Dracula's Guest
the heart sick” was never better exemplified than in my case, for in
addition to the perpetual longing to see the face I loved there was
always with me a harrowing anxiety lest some accident should prevent me
showing Alice in due time that I had, throughout the long period of
probation, been faithful to her trust and my own love. Thus, every
adventure which I undertook had a fierce pleasure of its own, for it
was fraught with possible consequences greater than it would have
ordinarily borne.
Like all travellers I exhausted the places of most interest in the
first month of my stay, and was driven in the second month to look for
amusement whithersoever I might. Having made sundry journeys to the
better-known suburbs, I began to see that there was a _terra
incognita_, in so far as the guide book was concerned, in the social
wilderness lying between these attractive points. Accordingly I began
to systematise my researches, and each day took up the thread of my
exploration at the place where I had on the previous day dropped it.
In the process of time my wanderings led me near Montrouge, and I saw
that hereabouts lay the Ultima Thule of social exploration—a country as
little known as that round the source of the White Nile. And so I
determined to investigate philosophically the chiffonier—his habitat,
his life, and his means of life.
The job was an unsavoury one, difficult of accomplishment, and with
little hope of adequate reward. However, despite reason, obstinacy
prevailed, and I entered into my new investigation with a keener energy
than I could have summoned to aid me in any investigation leading to
any end, valuable or worthy.
One day, late in a fine afternoon, toward the end of September, I
entered the holy of holies of the city of dust. The place was evidently
the recognised abode of a number of chiffoniers, for some sort of
arrangement was manifested in the formation of the dust heaps near the
road. I passed amongst these heaps, which stood like orderly sentries,
determined to penetrate further and trace dust to its ultimate
location.
As I passed along I saw behind the dust heaps a few forms that flitted
to and fro, evidently watching with interest the advent of any stranger
to such a place. The district was like a small Switzerland, and as I
went forward my tortuous course shut out the path behind me.
Presently I got into what seemed a small city or community of
chiffoniers. There were a number of shanties or huts, such as may be
met with in the remote parts of the Bog of Allan—rude places with
wattled walls, plastered with mud and roofs of rude thatch made from
stable refuse—such places as one would not like to enter for any
consideration, and which even in water-colour could only look
picturesque if judiciously treated. In the midst of these huts was one
of the strangest adaptations—I cannot say habitations—I had ever seen.
An immense old wardrobe, the colossal remnant of some boudoir of
Charles VII, or Henry II, had been converted into a dwelling-house. The
double doors lay open, so that the entire ménage was open to public
view. In the open half of the wardrobe was a common sitting-room of
some four feet by six, in which sat, smoking their pipes round a
charcoal brazier, no fewer than six old soldiers of the First Republic,
with their uniforms torn and worn threadbare. Evidently they were of
the _mauvais sujet_ class; their bleary eyes and limp jaws told plainly
of a common love of absinthe; and their eyes had that haggard, worn
look of slumbering ferocity which follows hard in the wake of drink.
The other side stood as of old, with its shelves intact, save that they
were cut to half their depth, and in each shelf of which there were
six, was a bed made with rags and straw. The half-dozen of worthies who
inhabited this structure looked at me curiously as I passed; and when I
looked back after going a little way I saw their heads together in a
whispered conference. I did not like the look of this at all, for the
place was very lonely, and the men looked very, very villainous.
However, I did not see any cause for fear, and went on my way,
penetrating further and further into the Sahara. The way was tortuous
to a degree, and from going round in a series of semi-circles, as one
goes in skating with the Dutch roll, I got rather confused with regard
to the points of the compass.
When I had penetrated a little way I saw, as I turned the corner of a
half-made heap, sitting on a heap of straw an old soldier with
threadbare coat.
“Hallo!” said I to myself; “the First Republic is well represented here
in its soldiery.”
As I passed him the old man never even looked up at me, but gazed on
the ground with stolid persistency. Again I remarked to myself: “See
what a life of rude warfare can do! This old man’s curiosity is a thing
of the past.”
When I had gone a few steps, however, I looked back suddenly, and saw
that curiosity was not dead, for the veteran had raised his head and
was regarding me with a very queer expression. He seemed to me to look
very like one of the six worthies in the press. When he saw me looking
he dropped his head; and without thinking further of him I went on my
way, satisfied that there was a strange likeness between these old
warriors.
Presently I met another old soldier in a similar manner. He, too, did
not notice me whilst I was passing.
By this time it was getting late in the afternoon, and I began to think
of retracing my steps. Accordingly I turned to go back, but could see a
number of tracks leading between different mounds and could not
ascertain which of them I should take. In my perplexity I wanted to see
someone of whom to ask the way, but could see no one. I determined to
go on a few mounds further and so try to see someone—not a veteran.
