Marie Claire Part 2

I used to give Colette my arm nearly every day. She never talked to me much, and then only about the other girls. When I sat down next to her she used to look at me queerly. She said she thought I was a queer little thing. One day she asked me if I thought her pretty. Directly she said it, I remembered that Sister Marie-Aimee said that she was as black as a mole. I saw, however, that she had a broad forehead, fine big eyes, and the rest of her face was small and refined. Whenever I looked at her, I didn't quite know why, but I thought of a well, deep and dark, and full of hot water. No, I didn't think her pretty, but I wouldn't tell her so because she was a cripple. I said she would be much prettier if her skin were whiter. Little by little I became her friend. She told me that she hoped to go away and get married like Nina had done. Nina used to come and see us on Sundays with her child.

Colette took hold of my arm and said, "You see, I must get married. I must." Then she stretched herself, bending her whole body forward.

Sometimes she used to cry, and was in such deep trouble that I could not find anything to say to her. She would look at her poor twisted legs, and groan out, "There would have to be a miracle for me to get away from here."

All of a sudden I got the idea that the Virgin could bring this miracle about. Colette thought it a splendid idea. She was quite surprised that she had never thought of it. It was only fair that she should have legs like the others. She wanted to see about it at once. She explained to me that several girls would be necessary for the nine days' prayer, and said that we must go and purify ourselves at communion, and that during nine days we would pray all the time, so as to get help from Our Lady in heaven. This had to be done in the greatest secrecy. It was arranged that Sophie should be one of us because she was so very good, and Colette said she would talk to some of the big girls who were good, too. Two days afterwards it was all arranged. Colette was to fast during the nine days. On the tenth day, which would be a Sunday, she would go to communion as usual, leaning on her stick and the arm of one of us. Then, when she had taken the holy wafer, she would make a vow to bring up her children in the love of the Virgin, and after that she would rise up straight and would sing the "Te Deum" in her beautiful voice, and we would all sing it with her.

For nine days I prayed more fervently than I had ever prayed before.

The ordinary prayers seemed insipid. I recited the Virgin's Litany. I hunted up the most beautiful hymns of praise that I could find, and repeated them without getting tired. "Star of the Morning, make Colette whole." The first time, I remained on my knees for so long that Sister Marie-Aimee scolded me. n.o.body noticed the little signs which we made to one another, and the nine days of prayer pa.s.sed off without any one knowing anything about them.

Colette was very pale when she came to ma.s.s. Her cheeks were thinner than ever, and she stood with her eyes cast down. Her eyelids were deep violet. I thought to myself that the end of her martyrdom had come, and I was filled with a deep joy. Quite close to me, the picture of the Virgin in a flowing white robe smiled as it looked at me, and in an outburst of all my faith my thoughts cried out, "Oh, Mirror of Justice, make Colette whole!" My temples were stretched tightly. I was straining every nerve to keep my thoughts from wandering, and I went on saying, "Oh, Mirror of Justice, make Colette whole!" Colette went up to the communion table. Her stick made a little clickety noise on the flagstones. When she was on her knees the girl who had gone up to the table with her came back to us with the stick. She knew that it would be of no further use.

Colette tried to get up, and fell back again on to her knees. Her hand reached out to take her stick, and when she didn't find it by her side, she tried again to raise herself without it. She clung to the Holy Table and caught hold of the arm of one of the Sisters, who was taking communion with her. Then her shoulders rocked and she fell over, pulling the Sister down with her. Two of us rushed forward and dragged poor Colette to her bench. But I was still hoping against hope, and until ma.s.s was over I was hoping to hear the Te Deum. As soon as I could, I went back to Colette. The big girls were round her trying to console her, and advising her to give herself to G.o.d for ever. She was crying gently, not sobbing. Her head was bent a little forward, and her tears fell on her hands, which were crossed one over the other. I kneeled down in front of her, and when she looked at me, I said:

"Perhaps you can get married even though you are a cripple." Colette's story was soon known to everybody. Everybody felt so sad about it that we stopped playing noisy games. Ismerie thought she was telling me a tremendous piece of news when she told me all about it. Sophie told me that we must submit to the will of Our Lady, because She knew what was necessary for Colette's happiness better than we did.

