A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL
The last prayers had been uttered. Perrine still stood before the grave.
The Baroness, who had not left her, gently took her arm.
"Come," she said; "you must come away," she added more firmly as Perrine
attempted to resist her.
Holding her tightly by the arm, she drew her away. They walked on for
some moments, Perrine not knowing what was passing around her, nor
understanding where they were leading her. Her thoughts, her spirit, her
heart, were with her mother.
At last they stopped in one of the side paths; then she saw standing
round her the Baroness, who had now let go of her arm, Grain-of-Salt and
the candy man, but she saw them only vaguely. The Baroness had black
ribbons on her bonnet; Grain-of-Salt was dressed like a gentleman and
wore a high silk hat; Carp had replaced his leather apron by a black
Prince Albert which came down to his feet, and the candy man had cast
aside his white blouse for a cloth coat. For, like the real Parisian who
practises the cult of the dead, they had dressed themselves up in their
best to pay respect to the one they had just buried.
"I want to tell you, little one," commenced Grain-of-Salt, who thought
that he should speak first, being the most important person present; "I
want to tell you that you can stay as long as you like in Guillot Fields
without paying."
"If you'd like to sing with me," said the Baroness, "you can earn enough
to live on. It's a nice profession."
"If you'd like to go into the candy business, I'll teach you; that's a
real trade and a nice one," said the candy man.
Carp said nothing, but with a smile and a gesture he let her understand
that she could always find a bowl of soup at his place ... and good
soup, too!
Perrine's eyes filled with fresh tears, soft tears which washed away the
bitterness of the burning ones which for two days had flowed from her
eyes.
"How good you all are to me," she murmured.
"One does what one can," said Grain-of-Salt.
"One should not leave an honest little girl like you on the streets of
Paris," said the Baroness.
"I must not stay in Paris," replied Perrine; "I must go at once to my
relations."
"You have relations?" exclaimed Grain-of-Salt, looking at the others
with an air which said that he did not think that those relations could
be worth much. "Where are your relations?"
"Near Amiens."
"And how can you go to Amiens? Have you got money?"
"Not enough to take the train, but I'm going to walk there."
"Do you know the way?"
"I have a map in my pocket...."
"Yes, but does that tell you which road you have to take from here, here
in Paris?"
"No, but if you will tell me...."
They all were eager to give her this information, but it was all so
confused and contradictory that Grain-of-Salt cut the talk short.
"If you want to lose yourself in Paris, just listen to what they are
saying," he said. "Now, this is the way you must go," and he explained
to her which road she should take. "Now, when do you want to go?"
"At once; I promised my mother," said Perrine.
"You must obey her," said the Baroness, solemnly, "but not before I've
kissed you; you're a good girl."
The men shook hands with her.
She knew she must leave the cemetery, yet she hesitated and turned once
more towards the grave that she had just left, but the Baroness stopped
her.
"As you are obliged to go, go at once; it is best," she said.
"Yes, go," said Grain-of-Salt.
When she had climbed into the car on the belt line she took an old map
of France from her pocket which she had consulted many times alone since
they left Italy. From Paris to Amiens the road was easy; she had only to
take the Calais road; this was indicated on her map by a little black
line. From Amiens she would go to Boulogne, and as she had learned also
to calculate distances, she thought that to Maraucourt it ought to be
about one hundred and fifty-eight miles.
But could she do all those miles, regularly ... go on day after day? She
knew that to walk four or five miles by chance on one day was a very
different matter to taking a long, continuous journey like she was
contemplating. There would be bad days ... rainy days ... and how long
would her money last? She had only five francs thirty-five centimes
left. The train pulled up at the station at which she had to get out.
Now she had to turn to the right, and as the sun would not go down for
two or three hours she hoped to be far away from Paris by night, and
find a place in the open country where she could sleep.
Yet as far as her eyes could see there was nothing but houses and
factories, factories with great tall chimneys sending forth clouds of
thick, black smoke, and all along the road wagons, tramways and carts.
Again she saw a lot of trucks bearing the name that she had noticed
while waiting to pass through the Gates: "Maraucourt Factories, Vulfran
Paindavoine."
