Notre-Dame de Paris
“Ah my dear,” interrupted provincial Mahiette, assuming in her
turn an air of superiority, “what would you say then, if you had
seen in ’61, at the consecration at Reims, eighteen years ago,
the horses of the princes and of the king’s company? Housings and
caparisons of all sorts; some of damask cloth, of fine cloth of
gold, furred with sables; others of velvet, furred with ermine;
others all embellished with goldsmith’s work and large bells of
gold and silver! And what money that had cost! And what handsome
boy pages rode upon them!”
“That,” replied Oudarde dryly, “does not prevent the Flemings
having very fine horses, and having had a superb supper yesterday
with monsieur, the provost of the merchants, at the
Hôtel-de-Ville, where they were served with comfits and
hippocras, and spices, and other singularities.”
“What are you saying, neighbor!” exclaimed Gervaise. “It was with
monsieur the cardinal, at the Petit Bourbon that they supped.”
“Not at all. At the Hôtel-de-Ville.
“Yes, indeed. At the Petit Bourbon!”
“It was at the Hôtel-de-Ville,” retorted Oudarde sharply, “and
Dr. Scourable addressed them a harangue in Latin, which pleased
them greatly. My husband, who is sworn bookseller told me so.”
“It was at the Petit Bourbon,” replied Gervaise, with no less
spirit, “and this is what monsieur the cardinal’s procurator
presented to them: twelve double quarts of hippocras, white,
claret, and red; twenty-four boxes of double Lyons marchpane,
gilded; as many torches, worth two livres a piece; and six
demi-queues[29] of Beaune wine, white and claret, the best that
could be found. I have it from my husband, who is a
cinquantenier[30], at the Parloir-aux Bourgeois, and who was this
morning comparing the Flemish ambassadors with those of Prester
John and the Emperor of Trebizond, who came from Mesopotamia to
Paris, under the last king, and who wore rings in their ears.”
“So true is it that they supped at the Hôtel-de-Ville,” replied
Oudarde but little affected by this catalogue, “that such a
triumph of viands and comfits has never been seen.”
“I tell you that they were served by Le Sec, sergeant of the
city, at the Hôtel du Petit-Bourbon, and that that is where you
are mistaken.”
“At the Hôtel-de-Ville, I tell you!”
“At the Petit-Bourbon, my dear! and they had illuminated with
magic glasses the word _Hope_, which is written on the grand
portal.”
“At the Hôtel-de-Ville! At the Hôtel-de-Ville! And Husson-le-Voir
played the flute!”
“I tell you, no!”
“I tell you, yes!”
“I say, no!”
Plump and worthy Oudarde was preparing to retort, and the quarrel
might, perhaps, have proceeded to a pulling of caps, had not
Mahiette suddenly exclaimed,—“Look at those people assembled
yonder at the end of the bridge! There is something in their
midst that they are looking at!”
“In sooth,” said Gervaise, “I hear the sounds of a tambourine. I
believe ’tis the little Esmeralda, who plays her mummeries with
her goat. Eh, be quick, Mahiette! redouble your pace and drag
along your boy. You are come hither to visit the curiosities of
Paris. You saw the Flemings yesterday; you must see the gypsy
to-day.”
“The gypsy!” said Mahiette, suddenly retracing her steps, and
clasping her son’s arm forcibly. “God preserve me from it! She
would steal my child from me! Come, Eustache!”
And she set out on a run along the quay towards the Grève, until
she had left the bridge far behind her. In the meanwhile, the
child whom she was dragging after her fell upon his knees; she
halted breathless. Oudarde and Gervaise rejoined her.
“That gypsy steal your child from you!” said Gervaise. “That’s a
singular freak of yours!”
Mahiette shook her head with a pensive air.
“The singular point is,” observed Oudarde, “that _la sachette_
has the same idea about the Egyptian woman.”
“What is _la sachette_?” asked Mahiette.
“Hé!” said Oudarde, “Sister Gudule.”
“And who is Sister Gudule?” persisted Mahiette.
“You are certainly ignorant of all but your Reims, not to know
that!” replied Oudarde. “’Tis the recluse of the Rat-Hole.”
“What!” demanded Mahiette, “that poor woman to whom we are
carrying this cake?”
Oudarde nodded affirmatively.
“Precisely. You will see her presently at her window on the
Grève. She has the same opinion as yourself of these vagabonds of
Egypt, who play the tambourine and tell fortunes to the public.
No one knows whence comes her horror of the gypsies and
Egyptians. But you, Mahiette—why do you run so at the mere sight
of them?”
“Oh!” said Mahiette, seizing her child’s round head in both
hands, “I don’t want that to happen to me which happened to
Paquette la Chantefleurie.”
“Oh! you must tell us that story, my good Mahiette,” said
Gervaise, taking her arm.