I should have liked to have known whether Sister Marie-Aimee knew about Colette. I did not see her till the afternoon, when we were out walking. She did not look sad. She looked almost pleased. I had never seen her look so pretty. Her whole face shone. While we were out I noticed that she walked as though something was lifting her up.

I never remembered to have seen her walk like that. Her veil fluttered a little at the shoulders, and her stomacher didn't hide all her neck.

She paid no attention to us. She was looking at nothing, but she seemed to be seeing something. Every now and then she smiled as though somebody were talking to her from inside.

In the evening after dinner I found her sitting on the old bench under the big linden tree. M. le Cure was sitting next to her with his back against the tree. They looked serious. I thought they were talking about Colette, and I remained standing some distance from them. Sister Marie-Aimee was saying, as though she were answering a question, "Yes, when I was fifteen." M. le Cure said, "You had no vocation at fifteen." I didn't hear what Sister Marie-Aimee answered, but M. le Cure went on, "Or, rather, at fifteen you had every possible vocation.

A kind word, or a little indifference would be enough to change your whole life." He said nothing for a moment, and then, in a lower tone, he said, "Your parents were very much to blame." Sister Marie-Aimee answered, "I regret nothing." They remained for a long time without saying a word. Then Sister Marie-Aimee raised one finger as though she were impressing something on him, and said, "Everywhere, in spite of all and always." M. le Cure stretched his hand out a little way, laughed, and repeated, "Everywhere, in spite of all and always."

The goodnight bell sounded all of a sudden, and M. le Cure went off, down the avenue of linden trees. For a long time afterwards I used to repeat the words I had heard them say, but I could never fit them in to poor Colette's story.

Colette had given up all hopes of a miracle to take her away, and yet she could not make up her mind to remain. When she saw all the girls of her own age go one by one, she began to rebel. She would not go to confession anymore, and she would not take holy communion. She used to go to ma.s.s because she sang there, and she was fond of music. I often stopped with her and consoled her. She explained to me that marriage meant love.

Sister Marie-Aimee, who had not been well for some time, became quite ill. Madeleine nursed her devotedly and treated us dreadfully badly.

She was particularly unkind to me, and when she saw me tired of sewing she would say, trying to turn her nose up, "If mademoiselle objects to sewing, she had better take a broom and sweep." One Sunday she hit upon the idea of making me clean the stairs during ma.s.s. It was January. A damp cold which came up from the pa.s.sages climbed the steps and got under my dress. I swept as hard as I could to keep warm. The sound of the harmonium came from the chapel out to me. From time to time I recognized Madeleine's thin piercing tones, and M. le Cure's jerky notes. I could follow ma.s.s by the singing. All of a sudden Colette's voice rose above all the others. It was strong and pure. It broadened, drowned the sound of the harmonium, drowned everything else, and then seemed to fly away over the linden trees, over the house, and over the church spire itself. It made me tremble, and when the voice came down to earth, trembling a little as it went back into the church and was swept up by the sound of the harmonium again, I began to cry, sobbing as though I were quite a little girl. Then Madeleine's sharp voice pierced through the others once more, and I swept and swept hard as though my broom could scratch out the voice which was so disagreeable to me.

That was the day Sister Marie-Aimee called me to her. She had been up in her room for two months. She was a little better, but I noticed that her eyes did not s.h.i.+ne at all. They made me think of a rainbow which had almost melted away. She made me tell her funny little stories about what had been going on, and she tried to smile while she was listening to me, but her lips only smiled on one side of her mouth.

She asked me if I had heard her screaming. "Oh yes," I said, I had heard her during her illness. She had screamed so dreadfully in the middle of the night that the whole dormitory had been kept awake.

