by James Hanley
There was everything as tidily as she had laid them out in the Rue des Fleurs. She began to remove the top layer. What she required lay at its very bottom. She removed dress after dress, an overall, scarves, a silk shawl, a woollen pullover, shoes wrapped carefully in tissue paper, a writing compendium, a small brown brief-case, that, against the crush of letters, papers and photographs would not close. She leaned away from the trunk, looked round suddenly as though she thought somebody was watching her, then bent to her task again.
"There is nothing else but that," she thought, removing more and more of the things from the trunk. Coming upon a long parcel tied with string she rose to her feet and carried it across to the window. She did not know why, but something made her open it.
"The years I have treasured that," she exclaimed, as, unwrapping the parcel she removed from it a small wooden model of a cruiser, exquisitely carved in mahogany. Holding it up she beheld the name shining on her bow. CROILUS.
"Holding this little boat in my hand, it makes everything seem like a dream. It was the first model he ever carved for his little son," and the day was back, the hours, full and fresh and happy; she could see her son being presented with this boat by his father.
"It's still as beautiful as ever. Poor Alois," she said under her breath, "poor Alois. Drowned like a man this thirty years."
For a long time she held this model up against the light, staring at the bold bright name upon its bow. Carefully she re-wrapped it, and went back to her trunk. Around her were piled the things she had taken from it. She laid the model carefully on the floor, and resumed the emptying. Carefully re-wrapping the model she put it back in the trunk.
"Here they are."
And she withdrew the shirts, the socks, the suit that Madeleine had taken to the cleaners in the city.
She put everything back in its right order, fastened and locked the trunk, then, again struggling with its weight, she managed to get it back to its place on the shelf. She picked up the things and went out.
She again stopped at the office, asking for a large sheet of brown paper and some string. She thanked the sister and returned to her room.
It was near to lunch hour, and as usual she saw them sitting on their beds, awaiting the ring of the bell, the door to open. She passed them by and did not look at them. Then she folded up the things from the trunk, tied the parcel, and taking pen and ink from the window shelf she sat down on her bed and began to address it.
Captain E. Marius, c/o Dr. Parette,
Hospital of the Good Shepherd, ...
The watching women sat on, all were looking at her, surprised, not by her silence, but by their own, as though the very air above them were charged with some forewarning, as though this tense and stooped woman, sat tight at the foot of her bed, scratching laboriously with her pen was holding with all her will some charged secret, and when, having finished writing she dropped the pen, Mademoiselle Gilliat cried, "Oh!" as though she had been struck.
The pen rolled towards her, she bent and picked it up.
"Your pen, Madame Marius," she said, who did not answer, but took the pen pressed into her hand.
Madame Marius got up and walked straight to the door, opened it and left them.
"Perhaps she is ill," said Madame Bazin.
"Perhaps bad news," cried Madame Berriot," these days there is always bad news."
"It is probably the daughter who is not so well," remarked Madame Lescaux.
The bell rang, the nun came in with the tray, lunch was served, one after another the women took their places, and as the nun looked round the table, she asked?" Where is Madame Marius?"
"She has just gone out, she had a parcel for the post," Madame Bazin said.
"It is two hours yet to the collection," replied the novice, "no matter, if she is hungry she will soon return," and she left them.
"I often wonder what she carries in that black bag," Madame Berriot said.
"I never see her take it out, perhaps it is full of precious stones—"
"The soup's too thick for this weather."
"Father Aloysius is going to preach on Sunday morning after the nine mass."
"Is he?"
And on and on throughout the meal, as they drank noisily of their soup, and tore at their bread, and filled their glasses with water.
"I've seen her drinking. She tipples in secret," said Madame Lescaux.
The novice, searching in the garden for the old woman found her seated alone on the bench behind the greenhouse.
"You are not having your lunch, Madame Marius?"
"I am not very hungry. I felt I must come out and sit in the air for a while."
"You look somewhat exhausted, perhaps you have walked too far this morning."
"I have not walked this morning."
"Come now," the novice said, pressing, she helped Madame Marius rise from the bench.
"Maybe you felt a little faint," she said.
"Maybe," the old woman said, a thousand miles away.
"Francois will drive you to the station, Madame Marius," the Mother Superior said," you will be away for the day?"
"Yes, I shall be away for the day," the old woman replied. The two women were standing in the small, red-tiled hall and they were waiting for Francois.
"It is not very far to the station," the Mother Superior said, studying Madame Marius who looked straight out through the door, feeling morning air upon her face.
It had rained in the night, and here and there a puddle reflected the morning light, and there came to her nostrils the deep, heavy earth smells, and she saw the untidiness of flower-beds.
"Heavy rain during the night, Mother," she said.
"A storm. But it will be better towards mid-day."
"The station is not far," she added, "it won't rain again, I'm sure."
"The station," thought Madame Marius, already it was growing in her mind, the noise, the people, the jog of the train, the grind of wheels—into the world again.
"It's like stepping into the sea."
"What was that?" asked the Mother Superior.
"Nothing. I hope this man won't be long."
"Your daughter is not accompanying you?"
"No, she is not coming."
"I would have Sister Veronica or Sister Angela travel with you, Madame Marius, if you wish. Would you like that?"
"There is a change in her," she thought, "this morning she looks fragile, it is so unlike her."
"There is nothing worrying you?"
The old woman shook her head.
"Not now," she said.
She felt the nun's hand on her arm. "Nobody ill, I hope?"
"Nobody ill," Madame Marius said.
"You are happy here, Madame?"
"I am well content."
"Your daughter?"
"I think she is happy, too."
"It is a long journey by yourself," said the Mother Superior.
The old woman drew herself erect, she turned and smiled at the nun. "It is all right, Mother. Thank you. You are very kind."
And she longed and hoped for the sound of the car, wanting to be off, away, on the noisy train, towards that place from which she had been glad to fly to sit in the corner of the carriage and hold to her silence and to her dread.
"Here is Francois."
The Mother Superior stepped out into the path.
"Lovely and fresh," she said, and as the car came to the door, she smiled at its old driver.
"Good morning, Francois. You will drive this lady to the station."
She stood waiting for the old woman to come out, she opened the door of the car, and as Madame Marius bent down to enter she clutched her arm, saying, "Francois would like to know the train on which you're returning. He will drive you back from the station."
The old woman sat down. But now she was unable to speak. She could only look out at the nun, whose large gracious smile seemed to be filling the car. The old woman gripped the handle,
"I don't know, Mothe
r, it is all right. I will return safely," and she closed the door.
"In any case," said the Mother Superior, above the sudden roar of the engine, "in any case there is always a taxi at the station."
She watched the car go slowly down the drive.
"A very independent old woman indeed," thought the Mother Superior as she went inside.
Francois helped Madame Marius from the car, he bought her ticket, he picked up her tiny bag, he led her to the train, found her a seat, asked if she were comfortable, and when she said "yes," he still stood there, talking about the weather, the state of the country, the new wing for the house, all the time leaning in over the window. He had closed the door, and from time to time looked towards the engine.
"A good journey to you, Madame," he said, as the train began to move, and he stood waving to her, his face wreathed in a smile, the apple-red face with its quivering grey beard. She waved him back.
"Not a thought in his head," said the old woman to herself, "perhaps a happy man."
She sat alone in the carriage. She huddled in the corner, the train gathered speed, flashed through the tunnel.
"I shall never understand why she would not come."
"There was his way and there was mine. Nowhere did we meet. There will be no questions, and there will be no answers. I will see him, and then it is finished. He is overthrown and that is just."
Sometimes she would glance out of the window, watch the flashing fields, the flying telegraph poles, and sometimes she lay back and closed her eyes.
"He died on me long ago," she thought, and felt again this rising dread. "But I suppose I must."
At the station she was confused, helpless. She stood alone on the platform, the world rushed by. Then a porter came up and enquired where she wanted to go. She gave him the address. He put her into a taxi, she gave him ten francs, and he thanked her and the taxi drove off.
"This is the most dreadful place I've ever been in. Now I can see why he came here."
At the hospital entrance she paid off the taxi, it rolled away, and for a moment or two she stood on the pavement edge, a little nervous, hesitant. Then she walked slowly to the entrance. In answer to the porter she gave her name and her business.
"You will sit there, Madame," he said, and pointed to the long wooden bench set against the wall.
On this many people were already seated. Seeing the old woman come forward the crowd moved up a little, but not too much, one waited so long, one fought for one's comfort. Madame Marius sat down.
She felt assailed by smells, by the enormity of this waiting-room, by the pressure of the people on the bench, it was like fighting to hold one's tiny place in the swarming, onrushing world, and with one hand she gripped fiercely to the end of the bench.
Above her head hung the great clock, but she did not look at this, its tick was enough. Nurses passed up and down the corridor, a draught was blowing in through the half open door, it had not occurred to anybody to close it. Her feet began to feel cold upon the stone floor. A nurse came in, passed by.
The old woman saw only the flash of feet, the black shoes and grey stockings. She began wondering when her name would be called. Once she looked round, far down the bench, the row of faces immediately turned in her direction, and she lowered her eyes.
"Is it that I am lucky and others are not?" she thought.
A telephone bell rang, a burly porter put his head through the door, surveyed the assembly, then called over his shoulder, "No" in a loud, nerve-shattering voice.
Looking up at the porter Madame Marius imagined herself to be listening to the harsh voice of this city.
Huddled at the end of the bench she listened now to the steady monotonous tick of the clock, and this ticking suddenly fell beneath the wheels of the rushing train, and the sounds were clear and distinct in her ears. For a moment she saw Madeleine buried under a cloud of linen, her son flat upon his back in the rotting room.
"Madame Marius?"
She looked up.
"You are Madame Marius?"
