Chapter IV: A Pair of Lovers

I lived on Rue Meslay, in a large house where there were apartments for all sorts of persons, even for those who had no money; and where, consequently, the man who passed the night working to earn his living used the same staircase as the man who passed the night amusing himself; the only difference was that the former went up higher. But even under the eaves there are pleasures and love and some very charming faces. The man who knows how to find them is not afraid to go up rather high.

I knew that there were at the top of my house--that is to say, of the house where I lived--some small, unplastered rooms, with cracks in the walls and loose doors and windows, where the chimneys smoked, where one froze in winter, where the rats and mice came every night to visit the occupants, and which, none the less, the landlord let for the highest price that he could obtain; however, he would not accept everybody as a tenant, but insisted upon having none but quiet people. I had never been up to inspect those little rooms. It was not for lack of inclination, however, for I had met several times on my staircase a very pretty girl, who, as I knew, occupied one of the most modest apartments on the fifth floor. She had not the aspect of a common working girl, nor had she the wide-awake air of a grisette, and yet she was almost that, for she worked for her living. She made wreaths, so the concierge told me, and mended linen when people chose to give her any to mend. But she seemed so young that she inspired little confidence in the people to whom she went to ask for work; and yet one may be quite as honest at sixteen years as at forty. Honesty is in the blood; when one must look to time and experience for it, it is never built on a very solid foundation.

Little Marguerite had not been able to obtain a room in the house without difficulty. The landlord considered her too young and did not want to let a room to her; he was surprised that she should have quarters of her own so early. But the girl had a certain air of candor which disarmed the landlord’s sternness; she swore that she was very quiet, that she made no noise and never stayed out late; and he let a room to her for a hundred and thirty francs a year. It was necessary to make many wreaths to earn that amount.

Despite her innocent air, Mademoiselle Marguerite had a lover; but when a girl has but one, when she receives only him and goes out only with him, she is justified in saying that she is quiet, and even honest. Honesty does not consist solely in innocence. I once had a maid who was absolutely virtuous, and who stole my cravats.

I knew nothing of all these details when I first met the girl on the stairway. When I saw those small features that indicated that she was barely fifteen, those great light-blue eyes, that tiny mouth, that tiny figure--for, except her eyes, everything about Mademoiselle Marguerite seemed to be tiny--I made eyes at her, that is to say, I looked hard at her, and tried to make her look at me; but she paid no attention to my ogling and ran quickly down the stairs. Another time I ventured upon a few words, a compliment or two, but she did not reply; after that I ceased to ogle her or to speak to her, for I am not obstinate, and according to my belief, in order to please a woman one must please her at the outset.

Once, however, Mademoiselle Marguerite had rung at my door; when I found that she had come to pay me a visit, I did not know just what to think; but the girl, whose eyes were swollen with tears and who was sobbing pitifully, gave no thought to the impropriety of what she was doing. She came to ask me if I had seen her cat, which had disappeared that morning. On learning that I had not seen her poor Moquette, she darted away like an arrow, paying no heed to the consoling words which I attempted to offer her.

Thereupon I said to myself: “That is a virtuous girl; for I consider it virtuous to be faithful to her lover.” I talked a little about her with my concierge, and what I learned confirmed me in my opinion.

“Yes, she is very quiet,” said the concierge, “except when she is running after her cat, which she plays with as if she was only five years old. But after all, she is very young still. And she has a friend who is almost as young as she is. He’s a very nice fellow, too. But they’re as poor as Job! A room with nothing in it but a bed, and such a bed! four pieces of wood, which fall apart as soon as you touch ‘em, a little sideboard that ain’t worth more than fifteen sous, four chairs, a wash bowl and a little three-franc mirror; how can anyone get along with that? That’s what Mademoiselle Marguerite calls her household! But still she pays her rent, and there’s nothing to say.”

“Her lover is a workman, I suppose, an apprentice?”

“No indeed! he’s a dandy, a gentleman, in fact; but he seems to think that she’s well enough off as she is, or else he can’t do any better; and I give you my word that the girl eats potatoes oftener than anything else. But as long as she can see her Ernest and play with her cat, she’s as happy as a queen.”

Since I had known all this, I had regarded the girl with a friendly interest simply. Some time after, that interest became still greater. I overheard involuntarily a conversation between Mademoiselle Marguerite and an old count who lived on the same landing with me. Monsieur le comte was an old rake; there was nothing extraordinary in that; we are all rakes more or less. He, too, used to ogle our young neighbor, and one day, when I was about to go out, my door happened to be ajar, and the following dialogue reached my ears:

“Listen, listen, my pretty little minx; I have a couple of words to say to you.”

