Chapter no 8 – Lilacs‌

The Awakening

Mme. Adrienne Farival never announced her coming; but the good nuns knew very well when to look for her. When

the scent of the lilac blossoms began to permeate the air, Sister Agathe would turn many times during the day to the window; upon her face the happy, beatific expression with which pure and simple souls watch for the coming of those they love.

But it was not Sister Agathe; it was Sister Marceline who first espied her crossing the beautiful lawn that sloped up to the convent. Her arms were filled with great bunches of lilacs which she had gathered along her path. She was

clad all in brown; like one of the birds that come with the spring, the nuns used to say. Her figure was rounded and graceful, and she walked with a happy, buoyant step. The cabriolet which had conveyed her to the convent moved

slowly up the gravel drive that led to the imposing entrance. Beside the driver was her modest little black trunk, with her name and address printed in white letters

upon it: “Mme. A Farival, Paris.” It was the crunching of the gravel which had attracted Sister Marceline’s attention.

And then the commotion began.

White-capped heads appeared suddenly at the windows; she waved her parasol and her bunch of lilacs at them. Sister Marceline and Sister Marie Anne appeared, fluttered and expectant at the doorway. But Sister Agathe, more daring and impulsive than all, descended the steps

and flew across the grass to meet her. What embraces, in which the lilacs were crushed between them! What ardent

kisses! What pink flushes of happiness mounting the cheeks of the two women!

Once within the convent Adrienne’s soft brown eyes

moistened with tenderness as they dwelt caressingly upon the familiar objects about her, and noted the most trifling

details. The white, bare boards of the floor had lost nothing of their luster. The stiff, wooden chairs, standing in rows

against the walls of hall and parlor, seemed to have taken on an extra polish since she had seen them, last lilac time.

And there was a new picture of the Sacré-Coeur hanging over the hall table. What had they done with Ste. Catherine de Sienne, who had occupied that position of honor for so many years? In the chapel—it was no use trying to deceive her—she saw at a glance that St. Joseph’s mantle had been embellished with a new coat of blue, and the aureole about his head freshly gilded. And the Blessed Virgin there

neglected! Still wearing her garb of last spring, which looked almost dingy by contrast. It was not just—such

partiality! The Holy Mother had reason to be jealous and to complain.

But Adrienne did not delay to pay her respects to the Mother Superior, whose dignity would not permit her to so much as step outside the door of her private apartments to welcome this old pupil. Indeed, she was dignity in person; large, uncompromising, unbending. She kissed Adrienne

without warmth, and discussed conventional themes

learnedly and prosaically during the quarter of an hour which the young woman remained in her company.

It was then that Adrienne’s latest gift was brought in for inspection. For Adrienne always brought a handsome

present for the chapel in her little black trunk. Last year it was a necklace of gems for the Blessed Virgin, which the

Good Mother was only permitted to wear on extra

occasions, such as great feast days of obligation. The year before it had been a precious crucifix—an ivory figure of

Christ suspended from an ebony cross, whose extremities were tipped with wrought silver. This time it was a linen

embroidered altar cloth of such rare and delicate

workmanship that the Mother Superior, who knew the

value of such things, chided Adrienne for the extravagance.

“But, dear Mother, you know it is the greatest pleasure I have in life—to be with you all once a year, and to bring

some such trifling token of my regard.”

The Mother Superior dismissed her with the rejoinder: “Make yourself at home, my child. Sister Thérése will see

to your wants. You will occupy Sister Marceline’s bed in the end room, over the chapel. You will share the room with Sister Agathe.”

There was always one of the nuns detailed to keep Adrienne company during her fortnight’s stay at the

convent. This had become almost a fixed regulation. It was only during the hours of recreation that she found herself

with them all together. Those were hours of much harmless merrymaking under the trees or in the nuns’ refectory.

This time it was Sister Agathe who waited for her

outside of the Mother Superior’s door. She was taller and slenderer than Adrienne, and perhaps ten years older. Her fair blonde face flushed and paled with every passing

emotion that visited her soul. The two women linked arms and went together out into the open air.

There was so much which Sister Agathe felt that

Adrienne must see. To begin with, the enlarged poultry yard, with its dozens upon dozens of new inmates. It took now all the time of one of the lay sistes to attend to them.

There had been no change made in the vegetable garden, but—yes there had; Adrienne’s quick eye at once detected it. Last year old Philippe had planted his cabbages in a

large square to the right. This year they were set out in an oblong bed to the left. How it made Sister Agathe laugh to think Adrienne should have noticed such a trifle! And old Philippe, who was nailing a broken trellis not far off, was

called forward to be told about it.

