Every city has its peculiar institutions created out of its own needs;and one of the most notable institutions of Paris is its rag-pickingpopulation. In the early morning--and Parisian life commences at anearly hour--may be seen in most streets standing on the pathwayopposite every court and alley and between every few houses, as stillin some American cities, even in parts of New York, large wooden boxesinto which the domestics or tenement-holders empty the accumulateddust of the past day. Round these boxes gather and pass on, when thework is done, to fresh fields of labour and pastures new, squalidhungry-looking men and women, the implements of whose craft consistof a coarse bag or basket slung over the shoulder and a little rakewith which they turn over and probe and examine in the minutest mannerthe dustbins. They pick up and deposit in their baskets, by aid oftheir rakes, whatever they may find, with the same facility as aChinaman uses his chopsticks.
Paris is a city of centralisation--and centralisation andclassification are closely allied. In the early times, whencentralisation is becoming a fact, its forerunner is classification.All things which are similar or analogous become grouped together, andfrom the grouping of groups rises one whole or central point. We seeradiating many long arms with innumerable tentaculae, and in thecentre rises a gigantic head with a comprehensive brain and keen eyesto look on every side and ears sensitive to hear--and a voraciousmouth to swallow.
Other cities resemble all the birds and beasts and fishes whoseappetites and digestions are normal. Paris alone is the analogicalapotheosis of the octopus. Product of centralisation carried to an _adabsurdum_, it fairly represents the devil fish; and in no respects isthe resemblance more curious than in the similarity of the digestiveapparatus.
Those intelligent tourists who, having surrendered their individualityinto the hands of Messrs. Cook or Gaze, 'do' Paris in three days, areoften puzzled to know how it is that the dinner which in London wouldcost about six shillings, can be had for three francs in a cafe in thePalais Royal. They need have no more wonder if they will but considerthe classification which is a theoretic speciality of Parisian life,and adopt all round the fact from which the chiffonier has hisgenesis.
The Paris of 1850 was not like the Paris of to-day, and those who seethe Paris of Napoleon and Baron Hausseman can hardly realise theexistence of the state of things forty-five years ago.
Amongst other things, however, which have not changed are thosedistricts where the waste is gathered. Dust is dust all the worldover, in every age, and the family likeness of dust-heaps is perfect.The traveller, therefore, who visits the environs of Montrouge can gogo back in fancy without difficulty to the year 1850.
In this year I was making a prolonged stay in Paris. I was very muchin love with a young lady who, though she returned my passion, so faryielded to the wishes of her parents that she had promised not to seeme or to correspond with me for a year. I, too, had been compelled toaccede to these conditions under a vague hope of parental approval.During the term of probation I had promised to remain out of thecountry and not to write to my dear one until the expiration of theyear.
Naturally the time went heavily with me. There was not one of my ownfamily or circle who could tell me of Alice, and none of her own folkhad, I am sorry to say, sufficient generosity to send me even anoccasional word of comfort regarding her health and well-being. Ispent six months wandering about Europe, but as I could find nosatisfactory distraction in travel, I determined to come to Paris,where, at least, I would be within easy hail of London in case anygood fortune should call me thither before the appointed time. That'hope deferred maketh the heart sick' was never better exemplifiedthan in my case, for in addition to the perpetual longing to see theface I loved there was always with me a harrowing anxiety lest someaccident should prevent me showing Alice in due time that I had,throughout the long period of probation, been faithful to her trustand my own love. Thus, every adventure which I undertook had a fiercepleasure of its own, for it was fraught with possible consequencesgreater than it would have ordinarily borne.
Like all travellers I exhausted the places of most interest in thefirst month of my stay, and was driven in the second month to look foramusement whithersoever I might. Having made sundry journeys to thebetter-known suburbs, I began to see that there was a _terraincognita_, in so far as the guide book was concerned, in the socialwilderness lying between these attractive points. Accordingly I beganto systematise my researches, and each day took up the thread of myexploration at the place where I had on the previous day dropped it.
