Delphi complete works of.., p.251
Delphi Complete Works of Alphonse Daudet (Illustrated), page 251
The weather was mild and balmy, with a white mist rising from the ground, soaked by the deluge of the night before. By noon it would either condense into rain, or dissipate under the rays of the sun.
Walking at first beside the walls of the estate, she could see through the massive gates, placed at intervals along the way, green lawns, blossoming flower vases, and rows of orange-trees planted before the veranda, — a vision of summer that danced and gleamed in the fog, and was suggestive of the diaphanous dresses worn by fair Parisiennes the evening before. But now Mme. Ebsen suddenly found herself in the open country; hillsides covered with vineyards and beet-fields, broad ploughed spaces, over which hovered flocks of crows, fields of potatoes, in which she could distinguish sacks filled and placed in heaps, and the dim outlines of men and women crouched near the ground, making the same hazy, indistinct spots in the white mist.
The mother was overwhelmed by the gloom of her surroundings, as by some physical oppression, which increased as she drew near Port-Sauveur, the red roofs and immense shade-trees of which she could distinguish half-way up the hill. After having skirted a seemingly interminable park, its walls overhung with ivy and Virginia creeper, crimsoning in the autumn sun, she passed the railroad at a level crossing, and found herself on the bank of the Seine, in front of the château. There was the half-moon of turf with its iron chains before the entrance, the long house, and that monumental grating masked by closed Venetian blinds, through which she tried to discover something besides the tops of the trees. She was, indeed, there.
She pulled the bell faintly, then again, and during the time that it took for some one to open the door, she prepared her introductory speech, which should be brief and polite. But when the door was opened, she forgot everything, and rushing forward, gasped:
“My daughter! where is she?... At once... I wish to see her....’
The valet, in his working apron, and with the silver P. S. embossed on the collar of his black coat, replied, as he had been ordered to do, that Mlle. Éline had left the château the evening before; and upon a gesture of furious denial, added:
“However, Madame is within... if Madame would like to speak to her.”
Behind him, she traversed passage-ways, a balcony, and ascended a flight of stairs, without seeing where she was going, and found herself in a small green salon, where Mme. Autheman, calm and erect, was writing at her desk. The sight of the familiar face, and the gentle, impressive smile, softened her anger.
“Ah! Madame, Madame... Lina... this letter... What does it all mean?”
And she burst into convulsive sobs, which shook and weakened her stout, pitiable body. Mme. Autheman believed she could easily bring this weak, tearful person to reason, and seating herself on the divan beside her, spoke with her usual gentleness and unction:
“Come, you should not grieve in this way, but you should rather rejoice and bless the Saviour, who has condescended to enlighten his child, and to draw her soul from the black sepulchre....” This mystic healing, applied to the quivering heart, more than ever human, affected it like a red-hot iron. The mother drew away, and with dry eyes rose:
“All those are but words.... My child... I wish to see her....”
“Éline is no longer here,” exclaimed Mme. Autheman, with a sigh of sadness before this sacrilegious rebellion.
“Then tell me where she is. I insist upon knowing where my daughter is.”
With perfect calmness, for she was accustomed to this sort of explanation, the President explained that Éline Ebsen had left France, with the intention of spreading the Gospel in other lands, perhaps in England, perhaps in Switzerland, — it was not yet fully determined. In any case, Éline would send her mother news of herself, and she would always cherish toward her the sentiments of a devoted Christian daughter.
It was Éline’s letter over again, in almost the exact words, slowly, composedly detailed, in a tone of unchanging mildness, that threw Mme. Ebsen into a rage, into an almost murderous paroxysm of fury, as she looked upon this woman, correct in demeanour, her well-fitting black gown bringing out all the pallor of the slender cheeks and prominent forehead. The large, limpid eyes, almost without pupils, had in them all the coldness and hardness of stone, and were devoid of all tenderness and feminine pity.
“Oh! I shall certainly strangle her,” she thought. But her hands, clasped convulsively, were extended in entreaty.