“What are they, monsieur?”

“In the first place, that you are a sweetheart.”

“Oh! if that’s all, it is----”

“Listen, my dear love, I wish to make you happy.”

“Happy? Why, I am very happy, monsieur.”

“A girl can’t be happy when she lives under the eaves, in a wretched, poorly-furnished chamber. I will give you a pretty apartment and money to buy whatever you want.”

“What’s that, monsieur? What do you take me for?”

“Come, come, Mademoiselle Marguerite, don’t play the prude; when a girl has a lover, when she lives with a young man, she should not be so severe.”

“Because I have a lover, monsieur, is that any reason why I should listen to such things?”

“Your little popinjay of a lover gives you nothing, and will drop you the first thing you know; whereas I will agree to give you an allowance, and, if you behave yourself, I----”

“I beg you to say no more, monsieur, and never speak to me again; if you do, I will tell Ernest that you called him a popinjay, and how you have been talking to me. Ah! he will teach you a lesson.”

“What’s that? You insolent, impertinent little hussy!”

“Bah! you old fool!”

And with that, the girl ran quickly upstairs. Monsieur le comte returned to his room grumbling, and I said to myself:

“She must really love her Ernest, since she prefers poverty with him to comfort with another;” and I was almost ashamed of having made some few sweet speeches to her, for, without being constant oneself, one may well do homage to constancy.

I was curious to see her lover; but probably he came early in the morning and went away late, or not at all. One day, however, I met him; and I was surprised to find that I knew him; I had met him several times in society. He was a young man of excellent family, not more than twenty years old; he was a comely youth, but he had a mania for writing for the stage, and had not as yet succeeded in having any of his plays produced, except a few unimportant things at some of the boulevard theatres. His parents did not approve of his taste for the drama, and desired to force him to enter the government service; but he always found a way to delay until the place was filled; and his parents, who were not at all satisfied with him, gave him very little pocket money. Poor fellow! I understood why his little mistress had potatoes oftener than quail.

I knew him only by his family name; I did not know that his name was Ernest. When we met on the stairs, he smiled and we bowed. I did not try to stop him, he always went up so rapidly. I understood that he was more anxious to be up there with her than to talk with me.

It was a long time since I had met Marguerite and her young lover. On returning from Giraud’s party, I noticed much commotion in my concierge’s lodge; the husband and wife were both up, although it was after midnight, and one of them was ordinarily in bed by eleven o’clock. An old cook who lived in the house was also in their lodge; they were talking earnestly and I overheard these words:

“She is very ill; the midwife shook her head, and that’s a very bad sign.”

“Who is very ill?” I asked, as I took my candle.

“Why, monsieur, it’s little Marguerite; she has had a miscarriage.”

“What! was that poor child enceinte?”

“You don’t mean to say that you haven’t noticed it, monsieur? She was four and a half months gone.”

“Is not Monsieur Ernest with her?”

“Oh! he is like a madman. He has just gone home; it’s only a few steps away. He took our little nephew with him, so as to bring something back with him probably; for there ain’t anything at all upstairs.”

At that moment there was a loud knocking at the gate. Someone opened it and Ernest came into the courtyard with a mattress on his head; the young man had not hesitated to endanger his fine clothes by doing the work of a porter; when it is a question of helping the woman one loves, such things are not considered. Moreover, at midnight, the streets are not crowded.

The little nephew came behind, bringing an armchair covered with Utrecht velvet; I saw that young Ernest, without the knowledge of his parents, had despoiled his own chamber in order to provide his young friend with a little furniture.

“It is high time that you came back, monsieur,” said the concierge, with that alarming manner which heightens the effect of bad news. “Mademoiselle Marguerite is very sick; there’s complications. In fact, she is losing all her blood, and you know it can’t go on long that way.”

The young man uttered a cry of dismay, and throwing the mattress to the ground, ran up the stairs four at a time, without stopping to listen to anything more. I remained in front of the concierges’ lodge, both of them being too old and too lazy to offer to carry up the mattress; as for the little nephew, it was all that he could do to climb up with the chair, and the cook was there solely to gossip. I soon made up my mind: I took the mattress on my shoulders and I went up with it to the fifth floor.

I reached the door of little Marguerite’s bedroom. It was not locked, and yet I dared not go in. I knew that the girl was so poor; and one should be especially careful when dealing with poor people. Perhaps she and her lover would be offended to think that I had ventured to come up. And yet, since she was so ill----

While I was hesitating, standing at the door with the mattress on my shoulders, I heard a shrill voice say:

“Send for a doctor, monsieur; I won’t be responsible; you must have a doctor, she needs one very bad.”

