NIOBE
“Good evening, Mamma.” Paule called her Mamma when she wished to show
her child’s love the most.
Madame Guibert came in, stooping a little, wrapped in an old and
well-worn fur cloak. The lamp-shade prevented her noticing how pale her
daughter was as she kissed her. She came nearer to the fire.
“Oh, how good it is to be at home again! And how one loves these old
houses! Do you remember, Paule, how sad we were when we thought we
should have to leave Le Maupas?” She warmed her wrinkled hands at the
flames. Paule came up behind her and took off her bonnet.
“Keep your cloak on, Mother dear, for a few minutes. You were very
cold, weren’t you?”
Madame Guibert turned to look at her daughter. She smiled at her, and
the smile under her grey hair, on a face whose cheeks were still young,
whose blue eyes were trusting and clear, was as sweet as the last roses
of the year, which still bloom under the snow.
“Dear child, to look at you warms me more than do these logs that you
have put on the fire for me.”
The girl knelt down to take the kettle off the fire.
“You are going to have some boiling hot grog.”
As she got up, her mother had time to notice in the light how pale she
was.
“But you are the one who should be looked after, Paule. You are quite
white. You are ill, and you never told me.”
The old lady got up at once.
“Oh, it isn’t serious, Mother dear. You must not worry. Perhaps I
took a slight chill waiting for you on the balcony. I will go to bed
directly after supper.” And to calm the motherly fears she had the
courage to repeat laughingly: “It is nothing at all, Mother, I assure
you.” She was thinking that the dining-room lamp would show her face
too clearly and suggested: “Suppose we have our supper here before the
fire! This room is more comfortable.”
“But the table is laid already.”
“It can soon be changed. You will see.”
“Very well, dear. You are icy cold. And in Trélaz’s open carriage one
is exposed to the worst of the weather.”
As her daughter went out, after having poured out a few spoonfuls of
rum into the glass, she added:
“Tell Marie to take down one or two bottles of wine to Trélaz. He
deserves them.”
According to the old Savoy custom, the farmer’s family lived in the
basement of the house.
Paule had just finished clearing the table in the dining-room when the
servant came back with a terrified face.
“Miss Paule, poor Miss Paule! What is this I hear?”
The girl looked her full in the face.
“M. Marcel!” continued Marie.
“Oh!” cried Paule in a hoarse voice, “be quiet! We will tell my mother
to-morrow. It is soon enough.”
Old Marie checked her tears.
“It was Baron who told them downstairs. They knew about it in the
village. Madame must not be told. It would give her such a shock! She
must be prepared.” And admiring her young mistress’s strength, she
said: “You are brave, that you are! You are like _him_!”
With an unsteady hand she waited at the table, her red eyes hidden by
her spectacles.
“Marie is following my example,” said Madame Guibert. “She is ageing.”
And she tried in vain to brighten the conversation.
“You have eaten nothing, Paule. You are ill. Do go to bed. I will warm
it for you and make you some tea. It is my turn to look after you.”
“No, thank you. I really don’t want anything. Marie will give me a
hot bottle. And you must go to bed early too. Good night, Mamma, dear
little Mamma!”
She kissed her mother passionately and went into her room. She was
quite exhausted and her courage was gone. She tore off her clothes,
unfastened her long hair with a single movement, blew out her candle,
and winding herself in her blankets gave way madly to the grief which
she had kept back so long. In the darkness her mood changed by turns
from despair to revolt, from revolt to resignation and at last to
submission and deep pity.
She mourned for her brother, for her mother, and for herself. Turned to
the wall and lost in her misery, her face hidden in her handkerchief,
she forgot that time was passing and did not hear her mother come to
bed.
Madame Guibert slept in the next room. She opened the door gently
so as not to awaken her daughter, and yet to be able to hear her in
the night if she were not well. Then, as she did every night before
undressing, she knelt on her prie-Dieu and said her prayers. As she did
every night, she gathered together her dear dead ones and the lying
scattered all over the world to beg for them God’s loving care. More
particularly she prayed over Paule’s uncertain future and Marcel’s
sorrow-stricken heart. A slight deafness and the absorption of her
thoughts cut her off from all around her. When she was in bed, she
seemed to hear a faint sigh. She listened in vain and reassured herself.
