[Frontispiece: Marguerite Audoux]

MARIE CLAIRE

BY

MARGUERITE AUDOUX

TRANSLATED BY

JOHN N. RAPHAEL

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

ARNOLD BENNETT

AND AN AFTERWORD BY THE TRANSLATOR

LONDON

G. BELL & SONS, LTD. 

1911

_This Edition is intended for circulation only in India, and theBritish Colonies_

 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. 

INTRODUCTION

The origins of this extraordinary book are sufficiently curious andsufficiently interesting to be stated in detail. They go back to someten years ago, when the author, after the rustic adventures which shedescribes in the following pages, had definitely settled in Paris as aworking sempstress. The existence of a working sempstress in Paris, aselsewhere, is very hard; it usually means eleven hours' closeapplication a day, six full days a week, at half a crown a day. Butalready Marguerite Audoux's defective eyesight was causing anxiety, andupsetting the regularity of her work, so that in the evenings she wasoften less fatigued than a sempstress generally is. She wanteddistraction, and she found it in the realization of an old desire towrite. She wrote, not because she could find nothing else to do, butbecause at last the chance of writing had come. That she had alwaysloved reading is plain from certain incidents in this present book; heropportunities for reading, however, had been limited. She now began, in a tentative and perhaps desultory fashion, to set down her youthfulreminiscences. About this time she became acquainted, through one ofits members, and by one of those hazards of destiny which too rarelydiversify the dull industrial life of a city, with a circle of youngliterary men, of whom possibly the most important was the regrettedCharles Louis Philippe, author of "Bubu de Montparnasse, " and othernovels which have a genuine reputation among the chosen people who knowthe difference between literature and its counterfeit. This circle offriends used to meet at Philippe's flat. It included a number oftalented writers, among whom I should mention MM. Iehl (the author of"Cauët"), Francis Jourdain, Paul Fargue, Larbaud, Chanvin, Marcel Ray, and Régis Gignoux (the literary and dramatic critic). MargueriteAudoux was not introduced as a literary prodigy. Nobody, indeed, wasaware that she wrote. She came on her merits as an individuality, andshe took her place beside several other women who, like herself, had noliterary pretensions. I am told by one of the intimates of thefellowship that the impression she made was profound. And the fact isindubitable that her friends are at least as enthusiastic about herindividuality as about this book which she has written. She was alittle over thirty, and very pretty, with an agreeable voice. Thesobriety of her charm, the clear depth of her emotional faculty, andthe breadth of her gentle interest in human nature handsomely conqueredthe entire fellowship. The working sempstress was sincerely esteemedby some of the brightest masculine intellects in Paris. 

This admiring appreciation naturally encouraged her to speak a littleof herself. And one evening she confessed that she, too, had beentrying to write. On another evening she brought some sheets ofmanuscript--the draft of the early chapters of "Marie Claire"--and readthem aloud. She read, I am told, very well. The reception wasenthusiastic. One can imagine the ecstatic fervour of these young men, startled by the apparition of such a shining talent. She must continuethe writing of her book, but in the mean time she must produce someshort stories and sketches for the daily papers! Her gift must bepresented to the public instantly! She followed the advice thusurgently offered, and several members of the circle (in particular, Régis Gignoux and Marcel Ray) gave themselves up to the business ofplacing the stories and sketches; Marcel Ray devoted whole days to theeffort, obtaining special leave from his own duties in order to do so. In the result several stories and sketches appeared in the _Matin, Paris Journal_ (respectively the least and the most literary of Parismorning papers), and other organs. These stories and sketches, by theway, were republished in a small volume, some time before "MarieClaire, " and attracted no general attention whatever. 

Meanwhile the more important work proceeded, slowly; and was at lengthfinished. Its composition stretched over a period of six years. Marguerite Audoux never hurried nor fatigued herself, and though shere-wrote many passages several times, she did not carry this revisionto the meticulous excess which is the ruin of so many ardent literarybeginners in France. The trite phrase, "written with blood and tears, "does not in the least apply here. A native wisdom has invariably savedMarguerite Audoux from the dangerous extreme. In his preface to theoriginal French edition, M. Octave Mirbeau appositely points out thatPhilippe and her other friends abstained from giving purely literaryadvice to the authoress as her book grew and was read aloud. With theinsight of artists they perceived that hers was a talent which must bestrictly let alone. But Parisian rumour has alleged, not merely thatshe was advised, but that she was actually helped in the writing by heradmirers. The rumour is worse than false--it is silly. Everyparagraph of the work bears the unmistakable and inimitable work of oneindividuality. And among the friends of Marguerite Audoux, even themost gifted, there is none who could possibly have composed any of thepassages which have been singled out as being beyond the accomplishmentof a working sempstress. The whole work and every part of the work isthe unassisted and untutored production of its author. This statementcannot be too clearly and positively made. Doubtless the spelling wasdrastically corrected by the proof-readers; but to have one's spellingdrastically corrected is an experience which occurs to nearly all womenwriters, and to a few male writers. 

The book completed, the question of its proper flotation arose. I usethe word "flotation" with intent. Although Marguerite Audoux hadoriginally no thought of publishing, her friends were firmly bent notsimply on publishing, but on publishing with the maximum of éclat. Agreat name was necessary to the success of the enterprise, a namewhich, while keeping the sympathy of the artists, would impose itselfon the crowd. Francis Jourdain knew Octave Mirbeau. And OctaveMirbeau, by virtue of his feverish artistic and moral enthusiasms, ofhis notorious generosity, and of his enormous vogue, was obviously theheaven-appointed man. Francis Jourdain went to Octave Mirbeau andoffered him the privilege of floating "Marie Claire" on the literarymarket of Paris. Octave Mirbeau accepted, and he went to work on thebusiness as he goes to work on all his business; that is to say, withflames and lightnings. For some time Octave Mirbeau lived for nothing, but "Marie Claire. " The result has been vastly creditable to him. "Marie Claire" was finally launched in splendour. Its path had beenprepared with really remarkable skill in the Press and in the world, and it was an exceedingly brilliant success from the start. It ran atriumphant course as a serial in one of the "great reviews, " and withina few weeks of its publication as a book thirty thousand copies hadbeen sold. The sale continues more actively than ever. MargueriteAudoux lives precisely as she lived before. She is writing a furtherinstalment of her pseudonymous autobiography, and there is no apparentreason why this new instalment should not be even better than the first. 

Such is the story of the book. 

My task is not to criticise the work. I will only say this. In myopinion it is highly distinguished of its kind (the second part inparticular is full of marvellous beauty); but it must be accepted forwhat it is. It makes no sort of pretence to display those constructiveand inventive artifices which are indispensable to a great masterpieceof impersonal fiction. It is not fiction. It is the exquisiteexpression of a temperament. It is a divine accident. 

ARNOLD BENNETT. 

MARIE CLAIRE

PART I

One day a number of people came to the house. The men came in asthough they were going into church, and the women made the sign of thecross as they went out. 

I slipped into my parents' bedroom and was surprised to see that mymother had a big lighted candle by her bedside. My father was leaningover the foot of the bed looking at my mother. She was asleep with herhands crossed on her breast. 

Our neighbour, la mère Colas, kept us with her all day. As the womenwent out again she said to them, "No, she would not kiss her childrengood-bye. " The women blew their noses, looked at us, and la mère Colasadded, "That sort of illness makes one unkind, I suppose. " A few daysafterwards we were given new dresses with big black and white checks. 

La mère Colas used to give us our meals and send us out to play in thefields. My sister, who was a big girl, scrambled into the hedges, climbed the trees, messed about in the ponds, and used to come home atnight with her pockets full of creatures of all kinds, which frightenedme and made la mère Colas furiously angry. 

What I hated most were the earthworms. The red elastic things made meshiver with horror, and if I happened to step on one it made me quiteill. When I had a pain in my side la mère Colas used to forbid mysister to go out. But my sister got tired of remaining indoors andwanted to go out and take me with her. So she used to go and collectearthworms, and hold them up close to my face. Then I said that Iwasn't in pain any more, and la mère Colas used to send us both out ofdoors. One day my sister threw a handful of earthworms on to my dress. I jumped back so quickly that I fell into a tub of hot water. La mèreColas was very angry while she undressed me. I was not very much hurt. She promised my sister a good slapping, and called to the sweeps, whowere passing, to come in and take her away. All three of them came in, with their black bags and their ropes. My sister howled and cried formercy. I was very much ashamed at being all undressed. 

My father often took us to a place where there were men who drank wine. He used to put me on a table among the glasses, and make me sing. Themen would laugh and kiss me, and try and make me drink wine. It wasalways dark when we went home. My father took long steps, and rockedhimself as he walked. He nearly tumbled down lots of times. Sometimeshe would begin to cry and say that his house had been stolen. Then mysister used to scream. It was always she who used to find the house. One morning la mère Colas got angry with us and told us that we werechildren of misfortune, and that she would not feed us any longer. Shesaid we could go and look for our father, who had gone away nobody knewwhere. When her anger had passed she gave us our breakfasts as usual, but a few days afterwards we were put into père Chicon's cart. Thecart was full of straw and bags of corn. I was tucked away behind in alittle hollow between the sacks. The cart tipped down at the back, andevery jolt made me slip on the straw. 

I was very frightened all the way along. Every time I slipped Ithought I was going to fall out of the cart, or that the sacks weregoing to fall on me. We stopped at an inn. A woman lifted us down, shook the straw on our dresses, and gave us some milk to drink. Iheard her say to père Chicon, "You really think their father will takecare of them, then?" Père Chicon shook his head, and knocked his pipeagainst the table. Then he made a funny face and said, "He may beanywhere. Young Girard told me he had met him on the Paris road. "After a while père Chicon took us to a big house with a lot of stepsleading up to the door. He had a long talk with a gentleman who wavedhis arms about and talked about the dignity of labour. I wondered whatthat was. The gentleman put his hand on my head and patted it, and Iheard him say several times, "He did not tell me that he had anychildren. " I understood that he was talking of my father, and I askedif I could not see him. The gentleman looked at me without answering, and then asked père Chicon, "How old is she?" "About five, " said pèreChicon. All this time my sister was playing up and down the steps witha kitten. We went back into the cart and to mère Colas again. She wascross with us and pushed us about. A few days afterwards she took usto the railway station, and that evening we went to a big house, wherethere were a lot of little girls. 

Sister Gabrielle separated us at once. She said that my sister was bigenough to be with the middle-sized girls, while I was to stay with thelittle ones. Sister Gabrielle was quite small, quite old, quite thin, and all bent up. She managed the dormitory and the refectory. Sheused to make the salad in a huge yellow jar. She tucked her sleeves upto her shoulders, and dipped her arms in and out of the salad. Herarms were dark and knotted, and when they came out of the jar, allshining and dripping, they made me think of dead branches on rainy days. 

I made a chum at once. She came dancing up to me and looked impudent, I thought. She did not stand any higher than the bench on which I wassitting. She put her elbows on my knees and said: "Why aren't youplaying about?" I told her that I had a pain in my side. "Oh, ofcourse, " she said, "your mother had consumption, and Sister Gabriellesaid you would soon die. " She climbed up on to the bench, and satdown, hiding her little legs underneath her. Then she asked me my nameand my age, and told me that her name was Ismérie, that she was olderthan I was, and that the doctor said she would never get any bigger. She told me also that the class mistress was called Sister Marie-Aimée, that she was very unkind, and punished you severely if you talked toomuch. Then all of a sudden she jumped down and shouted "Augustine. "Her voice was like a boy's voice, and her legs were a little twisted. At the end of recreation I saw her on Augustine's back. Augustine wasrolling her from one shoulder to the other, as if she meant to throwher down. When she passed me Ismérie said in that big voice of hers, "You will carry me too sometimes, won't you?" I soon became friendswith Augustine. 

My eyes were not well. At night my eyelids used to close up tight, andI was quite blind until I had them washed. Augustine was told off totake me to the infirmary. She used to come and fetch me from thedormitory every morning. I could hear her coming before she got to thedoor. She caught hold of my hand and pulled me along, and she didn'tmind a bit when I bumped against the beds. We flew down the passageslike the wind and rushed down two flights of stairs like an avalanche. My feet only touched a step now and again. I used to go down thosestairs as if I was falling down a well. Augustine had strong hands andheld me tight. To go to the infirmary we had to pass behind the chapeland then in front of a little white house. There we hurried more thanever. One day when I fell on to my knees she pulled me up again andsmacked my head saying, "Do be quick, we are in front of the deadhouse. " After that she was always afraid of my falling again, and usedto tell me when we got in front of the dead house. I was frightenedchiefly because Augustine was frightened. If she rushed along likethat there must be danger. I was always out of breath when I got tothe infirmary. Somebody pushed me on to a little chair, and the painin my side had been gone a long time when they came and washed my eyes. It was Augustine who took me into Sister Marie-Aimée's classroom. Sheput on a timid kind of voice, and said, "Sister, here is a new girl. "I expected to be scolded; but Sister Marie-Aimée smiled, kissed meseveral times, and said, "You are too small to sit on a bench, I shallput you in here. " And she sat me down on a stool in the hollow of herdesk. It was ever so comfortable in the hollow of her desk, and thewarmth of her woollen petticoat soothed my body, which was bruised allover by tumbling about on the wooden staircases, and on the stone ones. Often two feet hemmed me in on each side of my stool, and two warm legsmade a back for me. A soft hand pressed my head on to the woollenskirt between the knees, and the softness of the hand and the warmth ofthe pillow used to send me to sleep. When I woke up again the pillowbecame a table. The same hand put bits of cake on it, and bits ofsugar and sweets sometimes. And all round me I heard the world living. A voice with tears in it would say, "No, Sister, I didn't do it. " Thenshrill voices would say, "Yes, she did, Sister. " Above my head a fullwarm voice called for silence. And then there would be the rap of aruler on the desk. It would make an enormous noise down in my hollow. Sometimes the feet would be drawn away from my little stool, the kneeswould be drawn together, the chair would move, and down to my nest camea white veil, a narrow chin, and smiling lips with little white pointedteeth behind them. And last of all I saw two soft eyes which seemed tocuddle me and make me feel comfortable. 

When my eyes got better I used to get an alphabet as well as sweets andcakes. It was a little book with pictures next to the words. I oftenused to look at a great big strawberry which I fancied as big as a bun. When it was not cold in the classroom, Sister Marie-Aimée put me on abench between Ismérie and Marie Renaud, who slept in the two beds nextto mine in the dormitory. Now and then she used to let me go back tomy hollow again, and I loved that. I used to find books there withpictures, which made me forget all about the time. 

One morning Ismérie took me into a corner, and told me with greatsecrecy that Sister Marie-Aimée was not going to take the class anymore. She was going to take Sister Gabrielle's place in the dormitoryand the refectory. She did not tell me who had told her this, but shesaid it was an awful shame. She was very fond of Sister Gabrielle, whoused to treat her like a little child. She did not like "that SisterMarie-Aimée, " as she used to call her when she knew that nobody heardher but ourselves. She said that Sister Marie-Aimée would not let herclimb on to our backs, and that we should not be able to make fun ofher as we used to of Sister Gabrielle, who always went upstairssideways. In the evening after prayers Sister Gabrielle told us thatshe was going. She kissed us all, beginning with the smallest of us. We went up to the dormitory making a dreadful noise. The big girlswhispered together and said they would not put up with SisterMarie-Aimée. The little ones snivelled as though they were going intodanger. Ismérie, whom I was carrying upstairs on my back, was cryingnoisily. Her little fingers hurt my throat, and her tears fell down myneck. Nobody thought of laughing at Sister Gabrielle, who wentupstairs slowly, saying "Hush, hush, " all the time, without making thenoise any less. The servant in the little dormitory was crying too. She shook me a little while she was undressing me and said, "I'm sureyou are pleased at having that Sister Marie-Aimée of yours. " We usedto call the servant Bonne Esther. I liked her best of the threeservants. She was rather rough sometimes, but she was fond of us. When I coughed she used to get up and put a piece of sugar in my mouth. And often she took me out of my bed when I was cold and warmed me inher own. 

Next morning we went down to the refectory in dead silence. Theservants told us to remain standing. Several of the big girls stoodvery straight and looked proud. Bonne Justine stood at one end of thetable. She looked sad and bent her head. Bonne Néron, who looked likea gendarme, walked up and down in the middle of the refectory. Now andthen she looked at the clock, and shrugged her shoulders. SisterMarie-Aimée came in, leaving the door open behind her. She seemed tome to be taller than usual, in her white apron and white cuffs. Shewalked slowly, looking at us all. The rosary, which hung at her side, made a little clickety sound, and her skirt swung a little as shewalked. She went up the three steps to her desk, and made a sign to usto sit down. In the afternoon she took us out for a walk in thecountry. It was very hot. I went and sat down near her on a littlehillock. She was reading a book, and every now and then looked at thelittle girls who were playing in a field below us. She looked at thesun which was setting, and kept on saying "How lovely it is, how lovelyit is. "

That evening the birch which Sister Gabrielle kept in the dormitory wasput away in a cupboard, and in the refectory the salad was turned withtwo long wooden spoons. These were the only changes. We went intoclass from nine o'clock till twelve, and in the afternoon we crackednuts, which were sold to an oil merchant. The bigger girls used tocrack them with a hammer, and the little ones took them out of theshells. We were forbidden to eat them, and it was not easy, anyhow. One of the girls would always sneak if we did, because she was greedytoo, and jealous. Bonne Esther used to peep into our mouths. Sometimes she caught a very greedy girl. Then she used to roll hereyes at her, give her a little smack, and say, "I've got my eye onyou. " Some of us she trusted. She would make us turn round and openour mouths and pretend to look at them, and then she said, "Shut yourbeaks, birdies, " and laughed. 

I often wanted to eat the nuts. But I would look at Bonne Esther andblush at the idea of cheating her, because she trusted me. But after atime I wanted to eat nuts so badly that I could not think of anythingelse. Every day I tried to think of some way of eating them withoutbeing caught. I tried to slip some into my sleeves, but I was soawkward that I always dropped them. Besides, I wanted to eat a lot ofthem, a great big lot. I thought I should like to eat a sackful. Oneday I managed to steal some. Bonne Esther, who was taking us up tobed, slipped on a nutshell and dropped her lantern, which went out. Iwas close to a big bowl of nuts, and I took a handful and put them inmy pocket. As soon as everybody was in bed I took the nuts out of mypocket, put my head under the sheets and crammed them into my mouth. But it seemed to me at once as though everybody in the dormitory musthear the noise that my jaws were making. I did all I could to munchslowly and quietly, but the noise thumped in my ears like the blows ofa mallet. 

Bonne Esther got up, lit the lamp, stooped down and looked under thebeds. When she came to mine I looked out at her trembling. Shewhispered, "Aren't you asleep yet?" and went on looking. She wentdown to the end of the dormitory, opened the door, and closed it again;but she was hardly back in bed with the light out before the latch ofthe door made a little sound as though somebody were opening it. BonneEsther lit her lamp again and said, "Whatever is it? It cannot be thecat opening the door by itself. " It seemed to me that she was afraid. I heard her moving about in her bed, and all of a sudden she calledout, "Oh dear, oh dear. " Ismérie asked her what the matter was. Shesaid that a hand had opened the door, and she had felt a breath on herface. In the twi-darkness we saw the door half open. I was veryfrightened. I thought it was the devil who had come to fetch me. Wewaited a long, long time, but we heard nothing more. Bonne Estherasked if one of us would get up and put the light out, although it wasnot very far from her own bed. Nobody answered. Then she called me. I got up and she said, "You are such a good little girl that ghostswon't do any harm to you. " She put her head under the bedclothes, andI blew the lamp out. And directly it was put out I saw thousands ofshining specks of light, and felt something cold on my cheeks. I wassure that there were green dragons, with mouths aflame, under the beds. I could feel their claws on my feet, and lights were jumping about oneach side of my head. I wanted to sit down, and when I got to my bed Iwas quite sure that my two feet had gone. When I dared, I stooped downand felt for them. They were very cold. I went to sleep at lastholding them in my two hands. 

In the morning Bonne Esther found the cat on a bed near the door. Shehad had kittens during the night. When Sister Marie-Aimée was toldabout it, she said that the cat had certainly opened the door byjumping at the latch. But we never felt sure about that, and thelittle girls used to talk about it in low voices for a long time. 