He never failed to tell Adrienne how well she looked, and how she was growing younger each year. And it was

his delight to recall certain of her youthful and mischievous escapades. Never would he forget that day she disappeared; and the whole convent in a hubbub about it!

And how at last it was he who discovered her perched among the tallest branches of the highest tree on the

grounds, where she had climbed to see if she could get a

glimpse of Paris! And her punishment afterwards!—half of the Gospel of Palm Sunday to learn by heart!

“We may laugh over it, my good Philippe, but we must remember that Madame is older and wiser now.”

“I know well, Sister Agathe, that one ceases to commit follies after the first days of youth.” And Adrienne seemed greatly impressed by the wisdom of Sister Agathe and old Philippe, the convent gardener.

A little later when they sat upon a rustic bench which overlooked the smiling landscape about them, Adrienne was saying to Sister Agathe, who held her hand and

stroked it fondly:

“Do you remember my first visit, four years ago, Sister Agathe? and what a surprise it was to you all!”

“As if I could forget it, dear child!”

“And I! Always shall I remember that morning as I

walked along the boulevard with a heaviness of heart—oh, a heaviness which I hate to recall. Suddenly there was

wafted to me the sweet odor of lilac blossoms. A young girl had passed me by, carrying a great bunch of them. Did you ever know, Sister Agathe, that there is nothing which so

keenly revives a memory as a perfume—an odor?”

“I believe you are right, Adrienne. For now that you speak of it, I can feel how the odor of fresh bread—when Sister Jeanne bakes—always makes me think of the great kitchen of ma tante de Sierge, and crippled Julie, who sat

always knitting at the sunny window. And I never smell the sweet scented honeysuckle without living again through

the blessed day of my first communion.”

“Well, that is how it was with me, Sister Agathe, when

the scent of the lilacs at once changed the whole current of my thoughts and my despondency. The boulevard, its noises, its passing throng, vanished from before my senses as completely as if they had been spirited away. I was

standing here with my feet sunk in the green sward as they are now. I could see the sunlight glancing from that old

white stone wall, could hear the notes of birds, just as we hear them now, and the humming of insects in the air. And through all I could see and could smell the lilac blossoms, nodding invitingly to me from their thick-leaved branches. It seems to me they are richer than ever this year, Sister Agathe. And do you know, I became like an enragée;

nothing could have kept me back. I do not remember now where I was going; but I turned and retraced my steps

homeward in a perfect fever of agitation: “Sophie! my little trunk—quick—the black one! A mere handful of clothes! I

am going away. Don’t ask me any questions. I shall be back in a fortnight.’ And every year since then it is the same. At

the very first whiff of a lilac blossom, I am gone! There is no holding me back.”

“And how I wait for you, and watch those lilac bushes, Adrienne! If you should once fail to come, it would be like the spring coming without the sunshine or the song of birds.

“But do you know, dear child, I have sometimes feared that in moments of despondency such as you have just described, I fear that you do not turn as you might to our Blessed Mother in heaven, who is ever ready to comfort

and solace an aﬄicted heart with the precious balm of her sympathy and love.”

“Perhaps I do not, dear Sister Agathe. But you cannot

picture the annoyances which I am constantly submitted to.

That Sophie alone, with her detestable ways! I assure you she of herself is enough to drive me to St. Lazare.”

“Indeed, I do understand that the trials of one living in the world must be very great, Adrienne; particularly for you, my poor child, who have to bear them alone, since

Almighty God was pleased to call to himself your dear husband. But on the other hand, to live one’s life along the lines which our dear Lord traces for each one of us, must

bring with it resignation and even a certain comfort. You have your household duties, Adrienne, and your music, to which, you say, you continue to devote yourself. And then, there are always good works—the poor—who are always with us—to be relieved; the aﬄicted to be comforted.”

“But, Sister Agathe! Will you listen! Is it not La Rose

that I hear moving down there at the edge of the pasture? I fancy she is reproaching me with being an ingrate, not to

have pressed a kiss yet on that white forehead of hers. Come, let us go.”

The two women arose and walked again, hand in hand this time, over the tufted grass down the gentle decline

where it sloped toward the broad, flat meadow, and the

limpid stream that flowed cool and fresh from the woods. Sister Agathe walked with her composed, unlike tread;

Adrienne with a balancing motion, a bounding step, as

though the earth responded to her light footfall with some subtle impulse all its own.

