The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMarie ClaireThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Marie ClaireAuthor: Marguerite AudouxTranslator: John N. RaphaelRelease date: February 12, 2007 [eBook #20572]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARIE CLAIRE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Marie ClaireAuthor: Marguerite AudouxTranslator: John N. RaphaelRelease date: February 12, 2007 [eBook #20572]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Marie Claire
Author: Marguerite AudouxTranslator: John N. Raphael
Author: Marguerite Audoux
Translator: John N. Raphael
Release date: February 12, 2007 [eBook #20572]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARIE CLAIRE ***
Marguerite AudouxMarguerite Audoux
Marguerite AudouxMarguerite Audoux
CHAPTER 1CHAPTER 12CHAPTER 23CHAPTER 34CHAPTER 45CHAPTER 56CHAPTER 2CHAPTER 13CHAPTER 24CHAPTER 35CHAPTER 46CHAPTER 57CHAPTER 3CHAPTER 14CHAPTER 25CHAPTER 36CHAPTER 47CHAPTER 58CHAPTER 4CHAPTER 15CHAPTER 26CHAPTER 37CHAPTER 48CHAPTER 59CHAPTER 5CHAPTER 16CHAPTER 27CHAPTER 38CHAPTER 49CHAPTER 60CHAPTER 6CHAPTER 17CHAPTER 28CHAPTER 39CHAPTER 50CHAPTER 61CHAPTER 7CHAPTER 18CHAPTER 29CHAPTER 40CHAPTER 51CHAPTER 62CHAPTER 8CHAPTER 19CHAPTER 30CHAPTER 41CHAPTER 52CHAPTER 63CHAPTER 9CHAPTER 20CHAPTER 31CHAPTER 42CHAPTER 53CHAPTER 64CHAPTER 10CHAPTER 21CHAPTER 32CHAPTER 43CHAPTER 54CHAPTER 65CHAPTER 11CHAPTER 22CHAPTER 33CHAPTER 44CHAPTER 55AFTERWORD
CHAPTER 1CHAPTER 12CHAPTER 23CHAPTER 34CHAPTER 45CHAPTER 56CHAPTER 2CHAPTER 13CHAPTER 24CHAPTER 35CHAPTER 46CHAPTER 57CHAPTER 3CHAPTER 14CHAPTER 25CHAPTER 36CHAPTER 47CHAPTER 58CHAPTER 4CHAPTER 15CHAPTER 26CHAPTER 37CHAPTER 48CHAPTER 59CHAPTER 5CHAPTER 16CHAPTER 27CHAPTER 38CHAPTER 49CHAPTER 60CHAPTER 6CHAPTER 17CHAPTER 28CHAPTER 39CHAPTER 50CHAPTER 61CHAPTER 7CHAPTER 18CHAPTER 29CHAPTER 40CHAPTER 51CHAPTER 62CHAPTER 8CHAPTER 19CHAPTER 30CHAPTER 41CHAPTER 52CHAPTER 63CHAPTER 9CHAPTER 20CHAPTER 31CHAPTER 42CHAPTER 53CHAPTER 64CHAPTER 10CHAPTER 21CHAPTER 32CHAPTER 43CHAPTER 54CHAPTER 65CHAPTER 11CHAPTER 22CHAPTER 33CHAPTER 44CHAPTER 55AFTERWORD
The origins of this extraordinary book are sufficiently curious and sufficiently interesting to be stated in detail. They go back to some ten years ago, when the author, after the rustic adventures which she describes in the following pages, had definitely settled in Paris as a working sempstress. The existence of a working sempstress in Paris, as elsewhere, is very hard; it usually means eleven hours' close application a day, six full days a week, at half a crown a day. But already Marguerite Audoux's defective eyesight was causing anxiety, and upsetting the regularity of her work, so that in the evenings she was often less fatigued than a sempstress generally is. She wanted distraction, and she found it in the realization of an old desire to write. She wrote, not because she could find nothing else to do, but because at last the chance of writing had come. That she had always loved reading is plain from certain incidents in this present book; her opportunities for reading, however, had been limited. She now began, in a tentative and perhaps desultory fashion, to set down her youthful reminiscences. About this time she became acquainted, through one of its members, and by one of those hazards of destiny which too rarely diversify the dull industrial life of a city, with a circle of young literary men, of whom possibly the most important was the regretted Charles Louis Philippe, author of "Bubu de Montparnasse," and other novels which have a genuine reputation among the chosen people who know the difference between literature and its counterfeit. This circle of friends used to meet at Philippe's flat. It included a number of talented writers, among whom I should mention MM. Iehl (the author of "Cauët"), Francis Jourdain, Paul Fargue, Larbaud, Chanvin, Marcel Ray, and Régis Gignoux (the literary and dramatic critic). Marguerite Audoux was not introduced as a literary prodigy. Nobody, indeed, was aware that she wrote. She came on her merits as an individuality, and she took her place beside several other women who, like herself, had no literary pretensions. I am told by one of the intimates of the fellowship that the impression she made was profound. And the fact is indubitable that her friends are at least as enthusiastic about her individuality as about this book which she has written. She was a little over thirty, and very pretty, with an agreeable voice. The sobriety of her charm, the clear depth of her emotional faculty, and the breadth of her gentle interest in human nature handsomely conquered the entire fellowship. The working sempstress was sincerely esteemed by some of the brightest masculine intellects in Paris.
