CHAPTER III.
"I remembered it was your name-day, child
Here are half a dozen eggs," said one of the hen wives; and the little
cross woman with the pedler's tray added a waxen St. Agnes, colored red and
yellow to the very life no doubt; and the old Cheap John had saved her a cage
for the starling; and the tinker had a cream cheese for her in a vine-leaf, and
the sweetmeat seller brought her a beautiful gilded horn of sugarplums, and the
cobbler had made her actually a pair of shoes—red shoes, beautiful shoes to go
to mass in and be a wonder in to all the neighborhood. And they thronged round
her, and adored the silver waist buckles; and when Bébée got fairly to her
stall, and traffic began, she thought once more that nobody's feast day had
ever dawned like hers.
When the chimes began to ring all over the city,
she could hardly believe that the carillon was not saying its "Laus
Deo" with some special meaning in its bells of her.
The morning went by as usual; the noise of the
throngs about her like a driving of angry winds, but no more hurting her than
the angels on the roof of St. Gudule are hurt by the storm when it breaks.
Hard words, fierce passions, low thoughts, evil
deeds, passed by the child without resting on her; her heart was in her
flowers, and was like one of them with the dew of daybreak on it.
There were many strangers in the city, and such
are always sure to loiter in the Spanish square; and she sold fast and well her
lilacs and her roses, and her knots of thyme and sweetbrier.
She was always a little sorry to see them go, her
kindly pretty playmates that, nine times out of ten no doubt, only drooped and
died in the hands that purchased them, as human souls soil and shrivel in the
grasp of the passions that woo them.
The day was a busy one, and brought in good
profit. Bébée had no less than fifty sous in her leather pouch when it was
over,—a sum of magnitude in the green lane by Laeken.
A few of her moss-roses were still unsold, that
was all, when the Ave Maria began ringing over the town and the people
dispersed to their homes or their pleasuring.
It was a warm gray evening: the streets were full;
there were blossoms in all the balconies, and gay colors in all the dresses.
The old tinker put his tools together, and whispered to her,—
"Bébée, as it is your feast day, come and
stroll in St. Hubert's gallery, and I will buy you a little gilt heart, or a
sugar-apple stick, or a ribbon, and we can see the puppet show afterwards,
eh?"
But the children were waiting at home: she would
not spend the evening in the city; she only thought she would just kneel a
moment in the cathedral and say a little prayer or two for a minute—the saints
were so good in giving her so many friends.
There is something very touching in the Flemish
peasant's relation with his Deity. It is all very vague to him: a jumble of
veneration and familiarity, of sanctity and profanity, without any thought of
being familiar, or any idea of being profane.
There is a homely poetry, an innocent
affectionateness in it, characteristic of the people. He talks to his good
angel Michael, and to his friend that dear little Jesus, much as he would talk
to the shoemaker over the way, or the cooper's child in the doorway.
It is a very unreasonable, foolish, clumsy sort of
religion, this theology in wooden shoes; it is half grotesque, half pathetic;
the grandmothers pass it on to the grandchildren as they pass the bowl of
potatoes round the stove in the long winter nights; it is as silly as possible,
but it comforts them as they carry fagots over the frozen canals or wear their
eyes blind over the squares of lace; and it has in it the supreme pathos of any
perfect confidence, of any utterly childlike and undoubting trust.
This had been taught to Bébée, and she went to
sleep every night in the firm belief that the sixteen little angels of the
Flemish prayer kept watch and ward over her bed. For the rest, being poetical,
as these north folks are not, and having in her—wherever it came from, poor
little soul—a warmth of fancy and a spirituality of vision not at all northern,
she had mixed up her religion with the fairies of Antoine's stories, and the
demons in which the Flemish folks are profound believers, and the flowers into
which she put all manner of sentient life, until her religion was a fantastic
medley, so entangled that poor Father Francis had given up in despair any
attempt to arrange it more correctly. Indeed, being of the peasantry himself,
he was not so very full sure in his own mind that demons were not bodily
presences, quite as real and often much more tangible than saints. Anyway, he
let her alone; and she believed in the goodness of God as she believed in the
shining of the sun.
People looked after her as she went through the
twisting, picture-like streets, where sunlight fell still between the peaked
high roofs, and lamps were here and there lit in the bric-à-brac shops and the
fruit stalls.
