My Little Lady Part 25

CHAPTER XIII.

The Restaurant at Le Trooz.

The train disappeared, and our forlorn little Madelon remained standing alone on the platform. Forlorn, indeed! It was raining hard now, a thick, persistent drizzle, through which everything looked dim and blurred, and which was almost as dense as the low-hanging mists that hid the tops of the hills.

Madelon stood still and s.h.i.+vered for a minute, clutching her little bundle under her cloak, and trying to collect her ideas.

Not a hundred yards off was the village, lying between the hills in the next valley to Chaudfontaine, and not more than three miles from that place, but shut out from it by a barrier of rocky, wooded hill, round which there was only just s.p.a.ce for the road and stream to wind; an amphibious little village, half in and half out of the water apparently, for it stood just where the stream spread out in wide shallows, round low islands, on and amongst which the houses were cl.u.s.tered and scattered. Madelon instinctively turned towards it; she had the very vaguest idea in her poor, bewildered little brain as to where she was, or what she was going to do, only one thing obvious in the surrounding uncertainties--that she could not remain standing on the platform in the pouring rain. She gave up her ticket mechanically, pa.s.sed through the gate, and followed the muddy road leading to the cottages. She was very tired, she had never felt quite so tired before, and her knees trembled as they had done that day when the fever came on at the convent; she was so dizzy too, that she had to stop now and then, to grasp the one fact of her being where she was and not somewhere else altogether; her single idea was to go on walking until--until when? That was a question she could not have answered, only somewhere she must go, where she would be out of the way of countess or nuns, or any other enemy who might be lying in wait to pounce upon her. This was all she thought about as she pa.s.sed along the village street, which was dull and deserted-looking enough on this wet, grey afternoon, till the sight of a church with an open door, suggested something quite different, and which was a positive relief after that nightmare motion of walking perpetually with failing limbs, and a sense of pursuit behind. She would go in there, and sit down and rest for a little while. By-and-by, when the giddiness and trembling had gone off, she would be better able to think of what she should do; she would be out of the rain, too, there--the cold rain, which had already drenched her cloak and skirt.

She went in; it was a village church of the simplest description, very small, with plain wooden benches and confessionals, and a high altar with inexpensive decorations, in nowise remarkable. But hardly was Madelon inside the door, when she stood suddenly motionless, transfixed by a horrible terror that, weak and exhausted as she was, wholly seized and gained possession of her; for, raised in the middle of the aisle, covered with a black velvet pall and with a row of tall candles on either side, stood a coffin, with white embroidery of death's heads on the pall, and little banners with painted death's heads decorating every candle. To the terrified, speechless child, the skulls seemed to become animated--to grin; they seemed to move; the whole air was suddenly full of them, chattering, dancing, swarming round her; she tried to scream, but could not; she turned to fly from the dreadful, haunted spot, but with the first step she made, strength and consciousness gave way altogether, and she sank senseless to the ground.

