I was not quite twelve years old when my mother died. The day on which this misfortune happened the good curé Blanchetière, who liked us very much, pressed me to his breast, then he looked at me for some time and with eyes full of tears murmured several times: “Poor little devil!” I burst into uncontrollable tears when I saw the good curé cry, for I did not want to reconcile myself to the thought that my mother was dead and never again would come back. During her illness I was forbidden to go into her room, and now she was gone without having let me embrace her! … Could she have really deserted me that way? … When I was about seven years old and was well she had agreed to readmit me into her life. It was from this time on that I understood that I had a mother and that I adored her. My sorrowing mother was represented to me by her two eyes, her two large round eyes, fixed, with rings of red around them, which always shed tears without moving the eyelids, which shed tears as does a rain cloud or a fountain. All at once I felt a keen sorrow at the grief of my mother, and it is through this grief that I awoke to life. I did not know what she suffered from, but I knew that her malady must have been horrible; I knew that from the way she used to embrace me. She had fits of tenderness which used to frighten me and which inspire me with fear even now. As she clasped my head, squeezed my neck and moved her lips over my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth, her frenzied kisses often passed into bites, similar to the caresses of a beast; into her embraces she put all the true passion of a lover, as if I had been the adored chimerical being of her dreams, the being that never came, the being whom her soul and her body so ardently desired. Was it possible then that she was dead?
Every evening, before going to bed, I fervently entreated the beautiful image of the Virgin to whom I addressed my prayers: “Holy Virgin, please grant my dear mother good health and a long life.” But one morning my father, silent and pale, accompanied the physician to the gate, and the countenances of both were so grave that it was easy to surmise that something irreparable had happened. Then the servants were crying. What else could they have cried about, if not the loss of their mistress? … And then did not the curé come up to me and say “poor little devil!” in a tone of irremediable pity? I remember the smallest details of that frightful day as if it were yesterday. From the room where I was shut in with old Marie I could hear the coming and going of people and other strange noises, and with my forehead pressed against the windowpane, I could see through the window blinds women beggars squatted on the lawn, waxpaper in hand, muttering prayers. I saw people enter the courtyard, the men in black, the women with long black veils. “Ah! here is Monsieur Bacoup! …” “Why, that’s Madame Provost!” I noticed that all of them looked sad, while at the gate which was wide open the children of the choir, the choristers uncomfortable in their black vestments, the Brothers of Charity with their red tunics, one of whom carried a banner and another a heavy silver cross, were laughing aloud and amusing themselves by pushing and jostling one another. The beadle, tinkling his bell, was driving back inquisitive mendicants, and a wagon loaded with hay which had come up on the road was compelled to stop and wait. In vain did I look for the eyes of little Sorieul, a crippled child of my age whom I used to give a small loaf of bread every Saturday; I could not find him anywhere, and that made me feel uneasy. Then suddenly the bells on the church belfry began to toll. Ding! Ding! Dong! The sky was of deep blue, the sun was ablaze. Slowly the funeral procession started out, first the Brothers of Charity and the choristers, the cross which glittered, the banner which fluttered in the air, the curé in a white surplice, shielding his head with the psalmbook, then something heavy and long covered with flowers and wreaths which some men carried shaking at their knees, then the crowd, a crawling crowd which filled the courtyard, wound itself out on the road, a crowd in which I could distinguish no one except my cousin Merel who was mopping his head with a checkered handkerchief. Ding! Dong! Dong! The church bell tolled for a long, long time; ah! the sad knell! Ding! Dong! Dong! And while the bells were tolling, tolling, three white pigeons continuously fluttered about, pursuing one another around the church right opposite me which projected its warped roof and its slate steeple out of plumb above a clump of acacia and chestnut trees.
The ceremony ended, my father entered
