The two ladies turned towards the voice, and saw, leaning against the door of the shop, a man who, in spite of the cold, had his chest and his legs quite bare.
"Oh! a naked man!" cried the young lady, half hiding behind her companion; "are we among savages?"
"Was not that what you asked for?" said the journeyman baker, for such he was, who did not understand her movement in the least, and, accustomed to his own costume, never dreamed of its effect upon them.
"Yes, my friend, the Rue St. Claude," said the elder lady, hardly able to keep from laughing.
"Oh, it is not difficult to find; besides, I will conduct you there myself;" and, suiting the action to the words, he began to move his long bony legs, which terminated in immense wooden shoes.
"Oh, no!" cried the elder lady, who did not fancy such a guide; "pray do not disturb yourself. Tell us the way, and we shall easily find it."
"First street to the right," said he, drawing back again.
"Thanks," said the ladies, who ran on as fast as they could, that he might not hear the laughter which they could no longer restrain.
CHAPTER II.
AN INTERIOR.
If we do not calculate too much on the memory of our readers, they certainly know the Rue St. Claude, which joins at one end the boulevard, and at the other the Rue St. Louis; this was an important street in the first part of our story, when it was inhabited by Joseph Balsamo, his sibyl, Lorenza, and his master, Althotas. It was still a respectable street, though badly lighted, and by no means clean, but little known or frequented.
There was, however, at the corner of the boulevard a large house, with an aristocratic air; but this house, which might, from the number of its windows, have illuminated the whole street, had it been lighted up, was the darkest and most somber-looking of any. The door was never seen to open; and the windows were thick with dust, which seemed never disturbed. Sometimes an idler, attracted by curiosity, approached the gates and peeped through; all he could see, however, were ma.s.ses of weeds growing between the stones of the courtyard, and green moss spreading itself over everything. Occasionally an enormous rat, sole inmate of those deserted domains, ran across the yard, on his way to his usual habitation in the cellars, which seemed, however, to be an excess of modesty, when he had the choice of so many fine sitting-rooms, where he need never fear the intrusion of a cat.
At times, one or two of the neighbors, pa.s.sing the house, might stop to take a survey, and one would say to the other:
"Well, what do you see?"
"Why," he would reply, "I see the rat."
"Oh! let me look at him. How fat he has grown!"
"That is not to be wondered at; he is never disturbed; and there must be some good pickings in the house. M. de Balsamo disappeared so suddenly, that he must have left something behind."
"But you forget that the house was half burned down."
And they would pursue their way.
Opposite this ruin was a high narrow house inclosed within a garden wall. From the upper windows, a light was to be seen; the rest was shrouded in darkness. Either all the inhabitants were already asleep, or they were very economical of wood and candles, which certainly were frightfully dear this winter. It is, however, with the fifth story only that we have any business.
We must, in the first place, take a survey of the house, and, ascending the staircase, open the first door. This room is empty and dark, however, but it opens into another of which the furniture deserves our attention.
The doors were gaudily painted, and it contained easy chairs covered in white, with yellow velvet tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and a sofa to match; the cushions of which, however, were so full of the wrinkles of old age as scarcely to be cushions any longer. Two portraits hanging on the walls next attracted attention. A candle and a lamp--one placed on a stand, about three feet high, and the other on the chimney-piece--threw a constant light on them.
The first was a well-known portrait of Henry III., King of France and Poland; a cap on his head, surmounting his long pale face and heavy eyes; a pointed beard, and a ruff round his neck.
Under it was the inscription, traced in black letters, on a badly-gilded frame, "Henri de Valois."
The other portrait, of which the gilding was newer, and the painting more fresh and recent, represented a young lady with black eyes, a straight nose, and rather compressed lips, who appeared crushed under a tower of hair and ribbons, to which the cap of Henry III. was in the proportion of a mole-hill to a pyramid.
Under this portrait was inscribed, "Jeanne de Valois."
Glance at the fireless hearth, at the faded curtains, and then turn towards a little oak table in the corner; for there, leaning on her elbow, and writing the addresses of some letters, sits the original of this portrait.
A few steps off, in an att.i.tude half curious, half respectful, stands a little old woman, apparently about sixty.
"Jeanne de Valois," says the inscription; but if this lady be indeed a Valois, one wonders however the portrait of Henry III., the sybarite king, the great voluptuary, could support the sight of so much poverty in a person not only of his race, but bearing his name.
In her person, however, this lady of the fifth story did no discredit to her portrait. She had white and delicate hands, which from time to time she rubbed together, as if to endeavor to put some warmth into them; her foot also, which was encased in a rather coquettish velvet slipper, was small and pretty.
The wind whistled through all the old doors, and penetrated the crevices of the shaking windows; and the old servant kept glancing sadly towards the empty grate. Her lady continued her occupation, talking aloud as she did so.
"Madame de Misery," she murmured; "first lady of the bedchamber to her majesty--I cannot expect more than six louis from her, for she has already given to me once." And she sighed. "Madame Patrick, lady"s-maid to her majesty, two louis; M. d"Ormesson, an audience; M. de Calonne, some good advice, M. de Rohan, a visit; at least, we will try to induce him," said she, smiling at the thought. "Well, then, I think I may hope for eight louis within a week." Then, looking up, "Dame Clotilde," she said, "snuff this candle."
The old woman did as she was bid, and then resumed her place. This kind of inquisition seemed to annoy the young lady, for she said, "Pray go and look if you cannot find the end of a wax candle for me; this tallow is odious."
"There is none," replied the old woman.
"But just look."
"Where?"
"In the ante-chamber."
"It is so cold there."
"There is some one ringing," said the young lady.
"Madame is mistaken," replied the obstinate old woman.
"I thought I heard it, Dame Clotilde;" then, abandoning the attempt, she turned again to her calculations. "Eight louis! Three I owe for the rent, and five I have promised to M. de la Motte, to make him support his stay at Bar-sur-Aube. Pauvre diable, our marriage has not enriched him as yet--but patience;" and she smiled again, and looked at herself in the mirror that hung between the two portraits. "Well, then," she continued, "I still want one louis for going from Versailles to Paris and back again; living for a week, one louis; dress, and gifts to the porters of the houses where I go, four louis; but," said she, starting up, "some one is ringing!"
"No, madame," replied the old woman. "It is below, on the next floor."
"But I tell you it is not," said she angrily, as the bell rang yet louder.
Even the old woman could deny it no longer; so she hobbled off to open the door, while her mistress rapidly cleared away all the papers, and seated herself on the sofa, a.s.suming the air of a person humble and resigned, although suffering.
It was, however, only her body that reposed; for her eyes, restless and unquiet, sought incessantly, first her mirror and then the door.
At last it opened, and she heard a young and sweet voice saying, "Is it here that Madame la Comtesse de la Motte lives?"
"Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois," replied Clotilde.
"It is the same person, my good woman; is she at home?"