nothing in his face to inspire fear. He was polite, almost ingratiating.
“Mademoiselle, I apologize for my rudeness the other day. As a peace
offering let me beg your acceptance of this....”
He held out a silver bag, which no doubt he had taken from one of his
wretched girls. Margot shook her head.
“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll excuse you if you wish, but I don’t want
to accept any present.”
“No? Then will mademoiselle do me the honour to dine with me this
evening?”
“No, I cannot. I am not free.”
“Oh, I will beg madame, your aunt, to release you.”
“Thank you; but you must excuse me. I do not want to dine with any one.”
He repeated this offer several times. He had never failed with a girl
before and his vanity was stung. From coaxings he came to threats.
“I’ll get you yet, you little devil, you,” he told her. “Even if I have
to kidnap you, I’ll get you yet.”
There was a deadly certitude about Popol that made his threats
impressive. Her fear of him became such an obsession that she would not
go outside after dark. She told the Mère Tranquille she wanted to leave
the quarter, but the hunchback laughed away her fears.
“Wait a little longer, my dear. I expect to sell the business any day.
Then we’ll have a villa in the country. We will grow our own salads and
receive the rector in the _salon_. None will dream we ever lived in
this _pourriture_ of Paris.”
“You will take me with you, madame?”
“Yes, you shall be my adopted daughter. Then I will marry you to the
village butcher and you shall have a lovely little daughter called
Denise, after me.”
The girl made a grimace. “I don’t want to marry a butcher.”
“Fastidious one! Whom do you want to marry?”
“A poet.”
“Sentimental little fool! I suppose you’re thinking of that Florent
Garnier who comes here and spends so much time staring at you.”
“Oh, madame! He never looks at me!”
“You think so. Sly one! Why, my dear, he’s head over heels in love
with you. A good-for-nothing socialist, too. Take my advice, Poulette,
love’s all very well, but it’s money that counts in the long run.”
Margot had indeed an unexpected ally in Florent Garnier. He was
tall, strong, and dark, a carpenter by trade. Every day he took his
after-dinner coffee in the bar. There he would sit quietly reading a
book and smoking cigarettes. One day he said to her:
“Listen, Margot. If that dog of a Popol tries to molest you, let me
know. I’ll do him up; make a hospital case of him. See!”
“Oh, no! I wouldn’t like you to have any trouble on my account.”
“Trouble! An exquisite pleasure. Look here, Margot.... Won’t you come
with me to the cinema some night?”
“No, thank you. I never go out with any one.”
“I know you don’t. That’s why I ask you. Well, I won’t press you. You
may change your mind. In any case, I’m watching, and if you need a
protector I’m here.”
The girl was touched, but at the same time embarrassed. She did not
care enough for Garnier to be more than a comrade to him, and something
told her this would be difficult. He could not comprehend that coldness
of temperament, which was her English heritage, and made her able to
be friendly with a man while keeping a barrier between them. Garnier
was from the south, romantic, hotblooded. He would never be able to
understand. She decided to keep him at a distance, though she liked him
immensely.
The conflict between him and Popol came sooner than she expected.
There was a big strike of the carpenters, and Florent Garnier was an
executive. Though he was very busy addressing meetings and spent most
of his time at the _Bourse du Travail_, nevertheless he often came into
the bar to rest for half an hour over a cup of coffee.
It was on an afternoon in early Spring. Madame had gone out and Margot
was alone behind the bar. In a dusky corner Florent Garnier sat silent.
He looked tired and worried. The strike was not going well. The patrons
were getting outside labour; something had to be done.
Everything was bright and shining. The zinc counter was polished to
look like silver, the glasses to resemble crystal. Outside there was a
flutter of green leaves and the chirping of sparrows. It was a year
since Margot had come to Paris. On the whole it had been a happy year.
As an education it had been priceless. Now she knew the city and its
perils and was armoured against its temptations. She was equipped to
fight the battle. She was feeling unusually gay and sang as she waited
for customers.
Popol entered. “Ha! mademoiselle. You are alone. You may give me a
_picon citron_.”
While she was pouring it out he caught her hand. Angrily she wrenched
it away.
“Ah! my pretty one,” he sneered. “When are you going to be my
sweetheart?”
The exclamation of disgust was no sooner out of her mouth than Florent
Garnier was on his feet. He came forward deliberately, and lifting the
glass dashed the dark liquor in Popol’s face.
