One evening, Lise, who was then twenty, had thrown herself into the
water, no one knew why. Nothing in her life, her manner, gave any
intimation of this seizure. They fished her out half dead, and her
parents, raising their hands in horror, instead of seeking the
mysterious cause of this action, had contented themselves with calling
it "that attack," as if they were talking of the accident that
happened to the horse "Coco," who had broken his leg a short time
before in a ditch, and whom they had been obliged to kill.
From that time Lise, presently Lison, was considered feeble-minded.
The gentle contempt which she inspired in her relations gradually made
its way into the minds of all those who surrounded her. Little Jeanne
herself, with the natural instinct of children, took no notice of her,
never went up to kiss her good-night, never went into her room. Good
Rosalie, alone, who gave the room all the necessary attention, seemed
to know where it was situated.
When Aunt Lison entered the dining-room for breakfast, the little one
would go up to her from habit and hold up her forehead to be kissed;
that was all.
If anyone wished to speak to her, they sent a servant to call her, and
if she was not there, they did not bother about her, never thought of
her, never thought of troubling themselves so much as to say: "Why, I
have not seen Aunt Lison this morning!"
When they said "Aunt Lison," these two words awakened no feeling of
affection in anyone's mind. It was as if one had said: "The coffee
pot, or the sugar bowl."
She always walked with little, quick, silent steps, never made a
noise, never knocking up against anything; and seemed to communicate
to surrounding objects the faculty of not making any sound. Her hands
seemed to be made of a kind of wadding, she handled everything so
lightly and delicately.
She arrived about the middle of July, all upset at the idea of this
marriage. She brought a quantity of presents which, as they came from
her, remained almost unnoticed. On the following day they had
forgotten she was there at all.
But an unusual emotion was seething in her mind, and she never took
her eyes off the engaged couple. She interested herself in Jeanne's
trousseau with a singular eagerness, a feverish activity, working like
a simple seamstress in her room, where no one came to visit her.
She was continually presenting the baroness with handkerchiefs she had
hemmed herself, towels on which she had embroidered a monogram, saying
as she did so: "Is that all right, Adelaide?" And little mother, as
she carelessly examined the objects, would reply: "Do not give
yourself so much trouble, my poor Lison."
One evening, toward the end of the month, after an oppressively warm
day, the moon rose on one of those clear, mild nights which seem to
move, stir and affect one, apparently awakening all the secret poetry
of one's soul. The gentle breath of the fields was wafted into the
quiet drawing-room. The baroness and her husband were playing cards by
the light of a lamp, and Aunt Lison was sitting beside them knitting;
while the young people, leaning on the window sill, were gazing out at
the moonlit garden.