LIX.
THE PARISIAN RAG-PICKERS.
THEIR NUMBER AND EQUIPMENT.—THEIR KEEN-SIGHTEDNESS AND SKILL.—THE PLEASURE OF THE BOTTLE.—SEEKING COMFORT UNDER DIFFICULTIES.—UNWHOLESOME MAGAZINES.—WHERE AND HOW THE CHIFFONNIERS LIVE.—DISMAL AND NOISOME ABODES.—A SOUP LOTTERY.—QUAINT SCENES IN CHEAP BOOK-SHOPS.—TASTING ROAST CAT AND STEWED PUPPY.—ROMANCE IN DIRT-HEAPS.—A HIDEOUS HAG ONCE A FAMOUS BEAUTY.—PENITENCE AND REFORMATION THROUGH FIRE.
Everybody who has been in Paris—and who has not?—remembers the rag-pickers, or chiffonniers, as they are styled, who frequent the streets after nightfall, searching the city through for the means of subsistence. One sees them so much, and in every quarter of the French capital, that he imagines there must be several thousand of them. The entire number, however, does not exceed six hundred, one half of whom are women and children. Though rag-pickers in name, they are something more in fact, since they gather up every article of the most trifling value—old corks, fragments of bone or glass, coal or wood, scraps of paper, ends of cigars, and all sorts of rubbish that can be sold for the fraction of a sou.
Everything is organized and licensed in Paris, the chiffonniers not excepted. After once entering on their calling, they usually remain in it for life. Many of them begin as children in their ninth or tenth year, and continue, while their limbs will bear them about, and their eyesight is good enough to detect the objects of their quest. They are usually so soiled and begrimed that it is hard to distinguish the young from the old, unless they be small children, and even these have the look of premature age.
ROUTES OF CHIFFONNIERS.
They set out on their rounds between nine and ten o’clock in the evening, with a large willow basket strapped to their back, carrying in one hand a stick about a yard long, terminating in a hook, and in the other hand a lantern fastened to a piece of wire, so that they can swing it over the ground, and discover if there be anything they want. They pay particular attention to the little heaps of rubbish, made by the citizens before their doors, from the miscellaneous refuse of the household. After these have been raked by the rag-pickers, they are carried away by the scavengers’ carts. The pickers-up of unconsidered trifles never waste any time or space. They understand the exact distance from one point to another, always moving in straight lines, and taking in everything at a glance. Their vision is like that of hawks. They very rarely miss anything, or confound one object with another. They know bone from wood, and coal from glass, though it be half buried in the mire, and transfer every desirable fragment to their basket by means of their hooks with unerring accuracy, and by a single curve movement. It is astonishing how quickly and thoroughly they can hunt through one of the little dirt-piles. After quitting it, it is as valueless as the notes of a western wildcat bank, or a second-hand tombstone.
They never encroach upon each other’s domain, for they have their particular districts marked out, and generally visit them unaccompanied, darting about in silence, without the least indirectness, dawdling, or delay. They are certainly among the most industrious and indefatigable of laborers, if not the tidiest and most fastidious. They go forth in all sorts of weather, night after night, month after month, and year after year; patient, plodding, never discouraged while there is the slightest chance of finding a bit of leather or scrap of paper in the entire capital. So dexterous are they by long practice in the use of their hook, that they very seldom employ their fingers.
The night-wandering gypsies have the highest expectations from the gutters, where they are often delighted by securinga prize that yields them a whole centime,—one fifth of a cent,—and when they discover what will sell for a sou, they deem themselves blessed. There, cigar stumps, remnants of shoes, and broken bottles, are sometimes found, and are enough to cheer the heart of the rag-picker for weeks after fortune has ceased to smile upon his nocturnal gleaning. At long intervals a whole bottle dawns upon his vision, and he is as much rejoiced as an American would be if he should stumble upon a treasure of gold buried in his cellar.
DELIGHTED WITH A BOTTLE.
The pleasures of the bottle have a new interpretation with the chiffonniers of Paris. The phrase has a literal, not a figurative meaning with them, and I have heard them speak of finding half a dozen bottles in one week, as Ponce de Leon might have spoken of discovering the fountain of eternal youth.
I remember to have bound one of the guild to me in eternal gratitude by presenting him with a few empty wine bottles, as he passed my lodgings one stormy night. He regarded me as a gentleman of munificent income; he went away, I am persuaded, with a semi-conviction that I owned the Bank of France.
One would hardly think that the poor devils of the hook and basket would attempt to have any comfort in this life. But they do; for they are French, and must have dissipation and distraction, however humble and homely it be. After midnight, they visit the cheap wine-shops, where they can purchase as much wine as they want for two or three sous. They smoke their pipes there, and have very pleasant chats, manifesting a gayety in their rags and dirt that only a Gaul can feel. They even get mildly tipsy sometimes, but usually start off with their baskets before daylight, make another round, and then sell their collection to the rag and refuse merchants who are their regular customers. The contents of their baskets, holding some two bushels, will bring from twenty cents to one dollar in our money, the average rate being from forty to fifty cents.
