“Patrick, what does this mean? Your report is disgraceful. Apart from one B for math, all the marks are below half. What a difference between Carol and you! Look at this report of your sister’s; her grades are all A’s and B’s and one A for conduct. You ought to be ashamed to cause me more trouble, as if I hadn’t enough without this. It’s a fine present that you bring me!”
Patrick, with flushed cheeks and sullen brow, remained obstinately silent.
“You are naturally cleverer than I am,” contributed Carol; “if only you’d study a little, instead of roaming about with Simon. Since you’ve chummed up with him, it’s spoiled you for homework and trying to be top of your class. You did ever so much better when John Garnier was your friend, didn’t you?”
“Don’t speak of John to me!” cried Patrick; “he’s a smart fellow. The teachers all favor him; it’s not surprising he gets good grades. Besides, do you think I’d want to go and see him in possession of all that belonged to us? I’ve made him understand that I’ve broken with him, and I’m not sorry; Simon is much more fun.”
“That is no excuse for being slack in your work, and now failing in the term’s exams,” said Mrs. Demier. “Here I am working to the limit of my strength to keep you and pay your school bills, and you can’t even take a little trouble to study. When school re-opens I shall limit your outings to the half holidays, and I insist on your working during vacation.”
Necessity had given Mrs. Demier unsuspected strength. The despair into which she had been plunged for several months had given place to a degree of energy, somewhat feverish, it is true; but the work and the satisfaction of ensuring the wellbeing of her children had cured her of the discouragement and apathy in which she had sunk, and her health improved. She had taken on her former work of saleswoman in a large dress shop in the neighboring town. When she came home exhausted each evening, she just managed to swallow the meal that Carol had prepared, then went off to bed. She did not come home during the day, so the young people ate at a restaurant.
Patrick had suffered secretly from these changes. His hours of study did not always correspond with his sister’s, and he had a horror of finding himself alone in the deserted apartment. He never felt at home there; a feeling of being abandoned made him get out of it as quickly as possible, leaving books and exercises to their sad fate. Since becoming a member of the clandestine league, he invented a thousand pretexts to escape still more often. Being very intelligent, he had succeeded in keeping up appearances for a time in those subjects where reason and memory served him. However, his teachers noticed with concern his attitude of idleness and apathy.
Carol also had changed. At school the happy frolicsome child was transformed into a cold reserved girl, who seldom took part in the lively games of her classmates. Studious and diligent, she ranked with the best pupils in her class, and it was only scholastic successes which brought a fleeting smile of triumph to her serious face.
One day she happened to overhear a conversation which had wounded her deeply.
“My parents won’t let me invite Carol home now,” said her former friend in a sour voice; “her parents are divorced, they are ruined; her mother goes out to work! They are no longer in our circle.”
“There’s nothing dishonorable in work,” retorted Clare Garnier, John’s sister, with indignant voice. “It would be mean of us to drop Carol; she already has enough trouble, without our turning our backs on her.”
Carol slipped away so as to hear no more. Colette’s contempt and Clare’s sympathy were alike-odious to her. She did not want anyone to befriend her out of pity, and the fickleness of her best friend was revolting to her. From the day after this conversation Carol showed herself distant and icy towards Colette and ignored Clare’s advances. She had only one aim now; to surpass her companions and gain a scholarship in order to continue her studies. This would be her reaction to their scorn and pity.
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One evening late in December, discontented with himself and with nothing to look forward to, Patrick wandered aimlessly in the busy streets. The nasal sounds of a barrel-organ attracted him; then for a long time he stood with his nose pressed against the window of a toyshop. An airplane kit, was the object of his consuming desire. He sighed hopelessly: no one would dream of giving him one, or anything else, that holiday season. His mother had too many other things to buy; Carol was saving up for a new dictionary. His father did not care about them; he had only troubled to send one card in three months.
“I could at least ask the price,” he said to himself. The shop was full and the busy assistants hurried from one buyer to another. “What is it you want?” one of them asked him.
“I’d like to know the price of the airplane kit in the window.”
“A dollar seventy-five. Here’s one; I’ll pack it up for you.”
“No, no,” said Patrick with an embarrassed air, fingering his only dollar; “I just wanted to know the price.”
The salesman gave him an icy look and turned his back. At this moment, he noticed the presence of John Garnier, who, with arms full of parcels, looked at him in surprise, while his mother was paying for them at the cash desk. Furious at being seen in his humiliation, Patrick hastily left the noisy, overheated shop. He continued his wandering, hands in the pocket of his wind-breaker.
From a bank of cyclamen and azaleas came a guttural voice that made him start: “If you don’t know what to do, my boy, I have a job for you.” Seated on a packing case, with legs crossed, a little hunchback fixed Patrick with a piercing eye.
“What is it you want?” asked Patrick.
