V A Ghost
With the first autumn rains, the bathers left Uriage. M. Molay-Norrois had not waited until the end of September to pack up and go away.
“Don’t you feel the dampness, my dear?” he said twenty times a day to his wife, even when the weather was dry, though not quite so warm. “It drifts into this narrow valley. Let us get back to town where we can make ourselves comfortable.”
After a little opposition, Mme. de Molay-Norrois gave in. No doubt she wanted to be near her daughter and grandchildren, but thought more of her invalid’s happiness. Soon Elizabeth recovered the solitude in which she had been so happy the previous year. Somewhat rheumatic, and wishing not to become a burden on her daughter-in-law in this resourceless village, her mother-in-law had gone back to Grenoble at the beginning of October.
“Come back to me soon,” she said at parting. “Solitude at your age is not a good counselor.”
But the youngsters were in splendid health, and Elizabeth let herself sink into that supine state, which comes with the last rays of the autumn sun and the treacherous charm of Nature. The view of a deeper forest, a more impassioned feeling which she was beginning to understand, filled her this season with a bitterness which soothed her. She was conscious of her weakness, afraid of it, and forced herself to struggle against it. In order not to take up the routine of the city so soon, she invited Blanche Vernier to spend a week or two at Saint Martin with her children. These, four in number, put themselves under the yoke of Marie Louise and Philippe who surpassed them in brains and cleverness. Elizabeth was entertained for several days by the simple joy expressed by her friend, in following the work in the fields, which was entirely new to her, in running down the wild paths, in which, accustomed to city life, she found an almost exaggerated charm. Then she grew weary of her exclamations, even of her pretty sayings which were somewhat vulgar. She wearied of it, because, abandoned and neglected, she was more sensitive and susceptible than usual, at this season which deepens one’s suffering. Then she allowed Blanche to take the crowd of children out, and remained alone to express her sadness in the music she interpretated, to begin but not finish books, whose contagious melancholy she knew, and still more uselessly, to think, aimlessly, hopelessly and without any object, for no purpose but the pleasure of giving herself as much pain as possible. And, rousing herself from that state of languor, she determined that she could no longer remain in the country.
One day, when she had stayed in the house, she understood, when the children came in, and from the expression of Blanche Vernier’s face, that something unusual had happened during the walk. Marie Louise, a little troubled, wore a mysterious circumspect air which was very evident, while big Philippe was swelled with his own importance almost to the bursting point. The others tried to explain that they had met a gentleman—a remarkable phenomenon at Saint Martin at this season—but the little girl interrupted them brusquely in an authoritative voice:
“Be quiet.”
Over the heads of the youngsters, Blanche gave lively signals which bespoke no good.
“Go and have tea in the dining-room,” commanded Elizabeth, out of patience, and when the drawing-room was empty, she asked her friend, “What has happened: Anything serious?”
“Well, as we were coming down towards the Château of Saint-Ferriol we met a man....”
“Who?”
“Wait a minute—a man whom I did not know.”
Elizabeth, nervous, asked these questions:
“What was he like?”
“You know I can’t distinguish men very well, one from the other. It seemed to me he was very tall, rather thin, sharp features and a military air. Is that he?”
“Go on.”
“He looked at us as we passed, then after we had gone a few steps he turned round and called: ‘Marie Louise.’ Your daughter raised her head and then ran to him.”
“You should not have allowed her to speak to a stranger.”
“You know very well that he was not a stranger. Naturally I did not know it, and I called out and then stopped. But the little girl paid no attention to what I said. She made a sign to her brother to join her. So I came up to interfere more directly, and it is to my credit, because you know how shy I am. ‘These children are in my charge.’ ‘I give them back to you, Madame,’ he replied, bowing very politely to me. ‘I am a relative and I allowed myself to stop them.’ He was very much touched. He was holding Marie Louise and Philippe by the hand. I even think he had tears in his eyes.”
“You are not sure?”
“I am a little short-sighted, and I am always afraid of being indiscreet in looking too closely. Then he kissed the children passionately—almost madly. I was sorry for him. I could have cried too. I cry so easily.
“‘Come with us,’ Marie Louise said to him.
“‘I can’t—’
“‘Mamma did not see you, did she?’
“‘I must go away.’
“‘Already? This is not a visit. You will come back?’
“‘Yes.’
“He passed on hurriedly. I thought he had disappeared behind the chestnut trees, but as I turned back, I saw him looking after us—”
“That is all?”
“Yes, that is all.”
“I placed my children in your charge. You should not have left them—”
“Left them?”
“Yes, even for a minute....”
