Rigolette's chamber shone with coquettish nicety; a heavy silver watch, placed on the chimney, marked four o'clock; the very cold weather having passed, the economical workwoman had not put any fire in her stove. Hardly could one see from the window any part of the sky, the rough, irregular mass of roofs, garrets, and high chimneys, on the other side of the street, forming the horizon.

Suddenly a ray of the sun, astray as it were, glancing between two high roofs, came to light up, for some moments, with its purple tints, the windows of the room.

Rigolette was working, seated near the casement, sewing, with her feet on a stool, placed before her. Thus, as a noble amuses himself sometimes, through caprice, in concealing the walls of a cottage by the most splendid draperies, for a moment the setting sun illuminated the little apartment with a thousand sparkling fires, cast its golden rays on the gray and green chintz curtains, made the highly-polished furniture sparkle, the waxed floor to glisten like brass, and surrounded with gilded wire the bird-cage.

But, alas! notwithstanding the provoking joyousness of this ray of the sun, its two canaries flew about with an unquiet air, and, contrary to custom, did not sing.

It was because, contrary to custom, also, Rigolette did not sing. None of the three warbled without the others. Almost always the fresh and matinal song of one awoke the song of the others, who, more lazy, did not leave their nests at so early an hour. Then it was a challenge, a contest of clear, sonorous, brilliant, silvery notes, in which the birds did not always have the advantage.

Rigolette sung no more, because, for the first time in her life, she experienced a sorrow.

Until then, the sight of the misery of the Morels had often afflicted her, but such scenes are too familiar to the poorer classes to make any durable impression.

After having each day assisted these unfortunates as much as was in her power, sincerely wept with them, and for them, the girl felt affected, yet satisfied; affected with their misfortunes, and satisfied with her conduct toward them. But this was no sorrow.

Soon the natural gayety of her character resumed its empire. And besides, without egotism, but from comparison, she found herself so happy in her little chamber, on leaving the horrible den of the Morels, that her ephemeral sadness was soon dissipated.

Before we inform the reader of the cause of the first grief of Rigolette, we wish to assure him completely as to the virtue of this young girl. We regret to use the word virtue—a grave, pompous, and solemn word, which always carries along with it ideas of a grievous sacrifice, of a painful contest with the passions, austere meditations on the end of things here below. Such was not the virtue of Rigolette. She had neither struggled nor meditated. She had worked, laughed, and sung.

It depended on a question of time. She had no leisure to be in love.

Before all—gay, industrious, managing—order, work, gayety, had, unknown to her, defended, sustained, and saved her. Perhaps this morality will be found light, easy, and joyous; but what matters the cause, provided the effect subsists? What matters the direction of the roots, if the flower blooms brilliant and perfumed. But let us descend from our Utopian sphere, and return to the cause of Rigolette's first grief.

Except Germain, a good and serious young man, the neighbors of the grisette had taken, at first, her familiarity and neighborly kindness for very significant encouragement; but these gentlemen had been obliged to acknowledge, with as much surprise as vexation, that they found in Rigolette an amiable and gay companion for their Sunday recreations, a kind neighbor, and "nice little girl," but nothing more. Their surprise and their vexation quailed by degrees to the frank and charming disposition of the grisette, and her neighbors were proud on Sunday to have on their arm a pretty girl who did them honor (Rigolette cared little for appearances), and who only cost the partaking of their modest pleasures, which her presence and sprightliness enhanced. Besides, the dear girl was so easily contented; in the days of penury she dined so well and so gayly on a piece of hot cake, nipped with all the force of her little white teeth; after which she amused herself so much with a walk on the boulevards or streets.

Francois Germain alone founded no foolish hopes on the girl's familiarity. Either from penetration or delicacy of mind, he saw at once all that could be agreeable in the mode of living offered by Rigolette. That which, of course, would happen, happened. He became desperately in love with his neighbor, without daring to speak of this love. Far from imitating his predecessors, who, soon convinced of the vanity of their pursuits, had consoled themselves elsewhere, Germain had deliciously enjoyed his intimacy with the girl, passing with her not only Sundays, but every evening that he was not occupied.

During these long hours, Rigolette had conducted herself, as always, lively and gay; Germain tender, attentive, serious, and often a little melancholy. This sadness was the only inconvenience; for his manners, naturally uncommon, could not be compared to the ridiculous pretensions of Girandeau, the traveling clerk, nor to the noisy eccentricities of Cabrion; M. Girandeau by his inexhaustible loquacity, and the painter by his hilarity not less so, had the advantage of Germain, whose gentle gravity awed a little his lively neighbor.

