The Fear of Living by Henry Bordeaux

What would not those who have been stricken by the grief of some faraway disaster give to hear about their loved one from some witness of the fatal scene, to learn the details of the tragedy, known to them only through the bare outlines of the official despatch -- even though these details should open their wounds afresh and make their tears flow once more? They think themselves happy in their very misery, if they can but know the exact truth, if death's mysterious horror can be banished, which tortures their hearts by day and haunts their pillows by night.

Several months have elapsed since the battle of Timmimun. Of the two mourners at Le Maupas, one has grown a little more bent and her smile, already, so rare and faint has vanished for ever. The other has remained upright and proud, but heedless of her youth has resigned herself bitterly and hopelessly to the flight of time. Wrapped in silence and solitude, they never go into the town and cross only the humblest thresholds, where their presence is always welcome.

And when the postman's step crushes the gravel in the courtyard, they still tremble. That worthy man, so full of his own importance, will not keep them in suspense and according to the postmarks he cries "A letter from Paris," "From Tonkin," "From Algiers."

"Thank you, Ravet. Go to Marie. She is waiting to give you a glass of wine."

Their correspondence is now the only joy of the household. It is more frequent than it used to be. From afar Madame Guibert's children try to shower their love upon her. Letters come from Jean Berlier in Africa. They are full of Marcel and his glorious death. In the last one Jean has told them of his return to Savoy at the end of May.

At Le Maupas anxious eyes look down the deserted avenue, where now the chestnuts are proudly bearing their white candles. The young man coming slowly up the wooded hill that leads to the old house is no longer Isabelle Orlandi's gay cavalier, though he has still kept his slim, lithe figure and his distinguished, confident bearing. But his brown face wears a more manly expression; his eyes have a surer and more discriminating glance. Leaving behind his careless youth, he has grown into a man who thinks and who knows what he wants.

He arrived only the evening before. This morning he left Rose Villa and all along the road he has been breathing his native air, like one newly awakened. On the chilly earth, decked with mauve and lilac mists -- like a maiden slowly opening her eyes and stirring aside the gauzy curtains of her bed -- he catches the fresh beauty of spring and that joy of life which begins with the dawn.

His eyes dwell admiringly on the delicate green of the trees and fields, the individual glory of the month of May, and he feels a happiness in the tender, new-born leaves budding on the hedges. To the left his glance searches for those three steeples, on which the tent of the sky seems to hang over the countryside: Belle-Combette, almost hidden in greenery; Montagnol, proud and grey, scarcely distinguishable from the walls of Pas-de-la-Fosse; and sweet Saint-Cassin, resting, like an old man seeking the shade, in a forest of chestnut trees. The scarps of the neighboring mountains lose their rugged shape in the morning light, and Nature under the clear sky smiles all over and trustfully displays her grace and charm, wherein may be read the promise of fruit and harvest.

Jean turned round and saw from afar a sheet of pearl and gold, which was Lake Bourget, its sleeping waters bathed in sunshine. At the kiss of the beams the waters shivered voluptuously. The young man continued on his way. Standing out against the Chaloux hills, La Chênaie was welcoming the fresh air through its open windows. Pleasant memories came back to Jean of the time when he was twenty-five; of Isabelle's red lips, expert alike in speech and kisses. He thought over his life and reached a conclusion which surprised him.

"I have seen neither her nor Savoy for four years -- or nearly that. It seems very much longer to me. I was a boy then, playing at life."

But the girl of long ago did not remain in his memory. As he passed into the oakwood he stopped and looked again. The arch of the trees bordering the road narrowed and framed the landscape. He recognised in the hues and outlines of the plains and mountains that mixture of precision and of softness which gives the Savoyard country its unique character. A shepherd girl's voice rose to him. She was singing some old love couplets:

"Up there on the mountain / There is a meadow; / The partridge and the quail / Go there to sing. / I took my cross-bow, / Thither I went; / Thinking to kill four, / I missed them all."

The few uncertain notes could not rob this strained voice of its clear tone, limpid as the waters of a stream.

At the bend of the road some sheep appeared, then the shepherdess, standing out like shadows against the light trelliswork of branches. She was a girl of fifteen or sixteen, to whom health and strength gave a rustic beauty.

"Tis the heart of my love / That I have wounded. / Love, my sweet love, / Have I hurt you?"

She passed by Jean, who was listening smilingly to her song.

"Good morning, Monsieur Jean," said she with a bow.

"Do you know me? " he asked in surprise.

"Why, of course! I am the daughter of Trélaz, the farmer at Le Maupas."

"Jeannette?"