The Project Gutenberg EBook of Nobody's Girl, by Hector Malot This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Nobody's Girl (En Famille) Author: Hector Malot Illustrator: Thelma Gooch Translator: Florence Crewe-Jones Release Date: January 3, 2009 [EBook #27690] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOBODY'S GIRL *** Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jen Haines and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Bookcover "WHY, IT'S BEAUTIFUL," SAID PERRINE, SOFTLY. (See page 86) FrontPage Copyright, 1922, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY Printed in United States of America CONTENTS INTRODUCTION CHAPTER PAGE I Perrine and Palikare 1 II Grain-of-Salt is Kind 20 III "Poor Little Girl" 41 IV A Hard Road to Travel 47 V Storms and Fears 59 VI The Rescue 72 VII Maraucourt at Last 77 VIII Grandfather Vulfran 86 IX One Sleepless Night 95 X The Hut on the Island 110 XI Work in the Factory 115 XII New Shoes 130 XIII Strange Housekeeping 136 XIV A Banquet in the Hut 149 XV Aurelie's Chance 157 XVI Grandfather's Interpreter 166 XVII Hard Questions 175 XVIII Secretary to M. Vulfran 184 XIX Suspicion and Confidence 194 XX The Schemers 206 XXI Letters from Dacca 217 XXII A Cable to Dacca 227 XXIII Grandfather's Companion 238 XXIV Getting an Education 248 XXV Meddling Relatives 260 XXVI Painful Arguments 269 XXVII The Blind Man's Grief 277 XXVIII An Unrespected Funeral 285 XXIX The Angel of Reform 292 XXX Grandfather Finds Perrine 302 XXXI The Grateful People 307 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS I PAGE "Why, It's Beautiful," Said Perrine, Softly.(SEE PAGE 86) Frontispiece Something Warm Passing Over Her Face Made Her Open Her Eyes 72 "What's The Matter Now?" He Cried, Angrily 124 She Had Some Time Ago Decided On The Shape 139 She Tried To Do As She Was Told, But Her Emotion Increased As She Read 218 He Told Her That She Was Like A Little Daughter To Him 270 INTRODUCTION "Nobody's Girl," published in France under the title "En Famille", follows "Nobody's Boy" as a companion juvenile story, and takes place with it as one of the supreme juvenile stories of the world. Like "Nobody's Boy" it was also crowned by the Academy, and that literary judgment has also been verified by the test of time. "Nobody's Girl" is not a human document, such as is "Nobody's Boy", because it has more story plot, and the adventure is in a more restricted field, but it discloses no less the nobility of a right-minded child, and how loyalty wins the way to noble deeds and life. This is another beautiful literary creation of Hector Malot which every one can recommend as an ennobling book, of interest not only to childhood, page by page to the thrilling conclusion, but to every person who loves romance and character. Only details, irrelevant for readers in America, have been eliminated. Little Perrine's loyal ideals, with their inspiring sentiments, are preserved by her through the most discouraging conditions, and are described with the simplicity for which Hector Malot is famous. The building up of a little girl's life is made a fine example for every child. Every reader of this story leaves it inspired for the better way. The Publishers. NOBODY'S GIRL CHAPTER I PERRINE AND PALIKARE T WAS Saturday afternoon about 3 o'clock. There was the usual scene; outside the Gates of Bercy there was a crowd of people, and on the quays, four rows deep, carts and wagons were massed together. Coal carts, carts heaped with hay and straw, all were waiting in the clear, warm June sunshine for the examination from the custom official. All had been hurrying to reach Paris before Sunday. Amongst the wagons, but at some little distance from the Gates, stood an odd looking cart, a sort of caravan. Over a light frame work which was erected on four wheels was stretched a heavy canvas; this was fastened to the light roof which covered the wagon. Once upon a time the canvas might have been blue, but it was so faded, so dirty and worn, that one could only guess what its original color had been. Neither was it possible to make out the inscriptions which were painted on the four sides. Most of the words were effaced. On one side there was a Greek word, the next side bore part of a German word, on the third side were the letters F I A, which was evidently Italian, and on the last a newly painted French word stood out boldly. This was PHOTOGRAPHIE, and was evidently the translation of all the others, indicating the different countries through which the miserable wagon had come before it had entered France and finally arrived at the Gates of Paris. Was it possible that the donkey that was harnessed to it had brought the cart all this distance? At first glance it seemed impossible, but although the animal was tired out, one could see upon a closer view that it was very robust and much bigger than the donkeys that one sees in Europe. Its coat was a beautiful dark grey, the beauty of which could be seen despite the dust which covered it. Its slender legs were marked with jet black lines, and worn out though the poor beast [Pg 1] [Pg 2] was, it still held its head high. The harness, worthy of the caravan, was fastened together with various colored strings, short pieces, long pieces, just what was at hand at the moment; the strings had been carefully hidden under the flowers and branches which had been gathered along the roads and used to protect the animal from the sun and the flies. Close by, seated on the edge of the curb, watching the donkey, was a little girl of about thirteen years of age. Her type was very unusual, but it was quite apparent that there was a mixture of race. The pale blond of her hair contrasted strangely with the deep, rich coloring of her cheeks, and the sweet expression of her face was accentuated by the dark, serious eyes. Her mouth also was very serious. Her figure, slim and full of grace, was garbed in an old, faded check dress, but the shabby old frock could not take away the child's distinguished air. As the donkey had stopped just behind a large cart of straw, it would not have required much watching, but every now and again he pulled out the straw, in a cautious manner, like a very intelligent animal that knows quite well that it is doing wrong. "Palikare! stop that!" said the girl for the third time. The donkey again dropped his head in a guilty fashion, but as soon as he had eaten his wisps of straw he began to blink his eyes and agitate his ears, then again discreetly, but eagerly, tugged at what was ahead of him; this in a manner that testified to the poor beast's hunger. While the little girl was scolding him, a voice from within the caravan called out: "Perrine!" Jumping to her feet, the child lifted up the canvas and passed inside, where a pale, thin woman was lying on a mattress. "Do you need me, mama?" "What is Palikare doing, dear?" asked the woman. "He is eating the straw off the cart that's ahead of us." "You must stop him." "He's so hungry." "Hunger is not an excuse for taking what does not belong to us. What will you say to the driver of that cart if he's angry?" "I'll go and see that Palikare doesn't do it again," said the little girl. "Shall we soon be in Paris?" "Yes, we are waiting for the customs." "Have we much longer to wait?" "No, but are you in more pain, mother?" "Don't worry, darling; it's because I'm closed in here," replied the woman, gasping. Then she smiled wanly, hoping to reassure her daughter. The woman was in a pitiable plight. All her strength had gone and she could scarcely breathe. Although she was only about twenty-nine years of age, her life was ebbing away. There still remained traces of remarkable beauty: Her head and hair were lovely, and her eyes were soft and dark like her daughter's. "Shall I give you something?" asked Perrine. "What?" "There are some shops near by. I can buy a lemon. I'll come back at once." "No, keep the money. We have so little. Go back to Palikare and stop him from eating the straw." "That's not easy," answered the little girl. She went back to the donkey and pushed him on his haunches until he was out of reach of the straw in front of him. At first the donkey was obstinate and tried to push forward again, but she spoke to him gently and stroked him, and kissed him on his nose; then he dropped his long ears with evident satisfaction and stood quite still. There was no occasion to worry about him now, so she amused herself with watching what was going on around her. A little boy about her own age, dressed up like a clown, and who evidently belonged to the circus caravans standing in the rear, had been strolling round her for ten long minutes, without being able to attract her attention. At last he decided to speak to her. [Pg 3] [Pg 4] [Pg 5] "That's a fine donkey," he remarked. She did not reply. "It don't belong to this country. If it does, I'm astonished." She was looking at him, and thinking that after all he looked rather like a nice boy, she thought she would reply. "He comes from Greece," she said. "Greece!" he echoed. "That's why he's called Palikare." "Ah! that's why." But in spite of his broad grin he was not at all sure why a donkey that came from Greece should be called Palikare. "Is it far ... Greece?" "Very far." "Farther than ... China?" "No, but it's a long way off." "Then yer come from Greece, then?" "No, farther than that." "From China?" "No, but Palikare's the only one that comes from Greece." "Are you going to the Fair?" "No." "Where yer goin'?" "Into Paris." "I know that, but where yer goin' to put up that there cart?" "We've been told that there are some free places round the fortifications." The little clown slapped his thighs with his two hands. "The fortifications: Oh la la!" "Isn't there any place?" "Yes." "Well, then?" "It ain't the place for you ... round the fortifications! Have yer got any men with yer? Big strong men who are not afraid of a stab from a dagger. One who can give a jab as well as take one." "There is only my mother and me, and mother is ill." "Do you think much of that donkey?" he asked quickly. "I should say so!" "Well, the first thing he'll be stolen. He'll be gone tomorrow. Then the rest'll come after, and it's Fatty as tells yer so." "Really?" "Should say so! You've never been to Paris before?" "No, never." "That's easy to see. Some fools told you where to put your cart up, but