Rigolette had not, until now, any marked preference for either of her three lovers; but as she was not wanting in judgment, she found that Germain alone united all the qualities necessary to make a reasonable woman happy.

These antecedents disposed of, we will say why Rigolette was sad, and why neither she nor her birds sung.

Her round, blooming face was rather pale; her large black eyes, ordinarily bright and sparkling, were cast down and dull; her expression showed unaccustomed fatigue. She had worked more than half the night. From time to time she regarded sadly a letter placed open upon a table beside her; this letter was from Germain, and contained what follows:

"Conciergerie Prison.

"MADEMOISELLE.—The place whence I write will tell you the extent of my misfortune. I am incarcerated as a thief—I am criminal in the eyes of the world, though I dare to write to you. It would be frightful for me to think that you also looked upon me as a degraded and guilty being. I implore you, do not condemn me before having read this letter. If you cast me off, this last blow will overwhelm me quite.

"For some time past I have not lived in the Rue du Temple, but I knew through poor Louise that the Morel family, in whom we were so much interested, were more and more wretched. Alas I my pity for these poor people has ruined me! I do not repent it, but my fate is a cruel one. Yesterday, I remained quite late at M. Ferrand's, occupied with some pressing writings. In the room where I worked was a desk; each day my patron locked up in it the work I had done. This night he appeared restless and agitated; he said to me, 'Do not go until these accounts are finished; you will place them in the desk, of which I leave you the key,' and he went out.

"My work being finished I opened the drawer to put it away; mechanically my eyes fell upon an open letter, where I read the name of Jerome Morel, the artisan. I confess, seeing that it referred to that unfortunate man, I had the indiscretion to read this letter; I thus learned that the artisan was to be arrested the next morning for a note of thirteen hundred francs, at the suit of M. Ferrand, who, under an assumed name, would cause him to be imprisoned. This notice was from the agent of my patron. I knew the situation of the family well enough to foresee what a horrible blow this would be for them. I was as sorry as I was indignant. Unfortunately, I saw in the same drawer an open box containing some gold; there was about two thousand francs. At this moment I heard Louise on the staircase; without reflecting on the gravity of my action, profiting by the occasion which chance offered, I took thirteen hundred francs; I went into the passage and placed the money in the hand of Louise, telling her, 'Your father is to be arrested to-morrow at daylight for thirteen hundred francs: here they are; save him, but do not say you had this money from me. M. Ferrand is a bad man.'

"You see, mademoiselle, my intention was good though my conduct was culpable; I conceal nothing. Now hear my excuse.

"During a long time, by economy, I have saved and placed at a banker's the small sum of fifteen hundred francs. About a week ago he notified me that the term of his obligation toward me being arrived, he held my funds subject to my order, if I did not wish them to remain with him.

"I thus possessed more than I took from the notary. I could the next day replace it; but the cashier of the bank did not reach his office before twelve o'clock, and at daybreak they were to arrest poor Morel. It was necessary to place him in a situation to pay, otherwise, even if I were to go and take him from prison, the arrest might have already killed his wife; besides, the very considerable expenses attending this would have been at the cost of the artisan. You comprehend that all these misfortunes would not have happened, if I could have returned the thirteen hundred francs before M. Ferrand discovered their loss.

"I left the house, no longer under the impression of indignation and pity which had made me act in this manner. I reflected on all the dangers of my position; a thousand fears assailed me. I knew the severity of the notary; he could, after my departure, return and go to the bureau, find out the theft; for in his eyes, to the eyes of everybody, it is a theft.

"These ideas quite upset me; although it was late, I ran to the banker's to beg him to return my money instantly. I should have explained this extraordinary demand; afterward I would have returned to M. Ferrand, and replaced the money I had taken.

"The banker, by a fatal chance, had been for two days at Belleville, his country house. I awaited the daylight with increasing agony; at length I arrived at Belleville. Everything seemed leagued against me; the banker had left for Paris; I flew back, I got my money; I went to M. Ferrand's—all was discovered.

