Thursday, July 20th: Little Florist
Very early this morning, on my way to the hospital, I stopped at the little florist's shop round the corner, near the church, to get some blue and purple larkspur and crimson ramble-roses.
It was so early, I was afraid Jeannette would not yet be back with the day's flowers from the great central markets.
It is Jeannette, the younger, pretty sister, who goes every morning to choose the fresh flowers, and Caroline, who in the meanwhile puts the little shop in order to receive them, washing their window and filling their bowls and vases with water, and scrubbing out the floor.
Caroline is not yet twenty-five years old, and Jeannette is eighteen. They are quite alone now to keep the little shop.
Their father is paralyzed, helpless, and they must take care of him.
The brother, who used to take care of them all, is at the war.
Just two years ago, in the early summer, before the war, I remember that Caroline, who is not really pretty at all, suddenly came to be quite beautiful. Her small dark thin face was aglow, as if her heart were full of sunlight, and she moved about the shop in a way so glad that it seemed as if every little humble thing she had to do were become for her part of a dance. She gave away to one then more than one bought of larkspur and ramble-roses, and Jeannette and the big brother looked on leniently.
All that seems now very long ago.
So few people can bear happy colours in these days, that Jeannette brings back from the market little else but white and purple flowers, and green leaves for wreaths and crosses.
I was very early this morning, and Jeannette was not yet come back from the Halles.
Caroline was down on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She was crying as she scrubbed the floor.
She had not expected any one to come so early, and she was crying just as hard as she could cry, while she was alone and had the time.
She got up from her knees and rubbed her bare arm across her eyes.
I thought of her brother at the war, and of the some one because of whom, perhaps, she had been happy, two years ago. I scarcely dared to ask, "Is it bad news, Caroline?"
"No, Madame," she said, still rubbing her eyes, "No, Madame, it is nothing special. It is only as if there were nothing but tears in the world."