To one form of her untidiness, however, I objected though, had I known what was to come of my objection, I would have borne with worse in silence. She never wore an apron, and, in her stained and tattered dress, her appearance was disreputable even for a charwoman. She might be as slovenly as she chose in the street, that was her affair; but it was mine once she carried her slovenliness inside my four walls, especially as in chambers servants at work are more apt to be stumbled across than in a house, and as it was her duty at times to open the front door. I spoke to her on the subject, suggesting the value of aprons, if only as defences. The words were scarcely out of my mouth than I would have given worlds to take them back again. For when Clémentine began to talk the difficulty was to stop her, and long before she finished explaining why she wore no aprons, I had learned a great deal more about her than I bargained for: among other things, that her previous places had been chiefly _chez les femmes_; that she wanted to give up working for them; that, after leaving her last place, she could get nothing to do in any _maison bourgeoise_; that she had no money and was very hungry,--what Clémentine's hunger meant she did not have to tell me; that her little Ernest was also hungry, and also _la vieille grandmère_; that her little Ernest was her son,--"_Oui, Madame, je serais franche, j'ai un fils mais pas un mari_"; that _la vieille grandmère_ was an old woman she had taken in, partly to look after him, partly out of sheer shiftlessness; that they could not starve; and that--well--all her aprons were _au clou_.
This sudden introduction of her little Ernest was a trifle disconcerting, but it was none of my business how many people depended on Clémentine, nor how many of her belongings were in pawn. I had vowed never again to give sympathy, much less help, to anybody who worked for me, since I knew to my cost the domestic disaster to which benevolence of this sort may lead. I gave her advice instead. I recommended greater thrift, and insisted that she must save from her wages enough to get her aprons out of pawn immediately, though I left it to a more accomplished political economist than I to show how, with three to provide for, she could save out of what barely provided for one. However, she agreed. She said, "_Oui, Madame, Madame a raison_"; and for the next week or two I did my best to shut my eyes to the fact that she still went apronless.