too late now; you stayed away purposely."
"I am sorry I was delayed; but allow me to do it now."
"Leave me alone."
"But the wound will be inflamed."
"That's exactly what you are aiming at."
"Godmother, I beg you!"
"Don't come near me!" shrieked the sick woman furiously.
"I shall wait then," sighed the girl. "Shall I warm up your milk?"
"Milk! milk! and nothing but milk!—I am just sick of it. The doctor prescribed good chicken broth; and here it is Sunday, and I have had none since Tuesday."
"It's no fault of mine, godmother. The doctor prescribes—but money must be found to provide what he orders. And I can scarcely make twenty sous a day now."
"You don't mind what you spend on yourself," snapped Mme. Lacombe.
"You know well that I have worn nothing but this faded print dress all winter," rejoined Mariette, with touching resignation. "I economize as much as I can—and we owe two quarters of rent."
"You might as well say right now that I am a burden to you. These are the thanks I get for taking you out of the streets and paying for your apprenticeship!—you ungrateful, heartless child!"
"No, no, I am not ungrateful, godmother!" protested Mariette, restraining her tears with difficulty. "And, if you suffered less, you would not be so unjust to me—but do take something, or else you will be ill."
"I know it, I feel a terrible gnawing at my stomach."
"Please have some milk, godmother," entreated the girl.
"Go to the devil with your milk!" she snapped angrily.
"Shall I get you some fresh eggs?"
"No!"
"Will you have some rice?"
"I want some chicken!"
"But I can't get one on credit."
"You had twenty-seven sous in your purse this morning, and the quarter of a chicken will do me."
"But, godmother, that money—"
"Well, what about that money?"
"It's gone; I have only a few sous left."
"And where are those two ten-sous pieces?—Will you answer me?"
"I—I don't know," faltered the girl, reproaching herself bitterly for spending her money on the letters. "They must have dropped from my purse; for I have lost them."
"You lie!—I see it in your face."
"I assure you—"
"That's it," rejoined the sick woman, with a sardonic laugh, "she leaves me to rot on this wretched pallet, while she feasts on cakes and sweetmeats!"
"I?—Oh, my God!" moaned the girl.
"Out of here, you wretched creature! You may leave me to starve; but don't let me see your face again!" cried the unhappy woman, driven to desperation by the tortures she endured and the exasperating animosity of fate against her. "Ah! yes, you are very anxious to make me swallow that milk," she added, with a still more ironical laugh; "I am such a burden that you may have dropped something in it!"
At this accusation—still more senseless than atrocious—Mariette remained for a moment dumbfounded, not realizing the full meaning of the horrible words. But when their full sense burst upon her, she clasped her two hands together and shrank back in terror; then, unable to restrain her sobs any longer, and yielding to an irresistible impulse, she threw her arms about the sick woman's neck and, covering her face with tears and kisses, murmured brokenly: "Oh! godmother! godmother!"
This heart-broken protestation against an accusation which could have had its birth in a delirious brain only, fortunately recalled the sick woman to reason. Her heart relaxed a little under this flow of tears, and she realized her injustice.
"There, there, little one," she said with emotion, as she took one of the girl's trembling hands in hers and pressed the quivering form against her breast, "don't cry so—how foolish you are!—don't you see I was only jesting?"
Jesting! A sad jest, alas! worthy only of such abject misery.
"Yes; I was wrong to take your words seriously," returned Mariette, wiping away the tears from her pale cheeks.
"What will you? you must take pity on your poor godmother, my little Mariette. By dint of suffering, you see, my gall has overflowed, and my heart is like my mouth—bitter, Oh, so bitter!"
"I know that you grumble in spite of yourself sometimes, godmother—Ah, it is so easy to be always cheerful and contented when one is happy; while you have found little happiness in your life."
"True enough," said the old woman, feeling a sort of cruel satisfaction in justifying her embittered character by the enumeration of her wrongs against an implacable destiny; "true enough, many have fared as badly as myself, but few have fared worse. Beaten in my apprenticeship, beaten by a drunken husband, crippled and ill, I have dragged my chains for fifty years, and none can say that I have had one happy day—one single happy day in my accursed life. As we say, my little Mariette, my life has been without a single Sunday, while each day is a holiday to so many."
"Poor godmother, I can understand what you have suffered," murmured the girl, sympathetically.
"No, no, you can never understand, although you have known much sorrow in your eighteen years. You are pretty, at least, and when you have a new frock, with a fresh bit of ribbon in your golden hair, you can smile at your reflection in the mirror and feel a moment of happiness."
"Oh, godmother! I—"
"Be frank, little one; admit that it makes you happy, and perhaps a little proud, too, when people turn their heads to look at you, in spite of your faded gown and coarse shoes."
"Indeed you are mistaken, godmother; it makes me blush to have any one look at me. When I worked at the shop, there was a gentleman who came every day and always gazed persistently at me while talking to Madame Jourdan, and it mortified me to death."
"Yes, but at heart you were pleased; and when you are old you will remember it. You will then have something like a reflection of your youth; while I see nothing but gloom, and don't even know if I was ever young. But as for being ugly, I am sure of that."
"Oh! godmother!"
"Yes, I was so ugly that I could not bear the sight of a mirror. The consequence was that I found nothing better than a drunken husband, who nearly killed me with blows; and I was even deprived of the chance of rejoicing over his death, for I was obliged to pay his debts at the wine-shop. Then I became a cripple, and would starve were it not for you."
"You are unjust, godmother," observed Mariette, with a tender smile, trying to dispel her melancholy. "To my knowledge, you have had one happy day, at least, in your life."
"Which was that?"
"The day you gave me shelter, after my mother's death. Did not the good action give you satisfaction and make you happy for the day?"
"Well, if you call that a happy day—I want no more like it."
"Why?"
"It was rather one of my worst days!"
"Oh! godmother!" expostulated the girl sadly.
"Since my wretched husband's death, I had but myself to care for; but in taking charge of you, it was like being left a widow with a child to support. I call that anything but gay, when a woman can scarcely earn her own living. But you looked so charming with your pretty curly head and large blue eyes, and you seemed so sad kneeling beside your mother's coffin, that I had not the heart to let them take you to the asylum. And what a dreary night I spent, wondering