Next week all the girls who were eight years old went down to the bigdormitory. I had a bed near the window, quite close to SisterMarie-Aimée's room. Marie Renaud and Ismérie again had their beds oneach side of me. When we were in bed Sister Marie-Aimée often used tocome and sit by me. She would take one of my hands and pat it, andlook out of the window. One night there was a big fire in theneighbourhood, and the whole dormitory was lit up. Sister Marie-Aiméeopened the window wide, shook me, and said, "Wake up, come and see thefire. " She took me in her arms, passed her hands over my face to wakeme, and said again, "Come and see the fire; see how beautiful it is. "I was so sleepy that my head fell on her shoulder. Then she boxed myears, and called me a little silly, and I woke up and began to cry. She took me in her arms again, sat down, and rocked me, holding meclose to her. She bent her head forward towards the window. Her facelooked transparent, and her eyes were full of light. Ismérie hatedSister Marie-Aimée to come to the window. It prevented her fromtalking, and she always had something to say. Her voice was so loudthat one heard it at the other end of the dormitory. SisterMarie-Aimée used to say, "There's Ismérie talking again;" and Ismérieused to answer, "There's Sister Marie-Aimée scolding again. " Herdaring frightened me, but Sister Marie-Aimée used to pretend not tohear her. But one day she said, "I forbid you to answer me, littledwarf. " Ismérie answered, "No-sums. " This was a word which we hadmade up ourselves. It meant, "Look at my nose and see if I care. "Sister Marie-Aimée reached for a cane. I was dreadfully afraid she wasgoing to whip Ismérie. But Ismérie threw herself down flat on herstomach and wriggled about and made funny noises. Sister Marie-Aiméepushed her away with her foot, threw the cane away, and said, "Oh, youhorrible little thing!" Afterwards I noticed that she used to avoidlooking at her, and never seemed to hear the rude things she said. Butshe forbade us to carry her about on our backs. 

That never prevented Ismérie from climbing on to mine like a monkey. Ihadn't the courage to push her away, and I used to stoop down a littleto let her get well up. She always wanted to ride when we went up tothe dormitory. It was very hard for her to get up the stairs. Sheused to laugh about it herself, saying that she hopped up like an oldhen going to roost. As Sister Marie-Aimée always went upstairs first, I used to wait and go up among the last girls. But sometimes SisterMarie-Aimée would turn round suddenly. Then Ismérie slipped down mybody to the ground with wonderful quickness and skill. I always felt alittle bit awkward when I caught Sister Marie-Aimée's eye, and Ismériealways said, "See what a fool you are. You were caught again. " MarieRenaud would never let her climb up on to her back. She used to saythat she wore her dress out and made it dirty. 

Esmérie was a little chatterbox, but Marie Renaud hardly ever talked atall. Every morning she used to help me to make my bed. She would passher hands over the sheets to smooth them out, and always refused myhelp in making her bed, because she said I rolled the sheets all kindsof ways. I never could understand why her bed was so smooth when shegot up. One day she told me that she pinned her sheets and herblankets to the mattress. She had all kinds of little hiding-placesfull of all kinds of things. At table she always used to eat some ofyesterday's dessert. The dessert of the day went into her pocket. Sheused to finger it there, and would munch a little bit of it from timeto time. I often found her sitting in corners making lace with a pin. Her great pleasure was brushing, folding, and putting things in order. That was why my shoes were always well brushed and my Sunday dresscarefully folded. But one day a new servant came, whose name wasMadeleine. She soon found out that I did not take care of my ownthings. She got excited, and said I was a great big lazy girl, andthat I made other people wait on me as though I were a countess. Shesaid it was a shame to make poor little Marie Renaud work. Bonne Néronagreed with her, and said I was puffed up with pride, that I thought Iwas better than anybody else, that I never did anything like othergirls. They both said, together, that they had never seen a girl likeme, and both of them leaned over me and shouted at me together. Theymade me think of two noisy fairies, a black one and a white one. Madeleine was fresh and fair, with full, open lips, and teeth whichwere wide apart. Her tongue was broad and thick, and moved about intothe corners of her mouth when she talked. Bonne Néron raised her handto me, and said, "Drop your eyes this minute!" As they went away, Iheard her say to Madeleine: "She makes you ashamed of yourself when shelooks at you like that. " I had known for a long time that Bonne Néronlooked like a bull, but I could not find out what animal Madeleine waslike. I thought it over for several days, thinking of all the animalsI knew, and at last I gave it up. She was fat, and her hips swayedwhen she walked. She had a piercing voice, which surprised everybody. She asked leave to sing in church, but as she did not know the hymns. Sister Marie-Aimée told me to teach her. After that Marie Renaud wasallowed to brush and smooth out my things without anybody taking anynotice of it. She was so pleased that she gave me a safety-pin as apresent, so as to fasten up my handkerchief, which I was always losing. Two days later I lost both the safety-pin and the handkerchief. Oh, that handkerchief! It was a perfect nightmare! I used to lose oneregularly every week. Sister Marie-Aimée gave us a cleanpocket-handkerchief in return for the dirty one which we had to throwdown on to the ground in front of her. I never thought of mine tillthe last moment. And then I turned out all my pockets, I ran aboutlike a mad thing into the dormitory, up and down the passages, and upto the garret hunting for it everywhere. Oh dear, oh dear! if I couldonly find a handkerchief somewhere! As I passed in front of thepicture of the Virgin, I would put my hands together and prayfervently, "Admirable Mother, make me find a handkerchief. " But Inever did find one, and I went downstairs again red in the face, out ofbreath, feeling dreadfully unhappy, and not daring to take the cleanhandkerchief which Sister Marie-Aimée handed to me. Before she spoke, I could hear the scolding which I knew I deserved. And even whenSister Marie-Aimée said nothing at all, I could see her frown, and hereyes looked crossly at me and followed me about. I felt crushed withshame, so crushed that I could scarcely lift my feet. I tried to hidein the corners as I walked; and, in spite of it all, next time I hadlost my handkerchief again. Madeleine used to look at me with shamcompassion. But she could not always prevent herself from telling methat I deserved to be punished severely. She seemed very fond ofSister Marie-Aimée. She waited on her always, and she would burst intotears at her slightest word. Then Sister Marie-Aimée had to soothe herby patting her cheeks, and she would laugh and cry at the same time, and move her shoulders about, showing her white neck. Bonne Néron usedto say that she looked like a cat. 

Bonne Néron left one day after a scene in the middle of luncheon. Ithappened during a dead silence. All of a sudden she shouted out, "Yes;I want to go, and I am going!" Sister Marie-Aimée looked at her inastonishment, and Bonne Néron faced her, putting her head down, shakingit, butting at her almost, and shouting all the time that she would notbe ordered about by a bit of a baby. She walked backwards as sheshouted, got to the door, and pulled it open. Before she went out ofthe room she threw one of her long arms out at Sister Marie-Aimée, andshrieked, "She isn't even twenty-five!" Some of the little girls werefrightened, others burst out laughing. Madeleine got quite hysterical. She threw herself on to the floor at Sister Marie-Aimée's knees, kissing her dress, and winding her arms round her legs. She got holdof her two hands and mumbled over them with her big, moist mouth, screaming all the time as though some terrible catastrophe hadhappened. Sister Marie-Aimée could not shake her off. At last she gotangry. Then Madeleine fainted, and fell on her back. As she wasundoing her Sister Marie-Aimée made a sign towards the part of the roomwhere I was. I thought she wanted me, and ran to her; but she sent meback again, "No; not you. Marie Renaud, " she said. She gave her keysto Marie, and, although she had never been in Sister Marie-Aimée'sroom, she found the bottle of salts which Sister Marie-Aimée wantedwithout any loss of time. 

Madeleine soon got better, and took Bonne Néron's place. She got moreauthority over us. She was still timid and submissive to SisterMarie-Aimée, but she made up for that by shouting at us, for any reasonand no reason, that she was "there to look after us, " and was "not ourservant. " The day she fainted I had seen her neck. I had never dreamtof anything so beautiful. But she was a stupid girl, and I neverminded what she said to me. That used to make her very angry. Sheused to say all kinds of rude things to me, and always finished up bycalling me "Miss Princess. " She could not forgive me for SisterMarie-Aimée's affection for me, and whenever she saw the Sister kissingme she got quite red with anger. 

I began to grow, and my health was pretty good. Sister Marie-Aiméesaid that she was proud of me. She used to squeeze me so tight whenshe kissed me that she sometimes hurt me. Then she would say, puttingher fingers on my forehead, "My little girl; my little child. " Duringrecreation I often used to sit near her, and listen to her reading. She read in a deep voice, and when the people in the book displeasedher more than usual, she used to shut it up angrily, and come and playgames with us. 

She wanted me to be quite faultless. She would say: "I want you to beperfect. Do you hear, child? Perfect. " One day she thought I hadtold a lie. There were three cows which used to graze on some land inthe middle of which was a great big chestnut tree. The white cow waswicked, and we were afraid of it, because it had knocked a little girldown once. That day I saw the two red cows, and just under thechestnut tree I saw a big black cow. I said to Ismérie:

"Look; the white cow has been sent away because she was wicked, Iexpect. " Ismérie, who was cross that day, screamed, and said that Iwas always laughing at the others, and trying to make them believethings which were not true. I showed her the cow. She said it was awhite one. I said, "No, it is a black one. " Sister Marie-Aimée heardus. She was very angry, and said, "How dare you say that the cow isblack?" Then the cow moved. She looked black and white now, and Iunderstood that I had made a mistake because of the shadow of thechestnut tree. I was so surprised that I could not find anything tosay. I did not know how to explain it. Sister Marie-Aimée shook me. "Why did you tell a lie?" she said. I answered that I did not know. She sent me into a corner in the shed, and told me that I should havenothing but bread and water that day. As I had not told a lie, thepunishment did not worry me. The shed had a lot of old cupboards init, and some garden tools. I climbed from one thing on to the other, and got right up and sat on the top of the highest cupboard. I was tenyears old, and it was the first time that I had ever been alone. Ifelt pleased at this. I sat there, swinging my legs, and began toimagine a whole invisible world. The old cupboard with rusty locksbecame the entrance gate to a magnificent palace. I was a little girlwho had been left on the top of a mountain. A beautiful lady dressedlike a fairy had seen me up there, and came to fetch me. Three or fourlovely ducks ran in front of her. They had just come up to me when Isaw Sister Marie-Aimée standing in front of the cupboard with the rustylocks and looking about for me everywhere. I did not know that I wassitting on the cupboard. I still believed myself to be on the top ofthe mountain, and I felt cross because Sister Marie-Aimée's arrival hadmade the palace and the lovely lady disappear. She saw my legsswinging, and just as she saw me I remembered that I was sitting on thecupboard. She stood there for a moment looking up at me. Then shetook a piece of bread, a piece of sausage, and a little bottle of wineout of the pocket of her dress, showed me one thing after the other, and in an angry voice said, "This _was_ for you. There!" And she putit all back into her pocket and went away. A moment afterwardsMadeleine brought me some bread and water, and I remained in the shedtill evening. 

Sister Marie-Aimée had been growing sadder and sadder for some time. She never played with us any more, and she even used to forget ourdinner time. Madeleine would send me to the chapel to fetch her, and Iwould find her there on her knees with her face hidden in her hands. Ihad to pull at her dress before she took any notice of me. Often Ithought that she had been crying, but I never dared to look at herclosely for fear she would get angry. She seemed lost in thought, andwhen we spoke to her, she answered "Yes" or "No" quite sharply. 

But she took a great interest in the little feast which we had atEaster every year. She had the cakes brought in, and we put them on atable and covered them with a white cloth, so that the greedy girlsshould not see them all at the same time. On feast days we wereallowed to talk as much as we liked at table, and we made a tremendousnoise. Sister Marie-Aimée waited on us with a smile and a word foreach of us. That day she was going to serve the cakes, and Madeleine, who was helping her, was taking off the cloth which covered them. Thena cat, which had been under the cloth, jumped down and ran away. Sister Marie-Aimée and Madeleine both said "Oh, " and Madeleine said, "The dirty beast has been nibbling all the cakes. " Sister Marie-Aiméedid not like the cat. She stood perfectly still for a minute, then ranto the corner, took a stick and ran after it. It was horrible. Thecat was frightened out of its wits, and jumped this way and that out ofthe way of the stick with which Sister Marie-Aimée kept hitting thebenches and the walls. All the little girls were frightened, and rantowards the door. Sister Marie-Aimée stopped them. "Nobody is to goout, " she said. I hardly knew her. Her lips were pressed together, her cheeks were as white as her cap, and her eyes, which seemed toflame, frightened me so that I hid my face in the hollow of my arm. Idid not want to do so, but I soon looked up again. The cat hunt wasstill going on. Sister Marie-Aimée, with her stick in the air, ranafter the cat without saying a word. Her lips were open, and I couldsee her little pointed teeth. She ran about, jumping over the benches, and climbed up on to the table, lifting her petticoats as she did so. When she was going to hit the cat it jumped and ran up a curtain righton to the top of the window. Madeleine, who had been following SisterMarie-Aimée about, wanted to go and fetch a longer stick, but SisterMarie-Aimée stopped her, and said, "It is lucky to have got away. "Bonne Justine, who was standing near me, hid her eyes and murmured, "Oh, it is shameful, shameful!" and I thought it was shameful, too. Ifelt as though Sister Marie-Aimée had grown smaller. I had alwaysthought her quite faultless. I compared this scene with another one, which had happened one day when there was a big storm. That day SisterMarie-Aimée had been wonderful. While she was chasing the cat I couldsee her, that other day, as she stood on a bench, and closed thewindows quietly, lifting her lovely arms. Her wide sleeves fell downon her shoulders, and while we shivered and shook in terror at thelightning and the whistling wind she said quietly, "It is quite astorm. " Sister Marie-Aimée made the little girls stand on the otherside of the room. She opened the door wide, and the cat rushed out. 

One afternoon I was surprised to see that it was not our old priest whowas saying vespers. This one was a tall, fine man. He sang with astrong, jerky voice. We talked about him all the evening. Madeleinesaid he was a handsome man, and Sister Marie-Aimée thought, she said, that he had a young voice, but that he pronounced his words like an oldman, and that he was distinguished looking. When he came to pay us avisit two or three days afterwards, I saw that he had white hair inlittle curls round his neck, and that his eyes and his eyebrows werevery black. He asked for those of us who were preparing theircatechism, and wanted to know everybody's name. Sister Marie-Aiméeanswered for me. She put her hand on my head and said, "This is ourMarie Claire. " When Ismérie came up in her turn he looked at her insurprise, and made her turn round and walk for him to see. He saidthat she was no bigger than a child of three, and when he asked SisterMarie-Aimée if she was intelligent, Ismérie turned round sharply andsaid that she was not as stupid as the rest of us. He burst outlaughing, and I saw that his teeth were very white. When he spoke hejerked himself forward as though he wanted to catch his words again. They seemed to drop out of his mouth in spite of himself. SisterMarie-Aimée took him as far as the gate of the courtyard. She neverused to take any visitors further than the door of the room. She cameback, climbed up to her desk again, and after a moment she said, without looking at anybody, "He really is a very distinguished man. "

Our new priest lived in a little house near the chapel. In the eveninghe used to walk in the avenue of linden trees. He often passed closeto the playground where we were playing, and he always used to bow verylow to Sister Marie-Aimée. Every Thursday afternoon he came to see us. He sat down, leaning against the back of his chair, and crossing hislegs, he told us stories. He was very pleasant, and Sister Marie-Aiméeused to say that he laughed as though he enjoyed it. Sometimes SisterMarie-Aimée was ill. Then he used to go up and see her in her room. We would see Madeleine passing with a teapot and two cups. She was redin the face and very busy. 

When the summer was over, M. Le Curé came to see us after dinner andspent the evenings with us. When nine o'clock struck he used to go, and Sister Marie-Aimée always went with him down the passage to the bigfront door. 

He had been with us for a year, and I could never get used to makingconfession to him. He often used to look at me and laugh in a way thatmade me think that he remembered my faults. We went to confession onfixed days. Each one of us took her turn. When there were only one ortwo to go in before me I began to tremble. My heart beat dreadfullyfast, and I got cramp in my stomach, which prevented me from breathingproperly. When my turn came I got up and felt my legs trembling underme. My head buzzed, and my cheeks turned cold. I fell on my knees inthe confessional and M. Le Curé's voice, which sounded as though itcame from a long way off, gave me confidence. But he always had tohelp me to remember my faults. If he hadn't, I should have forgottenhalf of them. At the end of confession he always asked me what my namewas. I longed to tell him another name, but while I was wondering if Idare, my own name used to slip out of my mouth. 

It was getting near the time for our Communion. It was to be in May, and preparations for it were beginning. Sister Marie-Aimée composedsome new hymns. She had made one, which was a sort of thanksgiving forM. Le Curé. A fortnight before the ceremony they separated us from theothers. We had prayed all day long. Madeleine was supposed to seethat we were not disturbed at prayer, but she often used to disturb usherself by quarrelling with one of us. My fellow communicant wascalled Sophie. She was a quiet little girl, and we always kept out ofthe quarrels. We used to talk over serious matters. I often told herhow much I hated confession, and how frightened I was that I shouldpass through my communion badly. She was very good, and she did notunderstand what I had to be afraid of. She thought that I was notpious enough, and she had noticed that I used to go to sleep duringprayers. She confessed to me that she was very frightened of death. She used to talk about it in a low voice, and looked very frightened. Her eyes were green, and her hair was so lovely that Sister Marie-Aiméewould never have it cut short like that of the other girls. 

At last the great day came. My general confession had passed off allright. It gave me the same feeling that a bath does. I felt veryclean after it, but I trembled so when I was given the holy wafer thata bit of it stuck in my teeth. A sort of dizziness came over me, and Ifelt as though a big black curtain had dropped in front of my eyes, Ithought I heard Sister Marie-Aimée's voice asking "Are you ill, " and Iseemed to know that she went with me as far as my fald-stool, and thatshe put my taper into my hand and said, "Hold it tight. " My throat hadgrown so tight that I could not swallow, and I felt a liquid droppingfrom my mouth into my throat. Then I was wildly frightened, forMadeleine had warned us that if we bit the holy wafer the blood ofChrist would stream from our mouths, and that nobody would be able tostop it. Sister Marie-Aimée wiped my face and whispered quite low, "Take care, dear. Are you ill?" My throat loosened, and I swallowedthe wafer. Then at last I dared to look down to see the blood on mydress, but I saw only a little grey spot like a drop of water. I putmy handkerchief to my lips and wiped my face. There was no blood onit. I did not feel quite sure yet, but when we got up to sing I triedto sing with the others. When M. Le Curé came to see us later in theday Sister Marie-Aimée told him that I had almost fainted at Communion. He took my chin in his hand and tipped my face up towards him. Then, after looking into my eyes, he began to laugh, and said that I was avery sensitive little girl. 

After our first communion we did not attend class any more. BonneJustine taught us to sew. We made caps for peasant women. It was notvery difficult, and as it was something new I worked hard. BonneJustine said that I should make a very good needle-woman. SisterMarie-Aimée used to kiss me and say, "So you would, if you could onlyget over your laziness. " But when I had made a few caps and had to goon doing the same thing over and over again, my laziness got the betterof me. The work bored me, and I could not make up my mind to do it. Icould have remained for hours and hours without moving, watching theothers work. Marie Renaud never spoke to us while she was sewing. Herstitches were so small and so close together that one needed good eyesto see them. Ismérie sang all the time she sewed, and nobody everscolded her. Some of the girls sewed with bent backs and a frown ontheir foreheads. Their fingers were moist, and their needlessqueaked. Others sewed slowly and carefully, without getting tired orbored, counting their stitches under their breath. That is the way Ishould have liked to sew. I used to scold myself for not doing so, andthen I used to imitate them for a few minutes. But the least sounddisturbed me, and I would stop and listen, or look at what was going onall round me. Madeleine said that my nose was always in the air. Ispent most of my time imagining needles which would sew all bythemselves. For a long time I hoped that an old woman, whom nobodywould see but I, would come out of the big fireplace and sew my cap forme very quickly. At last I took no notice of Sister Marie-Aimée'sscolding, and she didn't know what to do to make me work. One day shedecided that I was to read aloud twice a day. It was a great joy forme. The time to begin reading never seemed to come quickly enough, andI was always sorry when I closed the book. 

