SUSPICION AND CONFIDENCE
She went to the counting house, and after the chief cashier and his
clerks had eyed her from head to foot, she was handed the order which M.
Vulfran had said was to be given to her. She left the factory wondering
where she would find Madame Lachaise's shop.
She hoped that it was the woman who had sold her the calico, because as
she knew her already, it would be less embarrassing to ask her advice as
to what she should buy, than it would be to ask a perfect stranger. And
so much hung on the choice she would make; her anxiety increased as she
thought of her employer's last words: "the choice you make will guide me
in acquiring a knowledge of your character."
She did not need this warning to keep her from making extravagant
purchases, but then on the other hand, what she thought would be the
right things for herself, would her employer consider suitable? In her
fancy she had worn beautiful clothes, and when she was quite a little
girl she had been very proud to display her pretty things, but of
course dresses on this order would not be fitting for her now. The
simplest that she could find would be better.
Who would have thought that the unexpected present of new clothes could
have filled her with so much anxiety and embarrassment. She knew that
she ought to be filled with joy and yet here she was greatly worried and
hesitating.
Just near the church she found Mme. Lachaise's shop. It was by far the best
shop in Maraucourt. In the window there was a fine display of materials,
ribbons, lingerie, hats, jewels, perfumes, which aroused the envy and
tempted the greed of all the frivolous girls throughout the surrounding
villages. It was here where they spent their small earnings, the same as
their fathers and husbands spent theirs at the taverns.
When Perrine saw this display of finery she was still more perplexed and
embarrassed. She entered the shop and stood in the middle of the floor,
for neither the mistress of the establishment nor the milliners who were
working behind the counter seemed to think that the ragged little girl
required any attention. Finally Perrine decided to hold out the envelope
containing the order that she held in her hand.
"What is it you want, little girl?" demanded Madame Lachaise.
As she still held out the envelope the mistress of the store caught
sight of the words Maraucourt Factories, Vulfran Paindavoine in one of
the corners. The expression of her face changed at once, her smile was
very pleasant now.
"What do you wish, Mademoiselle?" she asked, leaving her desk and drawing
forward a chair for Perrine. Perrine told her that she wanted a dress,
some underlinen, a pair of shoes and a hat.
"We can supply you with all those," said Madame Lachaise, "and with
goods of the very best quality. Would you like to commence with the
dress? Yes. Very well then, I will show you some materials."
But it was not materials that Perrine wished to see; she wanted a
ready-made dress. Something that she could put on at once, or at least
something that would be ready for her to wear the next day when she went
out with Monsieur Paindavoine.
"Ah, you are going out with Monsieur Vulfran?" said Madame Lachaise
quickly; her curiosity was strung to its highest pitch at this
statement. She wondered what the all powerful master of Maraucourt could
have to do with this ragged little girl and she did not hesitate to ask.
But instead of replying to her question Perrine continued to explain
that she wanted to see some black dresses as she was in mourning.
"You want a dress so as to be able to attend a funeral then?"
"No, it is not for a funeral," said Perrine.
"Well, you understand, Mademoiselle, if I know what you require the
dress for I shall be able to know what style, material, and price it
should be.
"I want the plainest style," said little Perrine timidly, "and the
lightest but best wearing material, and the lowest price."
"Very good, very good," replied Madame Lachaise, "they will show you
something. Virginie, attend to Mademoiselle."
How her tone had changed! her manner also. With great dignity Madame
Lachaise went back to her seat at the desk, disdaining to busy herself
with a customer who had such small desires. She was probably one of the
servant's daughters, for whom Monsieur Vulfran was going to buy a
mourning outfit; but which servant?
However as Virginie brought forward a cashmere dress trimmed with
passementerie and jet, she thought fit to interfere.
"No, no, not that," she said. "That would be beyond the price. Show her
that black challis dress with the little dots. The skirt will be a
trifle too long and the waist too large, but it can easily be made to
fit her, besides we have nothing else in black."
Here was a reason that dispensed with all others, but even though it was
too large, Perrine found the skirt and waist that went with it very
pretty, and the saleslady assured her that with a little alteration is
would suit her beautifully, and of course she had to believe her.
