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Dornford Yates
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It was on the seventh of September that Madeleine Peyre, of Ruffec, made a mistake. This was noteworthy: first, because the lady was rightly considered wise, and secondly, because, as errors go, the mistake was a serious one.
Madeleine was the Silvia of Ruffec. She attended Mass faithfully, and what she believed to be proper, that she quietly tried to do. She spoke ill of no one. Her exquisite pink-and-white complexion, her raven hair, and her steady grey eyes were three distinct beauties. Add that her features were regular, her teeth very white, and her figure graceful, and you will understand that the young men of Ruffec admired her with good reason. As I have already said, Madeleine's judgment was also unusually sound. To complete my comparison, I think it was the light in her wonderful eyes that you remembered last of her loveliness, while the flowers she constantly received caused her real distress. She never wore them. No other girl in Ruffec received any flowers.
So when Madeleine Peyre, the Silvia of Ruffec, married the wrong man, the town pulled her down from her pedestal and let her lie.
It is the way of the world.
The announcement of the betrothal caused consternation. People were amazed—staggered. You could have knocked them over. That Pierre Lacaze was a brute was common knowledge. They said his first wife had been bullied into an early grave. Astonishment gave way to sickness of heart. Discussion of the tragedy dissolved into sighs and tears. Finally came anger. Madeleine Peyre was denounced as an ungrateful fool. Where sighs had been heaved, fingers were wagged and snapped. Ruffec told Ruffec that Mademoiselle Peyre would soon discover her error, and that the discovery would serve her right. People began to gloat over the disillusionment awaiting their darling. On the wedding day itself, leers were exchanged.
It is the way of the world.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 1 / 17
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
It was on the seventh of September that Madeleine Peyre, of Ruffec, made a mistake. This was noteworthy: first, because the lady was rightly considered wise, and secondly, because, as errors go, the mistake was a serious one.
Madeleine was the Silvia of Ruffec. She attended Mass faithfully, and what she believed to be proper, that she quietly tried to do. She spoke ill of no one. Her exquisite pink-and-white complexion, her raven hair, and her steady grey eyes were three distinct beauties. Add that her features were regular, her teeth very white, and her figure graceful, and you will understand that the young men of Ruffec admired her with good reason. As I have already said, Madeleine's judgment was also unusually sound. To complete my comparison, I think it was the light in her wonderful eyes that you remembered last of her loveliness, while the flowers she constantly received caused her real distress. She never wore them. No other girl in Ruffec received any flowers.
So when Madeleine Peyre, the Silvia of Ruffec, married the wrong man, the town pulled her down from her pedestal and let her lie.
It is the way of the world.
The announcement of the betrothal caused consternation. People were amazed—staggered. You could have knocked them over. That Pierre Lacaze was a brute was common knowledge. They said his first wife had been bullied into an early grave. Astonishment gave way to sickness of heart. Discussion of the tragedy dissolved into sighs and tears. Finally came anger. Madeleine Peyre was denounced as an ungrateful fool. Where sighs had been heaved, fingers were wagged and snapped. Ruffec told Ruffec that Mademoiselle Peyre would soon discover her error, and that the discovery would serve her right. People began to gloat over the disillusionment awaiting their darling. On the wedding day itself, leers were exchanged.
It is the way of the world.Had her parents lived, the mistake would never have been made. But they had been killed together five years before. Madeleine, aged sixteen, had seen no reason why the little creamery they had kept should close its ancient hatch. As a result, it had remained open ever since. From the profits of the little enterprise, its youthful mistress and her two young brothers had been lodged, fed, and decently clothed. Now the brothers were grown men, while the goodwill of the business was a legacy worth having. Moreover, Jean and Jacques Peyre were no fools. About their own future, Madeleine felt easy enough.
As for that matter, up to the very last she had no qualms about her own. Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad. Everyone—her brothers included—disliked Lacaze. The man was so obviously a brute. Madeleine clung to him steadfastly.
Then the day came, and the Silvia of Ruffec cast her pearls before swine.
Be sure, Lacaze rent her.
Nearly ten months had dragged by, and Madeleine had aged ten years.
The two lived in Paris, where Lacaze worked as a steeplejack and earned good money. The work suited him. The hours were short, the pay high. Fearless as a lion, the danger delighted his heart. The respect his prowess inspired fed his vanity.
So much for his public life.
Lacaze married Madeleine Peyre as other men buy a fine horse. The only difference was that he got her for nothing.
In the Silvia of Ruffec he had seen a fine animal—intelligent, well-made, good to look upon. He judged her strong, courageous, and obedient. Her possession would be something to be proud of. Others would covet such a prize.
The fellow was perfectly right.
Physically and mentally, Madeleine was all that could be desired. When he took her out, everyone stared in admiration. When he showed her off to his friends, they made no secret of their envy. His house was always in order, better than he had ever dreamed. There was, however, a fretful fly in the ointment: Madeleine's manners were perfect, but they were the manners of a Silvia, not the manners of a show horse.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 2 / 17
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Had her parents lived, the mistake would never have been made. But they had been killed together five years before. Madeleine, aged sixteen, had seen no reason why the little creamery they had kept should close its ancient hatch. As a result, it had remained open ever since. From the profits of the little enterprise, its youthful mistress and her two young brothers had been lodged, fed, and decently clothed. Now the brothers were grown men, while the goodwill of the business was a legacy worth having. Moreover, Jean and Jacques Peyre were no fools. About their own future, Madeleine felt easy enough.
As for that matter, up to the very last she had no qualms about her own. Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad. Everyone—her brothers included—disliked Lacaze. The man was so obviously a brute. Madeleine clung to him steadfastly.
Then the day came, and the Silvia of Ruffec cast her pearls before swine.
Be sure, Lacaze rent her.
Nearly ten months had dragged by, and Madeleine had aged ten years.
The two lived in Paris, where Lacaze worked as a steeplejack and earned good money. The work suited him. The hours were short, the pay high. Fearless as a lion, the danger delighted his heart. The respect his prowess inspired fed his vanity.
So much for his public life.
Lacaze married Madeleine Peyre as other men buy a fine horse. The only difference was that he got her for nothing.
In the Silvia of Ruffec he had seen a fine animal—intelligent, well-made, good to look upon. He judged her strong, courageous, and obedient. Her possession would be something to be proud of. Others would covet such a prize.
The fellow was perfectly right.
Physically and mentally, Madeleine was all that could be desired. When he took her out, everyone stared in admiration. When he showed her off to his friends, they made no secret of their envy. His house was always in order, better than he had ever dreamed. There was, however, a fretful fly in the ointment: Madeleine's manners were perfect, but they were the manners of a Silvia, not the manners of a show horse.Within twenty-four hours of her wedding, it was all over, and Madeleine had realized her plight. Of course, the blow had been frightful, stunning, too terrible to describe. The first blinding flash of perception had exploded a second; the second, a third. Her poor brain had staggered under this fearful impact, her spirit fainted, her heart sank to her shoes. Her love for Lacaze shriveled and died then and there. Not so her obedience. As soon as she could think clearly, Madeleine resolved to do her best to fit her principles to her husband's demands.
The result was unsatisfactory—for Madame Lacaze. You cannot make a fine wallet from a silk purse and a sow's ear. The ways of Lacaze were not Madeleine's. The grace heaven had lent her meant nothing to him. More than that—he had a will. The grace heaven had lent her, he made her discard.
The result was unsatisfactory—for Monsieur Lacaze. Madeleine bowed to his will, but not to his liking. She discarded her precious virtue only when urged—never unless urged. His will had to be expressed—always. That was where her manners, as a horse, were so imperfect. Her rider's heels ached.
