She had heard vaguely the reason of the Querterots’ removal from their gorgeous Bond Street rooms after the death of Eugène, the incomparable hairdresser, and it was from a creditable desire not to desert the unfortunate that she continued to employ the little Frenchwoman since the day of the catastrophe. But no details of the affair had reached her, and she now heard for the first time, and not without being sincerely moved, the sad story of a man who, having spent his all in lavishing tokens of affection on his wife, had in the end reduced her to a state of poverty bordering on want, and even left her to confront this terror in solitude, as a result of his misdirected tenderness.
Considerably affected, she tried to speak words of comfort to the poor woman.
“It is dreadfully sad,” she murmured. “Poor Madame Justine, how sorry I am. Your poor husband, I see well how he must have adored you and that what he did was all for the best. But you are not absolutely alone in the world, are you? Have you not a daughter?”
“Yes, it is true, madame, that I have a daughter,” replied Madame Querterot, wiping her eyes and resuming her work.
“And she is no doubt a great comfort to you?”
“Children, madame, are at once a joy and a trouble,” returned the masseuse evasively.
“I hope your daughter has not caused you much trouble.”
“She has given me nothing but worry since the day she was born. Her childhood, her education, her illnesses! Measles, chicken pox, whooping cough, mumps, scarlet fever; she has had them all one after the other.”
“But not while you have been coming to see me!” cried Mrs. Vanderstein, alarmed.