The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 35, September, 1860. Various
have a right to yourself, with which I am not to interfere. We are old friends,—we came away from Lorraine together. Do not forget that. I never will forget it."
"But you are done with me. You say nothing to me. I might as well be dead, for all you care."
"Let us not talk of such things in this manner," said Jacqueline, mildly. But the dignity of her rebuke was felt, for Elsie said,—
"But I seem to have lost you,—and now we are alone together, I may say it. Yes, I have lost you, Jacqueline!"
"This is not the first time we have been alone together in these dreadful three days."
"But now I cannot help speaking."
"You could help it before. Why, Elsie? You had not made up your mind. But now you have, or you would not speak, and insist on speaking. What have you to say, then?"
"Jacqueline! Are you Jacqueline?"
"Am I not?"
"You seem not to be."
"How is it, Elsie?"
"You are silent and stern, and I think you are very unhappy, Jacqueline."
"I do not know,—not unhappy, I think. Perhaps I am silent,—I have been so busy. But for all it is so dreadful—no! not unhappy, Elsie."
"Thinking of Leclerc all the while?"
"Of him? Oh, no! I have not been thinking of him,—not constantly. Jesus Christ will take care of him. His mother is quiet, thinking that. I, at least, can be as strong as she. I'm not thinking of the shame and cruelty,—but of what that can be worth which is so much to him, that he counts this punishment, as they call it, as nothing, as hardly pain, certainly not disgrace. The Truth, Elsie!—if I have not as much to say, it is because I have been trying to find the Truth."
"But if you have found it, then I hope I never shall,—if it is the Truth that makes you so gloomy. I thought it was this business in Meaux."
"Gloomy? when it may be I have found, or shall find"—
Here Jacqueline hesitated,—looked at Elsie. Grave enough was that look to expel every frivolous feeling from the heart of Elsie,—at least, so long as she remained under its influence. It was something to trust another as Jacqueline intended now to trust her friend. It was a touching sight to see her seeking her old confidence, and appearing to rely on it, while she knew how frail the reed was. But this girl, frivolous as was her spirit, this girl had come with her from the distant native village; their childhood's recollections were the same. And Jacqueline determined now to trust her. For in times of blasting heat the shadow even of the gourd is not to be despised.
"You know what I have looked for so long, Elsie," she said, "you ought to rejoice with me. I need work for that no longer."
"What is that, Jacqueline?"
Even this question, betraying no such apprehension as Jacqueline's words seemed to intimate, did not disturb the girl. She was in the mood when, notwithstanding her show of dependence, she was really in no such necessity. Never was she stronger than now when she put off all show of strength. Elsie stood before her in place of the opposing world. To Elsie's question she replied as readily as though she anticipated the word, and had no expectation of better recollection,—not to speak of better apprehension.
"To bring him out of suffering he has never been made to endure, as surely as God lives. As if the Almighty judged men so! I shall send back no more money to Father La Croix. It is not his prayer, nor my earnings, that will have to do with the eternity of John Gabrie.—Do you hear me, Elsie?"
"I seem to, Jacqueline."
"Have I any cause for wretched looks, then? I am in sight of better fortune than I ever hoped for in this world."
"Then don't look so fearful. It is enough to scare one. You are not a girl to choose to be a fright,—unless this dreadful city has changed you altogether from what you were. You would frighten the Domrémy children with such a face as that; they used not to fear Jacqueline."
"I shall soon be sailing on a smoother sea. As it is, do not speak of my looks. That is too foolish."
"But, oh, I feel as if I must hold you,—hold you!—you are leaving me!"
"Come on, Elsie!" exclaimed Jacqueline, as though she almost hoped this of her dear companion.
"But where?" asked Elsie, not so tenderly.
"Where God leads. I cannot tell."
"I do not understand."
"You would not think the Truth worth buying at the price of your life?"
"My life?"
"Or such a price as he pays who—has been branded to-day?"
"It was not the truth to your mother,—or to mine. It was not the truth to any one we ever knew, till we came here to Meaux."
"It is true to my heart, Elsie. It is true to my conscience. I know that I can live for it. And it may be"—
"Hush!—do not! Oh, I wish that I could get you back to Domrémy! What is going to come of this? Jacqueline, let us go home. Come, let us start to-night. We shall have the moon all night to walk by. There is nothing in Meaux for us. Oh, if we had never come away! It would have been better for you to work there for—what you wanted,—for what you came here to do."
"No, let God's Truth triumph! What am I? Less than that rush! But if His breath is upon me, I will be moved by it,—I am not a stone."
Then they walked on in silence. Elsie had used her utmost of persuasion, but Jacqueline not her utmost of resistance. Her companion knew this, felt her weakness in such a contest, and was silent.
On to town they went together. They walked together through the streets, passing constantly knots of people who stood about the corners and among the shops, discussing what had taken place that day. They crossed the square where the noonday sun had shone on crowds of people, men and women, gathered from the four quarters of the town and the neighboring country, assembled to witness the branding of a heretic. They entered their court-yard together,—ascended the stairway leading to their lodging. But they were two,—not one.
Elsie's chief desire had been to get Jacqueline safely into the house ere she could find opportunity for expression of what was passing in her mind. Her fear was even greater than her curiosity. She had no desire to learn, under these present circumstances, the arguments and incidents which the knots of men and women were discussing with so much vehemence as they passed by. She could guess enough to satisfy her. So she had hurried along, betraying more eagerness than was common with her to get out of the street. Not often was she so overcome of weariness,—not often so annoyed by heat and dust. Jacqueline, without remonstrance, followed her. But they were two,—not one.
Once safe in their upper room, Elsie appeared to be, after all, not so devoid of interest in what was passing in the street as her hurried walk would seem to betoken. She had not quite yet lost her taste for excitement and display. For immediately she seated herself by the window, and was all eye and ear to what went on outside.
Jacqueline's demonstrations also were quite other than might have been anticipated. Each step she took in her chamber gave an indication that she had a purpose,—and that she would perform it.
She removed from her dress the dust and stain of toil, arranged her hair, made herself clean and decent, to meet the sober gaze of others. Then she placed upon the table the remains of their breakfast,—but she ate nothing.
VIII
It was nearly dark when Jacqueline said to Elsie,—
"I am now going to see John and his mother. I must see with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears. I may be able to help them,—and I know they will be able to help me. John's word will be worth hearing,—and I want to hear it. He must have learned in these days more than we shall ever be able to learn for ourselves. Will you go with me?"
"No," cried Elsie,—as though she feared she might against her will be taken into such company. Then, not for her own sake, but for Jacqueline's, she added, almost as if she hoped that she