XXIX
WHAT WAS TO BE EXPECTED.—RETURN TO THE VILLAGE
Virginie walked along the street, with no very clear idea as to where she was going; she cudgelled her brains to think of somebody who might accommodate her, but the memory is often in default when one asks it the name of a true friend. If Cézarine had been in Paris, Virginie would not have hesitated to call on her, because she knew her kindness of heart; but Cézarine was then on the track of her Théodore, who had left the capital, and her Théodore was likely to lead her a long way.
Virginie’s other acquaintances offered too unpromising a prospect; there were several to whom she would not have dreamed of applying. However, the result of her reflections was always the same:—“I must have a chicken for Auguste, and I will have one. I don’t know just how I shall do it; but whenever I’ve taken it into my head to do a thing, I’ve always succeeded in doing it, and it’s often been a question of things much more interesting than a chicken; it would be a deuce of a go, if I couldn’t acquit myself creditably in the matter of a little chicken!”
And Virginie stopped in front of poultry shops and cookshops; she walked back and forth, cudgelling her brains to no purpose; she found no money, and she heaved a sigh as she gazed at the delicacies with which she desired to regale the convalescent.
The amusing faces that Virginie made—her decent dress did not indicate want—and the way she glared at the roast chickens, made the passers-by smile now and then, for they saw in the grisette’s emotion only an outburst of gluttony; and she, seeing them smile as they looked at her, muttered between her teeth: “The idiots! Suppose they do laugh in my face—what difference does that make to me? Isn’t there one of them who will be polite enough to offer me a chicken? Men are getting to be brutes!”
For ten minutes Virginie had been walking back and forth before a cookshop, beside which was the small establishment of a linen-draper. Virginie had not noticed the proprietress, because she had no eyes for anything but the chickens; but through the gloves, ribbons and drygoods in her window, the tradeswoman had noticed Virginie, whose strange behavior was calculated to arouse curiosity. Women have a sentimental instinct which enables them to understand at once what men cannot divine in an hour, or what they cannot divine at all. The young linen-draper saw in Virginie’s eyes that it was not gluttony that caused her to stand in contemplation before her neighbor’s merchandise. She went out of her shop by the rear door,—her yard and that of the cookshop were the same,—entered the cookshop, purchased a fine, fat chicken, wrapped it in two thicknesses of paper, and returned to her own shop by the same road. Then she stood in her doorway and looked at Virginie, not knowing how to proffer her gift. For some time Virginie paid no heed to the young woman; but the latter gazed at her with such a meaning expression, and seemed so anxious to speak to her, that Virginie walked toward the shop-door.
The young tradeswoman at once said to her, in a low tone and blushing hotly:
“Madame, you have forgotten your purse, haven’t you? If you would allow me to offer you——”
And as she spoke, she thrust the chicken under Virginie’s arm, trembling as if she had done a ridiculous thing; but one often trembles much more when doing a kind deed. Virginie could only squeeze the young woman’s hand and say:
“You guessed my plight. Ah! if you knew how happy you have made me! if you knew why—But you will see me again; I will come again to thank you and pay my debt to you.”