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diff --git a/21993-0.txt b/21993-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ddf5ce5 --- /dev/null +++ b/21993-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4783 @@ + + + + +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The devil’s pool, by George Sand + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The devil’s pool + +Author: George Sand + +Translators: Jane Minot Sedgwick and Ellery Sedgwick + +Etcher: E. Abot + +Release Date: July 4, 2007 [eBook #21993] +[Last Update: September 7, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL’S POOL *** + + + + +THE DEVIL’S POOL + + + + +[Illustration: (Frontispiece)] + + + + + THE DEVIL’S POOL + + + By + George Sand + + + TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY + JANE MINOT SEDGWICK + AND + ELLERY SEDGWICK + + [Illustration: (Ornament)] + + WITH AN ETCHING BY E. ABOT + + [Illustration: (Publisher colophon)] + + BOSTON + LITTLE, BROWN, & CO. + 1901 + + + + + Copyright, 1894, by + GEORGE H. RICHMOND & CO. + + + + +Table of Contents + + + CHAPTER + + I THE TILLAGE OF THE SOIL + + II FATHER MAURICE + + III GERMAIN, THE SKILLED HUSBANDMAN + + IV MOTHER GUILLETTE + + V PETIT-PIERRE + + VI ON THE HEATH + + VII UNDERNEATH THE BIG OAKS + + VIII THE EVENING PRAYER + + IX DESPITE THE COLD + + X BENEATH THE STARS + + XI THE BELLE OF THE VILLAGE + + XII THE MASTER + + XIII THE OLD WOMAN + + XIV THE RETURN TO THE FARM + + XV MOTHER MAURICE + + XVI LITTLE MARIE + + + APPENDIX + + I A COUNTRY WEDDING + + II THE WEDDING FAVORS + + III THE WEDDING + + IV THE CABBAGE + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +THE DEVIL’S POOL + + + + +THE AUTHOR TO THE READER + + A la sueur de ton visaige, + Tu gagnerais ta pauvre vie. + Après long travail et usaige, + Voicy la _mort_ qui te convie.[1] + +This quaint old French verse, written under one of Holbein’s +pictures, is profoundly melancholy. The engraving represents a +laborer driving his plow through the middle of a field. Beyond him +stretches a vast horizon, dotted with wretched huts; the sun is +sinking behind the hill. It is the end of a hard day’s work. The +peasant is old, bent, and clothed in rags. He is urging onward a +team of four thin and exhausted horses; the plowshare sinks into +a stony and ungrateful soil. One being only is active and alert +in this scene of toil and sorrow. It is a fantastic creature. +A skeleton armed with a whip, who acts as plowboy to the old +laborer, and running along through the furrow beside the terrified +horses, goads them on. This is the specter Death, whom Holbein +has introduced allegorically into that series of religious and +philosophic subjects, at once melancholy and grotesque, entitled +“The Dance of Death.” + +In this collection, or rather this mighty composition, where Death, +who plays his part on every page, is the connecting link and +predominating thought, Holbein has called up kings, popes, lovers, +gamesters, drunkards, nuns, courtesans, thieves, warriors, monks, +Jews, and travelers,--all the people of his time and our own; and +everywhere the specter Death is among them, taunting, threatening, +and triumphing. He is absent from one picture only, where Lazarus, +lying on a dunghill at the rich man’s door, declares that the +specter has no terrors for him; probably because he has nothing to +lose, and his existence is already a life in death. + +Is there comfort in this stoical thought of the half-pagan +Christianity of the Renaissance, and does it satisfy religious +souls? The upstart, the rogue, the tyrant, the rake, and all those +haughty sinners who make an ill use of life, and whose steps are +dogged by Death, will be surely punished; but can the reflection +that death is no evil make amends for the long hardships of the +blind man, the beggar, the madman, and the poor peasant? No! An +inexorable sadness, an appalling fatality brood over the artist’s +work. It is like a bitter curse, hurled against the fate of +humanity. + +Holbein’s faithful delineation of the society in which he lived +is, indeed, painful satire. His attention was engrossed by crime +and calamity; but what shall we, who are artists of a later date, +portray? Shall we look to find the reward of the human beings of +to-day in the contemplation of death, and shall we invoke it as the +penalty of unrighteousness and the compensation of suffering? + +No, henceforth, our business is not with death, but with life. We +believe no longer in the nothingness of the grave, nor in safety +bought with the price of a forced renunciation; life must be +enjoyed in order to be fruitful. Lazarus must leave his dunghill, +so that the poor need no longer exult in the death of the rich. All +must be made happy, that the good fortune of a few may not be a +crime and a curse. As the laborer sows his wheat, he must know that +he is helping forward the work of life, instead of rejoicing that +Death walks at his side. We may no longer consider death as the +chastisement of prosperity or the consolation of distress, for God +has decreed it neither as the punishment nor the compensation of +life. Life has been blessed by Him, and it is no longer permissible +for us to leave the grave as the only refuge for those whom we are +unwilling to make happy. + +There are some artists of our own day, who, after a serious survey +of their surroundings, take pleasure in painting misery, the +sordidness of poverty, and the dunghill of Lazarus. This may belong +to the domain of art and philosophy; but by depicting poverty as +so hideous, so degraded, and sometimes so vicious and criminal, +do they gain their end, and is that end as salutary as they would +wish? We dare not pronounce judgment. They may answer that they +terrify the unjust rich man by pointing out to him the yawning pit +that lies beneath the frail covering of wealth; just as in the time +of the Dance of Death, they showed him his gaping grave, and Death +standing ready to fold him in an impure embrace. Now, they show +him the thief breaking open his doors, and the murderer stealthily +watching his sleep. We confess we cannot understand how we can +reconcile him to the human nature he despises, or make him sensible +of the sufferings of the poor wretch whom he dreads, by showing him +this wretch in the guise of the escaped convict or the nocturnal +burglar. The hideous phantom Death, under the repulsive aspect in +which he has been represented by Holbein and his predecessors, +gnashing his teeth and playing the fiddle, has been powerless to +convert the wicked and console their victims. And does not our +literature employ the same means as the artists of the Middle Ages +and the Renaissance? + +The revelers of Holbein fill their glasses in a frenzy to dispel +the idea of Death, who is their cup-bearer, though they do not see +him. The unjust rich of our own day demand cannon and barricades to +drive out the idea of an insurrection of the people which Art shows +them as slowly working in the dark, getting ready to burst upon the +State. The Church of the Middle Ages met the terrors of the great +of the earth with the sale of indulgences. The government of to-day +soothes the uneasiness of the rich by exacting from them large sums +for the support of policemen, jailors, bayonets, and prisons. + +Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, and Goya have made +powerful satires on the evils of their times and countries, and +their immortal works are historical documents of unquestionable +value. We shall not refuse to artists the right to probe the wounds +of society and lay them bare to our eyes; but is the only function +of art still to threaten and appall? In the literature of the +mysteries of iniquity, which talent and imagination have brought +into fashion, we prefer the sweet and gentle characters, which can +attempt and effect conversions, to the melodramatic villains, who +inspire terror; for terror never cures selfishness, but increases +it. + +We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and +love, that the novel of to-day should take the place of the parable +and the fable of early times, and that the artist has a larger and +more poetic task than that of suggesting certain prudential and +conciliatory measures for the purpose of diminishing the fright +caused by his pictures. His aim should be to render attractive the +objects he has at heart, and, if necessary, I have no objection +to his embellishing them a little. Art is not the study of +positive reality, but the search for ideal truth, and the “Vicar +of Wakefield” was a more useful and healthy book than the “Paysan +Perverti,” or the “Liaisons Dangereuses.” + +Forgive these reflections of mine, kind reader, and let them stand +as a preface, for there will be no other to the little story I am +going to relate to you. My tale is to be so short and so simple, +that I felt obliged to make you my apologies for it beforehand, by +telling you what I think of the literature of terror. + +I have allowed myself to be drawn into this digression for the sake +of a laborer; and it is the story of a laborer which I have been +meaning to tell you, and which I shall now tell you at once. + + +[1] + + In toil and sorrow thou shalt eat + The bitter bread of poverty. + After the burden and the heat, + Lo! it is Death who calls for thee. + + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +I + +The Tillage of the Soil + + +I had just been looking long and sadly at Holbein’s plowman, and +was walking through the fields, musing on rustic life and the +destiny of the husbandman. It is certainly tragic for him to spend +his days and his strength delving in the jealous earth, that so +reluctantly yields up her rich treasures when a morsel of coarse +black bread, at the end of the day’s work, is the sole reward and +profit to be reaped from such arduous toil. The wealth of the soil, +the harvests, the fruits, the splendid cattle that grow sleek and +fat in the luxuriant grass, are the property of the few, and but +instruments of the drudgery and slavery of the many. The man of +leisure seldom loves, for their own sake, the fields and meadows, +the landscape, or the noble animals which are to be converted into +gold for his use. He comes to the country for his health or for +change of air, but goes back to town to spend the fruit of his +vassal’s labor. + +On the other hand, the peasant is too abject, too wretched, and too +fearful of the future to enjoy the beauty of the country and the +charms of pastoral life. To him, also, the yellow harvest-fields, +the rich meadows, the fine cattle represent bags of gold; but +he knows that only an infinitesimal part of their contents, +insufficient for his daily needs, will ever fall to his share. Yet +year by year he must fill those accursed bags, to please his master +and buy the right of living on his land in sordid wretchedness. + +Yet nature is eternally young, beautiful, and generous. She pours +forth poetry and beauty on all creatures and all plants that are +allowed free development. She owns the secret of happiness, of +which no one has ever robbed her. The happiest of men would be he +who, knowing the full meaning of his labor, should, while working +with his hands, find his happiness and his freedom in the exercise +of his intelligence, and, having his heart in unison with his +brain, should at once understand his own work and love that of +God. The artist has such delights as these in contemplating and +reproducing the beauties of nature; but if his heart be true and +tender, his pleasure is disturbed when he sees the miseries of +the men who people this paradise of earth. True happiness will +be theirs when mind, heart, and hand shall work in concert in +the sight of Heaven, and there shall be a sacred harmony between +God’s goodness and the joys of his creatures. Then, instead of the +pitiable and frightful figure of Death stalking, whip in hand, +across the fields, the painter of allegories may place beside the +peasant a radiant angel, sowing the blessed grain broadcast in the +smoking furrow. + +The dream of a serene, free, poetic, laborious, and simple life +for the tiller of the soil is not so impossible that we should +banish it as a chimera. The sweet, sad words of Virgil: “Oh, happy +the peasants of the field, if they knew their own blessings!” is a +regret, but, like all regrets, it is also a prophecy. The day will +come when the laborer too may be an artist, and may at least feel +what is beautiful, if he cannot express it,--a matter of far less +importance. Do not we know that this mysterious poetic intuition +is already his, in the form of instinct and vague reverie? Among +those peasants who possess some of the comforts of life, and +whose moral and intellectual development is not entirely stifled +by extreme wretchedness, pure happiness that can be felt and +appreciated exists in the elementary stage; and, moreover, since +poets have already raised their voices out of the lap of pain +and of weariness, why should we say that the labor of the hands +excludes the working of the soul? Without doubt this exclusion is +the common result of excessive toil and of deep misery; but let it +not be said that when men shall work moderately and usefully there +will be nothing but bad workers and bad poets. The man who draws +in noble joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though he has +never written a verse all his life. + +My thoughts had flown in this direction, without my perceiving that +my confidence in the capacity of man for education was strengthened +by external influences. I was walking along the edge of a field, +which some peasants were preparing to sow. The space was vast as +that in Holbein’s picture; the landscape, too, was vast and framed +in a great sweep of green, slightly reddened by the approach of +autumn. Here and there in the great russet field, slender rivulets +of water left in the furrows by the late rains sparkled in the +sunlight like silver threads. The day was clear and mild, and the +soil, freshly cleft by the plowshare, sent up a light steam. At the +other extremity of the field, an old man, whose broad shoulders and +stern face recalled Holbein’s plowman, but whose clothes carried +no suggestion of poverty, was gravely driving his plow of antique +shape, drawn by two placid oxen, true patriarchs of the meadow, +tall and rather thin, with pale yellow coats and long, drooping +horns. They were those old workers who, through long habit, have +grown to be _brothers_, as they are called in our country, and who, +when one loses the other, refuse to work with a new comrade, and +pine away with grief. People who are unfamiliar with the country +call the love of the ox for his yoke-fellow a fable. Let them come +and see in the corner of the stable one of these poor beasts, thin +and wasted, restlessly lashing his lean flanks with his tail, +violently breathing with mingled terror and disdain on the food +offered him, his eyes always turned toward the door, scratching +with his hoof the empty place at his side, sniffing the yokes and +chains which his fellow used to wear, and incessantly calling him +with melancholy lowings. The ox-herd will say: “There is a pair of +oxen gone; this one will work no more, for his brother is dead. We +ought to fatten him for the market, but he will not eat, and will +soon starve himself to death.” + +The old laborer worked slowly, silently, and without waste of +effort His docile team were in no greater haste than he; but, +thanks to the undistracted steadiness of his toil and the judicious +expenditure of his strength, his furrow was as soon plowed as that +of his son, who was driving, at some distance from him, four less +vigorous oxen through a more stubborn and stony piece of ground. + +My attention was next caught by a fine spectacle, a truly noble +subject for a painter. At the other end of the field a fine-looking +youth was driving a magnificent team of four pairs of young oxen, +through whose somber coats glanced a ruddy, glow-like flame. They +had the short, curly heads that belong to the wild bull, the same +large, fierce eyes and jerky movements; they worked in an abrupt, +nervous way that showed how they still rebelled against the yoke +and goad, and trembled with anger as they obeyed the authority so +recently imposed. They were what is called “newly yoked” oxen. +The man who drove them had to clear a corner of the field that +had formerly been given up to pasture, and was filled with old +tree-stumps; and his youth and energy, and his eight half-broken +animals, hardly sufficed for the Herculean task. + +A child of six or seven years old, lovely as an angel, wearing +round his shoulders, over his blouse, a sheepskin that made him +look like a little Saint John the Baptist out of a Renaissance +picture, was running along in the furrow beside the plow, pricking +the flanks of the oxen with a long, light goad but slightly +sharpened. The spirited animals quivered under the child’s light +touch, making their yokes and head-bands creak, and shaking +the pole violently. Whenever a root stopped the advance of the +plowshare, the laborer would call every animal by name in his +powerful voice, trying to calm rather than to excite them; for +the oxen, irritated by the sudden resistance, bounded, pawed the +ground with their great cloven hoofs, and would have jumped aside +and dragged the plow across the fields, if the young man had not +kept the first four in order with his voice and goad, while the +child controlled the four others. The little fellow shouted too, +but the voice which he tried to make of terrible effect, was as +sweet as his angelic face. The whole scene was beautiful in its +grace and strength; the landscape, the man, the child, the oxen +under the yoke; and in spite of the mighty struggle by which the +earth was subdued, a deep feeling of peace and sweetness reigned +over all. Each time that an obstacle was surmounted and the plow +resumed its even, solemn progress, the laborer, whose pretended +violence was but a trial of his strength, and an outlet for his +energy, instantly regained that serenity which is the right of +simple souls, and looked with fatherly pleasure toward his child, +who turned to smile back at him. Then the young father would raise +his manly voice in the solemn and melancholy chant that ancient +tradition transmits, not indeed to all plowmen indiscriminately, +but to those who are most perfect in the art of exciting and +sustaining the spirit of cattle while at work. This song, which +was probably sacred in its origin, and to which mysterious +influences must once have been attributed, is still thought to +possess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying +their irritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long, +hard toil. It is not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a +perfectly straight furrow, and to lighten their labor by raising +the plowshare or driving it into the earth; no man can be a +consummate husbandman who does not know how to sing to his oxen, +and that is an art that requires taste and especial gifts. + +To tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative, broken off and +taken up at pleasure. Its irregular form and its intonations that +violate all the rules of musical art make it impossible to describe. + +But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to +the nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to +the peace of the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing +it, that no genius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and +no man except an accomplished laborer of our part of the country, +could repeat it. At the season of the year when there is no work or +stir afoot except that of the plowman, this strong, sweet refrain +rises like the voice of the breeze, to which the key it is sung in +gives it some resemblance. Each phrase ends with a long trill, the +final note of which is held with incredible strength of breath, and +rises a quarter of a tone, sharping systematically. It is barbaric, +but possesses an unspeakable charm, and anybody, once accustomed to +hear it, cannot conceive of another song taking its place at the +same hour and in the same place, without striking a discord. + +So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that +of Holbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched +old man, a young and active one; instead of a team of weary and +emaciated horses, four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of +death, a beautiful child; instead of despair and destruction, +energy and the possibility of happiness. + +Then the old French verse, “À la sueur de ton visaige,” etc., and +Virgil’s “O fortunatos . . . agricolas,” returned to my mind, +and seeing this lovely child and his father, under such poetic +conditions, and with so much grace and strength, accomplish a task +full of such grand and solemn suggestions, I was conscious of deep +pity and involuntary respect. Happy the peasant of the fields! Yes, +and so too should I be in his place, if my arm and voice could +be endowed with sudden strength, and I could help to make Nature +fruitful, and sing of her gifts, without ceasing to see with my +eyes or understand with my brain harmonious colors and sounds, +delicate shades and graceful outlines; in short, the mysterious +beauty of all things. And above all, if my heart continued to +beat in concert with the divine sentiment that presided over the +immortal sublimity of creation. + +But, alas! this man has never understood the mystery of beauty; +this child will never understand it. God forbid that I should not +think them superior to the animals which are subject to them, or +that they have not moments of rapturous insight that soothe their +toil and lull their cares to sleep. I see the seal of the Lord upon +their noble brows, for they were born to inherit the earth far more +truly than those who have bought and paid for it. The proof that +they feel this is that they cannot be exiled with impunity, that +they love the soil they have watered with their tears, and that the +true peasant dies of homesickness under the arms of a soldier far +from his native field. But he lacks some of my enjoyments, those +pure delights which should be his by right, as a workman in that +immense temple which the sky only is vast enough to embrace. He +lacks the consciousness of his sentiment. Those who condemned him +to slavery from his mother’s womb, being unable to rob him of his +vague dreams, took away from him the power of reflection. + +Yet, imperfect being that he is, sentenced to eternal childhood, he +is nobler than the man in whom knowledge has stifled feeling. Do +not set yourselves above him, you who believe yourselves invested +with a lawful and inalienable right to rule over him, for your +terrible mistake shows that your brain has destroyed your heart, +and that you are the blindest and most incomplete of men! I love +the simplicity of his soul more than the false lights of yours; and +if I had to narrate the story of his life, the pleasure I should +take in bringing out the tender and touching side of it would be +greater than your merit in painting the degradation and contempt +into which he is cast by your social code. + +I knew the young man and the beautiful child; I knew their history, +for they had a history. Everybody has his own, and could make the +romance of his life interesting, if he could but understand it. +Although but a peasant and a laborer, Germain had always been aware +of his duties and affections. He had related them to me clearly +and ingenuously, and I had listened with interest. After some time +spent in watching him plow, it occurred to me that I might write +his story, though that story were as simple, as straightforward, +and unadorned as the furrow he was tracing. + +Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one. +Thus disappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of +human life. A little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we +have dug succeed one another like graves in a cemetery. Is not the +furrow of the laborer of as much value as that of the idler, even +if that idler, by some absurd chance, have made a little noise in +the world, and left behind him an abiding name? + +I mean, if possible, to save from oblivion the furrow of Germain, +the skilled husbandman. He will never know nor care, but I shall +take pleasure in my talk. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +II + +Father Maurice + + +“Germain,” said his father-in-law one day, “you must decide +about marrying again. It is almost two years now since you lost +my daughter, and your eldest boy is seven years old! You are +almost thirty, my boy, and you know that in our country a man is +considered too old to go to housekeeping again after that age; +you have three nice children, and thus far they have not proved a +burden to us at all. My wife and my daughter-in-law have looked +after them as well as they could, and loved them as they ought. +Here is Petit-Pierre almost grown up. He goads the oxen very +well; he knows how to look after the cattle; and he is strong +enough to drive the horses to the trough. So it is not he that +worries us. But the other two, love them though we do, God knows +the poor little innocents give us trouble enough this year; my +daughter-in-law is about to lie in, and she has yet another baby +to attend to. When the child we are expecting comes, she will not +be able to look after your little Solange, and above all your +Sylvain, who is not four years old, and who is never quiet day or +night. He has a restless disposition like yours; that will make +a good workman of him, but it makes a dreadful child, and my old +wife cannot run fast enough to save him when he almost tumbles +into the ditch, or when he throws himself in front of the tramping +cattle. And then with this other that my daughter-in-law is going +to bring into the world, for a month at least her next older child +will fall on my wife’s hands. Besides, your children worry us, and +give us too much to do; we hate to see children badly looked after, +and when we think of the accidents that may befall them, for want +of care, we cannot rest. So you need another wife, and I another +daughter-in-law. Think this over, my son. I have called it to your +mind before. Time flies, and the years will not wait a moment for +you. It is your duty to your children and to the rest of us, who +wish all well at home, to marry as soon as you can.” + +“Very well, father,” answered the son-in-law, “if you really wish +it, I must do as you say. But I do not wish to hide it from you +that it will make me very sad, and that I hardly wish for anything +but to drown myself. We know who it is we lose, we never know whom +we find. I had a good wife, a pretty wife, sweet, brave, good to +her father and mother, good to her husband, good to her children, +good to toil in the fields and in the house, well fitted to +work,--in short, good for everything; and when you had given her to +me, and I took her, we did not place it among our promises that I +should go and forget about her if I had the misfortune to lose her.” + +“What you say shows your good heart, Germain,” answered Father +Maurice. “I know that you loved my daughter and that you made her +happy, and that had you been able to satisfy Death by going in her +place, Catherine would be alive to-day, and you would be in the +graveyard. She deserved all your love, and if you are not consoled, +neither are we. But I do not speak to you of forgetting her: God +wished her to leave us, and we do not let a day go by without +telling him in our prayers and thoughts, and words and actions, +that we keep her memory and still sorrow for her loss. But if she +could speak to you from the other world, and let you know what she +wishes, she would tell you to find a mother for her little orphans. +So the question is to find a woman who will be worthy to take her +place. It will not be easy, but it is not impossible. And when +we shall find her for you, you will love her as you used to love +my daughter, because you are a good man, and because you will be +thankful to her for helping us and for loving your children.” + +“Very well, Father Maurice, I shall do as you wish, as I have +always done.” + +“It is only justice, my son, to say that you have always listened +to the friendly advice and good judgment of the head of the house. +So let us consult about your choice of a new wife. First, I don’t +advise you to take a young girl. That is not what you need. Youth +is careless, and, as it is hard work to bring up three children, +especially when they are of another bed, you must have a good soul, +wise and gentle, and well used to work. If your wife is not about +the same age as you, she will have no reason to accept such a duty. +She will find you too old and your children too young. She will be +complaining, and your children will suffer.” + +“This is just what makes me uneasy. Suppose the poor little things +should be badly treated, hated, beaten?” + +“God grant not,” answered the old man. “But bad women are more rare +with us than good, and we shall be stupid if we cannot pick out +somebody who will suit us.” + +“That is true, father. There are good girls in our village. There +is Louise, Sylvaine, Claudie, Marguerite--yes, anybody you want.” + +“Gently, gently, my boy. All these girls are too young, or too +poor, or too pretty; for surely we must think of that too, my son. +A pretty woman is not always as well behaved as another!” + +“Then you wish me to take an ugly wife?” said Germain, a little +uneasy. + +“No, not ugly at all, for this woman will bear you other children, +and there is nothing more miserable than to have children who are +ugly and weak and sickly. But a woman still fresh and in good +health, who is neither pretty nor ugly, would suit you exactly.” + +“I am quite sure,” said Germain, smiling rather sadly, “that to get +such a woman as you wish, you must have her made to order. All the +more because you don’t wish her to be poor, and the rich are not +easy to get, particularly for a widower.” + +“And suppose she were a widow herself, Germain? A widow without +children and with a good portion?” + +“For the moment, I cannot think of anybody like this in our parish.” + +“Nor I either. But there are others elsewhere.” + +“You have somebody in mind, father. Then tell me, at once, who it +is.” + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +III + +Germain, the Skilled Husbandman + + +“Yes, I have somebody in mind,” replied Father Maurice. “It is a +Leonard, the widow of a Guérin. She lives at Fourche.” + +“I know neither the woman nor the place,” answered Germain, +resigned, but growing more and more melancholy. + +“Her name is Catherine, like your dead wife’s.” + +“Catherine? Yes, I shall be glad to have to pronounce that name, +Catherine; and yet if I cannot love one as much as the other, it +will pain me all the more. It will bring her to my mind more often.” + +“I tell you, you will love her. She is a good soul, a woman with +a warm heart. I have not seen her for a long time. She was not an +ugly girl then. But she is no longer young. She is thirty-two. She +comes of a good family, honest people all of them, and for property +she has eight or ten thousand francs in land which she would sell +gladly in order to invest in the place where she settles. For +she, too, is thinking of marrying again, and I know that if your +character pleases her, she will not be dissatisfied with your +situation.” + +“So you have made all the arrangements?” + +“Yes, except that I have not had an opinion from either of you, and +that is what you must ask each other when you meet. The woman’s +father is a distant connection of mine, and he has been a good +friend to me. You know Father Leonard well?” + +“Yes, I have seen you two talking at the market, and at the last +you lunched together. Then it was about her that he spoke to you so +long?” + +“Certainly. He watched you selling your cattle and saw that you +drove a shrewd bargain, and that you were a good-looking fellow and +appeared active and intelligent; and when I told him what a good +fellow you were and how well you have behaved toward us, without +one word of vexation or anger during the eight years we have been +living and working together, he took it into his head to marry you +to his daughter. This suits me, too, I admit, when I think of her +good reputation and the honesty of her family and the prosperous +condition I know her affairs are in.” + +“I see, Father Maurice, that you have an eye to money.” + +“Of course I do; you have, too, have you not?” + +“I do look toward it, if you wish, for your sake; but you know +that, for my own part, I don’t worry whether I gain or not in what +we make. I don’t understand about profit-sharing; I have no head +for that sort of thing. I understand the ground; I understand +cattle, horses, carts, sowing, threshing, and provender. As for +sheep, and vineyards, and vegetables, petty profits, and fine +gardening, you know that is your son’s business. I don’t have much +to do with it. As to money, my memory is short, and I should rather +give up everything than fight about what is yours and what is mine. +I should be afraid of making some mistake and claiming what does +not belong to me, and if business were not so clear and simple I +should never find my way in it.” + +“So much the worse, my son; and this is the reason I wish you to +have a wife with a clear head to fill my place when I am gone. You +never wished to understand our accounts, and this might lead you +into a quarrel with my son, when you don’t have me any longer to +keep you in harmony and decide what is each one’s share.” + +“May you live long, Father Maurice. But do not worry about what +will happen when you die. I shall never quarrel with your son. I +trust Jacques as I do you; and as I have no property of my own, and +all that might accrue to me comes from your daughter and belongs to +our children, I can rest easy, and you, too. Jacques would never +rob his sister’s children for the sake of his own, for he loves +them all equally.” + +“You are right, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a good brother, +and a man who loves the truth. But Jacques may die before you, +before your children grow up; and in a family we must always +remember never to leave children without a head to look after them +and govern their disagreements; otherwise, the lawyer-people mix +themselves up in it, stir them up to fight, and make them eat up +everything in law-suits. So we ought not to think of bringing home +another person, man or woman, without remembering that some day or +other that person may have to control the behavior and business +of twenty or thirty children and grandchildren, sons-in-law and +daughters-in-law. We never know how big a family can grow, and +when a hive is so full that the bees must form new swarms, each +one wishes to carry off her share of the honey. When I took you +for my son, although my daughter was rich and you were poor, I +never reproached her for choosing you. I saw that you were a hard +worker, and I knew very well that the best fortune for people in +such a country as ours is a pair of arms and a heart like yours. +When a man brings these into a family, he brings enough. But with +a woman it is different. Her work indoors saves, but it does not +gain. Besides, now that you are a father, looking for a second +wife, you must remember that your new children will have no claim +on the property of your children by another wife; and if you should +happen to die they might suffer very much--at least, if your wife +had no money in her own right. And then the children which you +will add to our colony will cost something to bring up. If that +fell on us alone, we should surely take care of them without a +word of complaint; but the comfort of everybody would suffer, and +your eldest children would bear their share of hardship. When +families grow too large, if money does not keep pace, misery comes, +no matter how bravely you bear up. This is what I wished to say, +Germain; think it over, and try to make the widow Guérin like you; +for her discretion and her dollars will help us now and make us +feel easy about the future.” + +“That is true, Father. I shall try to please her and to like her.” + +“To do that you must go to find her, and see her.” + +“At her own place? At Fourche? That is a great way from here, is +it not? And we scarcely have time to run off at this season of the +year.” + +“When it is a question of a love-match you must make up your mind +to lose time, but when it is a sensible marriage of two people, who +take no sudden fancies and know what they want, it is very soon +decided. To-morrow is Saturday; you will make your day’s work a +little shorter than usual. You must start after dinner about two +o’clock. You will be at Fourche by nightfall. The moon rises early. +The roads are good, and it is not more than three leagues distant. +It is near Magnier. Besides, you will take the mare.” + +“I had just as lief go afoot in this cool weather.” + +“Yes, but the mare is pretty, and a suitor looks better when he +comes well mounted. You must put on your new clothes and carry a +nice present of game to Father Leonard. You will come from me and +talk with him, pass all of Sunday with his daughter, and come back +Monday morning with a yes or no.” + +“Very well,” answered Germain calmly, and yet he did not feel very +calm. + +Germain had always lived soberly, as industrious peasants do. +Married at twenty, he had loved but one woman in his life, and +after her death, impulsive and gay as his nature was, he had +never played nor trifled with another. He had borne a real sorrow +faithfully in his heart, and it was not without misgiving nor +without sadness that he yielded to his father-in-law; but that +father had always governed the family wisely, and Germain, entirely +devoted as he was to the common welfare and so, by consequence, to +the head of the house, who represented it, could not understand +that he might have wronged his own good sense and hurt the +interests of all. Nevertheless, he was sad. Few days went by when +he did not cry in secret, for his wife, and although loneliness +began to weigh on him, he was more afraid of entering into a new +marriage than desirous of finding a support in his sorrow. He had a +vague idea that love might have consoled him by coming to him of a +sudden, for this is the only way love can console. We never find it +when we seek it; it comes over us unawares. + +This cold-blooded scheme of marriage that Father Maurice had opened +to him, this unknown woman he was to take for his bride, perhaps +even all that had been said to him of her virtue and good sense, +made him pause to think. And he went away musing as men do whose +thoughts are too few to divide into hostile factions, not scraping +up fine arguments for rebellion and selfishness but suffering from +a dull grief, submissive to ills from which there is no escape. + +Meanwhile, Father Maurice had returned to the farm, while Germain, +between sunset and dark, spent the closing hour of the day in +repairing gaps the sheep had made in the hedge of a yard near the +farm-buildings. He lifted up the branches of the thorn-bushes +and held them in place with clods of earth, whilst the thrushes +chattered in the neighboring thicket and seemed to call to him to +hurry, for they were eager to come and see his work as soon as he +had gone. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +IV + +Mother Guillette + + +Father Maurice found at his house an old neighbor who had come to +talk with his wife, seeking at the same time to secure a few embers +to light her fire. Mother Guillette lived in a wretched hut two +gunshots away from the farm. Still she was a willing and an orderly +woman. Her poor dwelling was clean and neat, and the care with +which her clothes were mended showed that she respected herself in +the midst of her penury. + +“You have come to fetch your evening fire, Mother Guillette,” said +the old man to her. “Is there anything else you want?” + +“No, Father Maurice,” answered she; “nothing for the present. I am +no beggar, as you know, and I take care not to abuse the kindness +of my friends.” + +“That is very true. Besides, your friends are always ready to do +you a service.” + +“I was just talking to your wife, and I was asking her if Germain +had finally decided to marry again.” + +“You are no gossip,” replied Father Maurice; “we can talk in your +presence without having any foolish tale-bearing to fear. So I will +tell my wife and you that Germain has made up his mind absolutely. +To-morrow morning he starts for the farm at Fourche.” + +“Good enough!” cried Mother Maurice; “poor child! God grant he may +find a woman as good and true as he.” + +“So he is going to Fourche?” remarked Mother Guillette; “how lucky +that is! It is exactly what I want. And since you were just asking +me if there were anything I wished for, I am going to tell you, +Father Maurice, how you can do me a service.” + +“Tell me what it is; we like to help you.” + +“I wish Germain would be so kind as to take my daughter along with +him.” + +“Where? To Fourche?” + +“No, not to Fourche, but to Ormeaux. She is to stay there the rest +of the year.” + +“What!” exclaimed Mother Maurice, “are you going to separate from +your daughter?” + +“She must go out to work and earn her living. I am sorry enough, +and she is too, poor soul. We could not make up our minds to part +Saint John’s Day, but now that Saint Martin’s is upon us, she +finds a good place as shepherdess at the farms at Ormeaux. On his +way home from the fair the other day, the farmer passed by here. +He caught sight of my little Marie tending her three sheep on the +common. + +“‘You have hardly enough to do, my little girl,’ said he; ‘three +sheep are not enough for a shepherdess: would you like to take care +of a hundred? I will take you along. Our shepherdess has fallen +sick. She is going back to her family, and if you will be at our +farm before a week is over, you shall have fifty francs for the +rest of the year up to Saint John’s Day.’ + +“The child refused, but she could not help thinking it over and +telling me about it, when she came home in the evening, and found +me downhearted and worried about the winter, which was sure to be +hard and long; for this year the cranes and wild ducks were seen +crossing the sky a whole month before they generally do. We both +of us cried, but after a time we took heart. We knew that we could +not stay together, since it is hard enough for one person to get +a living from our little patch of ground. Then since Marie is old +enough,--for she is going on to sixteen,--she must do like the +rest, earn her own living and help her poor mother.” + +“Mother Guillette,” said the old laborer, “if it were only fifty +francs you needed to help you out of your trouble, and save you +from sending away your daughter, I should certainly find them for +you, although fifty francs is no trifle for people like us. But in +everything we must consult common sense as well as friendship. To +be saved from want this year will not keep you from want in the +future, and the longer your daughter takes to make up her mind, the +harder you both will find it to part. Little Marie is growing tall +and strong. She has not enough at home to keep her busy. She might +get into lazy habits....” + +“Oh, I am not afraid of that!” exclaimed Mother Guillette. “Marie +is as active as a rich girl at the head of a large family can be. +She never sits still with her arms folded for an instant, and +when we have no work to do, she keeps dusting and polishing our +old furniture until it shines like a mirror. The child is worth +her weight in gold, and I should much rather have her enter your +service as a shepherdess than go so far away to people I don’t +know. You would have taken her at Saint John’s Day; but now you +have hired all your hands, and we cannot think of that till Saint +John’s Day next year.” + +“Yes, I consent with all my heart, Guillette. I shall be very glad +to take her. But in the mean time she will do well to learn her +work, and accustom herself to obey others.” + +“Yes, that is true, no doubt. The die is cast. The farmer at +Ormeaux sent to ask about her this morning; we consented, and she +must go. But the poor child does not know the way, and I should +not like to send her so far alone. Since your son-in-law goes to +Fourche to-morrow, perhaps he can take her. It seems that Fourche +is close to her journey’s end. At least, so they tell me, for I +have never made the trip myself.” + +“It is very near indeed, and my son will show her the way. +Naturally, he might even take her up behind him on the mare. That +will save her shoes. Here he comes for supper. Tell me, Germain, +Mother Guillette’s little Marie is going to become a shepherdess at +Ormeaux. Will you take her there on your horse?” + +“Certainly,” answered Germain, who, troubled as he was, never felt +indisposed to do a kindness to his neighbor. + +In our community a mother would not think of such a thing as to +trust a girl of sixteen to a man of twenty-eight. For Germain was +really but twenty-eight, and although according to the notions +of the country people he was considered rather old to marry, he +was still the best-looking man in the neighborhood. Toil had not +wrinkled and worn him as it does most peasants who have passed ten +years in tilling the soil. He was strong enough to labor for ten +more years without showing signs of age, and the prejudices of +her time must have weighed heavily on the mind of a young girl to +prevent her from seeing that Germain had a fresh complexion, eyes +sparkling and blue as skies in May, ruddy lips, fine teeth, and a +body well shaped and lithe as a young horse that has never yet left +his pasture. + +But purity of manners is a sacred custom in some districts far +distant from the corrupted life of great cities, and amongst all +the households of Belair, the family of Maurice was known to be +honest and truth-loving. Germain was on his way to find a wife. +Marie was a child, too young and too poor to be thought of in this +light, and unless he were a heartless and a bad man he could not +entertain one evil thought concerning her. Father Maurice felt +no uneasiness at seeing him take the pretty girl on the crupper. +Mother Guillette would have thought herself doing him a wrong had +she asked him to respect her daughter as his sister. Marie embraced +her mother and her young friends twenty times, and then mounted the +mare in tears. Germain, sad on his own account, felt all the more +sympathy for her sorrow, and rode away with a melancholy air, while +all the people of the neighborhood waved good-by to Marie without a +thought of harm. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +V + +Petit-Pierre + + +The gray was young, good-looking, and strong. She carried her +double burden with ease, laying back her ears and champing her +bit like the high-spirited mare she was. Passing in front of the +pasture, she caught sight of her mother, whose name was the Old +Gray as hers was the Young Gray, and she whinnied in token of +good-by. The Old Gray came nearer the hedge, and striking her shoes +together she tried to gallop along the edge of the field in order +to follow her daughter; then seeing her fall into a sharp trot, the +mare whinnied in her turn and stood in an uneasy attitude, her nose +in the air and her mouth filled with grass that she had no thought +of eating. + +“That poor beast always knows her offspring,” said Germain, trying +to keep Marie’s thoughts from her troubles. “That reminds me, I +never kissed Petit-Pierre before I started. The naughty boy was +not there. Last night he wished to make me promise to take him +along, and he wept for an hour in bed. This morning again, he tried +everything to persuade me. Oh, how sly and coaxing he is! But when +he saw that he could not gain his point, the young gentleman got +into a temper. He went off to the fields, and I have not seen him +all day.” + +“I have seen him,” said little Marie, striving to keep back her +tears; “he was running toward the clearing with Soulas’ children, +and I felt sure that he had been away from home a long time, for +he was hungry and was eating wild plums and blackberries. I gave +him the bread I had for lunch, and he said, ‘Thank you, dear Marie; +when you come to our house, I will give you some cake.’ He is a +dear little child, Germain.” + +“Yes, he is,” answered the laborer; “and there is nothing I would +not do for him. If his grandmother had not more sense than I, I +could not have helped taking him with me, when I saw him crying as +though his poor little heart would burst.” + +“Then why did you not take him, Germain? He would have been very +little trouble. He is so good when you please him.” + +“He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am +going. At least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I +should have thought it well to see how they received him. For no +one could help being kind to such a nice child. But at home they +said that I must not begin by showing off all the cares of the +household. I don’t know why I speak of this to you, little Marie; +you can’t understand.” + +“Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother +spoke to me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul, +either at home or at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I +shall not breathe a word about it.” + +“You are very right. For the deed isn’t done yet. Perhaps I shall +not suit this woman.” + +“I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?” + +“Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for a +woman who is not their mother.” + +“Very true. But are not your children like other children?” + +“Do you think so?” + +“They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you +can’t find better children.” + +“There’s Sylvain. He is none too obedient.” + +“He is so very little. He can’t help being naughty. But he is very +bright.” + +“He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cows +nor bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing +on horseback already with his elder brother.” + +“Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along. +Surely people would have liked you at once for having such a pretty +child.” + +“Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not.” + +“Are there women who don’t love children?” + +“Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what +troubles me.” + +“You don’t know this woman at all, then?” + +“No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better +after I have seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice +things to me, I believe them, but more than once I have had good +reason to repent, for words are not deeds.” + +“They say that she is a very good woman.” + +“Who says so? Father Maurice?” + +“Yes, your father-in-law.” + +“That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I.” + +“Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that +you will not be deceived.” + +“I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you +would come into the house for a minute before you go straight on +to Ormeaux. You are quick-witted; you have always shown that you +are not stupid, and nothing escapes your notice. Should you see +anything to rouse your suspicions, you must warn me of it very +quietly.” + +“Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid +of making a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to +turn you against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge, +and I have plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my +poor dear mother.” + +As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied; +then returning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she +began to recognize something which had frightened her at first. +Germain cast his eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the +branches of a scrub-oak, still thick and green, he saw something +which he took for a lamb. + +“The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move. +Perhaps some one is looking for it; we must see.” + +“It is not an animal,” cried little Marie; “it is a sleeping child. +It is your Petit-Pierre.” + +“Heavens!” exclaimed Germain; “see the little scamp asleep so far +away from home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!” + +He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw +his arms about his father’s neck, saying: “Dear little father, you +are going to take me with you.” + +“Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you +naughty Pierre?” + +“I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the +road, and I watched so hard that I fell asleep.” + +“And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out +of doors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up.” + +“Oh, I knew very well that you would see me,” answered +Petit-Pierre, confidently. + +“Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the +house, unless you wish them to have supper without you.” + +“Are you not going to take me, then?” cried the little boy, +beginning to rub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears. + +“You know very well that grandpapa and grandmama do not wish it,” +said Germain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his +elders, like a man who distrusts his own. + +The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might, +saying that as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might +just as well take him too. They replied that they must pass through +great woods filled with wicked beasts who eat up little children. +The gray would not carry three people; she had said so when they +were starting, and in the country where they were going there was +no bed and no supper for little boys. All these good reasons could +not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threw himself on the ground, and +rolled about, shrieking that his little father did not love him any +more, and that if he did not take him he would never go back to the +house at all, day or night. + +Germain had a father’s heart, as soft and weak as a woman’s. His +wife’s death, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow +all alone on his little ones, as well as the thought that these +poor motherless children needed a great deal of love, combined to +make him thus. So such a sharp struggle went on within him, all +the more because he was ashamed of his weakness and tried to hide +his confusion from little Marie, that the sweat started out on his +forehead, and his eyes grew red and almost ready to weep. At last +he tried to get angry, but as he turned toward little Marie in +order to let her witness his strength of mind, he saw that the good +girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook him and he +could not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would. + +“Truly your heart is too hard,” said little Marie at last, “and for +myself I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly. +Come, Germain, let’s take him. Your mare is well used to carrying +two people and a child, for you know that your brother-in-law and +his wife, who is much heavier than I, go to market every Saturday +with their boy on this good beast’s back. Take him on the horse in +front of you. Besides, I should rather walk on foot all alone than +give this little boy so much pain.” + +“Never mind,” answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to +give way. “The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there +were room on her back. But what can we do with this child on the +way? He will be cold and hungry, and who will take care of him +to-night and to-morrow, put him to bed, wash him, and dress him? +I don’t dare give this trouble to a woman I don’t know, who will +think, doubtless, that I am exceedingly free and easy with her to +begin with.” + +“Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or +the impatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your +Pierre, I will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house +and dress him, and I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow. +I will amuse him all day long, and take good care that he does not +want for anything.” + +“He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day +is a long time.” + +“Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and +that will make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new +place. I shall fancy that I am still at home.” + +Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized +upon her skirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him +in order to tear it away. When he perceived that his father was +weakening, he took Marie’s hand in both his tiny sunburned fists +and kissed her, leaping for joy, and pulling her toward the mare +with the burning impatience children feel in their desires. + +“Come along,” said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; “let us +try to quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little +bird; and if you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my +Pierre, and I will wrap you in my cape. Kiss your little father, +and beg his pardon for being naughty. Tell him that you will never, +never be so again. Do you hear?” + +“Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Isn’t +it so?” said Germain, drying the little boy’s eyes with his +handkerchief. “Marie, you are spoiling the little rascal. But +really and truly, you are too good, little Marie. I don’t know why +you did not come to us as shepherdess last Saint John’s Day. You +would have taken care of my children, and I should much rather +pay a good price for their sake than try to find a woman who will +think, perhaps, she is doing me a great kindness if she does not +detest them.” + +“You must not look on the dark side of things,” answered little +Marie, holding the horse’s bridle while Germain placed his son in +front of the big pack-saddle covered with goatskin. “If your wife +does not care for children, take me into your service next year, +and you may be sure I shall amuse them so well that they will not +notice anything.” + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +VI + +On the Heath + + +“Dear me,” said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther, +“what will they think at home when they miss the little man? The +family will be worried, and will be looking everywhere for him.” + +“You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you are +taking him along, and ask him to speak to your people.” + +“That is very true, Marie; you don’t forget anything. It never +occurred to me that Jeannie must be there.” + +“He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your +errand.” + +When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a +trot, and Petit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot +that he had gone without his dinner; but the motion of the horse +gave him a hollow feeling in his stomach, and at the end of a +league, he began to gape and grow pale, and confessed that he was +dying of hunger. + +“This is the way it begins,” exclaimed Germain. “I was quite sure +that we should not go far without this young gentleman crying with +hunger or thirst.” + +“I am thirsty, too!” said Petit-Pierre. + +“Very well, then, let’s go to Mother Rebec’s tavern at Corlay, the +sign of ‘The Dawn’--a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will +take something to drink, too, will you not, Marie?” + +“No, no; I don’t want anything. I will hold the mare while you go +in with the child.” + +“But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread +from your own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat. +You would not take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but +cry.” + +“Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that +even now I have no desire to eat.” + +“You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall +sick. We have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive +half-starved and beg for bread before we say how d’ ye do. I shall +set you a good example myself, although I am not very hungry: and +I am sure that I can, for, after all, I did not eat any dinner. I +saw you crying, you and your mother, and it made me feel sad. Come +along. I am going to tie the gray at the door. Get down; I wish you +to.” + +All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the +fat, lame hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking +omelette, some brown bread, and a bottle of light wine. + +Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good +appetite that a whole hour passed before Germain could think of +starting out again. At first little Marie ate in order to be +obliging; then little by little she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a +girl cannot fast for long, and country air is dictatorial. + +The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and +strengthen her courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to +persuade herself that seven months would soon be over, and to think +of the pleasure in store for her when she saw once more her family +and her hamlet; for Father Maurice and Germain had both promised to +take her into their service. But just as she began to cheer up and +play with little Pierre, Germain was so unfortunate as to point out +to her from the inn window the lovely view of the valley which can +all be seen from this height, and which looks so happy and green +and fertile. + +Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight. + +“No doubt,” said Germain, “and the farm, too, and even your +house--see! that tiny gray spot not far from Godard’s big poplar, +below the belfry.” + +“Ah, I see it,” said the little girl; and then she began to cry. + +“I ought not to have made you think of it,” said Germain. “I can do +nothing but stupid things to-day. Come along, Marie; let’s start, +and in an hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot.” + +They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear of +tiring the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain +did not make the gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left +the road to enter the wood. + +Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would be +shorter to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and La +Sépulture, a route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to +the fair. He lost his way, and wasted more time before he reached +the wood. Even then he did not enter it on the right side, although +he did not perceive his mistake, so that he turned his back on +Fourche, and took a direction higher up on the way to Ardente. + +He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick +mist which rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come +on autumn evenings when the whiteness of the moonlight renders +them more undefined and more treacherous. The great pools of water +scattered through the glades gave forth a vapor so dense that when +the gray crossed them, their presence was known only by a splashing +noise, and the difficulty with which she drew her feet from the mud. + +At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the +end of it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that +he was lost. For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained +the way, that on leaving the wood he must descend a very steep +hillside, cross a wide meadow, and ford the river twice. He had +even warned him to cross this river carefully; for, early in the +season, there had been great rains, and the water might still +be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillside nor meadows, nor +river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle of snow, Germain +stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for a passer-by, +but could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced his +steps and reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more, +the moon was completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the +quagmires deep. Twice the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made +her lose courage, and although she kept enough sagacity to avoid +the tree-trunks, she could not prevent her riders from striking +the great branches which overhung the road at the height of their +heads and caused them great danger. In one of these collisions +Germain lost his hat, and only recovered it after much difficulty. +Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying like a log in his +father’s arms, hampered him so that he could no longer hold up nor +direct the horse. + +“I believe we are bewitched,” exclaimed Germain, stopping; “for the +wood is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk, +and here we have been turning round and round for two hours at +least, without finding a way out. The gray has but one idea in her +head, and that is to get home. It is she who is deceiving me. If we +wish to go home, we have only to give her the bit. But when we are +perhaps but two steps from our journey’s end, it would be foolish +to give up and return such a long road; and yet I am at a loss what +to do. I can’t see sky or earth, and I am afraid that the child +will catch the fever if we remain in this cursed fog, or that he +will be crushed beneath our weight