Nêne/Part 2/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI
MICHAEL returned from Chantepie where he had attended to the last formalities. Everything was settled: he would be baptised on the Sunday before the wedding. The priest had consented to do the thing simply, quietly, without pomp, without parade of victory, and Michael was glad of it. He told his joy to Madeleine, whom he was now keeping posted about everything. She answered merely a word or two in a tone of polite indifference.
Then he turned to the children:
"I didn't forget you," he said. "Here, Jo!"
He handed the baby a bagful of sugar almonds.
"You, too, Lalie! See what I've got!"
Madeleine stopped her work while Lalie came to her father, all curiosity.
"Look at this box!—Did you ever see such a pretty one?"
He set on the table a little work box covered with blue plush and opened it with a tiny key.
"See, it's fitted out with everything necessary for sewing.—And the name that's marked here,—can you read it?"
The little girl spelled out:
"Eu-la-lie. That's my name!"
Lalie passed the box to Madeleine, who opened it and immediately looked for the name. There it was, on a little square of finely sewed-in linen, embroidered in coloured thread,—and not badly done.
Madeleine pinched her lips and her eyes grew hard and strange. Nervously she closed the box, opened it again, closed it—click! click!—And all at once her clumsy fingers went through the cardboard, breaking the cover, crushing the whole box.
"Well, now!" she said, "I've broken it!—It wasn't well made; I'll buy you a better one."
Then she took the two children by the hand and went out of the house with them.
The earth was resting under the clear sky. Night had not yet fallen, but through this Sunday twilight there came no sound of men at work in the fields. The wind was dead; there was neither stress nor effort anywhere. All living things were at rest.
Madeleine had led the children out to the pond and had seated herself with them under the sleeping branches of the big oak.
Peace pervaded everything around. The children did not play; they moved gently and asked unexpected questions.
Madeleine gave them slow, dreamy answers.
She had come to this spot as on a pilgrimage. Under this same oak tree, on a day just like this, a great emotion had filled her heart to overflowing. Joy had been hers then and, by the grace of youth and the illusion of a nascent love, the happy hours in store lay like a gleaming, endless rosary before her. Now she was broken; now she dared no longer look ahead; now she had come to say good-bye.
Ten days more and Corbier would be married. One short week was all that was left for her at the Moulinettes. One week!—and then go away!—away from Lalie, away from Jo;—a new life to set out on!—Death would be sweeter!
Oh, but it couldn't be true, it must be a bad dream! She'd wake up, be tortured no more; she'd find Lalie's head on her breast—and right there, from the little bed alongside of hers, Jo would say with laughing eyes:
"Nêne, you've been sleeping and sleeping, ever so long!"
No, this dreadful thing couldn't possibly happen! She'd pray—the God of mercy wouldn't let it happen.—He'd cast a rock in the path of the crushing wheel;—He'd hurl the threatening chariot into the ditch by the wayside;—surely there'd be some accident, some unforeseen salvation!
"Nêne, what are the clouds made of? Where do they go?"
"They are God's little sheep going to pasture."
The clear sky was spread, out like a beautiful meadow after haying; little billows floating across it here and there made the blue dome seem low and close.
Jo said, pointing aloft:
"Nêne, the moon isn't very high up, is it?"
"Nêne," said Lalie, "I can see things on the moon!"
"That's a little man you're seeing," replied Madeleine; "a wee little man, and he's very old. He's carrying a bundle of brushwood on his back to bake his bread."
"Nêne," inquired Jo, "what is behind the clouds?"
"There's Time," answered Madeleine; "that's where God lives."
"Where is Paradise, Nêne?" asked Lalie.
"My darling, we can't any of us see it while we're alive, but those of us who don't love sin go there when they die."
"But, Nêne," said Jo, "how can they climb up and stay up there, so high in the air?"
"They have no trouble at all—it's difficult to explain these things."
Lalie pointed to the quiet water that mirrored the deep blue of the sky and the billowing little clouds.
"Look, Nêne! there's another Time at the bottom of the water!"
"That's the nether world," said Madeleine.
"Are there people in that too?"
"Yes," said Madeleine, "there are."
"Nêne," said Jo, "but they can't be comfy down there!"
Old stories told her by that half crazy old aunt came to Madeleine's lips; but they frightened children, and therefore Madeleine thought them wicked; so she said only those things that were part of her faith.
"There are three worlds:—the world above which is good; the middle world—that's ours, and it's both good and evil;—and the nether world—God save our souls! It's a poisonous pit: evil rises from it like a cloud of black smoke.—There are three worlds, each one unlike the other two. We know only one; in the other two things aren't the same; nobody can understand; our eyes won't tell us, nor our ears."
She spoke gently and her grief was appeased. As night came on, a great, pitying calm descended from on high.
"When we are dead, we go either above or below, according to justice. Those up above are the people whose hearts were loving: they love us still and watch over us."
"Do you mean they see us?" asked Lalie.
"They see us. So, my little darlings"
She paused, not knowing how to put into words the thought that welled to her heart.
"For you, there is help above: your mother is in Paradise and watching over you. She loves you—nobody can love you as she loves you—nobody!"
The children were silent and wide-eyed. Madeleine went on thinking aloud, and her words rose like a prayer.
"She's watching over you.—She'll know well enough that I love you, too. Lord, let her be of succour to me!—If I must go away, all I ask is that she keep them from forgetting me."
"But you won't go away, Nêne!" said Jo.
"Do you mean you want to die?" asked Lalie.
She made no answer.
"If you died, would you go up there, too?"
"I don't know."
"You'd have to go up there,—otherwise how would you manage to watch over us?"
Madeleine drew the two children to her breast.
"When I go away, perhaps I mayn't be able to watch over you any more. I'm not your mother, you see; I'm—no, I'm not your mother. Your mother is dead. She was good, that little mother of yours—ah, much better than me! And she was lovely to look at!—There never will be a lovelier mother.—It's her you must love best of all, darlings better than me, better than anybody!"
She spoke slowly and in a low voice so that her words might make a deep, lasting impression upon the children.
"You can love all the others also; you can love me a lot—that isn't forbidden! But let your mother be first always—I won't be jealous.—Yes, you may love me—and when you're grown up you may say: 'She wasn't our mother, but we remember her all the same.'—That'll be my share, and a plenty."
Lalie, whose thoughts were again in great labour, asked:
"You're not our mother—nor our aunt, nor our cousin—and here you're talking of going away. Well then, what are you?"
"What I am? What I am?"
Jo cuddled his head against Madeleine's neck and spoke up, quite amazed by his sister's question:
"What is she? Why, she's Nêne!"
And, that evening, they huddled close to each other and didn't say another word.