Every Tuesday Hélène had Monsieur Rambaud and Abbé Jouve to dine with
her. It was they who, during the early days of her bereavement, had
broken in on her solitude, and drawn up their chairs to her table with
friendly freedom; their object being to extricate her, at least once a
week, from the solitude in which she lived. The Tuesday dinners became
established institutions, and the partakers in these little feasts
appeared punctually at seven o’clock, serenely happy in discharging
what they deemed a duty.
That Tuesday Hélène was seated at the window, profiting by the last
gleams of the twilight to finish some needle work, pending the arrival
of her guests. She here spent her days in pleasant peacefulness. The
noises of the street died away before reaching such a height. She loved
this large, quiet chamber, with its substantial luxury, its rosewood
furniture and blue velvet curtains. When her friends had attended to
her installation, she not having to trouble about anything, she had at
first somewhat suffered from all this sombre luxury, in preparing which
Monsieur Rambaud had realized his ideal of comfort, much to the
admiration of his brother, who had declined the task. She was not long,
however, in feeling happy in a home in which, as in her heart, all was
sound and simple. Her only enjoyment during her long hours of work was
to gaze before her at the vast horizon, the huge pile of Paris,
stretching its roofs, like billows, as far as the eye could reach. Her
solitary corner overlooked all that immensity.
“Mamma, I can no longer see,” said Jeanne, seated near her on a low
chair. And then, dropping her work, the child gazed at Paris, which was
darkening over with the shadows of night. She rarely romped about, and
her mother even had to exert authority to induce her to go out. In
accordance with Doctor Bodin’s strict injunction, Hélène made her
stroll with her two hours each day in the Bois de Boulogne, and this
was their only promenade; in eighteen months they had not gone three
times into Paris.[*] Nowhere was Jeanne so evidently happy as in their
large blue room. Her mother had been obliged to renounce her intention
of having her taught music, for the sound of an organ in the silent
streets made her tremble and drew tears from her eyes. Her favorite
occupation was to assist her mother in sewing linen for the children of
the Abbé’s poor.
[*] Passy and the Trocadero are now well inside Paris, but at the time
fixed for this story they were beyond the _barrieres_.
Night had quite fallen when the lamp was brought in by Rosalie, who,
fresh from the glare of her range, looked altogether upset. Tuesday’s
dinner was the one event of the week, which put things topsy-turvy.
“Aren’t the gentlemen coming here to-night, madame?” she inquired.
Hélène looked at the timepiece: “It’s a quarter to seven; they will be
here soon,” she replied.
Rosalie was a gift from Abbé Jouve, who had met her at the station on
the day she arrived from Orleans, so that she did not know a single
street in Paris. A village priest, an old schoolmate of Abbé Jouve’s,
had sent her to him. She was dumpy and plump, with a round face under
her narrow cap, thick black hair, a flat nose, and deep red lips; and
she was expert in preparing savory dishes, having been brought up at
the parsonage by her godmother, servant to the village priest.
“Here is Monsieur Rambaud at last!” she exclaimed, rushing to open the
door before there was even a ring.
Full and broad-shouldered, Monsieur Rambaud entered, displaying an
expansive countenance like that of a country notary. His forty-five
years had already silvered his hair, but his large blue eyes retained a
wondering, artless, gentle expression, akin to a child’s.
“And here’s his reverence; everybody has come now!” resumed Rosalie, as
she opened the door once more.
Whilst Monsieur Rambaud pressed Hélène’s hand and sat down without
speaking, smiling like one who felt quite at home, Jeanne threw her
arms round the Abbé’s neck.
“Good-evening, dear friend,” said she. “I’ve been so ill!”
“So ill, my darling?”
The two men at once showed their anxiety, the Abbé especially. He was a
short, spare man, with a large head and awkward manners, and dressed in
the most careless way; but his eyes, usually half-closed, now opened to
their full extent, all aglow with exquisite tenderness. Jeanne
relinquished one of her hands to him, while she gave the other to
Monsieur Rambaud. Both held her and gazed at her with troubled looks.
