Marie Claire
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Marguerite Audoux >> Marie Claire
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When evening came I saw that Sister Marie-Aimee knew what I had done,
but she never said a word about it. At recreation next day she drew me
towards her, took my head in her two hands and bent towards me. She
didn't say anything to me, but her eyes plunged right into my face. I
felt as though I were wrapped up in her eyes. I felt as though a soft
warmth was all round me, and I felt comfortable. She gave me a long
kiss on the forehead, then smiled at me and said, "There. You are my
beautiful white lily." I thought her so beautiful, and her eyes shone
so with several colours in them, that I said to her, "And you, too,
mother; you are a lovely flower." She said in an off-hand way, "Yes;
but I don't count among the lilies now." Then she said almost roughly,
"Don't you love Ismerie any more?" "Yes, mother." "Really. Then what
about Colette?" "I love Colette too." "Oh, you love everybody!" she
said.
I used to give Colette my arm nearly every day. She never talked to me
much, and then only about the other girls. When I sat down next to her
she used to look at me queerly. She said she thought I was a queer
little thing. One day she asked me if I thought her pretty. Directly
she said it, I remembered that Sister Marie-Aimee said that she was as
black as a mole. I saw, however, that she had a broad forehead, fine
big eyes, and the rest of her face was small and refined. Whenever I
looked at her, I didn't quite know why, but I thought of a well, deep
and dark, and full of hot water. No, I didn't think her pretty, but I
wouldn't tell her so because she was a cripple. I said she would be
much prettier if her skin were whiter. Little by little I became her
friend. She told me that she hoped to go away and get married like
Nina had done. Nina used to come and see us on Sundays with her child.
Colette took hold of my arm and said, "You see, I must get married. I
must." Then she stretched herself, bending her whole body forward.
Sometimes she used to cry, and was in such deep trouble that I could
not find anything to say to her. She would look at her poor twisted
legs, and groan out, "There would have to be a miracle for me to get
away from here."
All of a sudden I got the idea that the Virgin could bring this miracle
about. Colette thought it a splendid idea. She was quite surprised
that she had never thought of it. It was only fair that she should
have legs like the others. She wanted to see about it at once. She
explained to me that several girls would be necessary for the nine
days' prayer, and said that we must go and purify ourselves at
communion, and that during nine days we would pray all the time, so as
to get help from Our Lady in heaven. This had to be done in the
greatest secrecy. It was arranged that Sophie should be one of us
because she was so very good, and Colette said she would talk to some
of the big girls who were good, too. Two days afterwards it was all
arranged. Colette was to fast during the nine days. On the tenth day,
which would be a Sunday, she would go to communion as usual, leaning on
her stick and the arm of one of us. Then, when she had taken the holy
wafer, she would make a vow to bring up her children in the love of the
Virgin, and after that she would rise up straight and would sing the
"Te Deum" in her beautiful voice, and we would all sing it with her.
For nine days I prayed more fervently than I had ever prayed before.
The ordinary prayers seemed insipid. I recited the Virgin's Litany. I
hunted up the most beautiful hymns of praise that I could find, and
repeated them without getting tired. "Star of the Morning, make
Colette whole." The first time, I remained on my knees for so long
that Sister Marie-Aimee scolded me. Nobody noticed the little signs
which we made to one another, and the nine days of prayer passed off
without any one knowing anything about them.
Colette was very pale when she came to mass. Her cheeks were thinner
than ever, and she stood with her eyes cast down. Her eyelids were
deep violet. I thought to myself that the end of her martyrdom had
come, and I was filled with a deep joy. Quite close to me, the picture
of the Virgin in a flowing white robe smiled as it looked at me, and in
an outburst of all my faith my thoughts cried out, "Oh, Mirror of
Justice, make Colette whole!" My temples were stretched tightly. I
was straining every nerve to keep my thoughts from wandering, and I
went on saying, "Oh, Mirror of Justice, make Colette whole!" Colette
went up to the communion table. Her stick made a little clickety noise
on the flagstones. When she was on her knees the girl who had gone up
to the table with her came back to us with the stick. She knew that it
would be of no further use.
Colette tried to get up, and fell back again on to her knees. Her hand
reached out to take her stick, and when she didn't find it by her side,
she tried again to raise herself without it. She clung to the Holy
Table and caught hold of the arm of one of the Sisters, who was taking
communion with her. Then her shoulders rocked and she fell over,
pulling the Sister down with her. Two of us rushed forward and dragged
poor Colette to her bench. But I was still hoping against hope, and
until mass was over I was hoping to hear the Te Deum. As soon as I
could, I went back to Colette. The big girls were round her trying to
console her, and advising her to give herself to God for ever. She was
crying gently, not sobbing. Her head was bent a little forward, and
her tears fell on her hands, which were crossed one over the other. I
kneeled down in front of her, and when she looked at me, I said:
"Perhaps you can get married even though you are a cripple." Colette's
story was soon known to everybody. Everybody felt so sad about it that
we stopped playing noisy games. Ismerie thought she was telling me a
tremendous piece of news when she told me all about it. Sophie told me
that we must submit to the will of Our Lady, because She knew what was
necessary for Colette's happiness better than we did.
I should have liked to have known whether Sister Marie-Aimee knew about
Colette. I did not see her till the afternoon, when we were out
walking. She did not look sad. She looked almost pleased. I had
never seen her look so pretty. Her whole face shone. While we were
out I noticed that she walked as though something was lifting her up.
I never remembered to have seen her walk like that. Her veil fluttered
a little at the shoulders, and her stomacher didn't hide all her neck.
She paid no attention to us. She was looking at nothing, but she
seemed to be seeing something. Every now and then she smiled as though
somebody were talking to her from inside.
In the evening after dinner I found her sitting on the old bench under
the big linden tree. M. le Cure was sitting next to her with his back
against the tree. They looked serious. I thought they were talking
about Colette, and I remained standing some distance from them. Sister
Marie-Aimee was saying, as though she were answering a question, "Yes,
when I was fifteen." M. le Cure said, "You had no vocation at
fifteen." I didn't hear what Sister Marie-Aimee answered, but M. le
Cure went on, "Or, rather, at fifteen you had every possible vocation.
A kind word, or a little indifference would be enough to change your
whole life." He said nothing for a moment, and then, in a lower tone,
he said, "Your parents were very much to blame." Sister Marie-Aimee
answered, "I regret nothing." They remained for a long time without
saying a word. Then Sister Marie-Aimee raised one finger as though she
were impressing something on him, and said, "Everywhere, in spite of
all and always." M. le Cure stretched his hand out a little way,
laughed, and repeated, "Everywhere, in spite of all and always."
The goodnight bell sounded all of a sudden, and M. le Cure went off,
down the avenue of linden trees. For a long time afterwards I used to
repeat the words I had heard them say, but I could never fit them in to
poor Colette's story.
Colette had given up all hopes of a miracle to take her away, and yet
she could not make up her mind to remain. When she saw all the girls
of her own age go one by one, she began to rebel. She would not go to
confession anymore, and she would not take holy communion. She used to
go to mass because she sang there, and she was fond of music. I often
stopped with her and consoled her. She explained to me that marriage
meant love.
Sister Marie-Aimee, who had not been well for some time, became quite
ill. Madeleine nursed her devotedly and treated us dreadfully badly.
She was particularly unkind to me, and when she saw me tired of sewing
she would say, trying to turn her nose up, "If mademoiselle objects to
sewing, she had better take a broom and sweep." One Sunday she hit
upon the idea of making me clean the stairs during mass. It was
January. A damp cold which came up from the passages climbed the steps
and got under my dress. I swept as hard as I could to keep warm. The
sound of the harmonium came from the chapel out to me. From time to
time I recognized Madeleine's thin piercing tones, and M. le Cure's
jerky notes. I could follow mass by the singing. All of a sudden
Colette's voice rose above all the others. It was strong and pure. It
broadened, drowned the sound of the harmonium, drowned everything else,
and then seemed to fly away over the linden trees, over the house, and
over the church spire itself. It made me tremble, and when the voice
came down to earth, trembling a little as it went back into the church
and was swept up by the sound of the harmonium again, I began to cry,
sobbing as though I were quite a little girl. Then Madeleine's sharp
voice pierced through the others once more, and I swept and swept hard
as though my broom could scratch out the voice which was so
disagreeable to me.
