Nobody's Girl
by Hector Malot · English · Gutenberg #27690 · 421,893 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Nobody's Girl
Author: Hector Malot
Illustrator: Thelma Gooch
Translator: Florence Crewe-Jones
Release date: January 3, 2009 [eBook #27690]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27690
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jen Haines and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOBODY'S GIRL ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jen Haines and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note: Some spelling variations have been standardised to
agree with the original French version of "En Famille". For example
"Madamoiselle" and "Mademoiselle" have been changed to Mademoiselle
exclusively. Dr Cendrier, rather than Centrier, is correct according to
the original French version, so Centrier has been changed to Cendrier.
In the fourth last paragraph "daughter" has been corrected to
"granddaughter".
Some spelling, punctuation and grammatical errors have been
corrected where detected.
[Illustration: "WHY, IT'S BEAUTIFUL," SAID PERRINE, SOFTLY. (See page 86)]
NOBODY'S
GIRL
(_En Famille_)
BY
HECTOR MALOT
TRANSLATED BY
FLORENCE CREWE-JONES
_Illustrated by_
THELMA GOOCH
NEW YORK MCMXXII
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
_Copyright, 1922, by_
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
Printed in United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I PERRINE AND PALIKARE 1
II GRAIN-OF-SALT IS KIND 20
III "POOR LITTLE GIRL" 41
IV A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL 47
V STORMS AND FEARS 59
VI THE RESCUE 72
VII MARAUCOURT AT LAST 77
VIII GRANDFATHER VULFRAN 86
IX ONE SLEEPLESS NIGHT 95
X THE HUT ON THE ISLAND 110
XI WORK IN THE FACTORY 115
XII NEW SHOES 130
XIII STRANGE HOUSEKEEPING 136
XIV A BANQUET IN THE HUT 149
XV AURELIE'S CHANCE 157
XVI GRANDFATHER'S INTERPRETER 166
XVII HARD QUESTIONS 175
XVIII SECRETARY TO M. VULFRAN 184
XIX SUSPICION AND CONFIDENCE 194
XX THE SCHEMERS 206
XXI LETTERS FROM DACCA 217
XXII A CABLE TO DACCA 227
XXIII GRANDFATHER'S COMPANION 238
XXIV GETTING AN EDUCATION 248
XXV MEDDLING RELATIVES 260
XXVI PAINFUL ARGUMENTS 269
XXVII THE BLIND MAN'S GRIEF 277
XXVIII AN UNRESPECTED FUNERAL 285
XXIX THE ANGEL OF REFORM 292
XXX GRANDFATHER FINDS PERRINE 302
XXXI THE GRATEFUL PEOPLE 307
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"WHY, IT'S BEAUTIFUL," SAID PERRINE, SOFTLY.
(_See Page 86_) _Frontispiece_
SOMETHING WARM PASSING OVER HER FACE MADE
HER OPEN HER EYES 72
"WHAT'S THE MATTER NOW?" HE CRIED, ANGRILY 124
SHE HAD SOME TIME AGO DECIDED ON THE SHAPE 139
SHE TRIED TO DO AS SHE WAS TOLD, BUT HER EMOTION
INCREASED AS SHE READ 218
HE TOLD HER THAT SHE WAS LIKE A LITTLE
DAUGHTER TO HIM 270
INTRODUCTION
"Nobody's Girl," published in France under the title "En Famille",
follows "Nobody's Boy" as a companion juvenile story, and takes place
with it as one of the supreme juvenile stories of the world. Like
"Nobody's Boy" it was also crowned by the Academy, and that literary
judgment has also been verified by the test of time.
"Nobody's Girl" is not a human document, such as is "Nobody's Boy", because
it has more story plot, and the adventure is in a more restricted field,
but it discloses no less the nobility of a right-minded child, and how
loyalty wins the way to noble deeds and life. This is another beautiful
literary creation of Hector Malot which every one can recommend as an
ennobling book, of interest not only to childhood, page by page to the
thrilling conclusion, but to every person who loves romance and
character.
Only details, irrelevant for readers in America, have been eliminated.
Little Perrine's loyal ideals, with their inspiring sentiments, are
preserved by her through the most discouraging conditions, and are
described with the simplicity for which Hector Malot is famous. The
building up of a little girl's life is made a fine example for every
child. Every reader of this story leaves it inspired for the better way.
THE PUBLISHERS.
NOBODY'S GIRL
CHAPTER I
PERRINE AND PALIKARE
It was Saturday afternoon about 3 o'clock. There was the usual scene;
outside the Gates of Bercy there was a crowd of people, and on the
quays, four rows deep, carts and wagons were massed together. Coal
carts, carts heaped with hay and straw, all were waiting in the clear,
warm June sunshine for the examination from the custom official. All had
been hurrying to reach Paris before Sunday.
Amongst the wagons, but at some little distance from the Gates, stood an
odd looking cart, a sort of caravan. Over a light frame work which was
erected on four wheels was stretched a heavy canvas; this was fastened
to the light roof which covered the wagon. Once upon a time the canvas
might have been blue, but it was so faded, so dirty and worn, that one
could only guess what its original color had been. Neither was it
possible to make out the inscriptions which were painted on the four
sides. Most of the words were effaced. On one side there was a Greek
word, the next side bore part of a German word, on the third side were
the letters F I A, which was evidently Italian, and on the last a newly
painted French word stood out boldly. This was _PHOTOGRAPHIE_, and was
evidently the translation of all the others, indicating the different
countries through which the miserable wagon had come before it had
entered France and finally arrived at the Gates of Paris.
Was it possible that the donkey that was harnessed to it had brought the
cart all this distance? At first glance it seemed impossible, but
although the animal was tired out, one could see upon a closer view that
it was very robust and much bigger than the donkeys that one sees in
Europe. Its coat was a beautiful dark grey, the beauty of which could be
seen despite the dust which covered it. Its slender legs were marked
with jet black lines, and worn out though the poor beast was, it still
held its head high. The harness, worthy of the caravan, was fastened
together with various colored strings, short pieces, long pieces, just
what was at hand at the moment; the strings had been carefully hidden
under the flowers and branches which had been gathered along the roads
and used to protect the animal from the sun and the flies.
Close by, seated on the edge of the curb, watching the donkey, was a
little girl of about thirteen years of age. Her type was very unusual,
but it was quite apparent that there was a mixture of race. The pale
blond of her hair contrasted strangely with the deep, rich coloring of
her cheeks, and the sweet expression of her face was accentuated by the
dark, serious eyes. Her mouth also was very serious. Her figure, slim
and full of grace, was garbed in an old, faded check dress, but the
shabby old frock could not take away the child's distinguished air.
As the donkey had stopped just behind a large cart of straw, it would
not have required much watching, but every now and again he pulled out
the straw, in a cautious manner, like a very intelligent animal that
knows quite well that it is doing wrong.
"Palikare! stop that!" said the girl for the third time.
The donkey again dropped his head in a guilty fashion, but as soon as he
had eaten his wisps of straw he began to blink his eyes and agitate his
ears, then again discreetly, but eagerly, tugged at what was ahead of
him; this in a manner that testified to the poor beast's hunger.
While the little girl was scolding him, a voice from within the caravan
called out:
"Perrine!"
Jumping to her feet, the child lifted up the canvas and passed inside,
where a pale, thin woman was lying on a mattress.
"Do you need me, mama?"
"What is Palikare doing, dear?" asked the woman.
"He is eating the straw off the cart that's ahead of us."
"You must stop him."
"He's so hungry."
"Hunger is not an excuse for taking what does not belong to us. What will
you say to the driver of that cart if he's angry?"
"I'll go and see that Palikare doesn't do it again," said the little girl.
"Shall we soon be in Paris?"
"Yes, we are waiting for the customs."
"Have we much longer to wait?"
"No, but are you in more pain, mother?"
"Don't worry, darling; it's because I'm closed in here," replied the woman,
gasping. Then she smiled wanly, hoping to reassure her daughter.
The woman was in a pitiable plight. All her strength had gone and she could
scarcely breathe. Although she was only about twenty-nine years of age, her
life was ebbing away. There still remained traces of remarkable beauty: Her
head and hair were lovely, and her eyes were soft and dark like her
daughter's.
"Shall I give you something?" asked Perrine.
"What?"
"There are some shops near by. I can buy a lemon. I'll come back at once."
"No, keep the money. We have so little. Go back to Palikare and stop him
from eating the straw."
"That's not easy," answered the little girl.
She went back to the donkey and pushed him on his haunches until he was
out of reach of the straw in front of him.
At first the donkey was obstinate and tried to push forward again, but she
spoke to him gently and stroked him, and kissed him on his nose; then he
dropped his long ears with evident satisfaction and stood quite still.
There was no occasion to worry about him now, so she amused herself with
watching what was going on around her.
A little boy about her own age, dressed up like a clown, and who evidently
belonged to the circus caravans standing in the rear, had been strolling
round her for ten long minutes, without being able to attract her
attention. At last he decided to speak to her.
"That's a fine donkey," he remarked.
She did not reply.
"It don't belong to this country. If it does, I'm astonished."
She was looking at him, and thinking that after all he looked rather
like a nice boy, she thought she would reply.
"He comes from Greece," she said.
"Greece!" he echoed.
"That's why he's called Palikare."
"Ah! that's why."
But in spite of his broad grin he was not at all sure why a donkey that
came from Greece should be called Palikare.
"Is it far ... Greece?"
"Very far."
"Farther than ... China?"
"No, but it's a long way off."
"Then yer come from Greece, then?"
"No, farther than that."
"From China?"
"No, but Palikare's the only one that comes from Greece."
"Are you going to the Fair?"
"No."
"Where yer goin'?"
"Into Paris."
"I know that, but where yer goin' to put up that there cart?"
"We've been told that there are some free places round the
fortifications."
The little clown slapped his thighs with his two hands.
"The fortifications: _Oh la la!_"
"Isn't there any place?"
"Yes."
"Well, then?"
"It ain't the place for you ... round the fortifications! Have yer got
any men with yer? Big strong men who are not afraid of a stab from a
dagger. One who can give a jab as well as take one."
"There is only my mother and me, and mother is ill."
"Do you think much of that donkey?" he asked quickly.
"I should say so!"
"Well, the first thing he'll be stolen. He'll be gone tomorrow. Then
the rest'll come after, and it's Fatty as tells yer so."
"Really?"
"Should say so! You've never been to Paris before?"
"No, never."
"That's easy to see. Some fools told you where to put your cart up, but
you can't put it there. Why don't you go to Grain-of-Salt?"
"I don't know Grain-of-Salt."
"Why, he owns the Guillot Fields. You needn't be afraid of him, and he'd
shoot anybody who tried to get in his place."
"Will it cost much to go there?"
"It costs a lot in winter, when everybody comes to Paris, but at this
time I'm sure he won't make you pay more than forty sous a week. And
your donkey can find its food in the field. Does he like thistles?"
"I should say he does like them!"
"Well, then, this is just the place for him, and Grain-of-Salt isn't a
bad chap," said the little clown with a satisfied air.
"Is that his name ... Grain-of-Salt?"
"They call him that 'cause he's always thirsty. He's only got one arm."
"Is his place far from here?"
"No, at Charonne; but I bet yer don't even know where Charonne is?"
"I've never been to Paris before."
"Well, then, it's over there." He waved his arms vaguely in a northerly
direction.
"Once you have passed through the Gates, you turn straight to the
right," he explained, "and you follow the road all along the
fortifications for half an hour, then go down a wide avenue, then turn
to your left, and then ask where the Guillot Field is. Everybody knows
it."
"Thank you. I'll go and tell mama. If you'll stand beside Palikare for a
minute, I'll go and tell her at once."
"Sure, I'll mind him for yer. I'll ask him to teach me Greek."
"And please don't let him eat that straw."
Perrine went inside the caravan and told her mother what the little
clown had said.
"If that is so," said the sick woman, "we must not hesitate; we must go
to Charonne. But can you find the way?"
"Yes, it's easy enough. Oh, mother," she added, as she was going out,
"there are such a lot of wagons outside; they have printed on them
'Maraucourt Factories,' and beneath that the name, 'Vulfran
Paindavoine.' There are all kinds of barrels and things in the carts.
Such a number!"
"There is nothing remarkable in that, my child," said the woman.
"Yes, but it's strange to see so many wagons with the same name on
them," replied the girl as she left the caravan.
Perrine found the donkey with his nose buried in the straw, which he was
eating calmly.
"Why, you're letting him eat it!" she cried to the boy.
"Well, why not?" he retorted.
"And if the man is angry?"
"He'd better not be with me," said the small boy, putting himself in a
position to fight and throwing his head back.
But his prowess was not to be brought into action, for at this moment
the custom officer began to search the cart of straw, and then gave
permission for it to pass on through the Gates of Paris.
"Now it's your turn," said the boy, "and I'll have to leave you.
Goodbye, Mademoiselle. If you ever want news of me ask for Double Fat.
Everybody knows me."
The employes who guard the entrances of Paris are accustomed to strange
sights, yet the man who went into Perrine's caravan looked surprised
when he found a young woman lying on a mattress, and even more surprised
when his hasty glance revealed to him the extreme poverty of her
surroundings.
"Have you anything to declare?" he asked, continuing his investigations.
"Nothing."
"No wine, no provisions?"
"Nothing."
This was only too true; apart from the mattress, the two cane chairs, a
little table, a tiny stove, a camera and a few photographic supplies,
there was nothing in this wagon; no trunks, no baskets, no clothes....
"All right; you can pass," said the man.
Once through the Gates, Perrine, holding Palikare by the bridle,
followed the stretch of grass along the embankment. In the brown, dirty
grass she saw rough looking men lying on their backs or on their
stomachs. She saw now the class of people who frequent this spot. From
the very air of these men, with their bestial, criminal faces, she
understood why it would be unsafe for them to be there at night. She
could well believe that their knives would be in ready use.
Looking towards the city, she saw nothing but dirty streets and filthy
houses. So this was Paris, the beautiful Paris of which her father had
so often spoken. With one word she made her donkey go faster, then
turning to the left she inquired for the Guillot Field.
If everyone knew where it was situated, no two were of the same opinion
as to which road she should take to get there, and several times, in
trying to follow the various directions which were given to her, she
lost her way.
At last she found the place for which she was looking. This must be it!
Inside the field there was an old omnibus without wheels, and a railway
car, also without wheels, was on the ground. In addition, she saw a
dozen little round pups rolling about. Yes, this was the place!
Leaving Palikare in the street, she went into the field. The pups at
once scrambled at her feet, barked, and snapped at her shoes.
"Who's there?" called a voice.
She looked around and saw a long, low building, which might have been a
house, but which might serve for anything else. The walls were made of
bits of stone, wood and plaster. Even tin boxes were used in its
construction. The roof was made of tarred canvas and cardboard, and most
of the window panes were of paper, although in one or two instances
there was some glass. The man who designed it was another Robinson
Crusoe, and his workman a man Friday.
A one-armed man with a shaggy beard was sorting out rags and throwing
them into the baskets around him.
"Don't step on my dogs," he cried; "come nearer."
She did as she was told.
"Are you the owner of the Guillot Field?" she asked.
"That's me!" replied the man.
In a few words she told him what she wanted. So as not to waste his time
while listening, he poured some red wine out of a bottle that stood on
the ground and drank it down at a gulp.
"It can be arranged if you pay in advance," he said, sizing her up.
"How much?" she asked.
"Forty sous a week for the wagon and twenty for the donkey," he
replied.
"That's a lot of money," she said, hesitatingly.
"That's my price."
"Your summer price?"
"Yes, my summer price."
"Can my donkey eat the thistles?"
"Yes, and the grass also if his teeth are strong enough."
"We can't pay for the whole week because we are only going to stay one
day. We are going through Paris on our way to Amiens, and we want to
rest."
"Well, that's all right; six sous a day for the cart and three for the
donkey."
One by one she pulled out nine sous from the pocket in her skirt.
"That's for the first day," she said, handing them to the man.
"You can tell your people they can all come in," he said, "How many are
there? If it's a whole company it's two sous extra for each person."
"I have only my mother."
"All right; but why didn't your mother come and settle this?"
"She is in the wagon, ill."
"Ill! Well, this isn't a hospital."
Perrine was afraid that he would not let her sick mother come in.
"I mean she's a little bit tired. We've come a long way."
"I never ask people where they come from," replied the man gruffly. He
pointed to a corner of the field, and added: "You can put your wagon
over there and tie up the donkey. And if it squashes one of my pups
you'll pay me five francs, one hundred sous ... understand?"
As she was going he called out:
"Will you take a glass of wine?"
"No, thanks," she replied; "I never take wine."
"Good," he said; "I'll drink it for you."
He drained another glass, then returned to his collection of rags.
As soon as she had installed Palikare in the place that the man had
pointed out to her, which was accomplished not without some jolts,
despite the care which she took, Perrine climbed up into the wagon.
"We've arrived at last, poor mama," she said, bending over the woman.
"No more shaking, no more rolling about," said the woman weakly.
"There, there; I'll make you some dinner," said Perrine cheerfully.
"What would you like?"
"First, dear, unharness Palikare; he is very tired also; and give him
something to eat and drink."
Perrine did as her mother told her, then returned to the wagon and took
out the small stove, some pieces of coal and an old saucepan and some
sticks. Outside, she went down on her knees and made a fire; at last,
after blowing with all her might, she had the satisfaction of seeing
that it had taken.
"You'd like some rice, wouldn't you?" she asked, leaning over her
mother.
"I am not hungry."
"Is there anything else you would fancy? I'll go and fetch anything you
want. What would you like, mama, dearie?"
"I think I prefer rice," said her mother.
Little Perrine threw a handful of rice into the saucepan that she had
put on the fire and waited for the water to boil; then she stirred the
rice with two white sticks that she had stripped of their bark. She only
left her cooking once, to run over to Palikare to say a few loving words
to him. The donkey was eating the thistles with a satisfaction, the
intensity of which was shown by the way his long ears stood up.
When the rice was cooked to perfection, Perrine filled a bowl and placed
it at her mother's bedside, also two glasses, two plates and two forks.
Sitting down on the floor, with her legs tucked under her and her skirts
spread out, she said, like a little girl who is playing with her doll:
"Now we'll have a little din-din, mammy, dear, and I'll wait on you."
In spite of her gay tone, there was an anxious look in the child's eyes
as she looked at her mother lying on the mattress, covered with an old
shawl that had once been beautiful and costly, but was now only a faded
rag.
The sick woman tried to swallow a mouthful of rice, then she looked at
her daughter with a wan smile.
"It doesn't go down very well," she murmured.
"You must force yourself," said Perrine; "the second will go down
better, and the third better still."
"I cannot; no, I cannot, dear!"
"Oh, mama!"
The mother sank back on her mattress, gasping. But weak though she was,
she thought of her little girl and smiled.
"The rice is delicious, dear," she said; "you eat it. As you do the work
you must feed well. You must be very strong to be able to nurse me, so
eat, darling, eat."
Keeping back her tears, Perrine made an effort to eat her dinner. Her
mother continued to talk to her. Little by little she stopped crying and
all the rice disappeared.
"Why don't you try to eat, mother?" she asked. "I forced myself."
"But I'm ill, dear."
"I think I ought to go and fetch a doctor. We are in Paris now and there
are good doctors here."
"Good doctors will not put themselves out unless they are paid."
"We'll pay."
"With what, my child?"
"With our money. You have seven francs in your pocket and a florin which
we could change here. I've got 17 sous. Feel in your pocket."
The black dress, as worn as Perrine's skirt but not so dusty, for it had
been brushed, was lying on the bed, and served for a cover. They found
the seven francs and an Austrian coin.
"How much does that make in all?" asked Perrine; "I don't understand
French money."
"I know very little more than you," replied her mother.
Counting the florin at two francs, they found they had nine francs and
eighty-five centimes.
"You see we have more than what is needed for a doctor," insisted
Perrine.
"He won't cure me with words; we shall have to buy medicine."
"I have an idea. You can imagine that all the time I was walking beside
Palikare I did not waste my time just talking to him, although he likes
that. I was also thinking of both of us, but mostly of you, mama,
because you are sick. And I was thinking of our arrival at Maraucourt.
Everybody has laughed at our wagon as we came along, and I am afraid if
we go to Maraucourt with it we shall not get much of a welcome. If our
relations are very proud, they'll be humiliated.
"So I thought," she added, wisely, "that as we don't need the wagon any
more, we could sell it. Now that you are ill, no one will let me take
their pictures, and even if they would we have not the money to buy the
things for developing that we need. We must sell it."
"And how much can we get for it?"
"We can get something; then there is the camera and the mattress."
"Everything," said the sick woman.
