SPRING IN CHARLEVILLE
CHAPTER XVII
THE STUFFED OWL
A stuffed bird stood upon a windless branch and through a window of blue and orange squares of glass a broken moon stared in.
A bedroom, formed from a sitting-room, a basin to wash in upon a red plush table—no glass, no jug, no lock upon the door. Instead, gilt mirrors, three bell ropes and a barometer. A bed with a mattress upon it and nothing more.
This was her kingdom.
Beyond, a town without lights, without a station, without a milkshop, without a meat shop, without sheets, without blankets, crockery, cooking pans, or locks upon the doors. A population half-fed and poor. A sky black as ink and liquid as a river.
Prisoners in the streets, moving in green-coated gangs; prisoners in the gutters, pushing long scoops to stay the everlasting tide of mud; thin, hungry, fierce and sad, green-coated prisoners like bedraggled parrots, out-numbered the population.
The candle of the world was snuffed out—and the wick smoked.
The light was gone—the blinding light of the Chantilly snows, the lights on the Précy river—moonlight, sunlight—the little boat crossing at moonrise, sunrise.