Part 7

"Alas! she doesn't complain, poor child! But she groans and cries, and I can't soothe her any more. Oh! monsieur! I can't soothe her any more!"

Mignonne paused a moment to weep. I did not try to check her tears. They do much more harm when stored up than when they are freely shed.

In a moment she continued, pointing to the child:

"Look! see how she keeps her teeth clenched all the time. Oh! that is what frightens me!"

"What does the doctor say?"

"He ordered her some medicine. But she won't take anything, she won't drink. That is the hardest part of it!"

"Yes, for if she drank a little of it, it would probably allay the fire that is consuming her."

"But what am I to do if she won't drink it--when she cries if I insist? I can't force her, can I, the dear little pet?"

"Will you let me try, madame?"

"You, monsieur! Do you think you can succeed any better than I?"

"I shall go about it differently."

"With her teeth always clenched--I'm afraid she'll break the cup when I hold it to her mouth."

"For that reason, I do not mean to try with a cup. Have you a small spoon?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Please let me have it, madame."

Mignonne gave me a small iron spoon, and a cup containing the sedative draught ordered by the doctor. I filled the spoon and offered it to the child, who refused to take it; but I succeeded in partly opening her gums for an instant with my left hand, and poured the contents of the spoon into her mouth. The little one cried bitterly; but she had swallowed a few drops of the potion, and that was all I wanted.

Mignonne watched me in amazement, almost in terror; for a moment she was afraid that I would hurt the child. But she soon calmed down, and seemed pleased with the result I had obtained.

"You saw how I did it," I said; "you must act in the same way, when you want her to take a little of the medicine."

"Oh! monsieur, I don't know whether I can; I don't know whether I can be as quick as you; and then I shall be afraid of hurting the dear angel."

"I did not hurt her."

"That is true. And see, look at her, monsieur; it seems as if she were breathing better! Oh! if that really has done her good!"

"It is more than likely."

"Oh! monsieur, if you would stay a little longer, and give her some more by and by?"

"I will gladly do it, madame."

"I am abusing your good nature, monsieur; but I'm afraid I can't do it as well as you."

"I am in no hurry, madame; my time is at my own disposal. I have often made a bad use of it, and I will try to atone partly, here with you."

The child seemed to be dozing, and I did not disturb her. But, after half an hour or more, when she began to be uneasy again, I repeated my manoeuvre and made her swallow another half-spoonful of the potion.

I remained some time longer talking with Mignonne, doing my utmost to restore her courage and hope. Then I went away, saying:

"Until to-morrow!"

The next day, I went again to see the little invalid, and passed a large part of the day with Mignonne; for my conversation served to revive her courage, and she thought that no one could succeed so well as I in making the child drink. Little Marie's condition showed a slight change for the better. The doctor was greatly surprised, and the mother's hopes revived. It seemed to me that I too loved the poor little girl. One becomes attached to children so easily!

A week elapsed; I had not allowed a day to go by without passing several hours in Mignonne's room. I thought that she still retained some suspicion of my intentions; but, as she considered that I understood taking care of children, she said to me each day when I left her:

"It would be so kind of you, if you would come to-morrow!"

I had not called on Frédérique again, nor had I seen Rosette. What must they think of me? But on returning home one afternoon, about four o'clock, I found both my friend and my mistress established in my salon.

I saw at once, by the expression of their faces, that they were angry with me.

"Ah! here you are, are you, monsieur?" said Rosette. "You're getting to be very rare--very hard to find, for this is the third time I've been here--so help me! I don't know whether your Jocrisse told you?"

"My Jocrisse did not tell me."

"And madame here has been as many times as I have, it seems, and hasn't had any better luck."

"What, Frédérique! you have taken the trouble to come here? I am terribly sorry."

Frédérique smiled, but with the mocking expression that I knew so well, saying:

"What does it matter that I have been here? You weren't very solicitous about my health, I judge, as you haven't been to inquire about it since the day you left so abruptly. I understand that there is nothing very agreeable in my husband's presence; still, from regard for me, you might have put up with it a little longer."

