Sitting down she drew him onto her knee, and when
his sobs had become less violent she questioned him
with great tenderness: 'Little flower of my heart, try
to tell me what happened/
So he tried, but quite failed to collect his thoughts;
one memory alone appeared to have persisted:
There is something that I must do,5 he faltered, 'it
is something that makes me feel terribly afraid. . . .'
Marie kissed him, clasping the child to her breast:
Then you shall not do it, pichounet!5 she murmured.
But he looked at her out of his pale, bright eyes;
'I will not always feel frightened,5 he said slowly.
She saw that her questions only distressed him, for
now once again he had started weeping: 'It is that I
pity so much. . . ,5 he wept. Yet when she asked
him for whom he felt pity, he seemed bewildered and
shook his head: 'I cannot remember . . . perhaps
Mireio.5
So she soothed him, stroking his tear-stained face,
and drying his eyes on her rough linen apron while
she coaxed with the simple and foolish words that
in times of trouble are consoling to children: 'Let us
now pretend you are once more a baby so that
maman has to carry you up to bed;5 and lifting him
in her strong peasant arms she slowly mounted the
stairs to the attic: 'When I have undressed you, my
very small son, I will go and make you a tisane de
menthe — maman will make it with a great deal of
sugar; and then she will sit beside you till you sleep.
To-morrow you shall have a fine holiday from school,
and perhaps you can go down and bathe with Goun-
dran. Maman is here, and Mireio is here, and Loup
and Anfos, and presently your father will return —
think how many there are to protect you!'
And her words did console, for when he was in bed
he stopped crying and snuggled down under the
bedclothes. Then: 'Make it very sweet, please . . .
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