Her little muslin cap blew back like the wings of
a white butterfly. Her sunny hair caught the last sun-rays. Her feet were fair
in the brown wooden shoes. Under the short woollen skirts the grace of her
pretty limbs moved freely. Her broad silver clasps shone like a shield, and she
was utterly unconscious that any one looked; she was simply and gravely intent
on reaching St. Gudule to say her one prayer and not keep the children waiting.
Some one leaning idly over a balcony in the street
that is named after Mary of Burgundy saw her going thus. He left the balcony
and went down his stairs and followed her.
The sun-dazzle on the silver had first caught his
sight; and then he had looked downward at the pretty feet.
These are the chances women call Fate.
Bébée entered the cathedral. It was quite empty.
Far away at the west end there was an old custodian asleep on a bench, and a
woman kneeling. That was all.
Bébée made her salutations to the high altar, and
stole on into the chapel of the Saint Sacrament; it was the one that she loved
best.
She said her prayer and thanked the saints for all
their gifts and goodness, her clasped hand against her silver shield, her
basket on the pavement by her, abovehead the sunset rays streaming purple and
crimson and golden through the painted windows that are the wonder of the
world.
When her prayer was done she still kneeled there;
her head thrown back to watch the light, her hands clasped still, and on her
upturned face the look that made the people say, "What does she see?—the
angels or the dead?"
She forgot everything. She forgot the cherries at
home, and the children even. She was looking upward at the stories of the
painted panes; she was listening to the message of the dying sun-rays; she was
feeling vaguely, wistfully, unutterably the tender beauty of the sacred place
and the awful wonder of the world in which she with her sixteen years was all
alone, like a little blue corn-flower among the wheat that goes for grist and
the barley that makes men drunk.
For she was alone, though she had so many friends.
Quite alone sometimes; for God had been cruel to her, and had made her a lark
without song.
When the sun faded and the beautiful casements
lost all glow and meaning, Bébée rose with a startled look—had she been dreaming?—was
it night?—would the children be sorry, and go supperless to bed?
"Have you a rosebud left to sell to me?"
a man's voice said not far off; it was low and sweet, as became the Sacrament
Chapel.
Bébée looked up; she did not quite know what she
saw: only dark eyes smiling into hers.
By the instinct of habit she sought in her basket
and found three moss-roses. She held them out to him.
"I do not sell flowers here, but I will give
them to you," she said, in her pretty grave childish fashion.
"I often want flowers," said the
stranger, as he took the buds. "Where do you sell yours?—in the
market?"
"In the Grande Place."
"Will you tell me your name, pretty
one?"
"I am Bébée."
There were people coming into the church. The
bells were booming abovehead for vespers. There was a shuffle of chairs and a
stir of feet. Boys in white went to and fro, lighting the candles. Great clouds
of shadow drifted up into the roof and hid the angels.
She nodded her little head to him.
"Good night; I cannot stay. I have a cake at
home to-night, and the children are waiting."
"Ah! that is important, no doubt, indeed.
Will you buy some more cakes for the children from me?"
He slid a gold piece in her hand. She looked at it
in amaze. In the green lanes by Laeken no one ever saw gold. Then she gave it
him back.
"I will not take money in church, nor
anywhere, except what the flowers are worth. Good night."
He followed her, and held back the heavy oak door
for her, and went out into the air with her.
It was dark already, but in the square there was
still the cool bright primrose-colored evening light.
Bébée's wooden shoes went pattering down the
sloping and uneven stones. Her little gray figure ran quickly through the deep
shade cast from the towers and walls. Her dreams had drifted away. She was
thinking of the children and the cake.
"You are in such a hurry because of the
cake?" said her new customer, as he followed her.
Bébée looked back at him with a smile in her blue
eyes.
"Yes, they will be waiting, you know, and there
are cherries too."
"It is a grand day with you, then?"
"It is my fête day: I am sixteen."
She was proud of this. She told it to the very
dogs in the street.
"Ah, you feel old, I dare say?"
"Oh, quite old! They cannot call me a child
any more."
"Of course not, it would be ridiculous. Are
those presents in your basket?"
