THE MYSTERIES OE PARIS.
Ill
" Of your weakness ?"    ' Of my cowardice 1"
"Of your cowardice? but what unjust ideas you have
<f yourself! mon Dieu!"
"Ah ! is it not to be cowardly and culpable to com-
pound with one's duty and probity? And that I have
Sone."   "You! you!"
"I! On entering here I did not extenuate the mag-
nitude of my fault, all excusable as it was, perhaps.
Well, now it appears to me less, from hearing these
robbers and these murderers speak of their crimes
with obscene jests or ferocious pride. I surprise my-
self sometimes envying them their audacious indiffer-
ence, and upbraiding myself bitterly for the remorse
with which I am tormented for so slight an offence,
compared to their misdeeds."
"But you are right. Your deed, far from being
blâmable, is generous; you were sure of being able to
return the money whicli you took only for a few hours,
in order to save a whole family from ruin, from death
perhaps."
"No matter; inthe eyes of the law, in the eyes of
honest men, it is a robbery. Doubtless it is less crim-
inal to steal for such a purpose than for any other; but
' voyez vous,' that is a fatal symptom, to be obliged, in
order to excuse one's self in one's eyes, to look around
for a reason. I am no longer the equal cf men with-
out a stain. Behold me already forced to compare
myself with the degraded men with whom I live. Thus
in time, I well see, conscience is blunted, becomes
hardened. To-morrow I wiil commit a robbery, not
with the certainty of being able to restore what I
took for a laudable object, but I will steal from cupid-
ity, and I will doubtless think myself innocent in com-
parison with those who murder to rob. And yet.at
tfeis present moment, there is as great a distance be-
tween me and an assassin as there is between me and
on irreproachable man. Thus, because there are be-
ing-; a thousand times more degraded than I am, my
degradation is to be excused in my eyes! Instead of
, as formerly, I am as honest as the
only one who asked nothing of me for the trouble.
This is not all: on leaving the house you gave me a
great proof of confidence. To see you confide a secret
so important to a little girl like me, dame! that made
me proud. Tnus, when I was separated from you, my
thoughts were oftener of you than of my other neigh-
bors. What I teU you now is true; you know I never
tell a falsehood."
"Can it be possible you should have made this dis-
tinction between me and the others?"
" Certainly, I have made it, otherwise I should have
a bad heart. Yes, I said to myself, ' No one can be bet-
ter than M. Germain ; only he is a little too serious ;
but never mind, if I had a friend who wished to marry
to be very, very happy, certainly 1 should advise her to
marry M. Germain; for he would bo the paradise of a
nice little housekeeper.' "
"You thought of me for another!" Germain could
not prevent himself from saying, mournfully.
"It is true; I should have been delighted to see you
make a happy marriage, since I loved you as a valued
friend. You sen I am frank; I tell you everything."
" And I thank you from the bottomof my heart; it is
a consolation for me to learn that among your friends
I was he whom you preferred."
" This was the situation of things when your troubles
came. It was then that I received tlie good and kind
letter in which you informed me of what you called
your fault; fault! which I think—who am not a scholar
—is a good and praiseworthy action; it was then that
vou asked me to go for those papers whicli informed
me that you had always loved me, without daring to
tell me so. These papers, iu which I read "—and Rigo'
lette could not restrain her tears—" that, thinking of
my future, which sickness, or tbe want of work might
render so painful, you left me. if vou should die a vio-
lent death, as you feared—you left me the little wliich
you had acquired by force of industry and strict econ-
omy-----"
"Yres;for if I were alive, and you found yourself
without work or sick, it is to me, rather than any one
like as a soft tear mounts there when one is affected.
" Really, I think I am in a dream on hearing you
talk tuns." " And 1, then ! I never should have thought
it possible that I could dare to tell you all this; but
your despair compelled me! Ah, well! Monsieur, now
that you know that I love you as my friend, as my
lover, as my husband, will you still say it is a pity?'
The generous scruples of Germain were dispelled in a
moment before this avowal, so artless and courageous.
A joy unlooked for tore him from his sorrowful medi-
tations.
"You love me!" cried he. "I believe you; your
voice, your look, all tells me ! I do not wish to ask my-
self how I have deserved such happiness. I abandon
myself to it blindly. My life, my whole life, will not
suffice to pay my debt to you ! Ah ! 1 have already suf-
fered much, but this moment compensates all!"
"At length you are consoled. Oh! I was very sure,
very sure I should succeed!" cried Rigolette, with a
burst of charming joy.                    ,               .