This admiring appreciation naturally encouraged her to speak a little of herself. And one evening she confessed that she, too, had been trying to write. On another evening she brought some sheets of manuscript—the draft of the early chapters of "Marie Claire"—and read them aloud. She read, I am told, very well. The reception was enthusiastic. One can imagine the ecstatic fervour of these young men, startled by the apparition of such a shining talent. She must continue the writing of her book, but in the mean time she must produce some short stories and sketches for the daily papers! Her gift must be presented to the public instantly! She followed the advice thus urgently offered, and several members of the circle (in particular, Régis Gignoux and Marcel Ray) gave themselves up to the business of placing the stories and sketches; Marcel Ray devoted whole days to the effort, obtaining special leave from his own duties in order to do so. In the result several stories and sketches appeared in theMatin, Paris Journal(respectively the least and the most literary of Paris morning papers), and other organs. These stories and sketches, by the way, were republished in a small volume, some time before "Marie Claire," and attracted no general attention whatever.
Meanwhile the more important work proceeded, slowly; and was at length finished. Its composition stretched over a period of six years. Marguerite Audoux never hurried nor fatigued herself, and though she re-wrote many passages several times, she did not carry this revision to the meticulous excess which is the ruin of so many ardent literary beginners in France. The trite phrase, "written with blood and tears," does not in the least apply here. A native wisdom has invariably saved Marguerite Audoux from the dangerous extreme. In his preface to the original French edition, M. Octave Mirbeau appositely points out that Philippe and her other friends abstained from giving purely literary advice to the authoress as her book grew and was read aloud. With the insight of artists they perceived that hers was a talent which must be strictly let alone. But Parisian rumour has alleged, not merely that she was advised, but that she was actually helped in the writing by her admirers. The rumour is worse than false—it is silly. Every paragraph of the work bears the unmistakable and inimitable work of one individuality. And among the friends of Marguerite Audoux, even the most gifted, there is none who could possibly have composed any of the passages which have been singled out as being beyond the accomplishment of a working sempstress. The whole work and every part of the work is the unassisted and untutored production of its author. This statement cannot be too clearly and positively made. Doubtless the spelling was drastically corrected by the proof-readers; but to have one's spelling drastically corrected is an experience which occurs to nearly all women writers, and to a few male writers.
