"I quite agree with you; but I always was lucky. Apropos of your late fellow lodger, M. Germain, where is he at present?"
"In Paris, I believe."
"Then you do not see much of him now?"
"No, he has never been to see me since he quitted the house."
"But where is he living? And what is he doing at present?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because," said Rodolph, smiling, "I am jealous of him, and I wish – "
"Jealous!" exclaimed Rigolette, bursting into a fit of laughter. "La, bless you, there is no occasion for that, poor fellow!"
"But, seriously, my good neighbour, I wish most particularly to obtain M. Germain's address, or to be enabled to meet him. You know where he lives; and without any boast, I think I have good reason to expect you would trust me with the secret of his residence, and to believe me quite incapable of revealing again the information I ask of you, assuring you most solemnly it is for his own interest more than mine I am solicitous of finding him."
"And seriously, my good neighbour, although it is probable and possible your intentions towards M. Germain are as you report them, I am not at liberty to give you the address of M. Germain, he having strictly and expressly forbidden my so doing to any person whatever; therefore, when I refuse to tell you, you may be quite sure it is because I really am not at liberty to do so; and that ought not to make you feel offended with me. If you had entrusted me with a secret, you would be pleased, would you not, to have me as careful of it, and determined not to reveal it, as I am about M. Germain's affair?"
"Nay, but – "
"Neighbour, once and for all, do not say anything more on this subject. I have made a promise which I will keep faithfully and honourably; so now you know my mind, and if you ask me a hundred times, I shall answer you just the same."
Spite of her thoughtlessness and frivolity, the young dressmaker pronounced these last words with so much firmness that, to his great regret, Rodolph perceived the impossibility of gaining the desired information respecting Germain through her means; and his mind revolted at the idea of laying any snare to entrap her into a betrayal of her secret; he therefore, after a slight pause, gaily replied:
"Well, let us say no more about it, then; but, upon my life, I don't wonder at you, who can so well keep the secrets of others, guarding your own so closely."
"Me have secrets?" cried Rigolette. "I only wish I had some more secrets of my own; it must be very amusing to have secrets."
"Do you really mean to assert that you have not a 'nice little secret' about some love-affair?"
"Love-affair!"
"Are you going to persuade me you have never been in love?" said Rodolph, looking fixedly at Rigolette, the better to read the truth in her telltale features.
"Been in love? Why, of course I have, with M. Giraudeau, M. Cabrion, M. Germain, and you!"
"Are you sure you loved them just as you do me, neither more nor less?"
"Oh, really, I cannot tell you so very exactly! If anything, I should say less; because I had to become accustomed to the squinting eyes of M. Giraudeau, the disagreeable jokes and red beard of M. Cabrion, and the low spirits and constant dejection of M. Germain, for the poor young man was very sad, and always seemed to have a heavy load on his mind, while you, on the contrary, took my fancy directly I saw you."
"Come now, my pretty neighbour, you must not be angry with me; I am going to speak candidly and sincerely, like an old friend."
"Oh, don't be afraid to say anything to me; I am very good-natured; and besides, I feel certain you are too kind; you could never have the heart to say anything to me that would give me pain."
"You are quite right; but do tell me truly, have you never had any lovers?"
"Lovers! I should think not! What time have I for such things?"
"What has time got to do with it?"
"Why, everything, to be sure. In the first place, I should be jealous as a tigress; and I should be continually worrying myself with one idea or another; and let me ask you whether you think it is likely I could afford to lose two or three hours a day in fretting and grieving. And then, suppose my lover were to turn out false! Oh, what tears it would cost me; how wretched I should be! All that sort of thing would put me sadly behindhand with my work, I can tell you."
"Well, but all lovers are not faithless and a cause of grief and sorrow to their mistress."
"Oh, bless you! It would be still worse for me, if he were all goodness and truth. Why, then I should not be able to live without him for a single hour; and as most probably he would be obliged to remain all day in his office, or shop, or manufactory, I should be like some poor, restless spirit all the time of his absence. I should imagine all sorts of things, picture to myself his being at that moment pleasantly engaged in company with one he loved better than myself. And then, if he forsook me, oh, Heaven only knows what I might be tempted to do in my despair, or what might become of me. One thing is very certain, that my work would suffer for it; and then what should I do? Why, quietly as I live at present, it is much as I can manage to live by working from twelve to fifteen hours a day. Where should I be, if I were to lose three or four days a week by tormenting myself? How could I ever catch up all that time? Oh, I never could; it would be quite impossible! I should be obliged, then, to take a situation, to live under the control of a mistress; but no, no, I will never bring myself to that, – I love my liberty too well."
"Your liberty?"
"Yes, I might go as forewoman to the person who keeps the warehouse for which I work; she would give me four hundred francs a year, with board and lodging."
"And you will not accept it?"
"No, indeed! I should then be the slave and servant of another; whereas, however humble my home, at least there is no one there to control me. I am free to come and go as I please. I owe nothing to any one. I have good health, good courage, good heart, and good spirits; and now that I can say a good neighbour also, what is there left to desire?"
"Then you have never thought of marriage?"
"Marriage, indeed! Why, what would be the use of my thinking about it, when, poor as I am, I could not expect to meet with a husband better off than myself? Look at the poor Morels; just see the consequences of burthening yourself with a family before you have the means of providing for one; whilst, so long as there is only oneself to provide for, one can always manage somehow."
"And do you never build castles in the air? – never dream?"
"Dream? Oh, yes! – of my chimney ornaments; but, besides them, what can I have to wish for?"
"But, suppose now some relation you never heard of in your life were to die, and leave you a nice little fortune – twelve hundred francs a year, for instance – you have made five hundred sufficient to supply all your wants?"
"Perhaps it might prove a good thing; perhaps a bad one."
"How could it be a bad one?"
"Because I am happy and contented as I am; but I do not know what I might be if I came to be rich. I can assure you that, when, after a hard day's work, I go to bed in my own snug little room, when my lamp is extinguished, and by the glimmer of the few cinders left in my stove I see my neat, clean little apartment, my curtains, my chest of drawers, my chairs, my birds, my watch, my table