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But he could have sooner squared the circle than have guessed what had happened in the Rogrons' house during the fortnight which had elapsed since his arrival. It was not without keen apprehension that Pierrette came downstairs on the morning after Brigaut had invaded her morning dreams like another dream.
Bathilde's hair was ravishingly dressed, she had so much taste; Pierrette's was hidden beneath her Breton cap, and she knew nothing of the fashions. Moral, Bathilde was everything, Pierrette nothing. The proud little Breton girl understood this tragic poem.
To a woman of her temper, jealousy was less a sentiment than an occupation; she existed in it, it made her heart beat, she felt emotions hitherto completely unknown to her; the slightest sound or movement kept her on the qui vive; she watched Pierrette with gloomy intentness. "That miserable little wretch will kill me," she said.
"What is it, cousin?" "You came into my room like a sly cat, and you crept out the same way, though you knew very well I had something to say to you." "To me?" "You had a serenade this morning, as if you were a princess." "A serenade!" exclaimed Pierrette. "A serenade!" said Sylvie, mimicking her; "and you've a lover, too." "What is a lover, cousin?" Sylvie avoided answering, and said:
"My rich cousin isn't as kind to me as my poor grandmother was," sobbed Pierrette. "Your grandmother took your money," said Sylvie, "and your cousin will leave you hers." The colonel and the lawyer glanced at each other. "I would rather be robbed and loved," said Pierrette. "Then you shall be sent back whence you came." "But what has the dear little thing done?" asked Madame Vinet.
When Rogron turned to go home, recalled by a sense of his dinner-hour, Vinet stopped the colonel from following him by taking Gouraud's arm. "Well, colonel," he said, "I am going to take a fearful load off your shoulders; you can do better than marry Sylvie; if you play your cards properly you can marry that little Pierrette in two years' time."
And at last Pierrette dies, as unhappily as she has lived; while the others all triumph the Rogrons, the detestable lawyer Vinet, and all those who had helped them; and the subsequent happiness of these wretches remains wholly untroubled.
Women, powdering their noses as they waited for their wraps, murmured it in the dressing-rooms; a clown, smoking in the hall, confided it to a Mephistopheles; a pastry cook, after his effusive good-nights, confirmed it as he climbed into the motorcar that held the Pierrette who was his wife: "Dead, poor fellow!" "Dead, poor Clarence!" said Mrs.
They both looked at the picture a study in black and white, showing an attic room, with a pierrette seated disconsolate upon a bed, a pierrot gazing through a window. "Pierrot seeking the moon, eh?" Max nodded. "Yes. It has imagination and also technique!"
She was endearing in her ways with them, she watched their work, and made them those pretty speeches that seem like the flowers of childhood, and which her cousin had already silenced, for that gaunt woman loved to impress those under her with salutary awe. The sewing-women were delighted with Pierrette. Their work, however, was not carried on without many and loud grumblings.
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