"Have you ever lived in the suburbs?—No?—Then don't, my dear Pierrot. It's to ... exist in hourly fear of gossip, one eye on each neighbour. To call and flatter, peer and pry and pick their characters to ribbons. What a life!" she shrugged her shoulders. "One of my duties was to teach my new employer a little French. That amused me enormously! She was as stupid as a goose—so I stuffed her"—Fantine laughed—"with some good spicy words. When she travels to Paris, mon Dieu!—she will surprise the chambermaid! Unluckily"—she ran on—"there was a nephew." Her cough stopped her. She battled with it for a moment, caught her breath and smiled bravely. "Un horreur de petit bonhomme!—dressed like a little groom. 'Très sporting.' That is chic in the suburbs—always gaiters, piqué necktie and no horse! You know the type, hein, Pierrot?
"'Bertie'—that was the youth's name—took a fancy to poor me!—Condescended to express it—even helped to wash the dog. That was fun—he did get wet!" She laughed at the recollection. "Then, one day, Madame guessed. Actually she accused me of a wish to marry him!" Up went Fantine's hands in horror. "Moi, Fantine!"
McTaggart roared.
"I said I had no use for 'Bertie.' It was not my fault if he cared for me!—That it nearly gave me 'mal au coeur' to sit facing him at dinner! That I boxed his ears at many times—and that was true!—but she would not believe. She said: 'One can see you are no lady.' So I replied that she could not tell. Impossible! I knew, mon cher, she had started life as a kitchen maid and married her master through a trick and I added: 'I am quite ready to learn any hint regarding cooking, but of my birth you are no judge—I go to my equals to decide.' The servants were all in the hall and Bertie as red as a turkey-cock—and they laughed! I heard them. Then I packed and got away as soon as I could, with all the neighbours' noses glued to the windows.
"Virtue did not seem a success—it hides, you see, so much meanness. I tried in vain to find Gustave"—(the name slipped out unconsciously)—"but all my letters were returned—'not known' at the old address.
"Then I thought of the Stage. Chorus per'aps?—I sing a little. That began and ended too with a heavy fee to an agent. I got a cold one snowy day and fell ill. Then doctor's bills and the little money I had saved melted away—and so, you see ... here I am!" She finished gaily—"Open—how do you make the phrase?—to any pleasant salaried post!"
She glanced sideways at the man, noting the pity on his face.
"You wouldn't like...?" Her meaning was plain.
"No," said McTaggart, very gently.
"Tant pis! You cared once..." She sighed, then coughed. "I can live," she whispered, "on ve-ry little ... also cook..."