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"Good-bye, Pierrette," he said, "I am sorry you won't have anything to do with me. I should have made you happy and given you a good time. Sometimes it is a pity to aim too high; you are apt to miss things altogether." Fanny was waiting in Joan's room when she got back, tucked up in her favourite position in the arm-chair. She had been away for the last ten days on one of her periodical trips.
Silence is the only weapon by which such victims can conquer; it baffles the Cossack charges of envy, the savage skirmishings of suspicion; it does at times give victory, crushing and complete, for what is more complete than silence? it is absolute; it is one of the attributes of infinity. Sylvie watched Pierrette narrowly.
From that day forth she refused to let Pierrette go to any of "those women's" houses. The life the poor girl led in Provins was divided into three distinct phases. The first, already shown, in which she had some joy mingled with the cold kindness of her cousins and their sharp reproaches, lasted three months.
The "Thank you, mademoiselle," which Bathilde said to Pierrette was a poem in many strophes. She was named Bathilde, and the other Pierrette. She was a Chargeboeuf, the other a Lorrain. Pierrette was small and weak, Bathilde was tall and full of life. Pierrette was living on charity, Bathilde and her mother lived on their means.
This lady came straight up to Pierrette, and, touching her under the chin, as if to show her to her friend, said: "Was I not right? Is this not the very thing for my milkmaid's costume on Thursday? What a pretty little girl it is! My child, will you give all your clothes, just as they are now, to the servants whom I will send for them? I will send you mine in exchange."
When the words "Receive these flowers" were sung, a youthful face appeared; a white hand cautiously opened the casement, and a girl made a sign with her head to the singer as he ended with the melancholy thought of the simple verses, "Alas! your fleeting honors will fade as they." "Is it really you, Brigaut?" said the girl, in a low voice. "Yes, Pierrette, yes. I am in Paris.
In a moment more they were in a city of soldiers, and Father Meraut was making friends with some of the men who were lounging near the cook-house, sniffing the savory smell of soup which issued from it in appetizing gusts. Pierre and Pierrette sniffed too, and even Mother Meraut could not help saying appreciatively, "That cook knows how to make soup."
"Oh, my dear fellow, not at all!" laughed Regnier. "I'm only telling you for your own good." "Then you imply that she might betray us to the police, eh?" "No, not that at all." "Well, what?" The pair looked at each other a second time, and then Regnier said "Unfortunately, Ewart, you don't know Pierrette or her friend." "Friend! Is it a male friend?" "Yes." "Who is he?" "I don't know.
Have you pleased some of the men who visit here?" "I don't think so, cousin." "Do you love any of them?" "No." "Certain?" "Quite certain." "Look at me, Pierrette." Pierrette looked at Sylvie. "A man called to you this morning in the square." Pierrette lowered her eyes. "You went to your window, you opened it, and you spoke to him." "No cousin, I went to look out and I saw a peasant."
Pierrette's glance had been so thoroughly understood by the major's son that, as he planed his planks or took his measures or joined his wood, he was working his brains to find out some way of communicating with her. He ended by choosing the simplest of all schemes. At a certain hour of the night Pierrette must lower a letter by a string from her window.
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