Delphi complete works of.., p.249
Delphi Complete Works of Alphonse Daudet (Illustrated), page 249
“Hello! there’s Mamma!...”
At this very moment Mother Aussandon was again on her travels. But for that, the Dean would never have worked so late by an open window. Calm and thoughtful, he was preparing his lecture for the next day; and it was seeing him thus alone that had suggested to Lorie the idea of going to visit him. He had but to cross the garden, tap gently on the door, and he was in the study. A comfortable room, this, with unbound books lying about on the floor, and a large portrait of Mme. Aussandon hanging above the desk, watching with attentive eyes, and a smile ready to break into scolding, the work of the excellent man.
Immediately, without many words, Lorie explained what had brought him hither. He wished to be converted, he and his children, to the Reformed Religion. He had been considering the step for a long time, and now he was eager, very eager to set about it. What must he do? Aussandon smiled gently, and calmed him with a gesture. As for the children, they had but to be sent to “Sunday-school.” Lorie himself must be thoroughly acquainted with his new beliefs; he must study, compare, learn to judge and see for himself, since this religion of truth and light permitted it, yes, even commanded it of all its faithful ones. The Dean would recommend him to a pastor, for he himself was old and worn-out. No one would have guessed it in that noble presence, or from those energetic words that were most disconcerting to the weak and vacillating Lorie. Oh, yes, very old, very weary, on the hill-top!
There was a moment of silence, and a feeling of embarrassment between the two men. Lorie turned away his eyes, a little troubled because of his rash act. The Dean, seated at his desk, gazed down at the blank page before him, and seemed to be stimulated to thought.
“It is on Éline’s account, is it not?” he asked, after a moment.
“Yes.”
“She exacts that of you?”
“She does, or, at least, those who influence her.”
“I know... I know...”
He did know. He had often seen Mme. Autheman’s carriage stop before the door; he knew the woman, and the intrigues of which she was capable.
If Bonne had not forbidden him, he would long ago have warned the mother. Even now, penetrating to the bottom of the plot, of which Lorie had given him but a glimpse, he would have liked to speak.
“Oh! yes. I know her, that Jeanne Autheman. She is a woman who breaks and tears the closest ties, a creature without heart, without pity. Wherever she passes, are tears, disunion, solitude. Warn the mother, for it is not you alone who is concerned in this matter. See that she takes Lina away at once, far away. See that she snatches her from this living death, from this devourer of souls, who is as cold as a ghoul in the cemetery. Perhaps there is still time....”
Aussandon thought all this, but he dared not say it, because of the little old lady there before him, sitting erect in her frame and holding him in check with her prudent peasant glance, and her firm jaw, ready to leap down upon him if he had spoken.
X. THE RETREAT.
PUNCTUAL AND SOLEMN, like all the occupations at the château, breakfast at Port-Sauveur, in the absence of the banker, reunites every morning at eleven o’clock the principal personages of the religious household of Jeanne Autheman. The places are always the same: the President at the end of a long table, Anne de Beuil at her right, at her left J. B. Crouzat, the teacher, with hollow cheeks, a short, stubby Calvinist beard, and blue, globulous eyes, flaming with fanatical fire, bulging from under a peaked forehead.
A native of Charente, the country of Anne de Beuil, he was attending Aussandon’s lectures, with the view of entering the ministry, when some friends took him to hear one of the sermons of the Evangelist. He left the place in that state of exalted emotion that certain preachers draped in their white robes cause in their worldly-minded devotees. With him, however, the impression was more enduring, and for five years he had abandoned family and friends, and had sacrificed his career for the modest place of primary instructor that kept him near Jeanne. Among the country people he passed for her lover, for these coarse peasants could explain in no other way the fervor of the disciple hanging on the words of the apostle. But the Evangelist had never had a lover; and the only passionate words that had ever fallen from those secretive, clearly chiselled lips have remained suspended, crystallized, among the icicles of the Mer de Glace. —
Opposite the Charentais sits Mlle. Hammer, the director of the Girls’ School, a doleful person, with eyes always downcast. She never speaks, unless she is addressed, and then replies with a plaintive “Yes,” of mournful approval, which she pronounces “M-n-yees.” Over all this poor creature there is a crushed look, from the curved shoulders to the diminutive nose on the pale white face, flattened, it might be supposed, by the original fall. So profound within her is the impression made by that first sin, and so overburdened is she by the thought of it, that, incapable of any outside propagandism, timid and of limited intelligence as she is, she hardly dares to direct even her class of little children.
