“Anjou!” exclaimed Madeleine. “Ah, that is my country. I am born there.... The wine of Anjou it is ver’ well.... I shall go soon to visit in that country—to, if possible, sell a house. Yes. Oh, it is mos’ beautiful.”
Andree regarded her speculatively, gravely.
“Before the war my father owns the store of the shoes there. There is a yo’ng man work in thees store, and I am ver’ yo’ng. I do not know theengs. Mais non. I am marry thees yo’ng man, but he ees no good—him. My father die, my mother die, and I am orpheline. It ees ver’ bad for me, bicause my oncle and thees yo’ng man they take away the store of the shoes and I have not’ing only thees house. It ees so. Thees yo’ng man he ees ver’ bad; he is not fidèle; also he is mos’ unkind. Then he go to the war, and I never see him since. I theenk he is dead.... It ees ver’ well. But my oncle he lives—but I have not’ing. It is ver’ necessary I mus’ eat, so I come to Paris and work in the store of the shoes.... Now, ver’ soon I go to my country for sell thees house and to have a leetle money.” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed. “I do not cry—no, I laugh. Much time I laugh, bicause why not? It is ver’ nécessaire to laugh and be happy. Is it not so, my Bert?”
“Laugh all you like, my dear.”
Andree raised her eyes to Madeleine’s face. “Oh, it ees too bad,” she said. “Thees husban’ and thees oncle they are ver’ wicked.”
Thus encouraged, Madeleine amplified her autobiography in an avalanche of headlong French, while Andree listened unsmilingly and nodded her head now and then, or waggled it a trifle in sympathy or condemnation of some related atrocity.
“You see,” she said to Kendall, “no one is happy. It is so. Life it is not nice—for yo’ng girls.”
“One mus’ theenk not about the sad theengs,” said Madeleine, sententiously. “One mus’ be happy. That ees best. Me—I take what comes.... See, I am ver’ ol’. Oui.... I am twenty-four. So ol’ am I that no man ever want to marry me.... Tiens! I am passée. But still I laugh.... I love Monsieur Bert, and I am happy. One day Monsieur Bert love me no more....” She shrugged her shoulders. “Then I am sad for leetle w’ile.... But another yo’ng man he will love me, perhaps. It ees so. What would you?... If one does not love and is not loved, then there is no happiness, n’est-ce pas?...”
Andree nodded. “When there is no love it is terrible,” she said.
Bert laughed and looked at Kendall. “Aha!” he said. “But, mademoiselle, Ken says you and he do not love each other—that you are just camarades....”