"Yes, every one of them." She paused a
moment to lift the dead vine-leaves, and show him the beautiful shining red
shoes. "Look! old Gringoire gave me these. I shall wear them at mass next
Sunday. I never had a pair of shoes in my life."
"But how will you wear shoes without
stockings?"
It was a snake cast into her Eden.
She had never thought of it.
"Perhaps I can save money and buy some,"
she answered after a sad little pause. "But that I could not do till next
year. They would cost several francs, I suppose."
"Unless a good fairy gives them to you?"
Bébée smiled; fairies were real things to
her—relations indeed. She did not imagine that he spoke in jest.
"Sometimes I pray very much and things
come," she said softly. "When the Gloire de Dijon was cut back too
soon one summer, and never blossomed, and we all thought it was dead, I prayed
all day long for it, and never thought of anything else; and by autumn it was all
in new leaf, and now its flowers are finer than ever."
"But you watered it whilst you prayed, I
suppose?"
The sarcasm escaped her.
She was wondering to herself whether it would be
vain and wicked to pray for a pair of stockings: she thought she would go and
ask Father Francis.
By this time they were in the Rue Royale, and
half-way down it. The lamps were lighted. A regiment was marching up it with a
band playing. The windows were open, and people were laughing and singing in
some of them. The light caught the white and gilded fronts of the houses. The
pleasure-seeking crowds loitered along in the warmth of the evening.
Bébée, suddenly roused from her thoughts by the
loud challenge of the military music, looked round on the stranger, and
motioned him back.
"Sir,—I do not know you,—why should you come
with me? Do not do it, please. You make me talk, and that makes me late."
And she pushed her basket farther on her arm, and
nodded to him and ran off—as fleetly as a hare through fern—among the press of
the people.
"To-morrow, little one," he answered her
with a careless smile, and let her go unpursued. Above, from the open casement
of a café, some young men and some painted women leaned out, and threw
sweetmeats at him, as in carnival time.
"A new model,—that pretty peasant?" they
asked him.
He laughed in answer, and went up the steps to
join them; he dropped the moss-roses as he went, and trod on them, and did not
wait.
CHAPTER IV
Bébée ran home as fast as her feet would take her.
The children were all gathered about her gate in
the dusky dewy evening; they met her with shouts of welcome and reproach
intermingled; they had been watching for her since first the sun had grown low
and red, and now the moon was risen.
But they forgave her when they saw the splendor of
her presents, and she showered out among them Père Melchior's horn of comfits.
They dashed into the hut; they dragged the one
little table out among the flowers; the cherries and cake were spread on it;
and the miller's wife had given a big jug of milk, and Father Francis himself
had sent some honeycomb.
The early roses were full of scent in the dew; the
great gillyflowers breathed\out fragrance in the dusk; the goat came and
nibbled the sweetbrier unrebuked; the children repeated the Flemish bread-grace,
with clasped hands and reverent eyes, "Oh, dear little Jesus, come and sup
with us, and bring your beautiful Mother, too; we will not forget you are
God." Then, that said, they ate, and drank, and laughed, and picked
cherries from each other's mouths like little blackbirds; the big white dog
gnawed a crust at their feet; old Krebs who had a fiddle, and could play it,
came out and trilled them rude and ready Flemish tunes, such as Teniers or
Mieris might have jumped to before an alehouse at the Kermesse; Bébée and the
children joined hands, and danced round together in the broad white moonlight,
on the grass by the water-side; the idlers came and sat about, the women
netting or spinning, and the men smoking a pipe before bedtime; the rough
hearty Flemish bubbled like a brook in gossip, or rung like a horn over a jest;
Bébée and the children, tired of their play, grew quiet, and chanted together
the "Ave Maria Stella Virginis"; a nightingale among the willows sang
to the sleeping swans.
All was happy, quiet, homely; lovely also in its
simple way.
They went early to their beds, as people must do
who rise at dawn.
Bébée leaned out a moment from her own little
casement ere she too went to rest.
Through an open lattice there sounded the murmur
of some little child's prayer; the wind sighed among the willows; the
nightingales sang on in the dark—all was still.
Hard work awaited her on the morrow, and on all
the other days of the year.