Hélène was obliged to relate the story of her illness, and the Abbé was
on the point of quarrelling with her for not having warned him of it.
And then they each questioned her. “The attack was quite over now? She
had not had another, had she?” The mother smiled as she listened.
“You are even fonder of her than I am, and I think you’ll frighten me
in the end,” she replied. “No, she hasn’t been troubled again, except
that she has felt some pains in her limbs and had some headaches. But
we shall get rid of these very soon.”
The maid then entered to announce that dinner was ready.
The table, sideboard, and eight chairs furnishing the dining-room were
of mahogany. The curtains of red reps had been drawn close by Rosalie,
and a hanging lamp of white porcelain within a plain brass ring lighted
up the tablecloth, the carefully-arranged plates, and the tureen of
steaming soup. Each Tuesday’s dinner brought round the same remarks,
but on this particular day Dr. Deberle served naturally as a subject of
conversation. Abbé Jouve lauded him to the skies, though he knew that
he was no church-goer. He spoke of him, however, as a man of upright
character, charitable to a fault, a good father, and a good husband—in
fact, one who gave the best of examples to others. As for Madame
Deberle she was most estimable, in spite of her somewhat flighty ways,
which were doubtless due to her Parisian education. In a word, he
dubbed the couple charming. Hélène seemed happy to hear this; it
confirmed her own opinions; and the Abbé’s remarks determined her to
continue the acquaintance, which had at first rather frightened her.
“You shut yourself up too much!” declared the priest.
“No doubt,” echoed his brother.
Hélène beamed on them with her quiet smile, as though to say that they
themselves sufficed for all her wants, and that she dreaded new
acquaintances. However, ten o’clock struck at last, and the Abbé and
his brother took up their hats. Jeanne had just fallen asleep in an
easy-chair in the bedroom, and they bent over her, raising their heads
with satisfied looks as they observed how tranquilly she slumbered.
They stole from the room on tiptoe, and in the lobby whispered their
good-byes:
“Till next Tuesday!”
“O, by the way,” said the Abbé, returning a step or two, “I was
forgetting: Mother Fétu is ill. You should go to see her.”
“I will go to-morrow,” answered Hélène.
The Abbé had a habit of commissioning her to visit his poor. They
engaged in all sorts of whispered talk together on this subject,
private business which a word or two enabled them to settle together,
and which they never referred to in the presence of other persons.
On the morrow Hélène went out alone. She decided to leave Jeanne in the
house, as the child had been troubled with fits of shivering since
paying a visit of charity to an old man who had become paralyzed. Once
out of doors, she followed the Rue Vineuse, turned down the Rue
Raynouard, and soon found herself in the Passage des Eaux, a strange,
steep lane, like a staircase, pent between garden walls, and conducting
from the heights of Passy to the quay. At the bottom of this descent
was a dilapidated house, where Mother Fétu lived in an attic lighted by
a round window, and furnished with a wretched bed, a rickety table, and
a seatless chair.
“Oh! my good lady, my good lady!” she moaned out, directly she saw
Hélène enter.
The old woman was in bed. In spite of her wretchedness, her body was
plump, swollen out, as it were, while her face was puffy, and her hands
seemed numbed as she drew the tattered sheet over her. She had small,
keen eyes and a whimpering voice, and displayed a noisy humility in a
rush of words.
“Ah! my good lady, how I thank you! Ah, ah! oh, how I suffer! It’s just
as if dogs were tearing at my side. I’m sure I have a beast inside
me—see, just there! The skin isn’t broken; the complaint is internal.
But, oh! oh! the pain hasn’t ceased for two days past. Good Lord, how
is it possible to suffer so much? Ah, my good lady, thank you! You
don’t forget the poor. It will be taken into account up above; yes,
yes, it will be taken into account!”
Hélène had sat down. Noticing on the table a jug of warm _tisane_, she
filled a cup which was near at hand, and gave it to the sufferer. Near
the jug were placed a packet of sugar, two oranges, and some other
comfits.
“Has any one been to see you?” Hélène asked.
