"I do not get a good view of you, my little one," said the old lady, suddenly.
"Do not stay there; I do not get a good view of you. Go to the rear of the room, that I may see you better."
And she cried, in an astonished voice:
"My God! how little you are!" In saying these words, she had moved her chair, and now I had a sight of her profile. I expected to see a hooked nose, long teeth protruding from the mouth, and the round and yellow eye of a hawk. Not at all; her face was calm, rather amiable. In truth, there was no expression at all in her eyes, either kind or unkind. She must have been an old shop-keeper, retired from business. Merchants have this faculty of acquiring a special physiognomy, revealing nothing of their inner nature. In proportion as they grow hardened in their business, and as the habit of unjust and rapid gains develops low instincts and ferocious ambitions, the expression of their face softens, or, rather, becomes neutralized. That in them which is bad, that which might inspire distrust in their customers, hides itself in the privacies of their being, or takes refuge on corporeal surfaces that are ordinarily destitute of any expression whatever. In this old lady the hardness of her soul, invisible in her eyes, in her mouth, in her forehead, in all the relaxed muscles of her flabby face, was exhibited prominently in her neck. Her neck was her real face, and this face was terrible.
Louise, obeying the old lady's command, had gone to the rear of the room.
The desire to please gave her a really monstrous look and a discouraging attitude.
Scarcely had she placed herself in the light, when the lady cried:
"Oh! how ugly you are, my little one!" And calling Mme. Paulhat-Durand to witness:
"Can there really be creatures on earth as ugly as this little one?"
Ever solemn and dignified, Mme. Paulhat-Durand answered:
"Undoubtedly she is not a beauty, but Mademoiselle is very honest."
"Possibly," replied the lady.
"But she is too ugly. Such ugliness is in the last degree disagreeable. What?
What did you say?"
Louise had not uttered a word.
She had simply blushed a little, and lowered her head.
Her dull eyes were surrounded with a red streak.
I thought she was going to cry.
"Well, let us look into this," resumed the lady, whose fingers at this moment, furiously agitated, were tearing the material of her gown, with the movements of a cruel beast.
She questioned Louise regarding her family, her previous places, and her capacities for cooking, sewing, and doing housework. Louise answered, "Yes, indeed," or "No, indeed," hoarsely and spasmodically.
The examination, fastidious, unkind, criminal, lasted twenty minutes.
"Well, my little one," concluded the old lady, "the clearest thing about you is that you do not know how to do anything.
I shall have to teach you everything.
For four or five months you will be of no use to me.
And besides, such ugliness is not prepossessing. That gash in your nose?
Have you received a blow?"
"No, Madame, it has always been there."
"Well, it is not very attractive. What pay do you expect?"
"Thirty francs, washing, and wine," declared Louise, resolutely.
The old woman started.
"Thirty francs!
Have you never, then, looked at yourself?
It is senseless!
What?
Nobody wants you; nobody will ever want you. If I take you, it is because I am kind, it is because I really pity you. And you ask me thirty francs! Well, you have audacity, my little one. Undoubtedly your comrades have been giving you bad advice. You do wrong to listen to them."
"Surely," said Mme. Paulhat-Durand, approvingly. "When they get together, they get very big ideas."
"Well," offered the old lady, in a tone of conciliation,
"I will give you fifteen francs.
And you will pay for your wine.
It is too much. But I do not wish to take advantage of your ugliness and distress."
She softened.
Her voice became almost caressing.
"You see, my little one, this is a unique opportunity, such as you will not find again. I am not like the others; I am alone, I have no family, I have no one. My servant is my family. And what do I ask of my servant?
To love me a little, that is all. My servant lives with me, eats with me ... apart from the wine. Oh! I am indulgent to her. And then, when I die,—for I am very old and often sick,—when I die, surely I shall not forget the girl who has been devoted to me, served me well, and taken care of me. You are ugly, very ugly, too ugly. Well, I shall get used to your ugliness, to your face. There are some pretty women who are very ill-disposed, and who rob you beyond question. Ugliness is sometimes a guarantee of morality in the house.
Of course, you will bring no men to my house?
You see, I know how to do you justice.
Under these conditions, and as kind as I am, what I offer you, my little one,—why, it is a fortune; better than a fortune, it is a family!"
Louise was shaken.
Certainly, the old lady's words caused unknown hopes to sing in her head. With her peasant's rapacity, she had visions of strong-boxes filled with gold, and fabulous wills. And life in common, with this good mistress, the table shared, frequent trips to the squares and the suburban woods,—these things seemed marvelous to her.
And they frightened her also, for doubts, an unconquerable and native mistrust, dimmed the brilliancy of these promises. She knew not what to say or do; she knew not what course to take. I felt a desire to cry out to her: