BOOK ONE The Story of Margot

CHAPTER ONE THE OUTCAST

1.

“THAT you, Margot?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“For God’s sake close the door. You don’t think I break my back gathering wood that you may warm the wide world.”

There was a scuffle of sabots anxiously retreating.

“Margot!”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You’re not going away again, are you?”

“I....”

“Come here, little toad. I’ve something to say to you.”

Submissively from the shadow of the doorway slipped a girl. She had twin braids of pale gold hair, and between them like a wedge, her face showed waxen with cold.

“’Fraid I’ll eat you?” snapped the woman. “Come here, near to me. Brought home any money?”

“No, Mother.”

“But I told you to ask.”

“I did not dare. Madame will not pay in advance. The last time I asked her she almost sent me away.”

“Nom de Dieu! Couldn’t you give her some story? Your little sister’s sick. There’s no food in the house. Your poor mother’s.... Ugh! What a fool I have for a daughter. So all you’ve brought back’s an empty stomach. Oh, I could strike you, I could.”

She suited the gesture to the threat, and the girl arched her slender arms to stave off the blow. But the woman dropped her hands disgustedly.

“Bah! what’s the use. If I could only make you cry there’d be some relish in it. But no! I beat you till my arms ache and never a whimper. That’s your stubborn nature. You’ll do nothing to please me. Oh, you’re a stubborn little devil, still as a mouse, obstinate as a mule. There’s something in you, daughter, I can’t get at. But I will. I’ll thrash it out of you. You wait. Not to-night. I’m too tired to-night....”

From the tumbler at her elbow she took a gulp of cider and brandy, then turned broodingly to the fire. The sickly flames betrayed the wretchedness of the room, the gaunt rafters, the floor of beaten earth. On a deal table lay a clasp knife, and beside it a loaf of bread. The girl eyed the bread avidly. Then her hand, red and claw-cold, stole to the knife, while her gaze rested fearfully on her mother. But the woman no longer heeded.

“What a life!” she was muttering. “What a home! And to think I’d have been rolling in my auto, and crackling in silk and satin, if I hadn’t been a fool. That’s my weak point.... I always wanted to be respectable, to be married—all that sentimental rot. Well, I’ve made my bed and I’ve got to lie on it. But it’s hell....”

She stared dismally at her draggled skirts, her coarsely stockinged feet, her wooden shoes so warped and worn. Seeing her absorbed, the girl hacked off a piece of bread and fell to wolfing it. The woman went on, her face harsh and haggard in the light of the fire:

“There was the American. Mad about me, he was. If I’d played my cards right he’d have married me. What a time he gave me, Paris, Venice, Monte Carlo.... Oh, Monte Carlo! But he had to go back home at last. His wife! Told me to wait and he’d get a divorce. Gave me all the money he had. Nearly five hundred pounds. Believe me, I was pretty in them days.”

As if for confirmation, she stroked her hollow cheeks. Tears of self-pity welled in her weary eyes.

“Ah! if I’d known, I would have waited. But there was Pierre plaguing me to marry him. Told me he’d loved me since we’d worked together in that hotel in Brighton; me as bar-maid, him as head-waiter. Mighty nice he used to look too in his dress suit. He said he’d been left some money and wanted to go back to the little town where he was born and buy a pub. So we was married, once in England and once in France. God! I was particular in them days.”

She laughed bitterly, and took another gulp of the mixture in her glass. Her eyes went glassy. Her fingers clutched unseen things. She maundered on.

“Yes, I was happy there. It was all so new to me. Then we began to get ambitious. The landlord of the big hotel died suddenly. It was a great chance for Pierre, but he had not money enough to take it. There was where I came in. I gave him my five hundred pounds. Told him an aunt had left it to me. He believed me. We bought the hotel and everything seemed to go well. Yes, them were the happy days.”

A fit of coughing interrupted her. When it was over she took another drink.

“I don’t know how Pierre got to know about the American. He was away a month and when he came back he was changed. He explained nothing, but he treated me like dirt. It was that made me take to the drink.”

She was silent awhile. Then....

“He didn’t seem to care about the business any more and I was drinking too much to care; so we went from bad to worse. We lost the hotel and went back to the buvette. Then we lost that too, and he had to take a waiter’s place. By this time the drink was master of me. I tried to give it up but it was no use. When Cécile was born I thought I’d be able to stop, but I was worse than ever. If he’d only tried to help me! But no, he hated me; and I began to hate him too. We fought day and night, like cat and dog. Well, it’s a long, long story, and here’s the end.”

She threw a withered branch of gorse on the fire. It blazed up gold as its own May-day bloom. The girl had climbed on a bench by the high bed and was bending fondly over.

“Margot!” screamed the woman.

The girl started. In the sudden flare, her face was an ashen mask of fear.

“What are you doing there?”

“I’m just looking at Cécile, Mother.”

“Come away at once. Haven’t I told you a hundred times not to go near her? I know you with your sneaking ways. You want to steal her away from me. She’s the only one I’ve got left, and I want her to myself,—all, all. If ever you go near her, I’ll kill you. See!”

A fit of coughing choked her utterance. Again the girl stole to the door.

“Margot!”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Fetch the bottle of brandy from the cupboard.”

The woman poured herself a stiff glass and downed it in a gulp.

“Come here, you little imp; I want to look at you.”

She drew the shrinking girl to her. Her lips twitched with spite.

“His eyes, his mouth, his chin. The very image of him. And he says you’re not his daughter. Ah! that was the knife in me. Do you hear, girl? Your father says you’re not his daughter.”

She laughed harshly, scornfully.

“You’re so much his daughter that I hate you, hate you!”

The girl had begun to struggle, but the woman was holding her with spiteful strength.

“Let me tell you something. He came to-day and told me he was going away for ever. He tried to take Cécile, but I fought for her, fought like a wild cat to hold her. You understand?”

The girl winced in her savage grip.

“Hear that. You’ve no father. He disowns you. And let me tell you something more,—you’ve no mother.... I disown you, too. After to-night I never want to see you again. You’re the dead image of him and I hate him too much. Now go!”

She hurled the girl from her and took another gulp of the neat brandy. The glass dropped from her hand. She sagged forward.

Except for the crackle of the burning twigs all was quiet. The girl gathered a hurried armful of clothes. She was glad to go, but for Cécile!

She stole over to the bed where her sister lay sleeping. She saw a cluster of golden curls, a wan little face with lips parted and lashes that seemed to cast a shadow. Bending down, she kissed the white cheek. The heavy lashes stirred, the big blue eyes opened, the child’s silken arm stole around her neck.

“You’ve come home, Margot?”

“Yes, but I’m going away again.”

“Don’t go, Margot. Don’t leave me. I’m afraid of Mother. Stay with me. Stay with your little Cécile.”

“No, I can’t. Kiss me, dear.”

The child held her so tightly it was difficult to free herself. Then the mother turned. She shrieked in sudden fury, and the girl in her terror made a leap for the door. But the latch jammed; and, the while she was fumbling with it, the woman made a rush for her.

The girl screamed with fright. The woman, in her haste, stumbled, caught herself, and with a foul oath snatched the knife from the table....

