sonia was awakened early by sounds in the room next her own, and as she opened her eyes with perfect recollection of all that had passed the night before, she wondered if it could possibly be that harold had returned. it might be only the maid opening and airing the room; but whatever it was, she could not sleep again, and she began to devise a plan for getting away early, so that she might avoid the possibility of meeting harold. she got out of bed, parted the curtains, and opened the casement of the low french window. the early sunshine had washed everything with its faint golden glow, and the little new-born leaves that covered the trees in the place with a foliage of feathery green, paler than ever in its transparence against the sun, made a delicate filmy screen, through which she looked down on an exquisite moving picture.
the doors of the beautiful, great madeleine were open wide, and through them was pouring a long white rivulet that seemed to have its source in the little covered doorway in the side of the basement of the great building, and flowed thence in an even stream around the corner, and up the great steps of the building, passing between its central pillars, and so into the interior of the church. this stream was composed of what seemed an unending number of little girls dressed for their first communion. they were all in spotless white, with thin, transparent veils reaching to the hems of their gowns, white wreaths upon their heads, white stockings, shoes, and gloves, and each of them carried a tall white taper, to be presently lighted in the church. stationed like sentinels along the line were gray-clad, white-bonneted sisters of charity, who directed the children’s movements as they walked with an awed stateliness out of the little door, up to the corner and around it, and then through the gate and up the steps, and were lost to sight beyond the wide church-door.
sonia could see the very expressions of their faces as they would look up for direction to the sisters as they passed, lifting their meek and timid glances with an air of solemnity which in some instances struggled with a sense of pride in their unwonted paraphernalia. somehow, the sight of so much ignorance, trust, and innocence, and the thought that each one of them possessed a woman’s heart, with all its capacity for suffering, for hoping, for loving, for regretting, absolutely overcame her. how ignorant they were of what lay before them! how fearlessly their little feet were entering upon the long journey of life, so blind to the pains and bitterness of its way! it seemed heartrendingly cruel to her, to think how they must suffer from the mere fact that each one of them was a woman-child. o god, that women had to suffer so!—that even love, the one delight, should bring in its wake such pain! she could see none of the joy ahead of these sweet children; she thought only of what her own heart suffered now—the regret, the longing, the unfathomable sadness, the blight, the disappointment, the despair! the passionate pain of her heart broke forth in violent sobbing as she stood between the parted curtains, fascinated by the lovely sight, but scarcely able to see it for her tears.
“o god, have pity on them—have pity on them!” she sobbed aloud; and then, while her whole frame shook with her violent weeping, she suddenly became aware of the stealing on of a new influence. what was it? nothing so definite as sight or sound, but something subtly powerful in its significance to her. it was the pungent odor of a certain kind of cigar which had once made part of the familiar atmosphere of her life. it dominated her now, as if by a spell. she was instantly calmed, and, as if by magic, swept back into the thrilling past. then, suddenly, penetrating this familiar atmosphere, there came a familiar sound—no articulate utterance, but just a sound in the throat, which seemed somehow meant to challenge attention. she would have known that voice in the most distant and unlikely spot of earth; and now it became quite plain to her that harold had returned, and was watching the scene opposite from his open window, scarcely a yard away.
he must have heard her words and sobs! he must have understood them, he was so well practised in reading her heart. it had been an open book to him once, though now it must be forever locked and sealed.
her hands had fallen from the curtains, and she had moved backward. there had seemed to come into her strength and support from the mere sound of that voice. there was nothing new in this. often, often had she felt it before. and once it had been in her power to summon this support at will, in any hour of grief or trial. that power was gone now, never to come again; but for this once this supreme and availing help had been afforded her. she felt within her the power to be strong, to collect herself, and to form and execute plans of getting away from this place of temptation and danger.
she fell on her knees. her soul uttered a prayer of mingled thanksgiving and entreaty. as she raised her eyes she could see through the slightly parted folds of the curtains the pointed arch that topped the madeleine. carved in enduring stone, that generations to come might see and gather comfort from it, was the gracious figure of jesus, spreading out his arms of welcome to the poor magdalen, who knelt in supplication at his feet. at his side was a glorious, great angel, who, with drawn sword, stood over the woman, and thrust back with his other hand the evil creatures who in vain besieged her. on the right hand of christ another angel, with wings at rest, held a great horn of triumph, and behind him were women crowned and garlanded, with little children clinging to them. farther still was a woman on a bed of illness, over whom another angel of mercy had spread its wings as she came to christ to have her body healed.
the center of it all was the beneficent figure of the human saviour; and sonia, looking down from this immutable image carved in stone to the flowing, changing, passing stream of young human creatures beneath, felt calmed and comforted. so they could keep their childish faith, there was a refuge for them, and she saw them now without any prompting to tears.
she got up from her knees, bathed her face, smoothed her hair before the mirror, and then, after darkening the room a little, rang for the maid, and asked for her coffee.
by the time it came she was almost dressed, and she instructed the servants very carefully not to disturb her young mistress, but to call a cab for her at once,—as she found it necessary to go home early,—and to tell martha, when the latter awoke, that she was very well, but was obliged to be at home at a certain hour.
her plan worked perfectly, and on her way to the cab she saw no one except the american maid, who went down with her. in passing through the antechamber she noticed a man’s covert-coat, stick, and hat, together with some crushed newspapers, thrown on a sofa. but she had not needed this to convince her of the fact that harold had returned, and had been in his room, watching, as she had watched, the stream of little girls beginning their celebration of the month of mary by taking their first communion.
the first of may being also what is known as “labor day,” it was a strange contrast to the unworldliness and other-worldliness of these little religieuses to see the alert military forces now beginning to fill the streets, in anticipation of possible insurrection and danger, of which there was strong menace that year.
gendarmes in groups of six and eight, and sometimes even more, dotted the streets in all directions, and the mounted guard was out in full force. sonia, looking from her cab window, heard repeated orders given to small groups of citizens to disperse. even two menwere not permitted to stand and talk together, and she was conscious of a certain amusement at seeing two groups of gendarmes combine forces to separate these little knots of two and three. occasionally there was some resistance, and she saw several arrests made, which frightened her. she felt lonely and unprotected, driving through the streets of paris with an unknown cabman at that early hour, when there was even a possibility of such a horror as an insurrection of the french lower orders.
it came over her with piercing power how harold would once have felt about her being in such a position, and how strange, how inexplicable, how unnatural, it was that it could be nothing to him now—that, even if he knew it, he would feel bound to accept it passively; for nothing, she was certain, could induce him to exercise the semblance of a right over her.
she got out of the cab at her own door, safe in body, but more excited and confused in mind than she had ever been in her life—and perhaps, in this moment, more wretched also.