Mme. Annette's house, facing a well-known park, was the most
aristocratic of its kind in all Buenos Aires. It was a resort of
millionaires, prominent politicians, and representatives of the city's
best families. At times half the cabinet was to be found there, not,
of course, assembled in council. Public report had it that when the
Chamber of Deputies lacked a quorum, it was customary to telephone to
Mme. Annette's; and never had this measure, unparliamentary though it
might be, failed to produce satisfactory results. At the very entrance
one began to breathe an air of luxury; then one stepped into a world
of silks, embroideries, gilt furniture, rich rugs, and heavy hangings.
A persistent aroma of rose water was wafted through the rooms, where a
subdued, mysterious, light invited to low-voiced conversation.
Nacha was waiting in a small inner reception room. A woman, whom she
did not know, was also sitting there; "Madame" had left them for a
moment to receive a caller. Suddenly a familiar figure appeared in the
doorway. "Amelia!" Nacha, with an exclamation of surprise, ran to meet
her friend, and kissed her.
"You here! Why, didn't you get married?" She lowered her voice at the
question. Amelia might feel ashamed in the presence of the strange
woman....
"Yes, I got married.... But ... here I am just the same!"
She talked in a very loud voice, laughed boldly, and emphasized
whatever she had to say with graceful movements of her snake-like body
and her long thin arms. She was dressed in a somewhat fantastic and
exuberant fashion, not without elegance. A strong scent of violets
pervaded the atmosphere about her.
"I should worry!" she continued; "Listen, little one. I'll admit that
when I got married I had some idea of living respectably. That's the
truth. You can say what you like. But you don't know what I married. He
used to work when he was a bachelor--in a dry goods store. But after we
were married he left his job, and wanted to live on me--thought I could
go right on doing what I did before. Well, this is what I said to him:
I said, "All right. I'll go back to the old life; but feed you with the
money I earn? Not much! So here I am. How do I look? Not getting old
very fast, eh?"
"You look splendid, Amelia, and more attractive than ever. What a
figure you have!"
"It isn't so bad, is it? But it's wasted on the old fogies who come
here. It makes you tired. Say, do you remember the wild times we had,
Nacha, when we were just kids, and I called myself an anarchist, and
said everybody ought to have one good fling at life?"
"And aren't you an anarchist now?"
"Me? You're crazy, little one. No more of those fool ideas for me.
Listen, I'm convinced now that we girls of the profession are one of
the strongest pillars of society...."
She flung this out in ringing tones; and then, at Nacha's horrified
expression, burst out laughing, throwing herself over to one side of
her chair with the sensuous grace and calm indifference of a cat.
Madame's arrival interrupted this conversation. When she saw Amelia she
greeted her with flattering warmth, and immediately left the room with
her. The stranger looked at Nacha and seemed about to speak. But Nacha
was lost in wonderment over all the things that may drive a woman to
her ruin. Amelia was frankness itself, and if she said she had married
with the hope of leading a decent life, it must be true; so then it was
her husband, on whom she had built all her hopes of decency, who had
thrust her back into vice!
She was interrupted in her thoughts by the entrance of a very young
girl, at whom Nacha gazed, charmed and astonished by the grace, and
innocent expression, of this delightful little person. She could not
take her eyes away from her; the girl, answering her shy smile, asked,
simply,
"What's your name? You look so good!"
"I'm not good, but I should like to be!"
The child--she seemed no older--sat down beside Nacha, and began to
talk with her. Although she was actually seventeen, her slight, almost
frail, figure made her seem barely fourteen or fifteen. Nacha was
horrified by this little creature's presence in that place. Didn't her
parents know where she was? And how could Mme. Annette let her come
there? And the men, those respectable gentlemen who were such good
friends of Madame's, how could they fail to utter a word of protest or
of pity? No, she could not understand the world; for it despised her
and all women like her, insulted her and pushed her towards crime and
every form of misery; yet she was capable of feeling pity for the girl
at her side; and she knew many women of her sort who would not have
allowed a horror such as this child's presence there, to be committed.
She wanted to ask this young thing to tell her how she came to be in
such a place, but she hesitated. The other woman's presence embarrassed
her.
"Tell me," Nacha whispered, taking the girl's hand. "Why is it--how
does it happen that--?"
The child raised her clear innocent eyes to Nacha's, in wonder.
