seems to me that I feel the corruption entering
through every pore. If they absolve me from the fault I have committed, the
sight, the acquaintance of honest men will fill me with confusion and
shame. I have not yet had the enjoyment of pleasant companions; but I dread
the day when I shall find myself among honorable people, because I have the
consciousness of my weakness."

"Of your weakness?"

"Of my cowardice!"

"Of your cowardice? but what unjust ideas you have of yourself!"

"Ah! is it not to be cowardly and culpable to compound with one's duty and
probity? And that I have done!"

"You! you!"

"I! On entering here I did not extenuate the magnitude of my fault, all
excusable as it was, perhaps. Well! now it appears to me less, from hearing
these robbers and these murderers speak of their crimes with obscene jests
or ferocious pride. I surprise myself sometimes envying them their
audacious indifference, and upbraiding myself bitterly for the remorse with
which I am tormented for so slight an offense compared to their misdeeds."

"But you are right; your deed, far from being blamable, is generous; you
were sure of being able to return the money which you took only for a few
hours, in order to save a whole family from ruin, from death, perhaps."

"No matter; in the eyes of the law, in the eyes of honest men, it is a
robbery. Doubtless, it is less criminal to steal for such a purpose than
for any other; but it is a fatal symptom, to be obliged, in order to excuse
one's self in one's eyes, to look around for a reason. I am no longer the
equal of men without a stain. Behold me already forced to compare myself
with the degraded men with whom I live. Thus, in time, I well see,
conscience is blunted, and becomes hardened. To-morrow, I shall commit a
robbery, not with the certainty of being able to restore what I took for a
laudable object, but I shall steal from cupidity, and I shall doubtless
think myself innocent in comparison to those who murder to rob. And yet, at
this present moment, there is as great a distance between me and an
assassin, as there is between me and an irreproachable man. Thus, because
there are beings a thousand times more degraded than I am, my degradation
is to be excused in my eyes! Instead of being able to say, as formerly, I
am as honest as the most honest men, I will console myself by saying I am
the least degraded of the wretches among whom I am condemned to live!"

"Not always? Once out of this?"

"No matter; even if acquitted, these people know me; when they leave the
prison, if they meet me, they will speak to me as their old jail companion.
If any one is ignorant of the accusation which brought me to the assizes,
these wretches will threaten to divulge it. Thus you well see, cursed and
now indissoluble links unite me to them, while, shut alone in my cell until
the day of my trial, unknown by them as they would have been unknown to me,
I should not have been assailed by these fears, which may paralyze the best
resolutions. And then, alone, in thinking of my fault, it would have been
magnified instead of being diminished; the graver it appeared to me, the
greater would have been my future expiation. Thus, the more I should have
felt the need of my own pardon, the more in my poor sphere I should have
tried to do good. For it needs a hundred good actions to atone for a single
bad one. But shall I ever dream of expiating that which at this moment
scarcely causes me any remorse? Hold! I feel it, I obey an irresistible
influence, against which I have struggled for a long time with all my
strength. I was educated for crime, I yield to my destiny; after all,
isolated, without family, what matters it that my destiny should be
accomplished, be it honest or criminal? And yet, my intentions were good
and pure. When they wished to make me guilty, I experienced a profound
satisfaction in saying to myself: I have never been wanting in honor, and
that, perhaps, was more difficult for me than all the rest. And now--oh!
it is frightful--frightful!" cried the prisoner, sobbing in so heartrending
a manner that Rigolette, deeply affected, could not restrain her tears.

Let us say, however, that Germain, thanks to his sterling probity, had
struggled for a long time victoriously, and that he felt the approaches of
the malady more than he experienced in reality. His fear of seeing his
fault become of less gravity in his own eyes, proved that he still felt all
its enormity; but the trouble, apprehension, and doubts which cruelly
agitated his virtuous and generous mind were not the less alarming
symptoms. Guided by the rectitude of her understanding, by her woman's
sagacity, and by the impulses of her love, Rigolette divined that which we
have just said. Although well convinced that her friend had not yet lost
any of his probity, she feared that, notwithstanding the excellence of his
nature, Germain might at some future period become indifferent to that
which then tormented him so cruelly.

