The Breton

It was a snowy, blustery day. It is always a source of pleasure to see the drifts beginning to bank against the houses across the street. On this afternoon the bushes and roofs were already crowned in white, and all the trees were festooned as if for a holiday. The smaller objects in the garden had disappeared under this grand upholstery of nature, and the rattle of the carts and other ordinary sounds of the village were muffled in the mantle of snow. To be sure Paula dampened my pleasure a bit by reminding me that there were many people who were in great suffering on account of the storm, without proper food, warm clothing, or fire in their houses.

It had been a hard winter. Many of the factories in town had had to discharge their workers on account of lack of orders. Happily, Teresa, with Catalina’s help, had done all she could to aid the poor folks in our neighborhood. Paula had sewed incessantly. Her stitches were pretty uneven and the thread frequently knotted in her nervous hands, but Teresa said that the mistakes she made were more than made up by the love that she put into her work.

I read to Paula while she sewed, and we were certainly happy when at last the mountain of old clothes which had been gathered for the poor had been made over and finally distributed to the needy ones. I remember especially one poor woman to whom Teresa had sent us with a package of clothes, who received us with tears of gratitude.

And now, as I sat looking out at the gathering drifts, I heard Catalina remark in a relieved tone, “At last that’s finished!”

“What’s finished?” I asked. “My old dress,” she said. “Who would have thought I could do a job like this! But there it is turned and darned and lengthened. Happily, I don’t believe that poor Celestina Dubois will be very difficult to please,” and Catalina made a comical smile.

As one looked at that peaceful, beautiful face it was hard to realize that it could belong to the poor, miserable, complaining invalid of a few short years before!

“What a shame that it’s still snowing so hard,” she said, “I would have liked to have sent it over to Celestina today. Teresa says the poor woman needs it badly. But I suppose we’ll have to wait till morning.”

“That won’t be at all necessary,” said Paula, “We’re not afraid of a little snow; are we, Lisita? If you only knew how I love to go out into a snowstorm like this!”

“You must be like the mountain goats of your own country,” said Catalina with a laugh. “To think of getting any pleasure in going out in a snowstorm!”

“Oh, no!” said Paula. “The goats don’t like the cold.”

“Well, I declare!” said Catalina, “I wouldn’t have believed that! Well, run and ask permission of Teresa.”

And Teresa dressed us up as if we were going on a voyage to the North Pole and gave us a thousand instructions. “Above all things don’t dilly-dally on the way,” she said. “The Breton was released from jail today, and you may depend on it he will not be in a very good humor. What a shame that Celestina should have such a terrible neighbor. You can never tell what a man like that may do. If my rheumatism would only let me, I would gladly go with you.”

“What on earth would we do if we happened to meet the Breton?” I questioned Paula, and terror began to grip my heart as we drew near the drunkard’s house.

“Don’t you be afraid, Lisita,” said Paula, taking my trembling hand in hers.

Celestina received us with exclamations of surprise and delight. Overcome with emotion, she said, “To think of your coming to see me through all this terrible storm! I never would have expected you on such a day!”

We noticed a shade of sadness in her tone, and Paula questioned her as to the reason.

The old lady shook her head. “No, there’s nothing particular,” she said; “the Lord seems to heap good things upon me; but at times on nearing the end of the journey the pilgrim gets a bit tired and longs for the blessed final rest.” Then she paused and turned to us once more with a smile. “And you, young people, how goes the journey with you?”

“I, too, find,” said Paula gravely, “that at times the way is difficult, but as we put our hand in that of the Lord Jesus, He helps and strengthens us.”

The old lady’s eyes were full of amusement as she answered, “My, oh, me! You talk as wisely as an old traveler who is about to finish his long journey instead of being still at the bottom of the hill. And your uncle! Has he begun to go with you yet?”

“My uncle,” and Paula hesitated, “at least he permits us to serve the Lord.”

“But he doesn’t let you attend church yet?”

“No, but I think he will some day.”

