That night Helene was unable to sleep. She turned from side to side in
feverish unrest, and whenever a drowsy stupor fell on her senses, the
old sorrows would start into new life within her breast. As she dozed
and the nightmare increased, one fixed thought tortured her--she was
eager to know where Juliette and Malignon would meet. This knowledge,
she imagined, would be a source of relief to her. Where, where could
it be? Despite herself, her brain throbbed with the thought, and she
forgot everything save her craving to unravel this mystery, which
thrilled her with secret longings.
When day dawned and she began to dress, she caught herself saying
loudly: "It will be to-morrow!"
With one stocking on, and hands falling helpless to her side, she
lapsed for a while into a fresh dreamy fit. "Where, where was it that
they had agreed to meet?"
"Good-day, mother, darling!" just then exclaimed Jeanne who had
awakened in her turn.
As her strength was now returning to her, she had gone back to sleep
in her cot in the closet. With bare feet and in her nightdress she
came to throw herself on Helene's neck, as was her every-day custom;
then back again she rushed, to curl herself up in her warm bed for a
little while longer. This jumping in and out amused her, and a ripple
of laughter stole from under the clothes. Once more she bounded into
the bedroom, saying: "Good-morning, mammy dear!"
And again she ran off, screaming with laughter. Then she threw the
sheet over her head, and her cry came, hoarse and muffled, from
beneath it: "I'm not there! I'm not there!"
But Helene was in no mood for play, as on other mornings; and Jeanne,
dispirited, fell asleep again. The day was still young. About eight
o'clock Rosalie made her appearance to recount the morning's chapter
of accidents. Oh! the streets were awful outside; in going for the
milk her shoes had almost come off in the muddy slush. All the ice was
thawing; and it was quite mild too, almost oppressive. Oh! by the way,
she had almost forgotten! an old woman had come to see madame the
night before.
"Why!" she said, as there came a pull at the bell, "I expect that's
she!"
It was Mother Fetu, but Mother Fetu transformed, magnificent in a
clean white cap, a new gown, and tartan shawl wrapped round her
shoulders. Her voice, however, still retained its plaintive tone of
entreaty.
"Dear lady, it's only I, who have taken the liberty of calling to ask
you about something!"
Helene gazed at her, somewhat surprised by her display of finery.
"Are you better, Mother Fetu?"
"Oh yes, yes; I feel better, if I may venture to say so. You see I
always have something queer in my inside; it knocks me about
dreadfully, but still I'm better. Another thing, too; I've had a
stroke of luck; it was a surprise, you see, because luck hasn't often
come in my way. But a gentleman has made me his housekeeper--and oh!
it's such a story!"
Her words came slowly, and her small keen eyes glittered in her face,
furrowed by a thousand wrinkles. She seemed to be waiting for Helene
to question her; but the young woman sat close to the fire which
Rosalie had just lit, and paid scant attention to her, engrossed as
she was in her own thoughts, with a look of pain on her features.
"What do you want to ask me?" she at last said to Mother Fetu.
The old lady made no immediate reply. She was scrutinizing the room,
with its rosewood furniture and blue velvet hangings. Then, with the
humble and fawning air of a pauper, she muttered: "Pardon me, madame,
but everything is so beautiful here. My gentleman has a room like
this, but it's all in pink. Oh! it's such a story! Just picture to
yourself a young man of good position who has taken rooms in our
house. Of course, it isn't much of a place, but still our first and
second floors are very nice. Then, it's so quiet, too! There's no
traffic; you could imagine yourself in the country. The workmen have
been in the house for a whole fortnight; they have made such a jewel
of his room!"
She here paused, observing that Helene's attention was being aroused.
"It's for his work," she continued in a drawling voice; "he says it's
for his work. We have no doorkeeper, you know, and that pleases him.
Oh! my gentleman doesn't like doorkeepers, and he is quite right,
too!"
Once more she came to a halt, as though an idea had suddenly occurred
to her.
"Why, wait a minute; you must know him--of course you must. He visits
one of your lady friends!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Helene, with colorless face.
"Yes, to be sure; the lady who lives close by--the one who used to go
with you to church. She came the other day."
Mother Fetu's eyes contracted, and from under the lids she took note
of her benefactress's emotion. But Helene strove to question her in a
tone that would not betray her agitation.
