After she had made a curtsey at the threshold, she would walk up the
aisle between the double lines of chairs, open Madame Aubain’s pew, sit
down and look around.
Girls and boys, the former on the right, the latter on the left-hand
side of the church, filled the stalls of the choir; the priest stood
beside the reading-desk; on one stained window of the side-aisle the
Holy Ghost hovered over the Virgin; on another one, Mary knelt before
the Child Jesus, and behind the altar, a wooden group represented Saint
Michael felling the dragon.
The priest first read a condensed lesson of sacred history. Felicite
evoked Paradise, the Flood, the Tower of Babel, the blazing cities,
the dying nations, the shattered idols; and out of this she developed a
great respect for the Almighty and a great fear of His wrath. Then, when
she had listened to the Passion, she wept. Why had they crucified Him
who loved little children, nourished the people, made the blind see, and
who, out of humility, had wished to be born among the poor, in a stable?
The sowings, the harvests, the wine-presses, all those familiar things
which the Scriptures mention, formed a part of her life; the word of God
sanctified them; and she loved the lambs with increased tenderness for
the sake of the Lamb, and the doves because of the Holy Ghost.
She found it hard, however, to think of the latter as a person, for was
it not a bird, a flame, and sometimes only a breath? Perhaps it is its
light that at night hovers over swamps, its breath that propels the
clouds, its voice that renders church-bells harmonious. And Felicite
worshipped devoutly, while enjoying the coolness and the stillness of
the church.
As for the dogma, she could not understand it and did not even try. The
priest discoursed, the children recited, and she went to sleep, only to
awaken with a start when they were leaving the church and their wooden
shoes clattered on the stone pavement.
In this way, she learned her catechism, her religious education having
been neglected in her youth; and thenceforth she imitated all Virginia’s
religious practices, fasted when she did, and went to confession with
her. At the Corpus-Christi Day they both decorated an altar.
She worried in advance over Virginia’s first communion. She fussed about
the shoes, the rosary, the book and the gloves. With what nervousness
she helped the mother dress the child!
During the entire ceremony, she felt anguished. Monsieur Bourais hid
part of the choir from view, but directly in front of her, the flock
of maidens, wearing white wreaths over their lowered veils, formed a
snow-white field, and she recognised her darling by the slenderness of
her neck and her devout attitude. The bell tinkled. All the heads bent
and there was a silence. Then, at the peals of the organ the singers
and the worshippers struck up the Agnes Dei; the boys’ procession began;
behind them came the girls. With clasped hands, they advanced step by
step to the lighted altar, knelt at the first step, received one by one
the Host, and returned to their seats in the same order. When Virginia’s
turn came, Felicite leaned forward to watch her, and through that
imagination which springs from true affection, she at once became the
child, whose face and dress became hers, whose heart beat in her bosom,
and when Virginia opened her mouth and closed her lids, she did likewise
and came very near fainting.
The following day, she presented herself early at the church so as to
receive communion from the cure. She took it with the proper feeling,
but did not experience the same delight as on the previous day.
Madame Aubain wished to make an accomplished girl of her daughter; and
as Guyot could not teach English or music, she decided to send her to
the Ursulines at Honfleur.
The child made no objection, but Felicite sighed and thought Madame was
heartless. Then, she thought that perhaps her mistress was right, as
these things were beyond her sphere. Finally, one day, an old fiacre
stopped in front of the door and a nun stepped out. Felicite put
Virginia’s luggage on top of the carriage, gave the coachman some
instructions, and smuggled six jars of jam, a dozen pears and a bunch of
violets under the seat.
At the last minute, Virginia had a fit of sobbing; she embraced her
mother again and again, while the latter kissed her on the forehead, and
said: “Now, be brave, be brave!” The step was pulled up and the fiacre
rumbled off.
Then Madame Aubain had a fainting spell, and that evening all her
friends, including the two Lormeaus, Madame Lechaptois, the ladies
Rochefeuille, Messieurs de Houppeville and Bourais, called on her and
tendered their sympathy.
At first the separation proved very painful to her. But her daughter
wrote her three times a week and the other days she, herself, wrote to
Virginia. Then she walked in the garden, read a little, and in this way
managed to fill out the emptiness of the hours.
Each morning, out of habit, Felicite entered Virginia’s room and gazed
at the walls. She missed combing her hair, lacing her shoes, tucking her
in her bed, and the bright face and little hand when they used to go out
for a walk. In order to occupy herself she tried to make lace. But her
clumsy fingers broke the threads; she had no heart for anything, lost
her sleep and “wasted away,” as she put it.
