by James Hanley
He sat up. "I am hungry," Marius said.
"You've been out all day?"
He nodded.
"No luck?"
"No luck."
"Oh dear, how sad. Perhaps to-morrow. You've not been home all this day?"
"No."
"Of course, you're hungry, that's what it is."
He kept looking towards the door.
"Nobody will disturb us," she said.
"What's his name?"
"Labiche, he's a sort of saint, but an ugly one," replied Madame Lustigne. "He's actually here to steal one of my girls. And I'm letting him. Think of that?"
Marius couldn't think. He had fallen fast asleep.
He ate greedily enough when he woke.
"Perhaps the Captain came here to hide?"
"I came here to look for a man."
"And have you found him?"
"He won't see me."
"A friend of yours?"
"Of my father's."
"You have a father then?"
"He's dead."
"But if it was to hide, well then—this is the place, the world knows that."
"Why d'you say I'm hiding," he protested stubbornly, "I'm looking for a ship."
"Plenty of them."
He was as stubborn with his silences.
"I could see a certain person."
"I'm a Captain," Marius said, "I have my merits."
"Oh God. You've Captain on the brain. Here, more bread."
"I wish I knew why that man is following me."
"Him. He's not following anybody except his own inclinations, he's a damned nuisance. St Vincent de Paul indeed. And the Apostleship of Seamen. There, Captain, I've got it. He will help you."
"Him?"
"Why not. You want a ship, he works in a shipping office."
"Where?"
"The Heros."
Marius slapped his knee. "There. I knew I'd seen him before. The Heros. All the same he's following me, I feel he is, it scares me—"
"You'd think a murder had been committed. Now get out, Captain, will you, I have other friends, and one is waiting outside. Please get out."
She pushed him out through the door.
"Perhaps I'm getting a little tired of him, all the same," she thought.
"Sometimes he's such a nuisance, in spite of his money, and one can't afford nuisances. Perhaps he is hiding. Perhaps he's made away with somebody. In which case—."
She sat down at her dressing-table, began powdering her face.
"One does not want trouble with the police, who does? Come in," she called, hearing the knock, and Labiche walked in.
"Madame Lustigne."
"Well?" She saw his reflection in her mirror.
"I am taking Jeanette now," he said. "She wept bitterly, her mother was broken-hearted about it. You understand?"
He had a feeling she was smiling.
She swung round on him. "Are you following that Captain?"
"Captain?"
"You know who I mean. He's here now, you've scared the very guts out of him. He's a good patron here. I don't like my patrons followed around. Are you following him?"
"I came for Jeanette. True, I've seen this man, he is continually at the Heros, but Monsieur Follet refuses to see him, says he's beyond the pale."
"Indeed?"
She turned her back on Labiche and continued her toilet.
"Can't nobody make a living without you barging in?"
"I've the girl outside, I'm quite satisfied, Madame Lustigne. As to the Captain, you judge me wrong. I'm sorry for him. I've seen him every day for weeks, sometimes I feel sad at the way Philippe treats him, it must be humiliating. If only Captain Marius would let me talk to him, I'm sure something could be done. It's sad for his womenfolk. They are here, too."
"I didn't know that. Has he done a crime?"
"A ship of his was lost under mysterious circumstances—"
"That's nothing, I thought he'd murdered somebody, that's all."
She looked at the little watch on her wrist.
"Get out, Labiche, I've a friend coming in."
She could hear heavy steps in the stone corridor.
"He walks like an elephant," she thought.
She got up, walked across to the door, opened it wide, said, "get out."
She saw Jeanette against the wall, she supposed it must be Labiche's outsize handkerchief she was holding to her eyes. She looked straight at the girl, and seemed to pin her to the wall by her fierce, penetrating look.
"Miserable little bitch," she said, and banged the door the moment Labiche reached the corridor. She stood behind it listening to them go.
"This Captain. I must talk to him. There is something about him—" she smiled, and it spread all over the mirror—"I wish he did not always choose Lucy."
"Come in, Lucien," she called, and the elephant came in, tall, blonde, grey suited, his hat in his hand.
"Come," she said, and as he sat down on a corner of the bed she stroked his balding head.
"The people I've had in today," she exclaimed angrily, "first that Inspector saying I hadn't done this and I hadn't done that, then a miserable Captain and on top of that something—oh well," and she tittered and showed her teeth and leaned against Lucien.
"D'you think I'm a very wicked person, Lucien?"
"You're lovely," he said.
"Call Henri," she said.
It was turned seven o'clock. Marius had not come in. Madame Marius and her daughter were seated in the kitchen. The old woman stared with some disgust at the table, the laid out meal.
"One evening he will not come back at all," she thought. She looked at her daughter. "Madeleine?"
"Yes mother?"
"I think I'll go to the Benediction to-night." They so rarely went out in the evenings that it came as a surprise to Madeleine when she said this. She did not wish to go, but felt she must.
"Very well," she said.
So they had got ready and left the house. Madame Marius walked beside her daughter, very erect. Sometimes she would glance down at the woman beside her. And sometimes she hated her:
"She has the calmness—oh, she's like a cow."
