When Madame Deberle was apprised of Jeanne’s death she wept, and gave
way to one of those outbursts of emotion that kept her in a flutter for
eight-and-forty hours. Hers was a noisy and immoderate grief. She came
and threw herself into Hélène’s arms. Then a phrase dropped in her
hearing inspired her with the idea of imparting some affecting
surroundings to the child’s funeral, and soon wholly absorbed her. She
offered her services, and declared her willingness to undertake every
detail. The mother, worn out with weeping, sat overwhelmed in her
chair; Monsieur Rambaud, who was acting in her name, was losing his
head. So he accepted the offer with profuse expressions of gratitude.
Hélène merely roused herself for a moment to express the wish that
there should be some flowers—an abundance of flowers.
Without losing a minute, Madame Deberle set about her task. She spent
the whole of the next day in running from one lady friend to another,
bearing the woeful tidings. It was her idea to have a following of
little girls all dressed in white. She needed at least thirty, and did
not return till she had secured the full number. She had gone in person
to the Funeral Administration, discussed the various styles, and chosen
the necessary drapery. She would have the garden railings hung with
white, and the body might be laid out under the lilac trees, whose
twigs were already tipped with green. It would be charming.
“If only it’s a fine day to-morrow!” she giddily remarked in the
evening when her scurrying to and fro had come to an end.
The morning proved lovely; there was a blue sky and a flood of
sunshine, the air was pure and invigorating as only the air of spring
can be. The funeral was to take place at ten o’clock. By nine the
drapery had been hung up. Juliette ran down to give the workmen her
ideas of what should be done. She did not wish the trees to be
altogether covered. The white cloth, fringed with silver, formed a kind
of porch at the garden gate, which was thrown back against the lilac
trees. However, Juliette soon returned to her drawing-room to receive
her lady guests. They were to assemble there to prevent Madame
Grandjean’s two rooms from being filled to overflowing. Still she was
greatly annoyed at her husband having had to go that morning to
Versailles—for some consultation or other, he explained, which he could
not well neglect. Thus she was left alone, and felt she would never be
able to get through with it all. Madame Berthier was the first arrival,
bringing her two daughters with her.
“What do you think!” exclaimed Madame Deberle; “Henri has deserted me!
Well, Lucien, why don’t you say good-day?”
Lucien was already dressed for the funeral, with his hands in black
gloves. He seemed astonished to see Sophie and Blanche dressed as
though they were about to take part in some church procession. A silk
sash encircled the muslin gown of each, and their veils, which swept
down to the floor, hid their little caps of transparent tulle. While
the two mothers were busy chatting, the three children gazed at one
another, bearing themselves somewhat stiffly in their new attire. At
last Lucien broke the silence by saying: “Jeanne is dead.”
His heart was full, and yet his face wore a smile—a smile born of
amazement. He had been very quiet since the evening before, dwelling on
the thought that Jeanne was dead. As his mother was up to her ears in
business, and took no notice of him, he had plied the servants with
questions. Was it a fact, he wanted to know, that it was impossible to
move when one was dead?”
“She is dead, she is dead!” echoed the two sisters, who looked like
rosebuds under their white veils. “Are we going to see her?”
Lucien pondered for a time, and then, with dreamy eyes and opened
mouth, seemingly striving to divine the nature of this problem which
lay beyond his ken, he answered in a low tone:
“We shall never see her again.”
However, several other little girls now entered the room. On a sign
from his mother Lucien advanced to meet them. Marguerite Tissot, her
muslin dress enveloping her like a cloud, seemed a child-Virgin; her
fair hair, escaping from underneath her little cap, looked, through the
snowy veil, like a tippet figured with gold. A quiet smile crept into
every face when the five Levasseurs made their appearance; they were
all dressed alike, and trooped along in boarding-school fashion, the
eldest first, the youngest last; and their skirts stood out to such an
extent that they quite filled one corner of the room. But on little
Mademoiselle Guiraud’s entry the whispering voices rose to a higher
key; the others laughed and crowded round to see her and kiss her. She
was like some white turtle-dove with its downy feathers ruffled.