In order to have some distraction, she asked leave to receive the visits
of her nephew Victor.
He would come on Sunday, after church, with ruddy cheeks and bared
chest, bringing with him the scent of the country. She would set the
table and they would sit down opposite each other, and eat their dinner;
she ate as little as possible, herself, to avoid any extra expense, but
would stuff him so with food that he would finally go to sleep. At the
first stroke of vespers, she would wake him up, brush his trousers, tie
his cravat and walk to church with him, leaning on his arm with maternal
pride.
His parents always told him to get something out of her, either a
package of brown sugar, or soap, or brandy, and sometimes even money.
He brought her his clothes to mend, and she accepted the task gladly,
because it meant another visit from him.
In August, his father took him on a coasting-vessel.
It was vacation time and the arrival of the children consoled Felicite.
But Paul was capricious, and Virginia was growing too old to be
thee-and-thou’d, a fact which seemed to produce a sort of embarrassment
in their relations.
Victor went successively to Morlaix, to Dunkirk, and to Brighton;
whenever he returned from a trip he would bring her a present. The first
time it was a box of shells; the second, a coffee-cup; the third, a big
doll of ginger-bread. He was growing handsome, had a good figure, a tiny
moustache, kind eyes, and a little leather cap that sat jauntily on the
back of his head. He amused his aunt by telling her stories mingled with
nautical expressions.
One Monday, the 14th of July, 1819 (she never forgot the date), Victor
announced that he had been engaged on a merchant-vessel and that in two
days he would take the steamer at Honfleur and join his sailer, which
was going to start from Havre very soon. Perhaps he might be away two
years.
The prospect of his departure filled Felicite with despair, and in order
to bid him farewell, on Wednesday night, after Madame’s dinner, she put
on her pattens and trudged the four miles that separated Pont-l’Eveque
from Honfleur.
When she reached the Calvary, instead of turning to the right, she
turned to the left and lost herself in coal-yards; she had to retrace
her steps; some people she spoke to advised her to hasten. She walked
helplessly around the harbour filled with vessels, and knocked against
hawsers. Presently the ground sloped abruptly, lights flitted to and
fro, and she thought all at once that she had gone mad when she saw some
horses in the sky.
Others, on the edge of the dock, neighed at the sight of the ocean. A
derrick pulled them up in the air, and dumped them into a boat, where
passengers were bustling about among barrels of cider, baskets of cheese
and bags of meal; chickens cackled, the captain swore and a cabin-boy
rested on the railing, apparently indifferent to his surroundings.
Felicite, who did not recognise him, kept shouting: “Victor!” He
suddenly raised his eyes, but while she was preparing to rush up to him,
they withdrew the gangplank.
The packet, towed by singing women, glided out of the harbour. Her hull
squeaked and the heavy waves beat up against her sides. The sail had
turned and nobody was visible;--and on the ocean, silvered by the light
of the moon, the vessel formed a black spot that grew dimmer and dimmer,
and finally disappeared.
When Felicite passed the Calvary again, she felt as if she must entrust
that which was dearest to her to the Lord; and for a long while she
prayed, with uplifted eyes and a face wet with tears. The city was
sleeping; some customs officials were taking the air; and the water kept
pouring through the holes of the dam with a deafening roar. The town
clock struck two.
The parlour of the convent would not open until morning, and surely a
delay would annoy Madame, so, in spite of her desire to see the other
child, she went home. The maids of the inn were just arising when she
reached Pont-l’Eveque.
So the poor boy would be on the ocean for months! His previous trips
had not alarmed her. One can come back from England and Brittany; but
America, the colonies, the islands, were all lost in an uncertain region
at the very end of the world.
From that time on, Felicite thought solely of her nephew. On warm days
she feared he would suffer from thirst, and when it stormed, she was
afraid he would be struck by lightning. When she harkened to the wind
that rattled in the chimney and dislodged the tiles on the roof, she
imagined that he was being buffeted by the same storm, perched on top
of a shattered mast, with his whole body bend backward and covered with
sea-foam; or,--these were recollections of the engraved geography--he
was being devoured by savages, or captured in a forest by apes, or dying
on some lonely coast. She never mentioned her anxieties, however.
Madame Aubain worried about her daughter.
The sisters thought that Virginia was affectionate but delicate. The
slightest emotion enervated her. She had to give up her piano lessons.