In the process of time my wanderings led me near Montrouge, and I sawthat hereabouts lay the Ultima Thule of social exploration--a countryas little known as that round the source of the White Nile. And so Idetermined to investigate philosophically the chiffonier--his habitat,his life, and his means of life.
The job was an unsavoury one, difficult of accomplishment, and withlittle hope of adequate reward. However, despite reason, obstinacyprevailed, and I entered into my new investigation with a keenerenergy than I could have summoned to aid me in any investigationleading to any end, valuable or worthy.
One day, late in a fine afternoon, toward the end of September, Ientered the holy of holies of the city of dust. The place wasevidently the recognised abode of a number of chiffoniers, for somesort of arrangement was manifested in the formation of the dust heapsnear the road. I passed amongst these heaps, which stood like orderlysentries, determined to penetrate further and trace dust to itsultimate location.
As I passed along I saw behind the dust heaps a few forms that flittedto and fro, evidently watching with interest the advent of anystranger to such a place. The district was like a small Switzerland,and as I went forward my tortuous course shut out the path behind me.
Presently I got into what seemed a small city or community ofchiffoniers. There were a number of shanties or huts, such as may bemet with in the remote parts of the Bog of Allan--rude places withwattled walls, plastered with mud and roofs of rude thatch made fromstable refuse--such places as one would not like to enter for anyconsideration, and which even in water-colour could only lookpicturesque if judiciously treated. In the midst of these huts was oneof the strangest adaptations--I cannot say habitations--I had everseen. An immense old wardrobe, the colossal remnant of some boudoir ofCharles VII, or Henry II, had been converted into a dwelling-house.The double doors lay open, so that the entire menage was open topublic view. In the open half of the wardrobe was a commonsitting-room of some four feet by six, in which sat, smoking theirpipes round a charcoal brazier, no fewer than six old soldiers of theFirst Republic, with their uniforms torn and worn threadbare.Evidently they were of the _mauvais sujet_ class; their bleary eyesand limp jaws told plainly of a common love of absinthe; and theireyes had that haggard, worn look of slumbering ferocity which followshard in the wake of drink. The other side stood as of old, with itsshelves intact, save that they were cut to half their depth, and ineach shelf of which there were six, was a bed made with rags andstraw. The half-dozen of worthies who inhabited this structure lookedat me curiously as I passed; and when I looked back after going alittle way I saw their heads together in a whispered conference. I didnot like the look of this at all, for the place was very lonely, andthe men looked very, very villainous. However, I did not see any causefor fear, and went on my way, penetrating further and further into theSahara. The way was tortuous to a degree
, and from going round in aseries of semi-circles, as one goes in skating with the Dutch roll, Igot rather confused with regard to the points of the compass.
When I had penetrated a little way I saw, as I turned the corner of ahalf-made heap, sitting on a heap of straw an old soldier withthreadbare coat.
'Hallo!' said I to myself; 'the First Republic is well representedhere in its soldiery.'
As I passed him the old man never even looked up at me, but gazed onthe ground with stolid persistency. Again I remarked to myself: 'Seewhat a life of rude warfare can do! This old man's curiosity is athing of the past.'
When I had gone a few steps, however, I looked back suddenly, and sawthat curiosity was not dead, for the veteran had raised his head andwas regarding me with a very queer expression. He seemed to me to lookvery like one of the six worthies in the press. When he saw me lookinghe dropped his head; and without thinking further of him I went on myway, satisfied that there was a strange likeness between these oldwarriors.
Presently I met another old soldier in a similar manner. He, too, didnot notice me whilst I was passing.
By this time it was getting late in the afternoon, and I began tothink of retracing my steps. Accordingly I turned to go back, butcould see a number of tracks leading between different mounds andcould not ascertain which of them I should take. In my perplexity Iwanted to see someone of whom to ask the way, but could see no one. Idetermined to go on a few mounds further and so try to seesomeone--not a veteran.
