THE DOOR IS POUNDED with such force, it sets the fruit jumping on the floor. Mother sadly heaves herself up from her chair at the table. Her petitioners have lost their patience, it seems, for now they are shoving and crowding at her door.
Without opening it, she asks, What do you want?
The pounding stops. Through the door, she can hear the visitors muttering among themselves.
We have come to speak with you about your daughter, says a tentative voice at last, and she can picture, quite clearly, the mayor tugging at the buttons on his coat.
We have been robbed! says another voice, more reedy and forlorn, as she sees the chemist's spectacles sliding down his nose.
She has gathered up our things, and our children! say a multitude of voices all at once. Those of her acquaintances and neighbors, her former customers, her sworn enemies, her shopkeepers and bureaucrats. How sharply their faces appear to her now: how terrified, and bereft.
So she takes a step backwards, opening the door, and bumps into an army of her children, who have crept down the ladder and come silently to her defense. Mother unfolds her arms and takes them in.
As you can tell, she says to the mob at her door, my daughters are accounted for.
It's not Beatrice we want, the voices cry.
Nor Lucie, nor Mimi, the horde despairs.
They are looking for Madeleine, her children whisper.
Madeleine?
Mother nearly laughs. How many times must she tell them?
She raises her voice to the crowd: Madeleine is sleeping!
And with a sweep of her hand, she ushers them in: the mayor, the priest, the captain, the chemist, and all of the suspicious wives. They stumble over the spoiling fruit that is strewn across the floor. Pressing in on the bed, they examine the sleeper: who takes up room; who attracts attention; who lies there, sighing voluptuously, as Mother stands at the door in an attitude of immense vindication.
But Madame, says the chemist, in his apologetic voice. I believe you are mistaken.