That was Margot’s last memory of her mother,—a harridan hurling curses at her and threatening her with a naked knife....

Sobbing with terror, she stumbled over the stone sill of the doorway and gained the sanctuary of the night.

2.

The night had on her robe of carnival, and her spangled skirts made glorious the sky. The girl halted by the wayside, where a line of clipped oaks blotted themselves against the stars. She did not cry, for she had lost the habit of tears, but drew long sobbing breaths.

The night wore drearily on, the stars seemed to glitter in cruel unconcern. The girl dozed and dreamed a little....

She was a child of four, the happiest and best dressed in all the village. She had robes of lace, and silk ribbands, and shoes of satin. Her mother cared for her like a little princess, and her father carried her proudly in his arms. Every one said she was spoiled. She had more toys than all the other children put together. But the most precious of all was a doll as big as a real baby, a doll that opened and shut its eyes, and had jointed arms and legs. She had a dozen dresses for this doll, and spent hours and hours caring for it....

She was a girl of ten. She wore a long white robe and a veil over her head. Some said she looked like a fairy, some an angel. It was her first Communion, and of a score of girls she was the prettiest by far. She it was who headed the shining procession through the long grey street of the village. The way was strewn with lily leaves, and child-voices blended sweetly in the June sunshine....

That was her last memory of happiness. Her father suddenly changed. Where she had known only caresses, harsh words and bitter looks were now her portion. The home once so joyful, was the scene of sordid wrangling. She was allowed to go about shabby and dirty, and became nothing but a slipshod drudge.

Her father never struck her, but her mother beat her cruelly. It was a relief when she was apprenticed to the local dress-maker and spent her day away from the misery of home. But oh, the nights when she ate her slovenly supper and waited for the inevitable out-break! When it came and the storm raged at its height, her father would retreat with Cécile to the cottage of her grandmother and leave her to bear the brunt of her mother’s drunken spite. How often had she been thrashed, how often torn from her bed, and flung half-clad into the night! In the old barn there was a corner where she had many a time crouched and shivered until dawn. Ah, what bitter memories! Would any amount of happiness ever efface them?

So half brooding, half dreaming, the night passed away. She opened her eyes wide and found she had gained a ridge not far from a forest. She looked down a billowy slope of tree-tops to the misty level of the plain. It was a grim grey world; but even as she gazed, a silver wire seemed to be drawn along the horizon. The stillness was intense, a listening, waiting stillness; from the other side of the sky some god seemed to be pouring over the cloud-fleece a solution of light.

Then as she looked she saw that the sinister quality of the light had gone. The silver wire had broadened to a glint of pearl; slowly it glowed to a pink as delicate as that of sea-shells. The pink deepened to a rose, kindled and spread. Waves of colour rippled up the sky, brightening with every wave. Shade succeeded shade. Rich crimson battled with cerise and rose with coral pink. Then suddenly came a leap of gold, the gold of daffodils. It brimmed into a dazzling flood. It welled and glowed and spread; and before its radiant lucidity the orgy of colour melted away. Then into that indomitable light,—a primrose rim, a golden segment, the sun was launched in all its glory.

The sunshine and the song of birds gave her courage. The world began to glitter. Warbling notes came from the bushes, and dew-drops spangled the thread of gossamer. In this world, so fresh, so fair, the happenings of the night before seemed to her an evil dream.

The few peasants she passed gazed at her curiously. Over her shoulder was slung her bundle, and her pale, peaked face between its twin braids of bright hair had all the entreaty of a beaten dog.

As she trudged wearily on she came to a glade, flooded with sunshine and perfumed with pine. Bees droned in the wild thyme, from the fork of a tree a squirrel scolded, on a hollow oak nearby a wood-pecker drummed sonorously. And in the midst of this scene of peace an old man was painting.

He was not a nice old man. His skin was white, the dead white of an onion, and the girl noted that flies swarmed round and round him. They settled on his blouse and walked over his beard but he took no notice of them. He seemed to attract flies as carrion attracts them. He gave the girl a contemptuous look.

“Well, what d’ye think of my picture?”

“It’s very pretty, sir.”

“Pretty be damned. Never tell an artist his work’s pretty.”

The girl was turning away when his voice arrested her.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Why? Haven’t you got a home?”

“No, sir.”

He turned round and looked at her hard. He seemed to reflect.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to Paris?”

The girl started. Paris! It was the most beautiful, the most wonderful city in the world. It had been one of her dreams that some day she might visit it.

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“Then, why not?”

“I have no money.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I have no friends there.”

“You would make friends in time. Why not go?”

“Oh, no, sir. I should be afraid. Maybe, I could not find work.”

“Humph! Perhaps, I could help you to find work. Come here.”

Timidly she drew near. She did not like him, but she felt she must obey. The flies were on his shoulders in a grey cloud. He had a very small mouth, with lips that were shiny. He moistened these very often with his tongue. In his ears were wads of pink cotton wool. He put out a puffy, yellow hand and touched her. He tilted back her sharp chin. He held one of the thick braids of her shiny hair.

“Bah! you won’t be much of a model for the figure. But I might make something of your head. Wait till I finish my work, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

There was such an air of command in his tone that again she felt she must obey. So she sat down on her bundle and waited patiently. He worked without heeding her, until a little before noon, when he rose and gathered together his materials.

“Come now. I’ll go with you to the station.”

Doglike she followed at his heels. The village was about two miles away. He bought her some bread and chocolate and a bottle of cheap wine.

“You’re as hungry as a young wolf, eh! Well, you can eat on the train. Come quickly or you will miss it.”

She went with him to the station. There he gave her a third class ticket for Paris and a sealed letter.

“Go to the address on the envelope. Go direct. My housekeeper will make you comfortable.”

Then the train arrived and he looked at her with eyes that shone curiously.

“You will help Madame Mangepain with the housework till I come. After that we will see.”

As the train moved off she saw him standing on the platform, licking his lips and surrounded by a swarm of flies.

CHAPTER TWO THE MAN ON WHOM FLIES SETTLED

TWO o’clock in the morning at the Gare du Montparnasse. The girl was dazed and weary. She sat on her bundle in the stale greyness of the station, waiting anxiously for the dawn. About six o’clock she ventured forth, and holding her precious envelope in her hand inquired her way at the corner of every street.

A morning of exquisite metal, vivid, spacious, resplendent. As she crossed the Seine by the Pont Royal, the sky was golden and against it gloomed the twin towers of Notre Dame. The palaces of the Louvre swam in lovely light and the Gardens of the Tuileries seemed washed in yellow wine. Up the long rise of the Champs-Elysées, the Arc de Triomphe was superbly radiant, its turquoise heart stillettoed by the glittering lunge of the Luxor Column.

The girl gazed with awestruck eyes. As she thought of the sunrise in the forest the violence of the change dulled her brain. The city amazed and appalled her; but, impelled by fear, she came at length to the heights of Montmartre. There before a gloomy house in the Rue Lepic she paused, her heart beating thickly.

She knocked at the heavy oak-door, timidly at first, then loudly. She had a sudden fear that there might be no one there. As she was wondering what she should do she heard slow, shuffling footsteps, and a withdrawal of bolts, then the door opened a little. An old woman regarded her angrily. She was bent almost double, and held her head sideways. Her face was hard and sour. She snarled:

“What are you making all this row for? Couldn’t you have the patience to wait till I got down?”

The girl presented her letter. The old woman regarded it suspiciously.

“Who gave you this?”

“The old man who paints in the forest.”

“Ah! Monsieur Frossard. Well, you can’t expect me to read it without my glasses. Wait there.”

She closed the door, leaving the girl on the step; but soon she came back, and her face was grimmer than ever.

“Another of ’em. Well, I suppose I must take you in. He’s quite the philanthropist, Monsieur Frossard. He! He!”

The old woman preceded her down a long corridor, her back bent and her feet splayed out. They mounted a broad flight of stairs, then a narrow one.

“There! that’s your room, and lucky you are to have it. I’ll warrant a pig-stye is more in your line. You are a poor bit of skin and bone anyway. Leave your bundle on the bed and come with me to the kitchen.”

The girl soon fell into the ways of the household. She rose at five and prepared the coffee. She scrubbed and rubbed, washed and swept. She did everything but the cooking and the marketing. The old woman seldom spoke to her, and forbade her to put a foot out-of-doors.

The house was a private one, with a large studio facing the north, and a small, weedy garden shut in by high walls. The girl was allowed to go into the garden, but its damp melancholy oppressed her. Some headless statues leaned against the mouldering wall. It was very quiet. She felt as if she were in a prison.

One Sunday morning Monsieur Frossard arrived. For days before they had been making preparations, dusting statuettes and bric-à-brac, sweeping in unwonted nooks and corners. The old woman sidled everywhere like a crab, with her neck twisted awry, her bent back and large splay feet in felt slippers. She kept Margot at work, constantly impressing on her the necessity of pleasing the Master. So much did she harp on this that the girl looked forward to the old man’s return almost with dread.

On his arrival he went to his room and retired into his great four-poster bed. The old woman attended to him, carrying him specially prepared dishes, and dusty bottles of wine.

That evening she said to the girl: “Margot, put on a clean apron and take this plate of peaches up to the Master.”

Tremblingly the girl obeyed. Monsieur Frossard was propped up in bed, a skull cap on his head, and a cigar in his mouth. Around him was the debris of his evening meal, the carcase of a lobster, some bones of frog-legs, and a half finished bottle of champagne. As she approached she was conscious of a strange odour of decay. The old man looked at her, licking his little slimy lips while a score of flies buzzed and settled around him. The pink cotton wool was still in his ears. She wondered if there was any connection between the cotton wool and the flies. An odd revulsion seized her, yet she continued to approach with the fruit.

“Tiens! it’s the little girl I found in the forest. What’s your name?”

“Margot, Sir.”

“Come here, Margot, close to me. Let me offer you a peach.”

The girl, standing with her head bent, refused.

“Ah! you are too timid. We must cure you of that.”

He put out one of his pudgy hands and took hold of a long bright strand of her hair. The girl raised her startled blue eyes. The hand on her shining hair made her think of a toad. She shuddered. The old man’s face changed; it became hard and cruel.

“Go away,” he said harshly. “I will see you to-morrow.”

Next morning Madame Mangepain said to her:

“The Master wants to see you in the studio.”

The girl went reluctantly. The studio had always awed her. It was so huge, so rich. There were costly rugs on the floor and lovely pictures on the wall. The paintings all bore the signature of Abel Frossard, and ranged from nudes to landscapes.

The painter, in his velvet cap and dressing-gown, was sitting before a fresh canvas. He turned heavily and beckoned her to enter. His manner was bland, even ingratiating.

“Well, Margot, you are commencing this morning your new career, that of a model.”

“Yes, sir,” said the girl meekly.

“You’d better say ‘Yes, Master.’”

“Yes, Master.”

“Now as a model, you may be a success or you may be a failure. I will do my best to make you a success, but it will largely depend on yourself. There’s many a woman to-day with her limousine and her appartement in the Champs-Elysées who began life as a model. On the other hand, if you are a failure there is only the street for you, the hospital, prison, death ... you understand.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Ah, good! By the way, why were you afraid of me last night?”

The girl did not answer. She was looking at a fly that was crawling on the pink cotton wool in his ear.

“You mustn’t be afraid. You’ll never make a success as a model if you are afraid. Now to work.”

He motioned her to a dais, on which stood a chair that seemed all curves.

“Sit there and loosen your hair.”

The girl obeyed. It fell in a sheen of gold around her. He handed her a brush.

“Brush it out so that it is like an aura.”

She did not understand, but brushed and brushed, with long, sweeping strokes. The old man had forgotten he was anything but a painter.

“Fine,” he said enthusiastically. “Now raise your head and look at the statuette above the book case. There! That’s good. Just hold the position. I will make a preliminary study to-day.”

The girl sat quite still, and the old man painted intently. She posed until luncheon, which she ate with Madame Mangepain in the kitchen, and at two o’clock returned to the studio and resumed the pose. At five o’clock the old man laid down his brush and rubbed his hands.

“There! I’ve finished. Come and see it.”

She looked at the beautiful bit of brush work. She could not believe that this ethereal girl-face with the eyes so thrillingly blue and the nimbus of bright gold hair was herself. The old man observed her awe with satisfaction.

“You like it, eh? Yes, it’s good. A bit idealized. Well, it’s nothing to what I will do before I finish. I’ll make Chabas look to his laurels yet. Ah! your hair! it’s what inspires me. Tadé Stycka has no better model. I’ll make your hair famous.”

Turning her to admire it the more, he parted it behind; then suddenly the girl felt his lips pressed to the back of her neck. She started as if a serpent had stung her and put her hand to the place. Again a shudder passed over her. For a moment a strange look came into his eyes, then they went cold again, and he laughed reassuringly.

“Ha! Ha! you mustn’t mind me. It’s purely paternal. It won’t do you any harm. Now go and get a good supper. I’ll want you to-morrow. Don’t look at me in such a frightened way. I’m not an ogre. I won’t eat you.”

The next day she posed for him again, but this time he did not attempt to kiss her. He was very authoritative.

“Pull up your sleeves,” he said sharply.

She obeyed. He looked derisively at her skinny arms.

“Now, open your dress and show me your shoulders. Coil up your hair on your head first.”

Again she obeyed. When he was like this she was not afraid of him. It was as if there were two men in him, the artist and the satyr. He was all artist as he continued:

“Humph! You’ll never do. You’re nothing but bones and green shadows.”

He threw down his palette and walked heavily about the room.

“Too bad you’re so thin. I feel I could do big things with you. But I must, I must! We’ll fatten you up if it takes a year. Listen, I’m going away to-morrow to Morocco. I’ll be gone a month. In that time I want you to get fat. Do nothing, eat lots, read, amuse yourself. Turn your angles into curves. You hear?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Now, don’t forget. If you’re not round and smooth by the time I come back, I will have no more use for you. Then it’s the street. You know what that means. Go!”

She went, and later on she heard him instructing the housekeeper.

