A moment later, however, Paula discovered a way, a bit risky perhaps, but
the circumstances seemed to justify the means.
Teresa, suspecting that Paula's generosity would extend to her, and wishing
to avoid that, watched us both carefully; but when all the purchases
appeared to be completed, the good woman occupied herself with buying
provisions for the house, which of course entailed considerable discussion
as to price, etc. It was then that Paula had her chance.
"Now's our time," she said to me in a low voice.
I followed her without delay. Teresa, meanwhile, argued the price of butter
and cheese with an old school-friend, now elevated to proprietorship of the
shop, and we knew that this would take at least a quarter-of-an-hour. We
soon arrived at a place where they sold novelties, and where the clerks
were about ready to close for the night.
"Oh, sir," cried Paula, to one of the young men, "will you not please
attend to me? I'm in a great hurry."
"So, you're in a hurry," said the young man jovially.
"Yes, you see, we've run away and we've--"
"Wait a minute," said the young man, and he appeared to grow suddenly grave
"This is quite serious. Who have you run away from?"
"Oh, it's only Teresa across the street, and this must be a surprise for
her. Will you please show me an apron?"
So the young man, without further ado, hauled down a number of those
articles for inspection. "There you are. Take your pick."
Paula gave one look, "Oh, no; not that kind," she said with a consternation
which I shared, seeing in imagination old Teresa with her great wooden
shoes and her long skirts adorned with one of these elegant articles of the
latest fashion.
"No? Don't you like these?" questioned the clerk.
"Oh, no," said Paula. "You see, it's for Teresa."
"And, pray, who is Teresa?"
Paula started to explain, when the anxious face of the old servant showed
itself at the door of the shop across the way, and not seeing us, had
started to look up and down the street "Here she comes," I said. "Oh,
Paula, what shall we do?"
"Go in behind the counter, there," said Paula who never lost her head.
I got in behind a pile of merchandise while Paula continued to explain her
wants to the clerk from the dark corner of the shop. The youug man appeared
to comprehend our situation.
"Bertrand," and he turned to one of his fellow-clerks, "please attend to
this young girl. I'll be back in a minute."
But "Bertrand" hardly had time to ask us what we wanted, when our first
friend returned, bringing with him a package under his arm.
"I had a look at your Teresa," he said, "and I think that an apron of this
excellent cloth will give her a thousand thrills. See, what beautiful stuff
it is."
Paula gave a nervous look toward the window before answering.
"No, she's not there," said the young man, divining her thoughts. "Not
finding you here, she's gone on a bit, but you can find her easily enough."
We were enchanted with the goods which he displayed, and we were soon
served, at not too great a cost.
"You have been very good to us, sir," said Paula, starting to go out. "We
have given you so much trouble, but when we wish to buy anything more, we
shall always come here, will we not, Lisita? In the meantime, many thanks,"
and she extended her hand to him with surprising self-possession.
"The pleasure is all mine," said the young man, and I could see that he'd
never met her like before.
Teresa was not far away, gazing into a jeweler's window. "At last, you're
here," she said amiably. "Now, we must hurry, for it is very late." She
made no mention of our untoward absence and one would have believed that
she had not noticed it, and that relieved us very much.
"You certainly are late," said my father to Teresa on our return.
"I thought we'd never get through," said the good woman. "For you see,
Paula had to spend--"
"Oh, yes, I understand. She had to get rid of her five francs.
"And now, Paula, show me what you have bought."
"All right. Here you are, uncle!"
Paula had always shown a certain timidity toward my father, and appeared to
be slightly afraid of him. Slightly red in the face, she took out the
packages one after the other from Teresa's bag.
"You shall see, sir. You shall see," commented Teresa, with a shake of her
head.
"What a lot of packages!" said Rosa, on seeing all the bundles tied up with
such care.
"Shall I help you open them?" said my father. "Let us see what's in this
first package. My, my, what's this? White grapes! And of the finest kind!
You certainly have got good taste. I'll say that much, Paula!"
"They are for Catalina, uncle."
"For Catalina?"
"Yes, uncle dear."