you can't put it there. Why don't you go to Grain-of-Salt?" "I don't know Grain-of-Salt." "Why, he owns the Guillot Fields. You needn't be afraid of him, and he'd shoot anybody who tried to get in his place." "Will it cost much to go there?" [Pg 6] [Pg 7] "It costs a lot in winter, when everybody comes to Paris, but at this time I'm sure he won't make you pay more than forty sous a week. And your donkey can find its food in the field. Does he like thistles?" "I should say he does like them!" "Well, then, this is just the place for him, and Grain-of-Salt isn't a bad chap," said the little clown with a satisfied air. "Is that his name ... Grain-of-Salt?" "They call him that 'cause he's always thirsty. He's only got one arm." "Is his place far from here?" "No, at Charonne; but I bet yer don't even know where Charonne is?" "I've never been to Paris before." "Well, then, it's over there." He waved his arms vaguely in a northerly direction. "Once you have passed through the Gates, you turn straight to the right," he explained, "and you follow the road all along the fortifications for half an hour, then go down a wide avenue, then turn to your left, and then ask where the Guillot Field is. Everybody knows it." "Thank you. I'll go and tell mama. If you'll stand beside Palikare for a minute, I'll go and tell her at once." "Sure, I'll mind him for yer. I'll ask him to teach me Greek." "And please don't let him eat that straw." Perrine went inside the caravan and told her mother what the little clown had said. "If that is so," said the sick woman, "we must not hesitate; we must go to Charonne. But can you find the way?" "Yes, it's easy enough. Oh, mother," she added, as she was going out, "there are such a lot of wagons outside; they have printed on them 'Maraucourt Factories,' and beneath that the name, 'Vulfran Paindavoine.' There are all kinds of barrels and things in the carts. Such a number!" "There is nothing remarkable in that, my child," said the woman. "Yes, but it's strange to see so many wagons with the same name on them," replied the girl as she left the caravan. Perrine found the donkey with his nose buried in the straw, which he was eating calmly. "Why, you're letting him eat it!" she cried to the boy. "Well, why not?" he retorted. "And if the man is angry?" "He'd better not be with me," said the small boy, putting himself in a position to fight and throwing his head back. But his prowess was not to be brought into action, for at this moment the custom officer began to search the cart of straw, and then gave permission for it to pass on through the Gates of Paris. "Now it's your turn," said the boy, "and I'll have to leave you. Goodbye, Mademoiselle. If you ever want news of me ask for Double Fat. Everybody knows me." The employés who guard the entrances of Paris are accustomed to strange sights, yet the man who went into Perrine's caravan looked surprised when he found a young woman lying on a mattress, and even more surprised when his hasty glance revealed to him the extreme poverty of her surroundings. "Have you anything to declare?" he asked, continuing his investigations. "Nothing." "No wine, no provisions?" "Nothing." This was only too true; apart from the mattress, the two cane chairs, a little table, a tiny stove, a camera and a few photographic supplies, there was nothing in this wagon; no trunks, no baskets, no clothes.... "All right; you can pass," said the man. Once through the Gates, Perrine, holding Palikare by the bridle, followed the stretch of grass along the embankment. In the brown, dirty grass she saw rough looking men lying on their backs or on their stomachs. She saw now the class of people who frequent this spot. From the very air of these men, with their bestial, criminal faces, she understood why it would be unsafe for them to be there at night. She could well believe that their knives would be in ready use. [Pg 8] [Pg 9] [Pg 10] Looking towards the city, she saw nothing but dirty streets and filthy houses. So this was Paris, the beautiful Paris of which her father had so often spoken. With one word she made her donkey go faster, then turning to the left she inquired for the Guillot Field. If everyone knew where it was situated, no two were of the same opinion as to which road she should take to get there, and several times, in trying to follow the various directions which were given to her, she lost her way. At last she found the place for which she was looking. This must be it! Inside the field there was an old omnibus without wheels, and a railway car, also without wheels, was on the ground. In addition, she saw a dozen little round pups rolling about. Yes, this was the place! Leaving Palikare in the street, she went into the field. The pups at once scrambled at her feet, barked, and snapped at her shoes. "Who's there?" called a voice. She looked around and saw a long, low building, which might have been a house, but which might serve for anything else. The walls were made of bits of stone, wood and plaster. Even tin boxes were used in its construction. The roof was made of tarred canvas and cardboard, and most of the window panes were of paper, although in one or two instances there was some glass. The man who designed it was another Robinson Crusoe, and his workman a man Friday. A one-armed man with a shaggy beard was sorting out rags and throwing them into the baskets around him. "Don't step on my dogs," he cried; "come nearer." She did as she was told. "Are you the owner of the Guillot Field?" she asked. "That's me!" replied the man. In a few words she told him what she wanted. So as not to waste his time while listening, he poured some red wine out of a bottle that stood on the ground and drank it down at a gulp. "It can be arranged if you pay in advance," he said, sizing her up. "How much?" she asked. "Forty sous a week for the wagon and twenty for the donkey," he replied. "That's a lot of money," she said, hesitatingly. "That's my price." "Your summer price?" "Yes, my summer price." "Can my donkey eat the thistles?" "Yes, and the grass also if his teeth are strong enough." "We can't pay for the whole week because we are only going to stay one day. We are going through Paris on our way to Amiens, and we want to rest." "Well, that's all right; six sous a day for the cart and three for the donkey." One by one she pulled out nine sous from the pocket in her skirt. "That's for the first day," she said, handing them to the man. "You can tell your people they can all come in," he said, "How many are there? If it's a whole company it's two sous extra for each person." "I have only my mother." "All right; but why didn't your mother come and settle this?" "She is in the wagon, ill." "Ill! Well, this isn't a hospital." Perrine was afraid that he would not let her sick mother come in. "I mean she's a little bit tired. We've come a long way." "I never ask people where they come from," replied the man gruffly. He pointed to a corner of the field, and added: [Pg 11] [Pg 12] [Pg 13] "You can put your wagon over there and tie up the donkey. And if it squashes one of my pups you'll pay me five francs, one hundred sous ... understand?" As she was going he called out: "Will you take a glass of wine?" "No, thanks," she replied; "I never take wine." "Good," he said; "I'll drink it for you." He drained another glass, then returned to his collection of rags. As soon as she had installed Palikare in the place that the man had pointed out to her, which was accomplished not without some jolts, despite the care which she took, Perrine climbed up into the wagon. "We've arrived at last, poor mama," she said, bending over the woman. "No more shaking, no more rolling about," said the woman weakly. "There, there; I'll make you some dinner," said Perrine cheerfully. "What would you like?" "First, dear, unharness Palikare; he is very tired also; and give him something to eat and drink." Perrine did as her mother told her, then returned to the wagon and took out the small stove, some pieces of coal and an old saucepan and some sticks. Outside, she went down on her knees and made a fire; at last, after blowing with all her might, she had the satisfaction of seeing that it had taken. "You'd like some rice, wouldn't you?" she asked, leaning over her mother. "I am not hungry." "Is there anything else you would fancy? I'll go and fetch anything you want. What would you like, mama, dearie?" "I think I prefer rice," said her mother. Little Perrine threw a handful of rice into the saucepan that she had put on the fire and waited for the water to boil; then she stirred the rice with two white sticks that she had stripped of their bark. She only left her cooking once, to run over to Palikare to say a few loving words to him. The donkey was eating the thistles with a satisfaction, the intensity of which was shown by the way his long ears stood up. When the rice was cooked to perfection, Perrine filled a bowl and placed it at her mother's bedside, also two glasses, two plates and two forks. Sitting down on the floor, with her legs tucked under her and her skirts spread out, she said, like a little girl who is playing with her doll: "Now we'll have a little din-din, mammy, dear, and I'll wait on you." In spite of her gay tone, there was an anxious look in the child's eyes as she looked at her mother lying on the mattress, covered with an old shawl that had once been beautiful and costly, but was now only a faded rag. The sick woman tried to swallow a mouthful of rice, then she looked at her daughter with a wan smile. "It doesn't go down very well," she murmured. "You must force yourself," said Perrine; "the second will go down better, and the third better still." "I cannot; no, I cannot, dear!" "Oh, mama!" The mother sank back on her mattress, gasping. But weak though she was, she thought of her little girl and smiled. "The rice is delicious, dear," she said; "you eat it. As you do the work you must feed well. You must be very strong to be able to nurse me, so eat, darling, eat." Keeping back her tears, Perrine made an effort to eat her dinner. Her mother continued to talk to her. Little by little she stopped crying and all the rice disappeared. "Why don't you try to eat, mother?" she asked. "I forced myself." "But I'm ill, dear." "I think I ought to go and fetch a doctor. We are in Paris now and there are good doctors here." "Good