"Ah, some excellent people! But they died of the cholera;" here Rigolette's large eyes became moistened. "They had sold the little they possessed to pay their small debts, and I remained without having any one who would take care of me. Not knowing what to do, I went to the guard-house, opposite to our house, and said to the sentinel: 'Sir, my relations are dead, and I do not know where to go to; what must I do?' Then the officer came, and he took me to the commissary, who put me in prison as a vagabond, and I did not go out until I was sixteen years old."
"But your relations?"
"I do not know who my father was, and I was six years old when I lost my mother, who had recovered me from the Enfants Trouvés (Foundling Hospital), where she had been compelled at first to place me. The kind people of whom I spoke to you lived in our house; they had no children, and, seeing me an orphan, they took care of me."
"And what were they? What was their business or pursuit?"
"Papa Crétu, so I always called him, was a house-painter, and his wife worked at her needle."
"Then they were pretty well off?"
"Oh, like other people in their station, though they were not married; but they called each other husband and wife. They had their ups and downs; to-day plenty, if there was work to be had; to-morrow short commons, if there was none; but that did not prevent the couple from being content and always cheerful;" at this remembrance Rigolette's face brightened up. "There was not such a household in the quarter,—always merry, always singing, and, with it all, as good as they could be. What they had any one was welcome to share. Mamma Crétu was a plump body, about thirty years old, as neat as a penny, as active as an eel, as merry as a lark. Her husband was a regular good-tempered fellow, with a large nose, a wide mouth, and always a paper cap on his head, and such a funny face,—oh, so funny,—you could not look at him without laughing. When he came home after work, he did nothing but sing, and make faces, and gambol like a child. He used to dance me on his knees, and play with me like a child of my own age; and his wife spoiled me, as if I had been a blessing to her. They both required only one thing from me, and that was to be in a good humour; and in that I never thwarted them, thank Heaven. So they called me Rigolette,[7] and the name has stuck to me. As to mirth, they set me the example, for I never saw them sorrowful. If ever there was a word, it was the wife who said to her husband, 'Crétu, you silly fellow, do be quiet, you make me laugh too much.' Then he said to her, 'Hold your foolish tongue, Ramonette,'—I don't know why he called her Ramonette,—'do be still, you really make my sides ache, you are so funny.' And then I laughed to see them laugh, and in this way I was brought up, and in this way they formed my disposition; and I hope I have profited by it."
[7] The French verb rigoler is "to be merry."—E. T.
"Most assuredly you have, neighbour. So there never were any disputes between them?"
"Never, oh, never! Sunday, Monday, and sometimes on Tuesday, they made holiday, or kept wedding-day, as they called it, and always took me with them. Papa Crétu was an excellent workman, and, when he chose to work, he could earn what he pleased, and so could his wife, too. If they had got enough to do for Sunday and Monday, and live on pretty comfortably, they were perfectly satisfied. If, after this, they were on short allowance for a time, they didn't mind it. I remember, when we had only bread and water, Papa Crétu took from his library—"