"Do not accept."
For I could see this hermit-like life, the exhausting tasks, the bitter reproaches, the disputed food, and the stripped bones and spoiled meat thrown to her hunger, and the eternal, patient, torturing exploitation of a poor, defenceless being.
"No, do not listen to her; go away!"
But I repressed this cry, which was on my lips.
"Come a little nearer, my little one," ordered the old lady. "One would think that you were afraid of me. Come, do not be afraid of me; come nearer. How curious it is! Already you seem less ugly. Already I am getting used to your face."
Louise approached slowly, with stiffened members, trying hard not to run against the chairs and furniture, endeavoring to walk with elegance, the poor creature!
But she had scarcely placed herself beside the old lady, when the latter repulsed her with a grimace.
"My God!" she cried, "what is the matter with you?
Why do you smell so bad?
Is your body rotten?
It is frightful! It is incredible! Never did any one smell as you smell.
Have you, then, a cancer in your nose, or perhaps in your stomach?"
Mme. Paulhat-Durand made a noble gesture.
"I had warned you, Madame," she said.
"That is her great fault.
It is that which keeps her from finding a place."
The old lady continued to groan.
"My God!
My God! is it possible?
Why, you will taint the whole house; you cannot stay near me. This changes the case entirely. And when I was beginning to feel sympathy for you!
No, no; in spite of all my kindness, it is not possible, it is no longer possible!"
She had pulled out her handkerchief, and was trying to dissipate the putrid air, as she repeated:
"No, really, it is no longer possible!"
"Come, Madame," intervened Mme. Paulhat-Durand, "make an effort. I am sure that this unhappy girl will always be grateful to you."
"Grateful?
That is all well enough. But gratitude will not cure her of this frightful infirmity. Well, so be it!
But I can give her only ten francs. Ten francs, no more! She can take it or leave it."
Louise, who had so far kept back her tears, was choking.
"No ... I will not ... I will not ... I will not."
"Listen, Mademoiselle," said Mme. Paulhat-Durand, dryly. "You will accept this place. If you don't, I will not undertake to get another for you. You can go and ask for places at the other bureaus. I have had enough. And you are doing injury to my house."
"It is evident," insisted the old lady.
"And you ought to thank me for these ten francs. It is out of pity, out of charity, that I offer them to you. How is it that you do not see that I am doing a good work, of which no doubt I shall repent, as I have repented of others?"
Then, addressing Mme. Paulhat-Durand, she added:
"What do you expect?
I am so constituted. I cannot bear to see people suffer. In the presence of misfortune I become utterly stupid.
And at my age one does not change, you know.
Come, my little one, I take you with me."
Just then a sudden cramp forced me to descend from my post of observation.
I never saw Louise again. _____
The next day but one Mme. Paulhat-Durand had me ceremoniously ushered into the bureau, and, after having examined me in rather an embarrassing fashion, she said to me:
"Mademoiselle Celestine, I have a good place for you, a very good place. Only you have to go into the country,—oh! not very far."
"Into the country?
I do not go there, you know."
She insisted.
"You do not know the country. There are excellent places in the country."
"Oh! excellent places! What a humbug!" I said.
"In the first place, there are no good places anywhere."
Mme. Paulhat-Durand smiled amiably and affectedly.
Never had I seen such a smile on her face.
"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Celestine, there are no bad places."