Jeannette, after midnight mass, threw a piece of bread into the well so that it would not dry up. She observed customs in silence, with stubborn confidence. Usually, cider was brought to the table, but Jacquier, on the feast of kings, only wanted to drink wine; he would thus have very pure blood all year round.
The days resumed their simple current. Simon returned to school, and Claire went about her daily chores with more enthusiasm, as if she wanted to drive away all daydreaming. Madame Lautier had not given any news of her. Every year, at the same time, she did not miss it. Claire came to think that Madame Lautier could{59}becoming crippled or dying by accident; Simon would never leave the Ages. But, quickly, she blamed herself, asking forgiveness from God that such a thought crossed her mind.
“He's not mine, my God. I know it well. Save me from harm.
Every evening, after the vigil, she recited the prayer, on her knees, on the floor, in the great hall, her gaze raised towards an image of the Virgin Mary. Simon said the prayer of “Remember”, this groan of hope and love which rises from the valley. Then Jeannette, who had never known how to read or write, mumbled the white patenôtre between her teeth, having remembered only this one: “The Good God is my Father, the good Virgin, my Mother. The apostles are my brothers and the virgins are my sisters. The cross of Saint Margaret in my chest is written. Madame leaves on the field, to God crying, meets Monsieur Saint-Jean. Where are you from? I come from far away. You do not have{60}not seen the Good Lord? If done, he is in the tree of the Cross, his feet dangling, his hands nailed, a little hat of white thorns on his head. Who will know the prayer to God, who will say it three times in the evening, three times in the morning, will gain paradise in the end. She recited this naive prayer, which came from the depths of time, with pure faith. Claire Lautier felt that God was touched by these words that no parishioner in the world had recorded.
The weather became rainy and the wind resumed its long monotonous races. On January 20, Claire received a letter from Madame Lautier from the Bonnal postman. At this moment, she was on the threshold of the barn and was cutting fodder carrots for the brettes. For some time she looked around her, as if someone could spy on her. Then, without yet breaking the envelope, she went and shut herself up in her room. A great fear gripped her. When she had calmed down a little, she{61} opened the letter and read it at a stretch. Her sister-in-law announced her coming for the month of March; she thanked Claire for the good care she had lavished on Simon, she felt guilty for having seemed to forget him; life had taken her away from it. In a long page, she defended herself as against an accusation. But his friend was strange and touchy. She spoke of the existence of cities so feverish, so fast. The child had lived better, until now, in the fresh air of the country than in these cramped apartments in Paris. She said that she had made beautiful trips to Italy, to Greece. Now she would never leave France. Claire couldn't read any more, her eyes clouded over. She uttered a long complaint, which she stifled under her close hands. She finally mastered her pain and whispered:
-It had to happen. You shouldn't be surprised. It's in order.
She turned to the loyal face of the{62}Captain Lautier smiling in a gold frame.
"You're not here, you, my good brother...
Then, forcefully, she growled:
-If you're here. I can feel it. Keep me.
She folded up Madame Lautier's letter and, suddenly calmed down, slipped it into the dresser drawer. She returned to the stable; regular work kept her in a sort of clarity. Suddenly she went out, driven away by a sudden thought; Despite the falling rain, she remained motionless near the abalone in the yard. She had never spoken to Simon about her mother, either in terms so vague that he could not understand or guess anything. She felt guilty. When the little one came back from school, she would see him suddenly grown up, and she would be humble like a child who confesses her fault. Her temples were tight. She heard in advance the words she pronounces{63}would utter. And she would have preferred to say to him:
“I'm eaten up by a terrible disease that's taking my body to shreds and I'm going to die.
It wasn't about the body, but about the soul. For the first time, Simon would distance himself from her, by this confession, whatever she did; the truth could not be diminished, betrayed. She asked God for courage. Soon she resumed her work; Tant-Belle lay down at his feet. She was only doing mechanical work and wondering how she would talk to Simon about so many things that frightened her.
Outside, the wind shifted, washing the sky like water; the clouds were turning white and losing themselves in the west. The sun came out and crept up to the barn where Claire worked. She got up from the stepladder where she was sitting, shook out her apron and went out into the yard. This beautiful sky weather,{64}far from soothing her pain, it exposed her better, deep inside herself. She had known too many such evenings and too many celestial feasts which follow the sudden flight of the mists. So she was happy with Simon, thinking only of bringing him up and loving him. The enchantments of the season matched those of his soul.
In the middle of the courtyard, in the granite basin, a pool of water shone, a hazelnut of fire under the sun. The air was filled with a great peace and the evening which advanced on the valley opened a wing with inflamed plumage. A fine beat, an incredible lightness, as of an all-powerful bird which lands for a moment on the ground, and it seizes the heart, because, perhaps, we will not see it again.
