The fear of living

The chief occupation of the Mayor of Cognin in the morning was to read his paper. With the exception of the workmen from the neighboring factories, who came in the early morning to the inn and stood at the bar to drink their small glass of white wine by the wavering light of a candle, he saw few customers till mid-day. Seated astride a chair, his back to the fire, he provided himself for the day with the political news in the Lyons Republican and Le Progrès. Thus after luncheon he was able to retail to the electors both wine and news.

When on the morning of February 26th he unfolded the papers, he was horrified to see this great headline across the page:

“Victory at Timmimun. Death of Commander Guibert.” It had never occurred to him that the death of a fellow-townsman of his could cause such a stir. With a red face, and vaguely uneasy about his own responsibility, he began to read slowly the grim official story that the journalist had adorned with several pompous phrases.

“The War Office has forwarded to us a telegram announcing a victory in the Touât region, at Timmimun. We would herald it with joy as a fresh triumph of our army, had it not cost us a precious life, that of the conqueror himself, Commander Guibert. Our political preoccupations must not be permitted to distract our attention from the spectacle of these far-off struggles, where French blood is being shed so heroically. It was in the spring of last year that, after the taking of In Salah and the occupation of the Gourara district by the column under Colonel Ménestrel, a little garrison was stationed in this southern village. Not far away from this place, the sanguinary battles of Sahela and El Metarfa were fought, where the second battalion of the Saharan Rifles repulsed the marauding Berabers and Doui-Menias and where Captain Jacques and Lieutenant Depardieu met their glorious death. When last winter General Lervières, chief-in-command in Algiers, was ordered to occupy the Gourara country by force and to proceed to establish himself in the Touât, he left at Timmimun camp a garrison of one hundred fifty men, amply provisioned, under Commander Guibert, assisted by Captain Berlier.

“Commander Guibert, who had just returned to France with the Moureau-Jamy expedition insisted on rejoining his battalion in the extreme south. In spite of the two years which were consumed in crossing Africa, he refused leave and hastened to his post. On the night of the 17-18th of February last, a party of Berabers, estimated to be about one thousand strong, succeeded in approaching Timmimun. The terror inspired by this tribe is such and their mobility so great that they can cross an immense stretch of country without the native regiments having the slightest knowledge of their movements. At daybreak or even before dawn, they opened their attack on the camp.

“A sentry, firing half a dozen shots as he fell back, gave the alarm. The Berabers jumping over the tumbledown walls penetrated to the inner court. In the meantime the garrison assembled in haste under the orders of their chief and soon the Berabers were put to flight, leaving three hundred dead on the ground. But our losses were cruel. Ten were dead, including the officer in command, a commissariat officer, and a sergeant, and more than thirty wounded. Commander Guibert was killed at the end of the skirmish by a bullet passing through his forehead just as the Berabers were fleeing in disorder. Commander Guibert was the youngest chief of battalion in our entire French Army. Captain at twenty-eight and decorated with the Legion of Honour for his brilliant services in the Madagascan campaign, especially at the battle of Andriba, he had taken part in the Moureau expedition, which had just crossed the Sahara. The victor of Rabah, he had been made commander and officer of the Legion of Honour on his return. He was only thirty-two. Born in the town of Cognin near Chambéry (Savoy), he belonged to one of the most respected families of our neighborhood. Called to the highest military destinies, he leaves a glorious memory behind. Savoy is proud of him and cannot fail to honor his memory worthily.”

“Great Heavens!” cried the Mayor as he finished reading this. He verified the name of the paper, fearing he might have lighted on some wretched opposition rag.

The Conservative Nouvelliste and the Radical-Socialist Progrès, which he just skimmed, gave exactly the same account; the first adding several criticisms on the carelessness of the intelligence department in Algiers, the second accompanying it with some humanitarian remarks on the uselessness of colonial expeditions. But all, whatever their political opinions might be, united in honoring the worth of Commander Guibert, praised his splendid career, and deplored his loss.

“That confounded schoolmaster!” cried the Mayor of Cognin.

He took up his hat and was going out. On the doorstep he stopped short. An officer on horseback in full uniform, wearing gold epaulettes, stopped in front of the Café National.

