It became an obsession. Must she tell him? Why, why must she tell him? Why break his heart? No; he need never know—never! Mireille must be healed before he arrives. Mireille must be taught to speak and smile again. Mireille must find again the dear shrill voice of her childhood, the sweet piercing treble laughter with which to welcome his return. The laughter and the voice of Mireille! Where were they?
Had the Holy Saints got them in their keeping?
Louise fell on her knees a hundred times a day and prayed to God and to the Virgin Mary and to the Saints to give back to Mireille her voice. Perhaps Saint Agnes would help her? Or little Saint Philomena, who both were martyred in their thirteenth year. Or if not, surely there was Saint Anthony of Padua who would restore Mireille's voice to her. He was the Saint who found and gave back what one had lost. And to Saint Anthony she prayed, in hope and faith for many days; in anguish and despair for many weeks.... Then, suddenly, she prayed no more.
From one day to another her gentle face changed. The soft lines seemed suddenly to be carved out of stone. When she sat alone face to face with Mireille their eyes would gaze into each other with the same fixity and stupefaction; but while the gaze of the child was clear and vacant, the eyes of the mother were wild and wide with some dark horror and despair. Fear—fear—the mad affrightment of a lost spirit haunted her, and with the dawn of each new day seemed to take deeper root in her being, seemed to rise from ever profounder depths of woe and horror.
"Loulou! dearest! What is the matter? Are you ill?" Chérie asked her one morning, noting her lagging footsteps and her deathly pallor.
"No, darling, no," said Louise. "But—you?" She asked the question suddenly, turning and fixing her burning eyes on the girl's face.
"I? Why do you ask me?" smiled Chérie, surprised.
"Are you well?" insisted Louise. "The English boy told me"—Louise seemed hardly able to speak—"that the other day—you fainted."
"Oh!" Chérie laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "How silly of him to tell you. It was nothing. They were teaching me to play hockey ... and suddenly I was giddy and I stumbled and fell. I am often giddy and sick. It is nothing. I believe I am a little anæmic. But I really am quite well. Really, really!" she repeated laughing and embracing Loulou. "I am always as hungry as a wolf!"
And she danced away to find "Monsieur George" and scold him for telling tales.