But solitude was not long much comfort to her. Must she not go back to Le Maupas to tell her son the sad news? The thought of the pain which she could not spare him, of which she brought the tidings, brought to her eyes the tears which she had so long tried to keep back. The sun’s rays crossed the tops of the thick trees, as slowly wended his course towards the mountain. For the first time in her life it hurt her to return to her old home, where she knew they were awaiting her confidently and impatiently.
With a tired step, which now dragged more than ever, she made her slow and hopeless way back. She felt the weight of that one day more than the weight of her sixty years. As she walked she reproached herself that she had not been, as she called it, equal to her task. Why had she not been able to find more persuasive words to plead Marcel’s cause? She had been with people accustomed to society compliments. Why had she not taken their ways into account and flattered their vanity? Such concessions and amiabilities were the means of accomplishing one’s end. Was not her son the very person of all in the world whose achievements supplied the excuse for boasting; and could not his bravery have been changed for the occasion into the current coin of display and ostentation? Would it have been lessened in any way by such use of it? Marcel was good-looking, prepossessing, almost famous. He had a courtesy of manner which lent distinction to his gestures. What would she not have given for the possession of those advantages? But no, she was only a poor woman, incapable of flattery in such a serious matter. And then she experienced, in talking of herself and her children, that feeling of shyness which affects all refined natures. Strong, at home, she lost this strength as soon as she crossed the threshold. Thus in the face of injustice she had no resource but tears. Yet how many times had she hidden herself, that her tears might not be seen, on occasions of parting, for a time or forever! Was she now going to shed tears publicly in face of those who had hurt her? Without doubt God had tried her to punish her too great pride. This explanation satisfied her faith. She mourned it, but without complaint, and in her loneliness felt a sharp joy in dwelling on her humility and weakness.
“My husband!” she thought. “Since he went I have been useless. He was my joy and my strength—everything would have happened so differently if he had lived. My God! have You forsaken me? I promised myself to take his place as well as I could, and I see clearly now that I am unable.”
She abandoned herself to despair. Her distress and weariness increased. Reaching the end of the Avenue, she asked herself if she had the strength to continue on her way. She was out of breath, and had to stop.
“I must not be ill at their house,” she said. This was her only desire, and to realise it she made a supreme call upon her strength. She dragged herself to the gate, reached it at last, and outside the grounds sat down, exhausted, on a heap of stones. There she gave herself up to her misery and began to cry again, without even noticing a little group of children, who came up to her, curious. As she raised her bent head they all flew like a flock of frightened sparrows. One of them knocking at the door of the neighboring house called:
“Mamma, Mamma! There is an old lady out here, and she is ill.” The door opened immediately and the peasant woman appeared, carrying her youngest babe.
“Poor lady! Why, it is Madame Guibert. What is the matter? A pain? They come on without warning. I won’t have it said that I left you in trouble. Your husband saved this child from typhoid.” She pointed to a little chubby maid who was laughing. Coming nearer, she saw the tears running down the weary face and guessed that it was nothing physical. Out of respect she asked no questions, but continued:
“He would not take anything, the good man. He loved the poor, and above all the children of the poor. He was always laughing. My babies were not afraid of him, they would have eaten off his plate. ‘This is what brave men and women are made of,’ he would say. ‘I have some of them at home, you know!’ It is true, Madame Guibert, that we have a lot of them. But it is just the same, having a lot. You love them all the same. At least one wouldn’t like to lose any of them.”
By kind words she comforted Madame Guibert, who thought:
“My husband saved Alice Dulaurens too. At La Chênaie they did not honor him any the more for that, and they don’t even remember it. The poor forget less quickly.”