CHAPTER VJEAN
What would not those who have been stricken by the grief of some faraway disaster give to hear about their loved one from some witness of the fatal scene, to learn the details of the tragedy, known to them only through the bare outlines of the official despatch—even though these details should open their wounds afresh and make their tears flow once more? They think themselves happy in their very misery, if they can but know the exact truth, if death’s mysterious horror can be banished, which tortures their hearts by day and haunts their pillows by night.
Several months have elapsed since the battle of Timmimun. Of the two mourners at Le Maupas, one has grown a little more bent and her smile, already, so rare and faint has vanished for ever. The other has remained upright and proud, but heedless of her youth has resigned herself bitterly and hopelessly to the flight of time. Wrapped in silence and solitude, they never go into the town and cross only the humblest thresholds, where their presence is always welcome.
And when the postman’s step crushes the gravel in the courtyard, they still tremble. That worthy man, so full of his own importance, will not keep them in suspense and according to the postmarks he cries “A letter from Paris,” “From Tonkin,” “From Algiers.”
“Thank you, Ravet. Go to Marie. She is waiting to give you a glass of wine.”
Their correspondence is now the only joy of the household. It is more frequent than it used to be. From afar Madame Guibert’s children try to shower their love upon her. Letters come from Jean Berlier in Africa. They are full of Marcel and his glorious death. In the last one Jean has told them of his return to Savoy at the end of May.
At Le Maupas anxious eyes look down the deserted avenue, where now the chestnuts are proudly bearing their white candles. The young man coming slowly up the wooded hill that leads to the old house is no longer Isabelle Orlandi’s gay cavalier, though he has still kept his slim, lithe figure and his distinguished, confident bearing. But his brown face wears a more manly expression; his eyes have a surer and more discriminating glance. Leaving behind his careless youth, he has grown into a man who thinks and who knows what he wants.
He arrived only the evening before. This morning he left Rose Villaand all along the road he has been breathing his native air, like one newly awakened. On the chilly earth, decked with mauve and lilac mists—like a maiden slowly opening her eyes and stirring aside the gauzy curtains of her bed—he catches the fresh beauty of spring and that joy of life which begins with the dawn.
His eyes dwell admiringly on the delicate green of the trees and fields, the individual glory of the month of May, and he feels a happiness in the tender, new-born leaves budding on the hedges. To the left his glance searches for those three steeples, on which the tent of the sky seems to hang over the countryside: Belle-Combette, almost hidden in greenery; Montagnol, proud and grey, scarcely distinguishable from the walls of Pas-de-la-Fosse; and sweet Saint-Cassin, resting, like an old man seeking the shade, in a forest of chestnut trees. The scarps of the neighboring mountains lose their rugged shape in the morning light, and Nature under the clear sky smiles all over and trustfully displays her grace and charm, wherein may be read the promise of fruit and harvest.
Jean turned round and saw from afar a sheet of pearl and gold, which was Lake Bourget, its sleeping waters bathed in sunshine. At the kiss of the beams the waters shivered voluptuously. The young man continued on his way. Standing out against the Chaloux hills, La Chênaie waswelcoming the fresh air through its open windows. Pleasant memories came back to Jean of the time when he was twenty-five; of Isabelle’s red lips, expert alike in speech and kisses. He thought over his life and reached a conclusion which surprised him.
“I have seen neither her nor Savoy for four years—or nearly that. It seems very much longer to me. I was a boy then, playing at life.”
But the girl of long ago did not remain in his memory. As he passed into the oakwood he stopped and looked again. The arch of the trees bordering the road narrowed and framed the landscape. He recognised in the hues and outlines of the plains and mountains that mixture of precision and of softness which gives the Savoyard country its unique character. A shepherd girl’s voice rose to him. She was singing some old love couplets:
“Up there on the mountainThere is a meadow;The partridge and the quailGo there to sing.I took my cross-bow,Thither I went;Thinking to kill four,I missed them all.”
“Up there on the mountainThere is a meadow;The partridge and the quailGo there to sing.I took my cross-bow,Thither I went;Thinking to kill four,I missed them all.”
“Up there on the mountainThere is a meadow;The partridge and the quailGo there to sing.I took my cross-bow,Thither I went;Thinking to kill four,I missed them all.”
“Up there on the mountain
There is a meadow;
The partridge and the quail
Go there to sing.