Rigolette, wiping her eyes, and addressing Germain, who was leaning against
the grating, said to him with a touching, serious, almost solemn accent,
and in a manner he had never seen her assume, "Listen to me, Germain; I
shall express myself perhaps badly; I do not speak so well as you; but what
I shall tell you will be as truly sincere. In the first place, you were
wrong to complain of being isolated, abandoned."

"Oh! do not think that I ever forget that which your pity for me inspires
you to do!"

"Just now, I did not interrupt you when you spoke of _pity_; but since
you repeat this word, I must say that it is not pity at all which I feel
for you. I am going to explain this as well as I can. When we were
neighbors, I loved you as a brother, as a good companion; you rendered me
some little services, I rendered you others; you made me partake of your
Sunday amusements, I tried to be very lively, very agreeable, in order to
thank you; we were quits."

"Quits? oh! no--I----"

"Let me speak in my turn. When you were forced to leave the house where we
dwelt, your departure caused me more regret than that of my other
neighbors."

"Can it be true?"

"Yes, because they were men without care, whom certainly I ought to miss
less than you; and, besides, they did not yield themselves to be my
acquaintances until I had told them a hundred times that they could be
nothing else; while you----you have at once imagined what we ought to be
to each other. Notwithstanding this you have passed with me all the time
you had to spare: you taught me to write; you gave me good advice, a little
serious, because it was good: in fine, you have been the most attentive of
my neighbors, and the only one who asked nothing of me for the trouble.
This is not all; on leaving the house you gave me a great proof of
confidence. To see you confide a secret so important to a little girl like
me, bless me! that made me proud. Thus, when I was separated from you, my
thoughts were oftener of you than of my other neighbors. What I tell you
now is true; you know I never tell a falsehood."

"Can it be possible you should have made this distinction between me and
the others?"

"Certainly, I have made it, otherwise I should have a bad heart. Yes, I
said to myself, 'No one can be better than M. Germain; only he is a little
too serious; but never mind, if I had a friend who wished to marry to be
very, very happy, certainly I should advise her to marry M. Germain; for he
would be the idol of a nice little housekeeper.'"

"You thought of me for another!" Germain could not prevent himself from
saying mournfully.

"It is true; I should have been delighted to see you make a happy marriage,
since I loved you as a valued friend. You see I am frank; I tell you
everything."

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart; it is a consolation for me to
learn that among your friends I was he whom you preferred."

"This was the situation of things when your troubles came. It was then that
I received the good and kind letter in which you informed me of what you
called your fault; fault! which I think--who am not a scholar--is a good
and praiseworthy action; it was then that you asked me to go for those
papers which informed me that you had always loved me, without daring to
tell me so. Those papers, in which I read"--and Rigolette could not
restrain her tears--"that, thinking of my future, which sickness, or the
want of work might render so painful, you left me, if you should die a
violent death, as you feared--you left me the little which you had
acquired: by force of industry and economy--"

"Yes; for if I were alive and you found yourself without work or sick, it
is to me, rather than any one else, that you would address yourself--is it
not so? I count on it! speak! speak! I am not mistaken, am I?"

"It is very plain; to whom would you have me apply?"

"Oh! hold; these are words which do good, which are a balm for many
sorrows!"

"I cannot express to you what I felt on reading--what a sad word--this
_will_, of which each line contained a 'souvenir' of me, or a thought
for my welfare; and yet I was not to know these proofs of your attachment
until you were no longer in existence. Bless me! what would you? after such
generous conduct one is astonished that love should come all at once! yet
it is very natural, is it not, M. Germain?"

