Chérie rose to her feet and went to the window—the old-fashioned circular window like a ship's porthole—and opened it wide.
The level rays of the moon poured in, flooding the room with light.
"Good-night, moon," said Chérie. "Good-night, sky. Good-night, world." Then she turned away and went to the cradle. She bent over it, and lifted her sleeping infant in her arms. How warm he was! How warm and soft and tender!… He must not catch cold.... Instinctively Chérie caught up her wide blue silk scarf and wrapped it round herself and the child. They were going out into the night air, out into the chilly moonlight; they were going to cross the bridge over the Ourthe, and then go up the lower bank of the river, up through the dank grasses, past the old mill.... There, where the bank shelved down so steeply she would run into the water.
She knew what it would feel like. Last year, had she not run into the rippling waves at Westende every morning? She remembered it well.
Yes; she would feel the cool chill embrace of the water rising from her feet to her knees … to her waist … to her breast … to her throat.... Then she would clasp her arms tightly round her child, putting her lips close to his so as not to hear him cry, and her last breath would be exhaled on the sweet warmth of that little mouth, the dear little open mouth that seemed always to be asking for the balm of milk and kisses.
She raised her eyes once more to the open window. "Good-bye," she said again to the sky, to the world, and to life. Then she resolutely turned away from the shining circle of light.
She drew the long blue scarf over her own head and shoulders, crossing it over her arms and wrapping the infant in its azure folds as she held him to her breast. Then she opened the door.
The red curtain fell in a straight line before her, and she pushed it softly aside; it slid smoothly back on its rings.
Clasping her infant in the shimmering folds of blue, she took a step forward—then stopped and stood transfixed in the doorway.
Some one was there! Some one was standing silent, there in the dark.
Who was it?
Mireille!
Mireille had stood motionless, almost cataleptic, with her fear-maddened eyes fixed upon the dark spot which was the door. Now—now it was opening! it was opening! A white light had streamed suddenly under the curtain.
Yes. The door was opening.... Now Mireille would die! She knew it! What she was going to see would kill her, as it had killed her soul before.
Gasping, with open mouth, with clenched hands, she saw the gap of light widen beneath the moving curtain.... Now … now.... The curtain had slid back. There was a dazzling square of light....
And in that light stood a Vision.
Bathed in the rays of the moon, swathed in shimmering azure stood a Mother with her Child. Behind her head glowed a luminous silver circle.
Ah! Well did Mireille know her! Well did Mireille remember her. All fear was gone, all darkness swept away in the rapture of that dazzling presence.
Mireille stretched out her clasped hands towards that effulgent vision. What were the words of greeting she must say? She knew them well … they were rising in her throat.... What were they? What were they?
She wrung her clasped hands, with a spasm in her throat, but the words would not come. She knew them. They seemed to burst open like flowers of light in her brain, to peal like the notes of an organ in her soul, yet her lips were locked and could not frame them.
The vision moved, seemed to waver and tremble.... Ah! Would she fade away and vanish and be lost? Would Mireille fall back again into eternal silence and darkness?
Something seemed to break in Mireille's throat. A cry—a cry, thrilling and articulate—escaped her. The sealed fountain of her voice was opened and the words of the immortal salutation gushed from her lips:
"Ave Maria!…"
Did not the shimmering figure smile and move towards her with extended hand?… Fainting with ecstasy, Mireille sank at her feet.
Louise had started from her sleep at the sound of a cry.... Whose voice had uttered it?
Though the room was dark, she felt that it was empty; she knew that Mireille was not there. Yes, the door was open, showing a pale glimmer of light.
Swift as an arrow Louise sped down the stairs, then—on the landing of the last flight—she stopped, dazzled and spell-bound by what she saw before her.
There in the moonlight stood the eternal vision of Maternity; and before it knelt Mireille.
And Mireille was speaking.
"Benedicta tu...."
Clear, frail and silvern the words fell from Mireille's lips.
"Benedicta tu!"
The blessing that Louise and all others had withheld, now fell like a solemn prophecy from the innocent's lips, rang like a divine decree in that pure voice that had been hushed so long.
Mireille was healed! Healed through Chérie and her child of sorrow and shame.
A wave of exalted emotion overwhelmed Louise, and she sank on her knees beside Mireille, repeating the hallowed benediction.
With flowing tears Chérie, clasping her baby in her arms, wavered and trembled like a holy picture seen in moonlit waters....
And so farewell—farewell to Mireille, Chérie, Louise.
They are still in their Belgian village awaiting the dawn of their deliverance.
Around them the fury of War still rages, and the end of their sorrow is not yet.
But upon them has descended the Peace of God which passeth all understanding.