Wrapped in rustling gauze, she looked as round as a barrel, but still
no heavier than a bird. Her mother even could not find her hands. By
degrees the drawing-room seemed to be filling with a cloud of
snowballs. Several boys, in their black coats, were like dark spots
amidst the universal white. Lucien, now that his little wife was dead,
desired to choose another. However, he displayed the greatest
hesitation. He would have preferred a wife like Jeanne, taller than
himself; but at last he settled on Marguerite, whose hair fascinated
him, and to whom he attached himself for the day.
“The corpse hasn’t been brought down yet,” Pauline muttered at this
moment in Juliette’s ear.
Pauline was as flurried as though the preliminaries of a ball were in
hand. It was with the greatest difficulty that her sister had prevented
her from donning a white dress for the ceremony.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Juliette; “what are they dreaming about? I
must run up. Stay with these ladies.”
She hastily left the room, where the mothers in their mourning attire
sat chatting in whispers, while the children dared not make the least
movement lest they should rumple their dresses. When she had reached
the top of the staircase and entered the chamber where the body lay,
Juliette’s blood was chilled by the intense cold. Jeanne still lay on
the bed, with clasped hands; and, like Marguerite and the Levasseur
girls, she was arrayed in a white dress, white cap, and white shoes. A
wreath of white roses crowned the cap, as though she were a little
queen about to be honored by the crowd of guests who were waiting
below. In front of the window, on two chairs, was the oak coffin lined
with satin, looking like some huge jewel casket. The furniture was all
in order; a wax taper was burning; the room seemed close and gloomy,
with the damp smell and stillness of a vault which has been walled up
for many years. Thus Juliette, fresh from the sunshine and smiling life
of the outer world, came to a sudden halt, stricken dumb, without the
courage to explain that they must needs hurry.
“A great many people have come,” she stammered at last. And then, as no
answer was forthcoming, she added, just for the sake of saying
something: “Henri has been forced to attend a consultation at
Versailles; you will excuse him.”
Hélène, who sat in front of the bed, gazed at her with vacant eyes.
They were wholly unable to drag her from that room. For six-and-thirty
hours she had lingered there, despite the prayers of Monsieur Rambaud
and the Abbé Jouve, who kept watch with her. During the last two nights
she had been weighed to the earth by immeasurable agony. Besides, she
had accomplished the grievous task of dressing her daughter for the
last time, of putting on those white silk shoes, for she would allow no
other to touch the feet of the little angel who lay dead. And now she
sat motionless, as though her strength were spent, and the intensity of
her grief had lulled her into forgetfulness.
“Have you got some flowers?” she exclaimed after an effort, her eyes
still fixed on Madame Deberle.
“Yes, yes, my dear,” answered the latter. “Don’t trouble yourself about
that.”
Since her daughter had breathed her last, Hélène had been consumed with
one idea—there must be flowers, flowers, an overwhelming profusion of
flowers. Each time she saw anybody, she grew uneasy, seemingly afraid
that sufficient flowers would never be obtained.
“Are there any roses?” she began again after a pause.
“Yes. I assure you that you will be well pleased.”
She shook her head, and once more fell back into her stupor. In the
meantime the undertaker’s men were waiting on the landing. It must be
got over now without delay. Monsieur Rambaud, who was himself affected
to such a degree that he staggered like a drunken man, signed to
Juliette to assist him in leading the poor woman from the room. Each
slipped an arm gently beneath hers, and they raised her up and led her
towards the dining-room. But the moment she divined their intention,
she shook them from her in a last despairing outburst. The scene was
heartrending. She threw herself on her knees at the bedside and clung
passionately to the sheets, while the room re-echoed with her piteous
shrieks. But still Jeanne lay there with her face of stone, stiff and
icy-cold, wrapped round by the silence of eternity. She seemed to be
frowning; there was a sour pursing of the lips, eloquent of a
revengeful nature; and it was this gloomy, pitiless look, springing
from jealousy and transforming her face, which drove Hélène so frantic.
During the preceding thirty-six hours she had not failed to notice how
the old spiteful expression had grown more and more intense upon her
daughter’s face, how more and more sullen she looked the nearer she
approached the grave. Oh, what a comfort it would have been if Jeanne
could only have smiled on her for the last time!
