“Dieu de Dieu, gu’il est beau!”
“She won’t speak nothing but French since she has been so bad — you can’t get a natural word out of her,” Mrs. Bowerbank said.
“It used to be so pretty when she spoke English — and so very amusing,” Miss Pynsent ventured to announce, with a feeble attempt to brighten up the scene. “I suppose she has forgotten it all.”
“She may well have forgotten it — she never gave her tongue much exercise. There was little enough trouble to keep her from chattering,” Mrs. Bowerbank rejoined, giving a twitch to the sick woman’s counterpane. Miss Pynsent settled it a little on the other side, and considered, in the same train, that this separation of language was indeed a mercy; for how could it ever come into her small companion’s head that he was the offspring of a person who couldn’t so much as say good-morning to him? She felt, at the same time, that the scene might have been somewhat less painful if they had been able to communicate with the object of their compassion. As it was, they had too much the air of having been brought together simply to look at each other, and there was a grewsome awkwardness in that, considering the delicacy of Florentine’s position. Not, indeed, that she looked much at her old comrade; it was as if she were conscious of Miss Pynsent’s being there, and would have been glad to thank her for it — glad even to examine her for her own sake, and see what change, for her, too, the horrible years had brought, but felt, more than this, that she had but the thinnest pulse of energy left, and that not a moment that could still be of use to her was too much to take in her child. She took him in with all the glazed entreaty of her eyes, quite giving up his poor little protectress, who evidently would have to take her gratitude for granted. Hyacinth, on his side, after some moments of embarrassing silence — there was nothing audible but Mrs. Bowerbank’s breathing — had satisfied himself, and he turned about to look for a place of patience, while Miss Pynsent should finish her business, which as yet made so ‘little show. He appeared to wish, not to leave the room altogether, as that would be a confession of a vanquished spirit, but to take some attitude that should express his complete disapproval of the unpleasant situation. He was not in sympathy, and he could not have made it more clear than by the way he presently went and placed himself on a low stool, in a corner, near the door by which they had entered.
“Est-il possible, man Dieu, qu’il sol gentil comme ca?
“ his mother moaned, just above her breath.
“We are very glad you should have cared — that they look after you so well,” said Miss Pynsent, confusedly, at random; feeling, first, that Hyacinth’s coldness was, perhaps, excessive, and his skepticism too marked, and then that allusions to the way the poor woman was looked after were not exactly happy. They didn’t matter, however, for she evidently heard nothing, giving no sign of interest, even when Mrs. Bowerbank, in a tone between a desire to make the interview more lively, and an idea of showing that she knew how to treat the young, referred herself to the little boy.
“Is there nothing the little gentleman would like to say, now, to the unfortunate? Hasn’t he any pleasant remark to make to her about his coming so far to see her when she’s so sunk? It isn’t often that children are shown over the place (as the little man has been), and there’s many that would think they were lucky if they could see what he has seen.”
“Man pauvre joujou, man pauvre cheri” the prisoner went on, in her tender, tragic whisper.
“He only wants to be very good; he always sits that way at home,” said Miss Pynsent, alarmed at Mrs. Bowerbank’s address and hoping there wouldn’t be a scene.
“He might have stayed at home then — with this wretched person moaning after him,” Mrs. Bowerbank remarked, with some sternness. She plainly felt that the occasion threatened to be wanting in brilliancy, and wished to intimate that though she was to be trusted for discipline, she thought they were all getting off too easily.
“I came because Pinnie brought me,” Hyacinth declared, from his low perch. “I thought at first it would be pleasant. But it ain’t pleasant. I don’t like prisons.” And he placed his little feet on the cross-piece of the stool, as if to touch the institution at as few points as possible.
The woman in bed continued her strange, almost whining plaint. “ II ne veut pas s’approctier; il a honte de moi.”
“There’s a many that begin like that!” laughed Mrs. Bowerbank, who was irritated by the boy’s contempt for one of her Majesty’s finest establishments.
Hyacinth’s little white face exhibited no confusion; he only turned it to the prisoner again, and Miss Pynsent felt that some extraordinary, dumb exchange of meanings was taking place between, them. “She used to be so elegant; she was a fine woman,” she observed, gently and helplessly.
“11 a honte de moi
— il a honte, Dieu le pardonne,” Florentine Vivier went on, never moving her eyes.
“She’s asking for something, in her language. I used to know a few words,” said Miss Pynsent, stroking down the bed, very nervously.
“Who is that woman? what does she want?” Hyacinth asked, his small, clear voice ringing over the dreary room.
“She wants you to come near her, she wants to kiss you, sir,” said Mrs. Bowerbank, as if it were more than he deserved.
“I won’t kiss her; Pinnie says she stole a watch!” the child answered, with resolution.
“Oh, you dreadful — how could you ever!” cried Pinnie, blushing all over and starting out of her chair.
It was partly Amanda’s agitation, perhaps, which, by the jolt it administered, gave an impulse to the sick woman, and partly the penetrating and expressive tone in which Hyacinth announced his repugnance: at any rate, Florentine, in the most unexpected and violent manner, jerked herself up from her pillow, and, with dilated eyes and waving hands, shrieked out, “Ah, quelle infamie! I never stole a watch, I never stole anything — anything! Ah, par exemple!” Then she fell back, sobbing with the passion that had given her a moment’s strength.
“I’m sure you needn’t put more on her than she has by rights,” said Mrs. Bowerbank, with dignity, to the dressmaker, laying a large red hand upon the patient, to keep her in her place.
“Mercy, more? I thought it so much less!” cried Miss Pynsent, convulsed with confusion and jerking herself, in a wild tremor, from the mother to the child, as if she wished to fling herself upon one for contrition and upon the other for revenge.
“II a honte de moi
— il a honte de moi!” Florentine repeated, in the misery of her sobs, “Dieu de bonte, quelle horreur!”
Miss Pynsent dropped on her knees beside the bed, and trying to possess herself of Florentine’s hand again, protested with a passion almost equal to that of the prisoner (she felt that her nerves had been screwed up to the snapping-point, and now they were all in shreds) that she hadn’t meant what she had told the child, that he hadn’t understood, that Florentine herself hadn’t understood, that she had only said she had been accused and meant that no one had ever believed it. The Frenchwoman paid no attention to her whatever, and Amanda buried her face and her embarrassment in the side of the hard little prison-bed, while, above the sound of their common lamentation, she heard the judicial tones of Mrs. Bowerbank.
“The child is delicate, you might well say! I’m disappointed in the effect — I was in hopes you ‘d hearten her up. The doctor’ll be down on me, of course; so we’ll just pass out again.”
“I’m very sorry I made you cry. And you must excuse Pinnie — I asked her so many questions.”
These