The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6. Эжен Сю

don't know. She spent all the money she brought with her out of prison, without seeming to have much pleasure for it; she was inclined to be mournful and serious, though kind and sympathising to every one. At the time we used to go out together I had not met with any work to do, but directly I procured employment, I never allowed myself a holiday. I gave her my address, but, as she never came to see me, I suppose she, like myself, was too busy to spare the time. But I dare say you don't care to hear any more about her; I only mentioned it because I wanted to show you that it is no use asking me to go into the country with you, for I never did, and never will go there, except with the young friend I was telling you about; but whenever you can afford to take me out to dinner or to the play, I shall be quite ready to accompany you, and when it does not suit you to spend the money, or when you have none to spend, why then we will take a walk, and have a good look at the shops, which is almost the nicest thing I know, unless it is buying at them. And I promise you, you shall have no reason to feel ashamed of my appearance, let us go out among ever such company. Oh, when I wear my dark blue levantine silk gown, I flatter myself I do look like somebody! It is such a love of a dress, and fits me so beautifully! I never wear it but on Sundays, and then I put on such a love of a lace cap, trimmed with shaded orange-colour riband, which looks so well with dark hair like mine; then I have some such elegant boots of satin hue, made for me, not bought at the Temple! And last of all comes such a shawl! Oh, neighbour, I doubt if you ever walked with any one in such perfect beauty; it is a real bourre-de-soie, in imitation of cashmere. I quite expect we shall be stared at and admired by every one as we go along; the men will look back as they pass me, and say, 'Upon my word that's an uncommon pretty-looking girl, – she is, 'pon honour!' Then the women will cry, 'What a stylish-looking man! Do you see that tall, thin person? I declare, he has such a fashionable appearance that he might pass as somebody if he liked; what a becoming and handsome moustachio he has!' And between ourselves, neighbour, I quite agree with these remarks, and especially about the moustachio, for I dearly love to see a man wear them. Unfortunately M. Germain did not wear a moustachio, on account of the situation he held; I believe his employer did not permit his young men to wear them. To be sure, M. Cabrion did wear moustachios, but then, his were quite red, like his great bushy beard, and I hate those huge beards; and besides, I did not like Cabrion for two other reasons; one was, he used to play all kinds of scampish tricks out in the street, and the other thing I disliked was his tormenting poor old Pipelet as he did. Certainly, M. Giraudeau, the person who lived next to me before M. Cabrion, was rather a smart-looking man, and dressed very well; but then he squinted, and at first that used to put me out very much, because he always seemed to be looking past me at some one by my side, and I always found myself, without thinking of it, turning around to see who it could be."

      And here Rigolette indulged in another peal of merry laughter.

      As Rodolph listened to all this childish and voluble talk, he felt almost at a loss how to estimate the pretensions of the grisette to be considered of first-rate prudence and virtue; sometimes the very absence of all reserve in her communications, and the recollection of the great bolt on her door, made him conclude that she bore a general and platonic affection only for every occupant of the chamber adjoining her own, and that her interest in them was nothing more than that of a sister; but again he smiled at the credulity which could believe such a thing possible, when the unprotected condition of the young dressmaker, and the fascinations of Messrs. Giraudeau, Cabrion, and Germain were taken into account. Still, the frankness and originality of Rigolette made him pause in the midst of his doubts, and refuse to allow him to judge harshly of the ingenuous and light-hearted being who tripped beside him.

      "I am delighted at the way you have disposed of my Sundays," said Rodolph, gaily. "I see plainly we shall have some capital treats."

      "Stop a little, Mr. Extravagance, and let me tell you how I mean to regulate our expenses; in the summer we can dine beautifully, either at the Chartreuse or the Montmartre hermitage, for three francs, then half a dozen quadrilles or waltzes, and a ride upon the wooden horses, – oh, I do so love riding on horseback! – well, that will bring it altogether to about five francs, not a farthing more, I assure you. Do you waltz?"

      "Yes, very well."

      "I am glad of that. M. Cabrion always trod on my toes, so that he quite put me out; and then, too, by way of a joke, he used to throw fulminating balls about on the ground; so at last the people at the Chartreuse would not allow us to be admitted there."

      "Oh, I promise you to be very well behaved whenever we are met together; and as for the fulminating balls, I promise you never to have anything to do with them; but when winter comes, how shall we manage then?"

      "Why, in the winter we shall be able to dine very comfortably for forty sous. I think people never care so much for eating in the winter as summer; so then we shall have three francs left to pay for our going to the play, for I shall not allow you to exceed a hundred sous for the whole of our expenses, and that is a great deal of money to spend in pleasure; but then, if you were out alone, it would cost you much more at the tavern or billiard-rooms, where you would only meet a parcel of low, ignorant men, smelling of tobacco enough to choke you. Is it not much better for you to pass a pleasant day with a nice little, cheerful, good-tempered companion, who, in return for the holiday you so agreeably pass with her, will contrive to make up the extra expense she costs you by hemming your handkerchiefs, and looking after your domestic affairs?"

      "Nothing can be more advantageous, as far as I am concerned; but suppose any of my friends should meet me walking with my pretty neighbour, what then?"

      "What then! Why, they would just look at you, and then at me; and then they would smile and say, 'That's a lucky fellow, that Rodolph!'"

      "You know my name, do you?"

      "Why, of course, when I heard that the chamber adjoining mine was let, I inquired the name of the person who had taken it."

      "Yes, I dare say every one who met us out together would remark, as you observe, what a lucky fellow I was; then the next thing would be to envy me."

      "So much the better."

      "They would believe I was perfectly happy."

      "Of course, of course they would."

      "All the while I should only be so in appearance."

      "Well, what does that signify? As long as people think you happy, what does it matter whether you are really so or not? Men neither require nor care for more than outward show."

      "But your reputation might suffer."

      Rigolette burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

      "The reputation of a grisette!" said she. "Do you suppose that any person believes in such a phenomenon? Ah, if I had either father, mother, brother, or sister, for their sakes I should fear what people might say of me, and be anxious about the world's opinion; but I am alone in the world, and have no person to consider but myself, so, while I know myself to be free from blame or reproach, I care not for what any one may say of me, or think either."

      "But still I should be very unhappy."

      "What for?"

      "To pass for being a happy as well as a lucky fellow, when, after the fashion of Papa Crétu's dinner, I should be expected to make a meal off a dry crust, while all the tempting dishes contained in a cookery-book were being read to me."

      "Oh, nonsense! you will be quite contented to live as I describe. You will find me so grateful for every little act of kindness, so easily pleased, and so little troublesome, that I know you will say, 'Why, after all, I may as well spend my Sunday with her as with any one else.' If you have any time in the evening, and have no objection to come and sit with me, you can have the use of my fire and light. If it would not tire you to read aloud, you would amuse me by reading some nice novel or romance. Better do that than lose your money at cards or billiards; otherwise, if you are occupied at your office, or prefer going to a café, you can just bid me good night when you come in, if I happen still to be up; but should I have gone to bed, why then I will wish you good morning at an early hour next day, by tapping against your wainscot to awaken you. Why, M. Germain, my last fellow lodger, used to pass all his evenings with me in that manner, and never complained of their being dull. He read me all Walter Scott's novels