The end of the table, in the place reserved for Pastor Birk on Sundays, is occupied by that pupil, boy or girl, who deserves the highest marks for recitation in the Holy Scriptures. Education at Port-Sauveur is exclusively religious, consisting in committing to memory verses from the Bible, from which are drawn all the lessons, copies for writing in round and running hand, and even the illustrated ABCs. So great is the faith of Jeanne Autheman in the Gospel, that she believes that even though incomprehensible, it acts on the pupils in the same way as the copies of the Koran, which Arabs bind on their foreheads when ill. And it is pitiable to see the greatest of books hemmed and hawed over, stammered over and yawned over by those little peasant voices, stained by the dirt of their hands and the tears of their idleness.
Young Nicolas, the former pensioner of La Petite-Roquette, is the most perfect product of this system of education; consequently it is he who nearly always occupies the seat of honor opposite the President. This boy knows the Scriptures by heart, — all the Gospels according to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Deuteronomy, the Psalms, the Epistles of Paul; and at every turn, and without being questioned, he comes out with some inappropriate quotation uttered in an inarticulate voice that seems to come from the horn of a phonograph. All around him are silent; they listen and admire. It is God speaking through the mouth of this youth. And what a mouth! When one thinks of all the impieties and abominations that it unloaded three years ago in the prison for young criminals! Is it not miraculous, and a most signal testimony in favor of Evangelical schools? So much the more, because there still cling to Nicolas a few stains of his former state of wickedness, — lying, gluttony, prevarication; and because the edifying spectacle is frequently seen of a combat between the good and evil spirit in that imperfectly cleansed conscience, and in his language, in which the words of the preacher constantly and with great difficulty correct the slang of the prisons.
It is beside this phenomenon that Éline takes her place on the days when she breakfasts at the château. Her circumstances are known to them all, and the impious marriage she is about to contract. They know also that the cure of her soul has begun, but that the malady is obstinate and resists all their efforts. All the gentleness and indomitable patience of Mme. Autheman are required to combat such a stubborn will. Anne de Beuil would long ago have chased from the temple with scourges this creature destined to hell-fire. “You wish to burn, child of Satan; very well, then, burn....” This also is the opinion of J. B. Crouzat.
Éline is conscious of the hostility by which she is surrounded. No one speaks to her, no one condescends to notice her presence, except with glances of anger or scorn. Even under the stolid face of the sacristan who waits upon the table, she lowers her head, intimidated, and realizing from the depths of her heart her inferiority among so many saintly personages.
Yet, with all the oppression of these tedious breakfasts at Port-Sauveur, with their convent dishes, — the boiled meat, the watery vegetables, the stewed prunes, — in the solemnity of this long table, with the seats placed far apart, there is something grave and sacred that arouses her religious emotions, as if, unworthy though she is, she were present at the Lord’s Supper. She loves to hear the conversation, which they carry on in subdued voices, and that mystical vocabulary which seems to be wafted from above, and of which she catches such emblematical words as vineyard, tent, flock, or abstractions such as trials, atonement, the wind of the desert, and the breath of the Spirit. She is interested in many things that she does not understand, and which they discuss before her, although she takes no part in the conversation, — the Work, the Workers, that mysterious Retreat, into which she has never penetrated, the chronicle of the religious community of the neighborhood, the moral condition of such and such a family.
