Autobiography of a Pocket-HandkerchiefCooper, James Fenimore
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Autobiography of a Pocket-Handkerchief
Cooper, James Fenimore
Fables; Handkerchiefs -- Fiction
Were I to last a thousand years, and rise to the dignity of being the
handkerchief that the Grand Turk is said to toss toward his favorite, I
could not forget the interest with which I accompanied Adrienne to the
door of her little apartment, in the entresol. She was in the habit of
hiring little Nathalie, the porter's daughter, to remain with her
grandmother during her own necessary but brief absences, and this girl
was found at the entrance, eager to be relieved.
"Has my grandmother asked for me, Nathalie?" demanded Adrienne,
anxiously, the moment they met.
"Non, mademoiselle; madame has done nothing but sleep, and I was
getting SO tired!"
The sou was given, and the porter's daughter disappeared, leaving
Adrienne alone in the ante-chamber. The furniture of this little
apartment was very respectable, for Madame de la Rocheaimard, besides
paying a pretty fair rent, had hired it just after the revolution, when
the prices had fallen quite half, and the place had, by no means, the
appearance of that poverty which actually reigned within. Adrienne went
through the ante-chamber, which served also as a salle a manger, and
passed a small saloon, into the bed-chamber of her parent. Here her
mind was relieved by finding all right. She gave her grandmother some
nourishment, inquired tenderly as to her wishes, executed several
little necessary offices, and then sat down to work for her own daily
bread; every moment being precious to one so situated. I expected to be
examined--perhaps caressed, fondled, or praised, but no such attention
awaited me. Adrienne had arranged every thing in her own mind, and I
was to be produced only at those extra hours in the morning, when she
had been accustomed to take exercise in the open air. For the moment I
was laid aside, though in a place that enabled me to be a witness of
all that occurred. The day passed in patient toil, on the part of the
poor girl, the only relief she enjoyed being those moments when she was
called on to attend to the wants of her grandmother. A light potage,
with a few grapes and bread, composed her dinner; even of these I
observed that she laid aside nearly half for the succeeding day, doubts
of her having the means of supporting her parent until the handkerchief
was completed beginning to beset her mind. It was these painful and
obtrusive doubts that most distressed the dear girl, now, for the
expectation of reaping a reward comparatively brilliant, from the
ingenious device to repair her means on which she had fallen, was
strong within her. Poor child! her misgivings were the overflowings of
a tender heart, while her hopes partook of the sanguine character of
youth and inexperience!
{salle a manger = dining room; salon = living room; potage = soup}
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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