Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

la Pucelle—the Maid of Orleans—in the same boat with him. The old father died when Paquette was
quite little, so she had only her mother, who was sister to M. Pradon, a master-brasier and tinsmith in
Paris, Rue Parin-Garlin, and who died last year—so you see, she was of good family. The mother was a
simple, easy-going creature, unfortunately, and never taught her anything really useful—just a little
needlework and toy-making, which did not prevent her growing tall and strong, and remaining very poor.
They lived together at Reims, by the river-side, in the Rue de Folle-Peine—mark that!—for I believe that
is what brought trouble to Paquette. Well, in ’61—the year of the Coronation of our King Louis XI,
whom God preserve!—Paquette was so gay and so fair that she was known far and wide as ‘La
Chantefleurie’—poor girl! She had pretty teeth, and she was fond of laughing, to show them. Now, a girl
who is overfond of laughing is well on the way to tears; pretty teeth are the ruin of pretty eyes—and thus
it befell Chantefleurie. She and her mother had a hard struggle to gain a living; they had sunk very low
since the father’s death—their needlework brought them in barely six deniers a week, which is not quite
two liards. Time was when Guybertaut had got twelve sols parisis at a coronation for a single song! One
winter—it was that same year of ’61—the two women had not a log or a fagot, and it was very cold, and
this gave Chantefleurie such a beautiful colour in her cheeks that the men all looked after her and she
was ruined.—Eustache! just led me see you take a bite out of that cake!—We saw in a moment that she
was ruined when one Sunday she came to church with a gold cross on her neck. At fourteen—what do
you say to that? The first was the young Vicomte de Cormontreuil, whose castle is about three-quarters
of a mile from Reims; then it was Messire Henri de Triancourt, the King’s outrider; then, coming down
the scale, Chiart de Beaulion, a man-at-arms! then, still lower, Guery Aubergeon, king’s carver; then
Macè de Frèpus, barber to Monsieur the Dauphin; then Thèvenin le Moine, one of the royal cooks; then,
still going down, from the young to the old, from high to low birth, she fell to Guillaume Racine, viol
player, and to Thierry de Mer, lamp-maker. After that, poor Chantefleurie, she became all things to all
men and had come to her last sou. What think you, damoiselle, at the coronation, in that same year ’61, it
was she who made the bed for the chief of the bawdies!—in that same year!” Mahiette sighed and wiped
away a tear.
“But I see nothing so very extraordinary in this story,” said Gervaise, “and there is no word either of
Egyptians or children.”
“Patience,” returned Mahiette; “as for the child, I am just coming to that. In ’66, sixteen years ago this
month, on Saint-Paul’s day, Paquette was brought to bed of a little girl. Poor creature, she was
overjoyed—she had long craved to have a child. Her mother, foolish woman, who had never done
anything but close her eyes to what was going on, her mother was dead. Paquette had no one in the world
to love or to love her. For the five years since she had fallen, poor Paquette had been a miserable
creature. She was alone, all alone in the world, pointed at, shouted at through the streets, beaten by the
sergeants, and jeered at by little ragged boys. Besides, she was already twenty, and twenty means old age
for a courtesan. Her frailty now began to bring her in no more than did her needlework formerly; for
every line in her face she lost a crown in her pocket. Winter came hard to her again, wood was growing
scarce in her fire-place and bread in her cupboard. She could not work, because, by giving way to
pleasure she had given way to idleness, and she felt hardships the more because by giving way to
idleness she had given way to pleasure. At least, that is how Monsieur the Curé of Saint-Rémy explains
why those sort of women feel cold and hunger more than other poor females do when they get old.”
“Yes,” observed Gervaise, “but about these gipsies?”
“Wait a moment, Gervaise,” said Oudarde, who was of a less impatient temperament; “what should we