“Carry these pots of flowers to my customers. Was it necessary for my delivery boy to get the idea of falling sick at the holiday season? Just like his impudence! And here I am with all these plants on my hands. Will you help me? Yes or no?”
Amused at the tragic tone of the little man, Patrick replied: “I am not experienced in this kind of work, but if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll run and get my bicycle. Then you can give me directions, and I’ll try to replace your errand boy.”
Ten minutes later Patrick returned and, with some misgivings, submitted to having strapped on his back a heavy basket loaded with delicate plants, each one encased in transparent paper.
“Be very careful! Don’t drop them! You have to treat flowers like eggs. And don’t loiter on the way; there are two more baskets still to deliver. Here are the addresses; all these plants are for the same area, so it won’t take long.”
Intrigued by finding himself engaged in this novel role, Patrick set off and rode carefully, thinking of the precious charge he carried. He knew the town well and found his way easily. His first trip was completed without accident. The first time he rang at a door his heart quickened a little, and the tip he received made him blush. Happily all the people were strangers, who took him for the gardener’s apprentice and did not look at him twice.
The second load brought him to the luxurious hotel of the Golden Lion, owned by Simon’s father. As he placed a huge azalea in the porter’s hands, Simon, always on the watch, put an inquisitive head round the half open door.
“Wait, Demier! What good wind blows you here?
It is just right, I wanted to see you. What have you got? Flowers? You’ve found a new way to get rich?”
“What is it that is so important to tell me? Tell me quickly,” replied Patrick. “I have a lot more to deliver and it’s getting late.”
Simon came close and whispered in his ear, “Try to get to the hut at 10 a.m. on Saturday; Cyril has something to tell us. I think he is organizing a big expedition. Unfortunately I can’t go. I’m going to Zermatt tomorrow with my parents.”
“Good! I’ll be there,” said Patrick, a gleam of light in his somber eyes. “Goodbye, I must fly.”
With a smile of satisfaction, the florist entrusted to him the third basket heavier than the others. “You are quick, my friend; that suits me! I don’t like the jokers that dawdle and gossip on the way. When you’ve finished this round, come and find me at my house, number seven, Three-Mirrors Street. Not after seven o’clock, you understand? And now-be off!”
The straps pressed heavily on Patrick’s shoulders. Still he felt much happier as he pedaled along the gray road, half blinded now by the snowflakes which stung his face like a swarm of white bees. He was satisfied with his well-employed afternoon, and the prospect of an approaching adventure made him forget his disagreeable schoolwork.
“What does my bad report matter?” thought he. “When I bring the money I’ve earned to Mum, she will forgive me. Besides, I’ve no ambition to become a model pupil!”
At last there was only one plant left in the deep basket. On reading the address on its label Patrick shuddered.
“Dr. John Garnier, La Maison-Claire, 24 Mariners’ Avenue.”
“I won’t go there!” thought the boy; “to see John receive me at the door of our house is too much to ask. I’ll tell the florist that I couldn’t find these people, that no one was at home.”
Night had fallen. Patrick kept pedaling along the slippery road where the big snowflakes were melting into slush. He dreaded seeing again his old home, nevertheless, his bicycle carried him towards the Maison-Claire. One more bend in the road and the pointed roof emerged from among the trees. He got off, leaned his bicycle against the wall and pushed open the wrought-iron gate. It was very dark, no one could see him; he put the plant beside a bush and slowly skirted the house.
Nothing had changed in appearance. The weeping willow tree brushed his hair as he passed it. A bright light from the bay-window of the lounge made him stop abruptly and keep in the shadows. All the Garnier family were together, singing; the father in an armchair with a child on each knee, Clare perched on a stool and John standing near the piano which his mother was playing. But what struck Patrick most was the angel-face of a little girl lying in a bed by the fire. A great weight hung at the foot of the bed, but the child, with a radiant face, seemed not to think of herself and sang with all her heart: Oh, let Thy love paternal Now grant me slumber deep; And safely underneath Thy wing, Good Shepherd, may I sleep.”
They all looked so very happy, so united; a vague bitterness filled Patrick’s soul. He saw again the face of his father, so far from them now. A year ago he was with them. Mum had invited the grandparents from the mountains; Grandmother had asked for “Silent Night, Holy Night!” and Mother had played it on the same piano that Mrs. Garnier was now using. Recalling that pleasant evening only made his present one seem more bleak.
Heedless of the freezing cold, Patrick listened to the singing, unable to take his eyes from this vision of happiness. Suddenly the song ended and John turned and walked towards the window. Coming to himself, Patrick raced away and scaled the wall close to the bush where he had left his burden. In haste he seized the plant, carried it to the porch and rang the night-bell loudly. Then turning round, he disappeared into the darkness.
“How strange!” cried Mrs. Garnier, entering the lounge carrying the enormous cyclamen, “the delivery boy was gone! I should have liked to give him a hot drink; it was really noble of him to come so far in such weather.”
