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Transcriber's Notes:

1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

2. Passages in Gothic Bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs.

3. Other transcription notes appear at the end of this e-text.




[Illustration: _Portrait of Eugene Sue_
Etching by Bicknell, from a portrait]




+The Mysteries of Paris.+

  _ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS
  BY MERCIER, BICKNELL, POITEAU,
  AND ADRIAN MARCEL._

                 _BY EUGENE SUE_


      _IN SIX VOLUMES
          VOLUME I._


        _PRINTED FOR
   FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
           BOSTON_


      _EDITION DE LUXE._

_Limited to One Thousand Copies._

          No. _____




CONTENTS.


      CHAP.                                                PAGE
          I. THE TAPIS-FRANC                                 11
         II. THE OGRESS                                      19
        III. HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE                         31
         IV. THE CHOURINEUR'S HISTORY                        47
          V. THE ARREST                                      59
         VI. THOMAS SEYTON AND THE COUNTESS SARAH            67
        VII. "YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE"                       74
       VIII. THE WALK                                        80
         IX. THE SURPRISE                                    90
          X. CASTLES IN THE AIR                              99
         XI. MURPHY AND RODOLPH                             119
        XII. THE RENDEZVOUS                                 137
       XIII. PREPARATIONS                                   150
        XIV. THE BLEEDING HEART                             157
         XV. THE VAULT                                      166
        XVI. THE SICK-NURSE                                 172
       XVII. THE PUNISHMENT                                 189
      XVIII. THE ISLE ADAM                                  206
        XIX. RECOMPENSE                                     212
         XX. THE DEPARTURE                                  221
        XXI. RESEARCHES                                     225
       XXII. HISTORY OF DAVID AND CECILY                    246
      XXIII. A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE                   258
       XXIV. THE FOUR STORIES                               292
        XXV. TOM AND SARAH                                  302
       XXVI. THE BALL                                       323




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                           PAGE
      PORTRAIT OF EUGENE SUE                      _Frontispiece_
      THE CHOURINEUR, RODOLPH, AND LA GOUALEUSE              22
      "SHE PROFFERED TO RODOLPH THE BOUQUET"                 89
      "'AH, HERE IS THE DARLING ONE!'"                      158
      "RODOLPH ADDRESSED THE SCHOOLMASTER."                 190
      "THIS INDIVIDUAL WAS SEATED BY THE STOVE"             260
      "'THIS, I SUPPOSE, IS THE WORK OF M. CABRION'"        296




THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.




CHAPTER I.

THE TAPIS-FRANC.[1]


It was on a cold and rainy night, towards the end of October, 1838, that
a tall and powerful man, with an old broad-brimmed straw hat upon his
head, and clad in a blue cotton carter's frock, which hung loosely over
trousers of the same material, crossed the Pont au Change, and darted
with a hasty step into the Cite, that labyrinth of obscure, narrow, and
winding streets which extends from the Palais de Justice to Notre Dame.

  [1] _Tapis-franc_: literally, a "free carpet;" a low haunt
  equivalent to what in English slang is termed "a boozing ken."

Although limited in space, and carefully watched, this quarter serves as
the lurking-place, or rendezvous, of a vast number of the very dregs of
society in Paris, who flock to the _tapis-franc_. This word, in the
slang of theft and murder, signifies a drinking-shop of the lowest
class. A returned convict, who, in this foul phraseology, is called an
"ogre," or a woman in the same degraded state, who is termed an
"ogress," generally keep such "cribs," frequented by the refuse of the
Parisian population; freed felons, thieves, and assassins are there
familiar guests. If a crime is committed, it is here, in this filthy
sewer, that the police throws its cast-net, and rarely fails to catch
the criminals it seeks to take.

On the night in question, the wind howled fiercely in the dark and dirty
gullies of the Cite; the blinking and uncertain light of the lamps which
swung to and fro in the sudden gusts were dimly reflected in pools of
black slush, which flowed abundantly in the midst of the filthy
pavement.

The murky- houses, which were lighted within by a few panes of
glass in the worm-eaten casements, overhung each other so closely that
the eaves of each almost touched its opposite neighbour, so narrow were
the streets. Dark and noisome alleys led to staircases still more black
and foul, and so perpendicular that they could hardly be ascended by the
help of a cord fixed to the dank and humid walls by holdfasts of iron.

Stalls of charcoal-sellers, fruit-sellers, or venders of refuse meat
occupied the ground floor of some of these wretched abodes.
Notwithstanding the small value of their commodities, the fronts of
nearly all these shops were protected by strong bars of iron,--a proof
that the shopkeepers knew and dreaded the gentry who infested the
vicinity.

The man of whom we have spoken, having entered the Rue aux Feves, which
is in the centre of the Cite, slackened his pace: he felt he was on his
own soil. The night was dark, and strong gusts of wind, mingled with
rain, dashed against the walls. Ten o'clock struck by the distant dial
of the Palais de Justice. Women were huddled together under the vaulted
arches, deep and dark, like caverns; some hummed popular airs in a low
key; others conversed together in whispers; whilst some, dumb and
motionless, looked on mechanically at the wet, which fell and flowed in
torrents. The man in the carter's frock, stopping suddenly before one of
these creatures, silent and sad as she gazed, seized her by the arm, and
said, "Ha! good evening, La Goualeuse."[2]

  [2] Sweet-throated: in reference to the tone of her voice.

The girl receded, saying, in a faint and fearful tone, "Good evening,
Chourineur.[3] Don't hurt me."

  [3] One who strikes with the knife; the stabber, or slasher.

This man, a liberated convict, had been so named at the hulks.

"Now I have you," said the fellow; "you must pay me the glass of 'tape'
(_eau d'aff_), or I'll make you dance without music," he added, with a
hoarse and brutal laugh.