Never once did Lacaze lose his temper. Better for his wife if he had. Instead, he smiled a quiet smile, set his strong teeth, and stuck to his spurs. After a month or two, his heels developed new muscles and stopped aching. From then on, the blood upon his rowels was never dry.
Her spirit had to be broken. Well, that was easy enough. It had happened before. A pair of aching heels, however, had to be paid for. Lacaze determined to break his wife's spirit by degrees.
Fortune favors the brute.
Nine months after their marriage, a pair of spurs sharper than he could ever have made fell into his lap.
A letter arrived for Madeleine while she and Lacaze sat at dinner. It came from her brother Jean.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 3 / 17
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Within twenty-four hours of her wedding, it was all over, and Madeleine had realized her plight. Of course, the blow had been frightful, stunning, too terrible to describe. The first blinding flash of perception had exploded a second; the second, a third. Her poor brain had staggered under this fearful impact, her spirit fainted, her heart sank to her shoes. Her love for Lacaze shriveled and died then and there. Not so her obedience. As soon as she could think clearly, Madeleine resolved to do her best to fit her principles to her husband's demands.
The result was unsatisfactory—for Madame Lacaze. You cannot make a fine wallet from a silk purse and a sow's ear. The ways of Lacaze were not Madeleine's. The grace heaven had lent her meant nothing to him. More than that—he had a will. The grace heaven had lent her, he made her discard.
The result was unsatisfactory—for Monsieur Lacaze. Madeleine bowed to his will, but not to his liking. She discarded her precious virtue only when urged—never unless urged. His will had to be expressed—always. That was where her manners, as a horse, were so imperfect. Her rider's heels ached.
Never once did Lacaze lose his temper. Better for his wife if he had. Instead, he smiled a quiet smile, set his strong teeth, and stuck to his spurs. After a month or two, his heels developed new muscles and stopped aching. From then on, the blood upon his rowels was never dry.
Her spirit had to be broken. Well, that was easy enough. It had happened before. A pair of aching heels, however, had to be paid for. Lacaze determined to break his wife's spirit by degrees.
Fortune favors the brute.
Nine months after their marriage, a pair of spurs sharper than he could ever have made fell into his lap.
A letter arrived for Madeleine while she and Lacaze sat at dinner. It came from her brother Jean."Dearest Madeleine, I write to say that René Dudoy has taken a job in Paris. It is a good thing for him, but he will be lonely. He has said absolutely that he will not go to see you. I expect you can guess why. But we have told him not to be silly, and that you will be a good friend, if you can be nothing else. We think you would have wished us to do this. It is true, is it not? If so, look him up. His address will be 66 rue Castetnau. Jacques and I are well, but still miss our only sister very much. The shop flourishes. We took twenty-six francs more last week than the week before, though a storm on Wednesday robbed us of six good litres. Your loving brother, Jean."
Lacaze covertly watched her as she read it and laid it down. Something—Heaven knows what—told him this was matter she did not wish him to see. He went to work delicately.
"Ah!" he cried suddenly. "I had forgotten! My dear, tomorrow put on your best gown. We are going to the wedding of Robert and José Tuyte."
Madeleine winced.
"Must we, Pierre? José Tuyte is awfully clever, I know. But she is an actress, and—and I do not go well with the stage. I am too slow for them."
(If appearing nightly in the costume of a child of seven at The Dead Rat, there to accept cigarettes and encourage the purchase of champagne, is to be an actress, Madeleine was perfectly right. That she was too slow for such a 'stage' was undeniable.)
"My dear, what would you have? Robert is a good friend, and I knew José before I knew you. They would be most hurt. Besides, marriage is like a wet sponge—it wipes clean the slate. You need not, you know, dance all the time."
"Dance?"
"Have I forgotten again? We are to have supper that night at Le Parapluie. The big room has been engaged. I tell you, it will be festive. A little below us, perhaps, but we must descend, my dear. It behooves us to descend. Their feelings must not be hurt."
Madeleine paled. Once before she had been to a festivity under the roof of Le Parapluie. The revels had haunted her ever since.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 4 / 17
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Dearest Madeleine, I write to say that René Dudoy has taken a job in Paris. It is a good thing for him, but he will be lonely. He has said absolutely that he will not go to see you. I expect you can guess why. But we have told him not to be silly, and that you will be a good friend, if you can be nothing else. We think you would have wished us to do this. It is true, is it not? If so, look him up. His address will be 66 rue Castetnau. Jacques and I are well, but still miss our only sister very much. The shop flourishes. We took twenty-six francs more last week than the week before, though a storm on Wednesday robbed us of six good litres. Your loving brother, Jean."
Lacaze covertly watched her as she read it and laid it down. Something—Heaven knows what—told him this was matter she did not wish him to see. He went to work delicately.
"Ah!" he cried suddenly. "I had forgotten! My dear, tomorrow put on your best gown. We are going to the wedding of Robert and José Tuyte."
Madeleine winced.
"Must we, Pierre? José Tuyte is awfully clever, I know. But she is an actress, and—and I do not go well with the stage. I am too slow for them."
(If appearing nightly in the costume of a child of seven at The Dead Rat, there to accept cigarettes and encourage the purchase of champagne, is to be an actress, Madeleine was perfectly right. That she was too slow for such a 'stage' was undeniable.)
"My dear, what would you have? Robert is a good friend, and I knew José before I knew you. They would be most hurt. Besides, marriage is like a wet sponge—it wipes clean the slate. You need not, you know, dance all the time."
"Dance?"
"Have I forgotten again? We are to have supper that night at Le Parapluie. The big room has been engaged. I tell you, it will be festive. A little below us, perhaps, but we must descend, my dear. It behooves us to descend. Their feelings must not be hurt."
Madeleine paled. Once before she had been to a festivity under the roof of Le Parapluie. The revels had haunted her ever since.She was about to protest, to beg to be excused, when she remembered her letter. Mercifully, this seemed to have escaped notice—so far. It occurred to her that pleasant, bright conversation might keep it safe. Desperately she tried to keep the conversation going.
Lacaze saw her anxiety and let her strive.
When the meal was over, he pushed back his chair. For the next five minutes he debated aloud whether to go out to buy tobacco or send the servant. Madeleine wanted him to go—terribly—but dared not interfere. She was, of course, quite sure he had forgotten her letter. Her only fear was he would catch sight of it again.
At last Lacaze decided to go himself. He rose, found his hat, chucked her under the chin, and left the room.
Madeleine thrust the letter into her dress and thanked God.
Then the door opened and her husband put in his head.
"I quite forgot," he said, smiling. "What does young Jean have to say?"
His wife took the letter from her bosom and gave it into his hand.
He read it deliberately. At last he said gaily, "Poor René. So I put a spoke in his wheel. Dear, dear. We must try to make up for it. I seem to remember him faintly—a calf with curly fair hair. '66 rue Castetnau.' Good." He handed the letter back. "We'll call there next Sunday morning. The better the day, the better the deed. 'Lonely.' Poor clod, what a shame! But for Lacaze, the steeplejack, he might have been watching your pretty pink hands ladle cream into pots while he counted the takings and gave change. Certainly we must make up for it—so far as we can."
He sighed and went out.
As he closed the door, his eyes gleamed. He walked down the passage thoughtfully, licking his lips.
Madeleine sat staring at the disordered table. Long ago, misery had taken up residence in her eyes. Now despair had joined it. She was truly frightened.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 5 / 17
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She was about to protest, to beg to be excused, when she remembered her letter. Mercifully, this seemed to have escaped notice—so far. It occurred to her that pleasant, bright conversation might keep it safe. Desperately she tried to keep the conversation going.