Claire usually waited for Simon on the threshold of the house; but this time she took the path that led down to the Pont de Chanaud. Halfway up, she stopped, with the naive thought of surprising him and{65}stretch his step, from a distance, without being able to see her. She entered a little oak wood, and under the light of the setting sun, mingled with that of the river, she felt like a child at heart. Simon walked slowly, beret over his ear, leather bag slung over his shoulder. Sometimes he plucked a sprig of juniper and turned on one heel. He gazed at the current of the valley, the beautiful path of living water, lined with leaning trees.
Claire saw it coming now. He stuck his little fists in his pockets and whistled a song, cocking his head a little. He passed along the wood; unable to bear it any longer, she ran down the path and called him. He showed joyful surprise that lit up his gray eyes. Suddenly she embraced him; then, in silence, she walked with him and wrapped her arms around him. As they came to the top of the valley, she whispered:
“I have so many things to tell you, Simon.{66}Tonight is not like the others.
-Oh! He is just like the others, since you are there, very close to me.
As soon as she entered the house, she took off her bag, her beret, and she replaced her shoes with warm slippers.
“Come into the bedroom, Simon; we will be more comfortable talking.
The child clearly saw that her face had changed. He saw, for the first time, something mysterious in Claire's eyes. Her hands, which she pressed to her head, were shaking.
“Simon, since you reached the age of reason, I should have told you about your mother. Me, I'm not your mom. She who gave birth to you, you have never seen her, because she could not come here, nor raise you; and you, you couldn't have stayed with her when you were quite small. I told you that your father was a brave officer and you are mine, all the same, because he is my brother, and I replace him.{67}
She made a violent effort and said:
“Your mom is good, I like her. She will come. Perhaps, one day, you will leave me to follow her.
Towards her he raised his face pale with grief and exclaimed:
“You are my mom! You are my mom! I will never leave you.
Then she could not utter a single word, bent by her heart. Simon had his arms around her and he was full of fear.
Panting, she said:
—Ah! for the first time, I hurt you, Simon...
When they entered the room, Jacquier was back. He had raised fences in the meadows, delimbed fence oaks. As usual, he stood by the fire.
Claire tried to appease Simon. She promised him never to leave him. Before Jeannette had served the soup,{68}she sang him many songs, those of Malborough and the Sire de Framboisy, accompanying them with priceless expressions.
After the meal, the child was completely calm. Claire opened the door.
—Come and see, Simon, the cat arching her back at the end of the meadow.
He came running. The moon appeared in full, as if it had rolled into the nearby hedge. She was so wonderful, white gold color, that you couldn't see her shape at first. She climbed, coming out of the bush where she spread a fire of dreams which lit up with a mysterious sweetness.
—As she is white, said Claire, she must have bathed in the river.
For a moment it seemed to be resting on a low branch of the ash tree, then a breath detached it, and the countryside began to dream.
Claire was watching this; she did not feel{69}Big tears were rolling down her cheeks. But Simon, raising his head towards her, exclaimed:
-Do not Cry. I don't want you to cry.{70}
V
Gradually Claire grew more accustomed to the thought that Simon would know her mother and love her. In her soul, so simple, so straightforward, she took care not to accuse Madame Lautier, as so many others would have done in her place. Simon, this abandoned lamb, she had carried him away as if on her shoulders, to the Ages. For years he had snuggled close to her, in the warmth of her heart. We could never erase that, nor that deep joy. She hoped that before God she would remain Simon's mother, for the hand that protects the cradle, guides the first steps, shows the first horizon of this world and the next, one cannot dry it out. When the soul{71}once gave his strength, no one has the power to take it back.
Claire lived in hope and charity. She would not judge Madame Lautier; she would receive her with humility, servant of maternal love having deserved the obscure honor of nourishing and bringing up Simon, a precious treasure. However, a great torment seized her at certain times. If the child came back to the city, which his barely opened eyes hadn't been able to see, wouldn't he be in danger again. Madame Lautier did not make her wishes known. Perhaps she would leave Simon again in the Ages where life was easy. Over there, you needed handfuls of money. And Claire formed dreams where everything worked out like in fairy tales. The doctors would demand that he stay in the countryside where the air was pure and would decide that he could not live in Paris. Either Madame Lautier would suddenly be charmed by this country of Bonnal, and she wouldn't want to leave him anymore. But the{72}the same thought came to nail her, to immobilize her:
-It's not mine. They just lent it to me.
She forgot the cares, the trouble she had had to bring him up, and her ever watchful devotion and that secret fire which kept her constantly spellbound. As on the first day, the wail turned into speech struck her to the heart.
