[UNIV. OF CAIIF. LTORAKY. T OS ANGELES 
 
 REDEMPTION
 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 The Nan . $1.00 
 
 (L'l8ol<5e) 
 
 The Coining Harvest SI. 25 
 
 (Le Ble" qui Lfeve) 
 
 Redemption . $1.25 
 
 (De toute son Ame)
 
 REDEMPTION 
 
 ("DE TOUTE SON AME") 
 
 BY 
 
 RENfi BAZIN 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 DR. A. S. RAPPOPORT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1908
 
 REDEMPTION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was closing time at Ville-en-Bois; men and 
 women were trooping out of the factories and 
 workshops, their hands and faces discoloured with 
 smoke, and with clinging particles of iron, brass, 
 tan, and the dust that swirled continuously around 
 the pulleys in motion. The more dilatory clocks 
 had not yet sounded the last stroke of seven. 
 The month of May was drawing to its close, and 
 a warm softness filled the evening air. Work was 
 over: the roar of the machinery was gradually 
 subsiding; the spiral clouds of coal dust above 
 the brick chimneys were growing less; voices 
 began to be heard between the walls of the Rue 
 de la Hautiere, and those of the old road to 
 Coueron, as well as in the higher quarter of Nantes 
 where the town adjoined Chantenay. 
 
 There was something impressive in this hour of 
 the day, when toil let loose her army of workers 
 on the streets. Recruits, veterans, women mar- 
 ried and unmarried, and dwarfed figures whom 
 one would have thought ten years old at most, if 
 the tone of their voices, and the precocious per- 
 
 i
 
 2 REDEMPTION 
 
 versity of their language, had not revealed their 
 manhood these once outside the factory doors 
 went their several ways, uphill or downhill, and 
 along side cuts, to the home or lodging where 
 shelter and soup awaited them. The crowd sepa- 
 rated by degrees into groups. Wives rejoined 
 their husbands, brothers, or lovers, and fellow- 
 lodgers leisurely sought each other out, evincing 
 no particular sign of pleasure when at last they 
 met. Something sad and weary dulled the bright- 
 ness of their glance, even among the younger 
 workers; the burden of the day weighed heavily 
 on all alike, and hunger was uppermost in each. 
 An occasional dull coarse remark, a spiritless joke, 
 or a hasty good-night, was all that passed between 
 them. Yet still among them could be seen, here 
 and there, the rosy cheeks of a young girl, or the 
 beardless and characterless face of a Breton youth 
 from Auray or Quimper who had so far escaped 
 the contamination of the workshop; the uplifted 
 eyes of one who passed along, as in a dream ; aged 
 men, rugged as old soldiers, walking in silence, 
 leading little children by the hand, in a mute and 
 weary happiness. The wind from the distant sea 
 was blowing across the waters of the Loire; over 
 the tops of the walls, bunches of lilac hung down 
 at intervals above the heads of the dun-coloured 
 procession of workers. 
 
 The married members of this population of 
 workers, and those who lived with their families, 
 leaving the others to distribute themselves about 
 the lower quarters of the town, took the road 
 which led upward to the hills of Chantenay,
 
 REDEMPTION 3 
 
 whence similar groups were descending toward 
 Nantes. In the midst of these cross currents of 
 blouses, jackets, and badly fitting cotton bodices 
 on the top of shabby skirts, a man, evidently of a 
 better class, had drawn up his dog-cart where the 
 road of la Hautiere began to descend. He was 
 tall, his face, though young, was already begin- 
 ning to fill out, a pointed black beard adding 
 somewhat to its length. He was dressed in a well- 
 cut suit of ordinary cloth ; this and his manner of 
 handling the reins, together with the good taste 
 displayed in the harness and the sober panelling 
 of the cart, betokened a family which had been 
 well-to-do for fifteen or twenty years at least. 
 What could have brought this young man among 
 a crowd of factory hands whom those of his class, 
 as a rule, were only too glad if possible to avoid, 
 although they might have found it difficult to 
 explain the reason for their dislike? He could 
 easily have taken one of the quieter side roads; 
 but no, there he sat, leaning forward a little on 
 the blue cloth cushion with gloved hands, the 
 whip laid across the slackened reins, looking fix- 
 edly ahead down the steep narrow street. The 
 men and women stared at him as they passed, 
 some with surly looks, others with indifference; 
 only now and then a hat was raised with a show 
 of reluctance, while the women, with their un- 
 covered heads, pointed their fingers at him and 
 then bent forward and laughed in malicious envy 
 of the shining buckles and glittering harness which 
 attracted their gaze. But the object of these 
 attentions watched the passing stream of figures
 
 4 REDEMPTION 
 
 with the impassive countenance of the master 
 who has grown familiar with crowds. Only a 
 quick eye could have detected the slight shade of 
 pity and of sadness that flitted across the calm, 
 unmoved face, when some of those who passed 
 close to his carriage wheels, pointedly abstained 
 from saluting him, or turned to those behind, 
 saying, "It's Lemarie''s son!" The news ran like 
 an electric shock along the road that was dark with 
 moving figures; it was passed from one to another, 
 and then back again, and whispered in every vari- 
 ety of tone of astonishment, of indifference, or of 
 smothered anger. ' ' Lemarie* 's son ! Lemarie's son ! ' ' 
 
 The man himself was evidently looking for 
 some one. Suddenly the hand which held the 
 whip went up and made a sign. A young man 
 about twenty years old, walking up the hill, arm 
 in arm with two others of his own age, turned his 
 head toward him. His companions, with a 
 barely intentional insolence, playfully tried to 
 hold him back, but he escaped from their grasp, 
 and going up to the side of the dog-cart, touched 
 his old felt hat. His keen gray eyes, with their 
 shifting colour, had caught those of his master's 
 son as the latter signed to him to approach, and 
 he now stood waiting and looking up with his 
 weasel-like face, barred on either side with short, 
 straight whiskers, a face full of eager alertness, on 
 which was reflected the agitation of an ever-surging 
 passion, of which the billows seemed continually to 
 be rising and falling within the depths of his eyes. 
 
 "Is your uncle any better, Antoine?" asked M. 
 Lemarie, in a quiet voice.
 
 REDEMPTION 5 
 
 "No, he is not getting on at all." 
 
 "His hand is as bad as ever? Has he tried the 
 remedies my mother sent him?" 
 
 "He cries out at times during the night. And 
 then the trembling fits disturb him." 
 
 "Poor man!" 
 
 "Yes, indeed! Remedies of what use are 
 they to a man, when his hand has been crushed to 
 pieces? No one believes that he will ever have the 
 use of it again. It's a farce to talk of remedies. 
 He ought to have his pension, Monsieur Lemarie." 
 
 A troubled expression came into the latter's 
 face, and he continued to look before him down 
 the road, as he answered : 
 
 "What would you have? He had better try 
 again, but let him go himself! And mind, above 
 all, no letter, no foolish threats! That sort of 
 thing does not answer with my father, as you 
 know well enough, Antoine." 
 
 "He will go, you may be sure of that," replied 
 the young man, as his lips straightened in a bitter 
 laugh. "He will go, and be hustled out of the 
 house as I was. And yet he has worked in the 
 factory for thirty years. You owe him a good 
 share of your horses and carriages." 
 
 Victor Lemarie, seeing that Antoine's friends 
 were listening, lifted his gloved hand and made 
 a sign to him to go on. 
 
 "You forget," he said, coldly, "that for thirty 
 years my father has provided him with the means 
 of living. I only wished to ask after Madiot; as 
 regards other matters, I am not the master." 
 
 The man walked on a step or two and then
 
 6 REDEMPTION 
 
 returned, this time half lifting his hat. "And 
 what if you were that master, Monsieur Lemarie"?" 
 
 Victor Lemarie' pretended not to hear, and 
 again looked down at the road up which some 
 scattered groups of men and women might still 
 be seen climbing. Clouds of dust were now rising 
 above the trampled highway, turning to golden 
 haze as the rays of the sun, which had sunk to the 
 level of the house-tops, shot through them. 
 
 The man waited a second to see if his master's 
 son would answer him, or if he would whip up his 
 horse, then he turned on his heel and was soon 
 lost again among the mass of his companions who 
 had already gone on ahead, and who were being 
 continually pressed forward by others coming up 
 from below. 
 
 By this time the weary line of figures was be- 
 ginning to look grayer and more mournful even 
 than at first, in the declining light of day. Victor 
 Lemarie was no longer on the lookout for any one 
 in particular; he sat gazing abstractedly at the 
 passing throng of men and women, all strangers 
 to him, all alike, who followed one another at 
 regular intervals, like the links of a chain. He 
 was not a bad-hearted man, and both his feelings 
 and his self-love were wounded by the conscious 
 sense of the proximity of so much unmerited ill- 
 feeling toward him. It seemed to enfold him, to 
 hold him in a grip of pain. He still sat upright 
 and immovable, apparently wrapped in contem- 
 plation of some distant scene, so that many seeing 
 him turned to look back toward the lower road, 
 where the factory stood; but it was on no par-
 
 REDEMPTION 7 
 
 ticular figure or object that his gaze was fixed; 
 the multitude of human beings that passed before 
 him formed but a single image to his eyes : that of 
 a gray mass with one face and one name the 
 factory worker who brushed past him, and went 
 on, conscious of two feelings alone, the weariness 
 of toil and hatred of the rich. 
 
 "What have I done to them?" he thought; 
 "why should they extend their enmity to me, 
 who am not their employer, and who have noth- 
 ing to do with my father's work-people? One of 
 the things that has reconciled me to taking no 
 part in the active life of the factory, was the false 
 belief that I should thus escape their distrust. 
 And instead they treat me as if I was their born 
 enemy. What a hideous conflict it is that thus 
 separates us into two camps, with no wish on our 
 side that it should be so! There must have been 
 sin indeed on the part of those who went before 
 us to have brought matters to such a pass! And 
 what a bitter fate it is to be hated in this way 
 here, there, and everywhere, just because I wear 
 this coat and drive this horse!" 
 
 And still the workers came climbing up the 
 hill. Their ranks, however, were growing thinner, 
 and a few old women, dragging their tired limbs, 
 betokened that the rearguard was filing past. 
 All below was now plunged in darkness; only the 
 top branches of the trees, the points of the gables, 
 and the chimneys caught some remains of light 
 from the tawny globe of the sun that was sinking 
 into the green bed of the fields behind Chantenay; 
 and hidden by the nearer houses, there were no
 
 8 REDEMPTION 
 
 doubt brigs and schooners sailing up the Loire, 
 with their sails, just tipped with white, swelling 
 before the refreshing breeze. The little that could 
 be seen of the town between the factory roofs at 
 the lower end of the road was now veiled in a mist 
 that had not lost the transparency of the blue 
 waters of the river from which it rose. Far off a 
 window sparkled as it caught the low rays of the 
 sun. Victor noticed also that the high factory 
 chimneys had ceased to vomit their smoke, and 
 that from the smaller ones around him it was ris- 
 ing in small gray plumes, that curled, and spread 
 and vanished in the air, a sure sign that the 
 worker had returned home, that the family were 
 together again, that for one short sweet waking 
 hour the mother had all her children round her. 
 The day's work was over. And as he realised this 
 restored harmony, and remembered for how short 
 a time it lasted, and then thought of that further 
 harmony, equally necessary, which had been de- 
 stroyed perhaps forever, he was conscious of a feel- 
 ing of sadness, mingled with anger, against those 
 who had gone before. He belonged to a gener- 
 ation that had to suffer for the rancour accumu- 
 lated by others. Moreover, he was aware that his 
 pity was greater than his courage, and this added 
 to his gloom and humiliation. 
 
 He little guessed that a few paces off from him 
 an aged priest, well known in the parish of Saint 
 Anne, was walking in the shelter of some bushes 
 and a cedar tree which formed his garden, gazing 
 toward the same horizon, and thinking the same 
 thoughts. Outside this quarter of the town he was
 
 REDEMPTION 9 
 
 as little known as the poor people whom he suc- 
 coured. Every evening, as the army of factory 
 workers came toiling up the hill, this old and un- 
 wearying friend, in return for no human recom- 
 pense, went out to the bare mound under his 
 cedar tree, between the branches of which he 
 could get a glimpse of the town, and there stood 
 listening to that tramp of poverty which he knew 
 so well, passing along on the farther side of the 
 wall. He had heard it now for twelve years, 
 always with the same emotion, and to-night as 
 usual he uttered the prayer that he had himself 
 composed in the simplicity of his heart. 
 
 "Lord bless the earth that now hides itself in 
 darkness, bless the town and its outskirts, the 
 rich down there that they may have pity, the poor 
 here that they may love one another: above all, 
 the poor, my God, and let the father as he returns 
 home be met by the children with the angel that 
 makes them smile. Keep husbands and wives 
 from quarrelling; let brothers live together in 
 peace; make happy for all the only hour when 
 they are together, young and old, so that not one 
 among them may curse Thee, but rather that they 
 may love Thee, Lord! I pray to Thee for all 
 those who will not pray to Thee to-night, I love 
 Thee for all those who love Thee not, I give my 
 life to Thee that theirs may be better and less 
 hard. Take it, if it please Thee. Amen." 
 
 God did not take him. He knew that he was of 
 use.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE road was now in darkness and almost de- 
 serted. Victor Lemarie" gathered up the reins, 
 and began driving at a foot pace down toward 
 the town. He turned off shortly along a street 
 which led through the outskirts to the Avenue de 
 Launay, whence by a short cut he reached the 
 boulevard Delorme, where he lived. The gas was 
 already lighted in the dim streets; few passers- 
 by were to be seen, for it was already the dinner 
 hour. Victor Lemarie* was now going at a good 
 pace ; just as he turned the corner of one of the 
 streets a young girl, who was in the act of crossing, 
 drew back with a start and stepped again on to 
 the pavement. She looked up and bowed slightly 
 as he took off his hat to her. In his salute there 
 was the alacrity natural to a young man finding 
 himself face to face with a young and good-look- 
 ing woman, and also some surprise, which might 
 be translated: "Can this charming girl really be 
 the sister of the workman who was speaking to me 
 up there?" 
 
 In the quick, hardly perceptible bow of Henri- 
 ette Madiot there was no trace of coquetry or of 
 surprise, or even of any particular interest in him. 
 She was one of the slender, lithe, young working 
 girls, whom one meets hurrying along every 
 morning at eight o'clock, two or three at a time, 
 
 10
 
 REDEMPTION 11 
 
 making their way to the workrooms of some 
 dress-maker or milliner. They look well dressed 
 in any scrap of clothing, for they are young 
 what becomes of the old women of that class? 
 but this scrap has been delightfully made up, for 
 they have the fingers of artistes and twenty mod- 
 els to copy from. They lend a charm to the street 
 which it misses when they pass on. Among them 
 are girls who cough and laugh. They are of the 
 people, occasionally by their gestures, and al- 
 ways by their pricked fingers, by the feverish 
 excitement and strenuousness of their life; but 
 not by their trade, nor by the dreams awakened 
 in them by their contact with a world with which 
 they grow familiar in spirit. Poor girls! whose 
 tasks are refined, and whose imaginations are 
 quickened by the fashions they serve; who, in 
 order to become good workwomen, must have a 
 taste for luxury, and are thereby rendered less 
 capable of resisting its temptation; for whom 
 men lie in wait, as they leave their workrooms, 
 and look upon as an easy prey, on account of their 
 graceful poverty and enforced liberty; who hear 
 everything, who see the evil among the lower 
 classes and divine that of the upper; who return 
 home at night to face afresh the poverty of their 
 condition, and who, whether they will or no, are 
 continually comparing the world they clothe with 
 the world to which they belong. The trial is 
 hard, almost too hard, for they are young, deli- 
 cate, affectionate, and more sensitive than most 
 to the caress of soft words. Those who resist soon 
 acquire a dignity of their own, and put on an air
 
 12 REDEMPTION 
 
 of studied indifference, which is a protection to 
 them, as is also their quick manner of walking. 
 Henriette Madiot was one of these. She had been 
 the object of considerable homage, and had 
 grown mistrustful of it. 
 
 Her bow was therefore but a slight one. She 
 was in a hurry. They were working late that 
 evening at the work rooms of Madame Clemence. 
 She drew the folds of her dress more tightly round 
 her with her gray-gloved hand, and with her eyes 
 directed somewhat above the heads of the other 
 foot-passengers she lightly crossed the road. 
 
 On entering the drawing-room of his father's 
 house in the boulevard Delorme, Victor Lamarie* 
 found a small company assembled. Besides his 
 mother, there were two old business men, M. 
 Tomaire and M. Mourieux, and an unmarried 
 woman of thirty, Estelle Pirmil, who had won the 
 second prize at the Conservatoire, gave lessons, 
 knew everybody in the town, and passed for an 
 original character. 
 
 His mother kissed him as he was making ex- 
 cuses for his late return. 
 
 "Are we not a nice family party? Mourieux 
 and Tomaire are both cousins of a kind; is it not 
 so, Mourieux?" 
 
 "I am honoured to think so," replied the stout 
 man, with a bow. 
 
 "You are forgetting that I am here," said 
 Mademoiselle Pirmil. 
 
 "I do not count you, my dear, you are at home, 
 as you know." 
 
 Fortunately M. Lemarie had not yet appeared.
 
 REDEMPTION 13 
 
 He was a great stickler for punctuality. A mo- 
 ment later he entered the room, a small, thin 
 man, with bristly white hair, and a long tuft of 
 beard under his short moustaches. Accustomed 
 evidently on entering any place to sum up at a 
 glance the number of people who happened to be 
 present, he counted the guests, saw that no one 
 was missing, and then stepped forward with ex- 
 tended hand. M. Lemarie never lost his self- 
 control, and he talked well. He had the peculiar 
 rigidity of mind and body which distinguishes the 
 man who has fought his way up, and is still 
 obliged to fight to maintain his position. As he 
 shook his son's hand, he remarked, speaking with 
 his lips only : 
 
 "Had a nice drive to-day? Was the air pleas- 
 ant?" 
 
 "Only tolerably so." 
 
 "That was a pity. I have been in a rush all 
 day myself." 
 
 Dinner being over, and the evening fine, they 
 went into the garden large, square-shaped, 
 damp, and surrounded by high walls, its neg- 
 lected condition contrasting with the comfort of 
 the well-kept house. The path which led round 
 the lawn was overgrown with moss, the branches 
 of the trees, planted along three sides of the en- 
 closures, straggled in unpruned disorder over the 
 clumps of withered geraniums. 
 
 The conversation, which had been kept up 
 pretty briskly until this moment, seemed sud- 
 denly to receive a check. The men grouped 
 themselves on one of the seats at the bottom of
 
 14 REDEMPTION 
 
 the garden under the acacia trees, and the two 
 women on another close beside it. The lawn, 
 funereal in colour, lay in front of them, and be- 
 yond it, far away, as it seemed, could be seen the 
 three steps, yellow with age, leading to the dining- 
 room, and just now brilliantly illumined by the 
 lamps and candles which were still alight. Sil- 
 houetted against this luminous background, which 
 attracted and fatigued the eye, could be seen at 
 intervals the dark figure of a servant, passing 
 across it like a puff of smoke. Far overhead, visi- 
 ble between the leaves of the trees, so far that no 
 one gave them a thought, the stars, shining with 
 a pale, blue light, lay sleeping. 
 
 A long sharp whistle broke the silence. 
 
 "Moll's workpeople only just going off," said 
 M. Lemarie. "They have been working late for 
 the last month, owing to the large orders that 
 have come in for the Chilian Navy." 
 
 "It's hard upon them," remarked Victor. 
 
 "You pity them?" 
 
 "Most sincerely." 
 
 The four men M. Lamarie*, M. Tomaire, M. 
 Mourieux, and Victor were sitting in a row on 
 the garden-seat, watching the smoke that curled 
 up from their cigars and formed a little cloud on 
 a level with their eyes. M. Lemarie remained si- 
 lent for a moment or two, and drew a few strong 
 whiffs from his cigar. His features stiffened into 
 an expression of stubborn determination at the 
 first word of contradiction. The lines round his 
 mouth and between his eyes grew deeper. It was 
 again the face of the factory owner, prompt and
 
 REDEMPTION 15 
 
 dictatorial in the defence of his own interests. 
 This diversity of opinion between him and his son, 
 due to the difference in their education, the age 
 in which they were born, and their surroundings, 
 was displeasing to him. Any allusion to the suf- 
 ferings of the working class he took as a personal 
 injury, since his conscience as an employer was 
 without reproach, for had he not always been 
 just, always shown respect to the law, and always 
 been unpopular? He replied, in a combative tone 
 and with a touch of irony: 
 
 "The Eight-hours' Day that's it, I suppose." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, it will be all the same to me if it's ten. 
 Look at me, I work fourteen hours a day, and I do 
 not complain. If you think the position of an 
 employer is an enviable one nowadays, it's be- 
 cause you are not one yourself. We make very 
 little profit, we risk everything; we are always 
 liable to absurd claims being made upon us by 
 those who have no knowledge at all of the busi- 
 ness, to say nothing of those put forward by the 
 workpeople, who understand too much. Is it 
 not so, Tomaire? Is it not so, Mourieux?" 
 
 "It's true enough," said Tomaire. 
 
 "Not entirely true," said Mourieux. 
 
 "Oh, I know you have a tender heart, Mour- 
 ieux, and it's proved by the manner in which you 
 treat your hands. You find them places, you 
 help them in every way, you would give up your 
 own house to them to live in. But one is not 
 obliged to do all this. And do they ever give 
 you anything in return? You are not simple
 
 16 REDEMPTION 
 
 enough to believe they do. They only laugh at 
 you." 
 
 "Some of them," replied Mourieux, quietly. 
 
 "I am not fond of people laughing at me. I 
 would not put up with it in my work rooms. Nor 
 will I have anything to do with journalists and 
 theorists, who have never even had a single per- 
 son under them, or with those who are always 
 weeping over other people's poverty, and there 
 has been a plague of them for the last ten years, 
 who want to come and interfere with the em- 
 ployer and sympathize with the working people. 
 If Victor sees a man in a blouse, he is overcome 
 with emotion at once." 
 
 "Not because of the blouse." 
 
 "He would like him to have an income of his 
 own. If they knew how to economize, they could 
 get an income in time from what we pay them; 
 but they are always wanting more money and 
 more leisure, and to have retiring pensions, so that 
 they may be spared the trouble of saving. Do 
 you tell me ?" 
 
 "I am not prepared to dispute with you. 
 These things are a matter of feeling with me. All 
 I know is that there is a growing feeling of unrest, 
 and that a new need has arisen." 
 
 "Not at all, my dear boy; there has always 
 been the same talk about everything, and about 
 this question of living, more or less acute accord- 
 ing to the age. Nothing is new." 
 
 "Yes, there is something new." 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 "The absence of love, of fraternity, if you pre-
 
 REDEMPTION 17 
 
 fer it. Nearly all the existing evil arises from that, 
 and everything would soon be set right if we only 
 loved one another. I have just been watching 
 some thousands of these working people file past; 
 they all appeared to look upon me as their enemy. 
 My birth alone makes them suspicious of me. 
 They do not know me, and yet they hate me. 
 They never come inside my house and I do not go 
 inside theirs." 
 
 "They come inside my house, assuredly." 
 "Pardon me, not inside your house. Inside 
 your factory, if you like, but that is a very dif- 
 ferent thing. From one year's end to the other 
 those men see only two representatives of their 
 master: his money and his foremen. They are 
 not likely to find much to affect them in those. 
 In the case of a dismissal the employer, it is true, 
 does the business himself ! But where is there any 
 bond, any pleasure in common, any daily, or even 
 occasional mark of friendship, or good-will, to 
 counteract the jealousy springing up afresh at 
 every turn, and the continual clashing of interests? 
 Can you see a sign of these anywhere? I cannot. 
 As to others of our class, like myself, who manu- 
 facture nothing and sell nothing, they seldom 
 enter the poorer districts, since it is understood 
 now that the rich and the poor have their sepa- 
 rate quarters in the towns. They are born, and 
 spend their lives, laugh or cry, within a stone's 
 throw of one another. And yet the two classes 
 never show the slightest sign of any relationship 
 with, or consideration for, one another. I tell you 
 that this sort of thing gives rise at times to suffer-
 
 18 REDEMPTION 
 
 ing, and that I myself suffer from it. The hatred 
 they bear us is born of this indifference far more 
 than from any positive grievances." 
 
 " Bravo!" cried Mademoiselle Estelle Pirmil, 
 wishing to bring about a diversion. "You know 
 how to preach well, Victor; you missed your 
 vocation." 
 
 The young man, who as he spoke had become 
 animated in a way which was unusual with him, 
 and who was now scraping the gravel with the 
 toes of his boots, answered with some temper: 
 
 "I dare say." 
 
 "I must confess," added the little woman, who 
 had caught nothing of the conversation except 
 the word "love," "I do not understand you, 
 Victor. No love? The poor people do not appear 
 to me to deprive themselves of that. You have 
 only to count the children swarming in the sub- 
 urbs: why, my baker's wife has seven!" 
 
 She laughed as she finished speaking, and her 
 shrill voice was, for a moment, the only sound 
 that rose above the deep silence of the night. 
 
 "People like that ought not to have more than 
 one or two children. That would be a reasonable 
 number. What do you say? " 
 
 Madame Lemarie", the mother, whose heavy, 
 ordinary face rarely betrayed any emotion, 
 moved her lips without speaking, while she put 
 out her hand and touched the arm of the second 
 prize-winner of the Conservatoire in order to stop 
 her. The latter did not understand the hint, but 
 left off speaking. 
 
 This empty-headed chatter provoked no reply,
 
 REDEMPTION 19 
 
 and the silence that followed was rendered the 
 more painful from the consciousness of those 
 present that the discussion between the father 
 and son, although carried on with apparent 
 courtesy, hid a deeper misunderstanding. 
 
 M. Lemarie", continuing to lean back in his seat, 
 threw away his cigar, which lay shining like a 
 glowworm upon the grass. Everybody began 
 looking toward this luminous spot in the midst 
 of the dark circle of lawn. And so they continued 
 sitting and gazing. Neither Mourieux nor M. 
 Lemarie's other friend had any wish to begin 
 a quarrel the first, because he knew that quar- 
 rels were of no avail; the second, for hygienic 
 reasons, and for fear of disturbing his feelings. 
 But their very presence and their silence were in 
 themselves aggravating. 
 
 M. Lemarie took up the conversation: 
 
 "It is charming to hear you talking of the love 
 of the people. But it would be well to add an 
 example of it. Can you do so?" 
 
 "Not one," replied Victor, raising his head. 
 "I am perfectly useless, and I know it. What is 
 more, I shall probably remain so." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "I might have had a different life altogether. 
 I asked you to let me come into the factory, and 
 you refused." 
 
 "I should think so! I have too much trouble 
 as it is to keep the factory going in these days of 
 competition. And I do it for the sake of my 
 workpeople, whatever you may think. You, my 
 dear son, would let it go to ruin."
 
 20 REDEMPTION 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "I am so sure of it, that, when my time is over, 
 the factory doors will be closed. It is my wish 
 that it should be so, and I shall take care that 
 my wish is carried out." 
 
 "As for that, you need have no fear. My de- 
 sires on that score are over; I have lost the habit 
 of work by this time." 
 
 Conscious of the awkwardness of this scene in 
 the presence of visitors, and at the same time not 
 wishing to appear to give in, Victor tried to turn 
 the conversation: 
 
 "I saw Madiot's son this evening." 
 
 "A bad lot!" 
 
 "Yes. I also met his sister." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 M. Lemari6 turned his head, which was resting 
 against the back of the seat, in the direction of his 
 son, whom he could only just distinguish in the 
 shadow, and shot a queer, sharp, inquisitive 
 glance toward him. 
 
 "Did you speak to her?" 
 
 "No. A quiet, lady-like girl, such a contrast to 
 her brother. You think well of her, do you not, 
 M. Mourieux?" 
 
 The old man addressed, not expecting to be 
 drawn into the conversation, made a face, hesi- 
 tated, and answered with the evident wish not 
 to commit himself: 
 
 "Yes, like a good many others of her trade, 
 she is not bad. They all come to my house." 
 
 Then raising his voice, so as to be heard by the two 
 ladies, who had started talking to one another again :
 
 REDEMPTION 21 
 
 "Do you not find it a little chilly, Mesdames?" 
 
 The men themselves agreed that the evening 
 was fresh, although there was neither dew, nor 
 wind, nor fog; and so they all rose and returned 
 to the house. 
 
 Madame Lemarie drew Mourieux back as they 
 were entering, and said in a slow voice : 
 
 "It is sad, is it not, Mourieux? But Victor, I 
 think, is in the right." 
 
 "Yes, Madame," replied the good man, "but 
 those are things which you can never teach, and 
 which do not bear discussing." 
 
 "My Victor has a good heart." 
 
 "Indeed he has," said Mourieux, timidly. 
 
 She had taken some gold out of her pocket, and 
 she now slipped the money into Mourieux's hand. 
 
 "Take it for your apprentices, for the li- 
 brary." 
 
 "She is the only really good person in this 
 house," thought Mourieux. "Her heart is sound 
 to the core. It stands her instead of brains and 
 it is worth more."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HENRIETTE MADIOT, crossing the road after Victor 
 Lemarie had driven past, went quickly on toward 
 the Rue Crebillon. At seven o'clock, the usual 
 hour for closing, Madame Clemence, the head of 
 the establishment, had opened the door of the 
 work room, and uttered the familiar formula: 
 "Mesdemoiselles, there will be overtime to-night." 
 Whereupon the apprentice had run off to pur- 
 chase ham and bread, and the girls had eaten a 
 hasty supper off the corners of the tables. It was 
 during this interval that Henriette Madiot, not 
 being hungry, had gone out to buy a few indis- 
 pensable articles of millinery. 
 
 She reentered the work room, carrying a small 
 parcel done up in tissue paper feathers, flowers, 
 and reels of brass wire, which she had bought at 
 Mourieux's place of business. She made haste to 
 repair lost time. The evening being so fine, she 
 had taken a turn round two or three blocks of 
 houses, so as to enjoy a little fresh air and relaxa- 
 tion after sitting for so many hours without mov- 
 ing. It did not take long for her youth and fresh- 
 ness to reassert themselves; the colour came into 
 her cheeks; her step grew light, her mouth, which 
 was a little wide, relaxed, the parted lips showing 
 her white teeth. As her friends had often re- 
 marked, she recovered her vivacity and light- 
 
 22
 
 REDEMPTION 23 
 
 heartedness more quickly than the others. She 
 was strong and well-made. At first sight, one 
 might have taken her for an English girl, with her 
 fair, wavy hair, that rose in light curls above her 
 forehead, and was gathered into a knot of shining 
 coils at the back, like a thick wisp of fresh straw 
 that sparkles as it is twisted, and her pale green, 
 sea-coloured eyes, that left on those who saw her 
 the impression of depth and clearness, and her 
 delicate complexion, her straight figure, the air 
 of calm self-possession. But the intelligent smile 
 that came so readily to her lips and was so loath 
 to leave them, the hands, and, above all, the per- 
 fect taste of her simple toilette, which bespoke 
 the well-to-do working girl, made it impossible to 
 mistake her French origin. 
 
 M. Mourieux, who had known her since she was 
 a child, was in the habit of declaring that there 
 was no other girl her equal, either in skill or in 
 natural distinction of manner. He wished her 
 well although unable to do much for her, for 
 Mademoiselle Henriette was not one to ask often 
 for advice, even from M. Mourieux. He was 
 pleased, however, when he heard her young friends, 
 not overindulgent as a rule, acknowledge that 
 Henriette Madiot's conduct was unimpeachable, 
 and that she would undoubtedly one day rise to 
 be forewoman under Madame Cl&nence, when 
 Mademoiselle Augustine's time was up. 
 
 Half-way down the Rue Crebillon she came to 
 the entrance of a passage, on the wall of which 
 was written in gold letters, on a black marble 
 slab, " Madame Clemence, Modes, first floor."
 
 24 REDEMPTION 
 
 With her figure thrown slightly back, and her 
 head a little to the left, she paused a moment to 
 examine, with the eye of a connoisseur, the con- 
 tents of a window dressed out with laces: then, 
 after a parting glance toward the street, as if in 
 farewell to the fresh outside air, she turned into 
 the passage and went upstairs. 
 
 At the head of the second flight of stairs was a 
 door on which was repeated the announcement 
 quoted above. Henriette turned the small brass 
 handle, gave a little nod to the cashier, who sat 
 dreaming in front of her account books, and 
 passed along the corridor, which was covered 
 with a thick, gray pile carpet. No milliner in 
 Nantes had such luxurious rooms as Madame 
 Clemence. The corridor lighted to the right by 
 a screen of ornamental ground glass, behind 
 which lay concealed rooms, shops, and beyond 
 them the work room opened on the left into two 
 adjoining rooms decorated with a skill and taste 
 that were quite intoxicating. The first of these, 
 of which one caught a glimpse between the half- 
 drawn portieres on first entering the corridor, was 
 devoted to the regular display of hats of all shapes 
 and colours. Models from Paris, and others cre- 
 ated on the spot, trimmed with ribbons, feathers, 
 or flowers, perched on stands of black wood of 
 varying heights, and arranged in groups with a 
 consummate understanding of the effects of light 
 and the happy mingling of colours. To the room 
 beyond, where the trying-on took place, Madame 
 Clemence owed half her fortune. Walls, arm- 
 chairs, and sofa were covered with pale-blue
 
 REDEMPTION 25 
 
 plush, which rolled in soft luxuriance around four 
 tall mirrors, over which, rising from pots hidden 
 in the corners behind the curtains, hung delicate 
 hot-house creepers, that were gently stirred by 
 every passing sweep of a skirt. There was no 
 woman to whom it was not a pleasure to enter 
 that room. The atmosphere of ease and elegance 
 that clung about it, the velvety softness of its 
 hangings, the subdued brilliance of the mirrors, 
 in which they saw their reflected images sur- 
 rounded by a frame of neutral tints, a few particu- 
 larly choice models here and there, placed so that 
 they caught every angle of reflection, tempted even 
 the wisest of her customers to extravagance and 
 routed the economy of the most prudent. Madame 
 Clemence was quite aware of all this. They bought 
 what she wished, the mute counsel of the little 
 plush-covered room determining their choice. 
 
 Henriette Madiot went along the corridor, past 
 the models and the trying-on room, and on arriv- 
 ing quite at the farther end opened the door of 
 the work room. 
 
 "It's you, is it, Mademoiselle Henriette?" said 
 the forewoman, in an ill-tempered voice. "You 
 have taken your time about it! We finished sup- 
 per more than ten minutes ago." 
 
 "Do you think so, Mademoiselle," replied Hen- 
 riette, composedly. 
 
 "I am sure of it, Mademoiselle." 
 
 Louise, the little red-haired apprentice, with fat 
 cheeks, put in: "And if you had but tasted how 
 salt the ham was!" 
 
 All the girls present began to laugh, delighted
 
 26 REDEMPTION 
 
 to have an excuse for doing so, for there was a 
 refreshment to them in laughter. The youngest 
 among them gave full vent to their merriment, 
 voice, eyes, lips, the whole face joining in, while 
 the other ones gave a quiet smile, not lifting their 
 eyes, the smile of those of superior age to whom 
 the fun of the children affords a passing amuse- 
 ment; then some of them, still plying the needle, 
 looked up for a moment to watch Henriette 
 Madiot. The latter, accustomed to the forewom- 
 an's remarks, pushed her stool toward the table, 
 near the door. She lifted her dress, seated her- 
 self, and said, as she drew toward her a half- 
 trimmed hat, which already boasted of three bows 
 of cream-coloured ribbon: 
 
 "The air out of doors is so delicious that it puts 
 one in quite a good temper." 
 
 Mademoiselle Augustine pretended not to hear, 
 and began undoing the packet that Henriette had 
 brought in. The apprentice turned her eyes 
 toward the upper part of the window, which was 
 not, like the lower panes, filled with fluted glass, 
 and through which could be seen the top of a tree, 
 waving against the sky. There was something to 
 her as beautiful as Paradise in that square of blue, 
 and she sighed. All the girls' heads were now 
 bending over their work, and the only sound was 
 that of the scissors, cutting the threads of the hat 
 shapes as they slipped over the workers' nails, of 
 the creaking of an old stool with loose joints, or 
 words hardly above a whisper: "Pass me the 
 wire, Mademoiselle Irma." "Do you know where 
 my cream tulle is, Mademoiselle Lucie?" "How
 
 REDEMPTION 27 
 
 I wish I could go out this evening, my eyes are 
 hurting me." Every now and then there was a 
 stifled gape. There was a more nervous gesture 
 about the hands now than in the morning. At 
 intervals, one of the workers would spread her 
 fingers out flat on the green cloth, and after look- 
 ing at them a moment, without speaking, close 
 them again over the needle. 
 
 Madame Clemence employed twelve young 
 women during the season; some of these were 
 working at two tables which ran parallel with 
 each other from the door to the window, allowing 
 a narrow passage between them, and the remainder 
 at two others placed against the walls, upon 
 which was hung a gray paper with blue flowers. 
 A stove near the window to the left, a large brown 
 cupboard for clothes on the other side, and some 
 strongly made stools with straw seats, constituted 
 the permanent furniture of the room. The re- 
 mainder was taken from the drawers in the morn- 
 ing, and put back into them again at night; it 
 consisted of the smaller necessaries and instru- 
 ments of the trade; reels of white and black cot- 
 ton, of brass wire, skeins of silk, long lengths of 
 ribbon, and feathers given out by the manager in 
 the adjoining room. The girls were seated at one 
 side only of each of the tables, the cutter-out next 
 to the trimmer, and Mademoiselle Augustine was 
 the only one who, besides the cutter-out, had a 
 "little hand" to wait upon her. The apprentice 
 did not belong to any one of the workers in par- 
 ticular, and her apprenticeship chiefly consisted 
 in running the errands of the house.
 
 28 REDEMPTION 
 
 The night had been slowly climbing up the sky, 
 and now the last rose-coloured cloud had disap- 
 peared. The twelve women still sat industriously 
 working, but it was only necessary to look at their 
 faces to see how the prolonged strain was telling 
 on brain and hand. There were dark marks round 
 their eyes, and now and then one of them would 
 pass her hand across her lids to keep away sleep. 
 In the heavy atmosphere which they had been 
 inhaling all day, and which was growing hotter 
 now that the lamps had been lighted, the breathing 
 grew quicker, as the young lungs gasped for life in 
 the air which was becoming every moment more 
 exhausted. Mademoiselle Irma gave a little hard 
 cough. Facing one another at opposite ends of 
 the tables, Mademoiselle Augustine and Henriette 
 Madiot were both busy trimming a hat. The 
 former was trying to adjust a bunch of red pop- 
 pies on a turned-up shape, but she could not get 
 it to set as elegantly as she wished. She was grow- 
 ing nervous. The face was thin, and already 
 worn, and now the lips kept parting with a quick, 
 painful movement. Henriette Madiot, her arms 
 slightly rounded, and her fingers meeting as she 
 folded a broad, cream-coloured ribbon into the 
 shape of a fan, was smiling from the depths of her 
 pale eyes, as she saw that this evening she was 
 able at the first attempt to give her work just 
 that turn which is the delight, the care, and the 
 livelihood of all young milliners, that finishing 
 touch of art, into which they put their youth, 
 their feminine imagination, the dream which their 
 twenty years would so gladly see realized for
 
 REDEMPTION 29 
 
 themselves, and which they resign to the rich, 
 indefinitely, for as long as their heads -can invent 
 and their fingers carry out an idea. 
 
 Outside, the reluctant stars, struggling with a 
 remnant of light, still refused to shine, but the 
 deep spaces of the sky were filled with them, as 
 with an impalpable powder, of which no single 
 grain is distinguishable. It was the hour when the 
 grass drinks the dew and is revived; when the 
 horses in the fields fall asleep on three legs under 
 the dwarf willows; through the window, had it 
 been opened, would have come the timid cry of 
 some bird of the marshes flying home. The 
 women sat on, stitching, cutting and shaping. 
 
 "Half-past eight," murmured Mademoiselle 
 Lucie, a stout blonde, who always wore her cuffs 
 turned back, and who could not aspire to the po- 
 sition of a trimmer on account of the perspiration 
 which broke out in beads on her wrists. "An- 
 other half-hour and we shall be off, and to-mor- 
 row is Sunday!" 
 
 She made a movement with her arm as if throw- 
 ing a cap up into the air. Some of the others 
 smiled. The greater number, fevered with work, 
 heard and saw nothing. Certain pressing orders 
 had to be finished. Their anxiety to get through 
 the work made them serious, as also the thought, 
 always uppermost on pay day, of home, where 
 the wages of the week were anxiously looked for 
 and often spent in advance. The same vision was 
 present under dark hair and fair, as the light from 
 the lamps fell on the stooping heads; the aged 
 mother, whom nearly all of them had to support,
 
 30 REDEMPTION 
 
 the brothers, the sisters, the inherited debts, 
 which they were paying off. Even those who 
 lived with their lovers were seldom without some 
 near relative who claimed their help, and they 
 had a feeling in common with the best and purest 
 in this sense of generous responsibility, which 
 lent a saving strength to their benumbed fingers, 
 and to the tired mind striving to concentrate it- 
 self on some bow of ribbon that had to be made 
 up or tastefully arranged. 
 
 The girls did not again lift their heads, and 
 the white necks, softly encircled with the mingled 
 light and shade, remained bent over their work. 
 
 A ring came at the outer door, and a moment 
 later the cashier appeared : 
 
 "Mademoiselle Augustine, a girl has called and 
 asks to see some one." 
 
 "At this hour!" 
 
 "She wishes to know if there is work to be had." 
 
 "Madame Clemence is at dinner, and cannot be 
 disturbed. Besides, you know there is no work, 
 the dead season is just coming on." 
 
 Then, on second thoughts, as the cashier shut 
 the door behind her: 
 
 "Just go and see, Mademoiselle Henriette. I 
 cannot leave my work. The flowers you brought 
 in will not sit properly. There is nothing chic 
 about them." 
 
 Henriette rose, and went to the end of the cor- 
 ridor. Waiting near the door was a young girl, 
 whose figure and dress were completely hidden by 
 a long black cloak, more fitted for winter wear 
 than summer. Instinctively she glanced down at
 
 REDEMPTION 31 
 
 the boots that tell-tale article of dress and 
 saw that they were in a pitiable condition, trod- 
 den to the ground and white with age at the tips. 
 Then she looked at the face, half-shadowed by the 
 brim of the hat, a face looking full at her, with 
 hard features, and dark, bright, deep-set eyes. 
 That which struck her most, however, was its 
 tragic, almost fierce, expression. She had surely 
 met with many rebuffs before coming here. There 
 was no effort on her part to appear agreeable, or 
 to plead her cause; to see her was to know that 
 the heart within her was as dark as death, and 
 that this wild-looking wayfarer of the streets, 
 who was asking almost haughtily for work, was 
 only waiting for her answer to solve a terrible 
 problem, of no account to others, and which was 
 known only to herself. She had her hand on the 
 door of the staircase, ready to turn and descend. 
 
 And so the girls stood for some moments face 
 to face with one another. A look of compassion 
 came into Henriette Madiot's face: 
 
 "You wish to speak to Madame Clemence? 
 She cannot see you just now." 
 
 " You mean there is no work? " replied the girl, in 
 a low, toneless voice. 
 
 "I am afraid not the season is ending, you 
 see." 
 
 "I understand," said the girl, speaking in the 
 same, dull, lifeless manner. 
 
 And with these words she turned and hurried 
 downstairs, going quickly, very quickly. She 
 was in haste, for her will alone enabled her to 
 bear up against her luckless fate. The sound of
 
 32 REDEMPTION 
 
 her feet, first on the carpet, and then on the oak 
 of the stairway, gradually grew less and less. 
 She was no longer visible. Henriette Madiot 
 stood for a minute or two, thinking to herself that 
 Misery had come knocking at the door, and was 
 being turned away. She recalled the hard ex- 
 pression on the face; she heard again that sound 
 in the voice, as of one who had lost her soul, or 
 whose soul was too dejected to show itself. A 
 feeling of pity took possession of her, and, urged 
 by a sudden impulse, she ran to the bottom of 
 the stairs. She almost knocked against the girl 
 at the end of the passage near the street. The 
 latter looked over her shoulder without stopping. 
 
 "Mademoiselle!" 
 
 The girl stopped, recognized Henriette, and 
 timidly stepped back on to the worn stone that 
 formed the threshold of the house; there she 
 stood motionless, her dark eyes fixed on Henri- 
 ette, who lowered her own, not knowing what to 
 say, or how to give expression to the pity that had 
 hold of her. 
 
 "Listen, it is true that the season is just at an 
 end, and that there is no work; but, perhaps, if 
 I spoke to Madame Clemence. You look so 
 miserable!" 
 
 The other drew herself up, and said in an 
 offended voice : 
 
 "You are mistaken. I am not miserable. All 
 I ask for is work." 
 
 Henriette, fearing that she had hurt her feel- 
 ings, replied gently : 
 
 "Forgive me. What is your name?"
 
 REDEMPTION 33 
 
 "Marie Schwarz." 
 
 "You know how to work?" 
 
 "If I did, I should have found something. 
 You understand!" 
 
 "Could you do the cutting out?" 
 
 "I have had no apprenticeship. I come from 
 Paris. I was a showroom model at a dressmak- 
 er's; look " 
 
 She opened her cloak as she spoke, and showed 
 a tall, elegant figure. 
 
 "Well, then, if you can do nothing." 
 
 A sudden look of sadness had fallen over Hen- 
 riette's face. She could hold out no hope, she 
 could see no way of helping this unhappy girl. 
 She looked at her as we look at those whom we 
 shall never see again, who are waiting to plunge 
 into the darkness and disappear, and whom yet 
 we would hold back if we could, unknown shadows 
 who bear some mark of fraternity, we hardly know 
 what, upon their foreheads. She opened her lips 
 to say good-by, when a sudden idea struck her 
 which brought a blush of pleasure to her cheeks. 
 She stretched out her arm quickly, and lifted the 
 large felt hat. ' ' Have you much hair? " she asked. 
 
 A mass of hair, dark, untidy and tangled, but 
 rich and heavy, fell half down on Marie's shoulder. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I see you have a quantity. With a 
 little curling, you might do for a trier-on." 
 
 Marie Schwarz turned paler. Her eyes grew 
 softer and longer, and within them shone the 
 mingled gleam of tears and a faint ray of happi- 
 ness. She put her hand out hesitatingly: 
 
 "I am in such need," she said.
 
 34 REDEMPTION 
 
 Henriette took the hand in its old black glove, 
 the fingers almost gone, and pressed it affec- 
 tionately : 
 
 "I must go. They will scold me. I will talk 
 to Madame Clemence to-night. Come to me to- 
 morrow morning, Rue FErmitage, near the court 
 des Herves at the corner, as you turn up. Ask 
 for Mademoiselle Henriette. I am well known. 
 Everybody knows me." 
 
 The girl stood still, looking after Henriette, 
 who disappeared up the dark staircase, feeling like 
 one raised from the dead. For three days she 
 had been roaming about on her sad quest, and 
 this was the first word of sympathy, the first 
 glimpse of hope that had been vouchsafed her. 
 It was such balm to her that she listened in dis- 
 trust and fear lest some one should return and 
 say: " We find there is no place for you. The va- 
 cancies are filled. The season is drawing to a 
 close." But no one came. 
 
 Henriette on her way back to the workroom 
 had to pass Madame Clemence's rooms; the lat- 
 ter, wondering at all the running to and fro, 
 opened her door and said severely: 
 
 " What is the matter?" 
 
 Then, recognizing her best hand, she continued 
 in quite a different tone of voice : 
 
 "What is the matter, Mademoiselle Henriette?" 
 
 Madame Clemence had a natural tact which 
 stood her in lieu of education. Although hardly 
 forty years of age, her hair was quite gray, though 
 her complexion retained its freshness and she was 
 always severely clad in a dress of black silk, with
 
 REDEMPTION 35 
 
 a mauve or brown bodice according to the season. 
 This simplicity of attire was as grateful to the 
 customers as the rich fittings of the showrooms, 
 for they felt that everything was done to please 
 them. Her hair powdered, and turned off her 
 face over a high fan-shaped puff, which made her 
 look like a marquise in one of the fashion plates, 
 also suited their taste. She spoke little and in a 
 correct tone of voice. But the real secret of her 
 success was the unmistakable intelligence she 
 displayed, and the infallibility of her judgment, 
 which was not delivered without a certain conde- 
 scension. Her verdict once passed, "This is ex- 
 actly the hat to suit you, Madame la Baronne, 
 this and no other," there was no further resistance 
 possible, and one's own will and preference gave 
 in without a struggle. She looked like an art critic, 
 pronouncing on the merits of a portrait. And 
 she was in a secondary sense an artist, with a per- 
 fect knowledge of combining flattery with per- 
 suasive authority. The woman was not without 
 kindness of heart, nor without remembrance of 
 her own early condition, for she had been only 
 a simple milliner's hand when she married her 
 husband, a rich commercial traveller, whom no- 
 body ever saw, and she was ready, in words at 
 least, to take a maternal interest in those under 
 her. She understood the shades of feeling that 
 were of so much moment in the management of 
 these young girls, half ladies themselves, who 
 were poor, nervous, extremely excitable, and in 
 whom any individual fancy was to be encouraged 
 as a precious gift. She smiled, therefore, as she
 
 36 REDEMPTION 
 
 recognized Henriette, who immediately resumed 
 her self-contained manner, and answered: 
 
 "It was some one who came after work." 
 
 "You told her there was none?" 
 
 "I told her that the season was far advanced 
 and that there was very little chance." 
 
 "No chance, you should have said." 
 
 "She has such splendid hair, Madame. She 
 would make more than a presentable model for 
 trying-on." 
 
 "I had no thought, as you know, of replacing 
 Mademoiselle Dorothe*e, when she left me after 
 the races." 
 