Would Paris ever end? Would she ever get out of this great city? She was
not afraid of the lonely fields, nor the silence of the country at
night, nor the mysterious shadows, but of Paris, the crowd, the lights.
She was now on the outskirts of the city. Before leaving it (although
she had no appetite), she thought she would buy a piece of bread so
that she would have something to eat before going to sleep. She went
into a baker shop.
"I want some bread, please," she said.
"Have you any money?" demanded the woman, who did not seem to put much
confidence in Perrine's appearance.
"Yes, and I want one pound, please. Here is five francs. Will you give
me the change?"
Before cutting the bread the woman took up the five franc piece and
examined it.
"What! that!" she exclaimed, making it ring on the marble slab.
"It's a five franc piece," said Perrine.
"Who told you to try and pass that off on me?" asked the woman, angrily.
"No one, and I am asking you for a pound of bread for my supper."
"Well, then, you won't get any bread, and you'd better get out of here
as quickly as you can before I have you arrested."
"Arrested! Why?" she stammered in surprise.
"Because you're a thief!"
"Oh!..."
"You want to pass counterfeit money on me. You vagabond ... you thief!
Be off! No, wait; I'll get a policeman."
Perrine knew that she was not a thief, whether the money was real or
false, but vagabond she was. She had no home, no parents. What would she
answer the policeman? They would arrest her for being a vagabond.
She put this question to herself very quickly, but although her fear was
great, she thought of her money.
"If you don't wish to sell me the bread, at least you can give me back
my money," she said, holding out her hand.
"So that you can pass it on someone else, eh? I'll keep your money. If
you want it, go and fetch the police," cried the woman, furiously. "Be
off, you thief."
The woman's loud cries could be heard in the street, and several people
by now had gathered round the door.
"What's the matter?" someone cried.
"Why, this girl here is trying to rob my till," shouted the woman.
"There never is a cop when one wants one."
Terrified, Perrine wondered how she could get out, but they let her pass
as she made for the door, hissing her and calling her names as she ran.
She ran on and on, too afraid to turn round to see if anyone was
following her.
After a few minutes, which to her seemed hours, she found herself in the
country, and was able to stop and breathe. No one was calling after her;
no one following her.
After her fears had calmed down she realized that she had nothing to eat
and no money. What should she do? Instinctively she glanced at the
fields by the wayside. She saw beets, onions, cabbages, but there was
nothing there ready to eat, and besides, even if there had been ripe
melons and trees laden with fruit, what good would they have been to
her; she could not stretch out her hand to pick the fruit any more than
she could stretch it out to beg of the passersby. No, little Perrine was
not a thief, nor a beggar, nor a vagabond.
She felt very depressed. It was eventide, and in the quietness of the
twilight she realized how utterly alone she was; but she knew that she
must not give way; she felt that while there was still light she must
walk on, and by the time night fell perhaps she would have found a spot
where she could sleep in safety.
She had not gone far before she found what she thought would be the very
place. As she came to a field of artichokes she saw a man and woman
picking artichoke heads and packing them in baskets, which they piled up
in a cart that stood by the roadside. She stopped to look at them at
their work. A moment later another cart driven by a girl came up.
"So you're getting yours all in?" called out the girl.
"Should say so, and it's none too soon," replied the man. "It's no fun
sleeping here all night to watch for those rogues. I at least shall
sleep in my bed tonight."
"And what about Monneau's lot?" grinned the girl.
"Oh, Monneau's a sly dog," answered the man; "he counts on us others
watching out for his. He's not going to be here tonight. Serve him
right if he finds all his gone!"
All three laughed heartily. They were not over-anxious that Monneau
should prosper. Didn't he profit by their watch to take his own slumbers
in peace?
"That'll be a joke, eh?"
"Wait for me," said the girl. "I won't be a jiffy; then we'll go
together."
The man and the woman waited, and in a few minutes the girl had finished
her task and the two carts, laden with artichokes, went towards the
village. Perrine stood in the deserted road looking at the two fields,
which presented such a difference in appearance. One was completely
stripped of its vegetables; the other was filled with a splendid crop.
