Nobody's Girl Part 8

Grain-of-Salt was furious, Perrine in despair.

"You see he won't go in," cried La Rouquerie. "I'll give thirty francs, that's ten more'n I said, 'cause his cunning shows that this donkey is a good boy, but hurry up and take the money or I'll buy another."

Grain-of-Salt consulted Perrine with a glance; he made her a sign that she ought to accept the offer. But she seemed stunned at such a fraud.

She was standing there undecided when a policeman told her roughly that she was blocking up the street and that she must move on.

"Go forward, or go back, but don't stand there," he ordered.

She could not go forward, for Palikare had no intention of doing so. As soon as he understood that she had given up all hope of getting him into the Market, he got up and followed her docilely, agitating his long ears with satisfaction.

"Now," said La Rouquerie, after she had put thirty francs into poor Perrine's hand, "you must take him to my place, for I'm beginning to know him and he's quite capable of refusing to come with me. I don't live far from here."

But Grain-of-Salt would not consent to do this; he declared that the distance was too far for him.

"You go with the lady alone," he said to Perrine, "and don't be too cut up about your donkey. He'll be all right with her. She's a good woman."

"But how shall I find my way back to Charonne?" asked Perrine, bewildered. She dreaded to be lost in the great city.

"You follow the fortifications ... nothing easier."

As it happened, the street where La Rouquerie lived was not far from the Horse Market, and it did not take them long to get there. There were heaps of garbage before her place, just like in Guillot Field.

The moment of parting had come. As she tied Palikare up in a little stable, her tears fell on his head.

"Don't take on so," said the woman; "I'll take care of him, I promise you."

"We loved him so much," said little Perrine. Then she went on her way.

CHAPTER III

"POOR LITTLE GIRL"

What was she to do with thirty francs when she had calculated that they must at least have one hundred? She turned this question over in her mind sadly as she walked along by the fortifications. She found her way back easily. She put the money into her mother's hand, for she did not know how to spend it. It was her mother who decided what to do.

"We must go at once to Maraucourt," she said.

"But are you strong enough?" Perrine asked doubtfully.

"I must be. We have waited too long in the hope that I should get better. And while we wait our money is going. What poor Palikare has brought us will go also. I did not want to go in this miserable state...."

"When must we go? Today?" asked Perrine.

"No; it's too late today. We must go tomorrow morning. You go and find out the hours of the train and the price of the tickets. It is the Gare du Nord station, and the place where we get out is Picquigny."

Perrine anxiously sought Grain-of-Salt. He told her it was better for her to consult a time table than to go to the station, which was a long way off. From the time table they learned that there were two trains in the morning, one at six o'clock and one at ten, and that the fare to Picquigny, third cla.s.s, was nine francs twenty-five centimes.

"We'll take the ten o'clock train," said her mother, "and we will take a cab, for I certainly cannot walk to the station."

And yet when nine o'clock the next day came she could not even get to the cab that Perrine had waiting for her. She attempted the few steps from her room to the cab, but would have fallen to the ground had not Perrine held her.

"I must go back," she said weakly. "Don't be anxious ... it will pa.s.s."

But it did not pa.s.s, and the Baroness, who was watching them depart, had to bring a chair. The moment she dropped into the seat she fainted.

"She must go back and lie down," said the Baroness, rubbing her cold hands. "It is nothing, girl; don't look so scared ... just go and find Carp. The two of us can carry her to her room. You can't go ... not just now."

The Baroness soon had the sick woman in her bed, where she regained consciousness.

"Now you must just stay there in your bed," said the Baroness, kindly.

"You can go just as well tomorrow. I'll get Carp to give you a nice cup of bouillon. He loves soup as much as the landlord loves wine; winter and summer he gets up at five o'clock and makes his soup; good stuff it is, too. Few can make better."

Without waiting for a reply, she went to Carp, who was again at his work.

"Will you give me a cup of your bouillon for our patient?" she asked.

He replied with a smile only, but he quickly took the lid from a saucepan and filled a cup with the savory soup.

The Baroness returned with it, carrying it carefully, so as not to spill a drop.

"Take that, my dear lady," she said, kneeling down beside the bed.

"Don't move, but just open your lips."

A spoonful was put to the sick woman's lips, but she could not swallow it. Again she fainted, and this time she remained unconscious for a longer time. The Baroness saw that the soup was not needed, and so as not to waste it, she made Perrine take it.

A day pa.s.sed. The doctor came, but there was nothing he could do.

Perrine was in despair. She wondered how long the thirty francs that La Rouquerie had given her would last. Although their expenses were not great, there was first one thing, then another, that was needed. When the last sous were spent, where would they go? What would become of them if they could get no more money?

She was seated beside her mother's bedside, her beautiful little face white and drawn with anxiety. Suddenly she felt her mother's hand, which she held in hers, clasp her fingers more tightly.

"You want something?" she asked quickly, bending her head.

"I want to speak to you ... the hour has come for my last words to you, darling," said her mother.

"Oh, mama! mama!" cried Perrine.

"Don't interrupt, darling, and let us both try to control ourselves. I did not want to frighten you, and that is the reason why, until now, I have said nothing that would add to your grief. But what I have to say must be said, although it hurts us both. We are going to part...."

In spite of her efforts, Perrine could not keep back her sobs.

"Yes, it is terrible, dear child, and yet I am wondering if, after all, it is not for the best ... that you will be an orphan. It may be better for you to go alone than to be taken to them by a mother whom they have scorned. Well, G.o.d's will is that you should be left alone ... in a few hours ... tomorrow, perhaps...."

For a moment she stopped, overcome with emotion.