“I am much pleased with Gelinot.... Grace is working...” says Anne de Beuil, who kept a detective’s eye upon every corner of the village, and outside it for a radius of ten miles. Or again: “Baraquin is backsliding.... I see he is beginning to stay away from service... Thereupon follows a vehement attack against indifferent Christians, who were renegades and apostates wallowing like swine, in the mire of their sins. Éline is aware that this delicate comparison is meant for her, although it would be difficult to establish any analogy between this Biblical animal and that sweet face flushed with shame, a crimson ear glowing through masses of blond hair.
“Anne, Anne, let us never despair of any sinner....”
And by a motion of the hand, Mme. Autheman calms the sectarian, imitating the infinite gentleness of Jesus when he rebuked Simon the Pharisee.
Then, with her unfailing calmness, eating and drinking with measured movements, she converses freely and at length, in that persuasive voice which causes J. B. Crouzat to catch his breath in admiration, and soothes poor Éline, and transports her away into a mystical dream, into a golden glory in which she would wish to pass away and vanish like an ephemera in the sunshine.
But why does this young girl, so amiable in appearance, so sweet and sensitive in her nature, who is moved to tears when the enormity of her sin is shown her, why does she rebel so long and refuse to come to a positive decision? She has been coming to Port-Sauveur for nearly a month, and the President is astonished at having, as yet, obtained no result. Can Anne de Beuil be right, after all? Is sin to triumph over this soul, so precious in many ways to the Work? Mme. Autheman begins to be apprehensive; and this morning when she enters the hall punctually at eleven, and sees no Éline standing humbly, waiting, as usual, at her place, she thinks:
“This is the end... she will not come again.” But the door opens, and the young girl appears. She is full of animation, and, in spite of her tardiness, a look of assurance shines in her eyes, beneath eyelids swollen with tears. There was an obstruction on the track, causing a stop of fifteen minutes at Choisy. She makes the explanation tranquilly, takes her place at the table, and, with no embarrassment whatever, asks the beadle for bread. They are talking; she joins in the conversation, entirely at her ease, uses the words tent, vineyard, flock, like an adept, and is not in the least confused until Anne de Beuil, in her snappish way, asks:
“Who are those people at the lock? The woman came yesterday by the coach. A big, brazen creature who stares you in the face. She had a little girl by the hand, a sister of young Maurice, it seems. Some more small fry for the Curé!”
Éline has turned pale, tears come to her eyes. Fanny, her child, here, very near her! Beneath the lowered lids she can see the dainty, darling head, and the smooth, pretty braids, tied with a ribbon. Ah! dear little girl... And suddenly, beside her, a harsh, rattling voice breaks the silence of the dismayed table:
“The kid at the lock? Ah, the deuce — I gave the cur a nice chase this morning....”
It is a breath of his evil nature escaping from the lips of young Nicolas. The wretched boy seems himself terrified by what he has just said; and on his face, swollen, convulsed, and purple, as if he had swallowed some food the wrong way, is seen the horrible struggle between the good and evil spirits. Finally the young rascal, with a long swallow of water, extricates himself from his difficulty, and with a deep sigh of relief attacks a verse from Ecclesiastes:
“My soul shall be satisfied with marrow and fatness, and my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips.”
Hallelujah! The devil is once more overthrown. A sigh of satisfaction goes around the table; and amid the tumult of the noon train rushing by, all rise, and fold their napkins, singing, as they do so, a hymn of praise to the Eternal.
“Is it true? Is it true? Ah, my dear child, let me embrace you for the good news.”
It is the cold Jeanne Autheman who rapturously presses Éline to her heart and draws her away:
“Come quickly, and tell me all about it.” At the door of the little salon she changes her mind:
“No, not here... at the Retreat.... It will be better there.”
At the Retreat! What an honor for Lina!
On the sunny balcony, on which the long capes cast dark shadows, Anne de Beuil stops her mistress as she passes:
“Baraquin is there.”
“Speak to him... I have no time.” Then softly, with an expressionless smile:— “She is saved;” and Mme. Autheman moves on, her arm within Éline’s, while her acolyte begins to question the old boatman, who has risen from the bench on which he was waiting, his cap in one hand, with the other scratching his cranium, which was as hard, round, and damp as a stone by the edge of the water.
