Tales of Two Countries | Page 6

to the end, in sordid obscurity, her caricature
of an existence.
But it happened, as it does sometimes happen, that she was
"discovered" by a man of wealth and position, one day when, a child of
fourteen, she happened to cross one of the better streets. She was on her
way to a dark back room in the Rue des Quatre Vents, where she
worked with a woman who made artificial flowers.
It was not only her extraordinary beauty that attracted her patron; her
movements, her whole bearing, and the expression of her half-formed
features, all seemed to him to show that here was an originally fine
nature struggling against incipient corruption. Moved by one of the
incalculable whims of the very wealthy, he determined to try to rescue
the unhappy child.
It was not difficult to obtain control of her, as she belonged to no one.
He gave her a name, and placed her in one of the best convent schools.
Before long her benefactor had the satisfaction of observing that the
seeds of evil died away and disappeared. She developed an amiable,
rather indolent character, correct and quiet manners, and a rare beauty.

When she grew up he married her. Their married life was peaceful and
pleasant; in spite of the great difference in their ages, he had unbounded
confidence in her, and she deserved it.
Married people do not live in such close communion in France as they
do with us; so that their claims upon each other are not so great, and
their disappointments are less bitter.
She was not happy, but contented. Her character lent itself to gratitude.
She did not feel the tedium of wealth; on the contrary, she often took an
almost childish pleasure in it. But no one could guess that, for her
bearing was always full of dignity and repose. People suspected that
there was something questionable about her origin, but as no one could
answer questions they left off asking them. One has so much else to
think of in Paris.
She had forgotten her past. She had forgotten it just as we have
forgotten the roses, the ribbons, and faded letters of our youth-- because
we never think about them. They lie locked up in a drawer which we
never open. And yet, if we happen now and again to cast a glance into
this secret drawer, we at once notice if a single one of the roses, or the
least bit of ribbon, is wanting. For we remember them all to a nicety;
the memories are ran fresh as ever-- as sweet as ever, and as bitter.
It was thus she had forgotten her past--locked it up and thrown away
the key.
But at night she sometimes dreamed frightful things. She could once
more feel the old witch with whom she lived shaking her by the
shoulder, and driving her out in the cold mornings to work at her
artificial flowers.
Then she would jump up in her bed, and stare out into the darkness in
the most deadly fear. But presently she would touch the silk coverlet
and the soft pillows; her fingers would follow the rich carvings of her
luxurious bed; and while sleepy little child-angels slowly drew aside
the heavy dream-curtain, she tasted in deep draughts the peculiar,
indescribable well-being we feel when we discover that an evil and
horrible dream was a dream and nothing more.
***
Leaning back among the soft cushions, she drove to the great ball at the
Russian ambassador's. The nearer they got to their destination the
slower became the pace, until the carriage reached the regular queue,

where it dragged on at a foot-pace.
In the wide square in front of the hôtel, brilliantly lighted with torches
and with gas, a great crowd of people had gathered. Not only
passers-by who had stopped to look on, but more especially workmen,
loafers, poor women, and ladies of questionable appearance, stood in
serried ranks on both sides of the row of carriages. Humorous remarks
and coarse witticisms in the vulgarest Parisian dialect hailed down
upon the passing carriages and their occupants.
She heard words which she had not heard for many years, and she
blushed at the thought that she was perhaps the only one in this whole
long line of carriages who understood these low expressions of the
dregs of Paris.
She began to look at the faces around her: it seemed to her as if she
knew them all. She knew what they thought, what was passing in each
of these tightly-packed heads; and little by little a host of memories
streamed in upon her. She fought against them as well as she could, but
she was not herself this evening.
She had not, then, lost the key to the secret