NIOBE’S LAST CHILD
On a dark morning in December a few women slipped like shadows through
the snow which deadened their footsteps, to Saint-Real and Metropole
Streets, which lead to the Cathedral at Chambéry. As one entered the
church the half-open door showed the flickering rays of the lamp
running along the dark arches. Toward this trembling lamp they hurried,
in spite of the cold and the darkness, as though they had come to beg
light and warmth from it. Humble housewives, shop-girls, workwomen,
servants, they rose early before their work and hastened to the first
Mass as though to some secret meeting-place. They came one by one,
sometimes recognizing one another in the porch. Already filled with
respect for the sanctity of the place, they spoke in low voices. They
all joined together in a group constantly growing more and more compact
in one of the side chapels, where two candles, which a choir boy was
lighting, showed the place of the holy sacrifice. Walking slowly and
carefully on account of the frost on the pavement, Madame Guibert
allowed herself to be outdistanced by some of the more active women.
Nevertheless she was one of the first to enter. She had never forgotten
her old habit, always to be ahead of time. She knelt a little to the
side and isolated herself in prayer. She had great need of divine help,
and begged for it with her whole soul. That very day she was to know
the bitterness of being alone. The moment had come for Niobe to give
up her youngest child, the one whom she held in her arms and which
till now the gods had spared to her. Paule and her husband would leave
Chambéry at three o’clock on their journey to Tonkin to rejoin their
brothers on the island of Kébao.
The marriage had been celebrated at Cognin in the first days of
September. Then the young couple had gone to seek solitude among
unknown faces in that other part of Savoy, whose matchless beauty is a
miracle of softness, sweetness, and grace--the green plain of Chablais,
fringed by the blue waters of Lake Leman and bounded by mountains with
their lazy curves wooded to the summit, and further off outlined by
rugged peaks which raise their barren whiteness to the blue of the sky
and in the evening seem like flagstaffs that reflect on their banners
the light of the setting sun. Autumn above all gives this enchanted
country its fullest power to stir the emotions. With its blending,
dying harmonies it tempers the excessive gaiety which summer lavishes
on it; it changes the ringing laughter of water and meadow, plain, and
mountain, to that smile of pleasure which knows itself short-lived and
yet wishes to rejoice.
Paule and Jean witnessed this autumnal magic. They saw the trees in the
woods adorn themselves with a thousand splendid fleeting tints, and the
vines which slope down to the shore dress themselves in gold. Their
hearts learned the better to appreciate the lesson, already familiar
to them, of the insecurity of love when it makes itself its sole end,
and, taking the time of a kiss for the time of day, fails to build
upon the only sure foundation--a life lived in sympathetic accord and
consecrated to the continuity of the race.
They came back to Le Maupas when the vines had been gathered and the
meadows harvested, when the brilliance of the sun, the softness of
the air, and the grace of the earth increased in proportion to the
barrenness round about and strove to detach man from self-centred
thoughts. Paule kept very near her mother, as if to forget the threat
of the future. And the future cast its shadow upon the present hour
which saw mother and daughter reunited. Madame Guibert had been obliged
to tell Paule of her wish to stay in Savoy. Jean then generously
offered to give up his plans. Monsieur Loigny, his nature decidedly
changed, wanted to help his nephew, and at the price of numerous
headaches (for he had lost the habit of office work) tried to take
stock of the little fortune which he had looked after so badly between
two grafts of a rose-bush. He perceived too late that the garden is a
bad speculation. Jean’s character and capabilities, Paule’s energy, the
financial position of both families, all made them look to the Colonies
for the establishment of their new home. Furthermore Étienne multiplied
his appeals to them. He told of the prosperity of his business and
was already prepared to guarantee their ultimate success. He begged
his sister to bring their mother with her, that in her happy old age
she might receive the homage of their filial devotion. Gently but
obstinately Madame Guibert had refused.
“I am too old,” she said to Jean and Paule when they insisted. “How
should I, who have never gone further than from Cognin to Chambéry and
from Chambéry to Cognin, bear such a long journey? I should only be in
the way. You will all come home to me in your turn. You will tell me
about my grandchildren whom I do not know and whom I love, as I loved
my own children before they were born.”
She smiled, so that no one might think of noticing her tears. But she
reflected in her heart: “I feel that God is calling me. Now, now at
last, my task is finished. I am nearer the dead than the living. When
I am alone I will visit my husband more often and my little Thérèse,
who are waiting for me in the cemetery. The memory of Marcel, who rests
in Africa, will fill my heart. I will make only one journey more, and
that will be to find my own again. Those left on earth have no more
need of me. From afar I shall pray for them here, and then from above.
I can do no more....”
Paule set her wits to work to give her mother daily proof of her love.
For so many years she had eaten the bread of sorrow with her. The young
wife was inclined to blame herself for her married joy on the eve of
this separation, and Madame Guibert had to encourage her to be happy.
“I know what you are thinking about,” said Jean when he saw his wife’s
sadness.
“I love you,” she replied. “I love you more than anyone in the whole
world, but she ...”
Jean kissed her as he went on: “I am not jealous, Paule, and I
understand your trouble so well....”
He had himself arranged for Madame Guibert’s life after their
departure. He had installed her for the winter, in spite of her
protests, in a little home in the Rue Saint-Real at Chambéry. There
she would be less alone than at Le Maupus and would be in welcome
proximity to the church.
“I do not wish to be a source of expense,” murmured the poor old lady.
But Étienne in Tonkin had quite agreed with his brother-in-law. And
the neighborhood of the Cathedral led to the success of their plan. As
the days went on, however, Paule felt her courage weaken while that of
Madame Guibert increased. The latter was quite transfigured, and on
her forehead with its deep wrinkles, in her clear eyes, on her pale
cheeks, the radiancy of her soul shone forth. In the evening she talked
to her two children about their future and poured into their hearts
her own confidence in God, that confidence which cheerfully leaves to
Providence the outcome of one’s own firmness, courage, and virtue.
This teaching, illustrated by her own noble example, they never forgot.
Clinging to one another like travelers threatened by a storm, all
three tasted the brief happiness of being together and at length sadly
reached the morning of their separation. But Jean and Paule were still
sleeping when Madame Guibert drew near to God, to find the supreme
strength she would presently need.
Suffering souls, who seek in prayer forgetfulness and calm, love to
frequent chapels at the hour when day is dying. Under the arches,
where the light falling from the windows loses itself, they have a
vague consciousness of a mysterious and peaceful presence. One may
guess at the state of these stricken beings from the slow murmur of
their lips, still more from their weary, hopeless attitudes as they
kneel on the softest spots they can find for their knees. But the poor
women who go to early Mass have more need of courage than of calm.
Before their labors they seek strength and patience in the presence of
Him who suffered all human sorrows without a murmur. Hardened by daily
work, they do not appreciate a merely comfortable religion, but throw
themselves into the faith as into refreshing water, from which they
emerge with new life and spirit.
The altar bell had announced the beginning of the holy sacrifice. At
one end an aged priest with bent head slowly recited the prayers, to
which a sleepy little clerk made the responses.
Madame Guibert had chosen a dark corner, a little to one side, and was
absorbed in her meditations. Her black dress and the widow’s veil that
she still wore made her hardly distinguishable from the shadows. She
ran over in memory the last days of her life and without difficulty
found in them reason to bless and to thank her God. Had He not granted
her what she had so long prayed for, in her own misery--the happiness
of her daughter? Paule, her little Paule, not only the best beloved
of all her children, but the most loving, and the support of her sad
old age--how often had she called down divine blessings upon her, whom
the family sorrows had most intimately touched. Doubtless in bestowing
them, God would tear her heart. But since this was the necessary price,
how could she have the cowardice to murmur against His beneficent Will
or to hate the loneliness which was coming upon her that night?