The book completed, the question of its proper flotation arose. I use the word "flotation" with intent. Although Marguerite Audoux had originally no thought of publishing, her friends were firmly bent not simply on publishing, but on publishing with the maximum of éclat. A great name was necessary to the success of the enterprise, a name which, while keeping the sympathy of the artists, would impose itself on the crowd. Francis Jourdain knew Octave Mirbeau. And Octave Mirbeau, by virtue of his feverish artistic and moral enthusiasms, of his notorious generosity, and of his enormous vogue, was obviously the heaven-appointed man. Francis Jourdain went to Octave Mirbeau and offered him the privilege of floating "Marie Claire" on the literary market of Paris. Octave Mirbeau accepted, and he went to work on the business as he goes to work on all his business; that is to say, with flames and lightnings. For some time Octave Mirbeau lived for nothing, but "Marie Claire." The result has been vastly creditable to him. "Marie Claire" was finally launched in splendour. Its path had been prepared with really remarkable skill in the Press and in the world, and it was an exceedingly brilliant success from the start. It ran a triumphant course as a serial in one of the "great reviews," and within a few weeks of its publication as a book thirty thousand copies had been sold. The sale continues more actively than ever. Marguerite Audoux lives precisely as she lived before. She is writing a further instalment of her pseudonymous autobiography, and there is no apparent reason why this new instalment should not be even better than the first.
Such is the story of the book.
My task is not to criticise the work. I will only say this. In my opinion it is highly distinguished of its kind (the second part in particular is full of marvellous beauty); but it must be accepted for what it is. It makes no sort of pretence to display those constructive and inventive artifices which are indispensable to a great masterpiece of impersonal fiction. It is not fiction. It is the exquisite expression of a temperament. It is a divine accident.
ARNOLD BENNETT.
One day a number of people came to the house. The men came in as though they were going into church, and the women made the sign of the cross as they went out.
I slipped into my parents' bedroom and was surprised to see that my mother had a big lighted candle by her bedside. My father was leaning over the foot of the bed looking at my mother. She was asleep with her hands crossed on her breast.
Our neighbour, la mère Colas, kept us with her all day. As the women went out again she said to them, "No, she would not kiss her children good-bye." The women blew their noses, looked at us, and la mère Colas added, "That sort of illness makes one unkind, I suppose." A few days afterwards we were given new dresses with big black and white checks.
La mère Colas used to give us our meals and send us out to play in the fields. My sister, who was a big girl, scrambled into the hedges, climbed the trees, messed about in the ponds, and used to come home at night with her pockets full of creatures of all kinds, which frightened me and made la mère Colas furiously angry.
What I hated most were the earthworms. The red elastic things made me shiver with horror, and if I happened to step on one it made me quite ill. When I had a pain in my side la mère Colas used to forbid my sister to go out. But my sister got tired of remaining indoors and wanted to go out and take me with her. So she used to go and collect earthworms, and hold them up close to my face. Then I said that I wasn't in pain any more, and la mère Colas used to send us both out of doors. One day my sister threw a handful of earthworms on to my dress. I jumped back so quickly that I fell into a tub of hot water. La mère Colas was very angry while she undressed me. I was not very much hurt. She promised my sister a good slapping, and called to the sweeps, who were passing, to come in and take her away. All three of them came in, with their black bags and their ropes. My sister howled and cried for mercy. I was very much ashamed at being all undressed.
My father often took us to a place where there were men who drank wine. He used to put me on a table among the glasses, and make me sing. The men would laugh and kiss me, and try and make me drink wine. It was always dark when we went home. My father took long steps, and rocked himself as he walked. He nearly tumbled down lots of times. Sometimes he would begin to cry and say that his house had been stolen. Then my sister used to scream. It was always she who used to find the house. One morning la mère Colas got angry with us and told us that we were children of misfortune, and that she would not feed us any longer. She said we could go and look for our father, who had gone away nobody knew where. When her anger had passed she gave us our breakfasts as usual, but a few days afterwards we were put into père Chicon's cart. The cart was full of straw and bags of corn. I was tucked away behind in a little hollow between the sacks. The cart tipped down at the back, and every jolt made me slip on the straw.
I was very frightened all the way along. Every time I slipped I thought I was going to fall out of the cart, or that the sacks were going to fall on me. We stopped at an inn. A woman lifted us down, shook the straw on our dresses, and gave us some milk to drink. I heard her say to père Chicon, "You really think their father will take care of them, then?" Père Chicon shook his head, and knocked his pipe against the table. Then he made a funny face and said, "He may be anywhere. Young Girard told me he had met him on the Paris road." After a while père Chicon took us to a big house with a lot of steps leading up to the door. He had a long talk with a gentleman who waved his arms about and talked about the dignity of labour. I wondered what that was. The gentleman put his hand on my head and patted it, and I heard him say several times, "He did not tell me that he had any children." I understood that he was talking of my father, and I asked if I could not see him. The gentleman looked at me without answering, and then asked père Chicon, "How old is she?" "About five," said père Chicon. All this time my sister was playing up and down the steps with a kitten. We went back into the cart and to mère Colas again. She was cross with us and pushed us about. A few days afterwards she took us to the railway station, and that evening we went to a big house, where there were a lot of little girls.