“Can you direct me to Madame Guibert’s house, please?”

A few countryfolk, drawn by curiosity, grouped themselves round the rider.

“Keep along the high road as far as the Vimines road. Then follow the path through the oakwood. After the wood turn to the left and that is Le Maupas.”

“Thank you,” said the officer, and he was already giving rein to his horse when the Mayor called out:

“You are going to visit the lady like that?”

The aide-de-camp glared scornfully at this red-faced individual, and spurring his horse replied between his teeth, “Naturally.”

“Good,” answered the innkeeper, to please the women who were listening to him. And he grew scarlet.

He had no appetite for his meal, and before putting into effect the plan that was maturing in his mind, he sent his daughters to look for assistance. As he was drinking a glass of brandy to encourage himself, he saw through the window a landau and pair driving up to the town hall. A few moments later he was called by a message from the prefect. Quickly putting on the frock-coat which served for all ceremonious occasions he rushed across to the municipal building. One of the doors of the carriage opened. He saw a black uniform with silver lace and he heard these haughty words uttered by a beardless youth (for the date of the elections was still some time away):

“Are you the Mayor of Cognin?”

Hat in hand, Simon answered “Yes, sir.”

“I represent the prefect. I am on my way to Madame Guibert, to whom I carry the condolences of the government on the occasion of the heroic death of the Commander. You have carefully broken the news to her, I think, as the official telegram ordered you. You managed the whole affair tactfully, I suppose?”

“Yes, Monsieur Deputy-Prefect,” stammered the Mayor, ashamed and trembling.

“I am a councillor of the Prefecture. I wish you to do your duty by being present at the memorial service with all your councillors. The government of the Republic knows how to honor its loyal servants.”

Simon stammered his assent.

“That is all, Monsieur Mayor. I shall not require you any more.” And the young messenger from the prefecture, proud of his own important rôle and the dignity with which he filled it, departed behind his two horses, with the haughty, weary air of an old general who has just reviewed his brigade.

Randon and Détraz, at the summons of the Mayor, sped over to the inn together. The whole village already knew what was happening at Le Maupas.

“We are in for it!” cried Détraz furiously on his arrival. The day before, during all the discussion, he had not opened his lips.

“I told you so,” remarked old Randon, who insisted on reminding them of his sagacity.

“And so did I,” said the Mayor, not to be outdone. “It is the fault of the schoolmaster and of Pitet.”

Détraz, who had no idea of politeness, said rude things about the Mayor.

“So you,” he said, “are not the master here then. What do you do at the town hall? Why, you are as limp as a rag. The schoolmaster leads you by the nose, like the smallest boy in his class.”

“I!” roared Simon. “I let myself be led by the nose! Just come and see if the schoolmaster is master or not!”

Followed by his two councillors, the Mayor still gesticulating, burst into the municipal school. Before Maillard, the sly and wheedling, however, he felt all his zeal grow cold. But Détraz had already pushed himself to the front.

“Aha!” he cried, “you have made a nice mess of it, you dirty, shameless wretch! Here are the prefect and the general sending deputations. And the corporation in the dead man’s town sends a policeman, just as if it was serving a writ. With your devil of a brain you’ll have a fine score to pay!” And he spat on the ground as a sign of contempt.

“I am not answerable to you for anything,” murmured the schoolmaster with a dignified air.

“Yes, you are. And what about you, Mayor? Have you nothing to say?”

In his rage he had no respect for anyone. Simon was obliged to intervene.

“You gave us bad advice, Mr. Professor,” he said.

“That’s certain,” added Randon.

“You need not have asked my advice.”

“Who asked your advice?” retorted Détraz, in a fresh access of fury. “You mixed yourself up in our affairs only to bring them to ruin, you poisonous ruffian. That’s what you are, a poisonous ruffian!” So pleased was he with the expression that he repeated it.

Randon took him by the arm and tried to calm him and lead him away. But it is the way of the ignorant—as it is of women—to introduce irrelevant arguments into a quarrel. Détraz wheeled round again on the schoolmaster to shout:

“Besides, you steal the public money!”

“I steal?” protested Maillard.

