________________________________________________
_
Chapter XIV - Light at Eventide
Jeanne never went out now, never stirred about. She rose at the same
hour every day, looked out at the weather and then went downstairs and
sat before the parlor fire.
She would remain for days motionless, gazing into the fire, thinking
of nothing in particular. It would grow dark before she stirred,
except to put a fresh log on the fire. Rosalie would then bring in the
lamp and exclaim: "Come, Madame Jeanne, you must stir about or you
will have no appetite again this evening."
She lived over the past, haunted by memories of her early life and her
wedding journey down yonder in Corsica. Forgotten landscapes in that
isle now rose before her in the blaze of the fire, and she recalled
all the little details, all the little incidents, the faces she had
seen down there. The head of the guide, Jean Ravoli, haunted her, and
she sometimes seemed to hear his voice.
Then she remembered the sweet years of Paul's childhood, when they
planted salad together and when she knelt in the thick grass beside
Aunt Lison, each trying what they could do to please the child, and
her lips murmured: "Poulet, my little Poulet," as though she were
talking to him. Stopping at this word, she would try to trace it,
letter by letter, in space, sometimes for hours at a time, until she
became confused and mixed up the letters and formed other words, and
she became so nervous that she was almost crazy.
She had all the peculiarities of those who live a solitary life. The
least thing out of its usual place irritated her.
Rosalie often obliged her to walk and took her on the high road, but
at the end of twenty minutes she declared she could not take another
step and sat down on the side of the road.
She soon became averse to all movement and stayed in bed as late as
possible. Since her childhood she had retained one custom, that of
rising the instant she had drunk her cafe au lait in the morning. But
now she would lie down again and begin to dream, and as she was daily
growing more lazy, Rosalie would come and oblige her to get up and
almost force her to get dressed.
She seemed no longer to have any will power, and each time the maid
asked her a question or wanted her advice or opinion she would say:
"Do as you think best, my girl."
She imagined herself pursued by some persistent ill luck and was like
an oriental fatalist, and having seen her dreams all fade away and her
hopes crushed, she would sometimes hesitate a whole day or longer
before undertaking the simplest thing, for fear she might be on the
wrong road and it would turn out badly. She kept repeating: "Talk of
bad luck--I have never had any luck in life."
Then Rosalie would say: "What would you do if you had to work for your
living, if you were obliged to get up every morning at six o'clock to
go out to your work? Many people have to do that, nevertheless, and
when they grow too old they die of want."
Jeanne replied: "Remember that I am all alone; that my son has
deserted me." And Rosalie would get very angry: "That's another thing!
Well, how about the sons who are drafted into the army and those who
go to America?"
America to her was an undefined country, where one went to make a
fortune and whence one never returned. She continued: "There always
comes a time when people have to part, for old people and young people
are not made to live together." And she added fiercely: "Well, what
would you say if he were dead?"
Jeanne had nothing more to say.
One day in spring she had gone up to the loft to look for something
and by chance opened a box containing old calendars which had been
preserved after the manner of some country folks.
She took them up and carried them downstairs. They were of all sizes,
and she laid them out on the table in the parlor in regular order.
Suddenly she spied the earliest, the one she had brought with her to
"The Poplars." She gazed at it for some time, at the days crossed off
by her the morning she left Rouen, the day after she left the convent,
and she wept slow, sorrowful tears, the tears of an old woman at sight
of her wretched life spread out before her on this table.
One morning the maid came into her room earlier than usual, and
placing the bowl of cafe au lait on the little stand beside her bed,
she said: "Come, drink it quickly. Denis is waiting for us at the
door. We are going to 'The Poplars,' for I have something to attend
to down there."
Jeanne dressed herself with trembling hands, almost fainting at the
thought of seeing her dear home once more.
The sky was cloudless and the nag, who was inclined to be frisky,
would suddenly start off at a gallop every now and then. As they
entered the commune of Etouvent Jeanne's heart beat so that she could
hardly breathe.
They unharnessed the horse at the Couillard place, and while Rosalie
and her son were attending to their own affairs, the farmer and his
wife offered to let Jeanne go over the chateau, as the proprietor was
away and they had the keys.
She went off alone, and when she reached the side of the chateau from
which there was a view of the sea she turned round to look. Nothing
had changed on the outside. When she turned the heavy lock and went
inside the first thing she did was to go up to her old room, which she
did not recognize, as it had been newly papered and furnished. But the
view from the window was the same, and she stood and gazed out at the
landscape she had so loved.
She then wandered all over the house, walking quietly all alone in
this silent abode as though it were a cemetery. All her life was
buried here. She went down to the drawing-room, which was dark with
its closed shutters. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light
she recognized some of the old hangings. Two easy chairs were drawn up
before the fire, as if some one had just left them, and as Jeanne
stood there, full of old memories, she suddenly seemed to see her
father and mother sitting there, warming their feet at the fire.
