and presented to Mother Arsene one of those champagne glasses of colossal capacity, which hold about a bottle.
'Oh, dear!' said the greengrocer in amazement; 'it is like a glass trumpet.'
'It is Philemon's grand gala-glass, which they gave him when he took his degrees in boating,' said Rose- Pompon, gravely.
'And to think you must put your milk in it—I am really ashamed,' said Mother Arsene.
'So am I! If I were to meet any one on the stairs, holding this glass in my hand like a Roman candlestick, I should burst out laughing, and break the last remnant of Philemon's bazaar, and he would give me his malediction.'
'There is no danger that you will meet any one. The first-floor is gone out, and the second gets up very late.'
'Talking of lodgers,' said Rose-Pompon, 'is there not a room to let on the second-floor in the rear house? It might do for Cephyse, when Philemon comes back.'
'Yes, there is a little closet in the roof—just over the two rooms of the mysterious old fellow,' said Mother Arsene.
'Oh, yes! Father Charlemagne. Have you found out anything more about him?'
'Dear me, no, my girl! only that he came this morning at break of day, and knocked at my shutters. 'Have you received a letter for me, my good lady?' said he—for he is always so polite, the dear man!—'No, sir,' said I.'—'Well, then, pray don't disturb yourself, my good lady!' said he; 'I will call again.' And so he went away.'
'Does he never sleep in the house?'
'Never. No doubt, he lodges somewhere else—but he passes some hours here, once every four or five days.'
'And always comes alone?'
'Always.'
'Are you quite sure? Does he never manage to slip in some little puss of a woman? Take care, or Philemon will give you notice to quit,' said Rose-Pompon, with an air of mock-modesty.
'M. Charlemagne with a woman! Oh, poor dear man!' said the greengrocer, raising her hands to heaven; 'if you saw him, with his greasy hat, his old gray coat, his patched umbrella, and his simple face, he looks more like a saint than anything else.'
'But then, Mother Arsene, what does the saint do here, all alone for hours, in that hole at the bottom of the court, where one can hardly see at noon-day?'
'That's what I ask myself, my dovey, what can he be doing? It can't be that he comes to look at his furniture, for he has nothing but a flock bed, a table, a stove, a chair, and an old trunk.'
'Somewhat in the style of Philemon's establishment,' said Rose-Pompon.
'Well, notwithstanding that, Rosey, he is as much afraid that any one should come into his room, as if we were all thieves, and his furniture was made of massy gold. He has had a patent lock put on the door, at his own expense; he never leaves me his key; and he lights his fire himself, rather than let anybody into his room.'
'And you say he is old?'
'Yes, fifty or sixty.'
'And ugly?'
'Just fancy, little viper's eyes, looking as if they had been bored with a gimlet, in a face as pale as death—so pale, that the lips are white. That's for his appearance. As for his character, the good old man's so polite!—he pulls off his hat so often, and makes you such low bows, that it is quite embarrassing.'
'But, to come back to the point,' resumed Rose-Pompon, 'what can he do all alone in those two rooms? If Cephyse should take the closet, on Philemon's return, we may amuse ourselves by finding out something about it. How much do they want for the little room?'
'Why, it is in such bad condition, that I think the landlord would let it go for fifty or fifty-five francs a-year, for there is no room for a stove, and the only light comes through a small pane in the roof.'
'Poor Cephyse!' said Rose, sighing, and shaking her head sorrowfully. 'After having amused herself so well, and flung away so much money with Jacques Rennepont, to live in such a place, and support herself by hard work! She must have courage!'
'Why, indeed, there is a great difference between that closet and the coach-and-four in which Cephyse came to fetch you the other day, with all the fine masks, that looked so gay—particularly the fat man in the silver paper helmet, with the plume and the top boots. What a jolly fellow!'
'Yes, Ninny Moulin. There is no one like him to dance the forbidden fruit. You should see him with Cephyse, the Bacchanal Queen. Poor laughing, noisy thing!—the only noise she makes now is crying.'
'Oh! these young people—these young people!' said the greengrocer.
'Easy, Mother Arsene; you were young once.'
'I hardly know. I have always thought myself much the same as I am now.'
'And your lovers, Mother Arsene?'
'Lovers! Oh, yes! I was too ugly for that—and too well taken care of.'
'Your mother looked after you, then?'
'No, my girl; but I was harnessed.'
'Harnessed!' cried Rose-Pompon, in amazement, interrupting the dealer.
'Yes,—harnessed to a water-cart, along with my brother. So, you see, when we had drawn like a pair of horses for eight or ten hours a day, I had no heart to think of nonsense.'
'Poor Mother Arsene, what a hard life,' said Rose-Pompon with interest.
'In the winter, when it froze, it was hard enough. I and my brother were obliged to be rough-shod, for fear of slipping.'
'What a trade for a woman! It breaks one's heart. And they forbid people to harness dogs!' added Rose- Pompon, sententiously.(21)
'Why, 'tis true,' resumed Mother Arsene. 'Animals are sometimes better off than people. But what would you have? One must live, you know. As you make your bed, you must lie. It was hard enough, and I got a disease of the lungs by it—which was not my fault. The strap, with which I was harnessed, pressed so hard against my chest, that I could scarcely breathe: so I left the trade, and took to a shop, which is just to tell you, that if I had had a pretty face and opportunity, I might have done like so many other young people, who begin with laughter and finish —'
'With a laugh t'other side of the mouth—you would say; it is true, Mother Arsene. But, you see, every one has not the courage to go into harness, in order to remain virtuous. A body says to herself, you must have some amusement while you are young and pretty—you will not always be seventeen years old—and then—and then—the world will end, or you will get married.'
'But, perhaps, it would have been better to begin by that.'
'Yes, but one is too stupid; one does not know how to catch the men, or to frighten them. One is simple, confiding, and they only laugh at us. Why, Mother Arsene, I am myself an example that would make you shudder; but 'tis quite enough to have had one's sorrows, without fretting one's self at the remembrance.'
'What, my beauty! you, so young and gay, have had sorrows?'
'Ah, Mother Arsene! I believe you. At fifteen and a half I began to cry, and never left off till I was sixteen. That was enough, I think.'
'They deceived you, mademoiselle?'
'They did worse. They treated me as they have treated many a poor girl, who had no more wish to go wrong than I had. My story is not a three volume one. My father and mother are peasants near Saint-Valery, but so poor —so poor, that having five children to provide for, they were obliged to send me, at eight years old, to my aunt, who was a charwoman here in Paris. The good woman took me out of charity, and very kind it was of her, for I earned but little. At eleven years of age she sent me to work in one of the factories of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. I don't wish to speak, ill of the masters of these factories; but what do they care, if little boys and girls are mixed up pell- mell with young men and women of eighteen to twenty? Now you see, there, as everywhere, some are no better than they should be; they are not particular in word or deed, and I ask you, what art example for the children, who hear and see more than you think for. Then, what happens? They get accustomed as they grow older, to hear and see things, that afterwards will not shock them at all.'