“No, no!” she shrieked. “I pray you, leave her for a moment. You cannot
take her from me. I want to embrace her. Oh, only a moment, only a
moment!”
With trembling arms she clasped her child to her bosom, eager to
dispute possession with the men who stood in the ante-room, with their
backs turned towards her and impatient frowns on their faces. But her
lips were powerless to breathe any warmth on the cold countenance; she
became conscious that Jeanne’s obstinacy was not to be overcome, that
she refused forgiveness. And then she allowed herself to be dragged
away, and fell upon a chair in the dining-room, with the one mournful
cry, again and again repeated: “My God! My God!”
Monsieur Rambaud and Madame Deberle were overcome by emotion. There was
an interval of silence, but when the latter opened the door halfway it
was all over. There had been no noise—scarcely a stir. The screws,
oiled beforehand, now closed the lid for ever. The chamber was left
empty, and a white sheet was thrown over the coffin.
The bedroom door remained open, and no further restraint was put upon
Hélène. On re-entering the room she cast a dazed look on the furniture
and round the walls. The men had borne away the corpse. Rosalie had
drawn the coverlet over the bed to efface the slight hollow made by the
form of the little one whom they had lost. Then opening her arms with a
distracted gesture and stretching out her hands, Hélène rushed towards
the staircase. She wanted to go down, but Monsieur Rambaud held her
back, while Madame Deberle explained to her that it was not the thing
to do. But she vowed she would behave rationally, that she would not
follow the funeral procession. Surely they could allow her to look on;
she would remain quiet in the garden pavilion. Both wept as they heard
her pleading. However, she had to be dressed. Juliette threw a black
shawl round her to conceal her morning wrap. There was no bonnet to be
found; but at last they came across one from which they tore a bunch of
red vervain flowers. Monsieur Rambaud, who was chief mourner, took hold
of Hélène’s arm.
“Do not leave her,” whispered Madame Deberle as they reached the
garden. “I have so many things to look after!”
And thereupon she hastened away. Hélène meanwhile walked with
difficulty, her eyes ever seeking something. As soon as she had found
herself out of doors she had drawn a long sigh. Ah! what a lovely
morning! Then she looked towards the iron gate, and caught sight of the
little coffin under the white drapery. Monsieur Rambaud allowed her to
take but two or three steps forward.
“Now, be brave,” he said to her, while a shudder ran through his own
frame.
They gazed on the scene. The narrow coffin was bathed in sunshine. At
the foot of it, on a lace cushion, was a silver crucifix. To the left
the holy-water sprinkler lay in its font. The tall wax tapers were
burning with almost invisible flames. Beneath the hangings, the
branches of the trees with their purple shoots formed a kind of bower.
It was a nook full of the beauty of spring, and over it streamed the
golden sunshine irradiating the blossoms with which the coffin was
covered. It seemed as if flowers had been raining down; there were
clusters of white roses, white camellias, white lilac, white
carnations, heaped in a snowy mass of petals; the coffin was hidden
from sight, and from the pall some of the white blossoms were falling,
the ground being strewn with periwinkles and hyacinths. The few persons
passing along the Rue Vineuse paused with a smile of tender emotion
before this sunny garden where the little body lay at peace amongst the
flowers. There seemed to be a music stealing up from the snowy
surroundings; in the glare of light the purity of the blossoms grew
dazzling, and the sun flushed hangings, nosegays, and wreaths of
flowers, with a very semblance of life. Over the roses a bee flew
humming.
“Oh, the flowers! the flowers!” murmured Hélène, powerless to say
another word.
She pressed her handkerchief to her lips, and her eyes filled with
tears. Jeanne must be warm, she thought, and with this idea a wave of
emotion rose in her bosom; she felt very grateful to those who had
enveloped her child in flowers. She wished to go forward, and Monsieur
Rambaud made no effort to hold her back. How sweet was the scene
beneath the cloud of drapery! Perfumes were wafted upwards; the air was
warm and still. Hélène stooped down and chose one rose only, that she
might place it in her bosom. But suddenly she commenced to tremble, and
Monsieur Rambaud became uneasy.
