One morning her charwoman, who by good fortune was nearly as precise as Sophia herself, failed to appear. When the moment came for serving M.
Niepce"s breakfast, Sophia hesitated, and then decided to look after the old man personally. She knocked at his door, and went boldly in with the tray and candle. He started at seeing her; she was wearing a blue ap.r.o.n, as the charwoman did, but there could be no mistaking her for the charwoman. Niepce looked older in bed than when dressed. He had a rather ridiculous, undignified appearance, common among old men before their morning toilette is achieved; and a nightcap did not improve it. His rotund paunch lifted the bedclothes, upon which, for the sake of extra warmth, he had spread unmajestic garments. Sophia smiled to herself; but the contempt implied by that secret smile was softened by the thought: "Poor old man!" She told him briefly that she supposed the charwoman to be ill. He coughed and moved nervously. His benevolent and simple face beamed on her paternally as she fixed the tray by the bed.
"I really must open the window for one little second," she said, and did so. The chill air of the street came through the closed shutters, and the old man made a noise as of shivering. She pushed back the shutters, and closed the window, and then did the same with the other two windows. It was almost day in the room.
"You will no longer need the candle," she said, and came back to the bedside to extinguish it.
The benign and fatherly old man put his arm round her waist. Fresh from the tonic of pure air, and with the notion of his ridiculousness still in her mind, she was staggered for an instant by this gesture. She had never given a thought to the temperament of the old grocer, the husband of a young wife. She could not always imaginatively keep in mind the effect of her own radiance, especially under such circ.u.mstances. But after an instant her precocious cynicism, which had slept, sprang up.
"Naturally! I might have expected it!" she thought with blasting scorn.
"Take away your hand!" she said bitterly to the amiable old fool. She did not stir.
He obeyed, sheepishly.
"Do you wish to remain with me?" she asked, and as he did not immediately answer, she said in a most commanding tone: "Answer, then!"
"Yes," he said feebly.
"Well, behave properly."
She went towards the door.
"I wished only--" he stammered.
"I do not wish to know what you wished," she said.
Afterwards she wondered how much of the incident had been overheard.
The other breakfasts she left outside the respective doors; and in future Niepce"s also.
The charwoman never came again. She had caught smallpox and she died of it, thus losing a good situation. Strange to say, Sophia did not replace her; the temptation to save her wages and food was too strong.
She could not, however, stand waiting for hours at the door of the official baker and the official butcher, one of a long line of frozen women, for the daily rations of bread and tri-weekly rations of meat.
She employed the concierge"s boy, at two sous an hour, to do this.
Sometimes he would come in with his hands so blue and cold that he could scarcely hold the precious cards which gave the right to the rations and which cost Chirac an hour or two of waiting at the mayoral offices each week. Sophia might have fed her flock without resorting to the official rations, but she would not sacrifice the economy which they represented. She demanded thick clothes for the concierge"s boy, and received boots from Chirac, gloves from Carlier, and a great overcoat from Niepce. The weather increased in severity, and provisions in price. One day she sold to the wife of a chemist who lived on the first floor, for a hundred and ten francs, a ham for which she had paid less than thirty francs. She was conscious of a thrill of joy in receiving a beautiful banknote and a gold coin in exchange for a mere ham. By this time her total cash resources had grown to nearly five thousand francs. It was astounding. And the reserves in the cellar were still considerable, and the sack of flour that enc.u.mbered the kitchen was still more than half full. The death of the faithful charwoman, when she heard of it, produced but little effect on Sophia, who was so overworked and so completely absorbed in her own affairs that she had no nervous energy to spare for sentimental regrets. The charwoman, by whose side she had regularly pa.s.sed many hours in the kitchen, so that she knew every crease in her face and fold of her dress, vanished out of Sophia"s memory.
Sophia cleaned and arranged two of the bedrooms in the morning, and two in the afternoon. She had stayed in hotels where fifteen bedrooms were in charge of a single chambermaid, and she thought it would be hard if she could not manage four in the intervals of cooking and other work!
This she said to herself by way of excuse for not engaging another charwoman. One afternoon she was rubbing the bra.s.s k.n.o.bs of the numerous doors in M. Niepce"s room, when the grocer unexpectedly came in.
She glanced at him sharply. There was a self-conscious look in his eye.
He had entered the flat noiselessly. She remembered having told him, in response to a question, that she now did his room in the afternoon. Why should he have left his shop? He hung up his hat behind the door, with the meticulous care of an old man. Then he took off his overcoat and rubbed his hands.
