Because of conscience

by Amy Ella Blanchard

Papa Louis raised his hands. “She speaks well, this wife of mine. She has acquired a glibness of speech which is truly remarkable.”

“That comes from association with you, Papa Louis,” laughed Alaine, taking his arm. “Let us be going. Mère Michelle’s bread has disappeared like dew before the sun; we shall get no more though we stay here all night. Take maman with you, Gerard, and Papa Louis and I will follow. I think we should celebrate the day, too,” she said to M. Mercier, “for it is due to that same accomplishment of making such excellent bread that we are here to-day.”

“True, my daughter,” returned her companion. “See, we will deck maman.” And picking up a discarded wreath from the ground, he ran forward and flung it around his wife’s neck.

“Am I, then, a fat calf?” spluttered Michelle, indignant at this assault upon her dignity.

“No, no, maman, you are honored because of your able pursuance of a craft which brought us here,” said Alaine, kissing her. “Let me see, we will rehearse it all as we walk along, that you may understand why Papa Louis, in a burst of gratitude, has so decorated you. We met two years ago on shipboard. We remember it, do we not, Gerard? You with your tutor, Papa Louis there, and I with my foster-mother, Mère Michelle. You were dressed as a girl, and in your petticoats, as well as in Mère Michelle’s, were sewed some gold pieces, while in my blouse I carried my book of psalms, and Papa Louis carried the leaves of his Bible stitched in his coat. We became friends when you believed me a boy and I believed you a girl. How astonished we were when we discovered that we might well exchange places, and how soon those gold pieces melted away in England! and in Martinique, what distress we endured! so hungry and forlorn were we. Then did maman happily think of baking bread and selling it. A good trade it was and one that satisfied our own hunger, for we could eat the stale loaves. And when Papa Louis fell ill did Mère Michelle nurse him while you and I watched the loaves in the oven. You would tell me of your home in La Rochelle, and of your escape after your father and mother were dragged away, and I would relate of our weary watching for my father, of whom not a word could we learn in London. Then—be patient, maman, we are coming to the end of the story—because there was still not freedom for us in Martinique, said Papa Louis, ‘Had I but the money for the passage we would go to New England,’ and that day you, Mère Michelle, found a gold coin where it had slipped into a seam of your petticoat, and not long after papa remembered a jewel which he still retained for Gerard. Then said he, ‘When we can earn enough we will go as a family, my good Michelle, if you will. These are our children, Alaine and Gerard Mercier, and you are Madame Mercier if you consent, for we have been comrades in misfortune this year past, and my life, which your nursing has saved, is yours.’ Was it not so, maman? So now, because of the happy thought of the bread which did sustain us all, and because of your industry in baking and selling the good bread which all were so eager to buy, we at last managed to save enough to bring us here, and we are one family. So, now, to-day, on which they celebrate the feast of John Baptist, at home in dear France, and here does honor to the fat calf, we will also have a feast of the loaves, and you shall always be crowned queen of the feast. Shall it not be so, Papa Louis? Shall it not, Gerard?”

The recital of the tale and the honor bestowed upon her so overcame Mère Michelle that her dignity lost itself in tears, and she fell on the neck of her little husband, who braced himself to receive her weight, and patted her comfortingly on the back, while Alaine and Gerard started up a joyful psalm, then ran on ahead down the woodland path towards the village, saying they would prepare a reception at home.

The sound of merry voices had not ceased in the direction of the place of the feast. The occasion was one not only for the expression of ordinary joy, but it served to voice a deeper note, that of thanksgiving for an escape from persecution, and to the rollicking songs were added psalms of praise, those psalms so long denied utterance to the patient band of Huguenots now setting up their homes in this new world.

The woods sweetly smelling in the June weather, the soft odors arising from the sea-salt marshes, the glimpses of the blue sound, the peeping up here and there of unfamiliar blossoms beneath their feet, all these things awoke in the hearts of Alaine and Gerard a strange new feeling of unfettered joyousness, and in sheer good fellowship Gerard reached out a hand to clasp the girl’s as they walked home. “You look very happy, my sister,” he said. “Not since we left England’s shores have I seen you so.”

“It is good to live,” Alaine answered, raising her face to the sky. “To be young and free and hopeful is much. On days like this, Gerard, I always believe that I shall see my father again. Do you feel so?”

“No, I do not. Papa Louis has always warned me against an encouragement of hope in that direction. He thinks there is no doubt but that my father and mother are with the good God.”