  Nature had not been generous to the poor thing; Claire was born a hunchback, and a hunchback she had grown up—if indeed she can be said ever to have grown up—an undersized, sickly, suffering creature, who at thirty was not as high, from head to heels, as a little girl of nine. She had been left an orphan when quite a child; first her mother died, and her father had not survived her long. So Claire had had to face the world alone, with her own ten fingers for all her fortune. Her parents had never spoilt her with overmuch indulgence. They were poor, hardworking folks, who hardly knew what it was to smile. Even when they were alive, she had led a lonely enough existence. Still, after their death, she missed the life lived in common, the destitution shared with others, the bustle of the hugger-mugger household, where scolding and grumbling were by no means unknown. Her parents were her parents after all; with them life had its happy moments, now and then. “MONSIEUR FRIQUET” They were hard times now for Claire. Shut up all day long in the unhealthy air of workrooms, she seemed to grow more and more emaciated, and smaller and smaller every day. Nobody ever thought of pitying the poor, uncouth being who sat sewing apart from the rest, who, with a gentle humility, always sought the shade, where her deformity was less noticeable; nobody ever dreamed of asking if there was a soul within that misshapen body, and her great eyes—light blue, sickly-looking eyes, which she would raise slowly and languidly, as if afraid of the light—encountered only mockery and indifference from all about her. The tall, handsome girls who sat round the sewing-table had nothing but hard words for her; scarcely knowing why, yielding to a cruel impulse which a little thought, if nothing better, would have checked, they treated her vilely. Little by little she had become the general butt of the workroom; one dismal day in December a last outrage was added to all the rest. An ill-conditioned cripple, a girl who had borne Claire a grudge from the first day of her coming, because of their sisterhood in misfortune, which caused twice as many gibes to be levelled at her own club-foot, contrived to secrete a piece of silk, in order to accuse Claire of the theft. She declared stoutly she had taken the piece and hidden it inside her dress. In vain the poor girl, bursting into tears, swore she was innocent. The head of the shop ordered her to strip. She begged piteously for mercy, clasping her hands in supplication; but the cripple moved heaven and earth to set the others against her. Rough hands were laid on her; she was bruised and shaken and hurt; all she could do was to stammer out appeals to their compassion; she was nearly fainting, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. No use; the poor back was bared, and while the mistress was searching her, the pretty, rosy-cheeked workgirls were feeling the deformity curiously, examining what like a hump exactly was. Claire had buried her face in her hands; her hair had fallen about her ears, and there she stood, quite still and helpless, terrified at the angry faces about her; her throat was dry and her whole body quivering with overmastering agitation. She wished she was dead. The mistress’s hard voice dismissing her roused her at last; she got to her feet amidst the jeers of the workroom, buttoned her frock, collected her needles and scissors, and, shuddering and shaking, catching her feet in her skirts, she hurried to the door; there was a loud buzzing in her ears, and she seemed to see everything through a sort of mist. She dashed downstairs two steps at a time and reached the riverside quays, looking in her despair for an unfrequented bridge from which an unhappy hunchback might throw herself into the water and not be noticed. But everywhere she seemed to see mocking eyes pursuing her. By degrees she began to think of the dreadful publicity of such a death; she saw herself dragged from the river, laid on the crowded bank, under the eyes of a throng of curious onlookers, in the glaring light of day. No, what she craved was a quiet death in some dark corner, where she would be sheltered from prying looks. She retraced her steps, bought a supply of charcoal, which she hid in a fold of her gown, and made her way home. Her poor worn hands had helped her—how hardly!