The girl said these last words with such touching frankness, fixing her
large black eyes on those of Germain, that he did not understand her at
first, so far was he from thinking himself beloved by Rigolette. Yet these
words were so pointed, that their echo resounded from the bottom of the
prisoner's heart; he blushed, then became pale, and cried,

"What do you say! I fear--oh! I am mistaken--I----"

"I say that from the moment in which I found you were so kind to me and in
which I saw you so unhappy, I have loved you otherwise than as a brother,
and that if now one of my friends wished to marry," said Rigolette, smiling
and blushing, "it is no longer you I should recommend to her, M. Germain."

"You love me! you love me!"

"I must then tell you myself, since you ask me."

"Can it be possible?"

"It is not, however, my fault, for having twice put you in the way to make
you comprehend it. But no, my gentleman does not wish to understand a hint;
he forces me to confess these things to him. It is wrong, perhaps; but as
there is no one here but you to scold me for my effrontery, I have less
fear; and, besides," added Rigolette, in a more serious tone, and with deep
emotion, "just now you appeared to me so much afflicted, so despairing,
that I did not mind it; I have had the self-love to believe that this
avowal, made frankly and from the bottom of the heart, would prevent you
from being so unhappy for the future. I thought, 'Until now I have had no
luck in my efforts to amuse or console him; my dainties take away his
appetite, my gayety makes him weep; this time at least'--oh dear me! what
is the matter?" cried Rigolette, on seeing Germain conceal his face in his
hands. "There, tell me now if this is not cruel!" cried she; "no matter
what I say or what I do, you remain still unhappy; it is to be too wicked,
and by far too egotistical also. One would say there was no one but you who
suffered."

"Alas, what misery is mine!" cried Germain, with, despair. "You love me,
when I am no longer worthy of you!"

"No longer worthy of me? There is no good sense in what you say now. It is
as if I had said formerly, that I was not worthy of your friendship,
because I had been in prison; for, after all, I have also been a prisoner;
am I any less an honest girl?"

"But you were sent to prison because you were a poor abandoned child, while
I--what a difference!"

"In fine, as to the prison, we have nothing to reproach ourselves for. It
is rather I who am presumptuous; for in my situation I ought only to think
of marrying some workman. I am a foundling: I possess nothing but my little
chamber and my good courage; yet I come boldly and propose to you to take
me for a wife."

"Alas! formerly this had been the dream, the happiness of my life! but
now--I, under the weight of an infamous accusation, I should abuse your
admirable generosity--your pity, which carries you away, perhaps! no--no!"

"But," cried Rigolette, with impatience, "I tell you, it is not pity, it is
love. I only think of you! I sleep no more--I eat no more. Your sad and
melancholy looks follow me everywhere. Is that pity? Now, when you speak to
me, your voice, your look, go to my heart. There are a thousand things in
you which now please me, and which I had not remarked. I love your face, I
love your eyes, I love you, I love your mind, I love your good heart; is
this still pity? Why, after having loved you as a friend, do I love you as
a lover? I do not know! Why was I lively and gay when I loved you as a
friend? Why am I all changed since I love you as a lover? I do not know.
Why have I waited so long to find you both handsome and good? to love you
at once with my eyes and my heart? I do not know; or, rather, yes, I do
know: it is because I have discovered how much you loved me without ever
telling it; how much you were generous and devoted. Then love mounted from
my heart to my eyes, like as a soft tear mounts there when one is
affected."

"Really, I think I am in a dream on hearing you talk thus."

"And I, then! I never should have thought it possible that I could dare to
tell you all this; but your despair compelled me! Ah, well! now that you
know that I love you as my friend, as my lover, as my husband, will you
still say it is pity?"

The generous scruples of Germain were dispelled in a moment before this
avowal, so artless and courageous. A joy unlooked--for tore him from his
sorrowful meditations.

"You love me!" cried he. "I believe you; your voice, your look, all tell
me! I do not wish to ask myself how I have deserved such happiness, I
abandon myself to it blindly. My life, my whole life, will not suffice to
pay my debt to you! Ah! I have already suffered much, but this moment
compensates all!"

"At length you are consoled. Oh! I was very sure, very sure I should
succeed!" cried Rigolette, with a burst of charming joy.

