Scenes from a Courtesans Life | Page 9

such a witch that she could have magnetized the
Emperor Napoleon; she could magnetize a man more difficult to
influence--you yourself," replied Rastignac, and he turned to go.
"One moment," said the mask; "I will prove to you that you have never
seen me anywhere."
The speaker took his mask off; for a moment Rastignac hesitated,
recognizing nothing of the hideous being he had known formerly at
Madame Vauquer's.
"The devil has enabled you to change in every particular, excepting

your eyes, which it is impossible to forget," said he.
The iron hand gripped his arm to enjoin eternal secrecy.
At three in the morning des Lupeaulx and Finot found the elegant
Rastignac on the same spot, leaning against the column where the
terrible mask had left him. Rastignac had confessed to himself; he had
been at once priest and pentient, culprit and judge. He allowed himself
to be led away to breakfast, and reached home perfectly tipsy, but
taciturn.

The Rue de Langlade and the adjacent streets are a blot on the Palais
Royal and the Rue de Rivoli. This portion of one of the handsomest
quarters of Paris will long retain the stain of foulness left by the
hillocks formed of the middens of old Paris, on which mills formerly
stood. These narrow streets, dark and muddy, where such industries are
carried on as care little for appearances wear at night an aspect of
mystery full of contrasts. On coming from the well-lighted regions of
the Rue Saint-Honore, the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, and the Rue
de Richelieu, where the crowd is constantly pushing, where glitter the
masterpieces of industry, fashion, and art, every man to whom Paris by
night is unknown would feel a sense of dread and melancholy, on
finding himself in the labyrinth of little streets which lie round that
blaze of light reflected even from the sky. Dense blackness is here,
instead of floods of gaslight; a dim oil-lamp here and there sheds its
doubtful and smoky gleam, and many blind alleys are not lighted at all.
Foot passengers are few, and walk fast. The shops are shut, the few that
are open are of a squalid kind; a dirty, unlighted wineshop, or a seller
of underclothing and eau-de-Cologne. An unwholesome chill lays a
clammy cloak over your shoulders. Few carriages drive past. There are
sinister places here, especially the Rue de Langlade, the entrance to the
Passage Saint-Guillaume, and the turnings of some streets.
The municipal council has not yet been to purge this vast lazar-place,
for prostitution long since made it its headquarters. It is, perhaps, a
good thing for Paris that these alleys should be allowed to preserve

their filthy aspect. Passing through them by day, it is impossible to
imagine what they become by night; they are pervaded by strange
creatures of no known world; white, half-naked forms cling to the
walls--the darkness is alive. Between the passenger and the wall a dress
steals by--a dress that moves and speaks. Half-open doors suddenly
shout with laughter. Words fall on the ear such as Rabelais speaks of as
frozen and melting. Snatches of songs come up from the pavement. The
noise is not vague; it means something. When it is hoarse it is a voice;
but if it suggests a song, there is nothing human about it, it is more like
a croak. Often you hear a sharp whistle, and then the tap of boot-heels
has a peculiarly aggressive and mocking ring. This medley of things
makes you giddy. Atmospheric conditions are reversed there--it is
warm in winter and cool in summer.
Still, whatever the weather, this strange world always wears the same
aspect; it is the fantastic world of Hoffmann of Berlin. The most
mathematical of clerks never thinks of it as real, after returning through
the straits that lead into decent streets, where there are passengers,
shops, and taverns. Modern administration, or modern policy, more
scornful or more shamefaced than the queens and kings of past ages, no
longer dare look boldly in the face of this plague of our capitals.
Measures, of course, must change with the times, and such as bear on
individuals and on their liberty are a ticklish matter; still, we ought,
perhaps, to show some breadth and boldness as to merely material
measures--air, light, and construction. The moralist, the artist, and the
sage administrator alike must regret the old wooden galleries of the
Palais Royal, where the lambs were to be seen who will always be
found where there are loungers; and is it not best that the loungers
should go where they are to be found? What is the consequence? The
gayest parts of the Boulevards, that delightfulest of promenades, are
impossible in the evening for a family party. The police has failed to
take advantage