When I had finished reading Sister Marie-Aimée used to make Colette thecripple sing to us. She always sang the same songs, but her voice wasso lovely that we never got tired of listening to it. She sang quitesimply, without stopping her work, and she kept time with her needle asshe sang. Bonne Justine, who knew all about everybody, told us thatColette had been brought in with both legs broken, when she was quite atiny child. She was twenty now. She walked with great difficulty, helping herself with two sticks, and she would never use crutchesbecause she was afraid of looking like an old woman. During recreationI always used to see her alone on a bench. She kept on throwingherself back and stretching. Her dark eyes had such big pupils thatone hardly saw the whites at all. I felt drawn towards her. I shouldhave liked to have been her friend. She seemed very proud, andwhenever I did any little thing for her she had a way of saying, "Thankyou, little one, " which made me remember that I was only twelve yearsold. Madeleine told me, mysteriously, that we were not allowed to talkto Colette alone, and when I wanted to know why, she reeled out a longcomplicated story which told me nothing at all. I asked Bonne Justine, who used a lot of words which I didn't understand, but told me that alittle girl like me must not be alone with Colette. I could neverunderstand why. I noticed that every time one of the big girls gaveher her arm to help her to walk about a little, three or four othergirls always came up and talked and laughed with them. I thought thatshe had no friends. A feeling of great pity drew me to her, and oneday when she was all alone I asked her to take my arm for a littlewalk. I was standing in front of her timidly, but I knew that shewould not refuse. She looked at me and said, "You know it is notallowed. " I nodded "Yes. " She looked at me again. "Aren't you afraidof being punished?" she said. I shook my head to say "No. " I wantedto cry and it made my throat feel tight. I helped her to get up. Sheleaned on her stick with one hand and put all her weight on myshoulder. I could see how difficult it was for her to walk. She didnot say a word to me while we were walking, and when I had taken herback to her bench she looked at me and said, "Thank you, Marie Claire. "When she saw me with Colette, Bonne Justine raised her arms to heavenand made the sign of the cross. At the other end of the playgroundMadeleine shook her fist at me and shouted. 

When evening came I saw that Sister Marie-Aimée knew what I had done, but she never said a word about it. At recreation next day she drew metowards her, took my head in her two hands and bent towards me. Shedidn't say anything to me, but her eyes plunged right into my face. Ifelt as though I were wrapped up in her eyes. I felt as though a softwarmth was all round me, and I felt comfortable. She gave me a longkiss on the forehead, then smiled at me and said, "There. You are mybeautiful white lily. " I thought her so beautiful, and her eyes shoneso 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 Ismérie any more?" "Yes, mother. " "Really. Then whatabout Colette?" "I love Colette too. " "Oh, you love everybody!" shesaid. 

I used to give Colette my arm nearly every day. She never talked to memuch, and then only about the other girls. When I sat down next to hershe used to look at me queerly. She said she thought I was a queerlittle thing. One day she asked me if I thought her pretty. Directlyshe said it, I remembered that Sister Marie-Aimée said that she was asblack as a mole. I saw, however, that she had a broad forehead, finebig eyes, and the rest of her face was small and refined. Whenever Ilooked at her, I didn't quite know why, but I thought of a well, deepand dark, and full of hot water. No, I didn't think her pretty, but Iwouldn't tell her so because she was a cripple. I said she would bemuch prettier if her skin were whiter. Little by little I became herfriend. She told me that she hoped to go away and get married likeNina 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. Imust. " Then she stretched herself, bending her whole body forward. Sometimes she used to cry, and was in such deep trouble that I couldnot find anything to say to her. She would look at her poor twistedlegs, and groan out, "There would have to be a miracle for me to getaway from here. "

All of a sudden I got the idea that the Virgin could bring this miracleabout. Colette thought it a splendid idea. She was quite surprisedthat she had never thought of it. It was only fair that she shouldhave legs like the others. She wanted to see about it at once. Sheexplained to me that several girls would be necessary for the ninedays' prayer, and said that we must go and purify ourselves atcommunion, and that during nine days we would pray all the time, so asto get help from Our Lady in heaven. This had to be done in thegreatest secrecy. It was arranged that Sophie should be one of usbecause she was so very good, and Colette said she would talk to someof the big girls who were good, too. Two days afterwards it was allarranged. 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 onher stick and the arm of one of us. Then, when she had taken the holywafer, she would make a vow to bring up her children in the love of theVirgin, 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. Ihunted up the most beautiful hymns of praise that I could find, andrepeated them without getting tired. "Star of the Morning, makeColette whole. " The first time, I remained on my knees for so longthat Sister Marie-Aimée scolded me. Nobody noticed the little signswhich we made to one another, and the nine days of prayer passed offwithout any one knowing anything about them. 

Colette was very pale when she came to mass. Her cheeks were thinnerthan ever, and she stood with her eyes cast down. Her eyelids weredeep violet. I thought to myself that the end of her martyrdom hadcome, and I was filled with a deep joy. Quite close to me, the pictureof the Virgin in a flowing white robe smiled as it looked at me, and inan outburst of all my faith my thoughts cried out, "Oh, Mirror ofJustice, make Colette whole!" My temples were stretched tightly. Iwas straining every nerve to keep my thoughts from wandering, and Iwent on saying, "Oh, Mirror of Justice, make Colette whole!" Colettewent up to the communion table. Her stick made a little clickety noiseon the flagstones. When she was on her knees the girl who had gone upto the table with her came back to us with the stick. She knew that itwould be of no further use. 

Colette tried to get up, and fell back again on to her knees. Her handreached 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 HolyTable and caught hold of the arm of one of the Sisters, who was takingcommunion with her. Then her shoulders rocked and she fell over, pulling the Sister down with her. Two of us rushed forward and draggedpoor Colette to her bench. But I was still hoping against hope, anduntil mass was over I was hoping to hear the Te Deum. As soon as Icould, I went back to Colette. The big girls were round her trying toconsole her, and advising her to give herself to God for ever. She wascrying gently, not sobbing. Her head was bent a little forward, andher tears fell on her hands, which were crossed one over the other. Ikneeled 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'sstory was soon known to everybody. Everybody felt so sad about it thatwe stopped playing noisy games. Ismérie thought she was telling me atremendous piece of news when she told me all about it. Sophie told methat we must submit to the will of Our Lady, because She knew what wasnecessary for Colette's happiness better than we did. 

I should have liked to have known whether Sister Marie-Aimée knew aboutColette. I did not see her till the afternoon, when we were outwalking. She did not look sad. She looked almost pleased. I hadnever seen her look so pretty. Her whole face shone. While we wereout I noticed that she walked as though something was lifting her up. I never remembered to have seen her walk like that. Her veil fluttereda 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 sheseemed to be seeing something. Every now and then she smiled as thoughsomebody were talking to her from inside. 

In the evening after dinner I found her sitting on the old bench underthe big linden tree. M. Le Curé was sitting next to her with his backagainst the tree. They looked serious. I thought they were talkingabout Colette, and I remained standing some distance from them. SisterMarie-Aimée was saying, as though she were answering a question, "Yes, when I was fifteen. " M. Le Curé said, "You had no vocation atfifteen. " I didn't hear what Sister Marie-Aimée answered, but M. LeCuré went on, "Or, rather, at fifteen you had every possible vocation. A kind word, or a little indifference would be enough to change yourwhole life. " He said nothing for a moment, and then, in a lower tone, he said, "Your parents were very much to blame. " Sister Marie-Aiméeanswered, "I regret nothing. " They remained for a long time withoutsaying a word. Then Sister Marie-Aimée raised one finger as though shewere impressing something on him, and said, "Everywhere, in spite ofall and always. " M. Le Curé 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 Curé went off, down the avenue of linden trees. For a long time afterwards I used torepeat the words I had heard them say, but I could never fit them in topoor Colette's story. 

Colette had given up all hopes of a miracle to take her away, and yetshe could not make up her mind to remain. When she saw all the girlsof her own age go one by one, she began to rebel. She would not go toconfession anymore, and she would not take holy communion. She used togo to mass because she sang there, and she was fond of music. I oftenstopped with her and consoled her. She explained to me that marriagemeant love. 

Sister Marie-Aimée, who had not been well for some time, became quiteill. Madeleine nursed her devotedly and treated us dreadfully badly. She was particularly unkind to me, and when she saw me tired of sewingshe would say, trying to turn her nose up, "If mademoiselle objects tosewing, she had better take a broom and sweep. " One Sunday she hitupon the idea of making me clean the stairs during mass. It wasJanuary. A damp cold which came up from the passages climbed the stepsand got under my dress. I swept as hard as I could to keep warm. Thesound of the harmonium came from the chapel out to me. From time totime I recognized Madeleine's thin piercing tones, and M. Le Curé'sjerky notes. I could follow mass by the singing. All of a suddenColette's voice rose above all the others. It was strong and pure. Itbroadened, drowned the sound of the harmonium, drowned everything else, and then seemed to fly away over the linden trees, over the house, andover the church spire itself. It made me tremble, and when the voicecame down to earth, trembling a little as it went back into the churchand 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 sharpvoice pierced through the others once more, and I swept and swept hardas though my broom could scratch out the voice which was sodisagreeable to me. 

That was the day Sister Marie-Aimée called me to her. She had been upin her room for two months. She was a little better, but I noticedthat her eyes did not shine at all. They made me think of a rainbowwhich had almost melted away. She made me tell her funny littlestories about what had been going on, and she tried to smile while shewas 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 hadheard her during her illness. She had screamed so dreadfully in themiddle 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-Aimée, shesaid, as she hurried past, that she had rheumatism. I remembered atonce that Bonne Justine used to have rheumatism too, but she had neverscreamed like that, and I remember wondering whether poor SisterMarie-Aimée's legs were swollen to three times their size, like thoseof Bonne Justine. Her cries got worse and worse. One of them was soterrible that it seemed to come right out of her vitals. Then we hadheard her moaning, and that was all. A few moments afterwardsMadeleine had come up and whispered to Marie Renaud, Marie Renaud hadput on her dress, and I heard her go downstairs; Directly afterwardsshe came back with M. Le Curé. He rushed into Sister Marie-Aimée'sroom, and Madeleine closed the door behind him. He did not remain verylong, but he went away again much more slowly than he had come. Hewalked with his head sunk down between his shoulders, and his righthand was holding his cloak over his left arm, as though he werecarrying something valuable. I thought to myself that he was takingaway the holy oils, and I did not dare ask whether Sister Marie-Aiméewere dead. I have never forgotten the blow I got from Madeleine's fistwhen I clung to her dress. She knocked me right over and whispered, asshe ran past, "She is better. " As soon as Sister Marie-Aimée was wellagain, Madeleine was kinder, and everything went on as before. 

I disliked sewing as much as ever, and my hatred for it began to makeSister Marie-Aimée uneasy. She mentioned it in front of me to M. LeCuré's sister. M. Le Curé's sister was an old maid with a long faceand big faded eyes. We called her Mademoiselle Maximilienne. SisterMarie-Aimée told her how anxious she was about my future. She saidthat 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 hadmade inquiries to find out whether I had no distant relatives who wouldlook after me, she said. But the only relation I had was an old womanwho had adopted my sister, but refused to take me. MademoiselleMaximilienne offered to take me into her dressmaking business. M. LeCuré thought that was a very good idea, and said that he would bepleased to go and teach me a little, twice a week. Sister Marie-Aiméeseemed really happy at this. She did not know what to say to thankthem. It was agreed that I should go to Mademoiselle Maximilienne assoon as M. Le Curé returned from a journey to Rome, which he had tomake. Sister Marie-Aimée would get my outfit ready for me, andMademoiselle Maximilienne would go to the Mother Superior and ask herpermission, she said. I felt dreadfully uncomfortable at the idea thatthe Mother Superior was to have anything to do with it. I could notforget the unkind look she always gave me when she passed the old benchand saw me sitting there with Sister Marie-Aimée and M. Le Curé. So Iwaited impatiently to hear what she would say to MademoiselleMaximilienne. M. Le Curé had been away for a week, and SisterMarie-Aimée used to talk to me every day about my new work. She toldme how glad she would be to see me on Sundays. She gave me all kindsof 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 roomI noticed that she was sitting in a big red armchair. I began toremember 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 thatred, I compared her in my mind to a huge poppy which had grown in acellar. She opened and closed her eyelids several times. She had asmile 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 itwas to talk to me about Mademoiselle Maximilienne. She sneered again, "Oh, yes; Mademoiselle Maximilienne, " she said. "Well, my child, youmust undeceive yourself. We have made up our minds to place you on afarm in Sologne. " She half closed her eyes and snapped out, "You areto be a shepherdess, young woman. " Then she added, rapping the wordsout, "You will look after the sheep. " I said simply, "Very well, mother. " She pulled herself up out of the depths of her armchair andasked me, "Do you know what looking after the sheep means?" I answeredthat I had seen shepherdesses in the fields. She bent her yellow facetowards me and went on, "You will have to clean the stables. Theysmell very unpleasantly, and the shepherdesses are dirty. You willhelp in the work of the farm, and be taught to milk the cows and lookafter the pigs. " She spoke very loud, as though she were afraid Ishould not understand her. I answered as I had answered before, "Verywell, 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 methat you are not proud?" I smiled, and said, "No, mother. " She seemedvery much surprised, but, as I went on smiling, her voice grew softer. "Really, my child?" she said. "I always thought you were proud. " Shedropped back into her chair again, hid her eyes under their lids, andbegan talking quickly in a monotonous voice, as she did when she saidprayers. She said that I must obey my masters, that I must neverforget my religious duties, and that the farmer's wife would come andfetch me the day before the feast of St. John. 

I went out of her room with feelings which I could not express. But Ifelt horribly afraid of hurting Sister Marie-Aimée's feelings. Howcould I tell her? I had no time to think. Sister Marie-Aimée waswaiting for me in the passage. She took hold of my two shoulders, benther face towards me, and said, "Well?" She looked anxious. I said, "She wants me to be a shepherdess. " She did not understand, andfrowned, "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 lookafter the pigs. " Sister Marie-Aimée pushed me away so roughly that Ibumped against the wall. She ran towards the door. I thought she wasgoing to the Mother Superior's room, but she went out, and came backagain, and began walking up and down the passage, taking long steps. Her fists were clenched, and she kept tapping with her foot on thefloor. She was breathing hard. Then she leaned up against the wall, let her arms fall as though she were overcome, and, in a voice whichseemed to come from a long way off, she said: "She is revengingherself. Yes, she is revenging herself. " She came back to me, took mytwo hands affectionately in hers, and asked, "Didn't you tell her thatyou would not go? Didn't you beg her to let you go to MademoiselleMaximilienne?" I shook my head and repeated in her own words exactlywhat the Mother Superior had said to me. She listened withoutinterrupting me. Then she told me to say nothing about it to the othergirls. She thought that everything would be all right when M. Le Curécame back. 

Next Sunday, as we were getting into line to go to mass, Madeleine raninto the room like a mad thing. She threw her arms up in the air, cried out, "M. Le Curé is dead!" and fell right down across the tablenear her. Everybody stopped talking, and we all ran to Madeleine, whowas screaming and crying. We wanted to know all about it. But sherocked herself up and down on the table, and kept on repeating, "He isdead! he is dead!" I could not think at all. I did not know whether Iwas sorry or not, and all the time mass was going on, Madeleine's voicesounded in my ears like a bell. There was no walk that day. Even thelittle girls kept quite quiet. I went to look for Sister Marie-Aimée. She had not been at mass, and I knew from Marie Renaud that she was notill. I found her in the refectory. She was sitting on her littleplatform. She was leaning her head sideways on the table, and her armswere hanging down beside her chair. I sat myself down some distanceaway from her. But when I heard her moaning I began to sob too, hidingmy face in my hands. But I did not sob long, and I knew that I was notas sorry as I wanted to be. I tried to cry, but I could not shed asingle tear. I was a little bit ashamed of myself because I believedthat one ought to cry when somebody died, and I didn't dare uncover myface for fear that Sister Marie-Aimée should think that I was hardhearted. I listened to her crying. Her moaning reminded me of thewind at winter-time in the big fireplace. It went up and down as ifshe were trying to compose a kind of song. Then her voice stumbled andbroke, and ended up in deep trembling notes. A little beforedinner-time, Madeleine came into the refectory. She took SisterMarie-Aimée away with her, putting her arm round her, and taking careof her as they walked. In the evening she told us that M. Le Curé haddied in Rome, and that he would be brought back to be buried with hisfamily. 

Next day Sister Marie-Aimée looked after us as usual. She didn't cryany more, but she would not let us talk to her. She walked along withher eyes on the ground, and seemed to have forgotten me. I had onlyone day more, as the Mother Superior had told me I should be fetchednext day, for the day after was the feast of St. John. In the evening, at the end of prayers, when Sister Marie-Aimée had said, "Lord, bepitiful to exiles and give your aid to prisoners, " she added, in a loudvoice, "We will say a prayer for one of your companions who is goingout 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 theprisoners were. I could not get to sleep that night. I knew that Iwas going next day, but I didn't know what Sologne was like. Iimagined it to be a country very far off, where there were large plainswith flowers on them. I imagined myself the shepherdess of a troop ofbeautiful white sheep, with two dogs by my side which kept the sheep inorder at a sign from me. I would not have dared to tell SisterMarie-Aimée so, but just then I liked the idea of being a shepherdessmuch better than the idea of being in a shop. Ismérie, who was snoringloud, next to me, reminded me of my comrades again. 

It was such a bright night that I could see all the beds quitedistinctly. I looked at one after the other, stopping a little atthose of the girls I was fond of. Almost opposite me I saw my friendSophie, with her magnificent hair. It was scattered about over thepillow, and lighted up the bed quite brightly. A little further downthe room were the beds of Chemineau the Proud, and her twin sister, theFool. Chemineau the Proud had a big smooth white forehead and gentleeyes. She never said it was not true when she was accused of doinganything wrong. She simply shrugged her shoulders and looked round herwith contempt. Sister Marie-Aimée used to say that her conscience wasas white as her forehead. Chemineau the Fool was half as tall again asher sister. Her hair was coarse, and came down nearly to her eyebrows. Her shoulders were square, and her hips were broad. We used to callher the sister's watch-dog. And down at the other end of the dormitorywas Colette. She still believed that I was going to MademoiselleMaximilienne. 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 wasmarried. I thought about her for a long time. Then I looked at thewindow 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 atthem. On the other side of the lindens I could see the infirmary. Itlooked as though it were trying to hide itself, and its little windowsmade 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 thelittle girls always laughed when she scolded them. She did thedoctoring. When one of us went to her with a bad finger, she alwayshad something funny to say, and she always knew whether we were greedyor vain, and would promise us a cake or a ribbon accordingly. She usedto pretend to look for it, and while we were looking to see where itwas, 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 betterin three days, we shall have to cut it off. " For three days I was verycareful not to walk on that foot so as not to disturb this miraculoussomething. I thought it must be a piece of the true cross, or perhapsa piece of the veil of the Holy Virgin. On the third day my foot wascompletely cured, and when I asked Sister Agatha what the miraculousremedy was that she had put on it, she laughed, called me a littlesilly, and showed me a box of ointment which was called "miraculousointment. "

It was late at night when I went to sleep, and I began to expect thefarmer's wife directly morning came. I wanted her to come, and I wasafraid of her coming. Sister Marie-Aimée looked up quickly every timethe door opened. Just as we were finishing dinner, the porteress cameand asked if I were ready to go. Sister Marie-Aimée said that I shouldbe ready in a moment. She got up and told me to go with her. Shehelped me to dress, gave me a little bundle of linen, and all of asudden she said, "They will bring him back to-morrow, and you will notbe there. " Then she looked into my eyes, "Swear to me, " she said, "that you will say a _De Profundis_ for him every night. " I promisedto do so. Then she pulled me to her quite roughly, pressed me to herhard, and ran off to her room. I heard her saying as she went, "MyGod! this is too much!" I crossed the courtyard by myself, and thefarmer'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 ahood, and when the horse stopped of his own accord at the farm it hadbeen dark for a long time. 

The farmer came out of the house carrying a lantern which he held highup in the air, and which only lit up the toes of his wooden shoes. Hecame and helped us to get out of the cart, then he lifted his lanternup to my face, stood back a little and said, "What a funny littleservant girl. "

His wife took me to a room where there were two beds. She showed memine, and told me that I should be all alone on the farm with thecowherd next day, because every one was going to the feast of St. John. As soon as I was up next morning, the cowherd took me to the stables tohelp him give the fodder to the cattle. He showed me the sheep pens, and told me that I was going to look after the lambs instead of oldBibiche. He explained to me that the lambs were taken from theirmothers every year, and that a special shepherdess was needed to lookafter them. He also told me that the name of the farm wasVillevieille, and that everybody was happy there because Master[1]Silvain the farmer, and Pauline, his wife, were kind people. 

When he had seen to all the animals the cowherd made me sit down nextto him in the chestnut avenue. Sitting there we could see the bend inthe lane which went up towards the high-road, and the whole of thefarm. The farm buildings formed a square and the huge dunghill in themiddle of the yard gave off a warm smell, which mixed with the smell ofthe half-dried hay. The farm was wrapped in silence. I sat and lookedall round me. I could see nothing but pine trees and corn fields. Ifelt as though I had suddenly been dropped into a faraway country, where I should always remain, along with the cowherd, and the animalswhich I could hear moving in their stables. It was very hot and I wasnumb with a heavy longing to go to sleep, but fear of all the newthings which were round me prevented me from letting myself drop off. Flies of all possible colours whizzed round me with a little snoringnoise. The cowherd was making a basket of rushes, and the dogs lay atour feet fast asleep. 

