The Mystery of Madeline Le Blanc/Chapter 5

by Max Ehrmann

V.

"Here is a message," said Irène to Madame Le Blanc, at two o'clock in the afternoon.

The mother sat, pale and motionless, in a large armchair near the door that faced the garden. It had stopped raining and the sun was out.

"Read it to me," she said.

"It is from Doctor Satiani." Irène read:—

"'Monsieur Le Blanc, I advise you to have your child interred today. Decay having set in a day ago, it would be unwise to keep her until to-morrow. Nothing can be done for her; and you must protect yourselves against the danger of keeping her in the house another night.

"'In deepest sympathy,

"'Doctor Satiani.'"

The poor mother relapsed into silence. She had wept until there were no more tears; and now resigned herself to what she considered the will of God. Her face was that of Madeline's, but thinner, and furrowed with the cares of time; and her hair, that had been once of the same golden color, was now fading into a silvery gray.

"Where is Monsieur?"

"He has gone to make arrangements for the funeral," answered the heroic Irène, who bore sorrow like a man. "Is there anything Madame wants?" she continued, kneeling beside her.

"No, nothing," answered the mother, as she raised her hands to the head of the faithful girl and pressed it against her breast.

It did not take long for the news of the death to spread over the town. A good many people knew Madeline, either familiarly or at least by sight, for from her earliest childhood she had gone out much with her father, holding his hand when she was small,as they walked along; and when she grew older she took his arm. Then Joseph succeeded the father in her affections; and by the time it was known that they were betrothed, Madeline's beauty, simplicity and goodness had made her admired by many. "Poor Madeline," everybody said, instinctively.

A number of persons was now in the front room of the house, where she lay in her shroud of spotless white. The mother and father of Joseph had come; and with their deep sympathy they tried to comfort those in bereavement. They hardly dared to think what the news would mean to their son, who had long ago confided his love to them.

"I am going to find Monsieur, and give him the letter," said Irène.

Just then Monsieur Le Blanc came, and the letter was read to him.

"The arrangements are already made. We shall bury our child this afternoon," he said, “We shall take her to the chapel at four o'clock."

"I wish Joseph could have seen her once more," said the mother of the young soldier.

"It is impossible. Who knows where he is!" responded Monsieur Le Blanc.

"How are we to let him know?" asked the lad's father. "For such a journey, at such a time, I am too old; and it would be no easy task to find him; Paris is no village."

"But it is only right that we should let our poor son know. It would kill him to think that she had been dead a long time before he knew it, for I know he thinks of her every hour," said the mother, bursting into tears.

"Don't weep; we will follow very soon," observed the father of the dead girl, his heart softening in this great affliction.."We will send some one to tell Joseph; but whom I do not know."

The mother sitting in the armchair mentioned several names. But there was some objection to ask or expect any one of them to go. The young men were already all in Paris; and there was an outbreak —nay, a revolution, expected any hour.

"Send me!" said Irène, suddenly stepping among them, her face aglow as she met the eyes of Joseph's and Madeline 's parents.

"You?" said the men, simultaneously.

"O Irène, you would be killed!" observed Joseph's mother.

"Irène has a great spirit," whispered the other mother. 'Come here, my girl," and she put her arms about her and caressed her as she was wont to do her own child, now so still andcold. " No, we cannot let you go."

Irène was ready for any task. She was one of those creatures whom want had taught appreciation; and was, therefore, willing at any time to undertake anything that her friends wished to be done. Her father had fallen at Waterloo, and her mother had died of a brokenheart. Irène had been the only offspring of an alliance that had been so sweet to the young mother that its termination was too much for her, and before long she too had gone into the eternal land, leaving this single child, who found her means of subsistence in whatever haphazard way destiny saw fit. Now that she was grown, she was willing to do anything for those who had been kind to her.

The parents came to no conclusion as to who should be asked to carry the unhappy news to Paris. It would have been useless to send a letter, for a soldier has not a permanent address, much less a rebel soldier.

At four o'clock the body was followed to the chapel by a goodly number of friends; among them, with bent head and saddened countenance, walked Doctor Satiani. At the chapel, a few psalms, the ‘’Libera’’, and ‘’De Profundis’’ were chanted; for some time the holy fathers continued to administer the last services to the departed soul; and for the last time the friends viewed the body. From the folds of the white shroud protruded the wax-like hands, folded upon the golden cross of a pearl rosary.

By five o'clock the funeral line marched northward toward the cemetery. It was a sad procession. It is not so melancholy a thing to follow the remains of an aged person to the tomb, for however dear the departed may be, he had mounted a good score of years—he had fulfilled his task—he had lived. But to follow the bier of youth—hopeful, bright, ambitious youth, that was yet to flower and diffuse its fragrance; that had not yet had life and experience, but was just looking out toward them with the wistful eyes of innocent desire—to follow such to their last abode is indeed a solemn thing. "O mockery," one feels like crying, "what possibilities lie buried in the tombs of youth!"

The first shadows of the coming night mingled with the brightness of the day, as the procession came in view of the cemetery. It was a desolate, old and endless place, dotted with a few bright and many darkened monuments, The ancient gate through which the procession passed had long ago lost its doors. The straw of withered weeds lay profusely about, and with the coarse grass hid many of the only surviving testimonials of the dead and forgotten. Nature here seemed ruder than elsewhere, spreading oblivion and forgetfulness alike over the humblest headstones and the proudest monument.

Irène had not been in the chapel, nor was she now in the cemetery; but in the mother's sorrow she was not missed; and who else would think of her?

The friends gathered round a newly made grave, almost in the northwest corner, between a rude fence, which divided the cemetery from the valley, and a thick, brown, old monument, from which time had effaced every inscription save a date early in the last century. The mother, sustained by the father, stood near.the grave; behind them a few relatives; and all around a circle of solemn faces, as the aged priest offered the last prayer, and Madeline was lowered into the earth.

The sun stood low in the western horizon, the verdure of the valley was tinged with the gloaming of eventide, and the flocks and herds wandered homeward, as one by one the shovelfuls of earth enclosed again in their thraldom a cold and silent form of clay. Homeward moved the mourners, and before long the earth was shrouded in the mystery of night. Madeline Le Blanc was no more.

On a table in the cottage beside the garden lay this note, awaiting the mother and father's return:—

"Dear Monsieur and Madame, I have gone to Paris.

"Irène."