Lacaze saw her anxiety and let her strive.
When the meal was over, he pushed back his chair. For the next five minutes he debated aloud whether to go out to buy tobacco or send the servant. Madeleine wanted him to go—terribly—but dared not interfere. She was, of course, quite sure he had forgotten her letter. Her only fear was he would catch sight of it again.
At last Lacaze decided to go himself. He rose, found his hat, chucked her under the chin, and left the room.
Madeleine thrust the letter into her dress and thanked God.
Then the door opened and her husband put in his head.
"I quite forgot," he said, smiling. "What does young Jean have to say?"
His wife took the letter from her bosom and gave it into his hand.
He read it deliberately. At last he said gaily, "Poor René. So I put a spoke in his wheel. Dear, dear. We must try to make up for it. I seem to remember him faintly—a calf with curly fair hair. '66 rue Castetnau.' Good." He handed the letter back. "We'll call there next Sunday morning. The better the day, the better the deed. 'Lonely.' Poor clod, what a shame! But for Lacaze, the steeplejack, he might have been watching your pretty pink hands ladle cream into pots while he counted the takings and gave change. Certainly we must make up for it—so far as we can."
He sighed and went out.
As he closed the door, his eyes gleamed. He walked down the passage thoughtfully, licking his lips.
Madeleine sat staring at the disordered table. Long ago, misery had taken up residence in her eyes. Now despair had joined it. She was truly frightened.Lacaze was perfectly right. But for him, she would have married René. Ever since her disastrous wedding day, she had tried not to think about the past, the old days. As for what might have been, she had rigidly shut it from her thoughts. As if to mock her, fate now flaunted it in front of her. Again, God knew she was patient—to a fault. But her husband's mockery of René had made her cheeks burn. That it made her heart warmer towards her old sweetheart, she did not realize. That it was intended to do so, only another Lacaze could have guessed. The man was evil.
Finally, Madeleine knew in her heart that she had always loved René, and never Lacaze; that she had loved René very much; that at this moment she loved him more than ever.
All things considered, it is not surprising that this Silvia was thoroughly frightened. There were breakers ahead.
Lacaze knew he could trust his wife. He knew she was loyal, incorruptible, holy. Trading on this holiness, he practically thrust the lovers into each other's arms. Before his powerful will, the two poor wretches were helpless.
The climax came on a beautiful July evening.
Dudoy had been asked to call for Madeleine and take her to the Café de la Forêt Noire. There the two were to wait until the steeplejack joined them.
"You know my corner," he had said. "Take it and sip your syrup until I arrive. I shall not be long, but Notre Dame is ailing. She has a crack, poor lady, in one of her towers. To be frank, it is an awkward business. I hope I shan't slip. If I did—well, you two would take care of each other, would you not?" He pinched his wife's ear. "Still, we will hope and pray my poor life may be spared."
At a quarter to seven, then, honest, curly-haired René strode down the Rue de Tocqueville to embrace his sorrow. Madame Lacaze was ready, and the two left at once.
On their way through the bustling streets, they spoke little. Ordinary conversation was hard to manage. They saved their composure for the table by the window at the Café de la Forêt Noire.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 6 / 17
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Lacaze was perfectly right. But for him, she would have married René. Ever since her disastrous wedding day, she had tried not to think about the past, the old days. As for what might have been, she had rigidly shut it from her thoughts. As if to mock her, fate now flaunted it in front of her. Again, God knew she was patient—to a fault. But her husband's mockery of René had made her cheeks burn. That it made her heart warmer towards her old sweetheart, she did not realize. That it was intended to do so, only another Lacaze could have guessed. The man was evil.
Finally, Madeleine knew in her heart that she had always loved René, and never Lacaze; that she had loved René very much; that at this moment she loved him more than ever.
All things considered, it is not surprising that this Silvia was thoroughly frightened. There were breakers ahead.
Lacaze knew he could trust his wife. He knew she was loyal, incorruptible, holy. Trading on this holiness, he practically thrust the lovers into each other's arms. Before his powerful will, the two poor wretches were helpless.
The climax came on a beautiful July evening.
Dudoy had been asked to call for Madeleine and take her to the Café de la Forêt Noire. There the two were to wait until the steeplejack joined them.
"You know my corner," he had said. "Take it and sip your syrup until I arrive. I shall not be long, but Notre Dame is ailing. She has a crack, poor lady, in one of her towers. To be frank, it is an awkward business. I hope I shan't slip. If I did—well, you two would take care of each other, would you not?" He pinched his wife's ear. "Still, we will hope and pray my poor life may be spared."
At a quarter to seven, then, honest, curly-haired René strode down the Rue de Tocqueville to embrace his sorrow. Madame Lacaze was ready, and the two left at once.
On their way through the bustling streets, they spoke little. Ordinary conversation was hard to manage. They saved their composure for the table by the window at the Café de la Forêt Noire.They arrived soon enough. René saw Madeleine seated and ordered drinks. Then they began to talk—stiffly. Madeleine worked hard and succeeded. After a while, Dudoy began to be more at ease.
Then a laughing, mischievous child came and snapped the fragile calm in two.
What happened exactly was this: the little one had escaped from his parents three tables away. Liking the look of the couple, he came straight to them, showed them his toy watch, gave them both kisses, and then demanded they draw a castle. Without pencil or paper, they couldn't. Madeleine gently explained. The child, as stubborn as Pharaoh, ignored the objection and tearfully insisted. The two tried everything to distract him. Then the parents, who had been deep in conversation, looked for their child. Madeleine and René were rescued just in time.
The radiant father and mother were full of apologies.
"Forgive us, please. We were talking, and for a moment we forgot. At this age they need watching every second. When you have a fine, fat boy, you will understand."
Hats were raised, smiles exchanged, and the incident closed.
Madeleine and René sat ready to burst into tears.
At last René said hoarsely, "Mon Dieu! It is not to be borne! I am a man, am I not? With blood in my veins? I am not a stock or a stone. I have a heart, Madeleine, a broken heart—that cries and cries. All the time we make small talk, my heart is crying."
"René, René," Madeleine wailed, "why do you come? Why did you come today? Why yesterday? Why the day before?"
"He makes me!" cried René. "You know it. I have no choice. Besides, the hours he grants me are pure gold. I cannot throw them away. That evening I did not come, I nearly died. I sat and drank absinthe and wept till they asked me to leave. The owner was very kind. He understood perfectly. But it was bad for business."
"It was very bad for you," said Madeleine seriously. "But listen, René. You are wrong. Those hours are not golden at all. They are sharp steel that—"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 7 / 17
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
They arrived soon enough. René saw Madeleine seated and ordered drinks. Then they began to talk—stiffly. Madeleine worked hard and succeeded. After a while, Dudoy began to be more at ease.
Then a laughing, mischievous child came and snapped the fragile calm in two.
What happened exactly was this: the little one had escaped from his parents three tables away. Liking the look of the couple, he came straight to them, showed them his toy watch, gave them both kisses, and then demanded they draw a castle. Without pencil or paper, they couldn't. Madeleine gently explained. The child, as stubborn as Pharaoh, ignored the objection and tearfully insisted. The two tried everything to distract him. Then the parents, who had been deep in conversation, looked for their child. Madeleine and René were rescued just in time.
The radiant father and mother were full of apologies.
"Forgive us, please. We were talking, and for a moment we forgot. At this age they need watching every second. When you have a fine, fat boy, you will understand."
Hats were raised, smiles exchanged, and the incident closed.
Madeleine and René sat ready to burst into tears.
At last René said hoarsely, "Mon Dieu! It is not to be borne! I am a man, am I not? With blood in my veins? I am not a stock or a stone. I have a heart, Madeleine, a broken heart—that cries and cries. All the time we make small talk, my heart is crying."