"But you don't mind, do you, mother, dear?..."
"We have lived in this wagon for more than a year," said her mother;
"your father died here, and although it's a poor thing, it makes me sad
to part with it.... It is all that remains of him ... there is not one
of these old things here that does not remind us of him...."
She stopped, gasping; the tears were rolling down her cheeks.
"Oh, forgive me, mother, for speaking about it," cried Perrine.
"My darling, you are right. You are only a child, but you have thought
of the things that I should have. I shall not be better tomorrow nor the
next day, and we must sell these things, and we must decide to sell...."
The mother hesitated. There was a painful silence.
"Palikare," said Perrine at last.
"You have thought that also?" asked the mother.
"Yes," said Perrine, "and I have been so unhappy about it, and sometimes
I did not dare look at him for fear he would guess that we were going to
part with him instead of taking him to Maraucourt with us. He would have
been so happy there after such a long journey."
"If we were only sure of a welcome, but they may turn us away. If they
do, all we can do then is to lie down by the roadside and die, but no
matter what it costs, we must get to Maraucourt, and we must present
ourselves as well as we can so that they will not shut their doors upon
us...."
"Would that be possible, mama?... The memory of papa ... he was so good.
Could they be angry with him now he is dead?"
"I am speaking as your father would have spoken, dear ... so we will
sell Palikare. With the money that we get for him we will have a doctor,
so that I can get stronger; then, when I am well enough, we will buy a
nice dress for you and one for me, and then we'll start. We will take
the train as far as we can and walk the rest of the way."
"That boy who spoke to me at the Gates told me that Palikare was a fine
donkey, and he knows, for he is in a circus. It was because he thought
Palikare was so beautiful that he spoke to me."
"I don't know how much an Eastern donkey would bring in Paris, but we'll
see as soon as we can," said the sick woman.
Leaving her mother to rest, Perrine got together their soiled clothing
and decided to do some washing. Adding her own waist to a bundle
consisting of three handkerchiefs, two pairs of stockings and two
combinations, she put them all into a basin, and with her washboard and
a piece of soap she went outside. She had ready some boiling water which
she had put on the fire after cooking the rice; this she poured over the
things. Kneeling on the grass, she soaped and rubbed until all were
clean; then she rinsed them and hung them on a line to dry.
While she worked, Palikare, who was tied up at a short distance from
her, had glanced her way several times. When he saw that she had
finished her task he stretched his neck towards her and sent forth five
or six brays ... an imperative call.
"Did you think I had forgotten you?" she called out. She went to him,
changed his place, gave him some water to drink from her saucepan, which
she had carefully rinsed, for if he was satisfied with all the food that
they gave him, he was very particular about what he drank. He would only
drink pure water from a clean vessel, or red wine ... this he liked
better than anything.
She stroked him and talked to him lovingly, like a kind nurse would to a
little child, and the donkey, who had thrown himself down on the grass
the moment he was free, placed his head against her shoulder. He loved
his young mistress, and every now and again he looked up at her and
shook his long ears in sign of utter content.
All was quiet in the field and the streets close by were now deserted.
From the distance came the dim roar of the great city, deep, powerful,
mysterious; the breath and life of Paris, active and incessant, seemed
like the roar of a mighty ocean going on and on, in spite of the night
that falls.
Then, in the softness of the coming night, little Perrine seemed to feel
more impressed with the talk that she had had with her mother, and
leaning her head against her donkey's, she let the tears, which she had
kept back so long, flow silently, and Palikare, in mute sympathy, bent
his head and licked her hands.
CHAPTER II
GRAIN-OF-SALT IS KIND
Many times that night Perrine, lying beside her mother, had jumped up and
run to the well for water so as to have it fresh. In spite of her desire to
fetch the doctor as early as possible the next morning, she had to wait
until Grain-of-Salt had risen, for she did not know what doctor to call in.
She asked him.
Certainly he knew of a good doctor! and a famous one, too! who made his
rounds in a carriage, not on foot, like doctors of no account. Dr.
Cendrier, rue Rublet, near the Church; he was the man! To find the street
she had only to follow the railway tracks as far as the station.
When he spoke of such a great doctor who made his rounds in a carriage,
Perrine was afraid that she would not have enough money to pay him, and
timidly she questioned Grain-of-Salt, not daring to ask outright what she
wanted to know. Finally he understood.
"What you'd have to pay?" he asked. "It's a lot, but it won't be more than
forty sous, and so as to make sure, you'll have to pay him in advance."
Following the directions that Grain-of-Salt gave her, she easily found the
house, but the doctor had not yet risen, so she had to wait. She sat down
on a bench in the street, outside a stable door, behind which a coachman
was harnessing a horse to a carriage. She thought if she waited there she
would be sure to catch the doctor as he left the house, and if she gave him
her forty sous he would consent to come. She was quite sure that he would
not if she had simply asked him to visit a patient who was staying in the
Guillot Field.
She waited a long time; her suspense increased at the thought that her
mother would be wondering what kept her away so long.
At last an old-fashioned carriage and a clumsy horse came out of the
stables and stood before the doctor's house. Almost immediately the
doctor appeared, big, fat, with a grey beard.
Before he could step into his carriage Perrine was beside him. She put
her question tremblingly.
"The Guillot Field?" he said. "Has there been a fight?"
"No, sir; it's my mother who is ill."
"Who is your mother?"
"We are photographers."
He put his foot on the step. She offered him her forty sous quickly.
"We can pay you," she hastened to say.
"Then it's sixty sous," said he.
She added twenty sous more. He took the money and slipped it into his
waistcoat pocket.
"I'll be with your mother in about fifteen minutes," he said.
She ran all the way back, happy, to take the good news.
"He'll cure you, mama; he's a real, real doctor!" she said,
breathlessly.
She quickly busied herself with her mother, washing her hands and face
and arranging her hair, which was beautiful, black and silky; then she
tidied up the "room," which only had the result of making it look
emptier and poorer still.
She had not long to wait. Hearing the carriage in the road, she ran out
to meet the doctor. As he was walking towards the house she pointed to
the wagon.
"We live there in our wagon," she said.
He did not seem surprised; he was accustomed to the extreme poverty of
his patients; but Perrine, who was looking at him, noticed that he
frowned when he saw the sick woman lying on the mattress in the
miserable cart.
"Put out your tongue and give me your hand," he said.
Those who pay forty or a hundred francs for a visit from a doctor have
no idea of the brevity with which the poor people's cases are diagnosed.
In less than a minute his examination was made.
"A case for the hospital," he said.
Simultaneously, little Perrine and her mother uttered a cry.
"Now, child, leave me alone with your mother," he said in a tone of
command.
For a moment Perrine hesitated, but at a sign from her mother she left
the wagon and stood just outside.
"I am going to die," said the woman in a low voice.
"Who says that? What you need is nursing, and you can't get that here."
"Could I have my daughter at the hospital?"
"She can see you Thursdays and Sundays."
"What will become of her without me," murmured the mother, "alone in
Paris? If I have to die I want to go holding her hand in mine."
"Well, anyway, you can't be left in this cart. The cold nights would be
fatal for you. You must take a room. Can you?"
"If it is not for long, perhaps."
"Grain-of-Salt can rent you one, and won't charge much; but the room is
not all. You must have medicine and good food and care, all of which you
would get at the hospital."
"Doctor, that is impossible," said the sick woman. "I cannot leave my
little girl. What would become of her?"
"Well, it's as you like; it's your own affair. I have told you what I
think."
"You can come in, little girl, now," he called out. Then taking a leaf
from his note pad, he wrote out a prescription.
"Take that to the druggist, near the Church," he said, handing it to
Perrine. "No other, mind you. The packet marked _No. 1_ give to your
mother. Then give her the potion every hour. Give her the Quinquina
wine when she eats, for she must eat anything she wants, especially
eggs. I'll drop in again this evening."
She ran out after him.
"Is my mama very ill?" she asked.
"Well ... try and get her to go to the hospital."
"Can't you cure her?"
"I hope so, but I can't give her what she'll get at the hospital. It is
foolish for her not to go. She won't go because she has to leave you.
Nothing will happen to you, for you look like a girl who can take care
of yourself."
Striding on, he reached his carriage. Perrine wanted him to say more,
but he jumped in quickly and was driven off. She returned to the wagon.
"Go quickly to the druggist; then get some eggs. Take all the money; I
must get well," said the mother.
"The doctor said he could cure you," said Perrine. "I'll go quickly for
the things."
But all the money she took was not enough. When the druggist had read
the prescription he looked at Perrine.
"Have you the money to pay for this?" he asked.
She opened her hand.
"This will come to seven francs, fifty," said the man who had already
made his calculation.
She counted what she had in her hand and found that she had six francs
eighty-five centimes, in counting the Austrian florin as two francs. She
needed thirteen sous more.
"I have only six francs eighty-five centimes. Would you take this
florin? I have counted that," she said.
"Oh, no; I should say not!" replied the man.
What was to be done? She stood in the middle of the store with her hand
open. She was in despair.
"If you'll take the florin there will be only thirteen sous lacking,"
she said at last, "and I'll bring them this afternoon."
But the druggist would not agree to this arrangement. He would neither
give her credit for thirteen sous nor accept the florin.
"As there is no hurry for the wine," he said, "you can come and fetch it
this afternoon. I'll prepare the other things at once and they'll only
cost you three francs fifty."
With the money that remained she bought some eggs, a little Vienna loaf
which she thought might tempt her mother's appetite, and then she
returned to the Field, running as fast as she could all the way.
"The eggs are fresh," she said. "I held them up to the light. And look
at the bread! Isn't it a beautiful loaf, mama? You'll eat it, won't
you?"
"Yes, darling."
Both were full of hope. Perrine had absolute faith in the doctor, and
was certain that he would perform the miracle. Why should he deceive
them? When one asks the doctor to tell the truth, doesn't he do so?
Hope had given the sick woman an appetite. She had eaten nothing for
two days; now she ate a half of the roll.
"You see," said Perrine, gleefully.
"Everything will be all right soon," answered her mother with a smile.
Perrine went to the house to inquire of Grain-of-Salt what steps she
should take to sell the wagon and dear Palikare.
As for the wagon, nothing was easier. Grain-of-Salt would buy it
himself; he bought everything, furniture, clothes, tools, musical
instruments ... but a donkey! That was another thing. He did not buy
animals, except pups, and his advice was that they should wait for a day
and sell it at the Horse Market. That would be on Wednesday.
Wednesday seemed a long way off, for in her excitement, and filled with
hope, Perrine had thought that by Wednesday her mother would be strong
enough to start for Maraucourt. But to have to wait like this! There was
one thing, though: With what she got for the wagon she could buy the two
dresses and the railway tickets, and if Grain-of-Salt paid them enough,
then they need not sell Palikare. He could stay at the Guillot Field and
she could send for him after they arrived at Maraucourt. Dear Palikare!
How contented he would be to have a beautiful stable to live in and go
out every day in the green fields.
But alas! Grain-of-Salt would not give one sou over fifteen francs for
the wagon.
"Only fifteen francs!" she murmured.
"Yes, and I am only doing that to oblige you. What do you think I can do
with it?" he said. He struck the wheels and the shafts with an iron bar;
then shrugged his shoulders in disgust.
After a great deal of bargaining all she could get was two francs fifty
on the price he had offered, and the promise that he would not take it
until after they had gone, so that they could stay in it all day, which
she thought would be much better for her mother than closed up in the
house.
After she had looked at the room that Grain-of-Salt was willing to rent,
she realized how much the wagon meant to them, for in spite of the pride
in which he spoke of his "Apartments," and the contempt in which he
spoke of the wagon, Perrine was heartbroken at the thought that she must
bring her dear mother to this dirty smelling house.
As she hesitated, wondering if her mother would not be poisoned from the
odor which came from the heaps of things outside, Grain-of-Salt said
impatiently:
"Hurry up! The rag pickers will be here in a moment and I'll have to get
busy."
"Does the doctor know what these rooms are like?" she asked.
"Sure! He came to this one lots of times to see the Baroness."
That decided her. If the doctor had seen the rooms he knew what he was
doing in advising them to take one, and then if a Baroness lived in one,
her mother could very well live in the other.
"You'll have to pay one week in advance," said the landlord, "and three
sous for the donkey and six for the wagon."
"But you've bought the wagon," she said in surprise.
"Yes, but as you're using it, it's only fair that you should pay."
She had no reply to make to this. It was not the first time that she had
been cheated. It had happened so often on their long journey.
"Very well," said the poor little girl.
She employed the greater part of the day in cleaning their room, washing
the floor, wiping down the walls, the ceiling, the windows. Such a
scrubbing had never been seen in that house since the place had been
built!
During the numerous trips that she made from the house to the pump she
saw that not only did grass and thistles grow in the Field, but there
were flowers. Evidently some neighbors had thrown some plants over the
fence and the seeds had sprung up here and there. Scattered about she
saw a few roots of wall-flowers, pinks and even some violets!
What a lovely idea! She would pick some and put them in their room. They
would drive away the bad odor, and at the same time make the place look
gay.
It seemed that the flowers belonged to no one, for Palikare was allowed
to eat them if he wished, yet she was afraid to pick the tiniest one
without first asking Grain-of-Salt.
"Do you want to sell them?" he asked.
"No, just to put a few in our room," she replied.
"Oh, if that's it you may take as many as you like, but if you are going
to sell them, I might do that myself. As it's for your room, help
yourself, little one. You like the smell of flowers. I like the smell of
wine. That's the only thing I can smell."
She picked the flowers, and searching amongst the heap of broken glass
she found an old vase and some tumblers.
The miserable room was soon filled with the sweet perfume of
wall-flowers, pinks and violets, which kept out the bad odors of the
rest of the house, and at the same time the fresh, bright colors lent a
beauty to the dark walls.
While working, she had made the acquaintance of her neighbors. On one
side of their room lived an old woman whose gray head was adorned with a
bonnet decorated with the tri-color ribbon of the French flag. On the
other side lived a big man, almost bent double. He wore a leather apron,
so long and so large that it seemed to be his only garment. The woman
with the tri-color ribbons was a street singer, so the big man told her,
and no less a person than the Baroness of whom Grain-of-Salt had spoken.
Every day she left the Guillot Field with a great red umbrella and a big
stick which she stuck in the ground at the crossroads or at the end of a
bridge. She would shelter herself from the sun or the rain under her red
umbrella and sing, and then sell to the passersby copies of the songs
she sang.
As to the big man with the apron, he was a cobbler, so she learned from
the Baroness, and he worked from morning to night. He was always silent,
like a fish, and for this reason everybody called him Father Carp. But
although he did little talking he made enough noise with his hammer.
At sunset Perrine's room was ready. Her mother, as she was helped in,
looked at the flowers with surprise and pleasure.
"How good you are to your mama, darling," she murmured as she clung to
Perrine's arm.
"How good I am to myself," Perrine cried gayly, "because if I do
anything that pleases you, I am so happy."
At night they had to put the flowers outside. Then the odors of the old
house rose up terribly strong, but the sick woman did not dare complain.
What would be the use, for she could not leave the Guillot Field to go
elsewhere?
Her sleep was restless, and when the doctor came the next morning he
found her worse, which made him change the treatment, and Perrine was
obliged to go again to the druggist. This time he asked five francs to
fill out the prescription. She did not flinch, but paid bravely,
although she could scarcely breathe when she got outside the store. If
the expenses continued to increase at this rate poor Palikare would have
to be sold on Wednesday. He would have to go now anyway. And if the
doctor prescribed something else the next day, costing five francs or
more, where would she find the money?
When, with her mother and father, she had tramped over the mountains,
they had often been hungry, and more than once since they had left
Greece on their way to France they had been without food. But hunger in
the mountains and in the country was another thing--there was always the
chance that they would find some wild fruit or vegetables. But in Paris
there was no hope for those who had no money in their pockets.
What would become of them? And the terrible thing was that she must take
the responsibility. Her mother was too ill now to think or plan, and
Perrine, although only a child, realized that she must now be the
mother.
On Tuesday morning her fears were realized. After a brief examination,
the doctor took from his pocket that terrible notebook that Perrine
dreaded to see and began to write. She had the courage to stop him.
"Doctor, if the medicines which you are ordering are not all of the same
importance," she said, "will you please write out those which are needed
the most?"
"What do you mean?" he asked angrily.
She trembled but continued bravely:
"I mean that we have not much money today, and we shall not get any
perhaps until tomorrow ... so...."
He looked at her, then glanced round the room, as though for the first
time remarking their poverty; then he put his notebook back in his
pocket.
"We won't change the treatment until tomorrow, then," he said. "There is
no hurry for this. Continue the same today."
"No hurry!" Perrine repeated the words to herself. There was no hurry
then ... her mother was not so ill as she had feared; they had just to
wait and hope....
Wednesday was the day for which she was waiting, yet at the same time
how she dreaded it. Dear, dear Palikare.... Whenever her mother did not
need her she would run out into the field and kiss his nose and talk to
him, and as he had no work to do, and all the thistles to eat that he
wanted and his little mistress' love, he was the happiest donkey in the
world.
"Ah, if you only knew," murmured Perrine, as she caressed him.
But he did not know. All he knew was that she loved him and that the
thistles were good. So, as she kissed and kissed, he brayed in
contentment and shook his long ears as he looked at her from the corner
of his eyes.
Besides, he had made friends with Grain-of-Salt and had received a proof
of his friendship in a way that flattered his greed. On Monday, having
broken loose, he had trotted up to Grain-of-Salt, who was occupied in
sorting out the rags and bones that had just arrived, and he stood
beside him. The man was about to pour out a drink from the bottle that
was always beside him when he saw Palikare, his eyes fixed on him, his
neck stretched out.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. As the words were not said in
anger, the donkey knew, and he did not move.
"Want a drink ... a glass of wine?" he asked mockingly. The glass that
he was about to put to his lips he offered in a joke to the donkey.
Palikare, taking the offer seriously, came a step nearer and pushing out
his lips to make them as thin and as long as possible, drank a good half
of the glass which had been filled to the brim.
"_Oh la la! la la!_" cried Grain-of-Salt, bursting with laughter.
"Baroness! Carp! Come here!"
At his calls, the Baroness and Carp, also a rag picker who came into the
field at that moment and a man with a push-cart who sold red and yellow
and blue sugar sticks, ran up.
"What's the matter?" demanded the Baroness.
He filled the glass again and held it out to the donkey, who, as before,
absorbed half of the contents amidst the laughter and shouts of those
who looked on.
"I heard that donkeys liked wine, but I never believed it," said the
candy man.
"You ought to buy him; he'd be a good companion for you," said the
Baroness.
"A fine pair," said another.
But Grain-of-Salt did not buy him, although he took a great liking to
him, and told Perrine that he would go with her on Wednesday to the
Horse Market. This was a great relief for Perrine, for she had wondered
how she would ever be able to find the place; neither did she know how
to discuss prices, and she was very much afraid that she would be
robbed. She had heard so many stories about Paris thieves, and what
could she have done to protect herself?...
Wednesday morning came. At an early hour she busied herself with
brushing Palikare and making his beautiful coat shine so that he would
look his best. How she kissed him! How she stroked him while her tears
fell!
When Palikare saw that instead of being hitched to the wagon, a rope was
put round his neck, his surprise was great; and still more surprised was
he when Grain-of-Salt, who did not want to walk all the way from
Charonne to the Horse Market, climbed up on a chair and from the chair
onto his back. But as Perrine held him and spoke to him, he offered no
resistance. Besides, was not Grain-of-Salt his friend?
They started thus. Palikare, still surprised, walked gravely along, led
by Perrine. On through the streets they went. At first they met but few
vehicles, and soon they arrived at a bridge which jutted into a large
garden.
"That's the Zoo," said Grain-of-Salt, "and I'm sure that they haven't
got a donkey there like yours."
"Then perhaps we can sell him to the Zoo," exclaimed Perrine, thinking
that in a zoological garden all the animals have to do is to walk about
and be looked at. That would be very nice for dear Palikare!
"An affair with the Government," said Grain-of-Salt; "better not, 'cause
the Government...."
From his expression it was evident that Grain-of-Salt had no faith in
the Government.
From now on the traffic was intense. Perrine needed all her wits and
eyes about her. After what seemed a long time they arrived at the Market
and Grain-of-Salt jumped off the donkey. But while he was getting down
Palikare had time to gaze about him, and when Perrine tried to make him
go through the iron gate at the entrance he refused to budge.
He seemed to know by instinct that this was a market where horses and
donkeys were sold. He was afraid. Perrine coaxed him, commanded him,
begged him, but he still refused to move. Grain-of-Salt thought that if
he pushed him from behind he would go forward, but Palikare, who would
not permit such familiarity, backed and reared, dragging Perrine with
him.