Just as the sun was setting, the farmer's cart turned slowly round thebend in the lane. There were five people in it, two men and threewomen. As they passed us, the farmer's wife smiled down at me, and theothers leaned forward to see me. Soon afterwards the farm filled withnoise, and as it was too late to make soup for supper we all supped offa piece of bread and a bowl of milk. 

[1] On a French farm the farmer is always called "Master. "

Next day the farmer's wife gave me a cloak, and I went out with oldBibiche to learn how to look after the lambs. Old Bibiche and her dogCastille were so like one another that I always thought they mustbelong to the same family. They looked about the same age, and theireyes were about the same colour. Whenever the lambs ran off the pathBibiche would say, "Bark, Castille, bark. " She said it very quickly, almost in one word, and even when Castille did not bark the lambs gotback into line again. The old woman's voice was so like that of herdog. 

When harvesting began it seemed to me as though I were taking part insomething full of mystery. Men went up to the corn and laid it on theground with regular sweeping strokes, while others picked it up againin sheaves, which they stacked one against the other. The cries of theharvesters seemed to come from above sometimes, and every now and thenI looked up quickly, expecting to see golden corn-laden chariots flypast above my head. 

We all had our evening meal together. Everybody sat down where theypleased at the long table, and the farmer's wife filled our plates tothe brim. The younger ones munched with appetite, while the older onescut each mouthful as though it were something precious. Everybody atein silence, and the brown bread looked whiter in their black hands. Atthe end of the meal the elder ones talked about harvests with thefarmer, while the younger ones talked and laughed with Martine, theshepherdess. She answered everybody's jokes, and laughed heartily atthem; but if one of the men stretched out a hand towards her sheskipped out of the way, and never let him get hold of her. Nobody paidany attention to me. I sat on a pile of logs a little way away fromthe rest of them, and looked at all their faces. Master Silvain hadbig brown eyes which looked at each one in turn, and rested quietly onthem as he looked. He never raised his voice, and leaned his openhands on the table when he spoke. His wife's voice was serious andpre-occupied. She always looked as though she were expecting somemisfortune to happen and she scarcely smiled at all, even when all theothers were roaring with laughter. 

Old Bibiche always thought that I was falling asleep. She would comeand pull my sleeve, and take me off to bed. Her bed was next to mine. She mumbled her prayers while she was undressing, and always blew thelamp out without waiting to see whether I was ready. 

Directly after the harvest, Bibiche let me go to the fields alone withher dog. Old Castille didn't care for my company. She used to leaveme whenever she could and go back to the farm to Bibiche. I had a lotof trouble in keeping my lambs together. They ran every way at once. I compared myself to Sister Marie-Aimée, who always said that herlittle flock was hard to manage. And yet she used to get us togetherat one stroke of the bell and she could always make us perfectly quietby raising her voice a little. But I might raise my voice or crack mywhip as much as I liked, the lambs did not understand me, and I wasobliged to run about all round the flock as though I were a sheep dog. One evening two lambs were missing. I always stood in the doorwayevery evening to let them in one by one so that I could count themeasily. I went into the pen and tried to count them again. It was noteasy and I had to give it up at last, for every time I counted themagain I made their number more than there really were. At last I madeup my mind that I must have counted them wrong the first time, and Idid not say anything to anybody. 

Next morning when I let them out I counted them once more. Therereally were two missing. I felt very uneasy. All day long I huntedabout the fields for them, and in the evening, when I was quite certainthat they were missing, I told the farmer's wife. We searched high andlow for those lambs for several days, but we could not find them. Thefarmer first, and then his wife took me apart, and tried to make meconfess that men had come and taken the lambs away. They promised methat I should not be scolded if I would tell the truth. It was no goodmy saying that I really did not know what had become of them, I couldsee that they did not believe me. 

After this I was frightened when I went into the fields because I knewnow that there were men who hid themselves and came and stole thesheep. I was always thinking that I saw some one moving about behindthe bushes. I very soon learned to count my lambs by glancing at them, and whether they were all together or scattered about, I knew in aminute whether all of them were there. 

Autumn came and I began to feel unhappy. I missed Sister Marie-Aimée. I longed so to see her that I used to shut my eyes and believe that shewas coming up the path. When I did this I could really hear her stepsand the rustling of her dress on the grass. When I felt her quiteclose to me I opened my eyes and she disappeared at once. For a longtime I had the idea of writing to her, but I did not dare to ask forpen and paper. The farmer's wife did not know how to write, and nobodyat the farm ever got any letters. I plucked up courage one day andasked Master Silvain if he would take me to town with him that morning. He didn't answer at once. His big quiet eyes rested on me for a time, and then he said that a shepherdess ought never to leave her flock. Hesaid that he didn't mind taking me to mass in the village now and then, but that I must not expect him to take me to the town. This answerquite stunned me. It was as though I had learned of a greatmisfortune. And every time I thought of it I could see SisterMarie-Aimée. She was like some precious thing which the farmer hadsmashed all to pieces by accident. 

On the following Saturday Master Silvain and his wife left in themorning as usual, but instead of remaining in town until evening theycame back in the afternoon with a dealer who wanted to buy some of thelambs. I had never thought that one could go to the town and come backagain in so short a time. The idea occurred to me that one day I wouldleave my lambs in the meadow and would run into the town for one kissfrom Sister Marie-Aimée. I soon found that that would not be possible, and I decided to go off in the night. I hoped that I should not takemuch longer that the farmer's horse did, and that by leaving in themiddle of the night I could be back in time to take the lambs topasture in the morning. 

That evening I went to bed in my clothes, and when the big clocksounded twelve I slipped out on tip-toe with my shoes in my hand. Ileaned against a cart and laced them up, and ran off as fast as I couldinto the dark. I soon got past the outbuildings of the farm, and thenI saw that the night was not very dark. The wind was blowing veryhard, and big black clouds were rolling across the sky under the moon. It was a long way to the high-road, and to get there I had to cross awooden bridge which was out of repair. The rain of the last few dayshad swelled the little river and the water splashed up on to the bridgethrough the rotten planks. I began to get nervous because the waterand the wind between them made a noise that I had never heard before. But I refused to be frightened, and ran across the slippery bridge asquickly as I dared. 

I got to the high-road sooner than I had expected to, and I turned tothe left as I had seen the farmer turn when he went to market. But alittle further along the road divided into two and I didn't know whichroad to take. I ran a little way up one road and then a little way upanother. It was the road to the left that seemed to be the likely one. I took it, and walked fast to make up for lost time. 

In the distance I saw a black mass which covered the whole country. Itseemed to be coming slowly towards me, and for a moment I wanted toturn back and run. A dog began to bark and that gave me a littleconfidence, and almost directly afterwards I saw that the black mass infront of me was a wood through which the road passed. When I got intoit the wind seemed to be rougher than ever. It blew in gusts, and thetrees struck at one another and rattled their branches, and moaned andstooped down to get out of its way. I heard long whistling sounds asthe branches cracked and clattered and fell. 

Then I heard steps behind me and felt a tap on my shoulder. I turnedround quickly but I saw nobody. Yet I was sure that somebody hadtouched me with his finger, and the steps went on as though someinvisible person were walking round and round me. I began to run sofast that I didn't know whether my feet were touching the ground or not. 

The stones sprang out under my shoes and rattled behind me like alittle hailstorm. I had only one idea, and that was to run and rununtil I got out of the forest. 

At last I came to a clearing. It was lit up by a pale moon and thetearing wind whirled heaps of leaves up and threw them down again, thenrolled them about and about, and turned them over in all directions. 

I wanted to stop to get my breath, but the big trees were swingingbackwards and forwards with a deafening noise. Their shadows, whichlooked like great black animals, threw themselves flat along the roadand then slipped away and hid behind the trees. Some of these shadowshad shapes which I recognized. But most of them hovered and jumpedabout in front of me as though they wanted to prevent me from passing. Some of them frightened me so that I took a little run, and jumped overthem. I was dreadfully afraid that they would catch at my feet. 

The wind went down a little, and rain began to fall in large drops. Ihad got to the other side of the clearing, and when I came to a littlepath which disappeared into the wood again, I saw a white wall at theend of it. I went a little way along the path, and saw that it was ahouse. Without thinking at all I knocked at the door. I wanted to askthe people to shelter me until the wind stopped. I knocked a secondtime, and heard somebody moving. I thought the door was going to beopened, but a window was opened on the first floor. A man in anight-cap called out, "Who is there?" I answered, "A little girl. " Heseemed surprised. "A little girl?" he said, and asked me where I camefrom, where I was going, and what I wanted. I had not expected allthese questions, and I said that I had come from the farm, but thentold a lie, and said that I was going to see my mother who was ill. Iasked him to let me into the house until the rain stopped. He told meto wait, and I heard him talking to somebody else. Then he came backto the window, and asked me if there was anybody with me. He asked mehow old I was; and when I said I was thirteen, he said I must be abrave girl to come through the wood alone at night. He remainedleaning out of the window a moment, trying to see my face, which waslooking up towards him. Then he turned his head to right and lefttrying to look into the darkness of the wood, and advised me to go on alittle further. There was a village at the other side of the wood, hesaid, and I should find houses there where I could dry my clothes. 

I went on into the night. The moon had hidden itself altogether, and adrizzling rain was falling. I had to walk a long time before I got tothe village. All the houses were shut up, and I could hardly see themin the dark. A blacksmith was the only person up. When I got to hishouse I went up the two steps, meaning to rest there. He was busy witha great iron bar, which he was heating in a fire of red coal, and whenhis arm went up with the bellows he looked like a giant. Every timethe bellows came down the coal flew up and crackled. That made aglimmering light which lit up the walls, on which scythes, saws, andall kinds of knives were hanging. The man's forehead was wrinkled, andhe was staring at the fire. I dared not talk to him, and I went awaywithout making any noise. 

When it became quite light I saw that I was not very far from the town. I began to recognize the places where Sister Marie-Aimée used to takeus when we went for our walks. I was walking very slowly now, anddragged my feet after me because they hurt me. I was so tired that itwas all I could do not to sit down on one of the heaps of stone whichwere on each side of the road. 

The sound of a horse and cart rattling along the road as fast as theycould go made me turn round, and I remained standing quite still withmy heart beating fast. I had recognized the bay mare and the farmer'sblack beard. He stopped the mare quite close to me, leaned out of thecart, and lifted me up into it by the belt of my dress. He sat me downnext to him on the seat, turned the horse round and drove off again atfull speed. When we got to the wood Master Silvain made the horse slowdown. He turned to me, looked at me, and said, "It is lucky for youthat I caught you up. Otherwise you would have been brought back tothe farm between two gensdarmes. " As I didn't answer, he said again, "Perhaps you don't know that there are gensdarmes who bring littlegirls back, when they run away. " I said, "I want to go and see SisterMarie-Aimée. " "Are you unhappy with us?" he asked. I said again, "Iwant to go and see Sister Marie-Aimée. " He looked as though he didn'tunderstand, and went on asking me questions, going over the names ofeverybody on the farm, and asking me if they were kind to me. I madethe same answer every time. At last he lost patience with me, satstraight up, and said, "What an obstinate child. " I looked up at himand said that I should run away again if he would not take me to SisterMarie-Aimée. I went on looking at him, waiting for an answer, and Icould see quite well that he didn't know what to say. He kept still, and thought for several minutes. Then he put his hand on my knee andsaid, "Listen to me, child, and try and understand what I am going totell you. " And when he had finished speaking I understood that he hadpromised to keep me until I was eighteen without ever letting me go tothe town. I understood, too, that the Mother Superior could do whatshe liked with me, and that if I ran away again she would have melocked up, because I ran about the woods during the night. Then thefarmer said that he hoped I should forget the convent and that I shouldgrow fond of him, and of his wife, because they wished me to be happywith them. I was very miserable, and it was all I could do not to cry. "Come, " said the farmer holding out his hand. "Let us be good friends, shall we?" I put my hand into his, and he held it rather tight. Isaid I should like to be friends. He cracked his whip, and we soon gotthrough the wood. Rain was still falling in a fine shower like a fog, and the ploughed fields looked drearier than ever. In a field by theroad a man came towards us waving his arms. I thought he wasthreatening me at first, but when he was quite close to us I saw thathe was holding something in his left arm, and that his right arm wasmoving up and down as though he were working a scythe. I was sopuzzled that I looked at Master Silvain. As though he were answering aquestion, he said, "It is Gaboret, sowing. " A few minutes afterwardswe got to the farm. The farmer's wife was waiting for us in thedoorway. When she saw me she opened her mouth wide as though she hadbeen a long time without breathing, and her serious face looked alittle less anxious for a moment. I ran past her, went into the roomto fetch my cloak, and went straight out to the pens. The sheep rushedout, tumbling over one another. They ought to have been in the fieldsa long time before. 

All day long I thought over what the farmer had said to me. I couldnot understand why the Mother Superior wanted to prevent me from seeingSister Marie-Aimée. I understood that Sister Marie-Aimée could donothing though, and I made my mind up to wait, thinking that a daywould come when nobody could prevent me from seeing her again. Atbedtime the farmer's wife went up with me to put an extra blanket on mybed, and when she had said "good night, " she told me not to call her"madame" any more. She wanted me to call her Pauline. Then she wentaway, after telling me that both she and her husband looked upon me asa child of the house, and that she would do all she could to make mehappy at the farm. 

Next day Master Silvain made me sit next to his brother at table. Hetold him with a laugh that he was not to let me want for anything, because he wanted me to grow. The farmer's brother was called Eugène. He spoke very little, but he always looked at each person who spoke, and his little eyes often seemed to be laughing at them. He was thirtyyears old, but he did not look more than twenty. He always had ananswer to any question he was asked, and I felt no awkwardness atsitting next to him. He squeezed himself against the wall so as togive me more room at the table, and when the farmer told him to lookafter me, all he said was, "You need not worry. "

Now, after all the fields had been ploughed Martine took her sheep along way off to some pasture land called the common. The cowherd and Itook our flock down the meadows and into the woods where there wasfern. I suffered from the cold although I had a big woollen cloakwhich covered me down to my feet. The cowherd often had to light afire. He would bake potatoes and chestnuts in the ashes and share themwith me. He taught me how to know from which side the wind was coming, so as to make use of the least shelter against the cold. And as we satover the fire and tried to keep ourselves warm he would sing me a songabout "Water and Wine. " It was a song which had about twenty verses init. Water and Wine accused one another of ruining the human race, andat the same time praised themselves tremendously. As far as I couldsee Water was right, but the cowherd said that Wine was not wrong. Weused to sit and talk together for hours. He would tell me of his ownhome, which was a long way off from Sologne. He told me that he hadalways been a cowherd, and that when he was a child a bull had knockedhim down and hurt him. He had been ill a long time after that, and thepains in his limbs had made him scream. Then the pains had gone away, but he had become all twisted up as I saw him now. He remembered thenames of all the farms where he had been cowherd. Some of the farmerswere kind, and some were not, but he had never come across such kindmasters as at Villevieille. He said, too, that Master Silvain's cowswere not a bit like those of his own country, which were small, and hadhorns like pointed spindles. The Villevieille cows were big, stronganimals with rough crumpled horns. He was very fond of them and usedto call each one by name when he talked to them. The one he liked bestwas a beautiful white cow which Master Silvain had bought in thespring. She was always lifting her head and looking into the distance, and then all of a sudden she would start off at a run. The cowherdused to call out, "Stop where you are, Blanche! Stop!" She usuallyobeyed him, but sometimes he had to send the dog after her. Sometimes, too, she used to try and run even when the dog stopped her, and wouldonly come back to the herd when the dog bit her muzzle. The cowherdused to pity her because, he said, he couldn't say what or whom she wasregretting. 

In the month of December the cows remained in the stables. I thoughtthat we should keep the sheep in too, but the farmer's brotherexplained to me that Sologne was a very poor country, and that thefarmers could not make enough forage to feed the sheep, as well. Sonow I used to go off all by myself with the sheep down the meadows andinto the woods. All the birds had gone. Mist spread over the ploughedfields and the woods were full of silence. 

There were days when I felt so lonely that I began to believe that theearth had fallen all to pieces round me, and when a crow cawed as itflew past in the grey sky its great hoarse voice seemed to me to besinging of the misfortunes of the world. Even the sheep were quiet. Adealer had taken away all the lambs, and the little ewes did not knowhow to play alone. They went along pressing up close to each other, and even when they were not cropping what grass there was, their headswere bent. Some of them made me think of little girls I had known. Iused to pass them and stroke them, and make them raise their heads, buttheir eyes looked down again at once, and the pupils were like glasswithout a gleam in it. 

One day I was surprised by such a thick fog that I could not see myway. All of a sudden I found myself near a big wood which I didn'tknow. The tops of the trees were lost in the fog, and the ferns lookedas though they were all wrapped in wool. White shadows came down fromthe trees and glided with long transparent trains over the dead leaves. I pushed the sheep towards the meadow, which was quite near, but theyclustered together and refused to go on. I went in front of them tosee what was preventing them from going any further, and I recognizedthe little river which flowed at the bottom of the hill. 

I could scarcely see the water. It seemed to be sleeping under a thickwhite woollen blanket. I stood looking at it for one long minute, thenI got my sheep together and took them back along the road. While I wastrying to find out where the farm was, the sheep ran round the wood andgot into a lane with a hedge on each side of it. The fog was gettingthicker than ever, and I thought I was walking between two high walls. I followed the sheep without knowing where they were taking me. Suddenly they left the lane and turned to the right; but I stoppedthem. I saw a church just in front of us. The doors were wide open, and on either side I could see two red lamps which lit up a greyvaulted roof. There were two straight lines of huge pillars, and atthe other end one could just see the windows with their small panes onwhich a light was shining. It was all I could do to keep the sheepfrom going into the church, and as I was pushing them away I noticedthat they were covered with little white beads. They shook themselvesevery moment and the beads made a tinkling sound. I got very anxious, for I knew that Master Silvain must be waiting for us, and wonderingwhere we were. I felt sure that if I were to go back the way I hadcome I must soon find the farm, so making as little noise as I could Ipushed the sheep back into the lane which led to the church. As I wasgoing into the lane a man's voice sounded right over my head. Thevoice said, "Let the poor brutes go home. " As he spoke the man turnedthe sheep back towards the church again, and I recognized Eugène, thefarmer's brother. He passed his hand over the back of one of the sheepand said, "How pretty they are with their little frost balls. But itis not good for them. "

I was not at all surprised at meeting him there. I showed him thechurch and asked him what it was. "It was for you, " he said. "I wasafraid that you would not find the avenue of chestnut trees, and I hungup a lantern on each side. " I felt all confused. It was only a fewmoments afterwards that I understood that the great pillars, blackenedand worn by centuries, were simply the trunks of the chestnut trees, and then I recognized the small-paned windows of the farmhouse kitchen, which the fire lit up from inside. Eugène counted the sheep himself. He helped me to make them a warm litter of straw, and as we left thepen together he asked me if I really didn't know what had become of thetwo lambs that had been lost. I felt dreadfully ashamed at the thoughtthat he could believe that I had told a lie, and I could not helpcrying, and told him that they had disappeared without my having seenhow or where they went. Then he told me that he had found them drownedin a water-hole. I thought he was going to scold me for not havingwatched them better, but he said gently, "Go and get warm; you have gotall the rime of Sologne in your hair. " I made up my mind that I wouldgo and see the waterhole. But during the night snow fell so quicklythat we couldn't go out to the fields next day. 

I helped old Bibiche to mend the household linen; Martine sat down toher spinning wheel, and I sang to them while we sewed and Martine span. 

While we sat at work that evening the dogs never stopped barking. Martine seemed anxious. She listened to the dogs, and then turning tothe farmer she said, "I am afraid this weather will bring the wolvesdown. " The farmer got up to go out and talk to the dogs, and took hislantern to make a round of the outhouses. During the week that thesnow lasted hundreds of crows came to the farm. They were so hungrythat nothing frightened them. They went into the cow-house and thepens and into the granary, and they made very free with the corn ricks. The farmer killed a lot of them. We cooked some of them with bacon andcabbage. Everybody thought them very good, but the dogs wouldn't eatthem. 

