Part 17

Since the day that she made her escape into the fields in order to avoid returning to Guicheville, she had never been allowed to visit her nurse; this favour was denied under pretence of punishing her, but in reality because the poor woman was so ill that she no longer seemed conscious of anything. Madame d'Aubecourt had been several times to see her, but without being recognised. She took care that she wanted nothing that could alleviate her condition, but she was anxious to spare Marie so sad a scene. Marie, taken up with a crowd of objects, only thought of her nurse occasionally, and then she manifested great impatience to go and see her. She had no idea of her being in danger, and flattered herself, as she had been led to expect, that when she recovered, she would come to Guicheville. The evening before the fête, being in the yard, she saw a peasant who had come from the village in which her nurse lived. She ran to him, asked him how her nurse was, and whether she would soon be able to come to Guicheville.

"Oh! poor woman," said the peasant, shaking his head, "she will go nowhere but to the other world, every one says that she will not be long here."

Marie was struck as with a thunderbolt. This idea had never occurred to her. Pale and trembling, she asked the man whether her nurse had got worse, and how and when she had become so.

"Oh! Mademoiselle Marie," said he, "ever since you left her she has been declining; that is what has brought her to the state she is in."

He was, however, wrong in this opinion, for during the few conscious moments that she had enjoyed since Marie's departure, she had greatly rejoiced that her mind was at rest on her account, but what the man had said was the rumour of the village. Marie, weeping and sobbing, ran to find Alphonse, for she was afraid to address herself directly to Madame d'Aubecourt, and she entreated him to ask his mother to let her go and see her nurse. "I will come back," she said, clasping her hands; "tell her that I promise to come back the moment Gothon tells me." Alphonse much moved, rose to beg his mother to grant the permission which Marie solicited; he met his sister, who whispered to him that they had just learnt that the nurse had died the previous evening,--the peasant had slept at the town, and therefore was not aware of what had happened. Marie, who followed Alphonse at some distance, saw him stop to speak to Lucie, and exclaimed, "Oh! do not prevent him from asking if I may go to see her, I promise you I will return." Her look was so suppliant, and the expression of her sorrow so intense, that Lucie had great difficulty in restraining her tears while listening to her. They made a sign to her to tranquillize herself, and hastened to their mother to state her request.

Madame d'Aubecourt did not wish to inform her at that moment of her nurse's death, for though Marie had usually excellent health, yet during the last few days she had exhibited, on two or three occasions, feverish symptoms, consequent upon her rapid growth, and Madame d'Aubecourt was afraid that this intelligence might be injurious to her. She hastened to Marie and endeavoured to calm her, promising that in a few days she should do as she wished, but that at the present moment it was impossible, as Gothon, Lucie, and herself were busy in working for the festival of the following day. She assured her also, that it was quite a mistake to suppose that it was her departure which had made her nurse so ill, and at length she succeeded in tranquillizing her a little. But for the first time in her life, Marie experienced a sorrow which fixed itself upon her heart, and would not leave it. She thought of her poor nurse, of the last time she had embraced her, of her grief when she saw her depart, and then she uttered cries of anguish. She prayed to God, and several times in the night she woke Lucie, by repeating, in an under-tone, as she kneeled on her bed, all the prayers she knew. She thought that the following day, being a grand festival, it would be the most favourable time to beg of God to restore her nurse to health, and as her devotion was not very rational, she imagined that to merit this grace, the best thing she could do was to contribute to the adornment of the altar, which was to be erected in the court-yard of the château. She therefore rose before it was light, and left her room unheard, for the purpose of seeking, in a particular part of the park, for some flowers which she had observed growing there, and of which she intended to make some bouquets and garlands; but on reaching the spot, she perceived, to her great grief, that a heavy rain which had fallen the evening before, had destroyed all the blossoms on the trees. She could not find a single branch that was not faded, and in the rest of the park there were scarcely any but lofty trees. She saw no chance of meeting with anything of which she could make a bouquet. Whilst looking about, however, she passed by M. d'Aubecourt's garden, which at daybreak exhaled a delightful perfume; she thought that if she were to take a few flowers they would not be missed. She began by gathering them cautiously, in different places; then, when she had plucked a very beautiful one, another like it was requisite to form a pendant, on the other side of the altar; thus her zeal, and her love of symmetry, led her at every moment into fresh temptations, and then she remembered that M. d'Aubecourt had the gout, that he could not leave the house, and would not see his flowers, that they would be of no use to any one and that no one would know what she had done: at last she forgot all prudence, and the garden was almost entirely stripped.

Just as she had finished her collection, she perceived from the terrace, the peasant who had spoken to her, passing along the road, at the bottom of the park; she called to him and begged him to tell her nurse not to be too much grieved, that she should soon go and see her, for they had promised to allow her to do so.

"Oh! poor woman," said the man, "you will never see her again, Mademoiselle Marie, they are deceiving you, but that is not my business."

With these words he struck his horse, and galloped off. Marie, in the greatest anxiety, threw down her flowers, and ran into the yard, to see if she could find any one who could explain to her what the man meant. She saw the kitchen-maid, who was drawing water from the well, and asked her whether Madame d'Aubecourt had sent the previous evening to inquire about her nurse. "Sent, indeed!" said the girl, "it was not worth while." Marie became dreadfully uneasy, and began to question her, but the girl refused to reply. "But why," said Marie, "why did Peter tell me I should never see her again?"

"I suppose," replied the servant, "he had his own reasons for saying so," and she went away, saying that she must attend to her work. Marie, though it had not yet occurred to her that her nurse was dead, nevertheless was very unhappy, for she perceived that something was concealed from her, and being timid in asking questions, she was at a loss to know how to obtain the information she wanted. At this moment she perceived one of the small doors of the yard open. She had so long been in the habit of running alone in the fields, that she could not believe there was any great harm in doing so, and, accustomed to yield to all her emotions, and never to reflect upon the consequences of her actions, she ran out while the servant's back was turned, determined to go herself and learn something about her nurse.

She walked as fast as she could, agitated with anxiety, at one moment for her nurse, at another for herself. She knew she was doing wrong, but having once begun, she continued. She thought of what Alphonse would say, who, though always ready to excuse her before others, would, nevertheless, scold her afterwards, and sometimes severely enough, and she remembered her promise to him, only a few days before, to be more docile, and more attentive to what Madame d'Aubecourt said to her. She thought, too, that it might be for her want of due submission, that God had thus punished her, for she had yet to learn that it is not in this world that God manifests his judgments. However, she did not think of returning; she felt as if she could not go back; and then the idea of seeing her nurse again, and of comforting her, filled her with anticipations of pleasure, which it was impossible for her to renounce. Poor Marie! the nearer she drew, the more she dwelt upon all this, and the more lively became her joy. The anxieties which had tormented her, began to vanish. She hurried on, reached the village, ran to her nurse's door, and found it closed: she turned pale, but yet without daring to conjecture the truth.

"Has my nurse gone out?" was all she could ask of a neighbour, who was standing at her door, and who looked at her with an air of sadness.

"She has gone out, never to return," was the reply. Marie trembled, and with clasped hands leaned against the wall.

"She was carried to her grave yesterday evening," added the woman.

"To her grave!... Yesterday!... How?... Where have they taken her?"

"To Guicheville; the cemetery is at Guicheville."

Marie experienced an emotion indescribably painful, on learning that, the evening before, and so near to her, the funeral had taken place, without her knowledge. She recollected having heard the tolling of the bells, and it appeared to her, that not to have known it was for her poor nurse they were tolled, was like losing her a second time; then, as the thought of never seeing her again passed before her mind, she sat down on the ground by the door, and wept bitterly.

During this time, the neighbour told her that her nurse had regained her consciousness a few hours before her death, and had prayed to God for her little Marie, and had also spoken of her to the Curé of Guicheville, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had sent to see her. Marie wept still more. The woman tried to induce her to return to Guicheville, but she would not listen to it. At length, after she had cried for a long time, the good woman took her to her cottage, and succeeded in making her drink a little milk, and eat a piece of bread, when, seeing her more calm, she again endeavoured to persuade her to return home. But Marie, who was now capable of reflection, could not endure the idea of facing Madame d'Aubecourt, whom she had disobeyed: still, what was to become of her? Her sorrow for the loss of her nurse was redoubled. "If she were not dead," said she, sobbing, "I should have remained with her." But these regrets were to no purpose: this the neighbour tried to make her understand, and this Marie felt but too well; nevertheless, as her reason did not restrain her when she was about to leave Guicheville, neither did it in the present instance induce her to return, although she knew it was necessary; but Marie had never learned to make use of her reason, to control either her impulses, her wishes, or her antipathies.