They lingered long upon the foot-bridge that spanned

the narrow stream which divided the convent grounds from the meadow beyond. It was to Adrienne indescribably

sweet to rest there in soft, low converse with this gentle-

faced nun, watching the approach of evening. The gurgle of the running water beneath them; the lowing of cattle

approaching in the distance, were the only sounds that broke upon the stillness, until the clear tones of the angelus bell pealed out from the convent tower. At the

sound both women instinctively sank to their knees, signing themselves with the sign of the cross. And Sister Agathe

repeated the customary invocation, Adrienne responding in musical tones:

“The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary, And she conceived by the Holy Ghost—”

and so forth, to the end of the brief prayer, after which they arose and retraced their steps toward the convent.

It was with subtle and naïve pleasure that Adrienne prepared herself that night for bed. The room which she shared with Sister Agathe was immaculately white. The

walls were a dead white, relieved only by one florid print

depicting Jacob’s dream at the foot of the ladder, upon

which angels mounted and descended. The bare floors, a soft yellow-white, with two little patches of gray carpet

beside each spotless bed. At the head of the white-draped beds were two bénitiers containing holy water absorbed in sponges.

Sister Agathe disrobed noiselessly behind her curtains and glided into bed without having revealed, in the faint candlelight, as much as a shadow of herself. Adrienne

pattered about the room, shook and folded her garments

with great care, placing them on the back of a chair as she had been taught to do when a child at the convent. It

secretly pleased Sister Agathe to feel that her dear Adrienne clung to the habits acquired in her youth.

But Adrienne could not sleep. She did not greatly

desire to do so. These hours seemed too precious to be cast into the oblivion of slumber.

“Are you not asleep, Adrienne?”

“No, Sister Agathe. You know it is always so the first night. The excitement of my arrival—I don’t know what— keeps me awake.”

“Say your ‘Hail, Mary,’ dear child, over and over.” “I have done so, Sister Agathe; it does not help.”

“Then lie quite still on your side and think of nothing but your own respiration. I have heard that such

inducement to sleep seldom fails.”

“I will try. Good night, Sister Agathe.”

“Good night, dear child. May the Holy Virgin guard you.”

An hour later Adrienne was still lying with wide,

wakeful eyes, listening to the regular breathing of Sister Agathe. The trailing of the passing wind through the treetops, the ceaseless babble of the rivulet were some of the sounds that came to her faintly through the night.

The days of the fortnight which followed were in character much like the first peaceful, uneventful day of her arrival, with the exception only that she devoutly heard mass every morning at an early hour in the convent chapel, and on Sundays sang in the choir in her agreeable,

cultivated voice, which was heard with delight and the warmest appreciation.

When the day of her departure came, Sister Agathe was not satisfied to say good-by at the portal as the others did.

She walked down the drive beside the creeping old cabriolet, chattering her pleasant last words. And then she stood—it was as far as she might go—at the edge of the road, waving good-by in response to the fluttering of Adrienne’s handkerchief. Four hours later Sister Agathe, who was instructing a class of little girls for their first communion, looked up at the classroom clock and murmured: “Adrienne is at home now.”

Yes, Adrienne was at home. Paris had engulfed her.

At the very hour when Sister Agathe looked up at the clock, Adrienne, clad in a charming negligé was reclining

indolently in the depths of a luxurious armchair. The bright room was in its accustomed state of picturesque disorder.

Musical scores were scattered upon the open piano.

Thrown carelessly over the backs of chairs were puzzling and astonishing-looking garments.

In a large gilded cage near the window perched a

clumsy green parrot. He blinked stupidly at a young girl in street dress who was exerting herself to make him talk.

In the centre of the room stood Sophie, that thorn in her mistress’s side. With hands plunged in the deep pockets of her apron, her white starched cap quivering

with each emphatic motion of her grizzled head, she was holding forth, to the evident ennui of the two young women. She was saying:

“Heaven knows I have stood enough in the six years I

have been with Mademoiselle; but never such indignities as I have had to endure in the past two weeks at the hands of

that man who calls himself a manager! The very first day— and I, good enough to notify him at once of Mademoiselle’s flight—he arrives like a lion; I tell you, like a lion. He insists upon knowing Mademoiselle’s whereabouts. How can I tell him any more than the statue out there in the square? He calls me a liar! Me, me—a liar! He declares he is ruined.

The public will not stand La Petite Gilberta in the role which Mademoiselle has made so famous—La Petite

Gilberta, who dances like a jointed wooden figure and sings like a traînée of a café chantant. If I were to tell La Gilberta that, as I easily might, I guarantee it would not be well for

the few straggling hairs which he has left on that miserable head of his!