She started back in terror and knocked up against the edge of the
door, against which she leaned to support herself, still staring at
the armchairs.
The vision had vanished.
She remained bewildered for some minutes. Then she slowly recovered
her composure and started to run away, for fear she might become
insane. She chanced to look at the door against which she had been
leaning and saw there "Poulet's ladder."
All the little notches were there showing the age and growth of her
child. Here was the baron's writing, then hers, a little smaller, and
then Aunt Lison's rather shaky characters. And she seemed to see her
boy of long ago with his fair hair standing before her, leaning his
little forehead against the door while they measured his height.
And she kissed the edge of the door in a frenzy of affection.
But some one was calling her outside. It was Rosalie's voice: "Madame
Jeanne, Madame Jeanne, they are waiting breakfast for you." She went
out in a dream and understood nothing of what they were saying to her.
She ate what they gave her, heard them talking, but about what she
knew not, let them kiss her on the cheeks and kissed them in return
and then got into the carriage.
When they lost sight of the chateau behind the tall trees she felt a
wrench at her heart, convinced that she had bid a last farewell to her
old home.
When they reached Batteville and just as she was going into her new
house, she saw something white under the door. It was a letter that
the postman had slipped under the door while she was out. She
recognized Paul's writing and opened it, trembling with anxiety. He
wrote:
"My Dear Mother: I have not written sooner because I did not wish you
to make a useless journey to Paris when it was my place to go and see
you. I am just now in great sorrow and in great straits. My wife is
dying after giving birth to a little girl three days ago, and I have
not one sou. I do not know what to do with the child, whom my
janitor's wife is bringing up on the bottle as well as she can, but I
fear I shall lose her. Could you not take charge of it? I absolutely
do not know what to do, and I have no money to put her out to nurse.
Answer by return mail.
"Your son, who loves you,
"Paul."
Jeanne sank into a chair and had scarcely strength to call Rosalie.
When the maid came into the room they read the letter over together
and then remained silent for some time, face to face.
At last Rosalie said: "I am going to fetch the little one, madame. We
cannot leave it like that."
"Go, my girl," replied Jeanne.
Then they were silent until the maid said: "Put on your hat, madame,
and we will go to Goderville to see the lawyer. If she is going to
die, the other one, M. Paul must marry her for the little one's sake
later on."
Jeanne, without replying, put on her hat. A deep, inexpressible joy
filled her heart, a treacherous joy that she sought to hide at any
cost, one of those things of which one is ashamed, although cherishing
it in one's soul--her son's sweetheart was going to die.
The lawyer gave the servant minute instructions, making her repeat
them several times. Then, sure that she could make no mistake, she
said: "Do not be afraid. I will see to it now."
She set out for Paris that very night.
Jeanne passed two days in such a troubled condition that she could not
think. The third morning she received merely a line from Rosalie
saying she would be back on the evening train. That was all.
About three o'clock she drove in a neighbor's light wagon to the
station at Beuzeville to meet Rosalie.
She stood on the platform, looking at the railroad track as it
disappeared on the horizon. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes
still--five minutes still--two minutes more. Then the hour of the
train's arrival, but it was not in sight. Presently, however, she saw
a cloud of white smoke and gradually it drew up in the station. She
looked anxiously and at last perceived Rosalie carrying a sort of
white bundle in her arms.
She wanted to go over toward her, but her knees seemed to grow weak
and she was afraid of falling.
But the maid had seen her and came forward with her usual calm manner
and said: "How do you do, madame? Here I am back again, but not
without some difficulty."
"Well?" faltered Jeanne.
"Well," answered Rosalie, "she died last night. They were married and
here is the little girl." And she held out the child, who could not be
seen under her wraps.
Jeanne took it mechanically and they left the station and got into the
carriage.
"M. Paul will come as soon as the funeral is over--to-morrow about
this time, I believe," resumed Rosalie.
Jeanne murmured "Paul" and then was silent.
The wagon drove along rapidly, the peasant clacking his tongue to urge
on the horse. Jeanne looked straight ahead of her into the clear sky
through which the swallows darted in curves. Suddenly she felt a
gentle warmth striking through to her skin; it was the warmth of the
little being who was asleep on her lap.
Then she was overcome with an intense emotion, and uncovering gently
the face of the sleeping infant, she raised it to her lips and kissed
it passionately.
But Rosalie, happy though grumpy, stopped her; "Come, come, Madame
Jeanne, stop that; you will make it cry."
And then she added, probably in answer to her own thoughts: "Life,
after all, is not as good or as bad as we believe it to be."
Content of Chapter XIV - Light at Eventide
-THE END-
Guy De Maupassant's novel: Une Vie; or, The History of a Heart
_
Read previous: Chapter XIII - Jeanne in Paris
Table of content of Une Vie; or, The History of a Heart
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
