Chapter 7

The morning of the 14th June arrived. Paris is then at its loveliest
season. The gardens in particular are worthy of the capital of Europe,
and they are open to all who can manage to make a decent appearance.
Adrienne's hotel had a little garden in the rear, and she sat at her
window endeavoring to breathe the balmy odors that arose from it.
Enter it she could not. It was the property, or devoted to the uses, of
the occupant of the rez de chaussee. Still she might look at it as often as
she dared to raise her eyes from her needle. The poor girl was not what
she had been two months before. The handkerchief wanted but a few
hours of being finished, it is true, but the pale cheeks, the hollow eyes
and the anxious look, proved at what a sacrifice of health and physical
force I had become what I was. As I had grown in beauty, the hand
that ornamented me had wasted, and when I looked up to catch the
smile of approbation, it was found to be care worn and melancholy. Still
the birds did not sing the less sweetly, for Paris is full of birds, the roses
were as fragrant, and the verdure was as deep as ever. Nature does not
stop to lament over any single victim of human society. When misery is
the deepest, there is something awful in this perpetual and smiling round
of natural movements. It teaches profoundly the insignificance of the
atoms of creation.

{rez de chaussee -- ground floor}

Adrienne had risen earlier than common, even, this morning, determined
to get through with her task by noon, for she was actually sewing on the
lace, and her impatience would not permit her to resume the work of
the milliner that day, at least. For the last month she had literally lived on
dry bread herself; at first with a few grapes to give her appetite a little
gratification, but toward the last, on nothing but bread and water. She
had not suffered so much from a want of food, however, as from a want
of air and exercise; from unremitting, wasting toil at a sedentary
occupation, from hope deferred and from sleepless nights. Then she
wanted the cheering association of sympathy. She was strictly alone;
with the exception of her short interviews with the milliner, she
conversed with no one. Her grandmother slept most of the time, and
when she did speak, it was with the querulousness of disease, and not in
the tones of affection. This was hardest of all to bear; but Adrienne did
bear up under all, flattering herself that when she could remove Mad. de
la Rocheaimard into the country, her grandmother would revive and
become as fond of her as ever. She toiled on, therefore, though she
could not altogether suppress her tears. Under her painful and pressing
circumstances, the poor girl felt her deepest affliction to be that she had
not time to pray. Her work, now that she had nothing to expect from
the milliner, could not be laid aside for a moment, though her soul did
pour out its longings as she sat plying her needle.

Fortunately, Madame de la Rocheaimard was easy and tranquil the
whole of the last morning. Although nearly exhausted by her toil and the
want of food, for Adrienne had eaten her last morsel, half a roll, at
breakfast, she continued to toil; but the work was nearly done, and the
dear girl's needle fairly flew. Of a sudden she dropped me in her lap and
burst into a flood of tears. Her sobs were hysterical, and I felt afraid she
would faint. A glass of water, however, restored her, and then this
outpouring of an exhausted nature was suppressed. I was completed!
At that instant, if not the richest, I was probably the neatest and most
tasteful handkerchief in Paris. At this critical moment, Desiree, the
commissionaire, entered the room.

>From the moment that Adrienne had purchased me, this artful woman
had never lost sight of the intended victim. By means of an occasional
bribe to little Nathalie, she ascertained the precise progress of the work,
and learning that I should probably be ready for sale that very morning,
under the pretence of hiring the apartment, she was shown into my
important presence. A brief apology explained all, and Adrienne civilly
showed her little rooms.

"When does your lease end, mademoiselle?" demanded Desiree,
carelessly.

"Next week, madame. I intend to remove to the country with my
grandmother the beginning of the week."

"You will do very right; no one that has the means should stay in Paris
after June. Dieu! What a beautiful handkerchief! Surely--surely--this is
not your work, mademoiselle?"

Adrienne simply answered in the affirmative, and then the
commissionaire's admiration was redoubled. Glancing her eye round the
room, as if to ascertain the probabilities, the woman inquired if the
handkerchief was ordered. Adrienne blushed, but shaking off the
transient feeling of shame, she stated that it was for sale.

"I know a lady who would buy this--a marchande de mode, a friend of
mine, who gives the highest prices that are ever paid for such articles--
for to tell you the truth certain Russian princesses employ her in all these
little matters. Have you thought of your price, mademoiselle?"