if the horse falls forward.” + +“We must not persist longer,” said little Marie. “Let’s dismount, +Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I +know better than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and +leaving him exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we +shall see more clearly when we are nearer the ground.” + +This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for +the fog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth. + +Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that +they halted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks. + +Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word of +complaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the +child, she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while +Germain explored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray’s +reins to the branch of a tree. + +But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She reared +suddenly, broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving, +by way of receipt, half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she +started across the clearing, showing very plainly that she needed +no one to show her the way home. + +“Well, here we are afoot,” said Germain, after a vain attempt to +catch the horse, “and it would do us no good now if we were on the +good road, for we should have to ford the river on foot, and since +these paths are filled with water, we may be sure that the meadow +is wholly submerged. We don’t know the other routes. We must wait +until this fog clears. It can’t last more than an hour or two; as +soon as we can see clearly, we shall look about for a house, the +first we come to near the edge of the wood. But for the present +we can’t stir from here. There is a ditch and a pond over there. +Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what is behind us is more +than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way we came.” + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +VII + +Underneath the Big Oaks + + +“Well, we must be patient, Germain,” said little Marie. “We are +not badly off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the +leaves of these big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel +old stumps which stir readily and are dry enough to burn. You have +a light, Germain, have you not? You were smoking your pipe a few +minutes ago.” + +“I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game +that I was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish +mare has run away with everything, even with my cloak, which she +will lose and tear to bits on every branch she comes to.” + +“No, no, Germain; saddle and cloak and bag are all there on the +ground at your feet. The gray burst her girths, and threw off +everything as she ran away.” + +“That’s true, thank God,” exclaimed the laborer; “if we can +grope about and find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry +ourselves and get warm.” + +“That’s not difficult,” said little Marie; “dead wood always +cracks when you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?” + +“What do you want of it?” + +“To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He +will not roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from +the horse’s back. Prop it up all around with the stones that you +see there.” + +“I can’t see a stone; you must have cat’s eyes.” + +“There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can +wrap up his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see +if he is not as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and +feel how warm he is.” + +“You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie.” + +“I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your +bag, and I will arrange the wood.” + +“This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp.” + +“You are always doubting, Germain. Don’t you remember when you were +a shepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of +the rain?” + +“Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of +sheep; but I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk.” + +“That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here, +the fire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me +the light and a handful of dry ferns. That is all right. Now blow; +you are not consumptive, are you?” + +“Not that I know of,” said Germain, blowing like a smith’s bellows. +In an instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare, +it rose finally in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling +with the fog, and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet +around. + +“Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not +fall on him,” said the young girl. “Pile on the wood and stir up +the fire, Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will +answer for it.” + +“Upon my word, you are a clever girl,” said Germain; “and you know +how to make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite +revived, and my courage has come back again; for with my legs +drenched up to the knees, and with the thought of staying this way +till daylight, I was in a very bad temper just now.” + +“And when people are in a bad temper they don’t think of anything,” +answered little Marie. + +“And are you never bad-tempered?” + +“No, never; what is the good of it?” + +“Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you +have troubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my +little girl; for you have not always been happy.” + +“It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had +sorrows, but we have never lost heart.” + +“I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was,” said +Germain, “but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never +wanted for anything. My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I +shall be so as long as I work on the farm; and that will be always, +I hope. But everybody must suffer his share! I have suffered in +another way.” + +“Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad.” + +“Isn’t it?” + +“Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very +kind! But don’t let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out +crying. All my troubles are ready to come back to me to-day.” + +“It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make a +great deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, I +don’t want to cry....” + +“But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why +should a man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don’t let me trouble +you. That sorrow is mine as well as yours.” + +“You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with +you. Put your feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked, +too, poor little girl. I am going to take your place by the boy. +You move nearer the fire.” + +“I am hot enough,” said Marie; “and if you wish to sit down, take a +corner of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable.” + +“The truth is that it is not so bad here,” said Germain, as he sat +down beside her. “Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine +o’clock, and I have had such hard work in walking over these vile +roads that I feel quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little +Marie?” + +“I?--not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day, +and I have been to bed so often without my supper that once more +does not trouble me.” + +“A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing,” said +Germain, smiling. + +“I am not a woman,” exclaimed Marie, naïvely, without perceiving +the direction the husbandman’s ideas had taken. “Are you dreaming?” + +“Yes, I believe I must be dreaming,” answered Germain. “Perhaps +hunger is making my mind wander.” + +“How greedy you are,” answered she, brightening in her turn. “Well, +if you can’t live five or six hours without eating, have you not +game in your bag and fire to cook it?” + +“By Jove, that’s a good idea! But how about the present to my +future father-in-law?” + +“You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all +of them to satisfy your appetite.” + +“But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will be +burned to a cinder!” + +“Not at all,” said little Marie; “I warrant that I can cook them +for you under the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never +caught larks in the fields, and cooked them between two stones? +Oh! that is true--I keep forgetting that you have never been a +shepherd. Come, pluck the partridge. Not so hard! You will tear the +skin.” + +“You might be plucking the other to show me how!” + +“Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all +plucked. I am going to cook them.” + +“You would make a perfect little sutler’s girl, Marie, but +unhappily you have no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from +this pool!” + +“You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefer +coffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out +the host. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!” + +“You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink +some wine if you had it?” + +“I? At Mother Rebec’s, with you to-night, I drank some for the +second time in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you +a bottle almost full, and excellent too.” + +“What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!” + +“Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the +inn? You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I +hardly drank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking.” + +“What then?” + +“Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you +or your child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is.” + +“You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the +poor child was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent +her from thinking of others more than of herself. Little Marie, the +man who marries you will be no fool.” + +“I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your +partridges; they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you +must be satisfied with chestnuts.” + +“Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?” + +“It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the +branches as we went along, and filled my pockets.” + +“And are they cooked, too?” + +“Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put +the chestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the +way we always do in the fields.” + +“So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want to +drink your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a +man that will suit you. Tell me what kind you want.” + +“I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thought +about it yet.” + +“What, not at all? Never?” said Germain, as he began to eat with a +laborer’s appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels +for his companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented +herself with a few chestnuts. + +“Tell me, little Marie,” he went on, seeing that she had no +intention of answering him, “have you never thought of marrying? +Yet you are old enough?” + +“Perhaps,” she said, “but I am too poor. I need at least a hundred +crowns to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape them +together.” + +“Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundred +crowns to make you a present of.” + +“Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of +me?” + +“What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am +too old to marry you. They would never believe that I--that you--” + +“Look, Germain, your child is waking up,” said little Marie. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +VIII + +The Evening Prayer + + +Petit-Pierre had raised his head and was looking about him with a +thoughtful air. + +“Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound of +eating,” said Germain. “The explosion of a cannon would not rouse +him, but if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once.” + +“You must have been just like him at his age,” said little Marie, +with a sly smile. “See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your +canopy. To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father +eats his supper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have +not eaten your share; I thought that you might claim it.” + +“Marie, I wish you to eat,” cried the husbandman; “I shall not +touch another morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving +yourself for our sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away +all my appetite. I will not have my son eat his supper unless you +take some too.” + +“Leave us alone,” said little Marie; “you have not the key to our +appetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre’s is as wide +open as a little wolf’s. Just see how he seizes his food. He will +be a strong workman too, some day!” + +In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and +though scarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and +how he had come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his +hunger was appeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose +from their wonted habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more +good sense than usual. He made them explain to him where he was, +and when he found that he was in the midst of a forest, he grew a +little frightened. + +“Are there wicked beasts in this forest?” he demanded of his father. + +“No, none at all. Don’t be afraid.” + +“Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into +the great forest, the wolves would carry me off.” + +“Just see this logician,” said Germain, embarrassed. + +“He is right,” replied little Marie. “That is what you told him. He +has a good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you +must learn that your father never tells a story. We passed through +the big forest whilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the +small forest where there are no wicked beasts.” + +“Is the little forest very far away from the big one?” + +“Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. +And then, if some of them should come here, your father would kill +them.” + +“And you too, little Marie?” + +“Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are not +frightened, are you? You would beat them soundly?” + +“Yes, indeed, I would,” said the child, proudly, as he struck a +heroic attitude; “we would kill them.” + +“There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making +them listen to reason,” said Germain to little Marie. “To be sure, +it is not long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you +have not forgotten what your mother used to say to you. I believe +that the younger one is, the better one gets on with children. I am +very much afraid that a woman of thirty who does not yet know what +it is to be a mother, would find it hard to prattle to children and +reason with them.” + +“Why, Germain? I don’t know why you have such a bad idea of this +woman; you will change your mind.” + +“The devil take the woman!” exclaimed Germain. “I wish I were going +away from her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don’t know?” + +“Little father,” said the child, “why is it that you speak so much +of your wife to-day, since she is dead?” + +“Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?” + +“No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and my +grandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was +very white and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray +God that she might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think +that she is there now?” + +“I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your +mother that you love her.” + +“I am going to say my prayers,” answered the boy. “I forgot them +to-night. But I can’t say them all alone, for I always forget +something. Little Marie must help me.” + +“Yes, my Pierre, I will help you,” said the young girl. “Come and +kneel down in my lap.” + +The child knelt down on the girl’s skirt. He clasped his little +hands and began to say his prayers, at first with great care and +earnestness, for he knew the beginning very well, then slowly +and with more hesitation, and finally repeating word by word +after Marie, when he came to that place in his prayer where sleep +overtook him so invariably that he had never been able to learn the +end. This time again the effort of close attention and the monotony +of his own accent produced their wonted effect. He pronounced the +last syllables with great difficulty, and only after they were +thrice repeated. + +His head grew heavy and fell on Marie’s breast; his hands +unclasped, divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the +camp-fire, Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart +of the young girl, who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his +fair hair with her sweet breath, had herself fallen into a holy +reverie, and prayed in quiet for the soul of Catherine. + +Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the +grateful esteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting +words. + +He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her +breast, and he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre’s +brow. + +“You kiss too hard,” said Marie, gently pushing away the +husbandman’s head. “You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed, +for the boy has left us already for dreams of paradise.” + +The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin +on the saddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his +big blue eyes, and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute, +he seemed to be dreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck +with an idea which had slipped his mind during the daytime, and +only assumed a distinct form at the approach of sleep. + +“Little father,” said he, “if you wish to give me a new mother, I +hope it will be little Marie.” + +And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +IX + +Despite the Cold + + +Little Marie seemed to give no more heed to the child’s odd words +than to regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him +up with care, stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the +neighboring pool gave no sign of lifting, she advised Germain to +lie near the fire and take a nap. + +“I see that you are sleepy already,” said she, “for you don’t say a +word and you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing.” + +“It is you who must sleep,” answered the husbandman, “and I will +take care of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I +do now. I have fifty things to think of.” + +“Fifty is a great many,” said the little girl, with a mocking +accent. “There are lots of people who would be delighted to have +one.” + +“Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, +which has not left me for the past hour.” + +“And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought +of before.” + +“Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be +glad to hear.” + +“An hour ago,” she answered, “your idea was to eat--and now it is +to sleep.” + +“Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for +an ox. You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not +care to talk to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to +pick flaws in a man who is out of sorts.” + +“If you wish to talk, let’s talk,” said the girl, half reclining +near the child and resting her head against the saddle. “You +torment yourself, Germain, and you do not show much courage for a +man. What wouldn’t I say if I didn’t do my best to fight my own +troubles?” + +“Yes, that’s very true, and that’s just what I am thinking of, +my poor child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in +a horrid country full of moors and fens, where you will catch the +autumn fevers. Sheep do not pay well there, and this is always +discouraging for a shepherdess if she means well. Then you will be +surrounded by strangers who may not be kind to you and will not +know how much you are worth. It makes me more sorry than I can tell +you, and I have a great desire to take you home to your mother +instead of going on to Fourche.” + +“You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, +my poor Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend’s +account, and instead of showing me the dark side of my lot, you +should show me the bright side, as you did after lunch at Rebec’s.” + +“What can I do? That’s the way it appeared to me then, and now my +ideas are changed. It is best for you to take a husband.” + +“That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think +no more about it.” + +“Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of +a man you want, I might imagine somebody.” + +“Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does +no good.” + +“You are not looking for a rich man?” + +“Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job.” + +“But if he were comfortably off, you wouldn’t be sorry to have a +good house, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an +honest family who would allow you to help your mother.” + +“Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother.” + +“And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to +please, even if he were not so very young.” + +“Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I +insist on. I could never love an old man.” + +“An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!” + +“Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien’s age, +though Bastien is not so good-looking as you.” + +“Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?” said