“Courage, Paula,” said the old woman, “the Lord Jesus has said, ‘Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee the crown of life’* (Revelation 2:10)! How happy I shall be when your uncle permits you to attend with us. I know the Lord has saved you and given you eternal life, and He will do exceeding abundantly above all you can ask or think. I’ve learned to say to Him, ‘Thy will be done!’ While here on this earth we’re all students in His school. Sometimes the hours are long and the bench is hard, but if we are attentive and apt in the learning of our lessons, He is faithful, and oh, so generous in giving us of His good things! Some things He’s tried to teach me, but I’m too dull yet to comprehend, but I do know that some day He’ll let me see it all quite clearly. For example, it’s difficult to understand why He should have given me the Breton and his children for neighbors. Do you know the family?” she asked us.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” said I; “I should say we did.” The long conversation had made me sleepy, but the mention of the Breton had brought me wide awake again.

“It I had known,” continued the old lady, “that on the other side of the partition I was to hear nothing but quarrels and fightings and cursing, I would never have moved in here, but more that that, not content with disturbing the peace from within his own apartment, he even comes over to my side to torment me here in my small room. The Breton indeed is a terrible man when he’s drunk. I have tried to talk to him to see if I could do something to change his evil ways, but so far all my efforts have been useless.”

I interrupted her to ask if she knew he had been liberated from the jail that very day.

“Oh, yes,” she said; “he made a terrible scene this morning bullying his poor wife around. The poor soul is certainly worthy of our pity. But here I am talking on and on without inquiring once as to Catalina’s health.”

“It was Catalina herself who sent us with this package for you,” said Paula. “For me!” cried the old lady. “What’s all this?” and she nervously untied the strings. Then as she saw the good warm dress, her eyes filled with tears. “May the Lord bless the dear girl! He surely must have revealed to her my need!”

“Would you mind, please, putting it on? Catalina wanted us to find out if it fits you,” I said.

The good woman nothing loath tried on the dress as she exclaimed, “My, oh me, how handsome I am for once in my life, at least,” and a merry twinkle danced in old Celestina’s eyes, “I’ll have to keep this for Sunday wear only.”

“No,” said Paula, “Catalina said to be sure to tell you it was for everyday wear, for you see how it keeps out the cold.”

“Well, then,” said the old lady, “I suppose I must obey orders. But my, how beautiful it is, too beautiful for the likes of me!” And Celestina stroked the lovely cloth with her gnarled and withered fingers. “How very good the dear Lord is! And now if you don’t mind, let us pray together here to thank Him for all His mercies.” Celestina, who could not kneel, placed her hands on our bowed heads, and after a heartfelt prayer of thanks asked the Lord to bless us each one and each member of our family, her neighbors, and lastly herself.

Hardly had she finished when uncertain steps were heard coming down the passage. The door suddenly burst open and a man staggered into the room.

“What’s this you’re doing?” he shouted.

“We’re praying,” the old woman answered tranquilly.

“No more praying then! Do you hear me? I forbid you!” he shouted again in such a terrible voice that it was all I could do to keep from screaming with fright.

“You know very well,” said Celestina calmly, “that you cannot prohibit my doing the thing that pleases me in my own house.”

“And what pleasure do you get out of praying, tell me, you pious old hypocrite!”

“Well, if you’ll sit down calmly in that chair yonder, I’ll answer your questions.”

“And suppose I don’t care to sit down! Do I look as if I were tired?”

“Perhaps not, but when you visit your friends you should try to please them, shouldn’t you?”

“What! Do you count me as one of your friends?”

“And why not?”

“This is why!” and the Breton shook his great fist in the old lady’s face. “Oh, I’m a bad one I am! I could kill all three of you in a jiffy! Why, I just finished a month in the jail for ‘regulating’ a fellow-worker at the factory, and I don’t mind doing another month for regulating you people!” And the poor fellow’s face was more terrible than his words; I thought our “time had come,” as the saying is.

“Now, don’t you be afraid,” whispered Celestina, as she drew me close; “God is with us; don’t forget that!”

“Why do you wish to harm us?” she said aloud, fixing her eyes on the poor drunken brute, in such a calm, loving, and compassionate way that it seemed to calm him a bit. “We’ve done nothing against you, and I can’t for the life of me see how we could have offended you. I am glad they let you go free. Now if you care to accept our hospitality I will make you a cup of coffee. It’s not the best quality but you’re welcome to what I have.”