Madeleine was coming and going. We heard her splas.h.i.+ng water about, and when I asked her what was the matter with Sister Marie-Aimee, she said, as she hurried past, that she had rheumatism. I remembered at once that Bonne Justine used to have rheumatism too, but she had never screamed like that, and I remember wondering whether poor Sister Marie-Aimee's legs were swollen to three times their size, like those of Bonne Justine. Her cries got worse and worse. One of them was so terrible that it seemed to come right out of her vitals. Then we had heard her moaning, and that was all. A few moments afterwards Madeleine had come up and whispered to Marie Renaud, Marie Renaud had put on her dress, and I heard her go downstairs; Directly afterwards she came back with M. le Cure. He rushed into Sister Marie-Aimee's room, and Madeleine closed the door behind him. He did not remain very long, but he went away again much more slowly than he had come. He walked with his head sunk down between his shoulders, and his right hand was holding his cloak over his left arm, as though he were carrying something valuable. I thought to myself that he was taking away the holy oils, and I did not dare ask whether Sister Marie-Aimee were dead. I have never forgotten the blow I got from Madeleine's fist when I clung to her dress. She knocked me right over and whispered, as she ran past, "She is better." As soon as Sister Marie-Aimee was well again, Madeleine was kinder, and everything went on as before.

I disliked sewing as much as ever, and my hatred for it began to make Sister Marie-Aimee uneasy. She mentioned it in front of me to M. le Cure's sister. M. le Cure's sister was an old maid with a long face and big faded eyes. We called her Mademoiselle Maximilienne. Sister Marie-Aimee told her how anxious she was about my future. She said that I learned things easily, but that no kind of sewing interested me.

She had noticed for some time that I was fond of study, and she had made inquiries to find out whether I had no distant relatives who would look after me, she said. But the only relation I had was an old woman who had adopted my sister, but refused to take me. Mademoiselle Maximilienne offered to take me into her dressmaking business. M. le Cure thought that was a very good idea, and said that he would be pleased to go and teach me a little, twice a week. Sister Marie-Aimee seemed really happy at this. She did not know what to say to thank them. It was agreed that I should go to Mademoiselle Maximilienne as soon as M. le Cure returned from a journey to Rome, which he had to make. Sister Marie-Aimee would get my outfit ready for me, and Mademoiselle Maximilienne would go to the Mother Superior and ask her permission, she said. I felt dreadfully uncomfortable at the idea that the Mother Superior was to have anything to do with it. I could not forget the unkind look she always gave me when she pa.s.sed the old bench and saw me sitting there with Sister Marie-Aimee and M. le Cure. So I waited impatiently to hear what she would say to Mademoiselle Maximilienne. M. le Cure had been away for a week, and Sister Marie-Aimee used to talk to me every day about my new work. She told me how glad she would be to see me on Sundays. She gave me all kinds of good advice, told me to be good and to take care of my health.

The Mother Superior sent for me one morning. When I went into her room I noticed that she was sitting in a big red armchair. I began to remember some ghost stories which I had heard the girls tell about her, and when I saw her sitting there, all black in the middle of all that red, I compared her in my mind to a huge poppy which had grown in a cellar. She opened and closed her eyelids several times. She had a smile on her face which was like an insult. I felt myself blus.h.i.+ng, but I did not turn my eyes away. She gave a little sneering chuckle, and said, "You know why I sent for you?" I answered that I thought it was to talk to me about Mademoiselle Maximilienne. She sneered again, "Oh, yes; Mademoiselle Maximilienne," she said. "Well, my child, you must undeceive yourself. We have made up our minds to place you on a farm in Sologne." She half closed her eyes and snapped out, "You are to be a shepherdess, young woman." Then she added, rapping the words out, "You will look after the sheep." I said simply, "Very well, mother." She pulled herself up out of the depths of her armchair and asked me, "Do you know what looking after the sheep means?" I answered that I had seen shepherdesses in the fields. She bent her yellow face towards me and went on, "You will have to clean the stables. They smell very unpleasantly, and the shepherdesses are dirty. You will help in the work of the farm, and be taught to milk the cows and look after the pigs." She spoke very loud, as though she were afraid I should not understand her. I answered as I had answered before, "Very well, mother." She pulled herself up by the arms of her chair, fastened her s.h.i.+ning eyes on me, and said, "You don't mean to tell me that you are not proud?" I smiled, and said, "No, mother." She seemed very much surprised, but, as I went on smiling, her voice grew softer.

