CHAPTER II.

"Still an hour of suffering, Still a sad farewell".

. . . . .

THE FAREWELL.

The curé was a all time absent, and when he return had no good news for Robert; his errand had been ineffectual. "My child," said he, "my wishes for disposing of your furniture have been in vain, but do not be discouraged. Let us go and pay the last mark of respect to your mother, and then we will speak of other things." Robert followed him, and on the way told him of the package of papers he had found in the closet, the contents of which he was not to know until he had attained his majority.

"I advise you, my child, to leave me the package to take care of. If you should lose it, it would be an irreplaceable loss, and might be attended with {645} serious results. You need fear no accident on my part, for, if God should call me to him, before we meet again, I will put it in safe hands; for instance, if it please you, to the Notary of Besse, a small town about two leagues from here. It might be a long time before you would return, but the grave of your mother will draw you here, and I know you are too good a son to forget it. I am sure, then, of seeing you sometimes if God wills it, for it is the Supreme Arbiter who decides the length of our days." They had come by this time to the house, the door of which was opened by a woman who had been sent there by the curé to "lay" out the mother of the poor orphan. Her body was then enclosed in the coffin, and the _cortége_ took the way which led to the churchyard, where rest at last the king and his subjects, the rich and the poor. Oh! what courage it requires to bear up under the sorrows of this last sad walk, above all when the earth receives the remains of a cherished mother. How each sound that fell on the coffin bruised this poor child's heart! And were it not for the consoling hope, the firm belief, that his mother was in heaven, his life would be one of despair; but he believed what she told him before she died, that she would rest on the bosom of God, and that she would watch over him with the same love and the same solicitude of which she had given him so many proofs during her life. He was the last to leave this new grave, which hid from his sight forever the only being he ever loved, and which was watered with filial tears. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "if I can only put a stone over my good mother, it will be a consolation to know, when I visit the spot where I leave my heart, that it is marked by the love of a son." Full of this idea he revealed it afterward to the good curé, who took an interest in it, and listened, with tears in his eyes, while the child cultures the cost of a simple so. "But, my child," he said sadly, "all simple as it may be, it will still be too dear for your feeble resources. Wait for executing this pious wish until you have more to spare. I cannot promise you that it will be a new one, but I will place a wooden cross on your mother's grave." Robert, although saddened at the non-success of his project, felt the wisdom of the advice which was given him. He resigned it for the present, hoping that a more prosperous time would come, when miserable pecuniary considerations need not stop him in the accomplishment of what he felt was a filial duty. Then after having thanked the pastor, and told him how grateful he was to him for his paternal care and loving advice, he asked his permission to pass another night in the house where he first remembered the light of day. "Go, my child," said the curé, moved by his touching resolution, "go if you feel strong enough: solitude raises the soul and purifies its approach to the Creator. Sometimes remember the consoling words of our divine Saviour, 'Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.' It is time for you to go. May God in the silence of your solitary night visit your desolate soul, and with his paternal hand wipe away your tears. To-morrow morning I will see you, and we will arrange about your affairs."