Sister Gabrielle separated us at once. She said that my sister was big enough to be with the middle-sized girls, while I was to stay with the little ones. Sister Gabrielle was quite small, quite old, quite thin, and all bent up. She managed the dormitory and the refectory. She used to make the salad in a huge yellow jar. She tucked her sleeves up to her shoulders, and dipped her arms in and out of the salad. Her arms were dark and knotted, and when they came out of the jar, all shining and dripping, they made me think of dead branches on rainy days.
I made a chum at once. She came dancing up to me and looked impudent, I thought. She did not stand any higher than the bench on which I was sitting. She put her elbows on my knees and said: "Why aren't you playing about?" I told her that I had a pain in my side. "Oh, of course," she said, "your mother had consumption, and Sister Gabrielle said you would soon die." She climbed up on to the bench, and sat down, hiding her little legs underneath her. Then she asked me my name and my age, and told me that her name was Ismérie, that she was older than I was, and that the doctor said she would never get any bigger. She told me also that the class mistress was called Sister Marie-Aimée, that she was very unkind, and punished you severely if you talked too much. Then all of a sudden she jumped down and shouted "Augustine." Her voice was like a boy's voice, and her legs were a little twisted. At the end of recreation I saw her on Augustine's back. Augustine was rolling her from one shoulder to the other, as if she meant to throw her down. When she passed me Ismérie said in that big voice of hers, "You will carry me too sometimes, won't you?" I soon became friends with Augustine.
My eyes were not well. At night my eyelids used to close up tight, and I was quite blind until I had them washed. Augustine was told off to take me to the infirmary. She used to come and fetch me from the dormitory every morning. I could hear her coming before she got to the door. She caught hold of my hand and pulled me along, and she didn't mind a bit when I bumped against the beds. We flew down the passages like the wind and rushed down two flights of stairs like an avalanche. My feet only touched a step now and again. I used to go down those stairs as if I was falling down a well. Augustine had strong hands and held me tight. To go to the infirmary we had to pass behind the chapel and then in front of a little white house. There we hurried more than ever. One day when I fell on to my knees she pulled me up again and smacked my head saying, "Do be quick, we are in front of the dead house." After that she was always afraid of my falling again, and used to tell me when we got in front of the dead house. I was frightened chiefly because Augustine was frightened. If she rushed along like that there must be danger. I was always out of breath when I got to the infirmary. Somebody pushed me on to a little chair, and the pain in my side had been gone a long time when they came and washed my eyes. It was Augustine who took me into Sister Marie-Aimée's classroom. She put on a timid kind of voice, and said, "Sister, here is a new girl." I expected to be scolded; but Sister Marie-Aimée smiled, kissed me several times, and said, "You are too small to sit on a bench, I shall put you in here." And she sat me down on a stool in the hollow of her desk. It was ever so comfortable in the hollow of her desk, and the warmth of her woollen petticoat soothed my body, which was bruised all over by tumbling about on the wooden staircases, and on the stone ones. Often two feet hemmed me in on each side of my stool, and two warm legs made a back for me. A soft hand pressed my head on to the woollen skirt between the knees, and the softness of the hand and the warmth of the pillow used to send me to sleep. When I woke up again the pillow became a table. The same hand put bits of cake on it, and bits of sugar and sweets sometimes. And all round me I heard the world living. A voice with tears in it would say, "No, Sister, I didn't do it." Then shrill voices would say, "Yes, she did, Sister." Above my head a full warm voice called for silence. And then there would be the rap of a ruler on the desk. It would make an enormous noise down in my hollow. Sometimes the feet would be drawn away from my little stool, the knees would be drawn together, the chair would move, and down to my nest came a white veil, a narrow chin, and smiling lips with little white pointed teeth behind them. And last of all I saw two soft eyes which seemed to cuddle me and make me feel comfortable.