“Yes, you exact private fees for the right of cutting firewood, for receiving affidavits, for everything, in fact. We’ll see the last of you, or I’ll have your skin.” In his rage, he showed the instinctive hatred of the primitive nature for knowledge and of the taxpayer for the official.

The two enemies fell upon each other. The Mayor held Maillard back and Randon restrained his colleague.

“Listen to me,” begged the old man, “listen to me.”

There was a pause while he made a suggestion, which met with the approval of both the Mayor and Détraz and brought the discussion to an end.

“To make up for what you have done, Maillard, you must take your pupils to the memorial service.”

And the Mayor, anxious to take the credit of the victory to himself, added:

“And you must hoist the flag on the town hall at once, at half mast.”

He departed with an important air, still escorted by his two councillors.

“Now,” said Randon, “let us go up to Le Maupas.”

Simon applauded heartily.

“Yes, yes,” he cried. “The General sent an officer and the prefect a young gentleman with silver lace on his trousers. The Mayor will be represented in person with two members of the council, as it should be. That will impress them.”

As they passed through the village they noticed Pitet, the Red, in a field. He was looking very humble, and avoided their eyes. Détraz called out to him, without managing to attract his attention.

“He is a coward,” said the Mayor, full of courage himself.

“We know what we know,” said Randon mysteriously.

“Yes, we know,” Détraz put in, with greater frankness. “If it hadn’t been for the Doctor, he would have been in prison, and now he foams with rage against him. We must certainly get rid of him at the town hall.”

The snow reflected the cold sunshine. The white mountain glittered in the raw daylight. Under the pale sky the outlines of all things were mingled in one uniform and immaculate whiteness.

The prefectoral landau was returning to Chambéry when it met the improvised delegation from Cognin. With an important air the Mayor made a sign to the coachman to stop. Hat in hand, he approached the door, which was opened immediately.

“Mr. Councillor, we have a favor to ask of you.”

“What is it?” replied the young man brusquely. Not having been received at Le Maupas he came back in a bad temper. The general’s aide-de-camp had been introduced to Madame Guibert.

“All the fathers of families here complain of the schoolmaster—without exception—”

“Why?”

“He teaches badly, he thrashes the pupils, he hatches plots against the country.”

The young man assumed a thoughtful air and with the gesture of a minister dismissing an audience he replied briefly, “I will see to it.”

Continuing his walk the Mayor rubbed his hands together and said to his supporters: “I’ve cooked Maillard’s goose for him.”

In the course of the next few days the leading newspapers gave the story of Timmimun in full detail and, without regard to their political views, paid homage to Commander Guibert, whose short career had touched all hearts. The press of Savoy went further still, and, not content with eulogies, vied with one another in the prominence which they gave to his portrait and his biography. In their solitude at Le Maupas the two crushed women received the innumerable testimonies of sympathy which came to them from all parts of France, from the State, from Marcel’s brother officers, known and unknown. They leaned on each other so as to be able to bear their sorrow, and found no consolation but in prayer and in their mutual affection. Only the visits of Madame Saudet, the mother of Madame Étienne Guibert were of any comfort. She understood what to say to those who have suffered separations.

In a swift revolution of sympathy, the world of society, which had not heeded the Guiberts in their honorable ruin, decided to fall in with public opinion. Madame Dulaurens could not stay quiet on this occasion. She induced Mademoiselle de Songeon, Honorary President of the White Cross of Savoy, to take the initiative in organising a funeral service, which was to be celebrated with great ceremony in Chambéry Cathedral. The idea was to monopolize the dead hero and to call attention to his origin in the most befitting manner. The authorities were to be invited to the ceremony. Their presence would enhance the prestige of it, whereas their absence could only embitter the campaign of the Opposition Press. So there was no doubt what would happen.

When everything was prepared, the collections made, the invitations sent out, Mademoiselle de Songeon and Madame Dulaurens were officially delegated to go to Le Maupas to ask the family’s permission. Madame de Marthenay accompanied her mother. She wished to present her condolences to Madame Guibert and to Paule, and had not dared to make the journey alone.

It was the beginning of March. The snow was melting in the desolate, muddy fields and in the sunken roads. Under the lowering sky, surrounded by black, bare trees swaying sadly to and fro, the old country house wore a melancholy and abandoned air.