"I am Madame Marius."
Heads turned, bodies moved, the bench creaked, faces lighted up with natural curiosity. She saw a young, white-coated man standing over her, looking at her from behind a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. She stood up.
"Please come this way," he said, and she followed him out. He fell into line with her as they walked up the corridor, at the end of which he stopped, and the old woman saw the glass fronted door, and read the name upon it in large black letters. DR. PARETTE.
The young man knocked.
"Dr. Parette. Madame Marius from Cassis."
"From Lyons," Madame Marius corrected.
Dr. Parette came out, a small round, bright-looking man, whose manner was quick and nervous, whose greenish eyes blinked at her, and he too, wore horn rimmed spectacles. For a second he looked at the woman.
"You are the mother of the man Marius?"
"I am."
"Please come inside, Madame Marius."
The door closed. "Please sit down," he said, placing a chair for her on the other side of his desk.
"Thank you."
They both seated themselves. Again he was looking at her.
"Brought here nine to ten days ago," he said.
"That is it."
He relaxed in his chair. "I see."
"Where is he?"
"Upstairs," Dr. Parette said.
Noticing her tenseness, he said very quietly as he arranged some notes on his desk, "relax, Madame. Nothing will be difficult."
"Thank you."
"There is little we can do," he said. "Perhaps he may recognise you. Certain people have been here, a Madame Lustigne, a man by the name of Varinet, a Lucy Briffaux..."
He saw her hands crumble, tremble on her knees.
"Did the parcel arrive here, doctor. Posted yesterday. They were all the things I had."
"He is wearing them," Dr. Parette said.
"Where are you staying?" he asked. "Your daughter, you have a daughter I understand. She did not come?"
"She could not come," replied the old woman. "We are now at Lyons, and will remain there."
"We shall want your help," he said.
"Help? What help?"
"His present condition has not simply fallen upon him from the air."
"When may I see him?"
"In a moment or two," replied Doctor Parette. He sat up suddenly in the chair, "d'you mind if I smoke, Madame?"
"Not at all," she replied, and was amazed at the size of the pipe that he took from the drawer of his desk. He lit this, and slowly puffed.
"I shall not keep you very long," he said. "You are not of these parts?"
"I am an utter stranger here."
"There are many others," the doctor replied. "Would it be true to say that your son has been looking for a ship for some time and has been un-successful, has been shipless many months."
"That is perfectly true. I have a feeling he came here to see one particular person who would not see him," replied the old woman.
She lowered her eyes, studied the prominent veins on the back of her hands.
"All these questions. Asking me what he already knows, I have no doubt," she thought.
"In the shipping world things are not always assured, Dr. Parette. If one is a sailor, things are not always cosy. One may have bad luck, and ships are as fragile as men, anyway I have seen the proof of it ..."
"You are of a seafaring family, Madame Marius?"
"Yes. All my people, what there were," she replied.
He detected a certain hostility, a grudge. He got up and coming from behind his desk he stood by her. Then he patted her shoulder and said, "you are not very helpful, Madame. Perhaps you do not realize the seriousness of the matter ..."
"My son has been suffering an illusion for some time, he has persuaded himself that he is a ship's captain, and is angry when nobody will recognise that. What is the use of my answering what you already know, Doctor. Please take m
e to see my son. I have come some distance, and I am not young, and I have a train to catch which I cannot miss, since it is the last of the day."
"There was great difficulty in reaching you, Madame, and it was necessary that you should come, since, owing to his condition it would be necessary for you to assent to his being removed from here to another place. I do not wish to distress you..."
"I could not be distressed further," Madame Marius said, and she moved back a little to allow him to pass through the door. She followed him. They walked very slowly down the corridor.
"When first I saw your son I said to myself, 'what a fine man this is, such splendid physique, such a fine presence, here is an intelligent man,' but when I talked to him it was very different. He was like a gentle clown. I could not imagine that such a man had ever met the blows of the sea. I thought perhaps he might have violent tendencies but such are markedly absent. He does not know who he is. But what he does know is that he is under way, is in fact aboard ship, and she is in ballast, she is moving towards the Greek islands. He keeps on telling us that.
"There is in the grounds at the back of this hospital, a lake, and he sits at the window and stares out at this for long periods, and yet though the sight of water should find some response in a seaman, he is yet inert, not a muscle of his face moves, he might be looking out at a solid brick wall. He talks to himself a lot. Once I distinctly heard the name, Manos. Does that have any connection in your mind, Madame?"
"None at all."
"Or the name Madeau?"
She shook her head. They had reached the end of the corridor. At the foot of the stairs she waited for a few moments whilst the doctor spoke to a passing nurse. They then began to mount towards the first floor.
"There is no lift here, unfortunately, Madame, though we are soon to have one."
"Is this place full of madmen?" she asked.
The question, seeming to leap out at him, he stopped dead on the stairs.
"Are you afraid?"
He placed a hand on her arm.