"Why do you come to this house?" Nacha asked finally, blushing for her
curiosity.
The girl raised troubled eyes to Nacha; then she replied quite simply,
without the slightest suggestion of reproach toward anyone in her voice:
"My aunt sends me."
"And how long have you been coming here?"
"Two months."
"And before that--you had a sweetheart? Who deceived you?"
"No, I never had a sweetheart. My aunt made me come--"
"I can't believe it! So this is what life has become for you! Why, you
ought to be out playing with other children.
"Yes."
Nacha could scarcely breathe for indignation. Then little by little,
she brought out the child's story.
About eight years before, the girl's aunt had visited her parents, who
were Spanish and lived in great poverty in La Coruña. This aunt was
rich, and owned a store in Buenos Aires. Her little niece attracted
her; and as the child's parents had ten other children, they gave her
up to what seemed to them a prosperous future. Her aunt took her back
with her, always treated her kindly; but the store no longer prospered,
and finally, she was forced to close it. She told her little niece one
day that they were so poor she would have to earn some money.
"We hadn't anything to eat," the child went on. "I didn't see what my
aunt could do. And I didn't know what the place was she was sending me
to. So I came, as she told me. But when I went home I cried, and said
to my aunt I couldn't come to this house any more.... My aunt begged
me to be brave, and told me that she was responsible for everything.
But--it seemed so bad to me! I felt everything was all wrong. But my
aunt says that when people do what they are forced to do, they are not
really bad.... Can that be true? Tell me what you think?"
Nacha overwhelmed with horror, did not know what to reply.
"And is it wrong?"
Mme. Annette came in at this point and took the girl away with her.
Nacha got up from her chair and rushed after them; but from the
threshold of the room into which Madame had swept, she caught sight
of a man and stopped short. Then she came back to the strange woman,
towards whom, until this moment, she had felt a slight hostility.
"What a shame that is!" she broke out. "I have never in my life heard
anything like that child's story. Exploited by her own aunt!"
"Don't be so angry," said the woman gently, as Nacha, beside herself
with indignation, sat down.
"It's no good complaining. I have seen so many awful things that
nothing shocks me, absolutely nothing!"
Her words were correct but had a foreign accent. She was neither
pretty nor well dressed; but she had marvellous blue eyes, and looked
intelligent. Nacha, who until then had scarcely noticed her, now felt
strongly attracted to her; and as they waited there they talked with
increasing confidence to one another. Nacha learned that she was of a
respected and well-known family of a town in northern France, and that
she had come to South America under contract to give some concerts. But
the theatres in which her manager required her to sing were of such a
kind--the Royal, for instance--that she refused. She had, however, no
resources, so finally she made terms with the company, and was taken
to a "_pension d'artistes_," at which she was expected to live. She
soon found out what sort of a "_pensión_" it was, and rebelled against
the conditions of life there. After leaving the place abruptly, she
tried to earn a living by working in an art shop. The usual temptations
followed. Then came a love affair with one of its patrons: it ended
badly....
She smiled ironically as she looked at the tangled skein of her
memories.
"When I think of my parents," she continued, "I am very unhappy. I
would give my life to see them--but it costs so much to go to Europe!"
Madame came bustling in.
"Nacha, will you come, please. I want to introduce you to an old
friend of the house--a good friend. Let me see--are you well dressed?
Your stockings might be better. Next time do be careful about your
foot-wear."
Nacha was about to address her, but Madame began again:
"Be a good girl, child. You're pretty enough--and you have pretty
manners, too, I know you have, when you want to!"
Leaving Nacha under the august protection of a venerable "father of
his country," Madame took up a position on the balcony of one of the
rooms facing the street, and began peering with great interest through
the branches of the trees in the park; for it was time for her little
daughter to come home from the convent where she was being instructed
in all the virtues and accomplishments befitting a young lady of the
wealthy classes. And Madame dreamed a little of this tender off-spring
who, in a few years, if all her schemes went well, would be happily
married, and highly respected; and she would owe this happiness to
her mother's skill in managing a business that had no equal in Buenos
Aires;--on the champagne alone she made a hundred pesos a day! Yes,
"Madame" flattered herself that she knew the value of institutions;
with her talent for managing, her tact, and her French ways, she had
succeeded in accumulating a large fortune--thanks to the support and
approval of Politics, Finance and Aristocracy!