doctors will not put themselves out unless they are paid." "We'll pay." "With what, my child?" [Pg 13] [Pg 14] [Pg 15] "With our money. You have seven francs in your pocket and a florin which we could change here. I've got 17 sous. Feel in your pocket." The black dress, as worn as Perrine's skirt but not so dusty, for it had been brushed, was lying on the bed, and served for a cover. They found the seven francs and an Austrian coin. "How much does that make in all?" asked Perrine; "I don't understand French money." "I know very little more than you," replied her mother. Counting the florin at two francs, they found they had nine francs and eighty-five centimes. "You see we have more than what is needed for a doctor," insisted Perrine. "He won't cure me with words; we shall have to buy medicine." "I have an idea. You can imagine that all the time I was walking beside Palikare I did not waste my time just talking to him, although he likes that. I was also thinking of both of us, but mostly of you, mama, because you are sick. And I was thinking of our arrival at Maraucourt. Everybody has laughed at our wagon as we came along, and I am afraid if we go to Maraucourt with it we shall not get much of a welcome. If our relations are very proud, they'll be humiliated. "So I thought," she added, wisely, "that as we don't need the wagon any more, we could sell it. Now that you are ill, no one will let me take their pictures, and even if they would we have not the money to buy the things for developing that we need. We must sell it." "And how much can we get for it?" "We can get something; then there is the camera and the mattress." "Everything," said the sick woman. "But you don't mind, do you, mother, dear?..." "We have lived in this wagon for more than a year," said her mother; "your father died here, and although it's a poor thing, it makes me sad to part with it.... It is all that remains of him ... there is not one of these old things here that does not remind us of him...." She stopped, gasping; the tears were rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, forgive me, mother, for speaking about it," cried Perrine. "My darling, you are right. You are only a child, but you have thought of the things that I should have. I shall not be better tomorrow nor the next day, and we must sell these things, and we must decide to sell...." The mother hesitated. There was a painful silence. "Palikare," said Perrine at last. "You have thought that also?" asked the mother. "Yes," said Perrine, "and I have been so unhappy about it, and sometimes I did not dare look at him for fear he would guess that we were going to part with him instead of taking him to Maraucourt with us. He would have been so happy there after such a long journey." "If we were only sure of a welcome, but they may turn us away. If they do, all we can do then is to lie down by the roadside and die, but no matter what it costs, we must get to Maraucourt, and we must present ourselves as well as we can so that they will not shut their doors upon us...." "Would that be possible, mama?... The memory of papa ... he was so good. Could they be angry with him now he is dead?" "I am speaking as your father would have spoken, dear ... so we will sell Palikare. With the money that we get for him we will have a doctor, so that I can get stronger; then, when I am well enough, we will buy a nice dress for you and one for me, and then we'll start. We will take the train as far as we can and walk the rest of the way." "That boy who spoke to me at the Gates told me that Palikare was a fine donkey, and he knows, for he is in a circus. It was because he thought Palikare was so beautiful that he spoke to me." "I don't know how much an Eastern donkey would bring in Paris, but we'll see as soon as we can," said the sick woman. Leaving her mother to rest, Perrine got together their soiled clothing and decided to do some washing. Adding her own waist to a bundle consisting of three handkerchiefs, two pairs of stockings and two combinations, she put them all into a basin, and with her washboard and a piece of soap she went outside. She had ready some boiling water which she had put on the fire after cooking the rice; this she poured over the things. Kneeling on the grass, she soaped and rubbed until [Pg 16] [Pg 17] [Pg 18] M all were clean; then she rinsed them and hung them on a line to dry. While she worked, Palikare, who was tied up at a short distance from her, had glanced her way several times. When he saw that she had finished her task he stretched his neck towards her and sent forth five or six brays ... an imperative call. "Did you think I had forgotten you?" she called out. She went to him, changed his place, gave him some water to drink from her saucepan, which she had carefully rinsed, for if he was satisfied with all the food that they gave him, he was very particular about what he drank. He would only drink pure water from a clean vessel, or red wine ... this he liked better than anything. She stroked him and talked to him lovingly, like a kind nurse would to a little child, and the donkey, who had thrown himself down on the grass the moment he was free, placed