Children Of St. Yves

By Jeannine D. Van Eperen

Jean-Marie spoke softly. "We were man and wife once, Sister, and we were so very happy until I died giving birth. Poor Philippe was so foolish. He walked into the sea to join me, leaving our child an orphan." Sister Hillaire shivered and crossed herself quickly. What had come over the child? Jean-Marie had suddenly looked so adult and spoke of marriage, childbirth, and suicide, things that were beyond her comprehension. What would a child of eight, living always at St. Yves Orphan Home know of things like that?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590884676

Book preview

One

I was three when my mother died and I was brought to St. Yves Home. My father was killed in battle a year earlier. I remember very little of my parents. It seems my home has always been here. You will grow to like it here, too, I am sure.

Sister Hillaire smiled, listening to the soft, serious voice of Jean-Marie as she spoke to the blond little boy who lay in the cot with the covers drawn up to his chin. He had been brought in the day before by Père Duval, who had found him wandering around the village with a small dog. So far the boy spoke to no one but lay there staring at the ceiling since he woke an hour ago.

The girl glanced at Sister Hillaire. He is a very handsome boy, is he not, Sister?

Yes, very handsome, Jean-Marie, but you shouldn’t say so in front of him.

I don’t think he understands, Sister. Jean-Marie’s brows were drawn in concentration above her large, brown eyes. Her long, black hair was bound into two braids and bangs fringed her forehead. I don’t think he’s a French boy. I think he fell off of some boat. I have never seen such light hair and green eyes.

The boy appeared to have fallen asleep again.

He is very tired to sleep so much. Jean-Marie left his side, walked over to the window and looked outside for a few moments. She watched the children playing in the yard below her. Jean-Marie’s special friend, Maurice de Vice, saw her at the window and waved. She smiled and waved back, then returned to the bedside. Sister Hillaire, I have made up my mind. The girl turned serious eyes to the woman who worked on mending. I am going to marry this boy.

Ah, Jean-Marie, I thought you wanted to be a nun like me.

The girl sighed. I was, but that was before I saw him again.

Again?

Jean-Marie spoke softly. We were man and wife once, Sister, and we were so very happy until I died giving birth. She shook her head sadly. Poor Philippe was so foolish. He walked into the sea to join me, leaving our child an orphan.

Sister Antonio shivered and quickly crossed herself. What had come over the child? Jean-Marie had suddenly looked so adult and spoke of marriage, childbirth, and suicide, things that were beyond her comprehension. What would a child of eight, living always at St. Yves Orphan Home know of things like that?

Jean-Marie!

The girl shook herself as if coming out of a trance. Yes, Sister?

What did you just say, child?

Jean-Marie giggled self-consciously. I said, Sister Hillaire, that I am not going to be a nun. I am going go marry him.

You didn’t say anything else?

Confusion spread over the child’s face. I don’t remember saying anything else, Sister. Are you disappointed that I have decided not to become a nun?

Sister Hillaire smiled. The frown of concern left her creamy, light brown face. The nun was relieved that Jean-Marie had no memory of what she had said, but the episode upset her. She wondered if her African ancestry still steeped her imagination with thoughts of voodoo, superstition. Sighing, she thought, it must be that. The child must have found a book that impressed her. There was a reasonable explanation for what the girl said. There must be. The nun pushed her needle into the torn trousers she mended and jabbed her finger as she thought of Jean-Marie and the lad, not of her sewing. She brought her bleeding finger to her mouth.

Sister Hillaire was half Jamaican, half French. She was born in Marseilles and served her novitiate in England. She was happy to now be in St. Yves, a small fishing village on the Bay of Biscay. She enjoyed working with children. They were her children. The only children she would ever have, and she loved each one deeply.

Jean-Marie, the boy is asleep. Why don’t you run outside and play?

All right, Sister. Jean-Marie slowly got up from her chair beside the boy’s bed. I saw Maurice below. I’ll run and tell him about the boy. She ran down the stairs and out into the yard. Her words as she ran to her friend drifted in through the open window.

Maurice! Maurice! Philippe has come for me.

Sister Hillaire shivered, hearing the girl’s words, but continued mending clothing, glancing at the sleeping boy every so often. She finished sewing a hem in a dress, then put it aside before she picked up a boy’s shirt and looked at the ripped sleeve. It was almost beyond repair.

No, no, no! the boy cried out in his sleep. Mama! Daddy! Please come back! All the bricks! Mama! Daddy! The boy’s eyes opened and he sat up, agitated and frightened.

"There, there, mon petit, Sister Hillaire said, patting his hand. She continued in English since the words the boy spoke were English. So you finally woke up, little one."

Why is it night all the time?

Night? No, no, little one. It is afternoon.

The boy shook his head. No, it’s night. The room is dark.

Sister Hillaire stared at the boy. His large, green eyes were open, staring into space. She waved her hand in front of him. She then sat on the bed very close to him, facing him.

Don’t you see me?

No. Tears began running down the boy’s face.

Sister Hillaire cradled him in her arms. She picked him up and walked to the rocking chair, rocking him, cuddling him, crooning until his tears subsided.

I’m Sister Hillaire. Who are you?

He did not answer.

Don’t you know your name?

He shook his head.

She tried another course. Your dog is downstairs. What is his name?

Spot, the boy answered promptly.

Yes, he has a large, brown spot.

Nodding his head, the boy said, I saw it before night came.

Your dog’s name is Spot, and what is your name?

After a few moments, he said, I don’t know.

Where are your mother and father?

He looked at her bleakly. Gone.

Sister Hillaire looked up as Père Duval and Sister Marie came into the room.

I think he’s blind.

"Mon Dieu!" Sister Marie exclaimed. She was head of the orphan home.

I had that feeling when I found him, Père Duval said. Poor, little tyke.

I found the name Laurance stitched in his jacket, Sister Marie said.

Ah, I believe that is an English name, Sister Hillaire said. He speaks English.

He understands French, too, Père Duval said. When I found him wandering around the village, we exchanged a few words. Père Duval took the child from Sister Hillaire. Do you remember me, little one? the priest asked. I found you and your dog.

Spot, the boy said.

Oh, the dog’s name is Spot? the priest said smiling. And what is your name? Is it Laurance? The priest pronounced the name so that it sounded like Laurent.

Lauren? the boy said echoing the priest. Clearly, he did not recognize the name. It may not be his jacket, Sister Hillaire said.

Agreeing, Sister Marie said, That is possible.

"Ah, Monsieur Laurent, is the jacket yours?"

Laurent? The boy’s face reflected the doubts he felt. Laurance, he said and the name had a familiar sound to him.

Jean-Marie ran into the room followed by Maurice. Both children stared at the blond boy.

Ah, you woke up! Jean-Marie said happily. See how fair he is, Maurice?

Maurice mentally compared his own dark good looks with the boy’s pale skin and hair. He is different, Maurice said. He will be my friend. Jean-Marie wishes it, he said to the others.

In French Jean-Marie said to the boy, I’m Jean-Marie Merchand. This is Maurice de Vice, and who are you?

"J’ai m’appelle—Laurance?—Jef?—Jeffer?" Confusion filled his demeanor.

Ah, Sister Hillaire said. His name must be Jeffrey. Jeffrey Laurance! Is that your name?

With confused, jumbled thoughts, he tried to say more, but all that came out was, Jef.

Jean-Marie and Maurice giggled. That’s a funny name, Maurice said.

If it’s his name, it’s beautiful, Jean-Marie retorted.

He must be an English or American boy, Sister Hillaire said.

I think, Sister Hillaire, Sister Marie said, that he is a boy of mixed parentage much as you are—part French, part the other. She looked at Jean-Marie and Maurice. Jeffrey cannot see. You must watch out for him.

Jean-Marie gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth. No, Sister! It can’t be true, not him!

Sister Marie frowned at the girl’s outburst. I’m afraid it is true, she said misinterpreting the girl’s feelings. He is still a very nice child and you must be nice to him.

Oh, I will, Sister! I love him.

Sister Hillaire felt again that feeling before unknown to her. Was it superstition? Premonition? Suddenly, she felt frightened. She wished to discuss her feelings and what Jean-Marie had said earlier, but was afraid Sister Marie and Père Duval would think her overly romantic and imaginative. It is only the girl’s fascination with a newcomer, a blond, mysterious newcomer. That’s all it is, she told herself.

