Henriette’s Good Deeds

In the year 1840, Henriette had just celebrated her eighth birthday, the age of reason, as her father Charles Triquet had told her. They lived in Marck, a village near Calais. Her father was a day labourer; he left at dawn and only returned after sunset. Henriette was the second of four children, soon to be five. Her mother had plenty of work: the vegetable garden, the chicken coop, the household to manage and her younger children to care for. Rosalie, her older sister, at the grand age of eleven, helped as much as she could.

Henriette also wanted to help her mother, so she decided to pull up the weeds around the vegetables. Her apron full, she rushed towards her mother who suddenly cried out and burst into tears: inside the fabric were the young onion shoots she had planted only the day before despite being seven months pregnant. Distraught, Henriette ran out of the garden and across the fields. She had been light-years away from imagining she could upset her mother so deeply. Her heart pounded wildly, her legs could no longer carry her. She collapsed onto the ground. Slowly, she caught her breath again. She did not understand. To them, she was always too small, too young! When she swept the floor and broke a jug because the broom handle was too long, it was her fault! When she carried the basket full of wet laundry, fell and stained the sheets on the ground, it was her fault! But it had been too heavy!

She lay down in the grass and fell asleep. Large drops of rain woke her. It was mid-August and thunderstorms were frequent. She knew it was going to rain, and she loved the rain. She danced with her head thrown back, mouth open and hands outstretched. She spun around until she felt dizzy. The sky grew darker and darker, thunder rolled across the heavens and lightning flashed. She became frightened. She started towards the trees, stopped, and ran into the wheat field instead. She remembered her father’s advice: never shelter beneath trees. She knew her village and its surroundings well. About a hundred metres away stood the ruins of the Pouilly farm. Almost everything had burned down. A few walls and part of the roof structure still remained intact. She was sheltered there and curled up against a blackened wall. Birds had taken refuge in the rafters. She sat quietly and smiled at the sight of them. An animal the size of a cat slipped by: it was a fox. Its red fur clung to its body and even its magnificent tail hung sadly. It shook itself like a dog trying to dry off.

Achoo!

She had not managed to hold it back. The fox disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Henriette was cold, but she still had to wait.

She was still sitting against the wall, knees drawn up and head resting upon them, when her father found her. He frowned and tried to be angry, but he could not. His little girl had followed his advice and chosen a solid shelter. He opened his coat, took her into his arms and wrapped it around her. With long strides he headed home. His wife, Marie-Joseph, had sent for him when Henriette failed to return. He had searched for her while calling her name. His heart had nearly burst when he saw the shattered trees, and he had run towards the hedge. She was not among the wreckage. He could think clearly again: the Pouilly farm! Had she had the presence of mind to go there? Surely! He had been right. Bent against the gusts of wind and under the weight of his burden, they struggled forward. But he made it.

Charles opened the door of his little cottage, unbuttoned his coat and gently set his daughter down in front of the fireplace. Marie-Joseph had lit a small fire to warm them. Henriette opened her eyes and threw herself into her mother’s arms.

“Quick, you must get changed, Rosalie hurry upstairs and fetch her a nightdress.”

The evening ended in good spirits. Even the youngest wanted cuddles. Had they sensed how serious the situation had been? Henriette was happy and promised herself she would speak with her parents. She wanted to help them, but how?