Adrienne's bloom had actually returned, with this unexpected gleam of
hope, for the affair of disposing of me had always appeared awful in her
imagination. She owned the truth frankly, and said that she had not
made herself acquainted with the prices of such things, except as she
had understood what affluent ladies paid for them.

"Ah! that is a different matter," said Desiree, coldly. "These ladies pay
far more than a thing is worth. Now you paid ten francs for the
handkerchief itself."

"Twenty-eight," answered Adrienne, trembling.

"Twenty-eight! mademoiselle, they deceived you shamefully. Ten would
have been dear in the present absence of strangers from Paris. No, call
THAT ten. This lace would probably bring a napoleon--yes, I think it
might bring a napoleon."

Adrienne's heart sunk within her. She had supposed it to be worth at
least five times as much.

"That makes thirty francs," continued Desiree coldly; "and now for the
work. You must have been a fortnight doing all this pretty work."

"Two months, madame," said Adrienne, faintly.

"Two months! Ah! you are not accustomed to this sort of work and are
not adroit, perhaps."

"I worked only in the mornings and late at night; but still think I worked
full hours."

"Yes, you worked when sleepy. Call it a month, then. Thirty days at ten
sous a day make fifteen francs. Ten for the handkerchief, twenty for the
lace, and fifteen for the work, make forty-five francs--parole d'honneur,
it does come to a pretty price for a handkerchief. Si, we must ask forty-
five francs for it, and then we can always abate the five francs, and take
two napoleons."

{parole d'honneur = word of honor, upon my word!}

Adrienne felt sick at heart. Want of nourishment had lessened her
energies, and here came a blow to all her golden visions that was near
overcoming her. She knew that handkerchiefs similar to this frequently
sold for twenty napoleons in the shops, but she did not know how much
the cupidity of trade extracted from the silly and vain in the way of sheer
contributions to avarice. It is probable the unfortunate young lady would
have lost her consciousness, under the weight of this blow, had it not
been for the sound of her grandmother's feeble voice calling her to the
bedside. This was a summons that Adrienne never disregarded, and, for
the moment, she forgot her causes of grief.

"My poor Adrienne," whispered Madame de la Rocheaimard in a tone
of tenderness that her granddaughter had not heard for some weeks,
"my poor Adrienne, the hour is near when we must part--"

"Grand-mamma!--dearest grand-mamma!"

"Nay, love, God wills it. I am old, and I feel death upon me. It is happy
that he comes so gently, and when I am so well prepared to meet him.
The grave has views, that no other scene offers, Adrienne! Noble blood
and ancient renown are as nothing compared to God's mercy and
forgiveness. Pardon me if I have ever taught thy simple heart to dwell on
vanities; but it was a fault of the age. This world is all vanity, and I can
now see it when it is too late. Do not let MY fault be THY fault, child of
my love. Kiss me, Adrienne, pray for my soul when all is over."

"Yes, dearest, dearest grand-mamma, thou know'st I will."

"Thou must part with the rest of the trousseau to make thyself
comfortable when I am gone."

"I will do as thou wishest, dearest grand-mamma."

"Perhaps it will raise enough to purchase thee four or five hundred
francs of rentes, on which thou may'st live with frugality."

{rentes = annuity, yearly income}

"Perhaps it will, grand-mamma."

"Thou wilt not sell the thimble--THAT thou wilt keep to remember me."

Adrienne bowed her head and groaned. Then her grandmother desired
her to send for a priest, and her thoughts took another direction. It was
fortunate they did, for the spirit of the girl could not have endured more.

That night Madame de la Rocheaimard died, the wife of the porter, the
bon cure, and Adrienne alone being present. Her last words were a
benediction on the fair and gentle being who had so faithfully and
tenderly nursed her in old age. When all was over, and the body was
laid out, Adrienne asked to be left alone with it. Living or dead, her
grandmother could never be an object of dread to her, and there were
few disposed to watch. In the course of the night, Adrienne even caught
a little sleep, a tribute that nature imperiously demanded of her
weakness.