Père Duval put the child they would call Jeffrey back on the cot, and the child began to cry again, silently.

Jean-Marie walked over to the boy. How can you be so unhappy when I am here?

Rosalynd?

"No, mon petit garcon, Sister Marie said. Her name is Jean-Marie. Who is Rosalynd?"

Jean-Marie, he answered.

Yes, that’s right. The girl is Jean-Marie and the boy is Maurice.

Maurice, the boy said.

Hello, Jef, Maurice said. You will be my friend.

Jef? the boy asked.

Yes, your name is Jeffrey Laurent, Maurice said, not able to pronounce the English Laurance, turning it into French. Why can’t you remember your name?

My name is Jeffrey Laurent?

Yes, Jeffrey Laurent. Sister Marie smiled and brushed the boy’s fair hair with her hands.

Turning to Sister Hillaire, Sister Marie said, Sister Louise will be up soon with some soup for the boy. He should be kept quiet for the rest of the day, but I think tomorrow he should be in class. The sooner he begins his new life, the better. Sister Hillaire nodded. Do you agree, Père Duval?

Yes. His scrapes and bruises will heal quickly enough, and I think he should be treated the same as any other. Do not coddle him because of his blindness.

Ah, here is Sister Louise with the soup, Sister Marie said. Come, Jean-Marie. Maurice. Time for supper.

Jean-Marie walked over to Jeffrey. She stroked his cheek with her hand. His hand reached for hers. Sister Hillaire watched as the others left the room. She saw something akin to recognition cross Jeffrey’s face as he smiled, took the girl’s hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. It was clearly an adult movement. These are children, Sister Hillaire told herself, but they must be kindred spirits.

Two

Jean-Marie glanced backward from her desk toward the new boy who sat with the group for the first time. She had prayed for it and he had been placed in her class. As she watched, he sat quietly at his desk, saying nothing, but cried silently, tears running from his sightless eyes.

Face forward, Jean-Marie, Sister Celeste said.

Jean-Marie faced forward and sat with her hands folded on her desk as she knew was proper, and answered softly, Yes, Sister. Couldn’t Sister Celeste see that the boy was unhappy? Why did Sister Celeste ignore him? All morning he had sat there silently crying. Jean-Marie watched over him as best she could. During recess, she, of course, could not follow him into the boy’s room, but Charles had taken Jeffrey’s hand and led him into the lavatory, then out again a few minutes later. Charles had also led Jeffrey outside into the yard that was bounded by bushes now green and beginning to flower. She broke off a twig and handed it to the boy. For you.

Thank you, he answered politely.

I’m Jean-Marie. Do you remember me?

He shook his head.

I was with you yesterday. We are friends. Studying his face, she asked, Are you so unhappy?

He nodded his head.

How can you be unhappy when I’m here?

He didn’t answer as the bell rang and the children filed into the building. Charles took the boy by the hand and led him back into the building and to his desk where Jeffrey sat silent with tears running unchecked down his face.

What is the matter with him? Gabrielle, a village girl, whispered to Jean-Marie. Why does Charles lead him?

He cannot see, Gaby. He is my friend. Maybe he can be your friend.

Shaking her blonde curls, Gabrielle said, "Maman says boys can’t be my friends. Why can’t he see?"

I don’t know, Jean-Marie said with a shrug. His eyes are green, very green.

Yes, and his hair is even lighter than mine.

Quiet, Sister Celeste said. Face forward, Jean-Marie. The nun sighed. She realized the new blind boy was a distraction for the children. He didn’t fidget or make noise, but sat quietly, forlornly, confused by his whereabouts with tears streaming down his face. She wasn’t sure if the child understood where he was or much of the language. Sister Hillaire insisted he was an English boy who spoke a little French. For now, Sister Celeste thought it best to just let him be, perhaps absorb the fact he was among friends and no one would harm him.

At three-thirty the children were dismissed from class. All save Jean-Marie and Jeffrey hurried from the room, happy to be released from studies and books. The blind boy still sat at his desk forgotten by Charles Crouset, who raced outside to play. Sister Celeste watched as Jean-Marie walked over to him.

