Part 16 (1/2)

At the door she knocked; the old servant opened it a little way and looked suspiciously forth. All at once it seemed to Theresa that it might not be quite easy to get old Madame de Berquin to accept the food of which she stood in such sore need.

”What do you want?” asked old Jeanne suspiciously.

”I have brought Madame de Berquin's rations,” answered Theresa, with a sudden inspiration. ”You know the city is on rations now, and, as we live in the same house, I thought I might fetch Madame's with ours. It is not very much, I fear, but----”

The old woman opened the door wider and beckoned Theresa in. Something in the white, drawn face of the servant went to the girl's heart! her aspect, and that of the attic itself, bespoke the direst poverty. Madame de Berquin lay upon the bed; she looked almost like a corpse to the girl; her eyes dilated with fear.

”She is not dead, but she would soon have died,” said the old woman. ”I was praying it might be soon for both of us. She will not let me fetch the rations; she will not have her name set down for a dole. How did you get it from her?” and despite the almost wolfish hunger in her eyes, old Jeanne seemed disposed to push the food away.

”I did not give your name; I did not know it,” answered Theresa simply.

”I just got some with ours. They are in a great hurry at the office.

They do not ask many questions.”

”Then may the saints and the good G.o.d reward you!” cried the old woman, with a sob in her voice; ”for verily I thought to see my dear mistress perish of want before my eyes!”

Now, however, with Theresa's a.s.sistance, she raised the prostrate figure, and Madame de Berquin revived as the hot, fragrant coffee pa.s.sed her lips. They gave her morsels of bread soaked in it. They fed her gradually, as an infant is fed, until the light began to come back into her eyes and the grey pallor of her cheeks to change to something more lifelike.

”I shall come again to-morrow and bring some more,” whispered Theresa, as she slipped away at last; and the look which the old woman gave her was reward enough.

But all days were not such good ones for Theresa as this one had been.

Sometimes she was in terrible fear as she went her way, for the bullets seemed to be whizzing in the air about her, and the sounds of fearful explosions all round made her doubt whether she should escape with her life. And the long, long waiting in the biting cold, and the perils she encountered from daring little gamins or ill-conditioned men, made her daily journey a growing terror to her. But the thought of the crippled mother and those two patient old women upstairs, all dependent upon her for the food which kept life in them, nerved her to conquer her fears and to persevere, in spite of all the dangers she had to face.

Then came the day when her bravery met with an unexpected reward. She was waiting to cross that terrible boulevard. She had been waiting long, and still she dared not face the peril. She heard the bullets biting the stones, and a sh.e.l.l had exploded in the centre of the road just as she came up. She began to fear that she was losing her nerve, that she was growing less brave rather than more, when suddenly she was held riveted to the spot by the sight of a boy, about seven or eight years old, dressed as a gentleman's child, who came running along gaily, rather as though he had escaped from restraint, and dashed into the middle of the broad roadway. Then suddenly he threw up his hands, gave a quick cry, and fell forward.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Theresa forgot everything in the sight of the child's peril.

_Page_ 183.]

Theresa forgot everything in the sight of the child's peril. Das.h.i.+ng forward, she caught him up in her arms, dropping basket and can and everything, and staggered across the road with him, just as a pale-faced gentleman, in semi-military dress, came rus.h.i.+ng up in a terrible state of anxiety and excitement.

”Etienne, Etienne, what hast thou done?”

The little boy had given forth one l.u.s.ty yell at the sight of blood on his tunic, but a hasty survey satisfied the father that it was a scratch rather than a wound the child had received, and the colour began to come back to his face.

”My brave girl,” he said, turning to Theresa, ”how can I thank you for this great service? Do you know that scarcely had you s.n.a.t.c.hed up the boy and got him away than the ground where he was lying was torn up by some fragments of a sh.e.l.l? Had he lain there a few seconds longer he must have perished!”

”Ah, how glad I am I was there just then,” said Theresa simply.

”Were you not frightened, my child? Did you not know the peril of pa.s.sing that street?”

”Oh, yes; I know. I am rather frightened, but I have to go by every day to get food. I must be going now, or I shall lose my turn.”

”Nay, nay; come back with me, and my wife shall fill the basket to-day,”

answered the gentleman, with a kindly authority that the girl could not resist; and, as she walked beside him, Etienne, proud of his adventure and his little hurt, hanging to his father's hand, Theresa found herself closely questioned as to herself and her circ.u.mstances, and heard a wondering exclamation pa.s.s the gentleman's lips as she spoke the name of Madame de Berquin.

That day saw the end of Theresa's troubles about food; for, from thenceforward till the close of the siege, General Varade, whose little son she had saved, made the care of her and her mother and of Madame de Berquin his especial task. He knew something of the history and family of the latter, came to see her, and would have moved her into better quarters had she wished it; but she had grown so fond of Theresa and her mother that until better days should come she preferred to remain where she was.