There was already a small circle of onlookers around them. In the first
row, as usual, there were messenger boys and errand boys, each giving
his word of advice as to what means to use to force the donkey through
the gate.
"That there donkey is going to give some trouble to the fool who buys
him," cried one.
These were dangerous words that might affect the sale, so Grain-of-Salt
thought he ought to say something.
"He's the cleverest donkey that ever was!" he cried. "He knows he's
going to be sold, and he's doin' this 'cause he loves us and don't want
ter leave us!"
"Are you so sure of that, Grain-of-Salt?" called out a voice in the
crowd.
"Zooks! who knows my name here?" cried the one addressed.
"Don't you recognize La Rouquerie?"
"My faith, that's so," he cried, as the speaker came forward. They shook
hands.
"That donkey yours?"
"No; it belongs to this little gal."
"Do you know anything about it?"
"We've had more than one glass together, and if you want a good donkey
I'll speak for him."
"I need one and yet I don't need one," said La Rouquerie.
"Well, come and take a drink. 'Tain't worthwhile to pay for a place in
the Market...."
"Especially if he won't budge!"
"I told you he was a smart one; he's that intelligent."
"If I buy him it's not for his tricks nor 'cause he can take a drink
with one, but he must work."
"He can work, sure! He's come all the way from Greece without stopping."
"From Greece!"
Grain-of-Salt made a sign to Perrine to follow him, and Palikare, now
that he knew that he was not going into the market, trotted beside her
docilely. She did not even have to pull his rope.
Who was this prospective buyer? A man? A woman? From the general
appearance and the hairless face it might be a woman of about fifty, but
from the clothes, which consisted of a workingman's blouse and trousers
and a tall leather hat like a coachman wears, and from the short, black
pipe which the individual was smoking, it surely was a man. But whatever
it was, Perrine decided that the person looked kind. The expression was
not hard or wicked.
Grain-of-Salt and the stranger turned down a narrow street and stopped
at a wine shop. They sat down at one of the tables outside on the
pavement and ordered a bottle of wine and two glasses. Perrine remained
by the curb, still holding her donkey.
"You'll see if he isn't cunning," said Grain-of-Salt, holding out his
full glass.
Palikare stretched out his neck, thinned his lips and quickly drank the
half glass of wine.
But this feat did not give La Rouquerie any particular satisfaction.
"I don't want him to drink my wine, but to drag my cart with the rabbit
skins," she said.
"Didn't I just tell you that he came from Greece, draggin' a wagon the
whole way?"
"Ah, that's another thing!"
The strange looking woman carefully examined the animal; then she gave
the greatest attention to every detail; then asked Perrine how much she
wanted for him. The price which Perrine had arranged with her landlord
beforehand was one hundred francs. This was the sum that she asked.
La Rouquerie gave a cry of amazement. One hundred francs! Sell a donkey
without any guarantee for that sum! Were they crazy? Then she began to
find all kind of faults with the unfortunate Palikare.
"Oh, very well," said Grain-of-Salt, after a lengthy discussion; "we'll
take him to the Market."
Perrine breathed. The thought of only getting twenty francs had stunned
her. In their terrible distress what would twenty francs be? A hundred
francs even was not sufficient for their pressing needs.
"Let's see if he'll go in any more now than he did then," cried La
Rouquerie.
Palikare followed Perrine up to the Market gates obediently, but once
there he stopped short. She insisted, and talked, and pulled at the
rope, but it was no use. Finally he sat down in the middle of the
street.
"Palikare, do come! Do come, dear Palikare," Perrine said, imploringly.
But he sat there as though he did not understand a word of what she was
saying. A crowd gathered round and began to jeer.
"Set fire to his tail," cried one.
Grain-of-Salt was furious, Perrine in despair.
"You see he won't go in," cried La Rouquerie. "I'll give thirty francs,
that's ten more'n I said, 'cause his cunning shows that this donkey is a
good boy, but hurry up and take the money or I'll buy another."
Grain-of-Salt consulted Perrine with a glance; he made her a sign that
she ought to accept the offer. But she seemed stunned at such a fraud.
She was standing there undecided when a policeman told her roughly that
she was blocking up the street and that she must move on.
"Go forward, or go back, but don't stand there," he ordered.
She could not go forward, for Palikare had no intention of doing so. As
soon as he understood that she had given up all hope of getting him into
the Market, he got up and followed her docilely, agitating his long ears
with satisfaction.
"Now," said La Rouquerie, after she had put thirty francs into poor
Perrine's hand, "you must take him to my place, for I'm beginning to
know him and he's quite capable of refusing to come with me. I don't
live far from here."
But Grain-of-Salt would not consent to do this; he declared that the
distance was too far for him.
"You go with the lady alone," he said to Perrine, "and don't be too cut
up about your donkey. He'll be all right with her. She's a good woman."
"But how shall I find my way back to Charonne?" asked Perrine,
bewildered. She dreaded to be lost in the great city.
"You follow the fortifications ... nothing easier."
As it happened, the street where La Rouquerie lived was not far from the
Horse Market, and it did not take them long to get there. There were
heaps of garbage before her place, just like in Guillot Field.
The moment of parting had come. As she tied Palikare up in a little
stable, her tears fell on his head.
"Don't take on so," said the woman; "I'll take care of him, I promise
you."
"We loved him so much," said little Perrine. Then she went on her way.
CHAPTER III
"POOR LITTLE GIRL"
What was she to do with thirty francs when she had calculated that they
must at least have one hundred? She turned this question over in her
mind sadly as she walked along by the fortifications. She found her way
back easily. She put the money into her mother's hand, for she did not
know how to spend it. It was her mother who decided what to do.
"We must go at once to Maraucourt," she said.
"But are you strong enough?" Perrine asked doubtfully.
"I must be. We have waited too long in the hope that I should get
better. And while we wait our money is going. What poor Palikare has
brought us will go also. I did not want to go in this miserable
state...."
"When must we go? Today?" asked Perrine.
"No; it's too late today. We must go tomorrow morning. You go and find
out the hours of the train and the price of the tickets. It is the Gare
du Nord station, and the place where we get out is Picquigny."
Perrine anxiously sought Grain-of-Salt. He told her it was better for
her to consult a time table than to go to the station, which was a long
way off. From the time table they learned that there were two trains in
the morning, one at six o'clock and one at ten, and that the fare to
Picquigny, third class, was nine francs twenty-five centimes.
"We'll take the ten o'clock train," said her mother, "and we will take a
cab, for I certainly cannot walk to the station."
And yet when nine o'clock the next day came she could not even get to
the cab that Perrine had waiting for her. She attempted the few steps
from her room to the cab, but would have fallen to the ground had not
Perrine held her.
"I must go back," she said weakly. "Don't be anxious ... it will pass."
But it did not pass, and the Baroness, who was watching them depart, had
to bring a chair. The moment she dropped into the seat she fainted.
"She must go back and lie down," said the Baroness, rubbing her cold
hands. "It is nothing, girl; don't look so scared ... just go and find
Carp. The two of us can carry her to her room. You can't go ... not just
now."
The Baroness soon had the sick woman in her bed, where she regained
consciousness.
"Now you must just stay there in your bed," said the Baroness, kindly.
"You can go just as well tomorrow. I'll get Carp to give you a nice cup
of bouillon. He loves soup as much as the landlord loves wine; winter
and summer he gets up at five o'clock and makes his soup; good stuff it
is, too. Few can make better."
Without waiting for a reply, she went to Carp, who was again at his
work.
"Will you give me a cup of your bouillon for our patient?" she asked.
He replied with a smile only, but he quickly took the lid from a
saucepan and filled a cup with the savory soup.
The Baroness returned with it, carrying it carefully, so as not to spill
a drop.
"Take that, my dear lady," she said, kneeling down beside the bed.
"Don't move, but just open your lips."
A spoonful was put to the sick woman's lips, but she could not swallow
it. Again she fainted, and this time she remained unconscious for a
longer time. The Baroness saw that the soup was not needed, and so as
not to waste it, she made Perrine take it.
A day passed. The doctor came, but there was nothing he could do.
Perrine was in despair. She wondered how long the thirty francs that La
Rouquerie had given her would last. Although their expenses were not
great, there was first one thing, then another, that was needed. When
the last sous were spent, where would they go? What would become of them
if they could get no more money?
She was seated beside her mother's bedside, her beautiful little face
white and drawn with anxiety. Suddenly she felt her mother's hand,
which she held in hers, clasp her fingers more tightly.
"You want something?" she asked quickly, bending her head.
"I want to speak to you ... the hour has come for my last words to you,
darling," said her mother.
"Oh, mama! mama!" cried Perrine.
"Don't interrupt, darling, and let us both try to control ourselves. I
did not want to frighten you, and that is the reason why, until now, I
have said nothing that would add to your grief. But what I have to say
must be said, although it hurts us both. We are going to part...."
In spite of her efforts, Perrine could not keep back her sobs.
"Yes, it is terrible, dear child, and yet I am wondering if, after all,
it is not for the best ... that you will be an orphan. It may be better
for you to go alone than to be taken to them by a mother whom they have
scorned. Well, God's will is that you should be left alone ... in a few
hours ... tomorrow, perhaps...."
For a moment she stopped, overcome with emotion.
"When I ... am gone ... there will be things for you to do. In my pocket
you will find a large envelope which contains my marriage certificate.
The certificate bears my name and your father's. You will be asked to
show it, but make them give it back to you. You might need it later on
to prove your parentage. Take great care of it, dear. However, you
might lose it, so I want you to learn it by heart, so that you will
never forget it. Then, when a day comes and you need it, you must get
another copy. You understand? Remember all that I tell you."
"Yes, mama; yes."
"You will be very unhappy, but you must not give way to despair. When
you have nothing more to do in Paris ... when you are left alone ...
then you must go off at once to Maraucourt ... by train if you have
enough money ... on foot, if you have not. Better to sleep by the
roadside and have nothing to eat than to stay in Paris. You promise to
leave Paris at once, Perrine?"
"I promise, mama," sobbed the little girl.
The sick woman made a sign that she wanted to say more, but that she
must rest for a moment. Little Perrine waited, her eyes fixed on her
mother's face.
"You will go to Maraucourt?" said the dying woman after a few moments
had passed. "You have no right to claim anything ... what you get must
be for yourself alone ... be good, and make yourself loved. All is there
... for you. I have hope ... you will be loved for yourself ... they
cannot help loving you ... and then your troubles will be over, my
darling."
She clasped her hands in prayer. Then a look of heavenly rapture came
over her face.
"I see," she cried; "I see ... my darling will be loved! She will be
happy ... she will be cared for. I can die in peace now with this
thought ... Perrine, my Perrine, keep a place in your heart for me
always, child...."
These words, which seemed like an exaltation to Heaven, had exhausted
her; she sank back on the mattress and sighed. Perrine waited ...
waited. Her mother did not speak. She was dead. Then the child left the
bedside and went out of the house. In the field she threw herself down
on the grass and broke into sobs. It seemed as though her little heart
would break.
It was a long time before she could calm herself. Then her breath came
in hiccoughs. Vaguely she thought that she ought not to leave her mother
alone. Someone should watch over her.
The field was now filled with shadows; the night was falling. She
wandered about, not knowing where she went, still sobbing.
She passed the wagon for the tenth time. The candy man, who had watched
her come out of the house, went towards her with two sugar sticks in his
hand.
"Poor little girl," he said, pityingly.
"Oh!..." she sobbed.
"There, there! Take these," he said, offering her the candy. "Sweetness
is good for sorrow."
CHAPTER IV
A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL
The last prayers had been uttered. Perrine still stood before the grave.
The Baroness, who had not left her, gently took her arm.
"Come," she said; "you must come away," she added more firmly as Perrine
attempted to resist her.
Holding her tightly by the arm, she drew her away. They walked on for
some moments, Perrine not knowing what was passing around her, nor
understanding where they were leading her. Her thoughts, her spirit, her
heart, were with her mother.
At last they stopped in one of the side paths; then she saw standing
round her the Baroness, who had now let go of her arm, Grain-of-Salt and
the candy man, but she saw them only vaguely. The Baroness had black
ribbons on her bonnet; Grain-of-Salt was dressed like a gentleman and
wore a high silk hat; Carp had replaced his leather apron by a black
Prince Albert which came down to his feet, and the candy man had cast
aside his white blouse for a cloth coat. For, like the real Parisian who
practises the cult of the dead, they had dressed themselves up in their
best to pay respect to the one they had just buried.
"I want to tell you, little one," commenced Grain-of-Salt, who thought
that he should speak first, being the most important person present; "I
want to tell you that you can stay as long as you like in Guillot Fields
without paying."
"If you'd like to sing with me," said the Baroness, "you can earn enough
to live on. It's a nice profession."
"If you'd like to go into the candy business, I'll teach you; that's a
real trade and a nice one," said the candy man.
Carp said nothing, but with a smile and a gesture he let her understand
that she could always find a bowl of soup at his place ... and good
soup, too!
Perrine's eyes filled with fresh tears, soft tears which washed away the
bitterness of the burning ones which for two days had flowed from her
eyes.
"How good you all are to me," she murmured.
"One does what one can," said Grain-of-Salt.
"One should not leave an honest little girl like you on the streets of
Paris," said the Baroness.
"I must not stay in Paris," replied Perrine; "I must go at once to my
relations."
"You have relations?" exclaimed Grain-of-Salt, looking at the others
with an air which said that he did not think that those relations could
be worth much. "Where are your relations?"
"Near Amiens."
"And how can you go to Amiens? Have you got money?"
"Not enough to take the train, but I'm going to walk there."
"Do you know the way?"
"I have a map in my pocket...."
"Yes, but does that tell you which road you have to take from here, here
in Paris?"
"No, but if you will tell me...."
They all were eager to give her this information, but it was all so
confused and contradictory that Grain-of-Salt cut the talk short.
"If you want to lose yourself in Paris, just listen to what they are
saying," he said. "Now, this is the way you must go," and he explained
to her which road she should take. "Now, when do you want to go?"
"At once; I promised my mother," said Perrine.
"You must obey her," said the Baroness, solemnly, "but not before I've
kissed you; you're a good girl."
The men shook hands with her.
She knew she must leave the cemetery, yet she hesitated and turned once
more towards the grave that she had just left, but the Baroness stopped
her.
"As you are obliged to go, go at once; it is best," she said.
"Yes, go," said Grain-of-Salt.
When she had climbed into the car on the belt line she took an old map
of France from her pocket which she had consulted many times alone since
they left Italy. From Paris to Amiens the road was easy; she had only to
take the Calais road; this was indicated on her map by a little black
line. From Amiens she would go to Boulogne, and as she had learned also
to calculate distances, she thought that to Maraucourt it ought to be
about one hundred and fifty-eight miles.
But could she do all those miles, regularly ... go on day after day? She
knew that to walk four or five miles by chance on one day was a very
different matter to taking a long, continuous journey like she was
contemplating. There would be bad days ... rainy days ... and how long
would her money last? She had only five francs thirty-five centimes
left. The train pulled up at the station at which she had to get out.
Now she had to turn to the right, and as the sun would not go down for
two or three hours she hoped to be far away from Paris by night, and
find a place in the open country where she could sleep.
Yet as far as her eyes could see there was nothing but houses and
factories, factories with great tall chimneys sending forth clouds of
thick, black smoke, and all along the road wagons, tramways and carts.
Again she saw a lot of trucks bearing the name that she had noticed
while waiting to pass through the Gates: "Maraucourt Factories, Vulfran
Paindavoine."
Would Paris ever end? Would she ever get out of this great city? She was
not afraid of the lonely fields, nor the silence of the country at
night, nor the mysterious shadows, but of Paris, the crowd, the lights.
She was now on the outskirts of the city. Before leaving it (although
she had no appetite), she thought she would buy a piece of bread so
that she would have something to eat before going to sleep. She went
into a baker shop.
"I want some bread, please," she said.
"Have you any money?" demanded the woman, who did not seem to put much
confidence in Perrine's appearance.
"Yes, and I want one pound, please. Here is five francs. Will you give
me the change?"
Before cutting the bread the woman took up the five franc piece and
examined it.
"What! that!" she exclaimed, making it ring on the marble slab.
"It's a five franc piece," said Perrine.
"Who told you to try and pass that off on me?" asked the woman, angrily.
"No one, and I am asking you for a pound of bread for my supper."
"Well, then, you won't get any bread, and you'd better get out of here
as quickly as you can before I have you arrested."
"Arrested! Why?" she stammered in surprise.
"Because you're a thief!"
"Oh!..."
"You want to pass counterfeit money on me. You vagabond ... you thief!
Be off! No, wait; I'll get a policeman."
Perrine knew that she was not a thief, whether the money was real or
false, but vagabond she was. She had no home, no parents. What would she
answer the policeman? They would arrest her for being a vagabond.
She put this question to herself very quickly, but although her fear was
great, she thought of her money.
"If you don't wish to sell me the bread, at least you can give me back
my money," she said, holding out her hand.
"So that you can pass it on someone else, eh? I'll keep your money. If
you want it, go and fetch the police," cried the woman, furiously. "Be
off, you thief."
The woman's loud cries could be heard in the street, and several people
by now had gathered round the door.
"What's the matter?" someone cried.
"Why, this girl here is trying to rob my till," shouted the woman.
"There never is a cop when one wants one."
Terrified, Perrine wondered how she could get out, but they let her pass
as she made for the door, hissing her and calling her names as she ran.
She ran on and on, too afraid to turn round to see if anyone was
following her.
After a few minutes, which to her seemed hours, she found herself in the
country, and was able to stop and breathe. No one was calling after her;
no one following her.
After her fears had calmed down she realized that she had nothing to eat
and no money. What should she do? Instinctively she glanced at the
fields by the wayside. She saw beets, onions, cabbages, but there was
nothing there ready to eat, and besides, even if there had been ripe
melons and trees laden with fruit, what good would they have been to
her; she could not stretch out her hand to pick the fruit any more than
she could stretch it out to beg of the passersby. No, little Perrine was
not a thief, nor a beggar, nor a vagabond.
She felt very depressed. It was eventide, and in the quietness of the
twilight she realized how utterly alone she was; but she knew that she
must not give way; she felt that while there was still light she must
walk on, and by the time night fell perhaps she would have found a spot
where she could sleep in safety.
She had not gone far before she found what she thought would be the very
place. As she came to a field of artichokes she saw a man and woman
picking artichoke heads and packing them in baskets, which they piled up
in a cart that stood by the roadside. She stopped to look at them at
their work. A moment later another cart driven by a girl came up.
"So you're getting yours all in?" called out the girl.
"Should say so, and it's none too soon," replied the man. "It's no fun
sleeping here all night to watch for those rogues. I at least shall
sleep in my bed tonight."
"And what about Monneau's lot?" grinned the girl.
"Oh, Monneau's a sly dog," answered the man; "he counts on us others
watching out for his. He's not going to be here tonight. Serve him
right if he finds all his gone!"
All three laughed heartily. They were not over-anxious that Monneau
should prosper. Didn't he profit by their watch to take his own slumbers
in peace?
"That'll be a joke, eh?"
"Wait for me," said the girl. "I won't be a jiffy; then we'll go
together."
The man and the woman waited, and in a few minutes the girl had finished
her task and the two carts, laden with artichokes, went towards the
village. Perrine stood in the deserted road looking at the two fields,
which presented such a difference in appearance. One was completely
stripped of its vegetables; the other was filled with a splendid crop.
At the end of the field was a little hut made of branches where the man
who watched the field had slept. Perrine decided that she would stay
there for the night, now that she knew it would not be occupied by the
watch. She did not fear that she would be disturbed, yet she dared not
take possession of the place until it was quite dark. She sat down by a
ditch and waited, thankful that she had found what she wanted. Then at
last, when it was quite dark and all was quiet, she picked her way
carefully over the beds of artichokes and slipped into the hut. It was
better inside than she had hoped, for the ground was covered with straw
and there was a wooden box that would serve her for a pillow.
Ever since she had run from the baker's shop it had seemed to her that
she was like a tracked animal, and more than once she had looked behind
her with fear, half expecting to see the police on her heels.
She felt now in the hut that she was safe. Her nerves relaxed. After a
few minutes she realized that she had another cause for anxiety. She was
hungry, very hungry. While she was tramping along the roads, overwhelmed
by her great loss, it had seemed to her that she would never want to eat
or drink again. She felt the pangs of hunger now and she had only one
sou left. How could she live on one sou for five or six days? This was a
very serious question. But then, had she not found shelter for the
night; perhaps she would find food for the morrow.
She closed her eyes, her long black lashes heavy with tears. The last
thing at night she had always thought of her dead father; now it was the
spirits of both her father and her mother that seemed to hover around
her. Again and again she stretched out her arms in the darkness to them,
and then, worn out with fatigue, with a sob she dropped off to sleep.
But although she was tired out, her slumbers were broken. She turned and
tossed on the straw. Every now and again the rumbling of a cart on the
road would wake her, and sometimes some mysterious noise, which in the
silence of the night made her heart beat quickly. Then it seemed to her
that she heard a cart stop near the hut on the road. She raised herself
on her elbow to listen.
She had not made a mistake; she heard some whispering. She sprang to her
feet and looked through the cracks of the hut. A cart had stopped at the
end of the field, and by the pale light from the stars she could dimly
see the form of a man or woman throwing out baskets to two others, who
carried them into the field. This was Monneau's lot. What did it mean at
such an hour? Had Monneau come so late to cut his artichokes?
Then she understood! These were the thieves! They had come to strip
Monneau's field! They quickly cut the artichoke heads and heaped them up
in the baskets. The woman had taken the cart away; evidently they did
not want it to stay on the road while they worked for fear of attracting
the attention of anyone passing by.
What would happen to her if the thieves saw her? She had heard that
thieves sometimes killed a person who caught them at their work. There
was the chance that they would not discover her. For they certainly knew
that the hut would not be occupied on this night that they had planned
to strip the field. But if they caught her? And then ... if they were
arrested, she would be taken with them!
At this thought cold beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead.
Thieves work quickly; they would soon have finished!
But presently they were disturbed. From the distance could be heard the
noise of a cart on the paved road. As it drew nearer they hid
themselves, lying down flat between the artichoke beds.
The cart passed. Then they went on with their work even more quickly. In
spite of their feverish haste it seemed to little Perrine that they
would never be finished. Every moment she feared that someone would come
and catch them and she be arrested with them.
If she could only get away. She looked about her to see if it were
possible for her to leave the hut. This could easily be done, but then
they would be sure to see her once she was on the road. It would be
better to remain where she was.
She lay down again and pretended to sleep. As it was impossible for her
to go out without being seen, it was wiser to pretend that she had not
seen anything if they should come into the hut.
For some time they went on cutting the artichokes. Then there was
another noise on the road. It was their cart coming back. It stopped at
the end of the field. In a few minutes the baskets were all stowed in
the cart and the thieves jumped in and drove off hurriedly in the
direction of Paris.
If she had known the hour she could have slept until dawn, but not
knowing how long she had been there, she thought that it would be better
if she went on her way. In the country people are about at an early
hour. If, when day broke, the laborers going to work saw her coming out
of the hut, or even if they saw her round about the field, they might
suspect her of having been with the thieves and arrest her.
So she slipped out of the hut, ears on the alert for the slightest
noise, eyes glancing in every direction.
She reached the main road, then hurried off. The stars in the skies
above were disappearing, and from the east a faint streak of light lit
the shadows of the night and announced the approach of day.
CHAPTER V
STORMS AND FEARS
She had not walked far before she saw in the distance a black mass
silhouetted against the dawning light to the grey sky. Chimneys, houses
and steeples rose up in the coming dawn, leaving the rest of the
landscape obscure in the shadows.
She reached the first straggling cottages of the village. Instinctively
she trod more softly on the paved road. This was a useless precaution,
for with the exception of the cats which ran about the streets, everyone
slept, and her little footsteps only awoke a few dogs who barked at her
behind closed gates.
She was famished; she was weak and faint with hunger.
What would become of her if she dropped unconscious? She was afraid she
might soon. So that this would not happen, she thought it better to rest
a minute, and as she was now passing before a barn full of hay, she went
in quietly and threw herself down on the soft bed. The rest, the warmth,
and also the sweet smell of the hay, soothed her and soon she slept.
When she awoke the sun was already high in the heavens and was casting
its rays over the fields where men and women were busily at work.
The pangs of hunger were now more acute than ever. Her head whirled; she
was so giddy that she could scarcely see where she went as she staggered
on. She had just reached the top of a hill, and before her, close by,
was the village with its shops. She would spend her last sou for a piece
of bread! She had heard of people finding money on the road; perhaps she
would find a coin tomorrow; anyhow, she must have a piece of bread now.
She looked carefully at the last sou she possessed. Poor little girl,
she did not know the difference between real money and false, and
although she thought this sou looked real, she was very nervous when she
entered the first baker shop that she came across.
"Will you cut me a sou's worth of bread?" she asked, timidly.
The man behind the counter took from the basket a little penny roll and
handed it to her. Instead of stretching out her hand, she hesitated.
"If you'll cut a piece for me," she said, "it doesn't matter if it is
not today's bread."
The baker gave her a large piece of bread that had been on the counter
for two or three days.
What did that matter? The great thing was that it was larger than the
little penny roll. It was worth two rolls.
As soon as it was in her hand her mouth filled with water. But she would
not eat it until she had got out of the village. This she did very
quickly. As soon as she had passed the last house, she took her little
knife from her pocket and made a cross on the piece of bread so as to be
able to cut it into four equal parts. She took one piece, keeping the
three others for the three following days, hoping that it might last her
until she reached Amiens.
She had calculated this as she had hurried through the village, and it
had seemed such an easy matter. But scarcely had she swallowed a
mouthful of her little piece of bread than she felt that the strongest
arguments had no power against hunger. She was famished! She must eat!
The second piece followed the first, the third followed the second.
Never had her will power been so weak. She was hungry; she must have it
... all ... all. Her only excuse was that the pieces were so tiny. When
all four were put together, the whole only weighed a half a pound. And a
whole pound would not have been enough for her in her ravenous
condition. The day before she had only had a little cup of soup that
Carp had given her. She devoured the fourth piece.
She went on her way. Although she had only just eaten her piece of
bread, a terrible thought obsessed her. Where would she next get a
mouthful? She now knew what torture she would have to go through ... the
pangs of hunger were terrible to endure. Where should she get her next
meal? She walked through two more villages. She was getting thirsty now,
very thirsty. Her tongue was dry, her lips parched. She came to the
last house in the village, but she did not dare ask for a glass of
water. She had noticed that the people looked at her curiously, and even
the dogs seemed to show their teeth at the ragged picture she presented.
She must walk on. The sun was very hot now, and her thirst became more
intense as she tramped along the white road. There was not a tree along
the road, and little clouds of dust rose around her every instant,
making her lips more parched. Oh, for a drink of water! The palate of
her mouth seemed hard, like a corn.
The fact that she was thirsty had not worried her at first. One did not
have to go into a shop to buy water. Anybody could have it. When she saw
a brook or a river she had only to make a cup of her hands and drink all
she wanted. But she had walked miles in the dust and could see no sign
of water. At last she picked up some little round stones and put them in
her mouth. Her tongue seemed to be moister while she kept them there.
She changed them from time to time, hoping that she would soon come to a
brook.
Then suddenly the atmosphere changed, and although the heat was still
suffocating, the sun was hidden. Thick black clouds filled the sky. A
storm was coming on, there would be rain, and she would be able to hold
her mouth up to it, or she could stoop down to the puddles that it made
and drink!
The wind came up. A terrific swirl, carrying clouds of dust and leaves,
swept over the country and battered down the crops, uprooting plants and
shrubs in its mad fracas. Perrine could not withstand this whirlwind. As
she was lifted off her feet, a deafening crash of thunder shook the
earth. Throwing herself down in the ditch, she laid flat on her stomach,
covering her mouth and her eyes with her two small hands. The thunder
rolled heavily on.
A moment ago she had been mad with thirst and had prayed that the storm
would break quickly; now she realized that the storm would not only
bring thunder and rain, but lightning--terrible flashes of lightning
that almost blinded her.
And there would be torrents of rain and hail! Where could she go? Her
dress would be soaked, and how could she dry it?
She clambered out of the ditch. In the distance she saw a wood. She
thought that she might find a nook there where she could take shelter.
She had no time to lose. It was very dark. The claps of thunder became
more frequent and louder, and the vivid lightning played fantastically
on the black sky.
Would she be able to reach the wood before the storm broke? She ran as
quickly as her panting breath would allow, now and again casting a look
behind her at the black clouds which seemed to be sweeping down upon
her.
She had seen terrible storms in the mountains when travelling with her
father and mother, but they were with her then; now she was alone. Not
a soul near her in this desolate country. Fortunately the wind was
behind her; it blew her along, at times carrying her off her feet. If
she could only keep up this pace; the storm had not caught up with her
yet.
Holding her elbows against her little body and bending forward, she ran
on ... but the storm also made greater strides.
At this moment came a crash, louder and heavier. The storm was just over
her now and the ground around her was cleaved with blue flames. It was
better to stop running now; far better be drenched than struck down by
lightning.
Soon a few drops of rain fell. Fortunately she was nearing the wood, and
now she could distinguish clearly the great trees. A little more
courage. Many times her father had told her that if one kept one's
courage in times of danger one stood a better chance of being saved. She
kept on.
When at last she entered the forest it was all so black and dark she
could scarcely make out anything. Then suddenly a flash of lightning
dazzled her, and in the vivid glare she thought she saw a little cabin
not far away to which led a bad road hollowed with deep ruts. Again the
lightning flashed across the darkness, and she saw that she had not made
a mistake. About fifty steps farther on there was a little hut made of
faggots, that the woodcutters had built.
She made a final dash; then, at the end of her strength, worn out and
breathless, she sank down on the underbrush that covered the floor.
She had not regained her breath when a terrible noise filled the forest.
The crash, mingled with the splintering of wood, was so terrific that
she thought her end had come. The trees bent their trunks, twisting and
writhing, and the dead branches fell everywhere with a dull, crackling
sound.
Could her hut withstand this fury? She crawled to the opening. She had
no time to think--a blue flame, followed by a frightful crash, threw her
over, blinded and dazed. When she came to herself, astonished to find
that she was still alive, she looked out and saw that a giant oak that
stood near the hut had been struck by lightning. In falling its length
the trunk had been stripped of its bark from top to bottom, and two of
the biggest branches were twisted round its roots.
She crept back, trembling, terrified at the thought that Death had been
so near her, so near that its terrible breath had laid her low. As she
stood there, pale and shaking, she heard an extraordinary rolling sound,
more powerful than that of an express train. It was the rain and the
hail which was beating down on the forest. The cabin cracked from top to
bottom; the roof bent under the fury of the tempest, but it did not fall
in. No house, however solid, could be to her what this little hut was at
this moment, and she was mistress of it.
She grew calm; she would wait here until the storm had passed. A sense
of well-being stole over her, and although the thunder continued to
rumble and the rain came down in a deluge, and the wind whistled through
the trees, and the unchained tempest went on its mad way through the air
and on the earth, she felt safe in her little hut. Then she made a
pillow for her head from the underbrush, and stretching herself out, she
fell asleep.
When she awoke the thunder had stopped, but the rain was still falling
in a fine drizzle. The forest, with its solitude and silence, did not
terrify her. She was refreshed from her long sleep and she liked her
little cabin so much that she thought she would spend the night there.
She at least had a roof over her head and a dry bed.
She did not know how long she had slept, but that did not matter; she
would know when night came.
She had not washed herself since she had left Paris, and the dust which
had covered her from head to foot made her skin smart. Now she was
alone, and there was plenty of water in the ditch outside and she would
profit by it.
In her pocket she had, beside her map and her mother's certificate, a
few little things tied up in a rag. There was a piece of soap, a small
comb, a thimble, and a spool of thread, in which she had stuck two
needles. She undid her packet; then taking off her vest, her shoes, and
her stockings, she leaned over the ditch, in which the water flowed
clear, and soaped her face, shoulders and feet. For a towel she had only
the rag she had used to tie up her belongings, and it was neither big
nor thick, but it was better than nothing.
This _toilette_ did her almost as much good as her sleep. She combed her
golden hair in two big braids and let them hang over her shoulders. If
it were not for the little pain in her stomach, and the few torn places
in her shoes, which had been the cause of her sore feet, she would have
been quite at ease in mind and body.
She was hungry, but there was nothing she could do. She could not find a
bit of nourishment in this cabin, and as it was still raining, she felt
that she ought not to leave this shelter until the next day.
Then when night came her hunger became more intense, till finally she
began to cut some twigs and nibble on them, but they were hard and
bitter, and after chewing on them for a few minutes she threw them away.
She tried the leaves; they went down easier.
While she ate her meal and darned her stockings, night came on. Soon all
was dark and silent. She could hear no other sound than that of the
raindrops falling from the branches.
Although she had made up her mind to spend the night there, she
experienced a feeling of fright at being all alone in this black forest.
True, she had spent a part of the day in the same place, running no
other danger than that of being struck, but the woods in the daytime are
not like the woods at night, with the solemn silence and the mysterious
shadows, which make one conjure up the vision of so many weird things.
What was in the woods? she wondered. Wolves, perhaps!
At this thought she became wide awake, and jumping up, she found a big
stick, which she cut to a point with her knife; then she strewed
branches and fagots all around her, piling them high. She could at least
defend herself behind her rampart.
Reassured, she laid down again, and it was not long before she was
asleep.
The song of a bird awoke her. She recognized at once the sweet, shrill
notes of a blackbird. Day was breaking. She began to shake, for she was
chilled to the bone. The dampness of the night had made her clothes as
wet as though she had been through a shower.
She jumped to her feet and shook herself violently like a dog. She felt
that she ought to move about, but she did not want to go on her way yet,
for it was not yet light enough for her to study the sky to see if it
were going to rain again. To pass the time, and still more with the wish
to be on the move, she arranged the fagots which she had disturbed the
night before. Then she combed her hair and washed herself in the ditch,
which was full of water.
When she had finished the sun had risen, and the sky gleamed blue
through the branches of the trees. There was not the slightest cloud to
be seen. She must go.
Although she had darned her stockings well which had worn away through
the holes in her shoes, the continual tramp, tramp, tramp, made her
little feet ache. After a time, however, she stepped out with a regular
step on the road, which had been softened by the rain, and the rays from
the beautiful sun fell upon her back and warmed her.
Never had she seen such a lovely morning. The storm, which had washed
the roads and the fields, had given new life to the plants. Surely this
was a good omen. She was full of hope.
Her imagination began to soar on wings. She hoped that somebody had had
a hole in their pockets and had lost some money, and that she could find
it on the road. She hoped she might find something, not a purse full,
because she would have to try to find the owner, but just a little coin,
one penny, or perhaps ten cents. She even thought that she might find
some work to do, something that could bring her in a few cents.
She needed so little to be able to live for three or four days.
She trudged along with her eyes fixed on the ground, but neither a
copper nor a silver coin did she see, and neither did she meet anybody
who could give her work.
Oh, for something to eat! She was famished. Again and again she had to
sit down by the wayside, she was so weak from lack of food.
She wondered if she found nothing would she have to sit down by the road
and die.
Finally she came to a field and saw four young girls picking peas. A
peasant woman seemed to be in charge.
Gathering courage, she crossed over the road and walked towards the
woman. But the woman stopped her before she could reach her.
"What cher want?" she shouted.
"I want to know if I can help, too," answered Perrine.
"We don't want no one!"
"You can give me just what you wish."
"Where d'ye come from?"
"From Paris."
One of the girls raised her head and cast her an angry look.
"The galavanter!" she cried, "she comes from Paris to try to get our
job."
"I told yer we don't want nobody," said the woman again.
There was nothing to do but to go on her way, which she did with a heavy
heart.
"Look out! A cop's comin'!" cried one of the girls.
Perrine turned her head quickly, and they all burst out laughing, amused
at the joke.
She had not gone far before she had to stop. She could not see the road
for the tears which filled her eyes. What had she done to those girls
that they should be so mean to her?
Evidently it was as difficult for tramps to get work as it was for them
to find pennies. She did not dare ask again for a job. She dragged her
feet along, only hurrying when she was passing through the villages so
that she could escape the stares.
She was almost prostrated when she reached a wood. It was mid-day and
the sun was scorching; there was not a breath of air. She was exhausted
and dripping with perspiration. Then her heart seemed to stop and she
fell to the ground, unable to move or think.
A wagon coming up behind her passed by.
"This heat'll kill one," shouted the driver.
In a half conscious state she caught his words. They came to her like in
a dream; it was as though sentence had been passed upon her.
So she was to die? She had thought so herself, but now a messenger of
Death was saying so.
Well, she would die. She could keep up no longer. Her father was dead,
and her mother was dead, now she was going to die. A cruel thought
flitted through her dull brain. She wondered why she could not have died
with them rather than in a ditch like a poor animal.
She tried to make a last effort to get to the wood where she could find
a spot to lie down for her last sleep, somewhere away from the road. She
managed to drag herself into the wood, and there she found a little
grassy spot where violets were growing. She laid down under a large
tree, her head on her arm, just as she did at night when she went to
sleep.
CHAPTER VI
THE RESCUE
Something warm passing over her face made her open her eyes. Dimly she
saw a large velvety head bending over her. In terror she tried to throw
herself on one side, but a big tongue licked her cheek and held her to
the grass. So quickly had this happened that she had not had time to
recognize the big velvety head which belonged to a donkey, but while the
great tongue continued to lick her face and hands she was able to look
up at it.
Palikare! It was dear, dear Palikare! She threw her arms around her
donkey's neck and burst into tears.
"My darling, dear, darling Palikare," she murmured.
When he heard his name he stopped licking her and lifting his head he
sent forth five or six triumphant brays of happiness. Then, as though
that was not enough to express his contentment, he let out five or six
more, but not quite so loud.
Perrine then noticed that he was without a harness or a rope.
While she stroked him with her hand and he bent his long ears down to
her, she heard a hoarse voice calling:
"What yer found, old chap? I'll be there in a minute. I'm comin', old
boy."
[Illustration: SOMETHING WARM PASSING OVER HER FACE MADE HER OPEN HER
EYES.]
There was a quick step on the road, and Perrine saw what appeared to be
a man dressed in a smock and wearing a leather hat and with a pipe in
his mouth.
"Hi, kid, what yer doin' with my donkey?" he cried, without taking the
pipe from his lip.
Then Perrine saw that it was the rag woman to whom she had sold Palikare
at the Horse Market. The woman did not recognize her at first. She
stared hard at her for a moment.
"Sure I've seen yer somewhere," she said at last.
"It was I who sold you Palikare," said Perrine.
"Why, sure it's you, little one, but what in Heaven's name are you doin'
here?"
Perrine could not reply. She was so giddy her head whirled. She had been
sitting up, but now she was obliged to lie down again, and her pallor
and tears spoke for her.
"What's the matter? Are you sick?" demanded La Rouquerie.
Although Perrine moved her lips as though to speak, no sound came. Again
she was sinking into unconsciousness, partly from emotion, partly from
weakness.
But La Rouquerie was a woman of experience; she had seen all miseries.
"The kid's dying of hunger," she muttered to herself.
She hurried over the road to a little truck over the sides of which
were spread out some dried rabbit skins. The woman quickly opened a box
and took out a slice of bread, a piece of cheese and a bottle. She
carried it back on the run.
Perrine was still in the same condition.
"One little minute, girlie; one little minute," she said encouragingly.
Kneeling down beside little Perrine, she put the bottle to her lips.
"Take a good drink; that'll keep you up," she said.
True, the good drink brought the blood back to her cheeks.
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes," murmured Perrine.
"Well, now you must eat, but gently; wait a minute."
She broke off a piece of bread and cheese and offered it to her.
"Eat it slowly," she said, advisedly, for already Perrine had devoured
the half of what was handed to her. "I'll eat with you, then you won't
eat so fast."
Palikare had been standing quietly looking on with his big soft eyes.
When he saw La Rouquerie sit down on the grass beside Perrine, he also
knelt down beside them.
"The old rogue, he wants a bite, too," said the woman.
"May I give him a piece?" asked Perrine.
"Yes, you can give him a piece or two. When we've eaten this there is
more in the cart. Give him some; he is so pleased to see you again, good
old boy. You know he _is_ a good boy."
"Yes, isn't he a dear?" said Perrine, softly.
"Now when you've eaten that you can tell me how you come to be in these
woods pretty near starved to death. Sure it'd be a pity for you to kick
the bucket yet awhile."
After she had eaten as much as was good for her, Perrine told her story,
commencing with the death of her mother. When she came to the scene she
had had with the baker woman at St. Denis, the woman took her pipe from
her mouth and called the baker woman some very bad names.
"She's a thief, a thief!" she cried. "I've never given bad money to no
one, 'cause I never take any from nobody. Be easy! She'll give that back
to me next time I pass by her shop, or I'll put the whole neighborhood
against her. I've friends at St. Denis, and we'll set her store on fire
if she don't give it up!"
Perrine finished her story.
"You was just about goin' to die," said La Rouquerie; "what was the
feelin' like?"
"At first I felt very sad," said Perrine, "and I think I must have cried
like one cries in the night when one is suffocating; then I dreamed of
Heaven and of the good food I should have there. Mama, who was waiting
for me, had made me some milk chocolate; I could smell it."
"It's funny that this heat wave, which was going to kill you, really
was the cause of yer bein' saved. If it hadn't been for this darned heat
I never should have stopped to let that donkey rest in this wood, and
then he wouldn't have found yer. What cher goin' to do now?"
"Go on my way."
"And tomorrow? What yer got to eat? One's got to be young like you to
take such a trip as this."
"But what could I do?"
La Rouquerie gravely took two or three puffs at her pipe. She was
thoughtful for a moment; then she said:
"See here, I'm goin' as far as Creil, no farther. I'm buyin' odds and
ends in the villages as I go along. It's on the way to Chantilly, so you
come along with me. Now yell out a bit if you've got the strength:
'Rabbit skins! Rags and bones to sell!'"
Perrine straightened herself and cried out as she was told.
"That's fine! You've got a good, clear voice. As I've got a sore throat,
you can do the calling out for me, so like that you'll earn your grub.
When we get to Creil I know a farmer there who goes as far as Amiens to
get eggs and things. I'll ask him to take you in his cart. When you get
to Amiens you can take the train to where yer relations hang out."
"But what with? How can I take a train?"
"I'll advance you the five francs that I'm goin' to get back from that
baker. I'll get it! So I'll give yer five francs for your fare."
CHAPTER VII
MARAUCOURT AT LAST
Things came to pass as La Rouquerie had arranged. For eight days Perrine
ran through the streets of the villages and towns crying out: "Rabbit
skins! Rags! Bones!"
"You've got a voice that would make yer famous for this here business,"
said La Rouquerie admiringly, as Perrine's clear treble was heard in the
streets. "If yer'd stay with me you'd be doin' me a service and yer
wouldn't be unhappy. You'd make a livin'. Is it a go?"
"Oh, thank you, but it's not possible," replied Perrine.
Finding that the reasons she advanced were not sufficient to induce
Perrine to stay with her, La Rouquerie put forth another:
"And yer wouldn't have to leave Palikare."
This was a great grief, but Perrine had made up her mind.
"I must go to my relations; I really must," she said.
"Did your relatives save yer life, like that there donkey?" insisted La
Rouquerie.
"But I promised my mother."
"Go, then, but you see one fine day you'll be sorry yer didn't take what
I offered yer p'raps."
"You are very kind and I shall always remember you."
When they reached Creil, La Rouquerie hunted up her friend, the farmer,
and asked him to give Perrine a lift in his cart as far as Amiens. He
was quite willing, and for one whole day Perrine enjoyed the comfort of
lying stretched out on the straw, behind two good trotting horses. At
Essentaux she slept in a barn.
The next day was Sunday, and she was up bright and early and quickly
made her way to the railway station. Handing her five francs to the
ticket seller she asked for a ticket to Picquigny. This time she had the
satisfaction of seeing that her five francs was accepted. She received
her ticket and seventy-five cents in change.
It was 12 o'clock when the train pulled in at the station at Picquigny.
It was a beautiful, sunny morning, the air was soft and warm, far
different from the scorching heat which had prostrated her in the woods,
and she ... how unlike she was from that miserable little girl who had
fallen by the wayside. And she was clean, too. During the days she had
spent with La Rouquerie she had been able to mend her waist and her
skirt, and had washed her linen and shined her shoes. Her past
experience was a lesson: she must never give up hope at the darkest
moment; she must always remember that there was a silver cloud, if she
would only persevere.
She had a long walk after she got out of the train at Picquigny. But
she walked along lightly past the meadows bordered with poplars and
limes, past the river where the villagers in their Sunday clothes were
fishing, past the windmills which, despite the fact that the day was
calm, were slowly moving round, blown by the breeze from the sea which
could be felt even there.
She walked through the pretty village of St. Pipoy, with its red roofs
and quaint church, and over the railway tracks which unites the towns
wherein Vulfran Paindavoine has his factories, and which joins the main
line to Boulogne.
As Perrine passed the pretty church the people were coming out from
mass. Listening to them as they talked in groups she heard again the
sing-song manner of talking that her father had often imitated so as to
amuse her.
On the country road she saw a young girl walking slowly ahead of her
carrying a very heavy basket on her arm.
"Is this the way to Maraucourt?" Perrine asked.
"Yes, this road ... quite straight."
"Quite straight," said Perrine laughing, "it isn't so very straight after
all."
"If you are going to Maraucourt, I'm going there too, and we could go
together," suggested the girl.
"I will if you'll let me help you carry your basket," said Perrine with a
smile.
"I won't say no to that, for it's sure heavy!"
The girl put her basket on the ground and breathed a sigh of relief.
"You don't belong to Maraucourt, do you?" asked the girl.
"No, do you?"
"Sure I do."
"Do you work in the factories?"
"Should say so, everybody does here."
"How much do they pay?"
"Ten sous."
"And is it hard work?"
"Not very; but you have to have a sharp eye and not waste time. Do you want
to get in there?"
"Yes, if they'd have me."
"Should say they would have you; they take anybody. If they didn't how do
you think they'd get the seven thousand hands they've got. Just be there
tomorrow morning at 6 o'clock at the gate. We must hurry now or I'll be
late. Come on."
She took the handle of the basket on one side and Perrine took it on the
other side and they set out on the road, keeping in step down the middle.
Here was an opportunity for Perrine to learn what held interest for her. It
was too good for her not to seize it. But she was afraid to question this
girl openly. She must put the questions she wanted answered in a way that
would not arouse her suspicions.
"Were you born at Maraucourt?" she began.
"Sure, I'm a native and my mother was too, my father came from Picquigny."
"Have you lost them?"
"Yes, I live with my grandmother who keeps a grocer store and restaurant.
She's Madame Francoise."
"Ah! Madame Francoise."
"What! do you know her?"
"No, I just said, 'Ah, Madame Francoise.'"
"She's known everywhere for her 'eats' and 'cause she was nurse to Monsieur
Edmond Paindavoine. Whenever the men want to ask the boss, Monsieur Vulfran
Paindavoine, for anything, they get my grandmother to ask for them."
"Does she always get what they want?"
"Sometimes yes, sometimes no; Monsieur Vulfran ain't always obliging."
"If your grandmother was nurse to Monsieur Edmond why doesn't she ask
him?"
"M. Edmond? he's the boss' son, and he went away from here before I was
born, no one's seen him since. He had a quarrel with his father, and his
father sent him to India to buy jute. The boss has made his fortune out
of jute. He's rich, as rich as...."
She could not think how rich M. Vulfran was so she said abruptly: "Now
shall we change arms?"
"If you like. What is your name?"
"Rosalie. What's yours?"
Perrine did not want to give her real name, so she chanced on one.
"Aurelie," she said.
They rested for a while, then went on again at their regular step.
"You say that the son had a quarrel with his father," said Perrine,
"then went away?"
"Yes, and the old gentleman got madder still with him 'cause he married
a Hindu girl, and a marriage like that doesn't count. His father wanted
him to marry a young lady who came of a very fine family, the best in
Picardy. It was because he wanted his son to marry this other girl that
he built the beautiful mansion he's got. It cost millions and millions
of francs. But M. Edmond wouldn't part with the wife he's got over there
to take up with the young lady here, so the quarrel got worse and worse,
and now they don't even know if the son is dead or alive. They haven't
had news of him for years, so they say. Monsieur Vulfran doesn't speak
to anyone about it, neither do the two nephews."
"Oh, he has nephews?"
"Yes, Monsieur Theodore Paindavoine, his brother's son, and Monsieur
Casimir Bretoneux, his sister's son, who help him in the business. If M.
Edmond doesn't come back the fortune and all the factories will go to
his two nephews."
"Oh, really!"
"Yes, and that'll be a sad thing, sad for the whole town. Them nephews
ain't no good for the business ... and so many people have to get their
living from it. Sure, it'll be a sad day when they get it, and they will
if poor M. Edmond doesn't come back. On Sundays, when I serve the meals,
I hear all sorts of things."
"About his nephews?"
"Yes, about them two and others also. But it's none of our business;
let's talk of something else."
"Yes, why not?"
As Perrine did not want to appear too inquisitive, she walked on
silently, but Rosalie's tongue could not be still for very long.
"Did you come along with your parents to Maraucourt?" she asked.
"I have no parents."
"No father, no mother!"
"No."
"You're like me, but I've got a grandmother who's very good, and she'd
be still better if it wasn't for my uncles and aunts; she has to please
them. If it wasn't for them I should not have to work in the factories;
I should stay at home and help in the store, but grandmother can't do as
she wants always. So you're all alone?"
"Yes, all alone."
"Was it your own idea to leave Paris and come to Maraucourt?"
"I was told that I might find work at Maraucourt, so instead of going
further on to some relations, I stopped here. If you don't know your
relations, and they don't know you, you're not sure if you're going to get
a welcome."
"That's true. If there are kind ones, there are some mighty unkind ones
in this world."
"Yes, that is so," Perrine said, nodding her pretty head.
"Well, don't worry; you'll find work in the factories. Ten sous a day is
not much, but it's something, and you can get as much as twenty-two sous.
I'm going to ask you a question; you can answer or not, as you like. Have
you got any money?"
"A little."
"Well, if you'd like to lodge at my grandmother's, that'll cost you
twenty-eight sous a week, pay in advance."
"I can pay twenty-eight sous."
"Now, I don't promise you a fine room all to yourself at that price;
there'll be six in the same room, but you'll have a bed, some sheets and
a coverlet. Everybody ain't got that."
"I'd like it and thank you very much."
"My grandmother don't only take in lodgers who can only pay twenty-eight
sous. We've got some very fine rooms in our house. Our boarders are
employed at the factories. There's Monsieur Fabry, the engineer of the
building; Monsieur Mombleux, the head clerk, and Mr. Bendit, who has
charge of the foreign correspondence. If you ever speak to him always
call him Mr. Benndite. He's an Englishman, and he gets mad if you
pronounce his name 'Bendit.' He thinks that one wants to insult him,
just as though one was calling him 'Thief'!"
"I won't forget; besides, I know English."
"You know English! You!"
"My mother was English."
"So, so! Well, that'll be fine for Mr. Bendit, but he'd be more pleased if
you knew every language. His great stunt on Sunday is to read prayers that
are printed in twenty-five languages. When he's gone through them once, he
goes over them again and again. Every Sunday he does the same thing. All
the same, he's a very fine man."
CHAPTER VIII
GRANDFATHER VULFRAN
Through the great trees which framed the road on either side, Perrine
could see beyond the hill the tops of some high chimneys and buildings.
"We're coming to Maraucourt," said Rosalie; "you'll see Monsieur
Paindavoine's mansion soon, then the factories. We shan't see the
village until we get down the other side of the hill. Over by the river
there's the church and cemetery."
Then, as they neared the spot where the poplars were swaying, there came
into view a beautiful chateau towering grandly above the trees, with its
facade of stone gabled roofs and chimneys standing out magnificently in a
park planted with trees and shrubs which stretched out as far as the
meadows.
Perrine stopped short in amazement, whilst Rosalie continue to step out.
This made them jolt the basket, whereupon Rosalie plumped it down on the
ground and stretched herself.
"Ah, you think that fine, don't you?" said Rosalie, following Perrine's
glance.
"Why, it's beautiful," said Perrine, softly.
"Well, old Monsieur Vulfran lives there all alone. He's got a dozen
servants to wait on him, without counting the gardeners and stablemen who
live in those quarters over there at the end of the park. That place over
there is the electric power house for lighting up the chateau. Fine, ain't
it? And you should see the inside! There's gold everywhere, and velvets,
and such carpets! Them nephews want to live there with him, but he won't
have 'em. He even eats his meals all alone."
They took up the basket and went on again. Soon they saw a general view of
the works. But to Perrine's eyes there seemed only a confusion of
buildings, some old, some new, just a great gray mass with big, tall
chimneys everywhere. Then they came to the first houses of the village,
with apple trees and pear trees growing in the gardens. Here was the
village of which her father had spoken so often.
What struck her most was the number of people she saw. Groups of men, women
and children dressed up in their Sunday clothes stood chatting before the
houses or sat in the low rooms, the windows of which were thrown wide open.
A mass of people, people everywhere. In the low-ceiling rooms, where those
from outside could see all that was passing within, some were drinking
bright colored drinks, others had jugs of cider, while others had on the
tables before them black coffee or whisky. And what a tapping of glasses
and voices raised in angry dispute!
"What a lot of people there seem to be drinking," said Perrine.
"That's because it's Sunday. They got two weeks' pay yesterday. They
can't always drink like this; you'll see."
What was characteristic of most of the houses was that nearly all,
although old and badly built of brick or wood, affected an air of
coquetry, at least in the painting that embellished the doors and
windows. This attracted the eye like a sign. And in truth it was a sign,
for in default of other preparations, the bright paint gave a promise of
cleanliness which a glance at the inside of the place belied at once.
"We've arrived," said Rosalie, pointing with her free hand to a small
red brick house which stood a little way from the road, behind a ragged
hedge. Adjoining the house was a store where general provisions were
sold, and also liquor. The floors above were rented to the best lodgers,
and behind the house was a building which was rented out to the factory
hands. A little gate in the hedge led to a small garden planted with
apple trees and to a gravel walk leading to the house.
As soon as Rosalie and Perrine entered the yard, a woman, still young,
called out from the doorway: "Hurry up, you slow coach! Say, you take a
time to go to Picquigny, don't you?"
"That's my Aunt Zenobie," whispered Rosalie; "she's none too nice."
"What yer whispering there?" yelled the disagreeable woman.
"I said that if somebody hadn't been there to help carry this basket I
wouldn't be here by now," retorted Rosalie.
"You'd better hold your tongue!"
These words were uttered in such a shrill tone that they brought a tall
old woman to the door.
"Who are you going on at now, Zenobie?" she asked, calmly.
"She's mad 'cause I'm late, grandmother; but the basket's awful heavy,"
said Rosalie.
"There, there!" said the grandmother, placidly; "put it down and go and
get your supper; you'll find it kept warm on the stove."
"You wait for me here in the yard," said Rosalie to Perrine; "I'll be
out in a minute and we'll have supper together. You go and buy your
bread. You'll find the baker in the third house on the left. Hurry up."
When Perrine returned she found Rosalie seated at a table under a big
apple tree. On the table were two plates full of meat stew and potatoes.
"Sit down and share my stew," said Rosalie.
"But ..." hesitated Perrine.
"You don't like to take it; you can. I asked my grandmother, and it's
all right."
In that case Perrine thought that she should accept this hospitality, so
she sat down at the table opposite her new friend.
"And it's all arranged about your lodging here," said Rosalie, with her
mouth full of stew. "You've only to give your twenty-eight sous to
grandmother. That's where you'll be."
Rosalie pointed to a house a part of which could be seen at the end of
the yard; the rest of it was hidden by the brick house. It looked such a
dilapidated old place that one wondered how it still held together.
"My grandmother lived there before she built this house," explained
Rosalie. "She did it with the money that she got when she was nurse for
Monsieur Edmond. You won't be comfortable down there as you would in
this house, but factory hands can't live like rich people, can they?"
Perrine agreed that they could not.
At another table, standing a little distance from theirs, a man about
forty years of age, grave, stiff, wearing a coat buttoned up and a high
hat, was reading a small book with great attention.
"That's Mr. Bendit; he's reading his Bible," whispered Rosalie.
Then suddenly, with no respect for the gentleman's occupation, she said:
"Monsieur Bendit, here's a girl who speaks English."
"Ah!" he said, without raising his eyes from his Bible.
Two minutes elapsed before he lifted his eyes and turned them to
Perrine.
"Are you an English girl?" he asked in English.
"No, but my mother was," replied Perrine in the same language.
Without another word he went on with his reading.
They were just finishing their supper when a carriage coming along the
road stopped at the gate.
"Why, it's Monsieur Vulfran in his carriage!" cried Rosalie, getting up
from her seat and running to the gate.
Perrine did not dare leave her place, but she looked towards the road.
Two people were in the buggy. A young man was driving for an old man
with white hair, who, although seated, seemed to be very tall. It was M.
Paindavoine.
Rosalie went up to the buggy.
"Here is someone," said the young man, who was about to get out.
"Who is it?" demanded M. Paindavoine.
It was Rosalie who replied to this question.
"It's Rosalie, monsieur," she said.
"Tell your grandmother to come and speak to me," said the gentleman.
Rosalie ran to the house and came hurrying back with her grandmother.
"Good day, Monsieur Vulfran," said the old woman.
"Good day, Francoise."
"What can I do for you, sir; I'm at your service."
"I've come about your brother Omer. I've just come from his place. His
drunken wife was the only person there and she could not understand
anything."
"Omer's gone to Amiens; he comes back tonight."
"Tell him that I have heard that he has rented his hall to some rascals
to hold a public meeting and ... I don't wish that meeting to take
place."
"But if they've rented it, sir?"
"He can compromise. If he doesn't, the very next day I'll put him out.
That's one of the conditions that I made. I'll do what I say. I don't
want any meeting of that sort here."
"There have been some at Flexelles."
"Flexelles is not Maraucourt. I do not want the people of my village to
become like those at Flexelles. It's my duty to guard against that. You
understand? Tell Omer what I say. Good day, Francoise."
"Good day, Monsieur Vulfran."
He fumbled in his vest pocket.
"Where is Rosalie?"
"Here I am, Monsieur Vulfran."
He held out a ten cent piece.
"This is for you," he said.
"Oh, thank you, Monsieur Vulfran," said Rosalie, taking the money with a
smile.
The buggy went off.
Perrine had not lost a word of what had been said, but what impressed her
more than the actual words was the tone of authority in which they had been
spoken. "I don't wish that meeting to take place." She had never heard
anyone speak like that before. The tone alone bespoke how firm was the
will, but the old gentleman's uncertain, hesitating gestures did not seem
to accord with his words.
Rosalie returned to her seat, delighted.
"Monsieur Paindavoine gave me ten cents," she said.
"Yes, I saw him," replied Perrine.
"Let's hope Aunt Zenobie won't know, or she'll take it to keep it for
me."
"Monsieur Paindavoine did not seem as though he knew you," said Perrine.
"Not know me? Why, he's my godfather!" exclaimed Rosalie.
"But he said 'Where is Rosalie?' when you were standing quite near him."
"That's because he's blind," answered Rosalie, placidly.
"Blind!" cried Perrine.
She repeated the word quite softly to herself two or three times.
"Has he been blind long?" she asked, in the same awed voice.
"For a long time his sight was failing," replied Rosalie, "but no one paid
any attention; they thought that he was fretting over his son being away.
Then he got pneumonia, and that left him with a bad cough, and then one day
he couldn't see to read, then he went quite blind. Think what it would have
meant to the town if he had been obliged to give up his factories! But no;
he wasn't going to give them up; not he! He goes to business just the same
as though he had his sight. Those who counted on being the master there,
'cause he fell ill have been put in their places." She lowered her voice.
"His nephews and Talouel; they're the ones I mean."
Aunt Zenobie came to the door.
"Say, Rosalie, have you finished, you young loafer?" she called.
"I've only just this minute got through," answered Rosalie, defiantly.
"Well, there are some customers to wait on ... come on."
"I'll have to go," said Rosalie, regretfully. "Sorry I can't stay with
you."
"Oh, don't mind me," said little Perrine, politely.
"See you tonight."
With a slow, reluctant step Rosalie got up and dragged herself to the
house.
CHAPTER IX
ONE SLEEPLESS NIGHT
After her new friend had left, Perrine would like to have still sat at
the table as though she were in her own place, but it was precisely
because she was not in the place where she belonged that she felt she
could not. She had learned that the little garden was reserved for the
boarders and that the factory hands were not privileged to sit there.
She could not see any seats near the old tumble-down house where she was
to lodge, so she left the table and sauntered down the village street.
Although she went at a slow step, she had soon walked down all the
streets, and as everyone stared at her, being a stranger, this had
prevented her from stopping when she had wanted to.
On the top of the hill opposite the factories she had noticed a wood.
Perhaps she would be alone there and could sit down without anyone
paying attention to her.
She climbed the hill, then stretched herself out on the grass and looked
down over the village ... her father's birthplace, which he had
described so often to her mother and herself.
She had arrived at Maraucourt! This name, which she had repeated so
often since she had trod on French soil, the name she had seen on the
big vans standing outside the Gates of Paris. This was not a country of
dreams. She was in Maraucourt; before her she could see the vast works
which belonged to her grandfather. He had made his fortune here, bit by
bit, sou by sou, until now he was worth millions.