" And is it in the midst of the horrors of a prison,
and is it when everything oppresses me, that such a
fdicity-----"   Germain could! not finish.   This thought
recalling the reality of his position, his scruples for a
moment forgotten, returned more cruel than ever and
he resumed with despair: "But lama prisonei, I am
accused of robbery; I shall be condemned, pel haps,
and I would accept your valorous sacrifice! 1 ,v>Ouia
profit by your generous exaltation ! Oh, no. no. i am
not infamous enough for this."
"What do you say?"                                .                „
"I may be condemned to years of imprisonment.
" Well'"' answered Rigolette, with calmness andfiim-
ness  " they will see that I am a virtuous girl; they will
not refuse to marry us in the chapel of the prison. -
But I may be confined far from Pans.                 ,„i,n0i,
"Once your wife, I will follow you; I will establish
myself in,the place where you may '
being able to say. ..
most honest men, I will console myself by saying, lam    .
the least degraded of the wretches among whom I am ! else, that you would address yourself—is it not so.   1
condemned now to live!"                                                    count on it! speak! speak!   I am not mistaken, am 1?
" It is very plain ; to whom would you have me apply?"
" Not always?   Once out of this?'
"No matter; even if acquitted, these people know
me; when they leave the prison, if theymeet me, they
Will speak  to  me as their old jail companion.   If an
one is ignorant of the accusation which brought, me to
the assizes, these wretches will threaten to divulge it.
Thus you well see, cursed and now indissoluble links
unite ihe to them, while, shut alone in my cell until the
day of my trial, unknown by them as they would have
been unknown to me, I should not have been assailed
by these 'fears, which may paralyze the best resolu-
tions.   And then,  alone,  in thinking of  my fault, it
would have been magnified instead of being diminished;
the graver it appeared to me, the greater would have
been my future expiation.   Thus, the more I should
have felt the need of my own pardon, the more in my
poor sphere I should have tried to do good.   For it
needs a hundred good actions to atone for a single bad
one.   But shall I ever dream of expiating that which
at this moment scarcely causes me any remorse? Hold !
I feel it, I obey an irresistible influence, against which
I have struggled for a long time with all my strength.
1 was educated for crime, I yield to my destiny; after
all, isolated, without family, what matters it that my
destiny  should   be   accomplished,   be  it  honest  or
criminal? And yet, my intentions were good and pure.
When they wished to make me guilty, I experienced a
profound satisfaction in saying to myself, 1 have never
been wanting in honor, and that, perhaps, was more
difficult forme than all the rest.   And now—oh! it is
frightful—frightful," cried the prisoner, sobbing in so
heart-rending a manner that Rigolette, deeply affected,
could not restrain her tears.
Let us say, however, that Germain, thanks to his
sterling probity, had struggled for a long time victor-
iously, and that he felt the approaches of the malady
more than he experienced its reality.
His fear of seeing his fault become of less gravity in
his own eyes, proved that he still felt all its enormity;
but the trouble, apprehension, and doubts which
cruelly agitated his virtuous and generous mind, were
not the less alarming symptoms.
Guided by the rectitude of her understanding, by her
-woman's sagacity, and by the impulses of her love,
Rigolette divined that which we liave just said. Al-
though well convinced, that her friend had not yet lost
any of his probity, she feared that, notwithstanding
the excellence of his nature, Germain might at some
future period become indifferent to that which then
tormented him so cruelly.
be; I will work
Chapter XXIII
" Si assure que soifi le hi
¦quelquefois 1
pour
-Rigolette.
dont on jouit, on serait
do désirer (les manieurs impossibles,
contempler avec reconnaissance ot. veneration ill
noble grandeur   de certains uevoueinén.s.—Wolfkakg,
L'Esprit-Saint, liv. ii.
Riholette, wiping her eves, and addressing Ger-
main, who was leaning against the grating, said to
him witli a touching, serious,- almost solemn accent,
and iu a manner he had never seen her assume, " Lis-
ten to me, Germain: I shall express myself perhaps
badly; I do not speak so well as you: but what I shall
tell you will be as truly sincere. In the first place, you
were wrong to complain of being isolated, abandoned."
' ' Oh ! do not think that I ever forgot that which your
pity for me inspires you to do !"
" Just now, I did not interrupt you when you spoke
of pity ; but since you repeat this word, I must say
that it is not pity at all which I feel for you.   I am
oing to explain this as well as I can.   When we were
' Oh ! hold; these are words which do good, which are
a balm for many sorrows!" " I cannot express to you
what I felt on reading—what a sad word—this will, of
which each line contained a ' souvenir ' of me, or a
thought for mv welfare; and yet I was not to know
these proofs of your attachment until you were no
longer in existence. Darnel what would you? after
such generous conduct one is astonished that love
should come all at once ! yet it is very natural, is it not,
Monsieur Germain?"                                                .