"But this is only a part of my misfortunes; now the notary accuses me of having stolen fifteen thousand francs in notes, which were, he said, in the drawer with the two thousand francs in gold. It is a false accusation, an infamous lie. I avow myself guilty of the first charge; but by all that is sacred, I swear to you, mademoiselle, that I am innocent of the second. I have seen no bills in the drawer; there was only the gold, as I said before.

"Such is the truth, mademoiselle; I am under the charge of an overwhelming accusation, and yet I affirm that you ought to think me incapable of telling a falsehood. But who will believe me? Alas! as M. Ferrand told me, he who has stolen a small sum can easily steal a large one, and his words deserve no confidence.

"I have always found you so good and devoted to the unfortunate, mademoiselle, I know you are so faithful and frank, that your heart will guide you, I hope, in the appreciation of the truth—I ask nothing more. Give faith to my words, and you will find me as much to be pitied as blamed; for, I repeat, my intention was good; circumstances impossible to foresee have ruined me.

"Oh, Mile. Rigolette, I am very unhappy. If you knew what kind of people I am destined to live among until the day of my trial! Yesterday they took me to a place which is called the station-house of the Prefecture of Police. I cannot tell you what I experienced when, after having mounted a gloomy staircase, I arrived before a door with an iron wicket, which they opened, and soon closed upon me. I was so much troubled, that at first I could distinguish nothing. A hot, disagreeable air struck me in the face; I heard a great noise of voices mingled with sinister laughs, accents of rage and low songs; I held myself immovable near the door, looking at the stone flaggings, daring neither to advance nor raise my eyes, believing that every one was looking at me. They did not trouble themselves about me; one prisoner more or less is of no consequence to them; at length I raised my head. What horrible figures! how many clothed in rags! how many ragged clothes soiled with mud! All the externals of vice and misery. There were about forty or fifty, seated, standing, or lying on benches fastened to the walls; vagabonds, robbers, assassins, in fine, all who had been arrested that night or day.

"When they perceived me, I found a sad consolation in seeing that they did not recognize me as one of their fellows. Some of them looked at me with an insolent and jeering air; then they began to talk among themselves, in a low tone, and in a hideous language I did not comprehend. At the end of a short time, the most audacious of them came and struck me on the shoulder, and asked me for some money to pay my footing.

"I gave them some money, in hopes to purchase repose; it was not enough; they required more; I refused. Then several of them surrounded me, loading me with threats and insults; they were about to throw themselves upon me, when happily, attracted by the noise, a keeper entered. I complained to him; he made them give up the money I had given them, and told me that, if I wished, I could, for a small amount, be put alone in a cell. I accepted with gratitude, and left these bandits in the midst of their threats for the future. The keeper placed me in a cell, where I passed the rest of the night. It is hence that I write to you this morning, Mlle. Rigolette. Immediately after my examination, I shall be conducted to another prison, which is called La Force, where I fear I shall meet many of my lock-up companions. The keeper, interested by my grief and tears, has promised me to send you this letter, although it is strictly forbidden. I expect, Mlle. Rigolette, a last service of our old friendship, if now you should not blush at this friendship.

"If you are willing to grant my demand, here it is.

"You will receive with this a small key, and a line for the porter of the house where I reside, Boulevard Saint Denis, No. 11. I inform him that you can dispose of all that belongs to me, and that he must obey your orders. He will show you my room. You will have the kindness to open my secretary with the key I send you; you will find a large envelope covering many papers, which I wish you to take care of; one of them was destined for you, as you will see by the address; others have been written concerning you, in our happy days. Do not be angry— you never else would have known it.

"I beg you also to take the small sum of money which is in the secretary, also a sachet of satin, inclosing a little cravat of orange silk, that you wore on our last Sunday walk, and gave me the day I left the Rue du Temple. I wish that, with the exception of some linen, which you will send to La Force, you would sell the furniture and effects I possess: acquitted or condemned, I shall not be the less ruined and obliged to leave Paris. Where shall I go? What are my resources? Heaven only knows!

"Madame Bouvard, as saleswoman in the Temple, who has already sold and bought for me, will doubtless arrange all this: she's an honest woman; this arrangement will spare you much embarrassment, for I know how precious your time is.

"I have paid my rent in advance; I beg you to give a small gratuity to the porter. Pardon me, mademoiselle, for imposing on you with these details, but you are the only person in the world to whom I dare and can address myself.

"I might have asked this service from one of the clerks at M. Ferrand's, but I feared his discretion respecting sundry papers: many of them concerning you, as I have already told you; others have reference to some sad events of my life.