The merchants have large magazines in the quartersfrequented by the chiffonniers, and employ scores of men and women to assort and arrange their unwholesome purchases. The air of the magazines is vitiated and poisoned by the exhalations from mouldy leather, greasy rags, filthy bones, and repulsive rubbish generally. How those whose duty it is to attend to this obnoxious business escape contagion is by no means clear. It may be they are so defiled and encrusted with dirt themselves, that they cannot receive any harm from what they handle, though if they were neat in habit, or if their pores were open, they could not fail to be made sick unto death by breathing such tainted air. They are advanced in years, or infirm in body, having belonged, most of them, to the rag-picking profession when they were younger, and in sounder health. They prefer the more active, open-air duties, but are forced by circumstances and their condition into this lower grade of offensive industry. For twelve hours of labor a day, they are paid about thirty cents, and on this, in some unaccountable way, they contrive to keep their wretched bodies and souls together.
HOMES OF THE RAG-PICKERS.
I ceased to wonder how the rag-pickers lived when I discovered where and under what surroundings they lived. Live indeed? Theirs is a satire upon life. It does not deserve the name of subsistence, or even vegetation, for subsistence and vegetation are at least natural and salutary. Few strangers in Paris ever see such miserable quarters as are the damp, dreary, and ill-ventilated cellars of the Quartier Mouffetard, in the neighborhood of the old Barrière des Deux Moulins, in which the chiffonniers reside. In those narrow and dismal streets, reminding me of the streets in the old Spanish towns, the sunshine is shut out, and the fresh breeze of heaven is unknown. In those vile dens, the unfortunate toilers herd together, frequently sleeping ten or twelve in a small apartment, regardless of age or sex, paying three or four sous a night for their detestable lodgings. Some of the aged and less impoverished couples pretend to keep house; but it is after so sorry a fashion that their homes would be unwelcome to a respectable beast.
The majority of the rag-pickers sleep where they can, and take their meals in the dismal cook-shops, eating whatever is given them, and asking no questions. Worthless dogs that have come to tragic ends are there served up for beef, and cats, whose nocturnal serenade has been suddenly brought to a close by the hurling of an unappreciative brick, are placed upon a rude table and labelled as mutton. Customers who work hard, and earn but three or four dollars a week, are not fastidious. Whatever satisfies the cravings of hunger is pronounced good, and where very little is charged, very little must be expected.
I busied myself one day in investigating the quarters of the chiffonniers, because I always feel an interest in the human family in its least favorable conditions; but what I saw did not induce me to repeat the experiment.
HASARD DE LA FOURCHETTE.
One of the cook-shops that I entered had a very remarkable way of feeding its patrons, combining the excitement of chance with practical advantage. The proprietor of the place purchases from the restaurants such scraps and fragments as are left upon the tables and in the kitchen, puts them in a large pot full of water, and submits them to a long boiling. The result, quite a savory soup, is placed on a table, and anybody, by paying two sous, has the privilege of thrusting a long iron fork into the kettle, and of eating whatever he can bring up from the bottom. Sometimes the handler of the fork is rewarded with a very tolerable piece of beef, mutton, chicken, goose-liver, or some genuine delicacy that may have been ordered at a fashionable restaurant in the Boulevards. Even if the fork come up without the hoped-for prize, the adventurer is entitled to a plate of the soup, relished none the less because the eater has had the boldness to risk his sous for something more substantial. This culinary game is called the fortune of the fork (hasard de la fourchette), and is much enjoyed by the chiffonniers. I felt a curious interest in it myself, though I lacked the relish of hunger, and consequently the personal sympathy properly belonging to the entertainment.
The rag-pickers gathered about the table on which the large kettle stood, watching with eager eyes the fellow who handled the fork, and made a dash for the invisible morsel he so craved. When he brought up nothing, he showed no disappointment, but laughed with the throng; and when he was lucky enough to lift upon the tines what is called in Paris abonne bouche, they applauded him with hands and voice, as if he had obtained a grand victory. The rude and dingy cook-shop, with the soiled and tattered rag-pickers in the centre, and the burly proprietor in the background, made a picture which Doré would have been pleased to draw.
WINNING A WAGER.
The soup had an appetizing odor, and I could not doubt that what appealed so much to one sense must be grateful to another. I told my companion, a young New Yorker, that I thought of tasting it; whereupon he offered to bet me the price of a dinner at the Café Anglais that I durst not obey my thought. I called at once for a plate of thepotage, and really found it excellent, twenty times better than much that I have eaten in first-class hotels at home. The effort of my friend to thwart my humor by talking to me of broiled horse, roast cat, boiled parrot, and stewed puppy, had no effect. I finished the soup with satisfaction, and at the dinner which I had won expressed my regret that the Julienne we had there was not so good as the mysterious mixture in the Quartier Mouffetard.
HONESTY OF CHIFFONNIERS.