That was the day Sister Marie-Aimee called me to her. She had been up
in her room for two months. She was a little better, but I noticed
that her eyes did not shine at all. They made me think of a rainbow
which had almost melted away. She made me tell her funny little
stories about what had been going on, and she tried to smile while she
was listening to me, but her lips only smiled on one side of her mouth.
She asked me if I had heard her screaming. "Oh yes," I said, I had
heard her during her illness. She had screamed so dreadfully in the
middle of the night that the whole dormitory had been kept awake.
Madeleine was coming and going. We heard her splashing water about,
and when I asked her what was the matter with Sister Marie-Aimee, she
said, as she hurried past, that she had rheumatism. I remembered at
once that Bonne Justine used to have rheumatism too, but she had never
screamed like that, and I remember wondering whether poor Sister
Marie-Aimee's legs were swollen to three times their size, like those
of Bonne Justine. Her cries got worse and worse. One of them was so
terrible that it seemed to come right out of her vitals. Then we had
heard her moaning, and that was all. A few moments afterwards
Madeleine had come up and whispered to Marie Renaud, Marie Renaud had
put on her dress, and I heard her go downstairs; Directly afterwards
she came back with M. le Cure. He rushed into Sister Marie-Aimee's
room, and Madeleine closed the door behind him. He did not remain very
long, but he went away again much more slowly than he had come. He
walked with his head sunk down between his shoulders, and his right
hand was holding his cloak over his left arm, as though he were
carrying something valuable. I thought to myself that he was taking
away the holy oils, and I did not dare ask whether Sister Marie-Aimee
were dead. I have never forgotten the blow I got from Madeleine's fist
when I clung to her dress. She knocked me right over and whispered, as
she ran past, "She is better." As soon as Sister Marie-Aimee was well
again, Madeleine was kinder, and everything went on as before.
I disliked sewing as much as ever, and my hatred for it began to make
Sister Marie-Aimee uneasy. She mentioned it in front of me to M. le
Cure's sister. M. le Cure's sister was an old maid with a long face
and big faded eyes. We called her Mademoiselle Maximilienne. Sister
Marie-Aimee told her how anxious she was about my future. She said
that I learned things easily, but that no kind of sewing interested me.
She had noticed for some time that I was fond of study, and she had
made inquiries to find out whether I had no distant relatives who would
look after me, she said. But the only relation I had was an old woman
who had adopted my sister, but refused to take me. Mademoiselle
Maximilienne offered to take me into her dressmaking business. M. le
Cure thought that was a very good idea, and said that he would be
pleased to go and teach me a little, twice a week. Sister Marie-Aimee
seemed really happy at this. She did not know what to say to thank
them. It was agreed that I should go to Mademoiselle Maximilienne as
soon as M. le Cure returned from a journey to Rome, which he had to
make. Sister Marie-Aimee would get my outfit ready for me, and
Mademoiselle Maximilienne would go to the Mother Superior and ask her
permission, she said. I felt dreadfully uncomfortable at the idea that
the Mother Superior was to have anything to do with it. I could not
forget the unkind look she always gave me when she passed the old bench
and saw me sitting there with Sister Marie-Aimee and M. le Cure. So I
waited impatiently to hear what she would say to Mademoiselle
Maximilienne. M. le Cure had been away for a week, and Sister
Marie-Aimee used to talk to me every day about my new work. She told
me how glad she would be to see me on Sundays. She gave me all kinds
of good advice, told me to be good and to take care of my health.
The Mother Superior sent for me one morning. When I went into her room
I noticed that she was sitting in a big red armchair. I began to
remember some ghost stories which I had heard the girls tell about her,
and when I saw her sitting there, all black in the middle of all that
red, I compared her in my mind to a huge poppy which had grown in a
cellar. She opened and closed her eyelids several times. She had a
smile on her face which was like an insult. I felt myself blushing,
but I did not turn my eyes away. She gave a little sneering chuckle,
and said, "You know why I sent for you?" I answered that I thought it
was to talk to me about Mademoiselle Maximilienne. She sneered again,
"Oh, yes; Mademoiselle Maximilienne," she said. "Well, my child, you
must undeceive yourself. We have made up our minds to place you on a
farm in Sologne." She half closed her eyes and snapped out, "You are
to be a shepherdess, young woman." Then she added, rapping the words
out, "You will look after the sheep." I said simply, "Very well,
mother." She pulled herself up out of the depths of her armchair and
asked me, "Do you know what looking after the sheep means?" I answered
that I had seen shepherdesses in the fields. She bent her yellow face
towards me and went on, "You will have to clean the stables. They
smell very unpleasantly, and the shepherdesses are dirty. You will
help in the work of the farm, and be taught to milk the cows and look
after the pigs." She spoke very loud, as though she were afraid I
should not understand her. I answered as I had answered before, "Very
well, mother." She pulled herself up by the arms of her chair,
fastened her shining eyes on me, and said, "You don't mean to tell me
that you are not proud?" I smiled, and said, "No, mother." She seemed
very much surprised, but, as I went on smiling, her voice grew softer.
"Really, my child?" she said. "I always thought you were proud." She
dropped back into her chair again, hid her eyes under their lids, and
began talking quickly in a monotonous voice, as she did when she said
prayers. She said that I must obey my masters, that I must never
forget my religious duties, and that the farmer's wife would come and
fetch me the day before the feast of St. John.
I went out of her room with feelings which I could not express. But I
felt horribly afraid of hurting Sister Marie-Aimee's feelings. How
could I tell her? I had no time to think. Sister Marie-Aimee was
waiting for me in the passage. She took hold of my two shoulders, bent
her face towards me, and said, "Well?" She looked anxious. I said,
"She wants me to be a shepherdess." She did not understand, and
frowned, "A shepherdess," she said. "What do you mean?" I hurried on,
"She has found a place for me in a farm, and I am to milk cows and look
after the pigs." Sister Marie-Aimee pushed me away so roughly that I
bumped against the wall. She ran towards the door. I thought she was
going to the Mother Superior's room, but she went out, and came back
again, and began walking up and down the passage, taking long steps.
Her fists were clenched, and she kept tapping with her foot on the
floor. She was breathing hard. Then she leaned up against the wall,
let her arms fall as though she were overcome, and, in a voice which
seemed to come from a long way off, she said: "She is revenging
herself. Yes, she is revenging herself." She came back to me, took my
two hands affectionately in hers, and asked, "Didn't you tell her that
you would not go? Didn't you beg her to let you go to Mademoiselle
Maximilienne?" I shook my head and repeated in her own words exactly
what the Mother Superior had said to me. She listened without
interrupting me. Then she told me to say nothing about it to the other
girls. She thought that everything would be all right when M. le Cure
came back.
Next Sunday, as we were getting into line to go to mass, Madeleine ran
into the room like a mad thing. She threw her arms up in the air,
cried out, "M. le Cure is dead!" and fell right down across the table
near her. Everybody stopped talking, and we all ran to Madeleine, who
was screaming and crying. We wanted to know all about it. But she
rocked herself up and down on the table, and kept on repeating, "He is
dead! he is dead!" I could not think at all. I did not know whether I
was sorry or not, and all the time mass was going on, Madeleine's voice
sounded in my ears like a bell. There was no walk that day. Even the
little girls kept quite quiet. I went to look for Sister Marie-Aimee.
She had not been at mass, and I knew from Marie Renaud that she was not
ill. I found her in the refectory. She was sitting on her little
platform. She was leaning her head sideways on the table, and her arms
were hanging down beside her chair. I sat myself down some distance
away from her. But when I heard her moaning I began to sob too, hiding
my face in my hands. But I did not sob long, and I knew that I was not
as sorry as I wanted to be. I tried to cry, but I could not shed a
single tear. I was a little bit ashamed of myself because I believed
that one ought to cry when somebody died, and I didn't dare uncover my
face for fear that Sister Marie-Aimee should think that I was hard
hearted. I listened to her crying. Her moaning reminded me of the
wind at winter-time in the big fireplace. It went up and down as if
she were trying to compose a kind of song. Then her voice stumbled and
broke, and ended up in deep trembling notes. A little before
dinner-time, Madeleine came into the refectory. She took Sister
Marie-Aimee away with her, putting her arm round her, and taking care
of her as they walked. In the evening she told us that M. le Cure had
died in Rome, and that he would be brought back to be buried with his
family.
