the very rabble?' '_Ma mere,'_ said Madame Martin,'our good Lord died for them.' 'And surely for thee too, thousaint-imbecile!' I cried out in my indignation. What, my Martin'schamber which he had adorned for his bride! I was beside myself. Andthey have an obstinacy these enthusiasts! But for that matter her friendMadame de Bois-Sombre thought the same. She would have been one of the_pleureuses_ herself had it not been for shame. 'Agnes wishes to aid the_bon Dieu_, Madame,' she said, 'to make us suffer still a little more.'The tone in which she spoke, and the contraction in her forehead, as ifour hospitality was not enough for her, turned my heart again to mydaughter-in-law. 'You have reason, Madame,' I cried; 'there are indeedmany ways in which Agnes does the work of the good God.' TheBois-Sombres are poor, they have not a roof to shelter them save that ofthe old hotel in Semur, from whence they were sent forth like the restof us. And she and her children owed all to Agnes. Figure to yourselfthen my resentment when this lady directed her scorn at mydaughter-in-law. I am not myself noble, though of the _hautebourgeoisie_, which some people think a purer race.
Long and terrible were the days we spent in this suspense. For ourselvesit was well that there was so much to do--the food to provide for allthis multitude, the little children to care for, and to prepare theprovisions for our men who were before Semur. I was in the Ardennesduring the war, and I saw some of its perils--but these were nothing towhat we encountered now. It is true that my son Martin was not in thewar, which made it very different to me; but here the dangers were suchas we could not understand, and they weighed upon our spirits. The seatat the door, and that point where the road turned, where there wasalways so beautiful a view of the valley and of the town of Semur--wereconstantly occupied by groups of poor people gazing at the darkness inwhich their homes lay. It was strange to see them, some kneeling andpraying with moving lips; some taking but one look, not able to endurethe sight. I was of these last. From time to time, whenever I had amoment, I came out, I know not why, to see if there was any change. Butto gaze upon that altered prospect for hours, as some did, would havebeen intolerable to me. I could not linger nor try to imagine what mightbe passing there, either among those who were within (as was believed),or those who were without the walls. Neither could I pray as many did.My devotions of every day I will never, I trust, forsake or forget, andthat my Martin was always in my mind is it needful to say? But to goover and over all the vague fears that were in me, and all thosethoughts which would have broken my heart had they been put into words,I could not do this even to the good Lord Himself. When I sufferedmyself to think, my heart grew sick, my head swam round, the light wentfrom my eyes. They are happy who can do so, who can take the _bon Dieu_into their confidence, and say all to Him; but me, I could not do it. Icould not dwell upon that which was so terrible, upon my home abandoned,my son--Ah! now that it is past, it is still terrible to think of. Andthen it was all I was capable of, to trust my God and do what was setbefore me. God, He knows what it is we can do and what we cannot. Icould not tell even to Him all the terror and the misery and thedarkness there was in me; but I put my faith in Him. It was all of whichI was capable. We are not made alike, neither in the body nor in thesoul.