—to live, now they should help her to die. Possessed by these ideas, she pushed open the door of the room—and suddenly stopped.... How, when, by what way had he got in, the little sparrow she saw beating his wings against the walls, looking so scared and frightened, trying in vain to find a way out of the garret he had invaded so impudently, like the little good-for-nothing scamp he was? Yes, she remembered; that morning, before leaving, she had left the window ajar; but no doubt the wind had blown it to, and after coming in unhindered, like a conquering hero taking possession of a new kingdom, the bird was now a prisoner. A prisoner? But why a prisoner? What had she and he in common? He only asked to live, to fly, to soar in the free air, while she, she was fain to die. Begone, little madcap! you shall have your freedom again. She went to the window; but as her hand touched the latch, she paused. The sparrow had stopped fluttering about the room; cowering in the corner of a cupboard, his little breast heaving with terror and breathlessness, he was looking at her with his frightened eyes. To see him shivering and shaking and ruffling his feathers in terror, she seemed to recognise a fellow-sufferer. Her life, from first to last, had it not been one long quaking agony of fear, exposed to never-ending uncertainties and disappointments? The similarity made a sort of common bond between them, and her heart stirred with a longing for a last touch of love and sympathy with the living creatures of this earth she was about to quit. She left the window, advanced a step, and held out her finger to beckon and encourage him. But the movement, gentle as it was, was misunderstood by the bird; he spread his wings and darted up to the ceiling. Then she spoke to him, and very humbly—she found it very easy to be humble—besought him— “Poor birdie, why should you be afraid of me? Do you think I want to hurt you? I only ask you one favour—to kiss you once, just once, before.... There, come, light there on my hand; let me just hold you; you shall fly away again directly after. Come, dear birdie, I know I am ugly to look at, but I am not cruel.” And stepping softly, silently, she followed him about the room, with outstretched fingers and smiling lips, almost like a mother, as if she were talking to a little child. Then, as he would not come— “Come, now.... Does my back shock you—like the others? Why should you care if I am hunchbacked, when you are so pretty? Come, pretty birdie—if only to give me the strength I need so badly.” She crumbled some bread on the table. This made the bird hesitate; he did not come down at once, but, still perching aloft, gazed down at the white crumbs, craning his neck, his eyes glittering with greediness. Finally appetite overcame prudence. He darted down on to the table and began to peck—tock, tock! at the food, stopping every now and then to shake out his feathers and cocking up his head to look about him. Presently she scattered more crumbs, first on the floor and then on the window-sill, and he soon came hopping up to them on his little pink toes, flirting his tail and looking as happy as a king, the glutton! What a darling he was, to be sure! She forgot all thoughts of death, to see him so alive and so handsome, coming and going, marching up and down with his mettlesome air, his rolling eye, his tossing head, his everlasting pickings and peckings and his fine look of swagger and impudence. He had a way of peeping at her askance, winking one eye with a merry, mocking glint in it, that seemed to say unmistakably: “I don’t mind eating your bread, because it’s downright good; but never you think I’m going to give up my freedom for you. I shall be off and away again just whenever I choose.” Other times he would fix his little black beads of eyes meditatively upon her face, scrutinising her features as if bent on reading her inmost thoughts, but never missing a peck at the food for all that, or one crumb of this long, luxurious repast. When he had eaten up every scrap, she got some more and offered it him, this time in her palm. Up he fluttered, took his stand in front of her hand, examined it from every side, from above and from below, wishing but not daring; then suddenly caution carried the day, and he hopped away. “Pst! pst!” she chirped to him, but never stirred. Her stillness reassured him; with a determined air, feeling a sinking again in his insatiable little stomach—it was not every day he had such a chance of filling it—he hopped forward, then drew back again; finally, making up his mind once for all, he began to peck warily at the contents of the well-stored hand. She watched him with delight and admiration. The sight of him and his pretty ways stirred deep, unsuspected feelings within her. The blue sky seemed to have entered at her humble window, as if the bird had brought in along with him a fragment of space. Under his wing he hid, Claire thought, all the gaiety and brightness of the spring. Memories awoke in her heart; she dreamed of the woodlands, the fields of golden grain, the water-springs, all the glories of kindly Mother Nature. Three or four times in her colourless life she had been taken into the country; she had heard the birds sing, the great trees swaying and rustling in the breeze and the prattling of the brooks. One day—it was fifteen years ago at least—she had actually dropped asleep on the moss in the warm shadow of the woods, and when she awoke the old oaks seemed to be smiling down on her. Her black