“Don’t stay here,” he said, as he drew her away. “You promised not to
make yourself unwell.”
He was attempting to lead her into the pavilion when the door of the
drawing-room was thrown open. Pauline was the first to appear. She had
undertaken the duty of arranging the funeral procession. One by one,
the little girls stepped into the garden. Their coming seemed like some
sudden outburst of bloom, a miraculous flowering of May. In the open
air the white skirts expanded, streaked moire-like by the sunshine with
shades of the utmost delicacy. An apple-tree above was raining down its
blossoms; gossamer-threads were floating to and fro; the dresses were
instinct with all the purity of spring. And their number still
increased; they already surrounded the lawn; they yet lightly descended
the steps, sailing on like downy balls suddenly expanding beneath the
open sky.
The garden was now a snowy mass, and as Hélène gazed on the crowd of
little girls, a memory awoke within her. She remembered another joyous
season, with its ball and the gay twinkling of tiny feet. She once more
saw Marguerite in her milk-girl costume, with her can hanging from her
waist; and Sophie, dressed as a waiting-maid, and revolving on the arm
of her sister Blanche, whose trappings as Folly gave out a merry tinkle
of bells. She thought, too, of the five Levasseur girls, and of the Red
Riding-Hoods, whose number had seemed endless, with their
ever-recurring cloaks of poppy-colored satin edged with black velvet;
while little Mademoiselle Guiraud, with her Alsatian butterfly bow in
her hair, danced as if demented opposite a Harlequin twice as tall as
herself. To-day they were all arrayed in white. Jeanne, too, was in
white, her head laid amongst white flowers on the white satin pillow.
The delicate-faced Japanese maiden, with hair transfixed by long pins,
and purple tunic embroidered with birds, was leaving them for ever in a
gown of snowy white.
“How tall they have all grown!” exclaimed Hélène, as she burst into
tears.
They were all there but her daughter; she alone was missing. Monsieur
Rambaud led her to the pavilion; but she remained on the threshold,
anxious to see the funeral procession start. Several of the ladies
bowed to her quietly. The children looked at her, with some
astonishment in their blue eyes. Meanwhile Pauline was hovering round,
giving orders. She lowered her voice for the occasion, but at times
forgot herself.
“Now, be good children! Look, you little stupid, you are dirty already!
I’ll come for you in a minute; don’t stir.”
The hearse drove up; it was time to start, but Madame Deberle appeared,
exclaiming: “The bouquets have been forgotten! Quick, Pauline, the
bouquets!”
Some little confusion ensued. A bouquet of white roses had been
prepared for each little girl; and these bouquets now had to be
distributed. The children, in an ecstasy of delight, held the great
clusters of flowers in front of them as though they had been wax
tapers; Lucien, still at Marguerite’s side, daintily inhaled the
perfume of her blossoms as she held them to his face. All these little
maidens, their hands filled with flowers, looked radiant with happiness
in the golden light; but suddenly their faces grew grave as they
perceived the men placing the coffin on the hearse.
“Is she inside that thing?” asked Sophie in a whisper.
Her sister Blanche nodded assent. Then, in her turn, she said: “For men
it’s as big as this!”
She was referring to the coffin, and stretched out her arms to their
widest extent. However, little Marguerite, whose nose was buried
amongst her roses, was seized with a fit of laughter; it was the
flowers, said she, which tickled her. Then the others in turn buried
their noses in their bouquets to find out if it were so; but they were
remonstrated with, and they all became grave once more.
