"Humph," he grumbled, "if he is shot he is out of the way.
Now, friend Porpoise, the other rooms if you please."
They searched these thoroughly with no better success. But when they had
satisfied themselves and were out again, the sergeant, whose suspicions
seemed to have been aroused, flung open the door of the Didiers' garret,
and turned the lantern full upon Marie once more. She had not moved hand
or foot.
"What is that blood?" said the sergeant, pointing to a trail of red
drops on the floor.
For answer she silently rolled back her sleeve, and unbandaging her arm,
showed a deep cut, from which the blood still oozed.
"Good. She has no one," said the man, withdrawing the light.
This, as all the world knows, was in 1871. Four years afterwards, at the
time my story begins, Marie Didier still occupied that attic. She lived
by taking in needlework, and it was sometimes a wonder to the few who
knew her, that working so hard as she did, she should remain so poor.
The furniture of her attic I have described, the sole addition she had
made to it was the gay chintz which curtained off the alcove with the
bed. She was always ready to do a kindness, but made no acquaintances,
and the only persons who ever climbed to her attic were Plon, who made
occasional weighty visitations, often discoursed upon his prowess at the
time of the Commune; and an idiot girl called Perine, whom Marie one day
found crying in the street; she had no father or mother, and the old
rag-picker she lived with beat her.
Pages:
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208