She was only a little peasant—she must sweep, and
spin, and dig, and delve, to get daily her bit of black bread,—but that night
she was as happy as a little princess in a fairy tale; happy in her playmates,
in her flowers, in her sixteen years, in her red shoes, in her silver buckles,
because she was half a woman; happy in the dewy leaves, in the singing birds,
in the hush of the night, in the sense of rest, in the fragrance of flowers, in
the drifting changes of moon and cloud; happy because she was half a woman,
because she was half a poet, because she was wholly a poet.
"Oh, dear swans, how good it is to be
sixteen!—how good it is to live at all!—do you not tell the willows so?"
said Bébée to the gleam of silver under the dark leaves by the water's side,
which showed her where her friends were sleeping, with their snowy wings closed
over their stately heads, and the veiled gold and ruby of their eyes.
The swans did not awake to answer.
Only the nightingale answered from the willows,
with Desdemona's song.
But Bébée had never heard of Desdemona, and the
willows had no sigh for her.
"Good night!" she said, softly, to all
the green dewy sleeping world, and then she lay down and slept herself.—The
nightingale sang on, and the willows trembled.
CHAPTER V.
"If I could save a centime a day, I could buy
a pair of stockings this time next year," thought Bébée, locking her shoes
with her other treasures in her drawer the next morning, and taking her broom
and pail to wash down her little palace.
But a centime a day is a great deal in Brabant,
when one has not always enough for bare bread, and when, in the long chill
winter, one must weave thread lace all through the short daylight for next to
nothing at all; for there are so many women in Brabant, and every one of them,
young or old, can make lace, and if one do not like the pitiful wage, one may
leave it and go and die, for what the master lacemakers care or know; there
will always be enough, many more than enough, to twist the thread round the bobbins,
and weave the bridal veils, and the trains for the courts.
"And besides, if I can save a centime, the
Varnhart children ought to have it," thought Bébée, as she swept the dust
together. It was so selfish of her to be dreaming about a pair of stockings,
when those little things often went for days on a stew of nettles.
So she looked at her own pretty feet,—pretty and
slender, and arched, rosy, and fair, and uncramped by the pressure of
leather,—and resigned her day-dream with a brave heart, as she put up her broom
and went out to weed, and hoe, and trim, and prune the garden that had been for
once neglected the night before.
"One could not move half so easily in
stockings," she thought with true philosophy as she worked among the
black, fresh, sweet-smelling mould, and kissed a rose now and then as she
passed one.
When she got into the city that day, her
rush-bottomed chair, which was always left upside down in case rain should fall
in the night, was set ready for her, and on its seat was a gay, gilded box,
such as rich people give away full of bonbons.
Bébée stood and looked from the box to the
Broodhuis, from the Broodhuis to the box; she glanced around, but no one had
come there so early as she, except the tinker, who was busy quarrelling with his
wife and letting his smelting fire burn a hole in his breeches.
"The box was certainly for her, since it was
set upon her chair?"—Bébée pondered a moment; then little by little opened
the lid.
Within, on a nest of rose-satin, were two pair of
silk stockings!—real silk!—with the prettiest clocks worked up their sides in
color!
Bébée gave a little scream, and stood still, the
blood hot in her cheeks; no one heard her, the tinker's wife, who alone was
near, having just wished Heaven to send a judgment on her husband, was busy
putting out his smoking smallclothes. It is a way that women and wives have,
and they never see the bathos of it.
The place filled gradually.
The customary crowds gathered. The business of the
day began underneath the multitudinous tones of the chiming bells. Bébée's
business began too; she put the box behind her with a beating heart, and tied
up her flowers.
It was the fairies, of course! but they had never
set a rush-bottomed chair on its legs before, and this action of theirs frightened
her.
It was rather an empty morning. She sold little,
and there was the more time to think.
About an hour after noon a voice addressed her,—
"Have you more moss-roses for me?"
Bébée looked up with a smile, and found some. It
was her companion of the cathedral. She had thought much of the red shoes and
the silver clasps, but she had thought nothing at all of him.
"You are not too proud to be paid
to-day?" he said, giving her a silver franc; he would not alarm her with
any more gold; she thanked him, and slipped it in her little leathern pouch,
and went on sorting some clove-pinks.
"You do not seem to remember me?" he
said, with a little sadness.
"Oh, I remember you," said Bébée, lifting
her frank eyes. "But you know I speak to so many people, and they are all
nothing to me."
