The Mysteries of Paris. Эжен Сю

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      "Then go along, my good Madame Pipelet, and we will wait till Alfred comes."

      "But, then, suppose any one wants me whilst I am out, who will mind the lodge?"

      "Oh, I'll take care of the lodge."

      The old woman departed on her agreeable errand.

      At the termination of a few minutes the postman tapped at the lodge window, and putting his hand into the apartment, presented two letters, merely saying, "Three sous."

      "Six sous, you mean, for two letters," replied Rodolph.

      "One is free," answered the man.

      Having paid and dismissed the postman, Rodolph mechanically examined the two letters thus committed to his charge; but at a further glance they seemed to him worthy a more attentive observation. The epistle addressed to Madame Pipelet exhaled through its hot-pressed envelope a strong odour of Russia leather; it bore, on a seal of red wax, the initials "C. R." surmounted by a helmet, and supported by a cross of the Legion of Honour. The direction was written in a firm, bold hand. The heraldic device of the commingled casque and cross made Rodolph smile, and confirmed him in the idea that the writer of the letter in question was not a female. Who was this scented, emblazoned correspondent of old Anastasia Pipelet? Rodolph felt an undefinable curiosity to know. The other epistle, written upon coarse and common paper, was united only by a common wafer, pricked over with the point of a pin, and was addressed to "M. César Bradamanti, Operating Dentist." Evidently disguised, the superscription was entirely composed of capital letters. Whether founded on a true or false presage, this letter seemed to Rodolph to wear a mournful look, as though evil or misery were contained within its shabby folds. He perceived that some of the letters in the direction were fainter than the others, and that the paper there seemed a little rumpled: a tear had evidently fallen upon it.

      Madame Pipelet returned, bearing the bottle of cassia and two glasses.

      "I have dawdled—have I not, monsieur?" said she, gaily. "But let you once get into that good Père Joseph's shop, and it is hard work to get out again. Oh, that old man is a very insinuating——"

      "Here, madame," interrupted Rodolph, "here are two letters the postman left while you were gone."

      "Dear me! Two letters! Pray excuse me, monsieur. I suppose you paid for them?"

      "I did."

      "You are very good. I tell you what, then, we will settle that out of the first money you have to pay me; how much was it?"

      "Three sous," answered Rodolph, much amused at the ingenious method of reimbursement employed by Madame Pipelet. "But may I, without offence, observe that one of the letters is addressed to you, and that you possess in the writer a correspondent whose billets-doux are marvellously well perfumed?"

      "Let us see what it is about," said the porteress, taking the epistle in the scented envelope. "Yes, upon my word, it is scented up like a real billet-doux! Now, I should very much like to know who would dare write me a love-letter! He must be a villain!"

      "And suppose it had fallen into your husband's hands, Madame Pipelet?"

      "Oh, for goodness' sake don't mention that, or I shall faint away in your arms! But how stupid I am! Now I know all about it," replied the fat porteress, shrugging her shoulders. "To be sure! to be sure! it comes from the Commandant! Lord bless me, what a fright I have had! for Alfred is as jealous as a Turk."

      "Here is another letter addressed to M. César Bradamanti."

      "Ah! to be sure, the dentist on the third floor. I will put it in the letter-boot."

      Rodolph fancied he had not caught the right words, but, to his astonishment, he saw Madame Pipelet gravely throw the letter alluded to into an old top-boot hanging up against the wall. He looked at her with surprise.

      "Do you mean," said he at length, "to put the gentleman's letter in——"

      "Oh, yes, that is all right," replied the porteress. "I have put it in the letter-boot—there, you see. So now nobody's letters can be mislaid; and when the different lodgers return home, Alfred or myself turns the boot upside down—we sort them out, and everybody gets his own."

      So saying, the porteress proceeded to break the seal of the letter addressed to her; which having done, she turned it round and round, looked at it in every direction, then, after a short appearance of embarrassment and uncertainty, she said to Rodolph:

      "Alfred generally reads my letters for me, because I do not happen to be able to read them myself; perhaps you would not mind just looking over this for me?"

      "With the utmost pleasure!" quickly replied Rodolph, curious to dive into the mysteries of who Madame Pipelet's correspondent might be; and forthwith he read what follows, written upon hot-pressed paper, stamped in its right-hand corner with the helmet, the letters "C. R.," the heraldic supporters, and the cross of honour.

      "To-morrow (Friday), about eleven o'clock, let there be a good (not an overfierce) fire lighted in both rooms; have everything well dusted, and remove the coverings from the furniture, taking especial care not to scratch the gilding, or to soil or burn the carpet while lighting the fires. If I should not be in about one o'clock, when a lady will arrive in a hackney-coach and inquire for me by the name of M. Charles, let her be shown up to the apartment; after which the key is to be taken down-stairs again, and kept till my arrival."

      Spite of the want of finished composition displayed in this billet, Rodolph perfectly comprehended to whom and what it alluded, and merely added, after perusing it:

      "Who lives on the first floor, then?"

      The old woman placed her yellow, shrivelled finger upon her pendulous lip, and replied, by a half-malicious grin:

      "Hush! There is a woman in the way—silence!"

      "Oh, my dear Madame Pipelet, I merely asked because, before living in a house, one likes to know a little."

      "Yes, yes! Of course, everybody likes to know all they can; that is all fair enough; and I am sure I have no objection to tell you all I know myself, and that is but very little. Well, but to begin. About six weeks ago a carpet-maker came here to look at the first floor, which was then to let, and to ask the price, and other particulars about it. Next day he came again, accompanied by a young man of fair complexion, small moustaches, and wearing a cross of honour and very fine linen. The carpet-maker called him commandant."

      "A military man, I suppose?" said Rodolph.

      "Military!" exclaimed Madame Pipelet, with a chuckle. "Not he! Why, Alfred might as well call himself porter to a prince."

      "How so?"

      "Why, he is only in the National Guard! The carpet-maker only called him commandant to flatter him: just the same as it tickles up Alfred's vanity to be styled concierge instead of porter. So when the commandant (that is the only name we know him by) had looked over the rooms, he said to the upholsterer, his friend, 'Well, I think the place will do for me—just see the landlord, and arrange all about it.' 'Yes, commandant,' says the other. And the very next day the upholsterer-man signed the lease with M. Bras Rouge (in his own name, mind you); and, further, paid six months in advance, because, he said, the gentleman did not wish to be bored about references. And such a power of fine furniture as was sent into the СКАЧАТЬ