“Baraquin, why do you no longer attend the meetings?
“I’m goin’ to tell you....”
With a regretful eye he watches the black skirt disappear around a bend in the path, knowing that he would have had a much easier time with the Evangelist than with this old wolf in linen cap.
“I’m very sure that Madame Autheman’s religion is just as good as any other, and no curé could say mass as slick as she does.... But, then, what can I do? Old people have to do as their children like, and they all live far off, where there isn’t no meeting. They want me to go to their church, and, indeed, I must say, that when I went t’ other Sunday to the church of the Bon Dieu at Juvisy, all the candles and bright things and the beautiful Blessed Virgin, all that made me feel as if a lot of grub was stirred up in this poor old dad’s stomach.”
This is not the first time that old Baraquin has played this comedy, to haul in forty francs and a new coat. Anne de Beuil resists, and nothing is more comical than to see them both finessing, peasant against peasant, bargaining just as if they had been at market in Sceaux for this horny old soul, which was certainly not worth the money. But what a triumph for the Curé if Baraquin should return to his old church! However, she allows him to go, muttering as he hobbled away, back bent double, twisted, walking sideways; a false exit. Half-way down the balcony, Anne de Beuil calls him back:
“Baraquin.”
“Pardon?”
And she ascends before him the three steps leading to the small green salon. As he passes young Nicolas, a silent witness to this scene, the peasant winks his eye, and the other, with eyes rolled upward until nothing but the whites is visible, his head on one side, sanctimoniously blurts out an appropriate verse:
“I have caused thy iniquity to pass from thee, and I will clothe thee with change of raiment.”
Then, when he is again alone, he throws aside his hypocritical mask, and with hands in his pockets he skedaddles, whistling as he goes, over the foot-bridge that crosses the railroad track, where for one instant is outlined the thin, vicious face of the blackguard.
During the month that she had been coming to Port-Sauveur Éline had seen nothing of the estate except the parterre laid out in flower-beds, Gabrielle’s stairs, and the avenue of elms that made a long, luminous line toward the white buildings of the temple and schools. It was in the avenue that Madame Autheman had walked with her of late, to catechise her, and show her the consequences that would follow her impious marriage.
“God will strike you through your mother and your children; your face, like that of Job, will be stained with tears.”
The poor child struggled, pleaded her promised word, her pity for the motherless children, and returned to her home wretched and undecided, to repeat, two days later, the same mournful walk under the fragrant elms, where birds were singing joyfully over her head, and the sun sifted through the branches in bright patches which the black gowns seemed to gather up as they passed. As the Evangelist spoke to her of death and of the Divine Atonement, Lina felt that from her torn and bleeding heart all will-power and all belief in happiness were slipping away.
This time Mme. Autheman went beyond her usual place of turning and crossed the entire park, with its copses evenly cut in quincuncial forms, its cleanly raked and well-kept avenues, which here seemed wider, on account of the stateliness of the French style of gardening, the arbor curiously pruned in the form of porches, peristyles with box-trees shaped like balls, yew-trees looking like elevated vases, in imitation of marble, with ivy and acanthus wound about them. Jeanne was silent, and leaned on the arm of the neophyte, who was deeply agitated by this primeval silence, broken only by the frou-frou of their skirts, or the cracking of the twigs that the Lyonnaise, with her instinct of regularity, removed from her path.
A gate stopped them. Jeanne Autheman made it slide back on its rusty hinges; then the aspect of the land changed, and became rural and wild. They saw pathways overgrown with grass, clusters of shimmering birch-trees in fields brilliant with heather, gay hedges swarming with birds, beech-trees and oaks under which were beds of moss. It was like some old forest plantation. In the midst of a glade was a chalet built of pine, a real Swiss chalet, with its exterior stairs, its small latticed windows, its veranda running beneath the long sloping roof, which was held in place by large rocks, to protect it from the mountain storms.
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