The magistrate himself was not the least picturesque figure in the midst of this assembly.He had on his head a rusty cotton night-cap;as he had no cravat, his neck was visible, red with cold and wrinkled, in contrast with the threadbare collar of his old dressing-gown.His worn face had the half-stupid look that comes of absorbed attention.
His lips, like those of all men who work, were puckered up like a bag with the strings drawn tight.His knitted brows seemed to bear the burden of all the sorrows confided to him: he felt, analyzed, and judged them all.As watchful as a Jew money-lender, he never raised his eyes from his books and registers but to look into the very heart of the persons he was examining, with the flashing glance by which a miser expresses his alarm.
Lavienne, standing behind his master, ready to carry out his orders, served no doubt as a sort of police, and welcomed newcomers by encouraging them to get over their shyness.When the doctor appeared there was a stir on the benches.Lavienne turned his head, and was strangely surprised to see Bianchon.
"Ah! It is you, old boy!" exclaimed Popinot, stretching himself."What brings you so early?""I was afraid lest you should make an official visit about which Iwish to speak to you before I could see you.""Well," said the lawyer, addressing a stout little woman who was still standing close to him, "if you do not tell me what it is you want, Icannot guess it, child."
"Make haste," said Lavienne."Do not waste other people's time.""Monsieur," said the woman at last, turning red, and speaking so low as only to be heard by Popinot and Lavienne, "I have a green-grocery truck, and I have my last baby to nurse, and I owe for his keep.Well, I had hidden my little bit of money----""Yes; and your man took it?" said Popinot, guessing the sequel.
"Yes, sir."
"What is your name?"
"La Pomponne."
"And your husband's?"
"Toupinet."
"Rue du Petit-Banquier?" said Popinot, turning over his register."He is in prison," he added, reading a note at the margin of the section in which this family was described.
"For debt, my kind monsieur."
Popinot shook his head.
"But I have nothing to buy any stock for my truck; the landlord came yesterday and made me pay up; otherwise I should have been turned out."Lavienne bent over his master, and whispered in his ear.
"Well, how much do you want to buy fruit in the market?""Why, my good monsieur, to carry on my business, I should want--Yes, Ishould certainly want ten francs."
Popinot signed to Lavienne, who took ten francs out of a large bag, and handed them to the woman, while the lawyer made a note of the loan in his ledger.As he saw the thrill of delight that made the poor hawker tremble, Bianchon understood the apprehensions that must have agitated her on her way to the lawyer's house.
"You next," said Lavienne to the old man with the white beard.
Bianchon drew the servant aside, and asked him how long this audience would last.
"Monsieur has had two hundred persons this morning, and there are eight to be turned off," said Lavienne."You will have time to pay your early visit, sir.""Here, my boy," said the lawyer, turning round and taking Horace by the arm; "here are two addresses near this--one in the Rue de Seine, and the other in the Rue de l'Arbalete.Go there at once.Rue de Seine, a young girl has just asphyxiated herself; and Rue de l'Arbalete, you will find a man to remove to your hospital.I will wait breakfast for you."Bianchon returned an hour later.The Rue du Fouarre was deserted; day was beginning to dawn there; his uncle had gone up to his rooms; the last poor wretch whose misery the judge had relieved was departing, and Lavienne's money bag was empty.
"Well, how are they going on?" asked the old lawyer, as the doctor came in.
"The man is dead," replied Bianchon; "the girl will get over it."Since the eye and hand of a woman had been lacking, the flat in which Popinot lived had assumed an aspect in harmony with its master's.The indifference of a man who is absorbed in one dominant idea had set its stamp of eccentricity on everything.Everywhere lay unconquerable dust, every object was adapted to a wrong purpose with a pertinacity suggestive of a bachelor's home.There were papers in the flower vases, empty ink-bottles on the tables, plates that had been forgotten, matches used as tapers for a minute when something had to be found, drawers or boxes half-turned out and left unfinished; in short, all the confusion and vacancies resulting from plans for order never carried out.The lawyer's private room, especially disordered by this incessant rummage, bore witness to his unresting pace, the hurry of a man overwhelmed with business, hunted by contradictory necessities.The bookcase looked as if it had been sacked; there were books scattered over everything, some piled up open, one on another, others on the floor face downwards; registers of proceedings laid on the floor in rows, lengthwise, in front of the shelves; and that floor had not been polished for two years.
The tables and shelves were covered with ex votos, the offerings of the grateful poor.On a pair of blue glass jars which ornamented the chimney-shelf there were two glass balls, of which the core was made up of many-colored fragments, giving them the appearance of some singular natural product.Against the wall hung frames of artificial flowers, and decorations in which Popinot's initials were surrounded by hearts and everlasting flowers.Here were boxes of elaborate and useless cabinet work; there letter-weights carved in the style of work done by convicts in penal servitude.These masterpieces of patience, enigmas of gratitude, and withered bouquets gave the lawyer's room the appearance of a toyshop.The good man used these works of art as hiding-places which he filled with bills, worn-out pens, and scraps of paper.All these pathetic witnesses to his divine charity were thick with dust, dingy, and faded.