The funeral procession was now filing into the street. At the corner of
the Rue Vineuse a woman without a cap, and with tattered shoes on her
feet, wept and wiped her cheeks with the corner of her apron. People
stood at many windows, and exclamations of pity ascended through the
stillness of the street. Hung with white silver-fringed drapery the
hearse rolled on without a sound; nothing fell on the ear save the
measured tread of the two white horses, deadened by the solid earthen
roadway. The bouquets and wreaths, borne on the funeral car, formed a
very harvest of flowers; the coffin was hidden by them; every jolt
tossed the heaped-up mass, and the hearse slowly sprinkled the street
with lilac blossom. From each of the four corners streamed a long
ribbon of white watered silk, held by four little girls—Sophie and
Marguerite, one of the Levasseur family, and little Mademoiselle
Guiraud, who was so small and so uncertain on her legs that her mother
walked beside her. The others, in a close body, surrounded the hearse,
each bearing her bouquet of roses. They walked slowly, their veils
waved, and the wheels rolled on amidst all this muslin, as though borne
along on a cloud, from which smiled the tender faces of cherubs. Then
behind, following Monsieur Rambaud, who bowed his pale face, came
several ladies and little boys, Rosalie, Zephyrin, and the servants of
Madame Deberle. To these succeeded five empty mourning carriages. And
as the hearse passed along the sunny street like a car symbolical of
springtide, a number of white pigeons wheeled over the mourners’ heads.
“Good heavens! how annoying!” exclaimed Madame Deberle when she saw the
procession start off. “If only Henri had postponed that consultation! I
told him how it would be!”
She did not know what to do with Hélène, who remained prostrate on a
seat in the pavilion. Henri might have stayed with her and afforded her
some consolation. His absence was a horrible nuisance. Luckily,
Mademoiselle Aurelie was glad to offer her services; she had no liking
for such solemn scenes, and while watching over Hélène would be able to
attend to the luncheon which had to be prepared ere the children’s
return. So Juliette hastened after the funeral, which was proceeding
towards the church by way of the Rue de Passy.
The garden was now deserted; a few workmen only were folding up the
hangings. All that remained on the gravelled path over which Jeanne had
been carried were the scattered petals of a camellia. And Hélène,
suddenly lapsing into loneliness and stillness, was thrilled once more
with the anguish of this eternal separation. Once again—only once
again!—to be at her darling’s side! The never-fading thought that
Jeanne was leaving her in anger, with a face that spoke solely of
gloomy hatred, seared her heart like a red-hot iron. She well divined
that Mademoiselle Aurelie was there to watch her, and cast about for
some opportunity to escape and hasten to the cemetery.
“Yes, it’s a dreadful loss,” began the old maid, comfortably seated in
an easy-chair. “I myself should have worshipped children, and little
girls in particular. Ah, well! when I think of it I am pleased that I
never married. It saves a lot of grief!”
It was thus she thought to divert the mother. She chatted away about
one of her friends who had had six children; they were now all dead.
Another lady had been left a widow with a big lad who struck her; he
might die, and there would be no difficulty in comforting her. Hélène
appeared to be listening to all this; she did not stir, but her whole
frame quivered with impatience.
“You are calmer now,” said Mademoiselle Aurelie, after a time. “Well,
in the end we always have to get the better of our feelings.”
The dining-room communicated with the Japanese pavilion, and, rising
up, the old maid opened the door and peered into the room. The table,
she saw, was covered with pastry and cakes. Meantime, in an instant
Hélène sped through the garden; the gate was still open, the workmen
were just carrying away their ladder.
On the left the Rue Vineuse turns into the Rue des Reservoirs, from
which the cemetery of Passy can be entered. On the Boulevard de la
Muette a huge retaining wall has been reared, and the cemetery
stretches like an immense terrace commanding the heights, the
Trocadero, the avenues, and the whole expanse of Paris. In twenty steps
Hélène had reached the yawning gateway, and saw before her the lonely
expanse of white gravestones and black crosses. She entered. At the
corners of the first walk two large lilac trees were budding. There
were but few burials here; weeds grew thickly, and a few cypress trees
threw solemn shadows across the green. Hélène hurried straight on; a
troop of frightened sparrows flew off, and a grave-digger raised his
head towards her after flinging aside a shovelful of earth. The
procession had probably not yet arrived from the church; the cemetery
seemed empty to her. She turned to the right, and advanced almost to
the edge of the terrace parapet; but, on looking round, she saw behind
a cluster of acacias the little girls in white upon their knees before
the temporary vault into which Jeanne’s remains had a moment before
been lowered. Abbé Jouve, with outstretched hand, was giving the
farewell benediction. She heard nothing but the dull thud with which
the stone slab of the vault fell back into its place. All was over.
