Volume II Part 77 (1/2)
”Come, come, no more of such weakness. It is by cheris.h.i.+ng such ideas, it is in listening thus, that one falls really sick. And I have the time, truly! Must I not occupy myself in finding some work for Claire and myself, since this man, who gave us engravings to color--”
Then, after a pause, she added, with indignation, ”Oh! this is abominable, to offer this work at the price of Claire's--to take from us this miserable means of existence, because I would not allow my child to go and work at his rooms! Perhaps we may find work elsewhere; but when one knows n.o.body, it is so difficult! When one is so miserably lodged they inspire no confidence; and yet, the small sum that remains once gone, what shall we do? what will become of us?
”If the laws leave this crime unpunished, I will not--for, if fate pushes me to the end--if I do not find the means to emerge from the atrocious position in which this wretch has placed me and my child, I do not know what I shall do--I shall be capable of killing him--I-- this man--then they can do what they will with me. Yes--but my child?
my child?
”To leave her alone, abandoned--ah! no, I do not wish to die! for this, I cannot kill this man. What would become of her? She, at sixteen--she is young, and pure as an angel; but she is handsome--but misery, hunger, abandonment--what may they not cause? and then--and then--into what abyss may she not fall?
”Oh! it is frightful--poverty! frightful enough for any one; but perhaps more so for those who have always lived in opulence. I cannot beg--I must absolutely see my child starve before I can beg! What a coward--yet--”
Two or three violent knocks at the door made her tremble, and awoke her daughter with a start.
”Mamma, what is that?” cried Claire, sitting up in bed; then, throwing her arms around her mother's neck, who, very much alarmed, pressed her child to her bosom, ”Mamma, what is it?” repeated Claire.
”I do not know, my child; but do not be afraid, it is nothing: some one knocked; it is, perhaps, the letter we expect.”
At this moment the worm-eaten door shook again, under repeated blows with the fist.
”Who is there?” said Madame de Fermont in a trembling voice.
A coa.r.s.e, rough voice answered, ”Are you deaf, neighbors?”
”What do you want? I do not know you,” said Madame de Fermont, trying to conceal the agitation of her voice.
”I am Robin, your neighbor; give me some fire to light my pipe: come, make haste!”
”It is that lame man, who is always drunk,” said the mother to her child.
”Are you going to give me any fire! or I'll break all open, in the name of thunder?”
”Sir, I have no fire.”
”You must have some matches, then; everybody has them; do you open-- come?”
”Sir, go away.”
”You won't open?--one, two--”
”I beg you to go away, or I will call.”
”Once--twice--three times--no, you won't! Then I'll break all down, then.”
And the wretch gave such a furious kick against the door, he burst it in, the miserable lock breaking at the first a.s.sault. The two women screamed with alarm. Madame de Fermont, notwithstanding her weakness, threw herself before the rough, and barred his entrance.
”This is outrageous: you shall not come in,” cried the unhappy mother; ”I shall cry for help.”
”For what--for what?” answered he: ”mustn't we be neighborly? If you had opened, I should not have broken in.”
Then, with the stupid obstinacy of drunkenness, he added staggering, ”I wish to come in; I will come in, and I will not go out until I light my pipe.”
”I have neither fire nor matches. In the name of heaven, sir, retire.”