so fond of gossiping. They had become more intimate than ever since La Couteau, at Celeste’s instigation, had taken Madame Menoux’s child, Pierre, to Rougemont, to be put out to nurse there in the best possible way for the sum of thirty francs a month. La Couteau had also very complaisantly promised to call each month at one or another of her journeys in order to receive the thirty francs, thereby saving the mother the trouble of sending the money by post, and also enabling her to obtain fresh news of her child. Thus, each time a payment became due, if La Couteau’s journey happened to be delayed a single day, Madame Menoux grew terribly frightened, and hastened off to Celeste to make inquiries of her. And, moreover, she was glad to have an opportunity of conversing with this girl, who came from the very part where her little Pierre was being reared.
“You will excuse, me, won’t you, mademoiselle, for calling so early,” said she, “but you told me that your lady never required you before nine o’clock. And I’ve come, you know, because I’ve had no news from over yonder, and it occurred to me that you perhaps might have received a letter.”
Blonde, short and thin, Madame Menoux, who was the daughter of a poor clerk, had a slender pale face, and a pleasant, but somewhat sad, expression. From her own slightness of build probably sprang her passionate admiration for her big, handsome husband, who could have crushed her between his fingers. If she was slight, however, she was endowed with unconquerable tenacity and courage, and she would have killed herself with hard work to provide him with the coffee and cognac which he liked to sip after each repast.
“Ah! it’s hard,” she continued, “to have had to send our Pierre so far away. As it is, I don’t see my husband all day, and now I’ve a child whom I never see at all. But the misfortune is that one has to live, and how could I have kept the little fellow in that tiny shop of mine, where from morning till night I never have a moment to spare! Yet, I can’t help crying at the thought that I wasn’t able to keep and nurse him. When my husband comes home from the museum every evening, we do nothing but talk about him, like a pair of fools. And so, according to you, mademoiselle, that place Rougemont is very healthy, and there are never any nasty illnesses about there?”
But at this moment she was interrupted by the arrival of another early visitor, whose advent she hailed with a cry of delight.
“Oh! how happy I am to see you, Madame Couteau! What a good idea it was of mine to call here!”
Amid exclamations of joyous surprise, the nurse-agent explained that she had arrived by the night train with a batch of nurses, and had started on her round of visits as soon as she had deposited them in the Rue Roquepine.
“After bidding Celeste goodday in passing,” said she, “I intended to call on you, my dear lady. But since you are here, we can settle our accounts here, if you are agreeable.”
Madame Menoux, however, was looking at her very anxiously. “And how is my little Pierre?” she asked.
“Why, not so bad, not so bad. He is not, you know, one of the strongest; one can’t say that he’s a big child. Only he’s so pretty and nice-looking with his rather pale face. And it’s quite certain that if there are bigger babies than he is, there are smaller ones too.”
She spoke more slowly as she proceeded, and carefully sought words which might render the mother anxious, without driving her to despair. These were her usual tactics in order to disturb her customers’ hearts, and then extract as much money from them as possible. On this occasion she must have guessed that she might carry things so far as to ascribe a slight illness to the child.
“However, I must really tell you, because I don’t know how to lie; and besides, after all, it’s my duty — Well, the poor little darling has been ill, and he’s not quite well again yet.”
Madame Menoux turned very pale and clasped her puny little hands: “Mon Dieu! he will die of it.”
“No, no, since I tell you that he’s already a little better. And certainly he doesn’t lack good care. You should just see how La Loiseau coddles him! When children are well behaved they soon get themselves loved. And the whole house is at his service, and no expense is spared The doctor came twice, and there was even some medicine. And that costs money.”
The last words fell from La Couteau’s lips with the weight of a club. Then, without leaving the scared, trembling mother time to recover, the nurse-agent continued: “Shall we go into our accounts, my dear lady?”
Madame Menoux, who had intended to make a payment before returning to her shop, was delighted to have some money with her. They looked for a slip of paper on which to set down the figures; first the month’s nursing, thirty francs; then the doctor, six francs; and indeed, with the medicine, that would make ten francs.
“Ah! and besides, I meant to tell you,” added La Couteau, “that so much linen was dirtied during his illness that you really ought to add three francs for the soap. That would only be just; and besides, there were other little expenses, sugar, and eggs, so that in your place, to act like a good mother, I should put down five francs. Forty-five francs altogether, will that suit you?”
In spite of her emotion Madame Menoux felt that she was being robbed, that the other was speculating on her distress. She made a gesture of surprise and revolt at the idea of having to give so much money — that money which she found so hard to earn. No end of cotton and needles had to be sold to get such a sum together! And her distress, between the necessity of economy on the one hand and her maternal anxiety on the other, would have touched the hardest heart.
“But that will make another half-month’s money,” said she.
At this La Couteau put on her most frigid air: “Well, what would you have? It isn’t my fault. One can’t let your child die, so one must incur the necessary expenses. And then, if you haven’t confidence in me, say so; send the money and settle things direct. Indeed, that will greatly relieve me, for in all this I lose my time and trouble; but then, I’m always stupid enough to be too obliging.”
When Madame Menoux, again quivering and anxious, had given way, another difficulty arose. She had only some gold with her, two twenty-franc pieces and one ten-franc piece. The three coins lay glittering on the table. La Couteau looked at them with her yellow fixed eyes.
“Well, I can’t give you your five francs change,” she said, “I haven’t any change with me. And you, Celeste, have you any change for this lady?”
She risked asking this question, but put it in such a tone and with such a glance that the other immediately understood her. “I have not a copper in my pocket,” she replied.
Deep silence fell. Then, with bleeding heart and a gesture of cruel resignation, Madame Menoux did what was expected of her.
“Keep those five francs for yourself, Madame Couteau, since you have to take so much trouble. And, mon Dieu! may all this money bring me good luck, and at least enable my poor little fellow to grow up a fine handsome man like his father.”
“Oh! as for that I’ll warrant it,” cried the other, with enthusiasm. “Those little ailments don’t mean anything — on the contrary. I see plenty of little folks, I do; and so just remember what I tell you, yours will become an extraordinarily fine child. There won’t be better.”
When Madame Menoux went off, La Couteau had lavished such flattery and such promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longer regretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre would come back to her with plump cheeks and all the vigor of a young oak.
As soon as the door had closed behind the haberdasher,
