'What you say there is true, Rose-Pompon. Poor children! who takes any trouble about them?—not their father or mother, for they are at their daily work.'
'Yes, yes, Mother Arsene, it is all very well; it is easy to cry down a young girl that has gone wrong; but if they knew all the ins and outs, they would perhaps pity rather than blame her. To come back to myself—at fifteen years old I was tolerably pretty. One day I had something to ask of the head clerk. I went to him in his private room. He told me he would grant what I wanted, and even take me under his patronage, if I would listen to him; and he began by trying to kiss me. I resisted. Then he said to me:—'You refuse my offer? You shall have no more work; I discharge you from the factory.''
'Oh, the wicked man!' said Mother Arsene.
'I went home all in tears, and my poor aunt encouraged me not to yield, and she would try to place me elsewhere. Yes—but it was impossible; the factories were all full. Misfortunes never come single; my aunt fell ill, and there was not a sou in the house; I plucked up my courage, and returned to entreat the mercy of the clerk at the factory. Nothing would do. 'So much the worse,' said he; 'you are throwing away your luck. If you had been more complying, I should perhaps have married you.' What could I do, Mother Arsene?—misery was staring me in the face; I had no work; my aunt was ill; the clerk said he would marry me—I did like so many others.'
'And when, afterwards, you spoke to him about marriage?'
'Of course he laughed at me, and in six months left me. Then I wept all the tears in my body, till none remained—then I was very ill—and then—I console myself, as one may console one's self for anything. After some changes, I met with Philemon. It is upon him that I revenge myself for what others have done to me. I am his tyrant,' added Rose-Pompon, with a tragic air, as the cloud passed away which had darkened her pretty face during her recital to Mother Arsene.
'It is true,' said the latter thoughtfully. 'They deceive a poor girl—who is there to protect or defend her? Oh! the evil we do does not always come from ourselves, and then—'
'I spy Ninny Moulin!' cried Rose-Pompon, interrupting the greengrocer, and pointing to the other side of the street. 'How early abroad! What can he want with me?' and Rose wrapped herself still more closely and modestly in her cloak.
It was indeed Jacques Dumoulin, who advanced with his hat stuck on one side, with rubicund nose and sparkling eye, dressed in a loose coat, which displayed the rotundity of his abdomen. His hands, one of which held a huge cane shouldered like a musket, were plunged into the vast pockets of his outer garment.
Just as he reached the threshold of the door, no doubt with the intention of speaking to the portress, he perceived Rose-Pompon. 'What!' he exclaimed, 'my pupil already stirring? That is fortunate. I came on purpose to bless her at the rise of morn!'
So saying, Ninny Moulin advanced with open arms towards Rose-Pompon who drew back a step.
'What, ungrateful child!' resumed the writer on divinity. 'Will you refuse me the morning's paternal kiss?'
'I accept paternal kisses from none but Philemon. I had a letter from him yesterday, with a jar of preserves, two geese, a bottle of home-made brandy, and an eel. What ridiculous presents! I kept the drink, and changed the rest for two darling live pigeons, which I have installed in Philemon's cabinet, and a very pretty dove-cote it makes me. For the rest, my husband is coming back with seven hundred francs, which he got from his respectable family, under pretence of learning the bass viol, the cornet-a-piston, and the speaking trumpet, so as to make his way in society, and a slap-up marriage—to use your expression—my good child.'
'Well, my dear pupil, we will taste the family brandy, and enjoy ourselves in expectation of Philemon and his seven hundred francs.'
So saying, Ninny Moulin slapped the pockets of his waistcoat, which gave forth a metallic sound, and added: 'I come to propose to you to embellish my life, to-day and to-morrow, and even the day after, if your heart is willing.'
'If the announcements are decent and fraternal, my heart does not say no.'
'Be satisfied; I will act by you as your grandfather, your great grandfather, your family portrait. We will have a ride, a dinner, the play, a fancy dress ball, and a supper afterwards. Will that suit you?'
'On condition that poor Cephyse is to go with us. It will raise her spirits.'
'Well, Cephyse shall be of the party.'
'Have you come into a fortune, great apostle?'
'Better than that, most rosy and pompous of all Rose-Pom, pons! I am head editor of a religious journal; and as I must make some appearance in so respectable a concern, I ask every month for four weeks in advance, and three days of liberty. On this condition, I consent to play the saint for twenty-seven days out of thirty, and to be always as grave and heavy as the paper itself.'
'A journal! that will be something droll, and dance forbidden steps all alone on the tables of the cafes.'
'Yes, it will be droll enough; but not for everybody. They are rich sacristans, who pay the expenses. They don't look to money, provided the journal bites, tears, burns, pounds, exterminates and destroys. On my word of honor, I shall never have been in such a fury!' added Ninny Moulin, with a loud, hoarse laugh. 'I shall wash the wounds of my adversaries with venom of the finest vintage, and gall of the first quality.'
For his peroration, Ninny Moulin imitated the pop of uncorking a bottle of champagne—which made Rose- Pompon laugh heartily.
'And what,' resumed she, 'will be the name of your journal of sacristans?'
'It will be called 'Neighborly Love.''
'Come! that is a very pretty name.'
'Wait a little! there is a second title.'
'Let us hear it.'
''Neighborly Love; or, the Exterminator of the Incredulous, the Indifferent, the Lukewarm, and Others,' with this motto from the great Bossuet: 'Those who are not for us are against us.''
'That is what Philemon says in the battles at the Chaumiere, when he shakes his cane.'
'Which proves, that the genius of the Eagle of Meaux is universal. I only reproach him for having been jealous of Moliere.'
'Bah! actor's jealousy,' said Rose-Pompon.
'Naughty girl!' cried Ninny Moulin, threatening her with his finger.
'But if you are going to exterminate Madame de la Sainte-Colombo, who is somewhat lukewarm—how about your marriage?'
'My journal will advance it, on the contrary. Only think! editor-In chief is a superb position; the sacristans will praise, and push, and support, and bless me; I shall get La-Sainte-Colombe—and then, what a life I'll lead!'
At this moment, a postman entered the shop, and delivered a letter to the greengrocer, saying: 'For M. Charlemagne, post-paid!'
'My!' said Rose-Pompon; 'it is for the little mysterious old man, who has such extraordinary ways. Does it come from far?'
'I believe you; it comes from Italy, from Rome,' said Ninny Moulin, looking in his turn at the letter, which the greengrocer held in her hand. 'Who is the astonishing little old man of whom you speak?'
'Just imagine to yourself, my great apostle,' said Rose-Pompon, 'a little old man, who has two rooms at the bottom of that court. He never sleeps there, but comes from time to time, and shuts himself up for hours, without ever allowing any one to enter his lodging, and without any one knowing what he does there.'
'He is a conspirator,' said Ninny Moulin, laughing, 'or else a comer.'
'Poor dear man,' said Mother Arsene, 'what has he done with his false money? He pays me always in sous for the bit of bread and the radish I furnish him for his breakfast.'
'And what is the name of this mysterious chap?' asked Dumoulin.
'M. Charlemagne,' said the greengrocer. 'But look, surely one speaks of the devil, one is sure to see his horns.'
'Where's the horns?'
'There, by the side of the house—that little old man, who walks with his neck awry, and his umbrella under his arm.'
'M. Rodin!' ejaculated Ninny Moulin, retreating hastily, and descending three steps into the shop, in order not to be seen. Then he added. 'You say, that this gentleman calls himself—'
'M. Charlemagne—do you know him?' asked the greengrocer.