For a moment Popol drew back. He wiped his eyes, and glared with
surprise and rage; he fumbled at his belt, and made a swift dart at
Garnier. But the powerful artizan was prepared. Swinging a chair round
his head he brought it crashing down. Popol crumpled up and lay still.
“Did you see him?” said Garnier coolly. “The dog had a knife in his
hand; he would have stuck me. He has got his medicine. Leave him alone.
He’ll come round. I’ll take his knife though.”
When Popol got up, he did not seem much the worse; but his yellow face
was convulsed and he was as vindictive as poison.
“I’ll fix you yet,” he cried. “I’ll pay you both with interest, you and
your lover. And before many days are over. Look out!”
“Did you hear him?” said Garnier when Popol had gone.
“Yes. He frightens me terribly.”
“You needn’t fear. You heard him call me your lover. Listen, Margot ...
let me be your lover, your husband. You need some one to protect you. I
tell you we’ll be happy....”
“I know, Florent. I’ve thought of it a lot, but I can’t.--I like
you.--There’s none I like so well--But I don’t love you. Wait awhile.
I’ll try to love you. I really will....”
Garnier went sadly away, and some days passed without his returning.
Margot became anxious. Then one afternoon Popol entered. Fortunately
the Mère Tranquille was in the bar with her.
“Ha! Ha!” said Popol. “He’s been arrested, that pig of a sweetheart of
yours. Interfering with the strikebreakers. It’s to me he owes it, too.
He’ll get a year sure. And I haven’t finished yet. It’s your turn next
time.”
“Get out of this,” cried madame, “or I’ll smash your face with a
bottle.” She brandished one ready to throw, and Popol with another
exultant laugh backed out of the door.
“You mustn’t be afraid of him,” said the Mère Tranquille.
“I am,--dreadfully. I want to go away. I really do.”
“I tell you he shan’t harm a hair of your head.”
“It isn’t only that, madame. You’ve been so good to me.... I’ll never
forget it, but I feel I have been here long enough. I don’t like
it,--the drinking, the men,--I want to be quiet. Before I came to Paris
I was learning dress-making. I want to go back to that, to live in a
world of women, and make a living by my needle.”
“I quite understand,” said the Mère Tranquille. “Listen, my little
Margot. I’ve really come to love you like a daughter. You’ve changed so
wonderfully since you came here. You’ve learnt to laugh, to sing. I’ve
seen the woman dawning in you.... It’s finished, I’ve sold out at last.
I’m taking a little cottage in Normandy and you’re coming with me. I’m
lonely. I want you. You shall be my daughter.”
“Can it be true?”
“Yes. In another month it will all be arranged. Then no more Paris.
The blessed, green country, peace, comfort. I want you to take care of
me. I have been tired lately,--my heart. In another month,--say you’ll
come, Margot?”
“It seems like a dream.”
“You’ll come?”
“Yes, yes! Would that it were to-morrow.”
The two mingled their tears of happiness and from that day spent
their time in making plans for the future. The cottage was to have a
great garden, with apple and pear trees. They would keep rabbits and
chickens. How blessed the country seemed; how hateful the city!
“Margot,” said the Mère Tranquille one day. “Go out this afternoon and
buy some clothes for the country. Here! take this bill of a hundred
francs. Just think of it! In another week we’ll be there.”
The girl did think of it and it filled her with happiness. Yet all
the time she was going the round of the big shops she had a curious
foreboding that was realized as she returned to the shabby street.
Something was wrong; the little bar was closed, and a crowd hung around
the door.
“What’s the matter?”
A gendarme looked at her indifferently.
“It’s the patronne. She dropped dead quite suddenly. Her heart they
say....”
As she stared in a dazed fashion at the crowd, she saw the yellow face
of Popol. Terror filled her and she shrank away. Slipping into her room
by the back door, she bundled her few things into a bag and stealthily
left the house.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE BATTLE OF LIFE
She found a little room in that quarter of Paris known as the _Nation_.
It was bright and high, and open to the sky. During the year she had
worked in the bar she had saved a few hundred francs, and had no
immediate anxiety about the future. She decided that for a month she
would rest and make some new under-linen, of which she was sadly in
need.