his head against her shoulder. He loved his young mistress, and every now and again he looked up at her and shook his long ears in sign of utter content. All was quiet in the field and the streets close by were now deserted. From the distance came the dim roar of the great city, deep, powerful, mysterious; the breath and life of Paris, active and incessant, seemed like the roar of a mighty ocean going on and on, in spite of the night that falls. Then, in the softness of the coming night, little Perrine seemed to feel more impressed with the talk that she had had with her mother, and leaning her head against her donkey's, she let the tears, which she had kept back so long, flow silently, and Palikare, in mute sympathy, bent his head and licked her hands. CHAPTER II GRAIN-OF-SALT IS KIND ANY times that night Perrine, lying beside her mother, had jumped up and run to the well for water so as to have it fresh. In spite of her desire to fetch the doctor as early as possible the next morning, she had to wait until Grain-of-Salt had risen, for she did not know what doctor to call in. She asked him. Certainly he knew of a good doctor! and a famous one, too! who made his rounds in a carriage, not on foot, like doctors of no account. Dr. Cendrier, rue Rublet, near the Church; he was the man! To find the street she had only to follow the railway tracks as far as the station. When he spoke of such a great doctor who made his rounds in a carriage, Perrine was afraid that she would not have enough money to pay him, and timidly she questioned Grain-of-Salt, not daring to ask outright what she wanted to know. Finally he understood. "What you'd have to pay?" he asked. "It's a lot, but it won't be more than forty sous, and so as to make sure, you'll have to pay him in advance." Following the directions that Grain-of-Salt gave her, she easily found the house, but the doctor had not yet risen, so she had to wait. She sat down on a bench in the street, outside a stable door, behind which a coachman was harnessing a horse to a carriage. She thought if she waited there she would be sure to catch the doctor as he left the house, and if she gave him her forty sous he would consent to come. She was quite sure that he would not if she had simply asked him to visit a patient who was staying in the Guillot Field. She waited a long time; her suspense increased at the thought that her mother would be wondering what kept her away so long. At last an old-fashioned carriage and a clumsy horse came out of the stables and stood before the doctor's house. Almost immediately the doctor appeared, big, fat, with a grey beard. Before he could step into his carriage Perrine was beside him. She put her question tremblingly. "The Guillot Field?" he said. "Has there been a fight?" "No, sir; it's my mother who is ill." "Who is your mother?" "We are photographers." He put his foot on the step. She offered him her forty sous quickly. "We can pay you," she hastened to say. "Then it's sixty sous," said he. [Pg 19] [Pg 20] [Pg 21] She added twenty sous more. He took the money and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. "I'll be with your mother in about fifteen minutes," he said. She ran all the way back, happy, to take the good news. "He'll cure you, mama; he's a real, real doctor!" she said, breathlessly. She quickly busied herself with her mother, washing her hands and face and arranging her hair, which was beautiful, black and silky; then she tidied up the "room," which only had the result of making it look emptier and poorer still. She had not long to wait. Hearing the carriage in the road, she ran out to meet the doctor. As he was walking towards the house she pointed to the wagon. "We live there in our wagon," she said. He did not seem surprised; he was accustomed to the extreme poverty of his patients; but Perrine, who was looking at him, noticed that he frowned when he saw the sick woman lying on the mattress in the miserable cart. "Put out your tongue and give me your hand," he said. Those who pay forty or a hundred francs for a visit from a doctor have no idea of the brevity with which the poor people's cases are diagnosed. In less than a minute his examination was made. "A case for the hospital," he said. Simultaneously, little Perrine and her mother uttered a cry. "Now, child, leave me alone with your mother," he said in a tone of command. For a moment Perrine hesitated, but at a sign from her mother she left the wagon and stood just outside. "I am going to die," said the woman in a low voice. "Who says that? What you need is nursing, and you can't get that here." "Could I have my daughter at the hospital?" "She can see you Thursdays and Sundays." "What will become of her without me," murmured the mother, "alone in Paris? If I have to die I want to go holding her hand in mine." "Well, anyway, you can't be left in this cart. The cold nights would be fatal for you. You must take a room. Can you?" "If it is not for long, perhaps." "Grain-of-Salt can rent you one, and won't charge much; but the room is not all. You must have medicine and good food and care, all of which you would get at the hospital." "Doctor, that is impossible," said the