The first day we let the sheep and cows out, the pine trees were stillheavy with snow. The hill was all white too. It seemed to have comecloser to the farm. All this white dazzled me. I could not findthings in their places, and every moment I was afraid that I should notsee the blue smoke curling up over the farm roofs any longer. Thesheep could not find anything to eat, and ran about searching. I didnot let them scatter too much. They looked like moving snow, and I wasobliged to watch them closely so as not to lose sight of them. Imanaged to get them together in a meadow which skirted a big wood. Thewhole forest was busy getting rid of the snow which weighed it down. The big branches threw the snow off at one shake, while the otherswhich were not so strong, stooped and bent themselves to make it slipdown. I had never been into this forest. I only knew that it was avery big one, and that Martine sometimes took her sheep there. Thepine trees were very tall, and the ferns grew very high. 

I had been watching a big clump of ferns for a long time. I thought Ihad seen it move, and I heard a sound come out of it as though a bit ofstick had broken under a footstep. I felt frightened. I thought therewas somebody there. Then I heard the same sound again much nearer, butwithout seeing anything move. I tried to reassure myself by saying tomyself that it was a hare, or some other little animal which waslooking for food; but in spite of all I could try to think, I feltthere was somebody there. I felt so nervous that I made up my mind togo nearer the farm. I had taken two steps towards my sheep when theyhuddled together and moved away from the wood. I was looking about tosee what had frightened them, when quite close to me, in the verymiddle of the flock, I saw a yellow dog carrying off one of the sheepin his mouth. My first idea was that Castille had gone mad; but at thesame moment Castille tumbled up against my dress and howledplaintively. Then I guessed that it was a wolf. It was carrying off asheep which it held by the middle of its body. It climbed up a hillockwithout any difficulty, and as it jumped the broad ditch whichseparated the field from the forest its hind legs made me think ofwings. At that moment I should not have thought it at allextraordinary if it had flown away over the trees. I stood there for afew moments, without knowing whether I was frightened. Then I feltthat I could not take my eyes away from the ditch. My eyelids hadbecome so stiff that I thought I should never be able to close themagain. I wanted to call out, so that they should hear me at the farm, but I could not get my voice out of my throat. I wanted to run, but mylegs were trembling so that I was obliged to sit down on the wet grass. Castille went on howling as though she were in pain, and the sheepremained huddled together. 

When I got them back to the farm at last, I ran to look for MasterSilvain. As soon as he saw me he guessed what had happened. He calledhis brother and took down their two guns, and I tried to show him whichway the wolf had gone. They both came back at nightfall without havingfound him. We talked of nothing else all the evening. Eugène wantedto know what the wolf looked like; and old Bibiche got angry when Isaid that he had a long yellow coat like Castille, but that he was muchhandsomer than she was. 

A few days afterwards it was Martine's turn. She had just taken hersheep out, and she had hardly reached the end of the avenue of chestnuttrees when we heard her shouting. Everybody rushed out of the house. I got to Martine first. She was stooping down and pulling as hard asshe could at a sheep which a wolf had just killed, and was trying tocarry off. The wolf had the sheep by the throat, and was pulling ashard as Martine was. Martine's dog bit the wolf's legs, but he didn'tseem to feel it, and when Master Silvain fired full at him he rolledover with a piece of the sheep's throat between his teeth. Martine'seyes were staring and her mouth had become quite white. Her cap hadslipped off her head, and the parting which divided her hair into twomade me think of a broad path on which one could walk without anydanger. The usual strong expression of her face had changed into a sadlittle grimace, and her hands kept opening and closing, the two of themkeeping time. She had been leaning against the chestnut tree, and shewent up to Eugène, who was looking at the wolf. She stood by him for amoment looking at the dead wolf too, and said aloud: "Poor brute! Howhungry he must have been!" The farmer put the wolf and the sheep onthe same wheelbarrow, and wheeled them back to the farm. The dogsfollowed, sniffing at the barrow, and looking frightened. 

For several days the farmer and his brother went out shooting in theneighbourhood. Whenever Eugène came anywhere near me he would stop andsay a kind word. He told me that the noise they made with their gunsdrove the wolves away, and that one very rarely saw any in that part ofthe country. But although he said that there was little or no danger Ididn't dare go back to the big forest. I preferred to go up on to thehill which was covered only with broom and ferns. 

It the beginning of the spring the farmer's wife taught me how to milkthe cows and look after the pigs. She said she wanted to make a goodfarmer of me. I could not help thinking of the Mother Superior and thedisdainful tone in which she had said to me, "You will milk the cowsand look after the pigs. " When she said that, she said it as thoughshe were giving me a punishment, and here I was delighted at havingthem to look after. I used to lean my forehead against a cow's flankto get a better purchase, and I very soon filled my pail. At the topof the milk a foam used to form which caught all kinds of changingcolours, and when the sun passed over it it became so marvellouslybeautiful that I was never tired of looking at it. 

Looking after the pigs never disgusted me. Their food was boiledpotatoes and curdled milk. I used to dip my hands into the bucket tomix it all up, and I loved making them wait for their food a fewminutes. Their eager cries and the way they wriggled their snoutsabout always amused me. 

When May came Master Silvain added a she goat to my flock. He hadbought it to help Pauline to feed the little baby she had got afterthey had been married ten years. This goat was more difficult to takecare of than all the rest of the flock. It was always her fault whenmy flock got into the standing oats, which were pretty high. Thefarmer saw what had happened and scolded me. He said that I must havebeen asleep in a corner while my sheep were trampling his oats down. Every day I had to pass near a wood of young pine trees. The goat usedto get there in three jumps, and it was while I was looking for herthat my lambs got into the oats. 

The first time I waited ever so long for her to come back by herself. I made my voice as soft as I could and called to her. At last I madeup my mind to go and fetch her, but the young pines were so closetogether that I didn't know how to get after her. On the other hand, Icould not go away without knowing what had happened to the goat. Ithought I remembered the place where she had disappeared, and I went inthere, putting my hands in front of my face to keep the thorns off. Isaw her almost at once through my fingers. She was quite near me. Istretched my hands out to get hold of one of her horns, but she backedthrough the branches, which flew back and struck me in the face. Atlast, however, I got hold of her and brought her back to the flock. She began again next day, and every day she did the same thing. I gotmy sheep as far away as I could from the oats, and rushed after her. She was a white goat, and the first time I saw her I thought that shewas like Madeleine. She had the same kind of eyes, set far away fromeach other. When I forced her to come out of the pine trees, shelooked at me for a long time without moving her eyes, and I thoughtthat Madeleine must have been turned into a goat. Sometimes I told hernot to do it again, and I was quite sure that she understood me when Itold her how unkind she was. As I was struggling out of the pine woodmy hair fell all about me, and I shook my head to throw it forward. The goat sprang to one side bleating with fear. She lowered her hornsand came at me, but I lowered my head and shook my hair at her. Myhair was long and dragged along the ground. She rushed off, leapingthis way and that. Every time she went into the pine wood I took myrevenge on her by frightening her with my hair. Master Silvainsurprised us one morning when I was butting at her. He laughed andlaughed till I didn't know which way to look. I tried to throw my hairback quickly. The she goat came close up to me. She looked at me, stretching her neck and wriggling her back about in the funniest way. The farmer could not stop laughing. He bent almost double, holding hissides and simply roared with laughter. All I could see of him were hiseyebrows, his beard, and his big hat. His shouts of laughter made mewant to cry. When he had stopped laughing he asked me all about it. Itold him how wicked the goat had been, and he shook his finger at herand laughed again. Martine took her out next day; but the day aftershe said that she would rather leave the farm than take out that shegoat again. It was possessed of the devil, she said. 

Old Bibiche used to say that goats ought to be beaten, but I rememberedthe only time I had beaten mine. Her ribs had made such a strangehollow sound that I never dared touch her again. She was left free torun about the farm, and one day she disappeared. We never found outwhat had become of her. 

The feast of St. John was drawing near, and to celebrate theanniversary of my arrival on the farm Eugène said that I must be takento the village. In honour of this feast day the farmer's wife gave mea yellow dress which she used to wear when she was a girl. The villagewas called Sainte Montague. It only had one street, at the end ofwhich was a church. Martine took me into mass, which had alreadybegun. She pushed me on to a bench and she sat down on the one infront of me. There were two women behind me who never stopped talkingabout yesterday's market, and the men near the door talked out loudwithout seeming to mind. They only stopped talking when the priestmounted the pulpit. I thought he was going to preach, but he only gaveout notices of the weddings. Every time he mentioned a name the womenleaned to right and left and smiled. I never even thought of praying. I looked at Martine, who was on her knees. Her dark curls had got outfrom under her embroidered cap. Her shoulders were broad, and herwhite bodice was fastened at the waist with a black ribbon. The wholeof her made one think of something fresh and new, and yet the MotherSuperior had told me that shepherdesses were dirty. I thought ofMartine and how smart she always looked in her short striped petticoat, her stockings, which were always tightly drawn, and her wooden shoescovered with leather, which she blacked like boots. She was alwaysvery careful of her flock, and the farmer's wife used to say that sheknew every one of her sheep. When we came out of mass she left me andran up to an old woman, whom she kissed tenderly. Then I lost sight ofher and remained all by myself, not knowing where to go. A little wayoff I saw the inn of the "White Horse. " There was a noise of voicesthere and I could hear dishes and plates rattling. People went in incrowds, and presently there was nobody left outside. I was going backinto the church to wait for Martine to come and fetch me when I sawEugène. He took me by the hand, and said, laughing as he spoke, "Ifyour dress had not been as yellow as it is I should certainly haveforgotten you. " He looked at me as though he were making fun of me andas though he were amused at something. He took me to the schoolmasterand asked him to give me luncheon, and to take me for a walk with thechildren. The schoolmaster was dressed like the gentlemen of the town. Eugène wore a blue blouse, and I was very much surprised to see them sofriendly together. While we were waiting for lunch the schoolmasterlent me a book of fairy tales, and when the time came for the walk Iwould much rather have been left alone to finish the book. 

On the village green the boys and girls were dancing in the sunshineand the dust. I thought that they danced too roughly, and that theywere too noisy. 

I felt very sad, and when the cart drove us back to the farm atnightfall I felt really glad to be back in the silence and the sweetsmell of the meadows again. 

A few days after that, on our way home from the forest, a sheep whichhad been grazing near the hedge jumped right up into the air. I wentto see what was the matter, and saw that his nose was bleeding. Ithought that he must have pricked himself with a big thorn, and afterhaving washed him I didn't think anything more about it. Next day Iwas terrified to see that his head had swollen up till it was almost asbig as his body. It frightened me so much that I screamed. Martinecame running up, and she began screaming too, and everybody came. Iexplained what had happened the day before, and the farmer said thatthe sheep must have been bitten by a viper. He would have to be caredfor, and must be left in the stable until the swelling had gone down. I asked nothing better than to look after the poor brute, but when Iwas alone with it I felt frightened to death. That enormous head, which wobbled on the little body, made me half crazy with terror. Thegreat big eyes, the enormous mouth and the ears, which stood straightup, made a monster almost impossible to imagine. The poor beast alwaysremained in the middle of the stable, as though he were afraid ofbumping himself against the wall. I tried to go to him, telling myselfthat it was only a sheep after all, but I could not. But directly heturned towards me I felt dreadfully sorry for him. Sometimes I used tothink that this dreadful face which wobbled from right to left wasreproaching me. Then something seemed to wobble inside my head, and Ifelt as though I were going mad. I quite understood that I wasperfectly capable of letting him die of hunger. I told the cowherdabout it, and he said that he would look after the sheep as long as theinflammation lasted. He laughed at me a little, and said he could notunderstand how I could be afraid of a sick sheep. 

I was able to do him a good turn afterwards, and I was very glad. Whenhe let the bull out one morning, he had slipped and fallen in front ofhim. The bull had sniffed and smelt at him. He was a young bull, which had been brought up on the farm, and was a little bit wild. Thecowherd was afraid of him, and felt quite certain that he wouldremember that he had seen him on the ground in front of him. I shouldhave liked to make him understand that there was nothing to be afraidof, but I didn't know what to say to prevent his being frightened. Iwas quite surprised at noticing all of a sudden how old he was. Hishat had dropped on to the ground, and I noticed for the first time thathis hair was quite grey. I thought about him all day long, and nextday, while the cows were going out one by one, I went into the stable. The cowherd was looking at the bull, who was pulling at the chain. Iwent up to him, patted him, and let him loose. The cowherd stood onone side, and the bull rushed out as if he were mad. The herd lookedat him in surprise, and limped after him. I was not nearly sofrightened of the bull as I had been of the sheep with the swollenface, and I used to go into the stable every day, slipping in quietlyso as not to be seen. But Eugène had seen me. He took me aside onemorning, and, looking right into my eyes with his little eyes, he said, "Why did you let the bull loose?" I was afraid the cow-herd would bescolded if I told the truth, and tried to find something to say to him. I began to say that I didn't let him loose. Then Eugène gave a littlechuckle, and said, "You don't mean to tell me that you tell lies, doyou?" I told him everything, and they sold the bull next Saturday. 

I had often noticed how kind Eugène was to everybody. Whenever thefarmer had any difficulties with his men he always used to call hisbrother, who would settle everything with a few words. Eugène did thesame work on the farm as Master Silvain did, but he always refused togo to market. He said that he would not know how to sell even acheese. He walked slowly, rocking himself a little as he walked, asthough he were trying to keep time with his oxen. He went to SainteMontagne nearly every Sunday. When the weather was bad he would remainin the living-room at the farm house and read. I used to hope that hewould leave his book behind him one day; but he never forgot it, andalways took it to his room with him. One of my great troubles was thatI could not find anything to read in the farm, and I used to pick upany bits of printed paper that I saw lying about. The farmer's wifehad noticed this, and said that I should become a miser some day. OneSunday, when I had screwed up my courage and asked Eugène for a book, he gave me a book of songs. All through the summer I took it with meto the fields. I made up tunes for the songs which I liked best. ThenI got tired of them, and when I was helping Pauline to clean up thefarm for All Saints Day, I found several almanacks. Pauline told me totake them up to the garret, but I pretended to forget, and carried themoff to read in secret, one after the other. They were full of amusingstories, and the winter went by without my ever noticing the cold. 

When I took them up to the garret at last, I hunted about up there tosee if I could not find any others. The only thing I found was alittle book without any cover. The corners of the leaves were rolledup as if it had been carried about in somebody's pocket for a longtime. The two first pages were missing, and the third page was sodirty that I could not read the print. I took it under the skylight, to see a little better, and I saw that it was called "The Adventures ofTelemachus. " I opened it here and there, and the few words that I readinterested me so much that I put it in my pocket at once. 

While I was on my way down from the garret, it suddenly occurred to methat Eugène might have put the book there, and that he might come andlook for it at any time. So I put it back on the black rafter where Ihad found it. Every time I could manage to go to the garret I lookedto see whether it was still in its place, and I read it as much and asoften as ever I could. 

Just about that time I had another sick sheep. Its flanks were hollow, as though it had not eaten for a long while. I went and asked thefarmer's wife what I ought to do with it. She was plucking a chicken, and asked me whether the sheep was "drawn. " I didn't answer at once. I didn't quite know what she meant. Then I thought that probablywhenever a sheep was ill it was "drawn, " and I said "Yes. " And so asto make it quite clear, I added, "It is quite flat. " Pauline began tolaugh at me. She called Eugène, and said, "Eugène! One of MarieClaire's sheep is drawn and flat too. " That made Eugène laugh. Hesaid I was only a second-hand shepherdess, and explained to me thatsheep were "drawn" when their stomachs were swollen. 

Two days afterwards Pauline told me that she and Master Silvain sawthat they would never make a good shepherdess of me, and that they weregoing to give me work to do in the house. Old Bibiche was not good formuch, and Pauline could not do everything herself because of her baby. When they told me this, my first thought was that I should be able togo up to the garret more often, and I kissed Pauline and thanked her. 

So I became a farm servant. I had to kill the chickens and therabbits. I hated doing it, and Pauline could never understand why. She said I was like Eugène, who ran away when a pig was being killed. However, I wanted to try and kill a chicken so as to show that I did mybest. I took it into the granary. It struggled in my hands, and thestraw all round me got red. Then it became quite still, and I put itdown for Bibiche to come and pluck it. But when she came she cackledwith laughter because the chicken had got on to its feet again, and wasin the middle of a basket of corn. It was eating greedily, as thoughit wanted to get well as quickly as possible after the way in which Ihad hurt it. Bibiche got hold of it, and when she had passed the bladeof her knife across its neck the straw was much redder than it had beenbefore. 

Instead of going to sleep in the middle of the day, I used to go up tothe garret to read. I opened the book anywhere, and every time I readit over again I found something new in it. I loved this book of mine. For me it was like a young prisoner whom I went to visit secretly. Iused to imagine that it was dressed like a page, and that it waited forme on the black rafter. One evening I went on a lovely journey withit. I had closed the book, and was leaning on my elbows and lookingout of the skylight in the garret. It was almost evening, and the pinetrees looked less green. The sun was pushing its way into the whiteclouds which hollowed themselves and then swelled out again, like downand feathers do when you push something into a sackful of them. 

Without quite knowing how, I found myself, all of a sudden, flying overa wood with Telemachus. He held me by the hand, and our heads touchedthe blue of the sky. Telemachus said nothing, but I knew that we weregoing up into the sun. Old Bibiche called to me from below. Irecognized her voice, although it was so far off. She must be veryangry, I thought, to be calling so loud. I didn't care. I saw nothingbut the bright flakes of white down, which surrounded the sun and whichwere opening slowly to let us pass in. A tap on my arm brought me backwith a rush into the garret. Old Bibiche was pulling me away from theskylight, and saying, "Why do you make me shout like that? I havecalled you at least twenty times to come and get your supper!" Alittle while later I missed the book from the rafter. But it hadbecome a friend which I carried about in my heart, and I have alwaysremembered it. 

Two days before Christmas, Master Silvain got ready to kill a pig. Hesharpened two big knives, and, after having made a litter of freshstraw in the middle of the yard, he sent for the pig, which made such anoise that I was sure he knew what was going to happen. Master Silvainroped up his four feet, and, while he fastened them to pegs which hehad hammered into the ground, he said to his wife, "Hide the knives, Pauline. Don't let him see them!" Pauline gave me a sort of deepdish, which I was to hold carefully, so as not to lose a single drop ofthe blood which I was to catch in it. The farmer went to the pig, which had fallen on its side. He went down on one knee in front ofhim, and, after having felt his neck, he reached his hand out behindhis back to his wife; she gave him the bigger of the two knives. Heput the point on the place he had marked with his finger, and pressedit slowly in. The pig's cries were just like the cries of a baby. Adrop of blood came from the wound and rolled slowly down in a long redline. Then two spurts ran up the knife and fell on the farmer's hand. When the blade was right in up to the handle. Master Silvain put hisweight on it for a moment and drew it out again as slowly as he had putit in. When I saw the blade come out again all striped with red, Ifelt my mouth grow cold and dry. My fingers went limp, and the dishtoppled over to one side. Master Silvain saw it. He gave me one lookand said to his wife, "Take the dish away from her. " I could not say aword, but I shook my head to say "No. " The farmer's look had taken mynervousness away, and I held the dish quite steadily under the spurt ofblood which came out from the pig's wound. When the pig was quitestill, Eugène came up. He looked amazed at seeing me carefullycatching the last red drops which were rolling down one by one liketears. "Do you mean to say you caught the blood?" he asked. "Yes, "said the farmer; "that shows that she is not a chicken heart, likeyou. " "It is quite true, " said Eugène to me, "I hate seeing animalskilled. " "Nonsense, " said Master Silvain. "Animals are made to feedus just as wood is made to warm us. " Eugène turned away a little, asthough he were ashamed of his weakness. His shoulders were thin, andhis neck was as round as Martine's. Master Silvain used to say that hewas the living portrait of their mother. 

I had never seen Eugène angry. He hummed songs all day long. In theevening he used to come back from the fields sitting sideways on one ofthe oxen, and he nearly always sang the same song. It was the story ofa soldier, who went back to the war after he had learned that the girlhe had been engaged to marry had married another man. He used to dwellon the refrain, which finished like this--

 And when a bullet comes and takes Away my precious life, You'll know I died because you were Another fellow's wife. [1]

Pauline always used to treat Eugène with much respect. She could neverunderstand my freedom with him. The first evening that she saw mesitting next to him on the bench outside the door she made signs to meto come in. But Eugène called me back, saying, "Come and listen to thewood owl. " We often used to be sitting on the bench, still, wheneverybody had gone to bed. The wood owl came quite near to an old elmtree which was by the door, and we used to think that it was saying"good night" to us. Then it would fly away, its great wings passingover us in silence. Sometimes a voice would sing on the hillside. Iused to tremble when I heard it. The full voice coming out of thenight reminded me of Colette. Eugène would get up to go in when thevoice stopped singing, but I always used to stop, hoping to hear itagain. Then he would say, "Come along in: it is all over. "

[1] Quand par un tour de maladresse Un boulet m'emportera Allons adieu chère maitresse Je m'en vais dans les combats. 