Such docility, such resignation, such terrible calm. It seemed too much to bear.
It was only a few hundred yards to St Sulpice's, but Madame Marius walked to it as with closed eyes, she seemed neither to see nor sense the things about her, there was only this daughter at her side, following meekly, silently, devotedly.
"Perhaps I am indeed lucky with such a daughter," she thought. She looked at her, gripping her arm.
"If it wasn't for where one had to walk, the things through which one had to pass, I would dearly love to go to the High Mass to-morrow for the celebration—but no, it doesn't matter," and Madeleine detected a sudden sad note in her mother's voice.
"Let's think about it," she said, and smiled up to her mother.
There were some people just ahead of them, making for the evening service, already they had turned into the gravel path leading up to the church. And then they themselves had reached its door, pausing only for a moment to bless themselves at the font, then as they usually did, to seek the darkest corner of St Sulpice's, the last bench but one. They knelt for a moment or two, then sat down.
Madame Marius had already fixed her rosary upon her wrist, the small silver crucifix gripped tight between finger and thumb. She did not pray. The mouth was shut tight, she stared steadily ahead, she seemed to be watching God.
Each morning they came for the Mass, for the Sacrament, and they sat in the same place. Now they were like mice, drawn into the deep silence of the church.
In contrast to her mother's tenseness, this folding in on herself as it were, Madeleine appeared always relaxed, at ease, prayed as was her heart's wont, never took her eyes from the altar. Her mother sat stiffly, knelt stiffly, as though she were on some kind of sentry duty.
"Oh God! I have forgiven him. I am now content. Please make mother ch
aritable, pardon the cruelty of her years, through Christ our Lord."
She was kneeling, but the mother had not noticed her movement. She still sat still, as stone is, she felt the beads cool within her hand, she looked towards the Tabernacle.
The soft organ strains stole into the air almost like that of water, and Madame Marius listened to the music.
Everywhere there were flowers, tall proud lilies, piled velvety roses, and at the feet of the Virgin the green herbage whose scent rose high, climbing beyond the tall pillars, it seemed to be locked about the Virgin's feet. Saint Francis held the child, whose pink cheek brushed the bright nosegay reaching upwards. St John, tall and lean seemed shadowed by nothing but his own bone. Madeleine had noticed the absence of flowers here, but she remembered his life, and she understood.
People came in, walked slowly and quietly up the aisles, she watched them genuflect, and they seemed to carry about their persons the last remaining warmth of the sun, and the dying light. The organ strains grew louder, she knew it would soon be time. The music leaped like fountains, the air vibrated under the mass of sound. Madeleine remained kneeling and did not once turn to look at her mother, but if she had done so she would have found the eyes closed at last, and nothing coming from her save her laboured breathing.
"Oh God! Help Eugene. Forgive him, through Christ our Lord."
As her lips trembled under the words she was suddenly conscious of eyes staring at her, and knew that her mother was watching her. She sensed the powerful body leaning towards her.
She spoke in a low voice, and Madeleine slightly turned to her, straining her ears to listen.
"What mother?"
"You have made up your mind, Madeleine?" she asked, and the slack of the beads swung to and fro as she spoke.
"You are sure of this, certain?"
"Yes mother, I know it is right. I will always be with you, mother."
"I'm old," her mother said, "I knew long ago."
"Yes," Madeleine said, "I know you are old. I have made up my mind."
"I only wished to be certain, Madeleine."
"I am certain. Isn't that enough?"
Madeleine watched the candles spluttering in their holders, the rock-still blooms in their vases.
"The priest was unable to come last evening, he was called out to the dying."
"Of course," her mother said, "one understands that, one is not stupid."
The church had become strangely silent. Madame Marius knew that at any moment now, the altar boys would come out through the little dark door, preceding Father Nollet. She took her daughter's hand and pressed it.
"Don't imagine I do not understand" she said, pressing more tightly, "I do. I am old. And you will not re-marry. Some things are always too late."
"Ssh!" Madeleine said.
The little procession came through the door and they both knelt down.
"Did you hear what I said?" whispered the old woman.
Madeleine fixed her eyes on the statue of St Joseph. She had heard, but would not answer. Some things were not discussed in the house of God. Later, Father Nollet was in the pulpit, speaking, but they did not hear him.
"What is that?" asked Madeleine, she glanced shyly about her.
"I said we've been here too long. That is all. I'll be glad to be out of it."
Madeleine was suddenly very close to her mother.
"You had a letter this morning. I saw it, I mean the postmark. From home?"
She never mentioned Nantes by name, simply referred to it as 'home'.
"From Father Gerard."
"What does he say?"
"I haven't read it."
They were suddenly silent for the blessing. Father Nollet followed the boys out, people were rising to their feet.
"Let us go."
"I'll just speak to the priest before I go," Madeleine said, and suddenly was gone.
Madame Marius knelt down again. "Help us now, Mighty God."
As she prayed she stared about the church, and behind her heard the steady, deep tick of the clock below the choir stall.
"I follow him because there is something he must tell us."
"And he can't hold it in much longer, it is too dreadful for that, he knows—and when he speaks I shall be satisfied. But what of her?"