 "Any hat would look well on such a head as 
 that." ' 
 
 Madame Clemence laughed. 
 
 "But the trouble is that there will be no hats 
 to try on. In five or six months, if there was 
 need. ..." 
 
 "In five or six months she will be dead," said 
 Henriette, gravely, looking down at the toes of 
 her boots. 
 
 "Oh, dead!" 
 
 "Yes, Madame. She is without food, that is 
 certain, since she has hardly a boot to her foot. 
 She is a stranger to me. I only saw her for a 
 minute, but she is just the sort of girl to go and 
 kill herself, of that I am sure." 
 
 "You think so, really? She seemed an inter- 
 esting girl, then?" 
 
 "Yes, Madame, very interesting; I should be 
 so glad if you could " 
 
 "Could what?"
 
 REDEMPTION 37 
 
 "Just take her on trial, for two or three weeks." 
 
 The employer reflected a moment. She must 
 have been in an extra good humour, for she an- 
 swered : 
 
 "What a little artiste you are! I have noticed 
 before now that you had your proteges among the 
 poor. What is the name of this one?" 
 
 "Marie Schwarz." 
 
 "Very well, then, let Mademoiselle Marie come. 
 I have really no need of her, but I will take her in 
 to please you. Bring her to me on Monday." To 
 herself she added: "I am anxious to keep friends 
 with such a good worker as I have in you, whom 
 I intend one day to make my forewoman." 
 
 Henriette looked up and smiled; her eyes were 
 almost blue when she was pleased. 
 
 "Oh, thank you!" she said, with emotion. 
 "I am glad. I will explain things to her. She 
 shall sit beside me, and you will see what I shall 
 make of her." And with the faintest of bows, she 
 left Madame Clemence and returned to the work- 
 room. She found most of her fellow-workers pre- 
 paring to depart, taking down their coats and 
 searching for ties and umbrellas in the cupboard; 
 two or three, however, with flushed faces, were 
 still seated, struggling over their last stitches. 
 
 A few minutes later they were all hurrying out 
 past the cashier's deserted box. The ravages of 
 fatigue on these poor young faces of eighteen and 
 twenty were not visible in the dim light that fell 
 from the lowered gas jet, and already the eyes were 
 beginning to brighten with a sense of relief. A 
 fresh current of air met them as they descended
 
 38 REDEMPTION 
 
 the stairs; the sudden change of atmosphere 
 seemed almost to take the breath away from some 
 of them. Mademoiselle Augustine was obliged to 
 pause a moment and take hold of the side-rail. The 
 apprentice leaped down the stairs. She was the 
 only one whose petticoats were not long enough 
 to require lifting. Those in front waited when 
 they reached the street to say good-night to the 
 others : this simple leave-taking was no particular 
 mark of affection, or of politeness, but one of the 
 established customs among this fraternity of girl 
 workers. "Good-night, Mademoiselle Augustine," 
 " good-night, Inna," "good-night, Mathilde," 
 "good-night, Mademoiselle Lucie"; and these 
 prettily murmured farewells over, they all quickly 
 dispersed. Four of the girls turned to the left, 
 toward the Place Bretagne, the others in the 
 direction of Ville-en-Bois, or the quays, or, like 
 Henriette, toward the steep street known as de 
 I'Ermitage or de Miseri. The little group of mil- 
 liners hastening home through the thin mist that 
 rose from the Loire were soon scattered among 
 the different quarters of the town, calling out a last 
 quick good-night, as one by one they separated 
 from the others at the cross-ways. Work was no 
 longer their chief thought. They were tired, and 
 longing for home, for bed, for the night that 
 brought sleep and they hurried on their way. 
 Having reached the quays, Henriette Madiot 
 turned along the pathway that ran beside the 
 railway line, fearing to meet any of the sailors 
 who frequented the cafes on the other side. 
 To the left, darkly outlined against the stars,
 
 REDEMPTION 39 
 
 rose the masts of ships, rocking, as they lay side 
 by side, in measured motion, the last rhythm of 
 the sea which came there to die. Those lofty 
 masts of brigs and schooners were voyaging still. 
 Henriette looked at them, and felt herself already 
 at home. The old street she lived in ran uphill 
 from a spot just beyond the harbour station, and 
 had houses on one side only, as far as it reached 
 to the top of the slope. It was deserted at this 
 hour, and even the small boys were no longer 
 swinging on the iron cross-bars of the railings. 
 Half-way up the road curved back a little, and the 
 houses which projected at this point were stand- 
 ing out in the full light of the moon, which shone 
 with especial brilliance on one narrow tenement, 
 situated just at the spot where the road turned, 
 and so tightly squeezed between its neighbours 
 that it looked as if it had only been able to grow 
 in height. How its white walls glistened in the 
 moonlight! It might have been taken for the 
 house of a harbour-master, or for one of the old 
 square lighthouses, or for a church-tower that had 
 been whitewashed so as to serve as a beacon to 
 sailors. It had an air of importance, of beauty, 
 almost of youth, the more so that at its feet lay 
 the long shadows of the acacia trees planted in 
 the rock on the other side of the way for the sake 
 of the poorer people of the suburb. Henriette 
 smiled as she caught sight of it. She had loved it 
 ever since she lived in it, and she had lived in it 
 now for many years. With her artistic sense, the 
 smile was brought more quickly to her face by 
 things than by persons. Looking toward the
 
 40 REDEMPTION 
 
 house she saw that there was no light at the win- 
 dow of her own room, but that the oleander hi the 
 balcony under the roof glistened like a bush of 
 silver. 
 
 She paused in the road before going in. The 
 air was unusually mild, and the whole valley of 
 the Loire lay filled with mist and perfume, carried 
 thither by the west wind that blew softly and 
 steadily, without bringing a ripple to the surface 
 of the sluggish water that cradled the sleeping 
 moonbeams. With it was mingled the scent from 
 the ripe hay-fields. "We shall have a lovely day 
 to-morrow !" Not a cloud was to be seen. A 
 smack, with a red light at its prow, was slowly 
 approaching from the further side of the river. 
 Henriette turned, walked up to the door, and 
 went in.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SHE had grown fond of the neighbourhood and of 
 the house and street. Her best memories were 
 bounded by them. She had spent her earliest 
 youth at Chantenay, the district adjoining the 
 plateau of Miseri. She remembered a road, black 
 with coal, in which shoes sank to the ankle in 
 dust or mud; a low dwelling with no upper story; 
 a sweet-faced woman, her mother, very fair and 
 very silent, who sat in the same window-seat from 
 morning till night, making coarse linen shirts for 
 the sailors a figure of suffering and resignation, 
 whose distant, almost forgotten features she re- 
 called with difficulty. Henriette remembered no 
 walks in woods or fields, no Sunday holiday when 
 parents and children walked hand in hand ; noth- 
 ing but the walk from home to the school kept by 
 the Sisters, and the walk back with her little 
 basket emptied of bread and apples, in which the 
 ball of wool for her cosy-work rolled about. She 
 wondered sometimes when she thought of the 
 past. She was very young when she lost her 
 mother. She would say to herself: "I must have 
 her hair and complexion, and a little of her re- 
 serve. I keep my troubles to myself, and do not 
 show my heart even to those I love. I have often 
 heard that my mother was pretty when she was 
 twenty, but she was very worn when I knew her. 
 
 41
 
 42 REDEMPTION 
 
 What I remember best is her smile; it always 
 seemed to be saying good-by." 
 
 She seldom thought of her father, who died 
 some months later, and reproached herself for it 
 as ungrateful; but she had known still less of 
 him. Prosper Madiot was one of the countless 
 multitude of men incapable of skilled labour. 
 He was a navvy hired by the day or month, a 
 simple labourer with a rough voice and a vague 
 and sluggish mind, sometimes shaken by violent 
 awakenings. They made an ill-assorted couple, 
 he and his delicate, dreamy wife, who always 
 obeyed him with a kind of deep and sad humility, 
 so that the children, as they grew up, suffered at 
 the memory of such submission. Every night he 
 would come in, call for his soup, eat it, and go out 
 again to the " Society," where he drank a little 
 and smoked while he watched others play. In the 
 morning he was out before Henriette was up. 
 
 For Henriette, gayety, liberty, and life dated 
 from one winter evening, when she, a dishevelled 
 child of ten, worn out with crying, but already 
 consoled by strange sights and faces, left the 
 house at Chantenay with her Uncle Eloi. He led 
 by the hand her little brother a pale boy of seven, 
 who let himself be dragged along. She walked on 
 the other side, and whenever she raised her eyes 
 she could see her uncle's thick gray moustache 
 miles above her. They would have gone any- 
 where with him. Their mother and father were 
 dead, and the children followed their uncle, the 
 only relation they had left. They followed trust- 
 ingly, for he had said, "Come with me, children!
 
 REDEMPTION 43 
 
 Better not sleep here." Henriette was wrapped 
 in a white woollen shawl which covered her head 
 like a hood; Antoine was lost in an overcoat 
 much too big for him, which his uncle had bought 
 for him second-hand. The wind blew down the 
 Loire, freezing the mist upon the ships' cables and 
 masts, and on the beard of the old soldier, as he 
 said, "I have only one bed for both of you, but 
 there will be two to-morrow." Pedestrians passed 
 like black shadows about this remainder of a 
 family two little children and an old uncle. 
 " You shall see what fine pictures there are on the 
 walls," he went on, hoping to amuse the little 
 orphans he was taking with him, "the Emperor, 
 and Marechal Bugeaud, and the Taking of Algiers 
 . . . but you mustn't touch them, children; I 
 value my pictures as much as my discharge. 
 Then there is a shell in which the sea rolls and 
 never gets tired." They both looked with vague 
 admiration at Uncle Madiot, who walked rather 
 fast, very tall, with his chest well out, as if used 
 to carrying his knapsack, and his moustache, that 
 looked as if it were cut in stone against his clean- 
 shaven cheek. In the silence of the sleeping port 
 their humble destinies drifted toward the un- 
 known shelter. The children smiled, still shaken 
 now and then by an unconscious sob. The Her- 
 mitage showed clear against the sky, its pale 
 front higher than the masts of the schooners, 
 perched upon the peaked summit of the bare cliff 
 and seeming to lean over the abyss. " There is 
 the nest," said Uncle Eloi; and the children 
 thought, "Here is bedtime coming and a white
 
 44 REDEMPTION 
 
 pillow, and the end of the walk in the cold wind," 
 and they hurried along, crushing the bits of coal 
 on the quays with their ill-shod feet. 
 
 There Henriette had grown up, spoilt by her 
 uncle, adopted by the whole neighbourhood, and 
 growing so familiar with the people and their sur- 
 roundings that she sometimes fancied she had 
 been born among them. 
 
 It was a vast and densely-populated world, 
 bounded on one side by the rue de PErmitage and 
 on the other by the narrow street of King Baco. 
 The first row of houses, almost regular, hid a 
 second row of narrow courts and huts built upon 
 the side of the cliff, surrounded by tiny fenced 
 gardens, where reigned an everlasting odour of, 
 washing. Old people were not wanting, and chil- 
 dren swarmed. There was an ancient and aristo- 
 cratic population which had dwelt there for half a 
 century or more, and wandering colonies, game 
 which the bailiff hunts from place to place like a 
 bloodhound in the field of misery, a pitiful band 
 without friends, or the time to make any, or to 
 deplore the want of them. Henriette had gone 
 among them at an early age, and, poor as she 
 was, found others poorer than herself. They had 
 helped her to feel happy by comparison. 
 
 Oh, the lesson of such districts ! and the yearn- 
 ing pity they teach the heart for ever! Little 
 Henriette had seen suffering around her, and her 
 naturally tender heart opened to compassion. 
 Almost before she could understand, she had the 
 tender smile which is like a distant caress. The 
 little boys lying along the balustrades, as they
 
 REDEMPTION 45 
 
 watched her on her way to school, rather tall, in 
 her short dress, and caught the maternal glance 
 she cast upon them, would call out, " Good-morn- 
 ing, Mademoiselle." She did not stop nor speak 
 to them. They loved her at sight, and old men 
 did the same. 
 
 At her uncle's wish she nad continued to attend 
 the school kept by the Dames de la Sagesse on 
 Miseri hill for four years, while the boy went to 
 the municipal school of the district. The old 
 soldier followed a good impulse when he said to 
 Henriette, "Keep on with your schooling, little 
 one, and train your mind. You will have time 
 enough to use your needle afterward." As a 
 soldier who had spent a third of his life herding 
 with other men, and listening to their conversa- 
 tions, and who had lived in fancy through all the 
 light, infamous, or merely silly stories that go the 
 round of military cafe's, he knew that it was best 
 not to throw too soon an impressionable child like 
 Henriette into the corruption of the workrooms. 
 Thanks to him, Henriette lived a comparatively 
 sheltered life during the four years between ten 
 and fourteen, when the intelligence expands and 
 takes possession of a character already formed. 
 She remained very innocent, and therefore merry, 
 but with an underlying seriousness, and she had 
 cultivated her mind as much as is possible for a girl 
 of her station and surroundings. "The child loves 
 reading," said the Sister Superior in answer to 
 Madiot's inquiries. ' ' She has a taste for learning." 
 And these humble women had taught her all they 
 knew of arithmetic, geography, and history, and
 
 46 REDEMPTION 
 
 a great deal in the way of needlework, darning, 
 and even embroidery. 
 
 As she grew up a mysterious power developed 
 itself in her. The power of virginity, which is like 
 another soul, the influence of which is felt in 
 everything; in smiles and glance, in words, and in 
 the gesture of the proffered hand; the influence 
 of that which is gentle, but awe-inspiring, that 
 knows no evil but guesses at its pitfalls; of vir- 
 ginity which dies at a thought, against which all 
 the luxury of the world is arrayed, but which 
 passes unscathed through all, signed with the sign 
 of God. Yes, Henriette had this virginal charm 
 which all little schoolgirls have not, so that the 
 boys called her " Mademoiselle" though she was 
 as poor as the rest, and her uncle, when she raised 
 her clear eyes to his, saying, "I knew my lessons 
 well," felt an emotion he had never felt before, and 
 said to himself, "I must take good care of her!" 
 
 He would put on a ferocious air if he saw a 
 sailor or passer-by glance at her with evident 
 admiration when they were out together. He 
 would hurry away from Lemarie's factory at the 
 end of the day, so as to get back to his child, and 
 would never accept an invitation to spend the 
 evening with friends. Sometimes he would preach 
 her a little sermon, short and enigmatic, as befits 
 an old soldier. "You are my glory," he would 
 say, "and you see, Henriette, glory is like the 
 barrel of a rifle, there must be nothing to say 
 against it, absolutely nothing." But all this was 
 not of much account the girl's best safeguard 
 was his love for her.
 
 REDEMPTION 47 
 
 On this score he was beyond reproach. For her 
 sake he almost became sober, he economized, and 
 he broke off with old comrades, who were all very 
 well for himself, but who might have shocked the 
 child; he was even weak enough to learn a little 
 cooking. Was it not almost necessary? Henri- 
 ette had just been apprenticed. She was rather 
 tall for her age, and so tired when she came back 
 from the workroom at almost eight o'clock at 
 night! He was free himself at half-past six, and 
 he thought: "If I make haste out of the factory 
 at Gloriette Island, even if I linger to walk home 
 with a friend, I am home three-quarters of an 
 hour before the child. Why shouldn't I cook her 
 supper? It would be much nicer than for each of 
 us to get supper separately at the tea-shop. A 
 little spoiling does one good at that age." And he 
 did spoil her. He took lessons from Mother 
 Logeret, their neighbour on the first floor, who 
 had been cook at a chateau, and his regimental 
 experiences helped him as well. So it happened 
 that every night when Henriette opened the door 
 of her uncle's flat, she found the table laid, two 
 earthenware plates keeping warm on the stove, 
 and the old man waiting in his chair with the in- 
 variable greeting, "How late you are, child!" 
 
 The care which won him the affection of Hen- 
 riette had at first been lavished upon Antoine as 
 well. He had tried to keep the balance equal 
 between the brother and sister. But Antoine had 
 such a strange character, he was so unaffection- 
 ate, so unreliable! He was remarkably intelli- 
 gent and skilful, but his pride brooked neither
 
 48 REDEMPTION 
 
 correction nor reprimand. At first he accepted 
 the authority of Uncle Madiot, but even at an age 
 when children generally understand the reasons 
 for their dependence, his submission was still 
 purely physical. It was impossible to win the 
 confidence of the inquisitive-looking boy, who 
 knew every one and everything that went on in 
 the neighbourhood. It was his ambition to 
 escape from all authority. 
 
 At an early age he also went to work at the 
 Lemarie factory. Then, all of a sudden, when he 
 was fifteen, he left the factory, and the house in 
 the rue de 1'Ermitage, rented a garret in the town, 
 and apprenticed himself to an engine-fitter. 
 Ever since, the tie between him and Henriette 
 and the old man had been nearly broken. Not 
 only did he cease to take part in their family life, 
 but he never climbed the staircase of the house 
 where his sister and uncle lived. When he met 
 them in the street he would talk to them for a 
 few moments, excuse himself on the score of busi- 
 ness, and escape. 
 
 This sudden, inexplicable departure and atti- 
 tude of silent hostility, which Henriette's ad- 
 vances, entreaties, and tender reproaches could 
 not overcome, were the young girl's greatest grief. 
 Luckily she was ignorant of their motive, for that 
 motive was herself. 
 
 Antoine had heard the history of his own fam- 
 ily by chance one day when he was drinking in the 
 public-house with an overseer of the factory, a 
 man whom wine made talkative. The story was 
 more than twenty years old; it resembled many
 
 REDEMPTION 49 
 
 others, alas, unknown or vaguely suspected, 
 which threaten shame and danger to the poor 
 alone. Her mother at that time was a pretty, 
 little, pink and white work-girl. She had come 
 from Quimperle, where they are rather flighty, 
 with her grandmother, Madame Melier, to earn 
 a livelihood in the celebrated city of Nantes. As 
 it was then the end of spring she soon found a place 
 among the four hundred women employed to 
 shell peas for M. Lemari^'s preserve factory. 
 They were a queer crowd, assembled in a hurry. 
 They thought nothing of laughing at the easy 
 morals of the master, who often passed through 
 their midst; rather a good-looking man, young 
 enough still, and so rich, so rich! They named 
 as those who had been his mistresses, several of 
 the prettiest. Jacqueline Melier was almost flat- 
 tered when it was her turn to attract his attention. 
 
 A sheller of peas, a poor girl, an unprotected 
 stranger, and rather vain; she was a very easy 
 conquest. He won her like the rest at the cost 
 of a few compliments and gilt brooches, and a 
 little money. 
 
 But almost directly the adventure turned out 
 badly. Only a few weeks had elapsed when 
 Jacqueline Melier found that she was enceinte. 
 All would be known, her dishonour would be 
 made public, her shame ineffaceable. She sought 
 her seducer, and fell at his feet imploring him 
 to save her. He gave her two thousand francs. 
 For that sum a poor workman, who had come 
 down from the hills of Brest in search of bread, 
 was found willing to marry the girl. The child
 
 50 REDEMPTION 
 
 was born six months after the marriage; she was 
 Henriette Madiot. 
 
 Her mother never consoled herself for her sin, 
 she died of it slowly, consumed by the sight of the 
 growing child, whom she adored. No human be- 
 ing more carefully educated or of a more complex 
 nature could have been wiser in the art of self- 
 torture. She had no other thought for ten years. 
 The humble, gentle, resigned woman who sat 
 sewing all day in the corner of the window seat, 
 had her remorse always in sight, and thought of 
 nothing else. 
 
 All her life and strength were spent in trying to 
 get others to forget what she could never forget 
 herself. Directly after her marriage she said to 
 her brother-in-law, Eloi Madiot : 
 
 "I beseech you to stay at Lemarie's factory. 
 If you stay on, you, the old soldier, who, as every- 
 one knows, values his honour, evil gossip will die 
 out. Promise me to stay. Never let the child 
 know! Nor the others if there should be any!" 
 
 He promised her, and kept his place as a packer 
 in the factory. Later on, wishing to lull suspi- 
 cion, Eloi Madiot put Antoine to work with him 
 in the factory. And perhaps because of the atti- 
 tude of Madiot, who was feared, and his repeated 
 denials, dishonour was avoided and gossip was soon 
 silenced. 
 
 At present, in this world of the poor, every one 
 had forgotten the story. The parents were dead, 
 the former workmen dispersed; the children had 
 grown up elsewhere, in their uncle's house; Hen- 
 riette belonged to a higher class of workers; she
 
 REDEMPTION 51 
 
 was nearly twenty-four years old, and her brother 
 was twenty-one. 
 
 Unfortunately Antoine knew of this sad past. 
 It bred in him a lively and almost universal 
 hatred. Against Henriette, in the first place, the 
 intruder, whose beauty, distinction and happy 
 life excited his jealousy; he resented the place 
 she had usurped in the Madiot household, and the 
 caresses which he now remembered had been lav- 
 ished upon her. He often passed her in the streets 
 of Nantes. Generally he would greet her with a 
 mocking bow, or point her out to a comrade, say- 
 ing: "Look at that princess! isn't she smart? 
 Would any one think we had been brought up 
 together?" Sometimes, when he was alone, he 
 would stop her, always to ask for money. He 
 earned good wages, but he spent all he earned 
 and more with women, or with his comrades at 
 public balls. And when he was short of money, 
 he demanded it without shame of Henriette. 
 "She owes it to me," he thought, "she had more 
 than her share at home." The young girl gave it 
 to him, even depriving herself to do so, because 
 she hoped to win him back. 
 
 He had a grudge against his Uncle Eloi, for be- 
 ing under the influence of Henriette, for having 
 put him to work at the Lemarie factory, and 
 for having stayed on there himself. The se- 
 cret lay between them, and each one kept it to 
 himself, because their meetings were rare and 
 casual; because Eloi Madiot never thought it 
 possible that Antoine could have heard of these 
 remote events, and would never have been so
 
 52 REDEMPTION 
 
 imprudent as to question him; and because, in 
 spite of all his faults, in spite of his ill-regulated 
 mind and disorderly life, in spite of what he had 
 heard, Antoine, who had no affection for any 
 living being, had remained faithful to the mother 
 who bore him. To spare her, he was capable of 
 holding his tongue. He said nothing, but his 
 anger turned against the master, his son, and his 
 family, against all masters in general, his own and 
 those of others, all implicated to his mind in the 
 sin of one. Speeches heard at public meetings, 
 conversation, and reading had all contributed to 
 that end. Antoine was enrolled in the army of 
 hatred and revolt, among the obscure who play 
 no part. Like many another he had not been 
 driven to it by any doctrine, but by hidden per- 
 sonal resentment. The words fell upon his 
 wound, reopened and poisoned it like the dust of 
 iron filings. All his ideas were but vague words 
 concealing a well-defined grudge. 
 
 Henriette knew nothing of all this. She led an 
 almost easy life ; she was fond of her work, of her 
 home, and of her own room, which was like a 
 chapel in its silence. To-night in going upstairs 
 she felt more keenly than usual the pleasant sense 
 that shelter gives to those who are familiar with 
 bad weather. How often had she gone up and 
 down the wooden stairs so worn at the edges, so 
 pointed and narrow at the side of the corkscrew 
 banisters! There were red tiles on the first land- 
 ing, a door-mat and a copper bell-handle, Madame 
 Logeret's flat. Another flight of stairs, another 
 door-mat and a hare's foot at the end of a cord ;
 
 REDEMPTION 53 
 
 Henriette pushed open the door and went in. A 
 loud hoarse voice called out: 
 
 "Overtime again to-night! They are trying to 
 kill you." 
 
 "Oh, no, uncle! The daughter of the Marquise 
 du Muel is going to be married; her hats must be 
 finished," she answered, laughing. 
 
 "The Marquise, oh, dear me, yes!" 
 
 Eloi Madiot often repeated the words of his 
 interlocutors. It was just an old soldier's trick 
 and generally meant nothing. But this time 
 Madiot had an idea, as the girl kissed him and 
 passed into the next room, her own pretty room, 
 to put away her hat, gloves, and sunshade; in 
 repeating the word "marquise" he meant to im- 
 ply: "I only know one, and that's you, my little 
 girl, whom I have brought up. You are worth 
 the lot of them in grace and beauty; I am glad 
 to see you again." He kept his eyes fixed upon 
 the door through which Henriette had just 
 passed. 
 
 He was seated beside the little stove which had 
 been fixed in the fire-place. On the high mantel- 
 piece above it burned a small petroleum lamp, 
 which threw down a cone of crude light taking in 
 the chair on which Madiot was seated, the table 
 on which Henriette's supper was laid, and a few 
 of the cracked tiles. The old man had white hair, 
 a brick-red face, and a thick chapped nose. Un- 
 der his white hair and eyebrows, and between the 
 hairs of his moustache, the red colouring showed 
 here and there, like the strokes of a paint-brush. 
 Madiot was like one of those old shepherds whose
 
 54 REDEMPTION 
 
 bodies have been hardened and chapped all over 
 by the mountain wind. Before he left the regi- 
 ment, he had an air of lassitude and passivity. 
 He was the man who has always obeyed. His 
 thoughts waked slowly, but often his eyes would 
 grow moist at a word, showing that this man of 
 untrained mind had tenderness and even delicacy 
 of heart. 
 
 At this moment he was moved by Henrlette's 
 arrival. He had not risen to kiss her as usual, be- 
 cause of his wounded left hand, which had been 
 nearly crushed five weeks before, by the fall of a 
 pile of full packing cases. He wore his arm in a 
 sling, supported by a red cotton handkerchief 
 pinned to his coat. But the girl's arrival had 
 been sufficient to banish all thought of the long 
 day spent alone with his pain. Bending forward 
 he listened to the sound of Henriette's steps on 
 the boards (for there was a wooden flooring to her 
 room), to the sound of a hat-pin falling into a 
 glass jar, and the rustle of a silk lining thrown over 
 the back of a chair. 
 
 "How are you to-night, uncle?" 
 
 "A little better, my dear, now you are here!" 
 
 His solitary suffering was at an end. 
 
 Close to Madiot the line cast by the light of the 
 lamp shone upon the tiled floor, and beyond that 
 little corner of warmth and light the room showed 
 almost bare, furnished only on the right by a 
 wooden bedstead with red curtains, decorated 
 with a pair of woollen epaulettes, a lithograph 
 representing Napoleon I, Napoleon III, and the 
 Prince Imperial in the same crown of laurels; an-
 
 REDEMPTION 55 
 
 other lithograph of Marechal Bugeaud; and an- 
 other whose chief feature was the smoke round 
 some ships bombarding a town; this represented 
 the Taking of Algiers. Further on was a framed 
 certificate, his discharge from military service; 
 fourteen years of good conduct, without a report. 
 The light faded gradually from the walls. At the 
 other end of the room a square of dark blue flecked 
 with gold, where the open window showed the 
 sky. 
 
 The girl reappeared, setting with her fingers the 
 stray locks of golden hair loosened by her walk. 
 The charming gesture made a singular contrast 
 with the humble room and the old soldier. 
 
 "I have seen Antoine," said her uncle. 
 
 "Ah! Did he come here?" 
 
 "No, you know I went down to the harbour 
 to get some fresh air, and I met him." 
 
 "What did he say? Reasons, as usual?" 
 
 "He told me that he had met young Lemarie; 
 and that I must go again and demand my pension, 
 Monday, without fail." 
 
 "If I were you, uncle, I would leave that pen- 
 sion alone, since they refuse it! Aren't we happy 
 enough together? If you cannot work any more, 
 I will work for both." 
 
 "I know, I know, my dear but he was dread- 
 fully angry." 
 
 Madiot would not admit that he was afraid of 
 his nephew. He dreaded to cross the bad-tem- 
 pered, quarrelsome workman, whom he esteemed 
 so little. 
 
 Henriette sat down. She knew all about this
 
 56 REDEMPTION 
 
 question of demanding a pension, she had heard 
 it over and over again. But she loved Uncle 
 Madiot. Before tasting her soup she smiled at 
 the old man, out of charity, and also out of grat- 
 itude. She even assumed an air of interest. 
 "Come, tell me all about it," she said, gayly.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IT was a beautiful day. Life abounded in the 
 pure air, deep draughts of it were drawn in with 
 every breath, and the body at its contact thrilled 
 with joy. Every winged creature had emerged 
 from nest and hole and nightly shelter. The 
 sailors on the banks called aloud to each other, 
 and the echoes were louder than usual. Scented 
 gusts of air came in at Henrietta's window, peals 
 of laughter, chance words of passers-by, the twit- 
 ter of martins hunting prey, all the gayety of the 
 outdoor world, calling "Come out! Come out!" 
 The girl was aware of it; she was ready, parasol 
 in hand, her veil tied over her hat with the two 
 white pigeon wings that suited her so well. Her 
 uncle had been gone since the morning for one of 
 his " walks round the harbour" that lasted the 
 whole of Sunday. She waited, passing impa- 
 tiently from room to room, sometimes looking 
 out of the open window and thinking: "What 
 beautiful sunshine! What a pity to miss any of 
 it." 
 
 Where should she go? Her plan had been made 
 long ago. She would go and see the Loutrels, on 
 the banks of the Loire. She had promised Ma- 
 dame Loutrel, the wife of the best eel-fisher known 
 from Thouare to Bass-Indre. How nice the walk 
 would be, how merry the arrival, and how sweet 
 
 57
 
 58 REDEMPTION 
 
 the journey back in the warmth and the languid 
 light of the endless summer evening. 
 
 Toward half-past nine she heard the voice of 
 the lodger on the first floor saying to some one on 
 the stairs: 
 
 " Higher up, Mademoiselle, pull the hare's 
 foot." 
 
 The bell rang timidly, announcing some poor 
 visitor. Henriette opened the door, and the 
 same impression of pity which she had felt the 
 night before overcame every other sentiment. 
 Marie Schwarz still wore the hopeless expression 
 which had become habitual to her, the same hard- 
 ened look and eyes which seemed to ask nothing 
 but the date of some new misfortune. 
 
 "I have come," she said, simply. "There is no 
 place for me, is there?" 
 
 Henriette had drawn her into the middle of her 
 uncle's room, opposite the window. She held her 
 hand and looked with her clear eyes into the 
 sombre eyes that no light could brighten. 
 
 "Oh, yes, there is. I have got you one. It was 
 hard work!" 
 
 Marie's face did not change; she answered like 
 a hungry person who is vaguely promised food : 
 
 "When shall I have it?" 
 
 "To-morrow; you are to come with me to- 
 morrow, Monday." 
 
 Then Henriette felt the heavy moist hand she 
 held tremble in her own, she saw a sudden light in 
 the deep, troubled eyes. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Mademoiselle, how I thank 
 you!"
 
 REDEMPTION 59 
 
 Marie Schwarz made a movement as if to kiss 
 Henriette; then she drew back quickly, and, 
 overcome by the sudden strong emotion, slowly 
 closed her eyes as if she were about to faint. 
 Henriette was struck by the largeness of her 
 closed eyes, and the expression of gentleness her 
 face took on as soon as they were hidden. She 
 had an impression of the poor girl as dead and 
 carved in white stone. But she shook it off at 
 once, like the brave girl she was, and said gayly: 
 
 "Well, Mademoiselle, I give you good news and 
 you begin to cry." 
 
 "No; you see I am not crying." 
 
 Marie tried to smile, but two tears brimmed 
 over and fell. 
 
 "Do you know what's the matter with you," 
 said Henriette, "you have too many nerves." 
 
 She drew a chair forward, made Marie sit down, 
 and sitting down beside her, said: 
 
 "See what a fine day it is! When the sun 
 shines I soon forget my troubles." 
 
 "Ah! your troubles are not heavy." 
 
 "Do you think not? I assure you every one has 
 their troubles, and every one thinks their own 
 heavy. Now they go and now they come." 
 
 The clear morning light was creeping along the 
 wall on the right. 
 
 Henriette watched it for a moment in silence, 
 thinking what it would be best to say; then she 
 continued, without moving : 
 
 "Have you suffered very much, then, Made- 
 moiselle Marie?" 
 
 "Very much."
 
 60 REDEMPTION 
 
 "It is so hard at the beginning, in every trade. 
 Is your mother alive?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You left her in Paris? Why did you come 
 alone? Did she tell you that you would find work 
 here?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 "Who did, then?" 
 
 "No one, it was my own idea." 
 
 Marie hesitated, but as Madame Clemence's 
 beautiful workwoman still kept her eyes upon the 
 wall with the air of a sympathetic elder sister 
 who knows all about it, she ventured to speak. 
 Her voice, which had been quavering till then, 
 grew firm, it was a voice full of passion, ringing 
 like a trumpet call, filling the room with music. 
 
 "I understand that you would like to know all 
 about me and that is quite natural: when you 
 find a girl a place you ought to know where she 
 comes from. I will tell you. My mother is a 
 concierge, not at all aristocratic, out at Clignan- 
 court. She never looked after me because she 
 never had time. She does housework until five 
 o'clock. We used to meet at bedtime. Oh! don't 
 think she is bad, she is not. She used to let me 
 keep nearly all the money I earned. That's not 
 bad, for a mother, is it? I had about enough for 
 food and clothes. See this dress and jacket I 
 have on. I bought them out of my savings the 
 spring before last. Only she was cross with me 
 because I am not clever at work, and she is so 
 quick and handy." 
 
 "What did you do?"
 
 REDEMPTION 61 
 
 ''Miserable work, Mademoiselle, the sort of 
 jobs that girls do who have no trade. Just fancy! 
 I have made workmen's coats that took half a day 
 to make, at eight sous apiece, and men's shirts at 
 five sous each, and supplied the cotton, and I have 
 made beaded trimmings at three sous for two 
 yards! I tired my eyes out at it, always bending 
 over it. Then, through influence of course, I 
 managed to get a berth as showroom model at 
 Noblet's. I was getting on all right. Then Mama 
 got ill at the beginning of winter, we ran up heavy 
 debts." Here her voice sank again and grew hard. 
 "When she got better we could not pay our debts. 
 She said I was old enough to manage for myself, 
 she could not lodge me any longer. One must 
 live, mustn't one? So there, don't let's talk 
 about it. I could not stay at home any longer, 
 that's all. So I went away." 
 
 Henriette did not flinch. She had heard such 
 stories before. She had seen such things and wept 
 over them many times. It was the people of the 
 street who came to her in their complete destitu- 
 tion. Her eyes, which were fixed upon the win- 
 dow, shrank for a moment as from a piteous 
 object. Then they grew soft and wide, and fixed 
 themselves upon the poor child, who felt herself 
 loved already. 
 
 "Have you nothing to do to-day, Mademoiselle 
 Marie?" 
 
 "No, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Then you must come with me. I am going to 
 the Loutrels, they are very old friends of mine, 
 fishermen of the Loire. I will tell them you are
 
 62 REDEMPTION 
 
 one of Madame eminence's workgirls; that is a 
 passport. They are such dear people! Will you 
 come?" 
 
 Marie mentally compared her shabby black 
 jacket and last year's hat, which looked like 
 an old bird's nest, with Henriette's pretty hat, 
 with the two white wings, and fresh light gray 
 dress. 
 
 "How can I come, dressed like this?" 
 
 A peal of laughter was the only answer. The 
 sunshine crept further along the tiled floor. 
 
 "Ah! you are vain! Is that what prevents you? 
 Wait a moment." 
 
 Henriette ran into the next room, and returned 
 with a lace tie, a black feather, and a little gray 
 cloth cape with brown trimmings. 
 
 "Now you will see how smart I can make 
 you!" 
 
 Then, with pretty movements of her deft fin- 
 gers, she took off the jacket, threw the little cape 
 over her friend's shoulders, tied the lace scarf in a 
 butterfly bow, pinched up with three easy touches 
 the old hat that seemed to remember its long-lost 
 shape, stuck the black feather like an aigrette in 
 the middle of the limp bow, and then drew back 
 to admire her handiwork. 
 
 "Quite charming," she cried. 
 
 Marie's face brightened, the natural young girl 
 awoke in her; she gently stroked the cloth that 
 hung in ample pleats about her shoulders; her 
 eyebrows lost their frown and smoothed them- 
 selves into two dark arches above her eyes; her 
 thick red lips took an air of decision.
 
 REDEMPTION 63 
 
 "Now, I should like to go," she said. 
 
 They went down together. The street door 
 closed behind them, and they mingled with the 
 moving crowd of peasants and townsfolk that 
 thronged upon the quays.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THEY kept step together, one tall and fair, the 
 other dark and of middle height. They held their 
 heads rather high, talking quietly without gestures, 
 and looking straight ahead. They might have 
 been taken for two sisters, used to walking to- 
 gether, who know their way and pursue it lightly 
 and wisely among the loiterers of the town. The 
 tramways rolled by full of humble folks bound for 
 a day in the country, some with fishing poles that 
 showed above the roof of the conveyance. But 
 the washing-boats were all empty and rocked in 
 silence, on the rigging and yards of the large boats 
 anchored by the quay the shirts and trousers of 
 the crew hung drying in the wind. It was Sun- 
 day. Henriette and Marie followed beside the 
 railway fence along the Nantes quays, between 
 the river and the rows of sailors' taverns and shops 
 of sailmakers and agents ranged in sight of the 
 Loire. 
 
 "How yellow the water is, Mademoiselle Hen- 
 riette, and how fast it flows." 
 
 "The river must be rising I hope it will not 
 spoil the day." 
 
 "Are they mowing now?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, because of the rising water which 
 threatens the low fields. I think they will even 
 go on mowing to-day." 
 
 61
 
 REDEMPTION 65 
 
 They passed the Bourse station. Henriette had 
 already greeted several friends, escaped for the 
 day from their workrooms, like herself. One of 
 them walked arm-in-arm with a young man. They 
 laughed because they loved each other, and their 
 love was quite new. They crossed the bridge, 
 and Marie followed them for a long time with her 
 sombre, ardent eye. 
 
 As they reached the end of the Bouffay quay, 
 a gust of wind almost blew away their hats. 
 
 "How lovely to feel the wind," said Henriette, 
 "I have to do without it all the week, in the 
 workroom at least, for at home we are so high up 
 that no feather could keep in curl." 
 
 "I think it is a nuisance, it makes one untidy," 
 said Marie, pinning up her heavy locks, which 
 were always coming down. 
 
 By this time the breath of the Loire, with its 
 fragrance of poplar, had begun to blow around the 
 two girls. It passed in fresh gusts, seeking the 
 sails and mills, and wandering over the country 
 like bees in search of clover. Between each gust 
 the atmosphere seemed dead; it promised to be 
 a very hot day. Henriette and Marie followed 
 the Saint-Felix canal, and so gained the banks of 
 the real Loire, no longer pressed upon by houses, 
 or broken by islands, but flowing wide and slow 
 in an unbroken stream, between meadows lightly 
 set with trees. Toward the east, on the far hori- 
 zon, these trees were grouped and drawn together, 
 by the effect of distance, so that the river seemed 
 to flow from a blue forest, and then they showed 
 more widely scattered, waving above the grass in
 
 66 REDEMPTION 
 
 lines of pale foliage through which the light filtered. 
 The stream flowed in the middle, gradually widen- 
 ing the yellow ripples of its waters. The rising 
 water covered the sandbanks. The ripe grass bent 
 over the banks and plunged into the current. A 
 single pleasure boat, hidden beneath its sails, 
 glided along the opposite bank. 
 
 Henriette had waited to reach this point, mean- 
 ing to say: 
 
 "See how pretty it is! The Loutrels' cottage 
 is still a long way off over there." But when she 
 glanced at Marie, she saw her looking so pale, that 
 it changed the current of her thoughts, and she 
 felt only an invincible desire to eonsole that 
 human suffering. 
 
 They were walking along the towing-path 
 through the grass, Marie lagging behind a little. 
 
 "Take my arm, Mademoiselle Marie, you are 
 tired/ 
 
 "Yes, I am; the air makes me giddy. I am 
 strong, I assure you, quite strong, only I soon get 
 giddy.'; 
 
 "It is only because you have been miserable, 
 you will soon pick up in Nantes. When you have 
 a room of your own, furnished to suit your own 
 taste that is really restful." 
 
 "Yes; it must be nice to have a room of one's 
 own, with one's own furniture I should like mine 
 to be blue." 
 
 "Blue let it be!" said Henriette. "I will help 
 you. When you have saved a little I will take 
 you to a woman who sells second-hand chintzes, 
 ever so cheap."
 
 REDEMPTION 67 
 
 "I would rather have new stuff, you know," 
 said Marie, smiling at the thought, "even if it 
 were not so good I should like it better." 
 
 "Why, you are like me! Nothing is too new or 
 too white to please me. I think if I were rich 
 I should have the most beautiful linen." 
 
 "I would rather have jewels. When I pass the 
 shops and see necklaces and rings, they seem to 
 hold me back. But I shall never be rich." 
 
 "How do you know?" If you get married?" 
 
 A real laugh rang out and floated away on the 
 wind. Marie's face was turned toward the dis- 
 tance beyond the Loire. The sun tinged her pale 
 cheeks with gold; her teeth shone white, her eyes 
 flashed with a tawny-brown light. She was 
 beautiful at that moment in spite of her heavy 
 features, beautiful as all passionate beings, with 
 the beauty of feeling. Henriette recognized that 
 splendid laugh of life, she had sometimes heard it 
 before, among her companions, and she felt afraid. 
 She knew the danger of such laughter. It was 
 soon over, however; Marie's eyes darkened, she 
 hung her head, and said : 
 
 "Girls like me, Mademoiselle Henriette, are 
 married to misery, and the marriage is not easily 
 dissolved." 
 
 She had the same tragic air as she had worn the 
 day before, as of one abandoned by all and dogged 
 by misfortune. 
 
 The two girls walked on in silence for a time; 
 then Henriette, who knew that some wounds 
 must not be touched, even to heal them, said 
 simply:
 
 68 REDEMPTION 
 
 "Look at the daisies. What a lot there are in 
 the Mauves field!" 
 
 The earth lay before her all in flower. The 
 meadow wore its garment of ripe grass, its green 
 broken here and there by patches of daisies, but- 
 tercups, or purple clover. Every step broke down 
 the interlacing grasses. The wind upon the har- 
 vest field made shimmering lights like the flashing 
 of a steel blade. It blew away the pollen of myri- 
 ads of flowers like a mist of foam. All the creat- 
 ures that dwell in the earth had come out of their 
 holes with joyous cries. It was the height of 
 summer, the drunken season, when life flows day 
 and night beneath the stars, for man to drink. 
 
 "See, isn't it beautiful? Don't you feel as if 
 we breathed in happiness?" 
 
 Henriette's free and open nature, used to the 
 country from her childhood, loved to walk thus 
 in the light and fragrance of noon, beside the 
 sunlit Loire. 
 
 She could not have expressed her feelings. 
 She felt the caress of the warm air to the very 
 depths of her being; she was conscious of her 
 youth of soul and body; a voice seemed to whis- 
 per: "You are strong, you are pretty. You will 
 get on in the world. Life is long, life is radiant." 
 She tried in vain to put the thought aside, to dis- 
 tract herself from it by looking about, the voice 
 came from within speaking in secret. Marie, be- 
 ing surprised and rather tired, heard no such 
 voice, but fatigue at least helped her to forget. 
 
 Every now and then they crossed ditches that 
 were like baskets of aquatic plants in flower, where
 
 REDEMPTION 69 
 
 fumitory, poppies, mint, and beaded sorrel flour- 
 ished in the dry ooze. But at the bottom, among 
 the roots and low grasses, a slender stream of 
 muddy water was beginning to flow. On the sur- 
 face of the river the ripples were spreading wider 
 than usual; they opened out like the jaws of well- 
 fed beasts gasping with heat. The Loire was ris- 
 ing. Twelve strokes rang out from some church 
 steeple, and floated over the fields, like a file of 
 birds calling one to the other. 
 
 Another hundred yards. Then a child called, 
 two others came out, and all three rushed to meet 
 the travellers. 
 
 "They are a large family of boys," said Henri- 
 ette, "there are seven of them, all jolly. Good- 
 morning, Gervais! Good-morning, Henri! Good- 
 morning, Baptiste." 
 
 They were twelve, ten, and seven years old. 
 They rushed forward, bareheaded and barefooted, 
 dressed in nothing but a pair of men's trousers and a 
 shirt, with braces a hand's-breadth in width. 
 The last flung himself against Henrietta's skirts. 
 They all kissed her, and eyed Marie like young 
 watch-dogs, suspicious of a stranger. 
 
 "They are expecting you, Mademoiselle Hen- 
 riette," said Gervais, who was tawny as a lion 
 cub. "Mother has scaled the roaches. Etienne 
 had a job to catch them." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Of course, because of the rising! If they had 
 not been for you, he would never have taken so 
 much trouble." 
 
 "How good of Etienne! We are such old
 
 70 REDEMPTION 
 
 friends," said Henriette, blushing a little. She 
 took the two youngest Loutrels by the hand, 
 with a motherly smile, and went into the cottage. 
 It was built of strong tarred planks, and stood 
 upon a mound in the fields, high enough to pro- 
 tect the inmates from ordinary risings of the 
 river. Between the front of the cottage and the 
 adjacent river bank, on a sloping square of ground, 
 three-parts bare of grass, nets hung on stakes to 
 dry, and wicker creels pointed upward. People 
 passing in the distance might suppose that this 
 wooden shelter whose only garden consisted of 
 garlands of drag-nets, was a fisherman's hut, in- 
 habited in summer only. But this was not so; 
 the Loutrels had lived in it all the year round for 
 many years. The door opened on a large room, 
 which took up nearly the whole of the cottage, 
 and served as a kitchen, a workshop and the par- 
 ents' bedroom. A cast-iron stove for cooking, a 
 cherry-wood bedstead, a table its legs mildewed 
 with damp, a coffer and a bin, formed the whole of 
 the furniture; these were set close together and 
 ranged in exact order as if on board a ship. On 
 the other side of the partition wall was the sons' 
 bedroom. Above both rooms, instead of a ceil- 
 ing, fishing implements and provisions lay among 
 the beams and rafters, packets of line, skeins of 
 hemp and flax, boxes pierced with holes for keep- 
 ing fish, strings of threaded cork, sweep-nets, 
 wicker creels, sacks of onions, oars, tholes, rudders, 
 rolls of sailcloth, rope ends, a thousand things, 
 useful and useless, old and new, such as accumu- 
 late in garrets.
 
 REDEMPTION 71 
 
 The fisherman and his wife were both types of 
 the lean determined race, pale-eyed and clear- 
 headed, which the Loire, in the course of time, 
 has made in its own image. Children of shad and 
 eel fishers, hard-working, but capricious, tender 
 of heart and short of temper, impenitent and 
 convicted poachers, they understood fishing, and 
 hunting, the wind and waters, sands and boats, 
 and beyond these things they knew nothing, but 
 how to weep when they must and laugh on Sun- 
 days over a glass of muscadet. A fine race, per- 
 haps Gallic, but certainly French. 
 
 Their seven sons resembled their parents. Two 
 of the eldest sailed the seas for the State and one 
 was in the merchant service. 
 
 Henriette and Marie went into the cottage pre- 
 ceded by the little Loutrels shouting : 
 
 ' ' Here they are ! Here they are ! ' ' 
 
 The fisherman and his wife were standing by 
 the stove at the end of the room; he held in his 
 hand the battered straw hat which he had just 
 removed; and both her hands were busy with the 
 frying-pan in which the fish was cooking. They 
 had the same bony faces, bronzed complexions, 
 long, clear-cut features, and keen, deep-set eyes. 
 The woman wore the peasant bonnet of Nantes, 
 with goffered wings. 
 
 "We are rather late," said Henriette. "I have 
 a friend from Paris with me, and she cannot walk 
 as fast as I can." 
 
 "She is welcome, my dear. Good-morning, 
 Mademoiselle! Is every one quite well in Paris?" 
 
 Marie, rather taken aback by the Southern sim-
 
 72 REDEMPTION 
 
 plicity of this polite question, answered: "Very 
 well, thank you, Madame," while Henriette kissed 
 Madame Loutrel on both cheeks. 
 
 "What smacking kisses!" said the old man. 
 ' ' Kisses of youth ! Ohe, Etienne ! " 
 
 A strong arm pushed open the door between the 
 two rooms, and Etienne, twenty-five years old, 
 came in, smiling. His long legs, upturned mous- 
 taches, and his air of energy, made him look like 
 one of those gallant cavaliers that painters love 
 to depict heading a charge. He had on his work- 
 ing clothes a brown coat without buttons, and 
 trousers and waistcoat of coarse linen. Had not 
 he and Henriette been friends from childhood? 
 He looked straight at her, and in his eyes, clear as 
 water, the eyes of a watcher and hunter, there 
 appeared a tenderness for the girl who stood be- 
 fore him, smiling also, flushed with her walk, a 
 pretty picture in her gray dress and hat with the 
 two wings. 
 
 "It seems you have been working to give me a 
 surprise, Etienne! It is very kind, and my friend 
 and I are terribly hungry." 
 
 Not daring to call her "Henriette" now that 
 she was one of the most elegant workgirls in 
 Nantes, he answered gladly: 
 
 "Oh! Mademoiselle Henriette, I do not get a 
 chance of pleasing you often enough!" 
 
 The laughter of a young heart caressed by a 
 word of love rang through the cottage. 
 
 "Hark at that, Etienne!" she said. 
 
 Apparently to escape him, but really from a 
 little bit of vanity, knowing that all eyes were
 
 REDEMPTION 73 
 
 upon her, she bent forward in the streak ot sun- 
 light that entered by the low door. The Loire lay 
 before her, a plain expanse of troubled water, 
 stretching wide to the willows on the opposite 
 bank. The river was a friend also. "How kindly 
 they receive me," thought Henriette; but all she 
 said was : 
 
 "How high the river is." 
 
