CHAPTER XIII
ALL at once, Madeleine made up her mind that Lalie should be sent to school. The notion struck her unexpectedly; a queer notion, for her; but she had had many others as queer since the bad news.
She had suddenly thought herself very guilty in keeping such a big girl—going on eight years now—from getting the proper schooling.
"Off to school with you, my dear! It's high time! I've taught you to read and to make your letters, but for giving you any of the higher instruction, I'm not studied enough! So, off to school you go,—or you'd blame me later."
Then, too, she was afraid of being blamed when the Stranger should have taken her place;—afraid of being called less sensible, less vigilant than she. So she decided not even to wait for the Easter term, which was near.
But she wanted the little girl to be fitted out all new and beautifully. And as for using the household money for that—why, of course not!
So she went back to the savings bank and drew out, in a lump, all that remained there: just one hundred francs. Then, while she was in town, she did all her shopping so that on the following day, which was Monday, she could take the little girl to school.
The two of them set out early, Lalie trotting ahead. What a pretty dress it was, bought ready made from a town dressmaker! What a pretty dress, and what a nice little frilly lunch basket! Madeleine was swelled with pride. Her heart was wrung—it always was now—but one thought gave her solace:
"Lalie—she'll never forget me. Whatever happens, when she thinks back to the early years, she'll say: 'The first time I went to school, it was Madeleine took me there, leading me by the hand.'—That's a thing one can't forget."
When they reached Saint-Ambroise, Madeleine bought a big slice of shortbread and a slice of meat loaf, and then some chocolate and chocolate almonds.
"You'll eat the shortbread first with the meat, then the jam sandwich. And you'll give some of the candy to the other little girls, so they'll like you."
Madeleine knocked at the principal's door to present Lalie and give the necessary information.
The principal appeared. She was an elderly spinster in a plain black dress. She asked them in; Madeleine left her wooden shoes at the door, but Lalie stepped forth with her new clogs and almost took a tumble because the floor was as polished as a window pane.
The principal took a sheet of paper and wrote down what Madeleine said:
"Her name is Eulalie Corbier—born at the Moulinettes, Nov. 27. She's only seven, but misfortune didn't wait for her to grow up:—her mother is dead."
The teacher said calmly:
"I know. I had her mother in my class. She was a good pupil, too."
"I'm sure she was," replied Madeleine, "and this child will be just as clever—and make you proud of her. Oh, Mademoiselle, I wish you'd take good care of her!"
The principal had finished her writing and looked up, rather surprised.
"We take good care of all our pupils," she said.
Madeleine blushed.
"I know you do," she stammered. "I have heard your school praised on all sides, I assure you, Mademoiselle! It's only—just—that this little girl is not quite like the others."
The teacher smiled a little, ever so little!—but her eyes on Madeleine remained calm and cold.
Then she, too, had her say, in a very few words; and there was neither harshness nor gentleness in her voice:
"You've come too soon or too late. There are only three school openings: the first in October, the second in January, and the third at Easter. However, as this child is past the age, we will take her—although in doing so I am going beyond the rules."
Then she rose and led Madeleine and Lalie to the door, saying:
"You'll excuse me, I have some work to do—let the little girl go and play with the other children."
When the door was shut Madeleine felt distressed. She leaned over the little girl and whispered:
"Lalie, would you like to come back home?"
Lalie was choking down sobs herself and did not answer.
"If you'd rather, darling, we'll just go back home.—Come, let's go!"
She straightened up, took the child by the hand and walked towards the gate. But as she got there, someone was just passing it to come in. It was a very young girl, neither tall nor pretty, with a pale little face and squinting eyes.
"How do you do?" she said. "Are you bringing me a new pupil?"
As Madeleine looked perplexed, she explained:
"I am the assistant teacher—she'll be in my class."
And without more ado she stooped down and kissed Lalie.
"How do you do, dear! Are you glad you're coming to school? I'll give you a pretty book, with pictures in it!—And we're going to have lots of fun together, you'll see! What's your name, dear?"
"Her name is Eulalie," said Madeleine.