"Oh! believe me, Mlle. Rigolette, if you grant it, this last proof of your former affection will be my sole consolation in the great trouble which crushes me; in spite of myself, I hope you will not refuse me.

"I ask, also, permission to write you sometimes—it will be so soothing, so precious, to be able to pour out, to disclose to a benevolent heart, the sorrows which overwhelm me.

"Alas! I am alone in the world; no one feels any interest in me. This isolated condition was always painful—judge now what it is!

"And yet I am honest; and I have the consciousness of never having injured any one; of having always, even at the peril of my life, shown my aversion for evil, as you will see by the papers, which I beg you to keep and read. But when I say this, who will believe me? M. Ferrand is respected by everybody; his reputation is well established; he will crush me; I resign myself, in advance, to my fate.

"In brief, Mlle. Rigolette, if you believe me, you will not have, I hope, any contempt for me; you will pity me, and you will sometimes think of a sincere friend; then, if I cause you much—much pity, perhaps you will push your generosity so far as to come, some day-a Sunday (alas! what recollections does not the word awaken)—to brave the reception-room of my prison.

"But, no, no! to see you in such a place—I never can dare. Yet you are so kind, that—

"I am obliged to stop, and send you this, with the key and the note to the porter, which I shall write in haste, as the keeper has come to tell me I am to be taken before the judge. Adieu, adieu, Mlle. Rigolette.

"Do not cast me off. I have no hope but in you—in you alone.

"FRANCOIS GERMAIN.

"P.S.—If you answer address your letter to the prison of La Force."

The reader can now comprehend the cause of the first grief of La Rigolette. Her excellent heart was profoundly affected at a calamity of which she had not had until then any suspicion. She believed implicitly in the entire veracity of the story of Germain. Not very severe, she even found that her old neighbor enormously exaggerated his fault. To save an unfortunate father, he had taken the money, which he knew he could return. This action, in the eyes of the grisette, was only generous.

By one of those inconsistencies natural to women, and above all, to those of her class, this girl, who until then had felt for Germain, as for her other neighbors, a joyous and cordial friendship, now acknowledged a decided preference.

As soon as she knew he was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a prisoner, she thought no more of his rivals.

With Rigolette it was not yet love; it was a lively, sincere affection, filled with commiseration and resolute devotion: a very new sentiment for her, from the bitterness which was joined to it. Such was her mental situation when Rudolph entered her room, after having discreetly knocked at the door.

"Good-day, my neighbor," said Rudolph; "I hope I do not disturb you?"

"No, neighbor; I am, on the contrary, very glad to see you, for I have much sorrow!"

"Why do I find you pale? you seem to have been weeping!"

"I should think I have wept! There is reason for it. Poor Germain! Here, read;" and Rigolette handed to Rudolph the letter. "If this is not enough to break one's heart! You told me you were interested in him. Now is the time to show it," added she, while Rudolph read attentively. "Is this villain, Ferrand, thirsting for the blood of everybody? First it was Louise, now it is Germain. Oh! I am not cruel; but if some misfortune should happen to this notary I should be content! To accuse such an honest young man of having stolen one thousand three hundred francs! Germain! truth and honesty itself, and then so regular, so mild, so sad—is he not to be pitied, among all these scoundrels-in prison! Oh! M. Rudolph, from to-day I begin to see that all is not couleur de rose in life."

"And what do you mean to do my neighbor?"

"Do? why, everything he asks, and as soon as possible. I should have already been off, but for this work, which I must finish and take to the Rue Saint Honore as I go to Germain's room to get the papers he speaks of. I have passed a part of the night in working, so as to gain some hours in advance. I am going to have so many things to do, besides my work, that I must get in readiness. In the first place, Madame Morel wishes me to see Louise in her prison? It is, perhaps, very difficult, but I will try. Unfortunately, I do not know who to address myself to."

"I have thought of that."

"You, my neighbor?"

"Here is a magistrate's order."

"What happiness! Can you not get me one also for the prison of this unfortunate Germain? it will give him so much pleasure."

"I will give you, also, the means to see Germain."

"Oh, thank you, M. Rudolph."

"You are not afraid, then, to go to the prison?"