“We are well off to be all at home,” cried Clare, pushing back into the fire a big log that was falling out. “It is our first holiday season at Maison Claire. What shall we do to celebrate it?”
“Thinking of that,” said Doctor Garnier; “what has become of your schoolfellow, the young Demier, who lived here? It seems to me, John, that you never mention him now, and he doesn’t come to see you.”
“Patrick detests me now,” replied the boy; “since we bought their house he has turned against me. He’s jealous when I get ahead of him in class, and whenever he can do me a bad turn, he does it.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” cried Mrs. Garnier. “The child is unhappy, no doubt. I can understand he feels badly about leaving such a nice home. Where does he live now?”
“In an apartment building in the center of the town,” replied John. “They say that his father went off somewhere, and his parents are going to get a divorce. He has gone down terribly at school; no one would know him for the same boy.”
“Then, John,” said Mr. Garnier; “you knew his tragic circumstances and you did not give him a helping hand? You who profess to know the Lord and serve Him!”
John turned red and answered quickly: “But he won’t let me help him. He has shown plainly that he doesn’t want my friendship. I can do nothing for him, so I don’t try any more.”
“I too,” broke in Clare. “I’ve tried to show friendship to Carol, but she is so proud that she disdains us all and keeps entirely to herself. She is much cleverer than I am at school, and has no need to envy me. Whose fault is it that she is so unfriendly? Let her stay in her corner or on her pinnacle, if she wants to!”
“Is it thus that the Good Shepherd acted with the wandering sheep, my children? Did He say, ‘If this sheep is so stupid as to separate itself from the others, let it stay where it is, I don’t care’?”
“No,” said a little voice from the bed; “the Good Shepherd sought the little lamb, and then He found it in a big hole.”
“I ought to have concerned myself with that family,” exclaimed Mrs. Garnier, re-entering the room with a baby on her arm. “The birth of Francis and then moving house took up all my attention. What can we do to make up for our selfishness?”
“First of all, we must pray for them,” said her husband gravely. “Let us ask the Lord to open a way to help these children and bring them a little happiness. To invite them here would only give them pain, after what John has said.”
“We could send them a parcel,” proposed Clare.
“No, that would hurt their pride, since they couldn’t make us any return. It is a delicate situation. We should try to make contact with them, not by offering them gifts, but asking for their help. After that, they will accept ours.”
“I truly don’t see how I could approach Patrick,” said John thoughtfully. “Besides, he pals with Simon Conty, one of the worst fellows in our class. I always meet them together, and one never knows what they are plotting.”
“All the same, this boy seemed to me to have a very sensitive nature,” said the mother. “Pray for him! Nothing is impossible to God.”
A timid knock at the door was followed by a long silence. It was certainly the abode of the little hunchback. Smiling, Patrick reread the name scribbled on a shabby card, stuck in a dark corner: “Isidor Mollet, Nursery Gardener; 7, Three Mirrors Street.” He had not made a mistake; so he knocked again, more vigorously. This time he heard a scratching and the sound of approaching feet. The door opened and showed the rosy face of the florist, wearing a big smile.
“Ah! it is you, my friend! Come right in. You did me famous service; it shall not be said that Isidor Mollet is ungrateful. I’ll pay my debt immediately. Sit down, I’ll be back in a moment.”
Patrick obeyed, and when the little man had gone limping into the next room, he inspected his surroundings. It was a sort of workroom where, in spite of an assortment of tools, wrapping papers, ribbon and flower pots of all sizes, everything was in beautiful order. A large thin cat, black as soot, stretched itself and rubbed against him. On the wall a text engraved on polished wood held Patrick’s attention. The words were: “The Father Himself loveth you” (John 16:2727For the Father himself loveth you, because ye have loved me, and have believed that I came out from God. (John 16:27)).
Patrick’s eyes clouded. Of what father did it speak? Not his, for certain. One does not abandon those one loves. Did God love him? Surely not! God seemed so far away and unconcerned.
A door creaked; the gardener reappeared and placed in Patrick’s hand two silver coins which brought a smile of satisfaction to the boy’s gloomy face.
“There! You have well earned them, for you are not used to the trade,” said he in his nasal voice. Then, seizing a plant wrapped in pink paper, he offered it to him. “This is for your parents. Do they like flowers?” Patrick, fearing embarrassing questions, hastened to take it from the gardener’s hand saying: “Thank you, sir; my mother will be delighted. If ever I can help you again, I’ll be pleased to do so. Here is my address.”
The cat jumped familiarly onto its master’s shoulders, purring loudly and wreathing his head with its supple tail.
“Come over here! Hurry up!” cried a strange voice. The hunchback paid no attention.
“Someone is calling you,” said Patrick, “I must go now.”
“It is Lustucru; he can surely wait a moment.” “Who is Lustucru?” asked Patrick wonderingly. “My parrot. It is true that he hasn’t been fed. Good-bye! I shall hope to see you again.”