"Eulalie, do you like to play with dolls? Or at hide and seek? I'll show you a pretty 'ring-around' dance.—Oh, and what a beautiful dress you have, Eulalie! I'd like to have one just like it! And oh, look at your lunch basket! Who gave you such a pretty basket?"
Lalie smiled, but never raised her eyes from the ground. Madeleine said:
"Go on, don't be so bashful, Lalie! Answer Mademoiselle."
"Come, answer me, won't you? I'm not a wicked person who'd hurt nice little girls!—Come, where did you get this pretty basket?"
"Nêne gave it to me."
"Nêne?"
"She means me—that's what she calls me," said Madeleine. "She's lost her mother; I've brought her up, and her little brother too."
The assistant teacher picked up the child in her arms and held her close; as she noticed the scar on Lalie's cheek, she asked:
"What has happened to her?"
"She was burned," said Madeleine. "She's had a lot of bad luck,—poor angel.—See, her hair hasn't all grown out yet and her poor little hands won't ever get right again."
The teacher's pale little face turned quite white and her tender squinting eyes filled with tears. Madeleine had to wipe her own eyes.
"It wasn't my fault, I can assure you, Mademoiselle; I wouldn't want you to think so, because it wouldn't be justice. If they'd only listened to me, this thing wouldn't have happened,—so I don't have to blame myself for it. You see, Mademoiselle, I'm fond of the child—I can't tell you how fond!—A person does get fond of a child so quickly, isn't that so?—I'm glad you're going to take her in your class. I know you'll watch over her. Don't let her run too much and get overheated, will you? She has all she needs for her lunch. She'll remember anything you teach her; she's clever, let me tell you! She knows how to read and as for writing—well, you'll see how beautifully she can write! I'm not very educated, especially not in arithmetic; or else I'd have taught her a lot more. She'll grow fond of you, Mademoiselle; you won't have to scold her, I'm sure! Besides, it wouldn't be right to be hard with a poor motherless mite"
Five or six little girls had come running from the far end of the yard, with eyes and ears wide open. Madeleine cried softly.
The teacher covered the poor little deformed hands with kisses and cried too; big, bright tears ran down undisturbed over her white face.
"You needn't be afraid," she said; "I'll watch over her; I'll love her quite as much as the others, and perhaps a little more."
Then she dried her eyes and her gentle smile returned.
"We mustn't cry," she said, "we aren't being sensible! That isn't the way to make children feel at home and comfy!"
Turning to the yard, she called:
"Jeanne! Elise!"
Two pretty, bright-looking little girls ran up to her.
"Come here!—We've got a new pupil, and her name is Eulalie.—Give her a kiss and take her by the hand.—That's right! … I'll carry the basket. We'll go and look the school over, and then we'll play." In a whisper she advised Madeleine:
"You'd better go now; good-bye, and don't worry!"
She went away down the yard, chatting brightly with the three little girls. Suddenly Madeleine called:
"Lalie!"
Lalie turned round, hesitating whether to run to her or stay. Madeleine had not moved from the spot and she was frantically wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.
"Lalie! Good-bye, darling!"
The young teacher raised her hand and laughingly motioned her to "go away! go away!" But as Madeleine still would not move, she took the children with her into the school-house.
Only then did Madeleine start off. She went away at a quick pace, almost at a run; then, little by little, she slowed; her feet dragged; she stopped.
Had she said all she had meant to say?—How stupid of her, now! She had forgotten to tell the teacher not to fail making Lalie put on her cape after school!—What if Lalie grew homesick? What would the teacher do then?—What if she should start crying? Wouldn't it be better to take her home right now?
Madeleine walked back toward the school. Class had begun; she did not dare pass through the gate into the yard, so she stayed outside, on the road, and sat down on a stone at the foot of the school wall.
The voices from the two classes came vaguely to her ears. From one classroom there came a sort of even murmur, a hum of low voices. The other roomful of children was noisier; wooden shoes shuffled about, pencil boxes clattered to the floor; sweet little voices recited the alphabet after a deeper voice that for all its lower tone was yet young and flexible; and all at once there were peals of laughter.
"They're having a good time of it, the tots," thought Madeleine. "I hope they're not making fun of Lalie. Perhaps that's why they laugh so much"
She got up and moved over directly under the young teacher's classroom windows.
