AFTER her new friend had left, Perrine would like to have still sat at the table as though she were in her own place, but it was precisely because she was not in the place where she belonged that she felt she could not. She had learned that the little garden was reserved for the boarders and that the factory hands were not privileged to sit there. She could not see any seats near the old tumble-down house where she was to lodge, so she left the table and sauntered down the village street.

Although she went at a slow step, she had soon walked down all the streets, and as everyone stared at her, being a stranger, this had prevented her from stopping when she had wanted to.

On the top of the hill opposite the factories she had noticed a wood. Perhaps she would be alone there and could sit down without anyone paying attention to her.

She climbed the hill, then stretched herself out on the grass and looked down over the village ... her father's birthplace, which he had described so often to her mother and herself.

She had arrived at Maraucourt! This name, which she had repeated so often since she had trod on French soil, the name she had seen on the big vans standing outside the Gates of Paris. This was not a country of dreams. She was in Maraucourt; before her she could see the vast works which belonged to her grandfather. He had made his fortune here, bit by bit, sou by sou, until now he was worth millions.

Her eyes wandered from the great chimneys to the railway tracks, where all was quiet on this Sabbath day, to the winding streets and the quaint houses with their tiled or thatched roofs. Amongst the very old houses there was one which seemed more pretentious than the others. It stood in a large garden in which there were great trees and a terrace, and at the remote corner of the garden a wash-house.

That house had been described to her so many times, she recognized it. It was the one in which her grandfather had lived before he had built the beautiful chateau. How many hours her father, when a boy, had spent in that wash-house on washing days, listening to the washerwomen's chatter and to the stories they told, quaint old legends. He had remembered them all those years, and later on had told them to his little daughter. There was the "Fairy of the Cascade", "The Whirling Dwarf", and lots of others. She remembered them all, and her dead father had listened to the old women telling them at that very spot down there by the river.

The sun was in her eyes now, so she changed her place. She found another grassy nook and sat down again, very thoughtful. She was thinking of her future, poor little girl.

She was sure of getting work now, and bread and a place in which to sleep, but that was not all. How would she ever be able to realize her dead mother's hopes? She trembled; it all seemed so difficult; but at least she had accomplished one great thing in having reached Maraucourt.

She must never despair, never give up hope, and now that she had a roof over her head and ten sous a day, although not much, it was far better now for her than a few days ago, when she had been penniless, famished, and had had no place where to lay her head.

She thought it would be wise, as she was beginning a new life on the morrow, that she should make a plan of what she should and what she should not say. But she was so ignorant of everything, and she soon realized that this was a task beyond her. If her mother had reached Maraucourt she would have known just what to have done. But she, poor little girl, had had no experience; she had not the wisdom nor the intelligence of a grown-up person; she was but a child, and alone.

This thought and the memory of her mother brought tears to her eyes. She began to cry unrestrainedly.

"Mother, dear mother," she sobbed.

Then her mother's last words came to her: "I see ... I know that you will be happy!"

Her mother's words might come true. Those who are at Death's door, their souls hovering between Heaven and earth, may have sometimes a divine knowledge of things which are not revealed to the living.

This burst of emotion, instead of making her more despondent, did her good. After she had wiped her tears away she was more hopeful, and it seemed to her that the light evening breeze which fanned her cheek from time to time brought her a kiss from her mother, touching her wet cheeks and whispering to her her last words: "I see ... I know you will be happy."

And why should it not be so? Why should her mother not be near her, leaning over her at this moment like a guardian angel? For a long time she sat deep in thought. Her beautiful little face was very grave. She wondered, would everything come out all right for her in the end?

Then mechanically her eye fell on a large cluster of marguerites. She got up quickly and picked a few, closing her eyes so as not to choose.

She came back to her place and, taking up one with a hand that shook, she commenced to pick off the petals, one at a time, saying: "I shall succeed; a little; a lot; completely; not at all." She repeated this very carefully until there were only a few petals left on the last flower.

