An ill wind, which had been blowing since sunset with a far-off, moaning sound, had arisen to a melancholy, screaming note, with an extraordinary rumbling in the chimney. Clouds of soot and ashes, blown from the fireplace, whirled in drifts around the floor. The sound of distant thunder, the velocity of the wind, the increasing turmoil and confusion, filled the night with keen disease. A bird sped round the house with a shrill cry; the wind bellowed hoarsely in the chimney; the house shook with the blast; over the housetops could be heard the coming of the rain; the light of the flickering candles served only to increase the gloom; the draft from the window swelled out the print curtain and floated it half-way across the room, straining and whipping at its pole; the black magnolias bent, and rose, and bent again, as if beneath the beating of gigantic wings: it was close upon midnight.
Before her crucifix Margot knelt, regardless of the storm, praying in anguish for the safety of her child. Ever before her imagining was Gabrielle, dishonored and betrayed, abandoned to scorn and poverty. Her hands twisted in desperate appeal.
“Blessed St. Dominique, lover of souls, preserve my daughter!” she plead. She listened motionless; all that she heard was the roar of the wind.
“Mary, Mother, great in grace, defend and preserve my child! Mary, Mother of Sorrows, have mercy upon my daughter!”
Again she listened; but for the howl of the gale the silence was profound.
“All ye Holy Virgins, intercede for us!” Her panting voice broke. “Lord of Compassion, hear me! Lord of Infinite Mercy, hear me! Have mercy upon my child! O Thou, Most Pitiful Lord of the Innocent, answer my prayer!”
Again she listened. There was no sound but the roar of the storm, the creak of the house, and the gnawing of the great rats in the timbers of the wall. She cringed and shivered, and in extreme entreaty cried, “Lord, Seigneur Dieu, preserve and spare my child! You see her young and fair, her soul as pure as the flowers that bloom in Paradise! You breathed into her life; by your law she was made; but for you she never had been; dare you then let her fall?”
But all was still. Heaven, to mortal anguish, seems intolerably serene, so far beyond comprehension is the inscrutable leisure of God. It was taking too long for her sorrow to reach the foot of the throne. She was seeking her daughter’s safety, though it should be at the hazard of her soul; but all she had was the bitterness of unanswered supplication. To hearts dismayed there is nothing so appallingly still as God. The confident faithful may await the ultimate reply; but the desperate storm heaven, they have not time to wait.
She beat her breast; her hair was moist; her garments disarrayed; her voice grew sharp; by vicars, saints and intercessors, by all intermediaries, she plead with Almighty God to listen and to reply. There was no answer. “Mary, Mother of Sorrows!” she gasped. “Does God not understand?”
Her appeal arose piercing shrill: “Dieu, Dieu, Eternel Dieu, écoute mes cris! Hâte-toi de ma secourir! Hâte-toi d’elle delivrer! O Toi, qui écoutes la prière, aie pitié de nous! Ne tarde-pas! Écoute, mes cris!” She waited; there was no answer; and suddenly her voice went up like the cry of delirium: