JEAN
What would not those who have been stricken by the grief of some
faraway disaster give to hear about their loved one from some witness
of the fatal scene, to learn the details of the tragedy, known to them
only through the bare outlines of the official despatch--even though
these details should open their wounds afresh and make their tears
flow once more? They think themselves happy in their very misery, if
they can but know the exact truth, if death’s mysterious horror can be
banished, which tortures their hearts by day and haunts their pillows
by night.
Several months have elapsed since the battle of Timmimun. Of the
two mourners at Le Maupas, one has grown a little more bent and her
smile, already, so rare and faint has vanished for ever. The other has
remained upright and proud, but heedless of her youth has resigned
herself bitterly and hopelessly to the flight of time. Wrapped in
silence and solitude, they never go into the town and cross only the
humblest thresholds, where their presence is always welcome.
And when the postman’s step crushes the gravel in the courtyard, they
still tremble. That worthy man, so full of his own importance, will not
keep them in suspense and according to the postmarks he cries “A letter
from Paris,” “From Tonkin,” “From Algiers.”
“Thank you, Ravet. Go to Marie. She is waiting to give you a glass of
wine.”
Their correspondence is now the only joy of the household. It is more
frequent than it used to be. From afar Madame Guibert’s children try to
shower their love upon her. Letters come from Jean Berlier in Africa.
They are full of Marcel and his glorious death. In the last one Jean
has told them of his return to Savoy at the end of May.
At Le Maupas anxious eyes look down the deserted avenue, where now the
chestnuts are proudly bearing their white candles. The young man coming
slowly up the wooded hill that leads to the old house is no longer
Isabelle Orlandi’s gay cavalier, though he has still kept his slim,
lithe figure and his distinguished, confident bearing. But his brown
face wears a more manly expression; his eyes have a surer and more
discriminating glance. Leaving behind his careless youth, he has grown
into a man who thinks and who knows what he wants.
He arrived only the evening before. This morning he left Rose Villa
and all along the road he has been breathing his native air, like
one newly awakened. On the chilly earth, decked with mauve and lilac
mists--like a maiden slowly opening her eyes and stirring aside the
gauzy curtains of her bed--he catches the fresh beauty of spring and
that joy of life which begins with the dawn.
His eyes dwell admiringly on the delicate green of the trees and
fields, the individual glory of the month of May, and he feels a
happiness in the tender, new-born leaves budding on the hedges. To the
left his glance searches for those three steeples, on which the tent
of the sky seems to hang over the countryside: Belle-Combette, almost
hidden in greenery; Montagnol, proud and grey, scarcely distinguishable
from the walls of Pas-de-la-Fosse; and sweet Saint-Cassin, resting,
like an old man seeking the shade, in a forest of chestnut trees.
The scarps of the neighboring mountains lose their rugged shape in
the morning light, and Nature under the clear sky smiles all over
and trustfully displays her grace and charm, wherein may be read the
promise of fruit and harvest.
Jean turned round and saw from afar a sheet of pearl and gold, which
was Lake Bourget, its sleeping waters bathed in sunshine. At the kiss
of the beams the waters shivered voluptuously. The young man continued
on his way. Standing out against the Chaloux hills, La Chênaie was
welcoming the fresh air through its open windows. Pleasant memories
came back to Jean of the time when he was twenty-five; of Isabelle’s
red lips, expert alike in speech and kisses. He thought over his life
and reached a conclusion which surprised him.
“I have seen neither her nor Savoy for four years--or nearly that. It
seems very much longer to me. I was a boy then, playing at life.”
But the girl of long ago did not remain in his memory. As he passed
into the oakwood he stopped and looked again. The arch of the trees
bordering the road narrowed and framed the landscape. He recognised
in the hues and outlines of the plains and mountains that mixture of
precision and of softness which gives the Savoyard country its unique
character. A shepherd girl’s voice rose to him. She was singing some
old love couplets:
“Up there on the mountain
There is a meadow;
The partridge and the quail
Go there to sing.
I took my cross-bow,
Thither I went;
Thinking to kill four,
I missed them all.”
The few uncertain notes could not rob this strained voice of its clear
tone, limpid as the waters of a stream.