“Paule is asleep,” she thought. “She was pale this evening. Dear little
girl. May God keep her and give her happiness! ... Old Marie must have
taken cold as well. She had such red eyes and shaking hands. I told her
to drink some tea to-night with a little rum in it. It is the rum she
likes best!”
Suddenly she sat up. This time she was not mistaken. That stifled sob
came from Paule’s bedroom. And listening attentively she made out at
last the sound of weeping and despair. Her bosom wrung with a horrible
fear, she got out of bed. She was no longer uneasy about her daughter’s
health. She understood now this sadness that had made itself felt at Le
Maupas all the evening. A calamity had come upon the home, a calamity
that they all knew about except herself, something that was terrible,
since they had kept it from her. She guessed at the dim and dread
presence of her old acquaintance, Death. Whom had it claimed from her
now, whom had it struck? ... While she was walking bare-footed, feeling
her way in the darkness, she counted the absent ones--Marguerite,
Étienne, François, Marcel. Marcel--it was Marcel!
She passed through the half-open door, touched Paule’s bed, and bending
towards her she called:
“Paule, tell me, what is the matter?”
She dared ask no more.
The girl, suddenly roused in a paroxysm of sorrow, gave a cry of
distress which told her secret: “Mamma!”
“It is Marcel, is it not?” said Madame Guibert breathlessly. “You have
bad news about Marcel!”
“Mother, Mother,” murmured Paule.
“He is ill, very ill?”
“Yes, Mother dear, he is ill.” And Paule, half raising herself in bed,
put her arms round her mother’s neck. Gently but firmly Madame Guibert
pushed her away.
“He is dead?”
“Oh!” cried the girl. “Wait till to-morrow, Mother. We shall have news.
Be strong, Mother. We don’t know.”
“You have had something, a letter, a telegram. Show them to me. I must
see them.”
“Mother dearest, do not torture yourself so,” entreated Paule in broken
tones which were in themselves an admission.
“He is dead! He is dead!” cried Madame Guibert. Her voice was like a
funeral dirge. Seated on the edge of the bed, icy cold, she felt hope
and life fly from her rent heart. Vainly she turned towards God, her
supreme comfort in times of sorrow. Her tearlessness was more terrible
than her weeping. She moaned aloud:
“Oh, this time it is too much. I cannot bear it! No, I am not resigned.
O God! I have always bowed to Your will. With my soul crushed I blessed
You. Now my strength is waning. I am only a poor weak old woman, and
I have suffered already more than was needed to try me. I can bear no
more--I cannot--Marcel, my Marcel!”
“Mother, Mother!” repeated Paule, as she strained her to her heart.
She felt her mother shiver as she stood there motionless in the
darkness, like a tree uprooted in the night. Then she got up, struck a
match, and with her arms around the unhappy broken woman she led her
into her room. There she wanted to help her into bed. But her mother,
who till then had allowed herself to be cared for unresisting, drew
herself up.
“No, no, I want to stand,” she said.
Paule had to dress her quickly before dressing herself. Then she took
her into the drawing-room, where she succeeded in reviving the fire,
which was almost out. She made a big blaze and put the kettle again on
the logs. Silent and desolate she walked up and down the room.
She had placed her mother near the fire in an armchair, a blanket over
her knees. Stricken to the inmost depths of a mother’s heart, Madame
Guibert sat without a movement, without a gesture, without a tear, in
a state of prostration more alarming than loud despair. She complained
no more--nor did she pray, she looked straight ahead, seeing nothing
and making no sound. Crushed by fate, she seemed completely numbed.
She could no longer feel her wounded heart beating in her breast. She
let herself sink into the abyss of her misery like a drowning man in a
fathomless sea.
Patiently Paule waited till the pent-up tears should at last break this
dreadful silence, as a stream bursts the dam that is barring its way.