 The whole family replied, for young and old 
 were interested in the extraordinary rise. Then 
 they sat down to table. Marie was next to Etienne 
 and opposite Henriette. Astonished at first by 
 the novelty of their ways, and rather isolated in 
 this conversation of old friends and country ideas, 
 she soon began to feel at home, and grew ani- 
 mated. Henriette was watching her. Above the 
 conversation and the clatter of knives and forks, 
 she heard Marie's sonorous voice, fit to raise the 
 battle-cries of misery in the midst of a riot, say- 
 ing: "Thank you, Monsieur," to Etienne as he 
 filled her glass. The tact she had acquired in a 
 fashionable shop, which made her as refined as a 
 princess, made her aware each moment of some 
 vulgarity in Marie's intonation, words, or gestures. 
 She remarked, at the same time, the beauty of her 
 fine eyes, which grew softer and more gentle; 
 they grew almost too beautiful. She thought 
 them so when they rested on Etienne. Her pre- 
 cocious experience taught her that they were a 
 danger to Marie, like the laugh she had noticed in 
 the Mauves field, the laugh of abandonment that 
 scattered too much soul by the wayside. Marie 
 had won her heart, and she was anxious for her.
 
 74 REDEMPTION 
 
 Henriette was one of those whose friendship im- 
 mediately becomes solicitude. 
 
 Heat seemed to pour through the wooden roof. 
 Every one felt the sting of the invisible sun on 
 face, neck, and arms. The shade was full of flick- 
 ering rays. Sometimes one of the boys would 
 look at the Loire and say: 
 
 "The mowers in the big field will not be in 
 time, it is rising too quickly." 
 
 Sometimes a leaf, wisp of straw, or a feather 
 carried down by the stream and blown about by 
 the wind, fluttered in, and the father said laugh- 
 ingly: 
 
 "It is funny that there should be any breeze 
 left, it blew so often when I was young! Come, 
 Etienne, pour out a glass of muscadet to the 
 health of the pretty girls of Nantes 1 "
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE afternoon was growing late. When dinner, 
 over which they had lingered long, was finished, 
 M. Loutrel went down the river to take in some 
 creels, which he feared the rising waters would 
 carry away. Henriette, Marie, Etienne andGer- 
 vais, who began to seek the society of his elders, 
 had gone in the opposite direction up the bank, 
 and had been seated for more than an hour a few 
 hundred yards from the cottage, under a group of 
 three poplar trees, whose roots were in the water. 
 A shadow, shot with sunlight, quivered beneath 
 the trees. 
 
 Etienne and Gervais were stretched at full 
 length in the high grass; Henriette and Marie sat 
 with their feet gathered up under their skirts. 
 They were all watching the field which the mow- 
 ers were hastily despoiling, exchanging a few words 
 at long intervals. 
 
 The peasants, in a slanting line, mowed with an 
 even movement, each one cutting a piece like the 
 steps in a staircase, from the mass of ripe grass 
 that diminished before them. They swung their ten 
 scythes all together, their bodies bent all together, 
 with one circular movement they drew the blades 
 from beneath the gray piles they left behind, and 
 the gleam of steel flashed simultaneously at ten 
 points along the line. They had not stopped for 
 
 75
 
 76 REDEMPTION 
 
 a week. Their knees never left the crests of flow- 
 ers and seeds. Women raked up the harvest al- 
 most as soon as it fell, and piled it on the carts. But 
 however strenuous their labour, it grew more and 
 more probable that they would not have time to 
 finish getting in the hay. For they had only 
 mowed half the immense field which stretched far 
 out to the hills, seamed with hedges, and they 
 were approaching the lower ground, which would 
 soon be invaded by the water. In the ditches 
 among the water-weeds and sedges the cruel Loire 
 advanced and lay in wait. 
 
 "There is trouble in all trades," said Etienne, 
 sententiously. "The women, especially, are tired 
 out." 
 
 "How can you tell?" asked Marie. 
 
 "They are not talking, and they keep looking 
 our way. They would like us to come and help." 
 
 "Indeed! Do they come and help you get in 
 your nets?" 
 
 They all laughed Henriette quietly, and the 
 rest loudly. Their voices carried to the workers, 
 and two or three of the men paused for a moment. 
 
 "I will go presently, if it is necessary," said 
 Etienne, growing serious. "It is quite true that 
 we, too, have had hard days. The fish go away. 
 The river grows dead. We can get eels well 
 enough, but as to carp, tench, and perch, oh ! you 
 have to be cunning to get a living out of them. 
 So do you know what I do, Mademoiselle Henri- 
 ette? When I have taken in the lines and eel- 
 baskets, every morning, I fill my boat with vege- 
 tables and take them to Nantes, with my fish."
 
 REDEMPTION 77 
 
 From under her parasol, that made her com- 
 plexion still fairer, the milliner answered, with her 
 eyes half shut from the heat: 
 
 "Where do you take them?" 
 
 "I fill my boat at Saint-Sebastien, at Gibraye, 
 you know, and come down to the Trentemoult 
 harbour, right opposite your house, but you are 
 never at home." 
 
 Henriette's eyes smiled beneath their lashes. 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Why, I look, of course." 
 
 "Then you don't look carefully, my dear 
 Etienne. Before I go out I open my window, and 
 dream a little, while I get some fresh air. I never 
 fail, when it is fine." 
 
 The mowers in the distance were growing 
 anxious. Those who raised their scythes to 
 sharpen them on the stone glanced a moment at 
 the dip in the field, the bottom of the huge shell 
 in which they were working so desperately; then 
 they bent and mowed more vigorously than ever, 
 as though the minutes were counted. It was no 
 longer the daily task, but tragic rage and hatred 
 of the elements stronger than man. Riches were 
 about to perish. The faces, brown with dust, 
 dimly visible in the distance, the hurried move- 
 ments, the farmer's curt orders, and the oaths of 
 the carters carrying away the green grass, con- 
 trasted with the serenity of the declining day. 
 
 "But you are not idle either, Mademoiselle 
 Henriette," said Etienne. "Do you sew from 
 morning to night?" 
 
 "No, I trim hats. The shapes are ready for me.
 
 78 REDEMPTION 
 
 I arrange the ribbons, laces, and feathers. I have 
 to get an idea and carry it out. It is not easy!" 
 
 "I should think not!" said the fisherman, cast- 
 ing an admiring glance upon her, as if she had 
 been a goddess who had come down upon the 
 Mauves fields. ' ' And no one says to you, ' Do this, ' 
 or 'Do that'?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 She beamed, flattered by Etienne's simple com- 
 pliment, and the humble tenderness she guessed 
 at. 
 
 "Oh, no, my dear Etienne. In our place if one 
 copies, one is done for. Something new is always 
 wanted; one must have invention, and a little 
 style that every one's fingers cannot manage." 
 
 Etienne, like soldiers, and like the people of the 
 Loire to whom he belonged who do not like to be 
 at a loss, had a set of vague phrases to express his 
 feelings upon matters beyond his comprehension. 
 They simply meant that he did not quite under- 
 stand, but was too polite not to keep up the con- 
 versation, so, taking a piece of grass he was chew- 
 ing out of his mouth, he answered : 
 
 "What a business! It must take a lot of 
 thought!" 
 
 "I can't think how you manage," said Marie. 
 "In time I might learn to copy, but I should 
 never be able to invent." 
 
 Henriette, who always brightened up when the 
 conversation turned upon such subjects, twirled 
 her parasol, and said: 
 
 "Bah! you can try. An idea comes, you don't 
 know how. It hooks itself on to us like a fish on
 
 REDEMPTION 79 
 
 Etienne's lines. There are good days when you 
 get ten at a time, and days when you can think of 
 nothing. Good humour goes a long way. When 
 I am not worried everything comes easily to me. 
 A wedding, a party coming home from the races, 
 a fashion paper, an exhibition of pictures sets 
 our minds working. But it is youth, you know, 
 that does the rest. Nothing can replace it. 
 Freshness of imagination is necessary. Then 
 there is another thing, a certain style; you under- 
 stand, Mademoiselle Marie? For example, at 
 Madame Louise's they rather go in for outline. 
 At Madame Clemence's we are colourists." 
 
 Etienne was not following the conversation. 
 His eyes had the drowsy look which tension of 
 thought produces in a peasant; he had turned 
 them away from Henriette, and was gazing into 
 the forest of grass. He was watching with in- 
 ward anger the last act of the duel between the 
 mowers and the river, for he knew its dangerous 
 treachery. Suddenly he raised his head and 
 shoulders, his hands still pressed against the 
 ground, and said : 
 
 "Look there! It has come!" 
 
 Through the ditches and imperceptible slopes 
 the Loire had gained the middle of the field. He 
 stretched out his arm : 
 
 " There in front. The river is laughing in the 
 grass. It will be a marsh in half an hour. It is 
 rising quicker than it did three years ago. Isn't 
 it, Gervais?" 
 
 The red-haired boy, who was already rolling up 
 his trousers, answered gravely:
 
 80 REDEMPTION 
 
 "I think the water is rising faster." 
 
 At this moment a woman's cry rose at the 
 edge of the ripe grass, floated on the air, and died 
 away in the green and silent immensity. 
 
 The flood! They were calling for help to save 
 the last cart-loads. The two Loutrels made off 
 with the long swinging stride of watermen. They 
 turned aside, and mingled with the men and 
 women assembled in the narrow space where the 
 mowed grass still lay upon the ground. The 
 scythes were still. Every rake and every pitch- 
 fork was in motion. 
 
 From the place where they sat, Marie and Hen- 
 riette saw the end of this drama of the harvest. 
 
 The victorious Loire crushed the high grass, 
 laying it quicker and better than the steel blades, 
 twisting the tufts of seed, which left their live 
 dust upon the waters. None could say whence 
 came the invading sheet of water. It made itself 
 a bed like a beast, turning round and round. At 
 first it was a yellow pool, round which the banks 
 of grass crumbled away. Left and right other 
 pools of gold soon glittered in the hollows of the 
 field, and the grass rolled into them to die, and 
 from one to the other, like a line of flame, chan- 
 nels of communication widened out. Soon the 
 mound on which the Loutrels' cottage stood was 
 cut off from the dry land, and a current running 
 parallel with the river covered the whole of the 
 green expanse to the horizon, toward Nantes, 
 and pressed with all the weight of its waters upon 
 the ruined harvest. 
 
 Beyond it, the workers gathered together en-
 
 REDEMPTION 81 
 
 deavouring to wrest from the Loire the last cart- 
 load stuck in the shallows. They stamped in the 
 mud, hanging to the shafts, axles and spokes of 
 the wheels. Now and then a clamour arose, they 
 bent all together in a united effort, the bells of the 
 four horses tinkled, the mass of grass overflowing 
 the wooden sides dragged on the ground, quivered 
 and let detached wisps fall from its enormous 
 back; but the cart never moved. And all around 
 was the tranquillity of the calm air, the infinite 
 peace and sweetness of the evening before the 
 stars appear. It enveloped the workers with use- 
 less consolation, a vain tenderness of the heav- 
 ens. But how many others breathed it and re- 
 joiced: mothers tired by the children's noise, old 
 men drinking after vespers under the inn arbours, 
 workmen in their Sunday best taking the air in 
 public gardens, lovers whose conversation lan- 
 guished on the journey home. 
 
 Half an hour later, Etienne and Gervais re- 
 turned over the flooded meadow, where the cart, 
 stuck fast in the mud, made an island, while the 
 workers, diminished by the distance, straggled 
 home through the trees with the unharnessed 
 horses. Etienne found the two girls ready to 
 start. 
 
 "Do you know, you can't get back to Nantes 
 now the fields are cut off by the flood/' he said, 
 jokingly. 
 
 "Do you think I would stay here?" said 
 Marie. "Oh, dear, no! I begin work to-morrow. 
 I would rather tuck up my skirts and cross the 
 fields as you have just done!"
 
 82 REDEMPTION 
 
 But Etienne went on, taking no notice of 
 Marie : 
 
 " Don't be afraid, I will take you both back in 
 my boat that is, if Mademoiselle Henriette likes." 
 
 He questioned Henriette with respect in his 
 face and voice as she stood poking at a bunch of 
 white clover with the point of her parasol. She 
 hesitated a moment, inwardly flattered by his 
 deference; then she looked up and said: 
 
 "Yes, please, Etienne." 
 
 Then the broad-shouldered young giant, beam- 
 ing with pleasure, went off toward the cleft in 
 the bank, where the Loutrels tied their flat boats. 
 Gervais ran before, shouting with joy, like a sea- 
 gull taking to the water. 
 
 When they brought the best and newest of the 
 three boats down toward the cottage, where 
 Henriette and Marie were waiting, they had 
 spread a piece of clean sail over the seat in the 
 prow, so that "the young ladies" might sit down 
 without soiling their dresses. A few leaves and 
 flowers of the wisp of green broom with which 
 Gervais had wiped the planks lay scattered about 
 the boat. Henriette kissed Madame Loutrel. 
 
 Etienne, attending seriously to the manage- 
 ment of his oars, gained the current with a few 
 strokes, and the boat glided away over the 
 flooded meadows, toward the town lying in the 
 sunset. The two girls sat together in the prow, 
 side by side. Sometimes they looked toward 
 Nantes, where the sun was setting, while the 
 houses, the arches of the bridges, the church 
 spires, and factory chimneys, clustered together
 
 REDEMPTION 83 
 
 in the twilight, showed up in blue outlines against 
 the background of light. Sometimes they looked 
 back toward the receding Mauves field, and their 
 eyes rested upon Etienne, busy with his oars, but 
 not so absorbed in them but that his eyes could 
 sometimes meet those of Henriette, with a smile, 
 as if by chance. The sky of molten gold was re- 
 flected in the stream. But shadows were gather- 
 ing on the grass, and the willows gleamed no 
 more. The breeze was dying down. A languor 
 hung about the close of day, and promised an 
 exquisite night. Snatches of song and peals of 
 laughter sounded over the waters, growing louder 
 and louder. As the travellers approached the 
 town their joy grew troubled as divine joy will 
 when it fears its death in our hearts. Etienne 
 mused: "Will she ever love me? Oh! what can 
 a poor boatman do to win the love of this work- 
 girl who is as unapproachable as a lady, so that I 
 am too shy to speak before her?" Henriette 
 regretted that her day of liberty was drawing to a 
 close, and though she would not give way to the 
 thought too much, she yielded to the impulse to 
 look back at the low willows of the Loire, in the 
 distance, which were just on a level with Etienne's 
 eyes. Marie felt ill at ease, like a stranger be- 
 tween two people who love or are about to love 
 each other. She withdrew into herself and her 
 own misery. Her thick, white hand hung over 
 the side of the boat, dabbling in the water, and, 
 thinking of the cool depths beneath her, she was 
 assailed by the thought of plunging in, and being 
 annihilated, and lying down to rest. Gervais,
 
 84 REDEMPTION 
 
 curled up at the bottom of the boat, was trying to 
 sleep. They drifted smoothly along. 
 
 The outline of the town was now deep purple 
 against the pale sky. When they had passed the 
 Vendee bridge the town looked enormous between 
 the golden river and the golden sky, casting from 
 one to the other the reflection of its huge cascade 
 of masonry clustered in the shadow. Sounds arose 
 from this landscape of stone, which grew vaster 
 and higher as the boat advanced, indistinct 
 voices, the movement of human beings, and the 
 noise of traffic. Nearer to them, along the banks, 
 couples of poor folk returning with a flower in 
 their dress or button-hole, turned their merry faces 
 to the river, and called out: "Take us in, I am 
 tired!" 
 
 Before the taverns the "Beau Soleil," the 
 "Mon Plaisir," and the "Robinson" under the 
 flowery arbours of glycina, the drinkers raised 
 their glasses and held them out toward the boat, 
 where sat the fisherman and the two girls of the 
 people. 
 
 Thus strangers saluted you, poor passers-by! 
 And they did well! They raised their glasses; 
 their shouts, or their silent envy, celebrated the 
 country from whence you were returning, the 
 glory of the stream down which you floated, the 
 beauty of the evening, the dream they guessed 
 between you; for they were workers like your- 
 selves, who have but one good day, and they knew 
 how sweet it is, when youth returns from the 
 open country, saddened to see the dying day 
 close on its mirth. What mysterious sign is it
 
 REDEMPTION 85 
 
 that marks those that love, so that the heart is 
 thus moved and recognizes them from afar, 
 though they be unknown, obscure, pass rapidly 
 and are gone? 
 
 Etienne, slanting his oar, which lightly ruffled 
 the surface of the stream, turned the boat to the 
 right, by the branch of the Loire that traverses 
 the centre of the town and passes at the foot of 
 Bouffay Castle. Houses, the station, and fac- 
 tories, lined the banks of the canal. The dust of 
 the day rose in a warm cloud, turning to rose 
 colour where it met the sun, above the roofs and 
 hills. The boatman stood up paddling, and 
 dreaming no more, save deep down in his heart. 
 He sought a landing-place, for the quays were 
 dark and the currents strong. He had to fling 
 himself into the prow, and catch hold of an iron 
 ring to which he quickly fastened his rope. The 
 movement made the boat dip, and Henriette gave 
 a little cry; but before she could lose her balance, 
 Etienne's arm was round her and she was lifted on 
 to the stone step, against which the water lapped 
 like boiling oil. She drew back a little, and gave 
 her hand to Marie, who was stepping ashore. 
 Etienne devoured her with his eyes, saying in 
 tones of entreaty: 
 
 "I should like to take you down to the sea, 
 Mademoiselle Henriette, the journey here is too 
 short." 
 
 For answer, she held out her hand, and he 
 pressed it hard. 
 
 "Thank you, Etienne," she said. 
 
 "Thank you, Monsieur," said Marie.
 
 86 REDEMPTION 
 
 Before they had taken a dozen steps along the 
 quay, they saw the boat in the middle of the 
 stream again, and Etienne and Gervais side by 
 side, rowing hard to reach Mauves again before 
 it was quite dark. 
 
 Etienne 's joy was gone, for the crowd, the 
 dust, night and forgetfulness already lay between 
 them. The charm was broken, the weight of the 
 dying day lay upon the fisherman's heart as he 
 rowed up the stream. But the girls walked 
 lightly on, mixing with the Sunday crowd. Marie 
 recovered her gayety in that crowd, of which she 
 felt herself a unit. Henriette was calmer, think- 
 ing of the pleasant day they had spent. 
 
 ''Your friends the Loutrels are quite peasants," 
 said Marie. 
 
 "Yes, but they are such dear people, that is all 
 I care about." 
 
 The deep, dark eyes looked questioningly at 
 Henriette, who walked along with her face raised 
 to the first star which had just risen above the 
 hills. Marie feared she had offended her. She 
 caught hold of her arm and squeezed it : 
 
 "You are not angry, are you?" 
 
 "Angry!" said Henriette, absently, "why?" 
 
 "Because we are not a bit alike. But I love 
 you all the same. I should like to be your friend," 
 she continued, almost violently. "I am not 
 worth much; I shall be sure to grieve you, but I 
 love you. Will you be my friend?" 
 
 Henriette, roused from her dreams, answered 
 in a low voice: 
 
 "Yes, Marie, I will."
 
 REDEMPTION 87 
 
 "I will tell you everything; you may scold me 
 when I do wrong; and I will try to be better." 
 
 Their eyes met, and though very different by 
 nature, both were glad to hear, and to exchange 
 with lips and glances, the words which secretly 
 delighted both : ' ' Love me ! " 
 
 At this moment a young man came out of one 
 of the blind alleys that run down to the quays; 
 he recognized Henriette and exclaimed: 
 
 "Is it you? The last person I expected to 
 meet!" 
 
 It was Antoine Madiot; in spite of his dark- 
 brown suit and round hat of the same colour, his 
 hands grimed with steel dust, his red tie and the 
 watchful anxiety of his expression showed him to 
 be no more than a working man. His ferret 
 head, wasted cheeks and narrow chest betrayed 
 his dissipated life. He might have gone on his 
 way as usual, after throwing these few idle words 
 at his sister, if he had not noticed the other girl in 
 the gray cape, with the large eyes still soft with 
 the loving words just spoken. 
 
 "You are taking a walk with some one? It is 
 unusual to meet you without Uncle Madiot at 
 this hour!" 
 
 "This is one of my work-room comrades," said 
 Henriette; "we are coming back from Mauves." 
 
 "I will walk a little way with two such pretty 
 girls, if the other lady is agreeable?" he added, 
 while Marie shrugged her shoulders, much flat- 
 tered, but too shy to speak. 
 
 He walked on the left of Henriette, and began 
 to tell them drolly, with the gestures of one sure
 
 88 REDEMPTION 
 
 of his own wit, about a discussion he had had the 
 day before with his master over some piece of work 
 which had gone wrong, and how he had managed 
 to make him lose his temper and put himself in 
 the wrong. 
 
 "You should have seen the old hands chuck- 
 ling inwardly and saying to themselves: 'Go 
 ahead, youngster, you're in the right.' You 
 should have seen their eyes shine. And the other 
 looked a fine fool; he had a strike last year for 
 much less. When it struck seven, they all crowded 
 round and congratulated me. If I had chosen to 
 say the word, the thing would have been done." 
 
 Marie was listening eagerly, and sometimes he 
 leant forward to look past Henriette, who was 
 contemptuously used to his boasting, at the other 
 girl, who was quite of his own class. He knew in- 
 stinctively how ready she was to drink in hatred, 
 though her eyes were fixed on the masts of the 
 ships, which lay still at the side of the canal. 
 
 They had entered the denser shadow cast by 
 the hills, long after sunset. They were nearing 
 the end of the quays. The crowd was growing 
 less dense. The shopkeepers advanced their chairs 
 further on the pavement. Antoine went on talk- 
 ing, addressing himself to Henriette alone, and 
 trying through her to excite old Madiot to demand 
 the pension due to him from M. Lemarie. In his 
 opinion, if Victor Lemarie' had stopped his car- 
 riage at the top of their road to ask news of the 
 invalid, and if they had sent him medicines, it 
 was because the master was frightened and hoped 
 to gain time.
 
 REDEMPTION 89 
 
 "Young Lemarie saw quite well that I was not 
 taken in by his soft speeches! He sat there look- 
 ing foolish before us all. I hope Uncle Madiot will 
 go to-morrow. Tell him what I say. He is not 
 much use, unfortunately he has nothing to say 
 for himself." 
 
 Antoine bent forward in the gloom to catch the 
 expression of his sister's face. He had a meaning 
 look, and a tone of mocking hatred which he often 
 assumed toward Henriette. 
 
 "Ah! if you were to ask!" he said in a low, 
 insinuating voice. 
 
 "Antoine!" 
 
 "The thing would be done; we should get the 
 pension right enough, and at once." 
 
 "You must be mad! I have nothing to do with 
 it at all." 
 
 She moved away from him, hurt by his tone 
 and words. He burst out laughing. 
 
 "Of course! I knew it; I only said what I did 
 to make sure! My lady has nothing to do with 
 such things. What does she care about other 
 people? She is ashamed of an uncle and brother 
 who are only workmen." 
 
 Then he added after a short pause : 
 
 "I am sure I do not bother you for favours." 
 
 "Why not, if I can grant them." 
 
 "Even when I haven't a sous, like to-day. I 
 won't complain." 
 
 "Here is the proof, Antoine," she said, gently. 
 "Here are my last two francs; you may have 
 them. I have had to get a great deal of medicine 
 for uncle."
 
 90 REDEMPTION 
 
 Antoine took the piece of silver and shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "It's disgusting the way you can earn money. 
 You've always got some, but we poor men ' 
 With a parting gesture, half of thanks and half 
 farewell, he turned away and went up the Avenue 
 de Launay, which they were just passing. 
 
 " Would you believe, Marie, that when he was 
 a little fellow I was his best friend? He would not 
 go to sleep until I had kissed him." 
 
 She walked a few steps further, then stopped 
 and said: 
 
 "You see there are troubles in every one's 
 life." 
 
 These words of sorrow threw them into each 
 other's arms. Henriette pressed her sister in 
 misfortune to her heart and felt her warm lips 
 upon her cheek by way of thanks. 
 
 "Good-by till to-morrow," they said to each 
 other as they separated, and the shades of night 
 fell between them as each one turned toward her 
 home. 
 
 Henriette raised her eyes again to the star that 
 shone above Miseri Hill. There are certain hours 
 that are as balm to sorrow, and gentle airs that 
 move the heart. She felt them as soon as she 
 was alone, and thrilled with the intimate consola- 
 tion of created things. She murmured half aloud : 
 
 "Why is my heart so troubled to-night?" 
 
 She was no poet. She was only a poor girl, who 
 longed for love and had found none. It was love 
 that spoke to her; love that takes possession of 
 the heart before it finds an object or a name, that
 
 REDEMPTION 91 
 
 calls to us unceasingly in changing tones, saying, 
 "I am beauty, I am rest, I wipe away all tears." 
 
 She thrilled as she leant her arms upon the 
 window-sill of her room in the twilight, as if her 
 heart opened itself to the night. The leaves of the 
 rose laurel were scarcely stirred by the breeze. 
 
 "Happy are they who are loved!" she thought, 
 "and those who have a friend." The faces of her 
 companions in the workroom passed before her, 
 and she smiled at the thought of those who had 
 befriended her in the days of her apprenticeship. 
 She remembered the gestures, words, or looks 
 which had touched her proud nature. They had 
 all worn the same moved look as they whispered 
 in the workroom, "Let us be friends, shall we?" 
 Ah! how sweet was the quick look of thanks, the 
 furtive hand-squeeze as they left their work, and 
 the promise to tell each other everything! Above 
 all she remembered at the beginning of her life in 
 the workroom a certain pale Mademoiselle Valen- 
 tine, the forewoman, whom she had worshipped for 
 her large eyes and a kind word spoken on her be- 
 half: "Don't tease the new apprentice, she will 
 get on; the child has clever fingers and plenty of 
 sense." What goodness on one side and what 
 love on the other! The older woman had never 
 guessed at the dumb worship of the little appren- 
 tice. Henriette remembered pricking her finger 
 till it bled simply to win a little notice and pity 
 from Mademoiselle Valentine. She remembered 
 how one morning she had longed to die at her 
 door and to say with her dying breath, "It is for 
 you! I have prayed to die, so that you may be
 
 92 REDEMPTION 
 
 happy." Souls of young girls, thirsting for love! 
 It was the best and purest that deceived them- 
 selves thus. Henriette remembered them all. 
 Alas! all were scattered some married, some 
 dead, some drifted away and forgotten. Then she 
 thought of Marie, who must have got back by 
 then to Rue Saint-Similieu, a city of the poor, 
 sleeping over yonder, beyond an immense valley 
 of houses and factories, nearly all the town, 
 stretching away behind the hill. 
 
 "How soon I have grown fond of her," she 
 thought; "there must be days when love comes 
 easily." 
 
 The Loire gleamed among the islands and the 
 prows of the great schooners, lying in shadow. 
 Gusts of hot air rose from the neighbouring 
 streets, laden with heavy odours, indefinably de- 
 pressing, as if the vitiated atmosphere, in touch- 
 ing the mysterious principle of life, had become 
 charged with the fatigue of human breasts, the 
 trouble of human hearts, and the moral distress 
 of the whole city; and the intermittent breeze, 
 blowing in from the open country, brought fresh 
 provisions of love, perfume, and energy, driving 
 away the heavy vapours of the day. 
 
 "Poor Marie! She will not get off easily. She 
 is common, and she comes of a bad stock. Temp- 
 tations are plentiful in our trade. But I will do 
 my best; I will adopt her. I will answer for her 
 to Madame Clemence." 
 
 Henriette smiled like an honest girl, who is not 
 ignorant of evil; then the smile faded and she 
 grew sad. Was a new friend enough to fill her
 
 REDEMPTION 93 
 
 heart? She was twenty-four, and very lonely. 
 Uncle Eloi loved her dearly, but he saw every- 
 thing with the eyes of an old soldier; as a guide 
 and confidant he was quite useless. Antoine 
 hated her; all her prayers and efforts had not 
 sufficed to win him back to their former intimacy. 
 She had no family circle, and so her heart some- 
 times grew heavy on evenings like this when she 
 had time to think of herself. 
 
 She felt very depressed. She fixed her eyes on 
 a point of the valley, beyond the Loire, dark as 
 the future. She thought that Etienne, at least, 
 was fond of her. He had found many touching 
 and humble ways of showing the pleasure he had 
 felt in bringing her home. How he followed her 
 with admiring eyes. 
 
 "Oh! he likes me, there is no doubt of that," 
 she said to herself; "he shows it plainly enough. 
 He is like many others who think me pretty, but 
 he is more at his ease with me because we are such 
 old friends. But he cannot love me as I want to 
 be loved; he is nearly the same age as myself. 
 He knows that a Loire fisherman and a milliner 
 would be an ill-matched couple. And what about 
 myself shall I ever love him? Do I love him 
 now?" 
 
 She listened to her own heart in the deep si- 
 lence, and there came no answer. 
 
 Henriette smiled to herself in the delicious night 
 air. No ! the beloved was still nameless, and yet 
 he existed. He had grown up with her in the 
 secret places of her heart ever since she was fifteen. 
 He who was to be all tenderness, he who would
 
 94 REDEMPTION 
 
 hide her against his shoulder, who would know 
 all her secrets, who would defend her from insult 
 in the streets, who would treat her with as much 
 respect as though she were a great lady, and 
 would take upon himself half the sorrows of life. 
 How she would love him ! She seemed to see him 
 in the distant shadows, on which her eyes dwelt 
 full of tenderness. 
 
 With an involuntary movement she pressed her 
 arms against her breast, then dropped them, 
 blushing at herself. "Yet it is true! I would 
 love him well," she said to herself. "I should be 
 capable of anything for the man I loved! There 
 is no sacrifice I would not make for him. It is 
 sweet even to think of him." 
 
 Her uncle's cracked cuckoo-clock struck the 
 half-hour. The cry of a beaten child rose from 
 a neighbouring yard; then came a sound of un- 
 certain steps upon the staircase outside. "There 
 are the old Plemeurs coming home tipsy, as 
 usual," thought Henriette. 
 
 The last gleam had faded from the horizon. 
 The earth was wrapped in blue shadows. A 
 strong wind, fresh as the breeze over the downs, 
 leaving a savour of salt on the lips of the last 
 passers-by, blew over the valley, making the 
 shrouded masts creak with longing. 
 
 "Why is my heart so troubled to-night?" 
 thought Henriette.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ELOI MADIOT had on the silk hat and frock coat 
 which he wore on Sundays, and when he was in- 
 vited, under penalty of a fine, to attend the funeral 
 of a fellow-member of the Mutual Aid Society. 
 He had taken longer than usual to brush them, 
 not out of vanity, but embarrassment as to what 
 he should say to the awe-inspiring M. Lemarie, 
 his master. 
 
 Henriette had run in joyously after the mid-day 
 dinner: "I am so glad, uncle," she said; "Marie 
 came to work this morning, and all the girls were 
 nice to her." Then she had walked with him as 
 far as the hotel on the Boulevard Delorme and 
 left him before the door of varnished oak with its 
 two rings of burnished copper. The old man, 
 after contemplating the front of the hotel which 
 held so much uncertainty for him, vainly endeav- 
 oured to press the electric bell with his free 
 hand. A passer-by laughed at the fumbling of his 
 clumsy fingers on the ivory button, when sud- 
 denly the doors flew open, and a landau drawn by 
 two horses came out with a clatter of harness and 
 a rolling echo of wheels, and stood waiting by the 
 roadside. 
 
 "I want to see the master," said Madiot. 
 
 The footman, who was just closing the door, 
 replied : 
 
 95
 
 96 REDEMPTION 
 
 "Can't you see he is just going out. Go to the 
 office to-morrow. He does not see workmen 
 here." 
 
 But Madiot pushed past him and gained the 
 middle of the porch, standing at the foot of the 
 staircase with its stucco ornament, its immacu- 
 late stone steps, and strip of crimson, leading up 
 out of sight into the silence above. 
 
 Eloi stood bewildered at this luxury, and the 
 footman passed behind him grumbling. 
 
 "I will tell the master about this, you will be 
 lucky if you aren't put out." 
 
 The workman's broad shoulders prevented him 
 from taking stronger measures. Eloi stood mo- 
 tionless at the foot of the stairs, flooded with red, 
 white and yellow light, deliciously blended. It 
 made him think of the flower market and the 
 gladiolas that Henriette bought sometimes toward 
 the end of spring. How well these rich people 
 knew how to make their houses bright; they al- 
 ways had plenty of light ! A muffled footstep was 
 heard on the staircase, where the least sound 
 echoed loudly. It was followed by a second, 
 slower footstep and a rustling of silk. M. Lemarie 
 appeared dressed in a frock coat with a gray 
 dust-coat on his arm. He was putting on his 
 gloves; his appearance betrayed his discontented 
 and arbitrary nature, even though his eyes were 
 hidden as Jie bent over his task. Down he came, 
 tall and slight, his patent-leather boots stepping 
 methodically in the centre of the red carpet. 
 Whatever he did he always looked like a man 
 engaged in some mental calculation; anger,
 
 REDEMPTION 97 
 
 smiles, attention, or even argument could scarcely 
 dispel his air of absorbed gravity. As he turned 
 the corner of the staircase, M. Lemarie caught 
 sight of Eloi Madiot standing quite still several 
 yards below him, but he calmly continued his 
 descent, betraying neither surprise nor anger. He 
 carefully smoothed his little finger, which was not 
 properly fitted into his glove. On the last step he 
 stopped, buttoning his gloves, and his preoccu- 
 pied eyes rested on the workman with a glance 
 of imperative question. 
 
 "I have come about the pension," said Madiot. 
 
 His sound hand held his hat like a shield against 
 his breast; but as he answered, with an instinctive 
 movement he uncovered the wounded hand 
 trembling in its red cotton sling, and the master's 
 eyes rested for a moment on the strange pulsation 
 of the injured limb, no longer under control of the 
 will but quivering against its owner's heart. M. 
 Lemarie made no movement of anger, as Madiot 
 expected. He had turned Antoine out on a former 
 occasion when he came to make the same demand, 
 but Antoine was a bad workman, and a disturber 
 of the established order. But in the present case 
 discipline was not disturbed nor the master's 
 authority questioned; he had only to make an 
 unfortunate but worthy man, who was claiming 
 more than his due, listen to reason. M. Lemarie 
 sighed like a man overweighted with business 
 and to whom another weight is added. Then he 
 spoke slowly and distinctly, that he might be 
 better understood by the ignorant listener. 
 
 "Madiot, I sent you an answer in the first place
 
 98 REDEMPTION 
 
 through my cashier. Then I was obliged to turn 
 out your nephew, who came and insolently re- 
 newed this demand for a pension. I cannot keep 
 on indefinitely returning to the same subject, my 
 good man. You know me; I never give in when 
 I have once said no." 
 
 "But, really, M. Lemarie", you are unreason- 
 able." 
 
 ' ' Excuse me, if you were in my place you would 
 do just the same. That is a thing you people 
 never seem to grasp. You have hurt yourself; I 
 am sincerely sorry for it. I sent you my own 
 doctor; I paid you your salary for the first month 
 you were laid up; I can do no more, Madiot, be- 
 cause if I gave in to you, to-morrow I should have 
 to pension all my workmen who managed like you 
 to get hurt by their own negligence." 
 
 " After thirty years in your service, M. Le- 
 marie", one of your oldest workmen." 
 
 "I do not deny it. You are a worthy man. 
 But that does not make it my duty to provide 
 you with an income. The law is quite clear. 
 You were employed in easy work, not in the least 
 dangerous; you are the victim of your own clum- 
 siness; how can I help it?" 
 
 A woman in mourning was coming downstairs, 
 but Madiot, in his emotion, never noticed her. 
 He crossed the marble hall to the step where M. 
 Lemarie stood. He felt his chance slipping away; 
 the veins of his neck swelled up. He looked the 
 smart gentleman up and down, from head to foot, 
 thinking that he would probably never stand face 
 to face with him again, and the words he had hid-
 
 REDEMPTION 90 
 
 den in his heart for more than twenty years rose 
 involuntarily to his lips in a gust of anger : 
 
 "And yet, M. Lemarie," he exclaimed, "the 
 girl I have brought up, Henriette " 
 
 He was suddenly aware of a black shadow on 
 the staircase, and stopped short. 
 
 There was dead silence for a moment, so that 
 the buzzing of a blue-bottle against the window 
 was distinctly audible. 
 
 "Make haste and pass, Louise," said M. Lemarie, 
 calmly; "you are never in time, and you give 
 these idiots a chance to make scenes." 
 
 Madame Lemarie continued her descent, looking 
 like a tower surmounted by a tuft of feathers. 
 A thick veil covered her face. She passed between 
 the two men, the master effacing himself against 
 the wall, and the workman drawing back against 
 the ball of cut glass on the banisters. Not a word 
 fell from her lips, her eyes looked straight before 
 her; she bowed slightly to Madiot, as was her 
 charitable habit toward her inferiors. With 
 a rustle of silk and a jingling of jet she turned 
 into the porch and crossed the threshold of the 
 hotel. When Madiot, whom respect had held 
 silent, advanced toward the master to hear his 
 answer, he saw M. Lemarie's imperious hand 
 pressing a button like that on the front door. 
 The footman reappeared; a stream of white light 
 from an adjoining room flooded the hall and fell 
 upon Madiot. M. Lemarie, leaning carelessly 
 against the banisters, fixed his eyes and his raised 
 finger upon the old packer: 
 
 "Maxime, I am going out with Madame, if this
 
 100 REDEMPTION 
 
 man does not follow me out, telephone for the 
 police." 
 
 Half an hour later the landau with the pair of 
 bays was rolling along the road upon the bank of 
 the Erdre, taking M. Lemarie* and his wife to call 
 on some friends in the country. The carriage was 
 only open in front ; Madame Lemarie sat on the 
 back seat with her veil raised on her forehead, her 
 face flushed and tear-stained, and her eyes obsti- 
 nately fixed on the horizon, seeing nothing. 
 
 No one but herself knew what she had suf- 
 fered since the day M. Lemarie married her for 
 her fortune, and he least of all. She was the vic- 
 tim of her husband's pretended superiority; no 
 one pitied her, neither silence, humility, nor any- 
 thing else could save her from the mockery of the 
 world, because she occupied a place of which she 
 was thought unworthy. She had chosen to suffer 
 in silence. She had forgiven her husband's un- 
 faithfulness, the contempt of others, and innu- 
 merable slights. She had effaced herself until she 
 had no voice in her own house. She had reserved 
 only one right the wife of a business man upon 
 whom many were dependent she was in the 
 habit of protesting, once for all, against any injus- 
 tice done to any other than herself, after which 
 she never alluded to it again. She had overheard 
 Eloi Madiot's violent words, and remembered the 
 claim already put forward by the old workman, 
 and she had said to her husband: "Why do you 
 not give that man something; I think you are 
 wrong." Then he lost his temper, or rather he 
 turned his anger on her as Madiot was not there.
 
 REDEMPTION 101 
 
 Leaning against the side of the carriage he con- 
 tinued speaking, stopping between each sentence 
 to observe one of the bays which had gone a little 
 lame: 
 
 "I repeat that neither you nor your son under- 
 stand anything about these matters. You, at 
 least, are capable of charity, though your judg- 
 ment is not sound; but as to him, mark my words, 
 Louise, it is nothing but talk, talk, talk. I know 
 this generation of phrase-mongers." 
 
 Madame Louise sighed. "Let Victor alone," 
 she said, trying to shield her spoilt son, "he has 
 nothing to do with it. It is I who say you ought 
 to give in. Madiot is one of your oldest work- 
 men, if not the oldest. If you are afraid of 
 establishing a precedent and incurring undue 
 responsibility, give him a retiring pension. It 
 would not bind you to much, after thirty years 
 of service." 
 
 "No, Madame, I do not give retiring pensions. 
 . I shall have none but what I earn; let my work- 
 men do the same." 
 
 They both relapsed into silence. The splendour 
 of summer spread its millions of flowers in vain 
 for these rich people as they passed. The renewed 
 youth of the earth enveloped them, and they felt 
 it not. Sometimes a fan-shaped ravine opened 
 out between two hills, a double slope of coppice or 
 of corn, terminating at the edge of the cool river 
 with its overhanging trees. But sorrow and 
 anger are blind. 
 
 "You spoke of charity just now," she said, 
 presently. "Well! give some help, or let me "
 
 102 REDEMPTION 
 
 Her husband interrupted her with a peremp- 
 tory gesture : 
 
 "No, Madame, no, I have allowed your charity 
 to upset my decisions or my rules too often. This 
 time I won't have it; we have done quite enough. 
 I forbid you to see these Madiots, to give them 
 anything, or take any notice of them whatever." 
 
 His wife turned upon him brusquely, contrary to 
 her usual habit of submission, wounded and exas- 
 perated by this restriction of the only liberty she 
 had: 
 
 "But why, what reason can you have?" 
 
 He stared at her for a moment in surprise, 
 noticing the heavy faded features, the lips with 
 their sorrowful droop, the high cheek-bones, the 
 frightened eyes, and the tight silk bodice. 
 
 "I have my reasons," he said, coldly; "please 
 remember that you are out calling with me. Here 
 we are at Brasemont. You are hideously dressed." 
 
 The sand of the Loire rose round the wheels in 
 fine golden dust, and sank again behind the car- 
 riage. Trees brushed the coachman's shoulders 
 with their branches. 
 
 The horses, scenting the stable of the chateau, 
 strained at their collars and made for the borders 
 of the avenue. 
 
 Several women, keeping cows in the fields be- 
 hind the hedges, stood on tiptoe and cast curious 
 glances at the rich lady. 
 
 At dusk the same evening Eloi Madiot sat lis- 
 tening to Henriette, who was trying to reason with 
 him. He came home in a state of fury just as she
 
 REDEMPTION 103 
 
 returned from her work; she found him armed 
 with violent abuse against the rich, doubtless 
 gathered from a talk with his nephew Antoine, 
 though he would not own it. Thinking it rather 
 a serious case, she said amiably: 
 
 "Uncle, we must sit up to-night. I have some 
 waists to finish they have been waiting ever so 
 long! We will spend the evening in my room, 
 and we will have tea just as if Monsieur Lemari6 
 had given you the pension. Shall we?" 
 
 The old man looked upon Henrietta's room as 
 a sacred spot, not to be entered without permis- 
 sion. To sit up in Henriette's room was always a 
 treat to him. It was the lightest and largest in 
 the flat. It was furnished with a wooden bedstead 
 with white cotton curtains, always neatly draped, 
 trimmed with ball-fringe, a gilt mirror, an ebony 
 wardrobe with a long glass, and a round table to 
 match, both presents from a little work-room 
 friend, who had made rather a good match. The 
 table was covered with a crochet tablecloth, and 
 on it stood a china vase of artificial roses, between 
 two piles of fashion papers. A bookcase with 
 glass doors, and several cheap water-colour 
 prints, views of Norway, Switzerland or Italy, 
 hung on the walls. A statue of the Virgin stood 
 on an ornamental wooden bracket in the corner. 
 A rosary of large beads hung round her; she had 
 a face of penetrating sweetness. She was bless- 
 ing, raising three fingers in remembrance of the 
 Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
 
 It was a charming room, and its chief charm 
 was the soul of the young girl which seemed to
 
 104 REDEMPTION 
 
 animate it, even in her absence. The arrangement 
 of the furniture showed personal taste. Sometimes 
 an article of dress, of no great value, but prettily 
 chosen, lay forgotten on a chair; a white muslin 
 scarf, a waist-belt with a fancy buckle, a parasol, 
 a dress-front trimmed with three-point lace, or a 
 pair of gloves still keeping the shape of the slender 
 hand, always a little bent even when still, from 
 the constant habit of needlework. Sometimes 
 when old Eloi was dull during the solitary hours 
 of the day, for Henriette took her mid-day meal 
 at the work room, he would open the door of her 
 room and look in without crossing the threshold, 
 delighting his eyes with the sight of these things 
 which reminded him of two deep-blue eyes, and 
 the face of a beautiful young woman; then he 
 would go for a walk in the town, refreshed by the 
 thought of his little girl and his pride in her. 
 
 This evening, hoping to console her uncle, Hen- 
 riette had cunningly drawn up the only arm-chair, 
 covered in tapestry, which no one ever sat in; she 
 sat by the table, near the lamp, covered by the 
 best lamp-shade, busy with her sewing. Her deft 
 fingers were arranging a piece of cheap lace trim- 
 ming on the neck and sleeves of a waist. Some- 
 times she put down her work to take up the scis- 
 sors or the lace rolled on a piece of blue tissue 
 paper. Then her eyes would rest on Uncle Madiot 
 in the arm-chair, or on the open window through 
 which sudden gusts of wind kept blowing in. 
 When the 'wind was strong they could hear the 
 branches of the rose laurel brushing against the 
 wall or balcony. Sometimes the sound of oars
 
 REDEMPTION 105 
 
 rose from the Loire, and Henriette listened with 
 a smile. She felt happy because Marie had been 
 so well received at Madame Clemence's, and be- 
 cause to-night she was filling her favourite role of 
 consoler to her uncle. 
 
 "You should not make yourself miserable be- 
 cause of Monsieur Lemarie's refusal, uncle," she 
 said. "You have done your best, and you have 
 failed ; what is the use of getting angry, and talk- 
 ing about law-suits? Poor people like us are 
 feeble enemies." 
 
 "He has stolen my pension!" 
 
 "We have always managed to live I admit 
 that we have not always been rich," she said, 
 casting a satisfied glance at her wardrobe and 
 water-colours, "but the years of misery are past; 
 Antoine is earning his living, and so am I. Do 
 you know what Madame Clemence said to me last 
 Saturday? She said: 'You little artist!' with a 
 look that meant a good deal, if I am not mistaken. 
 Wouldn't you be glad, uncle, if your niece was 
 made forewoman? Forewoman to the leading 
 milliner in Nantes! Well! it may happen any 
 day. Mademoiselle Augustine is going downhill 
 fast." She gave a fresh young laugh as she held 
 her needle like a lance between her fingers. ' ' With 
 us, in fashionable shops, it is woe to the old!" 
 
 "It is the same with us," said Madiot, "woe to 
 the old!" 
 
 Henriette realized that her laughter was cruel; 
 she bit her lip, which had so thoughtlessly in- 
 sulted a companion's misfortune. 
 
 "You may be quite sure, uncle, that I would
 
 106 REDEMPTION 
 
 never try to get her place. But you see it is my 
 turn to rise now." 
 
 They looked at each other for a moment. 
 Henriette, in the involuntary exaltation of youth, 
 he broken down, listening to what she said almost 
 against his will when the sound of her voice broke 
 in upon his sadness, to which he reverted as soon 
 as she was silent. Why could she not cheer him? 
 Why did he sit sunk in the tapestry arm-chair, 
 with never a movement but the quivering of his 
 eyelids? She could not understand why the failure 
 of his errand in the afternoon, which they had 
 fully expected, should have upset him so much, 
 and she attributed his unappeasable anger to 
 something which Antoine must have said to him. 
 
 Presently she spoke again, driving her needle 
 through her work : 
 
 "What ages it seems since the first day of my 
 apprenticeship! Do you remember, how you left 
 me at the door of Mademoiselle Laure's work 
 room; she used to make country bonnets? And 
 do you remember how you were nearly frozen 
 waiting for me outside for an hour? I was only 
 a little thing then, but we loved each other dearly 
 even then, you and I!" 
 
 In vain she recalled the past and appealed to 
 her uncle's unfailing devotion to herself. The old 
 man was overcome with remorse and shame. 
 
 "I nearly let everything out," he thought to 
 himself, "I, a man, and an old soldier! A mo- 
 ment more and I should have forced him to pay 
 me by dishonouring her before the master's wife! 
 After keeping the secret in my heart for more
 
 REDEMPTION 107 
 
 than twenty-four years. How could I? Don't 
 I love her? Am I a coward?" 
 
 As he looked at her he knew it was not so, and 
 that he loved her above all things. But the 
 shame remained, and with it the remembrance of 
 the lamentable past filled his mind so that he 
 could not shake it off as usual. 
 
 "Uncle, if I am made forewoman, I shall get 
 higher wages; we shall be quite rich. I shall take 
 you for a little trip, with my savings. Right up 
 to the mouth of the Loire. Etienne has promised 
 to take me in his boat." 
 
 She laughed, hoping to make him happy. She 
 was used to seeing his humour change at an affec- 
 tionate word from her. But this time tears rose in 
 her uncle's eyes. 
 
 "When I think that I nearly betrayed her! 
 Oh! to think of it!" 
 
 Henriette put down her work. She leaned for- 
 ward and stroked the thick wrinkled hand tightly 
 clenched on the arm of the chair. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, uncle?" 
 
 He bent his head, lest she should read the truth 
 in his eyes. 
 
 The rose laurel quivered in the wind, and tossed 
 its branches in at the window. A voice which 
 seemed to come from the street, muffled and dead- 
 ened by the wind, was heard calling: 
 
 "Hello there! up at Madiot's." 
 
 The old man listened. "Who cculd be calling 
 at this hour?" 
 
 "Hello there! come and look!" 
 
 Eloi Madiot got up from his chair; Henriette
 
 108 REDEMPTION 
 
 was on her feet already. Groping their way acroBS 
 the dark room, they climbed out upon the bal- 
 cony, for the window was only raised a few inches 
 from the floor. The girl, stretching her head 
 under the branches of the laurel, saw half a human 
 shape, surmounted by a cap, waving an arm from 
 the window of the next story, toward some spot 
 in the distance. 
 
 "It is Madame Logeret," she said, in a whisper; 
 "what can it be?" 
 
 At the same moment the voice called for the 
 third time, hoarse and muffled, like a cry for help : 
 
 "Where are you, Monsieur Madiot? Look out, 
 over there! There's a fire !" 
 
 The old man's deep bass replied: 
 
 "All right, I'm here, be quiet!" 
 
 Silence fell again on the narrow house, which 
 commanded a view of the whole town. The three 
 inhabitants were anxiously trying to ascertain 
 the exact spot where the fire had broken out, in 
 the thick darkness. 
 
 A fire was smouldering beyond the first branch 
 of the Loire. At what distance, in which corner of 
 the factory districts, or even on which of the 
 islands it was impossible to guess. The darkness 
 hid every landmark. Nothing was visible on the 
 left bank of the murky waters but the ships hud- 
 dled together, and the irregular lines of lamp- 
 posts, against the immense field of darkness 
 formed by the earth and sky. There were islands 
 of light that seemed to rise above the horizon like 
 stars: clustered groups of lamps, dark spaces, 
 and long curved lines of single lamps. The lighted
 
 REDEMPTION 109 
 
 spaces were but small in comparison with the 
 darkness, and the lamps threw no light upon sur- 
 rounding objects; they looked quite different 
 from the same view by day and seemed all of one 
 size. All accurate notion of distance was lost. 
 But two lines of red light stood out against the 
 night, one above the other, probably from two 
 rows of windows which reflected the glow of the 
 invisible flames. 
 
 Their light varied every moment as the fire 
 gained ground to the left or right. A shower of 
 sparks rose from the first line and shot up into the 
 darkness higher than a cathedral spire, then a 
 tongue of vivid flame followed, licking the out- 
 side wall, and died down again. 
 
 "The house is done for," said Madiot, "the 
 outside walls are catching fire." 
 
 Henriette shivered as she stood beside him. 
 
 "Poor things!" she cried; and they were silent 
 once more. 
 
 The colour of the two red lines grew more and 
 more vivid, flames burst out here and there, end- 
 ing in volumes of smoke, the first dancing wreaths 
 of which showed pink against the darkness. Then 
 cries of terror rose upon the wind, sounding like 
 holiday acclamations, for the voice of a distant 
 crowd has but one note. Then suddenly the roof 
 fell in, and the whole building became a fiery fur- 
 nace, vomiting flame, smoke, and ashes, which 
 rose and fell with the wind. The clouds above 
 glowed brick-red. A light mixed with burning 
 dust illumined a quarter of the town, showing 
 streets, squares, chimneys, and slate roofs covered
 
 110 REDEMPTION 
 
 by moving shadows. Old Madiot fell back over- 
 come with emotion and leant against the wall. 
 His face showed deadly white in the light of the 
 conflagration. 
 
 "Henriette! Henriette!" he gasped. 
 
 She laid her hand on his wounded arm. 
 
 "What is it? Where is it?" 
 
 "Henriette! It is LemariS's factory," he cried, 
 in a voice of horror. 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "I know my own workshop. It is reaching the 
 warehouse. Let me go!" 
 
 "You can't at your age with only one arm; 
 no, I won't let you!" 
 
 He pushed past her, groped his way across the 
 kitchen, seized his hat, and slammed the door 
 behind him, crying: 
 
 ' ' I must ! I must ! Our place is on fire ! ' '
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ELOI MADIOT did not come home till three o'clock 
 in the morning. He was tired out, his clothes were 
 soaking wet and blackened by the smoke, and he 
 fell asleep. As he had related before going to bed, 
 all the Lemarie' factory was burned down: work 
 shops, storage-room, stock, offices, foreman's 
 house all, in fact. After fifty years of existence 
 the whole machinery, created by two generations, 
 had suddenly sunk to ruin, and the earth lay bare 
 and desolate again, and ready for new buildings, 
 while here and there useless fragments of the 
 ruins lay around, telling no tale of the enormous 
 amount of life, toil, and bold enterprise that had 
 been at work there. 
 
 Near the river, wrapped in the mist of dawn, 
 Henriette, on opening her window, saw the smoke 
 arise, white with the vapour from the water and 
 blackened with clouds of soot from the only partly 
 extinguished wreckage. The death-struggle even 
 of inanimate things is sad to watch. Henriette 
 had remained under the impression of this sight 
 and of the fright of yesterday, when the roofs of 
 the factory fell down into the flames. She went 
 to her room, passed to and fro, and did her house- 
 hold work as usual. She remembered her meet- 
 ing with Victor Lemarie" two days before at the 
 
 in
 
 112 REDEMPTION 
 
 corner of Rue Voltaire, the bow with which he 
 greeted her, and the fine fit of the horse's harness, 
 which she had noticed in passing. She also re- 
 membered dear me, how heavy the mattress 
 seemed this morning as she turned it, and how 
 storm-laden was the air that entered the window 
 she remembered having once seen Victor Le- 
 marie's father, the manufacturer. It was a long 
 time, five or six years ago now. He had presided 
 at a festival of the Gymnastic Society, and deliv- 
 ered a speech from a platform draped with the 
 tricolour and filled with fine folk. He gesticu- 
 lated above the heads of the gymnasts, who were 
 crowding at the foot of the tent and applauding. 
 The ladies, officers, and common people, who 
 were sitting on one side, did not listen. From her 
 place Henriette heard nothing. She only saw a 
 hard face which tried to smile, a white beard that 
 was moving, and rapid motion of arms that did 
 not bend or exaggerate. Some one beside her re- 
 marked: "Talk away, old boy, go it. That's why 
 you are so hated." The remembrance of this 
 fete, the outline of the man and his words came 
 back to her. And now, what feverish excitement 
 there must be in the employer's house, and 
 among the workmen, too, who were all at once 
 discharged by the fire. The young girl finished 
 smoothing and arranging the sheets on her bed, 
 and straightened the folds by running her hand all 
 along the mattress. Then she arranged the cur- 
 tains and drew them close together, leaving but 
 a shadowy slit between them. 
 Outside the newsboys were already at work.
 
 REDEMPTION 113 
 
 "Great fire! Factory destroyed! Latest news!" 
 they cried. 
 
 At eight o'clock, half an hour earlier than 
 usual, she was outside. The news was known and 
 discussed everywhere. It filled the town. The 
 custom-house officials talked about it with the 
 lightermen, the milkmen with their customers, 
 and the proprietors of cafes with the people who 
 came in to have an early drink and wiped their lips 
 with the backs of their hands as they went out. 
 Everybody had seen the drama either close to or 
 from a distance, every one knew some fresh un- 
 published fact which was promptly added to the 
 gloomy account that varied but little. The pop- 
 ular imagination was hard at work upon the fear- 
 ful theme : the night, the raging gale, the firemen 
 on the roofs reddened by the flames, the total 
 destruction of human property. From the rue 
 de 1'Ermitage to the tobacco factory there was 
 not a house possessed of a window, a door or a 
 sky-light, from which some woman did not look 
 out, if only for a moment, to feel for and meditate 
 upon the white smoke that was still rising from 
 the ruins. 
 
 At Madame Clemence's the work-room girls 
 were in a great state of excitement. When Henri- 
 ette entered at half-past eight the first comers 
 were already talking at the tops of their voices 
 between the two tables. Their sunshades were 
 still in their hands, their hats were on their heads, 
 and they paid no attention to the remonstrances 
 of Mademoiselle Augustine, who had sat down in 
 a protesting manner and was repeating sharply:
 
 114 REDEMPTION 
 
 " Go on, girls, if you like, but I shall tell Madame 
 Clemence all about it . " They did not listen . They 
 were excited and in a hurry to tell what they knew. 
 
 "I was going to bed. I had been reading a 
 book," said one. 
 
 "I was asleep. The noise of the fire-engine 
 woke me. I ran to the window in my nightdress. 
 It was so cold. A man shouted, 'It's in the He 
 Gloriette quarter/ So I went back to bed. It 
 was far away." 
 
 "It was the reflection on the windows that 
 frightened me. It might have been in my room. 
 I watched, and I could only see a pillar of flame 
 in the dark. And I could hear nothing. Are 
 there two men hurt?" 
 
 "No, three were injured by the beams. They 
 have been taken to the hospital. I read it in the 
 paper coming here. Here you are, here is the 
 article a million loss." 
 
 The enormity of the sum produced silence. The 
 pretty young heads were bending over the paper 
 which Mademoiselle Irma held. Marie Schwarz, 
 standing at the back in her poor shabby dress, 
 ventured to approach Henriette, who, with raised 
 arms and chest out, was carefully freeing her hair 
 that had got entangled in the straw of her hat. 
 Her black eyes smiled. 
 
 The door opened. The apprentice Louise en- 
 tered, shaking her head with its red hair and 
 chubby cheeks, and saying: 
 
 "Well, there's something else happened." 
 
 She had an important air about her, like a child 
 that knows a secret.
 
 REDEMPTION 115 
 
 "And something important too." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 "Girls, you may not believe me, but Monsieur 
 Lemarie is dead." 
 
 They all looked up. Mademoiselle Augustine 
 stopped working, and said sharply: 
 
 "My dear, you are telling stories to amuse the 
 young ladies. Isn't that it? Go to your seat." 
 
 To show the truth of her statement the appren- 
 tice dropped her arms down on to her dress, and 
 her poor shoes, that were letting in the water 
 everywhere, became visible. 
 
 "Not at all, Mademoiselle. To prove to you 
 that I'm right, I may say that our neighbour is a 
 joiner who works up at the big house. He heard 
 it just now. The master went to look at the fire 
 about eleven o'clock last night. It shocked him 
 so, to see all his property burnt, that he dropped 
 down. They took him home, and he died before 
 he could be told that the fire was out. It's the 
 truth I'm telling you. Even the priest arrived 
 ten minutes too late. So you see " 
 
 "It's really too much all at once," said some one. 
 
 There was no reply. Death the inevitable had 
 been mentioned, and as the stones shiver all along 
 a street when a wagon is passing, so their souls 
 quivered as they heard the name of Death. The 
 stools were brought nearer to the tables, hats and 
 coats were put into the cupboard, and the noise 
 of cotton reels and scissors laid on the smooth silk 
 stuffs showed that the work was beginning as on 
 every other morning. Henriette, enervated and 
 distracted by the storm and the bad night, picked
 
 116 REDEMPTION 
 
 up her skirts to sit down, and looked round with 
 clear eyes on the gathering of girls. The teeth of 
 laughing Mademoiselle Cecile, the dimples of 
 Mademoiselle Anne, a Normandy lass with a 
 milky-white complexion who was Henriette's 
 assistant, and the morning glint in all their eyes, 
 were no longer visible. They were all quiet now, 
 some devoid of all expression, some serious and 
 even grave, busy in preparing their work. Made- 
 moiselle Reine, who was sitting nearest to the fore- 
 woman, and who had a face like a saint in a 
 stained-glass window, was sitting with downcast 
 eyes, while her lips were slightly moving. 
 
 Within the next quarter of an hour two or three 
 other young girls came in, with a certain excite- 
 ment clinging to the very folds of their dresses. 
 They confirmed the news brought by the appren- 
 tice. M. Lemarie had died of congestion of the 
 brain without having recovered consciousness. 
 The windows of his house were shut, it was re- 
 ported. The factory would not be rebuilt, at 
 least not by the manufacturer's family. A rumour 
 was also afloat that a claim for the relief of the 
 workmen would be placed before the Municipal 
 Council. 
 
 Gradually the great interest, the prospects, the 
 expectation that centred round the death dis- 
 persed the gloomy impression. Silk roses, velvet 
 bands, bunches of marguerites or corn-flowers 
 began to take their places on the shapes. With 
 a slight pricking sound the needles pierced the 
 materials and the straw. The milliners placed 
 their prospective masterpieces on their clenched
 
 REDEMPTION 117 
 
 fists, held them at arm's length, turned them 
 round in order to take stock of them, and brought 
 them close again. 
 
 "I am sure I shall have an order from Madame 
 Lemarie," said Mademoiselle Augustine, who 
 took the long silence as a personal compliment. 
 "I have been working for her for more than ten 
 years now." 
 
 Mademoiselle Irma, who had the largest and 
 most restless eyes of all the girls, and was a bit of 
 an artist and hated the first hand, answered from 
 the other end of the same table : 
 
 "I don't envy you, Mademoiselle; a mourning 
 hat!" 
 
 "One can make them more or less elegant." 
 
 "Never: a bit of crape, a band, a veil the whole 
 length of the dress; you can't do anything with 
 that." 
 
 "I beg your pardon." 
 
 "I beg yours. Such hats are horrors." 
 
 "No, Mademoiselle, not my hats." 
 
 "After all, you would not put them on your 
 own head, nor would I." 
 
 Mademoiselle Augustine was vexed, but tried 
 to laugh. Three wrinkles puckered up her pim- 
 pled face, and she retorted: 
 
 "There is no reason for it. I am not a widow." 
 
 Stifled laughter was heard all round. Made- 
 moiselle Lucie, the apprentice, who sat two seats 
 away from Henrietta, and always had moist, 
 clammy hands, bent over her frame and mur- 
 mured : 
 
 "Dear me, I should think not."
 
 118 REDEMPTION 
 
 Henriette, who was sitting opposite Mademoi- 
 selle Augustine, and did not want to laugh, 
 said: 
 
 "They say that Madame Lemarie is very good." 
 
 This brought out various comments from every 
 part of the room. 
 
 " She's better than her husband. He did not 
 like the workmen. He was a bad wealthy man." 
 
 " There isn't such a thing as a good wealthy 
 man." 
 
 "Look at Mourieux. He isn't rich. He earns 
 his living like the rest of us, perhaps a bit better." 
 
 "He sells his flowers rather dear, but I like him 
 for all that. When he smiles you feel you can 
 trust him; but Lemarie* you could never get a 
 word out of him if you asked him for anything. 
 It was all orders, orders, nothing but orders." 
 
 "My mother told me that the day he set his 
 two machines for shelling peas going, two hundred 
 women were thrown out of work. They were all his 
 workers, and they were mothers too. My mother 
 was one of them. They went to his office to ask 
 for respite or assistance. He replied: 'Everyone 
 for himself. A shelling machine saves me the cost 
 of four hundred women. I bought the machines 
 and discharged the women. I am well within my 
 rights.' Do you think that's fair? " 
 
 "He was right. He could not afford to lose 
 through us." 
 
 "And the prices he paid! You could just earn 
 your bread at his place and no more. While he 
 was making millions!" 
 
 "And insulted all the pretty girls."
 
 REDEMPTION 119 
 
 The young girl who had spoken blushed on see- 
 ing several heads slowly raised from their work. 
 She at once added: 
 
 "I know that's the case, because I've been 
 told so." 
 
 Irma was too smart for an employee who 
 earned her fifty francs a month. She was pale 
 and her eyes were black-ringed. She was very 
 artistic and capricious, and there was a note of 
 passion in her voice and in her whole being that 
 made people listen to her when she spoke. She 
 continued : 
 
 "And yet that man seized the wealth of the 
 poor. Have you ever read 'Looking Backward/ 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne?" 
 
 "No; who wrote it?" 
 
 "An American, Bellamy by name. I have read 
 it three times. He shows what society will be like 
 at the end of the twentieth century. We shan't 
 be alive then, I am sorry to say, for life will be 
 more worth living then." 
 
 "What do you know about it? Are you a 
 socialist? Do you like socialists?" 
 
 The young girl answered very seriously, never 
 leaving off work and still twining a wreath of con- 
 volvulus round a white straw shape with perfect 
 taste : 
 
 "Yes, I do. I have been to several of their 
 meetings. I do not understand all their theories, 
 but at least they admit that we do suffer and 
 ought to complain. Life is so dull." 
 
 "I have read some novels by Eliot," remarked 
 Mademoiselle Reine. "They worried me, and
 
 120 REDEMPTION 
 
 yet I have a feeling that all those fine phrases are 
 nothing more than a written dream." 
 
 "Is it a dream to ask for justice?" 
 
 Reine, who was nervous, too, raised her slender 
 neck, which was of the colour of old ivory. 
 
 "I do not trust them," she replied. "What 
 reason have they for loving others so much? I 
 should understand it if they believed in God." 
 
 "There's a pious girl for you." 
 
 "Well, it's true." 
 
 "It is just because they expect nothing from 
 an after-life that they claim their rights in this. 
 Not every one can believe in God and give them- 
 selves up to piety as you do. There are some who 
 suffer, without having done anything to deserve 
 it, and they rebel. I do so." 
 
 Answers came in quick undertones, for it was 
 a question that went home to them all. 
 
 "I do, too I don't I do sometimes there, 
 now, I've broken my needle." 
 
 Henriette had for the past few moments been 
 engrossed in attentively comparing three pieces 
 of ribbon which had to be matched with some 
 mauve flowers of the newest fashion. She un- 
 folded them, gathered them up, and compared 
 the patterns with half-closed eyes, so as to better 
 gauge the shading. 
 
 On hearing the ideas of these young girls of six- 
 teen or eighteen, she, the elder, could not keep 
 from nodding her approval. Mademoiselle Irma 
 noticed it, and said: 
 
 "Oh, and what about you, Mademoiselle Hen- 
 riette?"
 
 REDEMPTION 121 
 
 "Why? What about me?" 
 
 "Your ideas are well known. You have no 
 need to speak about them. You are virtue, wis- 
 dom, and reason personified, a young lady who 
 cannot fall." 
 
 "Luckily; one hurts oneself when one does," 
 she replied, with a laugh. 
 
 The young girl to whom she had been speaking 
 looked at her severely and said nothing. The 
 talk went on amid the scissors, pins, and thim- 
 bles. Each mind was taking its own course into 
 a region where no soul may follow any other soul, 
 into the land of dreams, which is a trackless land. 
 It was getting hotter. The air that came in 
 through the half-opened window was laden with 
 electricity which had a choking effect, and was 
 quickly rejected by the lungs like poison. Drops 
 of perspiration stood on their bare necks. From 
 time to time an impatient tapping of a shoe heel 
 on the floor, or the drumming of five fingers on 
 the table, might be heard. New ideas were slower 
 in coming; they were getting tired and inclined 
 to dream. 
 
 The death of M. Lemarie had been forgotten. 
 
 "It is time the season was over," said fat 
 Lucie, who was almost choking. "I would rather 
 not have a sou in the house than work in such 
 heat." 
 
 The remark had apparently no effect upon the 
 young girls. But it had stirred them, just as an 
 oar-thrust stirs the waters. There is never a ripple 
 on the surface; the reeds have never moved, the 
 very flies are still sipping the wild honey in the
 
 122 REDEMPTION 
 
 heart of the yellow water-lilies. But a current of 
 air has passed through. It has stirred even the 
 roots and the buds that lie hidden in the grass. 
 How would it be to leave the work shop? Of 
 course the slack season was coming on, and with 
 it days of freedom and distress; days when it 
 would be hard to get bread on credit, when it 
 would be doubtful whether one could come back 
 to the same employer, besieged as she was by new 
 hands; days when thoughts of death flit through 
 the mind in the interval between two pleasure 
 outings or two long spells of forced idleness. En- 
 forced holidays, servile toil, mothers who under- 
 stood them not, temptations that come when one 
 is twenty and that no work can overcome, sad 
 stories of the past, the misery of living alone. 
 That was all coming. It was close at hand. 
 
 A white shaft of light flooded the ceiling at 
 right angles; it was the reflection from a con- 
 servatory which they were accustomed to see at 
 eleven o'clock in summer. 
 
 The girls looked up at it. 
 
 At the same moment one of the young girls 
 began to sob. She cried, burying her hands in 
 her hair and pressing her heaving breast against 
 the table. Her companions did not seem sur- 
 prised, but went on all the more eagerly bending 
 their heads over their work, so that the one who 
 was crying need not feel ashamed. They always 
 did that for each other. Hardly a week passed 
 but one of these children lost heart and gave way 
 to tears, overcome by a grief that was often un- 
 known to the others.
 
 REDEMPTION 123 
 
 This time it was Irma of the great eyes, Irma 
 the socialist. They let her calm down, dry her 
 tears and rearrange her hair. 
 
 Every one knew that two days ago her lover had 
 left her. 
 
 Madame Clemence came in. She did not seem 
 to notice anything. She smiled from under her 
 frizzed and powdered wig. She held a hand mir- 
 ror in two fingers and stopped a moment behind 
 each worker, while to judge from her face and 
 speech she might have been visiting a collection 
 of curios in some pleasure-house. 
 
 It was her principle to encourage the workers. 
 
 "Very good a charming idea. Mauve and 
 violet, Mademoiselle Jeanne, would be better still. 
 Mademoiselle Mathilde, just raise that brim; 
 two bunches of violette in the fold of the straw 
 two or three leaves there, just quite naturally, 
 you know! Light shades, don't you think? Our 
 client is fair, you know. Mademoiselle Henri- 
 ette, you get better every day. It is you who have 
 earned me the thanks of the little Countess 
 Zaniska and Madame de Streville. Give a little 
 softer curve to your plumes, Mademoiselle Reine. 
 See, make them come so, and you have a master- 
 piece. Stretch your shape a little more, Made- 
 moiselle Reine, you don't frame it enough. But 
 the model is good. You must have it copied, 
 Mademoiselle Augustine. By the way, the two 
 straw hats trimmed with roses for the general's 
 daughters will be done by this evening, I suppose. 
 They are leaving for the country, and the hats 
 have been promised."
 
 124 REDEMPTION 
 
 " Mademoiselle Irma is doing them," replied the 
 first hand. 
 
 Madame Clemence glanced at the weeping girl, 
 and took care to say nothing. She next noticed 
 Marie Schwarz: 
 
 "And what are you doing?" 
 
 "I am putting in the lining; it drags." 
 
 The chief was just going to leave, as her visit 
 was over, when she remembered that she had to 
 give an order. She let go the copper door-handle 
 which she had already grasped, took two steps 
 back, and bending over Henriette, who was seated 
 at the end of one of the tables, said to her rather 
 quietly : 
 
 "Mademoiselle Henriette, will you please go 
 round to Madame Lemarie directly after dinner. 
 She wants you." 
 
 Subdued as were the tones in which Madame 
 Clemence had spoken, several of the workers had 
 nevertheless overheard her words and were aston- 
 ished. Mademoiselle Augustine assumed her 
 offended air, and sat stiffly on her stool. The 
 chief saw the necessity of commenting on her 
 order, to prevent bad feeling between two of her 
 best workers. 
 
 "I have just this moment heard from Madame 
 Lemarie". She wants you personally. You will 
 take three of our models, with white bandeaus, of 
 course, for a widow. Take Mademoiselle Schwarz 
 with you. She will begin her duties as a fitter." 
 
 "Very well, Madame." 
 
 When the door was shut there was a significant 
 interchange of whispers among the girls: "Well,
 
 REDEMPTION 125 
 
 my dear, there's another event! The first hand is 
 furious. No wonder. She's served the lady for 
 ten years. She was counting on the order. I 
 must say Mademoiselle Henriette Madiot is 
 lucky. She looks pleased too. And the other, old 
 monkey face. What a face she has got." 
 
 The old " monkey face" was a worker of about 
 forty years of age. She could see that disgrace 
 would come upon her soon, and that she would 
 lose her daily bread. She assumed an attitude 
 which she considered dignified, in order to hide 
 the despair that was gnawing her soul. The 
 others laughed and failed to understand her be- 
 cause her sufferings were not sorrows of love. 
 
 The clock struck. It was a small shrill sound 
 deadened by tapestry coverings, walls and cup- 
 boards, and it seemed to come from below ground. 
 It gave the signal for lunch time. All needles 
 were stuck into the shapes. Slowly the young 
 girls rose, and some, with the pose of princesses, 
 drew off the silken sleeves they put on for work. 
 Some stood still for a moment, motionless, stupe- 
 fied by the long mental strain. Then the passage 
 filled with noise, with footsteps, the sound of 
 which was deadened by the carpet, with rustling 
 skirts and half-suppressed youthful laughter, and 
 Madame Clemence's work-girls, having washed 
 their hands in an ante-room near the cashier's 
 office, trooped into the long, badly lit dining-room, 
 where the chief herself presided over the morning 
 meal. The young girls sat down where they 
 pleased, with the exception of the first hand and 
 the housekeeper, who sat one on the right and the
 
 126 REDEMPTION 
 
 other on the left of Madame Cle"mence. Generally 
 Henriette sat next to Mademoiselle Augustine. 
 But this time Mademoiselle Augustine took care 
 to put Mademoiselle Reine between herself and 
 her rival. This was an open rupture. 
 
 Henriette did not care. She was thinking of 
 her visit to Madame Lemarie.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE seven front windows on the first, second and 
 third floors of the Lemarie mansion were closed. 
 At the door there was a continual stream of 
 common people, clerks and footmen ringing the 
 bell. They pressed the electric button very 
 slightly out of respect for the dead; the door 
 scarcely opened out of respect for the dead. 
 They touched their hats with their hands, pre- 
 sented a visiting card and withdrew. 
 
 The silver salver placed at the foot of the great 
 staircase was hidden up to the handles under a 
 mass of cards. Every quarter of an hour wreaths 
 of natural or artificial flowers were brought in. 
 
 In the yellow drawing-room on the first floor 
 Madame Lemarie, seated on a silk ottoman, which 
 was completely covered by her black dress, was 
 looking at the door, through which a moment ago 
 M. Lecanu, the family solicitor, had gone out. 
 
 There was very little light in the room. It only 
 came in on one side through the chinks in the 
 shutters, and on the other through the half-open 
 door where lay the body of M. Lemarie, with 
 his hands clasping a crucifix, drawn and im- 
 perious still. Two nuns, between two wax tapers, 
 were watching at the foot of the bed. They could 
 scarcely be seen. A streak of unbroken light 
 glistened on the polished floor and united the two 
 
 127
 
 128 REDEMPTION 
 
 rooms. The room might have been empty, but for 
 the clicking of a rosary, the piling of one wreath 
 on another, and a sound of judiciously muffled 
 footsteps. 
 
 Madame Lemarie* was reflecting. 
 
 Some one came in. She recognized the fat man 
 who was feeling his way through the room for fear 
 of knocking up against the furniture. 
 
 "Is it you, Mourieux? Have you made the 
 declaration? 7 ' 
 
 "Yes, Madame. I await your orders to join 
 Victor in doing what remains to be done. Does 
 the will make any arrangements with regard to 
 the funeral?" 
 
 "No, none." 
 
 The old lady said nothing, folded her arms in 
 her lap, and looked at her hands, which she spread 
 wide, palms outward, with a gesture of resigna- 
 tion that evidently corresponded with a thought 
 in her primitive mind. Then looking straight at 
 Mourieux she said : 
 
 ' ' You see me doubly sad. It is just as I thought : 
 we are very rich." 
 
 Mourieux grunted: "It's better than being 
 poor." 
 
 She resumed in the same penetrating tones: 
 ' ' Not always, Mourieux. Moreover, Monsieur Le- 
 canu tells me that my husband has left me all that 
 the law allowed him to dispose of in my favour." 
 
 "Is it possible? To you?" 
 
 The bushy brows of the draper rose in aston- 
 ishment. He added: "Really, Madame, I am 
 surprised, absolutely surprised, and very pleased."
 
 REDEMPTION 129 
 
 "I was not surprised myself, Mourieux. Mon- 
 sieur Lemarie wished to guard against the spend- 
 thrift nature of his son, who has no trade. He did 
 not love me, but he esteemed me." 
 
 "No doubt." 
 
 " Perhaps he thought it was a kind of compen- 
 sation. The roughest men are sometimes kind at 
 heart. In short, the will is definite. I inherit an 
 enormous fortune." 
 
 Mourieux expressed his agreement by a gesture. 
 
 She sighed and said: "It is ill-gotten wealth." 
 
 "Oh, Madame." 
 
 "I know what I am saying, Mourieux, and I 
 say that it is ill-gotten." 
 
 "But excuse me, it was gained by steady toil 
 requiring a good deal of intelligence and brain 
 work. Monsieur Lemarie* has gained his wealth 
 by honourable means." 
 
 "It may be so, my friend, according to- the light 
 current code of honour. But I am a witness to 
 his life, and, as you know, that is the only witness 
 that speaks true. I saw the money that is now 
 mine before it came, and it pained me to make 
 use of it. I suffered cruelly, believe me. At the 
 end of the Empire we took stock of 200,000 
 francs' worth of tinned goods, ninth-rate in qual- 
 ity, and made for the consumption of foreign 
 sailors. The agents declared them to be excellent 
 because well, you understand, don't you? And 
 at the same time, and later on and always, when 
 you were not there, the workmen would come to the 
 office in a deputation from their comrades; and 
 here in this very house, underneath us, how often
 
 130 REDEMPTION 
 
 have I heard those scenes? They complained of 
 their wages being notoriously inadequate, but 
 they did not change, because we were in possession 
 of what almost amounted to a monopoly. You 
 did not hear the brutal answers, nor the dismis- 
 sals for the simple reason that somebody had 
 claimed some compensation, nor the speeches 
 made to the so-called employees who were plead- 
 ing for their comrades who had been injured in 
 the work shops, to prove to these unfortunates 
 that the master was not liable. These savings 
 represent our income. And the moral misery that 
 one has caused and permitted, to say nothing of 
 what one has never known. Ah! those cursed 
 factory walls, how often I have wept as I looked 
 at them! Only last night, when I heard that they 
 were burning, my first thought was: All the 
 better." 
 
 After a pause, during which her panting breath 
 grew calm, Madame Lemarie resumed with her air 
 of customary placidness: 
 
 "It is useless for me to insist on the proof. 
 Will you let me off?" 
 
 * ' Yes," said Mourieux, naively. ' ' I have known 
 Lemarie^ well, you understand, and without ap- 
 proving of everything." 
 
 "I do not say this for the pleasure of accusing 
 him, my good friend, but to acquaint you with 
 a resolution. I hate this wealth. I accept it, so 
 that it may be well spent. I shall give away as 
 much as possible of it, that's all." 
 
 Instinctively the man turned his head toward 
 the other room, as if the dead man might possibly
 
 REDEMPTION 131 
 
 hear the words. The noise of an artificial wreath 
 being moved fell upon the silence of the drawing- 
 room, bearing witness that the present hour be- 
 longed to the woman who had just been speaking. 
 Seized by a sudden feeling that he could not but 
 translate into action, Mourieux rose, stretched 
 out his hand, and said: 
 
 "Honour me by giving me your hand, Madame 
 Lemarie. What you say may perhaps be exag- 
 gerated, but it's fine all the same." 
 
 "And you will help me, my dear Mourieux. 
 All alone I should not know how to make use of this 
 money. It is so difficult; I shall have need of your 
 advice." 
 
 He remained standing beside her, full of ad- 
 miration for the woman who had revealed herself 
 to him. 
 
 "Has Victor been informed?" 
 
 "About the will? Yes, he was there when it 
 was read." 
 
 "And about the rest?" 
 
 "I shall speak to him at the first opportunity. 
 I shall do it discreetly, as one can do to a son. 
 I am sure he is capable of understanding. And 
 you, do you remember what he said before his 
 father in the garden?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember what he said, but " 
 
 "You doubt his word? He is so fond of you." 
 
 "Madame," said the man, evading the ques- 
 tion, "I am too old to undertake anything. There 
 is a great deal of misery everywhere in the dress- 
 making and millinery trade too. I am well 
 acquainted with it, but you ought to have some
 
 132 REDEMPTION 
 
 one to help and inform you, perhaps one of our 
 young girls, such as one finds, a girl who is intelli- 
 gent and refined and knows the ins and outs of 
 her trade." 
 
 "You spoke to me some time ago about Made- 
 moiselle Madiot?" 
 
 " Yes, that's true. There's a case in point, if she 
 is willing." 
 
 "She will be here in a moment," said Madame 
 Lemarie, quietly. 
 
 And as Mourieux made a movement showing 
 his surprise that, on such a day, she should first 
 of all have thought of that, she said: 
 
 "Do not misunderstand me. I have not the 
 slightest intention of mentioning these subjects 
 to Mademoiselle Madiot. No, it's quite another 
 matter." 
 
 The energetic expression of revolt against a 
 long and degrading past reappeared in her face: 
 
 "It is a question of an injustice that was done 
 to the Madiot family. It must be made good 
 immediately, for they are poor. This justice was 
 refused to me the other day. And I am in a hurry 
 to make them forget what was too hard in the past." 
 
 The door opened and a footman announced: 
 
 "Madame Clemence has sent to try on the 
 bonnets." 
 
 "Very well. Ask them upstairs." 
 
 When the servant had gone she added: "I am 
 unhappier than others, my dear Mourieux, be- 
 cause I was born for a middle-class position, and 
 here I am, having to face duties that are very 
 hard to know and to fulfil. Give me your arm."
 
 REDEMPTION 133 
 
 She rose and Mourieux led her to the end of the 
 corridor to the head of the stairs. There he took 
 his leave. She saw her old friend going down 
 with his bent back and his head even more on one 
 side than usual, while at the same time she saw 
 two slender forms coming up, standing out against 
 the shadows of the hall and mirrored in rose-pink 
 light. They were Henriette and Marie. Marie 
 walked last and carried three round boxes. 
 Madame Lemarie tried to guess which of the two 
 was Henriette Madiot. Was it the one who was 
 picking up her skirts in her right hand almost to 
 her knees, and who was walking, seemingly with- 
 out effort, up into the light? Their faces were 
 hidden by the brims of their hats. 
 
 Henriette entered the house as a stranger. On 
 coming in her only thoughts had been: "How 
 beautiful it is here!" As far as Madame Lemarie 
 was concerned, she felt and could not but feel a 
 sympathetic interest in the face of this working 
 girl whose ^race, refinement, and intelligence had 
 been so highly praised. Nevertheless Madame 
 Lemarie's sympathy grew stronger when she saw 
 Henriette's face gradually appear. First the 
 chin, then the white neck of a fair girl, the dainty 
 mouth, the small straight nose, and at last the 
 eyes, those starry eyes that looked up and saw 
 her. The old lady thought: "How pretty she 
 is!" More especially she observed her with an 
 intensity of feeling that life had often called forth ; 
 for she had the frail and wondrous charm of a 
 young girl whom happy mothers would be proud 
 to call their own.
 
 134 REDEMPTION 
 
 This thought made her turn away sharply, 
 without saying a word. 
 
 "How ugly she is," whispered Marie. "Is this 
 the woman who is so rich?" 
 
 Following Madame Lemarie*, they entered a 
 blue room that looked out upon the court. 
 
 The windows were not closed. 
 
 "Here are the bonnets you have ordered, 
 Madame," said Henriette to Madame Lemarie, 
 who was standing facing the window. "Do you 
 wish the young lady to try them on before you 
 first?" 
 
 On receiving the scarcely audible answer 
 "Yes," Henriette lifted her veil and bent over 
 the cardboard boxes that her friend had put on 
 the ground. Then, as she found it difficult to 
 undo the string, she knelt down. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," she said, "the string is 
 in a knot." 
 
 "There is no hurry, Mademoiselle. Take your 
 own time. I am not a great lady." 
 
 "We have brought three models, Madame, 
 which only differ in the thickness of the niching. 
 This is the simplest of them. Please stand in the 
 light, Mademoiselle Marie, and smooth your hair 
 down." 
 
 With an easy movement the girl rose, holding 
 between two fingers a black crape bonnet lined 
 with a bandeau of white crape. She placed it on 
 the head of the fitter with perfect ease, not too 
 much in front nor too far back, drew a few of the 
 girl's black locks down on to the forehead in 
 imitation of an old lady's way of doing her hair,
 
 REDEMPTION 135 
 
 fastened the whole with a hat pin, and then 
 asked: 
 
 " Is that to your taste?" 
 
 She observed that Madame Lemarie* was not 
 paying the least attention to the bonnet, but on 
 the other hand did not once take her eyes off 
 Madame Clemence's milliner, who was usually 
 ignored by most customers on a similar occasion. 
 Henriette was surprised. She was being taken 
 notice of. She was receiving a kind of admiration 
 that made her smile. And in that smile there was 
 all the gratitude of youth that has been approved. 
 But she quickly repressed this show of personal 
 feeling, which was out of place. 
 
 1 ' Do you wish us to try on a second model? " she 
 inquired. 
 
 "You are quite young, Mademoiselle. How 
 old are you?" 
 
 "I am twenty-four, Madame." 
 
 "Have you been at work long?" 
 
 "Certainly, Madame, ever since I was a child." 
 
 "And you are fond of your trade, I am sure? 
 You seem to be very skilful. And I suppose the 
 shop for which you work gives you employment 
 all the year round? There is no slack season?" 
 
 Henriette, like all the other young women in 
 millinery work, had a kind of professional pride, 
 which prevented her from complaining. More- 
 over, the idea of her own working class was so 
 deeply ingrained in her, that she was instinctively 
 on her guard against the pity and curiosity of an- 
 other class. She replied coldly: 
 
 ' ' No, Madame, not for me. I want for nothing."
 
 136 REDEMPTION 
 
 The lines that furrowed Madame Lemarie*'s 
 cheeks seemed to deepen. With a look of heart- 
 felt kindness which required a very strong feeling 
 to make it change, she looked at the two young 
 girls. The one was upright, elegant, almost 
 haughty in her manner, the other evidently indif- 
 ferent, and forming such a strange figure in her 
 crape bonnet. Then without being angry, she said : 
 
 " Mademoiselle, I am glad that you want for 
 nothing. I want for many things, and the chief 
 of them is this : There was some difficulty between 
 your uncle and Monsieur Lemarie". Is that not 
 the case?" 
 
 "Yes, Madame; but it has all been settled, 
 I believe." 
 
 "Yes, but not according to my wishes. Will 
 you please tell your uncle that, as a very old 
 worker of the firm, he will receive a pension of 
 five hundred francs a year?" 
 
 Henriette was taken aback for a moment. 
 She grew scarlet, and the tears rose to her eyes. 
 
 "Ah, Madame, how happy he will be. How I 
 thank you on his behalf. He no longer reckoned 
 on it. I do not know how to tell you." 
 
 She hesitated before taking the outstretched 
 hand of Madame Lemarie', for she was not accus- 
 tomed to such familiarities on the part of the 
 customers whom she visited, and she felt all at 
 once confused, happy and yet embarrassed, when 
 just at this moment a shadow lengthened on the 
 parquet flooring at her feet. It was Victor 
 Lemarie" coming in at the door that opened on to 
 the corridor. In his hand he held a packet of
 
 REDEMPTION 137 
 
 funeral invitation cards in black-bordered en- 
 velopes. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said, seeing Henri- 
 ette and Marie. 
 
 "Oh, is it you, my child," said Madame Le- 
 marie, who had heard without seeing him come. 
 "I shall be ready in a moment. I have just 
 chosen a bonnet." 
 
 She went up to Marie: "Let me have this one. 
 It will do quite well enough." 
 
 In a moment and with a gesture of deliverance, 
 Marie removed the bonnet and placed it on the 
 marble top of a chest of drawers. Then she 
 hastened to collect her two boxes that were still 
 full. Henriette bowed, gazing steadfastly at the 
 old lady with a softened glance which said: 
 Thank you, for him and for me. 
 
 The two young girls left the room. When Hen- 
 riette passed through the corridor quite near the 
 door, Victor Lemarie, who was standing close up 
 against the wall, bent his pointed beard and said: 
 
 "Good-day, Mademoiselle Madiot." 
 
 The voice rang out, clear, youthful, unan- 
 swered, in strange contrast to the muffled sound 
 of prayer from the nuns in the room below. 
 
 "I came to write some addresses," said Victor 
 on entering his mother's room. "You are not too 
 tired, are you?" 
 
 With a sign she answered in the negative, and 
 pointed to the little table at which both could 
 write side by side.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE invitation cards were printed on thick paper 
 with a Cross above. What had the Cross to do 
 with the life that was no more? They bore the 
 words: "He died fortified with all the rites of the 
 Church." It was a lie, for the deceased had never 
 troubled about them. They bore the words: 
 "Of your charity say a De profundis for his soul." 
 Who would there be to say it? 
 
 Madame Lemarie sighed, and put back in the 
 envelope the first of the cards which she had un- 
 folded. With her studied, neat, and angular 
 writing she penned one address, then another, 
 then a third, in silence. Victor was doing the 
 same. They were studying an open note-book 
 that lay between them. 
 
 "Of course we will only send them to people 
 who live at a distance. The undertakers see after 
 the rest. Mourieux has told them about it. He 
 said all the town was to be invited." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Baron d'Espelette, Commander of the Six- 
 teenth Division. Are you sure that there is not 
 an V at the end of his name? No? All right. 
 The General may be of use to me when I become 
 an officer of the Reserve next January." 
 
 This half question produced no answer but the 
 
 138
 
 REDEMPTION 139 
 
 scratching of the other pen, which was writing: 
 "M. Le Mansart, Conseiller General." 
 
 "Are you going to ask Le Mansart?" 
 
 "It looks like it." 
 
 "He was opposed to my father. My father 
 hated him." 
 
 She looked at her son reproachfully, and said 
 as she resumed her writing: 
 
 "My poor child, I wish I were able to ask all 
 your father's enemies, and obtain their forgive- 
 ness at so small a cost. Human life touches so 
 many other lives, especially the life of an in- 
 dustrial magnate. Sometimes one does wrong 
 without wishing it, one tramples others under 
 foot." 
 
 "At that rate, Mother, you would have to ask 
 the discharged workmen, all who were dismissed 
 when the machines came in, all the widows who 
 have not been pensioned." 
 
 Madame Lemarie put her pen on the side of the 
 glass inkstand, and said, looking straight in front 
 of her: 
 
 "If all those widows would only recite a single 
 'Ave' for your father." 
 
 "Ah! well, they don't know any better." 
 
 "I would gladly give part of my fortune to ob- 
 tain it. The souls of the departed are so clogged 
 and weighted down if they are not winged by 
 prayer. Victor, I am at least happy in knowing 
 that you do not differ from me as regards our 
 workers. You see, I look upon them I have had 
 this idea all my life somehow as partners in the 
 business, though they have no contracts. Your
 
 140 REDEMPTION 
 
 father did not see it in this light, and he has left 
 both of us a pile of charity debts to pay ofif. . . . " 
 
 She paused for a moment, and, as there was no 
 answer forthcoming, she continued: 
 
 "I shall have no greater pleasure than the dis- 
 charging of those debts. And what about you? 
 I am sure you have thought about it, you who 
 have so much heart. 'To give.' What a beautiful 
 word it is!" 
 
 "Dear me, no, I have not." 
 
 "But you will not refuse to help me, will you, 
 in the good that I wish to do?" 
 
 "Of course not, if you do it reasonably." 
 
 Lovingly, and in a voice of half-fulfilled en- 
 treaty the mother asked: 
 
 "Come, Victor, just tell me what you mean by 
 ' reasonably. " : 
 
 "Well " and he reflected for a moment. 
 "Well, take the Madiot family as an instance. I 
 admit that in view of the uncle's long services he 
 might be awarded a small pension." 
 
 "Very good, my dear, that has already been 
 done." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "If you had only seen the surprise and delight 
 of the young girl just now! Really her gratitude 
 was greater than the gift. It was naive, it was ' ' 
 
 "Pardon, but how much did you give?" 
 
 "Five hundred francs per annum." 
 
 "There, that is how you go on! That is not 
 reasonable, to begin with." 
 
 The mother answered gently, in order not to 
 hurt his feelings:
 
 REDEMPTION 141 
 
 "Thirty years of service, Victor, think of it. 
 I was blaming myself for not having been suffi- 
 ciently generous. You must understand that 
 these are necessary charities, almost amounting 
 to obligatory debts. With a fortune like ours, do 
 you know what my cherished dream is?" 
 
 The young man knitted his brows, twisted his 
 pen between his fingers, and gazed fixedly at the 
 inkstand. 
 
 "My dream would be to endow one or two great 
 charities intended to help factory workers and 
 artisans. I have not yet thought out which they 
 are to be, although I have some ideas in the 
 matter. We will think about it together, together 
 we will plan and scheme, and give a great repu- 
 tation to the name of Lemarie", which has been 
 cursed by many. In short, I wish to see us less 
 wealthy and more beloved, my child. Do you 
 understand?" 
 
 Without taking his eyes off the inkstand, he 
 answered with the air of superiority which men 
 so easily assume in questions of money: 
 
 "Mother, I propose that we go on with the ad- 
 dresses. It is three o'clock already, and the post 
 will not wait." 
 
 She felt a pang of grief. But she did not give 
 way. There was the future, all the future to safe- 
 guard. She said sadly: 
 
 "Then, why did you speak to your father like 
 that? My dear, I fail to understand." 
 
 He raised his hands with an aggrieved gesture: 
 
 "But I do think just the same all the time. 
 Only we should be fools, really, to ruin ourselves
 
 142 REDEMPTION 
 
 in order to change matters which are the result of 
 a certain social state. Education ought to be 
 altered, minds should be altered everything 
 else." 
 
 This time his words fell unanswered. Madame 
 Lemarie" had begun to write again, and was bend- 
 ing over the black-bordered envelopes. She had 
 formed her opinion of her son: he was much more 
 like his father than she had believed. With him, 
 too, she would have to be silent. Victor saw her 
 wipe away a tear more than once during the silent 
 hour they spent together. 
 
 Wreaths were continually being carried up the 
 back stairs. 
 
 As for old Madiot, he was jubilant that evening. 
 Five hundred francs seemed to him a fortune. 
 He never stopped thanking Henriette, though she 
 disclaimed all merit, and kept on saying: "And 
 now that's done, dearie, don't go too often into 
 the houses of the rich." 
 "But what am I to do if I am sent there?" 
 He found no answer, at least no good one. But 
 was beside himself with joy. He was so pleased 
 that his niece allowed him for it was she who 
 gave permission now to go round to three or 
 four of his old friends, men who had Mexican or 
 Crimean medals, and whom he only remembered 
 on very great occasions.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE following morning, when she was doing her 
 hair, Henriette realized that she was pretty. 
 
 She went out into the sunshine all alone. 
 
 The lilac is in bloom, oh, well beloved. Do you 
 not breathe its perfume? No, not the lilac, its 
 season is over, its perfume will not return. Then 
 it must be the rock roses with their golden clus- 
 ters hanging bellwise in the traceried belfry of the 
 leaves. But the perfume of the rock roses rises to 
 the head like wine and breeds troublous thoughts. 
 What is the matter? In your dreams you saw 
 three sprigs of gorse, and you say: It is not that. 
 The grass is cut. The wind is lulled to rest. Oh, 
 well beloved, the perfume of your hair is like a 
 field of marguerites. They are in flower. A per- 
 fume rises from you. Go forth, breathe, smile, 
 drink of life to the full. You will turn men's 
 heads. Your lovers will tell you so. 
 
 The pretty girl went to the work shop. She 
 made hats that her employer sold. The day did 
 not belong to her any more than it belonged to 
 any of the others. Still, when she was in the 
 street she felt like a little queen. 
 
 143
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Two days later, early in the morning, when the 
 mists were rising from the waters like clouds of 
 fine white shavings, a flat boat left the field at 
 Mauves and crossed the Loire. A man was punt- 
 ing it across; his moustache was wet with mist, 
 and the joy of life shone in his eyes. His two 
 hands pressed upon the pole, the iron point of 
 which stirred the sand at the bottom of the river. 
 Supple of limb and shivering beneath his blue 
 jersey, he steered the boat slantwise toward the 
 farther shore, where are two small islands. 
 They are called Heron and Pinette, and are sepa- 
 rated from each other and from the mainland by 
 narrow branches of the river. 
 
 A wondrous silence surrounded him. There 
 was hardly even the cry of the snipe on the wing 
 or beginning to feed on the wet grass. The flood 
 was over. The blue water, streaked darker here 
 and there, did not yet shine clearly, except per- 
 haps near the sandbanks, where it grew into a 
 slender stream that curved like the blade of a 
 scythe. 
 
 The boatman was thinking: "I love her too 
 much, I must tell her so." And the boat glided 
 on. And the daylight round him grew more and 
 more radiant. 
 
 He entered a narrow channel where the current 
 
 144
 
 REDEMPTION 145 
 
 was almost still. In the shelter of the islands, in 
 the swamp, reeds grew, tall and green or broken 
 and resting their yellow blades upon the waters 
 of the Loire. Nets were stretched across the water 
 in the direction of the current. For half an hour 
 Etienne worked steadily, lifting with his iron 
 hook the wicker traps in which the eels were 
 caught, pulling out the bunches of grass that 
 were caught with them, emptying the fish into 
 the forepart of the boat that was reserved for 
 them and throwing the trap overboard again. 
 The fishing was good this morning. Etienne also 
 went all along the bank of the Isle of Heron and 
 then, turning into the Pirmil branch of the river, 
 which is an ampler and quivering sheet of water, 
 with the mainland on the left and farms and the 
 town of St. Sebastien hidden in the mist that was 
 slowly giving way, he stood up, allowed his pole 
 to drag along in the water, raised his head and 
 shouted with all his might like a trumpeter. 
 
 "Ohe", de la Gibraye, oheV' 
 
 A similar but muffled cry answered him from 
 the bank. The Gibraye folk had heard him. 
 They knew that the fisherman from Mauves was 
 passing by. In a moment the whole forepart of 
 the boat was filled with baskets. Cabbages, leeks 
 and turnips were overflowing on either side and 
 hanging down into the river. Bunches of carrots 
 towered above, as well as lettuces and sorrel, and 
 three bundles of cress which Etienne piled up to 
 form the pinnacle of his green castle. He was up 
 to the eyes in green now. Seated at the back he 
 pushed off with three strokes of his pole, took to
 
 146 REDEMPTION 
 
 the open stream and let himself drift with the 
 current. 
 
 The river Loire was awakening. Salmon fish- 
 ing boats passed to and fro and the surface of the 
 river gleamed beneath them, one mass of pale 
 gold. The vast outline of the town was piercing 
 the quivering and brooding mists in twenty 
 places at once. 
 
 And Etienne, with beating heart and lips that 
 trembled to say words he would never dare to 
 utter, waited for the moment when he would be 
 clear of the mists, masts, and poplar tops of the 
 Isle of Saint Anne and at the entrance to the 
 Grand Loire a little house would appear, high and 
 white like a light-house. 
 
 At the window of her room Henriette was just 
 fastening her every-day dress. She wanted to see 
 him, and yet she did not wish to count on it. At 
 what time would the boat pass? Etienne had 
 not said. The young girl was thinking: "I have 
 only such a short time to wait here for him." 
 
 Her eyes passed all along the landscape from 
 the Prairie au Due as far as Trentemoult. And all 
 at once in the full current of the Loire and turning 
 the point of Saint Anne's Isle, she saw the boat, 
 the three bundles of cress, the green baskets, and 
 the big Etienne, who was standing up. 
 