“Yes, yes,—a little lady. But she doesn’t know. That isn’t the sort of
stuff I need. Oh, if I could get a little meat! My next-door neighbor
would cook it for me. Oh! oh! this pain is something dreadful! A dog is
tearing at me—oh, if only I had some broth!”
In spite of the pains which were racking her limbs, she kept her sharp
eyes fixed on Hélène, who was now busy fumbling in her pocket, and on
seeing her visitor place a ten-franc piece on the table, she whimpered
all the more, and tried to rise to a sitting posture. Whilst
struggling, she extended her arm, and the money vanished, as she
repeated:
“Gracious Heaven! this is another frightful attack. Oh! oh! I cannot
stand such agony any longer! God will requite you, my good lady; I will
pray to Him to requite you. Bless my soul, how these pains shoot
through my whole body! His reverence Abbé Jouve promised me you would
come. It’s only you who know what I want. I am going to buy some meat.
But now the pain’s going down into my legs. Help me; I have no strength
left—none left at all!”
The old woman wished to turn over, and Hélène, drawing off her gloves,
gently took hold of her and placed her as she desired. As she was still
bending over her the door opened, and a flush of surprise mounted to
her cheeks as she saw Dr. Deberle entering. Did he also make visits to
which he never referred?
“It’s the doctor!” blurted out the old woman. “Oh! Heaven must bless
you both for being so good!”
The doctor bowed respectfully to Hélène. Mother Fétu had ceased whining
on his entrance, but kept up a sibilant wheeze, like that of a child in
pain. She had understood at once that the doctor and her benefactress
were known to one another; and her eyes never left them, but travelled
from one to the other, while her wrinkled face showed that her mind was
covertly working. The doctor put some questions to her, and sounded her
right side; then, turning to Hélène, who had just sat down, he said:
“She is suffering from hepatic colic. She will be on her feet again in
a few days.”
And, tearing from his memorandum book a leaf on which he had written
some lines, he added, addressing Mother Fétu:
“Listen to me. You must send this to the chemist in the Rue de Passy,
and every two hours you must drink a spoonful of the draught he will
give you.”
The old woman burst out anew into blessings. Hélène remained seated.
The doctor lingered gazing at her; but when their eyes had met, he
bowed and discreetly took his leave. He had not gone down a flight ere
Mother Fétu’s lamentations were renewed.
“Ah! he’s such a clever doctor! Ah! if his medicine could do me some
good! Dandelions and tallow make a good simple for removing water from
the body. Yes, yes, you can say you know a clever doctor. Have you
known him long? Gracious goodness, how thirsty I am! I feel burning
hot. He has a wife, hasn’t he? He deserves to have a good wife and
beautiful children. Indeed, it’s a pleasure to see kind-hearted people
good acquaintances.”
Hélène had risen to give her a drink.
“I must go now, Mother Fétu,” she said. “Good-bye till to-morrow.”
“Ah! how good you are! If I only had some linen! Look at my
chemise—it’s torn in half; and this bed is so dirty. But that doesn’t
matter. God will requite you, my good lady!”
Next day, on Hélène’s entering Mother Fétu’s room, she found Dr.
Deberle already there. Seated on the chair, he was writing out a
prescription, while the old woman rattled on with whimpering
volubility.
“Oh, sir, it now feels like lead in my side—yes, just like lead! It’s
as heavy as a hundred-pound weight, and prevents me from turning
round.”
Then, having caught sight of Hélène, she went on without a pause: “Ah!
here’s the good lady! I told the kind doctor you would come. Though the
heavens might fall, said I, you would come all the same. You’re a very
saint, an angel from paradise, and, oh! so beautiful that people might
fall on their knees in the streets to gaze on you as you pass! Dear
lady, I am no better; just now I have a heavy feeling here. Oh, I have
told the doctor what you did for me! The emperor could have done no
more. Yes, indeed, it would be a sin not to love you—a great sin.”
These broken sentences fell from her lips as, with eyes half closed,
she rolled her head on the bolster, the doctor meantime smiling at
Hélène, who felt very ill at ease.