Now there was not a sign of derision in my father's voice. It had changed
to a surprising tenderness as he said, "So you bought this for our
Catalina? I know the cost of such fruit, and Teresa should not have
consented."
"And do you think, sir," broke in Teresa, "that when Paula wants to buy
something, that she asks for my consent? You will soon be able to judge
that for yourself. I never saw her equal."
"And this?" questioned Rosa, taking up the package of souvenir cards.
Paula indicated the destination of each one as she gave the name and
address of many of her old neighbors in far-away Villar.
"So you don't forget your old friends," observed my father.
"Oh, what a beautiful box this is," continued Rosa, "and, oh, look here,"
as she displayed the thimble inside. "Who can this be for?"
"Oh, that's for Lisita."
"For me," I cried, jubilantly, "oh, Paula! So you remembered that I have
just lost my thimble."
"Two pencils," announced my father, undoing another small paper package.
"One of them is for Rosa and the other is for Louis," said Paula simply.
"My poor dear child," exclaimed Rosa. "What on earth are we going to do
with you! Here's another package, but it appears so fragile that you'd
better open it yourself."
"No, no; that's for uncle. Let him open it."
My father cut the cord that held the package. Paula hardly dared to raise
her eyes, as he took the beautiful cup with its blue and gold ornamentation
and took it over to the fading light, in order to examine it more
carefully.
"I don't know whether I should be angry or content," he said, with a dry
smile.
"Better be content, uncle," said Paula appealingly.
"Well, so be it," he said. "At any rate, I am happy to have such a good and
generous niece, who does love her uncle a bit. Is it not so, Paula?"
"There's one more thing," I cried. I wanted to see the effect on Teresa of
that final package, which Paula handed over immediately to the old servant,
saying gently, "It's for you, Teresa dear."
"What's this? How is it for me? When I strictly forbade you? But there you
are! What can one do with such a girl?"
The apron was found to be eminently satisfactory, and Teresa promised to
put it on the first thing in the morning, and I could see a few tears in
her eyes as she said so.
"And now," said my father, "you've shown us all these things which you have
bought us with your five francs. Where is the present for yourself?"
Paula looked at us all with dismay.
"I declare," she said, "I forgot! Never mind, I can buy something
tomorrow." And she held up a few small coins which was all that remained of
her five-franc-piece.
My father looked at her searchingly, with that new tenderness which I had
seen frequently lately, and then left the room without another word.
"I believe," said Rosa, "that she'd be happy to give us her last piece of
bread if there was occasion for it"
"Yes, and her life also, if that was necessary," said Teresa in a shaky
voice, as she turned back to her duties in the kitchen.
CHAPTER NINE
A LITTLE GLIMPSE OF HEAVEN
What a wonderful afternoon it was! The sun far down in the west, painted
the eastern mountains with a lovely tint of orange. The warm air was balmy
with the perfume of flowers and the birds were singing cheerfully as they
flitted about.
All was quiet in Catalina's bedroom, where Paula and I were seated. My
sister was now on the road to a partial recovery, having passed the
danger-mark some days before. Another change also I noticed had come over
her. Her impatience and irritability had gradually disappeared, day by day,
and when she suffered more than ordinarily, she never seemed to complain.
The expression of her face had sweetened also, and even a slight but quite
natural smile would often illumine her thin features. Death had passed her
by, but now seemingly a new influence gradually possessed her. This simple
country maid of the Waldensian mountains had come smiling into her life,
and although Catalina had frequently abused the kindness of our cousin,
Paula never had lost patience with the poor invalid. Soon love had
triumphed, and Catalina had begun to return the love of her little nurse
even though at times she still kept her tyrannical attitude.
One day Catalina said to Teresa, "Paula's not a bit like the rest of us."
"No," she answered, "She's a 'Daughter of the good God!' Just as I said one
day when she first arrived." Teresa sighed as she added, "What would I give
to be like her!"
One beautiful afternoon, the poor invalid lay there with her eyes on Paula
as if she wished to say something.
"How do you feel now?" said Paula as Catalina's fixed gaze seemed to
disturb her somewhat.
"Oh, I'm all right just now. I was thinking of your god-mother's letter.
She remembered, she said, the hymns you used to sing. You've never sung any
of them to us, Paula."
I saw a mist in Paula's eyes as she answered. "No, that's true. I don't
think I've sung a note since my father's death. Would you like to hear me
sing?"
"Yes, indeed," said Catalina, without noticing Paula's emotion.
I was on the point of reminding them of father's formal prohibition
relative to hymn-singing, but an imperative sign from Catalina stopped me.
"What do you wish me to sing?" said Paula.
"Anything you care to. It's all the same to me."
"Then," said Paula, "I will sing to you, 'No Night There.'" And then to our
unaccustomed ears came the glorious words:
In the land of fadeless day,
Lies the city four-sqare,
It shall never pass away,
And there is no night there.
"God shall wipe away all tears;
There's no death, no pain, nor fears;
And they count not time by years,
For there is no night there.
Paula had that rare gift, the "golden" voice, a voice that seemed to
penetrate to one's very soul. Catalina was enchanted!
Suddenly, I heard the heavy steps of a man coming along the corridor. But
as Paula began the second stanza, I heard them pause.
"All the gates of pearl are made,
In the city four-square,
All the streets with gold are laid,
And there is no night there.
"And the gates shall never close,
To the city four-square,
There life's crystal river flows,
And there is no night there."
Paula's voice trembled at the beginning. Then presently the sadness in her
tones disappeared, and they seemed to swell out like an echo of radiant
happiness. Catalina listened, hardly breathing. Involuntarily, I asked
myself if Paula in heaven would be any different from the little country
girl I saw seated near the window at this moment. I had an instant's
impression that a man was standing behind the door, but I felt this could
not be, for I knew that my father would be at his office. A special light
came over the expressive face of Paula as she continued:
"There they need no sunshine bright,
In the city four-square,
For the Lamb is all the light,
And there is no night there."
And then again the wonderful refrain:
"God shall wipe away all tears;
There's no death, no pain, nor fears;
And they count not time by years,
For there is no night there."
The sweet sounds died away, and Paula looked smilingly at Catalina as if
asking her opinion of the song.
"What a marvelous song!" exclaimed the poor sick girl. "And, Paula, you
have a voice like an angel!"
I did not hear my little companion's reply. This time I was not mistaken;
there was someone there behind that door. Impelled by curiosity I ran to
open it At first I saw no one in the darkened passage, but finally I could
make out my father moving off down the hall. When he saw that I had
discovered him, he stopped and put a finger to his lips, and made signs to
me to keep silent, but in my surprise I cried, "Is it you, father?"
"Yes," he answered, "I came home earlier than I expected. Was that Paula
who was singing in Catalina's room?"
"I--I--don't know," I hesitated, not knowing what to say.
There was an instant of terrible silence like a calm before the storm.
"You--don't--know," my father slowly repeated. "You dare to look at me and
say you don't know when you have just this moment come out of your sister's
room?"
"Oh, father, please forgive me," I exclaimed penitently. "It was indeed
Paula that sang. But don't punish her. She didn't know that you had
forbidden our singing hymns."
"Who said I was going to punish her?" my father questioned. And I could see
that his anger had cooled. "Come here!"
Taking me by the hand, we went back together to my sister's room.
"Would it tire you, Catalina, to hear Paula sing again?" he asked.
"Why, no, father," Catalina answered, surprised.
"Then, Paula," said my father, "sing again that same song."
And once more we heard, "There's no night there."
"Who taught you to sing?" my father asked.
"I think it was my father. But in our valley, everybody sings. On the
roads, climbing the hills, caring for the animals, in the meetings; in
fact, everywhere."
Catalina looked at my father furtively, and noticed that his face remained
serene, almost tender, and so she hastened to profit by the occasion.
"Dear father," she said in a low voice, "Let her sing to us once in a
while; will you? It's such a joy to hear her."
"Doesn't it tire you?"
"On the contrary, I think it does me good." And Catalina looked at her
father appealingly.
"Let her sing," he said, "but leave it to the nightingales to sing alone.
There are so few of them."
"And won't you let the crows sing along with her too, if we care to?"