 He was no longer punting. He had let the pole 
 drop, and was slowly drifting along the still de- 
 serted river with his head turned toward the white 
 house. Henriette was standing right at the open 
 window. He saw her. He got up on to the back
 
 REDEMPTION 147 
 
 seat and threw two kisses across to her with both 
 his hands. 
 
 Henriette blushed. 
 
 "Well, how daring Etienne is getting." 
 
 She drew back. But she came back a moment 
 later. With a thrust of his pole Etienne had 
 turned his boat, and it was already lost among the 
 pleasure yachts and canoes of the little harbour of 
 Trentemoult. 
 
 The young girl finished putting her room 
 straight. 
 
 She laughed as she thought of Etienne, and 
 made up her mind to scold him. A slight blush 
 still remained on her cheeks. 
 
 When she passed through the kitchen to go to 
 work, old Madiot remarked: " What's up with 
 you this morning, youngster? You look as wide 
 awake as a whitebait." 
 
 In truth she found it hard to assume her every- 
 day expression of cold, calm contempt for passing 
 glances in the street. She went down the stairs, 
 closed the door after her, and straight in front of 
 her, leaning against one of the acacia trees that 
 had been planted in the strong soil, she saw big 
 Etienne. 
 
 Her heart beat violently. She was pleased and 
 vexed at the same time. Etienne came toward 
 her with a half-smiling and half-worried expression 
 on his face. 
 
 He had put a black vest over his jersey, and his 
 Sunday felt hat covered his great fair-haired head. 
 
 "I was hoping you would come," he said. 
 
 Henriette gave him her hand almost timidly.
 
 148 REDEMPTION 
 
 The houses on the Ermitage Hill lined the slope 
 all the way down. Each house had a crowd of 
 children playing on the doorstep and a woman at 
 its window. 
 
 "Is there a chance for a talk?" asked Etienne. 
 
 "If you care to go with me as far as the Fosse," 
 Henriette replied, "we can talk on the way." 
 
 But they both kept silent for several minutes. 
 He was looking at the shipyards with their mass 
 of shipping, behind which the sun was rising. 
 She was looking at the familiar sequence of low 
 doors, stairs and windows, from which came: 
 "Good-morning, Mademoiselle Henriette." "Good- 
 morning, Madame Vivien," replied Henriette. 
 "Good-morning, Madame Esnault. Good-morn- 
 ing, Marcelle." 
 
 But the Mise~ri Hill ended at the beginning of the 
 quay. They were soon surrounded by groups of 
 workers and harbour loiterers, unknown passers- 
 by, a nameless crowd that gave the two young 
 people an impression of solitude. Etienne grew 
 bolder by degrees, and began to take a stealthy 
 glance at the rosy face of the young girl who was 
 trotting along by his side. By mutual though 
 unspoken agreement they avoided a group of 
 lightermen who were unloading a cargo of corn, 
 and went on along the Loire, until at last they 
 found a great pile of sacks of plaster all piled up, 
 which seemed to them a favourable spot. They 
 stopped. And there, in the half-awakened city, 
 two lovers stood very close together, and spoke 
 very softly without gestures, so that they should 
 not attract attention.
 
 REDEMPTION 149 
 
 "I could not go on like this any longer/' said 
 Etienne. 
 
 ''Then what did you want to tell me?" asked 
 Henriette. 
 
 He waited suspiciously until a custom-house 
 official had passed on. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Henriette, this cannot go on 
 forever. I cannot go on caring for you without 
 telling you of it." 
 
 He saw the young girl draw back slightly, while 
 she grew pale with the sudden shock, and sup- 
 ported herself against the pile of sacks. 
 
 "Don't go away. Listen. My father thinks I 
 have undertaken to carry vegetables to Trente- 
 moult in order to earn more money. No doubt: 
 but most of all because I wanted to see you. 
 Every day that God has given for the last three 
 months I have been looking for you." 
 
 He wanted to add something, but he could not 
 go on. A sob of youthful anguish for youth is 
 as prone to despair as it is to love was choking 
 him. But he bore up against it. He had nothing 
 more to say, and in his feeling of shame he hung 
 his head. 
 
 Then he felt two small gloved hands take his 
 own, and he heard a voice, that was troubled too, 
 say: 
 
 "Is it really serious then, my poor Etienne. 
 You see I am upset about it. I had no idea of 
 what you were going to say to me. No, I knew 
 quite well that we were friends good friends, 
 since we were children. And I was pleased. And 
 when you paid me little attentions I thought: 
 
 I
 
 150 REDEMPTION 
 
 'It's all right, let him do it. He is a grown-up 
 friend now.' But now, I should like to cry. Oh, 
 you ought not to have told me. I liked you so 
 much as you were." 
 
 Etienne raised his head. His pride hardened 
 his face and voice. 
 
 "So you won't have me, Mademoiselle Henri- 
 ette? I am not a good enough catch for you?" 
 
 She, in turn, looked at him, while tears of ab- 
 solute sincerity shone in her eyes. 
 
 "No, it is not that. Do not add to my sorrow, 
 I entreat you. I am speaking to you from my 
 heart. Look at me. I do not despise you. I love 
 no one as much as I do you, Etienne, but I can- 
 not answer you. I have not thought it over. 
 The thought is too strange to me. Give me 
 time." 
 
 "How long?" 
 
 "I don't know. My brother is leaving for his 
 regiment, and I must earn money for him. If he 
 has nothing, you understand, he won't get accus- 
 tomed to it. And then, I shall know my fate 
 before the end of the year whether I shall be 
 first hand or not in our millinery business. All 
 my future is in that. Wait till I know, so that I 
 can come to my decision knowing what I am 
 about." 
 
 She tried to smile at him. 
 
 "We shall meet again, Etienne. Don't be 
 wretched about it. It is half-past eight. I am 
 late." 
 
 She turned away quickly and went off, a fair 
 vision of the early morn. But in Etienne's eyes
 
 REDEMPTION 151 
 
 she left the image of her own, which were like 
 those of a very kind and tender sister. For a 
 long time he stood motionless, looking first at the 
 quay and then at the street where the slender 
 black form of the young girl diminished and dis- 
 appeared, and still Henriette's eyes, which he 
 could no longer see, were in his heart. 
 
 In the evening, after a day during which the 
 events of the morning, and others as well which 
 affected her, had been continually in her mind, 
 Henriette came home. She was tired out, indif- 
 ferent to the extreme sweetness of the June even- 
 ing, which was drawing even the sick out into its 
 light and beauty. Even young mothers who were 
 too weak to get up, might be seen raising their 
 towselled heads from off their pillows to a level 
 with the window-sill here and there in the poorer 
 quarters. She could not think any more. She 
 forgot to listen to the children's voices that gave 
 her greeting. And the little ones, who vaguely 
 guess at grown-up states of mind when familiar 
 faces do not turn to them and smile at them any 
 more, were silent and a second later resumed their 
 play. Henriette even forgot to lift her dress, and 
 the hem of her skirt was white with the dust from 
 the slope. 
 
 But as she passed the entrance to the court 
 where the Herves lived, she saw a child of ten be- 
 side the staircase, a crippled child stretched on a 
 little white wood cart with solid wheels. For the 
 last three years Marcelle had never risen. She 
 lived almost motionless, with her head facing the
 
 152 REDEMPTION 
 
 sky, obliged to make an effort with her weak eyes 
 if she wished to observe anything even on a level 
 with the road. She was wheeled from one shady 
 place to another, following the shifting shadows 
 of the gables or acacia trees. She possessed the 
 calm of those who have no firm hold on life. As 
 Henriette was passing, absorbed in thought, she 
 heard a beseeching voice from below, saying: 
 
 " Mademoiselle!" 
 
 Just below her on the right she saw the little 
 cart with its tattered mattress, and the white face 
 framed by hair that had no strength to grow. 
 She bent down to stroke Marcelle's little face 
 with her hand as she often did. But the child's 
 cheek was quite wet with tears, and there was so 
 much sadness in her gaze that Henriette asked: 
 
 "What is the matter, Marcelle? Are you in 
 pain?" 
 
 She shook her head slowly. 
 
 "Has some one hurt you?" 
 
 The sick child murmured: "Come quite close, 
 and let me tell you." 
 
 And when the young girl, bending over the 
 bed of suffering, seemed to form a single though 
 indistinct group with the sufferer, while the ma- 
 trons with their knitting looked on from afar, the 
 tiny voice resumed : 
 
 "Mademoiselle Henriette, please don't get 
 married. Don't go away from these parts, or I 
 shan't see you again." 
 
 "My poor darling, where have you got that 
 idea from?" said Henriette, straightening herself 
 and stroking the child's pale face. "You are fool-
 
 REDEMPTION 153 
 
 ish. I am not going to get married, so don't 
 worry." 
 
 She went away even more upset. She remem- 
 bered that in the morning when she passed down 
 the slope with Etienne the cart had been already 
 outside, sheltered by an angle of the court. 
 
 What a day of varying emotions. Sleep would 
 be a long time coming to her that night. She 
 never touched the supper that Uncle Madiot had 
 prepared, and, pretending to have a headache, 
 retired to her room and opened the gray-bound 
 note-book which she had left unused for months, 
 but in which she had written down her vague 
 girlish thoughts, which come at a time when the 
 soul is awakening, and one seems to have too few 
 friends to be able to tell them all, although there 
 is nothing to be said except that one longs to love. 
 
 She wrote as follows: 
 
 "I have no one to whom I can confide my 
 trouble, no one to calm me or advise me. It is 
 a strange thing that people come to me as if I 
 were strong. The other day Irma said: 'Oh, you 
 don't know what it's like,' just as if I belonged to 
 a different race. Alas, it is not so. I belong to 
 the race of those who love, who get attached to a 
 thousand things and many people round about 
 them, until they gather up their love and bestow 
 it on him who is worthy of it. It makes me suffer, 
 and yet it protects me. My weakness is every- 
 where evident, alas; in the ease with which my 
 tears flow, in my anxiety about a severed tie of 
 friendship, in my very thoughts. But as I am an
 
 154 REDEMPTION 
 
 honest girl, my companions think that I have the 
 secret of protecting others. How mistaken they 
 are. 
 
 "This very morning after my meeting with 
 Etienne, which upset me, I ran to the work shop. 
 Irma, seeing that my cheeks were red, said to 
 me: 'So it's your turn now?' I had to keep back 
 my tears, and to keep back my heart that was 
 weeping within me, and to keep back my thoughts 
 from these young girls whom very soon I may be 
 at the head of. I was ashamed of myself; those 
 who are in the habit of giving way to their woes 
 were pleased to look at me. Luckily Madame 
 Cle*mence did not come in. I felt no inclination 
 or taste for my trade. When we rose at ten 
 o'clock to go to Mademoiselle du Muel's wedding, 
 Mademoiselle Augustine, Irma, Mathilde and I, 
 poor Marie Schwarz, whom I had obtained per- 
 mission to take with me, came up to me on the 
 stairs and asked: 'Are you suffering too? Is it 
 because of me? Do they want to send me away?' 
 I reassured her. She has suffered so much that 
 she is ready to believe that she is the cause of all 
 the misery in the world. 
 
 "Half an hour afterward we were at the 
 Church of Sainte-Croix, right at the end of the 
 nave, where the crowd does not behave very well, 
 and the maids of honour do not collect for the 
 poor. 
 
 "I recognized Madame Louise's workgirls, and 
 the employees of a certain draper's shop which 
 has opened a millinery department. The church 
 was splendid: carpets, flowers, velvet seats, and
 
 REDEMPTION 155 
 
 then a procession of real ladies and gentlemen, 
 not only rich people, but people who know how 
 to carry off a dress or to take a woman's arm. I 
 enjoyed it in spite of myself. Ever since I left the 
 convent school my mind has been given to the 
 elegancies of fashion; my fingers are at work on 
 them every day. I remember the form of a knot 
 of ribbon, or the colour of a cluster of flowers, as 
 others remember a fine expression they have 
 read. Mademoiselle du Muel walked up the 
 centre aisle on her father's arm. We were stand- 
 ing, some of us on chairs. We felt curious and 
 moved at the sight, and slightly envious because 
 we are women. Then Marie, who was close be- 
 side me, stopped watching the procession. I no- 
 ticed that while the rest of us were turning our 
 heads with the same movement, as the groups of 
 guests passed on in turn, she was bending slowly 
 backward, as if to listen to some one. The cape 
 of her black coat, which she always wears, poor 
 girl, was touching the back of the chairs, although 
 we were standing on the seat. I looked back. 
 What a bad and painful thought struck me. It 
 was my brother Antoine who was speaking to her. 
 "I said nothing to Marie. I asked Antoine, 
 'What are you doing here? Why haven't you 
 spoken to me?' He replied that he was waiting 
 for me to be less absorbed in watching. He grum- 
 bled about the slackness in his work shop, assur- 
 ing me that he no longer worked more than three 
 days a week. Finally, to get rid of him I gave 
 him five francs, and he went off. Marie, who was 
 listening to the great organ playing a march, did
 
 156 REDEMPTION 
 
 not turn round at this moment, did not make any 
 sign to him, and, in fact, probably did not see 
 him. She has very beautiful dark eyes, such as I 
 love. And yet I remained ill at ease. I know 
 Antoine so well, and Marie Schwarz still so little. 
 I did not know how to warn her. But still I could 
 not leave her exposed to my brother's schemings 
 without a word of warning, for I am sure he will 
 follow her. I felt it as if I were the sister or mother 
 of the unfortunate girl. And then I could not see 
 them fall without suffering too. I think it is the 
 care my mother took of me when I was little that 
 gives me these ideas. 
 
 "We got back. I tried to make Marie tell me 
 on the way about the hats that she had seen. 
 Mathilde also tried to question her. I am afraid 
 that my recruit will never be really interested in 
 fashions. She had only remembered the types of 
 people, and imitated them for our amusement. 
 
 "I felt sad. At five o'clock Madame Clemence 
 came into the work room and allowed us, with the 
 exception of Mademoiselle Augustine, Reine, and 
 the apprentice, to go home. Several of them 
 shuddered when they heard mention made of dis- 
 charge. That indicates the slack season, and 
 means that they will have to leave soon. I said 
 to Marie, 'Let us go home to your place; I want 
 to see your room.' And there we were, like old 
 friends, all alone, going up the rue Saint-Similieu. 
 
 "I thought of my own pretty room when I en- 
 tered hers. It is in a court on the right-hand side 
 of the street, toward the middle. One sees the 
 cathedral through the porch. For eight francs
 
 REDEMPTION 157 
 
 Marie had found a furnished room there, though 
 I trembled to think of the kind of people who had 
 lived there before, and still haunted the neigh- 
 bourhood. There are about two hundred poor 
 people in the two wings and front of the old 
 house. One goes up five steps made of slate and 
 patched up with bricks. Marie opened the door 
 and said in a peculiar way: 
 
 "'There, that is Paradise. I'll go in first.' 
 
 "Four plain white walls, which had been white- 
 washed some ten years ago, a bed, two chairs and 
 a table, with a mirror smaller than my hand, nailed 
 up close by the window. 
 
 " First I joked in order to keep from crying. 
 Fortunately Marie had two chairs. I said, 'Sup- 
 pose we have supper? ' She showed me the black, 
 empty grate without a saucepan even. 'They 
 have forgotten to do it, you see.' Then I went 
 and got a few more provisions and a little more 
 bread, and we had supper off the white wooden 
 table. We were both quite cheerful, like trees 
 whose dead branches are covered with snow : it is 
 not worth much but it glitters. I blessed the will 
 power that had brought me there. Marie is very 
 open; she was grateful to me and allowed me to 
 advise her, as one can a comrade, to beware of 
 Antoine. Only I was alarmed at her moral igno- 
 rance. She said to me: 
 
 "'Until now I have had nothing to do with him 
 or any other man. I think men are cowards. 
 I don't think they lve us as we love them. They 
 desert us, and I think those who live their lives 
 are more unhappy than those who do not. But
 
 158 REDEMPTION 
 
 I know myself. I do not wish to deceive you. If 
 ever I fall, it will be the fault of my evil coun- 
 sellor.' 
 
 '"Who is he?' 
 
 "'It's always the same one. I pay eight francs 
 a month here and I earn fifteen. And I must have 
 supper and clothes and firing, and I must wash 
 my two waists and my three handkerchiefs. I am 
 already more than fifteen francs in debt. How 
 do you expect me to live? One day when I am 
 hungry I shall let myself be led astray.' 
 
 "It cut me to the quick. I did not know any 
 longer what I said. 
 
 "Then we both cried in each other's arms in 
 front of the supper table because we could not 
 help it. She has no faith. She has forgotten the 
 few prayers she used to know. In spite of that 
 she has such a tender and impulsive nature. Un- 
 fortunately, her impulses tend toward the seamy 
 side of things, toward evil and death. I seemed 
 to be caressing a suffering sister. We suffered to- 
 gether, and I feel bound to her by all the fears 
 I feel on her behalf and by the confidence she 
 placed in me. Afterward we talked. I tried to 
 cheer her up. I planned a budget for her that 
 made us both laugh in the end, it was so com- 
 plicated. I promised to do my best for her at 
 Madame Clemence's, and to try and get supper 
 for her, or a little better pay. 
 
 "She clasped me closely when I left her. The 
 stars were shining brightly in the sky, but I did 
 not see them until I reached home. I was think- 
 ing only of her. I was free from all thought of
 
 REDEMPTION 159 
 
 myself.. Good God! how I longed to protect her. 
 And I had nothing of all that is needed to do so. 
 I, whom they call so good, have nothing but a 
 vague desire to do right. I feel guilty and even 
 weak. 
 
 "Yes, this evening, in the silence of my room, 
 whose shelter is so sweet, I realize that I have 
 wronged Etienne Loutrel. Just like the rest, I 
 require love. I allowed him to pay me attentions, 
 so that I might enjoy the pleasure of being 
 wrapped round with tenderness. I never thought 
 that Etienne would so soon think he had a right 
 to my love. All our past friendship seemed to be 
 an excuse for my familiarity, and particularly for 
 his. I allowed that friendship to account for the 
 light in his eyes, for his compliments and for his 
 attentions. I wanted to deceive myself. To keep 
 the joy of his first confessions of love, I listened 
 to them, and I refused to understand them. 
 
 "Now that he has openly declared himself it 
 would be cowardly for me to see him again, or to 
 give him an opportunity to tell me, 'You are 
 pretty, I like you ever so much; you are my 
 chosen one/ in fact, all the words we dream of 
 from the time we are girls. Poor Etienne touches 
 my heart, because he is so good and straight and 
 because he loves me, and I begin to feel that I am 
 in the wrong as far as he is concerned. But, I saw 
 it quite clearly the other day, he understands noth- 
 ing about my trade, which up till now has been 
 the chief concern of my life. Would it not be a 
 serious matter if we were to marry? Could I 
 become again, even if I loved him, what I was
 
 160 REDEMPTION 
 
 just ten years ago now, the little girl who had left 
 the convent school and had read nothing, and 
 dreamt of nothing beyond marrying and keeping 
 house for a working man? 
 
 "I have handled too much velvet, silk and lace; 
 I have dabbled too much in fine stuffs, and have 
 made too many pretty things for others. There is 
 in me a sense of art and elegance in which he 
 would have no part. Even if I were to give up 
 my trade, even if I were to forsake Uncle Eloi, 
 who is growing old, to go to Mauves, should I be 
 really happy, and could I become so, as the wife 
 of Etienne? When I meet young men who belong 
 to the really fashionable world, I am well aware 
 of the fact that they cannot marry me, and sev- 
 eral of them have taken good care not to leave 
 me in doubt on the subject. But there is some- 
 thing in their words and manners that pleases 
 me, and I should like to find a lover among 
 them. 
 
 "Fool that I am. I believe that an impossible 
 element has entered into my life with my educa- 
 tion in fashion. I have old friends of my child- 
 hood, but they have not followed on my track. 
 They have married, they have their husbands 
 and their two-roomed houses in the rue de Chan- 
 tenay or d'Indret. When I pass I see them with 
 a child in their arms, and I envy them. And yet 
 when the very same happiness that they enjoy is 
 offered to me I am quite upset, and I am no longer 
 like them. 
 
 "Who will tell me what to do? Who will help 
 me? And I am supposed to be the adviser, the
 
 REDEMPTION 161 
 
 adviser of others. How they would pity me if they 
 but knew." 
 
 It was very late when Henriette fell asleep. 
 The chill of midnight had covered the window 
 panes with moisture. No sound of steps could be 
 heard on the quays, only the usual vague sounds 
 of the quarter, the croaking of frogs and the 
 regular creaking of the chains that held some 
 large boat fast to its moorings on the marsh. 
 
 Henriette's soul was full of words and images 
 of love, and she dreamed that she had been mar- 
 ried in a white brocade-silk dress to a man whose 
 face was like Etienne's, though otherwise he was 
 most elegant and very rich, and he bent down to 
 her to whisper: "My darling, your troubles are 
 over. I love you." 
 
 That same night, in her wretched room in rue 
 Saint-Similieu, Marie dreamed that she had cur- 
 tains to her bed, and mirrors in which she could 
 see the whole of herself, and which shone in all 
 the colours of the rainbow. She dreamed that it 
 was winter, and that she was giving tea in flow- 
 ered china cups to her mother, who had come 
 back from Paris, and that her mother was recon- 
 ciled and affectionate as she had formerly been, 
 and that she was content to warm her weary 
 hands at the fire which burned as brightly at her 
 daughter's house as in the houses of the rich. 
 
 Far from there, in a street in the Saint-Felix 
 quarter, which extends along the Erdre, little 
 Louise, the apprentice, with tired and swollen 
 ankles, thought of the time when she would be a
 
 162 REDEMPTION 
 
 full-blown worker a trimmer or a fitter when 
 she would no longer run errands about town, and 
 when her companions would say to her: "Made- 
 moiselle Louise, would you be kind enough to do 
 so and so?" And the half-open lips of the child 
 smiled in the darkness at this simple thought of 
 better days to come. 
 
 For several of them night was bringing respite 
 from the hardness of the day, for at night souls 
 flit away and dwell far from the sleeping bodies 
 to which they belong.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IT was the end of June. Henriette had not seen 
 Etienne again. But once her Uncle Eloi had re- 
 marked: "He's a good fellow, is Etienne Loutrel. 
 I like him for his decided manner. He will fight 
 like a man, and be a good husband. What do 
 you think of it, Henriette?" From this she had 
 concluded that the fisherman of Mauves had had 
 some kind of interview with the old soldier, and 
 that they had entered into a league, one to tell his 
 secrets and the other to listen to them. She felt 
 even more convinced of it as she watched her 
 uncle's humour. He no longer complained of his 
 hand; he was even cheerful, and was making 
 plans like a man who had a new life before him. 
 Was not all Henriette's life before him, which was 
 the counterpart of his own? 
 
 At Madame Clemence's work was growing 
 scarcer from day to day. One Saturday even- 
 ing Mademoiselle Reine, who had been sent 
 to match some material at Mourieux's, took Hen- 
 riette aside at the work-room door, and said to 
 her: 
 
 "M. Mourieux wants you to go to him to- 
 morrow morning. Perhaps he wants to marry 
 you, who knows?" 
 
 "He? I have not had an hour's talk with him 
 in the whole of my life. 'M. Mourieux, would 
 
 163
 
 164 REDEMPTION 
 
 you kindly let me have ten yards of gold braid ? ' 
 'Yes, Mademoiselle.' And that's all." 
 "Oh, but he thinks a great deal of you." 
 Reine, who was looking at the houses as she 
 walked quickly along by Henriette's side, had 
 half raised her tiny oval face to hers, and her eyes, 
 like those of a saint in a stained-glass window, 
 light eyes like two coffee-beans that have not yet 
 been roasted, looked up at her, as she added : 
 "So he is just like every one else, then." 
 Henriette went to M. Mourieux as the town 
 clocks were striking ten. He lived in the busi- 
 est trade quarter of the town of Nantes, in a 
 little street leading to the Place Royale. The 
 shops were almost all closed. His was only half- 
 shut, for the shutters hid the ordinary show of 
 trimmings, artificial flowers, feathers, and shapes 
 from view, while the door was open, and formed 
 a black hole in the side of the street. Inside the 
 shop was hatchet-shaped. Narrow in front, with 
 cases of goods ranged all along the walls, it wid- 
 ened out at the back, showing a desk, a cupboard, 
 and a great sheet of cardboard hanging on the wall, 
 on to which slips of paper were fastened by means 
 of green string loops. They bore the words: 
 "Situations vacant and wanted for young ladies 
 in the millinery." 
 
 For many years Mourieux had hardly left his 
 shop, or rather the back part of it, which was but 
 dimly lit by a window looking out on to a neigh- 
 bouring court. He was always there, and always 
 the same; stout and thick-set, bushy eyebrows, 
 with short thick moustache and blackish-gray
 
 REDEMPTION 165 
 
 hair parted on one side and brought smoothly 
 down over the left ear. He was vulgar and 
 common-looking. His deep-sunk eyes were very 
 bright, and always looked straight at you, and 
 seemed to pierce the very brain of the person 
 speaking to him. At first he might be taken for 
 a clever clown, quite absorbed with his own 
 affairs, and quite capable of looking after his three 
 salesmen and cashier. But the young girls in the 
 millinery had found out that under the apparent 
 guise of a retired policeman, there was the ten- 
 derest as well as the biggest and humblest of 
 hearts. People smiled when they saw him con- 
 stantly surrounded by these pretty girls, who 
 were talking to him in a low voice at the back of 
 the shop, while an assistant was measuring the 
 ribbon and tying up the parcels. But these girls, 
 who were good judges and quickly learned the 
 open secret of a man's attentions, knew by ex- 
 perience and by the tradition of their elders that 
 he rendered services for the sole pleasure of oblig- 
 ing them, from a kind of natural impulse, which 
 was now a habit of thirty years' standing. They 
 worshipped him. He kept a register of employ- 
 ment for them, found them places, recommended 
 them to employers who applied to him, and often, 
 without wishing to do so, was made to share the 
 more or less tellable mysteries of their lives. He 
 never joked with them, and that form of respect 
 touched them all. 
 
 Henriette knew him but slightly. She entered 
 the shop, and at the back, near the open cup- 
 board filled with rows of old books which he used
 
 166 REDEMPTION 
 
 to lend his clients, she saw the shopkeeper sitting 
 in his cane arm-chair, while Louise the appren- 
 tice was standing in front of the library. The 
 girl's arms hung down by her side, and her large 
 dishevelled head was facing the book shelves 
 and scanning the titles of the books. 
 
 "Well, now, which book do you want?" asked 
 Mourieux. 
 
 "I don't know, Monsieur, it's for my Sunday 
 off." 
 
 "Do you want a book of history, or travels, or 
 stories?" 
 
 She stood on her right leg, the left being more 
 swollen and more painful. 
 
 She stretched out both her hands with a naive, 
 childlike gesture, and said: 
 
 "I don't know: give me a book to make me 
 cry." 
 
 Mourieux rose, and bending over one of the 
 shelves of the cupboard, took a volume and 
 handed it to Louise, who went off half-limping in 
 the semi-darkness, and greeted Henriette in the 
 passage with an expression of sudden joy in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Good-day, Mademoiselle Henriette," said 
 Mourieux. "Pardon me for having sent for you: 
 It is hard for me to get out on Sundays, you see." 
 
 "It is your own doing," said Henriette, sitting 
 down beside the book cupboard opposite Mour- 
 ieux, who dropped heavily into his arm-chair. 
 "You turn librarian for love of your clients. 
 That's a luxury." 
 
 "She's a good little girl, that apprentice of
 
 REDEMPTION 167 
 
 yours. And miserably out of sorts, too. How do 
 you expect me to get out? If I were not there to 
 choose her books, she would go into the public 
 libraries, where they give them everything. 
 Mademoiselle Henriette, Madame Lemarie wants 
 me to speak to you." 
 
 The name of Lemarie changed Henriette's 
 frame of mind. It destroyed her first impression. 
 
 " Again?" she said. "Surely she does not want 
 another hat?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 He was buried in his arm-chair with his head 
 bent forward as usual, and as he spoke he followed, 
 in that obstinate way of his, the track that words 
 make in the hearts of listeners. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Henriette, you do not seem to 
 me to do her justice. I have known her ever since 
 her marriage. Unhappiness has saved her from 
 selfishness; she is generous; she is admirable, 
 and she is now free to do good. She has thought 
 of you." 
 
 "Thank you, we are not rich, but we are able 
 to live, especially now, with my uncle's pension." 
 
 "You have not let me finish. She thought 
 you might be able to assist her in her charities. 
 She knows that you have a number of friends 
 among the poor in your part of the town; people 
 are not afraid of you; you know what misery 
 means. Oh, yes, don't be shy, I know who you 
 are. Won't you tell her what poor people, real 
 poor people, to help in your quarter? She will 
 refuse you nothing." 
 
 "But that is a mission."
 
 168 REDEMPTION 
 
 "Which does you credit, Mademoiselle, and re- 
 member it will enable you to help sick comrades, 
 or those who are out of work. And you will be 
 able to do it gently and without speaking of it. 
 There is suffering even in the millinery trade 
 during the slack season." 
 
 "Yes," replied Henriette, "but why am I to 
 do it?" 
 
 "I will tell you who has pointed you out to 
 Madame Lemarie. You will not have far to seek : 
 it is I. I don't want to offend you, but I have 
 been thinking for a long time that you are very 
 good and kind-hearted." 
 
 Henriette laughed nervously. 
 
 "I, indeed? You must explain to me, M. Mou- 
 rieux. Come now." 
 
 And even as she laughed, she was somewhat 
 anxiously observing the person who had formu- 
 lated the idea, and had passed a judgment on 
 her, which had already often troubled her. Did 
 not others speak to her continually as to a chosen 
 being, who was devoting herself to some mission 
 of mercy? She felt inclined to get up and go 
 away and escape, in her girlish pride and fear of all 
 control. She was distrustful of this mission of 
 sacrifice and exception which was to be thrust 
 upon her, but her straightforward nature pre- 
 vailed. Henriette did not get up. She bent down, 
 and felt as if Fate itself were speaking to her. 
 She stretched her dainty neck and her eyes still 
 glistened. 
 
 Mourieux did not answer at once, so she re- 
 sumed :
 
 169 
 
 "What do you all want with me? For after 
 all I am like all the rest." 
 
 The old shopkeeper rubbed his hands on his 
 knees, because Henriette rather frightened him, 
 and he replied, for he had no other guide than his 
 own heart: 
 
 " Pardon me, I may be mistaken, but still I do 
 not think so. I only wanted you to give a little 
 help to those who are thinking about other people. 
 They are rare, Mademoiselle. I am old; I can't 
 do much myself; but you, with your youth and 
 beauty, and the words that you alone can find, 
 how you could comfort the poor; and it is pleas- 
 anter than you think." 
 
 He shook his large head. 
 
 "You will say," he continued, "that I am med- 
 dling with what does not concern me. But 
 Madame Lemarie asked me to speak to you. 
 She did not venture to do so, as she knew you 
 even less than I do." 
 
 Henriette drew herself up, with a serious look 
 in her face that still expressed the very thoughts 
 that he had uttered, as happens in the case of 
 those who have been listening with full concen- 
 tration of mind. 
 
 "Thank you, M. Mourieux, I thank you. I am 
 only afraid that you think too well of me. And 
 then I am twenty-four, I am " 
 
 She remained with her lips half-open without 
 pronouncing the words: "Some one loves me." 
 In fact Etienne's image was appearing to her this 
 very moment, as if to prevent her from yielding. 
 She seemed to see him again as he had been in the
 
 170 REDEMPTION 
 
 morning stillness by the Loire, standing in the 
 boat with folded arms. She felt as if something 
 at the bottom of her heart were bursting into 
 tears. Yet what was being asked of her was not 
 a barrier to anything in ordinary life or in mar- 
 riage. She was nervous. 
 
 Slowly she rose, looked at the crystal handle of 
 her sunshade, and said: 
 
 "I did not want anything of this kind. But 
 I might be wronging others if I refused. If 
 you really think I ought to go to Madame Le- 
 marie : 
 
 "I wish you would." 
 
 "Well, then, I will go." 
 
 A moment later Mourieux, bending across the 
 threshold of his shop, watched the girl walk away 
 straight down the middle of the street. She 
 walked well, and with her left hand she was lift- 
 ing the folds of her black skirt. 
 
 He looked pleased. 
 
 "If she only would," he thought. "Why the 
 poor would adore the very sight of her. Yet there 
 are fools who think that they can all be bought 
 the millinery hands. They don't know them. 
 Of course they are not all saints. But there are 
 some fine characters among them, brave and 
 straightforward souls capable of untold devotion.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SHE threaded her way haphazardly, passing some 
 blocks of houses, and then coming back to the 
 point from which she started, enjoying in turn 
 sun and shade and the noise of the street as if 
 they were so many amusements that put off the 
 hour of the visit. Should she go? What need 
 was there for her to take up new duties and busy 
 herself with others' cares? She was surprised that 
 old Mourieux was so intelligent. In the millinery 
 they had always looked upon him as a good- 
 natured sort of fellow, who liked to do people 
 kindnesses, though after all it was to his own 
 advantage, because his customers would remain 
 true to him. "I did not think he was so good," 
 she thought. His words came back to her again: 
 "You, with your youth and beauty, how you 
 could comfort them." 
 
 She finished up by ringing at Madame Le- 
 marie's house. 
 
 A footman introduced her into the blue room. 
 But this time Henriette pressed the hand that 
 Madame Lemarie stretched out toward her. 
 
 "It is my turn to thank you to-day, Mademoi- 
 selle. Then you have seen Mourieux?" 
 
 But they talked about all sorts of things before 
 approaching the subject that had brought them 
 together. They spoke about Uncle Madiot, about 
 
 171
 
 172 REDEMPTION 
 
 the work shop and the Rue de 1'Ermitage, and Hen- 
 riette's companions at work. Madame Lemarie* 
 was slowly studying the girl, and gradually the 
 latter was won over by the humble kindness of the 
 woman. After more than a quarter of an hour, 
 Madame Lemarie' felt that she could speak freely. 
 
 "I am going to trust you with a secret," she 
 said, "and one of my most precious ones. My 
 good old Mourieux is going off fast. He has done 
 a great deal for me in the past, by passing on 
 assistance that would not have been accepted if it 
 had been known to come from me. When one of 
 our workmen was discharged without a real rea- 
 son, or even sometimes for reasons that seemed 
 but too well founded, I could not offer to help 
 him, could I? Mourieux was my agent. I also 
 helped him a little in the assistance he gave not to 
 full-blown workers like you, but to the younger 
 hands in the millinery, who were not yet earning, 
 or who were sick and weak, or out of work. To- 
 day, when I can give more and better than I used 
 to do, good old Mourieux is growing old. I 
 wanted some one some one from your own 
 world, some one whom no one fears, whom people 
 would trust more naturally than they would me 
 who would say to me: "See yonder, there is suf- 
 fering that wants easing. For the world is so 
 divided, Mademoiselle, we want a permit before 
 we may be allowed to show pity. Do you think 
 I can find such a person?" 
 
 Henriette stretched out her gloved hand, and 
 said in her clear voice : 
 
 "I will try, Madame."
 
 REDEMPTION 173 
 
 "You will not even need to come to me. At 
 least I will not ask you to do so, for you have so 
 little spare time. Write to me. Keep me in- 
 formed of the sufferings you encounter, great and 
 small, and even the charities you think it would 
 be useful to support. I will keep it all secret, and 
 you will do the same for me, as far as you are 
 able." 
 
 Henriette had gained so much confidence that 
 she ventured to speak of Marie. They took coun- 
 sel together. Madame Lemarie ended by saying: 
 
 "Buy her a little stock of furniture, and let her 
 think that you are paying for it. Otherwise she 
 would sell it." 
 
 Even when they had spoken about Marie, Hen- 
 riette did not leave at once. She stayed on, held 
 spellbound by a delicious sensation. She felt that 
 she was pleasant to look upon and listen to. In 
 the old lady's face she read the words that chil- 
 dren and young and beloved women hear every- 
 where around them: "Do not go yet. You are 
 a reflection of joyous life in the tarnished mirror 
 of our gaze." 
 
 At the same time Madame Lemarie was think- 
 ing: "How quickly she has understood." And 
 unconsciously, guided by the mysterious force 
 that compels our actions in the greatest issues, 
 she offered to this child the most unexpected and 
 most unheeded of rewards the blessing of the 
 poor and confided the distribution of alms to 
 hands that would carry healing with them as they 
 gave.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 WAS it a new life that was opening up before her? 
 No one can say what portion of a past that is far 
 remote plays a part in what we call the new life. 
 But the two months which followed were the hap- 
 piest that Henriette had ever spent. She made 
 discreet use of the power that was given to her. 
 She did not like asking even to give to others. 
 But her instinct of pity had received an impulse, 
 and there is no feeling that gains greater ground 
 in life when once a little liberty is granted it, when 
 it is allowed to say: "You are in want? Well 
 then, take." 
 
 After supper in the evenings those long sum- 
 mer evenings that lengthen into clear nights 
 Henriette liked to go down the Ermitage Hill, 
 and among the crowded blocks of workmen's 
 dwellings, some of which were lower and some 
 higher than the level of the new street, some 
 showing the rough stones of their foundations 
 and fitted with railed flights of stairs, she met 
 groups of people who were drinking in the air. 
 A crowd of folk they were, who breathe bad air 
 by day in the work shops and by night in their 
 crowded rooms, and who stay out of doors of an 
 evening until the mist moistens the tips of their 
 hair or their moustaches. She would say: "How 
 are your little ones?" or "Has work begun again 
 
 174
 
 REDEMPTION 175 
 
 in the Moulin work shop?" "Are you no longer 
 out of work?" or "Is your sister confined, Madame 
 Vivien? Is it a boy or a girl? " The real alms she 
 gave consisted of her well-dressed youth and 
 charm. She was regarded without suspicion, 
 because she belonged to the people and the quar- 
 ter; they enjoyed her presence because she knew 
 how to speak, smile, and dress like a lady. They 
 opened up to her. They called her "Mademoi- 
 selle Henriette." They had forgotten her family 
 name in order to remember only her Christian 
 name, which was a sign of friendliness. Almost 
 everywhere with the quiet fear of a wise virgin 
 she was able to sound the depths of sorrow and 
 evil. Anger and domestic strife, rivalry, adul- 
 tery, the ingratitude of children who refused to 
 assist the old, the contempt for the rich and the 
 terrible envy of wealth, feuds fostered between 
 father and son, despair too long endured in the 
 hard struggle for bread, hearts that flagged and 
 bodies that failed, she beheld them all. She made 
 the universal suffering her own. 
 
 The world appeared to her in all its aspects of 
 pain. She had no other remedy to offer than her 
 pity, her outstretched hands, and the words she 
 had not yet learned to say fluently: "Hope, for- 
 get, cheer up, to-morrow will be better, and to-day 
 I feel with and for you." Yet even at so little cost 
 she was surprised to find great sufferings eased 
 and tears stop falling, and something like a truce 
 to ills ensue. Those who listened to her thought: 
 "Is it really true that we may hope?" And this 
 simple possibility cheered them a little. Some-
 
 176 REDEMPTION 
 
 times it seemed to Henriette as if she were throw- 
 ing out planks to shipwrecked folk. In those 
 days she went home quite late at night, but so 
 light-hearted that she said to herself: "Am I then 
 growing younger? I feel like singing." Her uncle 
 scolded her: "What a late hour to go to bed. If 
 I did not know you better, I should say you had 
 got a love affair on." Henriette reassured him, 
 but did not deny it. 
 
 On Sundays she went out for walks, sometimes 
 with her uncle, and sometimes with Marie. But 
 when the setting sun threw shadows on a level 
 with the wall she never missed crossing the 
 Avenue of Saint Anne, which crowns the hill near 
 the church. There, in the shelter of the low 
 houses or the almost leafless trees that grow on 
 the stony soil, she met nearly all her friends of the 
 quarter, crowded together like a covey of par- 
 tridges. The children were playing all together. 
 The mothers were chatting in little groups, sepa- 
 rated one from the other, each with a shadow of 
 its own. The gathering dust crested the hill, and 
 formed a spiral in the breeze that rose from the 
 Loire. 
 
 At the same time the slack season was dispers- 
 ing the workgirls at Madame Clemence's. Sev- 
 eral of them, at a few days' notice, were obliged 
 to take forced holidays until the end of September : 
 Mathilde, Jeanne, Lucie and others were among 
 them. When the day was over, one of them would 
 be called in to see the chief. She would return a 
 few moments later with red eyes. With all her 
 courage and all her pride baffled, she would still
 
 REDEMPTION 177 
 
 keep sufficient composure to say: "Good-by, 
 girls. It's my turn this evening. I am given a 
 holiday." Her own friends kissed her, and the 
 others shook hands with her. No one appeared 
 to doubt their meeting again in October. And 
 yet experience had taught them that the caprice 
 of fashion extends even as far as their engagements, 
 and that those who leave with a promise of re- 
 engagement do not always return. They put on 
 their ties, they went down the stairs a little before 
 the others, and that evening, for the first time in 
 the year, they did not wait for their work-room 
 companions, to repeat on the threshold of the 
 door: " Good-by, Irma; good-by, Reine; good- 
 by, Henriette." Sorrow drove them away quick- 
 ly, far from the favoured folk who would go 
 on working without them at the green tables. 
 The apprentice would put the unused stool into 
 the recess for clothes. The next morning one of 
 the incomers would look round for the absent one, 
 would remember, sigh, and be silent. 
 
 Fortunately Marie Schwarz stayed on, thanks 
 to Henriette, who had become sufficiently influ- 
 ential to obtain for her protegee a slight advance 
 in salary. ' ' I am doing it solely on your account," 
 Madame Clemence said, "and it is almost unfair." 
 Such favours naturally gained Henriette the 
 affection of the girls, which the fear of Made- 
 moiselle Augustine, the first hand, had hitherto 
 kept back. One afternoon Reine at one end of 
 the table bent over to her and said: "Mademoi- 
 selle Henriette, I want to tell you a secret. I be- 
 lieve I am going to be married in the autumn. I
 
 178 REDEMPTION 
 
 shall be poor, but dearly loved. He is on the rail- 
 way. Will you come on Sunday? I shall be so 
 pleased if you like him. We have been speaking 
 about you." Irma had said the same thing to 
 her one day when Henriette asked her: "Are you 
 tired? Have you got a cough?" "I? Oh, I am 
 done for; I have known that for a long time. 
 When I am quite ill, not as I am now, I shall send 
 for you to comfort me. But that isn't a very 
 pleasing prospect for you. In the meantime 
 would you like to read one of Daudet's stories? 
 I have one that is so pretty that I have copied it 
 all out, because I could not keep the book. I will 
 bring you my exercise book. Shall I?" 
 
 Marie remained the same, a bold creature, and 
 only a fair worker, without inner life of any kind, 
 but absolutely frank and affectionate. She said 
 once laughingly, on one of the Sunday walks; 
 ''Do you know, I don't think your brother An- 
 toine would mind making love to me, but I don't 
 want him to, you see. You would not like it." 
 They called each other "thou" ever since Marie 
 had had her higher salary from Madame Cle"m- 
 ence. Henriette made no attempt at useless talk. 
 But by an inspiration of her girlish and artistic 
 mind she had hastened to beautify the home of 
 the poor girl. She knew that ugly walls have a 
 bad effect on one, and in time, and with the dis- 
 creet aid of Madame Lemarie as well as marvel- 
 lous economy, she had been able to give to Marie's 
 room almost an air of coquettish charm. Every- 
 thing had been re-whitewashed. There were cur- 
 tains at the windows, and a new table with a table-
 
 REDEMPTION 179 
 
 cloth, and on the walls two pictures, landscapes, to 
 which Henriette was much attached, but which 
 she had lent to her friend. "You can give them 
 back to me when you are rich, Marie." 
 
 An awakened soul becomes creative at once. 
 She thought of new models of such good taste 
 that Madame Clemence herself remarked, as she 
 placed them on the high black stands in the show- 
 room: "I know what has happened: she is in 
 full flower now. They all have a time when they 
 are like fairies. It lasts for three or six months 
 and never comes again." 
 
 That year the young women and girls, who 
 wore wondrous confections designed by Henri- 
 ette, were all complimented on their good taste. 
 Their toilettes were a success at the casinos, on 
 the plage, at the races, and at the first meets of 
 the hunt. 
 
 Oh! you rich of the earth, did you but know of 
 the sad hours linked with the charming creations 
 that you wear. 
 
 Nearly every morning Etienne passed up the 
 Loire in his boat to reach Trentemoult. Henri- 
 ette leaned over her balcony, and, very pale, she 
 watched the boatman of the Loire, who also was 
 disinclined to break the silence. Twice only, 
 when the light was so clear and free from mist 
 that they were able to distinguish each other's 
 features, he took a bunch of flowers from the top 
 of his basket and threw it up. A little coloured 
 ball rose in the air toward the rocks of Saint Anne, 
 fell into the water, and was swept down the Loire.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE acacias of the Rue de PErmitage lost every 
 vestige of green with the first September rains; 
 their leaves hung down as yellow as dates. The 
 employees discussed who would return at the 
 end of the month. Morning and evening were 
 cold, last year's mantles and jackets began to re- 
 appear at Madame Clemence's, disguised with 
 new collars and trimmings, but the storms so fre- 
 quent in the valley of the Loire brought with 
 them suffocating heat during the day. One after- 
 noon, worn out by the trying summer, Henriette 
 felt almost exhausted. Through the windows of 
 the work shop heavy gray clouds fringed with 
 gold could be seen spreading like a pall over the 
 sky. The usually active and inventive Henriette 
 let her eyes roam from the sky to the discoloured 
 walls, leaning back in her chair, her hands lying 
 idly on the table. Her hair felt as heavy as though 
 made of solid gold. She fell asleep. 
 
 Madame Clemence, entering on tiptoe, said drily, 
 "Mademoiselle Henriette, come here, please, I 
 wish to speak to you." 
 
 The forewoman, Mademoiselle Augustine, who 
 hated Henriette, and was madly jealous of her r 
 began to laugh, hiding her face in her hands, leav- 
 ing visible only the top of her forehead and the 
 lower part of her coarse, red cheeks. 
 
 180
 
 REDEMPTION 181 
 
 Henriette, covered with confusion, followed hex 1 
 employer into the next room without a word. 
 
 "My child," said Madame Clemence, her tone 
 changing instantly, "I am going to give you a 
 piece of news which will please you. You are 
 going to be forewoman from to-morrow; you 
 have talent, the young ladies are fond of you, and 
 I have full confidence in you." 
 
 Henriette grew pale with emotion; her eyelids 
 were lowered, but she raised them slowly and 
 murmured her thanks. Almost at once, however, 
 she recovered herself: "What is to become of 
 Mademoiselle Augustine?" she asked. 
 
 "She leaves me, of course." 
 
 "Does she know?" 
 
 "She has her suspicions. What can you ex- 
 pect, Mademoiselle Henriette? She is worn out; 
 I cannot help it," continued Madame Clemence, 
 seeing that her new forewoman was painfully 
 affected by the dismissal of the old one, in spite of 
 the little sympathy between them. "As for 
 yourself, I have a confidential errand for you. 
 You are to take the train for Paris the day after 
 to-morrow to buy the models for my winter sea- 
 son. We will talk about it to-morrow morning." 
 
 Madame Clemence paused an instant to rear- 
 range with a coquettish gesture the folds of her 
 elaborate head-dress. 
 
 "I think," she continued, with the smile usually 
 reserved for rich clients, "that you are a little 
 overcome. Go into the showroom and rest. 
 There is no one there. Take a shape with you, and 
 if you have an idea, create another masterpiece."
 
 182 REDEMPTION 
 
 She was in reality anxious that Henriette 
 should be spared a meeting, and possibly a pain- 
 ful scene. 
 
 The young girl understood. Alone and noise- 
 lessly she entered the blue plush showroom, her 
 feet sinking into the heavy carpet, and immedi- 
 ately four happy reflections of herself flashed 
 from the mirrors framed in foliage. She was in- 
 deed pretty in this first hour of her sovereignty. 
 Her happiness appeared to her as a thing apart, 
 as some rich diamond with which she had adorned 
 herself. It shone in her look, it glittered from her 
 erown of fair hair, it was visible on her lips, which 
 possessed the Florentine gift of smiling though in 
 repose; it was visible, too, in the carriage of her 
 head, no longer heavy with fatigue. She had sat 
 down in a recess. 
 
 Light streamed through the glass roof, gilding 
 and caressing the whole room. Moved by the 
 silence and her rich surroundings, Henriette felt 
 her surprise and joy increase, and as girls of her 
 class are not given to idle dreams, her dream soon 
 began to take shape. She seized four silk roses, 
 an aigrette, two pearl clasps, four green and red 
 leaves, and began to twist and arrange stalks and 
 flowers, and to pleat the tulle she held. Inspira- 
 tion had returned to her. In less than an hour 
 her work was nearly finished. 
 
 "How pleased Madame Clemence will be," she 
 thought; "how easy things are, when one is 
 happy." 
 
 She looked up at the sound of a footstep. A 
 few yards from the door stood Mademoiselle
 
 REDEMPTION 183 
 
 Augustine; she, too, was reflected in the four 
 mirrors. She carried her jacket on her arm, and 
 a handbag. She looked half distracted. 
 
 She was leaving, worn out, having given her 
 youth to fashion, with no profession and at an age 
 when one cannot learn anything new. In a few 
 seconds she would disappear, to grapple with the 
 unknown. She caught sight of Henriette. Her 
 eyes, fierce as those of an animal at bay, met 
 those of Henriette alight with happy dreams. 
 