“Mme. Autheman, give me back my little Lina... I have only her in the world. If she leaves me, there is nothing more.... Mon Dieu! How happy we were together!... You have seen our little home, so well cared for, so neat... no chance to sulk there. It was not large enough for anything but embraces.”
Sobs shook her like a tempest, choked her, drowned her supplications. She asked but one thing, — to see her child, and speak to her; then, if all this were true, if Lina herself said so, she would yield; indeed she would, she promised it.
An interview! This was precisely what Jeanne could not permit. To convince the mother, she preferred to quote extracts from sermons, and pious phrases from her little books: Consolation in Jesus... Affliction which disposes to Prayer. And becoming gradually moved by her own words, she cried:
“But it is you, wretched woman, it is your soul that Éline wishes to save; and your deep sorrow is the beginning of salvation.”
Mme. Ebsen listened, her eyes on the ground, but heart and mind on the defensive. Suddenly with the firmness of one who has come to a decision, she burst out:
“Very well! You will not give me back my Lina... I mean to appeal to the law. We shall see whether such abominations are allowed.”
In spite of these threats, by which she was scarcely moved, Mme. Autheman herself walked with her as far as the veranda, and ordered a servant to accompany her the rest of the distance, as majestic, as unfeeling, all the while, as destiny. Half-way down the avenue, the mother turned, and stopped a moment on the terrace, where her daughter had walked yesterday, perhaps even this very morning. She glanced over the great, silent park, dominated by the white stone cross standing out through the fog like the pinnacle of a cemetery.
Oh! to dash into those dense-woods, towards that cavern of death in which she was sure her daughter was buried alive, to burst open the door, and rush in with a great and terrible cry, “Lina!” to take her in her arms, carry her far away, and restore her to life... these thoughts flashed like lightning through the poor brain. Then a feeling of shame held her back, and the knowledge of her impotency, in the presence of all this luxury and orderliness with which, in spite of her trouble, she was impressed. Justice! Her only recourse was justice.
Resolute and determined, she went directly toward the village, having decided on her plan, a very simple one. She would see the Mayor, make her complaint, and return with a gendarme, a rural guard, some one who would see that her child was restored to her, who would compel that wicked woman to confess what she had done with her. She never doubted the success of her undertaking, and even asked herself whether, before entering upon such decided measures, she had done her best in the employment of conciliatory means. Yes, she had wept, she had entreated with clasped hands, but a deaf ear had been turned to her. So much the worse for the woman! That would teach that kidnapper a lesson.
In the one street of the village, along which cottages stood at regular intervals, with their little gardens drawn out before them like the drawers of a bureau, not a soul was stirring. Everybody must have been in the fields, for it was harvest time. As the poor mother proceeded on her way, from time to time a curtain would be lifted, a dog would come out to sniff at the stranger; but the curtain was dropped immediately, the dog did not bark. Nothing disturbed this gloomy silence, that reminded one of a barracks or penitentiary.
On an elevation, shaded by old elms in quincuncial forms, stood the temple, flanked by two Evangelical schools, shining, even under the cloudy sky, with the reflection of their newly whitened stone. Before the high, half-opened windows of the girls’ school,’ Mme. Ebsen stopped to listen to a tumult of little piping voices, reciting rhythmically, without a pause: “Who-in-the-Heaven-can-be-compared-un-to-the-Lord? Who-a-mong-the-sons-of-the-might-y-can-be-lik-ened-un-to-the-Lord?” accompanied by the taps of a ruler on the table to indicate the quickening or the retarding of the reading.
Suppose she should go in!
This is where Éline gave her lessons. Perhaps she might learn something there. Who knows, even, if she might not find her within, conducting her class, as usual? She pushed open the door, and between four white walls covered with Bible texts, she saw crouched before the desks several long rows of black pinafores, with little black caps drawn over the sunburnt peasant faces. At the far end of the room a tall young woman, sallow and bloated, presided, a Bible in one hand, a long ferule in the other. On seeing Mme. Ebsen enter, she advanced, and at the interruption of the lesson every young head was raised with curiosity.
