opening on the garden, and this was cool. There was a man stood there, and he was looking at her, she at him, and she said, "where is Jean?"
"Gone," and she heard the word again, and felt it and saw it, dropping as stone into the sea, and into that room where the sea was, flowed there, carrying this man.
"Where is my son?"
"I said he is gone. Poor, poor lad."
With her clenched fists she hammered at his breast, and this was iron.
"Where is he, where is Jean? Christ Jesus," she cried at him, "you saved yourself," and struck, and went on striking, and he was as rock, immovable, taller than she by a foot, and as she looked up at him, taller, as high as heaven in his silence. Something like steel held her, she was caught, tight in his arms.
"Madeleine."
And she remembered it was he who cried, and not she.
"Don't touch me," she screamed, and ran, and left him, in the sea and silence.
"Will you give me that letter?" Madame Marius said, "what has come over you, cannot you read? Or is it that awful weakness in you, come again, after last night, after this morning, what we said, the resolution was made—"
"How far you have travelled since that morning. I often think of you, and your good daughter, God help her in her wretchedness. I have had the mind to come to you, to see you, and to talk to you. How is your son? Has he yet been lucky, and maybe gone, or is he still hoping as we all must hope. Every day people are asking about you, and let me tell you consternation is still with us, as real and rising as a tree. You seem to have decided when end was without perhaps realizing what end means. I do beg of you, my dear Madame Marius, for the sake of your family, and of your name, to return to us and live again. On the other hand I tell myself how devoted you are to that son, to have broken up your home and followed him, and no less with her, who has suffered so much. Nothing will ever erase from my mind the dignity of this simple woman in her worst hours. Poor child ... "
"I should never have let him go," Madeleine said, the letter was limp in her hand, her hand fell to her side, she stared stupidly at her mother.
"And I could have said that of your father, God have mercy on his soul, I could have said, 'why did I let you go?'Perhaps because the sea is blue. Give me that letter at once."
Madeleine reached out and handed her the letter.
"Here, I will not read any more of it," said Madeleine, and went out, and upstairs to her room.
"Poor creature. It was a blow, and it will never cease to be one."
Slowly, with great deliberation she began to tear up the letter, the muscles of her face contracted—" we could never have stayed, never, my man was gone. And then she goes and marries this Madeau, so that we are forced to ask ourselves 'who in the name of God is this?'", tearing and tearing, into the tiniest fragments, "and then the son, a fine name he made for himself, drunk, they said, when he lost that first ship, as to the other——" and suddenly she had flung a hundred tiny fragments into the air, "that cannot be answered," she said, "I would never go back. Never. I should never have let her read it, it was silly of me, I could see her falling to pieces before my eyes. Her poor son. We may have heart, but sometimes I think there must be iron. Anyway our minds are made up. It is only for Father Nollet to speak his own. Poor child. She thinks she may be happy again. Rubbish. That is something you have only the once."
She turned away from the window, she called loudly, "Madeleine, Madeleine." There was no reply. She waited, listening.
"I thought all that was finished, these secret weepings, these regrets, these—Madeleine, cannot you hear me calling you?"
She went out and stood at the foot of the stairs. In her right hand she carried a stick, and with it she now struck sharply on the floor.
"I did not ask you to come," she shouted. And louder, "I say I did not ask you to follow me here. Go back then if that is what you
"Gone," and she heard the word again, and felt it and saw it, dropping as stone into the sea, and into that room where the sea was, flowed there, carrying this man.
"Where is my son?"
"I said he is gone. Poor, poor lad."
With her clenched fists she hammered at his breast, and this was iron.
"Where is he, where is Jean? Christ Jesus," she cried at him, "you saved yourself," and struck, and went on striking, and he was as rock, immovable, taller than she by a foot, and as she looked up at him, taller, as high as heaven in his silence. Something like steel held her, she was caught, tight in his arms.
"Madeleine."
And she remembered it was he who cried, and not she.
"Don't touch me," she screamed, and ran, and left him, in the sea and silence.
"Will you give me that letter?" Madame Marius said, "what has come over you, cannot you read? Or is it that awful weakness in you, come again, after last night, after this morning, what we said, the resolution was made—"
"How far you have travelled since that morning. I often think of you, and your good daughter, God help her in her wretchedness. I have had the mind to come to you, to see you, and to talk to you. How is your son? Has he yet been lucky, and maybe gone, or is he still hoping as we all must hope. Every day people are asking about you, and let me tell you consternation is still with us, as real and rising as a tree. You seem to have decided when end was without perhaps realizing what end means. I do beg of you, my dear Madame Marius, for the sake of your family, and of your name, to return to us and live again. On the other hand I tell myself how devoted you are to that son, to have broken up your home and followed him, and no less with her, who has suffered so much. Nothing will ever erase from my mind the dignity of this simple woman in her worst hours. Poor child ... "
"I should never have let him go," Madeleine said, the letter was limp in her hand, her hand fell to her side, she stared stupidly at her mother.
"And I could have said that of your father, God have mercy on his soul, I could have said, 'why did I let you go?'Perhaps because the sea is blue. Give me that letter at once."
Madeleine reached out and handed her the letter.
"Here, I will not read any more of it," said Madeleine, and went out, and upstairs to her room.
"Poor creature. It was a blow, and it will never cease to be one."
Slowly, with great deliberation she began to tear up the letter, the muscles of her face contracted—" we could never have stayed, never, my man was gone. And then she goes and marries this Madeau, so that we are forced to ask ourselves 'who in the name of God is this?'", tearing and tearing, into the tiniest fragments, "and then the son, a fine name he made for himself, drunk, they said, when he lost that first ship, as to the other——" and suddenly she had flung a hundred tiny fragments into the air, "that cannot be answered," she said, "I would never go back. Never. I should never have let her read it, it was silly of me, I could see her falling to pieces before my eyes. Her poor son. We may have heart, but sometimes I think there must be iron. Anyway our minds are made up. It is only for Father Nollet to speak his own. Poor child. She thinks she may be happy again. Rubbish. That is something you have only the once."
She turned away from the window, she called loudly, "Madeleine, Madeleine." There was no reply. She waited, listening.
"I thought all that was finished, these secret weepings, these regrets, these—Madeleine, cannot you hear me calling you?"
She went out and stood at the foot of the stairs. In her right hand she carried a stick, and with it she now struck sharply on the floor.
"I did not ask you to come," she shouted. And louder, "I say I did not ask you to follow me here. Go back then if that is what you
Similar Books