"Did she go up?"
"No, she altered her mind; perhaps she had forgotten something. But I
was at the door. She asked for Monsieur Vincent, and then got back
into her cab again, calling to the driver to return home, as it was
too late. Oh! she's such a nice, lively, and respectable lady. The
gracious God doesn't send many such into the world. Why, with the
exception of yourself, she's the best--well, well, may Heaven bless
you all!"
In this way Mother Fetu rambled on with the pious glibness of a
devotee who is perpetually telling her beads. But the twitching of the
myriad wrinkles of her face showed that her mind was still working,
and soon she beamed with intense satisfaction.
"Ah!" she all at once resumed in inconsequent fashion, "how I should
like to have a pair of good shoes! My gentleman has been so very kind,
I can't ask him for anything more. You see I'm dressed; still I must
get a pair of good shoes. Look at those I have; they are all holes;
and when the weather's muddy, as it is to-day, one's apt to get very
ill. Yes, I was down with colic yesterday; I was writhing all the
afternoon, but if I had a pair of good shoes--"
"I'll bring you a pair, Mother Fetu," said Helene, waving her towards
the door.
Then, as the old woman retired backwards, with profuse curtseying and
thanks, she asked her: "At what hour are you alone?"
"My gentleman is never there after six o'clock," she answered. "But
don't give yourself the trouble; I'll come myself, and get them from
your doorkeeper. But you can do as you please. You are an angel from
heaven. God on high will requite you for all your kindness!"
When she had reached the landing she could still be heard giving vent
to her feelings. Helene sat a long time plunged in the stupor which
the information, supplied by this woman with such fortuitous
seasonableness, had brought upon her. She now knew the place of
assignation. It was a room, with pink decorations, in that old
tumbledown house! She once more pictured to herself the staircase
oozing with damp, the yellow doors on each landing, grimy with the
touch of greasy hands, and all the wretchedness which had stirred her
heart to pity when she had gone during the previous winter to visit
Mother Fetu; and she also strove to conjure up a vision of that pink
chamber in the midst of such repulsive, poverty-stricken surroundings.
However, whilst she was still absorbed in her reverie, two tiny warm
hands were placed over her eyes, which lack of sleep had reddened, and
a laughing voice inquired: "Who is it? who is it?"
It was Jeanne, who had slipped into her clothes without assistance.
Mother Fetu's voice had awakened her; and perceiving that the closet
door had been shut, she had made her toilet with the utmost speed in
order to give her mother a surprise.
"Who is it? who is it?" she again inquired, convulsed more and more
with laughter.
She turned to Rosalie, who entered at the moment with the breakfast.
"You know; don't you speak. Nobody is asking you any question."
"Be quiet, you little madcap!" exclaimed Helene. "I suppose it's you!"
The child slipped on to her mother's lap, and there, leaning back and
swinging to and fro, delighted with the amusement she had devised, she
resumed:
"Well, it might have been another little girl! Eh? Perhaps some little
girl who had brought you a letter of invitation to dine with her
mamma. And she might have covered your eyes, too!"
"Don't be silly," exclaimed Helene, as she set her on the floor. "What
are you talking about? Rosalie, let us have breakfast."
The maid's eyes, however, were riveted on the child, and she commented
upon her little mistress being so oddly dressed. To tell the truth, so
great had been Jeanne's haste that she had not put on her shoes. She
had drawn on a short flannel petticoat which allowed a glimpse of her
chemise, and had left her morning jacket open, so that you could see
her delicate, undeveloped bosom. With her hair streaming behind her,
stamping about in her stockings, which were all awry, she looked
charming, all in white like some child of fairyland.
She cast down her eyes to see herself, and immediately burst into
laughter.
"Look, mamma, I look nice, don't I? Won't you let me be as I am? It is
nice!"
Repressing a gesture of impatience, Helene, as was her wont every
morning, inquired: "Are you washed?"
"Oh, mamma!" pleaded the child, her joy suddenly dashed. "Oh, mamma!
it's raining; it's too nasty!"
"Then, you'll have no breakfast. Wash her, Rosalie."
She usually took this office upon herself, but that morning she felt
altogether out of sorts, and drew nearer to the fire, shivering,
although the weather was so balmy. Having spread a napkin and placed
two white china bowls on a small round table, Rosalie had brought the
latter close to the fireplace. The coffee and milk steamed before the
fire in a silver pot, which had been a present from Monsieur Rambaud.
