Reaching her room like an animal forced to its lair, crushed by so many nights of watching and fatigue, by the uselessness of so many efforts, rebelling against God's forgetfulness, she slid to the floor at the foot of her bed, and there, collapsing, huddled up, through her sobs, she mechanically repeated the words which alone kept her from wishing for death, which, in spite of herself, linked her with life.
"Marie Louise, Philippe—my little ones ..."
[PART IV]
I
THE PALMS
At the end of March, in the mountainous districts, winter still holds sway. However, on Palm Sunday under a faint sun which gave to the pale sky the shade of a pearl in the light, Grenoble seemed to come to life again on its snowy horizon. Before the gate of the Cathedral, flower vendors, who had come from afar, even from beyond the Alps, as the harbingers of spring, showed and offered to the faithful who came to Mass, their bunches of green branches,—a little dead forest, scattered among the passersby, to be brought together again in the interior of the church, standing up bravely in the hands of all the worshipers. In anticipation they cried:
"Two sous for the blessed box-wood!"
Was it not a blessing in itself only to see that fresh verdure before the trees had even shown their buds?
Elizabeth, who was taking Marie Louise and Philippe to church (the latter having promised to be good during the service)—stopped before one of the improvised stands to select three palms. Absentmindedly, she gave more sous than the ragged little brunette had asked for.
"Here, Madame,—you have given me too much."
"Keep the change. Where do you come from?"