And Madame did engage me that very night—by
God’s blessing I was spared the necessity of
passing forth again into the lonesome, dreary, hostile
street.
MADAME BECK.
Being delivered into the charge of the maitresse,
I was led through a long narrow passage into a foreign
kitchen, very clean but very strange. It seemed
to contain no means of cooking—neither fireplace
nor oven; I did not understand that the great black
furnace which filled one corner, was an efficient
substitute for these. Surely pride was not already
beginning its whispers in my heart; yet I felt a sense
of relief when, instead of being left in the kitchen,
as I half anticipated, I was led forward to a small
inner room termed a “cabinet.” A
cook in a jacket, a short petticoat and sabots, brought
my supper: to wit—some meat, nature
unknown, served in an odd and acid, but pleasant sauce;
some chopped potatoes, made savoury with, I know not
what: vinegar and sugar, I think: a tartine,
or slice of bread and butter, and a baked pear.
Being hungry, I ate and was grateful.
After the “priere du soir,” Madame herself
came to have another look at me. She desired
me to follow her up-stairs. Through a series of
the queerest little dormitories—which,
I heard afterwards, had once been nuns’ cells:
for the premises were in part of ancient date—and
through the oratory—a long, low, gloomy
room, where a crucifix hung, pale, against the wall,
and two tapers kept dim vigils—she conducted
me to an apartment where three children were asleep
in three tiny beds. A heated stove made the air
of this room oppressive; and, to mend matters, it
was scented with an odour rather strong than delicate:
a perfume, indeed, altogether surprising and unexpected
under the circumstances, being like the combination
of smoke with some spirituous essence—a
smell, in short, of whisky.
Beside a table, on which flared the remnant of a candle
guttering to waste in the socket, a coarse woman,
heterogeneously clad in a broad striped showy silk
dress, and a stuff apron, sat in a chair fast asleep.
To complete the picture, and leave no doubt as to the
state of matters, a bottle and an empty glass stood
at the sleeping beauty’s elbow.
Madame contemplated this remarkable tableau with great
calm; she neither smiled nor scowled; no impress of
anger, disgust, or surprise, ruffled the equality
of her grave aspect; she did not even wake the woman!
Serenely pointing to a fourth bed, she intimated that
it was to be mine; then, having extinguished the candle
and substituted for it a night-lamp, she glided through
an inner door, which she left ajar—the
entrance to her own chamber, a large, well-furnished
apartment; as was discernible through the aperture.
My devotions that night were all thanksgiving.
Strangely had I been led since morning—unexpectedly
had I been provided for. Scarcely could I believe
that not forty-eight hours had elapsed since I left
London, under no other guardianship than that which
protects the passenger-bird—with no prospect
but the dubious cloud-tracery of hope.