thoughts fled before this memory of rosy hours. Besides, after days of gloom do not happier days follow? Had not he, too, her little friend, had not he known the hardships of winter? Shivering with cold, he had endured frost and bitter wind; his nest battered by the hail, his plumage soaked by the rain, his wings stiff with pain—was not all this far harder to bear than the gibes and insults of a few silly girls, giddy-pated perhaps rather than really ill-natured? Twenty times, a hundred times over, death had hovered near, when the storms scattered the leaves and tore down the nests all round him; but he had kept a good heart, and when spring-time came back again, had he not been rewarded for his bravery by happy, happy days? As she thought of the stubborn courage of the little sparrow, she was ashamed of her own weakness. Who knows?—perhaps the bird had been sent to call her back to duty, to encourage her never to despair, to bring her a lesson straight from Mother Nature. Something of Nature’s tender care for the weak and unprotected was in his coming to visit her garret; it was not for nothing he had chosen out the barest and poorest of them all, driving away with the rustle of his tiny wings those other dark, overshadowing wings—the wings of death. She found herself calling down blessings on him, thanking him for arriving so opportunely, weeping with joy to see his graceful gambols; for he was not frightened now, but bright and gay, and rather amused than otherwise at the four walls that had suddenly replaced the boundless plains of air. A new life began for the two. Monsieur Friquet—that was the name she had given him—seemed to be quite content to take his place as house-mate with the poor work-girl, whose heart was so full of affection, and who, to his partial eyes, looked as pretty as the prettiest things he had ever seen in the world outside. Did she not always wear a kind smile on her lips whenever she came home? And is not kindness, when all is said and done, the same thing as beauty? Monsieur Friquet had forgotten all about the distractions of the streets. Like a rakish younger son who has been living for years on his wits, he thoroughly enjoyed this life of slippered ease in a cosy house, where, it is true, the sun did not often penetrate, but then neither did the wind. Its quiet was unbroken all day long while his mistress was abroad, allowing him to doze and dream away the long hours till her return set stove and saucepans in activity again. He was a lazy loon, and nothing could have suited him better than to have a place at table laid out for him morning and evening, without his having so much as to put his head outside the door. He had known so many of his comrades who had perished miserably under a cat’s claws, at the corner of a gutter-pipe or in the treacherous shadow of a chimney-stack; so many who, grown old and impotent, and unable to find themselves a warm lodging, had died a lonely death on some deserted housetop; in fact, he had witnessed so much disappointment and disillusion and misery that he was ready—some days, at any rate—to swear he would not exchange for all the spacious blue of heaven shining in through the windowpane the indigo-blue paper with white bunches of flowers that covered the garret walls. He had put on flesh, and his chirp had grown thick and fruity; nowadays the graceless fellow had nothing but ill to say of the freedom he had lost, but which, after all, was limited, in summer, to scolding and squabbling in the tree-tops, and, in winter, to freezing on a wretched perch. And pr’t! prr’t! chirp! chirp! he went, in scorn of everything that could remind him of the old bad times of his life. How much better to sit soft and warm over a good feed of bird-seed, to sleep away his afternoons in slothful ease, never to soil his feathers scratching for doles in a dungheap, but to live like a gentleman on his means, among his own belongings, without even a thought of work or worry! Monsieur Friquet, you see, was a philosopher of an accommodating temper. Thank God! everybody does not think alike; for what would become of the sky and the woodland if all the race of sparrows forsook them like him for cosy quarters and a free table? He was one of those selfish folk who deem all is well directly all is well with them, and who only think of being on the best terms with the world and with themselves, without ever a care beyond. True, he was barely awake ere he saw his kind mistress bustling about in her room and filling up his bowl with new milk; true, she shared her loaf and her eggs with him, always giving him the best of everything and cheerfully keeping the crust and the white for herself; true, all day long the table was laid for him, and he had nothing to do but to eat and drink to his heart’s content, like the regular glutton he was; but Monsieur Friquet never once thought at the cost of what painful sacrifices he enjoyed all these