“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. I am Lina’s Mamma.”
“Continue!” cried the frightened Mlle. Hammer, to the children, in as loud a voice as her humble tones would allow. And the whole class continued in unison: “O-Lord-God-of-Hosts.”... Certainly poor Hammer must have been terribly confused to be so animated, and to drive Mme. Ebsen back toward the door, answering every one of her questions with her doleful, disconsolate “M-n-yes, m-n-yes,” in which was evident all the despair and humiliation she felt on account of the baleful adventure of Adam and Eve under the apple-tree, so many thousands of years ago.
“Do you know my daughter?”
“M-n-yes.”
“Is not this where she taught?”
“M-n-yes.”
“Is it true that she has gone away? Oh, tell me! Have pity.”
“M-n-yes, m-n-yes. I know nothing... inquire at the château.”
And this timid creature, who nevertheless had the grip of an Ignorantine, pushed the mother out of the door, and closed it on her, while the class with furious energy continued to recite: “For-the-ways-of-the-Lord-are-right-and-the-just-shall-walk-in-them.”
On the other side of the street was seen the tricolored flag that indicated the Mayor’s office, and on the gray walls, in large black letters, R. F., which Mme. Autheman had not yet dared to replace by her P. S. On the lower floor, behind a window, a stout man, with pallid, beadle-like face, was writing. He was the Mayor’s secretary; but Mme. Ebsen wished to speak with the Mayor.
“He is not in,” said the man, without turning his head.
“At what hour can he be seen?”
“Every day from six to seven, at the château.”
“At the chateau? Why, then he is...”
“Yes, M. Autheman.”
There was nothing to hope for in this quarter Then she thought of the Cure, who must be their enemy, and who would give her, certainly, cither advice or assistance. She inquired where he lived, and hastened at once toward the river bank. On the way she saw a small omnibus being harnessed in front of an office, which bore the sign: Railway Transfer, Carriages to hire. She approached the driver, and asked if he knew a beautiful young girl, tall, a blonde, who was dressed in deep mourning; and to quicken the peasant’s memory, slipped into his hand a piece of silver. Did he know her? He rather thought he did. It was he who drove her three times a week.
“Did you drive her yesterday? and this morning? Oh! try and remember, I implore you.” She had the imprudence to add: “She is my daughter. They have taken her from me.”
The man immediately became confused, — he could remember nothing more.... Had she come yesterday? They would tell her at the château.... Always the château! The long gray house seemed to become larger and taller, until in the mind of the mother it assumed the proportions of a bastille, a fortress, one of those immense feudal buildings, overshadowing with its towers and undermining with its groundworks and moats all the country around about.
Standing on the water’s edge, opposite a little creek over which women washing their linen were bending, the parsonage, with its wherries moored fast at the foot of the steps, and its nets stretched out like hammocks to dry, between two poles, looked as if it were a fisherman’s cottage. The Curé immediately inspired her with confidence, with his robust form, his small, childish features half-buried in the broad face, ruddy and dimpled. He invited this well-dressed visitor to enter his small salon, which was chilly from the dampness of the ground-floor and the river. He was somewhat startled by her first words: “It is an unhappy mother who comes to beg for aid and succor,” for the poor man had not a penny to give, and still more alarmed by her next: “Madame Autheman has just stolen my child from me.”
She did not notice the sudden indifference and coldness that overspread the face of this well-fed priest, and vehemently began her story. The Curé recalled the advice of his Bishop concerning the bankers, and also the misadventure of Sister Octavia, and considered it unwise, for the sake of a stranger, to venture upon so dangerous a campaign, After a few words, he interrupted her hastily:
“Pardon, Madame, but are you not a Protestant? Then, how is it that you wish me to interfere in all this? These are family matters that your pastor can settle more easily than I.”