“I’m going to-morrow, Madame Mangepain, to Morocco, and I want that girl to be plumped up. Fatten her as you would a chicken. She’s going to be my favourite model. I can do great things with her. Great things! Let her do no work. Wait on her. Feed her dainty dishes. Buy her fine clothes, silks and that sort of thing. Books too. Don’t let her move about too much. Remember, it’s for my sake not hers. I rely on you, Madame Mangepain. And I say, address her as mademoiselle.”

He left next morning and Margot felt a huge sense of relief. It was as if something corrupt had gone out of the house. She could not get over this feeling of pourriture even when she was posing for him in the big studio. Perhaps his breath was so fetid, that it pervaded every room he entered.

When he had gone, her life changed completely. Madame Mangepain said to her at supper:

“Don’t get up to-morrow morning. I’ll bring you your breakfast in bed.”

“Oh, no, madame.”

“I tell you I will. It’s the Master’s orders. I’ve been told to serve you and I will ... mademoiselle.”

“Oh, please don’t call me mademoiselle.”

“It’s the Master’s orders.”

The next morning the girl remained in bed until the old woman sidled in with a tray of café au lait, croissants and fine butter.

“Now stay in bed till I come back.”

The girl heard her go out, locking the door. She returned an hour later carrying a large parcel containing a kimono of mauve silk, fine lace underwear, silk stockings, and velvet shoes.

“There! Put these on. It’s the Master’s orders. And I’ll go and prepare your bath.”

It must be said that Madame Mangepain entered on her undertaking with zeal if not with enthusiasm. She taught the girl the elegancies of the toilette, the care of her skin, how to point and polish her nails and to bring to perfection her teeth and her hair. She had quite a battery of bottles and brushes, of oils and paints and perfumes. Margot spent every morning in the white-tiled bathroom, meticulously following the régime that the old woman demanded of her.

For luncheon, each day she was given dainty dishes such as she had never dreamed of; then, wrapt in the mauve kimono and stretched out on the great divan in the studio amid a pile of cushions, she would read one of the luridly covered novels the old woman bought for her. Among them were Chéri-Bebé, Dracula and Les deux Gosses. These books absorbed her, made her forget her strange surroundings, which otherwise filled her with a vague fear. Sometimes she even thought of escape, when she sat on fine afternoons in the wild unweeded garden amid the headless statues. By climbing upon one of them she could have gained the top of the wall and freedom. But after that ... what? The streets! She had a horror of the outer world which the old woman never lost an opportunity of developing. According to Madame Mangepain Paris was a merciless ogre, demanding its daily tribute of a thousand girls such as she, crushing and devouring them.

One day as she peered through a window into the street, she saw a girl about her age in a violet blouse with black, oily hair banged on her forehead, and at her side, a pale stunted youth with a reckless mouth and eyes cold as those of a snake. They seemed to be having words. Suddenly the youth struck the girl, knocking her down; then snatched a cheap trinket from her throat, and with a final vicious kick, went off laughing cynically. This typical scene of apache life made a deep impression on her.

“It’s all like that,” she thought,—“the life out there. It’s what will happen to me.”

“Ah, I’ll make a beauty of you yet,” said Madame Mangepain at the end of the second week. “Monsieur Frossard won’t know you when he comes back.”

And indeed the girl was amazed at the change in herself. Her skin had become smooth and velvety, her limbs round and firm. Her face, too, had changed. It had retained its quality of childishness, but had lost its cowed and shrinking look. Hints of sweetness and charm revealed themselves. If only she could get away, find decent work, escape from the sinister old man into whose clutches she had fallen. Every day the dread of his return grew upon her.

Then one night Monsieur Frossard came back.

When she brought Margot her coffee next morning Madame Mangepain said to her:

“Get up and make yourself as beautiful as you can. Monsieur Frossard wants to see you in the studio. Be sure you are a credit to me.”

The old woman went so far as to superintend her toilette, putting a faint flush of rouge high on her cheeks, and brushing her hair like spun gold down over the mauve kimono. But nothing could mask the wretchedness in the depths of the girl’s eyes.

As she stood in the doorway of the studio Monsieur Frossard turned ponderously.

“Entrez, voyons. Don’t stand there like a Christian martyr going to the stake. Come here.”

With eyes cast down she obeyed. He pulled up the sleeve of her kimono and looked at her arm with a critical, dispassionate gaze.

“Ah, bon. Now do up your hair in the glass and bare your shoulders. I’m going to do a bust of you to-day.”

Again she obeyed, his eyes following her eagerly.

“Sit on the model’s chair. Bare your breast more. What are you afraid of, you little fool? Remember, I’m an artist. I’ve been itching to paint you, itching. I’ve thought of you all the time I’ve been away. I have a dozen ideas. I’m going to make you famous.”

A passion almost cruel in its intensity seemed to seize him. Imperiously he made her hold the pose and painted with swift sure strokes. He stopped reluctantly for lunch and bade her hurry and again take the pose. He worked until the light failed, then laid aside his brush with a regretful sigh.

“Voila! Come and look at this.”

Again the girl marvelled at what she saw. These curves of milky shoulders, that slim, silky beauty of neck and throat, the shell-like ear, the faintly hollow cheek with its suggestion of pathetic sweetness, and above all the superb mass of hair,—here glinting with the brightness of stubble in September sunshine, there richly gold as the ripened grain. Could this really be she? Frossard might be a devil, but he painted like an angel.

“I’m tired now,” he said, “I want to rest until dinner. You’ll take dinner with me in the studio. We’ll celebrate.”

She heard him with a heaviness of heart. All his artistic fire had left him and he seemed to be very old. More than ever she was conscious of his odour, and the flies that followed him everywhere. The joy the sight of her picture had given her was extinguished. She went away quickly.

Madame Mangepain served them a dinner that excelled anything the girl had ever conceived. Margot ate scarcely at all. Frossard, however, made up for her lack of appetite. He filled himself with delicious food, washed down with draughts of Beaunè from a dusty bottle. He lingered long over the dessert, talking to her of his travels in Morocco, and looking for all the world, like a bloated, heavy-eyed pasha.

“Have one of these cigarettes,” he said. “I get them specially in Cairo.”

The girl refused.

“Then, you must have a glass of this champagne. It’s quite harmless. You can dip one of those biscuits in it.”

He bade her finish the champagne. It was the first she had ever tasted and it made her dizzy. The old man seemed to have grown very vivacious. He was taking glass after glass, and talking more and more excitedly. Suddenly he reached out and took hold of her.

Then fear seized her. She struggled to escape, but he held her tight. All at once she felt his shiny little lips on her neck, cold as the mouth of the fish called a sucker. She had just been reading “Dracula,” a story about vampires, and the idea flashed into her mind that this old man was going to bite her neck and suck her blood. She screamed.

He was panting, and a wild light was in his eyes. “It’s no use to squeal. Madame Mangepain has gone out. You are all alone in the house with me.”

Terror gave her strength. With a wrench and a twist she broke away, leaving the mauve kimono in his hands. She ran to the door of the studio; but before she reached it he was after her. He had her again in his arms. Great strength seemed suddenly to come to him. His eyes glared, his breath came with a hiss.