"René, René," Madeleine wailed, "why do you come? Why did you come today? Why yesterday? Why the day before?"
"He makes me!" cried René. "You know it. I have no choice. Besides, the hours he grants me are pure gold. I cannot throw them away. That evening I did not come, I nearly died. I sat and drank absinthe and wept till they asked me to leave. The owner was very kind. He understood perfectly. But it was bad for business."
"It was very bad for you," said Madeleine seriously. "But listen, René. You are wrong. Those hours are not golden at all. They are sharp steel that—""Gold or steel," breathed René, "I do not care. They are spent in your company. There's a fence between us, I know—a hell of a fence—but we can peer through the bars. It is allowed to touch you, to watch your mouth move, to hear the music of your voice—and then, when you are gone, to embrace a memory."
"Hush, René, hush! Mon Dieu, will you have me faint?"
"Madeleine, Madeleine, why did you marry Pierre? Ah, I don't blame you! Don't think that. It was your own affair. Only... we could have been happy, I think, and—and I can draw quite good castles, like the one that little one wanted..." His voice broke, and a tear slid down Madeleine's cheek. She wiped it away quickly. Dudoy pulled himself together. "Bah! The milk is spilled. I watched you spill it at Ruffec that autumn day. Now, alas, you go thirsty! I feared you would. And I am thirsty too, my dear, for I would have drunk that milk. Consider, then. Since we both thirst, it is better to share our misfortune and wait for the pitcher the good God may send again." He paused. "A steeplejack's work," he muttered, "is very dangerous." Madeleine shivered. "One day, perhaps—perhaps this very evening—he will not come back."
The girl shook her head.
"Yes, he will," she said dully. "Pierre will never slip." She started violently. "Mon Dieu, what have I said? Ah, René, believe me, I was thinking of something else. The heat, perhaps..." She laughed hysterically. "You said 'the past is dead.' Yes, the past is dead."
The man did not hear. His eyes were burning with hope.
"I love you," he said unsteadily. "I love your beautiful hands. I love your soft, dark hair. I cannot play with it now because of the bars. But one day the bars will break, and I shall come and bury my face in its glory. Be sure, my heart, I shall wait and wait always... until the bars fall. See how the good God has shown us a light in our darkness. We will not be sad when we are together, but remember that we are waiting... just waiting... until the bars fall..."
Head high, stiff, white-faced, Madeleine sat staring without seeing. But her ears heard clearly. After a moment she steeled herself and drew a deep breath. Holy, fair, and wise, her resolve was taken.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 8 / 17
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Gold or steel," breathed René, "I do not care. They are spent in your company. There's a fence between us, I know—a hell of a fence—but we can peer through the bars. It is allowed to touch you, to watch your mouth move, to hear the music of your voice—and then, when you are gone, to embrace a memory."
"Hush, René, hush! Mon Dieu, will you have me faint?"
"Madeleine, Madeleine, why did you marry Pierre? Ah, I don't blame you! Don't think that. It was your own affair. Only... we could have been happy, I think, and—and I can draw quite good castles, like the one that little one wanted..." His voice broke, and a tear slid down Madeleine's cheek. She wiped it away quickly. Dudoy pulled himself together. "Bah! The milk is spilled. I watched you spill it at Ruffec that autumn day. Now, alas, you go thirsty! I feared you would. And I am thirsty too, my dear, for I would have drunk that milk. Consider, then. Since we both thirst, it is better to share our misfortune and wait for the pitcher the good God may send again." He paused. "A steeplejack's work," he muttered, "is very dangerous." Madeleine shivered. "One day, perhaps—perhaps this very evening—he will not come back."
The girl shook her head.
"Yes, he will," she said dully. "Pierre will never slip." She started violently. "Mon Dieu, what have I said? Ah, René, believe me, I was thinking of something else. The heat, perhaps..." She laughed hysterically. "You said 'the past is dead.' Yes, the past is dead."
The man did not hear. His eyes were burning with hope.
"I love you," he said unsteadily. "I love your beautiful hands. I love your soft, dark hair. I cannot play with it now because of the bars. But one day the bars will break, and I shall come and bury my face in its glory. Be sure, my heart, I shall wait and wait always... until the bars fall. See how the good God has shown us a light in our darkness. We will not be sad when we are together, but remember that we are waiting... just waiting... until the bars fall..."
Head high, stiff, white-faced, Madeleine sat staring without seeing. But her ears heard clearly. After a moment she steeled herself and drew a deep breath. Holy, fair, and wise, her resolve was taken."I do not see," she said slowly, "that we have anything to share—you and I. A year ago, perhaps, there might have been something. But, as you said, the past is dead. And since we have nothing to share, René, it would be so much better if... if..."
She hesitated and passed a hand across her eyes.
René stared.
"But what are you saying?" he cried. "You go back to the beginning. We have settled this. You said our hours were not golden. I have shown you—"
"You have shown me that it is better, René, that we should not meet anymore."
"Not alone, perhaps. You are right, sweetheart. I'll arrange that somehow. Now that we understand each other—"
"I wish," said Madeleine steadily, "that you would leave Paris."
The other drew back. "What!" he cried. "Leave Paris? Mon Dieu! It is more than I can bear." He leaned back in his chair and wiped sweat from his face. "You must be ill," he said. "To hear you talk, one would think you didn't care," he added desperately.
"I do not care," said Madeleine.
The young man started as if she had stabbed him. Then he went very white.
"I do not care," she repeated. "I do not want to hurt you, but you have made a mistake. Jean wrote to me and said you were very sad. He said you would not come to see me because you could not forget. I showed your letter to Pierre, and we agreed we must be kind to you. We thought that if you saw how happy we were, you would join in our happiness and be cured. Instead, you have grown worse. More—you have made it very awkward for me. I tried to be kind, and you mistook my kindness.
It is really very difficult, René, but you see, we are not in the same situation at all. I should have told you at once, but I didn't want to hurt you, and it seemed harmless. It is difficult to tell a man—even an old friend—such a thing. But now it is beyond a joke..."
René winced, and Madeleine, with white lips and a bleeding heart, struggled on.
"You see, I have not told Pierre. And I don't want him to make a mistake. I don't think he would, but one never knows. And if he did, it would be very awkward for me. I wouldn't know how to prove he was wrong.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 9 / 17
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"I do not see," she said slowly, "that we have anything to share—you and I. A year ago, perhaps, there might have been something. But, as you said, the past is dead. And since we have nothing to share, René, it would be so much better if... if..."
She hesitated and passed a hand across her eyes.
René stared.
"But what are you saying?" he cried. "You go back to the beginning. We have settled this. You said our hours were not golden. I have shown you—"
"You have shown me that it is better, René, that we should not meet anymore."
"Not alone, perhaps. You are right, sweetheart. I'll arrange that somehow. Now that we understand each other—"
"I wish," said Madeleine steadily, "that you would leave Paris."
The other drew back. "What!" he cried. "Leave Paris? Mon Dieu! It is more than I can bear." He leaned back in his chair and wiped sweat from his face. "You must be ill," he said. "To hear you talk, one would think you didn't care," he added desperately.
"I do not care," said Madeleine.
The young man started as if she had stabbed him. Then he went very white.
"I do not care," she repeated. "I do not want to hurt you, but you have made a mistake. Jean wrote to me and said you were very sad. He said you would not come to see me because you could not forget. I showed your letter to Pierre, and we agreed we must be kind to you. We thought that if you saw how happy we were, you would join in our happiness and be cured. Instead, you have grown worse. More—you have made it very awkward for me. I tried to be kind, and you mistook my kindness.
It is really very difficult, René, but you see, we are not in the same situation at all. I should have told you at once, but I didn't want to hurt you, and it seemed harmless. It is difficult to tell a man—even an old friend—such a thing. But now it is beyond a joke..."
René winced, and Madeleine, with white lips and a bleeding heart, struggled on.
"You see, I have not told Pierre. And I don't want him to make a mistake. I don't think he would, but one never knows. And if he did, it would be very awkward for me. I wouldn't know how to prove he was wrong."And so, my friend, when I said those hours are sharp steel, I was right. They pierce your heart, I'm afraid, and they embarrass me. Don't look like that, René! I tell you, I had hoped—"
"Hope?" cried René with a wild laugh. "I don't know what hope is."
At that moment Lacaze appeared, smiling and nodding good-naturedly.
"Did you think I was dead?" he crowed. "I suppose you did. As a matter of fact, I've been off the ground. Notre Dame wasn't ready for me. Instead, I've been talking business." He jerked his head toward the window behind them. "I was sitting in there and became so absorbed I forgot our meeting. Then I heard your voices, and remembered." He took his seat between them and looked around. "Now, about supper... I think a nice little ragout, with potatoes en robe de chambre."
The party was not a success. René pleaded night work and left at once. As for Madeleine, she fainted before the ragout was served.
All things considered, I am inclined to think that when Madame Lacaze deceived the man she loved because he was not her husband, she made another mistake. But then I am of the earth, earthy. What cannot be denied is that it was a most admirable action. "So shines a good deed in a naughty world." Probably the trouble was that she did not trust herself. René's desire to make "wait" their watchword was dangerous, because it was sweet. It would have been the thin end of the wedge. Madeleine was determined to play the game. It was not Lacaze she stood by, but the office he held; it was not Dudoy she sent away, but the devil himself. That her lover did not stand in her husband's shoes was her misfortune, but it did not affect her duty. She was a good girl.
Ten days after that dreadful evening, the war came with a crash.
The electric atmosphere of the next three months saved Madeleine's life. No spirit, however sick, could fail to respond to such excitement.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 10 / 17
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"And so, my friend, when I said those hours are sharp steel, I was right. They pierce your heart, I'm afraid, and they embarrass me. Don't look like that, René! I tell you, I had hoped—"
"Hope?" cried René with a wild laugh. "I don't know what hope is."
At that moment Lacaze appeared, smiling and nodding good-naturedly.
"Did you think I was dead?" he crowed. "I suppose you did. As a matter of fact, I've been off the ground. Notre Dame wasn't ready for me. Instead, I've been talking business." He jerked his head toward the window behind them. "I was sitting in there and became so absorbed I forgot our meeting. Then I heard your voices, and remembered." He took his seat between them and looked around. "Now, about supper... I think a nice little ragout, with potatoes en robe de chambre."
The party was not a success. René pleaded night work and left at once. As for Madeleine, she fainted before the ragout was served.
All things considered, I am inclined to think that when Madame Lacaze deceived the man she loved because he was not her husband, she made another mistake. But then I am of the earth, earthy. What cannot be denied is that it was a most admirable action. "So shines a good deed in a naughty world." Probably the trouble was that she did not trust herself. René's desire to make "wait" their watchword was dangerous, because it was sweet. It would have been the thin end of the wedge. Madeleine was determined to play the game. It was not Lacaze she stood by, but the office he held; it was not Dudoy she sent away, but the devil himself. That her lover did not stand in her husband's shoes was her misfortune, but it did not affect her duty. She was a good girl.
Ten days after that dreadful evening, the war came with a crash.
The electric atmosphere of the next three months saved Madeleine's life. No spirit, however sick, could fail to respond to such excitement.
Lacaze, the steeplejack, the lion, welcomed war with flashing eyes. From the moment the storm broke, his one idea was to kill. When the time came, he fought with twice the ardor with which he had once mastered high places. He soon became a sergeant; he was worth ten ordinary men. In all his pride, however, he never forgot how his heels had ached. Besides, his wife's dismissal of Dudoy had made him frown.
Before he left for the front, he arranged everything. In answer to the official questions, he stated he was unmarried and gave the name of Madame José Beer (née Tuyte) as his next of kin.
Then he visited José and told her of her new role.
José was flattered but curious. Lacaze explained. "Now, if I am killed, you will get the news."
"I shall mourn," said José.
"As you please," said Lacaze. "But burn the paper at once and keep quiet. Tell no one. You know that Madeleine is very proud." He sighed. "No use mincing words. Her pride has caused me much grief. You and I are not good enough for her. She would, I think, like to be free. If she were..." He paused and shrugged. "There is a young officer somewhere. They correspond..."
"The hussy!" raged José. "The hussy! Trust me. She shall never be free." Her voice grew quiet. "But Pierre, dear, I shall not get such news. It is unthinkable..."
"Perhaps not," said Pierre shortly, taking his leave. "But remember what I said. I trust you to see justice done."
"Never fear," cried José, her piggy eyes gleaming.
Finally, the steeplejack spoke with his wife. He chose their last night together.
It was a stifling evening; such air as found its way into their apartment was stale, heavy with odors from nearby kitchens. Above the traffic's roar, newsvendors' cries rose like sirens.
Madeleine sat by a window, sewing hard. Lacaze lounged on a settee, smoking calmly and oiling a pair of boots.
Madeleine finished her stitching and cut the thread. Then she held up her work and turned it this way and that. After a moment she rose and went to her husband.
"Is this what you want, Pierre? It doesn't look very good, but I think it will wear well. If it's right, I'll do the other shoulder."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 11 / 17
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Lacaze, the steeplejack, the lion, welcomed war with flashing eyes. From the moment the storm broke, his one idea was to kill. When the time came, he fought with twice the ardor with which he had once mastered high places. He soon became a sergeant; he was worth ten ordinary men. In all his pride, however, he never forgot how his heels had ached. Besides, his wife's dismissal of Dudoy had made him frown.
Before he left for the front, he arranged everything. In answer to the official questions, he stated he was unmarried and gave the name of Madame José Beer (née Tuyte) as his next of kin.
Then he visited José and told her of her new role.
José was flattered but curious. Lacaze explained. "Now, if I am killed, you will get the news."
"I shall mourn," said José.
"As you please," said Lacaze. "But burn the paper at once and keep quiet. Tell no one. You know that Madeleine is very proud." He sighed. "No use mincing words. Her pride has caused me much grief. You and I are not good enough for her. She would, I think, like to be free. If she were..." He paused and shrugged. "There is a young officer somewhere. They correspond..."
"The hussy!" raged José. "The hussy! Trust me. She shall never be free." Her voice grew quiet. "But Pierre, dear, I shall not get such news. It is unthinkable..."
"Perhaps not," said Pierre shortly, taking his leave. "But remember what I said. I trust you to see justice done."
"Never fear," cried José, her piggy eyes gleaming.
Finally, the steeplejack spoke with his wife. He chose their last night together.
It was a stifling evening; such air as found its way into their apartment was stale, heavy with odors from nearby kitchens. Above the traffic's roar, newsvendors' cries rose like sirens.
Madeleine sat by a window, sewing hard. Lacaze lounged on a settee, smoking calmly and oiling a pair of boots.
Madeleine finished her stitching and cut the thread. Then she held up her work and turned it this way and that. After a moment she rose and went to her husband.
"Is this what you want, Pierre? It doesn't look very good, but I think it will wear well. If it's right, I'll do the other shoulder."Lacaze examined the shirt. It was of cotton, green and grey stripes. Over one shoulder, strips of fine linen had been laid as padding, quilted beautifully.
