My Little Flore

Flore BOURGEOIS lives upstairs in a little house that was once pretty, but time has taken its toll. Its paint is peeling, and its worm-eaten door and windows let in the wind and dampness. Widow LECOQ does not have the means to repair her property; the few coins Flore pays in rent keep her from starving. As for Flore, she is a tulle worker. She separates the strips of tulle one from another. She works tirelessly, but the little she earns is not enough to live properly. A single meal made of potatoes and, when the week has been good, a little bacon keeps her going. Her clothes are so worn that the fabric shows through in places. She mends, sews, embroiders, unravels an old shawl to make herself a cardigan; little Flore is clever with her hands.

She would dearly love to work in a factory, but her poor heart refuses. Since childhood, it has raced wildly in her chest. The doctor spoke with her parents, and she saw the despair on their faces. Despite her young age, she understood that her life hung by a heartbeat. For eighteen years Louisette and Jules watched over the apple of their eye, sparing her hard work and surrounding her with love. The Grim Reaper took them away a few months ago. The farm was sold, but the butcher’s bill, the grocer’s debt and the notary’s fees made their savings melt away like snow in the sun. Flore took the omnibus to Calais and, with the few coins she had left, could afford nothing more than this hovel. She is barely twenty years old and looks ten years older.

She returns to her work. Her fingers cramp around the scissors, daylight is fading, but lamp oil must be saved. She moves closer to the window and squints her eyes. One hour gained. She strikes a match, the little flame briefly lights up her weary face, she lights the lamp and keeps working. Her stomach twists, she is hungry. She bites into a piece of stale bread, chewing eases her hunger. Tomorrow is Saturday, payday. She will deliver the week’s work, tomorrow she will buy a few provisions and some wood, the nights are becoming colder, yes tomorrow. She lies down and falls asleep. Her poor little heart had decided otherwise; there would be no tomorrow, nor the day after tomorrow for Flore. She died during the night.

Marie Hélène BOURGEOIS (1875–1895), known as Flore