Chalks used to give expression to this growing sentiment of ours, by shaking his head, looking half wise, half mystified, and muttering, “There’s something queer about that girl. I’ll be gol-donged if I can make her out.”
Once for instance, she confided to us that she thought Madame Bourdon must be a very religious person, because she was always with a priest. It was clear that she proffered this remark in entire literalness and good faith, with no ulterior intention of any sort; and we, after staring at it for a minute or two, reflected upon it for a fortnight. True enough, the black robe of Monsieur the Abbé did lend a meretricious air of orthodoxy both to Madame and to her establishment.
Then the fact came out, I can’t remember how, that she was working at Julian’s,—taking “whole days,” too, which means nine or ten hours of heavy labour in the pestilential air of a studio packed with people, where every window is shut, and the temperature hovers between eighty and ninety Fahrenheit. Why should she be breaking her back and poisoning her lungs at Julian’s, if—-?
“There’s something queer about her,” Chalks insisted.
She was always extremely friendly, though, with the other ladies of our household: visited them in their rooms, received them in her own, walked out with them, chatted with them as freely as her French would let her; and this confused us, and deferred our better judgment. It was hard to believe that anybody, no matter how guileless, nor how ill-instructed in their idiom, could rub elbows much with Zélie, Yvonne, Fifine, and not become more or less distinctly aware of the peculiarities of their temperament. If actions speak louder than words, manners nowadays are masters of seven languages.
Yet, one afternoon, in the garden of the Luxembourg, Miss asked of me, “Are they all married, those young ladies at our hotel?”
I looked at her for a moment in a sort of stupefaction. Was it her pleasure to be jocular? No, she had spoken in utmost sobriety.
“Married?” I echoed. “What on earth made you think they’re married?”
“Everybody calls them Madame. I thought in French Madame was only used for married women, like Mrs. with us.”
Some providential instinct in me bade me respect her simplicity, and answer with a prevarication.