“Mother Fétu,” she said softly, “I have brought you a little linen.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you; God will requite you! You’re just like this
kind, good gentleman, who does more good to poor folks than a host of
those who declare it their special work. You don’t know what great care
he has taken of me for four months past, supplying me with medicine and
broth and wine. One rarely finds a rich person so kind to a poor soul!
Oh, he’s another of God’s angels! Dear, dear, I seem to have quite a
house in my stomach!”
In his turn the doctor now seemed to be embarrassed. He rose and
offered his chair to Hélène; but although she had come with the
intention of remaining a quarter of an hour, she declined to sit down,
on the plea that she was in a great hurry.
Meanwhile, Mother Fétu, still rolling her head to and fro, had
stretched out her hand, and the parcel of linen had vanished in the
bed. Then she resumed:
“Oh, what a couple of good souls you are! I don’t wish to offend you; I
only say it because it’s true. When you have seen one, you have seen
the other. Oh, dear Lord! give me a hand and help me to turn round.
Kind-hearted people understand one another. Yes, yes, they understand
one another.”
“Good-bye, Mother Fétu,” said Hélène, leaving the doctor in sole
possession. “I don’t think I shall call to-morrow.”
The next day, however, found her in the attic again. The old woman was
sound asleep, but scarcely had she opened her eyes and recognized
Hélène in her black dress sitting on the chair than she exclaimed:
“He has been here—oh, I really don’t know what he gave me to take, but
I am as stiff as a stick. We were talking about you. He asked me all
kinds of questions; whether you were generally sad, and whether your
look was always the same. Oh, he’s such a good man!”
Her words came more slowly, and she seemed to be waiting to see by the
expression of Hélène’s face what effect her remarks might have on her,
with that wheedling, anxious air of the poor who are desirous of
pleasing people. No doubt she fancied she could detect a flush of
displeasure mounting to her benefactress’s brow, for her huge,
puffed-up face, all eagerness and excitement, suddenly clouded over;
and she resumed, in stammering accents:
“I am always asleep. Perhaps I have been poisoned. A woman in the Rue
de l’Annonciation was killed by a drug which the chemist gave her in
mistake for another.”
That day Hélène lingered for nearly half an hour in Mother Fétu’s room,
hearing her talk of Normandy, where she had been born, and where the
milk was so good. During a silence she asked the old woman carelessly:
“Have you known the doctor a long time?”
Mother Fétu, lying on her back, half-opened her eyes and again closed
them.
“Oh, yes!” she answered, almost in a whisper. “For instance, his father
attended to me before ’48, and he accompanied him then.”
“I have been told the father was a very good man.”
“Yes, but a little cracked. The son is much his superior. When he
touches you you would think his hands were of velvet.”
Silence again fell.
“I advise you to do everything he tells you,” at last said Hélène. “He
is very clever; he saved my daughter.”
“To be sure!” exclaimed Mother Fétu, again all excitement. “People
ought to have confidence in him. Why, he brought a boy to life again
when he was going to be buried! Oh, there aren’t two persons like him;
you won’t stop me from saying that! I am very lucky; I fall in with the
pick of good-hearted people. I thank the gracious Lord for it every
night. I don’t forget either of you. You are mingled together in my
prayers. May God in His goodness shield you and grant your every wish!
May He load you with His gifts! May He keep you a place in Paradise!”
She was now sitting up in bed with hands clasped, seemingly entreating
Heaven with devout fervor. Hélène allowed her to go on thus for a
considerable time, and even smiled. The old woman’s chatter, in fact,
ended by lulling her into a pleasant drowsiness, and when she went off
she promised to give her a bonnet and gown, as soon as she should be
able to get about again.