At the bend of the road some sheep appeared, then the shepherdess,
standing out like shadows against the light trelliswork of branches.
She was a girl of fifteen or sixteen, to whom health and strength gave
a rustic beauty.
“’Tis the heart of my love
That I have wounded.
Love, my sweet love,
Have I hurt you?”
She passed by Jean, who was listening smilingly to her song.
“Good morning, Monsieur Jean,” said she with a bow.
“Do you know me?” he asked in surprise.
“Why, of course! I am the daughter of Trélaz, the farmer at Le Maupas.”
“Jeannette?”
“At your service.”
“But you were about the size of a boot then! And now you are taller
than ripe corn.”
Nothing makes us so conscious of the flight of time as the growth of
children whom we see but now and then. The flattered girl began to
laugh, and although her teeth were badly cared for yet her joy was
contagious. As she passed on, she repeated the last verse.
“’Tis the heart of my love
That I have wounded.
Love, my sweet love,
Have I hurt you?”
And the wind carried the dying words to the young man, still standing
motionless at the foot of the oak trees.
“Just a little, scarcely that,
But I shall die of it!
A kiss from your lips
Would heal me quite!”
Jean’s eyes swept over the scene before him--the trees with their new
leaves, the meadows with their waving grasses, the girl full of the
wine of youth. He breathed in the scent of the earth and the morning
woods. And in his native air he tasted the love of life.
It was only since he had learnt how transitory it is that he had
enjoyed the beauty of nature in its fulness. Young people do not
understand the value of existence as they run heedlessly after
pleasure, frivolity, distraction and all that hastens, while it hides,
the flight of time. It is danger, passion, love’s melancholy, the sight
of death; it is the deep sorrows which bring them to a sudden halt
before life’s unmasked face, as when at the bottom of a garden path one
suddenly comes upon a cold marble statue under the branches. How can he
who would ignore the night feel with the same ecstasy as we the glory
of the daylight that must go and of the shapes that the darkness must
swallow?
Jean had reached the zenith of his youth, and was wiser. Another and
a deeper sky, another country, sterile and bare, had developed and
perfected his understanding. Above all, new and tragic emotions had
struck at his heart with a terrible force, like that of the sculptor’s
chisel which causes the useless chips to fly from the stone which is
to grow into a statue. Inspired by gratitude for the lessons which
he had learnt, he connected his full, passionate appreciation of
this spring morning with that crimson dawn on which he had seen his
friend die. In the death of the leader after victory, in the pierced
forehead behind which the brain so lately lived, in the heart now cold
which had been the home of love, in the face of all that strength and
courage, shattered like a tree in its vigor; in all these things was
manifest the frailty of human life, by contrast with which the light
of day shines the brighter. With Marcel’s face on the ground before
him--beautiful in its serene, grave stillness, in its calm, touching
repose, never to be forgotten amid the surrounding scene--he had felt
alike the wish to live fully and without fear and the desire to deny
the everlasting presence of death.
The old gate at Le Maupas was open as of old. Jean went up the chestnut
avenue, breathing in the scent of the blossoms. He knew that in a
few minutes the tears would flow again, sad but salutary too. At the
crunching of the gravel in the courtyard, an old woman who was seated
on the steps, working with slow hands in the cool morning air, arose.
Her eyes sought the visitor. She saw who it was.
“Is that you, Jean? How I have waited for you!”
At the first glance, he took in the marks of her sufferings. She was
more bent, and her hair was whiter. But he recognized with surprise on
her thin face an expression of peace which he had seen before.
“Madame Guibert!” he cried.
He sped up the steps and, bending forward with his natural grace,
kissed her. Madame Guibert vainly tried to keep back her tears and
murmured Marcel’s name.
“Come in,” she said at last. “We shall be able to speak of him better
in the drawing-room.”
She led the way with lagging steps. Then she opened a door and called:
“Paule! Here is Jean Berlier!”
“I arrived late last night,” he explained. “And I have come to you this
morning. I was so anxious to see you again.”
“You are good to us. I knew you would come at once. We have been
looking for you for some days.”