Her mother insisted upon regular letters from the convent. One morning,
when the postman failed to come, she grew impatient and began to pace to
and fro, from her chair to the window. It was really extraordinary! No
news since four days!
In order to console her mistress by her own example, Felicite said:
“Why, Madame, I haven’t had any news since six months!--”
“From whom?--”
The servant replied gently:
“Why--from my nephew.”
“Oh, yes, your nephew!” And shrugging her shoulders, Madame Aubain
continued to pace the floor as if to say: “I did not think of
it.--Besides, I do not care, a cabin-boy, a pauper!--but my
daughter--what a difference! just think of it!--”
Felicite, although she had been reared roughly, was very indignant. Then
she forgot about it.
It appeared quite natural to her that one should lose one’s head about
Virginia.
The two children were of equal importance; they were united in her heart
and their fate was to be the same.
The chemist informed her that Victor’s vessel had reached Havana. He had
read the information in a newspaper.
Felicite imagined that Havana was a place where people did nothing
but smoke, and that Victor walked around among negroes in a cloud of
tobacco. Could a person, in case of need, return by land? How far was
it from Pont-l’Eveque? In order to learn these things, she questioned
Monsieur Bourais. He reached for his map and began some explanations
concerning longitudes, and smiled with superiority at Felicite’s
bewilderment. At last, he took a pencil and pointed out an imperceptible
black point in the scallops of an oval blotch, adding: “There it is.”
She bent over the map; the maze of coloured lines hurt her eyes without
enlightening her; and when Bourais asked her what puzzled her, she
requested him to show her the house Victor lived in. Bourais threw
up his hands, sneezed, and then laughed uproariously; such ignorance
delighted his soul; but Felicite failed to understand the cause of his
mirth, she whose intelligence was so limited that she perhaps expected
to see even the picture of her nephew!
It was two weeks later that Liebard came into the kitchen at
market-time, and handed her a letter from her brother-in-law. As neither
of them could read, she called upon her mistress.
Madame Aubain, who was counting the stitches of her knitting, laid her
work down beside her, opened the letter, started, and in a low tone
and with a searching look said: “They tell you of a--misfortune. Your
nephew--”
He had died. The letter told nothing more.
Felicite dropped on a chair, leaned her head against the back, and
closed her lids; presently they grew pink. Then, with drooping head,
inert hands and staring eyes she repeated at intervals:
“Poor little chap! poor little chap!”
Liebard watched her and sighed. Madame Aubain was trembling.
She proposed to the girl to go to see her sister in Trouville.
With a single motion, Felicite replied that it was not necessary.
There was a silence. Old Liebard thought it about time for him to take
leave.
Then Felicite uttered:
“They have no sympathy, they do not care!”
Her head fell forward again, and from time to time, mechanically, she
toyed with the long knitting-needles on the work-table.
Some women passed through the yard with a basket of wet clothes.
When she saw them through the window, she suddenly remembered her own
wash; as she had soaked it the day before, she must go and rinse it now.
So she arose and left the room.
Her tub and her board were on the bank of the Toucques. She threw a heap
of clothes on the ground, rolled up her sleeves and grasped her bat;
and her loud pounding could be heard in the neighbouring gardens. The
meadows were empty, the breeze wrinkled the stream, at the bottom of
which were long grasses that looked like the hair of corpses floating
in the water. She restrained her sorrow and was very brave until night;
but, when she had gone to her own room, she gave way to it, burying her
face in the pillow and pressing her two fists against her temples.
A long while afterward, she learned through Victor’s captain, the
circumstances which surrounded his death. At the hospital they had bled
him too much, treating him for yellow fever. Four doctors held him at
one time. He died almost instantly, and the chief surgeon had said:
“Here goes another one!”
His parents had always treated him barbarously; she preferred not to see
them again, and they made no advances, either from forgetfulness or out
of innate hardness.
Virginia was growing weaker.
A cough, continual fever, oppressive breathing and spots on her cheeks
indicated some serious trouble. Monsieur Popart had advised a sojourn in
Provence. Madame Aubain decided that they would go, and she would have
had her daughter come home at once, had it not been for the climate of
Pont-l’Eveque.
She made an arrangement with a livery-stable man who drove her over to
the convent every Tuesday. In the garden there was a terrace, from which
the view extends to the Seine. Virginia walked in it, leaning on her
mother’s arm and treading the dead vine leaves. Sometimes the sun,
shining through the clouds, made her blink her lids, when she gazed at
the sails in the distance, and let her eyes roam over the horizon from
the chateau of Tancarville to the lighthouses of Havre. Then they rested
on the arbour. Her mother had bought a little cask of fine Malaga wine,
and Virginia, laughing at the idea of becoming intoxicated, would drink
a few drops of it, but never more.