This reproach was manifestly unjust. Although not far-sighted, Blanche Vernier possessed that instinct of the heart which penetrates the hidden causes of our acts or our feelings—Divining her friend’s emotion, she bore this absurd accusation without defending herself. Elizabeth trembled at the thought that she might have met her husband, not knowing in her confusion whether she regretted or dreaded this meeting.
“Listen,” she said in a softer voice. “Go to the children and send Marie Louise to me.”
A few minutes later, the little girl came in, not with her nose in the air and a bright face, with the dancing step with which she shook her blonde curls as she tripped through the house, but instead with a stiff walk and lowered eyes.
Her mother drew her towards her too jealously and held her arms—
“Look at me!”
As the child hesitated in her embarrassment, Elizabeth who was very nervous, grew angry.
“But look at me—whom did you meet on the road?”
Marie Louise who did not know how to tell a lie, nevertheless answered:
“Nobody.”
“Nobody? How can you deceive your mother. That is bad. That is naughty.”
The little girl who was bravely holding her own against this threatening tone, weakened before this outburst of sorrow. And then, it became great news to announce—
“Well, yes, we met papa.”
“Why did you not tell me when you came back?”
“I don’t know, Mamma.”
“Did he say you were not to tell?”
“Oh, no.”
“You should have no secrets from your mother.”
The child began to cry, and had to be consoled—Her silence which she could not explain, was the mysterious intuition of the divorce of her parents, whom she had to love separately without the knowledge of either of them, for fear of hurting them. She could not think that she might have both a father and mother at the same time like her little friends—And yet both were alive—The meeting that afternoon had settled all doubts concerning the existence of her father, whom she never saw, and about whom she had even heard it said that he was dead to her. But these complications put her in a state of uneasiness which wearied one of her age. Elizabeth continued her questions more tenderly this time:
“You recognized him at once?”
“I did not look at him when he passed us—but afterwards he called me....”
“He called you?”
“Yes, then I knew him.”
“Tell me about it, dearie.”
“He called: ‘Marie Louise.’ I raised my head and I ran. When I was quite near him I cried, ‘Papa.’ He held me so tight that I choked—and he wet my cheeks because he was crying. Why, Mamma?”
“He was touched at seeing you after such a long time.”
Marie Louise seemed to reflect.
“Why didn’t he come home before? He said to me, ‘And Philippe?’ So I called ‘Philippe!’ Philippe came, but he said, ‘Who is that?’ I said, ‘It’s papa.’ Then Mme. Blanche came up too. They quarreled.”
“Quarreled?”
“No, not quarreled, but they looked at each other crossly. Then papa went away.”
Elizabeth overcame her hesitation and again asked:
“He sent no message to me?”
“I said to him, ‘Come and see mamma.’”
“Ah, and what did he answer?”
“He did not answer. He said, ‘I will come back.’”
“That is all?”
“Yes. Why are you crying, Mamma?”
“I am not crying—”
She pressed her daughter passionately to her heart and covered with kisses the face that Albert had kissed. With an imperious longing for affection she murmured in her daughter’s ear.
“Do you love me?”
“Oh! dear Mamma—”
“And your father?”
“Papa too, but not as much as you.”
“Why?”
“He is never here—You know, he looks sad.”
“Really. He looks sad? Are you quite sure?”
“Yes, does that make you glad?”
“Oh, darling—”
“He has promised to come back. You want him to come back, don’t you?”
“For your sake and Philippe’s—yes, perhaps—Some day a long time from now.”
“No, right away.”
Reassured little by little, Elizabeth told little Marie Louise, who was too impressionable, to go back to her playfellows. She herself being unable to regain her self-possession, walked up and down the house. At last she crept on tiptoe to the door. Erect and motionless, on the point of going out, she looked down the road as far as the trees. Perhaps Albert was wandering about there, being unable to decide to leave these places which must recall his childhood and so many memories. So many memories? No, he had seen his children, nothing else could interest him. He had gone back, no doubt. Nevertheless, “he seemed sad,” Marie Louise had said. If he were suddenly to appear at the turn of the road, there before her, what would she do? She did not know, she reached no decision and time went on.
Evening came, an autumn evening sharp and almost freezing. She looked for a shawl to cover her shoulders and continued to gaze distractedly, as if before the day ended, she were calling the danger she feared. Darkness which already filled the valley, was ascending the mountain, hastening to overtake the forest of thick, black pine trees, which seemed like a foretaste of night. The red of the sunset streaked the sky: the first star shewed itself above Les Quatre Seigneurs.
