 Part 2 Chapter 1 of Paul the Waldenzian. Paul of the Waldenzian by Eva Lacompte. Part 2 Chapter 1. Some Years Later. The years passed swiftly without bringing any great changes in our quiet life. Our grandparents had aged a bit, and Teresa was not quite as active as formerly, while a few wrinkles had gathered on her father's forehead, but all this had come so slowly that the change was hardly noticed. Rosa, who is now eighteen years old, was studying in the city. She was still the same, studious, faithful and sincere in all that she did. Her quiet, reserved manner caused some people to call her proud, but those who knew her better loved her, and knew she could be depended on in time of trouble. Catalina still suffered somewhat, but now was able to walk around a bit without crutches, and in spite of her delicate health and poor twisted body, she had come bravely to take her true place among us as our big sister, so loving and solicitous for everybody's welfare that she came to be known in the neighborhood as the Little Mother. Paula was now fourteen years of age, in the house, in school, in the village, everywhere, everybody loved her, and I can say with all honesty that never a shadow of envy ever disturbed the tender friendship which had united us to her from the beginning. One could not possibly be jealous of Paula. All that she possessed was ours. Our joys were hers, our sorrows were her sorrows. She had grown in body and mind, and yet had kept the same characteristics, always bright and happy and full of fun. She had the same, simple, humble ways as when at ten years of age she had come among us. Her special summer delight was to run through the fields, always returning to the house with a big bunch of wildflowers for Catalina. In one thing only she always seemed to fail. Teresa had a fearful task in teaching her to sew and to knit. What are you going to do in the future if you don't know how to do these things? I'm sure I don't know, Paula would say sadly, and would take up the work once more with such sweet resignation that Teresa, moved with compassion, would take the work from her handstand. There, there, run outdoors now for a bit of fresh air. Then away Paula would go into the garden, or under the trees that line the village street. Soon she was back with such a happy smile that Teresa forgave her completely. Once however Teresa lost all patience with her exclaiming, as she saw the ragged ends she had left in her sewing. Drop that work and go where you please. But remember this, never will you be called a dorkess. Never will you be able to sew and provide garments for the poor. It's not enough to tell them you love them. You must show up by your works, and the best way to do that would be to learn to be useful to them. Paula sat back stiff and straight in consternation. Oh, Teresa, I never, never thought of that! She said in a tone of greatest remorse, oh, please let me go on, I will try to do better. But Teresa had taken away the work, and was not inclined to be easily persuaded. No, not now. Another time perhaps you may show what you can do. Paula therefore had to submit. But that was the last time that Teresa had any reason to complain. That afternoon Paula had gone straight to her room, and I followed her soon after to comfort her. But I found her kneeling by her bedside, pouring her heart and true repentance to him who was ever her unseen companion. I closed the door gently behind me, and stole away. Later Paula said to me, oh, Lesita, I'm surely bad indeed. One thing I've certainly hated to do, and that is to sit down and learn to sew, especially in fine weather like this. I seem to hear a thousand voices that call me out of doors. I never could see any earthly reason why I should have to learn how to sew, so I never even tried to please Teresa in that way. But now she tells me that if I go on like this, I shall never be able to sew for the poor. I never thought of that. I wonder what the Lord Jesus must think of me. He gave his life for me, and here I am, not willing to learn something that would help me to put clothes on poor folks. Oh, I must, I must learn to sew, no matter what it costs. That was it. To do something for others. That was the principal thing in all her thoughts. In school Paula never did win prizes, nor did I. Both of us were generally about on an equal level at the bottom of our class. About a year after our first visit to Madame Weisselvert's house, bottom Boudre had moved us up to the third grade. Teresa made a magnificent apple cake as a sign of her pleasure. My father also showed his great satisfaction, and in fact everybody rejoiced to see that at last we were both making progress. In spite of all, however, there was one great heavy weight on my heart, and I cried myself to sleep that night. I think Madame Weisselvertude also felt bad that we were leaving her, but she made us promise to come and visit her. You are no longer my pupil, she said, but you are still, and will be always, my dear friends. Gabrielle was so glad to see us that it was always a joy to go and play with him on our Thursday-have-holidays. Paula always told him Bible stories, for that seemed to be his chief pleasure, and I taught him to read. Victoria's mother used to bring her work over to Madame Weisselvertude's room, and hear the stories with great delight. If I had been able to leave my Victoria in school, she would have become as wise and learned as you, Madame Weisselvertude. She would say a bit sadly at times, but there I can't complain. What we have done without the money she earns at the factory. One afternoon we said good-bye to Gabrielle and mounted the stairs to visit the blind girl. Left alone for most of the day, she passed the long hours knitting. She was about the same age as our Catalina, but she appeared to be much older. The first time we had visited her, she had hardly raised her head from her work, and she had but little interest in the stories that her mother had asked us to read to her. It was not so much indifference, as an apparent incapacity to comprehend the meaning of what she heard. But on this particular afternoon Paula started singing a hymn. The poor girl suddenly dropped her work in her lap and listened with rapt attention. When Paula had finished, she exclaimed, Oh, Mama, Mama, tell her to please sing again. Madame Bertin could not suppress the cry of delight, as she said, Dear Madame Weisselpala, please sing another song. Never have I seen Marguerite so happy! And so Paula sang him after him. As Paula at last stopped singing, for the time had come to go home, poor Marguerite stretched out her arms as if groping for something. Please do not be offended, Madame Weisselpala. And Madame Bertin, she wants you to come nearer that she may feel your face, the blind have no other eyes. Paula neared at Marguerite's side, and the blind girl passed her hands gently over the upturned face, pausing an instant at the broad forehead, then on over the beautifully arched brows and long eyelashes, and the delicately fashioned nose and lips that smiled softly as she touched them. You have not seen her hair, said the mother, as she guarded the girl's hands upwards, and over the waves of light brown hair that seemed like an aurora fit for such a face, and then finally down the long braids that extended below Paula's waist. Then with one of those sudden movements characteristic of the blind, she carried the shining braids to her lips and kissed them as an ecstasy. Then, just as suddenly, in confusion dropped them and buried her own face in her hands. At this Paula sprang to her feet and put her arms about the poor girl and murmured in her ear, We do love you so, Marguerite! After that visit, little by little, Marguerite began to love to hear a speak of the Saviour. Her indifference and sadness disappeared, giving place to a quiet peace and joy that was contagious for all who came in contact with her. Madame Bertin no longer called her my poor daughter, only my Marguerite. For the next two years she became our constant delight. Teresa at time gave us clothes but slightly worn to take her, which gave us almost as much joy as we carried them to Marguerite, as she herself felt on receiving them. One day Gabrielle came running to tell us that Marguerite was quite ill, and we lost no time in going to see her. With painful feelings of presentiment we mounted the steep stairs to her room. As we entered, Madame Bertin came forward to us with her apron to her eyes, and Madameoiselle Routun made signs for us to come over to the bed, as she slightly raised the sick girl's head. Dearest Marguerite, said our teacher, hear our Paula and the Sita. May God bless them both. And Marguerite sped out her arms toward us, adding, O Paula, please sing again. There's no night there. And Paula sang once more the old hymn. In the land of the endless day lies a city poor square. It shall never pass away, for there is no night there. God shall wipe away old tears. There's no death, no pain nor fears. And they count not time by years, for there is no night there. Oh, how beautiful! And it seemed as if the poor blind girl, restraining those sightless orbs for a glimpse of the beautiful city. Don't cry, mother, she said, as she caught a low sob from the other end of the room. I am so happy now to go to be with Jesus. The poor mother put her face close to her daughter's lips so that she might not lose a word. One regret only I have, Mama, Marguerite said. And that is, that I have never seen your face. Oh, that I might have seen it just once. In heaven, interrupted our teacher, your eyes will be open forever. Oh, yes, said the dying girl. There perhaps I will see Mama and Victoria. Will you please give Victoria a kiss for me when she comes home from the factory tonight? Tell her I'm so grateful. She has worked so hard for us. Then suddenly, Paula, she called, Paula. Here I am, Marguerite. And Paula came closer, taking her hand. Ah, you are here. Thanks, dear Paula, she gasped. Many thanks for telling me about Jesus and his love for me. Sing. The sentence has never finished. But Paula's sweet voice rose as once again she sang the sublime words. There is no night there. Is she dead? I said, as we looked down on the still white face. Yes. But soon her eyes shall be open, said Madam Rosalva too tenderly, in the city where there is no night. End of chapter. Part 2, chapter 2 of Paula the Waldentzian. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Paula the Waldentzian by Eva Lacombe, translated by W. M. Strong. Part 2, chapter 2, The Breton. It was a snowy, blustery day. It is always a source of pleasure to see the drifts beginning to bank against the houses across the street. On this afternoon the bushes and roofs were already crowned in white, and all the trees were festooned as if for a holiday. The smaller objects in the garden had disappeared under this grand upholstery of nature, and the rattle of the carts and other ordinary sounds of the village were muffled in the mantle of snow. To be sure Paula dampened my pleasure a bit by reminding me that there were many people who were in great suffering on account of the storm without proper food, warm clothing, or fire in their houses. It had been a hard winter. Many of the factories in town had had to discharge their workers on account of lack of orders. Happily Teresa, with Catalina's help, had done all she could to aid the poor folks in our neighborhood. Paula had sewed incessantly. Her stitches were pretty uneven, and the thread frequently knotted in her nervous hands, but Teresa said that the mistakes she made were more than made up by the love that she put into her work. I read to Paula while she sewed, and we were certainly happy when at last the mountain of old clothes, which had been gathered for the poor, had been made over and finally distributed to the needy ones. I remember especially one poor woman to whom Teresa had sent us with a package of clothes, who received us with tears of gratitude. And now as I sat looking out at the gathering drifts, I heard Catalina remark in a relieved tone. At last that's finished. What's finished? I asked. My old dress, she said. Who would have thought I could do a job like this? But there it is turned and darned and lengthened. Happily, I don't believe that poor Celestina Dubois will be very difficult to please. And Catalina pulled a comical smile. As one looked at that peaceful, beautiful face, it was hard to realize that it could belong to the poor, miserable, complaining invalid of a short time before. What a shame that it's still snowing so hard, she said. I would have liked to have sent it over to Celestina today. Teresa says the poor woman needs it badly, but I suppose we'll have to wait till morning. That won't be at all necessary, said Paula. We're not afraid of a little snow, are we, Lucida? If you only knew how I love to go out into a snowstorm like this. You must be like the mountain goats of your own country, said Catalina with a laugh, to think of getting any pleasure in going out in a snowstorm. Oh no, said Paula. The goats don't like the cold. Well, I declare, said Catalina. I wouldn't have believed that. Well, run and ask permission of Teresa. And Teresa dressed us up as if we were going on a voyage to the North Pole and gave us a thousand instructions. Above all things, don't dilly-dally on the way, she said. The Breton was released from jail today, and you may depend on it. He will not be in a very good humor. What a shame that Celestina should have such a terrible neighbor. You can never tell what a man like that may do. If my rheumatism would only let me, I would gladly go with you. What on earth would we do if we happened to meet the Breton? I questioned Paula, and terror began to grip my heart as we drew near the drunkard's house. Don't you be afraid, Lucida, said Paula, taking my trembling hand in hers. Celestina received us with exclamations of surprise and delight. Overcome with emotion, she said. To think of your coming to see me through all this terrible storm, I never would have expected you on such a day. We noticed a shade of sadness in her tone, and Paula questioned her as to the reason. The old lady shook her head. No, there's nothing particular, she said. The Lord seems to heap good things upon me, but at times on nearing the end of the journey, the pilgrim gets a bit tired and longs for the blessed final rest. Then she paused and turned to us once more with a smile. And you young people, how goes the journey with you? I too find, said Paula gravely, that at times the way is difficult, but as we put our hand in that of the Lord Jesus, he helps and strengthens us. The old lady's eyes were full of amusement as she answered. My, oh me, you talk as wisely as an old traveler who is about to finish his long journey instead of being still at the bottom of the hill, and your uncle, has he begun to go with you yet? My uncle, and Paula hesitated, at least he permits us to serve the Lord. But he doesn't let you attend church yet? No, but I think he will someday. Courage, Paula, said the old woman. The Lord Jesus has said, Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee the crown of life. How happy I shall be when your uncle permits you to attend with us. I know the Lord has saved you and given you eternal life, and he will do exceedingly abundantly above all that you can ask or think. I've learned to say to him, Thy will be done. While here on this earth we're all students in his school. Sometimes the hours are long and the bench is hard, but if we are attentive and apt in the learning of our lessons, he is faithful, and oh so generous in giving us of his good things. Some things he's tried to teach me, but I'm too dull yet to comprehend. But I do know that someday he'll let me see it all quite clearly. For example, it's difficult to understand why he should have given me the Breton and his children for neighbors. Do you know the family? she asked us. Oh yes indeed, said I, I should say we did. This long conversation had made me sleepy, but the mention of the Breton had brought me wide awake again. If I had known, continued the old lady, that on the other side of the partition I was to hear nothing but quarrels and fighting and cursing, I would never have moved in here. But more than that, not content with disturbing the peace from within his own apartment, he even comes over to my side to torment me here in my small room. The Breton indeed is a terrible man when he's drunk. I have tried to talk to him to see if I could do something to change his evil ways, but so far all my efforts have been useless. I interrupted her to ask if she knew he had been liberated from the jail that very day. Oh yes, she said. He made a terrible scene this morning bullying his poor wife around. The poor soul is certainly worthy of our pity, but here I am talking on and on without inquiring once as to Catalina's health. It was Catalina herself who sent us with this package for you, said Paula. For me, cried the old lady, what's all this? And she nervously untied the strings. Then as she saw the good warm dress, her eyes filled with tears. May the Lord bless the dear girl. He certainly must have revealed to her my need. Would you mind, please, putting it on? Catalina wanted us to find out if it fits you, I said. The good woman, nothing loath, tried on the dress as she exclaimed. My, oh me, how handsome I am for once in my life, at least. And a merry twinkle danced in old Celestina's eyes. I'll have to keep this for Sunday wear only. No, said Paula. Catalina said to be sure to tell you it was for every day wear, for you see how it keeps out the cold. Well then, said the old lady, I suppose I must obey orders. But my, how beautiful it is, too beautiful for the likes of me. And Celestina stroked the lovely cloth with her gnarled and withered fingers. How very good the dear Lord is, and now if you don't mind, let us pray together here to thank him for all his mercies. Celestina, who could not kneel, placed her hands on our bowed heads. And after a heartfelt prayer of thanks, asked the Lord to bless us each one, and each member of our family, her neighbors, and lastly herself. Hardly had she finished when uncertain steps were heard coming down the passage. The door suddenly burst open, and a man staggered into the room. What's this you're doing? he shouted. We're praying, the old woman answered tranquilly. No more praying, then. Do you hear me? I forbid you. He shouted again in such a terrible voice that it was all I could do to keep from screaming with fright. You know very well, said Celestina calmly, that you cannot prohibit my doing the thing that pleases me in my own house. And what pleasure do you get out of praying, tell me, you pious old hypocrite? Well, if you'll sit down calmly in that chair yonder, I'll answer your questions. And suppose I don't care to sit down, do I look as if I were tired? Perhaps not, but when you visit your friends, you should try to please them, shouldn't you? What, do you count me as one of your friends? And why not? This is why, and the Breton shook his great fist in the old lady's face. Oh, I'm a bad one I am, I could kill all three of you in a jiffy. Why, I just finished a month in the jail for regulating a fellow worker at the factory, and I don't mind doing another month for regulating you people. And the poor fellow's face was more terrible than his words, and I thought our time had come as the saying is. Now don't you be afraid, whispered Celestina as she drew me close. God is with us, don't forget that. Why do you wish to harm us, she said aloud, fixing her eyes on the poor drunk and brute, in such a calm, loving and compassionate way, that it seemed to calm him a bit. We've done nothing against you, and I can't for the life of me see how we could have offended you. I am glad they let you go free. Now if you care to accept our hospitality, I will make you a cup of coffee. It is not the best quality, but you are welcome to what I have. The Breton looked at the old lady in an astonished sort of way. You're certainly different from the rest of them. Here I threaten to kill you, and you offer me a cup of coffee. That's not what I deserve. And here he broke out laughing immoderately, and sat down by the stove where a fire was briskly burning. Well, this is a whole lot better than the prison anyway, said the Breton coolly as he settled himself to enjoy the warmth. I should say so, said Celestina, and there's no reason for you to go back there, either. Now none of your sermons you know, for if you come on with anything like that, I'll be leaving at once. And it was clear that the Breton's bad humor was returning. Well, that would be to your disadvantage on a cold day like this, said Celestina, with a dry little smile. That's a fact, that's a fact, for what weather? And the poor drunkard drew closer to the fire. Aren't you too afraid to go out in such a snowstorm? He said, turning to Paula and me. Celestina answered for us that we lived in the big house at the convent, and that we had come to deliver a good warm dress for her to wear. With that the good woman poured out three cups of coffee, which she set before the Breton, Paula, and myself. And where's yours? said the Breton, as he swallowed his coffee in one great gulp. Oh, some other time I'll have a cup myself. Well, just as you please, said our unwelcome guest. My, but that warms one up, though. My wife never so much as thought to get me a cup of coffee. And do you know why? questioned Celestina severely. I suppose you're going to tell me it's because I don't give her enough money. Is that it? Precisely, and it's the truth, isn't it? Now, none of your sermons, as I told you in the beginning, didn't I? Don't I know? Of course it troubles me to see the children with their pale faces that used to be so rosy and fat like these two here. By the way, what's your names? Again Celestina answered for us. The smaller girl is the daughter of Monsieur Dumas, and the other is her cousin, mademoiselle Paula Javenel. Paula Javenel, Paula Javenel, repeated the Breton as if trying to remember something. I think I've heard that name before. And he looked fixedly at Paula for some seconds, and then suddenly he laughed immoderately. Yes, yes, now