A Second Home

A Second Home

A SECOND HOME HONORE DE BALZAC The Rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean formerly one of the darkest and most tortuous of the streets about the Hotel de Ville zigzagged round the little gardens of the Paris Prefecture and ended at the Rue Martroi exactly at the angle of an old wall now pulled down. Here stood the turnstile to which the street owed its name; it was not removed till 1823 when the Municipality built a ballroom on the garden plot adjoining the Hotel de Ville for the fete given in honor of the Duc d'Angouleme on his return from Spain. The widest part of the Rue du Tourniquet was the end opening into the Rue de la Tixeranderie and even there it was less than six feet across. Hence in rainy weather the gutter water was soon deep at the foot of the old houses sweeping down with it the dust and refuse deposited at the corner-stones by the residents. As the dust-carts could not pass through the inhabitants trusted to storms to wash their always miry alley; for how could it be clean? When the summer sun shed its perpendicular rays on Paris like a sheet of gold but as piercing as the point of a sword it lighted up the blackness of this street for a few minutes without drying the permanent damp that rose from the ground-floor to the first story of these dark and silent tenements. The residents who lighted their lamps at five o'clock in the month of June in winter never put them out. To this day the enterprising wayfarer who should approach the Marais along the quays past the end of the Rue du Chaume the Rues de l'Homme Arme des Billettes and des Deux-Portes all leading to the Rue du Tourniquet might think he had passed through cellars all the way. Almost all the streets of old Paris of which ancient chronicles laud the magnificence were like this damp and gloomy labyrinth where the antiquaries still find historical curiosities to admire. For instance on the house then forming the corner where the Rue du Tourniquet joined the Rue de la Tixeranderie the clamps might still be seen of two strong iron rings fixed to the wall the relics of the chains put up every night by the watch to secure public safety. This house remarkable for its antiquity had been constructed in a way that bore witness to the unhealthiness of these old dwellings; for to preserve the ground-floor from damp the arches of the cellars rose about two feet above the soil and the house was entered up three outside steps. The door was crowned by a closed arch of which the keystone bore a female head and some time-eaten arabesques. Three windows their sills about five feet from the ground belonged to a small set of rooms looking out on the Rue du Tourniquet whence they derived their light. These windows were protected by strong iron bars very wide apart and ending below in an outward curve like the bars of a baker's window. If any passer-by during the day were curious enough to peep into the two rooms forming this little dwelling he could see nothing; for only under the sun of July could he discern in the second room two beds hung with green serge placed side by side under the paneling of an old-fashioned alcove; but in the afternoon by about three o'clock when the candles were lighted through the pane of the first room an old woman might be seen sitting on a stool by the fireplace where she nursed the fire in a brazier to simmer a stew such as porters' wives are expert in. A few kitchen utensils hung up against the wall were visible in the twilight. At that hour an old table on trestles but bare of linen was laid with pewter-spoons and the dish concocted by the old woman. Three wretched chairs were all the furniture of this room which was at once the kitchen and the dining-room. Over the chimney-piece were a piece of looking-glass a tinder-box three glasses some matches and a large cracked white jug. Still the floor the utensils the fireplace all gave a pleasant sense of the perfect cleanliness and thrift that pervaded the dull and gloomy home. The old woman's pale withered face was quite in harmony with the darkness of the street and the mustiness of the place. As she sat there motionless in her chair it might have been thought that she was as inseparable from the house as a snail from its brown shell; her face alert with a vague expression of mischief was framed in a flat cap made of net which barely covered her white hair; her fine gray eyes were as quiet as the street and the many wrinkles in her face might be compared to the cracks in the walls. Whether she had been born to poverty or had fallen from some past splendor she now seemed to have been long resigned to her melancholy existence. From sunrise till dark excepting when she was getting a meal ready or with a basket on her arm was out purchasing provisions the old woman sat in the adjoining room by the further window opposite a young girl. At any hour of the day the passer-by could see the needlewoman seated in an old red velvet chair bending over an embroidery frame and stitching indefatigably. Her mother had a green pillow on her knee and busied herself with hand-made net; but her fingers could move the bobbin but slowly; her sight was feeble for on her nose there rested a pair of those antiquated spectacles which keep their place on the nostrils by the grip of a spring. By night these two hardworking women set a lamp between them; and the light concentrated by two globe-shaped bottles of water showed the elder the fine network made by the threads on her pillow and the