"Do not say so, my _bonbon_!" pleaded the good lady, covering him with
kisses. "I would have worn my hands to the bone to save you from this
dreadful life. Suppose you should be sent to Algiers or Mexico, or some
other heathen country, and die there."
It was Pisgah's turn to be touched.
"My blood is upon your head, Francine! Have you any money?"
"Yes, yes! a gentleman, a _noir_, a _naigre_, for whom I have washed,
paid me fifty francs this evening. It is all here; take it, my love!"
"I do not know, creature! that your conduct permits me to do so," said
Pisgah, drawing back.
"You will drive me mad if you refuse," shrieked the blanchisseuse. "Oh!
oh! how wicked and wretched am I!"
"Enough, madame! step over the way for my habitual glass of absinthe. Be
particular about the change. We military men must be careful of our
incomes. Stay! you may embrace me if you like."
The poor woman came every day to the barracks, bringing some trifle of
food or clothing. She washed his regimentals, burnished his buckles and
boots, paid his losses at cards, and bought him books and tobacco. She
could never persuade herself that Pisgah was not her victim, and he
found it useful to humor the notion.
Down in the swift Seine, at her booth in the great lavatory, where the
ice rushed by and the rain beat in, she thought of Pisgah as she toiled;
and though her back ached and her hands were flayed, she never wondered
if her lot were not the most pitiable, and his in part deserved.
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