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Olympe and Henriette
by
Amongst these young women two were marked out by their constant attendance. By the regular frequenters of the famous room they were named Olympe and Henriette—just that. These two used to arrive about dusk; they installed themselves in a well-lighted corner, ordered a glass of vespetro or a mazagran, as an excuse rather than from any real need, and then surveyed the passer-by with meticulous scrutiny.
And these were the daughters of Bienfilatre!
Their parents, honest folk, hard-schooled in misfortune, had not had the means of letting them taste the joys of apprenticeship, the vocation of this austere couple consisting mainly of continually hanging, in attitudes of despair, upon that long spiral rope which communicates with the lock of a carriage gateway. A hard life!And to pick up, occasionally and just barely, a few scattered pence!No turn of luck ever came their way. And Bienfilatre grumbled away as he made his morning caramel for himself.
As dutiful daughters, Olympe and Henriette understood early in life that some intervention was necessary. Sisters in the gay life from their tenderest childhood, they consecrated the price of their vigils and their toils to maintaining a degree of comfort in the home, modest, it is true, but honourable.”May God send His blessing on our efforts!” they used to say from time to time, for they had been imbued with good principles, and sooner or later the earliest teachings, based on solid principles, will bear fruit. When anyone was concerned to know if their labours, sometimes excessive, did not affect their health, they would answer evasively, with the gentle and embarrassed air of modesty, and lowering their eyes: “There are consolations….”
The daughters of Bienfilatre were among those work-women who, as they say, “go to their day’s work at night.” They accomplished with as much dignity as possible (considering certain prejudices people have) a thankless and often painful task. They were not amongst those idle women who proscribe, as degrading, the hand made horny and sacred by work, and they never blushed for it. Several fine anecdotes were told of them which would have stirred the ashes of Monthyon in his noble cenotaph. One evening, for instance, they had vied in emulation of each other and had surpassed even themselves, in order to meet the expense of burying an aged uncle, who in any case had left them nothing but the memory of sundry cuffs on the ear, distributed long ago in the days of their childhood. Moreover, they were favourably looked upon by all the frequenters of this worthy resort, amongst whom were some who were not the kind to make allowances. A glance or smile of theirs always found the response of a friendly signal, a waved “Good evening.” Never had reproach or complaint been levelled against them by anyone. Their commerce was recognized by all as kindly and affable. In short, they owed no man anything, they honoured all their engagements, and in consequence they could hold up their heads without fear. They were exemplary: did they not put something aside against the unforeseen, something “for a rainy day,” so as one day to retire honourably from business? They were orthodox: did they not close on Sundays?And as “good young girls,” they never lent an ear to the blandishments of young sparks, fit only to turn maidens aside from the straight path of work and duty. They considered that nowadays the only gratuitous thing in love is the moon. Their motto was: “Celerity, Security, Discretion.” And on their professional cards they added “Specialties.”
One day, Olympe, the younger sister, broke down. Up to then irreproachable, this unhappy child yielded to temptations to which, more than other people (who will perhaps be too prompt in blaming her), she was inevitably exposed by the surroundings of her life. In short, she took a false step: she loved.
It was her first error. But who, after all, has ever fathomed the abyss to which a first error can lead us?A young student, frank, handsome, gifted with an impassioned artist’s soul (but poor as Job himself), a youth named Maxime, whose family name we suppress, beguiled her with pretty words, and led her astray.