"Gendarmes, hands to your sabres!" Whereupon the music, consisting
of a fife and a drum, filled the church. That was the supreme moment
of my life. I conquered sleep so as not to miss it. I thought of it
through the whole year. You will not wonder, therefore, when I tell
you that I forgot all about Marion from midnight until about two
o'clock.
Everything was over by two o'clock. The fife and drum had escorted
the priest to the rectory; the _quinquiss_ had put out the lights
on the altar; and as all the faithful had blown upon their meagre
luminaries the church was completely dark. In a few moments it was
deserted, and not a sound was to be heard save that of the swaying
pendulum. On the other hand, the graveyard was crowded. If it
happened to be raining or snowing too hard, the people took refuge in
the houses; but they gave this proof of weakness only when they could
no longer hold out. The taverns were overflowing with customers.
Some people stood a little table out at their door, and upon it they
placed a loaf, a _cervelas_, and numerous bottles of cider, thus
defrauding, in connivance with the authority, the tax on consumable
commodities. At three o'clock the bells rang for the Mass of the
Aurora.
After the ceremony our people came for us and awaited us at the
church door with a huge red cotton umbrella, which did us as much
honor as the same utensil does a Roman cardinal. We were also
provided with an extra pair of wooden shoes half filled with warm
ashes. We hastened home, exchanging courtesies with all, but stopping
with no one; for there was a Christmas supper in our kitchen,--a
supper to which all our friends were invited, and besides them all
the servants who had been present at the blessing of the Yule log.
During midnight Mass the great kitchen table had been replaced by
boards laid as evenly as possible upon props. These were covered
by a cloth of dazzling whiteness,--the pride of my poor mother,
who used to bleach it on the grass of our meadow. On this occasion
we had candles on the table,--real candles, of seven to the pound,
which were sent for a week beforehand to Vannes. We considered our
menu decidedly sumptuous. We had buckwheat pancakes, accompanied by
numerous pots of cider and the most delicious butter. After that, we
were helped to a porringer of the very worst chocolate that was ever
manufactured by a country grocer. We tried to convince ourselves
that this course was excellent. It had to be served on that day,
and to be drunk, and to be praised, but then we had the pleasure of
feeling that we should not be called upon to repeat the sacrifice for
a year. We also had a home-cured ham and rye bread. Everybody stood
up during the _Benedicite_, then those who found room on the benches
sat down; the others helped themselves over the heads of these
privileged ones, and took their share out into the street with them.
The assailants succeeded one another until the table was cleared.
Everybody was cheerful and contented; there was never a man who
forgot himself. These peasants, who had had no breeding, were by
nature well-bred. Then they all loved one another in that country of
poor people; and, above all,--may I be allowed to say it? the thought
is so pleasing to me in my old age,--they all loved us.
I never remained until the end. I merely stepped in to get a peep
at the beautiful celebration and to fill my eyes and my imagination
with it. On the night to which I refer I managed to stay down longer
than usual. I looked for Marion everywhere. There were others, too,
who were looking for her. My mother's conduct had been criticised
and rather disapproved of; for those were simple folk, virtuous
themselves and pitiless to others. If Marion had been brutally
discharged, they would have applauded. Now they believed her to
be forgiven; and they felt her forgiveness to be in a measure an
encouragement to vice. Aunt Gabrielle had found time to speak to
the rector, to excuse Marguerite, she said; but without realizing
it she had merely expressed her disapprobation. I not only remember
all these details after sixty-five years, but I remember the room
in which the scene took place. I can even evoke the faces and the
attitudes,--the saintly protectress, somewhat moved, but very
resolute; the rector, restless and anxious; Gabrielle and her
confederates, pitiless in their censure. Although not a word had been
uttered in my presence concerning the nature of Marion's fault, I had
understood it all, thanks to "Celina," no doubt. It is useless to
state which side my heart was on. The priest was anxious above all
things to preserve in our parish those rigid customs for which we
were famed.
"A moral plague must be treated just like a physical plague, with
heroic remedies," said he.
"We must be charitable," said my mother. "Our God is a God of
charity."
The priest was of the opinion that the sinner should not under any
consideration be allowed to come back to the house and work among
the maid-servants.
"Why, of course not; I never thought of such a thing," said my
mother, in that sweet voice of hers that reached one's soul. "We must
make this an example, a warning for our girls. I will see to that,
never fear. I am just as anxious about it as you are. She will live
alone with her child. I did not care to crush her under the weight of
a public anathema, nor would I be so inexorable as to condemn her to
mendicity or debauch, that is all. I said to my poor Gabrielle, who
is so ungovernable to-night," she added, smiling, "that I would take
her work myself if I found nobody to obey me; but that is not exactly
what I meant. What I meant was this: I will go to her myself; I will
go every day. I will assume, or rather encroach upon your rights.
I will exhort, I will preach to her; I will make her see that she
is among sisters whom her conduct has grieved, but among sisters,
nevertheless."
She said all this with kindness, simplicity, and firmness.
The priest lifted his broad-brimmed hat from his head. "I uncover
my white hair before you, Madame," said he, in a loud voice, "and I
pray God to bless the task that you have undertaken for his sake.
My children, Marion will come back and work among you when she has
made atonement for her fault. Until then I leave her entirely in
your mistress's hands. If she does not lead her back to the path of
virtue, we priests will have to give it up. Our Latin will not help
us out of it."
This very mild pleasantry excited much admiration, as everything did
that fell from those venerable lips.
For my part I was delighted, having a confused impression that we had
gained a great victory; and I ran off to bed after having kissed my
mother with unusual tenderness.
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