Ten minutes later, a woman of the village, coming in to see the preparations for the funeral of Monsieur N----, lately one of the great proprietors of the neighbourhood, nearly stumbled over Madelon's prostrate form. She started back, half uttering an exclamation of surprise and alarm; then, seeing that it was a child who was lying so still upon the stone floor, she knelt down by her, laid her head in her lap, and began rubbing her hands. Madelon was not quite unconscious, apparently, for she moved her head uneasily, and uttered a low moan. "She is not dead, at any rate," muttered the woman, still chafing the cold little hands, while she studied the small white face, the short rings of hair just appearing under the hat all crushed in her fall, the bundle lying at her side, and the worn frock and cloak soaked with rain. "I wonder if she is alone?" added the woman to herself. She glances round the empty church, then gently laying Madelon on the floor again, with a cus.h.i.+on to support her head, she went to the door, and peered out into the rain for a few moments; then, returning, without calling for help, or summoning any one, she stooped down, took Madelon in her arms--which, indeed, she was well able to do, for she was a tall, strong woman, between thirty and forty, and the child was very slight and thin after her recent illness--and carried her out of the church, down the street, towards the end of the village. No one was stirring in the pouring rain, or seemed to notice her, except one or two boys, who ran after her shouting and singing--"Eh, Jeanne-Marie, Jeanne-Marie--what have you got to-day, Jeanne-Marie?" And to them she gave no sort of heed, walking steadily and swiftly on, without even turning her head, till she paused before a low, white-washed cottage, standing a little apart from the village, between the poplars that bordered the road. In front was a bench, and on one side a vine, all dripping and forlorn, was trained over a trellis that sloped from the roof, and, with wooden supports, made a shelter for a row of bee-hives placed on a plank beneath; under the front gable was a wicker contrivance for pigeons, and below it, in large gold letters on a blue board, the words, "Cafe et Restaurant." The door opened at once into the little public room of the humblest pretentions, furnished with a cupboard containing a store of bottles and gla.s.ses, a stove in one corner, above it some bright copper tea-kettles, a dozen chairs, and a deal table pushed near the one small window that looked out on the road and the stream beyond, and then across fields, and meadows, and trees, to the hills. A man, with a heavy, loutish face and figure, was sitting with his arms on the table, twirling a gla.s.s about in his fingers, a bottle half full of vine before him. He turned round as Jeanne-Marie entered with Madelon in her arms, and rising slowly went towards them.

"Eh, Jeanne-Marie, what have you got there?" he said.

"Does that concern you?" answered the woman sharply enough; "drink your wine, Jacques Monnier, and do not trouble yourself with other people's affairs."

"_Est-elle morte, la pet.i.te?_" asked Jacques, recoiling at the sight of Madelon's white face.

"_Est-elle morte?_" repeated Jeanne-Marie, "and with her eyes as wide open as yours! _Allons, mon enfant, du courage_," she added, as Madelon opened her eyes for a moment; but she closed them again, and the woman looking round, said, "There will be no peace here, with you men coming in and out. Open that door for me, Jacques," pointing to one nearly opposite the entrance.

The man obeyed. It opened at the bottom of the ladder-like staircase, a gleam of light from above, showing where another door at the top step led into a small bed-room. Jeanne-Marie carried Madelon upstairs like a baby, took off her hat and damp cloak, laid her on the bed, and then ran downstairs again for a gla.s.s of cordial.

Madelon, however, was already reviving, and when Jeanne-Marie went up to her again, she raised herself on the bed, resting on one elbow, and fixed her large eyes upon the woman, first with a look of blank unconsciousness, and then with a sudden light of terror in them, as of some wild hunted thing just caught by its pursuers.

"Don't take me back to the convent!" she cried in sharp, piteous accents; "don't take me back; I can't go, I can't--no, no, no!"

"No one shall take you back," said Jeanne-Marie, trying to soothe her. But she paid no heed.

"Indeed I can't go. Ah, Madame, you said you knew papa; have pity upon me! I promised him I would never be a nun. He died, you know, and sent me to the convent at Liege to be with Aunt Therese; but he made me promise before he died. I can't go back--I should die too. Ah, Madame, have pity on me!"

She was kneeling on the bed now, her hands clasped with her pitiful little imploring gesture. Jeanne-Marie came close to her, and smoothed back her hair caressingly with her rough work-a-day fingers.

"_Soyez tranquille, mon enfant_," she said, "you shall not be taken back to the convent, and no one shall make you a nun."

"You promise?" said Madelon, catching hold of her arm, and looking into her face with eager, suspicious eyes; "you promise not to take me back?"

"Yes, I promise," said the woman; "fear nothing, _ma pet.i.te_."

"And you won't tell Aunt Therese that I ran away? For she would be so angry, you know; she wanted to make me a nun like herself; you won't tell her--you won't, you won't?"

"No, no," said Jeanne-Marie. "I will tell nothing, you are quite safe here; now lie down and be quiet, and I will give you something nice to drink."

But Madelon's eyes wandered; the terrified look came again, and she clung tighter and tighter to Jeanne-Marie.