A merry miller passed by and began to tease her. Then Bouju came along, driving a cart—that same Bouju who had asked her in marriage not so long ago. He stopped his horse to wish her a good day and inquire after Mme. Clarandeau, Tiennette and all the family.
Madeleine answered straight and quick, in as few words as possible. It annoyed her not to hear the voices from the classroom any more.
When Bouju went on his way, the school bell rang for recess. Madeleine ran to the gate, but the young teacher, having seen her, came quickly toward her:
"Don't let her see you," she whispered. "You would have been wiser to go away.—Everything is going along nicely. I think she'll soon feel quite at home with us. Besides, she's already a big girl, and sensible.—See, there she is, dancing in the round with the others.—But hide yourself, please!"
Madeleine returned to the road; the teacher hurried back to the children and joined in their round dance right beside Lalie.
"Now it's your turn, dear … your turn to stand in the middle! Whom are you going to kiss?"
Lalie came up to her bashfully, and when the teacher bent down, she threw her little arms around her neck.
"Lalie! Lalie! don't forget your cape, after school!"
All heads turned round. Who was that person of whom only the upper part of the face could be seen above the wall? The teacher shrugged her shoulders; Lalie smiled and blushed—and it was she who was the first to start the game again.
The blonde hair and the swollen eyes disappeared from above the wall.
"She feels at home already.—I'm glad!—She's put me out of her mind already.—How she hugged the teacher!—I was so worried, and now it's all right.—All the better! I'm glad, very glad!"
All along the way to the Moulinettes Madeleine kept mumbling: "I'm glad!"—the while big tears were blinding her.
Of that first school day Lalie made a whole long tale:
"If you knew, Nêne, how much fun we're having! Teacher made me sing; she says I'll be at the head of the class."
"Do you like her already, your teacher?"
"Indeed I do! She's lovely! When you kiss her, her hair smells good. She gave me a paper rose."
"Like the one I bought for you at the Saint-Ambroise fair?"
"Oh, much prettier."
Madeleine thought:
"It's lucky the young lady knew so well how to get round Lalie!"
And her heart was heavy.
As she was getting supper, she saw the little girl very busy looking at herself in a mirror; she crept noiselessly near: Lalie was trying to squint, in order to look like the teacher.
The following afternoon it was the same tale of joy.
"You haven't once been scolded?" asked Madeleine.
"Scolded? Why scolded?"
"And all those hours, you don't once get a little homesick? Don't you think of Jo?—nor of me?"
"Never!"
Madeleine did not ask her anything more.
On Wednesday she hunted up some reason for keeping Lalie out of school, but there was such weeping and wailing that she had to let her go.
Thus the week passed. Lalie talked about nothing but her school, her teacher. At night she talked of them in her dreams, and this caused Madeleine a hidden pang of which she was ashamed.
The Monday following, she had a flash of guilty joy. She had gone toward Saint-Ambroise, about four o'clock, to wait for Lalie. When the little girl came in sight with her basket on her arm, Madeleine saw that she was walking wistfully and that her eyes were red.
With a bound she was beside her and picked her up in her arms:
"What's the matter? You've been crying! Did she scold you?"
Lalie burst into sobs.
"Oh, she scolded you, she scolded you, did she?"
Lalie shook her head:
"No! No!"
But Madeleine, without listening, went on hugging and petting her, setting her down and picking her up again.
"Oh, the wicked girl!—She hurt you!"
"No! No!"
"What did she do to you? Tell me! I'll give her a good scolding!—Such a wicked girl!—And you won't have to go to her school any more."
Lalie struggled until she managed to slip to the ground; then she cried in high dudgeon:
"She's not wicked! I won't let you scold her. Who told you she hurt me?"
"But here you are, still crying!"
"I'm crying on account of the girls—they won't be good—they won't learn to read.—She said she'd go away and we'd never see her any more!"
Madeleine stood perplexed, with empty arms dangling, looking at the child, and her heart was torn with jealousy.
Next morning she announced that Lalie was looking out of sorts, that she'd been coughing all night, and that she shouldn't go to school.
The child set up a yell, but Madeleine stuck to her guns and had her way.