When my eyes got better I used to get an alphabet as well as sweets and cakes. It was a little book with pictures next to the words. I often used to look at a great big strawberry which I fancied as big as a bun. When it was not cold in the classroom, Sister Marie-Aimée put me on a bench between Ismérie and Marie Renaud, who slept in the two beds next to mine in the dormitory. Now and then she used to let me go back to my hollow again, and I loved that. I used to find books there with pictures, which made me forget all about the time.
One morning Ismérie took me into a corner, and told me with great secrecy that Sister Marie-Aimée was not going to take the class any more. She was going to take Sister Gabrielle's place in the dormitory and the refectory. She did not tell me who had told her this, but she said it was an awful shame. She was very fond of Sister Gabrielle, who used to treat her like a little child. She did not like "that Sister Marie-Aimée," as she used to call her when she knew that nobody heard her but ourselves. She said that Sister Marie-Aimée would not let her climb on to our backs, and that we should not be able to make fun of her as we used to of Sister Gabrielle, who always went upstairs sideways. In the evening after prayers Sister Gabrielle told us that she was going. She kissed us all, beginning with the smallest of us. We went up to the dormitory making a dreadful noise. The big girls whispered together and said they would not put up with Sister Marie-Aimée. The little ones snivelled as though they were going into danger. Ismérie, whom I was carrying upstairs on my back, was crying noisily. Her little fingers hurt my throat, and her tears fell down my neck. Nobody thought of laughing at Sister Gabrielle, who went upstairs slowly, saying "Hush, hush," all the time, without making the noise any less. The servant in the little dormitory was crying too. She shook me a little while she was undressing me and said, "I'm sure you are pleased at having that Sister Marie-Aimée of yours." We used to call the servant Bonne Esther. I liked her best of the three servants. She was rather rough sometimes, but she was fond of us. When I coughed she used to get up and put a piece of sugar in my mouth. And often she took me out of my bed when I was cold and warmed me in her own.
Next morning we went down to the refectory in dead silence. The servants told us to remain standing. Several of the big girls stood very straight and looked proud. Bonne Justine stood at one end of the table. She looked sad and bent her head. Bonne Néron, who looked like a gendarme, walked up and down in the middle of the refectory. Now and then she looked at the clock, and shrugged her shoulders. Sister Marie-Aimée came in, leaving the door open behind her. She seemed to me to be taller than usual, in her white apron and white cuffs. She walked slowly, looking at us all. The rosary, which hung at her side, made a little clickety sound, and her skirt swung a little as she walked. She went up the three steps to her desk, and made a sign to us to sit down. In the afternoon she took us out for a walk in the country. It was very hot. I went and sat down near her on a little hillock. She was reading a book, and every now and then looked at the little girls who were playing in a field below us. She looked at the sun which was setting, and kept on saying "How lovely it is, how lovely it is."
That evening the birch which Sister Gabrielle kept in the dormitory was put away in a cupboard, and in the refectory the salad was turned with two long wooden spoons. These were the only changes. We went into class from nine o'clock till twelve, and in the afternoon we cracked nuts, which were sold to an oil merchant. The bigger girls used to crack them with a hammer, and the little ones took them out of the shells. We were forbidden to eat them, and it was not easy, anyhow. One of the girls would always sneak if we did, because she was greedy too, and jealous. Bonne Esther used to peep into our mouths. Sometimes she caught a very greedy girl. Then she used to roll her eyes at her, give her a little smack, and say, "I've got my eye on you." Some of us she trusted. She would make us turn round and open our mouths and pretend to look at them, and then she said, "Shut your beaks, birdies," and laughed.
I often wanted to eat the nuts. But I would look at Bonne Esther and blush at the idea of cheating her, because she trusted me. But after a time I wanted to eat nuts so badly that I could not think of anything else. Every day I tried to think of some way of eating them without being caught. I tried to slip some into my sleeves, but I was so awkward that I always dropped them. Besides, I wanted to eat a lot of them, a great big lot. I thought I should like to eat a sackful. One day I managed to steal some. Bonne Esther, who was taking us up to bed, slipped on a nutshell and dropped her lantern, which went out. I was close to a big bowl of nuts, and I took a handful and put them in my pocket. As soon as everybody was in bed I took the nuts out of my pocket, put my head under the sheets and crammed them into my mouth. But it seemed to me at once as though everybody in the dormitory must hear the noise that my jaws were making. I did all I could to munch slowly and quietly, but the noise thumped in my ears like the blows of a mallet.
