Having spat out her revenge, she went on to the village, and through it to her house, where she prepared to visit the shop of the tailor. Her sense of retaliation satisfied, Rosalie passed from her mind; her child only occupied it. In another hour she would know where her child was—the tailor had promised that she should. Then perhaps she would be sorry for the accident to the Notary; for it was an accident, in spite of appearances.
It was dark when Paulette entered the door of the tailor’s house. When she came out, a half-hour later, with elation in her carriage, and tears of joy running down her face, she did not look about her; she did not care whether or not any one saw her: she was possessed with only one thought—her child! She passed like a swift wind down the street, making for home and for her departure to the hiding-place of her child.
She had not seen a figure in the shadow of a tree near by as she came from the tailor’s door. She had not heard a smothered cry behind her. She was not aware that in unspeakable agony another woman knocked softly at the door of the tailor’s house, and, not waiting for an answer, opened it and entered. It was Rosalie Evanturel.
CHAPTER XL. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING
The kitchen was empty, but light fell through the door of the shop opening upon the little hall between. Rosalie crossed the hall and stood in the doorway of the shop, a figure of concentrated indignation, despair, and shame. Leaning on his elbow Charley was bending over a book in the light of a candle on the bench be side him. He was reading aloud, translating into English the German text of the narrative the Cure had given him:
“And because of this divine interposition, consequent upon their
faithful prayers and their oblations, they did perform these holy
scenes from season to season, with solemn proof of piety and godly
living, so that it seemed the life of the Lord our Shepherd was ever
present with them, as though, indeed, Ober-Ammergau were Nazareth or
Jerusalem. And the hearts of all in the land did answer daily to
that sweet and lively faith, insomuch that even in times of war the
zeal of the people became an holy zeal, and their warfare noble; so
that they did accept both victory and defeat with equal humbleness.
Because there was no war in their hearts, but peace, and they did
fight to defend and not to acquire, they buried their foe with tears
and their own with singleness of heart and quiet joy, for that they
did rest from their labours. In this manner was the great tragedy
and glory of the world made to the people a present thing,
transforming them to the body of the Life that hath neither spot nor
blemish nor...”
Charley had not heard Rosalie enter, nor her footsteps in the hall. But now there ran through his reading a thread of something not of himself or of it. He had thrilled to the archaic but clear-hearted style of the old German chronicler, and the warmth he felt had passed into his voice, so that it became louder.
As Rosalie listened to his reading, a hundred thoughts rushed through her mind. Paulette Dubois, the wanton woman, had just left his doorway secretly, yet there he was, instantly after, calmly reading a pious book! Her mind was in tumult. She could not reason, she could not rule her judgment. She only knew that the woman had come from this house, and hurried guiltily away into the dark. She only knew that the man the woman had left here was the man she loved—loved more than her life, for he embodied all her past; all her present—she knew that she could not live without him; all her future—for where he went she would go, whatever the fate.
Her judgment had been swept from its moorings. She had been carried on the wave of her heart’s fever into this room, not daring to think this or that, not planning this or that, not accusing, not reproaching, not shaming herself and him by black suspicion, but blindly, madly demanding to see him, to look into his eyes, to hear his voice, to know him, whatever he was—man, lover, or devil. She was a child-woman—a child in her primitive feelings that threw aside all convention, because there was no wrong in her heart; a woman, because she was possessed by a jealousy which shamed and angered her, because its very existence put him on trial, condemned him. Her soul was the sport of emotions and passions stronger than herself, because the heritage, the instinct, of all the race of women, the eternal predisposition. At the moment her will was not sufficient to rule them to obedience. She was in the first subservience to that power which feeds the streams of human history.