The Breton looked at the old lady in an astonished sort of way. “You’re certainly different from the rest of ’em. Here I threaten to kill you, and you offer me a cup of coffee! That’s not what I deserve,” and here he broke out laughing immoderately, and sat down by the stove where a fire was briskly burning. “Well, this is a whole lot better than the prison anyway,” said the Breton coolly, as he settled himself to enjoy the warmth.

“I should say so,” said Celestina, “and there’s no reason for you to go back there either.”

“Now none of your sermons, you know, for if you come on with anything like that I’ll be leaving at once,” and it was clear that the Breton’s bad humor was returning.

“Well, that would be to your disadvantage on a cold day like this,” said Celestina with a dry little smile.

“That’s a fact, that’s a fact. Brr! What weather!” and the poor drunkard drew closer to the fire. “Aren’t you two afraid to go out in such a snowstorm?” he said, turning to Paula and me.

Celestina answered for us that we lived in the big house at “The Convent,” and that we had come to deliver a good warm dress for her to wear. With that the good woman poured out three cups of coffee, which she set before the Breton, Paula and myself. “And where’s yours?” said the Breton as he swallowed his coffee in one great gulp.

“Oh, some other time I’ll have a cup myself.”

“Well, just as you please,” said our unwelcome guest. “My! but that warms one up though! My wife never so much as thought to get me a cup of coffee.”

“And do you know why?” questioned Celestina severely.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s because I don’t give her enough money; is that it?”

“Precisely! And that’s the truth; isn’t it?”

“Now none of your sermons, as I told you in the beginning; didn’t I? Don’t I know? Of course it troubles me to see the children with their pale faces, that used to be so rosy and fat like these two here. By the way what’s your names?”

Again Celestina answered for us—“The smaller girl is the daughter of Monsieur Dumas, and the other is her cousin, Mademoiselle Paula Javanel.”

“Paula Javanel! Paula Javanel!” repeated the Breton as if trying to remember something. “I think I’ve heard that name before,” and he looked fixedly at Paula for some seconds, and then suddenly he laughed immoderately. “Yes, yes; now I remember! Ha! ha! ha! Now I know! You’re the ‘Cat Mother’!”

“Cat Mother!” and Celestina looked much puzzled. “What on earth do you mean?”

I had completely forgotten the ridiculous nickname that the Breton’s son had given her, for the boy had run away from home several years ago.

“They called me that,” explained Paula, “because I once saved a cat’s life.”

But the strong coffee had quite restored the Breton’s good humor and he hastened to add, “Yes, she did; but she hasn’t told the whole story! She’s the only person in the whole village that was ever brave enough to stand up to that big brat of mine. She wrenched the cat out of his hands, and the boy came back to the house, I remember well, with a pair of ears well pulled and the air of a whipped dog.”

“But I didn’t pull his ears,” said Paula, reddening.

“Well, if you didn’t, who did, then?”

But Paula shook her head and would say nothing further.

“Well, anyway, I remember that the boy was made fun of by the whole neighborhood, and to revenge himself he gave her ‘Cat Mother’ for a nickname. He, too, is a bad one like his father. To tell the truth he never obeyed anybody, and dear knows where he is or what he’s doing now. At least he’s not like you two who came here to learn how to pray with Celestina.”

“Paula doesn’t need to learn how to pray, Monsieur Breton,” said Celestina, “she’s known how to pray for years, not only for herself, but also for others.”

“For years, you say! And who then taught her to pray?” said the Breton surprised.

“It was my father,” said Paula quietly.

“Your father! Well, he wasn’t much like me, then; was he!”

“No, he wasn’t,” and Paula without a sign of either fear or abhorrence looked compassionately at the brutalized face that confronted her.

“And you don’t live with him any more?”

“No,” said Paula; “Father is in heaven.”

“And whatever would you do if you had a father like me?” and the poor Breton looked at her keenly.

Paula sat a moment with closed eyes. She recalled the strong noble face and figure of her dear father and asked God to give her a reply to the poor drunkard’s question.

“I think,” she said at last, “I would ask God Himself to make him a man of God like my father.”

“And do you believe He could do it?” The Breton looked very doubtful.

“I’m sure of it!”

“Yes, but you don’t know how bad I am.”

“Yes, I know,” said Paula; “everybody in town knows you’re a bad man, but you’re no worse than the bandit who was crucified with the Lord Jesus; and yet Christ saved him; didn’t He?”