At the end of the field was a little hut made of branches where the man
who watched the field had slept. Perrine decided that she would stay
there for the night, now that she knew it would not be occupied by the
watch. She did not fear that she would be disturbed, yet she dared not
take possession of the place until it was quite dark. She sat down by a
ditch and waited, thankful that she had found what she wanted. Then at
last, when it was quite dark and all was quiet, she picked her way
carefully over the beds of artichokes and slipped into the hut. It was
better inside than she had hoped, for the ground was covered with straw
and there was a wooden box that would serve her for a pillow.
Ever since she had run from the baker's shop it had seemed to her that
she was like a tracked animal, and more than once she had looked behind
her with fear, half expecting to see the police on her heels.
She felt now in the hut that she was safe. Her nerves relaxed. After a
few minutes she realized that she had another cause for anxiety. She was
hungry, very hungry. While she was tramping along the roads, overwhelmed
by her great loss, it had seemed to her that she would never want to eat
or drink again. She felt the pangs of hunger now and she had only one
sou left. How could she live on one sou for five or six days? This was a
very serious question. But then, had she not found shelter for the
night; perhaps she would find food for the morrow.
She closed her eyes, her long black lashes heavy with tears. The last
thing at night she had always thought of her dead father; now it was the
spirits of both her father and her mother that seemed to hover around
her. Again and again she stretched out her arms in the darkness to them,
and then, worn out with fatigue, with a sob she dropped off to sleep.
But although she was tired out, her slumbers were broken. She turned and
tossed on the straw. Every now and again the rumbling of a cart on the
road would wake her, and sometimes some mysterious noise, which in the
silence of the night made her heart beat quickly. Then it seemed to her
that she heard a cart stop near the hut on the road. She raised herself
on her elbow to listen.
She had not made a mistake; she heard some whispering. She sprang to her
feet and looked through the cracks of the hut. A cart had stopped at the
end of the field, and by the pale light from the stars she could dimly
see the form of a man or woman throwing out baskets to two others, who
carried them into the field. This was Monneau's lot. What did it mean at
such an hour? Had Monneau come so late to cut his artichokes?
Then she understood! These were the thieves! They had come to strip
Monneau's field! They quickly cut the artichoke heads and heaped them up
in the baskets. The woman had taken the cart away; evidently they did
not want it to stay on the road while they worked for fear of attracting
the attention of anyone passing by.
What would happen to her if the thieves saw her? She had heard that
thieves sometimes killed a person who caught them at their work. There
was the chance that they would not discover her. For they certainly knew
that the hut would not be occupied on this night that they had planned
to strip the field. But if they caught her? And then ... if they were
arrested, she would be taken with them!
At this thought cold beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead.
Thieves work quickly; they would soon have finished!
But presently they were disturbed. From the distance could be heard the
noise of a cart on the paved road. As it drew nearer they hid
themselves, lying down flat between the artichoke beds.
The cart passed. Then they went on with their work even more quickly. In
spite of their feverish haste it seemed to little Perrine that they
would never be finished. Every moment she feared that someone would come
and catch them and she be arrested with them.
If she could only get away. She looked about her to see if it were
possible for her to leave the hut. This could easily be done, but then
they would be sure to see her once she was on the road. It would be
better to remain where she was.
She lay down again and pretended to sleep. As it was impossible for her
to go out without being seen, it was wiser to pretend that she had not
seen anything if they should come into the hut.
For some time they went on cutting the artichokes. Then there was
another noise on the road. It was their cart coming back. It stopped at
the end of the field. In a few minutes the baskets were all stowed in
the cart and the thieves jumped in and drove off hurriedly in the
direction of Paris.
If she had known the hour she could have slept until dawn, but not
knowing how long she had been there, she thought that it would be better
if she went on her way. In the country people are about at an early
hour. If, when day broke, the laborers going to work saw her coming out
of the hut, or even if they saw her round about the field, they might
suspect her of having been with the thieves and arrest her.
So she slipped out of the hut, ears on the alert for the slightest
noise, eyes glancing in every direction.
She reached the main road, then hurried off. The stars in the skies
above were disappearing, and from the east a faint streak of light lit
the shadows of the night and announced the approach of day.