“Oh, some French novel first—De Maupassant’s; but madame said he was impertinent—that he made women fools and men devils. Then I tried some modern English tales, but she said they were silly. I knew not what to do. But there was Shakespeare. I read Antony and Cleopatra, and she said that the play was grand, but the people were foolish except when they died—their deaths were magnificent. Madame is a great critic; she is very clever.”
“Yes, yes, I know that; but when did she fall asleep?”
“About four o’clock in the morning. I was glad, because she is very beautiful when she has much sleep.”
“And you—does not sleep concern you in this matter of madame?”
“For me,” she said, looking away, “it is no matter. I have no beauty. Besides, I am madame’s servant,”—she blushed slightly at this,”—and she is generous with money.”
“Yes, and you like money so much?”
Her eyes flashed a little defiantly as she looked me in the face. “It is everything to me.”
She paused as if to see the effect upon me, or to get an artificial (I knew it was artificial) strength to go on, then she added: “I love money. I work for it; I would bear all for it—all that a woman could bear. I—” But here she paused again, and, though the eyes still flashed, the lips quivered. Hers was not the face of cupidity. It was sensitive, yet firm, as with some purpose deep as her nature was by creation and experience, and always deepening that nature. I suddenly got the conviction that this girl had a sorrow of some kind in her life, and that this unreal affection for money was connected with it. Perhaps she saw my look of interest, for she hurriedly continued: “But, pardon me, I am foolish. I shall be better when the pain is gone. Madame is kind; she will let me sleep this afternoon, perhaps.”
I handed her the medicine, and then asked: “How long have you known Mrs. Falchion, Miss Caron?”
“Only one year.”