How many, she did not want to count, for their number would have told her the answer. So, with a heart beating rapidly, she quickly pulled off the last petals.

"I shall succeed; a little; a lot; completely...."

At the same moment a warm breeze passed over her hair, over her lips. It was surely her mother's reply in a kiss, the tenderest that she had ever given her.

The night fell. She decided to go. Already down the straight road as far as the river white vapors were rising, floating lightly around the great trees. Here and there little lights from behind the windows of the houses pierced the gathering darkness, and vague sounds broke the silence of the peaceful Sabbath evening.

There was no need for her to stay out late now, for she had a roof to cover her and a bed to sleep in; besides, as she was to get up early the next day to go to work, it would be better to go to bed early.

As she walked through the village she recognized that the noises that she had heard came from the cabarets. They were full. Men and women were seated at the tables drinking. From the open door the odor of coffee, hot alcohol and tobacco filled the street as though it were a vast sink.

She passed one cabaret after another. There were so many that to every three houses there was at least one in which liquor was sold. On her tramps along the high roads and through the various towns she had seen many drinking places, but nowhere had she heard such words, so clear and shrill, as those which came confusedly from the low rooms.

When she reached Mother FranÇoise's garden she saw Mr. Bendit still reading. Before him was a lighted candle, a piece of newspaper protecting the light, around which the moths and mosquitoes flew. But he paid no attention to them, so absorbed was he in his reading.

Yet, as she was passing him, he raised his head and recognized her. For the pleasure of speaking in his own language, he spoke to her in English.

"I hope you'll have a good night's rest," he said.

"Thank you," she replied. "Good night, sir."

"Where have you been?" he continued in English.

"I took a walk as far as the woods," she replied in the same language.

"All alone?"

"Yes; I do not know anyone here."

"Then why don't you stay in and read. There is nothing better to do on Sunday than read."

"I have no books."

"Oh! Well, I'll lend you. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

Rosalie was seated in the doorway taking the fresh air.

"Do you want to go to bed now?" she asked.

"Yes, I'd like to," replied Perrine.

"I'll take you up there then, but first you'll have to arrange with grandmother. Go to the cafÉ; she's there."

The matter, having been arranged by Rosalie and her grandmother beforehand, was quickly settled. Perrine laid her twenty-eight sous on the table and two sous extra for lighting for the week.

"So you are going to stay in our village, little one?" asked Mother FranÇoise, with a kindly, placid air.

"Yes, if it is possible."

"You can do it if you'll work."

"That is all I ask," replied Perrine.

"Well, that's all right. You won't stop at ten sous; you'll soon get a franc or perhaps two, then later on you'll marry a good workingman who'll earn three. Between you, that'll be five francs a day. With that you're rich ... if you don't drink; but one mustn't drink. It's a good thing that M. Vulfran can give employment to the whole county. There is the land, to be sure, but tilling ground can't provide a living to all who have to be fed."

Whilst the old nurse babbled this advice with the importance and the authority of a woman accustomed to having her word respected, Rosalie was getting some linen from a closet, and Perrine, who, while listening, had been looking at her, saw that the sheets were made of a thick yellow canvas. It was so long since she had slept in sheets that she ought to think herself fortunate to get even these, hard though they were. La Rouquerie on her tramps had never spent money for a bed, and a long time ago the sheets they had in the wagon, with the exception of those kept for her mother, had been sold or worn to rags.

She went with Rosalie across the yard where about twenty men, women and children were seated on a clump of wood or standing about, talking and smoking, waiting for the hour to retire. How could all these people live in the old house, which seemed far from large?

At the sight of the attic, after Rosalie had lit a candle stuck behind a wire trellis, Perrine understood. In a space of six yards long and a little more than three wide, six beds were placed along the length of the walls, and the passage between the beds was only one yard wide. Six people, then, had to spend the night in a place where there was scarcely room for two. Although a little window opened on the yard opposite the door, there was a rank, sharp odor which made Perrine gasp. But she said nothing.