The young girl said these last words with a naivete
so touching and so frank, fixing her large black eyes
on those of Germain, that he did not understand her
at first, so far was he from thinking himself beloved
by Rigolette. Yet these words were so pointed, that
their echo resounded from the bottom of the prisoner's
heart;he blushed, then became pale, and cried, " What
do you say?   I fear—oh! mon Dieu—I am mistaken—
per—I-----"
" I say that from the moment in which I felt that
you were so kind to me, and in which I saw you so
unhappy, I have loved you otherwise than as a brother,
and that if now one of mv friends wished to marry,"
said Rigolette, smiling and blushing, -'it is no longer
you I should recommend to her, Monsieur Germain.
"You love me! you love me!"
" I must then tell you myself, since you ask me.
" Can it be possible!"
"It is not, however, my fault, for having twice put
you in the way to make you comprehend it. But no,
monsieur does not wish to understand a hint; he forces
me to confess these things.to him. It is wrong, per-
haps; but as there is no one here but you to scold me
for my effrontery, I have less fear; and, besides,'
added Rigolette, in a more serious tone, and with deep
emotion, "just now you appeared to me so much af-
flicted, so despairing, that I did not mind it; I have had
the self-love to believe that this avowal, made frankly
and from the bottom of the heart, would pi-evaa* you
from being so unhappy for the future. I thought, un-
til now I have had no luck in my efforts to amuse or
console him; my dainties take away his appetite, my
gayety makes him weep; this time at least—ah] mon
Dieul what is the matter?" cried Rigolette. on seeing
Germain conceal his face in his hands. "There, tell
me now if this is not cruel!" cried she; "no matter
what I say or what I do you remain still unhappy ; it is
to be too wicked and by far too egotistical also. One
would say there was no one but you who suffered.
"Alas! what misery is mine!" cried Germain, with
despair. " You love me, when I am no longer worthy
of you!"
" No longer worthy of you ? There is no good sense
in what you say now. It is as if I had said formerly,
that I was not worthy of your friendship, because 1
had been in prison; for, after all, Ihave also been a
prisoner; am I any less an honest girl? But you
were sent to prison because you were a poor abandoned
child, while I—mon Dieu! what a difference'.''
" In fine, as to the prison, we have nothing to re-
proach ourselves for. It is rather I who am presump-
tuous, for, in my situation, I ought only to think ot
marrying some workman. I ara a foundling; I possess
nothing but my little chamber and my good courage;
yet I come boldly and propose to you to take me tor a
wife."                                                                ,    ,
" Alas! formerly this had been the dream, the happi-
ness of my life! but now—I, under the weight of an in-
famous accusation, I should abuse your admirable gene-
pernaps!
there, and I will come to see you every day
" But I shall be disgraced in the eyes ot all.
"You love me.morethan all; is it not so?-
" Then what matters it to you? Far from being dis-
graced in my eyes, I shall regard you as the martyr Ol
your good heart."           -                                .-       „„,,_
"But  the world  will  condemn,   culummate  your
C '"The world!  we will be the world to each other;
and then let them talk."                    .                     ___...
" Finally, on coming out of the prison, my living will
be precarious, miserable. Repulsed on all sides, per-
haps I sliallfmd no employment; and then, it ts hor-
rible to think of ; but if this corruption which Idiead
should, in spite of myself, gain on me, what a tutme
°" You will not bé corrupted; no, for now you know
Ilove you, and this thought will give you strength to
resist bad examples. You will think that even if every
one should repulse you on your leaving theprison, your
wife will receive you with love and gratitude, very^cer-
tain that you are still an honest man. This language
astonishes you, doesitnot?" "It astonishes me.         1
do not know where I find whatl say to you. It is from
the bottom of my heart, assuredly, and that ought to
convince you; otherwise, if you disdain an offei which
is made from the heart, if you do not wish the attach-
ment of a poor girl who-----"
Germain interrupted Rigolette with warmth
"Well! I accept-I accept; yes, I feel that it is some-,
times cowardly to refuse certain sacrifices;  it is to ac-
knowledge that one is unworthy of them.   I accept,
noble and courageous girl."
"True? very true? this time?"
"I swear it to you; and, besides, you have, spoken
words wliich have struck me—which have given me
the courage I wanted." " What happiness ! and what
have I saicl?" "That for you I ought to remain an
honest man. Yes, in this thought I will find the strength
to resist the detestable influences which surround me.