I remember. No, I know. You're the cat mother. Cat mother? And Celestina looked much puzzled. What on earth do you mean? I had completely forgotten the ridiculous nickname that the Breton's son had given her, for the boy had run away from home several years ago. They called me that, explained Paula, because I once saved a cat's life. But the strong coffee had quite restored the Breton's good humor, and he hastened to add. Yes, she did, but she hasn't told the whole story. She's the only person in the whole village that was ever brave enough to stand up to that big brat of mine. She wrenched the cat out of his hands, and the boy came back to the house, I remember well, with a pair of ears well pulled in the air of a whipped dog. But I didn't pull his ears, said Paula, reddening. Well, if you didn't, who did then? But Paula shook her head and would say nothing further. Well, anyway, I remember that the boy was made fun of by the whole neighborhood, and to revenge himself, he gave her cat-mother for a nickname. He, too, is a bad one like his father. To tell the truth, he never obeyed anybody, and dear knows where he is or what he's doing now. At least he's not like you two who came here to learn how to pray with Celestina. Paula doesn't need to learn how to pray, Monsieur Breton, said Celestina. She's known how to pray for years, not only for herself, but also for others. For years, you say, and who then taught her to pray, said the Breton, surprised. It was my father, said Paula quietly. Your father? Well, he wasn't much like me, then, was he? No, he wasn't, and Paula, without a sign of either fear or abhorrence, looked compassionately at the brutalized face that confronted her. And you don't live with him any more? No, said Paula. Father is in heaven. And whatever would you do if you had a father like me? And the poor Breton looked at her keenly. Paula sat a moment with closed eyes. She recalled the strong noble face and figure of her father, and asked God to give her a reply to the poor drunkard's question. I think, she said at last, I would ask God himself to make him a man of God like my father. And do you believe he could do it? The Breton looked very doubtful. I'm sure of it. Yes, but you don't know how bad I am. Yes, I know, said Paula. Everybody in town knows you're a bad man, but you're no worse than the bandit who was crucified with the Lord Jesus, and yet Christ saved him, didn't he? That's more or less what I am, a bandit, I suppose. I remember that story. When I was a little boy, my mother told it to me. I never thought at that time that I'd ever become the thing I am today. What would my poor mother do if she could see what had become of me? Perhaps she'd pray for you, Paula said simply. She, yes, I think she would have prayed for me, he said. But why talk about my mother? I, who have just come out of prison, hated, despised, and made a laughingstock by everybody in our neighborhood, even pointed at by the little street urchins. My children fear me. My poor wife trembles when I appear. Who would ever think of praying for a brute like me? I, said Paula, with a voice vibrant with emotion. You, why you scarcely know me? But I do know you, and I've prayed many times for you, Monsieur Breton. Do you think it didn't distress me when they told me you had been put in the prison, where people say it's so cold and dark inside, and where many die from the exposure, and what is the greater calamity, die without hope of salvation? And so, while I was in prison, you prayed for me? Well, from the time I've heard about it, said Paula, I've prayed for you every night, Monsieur Breton. The poor fellow bowed his head. This young girl, so beautiful, so pure, so innocent, had taken him and his shame and misery and wickedness to the throne of grace in her prayers each night during his recent stay in the jail. You, you've been praying for me. The Breton remained silent, overcome with a greater remorse than he had ever felt in a court of justice. If I could believe, he said in a low voice, that a man like me could really change, but no, that's impossible. It's too late. It's not too late, Celestina said. God pardon sinners always if they truly repent. Now you listen to what he says. Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow. Though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. And here's a bit more. Seek ye the Lord while he may be found. Call ye upon him while he is near. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him. And to our God, for he will abundantly pardon. And then St. Paul gives us God's message also with these words. For this is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Savior, who will have all men to be saved, and to come unto the knowledge of the truth. For there is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself a ransom for all, 1st Timothy 2, 3 through 6. Do you really believe, said the Breton, as if in a days, that there's hope for such as me? Yes, I do indeed. And here Celestina quoted, The Lord is longsuffering to usward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance, 2 Peter 3.9. But the poor Breton shook his head as if to say it's impossible. Here, Paula broke in. Ask pardon now, and Jesus will pardon you. Ask it now. Surely you don't want to go on as you have done. The Lord loves you and is waiting to save you. He shed his blood on Calvary's cross to take away the guilt of your sin. Then also, would it not be wonderful to always have Breton the house, to see that your poor wife no longer fears you, but instead welcomes your homecoming? Ask him now, Monsieur Breton, and he'll work the miracle in you, just as he did when he made the paralyzed man to walk. You would be so much happier than you are now. She had drawn very close to him, and now she took his great gnarled hands, those hands that so many times had worn the handcuffs. Taking them in her own beautiful ones, she raised those wonderful eyes to the brutal, bloated face, and said simply, We will help you, Monsieur Breton. And what are you going to do, Madame Waselle? I don't know yet, but we'll do what we can. The poor fellow tried to thank her, but could not utter a word. Something in his throat seemed to be in the way, and in spite of all his efforts itself control, great tears began to run down his cheeks. Suddenly he turned, exclaiming, Let me alone, don't you see, you're tearing my very heart out. For thirty long years I've never shed a tear. Here, Celestina quoted Isaiah 35, 8, 9, and 10. And a highway shall be there, and a way, and it shall be called the way of holiness. The unclean shall not pass over it, but it shall be for those, the wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein. No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon. It shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there, and the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads. They shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. But the Breton already had turned the door handle. You're surely not going out yet, said the old lady sadly. Celestina, I must go. If I stay one minute more, I know I must yield, and I'm not going to do anything foolish. No, no, I've served the devil too long. But look here, if you wish to help me, then you can do one thing anyway. You can pray for me. Saying this, the poor Breton opened the door and was gone. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. That night in our return we poured into Teresa's sympathetic ears all that had occurred during our eventful visit that afternoon at Celestina's house. Then somewhat later, as I was helping her with the dishes in the kitchen, Teresa said, Do you know, Lucita, it wouldn't surprise me in the least to see the Breton converted and changed by God's power into a decent, respectable man. No one seems to be able to resist Paula when she begins to speak of God's love. She seems truly inspired by his Holy Spirit. Child though she is, she surely is his messenger to all with whom she comes in contact. But there's just one thing. And Teresa seemed to hesitate to express herself. Then finally she continued, I cannot seem to shake off the feeling that she will not be with us much longer. I believe somehow. I know it sound absurd in one way, but I have a feeling that God will call her to his side someday soon. Oh, Teresa, I cried. How can you say such a thing? Why, she's never sick. She's much bigger and stronger and more vigorous than even I am. And besides, I never, never could bear it to have Paula taken away from me. Hush, hush, child. Don't shout that way. Paula will hear you. Besides, it's just a foolish idea of mine, maybe. But if God should wish it. But there, as you say, what would we do without the dear girl? Later, when we were alone in our bedroom, I said to Paula in an anxious tone. You don't feel sick, do you, Paula? She looked at me surprised. I should say not. She laughed. What put such a notion in your head? Do I look as if I was sick? I was so relieved. Teresa was quite mistaken. No, continued Paula. On the contrary, I never felt better in my life. Since I had that little touch of scolatina a while ago, I've never had an ache or pain. In fact, as I look around and see so much sickness and suffering, I long to share my good health with the other less fortunate ones. And as I looked at her tall, well-developed figure outlined against the window, I laughed at my foolish fears. But a few moments later, as she kneeled there in the moonlight in her long white dress, and as I looked at that pure, beautiful face with the eyes closed in prayer, with its frame of glorious hair, I knew that never had I seen anything so lonely as this child companion of mine just budding into womanhood. And the one-word angel seemed to express the sum of my thoughts regarding this dear one, who had come into my life and who had transformed so many other lives around me. As she rose at the conclusion of the prayer, finding me still on my feet, she saw a surprise in her tone. Not in bed yet, Lucita? No, I said, confused that she should find me still seated on the edge of my bed, lost in my own reflections. Paula suddenly went to the window and looked out. Oh, Lucita, she exclaimed, how wonderful! Come and see! The storm had stopped in the late afternoon, and now the moon shone its all at splendor, touching the snow with silver, and making millions of its crystals sparkle like diamonds in the moonlight. How white and pure and beautiful everything is! said Paula. Do you remember, Lucita, how only yesterday we remarked how squalid and dirty the whole village looked? And now, what a lovely change! She hesitated a moment, and then continued in her quiet, simple way. It's God that has done it. It's quite a bit like when one gives their heart to Jesus Christ. He takes it stained and scarred with sin, and then he makes it white like the snow. Don't you see, Lucita? Yes, I see, I said. Do you really see, dear Lucita? And Paula drew me quite close to her. Then why don't you give your heart to him? I do love you so. You see, I don't wish to be any better than you. But when I get to thinking of the fact