there were upwards of twenty different petitions sent to our chief lessee, M. Bras Rouge, to turn the beggar out; and, at last, he was only got rid of by paying him two quarters' rent—rather droll, is it not, for a landlord to pay his lodger? But, bless you, the house was so upset by him that he might have had any price so he would but take himself off; however, he did go. And now you suppose we were clear of M. Cabrion? I'll tell you. Next night, about eleven o'clock, I was in bed, when rap, rap, rap, comes to the gate. I pulls up the string—somebody walks up to my door, 'How do you do, porter?' says a voice; 'will you oblige me with a lock of your hair?' 'Somebody has mistaken the door,' says my wife. So I calls out to the stranger, 'You are wrong, friend, you want next door.' 'I think not,' returns the voice; 'this is No. 17, is it not, and the porter's name is Pipelet? I'm all right; so please to open the door and oblige me with a lock of your beautiful hair.' 'My name is Pipelet, certainly,' answers I. 'Well, then, friend Pipelet, Cabrion has sent me for a piece of your hair; he says he must and he will have it.'"
As Pipelet uttered the last words he gave his head a mournful shake, and, folding his arms, assumed an attitude of martyrlike resolution.
"Do you perceive, sir? He sends to me, his mortal enemy, whom he overwhelmed with insults and continually outraged in every way, to beg a lock of my hair—a favour which even ladies have been known to refuse to a lover!"
"But, supposing this Cabrion had been as good a lodger as was M. Germain," replied Rodolph, with some difficulty preserving the gravity of countenance, "do you think you might have accorded him the favour?"
"Not to the best lodger that treads shoe-leather would I grant a similar request," replied the man in the flapped hat, waving it majestically over his brows as he spoke; "it is contrary to my principles and habits to give my hair to any one—only I should have refused with the most scrupulous regard to politeness."
"That is not all," chimed in the porteress. "Only conceive, sir, the abominable conduct of that Cabrion, who, from morning to night, at all hours and at all times, sends a swarm of vagabonds like himself to ask Alfred for a lock of his hair—always for Cabrion!"
"Ah, monsieur," sighed out poor Pipelet, "had I committed the most atrocious crimes, my sleep could not have been rendered more broken and unrefreshing; scarcely do I fall into a doze than I wake starting with the idea of being called by that cursed Cabrion! I suspect everybody—in each person who approaches me I see an emissary from my persecutor come to request a lock of my hair. I am losing my good spirits, my temper, and becoming gloomy, suspicious, peevish, and ill-natured. This infernal Cabrion has murdered my whole life!"
And Pipelet heaved so profound a sigh that his hat, vibrating for some time from the consequences of the convulsive shake of the head occasioned thereby, fell forward and completely veiled his care-stricken features.
"I can well understand, now," said Rodolph, "that you are not particularly partial to painters; but I suppose the M. Germain you were praising so highly made up for the bad treatment you received from M. Cabrion?"
"Yes, yes, sir; as I told you, M. Germain was a delightful young man, so honourable and kind-hearted, open as the day, and ever ready to serve and oblige; he was cheerful and merry as need be, but then he always kept his high spirits within proper bounds instead of worrying people to death by his unmeaning hoaxes, like that Cabrion, who I wish was at the devil!"
"Come, come, my good M. Pipelet, I must not let you thus excite yourself; and who, now, is the person fortunate enough to possess such a pattern of a lodger as this M. Germain seems to have been?"
"That is more than I can tell you; no one knows whither he has gone, nor are they likely, except, indeed, through Mlle. Rigolette."
"And who is Mlle. Rigolette?" demanded Rodolph.
"Why, she is a needlewoman, also living on the fourth floor," cried Madame Pipelet; "another pattern lodger, always pays her rent in advance, and keeps her little chamber so nice and clean; then she is well behaved to every one, so merry and happy, like a bird, though, poor thing! very like a caged bird, obliged to work early and late to earn two francs a day, and often not half that, let her try ever so hard."
"How does it happen that Mlle. Rigolette should be the only person entrusted with the secret of M. Germain's present abode?"
"Why, when he was going away, he came to us and said," returned Madame Pipelet, "'I do not expect any letters; but if, by chance, any should come, please to give them to Mlle. Rigolette.' And she is well worthy of his confidence, if his letters were filled with gold; don't you think so, Alfred?"
"The fact is," said the porter, in a severe tone, "that I know no harm of Mlle. Rigolette, excepting her permitting herself to be wheedled over by that vile scamp, Cabrion."
"But you know, Alfred, that nothing more than a few harmless attentions passed between them," interrupted the porteress; "for, though Mlle. Rigolette is as merry as a kitten, she is as prudent and correct as I am myself. You should see the strong bolts she has inside her door; and if her next-door neighbour will make love to her, that is not her fault; it follows as a matter of course when people are so close to each other. It was just the same with the travelling-clerk we had here before Cabrion, and so it was when M. Germain took the room this abominable painter occupied. So, as I say, there is no blame to Mlle. Rigolette; it arises out of the two rooms joining one another so closely—naturally that brings about a little flirtation, but nothing more."
"So, then, it becomes a matter of course, does it," said Rodolph, "that every one who occupies the apartment I am to have should make love to Mlle. Rigolette?"
"Why, of course, monsieur; how can you be good neighbours without it—don't you see? Now, imagine yourself lodging in the very next room to a nice, pretty, obliging young person, like Mlle. Rigolette; well, then, young people will be young people—sometimes you want a light, sometimes a few live coals to kindle up your fire, maybe a little water—for one is sure always to find plenty of fresh spring water at Mlle. Rigolette's, she is never without it; it is her only luxury—she is like a little duck, always dabbling in it; and if she does happen to have a little leisure, such a washing down of floors and cleaning of windows! Never the least soil or neglect about either herself or her apartment, and so you will find."
"And so M. Germain, by reason of his close proximity to Mlle. Rigolette, became what you style upon perfectly neighbourly terms with her?"
"Oh, bless you, yes! Why, the two seemed cut out for each other, so young and so good-looking! It was quite a pleasure to look at them as they came down-stairs of a Sunday to take the only walk, poor things! they could afford themselves throughout the week; she dressed in a smart little cap and a gown that cost, probably, not more than twenty-five sous the ell, but made by herself, and that so tastily that it became her as much as though it had been of satin; he, mind ye, dressed and looking like a regular gentleman."
"And M. Germain has not been to see Mlle. Rigolette, I suppose, since he quitted the house?"
"No, monsieur; unless on Sunday, for Mlle. Rigolette has no time during the other six days of the week to think of sweethearting. Why, the poor girl rises at five or six o'clock, and works incessantly till ten or eleven o'clock at night, never once leaving her room except for a few minutes in the morning, when she goes out to buy food for herself and her two canary-birds; and the three eat but very little, just a penn'orth of milk, a little bread, some chickweed, bird-seed, and clear fresh water, and the whole three of them sing away as merrily as though they fared ever so sumptuously. And Mlle. Rigolette is kind and charitable, too, as far as lies in her power; that is to say, she gives her time, her sleep, and her services; for, poor girl! she can scarcely manage to keep herself by working closely for twelve hours a day. Those poor, unfortunate creatures in the attics, whom M. Bras Rouge is going to turn into the streets in two or three days' time, if even he wait so long—why, Mlle. Rigolette and M. Germain sat up with the children night after night!"
"You have a distressed family, then, here?"
"Distressed! Oh, God bless you, my good sir, I think we have, indeed. Why, there are five young children, an almost dying mother, an idiotic grandmother, and their only support a man who, though he slaves like a negro, cannot even get bread enough to