"Really, my child?" she said. "I always thought you were proud." She dropped back into her chair again, hid her eyes under their lids, and began talking quickly in a monotonous voice, as she did when she said prayers. She said that I must obey my masters, that I must never forget my religious duties, and that the farmer's wife would come and fetch me the day before the feast of St. John.

I went out of her room with feelings which I could not express. But I felt horribly afraid of hurting Sister Marie-Aimee's feelings. How could I tell her? I had no time to think. Sister Marie-Aimee was waiting for me in the pa.s.sage. She took hold of my two shoulders, bent her face towards me, and said, "Well?" She looked anxious. I said, "She wants me to be a shepherdess." She did not understand, and frowned, "A shepherdess," she said. "What do you mean?" I hurried on, "She has found a place for me in a farm, and I am to milk cows and look after the pigs." Sister Marie-Aimee pushed me away so roughly that I b.u.mped against the wall. She ran towards the door. I thought she was going to the Mother Superior's room, but she went out, and came back again, and began walking up and down the pa.s.sage, taking long steps.

Her fists were clenched, and she kept tapping with her foot on the floor. She was breathing hard. Then she leaned up against the wall, let her arms fall as though she were overcome, and, in a voice which seemed to come from a long way off, she said: "She is revenging herself. Yes, she is revenging herself." She came back to me, took my two hands affectionately in hers, and asked, "Didn't you tell her that you would not go? Didn't you beg her to let you go to Mademoiselle Maximilienne?" I shook my head and repeated in her own words exactly what the Mother Superior had said to me. She listened without interrupting me. Then she told me to say nothing about it to the other girls. She thought that everything would be all right when M. le Cure came back.

Next Sunday, as we were getting into line to go to ma.s.s, Madeleine ran into the room like a mad thing. She threw her arms up in the air, cried out, "M. le Cure is dead!" and fell right down across the table near her. Everybody stopped talking, and we all ran to Madeleine, who was screaming and crying. We wanted to know all about it. But she rocked herself up and down on the table, and kept on repeating, "He is dead! he is dead!" I could not think at all. I did not know whether I was sorry or not, and all the time ma.s.s was going on, Madeleine's voice sounded in my ears like a bell. There was no walk that day. Even the little girls kept quite quiet. I went to look for Sister Marie-Aimee.

She had not been at ma.s.s, and I knew from Marie Renaud that she was not ill. I found her in the refectory. She was sitting on her little platform. She was leaning her head sideways on the table, and her arms were hanging down beside her chair. I sat myself down some distance away from her. But when I heard her moaning I began to sob too, hiding my face in my hands. But I did not sob long, and I knew that I was not as sorry as I wanted to be. I tried to cry, but I could not shed a single tear. I was a little bit ashamed of myself because I believed that one ought to cry when somebody died, and I didn't dare uncover my face for fear that Sister Marie-Aimee should think that I was hard hearted. I listened to her crying. Her moaning reminded me of the wind at winter-time in the big fireplace. It went up and down as if she were trying to compose a kind of song. Then her voice stumbled and broke, and ended up in deep trembling notes. A little before dinner-time, Madeleine came into the refectory. She took Sister Marie-Aimee away with her, putting her arm round her, and taking care of her as they walked. In the evening she told us that M. le Cure had died in Rome, and that he would be brought back to be buried with his family.

Next day Sister Marie-Aimee looked after us as usual. She didn't cry any more, but she would not let us talk to her. She walked along with her eyes on the ground, and seemed to have forgotten me. I had only one day more, as the Mother Superior had told me I should be fetched next day, for the day after was the feast of St. John. In the evening, at the end of prayers, when Sister Marie-Aimee had said, "Lord, be pitiful to exiles and give your aid to prisoners," she added, in a loud voice, "We will say a prayer for one of your companions who is going out into the world." I understood at once that she was talking of me, and I felt that I was as much to be pitied as the exiles and the prisoners were. I could not get to sleep that night. I knew that I was going next day, but I didn't know what Sologne was like. I imagined it to be a country very far off, where there were large plains with flowers on them. I imagined myself the shepherdess of a troop of beautiful white sheep, with two dogs by my side which kept the sheep in order at a sign from me. I would not have dared to tell Sister Marie-Aimee so, but just then I liked the idea of being a shepherdess much better than the idea of being in a shop. Ismerie, who was snoring loud, next to me, reminded me of my comrades again.