At length, the woman perceiving, after two hours of entreaty, that she could gain nothing, and that Marie still continued there, either pensive or crying, without saying a word or deciding on anything, she determined to send to Guicheville, and inform Madame d'Aubecourt; but when she returned from the fields, where she had gone to seek her son to send him with the message, Marie was not to be found. She sought for her in vain through the whole village, and at length learned that she had been seen going along a road which led to Guicheville. She immediately suspected that she must have gone to the cemetery, and in fact Marie had gone there, but not by the direct way, for fear of meeting any of the inmates of the château. As the boy had not yet started, his mother ordered him to take the shortest way to the house, and tell them that it was in the direction of the cemetery they must look for Marie.

During Marie's absence, a terrible scene had been enacted at the château. M. d'Aubecourt, who she imagined would be confined to his room for another week, feeling much better, wished to take advantage of a lovely morning to go and see his garden. As he approached it, leaning on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, he perceived Marie's hat half-filled with the flowers which she had collected, and part of which lay scattered on the ground, where she had dropped them, after having spoken to the peasant. He recognised his streaked roses, and his tricoloured geraniums; he picked them up, anxiously examined them, and looked at Mademoiselle Raymond, who, shaking her head, observed, "It is Mademoiselle Marie's hat." He hurried on to his garden; it seemed as if an enemy had passed through it: branches were broken, bushes had been separated in order to get at a flower which happened to be in the midst of them, and one border was quite spoiled, for Marie had fallen upon it with her whole length, and in her fall had broken a young sweetbrier, recently grafted.

M. d'Aubecourt, whose sole occupation and pleasure consisted in his flowers, and who was accustomed to see them respected by every one, was so disturbed at the condition in which he beheld his garden, that the shock, increased, perhaps, by the effect of the air, or by his having walked too fast, made him turn pale, and lean on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, saying that he felt faint. Greatly frightened, she called out for assistance. At this moment, Madame d'Aubecourt came up: she was calling for Marie, and very uneasy at not finding her anywhere.

"You want Mademoiselle Marie," said Mademoiselle Raymond: "see what she has done!" and she pointed to M. d'Aubecourt, to the pillaged garden, and to the hat filled with flowers. Madame d'Aubecourt did not in the least understand what all this meant, but she hastened to her father-in-law, who said to her in a feeble voice, "She will kill me." He was carried to his bed, where he remained a long time in the same state. He experienced suffocating paroxysms, which scarcely permitted him to breathe. The gout had mounted to his chest, and they feared every moment that he would be stifled. Madame d'Aubecourt perceiving that the mere name of Marie redoubled his agitation, endeavoured, though in vain, to impose silence on Mademoiselle Raymond, who was incessantly repeating, "It is Mademoiselle Marie who has brought him to this condition." Lucie, quite ignorant of what had happened, came to tell her mother that Marie was nowhere to be found, and that perhaps it would be advisable to send some one to the village, where her nurse had resided.

"Yes! look for her everywhere," said M. d'Aubecourt in a low voice, interrupted by his difficulty of breathing. "Yes! look for her everywhere, in order that she may kill me outright."

Madame d'Aubecourt entreated him to be calm, assuring him that nothing should be done but what he wished, and that Marie should not come into his presence without his permission.

In the mean time, the news of what Mademoiselle Raymond called Marie's wickedness, soon spread through the château. Alphonse was thunderstruck, not that he believed in any bad motive on the part of his cousin, but, accustomed to respect his own duties, he could not conceive how any one could so forget themselves. Lucie, who was beginning to be fond of Marie, felt grieved and anxious; the servants talked over the matter amongst themselves, without much regretting Marie, who had not made herself loved by them; for it is not enough to be kind-hearted, it is necessary to use sufficient reflection to render our kindness agreeable and beneficial to others. Marie, sometimes familiar with the servants, would very often not listen to them when they spoke to her, or would deride their remonstrances. She always laughed when she saw the cook, who was deformed, pass by, and she had several times told the kitchen-maid that she squinted. She had never asked herself whether these remarks gave pain or pleasure to those to whom they were addressed.

Almost the whole of the morning was passed in anxiety, and the man who had been sent to the village, had not returned, when the Curé came to the château, and requested to see Madame d'Aubecourt. As he was leaving the church, after having finished the service, he met the son of the neighbour with whom Marie had spoken, and being acquainted with him, he asked him if he knew what had become of Marie, for he had been informed of her disappearance. The peasant told him what had taken place, and added, that he thought she must be in the cemetery. They immediately went there, and looking over the hedge, they beheld Marie seated on the ground, crying. They saw her kneel down with clasped hands, then kiss the earth, and afterwards seat herself again, and weep, with a depth of sorrow which penetrated them to the soul. It was evident that at that moment Marie believed herself alone in the world, and abandoned by every one. She entreated her nurse to pray for her.

