PEACE
Madame Guibert rose with difficulty from the bench on which she had
seated herself to weep. She saw a few strangers passing hurriedly and
wished to hide her sorrow.
“I cannot stay here any longer,” she thought When she stood up she had
to hold on to the wall and she wondered if she would have the strength
to reach the house.
She felt her age and her weakness hanging like heavy weights on her
shoulders. She remembered the day when she dragged herself through the
endless chestnut avenue at La Chênaie. On the threshold of the station
she thought anxiously of the long road home. But accustomed as she was
to spend nothing on herself she did not dream of hiring one of the cabs
in the Square.
She set out slowly, leaning on the umbrella which served her as a stick
and putting her feet down carefully so as not to slip on the snow.
The hardships of her journey made her forget her sorrow, but when she
stopped a moment she whispered gently the name of Paule--of Paule who
would never, never be her help again. Her mind was following the two
dear ones who were carrying away with them all her happiness.
“They have reached the waterfall at Coux now.... O God!”
As she was crossing the bridge over the muddy waters of the Leysse she
stopped and leaned on the parapet to take breath. At that moment she
heard someone call. “Madame Guibert,” said the voice, “will you allow
me to come with you?” It was Madame de Marthenay, who had watched her
from the station, hesitating between the wish to help her, according to
the promise she had made to Paule, and the fear of breaking in upon her
absorbing sorrow. Seeing her now in distress, she came forward.
Madame Guibert was so tired that she took the arm offered to her. In
her sorrow she hardly spoke during the walk home. Alice, with tactful
delicacy, tried to console her in talking of the joy her children would
have when they saw her again. On the doorstep Paule’s mother thanked
her gratefully.
“But I am going to help you upstairs,” Madame de Marthenay insisted.
“You are very kind. Thank you very much.” And when they were at the
head of the stairs she added: “Come in for a minute. You must rest a
little. I leaned very heavily on your arm along the road.” The poor
weary eyes in their appeal laid bare the tragedy of the desolate home.
“I shall be very glad,” said Alice, moved to deep sympathy as she
followed the old lady into a bedroom, changed by means of a screen into
a little sitting-room by day. Marie the maid, still overwhelmed by
“Mademoiselle’s” departure, brought in a telegram.
“Here is a message,” she said, with a hostile glance at the elegant
Madame de Marthenay.
With difficulty, and shaking all over, Madame Guibert tore open the
envelope. She could never open one of those little blue papers without
trembling for they might have a message of death in them. But her
face cleared immediately. As she read, Alice was looking round her
mechanically at the simple and modest, almost conventional, furniture.
Her eyes fell on the enlarged photograph of Marcel. She went up to it.
The Commander wore his disdainful, impassive air in the picture, which
dated from his return from the Sahara.
Madame Guibert turned round and saw her contemplating her son’s
photograph. She regretted having brought her into the room. But as she
went up to her, Alice looked at her and burst into tears.
“What is the matter?” asked Madame Guibert.
“Oh! Madame, Madame!” cried the young woman, and she sobbed out her
secret to Marcel’s mother. “I loved him! If only you knew how I loved
him!”
In profound pity, Madame Guibert gazed on the woman who had given her
son his distaste for life. She knew from Paule that at the time of
Marcel’s death the photograph of a little girl had been found in the
breast-pocket of his tunic. Of a “little girl” indeed! How true it was
that he had set his affections on a child.
“Poor little one,” she said, stroking Alice’s cheek as she sat drooping
in a chair. In face of this sorrow waiting to be consoled, she forgot
her own misery and immediately recovered her presence of mind and her
courage.
“Alice, my dear, calm yourself,” she repeated. But Madame de Marthenay
still sobbed. She finished with those words which she had uttered
already, the words which summed up her distress: “Why am I not his
widow? I should be less miserable.”
“But you did not wish to be his wife,” Madame Guibert murmured gently.
“Oh yes, I did, for I loved him. It was my people.” She did not accuse
her mother only. But the old lady shook her head and in a lower voice
she said, quite close to her ear, as she continued to stroke her
cheek: “Poor little girl--you did not know how to love.”
Alice attempted to protest.