Her strength returned. Autumn passed. Felicite began to reassure Madame
Aubain. But, one evening, when she returned home after an errand, she
met M. Boupart’s coach in front of the door; M. Boupart himself was
standing in the vestibule and Madame Aubain was tying the strings of her
bonnet. “Give me my foot-warmer, my purse and my gloves; and be quick
about it,” she said.
Virginia had congestion of the lungs; perhaps it was desperate.
“Not yet,” said the physician, and both got into the carriage, while the
snow fell in thick flakes. It was almost night and very cold.
Felicite rushed to the church to light a candle. Then she ran after the
coach which she overtook after an hour’s chase, sprang up behind and
held on to the straps. But suddenly a thought crossed her mind: “The
yard had been left open; supposing that burglars got in!” And down she
jumped.
The next morning, at daybreak, she called at the doctor’s. He had been
home, but had left again. Then she waited at the inn, thinking that
strangers might bring her a letter. At last, at daylight she took the
diligence for Lisieux.
The convent was at the end of a steep and narrow street. When she
arrived about at the middle of it, she heard strange noises, a funeral
knell. “It must be for some one else,” thought she; and she pulled the
knocker violently.
After several minutes had elapsed, she heard footsteps, the door
was half opened and a nun appeared. The good sister, with an air of
compunction, told her that “she had just passed away.” And at the same
time the tolling of Saint-Leonard’s increased.
Felicite reached the second floor. Already at the threshold, she caught
sight of Virginia lying on her back, with clasped hands, her mouth open
and her head thrown back, beneath a black crucifix inclined toward her,
and stiff curtains which were less white than her face. Madame Aubain
lay at the foot of the couch, clasping it with her arms and uttering
groans of agony. The Mother Superior was standing on the right side of
the bed. The three candles on the bureau made red blurs, and the windows
were dimmed by the fog outside. The nuns carried Madame Aubain from the
room.
For two nights, Felicite never left the corpse. She would repeat the
same prayers, sprinkle holy water over the sheets, get up, come back
to the bed and contemplate the body. At the end of the first vigil, she
noticed that the face had taken on a yellow tinge, the lips grew blue,
the nose grew pinched, the eyes were sunken. She kissed them several
times and would not have been greatly astonished had Virginia opened
them; to souls like this the supernatural is always quite simple. She
washed her, wrapped her in a shroud, put her into the casket, laid a
wreath of flowers on her head and arranged her curls. They were blond
and of an extraordinary length for her age. Felicite cut off a big lock
and put half of it into her bosom, resolving never to part with it.
The body was taken to Pont-l’Eveque, according to Madame Aubain’s
wishes; she followed the hearse in a closed carriage.
After the ceremony it took three quarters of an hour to reach the
cemetery. Paul, sobbing, headed the procession; Monsieur Bourais
followed, and then came the principal inhabitants of the town, the women
covered with black capes, and Felicite. The memory of her nephew, and
the thought that she had not been able to render him these honours,
made her doubly unhappy, and she felt as if he were being buried with
Virginia.
Madame Aubain’s grief was uncontrollable. At first she rebelled against
God, thinking that he was unjust to have taken away her child--she who
had never done anything wrong, and whose conscience was so pure! But no!
she ought to have taken her South. Other doctors would have saved her.
She accused herself, prayed to be able to join her child, and cried in
the midst of her dreams. Of the latter, one more especially haunted her.
Her husband, dressed like a sailor, had come back from a long voyage,
and with tears in his eyes told her that he had received the order to
take Virginia away. Then they both consulted about a hiding-place.
Once she came in from the garden, all upset. A moment before (and she
showed the place), the father and daughter had appeared to her, one
after the other; they did nothing but look at her.
During several months she remained inert in her room. Felicite scolded
her gently; she must keep up for her son and also for the other one, for
“her memory.”
“Her memory!” replied Madame Aubain, as if she were just awakening, “Oh!
yes, yes, you do not forget her!” This was an allusion to the cemetery
where she had been expressly forbidden to go.
But Felicite went there every day. At four o’clock exactly, she would go
through the town, climb the hill, open the gate and arrive at Virginia’s
tomb. It was a small column of pink marble with a flat stone at its
base, and it was surrounded by a little plot enclosed by chains. The
flower-beds were bright with blossoms. Felicite watered their leaves,
renewed the gravel, and knelt on the ground in order to till the earth
properly. When Madame Aubain was able to visit the cemetery she felt
very much relieved and consoled.
