XXII
Françoise Peyral to her son.
My dear son,—We have had no answer to our letter, and Peyral says it is beginning to be quite time that something came for us. I can see that he is very unhappy whenever Toinou goes past with his box and says that he has nothing for us. I, too, am very anxious. But I always believe that the good God will guard my dear boy, as I so often beg of Him, and that no harm can come to him, nor any trouble, either through bad behaviour or punishment. If there were anything like that I should be too unhappy.
Your father wishes me to say that memories come into his head of what he himself was like, formerly, when he was in the army. And he says, when he was stationed in garrison towns, he has seen young men, who were not very sensible, have a rough time of it, through comrades leading them on to drink and to mix with bad women, who are always on the lookout to ruin them. I am telling you this because he wants me to, but for my part I know that my dear boy is steady, and that he has ideas in his head which will surely keep him away from all these evil things.
Next month we will send you a little more money. Out there I expect you have to pay a great deal for trifling things. I know you will not spend money unnecessarily, when you think of all the trouble your father takes. As for me, a woman’s trouble is no great matter, and I speak for him, the dear man. The village folk always talk about you at the evening working parties and merrymakings, and no social gathering passes without some conversation about our Jean. All the neighbours send hearty messages.
My dear son, your father and I embrace you with all our hearts. The good God keep you.
Your mother,
Françoise Peyral.
This letter was received by Jean in the prison attached to the barracks, where he had been locked up “for drunkenness, and for having had himself brought back by the guard.”
Fortunately the fair-haired spahi’s wound was not very serious, and neither the injured man nor his comrades had wished to report Peyral. Jean’s clothes were soiled and blood-stained, his shirt in rags, and his head still confused with the fumes of alcohol. Mists swam before his eyes, so that he could scarcely read. And besides, a dense veil now lay upon the affection he felt for the friends of his childhood and for his family. This veil was woven by Cora and his own despair and passions. (It is thus, sometimes, during periods of bewilderment and loss of balance. Then the veil fades away, and quite tranquilly one returns to all that one used to love.)
In spite of all, this touching letter, so full of trust, found without difficulty the way to Jean’s heart. He kissed it devoutly, and tears came to his eyes.
And then he swore to himself to drink no more, and as the habit was not yet inveterate he was able to keep strictly to his promise; he was never drunk again.