V.—A Gleam of Gaiety.
Three weeks passed after that, and the strike still continued—the strike—that is to say, the ruin of the country, discomfort to the rich, misery to the poor, excitement amongst the masses, alarm everywhere.
Jacques Houdaille had not reappeared. He knew that a warrant for his arrest was out against him, and he was not so stupid as to come and throw himself into the wolf's jaws.
Several of his comrades had been arrested and were awaiting their trial. What would become of them? Poor fellows! They still held up their heads behind the bars of their prison.
Their counsel, a tall, thin man, who wished to fatten himself and become a somebody at the Bar, excited them in their bravado. He quite well knew what he was about, that glib speaker; in any case, it was they, poor creatures, who would pay for the broken pottery.
Jacques Houdaille, more fortunate, was still at liberty. But where was he? How would he escape? Marianne had heard no news of him, and while awaiting the end of all those misfortunes, she had to live, and that was hard to do—nothing left, and four mouths to feed.
At last—for a fortnight past, at least—she had obtained work. Some persons had had pity on her, and had promised to do something for her children. It had come to be recognised that neither she nor her little ones were responsible for the faults of the wretched husband.
On the morning of the 24th December some of these charitably-disposed persons had gone to see her. The next day was a day of rest, and, on the occasion of the Christmas holidays, had brought for her children new and warm winter clothing.
For a moment she hesitated to accept these presents, for all her life she had been able to buy for herself all she needed, and had never held out her hand. But she was made to see that it was not on her own account this assistance was being offered to her—that, in any case, she was in an exceptional position—that her husband had left her and was not likely soon to return to her; and that it would be, on her part, an act of unjustifiable pride to condemn her children to suffer, when it was impossible for her to provide for their needs. She gave in to those good reasons, and her children were loud in the expression of their delight.
"That is not all," said one of her visitors. "At Madame Hennetier's, this evening, there is to be an assemblage of thirty children belonging to our town; they are to keep Christmas, and you must promise us to bring your little ones."
Marianne became very pale.
"Madame Hennetier!" she said; "but she is the wife of the principal manager of the factory where my husband worked!"
"Madame Hennetier knows that, and wishes to give you a proof of her esteem. Efforts are, at this moment, being made to bring the workmen back from the misguided step they have taken; there is no concession which the masters are not prepared to grant, in the hope of putting an end to this horrible strike, for everybody plainly sees that if the situation is continued it will result in a great disaster. But, in this matter of the children's Christmas treat, there is no question of politics. Christmas begins to-night; there is, we know only too well, much poverty in the country; in more than one garret to-night there will be no supper, and to-morrow will find many empty stomachs and many little shoes unvisited in the night by Santa Claus.
"Madame Hennetier and her sister have both been poor; they know what it is to want bread, and do not blush to have it known. They have remained good in their relative prosperity, and they have resolved to give, this evening, some hours of happy forgetfulness to the poor innocent little ones about them."
Marianne still shrank from making the surrender asked of her, for many thoughts had crowded upon her mind while her visitor was speaking. She said to herself: "My husband would refuse; to him these people are enemies. Yet—why enemies?" she reflected; "they appear, on the contrary, to be animated by the best feelings towards him, and to have but one purpose—to bring him back to calmness and reason."
Then the children were present, listening anxiously; there would be a beautiful supper, sweetmeats, cakes, a profusion of playthings. For days past, nothing else had been talked of in the place but this entertainment. They had been thinking of it, not dreaming that they would be invited to it.
At last Marianne made up her mind.
"What can I give them instead?—nothing. I have no right to deprive them of this happiness." And aloud she replied: "I will come, madame."
The children clapped their hands.