"You see, madame," said Rosette, "monsieur has other intrigues, new passions, beside which my love and your friendship are nothing at all! He hasn't a minute now to sacrifice to us; he passes all his time, all his days, with his new flame on Rue Ménilmontant. She can't be anything very distinguished, living in that quarter; but we must know a little of everything!"

I saw that Pomponne had been chattering and inventing fables.

"Ah! so you have been told that I go every day to Rue Ménilmontant?" I said, with a tranquillity that seemed to add to their irritation.

"Yes, monsieur; to see a young and pretty blonde. You like blondes now, it seems! You like 'em of all colors, don't you?"

"And this blonde whom I go to see is my mistress, is she?"

"Oh, no! she may be your laundress, who knows? And you go there to watch her iron your shirts! Ha! ha! ha! Why don't you tell us that? it would be more amusing."

"I won't tell you that, because I have no reason to lie."

"Oh! of course not! To be sure, you're your own master, you can do what you think best. It seems that she came here one day--your blonde--and ran away as if the devil was after her. Oh! how sorry I am I wasn't here that day, when she honored you with a visit! I'd have led her a pretty dance! I'd have sent her mazurking down the stairs! But, who knows? perhaps I shall meet her one of these days. As you pass all your time with her now, it's probable that it will soon be her turn to come here. Just let me meet her! You see, I'm not very gentle when I'm jealous! I'll box that woman's ears; yes, monsieur, yes, I'll box her ears!"

I listened to Rosette without winking. Frédérique said nothing, but kept her eyes on me.

"You're not so wicked as you try to make people think, Rosette," said I, trying to take her hand, which she snatched away. "If you should find the young woman you speak of here, you would not insult her, I trust; for it would be as absurd as your insulting madame."

"What do you say? Do you want to make us believe that the blonde is just a friend of yours? Oh! my boy, that may do for once. Madame Frédérique here is your friend, but you don't pass all your time with her, I believe.--Does he, madame?"

"Oh! I see very little of monsieur!" rejoined Frédérique, with a gesture of annoyance; "and when by chance he does condescend to pay me a visit, he seizes the first pretext to retire. I know that friends ought not to stand on ceremony; but it would be possible to be more frank and outspoken."

This was said in a tone which indicated that she was seriously offended. Suddenly Rosette darted at me, as if she meant to claw my eyes out, crying:

"Come, monsieur, who is this woman that you pass all your time with? How long have you known her? what do you do at her house? Answer! answer! Answer, I say! I am not your friend, and I want you to stand on ceremony with me!"

"First of all, mademoiselle, I might refuse to answer questions asked in such a way. You want to know all that I do? Are you entitled to? Do I know all that you are doing, when I am looking vainly for you at your seven aunts'? But, nevertheless, I propose to gratify your curiosity, because I shall be very glad to justify myself at the same time in the eyes of my friend Frédérique, who thinks that she no longer has my full confidence."

"That is to say, you condescend to answer me on madame's account? That's very polite to me! But, no matter! go on, monsieur."

"This girl, to whose room I have, in fact, been going regularly for some days, and who lives on Rue Ménilmontant, is not my mistress. Your conjectures with regard to her are altogether false; she is a poor girl, who was virtuous, and who was seduced----"

"How clever! As if all girls weren't virtuous before they're seduced!"

"But I know what I am talking about; I mean that she had not the taste for pleasure or idleness which sooner or later leads a girl on to her ruin."

"Ah! very good; I understand! She'd have been a saint, if she hadn't sinned."

"If you don't mean to let me speak, Rosette, it is useless to question me."

"I beg your pardon, monsieur; I'll hold my tongue."

"This girl became a mother. Her seducer had deserted her."

"Indeed! but what has all this rigmarole to do with you? Is it any of your business, if you're not the seducer?"

"I learned indirectly of this young woman's misfortunes; I became interested in her, I gave her work, and tried, so far as was in my power, to relieve her distress. What is there so surprising in that, mesdames? Why do you look at me with such a peculiar expression?"