"There are too many crows," said my father, shaking his head.
"You are right, father, and your daughter Catalina is one of the number,
for she's only a poor sick crow. But sometimes, father, you know the crows
envy the nightingales."
The comparison made my father laugh heartily, and he let himself be
persuaded by his elder daughter--that elder daughter whose voice was so
like that of that dear wife of his, now forever silent.
"Well, crows and nightingales let them sing together," he said; and
embracing all three of us, he bid us goodnight. He disappeared, but not
without turning for a moment to Paula with the remark, "Good-night, my
little Alpine nightingale."
And Paula, who did not seem to comprehend a single word of this
conversation, answered gravely, "Good-night, uncle."
CHAPTER TEN
IN THE COUNTRY
Once a year we were accustomed to visit our grandparents and this was
generally made a real family reunion. There we met with all our uncles and
aunts and cousins. It was also a joyful occasion for Teresa who was very
fond of Justina, grandmother's faithful old servant Grandfather had been a
very successful farmer, intelligent, hard-working and economical without
being stingy. After many years' work he had amassed a considerable fortune.
The big farm which to Catalina and Rosa was but a dim memory, but whose
glories Teresa had often recounted to us, had been sold quite a number of
years before. My grandfather had then bought a beautiful house nearby, with
a few acres surrounding it just to remind him of his former activities. The
garden itself was large and imposing and well-cared for under the critical
eyes of both of our grandparents, who specialized in new and rare plants.
The flowers, appearing in profusion in all seasons of the year (even in
winter in the great hot-houses), filled the air with their delicious
perfumes.
Our grandparents reigned over this domain and it was here that they loved
to welcome us. Our father was their especial pride and joy as he was the
oldest son.
Our grandfather had a gruff enormous voice and possessed a pair of great
square shoulders; in fact, he was a real "countryman." But beneath his rude
exterior he had a heart of gold, and no one could gain the confidence of a
little child quicker than he.
Grandmother was of a different type with her long black dress and her
beautiful white hair, of which she was justly proud. She could easily have
been mistaken for a noblewoman. She was a strong character and had had the
advantage of considerable schooling. She was every inch "the fine lady,"
with her firm step and resolute voice and her brilliant black eyes.
Nevertheless, we all loved her dearly, for there was a simple loving heart
hidden away beneath all her magnificence.
Justina, who had been her faithful servant for forty years, never tired of
singing the praises of her "Madame." If during our short stay at "Las
Lilas" we showed ourselves unduly boisterous, or when we disobeyed orders,
Justina would say to us after we had been properly reprimanded, "You never,
never will be like your grandmother!"
Grandfather always met us at the little railway station. On our arrival he
embraced everybody, including our father whom he would kiss on both cheeks
as if he had been a child. Catalina would first be hoisted up into the
great carriage and we would follow one after the other. Louis took unto
himself the honor of holding the reins, and after everybody was
well-seated, except my father and grandfather who marched on ahead of the
horses, the slow procession to the house would begin.
In half-an-hour we could see the great house where grandma and Justina,
decked out in their Sunday gowns, awaited our arrival. There, after various
comments on our growths and states of health, Catalina would be conducted
by her grandmother to her room to rest after the tiresome journey, while
Justina would carry off Teresa to the kitchen, and the rest of us would
hurry to the orchard where grandfather with a vigorous hand would shake
down the apples and pears into our outstretched aprons. Those were ecstatic
moments when we could bury our teeth in the newly-fallen fruit. Soon father
would cry, "That's enough! That's enough! There'll be nothing left for
anybody else!" But grandfather continuing to shake down more fruit would
answer with his great gruff voice, "First come, first served! Besides, look
over there to the right! There are thousands of apples that we haven't even
touched!"
Soon after this there would appear in a cloud of dust, the carriages of our
uncles August and Edward with their families from Havre and Paris, carrying
all sorts of bundles mixed up with the children and nurses.
In the doorway of the garden would be our grandmother waiting to welcome
everybody, her numerous grandchildren clambering about her and embracing
her affectionately, each one fighting for the first kiss. "Me, me, grandma;
I'm the smallest." "No, me, me, grandma; I'm the biggest" When they had
been all finally satisfied, she would embrace with great tenderness all her
sons, inquiring of each in turn as to his health.