"Who is anything to you?" It was softly
and insidiously spoken, but it awoke no echo.
"Varnhart's children," she answered him,
instantly. "And old Annémie by the wharfside—and Tambour—and Antoine's
grave—and the starling—and, of course, above all, the flowers."
"And the fairies, I suppose?—though they do
nothing for you."
She looked at him eagerly,—
"They have done something to-day. I have
found a box, and some stockings—such beautiful stockings! Silk ones! Is it not
very odd?"
"It is more odd they should have forgotten
you so long. May I see them?"
"I cannot show them to you now. Those ladies
are going to buy. But you can see them later—if you wait."
"I will wait and paint the Broodhuis."
"So many people do that; you are a painter
then?"
"Yes—in a way."
He sat down on an edge of the stall, and spread
his things there, and sketched, whilst the traffic went on around them. He was
very many years older than she; handsome, with a dark, and changeful, and
listless face; he wore brown velvet, and had a red ribbon at his throat; he
looked a little as Egmont might have done when wooing Claire.
Bébée, as she sold the flowers and took the change
fifty times in the hour, glanced at him now and then, and watched the movements
of his hands, she could not have told why.
Always among men and women, always in the crowds
of the streets, people were nothing to her; she went through them as through a
field of standing corn,—only in the field she would have tarried for poppies,
and in the town she tarried for no one.
She dealt with men as with women, simply,
truthfully, frankly, with the innocent fearlessness of a child. When they told
her she was pretty, she smiled; it was just as they said that her flowers were
sweet.
But this man's hands moved so swiftly; and as she
saw her Broodhuis growing into color and form beneath them, she could not
choose but look now and then, and twice she gave her change wrong.
He spoke to her rarely, and sketched on and on in
rapid bold strokes the quaint graces and massive richness of the Maison du Roi.
There is no crowd so busy in Brabant that it will
not find leisure to stare. The Fleming or the Walloon has nothing of the
Frenchman's courtesy; he is rough and rude; he remains a peasant even when town
bred, and the surly insolence of the "Gueux" is in him still. He is
kindly to his fellows, though not to beasts; he is shrewd, patient, thrifty,
industrious, and good in very many ways, but civil never.
A good score of them left off their occupations
and clustered round the painter, staring, chattering, pushing, pointing, as
though a brush had never been seen in all the land of Rubens.
Bébée, ashamed of her people, got up from her
chair and rebuked them.
"Oh, men of Brussels; fie then for
shame!" she called to them as clearly as a robin sings. "Did never
you see a drawing before? and are there not saints and martyrs enough to look
at in the galleries? and have you never some better thing to do than to gape
wide-mouthed at a stranger? What laziness—ah! Just worthy of a people who sleep
and smoke while their dogs work for them! Go away, all of you; look, there
comes the gendarme—it will be the worse for you. Sir, sit under my stall; they
will not dare trouble you then."
He moved under the awning, thanking her with a
smile; and the people, laughing, shuffled unwillingly aside and let him paint
on in peace. It was only little Bébée, but they had spoilt the child from her
infancy, and were used to obey her.
The painter took a long time. He set about it with
the bold ease of one used to all the intricacies of form and color, and he had
the skill of a master. But he spent more than half the time looking idly at the
humors of the populace or watching how the treasures of Bébée's garden went
away one by one in the hands of strangers.
Meanwhile, ever and again, sitting on the edge of
her stall, with his colors and brushes tossed out on the board, he talked to
her, and, with the soft imperceptible skill of long practice in those arts, he
drew out the details of her little simple life.
There were not always people to buy, and whilst
she rested and sheltered the flowers from the sun, she answered him willingly,
and in one of her longer rests showed him the wonderful stockings.
"Do you think it could be the fairies?"
she asked him a little doubtfully.
It was easy to make her believe any fantastical
nonsense; but her fairies were ethereal divinities. She could scarcely believe
that they had laid that box on her chair.
"Impossible to doubt it!" he replied,
unhesitatingly. "Given a belief in fairies at all, why should there be any
limit to what they can do? It is the same with the saints, is it not?"
"Yes," said Bébée, thoughtfully.
The saints were mixed up in her imagination with
the fairies in an intricacy that would have defied the best reasonings of
Father Francis.
"Well, then, you will wear the stockings,
will you not? Only, believe me, your feet are far prettier without them."