"Go on, my dear boy, continue your touching story. And now you pass your time with this young woman; because she's teaching you to knit, perhaps."

I could not restrain a gesture of impatience. It is disheartening, when one has tried to do a little good, to be incessantly suspected of the opposite. I sprang to my feet and exclaimed:

"I go to see that young woman every day now, because she is in despair; because she would lose her reason, in all probability, if she had no one to keep up her courage; because this is no time to abandon her! Believe me or not, as you choose, mesdames; but so much the worse for you, if you believe me incapable of doing a kind action from disinterested motives!"

"I have never believed that of you, Charles," said Frédérique, coming to my side; "but it seems to me that one who believed that she had your full confidence may well be surprised to learn that your attention is engrossed by a young woman whom you had never mentioned to her."

"As for me," cried Rosette, "I'm not so gullible as madame; I don't take any stock in your innocent, unfortunate, persecuted woman! All you need is the credulous and cruel husband! I saw a play like that once. I don't say that you don't help this lovely blonde of yours; on the contrary, I believe you help her too much. No doubt you were touched by her woes; but why? Because you're in love with her."

"That is not true, Rosette; I tell you once more, you are all wrong."

"I beg your pardon--one more question, and answer it honestly: is this woman pretty?"

"She is very good-looking."

"There! I was sure of it!--Take notice, Madame Frédérique, that these benevolent gentlemen never protect any women that aren't good-looking. As for the ugly ones, I don't know how it happens, but they never unearth them. They can groan in corners as much as they choose, there's no danger that anyone will hunt them up.--Total result: I don't take any stock in your story, and I believe I shall do well to yield to Freluchon's entreaties and couple up with him.--You've seen his sponge shop on Rue du Petit-Carreau, haven't you, madame? Don't you think it's rather neat?"

"Very," replied Frédérique; "the counting-room especially struck me as remarkably elegant."

"Ah! how fine I'll look in it!--Adieu, Charles! You've been playing tricks on me, and I'm going to get married!"

Rosette departed, and I confess that I did not try to detain her; what she had said had stung me to the quick. As for Frédérique, I saw that in the bottom of her heart she shared the grisette's unjust suspicions. She stayed a moment longer with me, but said almost nothing; then she too left me, and when I pressed her hand it hardly responded to the pressure. So that is how we are believed when we tell the truth! If I had lied, I am very certain that they would not have been so incredulous.

XLII

A CONSOLATION

I did not recover at once from the sensations caused by the two visits I had received. I knew that my liaison with Rosette would not last long; and when a thing is bound to end a little sooner or a little later, one is prepared for it. Moreover, since my peregrinations among the aunts, I had not had the slightest confidence in Rosette.

But Frédérique! That she should look coldly on me because I had busied myself in behalf of a young woman who was in trouble surprised me, I admit. She was kind-hearted herself; why was she unwilling that other people should have that good quality?

I was tempted for a moment to go to her; but I reflected that it would be almost equivalent to asking her forgiveness for doing a kind action without her leave. I felt that I must retain my dignity. So much the worse for those who see evil everywhere and in everything!

All this reflection and hesitation detained me at home much later than usual, and the day was far advanced when I arrived at Rue Ménilmontant. Madame Potrelle was not in her lodge, which was deserted. I hastened upstairs; but my heart was oppressed by a melancholy presentiment: was the poor child worse?

When I reached Mignonne's room, I found there, besides the unhappy mother, the doctor, the concierge, and a neighbor.

Mignonne was weeping and calling her daughter; at last she fell back on her chair, speechless and motionless.

"Little Marie is no more," said the doctor, in a low voice; "she died only a minute ago, after a slight convulsion. The child could not recover; I knew it all along; but the poor mother will not have it that she is dead. Still, we must take her away."