“What could he do? He was obliged to inform the public that Mademoiselle was ill; and then began my real torment! Answering this one and that one with their cards, their flowers, their dainties in covered dishes! which, I must admit, saved Florine and me much cooking. And all the

while having to tell them that the physician had advised for

Mademoiselle a rest of two weeks at some watering-place, the name of which I had forgotten!”

Adrienne had been contemplating old Sophie with quizzical, half-closed eyes, and pelting her with hot-house roses which lay in her lap, and which she nipped off short from their graceful stems for that purpose. Each rose struck Sophie full in the face; but they did not disconcert her or once stem the torrent of her talk.

“Oh, Adrienne!” entreated the young girl at the parrot’s cage. “Make her hush; please do something. How can you ever expect Zozo to talk? A dozen times he has been on the point of saying something! I tell you, she stupefies him with her chatter.”

“My good Sophie,” remarked Adrienne, not changing her attitude, “you see the roses are all used up. But I

assure you, anything at hand goes,” carelessly picking up a book from the table beside her. “What is this? Mons. Zola! Now I warn you, Sophie, the weightiness, the heaviness of Mons. Zola are such that they cannot fail to prostrate you;

thankful you may be if they leave you with energy to regain your feet.”

“Mademoiselle’s pleasantries are all very well; but if I am to be shown the door for it—if I am to be crippled for it

—I shall say that I think Mademoiselle is a woman without conscience and without heart. To torture a man as she

does! A man? No, an angel!

“Each day he has come with sad visage and drooping mien. ‘No news, Sophie?’

“ ‘None, Monsieur Henri.’ ‘Have you no idea where she has gone?’ ‘Not any more than the statue in the square,

Monsieur.’ ‘Is it perhaps possible that she may not return at all?’ with his face blanching like that curtain.

“I assure him you will be back at the end of the fortnight. I entreat him to have patience. He drags himself, désolé, about the room, picking up Mademoiselle’s fan, her gloves, her music, and turning them over and over in his hands. Mademoiselle’s slipper, which she took off to throw at me in the impatience of her departure, and which I

purposely left lying where it fell on the chiffonier—he

kissed it—I saw him do it—and thrust it into his pocket, thinking himself unobserved.

“The same song each day. I beg him to eat a little good soup which I have prepared. ‘I cannot eat, my dear Sophie.’ The other night he came and stood long gazing out of the window at the stars. When he turned he was wiping his

eyes; they were red. He said he had been riding in the dust, which had inflamed them. But I knew better; he had been crying.

“Ma foi! in his place I would snap my finger at such

cruelty. I would go out and amuse myself. What is the use of being young!”

Adrienne arose with a laugh. She went and seizing old Sophie by the shoulders shook her till the white cap

wobbled on her head.

“What is the use of all this litany, my good Sophie? Year after year the same! Have you forgotten that I have come a long, dusty journey by rail, and that I am perishing of hunger and thirst? Bring us a bottle of Château Yquem and a biscuit and my box of cigarettes.” Sophie had freed

herself, and was retreating toward the door. “And, Sophie! If Monsieur Henri is still waiting, tell him to come up.”

It was precisely a year later. The spring had come again, and Paris was intoxicated.

Old Sophie sat in her kitchen discoursing to a neighbor who had come in to borrow some trifling kitchen utensil

from the old bonne.

“You know, Rosalie, I begin to believe it is an attack of lunacy which seizes her once a year. I wouldn’t say it to everyone, but with you I know it will go no further. She

ought to be treated for it; a physician should be consulted; it is not well to neglect such things and let them run on.

“It came this morning like a thunder clap. As I am

sitting here, there had been no thought or mention of a

journey. The baker had come into the kitchen—you know what a gallant he is—with always a girl in his eye. He laid the bread down upon the table and beside it a bunch of lilacs. I didn’t know they had bloomed yet. ‘For Mam’selle Florine, with my regards,’ he said with his foolish simper.

“Now, you know I was not going to call Florine from her work in order to present her the baker’s flowers. All the same, it would not do to let them wither. I went with them

in my hand into the dining room to get a majolica pitcher

which I had put away in the closet there, on an upper shelf, because the handle was broken. Mademoiselle, who rises

early, had just come from her bath, and was crossing the

hall that opens into the dining room. Just as she was, in her white peignoir, she thrust her head into the dining room,

snuﬄing the air and exclaiming, ‘What do I smell?’

“She espied the flowers in my hand and pounced upon them like a cat upon a mouse. She held them up to her,

burying her face in them for the longest time, only uttering a long ‘Ah!’

