A Woman of Thirty [41]
upon whom, in those few hours, the poor father had centered all his life. Madame, they all had fallen."
After a pause the good man controlled his feelings, and added gently:
"And their father is still living, madame. He realized that if God had left him on earth, he was bound to live on and suffer on earth; but he took refuge in the sanctuary. What could he be?"
The Marquise looked up and saw the cure's face, grown sublime in its sorrow and resignation, and waited for him to speak. When the words came, tears broke from her.
"A priest, madame; consecrated by his own tears previously shed at the foot of the altar."
Silence prevailed for a little. The Marquise and the cure looked out at the foggy landscape, as if they could see the figures of those who were no more.
"Not a priest in a city, but a simple country cure," added he.
"At Saint-Lange," she said, drying her eyes.
"Yes, madame."
Never had the majesty of grief seemed so great to Julie. The two words sank straight into her heart with the weight of infinite sorrow. The gentle, sonorous tones troubled her heart. Ah! that full, deep voice, charged with plangent vibration, was the voice of one who had suffered indeed.
"And if I do not die, monsieur, what will become of me?" The Marquise spoke almost reverently.
"Have you not a child, madame?"
"Yes," she said stiffly.
The cure gave her such a glance as a doctor gives a patient whose life is in danger. Then he determined to do all that in him lay to combat the evil spirit into whose clutches she had fallen.
"We must live on with our sorrows--you see it yourself, madame, and religion alone offers us real consolation. Will you permit me to come again?--to speak to you as a man who can sympathize with every trouble, a man about whom there is nothing very alarming, I think?"
"Yes, monsieur, come back again. Thank you for your thought of me."
"Very well, madame; then I shall return very shortly."
This visit relaxed the tension of soul, as it were; the heavy strain of grief and loneliness had been almost too much for the Marquise's strength. The priest's visit had left a soothing balm in her heart, his words thrilled through her with healing influence. She began to feel something of a prisoner's satisfaction, when, after he has had time to feel his utter loneliness and the weight of his chains, he hears a neighbor knocking on the wall, and welcomes the sound which brings a sense of human friendship. Here was an unhoped-for confidant. But this feeling did not last for long. Soon she sank back into the old bitterness of spirit, saying to herself, as the prisoner might say, that a companion in misfortune could neither lighten her own bondage nor her future.
In the first visit the cure had feared to alarm the susceptibilities of self-absorbed grief, in a second interview he hoped to make some progress towards religion. He came back again two days later, and from the Marquise's welcome it was plain that she had looked forward to the visit.
"Well, Mme. la Marquise, have you given a little thought to the great mass of human suffering? Have you raised your eyes above our earth and seen the immensity of the universe?--the worlds beyond worlds which crush our vanity into insignificance, and with our vanity reduce our sorrows?"
"No, monsieur," she said; "I cannot rise to such heights, our social laws lie too heavily upon me, and rend my heart with a too poignant anguish. And laws perhaps are less cruel than the usages of the world. Ah! the world!"
"Madame, we must obey both. Law is the doctrine, and custom the practice of society."
"Obey society?" cried the Marquise, with an involuntary shudder. "Eh! monsieur, it is the source of all our woes. God laid down no law to make us miserable; but mankind, uniting together in social life, have perverted God's work. Civilization deals harder measure to us women than nature does. Nature imposes upon us physical suffering which you have not alleviated; civilization has developed in us thoughts and feelings which you cheat continually. Nature
After a pause the good man controlled his feelings, and added gently:
"And their father is still living, madame. He realized that if God had left him on earth, he was bound to live on and suffer on earth; but he took refuge in the sanctuary. What could he be?"
The Marquise looked up and saw the cure's face, grown sublime in its sorrow and resignation, and waited for him to speak. When the words came, tears broke from her.
"A priest, madame; consecrated by his own tears previously shed at the foot of the altar."
Silence prevailed for a little. The Marquise and the cure looked out at the foggy landscape, as if they could see the figures of those who were no more.
"Not a priest in a city, but a simple country cure," added he.
"At Saint-Lange," she said, drying her eyes.
"Yes, madame."
Never had the majesty of grief seemed so great to Julie. The two words sank straight into her heart with the weight of infinite sorrow. The gentle, sonorous tones troubled her heart. Ah! that full, deep voice, charged with plangent vibration, was the voice of one who had suffered indeed.
"And if I do not die, monsieur, what will become of me?" The Marquise spoke almost reverently.
"Have you not a child, madame?"
"Yes," she said stiffly.
The cure gave her such a glance as a doctor gives a patient whose life is in danger. Then he determined to do all that in him lay to combat the evil spirit into whose clutches she had fallen.
"We must live on with our sorrows--you see it yourself, madame, and religion alone offers us real consolation. Will you permit me to come again?--to speak to you as a man who can sympathize with every trouble, a man about whom there is nothing very alarming, I think?"
"Yes, monsieur, come back again. Thank you for your thought of me."
"Very well, madame; then I shall return very shortly."
This visit relaxed the tension of soul, as it were; the heavy strain of grief and loneliness had been almost too much for the Marquise's strength. The priest's visit had left a soothing balm in her heart, his words thrilled through her with healing influence. She began to feel something of a prisoner's satisfaction, when, after he has had time to feel his utter loneliness and the weight of his chains, he hears a neighbor knocking on the wall, and welcomes the sound which brings a sense of human friendship. Here was an unhoped-for confidant. But this feeling did not last for long. Soon she sank back into the old bitterness of spirit, saying to herself, as the prisoner might say, that a companion in misfortune could neither lighten her own bondage nor her future.
In the first visit the cure had feared to alarm the susceptibilities of self-absorbed grief, in a second interview he hoped to make some progress towards religion. He came back again two days later, and from the Marquise's welcome it was plain that she had looked forward to the visit.
"Well, Mme. la Marquise, have you given a little thought to the great mass of human suffering? Have you raised your eyes above our earth and seen the immensity of the universe?--the worlds beyond worlds which crush our vanity into insignificance, and with our vanity reduce our sorrows?"
"No, monsieur," she said; "I cannot rise to such heights, our social laws lie too heavily upon me, and rend my heart with a too poignant anguish. And laws perhaps are less cruel than the usages of the world. Ah! the world!"
"Madame, we must obey both. Law is the doctrine, and custom the practice of society."
"Obey society?" cried the Marquise, with an involuntary shudder. "Eh! monsieur, it is the source of all our woes. God laid down no law to make us miserable; but mankind, uniting together in social life, have perverted God's work. Civilization deals harder measure to us women than nature does. Nature imposes upon us physical suffering which you have not alleviated; civilization has developed in us thoughts and feelings which you cheat continually. Nature