I was walking along the Rue des Martins. I was thoughtful, for I had
just been witness to a sight that greatly moved me. My duties as a
reporter for one of the large Paris dailies had taken me to Havre just
as the ship came in which brought the Communists home from exile, and,
hardened as I confess myself to be to the more frequent aspects of
human suffering, the sight of those men crowding forward to catch the
first glimpse of the friends who had come to meet them, touched me
with a feeling that was not unlike compassion. I was thinking of them
and wondering what sort of fate awaited the older men I saw there,
when a sudden cry from over my head startled me from my musings, and
looking up, I saw a woman peering out of the top window of a wretched
apartment.
She showed such signs of distress in her countenance that I at once
knew something terrible had occurred within, and foreseeing matter for
my next article, I immediately entered the house.
I found myself confronted by frightened faces everywhere. All the
inmates knew that something was wrong on the top floor, but no one knew
just what. They followed me when they saw me determined to find out.
The consequence was that a small crowd pressed behind me as I mounted
the last stair; a crowd that seemed to awe if not alarm the trembling
woman who awaited me at the top, for she started back as she saw it,
muttering to herself:
“_Mon Dieu!_ Elise never had so many visitors before!”
[Illustration: “THERE, STRETCHED ON HER BED.”]
A door swinging on its hinges at the right of this woman at once
attracted my attention. Advancing with small ceremony, I threw it open.
I found my expectations more than realized. On the bed before me lay
the outstretched form of a woman, the pallor and fixedness of whose
face bespoke death. Not a natural death either, for she was dressed as
if she had just come in from the street, with the exception of her
bonnet, which lay on the floor beside her, where it had evidently been
flung by a careless hand. Otherwise the room was in perfect order, I
may even say in holiday order. From the work neatly folded on the shelf
to the small bunch of fresh flowers that adorned a table set out with
an untouched meal——a meal which even in the hurried glance I gave it I
saw was arranged for two——all bespoke one of those rare days of rest
and relaxation which now and then enter a French working-woman’s life.
But the dead face on the pillow——what did it betoken? Had murder crept
into this humble dwelling or was it a suicide I beheld? Involuntarily
drawing nearer the bed, I looked at the face before me more closely. It
was that of a young and pretty woman, and while touchingly meagre and
sad was touchingly delicate also. It was almost a lady’s face, and had
it not been for the evidence of toil displayed by the hands I should
certainly have taken it for such. As it was I could not doubt that
a real working-woman lay there, though from the marks of refinement
observable in her dress and the presence of certain choice books
on the shelf over her head, she was evidently a woman of taste and
education.
“It is a suicide!” I declared, seeing a bottle of well-known poison
protruding from under the pillow.
“Of course it is,” murmured a voice over my shoulder. “Don’t you see
what she has written on that paper near you?”
I glanced down at the table by which I was standing and saw a sheet of
common note paper, inscribed with these words:
“My husband was a Communist and was exiled. He was all I had in
the world, and since his departure I have only lived to see him
again. But I have had no news, no letter. I have been patient,
however, for I have waited for this day. But it has come, and
it has not brought him. I went to the ship myself and looked at
every man who left it. He was not amongst them. So now I know
he is dead. That being so, there is no more reason why I should
live.
“ELISE PICARD.”
Involuntarily I had read these words aloud. A murmur of almost
ferocious sympathy greeted them from the crowd that had gathered at
my back. The sound disturbed me, for my thoughts had flown at once to
the ship and that throng of pale and eager men I had myself seen in
the morning. I felt a strange inclination to be alone, and shouldering
my way out past the humble table set so touchingly with a meal never
destined to be eaten, I made my way into the hall.
But before I could reach the stairs a woman advanced and laid her hand
on my arm. It was the same who had given the first alarm.
“Would you mind stepping into my room a minute?” she asked. “There is
something I would like to show you.”
Naturally curious, I followed at once.
“What is it?” I inquired, when we were shut in an apartment of even
scantier proportions than the one we had just left.
[Illustration: “ONLY SOME LETTERS.”]
“Only some letters which Elise put into my hands a little while
ago——before——before she showed herself so tired of life. You see we had
been neighbors here, and Elise, though she was far above me——she was
born a lady, Monsieur——was kind to me, and told me many of her griefs.
I could not appreciate them all, for I never was educated; but I do
know what it is to love, for I had a good husband myself once, and so
when she spoke of him I could understand. And there was not a day she
did not speak of him. It was as if he always stood at her side. Her
very eyes had a far-away look, as if she was seeing something more than
the rest of us did. I used to have an awe of her, especially when she
smiled to herself.”
“It is very sad,” said I. “And did she never hear from him after he was
taken away?”
“No. She never doubted that he lived, though, and would come back. ‘I
feel it here,’ she used to say, laying her hand on her heart. ‘Why
else do I live?’ she would add. Only yesterday her face was like the
sunlight. ‘I am sure he will come home with the rest,’ she cried, ‘and
then I shall know why he did not write.’ Did you see how she had his
dinner ready? I went with her to market, and it was touching to hear
her say, ‘I must get this,’ or ‘I must get that; he used to like it so
well.’”
“Did you go with her to the wharf?” I asked, willing to learn all I
could.
“No, Monsieur. She didn’t seem to want me to. But I shall never forget
the look she gave me as she went out of the door. There wasn’t any
doubt in it. To my foolish mind it seemed to say, ‘I shall never be
lonely in this room any more.’ _Mon Dieu!_ when I think how that look
must have brightened when she saw the poor wanderers crowding forward
out of the ship, and then have faded away to what it was when she came
back alone, my heart is ready to break.”
“You saw her, then, after her return?”
“A moment. She came to my door with the letters you have there. As soon
as I saw her I knew what had happened, but I couldn’t speak. My tongue
seemed to cleave to the roof of my mouth. You see, I had been as sure
as she that he would be there with the rest.”
“Didn’t you say anything then?”
“Not a word; she didn’t give me a chance. ‘My husband is dead,’ was
her greeting as she opened the door. ‘I looked in the face of every
one of the exiles as they left the ship, and he was not there. I want
to leave these letters with you; they were meant for him.’ And without
looking me in the face she laid the package down with a slow stiff
movement, as if she were already half dead herself, then went out and
closed the door. There was something in her look which told me not to
follow her.”
“But weren’t you afraid of what she would do? Didn’t you fear she might
commit suicide?”
“No, sir. Yet if I had I don’t think I should have followed her.” Then
as I looked up surprised the good woman hastened to say:
“It is a sadder story than you think. If you care to hear——”