At this early hour the disorderly, drowsy room seemed delightfully
homelike.
"Mamma, mamma!" screamed Jeanne from the depths of the closet, "she's
rubbing me too hard. It's taking my skin off. Oh dear! how awfully
cold!"
Helene, with eyes fixed on the coffee-pot, remained engrossed in
thought. She desired to know everything, so she would go. The thought
of that mysterious place of assignation in so squalid a nook of Paris
was an ever-present pain and vexation. She judged such taste hateful,
but in it she identified Malignon's leaning towards romance.
"Mademoiselle," declared Rosalie, "if you don't let me finish with
you, I shall call madame."
"Stop, stop: you are poking the soap into my eyes," answered Jeanne,
whose voice was hoarse with sobs. "Leave me alone; I've had enough of
it. The ears can wait till to-morrow."
But the splashing of water went on, and the squeezing of the sponge
into the basin could be heard. There was a clamor and a struggle, the
child was sobbing; but almost immediately afterward she made her
appearance, shouting gaily: "It's over now; it's over now!"
Her hair was still glistening with wet, and she shook herself, her
face glowing with the rubbing it had received and exhaling a fresh and
pleasant odor. In her struggle to get free her jacket had slipped from
her shoulders, her petticoat had become loosened, and her stockings
had tumbled down, displaying her bare legs. According to Rosalie, she
looked like an infant Jesus. Jeanne, however, felt very proud that she
was clean; she had no wish to be dressed again.
"Look at me, mamma; look at my hands, and my neck, and my ears. Oh!
you must let me warm myself; I am so comfortable. You don't say
anything; surely I've deserved my breakfast to-day."
She had curled herself up before the fire in her own little
easy-chair. Then Rosalie poured out the coffee and milk. Jeanne took
her bowl on her lap, and gravely soaked her toast in its contents with
all the airs of a grown-up person. Helene had always forbidden her to
eat in this way, but that morning she remained plunged in thought. She
did not touch her own bread, and was satisfied with drinking her coffee.
Then Jeanne, after swallowing her last morsel, was stung with remorse.
Her heart filled, she put aside her bowl, and gazing on her mother's
pale face, threw herself on her neck: "Mamma, are you ill now? I
haven't vexed you, have I?--say."
"No, no, my darling, quite the contrary; you're very good," murmured
Helene as she embraced her. "I'm only a little wearied; I haven't
slept well. Go on playing: don't be uneasy."
The thought occurred to her that the day would prove a terribly long
one. What could she do whilst waiting for the night? For some time
past she had abandoned her needlework; sewing had become a terrible
weariness. For hours she lingered in her seat with idle hands, almost
suffocating in her room, and craving to go out into the open air for
breath, yet never stirring. It was this room which made her ill; she
hated it, in angry exasperation over the two years which she had spent
within its walls; its blue velvet and the vast panorama of the mighty
city disgusted her, and her thoughts dwelt on a lodging in some busy
street, the uproar of which would have deafened her. Good heavens! how
long were the hours! She took up a book, but the fixed idea that
engrossed her mind continually conjured up the same visions between
her eyes and the page of print.
In the meantime Rosalie had been busy setting the room in order;
Jeanne's hair also had been brushed, and she was dressed. While her
mother sat at the window, striving to read, the child, who was in one
of her moods of obstreperous gaiety, began playing a grand game. She
was all alone; but this gave her no discomfort; she herself
represented three or four persons in turn with comical earnestness and
gravity. At first she played the lady going on a visit. She vanished
into the dining-room, and returned bowing and smiling, her head
nodding this way and that in the most coquettish style.
"Good-day, madame! How are you, madame? How long it is since I've seen
you! A marvellously long time, to be sure! Dear me, I've been so ill,
madame! Yes; I've had the cholera; it's very disagreeable. Oh! it
doesn't show; no, no, it makes you look younger, on my word of honor.
And your children, madame? Oh! I've had three since last summer!"
So she rattled on, never ceasing her curtseying to the round table,
which doubtless represented the lady she was visiting. Next she
ventured to bring the chairs closer together, and for an hour carried
on a general conversation, her talk abounding in extraordinary
phrases.
