“What an occupation for a woman! Really a trade only fit for a horse.”
And he spoke with emotion about the misery of the people. He had a heart which swelled with lofty democratic sentiment, and he referred to the fatiguing pursuits of the working class with phrases borrowed from Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and with sobs in his throat.
Next day, as we were leaning our elbows on the same window sill, the same woman perceived us and cried out to us:
“Good-day, scholars!” in a comical sort of tone, while she made a contemptuous gesture with her hands.
I flung her a cigarette, which she immediately began to smoke. And the four other ironers rushed out to the door with outstretched hands to get cigarettes also.
And each day a friendly intercourse was established between the working-women of the pavement and the idlers of the boarding school.
Pere Piquedent was really a comical sight. He trembled at being noticed, for he might lose his position; and he made timid and ridiculous gestures, quite a theatrical display of love signals, to which the women responded with a regular fusillade of kisses.
A perfidious idea came into my mind. One day, on entering our room, I said to the old usher in a low tone:
“You would not believe it, Monsieur Piquedent, I met the little washerwoman! You know the one I mean, the woman who had the basket, and I spoke to her!”
He asked, rather worried at my manner: