Nêne/Part 2/Chapter 19

ARLY one morning two sad women were going about the household tasks in a low thatched cottage. One of them was preparing the breakfast soup, the other, her daughter, was folding up and packing her work clothes.

"Now I'll say good-bye, mother."

"Aren't you going to eat something? You've got a long walk ahead,—remember! Have some soup, anyhow!"

"Thank you, I don't want anything."

"Aren't you feeling well?"

She shook her head by way of answer and her lips quivered.

"You must be ill, Madeleine!"

"I'd rather be ill.… I'd rather be dead!"

The mother crossed herself, then lifted toward her daughter her bony hands with the stiff joints—stiff from being so much in the suds.

"Madeleine, I don't like the way you talk. We mustn't invite trouble, but we must take it as it comes. Have a good cry—that'll relieve you. For all of two weeks now you've let this thing gnaw at you like a bad fever; is it sensible to work yourself into a falling sickness just because you're going to a new place? Only thirty, and handsome and big and strong as you are? If your sisters could only see you, what would they say?"

Slowly she passed her crinkled fingers over the full shoulders and the ample arms.

"Come, now, drink your coffee, I've put a drop of brandy in it.—There now! Off you go; do your work and do it so your new masters will be pleased with you."

Madeleine took her bundle and went on her way.

A little down the road she halted. The heat of the sun was beginning to make itself felt; she found that her ill-adjusted bundle was too big, too round and awkward. So she sat down to repack it; but as she unfolded a warm, plushy garment, her heartache revived bitterly.

It was this jacket she used to wrap around Jo's cold little feet, over there, at the farm of Michael Corbier, who was no longer in need of a hired girl any more. And here was the half-burned apron with which she had thrown herself on Lalie, that awful day.

Memories were crowding each other within her.

She saw herself again coming to the home of the young widower who had lost his grip on life. She had loved him with a love that was sad and gentle and quite without hope.… But very soon the children had taken the first place in her heart; for a long time now they had held sovereign sway in it.

They had given her so much happiness and they had caused her so much anxiety.

She remembered their Sunday walks, their games by the pond.… She remembered the troubled hours, the anguished watches by Lalie's bed. That last memory was to her like a savage tear in her flesh; she would never cease hearing those plaintive cries:

"Nêne! It hurts, Nêne!"

Lord knew they had captured her heart: Jo with his square little paws that refused to be kept clean; Lalie with her pitiful, martyred little fingers.

Two weeks had gone by since she had left the children, since she had untied from about her neck the little arms that had entwined it in the abandon of sleep. She could hear their astonished cry that first morning after she was gone:

"Nêne! Nêne! Where are you, Nêne?"

Now she had hired herself out down valley, at the farm of—she couldn't even remember the name!

She got up again and as her grief was too plainly marked on her face she left the main road and took a side-path—a path that happened to pass by the Moulinettes.

Her heart bounded in her breast and her legs felt very tired.

As she came to a stile, a ploughman called:

"Hello, Madeleine!"

She raised her head. It was Corbier. He looked happy and friendly.

"Good morning," she replied. "I see you're at the ploughing." "Yes, ploughing for feed corn. I've got a new plough—the old one is too heavy for this. I bought a real beauty—come and see!"

He was too absorbed in his latest pride to notice the poor, straining face. She asked:

"Are the children well?"

"As well as can be, thank you.—At first they kept asking for you, but now everything goes on oiled wheels. Violette has brought them around to her."

She turned her face away. Only then did he notice how disturbed she was and he said good-naturedly:

"You know, Madeleine, you've given us, all through four years, your best work and your best affection. Whenever you feel like dropping in at the Moulinettes, we'll count it a pleasure.—And I hope you may live in happiness and health, Madeleine."

"I wish you the same.—Thank you, Corbier."

And she went on her way, sobbing.

Yes, she'd go back to the Moulinettes—right away—as long as she had come so near. "At first they kept asking for you, but Violette has brought them around to her." Just like that, in a fortnight! It was enough to make anyone laugh!—Brought them around to her? But how? With candy, perhaps.—That would be the only way she'd think of, the wicked thing! She couldn't possibly win them with affection because she had no heart—as Madeleine knew well enough.

She'd brought them around to her! Indeed!—That did make her laugh! Well, they'd see! … Thinking ahead, she bent her neck as if she felt already the little arms around it. The darlings! … No, never would they forget her! Wasn't she their true mother? Do children forget their mother in a fortnight?

She took the turn of the village road almost on the run and came up to the house. The door stood open; she went in.

"Good morning, Violette!"

"Good morning. What do you want? Did you forget something?"

"No—I was just passing.—I met Corbier and he asked me to drop in."

Violette drew herself up in her victorious hatred:

"You don't say!"

"Yes … whenever I'd like to … if it doesn't inconvenience you, Violette.…"

"Unfortunately it would inconvenience me. If I'm mistress here, it isn't your fault, is it? Your place is not in my house, no more than in the fields where my man is working."

"Oh, Violette! Don't be so wicked! Just this once—I'd like to see the children!"

Violette smiled cruelly.

"Very well! But you're going to be disappointed.—Here is Lalie now."

The little girl came in from the hall.

Madeleine took her in her arms, lifted her high up, covered her with kisses, again and again and again, on the eyes, on the forehead, on the scarred cheek, on the poor little deformed fingers. "You bring them around? Why, this is the way to win them."

The child let Madeleine fondle her but gave no response.

"Have you still got your little necklace, darling?"

"Mamma gave me a gold one, much prettier than yours!"

"Don't you love me any more, Lalie?"

The child hesitated.

"Yes, Madeleine."

"Say, Nêne!"

"Oh, I can say Madeleine now."

Her heart was buzzing like a disturbed hive. Violette kept on smiling and showed her sharp teeth.

"Where is Jo?"

"In his bed in the other room—you know the way."

Madeleine flew to him.

"Jo! my little Jo!"

Madeleine spread her big hands over the naked little body.

But the child did not stretch out his arms as he used to do. On the contrary: he squirmed and struck at her.

"I'm not Jojo any more! I'm a big man now!"

"My baby!"

"I don't like you! Go away! You aren't nice! you've got a smell like cheese."

With a deep sob that shook her whole being, Madeleine fled.

At the end of the garden she stumbled against the gate, but on she ran; she dropped her bundle, she dropped her wooden shoes, but she kept on running—straight to the pond, to a spot where the water was black and deep; running—running—running

She came up to the surface at once, her lungs full of water. A thousand ripples splashed against her face—a thousand little voices sang in her ears mockingly:

"Nêne! Nêne! Nêne!"

Consciousness went—and she slipped down to the muddy bed.

Then a few bubbles came up—and once more the water was calm.

Lazy clouds moved in the sky like a flock of white sheep. The sun stood high. It was a peaceful, glorious morning.