Mlle. Fouchette Part 14

"These Parisian police----"

"Chut!"

But they need not have taken even this little precaution before Fouchette. She had long been lost in the profound depths of her own gloomy thoughts. In her isolation she required but a single, simple thing to render her happy,--a thing which costs nothing,--something of which there is an abundance and to spare in the world, thank G.o.d!--and that was a little show of kindness.

The child was not very sensitive to bad treatment. To that she was inured; but she had tasted the sweets of kindness, and it had inspired hopes that already began to wither, encouraged dreams that had already vanished.

Fouchette was fast falling into her habitual state of childish cynicism. The police had tricked her, no doubt. She was more than suspicious of this as she noted their approach towards a pile of buildings surrounded by a high wall, which reminded her of La Roquette. This wall had great iron spikes and broken gla.s.s bottles set in cement on top, and seemed to stretch away out of sight in the growing shadows of evening. Once proceeding parallel with the wall, the buildings beyond were no longer visible to those outside.

They stopped in front of an immense arched gateway, apparently of the mediaeval period, with a porter's lodge on one side, slightly recessed.

The gates were of stout oak thickly studded with big-headed nails and bolts. In the heavy oaken door of the lodge was set a bra.s.s "judas," a small grille closed by an inner slide, and which might be operated by an unseen hand within so as to betray the ident.i.ty of any person outside without unbarring the door,--a not uncommon arrangement in French gates and outside doors.

If Fouchette had not been restricted by the sides and top of the van, she might have seen the words "Le Bon Pasteur" carved in the ancient stone above the great gateway. But, inasmuch as she could not have read the inscription, and would not have been able to understand it in any case, it was no great matter.

The driver of the van got down and let fall the old-fas.h.i.+oned iron knocker. The judas showed a glistening eye for a second, then closed.

This was immediately followed by a slipping of bolts and a clanging of iron bars, and then the big gates swung inward. They appeared to do this without human aid, and shut again in the same mysterious way when the vehicle had pa.s.sed.

"Supper, thank goodness!" said Sister Agnes, with a sigh.

"You're always hungry----"

"Pretty nearly."

"Always thinking of something to eat," continued the other, reprovingly. "It is not a good example to the young, sister. The carnal appet.i.te, it is a sin, my sister, to flatter it!"

"Dame! As if one could possibly be open to such a charge here!"

retorted the ruddy-faced Agnes.

"We are taught to restrain,--mortify,--pluck out,--cut off the offending member. It is----"

"But what are we going to do with this child, Sister Angelique?"

interrupted Sister Agnes, and abruptly shutting off the religious enthusiast. "She must be hungry. And the Superieure----"

"Cannot be disturbed at this hour. In the morning is time enough for an unpleasant subject. Take her to No. 17,--it is prepared,--in the right lower corridor."

"Sainte Marie!" cried Sister Agnes, crossing herself, "as if I didn't know! Why, I was taken to that cell myself when I came here forty years ago!"

"Perhaps, and have never had reason to regret it, quite surely. But take this child there. Let her begin her new life with fasting and prayer, as you doubtless did, sister. It will serve to fit her to come before the Superieure in the morning with the humble spirit of one who is to receive so much and who, evidently, can give so little."

Fouchette was so bewildered with her surroundings that she paid little attention to what was being said. The great irregular piles of buildings, the going and coming of the ghostly figures, the silence, impressed her vividly. Of the nearest building, she could see that the windows were grated with iron bars; her ears registered the word "cell." Fouchette did not understand what was meant by the expression "fasting and prayer," but she had a definite idea of a "cell" in a house with grated windows within a high wall.

"Come! hurry up, my child; I want my supper. Yes, and I'll see that they treat you better than they did me. Come this way! Yes,--mon Dieu!

Mortify the fles.h.!.+ Flatter the carnal appet.i.te!"

She muttered continuously, as she led Fouchette along a dark corridor with which her feet were familiar.

"Forty years! Ah! Mother of G.o.d! Pluck it out! Cut it off! Blessed Sainte Agnes, give me patience! Forty years! Holy Mother, pardon me!

Forty years! Yes! Reason to regret? May the good G.o.d forgive me!--Here we are, my child."

She suddenly stopped and turned a key, opened a door, thrust the child within, and paused to look around, as if pursuing her reminiscences, oblivious of everything else.

It was a plain cell, such as was used by the early monks when this building was a monastery, possibly nine by six feet, with a high, small, grated hole for the only light and air. A narrow iron cot, a combination stand, and a low stool const.i.tuted the sole furniture. A rusty iron crucifix in the middle of the wall opposite the bed was the only decoration. The rest was blank stone, staring white with crumbling whitewash.

Stone floor, stone walls, stone ceiling,--cold, clammy, cheerless.

The floor was worn into a smooth, shallow furrow lengthwise, showing where countless weary inmates had paced up and down, up and down, during the long hours. And beneath the crucifix were scooped out two round hollows in the solid rock, where countless knees had bent in recognition of the Christ.

The religieuse seemed to forget the presence of Fouchette, for she dropped upon her own knees in the little hollows in the cold stone floor beneath the rusty iron crucifix on the wall.

"Oh, pardon, my child!" she exclaimed, coming back to the present as she arose from prayer, "I forgot. Forty years ago,--it comes upon me here."

She gently removed the little hat with its cheap flowers, then bent over and kissed the thin cheeks, promising to return soon with something to eat.

Fouchette heard the door close, the key grate harshly in the lock.

The moisture of the lips and eyes remained upon her cheeks. She felt it still warm, and involuntarily put up both hands, as if to further convince herself that the kisses were real and to hold them there.

The Christ was to her a myth, the crucifix a vague superst.i.tion, prayer a mere unmeaning mummery. But the kisses were tangible and easily understood.

But oh! the country!--the woods! the fields! the flowers!--freedom!

She threw herself on the iron cot and wept pa.s.sionately.

CHAPTER IV

"La, la, la!" came the cheery but subdued voice of Sister Agnes. She had re-entered the cell to catch the last faint sounds of childish grief coming out of the darkness.

"There! Softly now, pet.i.te! Where are you? Oh! If they catch me here at this hour and bringing--s.h.!.+"

The good-hearted woman had groped her way to the cot, raised Fouchette to a sitting posture, and, sitting down by her side, pulled the child over in her arms.

Fouchette, who had almost ceased to weep by this time, was at once overcome anew by the motherly caress and broke down completely. She flung her arms wildly about Sister Agnes's neck and buried her face in the ample bosom.

"La, la, la, la! my little skeleton, there is nothing to be afraid of here. Nothing at all! Don't take on so. G.o.d is everywhere, and takes care of us in the night as well as by day. Fear not! And here, my child, see what I've brought you! Feel, rather,--taste; you must be half starved. Here is a big, fat sandwich, and here's another. And here's a small flacon of the red wine of Bourgogne. You poor child!

You need something for blood. Here's a bit of cheese, too, and, let's see,--by the blessed Sainte! I was told to let you have bread and water and I've actually forgotten the water!

"Now eat! The idea of a big girl like you being afraid in the dark!"

"No, it was not that, madame. Mon Dieu, no! I'm used to that. Indeed, I'm not afraid. It----"

"Then what on earth have you been crying about, child?"

"Oh, madame! it is because--because you are so good to me. Yes, that is it. I'm not used to that,--no!"

Sister Agnes must have been quite agitated by this frank and unexpected avowal, for she pressed the child to her with still greater fervor, kissing her time and again more affectionately, after which she immediately slipped into the religious rut again below the crucifix.