Gaboriau, Angielskie [EN](1)
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CAUGHT IN THE NETby EMILE GABORIAUCHAPTER I.PUTTING ON THE SCREW.The cold on the 8th of February, 186-, was more intense than theParisians had experienced during the whole of the severe winter whichhad preceded it, for at twelve o'clock on that day Chevalier'sthermometer, so well known by the denizens of Paris, registered threedegrees below zero. The sky was overcast and full of threatening signsof snow, while the moisture on the pavement and roads had frozen hard,rendering traffic of all kinds exceedingly hazardous. The whole greatcity wore an air of dreariness and desolation, for even when a thincrust of ice covers the waters of the Seine, the mind involuntarilyturns to those who have neither food, shelter, nor fuel.This bitterly cold day actually made the landlady of the Hotel dePerou, though she was a hard, grasping woman of Auvergne, gave athought to the condition of her lodgers, and one quite different fromher usual idea of obtaining the maximum of rent for the minimum ofaccommodation."The cold," remarked she to her husband, who was busily engaged inreplenishing the stove with fuel, "is enough to frighten the wits outof a Polar bear. In this kind of weather I always feel very anxious,for it was during a winter like this that one of our lodgers hunghimself, a trick which cost us fifty francs, in good, honest money,besides giving us a bad name in the neighborhood. The fact is, onenever knows what lodgers are capable of doing. You should go up to thetop floor, and see how they are getting on there.""Pooh, pooh!" replied her husband, M. Loupins; "they will do wellenough.""Is that really your opinion?""I know that I am right. Daddy Tantaine went out as soon as it waslight, and a short time afterward Paul Violaine came down. There is noone upstairs now but little Rose, and I expect that she has been wiseenough to stick to her bed.""Ah!" answered the landlady rather spitefully. "I have made up my mindregarding that young lady some time ago; she is a sight too pretty forthis house, and so I tell you."The Hotel de Perou stands in the Rue de la Hachette, not twenty stepsfrom the Place de Petit Pont; and no more cruelly sarcastic title couldever have been conferred on a building. The extreme shabbiness of theexterior of the house, the narrow, muddy street in which it stood, thedingy windows covered with mud, and repaired with every variety ofpatch,--all seemed to cry out to the passers by: "This is the chosenabode of misery and destitution."The observer might have fancied it a robbers' den, but he would havebeen wrong; for the inhabitants were fairly honest. The Hotel de Perouwas one of those refuges, growing scarcer and more scarce every day,where unhappy men and women, who had been worsted in the battle oflife, could find a shelter in return for the change remaining from thelast five-franc piece. They treat it as the shipwrecked mariner usesthe rock upon which he climbs from the whirl of the angry waters, andbreathes a deep sigh of relief as he collects his forces for a fresheffort. However wretched existence may be, a protracted sojourn in sucha shelter as the Hotel de Perou would be out of the question. Thechambers in every floor of the house are divided into small slips bypartitions, covered with canvas and paper, and pleasantly termed roomsby M. Loupins. The partitions were in a terrible condition, rickety andunstable, and the paper with which they were covered torn and hangingdown in tatters; but the state of the attics was even more deplorable,the ceilings of which were so low that the occupants had to stoopcontinually, while the dormer windows admitted but a small amount oflight. A bedstead, with a straw mattress, a rickety table, and twobroken chairs, formed the sole furniture of these rooms. Miserable asthese dormitories were, the landlady asked and obtained twenty-twofrancs for them by the month, as there was a fireplace in each, whichshe always pointed out to intending tenants.The young woman whom M. Loupins alluded to by the name of Rose wasseated in one of these dreary dens on this bitter winter's day. Rosewas an exquisitely beautiful girl about eighteen years of age. She wasvery fair; her long lashes partially concealed a pair of steely blueeyes, and to a certain extent relieved their hard expression. Her ripe,red lips, which seemed formed for love and kisses, permitted a glimpseof a row of pearly teeth. Her bright waving hair grew low down upon herforehead, and such of it as had escaped from the bondage of a cheapcomb, with which it was fastened, hung in wild luxuriance over herexquisitely shaped neck and shoulders. She had thrown over her raggedprint gown the patched coverlet of the bed, and, crouched upon thetattered hearthrug before the hearth, upon which a few stickssmouldered, giving