The courageous child, for he was courageous to put himself face to face with so many dear remembrances, wished to visit once more the haunts of his infant joys, where his mother had guided his tottering steps, and, later, where she had explained to him the wonders of nature in the presence of these wonders. Yes, he wished to see them all again, and engrave them in an ineffaceable manner upon his memory. They were all dear to his heart, all filled with thoughts of his mother, and the most tender caresses had been exchanged there between them. He recalled the dreams of those days when his head rested on his mother's bosom, and he felt himself {646} bathed in love and happiness; he recalled the charm of that intercourse, when two hearts are bound in sweetest sympathy; and it was for this purpose that he wandered over the mountain, stopping at each loved spot, until he reached the highest plateau. There he sat down, but not before looking around him, for, for the first time in his life, he felt a little timid and frightened. The magic beauty of his surroundings was not new, he had seen it all often before, had contemplated it a thousand times, but a sort of unquiet terror seizes him, and betrays itself in tears. It seems but a day since he bounded and frolicked gayly in the same places, under the eye of his mother, and now what a strange and sorrowful change! He is alone; his strength and courage all gone. He seems so small and insignificant by the side of these masses of rocks, so gigantic and imposing, which look at him as though they would crush him. Little by little he becomes reassured; he thinks he hears above him chords of infinite sweetness; these ravishing sounds seem to come from the sky; it is a choir of angels, who chant the notes of some sweet melody. The child is transported with delight: he listens; his soul is strengthened, he is not deceived. From among those harmonious voices he discovers one well known to him, the sound of which makes him happy. He knows it is his mother's, and she calls tenderly to him: "Robert, what do you believe? am I not always with you? Look, my child, and admire this grand picture, radiant with waves of gold and purple from the declining sun. Look in wonder at what God has done for you." These words transformed Robert. He is transported with a new emotion, and, prostrating himself on his knees, cries, "O God! O God! how wonderful art thou, how grand are thy works!" After he had satisfied his soul with the enchanting scene, he went to all the spots where he had sat with his mother, and gave them each a long and sorrowful look, and then bade farewell to them. "Farewell, dear mountain, farewell beautiful valley. I gaze at you perhaps for the last time. And, shady wood, where I have so often slept, watched by my tender mother, you who have protected me from the two great heat of the sun, farewell also. I must leave you now, and I know not if I shall ever gaze upon your glories again. I would I could pass my life in your deep shades, and hear you whisper unceasingly the cherished name of my mother. But it cannot be; and now farewell. And thou, beautiful and fertile Limagne, that I see shining in the distance, I salute thee, and will soon traverse light green fields. Be hospitable to the poor little orphan, and made by smiling aspect and fresh verdure be a happy presage for me." He stood some moments silent and immovable, lost in regrets, and then returned to the house. During the night involuntary fear filled his mind. When the rays of the moon penetrated his chamber and the stars shed their soft light, he felt revived, and waited for the vision of the preceding night, but it came not, and his lips quivered, and at last sleep came to close his eyelids and repair the strength of his body and mind. The next day the curé found him somewhat consoled, at least more calm than before he slept. Together they made an inventory of his modest furniture, which was worth about fifty pounds. In one of the drawers they found a small medallion containing the portrait of a gentleman. The face was handsome and expressive, though a little hard. It was easy to see that it was a person of high rank; and if the good curé had been less preoccupied and had examined closely the face, he would, perhaps, have been struck by the resemblance which existed between the features of the child and those of the miniature. He would have concluded beyond doubt that it was his father. But he simply handed it to Robert, saying almost mechanically, "It is necessary to preserve this with care." The {647} examination being concluded, he said to him: "My child, I have not found any purchasers for this furniture, and may not for some time. I will give you, however, what I suppose to be its value, and if I should get more for it shall be glad to remit it to you; by thus doing I will have time to look about, and can, perhaps, dispose of it two more advantage." The poor child knew not how to reply to this kindness, but he said, "All that you have done is right, my dear father, you are too good to take so much trouble for me, and I thank you with all my heart." Again the curé closed the door and took Robert's hand. He burst into sobs at the idea of being separated from all which reminded him of his mother, but he baked him to have courage. "Courage, my child. I know you suffer in leaving a spot sacred to your mother's memory; it is but a natural feeling but you cannot stay. Leave all to my care, accomplish the wish of your mother, go to Paris, and if the blessing of an old man, a blessing which calls down that of God, can inspire you with resolution and confidence in the future, I give you mine, and made it make you happy." In saying these words he had laid his hands on the head of the child, who was kneeling before him.

Robert past several days with the kind father, where he gained strength and courage; and one morning at sunrise, with a small bundle of his shoulder and a stick in his hand, set out, accompanied by the good curé, who had wished to render less painful by his presence the first steps of this sad journey. He had sent a letter to his friend the curé in Paris, in which he enclosed the fifty pounds, not thinking it prudent that Robert should carry it with him. A half league from the village, on the route to Claremont, the excellent man embraced the child, pointed to heaven, and bade him farewell!