Meanwhile, however, Pauline had observed her and pointed her out to
Madame Deberle, who almost gave way to anger. “What!” she exclaimed;
“she has come. But it isn’t at all proper; it’s very bad taste!”[*]
[*] In France, among the aristocracy and the upper _bourgeoisie_—to
which Madame Deberle belonged—mothers seldom, if ever, attend the
funerals of their children, or widows those of the husbands they have
lost. They are supposed to be so prostrated by grief as to be unable to
appear in public. This explanation was necessary, as otherwise the
reader might not understand the force of Madame Deberle’s remarks.
So saying she stepped forward, showing Hélène by the expression of her
face that she disapproved of her presence. Some other ladies also
followed with inquisitive looks. Monsieur Rambaud, however, had already
rejoined the bereaved mother, and stood silent by her side. She was
leaning against one of the acacias, feeling faint, and weary with the
sight of all those mourners. She nodded her head in recognition of
their sympathetic words, but all the while she was stifling with the
thought that she had come too late; for she had heard the noise of the
stone falling back into its place. Her eyes ever turned towards the
vault, the step of which a cemetery keeper was sweeping.
“Pauline, see to the children,” said Madame Deberle.
The little girls rose from their knees looking like a flock of white
sparrows. A few of the tinier ones, lost among their petticoats, had
seated themselves on the ground, and had to be picked up. While Jeanne
was being lowered down, the older girls had leaned forward to see the
bottom of the cavity. It was so dark they had shuddered and turned
pale. Sophie assured her companions in a whisper that one remained
there for years and years. “At nighttime too?” asked one of the little
Levasseur girls. “Of course—at night too—always!” Oh, the night!
Blanche was nearly dead with the idea. And they all looked at one
another with dilated eyes, as if they had just heard some story about
robbers. However, when they had regained their feet, and stood grouped
around the vault, released from their mourning duties, their cheeks
became pink again; it must all be untrue, those stories could only have
been told for fun. The spot seemed pleasant, so pretty with its long
grass; what capital games they might have had at hide-and-seek behind
all the tombstones! Their little feet were already itching to dance
away, and their white dresses fluttered like wings. Amidst the
graveyard stillness the warm sunshine lazily streamed down, flushing
their faces. Lucien had thrust his hand beneath Marguerite’s veil, and
was feeling her hair and asking if she put anything on it, to make it
so yellow. The little one drew herself up, and he told her that they
would marry each other some day. To this Marguerite had no objection,
but she was afraid that he might pull her hair. His hands were still
wandering over it; it seemed to him as soft as highly-glazed
letter-paper.
“Don’t go so far away,” called Pauline.
“Well, we’ll leave now,” said Madame Deberle. “There’s nothing more to
be done, and the children must be hungry.”
The little girls, who had scattered like some boarding-school at play,
had to be marshalled together once more. They were counted, and baby
Guiraud was missing; but she was at last seen in the distance, gravely
toddling along a path with her mother’s parasol. The ladies then turned
towards the gateway, driving the stream of white dresses before them.
Madame Berthier congratulated Pauline on her marriage, which was to
take place during the following month. Madame Deberle informed them
that she was setting out in three days’ time for Naples, with her
husband and Lucien. The crowd now quickly disappeared; Zephyrin and
Rosalie were the last to remain. Then in their turn they went off,
linked together, arm-in-arm, delighted with their outing, although
their hearts were heavy with grief. Their pace was slow, and for a
moment longer they could be seen at the end of the path, with the
sunshine dancing over them.
“Come,” murmured Monsieur Rambaud to Hélène.
With a gesture she entreated him to wait. She was alone, and to her it
seemed as though a page had been torn from the book of her life. As
soon as the last of the mourners had disappeared, she knelt before the
tomb with a painful effort. Abbé Jouve, robed in his surplice, had not
yet risen to his feet. Both prayed for a long time. Then, without
speaking, but with a glowing glance of loving-kindness and pardon, the
priest assisted her to rise.
“Give her your arm,” he said to Monsieur Rambaud.
Towards the horizon stretched Paris, all golden in the radiance of that
spring morning. In the cemetery a chaffinch was singing.