“No,” repeated Madame Guibert, “you did not know how to love. When
you give your heart it is for ever. And love gives you strength and
patience and endurance. Your mother was seeking your happiness, dear,
but she was seeking it in her own way. She thought she was acting right
when she turned you from my son. Don’t blame her, only blame yourself.
There was no doubt that Madame Dulaurens would have yielded in the long
run, to a real affection, because she loved you and would have seen the
object of your love to be worthy of her approval.” She did not notice
that she had drawn away her hand, and under the influence of the past
she reiterated: “No, you did not want to be Marcel’s wife.”
Alice was quite crushed and could only whisper, “I love him still.”
Distractedly she clung to her fruitless love.
In a firmer voice Madame Guibert went on: “You were afraid of life.
Your parents were afraid for you. Life, Alice, does not mean just
amusement and worldly excitement. To live means to feel one’s soul, all
one’s soul. It means to love, to love with all one’s strength, always,
to the end, and even to the point of sacrifice. You must not fear
either suffering or great joy or great sorrow. They reveal our higher
nature. We must take from the fleeting days the happiness that endures.
The girl who marries comes to share in work and danger, not just to
seek greater ease or more frivolous pleasures. In her very devotion she
will find more delight. You do not know this.”
Alice, encouraged, thought as she listened attentively, “Nobody ever
talked to me like this before.”
“Even now,” went on Madame Guibert, “even in this hour when my heart
is broken, I can only thank God who has heaped His blessing on me. It
surprises you, my dear, that I can talk of my happiness to you to-day.
It is true nevertheless. I am happy. If God asked me to begin my life
all over again, I would do so. And yet, I have seen the dearest faces
cold and still, and I have known the cruellest form of death for a
mother--that which strikes her child far away. But through my husband,
through my sons and daughters, I realised all my heart and what may
come upon us by the divine goodness. My life has been quite full, since
it was mixed with theirs. Now I am no longer alone. My beloved dead
keep me company and the living do not desert me. Look at this telegram
I have had from Étienne. He knows that Paule has left me to-day and he
is comforting me in the name of them all. I had need of it!”
“Madame!” whispered Alice, kissing her hand.
“Yes, my dear, I have loved my life, I have loved life itself. And
I can die, even alone, even if strange hands close my eyes. God has
made my lot a very beautiful one and death will find me obedient and
resigned.” Her clear eyes shone with a holy ecstasy.
Alice, her heart at peace, looked at her respectfully and admiringly.
“Go on talking to me,” she begged as Madame Guibert was silent.
The latter looked at her long and tenderly, then again stroking her
cheek, she said:
“My child, you must promise me something.”
“Oh, Madame, I will promise you anything you like.”
“Try not to think about Marcel. You have no more right to. Accept your
new life, as it is, without any regrets. God expects you to be brave
enough to give up all your old dreams. You were wrong to make your
husband change his career. Work is the true nobility of life. Help him
to find some work, and atone for your mistake.”
“He has deserted me, Madame Guibert.”
“Idleness was perhaps the reason for that. Try to forgive him. Put
your heart into your advice. Let him look after his estate, or interest
himself in the affairs of the town. You will see that all is for the
best. You may still be happy. Your daughter will help you. Is a woman
ever to be pitied who has a child? Prepare this young life to be
virtuous and strong. Love her, not for yourself but for herself. And
God’s peace will rest on you.”
“Oh, if you would only have me here sometimes and talk to me,” said
Alice eagerly, “I think I should take heart once more.” She never
seemed to think that her presence might recall a painful memory to
Madame Guibert. But it was only for a moment that the latter hesitated.
“Come here whenever you want me,” she answered simply.
When Madame de Marthenay had gone, Madame Guibert took Marcel’s
photograph and placed it beside her bed, behind the screen.
“He will be nearer to me,” she thought. “And Alice will not see him
again. She must not see his face if she is to do her duty bravely.”
Then she knelt and prayed:
“My God, Thou who art my strength, help me. I have now given up to Thee
all that I have loved. I have nothing left to offer Thee but my sorrow.
Accept it, and protect all my dear ones--the dead who rest and the
living who are at work....”
When she rose to help Marie lay her modest table, her face glowed with
a serene peace--the peace of those who wait fearlessly for death after
having met life bravely.