out hardly a particle of heat, she was telling herfortune with a dirty pack of cards, endeavoring to console herself forthe privations of the day by the promise of future prosperity. She hadspread those arbiters of her destiny in a half circle before her, anddivided them into threes, each of which had a peculiar meaning, and herbreast rose and fell as she turned them up and read upon their facesgood fortune or ill-luck. Absorbed in this task, she paid but littleattention to the icy chilliness of the atmosphere, which made herfingers stiff, and dyed her white hands purple."One, two, three," she murmured in a low voice. "A fair man, that'ssure to be Paul. One, two, three, money to the house. One, two, three,troubles and vexations. One, two, three, the nine of spades; ah, dear!more hardships and misery,--always that wretched card turning up withits sad story!"Rose seemed utterly downcast at the sight of the little piece ofpainted cardboard, as though she had received certain intelligence of acoming misfortune. She soon, however, recovered herself, and was againshuffling the pack,--cut it, taking care to do so with her left hand,spread them out before her, and again commenced counting: one, two,three. This time the cards appeared to be more propitious, and held outpromises of success for the future."I am loved," read she, as she gazed anxiously upon them,--"very muchloved! Here is rejoicing, and a letter from a dark man! See, here heis,--the knave of clubs. Always the same," she continued; "I cannotstrive against fate."Then, rising to her feet, she drew from a crack in the wall, whichformed a safe hiding-place for her secrets, a soiled and crumpledletter, and, unfolding it, she read for perhaps the hundredth timethese words:--"MADEMOISELLE,--"To see you is to love you. I give you my word of honor that thisis true. The wretched hovel where your charms are hidden is no fitabode for you. A home, worthy in every way to receive you, is atyour service--Rue de Douai. It has been taken in your name, as Iam straightforward in these matters. Think of my proposal, andmake what inquiries you like concerning me. I have not yetattained my majority, but shall do so in five months and threedays, when I shall inherit my mother's fortune. My father iswealthy, but old and infirm. From four to six in the afternoon ofthe next few days I will be in a carriage at the corner of thePlace de Petit Pont."GASTON DE GANDELU."The cynical insolence of the letter, together with its entire want ofform, was a perfect example of the style affected by those loiterersabout town, known to the Parisians as "mashers;" and yet Rose did notappear at all disgusted by the reception of such an unworthily wordedproposal, but, on the contrary, rather pleased by its contents. "If Ionly dared," mused she, with a sigh,--"ah, if I only dared!" For a timeshe sat deeply immersed in thought, with her face buried in her hands,until she was aroused from her meditations by the sound of an activeand youthful step upon the creaking stairs. "He has come back," shegasped; and with the agile movement of a cat she again concealed theletter in its hiding-place, and she had scarcely done so, when PaulViolaine entered the miserable room. He was a young man of twenty-three, of slender figure, but admirably proportioned. His face was aperfect oval, and his complexion of just that slight olive tint whichbetrays the native of the south of France. A slight, silky moustacheconcealed his upper lip, and gave his features that air of manliness inwhich they would have otherwise been deficient. His curly chestnut hairfell gracefully over a brow upon which an expression of pride wasvisible, and enhanced the peculiar, restless glance of his large darkeyes. His physical beauty, which was fully equal to that of Rose, wasincreased by an aristocratic air, popularly believed to be only foundin the scions of noble families. The landlady, in her moments of goodhumor, used to assert her belief that her lodger was a disguisedprince; but if this were the case, he was certainly one that had beenovertaken by poverty. His dress, to which the closest attention hadbeen paid, revealed the state of destitution in which he was,--not thedestitution which openly asks for alms, but the hidden poverty whichshuns communication and blushes at a single glance of pity. In thisalmost Arctic winter he wore clothes rendered thin by the constantfriction of the clothes brush, over which was a light overcoat about asthick as the web of a spider. His shoes were well blacked, but theircondition told the piteous tale of long walks in search of employment,or of that good luck which seems to evade its pursuer.Paul was holding a roll of manuscript in his hand, and as he enteredthe room he threw it on the bed with a despairing gesture. "A fail...
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