"And is it in the midst of the horrors of a prison, and is it when
everything oppresses me, that such a felicity--" Germain could not finish.
This thought recalling the reality of his position, his scruples, for a
moment forgotten, returned more cruel than ever, and he resumed, with
despair, "But I am a prisoner; I am accused of robbery; I shall be
condemned perhaps; and I would accept your valorous sacrifice! I would
profit by your generous exaltation! Oh, no! no! I am not infamous enough
for this!"

"What do you say?"

"I may be condemned to years of imprisonment."

"Well!" answered Rigolette, with calmness and firmness, "they will see that
I am a virtuous girl; they will not refuse to marry us in the prison
chapel."

"But I may be confined far from Paris."

"Once your wife, I will follow you; I will live in the place where you may
be; I will work there, and will come to see you every day!"

"But I shall be disgraced in the eyes of all."

"You love me more than all, don't you?"

"Can you ask me?"

"Then what matters it to you? Far from being disgraced in my eyes, I shall
regard you as the martyr of your good heart."

"But the world will condemn, calumniate your choice."

"The world! we will be the world to each other, and then let them talk."

"Finally, on coming out of the prison, my living will be precarious,
miserable. Repulsed on all sides, perhaps I shall find no employment; and
then, it is horrible to think of: but if this corruption which I dread
should, in spite of myself, gain on me, what a future for you!"

"You will not be corrupted; no, for now you know I love you, and this
thought will give you strength to resist bad examples. You will think that
even if every one should repulse you on your leaving the prison, your wife
will receive you with love and gratitude, very certain that you are still
an honest man. This language astonishes you, does it not? It astonishes
_me_. I do not know where I find what I say to you. It is from the
bottom of my heart, assuredly, and that ought to convince you; otherwise,
if you disdain an offer which is made from the heart, if you do not wish
the attachment of a poor girl who--"

Germain interrupted Rigolette with warmth:

"Well! I accept--I accept; yes, I feel that it is sometimes cowardly to
refuse certain sacrifices; it is to acknowledge that one is unworthy of
them. I accept, noble and courageous girl."

Alex Ross: Winner of the Guardian first book award
Stuart Evers: They made a real difference to Britain's literary culture, and it would be a terrible shame if they got forgotten in the age of Amazon

Congratulations to Alex Ross, winner of the Guardian first book award
One of only seven copies of The Tales of Beedle the Bard handwritten by JK Rowling is unveiled at the New York Public Library as the mass market edition goes on sale around the world

The arcane first book that's also a bestseller

Congratulations to Alex Ross, the deserving winner of the 2008 Guardian first book award. There's been a massed chorus of appreciation for this work already, so I shan't add much, except to say that what I particular enjoy about it is the connections it makes between musics and musicians. I'm the sort of person who goes to a lot of concerts, plays the violin, has some kind of grasp of how the history of music works – but frankly, it's all a bit fragmented and vague, since I have never studied the history of music properly and I can't really do the textbook musicological stuff. As I was reading Ross's book, it dawned on me that most of my knowledge of 20th-century music was based on reading the occasional Grove essay – and mostly, reading programme notes. What Ross's book does brilliantly is knit all these odd and isolated bits of knowledge together, so that everything starts to synthesise rather wonderfully, and you get to know what Sibelius thought of Stravinsky, say (not much – "stillborn affectations" was the phrase employed); or that Alban Berg was lionised by George Gershwin; or that David Bowie referenced Philip Glass and vice versa. That, and then the material is set against its historical and political background, such that this is a book for history-lovers as much as music-lovers.

By the way, there's a pungent criticism of the new-music scene by Hans Eisler in 1928, as quoted by Ross. How much have things changed, I wonder?

"The big music festivals have become downright stock exchanges, where the value of the works is assessed and contracts for the coming season are settled. Yet all this noise is carried out in the vacuum of a bell glass, so to speak, so that not a sound can be heard outside. An empty officiousness celebrates orgies of inbreeding, while there is a complete lack of interest or participation of a public of any kind."

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