“Continue,” said the others impatiently. “I continue,” she replied.
And then, whilst listening also, I learnt that a certain Marcelle played the chief rôle in the story: Marcelle, blithest of Mürger’s younger daughters, Marcelle the vraie gamine, Marcelle the lively little lady who always wore a bicycling suit, yet never bicycled; who appeared seventeen, but in reality was twenty-two; who danced down the Boul’ Mich’ arm-in-arm with the students—she the gayest of the party, her step the lightest, her Chinese lantern the largest; who was liked by one and all, and to whom everyone was mon cher.... Marcelle the Candid! A brunette, she took it into her head to become a blonde. “C’est chic d’être blonde,” she cried: then some days later appeared on the Boul’ Mich’ with flaxen hair. And she drew attention to this striking metamorphosis, exclaiming: “Inspect me; stare at me! Am I not ravishing? Isn’t it a success? Such a dye! Only five francs a bottle—a large bottle—also perfumed!” And drank a toast... “to the new colour!” And vowed that, with it, began a new era. And afterwards, when relating reminiscences, naïvely explained: “That was in the days when I was a brunette.” And constantly sang, in a shrill voice, that favourite sentimental ballad, Les Blondes.... Marcelle the Sympathetic! Each student found in her a patient, a friendly listener. She was ready to bear with chaotic, interminable narratives of jealousies, worries, woes. She would propose a drive, a long drive, in an open cab—the grievance to be unfolded on the way. “Tell the cocher,” she would say to the student, “to choose a deserted route—so that you may rage and despair, and weep as much as you please. Open your poor heart, mon cher. Keep nothing back. Allez, you can trust Marcelle.”... Marcelle the Sentimental, the Nature-loving! After a noisy luncheon-party in the country, she would command an adjournment to the wood. Childlike she sought for flowers, running hither and thither, uttering shrill little cries of astonishment and rapture. And lingered and lingered in the wood. And vowed she would not return to Paris before the departure of the very last train. And asked naïve questions about the moon and the stars. And murmured: “How sweet is the country, how exquisite!”—shrinking nevertheless from the bats and mosquitoes. And went to bed immediately upon reaching Paris—so as not to spoil “the impression” of the country. And dreamt happily, dreamt as she had never dreamt before—“mon cher!”
Bright Marcelle; and, in spite of her follies, admirable Marcelle! The shabby, solitary women—the faded Mimis, the Musettes of years ago—had in her a friend.
Had?... Had; but have no longer.
“Murdered!” said the woman in the red dress—huskily—in Madame Bertrand’s hospitable milk-shop, of Marcelle the Blonde. Murdered; but no matter how. Murdered; and lying in a room, round the corner, with candles burning by the death-bed.
“Tall, tall candles,” continued the woman. “They burn brightly; and she is not alone. To-day I have seen her three times. There were only two wreaths this morning, but there must be more than twenty now. To-morrow the concierge will do nothing but take up wreaths.”
And the woman coughed, the other women murmured; then the husky voice was heard again:—
“They have telegraphed for her brother; her parents are dead. He is a peasant. He has never been to Paris. He is twenty-three. He adored her. I have seen letters of his which called her ‘ma petite sœur bien aimée.’ He would have cut himself into pieces for Marcelle.”
A husky, husky voice. Gestures accompanying each word, and now and again the short, sharp cough.
As the hour advanced, Madame Bertrand’s stout, bearded manager (installed behind the counter) began to doze. The servant who distributed the cups of milk and coffee settled herself on a stool in the background and closed her eyes. From the coffee urns, the urns of milk, arose fumes; the urns of boiling water hissed. Past the shop, crawled a market-cart, packed thick and high with vegetables, and, on the top of the vegetables, sat a sturdy peasant woman, her head enveloped in a handkerchief. Through the windows one might see two policemen gossiping over the way; a vagrant limping by; the eternal chiffonnier, stooping over the gutter in quest of stumps of cigars and cigarettes. Only in the milk-shop was there light, a pale, unbecoming light from the lamp overhead. Only here was there colour, the colours of the shabby women’s dresses: faded blue, dingy yellow, red. Only chez Madame Bertrand was there a group—a group of frightened, haunted women, fifteen or so. No woman went her way. None felt strong, secure enough to endure the solitude of her dim chambre meublée. Perhaps they remained there until dawn. Perhaps they were still there, when the first workman passed. And no doubt he, after glancing through the windows, shrugged his shoulders and soliloquised: “There they are, the abandoned ones, making another merry night of it.”