The poor old grandmother who sang so constantly was dying.
We were all standing about her bed at nightfall one spring evening. She
had been ailing scarcely more than forty-eight hours; but the doctor
said that on account of her great age she could not rally, and he
pronounced her end to be very near.
Her mind had become clear; she no longer mistook our names, and in a
sweet calm voice she begged us to remain near her--it was doubtless the
voice of other days, the one that I had never heard before.
As I stood close to my father's side I turned my eyes from my dying
grandmother, and they wandered about the room with its old-fashioned
furniture. I looked especially at the pictures of bouquets in vases
that hung upon the wall. Oh! those poor little water colors in my
grandmother's room, how ingenuous they were! They all bore this
inscription: “A Bouquet for my mother,” and under this there was a
little verse of four lines dedicated to her which I could now read and
understand. These works of art had been painted by my father in his
early boyhood, and he had presented them to his mother upon each joyful
anniversary. The poor, unpretentious little pictures bore testimony
to the humble life of those early days, and they spoke of the sacred
intimacy of mother and son,--they had been painted during the time which
followed those great ordeals, the wars, the English invasion and the
burning over of the country by the enemy. For the first time I realized
that my grandmother too had been young; that, without doubt, before the
trouble with her head, my father had loved her as I loved my mamma, and
I felt that he would sorrow greatly when he lost her; I felt sorry for
him and I was also full of remorse because I had laughed at her singing,
and had been amused when she spoke to her image reflected in the
looking-glass.
They sent me down stairs. On different pretexts, the reason for which
I did not understand, they kept me away from the room until the day was
over; then they took me to the house of our friends, the D----s, where I
was to have dinner with Lucette.
When, at about half past eight, I returned home with my nurse, I
insisted upon going straight to my grandmother's room.
When I entered I was struck with the order and the air of profound peace
that pervaded the room. My father was sitting motionless at the head of
the bed--he was in the shadow, the open curtains were draped with great
precision, and on the pillow, just in its middle, was the head of my
sleeping grandmother; her whole position had about it something very
regular--something that suggested eternal rest.
My mother and sister were seated beside a chiffonier near the door, from
which place they had kept watch over my grandmother during her illness.
As soon as I entered they signalled to me with their hands as if to say:
“Softly, softly, make no noise; she is asleep.” The shade of their lamp
threw a vivid light upon the material they were busied with, a number
of little silk squares, brown, yellow, gray, etc., that I recognized as
pieces of their old dresses and hat ribbons.
At first I thought that they were working upon things which it is
customary to prepare for people about to die; but when I, in a very low
voice and with some uneasiness, questioned them about it, they explained
that they were making sachets which were to be sold for charity.
I said that I wished to bid grandmother good night before retiring, and
they allowed me to go towards the bed; but before I reached the middle
of the room they, after glancing quickly at each other, changed their
minds.
“No, no,” they said in a very low voice, “come back, you might disturb
her.”
But before they spoke I came to a halt of myself, I was overwhelmed with
terror--I understood.
Although fear kept me fixed to the spot I noted with astonishment that
my grandmother was not at all disagreeable to look at; I had never
before seen a dead person, and I had imagined until then, that when
the spirit took its departure all that remained was a grinning, hideous
skeleton. On the contrary my grandmother had upon her face an extremely
sweet and tranquil smile; she was as beautiful as ever, and her face
appeared to be rejuvenated and filled with a holy peace.
Then there passed through my mind one of those sad flashes which
sometimes come to little children and permit them to see for a moment
into hidden depths, and I reflected: How can grandmother be in heaven,
how am I to understand the division of the one body into two parts, for
that which was left for interment, was it not my grandmother herself,
ah! was it not she even to the very expression that she bore in life?
After that I stole away with a bruised heart and downcast spirit,
not daring to ask a question of any one, fearful lest what I had so
unerringly divined would be confirmed, I did not wish to hear the dread
and terrible word pronounced. . . .
* * * * *
For a long time thereafter little silken sachet bags were always
associated in my mind with the idea of death.