“But your children? Growing children can’t be in good health without some fruit.”
“They’re not in good health,” answered the other grimly. “My Marthe has eczema, and the doctor says that Henri is just ripe for tuberculosis.” Her voice died.
Jeanne closed her eyes during the instant’s silence which followed. The woman clerk shoved aimlessly at the sack of dry beans which stood between them.
Then they both drew a long breath and began to add up together the cost of Jeanne’s purchases. She took out her pocketbook, paid soberly, and went on to the baker’s.
Here a girl weighed out for her with scrupulous care the exact amount of bread allowed for the family, and took the bread tickets along with the money in return. At the sight and smell of the fresh-baked bread the children began their babbling, begging, clamorous demand which Jeanne dreaded almost more than anything else. She winced away from this daily pain, crying out, trying hastily to stop them before the tears came,X “No, no, my darlings, you can’t have any now. No, Jacqueline, don’t tease auntie! Annette dearie, you know if mother lets you have any now there will be just that much less for you at lunch and dinner. You know I can’t give you any of what belongs to the others.” She was imploring them not to ask her for the food she could not give them. Anything but that! The daily repetition of this poignant little scene was intolerable. If she could only leave them at home, could only spare them that daily ordeal of the visit to the bakeshop where their poor little heads were turned at the sight and odor of all that food. Not to have bread to give them!
She was almost on her knees before their shrill, insistent demands when she felt her husband’s letter crackle against her breast, and stopped short. She was on the edge of losing her head, like men after too long shell fire when they walk dazedly straight into danger. She knew better than this! The tragic manner would never do for little children who cannot live and thrive save in gaiety and lightness of heart. She was only making a bad matter worse.
She summoned all her strength, put her hand on the letter in her bosom, and burst resolutely into a hearty laugh. “Oh, children, just see that funny picture of the little kitten. He’s chasing his tail, do you see, round and round and round. Annette, do you know how he feels! See, I’ll hang this string down your back, and you try to catch it by turning around quickly. See, the faster you turn the faster it gets away from you. Maurice wants to try? Well, we’ll just hurry home, and I will give you a piece of old red curtain cord and you each can have a tail and be a little kitten. And when the big ones get back from school you can show them how to chase tails. Won’t they laugh?”
They were safe in the street by this time, the bakeshop forgotten, the loaf in the basket hidden, the children looking up, laughing through their tears at Jeanne, breathless, pouring all her vitality into her cheerful face and bright voice, so that there was not enough left to keep her knees from shaking under her.
Back to the house quickly, lest the wretched war coal, half black stones, smoking sullenly in the cook-stove, should go out in their absence. The invention of the curtain-cord tails was still valid, even after the pork had been put on to cook with the potatoes. The children were still playing, still unexacting. Jeanne would have time to read her letter.
She put the paper-thin potato parings to cook in an old kettle for their three hens, who occasionally presented them with a priceless fresh egg; and, wiping her cold, wet, potato-stained hands (was it possible that those hands had ever played Beethoven and Debussy?), took her treasure out of her bosom and unfolded the double sheet, warm still from the warmth of her body.