“I know, Florent. I’ve thought of it a lot, but I can’t.—I like you.—There’s none I like so well—But I don’t love you. Wait awhile. I’ll try to love you. I really will....”
Garnier went sadly away, and some days passed without his returning. Margot became anxious. Then one afternoon Popol entered. Fortunately the Mère Tranquille was in the bar with her.
“Ha! Ha!” said Popol. “He’s been arrested, that pig of a sweetheart of yours. Interfering with the strikebreakers. It’s to me he owes it, too. He’ll get a year sure. And I haven’t finished yet. It’s your turn next time.”
“Get out of this,” cried madame, “or I’ll smash your face with a bottle.” She brandished one ready to throw, and Popol with another exultant laugh backed out of the door.
“You mustn’t be afraid of him,” said the Mère Tranquille.
“I am,—dreadfully. I want to go away. I really do.”
“I tell you he shan’t harm a hair of your head.”
“It isn’t only that, madame. You’ve been so good to me.... I’ll never forget it, but I feel I have been here long enough. I don’t like it,—the drinking, the men,—I want to be quiet. Before I came to Paris I was learning dress-making. I want to go back to that, to live in a world of women, and make a living by my needle.”
“I quite understand,” said the Mère Tranquille. “Listen, my little Margot. I’ve really come to love you like a daughter. You’ve changed so wonderfully since you came here. You’ve learnt to laugh, to sing. I’ve seen the woman dawning in you.... It’s finished, I’ve sold out at last. I’m taking a little cottage in Normandy and you’re coming with me. I’m lonely. I want you. You shall be my daughter.”
“Can it be true?”