And now that the winter was with us again, and we could no longer siton the bench by the door, there seemed to be a sort of secretunderstanding between us. Whenever he was making fun of anybody, hisqueer little eyes used to look for mine, and whenever he gave anopinion he used to turn to me as though he expected me to approve ordisapprove. It seemed to me that I had always known him, and deep downin my thoughts I used to call him my big brother. He was always askingPauline if she was pleased with me. Pauline said that there was noneed to tell him the same thing, over and over again. The only thingshe reproached me with was that I had no system in my work. She usedto say that I was just as likely to begin at the end of it as at thebeginning. I had not forgotten Sister Marie-Aimée, but I was no longeras sick with longing for her as I used to be. And I was happy on thefarm. 

In the month of June the men came, as they came every year, to shearthe sheep. They brought bad news with them. All over the country thesheep were falling ill as soon as they had been shorn, and numbers ofthem were dying. Master Silvain took his precautions, but in spite ofall he could do, a hundred of the sheep fell sick. A doctor said thatby bathing them in the river a good many of them might be saved. Sothe farmer got into the water up to his middle, and dipped the sheep inone by one. He was red hot, and the perspiration rolled down hisforehead and fell in great drops into the river. That evening when hewent to bed he was feverish, and next day he died of inflammation ofthe lungs. Pauline could not believe in her misfortune, and Eugènewandered about the stables and the outhouses with frightened eyes. 

Soon after the farmer's death, the landlord of the farm came to see us. He was a little dry stick of a man, who never kept still for a minute, and if he did stand still he always seemed to be dancing on one foot. His face was clean-shaven, and his name was M. Tirande. He came intothe living-room where I was sitting with Pauline. He walked round theroom with his shoulders hunched up. Then he said, pointing to thebaby, "Take him away. I want a talk with the goodwife. " I went outinto the yard, and managed to pass the window as often as I could. Pauline had not moved from her chair. Her hands lay on her knees, andshe was bending her head forward as though she were trying tounderstand something very difficult. M. Tirande was talking withoutlooking at her. He kept walking from the fireplace to the door andback again, and the noise of his heels on the tiled floor got mixed upwith his broken little voice. He came out again as fast as he had comein, and I went and asked Pauline what he had said. She took the babyin her arms and, crying as she told me, she said that M. Tirande wasgoing to take the farm away from her and give it to his son, who hadjust got married. 

At the end of the week M. Tirande came back with his son and hisdaughter-in-law. They visited the outhouses first, and when they cameinto the house, M. Tirande stopped in front of me a minute, and told methat his daughter-in-law had made up her mind to take me into herservice. Pauline heard him say so, and made a step towards me. Butjust then Eugène came in with a lot of papers in his hand, andeverybody sat down round the table. While they were all reading thepapers and signing, I looked at M. Tirande's daughter-in-law. She wasa big, dark woman with large eyes and a bored look. She left the farmwith her husband without having glanced at me once. When their carthad disappeared down the avenue of chestnut trees, Pauline told Eugènewhat M. Tirande had said to me. Eugène, who was leaving the room, turned to me suddenly. He looked very angry, and his voice was quitechanged. He said that these people were disposing of me as though Iwere a bit of furniture which belonged to them. While Pauline waspitying me, Eugène told me that it was M. Tirande who had told MasterSilvain to take me on the farm. He reminded Pauline how sorry thefarmer had been because I was such a weakling, and he told me that hewas very sorry not to be able to take me with them to their new farm. We were all three standing in the living-room. I could feel Pauline'ssad eyes on my head, and Eugène's voice made me think of a hymn. Pauline was to leave the farm at the end of the summer. 

I worked hard every day to put the linen in order. I didn't wantPauline to take away a single piece of torn linen with her, I workedhard with my darning-needle, as Bonne Justine had taught me, and Ifolded every piece as well as I could. 

In the evening I found Eugène sitting on the bench by the door. Themoon was shining on the roofs of the sheep-pens, and there was a whitecloud over the dung-heap which looked like a tulle veil. There was nosound whatever from the cow-house. All that we heard was the squeakingof the cradle which Pauline was rocking to put her child to sleep. 

As soon as the corn had been got in, Eugène began getting ready to go. The cowherd took away the cattle, and old Bibiche went off in the cartwith all the birds of the poultry-yard. In a few days nothing was leftat the farm but the two white oxen, which Eugène would trust to nobodybut himself. He fastened them to the cart which was to take Paulineand her child. The little fellow was fast asleep in a basket full ofstraw, and Eugène put him into the cart without waking him up. Paulinecovered him with her shawl, made the sign of the cross towards thehouse, took up the reins, and the cart went slowly off under thechestnut trees. 

I wanted to go with them as far as the high-road, and I followed thecart, walking behind the oxen, between Eugène and Martine. None of usspoke. Every now and then Eugène gave the oxen a friendly pat. Wewere quite a long way on the road when Pauline saw that the sun wassetting. She stopped the horse, and, when I had climbed on to the stepto kiss her good-bye, she said sadly, "God be with you, my girl. Behave well. " Then her voice filled with tears, and she added, "If mypoor husband were living he would never have given you up. " Martinekissed me, and smiled. "We may see one another again, " she said. Eugène took his hat off. He held my hand in his for a long time, andsaid slowly, "Good-bye, dear little friend. I shall always rememberyou. "

I walked a little way back, and turned round to see them again, and, although it was getting dark, I saw that Eugène and Martine werewalking hand in hand. 

PART III

The new farmers came next day. The farm hands and the serving womenhad come early in the morning, and when the masters arrived in theevening I knew that they were called Monsieur and Madame Alphonse. M. Tirande remained at Villevieille for two days, and went off afterreminding me that I was in his daughter-in-law's service now, and thatI should have to do no more outside work on the farm. 

The very first week she was there Madame Alphonse had had Eugène's roomturned into a linen-room, and she had set me to work at a big table onwhich were a number of pieces of linen which I was to make into sheetsand other things. She came and sat down next to me, and worked atmaking lace. She would remain for whole days at a time without sayinga word. Sometimes she talked to me about the linen presses which hermother had, full of all kinds of linen. 

Her voice had no ring to it, and she scarcely moved her lips when shespoke. M. Tirande seemed very fond of his daughter-in-law. Every timehe came he always asked her what she would like him to give her. Shecared for nothing but linen, and he went off saying that he would gether some more. 

M. Alphonse never appeared at all except at meal times. I should havefound it very difficult to say what he did with his time. His facereminded me of the Mother Superior's face somehow. Like her, he had ayellow skin and his eyes glittered. He looked as though he carried abrazier inside him which might burn him up at any minute. He was verypious, and every Sunday he and Madame Alphonse went to mass in thevillage where M. Tirande lived. At first they wanted to take me intheir cart, but I refused. I preferred going to Sainte Montagne, whereI always hoped to meet Pauline or Eugène. Sometimes one of the farmhands came with me, but more often I would go alone by a little crossroad, which made the way much shorter. It was a steep and stony bit ofroad which ran uphill through the broom. On the very top of it Ialways used to stop in front of Jean le Rouge's house. This house waslow-roofed and spreading. The walls were as black as the thatch whichcovered it, and it was quite easy to pass by the house without seeingit at all, for the broom grew so high all round it. I used to go infor a chat with Jean le Rouge, whom I had known ever since I had beenat Villevieille farm. He had always worked for Master Silvain, whothought very highly of him. Eugène used to say of him that one couldset him to anything, and that whatever he did he did well. 

Now M. Alphonse refused to employ him any more. He spoke of sendinghim away from the house on the hill. Jean le Rouge was so upset by theidea that he could talk of nothing else. 

Directly after mass I used to go home by the same road. Jean'schildren would crowd round me to get the blessed bread, which I broughtout of church for them. There were six of them, and the eldest was notyet twelve years old. There was hardly one mouthful of my blessedbread, so I used to give it to Jean's wife to divide up and give to thechildren in equal shares. While she was doing this, Jean le Rougewould set a stool for me in front of the fire and would seat himself ona log of wood, which he would roll to the fireplace with his foot. Hiswife put some twigs on the fire with a pair of heavy pincers, and as wesat and talked we watched the big yellow potatoes cooking in the potwhich hung from a hook in the fireplace. 

On the very first Sunday Jean le Rouge had told me that he, too, was afoundling. And little by little he had told me that when he was twelvehe had been put to work with a woodcutter who used to live in the houseon the hill. He had very soon learned how to climb up the trees tofasten a rope to the top branches so as to pull them over. When theday's work was done and he had his faggot of wood on his back, he wouldgo on ahead so as to get to the house first. And there he used to findthe woodcutter's little daughter cooking the soup for supper. She wasof the same age as he was, and they had become the best of friends atonce. 

Then, one Christmas Eve, came the misfortune. The old woodcutter, whothought that the children were fast asleep, went off to midnight mass. But directly he had gone they got up. They wanted to prepare midnightsupper for the old man's return, and they danced with glee at thesurprise they were getting ready for him. While the little girl wascooking the chestnuts and putting the pot of honey and the jug of cideron the table, Jean le Rouge heaped great logs on to the fire. Timewent on, the chestnuts were cooked, and the woodcutter had not yet comehome. It seemed a long time. The children sat down on the floor infront of the fire to keep themselves warm, leaned up against oneanother, and fell asleep. Jean woke up at the little girl's screams. He could not understand at first why she was throwing her arms aboutand shrieking at the fire. He jumped to his feet to run away from her, and then he saw that she was ablaze. She had opened the door to thegarden, and as she ran out she lit the trees up. Then Jean had caughthold of her and thrown her into the little well. The water had put theflames out, but when Jean tried to pull her out of the well he foundher so heavy that he thought she must be dead. She made no movement, and it took him a long time to get her out. At last, when he did gether out, he had to drag her along like a bundle of sticks back to thehouse. 

The logs had become great red embers. Only the biggest one, which waswet, went on smoking and crackling. The little girl's face was allbloated, and was black with violet veins in it. Her body, which washalf naked, was covered with big red burns. 

She was ill for many months, and when at last they thought she wascured, they found out that she had become dumb. She could hearperfectly well, she could even laugh like everybody else, but it wasquite impossible for her to speak a single word. 

While Jean le Rouge was telling me these things his wife used to lookat him and move her eyes as if she were reading a book. Her face stillbore deep burn marks, but one soon got accustomed to it, and rememberednothing of her face but the mouth with its white teeth, and her eyes, which were never still. She used to call her children with a long, lowcry, and they came running up, and always understood all the signs shemade to them. I was so sorry that they had to leave the house on thehill. They were the last friends I had left, and I thought of tellingMadame Alphonse about them, hoping that she might get her husband tokeep them on. I found an opportunity one day, when M. Tirande and hisson had come into the linen-room talking about the changes they weregoing to make at the farm. M. Alphonse said he didn't want any cattle. He spoke of buying machinery, cutting down the pine trees and clearingthe hillside. The stables would do for sheds for the machines, and hewould use the house on the hill to store fodder in. I don't knowwhether Madame Alphonse was listening. She went on making lace, andseemed to be giving her full attention to it. As soon as the two menhad gone I plucked up courage to talk of Jean le Rouge. I told her howuseful he had been to Master Silvain. I told her how sorry he was toleave the house in which he had lived for so long, and when I stopped, trembling for the answer which was coming, Madame Alphonse took herneedles out of the thread. "I believe I have made a mistake, " shesaid. She counted up to nineteen, and said again, "What a nuisance itis. I shall have to undo a whole row. " When I told Jean le Rougeabout this, he was angry, and shook his fist at Villevieille. His wifeput her hand on his shoulder and looked at him, and he was quiet atonce. 

Jean le Rouge left the house on the hill at the end of January, and Iwas very sad. 

I had no friends left now. I hardly recognized the farm any more. Allthese new people had made themselves quite at home there, and I seemedto myself to be a new-comer. The serving-woman looked at me withdistrust, and the ploughman avoided talking to me. The servant's namewas Adèle. All day long you could hear her grumbling and dragging herwooden shoes after her as she walked. She made a noise even when shewas walking on straw. She used to eat her meals standing, and answerher master and mistress quite rudely. 

M. Alphonse had taken away the bench which was by the door, and had putup little green bushes with trellis-work round them. He cut down theold elm tree, too, to which the wood owl used to come on summerevenings. 

Of course the old tree had not shaded the house for a long time. Itonly had one tuft of leaves right up on the top. It looked like a headwhich bent over to listen to what people underneath were saying. Thewoodcutters who came to cut it down said that it would not be an easything to do. They said there was some danger that when it fell itwould crash through the roof of the house. 

At last, after a lot of talk, they decided to rope it round and pull itover so that it fell on to the dung-heap. It took two men all day tocut it down, and just when we thought that it was going to drop nicely, one of the ropes worked loose, and the old elm jumped and fell to oneside. It slipped down the roof, knocking down a chimney and a largenumber of tiles, bumped a piece out of the wall, and fell right acrossthe door. Not one of its branches touched the dung-heap. M. Alphonseyelled with rage. He laid hold of the axe belonging to one of thewoodcutters, and struck the tree so violent a blow that a piece of barkflew against the linen-room window and broke a pane. 

Madame Alphonse saw the bits of glass fall on me. She jumped up inmore excitement than I had ever seen her show, and with trembling handsand fearful eyes she examined closely every bit of the table-clothwhich I was embroidering. But she did not see me wiping away the bloodfrom my cheek, which had been cut by a bit of glass. She was so afraidthat something might happen to the piles of linen which were beginningto grow that she took me off next day to her mother's to show me howthe linen should be put into the closets. 

Madame Alphonse's mother was called Madame Deslois, but when theploughmen talked about her they always said "the good woman of thecastle. " She had only been to Villevieille once. She had come closeup to me and looked at me with her eyes half shut. She was a big womanwho walked bent double as if she were looking for something on theground. She lived in a big house called the Lost Ford. 

Madame Alphonse took me along by a path near a little river. It wasthe end of March, and the meadows were already in flower. MadameAlphonse walked straight along the path, but I got a lot of pleasureout of walking in the soft grass. 

We soon came to the wood where the wolf had taken my lamb. I hadalways had a mysterious fear of this wood, and when we left the path bythe river to go through it I shook with fear. And yet the road was abroad one. It must even have been a carriage road, for there were deepruts in it. 

Above our heads heaps of pine needles tickled one another and rustled. They made a gentle noise, not a bit like the whispering, with silencesin between, which I used to hear in the forest when the snow was on it. But in spite of all I could not help looking behind me. We didn't walkvery far through the wood. The road turned to the left and we got tothe courtyard of the Lost Ford immediately. The little river ranbehind the stables as it did at Villevieille, but here the meadows werequite close together, and the buildings looked as though they weretrying to hide among the sapling pines. The living house didn't lookanything like the farms thereabouts. The ground floor was built ofvery thick old walls, and the first floor looked as though it had beenput on top of them as a makeshift. The house did not look a bit like acastle to me. It made me think of an old tree trunk out of which ababy tree had sprouted, and sprouted badly. 

Madame Deslois came to the door when she heard us arrive. She winkedher little eyes as she looked at me and said at once in a loud voicethat she had dropped a halfpenny in the straw, and that it was veryfunny that nobody had found it, as it had been lost for a week. Whileshe spoke she moved her foot about and stirred the straw which was infront of the door. Madame Alphonse cannot have heard her. Her bigeyes were staring into the house, and she was almost excited when shesaid why we had come. Madame Deslois said that she would take me tothe linen-room herself. She put the keys into the locks of thecupboards, and after having told me to be very careful, and todisarrange nothing, she left me alone. 

It didn't take me long to open and close the great shining cupboards. I should have liked to go away at once. This big cold linen-roomfrightened me like a prison. My feet sounded on the tiles as thoughthere were deep vaults underneath them. All of a sudden it seemed tome that I should never get out of this linen-room again. I listened tosee whether I could hear any animals stirring, but I only heard MadameDeslois' voice. It was a rough, strong voice which went right throughthe walls, and could be heard everywhere. I was going to the window soas to feel a little less lonely, when a door which I had not noticedsuddenly opened behind me. I turned round and saw a young man come in. He wore a long white smock and a grey cap. He stood standing as thoughhe were surprised to see anybody there, and I went on looking at himwithout being able to take my eyes away. He walked right across thelinen-room, and he and I stared and stared at one another. Then hewent out, banging himself against the woodwork of the door. A momentafterwards he passed by the window and our eyes met again. I feltquite uncomfortable, and without knowing why, I went and shut the doorswhich he had left open. 

Presently Madame Alphonse came and fetched me, and I went back toVillevieille with her. 

Since M. Alphonse had taken Pauline's place I had got into the habit ofgoing and sitting in a bush which had grown into the shape of a chair. It was in the middle of a shrubbery not far from the farm. Now thatspring was beginning I used to go and sit there when the ploughmen weresmoking their pipes at the stable doors. I used to sit there listeningto the little noises of the evening, and I longed to be like the trees. That evening I thought of the man I had seen at Lost Ford. But everytime I tried to remember the exact colour of his eyes they pierced intomy own eyes so that they seemed to be lighting me all up inside. 

The next Sunday was Easter Sunday. Adèle had gone to mass in M. Alphonse's cart. I remained alone, with one of the ploughmen, to lookafter the farm. After luncheon the ploughman went to sleep on a heapof straw in front of the door, and I went to my shrubbery to spend theafternoon. I tried to hear the bells ringing, but the farm was too farfrom the villages round, and I could hear none of them. 

I began to think about Sister Marie-Aimée, and my thoughts went back toSophie, who used to come and wake me up every year so that I shouldhear all the bells ringing in Easter together. One year she didn'twake up. She was so upset at that, that next year she put a big stonein her mouth to keep herself from sleeping. Every time she nodded offher teeth met on the stone, and she woke up. 

I sat and thought about High Mass where Colette used to sing in herbeautiful voice, and I could see our afternoon on the lawn, and SisterMarie-Aimée busy with the special dinner which they gave us on feastdays. And that evening when dinner-time came I should see, instead ofsister Marie-Aimée's sweet loving face, Madame Alphonse's hard face andher husband's glittering eyes, which frightened me so. And as I satand thought how long I should still have to stay on the farm I feltdeeply discouraged. 

When I was tired of crying I saw with astonishment that the sun wasquite low. Through the branches of my shrubbery I watched the longthin shadows of the poplar trees growing longer than ever on the grass, and quite close to me I saw a long shadow which was moving. It cameforward, then stopped, and then came forward again. I understood atonce that somebody was going to pass my hiding-place, and almostimmediately the man in the white smock walked into the shrubbery, stooping to get out of the way of the branches. I felt cold all over. I soon got control of myself, but I could not help trembling nervously. He remained standing in front of me without saying a word. I sat andlooked at his eyes, which were very gentle, and I began to feel warmagain. I noticed that, as Eugène used to, he wore a coloured shirt anda cravat tied under the collar, and when he spoke it seemed to me thatI had known his voice for a long time. He leaned against a big branchopposite me, and asked me if I had no relations. I said "No. " His eyeran along the branch covered with young shoots, and without looking atme he said again, "Then you are all alone in the world. " I answeredquickly, "Oh no, I have Sister Marie-Aimée!" And without leaving himtime to ask any more questions I told him how I had longed for her, andhow impatiently I was waiting and hoping to see her again. Talkingabout her made me so happy that I could not stop talking. I told himof her beauty and of her intelligence, which seemed to me to be aboveeverything in the world. I told him, too, how sorry she had been whenI went away, and of the joy that I knew she would feel when she saw mecome back. 

While I talked his eyes were fixed on my face, but they seemed to lookmuch further. After a silence he asked again, "Have you no friendshere?" "No, " I said; "all those whom I loved have gone;" and I addedrather angrily, "They have even turned out Jean le Rouge. " "And yet, "he said, "Madame Alphonse is not unkind?" I told him that she wasneither unkind, nor kind, and that I should leave her without anyregret. 

Then we heard the sound of M. Alphonse's cart-wheels, and I got up togo. He stood aside a little to let me pass him, and I left him alonein the shrubbery. 

That evening I took advantage of the unusually good humour of Adèle toask her if she knew any of the ploughmen at the Lost Ford. She saidshe only knew some of the old ones, for since Madame Deslois had been awidow the new ones never stayed with her. A sort of fear which I couldnot have explained kept me from mentioning the young man in the whitesmock, and Adèle added with a wag of her chin: "Fortunately her eldestson has come back from Paris. The farm hands will be happier. "

Next day, while Madame Alphonse was working at her lace, I sewed andthought about the ploughman in the white smock. I could not in my mindhelp comparing him to Eugène. He spoke like Eugène did, and theyseemed like one another somehow. 