I gained my object, for after going a couple of hundred yards I saw
before me a single shanty such as I had seen before—with, however, the
difference that this was not one for living in, but merely a roof with
three walls open in front. From the evidences which the neighbourhood
exhibited I took it to be a place for sorting. Within it was an old
woman wrinkled and bent with age; I approached her to ask the way.
She rose as I came close and I asked her my way. She immediately
commenced a conversation; and it occurred to me that here in the very
centre of the Kingdom of Dust was the place to gather details of the
history of Parisian rag-picking—particularly as I could do so from the
lips of one who looked like the oldest inhabitant.
I began my inquiries, and the old woman gave me most interesting
answers—she had been one of the ceteuces who sat daily before the
guillotine and had taken an active part among the women who signalised
themselves by their violence in the revolution. While we were talking
she said suddenly: “But m’sieur must be tired standing,” and dusted a
rickety old stool for me to sit down. I hardly liked to do so for many
reasons; but the poor old woman was so civil that I did not like to run
the risk of hurting her by refusing, and moreover the conversation of
one who had been at the taking of the Bastille was so interesting that
I sat down and so our conversation went on.
While we were talking an old man—older and more bent and wrinkled even
than the woman—appeared from behind the shanty. “Here is Pierre,” said
she. “M’sieur can hear stories now if he wishes, for Pierre was in
everything, from the Bastille to Waterloo.” The old man took another
stool at my request and we plunged into a sea of revolutionary
reminiscences. This old man, albeit clothed like a scarecrow, was like
any one of the six veterans.
I was now sitting in the centre of the low hut with the woman on my
left hand and the man on my right, each of them being somewhat in front
of me. The place was full of all sorts of curious objects of lumber,
and of many things that I wished far away. In one corner was a heap of
rags which seemed to move from the number of vermin it contained, and
in the other a heap of bones whose odour was something shocking. Every
now and then, glancing at the heaps, I could see the gleaming eyes of
some of the rats which infested the place. These loathsome objects were
bad enough, but what looked even more dreadful was an old butcher’s axe
with an iron handle stained with clots of blood leaning up against the
wall on the right hand side. Still, these things did not give me much
concern. The talk of the two old people was so fascinating that I
stayed on and on, till the evening came and the dust heaps threw dark
shadows over the vales between them.
After a time I began to grow uneasy. I could not tell how or why, but
somehow I did not feel satisfied. Uneasiness is an instinct and means
warning. The psychic faculties are often the sentries of the intellect,
and when they sound alarm the reason begins to act, although perhaps
not consciously.
This was so with me. I began to bethink me where I was and by what
surrounded, and to wonder how I should fare in case I should be
attacked; and then the thought suddenly burst upon me, although without
any overt cause, that I was in danger. Prudence whispered: “Be still
and make no sign,” and so I was still and made no sign, for I knew that
four cunning eyes were on me. “Four eyes—if not more.” My God, what a
horrible thought! The whole shanty might be surrounded on three sides
with villains! I might be in the midst of a band of such desperadoes as
only half a century of periodic revolution can produce.
With a sense of danger my intellect and observation quickened, and I
grew more watchful than was my wont. I noticed that the old woman’s
eyes were constantly wandering towards my hands. I looked at them too,
and saw the cause—my rings. On my left little finger I had a large
signet and on the right a good diamond.
I thought that if there was any danger my first care was to avert
suspicion. Accordingly I began to work the conversation round to
rag-picking—to the drains—of the things found there; and so by easy
stages to jewels. Then, seizing a favourable opportunity, I asked the
old woman if she knew anything of such things. She answered that she
did, a little. I held out my right hand, and, showing her the diamond,
asked her what she thought of that. She answered that her eyes were
bad, and stooped over my hand. I said as nonchalantly as I could:
“Pardon me! You will see better thus!” and taking it off handed it to
her. An unholy light came into her withered old face, as she touched
it. She stole one glance at me swift and keen as a flash of lightning.
She bent over the ring for a moment, her face quite concealed as though
examining it. The old man looked straight out of the front of the
shanty before him, at the same time fumbling in his pockets and
producing a screw of tobacco in a paper and a pipe, which he proceeded
to fill. I took advantage of the pause and the momentary rest from the
searching eyes on my face to look carefully round the place, now dim
and shadowy in the gloaming. There still lay all the heaps of varied
reeking foulness; there the terrible blood-stained axe leaning against
the wall in the right hand corner, and everywhere, despite the gloom,
the baleful glitter of the eyes of the rats. I could see them even
through some of the chinks of the boards at the back low down close to
the ground. But stay! these latter eyes seemed more than usually large
and bright and baleful!
For an instant my heart stood still, and I felt in that whirling
condition of mind in which one feels a sort of spiritual drunkenness,
and as though the body is only maintained erect in that there is no
time for it to fall before recovery. Then, in another second, I was
calm—coldly calm, with all my energies in full vigour, with a