A very weak voice, which I recognized as the young girl’s, said:

“Stay here, Ernest, don’t leave me. I feel better when you are here.”

I pushed the door open and dropped the mattress in a corner of the room, saying:

“I will go out and call a doctor; stay with her, as it does her good.”

“Oh! yes, yes, do go,” said Ernest; “oh! how grateful I shall be to you!”

I heard no more; I descended the stairs rapidly and nearly overturned the concierge’s little nephew, who had only reached the third floor with his chair; I believe that the little rascal sat down on it at every landing. At last I was in the street; I ran at random, looking about for some shop that was still open, where I could inquire if there was a doctor in the neighborhood.

Where should I apply? Everybody was in bed; I saw many midwives’ signs, but a midwife was not what I wanted. I ventured to ring at several doors; I jerked the bells and made an infernal noise.

“Who is there?” the concierges asked me; and I shouted:

“Isn’t there a doctor in the house?”

They answered me with abuse, or not at all; people are not polite when they want to sleep.

I knew two doctors, but they lived so far away that the poor child would have time to die before they could get to her. What was I to do? I did not wish to return alone. I was tempted to cry fire. That method, which has been employed in several plays, might serve in real life as well; one always has to frighten one’s fellow-citizens, to obtain anything from them. Then, when everybody had come to the windows, I would call for a doctor.

I was about to give the alarm, when two men passed me, talking with great earnestness. I recognized Ernest’s voice; it was he, in fact; fearing that I would not return quickly enough, he had followed me; but he had thought to ask the nurse for the address of a doctor, and he had found one. I ran after him, and he thanked me, although I had been of no service to him. We returned, walking rapidly, without speaking; poor Ernest had but one thought, to save his little Marguerite. We arrived. Ernest went up to his mistress with the surgeon. I remained in the hall, going upstairs and down in my excitement. I had simply said to Ernest:

“If you need anything, I shall be here.”

How long the minutes seemed to me! Those young lovers loved each other so dearly! the poor girl was so sweet! if she should die, how her lover would grieve for her and regret her! To lose such a long future of happiness! Ah! Death goes sadly astray when it closes eyes of sixteen years.

It seemed to me that an hour had passed since the doctor went up. But I heard steps coming down, and someone called me; it was Ernest. Joy gleamed in his eyes, and he cried:

“My friend, my friend, she is saved; there is no more danger!”

“Ah! I am so glad to hear it!”

We shook hands. He had called me his friend, and a few hours earlier we had hardly known each other; but there are events which bind two people more closely than sixty evenings passed together in society. It was one of those events which had happened to us.

The surgeon came downstairs and Ernest ran to meet him.

“Are you going, monsieur? Then she is out of danger?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, have no fear; everything is all right now, and as it should be; I will answer for her; all she needs now is rest.”

“But you will come to-morrow morning, won’t you, monsieur?”

“Yes, I will come to see her to-morrow.”

With that the doctor went away and Ernest followed him to the street door, gazing at him, and listening to him as to an oracle. Ah! that is a noble art which gives us the means of saving the lives of our fellowmen. The man who has saved the life of a person whom we love ceases to be a man in our eyes, and becomes a god.

I was about to go to my room, but Ernest said to me:

“Come up with me a moment; it will please her.”

I followed him. The girl was lying in her bed, which in truth did not seem to be very soft; however she had, in addition to her ordinary bed, the mattress that her lover had brought. The midwife was seated in the armchair, the magnificence of which was in striking contrast to the few pieces of furniture with which the room was supplied; she had her feet on a foot-warmer, although she was sitting directly in front of the fireplace; to be sure, the fire was a very modest one. There was nothing about the woman to indicate sensibility; one could see that she was there to practise her profession and that was all; and from her unamiable expression and the glances that she cast about her, I could see that the poverty of the room made her apprehensive that she would not be well paid for her services; however, she had agreed to pass the night there, and the young man was very grateful to her.

Ernest walked very softly to the bed; but the girl instantly held out her hand to him, saying:

“Oh! I am not asleep, I have no desire to sleep; but I am very comfortable now. The only thing is that I am afraid it will tire you to sit up all night; you are just getting over a sickness yourself, and you are not strong yet. Go home; you know that I am out of danger; the doctor said so, and since madame will stay----”

“Oh, yes, I will stay,” said the midwife, in a sour tone, “although it puts me out; but still--great heaven! how cold it is in this room! the wind blows everywhere. A fine fire that! just two sticks! ain’t there even a pair of bellows here?”

