The Fear of Living by Henry Bordeaux

On a dark morning in December a few women slipped like shadows through the snow which deadened their footsteps, to Saint-Real and Metropole Streets, which lead to the Cathedral at Chambéry. As one entered the church the half-open door showed the flickering rays of the lamp running along the dark arches. Toward this trembling lamp they hurried, in spite of the cold and the darkness, as though they had come to beg light and warmth from it. Humble housewives, shop-girls, workwomen, servants, they rose early before their work and hastened to the first Mass as though to some secret meeting-place. They came one by one, sometimes recognizing one another in the porch. Already filled with respect for the sanctity of the place, they spoke in low voices. They all joined together in a group constantly growing more and more compact in one of the side chapels, where two candles, which a choir boy was lighting, showed the place of the holy sacrifice. Walking slowly and carefully on account of the frost on the pavement, Madame Guibert allowed herself to be outdistanced by some of the more active women. Nevertheless she was one of the first to enter. She had never forgotten her old habit, always to be ahead of time. She knelt a little to the side and isolated herself in prayer. She had great need of divine help, and begged for it with her whole soul. That very day she was to know the bitterness of being alone. The moment had come for Niobe to give up her youngest child, the one whom she held in her arms and which till now the gods had spared to her. Paule and her husband would leave Chambéry at three o'clock on their journey to Tonkin to rejoin their brothers on the island of Kébao.

The marriage had been celebrated at Cognin in the first days of September. Then the young couple had gone to seek solitude among unknown faces in that other part of Savoy, whose matchless beauty is a miracle of softness, sweetness, and grace -- the green plain of Chablais, fringed by the blue waters of Lake Leman and bounded by mountains with their lazy curves wooded to the summit, and further off outlined by rugged peaks which raise their barren whiteness to the blue of the sky and in the evening seem like flagstaffs that reflect on their banners the light of the setting sun. Autumn above all gives this enchanted country its fullest power to stir the emotions. With its blending, dying harmonies it tempers the excessive gaiety which summer lavishes on it; it changes the ringing laughter of water and meadow, plain, and mountain, to that smile of pleasure which knows itself short-lived and yet wishes to rejoice.

Paule and Jean witnessed this autumnal magic. They saw the trees in the woods adorn themselves with a thousand splendid fleeting tints, and the vines which slope down to the shore dress themselves in gold. Their hearts learned the better to appreciate the lesson, already familiar to them, of the insecurity of love when it makes itself its sole end, and, taking the time of a kiss for the time of day, fails to build upon the only sure foundation -- a life lived in sympathetic accord and consecrated to the continuity of the race.

They came back to Le Maupas when the vines had been gathered and the meadows harvested, when the brilliance of the sun, the softness of the air, and the grace of the earth increased in proportion to the barrenness round about and strove to detach man from self-centred thoughts. Paule kept very near her mother, as if to forget the threat of the future. And the future cast its shadow upon the present hour which saw mother and daughter reunited. Madame Guibert had been obliged to tell Paule of her wish to stay in Savoy. Jean then generously offered to give up his plans. Monsieur Loigny, his nature decidedly changed, wanted to help his nephew, and at the price of numerous headaches (for he had lost the habit of office work) tried to take stock of the little fortune which he had looked after so badly between two grafts of a rose-bush. He perceived too late that the garden is a bad speculation. Jean's character and capabilities, Paule's energy, the financial position of both families, all made them look to the Colonies for the establishment of their new home. Furthermore Étienne multiplied his appeals to them. He told of the prosperity of his business and was already prepared to guarantee their ultimate success. He begged his sister to bring their mother with her, that in her happy old age she might receive the homage of their filial devotion. Gently but obstinately Madame Guibert had refused.

"I am too old," she said to Jean and Paule when they insisted. "How should I, who have never gone further than from Cognin to Chambéry and from Chambéry to Cognin, bear such a long journey? I should only be in the way. You will all come home to me in your turn. You will tell me about my grandchildren whom I do not know and whom I love, as I loved my own children before they were born."

She smiled, so that no one might think of noticing her tears. But she reflected in her heart: "I feel that God is calling me. Now, now at last, my task is finished. I am nearer the dead than the living. When I am alone I will visit my husband more often and my little Thérèse, who are waiting for me in the cemetery. The memory of Marcel, who rests in Africa, will fill my heart. I will make only one journey more, and that will be to find my own again. Those left on earth have no more need of me. From afar I shall pray for them here, and then from above. I can do no more."

Paule set her wits to work to give her mother daily proof of her love. For so many years she had eaten the bread of sorrow with her. The young wife was inclined to blame herself for her married joy on the eve of this separation, and Madame Guibert had to encourage her to be happy.

"I know what you are thinking about," said Jean when he saw his wife's sadness.

"I love you," she replied. "I love you more than anyone in the whole world, but she."