CHAPTER FOUR
THE BATTLE OF LIFE
SHE found a little room in that quarter of Paris known as the Nation. It was bright and high, and open to the sky. During the year she had worked in the bar she had saved a few hundred francs, and had no immediate anxiety about the future. She decided that for a month she would rest and make some new under-linen, of which she was sadly in need.
It was a very happy month for her. She was fond of solitude and loved to dream. Sometimes she passed the long afternoons in the Parc de Vincennes close to the water. As she sewed she would watch the children at their play. A sweet emotion thrilled her. She pretended that she was preparing her trousseau. Who was bridegroom to be? Ah! she could not imagine.
All along her street were makers of furniture, and the sight of their workshops made her think of Florent Garnier. Poor fellow! He had been given six months. She had read all about it in “Humanité.”
In these long sunny days she often wondered and worried about Cécile. At last she wrote to her grandmother. The old woman, who could not use a pen, replied through a neighbour that her mother had gone to London taking the little girl with her. That settled the matter. Margot gave up all hope of seeing her sister again.
As the weeks passed, and her nerves were tranquilized by the sweetness of her life, she began to lose her fear of Popol. He became more and more an evil dream. Once even she mustered up courage enough to go back to the little bar. A fat red-faced man served her with a petit noir. He did not recognize her, and a new sense of security filled her.
Then one day as she sat sewing in the Place de la Nation close to the fountain, she had a violent fright. Suddenly a voice behind her rose to an exultant cry:
“Well! Well! Here you are. I’ve found you at last.”
She turned sharply. A man was looking at her in an ecstasy of admiration. He was a tubby, rosy little man, distinguished only by a waxed moustache and a white waistcoat. He was waltzing around her, and rubbing his hands excitedly. Yet she was convinced she had never seen him before.
“Sit still, sit still, mademoiselle,” he cried. “Sapristi! I’ve been looking all over Paris for you. Allow me to introduce myself.”
Instead of a card he handed her a small bottle. It contained a pink liquid, and on its label she read wonderingly:
Bruneau’s Brilliant Balm.
“That’s it,” said the little man delightedly. “‘B.B.B.’ Hit ’em hard with the ‘B.’ I’m Bruneau. It’s my invention. The finest hair lotion in the world.”
“But I don’t want it,” protested Margot.
“No, but it wants you. I want you. Got to have you. I want you to advertise the Balm. Sit with your back to the window; hair down, all shining and brushed out. Bottles of the Balm arranged all about you. Crowds in front of the window all the time. My place is on the Rue de Rivoli. Come on, let’s come to terms.”
“But, I don’t want to do that.”
“My dear, there’s nothing to do. You just sit there from ten till twelve and from two till five. You can sew, you can read if you like. No one will see your face. You can forget there’s a crowd watching you. It’s a soft thing, and I’ll pay you better than if you were doing real work. Come now, twenty francs a day. You really have no right to refuse.”
“No,” she thought, “I have no right to refuse.” Then aloud, “Very well, I’ll try it.”
The following day she went to the hair-dresser’s shop and put herself in the delighted hands of Monsieur Bruneau. The little man considered himself an artist, as every man should, however humble his vocation. He arranged Margot’s hair with reverence, washing, perfuming, and brushing it until it was like a mantle of spun gold.
When she took her place in the window, he placed a small mirror so that she could see all the faces in the crowd without being seen herself. This amused her. She never wearied of watching the thousands of admiring eyes she saw reflected daily in the mirror. It gave her a sense of pride, of elation. Over her was placed a placard which read:
The most beautiful hair in Paris.
The result of using
Bruneau’s Brilliant Balm.
As the days went by the little man with the waistcoat became more and more enraptured. The Balm was selling so fast that he could not have it bottled quickly enough. He was obliged to extend his laboratory, as he called the back shop where it was prepared, and employ a traveller selling it to the wholesale trade. He had also an advertising contract with the newspapers. Then quite suddenly he lost his demonstrator.
Margot was gazing idly at her little mirror, when she saw a face there that seemed to stop the beating of her heart. It was a hairless yellow face, with rattlesnake eyes. It was a cruel, cunning face set in a malignant grin, the face of the hunter who has tracked his prey—Popol!
