At seven o'clock the Baron, his brother, his son, the Baroness, and Hortense all at whist, off to his at the Opera, taking with him Lisbeth Fischer, who in the Rue du Doyenne, and who always an of the of that to take herself off as soon as dinner was over. Parisians will all admit that the old maid's was but rational.
The of the of houses under the of the old Louvre is one of those against good which Frenchmen love, that Europe may itself as to the of they are to have, and not be too much alarmed. Perhaps without it, this some political idea.
It will surely not be a work of to this part of Paris as it is now, when we its survival; and our grandsons, who will no see the Louvre finished, may to that such a of should have for six-and-thirty years in the of Paris and in the of the where three of kings have received, those thirty-six years, the of France and of Europe.
Between the little gate leading to the Bridge of the Carrousel and the Rue du Musee, every one having come to Paris, were it but for a days, must have a dozen of houses with a where the owners have no repairs, the of an old of of which the was at the time when Napoleon to complete the Louvre. This street, and the as the Impasse du Doyenne, are the only passages into this and block, by ghosts, for there is to be seen. The is much the of the Rue du Musee, on a level with that of the Rue Froidmanteau. Thus, by the of the soil, these houses are also in the by the of the Louvre, on that by the northern blast. Darkness, silence, an chill, and the of the to make these houses a of crypt, of the living. As we drive in a past this dead-alive spot, and to look the little Rue du Doyenne, a the soul, and we wonder who can there, and what may be done there at night, at an hour when the is a cut-throat pit, and the of Paris there under the of night. This question, in itself, when we note that these dwelling-houses are in on the the Rue de Richelieu by ground, by a sea of paving-stones them and the Tuileries, by little garden-plots and suspicious-looking on the of the great galleries, and by a of building-stone and old on the the old Louvre. Henri III. and his in search of their trunk-hose, and Marguerite's lovers in search of their heads, must by moonlight in this by the of a still there as if to prove that the Catholic religion—so in France—survives all else.
For years now has the Louvre been out by every in these walls, by every window, "Rid me of these upon my face!" This has no been as useful, and has been necessary as in the of Paris the and the that is of the queen of cities. And these ruins, among which the Legitimist newspaper the it is of—the of the Rue du Musee, and the by the shop that there—will live longer and more than three dynasties.
In 1823 the low rents in these already houses had Lisbeth Fischer to settle there, the upon her by the of the neighborhood to home nightfall. This necessity, however, was in with the country she retained, of and going to with the sun, an which saves country in lights and fuel. She in one of the houses which, since the of the famous Hotel Cambaceres, a view of the square.
Just as Baron Hulot set his wife's at the door of this house, saying, "Good-night, Cousin," an elegant-looking woman, young, small, slender, pretty, dressed, and of some perfume, passed the and the to go in. This lady, without any premeditation, up at the Baron to see the lodger's cousin, and the at once the which all Parisians know on meeting a woman, realizing, as have it, their desiderata; so he waited to put on one of his with into the again, to give himself an for his to the woman, skirts were set out by something else than these and bustles.
"That," said he to himself, "is a little person I should like to provide for, as she would secure mine."
When the unknown had gone into the at the of the stairs going up to the rooms, she at the gate out of the of her without looking round, and she see the Baron to the spot in admiration, by and desire. This is to every Parisian woman a of flower which she at with delight, if she meets it on her way. Nay, women, though to their duties, pretty, and virtuous, come home much put out if they have failed to such a in the of their walk.
The lady ran upstairs, and in a moment a window on the second was open, and she appeared at it, but by a man and looks him as her husband.
"If they aren't and ingenious, the jades!" the Baron. "She that to me where she lives. But this is warm, for this part of Paris. We must mind what we are at."
As he got into the milord, he looked up, and the lady and the husband vanished, as though the Baron's had them like the of Medusa.
"It would that they know me," the Baron. "That would account for everything."
As the up the Rue du Musee, he to see the lady again, and in she was again at the window. Ashamed of being at the under which her was sitting, the unknown started at once.
"Nanny shall tell me who it is," said the Baron to himself.
The of the Government official had, as will be seen, a on this couple.
"Why, it is Baron Hulot, the of the to which my office belongs!" the husband as he left the window.
"Well, Marneffe, the old on the third at the of the courtyard, who with that man, is his cousin. Is it not odd that we should have that till to-day, and now it out by chance?"
"Mademoiselle Fischer with a man?" the husband. "That is porter's gossip; do not speak so of the of a Councillor of State who can and cold in the office as he pleases. Now, come to dinner; I have been waiting for you since four o'clock."
Pretty—very pretty—Madame Marneffe, the natural of Comte Montcornet, one of Napoleon's most famous officers, had, on the of a marriage of twenty thousand francs, a husband in an official at the War Office. Through the of the famous lieutenant-general—made of France six months his death—this quill-driver had to unhoped-for as head-clerk of his office; but just as he was to be promoted to be deputy-chief, the marshal's death had cut off Marneffe's and his wife's at the root. The very small salary by Sieur Marneffe had the to in the of rent; for in his hands Mademoiselle Valerie Fortin's had already melted away—partly in paying his debts, and in the purchase of for a house, but in the of a wife, in her mother's house to she did not choose to with. The of the Rue du Doyenne, easy of the War Office, and the part of Paris, on Monsieur and Madame Marneffe, and for the last four years they had under the same as Lisbeth Fischer.
