would cry "stop" and the daughter stopped.
Madame Marius regained her breath, and as she stood she held on tightly to her daughter's arm.
"It's a terrible place, so huge, like a big melting pot, if one falls into it, well, you never know how you come out. Ah, I shall be glad to go."
"Are you ready?"
"I'm ready."
They walked on, Madame Marius erect, her head slightly forward, on her shoulders, Madeleine held tight to her arm.
"I wonder if he'll be out?"
"Is he ever in?"
A silence fell between them and they did not speak again until they were safe inside the house. Madame Marius freed herself from the clutching arm. She stared about the kitchen.
"Well at least he has taken his peasant's suit" she said. "You know there is something terribly stupid in his stubbornness, I'll bet he is cringing around the Heros again. My God, if I could get in to see that Follet gentleman—You had better bring in the coffee. I am going into the other room," and she left her daughter standing in the centre of the kitchen. When she brought in the bread and coffee her mother had already resumed her seat in the window.
"This morning I had half a mind to go into his room," Madame Marius said, as she took the mug from her daughter. "Sometimes I think one may know what that person has been thinking."
"What are you staring at?" she asked suddenly, and Madeleine replied quickly, "nothing," but she was.
To-day, this very evening she seemed to be looking at her mother as for the first time. How big she was, how strong, how determined, and yet withal, how suddenly calm. In the night something had risen in her, a resolve, a decision.
"Then what she said in the church is true," thought Madeleine.
"Why don't you sit down?"
"I am," sitting down.
Her mother made coarse noises as she ate, she dropped lumps of bread into her coffee and sucked at the sodden mass.
"I expect he was thinking what you were thinking," Madeleine said.
"What was that?" Madame Marius spoke sharply, "give me more coffee."
"Your pride," she said.
"Since you had none, it cannot affect you very much."
"Where is the letter of Father Gerard?"
"I have it here. Read it to me."
"Give it here."
Holding it in her hand, Madeleine felt for a moment as though all Nantes were there, all her life, the grace of her days, she heard laughter, saw her heart-happy man.
"Then read it," Madame Marius said.
"Yes," Madeleine said, faltering, the break in her voice.
"Spare me, please, I thought we had done with that. Read the letter."
She opened out the sheet of paper and began to read.
"Dear Madame Marius,
I am glad that you have written me. This morning I was on my way to see our old friend, Jules Cordon, you will remember him. And as you know my way lies past your house, and coming by it I chanced to see bursting over the wall the white lilac, heavily in flower. And I thought then that perhaps, as I passed, I would hear you call to me from behind it, as in the old days. But there was only the strong light and the whiteness and silence, and I knew you had gone. But at the same time I wondered too, if you would not come back —"
"Will you go on, or must I read it myself?"
"I am reading it," Madeleine said.
"It has always seemed to me a foolish decision to have made, to have turned your back on your home, there was so much spirit there, so much bone and heart. It is your place. It is yet empty because there is a feeling abroad that you will still come back, to where you belong, to where your place is, since there is no other. Nobody thinks any the less of you because your son has erred, and as for the rumour, the disgrace, surely you place far too high a price upon this. A man may sink a hundred ships, and yet not be disgraced, your son has erred and you think it is the end of France. My dear Madame Marius, if I may say so, I fear your pride is strangling you —"
"I said go on reading didn't I?"
"I am reading," Madeleine said, and was in that house, hard by the river, in a room
Madame Marius regained her breath, and as she stood she held on tightly to her daughter's arm.
"It's a terrible place, so huge, like a big melting pot, if one falls into it, well, you never know how you come out. Ah, I shall be glad to go."
"Are you ready?"
"I'm ready."
They walked on, Madame Marius erect, her head slightly forward, on her shoulders, Madeleine held tight to her arm.
"I wonder if he'll be out?"
"Is he ever in?"
A silence fell between them and they did not speak again until they were safe inside the house. Madame Marius freed herself from the clutching arm. She stared about the kitchen.
"Well at least he has taken his peasant's suit" she said. "You know there is something terribly stupid in his stubbornness, I'll bet he is cringing around the Heros again. My God, if I could get in to see that Follet gentleman—You had better bring in the coffee. I am going into the other room," and she left her daughter standing in the centre of the kitchen. When she brought in the bread and coffee her mother had already resumed her seat in the window.
"This morning I had half a mind to go into his room," Madame Marius said, as she took the mug from her daughter. "Sometimes I think one may know what that person has been thinking."
"What are you staring at?" she asked suddenly, and Madeleine replied quickly, "nothing," but she was.
To-day, this very evening she seemed to be looking at her mother as for the first time. How big she was, how strong, how determined, and yet withal, how suddenly calm. In the night something had risen in her, a resolve, a decision.
"Then what she said in the church is true," thought Madeleine.
"Why don't you sit down?"
"I am," sitting down.
Her mother made coarse noises as she ate, she dropped lumps of bread into her coffee and sucked at the sodden mass.
"I expect he was thinking what you were thinking," Madeleine said.
"What was that?" Madame Marius spoke sharply, "give me more coffee."
"Your pride," she said.
"Since you had none, it cannot affect you very much."
"Where is the letter of Father Gerard?"
"I have it here. Read it to me."
"Give it here."
Holding it in her hand, Madeleine felt for a moment as though all Nantes were there, all her life, the grace of her days, she heard laughter, saw her heart-happy man.
"Then read it," Madame Marius said.
"Yes," Madeleine said, faltering, the break in her voice.
"Spare me, please, I thought we had done with that. Read the letter."
She opened out the sheet of paper and began to read.
"Dear Madame Marius,
I am glad that you have written me. This morning I was on my way to see our old friend, Jules Cordon, you will remember him. And as you know my way lies past your house, and coming by it I chanced to see bursting over the wall the white lilac, heavily in flower. And I thought then that perhaps, as I passed, I would hear you call to me from behind it, as in the old days. But there was only the strong light and the whiteness and silence, and I knew you had gone. But at the same time I wondered too, if you would not come back —"
"Will you go on, or must I read it myself?"
"I am reading it," Madeleine said.
"It has always seemed to me a foolish decision to have made, to have turned your back on your home, there was so much spirit there, so much bone and heart. It is your place. It is yet empty because there is a feeling abroad that you will still come back, to where you belong, to where your place is, since there is no other. Nobody thinks any the less of you because your son has erred, and as for the rumour, the disgrace, surely you place far too high a price upon this. A man may sink a hundred ships, and yet not be disgraced, your son has erred and you think it is the end of France. My dear Madame Marius, if I may say so, I fear your pride is strangling you —"
"I said go on reading didn't I?"
"I am reading," Madeleine said, and was in that house, hard by the river, in a room
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