Poor mother! poor child! I had arrived too late! I could not have prevented that catastrophe, and yet I was deeply grieved that I had delayed so long. The old concierge leaned over Mignonne and burst into tears; the other woman did the same. I walked to the cradle and looked in. Poor little girl! the last struggle had gone gently with her, for her face was not changed; on the contrary, it seemed that with death she had found peace and rest, that she was happy in having ceased to suffer. Her sweet face seemed to smile; I stooped to kiss the forehead of that angel who had made so brief a sojourn on earth.

Mignonne, who was apparently absorbed by her grief, when she saw me, sprang to her feet, pushed the doctor away, and came to me, crying:

"Here you are! here you are! How late you have come! But you will make her drink, won't you? You will bring the dear child back to life; for she isn't dead! oh, no! God has not taken my daughter away from me! Here, here, take her; why don't you make her drink? Open her lips; you see that she doesn't cry, that she doesn't refuse!"

And she stooped over to lift the child, covering her with tears and kisses. Then she suddenly uttered a loud shriek and pressed her to her heart.

"Cold! cold!" she cried. "Why is that? Warm her, monsieur, warm her, I say! You can see that she is dying!"

It was a heartrending scene. Even the doctor could not restrain his tears. But luckily Mignonne lost consciousness. We took advantage of that moment to carry her away, the doctor and I. The neighbor who was present lived on the same street, two houses away; she offered to take the young mother in and keep her as long as her condition required.

We placed Mignonne in a large armchair; several obliging people lent a hand, and we carried Mignonne to the neighbor's house before she recovered consciousness. The doctor accompanied her, and said that he would not leave her. Madame Potrelle remained, to pray beside the dead child. I left the house, as sad and gloomy as a stormy day. I sought a solitary quarter, for the sight of the world oppressed me.

"What had that young mother done," I said to myself, "that she should be deprived of her child, who was her only comfort and joy on earth?"

A fortnight had passed since little Marie's death. I had not as yet had the courage to go to see Mignonne; I was afraid that the sight of me would make her unhappy, for it would inevitably remind her of her daughter.

But did not she think of her always, poor woman? Not by striving to banish a memory from the heart do we succeed in resigning ourselves to it with less bitterness; on the contrary, grief is pacified and soothed by speaking freely and often of those we have lost.

I had called at Madame Dauberny's, but was told that she had gone into the country for a few days. Of Rosette I heard nothing at all.

One hot summer's day, I decided to go to see Mignonne. I had left her in charge of decent people who were deeply interested in her. The doctor had promised to see her constantly, and that was why I had postponed my visit. We often have courage to bear our own troubles, but find it wanting when we must face those of other people.

When I arrived at Madame Potrelle's lodge, I found the good woman there. I hardly dared to question her. She divined my hesitation and anticipated my wishes.

"Madame Landernoy has been very sick, monsieur; for five days, we thought she would die; but she has finally recovered her health, or at least the consciousness of her misfortunes; for I don't call it health myself, when she cries all the time and only eats so as to keep up her strength. At last, about four days ago, she insisted on coming back to her own little room upstairs. The neighbor didn't want her to; but the doctor said: 'She mustn't be thwarted, it will make her worse.'--So she's come back. Oh! monsieur, if you could have heard her sobs when she saw the child's cradle; and now she keeps her head bent over it all the time, as if she was looking for her; and she says: 'It's all I've got left of her. I can't cry anywhere but over her cradle, for I don't know where she is--I haven't got anything of hers. Nobody can find the poor woman's child, and I can't go and kneel by her grave!'--Ah! monsieur, it is very painful to hear that, and to see that poor young thing crushed under the weight of her grief, and refusing, sometimes for whole days, to budge from her little one's cradle!"

I made no reply, but went up to Mignonne's room. I found her door closed. I could hear nothing; profound silence reigned. I knocked gently on the door. After a moment, I heard Mignonne's sweet voice:

"Who is there?"

"It is I, madame; pray let me come in."

She evidently recognized my voice, for she opened the door at once. She looked earnestly at me, and said, pointing to the cradle with a heartrending expression:

"Why do you come now? She isn't here any longer; you can't do anything more for her; and I--oh! I don't need anything now."