"Oh, Heaven! I have no money," replied Goualeuse, trembling from head to
foot, for this man was the dread of the district.

"If you're stumped, the ogress of the _tapis-franc_ will give you tick
for your pretty face."

"She won't; I already owe her for the clothes I'm wearing."

"What, you want to shirk it?" shouted the Chourineur, darting after La
Goualeuse, who had hid herself in a gully as murk as midnight.

"Now, then, my lady, I've got you!" said the vagabond, after groping
about for a few moments, and grasping in one of his coarse and powerful
hands a slim and delicate wrist; "and now for the dance I promised you."

"No, it is _you_ who shall dance!" was uttered by a masculine and deep
voice.

"A man! Is't you, Bras Rouge? Speak, why don't you? and don't squeeze so
hard. I am here in the entrance to your 'ken,' and you it must be."

"'Tis not Bras Rouge!" said the voice.

"Oh! isn't it? Well, then, if it is not a friend, why, here goes at
you," exclaimed the Chourineur. "But whose bit of a hand is it I have
got hold of? It must be a woman's!"

"It is the fellow to this," responded the voice.

And under the delicate skin of this hand, which grasped his throat with
sudden ferocity, the Chourineur felt himself held by nerves of iron.
The Goualeuse, who had sought refuge in this alley, and lightly ascended
a few steps, paused for an instant, and said to her unknown defender,
"Thanks, sir, for having taken my part. The Chourineur said he would
strike me because I could not pay for his glass of brandy; but I think
he only jested. Now I am safe, pray let him go. Take care of yourself,
for he is the Chourineur."

"If he be the Chourineur, I am a bully boy who never knuckles down,"
exclaimed the unknown.

All was then silent for a moment, and then were heard for several
seconds, in the midst of the pitchy darkness, sounds of a fierce
struggle.

"Who the devil is this?" then said the ruffian, making a desperate
effort to free himself from his adversary, whose extraordinary power
astonished him. "Now, then, now you shall pay both for La Goualeuse and
yourself!" he shouted, grinding his teeth.

"Pay! yes, I will pay you, but it shall be with my fists; and it shall
be cash in full," replied the unknown.

"If," said the Chourineur, in a stifled voice, "you do but let go my
neckcloth, I will bite your nose off."

"My nose is too small, my lad, and you haven't light enough to see it."

"Come under the 'hanging glim'[4] there."

  [4] Under the lamp, called _reverbere_.

"That I will," replied the unknown, "for then we may look into the
whites of each other's eyes."

He then made a desperate rush at the Chourineur, whom he still held by
the throat, and forced him to the end of the alley, and then thrust him
violently into the street, which was but dimly lighted by the suspended
street-lamp. The bandit stumbled; but, rapidly recovering his feet, he
threw himself furiously upon the unknown, whose slim and graceful form
appeared to belie the possession of the irresistible strength he had
displayed. After a struggle of a few minutes, the Chourineur, although
of athletic build, and a first-rate champion in a species of pugilism
vulgarly termed the _savate_, found that he had got what they call his
master. The unknown threw him twice with immense dexterity, by what is
called, in wrestling, the leg-pass, or crook. Unwilling, however, to
acknowledge the superiority of his adversary, the Chourineur, boiling
with rage, returned again to the charge. Then the defender of La
Goualeuse, suddenly altering his mode of attack, rained on the head and
face of the bandit a shower of blows with his closed fist, as hard and
heavy as if stricken by a steel gauntlet. These blows, worthy of the
admiration of Jem Belcher, Dutch Sam, Tom Cribb, or any other celebrated
English pugilist, were so entirely different from the system of the
_savate_, that the Chourineur dropped like an ox on the pavement,
exclaiming, as he fell, "I'm floored!" (_Mon linge est lave!_)

"_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_ Have pity on him!" exclaimed La Goualeuse, who,
during the contest, had ventured on the threshold of the alley, adding,
with an air of astonishment, "But who are you, then? Except the
Schoolmaster and Skeleton, there is no one, from the Rue Saint Eloi to
Notre Dame, who can stand against the Chourineur. I thank you very, very
much, sir, for, indeed, I fear that, without your aid, he would have
beaten me."

The unknown, instead of replying, listened with much attention to the
voice of this girl. Perhaps a tone more gentle, sweet, and silvery never
fell on human ear. He endeavoured to examine the features of La
Goualeuse; but the night was too dark, and the beams of the street-lamp
too flickering and feeble. After remaining for some minutes quite
motionless, the Chourineur shook his legs and arms, and then partly rose
from the ground.

"Pray be on your guard!" exclaimed the Goualeuse, retreating again into
the dark passage, and taking her champion by the arm; "take care, or he
will have his revenge on you."

"Don't be frightened, my child; if he has not had enough, I have more
ready for him."

The brigand heard these words.

"Thanks," he murmured; "I'm half throttled, and one eye is closed,--that
is quite enough for one day. Some other time, perhaps, when we may meet
again--"

"What! not content yet,--grumbling still?" said the unknown, with a
menacing tone.

"No, no,--not at all; I do not grumble in the least. You have regularly
served me out,--you are a lad of mettle," said the Chourineur, in a
coarse tone, but still with that sort of deference which physical
superiority always finds in persons of his grade. "You are the better
man, that's clear. Well, except the Skeleton, who seems to have bones of
iron, he is so thin and powerful, and the Schoolmaster, who could eat
three Herculeses for his breakfast, no man living could boast of having
put his foot on my neck."

"Well, and what then?"

"Why, now I have found my master, that's all; you will find yours some
day sooner or later,--everybody does. One thing, however, is certain;
now that you are a better man than the Chourineur, you may 'go your
length' in the Cite. All the women will be your slaves; ogres and
ogresses