"But this is charming," he said, cocking his head. "Ah, what it is to be loved! If René could see this, he'd jump into the Seine. I shall be teased about it, of course. No one will believe this was a wife's work. Never mind. I am content. I shall be cool in these hot days, and my shoulders won't be sore." He looked closely at the linen. "Where did you find this cloth?"
"I cut up a chemise."
"Sweeter and sweeter," he crowed. "The soldier goes to war with his sweetheart on his shoulder. My dear, you are getting quite gay. How did you think of such a charming idea?"
"I didn't," said Madeleine coldly. "I had nothing else."
"Use nothing else," said Lacaze. "But always have a new shirt, like this one, waiting for me when I return. For I will return, my sweet. Never doubt it. Nothing will happen to me. I shall always come back." He caught her arm and smiled into her eyes. "Do you hear, my beautiful wife? Do you understand? Poor Pierre will always return. Jean may lie in the mud, Jacques may be thrown into a grave, René may writhe in agony with a bullet inside him. But I, your husband, will always come back." He released her and leaned back. "Now, is that not good news? That you will not be a widow? Believe me, my dear, you are a lucky woman. Of course, I may not always come back to you, for we poor soldiers are easily led astray... But I shall not be killed. You'll see. And in the end, you will triumph, and I shall come back."
When Madeleine could speak, she asked what money she would have for herself and the apartment.
His answer was clear. "I have given up the apartment and sold the furniture. You will stay with the Marats and go out to work. I have been thinking what you could do, and you have shown me. If you sew well, you will make a good living."
Madeleine walked to the window and picked up the remains of her chemise. The garment made her thoughts wander. She let them go...
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 12 / 17
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Lacaze examined the shirt. It was of cotton, green and grey stripes. Over one shoulder, strips of fine linen had been laid as padding, quilted beautifully.
"But this is charming," he said, cocking his head. "Ah, what it is to be loved! If René could see this, he'd jump into the Seine. I shall be teased about it, of course. No one will believe this was a wife's work. Never mind. I am content. I shall be cool in these hot days, and my shoulders won't be sore." He looked closely at the linen. "Where did you find this cloth?"
"I cut up a chemise."
"Sweeter and sweeter," he crowed. "The soldier goes to war with his sweetheart on his shoulder. My dear, you are getting quite gay. How did you think of such a charming idea?"
"I didn't," said Madeleine coldly. "I had nothing else."
"Use nothing else," said Lacaze. "But always have a new shirt, like this one, waiting for me when I return. For I will return, my sweet. Never doubt it. Nothing will happen to me. I shall always come back." He caught her arm and smiled into her eyes. "Do you hear, my beautiful wife? Do you understand? Poor Pierre will always return. Jean may lie in the mud, Jacques may be thrown into a grave, René may writhe in agony with a bullet inside him. But I, your husband, will always come back." He released her and leaned back. "Now, is that not good news? That you will not be a widow? Believe me, my dear, you are a lucky woman. Of course, I may not always come back to you, for we poor soldiers are easily led astray... But I shall not be killed. You'll see. And in the end, you will triumph, and I shall come back."
When Madeleine could speak, she asked what money she would have for herself and the apartment.
His answer was clear. "I have given up the apartment and sold the furniture. You will stay with the Marats and go out to work. I have been thinking what you could do, and you have shown me. If you sew well, you will make a good living."
Madeleine walked to the window and picked up the remains of her chemise. The garment made her thoughts wander. She let them go...In an instant she was at Ruffec, walking the cool, quiet streets. There was old Monsieur Laffargue, the doctor, getting down from his gig. He smiled and teased her about her cheeks. "You must do something," he said. "I don't know what. No one will ever believe there's no paint on them." She passed on, smiling. A voice called from a window. It was Madame Durand, the postman's wife. "Madeleine, Madeleine, my sister has had a son. A great, fat boy, they say, four kilos at birth. Isn't it wonderful?" Madeleine rejoiced with her and went on. Then Père Fréchou stopped her to give her five great peaches—two for each of her eyes and one for her pretty red lips.
She came to the Rue de l'Image, all lit by the evening sun. The shop awnings made it look like a toy street. And there, striding into the sunlight, came René Dudoy. His healthy young face lit up. "I was on my way, Madeleine, to tell you my good luck. The boss has given me the order for three stone mantelpieces at the Château St. Pol, and I am to do them and set them in place." "Oh, René, I'm so glad! Go tell Jean and Jacques. Or better, go home, get Marie, and bring her to supper. See what Père Fréchou gave me. We'll eat them tonight in your honor. There's plenty of cream." René's face was a picture. Madeleine passed on thoughtfully. At the draper's, she chose cloth, hesitating. Madame Bidart was kind and offered a good price, but the old lady refused to sell the linen she picked. "It is not good enough," she declared. "But this is superb, fit for a king's daughter." "But I am not a king's daughter," protested Madeleine, laughing.
"You are an angel from heaven," said Madame Bidart. "I tell you—"
"How long will you be?" said Lacaze with a yawn. "It's getting late, and I must be up at five."
"A quarter of an hour," said his wife, and bent to her work.
The night was stifling.
Madeleine's younger brother was killed that fateful August. By early September, Jean had been captured. Of René, she heard nothing.
For that matter, she heard nothing of Lacaze either. He had not told her his regiment. He never wrote. He might well have been dead.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 13 / 17
# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
In an instant she was at Ruffec, walking the cool, quiet streets. There was old Monsieur Laffargue, the doctor, getting down from his gig. He smiled and teased her about her cheeks. "You must do something," he said. "I don't know what. No one will ever believe there's no paint on them." She passed on, smiling. A voice called from a window. It was Madame Durand, the postman's wife. "Madeleine, Madeleine, my sister has had a son. A great, fat boy, they say, four kilos at birth. Isn't it wonderful?" Madeleine rejoiced with her and went on. Then Père Fréchou stopped her to give her five great peaches—two for each of her eyes and one for her pretty red lips.
She came to the Rue de l'Image, all lit by the evening sun. The shop awnings made it look like a toy street. And there, striding into the sunlight, came René Dudoy. His healthy young face lit up. "I was on my way, Madeleine, to tell you my good luck. The boss has given me the order for three stone mantelpieces at the Château St. Pol, and I am to do them and set them in place." "Oh, René, I'm so glad! Go tell Jean and Jacques. Or better, go home, get Marie, and bring her to supper. See what Père Fréchou gave me. We'll eat them tonight in your honor. There's plenty of cream." René's face was a picture. Madeleine passed on thoughtfully. At the draper's, she chose cloth, hesitating. Madame Bidart was kind and offered a good price, but the old lady refused to sell the linen she picked. "It is not good enough," she declared. "But this is superb, fit for a king's daughter." "But I am not a king's daughter," protested Madeleine, laughing.
"You are an angel from heaven," said Madame Bidart. "I tell you—"
"How long will you be?" said Lacaze with a yawn. "It's getting late, and I must be up at five."
"A quarter of an hour," said his wife, and bent to her work.
The night was stifling.
Madeleine's younger brother was killed that fateful August. By early September, Jean had been captured. Of René, she heard nothing.
For that matter, she heard nothing of Lacaze either. He had not told her his regiment. He never wrote. He might well have been dead.He came to see her at last, one dark December morning... When he left, he took a shirt with him.
Twice more he came, and each time took another shirt. He swore by these garments, called them his lucky charms, and declared he could never be killed while she "sat on his shoulders."
The idea took root. Madeleine began to believe her linen was keeping him alive. She tried to be grateful.