Germain, +indignantly. “A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs he +drives!” + +“I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen.” + +Germain felt terribly jealous. + +“Well,” said he, “it’s clear that you want Bastien, but, none the +less, it’s a queer idea.” + +“Yes, that would be a queer idea,” answered little Marie, bursting +into shouts of laughter, “and he would make a queer husband. You +could gull him to your heart’s content. For instance, the other +day, I had picked up a tomato in the curate’s garden. I told him +that it was a fine, red apple, and he bit into it like a glutton. +If you had only seen what a face he made. Heavens! how ugly he was!” + +“Then you don’t love him, since you are making fun of him.” + +“That wouldn’t be a reason. But I don’t like him. He is unkind to +his little sister, and he is dirty.” + +“Don’t you care for anybody else?” + +“How does that concern you, Germain?” + +“Not at all, except that it gives me something to talk about. I see +very well, little girl, that you have a sweetheart in your mind +already.” + +“No, Germain, you’re wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one +may come later, but since I cannot marry until I have something +laid by, I am destined to marry late in life and with an old man.” + +“Then take an old man without delay.” + +“No. When I am no longer young, I shall not care; for the present, +it is different.” + +“I see that I displease you, Marie; that’s clear enough,” said +Germain, impatiently, and without stopping to weigh his words. + +Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was +sleeping. She had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were, +by slumber, as children are who sleep before they cease to babble. + +Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt +that they were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his +attention and change his thoughts. + +It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything +except the words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire +twenty times; he moved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself +tremble as though he had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the +tree which sheltered the two children, and watched them as they +slept. + +“I know not how it is,” thought he; “I have never noticed that +little Marie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has +not much color, but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What +a charming mouth she has, and how pretty her little nose is! She +is not large for her age, but she is formed like a little quail +and is as light as a bird. I cannot understand why they made so +much fuss at home over a big, fat woman with a bright red face. +My wife was rather slender and pale, and she pleased me more than +any one else. This girl is very frail, but she is healthy, and +she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she has such a +gentle, frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyes +even though they are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess +she has more than ever my dear Catherine had, and she would never +become wearisome. She is gay, wise, industrious, loving, and she is +amusing. I don’t know what more I could wish for.... + +“But what is the use of thinking of all this?” Germain went on, +trying to look in another direction. “My father-in-law would not +hear of it, and all the family would think me mad! Besides, she +would not have me herself, poor child! She thinks me too old; she +told me so. She is unselfish, and does not mind poverty and worry, +wearing old clothes, and suffering from hunger for two or three +months every year, so long as she can satisfy her heart some day +and give herself to the man she loves. She is right. I should do +the same in her place, and even now, if I had my own way, instead +of marrying a wife whom I don’t care for, I would choose a girl +after my own heart.” + +The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further +he was from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose +himself in the fog; then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his +knees beside the two sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss +Petit-Pierre, who had one arm about Marie’s neck, and made such a +mistake that Marie felt a breath, hot as fire, cross her lips, and +awaking, looked about her with a bewildered expression, totally +ignorant of all that was passing within his mind. + +“I didn’t see you, my poor children,” said Germain, retreating +rapidly. “I almost stumbled over you and hurt you.” + +Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleep +again. Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore +to God that he would not stir until she had waked. He kept his +word, but not without a struggle. He thought that he would go mad. + +At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see +the stars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from +the mist which had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over +the damp moss. The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive +darkness, but beyond, the white branches of the birch-trees seemed +a long line of phantoms in their shrouds. The fire cast its +reflection in the pool; and the frogs, growing accustomed to the +light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasy notes; the rugged branches +of the old trees, bristling with dim-colored lichens, crossed and +intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms, above the travelers’ +heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely and so sad that Germain, +unable to endure it more, began to sing and throw stones into the +water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He was anxious +also to wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and look about +at the weather, he proposed that they start on their journey. + +“In two hours,” said he, “the approach of morning will chill the +air so that we can’t stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see +our way, and we shall soon find a house which will open its doors +to us, or at least a barn where we can pass the rest of the night +under shelter.” + +Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to +sleep, she made ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his +boy in his arms without awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come +nearer, in order to cover her with his cloak. For she would not +take her own mantle, which was wrapped about the child. + +When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a +time had succeeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits, +began to lose his head once more. Two or three times he strode +ahead abruptly, leaving her to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it +was for her to follow, he waited, drew her quickly to his side, and +pressed her so tight that she was surprised, and even angry, though +she dared not say so. + +As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no +idea of that in which they were going. So they crossed the wood +once more, and found themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then +they retraced their steps, and after much turning and twisting they +spied a light across the branches. + +“Good enough! Here’s a house,” exclaimed Germain. “And the people +are already astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late.” + +It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before +they left, and which had sprung up in the breeze. + +They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the very +place from which they had started. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +X + +Beneath the Stars + + +“This time I give up,” said Germain, stamping his foot. “We are +bewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here +before broad day. The devil is in this place!” + +“Well, it’s of no use to get angry,” said Marie. “We must take what +is given us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped +up that he is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single +night out of doors. Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain? +Right in the midst of the holly-bushes,--what a goose you are! It’s +very convenient to get it from there!” + +“Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I +didn’t want you to scratch your hands.” + +“It’s all done. Here’s the bed, and a few scratches are not +saber-cuts,” replied the brave girl. + +She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was +so sound asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey. +Germain piled so much wood on the fire that the forest all about +glowed with the light. + +Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she +did not complain, her legs would support her no longer. She was +white, and her teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took +her in his arms to warm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the +tenderness of movement he could not repress, took possession of +his heart and stilled his senses. As by a miracle his tongue was +loosened, and every feeling of shame vanished. + +“Marie,” said he, “I like you, and I am very sorry that you don’t +like me. If you would take me for your husband, there are no +fathers, nor family, nor neighbors, nor arguments which could +prevent me from giving myself to you. I know how happy you would +make my children, and that you would teach them to love the memory +of their mother, and with a quiet conscience I could satisfy the +wishes of my heart. I have always been fond of you, and now I love +you so well that were you to ask me to spend all my life in doing +your pleasure, I would swear to do it on the instant. Please think +how much I love you, and try to forget my age. Think that it is a +wrong notion to believe that a man of thirty is old. Besides, I +am but twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people will talk +about her if she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she, +simply because that is not the custom in our country, but I have +heard say that in other countries people don’t look at it in this +light, and that they had rather allow a sensible man of approved +courage to support a young girl, than trust her to a mere boy, who +may go astray, and, from the honest fellow they thought him, turn +into a good-for-nothing. And then years don’t always make age. That +depends on the health and strength a person has. When a man is used +up by overwork and poverty, or by a bad life, he is old before +twenty-five. While I--but Marie, you are not listening....” + +“Yes I am, Germain; I hear you perfectly,” answered little Marie, +“but I am thinking over what my mother used to tell me so often: +that a woman of sixty is to be pitied greatly when her husband is +seventy or seventy-five and can no longer work to support her. He +grows feeble, and it becomes her duty to nurse him at the very age +when she begins to feel great need of care and rest herself, and so +it is that the end comes in a garret.” + +“Parents do well to say so, I admit,” answered Germain, “but then +they would sacrifice all their youth, the best years of their +life, to calculating what will become of them at the age when a +person is no longer good for anything, and when it is a matter +of indifference which way death comes. But I am in no danger of +starving in my old age. I am even going to lay by something, since +I live with my wife’s parents and spend nothing. And then, you +see, I shall love you so well that I can never grow old. They say +that when a man is happy he keeps sound, and I know well that in +love for you, I am younger than Bastien; for he does not love you; +he is too stupid, too much of a child to understand how pretty +and how good you are, and how you were made for people to court. +Do not hate me, Marie. I am not a bad man. I made my Catherine +happy, and on her death-bed she swore before God that she had had +only happiness of me, and she asked me to marry again. Her spirit +must have spoken to her child to-night. Did you not hear the words +he said? How his little lips quivered as his eyes stared upward, +watching something that we could not see! He was surely looking at +his mother, and it was she who made him say that he wished you to +take her place.” + +“Germain,” answered Marie, amazed and yet thoughtful, “you speak +frankly, and everything that you say is true. I am sure that I +should do well to love you if it did not displease your parents +too much. But what can I do? My heart does not speak for you. I +am very fond of you, but though your age does not make you ugly, +it makes me afraid. It seems as if you were some such relation to +me, as an uncle or a godfather, that I must be respectful toward +you, and that there might be moments when you would treat me like a +little girl rather than like your wife and your equal. And perhaps +my friends would make fun of me, and although it would be silly +to give heed to that, I think that I should be a little sad on my +wedding-day.” + +“Those are but childish reasons, Marie; you speak like a child.” + +“Yes, that is true; I am a child,” said she, “and it is on that +account I am afraid of too sensible a man. You must see that I am +too young for you, since you just found fault with me for speaking +foolishly. I can’t have more sense than my age allows.” + +“O Heavens! How unlucky I am to be so clumsy and to express so ill +what I think!” cried Germain. “Marie, you don’t love me. That is +the long and short of it. You find me too simple and too dull. If +you loved me at all, you would not see my faults so clearly. But +you do not love me. That is the whole story.” + +“That is not my fault,” answered she, a little hurt that he was +speaking with less tenderness. “I am doing my best to hear you, but +the more I try the less I can get it into my head that we ought to +be husband and wife.” + +Germain did not answer. His head dropped into his hands, and +little Marie could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast +asleep. She felt uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could +not guess what was passing in his mind. But she dared not speak to +him more, and as she was too astonished at what had passed to have +any desire to sleep, she waited impatiently for dawn, tending the +fire with care and watching over the child, whose existence Germain +appeared to forget. Yet Germain was not asleep. He did not mope +over his lot. He made no plans to encourage himself, nor schemes to +entrap the girl. He suffered; he felt a great weight of grief at +his heart. He wished that he were dead. The world seemed to turn +against him, and if he could have wept at all, his tears would have +come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was a feeling of +anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the power or the +wish to complain. + +When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to +Germain’s senses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He +saw that little Marie had slept no more than he, but he knew no +words in which to tell her of his anxiety. He was very discouraged. +Hiding the gray’s saddle once more in the thicket, he slung his +sack over his shoulder and took his son by the hand. + +“Now, Marie,” said he, “we are going to try to end our journey. Do +you wish me to take you to Ormeaux?” + +“Let us leave the woods together,” answered she, “and when we know +where we are, we shall separate, and go our different ways.” + +Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him +to take her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had +asked her in a tone well fitted to provoke a refusal. + +After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out +the highroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain, +one must turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their +different destinations, which were so near together that the houses +of Fourche were in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and _vice +versa_. + +When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called +them back to ask whether they had not lost a horse. + +“Yes,” he said, “I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where +perhaps a wolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the +whole night long, and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She +is there now. Come along with me, and if you recognize her, you may +take her.” + +When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt +convinced that it was really she, he started back to find his +saddle. Little Marie offered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither +he might go to get him after he had introduced himself at Fourche. + +“He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed,” said she. +“I will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair, +and when he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new +family.” + +“Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?” answered Germain, +petulantly. “Perhaps I shall not go.” + +“But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go +there,” replied the girl. + +“You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be +quite sure that I shall not trouble you again?” + +“Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which +came to you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away +your spirits. But now you must come to your senses. I promise you +to forget everything that you said to me, and not to breathe it to +a soul.” + +“Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have +spoken. What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush +for it before anybody.” + +“Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you +were thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you. +So take care how you speak now. Don’t look at me before everybody +with such a rapt expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on +your obedience, and who would be enraged at me if I were to turn +you from his will. Good-by, Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order +to force you to go to Fourche. He is a pledge which I keep on your +behalf.” + +“So you want to go with her?” said the husbandman to his son, +seeing that the boy had clasped Marie’s hands and was following her +resolutely. + +“Yes, father,” answered the child, who had heard the conversation +and understood after his own fashion the words spoken so +unguardedly before him. “I am going away with my dearest little +Marie. You shall come to find me when you have done marrying, but I +wish Marie to be my little mother.” + +“You see how much he wishes it,” said Germain to the girl. “Listen +to me, Petit-Pierre,” he added. “I wish her to be your mother and +to stay with you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to +make her grant you what she has denied me.” + +“Don’t be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie +does everything that I wish.” + +He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and +more irresolute than ever. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +XI + +The Belle of the Village + + +And after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his +clothes and from his horse’s harness, when he had mounted the gray, +and when he had learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat +and that he must forget that anxious night as though it had been a +dangerous dream. + +He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green. +The six stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house +had a cellar. The walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were +plastered with lime and sand. It was a handsome house, and might +almost have been mistaken for the dwelling of a bourgeois. + +Germain’s future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having +plied him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire +family, he added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by +addresses another concerning the object of his journey: “So you are +taking a little trip in this part of the country?” + +“I have come to see you,” replied the husbandman, “to give you this +little present of game with my father’s compliments, and to tell +you from him that you ought to know with what intentions I come to +your house.” + +“Oh, ho!” said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious +stomach, “I see, I understand, I am with you, and,” he added with a +wink, “you will not be the only one to pay your court, young man. +There are three already in the house dancing attendance like you. +I never turn anybody away, and I should find it hard to say yes or +no to any of them, for they are all good matches. Yet, on account +of Father Maurice and for the sake of the rich fields you till, I +hope that it may be you. But my daughter is of age and mistress +of her own affairs. She will do as she likes. Go in and introduce +yourself. I hope that you will draw the prize.” + +“I beg your pardon,” answered Germain, amazed to find himself an +extra when he had counted on being alone in the field. “I was not +aware that your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I +did not come to quarrel over her.” + +“If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter +would be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son,” +replied Father Leonard with unshaken good humor. “Catherine has +the wherewithal to attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies +in choosing. But come in; don’t lose heart. The woman is worth a +struggle.” + +And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he +called to his daughter as they entered the house: + +“So, Catherine, here is another!” + +This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in +the presence of her other devotees, completed Germain’s distress +and embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and +stood for a few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and +her court. + +The Widow Guérin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but +her expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw +her. She had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with +three lace flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black +lace were little in accord with the staid and sober widow he had +pictured to himself. + +Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge +the widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He +thought that such finery and playful manners might well suit little +Marie’s years and wit, but that the widow’s fun was labored and +over bold, and that she wore her fine clothes in bad taste. + +The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and +meats which were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday +morning; for Father Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the +widow was not sorry to display her pretty china and keep a table +like a rich lady. Germain, simple and unsuspecting as he was, +watched everything with a penetrating glance, and for the first +time in his life he kept on the defensive when he drank. Father +Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and taking a chair +opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked to him +rather than to the others. + +The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his +own account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The +widow did not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast +disdainful glances in its direction. + +Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily. +Father Leonard poked fun at him. + +“You look very melancholy,” said he, “and you are ill-using your +glass. You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a +fasting lover can make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas +are brightened with a drop of wine.” + +Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the +artificial manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a +smile as a woman does who is sure of her calculations, made him +long to protest against his pretended surrender; but fearing to +appear uncivil, he smiled and held his peace. + +He thought the widow’s beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been +rich for her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty, +and fat as Father Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like +a sot. The third was a young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he +kept insisting on displaying his wit, and would say things so silly +that they were painful to hear. Yet the widow laughed as though she +admired all his foolishness, and made small proof of her good taste +thereby. At first Germain thought her infatuated with him, but soon +he perceived that he himself was especially encouraged, and that +they wished him to make fresh advances. For this reason he felt an +increasing stiffness and severity which he took no pains to conceal. + +The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither +in company. It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good +half-league away, and Germain was so tired that he longed to take a +nap before they went; but he was not in the habit of missing mass, +and he started with the others. + +The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly +along, escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one +and then of another, and carrying her head high with an air of +importance. She was eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the +passers-by; but Germain felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in +the train of a petticoat where all the world might see, that he +kept at a respectable distance, chatting with Father Leonard, and +succeeded in occupying his attention so well that they did not look +at all as if they belonged to the party. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +XII + +The Master + + +When they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to +catch up. She was bent upon making her entry with all her train; +but Germain, denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard, +and after conversing with several acquaintances, he entered the +church by another door. The widow was vexed. + +When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn, +where dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three +lovers in turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well, +but with affectation. + +“So, you don’t ask my daughter?” said Leonard, tapping him on the +shoulder. “You are too easily frightened.” + +“I have not danced since I lost my wife,” answered the husbandman. + +“But now that you are looking for another, mourning’s over in +heart as well as in clothes.” + +“That’s no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I +don’t care for dancing.” + +“Listen,” said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired +corner, “when you entered my house you were vexed to see the place +already besieged, and I see that you are very proud. But that is +not reasonable, my boy. My daughter is used to a great deal of +attention, particularly since she left off her mourning two years +ago, and it is not her place to lead you on.” + +“Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already +without making her choice?” asked Germain. + +“She doesn’t wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has +lively manners, and although you may not think that she reflects +a great deal, she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows +very well what she is about.” + +“It does not appear to me so,” said Germain ingenuously, “for she +has three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there +are two of them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and +request to stay at home.” + +“Why, Germain, you don’t understand at all. She doesn’t wish the +old man, nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain; +yet if she were to turn them off, people would think that she +wished to remain a widow, and nobody else would come.” + +“Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post.” + +“As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?” + +“Every man to his taste,” said Germain. + +“I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen, +then they would leave the coast clear.” + +“Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to +whistle?” + +“That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my +daughter has always thought that she would pass the best part of +her life while she was being courted, and she is in no hurry to +become the servant of one man when she can order so many others +about. So she will please herself as long as the game amuses her; +but if you please her more than the game, the game will cease. Only +you must not lose courage. Come back every Sunday, dance with her, +let her know that you are amongst her followers, and if she finds +you more agreeable and better bred than the others, some fine day +she will tell you so, no doubt.” + +“Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as +she pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in +her place, I should do differently. I should be more frank, and +should not waste the time of men who have, doubtless, something +better to do than dancing attendance on a woman who makes fun of +them. Still, if that is what amuses her and makes her happy, it is +no affair of mine. Only there is one thing I must tell you which is +a little embarrassing, since you have mistaken my intentions from +the start, for you are so sure of what is not so, that you have +given me no chance to explain. You must know, then, that I did not +come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but merely to buy a +pair of oxen which you are going to take to market next week, and +which my father-in-law thinks will suit him.” + +“I understand, Germain,” answered Leonard very calmly; “you changed +your plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you +please. It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and +you are perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared +your intentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and +see them in the pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you +will come back to dinner with us before you return.” + +“I don’t wish to trouble you,” answered Germain. “Perhaps you have +something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and +standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join +you at your house.” + +Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows +where Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was +true that Father Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that +if he were to bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, +he might more easily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing +the purpose of his journey. He walked rapidly, and soon found +himself at some distance from Ormeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a +desire to kiss his son and to see little Marie once again, although +he had lost all hope and even had chased away the thought that he +might some day owe his happiness to her. Everything that he had +heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain; this father, at +once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter in habits +of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a +transgression against the dignity of country manners; this time +wasted in foolish, empty words; this home so different from his +own; and above all, that deep uneasiness which comes to a laborer +of the fields when he leaves his accustomed toil: all the trouble +and annoyance of the past few hours made Germain long to be with +his child and with his little neighbor. Even had he not been in +love, he would have sought her to divert his mind and raise his +spirits to their wonted level. + +But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither +little Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when +shepherds are in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture. +He asked of a young boy who tended them whether the sheep belonged +to the farm of Ormeaux. + +“Yes,” said the child. + +“Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst +you?” + +“No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went +away. She was ill.” + +“But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?” + +“Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already.” + +“What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?” + +“Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had +been here two hours.” + +“Went away! Where?” + +“Where they came from, I suppose. I didn’t ask them.” + +“But why did they go away?” asked Germain, growing more and more +uneasy. + +“How the deuce do I know?” + +“Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled +before.” + +“I can tell you nothing about it. I saw them come and go, nothing +more.” + +Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody +could give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer, +he felt sure that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had +taken the weeping child with her. + +“Can they have been ill-treating my son?” cried Germain. + +“It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little +girl? Where do you come from, and what is your name?” + +Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were +answering him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and +asked to speak with the master. + +The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when +he came to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to +one of his other farms. + +“But, honestly,” said Germain, growing very anxious, “can’t you +tell me why this girl left?” + +The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former +answered that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his. +All that Germain could learn was that both girl and child had +started off toward Fourche. He rushed back to Fourche. The widow +and her lovers were still away; so was Father Leonard. The maid +told him that a girl and a child had come to ask for him, but that +as she did not know them, she did not wish to let them in, and had +advised them to go to Mers. + +“And why did you refuse to let them in?” said Germain, angrily. +“People are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the +door to a neighbor.” + +“But you see,” answered the maid, “in a house as rich as this, I +must keep my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible +for everything, and I cannot open the door to the first person that +comes along.” + +“It is a bad custom,” said Germain, “and I had rather be poor than +to live in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman, +and good-by to your vile country.” + +He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess +and child had been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly, +carelessly dressed, with his blouse torn, and his little lambskin +over his shoulders, and as little Marie was necessarily poorly clad +at all times, they had been taken for beggars. People had offered +them bread. The girl had accepted a crust for the child, who was +hungry, then she had walked away with him very quickly, and had +entered the forest. + +Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of +Ormeaux had not been at Fourche. + +“Yes,” they answered, “he passed on horseback a few seconds after +the girl.” + +“Was he chasing her?” + +“Oh, so you understand?” answered the village publican, with a +laugh. “Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running +after girls. But I don’t believe that he caught her; though, after +all, if he had seen her--” + +“That is enough, thank you!” And he flew rather than ran to +Leonard’s stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray’s back, he leaped +upon it, and set off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube. + +His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his +forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray +needed no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +XIII + +The Old Woman + + +Germain came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the +border of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was +gathering the remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there. +Germain stopped to question her. She was deaf and mistook his +inquiries. + +“Yes, my son,” said she, “this is the Devil’s Pool. It is an evil +spot, and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones +with your left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That +drives away the spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go +around it.” + +“I am not asking about that,” said Germain, moving nearer her, and +screaming at the top of his lungs. “Have you seen a girl and a +child walking through the wood?” + +“Yes,” said the old woman, “a little child was drowned there.” + +Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added: + +“That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they +raised a handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad +spirits threw it into the water. You can still see one end of it. +If anybody were unlucky enough to pass the night here, he could +never find his way out before daylight. He must walk and walk, and +though he went two hundred leagues into the forest, he must always +return to the same place.” + +The peasant’s imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the +thought of the evils that must come in order that the old woman’s +assertions might be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind +that he felt chilled through and through. Hopeless of obtaining +more news, he remounted, and traversed the woods afresh, calling +Pierre with all his might, whistling, cracking his whip, and +snapping the branches that the whole forest might reëcho with the +noise of his coming; then he listened for an answering voice, but +he heard no sound save the cowbells scattered through the glades, +and the wild cries of the swine as they fought over the acorns. + +At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following +in his traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed +after the city fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never +seen the farmer of Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at +once that this was the man. He turned, and eyeing him from head to +foot, waited for him to speak. + +“Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a +small boy?” asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference, +although he was evidently ill at ease. + +“What do you want of her?” answered Germain, taking no pains to +conceal his anger. + +“I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend. +But as I have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is +a shepherdess whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When +I saw her, she looked too young and frail to work on the farm. I +thanked her, but I wished to pay the expenses of her short journey, +and while my back was turned, she went off in a huff. She was in +such a hurry that she forgot even some of her belongings and her +purse, which has certainly not much in it, probably but a few +pennies; but since I was going in this direction, I hoped to meet +her, and give her back the things which she left behind, as well as +what I owe her.” + +Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story +which, however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his +penetrating gaze on the farmer, who submitted to the examination +with a plentiful supply of impudence or of good faith. + +“I wish to get at the bottom of this matter,” said Germain; “and,” +continued he, suppressing his indignation, “the girl lives in +my village. I know her. She can’t be far away. Let’s ride on +together; we shall find her, no doubt.” + +“You are right,” said the farmer; “let’s move on; but if we do not +find her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for +I must turn off toward Ardentes.” + +“Oh, oh!” thought the peasant, “I shall not part with you, even if +I have to follow you around the Devil’s Pool for twenty-four hours.” + +“Stop,” said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom +which waved in a peculiar manner. “Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is +that you, my child?” + +The boy recognized his father’s voice, and came out from the broom +leaping like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with +the farmer, he stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. “Come, my +Pierre, come. It is I,” cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his +horse and ran toward his boy to take him in his arms; “and where is +little Marie?” + +“She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black +man, and so am I.” + +“You needn’t be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I.” + +Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the +farmer close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into +his arms, clung to him as a daughter to her father. + +“Oh, my brave Germain!” she cried, “you will defend me. I am not +afraid when you are near.” + +Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes +were torn by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed, +rushing toward the brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But +neither shame nor despair were in her face. + +“Your master wishes to speak to you,” said he, his eyes fixed on +her features. + +“My master!” she exclaimed fiercely; “that man is no master of +mine, and he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I +want you to take me home with you. I will be your servant for +nothing.” + +The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. “Little girl,” said he, +“you left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to +you.” + +“No, you are not, sir,” answered little Marie. “I didn’t forget +anything, and I have nothing to ask of you.” + +“Listen a moment,” returned the farmer. “It’s I who have something +to tell you. Come with me. Don’t be afraid. It’s only a word or +two.” + +“You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you.” + +“At any rate, do take your money.” + +“My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!” + +“I suspected as much,” said Germain under his breath, “but I don’t +care, Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for--I am curious +to know. You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not +lose sight of you.” + +Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel +of his saddle, and lowering his voice he said: + +“Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don’t say +anything about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too +frail to work on my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I +shall be passing by your house one of these days; and if you have +not said anything, I will give you something more; and then if you +are more sensible, you have only to speak. I will take you home +with me, or I will come at dusk and talk with you in the meadows. +What present would you like me to bring you?” + +“Here, sir, is the present I have for you,” answered little Marie, +aloud, as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her +might. “I thank you heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere +near our house, you will be good enough to let me know. All the +boys in the neighborhood will go out to welcome you, because, where +I live, we are very fond of gentlemen who try to make love to poor +girls. You shall see. They will be on the lookout for you.” + +“You lie with your dirty tongue,” cried the farmer, raising his +stick with a dangerous air. “You wish to make people believe what +is not so, but you shall never get a penny out of me. We know what +kind of a girl you are.” + +Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of +the farmer’s horse and shook it violently. + +“I understand now,” said he; “it is easy to see what is going on. +Get down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you.” + +The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape, +he set spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant’s grasp +by striking down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the +blow, and seizing hold of his antagonist’s leg, he unseated him and +flung him to the earth. The farmer regained his feet, but although +he defended himself vigorously, he was knocked down once more. +Germain held him to the ground. Then he said: + +“Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don’t want to +do you an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help +your conscience--but you shall not stir from this spot until you +beg the girl’s pardon, on your knees.” + +The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all +as a joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since +it lay in words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing +to ask her pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward. +Finally, he proposed that they go and drink a pint of wine at the +nearest tavern, and so part good friends. + +“You are disgusting!” answered Germain, rubbing his victim’s head +in the dirt, “and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So +blush, if you are able, and when you come to our village, you had +better slink along Sneak’s Alley.”[2] + +He picked up the farmer’s holly-stick, broke it over his knee to +show the strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with +disgust. Then giving one hand to his son and the other to little +Marie, he walked away, still trembling with anger. + + +[2] This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at +the entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them. Persons who +are in dread of receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed +to take this route to escape attention. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +XIV + +The Return to the Farm + + +At the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them. +They trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each +familiar object. Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could +understand of what had passed. + +“When we reached the farm,” said he, “that man came to speak to my +Marie in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had +climbed into the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then +he said good morning to Marie, and he kissed her.” + +“You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?” said Germain, trembling with +anger. + +“I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers, +just as at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who +enter her service to show that she adopts them and will be a mother +to them.” + +“And next,” went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an +adventure to tell of, “_that man_ told you something wicked, which +you have told me never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot +it right away. Still, if father wishes, I will tell him what it +was--” + +“No, Pierre, I don’t wish to hear, and I don’t wish you ever to +think of it again.” + +“Then I will forget it all over again,” replied the child. “Next, +_that man_ seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that +she was going away. He told her he would give her whatever she +wanted,--a hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he +came toward her as if he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I +ran to Marie and cried. Then _that man_ said: ‘What’s that? Where +did that child come from? Put it out,’ and he raised his cane to +beat me. But my Marie prevented him, and she spoke to him this +way: ‘We will talk later, sir; now I must take this child back to +Fourche, and then I shall return.’ And as soon as he had left the +fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: ‘We must run, my Pierre; we +must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked man and +he is trying to do us harm.’ Then when we had gone back of the +farm-houses, we crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to +find you. But you were not there, and they wouldn’t let us wait. +And then _that man_, riding his black horse, came behind us, and +we ran on as fast as we could and hid in the woods. And then he +followed us, and when we heard him coming, we hid again. And then, +when he had passed, we began to run toward home, and then you came +and found us, and that is how it all happened. I haven’t forgotten +anything, have I, my Marie?” + +“No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be +my witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not +stay there it was not from want of courage and industry.” + +“And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is +too old when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be +revenged. I should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty +boy, ten years better off than I, would not have been knocked to +pieces by _that man_, as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?” + +“I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that +I shall be grateful all my life.” + +“Is that all?” + +“Little father,” said the child, “I forgot to ask little Marie what +I promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at +home, and I will speak to my grandmother too.” + +The child’s promise set Germain to thinking. He must explain his +conduct to his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, +and all the while conceal the true reasons which had made him +so judicious and so decided. When a man is proud and happy, it +seems an easy task to thrust his happiness upon others, but to be +repulsed on one side and blamed on the other is not a very pleasant +position. + +Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the +farm, and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon +all sorts of explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged +stool before the door, listened with gravity; and, although he +was ill-content with the result of the journey, when Germain told +him about the widow’s systematic coquetry, and demanded of his +father-in-law whether he had the time to go and pay his court +fifty-two Sundays in the year at the risk of being dismissed in the +end, the old man nodded his head in assent and answered: “You were +not wrong, Germain; that could never be.” And then, when Germain +described how he had been obliged to bring back little Marie, with +the utmost haste, in order to protect her from the insults or +perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice nodded +approvingly again and said: “You were not wrong, Germain; that was +right.” + +When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, +the old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of +resignation, and looked at each other. Then the head of the house +rose and said: “God’s will be done. Love can’t be made to order.” + +“Come to supper, Germain,” said his mother-in-law. “It is +unfortunate that this did not come to a better end, but, after all, +it seems that God did not wish it. We must look elsewhere.” + +“Yes,” added the old man, “as my wife says, we must look elsewhere.” + +There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when +Petit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer +excited by the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like +other little peasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot +everything that had been running in his head, and thought only of +playing with his brothers, and of pretending to drive the horses +and oxen like a man. Germain plunged into his work, and tried +to forget, too; but he became so absent-minded and so sad that +everybody noticed it. He never spoke to little Marie, he never +even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked him in what meadow +she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not a moment in +the day when he could not have answered if he would. He dared not +ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and +yet he knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not +suffer; and Mother Guillette could not understand how her little +store of wood never grew less, and how her shed was full in the +morning, although she had left it almost empty at night. It was the +same with the wheat and potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret +window, and emptied a sack on the floor without awaking a soul or +leaving a trace of his coming. The widow was at once uneasy and +delighted. She made her daughter promise to tell nobody, and said +that were people to know of the miracle performed at her house they +would take her for a witch. She felt confident that the devil had +a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrel with him +by calling down the priest’s exorcisms on the house. It would be +time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in +return for his gifts. + +Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not +speak to Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of +marriage, and, before him, she pretended to perceive nothing. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +XV + +Mother Maurice + + +One day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and +spoke to him kindly: + +“My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don’t eat as well as +usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, +or all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without +wishing it.” + +“No, my mother,” answered Germain, “you have always been as kind +to me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be +very ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of +anybody in the household.” + +“Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife’s death which comes +back to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief +becomes worse, and as your father has said very wisely, it is +absolutely necessary for you to marry again.” + +“Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised +me to ask don’t suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting +my Catherine, I think of her all the more.” + +“Apparently that’s because we haven’t been able to understand +your taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must +be a woman somewhere who is made for you, for God doesn’t make +anybody without placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you +know where to find this woman whom you need, take her, and be she +pretty or ugly, young or old, rich or poor, we have made up our +minds, my husband and I, to give our consent, for we are tired +of seeing you so sad, and we can never be happy while you are +sorrowful.” + +“My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,” +answered Germain; “but your compassion brings small help to my +troubles, for the girl I love doesn’t care for me.” + +“She is too young, then? It’s foolish for you to love a young girl.” + +“Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, +and it’s my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, +working or sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with +you, I can think of nothing else.” + +“Then it’s like a fate cast over you, Germain. There’s but one +remedy, and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen +to you. It’s my duty to look into this, and see whether it’s +practicable. Tell me where she lives, and what’s her name.” + +“Oh, my dear mother, I dare not,” said Germain, “because you will +make fun of me.” + +“I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, +and I don’t wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?” + +“No, mother, of course not.” + +“Or Rosette?” + +“No.” + +“Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl +in the countryside.” + +Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer. + +“Very good,” said Mother Maurice, “I shall let you alone for +to-day; to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, +or possibly your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly.” +And she picked up her basket to go and spread her linen on the +bushes. + +Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see +that they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his +mother, and at length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette. + +Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person +she would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, +and made her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt +Germain, she stretched out her basket toward him and said: + +“Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this +load, and come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? +Are you fully decided?” + +“Alas, dear mother, you mustn’t speak in that way. I should be +decided if I had a chance of success, but as I could never be +heard, I have only made up my mind to cure myself, if I can.” + +“And if you can’t.” + +“There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is +laden too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, +she dies.” + +“Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God +grant not, Germain. I don’t like to hear a man like you talk of +those things; for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and +weakness is dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can’t conceive +that a poverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to +ask her to marry you, will refuse you.” + +“Yet it’s the truth: she does refuse me.” + +“And what reasons does she give you?” + +“That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a +great deal to yours, and that she doesn’t wish to displease you by +turning me away from a rich marriage.” + +“If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an +honest girl she is. But, Germain, she doesn’t cure you; for of +course she tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we +were willing?” + +“That’s the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be +mine.” + +“If she says what she doesn’t think in order to keep you at a +safer distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass +over her youth on account of her great good sense.” + +“Yes,” said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; +“that would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so +sensible, I am sure it is because I displease her.” + +“Germain,” said Mother Maurice, “you must promise me not to worry +for a whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be +as gay as you used to be. For my part, I’ll speak to my husband, +and if I gain his consent, you shall know the girl’s real feelings +toward you.” + +Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in +private from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The +husbandman did his best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and +more troubled. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +XVI + +Little Marie + + +At length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law +asked Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart +since the conversation in the orchard. + +“Why, none at all,” answered he; “I haven’t spoken to her.” + +“How can you expect to win her if you don’t speak to her?” + +“I have spoken to her but once,” replied Germain. “That was when we +were together at Fourche, and since then I haven’t said a single +word. Her refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear +her begin again to tell me that she doesn’t love me.” + +“But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his +approval. So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if +need be, I shall order you to do it, for you can’t rest in this +uncertainty.” + +Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette’s house, hanging his +head with a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth +so thoughtful that she did not hear Germain’s step. When she saw +him before her, she started from her chair in surprise and grew +very red. + +“Little Marie,” said he, sitting down near her, “I come to trouble +you and to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and +his wife at home [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he +designated the heads of the house] wish me to speak to you, and beg +you to marry me. You don’t care for me. I am prepared for it.” + +“Germain,” answered little Marie, “are you sure that you love me?” + +“It pains you, I know, but it isn’t my fault. If you could change +your mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I +don’t deserve it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?” + +“No, Germain,” she answered, with a smile, “you are better looking +than I.” + +“Don’t make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never +lost a single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how +much I love you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there, +and every girl knows how to read that writing.” + +Marie looked into Germain’s eyes with playful boldness; then of a +sudden she turned away her head and trembled. + +“Good God,” exclaimed Germain, “I make you afraid; you look at me +as though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don’t be afraid of me, +please don’t; that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words +to you, I shall not kiss you if you will not have me, and when you +wish me to go away, you have only to show me the door. Must I go in +order to stop your trembling?” + +Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning +her head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a +word. + +“I understand,” said Germain. “You pity me, for you are kind; you +are sorry to make me unhappy; but you can’t love me.” + +“Why do you say these things to me, Germain?” answered little +Marie, after a pause. “Do you wish to make me cry?” + +“Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don’t +love me, and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see +your dislike and your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your +hand! In the forest, when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping +too, I almost kissed you very gently. But I would have died of +shame rather than ask it of you, and that night I suffered as a man +burning over a slow fire. Since that time I have dreamed of you +every night. Ah! how I have kissed you, Marie! Yet during all that +time you have slept without a dream. And now, do you know what I +think? I think that were you to turn and look at me with the eyes +I have for you, and were you to move your face close to mine, I +believe I should fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if such +a thing were to happen, you would die of anger and shame!” + +Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little +Marie was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more +and did not notice it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were +filled with tears, and she looked at him reproachfully. The poor +husbandman thought that this was the last blow, and without waiting +for his sentence, he rose to go, but the girl stopped him, and +throwing both her arms about him, she hid her face in his breast. + +“Oh, Germain,” she sobbed, “didn’t you feel that I loved you?” + +Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into +the cottage on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper, +scourging the imaginary steed with a willow branch, had not brought +him to his senses. He lifted the boy and placed him in the girl’s +arms. + +“See,” said he, “by loving me, you have made more than one person +happy.” + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +APPENDIX + +I + +A Country Wedding + + +Here ends the history of Germain’s marriage as he told it to me +himself, good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind +reader, that I know not how to translate it better; for it is a +real translation that is needed by this old-fashioned and artless +language of the peasants of the country “that I sing,” as they +used to say. These people speak French that is too true for us, +and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the advance of the language has +lost for us many of its old riches. Thus it is with every advance, +and we must make the best of it. Yet it is a pleasure still to +hear those picturesque idioms used in the old districts in the +center of France; all the more because it is the genuine expression +of the laughing, quiet, and delightfully talkative character of +the people who make use of it. Touraine has preserved a certain +precious number of patriarchal phrases. But Touraine was civilized +greatly during the Renaissance, and since its decline she is filled +with fine houses and highroads, with foreigners and traffic. Berry +remained as she was, and I think that after Brittany and a few +provinces in the far south of France, it is the best preserved +district to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes are +so strange and so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes +more, kind reader, if you will allow me to describe to you