Years passed, all alike and marked by no other events than the return
of the great church holidays: Easter, Assumption, All Saints’ Day.
Household happenings constituted the only data to which in later years
they often referred. Thus, in 1825, workmen painted the vestibule; in
1827, a portion of the roof almost killed a man by falling into the
yard. In the summer of 1828, it was Madame’s turn to offer the hallowed
bread; at that time, Bourais disappeared mysteriously; and the
old acquaintances, Guyot, Liebard, Madame Lechaptois, Robelin, old
Gremanville, paralysed since a long time, passed away one by one. One
night, the driver of the mail in Pont-l’Eveque announced the Revolution
of July. A few days afterward a new sub-prefect was nominated, the Baron
de Larsonniere, ex-consul in America, who, besides his wife, had his
sister-in-law and her three grown daughters with him. They were often
seen on their lawn, dressed in loose blouses, and they had a parrot
and a negro servant. Madame Aubain received a call, which she returned
promptly. As soon as she caught sight of them, Felicite would run and
notify her mistress. But only one thing was capable of arousing her: a
letter from her son.
He could not follow any profession as he was absorbed in drinking. His
mother paid his debts and he made fresh ones; and the sighs that she
heaved while she knitted at the window reached the ears of Felicite who
was spinning in the kitchen.
They walked in the garden together, always speaking of Virginia, and
asking each other if such and such a thing would have pleased her, and
what she would probably have said on this or that occasion.
All her little belongings were put away in a closet of the room which
held the two little beds. But Madame Aubain looked them over as little
as possible. One summer day, however, she resigned herself to the task
and when she opened the closet the moths flew out.
Virginia’s frocks were hung under a shelf where there were three dolls,
some hoops, a doll-house, and a basic which she had used. Felicite
and Madame Aubain also took out the skirts, the handkerchiefs, and the
stockings and spread them on the beds, before putting them away again.
The sun fell on the piteous things, disclosing their spots and the
creases formed by the motions of the body. The atmosphere was warm and
blue, and a blackbird trilled in the garden; everything seemed to live
in happiness. They found a little hat of soft brown plush, but it was
entirely moth-eaten. Felicite asked for it. Their eyes met and filled
with tears; at last the mistress opened her arms and the servant threw
herself against her breast and they hugged each other and giving vent to
their grief in a kiss which equalised them for a moment.
It was the first time that this had ever happened, for Madame Aubain was
not of an expansive nature. Felicite was as grateful for it as if it had
been some favour, and thenceforth loved her with animal-like devotion
and a religious veneration.
Her kind-heartedness developed. When she heard the drums of a marching
regiment passing through the street, she would stand in the doorway
with a jug of cider and give the soldiers a drink. She nursed cholera
victims. She protected Polish refugees, and one of them even declared
that he wished to marry her. But they quarrelled, for one morning when
she returned from the Angelus she found him in the kitchen coolly eating
a dish which he had prepared for himself during her absence.
After the Polish refugees, came Colmiche, an old man who was credited
with having committed frightful misdeeds in ‘93. He lived near the river
in the ruins of a pig-sty. The urchins peeped at him through the cracks
in the walls and threw stones that fell on his miserable bed, where he
lay gasping with catarrh, with long hair, inflamed eyelids, and a tumour
as big as his head on one arm.
She got him some linen, tried to clean his hovel and dreamed of
installing him in the bake-house without his being in Madame’s way. When
the cancer broke, she dressed it every day; sometimes she brought him
some cake and placed him in the sun on a bundle of hay; and the poor old
creature, trembling and drooling, would thank her in his broken voice,
and put out his hands whenever she left him. Finally he died; and she
had a mass said for the repose of his soul.
That day a great joy came to her: at dinner-time, Madame de
Larsonniere’s servant called with the parrot, the cage, and the perch
and chain and lock. A note from the baroness told Madame Aubain that as
her husband had been promoted to a prefecture, they were leaving that
night, and she begged her to accept the bird as a remembrance and a
token of her esteem.
Since a long time the parrot had been on Felicite’s mind, because he
came from America, which reminded her of Victor, and she had approached
the negro on the subject.
Once even, she had said:
“How glad Madame would be to have him!”
The man had repeated this remark to his mistress who, not being able to
keep the bird, took this means of getting rid of it.