Elizabeth could not make up her mind to go in. The change in the light gave an appearance of motion to the bushes and to the trees on the road. Every moment she thought she saw someone coming and stood trembling, her feet glued to the threshold. After many mistakes, she recognized a human shape coming up the road. Fear made her knees tremble. No, it was not he; it was a woman, bent, thin and slow. It was Albert’s mother. Out of breath, her limbs weak, overcome with weariness, she was painfully dragging herself along. Elizabeth, reassured, freed herself with a great effort, ran to her, saw that she was worn out; took her arm, made her come in, and placed her beside the hearth.
“Why did you not tell me you were coming, Mother? I would have sent the farmer to meet you with his car. There is no carriage at Uriage now, and you have had to walk all the way.”
Mme. Derize smiled in a way which meant, “How often I have done without carriages!” But she had not reckoned with her age, nor her weakness, and was regaining her breath with difficulty. Marie Louise, Philippe and the little Verniers, who surrounded her, watched her with the surprise of children at old age or illness. Elizabeth begged her friend Blanche to take them away. Left alone with her mother-in-law for whom she prepared a cup of boiling tea, with a little rum in it, she saw her become refreshed little by little, and then sit up, her face expressing that peace, so pure and noble, yet tinged with sadness, with which she accepted all the happenings of life. Then Elizabeth asked herself the reason for her departure from Grenoble, and whether that unexpected visit did not have something to do with Albert’s arrival. Mme. Derize did not let her wait long for an explanation which she was eager to give.
“Elizabeth, my son has been with me for three days. He has changed very much, he is worried, uneasy and nervous. He is not happy.”
Attentive and anxious, Elizabeth was silent.
“He went away this morning,” continued the old lady.
“He was here just now.”
“Here. You have seen him?”
Albert’s mother bent toward her daughter-in-law, her cheekbones suddenly flushed with a rush of color, contrasting with the pallor of her face, her eyes fixed and shining with fever, in a state of unaccustomed exaltation foreign to her nature.
“Not I. But the children.”
Elizabeth told the short story of the meeting of Marie Louise and Philippe with their father. Mme. Derize, resting against her chair, lost her abnormal excitement as she listened.
“Just now,” she said, “I thought he was here, that you were reconciled, that he had been unable to go away. I was so happy—so happy.”
“Oh, Mother, could you hope that?”
“I always hope it. And you do, too, do you not?”
“I no longer know. I am so weary of suffering! And then how can I forgive him, how can I forget him? He has gone back to her.”
The old woman took Elizabeth’s hand and held it.
“My child, if you prayed to God, as I do, your hope would be strengthened. Illicit passions can never bring happiness. Happiness means peace in one’s heart. They are powerless to insure that.”
“They bring with them a more passionate existence. I do not understand. That people desire them and die for them suffices to make them endure.”
“If you could have seen him, listened to him, you would not speak thus. It is not on my account that he came to Grenoble. He thought he would meet the children there. He had no idea that you would remain so late in the mountains. And this morning, instead of leaving for Italy, he came up here without further reflection, in the hope of seeing his children. He has forgotten nothing.”
“Oh, Mother, and me?”
“You, Elizabeth? Did you not understand that it was because of you that he has never tried to see his children until now?”
“He never asked to see them. If he had asked, I should not have refused. He could not have them come to him, however, in Paris.”
“Listen, Elizabeth. All the time he was overwhelming me with questions about them. He was obsessed with the thought of them.”
“And he has never given them any indication that he was still alive.”
“Because he did not want to trouble your life, to impose painful obligations upon you, or remind you of a tie which he thinks is sorrowful to you.”
And she added in a tone of prayer, as if to protect her son:
“At least that is the way I explain it—particularly since his promise.”
“What promise?”
“Yesterday I asked him to put nothing definite between you and himself.”
“Definite?”
“Yes, not to seek a divorce.”
And in a lower voice, she added:
“I should never have survived it.”
“What did he answer?” asked Elizabeth anxiously.
“After a slight hesitation, he replied: ‘I promise you. Only, it is Elizabeth’s right.’ Elizabeth, I believe he will come back to us. Will you not help him?”
The young woman turned away with that frightened expression which she often wore.
“What do you wish me to do, Mother? I cannot contend for him with that woman—I do not know how.”
“No, but promise me that if he comes back some day you will receive him, you will welcome him in spite of the past.”
“He will not come back.”
“If I went to look for him?”
Elizabeth repeated despairingly:
“He would not come back....”
“And if...”
“Mother, what is the matter with you?”
“If I fell ill? He would have to come back, would have to see you.”
Mme. Derize looked so pale, so fragile, that this suggestion seemed a reality. Elizabeth, uneasy, realizing that the attack was growing worse, put her to bed and watched over her. In the evening the old woman laid her feverish hand on the bent head of her companion:
“I was right when I told him....”
“What, Mother?”
“That you are my daughter.”