Paule came in and clasped Jean’s hand. Her lovely black hair made her
pale skin seem paler. Her dark eyes had lost their fire. Straighter
and still prouder than she used to be, she cherished her broken heart
in no humility. Full as he was of his sad story, Jean had time to read
with surprise in the serious young face and in the stiff attitude of
the body a lack of interest in life. Paule, also surprised, noticed the
change in the young man. With the passage of time he had grown more
sure, more resolute, more like Marcel.
In the little country drawing-room, through whose closed venetians a
ray of sunlight filtered, the hero who died for his country rose up
from the African soil where he had lain to come back to his own people,
recalled to life by the words of the narrator. He came back young,
tall, thin, and muscular, his head borne high, his tone imperious,
gifted with that physical superiority, that aptitude for command, that
self-imposed calmness which are the outward signs of a leader of men.
Jean looked at his photograph placed on the closed piano and crowned
with a wreath of roses. He spoke of him as Marcel would have wished to
be spoken of--simply and nobly. He had that rare gift of choosing the
right word, which paints the truth with no undue softening, with no
undue emphasis. His voice, though sweet and caressing in its sympathy
with pain, still revealed the strength of the man beneath. It banished
all weakness and despair. It encouraged and comforted and even found
a solace in death. The two women, who wept on his arrival, kept their
tears under control as they listened to him.
He had not actually seen his friend fall. The day was beginning to dawn
when, suddenly awakened by hearing the shots fired, he got up to summon
his men. In spite of information received as to the safe condition of
affairs, the little troop at Timmimun always slept completely dressed.
As Berlier hastened to the point of danger, the Commander was attacking
the Berabers, who had already gained a footing in the camp.
“The sergeant who was at his side told me about his death. I was
directing our defence on the left. He attacked them in front. Having
routed them, he went in pursuit. He stood out a black silhouette
against the first brightness of the dawn. The sergeant pointed out a
little sandridge. There perhaps they were still hiding. As he stepped
forward he put his hand to his head, stood still for an instant, and
fell in a heap.”
Madame Guibert hid her face in her hands and the tears gushed to
Paule’s eyes, hard as she tried to master herself.
“He did not stir,” continued the Captain. “He did not suffer. Death
struck him full in the forehead. And he was thinking of his country,
and of you.”
“And of God, too--was he not?” murmured the stricken mother.
“Yes, of God too. I had to take command in his place. But his victory
was complete. When I was able to come back to him they had carried
him a few paces away, under a palm-tree. I bent over him in vain. Our
Surgeon-Major looked sadly at me. He had already examined him. Our life
together had made us like brothers. I loved him as you did. There I
mourned him as you did, on your behalf. And I saw what you had not the
sorry joy of seeing--the serenity that was his in death. It gave his
face a look of everlasting peace. When I see him again in my memory
I have only good and noble thoughts. You must know this, so that his
memory may be the sweeter to you.”
Jean was silent. Then he began again.
“The evening before he had gone with me to my tent, before making
his last round. It was a clear, starry night. We often talked about
Savoy. He spoke to me about you and Mademoiselle Paule. He had seen you
lately. He had no presentiment to sadden him, but he never had any fear
of death. In the pocket of his tunic I found this letter, which I have
brought you. It lay against his heart during its last beats.”
Madame Guibert recognised her own handwriting. She raised her face,
full of a mother’s anguish. When she could speak she asked:
“He now rests in the peace of God. Jean, tell me, where have they
buried him?”
“In front of Timmimun, Madame. As he is the highest in rank, his tomb
is placed between that of the commissariat officer’s on the right
and the sergeant’s on the left. They were both killed in the same
engagement. The men are buried at their feet.”
Paule interrupted:
“We have asked about the necessary steps for removing him to Chambéry.
He will rest in our family vault near my father and my little sister
Thérèse.”
Jean looked at the girl. He knew they were not well off. In gentle
accents, persuasive and yet commanding, he tried to dissuade them from
this costly and useless plan.
“Why do you insist on this return? The place of his death tells of the
victory won. He is resting in his triumph. What tomb could be more
fitting? How could he wish for a nobler monument?”
“He will soon be forgotten there.”
“You are wrong, Mademoiselle Paule. Every grave has its inscription.