The choice for the stockings and undergarments was easier because she
wanted the least expensive, but when she stated that she only wanted to
purchase two pairs of stockings and two chemises, Mlle. Virginie became
just as disdainful as her employer, and it was as though she was
conferring a favor that she condescended to try some shoes on Perrine,
and the black straw hat which completed the wardrobe of this little
simpleton.
Could anyone believe that a girl would be such an idiot! She had been
given an order to buy what she wanted and she asked for two pairs of
stockings and two chemises. And when Perrine asked for some
handkerchiefs, which for a long time had been the object of her desires,
this new purchase, which was limited to three handkerchiefs, did not
help to change the shopkeeper's or the saleslady's contempt for her.
"She's nothing at all," they murmured.
"And now shall we send you these things?" asked Mme. Lachaise.
"No, thank you," said Perrine, "I will call this evening and fetch them
when the alterations are made."
"Well, then, don't come before eight o'clock or after nine," she was
told.
Perrine had a very good reason for not wishing to have the things sent
to her. She was not sure where she was going to sleep that night. Her
little island was not to be thought of. Those who possess nothing can
dispense with doors and locks, but when one has riches ... for despite
the condescension of the shopkeeper and her assistant, these were riches
to Perrine and needed to be guarded. So that night she would have to
take a lodging and quite naturally she thought of going to Rosalie's
grandmother. When she left Madame Lachaise's shop, she went on her way
to Mother Francoise's to see if she could accommodate her and give her
what she desired; that was a tiny little room that would not cost much.
As she reached the gate she met Rosalie coming out, walking quickly.
"You're going out?" cried Perrine.
"Yes, and you ... so you are free then?"
In a few hurried words they explained.
Rosalie, who was going on an important errand to Picquigny, could not
return to her grandmother's at once, as she would have liked, so as to
make the best arrangements that she could for Perrine; but as Perrine
had nothing to do for that day, why shouldn't she go with her to
Picquigny; and they would come back together; it would be a pleasure
trip then.
They went off gaily, and Rosalie accomplished her errand quickly, then
their pleasure trip commenced. They walked through the fields, chatting
and laughing, picked flowers, then rested in the heat of the day under
the shadows of the great trees. It was not until night that they arrived
back in Maraucourt. Not until Rosalie reached her grandmother's gate did
she realize what time it was.
"What will Aunt Zenobie say?" she said half afraid.
"Oh well...." began Perrine.
"Oh well, I don't care," said Rosalie defiantly, "I've enjoyed myself
... and you?"
"Well, if you who have people to talk to every day have enjoyed
yourself, how much more have I who never have anybody to talk to," said
Perrine ruefully.
"I've had a lovely time," she sighed.
"Well, then we don't care what anybody says," said Rosalie bravely.
Fortunately, Aunt Zenobie was busy waiting on the boarders, so the
arrangements for the room was made with Mother Francoise, who did not
drive too hard a bargain and that was done quickly and promptly. Fifty
francs a month for two meals a day; twelve francs for a little room
decorated with a little mirror, a window, and a dressing table.
At eight o'clock Perrine dined alone in the general dining room, a table
napkin on her lap. At eight-thirty she went to Madame Lachaise's
establishment to fetch her dress and other things which were quite ready
for her. At nine o'clock, in her tiny room, the door of which she
locked, she went to bed, a little worried, a little excited, a little
hesitating, but, in her heart of hearts full of hope.
Now we should see.
What she did see the next morning when she was called into M. Vulfran's
office after he had given his orders to his principal employes, was such
a severe expression on his face that she was thoroughly disconcerted;
although the eyes that turned towards her as she entered his room were
devoid of look, she could not mistake the expression on this face that
she had studied so much.
Certainly it was not the kind look of a benefactor, but quite the
reverse: it was an expression of displeasure and anger that she saw.
What had she done wrong that he should be angry; with her?
She put this question to herself but she could find no reply to it;
perhaps she had spent too much at Madame Lachaise's and her employer had
judged her character from these purchases. And in her selection she had
tried to be so modest and economical. What should she have bought then?
or rather what should she not have bought?
But she had no more time to wonder, for her employer was speaking to her
in a severe tone:
"Why did you not tell me the truth?" he said.
"In what have I not told the truth?" she asked in a frightened voice.
"In regard to your conduct since you came to this village."
"But I assure you, Monsieur, I have told you the truth."
