“Mother dearest, do not torture yourself so,” entreated Paule in broken tones which were in themselves an admission.
“He is dead! He is dead!” cried Madame Guibert. Her voice was like a funeral dirge. Seated on the edge of the bed, icy cold, she felt hope and life fly from her rent heart. Vainly she turned towards God, her supreme comfort in times of sorrow. Her tearlessness was more terrible than her weeping. She moaned aloud:
“Oh, this time it is too much. I cannot bear it! No, I am not resigned. O God! I have always bowed to Your will. With my soul crushed I blessed You. Now my strength is waning. I am only a poor weak old woman, and I have suffered already more than was needed to try me. I can bear no more—I cannot—Marcel, my Marcel!”
“Mother, Mother!” repeated Paule, as she strained her to her heart.
She felt her mother shiver as she stood there motionless in the darkness, like a tree uprooted in the night. Then she got up, struck a match, and with her arms around the unhappy broken woman she led her into her room. There she wanted to help her into bed. But her mother, who till then had allowed herself to be cared for unresisting, drew herself up.
“No, no, I want to stand,” she said.
Paule had to dress her quickly before dressing herself. Then she took her into the drawing-room, where she succeeded in reviving the fire, which was almost out. She made a big blaze and put the kettle again on the logs. Silent and desolate she walked up and down the room.
She had placed her mother near the fire in an armchair, a blanket over her knees. Stricken to the inmost depths of a mother’s heart, Madame Guibert sat without a movement, without a gesture, without a tear, in a state of prostration more alarming than loud despair. She complained no more—nor did she pray, she looked straight ahead, seeing nothing and making no sound. Crushed by fate, she seemed completely numbed. She could no longer feel her wounded heart beating in her breast. She let herself sink into the abyss of her misery like a drowning man in a fathomless sea.
Patiently Paule waited till the pent-up tears should at last break this dreadful silence, as a stream bursts the dam that is barring its way. But the silence and immobility continued. She came up to her Mother and vainly tried to make her drink some tea. She knelt in front of her, took her hands, and cried:
“Mamma, Mamma, speak to me of Marcel. Speak to me, I beg of you!”