Frederique Volume I Part 46

I had not once met Madame Dauberny, and I regretted more deeply every day the loss of that strange creature's friendship. It was so novel to be _thou'd_ by a woman whose lover I had never been. At least, it was a change, a departure from common custom. And then, she had given me her confidence so unreservedly! Why had I sacrificed all that by a moment's forgetfulness?

But, after all, I considered that Frederique had treated me very harshly. She might well have scolded me, have made me understand my mistake, without breaking off all relations with me on the spot. The idea of being so angry about a kiss! It was a most extraordinary thing, for that is one of the offences which the s.e.x readily forgives. And then, there were so many extenuating circ.u.mstances! The supper, the champagne, the hour! And that hair of hers, which she arranged in a different way every minute!

It was the end of February, and the cold was still very sharp, when, on one of those keen, bracing mornings that invite one to walk, I happened to remember Mignonne Landernoy. Poor girl! How could I have forgotten her so long, and all for a coquette who certainly did not give a thought to me! I determined to repair my neglect at once. I enveloped myself in a heavy coat, put a comforter around my neck, and started for Rue Menilmontant.

As I walked along, I recalled Mignonne's plight when I saw her in November; I thought of all that must have happened since then, and I was conscious of nothing but an eager desire to have news of the young woman. I quickened my pace, and at last found myself in front of the concierge's door. She was surrounded by cats, as on the occasion of my first visit.

At sight of a man enveloped in a heavy coat with the collar turned up, and with his face almost entirely hidden by a comforter, Madame Potrelle sat up in her chair and took one of the cats in her right hand as if to hurl it at my head.

"What do you want, monsieur?" she cried, with an imposing air; "what does this mean? Do people come into other people's houses disguised like that? Unmask yourself, monsieur; I don't answer masks, I tell you!"

I removed my comforter, and could not refrain from laughing at the concierge's alarm, as I said:

"Are comforters unknown in your quarter, madame? It seems to be quite as cold here as it is where I came from."

The good woman uttered an exclamation of surprise, for she recognized me; thereupon she placed on the stove the cat she had seized in lieu of a pistol, which instantly vanished. I stepped into the lodge.

"What! is it you, monsieur? _Pardine!_ I remember you now! You're the young man with the shirts."

"The same, madame; it was I who left with you some work for--Madame Landernoy."

"And a letter; yes, yes! Oh! I recognize you. But I couldn't see anything but your eyes just now, and, you see, that startled me at first. Well! you've taken your time about coming to get your shirts; anybody can see you ain't in a hurry!"

"Tell me about that poor young woman."

"She's pretty well, although she works awful hard. You see, she has to work for two now! She was confined more than two months ago; she's got a little girl, a sweet, pretty little thing."

"Ah! so much the better! And the child is with her?"

"Yes, to be sure; oh! there's no danger of her parting with the child; she nurses her herself, and never leaves her a minute; she's so afraid something'll happen to her, that she'll cry or need her care, that she wont let her out of her sight a single minute. When she goes out to buy her provisions, she carries her in her arms. Sometimes I say to her: 'Why, Madame Landernoy'--I never call her anything but _madame_ now--'why, Madame Landernoy,' I says, 'just leave your child here with me; I'll look after little Marie while you do your errands, and you can go much quicker if you don't have her to carry.'--But she won't do it. I believe, G.o.d forgive me! that she's afraid my cats will hurt the child; but they ain't capable of it, monsieur; I've brought 'em up too well for that. They're playful and sly--that's because they're young, and we've all been young; but as for bad temper and clawing, I never saw any signs of it in 'em."

"I see that Madame Landernoy loves her daughter dearly."

"Love her! why, her daughter's her life, her thought, her heart! Ah! my word! it would be a pity not to have a child, when one's such a good mother!"

"You are right, madame; children are a burden only to those who do not know how to love them! Did the young mother consent finally to accept the work I left with you?"

"Yes, monsieur. At first, when she read your letter--she read it here in my lodge--she shook her head like a person who ain't quite convinced.

What can you expect? she's suspicious, poor girl! Well! just hear me call her a girl, will you! what a stupid! The poor woman has good cause for that. A scalded cat's afraid of cold water--mine all are; I can punish 'em more, monsieur, by throwing two or three drops of water in their faces than if I took a stick to 'em."

"You were saying that when Madame Landernoy read my letter she did not seem fully convinced of the honesty of my intentions?"

"There was a little doubt left in her mind; but then she says: 'I may as well do this work, as that gentleman will come here to get it.'"

"So that my shirts are done?"

"Yes, monsieur; they've been here more'n five weeks, with the little bill; and in the last few days Madame Landernoy's asked me two or three times if you'd been or sent anybody to get your shirts--because, I guess--just now---- _Dame!_ monsieur, work ain't always very plenty, you understand; and now that she's got a child, she has to have a stove in her room, because she don't want her daughter to take cold."

"I understand, madame; I am very, very sorry that I delayed so about coming. Give me the bill at once."

"Take your shirts first and see how well they're done! Such sewing! it's perfect!"

The concierge had taken a parcel from her commode; but I pushed it away, saying:

"I am sure they are well done. But the bill, the bill!"

"I'll give it to you, monsieur. I'm sorry you won't look at your shirts.

Here's the bill--yes, that's it."

I looked to see what I owed, and read:

"For making twelve shirts--twenty-seven francs."

I put my hand in my pocket, and sighed.

"Twenty-seven francs!" I muttered.

"_Dame!_ yes, at forty-five sous the shirt," said the concierge, hearing the sigh. "Do you think that's too much?"

"No, madame; on the contrary, I think that it's not enough. The young woman must spend at least two days making a shirt, doesn't she?"

"I should think so! Say three, and you'll be nearer the mark."

"So that, by working constantly, and robbing herself of sleep perhaps,--for she has a child that often requires her attention,--the poor woman would earn only fifteen sous a day. Can she live, board and clothe herself, and keep herself warm, on fifteen sous?"

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, it ain't every woman who sews for a living as earns that. But then, as you say, they can't live, and they're obliged to--to do something else."

"If I should have these shirts made at a shop, madame, I should have to pay at least three francs each. I am not a tradesman myself, and I don't care to make money out of a workwoman. Twelve shirts at three francs makes thirty-six francs which I owe Madame Landernoy. Be kind enough to hand it to her for me."

I held out the money to the concierge, who did not take it, because she was wiping her eyes. My action seemed to her very meritorious, and yet it was no more than just.

"You are a very good man, monsieur," she said at last, in a tearful voice; "if everybody thought as you do, seamstresses could live and we should see fewer poor wretches on the streets at night. But still, I don't know whether I ought to take the sum you offer me."

"Why not, pray?"

"Because the little woman's so proud in her poverty. She'll say: 'He only owed me twenty-seven francs, and you ought not to have taken any more.'"

"You can explain to her that it's the price I always pay."

"Oh, yes! but that won't seem right to her. _Dame!_ what can you expect? She's suspicious, as I told you. And, worse luck! people do so few--honest things in these days----"

"You must remind her that her daughter may need a thousand things."

"Oh, yes! I know; that's where I shall have to catch her. Well, I'll keep what you give me; and I can give it back if she won't take it."

"She must take it! But that is not all, madame; has she much work at this moment?"

"I don't think so; so this money'll come in very handy."