Do not be sad. The girl gently touched his shoulder.

Jean-Marie, run along, Sister Celeste said.

But, Sister, he doesn’t know how to find his way out.

He will learn, Jean-Marie. Now go. I will take care of him.

Jean-Marie looked at the handsome, forlorn looking boy for a moment more and then did as Sister Celeste told her.

The nun walked over to Jeffrey. "This has been a difficult day for you, mon petit. She took his small hand in hers and led him up to her desk. She sat in her chair and lifted him up to her lap. Cuddling him, she murmured, There, there. Do not cry, little one. You are safe. Sister Celeste will watch over you. You cannot see me? She ran her fingers through his curly, blond hair. Sister Marie says you are close to eight. I, myself, think you are younger. Do you know your age? No? Then we will have to believe Sister Marie as she is the superior. Can you write? Show me. She put his hand on the paper. She put a pencil in his hands. What can you write? Show me. I think you are a smart boy, petit garcon. Show me what you can write."

The boy’s hand moved and he made an A.

Good. That is a good A. Can you write your name?

He shook his head. I can’t see to write it.

Yes, that is true. But you must be able to write your name at least. I’ll show you. She moved his hand that tightly clasped the pencil. JEFFREY. She held his hand along the lines. Good boy, she said. Your name is Jeffrey and mine is Sister Celeste. Can you say Sister Celeste?

Sister Celeste.

Good. Now say Jeffrey Laurance.

Jeffrey Laurance.

Good. It is a start, Jeffrey. You must listen very hard during class. Since you cannot see, you must use your ears as your eyes. I will teach you to read Braille, Jeffrey. I will ask Sister Marie to send away for instructions and I will teach you. Now, what is your name?

Jeffrey Laurance.

Sister Celeste smiled. What is my name?

Sister Celeste.

That’s correct. Do you know the name of the little girl who talked to you?

He nodded. Rosalynd.

Sister Celeste smiled. No, no, it is Jean-Marie. Who is Rosalynd?

Jean-Marie.

Yes, that is her name. And the boy who led you at recess, his name is Charles.

Charles. The boy squirmed. Spot. Where is Spot?

Your dog? Sister Celeste asked with a smile. He is waiting for you. Do you want to see him?

Yes. The nun hugged the boy. Poor little child, she thought. So handsome, so blind, so frightened and alone in the world. What kind of a life is in store for him?

JEFFREY SETTLED INTO life at St. Yves Home, helped in a large part by Jean-Marie and Maurice. The three were in almost constant company, and soon the blind boy’s tears changed to smiles as he played with his companions, and his command of the French language improved.

The nuns worried about the boy. He frequently had nightmares but when questioned, he could not remember them. He always seemed surprised to find that he could not see when he awoke in the morning. He proved to be a bright child, and with the help of his small dog and his friends, he soon managed to find his way around the home with little trouble. He listened intently as the other students read aloud in class, remembering small details that the other children missed.

SISTER CELESTE FELT the heat of the day press in on her. The long, black habit she wore captured the heat and held it close to her body, and the white starched raiment that encircled her face irritated her skin. She glanced out the window. The sky draped in grey clouds began to rumble as cooler air pushed at the hot, moist air that hung over the village.

Welcoming the storm and the relief it would bring, Sister Celeste smiled. She walked over to the window as she listened to the children as they read. Yes, soon the rain would come hurtling down, probably battering the last of the lilacs, but soon there would be roses. She loved roses.

The class finished reading and waited expectantly for Sister Celeste, who was lost in thought remembering the home of her youth in Bordeaux with its fragrant lilacs and roses, her mother and father, both dead now, but young and happy in her thoughts.

Thunder clapped loudly. Jeffrey cried out and Sister Celeste jerked in surprise while the children giggled watching her. It is all right, Jeffrey. Don’t be afraid. It is only a storm. Going over to him, she smiled. The lightning struck nearby, I think. Do you know what lightning is?

I have seen lightning, Sister Celeste, he said. It is very bright and flashes across the sky. Why can’t I see it now, Sister?

I don’t know why you can’t see, Jeffrey. Lightning is as you described it, however.

I don’t like the storm. I can’t see it.