"Don't be silly," said her mother at intervals, when the chatter put
her out of patience.
"But, mamma, I'm paying my friend a visit. She's speaking to me, and I
must answer her. At tea nobody ought to put the cakes in their
pockets, ought they?"
Then she turned and began again:
"Good-bye, madame; your tea was delicious. Remember me most kindly to
your husband."
The next moment came something else. She was going out shopping in her
carriage, and got astride of a chair like a boy.
"Jean, not so quick; I'm afraid. Stop! stop! here is the milliner's!
Mademoiselle, how much is this bonnet? Three hundred francs; that
isn't dear. But it isn't pretty. I should like it with a bird on it--a
bird big like that! Come, Jean, drive me to the grocer's. Have you
some honey? Yes, madame, here is some. Oh, how nice it is! But I don't
want any of it; give me two sous' worth of sugar. Oh! Jean, look, take
care! There! we have had a spill! Mr. Policeman, it was the cart which
drove against us. You're not hurt, madame, are you? No, sir, not in
the least. Jean, Jean! home now. Gee-up! gee-up. Wait a minute; I must
order some chemises. Three dozen chemises for madame. I want some
boots too and some stays. Gee-up! gee-up! Good gracious, we shall
never get back again."
Then she fanned herself, enacting the part of the lady who has
returned home and is finding fault with her servants. She never
remained quiet for a moment; she was in a feverish ecstasy, full of
all sorts of whimsical ideas; all the life she knew surged up in her
little brain and escaped from it in fragments. Morning and afternoon
she thus moved about, dancing and chattering; and when she grew tired,
a footstool or parasol discovered in a corner, or some shred of stuff
lying on the floor, would suffice to launch her into a new game in
which her effervescing imagination found fresh outlet. Persons,
places, and incidents were all of her own creation, and she amused
herself as much as though twelve children of her own age had been
beside her.
But evening came at last. Six o'clock was about to strike. And Helene,
rousing herself from the troubled stupor in which she had spent the
afternoon, hurriedly threw a shawl over her shoulders.
"Are you going out, mamma?" asked Jeanne in her surprise.
"Yes, my darling, just for a walk close by. I won't be long; be good."
Outside it was still thawing. The footways were covered with mud. In
the Rue de Passy, Helene entered a boot shop, to which she had taken
Mother Fetu on a previous occasion. Then she returned along the Rue
Raynouard. The sky was grey, and from the pavement a mist was rising.
The street stretched dimly before her, deserted and fear-inspiring,
though the hour was yet early. In the damp haze the infrequent
gas-lamps glimmered like yellow spots. She quickened her steps, keeping
close to the houses, and shrinking from sight as though she were on
the way to some assignation. However, as she hastily turned into the
Passage des Eaux, she halted beneath the archway, her heart giving way
to genuine terror. The passage opened beneath her like some black
gulf. The bottom of it was invisible; the only thing she could see in
this black tunnel was the quivering gleam of the one lamp which
lighted it. Eventually she made up her mind, and grasped the iron
railing to prevent herself from slipping. Feeling her way with the tip
of her boots she landed successively on the broad steps. The walls,
right and left, grew closer, seemingly prolonged by the darkness,
while the bare branches of the trees above cast vague shadows, like
those of gigantic arms with closed or outstretched hands. She trembled
as she thought that one of the garden doors might open and a man
spring out upon her. There were no passers-by, however, and she
stepped down as quickly as possible. Suddenly from out of the darkness
loomed a shadow which coughed, and she was frozen with fear; but it
was only an old woman creeping with difficulty up the path. Then she
felt less uneasy, and carefully raised her dress, which had been
trailing in the mud. So thick was the latter that her boots were
constantly sticking to the steps. At the bottom she turned aside
instinctively. From the branches the raindrops dripped fast into the
passage, and the lamp glimmered like that of some miner, hanging to
the side of a pit which infiltrations have rendered dangerous.
Helene climbed straight to the attic she had so often visited at the
top of the large house abutting on the Passage. But nothing stirred,
although she rapped loudly. In considerable perplexity she descended
the stairs again. Mother Fetu was doubtless in the rooms on the first
floor, where, however, Helene dared not show herself. She remained
five minutes in the entry, which was lighted by a petroleum lamp. Then
again she ascended the stairs hesitatingly, gazing at each door, and
was on the point of going away, when the old woman leaned over the
balusters.