I took my cross-bow,
Thither I went;
Thinking to kill four,
I missed them all.”
The few uncertain notes could not rob this strained voice of its clear tone, limpid as the waters of a stream.
At the bend of the road some sheep appeared, then the shepherdess, standing out like shadows against the light trelliswork of branches. She was a girl of fifteen or sixteen, to whom health and strength gave a rustic beauty.
“’Tis the heart of my loveThat I have wounded.Love, my sweet love,Have I hurt you?”
“’Tis the heart of my loveThat I have wounded.Love, my sweet love,Have I hurt you?”
“’Tis the heart of my loveThat I have wounded.Love, my sweet love,Have I hurt you?”
“’Tis the heart of my love
That I have wounded.
Love, my sweet love,
Have I hurt you?”
She passed by Jean, who was listening smilingly to her song.
“Good morning, Monsieur Jean,” said she with a bow.
“Do you know me?” he asked in surprise.
“Why, of course! I am the daughter of Trélaz, the farmer at Le Maupas.”
“Jeannette?”
“At your service.”
“But you were about the size of a boot then! And now you are taller than ripe corn.”
Nothing makes us so conscious of the flight of time as the growth of children whom we see but now and then. The flattered girl began to laugh, and although her teeth were badly cared for yet her joy was contagious. As she passed on, she repeated the last verse.
“’Tis the heart of my loveThat I have wounded.Love, my sweet love,Have I hurt you?”
“’Tis the heart of my loveThat I have wounded.Love, my sweet love,Have I hurt you?”
“’Tis the heart of my loveThat I have wounded.Love, my sweet love,Have I hurt you?”
“’Tis the heart of my love
That I have wounded.
Love, my sweet love,
Have I hurt you?”
And the wind carried the dying words to the young man, still standing motionless at the foot of the oak trees.
“Just a little, scarcely that,But I shall die of it!A kiss from your lipsWould heal me quite!”
“Just a little, scarcely that,But I shall die of it!A kiss from your lipsWould heal me quite!”
“Just a little, scarcely that,But I shall die of it!A kiss from your lipsWould heal me quite!”
“Just a little, scarcely that,
But I shall die of it!
A kiss from your lips
Would heal me quite!”
Jean’s eyes swept over the scene before him—the trees with their new leaves, the meadows with their waving grasses, the girl full of the wine of youth. He breathed in the scent of the earth and the morning woods. And in his native air he tasted the love of life.
It was only since he had learnt how transitory it is that he had enjoyed the beauty of nature in its fulness. Young people do not understand the value of existence as they run heedlessly after pleasure, frivolity, distraction and all that hastens, while it hides, the flight of time. It is danger, passion, love’s melancholy, the sight of death; it is the deep sorrows which bring them to a sudden halt before life’s unmasked face, as when at the bottom of a garden path one suddenly comes upon a cold marble statue under the branches. How can he who would ignore the night feel with the same ecstasy as we the glory of the daylight that must go and of the shapes that the darkness must swallow?
Jean had reached the zenith of his youth, and was wiser. Another anda deeper sky, another country, sterile and bare, had developed and perfected his understanding. Above all, new and tragic emotions had struck at his heart with a terrible force, like that of the sculptor’s chisel which causes the useless chips to fly from the stone which is to grow into a statue. Inspired by gratitude for the lessons which he had learnt, he connected his full, passionate appreciation of this spring morning with that crimson dawn on which he had seen his friend die. In the death of the leader after victory, in the pierced forehead behind which the brain so lately lived, in the heart now cold which had been the home of love, in the face of all that strength and courage, shattered like a tree in its vigor; in all these things was manifest the frailty of human life, by contrast with which the light of day shines the brighter. With Marcel’s face on the ground before him—beautiful in its serene, grave stillness, in its calm, touching repose, never to be forgotten amid the surrounding scene—he had felt alike the wish to live fully and without fear and the desire to deny the everlasting presence of death.
The old gate at Le Maupas was open as of old. Jean went up the chestnut avenue, breathing in the scent of the blossoms. He knew that in a few minutes the tears would flow again, sad but salutary too. At the crunching of the gravel in the courtyard, an old woman who was seatedon the steps, working with slow hands in the cool morning air, arose. Her eyes sought the visitor. She saw who it was.
“Is that you, Jean? How I have waited for you!”
