LXXX.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
"Methinks Queen Mab upon your cheek
Doth blend the tints of cream and rose.
And lends the pearls which deck her hat
And rubies too from off her gown,
To be your own fit ornament."
E. DARIO (Strophes).
Before the Hôtel des Messageries, a young girl, modestly dressed, was waiting for the diligence, with an old band-box in her hand.
Marcel, who had also put his head out of the coach-door, looked at her with surprise. He had seen this girl somewhere. Yes, he remembered her. He had seen that charming countenance, he had already admired that fair hair and those blue eyes. But the face had grown pale; the cheeks had lost their freshness with the sun-burn, and the bosom its opulence. Marcel thought her prettier and more delicate like this. For it was really she, the mountebank's daughter, whom he had seen a few weeks before, dancing in the market-place of Althausen.
By what chance was she still in the neighbourhood, this travelling swallow?
Was the house on wheels then in the vicinity with its two broken-winded horses, and the clown with the cracked voice, and the big woman with the red face, and the thin and hungry little children?
He looked if he could not see them all, but he saw only the pretty fair girl, who had recognized him also, and made him a friendly bow.
—Mademoiselle Zulma! called the conductor.
—It is I, she said.
—This way, this way, my little dear, said the conductor with a good-natured familiarity which disgusted Marcel; there is no room inside. And, to the priest's great delight, he opened the coupé.
The young girl seemed surprised, for she hesitated a little and said:
—What, in the coupé?
—Yes, my imp of Satan, in the coupé, and in good hands too. Do you complain? If you are not converted yet, here are two gentlemen who will undertake your conversion.
—Well, I ask for nothing better, she answered laughing; and addressing herself to Marcel: Will you take my band-box for me?
He took the box, and at the same time offered his hand to help her to get up. She leant on it prettily; and bowing to him, and to Ridoux also, she sat down beside Marcel.
—You have come back then into the country, Mademoiselle.
—I have not left it, sir; I have been ill. I am coming out of the hospital.
—Oh, really. And what has been the matter with you?
—'Pon my word, I don't know. I caught a chill after an evening performance, and when I woke up the next morning, I could not move arm or leg. My father was obliged to leave me here in the hospital. They have been very kind to me, and an old gentleman has even paid my coach-fare. Oh, there are good people everywhere.
—And you are going to Nancy?
—To Nancy first, then I shall rejoin the company, which ought to be at
Epinal.
Ridoux was listening in his corner.
—You know this young person then? he said.
—I know her through having seen her once at Althausen.
—Twice, the young girl corrected him: when I arrived and when I went away.
You remember, we were both of us at our window?
Marcel remembered it very well; he remembered still better the fantastic sight in the market-place, and the lascivious dance, and the theatrical low-cut dress of the mountebank, which had awakened all at once the passion of his feelings. But as he was afraid of allowing the young girl to suspect that the memory of her had left too deep a mark upon him, he answered.
—I don't remember.
Meanwhile, a throng of beggars besieged the diligence; allured by the sight of the two cassocks, they recited all at the same time litanies, paters and aves in undefinable accents and in lamentable voices. Ridoux and Marcel with much ostentation distributed a few sous among the most bare-faced and importunate, that is to say among the most expert beggars and consequently those who least deserved attention, then they threw themselves back into the carriage and shut their ears.
—I have nothing more, said Ridoux, I have nothing more; go and work, you set of idlers.
—Poor things, murmured the player; no doubt, among the number there are some who cannot work.
—There, said Ridoux, is where the old order of things is ever to be lamented. Formerly there were convents which fed all the beggars, while now these starving creatures will soon eat us all up. Ah, it makes the heart bleed to see such misery.
And he took a pinch of snuff.
A poor woman, pale and sickly, with a child on her arm, kept timidly behind the greedy crowd. Zulma perceived her, and made her a sign. Then, taking a pie out of her hat-box, she cut it into two and gave her one half.
—You are giving away your breakfast, said Marcel.
—Yes, sir, it is a present from the kind Sisters. I should have eaten it yesterday, but I preferred to keep it for to-day; you see I have done a good action, she added laughing.
—I see that the Sisters were very kind to you.
—Yes, sir, they have converted me, they made me confess and take the
Communion, which I had not done for a long time.
—That is well, said Ridoux.
The diligence had started again. A tiny child, emaciated, in rags and with bare feet was running, cap in hand.
He was quite out of breath, and with a little panting, plaintive voice, he cried:
—Charity, kind Monsieur le Curé; charity, if you please.
—Go away, said Ridoux, go away, little rascal.
-My mother is very ill, said the little one: there is no bread at home.
—Wait, wait, I am going to point you out to the gendarmes.
The child stopped short, and sadly put on his cap again.
—Poor little fellow, said the dancer.
And she threw him the other half of the pie.
Ridoux thought he saw an offensive meaning in this quite spontaneous action, for he cried angrily:
—Would you tell us then, Mademoiselle, that you have taken the Communion?
No doubt it was with that piece of meat.
—Why, sir?
—In what religion have you been brought up?
—In the Catholic religion.
—Is it possible? Really! you are a Catholic and you keep some pie for your meals on a fast-day, on a Friday! A Friday! he repeated with an accent of the deepest indignation: has not your Curé then taught that it is forbidden to eat meat the day on which Our Lord Jesus Christ died to redeem you from your sins?
—I know it, answered the young girl colouring, but we are not able to attend to religion much. We do not belong to any parish.
—What do you mean by "we?" What is your calling?
—I am a travelling artiste, sir.
—A travelling artiste. What is that?
—I dance character dances, and I appear in tableaux vivants and poses plastiques.
—Poses plastiques! at your age? Are you not ashamed to follow that calling?
—That is the calling which I was taught, sir; I know no other, replied the young girl, whose eyes filled with tears. I have always heard it said that when we gain our living honourably, we have nothing to reproach ourselves with.
—Honourably! that's a fine word!
—I mean to say, without wronging our neighbour.
—And you are talking nonsense. Can you think your life is honourable, when you do not discharge even the most elementary duty of a good Catholic, which is to keep the Friday as a fast-day? And not only that, you encourage others in your vices; in short, that wretched woman, to whom you have given that piece of meat, you incite her to disobey the Church….
—I did not think of that.
—And that little child, he continued with growing anger, that little child to whom you have given this bad example, whom you lead into a disorderly life by throwing him, before two ecclesiastics, some pie on a Friday…. You have caused this little child to offend. Do you not know then what Our Lord Jesus Christ has said about those who cause the little children to offend? But you know nothing about it. Do you take heed of the Divine Master's words, you who, at the beginning of your life, display your youth in sinful dances for the lewd pleasure of passers-by?
—I make my living as I can, replied Zulma, wounded by the rebuke.
—A fine way of making your living! You would do better to pray to the Holy
Virgin.
—Will the Holy Virgin give me what I want to eat?
—Ah, they are all like that. Eating! Eating! They only think of eating! It appeals that they have said everything when they have said: "Who will give me to eat?" That is the great argument to excuse the lowest callings, and work on Sundays. Eating? Eating? Eh, unhappy child, and your soul? You must not think only of your body, which will be one day eaten by worms. Your soul also requires to eat.
Marcel interrupted.
—Uncle, I ask you to excuse this young person. She is ignorant of the duties of a Christian, and it is not her fault. This is a soul to guide.
—I do not say that it is not; I wish then that she may find someone to guide her.
Thereupon he opened his breviary; but he had not finished the second page of that potent narcotic before he was sound asleep.