I gained my object, for after going a couple of hundred yards I sawbefore me a single shanty such as I had seen before--with, however,the difference that this was not one for living in, but merely a roofwith three walls open in front. From the evidences which theneighbourhood exhibited I took it to be a place for sorting. Within itwas an old woman wrinkled and bent with age; I approached her to askthe way.
She rose as I came close and I asked her my way. She immediatelycommenced a conversation; and it occurred to me that here in the verycentre of the Kingdom of Dust was the place to gather details of thehistory of Parisian rag-picking--particularly as I could do so fromthe lips of one who looked like the oldest inhabitant.
I began my inquiries, and the old woman gave me most interestinganswers--she had been one of the ceteuces who sat daily before theguillotine and had taken an active part among the women who signalisedthemselves by their violence in the revolution. While we were talkingshe said suddenly: 'But m'sieur must be tired standing,' and dusted arickety old stool for me to sit down. I hardly liked to do so for manyreasons; but the poor old woman was so civil that I did not like torun the risk of hurting her by refusing, and moreover the conversationof one who had been at the taking of the Bastille was so interestingthat I sat down and so our conversation went on.
While we were talking an old man--older and more bent and wrinkledeven than the woman--appeared from behind the shanty. 'Here isPierre,' said she. 'M'sieur can hear stories now if he wishes, forPierre was in everything, from the Bastille to Waterloo.' The old mantook another stool at my request and we plunged into a sea ofrevolutionary reminiscences. This old man, albeit clothed like ascarecrow, was like any one of the six veterans.
I was now sitting in the centre of the low hut with the woman on myleft hand and the man on my right, each of them being somewhat infront of me. The place was full of all sorts of curious objects oflumber, and of many things that I wished far away. In one corner was aheap of rags which seemed to move from the number of vermin itcontained, and in the other a heap of bones whose odour was somethingshocking. Every now and then, glancing at the heaps, I could see thegleaming eyes of some of the rats which infested the place. Theseloathsome objects were bad enough, but what looked even more dreadfulwas an old butcher's axe with an iron handle stained with clots ofblood leaning up against the wall on the right hand side. Still, thesethings did not give me much concern. The talk of the two old peoplewas so fascinating that I stayed on and on, till the evening came andthe dust heaps threw dark shadows over the vales between them.
After a time I began to grow uneasy. I could not tell how or why, butsomehow I did not feel satisfied. Uneasiness is an instinct and meanswarning. The psychic faculties are often the sentries of theintellect, and when they sound alarm the reason begins to act,although perhaps not consciously.
This was so with me. I began to bethink me where I was and by whatsurrounded, and to wonder how I should fare in case I should beattacked; and then the thought suddenly burst upon me, althoughwithout any overt cause, that I was in danger. Prudence whispered: 'Bestill and make no sign,' and so I was still and made no sign, for Iknew that four cunning eyes were on me. 'Four eyes--if not more.' MyGod, what a horrible thought! The whole shanty might be surrounded onthree sides with villains! I might be in the midst of a band of suchdesperadoes as only half a century of periodic revolution can produce.
With a sense of danger my intellect and observation quickened, and Igrew more watchful than was my wont. I noticed that the old woman'seyes were constantly wandering towards my hands. I looked at them too,and saw the cause--my rings. On my left little finger I had a largesignet and on the right a good diamond.
I thought that if there was any danger my first care was to avertsuspicion. Accordingly I began to work the conversation round torag-picking--to the drains--of the things found there; and so by easystages to jewels. Then, seizing a favourable opportunity, I asked theold woman if she knew anything of such things. She answered that shedid, a little. I held out my right hand, and, showing her the diamond,asked her what she thought of that. She answered that her eyes werebad, and stooped over my hand. I said as nonchalantly as I could:'Pardon me! You will see better thus!' and taking it off handed it toher. An unholy light came into her withered old face, as she touchedit. She stole one glance at me swift and keen as a flash of lightning.