“That’s more or less what I am—a bandit, I suppose. I remember that story. When I was a little boy my mother told it to me. I never thought at that time that I’d ever become the thing I am today. What would my poor mother do if she could see what had become of me?”

“Perhaps she’d pray for you,” Paula said simply.

“She! Yes, I think she would have prayed for me,” he said. “But why talk about my mother! I, who have just come out of prison—hated, despised, and made a laughingstock by everybody in our neighborhood, even pointed at by the little street urchins! My children fear me! My poor wife trembles when I appear! Who would ever think of praying for a brute like me?”

“I,” said Paula with a voice vibrant with emotion.

“You? Why you scarcely know me!”

“But I do know you, and I’ve prayed many times for you, Monsieur Breton. Do you think it didn’t distress me when they told me you had been put in the prison where people say it’s so cold and dark inside, and where many die from the exposure, and what is the greater calamity—die without hope of salvation.”

“And so, while I was in prison you prayed for me?”

“Well, from the time I heard about it,” said Paula, “I’ve prayed for you every night, Monsieur Breton.”

The poor fellow bowed his head. This young girl, so beautiful, so pure, so innocent, had taken him and his shame, and misery and wickedness, to the throne of Grace in her prayers each night during his recent stay in the jail!

“You! You’ve been praying for me!” The Breton remained silent, overcome with a greater remorse than he had ever felt in a court of justice.

“If I could believe,” he said in a low voice, “that a man like me could really change—but no! That’s impossible! It’s too late!”

“It’s not too late,” Celestina said, “God pardons sinners always if they truly repent. Now you listen to what He says: ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.’* (Isaiah 1:18) And here’s a bit more, ‘Seek ye the LORD while he may be found, call ye upon him while he is near: Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the LORD, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.’* (Isaiah 55:6-7) And then St. Paul gives us God’s message also with these words: ‘For this is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Saviour; Who will have all men to be saved, and to come unto the knowledge of the truth. For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus; Who gave himself a ransom for all.’* (1 Timothy 2:3-6) ”

“Do you really believe,” said the Breton, as if in a daze, “that there’s hope for such as me?”

“Yes, I do, indeed!” And here Celestina quoted, “ ‘The Lord is… longsuffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.’* (2 Peter 3:9) ”

But the poor Breton shook his head as if to say, “It’s impossible!”

Here Paula broke in, “Ask pardon now, and Jesus will pardon you! Ask it now! Surely you don’t want to go on as you have done. The Lord loves you, and is waiting to save you. He shed His blood on Calvary’s cross to take away the guilt of your sin. Then also, would it not be wonderful to always have bread in the house—to see that your poor wife no longer fears you, but instead, welcomes your homecoming? Ask Him now, Monsieur Breton, and He’ll work the miracle in you just as He did when He made the paralyzed man to walk. You would be so much happier than you are now.”

She had drawn very close to him, and now she took his great gnarled hands—those hands that so many times had worn the handcuffs. Taking them in her own beautiful ones, she raised those wonderful eyes to the brutal, bloated face, and said simply, “We will help you, Monsieur Breton!”

“And what are you going to do, Mademoiselle?”

“I don’t know yet, but we’ll do what we can!”

The poor fellow tried to thank her, but could not utter a word. Something in his throat seemed to be in the way, and in spite of all his efforts at self-control, great tears began to run down his cheeks.

Suddenly he turned, exclaiming, “Let me alone! Don’t you see you’re tearing my very heart out! For thirty long years I’ve never shed a tear.”

Here Celestina quoted: “ ‘And an highway shall be there, and a way, and it shall be called The way of holiness; the unclean shall not pass over it; but it shall be for those: the wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein. No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon, it shall not be found there; but the redeemed shall walk there: And the ransomed of the LORD shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.’* (Isaiah 35:8-10) ”

But the Breton already had turned the door-handle.

“You’re surely not going out yet!” said the old lady sadly.

“Celestina, I must go! If I stay one minute more I know I must yield, and I’m not going to do anything foolish. No! No! I’ve served the devil too long. But look here! If you wish to help me, then you can do one thing anyway. You can pray for me!” Saying this, the poor Breton opened the door and was gone.