that you never really have given your heart to him, and if one of us should die, I could not bear another word. The very idea of death, either for Paula or myself, was simply unbearable. Stop! I cried, in such a terrible tone that Paula I could see was frightened. You mustn't die! I cannot live, and I won't live without you. I know I'm not good, but if you weren't here to help me, what would I do? My overawed nerves, due to the happenings at that afternoon visit at Celestinas, combined with what Teresa had suggested, were too much for me, and here I broke down completely. Oh, Lucita! There was real consternation in Paula's voice. I'm so sorry I hurt you! You must get to bed, and don't let's talk any more tonight. I dreamed of Paula the whole night long. I saw her either dying or dead, or in heaven with the angels, but in the morning all my fears had disappeared, and a few days later I even forgot the whole thing. A week passed, and we had seen nothing of the Breton. Paula mentioned him several times, and I know she was praying for him. Teresa had gone to see Celestina, but she hadn't seen anything of him either. Apparently he had gone out early each day, and had returned very late. He had been the principal subject of our conversation as each night we came together in the big warm kitchen on those long winter evenings. Finally, one evening, just as we were finishing dishes, there came two hesitating knocks on the outer door. I wonder who can be calling at this hour, said Rosa. It sounds like some child that can't knock very well, said Catalina. Open the door, Lucita. Only too glad to abandon my towel, I ran to open the door, but hardly had I done so when I remained petrified and dumb with surprise, hardly able to believe my own eyes. There stood the Breton, twisting his battered cap nervously between his bony fingers. The little oil lamp, which we always kept lighted at night in the passageway, illuminated his pale face and gaunt figure. Good evening, Madame Ozil. He finally managed to say, and then he stopped, apparently as embarrassed as I was. Who is it? said Teresa, as she started to come to my rescue. It's the Breton, I said. Well, tell him to come in, said the old woman kindly. As timidly as a child, the Breton advanced over the threshold a few paces, looking about him in a kind of lost way until his eyes encountered Paula, and then he seemed to recover his ease of mind. I wish to speak with the master, he said, directing his words to Teresa. She led him into the study where my father sat, and left them together, and then joined us in the kitchen once more. I declare, said Rosa, think of the Breton calling on us. I thought he hated father since that day he discharged him from the factory two or three years ago. The Breton knows very well that when your father got rid of him he well deserved it, said Teresa, as she adjusted her spectacles and settled down to her knitting. My father did not keep him long. From the kitchen we could hear the door open, and my father's voice bidding the Breton kindly. Good night! Evidently the interview, although short, had been quite a cordial one. Go tell the Breton to come into the kitchen, Lucita, said Teresa. I wondered as I saw him enter with such a humble, frank air, and with a new look of peace that seemed almost to beautify the brutalized face. Madam was at Paula, he said, as he stopped in the middle of our kitchen. I wished to say a word or two. To me alone, I said Paula rising. He hesitated a moment. No, he said finally, I think it's better to say it to you before everybody here. Do you remember how you spoke to me on the afternoon of the great snow? I don't remember very well what you said. My head was in a very good condition as I'd left my wits behind at the liquor shop. But I know you spoke to me and my mother, and you also said that God would change me if I really desired. I didn't dare believe such a thing. Madam Oisele, it seemed just a bit too good to believe. That night I simply couldn't sleep. I seemed to feel my hands in yours, and to hear your voice saying, I'll do what I can to help you. At last I couldn't stand it any longer. I got out on the floor and kneeled there before God. And asked him to have mercy on me, and changed my wicked old heart if it were possible. Here he stopped to wipe away the great tears that were rolling down his cheeks. Then pretty soon he continued. God did indeed have mercy on me. I deserved to be refused, but apparently he doesn't treat people as they deserve to be treated. And now, Madam Oisele, will you continue to help me as you promise to do? Yes, of course, said Paula. What can we do for you? Just one thing. Pray for me. That's what I need more than anything else. I want to be faithful to him and serve him, but I don't know how to begin. And when one has served the devil as many years as I have, it's hard to change masters. The Lord Jesus will help you, answered Paula. He's already done it, Madam Oisele, said the Breton. If not, how could I have endured these last days? At first I had a raging thirst for more drink until I nearly went crazy. Then my old companions called me out and urged me to go and drink with them, and I had almost yielded when suddenly I cried as the Lord Jesus to help me. And then a wonderful thing happened. All desire for the drink went away, and I've been free ever since. Then too I had no work, and my wife taunted me with that, and I wandered up and down looking everywhere for something to do. Unfortunately, everybody knew me and knew too much about me, so there was no work for such as me. Then suddenly the poor thin face was illuminated with a smile, as the Breton triumphantly said, I came to this door tonight as the very last resort, never dreaming that my old master really would employ me, but just see the goodness of God. I can face the world again, for I'm going back to my old bench at the master's factory. My, I'm glad I am, exclaimed Paula. Yes, Madam Oisele, but I have you to thank for your great kindness to me. I, said Paula in surprise, what have I done? You, Madam Oisele, you made me feel that you really loved me. Also you persuaded me that God loved me, miserable sinner that I am. But if tonight in this district you find one more honorable man and one criminal less, let us first thank God, and then you, Madam Oisele. Do you own a New Testament? Said Paula as the Breton started to leave. A New Testament, what's that? It's a book, a part of the Bible, that tells us about the Lord Jesus, and how he saves us from the guilt and power of sin, and how he can serve him. Well, Madam Oisele, replied the Breton, if it's a book, it's of no use to me. I don't know how to read. Paula looked at him with a mixture of surprise and pity. I might have been able to read, continued the poor fellow. My mother sent me to school, but I scarcely ever actually appeared in the school room. The streets in those days were too attractive a playground. But you could begin to learn even now. No, Madam Oisele. And the Breton shook his head sadly. It's too late now to get anything of that sort in this dull head. Paula said nothing more at the time, but I could see that she had something in her mind relative to this new problem. End of chapter. Part 2, Chapter 4 of Paula the Waldencian This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Paula the Waldencian by Eva Lecompt. Translated by W. M. Strong. Part 2, Chapter 4. The Young School Mistress The following day Paula had a word with my father regarding the matter. Now don't worry any more about the Breton, Paula, he answered. He knows enough to do what's necessary to gain his living, and if he wants to work faithfully and not spend all his money on drink, he can do that without knowing how to read. However, if it bothers you because he cannot read, why don't you advise him to go to night school? I can't imagine what could have happened to him, but he's changed mightily and for the better. I only hope the change in him will last. The days grew longer, the snow disappeared, and the trees and fields began to put on their spring clothes. Week by week, the Breton's home also began to show a marvelous transformation. The pigs who formerly found the garden a sort of happy rooting ground now found themselves confronted with a neat fence that resisted all their attacks, and the garden itself with its well-raped beds showed substantial promise of a harvest of onions, potatoes, and cabbage in the near future. Spotless white curtains and shiny panes of window glass began to show in place of the dirty rags and paper, which used to stop part of the winter winds from entering, and the rain which formerly kept merry company with the wind in that unhappy dwelling now found itself completely shot out by shingles on the roof and sidewalk, and a certain air of neatness and order so prevaded the whole place that it became the talk of the little town. That's all very well, but it's not going to last long, said some. Well, we shall soon see, said others. The Breton had to stand a good many jests and taunts from his former companions, but he took it all without either complaint or abatement of his courage. I don't blame you one bit, he said to one of his tormentors, for I was once exactly the same, only I hope someday you'll be different too. In the meantime, comrade, I'll be praying for you. You must admit I'm a changed man anyway, he said one day to a group who made sport of him. That's true, right enough, said one of them. Well, who changed me? Various opinions were offered to this question. Well, I'll tell you, he thundered, and that stentorian voice, which always used to dominate every assembly in which he mingled, held them spellbound. It was the Lord Jesus Christ. He died for me, yes, and he died for every one of you. He shed his blood on Calvary's cross to keep every man from hell who surrenders to him in true repentance. Then he does another thing. His Holy Spirit takes away the bad habits of every man who surrenders to him. He said once, if the sun shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed. Now you look well at me. You know what a terrible temper I had. You've tried your best in these past weeks to make me angry, but you haven't succeeded. That's a miracle in itself. You can say what you like to me now, but you won't make me lose my temper. That's not to my credit. Let me tell you, it's God himself who's done something that I don't yet clearly understand. The money I earn, I dump it all in the wife's lap, for I know she can handle it better than I can. Then there's another thing. When I get up in the morning now, I ask God to help, and he does it. When I go to bed at night, I pray again. Let me tell you, if I should die, I'll go to heaven, and there I'll meet my dear old mother, for it's not what I've done, it's what he's done. It isn't that I'm any better than any of you. No, there isn't one of you as bad as I was, he continued, but if God was able to change and pardon a beast like me, he can surely do the same with all of you. So what I say is, why don't you all do just the same as I have done? Surrender yourselves into Christ's hands. Little by