Cice tucked her legs up in her little bed and held her ear against the wall. The window was pale. The wall quivered and seemed to sleep with choked breath. Her white petticoat had swelled upon the chair, from which two stockings hung like black legs, soft and empty. A dress clung to the wall mysteriously, as if intending to climb up to the ceiling. The floorboards squealed weakly in the night. The water jug was like a white toad, crouched in the washbowl, inhaling the shadows.
“I’m too unhappy,” said Cice, and she began to cry under her blankets. The wall sighed all the more deeply, but the two black legs remained still, the dress stopped climbing, and the crouching white toad’s mouth remained open.
Cice said again:
“Since everyone around here is mad at me, since my sisters are the only ones anybody loves, since they sent me to bed during dinner, I’ll run away from here, yes, I’ll run far, far away. I’m a Cinderella, that’s what I am. I’ll show them. I’ll find myself a prince; and they’ll have nobody, absolutely nobody. And I’ll come by in my beautiful carriage with my prince; that’s what I’ll do. If they’re good by then, I’ll forgive them. Poor Cinderella! You’ll all see she’s better than you.”
Her little heart grew again as she slipped on her stockings and tied her petticoat. The empty chair remained in the middle of the room, abandoned.
Cice went softly down to the kitchen and cried again, kneeling before the fireplace, her hands plunged in the cinders.
A recurring sound, like that of a spinning wheel, made her turn around. A body, warm and furry, brushed against her legs.
“I don’t have a fairy godmother,” said Cice, “but at least I have my cat. Right?”
She held out her fingers and the cat licked them slowly, its tongue like a hot grater.
“Come here,” said Cice.
She opened the door to the garden, and in blew a cool breeze. A dark green stain demarcated the lawn. The sycamore tree shivered; the stars seemed to be strung between its branches. Beyond the trees, the vegetable garden was bright, and its melon cloches were glowing.
Cice’s leg brushed against two tufts of long grass, which tickled her delicately. She ran among the cloches where brief lights fluttered about.
“I have no fairy godmother: do you know how to make a carriage, kitty?” she said.
The little creature yawned up at the sky where grey clouds were streaming by.
“I don’t have a prince yet,” said Cice. “Whenever will he come?”
Sitting beside a large violet thistle, she looked at the hedges in the garden. Then she took off one of her slippers and threw it with all her might over the red currant bushes. The slipper landed on the main road.
Cice stroked the cat, and said:
“Listen, puss. If the prince doesn’t bring back my slipper, I’ll buy you some boots, and we’ll set out to find him. He’s a very handsome young man. He’s dressed in green, with diamonds. He loves me dearly, but he’s never seen me. You won’t be jealous. We’ll stay together, the three of us. I’ll be happier than Cinderella because I’ve been even worse off. Cinderella got to go to the ball every night and they gave her fancy dresses. But I only have you, my sweet little cat.”
She kissed his wet, morocco snout. The cat meowed weakly, and ran a paw over his ear. Then he licked himself and purred.
Cice picked some green currants.
“One for me, one for my prince, one for you. One for my prince, one for you, one for me. One for you, one for me, one for my prince. That’s how we’ll live. The three of us will share everything, and we won’t have any mean sisters.”
The grey clouds had piled up in the sky. A pallid bunch sailed off to the East. The trees bathed in the livid halflight. All of a sudden, a puff of ice-cold wind shook Cice’s skirt. Everything shivered. The violet thistle bowed two or three times. The cat arched his back and bristled.
Cice heard, far away on the road, the murmur of creaking wheels.
A drab fire of reflected light ran across the peaks of the trees and along the rooftop of the little house.
Then the rumbling drew near. Some horses whinnied, and there was a confused murmur of male voices.
“Listen, kitty,” said Cice. “Listen. That’s the great carriage drawing near, the carriage of my prince! Quick, quick: he’s about to call my name.”
A golden brown leather slipper flew over the currants, and fell among the cloches.
Cice ran to the wicker fence and opened the gate.
A long and dark carriage rolled heavily forth. The coachman’s cocked hat was lit by a beam of red light. Two men, dressed in black, flanked the horses. The hindquarters of the carriage were low and oblong, like a coffin. A sickly odor wafted in the dawn breeze.
But Cice understood nothing of all that. She saw only one thing: the marvelous carriage had arrived. The prince’s coachman was crowned with gold. The heavy chest in the carriage was filled with wedding jewels. This terrible and sovereign odor enshrouded it in royalty.
And Cice held her arms out, crying:
“Take me away, Prince, take me away!”