“But, Monsieur le Curé, this is a question of humanity far more than of religion. A woman, a mother, comes to you. You will not reject her, I implore you.”
He saw that he had spoken too harshly, and that he should at least clothe his refusal in words of sympathy. Ah! without doubt, the story of this poor lady was very touching, and her tears were evidently sincere. Certainly the person in question — it was not necessary, was it, to particularize more fully — brought into her religious convictions a blind ardor, a zeal for propagandism that was most reprehensible. He himself had been the first to suffer from it. Besides, in all religions, women always rush in headlong, and overstep the bounds of reason and the ends desired. Catholic priests are familiar with these fanatical enthusiasts who, under pretext of caring for the altar and renewing the flowers, meddle in affairs that concern the vestry. They have to be continually pacified. But Protestant pastors have not the same authority. Besides, what can you expect in a religion where criticism and inquiry are allowed, a religion devoid of discipline, into which everybody may enter, as into a mill, and believe what he pleases! He may even, if that amuses him, play at being a priest. Besides, consider the medley of sects, of beliefs!
He became animated, for his heart was hot against Lutherans and Calvinists, and he was proud to display his erudition on a subject to which he had given special study during the leisure hours which his small parish allowed. He began to enumerate the countless sects that, besides the great divisions of Liberals and Orthodox, severed the Reformed Church.
“Count them,” he said, raising one after another his fat fingers, which from contact with the oars and the net were covered with callus. “You have the Irvingites, who wish to return to the primitive ideas of the Apostolic age; the Sabbatarians, demanding a Sabbath like that of the Jews; the Pelagians, whose religion consists in striking their breasts violently with their fists; the Darbyites, who rebel against all ecclesiastical organization and accept no intermediary between their pride and God; the Methodists, the Wesleyans, the Mormons, the Anabaptists, the Howlers, the Tremblers, and gracious knows how many more!”
The poor woman listened, dumfounded, to this theological nomenclature; and, as if all these sects stood up as so many barriers between her daughter and herself, she pressed her hand over her eyes, and murmured: “My child! my child!” in accents so heartrending that the priest was touched, and abandoned his constraint.
“But, Madame, of course there are laws. You must go to Corbeil, and there make your complaint to the public prosecutor. I know you have a difficult task before you, and several years ago, in a case in which the circumstances were similar to yours, even after the inquiry had begun.... But that was under the government of the Sixteenth of May, and you will doubtless be more fortunate under a truly Republican régime.”
He emphasized the last words with a certain malice that changed the expression of his chubby features.
“Is it far, — Corbeil?” asked the mother, hastily.
No; Corbeil was not far. She had only to follow the river bank as far as Juvisy, from which place the train would take her there in twenty minutes.
She started on her journey along the narrow road in the direction of Juvisy, whose white houses she might have distinguished grouped together at the turn which the Seine makes at that point, if the fog, which was thicker than ever, had not prevented her from seeing anything fifty feet away.
The river lay motionless beneath the fog, and seemed congealed between the trees, whose indistinct forms were vaguely outlined along the banks. From time to time she saw a wherry anchored in the water, with the silhouette of a fisherman sitting erect, fishing-pole in hand. The silence was overwhelming; the very air seemed to be filled with expectation and with anguish which weighed upon the already exhausted mother, for she had eaten nothing since the night before. Faint, sore, and weakened by tears, she slipped with every step she trod along the unfrequented road, full of weeds and mud.
Her thoughts proved no less wearisome than her journey, for, like a disobedient child, they ran ahead of her a dozen times, always returning to start again. She was already picturing to herself her entrance into the Procureur’s presence, what he would say, and what she would reply. Then, suddenly remembering that she was here alone, splashing through this muddy, deserted road, going in search of gendarmes, that they might forcibly restore her child to her arms, she was overcome with an immense discouragement. Of what use were judges and soldiers, since her daughter no longer loved her? She repeated, word for word, the dreadful letter that she had re-read so often since the morning: “God calls me. I am going to him. Your devoted daughter.”
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