"What! it's you on the stairs, my good lady!" she exclaimed. "Come in,
and don't catch cold out there. Oh! it is a vile place--enough to kill
one."
"No, thank you," said Helene; "I've brought you your pair of shoes,
Mother Fetu."
She looked at the door which Mother Fetu had left open behind her, and
caught a glimpse of a stove within.
"I'm all alone, I assure you," declared the old woman. "Come in. This
is the kitchen here. Oh! you're not proud with us poor folks; we can
talk to you!"
Despite the repugnance which shame at the purpose of her coming
created within her, Helene followed her.
"God in Heaven! how can I thank you! Oh, what lovely shoes! Wait, and
I'll put them on. There's my whole foot in; it fits me like a glove.
Bless the day! I can walk with these without being afraid of the rain.
Oh! my good lady, you are my preserver; you've given me ten more years
of life. No, no, it's no flattery; it's what I think, as true as
there's a lamp shining on us. No, no, I don't flatter!"
She melted into tears as she spoke, and grasping Helene's hands kissed
them. In a stewpan on the stove some wine was being heated, and on the
table, near the lamp, stood a half-empty bottle of Bordeaux with its
tapering neck. The only other things placed there were four dishes, a
glass, two saucepans, and an earthenware pot. It could be seen that
Mother Fetu camped in this bachelor's kitchen, and that the fires were
lit for herself only. Seeing Helene's glance turn towards the stewpan,
she coughed, and once more put on her dolorous expression!.
"It's gripping me again," she groaned. "Oh! it's useless for the
doctor to talk; I must have some creature in my inside. And then, a
drop of wine relieves me so. I'm greatly afflicted, my good lady. I
wouldn't have a soul suffer from my trouble; it's too dreadful. Well,
I'm nursing myself a bit now; and when a person has passed through so
much, isn't it fair she should do so? I have been so lucky in falling
in with a nice gentleman. May Heaven bless him!"
With this outburst she dropped two large lumps of sugar into her wine.
She was now getting more corpulent than ever, and her little eyes had
almost vanished from her fat face. She moved slowly with a beatifical
expression! of felicity. Her life's ambition was now evidently
satisfied. For this she had been born. When she put her sugar away
again Helene caught a glimpse of some tid-bits secreted at the bottom
of a cupboard--a jar of preserves, a bag of biscuits, and even some
cigars, all doubtless pilfered from the gentleman lodger.
"Well, good-bye, Mother Fetu, I'm going away," she exclaimed.
The old lady, however, pushed the saucepan to one side of the stove
and murmured: "Wait a minute; this is far too hot, I'll drink it
by-and-by. No, no; don't go out that way. I must beg pardon for
having received you in the kitchen. Let us go round the rooms."
She caught up the lamp, and turned into a narrow passage. Helene, with
beating heart, followed close behind. The passage, dilapidated and
smoky, was reeking with damp. Then a door was thrown open, and she
found herself treading a thick carpet. Mother Fetu had already
advanced into a room which was plunged in darkness and silence.
"Well?" she asked, as she lifted up the lamp; "it's very nice, isn't
it?"
There were two rooms, each of them square, communicating with one
another by folding-doors, which had been removed, and replaced by
curtains. Both were hung with pink cretonne of a Louis Quinze pattern,
picturing chubby-checked cupids disporting themselves amongst garlands
of flowers. In the first apartment there was a round table, two
lounges, and some easy-chairs; and in the second, which was somewhat
smaller, most of the space was occupied by the bed. Mother Fetu drew
attention to a crystal lamp with gilt chains, which hung from the
ceiling. To her this lamp was the veritable acme of luxury.
Then she began explaining things: "You can't imagine what a funny
fellow he is! He lights it up in mid-day, and stays here, smoking a
cigar and gazing into vacancy. But it amuses him, it seems. Well, it
doesn't matter; I've an idea he must have spent a lot of money in his
time."
Helene went through the rooms in silence. They seemed to her in bad
taste. There was too much pink everywhere; the furniture also looked
far too new.
"He calls himself Monsieur Vincent," continued the old woman, rambling
on. "Of course, it's all the same to me. As long as he pays, my
gentleman--"
"Well, good-bye, Mother Fetu," said Helene, in whose throat a feeling
of suffocation was gathering.
