trembling all over at the recollections that were awakened in her mind. She finally inquired: “How did you come back, my poor girl?”
“Pardi! do you suppose I was going to leave you all alone like that, now?” replied Rosalie.
“Light a candle, so I may see you,” said Jeanne. And when the candle was brought to the bedside they looked at each other for some time without speaking a word. Then Jeanne, holding out her hand to her former maid, murmured: “I should not have recognized you, my girl, you have changed greatly; did you know it? But not as much as I have.” And Rosalie, looking at this white-haired woman, thin and faded, whom she had left a beautiful and fresh young woman, said: “That is true, you have changed, Madame Jeanne, and more than you should. But remember, however, that we have not seen each other for twenty-five years.”
They were silent, thinking over the past. At length Jeanne said hesitatingly: “Have you been happy?”
Rosalie, fearful of awakening certain painful souvenirs, stammered out: “Why — yes — yes — madame. I have nothing much to complain of. I have been happier than you have — that is sure. There was only one thing that always weighed on my heart, and that was that I did not stay here— “ And she stopped suddenly, sorry she had referred to that unintentionally. But Jeanne replied gently: “How could you help it, my girl? One cannot always do as they wish. You are a widow now, also, are you not?” Then her voice trembled with emotion as she said: “Have you other — other children?”
“No, madame.”
“And he — your — your boy — what has become of him? Has he turned out well?”
“Yes, madame, he is a good boy and works industriously. He has been married for six months, and he can take my farm now, since I have come back to you.”
Jeanne murmured in a trembling voice: “Then you will never leave me again, my girl?”
“No, indeed, madame, I have arranged all that.”
Jeanne, in spite of herself, began to compare their lives, but without any bitterness, for she was now resigned to the unjust cruelty of fate. She said: “And your husband, how did he treat you?”
“Oh, he was a good man, madame, and not lazy; he knew how to make money. He died of consumption.”
Then Jeanne, sitting up in bed, filled with a longing to know more, said: “Come, tell me everything, my girl, all about your life. It will do me good just now.”
Rosalie, drawing up her chair, began to tell about herself, her home, her people, entering into those minute details dear to country people, describing her yard, laughing at some old recollection that reminded her of good times she had had, and raising her voice by degrees like a farmer’s wife accustomed to command. She ended by saying: “Oh, I am well off now. I don’t have to worry.” Then she became confused again, and said in a lower tone: “It is to you that I owe it, anyhow; and you know I do not want any wages. No, indeed! No, indeed! And if you will not have it so, I will go.”
Jeanne replied: “You do not mean that you are going to serve me for nothing?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, madame. Money! You give me money! Why, I have almost as much as you. Do you know what is left to you will all your jumble of mortgages and borrowing, and interests unpaid which are mounting up every year? Do you know? No, is it not so? Well, then, I can promise you that you have not even ten thousand francs income. Not ten thousand, do you understand? But I will settle all that for you, and very quickly.”
She had begun talking loud again, carried away in her indignation at these interests left unpaid, at this threatening ruin. And as a faint, tender smile passed over the face of her mistress, she cried in a tone of annoyance: “You must not laugh, madame, for without money we are nothing but laborers.”
Jeanne took hold of her hands and kept them in her own; then she said slowly, still full of the idea that haunted her: “Oh, I have had no luck. Everything has gone against me. Fate has a grudge against my life.”
But Rosalie shook her head: “You must not say that, madame. You married badly, that’s all. One should not marry like that, anyway, without knowing anything about one’s intended.”
And they went on talking about themselves just as two old friends might have done.
The sun rose while they were still talking.
French
XII
In a week’s time Rosalie had taken absolute control of everything and everyone in the château. Jeanne was quite resigned and obeyed passively. Weak and dragging her feet as she walked, as little mother had formerly done, she went out walking leaning on Rosalie’s arm, the latter lecturing her and consoling her with abrupt and tender words as they walked slowly along, treating her mistress as though she were a sick child.
They always talked of bygone days, Jeanne with tears in her throat, and Rosalie in the quiet tone of a phlegmatic peasant. The servant kept referring to the subject of unpaid interests; and at last requested Jeanne to give her up all the business papers that Jeanne, in her ignorance of money matters, was hiding from her, out of consideration for her son.
After that, for a week, Rosalie went to Fécamp every day to have matters explained to her by a lawyer whom she knew.
One evening, after having put her mistress to bed, she sat down by the bedside and said abruptly: “Now that you are settled quietly, madame, we will have a chat.” And she told her exactly how matters stood.
When everything was settled, there would be about seven thousand francs of income left, no more.
“We cannot help it, my girl,” said Jeanne. “I feel that I shall not make old bones, and there will be quite enough for me.”
But Rosalie was annoyed: “For you, madame, it might be; but M. Paul — will you leave nothing for him?”
Jeanne shuddered. “I beg you not to mention him again. It hurts me too much to think about him.”
“But I wish to speak about him, because you see you are not brave, Madame Jeanne. He does foolish things. Well! what of it? He will not do so always; and then he will marry and have children. He will need money to bring them up. Pay attention to me: you must sell ‘The Poplars.’”
Jeanne sprang up in a sitting posture. “Sell ‘The Poplars’! Do you mean it? Oh, never, never!”
But Rosalie was not disturbed. “I tell you that you will sell the place, madame, because it must be done.” And then she explained her calculations, her plans, her reasons.
Once they had sold “The Poplars” and the two farms belonging to it to a buyer whom she had found, they would keep four farms situated at St. Leonard, which, free of all mortgage, would bring in an income of eight thousand three hundred francs. They would set aside thirteen hundred francs a year for repairs and for the upkeep of the property; there would then remain seven thousand francs, five thousand of which would cover the annual expenditures and the other two thousand would be put away for a rainy day.
