On Christmas Day, friends were to dine with us, and we invited _Mademoiselle_, the French dressmaker, to eat her Christmas dinner with Louise and M. Auguste. We were very staid in the dining-room,--it turned out rather a dull affair. But in the kitchen it was an uproarious feast. Though she lived some distance away, though on Christmas night London omnibuses are few and far between, _Mademoiselle_ could hardly be persuaded to go home, so much was she enjoying herself. Louise was all laughter. "You have been amused?" I asked, when _Mademoiselle_, finally and reluctantly, had been bundled off by J. in a hansom.
"_Mais oui, mais oui_," M. Auguste cried, pleasure in his voice. "_Cette pauvre Mademoiselle!_ Her life, it is so sad, she is so alone. It is good for her to be amused. We have told her many stories,--_et des histoires un tout petit peu salées, n'est-ce pas? pour égayer cette pauvre Mademoiselle?_"
It was the day after the feast that Louise had to give in. She confessed she had been in torture while she served our dinner and _Mademoiselle_ was there. She could hardly eat or drink. But why make it sad for all the world because she was in pain? and she had laughed, she had laughed!
We scolded her first. Then we sent her to a good doctor. It was worse than we feared. The trouble was grave, there must be an operation without delay. The big tears rolled down her cheeks as she said it. She looked old and broken. Why, she moaned, should this sorrow come to her? She had never done any harm to any one: why should she have to suffer? Why, indeed? Her mistake had been to do too little harm, too much good, to others, to think too little of herself. Now, she had to pay for it as one almost always does pay for one's good deeds. She worried far less over the pain she must bear than over the inconvenience to M. Auguste when she could no longer earn money for him.
We wanted her to go into one of the London hospitals. We offered to take a room for her where she could stay after the operation until she got back her strength. But we must not think her ungrateful, the mere idea of a hospital made her desperate. And what would she do in a room _avec un homme comme ça_. Besides, there was the sister in Marseilles, and, in the hour of her distress, her sister's horses and carriages multiplied like the miraculous loaves and fishes, the vintages in the cellar doubled in age and strength. And she was going to die; it was queer, but one knew those things; and she longed to die _là-bas_, where there was a sun and the sky was blue, where she was at home. We knew she had not a penny for the journey. M. Auguste had seen to that. Naturally, J. gave her the money. He would not have had a moment's comfort if he had not,--the drain upon your own emotions is part of the penalty you pay for having a human being and not a machine to work for you,--and he added a little more to keep her from want on her arrival in Marseilles, in case the sister had vanished or the sister's fortunes had dwindled to their original proportions. He exacted but one condition: M. Auguste was not to know there was more than enough for the journey.