I will brave the contagion, and I will know how to pre-
serve worthy of your loye this heart, which belongs to
3 °'XJi ! Germain, how happy I am ! if I have done any-
thing for you, how you recompense me:
"And then, do you see, although you excuse my
fault, I will not forget its gravity. My task, for the-
future, shall be doubled-to atone, for the past, and
deserve the happiness I owe toyou. Fortnat I will do
good; for, however poor one may be, the occasion is
nevei-wanting."           -                          *V,                ___
"Afas! mon Dieu! it is true; those who are more
unfortunate than one's self can always be found. ¦
" In default of money-----"         ,,.,-.„
" One gives tears, that which I did for the poor
Morels. And it is holy alms: the chanty of the heart
isworthmore than thatwhich gives bread.
"In fine, you accept, you will not retract?
"Oh' never, never, my friend, my wife; yes, my
courage returns; I seem to emerge from a dream ; 1
doubt myself no longer; I wronged iiiyself-nappily,,1
wronged myself. My heart would not beat as it does
beat if it had lost its noble energy."
•' Oh! Germain, how handsome you look while tnus
speaking- ! How you reanimate me, not for myseit but
for vou' Now, you promise, do you not, that, non you
have my love to shield you, you will no.longer tearXo
speak to these wicked men in order not to excite the»
an" Bea|*mfSorted.' On seeing me sad and dejected,
thev doubtless, accused me ot being a prey to my re-
morse: and in seeing me joyous and gay, they will
think that I have acquired their recklessness.
"It is true; they will suspect you no more and I
shall be happy.   So, no imprudence;  now you belong
to me    I am your little wife?"
At this moment the guardian stirred; he awoke
" whispered Rigolette, with a smile full of
.,K.  .—^^..«oco.   " nnick my husband,
through the
" QuickC"
a sweet kiss on my
"- will be our betrothm—
Wthe vo ng girl leaned her face against the iron
And tne yoi   88",   affected, touched with his
gracl and maiden tenderness;     quick mj
-'— me a sweet kiss on my forehead,
ing: it will be our betrothment.
rosity—your pity, Whieh carries you away,
neighbors, l'ioved you as a brother, as a good compan- ! no—no."
ion; you rendered me some little services, I rendered ¦ "But, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cried Rigolette, with
you others; vou made me partake of your Sunday impatience; "I tell you it is not a pity, it is love. I
amusements, I tried to be very lively, very agreeable, only think of youl I sleep no more—I eat no more,
in order to thank you: we were quits."   " Quits? ohl i Your sad and melancholy looks follow me everywhere.
no—I-----"                                                                           Is that a pity?    Now, when vou speak to me, your
" Let me speak in my turn. When you were forced j voice, your look, go to my heart. There are a thousand am l™,^u^'s *"i'^Sv affected, touched with his
to leave the house where we dwelt, your departure things'in you wliich now please me, and which I had j oars, «eimam, V™. t£e pure at,a wnite forehead,
caused me more regret than that of my other neigh- ! not remarked. I love y our face, I love your eyes, I love "Ps; ™ ,,X„ ' it. nrisoner fell there like a humid
bors."   ".Can it be true?"                                                  you, I love your mind, I love your good heart: is th
" Y'es, because they were men without care, whom ; still pity?   Why, after having loved you
certainly I ought to miss less than you; and, besides,   I love you as a lover?   I do not know ! why was I lively                    ,     -,
they did not yield themselves to be my acquaintances | and gay when I loved you as a friend?   'vi hy am I all , unarming "J"»'     .   t„   e 0'ciock!" said the guardian,
)ld them a hundred times that they could ; changed since I loved you as a lover?   I do not know. ,   _    rto_«»¦* 4ft- " and visitors ought to leave at
"   t7o1S Come mv dear Demoiselle," added he, address-
Sg the grisette, "it is a pity, butyou.must part
''K Ohl thank youXhani.you^Monsieuiaor allowing
us
you, I love your mind, I love your good heart: is this        a. »
7hv. niter having loved                               '   Peg^; touching baptism of this chaste, melancholy and
until I had told -„..„
be nothing else : while you—you have at once imagined  \ Why have I waited so long to find you both handsome
what we ought to be to each other. Notwithstanding   and good? to love you at once with my eyes and my
this, jou have passed with me all the time you had to   heart? I do not know; or rather, yes, I do know: it is tie-
spare; you taught me to write; you gave me good ad-   cause I have discovered how much you.loved me without
vice, a little serious, because it was good; in fine, you   ever telling it; how much you were generous and de-
have been the most attentive of my neighbors, and the   voted.   Then love mounted from my heart to my eyes,
us to talk alone.   Ihave given Germain good corn-age;
he will no longer look so sorrowful, aud thus he wil
I
if
1