servant, apprised her of Beauchene’s former intrigue with Norine, that workgirl who had given birth to a boy, spirited away none knew whither. Though ten years had elapsed since that occurrence, Constance could not think of it without a feeling of revolt. Whither had that child been sent? Was he still alive? What ignominious existence was he leading? She was vaguely jealous of the boy. The thought that her husband had two sons and she but one was painful to her, now that all her motherly nature was aroused. But she devoted herself yet more ardently to her fondly loved Maurice; she made a demigod of him, and for his sake even sacrificed her just rancor. She indeed came to the conclusion that he must not suffer from his father’s indignity, and so it was for him that, with extraordinary strength of will, she ever preserved a proud demeanor, feigning that she was ignorant of everything, never addressing a reproach to her husband, but remaining, in the presence of others, the same respectful wife as formerly. And even when they were alone together she kept silence and avoided explanations and quarrels. Never even thinking of the possibility of revenge, she seemed, in the presence of her husband’s profligacy, to attach herself more firmly to her home, clinging to her son, and protected by him from thought of evil as much as by her own sternness of heart and principles. And thus sorely wounded, full of repugnance but hiding her contempt, she awaited the triumph of that son who would purify and save the house, feeling the greatest faith in his strength, and quite surprised and anxious whenever, all at once, without reasonable cause, a little quiver from the unknown brought her a chill, affecting her heart as with remorse for some long-past fault which she no longer remembered.
That little quiver came back while she listened to all that Madame Angelin confided to her. And at last she became quite interested in her friend’s case, and offered to accompany her some day when she might be calling on Madame Bourdieu. In the end they arranged to meet one Thursday afternoon for the purpose of going together to the Rue de Miromesnil.
As it happened, that same Thursday, about two o’clock, Mathieu, who had come to Paris to see about a threshing-machine at Beauchene’s works, was quietly walking along the Rue La Boetie when he met Cecile Moineaud, who was carrying a little parcel carefully tied round with string. She was now nearly twenty-one, but had remained slim, pale, and weak, since passing through the hands of Dr. Gaude. Mathieu had taken a great liking to her during the few months she had spent as a servant at Chantebled; and later, knowing what had befallen her at the hospital, he had regarded her with deep compassion. He had busied himself to find her easy work, and a friend of his had given her some cardboard boxes to paste together, the only employment that did not tire her thin weak hands. So childish had she remained that one would have taken her for a young girl suddenly arrested in her growth. Yet her slender fingers were skilful, and she contrived to earn some two francs a day in making the little boxes. And as she suffered greatly at her parents’ home, tortured by her brutal surroundings there, and robbed of her earnings week by week, her dream was to secure a home of her own, to find a little money that would enable her to install herself in a room where she might live in peace and quietness. It had occurred to Mathieu to give her a pleasant surprise some day by supplying her with the small sum she needed.
“Where are you running so fast?” he gayly asked her.
The meeting seemed to take her aback, and she answered in an evasive, embarrassed way: “I am going to the Rue de Miromesnil for a call I have to make.”
Noticing his kindly air, however, she soon told him the truth. Her sister, that poor creature Norine, had just given birth to another child, her third, at Madame Bourdieu’s establishment. A gentleman who had been protecting her had cast her adrift, and she had been obliged to sell her few sticks of furniture in order to get together a couple of hundred francs, and thus secure admittance to Madame Bourdieu’s house, for the mere idea of having to go to a hospital terrified her. Whenever she might be able to get about again, however, she would find herself in the streets, with the task of beginning life anew at one-and-thirty years of age.
“She never behaved unkindly to me,” resumed Cecile. “I pity her with all my heart, and I have been to see her. I am taking her a little chocolate now. Ah! if you only saw her little boy! he is a perfect love!”
The poor girl’s eyes shone, and her thin, pale face became radiant with a smile. The instinct of maternity remained keen within her, though she could never be a mother.
“What a pity it is,” she continued, “that Norine is so obstinately determined on getting rid of the baby, just as she got rid of the others. This little fellow, it’s true, cries so much that she has had to give him the breast. But it’s only for the time being; she says that she can’t see him starve while he remains near her. But it quite upsets me to think that one can get rid of one’s children; I had an idea of arranging things very differently. You know that I want to leave my parents, don’t you? Well, I thought of renting a room and of taking my sister and her little boy with me. I would show Norine how to cut out and paste up those little boxes, and we might live, all three, happily together.”
“And won’t she consent?” asked Mathieu.
“Oh! she told me that I was mad; and there’s some truth in that, for I have no money even to rent a room. Ah! if you only knew how it distresses me.”
Mathieu concealed his emotion, and resumed in his quiet way: “Well, there are rooms to be rented. And you would find a friend to help you. Only I am much afraid that you will never persuade your sister to keep her child, for I fancy that I know her ideas on that subject. A miracle would be needed to change them.”
Quick-witted as she was, Cecile darted a glance at him. The friend he spoke of was himself. Good heavens would her dream come true? She ended by bravely saying: “Listen, monsieur; you are so kind that you really ought to do me a last favor. It would be to come with me and see Norine at once. You alone can talk to her and prevail on her perhaps. But let us walk slowly, for I am stifling, I feel so happy.”
Mathieu, deeply touched, walked on beside her. They turned the corner of the Rue de Miromesnil, and his own heart began to beat as they climbed the stairs of Madame Bourdieu’s establishment. Ten years ago! Was it possible? He recalled everything that he had seen and heard in that house. And it all seemed to date from yesterday, for the building had not changed; indeed, he fancied that he could recognize the very grease-spots on the doors on the various landings.
Following Cecile to Norine’s room, he found Norine up and dressed, but seated at the side of her bed and nursing her babe.
“What! is it you, monsieur?” she exclaimed, as soon as she recognized her visitor. “It is very kind of Cecile to have brought you. Ah! mon Dieu what a lot of things have happened since I last saw you! We are none of us any the younger.”
He scrutinized her, and she did indeed seem to him much aged. She was one of those blondes who fade rapidly after their thirtieth year. Still, if her face had become pasty and wore a weary expression, she remained pleasant-looking, and seemed as heedless, as careless as ever.
Cecile wished to bring matters to the point at once. “Here is your chocolate,” she began. “I met Monsieur Froment in the street, and he is so kind and takes so much interest in me that he is willing to help me in carrying out my idea of renting a room where you might live and work with me. So I begged him to come up here and talk with you, and prevail on you to keep that poor little fellow of yours. You see, I don’t want to take you unawares; I warn you in advance.”
Norine started with emotion, and began to protest. “What is all this again?” said she. “No, no, I don’t want to be worried. I’m too unhappy as it is.”
But Mathieu immediately intervened, and made her understand that if she reverted to the life she had been leading she would simply sink lower and lower. She herself had no illusions on that point; she spoke bitterly enough of her experiences. Her youth had flown, her good-looks were departing, and the prospect seemed hopeless enough. But then what could she do? When one had fallen into the mire one had to stay there.
“Ah! yes, ah! yes,” said she; “I’ve had enough of that infernal life which some folks think so amusing. But it’s like a stone round my neck; I can’t get rid of it. I shall have to keep to it till I’m picked up in some corner and carried off to die at