They are carefully looked after. As long as we keep a garrison at
Timmimun, they will be honored. His bears his name, his rank, the two
dates April 25th 1868 and February 19th 1901, and these three glorious
words which sum up his career--‘Madagascar, Sahara, Timmimun.’ You must
remember that they still honor in Algiers the tombs of those who were
killed at the time of the conquest.”
Madame Guibert sighed, and Paule after a moment’s reflection, during
which Jean was able to study her face more at leisure, spoke again, as
faithful as Antigone.
“We should love to feel that my brother was near us, to be able to
kneel on the stones which cover him.”
“Have you not always his memory with you? What remains of Marcel is but
his earthly husk.”
“Ah, yes!” agreed Madame Guibert. She was thinking of his immortal soul.
Marcel’s sister yielded. But Jean saw the tears running down her cheeks.
“He was our pride--and my life,” she sighed; and in a lower voice she
added: “He knew that long ago.”
“God willed it so,” said his mother. “We do not understand His plans.
He seems so cruel sometimes that we are tempted to rebel. But His
goodness is infinite.”
Jean, much affected, took her wrinkled, trembling hand in his own
and, with the same respect which Marcel used to show, he kissed it
reverently. He stood up and, facing the two women as they gazed at
him, paid a last tribute to the dead, not without hope that he might
help Paule, less resigned and more discouraged than her mother.
“His short life was complete. By his will power and his courage he has
set us an example. Far from pitying him, should we not envy him? We
must honor the dead, but we must have faith in life!”
Paule turned on Jean those dark eyes of hers, into which the light was
coming back. A new strength seemed to flow to her from him. Could this
be the frivolous young officer who used to flirt with girls of the
lighter kind? In her memory of him she had cherished a contemptuous
kindness for him, which perhaps concealed an unavowed vexation at his
conduct. In her pride she had thought herself strong. She was now
discovering that, if she wished to be worthy of her own esteem and
Jean’s, she must pluck relentlessly from her heart all that bitterness
and rebellion wherewith it abounded as the woods in winter with dead
leaves.
“You are not leaving us already?” asked Madame Guibert timidly.
Jean, to console her, spoke to her of all the ties which still united
her to life. They talked about her other children; about her daughter
Marguerite, the nun in Paris, the nurse of the sick; of her sons
making a new France in far-off lands.
“How many children has Étienne?” he asked.
“He expects the third. I don’t know them, and yet I love them. Oh, I
cherish them as the last joys that God has given me. They are called
Maurice and Françoise. Did you know that?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jean with a smile.
“Those are my husband’s name and mine. They are the blessing of our
race. They are going to call the new one Marcel.”
“And if it is a girl?”
“Still Marcelle. Here is the photograph of the two elder ones.” Already
she regarded as living the child that was to come.
“Aren’t they lovely?” said Paule, coming nearer to look at her nephew
and niece.
“Yes, the little girl is very like you. She has your dark eyes.”
“She will be much prettier.”
“I don’t think so,” answered the young man, giving back the portrait to
Madame Guibert. And he added with that beautiful smile which gave his
face such a youthful look: “Are you not pretty enough? You are hard to
please!”
Paule blushed, against her will, and her new color changed her as
a sunbeam changes a raindrop. In her despair she had lost even the
pleasure of her beauty, and now it came back to her again with joy.
Jean, seeing that they were both diverted for a moment from their
sorrows, continued to question them:
“It is in Along Bay, near Hanoi, that they have settled, isn’t it?”
“They are not there now,” answered Madame Guibert. “They are living
on a fine island. But Paule will explain better than I can. I get so
confused with all those foreign names.”
“Oh, no, Mother, you don’t really,” cried the girl. She went on,
quickly:
“Étienne has bought up the island of Kébao, opposite the Bay of Along.
It belonged to a company that was badly managed and went bankrupt.
It contains important mines and its soil is fertile. The mines, the
material and the ground were all sold at auction, at a very low price.
My brothers manage the mines and the rice-fields, and are making a
splendid thing out of some plantations of a tree called Japanese
lilac, which is used for building. Their labor is not sufficient for
all the work there is to be done. They are looking in vain for help
from France. Nobody here wants to go abroad. But still the country is
healthy and picturesque, and they feel sure of success.”
She had spoken clearly and simply. Jean was delighted.
“There is no future in France--I am going out to join them.”
