[AN ANARCHIST.]
From the French of Eugène Moret.
I.—The End of the Day.
All Saints' Day was near. It was very cold. At five o'clock, night came. Marianne has risen slowly from her seat and gone to close the window, which she had opened for a few minutes to let some fresh air into the room. Ah! how dark and cheerless is the weather! On the pavements it must be difficult to walk, so thickly coated are they with slippery mud—mud that is everywhere, mud and standing puddles. A hard winter is commencing. The charcoal seller will want a great deal of money.
Ah, well—that is an expense that has been foreseen. The charcoal man and the baker have to be paid; and with courage and health it can be done.
In spite of the hissing wind and the biting cold, Marianne rested on her elbows at the open window for a moment; it refreshed her head. She was so tired. Since the morning she had hardly quitted her work, and sewing is so wearisome. Four children, the two eldest at school, the third at the asylum; the fourth, still quite young, in its white-curtained cradle.
The needle must be kept stitching, stitching, there must be no going to sleep over the work; but both ends could be made to meet, and that is the chief thing. Jacques Houdaille is a good workman, thirty-seven years of age, with a solid backbone, as he says. He works his full time; skulking is not in his way, he leaves that to fellows with hay in their sabots; he has youngsters, and they must be fed—that's all he knows. Besides, the missis has her notions: she is proud of herself, she'd not have any debts in the neighbourhood.
Poor Jacques! he had not always been so reasonable, and there was a time when his life had not been so well led.
Marianne, feeling the cold, which raised the handkerchief covering her shoulders and pierced beneath her dress, shut the window and moved about the room, putting things in order, then, after lighting her lamp, resumed her place near the stove.