Storms can be frightening even to those of us who can see. But you are safe, and we need the rain. It makes the flowers grow and bloom and the grapes develop in the vineyards. Do you know what we can make from grapes?

He shook his head.

Looking around the classroom, Sister Celeste asked, Do any of you know? When there was no response, she continued. We can make jelly, jam, and wine from grapes.

And champagne? he asked.

Yes. She smiled. And even champagne. How do you know of champagne?

I don’t know, Jeffrey answered.

Not too far from St. Yves, there are many vineyards, Sister Celeste said. Bordeaux is a great wine capital.

Rain began beating on the classroom windows and Sister Celeste and Maurice quickly closed them.

I’m afraid you’ll have to stay inside, children, but we need the rain to cool the air.

The children moaned at the thought of staying indoors and squirmed in the desk seats, but the nun continued with lessons, ignoring their silent displeasure and continued with the reading class.

Sister Celeste returned to the front of the classroom, and surveyed the room. Children ranging in age from six to ten years were arranged in rows according to their grade and learning ability. The class was a mixture of village children and orphans, all dressed alike. The girls wore grey jumpers and dark blue blouses. The boys were dressed in grey short pants and blue shirts. All wore knee socks. All of the children had brown or black hair except for the blind boy, Jeffrey, and a village girl, Gabrielle Gullette, whose blond, curly heads shown like beacons among the dark.

Gabrielle, can you tell me the name of Robert’s little sister in the story we just read?

No, Sister Celeste, Gabrielle said, shaking her blond curls, and standing beside her desk, fidgeting in nervous discomfort.

Charles? Maurice? Sister Celeste sighed. It was hard for the youngsters to concentrate in such warm weather, so close to dismissal time. Even her own thoughts had wandered while they had read aloud. Does anyone remember? Her name was mentioned at the beginning of the story.

An arm was raised timidly. Sister Celeste smiled. Stand at the side of your desk, Jeffrey. Now, what was her name?

Her name was Gigi.

Very good. You may be seated. Sister Celeste glanced at Jean-Marie. The girl smiled proudly at Jeffrey as Sister Celeste knew she would. Time for dismissal, children, she said, and led the class in the closing prayer before dismissing them.

Gabrielle made a wry face as she looked at the rain beating at the classroom window. She turned to Jean-Marie. "I hope my Maman remembered to bring my raincoat. I forgot it this morning. She looked towards Jeffrey. The new boy no longer cries during class. Why can’t he see, Jean-Marie?"

I don’t know. I think his eyes are pretty though. They are so green and his lashes so dark, Jean-Marie said with admiration.

"Yes, and his hair is even lighter than mine. I told Maman about him. I thought maybe because he couldn’t see he could be my friend, but Maman says not. Boys can’t be friends. Gabrielle sighed. I’m glad you’re not a boy, Jean-Marie."

IN THE EVENING AFTER the children were asleep in their rooms, the women who ran the orphan home relaxed in the parlor doing busy work, correcting papers, and writing letters. Their lives were busy with little time for plain relaxing. Their hands and minds were always active, but for a while in the evening, they could sit still, not hurrying to put down a small scuffle or wipe a runny nose.

Welcome, Père Duval, Sister Marie said as she answered the knock at the door. What a lovely surprise. She ushered him into the sitting room where most of the sisters were gathered for the evening. Most were darning children’s clothes and knitting caps and socks. Have you brought us another boarder?

No, just a social visit.

Come, sit down. Sister Marcelle, some wine for Father.

Père Duval sat down. He stretched his legs gratefully as he reclined. He was thirty-five, and had entered the seminary when he was thirteen. Ever since he was ordained, he served at the St. Yves parish church. He was fortunate. St. Yves was his village, his home. His brother ran the local bistro, and they had both attended the school run by the Sisters of the St. Yves Orphan Home. He had had a long day. Mass at six in St. Yves, travel to the neighboring village, mass again, and back to St. Yves for the mid-morning service. Then there was a baptism and a wedding. It had been a busy day and he was glad for this respite. He took a sip of wine and licked his lips. Good. Very good wine, he said, and the nuns beamed happily.

"Monsieur Du Bois sent this from his vineyard. He makes it especially for his family and for us."