{bon cure = worthy parish priest}

The following day was one of anguish and embarrassment. The
physician, who always inspects the dead in France, came to make his
report. The arrangements were to be ordered for the funeral.
Fortunately, as Adrienne then thought, Desiree appeared in the course
of the morning, as one who came in consequence of having been
present at so much of the scene of the preceding day. In her character
of a commissionaire she offered her services, and Adrienne,
unaccustomed to act for herself in such offices, was fain to accept them.
She received an order, or rather an answer to a suggestion of her own,
and hurried off to give the necessary directions. Adrienne was now left
alone again with the body of her deceased grandmother. As soon as the
excitement ceased, she began to feel languid, and she became sensible
of her own bodily wants. Food of no sort had passed her lips in more
than thirty hours, and her last meal had been a scanty breakfast of dry
bread. As the faintness of hunger came over her, Adrienne felt for her
purse with the intention of sending Nathalie to a neighboring baker's,
when the truth flashed upon her, in its dreadful reality. She had not a
liard. Her last sou had furnished the breakfast of the preceding day. A
sickness like that of death came over her, when, casting her eyes
around her in despair, they fell on the little table that usually held the
nourishment prepared for her grandmother. A little arrowroot, and a
light potage, that contained bread, still remained. Although it was all that
seemed to separate the girl from death, she hesitated about using it.
There was an appearance of sacrilege, in her eyes, in the act of
appropriating these things to herself. A moment's reflection, however,
brought her to a truer state of mind, and then she felt it to be a duty to
that dear parent herself, to renew her own strength, in order to
discharge her duty to the dead. She ate, therefore, though it was with a
species of holy reverence. Her strength was renewed, and she was
enabled to relieve her soul by prayer.

{liard = half-farthing, the tiniest of coins}

"Mademoiselle will have the goodness to give me ten francs," said
Desiree, on her return; "I have ordered every thing that is proper, but
money is wanting to pay for some little articles that will soon come."

"I have no money, Desiree--not even a sou."

"No money, mademoiselle? In the name of heaven, how are we to bury
your grandmother?"

"The handkerchief--"

Desiree shook her head, and saw that she must countermand most of
the orders. Still she was human, and she was a female. She could not
altogether desert one so helpless, in a moment of such extreme distress.
She reflected on the matter for a minute or two, and opened her mind.

"This handkerchief might sell for forty-five francs, mademoiselle," she
said, "and I will pay that much for it myself, and will charge nothing for
my services to-day. Your dear grandmother must have Christian burial,
that is certain, and poor enough will that be which is had for two
napoleons. What say you, mademoiselle--will you accept the forty five
francs, or would you prefer seeing the marchande de mode?"

"I can see no one now, Desiree. Give me the money, and do honor to
the remains of my dear, dear grandmother."

Adrienne said this with her hands resting on her lap in quiescent despair.
Her eyes were hollow and vacant, her cheeks bloodless, her mind
almost as helpless as that of an infant. Desiree laid down two
napoleons, keeping the five francs to pay for some necessaries, and
then she took me in her hands, as if to ascertain whether she had done
too much. Satisfied on this head, I was carefully replaced in the basket,
when the commissionaire went out again, on her errands, honorably
disposed to be useful. Still she did not deem it necessary to conceal her
employer's poverty, which was soon divulged to the porteress, and by
her to the bourgeois.

{bourgeois = towns-people, neighbors}

Adrienne had now the means of purchasing food, but, ignorant how
much might be demanded on behalf of the approaching ceremony, she
religiously adhered to the use of dry bread. When Desiree returned in
the evening, she told the poor girl that the convoi was arranged for the
following morning, that she had ordered all in the most economical way,
but that thirty-five francs were the lowest sou for which the funeral
could be had. Adrienne counted out the money, and then found herself
the mistress of just FOUR FRANCS TEN SOUS. When Desiree took
her leave for the night, she placed me in her basket, and carried me to
her own lodgings, in virtue of her purchase.

{convoi = funeral; lowest sou = cheapest price}

I was laid upon a table where I could look through an open window, up
at the void of heaven. It was glittering with those bright stars which the
astronomers tell us are suns of other systems, and the scene gradually
drew me to reflections on that eternity which is before us. My feelings
got to be gradually soothed, as I remembered the moment of time that
all are required to endure injustice and wrongs on earth. Some such
reflections are necessary to induce us to submit to the mysterious reign
of Providence, whose decrees so often seem unequal, and whose
designs are so inscrutable. By remembering what a speck is time, as
compared with eternity, and that "God chasteneth those he loveth," the
ills of life may be borne, even with joy.

The manner in which Desiree disposed of me, shall be related in another
number.

{another number = in the Graham's Magazine periodical version, not
divided into chapters, this paragraph closed the first of the four
installments in which the story was printed; in later book versions it was
changed to read "in the next chapter"}