For a moment he stared at me.
“Hullo! young man. Yep. Met with a dirty deal. One of my helpers doped the troupe. Them as wasn’t stiff and cold was no more good for work. Busted me up.”
“Too bad. What are you doing now?”
“Working as a guide.”
“But you don’t know Paris!”
“’Tain’t necessary. Mighty few Paris guides know Paris. Don’t have to.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” I said, and left him. He looked after me curiously. His eyes were bloodshot from excessive drinking, and his dewlaps were blotched and sagging. “Vindictive brute!” I thought. “If he only knew wouldn’t he be mad! What a ripping villain he’d make if this was only fiction instead of real life!”
It was this morning, too, I made the acquaintance of Frosine. Passing through the mildewed court I saw peering through the window of a basement room the wistful face of little Solonge. Against the dark interior her head of silky gold was like that of a cherub painted on a panel. Struck with a sudden idea, I knocked at their door.
Solonge opened it, turning the handle, after several attempts, with both hands, and very proud of the feat. She welcomed me shyly, and a clear voice invited me to enter. If the appearance of the child had formerly surprised me, I was still more astonished when I saw the mother. She was almost as dark as the little one was fair. The contrast was so extreme that one almost doubted their relationship.
Scarcely did she pause in her work as I entered. She seemed, indeed, a human sewing machine. With lightning quickness she fed the material to the point of her needle, and every time she drew it through a score of stitches would be made. Already the bed was heaped with work she had finished, and a small table was also piled with stuff. A wardrobe, a stove, and two chairs completed the furniture of the room.