But since you have come, Brigaut, I want to go away with you to Brittany to see my grandmamma, who loves me, though they tell me she has robbed me of eight thousand francs. Brigaut, if they are really mine, can you get them? But it is all a lie; if we had eight thousand francs, grandmamma would not be at Saint-Jacques. I would not trouble that good saintly woman’s last days by telling her of my miseries; it would be enough to kill her. Ah! if she could know that they make her grandchild wash the pots and pans—she who would say to me, “Leave that alone, my darling,” when I tried to help her in her troubles; “leave it, leave it, my pet; you will spoil your pretty little hands.” Well, my nails are clean at any rate! Many times I cannot carry the market basket, and the handle saws my arm as I come home from market.
At the same time, I do not think that my cousins are cruel; but it is their way always to be scolding, and it would seem that I can never get away from them. My cousin Rogron is my guardian. One day when I meant to run away, as I was too miserable, and I told them so, my cousin Sylvie answered that the police would go after me, that the law was on my guardian’s side; and I saw very clearly that cousins can no more take the place of our father and mother than the Saints can take the place of God.—My poor Jacques, what use could I make of your money? Keep it for our journey. Oh! how I have thought of you and Pen-Hoël and the large pool. We ate our cake first, out there, for I think I am getting worse. I am very ill, Jacques. I have such pains in my head that I could scream, and in my back and my bones; sometimes round my loins that half kills me; and I have no appetite but for nasty things, leaves and roots and I like the smell of printed paper. There are times when I should cry if I were alone, for I may not do anything as I wish; I am not even allowed to cry. I have to hide myself to offer up my tears to Him from whom we receive those mercies which we call our afflictions. Was it not He who inspired you with the good idea of coming to sing the bride’s song under my window?—Oh! Jacques, cousin Sylvie, who heard you, told me I had a lover. If you will be my lover, love me very much; I promise always to love you, as in the past, and to be your faithful servant,
The girl had taken a crust of bread from the kitchen, in which she made a hole to stick her letter in, so as to weight the thread. At midnight, after opening her window with excessive caution, she let down her note with the bread, which could make no noise by tapping against the wall or the shutters. She felt the thread pulled by Brigaut, who broke it, and then went stealthily away. When he was in the middle of the Square she could see him, though indistinctly, in the starlight; but he could gaze at her in the luminous band projected by the candle. The two young things remained there for an hour, Pierrette signaling to him to go away, he going and she remaining, and he returned to his post, while Pierrette again waved to him to be gone. This was several times repeated, till the girl shut her window, got into bed, and blew out her light.
Once in bed, she went to sleep, happy though suffering; she had Brigaut’s letter under her pillow. She slept the sleep of the persecuted, a sleep blessed by the angels, the sleep of golden and faraway glories full of the arabesques of heaven, which Raphael dreamed of and drew.
Her delicate physical nature was so responsive to her moral nature that Pierrette rose next morning as glad and light as a lark, beaming and gay. Such a change could not escape Sylvie’s eye; this time, instead of scolding her, she proceeded to watch her with the cunning of a raven.
“What makes her so happy?” was suggested by jealousy, and not by tyranny. If Sylvie had not been possessed by the idea of the Colonel, she would certainly have said as usual, “Pierrette, you are very turbulent, or very heedless of what is said to you.” The old maid determined to spy on Pierrette, as only old maids can spy. The day passed in gloom and silence, like the hour before a storm.
“So you are no longer so ailing, miss?” said Sylvie at dinner. “Did not I tell you that she shams it all to worry us?” she exclaimed, turning to her brother, without waiting for Pierrette’s reply.
“On the contrary, cousin, I have a sort of fever—”
“What sort of fever? You are as gay as a linnet. You have seen someone again perhaps?”
Pierrette shuddered, and kept her eyes on her plate.
“Tartufe!” cried Sylvie. “At fourteen! Already! What a nature! Why, you will be a wretch indeed!”
“I do not know what you mean,” replied Pierrette, raising her fine luminous hazel eyes to her cousin’s face.
“This evening,” said Sylvie, “you will remain in the dining-room to sew by a candle. You are in the way in the drawing-room, and I will not have you looking over my hand to advise your favorites.”
Pierrette did not flinch.
“Hypocrite!” exclaimed Sylvie as she left the room.
Rogron, who could not understand what his sister was talking about, said to Pierrette, “What is the matter between you two? Try, Pierrette, to please your