"You told me that you lodged at Mother Francoise's house. And when you
left there where did you go? I may as well tell you that yesterday
Zenobie, that is Francoise's daughter, was asked to give some
information, some references of you, and she said that you only spent
one night in her mother's house, then you disappeared, and no one knew
what you did from that night until now."
Perrine had listened to the commencement of this cross examination in
afright, but as Monsieur Vulfran went on she grew braver.
"There is someone who knows what I did after I left the room I used at
Mother Francoise's," she said quietly.
"Who?"
"Rosalie, her granddaughter, knows. She will tell you that what I am now
going to tell you, sir, is the truth. That is, if you think my doings
are worth knowing about."
"The position that you are to hold in my service demands that I know
what you are," said Monsieur Vulfran.
"Well, Monsieur, I will tell you," said little Perrine. "When you know
you can send for Rosalie and question her without me seeing her, and
then you will have the proof that I have not deceived you."
"Yes, that can be done," he said in a softened voice, "now go on...."
She told her story, dwelling on the horror of that night in that
miserable room, her disgust, how she was almost suffocated, and how she
crept outside at the break of dawn too sick to stay in that terrible
garret one moment longer.
"Cannot you bear what the other girls could?" asked her employer.
"The others perhaps have not lived in the open air as I have," said
Perrine, her beautiful eyes fixed on her grandfather's face. "I assure
you I am not hard to please. We were so poor that we endured great
misery. But I could not stay in that room. I should have died, and I
don't think it was wrong of me to try to escape death. I could not live
if I had to sleep there."
"Why! can that room be so unhealthy, so unwholesome as that?" mused
Monsieur Vulfran.
"Oh, sir," cried Perrine, "if you could see it you would never permit
your work girls to live there, never, never."
"Go on with your story," he said abruptly.
She told him how she had discovered the tiny island and how the idea had
come to her to take possession of the cabin.
"You were not afraid?" he asked.
"I am not accustomed to being afraid," she said, with a wan little smile
flitting across her beautiful face.
"You are speaking of that cabin in the valley there a little to the side
of the road to Saint-Pipoy, on the left, are you not?" asked Monsieur
Vulfran.
"Yes, Monsieur."
"That belongs to me and my nephews use it. Was it there that you slept?"
"I not only slept there, but I worked there and I ate there, and I even
gave a dinner to Rosalie, and she can tell you about it," said little
Perrine eagerly, for now that she had told him her story she wanted him to
know everything. "I did not leave the cabin until you sent for me to go to
Saint-Pipoy, and then you told me to stay there so as to be on hand to
interpret for the machinists. And now tonight I have taken a lodging again
at Mother Francoise's, but now I can pay for a room all to myself."
"Were you rich then, that you were able to invite a friend to dinner?"
asked the blind man.
"If I only dare tell you," said Perrine timidly.
"You can tell me everything," said the blind man.
"I may take up your time just to tell you a story about two little
girls?" asked little Perrine.
"Now that I cannot use my time as I should like," said the blind man
sadly, "it is often very long, very long ... and empty."
A shade passed over her grandfather's face. He had so much; there were men
who envied him--and yet how sad and barren was his life. When he said that
his days were "empty" Perrine's heart went out to him. She also, since the
death of her father and mother, knew what it was for the days to be long
and empty, nothing to fill them but the anxiety, the fatigue, and the
misery of the moment. No one to share them with you, none to uphold you, or
cheer you. He had not known bodily fatigue, privations and poverty. But
they are not the only trials to be borne, there are other sorrows in this
world from which one suffers. And it was those other sorrows that had made
him say those few words in such a sad, sad tone; the memory of which made
this old blind man bend his head while the tears sprang into his sightless
eyes. But no tears fell. Perrine's eyes had not left his face; if she had
seen that her story did not interest him, she would have stopped at once,
but she knew that he was not bored. He interrupted her several times and
said:
"And you did that!"
Then he questioned her, asking her to tell him in detail what she had
omitted for fear of tiring him. He put questions to her which showed that
he wished to have an exact account, not only of her work, but above all to
know what means she had employed to replace all that she had been lacking.
"And that's what you did?" he asked again and again.
When she had finished her story, he placed his hand on her head: "You
are a brave little girl," he said, "and I am pleased to see that one can
do something with you. Now go into your office and spend the time as you
like; at three o'clock we will go out."