She remained anxious, listening to old Bazouge grumbling himself to sleep, afraid to stir for fear he would think he heard her knocking again.
In her corner of misery, in the midst of her cares and the cares of others, Gervaise had, however, a beautiful example of courage in the home of her neighbors, the Bijards.
Little Lalie, only eight years old and no larger than a sparrow, took care of the household as competently as a grown person.
The job was not an easy one because she had two little tots, her brother Jules and her sister Henriette, aged three and five, to watch all day long while sweeping and cleaning.
Ever since Bijard had killed his wife with a kick in the stomach, Lalie had become the little mother of them all.
Without saying a word, and of her own accord, she filled the place of one who had gone, to the extent that her brute of a father, no doubt to complete the resemblance, now belabored the daughter as he had formerly belabored the mother.
Whenever he came home drunk, he required a woman to massacre.
He did not even notice that Lalie was quite little; he would not have beaten some old trollop harder.
Little Lalie, so thin it made you cry, took it all without a word of complaint in her beautiful, patient eyes.
Never would she revolt.
She bent her neck to protect her face and stifled her sobs so as not to alarm the neighbors.
When her father got tired of kicking her, she would rest a bit until she got her strength back and then resume her work.
It was part of her job, being beaten daily.
Gervaise entertained a great friendship for her little neighbor.
She treated her as an equal, as a grown-up woman of experience.
It must be said that Lalie had a pale and serious look, with the expression of an old girl.
One might have thought her thirty on hearing her speak.
She knew very well how to buy things, mend the clothes, attend to the home, and she spoke of the children as though she had already gone through two or thee nurseries in her time.
It made people smile to hear her talk thus at eight years old; and then a lump would rise in their throats, and they would hurry away so as not to burst out crying.
Gervaise drew the child towards her as much as she could, gave her all she could spare of food and old clothing.
One day as she tried one of Nana’s old dresses on her, she almost choked with anger on seeing her back covered with bruises, the skin off her elbow, which was still bleeding, and all her innocent flesh martyred and sticking to her bones.
Well! Old Bazouge could get a box ready; she would not last long at that rate!
But the child had begged the laundress not to say a word.
She would not have her father bothered on her account.
She took his part, affirming that he would not have been so wicked if it had not been for the drink.
He was mad, he did not know what he did.
Oh! she forgave him, because one ought to forgive madmen everything.
From that time Gervaise watched and prepared to interfere directly she heard Bijard coming up the stairs.
But on most of the occasions she only caught some whack for her trouble.
When she entered their room in the day-time, she often found Lalie tied to the foot of the iron bedstead; it was an idea of the locksmith’s, before going out, to tie her legs and her body with some stout rope, without anyone being able to find out why — a mere whim of a brain diseased by drink, just for the sake, no doubt, of maintaining his tyranny over the child when he was no longer there.
Lalie, as stiff as a stake, with pins and needles in her legs, remained whole days at the post. She once even passed a night there, Bijard having forgotten to come home.
Whenever Gervaise, carried away by her indignation, talked of unfastening her, she implored her not to disturb the rope, because her father became furious if he did not find the knots tied the same way he had left them.
Really, it wasn’t so bad, it gave her a rest. She smiled as she said this though her legs were swollen and bruised.
What upset her the most was that she couldn’t do her work while tied to the bed.
She could watch the children though, and even did some knitting, so as not to entirely waste the time.
The locksmith had thought of another little game too.
He heated sous in the frying pan, then placed them on a corner of the mantle-piece; and he called Lalie, and told her to fetch a couple of pounds of bread.
The child took up the sous unsuspectingly, uttered a cry and threw them on the ground, shaking her burnt hand.
Then he flew into a fury.
Who had saddled him with such a piece of carrion?
She lost the money now!
And he threatened to beat her to a jelly if she did not pick the sous up at once.
When the child hesitated she received the first warning, a clout of such force that it made her see thirty-six candles.
Speechless and with two big tears in the corners of her eyes, she would pick up the sous and go off, tossing them in the palm of her hand to cool them.
No, one could never imagine the ferocious ideas which may sprout from the depths of a drunkard’s brain.
One afternoon, for instance, Lalie having made everything tidy was playing with the children.
The window was open, there was a draught, and the wind blowing along the passage gently shook the door.
“It’s Monsieur Hardy,” the child was saying.
“Come in, Monsieur Hardy. Pray have the kindness to walk in.”
And she curtsied before the door, she bowed to the wind.