“Ah! you won’t escape. I’ll have you. Ach! you struggle, you little vixen! But your resistance only maddens me. It’s no use, you’re mine, mine.”

Fighting with all the force that was in her, she was borne backward, and thrown heavily on the divan. She saw his face bending over her, his eyes alight, the saliva drooling from his mouth. Once more she struggled but he held her with a grip of steel. She felt herself grow faint. Again and again she shrieked. Oh God! Would no one come to her aid?

She felt her strength leaving her. All she could see were his eyes, flaming with cruel lust. How she hated those eyes. She would destroy them, put out their light, if it cost the last effort of her life. Wrenching her arms free she caught his head at the temples, and with a fierce thrust pushed her small, pointed thumbs into the gloating eyes. With an oath the man pulled himself free and struck her down. Then he threw himself on the couch, screaming, screaming.

She ran to the front door but it was locked. She rushed up to her room and bolted herself in. She lay on her bed sobbing hysterically. She heard the sound of hurried feet, much coming and going. In the silence that followed Madame Mangepain knocked at her door.

“Open, you little viper.”

The face of Madame Mangepain was cold and deadly in its fury. “You’ve done it now. You’ve finished the Master. The doctor says he’ll never see again. He’ll be blind, do you hear; blind. A great artist, a genius worth a dozen little trollops like you. Now go, and an old woman’s curse go with you!”

With that Madame Mangepain took her by the shoulders and threw her into the street. She heard the door bang behind her. She was alone in Paris.

CHAPTER THREE THE BISTRO ON THE RUE DE BELVILLE

THE crash of the closing door struck a note of terror in the girl’s heart. It was long after midnight, and she was at the mercy of this sinister city. She tripped over a box of ash-pan refuse that stood on the edge of the pavement; from it ran two large rats. Afraid to be longer in the unlighted street she made her way down to the Boulevard de Clichy.

On the Butte another hectic night had ended. In the cafés the waiters were stacking the tables; the theatres were dark and silent, the girls of the pavement loitering homeward with their men. Only from the rakehell restaurants of the Place Pigalle did there issue sounds of revelry. It was Montmartre of the profligate, of the apache. Under the greenish glare of the electric light the girl cowered, a tiny black shadow in a world of sinister shadows. Then sinking down on one of the benches she gave herself up to despair.

Now and again a man addressed her; but she kept her face hidden in her arched arms and did not answer. She trembled at every footstep; the hours seemed endless; she longed for the dawn.

Chilled through she rose and walked on. Two gendarmes looked curiously at her. She was afraid they would arrest her, and quickened her steps. She kept moving until she was exhausted, then she sank down on another bench.

Stale and jaded, like a drab after a night of excess the dawn came in. The sallow light seemed to shudder up the sky. Already the city gave signs of awakening to another day. The milk-merchants opened their doors; boys on bicycles delivered bundles of newspapers; the bakers took down their shutters. From where she sat, Margot watched a number of work-girls buy fresh rolls, then go to a little bar across the way, and eat their déjeuner of bread and coffee. Soon bells sounded from neighbouring factories, and the girls hurried away.

From the little bar came a woman. At first Margot thought she was a dwarf, but a second glance showed her to be a hunchback. She was very clean and tidy. Her face had that look of patient suffering so often seen on the faces of hunchbacks. It was a very kind, sweet face, but with a certain shrewdness. She nodded to Margot in a friendly way.

“Well, dearie, things going well?”

The girl looked at her with sad eyes.

“Ah! I see,—in the soup. Well, it arrives to all the world. One day up, another down. Come and give me a hand with my shutters. Sapristi! what it is not to have a man in the business.”

Margot helped the woman to take down the shutters. Over the shop was painted the sign:

and this sign was repeated on the window and the door. Inside there was a circular bar lined with zinc; and around it half a dozen marble-topped tables.

“Now, come in, dearie,” said the little hunchback. “I’m just going to sit down to breakfast, and you are going to join me.”

With that she took the girl by the arm and led her behind the bar. They had fresh rolls and butter, and hot fragrant coffee. The girl devoured the food as if famished and the woman watched her curiously.

“You certainly are hungry, my child,” she observed. “It’s good to see you eat. You look tired too, as if you had been out all night. From the country, aren’t you?”

Encouraged by the little woman’s sympathy the girl told her story. When she had finished the Mère Tranquille looked at her thoughtfully.

“Just so,” she said, “a poor, pretty girl alone in Paris is about as safe as a young lamb lost among wolves. You’ll get devoured, my dear, as sure as sure. Look here, I can see you’re an honest girl. I tell you what. I need some one to help me here. Come and stay with me for a while,—at least till you find something better. You will live with me and help me in the bar. You shall be at no expense and you can make four or five francs a day in tips. Will you come?”

“Oh, madame, you don’t know how gladly! Let me begin work now.”

“No, you’re too tired. You want a good long rest. Come with me.”

In the little room behind the bar, the Mère Tranquille arranged a folding bed, and soon the girl was sleeping soundly.

Thus there began for Margot a life that was strangely interesting. Except at rush hours the little place was very quiet, and the work not hard. She quickly got over her first timidity with the customers and learned to turn a deaf ear to their rather crude pleasantries. There was, too, a certain reserve in her manner that made her more respected than popular. The little hunchback gave out that Margot was her niece from the country, and her stiffness was not resented. Most of the customers were working people, but there was also a certain backwash of the underworld. Above the bar was one of those hotels that have no name. By night its glowing transparency winked and signalled to the amorous adventurer; by day it was haunted by yawning girls in greasy dressing gowns, and by dark cynical men. Towards evening these girls “put on their beauty,” and unbelievably transformed, sallied forth; while the men played cards in cafés and awaited their return.

It was one of these men who took a great fancy to Margot and tried to dominate her. He was familiarly known as Popol, and openly boasted that he had already three girls earning money for him. He, indeed, aspired to be a sort of leader among his fellows, a Napoleon of the bullies. His ambition was fostered by the fact that he was born in the slums of Agaccio, and bore a certain physical resemblance to the Great Corsican. He was a stout, stocky fellow, with a large head, clean-shaven, regular features and a certain cold impressiveness of manner. There, however, the resemblance ended; for Popol had close-set eyes as cold and deadly as those of a rattlesnake, a mouth that twisted cynically, and a nose that had been broken in a fight.

Popol never quarrelled openly with any one; he had never been known to draw a knife, yet other men were afraid of him, and those who offended him met with unexpected misfortunes. It was even said he was a spy of the police and did detective work of the dirtier kind. He had brains, a cunning and subtlety that made him a power amid his fellows.

With his cynical conception of all women he thought Margot would be flattered by his favours. One day in the street he barred her way, accosting her with some foul banter. She tried to push past him, and escape. He laughed sneeringly, then, gripping her arms, tried to kiss her. Filled with a loathing she could not control, she struck him full in the face. Popol swore vilely and released her.

It was with ashen cheeks and wildly beating heart that she regained the little bar. The Mère Tranquille looked troubled when she heard the story, but pretended to laugh it off.