Sometimes in the conversation there would come a cloud of sadness as some
relative would be mentioned who had departed since the last family reunion.
Then finally, after having returned to the garden to play for a while under
the great trees, the bell of the nearby church would strike the hour of
noon, and Justina would appear at the grape arbor entrance crying, "Come
one, come all! The soup is getting cold!"
Then there would be a wild race on the part of all the cousins to see who
would be first at the long table placed in the cool shade under the great
spreading vines, that wonderful table with its wide damask covering which
only appeared on state occasions. Grandma's loving hospitality was shown in
the minutest details of that elaborate feast; for she had remembered the
favorite dishes of each one of her three sons and each found himself
confronted with the delight of his childhood. When under the maternal eye
in bygone days, he was not allowed to overeat; but now each was left to his
own discretion to satisfy the most ample appetite.
And then came those delicious desserts followed by fruits and nuts which
had been especially kept as the crown of the feast to accompany the final
coffee-cup. Again the afternoon was spent in the garden, while the babies
slept in the shade under the eye of the respective mothers.
The most solemn moment of our visit was when we had to make our report to
our grandparents as to our progress in school. I remember especially one
year when Rosa was the first in her class, and Santiago our tall cousin had
taken the first prize in the great school of "Louis the Great," from which
each year he carried new laurels. For them it was of course a time of
triumph--but for me! oh, with what shame I presented my report card. My
grandmother read it. "Lisita Dumas--last place!" and I hid my face in my
hands.
"Come, come," grandma said, "don't cry. Try to do better next time."
My cousins were not quite so charitable as they passed my poor card from
hand to hand.
"Tell us, Lisita," Santiago said, when he thought we were well out of
ear-shot of our elders, "you certainly do love to ride in the seat behind,
do you not?" and he pulled my hair with the remark, "Better let somebody
else sit there, hereafter." But grandmother overheard him and she said, "Go
a little slower, my fine fellow. Lisita might have a more brilliant future
than you think. And besides, when you, my fine grandson, are scintillating
in the world of letters and Rosa is director of the great normal school,
perhaps Lisita may be occupying a comfortable post right here in this great
house." I didn't understand the full import of these remarks, but I noticed
it had the effect of silencing my tormentor who slunk away abashed.
We would play happily in the garden until supper-time and even the grown
folks joined us in some of our games. Sometimes father would gather all of
us children around him, and we would never tire of hearing the stories of
his adventures when, as a young man, he had gone far beyond the boundaries
of France. These wonderful stories seemed so strange to us as we looked
upon our father's sad and severe countenance; but our uncles August and
Edward informed us that at one time he was the happiest and gayest of them
all.
After supper came the problem of housing us all. The boys always slept in
the hay barn. "A good preparation," said Uncle August, "for their future
training in the army." The rest of us found resting-places somehow here and
there in the great house. On the following day we would gather at
breakfast, and then the men folks would be off again to their various tasks
in the big towns. After a good time in the garden in the morning, the two
carriages to Paris and Havre would be loaded up again, and we would take
the train once more, generally leaving Catalina to pass an additional week
in the invigorating air of "Las Lilas." This short visit in the country was
the great event of the year in my young life. I talked about it six months
beforehand and for six months afterward. The other scholars made fun of me
in school, and dubbed me "Las Lilas" because I talked so much about my
grandfather's home in the country. But Paula was a most sympathetic
listener. She never tired of hearing me repeat over and over our
experiences at "Las Lilas." It must be confessed that I exaggerated in
describing many things about my grandfather's place, until my country
cousin came to believe that my grandfather's house was a palace and that
the garden was a veritable Eden.
"You shall see, you shall see!" I exclaimed as I ended my description.
The cow appeared to be the most interesting thing to Paula. "If your
grandfather has a cow, it must be that he really lives in the country," she
said.
"Of course he lives in the country," I said, "it is so beautiful there. But
don't you think that we also are living in the country here in 'The
Convent'?" Paula laughed heartily at this but made no further comment.