At the first glance, he took in the marks of her sufferings. She was more bent, and her hair was whiter. But he recognized with surprise on her thin face an expression of peace which he had seen before.
“Madame Guibert!” he cried.
He sped up the steps and, bending forward with his natural grace, kissed her. Madame Guibert vainly tried to keep back her tears and murmured Marcel’s name.
“Come in,” she said at last. “We shall be able to speak of him better in the drawing-room.”
She led the way with lagging steps. Then she opened a door and called:
“Paule! Here is Jean Berlier!”
“I arrived late last night,” he explained. “And I have come to you this morning. I was so anxious to see you again.”
“You are good to us. I knew you would come at once. We have been looking for you for some days.”
Paule came in and clasped Jean’s hand. Her lovely black hair made her pale skin seem paler. Her dark eyes had lost their fire. Straighterand still prouder than she used to be, she cherished her broken heart in no humility. Full as he was of his sad story, Jean had time to read with surprise in the serious young face and in the stiff attitude of the body a lack of interest in life. Paule, also surprised, noticed the change in the young man. With the passage of time he had grown more sure, more resolute, more like Marcel.
In the little country drawing-room, through whose closed venetians a ray of sunlight filtered, the hero who died for his country rose up from the African soil where he had lain to come back to his own people, recalled to life by the words of the narrator. He came back young, tall, thin, and muscular, his head borne high, his tone imperious, gifted with that physical superiority, that aptitude for command, that self-imposed calmness which are the outward signs of a leader of men.
Jean looked at his photograph placed on the closed piano and crowned with a wreath of roses. He spoke of him as Marcel would have wished to be spoken of—simply and nobly. He had that rare gift of choosing the right word, which paints the truth with no undue softening, with no undue emphasis. His voice, though sweet and caressing in its sympathy with pain, still revealed the strength of the man beneath. It banished all weakness and despair. It encouraged and comforted and even founda solace in death. The two women, who wept on his arrival, kept their tears under control as they listened to him.
He had not actually seen his friend fall. The day was beginning to dawn when, suddenly awakened by hearing the shots fired, he got up to summon his men. In spite of information received as to the safe condition of affairs, the little troop at Timmimun always slept completely dressed. As Berlier hastened to the point of danger, the Commander was attacking the Berabers, who had already gained a footing in the camp.
“The sergeant who was at his side told me about his death. I was directing our defence on the left. He attacked them in front. Having routed them, he went in pursuit. He stood out a black silhouette against the first brightness of the dawn. The sergeant pointed out a little sandridge. There perhaps they were still hiding. As he stepped forward he put his hand to his head, stood still for an instant, and fell in a heap.”
Madame Guibert hid her face in her hands and the tears gushed to Paule’s eyes, hard as she tried to master herself.
“He did not stir,” continued the Captain. “He did not suffer. Death struck him full in the forehead. And he was thinking of his country, and of you.”
“And of God, too—was he not?” murmured the stricken mother.
“Yes, of God too. I had to take command in his place. But his victory was complete. When I was able to come back to him they had carried him a few paces away, under a palm-tree. I bent over him in vain. Our Surgeon-Major looked sadly at me. He had already examined him. Our life together had made us like brothers. I loved him as you did. There I mourned him as you did, on your behalf. And I saw what you had not the sorry joy of seeing—the serenity that was his in death. It gave his face a look of everlasting peace. When I see him again in my memory I have only good and noble thoughts. You must know this, so that his memory may be the sweeter to you.”
Jean was silent. Then he began again.
“The evening before he had gone with me to my tent, before making his last round. It was a clear, starry night. We often talked about Savoy. He spoke to me about you and Mademoiselle Paule. He had seen you lately. He had no presentiment to sadden him, but he never had any fear of death. In the pocket of his tunic I found this letter, which I have brought you. It lay against his heart during its last beats.”
Madame Guibert recognised her own handwriting. She raised her face,full of a mother’s anguish. When she could speak she asked:
“He now rests in the peace of God. Jean, tell me, where have they buried him?”
“In front of Timmimun, Madame. As he is the highest in rank, his tomb is placed between that of the commissariat officer’s on the right and the sergeant’s on the left. They were both killed in the same engagement. The men are buried at their feet.”
Paule interrupted:
“We have asked about the necessary steps for removing him to Chambéry. He will rest in our family vault near my father and my little sister Thérèse.”
Jean looked at the girl. He knew they were not well off. In gentle accents, persuasive and yet commanding, he tried to dissuade them from this costly and useless plan.
“Why do you insist on this return? The place of his death tells of the victory won. He is resting in his triumph. What tomb could be more fitting? How could he wish for a nobler monument?”
“He will soon be forgotten there.”
“You are wrong, Mademoiselle Paule. Every grave has its inscription. They are carefully looked after. As long as we keep a garrison at Timmimun, they will be honored. His bears his name, his rank, the twodates April 25th 1868 and February 19th 1901, and these three glorious words which sum up his career—‘Madagascar, Sahara, Timmimun.’ You must remember that they still honor in Algiers the tombs of those who were killed at the time of the conquest.”
Madame Guibert sighed, and Paule after a moment’s reflection, during which Jean was able to study her face more at leisure, spoke again, as faithful as Antigone.
“We should love to feel that my brother was near us, to be able to kneel on the stones which cover him.”
“Have you not always his memory with you? What remains of Marcel is but his earthly husk.”
“Ah, yes!” agreed Madame Guibert. She was thinking of his immortal soul.
Marcel’s sister yielded. But Jean saw the tears running down her cheeks.
“He was our pride—and my life,” she sighed; and in a lower voice she added: “He knew that long ago.”
“God willed it so,” said his mother. “We do not understand His plans. He seems so cruel sometimes that we are tempted to rebel. But His goodness is infinite.”
Jean, much affected, took her wrinkled, trembling hand in his own and, with the same respect which Marcel used to show, he kissed it reverently. He stood up and, facing the two women as they gazed athim, paid a last tribute to the dead, not without hope that he might help Paule, less resigned and more discouraged than her mother.
“His short life was complete. By his will power and his courage he has set us an example. Far from pitying him, should we not envy him? We must honor the dead, but we must have faith in life!”
Paule turned on Jean those dark eyes of hers, into which the light was coming back. A new strength seemed to flow to her from him. Could this be the frivolous young officer who used to flirt with girls of the lighter kind? In her memory of him she had cherished a contemptuous kindness for him, which perhaps concealed an unavowed vexation at his conduct. In her pride she had thought herself strong. She was now discovering that, if she wished to be worthy of her own esteem and Jean’s, she must pluck relentlessly from her heart all that bitterness and rebellion wherewith it abounded as the woods in winter with dead leaves.
“You are not leaving us already?” asked Madame Guibert timidly.
Jean, to console her, spoke to her of all the ties which still united her to life. They talked about her other children; about her daughter Marguerite, the nun in Paris, the nurse of the sick; of her sonsmaking a new France in far-off lands.
“How many children has Étienne?” he asked.
“He expects the third. I don’t know them, and yet I love them. Oh, I cherish them as the last joys that God has given me. They are called Maurice and Françoise. Did you know that?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jean with a smile.
“Those are my husband’s name and mine. They are the blessing of our race. They are going to call the new one Marcel.”
“And if it is a girl?”
“Still Marcelle. Here is the photograph of the two elder ones.” Already she regarded as living the child that was to come.
“Aren’t they lovely?” said Paule, coming nearer to look at her nephew and niece.
“Yes, the little girl is very like you. She has your dark eyes.”
“She will be much prettier.”
“I don’t think so,” answered the young man, giving back the portrait to Madame Guibert. And he added with that beautiful smile which gave his face such a youthful look: “Are you not pretty enough? You are hard to please!”
Paule blushed, against her will, and her new color changed her as a sunbeam changes a raindrop. In her despair she had lost even the pleasure of her beauty, and now it came back to her again with joy.
Jean, seeing that they were both diverted for a moment from their sorrows, continued to question them:
“It is in Along Bay, near Hanoi, that they have settled, isn’t it?”
“They are not there now,” answered Madame Guibert. “They are living on a fine island. But Paule will explain better than I can. I get so confused with all those foreign names.”
“Oh, no, Mother, you don’t really,” cried the girl. She went on, quickly:
“Étienne has bought up the island of Kébao, opposite the Bay of Along. It belonged to a company that was badly managed and went bankrupt. It contains important mines and its soil is fertile. The mines, the material and the ground were all sold at auction, at a very low price. My brothers manage the mines and the rice-fields, and are making a splendid thing out of some plantations of a tree called Japanese lilac, which is used for building. Their labor is not sufficient for all the work there is to be done. They are looking in vain for help from France. Nobody here wants to go abroad. But still the country is healthy and picturesque, and they feel sure of success.”
