“Let Adèle go,” Louise said curtly, “I don’t like you speaking with those vagabonds.”
And while Adèle ran out, as she was bid, with mug and bottle, Louise continued to mutter half under her breath:
“I can’t abide those sans-culottes. Brigands the lot of them. What are they doing in the neighbourhood, I’d like to know. Up to no good you may depend. Let Adèle talk to them. It is not fit for a well-brought-up wench like you to be seen in such company.”
Fleurette did not pay much attention to old Louise’s mutterings. There was plenty to do in the house with washing up and tidying things away. And it was Louise’s habit to grumble at anything that was in any way unusual: a wet day in August, or a mild one in December, a calèche on the road, a horseman, a soldier, or a letter for Bibi. She was always called “old Louise,” although, in truth, she had scarce reached middle age; but her skin was dry and rough like the soil of her native Dauphiné, her face and hands were prematurely wrinkled and her voice had become harsh of late, probably for want of use, like a piece of mechanism that has stood still, and begun to grind for want of a lubricant. In Armand’s house, when he was absent, she ruled supreme. Fleurette never dreamed of disobeying, and Armand’s only peremptory orders to Louise were never to mention politics or current events to the child.
Louise had nursed Fleurette at her breast when Fleurette’s mother died in childbed, and she had left her own baby in the care of her sister, already a widow and childless. Considerations of money had prompted her at the time, for Monsieur Armand, as he was then, had made her liberal offers: afterwards it was too late to regret. Her own daughter, Adèle, born of an unknown father who loved and rode away, had been brought up to a life of drudgery by her aunt, who sent the girl out to earn her own living as soon as she could toddle, whilst Fleurette was brought up to have everything she wanted; petted and idolized by a father plentifully supplied with money. Fleurette and Adèle were foster-sisters, but with destinies as wide apart as the peaks of Pelvoux.
But Louise never spoke one bitter word when she saw Adèle with toil-worn hands scrubbing the kitchen floor on which Fleurette trod with dainty, high-heeled shoes. Perhaps she loved her foster-child more than she did her own: perhaps it was only the same considerations of money that already guided her conduct before, which prompted her later to indulgence toward the rich man’s daughter, whilst reserving her pent-up acrimony for the household drudge. No one knew what Louise’s feelings were towards Adèle—Adèle herself least of all. The girl was silent, reserved, self-contained, very conscientious in her work, but not very responsive to the many kindnesses shown her by M’sieu’ Armand or Mam’zelle Fleurette. She still lived with her aunt who had brought her up, and she appeared to lay no claim on her mother’s affection: she had earned her own living ever since she was ten years of age, and now, at eighteen, she looked more like a woman than a girl: her little face was all pinched up, the lips thin, the eyes either sharp as needles or expressionless like those of a rodent. She hardly ever spoke and no one had ever seen her smile.
Old Louise’s mutterings presently turned to Adèle’s prolonged absence:
“What is the girl about now, I should like to know? She is not a gossip as a rule.”
She went on with her washing up for a moment or two longer and then said sharply:
“Run along, Fleurette, and see what the wench is doing. Lazy baggage, with all the work there’s still to do.”
Fleurette ran out at once. She too wondered why Adèle was such a long time. And there, sure enough, standing on the bridge was Adèle talking to the soldiers. The officer was already out of sight. Adèle talking! and Fleurette even thought that she heard her giggle. Incredible! The soldiers were all laughing and one of them was in the act of drinking the last drop cut of the tin mug.
Fleurette stood for a moment on the doorstep, vaguely wondering what in the world had come over Adèle, when a rather curious incident occurred: the soldiers were all laughing, jesting apparently with the girl, and one of them, with head tilted back, was draining the last drop out of the tin mug. Fleurette was on the point of calling to Adèle when her attention was arrested by the appearance of an old man carrying what looked like a load of faggots tied up in a coarse sacking. He seemed to have climbed the slopes on the opposite side of the road; at any rate there he was, all of a sudden, immediately behind the group of soldiers.
He appeared to be drunk, for he staggered as he walked and leaned heavily on a stout gnarled stick. Fleurette could not have told you exactly how it all happened, but all of a sudden Adèle’s giggling and the soldiers’ jests were interrupted by the old faggot-carrier tumbling down clumsily, right between them all.
Adèle screamed. The soldiers swore, and one of them went to the length of giving the old man a savage kick, whilst two others incontinently picked him up between them and flung him over the parapet of the bridge. Fleurette gave a cry of dismay and ran to the poor man’s assistance. She felt hot with indignation at such wanton brutality. How right, she thought as she ran, had old Louise’s estimate been of these soldiers—little better than brigands they were, and cruel to boot. The poor faggot-carrier, for such he seemed to be, was lying