younger the most delicate details of the pattern she was embroidering. The outward bend of the window had allowed the girl to rest a box of earth on the window-sill in which grew some sweet peas nasturtiums a sickly little honeysuckle and some convolvulus that twined its frail stems up the iron bars. These etiolated plants produced a few pale flowers and added a touch of indescribable sadness and sweetness to the picture offered by this window in which the two figures were appropriately framed. The most selfish soul who chanced to see this domestic scene would carry away with him a perfect image of the life led in Paris by the working class of women for the embroideress evidently lived by her needle. Many as they passed through the turnstile found themselves wondering how a girl could preserve her color living in such a cellar. A student of lively imagination going that way to cross to the Quartier-Latin would compare this obscure and vegetative life to that of the ivy that clung to these chill walls to that of the peasants born to labor who are born toil and die unknown to the world they have helped to feed. A house-owner after studying the house with the eye of a valuer would have said "What will become of those two women if embroidery should go out of fashion?" Among the men who having some appointment at the Hotel de Ville or the Palais de Justice were obliged to go through this street at fixed hours either on their way to business or on their return home there may have been some charitable soul. Some widower or Adonis of forty brought so often into the secrets of these sad lives may perhaps have reckoned on the poverty of this mother and daughter and have hoped to become the master at no great cost of the innocent work-woman whose nimble and dimpled fingers youthful figure and white skin--a charm due no doubt to living in this sunless street--had excited his admiration. Perhaps again some honest clerk with twelve hundred francs a year seeing every day the diligence the girl gave to her needle and appreciating the purity of her life was only waiting for improved prospects to unite one humble life with another one form of toil to another and to bring at any rate a man's arm and a calm affection pale-hued like the flowers in the window to uphold this home. Vague hope certainly gave life to the mother's dim gray eyes. Every morning after the most frugal breakfast she took up her pillow though chiefly for the look of the thing for she would lay her spectacles on a little mahogany worktable as old as herself and look out of the window from about half-past eight till ten at the regular passers in the street; she caught their glances remarked on their gait their dress their countenance and almost seemed to be offering her daughter her gossiping eyes so evidently tried to attract some magnetic sympathy by manoeuvres worthy of the stage. It was evident that this little review was as good as a play to her and perhaps her single amusement. The daughter rarely looked up. Modesty or a painful consciousness of poverty seemed to keep her eyes riveted to the work-frame; and only some exclamation of surprise from her mother moved her to show her small features. Then a clerk in a new coat or who unexpectedly appeared with a woman on his arm might catch sight of the girl's slightly upturned nose her rosy mouth and gray eyes always bright and lively in spite of her fatiguing toil. Her late hours had left a trace on her face by a pale circle marked under each eye on the fresh rosiness of her cheeks. The poor child looked as if she were made for love and cheerfulness--for love which had drawn two perfect arches above her eyelids and had given her such a mass of chestnut hair that she might have hidden under it as under a tent impenetrable to the lover's eye--for cheerfulness which gave quivering animation to her nostrils which carved two dimples in her rosy cheeks and made her quick to forget her troubles; cheerfulness the blossom of hope which gave her strength to look out without shuddering on the barren path of life. The girl's hair was always carefully dressed. After the manner of Paris needlewomen her toilet seemed to her quite complete when she had brushed her hair smooth and tucked up the little short curls that played on each temple in contrast with the whiteness of her skin. The growth of it on the back of her neck was so pretty and the brown line so clearly traced gave such a pleasing idea of her youth and charm that the observer seeing her bent over her work and unmoved by any sound was inclined to think of her as a coquette. Such inviting promise had excited the interest of more than one young man who turned round in the vain hope of seeing that modest countenance. "Caroline there is a new face that passes regularly by and not one of the old ones to compare with it." These words spoken in a low voice by her mother one August morning in 1815 had vanquished the young needlewoman's indifference and she looked out on the street; but in vain the stranger was gone. "Where has he flown to?" said she. "He will come back no doubt at four; I shall see him coming and will touch your foot with mine. I am sure he will come back; he has been through the street regularly for the last three days; but his hours vary. The first day he came by at six o'clock the day before yesterday it was four yesterday as early as three. I remember seeing him occasionally some time ago. He is some clerk in the Prefet's office who has moved to the Marais.--Why!" she exclaimed after ...