Throughout that week Hélène busied herself with Mother Fétu. Her
afternoon visit became an item in her daily life. She felt a strange
fondness for the Passage des Eaux. She liked that steep lane for its
coolness and quietness and its ever-clean pavement, washed on rainy
days by the water rushing down from the heights. A strange sensation
thrilled her as she stood at the top and looked at the narrow alley
with its steep declivity, usually deserted, and only known to the few
inhabitants of the neighboring streets. Then she would venture through
an archway dividing a house fronting the Rue Raynouard, and trip down
the seven flights of broad steps, in which lay the bed of a pebbly
stream occupying half of the narrow way. The walls of the gardens on
each side bulged out, coated with a grey, leprous growth; umbrageous
trees drooped over, foliage rained down, here and there an ivy plant
thickly mantled the stonework, and the chequered verdure, which only
left glimpses of the blue sky above, made the light very soft and
greeny. Halfway down Hélène would stop to take breath, gazing at the
street-lamp which hung there, and listening to the merry laughter in
the gardens, whose doors she had never seen open. At times an old woman
panted up with the aid of the black, shiny, iron handrail fixed in the
wall to the right; a lady would come, leaning on her parasol as on a
walking-stick; or a band of urchins would run down, with a great
stamping of feet. But almost always Hélène found herself alone, and
this steep, secluded, shady descent was to her a veritable delight—like
a path in the depths of a forest. At the bottom she would raise her
eyes, and the sight of the narrow, precipitous alley she had just
descended made her feel somewhat frightened.
She glided into the old woman’s room with the quiet and coolness of the
Passage des Eaux clinging to her garments. This woefully wretched den
no longer affected her painfully. She moved about there as if in her
own rooms, opening the round attic window to admit the fresh air, and
pushing the table into a corner if it came in her way. The garret’s
bareness, its whitewashed walls and rickety furniture, realized to her
mind an existence whose simplicity she had sometimes dreamt of in her
girlhood. But what especially charmed her was the kindly emotion she
experienced there. Playing the part of sick nurse, hearing the constant
bewailing of the old woman, all she saw and felt within the four walls
left her quivering with deep pity. In the end she awaited with evident
impatience Doctor Deberle’s customary visit. She questioned him as to
Mother Fétu’s condition; but from this they glided to other subjects,
as they stood near each other, face to face. A closer acquaintance was
springing up between them, and they were surprised to find they
possessed similar tastes. They understood one another without speaking
a word, each heart engulfed in the same overflowing charity. Nothing to
Hélène seemed sweeter than this mutual feeling, which arose in such an
unusual way, and to which she yielded without resistance, filled as she
was with divine pity. At first she had felt somewhat afraid of the
doctor; in her own drawing-room she would have been cold and
distrustful, in harmony with her nature. Here, however, in this garret
they were far from the world, sharing the one chair, and almost happy
in the midst of the wretchedness and poverty which filled their souls
with emotion. A week passed, and they knew one another as though they
had been intimate for years. Mother Fétu’s miserable abode was filled
with sunshine, streaming from this fellowship of kindliness.
The old woman grew better very slowly. The doctor was surprised, and
charged her with coddling herself when she related that she now felt a
dreadful weight in her legs. She always kept up her monotonous moaning,
lying on her back and rolling her head to and fro; but she closed her
eyes, as though to give her visitors an opportunity for unrestrained
talk. One day she was to all appearance sound asleep, but beneath their
lids her little black eyes continued watching. At last, however, she
had to rise from her bed; and next day Hélène presented her with the
promised bonnet and gown. When the doctor made his appearance that
afternoon the old woman’s laggard memory seemed suddenly stirred.
“Gracious goodness!” said she, “I’ve forgotten my neighbor’s soup-pot;
I promised to attend to it!”
Then she disappeared, closing the door behind her and leaving the
couple alone. They did not notice that they were shut in, but continued
their conversation. The doctor urged Hélène to spend the afternoon
occasionally in his garden in the Rue Vineuse.
“My wife,” said he, “must return your visit, and she will in person
repeat my invitation. It would do your daughter good.”
“But I don’t refuse,” she replied, laughing. “I do not require to be
fetched with ceremony. Only—only—I am afraid of being indiscreet. At
any rate, we will see.”
Their talk continued, but at last the doctor exclaimed in a tone of
surprise: “Where on earth can Mother Fétu have gone? It must be a
quarter of an hour since she went to see after her neighbor’s
soup-pot.”
Hélène then saw that the door was shut, but it did not shock her at the
moment. She continued to talk of Madame Deberle, of whom she spoke
highly to her husband; but noticing that the doctor constantly glanced
towards the door, she at last began to feel uncomfortable.
“It’s very strange that she does not come back!” she remarked in her
turn.
Their conversation then dropped. Hélène, not knowing what to do, opened
the window; and when she turned round they avoided looking at one
another. The laughter of children came in through the circular window,
which, with its bit of blue sky, seemed like a full round moon. They
could not have been more alone—concealed from all inquisitive looks,
with merely this bit of heaven gazing in on them. The voices of the
children died away in the distance; and a quivering silence fell. No
one would dream of finding them in that attic, out of the world. Their
confusion grew apace, and in the end Hélène, displeased with herself,
gave the doctor a steady glance.
“I have a great many visits to pay yet,” he at once exclaimed. “As she
doesn’t return, I must leave.”
He quitted the room, and Hélène then sat down. Immediately afterwards
Mother Fétu returned with many protestations:
“Oh! oh! I can scarcely crawl; such a faintness came over me! Has the
dear good doctor gone? Well, to be sure, there’s not much comfort here!
Oh, you are both angels from heaven, coming to spend your time with one
so unfortunate as myself! But God in His goodness will requite you. The
pain has gone down into my feet to-day, and I had to sit down on a
step. Oh, I should like to have some chairs! If I only had an
easy-chair! My mattress is so vile too that I am quite ashamed when you
come. The whole place is at your disposal, and I would throw myself
into the fire if you required it. Yes. Heaven knows it; I always repeat
it in my prayers! Oh, kind Lord, grant their utmost desires to these
good friends of mine—in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost!”
As Hélène listened she experienced a singular feeling of discomfort.
Mother Fétu’s bloated face filled her with disgust. Never before in
this stifling attic had she been affected in a like way; its sordid
misery seemed to stare her in the face; the lack of fresh air, the
surrounding wretchedness, quite sickened her. So she made all haste to
leave, feeling hurt by the blessings which Mother Fétu poured after
her.
In the Passage des Eaux an additional sorrow came upon her. Halfway up,
on the right-hand side of the path, the wall was hollowed out, and here
there was an excavation, some disused well, enclosed by a railing.
During the last two days when passing she had heard the wailings of a
cat rising from this well, and now, as she slowly climbed the path,
these wailings were renewed, but so pitifully that they seemed instinct
with the agony of death. The thought that the poor brute, thrown into
the disused well, was slowly dying there of hunger, quite rent Hélène’s
heart. She hastened her steps, resolving that she would not venture
down this lane again for a long time, lest the cat’s death-call should
reach her ears.
The day was a Tuesday. In the evening, on the stroke of seven, as
Hélène was finishing a tiny bodice, the two wonted rings at the bell
were heard, and Rosalie opened the door.
“His reverence is first to-night!” she exclaimed. “Oh, here comes
Monsieur Rambaud too!”
They were very merry at dinner. Jeanne was nearly well again now, and
the two brothers, who spoiled her, were successful in procuring her
permission to eat some salad, of which she was excessively fond,
notwithstanding Doctor Bodin’s formal prohibition. When she was going
to bed, the child in high spirits hung round her mother’s neck and
pleaded:
“Oh! mamma, darling! let me go with you to-morrow to see the old woman
you nurse!”
But the Abbé and Monsieur Rambaud were the first to scold her for
thinking of such a thing. They would not hear of her going amongst the
poor, as the sight affected her too grieviously. The last time she had
been on such an expedition she had twice swooned, and for three days
her eyes had been swollen with tears, that had flowed even in her
sleep.
“Oh! I will be good!” she pleaded. “I won’t cry, I promise.”
“It is quite useless, my darling,” said her mother, caressing her. “The
old woman is well now. I shall not go out any more; I’ll stay all day
with you!”