She sees that woman draw from her
pocket six pieces of gold, she who has but one a week; she looks at her
feet and her head, she examines her dress, and eyes her as she steps into
her carriage; and then, what could you expect? When night has fallen,
after a day when work has been scarce, when her mother is sick, she opens
her door, stretches out her hand and stops a passer-by.
Such was the story of a girl I have known. She could play the piano, knew
something of accounts, a little designing, even a little history and
grammar, and thus a little of everything. How many times have I regarded
with poignant compassion that sad sketch made by nature and mutilated by
society! How many times have I followed in the darkness the pale and
vacillating gleam of a spark flickering in abortive life! How many times
have I tried to revive the fire that smoldered under those ashes! Alas!
her long hair was the color of ashes and we called her Cendrillon.
I was not rich enough to help her; Desgenais, at my request, interested
himself in the poor creature; he made her learn over again all of which
she had a slight knowledge. But she could make no appreciable progress.
When her teacher left her she would fold her arms and for hours look
silently across the public square. What days! What misery! One day I
threatened that if she did not work she should have no money; she
silently resumed her task and I learned that she stole out of the house a
few minutes later.
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