 "Excuse me I came to see, for the last 
 time- 
 
 Henriette adranced toward the door, holding 
 out her hands, which bore the marks of her pro- 
 fession. The movement, though one of comrade- 
 ship, was meant, too, to justify and explain her 
 position. "We have worked so hard," the ex- 
 pressive hands, transparent in the light, seemed 
 to say. "See the blood in our veins is impover- 
 ished, we are wounded, and already worn." 
 
 The eyes from under the white lids spoke elo- 
 quently also. 
 
 "Do you bear me malice if I am happy?" they 
 said; "one must live. I have not injured you. 
 I could not love you, but I grieve for you, you 
 who are going out into the dark night." 
 
 The other hesitated. The madness of misery 
 haunted her already. Throwing back her head 
 with what she believed to be a proud gesture, the 
 poor thing cast a look of contempt on Henriette, 
 directed chiefly at youth, talent, success all that 
 she herself had lost. Then the reddened eyelids 
 became moist, and Mademoiselle Augustine put
 
 184 REDEMPTION 
 
 out her hand as little as need be. They shook 
 hands in silence. 
 
 It was seven o'clock. Henriette came home 
 earlier than usual. Old Madiot, leaning over the 
 stove stirring awkwardly a stew that he was cook- 
 ing, heard the rickety stairs creak. 
 
 He listened smiling. " There comes my little 
 girl/' he thought. "I wonder what has happened 
 that she is coming up so quickly." 
 
 The stairs creaked more furiously than before, 
 the door was thrown open, and Henriette came 
 running in. Before the old man could turn, her 
 arms were round his neck, and he was enveloped 
 in silk, lace, and tulle. 
 
 "Uncle, I am forewoman," she cried, kissing 
 him three times. 
 
 "Good heavens! you should have given warn- 
 ing, and I would have shaved. Forewoman of 
 what?" 
 
 "At Madame Clemence's. Forewoman in the 
 place of Mademoiselle Augustine. I am to have 
 one hundred francs per month; we are rich. Oh, 
 Uncle, I am so happy." 
 
 She drew back to see the effect of her surprise. 
 He was the only one to rejoice with her, the sole 
 relative with whom to share the great news. 
 
 Ideas filtered slowly into Madiot's brain. "I 
 am not surprised that you should win promo- 
 tion," he said quietly. 
 
 He began to lay the table, putting two plates 
 opposite each other, while Henriette went into the 
 next room.
 
 REDEMPTION 185 
 
 Gradually he commenced to show signs of joy, 
 as drooping flowers show slow signs of life when 
 placed in water. Quick words passed from room 
 to room. 
 
 "I, too, should have won promotion had my 
 father given me an education. But, there, I did 
 not know my alphabet, whereas you What 
 rank in the army would forewoman correspond 
 to sergeant, perhaps?" 
 
 "Oh, better than that," replied a laughing 
 voice. 
 
 "Adjutant? What a fine rank, you lord it in the 
 barracks?" 
 
 "Just so!" 
 
 "And only pretty girls, too. What luck! And 
 so young; the last forewoman was forty, wasn't 
 she?" 
 
 "Rather more." 
 
 "What a position, but you do not look half 
 pleased enough." 
 
 "You don't, Uncle." 
 
 "I did not grasp it; come and kiss me, little 
 forewoman." 
 
 There was more talking than eating during 
 dinner, and then Madiot suggested a walk through 
 the town. He was eager to show off his niece to 
 the whole world on such a day. 
 
 "Dress yourself well, and wear your hat with 
 the white wings." 
 
 "Where are we going?" 
 
 "To hear the band and see my friends." 
 
 They sauntered through the rich parts of the 
 town in their Sunday best. Madiot gave his arm
 
 186 REDEMPTION 
 
 to his niece; he might have been leading her to 
 the altar, his manner was so serious; it was 
 worthy of the old-fashioned silk hat and curled 
 moustache. 
 
 Sometimes he bowed to people standing at 
 their shop doors, or tried to catch the whispers of 
 the passers-by. 
 
 "Pretty well dressed, quite young . . . where 
 are they off to?" 
 
 Where indeed but to Cambronne, where the 
 regimental band was playing marches and lively 
 mazurkas under the elms. They mingled with 
 the crowds who were strolling about, or sat down 
 among the groups who were drinking music and 
 dust for two sous. 
 
 He was convinced that everybody was staring 
 at her, and whispering that this was Mademoiselle 
 Henriette Madiot, the new forewoman at Clem- 
 ence's. 
 
 He stopped once or twice to speak to some old 
 retired army or navy comrade, and after the cus- 
 tomary cordial greeting which he never forgot, 
 he hastened to introduce his niece with the words: 
 "Here is my little girl; she has had a stroke of 
 luck; she has been made forewoman." 
 
 If the friend did not understand, he added 
 quickly: " Forewoman is what might be called an 
 adjutant of fashion, do you understand?" 
 
 And if his friends did not, it was of little con- 
 sequence, so that he might speak of this great 
 happiness. 
 
 "I have an idea," he said, on their return 
 home, "we ought to have a little feast on your
 
 REDEMPTION 187 
 
 return from Paris, in honour of your promotion. 
 It is a pity we cannot invite Etienne to dinner." 
 
 "Why not invite Antoine, Uncle? He will 
 have to join his regiment soon." 
 
 The old soldier hesitated: "It is more than 
 five years since he dined with us, but perhaps you - 
 are right. We will invite him." 
 
 Two days later Henriette went to Paris, and 
 Antoine received his invitation.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ANTOINE had been courting Marie Schwarz since 
 May. He had the easy gallantry of the work shop, 
 he enjoyed following the girls coming from work, 
 to joke with them all, and to show his preference 
 for any one in particular by catching her laugh- 
 ingly round the waist, while the rest scattered 
 screaming, inwardly jealous. 
 
 He was an assiduous attendant at fairs, village 
 assemblies in Nantes, or balls where dancing went 
 on under the trees to the music of a clarionet or 
 a cornet. He frittered away the profits of his 
 skilled labour in one evening; generous, and a 
 fine speaker, he had great success among the 
 poorer classes where gayety is rare. When his 
 falsetto solo ceased, cries of approval came from 
 the listening groups. In contrast to his love of 
 pleasure the foolish fellow had a melancholy and 
 haunting desire for better things, like the home 
 sickness of an emigrant, who knows that he can- 
 not return to his country. He was the last of a 
 race of Plougastel peasants, transplanted and de- 
 teriorated hewers of stone and cultivators of 
 strawberries on the wind-swept downs by the sea. 
 Easily led away and easily corrupted he could not 
 forget the sad airs of his infancy. No Breton is 
 ever completely gay. When Antoine, escorting 
 Marie down the Rue Saint Similieu, said: ''People 
 
 188
 
 REDEMPTION 189 
 
 think I am madly happy because I laugh, but I 
 have sorrow enough and to spare, Mademoiselle 
 Marie, like yourself," he did not lie. The mother 
 who bore him had never consoled herself for her 
 fault. Throbbing with all the hatreds of the work- 
 ing-classes, he, too, inwardly weeping, cherished a 
 vague regret for the only good thing his ancestors 
 had possessed a family. His own he had broken 
 with, and it was classed with his hatreds. In this 
 way he felt inferior to his race, and to many of his 
 equals; an outcast from a common joy. In vain 
 did he chaff the village lads and tillers of the soil ; 
 he was one of them but ill and perverted. If he 
 had been born fifty years earlier, or if his grand- 
 father had not sworn, once when dazed with 
 drink, to leave Plougastel, Antoine would have 
 been a peasant shouldering his spade at the close 
 of a day's work, gazing over the sea between beach 
 and field with his heart already at home where his 
 wife was preparing the evening meal. 
 
 Breton of the hard soil, his stubbornness, an 
 untutored form of fidelity, proved him to be still, 
 as did also the sudden disgust which would seize 
 him in the middle of an orgie, and plunge him into 
 a fit of black melancholy, which lasted for several 
 days. He would leave his companions then and 
 wander alone along the quays, his slight figure 
 mingling with the porters, his eyes madly staring at 
 things and men. It was, however, neither remorse 
 nor madness, it was just dreams of an ancient peo- 
 ple, dreams of a race rocked by the waves, which 
 can never be completely imprisoned by city walls. 
 
 He knew when to laugh and when to say, "I
 
 190 REDEMPTION 
 
 suffer," and thus he gained control over the soul 
 of the desolate girl, whom Fate had thrown in his 
 path. As she had confessed to Henriette the two 
 first occasions that he walked home with her, he 
 had chaffed her. The second time Marie refused 
 his escort, and he never volunteered again, but he 
 met her. 
 
 "I am like you," he said, "one whom his family 
 has rejected; we resemble each other in sadness." 
 Then she listened to him. 
 
 Gradually it became a habit for them to meet 
 in the evening at the corner of a street. As Marie 
 passed, Antoine would step from a doorway, 
 where he had been waiting, and they talked for a 
 few minutes, hidden in the shadow of a wall. He 
 would pull his hat over his eyes, and Marie would 
 lift a corner of her old mantle, to hide themselves 
 from the chance passers. Often they merely made 
 a few remarks about the day's work. Sometimes 
 he would add: "What beautiful hair you have, 
 Marie." But his look caressed her, and it was the 
 passion that it expressed that made them linger 
 together, and which haunted Marie when the 
 words they had spoken were forgotten. 
 
 One August evening, the last late night at 
 Clemence's, Marie Schwarz, exhausted with hun- 
 ger and fatigue, was hurrying home to her room 
 in Rue Saint Similieu. She was hardly thinking of 
 Antoine, because of the lateness of the hour, and 
 when he came out of the dark doorway where he 
 had been waiting, she was beyond measure dis- 
 tressed. He should not have waited, it was too 
 much. She felt herself drawn toward the wall.
 
 REDEMPTION 191 
 
 "I have waited here two hours, waited, because 
 I love you, Marie." 
 
 It was one of his hours of bitter sadness. He 
 seized her hands, and his lips brushed back the 
 thick, black hair, which had become partially 
 uncoiled. 
 
 "Marie, Marie, I love you so, that if it were 
 possible you should be my wife." 
 
 " Don't say that, leave me, don't say another 
 word." 
 
 " Marie, I have to join my regiment. Perhaps 
 I may never return. I have only two months 
 more to live. Come with me." 
 
 "Leave me, Antoine." 
 
 She struggled, but in spirit she was lost. Had 
 he not said, "If it were possible, you should be 
 my wife?" 
 
 She freed herself and moved away, with a look 
 of horror. 
 
 "No, no, I will not. It would be the ruin of 
 both. Never come again, never." 
 
 But he did; he met her again. The night he 
 received Madiot's invitation to supper he met 
 Marie at their usual meeting-place. 
 
 She was already conquered and that evening 
 her last support had failed. She had not seen 
 Henriette since the day before, she would not see 
 her on the morrow or on the following days. 
 
 She fell weeping on Antoine's shoulder, and let 
 herself be led away.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 So Marie, in her soul's distress, thought of Hen- 
 riette, and cried out to her. 
 
 Other thoughts followed the traveller that night 
 the regret of old Madiot and of some of the 
 neighbours deprived of their evening visit, the 
 anxious thoughts of little Reine, who secretly 
 loved the forewoman; of Louise, and, above 
 all, of Etienne. More prayers were sent up to 
 heaven, more souls yearned toward this work- 
 ing girl leaving her people, and looked for her re- 
 turn, than for many a rich person setting out 
 from home. Unknown tender thoughts crossing 
 in space. 
 
 Seated on a bench, which they had brought out 
 from the hut, Etienne and his mother sat watch- 
 ing. They were waiting for Etienne's father, who 
 was spreading his nets. The children slept. The 
 oxen were moving in the moon-lit meadows, 
 gray, indistinct shapes in the fog, their feet mak- 
 ing black patches on the grass, white with dew. 
 The Loire flowed slowly by against the incoming 
 tide, shimmering in the moonlight. The awaken- 
 ing owls hooted in the poplar trees. 
 
 "What else can you expect, poor boy," said 
 Mother Loutrel, her hands sheltered under her 
 apron from the chill night air, her eyes fixed, like 
 Etienne's, on the river; "what more can you do? 
 
 192
 
 REDEMPTION 193 
 
 Girls like her are not to be had for the asking. 
 She told you to have patience." 
 
 "If only there was some hope, Mother, I would 
 be patient enough, but I always feel that she will 
 not have me." 
 
 The woman bent toward him, and to pacify 
 him adopted the voice with which she was wont 
 to comfort him in his infancy. 
 
 "Dear Etienne, don't imagine things; I be- 
 lieve that if she waits, it is a good sign, she wants 
 to try you." 
 
 Silence fell upon them, a silence intensified by 
 the peaceful night. 
 
 There was a strong resemblance between the 
 mother and son, both came of a fiery race and 
 with their eyes fixed on the river which gave them 
 a living, the expression of their regular features 
 was almost identical. But there was something 
 besides grief in the man's face ; energy and strong 
 will were painted there. The mother's face ex- 
 pressed pity; she had been very beautiful, this 
 fisherman's wife, and she knew the grief that un- 
 requited love can cause. 
 
 "When you pass before her house in the morn- 
 ing, does she look out?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Etienne, "not always, but she was 
 there again yesterday." 
 
 "Can you see her eyes? Don't they tell tales?" 
 
 Etienne shook his head. 
 
 "No, Mother, I don't see her eyes; she is not 
 near enough. I can only see a white figure in the 
 window, and her hands when she leans out, and 
 I can recognize her hair."
 
 194 REDEMPTION 
 
 "Does she make any sign?" 
 
 " Neither when she comes nor when she goes/' 
 he said, again shaking his head; "she is like a 
 statue. But I promised not to persecute her, and 
 I turn my boat round as though I expected 
 nothing." 
 
 Silence again fell upon them; the young owls 
 came near, invisible in the darkness, hooting as 
 they pursued their prey. 
 
 Etienne was the first to speak, his voice serious, 
 but trembling with youthful eagerness : 
 
 "I will wait for her; but after Christmas, as 
 true as I am born, I will go to her, Mother, I will 
 say to her: 'You must tell me all to-day, all; this 
 must end,' and if she will not have me ' 
 
 He extended his arm slowly over the moonlit 
 river. " You know what I shall do then," he said, 
 "I have sworn it." 
 
 Their mingled sighs troubled the night air. 
 The mother knew her son's secrets, but to hear 
 him renew his threat, which she knew he would 
 keep if Henriette refused him, grieved her deeply. 
 She pictured to herself the loneliness of the hut 
 when Etienne had left, and of her anguish when 
 the wind freshened over the river thinking of her 
 four sons exposed to the peril of the sea. 
 
 "If only it were not she," she said almost 
 harshly. 
 
 These words silenced them both for more than 
 half an hour. 
 
 The meadows had become so brilliant that they 
 seemed to be covered with snow, and in the sur- 
 rounding whiteness the Loire stood out like a
 
 REDEMPTION 195 
 
 black path, with one ray of moonlight thrown 
 across it. On the opposite bank, coming into the 
 light, Etienne made out a moving black patch. 
 
 " Father's boat," he said, rising. 
 
 The mother and son moved down to the bank, 
 two tall figures bending over the river watching 
 the approaching boat. 
 
 "Only speak of his fish, Etienne," the mother 
 murmured as the boat neared the bank, "he has 
 enough trouble. To know trouble in advance is 
 the mother's part." 
 
 The little owls, still invisible, screamed madly, 
 hunting for field mice.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 HENRIETTE returned after six days' absence. 
 Eloi waited for her at the station, and got into the 
 cab amid a stack of parcels and cardboard boxes. 
 They drove straight to Madame Cle"mence's. 
 
 "Be quick, little girl," begged Eloi as they 
 reached the door, " dinner is cooking at Mere 
 Logeret's. Antoine promised to come at seven. We 
 shall be three, we have only been two for so long." 
 
 He was nervous over the meeting, yet was con- 
 fident that all would be well. 
 
 " Antoine was only too pleased," he thought, 
 "he agreed almost at once. He is getting to be 
 a man, he will shortly join his regiment, and the 
 Service soon makes a change in a young fellow. 
 I remember that I could think of nothing else, 
 two months before joining." 
 
 Madame Logeret had prepared a stew made of 
 chicken, in accordance with recipes of which she 
 jealously kept the secret. She brought it in 
 smoking in an earthenware saucepan. When 
 Henriette reached home at half-past six with a 
 bunch of flowers, the staircase still smelt of rose- 
 mary, cloves, and fried butter. 
 
 "I was passing Madame Eglot's shop," she said, 
 "and really I felt that I must have some flowers 
 for my dinner party. Aren't they pretty?" 
 
 She took up a china basket and arranged her 
 
 196
 
 REDEMPTION 197 
 
 autumn flowers, among ferns still moist from the 
 woods. She placed the basket on the table close 
 to the standing lamp, with its fine cream-coloured 
 shade, which lent a festive air to Madiot's room. 
 In her own room she dusted and arranged on a 
 round table the blue-flowered tea service, which 
 was never made use of. 
 
 Antoine arrived, not in the least embarrassed 
 apparently, with his little vague laugh and shifty 
 look, which always avoided other people's eyes. 
 
 "Well, your room is not in the least changed, 
 Uncle Madiot. You are not in the swim, I see, 
 not even an advertisement. With us the poorest 
 has his coloured picture." 
 
 Henriette came out of her room and he took 
 the hand she offered, but did not press it. The 
 white hand stretched out with a sister's greeting 
 fell coldly by her side. 
 
 "Well, Henriette, so you are forewoman. Con- 
 gratulations ! I'll bet your room is better furnished 
 than Uncle Madiot's." 
 
 He stepped forward and put his head round 
 the door. 
 
 "I thought so. What luxury, vases, pictures, 
 laces, an arm-chair! I remember a time when a 
 little apprentice groped her way to bed in the 
 dark to save candle ends." 
 
 "And I, I remember a brother who loved me 
 once," she murmured softly, so that he alone 
 should hear. 
 
 "Don't talk of that," he replied, curtly. 
 
 He turned away instantly toward his uncle, 
 who invited him to be seated.
 
 198 REDEMPTION 
 
 Henriette followed: "Will it be always the 
 same," she thought, "what on earth can we talk 
 about now, not to anger him." 
 
 Conversation began nevertheless, and was con- 
 tinued almost with ease and gayety. Madiot, 
 though not a model of diplomacy, avoided any 
 subject which could recall the past. Round that 
 table where for the first time for so long the family 
 was grouped, the mother's name was never men- 
 tioned, the years of childhood were willingly for- 
 gotten. They discussed newspaper and town gos- 
 sip, politics in general and recent strikes. Old 
 Eloi laughed, the wine had made him jovial, but 
 his nephew sat observant, joked but did not smile 
 nor drink. 
 
 At last Uncle Madiot filled up the three glasses 
 and lifted his own. 
 
 "Your health, Antoine. In six weeks you will 
 be in barracks." 
 
 The young workman instantly lost his look of 
 indifference, and bit his lips. 
 
 "Yes, unfortunately, I shall have to go," he 
 said, gravely. 
 
 "What a look," cried Henriette, who was 
 clearing the table, "what are you afraid of?" 
 
 She tried to laugh. 
 
 "Afraid of wanting money?" she added, "I am 
 sure you must know, however, that I will not 
 forget our soldier, especially now that I am fore- 
 woman." 
 
 He had come chiefly for fear that his refusal 
 might mean a cessation of this last source of in- 
 come, and also because he was haunted by a
 
 REDEMPTION 199 
 
 vague terror, instinctive as were the superstitious 
 fears of his ancestors. 
 
 "No doubt/' he said, prompted by the same 
 terror, "but it is a big misfortune, as one never 
 knows if one will return." 
 
 "What an idea," laughed the old soldier, "what 
 should happen in less than two years, why do you 
 torment yourself with these ideas?" 
 
 Antoine was silent. 
 
 "Look at me," continued his uncle, "fourteen 
 years of service," and he threw back his shoulders 
 and twisted his long untidy moustache. 
 
 The young man looked at him, but with con- 
 tempt. 
 
 "You were a simple fellow, Uncle Madiot," he 
 said, with a shrug of his shoulders. 
 
 "Why?" cried the old man, his face becoming 
 stern. 
 
 "They trotted you about from one end of 
 France to the other, and then off to the Crimea, 
 just as they liked. And not having had enough 
 you signed for another seven years." 
 
 "Quite so, nor do I regret it, and I'll swear that 
 it was fine, all our campaigns Inkerman, the 
 siege, the English joining us, Palestro, Magenta." 
 
 "I know, but what did you get from it," threw 
 in the young fellow insolently. 
 
 "Get from it, get from it " 
 
 "One sou a day, eh?" 
 
 "I was fed, I had tobacco, I had " seeing from 
 Antoine's mocking laugh that he was getting the 
 worst of the battle, the old man lost his temper. 
 
 "I do not argue like you, blockhead. I served
 
 200 REDEMPTION 
 
 with my comrades, not for money, but for honour, 
 for pleasure." 
 
 "Be grateful, if it so pleases you, Uncle, they 
 took the best of your life, prevented you from 
 being your own master, from having a profession, 
 from having a family, from having even a purse 
 with something in it. Thank them, it's your own 
 business, but the men of to-day are made of dif- 
 ferent stuff." 
 
 "So I see, cowards." 
 
 "Cry out, if you like, you will not change it. 
 The men of to-day will not be led about like you. 
 I warn you, soon it will have to be abolished." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The army." 
 
 Eloi Madiot drew himself up. He threw his 
 body before the door with a movement suddenly 
 come back to him from his old profession, as 
 though he feared some one would enter, as though 
 he heard the footsteps of the adjutant for the 
 week coming to avenge such blasphemy. Then 
 his eyes, terrible as those of a soldier going into 
 action, turned on his nephew, who had denounced 
 the army. He did not speak, but his eyes spoke for 
 him. Between him and the miserable youth, the 
 fourteen years of his life in war and barracks 
 rolled in confusion. There passed before him 
 visions of his comrades, drawn up in ranks, shoul- 
 dering their arms; of the officers he had loved; 
 music sounding through cathedral domes; flying 
 flags; bayonet charges; drinking bouts after vic- 
 tories; garrison towns; the mess; all the glory, 
 all the careless joy of the service. Visions of it
 
 REDEMPTION 201 
 
 all rushed through his troubled brain. For the 
 moment the old soldier became the incarnation of 
 the old army, of a by-gone indignant people; a 
 whole past of humble courage rose under the insult. 
 
 " Silence," he cried, "silence, or I'll strike you/' 
 and he brought down his undamaged fist with a 
 thud on the table. 
 
 Antoine, pale but master of himself, leaned back 
 in his chair and raised his pointed chin in the air. 
 
 "And then?" he questioned. 
 
 His uncle seemed about to fall upon him, when 
 Henriette ran forward and seized his hand. 
 
 "Antoine is joking, Uncle," she said, "don't 
 you see, let him alone." 
 
 She watched them eagerly, standing trembling 
 between the two men who defied each other. An- 
 toine neither changed expression nor lowered his 
 eyes, but the old man who felt the girl's hand 
 tremble endeavoured to regain command of him- 
 self, and to obey her request. 
 
 "You're right, Henriette," he said, his voice 
 still shaking with anger, "he will get over it; 
 when he wears the uniform, he will be compelled 
 to obey he, Antoine!" 
 
 "You don't know your nephew, Uncle," the 
 latter sniggered; "if our officers are pleasant, per- 
 haps I may, but if they are not " he snapped his 
 fingers, "Heavens, I'll teach them!" 
 
 Eloi Madiot was secretly alarmed by the 
 strange expression on his nephew's face, he had 
 seen the insolent look in others, in troopers, who 
 had ended in the African battalions. He made 
 no answer.
 
 202 REDEMPTION 
 
 "Look here, Antoine, I did not mean to tell 
 you, but since you defy your officers, I can assure 
 you there will be one at least, who will be anxious 
 to protect you," threw in Henriette. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "He is only a Reserve officer, but in January 
 he is to be transferred to your regiment. I will 
 make his mother speak to him; she is sure to do 
 so; you guess whom I mean?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Monsieur Victor Lemarie." 
 
 Antoine sprang up. "Do you mean to do that, 
 Henriette?" 
 
 "Yes, to please you. What's the matter?" 
 She stepped back alarmed at his face, which was 
 livid with rage. 
 
 "You would, would you. Well, tell him then 
 that he had better not meddle with me, nor give 
 me orders, nor come too near me, or there will be 
 a tragedy. Tell him, tell him Good God " 
 
 He seized his hat and rushed wildly from the 
 room. 
 
 Madiot and Henriette shrinking together against 
 the wall were silent for a time. Henriette was 
 dazed and grief-stricken, but her uncle had a dif- 
 ferent cause for distress, the explosion of fury had 
 suddenly brought home to him the fact that An- 
 toine knew something of the past. 
 
 He was terrified to think that such a secret was 
 shared, and by whom? He saw his Henriette ex- 
 posed to danger, to the vengeance of a wretch like 
 Antoine, who could torture and break her; who 
 might also obtain a mastery over her by holding
 
 REDEMPTION 203 
 
 out the perpetual threat of dragging up the old 
 shame and making a scandal. Every other 
 thought was effaced by the anguish of this; he 
 forgot personal insults, abuse of the army, every- 
 thing but the one tormenting thought. Henri- 
 ette in danger, a danger that he could not avert, 
 and from which he must save her. His brain was 
 on fire. "Must I run after him?" he thought. 
 "Will it happen to-morrow or when? I must dis- 
 cover how much he guesses, and forbid him to 
 speak forbid him, Antoine Madiot!" 
 
 His face buried in his hands he brooded over 
 his sorrow. 
 
 "Can you explain to me what was the matter 
 with him?" said Henriette interrupting his dream. 
 "Why was he so angry? Was it against me or 
 Monsieur Lemarie"?" 
 
 Her uncle seemed to awake from a nightmare. 
 He made an effort to hide his anxiety, so as to 
 give some colour of truth to what he was about to 
 say. 
 
 "Don't be so alarmed, little girl," he began, 
 "I ought to have remembered that it is impossible 
 to talk sense to Antoine; you see he is still furious 
 with the Lemaries, because of the question of my 
 pension." 
 
 "Now that the matter is settled it would be 
 folly. Now there is something else, that we do not 
 know of, something more serious." 
 
 Her eyes followed him as he went over to the 
 window and leaned upon the ledge. He dared not 
 move for fear of being compelled again to lie. 
 
 Henriette, however, did not speak again. She
 
 204 REDEMPTION 
 
 put on an apron and began to wash up the dinner 
 things. This task was to her the most distasteful 
 of all housework, but to-night she never gave a 
 thought to it. Her mind was far away trying to 
 solve an impossible riddle. 
 
 When she had put away the china in the side- 
 board, she went into her room to brush her hair, 
 to wash and scent her hands to become once more 
 a fashionable lady. Then she cleared away the 
 blue-flowered tea service, and replaced the chairs 
 that she had arranged near the round table, and 
 which were no longer needed. 
 
 In the other room Madiot, crouching near the 
 window, mad with his secret sorrow, kept repeat- 
 ing: " Supposing he should betray her"; and 
 Henriette, not suspecting the danger, asked her- 
 self: "What is the matter? Why was Antoine so 
 infuriated, and why has my uncle forgotten me 
 this evening? "
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 IMMEDIATELY on entering the work shop next day, 
 Henriette looked round for Marie, whom she had 
 not seen since her departure. All the girls, with 
 the exception of Marie, crowded round her for 
 news. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mademoiselle Henriette, you 
 look tired. Did you have a pleasant journey? 
 Tell us about your visit to Reboux, and to Esther 
 Meyer's. Are the models pretty this year?" 
 
 After answering them all Henriette went up to 
 Marie, who, seated at the end of the table near 
 the light, seemed to concentrate her mind on 
 each stitch. 
 
 "Well, Marie, don't you mean to say good- 
 rnorning?" 
 
 Marie lifted her eyes which gave no sign of 
 pleasure, and instantly lowered them again. 
 
 " Good-morning," she said; "are you well'?' 
 
 "There," said Henriette, gently, "I did well to 
 come home. Here is my friend Marie unable to 
 get along without me, and plunged in melancholy." 
 
 Marie made no answer. 
 
 "Will you come to Reine's with me on Sunday? " 
 
 "No, I cannot," answered Marie, continuing to 
 sew. 
 
 "You are engaged?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 205
 
 206 REDEMPTION 
 
 "You shall tell me about it," answered Henri- 
 ette, moving away. 
 
 Her friend's depression, however, had awak- 
 ened her suspicions. Many times during the day 
 she looked toward Marie, but without succeeding 
 in meeting her eyes, with the exception of once or 
 twice when it seemed to her that they were as sad 
 and as expressive of inward tragedy as on the first 
 day when the unknown girl had come up the 
 staircase with the question: "There is no va- 
 cancy, is there?" 
 
 She could not speak to her in the evening be- 
 cause Madame Clemence detained her as the em- 
 ployees were leaving. 
 
 "To-morrow," she thought, "I will find time to 
 walk home with her and discover what is wrong." 
 
 But on the morrow Marie did not come, and no 
 one had been given a message from her. 
 
 "Was she ill; did she complain of anything 
 these last few days?" asked Henriette of Reine, 
 who was more intimate with Marie than the rest. 
 
 Reine answered no, but her pale cheeks reddened 
 as she spoke, and Henriette was alarmed. She 
 was more anxious still the next day, when she 
 reached the shop and found that Marie, usually 
 the first, had not yet come. The room was de- 
 serted as Henriette opened her drawer and slowly 
 took out her things. The weather was appalling. 
 ' ' Perhaps she is detained by the dreadful weather," 
 thought Henriette; "she lives far away." 
 
 The apprentice entered, then Mathilde, Lucie, 
 Jeanne, Reine, Irma, all but Marie. Nine o'clock 
 struck. The noise of the opening door, the foot-
 
 REDEMPTION 207 
 
 steps on the boards, the murmurs of: "What 
 dreadful weather," the stools being pulled up to 
 the table, all the different noises of the morning 
 arrivals ceased. Whisperings and work com- 
 menced, but Marie's place was empty. 
 
 Madame Clemence's employees also remarked 
 Marie's absence. Some knew the reason what 
 don't they know but they confined themselves to 
 saying: "Twice again this week, but perhaps she 
 has sent an excuse." Meaning looks passed be- 
 tween some of them, but they knew the fore- 
 woman's friendship for the girl too well to talk. 
 Rain lashed the windows, and the wind howled 
 furiously down the chimney. 
 
 Henriette was sick with anxiety and could not 
 touch her dinner. She longed for the end of the 
 day's work, to be able to run to Marie's lodging, 
 to knock at the door, calling her name. 
 
 But as the autumn season had brought many 
 orders, work was continued until past half-past 
 seven. Henriette left her friends at the shop 
 door, and on account of the squall went up the 
 street instead of along the quays. 
 
 The rain soaked her skirts, the wind lashed the 
 puddles into foam. The streets were deserted 
 but for the drivers crouching on their boxes, who 
 stared after her, the rain streaming from theif 
 hats. Henriette walked at breathless speed, and 
 plunged into the poor quarter of the town. She 
 hurried through the Place Bretagne and on to the 
 Place Marchix, which was changed into a lake 
 with old houses on its banks. The street lamps 
 were all but extinguished by the tempest. An-
 
 208 REDEMPTION 
 
 toine lived at the farther end of the place on the 
 right. "Is it possible that it is he, my brother, 
 who has ruined her?" thought Henriette, who 
 guessed the truth. Brooding over the matter she 
 remembered that, when at dinner the other night, 
 she had mentioned Marie's name Antoine looked 
 embarrassed. This sign, added to others of the 
 past, almost convinced her of his guilt. "And it 
 was through me that she met him!" she thought. 
 Presently she stopped short and looked up at a 
 window under the roof in which a small light 
 twinkled. The light gave some hope, he was 
 there, he had not gone out. Henriette retraced 
 her steps, hurried in the pouring rain to the Rue 
 Saint-Similieu, and dived into a doorway, where 
 the wind howled like the siren of a steamer. She 
 groped her way up the staircase, suddenly seized 
 with fear at being alone, frightened, too, at being 
 so near to the secret she sought to discover. There 
 was no sound but that made by her fingers 
 against the wall as she vainly tried to find the 
 door. At last she drew herself together and called 
 "Marie." 
 
 Her voice was drowned by the wind. 
 
 "Marie." 
 
 She heard footsteps on the other side of the 
 door, a shaft of light fell on the staircase, the door 
 opened, Henriette caught sight of Marie and went 
 forward, her sodden garments clinging about her. 
 The other recoiled, extending her hand, as though 
 to ward off her approach. 
 
 "You ought not to have come. Do not touch 
 me, do not come near me."
 
 REDEMPTION 209 
 
 Henriette stopped, dazed. Her friend was 
 leaning on the table which held the lamp they 
 had bought together one happy day. She was 
 dressed in new clothes, ready to go out. She 
 looked almost elegant, with a large black hat 
 trimmed with bright red feathers, an embroid- 
 ered collar, high-heeled shoes, and silk umbrella. 
 She stood upright, pale and resolute. 
 
 "I ran here, Marie, as soon as my work was 
 done. I did not believe " 
 
 " That it was true? Well it is." 
 
 Henriette mastered her grief. She advanced 
 a little to the other side of the table. 
 
 "Marie," she said gently, as though speaking to 
 a younger sister, "tell me that it is just a mo- 
 ment's folly. We are friends; take off your 
 mantle; let me sit down and talk." 
 
 But Marie recoiled. Her sombre eyes shone 
 like cold steel: passion had chased all tenderness 
 from them. 
 
 "No," she said, coldly, "I am no longer worthy 
 of you. Go away." 
 
 ' ' Listen to me, and then I will leave ; and I will 
 never come back unless you want me." 
 
 "No, nothing you can say will be of use." 
 
 She crossed her arms, and leaned forward a little. 
 The light from the lamp accentuated the angry 
 smile on her lips. 
 
 "It is over, do you understand? I have had 
 enough of misery, and enough of your virtues. 
 I believe in nothing. I have not long to live, and 
 I will enjoy life. I am an unfortunate. He or 
 another, what odds?"
 
 210 REDEMPTION 
 
 She hesitated, and then added: "I must go, 
 he is waiting." 
 
 Henriette threw out her hands as though to 
 stop her. 
 
 "But don't you know him?" 
 
 "Better than you, who hate him." 
 
 "He has deceived you; he has to join his regi- 
 ment." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "He promised to marry you, and you believed 
 him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 ' ' Not even that ! Not even that ! " 
 
 Henriette covered her face with her hands, and 
 began to sob, but Marie drew herself up, her arms 
 crossed, and defying life, death, and the neigh- 
 bours, who might hear: "I love him!" she cried. 
 
 Sobs were her answer; then Henriette dropped 
 her hands, drew back, and gazed at Marie. She 
 moved away slowly, the lamplight shone on her 
 pale tear-stained face, on the golden tresses that 
 the wind had blown across her face. For one 
 minute she leaned against the doorway, she was 
 pity personified lingering to the end. She van- 
 ished into the dark night, it was as though re- 
 morse had vanished with her. 
 
 "Nine o'clock at night." 
 
 "I did not think I could suffer so through her," 
 wrote Henriette in her gray-covered diary, "or 
 that I could so love her. We are separated, she 
 has fallen, and has driven me away. I, who had 
 hoped to make of her an honest woman. I, who
 
 REDEMPTION 211 
 
 in my dreams, would be fitting on her her white 
 wedding dress. Poor lost sister! Even now I feel 
 that had I known you, when quite small, you 
 would not have pushed aside my hand. I was not 
 strong enough, and she has been too miserable. 
 Worn with hard work, having nothing to live on, 
 when one is tempted and there is no restraining 
 force there comes a day when one remembers 
 that one is a woman, and farewell to all the rest." 
 Henriette stopped writing. She was alone in 
 her room, exhausted with fatigue, listening to the 
 rain lashing the windows. An inexplicable un- 
 easiness took hold of her. One cannot without 
 danger come in contact with unrepentant sin. 
 For three days she had brooded too much over 
 this bad dream, and in spite of herself all the 
 temptations of her hard life flashed upon her. 
 She felt the stinging of all the glances fixed on her 
 since she was of an age to be insulted, that is to 
 say, since she started as an apprentice years ago, 
 her basket on her arm and linen bonnet on her 
 head. The covetous eyes of youth, mature men, 
 and of old men who follow children, embraced her. 
 She heard again the whispered remarks thrown 
 at her in the streets, the dishonest proposals of 
 employers and shopkeepers. She re-read the let- 
 ters offering to buy herwork shops andshowrooms. 
 She was obsessed as these pitfalls multiplied 
 around her, and that she usually avoided without 
 a thought, obsessed by the indefatigable persecu- 
 tion which never tires, and is never discouraged. 
 The world appeared to her in all its brutal ugli- 
 ness, seeking the ruin of the weak, the poor, those
 
 212 REDEMPTION 
 
 whose youth should at least protect them, and 
 who should not have to defend themselves, when 
 already they had so much to suffer. She felt that 
 misgiving of one's self, which helps one to pardon 
 others. 
 
 "Oh, my God," she cried, " grant that I may 
 not fall myself." 
 
 She was afraid; she tried to escape from the evil 
 thoughts which surround a knowledge of sin. 
 
 What shelter could she find? Who would de- 
 fend her from these ideas which suddenly haunted 
 her? 
 
 She took refuge in a dream of past years, when 
 her mother lived, and kept her close to her side, 
 sheltering her frailty. She made an effort to keep 
 before her eyes the faces of young girls now hap- 
 pily married, whose example would help her to 
 combat these nightmare visions. Then rising 
 from the table she opened the glass doors of her 
 little bookcase, and took from it a prayer-book 
 given her by the Sisters at school. A yellow piece 
 of paper marked a favourite passage of her youth, 
 and which she had not read for a long time. 
 These were praises addressed to virgins, canticles 
 which portrayed the triumph of the spirit over the 
 flesh. She read on remembering the phrases, ex- 
 periencing again the emotion they had awakened, 
 at an age when she barely understood their mean- 
 ing. Once more the same joy in exceeding purity 
 that she felt as a child, the same uplifting of the 
 soul. But it was no longer the same silent flight 
 of thought. As she rose she held out a hand to 
 Marie. " I will raise you, my friend," she thought,
 
 REDEMPTION 213 
 
 "I shall see you in every little girl in my parish, 
 and love her for you; if you had only had my 
 jealously guarded childhood, had you learned the 
 lessons I was taught, had you but had my moth- 
 er," she said, closing the book that was a relic of 
 her childhood.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE separation had left a cruel wound. Hen- 
 riette had become profoundly attached to Marie 
 during the months of their friendship. She felt, 
 since the rupture with her, as though all her friends 
 were lost. In vain were Heine's attentions, in 
 vain the good humour with which her comrades 
 accepted the rule of the new forewoman ; Henriette 
 felt a void which they could not fill. She could 
 not get accustomed to the new girl, whom Madame 
 Clemence had engaged in the place of Marie, dis- 
 charged after three days' absence. She re- 
 proached herself for the severity with which she 
 treated the young girl, who would sometimes look 
 at her in wonder, as though to say: "Why do 
 you, who are so kind, treat me differently from 
 others?" 
 
 A slow and deep transformation was taking 
 place in Henriette. The last incident in her life 
 had made her vividly conscious of human misery. 
 The heart was more open to pity. Instead of 
 seeking consolation in Etienne's love, she sought 
 it in self-forgetf ulness. Instinctively she threw 
 herself among the multitude of poor and sufferers 
 around her, as though not made for the love of 
 one, but for the love of the nameless, the unloved, 
 the obscure outcast in the crowd. Already, al- 
 most before aware of it, and long before she knew 
 
 214
 
 REDEMPTION 215 
 
 Etienne's, she had received the love of those 
 whom no one loves. They had protected her 
 from the life that engulfs others; they had pro- 
 cured for her the joy of the feeling of use, of being 
 charitable, of being paid with gratitude's tears. 
 Now she felt drawn powerfully toward them, 
 though perhaps the attraction was neither undi- 
 vided nor permanent. 
 
 On Sundays, when she did not go out with 
 Uncle Eloi, she spent an hour or two among her 
 parish friends, under the trees of the avenue of 
 Saint Anne, where the autumn sun had brought 
 many women and children. They no longer 
 feared, they had adopted her. Or otherwise she 
 went to see, on their account, the old priest, whose 
 garden gave on to the Rue de la Hautiere, to speak 
 of their common clients. 
 
 Sometimes, however, a remembrance or a meet- 
 ing threw her impetuously into other dreams. 
 One morning, during her walk from home to the 
 shop, she was following behind an affectionate 
 couple, humble people like herself, whose unique 
 possession was their youth. Merely from seeing 
 them Henriette became troubled with dreams of 
 love, such as are born in spring, of the caressing 
 breeze or the perfume of budding May trees. 
 
 "I will say 'yes' to Etienne," she then thought, 
 "and we will wander like them down the paths of 
 joy, envied by the passers-by." These impulses 
 of youth faded, and it was enough for Henriette 
 to find herself with the infirm Marcelle Esnault, 
 or Vivien, or any of the poor wretches it was her 
 task to console, and to see them smile. "I can
 
 216 REDEMPTION 
 
 never leave you; you are my life," she would 
 say, deep down in her soul. 
 
 Eloi Madiot had need of her comfort more than 
 all others, of her consolation in his sorrow. It 
 seemed as if her only grief was the distress of 
 others. He was overcome by the discovery he 
 had made, and incapable of coming to a decision. 
 The idea of having a complete explanation with 
 Antoine terrified him. The weeks went by, and 
 still he put it off. He accused himself of coward- 
 ice, but took no action. Henriette, seeing him more 
 taciturn than usual, hesitated to believe that age 
 alone accounted for the change. "Why don't 
 you confide in me?" she said; "you are in grief, 
 am I not here to listen? " But he gave no answer. 
 
 In the latter half of November, a few days be- 
 fore the departure of the conscripts, Eloi decided 
 to go through with the business. He waited for 
 his nephew outside the work shop. 
 
 "Listen, Antoine," he said. "I was angry the 
 other night because you attacked the army, but 
 you must not leave like this. The day before you 
 go is a holiday. What do you say to my calling 
 for you, and we'll drink together?" 
 
 The astonished young man, suspicious as usual, 
 hesitated before answering. 
 
 "If you don't speak of Monsieur Lemarie*," he 
 said at last, "I have no objection."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 SINCE eight in the morning Eloi Madiot had been 
 making a tour of the cabarets, to celebrate An- 
 toine's entry into the army. The conscripts were 
 to be at La Roche-sur-Yon on the morrow; An- 
 toine and his comrades, therefore, were to leave 
 by a night train. 
 
 It was mid-day. Uncle and nephew had called 
 at the Croix de Fer, an old inn near the ruins of 
 the Lemarie Works, then on to a cabaret in the 
 district of Mauves, "a famous place," said Eloi, 
 "where they have a muscadet which makes you 
 dance only to look at it." He was dancing even 
 before seeing it, as a result of the fresh wind and 
 wine. He was celebrating this entry into the 
 army according to traditions, which he consid- 
 ered glorious, and which made it almost a military 
 duty to make the last day one of riot and drunk- 
 enness. He spoke loud, telling anecdotes of an 
 army no longer in existence, citing names long 
 forgotten of officers he had known, and villages 
 where he had camped. He drew his puny, unre- 
 sponsive nephew along with his left arm, still stiff 
 from his wound. By his gayety, the old man 
 seemed the younger of the two, his head, with its 
 reddened face and white hair, rolled from side to 
 side on his broad shoulders. In passing before 
 the vegetable sellers, sitting among their baskets 
 
 217
 
 218 REDEMPTION 
 
 which formed a green nest, he looked down on the 
 soft hat which brushed his shoulder with a dis- 
 dainful smile, as though saying, "Here is a con- 
 script of to-day. Is he like me? See, my beauties, 
 what we were and what we are." 
 
 His nephew, his little ferret eyes as untroubled 
 as usual, let himself be led along. Presently they 
 made their way back through the town, but not 
 knowing why, with no appetite for lunch, but 
 wishing to rest themselves, entered the Sept 
 Freres Tranquilles, in the Rue Saint-Similieu. 
 Eloi, with his face to the light, continued to talk 
 with animation, but his face was no longer expres- 
 sive. His mind moved with difficulty, his mouth 
 alone moved; his eyes were fixed in a drunken 
 stare. Antoine, leaning against the wall, did not 
 drink. Seated by a marble table, the two men 
 occasionally lifted a glass of bad absinthe with the 
 words, "Your health," but only the old man 
 opened his mouth to try and drink, and each time 
 drops of green liquid ran down his chin on to his 
 beard, and made him smart as though it were 
 fire, which irritated and excited him as much as 
 what he had drunk. 
 
 The room was full of steam from a boiling pot 
 of stew. The other customers were eating at ta- 
 bles in the front part of the room. None seemed 
 to hear the conversation which was becoming ani- 
 mated, Eloi Madiot's deep chant mixing with 
 Antoine's falsetto. The servant only, a tall, red- 
 haired, indolent girl, seated near the window so that 
 the sun fell on her hair, looked from the corner of 
 her eyes at the young man, who was known to her.
 
 REDEMPTION 219 
 
 "In my days," said the uncle, "we were more 
 gay the last day. You don't look like a conscript." 
 
 "I have told you my opinion, Uncle; I don't 
 change it from day to day. I have to join the 
 regiment, worse luck." 
 
 He finished his speech with a toss of the head 
 which seemed to say, "I shall be thinking the 
 whole time how to get off, and will make any 
 means serve my purpose." 
 
 "You'll see," continued the old man, who 
 could not resist giving advice, and who was too 
 drunk to notice the cold wrath of Antoine's 
 speech, "just get the theory into your head, and 
 obey your chiefs, and watch what the others do. 
 Not too much drinking in the army, and not too 
 many women. The officers don't like the soldiers 
 to have a wife in town. If you have a little 
 friend, Antoine," he said, winking, "don't take her 
 with you." 
 
 The poor man thought his nephew was laugh- 
 ing, whereas he shuddered. The shaft had struck 
 deep, for he loved the unhappy girl whom he was 
 leaving. His uncle attempted to laugh, and 
 thought the moment opportune for the long- 
 postponed question. 
 
 "You have a bad temper, Antoine, but all the 
 same I am sure you want to be an honour to the 
 family." 
 
 "The family?" hissed his nephew. 
 
 "Yes, the family, your sister and me!" 
 
 "Don't try to hoodwink me, I know my fam- 
 ily, and I know that I have been robbed, robbed, 
 robbed; do you understand?"
 
 220 REDEMPTION 
 
 Antoine leaned over the table toward his uncle, 
 who made a sign with his damaged hand: "Not 
 so loud, not so loud." He could hear the cus- 
 tomers turn to listen. The red-haired servant 
 leaned back in her chair laughing. 
 
 "You mustn't fight, you two," she cried. 
 
 But the young man was carried away by the 
 rancour that had blighted his life. 
 
 "Yes, I have been robbed by the girl who had 
 no right in our house. She took my share of all; 
 you deceived me, Uncle Madiot," he said, throwing 
 the words in the old man's face. 
 
 " It is not true. I said nothing." 
 
 "But I know, I have learned all. The day I 
 heard it I left never to return. I was nothing at 
 home, and she was in control. Do you dare deny 
 it? And yet I am Pere Madiot 's son. When I see 
 her I shake with jealousy." 
 
 "Be silent, Antoine; now, be silent." 
 
 "If that is what you are after, here's your 
 answer: I hate her." 
 
 Antoine sprang up, he gave no heed to Uncle 
 Madiot, whose huge shoulders were bowed in 
 shame. He looked round the room at the cus- 
 tomers whose curiosity had been aroused, and 
 who turned their heads cautiously toward the 
 scene of the battle, but as they met the young 
 man's gray eyes they immediately dropped theirs 
 on their glasses, with an air of indifference. When 
 he thought that they had settled down, Antoine 
 drew a franc from his pocket, and threw it on the 
 table. 
 
 "I pay," he said. The money rang on the
 
 REDEMPTION 221 
 
 marble, and with his eyes fixed on the street and 
 his face deadly pale, he made his way between 
 the tables. 
 
 The old man followed slowly, his eyes on the 
 ground, his face puckered pitifully. Many thought 
 the two men were going out to fight, but not so. 
 Antoine stopped in the doorway of the Sept 
 Freres Tranquilles, looked at the white mud, at 
 the autumn sun, and turned to the left. 
 
 Behind him a terrible voice, which anger and 
 drink had rendered unrecognizable, rang through 
 the streets: "Wretch!" it cried. 
 
 This was their farewell. 
 
 The young workman shrugged his shoulders, 
 and went on his way, straight to his mistress, and 
 instead of slipping cautiously into the doorway of 
 the court, crowded like a human hive, he called 
 out, " Marie."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 SHE was waiting for him. For her, too, the day 
 marked an entry on the unknown. Twice already 
 Marie Schwarz had felt the anguish of utter desti- 
 tution, the first time when her mother had turned 
 her out of doors, the second when she had arrived 
 in Nantes alone, in that hour of distress when she 
 first met Henriette. And now her lover was 
 leaving her, it meant not only misery for the 
 morrow, but the actual separation that very 
 night, perhaps forever. Such, however, is the 
 prodigious vitality of youth, that she met him 
 with a smile ready for their last walk. 
 
 Antoine, still pale, seized her wrist. 
 
 "Come," he said, "I must get some air; I have 
 just bid farewell to Uncle Eloi, and I think for a 
 long time." 
 
 She gathered that he had been drinking, that 
 they had quarrelled, that his Breton temper was 
 aroused. Hiding her smile, she followed him, 
 speaking quietly to avoid a scene in the street. 
 The young workman told his tale, he held himself 
 straight, but his eyes were strange. Marie, slip- 
 ping on the greasy pavement, had passed her arm 
 through his, her one aim being to pacify the 
 angry man. 
 
