Nobody's Girl Part 4

"We have lived in this wagon for more than a year," said her mother; "your father died here, and although it's a poor thing, it makes me sad to part with it.... It is all that remains of him ... there is not one of these old things here that does not remind us of him...."

She stopped, gasping; the tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh, forgive me, mother, for speaking about it," cried Perrine.

"My darling, you are right. You are only a child, but you have thought of the things that I should have. I shall not be better tomorrow nor the next day, and we must sell these things, and we must decide to sell...."

The mother hesitated. There was a painful silence.

"Palikare," said Perrine at last.

"You have thought that also?" asked the mother.

"Yes," said Perrine, "and I have been so unhappy about it, and sometimes I did not dare look at him for fear he would guess that we were going to part with him instead of taking him to Maraucourt with us. He would have been so happy there after such a long journey."

"If we were only sure of a welcome, but they may turn us away. If they do, all we can do then is to lie down by the roadside and die, but no matter what it costs, we must get to Maraucourt, and we must present ourselves as well as we can so that they will not shut their doors upon us...."

"Would that be possible, mama?... The memory of papa ... he was so good.

Could they be angry with him now he is dead?"

"I am speaking as your father would have spoken, dear ... so we will sell Palikare. With the money that we get for him we will have a doctor, so that I can get stronger; then, when I am well enough, we will buy a nice dress for you and one for me, and then we'll start. We will take the train as far as we can and walk the rest of the way."

"That boy who spoke to me at the Gates told me that Palikare was a fine donkey, and he knows, for he is in a circus. It was because he thought Palikare was so beautiful that he spoke to me."

"I don't know how much an Eastern donkey would bring in Paris, but we'll see as soon as we can," said the sick woman.

Leaving her mother to rest, Perrine got together their soiled clothing and decided to do some was.h.i.+ng. Adding her own waist to a bundle consisting of three handkerchiefs, two pairs of stockings and two combinations, she put them all into a basin, and with her washboard and a piece of soap she went outside. She had ready some boiling water which she had put on the fire after cooking the rice; this she poured over the things. Kneeling on the gra.s.s, she soaped and rubbed until all were clean; then she rinsed them and hung them on a line to dry.

While she worked, Palikare, who was tied up at a short distance from her, had glanced her way several times. When he saw that she had finished her task he stretched his neck towards her and sent forth five or six brays ... an imperative call.

"Did you think I had forgotten you?" she called out. She went to him, changed his place, gave him some water to drink from her saucepan, which she had carefully rinsed, for if he was satisfied with all the food that they gave him, he was very particular about what he drank. He would only drink pure water from a clean vessel, or red wine ... this he liked better than anything.

She stroked him and talked to him lovingly, like a kind nurse would to a little child, and the donkey, who had thrown himself down on the gra.s.s the moment he was free, placed his head against her shoulder. He loved his young mistress, and every now and again he looked up at her and shook his long ears in sign of utter content.

All was quiet in the field and the streets close by were now deserted.

From the distance came the dim roar of the great city, deep, powerful, mysterious; the breath and life of Paris, active and incessant, seemed like the roar of a mighty ocean going on and on, in spite of the night that falls.

Then, in the softness of the coming night, little Perrine seemed to feel more impressed with the talk that she had had with her mother, and leaning her head against her donkey's, she let the tears, which she had kept back so long, flow silently, and Palikare, in mute sympathy, bent his head and licked her hands.

CHAPTER II

GRAIN-OF-SALT IS KIND

Many times that night Perrine, lying beside her mother, had jumped up and run to the well for water so as to have it fresh. In spite of her desire to fetch the doctor as early as possible the next morning, she had to wait until Grain-of-Salt had risen, for she did not know what doctor to call in.

She asked him.

Certainly he knew of a good doctor! and a famous one, too! who made his rounds in a carriage, not on foot, like doctors of no account. Dr.

Cendrier, rue Rublet, near the Church; he was the man! To find the street she had only to follow the railway tracks as far as the station.

When he spoke of such a great doctor who made his rounds in a carriage, Perrine was afraid that she would not have enough money to pay him, and timidly she questioned Grain-of-Salt, not daring to ask outright what she wanted to know. Finally he understood.

"What you'd have to pay?" he asked. "It's a lot, but it won't be more than forty sous, and so as to make sure, you'll have to pay him in advance."

Following the directions that Grain-of-Salt gave her, she easily found the house, but the doctor had not yet risen, so she had to wait. She sat down on a bench in the street, outside a stable door, behind which a coachman was harnessing a horse to a carriage. She thought if she waited there she would be sure to catch the doctor as he left the house, and if she gave him her forty sous he would consent to come. She was quite sure that he would not if she had simply asked him to visit a patient who was staying in the Guillot Field.

She waited a long time; her suspense increased at the thought that her mother would be wondering what kept her away so long.

At last an old-fas.h.i.+oned carriage and a clumsy horse came out of the stables and stood before the doctor's house. Almost immediately the doctor appeared, big, fat, with a grey beard.

Before he could step into his carriage Perrine was beside him. She put her question tremblingly.

"The Guillot Field?" he said. "Has there been a fight?"

"No, sir; it's my mother who is ill."

"Who is your mother?"

"We are photographers."

He put his foot on the step. She offered him her forty sous quickly.

"We can pay you," she hastened to say.

"Then it's sixty sous," said he.

She added twenty sous more. He took the money and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

"I'll be with your mother in about fifteen minutes," he said.

She ran all the way back, happy, to take the good news.

"He'll cure you, mama; he's a real, real doctor!" she said, breathlessly.

She quickly busied herself with her mother, was.h.i.+ng her hands and face and arranging her hair, which was beautiful, black and silky; then she tidied up the "room," which only had the result of making it look emptier and poorer still.

She had not long to wait. Hearing the carriage in the road, she ran out to meet the doctor. As he was walking towards the house she pointed to the wagon.

"We live there in our wagon," she said.

He did not seem surprised; he was accustomed to the extreme poverty of his patients; but Perrine, who was looking at him, noticed that he frowned when he saw the sick woman lying on the mattress in the miserable cart.

"Put out your tongue and give me your hand," he said.

Those who pay forty or a hundred francs for a visit from a doctor have no idea of the brevity with which the poor people's cases are diagnosed.