The waiter came by and said to the woman roughly, “More wine?”
“Haven’t a sou,” she replied.
Vincent turned. “Won’t you have a glass with me?” he asked.
The woman looked at him for an instant. “Sure.”
The waiter brought the glass of wine, took the twenty centimes and went away. The tables were close together.
“Thanks,” said the woman.
Vincent surveyed her closely. She was not young, not beautiful, slightly faded, one over whom life had passed. Her figure was slender but well formed. He noticed her hand as it clasped the glass of wine; it was not a lady’s hand like Kay’s, but the hand of one who worked much. She reminded him, in the half light, of some curious figure by Chardin or Jan Steen. She had a crooked nose that bulged in the middle, and a shadowy moustache on her upper lip. Her eyes were melancholy but there was, none the less, a touch of spirit in them.
“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m grateful for your company.”
“My name is Christine,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“Vincent.”
“Do you work here at The Hague?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a painter.”
“Oh. That’s a hell of a life too, ain’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’m a laundress. When I have strength enough to work. But that ain’t always.”
“What do you do then?”
“I was on the streets for a long time. I go back to it when I’m too sick to work.”
“Is it hard to be a laundress?”
“Yes. They work us twelve hours. And they don’t pay nothing. Sometimes, after I washed all day, I got to find a man to earn food for the kids.”
“How many children have you, Christine?”
“Five. I’m carrying another one now.”
“Your husband is dead?”
“I got them all from strangers.”
“That made it difficult, didn’t it?”
She shrugged. “Jesus Christ. A miner can’t refuse to go down because he might get killed, can he?”
“No. Do you know who any of the fathers are?”
“Only the first son of a bitch. I never even knew their names.”
“What about the one you’re carrying now?”
“Well, I can’t be sure. I was too sick to wash then, so I was on the streets a lot. But it don’t matter.”
“Will you have another glass of wine?”
“Make it gin and bitters.” She reached into her purse, took out the butt of a rough, black cigar and lit it. “You don’t look prosperous,” she said. “Do you sell any paintings?”
“No, I’m just beginning.”
“You look pretty old to be beginning.”
“I’m thirty.”
“You look forty. How do you live then?”
“My brother sends me a little money.”
“Well, it’s no goddam worse than being a laundress.”
“With whom do you stay, Christine?”
“We’re all at my mother’s.”
“Does she know you go on the streets?”
The woman laughed uproariously but without mirth. “Christ yes! She sent me there. That’s what she did all her life. It’s how she got me and my brother.”
“What does your brother do?”
“He’s got a woman at the house. He pimps for her.”
“That can’t be very good for your five children.”
“It don’t matter. They’ll all be doing the same some day.”
“It’s all a rum go, isn’t it, Christine?”
“Ain’t no good crying about it. Can I have another glass of gin and bitters? What did you do to your hand? You got a big black sore.”
“I burned it.”
“Oh, that must have hurt awful.” She picked up his hand tenderly.
“No, Christine, it was all right. I wanted to.”
She dropped his hand. “Why did you come in here all alone? Ain’t you got no friends?”
“No. My brother, but he’s in Paris.”
“Makes a guy feel lonesome, don’t it?”
“Yes, Christine, horribly.”
“I get like that, too. There’s all the kids at home, and my mother and brother. And all the men I pick up. But you live alone anyhow, don’t you? It ain’t people that count. It’s having someone you really like.”
“Hasn’t there ever been anyone you cared for, Christine?”
“The first fellow. I was sixteen. He was rich. Couldn’t marry me ’count of his family. But he paid for the baby. Then he died, and I was left without a centime.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two. Too old to have kids. The doctor at the free ward said this one will kill me.”
“It won’t if you have proper medical attention.”
“Where in hell am I going to get it? I ain’t got nothing saved up. The doctors at the free ward don’t care; they got too many sick women.”
“Have you no way at all of getting a little money?”
“Sure. If I stay on the streets all night for a couple of months. But that’ll kill me quicker than the kid.”
They were silent for several moments. “Where are you going when you leave here, Christine?”
“I been at the tubs all day and I come in here to get a glass because I’m dead. They were supposed to pay me a franc and a half, but they put me off ’till Saturday. I got to get two francs for food. I thought I’d rest before I found a man.”
“Will you let me come with you, Christine? I’m very much alone. I’d like to.”
“Sure. Saves me the trouble. Besides, you’re kind of nice.”
“I like you too, Christine. When you picked up my burned hand . . . that was the first kind word a woman has said to me in I can’t remember how long.”
“That’s funny. You ain’t bad to look at. You got a nice way.”
“I’m just unlucky in love.”
“Yes, that’s how it is, ain’t it? Can I have another glass of gin and bitters?”
“Listen, you and I need not make ourselves drunk to feel something for each other. Just put in your pocket what I can spare. I’m sorry it isn’t more.”
“You look like you need it worse than me. You can come anyway. After you go, I’ll find some other guy for the two francs.”
“No. Take the money. I can spare it. I borrowed twenty-five francs from a friend.”
“All right. Let’s get out of here.”
On their way home, threading their way through the dark streets, they chatted easily, like old friends. She told him of her life, without sympathy for herself, without complaint.
“Have you ever posed as a model?” Vincent asked her.
“When I was young.”
“Then why not pose for me? I can’t pay you much. Not even a franc a day. But after I begin selling, I’ll pay you two francs. It will be better than washing clothes.”
“Say, I’d like that. I’d bring my boy. You can paint him for nothing. When you get tired of me you can have my mother. She’d like to make an extra franc now and then. She’s a charwoman.”
At length they reached her house. It was a rough stone building of one floor and a court. “You don’t got to see anyone,” said Christine. “My room’s in front.”
It was a modest, simple little room in which she lived; the plain paper on the wall gave it a quiet, grey tone, like a picture by Chardin, thought Vincent. On the wooden floor there was a mat and a piece of old crimson carpet. An ordinary kitchen stove was in one corner, a chest of drawers in another, and in the centre a large bed. It was the interior of a real working woman’s home.
When Vincent awoke in the morning and found himself not alone, but saw there in the twilight a fellow creature beside him, it made the world look so much more friendly. The pain and aloneness were gone from him and in their place had come a deep feeling of peace.