It was a very happy month for her. She was fond of solitude and loved
to dream. Sometimes she passed the long afternoons in the Parc de
Vincennes close to the water. As she sewed she would watch the children
at their play. A sweet emotion thrilled her. She pretended that she was
preparing her trousseau. Who was bridegroom to be? Ah! she could not
imagine.
All along her street were makers of furniture, and the sight of their
workshops made her think of Florent Garnier. Poor fellow! He had been
given six months. She had read all about it in “_Humanité_.”
In these long sunny days she often wondered and worried about Cécile.
At last she wrote to her grandmother. The old woman, who could not use
a pen, replied through a neighbour that her mother had gone to London
taking the little girl with her. That settled the matter. Margot gave
up all hope of seeing her sister again.
As the weeks passed, and her nerves were tranquilized by the sweetness
of her life, she began to lose her fear of Popol. He became more and
more an evil dream. Once even she mustered up courage enough to go back
to the little bar. A fat red-faced man served her with a _petit noir_.
He did not recognize her, and a new sense of security filled her.
Then one day as she sat sewing in the Place de la Nation close to the
fountain, she had a violent fright. Suddenly a voice behind her rose to
an exultant cry:
“Well! Well! Here you are. I’ve found you at last.”
She turned sharply. A man was looking at her in an ecstasy of
admiration. He was a tubby, rosy little man, distinguished only by a
waxed moustache and a white waistcoat. He was waltzing around her, and
rubbing his hands excitedly. Yet she was convinced she had never seen
him before.
“Sit still, sit still, mademoiselle,” he cried. “_Sapristi!_ I’ve been
looking all over Paris for you. Allow me to introduce myself.”
Instead of a card he handed her a small bottle. It contained a pink
liquid, and on its label she read wonderingly:
+-------------------------------+
| |
| Bruneau’s Brilliant Balm. |
| |
+-------------------------------+
“That’s it,” said the little man delightedly. “‘B.B.B.’ Hit ’em hard
with the ‘B.’ I’m Bruneau. It’s my invention. The finest hair lotion in
the world.”
“But I don’t want it,” protested Margot.
“No, but it wants you. I want you. Got to have you. I want you to
advertise the Balm. Sit with your back to the window; hair down, all
shining and brushed out. Bottles of the Balm arranged all about you.
Crowds in front of the window all the time. My place is on the Rue de
Rivoli. Come on, let’s come to terms.”
“But, I don’t want to do that.”
“My dear, there’s nothing to do. You just sit there from ten till
twelve and from two till five. You can sew, you can read if you like.
No one will see your face. You can forget there’s a crowd watching
you. It’s a soft thing, and I’ll pay you better than if you were doing
real work. Come now, twenty francs a day. You really have no right to
refuse.”
“No,” she thought, “I have no right to refuse.” Then aloud, “Very well,
I’ll try it.”
The following day she went to the hair-dresser’s shop and put herself
in the delighted hands of Monsieur Bruneau. The little man considered
himself an artist, as every man should, however humble his vocation. He
arranged Margot’s hair with reverence, washing, perfuming, and brushing
it until it was like a mantle of spun gold.
When she took her place in the window, he placed a small mirror so
that she could see all the faces in the crowd without being seen
herself. This amused her. She never wearied of watching the thousands
of admiring eyes she saw reflected daily in the mirror. It gave her a
sense of pride, of elation. Over her was placed a placard which read:
+--------------------------------------+
| The most beautiful hair in Paris. |
| The result of using |
| Bruneau’s Brilliant Balm. |
+--------------------------------------+
As the days went by the little man with the waistcoat became more and
more enraptured. The Balm was selling so fast that he could not have
it bottled quickly enough. He was obliged to extend his laboratory, as
he called the back shop where it was prepared, and employ a traveller
selling it to the wholesale trade. He had also an advertising contract
with the newspapers. Then quite suddenly he lost his demonstrator.
Margot was gazing idly at her little mirror, when she saw a face there
that seemed to stop the beating of her heart. It was a hairless yellow
face, with rattlesnake eyes. It was a cruel, cunning face set in a
malignant grin, the face of the hunter who has tracked his prey--Popol!
As she left the shop he was waiting for her and walked along with her.
“Aren’t you going to take me home with you?” he asked.
She stopped. “Are you ever going to leave me alone?”
“No,” he sneered, “I’ve been to too much trouble to find you. Listen,
little one. I want you. I’ve always wanted you since you stood me off.
