"But don't you even take care of yourself? Surely there must be some way, some place--""The reformatory, perhaps," she sneered. "No, thanks! I'll go there when the police catch me, not before. I know some girls that have tried that.""But aren't you afraid?" cried the man. "And the things that will happen to you! Have you ever talked to a doctor--or read a book?""I know," she said. "I've seen it all. If it comes to me, I'll go over the side of one of the bridges some dark night."George sat lost in thought. A strange adventure it seemed to him--to meet this girl under such different circumstances! It was as if he were watching a play from behind the scenes instead of in front. If only he had had this new view in time--how different would have been his life! And how terrible it was to think of the others who didn't know--the audience who were still sitting out in front, watching the spectacle, interested in it!"His thoughts came back to Therese. He was curious about her and the life she lived. "Tell me a little about it," he said. "How you came to be doing this." And he added, "Don't think I want to preach; I'd really like to understand.""Oh, it's a common story," she said--"nothing especially romantic. I came to Paris when I was a girl. My parents had died, and I had no friends, and I didn't know what to do. I got a place as a nursemaid. I was seventeen years old then, and Ididn't know anything. I believed what I was told, and I believed my employer. His wife was ill in a hospital, and he said he wanted to marry me when she died. Well, I liked him, and I was sorry for him--and then the first thing I knew I had a baby. And then the wife came back, and I was turned off. I had been a fool, of course. If I had been in her place should have done just what she did."The girl was speaking in a cold, matter-of-fact voice, as of things about which she was no longer able to suffer. "So, there I was--on the street," she went on. "You have always had money, a comfortable home, education, friends to help you--all that.
You can't imagine how it is to be in the world without any of these things. I lived on my savings as long as I could; then Ihad to leave my baby in a foundling's home, and I went out to do my five hours on the boulevards. You know the game, I have no doubt."Yes, George knew the game. Somehow or other he no longer felt bitter towards this poor creature. She was part of the system of which he was a victim also. There was nothing to be gained by hating each other. Just as the doctor said, what was needed was enlightenment. "Listen," he said, "why don't you try to get cured?""I haven't got the price," was the answer.
"Well," he said, hesitatingly, "I know a doctor--one of the really good men. He has a free clinic, and I've no doubt he would take you in if I asked him to.""YOU ask him?" echoed the other, looking at George in surprise.
The young man felt somewhat uncomfortable. He was not used to playing the role of the good Samaritan. "I--I need not tell him about us," he stammered. "I could just say that I met you. Ihave had such a wretched time myself, I feel sorry for anybody that's in the same plight. I should like to help you if Icould."
The girl sat staring before her, lost in thought. "I have treated you badly, I guess," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm ashamed of myself."George took a pencil and paper from his pocket and wrote the doctor's address. "Here it is," he said, in a business-like way, because he felt that otherwise he could become sentimental. He was half tempted to tell the woman what had happened to him, and all about Henriette and the sick child; but he realized that that would not do. So he rose and shook hands with her and left.
The next time he saw the doctor he told him about this girl. He decided to tell him the truth--having already made so many mistakes trying to conceal things. The doctor agreed to treat the woman, making the condition that George promise not to see her again.
The young man was rather shocked at this. "Doctor," he exclaimed, "I assure you you are mistaken. The thing you have in mind would be utterly impossible.""I know," said the other, "you think so. But I think, young man, that I know more about life than you do. When a man and a woman have once committed such a sin, it is easy for them to slip back.
The less time they spend talking about their misfortunes, and being generous and forbearing to each other, the better for them both.""But, Doctor," cried George. "I love Henriette! I could not possibly love anyone else. It would be horrible to me!""Yes," said the doctor. "But you are not living with Henriette.
You are wandering round, not knowing what to do with yourself next."There was no need for anybody to tell George that. "What do you think?" he asked abruptly. "Is there any hope for me?""I think there is," said the other, who, in spite of his resolution, had become a sort of ambassador for the unhappy husband. He had to go to the Loches house to attend the child, and so he could not help seeing Henriette, and talking to her about the child's health and her own future. He considered that George had had his lesson, and urged upon the young wife that he would be wiser in future, and safe to trust.
George had indeed learned much. He got new lessons every time he went to call at the physician's office--he could read them in the faces of the people he saw there. One day when he was alone in the waiting-room, the doctor came out of his inner office, talking to an elderly gentleman, whom George recognized as the father of one of his classmates at college. The father was a little shopkeeper, and the young man remembered how pathetically proud he had been of his son. Could it be, thought George, that this old man was a victim of syphilis?