"Very certain my heart will beat the first time. But never mind. When Germain was happy, did I not always find him ready to anticipate all my wishes? To take me to the theater, or a walk? to read to me at night? to assist me in arranging my flowers? to wax my floor? Well! now he is in trouble, it is my turn; a poor little mouse like me can't do much, I know; but all I can do I will do—he can count on it; he shall see whether I am a good friend! M. Rudolph, there is one thing that vexes me; it is his suspicion—he believes me capable of despising him! I ask you why? This old miser of a notary accuses him of theft; but what is that to me? I know it is not true. The letter of Germain proves as clear as day that he is innocent, whom I should never have thought guilty. Only to see him, to know him, shows he is incapable of a wrong action. One must be as wicked as M. Ferrand to maintain such false assertions."

"Bravo, neighbor, I like your indignation!"

"Oh! stop—I wish I was a man, to go see this notary, and say to him: 'Oh! you maintain that Germain has robbed you; well, look here, take that, you old liar, he won't steal this from you.' And I'd beat him to a mummy."

"You'd have very expeditious justice," said Rudolph, smiling at the animation of Rigolette.

"It is so revolting; and, as Germain says in his letter, everybody will take the master's part against him, because his master is rich, and thought much of, while Germain is a poor young man without protection; unless you come to his assistance, M. Rudolph, who know so many benevolent persons. Can nothing be done?"

"He must wait for his trial. Once acquitted, as I think he will be, numerous proofs of interest will be shown him, I assure you. But listen, my neighbor. I know from experience that I can count on your discretion."

"Oh, yes, M. Rudolph. I have never been a babbler."

"Well, no one must know, even Germain himself must be ignorant that he has friends who are watching over him, for he has friends."

"Really."

"Very powerful and very devoted."

"It would give him so much courage to know it."

"Doubtless; but perhaps he could not keep the secret. Then, M. Ferrand, alarmed, would be on his guard, his suspicions aroused; and as he is very cunning, he would make it difficult to get at him; which would be lamentable, for not only must the innocence of Germain be proved, but his calumniator unmasked."

"I understand you, M. Rudolph."

"Just so with Louise; I bring you this permission to see her, so that you can tell her not to speak to any one of what she had revealed to me. She will know what this means."

"That is sufficient, M. Rudolph."

"In a word, Louise must be careful not to complain in her prison of the conduct of her master; it is very important. But she must conceal nothing from the lawyer who will be sent by me to prepare for her defense; recommend all this to her."

"Be quite easy, neighbor; I will forget nothing. I have a good memory. But I speak of kindness, when it is you who are good and generous! If any one's in trouble, you are there at once!"

"I have told you, neighbor, I am only a poor clerk. When, in roving about, I find good people who deserve protection, I inform a benevolent person who has all confidence in me, and they are assisted."

"Where do you lodge, now that you have given up your room to the
Morels?"

"I lodge—in furnished lodgings."

"Oh, how I detest that. To be where everybody else has been—it is as if everybody had been in your own room."

"I am only there at night, and then—"

"I conceive—it is less disagreeable. My home, M. Rudolph, rendered me so happy; I had arranged a life so tranquil, that I should not have believed it possible to have a sorrow. Yet you see! No, I cannot tell you what a blow the misfortunes of Germain have caused me. I have seen the Morels and others—much to be pitied, it is true; but misery is misery. Among poor folks they expect it; it does not surprise them, and they help one another as they can. But to see a poor young man, honest, and good, who has been your friend for a long time, accused of theft, and imprisoned pell-mell with rogues and cut-throats! Oh, M. Rudolph! it is true I have no strength against this; it is a misfortune I have never thought of; it upsets me."

Rigolette's large eyes filled with tears.

"Courage, courage! your gayety will return when your friend is acquitted."

"Oh, he must be acquitted! They will only have to read to the judges the letter which he has written me—that will be enough, will it not, M. Rudolph?"

"In reality, this simple and touching letter has all the marks of truth. You must let me take a copy; it will be useful in his defense."

"Certainly, M. Rudolph. If I did not write like a real cat, in spite of the lessons Germain gave me, I should propose to copy it for you; but my writing is so coarse, so crooked, and besides, there are so many—so many faults."

"I only ask you to lend me this letter until tomorrow."

"There it is, neighbor; but you will take good care of it? I have burned all the billets doux which M. Cabrion and M. Girandeau wrote me at the commencement of our acquaintance, with bleeding hearts and doves on the top of the paper; but this poor letter of Germain, I will take good care of; it and others also, if he writes them. For, in truth M. Rudolph, it is a proof in my favor that he asks these little services."