It was such a bright night that I could see all the beds quite distinctly. I looked at one after the other, stopping a little at those of the girls I was fond of. Almost opposite me I saw my friend Sophie, with her magnificent hair. It was scattered about over the pillow, and lighted up the bed quite brightly. A little further down the room were the beds of Chemineau the Proud, and her twin sister, the Fool. Chemineau the Proud had a big smooth white forehead and gentle eyes. She never said it was not true when she was accused of doing anything wrong. She simply shrugged her shoulders and looked round her with contempt. Sister Marie-Aimee used to say that her conscience was as white as her forehead. Chemineau the Fool was half as tall again as her sister. Her hair was coa.r.s.e, and came down nearly to her eyebrows.

Her shoulders were square, and her hips were broad. We used to call her the sister's watch-dog. And down at the other end of the dormitory was Colette. She still believed that I was going to Mademoiselle Maximilienne. She was quite sure that I should get married very soon, and she had made me promise to come and fetch her as soon as I was married. I thought about her for a long time. Then I looked at the window and the shadows of the linden trees were thrown in my direction.

It was as though they had come to say good-bye to me, and I smiled at them. On the other side of the lindens I could see the infirmary. It looked as though it were trying to hide itself, and its little windows made me think of weak eyes. I looked at the infirmary for some time, thinking of Sister Agatha. She was so bright and so good that the little girls always laughed when she scolded them. She did the doctoring. When one of us went to her with a bad finger, she always had something funny to say, and she always knew whether we were greedy or vain, and would promise us a cake or a ribbon accordingly. She used to pretend to look for it, and while we were looking to see where it was, the bad place on the finger would be p.r.i.c.ked, washed, and tied up.

I remember a chilblain that I had on my foot which would not get well.

One morning Sister Agatha said to me solemnly, "Listen, Marie Claire.

I must put something miraculous on this, and if your foot is not better in three days, we shall have to cut it off." For three days I was very careful not to walk on that foot so as not to disturb this miraculous something. I thought it must be a piece of the true cross, or perhaps a piece of the veil of the Holy Virgin. On the third day my foot was completely cured, and when I asked Sister Agatha what the miraculous remedy was that she had put on it, she laughed, called me a little silly, and showed me a box of ointment which was called "miraculous ointment."

It was late at night when I went to sleep, and I began to expect the farmer's wife directly morning came. I wanted her to come, and I was afraid of her coming. Sister Marie-Aimee looked up quickly every time the door opened. Just as we were finis.h.i.+ng dinner, the porteress came and asked if I were ready to go. Sister Marie-Aimee said that I should be ready in a moment. She got up and told me to go with her. She helped me to dress, gave me a little bundle of linen, and all of a sudden she said, "They will bring him back to-morrow, and you will not be there." Then she looked into my eyes, "Swear to me," she said, "that you will say a _De Profundis_ for him every night." I promised to do so. Then she pulled me to her quite roughly, pressed me to her hard, and ran off to her room. I heard her saying as she went, "My G.o.d! this is too much!" I crossed the courtyard by myself, and the farmer's wife, who was waiting for me, took me away.

PART II

I was tucked in among a lot of old baskets in a cart covered with a hood, and when the horse stopped of his own accord at the farm it had been dark for a long time.

The farmer came out of the house carrying a lantern which he held high up in the air, and which only lit up the toes of his wooden shoes. He came and helped us to get out of the cart, then he lifted his lantern up to my face, stood back a little and said, "What a funny little servant girl."

His wife took me to a room where there were two beds. She showed me mine, and told me that I should be all alone on the farm with the cowherd next day, because every one was going to the feast of St. John.

As soon as I was up next morning, the cowherd took me to the stables to help him give the fodder to the cattle. He showed me the sheep pens, and told me that I was going to look after the lambs instead of old Bib.i.+.c.he. He explained to me that the lambs were taken from their mothers every year, and that a special shepherdess was needed to look after them. He also told me that the name of the farm was Villevieille, and that everybody was happy there because Master[1]