Her eyes wandered from the great chimneys to the railway tracks, where
all was quiet on this Sabbath day, to the winding streets and the quaint
houses with their tiled or thatched roofs. Amongst the very old houses
there was one which seemed more pretentious than the others. It stood in
a large garden in which there were great trees and a terrace, and at the
remote corner of the garden a wash-house.
That house had been described to her so many times, she recognized it. It
was the one in which her grandfather had lived before he had built the
beautiful chateau. How many hours her father, when a boy, had spent in that
wash-house on washing days, listening to the washerwomen's chatter and to
the stories they told, quaint old legends. He had remembered them all those
years, and later on had told them to his little daughter. There was the
"Fairy of the Cascade", "The Whirling Dwarf", and lots of others. She
remembered them all, and her dead father had listened to the old women
telling them at that very spot down there by the river.
The sun was in her eyes now, so she changed her place. She found another
grassy nook and sat down again, very thoughtful. She was thinking of
her future, poor little girl.
She was sure of getting work now, and bread and a place in which to
sleep, but that was not all. How would she ever be able to realize her
dead mother's hopes? She trembled; it all seemed so difficult; but at
least she had accomplished one great thing in having reached Maraucourt.
She must never despair, never give up hope, and now that she had a roof
over her head and ten sous a day, although not much, it was far better
now for her than a few days ago, when she had been penniless, famished,
and had had no place where to lay her head.
She thought it would be wise, as she was beginning a new life on the
morrow, that she should make a plan of what she should and what she
should not say. But she was so ignorant of everything, and she soon
realized that this was a task beyond her. If her mother had reached
Maraucourt she would have known just what to have done. But she, poor
little girl, had had no experience; she had not the wisdom nor the
intelligence of a grown-up person; she was but a child, and alone.
This thought and the memory of her mother brought tears to her eyes. She
began to cry unrestrainedly.
"Mother, dear mother," she sobbed.
Then her mother's last words came to her: "I see ... I know that you
will be happy!"
Her mother's words might come true. Those who are at Death's door,
their souls hovering between Heaven and earth, may have sometimes a
divine knowledge of things which are not revealed to the living.
This burst of emotion, instead of making her more despondent, did her
good. After she had wiped her tears away she was more hopeful, and it
seemed to her that the light evening breeze which fanned her cheek from
time to time brought her a kiss from her mother, touching her wet cheeks
and whispering to her her last words: "I see ... I know you will be
happy."
And why should it not be so? Why should her mother not be near her,
leaning over her at this moment like a guardian angel? For a long time
she sat deep in thought. Her beautiful little face was very grave. She
wondered, would everything come out all right for her in the end?
Then mechanically her eye fell on a large cluster of marguerites. She
got up quickly and picked a few, closing her eyes so as not to choose.
She came back to her place and, taking up one with a hand that shook,
she commenced to pick off the petals, one at a time, saying: "I shall
succeed; a little; a lot; completely; not at all." She repeated this
very carefully until there were only a few petals left on the last
flower.
How many, she did not want to count, for their number would have told
her the answer. So, with a heart beating rapidly, she quickly pulled off
the last petals.
"I shall succeed; a little; a lot; completely...."
At the same moment a warm breeze passed over her hair, over her lips. It
was surely her mother's reply in a kiss, the tenderest that she had ever
given her.
The night fell. She decided to go. Already down the straight road as far
as the river white vapors were rising, floating lightly around the great
trees. Here and there little lights from behind the windows of the
houses pierced the gathering darkness, and vague sounds broke the
silence of the peaceful Sabbath evening.
There was no need for her to stay out late now, for she had a roof to
cover her and a bed to sleep in; besides, as she was to get up early the
next day to go to work, it would be better to go to bed early.
As she walked through the village she recognized that the noises that
she had heard came from the cabarets. They were full. Men and women were
seated at the tables drinking. From the open door the odor of coffee,
hot alcohol and tobacco filled the street as though it were a vast sink.
She passed one cabaret after another. There were so many that to every
three houses there was at least one in which liquor was sold. On her
tramps along the high roads and through the various towns she had seen
many drinking places, but nowhere had she heard such words, so clear and
shrill, as those which came confusedly from the low rooms.
When she reached Mother Francoise's garden she saw Mr. Bendit still
reading. Before him was a lighted candle, a piece of newspaper protecting
the light, around which the moths and mosquitoes flew. But he paid no
attention to them, so absorbed was he in his reading.
Yet, as she was passing him, he raised his head and recognized her. For the
pleasure of speaking in his own language, he spoke to her in English.
"I hope you'll have a good night's rest," he said.
"Thank you," she replied. "Good night, sir."
"Where have you been?" he continued in English.
"I took a walk as far as the woods," she replied in the same language.
"All alone?"
"Yes; I do not know anyone here."
"Then why don't you stay in and read. There is nothing better to do on
Sunday than read."
"I have no books."
"Oh! Well, I'll lend you. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
Rosalie was seated in the doorway taking the fresh air.
"Do you want to go to bed now?" she asked.
"Yes, I'd like to," replied Perrine.
"I'll take you up there then, but first you'll have to arrange with
grandmother. Go to the cafe; she's there."
The matter, having been arranged by Rosalie and her grandmother beforehand,
was quickly settled. Perrine laid her twenty-eight sous on the table and
two sous extra for lighting for the week.
"So you are going to stay in our village, little one?" asked Mother
Francoise, with a kindly, placid air.
"Yes, if it is possible."
"You can do it if you'll work."
"That is all I ask," replied Perrine.
"Well, that's all right. You won't stop at ten sous; you'll soon get a
franc or perhaps two, then later on you'll marry a good workingman
who'll earn three. Between you, that'll be five francs a day. With that
you're rich ... if you don't drink; but one mustn't drink. It's a good
thing that M. Vulfran can give employment to the whole county. There is
the land, to be sure, but tilling ground can't provide a living to all
who have to be fed."
Whilst the old nurse babbled this advice with the importance and the
authority of a woman accustomed to having her word respected, Rosalie
was getting some linen from a closet, and Perrine, who, while listening,
had been looking at her, saw that the sheets were made of a thick yellow
canvas. It was so long since she had slept in sheets that she ought to
think herself fortunate to get even these, hard though they were. La
Rouquerie on her tramps had never spent money for a bed, and a long time
ago the sheets they had in the wagon, with the exception of those kept
for her mother, had been sold or worn to rags.
She went with Rosalie across the yard where about twenty men, women and
children were seated on a clump of wood or standing about, talking and
smoking, waiting for the hour to retire. How could all these people live
in the old house, which seemed far from large?
At the sight of the attic, after Rosalie had lit a candle stuck behind a
wire trellis, Perrine understood. In a space of six yards long and a
little more than three wide, six beds were placed along the length of
the walls, and the passage between the beds was only one yard wide. Six
people, then, had to spend the night in a place where there was scarcely
room for two. Although a little window opened on the yard opposite the
door, there was a rank, sharp odor which made Perrine gasp. But she said
nothing.
"Well," said Rosalie, "you think it's a bit small, eh?"
"Yes, it is, rather," was all she said.
"Four sous a night is not one hundred sous, you know," remarked Rosalie.
"That is true," answered Perrine, with a smothered sigh.
After all, it was better for her to have a place in this tiny room than
be out in the woods and fields. If she had been able to endure the odor
in Grain-of-Salt's shack, she would probably be able to bear it here.
"There's your bed," said Rosalie, pointing to one placed near the
window.
What she called a bed was a straw mattress placed on four feet and held
together by two boards. Instead of a pillow there was a sack.
"You know," said Rosalie, "this is fresh straw; they never give old
straw to anyone to sleep on. In the hotels they do that sort of thing,
but we don't here."
Although there were too many beds in the little room, there was not one
chair.
"There are some nails on the walls," said Rosalie, in reply to Perrine's
questioning look; "you can hang your clothes up there."
There were also some boxes and baskets under the bed. If the lodgers had
any underwear they could make use of these, but as Perrine had only what
she was wearing, the nail at the head of the bed was sufficient.
"They're all honest here," remarked Rosalie, "and if La Noyelle talks in
the night it's 'cause she's been drinking; she's a chatterbox. Tomorrow
you get up with the others. I'll tell you where you have to go to wash.
Good night."
"Good night, and thank you," replied Perrine.
She hurriedly undressed, thankful that she was alone and would not have
to submit to the inquisitive regards of the other occupants of the room.
But when she was between the sheets she did not feel so comfortable as
she had hoped, for they were very rough and hard. But then the ground
had seemed very hard the first time she had slept on it, and she had
quickly grown accustomed to it.
It was not long before the door was opened and a young girl about
fifteen came in and commenced to get undressed. From time to time she
glanced at Perrine, but without saying a word. As she was in her Sunday
clothes, her disrobing took longer than usual, for she had to put away
her best dress in a small box and hang her working clothes on the nail
for the next day.
A second girl came in, then a third, then a fourth. There was a babble
of tongues, all talking at the same time, each relating what had
happened during the day. In the narrow space between the beds they
pulled out and pushed back their boxes or baskets, and with each effort
came an outburst of impatience and furious upbraidings against the
landlady.
"What a hole!"
"She'll be putting another bed in here soon."
"Sure! But I won't stay!"
"Where would yer go? It ain't no better nowhere else."
The complaining, mixed with a desultory chatter, continued. At length,
however, when the two who had first arrived were in bed, a little order
was established. Soon all the beds were occupied but one.
But even then the conversation did not cease. They had discussed the
doings of the day just passed, so now they went on to the next day, to
the work at the factories, the quarrels, the doings of the heads of the
concern--M. Vulfran Paindavoine and his nephews, whom they called "the
kids," and the foreman, Talouel. They spoke of this man by name only
once, but the names they called him bespoke better than words what they
thought of him.
Perrine experienced a strange contradictory feeling which surprised her.
She wanted to hear everything, for this information might be of great
importance to her, yet on the other hand she felt embarrassed, almost
ashamed, to listen to such talk.
Most of the talk was rather vague to Perrine, not knowing the persons to
whom it applied, but she soon gathered that "Skinny", "Judas", and
"Sneak" were all one and the same man, and that man was Talouel, the
foreman. The factory hands evidently considered him a bully; they all
hated him, yet feared him.
"Let's go to sleep," at last said one.
"Yes, why not?"
"La Noyelle hasn't come in yet."
"I saw her outside when I came in."
"How was she?"
"Full. She couldn't stand up."
"Ugh! d'ye think she can get upstairs?"
"Not sure about that."
"Suppose we lock the door?"
"Yes, and what a row she'd make!"
"Like last Sunday; maybe worse."
They groaned. At this moment the sound of heavy shambling footsteps was
heard on the stairs.
"Here she is."
The steps stopped, then there was a fall, followed by a moan.
"She's fallen down!"
"Suppose she can't get up?"
"She'd sleep as well on the stairs as here."
"And we'd sleep better."
The moaning continued, interrupted by calls for help.
"Come, Laide," called out a thick voice; "give us a hand, my child."
But Laide did not move. After a time the calls ceased.
"She's gone to sleep. That's luck."
But the drunken girl had not gone to sleep at all; on the contrary, she
was using every effort to get up the stairs again.
"Laide, come and give me a hand, child. Laide, Laide," she cried.
She evidently made no progress, for the calls still came from the bottom
of the stairs, and became more and more persistent. Finally she began to
cry.
"Little Laide, little Laide, come to me," she wailed. "Oh! oh! the
stairs are slipping; where am I?"
A burst of laughter came from each bed.
"It's cause yer ain't come in yet, Laide; that's why yer don't come.
I'll go and find yer."
"Now she's gone and we'll have some peace," said one.
"No, she'll go to look for Laide and won't find her, and it'll all
begin over again. Well never get to sleep."
"Go and give her a hand, Laide," advised one.
"Go yerself," retorted Laide.
"But she wants you."
Laide decided to go, and slipping on her skirt, she went down the
stairs.
"Oh, my child, my child," cried La Noyelle, brokenly, when she caught
sight of her.
The joy of seeing Laide drove all thoughts of getting upstairs safely
away.
"Come with me, little one, and I'll treat you to a glass; come on,"
urged the drunken creature.
But Laide would not be tempted.
"No, come on to bed," she said.
The woman continued to insist.
They argued for a long time, La Noyelle repeating the words, "a little
glass."
"I want to go to sleep," said one of the girls in bed. "How long is this
going to keep up? And we got to be up early tomorrow."
"Oh, Lord! and it's like this every Sunday," sighed another.
And little Perrine had thought that if she only had a roof over her head
she would be able to sleep in peace! The open fields, with their dark
shadows and the chances of bad weather, was far better than this crowded
room, reeking with odors that were almost suffocating her. She wondered
if she would be able to pass the night in this dreadful room.
The argument was still going on at the foot of the stairs. La Noyelle's
voice could be heard repeating "a little glass."
"I'm goin' to help Laide," said one, "or this'll last till tomorrow."
The woman got up and went down the narrow stairs. Then came the sound of
angry voices, heavy footsteps and blows. The people on the ground floor
came out to see what was the matter, and finally everyone in the house
was awake.
At last La Noyelle was dragged into the room, crying out in despair.
"What have I done to you that you should be so unkind to me?"
Ignoring her complaints, they undressed her and put her into bed, but
even then she did not sleep, but continued to moan and cry.
"What have I done to you girls that you should treat me so badly. I'm
very unhappy, and I'm thirsty."
She continued to complain until everyone was so exasperated that they
one and all shouted out in anger.
However, she went on all the same. She carried on a conversation with an
imaginary person till the occupants of the room were driven to distraction.
Now and again her voice dropped as though she were going off to sleep, then
suddenly she cried out in a shriller voice, and those who had dropped off
into a slumber awoke with a start and frightened her badly, but despite
their anger she would not stop.
Perrine wondered if it really was to be like that every Sunday. How
could they put up with her? Was there no place in Maraucourt where one
could sleep peacefully?
It was not alone the noise that disturbed her, but the air was now so
stifling that she could scarcely breathe.
At last La Noyelle was quiet, or rather it was only a prolonged snore
that came from her lips.
But although all was silent Perrine could not sleep. She was oppressed.
It seemed as though a hammer was beating on her forehead, and she was
perspiring from head to foot.
It was not to be wondered at. She was suffocating for want of air; and
if the other girls in the room were not stifled like her, it was because
they were accustomed to this atmosphere, which to one who was in the
habit of sleeping in the open air was unbearable.
But she thought that if they could endure it she should. But
unfortunately one does not breathe as one wishes, nor when one wishes.
If she closed her mouth she could not get enough air into her lungs.
What was going to happen to her? She struggled up in bed, tearing at the
paper which replaced the window pane against which her bed was placed. She
tore away the paper, doing so as quietly as possible so as not to wake the
girls beside her. Then putting her mouth to the opening she leaned her
tired little head on the window sill. Finally in sheer weariness she fell
asleep.
CHAPTER X
THE HUT ON THE ISLAND
When she awoke a pale streak of light fell across the window, but it was
so feeble that it did not lighten the room. Outside the cocks were
crowing. Day was breaking.
A chill, damp air was penetrating through the opening she had made in
the window, but in spite of that the bad odor in the room still
remained. It was dreadful!
Yet all the girls slept a deep slumber, only broken now and again with a
stifled moan.
Very quietly she got up and dressed. Then taking her shoes in her hands
she crept down the stairs to the door. She put on her shoes and went
out.
Oh! the fresh, delicious air! Never had she taken a breath with such
thankfulness. She went through the little yard with her mouth wide open,
her nostrils quivering, her head thrown back. The sound of her footsteps
awoke a dog, which commenced to bark; then several other dogs joined in.
But what did that matter? She was no longer a little tramp at whom dogs
were at liberty to bark. If she wished to leave her bed she had a
perfect right to do so; she had paid out money for it.
The yard was too small for her present mood; she felt she must move
about. She went out onto the road and walked straight ahead without
knowing where.
The shades of night still filled the roads, but above her head she saw
the dawn already whitening the tops of the trees and the roofs of the
houses. In a few minutes it would be day. At this moment the clang of a
bell broke the deep silence. It was the factory clock striking three.
She still had three more hours before going to work.
How should she pass the time? She could not keep walking until six, she
would be too tired; so she would find a place where she could sit down
and wait.
The sky was gradually getting brighter, and round about her various
forms were taking a concrete shape.
At the end of a glade she could see a small hut made of branches and
twigs which was used by the game keepers during the winter. She thought
that if she could get to the hut she would be hidden there and no one
would see her and inquire what she was doing out in the fields at that
early hour.
She found a small trail, barely traced, which seemed to lead to the hut.
She took it, and although it led her straight in the direction of the
little cabin, she had not reached it when the path ended, for it was
built upon a small island upon which grew three weeping willows. Around
it was a ditch full of water. Fortunately, the trunk of a tree had been
thrown across the ditch. Although it was not very straight, and was wet
with the morning dew, which made it very slippery, Perrine was not
deterred from crossing.
She managed to get across, and soon found herself before the door of the
little hut, which she only had to push to open.
Oh, what a pretty nest! The hut was square, and from roof to floor was
lined inside with ferns. There was a little opening on each of the four
sides, which from without was invisible, but from within one could gain
a good view of the surrounding country. On the ground was a thick bed of
ferns, and in one of the corners a bench made from the trunk of a tree.
How delightful! And how little it resembled the room she had just left!
How much better it would be for her if she could sleep here in the fresh
air, sleeping in peace amongst the ferns, with no other noise but the
rustling of the leaves and the ripple of the water.
How much better to be here than lying between Mother Francoise's hard
sheets, listening to the complaints of La Noyelle and her friends in
that dreadful atmosphere which even now seemed to assail her nostrils.
She laid down on the ferns, curled up in a corner against the soft walls
covered with reeds, then closed her eyes. Before long she felt a soft
numbness creeping over her. She jumped to her feet, fearing that she
might drop off to sleep and not awake before it was time for her to go
to the factory.
The sun had now risen, and through the aperture facing east a streak of
gold entered the hut. Outside the birds were singing, and all over the
tiny island, on the pond, on the branches of the weeping willows, was
heard a confusion of sounds, twittering and little shrill cries which
announced an awakening to life. Looking out of the window, she could see
the birds picking at the humid earth with their beaks, snapping at the
worms. Over the pond floated a light mist. A wild duck, far prettier
than the tame ducks, was swimming on the water, surrounded with her
young. She tried to keep them beside her with continual little quacks,
but she found it impossible to do so. The ducklings escaped from the
mother duck, scurrying off amongst the reeds to search for the insects
which came within their reach.
Suddenly a quick blue streak, like lightning, flashed before Perrine's
eyes. It was not until it had disappeared that she realized that it was
a kingfisher which had just crossed the pond. For a long time, standing
quite still for fear a movement might betray her presence and cause the
birds to fly away, she stood at the opening looking out at them. How
pretty it all was in the morning light, gay, alive, amusing, something
new to look upon.
Now and again she saw dark shadows pass capriciously over the pond. The
shadows grew larger without apparent cause, covering the pond. She could
not understand this, for the sun, which had risen above the horizon, was
shining in the sky without a cloud. How did these shadows come?
She went to the door and saw a thick black smoke coming from the factory
chimneys.
Work would commence very soon; it was time to leave the hut. As she was
about to go she picked up a newspaper from the seat that she had not
noticed before in the dim light. The newspaper was dated February 2.
Then this thought came to her: This newspaper was on the only spot in
the place where one could sit down, and the date of it was several
months previous, so then this proved that the hut had been abandoned and
no one had passed through the door since last February.
CHAPTER XI
WORK IN THE FACTORY
When she reached the road a loud whistle was heard, shrill and powerful.
Almost immediately other whistles replied from the distance. This was
the call for the factory hands who lived in Maraucourt, and the other
whistles repeated the summons to work from village to village, St.
Pipoy, Harcheux, Racour, Flexelles, in all the Paindavoine factories,
announcing to the owner of the vast works that everywhere, at the same
time, his factories were calling to his employes to be ready for the
day's work.
Fearing she might be late she ran as far as the village. There she found
all the doors of the houses open. On the thresholds the men were eating
their soups or leaning against the walls; others were in the cabarets
drinking wine; others were washing at the pump in the yard. No one
seemed to be going to work, so evidently it was not time yet, so Perrine
thought that there was no occasion for her to hurry.
But before long a louder whistle was blown, and then there was a general
movement everywhere; from houses, yards and taverns came a dense crowd,
filling the street. Men, women and children went towards the factories,
some smoking their pipes, others munching a crust of bread, the greater
number chattering loudly. In one of the groups Perrine caught sight of
Rosalie in company with La Noyelle. She joined them.