Ernest hastily fetched the bellows, and handed them to the woman; then he returned to the bed, saying:

“You must know, my love, that I shall not leave you. But here is Monsieur Blémont, who was good enough to go out to call a doctor, when he came up an hour ago; we haven’t so much as thought of thanking him.”

“Ah! that is true, my dear.--I beg pardon, monsieur, pray excuse me; but I was in such pain then----”

“You owe me no thanks, for it was not I who found your doctor.”

“No matter,” said Ernest, “you showed some interest in us, and I shall never forget it.”

“What a miserable pair of bellows! Not two sous’ worth of wind! it must be pleasant here in freezing weather!”

I turned toward the woman; I should have liked to impose silence upon her, for it seemed to me that her indiscreet remarks must be painful to the two lovers. But I was mistaken; they were not listening to her. Ernest was holding his darling’s hand, and she was gazing lovingly into his eyes; after their fear of an eternal separation, it seemed to them that they had recovered each other. They were entirely absorbed in their love. But Marguerite sighed, and after a moment I heard her whisper to Ernest:

“What a pity, my dear! it was a boy!”

Poor child! although hardly able to keep herself alive, she wanted a child, because every woman is proud to be a mother, and a child is an additional bond between her and her lover.

I was about to leave them when there was a loud noise outside; it was a crash of broken glass, and it seemed to be on the roof near the window of the chamber in which we were.

The midwife uttered a cry of terror, and ran behind me, exclaiming:

“It’s thieves! did you hear, monsieur? They’re coming in the window. We must rouse the whole house.”

I confess that I shared the opinion of the nurse, and I was about to open the window to see what was afoot, when Marguerite, who, instead of showing signs of alarm, had smiled faintly, motioned to me to stop, and said to us:

“Don’t be alarmed, I know what it is; I am used to that noise now; it is my neighbor, Monsieur Pettermann, going into his room.”

“Who on earth is Monsieur Pettermann, and why does he make such a noise going into his room?” asked the midwife.

“Monsieur Pettermann is a tailor, and works in his room; but he gets drunk at least three times a week; on those days he always loses his door key; then he climbs out on the gutter under the window of the landing and crawls along, at the risk of breaking his neck, to his own window, puts his fist through a pane so that he can throw back the catch, and gets into his room that way. Ask Ernest if we haven’t heard him do it more than a dozen times.”

I could not help laughing at Monsieur Pettermann’s habits, while the nurse exclaimed:

“Oh! the idiot! he gave me a fright. The idea of walking on a gutter! and when he is drunk, too!”

“If he was sober, madame, he probably wouldn’t take the risk.”

“But some day this neighbor of yours will break his neck.”

“So I have often told him. The day after, when he has his window mended, he swears that it shall never happen again. The concierge has already threatened to warn him out if he doesn’t enter by his door, and doesn’t come home earlier.”

At that moment we heard someone storming and swearing on the landing. Monsieur Pettermann, having entered his room, had succeeded in opening his door, which was fastened only by a spring lock.

“Perhaps he wants a light,” said Marguerite; “it very seldom happens that he asks me for anything; but he may have seen that we haven’t gone to bed here.”

We heard a knock at the door, and a hoarse voice stuttered:

“I say, neighbor, haven’t you g--g--gone to bed, n--n--neighbor? What would you s--s--say if I should ask you to l--l--light my little c--c--candle-end?”

I was curious to see neighbor Pettermann, and before Ernest had had time to drop Marguerite’s hand, I opened the door.

The tailor was still young, with a frank, honest face; but the habit of drinking too much had made his nose purple and swollen, and his dress was marked by a lack of order which also betrayed his intemperance.

On seeing me, he opened his eyes and said:

“Hello! have I made a mistake? This is funny. Ain’t this my neighbor’s door, or has she moved?”

“No, monsieur,” said Ernest, “but don’t shout so loud; she is sick. What do you want?”

“Ah! she is sick, is she, poor little woman!” And Monsieur Pettermann walked toward the bed, saying: “Are you sick, my little woman? What’s the matter with you?”

Ernest stopped the tailor, who was reeking with liquor; and he, always very polite, although tipsy, fearing that he had done something wrong, stepped back to the armchair in which the midwife was seated, and sank upon her lap, saying:

“I beg pardon, that’s so; it’s none of my business. Ah! prout!”

