# Colas Breugnon/Chapter 8

VIII
MY OLD WOMAN'S DEATH
Life tasted good to me after my illness, better than ever before; the flavor of everything was enhanced, and I sat down to the world's table as Lazarus must have done, with a sharpened appetite. One day after hours, my foreman and I were in the shop amusing ourselves with a wrestling bout, when a neighbor looked in on his way from Morvan and told me that he had seen my wife there. I asked him how she was getting along. He said, "She was leaving when I saw her, making for a better world as fast as she was able."
"It won't be the better for her coming," said one would-be wit, and another cried, "Good luck never comes single; you stay with us, Colas, and she goes!" And he drank to my health.
I felt somewhat shaky, but not wishing to show it, I too held up my glass and answered, "When the gods love a man they take his wife away!" But I could not swallow the wine, it seemed tasteless, and suddenly starting up, I seized my stick ​and went out without saying another word. They called after me, but my heart was in my throat, and I could not answer. It was all very well to say that I did not love her, and that we had been constantly rubbing one another up the wrong way for the last thirty years; she had lain by my side in the narrow bed, and from her had sprung the seed I planted; and now that the pale shadow was near her, I felt a cold hand laid on my heart; it was as if a part of my flesh was torn from me, and though I had often wished to be rid of her, now I pitied her and myself, and—Heaven forgive me!—I almost loved her!
I arrived the next day at nightfall, and as soon as I came near my wife I could see on her face the hand of the great sculptor, and under the wrinkled skin the tragic mask of Death. There was a yet more certain sign, for she smiled as I came in, and said:
"Why, poor old man, I hope the walk has not tired you!"
Fancy her speaking to me like that! My heart sank, and I said to myself that there was no chance for her as I sat down by the bedside and took her hand in mine. Her eyes rested on me with affection, but she was too weak to talk, so I tried to cheer her up by telling all about my illness, ​and how I had got out of the clutches of the plague after all; but as it was the first she had heard of it the news proved almost too much for her, and she turned so faint that I was ready to beat myself on the head for my stupidity. However, she came to in a little while, and to my great relief began to scold me in her trembling voice; she was so weak that she could not get the words out fast enough, and it really did me good, and seemed like old times to be told that I ought to be ashamed of myself, that a man of any decency would have let his wife know when he caught the plague, and that I deserved to die of it all alone on my dunghill. The others were frightened at her violence, and wanted to send me out of the room, but I laughed and said that it would do her good to lose her temper, she was used to it; then I took her face in my two hands and kissed her on both cheeks, and will you believe it? the poor old thing began to cry.
For a long time after that I sat with her alone in silence, listening to the tick-tack of the deathwatch in the wainscot; at last she tried to speak, but could only make a feeble murmur.
"Don't try to talk, old girl," said I. "I understand; we have not lived together thirty years for nothing."
"I have something I must say to you. Colas, or I ​should not rest easy in Paradise,—I have been very hard to you, my husband."
"No, no," said I, "only a bit sharp, and that was good for me."
"Yes, I was hard, jealous, quarrelsome; I know I often made the house too hot for you, but,—Colas, it was because I loved you!"
"You don't say so!" said I, patting her hand. "Well, there are all sorts of ways of loving, but yours was rather a queer one."
"I did love you," she went on, "and you never returned it, that was why I was cross, and you were always good-natured. Oh! that laugh of yours. Colas! You don't know how it made me suffer, till sometimes I really thought it would kill me. You covered yourself with it like a hood, and storm as I might, I could never get at you."
"My poor old dear!" said I; "that was because I do not like water!"
"There you go again laughing! But I don't mind it now that the chill of the grave is upon me; your laughter seems something warm and comforting, it does not anger me now,—and. Colas, say that you forgive me."