Next day Sister Marie-Aimee looked after us as usual. She didn't cry
any more, but she would not let us talk to her. She walked along with
her eyes on the ground, and seemed to have forgotten me. I had only
one day more, as the Mother Superior had told me I should be fetched
next day, for the day after was the feast of St. John. In the evening,
at the end of prayers, when Sister Marie-Aimee had said, "Lord, be
pitiful to exiles and give your aid to prisoners," she added, in a loud
voice, "We will say a prayer for one of your companions who is going
out into the world." I understood at once that she was talking of me,
and I felt that I was as much to be pitied as the exiles and the
prisoners were. I could not get to sleep that night. I knew that I
was going next day, but I didn't know what Sologne was like. I
imagined it to be a country very far off, where there were large plains
with flowers on them. I imagined myself the shepherdess of a troop of
beautiful white sheep, with two dogs by my side which kept the sheep in
order at a sign from me. I would not have dared to tell Sister
Marie-Aimee so, but just then I liked the idea of being a shepherdess
much better than the idea of being in a shop. Ismerie, who was snoring
loud, next to me, reminded me of my comrades again.
It was such a bright night that I could see all the beds quite
distinctly. I looked at one after the other, stopping a little at
those of the girls I was fond of. Almost opposite me I saw my friend
Sophie, with her magnificent hair. It was scattered about over the
pillow, and lighted up the bed quite brightly. A little further down
the room were the beds of Chemineau the Proud, and her twin sister, the
Fool. Chemineau the Proud had a big smooth white forehead and gentle
eyes. She never said it was not true when she was accused of doing
anything wrong. She simply shrugged her shoulders and looked round her
with contempt. Sister Marie-Aimee used to say that her conscience was
as white as her forehead. Chemineau the Fool was half as tall again as
her sister. Her hair was coarse, and came down nearly to her eyebrows.
Her shoulders were square, and her hips were broad. We used to call
her the sister's watch-dog. And down at the other end of the dormitory
was Colette. She still believed that I was going to Mademoiselle
Maximilienne. She was quite sure that I should get married very soon,
and she had made me promise to come and fetch her as soon as I was
married. I thought about her for a long time. Then I looked at the
window and the shadows of the linden trees were thrown in my direction.
It was as though they had come to say good-bye to me, and I smiled at
them. On the other side of the lindens I could see the infirmary. It
looked as though it were trying to hide itself, and its little windows
made me think of weak eyes. I looked at the infirmary for some time,
thinking of Sister Agatha. She was so bright and so good that the
little girls always laughed when she scolded them. She did the
doctoring. When one of us went to her with a bad finger, she always
had something funny to say, and she always knew whether we were greedy
or vain, and would promise us a cake or a ribbon accordingly. She used
to pretend to look for it, and while we were looking to see where it
was, the bad place on the finger would be pricked, washed, and tied up.
I remember a chilblain that I had on my foot which would not get well.
One morning Sister Agatha said to me solemnly, "Listen, Marie Claire.
I must put something miraculous on this, and if your foot is not better
in three days, we shall have to cut it off." For three days I was very
careful not to walk on that foot so as not to disturb this miraculous
something. I thought it must be a piece of the true cross, or perhaps
a piece of the veil of the Holy Virgin. On the third day my foot was
completely cured, and when I asked Sister Agatha what the miraculous
remedy was that she had put on it, she laughed, called me a little
silly, and showed me a box of ointment which was called "miraculous
ointment."
It was late at night when I went to sleep, and I began to expect the
farmer's wife directly morning came. I wanted her to come, and I was
afraid of her coming. Sister Marie-Aimee looked up quickly every time
the door opened. Just as we were finishing dinner, the porteress came
and asked if I were ready to go. Sister Marie-Aimee said that I should
be ready in a moment. She got up and told me to go with her. She
helped me to dress, gave me a little bundle of linen, and all of a
sudden she said, "They will bring him back to-morrow, and you will not
be there." Then she looked into my eyes, "Swear to me," she said,
"that you will say a _De Profundis_ for him every night." I promised
to do so. Then she pulled me to her quite roughly, pressed me to her
hard, and ran off to her room. I heard her saying as she went, "My
God! this is too much!" I crossed the courtyard by myself, and the
farmer's wife, who was waiting for me, took me away.
PART II
I was tucked in among a lot of old baskets in a cart covered with a
hood, and when the horse stopped of his own accord at the farm it had
been dark for a long time.
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