Free Shadows on the Rock by Willa Cather Page B
Authors: Willa Cather
began to
study his feet and to make measurements.
While this was going on in deep silence, a door at the back of the house opened, and Pommier’s mother, a thin, lively old
woman with a crutch, came tapping lightly across the living-room and into the shop. She embraced Cécile with delight, and
spoke very kindly to Jacques when he was presented to her.
“I have never seen this little fellow before, since I don’t get about much, but I like to know all the children in
Quebec. You will be very content with fine new shoes, my boy?”
“Oui, madame,” Jacques murmured.
“And you have quite neglected me of late, Cécile. I know you are busy enough down there, but I have been looking for you
every day since the ships sailed. My son saw your father at the market yesterday and observed that he was laying in good
supplies for you.” Madame Pommier seated herself on one of the wooden chairs without backs and rested her crutch across her
knees. She always came into the shop when there were clients, and she liked to know what her son was doing every minute of
the day.
When Cécile was little, Madame Pommier used to come to see her mother very often. She was one of the first friends Madame
Auclair made in Quebec, and had given her a great deal of help in her struggle to keep house in a place where there were
none of the conveniences to which she was accustomed. The Pommiers themselves were old residents, had lived here ever since
this Noël was a young lad, and his father had been the Count’s shoemaker during his first governorship, twenty-odd years
ago. Just about the time that Madame Auclair’s health began to fail, Madame Pommier had fallen on the icy hill in front of
her own door and broken her hip. The good chirurgien Gervaise Beaudoin attended her, but though the bone knit, it came
together badly and left one leg much shorter than the other. M. Auclair had made a crutch for her, and as she was slight and
very active, she was soon able to get about in her own house and attend to her duties. Many a time Cécile had found her by
her stove, the crutch under her left arm, handling her pots and casseroles as deftly as if she were not propped up by a
wooden stick. Sometimes in winter she even got to mass. Her son had set an arm-chair upon runners, and in this he pushed her
up the hill over the snow to the Cathedral.
After the cobbler had made his measurements and noted them down, he took up his work again and began driving his awl
through the leather, drawing the big needle with waxed thread through after it. Tools of any sort had a fascination for
Cécile; she loved to watch a shoemaker or a carpenter at work. Jacques, who had never seen anything of the kind before,
followed Pommier’s black fingers with astonishment. They both sat quietly, and the old lady joined them in admiringly
watching her clever son. Suddenly she bethought herself of something, and pointed with her crutch to a little cabinet of
shelves covered by a curtain. There ladies’ shoes, sent in for repair or made to order, were kept, as being rather too
personal to expose on the open shelves with the men’s boots.
“Tirez, tirez,” whispered Madame Pommier. Cécile got up and drew back the curtain, and at once knew what the old lady
wished her to see: a beautiful pair of red satin slippers, embroidered in gold and purple, with leather soles and red
leather heels.
“Oh, madame, how lovely! To whom do they belong?”
“To Monseigneur l’Ancien. They are his house slippers. My son is to put new soles on them, — see, they are almost worn
through. Houssart says he paces his chamber in the night when he is at his devotions, so that he will not be overcome by
sleep.”
“But these are so small, can he possibly wear them? And his walk is so heavy, too.”
“Ah, that is because of his legs, which are bad. But he has a very slender foot, very distinguished. That is the
Montmorency in him; he is of noble blood, you know.”
Here Pommier himself
study his feet and to make measurements.
While this was going on in deep silence, a door at the back of the house opened, and Pommier’s mother, a thin, lively old
woman with a crutch, came tapping lightly across the living-room and into the shop. She embraced Cécile with delight, and
spoke very kindly to Jacques when he was presented to her.
“I have never seen this little fellow before, since I don’t get about much, but I like to know all the children in
Quebec. You will be very content with fine new shoes, my boy?”
“Oui, madame,” Jacques murmured.
“And you have quite neglected me of late, Cécile. I know you are busy enough down there, but I have been looking for you
every day since the ships sailed. My son saw your father at the market yesterday and observed that he was laying in good
supplies for you.” Madame Pommier seated herself on one of the wooden chairs without backs and rested her crutch across her
knees. She always came into the shop when there were clients, and she liked to know what her son was doing every minute of
the day.
When Cécile was little, Madame Pommier used to come to see her mother very often. She was one of the first friends Madame
Auclair made in Quebec, and had given her a great deal of help in her struggle to keep house in a place where there were
none of the conveniences to which she was accustomed. The Pommiers themselves were old residents, had lived here ever since
this Noël was a young lad, and his father had been the Count’s shoemaker during his first governorship, twenty-odd years
ago. Just about the time that Madame Auclair’s health began to fail, Madame Pommier had fallen on the icy hill in front of
her own door and broken her hip. The good chirurgien Gervaise Beaudoin attended her, but though the bone knit, it came
together badly and left one leg much shorter than the other. M. Auclair had made a crutch for her, and as she was slight and
very active, she was soon able to get about in her own house and attend to her duties. Many a time Cécile had found her by
her stove, the crutch under her left arm, handling her pots and casseroles as deftly as if she were not propped up by a
wooden stick. Sometimes in winter she even got to mass. Her son had set an arm-chair upon runners, and in this he pushed her
up the hill over the snow to the Cathedral.
After the cobbler had made his measurements and noted them down, he took up his work again and began driving his awl
through the leather, drawing the big needle with waxed thread through after it. Tools of any sort had a fascination for
Cécile; she loved to watch a shoemaker or a carpenter at work. Jacques, who had never seen anything of the kind before,
followed Pommier’s black fingers with astonishment. They both sat quietly, and the old lady joined them in admiringly
watching her clever son. Suddenly she bethought herself of something, and pointed with her crutch to a little cabinet of
shelves covered by a curtain. There ladies’ shoes, sent in for repair or made to order, were kept, as being rather too
personal to expose on the open shelves with the men’s boots.
“Tirez, tirez,” whispered Madame Pommier. Cécile got up and drew back the curtain, and at once knew what the old lady
wished her to see: a beautiful pair of red satin slippers, embroidered in gold and purple, with leather soles and red
leather heels.
“Oh, madame, how lovely! To whom do they belong?”
“To Monseigneur l’Ancien. They are his house slippers. My son is to put new soles on them, — see, they are almost worn
through. Houssart says he paces his chamber in the night when he is at his devotions, so that he will not be overcome by
sleep.”
“But these are so small, can he possibly wear them? And his walk is so heavy, too.”
“Ah, that is because of his legs, which are bad. But he has a very slender foot, very distinguished. That is the
Montmorency in him; he is of noble blood, you know.”
Here Pommier himself