Through some artful maneuver, a seventeen-year-old girl in our ward named Georgette succeeded in getting some little pictures of men and women doing everything imaginable. They were not drawings like the one in the little book Rene had found, but real photographs.
Georgette had these pictures about two weeks when apparently some word of their presence, either accidentally or through malicious tattling, reached the ears of the superintendent.
Accompanied by two matrons she entered our ward one night just after lock-up, and proceeded to search it thoroughly. One of the matrons found the little packet of pictures under Georgette's mattress and we knew it was the pictures they were looking for because they stopped searching as soon as they found them.
They took poor little Georgette out, downstairs to the superintendent's office. As soon as they had gone a profound silence fell over the ward. Nobody said anything. We were all waiting with strained nerves to hear certain sounds which would cause some of us to tremble, others to murmur curses, and others to giggle with callow indifference or maybe hysterical nervousness.
Moment by moment we waited but the expected sounds did not materialize. The minutes dragged on, ten, fifteen, twenty, a half an hour. Maybe they were not going to whip Georgette after all. But suddenly the tense silence was broken by a distant but sharply audible thwack. It was followed by another, and another, and with the third blow an agonized scream reached our ears. Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Mechanically we counted the strokes as the blood-chilling cadence of strap and shrieks rent the air. With the tenth stroke it stopped, and those of us who were inspired with sentiments of pity and sympathy breathed a sigh of relief.
Five minutes elapsed, and to our surprise, the woeful dirge with its horrid slap, slap, slap accompaniment began again. From one up to ten it again ran its ominous course. This was something unusual; we recalled of no previous instance in which the punishment had been inflicted twice in succession.
At the tenth blow, as before, came silence. Unconsciously I had clenched my hands so tightly that they were numb with the pressure. I glanced at Hester. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, her chin cupped in her hands, gazing morosely downward. After the second whipping there was a long period of silence. Momentarily we expected to see Georgette being brought back into the dormitory, and were fairly paralyzed with horror when the dolorous refrain commenced anew. Even the face of Mrs. Barrows, our ward matron, was pale as she sat at the little desk near her bed, nervously twisting a pencil in her fingers.
“If they whip me like that I'll come back here and kill them if I never do another thing in life!” whispered Hester.
A few minutes after the echos of the tenth and last blow of the triple inquisition had died away we heard the door of the superintendent's office open, and the sound of slow steps on the stairs and in the corridor followed. Finally, there was Georgette, sobbing huskily and supported by the arms of the two matrons. Mrs. Barrows unlocked the door and helped Georgette to her bed.
Kindly hands undressed her and laid her face down on her cot. When her bottom was uncovered we gasped with horror. It was a mass of purple welts, each welt puffed up and swollen terribly. Even Mrs. Barrows expressed surprise as she hastened to get a jar of cold cream with which to allay the inflammation.
“Why did they whip you three times, Georgette?” we whispered in sympathetic wonder.
“They were trying to make me tell how I got the pictures,” answered Georgette, her voice broken with intermittent sobs.
“Did you tell them?”
“No!”
All things must end and the time of my release was near at hand. Mamma Agnes was dead. She had passed away during the second year of my imprisonment, and Rene had shortly thereafter come to bid me good-bye. He was going to Canada, and would send me money to join him when I was free, he said. For a while my thoughts were brightened with his hope. But his letters, coming at first with regularity and sometimes containing small sums of money, gradually became less frequent and were less definite in tone with regard to our original plans. They finally ceased altogether and the walls of oblivion closed about my foster brother Rene.
It was destined, seemingly, that the day of my liberation would find me homeless, the last tie which linked me to my former life cut off, and with no provision for the future. It was in this extremity that Hester, whose freedom was due several months in advance of mine, and who had confided to me that a place was arranged for and awaiting her in the atelier of a certain Madame Lafronde, suggested that I also place myself at the disposition of this lady in whom she had the utmost confidence.
She painted a glowing picture of the comfortable life and financial rewards to be enjoyed in the high-class establishment operated by this Madame Lafronde. It catered to a very select clientele recruited among the gentility and nobility. She was certain that Madame Lafronde would welcome me with open arms and so eloquent was she that I did not long hesitate in accepting her offer to intercede for me.
Before Hester passed through the big front doors to freedom it had been arranged that I was to have a visitor, ostensibly an aunt, who would call on me a few days before my own release was due. This aunt would be no other than Madame Lafronde herself, and the purpose of her visit would be to decide whether I was an acceptable candidate for her atelier.
The tight pressure of Hester's hand, and the soft kiss she left on my cheek as she bid me farewell filled my eyes with tears. I had come to regard her with great affection, and her absence would weigh heavily on my heart.
“Don't cry, Jessie darling,” she whispered, “we'll soon be together again. I won't forget you. Remember now, when Madame Lafronde comes, call her Aunt Mary, and act as though you knew her or else…”
Further conversation was interrupted by a matron, and with a last hug and kiss we separated.
The four months which followed were the longest and dreariest of all the long months I spent in the reformatory. The fact that a new life was close at hand actually seemed to retard the passage of time rather than hurry it.
But there were moments of happiness occasioned by the arrival of little packages containing candies, cakes and other gifts of a nature permitted by the regulations. There were also letters which, despite their discreet wording and the mysterious signature “your loving cousin, Frances,” conveyed to me their messages of cheer and the certainty that Hester had indeed not forgotten me. And, true to her promise, a week before my liberty was to be restored, I was called to the reception room to receive a visitor.
As I entered, my surprised gaze fell upon the only occupant, aside from the ever alert and watchful matron on duty, an elderly lady of most respectable, even pious aspect, gowned in somber black silk. So contrary was her appearance to that of the visitor I expected that I hesitated, momentarily forgetting Hester's parting admonition as I gazed on the grandmotherly picture. As I stood hesitantly, she arose from her chair, and coming toward me with outstretched arms, exclaimed:
“Jessie, my darling child!”
The sharp eyes of the matron were on me.
“Hello, Aunt Mary,” I murmured as I mechanically returned her embrace.
And so, under these curious circumstances, the Madame of a house of prostitution interviewed a prospective inmate. Her eyes roved incessantly over my body as we carried on our aimless conversation, designed to fool the matron who sat idly watching us. I felt from the first that I had found favor with my visitor, and her comments as to how I had changed for the better since she “last saw” me and how nice I looked, and how happy she was sure I would be when she took me to live with her now that my dear, dear mama had passed away, gave me the clue to my future and assured me that for the time being at least, it was assured. “Cousin Francis” was eagerly awaiting my homecoming, she said, and sent me her most affectionate regards.
Before leaving, she advised the superintendent that she would be at the institution the morning of my release to see me safely home. I went back to my ward in a regular daze, my thoughts in a confused whirl. It was very difficult to imagine that nice old lady in the role of mistress of a house of prostitution.
The long awaited day arrived at last.
At nine o'clock I was summoned to the superintendent's office and the usual formalities related to the discharge of inmates were fulfilled.
“Your aunt said that she would call for you at ten o'clock, Jessie. You may go to your dormitory and pack your things,” she said kindly, after concluding the customary harangue on the folly of a life of sin and the rewards of virtue.
As I spread my few effects upon the narrow cot in the dormitory, preparatory to wrapping them up in a