"You were an honest, hard-working, faithful wife to me," said I earnestly; "perhaps you were not always as sweet as sugar, but in this world, you ​know, one does not expect perfection, God keeps that for Himself up yonder; but when it came to hard times, you always backed me up. I used to think you really good-looking when I saw how you threw yourself into your work, whatever happened. Now I don't want you to torment yourself about the past, it's bad enough to have lived through it, but since it is all over, we might as well let, the burden slip from our shoulders and cast all our cares on the Master. We have come to the end, and can take breath and look about us for a nice soft hole where we can sleep the sleep of the just which means, I suppose, of the good workers."
While I was talking, she lay with folded arms, and her eyes shut, and when I stopped she held out her hand. "Wake me tomorrow morning," she said. "And now good-night, my dear!"
Then she stretched herself out in the bed, and, neat as ever, she drew the sheet smoothly up to her chin, with the crucifix resting on her breast;—poor little woman, how thin she was! And there she lay, all ready, staring straight in front of her, waiting for the summons. It seemed that after so many years of effort her poor old body deserved some repose, but alas! there was one more trial in store for her. The landlady suddenly rushed into the room calling to me to come quickly, and when ​I did not at once understand, and told her to speak lower, it seemed as if the dying woman from her funeral couch could see beyond and above me, for she raised herself stiffly like him whom Jesus awakened, stretched out her arms, and cried, "Glodie!"
Her cry went through my heart, and as I heard a hoarse choking cough from the next room, I understood only too well, and ran in to find my poor little lark struggling with the croup, her cheeks all flushed and burning, as she put her hands up to her throat, and with wild eyes implored us to help her.
Oh, what a dreadful night that was! Even now a week later my knees give way under me when I think of it. Can it be that the Omnipotent causes the pain of such poor little creatures? How can He bear to see their eyes full of wondering reproach when it is in His power to save them? I can understand that since we are made in the image of our Creator, He may sometimes be cruel, as we are, or at least not always compassionate,—perhaps even capricious,—but grown-up men and women must set their teeth and take whatever comes to them, and they can always resist when things go too far, but that He should torment these helpless lamblings is more than we can tolerate, and if this goes on, Lord, some day or other we shall withdraw our ​allegiance. If such crimes are possible it must be because You are blind, or else there is no Father up there!—Pardon, I must take that back, it is a little more than I intended. If You did not exist, I could not speak to You as I am doing, and we have had many a discussion, which always ended in my having the last word.—During the whole of that terrible night, I called to You, threatened, cursed, denied, implored You; clasped my hands in prayer, or shook my fist at You, but no voice came from above in answer, in spite of all I could do nothing seemed to touch You, till at last I cried out in desperation, "Lord, if You will not hear me, I will turn to some one less hard-hearted!"
Martine, the child's mother, had been taken with the pains of labor on her journey, and had been obliged to stop at Dornecy, leaving Glodie to the care of her grandmother; so now I had to watch alone with the old landlady. It seemed as if our little martyr would pass away with the night, and when dawn came I felt that there was but one thing left to do. Looking out I saw that it rained and a high wind blew through the doorway, but none the less, I made the sign of the Cross and lifted my darling from her pillow where she lay so exhausted that she had no further strength to struggle, but only panted a little like a bird in one's ​hand. She weighed no more than a feather as I carried her out, where a rose brushed against her in passing,—that's a sign of Death, they say,—but I crossed myself and went out sheltering her as best I could against the tempest. The landlady went first carrying presents, and so we came to the wood, where we found what we sought; a tall aspen standing high above the reeds on the edge of the swamp. Once, twice, three times we circled round the tree; the child lay quiet in my arms, only her teeth shook together like the leaves about us. We tied one end of a ribbon to her wrist, and fastened the other end to the aspen, and then the woman and I repeated this incantation:
"Shake, shake,
My sickness take.
By the sweet Trinity,
Thus do I order thee;
But if thou reject my suit
Ax shall soon destroy thy root."