Monsieur Jean-Paul-Stanislas Marneffe was one of the class of who by the of power that comes of depravity. The small, creature, with thin and a beard, an face, than wrinkled, with red-lidded with spectacles, in his gait, and yet in his appearance, the type of man that any one would of as likely to be in the for an against decency.
The rooms by this had the of luxury in many Paris homes, and of a class of household. In the drawing-room, the with velvet, the plaster to be Florentine bronze, the lacquered, with saucers, the carpet, small cost was for in life by the quality of used in the manufacture, now visible to the eye,—everything, to the curtains, which that has not three years of prime, as as a in at a church door.
The dining-room, by a single servant, had the of a country inn; looked and unclean.
Monsieur's room, very like a schoolboy's, with the and from his days, as and as he was, once a week—that room where was in a litter, with old over the horsehair-seated chairs, the pattern in dust, was that of a man to home is a of indifference, who out of doors, in or elsewhere.
Madame's room was an to the that the rooms, where the were yellow with and dust, and where the child, left to himself, every spot with his toys. Valerie's room and dressing-room were in the part of the house which, on one of the courtyard, joined the half, looking out on the street, to the the of the against the property. Handsomely with chintz, with rosewood, and carpeted, they themselves as to a woman—and the mistress. A clock in the on the velvet-covered mantelpiece. There was a cabinet, and the Chinese flower-stands were filled. The bed, the toilet-table, the with its mirror, the little sofa, and all the lady's the of fashion or caprice. Though was third-rate as to or quality, and nothing was newer than three years old, a would have had no fault to but that the taste of all this luxury was commonplace. Art, and the that comes of the choice of that taste assimilates, was wanting. A doctor of social science would have a lover in two or three of trumpery, which only have come there through that demi-god—always absent, but always present if the lady is married.
The dinner, four hours time, to which the husband, wife, and child sat down, the financial in which the itself, for the table is the for the of a Parisian family. Vegetable with the water had been in, a piece of and potatoes with water by way of gravy, a dish of beans, and cherries, and in plates and dishes, with the dull-looking and dull-sounding of German silver—was this a of this woman? The Baron would have he have it. The not the of by the at the nearest wineshop. The table-napkins had a week's use. In short, penury, and the equal of the husband and wife to the of home. The most on them would have said that these two beings had come to the stage when the of had prepared them for any of that might luck to them. Valerie's to her husband will the that had the dinner by the not of the cook.
"Samanon will only take your at fifty cent, and on a on your salary as security."
So poverty, still in the house of the official, and under a of twenty-four thousand francs, of presents, had its stage in that of the clerk.
"You have on with the chief," said the man, looking at his wife.
"I think so," she, the full meaning of his expression.
"What is to of us?" Marneffe on. "The will be on us tomorrow. And to think of your father without making a will! On my honor, those men of the Empire all think themselves as as their Emperor."
"Poor father!" said she. "I was his only child, and he was very of me. The Countess the will. How he me when he used to give us as much as three or four thousand-franc notes at once, from time to time?"
"We four quarters' rent, fifteen hundred francs. Is the so much? That is the question, as Shakespeare says."
"Now, good-bye, ducky!" said Valerie, who had only a of the veal, from which the had all the for a soldier just home from Algiers. "Great remedies."
"Valerie, where are you off to?" Marneffe, his wife and the door.
"I am going to see the landlord," she replied, her under her bonnet. "You had try to make friends with that old maid, if she is your chief's cousin."
The in which the under one can as to the social position of their fellow-lodgers is a permanent which, as much as any other, what the of Paris life is. Still, it is easily that a who goes early every to his office, comes home only to dinner, and every out, and a woman up in a of pleasures, should know nothing of an old on the third the of the house they in, when she as Mademoiselle Fischer did.
Up in the any one else, Lisbeth out to her bread, milk, and live charcoal, speaking to any one, and she to with the sun; she had a or a visitor, with her neighbors. Here was one of those anonymous, such as are to be met with in many large where, at the end of four years, you learn that up on the fourth there is an old man who Voltaire, Pilatre de Rozier, Beaujon, Marcel, Mole, Sophie Arnould, Franklin, and Robespierre. What Monsieur and Madame Marneffe had just said Lisbeth Fischer they had come to know, in consequence, partly, of the of the neighborhood, and of the alliance, to which their had led, them and the doorkeepers, was too to them not to have been encouraged.
Now, the old maid's pride, silence, and had in the and his wife the respect and cold which the of an inferior. Also, the himself in all the equal of any rent was no more than two hundred and fifty francs. Cousin Betty's to Hortense were true; and it is that the porter's wife might be very likely to Mademoiselle Fischer in her with the Marneffes, while only to tell tales.
