Part 4 (2/2)
It was still there, this wonder at him, when she turned to her book finally to study that spelling lesson. ”Lit ... sommier ...
traversin....” She wrote the words down on the coa.r.s.e paper, with infinite care, drawing on some deep, unfamiliar store of patience when the pen sputtered and caught its point and stuck. She was going to try to do as Father said. She would take as much trouble with writing those words about a bed, as old Jeanne took in making the bed every morning; and that was more trouble than anybody in America ever took about anything.
Her dark, s.h.i.+ning hair fell forward about her cheeks as she leaned over the copy-book, writing slowly, chewing her tongue, frowning in her concentration on the formation of those letters.
She forgot all about her uncertainties as to how things really were; she forgot her loneliness. All her flickering thoughts steadied themselves and grew quiet as she worked. A stillness came over her. She felt happier than she had since they came to France to live.
Later, ever so much later, after she had undressed, washed in the cold water in the little earthen-ware basin, gone to bed and to sleep, the night-time Jeanne tip-toed in to see that she was all right. This Jeanne was very different from all the others, because she was so quiet. Marise half-waked up when she felt the energetic French kiss on her cheek (Jeanne always kissed you so hard), and as she dozed off again, she heard Jeanne saying a prayer over her, half in Basque and half in Latin.
Marise couldn't understand either Latin or Basque, but she understood the intention of that nightly prayer at her bed, and she caught sleepily at old Jeanne to return her kiss. It wasn't as good as Cousin Hetty's taking you on her lap and putting her arms around you, but it was enough sight better than nothing. Also she heard Jeanne carefully close the window. Jeanne always did this every night, although Maman said to leave it open. Jeanne was the last one in there always so she had it her way.
She didn't think it healthy to let night air into rooms. Marise was too sleepy to get up and open it again. Anyhow Jeanne often told her about the evil spirits, that come in through open bedroom windows, and sit on your chest and suck your life into their black bodies, as you sleep.
Marise did not believe this, in the least, of course, and yet....
CHAPTER VIII
I
May 12, 1898.
Two plump ladies with large busts and very small waists were sitting in the salon of the Allen apartment, waiting for the mistress of the house.
They wore very tight-fitting dresses of excellent silk, obviously not new, obviously made by the sort of ”little dressmaker” who goes from house to house. Their shoes were stout and clumsy, their hats somewhat heavy in line, their gloves exquisitely fitting, perfectly fresh, made of the finest-grained leather. Although the sky was blue, each lady carried a small silk umbrella of the very best quality, tightly rolled with a masterly smoothness, as smoothly tubular as the day it was bought.
The two women held their cruelly corseted bodies very erect, and sat squarely on their chairs, both feet on the floor, their knees close together, their backbones very straight. Under the brims of their heavy, much-ornamented hats, their fresh, healthy faces wore an expression of perfect stability. They knew that they produced exactly the impression they meant to produce, and that they looked exactly like what they were.
From every inch of them was proclaimed the fact that they were fine housekeepers and economical managers of their husbands' incomes, that they were of the well-to-do bourgeoisie and proud of it, as of everything else they were and did. They looked out on their lives and found them good in every detail, from their slightly and purposely behind-the-fas.h.i.+on dresses to their stout shoes, evidence of their respectability; from their fixed ideas to their excellent gloves.
They glanced about them now, keenly, with the penetrating survey of the professional good housekeeper, and found much to comment on.
”How strange to have no lace curtains over the windows, only the heavy ones at the side. Why, people outside must be able to _look right in_!
Do you suppose they have taken them out to be washed? Or don't they know about curtains in America?”
They murmured their remarks in a low tone, keeping a weather-ear c.o.c.ked to the hall.
”That wall-paper is disgraceful. It was on when the Charpentiers lived here.”
”M. Lapagorry had expected, you know, of course, to do this apartment over after the Charpentiers moved out. But these new people never made a single comment, or complaint. Just accepted it.”
”I daresay they are used to log-cabins at home, with Indians at the door.”
”Oh, no, Madame Garnier, my Henri says that the Indians are quite civilized in America now.”
Madame Garnier frowned slightly at the mention of Henri.
The other woman went on, ”Apparently they thought it was all right to have faded paper and those awful old curtains. M. Lapagorry was so astonished he almost fell over backward. And when he saw they didn't find fault with anything, he asked a higher rent, ever so much higher than the Charpentiers had paid, and they took _that_ too without a word.
People say M. Lapagorry can't sleep nights now because he didn't ask more.”
Madame Garnier observed, as one mentioning an obvious fact, ”Oh, well, Madame Fortier, he will, of course, next time.”
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