Two shirts remained to be done. One Sunday, as she set to work, she found her chemise was gone. She had used all the cloth. Her impulse was to buy new linen, and she would have, without a second thought, except for his mocking words. As it was, the temptation was terrible.
Why should she cut up more of her own clothes? And putting faith in charms was vain, even heathen. What good could they do? But suppose... suppose there was some power in linen she had worn... Well, what if there were?
She put the shirt aside and went for a walk. The next morning she bought new linen.
A week later, after Mass, she cut up another chemise.
The third winter of the war crept upon a frantic world. Lacaze did not come. He had not appeared since April 1916. Madeleine began to wonder...
When the new year came, she went to the War Office. She did not get far.
"You are his wife?" asked the clerk.
"Yes."
"What is his regiment?"
"I don't know. He never told me."
"Let me see one of his letters."
"I have none. He never writes."
"Nor you to him?"
"Never. He was a sergeant, I think."
The clerk shrugged. "Many are. Are you sure you're married?"
"Of course."
"Then, madame, he is safe. No news is good news. You would have heard by now. Calm yourself. He'll come back."
But Lacaze did not come.
In June, she went again. The same clerk asked the same questions, shrugged, and gave the same answer.
That autumn, her orders fell off. People were beginning to sew for themselves. Madeleine could hardly find two days' work a week. The Marats, seeing what was coming, gave her notice without a qualm. They felt no guilt, for they could say she was a soldier's wife who could not pay her way. As it was, they looked the world in the face. They also canceled, with sighs, their subscription to an orphanage because they had lost a paying guest.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 14 / 17
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
He came to see her at last, one dark December morning... When he left, he took a shirt with him.
Twice more he came, and each time took another shirt. He swore by these garments, called them his lucky charms, and declared he could never be killed while she "sat on his shoulders."
The idea took root. Madeleine began to believe her linen was keeping him alive. She tried to be grateful.
Two shirts remained to be done. One Sunday, as she set to work, she found her chemise was gone. She had used all the cloth. Her impulse was to buy new linen, and she would have, without a second thought, except for his mocking words. As it was, the temptation was terrible.
Why should she cut up more of her own clothes? And putting faith in charms was vain, even heathen. What good could they do? But suppose... suppose there was some power in linen she had worn... Well, what if there were?
She put the shirt aside and went for a walk. The next morning she bought new linen.
A week later, after Mass, she cut up another chemise.
The third winter of the war crept upon a frantic world. Lacaze did not come. He had not appeared since April 1916. Madeleine began to wonder...
When the new year came, she went to the War Office. She did not get far.
"You are his wife?" asked the clerk.
"Yes."
"What is his regiment?"
"I don't know. He never told me."
"Let me see one of his letters."
"I have none. He never writes."
"Nor you to him?"
"Never. He was a sergeant, I think."
The clerk shrugged. "Many are. Are you sure you're married?"
"Of course."
"Then, madame, he is safe. No news is good news. You would have heard by now. Calm yourself. He'll come back."
But Lacaze did not come.
In June, she went again. The same clerk asked the same questions, shrugged, and gave the same answer.
That autumn, her orders fell off. People were beginning to sew for themselves. Madeleine could hardly find two days' work a week. The Marats, seeing what was coming, gave her notice without a qualm. They felt no guilt, for they could say she was a soldier's wife who could not pay her way. As it was, they looked the world in the face. They also canceled, with sighs, their subscription to an orphanage because they had lost a paying guest.Madeleine entered the service of an English officer's wife.
Early in 1918, she received a letter from Jean.
"Dearest Madeleine, I have come back alive from death. I was a prisoner for nearly four years. Now I have been exchanged because I am of no more use to France. My right arm is gone, and I am run down. But take heart. The doctor says I'll be strong in ten or twelve months. I am with the Dudoys. René has been back for some time.
Do you know he is blind?"
Blind... Those gentle grey eyes sightless. Those strong brown fingers feeling their way.
Madeleine was at the War Office within half an hour. A different clerk, a kindly man, heard her case.
He told her, "Madame, be happy. Your husband is certainly safe. Take my word. He hasn't a scratch. If anything had happened, you'd have heard at once. His silence is easily explained—he's probably in the East, Salonika, making the Bulgars sweat. His letters were sunk, no doubt. These Germans! Madame, believe me, he will come back."
Madeleine crept out of the building as if from a dock. She had committed a crime and received judgment.
She would have given anything to go to Ruffec... anything except the one thing she had: her self-respect. If she went back, if she saw those groping fingers, her heart would break, and she would lose her only treasure. She was a good girl.
Eighteen months passed. Then Lady Joan Satinwood told her French maid that she intended to winter in France.
"We'll drive down, Madeleine—the Major and I, you and the chauffeur. It will be great fun, and you'll be thrilled to see your country again."
"Yes, madame."
"I suppose you've had no news?"
"Of my husband? No, madame."
"I'm sorry. But don't lose hope. Remember my cousin Sir George, reported killed. Two and a half years later, he walked in."
"Yes, madame."
When Madeleine learned in mid-Channel that they would pass through Poitiers, she felt faint. Poitiers lies north of Ruffec, only forty-one miles away.
"And from Poitiers?" she asked the chauffeur.
"Angoulême," he said. "Vivonne, Chaunay, Ruffec, Angoulême. Sleep there. Then Barbézieux, Bordeaux." He dropped his itinerary and caught her as she swayed. He carried her to the saloon...
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 15 / 17
# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Madeleine entered the service of an English officer's wife.
Early in 1918, she received a letter from Jean.
"Dearest Madeleine, I have come back alive from death. I was a prisoner for nearly four years. Now I have been exchanged because I am of no more use to France. My right arm is gone, and I am run down. But take heart. The doctor says I'll be strong in ten or twelve months. I am with the Dudoys. René has been back for some time.
Do you know he is blind?"
Blind... Those gentle grey eyes sightless. Those strong brown fingers feeling their way.
Madeleine was at the War Office within half an hour. A different clerk, a kindly man, heard her case.
He told her, "Madame, be happy. Your husband is certainly safe. Take my word. He hasn't a scratch. If anything had happened, you'd have heard at once. His silence is easily explained—he's probably in the East, Salonika, making the Bulgars sweat. His letters were sunk, no doubt. These Germans! Madame, believe me, he will come back."
Madeleine crept out of the building as if from a dock. She had committed a crime and received judgment.
She would have given anything to go to Ruffec... anything except the one thing she had: her self-respect. If she went back, if she saw those groping fingers, her heart would break, and she would lose her only treasure. She was a good girl.
Eighteen months passed. Then Lady Joan Satinwood told her French maid that she intended to winter in France.
"We'll drive down, Madeleine—the Major and I, you and the chauffeur. It will be great fun, and you'll be thrilled to see your country again."
"Yes, madame."
"I suppose you've had no news?"
"Of my husband? No, madame."
"I'm sorry. But don't lose hope. Remember my cousin Sir George, reported killed. Two and a half years later, he walked in."
"Yes, madame."
When Madeleine learned in mid-Channel that they would pass through Poitiers, she felt faint. Poitiers lies north of Ruffec, only forty-one miles away.
"And from Poitiers?" she asked the chauffeur.
"Angoulême," he said. "Vivonne, Chaunay, Ruffec, Angoulême. Sleep there. Then Barbézieux, Bordeaux." He dropped his itinerary and caught her as she swayed. He carried her to the saloon...Later, he said to a friend, "I asked if she was a good sailor, too."
Four days later, as they entered Poitiers, a brake rod snapped. No great damage, but the car was towed to a garage for Terry, the chauffeur, to fix. He was good and preferred his own hands.
The car was lifted, and Terry got to work. Madeleine stood by to translate.