Then the old woman dug a hole between the roots of the tree, in which she poured a pint of wine, and put in two cloves of garlic, a slice of bacon, and a copper penny; then we filled my hat with rushes, laid it on the ground, and again marched three times round it; the third time we spat in it and said, "Catch croup, cursed toads." Then we turned ​toward home, but near the edge of the wood we laid Glodie at the foot of a thorn tree, and put up a prayer to God's Son in the name of the Holy Thorn.
The little one was unconscious when we got back to the house, but we felt that we had done all we could; and it seemed too that my wife would not quit this world as long as Glodie remained in it. "Jesus, Mary," cried she, "I cannot go until I know that our child will recover, surely she must be cured, I swear it!"
Poor old dear, she was not as sure as she said, for she kept on praying, with a strength that astonished me when I remembered that I had thought her at her last breath the night before. "If that is the last, it is a good long one," said I, and was ashamed of myself for laughing at such a moment, but I could not help it. You cannot, of course, keep off suffering by laughter, but a Frenchman will always meet pain with a smile, and sad or merry you will find he has his eyes wide open; so, though I put a good face on it, my anxiety was as great as that of the poor old woman who was twisting and groaning in her bed. I tried to soothe her as we do children, tucking up the bedclothes which she had disordered; but she pushed me away, and told me that if I was worth my salt, I would do something ​for Glodie. "You cured yourself of the plague," said she, crying, "and yet you can do nothing for our darling! You are the one that ought to have died!"
"True enough, my dear, and I would give my skin to save her, but it is too old and cracked to be of use to anybody; all we are good for now is to suffer, the pair of us, and be as brave as we can, it may be some help to our little girl."
My wife leaned her head against mine, and our tears dropped together as we felt in the room the sweeping wings of the Archangel of Death.
All at once the sound of those great wings grew fainter, and as if by miracle hope dawned again. God had compassion on us, or the tender Jesus to whom I had prayed so fervently;—or else those elder gods of the earth and forest perhaps had heard our cries? Even our offering to the aspen may have helped us? But no matter what the reason, all we knew certainly was that from this moment the child's fever left her, once more she could draw her breath easily. Death had released her throat from the clutch of his pale fingers, she was given back to us! We did not know to whom we owed our thanks for this great mercy, but our hearts were filled with gratitude, and with tears of joy we sang "Nunc Dimittis," and then my poor ​old woman said, "Now I can go." She fell back on her pillow quite exhausted, the light in her eyes faded, her features grew sharp and hollow, and she sank down into the dark river, through which I could still seem to see the outline of her body;—until life was gone. I stooped and closed her eyelids, kissed her brow, and folded her workworn hands together for the rest they had never known till now, and turning from the extinguished lamp, I went to watch by the little flickering flame which was to be henceforward the light of my dwelling.
Glodie slept, and as I sat by her side I could not help the thoughts that rushed over me:—Why is this little creature so unutterably dear that nothing seems worth while without her, and with her the worst that could happen would be bearable? Hers is the only life that matters; in comparison my own seems valueless, and yet here am I active of body and mind, with some talents, and what is even better, plenty of good sense; loving life, and made to enjoy it, in short a good Burgundian workman, and I would freely sacrifice all this for the sake of a little creature I do not even know; who is nothing as yet but a sweet face, a pretty plaything, but who will be something perhaps,—and for this possibility I am willing to give up my own "I am." Ah! it is because in this "perhaps" lies enfolded ​the fine flower of my existence, the best that is in me, and when I lie below the sod, and worms have destroyed this body, then will arise another self better and happier than the old one, yes, better, because I shall serve as a stepping-stone from which to see more clearly than I did.—You who are born of me, and will see the light when my eyes can no more behold it; through you I shall taste the vintage of the long future years, through you I shall enjoy the known and the unknown. All around me is passing as I shall pass, but you will lead me, ever farther and upward. I am no longer bound to my little holding here on earth; beyond my fields, beyond my life, the lines of the future stretch out into the infinite; they cover the years to come as the Milky Way covers the night sky. I have sown the seed of future harvests, and in you who will live after me I put my desire and my eternal hope.