A little girl of about four years stood out in the road, staring anywhere but at the building behind her. She knew her mother wasn't in there; she'd already checked every room, so there was no reason for her to be looking at it.

   On the occasion that her mother left to go to the city, she always took this road - and she always came back by the evening of the day she'd left. Two days had now passed since she ventured out. Maman, nor any of the other ladies were ever late coming back from the city because if they were late, they would anger the Monsieur. No one ever wanted to make the Monsieur angry.  Maman told her he did bad things when he was angry.

    The little girl's mother had been sick too when she left, which made her daughter very worried.

    "Celi!" A scratchy, high voice called, "You know your maman does not like you to go outside!" The voice belonged to Felicette, one of the ladies who worked with Celi's mother. She had been in the middle of painting her face, having stopped only to lean out the second story window and call Celi in.

   Celi was still adjusting to living with other women. She and her mother had moved in with the Monsieur and the ladies a couple of months ago, after the house they lived in was sold.

  "Celi! Celine! Come inside!" Felicette called again.

    Little Celi ran back inside the house.

                                                                                         ...

   Two days later, the ladies began to whisper and abruptly pause and glance at her when she came into a room. The ladies, she knew to be gossips, however, they spoke about this differently, she thought, than other topics, which made her begin to think that perhaps something was very wrong with her Maman. When the Monsieur announced Elisabeth was dead and a replacement would soon be found, Celi was heartbroken. But she couldn't quite believe her Maman was gone. Trifle colds, which Celi assumed she had when she left, did not kill people, did they? Though, the Monsieur didn't say how she had died.

   Celi prayed she would never get sick or catch another cold again.

   Felicette and the other women did their best to console Celi, but they still had to work all day and most of the night. They almost always had visitors who came by about their work. As the days went on, Celi did not miss her mother less, as Felicette said she would, but more. She yearned for the warm embraces and gentle touches of her mother's hands, especially when the Monsieur cuffed her on the ear for getting in the way, or when Madame Lafayette or the other ladies lost their patience with her if she asked about her mother too much and scolded or slapped her.

   Celi was moved from her mother's room to a smaller pantry in the kitchen downstairs, so her 'replacement' a cruel German woman, could settle in. Celi usually ended up falling asleep in front of the kitchen stove though, listening to the old cook from Africa tell her stories.

   This went on for several months, then Celi turned five.

   One day, after asking "Cook" to tell her more about the music from her country, Celi ran to tell her mother what she had learned, only to remember her mother was not there. She couldn't tell her. Celi started to cry. A wave of sadness washed over little Celine. She needed her mother. Badly.

   The Monsieur appeared at that moment. When he saw Celi distraught on the stairs, he turned rouge, as if he had put on his cheeks the same powder that the ladies used. He grabbed Celi's arm and yanked her to her feet. "You stupid child! Stay out of sight!" He struck her hard across the face and she cried out in pain. She bit him on the hand and ran outside as fast as she could.

   She ran into the city, stopping only to lean against a wall, for her legs burned and her breath came in gasps. Everything hurt, but she needed to get away. The Monsieur might kill her for biting him. She heard a man yell in the distance, and an image of the Monsieur  flashed in her mind. What if that was him? Terrified, she forced herself to run again.

   However, she didn't get very far this time. As she burst out from an alley, appearing on a busy street, she crashed into someone, or rather... someone's leg. She fell down, tangled in a black cloak, muddy from the dirty puddle she landed in.

   A man was rapidly scolding her. His voice was low and... she tried to think of a word to describe it. Musical was all she could find, but how could a person's voice be musical? "Je suis desole, monsieur." She apologized. "I'm sorry, sir." She looked up to find his face, but it was hidden by the hood of his cloak.

   "Never mind. Clean yourself up, brat." He dropped a handkerchief in her lap and strode away.

   It was a beautiful, richly embroidered handkerchief. The initials E. F. D. Were sewn into it.

    Celi did not want to dirty it. It was one of the few beautiful things she had seen in her life. So she decided to stay muddy and tucked it into her pocket.

    She looked at the scene around her. She was in the middle of a market place. People were all over, mostly women toting children or baskets, sometimes both. Tables and wagons were laden with breads and fruits and vegetables. Celi wished now she had not skipped breakfast. But there was a much more pressing matter at hand than hunger: she was lost.

    "Are you alright, my dear?" Asked a woman in English. Celi did not understand English well.

   "No, Madame. I am lost."

     The woman was gray-haired, older, and a kind faced American. "I can imagine. Anyone would be if they were caught in this hustle and bustle. Too many people to spot anything familiar." She paused. "I'm Mrs. Treacle." This she was able to say in French. "Where do you live? May I help you find it?"

   "Je m'appelle - sorry. My name is... Celi. Or Celine. I am both. Do you know where Grande Street is?"

   The woman gasped. "Grande Street? What do you want with Grande Street? You don't live there, do you?"

    Celi nodded. "I lived with my Maman but now she is left."

   The woman - Mrs. Treacle's eyes widened. "But..." then she seemed to realize something. "Oh you poor child. I suppose you must go back there?"

   "Oui, yes."

    Mrs. Treacle sighed. "Alrighty then. Come on dear, I'll take you most of the way. I can't go all the way, for plannsakes. My husband, Mr. Treacle, would never let me hear the end of it." She took Celi's hand in hers and started  down an alley. "How did you get covered in mud?"

   "I landed."

   "You mean you fell. Poor thing. How old are you, are you hungry? Have an apple." She pulled an apple from her pocket and gave it to Celi, who answered  all of her questions. "Poor, poor dear. You are a pretty little thing too. But running around, half starved, dirty, and living on Grande Street, no less! Oh, oh, oh! You make me want to cry. Well darling, here are two francs. I can only walk with you another block. But you poor thing." The rest of the walk consisted of Mrs. Treacle clucking her tongue, tsking, and repeating all she knew about Celi. They had to part five minutes later. Mrs. Treacle gave Celi directions on how to get back the rest of the way, remarking that she seemed six, not five, and that she was "smart as a pickle, that's for sure."

 

French Lesson:

Je suis desole - I am sorry.