Bonne Esther got up, lit the lamp, stooped down and looked under the beds. When she came to mine I looked out at her trembling. She whispered, "Aren't you asleep yet?" and went on looking. She went down to the end of the dormitory, opened the door, and closed it again; but she was hardly back in bed with the light out before the latch of the door made a little sound as though somebody were opening it. Bonne Esther lit her lamp again and said, "Whatever is it? It cannot be the cat opening the door by itself." It seemed to me that she was afraid. I heard her moving about in her bed, and all of a sudden she called out, "Oh dear, oh dear." Ismérie asked her what the matter was. She said that a hand had opened the door, and she had felt a breath on her face. In the twi-darkness we saw the door half open. I was very frightened. I thought it was the devil who had come to fetch me. We waited a long, long time, but we heard nothing more. Bonne Esther asked if one of us would get up and put the light out, although it was not very far from her own bed. Nobody answered. Then she called me. I got up and she said, "You are such a good little girl that ghosts won't do any harm to you." She put her head under the bedclothes, and I blew the lamp out. And directly it was put out I saw thousands of shining specks of light, and felt something cold on my cheeks. I was sure that there were green dragons, with mouths aflame, under the beds. I could feel their claws on my feet, and lights were jumping about on each side of my head. I wanted to sit down, and when I got to my bed I was quite sure that my two feet had gone. When I dared, I stooped down and felt for them. They were very cold. I went to sleep at last holding them in my two hands.
In the morning Bonne Esther found the cat on a bed near the door. She had had kittens during the night. When Sister Marie-Aimée was told about it, she said that the cat had certainly opened the door by jumping at the latch. But we never felt sure about that, and the little girls used to talk about it in low voices for a long time.
Next week all the girls who were eight years old went down to the big dormitory. I had a bed near the window, quite close to Sister Marie-Aimée's room. Marie Renaud and Ismérie again had their beds on each side of me. When we were in bed Sister Marie-Aimée often used to come and sit by me. She would take one of my hands and pat it, and look out of the window. One night there was a big fire in the neighbourhood, and the whole dormitory was lit up. Sister Marie-Aimée opened the window wide, shook me, and said, "Wake up, come and see the fire." She took me in her arms, passed her hands over my face to wake me, and said again, "Come and see the fire; see how beautiful it is." I was so sleepy that my head fell on her shoulder. Then she boxed my ears, and called me a little silly, and I woke up and began to cry. She took me in her arms again, sat down, and rocked me, holding me close to her. She bent her head forward towards the window. Her face looked transparent, and her eyes were full of light. Ismérie hated Sister Marie-Aimée to come to the window. It prevented her from talking, and she always had something to say. Her voice was so loud that one heard it at the other end of the dormitory. Sister Marie-Aimée used to say, "There's Ismérie talking again;" and Ismérie used to answer, "There's Sister Marie-Aimée scolding again." Her daring frightened me, but Sister Marie-Aimée used to pretend not to hear her. But one day she said, "I forbid you to answer me, little dwarf." Ismérie answered, "No-sums." This was a word which we had made up ourselves. It meant, "Look at my nose and see if I care." Sister Marie-Aimée reached for a cane. I was dreadfully afraid she was going to whip Ismérie. But Ismérie threw herself down flat on her stomach and wriggled about and made funny noises. Sister Marie-Aimée pushed her away with her foot, threw the cane away, and said, "Oh, you horrible little thing!" Afterwards I noticed that she used to avoid looking at her, and never seemed to hear the rude things she said. But she forbade us to carry her about on our backs.
That never prevented Ismérie from climbing on to mine like a monkey. I hadn't the courage to push her away, and I used to stoop down a little to let her get well up. She always wanted to ride when we went up to the dormitory. It was very hard for her to get up the stairs. She used to laugh about it herself, saying that she hopped up like an old hen going to roost. As Sister Marie-Aimée always went upstairs first, I used to wait and go up among the last girls. But sometimes Sister Marie-Aimée would turn round suddenly. Then Ismérie slipped down my body to the ground with wonderful quickness and skill. I always felt a little bit awkward when I caught Sister Marie-Aimée's eye, and Ismérie always said, "See what a fool you are. You were caught again." Marie Renaud would never let her climb up on to her back. She used to say that she wore her dress out and made it dirty.
Esmérie was a little chatterbox, but Marie Renaud hardly ever talked at all. Every morning she used to help me to make my bed. She would pass her hands over the sheets to smooth them out, and always refused my help in making her bed, because she said I rolled the sheets all kinds of ways. I never could understand why her bed was so smooth when she got up. One day she told me that she pinned her sheets and her blankets to the mattress. She had all kinds of little hiding-places full of all kinds of things. At table she always used to eat some of yesterday's dessert. The dessert of the day went into her pocket. She used to finger it there, and would munch a little bit of it from time to time. I often found her sitting in corners making lace with a pin. Her great pleasure was brushing, folding, and putting things in order. That was why my shoes were always well brushed and my Sunday dress carefully folded. But one day a new servant came, whose name was Madeleine. She soon found out that I did not take care of my own things. She got excited, and said I was a great big lazy girl, and that I made other people wait on me as though I were a countess. She said it was a shame to make poor little Marie Renaud work. Bonne Néron agreed with her, and said I was puffed up with pride, that I thought I was better than anybody else, that I never did anything like other girls. They both said, together, that they had never seen a girl like me, and both of them leaned over me and shouted at me together. They made me think of two noisy fairies, a black one and a white one. Madeleine was fresh and fair, with full, open lips, and teeth which were wide apart. Her tongue was broad and thick, and moved about into the corners of her mouth when she talked. Bonne Néron raised her hand to me, and said, "Drop your eyes this minute!" As they went away, I heard her say to Madeleine: "She makes you ashamed of yourself when she looks at you like that." I had known for a long time that Bonne Néron looked like a bull, but I could not find out what animal Madeleine was like. I thought it over for several days, thinking of all the animals I knew, and at last I gave it up. She was fat, and her hips swayed when she walked. She had a piercing voice, which surprised everybody. She asked leave to sing in church, but as she did not know the hymns. Sister Marie-Aimée told me to teach her. After that Marie Renaud was allowed to brush and smooth out my things without anybody taking any notice of it. She was so pleased that she gave me a safety-pin as a present, so as to fasten up my handkerchief, which I was always losing. Two days later I lost both the safety-pin and the handkerchief. Oh, that handkerchief! It was a perfect nightmare! I used to lose one regularly every week. Sister Marie-Aimée gave us a clean pocket-handkerchief in return for the dirty one which we had to throw down on to the ground in front of her. I never thought of mine till the last moment. And then I turned out all my pockets, I ran about like a mad thing into the dormitory, up and down the passages, and up to the garret hunting for it everywhere. Oh dear, oh dear! if I could only find a handkerchief somewhere! As I passed in front of the picture of the Virgin, I would put my hands together and pray fervently, "Admirable Mother, make me find a handkerchief." But I never did find one, and I went downstairs again red in the face, out of breath, feeling dreadfully unhappy, and not daring to take the clean handkerchief which Sister Marie-Aimée handed to me. Before she spoke, I could hear the scolding which I knew I deserved. And even when Sister Marie-Aimée said nothing at all, I could see her frown, and her eyes looked crossly at me and followed me about. I felt crushed with shame, so crushed that I could scarcely lift my feet. I tried to hide in the corners as I walked; and, in spite of it all, next time I had lost my handkerchief again. Madeleine used to look at me with sham compassion. But she could not always prevent herself from telling me that I deserved to be punished severely. She seemed very fond of Sister Marie-Aimée. She waited on her always, and she would burst into tears at her slightest word. Then Sister Marie-Aimée had to soothe her by patting her cheeks, and she would laugh and cry at the same time, and move her shoulders about, showing her white neck. Bonne Néron used to say that she looked like a cat.