She did not kneel long, her knees hurt, she rose and sat back in the seat.
"At the end one is always asking for help."
The rosary came alive in her hands, the beads moved through her fingers, she kneaded them, bead on bead, and stared at the Tabernacle.
"I shall be glad to get home, my back is aching a little, I hope she won't be too long."
She suddenly saw her daughter, she was at the breast, she saw her for the first time.
"Nature plays tricks, how plain she really is. Unlike the Marius lot, how handsome they were," and she felt again the full rigour of that initial shock.
"To-day she is as plain as a pancake."
She struggled to her feet, her sharp ear had already heard approaching footsteps. She put an arm through that of her daughter and they left the church.
"You have everything?"
"Everything."
"Then we will go back to that house" Madame Marius said.
There was something hesitant, uncertain in their very steps, as though this were a task, a duty to be done, the heart pulled another way.
On occasions the old woman would cry "stop" and the daughter stopped.
Madame Marius regained her breath, and as she stood she held on tightly to her daughter's arm.
"It's a terrible place, so huge, like a big melting pot, if one falls into it, well, you never know how you come out. Ah, I shall be glad to go."
"Are you ready?"
"I'm ready."
They walked on, Madame Marius erect, her head slightly forward, on her shoulders, Madeleine held tight to her arm.
"I wonder if he'll be out?"
"Is he ever in?"
A silence fell between them and they did not speak again until they were safe inside the house. Madame Marius freed herself from the clutching arm. She stared about the kitchen.
"Well at least he has taken his peasant's suit" she said. "You know there is something terribly stupid in his stubbornness, I'll bet he is cringing around the Heros again. My God, if I could get in to see that Follet gentleman—You had better bring in the coffee. I am going into the other room," and she left her daughter standing in the centre of the kitchen. When she brought in the bread and coffee her mother had already resumed her seat in the window.
"This morning I had half a mind to go into his room," Madame Marius said, as she took the mug from her daughter. "Sometimes I think one may know what that person has been thinking."
"What are you staring at?" she asked suddenly, and Madeleine replied quickly, "nothing," but she was.
To-day, this very evening she seemed to be looking at her mother as for the first time. How big she was, how strong, how determined, and yet withal, how suddenly calm. In the night something had risen in her, a resolve, a decision.
"Then what she said in the church is true," thought Madeleine.
"Why don't you sit down?"
"I am," sitting down.
Her mother made coarse noises as she ate, she dropped lumps of bread into her coffee and sucked at the sodden mass.
"I expect he was thinking what you were thinking," Madeleine said.
"What was that?" Madame Marius spoke sharply, "give me more coffee."
"Your pride," she said.
"Since you had none, it cannot affect you very much."
"Where is the letter of Father Gerard?"
"I have it here. Read it to me."
"Give it here."
Holding it in her hand, Madeleine felt for a moment as though all Nantes were there, all her life, the grace of her days, she heard laughter, saw her heart-happy man.
"Then read it," Madame Marius said.
"Yes," Madeleine said, faltering, the break in he
r voice.
"Spare me, please, I thought we had done with that. Read the letter."
She opened out the sheet of paper and began to read.
"Dear Madame Marius,
I am glad that you have written me. This morning I was on my way to see our old friend, Jules Cordon, you will remember him. And as you know my way lies past your house, and coming by it I chanced to see bursting over the wall the white lilac, heavily in flower. And I thought then that perhaps, as I passed, I would hear you call to me from behind it, as in the old days. But there was only the strong light and the whiteness and silence, and I knew you had gone. But at the same time I wondered too, if you would not come back—"
"Will you go on, or must I read it myself?"
"I am reading it," Madeleine said.
"It has always seemed to me a foolish decision to have made, to have turned your back on your home, there was so much spirit there, so much bone and heart. It is your place. It is yet empty because there is a feeling abroad that you will still come back, to where you belong, to where your place is, since there is no other. Nobody thinks any the less of you because your son has erred, and as for the rumour, the disgrace, surely you place far too high a price upon this. A man may sink a hundred ships, and yet not be disgraced, your son has erred and you think it is the end of France. My dear Madame Marius, if I may say so, I fear your pride is strangling you—"
"I said go on reading didn't I?"
"I am reading," Madeleine said, and was in that house, hard by the river, in a room opening on the garden, and this was cool. There was a man stood there, and he was looking at her, she at him, and she said, "where is Jean?"
"Gone," and she heard the word again, and felt it and saw it, dropping as stone into the sea, and into that room where the sea was, flowed there, carrying this man.
"Where is my son?"
"I said he is gone. Poor, poor lad."
With her clenched fists she hammered at his breast, and this was iron.
"Where is he, where is Jean? Christ Jesus," she cried at him, "you saved yourself," and struck, and went on striking, and he was as rock, immovable, taller than she by a foot, and as she looked up at him, taller, as high as heaven in his silence. Something like steel held her, she was caught, tight in his arms.
"Madeleine."
And she remembered it was he who cried, and not she.
"Don't touch me," she screamed, and ran, and left him, in the sea and silence.