It was dark when she awoke and rose wearily to light a lamp. The first
flame of the match illuminated the room. It revealed all the familiar
furniture ... the chintz covered chairs, the bright curtains of _toile
de Juouy_, the bowl of ghostly white phloxes by the window. Everything
was the same save that Madame Gigon ... old Tante Louise ... lay
unconscious upon the bed, and the house was so still that the silence
was suffocating.
She went into the kitchen and prepared a mixture of egg, milk and brandy
which she fed the old woman through a tube. She understood the care of
Madame Gigon. The old woman had been like this before. Lily, herself,
ate nothing, but took from the cupboard by the window a bottle of port
and drank a brimming glass. And after a time she went outside to listen
to the silence.
With her black cloak wrapped about her she sat there for a long time.
The farm, the tiny inn, the houses of the village were black and silent.
There hung in the atmosphere the ghostly feeling of a house suddenly
deserted by its inhabitants, standing empty and alone. The mournfulness
was overwhelming. After a time she lighted a cigarette and smoked it,
holding the ember away from her and regarding it at a little distance as
if the faint light in some way dissipated the loneliness.
For a time she regarded the distant horizon and the queer flashes of
color like heat lightning which appeared at intervals. Sometimes the
rising night wind bore toward her a faint sound like that of distant
thunder. And then all at once, there appeared in the house by the
village church a bright light. It was a lamp placed close to the open
window so that the rays piercing the darkness traversed the river,
penetrated the low branches of the plane trees and enveloped Lily
herself in a faint glow.
She watched it for a time with a breathless curiosity. The cigarette,
untouched, burned low and dropped from her fingers, and then behind the
light appeared the figure of the curé in his rusty black clothes. He had
stayed behind to guard his church. He was there, moving about his little
house, as if nothing had happened. Presently he took down from a shelf
above the table a heavy book, laid it before him, took out his steel
rimmed spectacles, and began to read.
After an hour of silence during which she lay motionless in her chair,
Lily rose and went inside to look at Madame Gigon. The old woman lay on
her back, snoring peacefully. She felt her pulse. It was weak and
irregular. Then she brought more brandy and milk, fed it to Madame
Gigon, and wrapping the black cloak about herself, set off down the
terrace to the iron bridge that led across the Marne to the house of the
curé.
Away to the north the flashes in the sky became more frequent and the
distant thunder less broken and more distinct. On the way to the bridge
the alder branches stirring softly in the breeze, whispered together in
a vague, ghostly fashion. She walked slowly in the same tired fashion
until she reached the little white house by the church.