“Don’t be alarmed, chérie; I can defend you against a dozen of these swine. Just treat them like the dirt they are. Ah! if only I could sell out and retire to the country! Since my husband died, the business is not what it used to be. I got an offer last week of fifteen thousand francs for the good will, but I am holding out for twenty. That’s what we gave.... It’s curious how we got the money....”

The Mère Tranquille paused reminiscently, then continued:

“It was at Monte Carlo, where we went for our honeymoon. Josef would play at the Casino, and on the second day he came to me: ‘I’ve lost everything but that,’ he said, pressing a hundred franc bill into my hand.

“‘A nice state of affairs,’ I cried indignantly. ‘It’s just enough to take us back to Paris third class.’

“‘It’s not to take us back to Paris,’ he told me. ‘It’s make or break. I want you to play with it. Perhaps, you’ll change the luck.’

“I knew what he meant and I never have forgiven him for it. You know, my dear, that any one deformed as I am, is said to always win at games of chance. Indeed, when we had stood around the tables I had noticed people brush up against me and touch my back in passing. Well, I was so angry with Josef I snatched the money from him.

“‘I’ll show you,’ I thought. ‘This money will go after the other. If I don’t lose it, it won’t be my fault.’

“With that I threw it on the first vacant place on the table nearest my hand. It happened to be rouge. I wanted to see that money swept away. There were tears in my eyes, tears of rage. What do you think! Rouge came. I left everything on the table. Again rouge came. Josef wanted to take up half the winnings:

“‘No,’ I said vindictively; ‘let it all go.’

“Again rouge came. There were now eight hundred, francs on the table.

“‘Take it up,’ whispered Josef frantically; ‘It’s more than I lost.’ But I answered: ‘No, it’s my money. It stays there.’ For the thought of his exploiting my deformity still rankled. Well, again I won. This time Josef was crazy. He tried to take up the money himself, but I appealed to the croupiers. The chef de table said: ‘The money is madame’s. I saw her put it down. Monsieur has no right to touch it.’

“Josef was foaming. He said, ‘But madame is my wife. What’s hers is mine.’ The chef shrugged his shoulders; ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘that is the law in France, but here you are in the Casino of Monte Carlo, and that money is madame’s.’

“By this time the wheel had spun again. Again rouge. I had three thousand two hundred francs on the table. The crowd began to gather and every one to take sides, some with my husband, some with me. Meantime the stake remained. Once more the ball spun round. Rouge!

“I had now six thousand four hundred francs on the table, four hundred more than the maximum; and I refused to touch it. I threw the four hundred on the next division of the table which happened to be impair. Rouge—impair came up. I simply could not lose, however hard I tried. People were coming from other tables to watch us. Josef had gone white as a sheet and was speechless. He seemed paralyzed. I had now twelve thousand eight hundred. I could see the croupiers were pleased that I was winning, for that sort of thing is a great advertisement for the Casino. I shifted my eight hundred to the division higher up,—manque, I think, and put the six bills of a thousand on impair. I had now six thousand on rouge; six thousand on impair and eight hundred on manque. Once more the ball spun. This time I myself was quite excited. I felt my heart beat. The place began to swim. Then like a person in a dream, I heard the croupier say:

“‘Twenty-seven, rouge, impair and passe.’

“The spell was broken; I had lost the eight hundred I had put on manque but I had won the other two. Twenty-four thousand francs were mine in the space of ten minutes. I simply fainted....”

“Did you like Monte Carlo?” asked Margot.

“I did and didn’t. It’s a dangerous place, a wicked place. But, so beautiful! After that experience we came away. Josef was sick of it and swore he would never gamble again. We bought this café and here I have been for fifteen years.”

“It seems to me I should like to go there,” said the girl dreamily.

“Don’t ever go. It’s no place for poor people. And yet I have heard there are lots of women who make a living there.”

The subject dropped, but Margot was strangely interested and again and again referred to it. Monte Carlo seemed to her like some strange exquisite jewel glittering in a setting of sky, sea and mountain. It held her imagination. It became part of her dreams.

The next time she met Popol her heart beat painfully; but there was nothing in his face to inspire fear. He was polite, almost ingratiating.

“Mademoiselle, I apologize for my rudeness the other day. As a peace offering let me beg your acceptance of this....”

He held out a silver bag, which no doubt he had taken from one of his wretched girls. Margot shook her head.

“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll excuse you if you wish, but I don’t want to accept any present.”

“No? Then will mademoiselle do me the honour to dine with me this evening?”

“No, I cannot. I am not free.”

“Oh, I will beg madame, your aunt, to release you.”

“Thank you; but you must excuse me. I do not want to dine with any one.”

He repeated this offer several times. He had never failed with a girl before and his vanity was stung. From coaxings he came to threats.

“I’ll get you yet, you little devil, you,” he told her. “Even if I have to kidnap you, I’ll get you yet.”

There was a deadly certitude about Popol that made his threats impressive. Her fear of him became such an obsession that she would not go outside after dark. She told the Mère Tranquille she wanted to leave the quarter, but the hunchback laughed away her fears.

“Wait a little longer, my dear. I expect to sell the business any day. Then we’ll have a villa in the country. We will grow our own salads and receive the rector in the salon. None will dream we ever lived in this pourriture of Paris.”

“You will take me with you, madame?”

“Yes, you shall be my adopted daughter. Then I will marry you to the village butcher and you shall have a lovely little daughter called Denise, after me.”

The girl made a grimace. “I don’t want to marry a butcher.”

“Fastidious one! Whom do you want to marry?”

“A poet.”

“Sentimental little fool! I suppose you’re thinking of that Florent Garnier who comes here and spends so much time staring at you.”

“Oh, madame! He never looks at me!”

“You think so. Sly one! Why, my dear, he’s head over heels in love with you. A good-for-nothing socialist, too. Take my advice, Poulette, love’s all very well, but it’s money that counts in the long run.”

Margot had indeed an unexpected ally in Florent Garnier. He was tall, strong, and dark, a carpenter by trade. Every day he took his after-dinner coffee in the bar. There he would sit quietly reading a book and smoking cigarettes. One day he said to her:

“Listen, Margot. If that dog of a Popol tries to molest you, let me know. I’ll do him up; make a hospital case of him. See!”

“Oh, no! I wouldn’t like you to have any trouble on my account.”

“Trouble! An exquisite pleasure. Look here, Margot.... Won’t you come with me to the cinema some night?”

“No, thank you. I never go out with any one.”

“I know you don’t. That’s why I ask you. Well, I won’t press you. You may change your mind. In any case, I’m watching, and if you need a protector I’m here.”

The girl was touched, but at the same time embarrassed. She did not care enough for Garnier to be more than a comrade to him, and something told her this would be difficult. He could not comprehend that coldness of temperament, which was her English heritage, and made her able to be friendly with a man while keeping a barrier between them. Garnier was from the south, romantic, hotblooded. He would never be able to understand. She decided to keep him at a distance, though she liked him immensely.

The conflict between him and Popol came sooner than she expected. There was a big strike of the carpenters, and Florent Garnier was an executive. Though he was very busy addressing meetings and spent most of his time at the Bourse du Travail, nevertheless he often came into the bar to rest for half an hour over a cup of coffee.