“Will you get up?” cried the nurse, striking the tailor in the back. He turned about, stammering:

“Ah! I was sitting on one of the fair sex, although I hadn’t a suspicion of it.--Excuse me, my little woman, I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear.”

“Give me your candle and let me light it for you,” said Ernest; “for that is what you want, I have no doubt.”

“Yes, neighbor, if you would be so kind. I couldn’t use my flint because I scratched my right hand a little, while getting into my room.”

Not until then did we notice that the poor fellow’s right hand was covered with blood, two of his fingers being badly cut. The girl pointed to a closet in which there were some rags, with which Ernest hastily bandaged the tailor’s hand. He made no objection, but said:

“Oh, mon Dieu! it’s nothing at all, a trifle. I don’t know what was the matter to-night, but I broke two panes instead of one.”

“But Monsieur Pettermann, don’t you ever propose to give up your habit of going into your room through the window?”

“What would you have me do? I lose my key--these keys slip out of your pocket without your knowing it, and besides, I believe my pocket has a hole in it. But I promise you that I’ll look after it now, especially as it is going to be hard for me to sew it up.”

“Here’s your candle.”

“Many thanks. Good-night all. Better health to you, neighbor. If you ever need my services, call on me; don’t hesitate.”

“Thanks, thanks, Monsieur Pettermann.”

“No, don’t hesitate; call me; it will be a pleasure to me.”

The tailor returned to his room. I thought that the young invalid must have need of rest, so I too left the room after wishing them good-night. But I wanted to say something to Ernest alone. He escorted me downstairs with the light. When we were both in front of my door, I stopped and looked at him, and I held my peace; for I really did not know how to broach the subject.

Ernest, who did not suspect that I wished to say anything to him, wished me good-night and was about to go upstairs. I caught his arm to detain him; I felt that I must make up my mind to speak.

“Monsieur Ernest, I am delighted to have become better acquainted with you; I hope that our acquaintance will not stop here.”

“I thank you, monsieur. I hope so too. I tell you again that I shall not forget your interest in my grief to-night. There are so many people who would have laughed at my distress, and who would have blamed it.”

“Such people never see in love-affairs anything more than momentary pleasure; the moment any pain enters into them, they think they should be broken off.”

“Ah, yes! you are quite right. But good-night, I must go.”

“One moment more. I wanted to say to you--First of all, I pray you, excuse me; I trust that what I am going to say will not offend you. Young men can afford to speak frankly. Although I am five or six years older than you, I remember very well that when I was eighteen, and was still living with my parents, I was sometimes sorely embarrassed to give presents to my mistress. Now listen: your young friend has met with an accident that will entail expenses which you did not expect so soon. A young man who lives with his parents is sometimes short of money. Allow me to offer you my purse. You can repay me when you are able.”

Ernest shook my hand warmly as he replied:

“I thank you for your offer, Monsieur Blémont; it does not offend me, for I do not consider it a crime to be short of money, and I will not make a pretence of being well supplied with it, for that would give you a poor idea of my heart, after seeing that poor child’s bedroom. My parents are well-to-do, as you know; but they treat me very harshly, because I do not do absolutely what they would like. They think also that at my age, a young man should not want to spend money upon a mistress. Perhaps they are not wrong, after all. I assure you, however, that the privations which Marguerite and I suffer, far from lessening our love, do in fact increase it. Should we not become attached to a person in proportion to what she has suffered for our sake? Marguerite is so young and so pretty, that, if she chose, she could have wealthy lovers with whom she would enjoy all the luxuries of life; she prefers to remain poor with me. But we are not to be pitied for that, for we love each other better than money. However, this embarrassment will only be temporary, I hope; I have two plays accepted, and if they are successful----”

“Then you accept my offer?”

“Oh, no! I never borrow money when I am not certain of being able to return it. That is a principle from which I shall never depart.”

“But when you have plays accepted, which are going to be produced----”

“A play is never a certainty; it is a cast of the dice. I thank you a thousand times; but I have something left with which to face the present. As for the future, we will hope, we will build castles in the air.”

“I am sorry that you refuse.”

“And I am very glad that you have made the offer, for you are the first one of my friends to suggest anything of that sort, and yet you have been my friend for only a few hours.”

“It is a fact that one often passes his life with people to whom he gives the name of friends, but who have none of the feelings of a friend.”

“Good-night, Monsieur Blémont. If you have time to come up for a moment to-morrow, we shall be glad to see you.”

“Yes, I will come to enquire for my neighbor. Good-night.”

Ernest went up to the fifth floor and I went into my room.