That evening I thought I saw him near the stables, and a moment laterhe came into the linen-room. His eyes just glanced at me and then helooked straight at Madame Alphonse. He held his head high and the leftside of his mouth drooped a little. Madame Alphonse said, in a happyvoice, when she saw him, "Why, there's Henri!" and she let him kiss heron both cheeks, and told him to bring a chair up next to her. But hesat sideways on the table, pushing the linen to one side. Adèle cameinto the room, and Madame Alphonse said, "If you see my husband, tellhim that my brother is here. "

It was some minutes before I understood. Then I realized suddenly thatthe young man in the white smock was Madame Deslois's eldest son. Asense of shame which I had never felt before made me blush fiercely, and I was ever so sorry that I had spoken about Sister Marie-Aimée. Ifelt that I had thrown the thing that I loved best to the winds, and dowhat I could, I could not keep back two big tears which tickled thecorners of my mouth and then fell on the linen napkin I was hemming. Henri Deslois remained sitting on the corner of the table for a longtime. I could feel that he was looking at me, and his eyes were like aheavy weight which prevented me from lifting up my head. 

Two days afterwards I found him in the shrubbery. When I saw himsitting there my legs felt weak under me, and I stood still. He got upat once so that I should sit down; but I remained standing and lookingat him. He had the same gentleness in his eyes that I had noticed thefirst time, and, as if he expected me to tell him another story, "Haveyou nothing to tell me this evening?" he asked. Words danced across mybrain, but they did not seem to be worth speaking, and I shook my headto say no. He said, "I was your friend the other day. " Recollectionof what I had said the other day made me feel worse than ever, and Ionly said, "You are Madame Alphonse's brother. " I left him and did notdare to go back to the shrubbery again. He often came back toVillevieille. I never used to look at him, but his voice always mademe feel very uncomfortable. 

Since Jean le Rouge had gone I had never known what to do with my timeafter mass. Every Sunday I used to pass the house on the hill. Sometimes I would look in through the gaps in the shutters, and when, as I sometimes did, I bumped my head, the noise it made used tofrighten me. One Sunday I noticed that there was no lock on the door. I put my finger on the latch and the door fell open with a loud noise. I had not expected it to open so quickly, and I stood there longing toshut it and go away. Then as there was no more noise, and as the sunhad streamed into the house making a big square of light, I made up mymind to go in, and went in, leaving the door open. The big fireplacewas empty. There was no hook, there was no pot, and the big andironshad gone. The only things left in the room were the logs of wood whichJean le Rouge's children used to use as stools. The bark was worn offthem, and the tops of them were polished, as if with wax, from thechildren sitting on them. 

The second room was quite empty. There were no tiles on the floor, andthe feet of the beds had made little holes in the beaten earth. Therewas no lock to the other door either, and I went out into the garden. There were a few winter vegetables in the beds still, and the fruittrees were all in flower. Most of them were very old. Some of themlooked like hunchbacks, and their branches bent towards the ground, asthough they found that even the flowers were too heavy for them tocarry. At the bottom of the garden the hill ran down to an immenseplain where the cattle used to graze, and right at the end a row ofpoplars made a sort of barrier which kept the sky out of the meadowland. Little by little I recognized one place after another. Therewas a little river at the bottom of the hill. I could not see thewater, but the willows looked as though they were standing on one sideto let it pass. The river disappeared behind the buildings ofVillevieille farm. There the roofs were of the same colour as thechestnut trees, and the river went on on the other side of them. Hereand there I could see it shining between the poplar trees. Then itplunged into the great pine wood, which looked quite black, in whichthe Lost Ford was hidden. That was the road I had taken with MadameAlphonse, when we went to her mother's house. Her brother must havecome that way that day when he found me in the shrubbery. There wasnobody on the road today. Everything was tender green, and I could seeno white smock among the clumps of trees. I tried to see the shrubberybut the farm hid it. Henri Deslois had been in the shrubbery severaltimes since Easter. I could not have told how I knew that he wasthere, but on those days I could never prevent myself from walkinground that way. 

Yesterday Henri Deslois had come into the linen-room while I was therealone. He had opened his mouth as though he were going to talk to me. I had looked at him as I had done the first time, and he went awaywithout saying anything. And now that I was in the open gardensurrounded by broom in flower I longed to be able to live there always. There was a big apple tree leaning over me, dipping the end of itsbranches in the spring. The spring came out of the hollow trunk of atree, and the overflow trickled in little brooks over the beds. Thisgarden of flowers and clear water seemed to me to be the most beautifulgarden in the world. And when I turned my head towards the house, which stood open to the sunshine, I seemed to expect extraordinarypeople to come out of it. The house seemed full of mystery to me. Queer little sounds came out of it, and a few moments ago I thoughtthat I had heard the same sound that Henri Deslois's feet made when hestepped into the linen-room at Villevieille. 

I had been listening as though I expected to see him coming, but I hadnot heard his footstep again, and presently I noticed that the broomand the trees were making all kinds of mysterious sounds. I began toimagine that I was a little tree, and that the wind stirred me as itliked. The same fresh breeze which made the broom rock passed over myhead and tangled my hair, and so as to do like the other trees did Istooped down and dipped my fingers in the clear waters of the spring. 

Another sound made me look at the house again, and I was not in theleast surprised when I saw Henri Deslois standing framed in thedoorway. His head was bare, and his arms were swinging. He steppedout into the garden and looked far off into the plain. His hair wasparted on the side, and was a little thin at the temples. He remainedperfectly still for a long minute, then he turned to me. There wereonly two trees between us. He took a step forward, took hold of theyoung tree in front of him with one hand, and the branches in flowermade a bouquet over his head. It grew so light that I thought the barkof the trees was glittering, and every flower was shining. And inHenri Deslois's eyes there was so deep a gentleness that I went to himwithout any shame. He didn't move when I stopped in front of him. Hisface became whiter than his smock, and his lips quivered. He took mytwo hands and pressed them hard against his temples. Then he said verylow, "I am like a miser who has found his treasure again. " At thatmoment the bell of Sainte Montagne Church began to ring. The sound ofthe bell ran up the hillsides, and after resting over our heads for amoment ran on and died away in the distance. 

The hours passed, the day grew older, and the cattle disappeared fromthe plain. A white mist rose from the little river, then a stoneslipped behind the barrier of poplar trees, and the broom flowers beganto grow darker. Henri Deslois went back towards the farm with me. Hewalked in front of me on the narrow path, and when he left me justbefore we came to the avenue of chestnut trees I knew that I loved himeven more than Sister Marie-Aimée. 

The house on the hill became our house. Every Sunday I found HenriDeslois waiting there, and as I used to do when Jean le Rouge livedthere, I took my blessed bread to the house on the hill after mass andwe used to laugh as we divided it. 

We both had the same kind of feeling of liberty which made us run racesround the garden and wet our shoes in the brooklets from the spring. Henri Deslois used to say, "On Sundays I, too, am seventeen years old. "Sometimes we would go for long walks in the woods which skirted thehill. Henri Deslois was never tired of hearing me talk about mychildhood, and Sister Marie-Aimée. Sometimes we talked about Eugène, whom he knew. He used to say that he was one of those men whom oneliked to have for a friend. I told him what a bad shepherdess I hadbeen, and although I felt sure he would laugh at me, I told him thestory of the sheep which was all swollen up. He didn't laugh. He puta finger on my forehead and said, "Love is the only thing that willcure that. "

One day we stopped near an immense field of corn. It was so big thatwe could not see the end of it. Thousands of white butterflies werefloating about over the corn ears. Henri Deslois didn't speak, and Iwatched the ears of corn which were stooping and stretching as thoughthey were getting ready to fly. It looked as though the butterflieswere bringing them wings to help them, but it was no good for the cornears to get excited. They could not get away from the ground. I toldmy idea to Henri Deslois, who looked at the corn for a long time, andthen, as though he were speaking to himself, and dragging the wordsout, he said, "It is much the same kind of thing with a man. Sometimesa woman comes to him. She looks like the white butterflies of theplain. He doesn't know whether she comes up from the earth or whethershe comes down from the sky. He feels that with her he could live onthe wind which passes, and the fresh young flowers. But like the rootwhich holds the corn to earth a mysterious bond holds him to his duty, which is as strong as the earth. " I thought that his voice had anaccent of suffering, and that the corners of his mouth drooped morethan usual. But almost immediately his eyes looked into mine, and hesaid in a stronger voice, "We must have confidence in ourselves. "

Summer passed and the autumn, and in spite of the bad weather ofDecember we could not make up our minds to leave the house on the hill. Henri Deslois used to bring books with him which we would read, sittingon the logs of wood in the back room which looked into the garden. Iwent back to the farm at nightfall, and Adèle, who thought I wasspending my time dancing in the village, was always surprised that Ilooked so sad. 

Almost every day Henri Deslois came to Villevieille. I could hear himfrom a long way off. He rode a great white mare which trotted heavily, and he rode her without saddle or bridle. She was a patient and agentle brute. Her master used to let her run loose in the yard whilehe went in to say "good day, " to Madame Alphonse. As soon as M. Alphonse heard him he would come into the linen-room. The two of themwould speak of improvements on the farm or about people whom they knew. But there was always a word or a sentence in their conversation whichcame straight to me from Henri Deslois. I often used to catch M. Alphonse looking at me, and I could not always keep from blushing. 

One afternoon as Henri Deslois came in to the room smiling, M. Alphonsesaid, "You know I have sold the house on the hill. " The two men lookedat one another. They both grew so pale that I was afraid they weregoing to die where they stood. Then M. Alphonse got out of his chairand stood leaning against the chimney-piece, while Henri Deslois wentto the door and tried to close it. Madame Alphonse put her lace downon her knee and said, as though she were repeating a lesson, "The housewas of no particular good, and I am very pleased that it has beensold. " Henri Deslois came and stood by the table, so close to me thathe could have touched me. He said in a voice that was not quite firm, "I am sorry you have sold it without having mentioned it to me, for Iintended to buy it. " M. Alphonse wriggled like an earthworm. He madea great effort to laugh out loud, and as he laughed he said, "You wouldhave bought it? What would you have done with it?" Henri Deslois puthis hand on the back of my chair and answered, "I would have lived init as Jean le Rouge did. " M. Alphonse walked up and down in front ofthe chimney. His face had changed into a yellow earthy colour. Hishands were in his trouser pockets, and he picked up his feet so quicklythat it looked as though he were pulling at them with a cord which heheld in each hand. Then he came and leaned on the table opposite us, and looking at us one after the other with his glittering eyes, he bentforward and said, "Well, I have sold it now, so it is all over. "During the silence which followed we could hear the white mare pawingthe ground with her shoe as though she were calling her master. HenriDeslois went towards the door. Then he came back to me and picked upmy work which had fallen from my hands without my having noticed it. He kissed his sister, and before he went, he said, looking at me, "Ishall see you to-morrow. "

Next morning Madame Deslois came into the linen-room. She camestraight to me, and was very rude. But M. Alphonse told her to bequiet, and, turning to me, he said, "Madame Alphonse has asked me totell you that she would like to keep you in her service. But she wantsyou in future to come to mass with us. " He tried to smile, and added, "We will drive you there and back. " It was the first time that he hadever spoken directly to me. His voice was rather husky, as though hefelt some awkwardness in saying these things to me. I don't know whatmade me think that he was lying, and that Madame Alphonse had not saidanything of the kind. Besides, he looked so much like the MotherSuperior that I could not help defying him. I told him that I didn'tcare about driving, and that I should go to mass at Sainte Montagne asbefore. He sucked in his lower lip and began biting it. Then MadameDeslois stepped forward threateningly, and told me that I was insolent. She kept on repeating this word as though she could not find anyothers. She shouted it more and more loudly, and lost all control ofherself. The white of her eyes was becoming quite red, and she raisedher hand to strike me. I stepped back quickly behind my chair. MadameDeslois bumped into the chair and knocked it over, and caught at thetable so as not to fall down. Her harsh voice terrified me. I wantedto leave the linen-room, but M. Alphonse had placed himself in front ofthe door, and I came back into the room and faced Madame Deslois acrossthe table. She began to speak again in a strangled sort of voice. Sheused words which I didn't understand, but there was something aboutwhat she said and the way in which she said it which I hated. At lastshe stopped speaking, and shouted at the top of her voice, "Don'tforget that I am his mother. "

M. Alphonse came towards me. He took hold of my arm and said, "Come, now, listen to me. " I shook myself loose, pushed him away and ran outof the house. The last words that Madame Deslois had said hammered onmy brain as though they really were a hammer with one end of itpointed. "I am his mother, do you hear?--his mother. " Oh, motherMarie-Aimée, how beautiful you were when compared to this other mother, and how I loved you! How your many-coloured eyes beamed and lit upyour black dress, and how pure your face was under your white cap! Icould see you as clearly as though you were really in front of me. 

I was quite astonished to find myself in front of the house on thehill, and when I got there I saw that snow was falling in a regularhurricane. I went into the house for shelter, and went straight intothe room which looked out on the garden. I tried to think, but myideas whirled round in my head like the snow-flakes, which looked asthough they were climbing up from the ground and falling from the skyat the same time. And every time that I made an effort to think, theonly things I could think of were little bits of a song which thechildren used to sing in the convent, and which ran--

 The old girl jumped and jumped about And jumped until she died. The old girl jumped and jumped about And jumped until she died. [1]

I felt less unhappy in this silent house. The softly falling snow waspretty, and the trees were as beautiful as on that day when I had seenthem all in bloom. Then suddenly I remembered, quite clearly all thathad just happened. I saw Madame Deslois's hand with its squarefingers, and shivered all over. What an ugly hand it was, and what alarge one! Then I remembered the expression on M. Alphonse's face whenhe took hold of my arm, and I remembered as I thought of it that I hadseen the same expression once before on a little girl's face. It wasone day when I had picked up a pear which had fallen from the tree. She had rushed at me, saying, "Give me half of it, and I won't tell. "

I felt so disgusted at the idea of sharing it with her that, althoughSister Marie-Aimée might have seen me, I had gone back to the tree andput the pear down where it had fallen. 

Thinking of all these things, I longed and longed to see SisterMarie-Aimée again. I should have liked to have gone to her at once, but I remembered that Henri Deslois had said as he went, "I shall seeyou to-morrow. " Perhaps he was at the farm already, waiting for me, and wondering what had become of me. I went out of the house to runback to Villevieille. I had only gone a few steps when I saw himcoming up. The white mare didn't find it very easy to climb thesnow-covered path. Henri Deslois was bareheaded, as he had been thefirst time he came. His smock billowed out with the wind, and he had ahand on the mane of the mare. The mare stood in front of me. Hermaster leaned down and took my two hands which I held up to him. Therewas on his face a look of worry which I had never seen before. Inoticed, too, that his eyebrows met, like those of Madame Deslois. Hewas a little out of breath, and said, "I knew that I should find youhere. " He opened his mouth again, and I felt quite certain that hiswords were going to bring me happiness. He held my hands tighter, andsaid in the same breathless voice as before, "I can no longer be yourfriend. " I thought that somebody had struck me a violent blow on thehead. There was a noise of a saw in my ears. I could see HenriDeslois trembling, and I heard him say, "How cold I am!" Then I nolonger felt the warmth of his hand on mine. And when I realized that Iwas standing all alone in the path, I saw nothing but a great whiteshape which was slipping noiselessly across the snow. 

[1] On a tant fait sauter la vieille, Qu'elle est morte en sautillant, Tireli, Sautons, sautons, la vieille!

I went slowly down the other side of the hill, walking in the snow, which squeaked under my feet. About half-way a peasant offered me alift in his cart. He was going to town too, and it was not long beforewe got to the Orphanage. I rang the bell, and the porteress looked outat me through the peephole. I recognized her. It was "Ox Eye" still. We had named her Ox Eye because her eyes were big and round like adaisy. She opened the gate when she recognized me, and told me to comein; but before she shut the gate behind me she said, "SisterMarie-Aimée is not here. " I didn't answer, so she said again, "SisterMarie-Aimée is not here. " I heard what she said quite well, but Ididn't pay any attention to it. It was like a dream where the mostextraordinary things happen without seeming to be of any importance atall. I looked at her great big eyes and said, "I have come back. " Sheclosed the gate behind me and left me standing under the eaves of herlittle house in the gateway, while she went to tell the MotherSuperior. She came back, saying that the Mother Superior wanted tospeak to Sister Désirée-des-Anges before she saw me. 

A bell rang. Ox Eye got up and told me to go with her. It was snowingagain. It was almost dark in the Mother Superior's room. At first Isaw nothing but the fire, which was whistling and flaming. Then Iheard the Mother Superior's voice. "So you have come back?" she said. I tried to think steadily, but I was not quite sure whether I had comeback or not. She said, "Sister Marie-Aimée is not here. " I thoughtthat my bad dream was coming on again, and coughed to try and wakemyself. Then I looked at the fire and tried to find out why itwhistled like that. The Mother Superior spoke again. "Are you ill?"she said. I answered "No. " The heat did me good, and I felt better. I was beginning to understand at last that I had come back to theOrphanage, and that I was in the Mother Superior's room. My eyes methers, and I remembered everything. She laughed a little, and said, "You have not changed much. How old are you now?"

I told her that I was eighteen years old. "Really, " she said. "Goingout into the world has not made you grow much. " She leaned one elbowon the table, and asked me why I had come back. I wanted to tell herthat I had come back to see Sister Marie-Aimée, but I was afraid ofhearing her say once more that Sister Marie-Aimée was not there, and Iremained silent. She opened a drawer, took out a letter, which shecovered with her open hand, and said in the weary voice of a person whohas been bothered unnecessarily, "This letter had already told me thatyou had become a bold, proud girl. " She pushed the letter from her asthough she were tired, and in a long breath she said, "You can work inthe kitchen here until we find you something else to do. " The firewent on whistling. I went on looking at it, but I could not make outwhich of the three logs was making the noise. The Mother Superiorraised her monotonous voice to draw my attention. She warned me thatSister Désirée-des-Anges would watch me very closely, and that I shouldnot be allowed to talk to my former companions. I saw her point to thedoor, and I went out into the snow. 

At the other side of the yard I could see the kitchens. SisterDésirée-des-Anges, who was tall and slim, was waiting for me at thedoor. I could see nothing of her but her cap and her black dress, andI imagined her to be old and withered. I thought of running away. Ineed only run to the gate and tell Ox Eye that I had come on a visit. She would let me out, and that would be all. 

Instead of going to the gate I went towards the buildings where I hadlived when I was a child. I didn't know why I went there, but I couldnot help it. I felt very tired, and I should have liked to lie downand sleep for a long time. 

The old bench was in the same place. I wiped some of the snow off itwith my hands, and sat down leaning against the linden tree as M. LeCuré used to do. I was waiting for something, and I didn't know what. I looked up at the window of Sister Marie-Aimée's room. The prettyembroidered curtains were no longer there, and although the window wasjust like the other windows now, I thought it quite different. Andthough the thick calico curtains were the same in this room as in theothers, they seemed to me to make that window look like a face with itseyes shut. 

