SOMETHING WARM PASSING OVER HER FACE MADE HER OPEN HER EYES.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 overthe 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. Whenwe'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 heisa 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 goingto 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."
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 trainat 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 agrocer store and restaurant. She's Madame Françoise."
"Ah! Madame Françoise."
"What! do you know her?"
"No, I just said, 'Ah, Madame Françoise.'"
"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."
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 façade 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, withoutcounting 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 helpcarry 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 acarriage 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, Françoise."
"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, Françoise."
"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 hervoice. "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.
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 trodon 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 satdown 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 whoare 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 Françoise'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 café; 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 Françoise, 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 whereabout 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 mattressplaced 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 anda 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," andthe 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 findher, 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 ofthe 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 thatevery 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.
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 notvery 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 Françoise'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 skywithout 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.