Her voice trembled with her little, knotted, fluttering hands. She moved to draw the silk away. “Give it to me, my angel.”
The angel wrapped himself in the rich folds tighter than ever, and screamed harshly, like a fierce bird that has no words. La Blanchisseuse Dorée looked up, flushed and panting. “See,” she said, proudly, “already he wants all the fine things he sees, and fights for them. Is he not clever? Such a determined mind for his age. And he shall have all he wants, the little one. Mon Dieu! how I will wash and bleach. I will never grow tired.”
The child, released, wrapped himself again in the soft satin, and resumed his sullen, steady stare. Père Barthélemy stood, chilled and silent, seeing the whole tragedy of sacrifice renewed. He saw the small, dark thing for ever asking, demanding, claiming. La Blanchisseuse forever toiling to supply, until—until she was cast aside, like a worn-out husk. He shrank from the child, as from a little full-fed vampire.
And then the true thought burst winged from his heart,
“She has her reward already,” he thought.
“I shall cut up my dresses to make things for him,” said the Golden Washerwoman, happily, “and spend no more money, no indeed. He will want it all, all. And he shall have it. Mon Dieu, how I will work.”
Père Barthélemy’s eyes were dim as he raised his hand and made the sign of the cross. “Of such are the kingdom of heaven,” he said, softly.
But he did not say them of the child, as the Golden Washerwoman thought.
THE LOST SPRING
Sitting in the sun outside the skin-house, old Eetah will tell you of the time they lost a Spring on the Little Moon.