But the silence and immobility continued. She came up to her Mother and
vainly tried to make her drink some tea. She knelt in front of her,
took her hands, and cried:
“Mamma, Mamma, speak to me of Marcel. Speak to me, I beg of you!”
She received no reply. She began to be afraid. She felt herself in a
solitude of death.
“Mamma, am I not your daughter, your last child, your little Paule?”
she sobbed in despair.
Madame Guibert seemed to wake from her lethargy. She saw the sorrowful
face turned up towards her in anguish. A long shiver shook her body.
She was conquered, she held out her arms to her daughter, and leaning
against her she wept. It was she who in her weakness begged for help.
For a long time the two women remained thus, mingling their tears
and their grief, knowing the sad sweetness of loving each other in
suffering.
When the mother was able to speak, it was to thank the Almighty.
“Paule, my dear Paule, what did I say a few minutes ago? God is good.
He might afflict me still more. He gave you to me in my distress to
help me. And I refused to bow myself before Him. O God, Thy Will is
cruel, and yet may Thy Name be praised!”
Finding her courage again she asked to see the fatal telegram. She read
it through several times and discussed it with Paule.
“He is indeed dead.... But he is living again ... he is with God.”
“Yes,” said the girl. “He died a conqueror--He was shot in the
forehead.”
They were silent. They both saw Marcel’s beautiful forehead covered
with blood, that high forehead which was the temple of such proud
thoughts.
As she lowered her eyes towards Paule Madame Guibert was filled with
pity for her.
“Go and rest, dear. To-morrow you will need all your strength--to help
me.”
“Oh, no,” said Paule, “I shall not leave you.”
“Then will you pray? Let us pray for him.” And the two women sank on
their knees.
For a long time they called down divine blessings on their beloved
dead. Paule was quite worn out and had to sit down while her mother,
sustained by superhuman will, continued to pray. The tears ran down her
cheeks; she no longer tried to keep them back.
“My God,” she begged, “accept the offering of our sorrow and misery.
When You died on the Cross Your Mother was with You. I was not near my
son. Give me strength to bear this trial. Not for me, my God, but for
the duty which remains for me to fulfil, for my sons, for her, too,
whom You have not spared. She is very young to have so much suffering.
I am inured to sorrow; but protect her, be merciful....”
As she turned towards Paule she saw her pale face, which had fallen
back in the low chair. The girl, for all her courage, had fallen
asleep in the midst of her tears. Her swollen eyelids were still wet.
Madame Guibert rose and went to sit beside her. Raising the dear
head tenderly, she placed it on her knees. The beautiful black hair
streamed round her peaceful face and accentuated its whiteness. Thus
the tired girl rested, watched over by her mother.
The latter gazed fixedly at these motionless features, but saw them
not. She saw her son down there outstretched upon the sand, his
forehead pierced. He seemed even taller than he had been in the pride
of life. Softly she called to him in a low voice:
“My son, my darling son! Now you are at rest. You have been a good son
and a brave man. There was nothing in your heart that was not noble.
You can see us, can you not? You see us trembling and broken. Protect
us from on high, protect Paule. I am already on my way to the grave,
to join you and your father. The earth is waiting for me--I feel it,
and you are calling me. I shall soon be with you for ever.” And as she
thought of her own death she uttered this cry in her heart: “Oh, my
God, who will be left to close my eyes if thus Thou takest them all
away from me?”
She touched Paule’s body as it pressed against her. She enfolded her in
her arms, and holding her jealously, lifting up her wet eyes, but not
stirring, she continued to pray like a marble Niobe entreating Fate to
spare her last child.
The first lights of dawn appeared. Then morning came, one of those
winter days whose cold light makes the snow shiver. The old woman was
still praying. From God she drew unconquerable strength. Singled out by
sorrow, she must drain the cup of bitterness to its very dregs.
When Paule awoke she saw her mother, pale and frozen, smiling faintly
at her. She could not get her to rest nor even to take any food. More
stooped than ever and ten years older, Madame Guibert sat down at her
desk and began to write in a firm hand to her absent daughter and sons
that they might take their own share in the recent sorrow.