On Wednesday morning, when she came downstairs, Germinie found a letter
for herself. In that letter, written on the back of a laundry receipt,
the Remalard woman informed her that her child had fallen sick almost
immediately after her departure; that she had grown steadily worse; that
she had consulted the doctor; that he said some insect had stung the
child; that she had been to him a second time; that she did not know
what more to do; that she had had pilgrimages made for her. The letter
concluded thus: "If you could see how troubled I am for your little
one--if you could see how good she is when she isn't suffering!"
This letter produced upon Germinie the effect of a push from behind. She
went out and instinctively walked toward the railroad that would take
her to her little one. Her hair was uncombed and she was in her
slippers, but she did not think of that. She must see her child, she
must see her instantly. Then she would come back. She thought of
mademoiselle's breakfast for a moment, then forgot it. Suddenly,
half-way to the station, she saw a clock at a cab office and noticed
the hour: she remembered that there was no train at that time. She
retraced her steps, saying to herself that she would hurry the breakfast
and then make some excuse to be given her liberty for the rest of the
day. But when the breakfast was served she could find none: her mind was
so full of her child that she could not invent a falsehood; her
imagination was benumbed. And then, if she had spoken, if she had made
the request, she would have betrayed herself; she could feel the words
upon her lips: "I want to go and see my child!" At night she dared not
make her escape; mademoiselle had been a little indisposed the night
before; she was afraid that she might need her.
The next morning when she entered mademoiselle's room with a fable she
had invented during the night, all ready to ask for leave of absence,
mademoiselle said to her, looking up from a letter that had just been
sent up to her from the lodge: "Ah! my old friend De Belleuse wants you
for the whole day to-day, to help her with her preserves. Come, give me
my two eggs, post-haste, and off with you. Eh? what! doesn't that suit
you? What's the matter?"
"With me? why nothing at all!" Germinie found strength to say.
All that endless day she passed standing over hot stewpans and sealing
up jars, in the torture known only to those whom the chances of life
detain at a distance from the sick bed of those dear to them. She
suffered such heart-rending agony as those unhappy creatures suffer who
cannot go where their anxiety calls them, and who, in the extremity of
despair caused by separation and uncertainty, constantly imagine that
death will come in their absence.
As she received no letter Thursday evening and none Friday morning, she
took courage. If the little one were growing worse the nurse would have
written her. The little one was better: she imagined her saved, cured.
Children are forever coming near dying, and they get well so quickly!
And then hers was strong. She decided to wait, to be patient until
Sunday, which was only forty-eight hours away, deceiving the remainder
of her fears with the superstitions that say yes to hope, persuading
herself that her daughter had "escaped," because the first person she
met in the morning was a man, because she had seen a red horse in the
street, because she had guessed that a certain person would turn into a
certain street, because she had ascended a flight of stairs in so many
strides.
On Saturday, in the morning, when she entered Mere Jupillon's shop, she
found her weeping hot tears over a lump of butter that she was covering
with a moist cloth.
"Ah! it's you, is it?" said Mere Jupillon. "That poor charcoal woman!
See, I'm actually crying over her! She just went away from here. You
don't know--they can't get their faces clean in their trade with
anything but butter. And here's her love of a daughter--she's at
death's door, you know, the dear child. That's the way it is with us!
Ah! _mon Dieu_, yes!--Well, as I was saying, she said to her just now
like this: 'Mamma, I want you to wash my face in butter right away--for
the good God.'"
And Mere Jupillon began to sob.
Germinie had fled. All that day she was unable to keep still. Again and
again she went up to her chamber to prepare the few things she proposed
to take to her little one the next day, to dress her cleanly, to make a
little special toilet for her in honor of her recovery. As she went down
in the evening to put Mademoiselle to bed, Adele handed her a letter
that she had found for her below.