Bébée laughed happily, and took another peep in
the cosy rose-satin nest.
But her little face had a certain perplexity.
Suddenly she turned on him.
"Did not you put them there?"
"I?—never!"
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite; but why ask?"
"Because," said Bébée, shutting the box
resolutely and pushing it a little away,—"because I would not take it if
you did. You are a stranger, and a present is a debt, so Antoine always
said."
"Why take a present then from the Varnhart
children, or your old friend who gave you the clasps?"
"Ah, that is very different. When people are
very, very poor, equally poor, the one with the other, little presents that
they save for and make with such a difficulty are just things that are a
pleasure; sacrifices; like your sitting up with a sick person at night, and
then she sits up with you another year when you want it. Do you not know?"
"I know you talk very prettily. But why
should you not take any one else's present, though he may not be poor?"
"Because I could not return it."
"Could you not?"
The smile in his eyes dazzled her a little; it was
so strange, and yet had so much light in it; but she did not understand him one
whit.
"No; how could I?" she said earnestly.
"If I were to save for two years, I could not get francs enough to buy
anything worth giving back; and I should be so unhappy, thinking of the debt of
it always. Do tell me if you put those stockings there?"
"No"; he looked at her, and the trivial
lie faltered and died away; the eyes, clear as crystal, questioned him so
innocently. "Well, if I did?" he said, frankly; "you wished for
them; what harm was there? Will you be so cruel as to refuse them from
me?"
The tears sprang into Bébée's eyes. She was sorry
to lose the beautiful box, but more sorry he had lied to her.
"It was very kind and good," she said,
regretfully. "But I cannot think why you should have done it, as you had
never known me at all. And, indeed, I could not take them, because Antoine
would not let me if he were alive; and if I gave you a flower every day all the
year round I should not pay you the worth of them, it would be quite
impossible; and why should you tell me falsehoods about such a thing? A
falsehood is never a thing for a man."
She shut the box and pushed it towards him, and
turned to the selling of her bouquets. Her voice shook a little as she tied up
a bunch of mignonette and told the price of it.
Those beautiful stockings! why had she ever seen
them, and why had he told her a lie?
It made her heart heavy. For the first time in her
brief life the
Broodhuis seemed to frown between her and the sun.
Undisturbed, he painted on and did not look at
her.
The day was nearly done. The people began to
scatter. The shadows grew very long. He painted, not glancing once elsewhere
than at his study. Bébée's baskets were quite empty.
She rose, and lingered, and regarded him
wistfully: he was angered; perhaps she had been rude? Her little heart failed
her.
If he would only look up!
But he did not look up; he kept his handsome dark
face studiously over the canvas of the Broodhuis. She would have seen a smile
in his eyes if he had lifted them; but he never raised his lids.
Bébée hesitated: take the stockings she would not;
but perhaps she had refused them too roughly. She wished so that he would look
up and save her speaking first; but he knew what he was about too warily and
well to help her thus.
She waited awhile, then took one little red
moss-rosebud that she had saved all day in a corner of her basket, and held it
out to him frankly, shyly, as a peace offering.
"Was I rude? I did not mean to be. But I
cannot take the stockings; and why did you tell me that falsehood?"
He took the rosebud and rose too, and smiled; but
he did not meet her eyes.
"Let us forget the whole matter; it is not
worth a sou. If you do not take the box, leave it; it is of no use to me."
"I cannot take it."
She knew she was doing right. How was it that he
could make her feel as though she were acting wrongly?
"Leave it then, I say. You are not the first
woman, my dear, who has quarrelled with a wish fulfilled. It is a way your sex
has of rewarding gods and men.—Here, you old witch, here is a treasure-trove
for you. You can sell it for ten francs in the town anywhere."
As he spoke he tossed the casket and the stockings
in it to an old decrepit woman, who was passing by with a baker's cart drawn by
a dog; and, not staying to heed her astonishment, gathered his colors and easel
together.
The tears swam in Bébée's eyes as she saw the box
whirled through the air.
She had done right; she was sure she had done
right.
He was a stranger, and she could never have repaid
him; but he made her feel herself wayward and ungrateful, and it was hard to
see the beautiful fairy gift borne away forever by the chuckling, hobbling,
greedy old baker's woman. If he had only taken it himself, she would have been
glad then to have been brave and to have done her duty.