sick woman. "I cannot leave my little girl. What would become of her?" "Well, it's as you like; it's your own affair. I have told you what I think." "You can come in, little girl, now," he called out. Then taking a leaf from his note pad, he wrote out a prescription. "Take that to the druggist, near the Church," he said, handing it to Perrine. "No other, mind you. The packet marked NO. 1 give to your mother. Then give her the potion every hour. Give her the Quinquina wine when she eats, for she must eat anything she wants, especially eggs. I'll drop in again this evening." She ran out after him. "Is my mama very ill?" she asked. "Well ... try and get her to go to the hospital." "Can't you cure her?" "I hope so, but I can't give her what she'll get at the hospital. It is foolish for her not to go. She won't go because she has to leave you. Nothing will happen to you, for you look like a girl who can take care of yourself." Striding on, he reached his carriage. Perrine wanted him to say more, but he jumped in quickly and was driven off. She returned to the wagon. "Go quickly to the druggist; then get some eggs. Take all the money; I must get well," said the mother. "The doctor said he could cure you," said Perrine. "I'll go quickly for the things." But all the money she took was not enough. When the druggist had read the prescription he looked at Perrine. [Pg 22] [Pg 23] [Pg 24] "Have you the money to pay for this?" he asked. She opened her hand. "This will come to seven francs, fifty," said the man who had already made his calculation. She counted what she had in her hand and found that she had six francs eighty-five centimes, in counting the Austrian florin as two francs. She needed thirteen sous more. "I have only six francs eighty-five centimes. Would you take this florin? I have counted that," she said. "Oh, no; I should say not!" replied the man. What was to be done? She stood in the middle of the store with her hand open. She was in despair. "If you'll take the florin there will be only thirteen sous lacking," she said at last, "and I'll bring them this afternoon." But the druggist would not agree to this arrangement. He would neither give her credit for thirteen sous nor accept the florin. "As there is no hurry for the wine," he said, "you can come and fetch it this afternoon. I'll prepare the other things at once and they'll only cost you three francs fifty." With the money that remained she bought some eggs, a little Vienna loaf which she thought might tempt her mother's appetite, and then she returned to the Field, running as fast as she could all the way. "The eggs are fresh," she said. "I held them up to the light. And look at the bread! Isn't it a beautiful loaf, mama? You'll eat it, won't you?" "Yes, darling." Both were full of hope. Perrine had absolute faith in the doctor, and was certain that he would perform the miracle. Why should he deceive them? When one asks the doctor to tell the truth, doesn't he do so? Hope had given the sick woman an appetite. She had eaten nothing for two days; now she ate a half of the roll. "You see," said Perrine, gleefully. "Everything will be all right soon," answered her mother with a smile. Perrine went to the house to inquire of Grain-of-Salt what steps she should take to sell the wagon and dear Palikare. As for the wagon, nothing was easier. Grain-of-Salt would buy it himself; he bought everything, furniture, clothes, tools, musical instruments ... but a donkey! That was another thing. He did not buy animals, except pups, and his advice was that they should wait for a day and sell it at the Horse Market. That would be on Wednesday. Wednesday seemed a long way off, for in her excitement, and filled with hope, Perrine had thought that by Wednesday her mother would be strong enough to start for Maraucourt. But to have to wait like this! There was one thing, though: With what she got for the wagon she could buy the two dresses and the railway tickets, and if Grain-of-Salt paid them enough, then they need not sell Palikare. He could stay at the Guillot Field and she could send for him after they arrived at Maraucourt. Dear Palikare! How contented he would be to have a beautiful stable to live in and go out every day in the green fields. But alas! Grain-of-Salt would not give one sou over fifteen francs for the wagon. "Only fifteen francs!" she murmured. "Yes, and I am only doing that to oblige you. What do you think I can do with it?" he said. He struck the wheels and the shafts with an iron bar; then shrugged his shoulders in disgust. After a great deal of bargaining all she could get was two francs fifty on the price he had offered, and the promise that he would not take it until after they had gone, so that they could stay in it all day, which she thought would be much better for her mother than closed up in the house. After she had looked at the room that Grain-of-Salt was willing to rent, she realized how much the wagon meant to them, for in spite of the pride in which he spoke of his "Apartments," and the contempt in which he spoke of the wagon, Perrine was heartbroken at the thought that she must bring her dear mother to this dirty smelling house. As she