"Without doubt it proves that you are the best little friend that one can have. But I reflect—instead of going by and by alone to M. Germain's, shall I accompany you?"

"With pleasure, neighbor. Night approaches, and I prefer not to be alone in the streets after dark, especially as I have to go near the Palais Royal. But to go so far will be tiresome and fatiguing to you, perhaps?"

"Not at all; we will take a hack."

"Really! Oh, how it would amuse me to go in a carriage, if I had not so much sorrow. And I must have sorrow, for this is the first day since I lived here that I have not sung. My birds are all astonished. Poor little things! they do not know what it means; two or three times Papa Cretu has sung a little to entice me. I wished to amuse him; but after a moment I began to weep; Ramonette then tried, but I could answer no more."

[Illustration: MENACED IN PRISON]

"What singular names you have given your birds—Papa Cretu, Ramonette?"

"M. Rudolph, my birds are the joy of my solitude; they are my best friends. I have given them the names of good people who were the joy of my childhood, my best friends. Without reckoning, to finish the resemblance, that Papa Cretu and Ramonette were as gay and tuneful as the birds of heaven. My adopted parents were thus called. They are ridiculous names for birds, I know; but it only concerns me. Now, it was on this very subject that I saw Germain had a good heart."

"He had, eh?"

"Certainly; M. Girandeau and M. Cabrion—M. Cabrion, above all—were forever making jokes on the names of my birds. 'To call a canary Papa Cretu, did you ever?' M. Cabrion never finished, and then he would laugh—such laughs. 'If it were a cock,' said he, 'very well, you I might call it Cretu (combed). It is the same with the other one; Ramonette sounds too much like Ramoneur (chimney sweep).' At length he made me so angry that I would not go out with him for two Sundays, just to teach him; and I told him, very seriously, that if he recommenced his jokes, which were unpleasant to me, we should never go out together again."

"What a courageous resolution!"

"It cost me a good deal, M. Rudolph—I looked so eagerly for my Sunday excursions. I had a sorrowful heart, I tell you, to remain home all alone of a fine day; but never mind, I preferred rather to sacrifice my Sunday than to continue to hear M. Cabrion make fun of what I respected. Except for this, and the ideas attached to it, I would have preferred to give other names to my birds. There is, above all, one name I should have loved to adoration—Humming-Bird. Well, I cannot do it, because I never shall call my birds otherwise than Cretu and Ramonette; it would seem to me that I sacrificed them, that I forgot my kind adopted parents-wouldn't it, M. Rudolph?"

"You are right-a thousand times right. Germain did not make fun of these names?"

"On the contrary; only the first time it appeared droll to him, as to every one else—it is very simple; but when I explained my reasons, as I had explained them to M. Cabrion, the tears came into his eyes. From that day I said, `M. Germain has a kind heart; he has nothing against him but his sadness.' And do you see, M. Rudolph, that he has brought me misfortune to reproach him for his sadness. Then I did not comprehend how one could be sad. Now I comprehend it but too well. But now my work is finished, will you give me my shawl, neighbor It is not cold enough for a cloak, is it?"

"We shall go in a carriage, and I will bring you back."

"It is true, we shall go and return quicker; it will be so much time gained."

"But, on reflection, how are you going to manage? Your work will suffer from your visit to the prisons?"

"Oh no, no! I have laid my plans. In the first place, I have my Sundays; I will go and see Louise and Germain on these days—it will serve me for a walk and recreation; then, in the week, I shall go to the prison once or twice; each time will cost me three good hours a day. Well, to make up for this, I will work one hour more each day, and I will go to bed at twelve o'clock instead of eleven; that will give me a clear gain of seven or eight hours each week, which I can use in going to see Louise and Germain. You see, I am richer than I appear to be," added Rigolette, smiling.

"And do you not fear this will fatigue you?"

"Bah! I can do it—one can do anything; and, besides, it will not last forever."

"Here is your shawl, neighbor. I shall not be so indiscreet as to bring my lips too close to this charming neck."

"Oh, neighbor! take care, you prick me."

"Come, the pin is crooked."

"Well, take another—there, on the pincushion. Oh, I forget! Will you do me a favor, neighbor?"

"Command, neighbor."

"Make me a good pen, very coarse, so that I can, on my return, write to poor Germain that his commissions are executed. He shall have my letter to-morrow morning early."

"And where are your pens?"