"Why, where have you been?" asked Rosalie in surprise.
"I got up early so as to take a walk," Perrine replied.
"You did? I went to look for you."
"Oh, thank you; but never do that, for I get up very early," said
Perrine.
Upon arriving at the factory the crowd went into the various workshops
under the watchful eye of a tall thin man who stood near the iron gates,
his hand in the pocket of his coat, his straw hat stuck on the back of
his head. His sharp eyes scanned everyone who passed.
"That's Skinny," informed Rosalie in a whisper.
Perrine did not need to be told this. She seemed to know at once that
this was the foreman Talouel.
"Do I come in with you?" asked Perrine.
"Sure!"
This was a decisive moment for little Perrine, but she controlled her
nervousness and drew herself up to her full height. Why should they not
take her if they took everyone?
Rosalie drew Perrine out of the crowd, then went up to Talouel.
"Monsieur," she said, "here's a friend of mine who wants a job."
Talouel glanced sharply at the friend.
"In a moment ... we'll see," he replied curtly.
Rosalie, who knew what to do, signed to Perrine to stand aside and wait. At
this moment there was a slight commotion at the gates, and the crowd drew
aside respectfully to allow Monsieur Paindavoine's carriage to pass. The
same young man who had driven him the evening before was now driving.
Although everyone knew that their chief, Vulfran Paindavoine, was blind,
all the men took off their hats as he passed and the women curtseyed.
"You see he's not the last one to come," said Rosalie, as the phaeton
passed through the gates, "but his nephews likely will be late."
The clock struck, then a few late comers came running up. A young man
came hurrying along, arranging his tie as he ran.
"Good morning, Talouel," he said; "is uncle here yet?"
"Yes, Monsieur Theodore," said the foreman, "he got here a good five
minutes ago."
"Oh!"
"You're not the last, though. Monsieur Casimir is late also. I can see
him coming now."
As Theodore went towards the offices his cousin Casimir came up
hurriedly.
The two cousins were not at all alike, either in their looks or ways.
Casimir gave the foreman a short nod, but did not say a word.
"What can your friend do?" asked Talouel, turning to Rosalie, his hands
still in his pockets.
Perrine herself replied to this question.
"I have not worked in a factory before," she said in a voice that she
tried to control.
Talouel gave her a sharp look, then turned again to Rosalie.
"Tell Oneux to put her with the trucks. Now be off. Hurry up!"
Thus dismissed, Rosalie hurried Perrine away.
"What are the trucks?" asked little Perrine as she followed her friend
through the big courtyard. She wondered, poor child, if she had the
strength and the intelligence to do what was required of her.
"Oh, it's easy enough," replied Rosalie, lightly. "Don't be afraid;
you've only got to load the trucks."
"Oh!..."
"And when it's full," continued Rosalie, "you push it along to the place
where they empty it. You give a good shove to begin with, then it'll go
all alone."
As they passed down the corridors they could scarcely hear each other
speak for the noise of the machinery. Rosalie pushed open the door of
one of the workshops and took Perrine into a long room. There was a
deafening roar from the thousand tiny machines, yet above the noise they
could hear a man calling out: "Ah, there you are, you loafer!"
"Who's a loafer, pray?" retorted Rosalie. "That ain't me, just
understand that, Father Ninepins."
"What have you been doin'?"
"Skinny told me to bring my friend to you to work on the trucks."
The one whom she had addressed in this amiable manner was an old man with a
wooden leg. He had lost his leg in the factory twelve years previous, hence
his nickname, "Ninepins." He now had charge of a number of girls whom he
treated rudely, shouting and swearing at them. The working of these
machines needed as much attention of the eye as deftness of hand in lifting
up the full spools and replacing them with empty ones, and fastening the
broken thread. He was convinced that if he did not shout and swear at them
incessantly, emphasizing each curse with a stout bang of his wooden leg on
the floor, he would see his machines stop, which to him was intolerable.
But as he was a good man at heart, no one paid much attention to him, and
besides, the greater part of his cursing was lost in the noise of the
machinery.
"Yes, and with it all, your machine has stopped," cried Rosalie
triumphantly, shaking her fist at him.
"Go on with you," he shouted back; "that ain't my fault."
"What's your name?" he added, addressing Perrine.
This request, which she ought to have foreseen, for only the night before
Rosalie had asked the same question, made her start. As she did not wish to
give her real name, she stood hesitating. Old Ninepins thought that she had
not heard, and banging his wooden leg on the floor again, he cried:
"I asked you what your name was, didn't I? Eh?"
She had time to collect herself and to recall the one that she had
already given to Rosalie.
"Aurelie," she said.
"Aurelie what?" he demanded.
"That is all ... just Aurelie," she replied.
"All right, Aurelie; come on with me," he said.
He took her to a small truck stationed in a far corner and explained
what she had to do, the same as Rosalie had.
"Do you understand?" he shouted several times.
She nodded.
And really what she had to do was so simple that she would indeed have
been stupid if she had been unable to do it. She gave all her attention
to the task, but every now and again old Ninepins called after her:
"Now, don't play on the way." But this was more to warn than to scold
her.
She had no thought of playing, but as she pushed her truck with a good
regular speed, while not stopping, she was able to see what was going on
on the way. One push started the truck, and all she had to do was to see
that there were no obstacles in its way.
At luncheon time each girl hurried to her home. Perrine went to the
baker's and got the baker to cut her a half a pound of bread, which she
ate as she walked the streets, smelling the while the good odor of the
soup which came from the open doors before which she passed. She walked
slowly when she smelled a soup that she liked. She was rather hungry,
and a half a pound of bread is not much, so it disappeared quickly.
Long before the time for her to go back to work she was at the gates. She
sat down on a bench in the shade of a tree and waited for the whistle,
watching the boys and girls playing, running and jumping. She was too timid
to join in their games, although she would like to have done so.
When Rosalie came she went back to her work with her.
Before the day was ended she was so tired that she did indeed merit
Ninepins' sharp rebuke.
"Go on! Can't you go faster than that?" he cried.
Startled by the bang from his wooden leg which accompanied his words, she
stepped out like a horse under the lash of a whip, but only to slow up the
moment she was out of his sight. Her shoulders ached, her arms ached, her
head ached. At first it had seemed so easy to push the truck, but to have
to keep at it all day was too much for her. All she wanted now was for the
day to end. Why could she not do as much as the others? Some of them were
not so old as she, and yet they did not appear tired. Perhaps when she was
accustomed to the work she would not feel so exhausted.
She reasoned thus as she wearily pushed her loaded truck, glancing at
the others with envy as they briskly went on with their work. Suddenly
she saw Rosalie, who was fastening some threads, fall down beside the
girl who was next to her. At the same time a girlish cry of anguish was
heard.
The machinery was stopped at once. All was silent now, the silence only
broken by a moan. Boys and girls, in fact everyone, hurried towards
Rosalie, despite the sharp words from old Ninepins. "Thunder in Heaven,
the machines have stopped. What's the matter?" he cried.
The girls crowded around Rosalie and lifted her to her feet.
"What's the matter?" they asked.
"It's my hand," she murmured; "I caught it in the machine. Oh!..."
Her face was very pale, her lips bloodless. Drops of blood were falling
from her crushed hand. But upon examining it, it was found that only two
fingers were hurt, one probably broken.
Ninepins, who at first had felt pity for the girl, now began pushing
those who surrounded her back to their places.
"Be off; go back to your work," he cried. "A lot of fuss about nothing."
"Yes; it was a lot of fuss for nothing when you broke your leg, wasn't
it?" cried out a voice.
He glanced about to see who had spoken, but it was impossible to find
out in the crowd. Then he shouted again:
"Get back to your work. Hurry up!"
Slowly they dispersed and Perrine, like the others, was on her way back
to her truck, when Ninepins called to her:
"Here, you new one, there; come here! Come on, quicker than that."
She came back timidly, wondering why she was more guilty than the others
who had also left their work. But she found that he did not wish to
punish her.
"Take that young fool there to the foreman," he said.
"What do you call me a fool for?" cried Rosalie, raising her voice, for
already the machines were in motion. "It wasn't my fault, was it?"
"Sure, it was your fault, clumsy." Then he added in a softer tone:
"Does it hurt?"
"Not so very much," replied Rosalie bravely.
"Well, go on home; be off now."
Rosalie and Perrine went out together, Rosalie holding her wounded hand,
which was the left, in her right hand.
"Won't you lean on me, Rosalie?" asked little Perrine anxiously. "I am
sure it must be dreadful."
"No, I'm all right; thank you," said Rosalie. "At least I can walk."
"Well, then, it isn't much then, is it?" asked Perrine.
"One can't tell the first day. It's later that one suffers. I slipped,
that's how it happened."
"You must have been getting tired," said Perrine, thinking of her own
feelings.
"Sure, it's always when one is tired that one is caught," said Rosalie.
"We are quick and sharp first thing in the morning. I wonder what Aunt
Zenobie will say!"
"But it wasn't your fault," insisted Perrine.
"I know that," said Rosalie, ruefully. "Grandmother will believe that,
but Aunt Zenobie won't. She'll say it's 'cause I don't want to work."
On their way through the building several men stopped them to ask what was
the matter. Some pitied Rosalie, but most of them listened indifferently,
as though they were used to such accidents. They said that it was always
so: one gets hurt the same as one falls sick; just a matter of chance, each
in his turn, you today, and me tomorrow. But there were some who showed
anger that such an accident could have occurred.
They came to a small outside building which was used for offices. They
had to mount some wide steps which led to a porch. Talouel was standing
on the porch, walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, his hat
on his head. He seemed to be taking a general survey, like a captain on
the bridge.
"What's the matter now?" he cried, angrily, when he saw the two girls.
Rosalie showed him her bleeding hand.
"Wrap your paw up in your handkerchief then," he said, roughly.
[Illustration: "WHAT'S THE MATTER NOW?" HE CRIED ANGRILY.]
With Perrine's aid she got her handkerchief out of her pocket. Talouel
strode up and down the porch. After the handkerchief had been twisted
around the wounded hand he came over to poor Rosalie and stood towering
above her.
"Empty your pockets," he ordered. She looked at him, not understanding.
"I say, take everything out of your pockets," he said again.
She did what she was told, and drew from her pockets an assortment of
things--a whistle made from a nut, some bones, a thimble, a stick of
liquorice, three cents, and a little mirror.
The bully at once seized the mirror.
"Ah, I was sure of it," he cried. "While you were looking at yourself in
the glass a thread broke and your spool stopped. You tried to catch the
time lost and that's how it happened."
"I did not look in my glass," said Rosalie.
"Bah! you're all the same. I know you. Now: what's the trouble?"
"I don't know, but my hand is crushed," said poor Rosalie, trying to
keep back her tears.
"Well, and what do you want me to do?"
"Father Ninepins told me to come to you," said Rosalie.
"And you ... what's the matter with you?" he asked, turning to Perrine.
"Nothing," she replied, disconcerted.
"Well?"
"Father Ninepins told her to bring me here," said Rosalie.
"Well, she can take you to Dr. Ruchon and let him see it. But I'm going
to look into this matter and find out if it is your fault, and if it is
... look out!"
He spoke in a loud, bullying voice which could be heard throughout the
offices.
As the two girls were about to go M. Vulfran Paindavoine appeared,
guiding himself with his hand along the wall.
"What's it all about, Talouel? What's the matter here?"
"Nothing much, sir," replied the foreman. "One of the girls has hurt her
hand."
"Where is she?"
"Here I am, Monsieur Vulfran," said Rosalie, going up to him.
"Why, it's Mother Francoise's granddaughter, Rosalie, isn't it?" asked
the blind man.
"Yes, it's me, Monsieur Vulfran," said Rosalie, beginning to cry. Harsh
words had hardened her heart, but this tone of pity was too much for
poor Rosalie.
"What is the matter with your hand, my poor girl?" asked the blind man.
"Oh, sir, I think my two fingers are broken," she said, "although I am
not in much pain."
"Well, why are you crying?" asked M. Vulfran, tenderly.
"Because you speak so kindly to me."
Talouel shrugged his shoulders.
"Now go home at once," said M. Vulfran, "and I'll send the doctor to
you."
"Write a note to Dr. Ruchon," he said, turning to Talouel, "and tell him
to call at Mother Francoise's house; say that the matter is urgent and
he must go there at once."
"Do you want anyone to go with you?" he asked, addressing Rosalie.
"Oh, thank you, Monsieur Vulfran; I have a friend here with me," she
replied.
"She can go with you then, and tell your grandmother that you will be
paid while you are away."
It was Perrine now who felt like crying, but catching Talouel's glance,
she stiffened. It was not until they had passed out of the yard that she
betrayed her emotion.
"Isn't Monsieur Vulfran kind?" she said.
"Yes," replied Rosalie; "he would be all right if he were alone, but
with Skinny he can't be; he hasn't the time and he has a lot to think
about."
"Well, he seemed very kind to you," said little Perrine.
"Oh, yes," Rosalie said, drawing herself up; "I make him think of his
son. My mother was Monsieur Edmond's foster sister."
"Does he think of his son?"
"He thinks of nothing else."
Everybody came to their doors as Rosalie and Perrine passed. Rosalie's
handkerchief was covered with blood. Most of the people were merely
curious, others felt sorry, others were angry, knowing that what had
happened to this girl that day might happen the next day, at any moment,
to their fathers, husbands, and children. Was not everyone in
Maraucourt employed at the factory?
"You come on in with me," said Rosalie, when they reached the house;
"then perhaps Aunt Zenobie won't say much."
But Perrine's presence had no effect upon the terrible aunt. Seeing
Rosalie arrive at such an unusual hour, and noticing that her hand was
wrapped up, she cried out shrilly: "Now, then, you've gone and hurt
yourself, you lazy bones. I bet you did it on purpose."
"Oh, I'm goin' to be paid," retorted Rosalie, scornfully.
"You think so, do you?"
"Monsieur Vulfran told me that I should."
But this information did not appease Aunt Zenobie. She continued to
scold until Mother Francoise, leaving her store, came to see what was
the matter. But the old grandmother, instead of showing anger, put her
arms about Rosalie and said: "Oh, my dearie; you've gone and got hurt."
"Just a little, grandmother ... it's my fingers ... but it ain't much."
"We must have Dr. Ruchon."
"Monsieur Vulfran is going to send him here."
Perrine was about to follow them into the house when Aunt Zenobie turned
upon her and stopped her.
"What are you coming for?" she asked. "Do you think we need you to look
after her?"
"Thank you for coming," called out Rosalie to Perrine.
Perrine had nothing to do but to return to the factory, which she did.
But just as she reached the gates a whistle announced that it was
closing time.
CHAPTER XII
NEW SHOES
A dozen times during the day she had asked herself how she could
possibly sleep in that room where she had been almost suffocated. She
was sure that she would not be able to sleep any better that night, or
the next, or the next.
And if she could not find rest after a hard day's work, whatever would
happen to her?
In her little mind she weighed all the consequences of this terrible
question. If she had not the strength to do her work she would be sent
away from the factory, and that would be the end of all her hopes. She
would be ill and there would be no one to help her, and she would have
to lie down at the foot of a tree and die.
It is true that unless she wished she was not obliged to occupy the bed
that she had paid for, but where would she find another, and what would
she say to Rosalie? How could she say in a nice way that what was good
for others was not good for her, and when they knew how disgusted she
had been, how would they treat her? She might create such ill feeling
that she would be forced to leave the factory.
The day had passed without her having come to a decision.
But now that Rosalie had hurt her hand the situation was changed. Poor
Rosalie would probably have to stay in bed for several days, and she
would not know what happened in the house at the end of the yard. She
would not know who slept in the room or who did not; consequently she
need fear no questions. And, on the other hand, as none of the girls in
the room knew who the new lodger for the night had been, neither would
they bother about her; it might very well be someone who had decided to
find a lodging elsewhere.
Reasoning thus, she decided quickly that she would go and sleep in her
new little home. How good it would be to sleep there--nothing to fear
from anyone, a roof to cover her head, without counting the enjoyment of
living in a house of one's own.
The matter was quite decided, and after having been to the baker's to
buy another half a pound of bread for her supper, instead of returning
to Mother Francoise's she again took the road that she had taken early
that morning.
She slipped behind the hedge as the factory hands who lived outside
Maraucourt came tramping along the road on their way home. She did not
wish to be seen by them. While she waited for them to pass she gathered
a quantity of rushes and ferns and made a broom. Her new home was clean
and comfortable, but with a little attention it could be made more so,
and she would pick a lot of dried ferns and make a good soft bed to lie
upon.
Forgetting her fatigue, she quickly tied the broom together with some
wisps of straw and fastened it to a stick. No less quickly a bunch of
ferns was arranged in a mass so that she could easily carry them to her
hut.
The road was now deserted as far as she could see. Hoisting the bed of
ferns on her back and taking the broom in her hands, she ran down the
hill and across the road. When she came to the narrow path she had to
slacken her speed, for the ferns caught in the branches and she could
not pass without going down on her knees.
Upon arriving at the island, she began at once to do her housework. She
threw away the old ferns, then commenced to sweep everywhere, the roof,
the walls and the ground.
As she looked out over the pond and saw the reeds growing thickly, a
bright idea came to her. She needed some shoes. One does not go about a
deserted island in leather shoes. She knew how to plait, and she would
make a pair of soles with the reeds and get a little canvas for the tops
and tie them on with ribbon.
As soon as she had finished her sweeping she ran out to the pond and
picked a quantity of the most flexible reeds and carried them back to
the door of her hut and commenced to work. But after she had made a
plait of reeds about a yard long she found that this sole that she was
making would be too light; because it was too hollow, there would be no
solidity, and that before plaiting the reeds they would have to undergo
a preparation which in crushing the fibres would transform them into
coarse strings.
However, this did not stop her. Now she needed a hammer, of course she
could not find one, but what she did find was a big round stone, which
served her purpose very well indeed. Then she commenced to beat the
reeds. Night came on while she was still at work, and she went to sleep
dreaming of the beautiful sandals tied with blue ribbons which she would
have, for she did not doubt but that she would succeed with what she had
undertaken ... if not the first time, well, then the second or the third
... or the tenth.
By the next evening she had plaited enough to begin the soles, and the
following day, having bought a curved awl for the price of one sou, some
thread for one sou, a piece of ribbon for the same price, a small piece
of rough canvas for four sous, in all seven sous, which was all that she
could spend if she did not wish to go without bread on the Saturday, she
tried to make a sole like those worn on shoes. The first one that she
made was almost round. This was not exactly the shape of the foot. The
second one, to which she gave much more attention, seemed to resemble
nothing at all; the third was a little better, but finally the fourth,
which, with some practice, she had managed to tighten in the center and
draw in at the heel, could pass for a sole.
Once more she had proved that with a little perseverance, a little will,
one can do what one wants, even if at first it seems impossible. And she
had done this with scarcely anything, a few sous, with no tools, with
hardly anything at her command. She was really very happy and she
considered that her work was very successful.
Now what she needed most to finish her sandals were scissors. They would
cost so much to buy she would have to manage without them. Fortunately
she had her knife, and with the help of a stone to sharpen the point she
could make it fine enough to trim the canvas.
But the cutting of the pieces of canvas she found quite a difficult
matter. Finally she accomplished it, and on the following Saturday
morning she had the satisfaction of going forth shod in a nice pair of
gray canvas shoes, tied with blue ribbons crossed over her stockings.
While she had been working on her shoes (the work had taken four
evenings and three mornings beginning at the break of day), she had
wondered what she should do with her leather shoes while she was away
from the hut. She had no fear that they would be stolen by anyone, for
no one came to the place, but then the rats might eat them. So as to
prevent this she would put them in a place where the rats could not get
at them.
This was a rather difficult matter, for the rats seemed to be
everywhere. She had no closet, no box to put them away in. Finally she
tied them to the roof with some wisps of straw.
CHAPTER XIII
STRANGE HOUSEKEEPING
Although she was very proud of her shoes, she was rather anxious as to
how she would conduct herself while wearing them at work. While she
loaded her truck or pushed it along she was continually looking down at
her feet.
By doing so she would probably attract the attention of the other girls.
This is exactly what did happen. Several of her comrades noticed them
and complimented her.
"Where did you buy those shoes?" one asked.
"They are not shoes; they are sandals," corrected Perrine.
"No, they are not; they are shoes," said the girl; "but whatever they
are they sure are pretty. Where did you buy them?"
"I made them myself with plaited reeds and four cents worth of canvas,"
replied Perrine.
"They _are_ beautiful."
The success she had made of her shoes decided her to undertake another
task. She had thought several times of doing it, but it was much more
difficult, or so she thought, and might mean too much expense. She
wanted to make a chemise to replace the only one which she possessed.