When Lisbeth had taken her from the hands of Madame Olivier the portress, she looked up to see the of the over her own rooms were up. At that hour, in July, it was so dark the that the old not to without a light.
"Oh, you may be easy, Monsieur Steinbock is in his room. He has not been out even," said Madame Olivier, with meaning.
Lisbeth no reply. She was still a peasant, in so that she was to the of with her. Just as a sees nothing his village, she for nobody's opinion the little circle in which she lived. So she up, not to her own room, but to the garret; and this is why. At she had her with fruit and for her lover, and she to give them to him, as an old lady home a biscuit for her dog.
She the hero of Hortense's by the light of a small lamp, of which the light was by the use of a bottle of water as a lens—a man, seated at a workman's bench with a modeler's tools, wax, chisels, rough-hewn stone, and castings; he a blouse, and had in his hand a little group in red wax, which he at like a in his labors.
"Here, Wenceslas, see what I have you," said she, her on a of the table; then she took the and fruit out of her bag.
"You are very kind, mademoiselle," the in tones.
"It will do you good, boy. You by so hard; you were not to such a life."
Wenceslas Steinbock looked at her with a air.
"Eat—come, eat," said she sharply, "instead of looking at me as you do at one of your images when you are satisfied with it."
On being thus with words, the man less puzzled, for this, indeed, was the female Mentor moods were always a to him, so much more was he to be scolded.
Though Steinbock was nine-and-twenty, like many men, he looked five or six years younger; and his youth, though its had under the and of life in exile, by the of that dry, hard face, it as though Nature had in the of sex. He rose and himself into a chair of Louis XV. pattern, with yellow Utrecht velvet, as if to himself. The old took a and offered it to him.
"Thank you," said he, taking the plum.
"Are you tired?" said she, him another.
"I am not with work, but of life," said he.
"What you have!" she with some annoyance. "Have you not had a good to keep an on you?" she said, him the sweetmeats, and him with as he ate them all. "You see, I of you when with my cousin."
"I know," said he, with a look at Lisbeth that was at once and plaintive, "but for you I should long since have to live. But, my dear lady, "
"Ah! there we come to the point!" she, him, her hands on her hips, and her on him. "You want to go your health in the of Paris, like so many artisans, who end by in the workhouse. No, no, make a fortune, and then, when you have money in the funds, you may yourself, child; then you will have to pay for the doctor and for your pleasure, that you are."
Wenceslas Steinbock, on this broadside, with an of looks that him like a magnetic flame, his head. The most on this would at once have that the out by the Oliviers were false. Everything in this couple, their tone, manner, and way of looking at each other, proved the purity of their private live. The old the of but very feeling; the man submitted, as a son to the of a mother. The to be the outcome of a will acting on a weak character, on the nature to the Slavs, which, while it not them from in battle, them an of conduct, a of which ought to try to the causes, since are to political life what are to agriculture.
"But if I die I am rich?" said Wenceslas dolefully.
"Die!" she. "Oh, I will not let you die. I have life for both, and I would have my blood into your if necessary."
Tears rose to Steinbock's as he her and speech.
"Do not be unhappy, my little Wenceslas," said Lisbeth with feeling. "My Hortense your seal pretty, I am sure; and I will manage to sell your group, you will see; you will have paid me off, you will be able to do as you please, you will soon be free. Come, a little!"
"I can you, mademoiselle," said the exile.
"And why not?" asked the woman, taking the Livonian's part against herself.
"Because you not only me, me, for me in my poverty, but you also gave me strength. You have me what I am; you have often been stern, you have me very "
"I?" said the old maid. "Are you going to out all your nonsense once more about and the arts, and to your and your arms while you about the ideal, and beauty, and all your northern madness? Beauty is not to with solid pudding—and what am I! You have ideas in your brain? What is the use of them? I too have ideas. What is the good of all the you may have in your if you can make no use of them? Those who have ideas do not so as those who have none, if they don't know which way to go.
"Instead of over your ideas you must work. Now, what have you done while I was out?"
"What did your say?"
"Who told you she was pretty?" asked Lisbeth sharply, in a with tiger-like jealousy.
"Why, you did."
"That was only to see your face. Do you want to go after petticoats? You who are so of women, well, make them in bronze. Let us see a of your desires, for you will have to do without the ladies for some little time yet, and without my cousin, my good fellow. She is not game for your bag; that lady wants a man with sixty thousand a year—and has him!
"Why, your is not made!" she exclaimed, looking into the room. "Poor dear boy, I you!"
The woman off her gloves, her and bonnet, and the artist's little as as any housemaid. This mixture of abruptness, of even, with kindness, for the Lisbeth had over the man she as her personal property. Is not our to life on its of good and evil?
If the Livonian had to meet Madame Marneffe of Lisbeth Fischer, he would have a must have him into some or path, where he would have been lost. He would have worked, the artist have been out. Thus, while he the old maid's avarice, his him her iron hand to the life of and by many of his fellow-countrymen.
This was the that had to the of female energy and feebleness—a in said not to be in Poland.