The long quasi-Lenten weeks went by, and unflinchingly the two old
ladies pursued their pious quest of the grey wig. Butter had vanished
from their bread, and beans from their coffee. Their morning brew
was confected of charred crusts, and as they sipped it solemnly they
exchanged the reflection that it was quite equal to the coffee at the
_cremerie_. Positively one was safer drinking one's own messes. Figs,
no longer posing as a pastime of the palate, were accepted seriously
as _pieces de resistance_. The Spring was still cold, yet fires could
be left to die after breakfast. The chill had been taken off, and by
mid-day the sun was in its full power. Each sustained the other by
a desperate cheerfulness. When they took their morning walk in the
Luxembourg Gardens--what time the blue-aproned Jacques was polishing
their waxed floors with his legs for broom-handles--they went into
ecstasies over everything, drawing each other's attention to the
sky, the trees, the water. And, indeed, of a sunshiny morning it was
heartening to sit by the pond and watch the wavering sheet of beaten
gold water, reflecting all shades of green in a restless shimmer
against the shadowed grass around. Madame Valiere always had a bit
of dry bread to feed the pigeons withal--it gave a cheerful sense of
superfluity, and her manner of sprinkling the crumbs revived Madame
Depine's faded images of a Princess scattering New Year largess.
But beneath all these pretences of content lay a hollow sense of
desolation. It was not the want of butter nor the diminished meat; it
was the total removal from life of that intangible splendour of hope
produced by the lottery ticket. Ah! every day was drawn blank now.
This gloom, this gnawing emptiness at the heart, was worse than either
had foreseen or now confessed. Malicious Fate, too, they felt, would
even crown with the _grand prix_ the number they would have chosen.
But for the prospective draw for the Wig--which reintroduced the
aleatory--life would scarcely have been bearable.
Madame Depine's sister-in-law's visit by the June excursion train was
a not unexpected catastrophe. It only lasted a day, but it put back
the Grey Wig by a week, for Madame Choucrou had to be fed at Duval's,
and Madame Valiere magnanimously insisted on being of the party:
whether to run parallel with her friend, or to carry off the
brown wig, she alone knew. Fortunately, Madame Choucrou was both
short-sighted and colour-blind. On the other hand, she liked a _petit
verre_ with her coffee, and both at a separate restaurant. But never
had Madame Valiere appeared to Madame Depine's eyes more like the
"Princess," more gay and polished and debonair, than at this little
round table on the sunlit Boulevard. Little trills of laughter came
from the half-toothless gums; long gloved fingers toyed with the
liqueur glass or drew out the old-fashioned watch to see that Madame
Choucrou did not miss her train; she spent her sou royally on a hawked
journal. When they had seen Madame Choucrou off, she proposed to dock
meat entirely for a fortnight so as to regain the week. Madame Depine
accepted in the same heroic spirit, and even suggested the elimination
of the figs: one could lunch quite well on bread and milk, now the
sunshine was here. But Madame Valiere only agreed to a week's trial of
this, for she had a sweet tooth among the few in her gums.
The very next morning, as they walked in the Luxembourg Gardens,
Madame Depine's foot kicked against something. She stooped and saw a
shining glory--a five-franc piece!
"What is it?" said Madame Valiere.
"Nothing," said Madame Depine, covering the coin with her foot. "My
bootlace." And she bent down--to pick up the coin, to fumble at her
bootlace, and to cover her furious blush. It was not that she wished
to keep the godsend to herself,--one saw on the instant that _le bon
Dieu_ was paying for Madame Choucrou,--it was an instantaneous dread
of the "Princess's" quixotic code of honour. La Valiere was capable of
flying in the face of Providence, of taking the windfall to a _bureau
de police_. As if the inspector wouldn't stick to it himself! A
purse--yes. But a five-franc piece, one of a flock of sheep!
The treasure-trove was added to the heap of which her stocking was
guardian, and thus honestly divided. The trouble, however, was that,
as she dared not inform the "Princess," she could not decently back
out of the meatless fortnight. Providence, as it turned out, was
making them gain a week. As to the figs, however, she confessed on the
third day that she hungered sore for them, and Madame Valiere readily
agreed to make this concession to her weakness.
X
This little episode coloured for Madame Depine the whole dreary period
that remained. Life was never again so depressingly definite; though
curiously enough the "Princess" mistook for gloom her steady earthward
glance, as they sauntered about the sweltering city. With anxious
solicitude Madame Valiere would direct her attention to sunsets, to
clouds, to the rising moon; but heaven had ceased to have attraction,
except as a place from which five-francs fell, and as soon as the
"Princess's" eye was off her, her own sought the ground again. But
this imaginary need of cheering up Madame Depine kept Madame Valiere
herself from collapsing. At last, when the first red leaves began
to litter the Gardens and cover up possible coins, the francs in the
stocking approached their century.
What a happy time was that! The privations were become second nature;
the weather was still fine. The morning Gardens were a glow of pink
and purple and dripping diamonds, and on some of the trees was the
delicate green of a second blossoming, like hope in the heart of age.
They could scarcely refrain from betraying their exultation to
the Hotel des Tourterelles, from which they had concealed their
sufferings. But the polyglot population seething round its malodorous
stairs and tortuous corridors remained ignorant that anything was
passing in the life of these faded old creatures, and even on the
day of drawing lots for the Wig the exuberant hotel retained its
imperturbable activity.
Not that they really drew lots. That was a figure of speech, difficult
to translate into facts. They preferred to spin a coin. Madame Depine
was to toss, the "Princess" to cry _pile ou face_. From the stocking
Madame Depine drew, naturally enough, the solitary five-franc piece.
It whirled in the air; the "Princess" cried _face_. The puff-puff of
the steam-tram sounded like the panting of anxious Fate. The great
coin fell, rolled, balanced itself between two destinies, then
subsided, _pile_ upwards. The poor "Princess's" face grew even longer;
but for the life of her Madame Depine could not make her own face
other than a round red glow, like the sun in a fog. In fact, she
looked so young at this supreme moment that the brown wig quite became
her.
"I congratulate you," said Madame Valiere, after the steam-tram had
become a far-away rumble.
"Before next summer we shall have yours too," the winner reminded her
consolingly.