But it was not in his design that she should be
glad.
He saw her tears, but he seemed not to see them.
"Good night, Bébée," he said carelessly,
as he sauntered aside from her. "Good night, my dear. To-morrow I will
finish my painting; but I will not offend you by any more gifts."
Bébée lifted her drooped head, and looked him in
the eyes eagerly, with a certain sturdy resolve and timid wistfulness
intermingled in her look.
"Sir, see, you speak to me quite
wrongly," she said with a quick accent, that had pride as well as pain in
it. "Say it was kind to bring me what I wished for; yes, it was kind I
know; but you never saw me till last night, and I cannot tell even your name;
and it is very wrong to lie to any one, even to a little thing like me; and I
am only Bébée, and cannot give you anything back, because I have only just
enough to feed myself and the starling, and not always that in winter. I thank
you very much for what you wished to do; but if I had taken those things, I
think you would have thought me very mean and full of greed; and Antoine always
said, 'Do not take what you cannot pay—not ever what you cannot pay—that is the
way to walk with pure feet.' Perhaps I spoke ill, because they spoil me, and
they say I am too swift to say my mind. But I am not thankless—not thankless,
indeed—it is only I could not take what I cannot pay. That is all. You are
angry still—not now—no?"
There was, anxiety in the pleading. What did it
matter to her what a stranger thought?
And yet Bébée's heart was heavy as he laughed a
little coldly, and bade her good day, and left her alone to go out of the city
homewards. A sense of having done wrong weighed on her; of having been rude and
ungrateful.
She had no heart for the children that evening.
Mère Krebs was sitting out before her door shelling peas, and called to her to
come in and have a drop of coffee. Krebs had come in from Vilvöorde fair, and
brought a stock of rare good berries with him. But Bébée thanked her, and went
on to her own garden to work.
She had always liked to sit out on the quaint
wooden steps of the mill and under the red shadow of the sails, watching the
swallows flutter to and fro in the sunset, and hearing the droll frogs croak in
the rushes, while the old people told her tales of the time of how in their
babyhood they had run out, fearful yet fascinated, to see the beautiful Scots
Grays flash by in the murky night, and the endless line of guns and caissons
crawl black as a snake through the summer dust and the trampled corn, going out
past the woods to Waterloo.
But to-night she had no fancy for it: she wanted
to be alone with the flowers.
Though, to be sure, they had been very heartless
when Antoine's coffin had gone past them, still they had sympathy; the daisies
smiled at her with their golden eyes, and the roses dropped tears on her hand,
just as her mood might be; the flowers were closer friends, after all, than any
human souls; and besides, she could say so much to them!
Flowers belong to fairyland; the flowers and the
birds and the butterflies are all that the world has kept of its Golden Age;
the only perfectly beautiful things on earth, joyous, innocent, half divine,
useless, say they who are wiser than God.
Bébée went home and worked among her flowers.
A little laborious figure, with her petticoats
twisted high, and her feet wet with the night dews, and her back bowed to the
hoeing and clipping and raking among the blossoming plants.
"How late you are working to-night,
Bébée!" one or two called out, as they passed the gate. She looked up and
smiled; but went on working while the white moon rose.
She did not know what ailed her.
She went to bed without supper, leaving her bit of
bread and bowl of goat's milk to make a meal for the fowls in the morning.
"Little ugly, shameful, naked feet!" she
said to them, sitting on the edge of her mattress, and looking at them in the
moonlight. They were very pretty feet, and would not have been half so pretty
in silk hose and satin shoon; but she did not know that: he had told her she
wanted those vanities.
She sat still a long while, her rosy feet swaying
to and fro like two roses that grow on one stalk and hang down in the wind. The
little lattice was open; the sweet and dusky garden was beyond; there was a
hand's breadth of sky, in which a single star was shining; the leaves of the
vine hid all the rest.
But for once she saw none of it.
She only saw the black Broodhuis; the red and gold
sunset overhead; the gray stones, with the fallen rose leaves and crushed
fruits; and in the shadows two dark, reproachful eyes, that looked at hers.
Had she been ungrateful?
The little tender, honest heart of her was
troubled and oppressed. For once, that night she slept ill.
