The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 1 of 6. Эжен Сю

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СКАЧАТЬ fellow; "we have some business together."

      "That's your affair, – a set of ruffians, as you are, altogether."

      "Ruffians!" said the man, much incensed; "it is such ruffians you get your living by."

      "Will you hold your jaw?" said the Amazon, with a threatening gesture, and lifting, as she spoke, the pitcher she held in her hand.

      The man resumed his place, grumbling as he did so.

      "The Gros-Boiteux has, perhaps, stayed to give that young fellow Germain, who lives in the Rue du Temple, his gruel," said he, to his companion.

      "What, do they mean to do for him?"

      "No, not quite, but to make him more careful in future. It appears he has 'blown the gaff' in the job at Nantes, so Bras Rouge declares."

      "Why, that is Gros-Boiteux's affair; he has only just left prison, and has his hands full already."

      Fleur-de-Marie had followed the Chourineur into the tavern of the ogress, and he, responding to a nod given to him by the young scamp with the jaded aspect, said, "Ah, Barbillon! what, pulling away at the old stuff?"

      "Yes; I would rather fast, and go barefoot any day, than be without my drops for my throttle, and the weed for my pipe," said the rapscallion, in a thick, low, hoarse voice, without moving from his seat, and puffing out volumes of tobacco-smoke.

      "Good evening, Fleur-de-Marie," said the ogress, looking with a prying eye on the clothes of the poor girl, – clothes which she had lent her. After her scrutiny, she said, in a tone of coarse satisfaction, "It's really a pleasure – so it is – to lend one's good clothes to you; you are as clean as a kitten, or else I would never have trusted you with that shawl. Such a beauty as that orange one is, I would never have trusted it to such gals as Tourneuse and Boulotte; but I have taken every care on you ever since you came here six weeks ago; and, if the truth must be said, there is not a tidier nor more nicer girl than you in all the Cité; that there ain't; though you be al'ays so sad like, and too particular."

      The Goualeuse sighed, turned her head, and said nothing.

      "Why, mother," said Rodolph to the old hag, "you have got some holy boxwood, I see, over your cuckoo," and he pointed with his finger to the consecrated bough behind the old clock.

      "Why, you heathen, would you have us live like dogs?" replied the ogress. Then addressing Fleur-de-Marie, she added, "Come, now, Goualeuse, tip us one of your pretty little ditties" (goualantes).

      "Supper, supper first, Mother Ponisse," said the Chourineur.

      "Well, my lad of wax, what can I do for you?" said the ogress to Rodolph, whose good-will she was desirous to conciliate, and whose support she might, perchance, require.

      "Ask the Chourineur; he orders, I pay."

      "Well, then," said the ogress, turning to the bandit, "what will you have for supper, you 'bad lot?'"

      "Two quarts of the best wine, at twelve sous, three crusts of wheaten bread, and a harlequin,"5 said the Chourineur, after considering for a few moments what he should order.

      "Ah! you are a dainty dog, I know, and as fond as ever of them harlequins."

      "Well, now, Goualeuse," said the Chourineur, "are you hungry?"

      "No, Chourineur."

      "Would you like anything better than a harlequin, my lass?" said Rodolph.

      "No, I thank you; I have no appetite."

      "Come, now," said the Chourineur, with a brutal grin, "look my master in the face like a jolly wench. You have no objection, I suppose?"

      The poor girl blushed, and did not look at Rodolph. A few moments afterwards, and the ogress herself placed on the table a pitcher of wine, bread, and a harlequin, of which we will not attempt to give an idea to the reader, but which appeared most relishing to the Chourineur; for he exclaimed, "Dieu de Dieu! what a dish! What a glorious dish! It is a regular omnibus; there is something in it to everybody's taste. Those who like fat can have it; so can they who like lean; as well as those who prefer sugar, and those who choose pepper. There's tender bits of chicken, biscuit, sausage, tarts, mutton-bones, pastry crust, fried fish, vegetables, woodcock's heads, cheese, and salad. Come, eat, Goualeuse, eat; it is so capital! You have been to a wedding breakfast somewhere this morning."

      "No more than on other mornings. I ate this morning, as usual, my ha'porth of milk, and my ha'porth of bread."

      The entrance of another personage into the cabaret interrupted all conversation for a moment, and everybody turned his head in the direction of the newcomer, who was a middle-aged man, active and powerful, wearing a loose coat and cap. He was evidently quite at home in the tapis-franc, and, in language familiar to all the guests, requested to be supplied with supper. He was so placed that he could observe the two ill-looking scoundrels who had asked after Gros-Boiteux and the Schoolmaster. He did not take his eyes off them; but in consequence of their position, they could not see that they were the objects of such marked and constant attention.

      The conversation, momentarily interrupted, was resumed. In spite of his natural audacity, the Chourineur showed a deference for Rodolph, and abstained from familiarity.

      "By Jove," said he to Rodolph, "although I have smarted for it, yet I am very glad to have met with you."

      "What! because you relish the harlequin?"

      "Why, may be so; but more because I am all on the fret to see you 'serve out' the Schoolmaster. To see him who has always crowed over me, crowed over in his turn would do me good."

      "Do you suppose, then, that for your amusement I mean to spring at the Schoolmaster, and pin him like a bull-dog?"

      "No, but he'll have at you in a moment, when he learns that you are a better man than he," replied the Chourineur, rubbing his hands.

      "Well, I have coin enough left to pay him in full," said Rodolph, in a careless tone; "but it is horrible weather: what say you to a cup of brandy with sugar in it?"

      "That's the ticket!" said the Chourineur.

      "And, that we may be better acquainted, we will tell each other who we are," added Rodolph.

      "The Albinos called the Chourineur a freed convict, worker at the wood that floats at St. Paul's Quay; frozen in the winter, scorched in the summer, from twelve to fifteen hours a day in the water; half man, half frog; that's my description," said Rodolph's companion, making him a military salute with his left hand. "Well, now, and you, my master, this is your first appearance in the Cité. I don't mean anything to offend; but you entered head foremost against my skull, and beating the drum on my carcass. By all that's ugly, what a rattling you made, especially with these blows with which you doubled me up! I never can forget them – thick as buttons – what a torrent! But you have some trade besides 'polishing off' the Chourineur?"

      "I am a fan-painter, and my name is Rodolph."

      "A fan-painter! Ah! that's the reason, then, that your hands are so white," added the Chourineur. "If all your fellow workmen are like you, there must be a tidy lot of you. But, as you are a workman, what brings you to a tapis-franc in the Cité, where there are only prigs, cracksmen or freed convicts like myself, and who only come here because we cannot go elsewhere? This is no place for you. Honest mechanics have their СКАЧАТЬ