"You are sure? You know?"
"I know, madame. Be tranquil. Leave him. He could not have done better.
It is perfect."
"Perhaps I should fetch a doctor?" I suggested.
"It is not worth the pain," she said, with conviction. "You would have vexations uselessly. Leave him."
I gazed at her, studying her, and I was satisfied. With her fluffly locks, and her simple eyes, and her fragile face, and her long hands, she had, nevertheless, the air of knowing profoundly her subject. She was a great expert on males and all that appertained to them, especially their vices. I was the callow amateur. I was compelled to listen with respect to this professor in the professor"s garb. I was impressed, in spite of myself.
"One might arrange him more comfortably," she said.
And we lifted the senseless victim, and put him on his back, and straightened his limbs, as though he had been a corpse.
"How handsome he is!" murmured my visitor, half closing her eyes.
"You think so?" I said politely, as if she had been praising one of my private possessions.
"Oh yes. We are neighbours, madame. I have frequently remarked him, you understand, on the stairs, in the street."
"Has he been here long?" I asked.
"About a year, madame. You have, perhaps, not seen him since a long time.
An old friend?"
"It is ten years ago," I replied.
"Ah! Ten years! In England, without doubt?"
"In England, yes."
"Ten years!" she repeated, musing.
"I am certain she has a kind heart," I said to myself, and I decided to question her: "Will you not sit down, madame?" I invited her.
"Ah, madame! it is you who should sit down," she said quickly. "You must have suffered."
We both sat down. There were only two chairs in the room.
"I would like to ask you," I said, leaning forward towards her, "have you ever seen him--drunk--before?"
"No," she replied instantly; "never before yesterday evening."
"Be frank," I urged her, smiling sadly.
"Why should I not be frank, madame?" she said, with a grave, gentle appeal.
It was as if she had said: "We are talking woman to woman. I know one of your secrets. You can guess mine. The male is present, but he is deaf.
What reason, therefore, for deceit?"
"I am much obliged to you," I breathed.
"Not at all," she said. "Decidedly he is alcoholic--that sees itself,"
she proceeded. "But drunk--no!... He was always alone."
"Always alone?"
"Always."
Her eyes filled. I thought I had never seen a creature more gentle, delicate, yielding, acquiescent, and fair. She was not beautiful, but she had grace and distinction of movement. She was a Parisienne. She had won my sympathy. We met in a moment when my heart needed the companionship of a woman"s heart, and I was drawn to her by one of those sudden impulses that sometimes draw women to each other. I cared not what she was.
Moreover, she had excited my curiosity. She was a novelty in my life.
She was something that I had heard of, and seen--yes, and perhaps envied in secret, but never spoken with. And she shattered all my preconceptions about her.
"You are an old tenant of this house?" I ventured.
"Yes," she said; "it suits me. But the great heats are terrible here."
"You do not leave Paris, then?"
"Never. Except to see my little boy."
I started, envious of her, and also surprised. It seemed strange that this ribboned and elegant and plastic creature, whose long, thin arms were used only to dalliance, should be a mother.
"So you have a little boy?"
"Yes; he lives with my parents at Meudon. He is four years old.
"Excuse me," I said. "Be frank with me once again. Do you love your child, honestly? So many women don"t, it appears."
"Do I love him?" she cried, and her face glowed with her love. "I adore him!" Her sincerity was touching and overwhelming. "And he loves me, too.
If he is naughty, one has only to tell him that he will make his _pet.i.te mere_ ill, and he will be good at once. When he is told to obey his grandfather, because his grandfather provides his food, he says bravely: "No, not grandpapa; it is _pet.i.te mere_!" Is it not strange he should know that I pay for him? He has a little engraving of the Queen of Italy, and he says it is his _pet.i.te mere_. Among the scores of pictures he has he keeps only that one. He takes it to bed with him. It is impossible to deprive him of it."
She smiled divinely.
"How beautiful!" I said. "And you go to see him often?"
"As often as I have time. I take him out for walks. I run with him till we reach the woods, where I can have him to myself alone. I never stop; I avoid people. No one except my parents knows that he is my child. One supposes he is a nurse-child, received by my parents. But all the world will know now," she added, after a pause. "Last Monday I went to Meudon with my friend Alice, and Alice wanted to buy him some sweets at the grocer"s. In the shop I asked him if he would like _dragees_, and he said "Yes." The grocer said to him, "Yes who, young man?" "Yes, _pet.i.te mere_," he said, very loudly and bravely. The grocer understood. We all lowered our heads."
There was something so affecting in the way she half whispered the last phrase, that I could have wept; and yet it was comical, too, and she appreciated that.
"You have no child, madame?" she asked me.
"No," I said. "How I envy you!"
"You need not," she observed, with a touch of hardness. "I have been so unhappy, that I can never be as unhappy again. Nothing matters now. All I wish is to save enough money to be able to live quietly in a little cottage in the country."
"With your child," I put in.
"My child will grow up and leave me. He will become a man, and he will forget his _pet.i.te mere."_