Now I’m going to have you. No use your struggling. Popol always gets
what he wants. If I can’t get you by fair means, I’ll get you by foul.
With my pals I’ll carry you off some night. You are all alone now, no
one to defend you. If you make any trouble, I’ll simply kill you.”
“Will you leave me? If you don’t stop talking to me, I’ll appeal to
this _sergent de ville_.”
She went up to the policeman; he listened to her, twisting a huge
moustache that sprouted from a very red face.
“Don’t worry, mademoiselle,” he said finally, “the monsieur only wants
to be amiable.” Yet, he waved a warning hand at Popol.
Popol crossed to the other side of the street and Margot hurried on.
But no matter how fast she walked, how many sharp turns she took or how
many side streets she entered, Popol was always there. How could she
get rid of him? Just as she was at her wit’s end she found herself at
an entrance of the Métro. Quick as a flash she darted down the steps.
A train was at the station and she jumped into a first class carriage.
The sliding door closed; she had given him the slip.
But at the next station he got into her coach. He had caught the last
of the second class carriages. He grinned at her from the other side
of the compartment, but did not speak. She despaired of being able to
shake him off; she was helpless.
When they stopped at the next station she was standing close to the
door; near her was a white-haired old gentleman with the Legion of
Honour in his button hole. As the train was starting again, she
suddenly cried:
“_Mon Dieu!_ it’s my station. Let me get off.”
The automatic doors were already closing but the old man held them
back. “Quick, madame.” She slipped between them and they shut behind
her like a trap. She was safe on the platform. She saw Popol make
frantic efforts to get off and an irate official who was only too glad
of an opportunity to assert his authority, push him back. As the train
glided into the tunnel she had a parting glimpse of his face snarling
with rage.
She took a return train and hurried home. She could not go back to
Bruneau’s, she decided, but must seek other work. The next morning she
did not stir from the house, and about midday the little hair-dresser
called, anxiety written on his face. He begged, he coaxed; but to all
his entreaties she was deaf; he went away disconsolate.
She had been working for nearly two months and had saved over five
hundred francs. She could afford to wait a few days before looking
for something else to do. She felt very happy, very safe up her six
flights of stairs. Very much like a bird, so near the sky! She sang
in the sunshine. Taking her work she seated herself at the window and
looked down into the street. Then quickly she shrank back. There on
the opposite pavement was Popol. He was looking up and had seen her.
Fool that she was to think she could evade him. Of course he had got
her address at the hair-dresser’s. There was no escaping him. At least
she would make another attempt. That night, seeing that the coast was
clear, she hurried to the Gare de Lyon and took a ticket for a station
selected at random. It turned out to be a remote village in the Jura.
Every morning she awakened to the mellow sound of cow-bells, and
standing at her window breathed the pure, delicious air. Beyond the
mountain was Switzerland. She longed to go further, to travel. If ever
she had money enough she would go to the south, to the sunshine, to
Monte Carlo. She would try her luck. Perhaps she would be as successful
as the Mère Tranquille had been. When her money came to an end, she
returned to Paris with memories of huge green valleys, of crystal
brooks, and of deep solemn pine woods.
The next year was a very hard and checkered one. She first got a
place in the workshop of a big dress-maker,--Plumeau’s. She had not
been there long when one evening Monsieur Plumeau called her into his
private office. He was a white-haired old man, very well-dressed. He
told her politely that it was the privilege of his prettiest employées
to dine with him occasionally. He called the directress.
“Select for Mademoiselle a robe that suits her,” he then said to the
girl. “We will have dinner to-night at the Café de Paris.” He seemed
to take it for granted she would accept, and was quite amazed when she
walked out with head held high. He shrugged his shoulders.
“So much the worse,” he said. “Dismiss her.”
Margot was given an envelope with her week’s pay and told to look for
another place.
It was more difficult to find this time, for she had no reference
from Plumeau’s. She was forced finally to seek employment in a great
barrack-like building that employed three thousand girls. It was the
workshop of one of the great stores on the Boulevard Haussmann, and
was conducted with military severity. Her hours were from eight in the
morning until a quarter past six in the evening. The work was hard and
monotonous; the pay just enough to cover her simple living expenses.