She was burning to get away, but on opening a door she found herself
threading three small rooms, the bareness and dirt of which were
repulsive. The paper hung in tatters from the walls, the ceilings were
grimy, and old plaster littered the broken floors. The whole place was
pervaded by a smell of long preval!ent squalor.
"Not that way! not that way!" screamed Mother Fetu. "That door is
generally shut. These are the other rooms which they haven't attempted
to clean. My word! it's cost him quite enough already! Yes, indeed,
these aren't nearly so nice! Come this way, my good lady--come this
way!"
On Helene's return to the pink boudoir, she stopped to kiss her hand
once more.
"You see, I'm not ungrateful! I shall never forget the shoes. How well
they fit me! and how warm they are! Why, I could walk half-a-dozen
miles with them. What can I beg Heaven to grant you? O Lord, hearken
to me, and grant that she may be the happiest of women--in the name of
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!" A devout enthusiasm had
suddenly come upon Mother Fetu; she repeated the sign of the cross
again and again, and bowed the knee in the direction of the crystal
lamp. This done, she opened the door conducting to the landing, and
whispered in a changed voice into Helene's ear:
"Whenever you like to call, just knock at the kitchen door; I'm always
there!"
Dazed, and glancing behind her as though she were leaving a place of
dubious repute, Helene hurried down the staircase, reascended the
Passage des Eaux, and regained the Rue Vineuse, without consciousness
of the ground she was covering. The old woman's last words still rang
in her ears. In truth, no; never again would she set foot in that
house, never again would she bear her charity thither. Why should she
ever rap at the kitchen door again? At present she was satisfied; she
had seen what was to be seen. And she was full of scorn for herself
--for everybody. How disgraceful to have gone there! The recollection of
the place with its tawdry finery and squalid surroundings filled her
with mingled anger and disgust.
"Well, madame," exclaimed Rosalie, who was awaiting her return on the
staircase, "the dinner will be nice. Dear, oh dear! it's been burning
for half an hour!"
At table Jeanne plagued her mother with questions. Where had she been?
what had she been about? However, as the answers she received proved
somewhat curt, she began to amuse herself by giving a little dinner.
Her doll was perched near her on a chair, and in a sisterly fashion
she placed half of her dessert before it.
"Now, mademoiselle, you must eat like a lady. See, wipe your mouth.
Oh, the dirty little thing! She doesn't even know how to wear her
napkin! There, you're nice now. See, here is a biscuit. What do you
say? You want some preserve on it. Well, I should think it better as
it is! Let me pare you a quarter of this apple!"
She placed the doll's share on the chair. But when she had emptied her
own plate she took the dainties back again one after the other and
devoured them, speaking all the time as though she were the doll.
"Oh! it's delicious! I've never eaten such nice jam! Where did you get
this jam, madame? I shall tell my husband to buy a pot of it. Do those
beautiful apples come from your garden, madame?"
She fell asleep while thus playing, and stumbled into the bedroom with
the doll in her arms. She had given herself no rest since morning. Her
little legs could no longer sustain her--she was helpless and wearied
to death. However, a ripple of laughter passed over her face even in
sleep; in her dreams she must have been still continuing her play.
At last Helene was alone in her room. With closed doors she spent a
miserable evening beside the dead fire. Her will was failing her;
thoughts that found no utterance were stirring within the innermost
recesses of her heart. At midnight she wearily sought her bed, but
there her torture passed endurance. She dozed, she tossed from side to
side as though a fire were beneath her. She was haunted by visions
which sleeplessness enlarged to a gigantic size. Then an idea took
root in her brain. In vain did she strive to banish it; it clung to
her, surged and clutched her at the throat till it entirely swayed
her. About two o'clock she rose, rigid, pallid, and resolute as a
somnambulist, and having again lighted the lamp she wrote a letter in
a disguised hand; it was a vague denunciation, a note of three lines,
requesting Doctor Deberle to repair that day to such a place at such
an hour; there was no explanation, no signature. She sealed the
envelope and dropped the letter into the pocket of her dress which was
hanging over an arm-chair. Then returning to bed, she immediately
closed her eyes, and in a few minutes was lying there breathless,
overpowered by leaden slumber.