Jacqueline used to take hardly any notice of her aunt in the days when she was careless and gay—which was her usual condition when she was a child. But when she reached the age at which there occurs a mysterious change and growth in body and soul, which bring agony, disgust, terror, and fearful moments of depression in their train, and moments of absurd, horrible dizziness, which, happily, do not last, though they make their victim feel at the point of death—the child, sinking and not daring to cry for help, found only her Aunt Marthe standing by her side and holding out her hand. Ah! the others were so far away! Her father and mother were as strangers to her, with their selfish affection, too satisfied with themselves to think of the small troubles of a doll of fourteen! But her aunt guessed them, and comforted her. She did not say anything. She only smiled: across the table she exchanged a kindly glance with Jacqueline, who felt that her aunt understood her, and she took refuge by her side. Marthe stroked Jacqueline’s head and kissed her, and spoke no word.
The little girl trusted her. When her heart was heavy she would go and see her friend, who would know and understand as soon as she arrived; she would be met always with the same indulgent eyes, which would infect her with a little of their own tranquillity. She told her aunt hardly anything about her imaginary love-affairs: she was ashamed of them, and felt that there was no truth in them. But she confessed all the vague, profound uneasiness that was in her, and was more real, her only real trouble.
“Aunt,” she would sigh sometimes, “I do so long to be happy!”
“Poor child!” Marthe would say, with a smile.
Jacqueline would lay her head in her aunt’s lap, and kiss her hands as they caressed her face:
“Do you think I shall be happy? Aunt, tell me; do you think I shall be happy?”
“I don’t know, my dear. It rather depends on yourself. … People can always be happy if they want to be.”
Jacqueline was incredulous.
“Are you happy?”
Marthe smiled sadly: “Yes.”
“No? Really? Are you happy?”
“Don’t you believe it?”
“Yes. But. …”
Jacqueline stopped short.
“What is it?”
“I want to be happy, but not like you.”
“Poor child! I hope so, too!” said Marthe.
“No.” Jacqueline went on shaking her head decisively. “But I couldn’t be.”
“I should not have thought it possible, either. Life teaches one to be able to do many things.”
“Oh! But I don’t want to learn,” protested Jacqueline anxiously. “I want to be happy in the way I want.”
“You would find it very hard to say how!”
“I know quite well what I want.”
She wanted many things. But when it came to saying what they were, she could only mention one, which recurred again and again, like a refrain:
“First of all, I want someone to love me.”
Marthe went on sewing without a word. After a moment she said:
“What good will it be to you if you do not love?”
Jacqueline was taken aback, and exclaimed:
“But, aunt, of course I only mean someone I loved! All the rest don’t count.”
“And suppose you did not love anybody?”
“The idea! One loves always, always.”
Marthe shook her head doubtfully.
“No,” she said. “We don’t love. We want to love. Love is the greatest gift of God. Pray to Him that He may grant it you.”
“But suppose my love is not returned?”
“Even if your love is not returned, you will be all the happier.”
Jacqueline’s face fell: she pouted a little:
“I don’t want that,” she said. “It wouldn’t give me any pleasure.”
Marthe laughed indulgently, looked at Jacqueline, sighed, and then went on with her work.
“Poor child!” she said once more.
“Why do you keep on saying: ‘Poor child’?” asked Jacqueline uneasily. “I don’t want to be a poor child. I want—I want so much to be happy!”
“That is why I say: ‘Poor child!’ ”
Jacqueline sulked for a little. But it did not last long. Marthe laughed at her so kindly that she was disarmed. She kissed her, pretending to be angry.