“I should hate to be buried alive here all the year round,” said Madame Dulaurens to Mademoiselle de Songeon as the carriage drove up the deserted avenue.

“The Church is too far away,” answered the pious old maid.

She did not think that God is everywhere. In spite of her age, she persisted in travelling to meet Him in specially comfortable places.

Old Marie, seeing the carriage, did not refuse to allow the ladies to enter, despite her strict orders. She ran to announce the visitors as fast as her legs could carry her.

“I ordered you not to receive anyone,” said Madame Guibert sadly. And turning to Paule she said: “I have no longer the courage to face people. Why does Madame Dulaurens come to disturb our sorrow? We have nothing in common. What does she want?”

“Mother dear, I don’t know,” said Paule, and she rose to depart.

“You will help me to receive her?”

“No, Mother, I don’t want to meet her.”

Madame Guibert looked at her daughter, whose pale and quivering but decided face clearly showed her thoughts.

“Paule,” she entreated, “do not desert me. I am so shy and awkward, you know. The evil that people do is more quickly forgotten than the good. If she reminded me of the past I should not know what to answer. Stay with me, Paule.”

The girl hesitated no more and made a sign to the servant to show the ladies in.

“I will stay,” she said.

Mademoiselle de Songeon, little versed in diplomacy, allowed Madame Dulaurens to speak first.

“You have been cruelly afflicted,” began that lady, going towards Madame Guibert, who was obliged to lean against the fireplace in order to rise from her chair.

Then she shook hands with Paule, whose unfriendly eyes she felt firmly upon her. She would have preferred her not to be there.

“Yes,” said Marcel’s mother. “God is testing us.”

Thus at once she gave the interview a religious and serious tone. Mademoiselle de Songeon tossed her head and looked upward, as if she alone had the necessary authority to call upon the divine intervention.

“What a consolation you have in your sorrow,” went on Madame Dulaurens. “These unanimous testimonies to the Commander’s heroism, this consensus of sympathy and regret.... In these democratic days merit is no longer sufficiently honored. It is sometimes death alone which gives to it its true reward, and in face of this irreparable loss one reproaches oneself bitterly for having known it too late.”

The mention of her son touched Madame Guibert’s heart at once. “She is excusing herself now for having sent Marcel away,” she thought. “She knows now what a mistake she made and regrets it. But Madame de Marthenay ought not to have come. Her presence is painful to us.”

She looked at the speaker, and her candid glance lighted up her wasted face as a ray of sunlight illumines the leafless woods in winter. Paule was on her guard. She was quite aware, however, that Madame Dulaurens was entirely unconscious of offence.

The latter, after a short pause, explained the reason of her visit.

“It must seem quite natural to you, therefore, that we should want to pay homage to this beloved memory. The whole of Savoy shares your grief, but specially the élite of the country, to which the Commander belonged, both because of his family and his splendid personal worth.”

She took breath, and finding that she was speaking well, she glanced rapidly at her audience. Mademoiselle de Songeon showed her entire agreement by nodding her long head. Alice, absorbed in her thoughts and attentively listening, was looking at the grief-stricken faces of Madame Guibert and the friend of her girlhood. Her sorrow oppressed her so much that she laid her hands on her breast. Suppressed sobs were almost choking her. She would like to have opened her heart to these poor women but she did not dare. She tried to take Paule’s fingers gently in her own; she was sitting quite near her. But the girl drew her hand away firmly. She had forgotten nothing.

Again Madame Dulaurens’s high pitched voice made itself heard in the silence of the drawing-room.

“The patronesses of the White Cross of Savoy, in fact all the ladies of that society, have unanimously agreed to ask for the celebration of a funeral service at Chambéry. The Archbishop will officiate. He has promised us; we have the word of the vicar-general. More than fifty priests will be present. The prefect and the military authorities will be invited, and we have no doubt that they will be represented. It will be worthy, you may be sure, of the illustrious dead, in its ceremony and grandeur.”