"Please ask Aunt Therese to go away!" she cried; "she is standing there in the corner of the room, staring at me; she will not move--there--there she is, don't you see? Oh, tell her to go away--she stares at me so, and oh! there is a coffin at her side, it is all over death's heads; Aunt Therese has a death's head--oh! take me away, take me away!"

With a shriek of terror the child threw herself back on the bed, covering her eyes with her hands, burying her face in the pillow.

Jeanne-Marie went to the top of the stairs and called "Jacques Monnier!"

"_Hein?_" said the man, coming slowly to the door below, and standing with his broad figure framed in it.

"Jacques," said Jeanne-Marie, "go at once for the doctor, and tell him to come here, for some one is very ill."

"_Hein?_" said Jacques again, "does that concern me? I must attend to my own affairs, and finish my wine, Jeanne-Marie."

"If you do not go this moment," said the woman, with a little stamp of her foot, "you shall never taste my wine again, with or without payment, Jacques, _et je tiens parole, moi!_"

"There is other wine to be had in Le Trooz," answered the man sulkily, but moving nevertheless towards the entrance, when she was recalled by Jeanne-Marie.

"Jacques," she said, coming two or three steps down the stairs, "if Monsieur le Docteur inquires who is ill, you will say it is my niece."

"But she is then your niece, _la pet.i.te_," said Jacques, scratching his head as an outward expression of some inward perplexity.

"You will tell Monsieur le Docteur what I say," repeated Jeanne-Marie imperiously, "and make haste;" and she went upstairs again, and closed the bed-room with a certain emphasis, as though to prevent further discussion.

Madelon was still lying on the bed, with her face buried in the pillow; a violent s.h.i.+vering of cold or of fear had seized her, but she resisted Jeanne-Marie's efforts to raise her with the obstinacy of a strong will acted on by intense physical alarm. But at length the woman's persuasive words appeared to have a soothing effect, though she seemed scarcely to take in their meaning, for she allowed herself to be undressed and put into bed, and after taking some warm drink, fell into a restless, starting sleep.

Jeanne-Marie drew a curtain across the small window, so as to shut out the slanting sunbeams, which were pouring into the room, on to the patchwork quilt and white pillow where the little feverish head lay so uneasily; then, taking up her knitting, she sat down by the bedside, and as she mechanically added row after row to the blue worsted stocking, she reflected. From Madelon's few distracted words, she imagined that she knew the state of the case very well; it was one not unprecedented, and presented no difficulties to either comprehension of belief. "They wanted to bring her up as a nun, and so she ran away. Well, thou hast done wisely, little one; I also know something of convents and nuns, and if it depends on me to protect thee, they shall not touch thee, _mon enfant_." This was her final resolution as she sat knitting and reflecting, with a great sympathy with, and tenderness for, the poor little terrified, hunted girl, lying there at her mercy.

Such tenderness, and power of sympathy with distress, were indeed amongst Jeanne-Marie's strongest characteristics, hidden though they were under a harsh, imperious manner and exterior. For she too had had a strange, sad, troublous life, with tragedy and sorrow enough in it, which it does not concern us to relate here, and which were yet of no small concern to our little Madelon, as she lay there, dependent on this one woman for freedom, shelter, and even existence. For if, as is surely the case, in our life of to-day lies a whole prophecy of our life in the future, if in our most trivial actions is hidden the germ of our greatest deeds, then our most momentous decision in some sudden emergency, is but the sure consummation and fruition of each unnoticed detail, our action of to-day but the inevitable result of a whole precious lifetime of preparation for some unforeseen crisis. So, too, from a present habit of thought, much may be surmised as to what has been done and suffered in the past; and though little was known about Jeanne-Marie, some inferences might have been drawn concerning her former life, had any of her neighbours been skilled in the inductive method, or been sufficiently interested in the woman to study her character closely. But in fact they cared very little about her. It is true that when she had first come into the village, there had been many conjectures about her set afloat. She did not belong to that part of the country, she could not even speak the Liege _patois_, and never took the trouble to learn it, invariably using the French language. She had no belongings, and never spoke of her former life; so that it was not long before a vague, open-mouthed curiosity, seizing upon a thousand untested hints and rumours to satisfy itself withal, led the villagers to whisper among themselves that some strange history was attached to her; and woe to that woman who, in a small village, is accredited with a strange history that no one knows anything about! But Jeanne-Marie had outlived all this; her secrets, if she had any, were never revealed either then or later, and in time people had ceased to trouble themselves about her. She led a silent, solitary life, resenting perhaps the suspicion with which she had at first been received, and holding aloof from her neighbours as they held aloof from her. Her restaurant was well attended, for she gave the best wine in the village, was liberal, and of an honesty above suspicion; but even the men who were her most constant customers did not like her, and were half afraid of her. She held imperious rule among them, issuing imperative commands which she expected to be obeyed, and enforcing strict order and regularity in her house. To the women of the village her manners were cold, abrupt, and reserved; she never stopped to gossip or chatter; she would come and go about her business without an unnecessary word, and the women, looking after her, had ceased to do more than shrug their shoulders, and resume the flow of talk her silent presence had checked.