“No, no,” she said in her prayer. “I will not pity myself, as we are
so often tempted to do to excuse our weakness. My God, Thou wilt aid
me in my need. I will be firm to-night. They shall not see me cry. I
could not go with them. Thou hast warned me of my failing strength, and
my work is done. My children will carry it on better than I could. I
thank Thee for having in Thy goodness allowed me to see my daughter’s
happiness. I entrust her to Thy protection during this long journey
with her husband who has become my son.” All shaken with emotion
she added: “I entrust to Thee, my God, yet another life, dark and
uncertain, that of a little babe still to come, whom my hands will
never receive in this world. Grant him health, intelligence, a firm
spirit, and submission to Thy holy law. Grant him a long life in order
that he may be able to serve Thee better. May he be strong and brave in
well-doing, may he fear neither laughter nor tears, may he love work,
and may he be to his mother what she has been to me.”
Some time before the happy Paule had told her of her dearest hope,
which was confirmed as time went on. Her marriage was already blest. A
new source of love and devotion had welled up in her.
When Madame Guibert lifted her head which she had hidden in her hands,
she noticed that the priest was leaving the altar and she reproached
herself.
“I have not heard Mass.” But she immediately felt reassured, for in her
prayer she had found the peace she sought.
From here, from there, from chair and bench, one by one the
congregation rose and went to the door. They were going to their daily
work with quiet hearts and bodies prepared. In her turn Madame Guibert
left the church. Outside day was scarcely breaking over the snow on the
roofs and streets--that sad winter’s day which would see her come back
from the station alone.
She turned the key in the lock and on tip-toe crossed the passage full
of trunks to go to the kitchen noiselessly. Old Marie was already
preparing breakfast.
“Monsieur has just gone out to engage the omnibus,” she explained.
“Without any breakfast?” asked Madame Guibert, thoughtful as ever.
“He did not wish any. He just said he would not wait.”
“And Madame?”
“Madame who? Oh yes, Mademoiselle Paule! I cannot get used to calling
her Madame. It’s funny, isn’t it? Mademoiselle is still asleep. There I
go again, the same mistake. When one is old, one is good for nothing.”
“It can’t be helped, my poor Marie, we are both old.”
But both of them, paying little heed to what they were saying,
were thinking of the parting to come. The servant, taking off her
spectacles, passed her rough hand over her eyes. With her shaking
fingers Madame Guibert tried to make Paule’s chocolate for the last
time. She made it the way she knew her girl liked it. Then she listened
at the door, knocked softly, went in, and found Paule in tears.
“Mother, mother! Tell me that I _must_ go. I have not the strength
myself to say it.”
Madame Guibert put the steaming cup on the bedside table, then she laid
her wrinkled hand on her daughter’s forehead.
“Dear little one,” she said, “I wanted to wait on you myself this
morning, and I ordered these rolls that you like so much.” She bent
over her and in a low voice, as she kissed her, murmured: “Be brave,
Paule. It is God’s wish. Your husband’s love assures me that you will
be happy. And do not be alarmed about me.”
But their tears still flowed. Jean came back and saw the two women
locked in each other’s arms. He thought that Paule was trying to
comfort her mother.
“We will come back, Mother,” he said. “We will come back, I swear it.
Next year you will have Étienne and his wife and in two years you will
see us.”
But when Madame Guibert turned to him, he saw with surprise that she
was not crying and that the consolations came from her, not Paule.
“In two years,” she thought, “where shall I be?” But she answered
gravely: “Jean, love your wife dearly. When you are far from me, that
thought will be my strength. God is so good and watches over us. We
shall be more closely united than ever when we are separated. Our
thoughts and our hearts will be one. Distance is nothing when one is
sure of love.”
With a solemnity that came quite naturally to her and affected her
voice quite unconsciously, she went on: “You must love each other.
Don’t make of your love a source of weakness. Gather from it and your
mutual confidence more resolution, more courage in life. Look ahead of
you. When you look behind you, towards our dead and towards me, may it
not be to find discouragement there, but to understand your own youth
better, and all that God expects from it.”
Jean and his wife had taken her hands and were listening to her without
interruption.
“Yes,” she continued, as if she were unfolding the future, “look before
you, towards your work, towards the family that will come after you.