 They soon reached the Rue Grebillon, where 
 Marie used formerly to work, and which she usu- 
 
 222
 
 REDEMPTION 223 
 
 ally avoided now. A feeling of modesty, which 
 he would not have understood, prevented her 
 from going down this street which she used to 
 frequent, when an honest girl, during the summer. 
 Behind the shop windows she caught sight of 
 workmen whom she knew by sight, and who had 
 often looked after her when she passed on the 
 beautiful May evenings. Several of Madame 
 Clemence's clients went by, pink under their tight 
 veils, their necks swathed in furs, women for 
 whom she used to try on hats, perhaps the very- 
 ones they now wore. These laclies did not look at 
 her, they had perceived from a distance that the 
 couple were not of their world. Nevertheless she 
 was embarrassed. She was afraid of meeting one 
 of the girls from the shop, or one of the employees 
 from Mourieux's. Therefore when Antoine, so- 
 bered by the fresh air, turned to her, saying, "I 
 don't know what I am doing here, shall we go into 
 the country?" she eagerly accepted. 
 
 They turned to the right and went toward Ville 
 en Bois and Chantenay, avoiding the rich districts 
 by taking turnings familiar to them. Marie grew 
 tired, but did not complain. Antoine having re- 
 covered himself, bore no trace of the morning's 
 work beyond an air of black depression, which she 
 knew well, and which was merely the effect of his 
 descent from a race formerly associated with the 
 sadness of the Breton Sea. He spoke low; he en- 
 deavoured to comfort her; but he found no words 
 wherewith to soothe her double loss. His words 
 had no value but that of being spoken softly and 
 sadly.
 
 224 REDEMPTION 
 
 "I will send you my advance pay; that will 
 help you a little. And then, in two years, per- 
 haps I shall be on half-pay. When I am free I 
 will marry you, eh, Marie?" 
 
 She listened. She knew that the advance pay 
 would not buy food for two days, that Antoine 
 would not return; that, free from the Service, he 
 would not marry her. And then this woman, 
 creature of devotion and immortal love, bright- 
 ened at the sound of words not meant for her, but 
 for others who have not fallen, and whose heart 
 is in the future. 
 
 As they ascended a hill, they suddenly came 
 face to the sinking sun. The chill air struck them. 
 Marie thought of the distant day when she had 
 gone with Henriette to the Loutrels' that day 
 of enervating heat. 
 
 "You will bid her good-by, Antoine," she 
 suddenly said. 
 
 "No," he answered, harshly. She was silent, 
 and turned her face in sorrow on the gardens that 
 lined the country road. A few yellow leaves still 
 hung to bare trees; the wind swept them along the 
 enclosures, green with moss and blackened with 
 smoke. The mournful sound of running streams, 
 the groaning of machinery, broke upon the autumn 
 air. A flight of linnets, attracted by the last scat- 
 tered thistles, rose against the sky. Antoine and 
 Marie walked no longer arm-in-arm. The name 
 of Henriette had broken the harmony of their 
 thoughts. 
 
 Presently, through a gap in an enclosure, they 
 caught sight of some houses at their feet, and,
 
 REDEMPTION 225 
 
 away in the distance, the open country and a la- 
 bourer at work. On the left, not far from them, 
 was the open gate of a cemetery. 
 
 "I did not think we were so near," said Antoine. 
 "I won't go without bidding her farewell." 
 
 "That is right," replied Marie. "We are only 
 two minutes from the Rue de 1'Ermitage. If she 
 is in, how happy she will be." 
 
 But going on ahead of her, Antoine entered the 
 cemetery. 
 
 "Antoine," called Marie, "I won't go in. I am 
 afraid of cemeteries." 
 
 He gave no heed to the call, and Marie decided 
 to follow him. He was already at some distance 
 from her. She crossed herself by habit, and with 
 a gesture of alarm lifted her dress on both sides, 
 as though it might carry away the germs of death. 
 She kept to the middle of the path, as far as pos- 
 sible from the white tombstones. Here and there 
 faded wreaths lay In her way, which she carefully 
 avoided. Tired as she was, she ran to rejoin 
 Antoine. The young workman had reached a 
 part of the cemetery where wooden crosses were 
 mingled with the stone ones. He was standing 
 still, his hat pressed against his vest, and his eyes 
 fixed upon an old black cross on which the follow- 
 ing inscription was written in white letters: "To 
 Prosper Madiot, aged forty-four years, six months, 
 two days, and to Jacqueline Melier, his wife, aged 
 thirty-one years and eight months, by their 
 broken-hearted children." 
 
 Marie joined him, and knelt down behind. 
 
 "It's a pity they were not happy, those two,"
 
 226 REDEMPTION 
 
 he said aloud, with the dreamy look she knew so 
 well. 
 
 A bunch of roses still fresh, but crushed by the 
 heavy rains, had been placed on the tomb. An- 
 toine pushed it with his foot from the grave 
 where his dead lay buried. 
 
 "I'll send them a beautiful crown for my fare- 
 well. Sleep well you, woman, who lie there; I 
 am not angry with you. I am going off to join 
 my regiment. It's Lemarie" who angers me, that 
 man who seduced you with money oh! my mis- 
 erable mother and who passed you on to one of 
 his workmen. You were too good for a workman. 
 You were not happy every day, my fair-haired 
 mother. My father beat you; he detested his 
 master, and vented his rage on you. You shed 
 more than your share of tears. I am the son of 
 you both, that is why I am sometimes sad. I 
 would rather have been your daughter; you loved 
 her better than me. You used to take her to 
 school with your blue apron on, and you hid 
 apples for her in your pocket. At night you kept 
 her warm, while I lay alone in a corner of the 
 room. And then when you died, my father, who 
 drank, kicked and cuffed me ; you at least did not 
 strike me. I remember all, my wretched mother, 
 and my heart is sad. But be at rest, I have never 
 mentioned my secret to any one but Uncle Ma- 
 diot, when he provoked me. I will tell no one 
 else. I don't want people to speak ill of you, for 
 you would certainly pity me, were you here ; pity 
 me because I have to join the army. My blood 
 turns sour to think of it. They have taken my
 
 REDEMPTION 227 
 
 mistress from me. I will make a bad soldier. 
 Perhaps I should have been of some use if I had 
 had a home, a family, and work to keep things 
 going, like the very old men who need not serve, 
 and like the coming generation. But the time has 
 not yet come. Good-by, father; good-by, mother. 
 I am sad, and so were you. But I am not like you 
 who were patient, and I am nearer to my rights. 
 Good-by." 
 
 Antoine turned away, and leaned over the 
 kneeling girl. 
 
 "I have no one but you," he said. 
 
 He was about to embrace her, but saw that she 
 was deadly pale, that her eyes were wide open in 
 an agonized stare. 
 
 "What is the matter, Marie?" 
 
 She made no reply. What was the matter? In 
 listening to her lover she had realized for the first 
 time with cruel clearness the dreadful desolation 
 of the morrow, with no Antoine, no profession, no 
 friendship, and no courage. She felt incapable of 
 bearing the dreadful burden, and was almost 
 fainting. 
 
 "What is the matter, speak," cried Antoine. 
 
 He supported her and looked round for help, for 
 some one to summon should she faint. Near the 
 entrance a woman was tenderly planting a newly 
 made grave. That was all. The light was fading. 
 The scared linnets rose in the air seeking shelter. 
 
 Tears welled up in Marie's eyes and ran down 
 her cheeks, sobs shook her slight form. Antoine, 
 seeing her cry, and realizing that it was just a 
 woman's weakness, pushed her away.
 
 228 REDEMPTION 
 
 "That'll do, that'll do," he said brutally, "dry 
 your eyes, and come along." 
 
 She answered as do so many other poor wretches, 
 by a submissive look of grief, a shudder that ran 
 through her whole being, and followed him, let- 
 ting her dress drag across the tombs. The woman 
 who was planting thought that they had been 
 weeping over their newly buried dead, and they 
 had but wept over themselves,
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 FROM the gray-covered diary. "My brother has 
 left without bidding me farewell. Uncle Madiot 
 came home furious with him, so that I had some 
 trouble in pacifying him. If he had told me the 
 cause of the quarrel, I might have been more suc- 
 cessful. But he simply said, 'Henriette, I will 
 not have you send him any more money. I don't 
 want you to see him again.' I don't know whether 
 I shall be very strict in obeying the order. I am 
 the eldest, our mother is dead, and I am fore- 
 woman three reasons why it is my duty to help 
 him, when he has spent all. 
 
 "This morning my uncle went to see the Lou- 
 trels. It seems that Etienne had a friend, a ser- 
 geant in the regiment stationed at Roche-sur- 
 Yon, and uncle will receive news of Antoine 
 through him. 
 
 "My chief grief is for Marie, left alone again in 
 misery, and, I feel certain, with remorse added to 
 it. If I only knew that she would receive me! I 
 can still feel her kiss on my cheeks when she said 
 at Mauves, 'Love me.' I will beg Madame 
 Lemarie to find out. She will go to her, and tell 
 me whether I, in my turn, may go, since she re- 
 pulsed me. It was shame that drove me away; 
 if poverty calls me back, how joyously I would 
 open wide my arms. What joy it is to bend down 
 
 229
 
 230 REDEMPTION 
 
 and console: I know of none equal to it. Antoine 
 refused my sympathy; Marie soon rejected it. 
 
 "What things are happening round me to take 
 my thoughts off myself! My uncle is a source of 
 anxiety; for the first time he is reserved. It 
 must be very difficult for him to hide his trouble. 
 I did not think he had secrets from me; now I 
 know that he has one. 
 
 "The house is sadder. I have difficulty in 
 living up to the title of 'gay Henriette.' 
 
 "It is always better to think of others. The 
 idea of finishing the Litany of the prayer-books 
 came to me. It is simple: I say 
 
 "Lord, have mercy on mothers whose children 
 suffer. 
 
 "Have mercy on those who have a love of jus- 
 tice, and do not believe in Thee. 
 
 "Have mercy on girls who feel the weight of 
 the debt to their cheated youth. 
 
 "Have pity on young girls abandoned to sin. 
 
 "Have mercy on those who love, and whose 
 love may not be returned. 
 
 "Have mercy on the weak whom you call 
 softly." 
 
 Bad news of Antoine came to his uncle, through 
 Etienne, at the close of December a reputation 
 of being insubordinate and quarrelsome. They 
 had their eye on him in barracks, and punishments 
 were frequent some deserved, and others added 
 as a result of the bad name which he had acquired, 
 so that he was a scapegoat for others. 
 
 Eloi was ashamed ; and when the first of Janu-
 
 REDEMPTION 231 
 
 ary arrived he dared not go to Mauves, as other 
 years, for fear of hearing "Sad news, eh, Ma- 
 diot?" 
 
 It was Etienne who came a few days later, one 
 Sunday, when the sun was shining. But he did 
 not seek the uncle; he sought Henriette.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 HENEIETTE was out. It was afternoon, the pale 
 blue sky shone through a light mist ; the flags of 
 the ships on the Loire hung motionless. Now and 
 again, at regular intervals, chill air seemed to rise 
 from the ground. 
 
 All the poor of the district, especially the 
 women and children, were on the esplanade of 
 Saint Anne's Church, which terminates abruptly 
 to the south, with a double staircase leading to 
 the quay. They were at home here; the rich 
 never came, and vehicles crossed the avenue 
 barely once a day. 
 
 The kindly warmth had brought out of doors 
 the sick, the old, and new-born infants. Marcelle 
 Esnault was there, propped up on her pillows, her 
 face shining with new life ; it was one of her rare 
 good days. The vesper bells rang out. 
 
 The same little groups gathered by force of 
 habit round their own particular trees, seated on 
 chairs brought from their own homes. Some 
 knitted, others talked, others sat silent, their 
 hands in their pockets or lying idle on their knees. 
 Now and again mothers cast a glance toward the 
 children playing in groups by the walls, counted 
 their own, and resumed their former attitude. 
 Misery basked in the winter sun; worn spirits 
 revived. 
 
 232
 
 REDEMPTION 233 
 
 Henriette, also an habituee, wandered from 
 group to group greeting her friends. Of the whole 
 crowd she alone looked rich, but was not; but for 
 this exception nothing but cotton frocks, or 
 aprons over black or striped skirts could be seen. 
 Hair drawn tight from the temples into chignons, 
 jackets of all seasons, old men with caps pulled 
 over their ears. Tall and slight, a little black felt 
 hat set on her golden hair, a picturesque figure in 
 the misty light, she bent to question, or turned to 
 listen. Neighbouring groups eyed her jealously, 
 lest she might pass them by. 
 
 She went to each group, and as she left it was 
 as if the spirit of joy had passed on. 
 
 A numerous group sat round the first tree 
 Marcelle Esnault, the invalid, her mother, and 
 four Breton women, wives of carriers. All looked 
 anaemic; their lank hair was like wet flax. 
 
 "Just imagine, Madame Esnault, little Mar- 
 celle pretended the other day that I was going to 
 get married, and was crying over it. You are con- 
 soled now, Marcelle?" 
 
 While she was speaking, Henriette caressed the 
 child's calm face. 
 
 " Don't get married; don't get married; don't 
 get married; don't get married," cried the four 
 women at once. 
 
 "If you find a good husband, marry," said 
 Marcelle's mother at last, "because you will grow 
 old." 
 
 The invalid said nothing; her friendship and 
 her sufferings were things she did not speak of 
 aloud.
 
 234 REDEMPTION 
 
 A little further on was another group of Henri- 
 ette's friends, three habitues of the place. An old 
 blind man in a workman's blouse, a woman, dark 
 and still pretty, and a little girl, too serious and 
 pale for her age grandfather, mother and daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 Henriette, who knew their story, and the de- 
 ferred hope that haunted their lives, asked Ma- 
 dame Lusignan whether they had had any news. 
 
 "No, Mademoiselle Henriette," replied the 
 grandfather; "a railway bookseller's license is 
 like a promise made to children to get peace, 
 which one has no intention of keeping. All the 
 same, Ernestine has a right to it. Her husband 
 was killed by accident in the service." 
 
 "But, of course, Father," threw in the little 
 woman warmly, "no one says the contrary. Un- 
 fortunately he was not killed on the spot, and the 
 company gives others the preference over me. 
 It's weary waiting," she added, looking at her 
 child. 
 
 "One needs the influence of the rich," she said, 
 glancing at Henriette. 
 
 Henriette chatted with the woman for about a 
 quarter of an hour, and knowing a rich woman 
 with influence, hoped to interest her in the mat- 
 ter, on which the future of the three depended, 
 and which was their one theme of conversation. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Henriette," interrupted the fresh 
 young voice of a bread carrier, who was dressed in 
 a light frock, in spite of the season, and against 
 whose shoulder was leaning a younger sister, an 
 employee at a dress-maker's, a frail, amemic
 
 REDEMPTION 235 
 
 creature, " isn't it wrong of her not to put on a 
 poultice?" 
 
 "There is no more room for one," said the pale- 
 faced dress-maker. ' ' I ache all over, and my eyes 
 are painful. Do your eyes ever feel like burning 
 coals, Mademoiselle Henriette?" 
 
 "Sometimes, when I have been up at night, 
 and from looking at different colours." 
 
 ' ' If only you could help her to get away to the 
 South," threw in the sister, "or to some house 
 where she could be better cared for than at home." 
 
 The sick girl, who was among those who feel too 
 ill to believe they can be cured, shook her head, 
 but Henriette knelt down by her, speaking so 
 gently and so convincingly that the young girl 
 finished by saying: "Do you think so? Can I be 
 cured? Will you find the necessary funds?" 
 
 The faces of the three young girls, so close to 
 one another, bore the harmonious expression of a 
 common interest, though in themselves they 
 were so dissimilar. 
 
 And so Henriette passed on, stopping to visit 
 each group. They were not always composed of 
 the poor and sick; some were well off, that is to 
 say, people who have enough work and do not 
 fear want, there were also healthy men and buxom 
 housewives who had reared ten children, and 
 whose patience was equal to twelve at least; 
 red-cheeked boys and young girls whose merry 
 laugh rang like bells over the Loire. But Henri- 
 ette lingered longest with those who suffered; 
 they needed her, they regretted her departure; 
 blessings fell on her from the crowd; she felt in
 
 236 REDEMPTION 
 
 the midst of thoughts which said to her, "Do not 
 abandon us; who but you has comforted our 
 wretchedness?" They became stronger, they be- 
 came better, there was a virtue in her that soft- 
 ened sorrow. " Mademoiselle Henriette," they 
 seemed to say, "be the spirit that leaves behind it 
 an amazed feeling of happiness, for hope grows 
 sick in this life." 
 
 She walked with a light step, and passed by the 
 church, when suddenly Etienne came upon her 
 from a neighbouring street. Almost simultane- 
 ously they caught sight of each other. Henriette 
 scarcely changed expression, but she stood still to 
 let him come up to her. With his black vest and 
 white buttons, his strong face, his head that tow- 
 ered above the passers-by, he came quickly up, 
 dominated by the one desire of reading his des- 
 tiny in her transparent, star-like eyes. The hour 
 had come, and they no longer had any secrets 
 from each other. 
 
 She had paled a little, and drew off her glove 
 slowly, that her friend might better feel her warm 
 clasp, that he might not say again: "I am too in- 
 significant for you." 
 
 She held out her hand so frankly that he was 
 surprised. 
 
 "You are not shy of me to-day?" 
 
 "Not more than usual, Etienne." 
 
 "I went to see you at the Rue PErmitage as I 
 have news of Antoine. He is in prison for ten 
 days. I don't quite know what he has done; we 
 are not told. They are more severe with him 
 than with others," he added, to postpone the
 
 REDEMPTION 237 
 
 sovereign question of love that was in both their 
 minds. 
 
 He was not thinking of Antoine, he had no 
 thought but for the beautiful girl before him, 
 whose smile was like the brief warmth of the closing 
 day, very soft but holding out no promise. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Henriette," he said at last, 
 " since the last time I spoke to you, I have thought 
 of nothing else. It is months ago; I can no 
 longer bear this sorrow; I have no heart for fish- 
 ing, or hunting, or anything. My mother knows, 
 and she said, 'Ask her in the name of Mere Loutrel 
 her friend, and she will answer.' " 
 
 He saw her grow paler; her eyes fell. 
 
 "My poor friend, my poor friend," she said. 
 "It grieves me to pain you," she continued, her 
 voice becoming more humble, "but I cannot, I 
 cannot answer 'yes. 7 " 
 
 The young man's face grew harsh, his eyes 
 frowned. 
 
 "That's what I have got by loving you, by 
 waiting for you." 
 
 "How can I help it, Etienne? I have often 
 questioned myself, but perhaps my profession has 
 changed me; I don't think I shall ever marry. 
 You don't believe me?" 
 
 "No, certainly not." 
 
 "What do you think, then?" she asked quickly, 
 for his tone wounded her. 
 
 "That you love another, a richer man, some 
 one who knew how to woo you better, and who 
 does not love you so well." 
 
 He spoke almost loud, and burning to learn his
 
 238 REDEMPTION 
 
 fate, and determined to end the matter. "Who 
 is he; I must know," he cried angrily. 
 
 Reproach faced him from Henriette's face. 
 "You are right, come," she said. 
 
 It mattered little to her now to walk down the 
 avenue side by side with Etienne. Was not all 
 over between them? 
 
 "Come;" he followed without understanding, 
 and they went forward, he haughtily seeking his 
 rival among the groups that she whispered to him 
 to look at. He was amazed to see none but old 
 men, women, and children. 
 
 "These are the Goulvens," she said; "these the 
 Mennerets Culine, Maquet, the dress-maker and 
 her sister; Pere Lusignan; the Esnaults." 
 
 Some gave Henriette a friendly smile as she 
 went by, but she forgot to greet them. She 
 barely saw them. Etienne's desperate suffering 
 heart throbbed near her, though he was silent. 
 She did not hear Marcelle Esnault's sad whisper: 
 "There they are together again." 
 
 She came to the foot of Saint Anne's statue, on 
 the last step far enough away from the trees not 
 to be overheard: "Those are my friends, Etienne," 
 she said; "I feel that I must serve them; how, 
 I know not or scarcely know. Believe me or not 
 as you like, they are the cause of my not marry- 
 ing. Were I to abandon them, remorse would 
 haunt me, and for their sake I accept the pain 
 which I feel in telling you, Etienne, to leave me free, 
 for they need my life, my whole being. You cannot 
 understand what there is between us. I lose my- 
 self in thinking of it; look how jealous they are."
 
 REDEMPTION 239 
 
 Under the first tree, she pointed out Marcelle 
 Esnault's perambulator, which had been turned 
 so that the child could watch Henriette. She was 
 too far to hear what was said, but the quick per- 
 ceptions of the little invalid were awakened and 
 she was anxious and sad. She had both hands on 
 the sides of the perambulator, and had raised her- 
 self by an effort which was a martyrdom ; but she 
 could see Henriette, and her thoughts were ex- 
 pressed by the tears, which ran over her cheeks 
 on to the woollen rug. 
 
 Etienne looked from Marcelle Esnault to the 
 exquisite beauty of Henriette's face, where com- 
 passion and grief were blended; and although he 
 did not fully understand, yet he knew that she 
 was not deceiving him, he felt that a mysterious 
 power stronger than love, but which by no means 
 excluded it, kept them apart. 
 
 "I must speak to you," he said; "let us go 
 down." 
 
 He descended, and she followed until they were 
 lost to sight from the avenue. The stone steps 
 reddened by the dying sun were deserted; Hen- 
 riette and Etienne were alone, both young, both 
 handsome, their hearts torn with love. Their 
 secret had no witnesses but the Loire flowing at 
 their feet, and the deserted winter landscape, 
 where tall bare poplars rose like columns of blue 
 smoke from the green meadows. 
 
 "Look over there beyond the islands," said 
 Etienne. 
 
 "Yes," murmured Henriette, "it is Nantes." 
 
 "I have passed years there in loving you."
 
 240 REDEMPTION 
 
 ' ' Had you but told me when I was quite young ! " 
 replied Henriette with a burst of tenderness, that 
 dyed her cheeks blood-red. 
 
 "Sometimes months passed without my seeing 
 you, but when I caught a glimpse of you, I went 
 home happy. ' There is no other girl in Nantes 
 with such a heart,' said my mother, and she was 
 not mistaken. Poor mother, how you wronged 
 me; you should have said, 'She has a heart for 
 all but you, she will despise you, she will send you 
 away; don't think of her.' But I believed in you, 
 believed in you because we had played together, 
 and because you looked happy when you came to 
 Mauves. When I was fishing on the Loire I had 
 no thoughts but for you, Henriette. When I was 
 worn out with casting the nets, when my hands 
 were frozen in dragging them up, I said: 'It is for 
 Henriette.' When I felt inclined to lie in bed on 
 winter mornings when my father woke me before 
 it was light, my mother came to my bedside: 
 'You are hastening your wedding day,' she would 
 say and that was enough." 
 
 Henriette listened, leaning against him, her 
 head thrown back, her eyes fixed on his angry 
 face; she seemed to implore him to be silent. 
 
 "Listen still," he continued without looking at 
 her; "I have passed whole nights at my post, 
 I have cast more nets than any fisherman on the 
 Loire; I have taken boat-loads of vegetables to 
 Trentemoult to be able one day to give you the 
 fruit of my labour. Now the money is earned, 
 but she for whom I worked despises me; I will 
 go away."
 
 REDEMPTION 241 
 
 "No, no, Etienne; stay, stay, for the sake of 
 others; forget me." 
 
 "No, you cannot marry me; I cannot stay. 
 My mother cannot comfort me; every inch of 
 the Loire reminds me of you; the river has 
 heard my secret too often. I have made up 
 my mind. I have three brothers already at sea; 
 my father counted on me for fishing, but his 
 fourth son, too, must go to sea you have de- 
 cided that." 
 
 He began to laugh in anger and sorrow. 
 
 "Look from your window to-morrow, Made- 
 moiselle Henriette, toward the dockyards of the 
 Loire; not later than to-morrow they will begin 
 to build there a fishing smack. She will bear your 
 name, The Henriette, and she will carry me from 
 here, where I suffer too much, as soon as possi- 
 ble, never to return, never." 
 
 He stood with one arm extended, pointing to 
 the west, where a white sail was visible; then 
 running hastily down the remaining steps, was 
 lost to sight behind the cliffs. 
 
 "If he had only spoken sooner, my whole life 
 would be different, and to think that I am let- 
 ting him go!" repeated Henriette over and over 
 again in a dazed tone, but she did not follow 
 him. 
 
 She gazed over the river to the horizon and 
 already she saw his ship put to sea, never to re- 
 turn. Several couples came down the steps to 
 enjoy the fresh air, and brushed against her in 
 passing. She woke from her dream, climbed the 
 steps, and leaning over Marcelle Esnault, "You
 
 242 REDEMPTION 
 
 will never know," she said, "how much I love my 
 little friend to-day." 
 
 Marcelle looked up, but this time she did not 
 understand.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 ORDERS flowed in at Madame Clemence's, and 
 during the weeks which followed the Sunday 
 when she had said good-by to Etienne, Henriette 
 had little time to think of herself. 
 
 One morning at the end of January she was told 
 at Madame Clemence's work room that Eloi 
 Madiot was waiting for her at the foot of the 
 stairs. As soon as he caught sight of her he said: 
 
 "Ah, my dear, what do you think? Antoine 
 Well." 
 
 Old Madiot looked very much upset. He was 
 out of breath with his hurried walk, and spoke in 
 broken sentences. 
 
 "Antoine is to be court-mart ialled." 
 
 "Oh, my God!" said Henriette, "I had a pre- 
 sentiment of it." 
 
 "So had I, though I said nothing to you. 
 What a disgrace! A Madiot, my own nephew, 
 to be court-martialled. It will be in the papers!" 
 
 "What has he done?" 
 
 "I have just come from Mauves. Etienne did 
 not know the details; I only know what he told 
 me. It seems that Antoine had a quarrel with an 
 officer in one of the barrack rooms two days ago." 
 
 "With Monsieur Lemarie, I suppose?" 
 
 She leaned forward, holding on to the banisters 
 with one hand. 
 
 243
 
 244 REDEMPTION 
 
 He looked at her, trying to avoid the danger of 
 betraying himself. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "Lemarie or some other, it 
 makes no difference. It is all the same, you know. 
 He insulted and struck him. It is the most seri- 
 ous offence in the army." 
 
 "Oh!" she interrupted, "the penalty. What 
 is the penalty? " 
 
 Seeing her anxiety, he tried to draw back. 
 
 "Why, my dear, that depends ' 
 
 "It is death, isn't it? They are so hard! 
 Death! Oh, Uncle, our poor Antoine!" 
 
 The old man went up one step, overcome with 
 pity for the sobbing girl, and put his arm round 
 her shoulders. 
 
 "No, no, child I was wrong, I spoke too fast. 
 I don't know what really happened it may not 
 be so very serious. Don't cry like that ; you will 
 make yourself ill they often get off with impris- 
 onment. Come, Henriette, I tell you Etienne 
 doesn't know the details. Don't upset yourself 
 so you are tired enough already. We must 
 wait." 
 
 They soon heard the facts of the case. 
 
 It was only too true. Antoine, who had been 
 drinking, went into the wrong barrack room on 
 coming back from target practice. A corporal 
 ordered him out ; the soldier answered with abuse, 
 and as Sublieutenant Lemarie, hearing the noise, 
 came in and repeated the order, Antoine fell upon 
 the officer and struck and kicked him twice, 
 shouting, "I'll soon settle him!" He had been 
 quickly overpowered and arrested. Now the case
 
 REDEMPTION 245 
 
 was coming up for hearing at Nantes, the head- 
 quarters of the military district. 
 
 It was a bitter trial to Henriette, and still more 
 to old Madiot. The old soldier was wounded in 
 his tenderest spot, his military pride as a faithful 
 servant of his country, his love of the army, which 
 he held sacred above all things. It was agony to 
 him to think that the name of Madiot would be 
 dragged through a court-martial as the name of 
 the accused and condemned ; for he had no doubt 
 of the issue. But another anxiety robbed him of 
 rest and sleep. Antoine would speak. The secret 
 would be divulged at the trial, and discussed as 
 part of the case, probably printed in the papers, 
 of which he had a superstitious dread. There 
 was no doubt about it: there was only one way 
 for Antoine to try and save his life. The facts 
 were undeniable; he could only plead, "I did not 
 strike the officer, I struck the man I hated in re- 
 venge for a family grudge, a blood-feud. These 
 Lemaries were the cause of my mother's death, of 
 my estrangement from Henriette, of all my revo- 
 lutionary opinions and wasted life. The quarrel 
 was between man and man, between the son of a 
 woman who was betrayed and the son of her be- 
 trayer." He would be sure to say this especially 
 as he hated Henriette. 
 
 Eloi Madiot was haunted by this thought. The 
 days flew by with frightful rapidity. He was in- 
 formed that Antoine had been transferred from 
 the prison of Roche-sur-Yon to that of Nantes, 
 and of the probable date of the trial. At last 
 he received a summons to appear as witness
 
 246 REDEMPTION 
 
 on the 27th of February at one o'clock in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 A few days after Antoine's arrest, Henrietta 
 had written to Madame Lemarie: "You will 
 understand, Madame, that I cannot come and 
 see you at the risk of meeting Monsieur Lemarie. 
 I should be unworthy of the name of sister if I 
 were not disposed to take my brother's part, and 
 if I did not suffer at the thought of the dreadful 
 penalty which threatens him. I shall never for- 
 get your kindness to me, and shall always remain, 
 Madame, yours respectfully and sincerely, HEN- 
 RIETTE MADIOT." 
 
 She also waited in an agony of apprehension, 
 forced to hide her thoughts and work listlessly, 
 without that freshness of imagination which had 
 often been the envy of her companions. As she 
 passed along the quay to her work, she could see 
 the framework of Etienne's sloop surrounded by 
 scaffolding. The workmen were already putting 
 in the planks. She thought to herself that the 
 boat would soon be ready, and the sound of the 
 hammers echoed in her heart. Two days were 
 approaching which she looked upon with equal 
 dread. That of Antoine's trial, and that of 
 Etienne's departure.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 AT the extreme east end of Nantes stands a new 
 street between white walls; it contains the cav- 
 alry barracks and the military prison a dreary 
 spot where no one passes except on business, sol- 
 diers, vegetable sellers, milkmen, and officers on 
 duty. The prison wing forms the corner of the 
 street on the left, continued by a low building, 
 the court-martial room in which Antoine Madiot 
 is to be tried; then the wall runs straight in blind- 
 ing whiteness toward the open country. 
 
 The hour has struck. Inside the Court nothing 
 is heard but the whispered conversation of a 
 dozen soldiers, seated on the benches round the 
 walls in the part of the room reserved to the pub- 
 lic. They sit talking with their rifles between 
 their knees; the sergeant in command is silent, 
 his surly glance, which holds his men in awe, 
 wandering from the shine of his beautifully 
 blacked boots to the rich blood-red curtain on the 
 window. He is thinking of the fine weather and 
 the luck of one of his comrades who has got leave of 
 absence from noon until evening. The room looks 
 almost pretty in the sunlight with its woodwork 
 of polished oak all round. Beyond the balustrade 
 which divides the room in two halves are two 
 raised tables covered with blue cloth brightened 
 by a row of gilt nails; the largest, facing the room 
 
 247
 
 248 REDEMPTION 
 
 is that of the tribunal; the other, placed perpen- 
 dicularly, is for the public minister and clerk. 
 
 It is half-past one. The windows rattle as a 
 carriage passes; several saddle horses stop before 
 the door. The soldiers listen as the officers dis- 
 mount; a sword clatters against the pavement. 
 Absolute silence reigns in the room where there is 
 no public audience. The soldiers have risen and 
 stand in rank facing those who are to enter. Two 
 officers come in with portfolios under their arms, 
 a pink and white young lieutenant of infantry 
 who looks like a good fellow, and the officer who 
 is to act as secretary. They place their papers on 
 the smaller table and await the judges. 
 
 There are fourteen men in the room, and not 
 one has a thought for Antoine Madiot. When he 
 comes in every eye will be hostile or indifferent. 
 The public prosecutor reads over the opening and 
 concluding sentences which he has written down; 
 the clerk arranges the documents; the sergeant 
 and soldiers do not know Madiot. At this moment 
 a veiled woman in black timidly enters the empty 
 space allotted to the public. She takes a seat in 
 a corner close to the dividing balustrade. Her 
 dark eyes gleam through her veil. Her thoughts 
 of Antoine are enough to make up for the indiffer- 
 ence of all the rest. 
 
 "Shoulder arms! Present arms!" 
 
 The seven officers of the court-martial come in 
 through the farthest door. They are in full uni- 
 form. The youngest are about the same age as 
 Antoine, lads with budding moustaches, who run 
 their ringers through their hair as they bare their
 
 REDEMPTION 249 
 
 heads and lay their white gloves on the edge of 
 the table beside the cap with gold braid or the 
 helmet whose horsehair plume lies along the blue 
 cloth of the table. They are all very grave, some 
 by a conscious effort. They are prepared to be 
 bored by these cases, always the same, which it 
 is their habit and duty to judge. What is that 
 dark heap against the woodwork obstinately gaz- 
 ing at the door by which the prisoner must enter, 
 the door leading to the prison courtyard, where an 
 old retired sergeant keeps guard? It is only a 
 common girl with rather fine eyes. Then they 
 stare at the wall above the line of soldiers. They 
 sit down in order of rank, officers of infantry, 
 artillery, and cavalry, a major, two captains and 
 the lieutenants. 
 
 Marie crouching in her corner only glanced at 
 them for a second. She had eyes for one thing 
 only, the dark shadow of the doorway through 
 which her shame, her life, her only love must 
 enter. A fat man in a black gown comes in late, 
 puffing and blowing; he crosses the room and 
 stands behind a kind of box with a grating des- 
 tined for the prisoner. She took no notice of him. 
 Some one followed him : old Madiot in his Sunday 
 coat, ashamed and dignified, holding his silk hat 
 in his hand, in hesitation. The sergeant made him 
 sit down opposite the blue table on the other side 
 of the balustrade. She kept her eyes upon the 
 funereal gloom of the doorway, waiting for the 
 turning of the door handle. 
 
 All of a sudden, the dark space is illuminated; 
 it opens, letting in the sunlight like a fiery
 
 250 
 
 sword, as a man is brought in between two 
 policemen. 
 
 Marie stood up, resting one knee on the bench, 
 only the upper part of her face and her felt hat, 
 from which she had removed the red feathers, 
 were visible above the wooden partition. Per- 
 haps Antoine would recognize her thus. He ad- 
 vanced with bent head, a frail figure in his undress 
 uniform. Marie thought he looked shrunken, 
 narrower in the shoulders, like a being of another 
 species than his judges. As he came in, the offi- 
 cers watched him frowning and contemptuous, un- 
 til he reached the cage-like dock and sat down. A 
 slight stir passed among them, an almost imper- 
 ceptible sign of intelligence. "The Madiot case, 
 the most serious charge to-day a bad lot." 
 
 Antoine kept his head bent, absorbed in thought. 
 He seemed to have no curiosity with regard to his 
 judges, the public, if any were present, or the 
 room into which he had been brought. 
 
 " Stand up!" said the Colonel. 
 
 His voice was rough and thick. He was a tall, 
 stout man, tightly buttoned in his tunic, with a 
 ruddy complexion, blue eyes, and a heavy, gray 
 moustache. He was one of those habitual judges 
 who never have any doubt about the guilt of the 
 prisoners brought before them. He knew that the 
 cases were carefully prepared. He could have 
 recited the military code by heart. He classified 
 the accused at a glance, according to their tem- 
 perament: there were the cunning prisoner, the 
 liar, and the threatener. If any one of them tried 
 to argue, he soon forced him to contradict himself.
 
 REDEMPTION 251 
 
 "Your name is Antoine Jules Madiot, born at 
 Nantes, a working mechanic, at present enrolled 
 under the flag of the 93rd Regiment of Infantry, 
 in garrison at Roche-sur-Yone?" he asked, in the 
 same tone as before. 
 
 He had scarcely finished speaking when every 
 one present looked up with a start of surprise. 
 Antoine Madiot had raised his eyes; he was no 
 longer the same man. Officers and soldiers gave 
 a start of interest, like that which runs through 
 the crowd when the torril is thrown open and the 
 bull dashes out, strong and ready for the fray. 
 His hard, steely, gray eyes were fixed upon the 
 Colonel without a shadow of fear. They showed 
 an indomitable will and a pride that rough voices, 
 grand uniforms, and certain punishment could not 
 shake. The life and audacity in those eyes were 
 out of all proportion to the boyish figure worn out 
 before it had reached maturity. The Breton reap- 
 peared once more, with his expression of dumb 
 and passive violence. No one could read what 
 lay behind it. Tears might flow in this secret soul, 
 but they would be hidden from all men forever. 
 
 He answered, firmly, in a clear voice, "Yes, 
 Colonel, that is my name." 
 
 His pale lips were parted, showing his white 
 teeth; his eyelids never quivered. The officers 
 thought: "He has the eyes of a convict." Marie 
 had but one thought: "I hope he will not recog- 
 nize me; it would shake his courage!" 
 
 "You have a bad record. Your officers regard 
 you as unruly and obstinate. Though you have 
 only been in the regiment since last November,
 
 252 REDEMPTION 
 
 you had already been a fortnight in the guard- 
 room, and ten days under arrest, before the 25tn 
 of January, when you struck two of your superior 
 officers Sub-Lieutenant Lemarie* and Corporal 
 Magnier. Tell us what occurred." 
 
 Antoine stood regarding him with a fixed stare, 
 and answered not a word. 
 
 "You will not speak? Very good, then the wit- 
 nesses will. Sergeant, bring in the first witness." 
 
 The first witness was Corporal Magnier, a wide- 
 awake peasant, well fed, and satisfied of the good 
 opinion of his superiors. He advanced, saluted 
 with a sweep of the arm, took the oath, and said : 
 ' ' I had gone up to the barrack room first on com- 
 ing back from target practice. I put my rifle down 
 on my bed to clean it, and I heard some one be- 
 hind me. I turned round and saw Private Madiot, 
 who threw down his rifle behind mine. Then I 
 said: 'Take your rule away, this isn't your room.' 
 'Yes, it is, 7 says he. 'No/ said I, 'hurry up 
 and clear out, your room is on the next floor.' 
 As he wouldn't obey I caught him by the shoul- 
 ders; he resisted, but I was shoving him along 
 all the same, and it made a row 7 . Lieutenant 
 Lemarie was on the stairs, and heard it. 'What's 
 all this? Madiot again?' He had hardly got the 
 words out of his mouth, Colonel, when Madiot 
 rushed at both of us, gave him two kicks in the 
 stomach and me one in the legs, shouting, 'I will 
 soon settle him!' The men seized him, and that 
 was all." 
 
 "Was he drunk?" 
 
 "Almost, Colonel; he had been drinking on the
 
 REDEMPTION 253 
 
 exercise ground, and he cannot stand much 
 liquor." 
 
 "Are these the facts, Madiot?" 
 
 "Yes," said the calm voice. 
 
 "For whom were the words, 'I will soon settle 
 him,' intended the officer or the corporal?" 
 
 "For the officer," said Magnier. 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "Certain: he was looking straight at him!" 
 
 "Is this correct, Madiot?" 
 
 The accused nodded. 
 
 "Very good, Corporal Magnier, sit down." 
 
 "Sergeant, bring in Monsieur Lemarie!" 
 
 At this name, which meant no more to the 
 judges than any other, two poor hearts beat fast, 
 Marie's and Eloi Madiot's. Antoine never flinched. 
 He was staring now at the red curtain over the win- 
 dow before him. He seemed as indifferent to this 
 witness as to the first. But when the young man 
 in his elegant civilian dress, his gloves crumpled 
 in his left hand, advanced before the tribunal, 
 looking rather pale, Antoine's eyes flashed with 
 rage and hatred. Then they were fixed again 
 upon the folds of the red curtain. 
 
 The examination began again, the same at 
 first, with more detail and differently worded 
 answers; but presently the question arose as to 
 the former relations between Antoine and M. 
 Lemarie. Old Eloi, overcome with emotion, had 
 half risen from his chair, bending forward to 
 listen, and regarding the prisoner with terror, 
 wondering if the secret would fall from the lips 
 which had hitherto been so silent.
 
 254 REDEMPTION 
 
 "Do you think the attack was premeditated, 
 Monsieur Lemarie?" 
 
 "No, no, Colonel, I think not, though there had 
 been some unpleasantness between my father and 
 the prisoner's family. We had some difficulty 
 over money matters." 
 
 "The point must be cleared up. Come Madiot, 
 had you any grudge against Monsieur Lemarie' 
 here present, or against his family?" 
 
 "Yes," said Antoine in a loud voice. 
 
 "Explain yourself first, Monsieur Lemarie, the 
 accused may correct you if necessary." 
 
 Eloi thought "We are lost." He made a move- 
 ment with his arm to call Antoine's attention, hi 
 order to implore him by a gesture not to disclose 
 the past, but Antoine never lowered his eyes. 
 
 "It was like this, Colonel. My father had re- 
 fused to give a pension to one of his workmen, 
 whom I see yonder," he pointed to Eloi, "to 
 which he was not legally entitled, on account of 
 an accident due to his own carelessness. This 
 man is the prisoner's uncle. Both of them had 
 insolently demanded the pension several times. 
 My father was inflexible, and I think Antoine 
 Madiot's animosity arises from this cause alone. 
 I must add that directly after the accident my 
 mother sent her own doctor to attend the invalid 
 at her own expense, and provided all the neces- 
 sary remedies. I must also tell the Court that 
 after my father's death she immediately granted 
 the prisoner's uncle a pension of 500 francs a 
 year." 
 
 The young officers at each end of the table
 
 REDEMPTION 255 
 
 shrugged their shoulders as much as to say, 
 "What a scoundrel he is, this Madiot!" 
 
 "You hear this, Madiot! It seems that your 
 claim against the Lemarie family was open to 
 question, nor did it directly concern you. While 
 the kindness shown to your uncle is undeniable. 
 Do you admit what has just been said? Is there 
 anything else we do not know? Speak. It is 
 greatly to your interest to hide nothing." 
 
 Antoine continued staring at the window, and 
 seemed not to hear the question. 
 
 The President repeated it twice. Not a muscle 
 of the soldier's face quivered. He seemed to 
 stand outside the discussion. The whole room 
 hung upon his silent lips. 
 
 The minutes slipped by. The Colonel bent 
 from right to left, questioning the officers with 
 his outspread hands. "It is impossible to make 
 him speak. Have I said enough? Is it suffi- 
 cient?" And the officers bending forward in their 
 turn answered, "Evidently the man has no ex- 
 cuse. He is just a blackguard." 
 
 The advocate intervened and said: 
 
 "Monsieur le President, since the prisoner per- 
 sists in his silence, perhaps the workman Eloi 
 Madiot, who brought him up, might give some 
 useful information." 
 
 The old man came forward and stood before 
 the tribunal. His face at that moment was as 
 white as his hair. He stood before his superiors 
 whom he had respected all his life, and he tried 
 his best to assume the bearing of an old soldier 
 who has served faithfully, knows how to address
 
 256 REDEMPTION 
 
 his officers, and has nothing to fear. But his arm 
 trembled, and so did his voice as he said: 
 
 "Eloi Madiot, sixty-six, fourteen years' service, 
 seven campaigns, twice mentioned in despatches, 
 thirty years workman in the Lemarie factory." 
 
 "What do you know?" 
 
 He turned toward Antoine, and their eyes met 
 for the first time. Antoine's were still hard, un- 
 moved, and full of a fierce decision, but they 
 seemed to say: "It lies with the two of us, Uncle 
 Madiot, to save the old mother's honour! I have 
 done my share, it is your turn now!" Eloi under- 
 stood him. "To save Henriette," he thought, 
 then he turned and said : 
 
 "I know nothing." 
 
 There was some laughter. Two or three of the 
 judges shrugged their shoulders. 
 
 "Tell us at least what you think of the ac- 
 cused," said the Colonel. 
 
 Madiot raised his hand as if about to take an 
 oath, glanced at the poor trooper behind the grat- 
 ing, and said, "The lad was never worth much, 
 Colonel, but he has a good heart." 
 
 "Take no notice, Monsieur le President," said 
 the advocate, "the witness never had a repu- 
 tation for intelligence and he is obviously worn 
 out." 
 
 The pitying glances cast upon Madiot, as he 
 went back to his place, showed that this was the 
 general opinion a poor old man who hardly 
 knows what he is talking about. 
 
 The case was closed. The sub-lieutenant who 
 acted as prosecutor for the Government, made
 
 REDEMPTION 257 
 
 his speech without vehemence, almost excusing 
 himself for demanding the capital sentence in 
 conformity with the severity of the military law. 
 But the crime was admitted, the violence unde- 
 niable, the code inflexible. Antoine's counsel 
 waved his arms in the air, pleaded the irrespon- 
 sibility of drunkenness, and feeling ill at ease in 
 the midst of his military audience which barely 
 tolerated him and scarcely heeded his words, 
 stopped short, and sat down, mopping his fore- 
 head with his handkerchief. 
 
 "The case is closed," said the President. 
 "The Court will withdraw to consider the verdict." 
 
 Antoine hardly seemed to notice that his 
 judges were rising, each taking up his cap or hel- 
 met, glad to escape from this unpleasant duty and 
 disappearing in single file through the farthest 
 door. The gendarmes opened the grated barrier, 
 and the prisoner obeyed them mechanically, fol- 
 lowing with bent head. The gray eyes were seen 
 no more staring at the window curtains. 
 
 At last Marie dared to rise. She made her way 
 along the balustrade to the spot where Eloi 
 Madiot leaned against the other side of the wooden 
 partition. She hesitated a moment, then she said 
 humbly, as fearing a repulse : 
 
 ' ' Monsieur Monsieur Madiot ! ' ' 
 
 He glanced over his shoulder and recognized 
 Marie from having seen her with Henriette. 
 
 "What will they do to him, Monsieur Madiot? 
 They will only put him in prison, won't they? 
 They cannot want to kill him." 
 
 She waited in vain for an answer. With grow-
 
 258 REDEMPTION 
 
 ing terror she saw the old man turn silently away, 
 and bow his head. 
 
 Was it possible? They would condemn him to 
 death? M. Madiot thought so. That young 
 officer with the face like a girl, that other with 
 the kind eyes, would they not take pity on a lad 
 of twenty who was drunk at the time, and had 
 not even hurt this Lemarie? 
 
 Marie bent forward leaning against the balus- 
 trade, still waiting for a word of hope. Her hands 
 grew cold. She did not hear the soldiers on guard 
 forming into line. Suddenly the sergeant's words 
 of command " Shoulder arms! Present arms!" 
 brought her back to the immediate reality. She 
 shuddered to the deepest fibre of her heart and 
 of her poor bewildered brain. The rattle of the 
 soldiers' arms upon the floor sounded behind her. 
 The seven officers were back in their places, and 
 stood with cap or helmet on their heads, their 
 left hands resting on their sword hilts. She tried 
 to read the sentence in their eyes. They all wore 
 the same serious expression, calm and unaffected. 
 The Colonel recited certain formulas, quoted cer- 
 tain Articles, and then said clearly with terrible 
 precision : 
 
 "Upon the first question we unanimously find 
 the prisoner guilty. 
 
 "Upon the second question we find unanimously 
 that the violence was committed while on duty. 
 
 "In consequence, the Court condemns Antoine 
 Jules Madiot, private of the 93rd Regiment of In- 
 fantry, to the penalty of death, in accordance with 
 Article 222 of the Military Code of Justice."
 
 REDEMPTION 259 
 
 A cry arose from the audience, a short piercing 
 cry of anguish dying to a stifled moan. 
 
 The judges were already leaving the room. 
 The Colonel stopped, raised his eyebrows inquir- 
 ingly at the sergeant on guard, rising on tiptoe 
 to look over the balustrade. 
 
 "A woman has fallen down, Colonel," said the 
 sergeant. 
 
 It was only a trivial incident. In obedience to 
 a sign from the Colonel, whose gold braid was 
 disappearing into the shadow of the corridor, the 
 sergeant approached Marie, who lay upon the 
 ground with her head on the bench in a dead 
 faint, and had her carried out into the air.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 IT was one o'clock in the morning, in Eloi Madiot's 
 home. 
 
 For hours he had been trying to console Hen- 
 riette, whom nothing could console. They sat 
 beside the stove, which he had twice refilled, 
 close together in the heavy atmosphere, repeating 
 the same phrases over and over again without 
 freeing themselves from their obsession or ex- 
 hausting the sorrow they expressed. Henriette 
 had stopped crying, but her voice had the weak 
 high-pitched tone that tells of some broken chord 
 in the soul. 
 
 "No," she repeated, "I cannot understand you; 
 we see things in a different light. Why do you 
 say that he showed good feeling? In what? 
 Because he did not defend himself? It would 
 have been better if he had. I see nothing but 
 shame for all of us. Uncle and sister of a con- 
 demned criminal. How can we hold up our heads 
 again? I don't know if I shall dare go back to 
 work ; but you look as if you were almost pleased." 
 
 "No, my dear, I could not say that. But in- 
 deed things might have been worse. The proof is 
 that the lieutenant who spoke for the prosecution 
 promised to try and get him off. He promised 
 me after the trial." 
 
 "Will he succeed? And even if the penalty is 
 
 260
 
 REDEMPTION 261 
 
 commuted, can't you see that the shame will be 
 just as great? You who were always so hon- 
 ourable, Uncle!" 
 
 "Ah! but you were not there, my dear. An- 
 toine was very brave, I assure you; he showed no 
 fear. He never tried to throw the blame on 
 others." 
 
 "How could he? How could he possibly when 
 it was all his own fault?" 
 
 Eloi said no more. He was silent. Once more, 
 in this most serious crisis of her life, Henriette 
 thought she felt the gulf of mind and education 
 between them which had made their home intimacy 
 vain. No! truly Uncle Madiot did not suffer as 
 she did. He was getting very old and broken, 
 too, and her loneliness was great though there 
 were two of them. 
 
 A thought shaped itself slowly in her uncle's 
 mind, in the intervals of silence while the stove 
 roared and drew in the chips of wood that flut- 
 tered on the hearth. He could not leave Henri- 
 ette in this despair; and since he, a poor old man 
 of few words, and unable to speak freely for so 
 many reasons, could not console her, perhaps 
 there might be some other way, a very good one, 
 almost infallible. 
 