little, seeing it was useless to try to bring the Breton back into his old ways, his tormentors were silenced at least, and a life of new activities commenced for the former drunkard. You certainly appear to be quite happy, said Paula, as we passed the Breton's garden one evening, where he was whistling merrily at his work. I certainly am that, said he, raising his head. There's just one wade on my heart yet, however. And what's that? Paula's voice was sympathetic. It's that I cannot read. But I didn't think that that fact interested you very much. Yes, I know Madame Waselle, but I didn't comprehend what I had lost, but now I'd give my left hand if I could only read. Poor Breton, I said. It seemed to me we were a bit helpless before such a problem. It isn't that I want to become a fine gentleman and all that, and the Breton turned to address me also. It's simply that I want to be able to read the great book that tells about God and his son, Jesus Christ. Also, I would like to help my children, that they might have a better chance than hitherto I have given them. But there you are, I'm just a poor ignorant man, and I suppose I always shall be. Well, said Paula, why don't you attend the night school? No, Madame Waselle, and the Breton shook his head. That's all very well for the young fellows who have learned a little something and wished to learn a bit more. But me at my age, and I don't even know the letter A from B, and I have such a dull head that I would soon tire out the best of teachers. Well, supposing I tried teaching you, said Paula timidly. You, Madame Waselle, cried the Breton stupified, you to try such a thing as to teach me. And why not if my uncle should let me? Well, Madame Waselle, that would be different. I believe that with you to teach me, I might be able to learn. And the Breton leaned on his spade for a moment. You are so good and kind and patient, I would not be afraid of your making fun of my stupid efforts. But there, there's no use thinking about such a thing, for I'm sure the master would never permit it. In fact, it did take a good deal to persuade my father, but Paula won his permission at last. The Breton came every Saturday night. Teresa complained a bit at first, seeing her kitchen turned into a night school for such a rough ignorant workman. But for Jesus Christ's sake, as Paula said, she had finally become resigned to it. It was both pathetic and comical to see the efforts which the poor Breton made as he tried to follow with one great finger the letters which his young teacher pointed out to him. He stumbled on, making many mistakes, but never discouraged. Sometimes the sweat poured from him when the task appeared too great for him. At such times he would put his head in his hands for a moment, and then with a great sigh he would start again. At the end of a month he had learned the alphabet and nothing more, and even then he would make mistakes in naming some of the letters. Oh, let him go, said Teresa. He's like myself. He'll never, never learn. But Paula's great eyes opened wide. Why, I simply cannot abandon him unless he should give it up himself. Besides, have you forgotten, Teresa, what it cost me to learn to sew? But in the end I did learn, didn't I? So Teresa was silenced. But once the Breton had conquered this first barrier to learning, his progress was truly surprising. In the factory, his primer was always with him. At lunch hours he would either study alone or he'd persuade a fellow worker more advanced than himself to help him with his lesson. Paula was astonished to see how quickly she could teach him a verse in the New Testament, or a well-densey in him she had learned in the valley back home. Nevertheless, a week or two later she noticed that he seemed to be a bit distraught, and she feared he was getting weary of his task. What's the matter? She finally asked him. Oh, nothing. And the Breton grinned rather sheepishly. Tell me, Breton, what's on your mind? He guffawed loudly as he replied. You'd make fun of me, sure, if I told you, and with good reason. I never make fun of anybody, said Paula reproachfully. No, mademoiselle, I ought to know that better than anybody else. Well, perhaps it might be well to tell you. If you must know it, it's this. There are many I find that wish they could be in my place tonight. In your place tonight, I'm afraid I don't understand, said Paula. Well, you see, I've got four or five of my old comrades who also want to learn to read. What's that you say? Teresa asked, leaving her knitting to stand in front of the Breton. It's true enough, mademoiselle Teresa, and when you come to think of it, it's not a bit strange. Down at the factory they all know how different and how happy I am, and how they did make fun of me when I started to learn to read, just as they jeered at me when Jesus Christ first saved me and I learned to pray. But now some of them, seeing how happy I am, also want to learn to read, and who knows but someday they will want to learn how to pray to the Lord Jesus also. Paula's face took on a serious expression. Finally, however, she slowly shook her head. You know, with all my heart, I'd just love to see it done, but it's perfectly useless, I suppose, even to think of it, she said sadly. That's what I thought, too, said the Breton. I'm sorry I spoke about it. Well, I don't know, continued Paula. Perhaps if Uncle could arrange somehow, I remember when I was quite small, back there before I left the valley, my dear godmother had a night school for laboring men. It was just lovely. They learned to read and to write and to calculate. Then afterwards, each night before they went home, they would sing hymns and read the Bible and pray. Yes, that's all very well, said Teresa, but your godmother was a whole lot older than you are. Then turning to the Breton, she said, why don't you tell your friends to go to the night school in town? Well, said the Breton, I know that they learn many things there, but they don't teach them about God. However, as I said before, I'm sorry I mentioned the thing. Let's not speak any more about it. Well, said Paula, I know what I'm going to do. I'll speak to the Lord Jesus about it. And Paula kept her promise. One morning, Teresa, usually not at all inquisitive, could not seem to keep her eyes off a certain little group who were engaged in moving out of one of the red cottages across the road. More than once, she paused in her work of tidying up the house to peer out of one window or another. That's the very best of all the red cottages, and they're moving out of it, remarked Teresa, finally. Of what importance is that? I said to her rather sharply. I was washing windows, and that task always made me irritable. I've got a certain idea, Teresa said. Tell me your big idea, I said. No, you go ahead and wash your windows. I'll tell you tomorrow. The next day, I had forgotten Teresa and her idea. As I started for school, she called after me. Tell Madame Waselvertude, your teacher, that I want to see her just as soon as possible. I have to speak to her about something. In a flash, I remembered what had happened the day before, and I guessed at once her secret. Teresa, I cried, I've got it now. You want Madame Waselvertude to occupy the house across the road. Oh, that'll be just wonderful. Teresa tried to put on her most severe air, but failed completely. Well, supposing that's not so, she said, as with a grin she pushed me out of the door. Madame Waselvertude came over that very afternoon. I hadn't been mistaken. She and Teresa went immediately across the road to see the empty house, the owner having left the key with us. At the end of a half hour they returned. It's all arranged, and Teresa beamed. She's coming to live here right across the road. I've thought of the thing for a long time, and now at last the house I wanted is empty. Monsieur Boucher has promised to fix the fence and put a new coat of paint on the house, and with some of our plants placed in the front garden, it will be a fitting place for your dear teacher and her Gabriel to live in. You'll certainly spoil us, said Madame Waselvertude. What a joy it will be to leave that stuffy apartment in town, and Gabriel is so pale and weak. This lovely air of the open country will make a new boy of him. It was a wonderful time we had, arranging things before our new neighbors moved in. Teresa brought some neat linen curtains for the windows of the little house. Paula and I gathered quantities of flowers from our garden, and placed them over the chimney piece and on the bedroom shelves and in the window seats, and how the floors and windows did shine after we had finished polishing them. When our teacher arrived in a coach with Gabriel packed in among the usual quantity of small household things of all kinds, great was her gratitude and surprise to find, in the transformed house, such signs of our care and affection for her. It was indeed the happiest moving day that could possibly be imagined. There wasn't a great quantity of furniture, and in an hour or so after our new neighbors' arrival we had everything installed in its proper place, to say nothing of the bright fire burning in the tiny grate and the kettle singing merrily above it. One would hardly have dreamed that it had been an empty house that very morning. Even Louis, who had come home for a weekend holiday, had sailed in and worked with us in putting the little cottage in order. That night the newly arrived tenants ate with us, after which Louis carried Gabriel pick-a-back to his new home across the road. Our teacher's prophecy concerning Gabriel was a correct one. Day by day he grew stronger. Teresa looked out for him during school hours, and with his bright happy ways, he soon became a great favorite with the neighborhood boys. Tell me, Paula, said my father one evening. How is the new pupil coming on? Which new pupil? Our cousin said as she came and stood by my father's chair where he sat reading his paper. The Breton, of course, surely you haven't more than one pupil. For the present, no, she answered, with a queer little smile on her quiet face. For the present, no, repeated my father, and what may that mean? Paula rested her cheek against the top of my father's head. Dearest uncle, she said, will you please grant me a great favor? Now what, said my father, and the stern serious face lighted up with a smile. You see, the Breton has almost learned to read, and it would be just splendid if some of his old comrades and his two sons could learn too. Oh, Paula, Paula, said my father, where is all this going to end? But Paula was not easily daunted, especially when the thing asked for was for the benefit of other people. Now why don't you let me teach them, dear uncle? She came and kneeled at my father's feet and took both his hands in hers. But you're only a very young and very little student, Paula. You must be taught yourself before you can teach others. My father's voice was very tender, but firm as well, and it didn't look to me as if Paula would win. She said nothing in reply, but stayed kneeling there at his feet with those great appealing eyes of hers fixed on his face. We