do with a child?” She looked out of the window again. On a balcony opposite stood a man in suspenders, holding an umbrella. “How much longer will I have to stay here, doctor?”
“About one week.”
“One week more?”
“That’s not long. Why?”
“It costs and costs—”
“Maybe we can make it a day or two less.”
“Do you think I can pay it off in installments? I haven’t enough money. It is expensive, thirty francs a day.”
“Who told you that?”
“The nurse.”
“Which one? Eugénie of course—”
“Yes. She said the operation and the bandages would cost extra. Is that very expensive?”
“You have paid for the operation.”
“The nurse said it hadn’t been nearly enough.”
“The nurse doesn’t know much about that, Lucienne. You’d better ask Doctor Veber later.”
“I’d like to know soon.”
“Why?”
“Then I can plan the length of time I’ll have to work to pay it off.” Lucienne looked at her hands. Her fingers were thin and pricked. “I’ve another month’s rent to pay,” she said. “When I came here, it was the thirteenth. I should have given notice on the fifteenth. Now I shall have to pay for another month. For nothing.”
“Haven’t you got anyone to help you?”
Lucienne glanced up. Suddenly her face seemed ten years older. “You know about that yourself, doctor. He was just angry. He didn’t know I was so ignorant. Otherwise he wouldn’t have had anything to do with me.”
Ravic nodded. Things like this weren’t new to him. “Lucienne,” he said, “we could try to get something from the woman who did the abortion. It was her fault. All you need do is to give us her name.”
The girl straightened up quickly. Suddenly she was all resistance. “Police? No! Then I’d get mixed up in it myself.”
“Without police. We would only threaten.”
She laughed bitterly. “You won’t get anything from her that way. She is made of iron. I had to pay her three hundred francs. And for that—” She smoothed her kimono. “Some people just haven’t any luck,” she said without resignation as if she spoke of someone else and not of herself.
“On the contrary,” Ravic replied. “You had a lot of luck.”
He saw Eugénie in the operating room. She was polishing nickel-plated instruments. It was one of her hobbies. She was so absorbed in her work that she did not hear him come in.
“Eugénie,” he said.
She turned around, startled. “Oh you! Do you always have to frighten people?”
“I don’t think I have that much personality. But you shouldn’t frighten the patients with your stories about fees and costs.”
Eugénie drew herself up, the polishing rags in her hand. “Naturally that whore had to blab right away.”
“Eugénie,” Ravic said, “there are more whores among women who have never slept with a man than among those who maketheir difficult living that way. Not to mention the married ones. Besides, the girl wasn’t blabbing. You just spoiled the day for her. That’s all.”
“What of it? Sensitive and leading that sort of life!”
You walking moral catechism, Ravic thought. You disgusting model of conscious virtue—what do you know of the forlornness of this little milliner who courageously went to the same midwife who had ruined her friend—and to the same hospital in which the other had died—and who has nothing to say except: What else could I have done? And: How can I pay for it?
“You should marry, Eugénie,” he said. “A widower with children. Or the owner of a funeral parlor.”
“Mr. Ravic,” the nurse replied with dignity, “will you kindly not concern yourself with my private affairs? Otherwise I’ll have to complain to Doctor Veber.”
“You do that anyway all day long.” Ravic was pleased to see two red spots appear over her cheekbones. “Why are pious people so rarely loyal, Eugénie? Cynics have the best character; idealists are the least bearable. Doesn’t that make you
“About one week.”
“One week more?”
“That’s not long. Why?”
“It costs and costs—”
“Maybe we can make it a day or two less.”
“Do you think I can pay it off in installments? I haven’t enough money. It is expensive, thirty francs a day.”
“Who told you that?”
“The nurse.”
“Which one? Eugénie of course—”
“Yes. She said the operation and the bandages would cost extra. Is that very expensive?”
“You have paid for the operation.”
“The nurse said it hadn’t been nearly enough.”
“The nurse doesn’t know much about that, Lucienne. You’d better ask Doctor Veber later.”
“I’d like to know soon.”
“Why?”
“Then I can plan the length of time I’ll have to work to pay it off.” Lucienne looked at her hands. Her fingers were thin and pricked. “I’ve another month’s rent to pay,” she said. “When I came here, it was the thirteenth. I should have given notice on the fifteenth. Now I shall have to pay for another month. For nothing.”
“Haven’t you got anyone to help you?”
Lucienne glanced up. Suddenly her face seemed ten years older. “You know about that yourself, doctor. He was just angry. He didn’t know I was so ignorant. Otherwise he wouldn’t have had anything to do with me.”
Ravic nodded. Things like this weren’t new to him. “Lucienne,” he said, “we could try to get something from the woman who did the abortion. It was her fault. All you need do is to give us her name.”
The girl straightened up quickly. Suddenly she was all resistance. “Police? No! Then I’d get mixed up in it myself.”
“Without police. We would only threaten.”
She laughed bitterly. “You won’t get anything from her that way. She is made of iron. I had to pay her three hundred francs. And for that—” She smoothed her kimono. “Some people just haven’t any luck,” she said without resignation as if she spoke of someone else and not of herself.
“On the contrary,” Ravic replied. “You had a lot of luck.”
He saw Eugénie in the operating room. She was polishing nickel-plated instruments. It was one of her hobbies. She was so absorbed in her work that she did not hear him come in.
“Eugénie,” he said.
She turned around, startled. “Oh you! Do you always have to frighten people?”
“I don’t think I have that much personality. But you shouldn’t frighten the patients with your stories about fees and costs.”
Eugénie drew herself up, the polishing rags in her hand. “Naturally that whore had to blab right away.”
“Eugénie,” Ravic said, “there are more whores among women who have never slept with a man than among those who maketheir difficult living that way. Not to mention the married ones. Besides, the girl wasn’t blabbing. You just spoiled the day for her. That’s all.”
“What of it? Sensitive and leading that sort of life!”
You walking moral catechism, Ravic thought. You disgusting model of conscious virtue—what do you know of the forlornness of this little milliner who courageously went to the same midwife who had ruined her friend—and to the same hospital in which the other had died—and who has nothing to say except: What else could I have done? And: How can I pay for it?
“You should marry, Eugénie,” he said. “A widower with children. Or the owner of a funeral parlor.”
“Mr. Ravic,” the nurse replied with dignity, “will you kindly not concern yourself with my private affairs? Otherwise I’ll have to complain to Doctor Veber.”
“You do that anyway all day long.” Ravic was pleased to see two red spots appear over her cheekbones. “Why are pious people so rarely loyal, Eugénie? Cynics have the best character; idealists are the least bearable. Doesn’t that make you
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