"Well," said Rosalie, "you think it's a bit small, eh?"

"Yes, it is, rather," was all she said.

"Four sous a night is not one hundred sous, you know," remarked Rosalie.

"That is true," answered Perrine, with a smothered sigh.

After all, it was better for her to have a place in this tiny room than be out in the woods and fields. If she had been able to endure the odor in Grain-of-Salt's shack, she would probably be able to bear it here.

"There's your bed," said Rosalie, pointing to one placed near the window.

What she called a bed was a straw mattress placed on four feet and held together by two boards. Instead of a pillow there was a sack.

"You know," said Rosalie, "this is fresh straw; they never give old straw to anyone to sleep on. In the hotels they do that sort of thing, but we don't here."

Although there were too many beds in the little room, there was not one chair.

"There are some nails on the walls," said Rosalie, in reply to Perrine's questioning look; "you can hang your clothes up there."

There were also some boxes and baskets under the bed. If the lodgers had any underwear they could make use of these, but as Perrine had only what she was wearing, the nail at the head of the bed was sufficient.

"They're all honest here," remarked Rosalie, "and if La Noyelle talks in the night it's 'cause she's been drinking; she's a chatterbox. Tomorrow you get up with the others. I'll tell you where you have to go to wash. Good night."

"Good night, and thank you," replied Perrine.

She hurriedly undressed, thankful that she was alone and would not have to submit to the inquisitive regards of the other occupants of the room. But when she was between the sheets she did not feel so comfortable as she had hoped, for they were very rough and hard. But then the ground had seemed very hard the first time she had slept on it, and she had quickly grown accustomed to it.

It was not long before the door was opened and a young girl about fifteen came in and commenced to get undressed. From time to time she glanced at Perrine, but without saying a word. As she was in her Sunday clothes, her disrobing took longer than usual, for she had to put away her best dress in a small box and hang her working clothes on the nail for the next day.

A second girl came in, then a third, then a fourth. There was a babble of tongues, all talking at the same time, each relating what had happened during the day. In the narrow space between the beds they pulled out and pushed back their boxes or baskets, and with each effort came an outburst of impatience and furious upbraidings against the landlady.

"What a hole!"

"She'll be putting another bed in here soon."

"Sure! But I won't stay!"

"Where would yer go? It ain't no better nowhere else."

The complaining, mixed with a desultory chatter, continued. At length, however, when the two who had first arrived were in bed, a little order was established. Soon all the beds were occupied but one.

But even then the conversation did not cease. They had discussed the doings of the day just passed, so now they went on to the next day, to the work at the factories, the quarrels, the doings of the heads of the concern—M. Vulfran Paindavoine and his nephews, whom they called "the kids," and the foreman, Talouel. They spoke of this man by name only once, but the names they called him bespoke better than words what they thought of him.

Perrine experienced a strange contradictory feeling which surprised her. She wanted to hear everything, for this information might be of great importance to her, yet on the other hand she felt embarrassed, almost ashamed, to listen to such talk.

Most of the talk was rather vague to Perrine, not knowing the persons to whom it applied, but she soon gathered that "Skinny", "Judas", and "Sneak" were all one and the same man, and that man was Talouel, the foreman. The factory hands evidently considered him a bully; they all hated him, yet feared him.

"Let's go to sleep," at last said one.

"Yes, why not?"

"La Noyelle hasn't come in yet."

"I saw her outside when I came in."

"How was she?"

"Full. She couldn't stand up."

"Ugh! d'ye think she can get upstairs?"

"Not sure about that."

"Suppose we lock the door?"

"Yes, and what a row she'd make!"

"Like last Sunday; maybe worse."

They groaned. At this moment the sound of heavy shambling footsteps was heard on the stairs.

"Here she is."

The steps stopped, then there was a fall, followed by a moan.

"She's fallen down!"

"Suppose she can't get up?"

"She'd sleep as well on the stairs as here."

"And we'd sleep better."

The moaning continued, interrupted by calls for help.

