“My father,” cried the boy, “where is he?”
“He is dead,” she said, laying her finger on her lips; “he died to save my honor and my life.”
She looked upwards. If any tears had been left to her, she would have wept for pain.
“Louis,” she continued, “swear to me, as I lie here, that you will forget all that you have written, all that I have told you.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Kiss me, dear angel.”
She was silent for a long while, she seemed to be drawing strength from God, and to be measuring her words by the life that remained in her.
“Listen,” she began. “Those twelve thousand francs are all that you have in the world. You must keep the money upon you, because when I am dead the lawyers will come and seal everything up. Nothing will be yours then, not even your mother. All that remains for you to do will be to go out, poor orphan children, God knows where. I have made Annette’s future secure. She will have an annuity of a hundred crowns, and she will stay at Tours no doubt. But what will you do for yourself and your brother?”
She raised herself, and looked at the brave child, standing by her bedside. There were drops of perspiration on his forehead, he was pale with emotion, and his eyes were dim with tears.
“I have thought it over, mother,” he answered in a deep voice. “I will take Marie to the school here in Tours. I will give ten thousand francs to our old Annette, and ask her to take care of them, and to look after Marie. Then, with the remaining two thousand francs, I will go to Brest, and go to sea as an apprentice. While Marie is at school, I will rise to be a lieutenant on board a man-of-war. There, after all, die in peace, my mother; I shall come back again a rich man, and our little one shall go to the École polytechnique, and I will find a career to suit his bent.”
A gleam of joy shone in the dying woman’s eyes. Two tears brimmed over, and fell over her fevered cheeks; then a deep sigh escaped between her lips. The sudden joy of finding the father’s spirit in the son, who had grown all at once to be a man, almost killed her.
“Angel of heaven,” she cried, weeping, “by one word you have effaced all my sorrows. Ah! I can bear them.—This is my son,” she said, “I bore, I reared this man,” and she raised her hands above her, and clasped them as if in ecstasy, then she lay back on the pillow.
“Mother, your face is growing pale!” cried the lad.
“Someone must go for a priest,” she answered, with a dying voice.
Louis wakened Annette, and the terrified old woman hurried to the parsonage at Saint-Cyr.
When morning came, Mme. Willemsens received the sacrament amid the most touching surroundings. Her children were kneeling in the room, with Annette and the vinedresser’s family, simple folk, who had already become part of the household. The silver crucifix, carried by a chorister, a peasant child from the village, was lifted up, and the dying mother received the Viaticum from an aged priest. The Viaticum! sublime word, containing an idea yet more sublime, an idea only possessed by the apostolic religion of the Roman church.
“This woman has suffered greatly!” the old curé said in his simple way.
Marie Willemsens heard no voices now, but her eyes were still fixed upon her children. Those about her listened in terror to her breathing in the deep silence; already it came more slowly, though at intervals a deep sigh told them that she still lived, and of a struggle within her; then at last it ceased. Everyone burst into tears except Marie. He, poor child, was still too young to know what death meant.
Annette and the vinedresser’s wife closed the eyes of the adorable woman, whose beauty shone out in all its radiance after death. Then the women took possession of the chamber of death, removed the furniture, wrapped the dead in her winding-sheet, and laid her upon the couch. They lit tapers about her, and arranged everything—the crucifix, the sprigs of box, and the holy-water stoup—after the custom of the countryside, bolting the shutters and drawing the curtains. Later the curate came to pass the night in prayer with Louis, who refused to leave his mother. On Tuesday morning an old woman and two children and a vinedresser’s wife followed the dead to her grave. These were the only mourners. Yet this was a woman whose wit and beauty and charm had won a European reputation, a woman whose funeral, if it had taken place in London, would have been recorded in pompous newspaper paragraphs, as a sort of aristocratic rite, if she had not committed the sweetest of crimes, a crime always expiated in this world, so that the pardoned spirit may enter heaven. Marie cried when they threw the earth on his mother’s coffin; he understood that he should see her no more.
A simple, wooden cross, set up to mark her grave, bore this inscription, due to the curé of Saint-Cyr:—
Here lies
an unhappy woman,
who died at the age of thirty-six.Known in Heaven by the name of Augusta.
Pray for her!
When all was over, the children came back to La Grenadière to take a last look at their home; then, hand in hand, they turned to go with Annette, leaving the vinedresser in charge, with directions to hand over everything duly to the proper authorities.
At this moment,
