France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Women -- Psychology -- Fiction
right in thinking that madame had been travelling? That was her own
concern, of course. At all events, she looked very well, and fresh, and
beautiful. God would requite her for all her kindness. Then, as Hélène
began to draw out her purse, Mother Fétu drew breath, leaning against
the railing that encircled Jeanne’s grave.
The funeral processions had vanished from sight. Somewhere in a grave
close at hand a digger, whom they could not see, was wielding his
pickaxe with regular strokes.
Meanwhile the old woman had regained her breath, and her eyes were
riveted on the purse. Then, anxious to extort as large a sum as
possible, she displayed considerable cunning, and spoke of the other
lady. Nobody could say that she was not a charitable lady; still, she
did not know what to do with her money—it never did one much good.
Warily did she glance at Hélène as she spoke. And next she ventured to
mention the doctor’s name. Oh! he was good. Last summer he had again
gone on a journey with his wife. Their boy was thriving; he was a fine
child. But just then Hélène’s fingers, as she opened the purse, began
to tremble, and Mother Fétu immediately changed her tone. In her
stupidity and bewilderment she had only now realized that the good lady
was standing beside her daughter’s grave. She stammered, gasped, and
tried to bring tears to her eyes. Jeanne, said she, had been so dainty
a darling, with such loves of little hands; she could still see her
giving her silver in charity. What long hair she had! and how her large
eyes filled with tears when she gazed on the poor! Ah! there was no
replacing such an angel; there were no more to be found like her, were
they even to search the whole of Passy. And when the fine days came,
said Mother Fétu, she would gather some daisies in the moat of the
fortifications and place them on her tomb. Then, however, she lapsed
into silence frightened by the gesture with which Hélène cut her short.
Was it possible, she thought, that she could no longer find the right
thing to say? Her good lady did not weep, and only gave her a
twenty-sou piece.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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