Cloudless May by Storm Jameson Read Free Book Online Page A

You’re not showing much, are you?”
    â€œIf Madame wishes to see furs,” the woman said. Pretending to rearrange it, she whisked the cape from Mme de Freppel’s hand.
    â€œThat’s not a bad cape.”
    â€œIt’s a finer cape than Madame could buy in many Paris houses. The furs are chosen, each is perfect. When shall we see another like it? Not while this war lasts.”
    â€œThis terrible war,” Marguerite said: “let me try it on.”
    She looked at herself in the long glass, her glance seeking, probing her likeness for some reassurance—she had no idea what, but she could stand for a long time looking at herself in a glass, and forget that there was anyone else in the room. She noticed that the light in the fur took away the slight sallowness of her skin, but that was not the reassurance she wanted. She wanted some sign, to tell her who she was. Who it was stared back at her from eyes clouded by too many tricks, calculations, necessary lies. This body she had brought so far on her road mocked her; it knew more than she did; and stood there keeping its secrets. . . . She sighed, and came back to herself, to the over-warm room and the dislike and hovering watchfulness of the other woman. She stroked the fur with her gloved hand.
    â€œYes, it’s not bad.”
    A too familiar greed seized her, with the illusion that she had never coveted anything as she coveted this fur. It would give her courage and protect her. Taking it off with a pretence of carelessness, she handed it back. “What are you asking for it?”
    â€œTwenty thousand francs.”
    â€œPreposterous.”
    The thought of giving away so much money frightened her. She was torn by two savage claws. To possess something without a flaw, to be truly elegant! But to rob herself of twenty thousand francs—oh, impossible. She smiled. “It would be dear at fifteen thousand.”
    The manageress was replacing the cape. “Madame is mistaken. It is priced under rather than over its value.”
    â€œNonsense. It’s no use talking to me like that. I might manage seventeen thousand.”
    The manageress spread her hands without answering. Marguerite turned away with an air of decision and went out; she felt uncertain, almost ill. When she stepped out of Caillemer’s into the blinding sunlight, she noticed a wretched mongrel limping along the gutter. At the sight of it, and because the sun was pricking her eyelids, she slipped back twenty-five years: to a moment—she was fifteen—when she was kneeling in a dusty road, crying over the body of just such an ugly starved animal. She had bare feet, covered with dust, her dress was almost indecently ragged, her eyes ached from crying in the strong sun. The man who had always said he was her father was watching her. “Come, that’s enough, you may pull the cart yourself now,” he said impatiently. He fastened the harness to a belt he took off and put round her skinny waist; they set off down the road into Nantes, her body under its rags chafed by the belt, her eyes dry now with dismay. . . . Mme de Freppel’s hands shook a little as she opened her sunshade: she was not ashamed of the fifteen-year-old girl, she thought of her often, always with the same astonishment that she had been able to escape. And pride. She felt herself becoming rigid with pride; an insane excitement filled her. Turning blindly and quickly, she went back into the shop.
    â€œAsk M. Caillemer if he will take seventeen thousand for the cape.”
    â€œIt’s not very likely, Madame. You understand, it’s—”
    â€œAsk him,” she said rudely, pushing the woman aside with her voice.
    She waited, confused, feeling herself a stiff insensible knot in the brightly-active web of the shop. M. Caillemer approached, an ungenerous smile clapped on his face; she knew he was going to agree. She felt a pang of dismay: her nerves relaxed and