“Gladly,” replied Mahiette, “but you must be ignorant of all but
your Paris not to know that! I will tell you then (but ’tis not
necessary for us to halt that I may tell you the tale), that
Paquette la Chantefleurie was a pretty maid of eighteen when I
was one myself, that is to say, eighteen years ago, and ’tis her
own fault if she is not to-day, like me, a good, plump, fresh
mother of six and thirty, with a husband and a son. However,
after the age of fourteen, it was too late! Well, she was the
daughter of Guybertant, minstrel of the barges at Reims, the same
who had played before King Charles VII., at his coronation, when
he descended our river Vesle from Sillery to Muison, when Madame
the Maid of Orleans was also in the boat. The old father died
when Paquette was still a mere child; she had then no one but her
mother, the sister of M. Pradon, master-brazier and coppersmith
in Paris, Rue Parin-Garlin, who died last year. You see she was
of good family. The mother was a good simple woman,
unfortunately, and she taught Paquette nothing but a bit of
embroidery and toy-making which did not prevent the little one
from growing very large and remaining very poor. They both dwelt
at Reims, on the river front, Rue de Folle-Peine. Mark this: For
I believe it was this which brought misfortune to Paquette. In
’61, the year of the coronation of our King Louis XI. whom God
preserve! Paquette was so gay and so pretty that she was called
everywhere by no other name than _la Chantefleurie_—blossoming
song. Poor girl! She had handsome teeth, she was fond of laughing
and displaying them. Now, a maid who loves to laugh is on the
road to weeping; handsome teeth ruin handsome eyes. So she was la
Chantefleurie. She and her mother earned a precarious living;
they had been very destitute since the death of the minstrel;
their embroidery did not bring them in more than six farthings a
week, which does not amount to quite two eagle liards. Where were
the days when Father Guybertant had earned twelve sous parisian,
in a single coronation, with a song? One winter (it was in that
same year of ’61), when the two women had neither fagots nor
firewood, it was very cold, which gave la Chantefleurie such a
fine color that the men called her Paquette![31] and many called
her Pâquerette![32] and she was ruined.—Eustache, just let me see
you bite that cake if you dare!—We immediately perceived that she
was ruined, one Sunday when she came to church with a gold cross
about her neck. At fourteen years of age! do you see? First it
was the young Vicomte de Cormontreuil, who has his bell tower
three leagues distant from Reims; then Messire Henri de
Triancourt, equerry to the King; then less than that, Chiart de
Beaulion, sergeant-at-arms; then, still descending, Guery
Aubergeon, carver to the King; then, Macé de Frépus, barber to
monsieur the dauphin; then, Thévenin le Moine, King’s cook; then,
the men growing continually younger and less noble, she fell to
Guillaume Racine, minstrel of the hurdy-gurdy and to Thierry de
Mer, lamplighter. Then, poor Chantefleurie, she belonged to every
one: she had reached the last sou of her gold piece. What shall I
say to you, my damoiselles? At the coronation, in the same year,
’61, ’twas she who made the bed of the king of the debauchees! In
the same year!”
Mahiette sighed, and wiped away a tear which trickled from her
eyes.
“This is no very extraordinary history,” said Gervaise, “and in
the whole of it I see nothing of any Egyptian women or children.”
“Patience!” resumed Mahiette, “you will see one child.—In ’66,
’twill be sixteen years ago this month, at Sainte-Paule’s day,
Paquette was brought to bed of a little girl. The unhappy
creature! it was a great joy to her; she had long wished for a
child. Her mother, good woman, who had never known what to do
except to shut her eyes, her mother was dead. Paquette had no
longer any one to love in the world or any one to love her. La
Chantefleurie had been a poor creature during the five years
since her fall. She was alone, alone in this life, fingers were
pointed at her, she was hooted at in the streets, beaten by the
sergeants, jeered at by the little boys in rags. And then, twenty
had arrived: and twenty is an old age for amorous women. Folly
began to bring her in no more than her trade of embroidery in
former days; for every wrinkle that came, a crown fled; winter
became hard to her once more, wood became rare again in her
brazier, and bread in her cupboard. She could no longer work
because, in becoming voluptuous, she had grown lazy; and she
suffered much more because, in growing lazy, she had become
voluptuous. At least, that is the way in which monsieur the curé
of Saint-Remy explains why these women are colder and hungrier
than other poor women, when they are old.”
“Yes,” remarked Gervaise, “but the gypsies?”
“One moment, Gervaise!” said Oudarde, whose attention was less
impatient. “What would be left for the end if all were in the
beginning? Continue, Mahiette, I entreat you. That poor
Chantefleurie!”
Mahiette went on.
“So she was very sad, very miserable, and furrowed her cheeks
with tears. But in the midst of her shame, her folly, her
debauchery, it seemed to her that she should be less wild, less
shameful, less dissipated, if there were something or some one in
the world whom she could love, and who could love her. It was
necessary that it should be a child, because only a child could
be sufficiently innocent for that. She had recognized this fact
after having tried to love a thief, the only man who wanted her;
but after a short time, she perceived that the thief despised
her. Those women of love require either a lover or a child to
fill their hearts. Otherwise, they are very unhappy. As she could
not have a lover, she turned wholly towards a desire for a child,
and as she had not ceased to be pious, she made her constant