Give your sons and daughters brave souls and make them look ahead
in their turn, with eyes in which your past will have shaped their
outlook.”
They were both weeping, while she remained peaceful and calm.
“My blessing is on you,” she concluded. “On you, my little Paule,
for your loving daughterly goodness to me and your devotion to your
brothers. On you, Jean, for the friendship you have shown to Marcel and
for all the happiness that I see in your eyes, in spite of the tears.”
Her firmness did not break down till the moment of departure. She
cheered her tearful daughter in the name of the little one whom the
young wife carried under her heart. But Paule could not resign herself.
She kept on kissing her, hastened to speak again, and sometimes turned
towards her husband to say to him: “I love you, dear, all the same; you
know that.”
Madame Guibert insisted on going to the station with them. There they
found several friends, who had come to say good-bye. M. Loigny was ill
and had not been able to come out on account of the cold and the damp
roads, but his Fanchette brought for his niece some hothouse flowers.
Some distance away Madame de Marthenay, looking quite thin in spite of
her furs and very pale, was watching a favorable moment to kiss Paule.
The latter noticed her and came up to her. After a second’s hesitation
the two women threw themselves into each other’s arms.
“Still unhappy?” Paule asked gently, reading the sorrow in her old
friend’s face.
“Still. But what of you, Paule?”
They both turned to Madame Guibert. Very quickly Madame Berlier
murmured: “Do you want to do me a great kindness, Alice? Go to see
Mother often, look after her a little, and write to me about her
health.”
“I promise you I will,” said Alice with deep emotion as they parted.
Soon after Madame Guibert was left alone with her daughter and her
son-in-law. As before, her last words at the moment of separation were
a prayer: “May God keep you!” But when the train had carried them out
of sight she touched her forehead and felt that it was icy-cold.
“It was time, my God,” she thought. “I had no more strength left.” She
was forced to sit down in the third class waiting-room. The passengers
who came and went, occupied with their luggage and their tickets, did
not even notice the poor old woman in mourning who sat sobbing there.
She had become a humble weak creature again. But she had had the
strength to hide her suffering from her children.
Alone in the railway carriage with his beloved, Jean pressed her to
his breast. She had quite broken down and her head leaned against the
heart which beat for her only. He said nothing to her, knowing the
uselessness of words. He gently stroked her cheek and from time to
time bent down to kiss the eyes whose tears he could not stop. When
she raised her head a little he comforted her by saying: “We will come
back, Paule.” She shook her head, doubtful of this return, or because
she did not yet wish to be consoled.
“I love you, Jean,” she sighed, and began to weep afresh.
Then he spoke to her of her mother.
“Paule, she is setting us a splendid example of heroism and
self-sacrifice. May we never forget it! And if later on, in many years
to come, we have occasion to imitate her may her memory still be
present with us. Oh, may the child who is coming to us be like her!”
Paule was listening to him more calmly, and he added: “May God protect
both our child and her whom we have left behind with a broken heart!”
“Yes, I will pray,” she said. “It was God who gave my mother the
resignation that she tried to implant in me.”
In her young life, she had known many hours of anguish and mourning;
but she had never known a more painful one than this. She thought she
tasted the bitterness of death, yet in reality her life was stirring to
its inmost depths. Her love was purified, all unknown to her, in that
divine flame of maternal sacrifice of which she was more and more to
appreciate the value.
As the railway passed in front of the oak wood which is neighbor to Le
Maupas, Jean and Paule looked at the familiar landscape through the
window. The tree-branches bore snowflakes for leaves, their whiteness
tinted by the setting sun. On the vine-row hung a lacework of frost.
Here it was, and here alone, that Paule had learned to know life,
death, and love. She thought of the proud, passionate, young girl,
whose boast was the care with which she watched over her mother.
“Kiss me,” she cried to her husband. “I have so much need of love to be
able to go away from here!”
Jean took her in his arms. And the kiss they gave each other spread a
sacred thrill through their veins; for to that union of their body and
soul they added the filial devotion of the past and that mysterious
hope for the future which made their lives so much fuller and gave an
immortal meaning to their love.