Part 8 (1/2)
She gave a short laugh of scorn, and resumed the clicking of her needles, not raising her eyes from her work even when her neighbour, the old woman who sold vegetables at the next stall, ventured to address her.
”Where is thy unfortunate boy gone to, Martine?” she enquired,--”Is it wise to let him be with the Patoux children? They are strong and quick and full of mischief,--they might do him fresh injury in play without meaning it.”
”I will trust them,” answered Martine curtly,--”They have taken him to see a Cardinal.”
”A Cardinal!” and the old woman craned her withered neck forward in amazement and began to laugh feebly,--”Nom de Jesus! That is strange!
What does the Cardinal want with him?”
”Nothing,” said Martine gruffly--”It seems that he is an old man who is kind to children, and the girl Babette has a fancy to get his blessing for my Fabien,--that is all.”
”And that is little enough,” responded the old vegetable-vendor, still laughing, or rather chuckling hoa.r.s.ely--”A blessing is not worth much nowadays, is it Martine? It never puts an extra ounce of meat in the pot-au-feu,--and yet it is all one gets out of the priests for all the prayers and the praise. Last time I went to confession I accused myself of the sin of envy. I said 'Look here, my father, I am a widow and very old; and I have rheumatism in all my bones, and I have only a bit of matting to sleep on at home, and if I have a bad day with the market I can buy no food. And there is a woman living near me who has a warm house, with a stove in it,--and blankets to cover her, and a bit of money put by, and I envy her her blankets and her stove and her house and her money. Is that a sin?' And he said it was a sin; but that he would absolve me from it if I said ten Paters and ten Aves before Our Lady of Bon-Secours. And then he gave me his blessing,--but no blankets and no stove and no money. And I have not said ten Paters and Aves yet, because my bones have ached too much all the week for me to walk up the hill to Bon-Secours. And the blessing has been no use to me at all.”
”Nor is it likely to be!” scoffed Martine--”I thought you had given up all that Church-nonsense long ago.”
”Nay--nay--not altogether,”--murmured the old woman timidly--”I am very old,--and one never knows--there may be truth in some of it. It is the burning and the roasting in h.e.l.l that I think of,--you know that is very likely to happen, Martine!--because you see, in this life we have nothing but trouble,--so whoever made us must like to see us suffering;--it must be a pleasure to G.o.d, and so it is sure to go on and on always. And I am afraid!--and if a candle now and then to St.
Joseph would help matters, I am not the one to grudge it,--it is better to burn a candle than burn one's self!”
Martine laughed loudly, but made no answer. She could not waste her time arguing against the ridiculous superst.i.tions of an old creature who was so steeped in ignorance as to think that a votive candle could rescue her soul from a possible h.e.l.l. She went on knitting in silence till a sudden shadow came between her and the sunlight, and a girl's voice, harsh, yet with a certain broken sweetness in it, said--
”A fine morning's killing, aye! All their necks wrung,--all dead birds!
Once they could fly--fly and swim! Fly and swim! All dead now--and sold cheap in the open market!”
A shrill laugh finished this outburst, but Martine knew who it was that spoke, and maintained her equanimity.
”Is that you again, Marguerite?” she said, not unkindly--”You will tire yourself to death wandering about the streets all day.”
Marguerite Valmond, ”la folle” as she was called by the townsfolk, shook her head and smiled cunningly. She was a tall girl, with black hair disordered and falling loosely about her pale face,--her eyes were dark and l.u.s.trous, but wild, and with a hunted expression in them,--and her dress was composed of the strangest remnants of oddly a.s.sorted materials and colours pinned about her without any order or symmetry, the very idea of decent clothing being hardly considered, as her bosom was half exposed and her legs were bare. She wore no head-covering, and her whole aspect was that of one who had suddenly awakened from a hideous dream and was striving to forget its horrors.
”I shall never be tired!” she said--”If I could be tired I should sleep,--but I never sleep! I am looking for HIM, you know!--it was at the fair I lost him--you remember the great fair? And when I find him I shall kill him! It is quite easy to kill--you take a sharp glittering thing, so!” and she s.n.a.t.c.hed up a knife that lay on Martine's counter--”And you plunge it--so!” and she struck it down with singular fury through the breast of one of the ”dead birds” which were Martine's stock-in-trade. Then she threw the knife on the ground--rubbed her hands together, tossed her head, and laughed again--”That is how I shall do it when I meet him!”
Martine said nothing. She simply removed the one stabbed bird from among the others, and setting it aside, picked up the knife from the ground and went on knitting as calmly as ever.
”I am going to see the Archbishop,” proceeded Marguerite, tossing back her dishevelled locks and making one or two fantastic dance-steps as she spoke--”The great Archbishop of this wonderful city of Rouen! I want to ask him how it happened that G.o.d made men. It was a mistake which He must be sorry for! The Archbishop knows everything;--he will tell me about it. Ah!--what a beautiful mistake is the Archbishop himself!--and how soon women find it out! Bon jour, Martine!”
”Bon jour, Marguerite!” responded Martine quietly.
Singing to herself, the crazed girl sauntered off. Several of the market women looked after her.
”She killed her child, they say,” muttered the old vegetable-seller--”But no one knows--”
”Sh--sh--s.h.!.+” hissed Martine angrily--”What one does not know one should not say. Mayhap there never was a child at all. Whatever the wrong was, she has suffered for it;--and if the man who led her astray ever comes nigh her, his life is not worth a centime.”
”Rough justice!” said one of the market porters, who had just paused close by to light his pipe.
”Aye, rough justice!” echoed Martine--”When justice is not given to the people, the people take it for themselves! And if a man deals ill by a woman, he has murdered her as surely as if he had put a knife through her;--and 'tis but even payment when he gets the knife into himself.
Things in this life are too easy for men and too hard for women; men make the laws for their own convenience, and never a thought of us at all in the making. They are a selfish lot!”
The porter laughed carelessly, and having lit his pipe to his satisfaction went his way.