The Slaves of Paris by Émile Gaboriau (good book recommendations .txt) 📕

obtain money, you must appear not to need it; and, pray, what will people think of you if you have no overcoat? Without one you will look ridiculous, and can hardly venture into the streets.”

“Hush!” cried Paul, “for pity’s sake, hush! for your words only prove to me more plainly that you are like the rest of the world, and that want of success is a pernicious crime in your eyes. You once had confidence in me, and then you spoke in a very different strain.”

“Once indeed! but then I did not know⁠—”

“No, Rose, it was not what you were then ignorant of; but it was that in those days you loved me. Great heavens! I ask you, have I left one stone unturned? Have I not gone from publisher to publisher to sell those songs of my own composing⁠—those songs that you sing so well? I have endeavored to get pupils. What fresh efforts can I try? What would you do, were you in my place? Tell me, I beg you.”

And as Paul spoke, he grew more and more excited, while Rose still maintained her manner of exasperating coolness.

“I know not,” she replied, after a brief pause; “but if I were a man, I do not think I would permit the woman, for whom I pretended that I had the most sincere affection, to be in want of the actual necessities of life. I would strain every effort to obtain them.”

“I have no trade; I am no mechanic,” broke in Paul passionately.

“Then I would learn one. Pray how much does a man earn who climbs the ladder with a bricklayer’s hod upon his shoulders? It may be hard work, I know, but surely the business is not difficult to learn. You have, or say you have, great musical talents. I say nothing about them; but had I any vocal powers and if there was not a morsel to eat in the house, I would go and sing in the taverns or even in the public streets, and would earn money, and care little for the means by which I made it.”

“When you say those things, you seem to forget that I am an honest man.”

“One would really suppose that I had suggested some questionable act to you. Your reply, Paul, plainly proves to me that you are one of those who, for want of determination, fall, helpless, by the wayside in the journey of life. They flaunt their rags and tatters in the eyes of the world, and with saddened hearts and empty stomachs utter the boast, ‘I am an honest man.’ Do you think that, in order to be rich, you must perforce be a rogue? This is simple imbecility.”

She uttered this tirade in clear and vibrant accents, and her eyes gleamed with the fire of savage resolution. Her nature was one of those cruel and energetic ones, which lead a woman to hurl a man from the brink of the abyss to which she had conducted him, and to forget him before he has ever reached the bottom.

This torrent of sarcasm brought out Paul’s real nature. His face flushed, and rage began to gain the mastery over him. “Can you not work?” he asked. “Why do you not do something instead of talking so much?”

“That is not at all the same thing,” answered she coolly. “I was not made for work.”

Paul made a threatening gesture. “You wretch!” exclaimed he.

“You are wrong,” she replied. “I am not a wretch; I am simply hungry.”

There seemed every prospect of an angry scene, when a slight sound attracted the attention of the disputants, and, turning round, they saw an old man standing upon the threshold of their open door. He was tall, but stooped a good deal. He had high, thick brows, and a red nose; a long, thick, grizzly beard covered the rest of his countenance. He wore a pair of spectacles with colored glasses, which, to a great extent, concealed the expression of his face. His whole attire indicated extreme poverty. He wore a greasy coat, much frayed and torn at the pockets, and which had carried away with it marks of all the walls against which it had been rubbed when he had indulged a little too freely in the cheerful glass. He seemed to belong to that class who consider it a work of supererogation to disrobe before going to bed, and who just turn in on such spot as the fancy of the moment may dictate. Paul and Rose both recognized the old man from having continually met him when ascending or descending the staircase, and knew that he rented the back attic, and was called Daddy Tantaine. In an instant the idea flashed across Paul’s mind that the dilapidated state of the partition permitted every word spoken in one attic to be overheard in the other, and this did not tend to soothe his exasperated feelings.

“What do you want here, sir?” asked he angrily. “And, pray, who gave you permission to enter my room without leave?”

The old man did not seem at all put out by the threatening language of his questioner. “I should be telling a fib,” answered he calmly, “if I were to tell you that, being in my own room and hearing you quarrelling, I did not hear every word of what you have been saying.”

“Sir!”

“Stop a bit, and don’t be in such a hurry, my young friend. You seem disposed to quarrel, and, on my faith, I am not surprised; for when there is no corn in the manger, the best tempered horse will bite and kick.”

He uttered these words in the most soothing accents, and appeared utterly unconscious of having committed any breach of etiquette in entering the room.

“Well, sir,” said Paul, a flush of shame passing across his face, “you see now how poverty can drag a man down. Are you satisfied?”

“Come, come, my young friend,” answered Daddy Tantaine, “you should not get angry; and if I did step