It was on an afternoon in early Spring. Madame had gone out and Margot was alone behind the bar. In a dusky corner Florent Garnier sat silent. He looked tired and worried. The strike was not going well. The patrons were getting outside labour; something had to be done.

Everything was bright and shining. The zinc counter was polished to look like silver, the glasses to resemble crystal. Outside there was a flutter of green leaves and the chirping of sparrows. It was a year since Margot had come to Paris. On the whole it had been a happy year. As an education it had been priceless. Now she knew the city and its perils and was armoured against its temptations. She was equipped to fight the battle. She was feeling unusually gay and sang as she waited for customers.

Popol entered. “Ha! mademoiselle. You are alone. You may give me a picon citron.”

While she was pouring it out he caught her hand. Angrily she wrenched it away.

“Ah! my pretty one,” he sneered. “When are you going to be my sweetheart?”

The exclamation of disgust was no sooner out of her mouth than Florent Garnier was on his feet. He came forward deliberately, and lifting the glass dashed the dark liquor in Popol’s face.

For a moment Popol drew back. He wiped his eyes, and glared with surprise and rage; he fumbled at his belt, and made a swift dart at Garnier. But the powerful artizan was prepared. Swinging a chair round his head he brought it crashing down. Popol crumpled up and lay still.

“Did you see him?” said Garnier coolly. “The dog had a knife in his hand; he would have stuck me. He has got his medicine. Leave him alone. He’ll come round. I’ll take his knife though.”

When Popol got up, he did not seem much the worse; but his yellow face was convulsed and he was as vindictive as poison.

“I’ll fix you yet,” he cried. “I’ll pay you both with interest, you and your lover. And before many days are over. Look out!”

“Did you hear him?” said Garnier when Popol had gone.

“Yes. He frightens me terribly.”

“You needn’t fear. You heard him call me your lover. Listen, Margot ... let me be your lover, your husband. You need some one to protect you. I tell you we’ll be happy....”

“I know, Florent. I’ve thought of it a lot, but I can’t.—I like you.—There’s none I like so well—But I don’t love you. Wait awhile. I’ll try to love you. I really will....”

Garnier went sadly away, and some days passed without his returning. Margot became anxious. Then one afternoon Popol entered. Fortunately the Mère Tranquille was in the bar with her.

“Ha! Ha!” said Popol. “He’s been arrested, that pig of a sweetheart of yours. Interfering with the strikebreakers. It’s to me he owes it, too. He’ll get a year sure. And I haven’t finished yet. It’s your turn next time.”

“Get out of this,” cried madame, “or I’ll smash your face with a bottle.” She brandished one ready to throw, and Popol with another exultant laugh backed out of the door.

“You mustn’t be afraid of him,” said the Mère Tranquille.

“I am,—dreadfully. I want to go away. I really do.”

“I tell you he shan’t harm a hair of your head.”

“It isn’t only that, madame. You’ve been so good to me.... I’ll never forget it, but I feel I have been here long enough. I don’t like it,—the drinking, the men,—I want to be quiet. Before I came to Paris I was learning dress-making. I want to go back to that, to live in a world of women, and make a living by my needle.”

“I quite understand,” said the Mère Tranquille. “Listen, my little Margot. I’ve really come to love you like a daughter. You’ve changed so wonderfully since you came here. You’ve learnt to laugh, to sing. I’ve seen the woman dawning in you.... It’s finished, I’ve sold out at last. I’m taking a little cottage in Normandy and you’re coming with me. I’m lonely. I want you. You shall be my daughter.”

“Can it be true?”

“Yes. In another month it will all be arranged. Then no more Paris. The blessed, green country, peace, comfort. I want you to take care of me. I have been tired lately,—my heart. In another month,—say you’ll come, Margot?”

“It seems like a dream.”

“You’ll come?”

“Yes, yes! Would that it were to-morrow.”

The two mingled their tears of happiness and from that day spent their time in making plans for the future. The cottage was to have a great garden, with apple and pear trees. They would keep rabbits and chickens. How blessed the country seemed; how hateful the city!

“Margot,” said the Mère Tranquille one day. “Go out this afternoon and buy some clothes for the country. Here! take this bill of a hundred francs. Just think of it! In another week we’ll be there.”

The girl did think of it and it filled her with happiness. Yet all the time she was going the round of the big shops she had a curious foreboding that was realized as she returned to the shabby street. Something was wrong; the little bar was closed, and a crowd hung around the door.

“What’s the matter?”

A gendarme looked at her indifferently.

“It’s the patronne. She dropped dead quite suddenly. Her heart they say....”

As she stared in a dazed fashion at the crowd, she saw the yellow face of Popol. Terror filled her and she shrank away. Slipping into her room by the back door, she bundled her few things into a bag and stealthily left the house.

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:

“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:

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.

CHAPTER FIVE PHANTOM FORTUNE

1.

AS she shrank back into the remote corner of the first class compartment, Margot sighed profoundly. She had been thinking of the strange events of the past month and of the bewildering turn in her fortunes.

When she had been released from the hospital, some three months before, she was still very weak. During her illness a religious sisterhood had nursed her with devotion; a famous physician had personally attended her; a great Institute had exhausted its skill in her behalf. She was a record case, they said,—not a trace of the disease showed. She wanted to return to Folette’s and begin work at once, but Madame would not hear of it. “No, my dear, you’re too shaky. You need a good long rest in the country, two months at least. If you have no money I will lend you some.”

So Margot borrowed five hundred francs and went to Barbizon. There in a cottage on the edge of the forest, she slowly regained her strength. Then she returned to Paris.

One afternoon, a few days before she had arranged to return to the modiste’s, she decided she would like to visit the grave of the Mère Tranquille. Once more she sought the little bar on the Rue du Belville. As she entered she had a curious feeling that she had never been away; the fat red-faced man was still reading a paper behind the zinc counter. When she asked where her old friend was buried, he put down his paper and stared at her.

“You don’t happen to be the girl who worked here?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Margot Leblanc?”

“The same, I assure you.”

The fat man brought down his fist with a thump on the counter.

“Sapristi! Why, every one thinks you are dead. The lawyers sought you high and low; you seemed to have vanished off the earth. Didn’t you know the old woman left you a heritage?”

“No. Is it true?”

“Assuredly. Not much; but to a girl like you, it will be very welcome. Here, I’ll give you the address of the lawyers and you can go and see them at once.”

She lost no time. The result was that in due course she received her legacy. After settling all expenses and paying every debt, she found herself the possessor of a little over three thousand francs. Never before had she owned anything like such an amount. To her it seemed riches. At first she thought she would carry out her plan of taking a little shop with Jeanne. But the winter was coming on, the cold, grey, cruel winter; time enough for the little shop in the spring. A sudden distaste for Paris possessed her. Then one day as she was passing the window of a tourist agency she stopped to stare at a vivid poster depicting a sea of turquoise blue, a terraced town that seemed carved from ivory, a background of amethystine mountain, palms, pigeons, gorgeous flowers. Underneath was the name—Monte Carlo. It came like an inspiration; she would go there. With a sense of great daring she packed her basket-valise, said good-bye to Madame Folette and Jeanne, and took the train.