But it was, after all, only the gay, and prosperous, and happy that she shunned. The poor, the friendless, the erring, the rejected of this world, were certain to find in Jeanne-Marie a friend who never failed, one who looked out for the sorrowful and broken-hearted, and never pa.s.sed by on the other side.

Even the village children knew to whom to run when hurt, or unhappy, or in disgrace, sure of getting consolation and sugar-plums from the sad, lonely woman, though equally sure of being sent away as soon as their tears were dried, and their troubles forgotten. If the poor, abused Ugly Duckling of Hans Andersen's tale had strayed on a wintry day to her door, she would have taken it in, and nourished, and cherished it all through the cold, dark weather; but when the summer was come, and the duckling grown into a swan, spread its broad white wings against the blue sky, she would have watched it fly away without word or sign to detain it; she would have had nothing in common with it then.

So to Jeanne-Marie it seemed the simplest thing in the world, that, having found Madelon in need of help, she should help her at the cost of any trouble to herself; that she should take in, and cherish this poor little stray girl without inquiry, without hope, or thought of reward. At Madelon, happy, successful, contented, Jeanne-Marie would not have looked a second time; but for Madelon, forsaken, shelterless, dependent on her, she would have been ready almost to lay down her life.

In about half an hour, Jacques Monnier returned with the doctor. He knew Jeanne-Marie well, as he knew everyone in the village, and went at once upstairs to the little bedroom where Madelon was lying.

"Your niece, I think Jacques Monnier told me?" he said, after watching Madelon for a minute as she lay in her uneasy sleep.

"Yes," said Jeanne-Marie with a certain sullenness of manner, which she was apt to display towards her superiors in station.

"Has she been here long?" said the doctor, feeling Madelon's pulse, but looking steadily at the woman; "when was she taken ill? How is it you have not called me in before?"

"Look here, Monsieur le Docteur," answered Jeanne-Marie with a sort of stolid defiance, "I called you in to tell me what to do for the child, not to put me through a catechism. She fainted away this morning, and when she came to herself again, she began to rave and talk nonsense, so I sent for you. Now tell me what is to be done."

Just then Madelon opened her eyes.

"Do you not know me, Madame?" she said. "I am Madeleine Linders, and papa is dead; he sent me to be with Aunt Therese, but she is dead too--Oh, save me, save me!" she cried, springing up with all the old terror upon her; "don't let them take me, papa, you made me promise that I would not stay there. Tell Aunt Therese to go away, papa; papa, save me!" and she clung to the doctor's arm. "Besides, you know," she went on, speaking fast and eagerly, "I promised him--Monsieur Horace, you know--and I must keep it, I must keep my promise to Monsieur Horace,--I must, I must!"

"You hear?" said Jeanne-Marie, as Madelon fell back on the pillow again muttering to herself.

"I hear," answered the doctor, "and I see that she is in a high fever, and it may go hard with her, poor child! It is fortunate she is with you, Jeanne-Marie," he went on, kindly, "for you are a capital nurse, I know; but I am afraid it will be a long business."

"That is no matter," she answered.