hesitated, wondering if her mother would not be poisoned from the odor which came from the heaps of things outside, Grain-of-Salt said impatiently: "Hurry up! The rag pickers will be here in a moment and I'll have to get busy." "Does the doctor know what these rooms are like?" she asked. "Sure! He came to this one lots of times to see the Baroness." [Pg 25] [Pg 26] [Pg 27] That decided her. If the doctor had seen the rooms he knew what he was doing in advising them to take one, and then if a Baroness lived in one, her mother could very well live in the other. "You'll have to pay one week in advance," said the landlord, "and three sous for the donkey and six for the wagon." "But you've bought the wagon," she said in surprise. "Yes, but as you're using it, it's only fair that you should pay." She had no reply to make to this. It was not the first time that she had been cheated. It had happened so often on their long journey. "Very well," said the poor little girl. She employed the greater part of the day in cleaning their room, washing the floor, wiping down the walls, the ceiling, the windows. Such a scrubbing had never been seen in that house since the place had been built! During the numerous trips that she made from the house to the pump she saw that not only did grass and thistles grow in the Field, but there were flowers. Evidently some neighbors had thrown some plants over the fence and the seeds had sprung up here and there. Scattered about she saw a few roots of wall-flowers, pinks and even some violets! What a lovely idea! She would pick some and put them in their room. They would drive away the bad odor, and at the same time make the place look gay. It seemed that the flowers belonged to no one, for Palikare was allowed to eat them if he wished, yet she was afraid to pick the tiniest one without first asking Grain-of-Salt. "Do you want to sell them?" he asked. "No, just to put a few in our room," she replied. "Oh, if that's it you may take as many as you like, but if you are going to sell them, I might do that myself. As it's for your room, help yourself, little one. You like the smell of flowers. I like the smell of wine. That's the only thing I can smell." She picked the flowers, and searching amongst the heap of broken glass she found an old vase and some tumblers. The miserable room was soon filled with the sweet perfume of wall-flowers, pinks and violets, which kept out the bad odors of the rest of the house, and at the same time the fresh, bright colors lent a beauty to the dark walls. While working, she had made the acquaintance of her neighbors. On one side of their room lived an old woman whose gray head was adorned with a bonnet decorated with the tri-color ribbon of the French flag. On the other side lived a big man, almost bent double. He wore a leather apron, so long and so large that it seemed to be his only garment. The woman with the tri-color ribbons was a street singer, so the big man told her, and no less a person than the Baroness of whom Grain-of-Salt had spoken. Every day she left the Guillot Field with a great red umbrella and a big stick which she stuck in the ground at the crossroads or at the end of a bridge. She would shelter herself from the sun or the rain under her red umbrella and sing, and then sell to the passersby copies of the songs she sang. As to the big man with the apron, he was a cobbler, so she learned from the Baroness, and he worked from morning to night. He was always silent, like a fish, and for this reason everybody called him Father Carp. But although he did little talking he made enough noise with his hammer. At sunset Perrine's room was ready. Her mother, as she was helped in, looked at the flowers with surprise and pleasure. "How good you are to your mama, darling," she murmured as she clung to Perrine's arm. "How good I am to myself," Perrine cried gayly, "because if I do anything that pleases you, I am so happy." At night they had to put the flowers outside. Then the odors of the old house rose up terribly strong, but the sick woman did not dare complain. What would be the use, for she could not leave the Guillot Field to go elsewhere? Her sleep was restless, and when the doctor came the next morning he found her worse, which made him change the treatment, and Perrine was obliged to go again to the druggist. This time he asked five francs to fill out the prescription. She did not flinch, but paid bravely, although she could scarcely breathe when she got outside the store. If the expenses continued to increase at this rate poor Palikare would have to be sold on Wednesday. He would have to go now anyway. And if the doctor prescribed something else the next day, costing five francs or more, where would she find the money? When, with her mother and father, she had tramped over the mountains, they had often been hungry, and more than once since they had left Greece on their way to France they had been without food. But hunger in the mountains and in the country was another thing—there was always the chance that they would find some wild fruit or vegetables. But in Paris there was no hope for those who had no money in their pockets. [Pg 28] [Pg 29] [Pg 30] [Pg 31]