"Come, Laide," called out a thick voice; "give us a hand, my child."

But Laide did not move. After a time the calls ceased.

"She's gone to sleep. That's luck."

But the drunken girl had not gone to sleep at all; on the contrary, she was using every effort to get up the stairs again.

"Laide, come and give me a hand, child. Laide, Laide," she cried.

She evidently made no progress, for the calls still came from the bottom of the stairs, and became more and more persistent. Finally she began to cry.

"Little Laide, little Laide, come to me," she wailed. "Oh! oh! the stairs are slipping; where am I?"

A burst of laughter came from each bed.

"It's cause yer ain't come in yet, Laide; that's why yer don't come. I'll go and find yer."

"Now she's gone and we'll have some peace," said one.

"No, she'll go to look for Laide and won't find her, and it'll all begin over again. Well never get to sleep."

"Go and give her a hand, Laide," advised one.

"Go yerself," retorted Laide.

"But she wants you."

Laide decided to go, and slipping on her skirt, she went down the stairs.

"Oh, my child, my child," cried La Noyelle, brokenly, when she caught sight of her.

The joy of seeing Laide drove all thoughts of getting upstairs safely away.

"Come with me, little one, and I'll treat you to a glass; come on," urged the drunken creature.

But Laide would not be tempted.

"No, come on to bed," she said.

The woman continued to insist.

They argued for a long time, La Noyelle repeating the words, "a little glass."

"I want to go to sleep," said one of the girls in bed. "How long is this going to keep up? And we got to be up early tomorrow."

"Oh, Lord! and it's like this every Sunday," sighed another.

And little Perrine had thought that if she only had a roof over her head she would be able to sleep in peace! The open fields, with their dark shadows and the chances of bad weather, was far better than this crowded room, reeking with odors that were almost suffocating her. She wondered if she would be able to pass the night in this dreadful room.

The argument was still going on at the foot of the stairs. La Noyelle's voice could be heard repeating "a little glass."

"I'm goin' to help Laide," said one, "or this'll last till tomorrow." The woman got up and went down the narrow stairs. Then came the sound of angry voices, heavy footsteps and blows. The people on the ground floor came out to see what was the matter, and finally everyone in the house was awake.

At last La Noyelle was dragged into the room, crying out in despair.

"What have I done to you that you should be so unkind to me?"

Ignoring her complaints, they undressed her and put her into bed, but even then she did not sleep, but continued to moan and cry.

"What have I done to you girls that you should treat me so badly. I'm very unhappy, and I'm thirsty."

She continued to complain until everyone was so exasperated that they one and all shouted out in anger.

However, she went on all the same. She carried on a conversation with an imaginary person till the occupants of the room were driven to distraction. Now and again her voice dropped as though she were going off to sleep, then suddenly she cried out in a shriller voice, and those who had dropped off into a slumber awoke with a start and frightened her badly, but despite their anger she would not stop.

Perrine wondered if it really was to be like that every Sunday. How could they put up with her? Was there no place in Maraucourt where one could sleep peacefully?

It was not alone the noise that disturbed her, but the air was now so stifling that she could scarcely breathe.

At last La Noyelle was quiet, or rather it was only a prolonged snore that came from her lips.

But although all was silent Perrine could not sleep. She was oppressed. It seemed as though a hammer was beating on her forehead, and she was perspiring from head to foot.

It was not to be wondered at. She was suffocating for want of air; and if the other girls in the room were not stifled like her, it was because they were accustomed to this atmosphere, which to one who was in the habit of sleeping in the open air was unbearable.

But she thought that if they could endure it she should. But unfortunately one does not breathe as one wishes, nor when one wishes. If she closed her mouth she could not get enough air into her lungs.

What was going to happen to her? She struggled up in bed, tearing at the paper which replaced the window pane against which her bed was placed. She tore away the paper, doing so as quietly as possible so as not to wake the girls beside her. Then putting her mouth to the opening she leaned her tired little head on the window sill. Finally in sheer weariness she fell asleep.