Pierrette | Page 5

in all directions, but saw nothing, and
only heard, faintly, the flying footfalls of the lad. Can there be anything
more dreadful than the matutinal apparition of an ugly old maid at her
window? Of all the grotesque sights which amuse the eyes of travellers
in country towns, that is the most unpleasant. It is too repulsive to
laugh at. This particular old maid, whose ear was so keen, was denuded
of all the adventitious aids, of whatever kind, which she employed as
embellishments; her false front and her collarette were lacking; she
wore that horrible little bag of black silk on which old women insist on
covering their skulls, and it was now revealed beneath the night-cap
which had been pushed aside in sleep. This rumpled condition gave a
menacing expression to the head, such as painters bestow on witches.
The temples, ears, and nape of the neck, were disclosed in all their
withered horror,--the wrinkles being marked in scarlet lines that
contrasted with the would-be white of the bed-gown which was tied
round her neck by a narrow tape. The gaping of this garment revealed a
breast to be likened only to that of an old peasant woman who cares
nothing about her personal ugliness. The fleshless arm was like a stick

on which a bit of stuff was hung. Seen at her window, this spinster
seemed tall from the length and angularity of her face, which recalled
the exaggerated proportions of certain Swiss heads. The character of
their countenance--the features being marked by a total want of
harmony--was that of hardness in the lines, sharpness in the tones;
while an unfeeling spirit, pervading all, would have filled a
physiognomist with disgust. These characteristics, fully visible at this
moment, were usually modified in public by a sort of commercial
smile,--a bourgeois smirk which mimicked good-humor; so that
persons meeting with this old maid might very well take her for a
kindly woman. She owned the house on shares with her brother. The
brother, by-the-bye, was sleeping so tranquilly in his own chamber that
the orchestra of the Opera-house could not have awakened him,
wonderful as its diapason is said to be.
The old maid stretched her neck out of the window, twisted it, and
raised her cold, pale-blue little eyes, with their short lashes set in lids
that were always rather swollen, to the attic window, endeavoring to
see Pierrette. Perceiving the uselessness of that attempt, she retreated
into her room with a movement like that of a tortoise which draws in its
head after protruding it from its carapace. The blinds were then closed,
and the silence of the street was unbroken except by peasants coming in
from the country, or very early persons moving about.
When there is an old maid in a house, watch-dogs are unnecessary; not
the slightest event can occur that she does not see and comment upon
and pursue to its utmost consequences. The foregoing trifling
circumstance was therefore destined to give rise to grave suppositions,
and to open the way for one of those obscure dramas which take place
in families, and are none the less terrible because they are secret,--if,
indeed, we may apply the word "drama" to such domestic occurrences.
Pierrette did not go back to bed. To her, Brigaut's arrival was an
immense event. During the night--that Eden of the wretched--she
escaped the vexations and fault-findings she bore during the day. Like
the hero of a ballad, German or Russian, I forget which, her sleep
seemed to her the happy life; her waking hours a bad dream. She had
just had her only pleasurable waking in three years. The memories of
her childhood had sung their melodious ditties in her soul. The first
couplet was heard in a dream; the second made her spring out of bed; at

the third, she doubted her ears,--the sorrowful are all disciples of Saint
Thomas; but when the fourth was sung, standing in her night- gown
with bare feet by the window, she recognized Brigaut, the companion
of her childhood. Ah, yes! it was truly the well-known square jacket
with the bobtails, the pockets of which stuck out at the hips,--the jacket
of blue cloth which is classic in Brittany; there, too, were the waistcoat
of printed cotton, the linen shirt fastened by a gold heart, the large
rolling collar, the earrings, the stout shoes, the trousers of blue-gray
drilling unevenly colored by the various lengths of the warp,--in short,
all those humble, strong, and durable things which make the apparel of
the Breton peasantry. The big buttons of white horn which fastened the
jacket made the girl's heart beat. When she saw the bunch of broom her
eyes filled with tears; then a dreadful fear drove back into her heart the
happy memories