As she left the shop he was waiting for her and walked along with her.
“Aren’t you going to take me home with you?” he asked.
She stopped. “Are you ever going to leave me alone?”
“No,” he sneered, “I’ve been to too much trouble to find you. Listen, little one. I want you. I’ve always wanted you since you stood me off. Now I’m going to have you. No use your struggling. Popol always gets what he wants. If I can’t get you by fair means, I’ll get you by foul. With my pals I’ll carry you off some night. You are all alone now, no one to defend you. If you make any trouble, I’ll simply kill you.”
“Will you leave me? If you don’t stop talking to me, I’ll appeal to this sergent de ville.”
She went up to the policeman; he listened to her, twisting a huge moustache that sprouted from a very red face.
“Don’t worry, mademoiselle,” he said finally, “the monsieur only wants to be amiable.” Yet, he waved a warning hand at Popol.
Popol crossed to the other side of the street and Margot hurried on. But no matter how fast she walked, how many sharp turns she took or how many side streets she entered, Popol was always there. How could she get rid of him? Just as she was at her wit’s end she found herself at an entrance of the Métro. Quick as a flash she darted down the steps.
A train was at the station and she jumped into a first class carriage. The sliding door closed; she had given him the slip.
But at the next station he got into her coach. He had caught the last of the second class carriages. He grinned at her from the other side of the compartment, but did not speak. She despaired of being able to shake him off; she was helpless.
When they stopped at the next station she was standing close to the door; near her was a white-haired old gentleman with the Legion of Honour in his button hole. As the train was starting again, she suddenly cried:
“Mon Dieu! it’s my station. Let me get off.”
The automatic doors were already closing but the old man held them back. “Quick, madame.” She slipped between them and they shut behind her like a trap. She was safe on the platform. She saw Popol make frantic efforts to get off and an irate official who was only too glad of an opportunity to assert his authority, push him back. As the train glided into the tunnel she had a parting glimpse of his face snarling with rage.
She took a return train and hurried home. She could not go back to Bruneau’s, she decided, but must seek other work. The next morning she did not stir from the house, and about midday the little hair-dresser called, anxiety written on his face. He begged, he coaxed; but to all his entreaties she was deaf; he went away disconsolate.
She had been working for nearly two months and had saved over five hundred francs. She could afford to wait a few days before looking for something else to do. She felt very happy, very safe up her six flights of stairs. Very much like a bird, so near the sky! She sang in the sunshine. Taking her work she seated herself at the window and looked down into the street. Then quickly she shrank back. There on the opposite pavement was Popol. He was looking up and had seen her. Fool that she was to think she could evade him. Of course he had got her address at the hair-dresser’s. There was no escaping him. At least she would make another attempt. That night, seeing that the coast was clear, she hurried to the Gare de Lyon and took a ticket for a station selected at random. It turned out to be a remote village in the Jura.
Every morning she awakened to the mellow sound of cow-bells, and standing at her window breathed the pure, delicious air. Beyond the mountain was Switzerland. She longed to go further, to travel. If ever she had money enough she would go to the south, to the sunshine, to Monte Carlo. She would try her luck. Perhaps she would be as successful as the Mère Tranquille had been. When her money came to an end, she returned to Paris with memories of huge green valleys, of crystal brooks, and of deep solemn pine woods.
The next year was a very hard and checkered one. She first got a place in the workshop of a big dress-maker,—Plumeau’s. She had not been there long when one evening Monsieur Plumeau called her into his private office. He was a white-haired old man, very well-dressed. He told her politely that it was the privilege of his prettiest employées to dine with him occasionally. He called the directress.
“Select for Mademoiselle a robe that suits her,” he then said to the girl. “We will have dinner to-night at the Café de Paris.” He seemed to take it for granted she would accept, and was quite amazed when she walked out with head held high. He shrugged his shoulders.
“So much the worse,” he said. “Dismiss her.”
Margot was given an envelope with her week’s pay and told to look for another place.
It was more difficult to find this time, for she had no reference from Plumeau’s. She was forced finally to seek employment in a great barrack-like building that employed three thousand girls. It was the workshop of one of the great stores on the Boulevard Haussmann, and was conducted with military severity. Her hours were from eight in the morning until a quarter past six in the evening. The work was hard and monotonous; the pay just enough to cover her simple living expenses.