Smiling, Père Duval said, He is trying to pave his way into Heaven. Who knows? With wine like this, he might make it.

The sisters smiled at the priest’s little joke.

Sister Marcelle, pour Father some more wine, if you please, Sister Marie said.

This is much better than he sells my brother for his bistro. How is everything? Any new boarders?

Everything is as usual, Père Duval. We haven’t had another addition since little Josette.

And the blind boy?

He is doing well, Sister Celeste said. At first he was very afraid and unhappy. He would cry most of the day, not loudly but quietly as he sat in his desk. Now, he is taking more of an interest and seems happier. Since he can’t see, it is hard for him to sit at his desk for so long. He can’t read and he can’t draw as the others do.

Yes, yes, poor little tyke, Père said, clucking.

But he listens attentively now as the children read. He seems to be a bright boy. I think his studies were neglected because he is blind, but his vocabulary is improving more and more every day.

Perhaps, Sister, Sister Marie said. I, myself, think he is not a French boy, and that is why he has a limited vocabulary.

He needs special help, Sister Hillaire said. And he needs a special interest.

I have sent away for instructions for Braille, Sister Marie said. Sister Celeste and I will learn it together. As we learn it, we will teach it to the boy. It will not be an easy task, I’m afraid, but we will do it.

If I may, I will learn it too, Sister Marie, Sister Hillaire said. True, it is not an easy task, but since I have been instructed to keep him conversant in English, I may as well also learn Braille.

But that is in French, Sister Hillaire.

I know, but it will be well to have more of us able to help the boy. Sister Hillaire looked to her superior for approval.

You may learn the Braille, too, Sister Hillaire, Sister Marie said. But remember, Sister Celeste is his teacher.

Yes, Sister Marie. Sister Hillaire lowered her eyes. She must not become partial to the boy. All children were alike in the eyes of God. She must not allow herself to be more drawn to one child, even if that child was a handsome, blind orphan.

The children have accepted Jeffrey and his disability then? the priest asked.

There has been no trouble. Sister Marie smiled. They are all very fond of the boy’s dog, also. She shook her head and said, At first I thought there was no place at the Home for a dog, but Spot has adapted. He is a great help for the boy and all the children love Spot.

Maurice de Vice has taken an interest in the boy, Sister Celeste said with a chuckle. Children always surprise one. I would never have expected Maurice to take an interest in a blind boy, but he is helpful, gentle, even.

That is surprising! Père Duvall said. Maurice is always so active. Always getting into mischief. He always manages to act the part of the perfect altar boy when he helps serve mass, but as soon as he hangs up his cassock, he forgets to act the angel.

And he leads little Jeffrey into his pranks. Sister Marie’s voice was disapproving.

Père Duval chuckled. That is good. Boys must be boys, blind or not. Would you have him sit alone or play with only the little girls? No, he must be allowed to be a boy.

Oh, he’s that all right. He and Charles were pushing each other the other day, but they were soon friends again, Sister Celeste said. Later Charles was helping Jeffrey with addition.

And the girl, Jean-Marie, is she still engrossed with him?

That has not changed, Sister Hillaire said. Jean-Marie still insists that they will someday marry. She insists he is eight like her, but I think he is younger.

And what do you say, Sister Celeste? You are his teacher.

He is around seven, I think. He will catch up with the class soon. But, he insists he is eight because Jean-Marie says he is. I don’t know if Jean-Marie is overly concerned with the boy, but she is helpful. She reads to him. When he gives the correct answers in class, she is proud. They are good playmates, that’s all.

Looking up from her knitting, Sister Cecilia, who taught music said, I found Jeffrey at the piano the other day. His fingers felt the keys and he tried to make up a tune. I taught him a short piece, thinking he’d forget it as soon as I left. A few days later, I found him at the piano again, repeating the notes I had taught him. Smiling, the music teacher said, I think he may have talent and his life lies in the direction of music.

How right you are! Sister Hillaire said clapping her hands. There are many things a blind man cannot do, but he can be a musician.

Sending a scathing look in Sister Hillaire’s direction, Sister Celeste said, "It is too early to decide his career, but I think he is bright enough for music lessons, if Sister Cecilia wishes to teach him. What do you think, Sister