After half an hour, the job was done. Terry called for waste to wipe his hands. A mechanic brought a cardboard box labeled "Essuyages Aseptisés."
"What's this?" said Terry. "Dog biscuits?"
"Sterilized rags," the mechanic said. "We use nothing else."
Terry opened the box and pulled out a piece of cloth. Madeleine took the box and put it in the car. When she returned, Terry was wiping his hands, staring at the rag.
"Here's a present from Flanders," he said slowly. "That's where some poor bloke stopped a bullet."
Madeleine looked. It was the left breast of a man's shirt. Over the heart was a rough hole, the cloth stained dark brown, the green and grey stripes barely visible. The shoulder was missing, but a strip of quilted linen hung from the top.
Let me quote from a letter Lady Joan wrote five days later: "...I saw the shirt myself. It was a terrible thing. The shock was dreadful. As luck would have it, the very next town, called Ruffec, was her old home. Her brother was there. We found him and handed her over. Whether she'll come back to me, I have no idea."
And another, two months later: "P.S. You remember Madeleine?
I've had a note from her saying she's married again! No wonder France is recovering faster than England. Most English girls would still be sitting around. However, that's her affair. But isn't it just my luck? She was a perfect maid."
Which was a true saying.
Two years later, Lacaze got off the train at Ruffec from Paris. He was terribly changed. Five years in German mines had broken him. His hair was grey, his broad shoulders were bent, his walk shuffling. No one would have recognized the once mighty steeplejack. But his face was unmistakable, though ravaged, with the old faint smile still on his lips and the old scorn in his eyes.
He pulled his hat down and waited until the other passengers had gone.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 16 / 17
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Later, he said to a friend, "I asked if she was a good sailor, too."
Four days later, as they entered Poitiers, a brake rod snapped. No great damage, but the car was towed to a garage for Terry, the chauffeur, to fix. He was good and preferred his own hands.
The car was lifted, and Terry got to work. Madeleine stood by to translate.
After half an hour, the job was done. Terry called for waste to wipe his hands. A mechanic brought a cardboard box labeled "Essuyages Aseptisés."
"What's this?" said Terry. "Dog biscuits?"
"Sterilized rags," the mechanic said. "We use nothing else."
Terry opened the box and pulled out a piece of cloth. Madeleine took the box and put it in the car. When she returned, Terry was wiping his hands, staring at the rag.
"Here's a present from Flanders," he said slowly. "That's where some poor bloke stopped a bullet."
Madeleine looked. It was the left breast of a man's shirt. Over the heart was a rough hole, the cloth stained dark brown, the green and grey stripes barely visible. The shoulder was missing, but a strip of quilted linen hung from the top.
Let me quote from a letter Lady Joan wrote five days later: "...I saw the shirt myself. It was a terrible thing. The shock was dreadful. As luck would have it, the very next town, called Ruffec, was her old home. Her brother was there. We found him and handed her over. Whether she'll come back to me, I have no idea."
And another, two months later: "P.S. You remember Madeleine?
I've had a note from her saying she's married again! No wonder France is recovering faster than England. Most English girls would still be sitting around. However, that's her affair. But isn't it just my luck? She was a perfect maid."
Which was a true saying.
Two years later, Lacaze got off the train at Ruffec from Paris. He was terribly changed. Five years in German mines had broken him. His hair was grey, his broad shoulders were bent, his walk shuffling. No one would have recognized the once mighty steeplejack. But his face was unmistakable, though ravaged, with the old faint smile still on his lips and the old scorn in his eyes.
He pulled his hat down and waited until the other passengers had gone.A horn sounded, and the train began to move. A voice called, "Goodbye! If you see René Dudoy, ask him if he remembers Fernand Didier, and tell him I was sorry I had no time to visit."
The train rumbled away. Lacaze moved toward the exit.
Half an hour later, he stood in the doorway of the creamery. René looked up from his work, weaving a basket.
"Come in, monsieur," he said. "Sit down, please. My wife will be here soon and can serve you."
Lacaze came in slowly, looking at the ground.
"You are married, then?" he said quietly.
The other stared. "Yes, monsieur. Why not?"
"No reason," said Lacaze, smiling. "And how is your wife?"
René turned back to his work. "She is very well, thank you."
"I am glad," said Lacaze. "Very glad."
René looked up. "That is kind of you. May I ask why?"
Lacaze gave a short laugh. "I knew her once. But I thought she had married Lacaze, the steeplejack."
"She did," said René, "but he was killed in the war. Afterwards, she married me. But, monsieur, tell me your name. If you knew her, you must be a friend."
"I was," said Lacaze softly. "I knew you both. We were at her first wedding. You sent her roses, and I sent violets."
René frowned. "No, not violets. You must have sent something else. It was Lacaze who sent violets."
In an instant, Lacaze stepped forward and pulled off his hat.
"Your servant," he breathed, smiling.
René wrinkled his brow. "I cannot place your voice. Pray tell me your name." The smile faded from Lacaze's face. "There are times when I miss my sight terribly," said René. "When Madeleine is here, I can see, for we share her beautiful eyes. I would not trade that for my own sight. My blindness keeps us close in a way others cannot know. But when she is away, the old darkness returns... the darkness she dispelled... Now, I beg you, tell me your name."
Lacaze turned his head and stared out into the sunlit street.
"I am Fernand Didier," he said. "I must go, or I will miss my train."
He pulled his hat over his eyes and stumbled out of the shop. René called after him, "Fernand! Fernand!"
But Lacaze hurried on. Ten minutes later, he was out of the town.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-56dd700faa354176bd5db926406e9299
# book_title: Madeleine
# chapter_id: 1-madeleine
# chapter_title: Madeleine
# book_page: 17 / 17
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
A horn sounded, and the train began to move. A voice called, "Goodbye! If you see René Dudoy, ask him if he remembers Fernand Didier, and tell him I was sorry I had no time to visit."
The train rumbled away. Lacaze moved toward the exit.
Half an hour later, he stood in the doorway of the creamery. René looked up from his work, weaving a basket.
"Come in, monsieur," he said. "Sit down, please. My wife will be here soon and can serve you."
Lacaze came in slowly, looking at the ground.
"You are married, then?" he said quietly.
The other stared. "Yes, monsieur. Why not?"
"No reason," said Lacaze, smiling. "And how is your wife?"
René turned back to his work. "She is very well, thank you."
"I am glad," said Lacaze. "Very glad."
René looked up. "That is kind of you. May I ask why?"
Lacaze gave a short laugh. "I knew her once. But I thought she had married Lacaze, the steeplejack."
"She did," said René, "but he was killed in the war. Afterwards, she married me. But, monsieur, tell me your name. If you knew her, you must be a friend."
"I was," said Lacaze softly. "I knew you both. We were at her first wedding. You sent her roses, and I sent violets."
René frowned. "No, not violets. You must have sent something else. It was Lacaze who sent violets."
In an instant, Lacaze stepped forward and pulled off his hat.
"Your servant," he breathed, smiling.
René wrinkled his brow. "I cannot place your voice. Pray tell me your name." The smile faded from Lacaze's face. "There are times when I miss my sight terribly," said René. "When Madeleine is here, I can see, for we share her beautiful eyes. I would not trade that for my own sight. My blindness keeps us close in a way others cannot know. But when she is away, the old darkness returns... the darkness she dispelled... Now, I beg you, tell me your name."
Lacaze turned his head and stared out into the sunlit street.
"I am Fernand Didier," he said. "I must go, or I will miss my train."
He pulled his hat over his eyes and stumbled out of the shop. René called after him, "Fernand! Fernand!"
But Lacaze hurried on. Ten minutes later, he was out of the town.
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