good things. Claire had resumed the cruel slavery of the workroom. Every morning, at seven o’clock, she set out, a meagre hunch of bread in her basket, and along the sleeping streets where the yawning passers-by were few and far between, half dozing herself, but brave and thinking of Monsieur Friquet, she would make her way to the dismal room where she was to be kept prisoner all day. Her companions never dreamed what strength to bear unhappiness a friend affords, a good friend you are sure to find at home on your return, who welcomes you with bright eyes of pleasure and who fills your thoughts even when he is not there. How he filled her thoughts, to be sure! What endless dialogues she had with him down in her own heart, just between the two of them. “Now then, Monsieur Friquet, what are we going to have for dinner? A couple of poached eggs? I’ve just bought them, new laid, at the green-grocer’s. Oh! you can almost see through them; just you look. And not too dear either, thank God! There, the fire just burning up nicely. Well, have you made up your mind? Will you have them poached or boiled? Oh! never mind me. To begin with, I don’t care which; I like one as well as the other. I’ve got some salad too—fine fresh salad. Ah! so you’re laughing, Monsieur Friquet! You’ll laugh better still directly. Boiled, then, it’s to be, eh? You see, you bad boy, we only think of pleasing you.” She was hardly home before the fire was crackling, the egg-boiler singing; in next to no time the eggs were on the table, and the two of them, Claire and the sparrow, were pecking away, she sitting in front of the cloth, he perched in front of her on the edge of a glass or else clinging to her fingers. At every mouthful he would give his wings a shake, looking saucily now at the food, now at Claire, with his head on one side. Chirp! chirp! chirp! he would say in his shrill treble. It was at once an appeal to his mistress to give him more, and a way of thanking her for the trouble she took in feeding him. His impudent little beak would dive into every single thing—bread, salt, salad, the hollow of his mistress’s hand, poking everywhere, filching bits from her very lips, never still for an instant. Teasing, defying, thieving, he was in perpetual motion, as his brethren are among the leaves of the forest trees. They drank out of the same cup, ate off the same plate. Ah! but Monsieur Friquet had his wilful moods too at times; he was not the fellow to be satisfied with everything; now it was the bread he refused with a little decided peck that said as plain as words: “I won’t have it!”—now it was the egg, or the salad, or something else. You see, he knew quite well, did Monsieur Friquet, there was a biscuit waiting for him in the cupboard, and he was inordinately fond of biscuit. Sunday was a special festival. Up betimes as usual, for workgirls are never lie-abeds, Claire would set to rights the disorder of the week, tripping on tip-toe about the room, not to wake Monsieur Friquet, who was snoring in a corner, a fat ball of feathers, with his head under his wing. “Monsieur Friquet won’t be awake for another hour,” she would think to herself. “I shall have time enough to set all straight”—and she would set to work, dusting, sweeping, washing the floor, happy in the prospect of the coming Sunday that would release her a while from her chain of servitude. At last the bird would wake up, and there would be quick cries of: “Good morning, Monsieur Friquet! How have you slept?” “Chirp! chirp!” would come the answer. And she would reply— “Oh! so have I—excellently, thank you.” Then breakfast would be served at once. He would come to table still half asleep, with heavy eyes, to be scolded and fondled and chided. “Lazybones! why, it’s close on eight o’clock!” But he would hop on her shoulder, and put his little round head to her lips as if to ask pardon. Then they would talk of serious matters. “Monsieur Friquet! I say, Monsieur Friquet!” “Chirp! chirp!”—which meant: “Well, what? I’m all attention!” “Monsieur Friquet, I want your advice. What shall we have to eat for Sunday?” “Chirp!” “I hear you! Biscuit! biscuit! But people can’t live only on biscuit! We must have something else to go with it. Suppose we bought a couple of artichokes! Do you like artichokes, Monsieur Friquet? Yes? Ah! I knew an artichoke would please you. Wait here for me, and I’ll run round to the greengrocer’s.” So the Sunday wore away in happy play and merry nonsense between the pair. What more was needed to transform the sharp thorns of pain into fragrant roses of content? She had invested the bold little chattering fellow with all the treasures of her tenderness; on him she lavished all her care and devotion; he was father and mother and family to her, and where he was, was home. They lived long and happily together, and their love was never interrupted. A LOST DOG A LOST DOG |
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