For long months she slaved with her needle, never getting ahead. She
became shabby, tired, faint-hearted. When her holiday of ten days came
around she had not enough money to go away and spent the time in her
room. There were girls around her coquettishly dressed, with men who
waited for them every evening. That was all right; nobody minded a
girl having an _ami_ who helped her. There were some, however, more
elegantly clad who were considered scarcely respectable. Of such a one
it was whispered: “_Elle fait sa tappe sur le Boulevard_.” Margot made
no friends amongst the other girls and was always alone.
So passed a year; then to her delight she got a position with a
milliner on the Boulevard Saint Michel. Over the door was the name,
“Folette.” Everybody stopped to look at the window, her hats were so
dainty, so daring. She was renowned for her _chic_, and even sober
men whose interests were far removed from feminine millinery, stopped
and stared at her latest creations. Below the shop was the workshop.
The girls sat on either side of a long table with boxes of feathers,
ribbands, flowers beside them. They sewed, pieced, and basted,
chattering happily the while. From time to time Madame Folette would
descend to criticise and give suggestions; she encouraged them to
develop their own ideas, to be creative.
The girl had been there eighteen months, when, one day, Madame Folette
descended to the _atelier_.
“Margot, I want to speak to you.”
“Yes, madame.”
“How would you like to serve in the shop? I want a saleswoman to assist
me. You have learnt all there is to learn in the making of hats. You
should now learn to sell them.”
“Madame is too kind.”
“Not at all. I have chosen you, because you are the prettiest girl
in the _atelier_. You have the most beautiful hair I ever saw. You
will buy a nice-fitting black-silk dress, black-silk stockings and
little slippers of black patent leather. Black will show off your soft
complexion and your pale gold hair.”
Margot hastened to express her joy and the change was made. By day she
dusted and arranged the stock and waited on the customers in the white
panelled little shop usually flooded with sunshine. She was very happy.
At night she returned to her tiny room under the mansarde of a house on
the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Her window opened on a small balcony
where she grew sweet peas and nasturtiums. She had a gay canary that
came out of its cage and hopped on her finger. She cooked dainty dishes
in snowy enamel ware. It was quite a radiant little interior.
She was more than usually happy one Sunday, and sang as she dressed.
She had an engagement with a girl called Jeanne, who was _premier_ at
the _atelier_ of Madame Folette. The two had decided to take a little
shop on the Boulevard below, and start in business for themselves.
Jeanne was a steady, clever girl who thoroughly understood the running
of a workshop. She was to make the hats, Margot to sell them. They
had savings enough to start. Margot was thinking over their plans and
singing happily when the laundress arrived with her week’s washing. As
she took it from the parcel she noticed an odour of phenol.
“What a horrid smell,” she thought. Then she changed the sheets on her
bed, and went off forgetting all about it.
The week passed as usual, but towards its end Margot began to feel
strangely tired. She struggled with her growing fatigue for two days,
then Madame Folette said to her:
“Margot, you’re looking ghastly. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, madame. I am so cold I shiver all the time.”
“You had better go home and go to bed.”
“Very well, madame. No doubt I will be better to-morrow.”
On the morrow Margot was worse, and within two days she had to ask
the concierge to call the doctor. He looked a little puzzled when he
examined her, but prescribed a treatment, and said he would call again
later. On his third visit a curious red rash covered her.
“Hum!” he said, “I’m afraid it’s scarlet fever.”
On his next visit he was still more puzzled and asked her many
searching questions. He went away looking very serious indeed. All that
day Margot waited, anxious and unhappy. The red spots developed in the
strangest manner. When the doctor returned late at night and saw them
something like a shudder passed over him. He drew on his gloves hastily.
“There’s nothing to do, mademoiselle. I am going to the Institute
Pasteur. They will send an ambulance first thing in the morning. You
are lucky that I can get you in. You will get better attention there
than anywhere else.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You mustn’t worry. It is most unfortunate. It must have been those
clothes from the laundry. I am going straight to the police. Please
wait patiently till the ambulance comes. Don’t be alarmed.”
“But, doctor, tell me, for the love of God! What have I got?”
He looked around as if to be sure there were no listeners, then said
slowly:
“My poor girl, I may be mistaken but I think it’s....”
She gazed at him with eyes that were strained with horror.
“Oh, no, doctor, don’t tell me it’s _that_....” she gasped.
But the physician had gone and she fell back on her bed. She was dazed.
It was unthinkable. Then as her mind began to grasp the truth, despair
fell on her.