France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Women -- Psychology -- Fiction
A fortnight slipped away, and Madame Deberle grew wearied. She ever
jumped from one thing to the other, consumed with the thirst of doing
what every one else was doing. For the moment charity bazaars had
become her craze; she would toil up sixty flights of stairs of an
afternoon to beg paintings of well-known artists, while her evenings
were spent in presiding over meetings of lady patronesses, with a bell
handy to call noisy members to order. Thus it happened that one
Thursday evening Hélène and her daughter went to church without their
companions. On the conclusion of the sermon, while the choristers were
commencing the _Magnificat_, the young woman, forewarned by some
impulse of her heart, turned her head. Henri was there, in his usual
place. Thereupon she remained with looks riveted to the ground till the
service came to an end, waiting the while for the return home.
“Oh, how kind of you to come!” said Jeanne, with all a child’s
frankness, as they left the church. “I should have been afraid to go
alone through these dark streets.”
Henri, however, feigned astonishment, asserting that he had expected to
meet his wife. Hélène allowed the child to answer him, and followed
them without uttering a word. As the trio passed under the porch a
pitiful voice sang out: “Charity, charity! May God repay you!”
Every night Jeanne dropped a ten-sou piece into Mother Fétu’s hand.
When the latter saw the doctor alone with Hélène, she nodded her head
knowingly, instead of breaking out into a storm of thanks, as was her
custom. The church was now empty, and she began to follow them,
mumbling inaudible sentences. Sometimes, instead of returning by the
Rue de Passy, the ladies, when the night was fine, went homewards by
the Rue Raynouard, the way being thus lengthened by five or six
minutes’ walk. That night also Hélène turned into the Rue Raynouard,
craving for gloom and stillness, and entranced by the loneliness of the
long thoroughfare, which was lighted by only a few gas-lamps, without
the shadow of a single passer-by falling across its pavement.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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