For it was very inconvenient to take off this only garment to wash it
and then wait until it was dry to put it on again. She needed two yards
of calico, and she wondered how much it would cost. And how would she
cut the goods when she had them? These were very difficult questions to
answer. She certainly had something to think about.
She wondered if it would not be wiser to begin by making a print dress
to replace her waist and skirt, which was worn more than ever now, as
she had to sleep in it. It could last a very little while longer. When
it was finished, how would she go out? For her daily bread, as much as
for the success of her future plans, she must continue to be admitted to
the factory.
Yet on the Saturday evening when she had the three francs in her hand
which she had earned for the week's work, she could not resist the
temptation of a chemise. She still considered a waist and skirt of the
utmost utility, but then a chemise also was indispensable, and besides
there were many arguments in favor of the chemise--cleanliness in which
she had been brought up, self-respect. Finally the chemise won the day.
She would mend her waist and skirt; as the material had formerly been
very strong, it would still hold a few more darns.
Every day at the luncheon hour she went to Mother Francoise's house to
ask news of Rosalie. Sometimes news was given to her, sometimes not,
according to whether it was the grandmother or the aunt whom she saw.
On her way to inquire for Rosalie she passed a little store which was
divided into two sections. On one side newspapers, pictures and songs
were sold, and on the other linens, calicos and prints. Perrine had
often looked in this store. How nice it would be to go in and have them
cut off as much material as she wished! Sometimes, when she had been
looking in the window, pretending to look at the newspapers or a song,
she had seen girls from the factory enter and come out shortly after
with parcels carefully wrapped up, which they held clasped tightly to
them. She had thought then that such pleasure was not for her ... at
least not then.
Now she could enter the store if she wished, for she had three silver
coins in her hand. She went in.
"What is it you want, mademoiselle?" asked a little old woman politely,
with a pleasant smile.
"Will you please tell me what is the price of calico the yard ... the
cheapest?" asked Perrine timidly.
"I have it at forty centimes the yard," said the old woman.
Perrine gave a sigh of relief.
"Will you cut me two yards, please?" she said.
"It won't wear very well ... but the sixty centimes...."
"The forty centime one will do, thank you," said little Perrine.
"As you like," said the old woman. "I wouldn't like you to come back
after and say...."
"Oh, I wouldn't do that," interrupted Perrine hastily.
[Illustration: SHE HAD SOME TIME AGO DECIDED ON THE SHAPE.]
The old woman cut off two yards, and Perrine noticed that it was not
white nor shiny like the one she had admired in the window.
"Any more?" asked the shopkeeper when she had torn the calico with a
sharp, dry rip.
"I want some thread also," said Perrine; "a spool of white, number
forty."
Now it was Perrine's turn to leave the store with her little newspaper
parcel hugged tightly to her heart. Out of her three francs (sixty
centimes) she had spent eighteen, so there still remained forty-two
until the following Saturday. She would have to spend twenty sous for
bread, so that left her fourteen sous for extras.
She ran back all the way to her little island. When she reached her
cabin she was out of breath, but that did not prevent her from beginning
her work at once. She had some time ago decided upon the shape she would
give her chemise. She would make it quite straight, first, because that
was the simplest and the easiest way for one who had never cut out
anything before and who had no scissors, and secondly, because she could
use the string that was in her old one for this new one.
Everything went very well; to begin with, there was no cutting in the
straight piece. Perhaps there was nothing to admire in her work but at
any rate she did not have to do it over again. But when the time came
for shaping the openings for the head and arms then she experienced
difficulties! She had only a knife to do the cutting and she was so
afraid that she would tear the calico. With a trembling hand she took
the risk. At last it was finished, and on Tuesday morning she would be
able to go to the factory wearing a chemise earned by her own work, cut
and sewn by her own hands.
That day when she went to Mother Francoise's; it was Rosalie who came to
meet her with her arm in a sling.
"Are you better?" asked Perrine.
"No, but they let me get up and they said that I could come out in the
yard," replied Rosalie.
Perrine was very pleased to see her friend again and asked all kinds of
questions, but Rosalie seemed rather reserved. Perrine could not
understand this attitude.
"Where are you living now?" asked Rosalie.
Fearing to say where, Perrine evaded a direct answer to this question.
"It was too expensive for me here," she said, "and I had so little money
left for food and other things."
"Well, did you find anything cheaper elsewhere?"
"I don't have to pay."
"Oh!..."
She looked narrowly at Perrine, then her curiosity got the better of
her.
"Who are you with?" she asked.
Again Perrine could not give a direct answer.
"I'll tell you that later," she said.
"Oh, when you like," replied Rosalie carelessly, "only let me tell you
this, if you see Aunt Zenobie in the yard or at the door you had better
not come in. She doesn't want to see you here. If you come it is better
to come in the evening, then she ... she is busy."
Perrine went to the factory very saddened by this welcome. What had she
done that she could not go into the house? All day long she remained
under the impression that she had offended them. When evening came and
she found herself alone in the cabin having nothing to do for the first
time in eight days, she was even more depressed. Then she thought that
she would go and walk in the fields that surrounded her little island,
for she had not yet had time to do this.
It was a beautiful evening. She wandered around the pond, walking in the
high grass that had not been trodden by anyone. She looked across the
water at her little home which seemed almost hidden amongst the trees.
The birds and beasts could not suspect that it was the work of man
behind which he could lie in ambush with his gun.
At that moment she heard a noise at her feet which frightened her and a
water hen jumped into the water, terrified. Then looking about her she
saw a nest made of grass and feathers in which were ten white eggs,
dirty little eggs with small dark spots.
Instead of being placed on the ground amongst the grass the nest was
floating on the water. She examined it but without touching it, and
noticed that it was made in a way to go up and down according to the
flow of the water, and was so surrounded with reeds that neither the
current nor the wind could carry it away.
The mother hen, anxious, took up her position at a distance and stayed
there. Perrine hid herself in the high grass and waited to see if she
would come back to her nest.
As she did not return, she went on with her walk, and again and again
the rustling of her dress frightened other birds. The water hens, so
lissom in their escape, ran to the floating leaves of the water lilies
without going under. She saw birds everywhere.
When an hour later she returned to her little home the hut was hidden
half in the shadows of night. It was so quiet and pretty she thought,
and how pleased she was that she had shown as much intelligence as these
birds ... to make her nest here.
With Perrine, as with many little children, it was the events of the day
which shaped her dreams by night. The unhappiness through which she had
passed the last few months had often colored her dreams, and many times
since her troubles had commenced, she had awakened in the night with the
perspiration pouring off her. Her sleep was disturbed with nightmares
caused by the miseries she had experienced in the day.
Now since she had been at Maraucourt and had new hopes and was at work,
the nightmares had been less frequent and so she was not so sad.
Now she thought of what she was going to do at the factory the next day,
of the skirt and waist that she would make, of her underwear.
Now on this particular evening after she had wandered over the fields
surrounding her home and had entered her little nest to go to sleep,
strange visions passed before her sleepy eyes. She thought that she was
walking about the field exploring, and came upon a great big kitchen, a
wonderful kitchen like in castles, and there were a number of little
dwarfs of the most diabolical shapes, sitting around a big table before
a blazing fire; some of them were breaking eggs, others were beating
them up until they were white and frothy; and some of these eggs were as
large as melons and others were as small as a little pea, and the dwarfs
made the most extraordinary dishes from them. They seemed to know the
every kind of dish that could be made with eggs,--boiled eggs with
cheese and butter; with tomatoes; poached; fried eggs; various omelettes
with ham and kidney, jam or rum; the rum set afire and flaming with
sparkling lights. And then there were more important dishes still which
only the head cooks were handling ... pastries and delicious creams.
Now and again she half woke and she tried to banish the stupid dream
but it came again and the elfs still went on doing their fantastic work,
so that when the factory whistle sounded she was still watching them
prepare some chocolate creams which she could almost taste in her mouth.
Then she knew that what had impressed her most during her walk was not
the beauty of the night but simply those eggs which she had seen in the
nest, which had told her stomach that for fourteen days she had eaten
only bread and water. These eggs had made her dream of the elfs and all
those delicious things that they were making; she was hungry for good
things and she had found it out through her dream.
Why had she not taken those eggs, or at least some of them, they did not
belong to anyone for the duck was wild? Of course as she had no saucepan
or frying pan or any kitchen utensils whatever, she could not prepare
any of the dishes that she had seen made before her dream eyes. But
there, that was the best about eggs, they could be used without any very
skillful preparation; a lighted match put to a little heap of dry wood
and then she could cook them hard or soft, how she liked, in the hot
ashes. And she would buy a saucepan or a pan as soon as possible.
Several times this idea came to her while she was at work that day until
finally she decided to buy a box of matches and a cent's worth of salt.
As soon as she had made her purchases she ran back to her hut.
She had been too interested in the place where she had discovered the
nest not to be able to find it again. The mother was not occupying the
nest but she had been there during the day because Perrine saw now that
instead of ten eggs there were eleven, which proved that she had not
finished laying.
Here was a good chance for her to help herself. In the first place the
eggs were fresh, and then if she only took five or six, the duck, who
did not know how to count, would not notice that any one had been there.
A short time ago Perrine would not have had any scruples and she would
have quickly emptied the nest, without a thought, but the sorrows that
she had experienced had made her very thoughtful for the griefs of
others; in this same manner her love for Palikare had made her feel an
affection for all animals that she had not known in her early childhood.
After she had taken the eggs she wondered where she could cook them;
naturally this could not be done in the cabin for the slightest wreath
of smoke which would emerge from it would indicate to anyone who saw it
that someone was living there.
There was a gypsy camp quite near which she passed by to get to her
island, and a little smoke coming from there would attract no attention.
She quickly got together some wood and lighted it; soon she had a fire
in the ashes of which she cooked one of her eggs. She lacked an egg cup
but what did that matter? A little hole made in a piece of bread could
hold the egg. In a few minutes she had the satisfaction of dipping a
piece of bread in her egg, which was cooked to perfection. It seemed to
her as she took the first mouthful that she had never eaten anything so
good.
When she had finished her supper she wondered how she should use the
remainder of her eggs. She would have to use them sparingly for she
might not be able to get any more for a long time. A hot soup with an
egg broken into it would be very good.
As the idea of having some soup came into her head, it was almost
immediately followed by the regret that she could not have it. The
success of her canvas shoes and her underwear had inspired her with a
certain amount of confidence. She had proved that one can do a great
deal if one perseveres, but she had not enough confidence to imagine
that she could ever make a saucepan for her soup or a metal or wooden
spoon, and if she waited until she had the money required to buy these
utensils, she would have to content herself with the smell of the soup
that came to her as she passed by the open doors.
She was telling herself this as she went to work, but just before she
reached the village she saw a heap of rubbish by the side of the road
and amongst the debris she noticed some tin cans which had been used for
potted meat, fish and vegetables. There were different shapes, some
large, some small, some high, some low.
Noticing how shiny they were on the surface, she instinctively stopped;
she had not a moment's hesitation. The saucepans, dishes, forks, spoons
which she lacked were all here; she could have a whole array of kitchen
utensils; she had only to make her choice. With a bound she was across
the road; quickly picking out four cans she ran back and hid them behind
a hedge so that when evening came she would be able to find them.
When evening came she found her treasures and made for her home.
She did not wish to make a noise on her island any more than she wished
smoke to be seen, so at the end of her day's work she went to her
gypsy's camp hoping that she might find a tool or something that would
serve her for a hammer with which to flatten the tins that were to be
used for plates, saucepans, spoons, etc.
She found that it was a very difficult task to make a spoon. It took her
no less than three days to do so, and when it was done, she was not at
all sure that if she had shown it to anyone, he would have recognized it
for a spoon. But she had made something that served her purpose, that
was enough; besides, she ate alone and there would be no one to notice
her utensils.
Now for the soup for which she longed! All she wanted was butter and
sorrel. She would have to buy butter and naturally as she couldn't make
milk she would have to buy that also.
The sorrel she would find wild in the fields and she could also find
wild carrots and oyster plants. They were not so good as the cultivated
vegetables but they would suit her very well indeed.
She not only had eggs and vegetables for her dinner, and her pots and
pans, but there were fish in the pond and if she were sharp enough to
catch them she would have fish too.
She needed a line and some worms. She had a long piece of string left over
from the piece she had bought for her shoes and she had only to spend one
sou for some hooks, then with a piece of horse hair she could pick up
outside the blacksmith's door, she would have a line good enough to catch
several kinds of fish; if the best in the pond passed disdainfully before
her simple bait then she would have to be satisfied with little ones.
CHAPTER XIV
A BANQUET IN THE HUT
Perrine was so busy of an evening that she let an entire week pass
before she again went to see Rosalie. However, one of the girls at the
factory who lodged with Mother Francoise had brought her news of her
friend. Perrine, as well as being busy, had been afraid that she might
see that terrible Aunt Zenobie and so she had let the days pass.
Then one evening after work she thought that she would not return at
once to her little island. She had no supper to prepare. The night
before she had caught some fish and cooked it, and she intended to have
it cold for her supper that evening.
Rosalie was alone in the garden sitting under an apple tree. When she
saw Perrine she came to the gate, half pleased, half annoyed.
"I thought that you were not coming any more," she said.
"I've been very busy."
"What with?"
Perrine showed Rosalie her shoes. Then she told her how she had made
herself a chemise and the trouble she had had in cutting it.
"Couldn't you borrow a pair of scissors from the people in your house?"
asked Rosalie in astonishment.
"There is no one in my house who could lend me scissors," replied
Perrine.
"Everybody has scissors!"
Perrine wondered if she ought to keep her abode a secret any longer. She
was afraid that if she did so she might offend Rosalie, so she decided
to tell her.
"Nobody lives in my house," she said smiling.
"Whatever do you mean?" asked Rosalie with round eyes.
"That's so, and that's why, as I wasn't able to borrow a saucepan to cook
my soup in and a spoon to eat it with, I had to make them and I can tell
you that it was harder for me to make my spoon than to make my shoes."
"You're joking!"
"No, really."
Then she told her everything, how she had taken possession of the cabin,
and made her own cooking utensils, and about her search for eggs, and
how she fished and cooked in the gypsy's camping ground.
Rosalie's eyes opened wider still in wonder and delight. She seemed to
be listening to a wonderful story.
When Perrine told her how she made her first sorrel soup, she clapped
her hands.
"Oh, how delicious! How you must have enjoyed it!" she cried. "What
fun!"
"Yes, everything is great fun when things go right," said Perrine; "but
when things won't go! I worked three days for my spoon. I couldn't scoop it
out properly. I spoiled two large pieces of tin and had only one left. And
my! how I banged my fingers with the stones that I had to use in place of a
hammer!"
"But your soup, that's what I'm thinking of," said Rosalie.
"Yes, it was good."
"You know," said Perrine, "there's sorrel and carrots, watercress, onions,
parsnips, turnips, and ever so many things to eat that one can find in the
fields. They are not quite the same as the cultivated vegetables, but they
are good!"
"One ought to know that!"
"It was my father who taught me to know them."
Rosalie was silent for a moment, then she said:
"Would you like me to come and see you?"
"I should love to have you if you'll promise not to tell anyone where I
live," said Perrine, delightedly.
"I promise," said Rosalie, solemnly.
"Well, when will you come?"
"On Sunday I am going to see one of my aunts at Saint-Pipoy; on my way
back in the afternoon I can stop...."
Perrine hesitated for a moment, then she said amiably:
"Do better than just call; stay to dinner with me."
Rosalie, like the real peasant that she was, began to reply vaguely in
a ceremonious fashion, neither saying yes nor no; but it was quite plain
to see that she wished very much to accept the invitation. Perrine
insisted.
"Do come; I shall be so pleased," she said. "I am so lonesome."
"Well, really...." began Rosalie.
"Yes, dine with me; that is settled," said Perrine, brightly; "but you
must bring your own spoon, because I shall not have the time nor the tin
to make another one."
"Shall I bring my bread also? I can...."
"I wish you would. I'll wait for you in the gypsy's ground. You'll find
me doing my cooking."
Perrine was very pleased at the thought of receiving a guest in her own
home ... there was a menu to compose, provisions to find ... what an
affair! She felt quite important. Who would have said a few days before
that she would be able to offer dinner to a friend!
But there was a serious side. Suppose she could not find any eggs or
catch a fish! Her menu then would be reduced to sorrel soup only. What a
dinner!
But fortune favored her. On Friday evening she found some eggs. True,
they were only water-hen's eggs, and not so large as the duck's eggs,
but then she must not be too particular. And she was just as lucky with
her fishing. With a red worm on the end of her line, she managed to
catch a fine perch, which was quite sufficient to satisfy hers and
Rosalie's appetite. Yet, however, she wanted a dessert, and some
gooseberries growing under a weeping willow furnished it. True, they
were not quite ripe, but the merit of this fruit is that you can eat it
green.
When, late Sunday afternoon, Rosalie arrived at the gypsy camping
ground, she found Perrine seated before her fire upon which the soup was
boiling.
"I waited for you to mix the yolk of an egg in the soup," said Perrine.
"You have only to turn it with your free hand while I gently pour the
soup over it; the bread is soaked."
Although Rosalie had dressed herself specially for this dinner, she was
not afraid to help. This was play, and it all seemed very amusing to
her.
Soon the soup was ready, and it only had to be carried across to the
island. This Perrine did.
The cabin door was open, and Rosalie could see before she entered that
the place was filled with flowers. In each corner were grouped, in
artistic showers, wild roses, yellow iris, cornflowers, and poppies, and
the floor was entirely covered with a beautiful soft green moss.
Rosalie's exclamations of delight amply repaid Perrine for all the
trouble she had taken.
"How beautiful! Oh, isn't it pretty!" she exclaimed.
On a bed of fresh ferns two large flat leaves were placed opposite each
other; these were to serve for plates; and on a very much larger leaf,
long and narrow, which is as it should be for a dish, the perch was
placed, garnished with a border of watercress. Another leaf, but very
small, served as a salt-cellar, also another holding the dessert.
Between each dish was a white anemone, its pure whiteness standing out
dazzlingly against the fresh verdure.
"If you will sit down...." said Perrine, extending her hand. And when
they had taken their seats opposite one another the dinner commenced.
"How sorry I should have been if I hadn't have come," said Rosalie,
speaking with her mouth full; "it is so pretty and so good."
"Why shouldn't you have come?"
"Because they wanted to send me to Picquigny for Mr. Bendit; he is ill."
"What's the matter with him?"
"He's got typhoid fever. He's very ill. Since yesterday he hasn't known
what he's been talking about, and he doesn't know anybody. And I had an
idea about you...."
"Me! What about me?"
"Something you can do...."
"If there is anything I can do for Mr. Bendit I'd be only too willing.
He was kind to me; but I'm only a poor girl; I don't understand."
"Give me a little more fish and some more watercress, and I'll explain,"
said Rosalie. "You know that Mr. Bendit has charge of the foreign
correspondence; he translates the English and German letters. Naturally, as
he is off his head now, he can't translate. They wanted to get somebody
else to replace him, but as this other man might take his place after he
is better (that is, if he does get better), M. Fabry and M. Mombleux have
taken charge of the work, so that he will be sure to have his job when he's
up again. But now M. Fabry has been sent away to Scotland and M. Mombleux
is in a fix, because, although he can read German all right, he's not much
on English. If the writing isn't very clear he can't make out the letters
at all. I heard him saying so at the table when I was waiting on them. So I
thought I'd tell him that you can speak English just as good as you can
French."
"I spoke French with my father, and English with my mother," said
Perrine, "and when we were all three talking together we spoke sometimes
one, sometimes the other, mixing two languages without paying
attention."
"I wasn't sure whether I should say anything about you or not, but now I
will, if you like."
"Why, yes; do, if you think a poor girl like me could be of any use to
them."
"'Tain't a question of being a poor girl or a young lady; it's a
question of knowing English," said Rosalie.
"I speak it, but to translate a business letter is another thing," said
Perrine, doubtfully.
"It'll be all right with M. Mombleux; he knows the business part."
"Well, then, tell him I shall be very pleased if I can do anything for
M. Bendit."
"I'll tell him."
The perch, although a large one, had all been eaten, and all the
watercress had disappeared. It was now time for the dessert. Perrine got
up and replaced the fish plates with smaller leaf plates in the shape of
a cup; she had picked the prettiest, with variegated shades, and marked
as exquisitely as enameled ware. Then she offered her guest the
gooseberries.
"Let me offer you some fruit from my own garden," she said, laughing, as
though she were playing at keeping doll's house.
"Where is your garden?"
"Over your head. There is a gooseberry bush growing in the branches of
this willow tree which holds up the cabin, so it seems."
"You
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