She had spoken clearly and simply. Jean was delighted.
“There is no future in France—I am going out to join them.”
“And what about your career?” said Madame Guibert, as he rose to say good-bye.
“I am not so passionately fond of it as Marcel was. There is too much wasted time, and forgotten effort.”
They went out on the veranda in front of the house, buried under honeysuckle, roses, and clematis, and they leant over the balcony. This morning at the end of May was a feast for the eyes that rested on it. The air was clear and limpid. A bluish haze, sure presage of the continuance of fine weather, softly outlined the dim mountains. Over yonder the little steeple of Saint-Cassin tapered in the shadow of the chestnuts. Nearer, the fields wore that glory of fresh green which is seen only in springtime. The corn rising from the ground quivered in the passing breeze. The trees in the orchards had already shaken off the white and pink snow of their short-lived blossoms, and every branch was smiling with leaf-buds. Two lime-trees in the corner of the courtyard spread their scent abroad and the chestnuts of the avenue illumined the dark mass of their foliage with white candles.
From the balcony they could hear the eternal song of new life, and could appreciate the never-failing promise which the fruitful earthmakes to toiling man.
Before them and around was the youth of the year, the symbol of the duration of life. They gazed and were silent. They were all thinking of Marcel and this too lovely day filled them with sadness.
Bent and weary, her heart obsessed by memories, Madame Guibert left it to Paule to accompany the Captain to the gate. She watched them disappear, thinking tenderly of what might be. She commended Paule’s future to God and went back to ponder in solitude over the sorrowful story she had heard.
Paule and Jean had said good-bye at the end of the avenue. The young man paused to follow the tall, graceful figure gliding through the trees. At the same moment the girl, too, turned round. She blushed at the coincidence and bravely came back that no awkwardness might remain.
“Jean,” she murmured with emotion, “I have never thanked you enough for my brother, who was a little yours too, nor for my mother, to whom your letters and your visit have done so much good. You have been good to us. I could not tell you before, so I came back.”
The emotion which stirred her made her more tender, more human.
“Oh, no,” said the young man. “Do not thank me. Was I not Marcel’s friend?—and our fathers loved each other.”
They stood face to face, not finding words. They felt a certain shyness, which they wished by turns to banish and to prolong. Jean could see against Paule’s cheek the long lashes shading the downcast eyes.
“Listen,” he said at last. “In Marcel’s tunic there was something beside your mother’s last letter—This photograph was found too. I thought I would give it back to you—yourself.”
He gave her a faded photograph, in which she recognised a path in the garden of Le Maupas and on it two little girls of ten or twelve—one fair, the other dark; one sitting quiet, gazing with eyes astonished at the world, the other caught in a lively pose. They were Alice and herself.
“Oh!” she said. And in a dull voice she asked: “Did he never speak of her to you?”
“No, never.”
She let the picture fall dully on the gravel of the path. Unable to contain herself any longer, she wept helplessly.
Jean took her hand.
“I often thought,” said he, “out there in Africa, how stupid fate was. Why did I not die in his place? Nobody would have wept for me.”
What could she answer? Her dark eyes shone with a sudden light. Shepicked up the photograph before he had time to bend down.
“Thank you, Jean. Come and see us again soon. It would be a charity.”
He looked at her a moment and then departed. She went back slowly through the garden. Her eyes wandered over the flowers. She picked a rose and for the first time in the year felt a little joy at its scent. She thought of her brother’s death in an unexpected way and repeated Jean’s words, of whose lesson she felt the full force: “We must honor the dead but we must also have faith in life.”
Do those words not sum up the incitement to live well which the example of all heroes gives us? They were great in that they did not bargain over their deeds, that in their careers, whether short or long, were manifest the marks of souls free from all fear and weakness. So Paule found consolation and comfort in that very thing which was the source of her heart’s disorder. She swore to herself, as she smelt the flower, that henceforward she would bear the burden of her days bravely, without bitterness, without revolt. Her despised youth would not be useless if she spent herself in willing sacrifice. And when she rejoined her mother she greeted her with an embrace of protection for the old age confided to her care. It was as though she sealed with a kiss the promise of her new-born courage.