The Best Short Stories of 1920 Part 52

Jacques shook his head.

"Do you think one day from to-morrow?"

Again Jacques shook his head.

But Claire Rene was busy in her thoughts. She turned suddenly and threw her arms about him. "Will you again walk the miles of the forest for Claire Rene, will you?"

"But--why--for what reason, ma pet.i.te?"

She would send a letter! She would herself write to the "Great Man," and tell him about Clement and Fernand and Alphonse, tell him how good and brave they were, and about grand'mere and the silence of her eyes and ears, and about--Claire Rene looked frightened and clapped her fingers over her mouth.

No! She must forever keep the secret about the telegrams. Telegrams meant sorrow; there must be only happiness in the house for the brothers.

Long after twilight had fallen she pleaded with Jacques about the letter. By the firelight that same night she would write. Grand'mere had taught her to make the letters of many words; she knew what to say. In the first light of the day Jacques could be gone to the post. And then!

Yes?

Not until he finally nodded his head was she satisfied. Then she wondered why so suddenly he had become heavy with sadness. Why, when she watched him trudge off into the forest, had he seemed to carry a burden on his bent back?

She thought: "Old people are like that. Grand'mere is like that; she, too, grows tired with the end of the day. They had so many long days behind them to remember--grand'mere and Jacques. And the days ahead of them?"

Claire Rene was often puzzled about their days ahead. They were so tired! But they would be soon happy. And grand'mere would open her eyes to see and her ears to hear when Clement and Fernand and Alphonse came back again.

Claire Rene ate only a mouthful of her cooked roots on that evening. For grand'mere she made a special brew of dried herbs from the forest and baked a cake from the last bit of brown flour left in the cupboard.

Grand'mere was half the shape she used to be; the brothers would surely scold when they saw her so gone away.

Claire Rene piled the logs high on the fire; she must have light for her work, plenty of light. She searched the house for paper and envelope and pencil and when she had written she threw the paper into the fire and wept with a pa.s.sion much too great for her years and her body. She had forgotten the words; they wouldn't come. And who was she to be writing to the "Great Man," a man like a king?

Until the dawn crept through the windows Claire Rene lay upon the hearth by the dying fire, sobbing through her sleep. The first light of day made her remember Jacques. He would be waiting! He had promised to go, to walk to the post with her letter. She looked at the dark closet under the stairs. She thought of the three wreaths; if she could make wreaths, she could make letters! She bounded to her feet; she seized the last of the paper and the bitten pencil; she struggled with the letters; she wrote: "Dear Great Man: My brothers----"

A step in the still room startled her. Grand'mere was coming from her room, fully dressed. Claire Rene flew to her side, but Madame Populet stood erect; she walked alone to her chair by the window. Claire Rene knelt beside her, and the hands that were laid on her head had a new firmness in their pressure. And grand'mere was smiling!

Claire Rene thought: "She is happy this morning; she feels in the air the gladness. I will make her a hot brew when I come back from Jacques."

She wrapped a dark cloak about her shoulders; in her hand was tightly clasped the half-written paper and the pencil. At the doorway she turned and called: "Good-by, grand'mere. Good-by."

Madame Populet was still smiling; her face was turned toward the forest and, through the sweeping willow over the window, sunbeams laid their fingers on the sightless eyes.

Two hours later Claire Rene walked through the forest singing. Her arms were full of scarlet leaves and branches of holly berries. She wanted to carry all the beautiful things she saw back to the cottage, to make the place a bower, where she and grand'mere and Clement and Fernand and Alphonse could kneel and thank the good G.o.d that they were again together.

All the world was kind on this morning. Jacques had been waiting for her at the door of his wooden hut. He had helped her with the letter. He had set out straightway to the post. Claire Rene had stooped and kissed the feet that had so many miles to go.

Jacques had cried out: "Ma pet.i.te, you hope too far."

But Claire Rene's mind and heart were a flood of joy; she had no place for doubt, no time for sorrow. She came out of the forest and stood looking at the tiny, crumbling house. No longer was she afraid of the silence. In but a short time her three brothers would fill the air with laughter; they would carry her on their backs around the house and into the forest, and grand'mere would stand waiting and smiling--and perhaps scolding; who could tell?