She fell, exhausted, on a chair. But I stood in front of her and said, in a respectful and firm tone:

"I have one more duty to perform. Be good enough to come with me, madame; take your bonnet and shawl, and come with me, I beg. I ask it in your daughter's name."

Mignonne gazed at me in surprise; but I had no sooner mentioned her daughter, than she rose, hastily put on what she needed, and was ready in a moment.

I went downstairs first, and she followed me. Mère Potrelle stared when she saw us pass her door; but I did not stop. I had come in a cab, which was waiting at the door. I asked Mignonne to get in, and she complied without asking any questions. I took my seat beside her; the cabman knew where to take us, and we drove away.

Mignonne did not open her lips, and I respected her silence. Thus we traversed the distance that separated us from the cemetery of Père-Lachaise. Our cab stopped at the gate of that place of repose. I alighted first, and gave my hand to Mignonne. When she recognized the place where we were, she seemed to feel a sudden shock; her eyes brightened, she looked into my face, then eagerly seized my hand and walked beside me, never relaxing her grasp; I felt her hand tremble in mine.

I led her for some time through the paths between the graves. At last, I stopped on the summit of a hill where there was a sort of enclosure formed by a number of cypresses. I led her into that enclosure, where there was a monument as simple as the body beneath it. It was a flat stone, lying on the ground, with a white marble column standing at its head. On that column was an angel flying away from a cradle, and at the base these words only:

HERE RESTS MARIE LANDERNOY

That modest monument was surrounded by newly planted flowers, and the whole was enclosed by a low iron fence. I opened the gate, of which I had the key, and pointed to the stone, saying simply:

"Your daughter is there."

The young woman, who had followed me in silence, but trembling nervously for a reason which I could well understand, gazed vacantly at the little cenotaph at first; but when she read her daughter's name on the marble, she uttered a cry, fell on her knees as if to thank heaven, then rose again, weeping, threw herself into my arms, and pressed me to her heart, murmuring:

"My friend! my friend! And I was suspicious of you! Oh! forgive me! I love you dearly, now! My daughter is lying there; I can come now and pray upon her grave, and tend and renew the flowers that surround it. Ah! I breathe more freely now; you have given me courage to keep on living."

"I have something else here," I said, taking from my pocket a carefully folded paper, which I handed to Mignonne.

The young woman took the paper, and a flush of joy overspread her face; she covered her daughter's hair with kisses, then threw herself into my arms once more.

"Oh! thanks! thanks, my friend! I have not lost everything; I have something of her! Her soft, fine hair--I have it all, and it will never leave me! Ah! you have almost made me happy! Let me thank you again."

She laid her head on my shoulder and wept profusely; but the tears were soothing and assuaged her grief.

Then she knelt beside the gravestone. I walked away in order not to disturb her meditation and her prayers.

At last, after spending a long time beside her daughter, Mignonne returned to me; but she was no longer the same woman as when she left her room. Her sombre grief, her wild glance, had given place to an expression of pious melancholy and placid resignation.

I took her back to her home; on the way, I tried, not to combat her regrets, but to make her understand that the most unhappy of mankind are not those who are taken away from this world.

When we returned, Madame Potrelle looked at us, and was surprised beyond words at the change that had taken place in her tenant; but she dared not question us. Mignonne ran to the good woman and kissed her.

"Oh! I am no longer so wretched as I was! I have just been praying at my daughter's grave; I've got the key; there are flowers all around it; I am going to take care of them. Marie will be glad. See, I have all her hair; and it's to him, to monsieur, my best friend, that I owe it all! Ah! you were quite right when you told me that I made a mistake to distrust him!"

I bade Mignonne adieu, in order to escape Madame Potrelle's eulogium. The young woman offered me her hand, saying:

"Now I will come myself to get the work you are good enough to give me. You will allow me to do it, won't you?"

"I do more than that, I beg you to; and, in the interest of your health, I urge you to look carefully after all my linen; for there is nothing like work to distract one's thoughts."