“Come then, and I will show. At first I was afraid. That was a sin, to be afraid of thee.”
She went to a little wooden chest, and raised the lid. It was as if a rainbow had flashed suddenly into the dark, damp room. La Blanchisseuse Dorée laid her tremulous hands upon a silk web of pure colour within, and drew it out—pale blue, the colour of spring skies. Upon that she shook a length of rose-coloured satin, damasked in a pattern of butterflies. And then a glow of crimson silk, worked in tiny silver flowers.
“When my mourning is ended,” she explained, fondling the gorgeous fabrics, feverishly, “I can wear these. Meantime, I buy them, my father.”
Something nearer tears than laughter took Père Barthélemy by the throat, as he thought of the little washerwoman dressed in these silks.
“She will waste all her money,” he said, anxiously, to Le Docteur Simon, “buying these things.”
“Let her,” answered the doctor, “if it makes her happy.”
“It does not make her happy,” said Père Barthélemy, quietly. He knew his Blanchisseuse Dorée.
As time went on, the Golden Washerwoman broke further from the bounds of decorous mourning. The flock was interested, if a little scandalized. She adopted the royal colour of grief, and upon it played infinite variations, in which she trotted to church, like an army with banners. The two men who honoured her were troubled.
“If you had not touched wine for thirty years, it would not take much to make you drunk,” said Le Docteur Simon.
“She is searching feverishly for happiness,” said Père Barthélemy.