For long months she slaved with her needle, never getting ahead. She became shabby, tired, faint-hearted. When her holiday of ten days came around she had not enough money to go away and spent the time in her room. There were girls around her coquettishly dressed, with men who waited for them every evening. That was all right; nobody minded a girl having an ami who helped her. There were some, however, more elegantly clad who were considered scarcely respectable. Of such a one it was whispered: “Elle fait sa tappe sur le Boulevard.” Margot made no friends amongst the other girls and was always alone.
So passed a year; then to her delight she got a position with a milliner on the Boulevard Saint Michel. Over the door was the name, “Folette.” Everybody stopped to look at the window, her hats were so dainty, so daring. She was renowned for her chic, and even sober men whose interests were far removed from feminine millinery, stopped and stared at her latest creations. Below the shop was the workshop. The girls sat on either side of a long table with boxes of feathers, ribbands, flowers beside them. They sewed, pieced, and basted, chattering happily the while. From time to time Madame Folette would descend to criticise and give suggestions; she encouraged them to develop their own ideas, to be creative.
The girl had been there eighteen months, when, one day, Madame Folette descended to the atelier.
“Margot, I want to speak to you.”
“Yes, madame.”
“How would you like to serve in the shop? I want a saleswoman to assist me. You have learnt all there is to learn in the making of hats. You should now learn to sell them.”
“Madame is too kind.”
“Not at all. I have chosen you, because you are the prettiest girl in the atelier. You have the most beautiful hair I ever saw. You will buy a nice-fitting black-silk dress, black-silk stockings and little slippers of black patent leather. Black will show off your soft complexion and your pale gold hair.”
Margot hastened to express her joy and the change was made. By day she dusted and arranged the stock and waited on the customers in the white panelled little shop usually flooded with sunshine. She was very happy. At night she returned to her tiny room under the mansarde of a house on the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Her window opened on a small balcony where she grew sweet peas and nasturtiums. She had a gay canary that came out of its cage and hopped on her finger. She cooked dainty dishes in snowy enamel ware. It was quite a radiant little interior.
She was more than usually happy one Sunday, and sang as she dressed. She had an engagement with a girl called Jeanne, who was premier at the atelier of Madame Folette. The two had decided to take a little shop on the Boulevard below, and start in business for themselves. Jeanne was a steady, clever girl who thoroughly understood the running of a workshop. She was to make the hats, Margot to sell them. They had savings enough to start. Margot was thinking over their plans and singing happily when the laundress arrived with her week’s washing. As she took it from the parcel she noticed an odour of phenol.
“What a horrid smell,” she thought. Then she changed the sheets on her bed, and went off forgetting all about it.
The week passed as usual, but towards its end Margot began to feel strangely tired. She struggled with her growing fatigue for two days, then Madame Folette said to her:
“Margot, you’re looking ghastly. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, madame. I am so cold I shiver all the time.”
“You had better go home and go to bed.”
“Very well, madame. No doubt I will be better to-morrow.”
On the morrow Margot was worse, and within two days she had to ask the concierge to call the doctor. He looked a little puzzled when he examined her, but prescribed a treatment, and said he would call again later. On his third visit a curious red rash covered her.
“Hum!” he said, “I’m afraid it’s scarlet fever.”
On his next visit he was still more puzzled and asked her many searching questions. He went away looking very serious indeed. All that day Margot waited, anxious and unhappy. The red spots developed in the strangest manner. When the doctor returned late at night and saw them something like a shudder passed over him. He drew on his gloves hastily.
“There’s nothing to do, mademoiselle. I am going to the Institute Pasteur. They will send an ambulance first thing in the morning. You are lucky that I can get you in. You will get better attention there than anywhere else.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You mustn’t worry. It is most unfortunate. It must have been those clothes from the laundry. I am going straight to the police. Please wait patiently till the ambulance comes. Don’t be alarmed.”
“But, doctor, tell me, for the love of God! What have I got?”
He looked around as if to be sure there were no listeners, then said slowly:
“My poor girl, I may be mistaken but I think it’s....”
She gazed at him with eyes that were strained with horror.
