The Exiles | Page 3

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Etext prepared by Dagny, [email protected] and John Bickers,
[email protected]

The Exiles
by Honore de Balzac
Translated by Clara Bell and James Waring

ALMAE SORORI

In the year 1308 few houses were yet standing on the Island formed by
the alluvium and sand deposited by the Seine above the Cite, behind
the Church of Notre-Dame. The first man who was so bold as to build
on this strand, then liable to frequent floods, was a constable of the
watch of the City of Paris, who had been able to do some service to
their Reverences the

Chapter of
the Cathedral; and in return the Bishop leased him twenty-five perches
of land, with exemptions from all feudal dues or taxes on the buildings
he might erect.
Seven years before the beginning of this narrative, Joseph Tirechair,
one of the sternest of Paris constables, as his name (Tear Flesh) would
indicate, had, thanks to his share of the fines collected by him for
delinquencies committed within the precincts of the Cite, had been able
to build a house on the bank of the Seine just at the end of the Rue du
Port-Saint-Landry. To protect the merchandise landed on the strand, the
municipality had constructed a sort of break-water of masonry, which
may still be seen on some old plans of Paris, and which preserved the

piles of the landing-place by meeting the rush of water and ice at the
upper end of the Island. The constable had taken advantage of this for
the foundation of his house, so that there were several steps up to his
door.
Like all the houses of that date, this cottage was crowned by a peaked
roof, forming a gable-end to the front, or half a diamond. To the great
regret of historians, but two or three examples of such roofs survive in
Paris. A round opening gave light to a loft, where the constable's wife
dried the linen of the Chapter, for she had the honor of washing for the
Cathedral--which was certainly not a bad customer. On the first floor
were two rooms, let to lodgers at a rent, one year with another, of forty
sous /Parisis/ each, an exorbitant sum, that was however justified by the
luxury Tirechair had lavished on their adornment. Flanders tapestry
hung on the walls, and a large bed with a top valance of green serge,
like a peasant's bed, was amply furnished with mattresses, and covered
with good sheets of fine linen. Each room had a stove called a
/chauffe-doux/; the floor, carefully polished by Dame Tirechair's
apprentices, shone like the woodwork of a shrine. Instead of stools, the
lodgers had deep chairs of carved walnut, the spoils probably of some
raided castle. Two chests with pewter mouldings, and tables on twisted
legs, completed the fittings, worthy of the most fastidious
knights-banneret whom business might bring to Paris.
The windows of those two rooms looked out on