Volume VIII Part 33 (1/2)
An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent serenity surrounded this dead woman, seemed to emanate from her, to evaporate from her into the atistrate, still on his knees, his head pressed against the bed-clothes, in a far-off, heart-broken voice that pierced through the sheets and the coverlet, exclai down on the floor, striking the ith her forehead fanatically, twisting herself about and quivering like a person in an epileptic fit, groaned: ”Jesus, Jesus--marief panted with a rattling in their throats
Then the fit gradually subsided, and they noept in a less violent fashi+on, like the rainy calm that follows a squall on a storm-beaten sea Then, after solances on the beloved corpse Andto-day, caotten details, those little details so inti who is no ain They recalled circumstances, words, sed to one whoain They saw her once more happy and calm, and phrases she used in ordinary conversation rose to their lips They even remembered a littleti of importance
And they loved her as they had never before loved her And by the depth of their despair they realized how strongly they had been attached to her, and how desolate they would find theuide, the best part of their youth, of that happy portion of their lives which had vanished; she had been the bond that united them to existence, the mother, the mamma, the creative flesh, the tie that bound them to their ancestors
They would henceforth be solitary, isolated; they would have nothing on earth to look back upon
The nun said to her brother:
”You kno mamma used always to read over her old letters They are all there in her drawer Suppose we read theht by her side? It would be like a kind of road of the cross, like randparents e never knehose letters are there, and of whom she has so often talked to us, you remember?”
And they drew forth from the drawer a dozen little packets of yellow paper, carefully tied up and placed close to one another They flung these relics on the bed, and selecting one of them on which the word ”Father” ritten, they opened and read as in it
It consisted of those very old letters which are to be found in old fa-desks, those letters which have the flavor of another century The first said, ”My darling,” another ”My beautiful little girl,” then others ”My dear child,” and then again ”My dear daughter”
And suddenly the nun began reading aloud, reading for the dead her own history, all her tender souvenirs And the istrate listened, while he leaned on the bed, with his eyes on his mother's face And the motionless corpse see herself, said: ”We ought to put the-sheet of them, and bury them with her”
And then she took up another packet, on which the descriptive word did not appear
And in a loud tone she began: ”My adored one, I love you to distraction Since yesterday I have been suffering like a damned soul burned by the recollection of you I feel your lips on mine, your eyes under my eyes, your flesh under my flesh I love you! I love you! You have made me mad! My arain My whole body calls out to you, wants you I have kept in istrate rose up; the nun stopped reading He snatched the letter fronature There was none, save under the words, ”He who adores you,” the name ”Henry” Their father's name was Rene So then he was not the ers, fumbled in the packet of letters took another of theer”
And, standing up, with the severity of a judge passing sentence, he gazed at the iht as a statue, with teardrops standing at each corner of her eyes, looked at her brother, waiting to see what he meant to do Then he crossed the roohtfully into the night
When he turned back, Sister Eulalie, her eyes now quite dry, still re near the bed, with a downcast look
He went over to the drawer and flung in the letters which he had picked up from the floor Then he drew the curtains round the bed
And when the dawn made the candles on the table look pale, the son rose frolance at the mother whom he had separated from them and condemned, he said slowly:
”Now, my sister, let us leave the room”
THE CAKE
Let us say that her name was Madame Anserre so as not to reveal her real name
She was one of those Parisian comets which leave, as it were, a trail of fire behind them She wrote verses and novels; she had a poetic heart, and was ravishi+ngly beautiful She opened her doors to very few--only to exceptional people, those who are co or other
To be a visitor at her house constituted a claienuine claim of intellect: at least this was the estimate set on her invitations