A commotion behind her interrupted her reveries. She turned and saw the
worthy senator, now sputtering with rage. His story was soon told. With
a flounce "Madame" hurried out to find Nacha who had fled to the little
reception room, empty now, where she was standing in front of a mirror,
arranging the disorder of her hair.
"Nacha, what does this mean? Do you want to ruin the reputation of my
house?"
"No, Madame. But I've had enough of it."
"You're a fool! You're old enough to have got rid of your silly
notions."
Nacha's cheeks turned a flaming red and her eyes shone with anger as
she screamed at Madame:
"Don't you dare say a word to me or I'll get the police! What do you
mean by taking a child of seventeen into this house? You miserable old
woman!"
"So you're going for the police are you? Well, it happens that the
police take their orders from me! So don't waste your time telling them
tales about this house. I never ruined any woman! You and your like
ruin yourselves, because you want to, because you take to vice like
ducks to water, because you are...."
But it was little use for "Madame" to wear herself out screaming and
running after Nacha; for Nacha, with her hands over her ears, refused
to hear, which enraged "Madame" all the more. The girl was running
through the rooms, slamming doors, and shrieking out words certain to
be offensive to "Madame's" professional dignity. In this fashion, Nacha
in the lead, and "Madame" after her, they reached the stairway, down
which Nacha passed light as a breeze. As she opened the sumptuous glass
entrance door, and saw "Madame" at the top of the stairs, she stuck out
her tongue at her qualifying the dignified lady's trade with certain
terms which even her long experience had not prepared her to hear with
equanimity.
"You old criminal!"
"Get out of here, viper!"
The door slammed, and Nacha jumped into a cab and drove home. Scarcely
had she reached her room when she took off her hat and threw herself
down on her bed, weeping convulsively. Her whole body was shaking with
a nervous chill. She tried to muffle the sounds of her weeping, but
could not. A girl who occupied the room next to hers, came in, greatly
alarmed. Should she send for the doctor?--
"Just leave me alone, I want to be alone...."
"Are you angry with me?" asked the girl gently. She was a plump little
person with black eyes and dark, soft skin, and was called Julieta.
Nacha, suddenly yielding to the girl's gentleness, sat up and kissed
her; but she could not check her sobs and asked again to be left alone.
"And what about the doctor?" asked Julieta. "You had better have him.
You are not well."
"All right. Get him!..."
Nacha turned toward the wall, still weeping.
In the evening the doctor arrived. Nacha who had not eaten anything was
still lying on her bed, and still in her street clothes. The doctor
declared the attack to be entirely a matter of nerves and prescribed
rest and quiet.
The succession of shocks she had just lived through; Mademoiselle's
treachery; the loss of a cherished illusion; the suppression in her
of any hope of leading a new life; worst of all, the effect of her
decision to return to her former mode of living, had all been so many
blows at her strength, physical and moral.
In her sufferings and vacillations, nothing had caused her so much
torment as the thought of Monsalvat. Even worse than the certainty
that her life was now definitely ruined, was the despair which took
possession of her whenever she thought of this man.--She no longer
doubted she loved him! His image, always present to her eyes, had
assumed gigantic proportions in those moments when she was committing
acts that were fatal to all her hopes. As she entered that house of
evil it seemed to her that Monsalvat's spirit was waiting there on the
stairs, trying to prevent her from passing. She had closed her eyes,
and lowered her head, and she had walked straight through the shadowy
figure that was trying to save her.... But, all the time she was there,
he haunted her. The slightest noise made her think he was coming into
the room. A voice in the corridor made her start for fear it was his
voice. Once she had even thought she saw him pass by the open door....
Where was he now? she wondered. Why did he not look for her? Couldn't
he guess how much she needed his protection? Without it she could not
help but fall from depth to depth of degradation. Why had not Monsalvat
appeared in that house of vice as she so desperately hoped, to rescue
her? Why didn't he come now to free her from all this suffering?
Then she remembered that Monsalvat had told her, on the one occasion
when they had talked together, that she ought to suffer--only so could
she deserve pardon and pity. Those were his words.... She brooded over
them. Nothing else gave any meaning to her miserable existence. She
would welcome suffering then, and resign herself to grief! A little
quieted, she went to sleep.