shall see, we shall see, said my father gently, when you finished your own studies. Besides, I think you're reasonable enough to see that such a task, along with your studies, would be too big a burden for a child like you. I could not let you take this up. I suppose you're right, dear uncle, said Paula humbly as she rose and rested her head against my father's shoulder. And yet, if you could only see how happy it would make the Breton and his comrades. And besides, she added, I had fondly hoped that if I could have taught them, they would learn more about the Lord Jesus and take him as their savior as the Breton has done. You seem to think of nothing but how to serve your Lord Jesus. And there was a wistful sort of tone in my father's voice. Well, am I not his servant? No, said my father. I'd call you a soldier of his, and one that's always under arms. That's because I have such a wonderful, such a kind, and such a powerful captain. I wish everybody might come to know him, and to know him is to love him. There followed a moment of silence, so solemn, so sweet, that it seemed as if a presence had suddenly entered, and I personally felt my soul in that moment suddenly lifted toward God, as it never had been before. And as I looked at Paula standing so humbly there, her eyes seemed to say, Oh, my uncle, my cousin, would that you too might love him and receive him as the savior of your soul? Listen, Paula, my father said. Will you leave the Breton and his friends and his sons in my hands for the present? Paula looked at him searchingly for a moment, as if trying to find out what was in his mind. Of course, she finally said. Well then, just rest content. I'll try to see the thing through somehow. If I'm not very much mistaken, these protégés of yours will have very little to complain of. Oh, uncle dear, shouted Paula, delighted. What are you planning to do? I don't know yet exactly, but I've thought of something. No, no, don't try to thank me for anything, for I don't know how it will come out. But he smiled as he laid his hand on Paula's head. You certainly have a method of asking for things that I don't seem to find any way to refuse you. First time in my life a great secret had been confided to me. Of course, I felt quite proud that they had considered me important enough to be a share of the secret. But my, what a struggle it was not to tell Paula. In a few days it would be Paula's fifteenth birthday, and the whole family seemed endeared with the same idea, to make an especially happy and unforgettable occasion. Paula must have suspected something with all the coming and going, the whispering and smothered giggles in the corners, etc. But she wasn't the kind to pry into other people's affairs, and so, no matter what she may have thought, she kept her own counsel. On the morning of the great day, which to our great satisfaction came on a Sunday, Paula was quite surprised to find that Madame Weisselvertude and Gabrielle had been invited over to breakfast, but aside from that occurrence there was nothing unusual yet to indicate that we were celebrating Paula's birthday. When the meal was finished, however, my father folded up his napkin, and with an air of mock gravity said, Why, let me see, this is Paula's birthday, isn't it? I suppose Paula's been wondering why there were no gifts piled up on her plate. You see, Paula, we've all combined on the one gift, but it's too big to put on the dinner table. However, it's not far away. Let's all go and have a look together. He led the way out of the house across the road, and we all followed. I presume the neighborhood received quite a shock of surprise to see such a procession of folks coming out of the big house. Many came and stood in their front door yards to view the unusual sight. For instance, of Lulia with his arm linked in that of our old servant Teresa, and Paula herself on our father's arm, and the rest of us strung out behind. We finally stopped in front of Madame Weisselvertude's newly painted little house, with its tiny garden in front and all the splendor of spring dress. Come in, Paula, said our teacher of former days. Your present is here in this front room. We all followed after Paula, eager to see the results of her inspection of the present. Paula took one step, and then stopped on the threshold. What do you think of your birthday, present Paula? said my father. Do you think the brat and his comrades will be content to come here to study and to learn to sing, etc., in this room? Oh, Uncle dear! And that was all she could say as she embraced and kissed him, with the gratitude we all knew well was too deep for mere words to express. Suddenly Louis pulled her hair a bit, saying, Well, how about the rest of us? Aren't you going to thank us too? There are a lot of folks here that have had a share in this business. Paula gave him a smile in which she included all of us in her thankful joy and gratitude. Why, said Paula, this is the room everybody thought was useless and which was in such bad condition that the landlord didn't think it worthwhile to fix up. Yes, said my father, it's the very room. I confess one and hardly recognize it, but when Monsieur Bichet understood what it was to be used for, he went to unusual trouble to fix it properly. You'll have to thank him especially, Paula. He has a reputation of being not always so amiable. I will take him a lovely bunch of flowers, said Paula. Hmm, said Louis. I'm sure I don't know what he'd do with them. He doesn't often get flowers from his tenants. Paula walked about the room as in a dream, examining everything. The table in the center had been loaned by Dr. LeBone. The lovely red curtains were present from Mademoiselle Virtude. Rosa and Louis had given the two long benches on each side of the table. My father had given the school books, and I had bought the pencils and copy books for my monthly allowance. It was all very simple and severe, but to apologize, these gifts brought together in the little white-washed room seemed to her quite wonderful. Look up there, said Louis. You haven't seen that yet. And Paula saw hanging from the ceiling a fine new lamp to which a white paper seemed to be tied. Louis reached up and took down the paper for her, and she read his follows. In great gratitude from the Breton. Now look here, said Louis. You don't need to weep over it. The Breton is only grateful for all you've done for him. Thanks to you, he's been able to save up a little money lately, instead of spending it all on drink. Now look here, said Louis. You don't need to weep to an elaborately embroidered model on the wall containing the Lord's words to the weary ones of the earth. Come unto me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Oh, it's all too much! said Paula, completely overcome. How can I thank you all for what you've done? Your gratitude and happiness is sufficient reward for us, said my father. I don't know what put the idea in our heads. I suppose you will say it was God. And perhaps you are right. All I know is that I spoke to Mademoiselle Virtude of your desire to have a night school for the Breton and his friends, and then spoke to others about it and, well, now you've seen the result. You, almost to be a thanks to Mademoiselle Virtude, who brought the thing about and gave us the use of the room. Which room? said Mademoiselle Virtude with a dry little smile, had no value whatsoever, you'll remember. And another thing, said my father, she is the one who has taken over the responsibility of the night school. Otherwise I could not have permitted you to take up such a task. Then Rosa is going to help when she can, and Lucita has an idea she can do something also. And I, said Louis, where do I come into the picture? With a grin my father turned to his son. That's where you're only in the background for once. It was decided, in accord with Mademoiselle Virtude, to have classes twice a week. Thursdays would be for reading, writing, and arithmetic. And Sundays would be a time for learning songs, and for putting their studies into practice by reading in the Bible, and for what several had been asking, namely, to learn how to pray. If the Breton was a model scholar, this could not be said of his two younger sons. These boys appeared to be much below the average in natural intelligence, besides the fact that their ordinary educational opportunities had, as in the case of Joseph, their older brother, been decidedly neglected. Their father had compelled them to attend the night school, but apparently they didn't seem to grasp what it was all about. Without any apparent cause, they both would suddenly duck down below the table to hide their merriment. Whatever story, no matter how interesting, was read aloud, they didn't appear to comprehend a word of it, and if a chapter from the Bible was read, they either showed elaborate sides of boredom, or else they would doze in their seats. Paula would gaze at them sadly. Her heart was greeted at such colossal indifference. The three comrades of the Breton, however, were decidedly different, taking up their studies with great eagerness, and listening well to everything that was read aloud. It's a whole lot better here than spending our money at the liquor shop, they would say of the smile of satisfaction. I'll say so. The Breton would chime in. I'll tell you what, comrades, if I'd known only before all that one gains in Christ service, I would have started long ago on this new life with him. The happiest and most beloved of all in the school was Gabrielle. He was so happy that he was able to come in and study with the others, and when it came to singing, his marvelously fresh and clear tones outclassed them all. It is, all but one. I seem to hear yet those lovely hymns that were sung with such sincerity and hardiness. Chapter 6 The House of God It was vacation time in August. Teresa said she had never seen a drier or a hotter summer in her whole existence. Gabrielle and his sister had gone to visit their family in the country, and we had our usual red-letter time at Grandmother Duma's house. We had returned from our visit greatly refreshed, all except Paula, who seemed to have lost somewhat of that perpetual happiness, which, when she appeared on the scene, had always been such a tonic to us all. She had tried her best not to show it, but she gave us all the impression that she tired very quickly. I think the reason you tire so soon is because you're growing so quickly, said Teresa. Paula laughed and said that that wasn't her fault. One morning, my father seemed to be looking at her more intently than usual. He finally said, You're not feeling well, are you, Paula? I'm all right, dear uncle, she said. Sometimes I get a bit tired. I think it must be the heat. But, my dear child, you hardly eat anything at all, and you've lost those roses in your cheeks. He still continued looking at her, then suddenly he said, I'll tell you one thing that I think would please you very much. Do you know what that would be? What, sir? And Paula seemed to regain all her usual animation. I think, said my father slowly, in a low voice as if talking to himself. I think