“And what about your career?” said Madame Guibert, as he rose to say
good-bye.
“I am not so passionately fond of it as Marcel was. There is too much
wasted time, and forgotten effort.”
They went out on the veranda in front of the house, buried under
honeysuckle, roses, and clematis, and they leant over the balcony.
This morning at the end of May was a feast for the eyes that rested on
it. The air was clear and limpid. A bluish haze, sure presage of the
continuance of fine weather, softly outlined the dim mountains. Over
yonder the little steeple of Saint-Cassin tapered in the shadow of the
chestnuts. Nearer, the fields wore that glory of fresh green which
is seen only in springtime. The corn rising from the ground quivered
in the passing breeze. The trees in the orchards had already shaken
off the white and pink snow of their short-lived blossoms, and every
branch was smiling with leaf-buds. Two lime-trees in the corner of the
courtyard spread their scent abroad and the chestnuts of the avenue
illumined the dark mass of their foliage with white candles.
From the balcony they could hear the eternal song of new life, and
could appreciate the never-failing promise which the fruitful earth
makes to toiling man.
Before them and around was the youth of the year, the symbol of the
duration of life. They gazed and were silent. They were all thinking of
Marcel and this too lovely day filled them with sadness.
Bent and weary, her heart obsessed by memories, Madame Guibert left
it to Paule to accompany the Captain to the gate. She watched them
disappear, thinking tenderly of what might be. She commended Paule’s
future to God and went back to ponder in solitude over the sorrowful
story she had heard.
Paule and Jean had said good-bye at the end of the avenue. The young
man paused to follow the tall, graceful figure gliding through the
trees. At the same moment the girl, too, turned round. She blushed at
the coincidence and bravely came back that no awkwardness might remain.
“Jean,” she murmured with emotion, “I have never thanked you enough for
my brother, who was a little yours too, nor for my mother, to whom your
letters and your visit have done so much good. You have been good to
us. I could not tell you before, so I came back.”
The emotion which stirred her made her more tender, more human.
“Oh, no,” said the young man. “Do not thank me. Was I not Marcel’s
friend?--and our fathers loved each other.”
They stood face to face, not finding words. They felt a certain
shyness, which they wished by turns to banish and to prolong. Jean
could see against Paule’s cheek the long lashes shading the downcast
eyes.
“Listen,” he said at last. “In Marcel’s tunic there was something
beside your mother’s last letter--This photograph was found too. I
thought I would give it back to you--yourself.”
He gave her a faded photograph, in which she recognised a path in the
garden of Le Maupas and on it two little girls of ten or twelve--one
fair, the other dark; one sitting quiet, gazing with eyes astonished
at the world, the other caught in a lively pose. They were Alice and
herself.
“Oh!” she said. And in a dull voice she asked: “Did he never speak of
her to you?”
“No, never.”
She let the picture fall dully on the gravel of the path. Unable to
contain herself any longer, she wept helplessly.
Jean took her hand.
“I often thought,” said he, “out there in Africa, how stupid fate was.
Why did I not die in his place? Nobody would have wept for me.”
What could she answer? Her dark eyes shone with a sudden light. She
picked up the photograph before he had time to bend down.
“Thank you, Jean. Come and see us again soon. It would be a charity.”
He looked at her a moment and then departed. She went back slowly
through the garden. Her eyes wandered over the flowers. She picked a
rose and for the first time in the year felt a little joy at its scent.
She thought of her brother’s death in an unexpected way and repeated
Jean’s words, of whose lesson she felt the full force: “We must honor
the dead but we must also have faith in life.”
Do those words not sum up the incitement to live well which the example
of all heroes gives us? They were great in that they did not bargain
over their deeds, that in their careers, whether short or long, were
manifest the marks of souls free from all fear and weakness. So
Paule found consolation and comfort in that very thing which was the
source of her heart’s disorder. She swore to herself, as she smelt
the flower, that henceforward she would bear the burden of her days
bravely, without bitterness, without revolt. Her despised youth would
not be useless if she spent herself in willing sacrifice. And when she
rejoined her mother she greeted her with an embrace of protection for
the old age confided to her care. It was as though she sealed with a
kiss the promise of her new-born courage.