“Oh, no, doctor, don’t tell me it’s that....” she gasped.
But the physician had gone and she fell back on her bed. She was dazed. It was unthinkable. Then as her mind began to grasp the truth, despair fell on her.
“Oh, it’s cruel,” she moaned. “I have worked so hard and kept honest, yet everything goes against me. I ask so little, yet always when I am about to better myself, something terrible happens. Oh, Life, Life! You’re hard on me ... you’re hurting me so....”
What was the use of struggling? She would let herself die. If only she had some veronal she would take a fatal dose....
“But, no,” she cried, courage coming back to her. “I’ve fought all along and I’ll die fighting. I’ll laugh to the end.... I will be the victor....”
Worn out she sank into a troubled sleep.
When she woke it was to hear her little clock strike two. How long the night was! Would the dawn never come? The dawn with the ambulance! What was that about an ambulance? No, it was all a dream, an evil dream—what the doctor had told her. She would sleep again. She was so tired, so tired....
Was that something moving out in the hall? The house was very quiet. What strange fancies she had. She must be going mad.... Was that fancy again?—that noise outside? And there ... her door was opening very softly. No, she was not mad. It was really moving. With straining eyes she watched.... A dark form filled the doorway, and a man’s figure slipped into the room. She stifled a scream of terror.
Her chamber was lit by a small night-lamp turned very low, but she knew only too well that large yellow, hairless face. Popol! This was another of these evil dreams. Then she heard him speak.
“Well, my pretty one, at last.”
He looked at her, his face full of gloating triumph. He locked the door, and gave a chuckling laugh.
“Now I’ve got you, my chicken. Ha! Ha! no one gets away from Popol. He’s sure, is Popol. Once he gets on the trail he never gives up. It’s been a long trail, my beauty, but now....”
Suddenly his voice grew thick with fury.
“Now I’ll teach you who’s your master. You’ll be glad to kiss my dirty boots before I’ve done with you. Ah, you needn’t squeal for help. No one will hear you; I’ve planned well. I have taken the room next to yours. Been there since Saturday. There are no other neighbours, and the people in the flat below are in the country. You are absolutely at my mercy,—in my power.”
He was in no hurry. From behind his ear he took a cigarette and lit it at the little night-lamp. The girl watched him, fascinated as a bird is by a snake. He enjoyed her terror, and prolonged it. Then passion seized him. He gripped her by the arm. At last she found her voice.
“No, no,” she gasped. “Spare me. Have pity. I will give you all the money I have. Here! Take this!”
From under her pillow she drew her purse and thrust it at him. He snatched it with a laugh, looked inside, and put it carefully in his pocket.
“That’s all right,” he jeered; “I expect you’ll make lots more for me in days to come. Yes, I’ll have your money, and, by God, I’ll have you too....”
With a leap he had her in his powerful grip and the struggle began. He held her arms so that she could not move them, and pressed his coarse lips to her face. At their touch madness seized her. She bit fiercely into the flabby fold of his cheek. With a snarl of pain he released her.
“You little devil, I’ll kill you for this.”
Once more he sprang at her, held her down. She felt her strength leave her. She could resist no more. She was fainting.... Then suddenly she remembered....
“Stop!” she cried; “Stop for your own sake! Can’t you see I’m ill? Can’t you see what is the matter?”
Something in her voice arrested him. He drew back. There was a long tense pause. Slowly he turned up the light. Then ... he grew limp with terror. He looked closely and shrank back.
“No, no,” he gasped hoarsely. “Not that?”
“Yes, that!” she screamed. “And now you’ll have it too. Oh, brute, brute! You can kill me if you like. I have had my revenge. They’re coming with the ambulance, coming even now. You hear, it’s the smallpox, you dog! The smallpox....”
But Popol did not want to kill her. Gazing at her with horror-stricken eyes he backed to the door.
“Yes,” she exulted, “You can kiss me now. It will make more sure, or rather see.... I am coming to kiss you.”
She made a move as if to rise and follow him but he did not wait. He reeled through the door, pulling it to behind him. She heard him stumbling down the dark narrow stairs, blubbering like a child.
“Oh, it’s awful,” he cried. “I can’t stand it. I’m not a sound man. It will kill me. It will kill me.”
And Popol was right. It did.