you, and he paused a moment. What would you say if you were to go to church with Celestina on Sundays? Oh, dear uncle, could I really go? Paula jumped to her feet excitedly. Yes, I think I'll let you go, and, again, he hesitated a bit. If Teresa, Rosa, and Lucita wished to, they may go along, too. And you, dear uncle, will you not come with us? questioned Paula as she looked into the sad, stern face that had softened considerably of late. We shall see, we shall see, but you'd better not count on me. My, oh, me, just see, those roses have all come back again. Well, but you don't know how happy you've made me, said Paula as she fairly danced out of the house with me to tell the news to Celestina. Well, said Celestina, all I can say is that the Lord heard my prayers and yours, dear Paula. It's the best weapon of the weak and needy, and, in fact, can be the power to serve all and everyone who will surrender themselves and all they are into the hands of the Saviour. We had seated ourselves near the door of her little cottage. Something in the deep tones of the old lady's voice seemed to search my very heart. We always enjoyed listening to this old saint who, like Enoch and Noah, walked with God. We seemed to be drawn closer to God in her humble little cottage than in any other place. You see, she continued, I'm old and quite feeble, and besides I'm poor and can't do much for other folks, but there's one thing I can do, and that is pray, and I do pray for everybody, and especially for you and your family, my dear young friends. God doesn't let me see many results of my prayers, but that doesn't discourage me. I just keep everlastingly at it, and I can leave the results to him. Has he not said, through the mouth of his apostle John, this is the confidence that we have in him, that if we ask anything according to his will, he heareth us, and if we know that he hear us, whatever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we desired of him. I remember once hearing a certain hymn about prayer. I never could remember all the verses, but most of it has remained deeply engraved in my memory, although I only heard it once. It was sung by a young missionary from Africa who happened to be passing through Paris. It was at a meeting which I attended as a young girl many years ago. Please sing it to us, dear Celestina, said Paula, even though you may not remember it all. Well, my dear young friends, said Celestina, that old hymn has been my comfort and the inspiration of my prayers through all the years since I heard it sung so long ago in Paris where I lived when I was young. Here it is. And as those quavering notes sounded, we seemed lifted toward that heavenly throne of which she sang. On heavenly heights an angel stands. He takes our prayer in heavenly hands, and with Celestial incense rare he mingles every heartfelt prayer of those who trust his precious blood to reconcile their souls to God. Then from that glorious heavenly place descend the lightnings of his grace, to heal, to strengthen, and provide for those who trust in him who died. Who died, I say? Yea, he who rose, triumphant conqueror of his foes. Who is this priestly angel bright, who thus dispels our darkest night? Tis he who sets the captives free, Jesus who died on Calvary's tree. Who is, who was, and is to come, the glory of his father's home. Well, said Paula softly, as the last note died away, I've prayed much for my dear uncle that he might be saved. And God will hear and answer you, my dear, according to the scripture I've just quoted. Let me tell you something. Your uncle came here to see me a few days ago, and I believe he is not far from the kingdom of God. Oh! cried Paula, I would give everything to see him truly saved. Never had I seen Paula so happy as when we entered the little old evangelical church in the Rue Saint-Elois. We had had the natural timidity of newcomers, and had feared more than anything else, that battery of eyes which would surely be turned on us at our entrance. It was therefore a great relief to find that the meeting had already begun, and an empty pew well toward the back that held us all seemed to beckon to us with a sort of mute welcome. Hardly were we seated when I noticed Paula, who had of course been accustomed to church going at her old home in the valley, had kneeled, and with her eyes closed seemed to be offering a prayer. This was soon ended, and she resumed her seat. It was also new to me that I could not at first take in much of the details of the service. The preacher had a fine noble face which seemed to light up especially as the hymns were heartily sung by the whole congregation. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that a quiet smile of approval passed over his face as his eyes rested on Paula, who so fervently joined in the songs, all of which seemed quite familiar to her. It was an affecting thing, that vision of my girl companion. In her white dress with its blue sash at the waist, and with her wide white straw hat she made a lovely picture. In that frank open countenance I think I read her thoughts. Here in God's house she had entered once more the promised land from which she had been exiled for four long years. Suddenly the sun came from behind a cloud, especially designed, I thought, to send a ray of rose-colored light through one of the stained glass windows of the church over that beautiful face at my side, which now showed only wrapped attention to the simple gospel message saturated with God's word that flowed like a mighty river from the preacher's lips. As we came through the door on our way out, I caught a glimpse of my father's tall form just disappearing around a bend in the rue Saint-El-Wa. I think he must have stolen up to the door and had been listening outside. At times I have wished to a face from my mind the memory of those last moments that Paula was with us. Yet as I think of the dwelling to which she has gone, and also the manner in which she went, in the path of duty, to the house of glory as a good soldier of the cross, I bless God and kneel in gratitude to him for having loaned her to us for those four precious years when he used her to bring us all to the bleeding side of the Savior and thus make us new creatures in Christ Jesus. It was on the Wednesday after that Sunday when we had first attended church. It had been a day of terrible heat. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to promise an electric storm. Louis, who had forgotten a study book when he went to school on Monday, had returned to get it. Paula had tried to study, but I could see she was having great difficulty. Suddenly trees had peered and called Paula to take a letter which my father wished to send to a man who lived in the rue from I. Go quickly, Paula, there's a storm brewing, but I think you can easily get back before it breaks. The rue from I is not far away. Paula had no time to answer before Teresa disappeared against the other end of the house. Paula turned to Louis, who was about to start out for his uncle's house, where he stayed during the week in order to be near his school. Louis, dear, she said, won't you please take the letter on your way back to your uncle's house? No, said Louis sharply, I never go that way. No, I know that, but it would only be a few steps out of your way to leave it there and, well, you see, I have quite a headache. Teresa told you to take the letter, not me. A fig for your headache. It's only that you're too lazy to stir, said Louis. Louis, I shouted, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You know well enough Paula's always willing to do anything for anybody. I've done myself, but I simply can't leave what I'm doing now. If Teresa had remembered, she would have given you the letter and you'd know it. If you don't take it, I'll tell Father. Do as you please, said Louis Cooley. I'll not be bothered with it. I was furious and couldn't keep back the angry tears that now began to roll down my cheeks. Never mind, Lucita, said Paula as she ran for her hat. Then as she went through the door, she turned for a last look at Louis. Won't you please take it, Louis, she said. No, said Louis, and that's that. And he turned his back to Paula. Goodbye, Louis, dear, she finally said. Without the least show of anger, she left the house. We'll be seeing you again on Saturday. She ran down the street quickly in order to return before the gathering storm broke. Louis followed shortly to return to his uncles, whistling cheerfully as he went, but his cheerfulness seemed to me to be a little too exaggerated to be real. After I had finished my task, I sought out Teresa at the other end of the great house. Paula has a bad headache, I said. Why didn't she tell me that? Said Teresa. I'd have sent Louis, but I didn't think of it at the time. I opened my mouth to say something, and then I shouted it again. I had begun slowly to learn from Paula's example not to be a tattletale. Meanwhile the sky grew darker. Suddenly Teresa said, I don't know what's keeping Paula. Here, Lucita. Take this umbrella and go and meet her. I'm afraid she'll be caught in the rain before she gets back. I soon found her as she turned in at the bottom of the Rouge de Notale. We was hurry, she said, as the thunder began to mutter in the distance. Hardly had she spoken when a flash of lightning almost blinded us. This was followed almost immediately by a great crash of thunder that seemed to shake the very ground under our feet. Then came a sound of confused shouts, as if something had happened at the other end of a cross-streef that we were passing. Could it be a house had been struck by the lightning? No, the shouts increased and changed to cries of terror. Soon we guessed the cause, as we heard a rushing sound of galloping horses, which, frightened by the flash and the clap of thunder, came in sight around a bend in the street enveloped in a cloud of dust, dragging a heavy wagon behind them. Instinctively Paula retreated to protecting doorway, and I huddled in terror close beside her. Lucita, she called suddenly, look, look! What I saw was something that seemed to freeze my blood. Directly in the pathway of the onrushing horses, totally unconscious of his danger, was a little boy of about three years old toddling in the middle of the road. One instant more and it would all have been over. Suddenly Paula left our shelter like a shot from a gun. Then I heard a sharp cry that rent the air like a knife, and then I can remember little more, just a confusion of people running hither and thither, and then for me all was darkness. But in that darkness I seemed to hear still that piercing cry of anguish. When I came back to consciousness I found myself on the sofa in our dining-room, with Catalina bathing my face in hands with cold water. Where's Paula? I cried, for I remembered at once that terrible scene in the Rudonatal. I tried to rise and go to our room. Stay where you are, Lucita, said Catalina. You may go a bit later when you're feeling stronger. But now a terrible suspicion crossed my mind. Catalina! I cried, almost beside myself with fear. Tell me the truth, is Paula