“Sophie, I am going away. Get out the little black trunk; a few of the plainest garments I have; my brown dress that I have not yet worn.”

“ ‘But, Mademoiselle,’ I protested, ‘you forget that you have ordered a breakfast of a hundred francs for tomorrow.’

“ ‘Shut up!’ she cried, stamping her foot.

“ ‘You forget how the manager will rave,’ I persisted, ‘and vilify me. And you will go like that without a word of

adieu to Monsieur Paul, who is an angel if ever one trod the earth.’

“I tell you, Rosalie, her eyes flamed.

“ ‘Do as I tell you this instant,’ she exclaimed, ‘or I will strangle you—with your Monsieur Paul and your manager and your hundred francs!’ ”

“Yes,” affirmed Rosalie, “it is insanity. I had a cousin seized in the same way one morning, when she smelled

calf’s liver frying with onions. Before night it took two men to hold her.”

“I could well see it was insanity, my dear Rosalie, and I uttered not another word as I feared for my life. I simply

obeyed her every command in silence. And now—whiff, she is gone! God knows where. But between us, Rosalie—I

wouldn’t say it to Florine—but I believe it is for no good. I,

in Monsieur Paul’s place, should have her watched. I would put a detective upon her track.

“Now I am going to close up; barricade the entire establishment. Monsieur Paul, the manager, visitors, all—all may ring and knock and shout themselves hoarse. I am

tired of it all. To be vilified and called a liar—at my age, Rosalie!”

Adrienne left her trunk at the small railway station, as the old cabriolet was not at the moment available; and she gladly walked the mile or two of pleasant roadway which

led to the convent. How infinitely calm, peaceful,

penetrating was the charm of the verdant, undulating

country spreading out on all sides of her! She walked along the clear smooth road, twirling her parasol; humming a gay tune; nipping here and there a bud or a waxlike leaf from

the hedges along the way; and all the while drinking deep draughts of complacency and content.

She stopped, as she had always done, to pluck lilacs in her path.

As she approached the convent she fancied that a

whitecapped face had glanced fleetingly from a window; but she must have been mistaken. Evidently she had not

been seen, and this time would take them by surprise. She smiled to think how Sister Agathe would utter a little joyous cry of amazement, and in fancy she already felt the warmth and tenderness of the nun’s embrace. And how Sister Marceline and the others would laugh, and make

game of her puffed sleeves! For puffed sleeves had come into fashion since last year; and the vagaries of fashion always afforded infinite merriment to the nuns. No, they surely had not seen her.

She ascended lightly the stone steps and rang the bell.

She could hear the sharp metallic sound reverberate

through the halls. Before its last note had died away the door was opened very slightly, very cautiously by a lay sister who stood there with downcast eyes and flaming cheeks. Through the narrow opening she thrust forward

toward Adrienne a package and a letter, saying, in confused tones: “By order of our Mother Superior.” After which she

closed the door hastily and turned the heavy key in the great lock.

Adrienne remained stunned. She could not gather her faculties to grasp the meaning of this singular reception. The lilacs fell from her arms to the stone portico on which she was standing. She turned the note and the parcel

stupidly over in her hands, instinctively dreading what their contents might disclose.

The outlines of the crucifix were plainly to be felt through the wrapper of the bundle, and she guessed,

without having courage to assure herself, that the jeweled necklace and the altar cloth accompanied it.

Leaning against the heavy oaken door for support,

Adrienne opened the letter. She did not seem to read the few bitter reproachful lines word by word—the lines that banished her forever from this haven of peace, where her soul was wont to come and refresh itself. They imprinted

themselves as a whole upon her brain, in all their seeming cruelty—she did not dare to say injustice.

There was no anger in her heart; that would doubtless possess her later, when her nimble intelligence would begin to seek out the origin of this treacherous turn. Now, there was only room for tears. She leaned her forehead against

the heavy oaken panel of the door and wept with the abandonment of a little child.

She descended the steps with a nerveless and dragging tread. Once as she was walking away, she turned to look back at the imposing façade of the convent, hoping to see a familiar face, or a hand, even, giving a faint token that she was still cherished by some one faithful heart. But she saw only the polished windows looking down at her like so

many cold and glittering and reproachful eyes.

In the little white room above the chapel, a woman

knelt beside the bed on which Adrienne had slept. Her face was pressed deep in the pillow in her efforts to smother the sobs that convulsed her frame. It was Sister Agathe.

After a short while, a lay sister came out of the door with a broom, and swept away the lilac blossoms which Adrienne had let fall upon the portico.