Madame Guibert had listened without interrupting, and she answered simply:

“I thank you very much and I beg you to thank these ladies from me for their good intentions. We celebrated a service at Cognin according to our means. Our friends came in spite of the cold and the long distances. The general commanding here came in person. A great many officers would like to have accompanied him. We do not wish to have any other outward demonstrations. But I thank you.”

“Yes, Madame. I understand your feelings. Families do not willingly bear the intrusion of strangers in their mourning. But this is a special case. The death of Commander Guibert is a public misfortune. France is wounded by the death of your son. His life and his death do honor to Savoy. You cannot wonder that Savoy should publicly show him her great gratitude. The family resources are necessarily limited. Let us act. Do not deprive us of this pleasure.” ... And checking the inappropriate word as she uttered it, she corrected herself: “This melancholy pleasure, I would say, which is given us by intercession for the dead. Services and priests are prayers in themselves. Can so excellent Christians as you refuse those that we offer up for you? Have you the heart to prevent our sharing your sorrow with you?”

“The Church approves of ceremony and worship,” said Mademoiselle de Songeon, whose religion was luxurious and aristocratic.

Alice had noticed an enlarged photograph of Marcel, and at this moment saw only the man whom she had loved so unworthily.

Madame Guibert still hesitated, not about her answer, but about the words of the answer, which she wished to make as polite and delicate as she could. Madame Dulaurens had come to offer to supplement the simple funeral services at Cognin, devoid of all ostentation and parade, with a ceremony far less humble, one brilliant indeed and worldly. Wealth was visiting poverty and desiring to extend its patronage to it. Paule understood well, and indignantly glanced at her mother with those dark eyes of flashing light. But Madame Guibert had seen in this offer only respect for the memory of her son, and although she was resolved to negative any idea of a proceeding which she considered useless, she tried to avoid words which might cause the slightest offence.

Fearing her mother’s shyness and misled by her hesitation, the girl forestalled her boldly:

“We are much touched, Madame Dulaurens, by your offer. We value it as it should be valued and we regret having to decline this honor. My brother’s memory has received suitable recognition. We do not wish any more public testimony than what we have already received. God does not measure His blessings by the magnitude of the ceremonies.”

As if she attached no importance whatever to Paule’s declaration, Madame Dulaurens made as though to turn towards Madame Guibert. The latter quite comprehended and felt herself bound to say:

“Yes, Paule is right, Madame Dulaurens.”

Mademoiselle de Songeon indignantly lifted her eyes heavenwards, while the mistress of La Chênaie, little used to rebuffs, returned to the attack.

“I cannot understand your refusal. In our sympathy for your mourning, we only wished to explain ourselves in the most natural way. These ladies, Mademoiselle de Songeon, the Marquise de Lavernay, the Baroness d’Amberlard, shared my opinion. I represent them now—and the Archbishop promised to help us.”

She hoped to make a great impression on the poor lady by these aristocratic references. She did not, could not know, to what degree of indifference life had brought Madame Guibert with regard to the people and things of the world.

Paule saw how worried her mother was. She immediately took the offensive, in order to finish the interview.

“The service at Cognin was announced at Chambéry. All our friends were there. Some came from far away. Some came whom we did not even know and who shared our grief. But I was told, Madame Dulaurens, that your pew was empty, and I could not believe it.” After this attack she added: “If my elder brother, who is the head of the family, thinks other honors are indispensable he will let us know. We will conform to his wishes. My mother and he are the only ones who have anything to say in the matter.”

Seeing how useless her insistence was, Madame Dulaurens rose to go.

“I regret,” she said, “that there should have been this misunderstanding, which we have not been able to smooth over. I did not expect this welcome. But I see that your daughter has entire influence over you.”

“We are in complete agreement,” said the old woman, getting up with difficulty in her turn. She approved of her daughter’s decision, but she wished that the same things might have been said a little less imperiously. She was afraid that the visitors at Le Maupas were offended and she was unhappy about it. A slight color flushed her pale cheeks. As she was going to the door with Mademoiselle de Songeon and Madame Dulaurens, her color did not escape the eye of the latter. Madame Dulaurens was looking far revenge; she thought she had found it and with a cruel irony she uttered these words:

“Good-bye, Madame Guibert. How well you are looking! It is wonderful! We are surprised and happy to see it.”

