The old are^ seldom welcome it seems, very seldom.5
And with this reproach he left them.
The hands of the clock, would they never be still?
She must put on her apron and sweep out the
kitchen. The hands of the clock, would they never
be still? She must go to the sink and peel the
potatoes. But the hands of the clock, would they never
be still? She must cut the potatoes into neat little
squares'and set them to stew with the meat on the
stove, then a pinch of herbs and a couple of onions.
'Christophe, bring me that bowl of milk, will you,
my son?5 How large he looked carrying the small bowl
of milk, large and anxious; and now he was spilling
the milk: 'Never mind, do not trouble to wipe it up.5
And his answer: 'One moment, I will get a damp
cloth, otherwise it may leave a stain on the mat.5
A stain on the mat! She wanted to laugh — only
then perhaps she would never stop laughing — the
milk might leave a stain on the mat! He was wiping
it up rather clumsily with a kind of slow, laborious
patience. The milk might leave a stain on the mat
. . . yes, and once that would surely have seemed a
disaster.
Cry out like the primitive creature she was? Cry
out with the terrible voice of all mothers, even as
Mireio had cried out for her young long ^ ago in her
hour of immense desolation? Cry out until the world
shook with her cries: cYou shall not take him, I care
nothing for honour. I care only for the child that my
womb has held, that my pain has brought forth, that
my breasts have nourished. I care nothing for your
wars. He was born of love; shall the blossom of love
be destroyed by your hatreds? I care nothing. . . .'
Marie pressed her hands to her head.
'Are you ill?5 Christophe asked her anxiously.
'No, my son, no, it is not that. I was trying to
remember ... did I put in those herbs?5
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