The Dream | Page 5

For the family name, a simple black line
filled the allotted space. Then for the Christian names were those of
Angelique Marie; for the dates, born January 22, 1851, admitted the
23rd of the same month under the registered number of 1,634. So there
was neither father nor mother; there were no papers; not even a
statement of where she was born; nothing but this little book of official
coldness, with its cover of pale red pasteboard. No relative in the world!
and even her abandonment numbered and classed!
"Oh! then she is a foundling!" exclaimed Hubertine.
In a paroxysm of rage the child replied: "I am much better than all the
others--yes--yes! I am better, better, better. I have never taken anything
that did not belong to me, and yet they stole all I had. Give me back,
now, that which you also have stolen from me!"
Such powerless passion, such pride to be above the others in goodness,
so shook the body of the little girl, that the Huberts were startled. They
no longer recognised the blonde creature, with violet eyes and graceful
figure. Now her eyes were black, her face dark, and her neck seemed
swollen by a rush of blood to it. Since she had become warm, she
raised her head and hissed like a serpent that had been picked up on the
snow.
"Are you then really so naughty?" asked Hubert gently. "If we wish to
know all about you, it is because we wish to help you."
And looking over the shoulders of his wife he read as the latter turned
the leaves of the little book. On the second page was the name of the
nurse. "The child, Angelique Marie, had been given, on January 25,
1851, to the nurse, Francoise, sister of Mr. Hamelin, a farmer by
profession, living in the parish of Soulanges, an arrondissement of
Nevers. The aforesaid nurse had received on her departure the pay for
the first month of her care, in addition to her clothing." Then there was
a certificate of her baptism, signed by the chaplain of the Asylum for
Abandoned Children; also that of the physician on the arrival and on
the departure of the infant. The monthly accounts, paid in quarterly
installments, filled farther on the columns of four pages, and each time

there was the illegible signature of the receiver or collector.
"What! Nevers!" asked Hubertine. "You were brought up near
Nevers?"
Angelique, red with anger that she could not prevent them from reading,
had fallen into a sullen silence. But at last she opened her mouth to
speak of her nurse.
"Ah! you may be sure that Maman Nini would have beaten you. She
always took my part against others, she did, although sometimes she
struck me herself. Ah! it is true I was not so unhappy over there, with
the cattle and all!"
Her voice choked her and she continued, in broken, incoherent
sentences, to speak of the meadow where she drove the great red cow,
of the broad road where she played, of the cakes they cooked, and of a
pet house-dog that had once bitten her.
Hubert interrupted her as he read aloud: "In case of illness, or of bad
treatment, the superintendent is authorised to change the nurses of the
children." Below it was written that the child Angelique Marie had
been given on June 20 to the care of Theresa, wife of Louis
Franchomme, both of them makers of artificial flowers in Paris.
"Ah! I understand," said Hubertine. "You were ill, and so they took you
back to Paris."
But no, that was not the case, and the Huberts did not know the whole
history until they had drawn it, little by little from Angelique. Louis
Franchomme, who was a cousin of Maman Nini, went to pass a month
in his native village when recovering from a fever. It was then that his
wife, Theresa, became very fond of the child, and obtained permission
to take her to Paris, where she could be taught the trade of making
flowers. Three months later her husband died, and she herself, being
delicate in health, was obliged to leave the city and to go to her
brother's, the tanner Rabier, who was settled at Beaumont. She, alas!
died in the early days of December, and confided to her sister-in-law

the little girl, who since that time had been injured, beaten, and, in short,
suffered martyrdom.
"The Rabiers?" said Hubert. "The Rabiers? Yes, yes! They are tanners
on the banks of the Ligneul, in the lower town. The husband is lame,
and the wife is a noted scold."
"They treated me as if I came from the gutter," continued Angelique,
revolted and enraged in her mortified pride. "They said the river was
the