Tears mounted to Madame Guibert’s eyes. She was still too sensitive to injustice. Aged, bent, broken down, she would have wrung pity from anyone but a baffled woman of the world. Gently she murmured, while the blood left her cheeks:

“May God preserve my health! My task is not finished.” She was thinking of Paule, whose uncertain fate caused her anxiety and attached her still to life. Instinctively she turned round to look at her. But the drawing-room door was shut. She felt compelled to conduct the ladies to their carriage. They got in and asked for Madame de Marthenay, who had stayed behind.

“I will tell her,” said Madame Guibert, climbing the stairs with difficulty.

Alice, left alone with Paule, had at last allowed her tears to flow.

“Paule, my dear Paule, won’t you let me kiss you? I have cried so much. If you only knew! I have felt such sorrow since ... since he is gone— Ah, you cannot know!”

Paule, standing speechless and bewildered, gazed wonderingly at this elegant young woman with the innocent, beautiful features, who was imploring her now. She thought of the past.

“What is the good of it?” she said. And, although she had noticed Alice’s hollow eyes and white face, she added between her teeth: “Are you not a little to blame for our unhappiness?”

To her the refusal of this weak, clinging, childish creature was responsible for that familiar anticipation of death which she had so often, after the interview at La Chênaie, caught in Marcel’s speech and in his casual talk. She who now stood before her weeping, had formerly not a single word to send to her brother to give him joy in life and the inspiration of confidence even in the midst of danger. Had she been indifferent, she would not have been guilty; it was her cowardice which had triumphed over her love.

But Alice sobbed: “Oh, I am unhappier than you.” Her despair was so evidently real that Paule was touched and took her old friend into her arms. As of old in joy, so now the two women mingled their tears in sorrow.

“I loved him,” Alice said in a low voice.

“Why did you not want him?”

“Ah, that is the sorrow of my life.” And breaking down completely, she added in choking accents: “You can cry freely. But I must look happy, and I have death in my soul.... Paule dearest, may God keep you from ever suffering as I do. And it is my fault, Paule. Oh, I would rather be his widow to-day.”

And Paule now understood the secret that was suffocating her friend. Judging by appearances, she had thought her happy. The gossip of the town never reached Le Maupas. Now she saw suddenly how immediate and how lasting was the punishment of the fear of living.

Alice was leaning on Paule’s shoulder as if begging for her help. In spite of the marten cape which covered her, she was shaking from head to foot. The girl kissed her and lifting her sweet, tear-stained face said:

“Poor Alice, how I pity you! Be brave. One has to be. You must forget about it. Think of your child. Make a stronger woman of her.”

“I loved him,” she answered faintly.

Madame Guibert came back and, seeing the two embracing each other, she understood the reason of their emotion.

“Your mother is waiting for you, Madame.” She tried to find something else to say, and murmured: “I thank you for your visit.”

Feeling that she was pardoned, Alice took her hand and touched it with her lips. She dried her eyes, looked once more at Marcel’s photograph ... and fled.

The carriage swept down the bare avenue and passed through the old gate. Madame Dulaurens, uneasy over her daughter’s stay, was gazing at her anxiously, affectionately, jealously. She avoided remarking on Madame Guibert’s refusal and Paule’s attitude, and when they came out of the oakwood she laid her hand on Alice’s arm as she sat facing her.

“You see how sensible your mother is,” she said to her in a low voice. Mademoiselle de Songeon was looking out on the melancholy landscape on the other side.

The young wife looked enquiringly at her.

“Why, of course,” said the mother. “If I had let you marry Commander Guibert you would have been a widow now.”

Alice said nothing. In terror she searched the secret places of her soul and asked herself if as a widow she could not have been less miserable. The sorrow which comes to us from fate is deeper but less depressing than that whose source is ourselves, our weakness, our fear of living. Having broken our hearts, the former sorrow purifies and strengthens them. The other wears us out uselessly and crushes us slowly with its petty wounds.

Had she chosen the better part? ... To mourn the death of the heroic husband she would have chosen seemed to her above all a sweeter lot than to weep for the degradation of the companion with whom she must share her whole life.