"You do well to wear gloves, madame," he said. "It is dog"s weather."
"I do not wear them for the cold," she replied. "I wear them so as not to spoil my hands."
"Ah! truly! Very well! Very well! May I demand some wood? Where shall I find it? I do not wish to derange you."
She refused his help, and brought wood from the kitchen, counting the logs audibly before him.
"Shall I light the fire now?" she asked.
"I will light it," he said.
"Give me a match, please."
As she was arranging the wood and paper, he said: "Madame, will you listen to me?"
"What is it?"
"Do not be angry," he said. "Have I not proved that I am capable of respecting you? I continue in that respect. It is with all that respect that I say to you that I love you, madame.... No, remain calm, I implore you!" The fact was that Sophia showed no sign of not remaining calm. "It is true that I have a wife. But what do you wish...? She is far away. I love you madly," he proceeded with dignified respect. "I know I am old; but I am rich. I understand your character. You are a lady, you are decided, direct, sincere, and a woman of business. I have the greatest respect for you. One can talk to you as one could not to another woman. You prefer directness and sincerity. Madame, I will give you two thousand francs a month, and all you require from my shop, if you will be amiable to me. I am very solitary, I need the society of a charming creature who would be sympathetic. Two thousand francs a month. It is money."
He wiped his shiny head with his hand.
Sophia was bending over the fire. She turned her head towards him.
"Is that all?" she said quietly.
"You could count on my discretion," he said in a low voice. "I appreciate your scruples. I would come, very late, to your room on the sixth. One could arrange ... You see, I am direct, like you."
She had an impulse to order him tempestuously out of the flat; but it was not a genuine impulse. He was an old fool. Why not treat him as such? To take him seriously would be absurd. Moreover, he was a very remunerative boarder.
"Do not be stupid," she said with cruel tranquillity. "Do not be an old fool."
And the benign but fatuous middle-aged lecher saw the enchanting vision of Sophia, with her natty ap.r.o.n and her amusing gloves, sweep and fade from the room. He left the house, and the expensive fire warmed an empty room.
Sophia was angry with him. He had evidently planned the proposal. If capable of respect, he was evidently also capable of chicane. But she supposed these Frenchmen were all alike: disgusting; and decided that it was useless to worry over a universal fact. They had simply no shame, and she had been very prudent to establish herself far away on the sixth floor. She hoped that none of the other boarders had overheard Niepce"s outrageous insolence. She was not sure if Chirac was not writing in his room.
That night there was no sound of cannon in the distance, and Sophia for some time was unable to sleep. She woke up with a start, after a doze, and struck a match to look at her watch. It had stopped. She had forgotten to wind it up, which omission indicated that the grocer had perturbed her more than she thought. She could not be sure how long she had slept. The hour might be two o"clock or it might be six o"clock.
Impossible for her to rest! She got up and dressed (in case it should be as late as she feared) and crept down the interminable creaking stairs with the candle. As she descended, the conviction that it was the middle of the night grew upon her, and she stepped more softly.
There was no sound save that caused by her footfalls. With her latchkey she cautiously opened the front door of the flat and entered. She could then hear the noisy ticking of the small, cheap clock in the kitchen.
At the same moment another door creaked, and Chirac, with hair all tousled, but fully dressed, appeared in the corridor.
"So you have decided to sell yourself to him!" Chirac whispered.
She drew away instinctively, and she could feel herself blushing. She was at a loss. She saw that Chirac was in a furious rage, tremendously moved. He crept towards her, half crouching. She had never seen anything so theatrical as his movement, and the twitching of his face.
She felt that she too ought to be theatrical, that she ought n.o.bly to scorn his infamous suggestion, his unwarrantable attack. Even supposing that she had decided to sell herself to the old pasha, did that concern him? A dignified silence, an annihilating glance, were all that he deserved. But she was not capable of this heroic behaviour.
"What time is it?" she added weakly.
"Three o"clock," Chirac sneered.
"I forgot to wind up my watch," she said. "And so I came down to see."
"In effect!" He spoke sarcastically, as if saying: "I"ve waited for you, and here you are."
She said to herself that she owed him nothing, but all the time she felt that he and she were the only young people in that flat, and that she did owe to him the proof that she was guiltless of the supreme dishonour of youth. She collected her forces and looked at him.
"You should be ashamed," she said. "You will wake the others."
"And M. Niepce--will he need to be wakened?"