The chiffonniers are reputed to be extremely honest. As evidence of this, they are very seldom arrested for any violation of law, and, according to the French code, the finder of any article of value is considered guilty of larceny unless he makes some effort to restore the property. In a great and luxurious city like Paris, many such articles must necessarily be lost, and they are very likely to fall into the possession of the rag-pickers. The representatives of this order are constantly discovering objects which they must feel a strong temptation to keep. Still, they do not yield to the temptation, but deposit what they find with the commissioner of police, who gives a receipt, and takes the name and address of the finder. The thing found is carried to the Prefecture,where it is held, with many other articles, for twelve months; and if, during that time, no one claims it, it is returned to the finder on the presentation of the receipt. In no other city can you feel half so certain of regaining what you have mislaid, or left, or dropped in some public place. I have known of watches and pocket-books (with something in them, too) restored, time and again. I have even recovered lost umbrellas, without the least trouble, and have been handed small pieces of money which I had left upon the tables of restaurants, several days after I had dined there.
Every week a list of articles found and deposited at the Prefecture of Police is published in the official journal, some of which, one would imagine, could not be very readily lost. Among the articles the most frequent are bank notes, porte-monnaies, watches, jewelry, rings of keys, lorgnettes, canes, shawls, gloves, &c. But it is somewhat singular to note, as I have noted, in the list, casks of wine, barrels of brandy, sets of false teeth, wigs, baskets of newly-washed linen, petticoats, hats, and even babies, who have been accidentally left in omnibuses, railway cars, or the public parks, by absent-minded nurses or self-absorbed mothers.
The great majority of the rag-pickers are, as would necessarily be inferred, ignorant, and of the humblest origin. Some of them, however, are persons of education, who have fallen from their natural position through defect of their own, or adversity of circumstances.
I recollect a rag-picker—he must have been nearly fifty years of age—who passed nightly along the Grands Boulevards, and who, when not surveying the ground with his lantern, walked erect, and with military precision. I was told that he had been well born, was of an old and influential family, and had served with distinction in the army in Algiers. Cashiered for some irregular conduct, his family disowned him, and he began a course of dissipation, which soon left him without friends, money, or self-respect. He came to this country in the hope of being able to reform; but his habits of intemperance adhered to him, and after numerous disreputableexperiences, and after several arrests on charges of stealing, he returned to Paris.
He could get no employment there of the kind he wanted, and after trying divers methods of obtaining a livelihood, he settled down, socially and mentally, into a rag-picker. Oddly enough, in this position he became industrious and moderately abstemious. Two years ago he was accounted one of the most energetic of his tribe, and often earned, with his lantern and his rake, fifty or sixty francs a week, which is much above the average. Having reached the lowest level, he seemed quite satisfied; and they who had talked with him said he never murmured at fortune, and very rarely referred to his antecedents. His health and strength were so well preserved, that he had continued in his grubbing occupation twelve or fifteen years longer than is customary with his class. This appears to be one of the few instances in which as men descend socially they rise morally.
LA BELLE D’ENFER.
Among the trilleuses,—the old women who arrange and assort the contents of the chiffonniers’ baskets for the rag-merchants,—I recall, just before the Franco-German war, one of the ugliest hags it has ever been my fortune to see; and my observation of hags has been extensive, varied, and profound. One of Rembrandt’s ancient females was youthful and beautiful to her, who attracted me, somewhat after an inverted fashion, by her positive hideousness. Seeing her one day in the Cité Doré, I inquired of a gendarme respecting her. He expressed his surprise that I did not recognize her, adding, “Everybody knows her. She is called the Belle of the Bottomless Pit (Belle d’Enfer).” He then gave me her history; and thus it ran:—
A ROMANTIC STORY.
She was nearly seventy; forty years before, had been one of the handsomest and most courted of the lorettes of Paris. Everybody admired her lovely face and exquisite figure. Her fame as a beauty had extended to all the capitals of Europe. She had any number of wealthy lovers, and not a few young noblemen of high rank in her train. She lived like a queen. Her horses, and carriages, and toilets werethe envy of the most fashionable ladies; and when the name of Annette Gariteau was mentioned, as it constantly was, eulogies on her charms were upon every lip.
On retiring one night, her bed-curtains caught fire, and she was dreadfully burned. Not a single trace of her beauty was left, but in its stead a frightfully disfigured face, and a shrivelled and crippled form. For some weeks it was thought she could not live; and when she did recover, she was so disgusted with herself, she tried to commit suicide by drowning, by poison, and by charcoal. They all failed, and she then fancied it was the wish of Heaven she should atone for her past errors by living until nature summoned her. Since then she has been very pious, never neglecting her religious duties in the smallest particular. She became a rag-picker because she considered that the humblest of callings, and because she thought that in it she would best serve her purpose of penitence, and render her reformation clear as noonday in the eyes of all who had known her in her pride of iniquity.
That was a queer story, and would hardly have been plausible, or probable, except when told of a French woman. I heard it repeated several times afterwards, and have no reason to doubt its correctness. The tale made a deep impression on me; and now, whenever I see some deformed and miserable creature, I try to forget her deformity and misery by fancying that she may be another Annette Gariteau.