The yard began to get dark, and the lights lit up the rooms inside. Imeant to get up from the bench, thinking, "Ox Eye will open the gatefor me;" but my body felt crushed, and I seemed to have two broad, hardhands weighing heavily on my head. And, as though I had spoken themaloud, the words, "Ox Eye will open the gate for me, " repeatedthemselves over and over again. All of a sudden a voice, with pity init, said, quite close to me, "Please, Marie Claire, don't sit out herein the snow. " I raised my head, and standing in front of me was ayoung, quite young, sister, whose face was so beautiful that I couldnot remember ever to have seen such a face before. She bent over me tohelp me up, and, as I could hardly stand upright, she put my arm underhers, and said, "Lean on me. " Then I saw that she was taking me to thekitchen, the great glass door of which was bright with light. I didn'tthink of anything. The snow pricked my face, and my eyelids wereburning. When I went into the kitchen, I recognized the two girls whowere standing by the big square oven. They were Veronique the Minx, and Mélanie the Plump, and I seemed to hear Sister Marie-Aimée talkingto them by these names. Mélanie nodded to me as I passed her, andleaning on the young sister's arm, I went into a room in which therewas a night-light burning. The room was divided into two by a bigwhite curtain. The young sister made me sit down on a chair, which shetook from behind the curtain, and went out without saying a word. Alittle while afterwards Mélanie the Plump and Veronique the Minx camein to put clean sheets on the little iron bed beside me. When they hadfinished, Veronique, who had not looked at me at all till then, turnedto me and said that nobody had ever thought that I should come back. She said it as though she were reproaching me for something shameful. Mélanie put her hands together under her chin, and put her head on oneside, just as she used to do when she was a little girl. She smiledaffectionately at me, and said, "I am very glad that you have been sentto the kitchen. " Then she patted the bed, and said, "You are taking myplace. I used to sleep here. " She pointed to the curtain, and in alow voice she said, "This is where Sister Désirée-des-Anges sleeps. "When they had gone out, closing the door behind them, I sat closer tothe bed. The big white curtain made me feel uncomfortable. I thoughtI could see shadows moving in the folds which the night-light left indarkness. Then I heard the dinner-bell. I recognized it, and withoutknowing what I was doing I counted the strokes. Everything was quitestill for some time, and then the young sister came into the roombringing me a bowl of steaming soup. She pulled the big curtain backand said, "This is your room, and that is mine. " I felt quitereassured when I saw that her little iron bedstead was exactly the sameas my own. I began to wonder whether she was Sister Désirée-des-Anges, but I dared not believe it, and asked her. She nodded "Yes, " anddrawing her chair close to mine, she put her face in the full light andsaid, "Don't you recognize me?" I looked at her without answering. No, I didn't recognize her. In fact, I was certain that I had neverseen her; for I was certain that one could never forget her face if onehad seen it once. She made a funny little grimace, and said, "I cansee you don't remember poor Désirée Joly. " Désirée Joly? Of course Iremembered her. She was a girl who had become a novice. Her face wasrosier than roses. She had a beautiful, slim figure, and used to laughall day long. We all loved her. She used to jump about so when sheplayed with us that Sister Marie-Aimée often used to say to her, "Comenow, come now, not so high, please, Mademoiselle Joly! You are showingyour knees!" Even now, when I was looking at her, I could not rememberher. She said "Yes, the dress makes a lot of difference. " She pulledup her sleeves; and making the same funny little face again, she said, "Forget that I am Sister Désirée-des-Anges, and remember that DésiréeJoly used to be very fond of you. " Then she went on quickly, "Irecognized you at once, " she said. "You still have the same babyface. " When I told her I had imagined Sister Désirée-des-Anges to beold and cross, she answered, "We were both wrong. I had been told thatyou were vain and proud; but when I saw you crying in the middle of thesnow, I thought only that you were suffering, and I went to you. " Whenshe had helped me to bed, she divided the room again with the curtain, and I went to sleep at once. 

But I didn't sleep well. I woke up every minute. There was a heavystone on my chest still, and when I managed to throw it off, it splitup into several pieces, which fell back on me and crushed my limbs. Then I dreamed that I was on a road full of sharp pointed stones whichcut me. I walked along it with difficulty. On both sides of the roadthere were fields, vines, and houses. All the houses were covered withsnow, but the trees were laden with fruit, and were in bright sunshine. I left the road and went into the fields, stopping at all the trees totaste the fruit. But the fruit was bitter, and I threw it away. Itried to go into the snow-covered houses, but they had no doors. Iwent back on to the road and the stones gathered round me so fast thatI could not go on. Then I called for help. I called as loud as Icould, but nobody heard me. And when I felt I was going to be buriedunder a huge heap of stones, I struggled so hard to get away from themthat I woke myself up. For a moment I thought I was still dreaming. The ceiling of the room seemed to be a tremendous height. The rod fromwhich the white curtain was hanging glittered here and there, and thebranch of boxwood which was nailed to the wall threw a shadow on thestatue of the Virgin which was in the corner. Then a cock crowed. Hecrowed several times, as though he wanted to make me forget his firstcrow, which had stopped short, as if he were in pain. The night-lightbegan to flicker. It flickered for a long time before it went out, andwhen the room was quite dark I heard Sister Désirée-des-Anges breathinggently and regularly. 

Long before daybreak I got up to begin my work in the kitchen. Mélanie showed me how to lift the big coppers. It was a matter ofskill as well as of strength. It took me more than a week before Icould even move one of them. Mélanie taught me how to ring the heavywaking bell. She showed me how to put my shoulders into the work so asto pull the rope, and I soon got into the way of it. And everymorning, whether it were cold or raining, I used to enjoy ringing thebell. It had a clear sound which the wind increased or lessened, and Inever got tired of hearing it. There were days when I rang so longthat Sister Désirée-des-Anges would open her window and would saypleadingly, "That'll do, that'll do. "

Since I had come to the kitchen, Veronique the Minx used to look awayfrom me when she spoke, and if I asked her where anything was, shewould point to it without speaking. Sister Désirée-des-Anges used towatch her, and would curl her lip as she watched. She was not asquick-tempered as she used to be when she was a novice, but she wasfull of life still and full of fun. Every evening we used to meet inour room, and she would make me laugh at her remarks at what had beengoing on during the day. Sometimes my laughter ended in a sob. Thenshe used to put her hands together as the saints do in the pictures, raise her eyes and say, "Oh, how I wish that your sorrow would leaveyou. " Then she would kneel on the ground and pray, and I often used togo to sleep before she got up again. 

Work in the kitchen was very hard. I used to help Mélanie polish upthe coppers, and wash the tiled floors. She did most of the workherself. She was as strong as a man, and was always ready to help me. As soon as she found that I was tired, she used to force me to sit downon a chair, and would say smilingly, "Recreation time. " A few daysafter I had arrived, she reminded me of the difficulties she used tohave in learning her catechism. 

She had not forgotten that during a whole season I had spent all myrecreation time trying to teach her to learn it by heart. And now shedelighted in making me rest. 

Veronique's work was the preparation of the vegetables, and she alsotook the meat in from the butcher. She used to stand stiffly by thescales until the butcher's boys put the meat on. She was alwaysgrumbling at them, saying that the meat was cut too small or cut toobig. The butcher boys used to get angry with her and were rude to hersometimes, and Sister Désirée-des-Anges told me at last to take themeat in instead of her. She came to the scales just the same next day;but I was there with Sister Désirée-des-Anges, who was telling me howto weigh the meat. 

One morning one of the two butchers looked at me and spoke my name. Sister Désirée-des-Anges and I looked at the butcher boy in surprise. He was a new one, but I soon recognized him. He was the eldest son ofJean le Rouge. He was delighted to see me again, and told me that hisparents had got a good place at the Lost Ford. He himself didn't careabout working in the fields, and had found work with a butcher in thetown. Then he told me that the Lost Ford was quite near Villevieille, and asked me if I knew it. I nodded my head to say that I did. Hewent on to say that his father and mother had been there for somemonths, and that there had been feasting there last week because HenriDeslois was married. I heard him say a few words more which I didn'tunderstand. Then the daylight in the kitchen turned into black night, and I felt the tiles give way under my feet and drag me down into abottomless hole. I remember Sister Désirée-des-Anges coming to helpme, but an animal had fastened itself on my chest. It made a dreadfulsound which it hurt me to hear. It was like a horrible sob whichalways stopped at the same place. Then the light came back again, andI could see above me the faces of Sister Désirée-des-Anges and Mélanie. Both were smiling anxiously, and Mélanie's broad, red face looked likeSister Désirée-des-Anges' pointed pale one. I sat up in bed, wonderingwhy I was there by daylight, but I didn't get up. I remembered littleJean le Rouge, and for hours and hours I fought with my pain. 

When Sister Désirée-des-Anges came into the room at bedtime she satdown on the foot of my bed. She put her two hands together like thesaints did. "Tell me of your sorrow, " she said. I told her, and itseemed to me that every word I spoke took some of my suffering awaywith it. 

When I had told her everything, Sister Désirée-des-Anges fetched "TheImitation of Jesus Christ, " and began to read aloud. She read in agentle and resigned voice, and there were words which sounded like theend of a moan. 

On the days which followed, I saw little Jean le Rouge again. He toldme some more about the Lost Ford, and while he said how happy hisparents were and how kind the master was to them, I could see the houseon the hill with its garden in flower, and its spring from which thelittle brooklets crawled down to the river, hiding themselves under thebroom. I often spoke of it to Sister Désirée-des-Anges, who listenedto me meditatively. She knew the neighbourhood and every corner of theplace, and one evening, when she sat dreaming and I asked her what shewas thinking about, she said, "Summer will be over soon, and I wasthinking that the trees were full of fruit. "

During the month of September a number of religious paid visits to theMother Superior. Ox Eye used to ring the bell to announce them. Everytime she rang Veronique went out to see who was coming in. She alwayshad something disagreeable to say about each one of the sisters whomshe recognized. One evening the bell sounded. Veronique, who waslooking out, said, "Well, here's one whom nobody expected. " She puther head into the kitchen again, and said, "It is Sister Marie-Aimée. "The big spoon which I had in my hand slipped through my fingers anddropped into the copper. I rushed to the door, pushing past Veronique, who wanted to keep me back. Mélanie rushed after me. "Don't, " shesaid, "the Mother Superior can see you. " But I rushed out to SisterMarie-Aimée. I rushed into her arms with such force that we nearlyfell over together. She clasped me tight and held me. She wastrembling and almost crazy with joy. She took my head in her hands, and, as if I had been quite a little child, she kissed me all over myface. Her stiff linen cap made a noise like paper when you crumple itup, and her broad sleeves fell back to her shoulders. Mélanie wasright, the Mother Superior saw me. She came out of the chapel and cametowards us. Sister Marie-Aimée saw her. She stopped kissing me, andput her hand on my shoulder. I put my arm round her, fearing that shewould be taken away from me, and the two of us stood and watched theMother Superior. She passed in front of us without raising her eyes, and didn't seem to see Sister Marie-Aimée, who bowed gravely to her. 

As soon as she had gone I dragged Sister Marie-Aimée off to the oldbench. She stopped a moment, and before sitting down she said, "It isas though things were waiting for us. " She sat down. She leanedagainst the linden tree, and I kneeled down in the grass at her feet. There were no more rays in her eyes. It was as though the colours inthem had all been mixed up together. Her dear little face had grownsmaller, and seemed to have gone further back into her cap. Herstomacher had not the beautiful curve on her chest that it used tohave, and her hands were so thin that the blue veins in them showed upquite clearly. She hardly glanced at the window of her room, butlooked out on the linden trees and round the courtyard, and as shecaught sight of the Mother Superior's house, these words fell from herlike a sigh, "We must forgive others if we wish to be forgiven. " Thenshe looked at me again, and said, "Your eyes are sad. " She passed thepalms of her hands over my eyes, as if she wanted to wipe out somethingwhich displeased her, and, keeping them there so that my eyes remainedshut, "How we suffer, "' she said. Then she took her hands away andclasped mine, and, with her eyes on my face, she said, as though shewere praying, "My sweet daughter, listen to me. Never become a poorreligious. " She heaved a long sigh of regret, and said, "Our dress ofblack and white tells others that we are creatures of strength and ofbrightness. At our bidding all tears are dried, and all who suffercome to us for consolation, but nobody thinks of our own suffering. Weare like women without faces. " Then she spoke of the future. Shesaid, "I am going where the missionaries go. I shall live there in ahouse full of terror. Before my eyes will pass unceasingly everythingthat is hideous, everything that is ugly, everything that is bad. " Ilistened to her deep voice. There was a note of passion in it. It wasas though she were taking on to her own shoulders all the suffering ofthe world. Her fingers loosed mine. She passed them over my cheeks, and in a gentle voice, and sweet, she said, "The purity of your facewill always remain graven on my mind. " Then she looked out, away andpast me, and added, "God has given us remembrance, and it is not inanybody's power to take that away from us. " She got up from the bench. I went with her across the yard, and when Ox Eye had closed the heavygate behind her, I stood and listened to the echo of its closing. 

That evening Sister Désirée-des-Anges came into the room later thanusual. She had been taking part in special prayer for SisterMarie-Aimée, who was going away to nurse the lepers. 

Winter came again. Sister Désirée-des-Anges had soon guessed my loveof reading, and she brought me all the books in the sisters' library, one after the other. Most of the books were childish books, and I readquickly, turning over several pages at a time. I preferred stories oftravel, and I used to read at night by the night-light. SisterDésirée-des-Anges used to scold me when she woke up; but as soon as shewent to sleep I took up the book again. Little by little we becamegreat friends. The white curtain was no longer drawn between our bedsat night time. All sense of constraint had disappeared between us, andall our thoughts were in common. She was cheerful and bright always. The one thing that annoyed her in her life was her nun's costume. Shefound it heavy and uncomfortable, and she used to say that it hurt her. "When I dress, " she said, "I always feel as though I were puttingmyself into a house where it is always night. " She was always glad toget out of her dress in the evening, and loved walking about the roomin her night-dress. She used to say, making that funny little face, "Iam beginning to get used to it, but at first that cap crushed my cheeksand the dress weighed my shoulders down. "

When the spring came she began to cough. She had a little dry coughwhich used to make itself heard from time to time, and her long slimbody seemed to become more fragile than ever. She was as bright andcheerful as before, but she complained that her dress became heavierand heavier. 

One night in May she tossed about and dreamed aloud. I had beenreading all night, and noticed all of a sudden that daylight wascoming. I blew out the night-light and tried to sleep a little. I wasjust dropping off when Sister Désirée-des-Anges said, "Open the window, he is coming to-day. " I looked to see whether she was asleep, and sawthat she was sitting up in bed. She had drawn back her blanket, andwas untying the strings of her night-cap. She took it off and threw itto the foot of the bed. Then she shook her head, her short hair rolledinto curls on her forehead, and I recognized Désirée Joly at once. Iwas a little bit frightened, and got up. She said again, "Open thewindow and let him in. " I opened the window wide, and when I turnedround Sister Désirée-des-Anges was holding out her clasped handstowards the sun, and in a voice which had suddenly grown weaker, shesaid, "I have taken off my dress. I could not stand it any longer. "She lay down quietly, and her face became quite still. I held mybreath for a long time to listen to hers. Then I breathed hard, asthough I could give her my breath, but when I looked at her moreclosely I saw that she had breathed her last. Her eyes were wide open, and seemed to be looking at a sunbeam which was coming towards her likea long arrow. Swallows flew past the window and flew back again, chirruping like little girls, and my ears were filled with sounds whichI had never heard before. I looked up to the windows of thedormitories, hoping that somebody would hear what I had to say, but Isaw nothing but the face of the big clock which seemed to be lookingdown into the room over the linden trees. 

It was five o'clock. I pulled the blanket up over SisterDésirée-des-Anges and went out and rang the bell. I rang for a longtime. The notes went far, far away. They went right away to whereSister Désirée-des-Anges had gone. I went on ringing because it seemedto me that the bells were telling the world that SisterDésirée-des-Anges was dead. I went on ringing too, because I hopedthat she would pop her beautiful face out of the window and say, "That'll do, that'll do, Marie Claire. "

Mélanie pulled the rope out of my hands. The bell, which was up, fellback all wrong, and gave a sort of groan. "You have been ringing for aquarter of an hour or more, " Mélanie said. I answered, "SisterDésirée-des-Anges is dead. " Veronique went into the room after us. She noticed that the white curtain was not drawn between the two beds, and said that she thought it was disgraceful for a religious to let herhair be seen. Mélanie passed her finger over a tear which was rollingdown each of her cheeks. Her head was more on one side than ever, andshe whispered quite low, "She is even prettier than she was before. "The sunshine bathed the bed, and covered the dead woman from head tofoot. 

I remained with her all day. Some of the sisters came to see her. Oneof them covered her face with a napkin, but as soon as she had gone, Iuncovered it again. Mélanie came and spent the night by the bedsidewith me. When she had closed the window she lit the big lamp, "so thatSister Désirée-des-Anges should not be in the dark, " she said. 

A week afterwards Ox Eye came to the kitchen. She told me to get readyto go the same day. In the hollow of her hand she held two goldpieces, which she put side by side on the corner of the oven, and, touching one after the other with her finger, she said, "Our MotherSuperior sends you forty francs. " I did not want to go away withoutsaying good-bye to Colette and to Ismérie, whom I had often seen at theother side of the lawn; but Mélanie assured me that they didn't carefor me any more. Colette could not understand why I was not marriedyet, and Ismérie could not forgive me for being so fond of SisterMarie-Aimée. 

Mélanie went to the gate with me. As we passed the old bench, I sawthat one of its legs was broken, and that one end of it had fallen intothe grass. At the gate I found a woman waiting. Her eyes were hard. She said, "I am your sister. " I didn't recognize her. It was twelveyears since I had seen her. Directly we got outside she caught hold ofmy arm, and in a voice as hard as her eyes, she asked me how much moneyI had. I showed her the two gold pieces which I had just received. Then she said, "You will do better to remain in the town, where youwill find it easier to get something to do. " As we walked on she toldme she was married to a gardener in the neighbourhood, and that shedidn't intend to give herself any particular trouble over me. We gotto the railway station. She took me on to the platform because shewanted me to help her carry some parcels. She said "good-bye" when hertrain went off, and I remained there and watched it go. Almostimmediately another train stopped. The railway men ran up and down theplatform calling to the passengers for Paris to cross over. In thatone moment I saw Paris with its great houses like palaces, with roofsso high that they were lost in the clouds. A young man bumped into me. He stopped and said, "Are you going to Paris, mademoiselle?" Iscarcely hesitated, and said, "Yes; but I have no ticket. " He held outhis hand. "Give me the money, " he said, "and I will go and get it foryou. " I gave him one of my two gold coins, and he ran off. I put theticket and the change in copper which he had brought me into my pocket, went across the line with him, and climbed into the train. 

The young man stood at the carriage door for a minute, and went off, turning back once as he went. His eyes were full of gentleness, likethose of Henri Deslois. 

The train whistled once, as though to warn me, and as it moved off itwhistled a second time, a long whistle like a scream. 

THE END

AFTERWORD

And now may I tell you what I know about Marguerite Audoux, the authorof the book you have just read? I know very little more of her thanyou do, for you have read the book, and Marguerite Audoux is MarieClaire. If Marie Claire in English does not please you, the fault ismine. I have tried hard to translate into English the uneducated, unspoilt purity of language, the purity of thought which are thecharacteristics of the French; but the task was no easy one, much as Iloved it in the doing. 

Marguerite Audoux herself is a plump and placid little woman, of aboutthirty-five. She lives in a sixth-floor garret in the Rue LeopoldRobert, in Paris. From her window she has a view of roof-tops and theMontparnasse cemetery. When she learned of the success of her book, with which she had lived for six years, she cried. "I felt dreadfullyfrightened at first, " she said, "I felt very uneasy. I felt as thoughI had become known too quickly, as though I were a criminal of note. Now my one wish is to work again. " She reads a good deal. Herfavourite authors are Chateaubriand and Maeterlinck. In Maeterlinckshe loves the mystery. "We never know people properly, " she says. "They are just as difficult to understand as things that happen are. We never know whose fault it is when good or bad things happen, and wedon't really know whether we ought to be angry or to be sorry withpeople who do harm. Wicked people are like a thunderstorm, don't youthink? And a lazy woman is like a hot room. Both are unhealthy, butthey cannot help it. "

Marguerite Audoux does not say these things to be clever. She saysthem quite simply, and they express her natural way of thought, whichis simplicity and purity itself. 

She wrote her book when and how she could, on scraps of cheap paper, and she does not know herself, now, whether she hoped to have itpublished when she wrote it. She did hope for publication when she hadfinished it, but that was because she was hungry. 

I met a friend just outside Marguerite Audoux's house after my firstvisit to her. "Tiens, " he said, "tu viens de la mansarde de Géniel'ouvrière. " And the clever little pun was true. Marguerite Audoux isa genius, and she does not understand what people mean when they askher "how" she "writes. " She opens her weak eyes very wide at thequestion, laughs as a child laughs when it doesn't understand, andsays, "But I don't know. The thoughts come, and I write them down. Ionly wish that I could spell them better. "

When the committee of the Vie Heureuse was voting on her book beforeawarding her the 200 pound prize for the best book of the year, somebody suggested the possibility that she had had help with it. Madame Séverine was sent to fetch the manuscript. It was passed round, examined, and no more doubt was possible. 

I hope you will find the pleasure in reading Marie Claire that I foundin translating it. I should like to say quite earnestly--and perhaps alittle shamefacedly, because we hate saying these things out loud--thatwhen I had read it I felt awed. The book had worked upon me. Do youremember the impression made on you by moonlight upon the snow in thecountry? You must be quite alone to feel it. The purity of it allmakes you wish that you were a cleaner man or woman, and, till you rubshoulders with people again, you mean to try hard to be cleaner andbetter. Marie Claire made me feel just exactly like that. 

JOHN N. RAPHAEL.