The Monticellonian., 1902-08-21
| CLOCHETTE
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| HOW strange they are, these old memories which haunt us. and of | which we are not able to rid our | selvesl
 This one is so old, so old, that I cannot comprehend why it has re- mained, living and tenacious, in my mind. Since that time have met with so many things, sinister, affecting or terrible, that it surprises me to find that a single day cannot pass with out the face of Mother Clochette re- tracing itself before my eyes, just as l knew her, so long ago, when was only 10 or 12 years old.
 She was an old seamstress, who came each week. on Tuesday, to mend the family linen. My parents in- habited one of those country dweli- ings called chateaux, which are sim ply old houses with peaked roofs, with four or five farms grouped around.
 The village, a large one, almost town, was visible some hundred feet distant, closely surrounding the church, an edfice of red brick. black ened by time.
 Every Tuesday, then, Mother Clo- chette arrived, between half-past six and seven in the morning. and going up to the linen press, commenced her work.
 She was tall, thin woman, beard ed, or rather hairy, for unexpected and surprising tufts of hair appeared all over her face.
 She limped, not like ordinary crip- ples, but like vessel at anchor. When she rested her large body, bony and bent, on her one good leg, leap, in order to ride huge wave; then suddenly she would plunge, as if to disappear in an abyss, or to sink into the ground. Her gait gave the impression of tempest, as she seemed to swing and balance herself at the same time; and her head, al- ways covered with an enormous white bonnet, the ribbons of which f1oated down her back, appeared to traverse the horizon from the north to south, and from south to north, with each movement that she made.
 I adored Mother Clochette. As soon as I was out of bed I ascend ed to the linen press, where I found her installed with her sewing, a foot: warmer at her feet. When I ap- peared she insisted on my taking the foot warmer and seating herself upon it. in order that 1 should not take cold in the chilly room, which was directly under the roof.
 That draws the blood from the throat" she would say.
 While she darned the linen with her long, crooked active fingers. she told me stories. Her eyes, behind her spectacles with their strangely mag nifying glasses (for age had weak ened her sight,, appeared to me enormous. strangely deep, and double.
 She had. as far as car recall from the things which she told me, and by which my childish heart was moved, a magnanimous soul. She saw everything great and small. She related to me events of the town; the story of COW which had es- caped from the barn, and had been found one morning in front of Pros CT Malet's mill, watching the turning of the wooden wings; or the story of hens egg discovered in the church turret. where no one could ever imagine what creature had come to lay it there; or the ac- count of the dog of Jean-Jean Pilas, that had recovered at ten leagues distance from the village his mas ter's trousers, which had been stolen by passer by as they were drying before the door, after shower. SAe related these simple events in such manper that they assumed, in my mind, the proportions of neyer-to-be- forgotten dramas, of grand and mrs- terious poems; and the ingenious tales invented by poets and narrated to me, in the evening, by my moth CT, had not that sayor, that fullness, that power, which the recitals of the peasant possessed.
 One Tuesday. after having passed the entire morning in listening to Mother Clochette. I went. with servant, to gather nuts in the Hallet woods, back of the Noirpre farm. On my return l went up to reioin the old woman. I recall all this as distinctly as the events of yestsr day.
 On opening the door of the linen room. l perceived the old seamstress lying on the floor beside her chair, her face on the ground, her arms ex- tended, still holding her needle in one hand, and in the other one of my shirts. One of her legs Ghe longer one, doubtless), in a blue stocking, was stretched under her chair; and her spectacles were glistening at the end of the room, having rolled from her.
 I rushed out, giving sharp cries of distress The family came to my call, and after some moments l learned that Mother Clochette was dead. I can not describe the deep emotion. poig- nant and terrible, which contracted nav childish heart. l descended softly to the drawing-room, hiding myself in a dark corner in the depths of an inn mense antique sofa, where l knelt, weeping. l must have remained there