They did not enter the cemetery for fear of frightening her, but the Curé, leaving the peasant as sentinel, went to communicate his discovery to Madame d'Aubecourt. She was very much embarrassed; she could not leave her father-in-law, though he was beginning to recover, for the slightest agitation might cause a relapse, and she was satisfied that neither Mademoiselle Raymond, nor any one belonging to the house, would succeed in inducing Marie to return. She hoped the Curé would be able to effect this, and as she did not wish her to enter the château at the present moment, for fear the news might reach M. d'Aubecourt, she requested the clergyman to take her to his house, where his sister, who had been a nun, now resided with him.

In consequence of this determination, the Curé returned to the cemetery, where he found Marie still in the same attitude. When she saw him, she turned pale and blushed alternately; yet, however she may have stood in awe of him, she felt so completely abandoned, since she no longer dared to return to the château, that she experienced an emotion of joy on seeing some one whom she knew.

"Marie, what have you done?" said the Curé, addressing her with some degree of severity. She hid her face in her hands, and sobbed. "Do you know what has taken place at the château?" he continued. "M. d'Aubecourt has been so overcome by the ingratitude you have evinced in devastating his garden, which you knew was his sole delight, that he has had a relapse, and Madame d'Aubecourt has passed the whole morning agitated by the anguish occasioned by his condition, by her anxiety on account of your flight, and by her grief for the impropriety of your conduct."

"Oh, M. le Curé," exclaimed poor Marie, "it was not from wickedness, I assure you. I wanted to adorn the altar, that God might grant me the grace of curing my poor nurse; and she was already _there_," she said, pointing to the ground, and redoubling her sobs.

The Curé, profoundly touched by her simplicity, seated himself by her side, upon a bank of turf, and said to her with more gentleness, "Do you think, Marie, that the way to please God, and obtain his favours, is to distress your uncle, who has received you into his family, and to disobey Madame d'Aubecourt, who shares with you the little she has reserved for her own children. If anything can afflict the souls of the just, you have distressed that of your poor nurse, who looks down upon you, I hope, from heaven, for she was a worthy woman. She regained her consciousness for some hours before her death. I visited her at the request of Madame d'Aubecourt, and in speaking of you, she said, 'I hope God will not punish me for not having done all that was necessary to restore her sooner to her relations. I loved her so much, that I had not the resolution to separate myself from her. I know very well that a poor woman like me could not give her an education. She has often grieved me also, because she would not go to school, and because I had not the heart to oppose her. Oh, M. le Curé, entreat her for my sake, to learn well, and to be obedient to Madame d'Aubecourt, in order that I may not have to answer before God for her ignorance and her faults.'"

Marie still continued weeping, but less bitterly. She had again knelt down, and clasped her hands; it seemed as if she was listening to her nurse herself, and entreating her forgiveness for the grief she had caused her. After the Curé had admonished her for some time longer, she said to him in a low voice, "M. le Curé, I entreat of you to ask forgiveness for me of Madame d'Aubecourt; beg Alphonse and Lucie to forgive me; say that I will do all they tell me, and learn all they wish."

"I do not know, my child," said the Curé, "whether you will again be permitted to see them. M. d'Aubecourt is so extremely angry with you, that your mere name redoubles his sufferings, and I am afraid you cannot return to the château."

This intelligence struck Marie like a thunderbolt: she had just clung to the idea that she would do all she possibly could to please her relations, and now they abandoned her--cast her off. She uttered cries almost of despair. The Curé had much difficulty in calming her, with the assurance that he would exert himself to obtain her pardon, and that if she would aid him by her good conduct, he hoped to succeed. She allowed herself to be led without resistance. He took her to his own house, and gave her into the charge of his sister, a very worthy woman, though somewhat severe. Her first intention had been to reprimand Marie; but when she saw her so unhappy, and so submissive, she could think of nothing but consoling her.

The Curé returned to the château to give an account of what he had done. Madame d'Aubecourt and Lucie were affected as he had been himself by the sentiments of poor Marie, and Alphonse, with his eyes moist with tears, and at the same time sparkling with joy, exclaimed, "I said so." He had not, however, said anything, but he had thought that Marie could not be altogether in fault. It was arranged that as her return to the château was out of the question for the present, she was to remain as a boarder with the Curé. Madame d'Aubecourt, on leaving Paris, had sold some of her remaining jewels, and had destined the money she received from them for the support of herself and her children. It was out of this small sum that she paid in advance, the first quarter's salary for Marie, for she well knew that the present was not the time to ask M. d'Aubecourt for anything.