And there were many women like me at La Clairiere. When we had done eachpiece of work we would look out with a kind of hope, then go back tofind something else to do--not looking at each other, not saying a word.Happily there was a great deal to do. And to see how some of the women,and those the most anxious, would work, never resting, going on from onething to another, as if they were hungry for more and more! Some did itwith their mouths shut close, with their countenances fixed, not daringto pause or meet another's eyes; but some, who were more patient, workedwith a soft word, and sometimes a smile, and sometimes a tear; but everworking on. Some of them were an example to us all. In the morning, whenwe got up, some from beds, some from the floor,--I insisted that allshould lie down, by turns at least, for we could not make room for everyone at the same hours,--the very first thought of all was to hasten tothe window, or, better, to the door. Who could tell what might havehappened while we slept? For the first moment no one would speak,--itwas the moment of hope--and then there would be a cry, a clasping of thehands, which told--what we all knew. The one of the women who touched myheart most was the wife of Riou of the _octroi_. She had been almostrich for her condition in life, with a good house and a little servantwhom she trained admirably, as I have had occasion to know. Her husbandand her son were both among those whom we had left under the walls ofSemur; but she had three children with her at La Clairiere. Madame Riouslept lightly, and so did I. Sometimes I heard her stir in the middle ofthe night, though so softly that no one woke. We were in the same room,for it may be supposed that to keep a room to one's self was notpossible. I did not stir, but lay and watched her as she went to thewindow, her figure visible against the pale dawning of the light, withan eager quick movement as of expectation--then turning back with slowerstep and a sigh. She was always full of hope. As the days went on, therecame to be a kind of communication between us. We understood each other.When one was occupied and the other free, that one of us who went out tothe door to look across the valley where Semur was would look at theother as if to say, 'I go.' When it was Madame Riou who did this, Ishook my head, and she gave me a smile which awoke at every repetition(though I knew it was vain) a faint expectation, a little hope. When shecame back, it was she who would shake her head, with her eyes full oftears. 'Did I not tell thee?' I said, speaking to her as if she were mydaughter. 'It will be for next time, Madame,' she would say, and smile,yet put her apron to her eyes. There were many who were like her, andthere were those of whom I have spoken who were _pleureuses_, neverhoping anything, doing little, bewailing themselves and their hard fate.Some of them we employed to carry the provisions to Semur, and thisamused them, though the heaviness of the baskets made again a complaint.
As for the children, thank God! they were not disturbed as we were--tothem it was a beautiful holiday--it was like Heaven. There is no placeon earth that I love like Semur, yet it is true that the streets arenarrow, and there is not much room for the children. Here they werehappy as the day; they strayed over all our gardens and the meadows,which were full of flowers; they sat in companies upon the green grass,as thick as the daisies themselves, which they loved. Old SisterMariette, who is called Marie de la Consolation, sat out in the meadowunder an acacia-tree and watched over them. She was the one among us whowas happy. She had no son, no husband, among the watchers, and though,no doubt, she loved her convent and her hospital, yet she sat all daylong in the shade and in the full air, and smiled, and never lookedtowards Semur. 'The good Lord will do as He wills,' she said, 'and thatwill be well.' It was true--we all knew it was true; but it mightbe--who could tell?--that it was His will to destroy our town, and takeaway our bread, and perhaps the lives of those who were dear to us; andsomething came in our throats which prevented a reply. '_Ma soeur_,' Isaid, 'we are of the world, we tremble for those we love; we are not asyou are.' Sister Mariette did nothing but smile upon us. 'I have knownmy Lord these sixty years,' she said, 'and He has taken everything fromme.' To see her smile as she said this was more than I could bear. Fromme He had taken something, but not all. Must we be prepared to give upall if we would be perfected? There were many of the others also whotrembled at these words. 'And now He gives me my consolation,' she said,and called the little ones round her, and told them a tale of the GoodShepherd, which is out of the holy Gospel. To see all the little onesround her knees in a crowd, and the peaceful face with which she smiledupon them, and the meadows all full of flowers, and the sunshine comingand going through the branches: and to hear that tale of Him who wentforth to seek the lamb that was lost, was like a tale out of a holybook, where all was peace and goodness and joy. But on the other side,not twenty steps off, was the house full of those who wept, and at allthe doors and windows anxious faces gazing down upon that cloud in thevalley where Semur was. A procession of our women was coming back, manywith lingering st
eps, carrying the baskets which were empty. 'Is thereany news?' we asked, reading their faces before they could answer. Andsome shook their heads, and some wept. There was no other reply.
On the last night before our deliverance, suddenly, in the middle of thenight, there was a great commotion in the house. We all rose out of ourbeds at the sound of the cry, almost believing that some one at thewindow had seen the lifting of the cloud, and rushed together,frightened, yet all in an eager expectation to hear what it was. It wasin the room where the old Mere Julie slept that the disturbance was.Mere Julie was one of the market-women of Semur, the one I havementioned who was devout, who never missed the _Salut_ in the afternoon,besides all masses which are obligatory. But there were other mattersin
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