 He looked at Henriette sunk in the arm-chair 
 he had drawn up for her, silent now, and almost 
 defiant. "My little girl is ill," he thought. 
 
 "Give me your hand, child," he said aloud. 
 
 Her hands were hot and her pulse rapid. 
 
 "You are feverish; go to bed and try and 
 sleep, do! Try not to think, and do not get
 
 262 REDEMPTION 
 
 up to-morrow morning until I knock at your 
 door." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because why, because you need rest and it 
 is very late. I want to see you before you go out 
 to work." 
 
 "But you are not going out, are you?" 
 
 He continued: "Go to bed, Henriette, please 
 do! If you are ill to-morrow, I will go and tell 
 Madame Cle"mence." 
 
 "Tell her!" she said, rising. "She will have 
 heard what my illness really is from my com- 
 panions!" 
 
 She bent forward to kiss him as she spoke, and 
 when she had left the room, he listened for a time 
 to make sure that she had gone to bed. 
 
 When all was silent in the house, and he could 
 hear nothing but the wind rattling on loose slates 
 here and there on the roof, the old man took the 
 hairy coat he used to wear at his work, his iron- 
 tipped walking stick and hat, and crept out of the 
 house. 
 
 The night was not cold. As often happens at 
 the approach of spring, a warm blue mist de- 
 fended the earth from the violent gusts of the 
 higher air. The first clumps of primroses began 
 to unfold their mossy leaves that night. 
 
 Hasten, Uncle Madiot, your little girl is still 
 sobbing in her bed, though you cannot hear her! 
 
 He passed along the quays; the moon was 
 sinking in the horizon and illumined the way; 
 the town lay asleep, prostrate with the fatigues of 
 the day before; the Loire alone was alive and
 
 REDEMPTION 263 
 
 lifted the boats as it flowed past, throwing the 
 dancing shadows of the masts upon the pavements. 
 
 The old soldier could not walk so well as he used 
 to ; he was hot, and he had to stop upon the bank 
 near the station, where the signal lights made the 
 solitude less oppressive. 
 
 It was half-past three by the station clock. "I 
 shall be at the cottage at Mauves in an hour," 
 thought Madiot, " so long as they have not started 
 for their fishing." He called to mind the image of 
 Etienne, who could make all right. Yes, he was 
 a man of decision, capable of carrying a girl off, 
 even against her parents' will, and therefore able 
 to despise all prejudices. "I know them, those big 
 fellows of the Loire, once they fall in love, it is for 
 good and all. I will tell him." 
 
 Madiot continued on his way along the Saint 
 Felix Canal, then along the Loire, walking in the 
 soft wet grass. It reminded him of his military 
 marches by night through lands he would never 
 see again. He slackened his pace now and then to 
 see if the valley showed pale in the east, but it 
 did not. And the thought of Henriette urged him 
 forward faster, toward the little cottage where the 
 winds and waters lulled to sleep the humble in- 
 mates all the year round. 
 
 At last he saw it in the distance, the little house 
 of tarred planks. A ray of light showed through 
 the door. He knocked hard with his fist three 
 times. 
 
 "Open the door. It is I, old Madiot." 
 
 Almost immediately a hand shot back the 
 bolt.
 
 264 REDEMPTION 
 
 "I was mending my nets," said old Loutrel, 
 calmly; "what can I do for you?" 
 
 Near the candle, which was placed on a chair, 
 the two men stood and talked, separated by the 
 brown shadow of the net which Loutrel was 
 mending. They spoke in low tones because of 
 Madame Loutrel, who was still sleeping behind 
 the serge curtains. Madiot told the other of the 
 court-martial, and the despair of Henriette, and 
 his idea of calling Etienne to the rescue. 
 
 The fisherman finished the net and said, as he 
 tested the last knot with his little finger: 
 
 "As I have told you, Monsieur Madiot, my son 
 is out already he has gone shooting so as to be 
 able to buy some cordage which he needs for his 
 new boat. I will willingly take you to him." 
 
 "Then let us start," said Madiot, "for my little 
 girl is crying." 
 
 "Very well, but I cannot say what my son's 
 answer will be whether he will go with you or 
 not. I do not force my lads; I leave their hearts 
 as Nature made them." 
 
 They walked a few steps from the cottage and 
 entered a flat boat. Loutrel set up a pole with 
 a square of old sail-cloth, and the rising wind 
 swept them against the stream into the night, 
 which was already streaked with the pale light of 
 dawn. The moon seemed to bend forward like a 
 watcher who is tired out. 
 
 "Henriette! Henriette!" the old man mut- 
 tered, below his breath. 
 
 That name to him was food for endless thought. 
 Birds were calling to the day. It was the sports-
 
 REDEMPTION 265 
 
 man's hour when the light hesitates, and the 
 curlew, sea-gull, snipe and lapwing stretch their 
 cramped wings, fly along the sands, greet and 
 cheer each other for the start, and take their 
 flight in light-winged bands. 
 
 Loutrel and Madiot went a good way up the 
 stream toward a clump of poplars, steered for the 
 point of the island, and the boat rose half out of 
 the water as they touched the spur of land, sharp- 
 ened by the current. The fisherman whistled. 
 A man came out of the shadow of a willow which 
 was already in bud. It was Etienne; he had a 
 dozen lapwings slung round his waist. 
 
 He raised his eyebrows when he saw Madiot, 
 and came down to the open beach. 
 
 Eloi twirled his moustache, his face half hidden 
 by the turned-up collar of his coat, and he watched 
 approach this young man whom he admired so 
 much. 
 
 "Antoine is condemned," he said. 
 
 "Too bad, Monsieur Madiot." 
 
 "To death!" 
 
 The young man raised his soft felt hat, as he 
 would have done before Antoine's coffin. 
 
 "No," said Madiot, "you are wrong, Etienne. 
 It seems they may let him off. We can do noth- 
 ing to help him. But there is some one else, who 
 is grieving." 
 
 The young man's fine manly face was turned 
 toward the waving branches of the poplars. The 
 pale dawn was beginning to show between their 
 trunks. 
 
 "She has made herself ill with crying."
 
 266 REDEMPTION 
 
 "Oh!" cried Etienne; and there was such sor- 
 row in his voice that Madiot replied : 
 
 ' ' I think she is not so ill, my lad, but that you 
 could console her. Come with me. I came to 
 fetch you." 
 
 "She did not ask for me, did she?" 
 
 "She is asleep," said Madiot, gently, "but I 
 think that if when she wakes, the child could be 
 sure you are not changed by what has happened 
 to Antoine that you still care for her: I think 
 she would be more consoled than with me. For 
 it does not change you, my dear Etienne, that 
 Antoine has turned out badly, does it? You still 
 think the same about her? " 
 
 Joy gleamed in Etienne 's blue eyes; he untied 
 the string of the lapwings and threw them at his 
 father's feet, stretched his arm toward the first 
 gleam of day, and cried out, by way of answer : 
 
 "Jump in, Madiot, I'll take the oars!" 
 
 He had much less hope than the old man. but 
 youth was in him, youth that so little sets a-sing- 
 ing.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Two hours later they drove their boat in between 
 the schooners lying at anchor, and landed at the 
 foot of the projecting rock on which the house 
 stood. Etienne was still in his knitted jersey, and 
 Madiot had not turned down the collar of his 
 rough jacket. They mounted the stairs in silence: 
 something gripped them at the throat; each of 
 them was fighting against his fear, knowing that 
 only ten steps, five, one more, separated them 
 from the unknown fate awaiting them. The two 
 men, standing at the opposite extremes of life, 
 Madiot near its close, Etienne on the threshold, 
 trembled, uncertain what the will of one young 
 girl might be. Was it to be life or suffering for 
 them? Would she say "Stay" or "Leave me for- 
 ever." When they neared the door they each drew 
 back to let the other pass in first, in such great 
 dread were they of that which they came to seek. 
 
 Henriette heard them, and recognized their 
 voices. She was in her black every-day dress, 
 ready to start for work. The little remnant of 
 colour that was in her cheeks faded away. But 
 she, the woman, she also had courage to face her 
 fate. She went straight to the door which sepa- 
 rated the two rooms, and seeing Etienne, said: 
 "Come in." 
 
 Etienne went in, Uncle Madiot hiding, trembling 
 
 267
 
 268 
 
 in the background, to let him pass. Henriette 
 had retreated to the fireplace, and her hair, escap- 
 ing all round from under the brim of her hat, shone 
 in the glass above it like a large golden flower. 
 She had understood at once what Uncle Eloi had 
 done, and the proof of love which Etienne was 
 giving her. And there they stood, those two, 
 Etienne and Henriette. Etienne a few paces 
 from her, near a small table. His eyes, accustomed 
 to the deep waters, were interrogating those clear 
 eyes of hers, through which, at this moment, her 
 soul seemed speaking. He had never before been 
 so keenly aware of Henriette's friendship for him, 
 now touched with such tender emotion that it 
 almost resembled love; but yet, it was not love, 
 for he could read other things in those dear eyes: 
 signs of a fresh resolution, of recent suffering and 
 struggle, out of which she had come victorious, but 
 with a trembling remembrance of what it had 
 cost her. And so, looking at her, he knew all that 
 she had to tell him, and no words could have ex- 
 pressed such affection, such regret, such pity. 
 And he, loving her, understood. 
 
 Uncle Madiot, who was listening, not catching any 
 sound, thought they must be speaking in low voices. 
 
 Etienne felt the tears rising, but still he would 
 not take his eyes from her, and to prevent them 
 falling, he forced himself to speak : 
 
 "You see neither your brother nor anything in 
 the world would have kept me from you." 
 
 And she who, with her loving lips, knew so well 
 how to console, said gently: 
 
 "My big Etienne, I shall love you as long as I
 
 REDEMPTION 269 
 
 live. As long as I live I shall remember with grat- 
 itude that which you have done. I have had no 
 brother but you, no friend but you." 
 
 And then, seeing the tears running down his 
 tanned cheeks, she continued: 
 
 "If my heart were my own, I would give it to 
 you. But God has taken it for His poor. Forget 
 me." 
 
 Then, hardly knowing what he was doing, 
 Etienne held out his arms to her. In his great 
 trouble, he was not afraid to call to the woman, 
 who was never to be his. And she heard. Hen- 
 riette, her head already bent to receive his caress, 
 threw herself into his open arms. He felt the 
 pretty fair head upon his shoulder. He clasped 
 his arms round her, and held her to his breast with 
 all his strength. For one short moment their 
 hearts beat against one another. Then he put her 
 gently from him, gave her one last look, and left 
 her. 
 
 She remained standing where he had last em- 
 braced her, still bending forward. 
 
 Madiot, who had been watching them, was 
 already beginning to feel more cheerful. But 
 when Etienne passed him, and he saw him seize 
 the handle of the staircase door: 
 
 "Stop him, Henriette, he is going, he is going!" 
 
 She did not move until Etienne was gone. 
 As soon as she heard the latch fall behind him, 
 she went in to the old man in the kitchen; she 
 took him by his two hands and led him into the 
 beautiful room, which was her own domain, and 
 where she ruled alone. Still holding the two
 
 270 REDEMPTION 
 
 trembling hands which clung to hers, she made 
 him sit down, and then, with her eyes on him, 
 and troubled with the consciousness of her own 
 pain and that which she was going to cause 
 another: 
 
 " Uncle Madiot," she said, "I did not call 
 Etienne back, because I have a secret." 
 
 "And what is that, my child?" 
 
 "I do not wish to marry." 
 
 So many successive shocks seemed to have 
 broken the strength of the old man. He put up 
 his poor tired face, which had become just a mass 
 of wrinkles, with no sign of life about it but the 
 two sad eyes; he seemed to be looking about him 
 in search of the peace of former days, of the quiet 
 home where they had been so happy, of the merry 
 Henriette of the olden time. 
 
 "But, child," he said, "since he wishes it so 
 much?" 
 
 "I shall never marry." 
 
 "Not even with another man?" 
 
 "No, Uncle." 
 
 "What are you going to do then? Become a 
 nun?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 Then he rose like one whose youth has re- 
 turned, and standing away from her, looked her 
 up and down. 
 
 "Ah! ungrateful girl!" he cried, "she was not 
 happy then!" 
 
 The worn aged eyes were ablaze with all that 
 remained to him of his energy, his anger, his 
 power of astonishment. He was again the old
 
 REDEMPTION 271 
 
 soldier of former years. He began striding up 
 and down the whole length of the room, from the 
 farther wall to the window, through which the 
 pale morning light was shining. 
 
 " Somebody has been persuading you," he 
 growled. "Yes I know Ah! the misery of 
 life! and now I am alone my child is leaving 
 me my child forsakes me." 
 
 Henriette had gone back to the fireplace, and 
 there she stood drawn up to her full height, as 
 full of fire as the old man, but more mistress of 
 herself : 
 
 "You are mistaken," she said, "no one has 
 persuaded me. I have suffered, that is all not 
 from anything you have done, Uncle, but from 
 that which you had no power to prevent the 
 sight of so many miserable beings that no one 
 tried to help. Whenever I went near them, do 
 you understand, they always turned and ap- 
 pealed to me. One cannot resist a call like that. 
 And you, Uncle Madiot, are the only relation I 
 have in this world, and I want you to give me to 
 the poor, who are in need of me." 
 
 She followed him with her eyes. He paused 
 a moment, looked at her with an expression of 
 bewilderment, and then resumed his march, the 
 floor resounding beneath his strides. 
 
 Was he thinking of what she was telling him? 
 No; he knew her too well to hope to turn her 
 from any resolution she had come to after mature 
 reflection. His bitter complaint at the vision of 
 the solitary life that was before him had no sooner 
 passed his lips than another thought had sud-
 
 272 REDEMPTION 
 
 denly arisen, and it was that which was now tort- 
 uring him. His Henriette was lost to him. His 
 Henriette would never marry. "Well, then," 
 he thought, "I shall have to tell her everything. 
 There is no use now in sparing her the knowledge. 
 My duty now is to defend Antoine's character. 
 I cannot let her go on thinking all her life that a 
 nephew of my own blood, a Madiot, was a bad 
 soldier, disloyal and lawless. His was not the 
 chief fault. He was brave in his own way. He 
 kept silence for her sake ; it was for her he allowed 
 himself to be condemned. I must speak there is 
 no help for it I must avenge an innocent man!" 
 
 For the second time he paused in his walk. His 
 whole being was shaken at the thought of the ter- 
 rible thing he had to tell. He looked long and in- 
 tently into the eyes of his child, who had yet so 
 many tears to shed. There were no traces now of 
 the anger he had displayed a short while since. 
 As he faced Henriette, who stood pale and self- 
 possessed, he was the old man again, an old man 
 sorrowfully obeying the call of honour. 
 
 He seated himself again in the arm-chair he had 
 left. 
 
 "Come here," he said, "I also have something 
 to say." 
 
 When he had her close to him, the dear fair 
 head leaning toward him and his secret, he spoke 
 again: 
 
 "I have some hard things to break to you." 
 
 She shook her head incredulously. 
 
 "Even harder," he added, "than those I have 
 heard from you."
 
 REDEMPTION 273 
 
 Henriette smiled sadly. 
 
 "Can anything be hard to me now, Uncle, 
 when I have said good-by to my friend, and am 
 leaving you?" 
 
 "Alas! my poor little one! There are hard 
 things of which you have never dreamt. But you 
 shall hear all." 
 
 Then, in a low voice, and very tenderly, in 
 words which he had difficulty in uttering, he told 
 her of the past. 
 
 Henriette listened motionless, like one stupefied.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 HENRIETTE was absent from the work room that 
 day. Uncle Eloi called on Madame Clemence 
 during the course of the morning and made her 
 excuses. 
 
 She did not leave the house at all until toward 
 six o'clock, when it was beginning to grow dark. 
 Unconsciously she had followed Marie's example, 
 and had taken the two roses out of her hat. Avoid- 
 ing the quays, and the shorter cut through the 
 busier and more fashionable quarters, she went 
 up the Ermitage road, and made a long circuit 
 which brought her at last to the street of Saint 
 Similieu. She had been conscious of but one 
 desire since Uncle Madiot had told her all, and 
 that was to see Marie again. As she walked along 
 she kept on repeating to herself, her lips hardly 
 moving beneath her veil: "Marie, Marie, you who 
 must have known everything and yet never spoke ! 
 I thought myself above you, and it is you who 
 have shown me charity: you said nothing! 
 Marie, what worth and what friendship even in 
 your shame! Ah! poor girl! we may now sit 
 and weep together!" 
 
 She went in under the porch that served as a 
 frame for the distant view of the cathedral and 
 its adjacent buildings, which could be seen between 
 the walls of the workmen's city, bathed in blue 
 
 274
 
 REDEMPTION 275 
 
 mist. Turning into the corridor to the left, she 
 knocked once, and then a second time, but no 
 answer came. 
 
 She knocked a third time, and then a woman 
 called out from the landing above: 
 
 "What is it you want?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle Marie Schwarz. Is she out?" 
 
 This woman, like many of the lower class, evi- 
 dently objected to answering any one whose face 
 was invisible, so she came down the stairs, her 
 head showing above the side rail. She was the 
 young wife of a workman, faded-looking, with the 
 remains of pink in her dull-complexioned face, and 
 her hair, which was the colour of tow, done up in 
 an untidy knot. 
 
 Seeing a well-dressed young woman, she guessed 
 that Henriette was one of Marie Schwarz's com- 
 rades, and said: 
 
 "You do not know, then, that she has left this 
 place?" 
 
 "How long ago?" 
 
 "A fortnight at least. All her things were sold, 
 as you will see." 
 
 She drew a key from her pocket and opened the 
 door. Henriette saw at a glance, without going 
 in, that the room was as empty as the day that 
 Marie took it. Curtains, table, looking-glass, the 
 two water-colours she had lent her, everything 
 which served as a memento of their friendship, or 
 rather which served to recall Marie, had disap- 
 peared. The next passing lodger would find 
 nothing but her iron bed, her two chairs, and the 
 whitewashed walls.
 
 276 REDEMPTION 
 
 The woman, guessing by the colour that came 
 into Henrietta's face that she was more than an 
 ordinary or indifferent friend, said: 
 
 "You see, she found it very hard to earn her 
 living. She turned her hand to anything in order 
 to buy herself bread and to pay her lodging. She 
 made shirts, blouses, and knitted garments, and 
 one could see that she was not new to it. She 
 hardly ever went out of doors. I used to go in to 
 her now and again this last winter, and I would 
 see her hold her hands over the candle, like that, 
 to try and warm them. I could not help saying 
 to her: 'The man you went away with must be a 
 perfect blackguard not to send you something to 
 make yourself a bit of fire.' But she would never 
 open her lips to say a word about him. It seems 
 he was a soldier, just a plain soldier, and a bad 
 one into the bargain, for it was only the other day 
 he was condemned." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know; but what has become of 
 her?" 
 
 "Well, you know what she was! How can I 
 tell what has become of her?" 
 
 The woman broke off, while she locked the door 
 of the room. " I don't like inventing stories. All 
 I know of her is that for two months she has 
 hardly had the strength to go on working. You 
 see she fretted herself so, and then the want of 
 proper food and the cough undermined her health. 
 She could not pay her rent, and so, good-evening. 
 Her knickknacks were soon sold off. That is a 
 fortnight ago, as I told you." 
 
 "But she herself, Marie Schwarz?"
 
 REDEMPTION 277 
 
 "Well, my dear, I have never seen her since. 
 Some of the neighbours have met her. She must 
 have got a lodging for the night, in the same way 
 others do. Yesterday, however, some one told 
 me that she had returned to Paris. To think of 
 such wretchedness!" 
 
 She went up the stairs again, her old shoes 
 clacking against them at every step she took. 
 
 Perhaps she was afraid she had said too much, 
 or some regret for the chance lodger stirred within 
 her, for she called down from the landing : 
 
 "She was not a bad girl, you know; but she 
 was fond of pleasure; she was young and foolish 
 and she had no mother." 
 
 From the little gray-paper book. "Now at last 
 I am yours, you poor ones of the earth. There is 
 nothing to keep me from you. I feel absolved 
 from all my ties. The sole pride I had, in believing 
 myself the daughter of an honest family, I have 
 no further right to keep. I can no longer even 
 look back with pleasure on the past days of my 
 childhood. I said good-by to Etienne before I 
 knew of all these things. I see now that I could 
 not have married him. What sort of a wife would 
 he have had he who talked of forgetting my 
 brother, and who, to love me, would have had to 
 forget my mother also. Believe me, my friend, 
 you will have a place in my heart forever. She 
 whom you will some day choose will be a happy 
 woman. 
 
 "But less so than I. That happiness should 
 have come to me out of such heartrending griefs
 
 278 REDEMPTION 
 
 is a mystery. And yet I am conscious of a light- 
 ness of heart, and of having escaped from myself. 
 I please myself with the thought that my family 
 will be restored. I am coming to you the suf- 
 fering, the troubled, the disgraced. The Order 
 I have chosen to enter is one of the smallest. I 
 shall have the care of those who cannot pay for 
 themselves; I shall look after the house when the 
 housekeeper is ill; I shall wash and dress the 
 children before they go to school; I shall cut up 
 the bread for the soup; I shall mend all the old 
 clothes; perhaps I shall do millinery again, and 
 trim hats and caps for the poor. They will have 
 no difficulty in recognizing me as one of their 
 number, for I, too, have struggled to earn my 
 living, have had friends who betrayed me, a di- 
 vided family, temptations similar to theirs, and 
 I am the sister of a condemned man, and the off- 
 spring of sin. I shall be their sister in every 
 respect; soon, in a few weeks' time, I shall be with 
 them. I have promised my uncle to wait a while, 
 so that he may accustom himself to the thought of 
 our separation, which I fear is hardly possible. 
 I am staying on, also, for the sake of Madame 
 Clemence, who has to find some one to take my 
 place. It is a great trial to me to go into the 
 work room, but I yielded on account of Uncle 
 Madiot, so that I might not begin a life that is to 
 be one of love with an act of unkindness." 
 
 The following morning Henriette returned to 
 work. She was surprised that Antoine's con- 
 demnation, which had been such a terrible ordeal
 
 REDEMPTION 279 
 
 to her, had made very little impression on her 
 fellow-workers. Judicial sentences make little 
 stir among the lower classes. Those who were 
 fond of Henriette asked her if it was true, and 
 expressed their pity for her. The others all knew 
 of far worse cases in their own families, and so 
 said nothing. It was just then the busiest season 
 of the year, and conversation soon turned to 
 other matters. 
 
 The weeks went by with their usual sameness. 
 Henriette went oftener to call on the old priest 
 who lived under the shadow of St. Anne's Church. 
 The sun began to shine again. The days grew 
 longer. 
 
 Fresh green blades were forcing their way up- 
 ward to the light, and the earth heaved with 
 Spring.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE birth of Spring. Life, breathing through all 
 things, rose like an exhalation from the earth 
 toward the languorous sky. The grass had burst 
 forth on all sides into green tufts. Trees, as yet 
 without leaf, had at least their buds; and the 
 buds, glistening with sap, gleamed like blossoms. 
 Men felt the blood beating in their veins. It was 
 the time when older breasts are moved with love, 
 and the children blow through their straw pipes. 
 Lilacs were being sold about the streets. The 
 Loire was in bloom. 
 
 For the water, too, has its season of love. It 
 lay now shot through and through with lights in 
 all directions; along its sides ran lanes of warm 
 mauve, which were the reflection of nothing, and 
 might have been taken for trails of drowned irises 
 borne along by the current. From afar, round the 
 sandy points, came a ripple of light laughter, where 
 the golden waves broke and re-formed, looking 
 like wreaths of jonquils as they were flung up from 
 the depths. Broad streets of foam, like fields of 
 snow, vanished at a touch. Elsewhere, the eddies 
 wound their silver stems to the slimy bottoms of 
 the hollows. The light was uninterrupted by any 
 shadow. All the mingled splendours had made 
 a pathway for themselves, and chased each other 
 to the sea. 
 
 280
 
 REDEMPTION 281 
 
 And it was on such a day as this that Etienne 
 set sail from Mauves in his boat, The Henriette. 
 
 The father and mother, and the three children 
 whom the mother held by the hand, were standing 
 on a hillock at the extreme edge of the field, the 
 group looking like a small dark spot in the midst 
 of the wide expanse of grass, as the distance 
 diminished their figures. They watched the sloop 
 as it glided down the river toward the open water. 
 Their son and their fortune were both committed 
 to the hazard of the sea. The sloop, which had 
 cost so much hard work, was a fine vessel. Its 
 prow was cleaving the light the light of the air, 
 the light of the sea one could hardly have dis- 
 tinguished where one began and the other ended, 
 had it not been for the quivering garland of foam 
 which separated before it, like the broken half of 
 a bride's bouquet. The mast creaked with pleas- 
 ure under the straining sail, as if it felt again the 
 weight of its leaves. One could hear its cry of 
 youth and defiance. Its sharp point bent and 
 threw out backward the branch of green laurel 
 fastened to the top. The hull was black, marked 
 out with a red line, red as the blood from wounds. 
 Etienne's six friends Jean, Michel, Cesaire, Ma- 
 thieu, Pierre, and Guillaume all of the same age 
 and all children of the Loire, were standing in the 
 shadow of the mainsail and on the poop; they 
 intended to remain with him till he reached 
 the sea. Etienne himself was at the helm, with 
 bare head, and clad in his tightly fitting sailor's 
 jersey. Having said good-by to everything, he 
 would not look back, fearing that his strength
 
 282 REDEMPTION 
 
 might fail him, but kept his eyes turned sea- 
 ward. 
 
 "Good-by, tall, strong Etienne, good-by to 
 him who looked after the nets and the eel traps in 
 the hidden channels of the river; good-by to 
 him who could guide his boat with a single arm 
 among the currents and the swirling waters of 
 winter, the industrious workman, the bread- 
 winner, the pride of the humble homestead at 
 Mauves! Good-by to him whose figure it was 
 such joy to watch growing larger and larger as he 
 stood at the back of his boat, bringing in the fresh 
 fish on his return from the islands, and calling out, 
 while still far from shore: 'Good fish, friends, 
 good fish!' Good-by, the child, good-by, the 
 brother, good-by, happiness!" 
 
 The sloop was already making its way along 
 the broader sweep of the river. The top, main, 
 and staysails, bathed in sunlight, were filling with 
 the wind. The good people of Trentemoult, who 
 were experienced sailors, asked : 
 
 "Whose is that? Look how it's rigged! A cap- 
 ital boat!" 
 
 It sailed past the schooners and brigs lying at 
 anchor, and their crews had also something to say 
 about it : 
 
 "It can only be a yacht. There are seven men 
 on it, and that's too many for its build." 
 
 But no, it was just a plain Loire fisherman, 
 whom love and despair were driving out to sea. 
 
 As they passed in front of the white house, the 
 six companions lifted their hats. Etienne did 
 not stir; he did not ask, "Is she there?" Had
 
 REDEMPTION 283 
 
 she beckoned to him at that moment with her 
 white hands, he would still have gone on his 
 way. 
 
 And Henriette had seen him. She had asked 
 Madame Clemence to give her leave for two hours, 
 and had then gone down to the farther end of 
 Chantenay, from which point she could see far 
 along the Loire. She hastened along the footpath 
 which ran beside the river, so as to get a good 
 start and to have the figure of her friend as long 
 as possible in sight. She kept on looking behind 
 her as she walked, for the sloop was bearing 
 quickly down the stream before the breeze. The 
 six young men were singing as they sailed along. 
 She could hear their voices. 
 
 It was impossible either for them or for Etienne 
 to recognize the slight black figure, who might be 
 any working girl or workman's wife, dimly dis- 
 cernible against the wide-spreading landscape. 
 
 In another minute or two they had passed her. 
 She seemed to feel the shadow of the prow, the 
 shadow of the mast and sail, and the shadow of 
 Etienne himself fall upon her across the blue ex- 
 panse. She hastened forward. She wanted to 
 see him again the man who, for her sake, was 
 sailing away, who was not singing with the others, 
 but standing motionless as a statue next the 
 helm. But the wind was rising. The prow of the 
 vessel was beginning to rise and dip as it met the 
 first undulating waves, messengers from the far-off 
 sea, which was advancing to claim its own. The 
 sail bent before the wind. The figures of the men 
 silhouetted against the light grew smaller, soon
 
 284 REDEMPTION 
 
 they appeared only a confused group standing on 
 the poop, which looked no wider than a shaving 
 of wood. The laurel branch, floating from the 
 masthead, fluttered like a hand waving farewell. 
 
 And then everything was lost to sight, vanish- 
 ing in light. 
 
 Etienne had seen nothing. 
 
 Toward evening he landed his six friends and 
 took on board the crew that had been engaged for 
 some time past. When the blue night sky was 
 alight with all its stars, the man who had not been 
 loved, the man who, from the moment he left the 
 fields of Mauves to that when he reached the cliffs 
 of Saint-Marc, had never once ceased to think of 
 Henriette, set his helm and steered for the high 
 sea, ready to plunge into the open. 
 
 That same evening, as the sun was sinking, 
 Henriette went to the old priest who was now her 
 adviser. He received her in his garden, near the 
 old cedar tree that spread its branches over the 
 La Hautiere road. The factory hands were com- 
 ing home from work, and the dust raised by their 
 feet fell in clouds on the lilacs and privet, the 
 leaves of which even at this spring season were 
 quite gray. The abbe", however, did not trouble 
 himself about that. He was listening to Henri- 
 ette, and listening to the passing crowd, and in- 
 wardly he was joining the fate of the one with the 
 sufferings of the other. One of his most cherished 
 desires seemed on the eve of being realized. He 
 was bringing his poor a woman of virgin soul, 
 who knew what life was, whose heart had been 
 enlarged by suffering, and who was safe to come
 
 REDEMPTION 285 
 
 in contact with the evil of the world without fear 
 of being corrupted by it. 
 
 "It is well for you," he said, "to have thus 
 suffered. The heart that has been stricken is 
 more open to the sorrows of others. If you are to 
 go among those who are now passing, as you in- 
 tend, my child, listen to the advice of an old man, 
 whose only regret is that he has no longer strength 
 to spend on their behalf. 
 
 "There is no need to go searching for a remedy 
 for the evils of the time. The remedy already 
 exists it is the gift of one's self to those who 
 have fallen so low that even hope fails them. 
 Open wide your heart. Love them, whatever 
 their sins; forgive them, however ignorant they 
 may be. They do not understand. 
 
 "There is less kinship among the poor than 
 formerly. What with the factory, the long dis- 
 tances, the tavern, and the drunkenness that 
 follows, there are many among the men who 
 hardly know their children, and many children 
 who have ,both father and mother and are yet or- 
 phans. Mademoiselle Henriette, it is for you to 
 become a mother to these little ones. Bring joy, 
 bring union into this immense separated family. 
 Do not speak to them of duty before they have 
 known consolation. Hold out your arms to them 
 that they may know what comfort is. God never 
 reviles. His reproaches spring from His pity. 
 He forgave the sins of the spirit: and, remember! 
 more often still He forgave those of the heart and 
 the flesh: the Magdalene, the Samaritan woman, 
 the woman taken in adultery, and many others
 
 286 REDEMPTION 
 
 I feel sure, of whom we have no record. He knew 
 the weakness of our human nature. 
 
 "You will tremble with joy at the happiness 
 which is for others only. You will know the 
 sweetness of commiserating tears. You will learn 
 how beautiful life can be when it is no longer one's 
 own. Do not fear to come in contact with evil. 
 Mix freely with it. Ah! my child, only those know 
 what lies on the reverse side of the evil who have 
 taken it in their ow r n hands and turned it over. 
 And to what splendid opportunities it gives rise 
 for devotion, for sacrifice, for repentance, for ris- 
 ing again, for efforts which atone for everything!" 
 
 And, as Henriette listened to him, she knew 
 that this life he was describing to her was to be 
 her own ; that she loved the poor with the love of 
 one about to be betrothed or married, a love that 
 was to last forever, strong to bear all shame, all 
 contempt, all ingratitude. She smiled at all the 
 misery of the world, as a mother who runs forward 
 to lift up her weeping child. 
 
 When back again in her room, she took out the 
 little gray-covered book and wrote hi it the one 
 line: 
 
 "With my whole soul!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 SHE waited for an opportunity, for a sign. 
 
 On the 15th of May she received a letter, 
 clumsily addressed and bearing the Paris post- 
 mark: "To Mdlle. Henriette Madiot, milliner, 
 Rue de PErmitage, about half-way up." 
 
 Henriette tore open the envelope; she had 
 recognized the handwriting. "At last!" she said. 
 
 The letter was short, and as follows: 
 
 "HENRIETTE, I feel I must write to you, and 
 must know that you forgive me. I have not 
 dared to do so before, but now I am ill. I have 
 been through great trouble. But there is no need 
 to tell you all my tale. I was already beginning to 
 cough badly when I reached Paris. It was im- 
 possible for me to take any care of myself. By 
 degrees I was forced to give up work, and just 
 when I thought I was going to die of starvation 
 a friend wrote for me to the Sisters of Villepinte. 
 I have been here now a week, well looked after 
 and spoilt; but I am not getting any better. My 
 chest pains me so that I feel it through my back. 
 It is like needles running into me continually. 
 The Sisters tell me I shall get well. Life is not so 
 pleasant that I cling to it much. If you saw what 
 I look like now you would not recognize me, and I 
 am changed, too, in other ways. If you knew how 
 
 287
 
 288 REDEMPTION 
 
 I longed to see you! But I know it is unreason- 
 able of me to wish it, and not even possible. I 
 feel that it would do me good ; but I shall be sat- 
 isfied if you will say you forgive me. Will you 
 let me kiss you once more? "MARIE" 
 
 Henriette sent off her answer that same morn- 
 ing. As she was taking her place in the work 
 room that day, she said: 
 
 "You remember Marie Schwarz? She is ill." 
 
 "She suffered with her chest, did she not, as I 
 do?" replied Mademoiselle Irma. "Those who 
 get into low water always fall ill of it, and some- 
 times those who are not so unfortunate." 
 
 A shadow of anguish passed across the eyes of 
 one or two of the girls at these words. Mademoi- 
 selle Anne, who had hollows in her pink cheeks, 
 remarked: 
 
 "And yet she was a strongly made girl!" 
 
 Reine added, in a low voice: 
 
 "I was very fond of her. At times she was so 
 cheerful." 
 
 No more was said, and the talk turned to other 
 matters. Outside the sun was shining brightly. 
 Through the top panes of the window could be 
 seen the blue- sky and the top of the poplar tree, 
 which sparkled so in the sun's rays that it looked 
 like the silver-tipped aigrette which Mademoiselle 
 Mathilde was just then fixing in position on a 
 straw hat. 
 
 Ten days later there came another letter. 
 
 "I am better, Henriette. I know you will be 
 glad to hear this. No sound reaches me here from
 
 REDEMPTION 289 
 
 my large noisy Paris, and the air is good. They 
 bring me a bowl of warm milk every morning and 
 I fall to sleep after I have drunk it. I think it 
 must be the strong air which makes me sleep 
 from nine o'clock at night till seven in the morn- 
 ing. Just think of me being able to walk in 
 the beautiful park here! Some one always goes 
 with me, it is true, as I am not yet very strong. 
 There are green lawns and cows, and chestnut 
 trees under which I sit, and when I am more 
 equal to the exertion I am going down to the 
 lake, which lies quite at the bottom, surrounded 
 by tall trees. I meet young girls; they do not 
 know me, but they smile at me out of kindness. 
 So you see I am really better. If you write to me 
 again, please do not write so small; it tries my 
 
 "MARIE." 
 
 Another two weeks went by. One morning, 
 when she was starting a little later than usual for 
 work, she met the postman coming upstairs. 
 "I have a letter for you, Mademoiselle Madiot." 
 "Ah! So much the better! Give it me." 
 "It is an answer from Marie," she thought. 
 The postman gave her the letter, and went away. 
 The writing was not Marie's. It was long and 
 regular, and written by a trained hand. Henriette 
 gave a little start of fear. She read the following 
 words, dated from Villepinte: 
 
 "MADEMOISELLE, Our little boarder, Marie 
 Schwarz, has had a relapse. We fear, and the 
 doctor fears, that she will not get over it. The
 
 290 REDEMPTION 
 
 poor child has but one dream to see you again. 
 She calls for you, and talks of you whenever she 
 is able to speak. I promised to send you her mes- 
 sage, and she has just asked me to say, 'Tell her 
 that I shall wait to die until I see her.' If it is 
 possible for you to come, Mademoiselle, come 
 quickly. "SISTER MARIE SYLVIE." 
 
 Henriette wept all along the way, until she 
 reached Madame Clemence's house. Then she 
 wiped her eyes, and thrust the letter inside her 
 dress. In answer to her friends' inquiries, she 
 only said that she was not well. 
 
 All day long, as she sat over her work, her 
 thoughts were full of Marie. 
 
 Shortly before closing time she left the work 
 room to go and speak to Madame Clemence. All 
 the girls noticed how pale and agitated she looked 
 on her return. They were all seated, although 
 most of them had left off Work. One or two were 
 putting a final touch to a bow of ribbon. 
 
 One by one the heads, with their dark, fair, or 
 chestnut-coloured hair, lit up by some straggling 
 rays of the glorious June sun, turned toward 
 Henriette, as if she had called them by name. 
 And indeed her eyes were wandering round the 
 two green-covered tables, near which she had 
 spent so many days of her life. She was trying to 
 fix in her mind's eye the image of those young 
 faces and figures, that she was never to see again. 
 In thought she laid mute kisses on their brows, 
 their laughing and tender lips; all at once, old 
 memories revived and clung about them, as when
 
 REDEMPTION 291 
 
 an elder sister, on the eve of her marriage, looks 
 round on the sisters from whom she is about to 
 part. Had she loved them all? What did that 
 matter at this last hour? They had shared her 
 days of humble toil, which had now come to an 
 end. In those few minutes she had re-lived her 
 life with them, and had said to each the good-by 
 that she wished without response. Then master- 
 ing her overpowering emotion: 
 
 "Mesdemoiselles," she said, "I have received 
 fresh news of Marie. She has become worse." 
 
 Then all the young faces, sad, gentle, foolish or 
 love-stricken, looked up with the same expression 
 of pity: 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Irma, "what a short time it 
 has taken." 
 
 "She is my age," said Jeanne, who had just 
 turned twenty. 
 
 And then several of them began asking at 
 once: 
 
 "Where is she? Still at Villepinte? Does she 
 suffer much? She will get better, will she not? 
 Did she write herself?" 
 
 Henriette, standing near the door, her face pale 
 in the beautiful sunlight, answered them amid her 
 tears, hardly knowing for whom she was weeping 
 most, those she was leaving or the one who was 
 dying down there. After their first exclamations 
 of distress, which was felt equally by all although 
 expressed in different words, the girls fell silent, 
 as often happens after the first blow has been 
 struck and while sorrow is making its way to the 
 very heart of our being. It was broken by a voice
 
 292 REDEMPTION 
 
 close to Henriette, Reine's voice, clear, harmoni- 
 ous, and agitated, saying: 
 
 "If you would be willing, Mesdemoiselles, I 
 have thought of something which I am sure would 
 give her pleasure." 
 
 The apprentice was the only one to speak: 
 
 "What is it?" 
 ' The others looked at Reine, who continued : 
 
 "Let us make a hat, all of us together, a pretty 
 one, and send it her." 
 
 "But she would not be able to wear it," put in 
 the child again. 
 
 The clear voice replied: 
 
 "Perhaps not, but she will say: 'Am I going to 
 get well then? Do they think I am going to get 
 well?' It will give her a few minutes' pleasure. 
 It needs so little to cheer one, when one is ill!" 
 
 "That is true," said Irma. "I am ready; it is 
 a good thought of yours, Mademoiselle Reine." 
 
 "And I too, and I too," exclaimed all the girls. 
 
 "Put on your thimbles again." 
 
 "I haven't put away my needles, and here is 
 my thread." 
 
 "It had better be a round straw hat, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "Or a pretty little felt? Don't you think so?" 
 
 One said one thing, and another, another. 
 Then Mademoiselle Jeanne drew out her purse 
 and threw a new franc on the^table. 
 
 "Here is my contribution. Who will give the 
 same? " 
 
 There was soon a little white heap of francs and 
 half-francs on the green cloth. The apprentice,
 
 REDEMPTION 293 
 
 her hair more dishevelled than ever, put out her 
 hand with two sous in it, and said blushing: 
 
 "That is all I have." 
 
 "Perhaps Madame Cle"mence will give us some- 
 thing," said one of the girls. 
 
 "I will go and ask that we may stay overtime 
 to-night," said Henriette. 
 
 The permission having been obtained, they all 
 drew their stools to the table, and elbow to elbow, 
 each eager to have a share in the work, began 
 trimming Marie's hat. With their bright thim- 
 bles on, they had regained some of their ordinary 
 carelessness and gayety. Two or three searched 
 the boxes for ribbons and feathers, for any rem- 
 nants that were out of fashion, and other trim- 
 mings. Several hands were held up together. 
 
 "Will you have a shot ribbon, Mademoiselle 
 Henriette? Here is one, blue and yellow? No? 
 Well, a gray wing? This is a pretty one! a gull's 
 wing, I think. Look here, Mesdemoiselles. And 
 this satin, what a love! Perhaps you are right, 
 the red would go best; she is dark. Poor girl! 
 Poor Marie ! You will let her know all our names, 
 and tell her there have been changes in the work 
 room. I should like to be there when she re- 
 ceives the box, well packed up, with the name 
 of the house on it. It would be sad, all the 
 same!" 
 
 Henriette had left Jeanne and Irma to finish 
 Marie's hat, which was a white straw, trimmed 
 with red bows and a peak at the back, and very 
 pale roses, just seen emerging from the dull green 
 and reddish-brown moss which surrounded them.
 
 294 REDEMPTION 
 
 It was artistically designed to suit the strong 
 dark beauty of the girl who would never wear the 
 moss roses or the red bows. Three pairs of scis- 
 sors were thrust forward whenever a thread 
 wanted cutting. 
 
 These children sat, full of youthful alertness 
 and thought, watching the two at work upon the 
 masterpiece. They forgot dinner and home and 
 fatigue for the sake of giving pleasure to Marie, 
 whom they had known but in passing, and would 
 never see again. And when Irma held up the 
 finished hat, one of them said : 
 
 "I am sorry; now we shall leave off talking 
 about her! How are we going to send it to her?" 
 
 Henriette, who had risen with the others, 
 replied : 
 
 "I will see that she has it." 
 
 Something hi the tone of her voice as she said 
 these words made two or three of the girls turn 
 and look at her. 
 
 Reine, who was quick of instinct Reine, who 
 loved her, went up to Henriette as the latter was 
 taking her hat and gray boa from the cupboard. 
 
 "Henriette," she said in a low voice, "you are 
 surely not going to leave us? You are not going 
 to take the hat to her yourself, are you? I have 
 always been afraid of seeing you go away!" 
 
 "Go away where?" 
 
 Reine looked up with her sweet eyes and said: 
 
 "I know Go!" 
 
 Henriette could not answer her. The other 
 workers, anxious to get home, had already left 
 the room. She drew the young Breton girl
 
 REDEMPTION 295 
 
 toward her, and leaned her fair head gently down 
 against her friend's cheek. 
 
 "I love you, dearest," she said; "I shall never 
 cease to love you. Now run home quickly; I am 
 sure your fiance is waiting for you." 
 
 She was the last to leave the empty house ; she 
 went slowly; never before had it taken her so 
 long to reach the street. 
 
 Outside a storm was threatening. Gigantic 
 clouds were driving from the west across the 
 crystal clearness of the sky. 
 
 Eloi Madiot and Henriette sat up late into the 
 night in their home in the Rue de 1'Ermitage. In 
 the acuteness of their mutual suffering, they felt 
 strengthened by the consciousness of the great 
 love they bore one another. 
 
 At last Madiot spoke: 
 
 "I shall travel about a bit. I shall see my little 
 one again." 
 
 The storm was rolling down over the hills, and 
 half the sky was now black with clouds.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 IT was a warm, misty, oppressive afternoon at 
 the Asylum of Villepinte. 
 
 "My sister, Mademoiselle Marie Schwarz?" 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Is she still alive?" 
 
 "Yes, but very ill." 
 
 "Oh! Let me go to her at once." 
 
 Henriette followed the nun through the vast 
 building, so white, so clean, with its polished wain- 
 scotings and floors and staircases. It was almost 
 a palace, built by the tenderest of pity for the 
 worst of suffering, for women, young women, 
 attacked by the malady that spares so few. 
 Everything was done to soften the last hours of 
 the dying ones who came within its shelter, and 
 to offer something better than a hospital, with its 
 chill monotony, to the poor, worn-out women who 
 recovered health and strength beneath its roof. 
 Pity had surrounded them with light, air, and 
 verdure, and added a little luxury to please the 
 eye, and to afford company during the long hours. 
 
 Henriette passed several large rooms, contain- 
 ing four or five beds, christened with the names 
 of saints: Saint-Denis, Saint-Martin, Saint-Stan- 
 islas, Saint Louis de Gonzague. She caught sight 
 of beautiful faces ravaged with disease; of in- 
 quisitive glances, and wet eyes; of hair-nets with 
 
 296
 
 REDEMPTION 297 
 
 blue bows. One child tried to follow her upstairs, 
 but had to stop to take breath after the third 
 step, holding her hand to her chest. 
 
 "We are not going too quickly, Mademoi- 
 selle?" asked the nun. 
 
 She was accustomed to being followed more 
 slowly. 
 
 Henriette was carrying a hat box, done up in 
 paper, with the name upon it of the millinery 
 establishment at Nantes. 
 
 Mother Marie-Sylvie, who was conducting her, 
 paused before a door on the second floor, the 
 Saint- Agnes ward. Henriette began to tremble 
 violently. 
 
 The mother, with her hand on the door, looked 
 back and said in a low voice : 
 
 "She is here," and then, without a sound, she 
 glided into the room like a breath of air. 
 
 The ward was similar to the others, only lighter 
 if anything. Eight white beds were ranged at 
 right angles to the windows. At the end of the 
 room, on a table surrounded with flowers and 
 ornaments, stood a figure of the Madonna of 
 Lourdes. The blue sash gave the impression of 
 flying, and the feet, starred with a golden rose, 
 seemed hardly to touch the ground. And there, 
 in front of her, Henriette saw her she had come 
 to find. 
 
 Marie was not asleep; she was free from pain; 
 she was waiting, as she had promised. Her hands 
 were hidden. The head, with its wavy mass of 
 hair on either side, which no net could hold, lay 
 so lightly on the pillow that it hardly made an
 
 298 REDEMPTION 
 
 impression. The lips were the same red lips of 
 other days. 
 
 Henriette went forward, in secret terror of 
 heart, as she saw the motionless face and the thin 
 outline of the body under the white sheets. 
 Those past days, those days of exultant youth, 
 those days such a little while ago, when they were 
 running in the field of Mauves! But when she 
 came within range of the sick woman's eyes she 
 saw a light come into the face, and a smile from 
 Marie greeted her. 
 
 The smile seemed to rise from some far deep, 
 whither life and thought had fled; there was a 
 still, radiant sweetness in it, of which life knows 
 nothing. In a low voice, from which all tone had 
 disappeared, as unearthly as the smile, she mur- 
 mured : 
 
 "How good of you to come!" 
 
 Slowly* and with an effort, she turned her head 
 a little toward Henriette, who was bending over 
 and kissing her. 
 
 "How beautiful you are! For me, you see I 
 am at peace. God has forgotten; God knows 
 nothing more about it. Henriette, my own Hen- 
 riette, tell me again that you forgive!" 
 
 "Yes, my beloved one, long ago, almost from the 
 very first, when I knew that he had forsaken you." 
 
 The eyes drowned in shadow moved in a little 
 circle round the room, taking in the sister, the 
 Virgin, Henriette, the bed. 
 
 "I am not forsaken now." 
 
 Then a childish look came into them. 
 
 "What is that, a hat shape?"
 
 REDEMPTION 299 
 
 She was looking at the hat box, and recognized 
 the cover. 
 
 " Dearest, all our friends remember you. When 
 they knew that I was coming to see you they 
 wanted to send you something, and so they made 
 a hat for you, which you are to wear when you 
 are better. Would you like to see it?" 
 
 For the first time a tear rolled down Marie's 
 hollow cheeks. 
 
 " No, do not undo it! It is of no use! But how 
 good of them to do it! You will thank them for 
 me. You are going back, are you not?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Where are you going, then?" 
 
 "Into a convent." 
 
 Henriette had drawn herself up a little. She 
 saw a look of joy rise again to the sufferer's face; 
 she felt herself enfolded in a last flame of love, of 
 admiration, of intense longing, from that burning 
 soul. 
 
 "Ah! Blessed one!" said Marie. 
 
 She closed her eyes. What visions floated 
 through her mind? For the last time she saw 
 again, no doubt, the vanished days, the lost op- 
 portunities, the sins redeemed by suffering. 
 
 She lay long without moving, in calm contem- 
 plation of her dream. 
 
 When she returned to consciousness Henriette 
 was kneeling by the bed. 
 
 She looked at her with her fast-fading eyes, 
 which had no power now to express their love, 
 and which only seemed to say: 
 
 "Why do you stay? What are you waiting
 
 300 REDEMPTION 
 
 for? I am tired. We have said all we wanted 
 to." 
 
 She did not understand. l 
 
 But Henriette remained kneeling, her eyes 
 looking into those of her sad and dying sister. 
 
 Then Marie understood what she wanted. It 
 brought a look of mysterious grandeur into her 
 face. Slowly she drew her right arm from under 
 the clothes; she leaned forward; and she, the 
 pardoned sinner, blessed her who was without sin, 
 and traced on the forehead of the virgin the sign 
 of the Cross of Redemption. 
 
 THE END
 
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