Pebbles from a Northern Shore
Page 19
*****
Gaston had few heroes. Since his recovery he had come across no one who deserved the title. If he were inclined to put anyone of his acquaintance on a pedestal, it might be the militiaman who, no doubt at considerable risk, had saved his life, or perhaps the woman who despite her poverty had tended it. Outside his circle there was just one: Maximilien Robespierre, who of all the revolutionaries was noted for his altruism. Gaston occasionally dreamed of some day meeting the great man, or at least being in his presence. The actual meeting when it came, with Robespierre under the guillotine, was the greatest shock of his life, and for several days afterwards he was practically an automaton.
Marie, the more practical of his host's daughters, noticed that he was even more taciturn than usual and sensed that something was wrong. She was a good-natured girl with a capacity for sympathy unspoiled by the horrors of the time, and one evening after the meal, before he retired to his room, she risked a rebuff by asking tentatively if he were unwell. For once a moment of genuine human contact was welcome, and he confided that no, it wasn't a physical illness, but he was worried. It was not a matter he could discuss, though he appreciated her concern. The fact was that he was not sleeping well. Had he tried counting sheep? Yes, but it hadn't worked; he could hardly tell her that the image of animals leaping a gate always changed to heads falling into a basket, his own among them.
Another suggestion was simply to think of nothing. Difficult; to concentrate on not thinking about anything was in fact to think about it. Marie, however, had once got through her distress at a friend's death by repeating over and over again a fidgety task - sewing handkerchiefs or something of the sort - that occupied her mind just enough to keep other thoughts out, and that seemed worth a trial. The question was, what kind of task? It need not be constructive. All he could think of was tracing the pattern on his ring. Obviously he would have to stay awake to do it, but it might calm his mind. Rather to his surprise, it did. Could that perhaps have been what the Comte meant by finding the ring useful? Possibly; the old codger must have had many causes for anxiety over the last few years.