The Story Of Marcel,
The Little Mettray Colonist.
Chapter VI.
"Dark the evening shadows rolled
On the eye that gleamed in death,
And the evening dews fell cold
On the lip that gasped for breath."
James Montgomery.
A year had passed away when one day Pelagie Vautrin went out in the morning, as usual, with her hand-cart, but did not return as usual in the evening. Marcel had been on a spree with Polycarpe, and was glad, when he crept to bed late at night, all muzzy with tippling, to find his dirty home vacant.
But when, at a late hour the next day, he opened his hot, aching eyes and looked around him, he was at first astonished and then frightened to see that he was still alone. He started up and ran down-stairs to ask the neighbors if they had seen Madame Vautrin that morning. There was soon a great excitement in the house; for no one had seen her, and it was well known that Pelagie never staid out at night; she was generally very regularly drunk in bed by ten o'clock.
"Go to the prefect of police," cried one to the anxious boy, "they'll find her for you!"
"Go to the Morgue," cried another. "I shouldn't wonder if she had fallen into the river."
"Or been run over by an omnibus, the drunken slut!" cried a third.
"Ay, go to the Morgue, Marcel," said Polycarpe, who had just got up, and had hurried down to take part, as usual, in what was going on. "Come, I'll go with you."
Marcel was by this time as pale as death: the idea of Pelagie being dead was dreadful to him; for though the poor boy could not love the cruel woman who had worked him so unsparingly for her own profit, still she seemed something more to him than the rest of the world; she had sheltered him when he had no shelter; she had given him a dry crust when he knew not where to find one; and the child's heart was made of such tender stuff that the slightest kindness could kindle in it a flame of never forgetful gratitude.