dead? No, Lucita, Paula's not dead. As she tried and veined, she did tame me. She's still breathing. But I heard nothing more. My legs trembled strangely as I stumbled toward our bedroom. Once there, again that terrible darkness started to come over me. But it was only a momentary weakness. With an effort I steadied myself as I came near the bed where my dearest one lay so still, that lovely face so white, the lips slightly parted with just a faint stirring of the breath. The room was full of people, some weeping silently, some trying to choke back their sobs. Others, like my father and Dr. LeBone, with an agony showing on their faces much more terrible than any tears. All this I saw was in a horrible dream from which I hoped to awake at any moment. But no! I soon realized it was all too true. This was the first real grief of my life, and I had to sustain it alone, for I had not yet yielded to him who sends comfort to his children in their time of anguish. He did take pity on me, however. In the next room I hid my grief in Teresa's arms. Teresa, who more than anyone else needs a love that had united me to Paula. Oh, Teresa! I cried when I thought of myself alone with her. She must not die! She must not! I simply cannot live without her. You know that. Oh, pray for me, dear Teresa. God will hear your prayer. He probably wouldn't hear mine. Tell him. Oh, please tell him Paula must not die. No, Lucita. Teresa said as she dragged my tears. We must leave Paula in God's hands. He loves her more than you and I could ever do. If you could see that poor, broken body as I've seen it, you would not ask that she should live. Yes, indeed, she was happy with us. She was to us all like an angelic messenger sent from God to draw us to him and to show us the way to heaven. And now he's called her to himself almost without suffering, for she appears to have become insensible from the instant that the horses struck her down. Listen to me, Lucita. Soon Paula will be in heaven at her savior's side, her savior whom she loves so well, and in her dear father's company of whom she spoke so often. We must think of her happiness dear Lucita, not our own, from this day forward. Paula, you remember, never thought of herself. Her thought was always for others, and it was for another that she died. She gave her life to same that little boy. So she followed in the footsteps of her savior, as the good soldier of the Lord Jesus, who died to save all who repent and believe on his blessed name. The voice of our old servant, so tender, so motherly, seemed to heal my sorrow. When I became calmer, she told me some of the details of the tragedy. Paula had dashed in front of the horses just in time to throw the child out of danger, but had been unable to escape herself. That much I understood. But from that day to this, I have never been able to bring myself to ask for any more details. It seemed I had fainted, and they had carried both of us home. Poor Teresa, I knew how ardently she too loved our Paula. But courageous and unselfish, her only thought as ever was for us. In consoling me, she forgot her own sorrow. As I looked at that strong, calm face, lighted up as from an inner brilliance, it seemed to take on a striking likeness to the dear one whose life was ebbing away in the next room. There came to my mind a verse from a Bible story that Paula had told us once. It was this. The spirit of Elijah hath fallen on Elisha. A stream of neighbors came in from everywhere. It was in those last moments as these humble friends passed before their unconscious form that we came to comprehend how many lives had been touched by the simple country girl from the Waldenzian Mountains. Some remembered her just from the smile with which she always greeted young and old as she passed up and down the long street at the end of the town. Others spoke of the loving adoration of the child, whom she had protected and defended. Still others mentioned the kindness she had showed them, and poured out many stories of Paula's universal love for all, of her visits to the poor and sick, and of how she had pointed them to the Savior who had died to take away their sin, bringing joy and hope and liberty into many a home where only discord and misery had reigned before. So the tears of many of our humble, friendless neighbors mingled with our own as we waited for the end. But there was one on whom the blow fell more terribly than on any one of the rest of us, for it was a bitter mixture of remorse and shame that Louie had to bear. When he arrived at the house after being summoned from our uncle's place, and came to a full realization of what had happened, for an instant he seemed turned to stone. Then a sharp cry came from him. In that short moment he seemed to change from a careless selfish boy to a man. A man awakened at last to his terrible need of a change, and with a transforming purpose in his life from that day forward. Louie demanded that I tell everyone present what had happened that afternoon. When I refused, he poured out the whole sorry, sordid story of his selfishness without one word of excuse, saying as he finished. So you see, it was I who killed her, for there was no need of her stirring from the house. Then he turned to my father imploring him to punish him severely. He said he could ask no pardon, for he had done what he considered unpardonable. For answer my father took him in his arms, and I knew at that moment my father and Louie came to understand each other better than they had ever done in their lives before. No, my poor boy, my father said. You need no further punishment. Now go to your heavenly father, and ask him to make you his child. And I know that Louie did so. In silence we waited. Paula was the bond of love that had united us all, not only to one another, but now also to God. How wonderful, how beautiful had been that short life, and how she had poured out her love upon us. Again the scene came back to me of that moonlight night at that same bedside, when at prayer she had seen more like an angel talking with the one who had sent her to us, the merely the simple, honest, hearted country girl that she really was. Suddenly the door opened slowly, and a woman poorly dressed entered, leading a little boy of about three years old. When he saw us he stopped, and turned to hide behind the folds of his mother's dress. Come in, come in, said Theresa kindly, as she led them both to the side of my dear one lying there, so white and still. Oh, Carlito! exclaimed the poor woman, turning to her little son as she dropped upon her knees beside the bed. How I wish you could understand. This is the lovely one who saved your life. She took your place there under the horse's hooves. Then taking Paula's two hands in her own she said, Oh, mademoiselle, oh, that you might hear me. Would that I might do something in return for what you have done for my boy? I would say nothing I can do. Yes, my dear woman, said her old servant, and her eyes were streaming. I'll tell you what you can do. Nothing would have pleased Paula better than to have known that you had taken the Lord Jesus as your savior. Also you may take this dear child, and dedicate and train him for God's service in the days to come. That, said the poor woman, I solemnly promise to do if you will show me how. Thus it was that our Teresa had the joy of pointing her first soul to the Savior. Tenderly my father caught off two locks of that beautiful hair of our dear one, and as the woman went out he said, Take this one and keep it always in remembrance of the rescue of your little boy and this other one. And he held up the second to her also. Keep it for him until he's old enough to understand. Taking them from my father's hand she silently kissed them, and placed them in the bosom of her dress as she and her little one glided through the outer door. Louis had gone out on a special errand, and he soon returned, bringing with him from the factory the object of his search. The poor Breton, followed by his sons and all the other scholars of the night school, started to enter the room and then stop the bash at the threshold. At the invitation of my father, however, one by one they all came to the bedside, pale and shaking with emotion. I'm glad you were able to get here before the end came, said my father. Oh, if you could only know how she loved you all. The Breton suddenly broke down and cried like a child. When he could control himself, he said. It was but this very morning that I passed her on the street. She seemed just like a happy bird as she waved me good day, and now, now to find her dying here. May the lords will be done, said Teresa. The poor Breton had buried his face in his hands, but suddenly looking up, he said humbly. You're quite right, Mademoiselle Teresa. But, you see, Mademoiselle Paula was more to me than it seems she could mean to any one of you. I was a drunkard and a robber, a monster of iniquity. I was despised and hated and feared by everybody, and for good reason. But there in Celestina's kitchen that day, Mademoiselle was not afraid to take these rough hands. These hands that had been so often stained with crime and violence, in her own pure white ones, to tell me that she would help me. She it was who taught me to pray. She it was who had prayed for me while I was in prison. I have seen men ground to pieces in the gears of a machine in the factory. I have looked on death in many terrible forms without shedding a tear. But this one, all Mademoiselle Paula, what did I could have died in your place? And again, quivering with emotion. The Breton turned and leaned against the wall to hide his tears. Suddenly a convulsion shook the form of my dear one, and Dr. LeBlanc stepped forward and took her hand. The end is coming, he said. My father dropped on his knees beside the bed. Oh Lord, he said, I too would be thine own. Is it too late for me? At that moment a hand was laid on his shoulder. It was the same hand that years ago had been laid on his wife's sides to close them for the last time. That same hand had tended and cared faithfully for his children ever since. Monsieur, my good master, said Teresa in a tone of tender love and respect, such as I had never heard her used before. It is not too late. He has said, him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out. My father looked up. Well then, Teresa, I come to him. The dear old woman dropped on her knees and with folded hands simply said, Thanks, dear Lord, for that was answered my prayer. And Paul is too. The storm of wind and rain had passed. In the little gardens of the red cottages across the street, the flowers once again began to raise their heads, and the birds began to sing as the sun came out once more. Suddenly there came a soft sigh from the still form on the bed. Dr. LeBlanc nodded as he turned away. His task was ended. The good shepherd had taken his tired lamb in his arms. Then the sound of a deep voice was heard saying, Accept a corn of wheat, fall into the ground, and die. It abideth alone. But if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. End of Book 2, Chapter 7, End of Paul's Waldensian by Eva Lacompt.