Madame Lautier announced in a brief letter that she would arrive at Les Ages on February 20. Claire began to talk more often about Louise Lautier to Simon. She attributed to her sister-in-law virtues that she had never had, no doubt. Little by little, the child was seized with great curiosity, he was impatient to see his mother, astonished as if reading a strange story, which could have been arranged as a lament. When he spoke of her, Jacquier uttered such harsh grunts that he exclaimed:{73}
"I only have one mom, it's Claire!"
He no longer dared to question anyone and hid his confusion. If Claire told him that the day was near when his mother would come to Les Ages, he lowered his head and barely answered, all confused.
The Candlemas feast arrived. Up at daybreak, Jacquier, seeing that it was raining and that the wind was shaking the trees, blowing from the west, growled:
When it rains on the candle,
Water falls on the bleach.
He took four small candles from the walnut box in which he kept objects he considered precious. He had made them himself, during the hours of respite, in the barn. It's not difficult; one attaches a long wick of cotton to the point of a nail to tighten it well, and one pours there wax sufficiently softened, and taken from the hives of the Ages which are arranged, with their straw caps, along a wall of{74}orchard facing the Levant; so no ray of sunshine is wasted. All around, there are flowers that are not afraid of frost, wallflowers, marigolds, lavender trees all bristling, full of beautiful blue flies in season.
This morning, Claire took from the dresser drawer a large candle which kept her tears in frozen clusters along its stem. He had wept at the funeral hours, but he remembered the dew on the corollas of the orchard. Claire, at the news of her brother's death, had lit it in her bedroom, with the shutters closed, although it was sunny, kneeling, bent over, pushing its light, by a great breath of her soul, until 'in the field where Captain Lautier was lying. Miraculously, the fiery plot had become a long flame lying, stretched, through the spaces of mystery.
Jeannette and Jacquier, one in a cape, the other in a blouse, Claire and Simon crossed that day the porch of the church where{75}two angels are leaning on the granite. The candles were lit by the fire of the divine words. And, in the shadows, they formed little golden clearings.
Back in Les Ages, as soon as she had taken off her cloak, Jeannette fanned the embers, loaded the andirons with dry fagots, greased the pan to pour in a paste of flour and eggs. The flame fizzled and jumped, the pancakes swirled. Little by little, they erected, fine as fine canvas, a reddish and smoking pile. Claire gave Simon permission to eat it first. Jeannette, taking the tail of the frying pan with both hands, shook it incessantly with a regular movement to suddenly raise it with astonishing agility; and she sang an old song:
She leaves the house,
Despite his father.
But soon a spirit
Appears before her,
Saying to her: My dear,
Please love me.{76}
And then give him
A golden diamond.
The pancake turning, she repeated: "A golden diamond."
In the brazier, a small pork chop was cooking very gently, accompanied by celery from the orchard. Noon was approaching. Jacquier came back from the stable. He had run drops of wax on the feeders in the stable, at the edge of the hives, the bees being a little Christian. His heart was peaceful, customs observed. He clapped his hands when Jeannette flipped the last pancake on the ledge of the cupboard; so there would be money in the drawer all year round. Claire, seated by the fireside, tried to cheer Simon up, but it seemed to her that he no longer laughed as he used to on such a day.
Then she sang to him this sweet and serious song, which takes us away from the earth:
She's a mute girl
among the heavens,{77}
A lady appeared to him
In his herd.
She always asked him
A beautiful lamb.
My father's lambs
Are not mine.
If you want me to go,
I will go.
If you want him to talk to him,
I'll talk to him.
Go quickly, beautiful
The Ysabeau,
Go ahead without fear or fear
Nor danger of the wolf.
I will guard the herd
Much better than you.
Simon looked up at her, guessing the breath of mystery:
Hello, my father,
My mother too.
A lady appeared to me
In my herd,
Who always asks me
A beautiful lamb.
Come back to it, my daughter,
The Ysabeau!{78}
Tell him that the troupe
And also the herd,
Everything is at his service,
Even the most beautiful.
Claire sighed, then resumed, in a low voice, her head bowed:
His father and his mother
are very happy
To have a mute daughter
And to hear him speak.
They say to give thanks
The Ave Maria .
When the time comes,
She doesn't come in.
His father and his mother
Go get her.
They found her dead
In the middle of a wood.
found him a letter
under his right arm,
That neither priest nor anyone
Couldn't read.
It's the Bishop
Who read it.
He read on the letter
From the Ysabeau{79}
That she had fasted Lent,
Quatre-Temps,
And she was a saint
In Paradise.
Simon saw in Claire's eyes the ray of held back tears, a trembling of dew on this flower of song.
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