"There, on the table; the knife is in the drawer. Stop, I am going to light my candle, for it grows quite dark."

"I shall want it to mend the pen."

"And, besides, I can't see to tie my bonnet."

Rigolette took a match, and lit an end of candle, which was in a very shining candlestick.

"Dear me! wax candle, neighbor—what luxury!"

"The little I burn costs me a trifle more than a tallow candle, but it is so much neater."

"Not much dearer?"

"Oh, no. I buy these ends of candles by the pound, and a half-pound serves me a month."

"But," said Rudolph, mending the pen carefully, while the grisette tied her bonnet before the glass, "I see no preparations for your dinner."

"I haven't a shadow of hunger. I took a cup of milk this morning; I will take another to-night, with a little bread! I shall have enough."

"Will you not come and eat dinner with me when we come away from
Germain's?"

"I thank you, neighbor; I have my heart too full; another time with pleasure. What do you say to the evening of the day that poor Germain comes out of prison? I invite myself, and afterward we will go to the play. Is it agreed?"

"It is, neighbor; I assure you that I shall not forget this engagement. But to-day you refuse me?"

"Yes, M. Rudolph; I should be too stupid to-day; besides, it would take up too much time. Only think—it is now, if ever, that I must not be lazy."

"Come, I will give up this pleasure for to-day."

"Here, take my bundle, neighbor; go before, I will shut the door."

"Here is an excellent pen—now, your bundle."

"Take care you don't tumble it—it is poult de soie—it shows the folds—hold it in your hand—that way—lightly. Well, pass on, I will light you."

Rudolph descended, preceded by Rigolette. As they passed the lodge they saw Pipelet, who, with his arms hanging down, advanced toward them from the bottom of the alley. In one hand he held the sign, which announced to the public that he would "deal in friendship" with Cabrion; and in the other, the portrait of the infernal painter.

The despair of Alfred was so overwhelming that his chin rested on his breast, and nothing could be seen but the top of his hat. On seeing him approach, with his head down, toward Rudolph and Rigolette, one would have said it was a goat or a negro butt preparing for combat. Anastasia appeared on the threshold, and cried at the sight of her husband. "Well, old darling! here you are, hey? What did the commissary say to you? Alfred, pay attention; now you are going to poke yourself against my prince of lodgers. Who has stolen your eyes? Pardon, M. Rudolph; that beggar Cabrion stupefies him more and more— he certainly will make him turn to a jackass, my poor love! Alfred, answer!"

At this voice, so dear to his heart, Pipelet raised his head; his features were imprinted with a melancholy bitterness.

"What did the commissary say to you?" repeated Anastasia.

"Anastasia, we must collect the little that we possess, clasp our friends in our arms, pack our trunks, and expatriate ourselves from France-from my 'belle France!'-for, sure now of impunity, the monster is capable of pursuing me everywhere."

"Then, the commissary!"

"The commissary!" cried Pipelet, with savage indignation; "the commissary laughed in my face."

"Your face! an aged man, who has so respectable an air, that you'd look as stupid as a goose if one did not know your virtues."

"Well, notwithstanding that, when I had respectfully deposed before him my heap of complaints and griefs against this infernal Cabrion, this magistrate, after looking at and laughing—yes, laughing—I say, laughing indecently—over the sign and portrait which I produced as justificatory of my complaint, replied, 'My good man, this Cabrion is a funny fellow—a jester—pay no attention to his jokes. I advise you now, in a friendly manner, to laugh at them, for really there is cause.' 'To laugh!' cried I; 'to laugh! but grief is devouring me—my existence is imbittered by those scoundrels—they pester me—they will cause me to lose my reason—I demand that they be locked up—exiled, at least from my street.' At these words the commissary smiled, and obligingly showed me the door. I understood this gesture of the magistrate, and here I am."

"Magistrate of nothing at all!" cried Mrs. Pipelet.

"All is finished! Anastasia, all is finished! No more hope! There is no longer any justice in France! I am atrociously sacrificed!" and by way of peroration, Pipelet threw, with all his strength, the portrait and sign to the end of the alley. Rudolph and Rigolette had, in the obscurity, slightly smiled at Pipelet's despair. After having addressed some words of consolation to Alfred, whom Anastasia was calming in the best way she could, the "prince of lodgers" left the house of the Rue du Temple with Rigolette, and got into a hackney coach to go to the residence of Francois Germain.