2.

As she sat alone in the corner of her compartment, these events passed through her mind and she sighed deeply. She felt very lonely, rather frightened. She blamed herself for having bought a first class ticket at Marseilles, but the journey in the crowded second class from Paris had so fatigued her that she had decided to be extravagant.

Even in her jaded state the scenery seemed to her to be of dreamlike beauty. It was not until Nice had been reached that its too exorbitant claims on her admiration began to weary her. They must be very close now. It was long, that journey, especially when one has been so ill. She must tidy up a bit. She rose and began to arrange her hair, that stupid hair of which she had so much. It tumbled turbulently down and she had to take out all her hair-pins and let it fall around her like a golden shower. As she looked up apprehensively, she saw a young man staring at her from the corridor. She was vexed. She caught the mutinous tresses hurriedly and bunched them around her head. When she had finished with her pins and combs, she looked around again. The young man had gone.

She liked the Pension which had been recommended to her, because every one left her alone. The first day she gave to exploring the gardens and getting her bearings; the second she presented herself at the Casino and asked for a card. Fortunately, she had been warned that on no account must she divulge the fact that she worked. It is significant that a woman who earns her living honestly is refused admission to the Casino while a prostitute is welcomed. The administration knows that the small wage-earner brings little grist to their mill, while the demi-mondaine plays their game. Margot filled in her application with the usual phrase: “Sans occupation.”

Although she had made up her mind to gamble she was more than prudent. For the first week she did nothing but watch the tables with concentrated attention; then she bought a note-book with shiny covers and began to take down numbers. She would stand by a table for two or three hours, until her column of figures was quite a long one. Then, finding a quiet seat in the Café de Paris, she would sip a cup of chocolate and study them. She felt encouraged by the fact that a number of women, with negligible capital, were undoubtedly making a living at the Casino. Shabby, anxious creatures she saw them hovering like hawks over the tables, waiting to get in on “a safe thing,” and going away finally with a few pieces of gain. They had lived thus for years.

“Surely,” she thought, “with two thousand francs of capital, I can win a louis a day.”

The next step was to make up her mind how she would play. She must adopt a method, and concentrate on it. After long reflection she decided that the most cautious way of playing was to stake on two of the three dozens. In this way she would only have one dozen against her. From the examination of her figures, and the columns of permanencies published in a paper whose colour was the green of hope, she found that the first dozen seemed to come a little less frequently than the other two, and that it had a greater tendency to repeat. Here was a hint for her. She would wait until the first dozen had asserted itself strongly, then, as it were, retired exhausted. She would put five francs on the second and five francs on the third dozen. She would be covering thus twenty-four of the thirty-six numbers. If either of her two dozens won, she would receive fifteen francs, a gain of five francs. As soon as she had won four times, and had made a louis, she would stop. She furthermore decided that she would always play a flat stake, and would never make a progression. In the long run a progression was always fatal. If she lost a louis on any one day, she would stop for that day and not court disaster by trying to retrieve her losses.

As she pressed through the crowd and put her first stake on the table, she felt her heart beat wildly. She thought every one was watching her.

“Here is a new one,” she imagined them saying. “Another poor little chicken come to be plucked. Look how her hand trembles as she puts her two white counters on the table. One would imagine she was playing for thousands.”

But after all every one was absorbed in the game, and no one paid any attention to her. The ball spun around. She had won.

“Ah!” she thought, “it is always specially arranged that the beginner wins.”

And she played again with more confidence. The player has the advantage over the bank in that he may select his moment of play. (Unfortunately he generally selects the wrong moment.) Margot waited for what seemed to her a favourable moment and staked again. Again she won. Her second and third coups were equally successful. She was strangely elated, far more so than the extent of her gain really warranted. She had been excited and anxious before, now a happy reaction set in. She changed the white counters she had gained for a twenty franc bill, which she regarded with a rare pleasure. How strange to make money so easily! Playing as prudently as this it did not seem possible to lose. Just think! if she had only played with louis-stakes instead of five franc ones.... Or even with hundred franc placques.... A sudden vision of fortune dazzled her. “If....” Ah! that pregnant “if” that gamblers use in victory and defeat. The tragedy of that “if.” The virus was already in her veins, and she went home to dream of whirring roulette wheels and the smiles of fortune.

She awaited the second day with a passion of eagerness. But alas! things did not go so well. When she had made three wins she had a loss. With chagrin she watched her two pieces swept away. She was now only one ahead. She won her next three coups, however, and retired with her louis of gain.

The third day she had a hard fight. It was as if the Casino had said: “Tut! Tut! we must not let this slip of a girl get our money so easily. We must begin to baulk her a bit.”

She played all morning and afternoon, winning and losing, and winning again. Try as she would, she could not get them to give her a louis. At seven o’clock she retired from the fight, only a poor five francs the winner. She was fearfully tired, her head ached, and the smile of fortune seemed transformed into the wryest of grins.

The fourth day she had no trouble and her confidence came back. But the fifth ... the first dozen came up seven times running and broke to the third. By all the laws of average it was due to rest a bit and allow the equilibrium to establish itself. It was, therefore, with a confidence almost insolent, that the girl staked on the second and third dozen. She was so sure of winning that she felt as if the money were already in her hands, and did not even wait to watch the spinning wheel. She had reached down to secure her winnings when to her surprise she saw both her stakes being raked in. The number two had declared itself.

Next time it would come right, and again she staked on the second and third dozen. She waited almost listlessly. To her dismay she saw her stakes swept off a second time. There must be a mistake.... No, the ball was resting in the slot marked twelve.

She sat down on one of the leather-padded lounges. It was not the money she had lost that worried her, but the fact that her system had proven untrustworthy. She hated to be beaten like that. A mixture of resentment and anger dominated her,—a mood most dangerous to a gambler. She rose, and going back to the table put one louis on the second dozen and another on the third. She won. She had regained all that she had lost.

She did not play any more that day. She went to the Café de Paris, and, having ordered a jug of chocolate, sat down to think. It was evident that to gain four straight wins every day, was too great a strain on her system. Well, then, instead of playing four coups with five francs each time, why not play a single coup with a louis for the stake? In this way she would not tire herself out with long play, nor exhaust her luck. Accordingly the next day she began playing on these lines.

For a time all went well. She found that with average luck she won three times out of four. Then a spell of bad luck set in, and in spite of the care with which she played she found her gains were reduced to two out of three. This left her no profit. She must do something to raise her average. She thought the matter over. If she had to have a certain proportion of losses, why not let them be fictitious ones? Why not let her losses be made with imaginary stakes and her gains with real ones? She made up her mind that, playing with her usual care, she would wait until she had lost twice in her head, before playing on the table a third time for a win. It needed lots of patience; often she had to wait for two hours before her chance came, but with this method she won three times out of four. However to develop a system in theory and put it into practice are two very different things. To play a system one must be as emotionless as a machine; systems make no allowance for human passion and impulse, and this she soon found to her cost.