She pushed her way through the doorway. The berries and leaves made a tall screen about her; she could barely see grand'mere in her chair by the window. She laid the branches on the hearth.

"There!" she said. "That's good."

Grand'mere was very quiet in her chair by the window. Her hands were folded over her breast. There was something between her still fingers.

Claire Rene looked again, and then she screamed.

Madame Populet's eyes were open; they were fixed on the thin blue-and-white envelope clasped in her hands. Claire Rene pressed her fingers into her temples; she was afraid to speak aloud.

She whispered: "The third telegram!"

Who had brought it? Who had given it to grand'mere? Why was she so still? Why were her eyes open, without seeing? Claire Rene wanted to scream again; but instead, she made her feet take her to the chair by the window; she made her fingers pull the thin envelope from between the stiff fingers. Grand'mere's hands were cold. Her silence was more terrible than any silence Claire Rene had known before. The glazed, open eyes looked as if they hurt; she closed the lids with the tips of her fingers. She had seen dead birds in the forest and she knew that grand'mere was now like them.

The telegram was better burned in the fire; there it could bring no more sorrow. She watched the thin paper curl and smolder among the smoking embers of last night's blaze. She looked again toward the still figure by the window. If grand'mere was dead, why did she stay on the earth?

Why didn't the Holy Mother send an angel to carry her away into the heaven of the good G.o.d?

Claire Rene began to tremble. What if the angels were too tired to come, were as faint and hungry as she! What, then, would become of grand'mere?

Clement and Fernand and Alphonse would be very angry to find her so cold and still and dead; they would be, perhaps, as angry to find her gone away to heaven. But grand'mere had so much of sorrow here on earth; Claire Rene thought the room was growing very dark; she flung her arms above her head and faintly screamed. But there was no one to hear. She fell on the hearthstone beside the red berries and the red leaves.

There was scarcely a breath left in her body when Jacques found her at dusk.

Three days later she opened her eyes in her little bed beside grand'mere's bed. Grand'mere's bed was smooth and high and white. Claire Rene was puzzled.

She called: "Grand'mere!"

From the outer room the voice of Jacques replied: "Yes, ma pet.i.te; I am here."

He came and put his arms about her; she laid her head against his rough coat, but her eyes were turned toward the empty bed. She was trying to remember.

Presently she sat up and asked: "Did the angel come and take grand'mere and carry her to the Holy Mother in heaven?"

Jacques crossed his heart. "Yes, ma pet.i.te," he said.

Faintly Claire Rene smiled and faintly she questioned: "But, my brothers?"

Jacques turned his troubled eyes away. She must wait, he said; when she was strong they would talk of many things. He told her that he had brought food to make her well, and that on the first warm day he would himself carry her out into the sunshine of the forest; there she would again run and sing and be like a happy, bright bird.

In the days that followed Claire Rene never spoke of grand'mere; she never spoke of her three brothers. She lay in her bed and stared about the quiet room. The silence was different, now that grand'mere was gone.

Everything was different.

Jacques gave her food and care, and every day he said: "In only a little time you will be strong again, ma pet.i.te."

But something in his eyes kept her from speaking about Clement and Fernand and Alphonse. Often she thought about the telegrams upstairs in the high, white bed. She wondered if Jacques had found them there. Once she heard him walking on the floor above. He was there a long time, and when he came down his voice was queer and deep and his eyes were hidden behind a mist.

He never spoke any more about the "Great Man from America." Jacques was like grand'mere; he was old, he was full of sorrow. Claire Rene was afraid to ask about her letter; she thought about it each day.

But on the morning she was carried to Clement's chair by the chimney corner, she felt a great gladness spring in her heart. Yes; they would come soon--her three brothers. To-morrow she would be strong enough to walk alone to the dark closet under the stairs and look again at the three wreaths on the highest shelf.

Claire Rene smiled in her sleep that night; she dreamed of laughter in the house, of strong young arms about her, of quick steps and bright eyes.

Once she awoke and must have called out, for Jacques was kneeling beside her bed.