in +detail a country wedding--Germain’s, for example--at which I had +the pleasure of assisting several years ago. + +For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change +has taken place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than +had been seen in the centuries before the Revolution. Already half +the ceremonies, Celtic, Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my +childhood I have seen in their full vigor, have disappeared. In +a year or two more, perhaps, the railroads will lay their level +tracks across our deep valleys, and will carry away, with the +swiftness of lightning, all our old traditions and our wonderful +legends. + +It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when, +in our country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In +summer the time can hardly be spared, and the work of the farm +cannot suffer three days’ delay, not to speak of the additional +days impaired to a greater or to a less degree by the moral and +physical drunkenness which follows a gala-day. I was seated beneath +the great mantelpiece of the old-fashioned kitchen fireplace when +shots of pistols, barking of dogs, and the piercing notes of the +bagpipe told me that the bridal pair were approaching. Very soon +Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and little Marie, followed by +Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and the godfathers and +godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entry into the +yard. + +Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts,--favors, as +they call them,--and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes, +a dress of dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of +brilliant color, an apron of carnation,--an Indian red much in +vogue at the time, but despised nowadays,--a cap of very white +muslin after that pattern, happily still preserved, which calls to +mind the head-dress of Anne Boleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was +fresh and laughing, but not at all vain, though she had good reason +to be so. Beside her was Germain, serious and tender, like young +Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells of Laban. Another girl would +have assumed an important air and struck an attitude of triumph, +for in every rank it is something to be married for a fair face +alone. Yet the girl’s eyes were moist and shone with tenderness. It +was plain that she was deep in love and had no time to think of the +opinions of others. Her little air of determination was not absent, +but everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. There was +nothing impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her sense of +power. Never have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered with +frankness her young friends who asked if she were happy: + +“Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord.” + +Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his +compliments, and give the customary invitations. First he fastened +to the mantelpiece a branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this +is known as the _writ_--that is to say, the letter of announcement. +Next he gave to every guest a tiny cross made of a bit of blue +ribbon sewn to a transverse bit of pink ribbon--pink for the bride, +blue for the groom. The guests of both sexes were expected to +keep this badge to adorn their caps or their button-holes on the +wedding-day. This is the letter of invitation, the admission ticket. + +Then Father Maurice paid his congratulations. He invited the +head of the house and all his _company_,--that is to say, all +his children, all his friends, and all his servants,--to the +benediction, _to the feast, to the sports, to the dance, and to +everything that follows_. He did not fail to say, “I have come _to +do you the honor of inviting you_”; a very right manner of speech, +even though it appears to us to convey the wrong meaning, for it +expresses the idea of doing honor to those who seem worthy of it. + +Despite the generosity of the invitation carried from house to +house throughout the parish, politeness, which is very cautious +amongst peasants, demands that only two persons from each family +take advantage of it--one of the heads of the house, and one from +the number of their children. + +After the invitations were made, the betrothed couple and their +families took dinner together at the farm. + +Little Marie kept her three sheep on the common, and Germain tilled +the soil as though nothing had happened. + +About two in the afternoon before the day set for the wedding, +the music came. The music means the players of the bagpipe and +hurdy-gurdy, their instruments decorated with long streaming +ribbons, playing an appropriate march to a measure which would +have been rather slow for feet foreign to the soil, but admirably +adapted to the heavy ground and hilly roads of the country. + +Pistol-shots, fired by the young people and the children, announced +the beginning of the wedding ceremonies. Little by little the +guests assembled, and danced on the grass-plot before the house in +order to enter into the spirit of the occasion. When evening was +come they began strange preparations; they divided into two bands, +and when night had settled down they proceeded to the ceremony of +the _favors_. + +All this passed at the dwelling of the bride, Mother Guillette’s +cottage. Mother Guillette took with her her daughter, a dozen +pretty shepherdesses, friends and relatives of her daughter, two or +three respectable housewives, talkative neighbors, quick of wit and +strict guardians of ancient customs. Next she chose a dozen stout +fellows, her relatives and friends; and last of all the parish +hemp-dresser, a garrulous old man, and as good a talker as ever +there was. + +The part which, in Brittany, is played by the bazvalon, the village +tailor, is taken in our part of the country by the hemp-dresser and +the wool-carder, two professions which are unusually combined in +one. He is present at all ceremonies, sad or gay, for he is very +learned and a fluent talker, and on these occasions he must always +figure as spokesman, in order to fulfil with exactitude certain +formalities used from time immemorial. Traveling occupations, which +bring a man into the midst of other families, without allowing him +to shut himself up within his own, are well fitted to make him +talker, wit, storyteller, and singer. + +The hemp-dresser is peculiarly skeptical. He and another village +functionary, of whom we have spoken before, the grave-digger, are +always the daring spirits of the neighborhood. They have talked so +much about ghosts, and they know so well all the tricks of which +these malicious spirits are capable, that they fear them scarcely +at all. It is especially at night that all of them--grave-diggers, +hemp-dressers, and ghosts--do their work. It is also at night when +the hemp-dresser tells his melancholy stories. Permit me to make a +digression. + +When the hemp has reached the right stage, that is to say, when +it has been steeped sufficiently in running water, and half dried +on the bank, it is brought into the yard and arranged in little +upright sheaves, which, with their stalks divided at the base, and +their heads bound in balls, bear in the dusk some small resemblance +to a long procession of little white phantoms, standing on their +slender legs, and moving noiselessly along the wall. + +It is at the end of September, when the nights are still warm, +that they begin to beat it by the pale light of the moon. By day +the hemp has been heated in the oven; at night they take it out to +beat it while it is still hot. For this they use a kind of horse +surmounted by a wooden lever which falls into grooves and breaks +the plant without cutting it. It is then that you hear in the night +that sudden, sharp noise of three blows in quick succession. Then +there is silence; it is the movement of the arm drawing out the +handful of hemp to break it in a fresh spot. The three blows begin +again; the other arm works the lever, and thus it goes on until the +moon is hidden by the early streaks of dawn. As the work continues +but a few days in the year, the dogs are not accustomed to it, and +yelp their plaintive howls toward every point of the horizon. + +It is the time of unwonted and mysterious sounds in the country. +The migrating cranes fly so high that by day they are scarcely +visible. By night they are only heard, and their hoarse wailing +voices, lost in the clouds, sound like the parting cry of souls +in torment, striving to find the road to heaven, yet forced by an +unconquerable fate to wander near the earth about the haunts of +men; for these errant birds have strange uncertainties, and many a +mysterious anxiety in the course of their airy flight. Sometimes +they lose the wind when the capricious gusts battle, or come and go +in the upper regions. When this confusion comes by day, you can see +the leader of the file fluttering aimlessly in the air, then turn +about and take his place at the tail of the triangular phalanx, +while a skilful manœuver of his companions forms them soon in good +order behind him. Often, after vain efforts, the exhausted leader +relinquishes the guidance of the caravan; another comes forward, +tries in his turn, and yields his place to a third, who finds the +breeze, and continues the march in triumph. But what cries, what +reproaches, what protests, what wild curses or anxious questionings +are exchanged in an unknown tongue amongst these winged pilgrims! + +Sometimes, in the resonant night, you can hear these sinister +noises whirling for a long time above the housetops, and as you +can see nothing, you feel, despite your efforts, a kind of dread +and kindred discomfort, until the sobbing multitude is lost in +boundless space. + +There are other noises too which belong to this time of year, and +which sound usually in the orchards. Gathering the fruit is not +yet over, and the thousand unaccustomed cracklings make the tree +seem alive. A branch groans as it bends beneath a burden which has +reached, of a sudden, the last stage of growth; or perhaps an apple +breaks from the twig, and falls on the damp earth at your feet with +a dull sound. Then you hear rush by, brushing the branches and the +grass, a creature you cannot see; it is the peasant’s dog, that +prowling and uneasy rover, at once impudent and cowardly, always +wandering, never sleeping, ever seeking you know not what, spying +upon you, hiding in the brush, and taking flight at the sound of a +falling apple, which he thinks a stone that you are throwing at him. + +It is during those nights, nights misty and gray, that the +hemp-dresser tells his weird stories of will-o’-the-wisps and +milk-white hares, of souls in torment and wizards changed to +wolves, of witches’ vigils at the cross-roads, and screech-owls, +prophetesses of the graveyard. I remember passing the early hours +of such a night while the hemp-dressing was going on, and the +pitiless strokes, interrupting the dresser’s story at its most +awful place, sent icy shivers through our veins. And often too the +good man continued his story as he worked, and four or five words +were lost, terrible words, no doubt, which we dared not make him +repeat, and whose omission added a mystery yet more fearful to the +dark mysteries of the story which had gone before. It was in vain +the servants warned us that it was too late to stay without doors, +and that bedtime had sounded for us long since; they too were dying +to hear more; and then with what terror we crossed the hamlet on +our way home! How deep did the church porch appear to us, and how +thick and black the shadows of the old trees! The graveyard we +dared not see; we shut our eyes tight as we passed it. + +But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solely +with the desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he +is sarcastic and sentimental at need, when love and marriage are +to be sung. It is he who collects and keeps stored in his memory +the oldest songs, and who transmits them to posterity. And so it +is he who acts at weddings the part we shall see him play at the +presentation of little Marie’s favors. + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +II + +The Wedding Favors + + +When all the guests were met together in the house, the doors +and windows were closed with the utmost care; even the garret +window was barricaded; boards and benches, logs and tables were +placed behind every entrance, just as if the inhabitants were +making ready to sustain a siege; and within these fortifications +solemn stillness prevailed until at a distance were heard songs +and laughter and the sounds of rustic music. It was the band of +the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followed by his most trusty +companions and by the grave-digger, relatives, friends, and +servants, who formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile, as they +came nearer the house they slackened their pace, held a council +of war, and became silent. The girls, shut up in the house, had +arranged little loop-holes at the windows by which they could see +the enemy approach and deploy in battle array. A fine, cold rain +was falling, which added zest to the situation, while a great +fire blazed on the hearth within. Marie wished to cut short the +inevitable slowness of this well-ordered siege; she had no desire +to see her lover catch cold, but not being in authority she had +to take an ostensible share in the mischievous cruelty of her +companions. + +When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of the +besiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those +within the house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that +the attack was in earnest, and the children, little reassured by +the efforts of their mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The +whole scene was played so well that a stranger would have been +deceived, and would have made his preparations to fight a band of +brigands. Then the grave-digger, bard and orator of the groom, took +his stand before the door, and with a rueful voice, exchanged the +following dialogue with the hemp-dresser, who was stationed above +the same door: + +_The Grave-digger_: “Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for +the love of Heaven, open the door.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “Who are you, and what right have you to call +us your dear fellow-townsmen? We don’t know you.” + +_The Grave-digger_: “We are worthy folk in great distress. Don’t +be afraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is +falling; our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so +long that our sabots are split.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “If your sabots are split, you can look on the +ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some +_arcelets_ [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on split +sabots to hold them together].” + +_The Grave-digger_: “Willow _arcelets_ are scarcely strong enough. +You are making fun of us, good people, and you would do better +to open your doors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your +dwelling. The spit must be turning, and we can make merry with you, +heart and belly. So open your doors to poor pilgrims who will die +on the threshold if you are not merciful.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us +that. And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?” + +_The Grave-digger_: “We shall tell you that when you open the door, +for we come from so far that you would never believe it.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “Open the door to you? I rather think not. We +can’t trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that +you come?” + +_The Grave-digger_: “We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but +we have been farther still.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?” + +_The Grave-digger_: “At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, +but we have been farther yet.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “You are lying. You have never been as far as +Saint Solange.” + +_The Grave-digger_: “We have been farther, for now we are come from +Saint Jacques of Compostelle.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “What absurdity are you telling us? We don’t +know that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, +brigands, nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are +on our guard. You can’t come in.” + +_The Grave-digger_: “Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are +not pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers +pursued by the keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you +don’t hide us in your hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to +prison.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “And who will prove you are what you say you +are, this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can’t +maintain.” + +_The Grave-digger_: “If you will let us in, we shall show you a +pretty piece of game we have killed.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “Show it right away, for we have our +suspicions.” + +_The Grave-digger_: “All right, open the door or a window to let us +pass the creature in.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at +you through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game +amongst you.” + +Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength, +detached himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and +raised toward the window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron +bar decorated with tufts of straw and ribbons. + +“Ho, ho!” cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm +to feel the roast. “That isn’t a quail nor a partridge; it isn’t +a hare nor a rabbit; it’s something like a goose or a turkey. Upon +my word, you’re clever hunters, and that game didn’t make you run +very far. Move on, you rogues; we know all your lies, and you had +best go home and cook your supper. You are not going to eat ours.” + +_The Grave-digger_: “O Heavens, where can we go to cook our game? +It is very little for so many as we, and, besides, we have neither +place nor fire. At this time every door is closed, and every soul +asleep. You are the only people who are celebrating a wedding at +home, and you must be hardhearted indeed to let us freeze outside. +Once again, good people, open the door; we shall not cost you +anything. You can see that we bring our own meat; only a little +room at your hearth, a little blaze to cook with, and we shall go +on our way rejoicing.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “Do you suppose that we have too much room +here, and that wood is bought for nothing?” + +_The Grave-digger_: “We have here a small bundle of hay to make the +fire. We shall be satisfied with that; only grant us leave to place +the spit across your fireplace.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “That will never do. We are disgusted, and +don’t pity you at all. It is my opinion that you are drunk, that +you need nothing, and that you only wish to come in and steal away +our fire and our daughters.” + +_The Grave-digger_: “Since you won’t listen to reason, we shall +make our way in by force.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “Try, if you want; we are shut in well enough +to have no fear of you, and since you are impudent fellows, we +shall not answer you again.” + +Thereupon the hemp-dresser shut the garret window with a bang, and +came down into the room below by a step-ladder. Then he took the +bride by the hand, the young people of both sexes followed, and +they all began to sing and chatter merrily, while the matrons sang +in piercing voices, and shrieked with laughter in derision and +bravado at those without who were attempting an attack. + +The besiegers, on their side, made a great hubbub. They discharged +their pistols at the doors, made the dogs growl, whacked the walls, +shook the blinds, and uttered frightful shrieks. In short, there +was such a pandemonium that nobody could hear, and such a cloud of +dust that nobody could see. + +And yet this attack was all a sham. The time had not come for +breaking through the etiquette. If, in prowling about, anybody were +to find an unguarded aperture, or any opening whatsoever, he might +try to slip in unobserved, and then, if the carrier of the spit +succeeded in placing his roast before the fire, and thus prove the +capture of the hearth, the comedy was over and the bridegroom had +conquered. + +The entrances of the house, however, were not numerous enough for +any to be neglected in the customary precautions, and nobody might +use violence before the moment fixed for the struggle. + +When they were weary of dancing and screams, the hemp-dresser began +to think of capitulation. He went up to his window, opened it with +precaution, and greeted the baffled assailants with a burst of +laughter. + +“Well, my boys,” said he, “you look very sheep-faced. You thought +there was nothing easier than to come in, and you see that our +defense is good. But we are beginning to have pity on you, if you +will submit and accept our conditions.” + +_The Grave-digger_: “Speak, good people. Tell us what we must do to +approach your hearth.” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: “You must sing, my friends; but sing a song we +don’t know,--one that we can’t answer by a better.” + +“That’s not hard to do,” answered the grave-digger, and he +thundered in a powerful voice: + + “‘Six months ago, ’twas in the spring....’” + + “‘I wandered through the sprouting grass,’” + +answered the hemp-dresser in a slightly hoarse but terrible voice. +“You must be jesting, my poor friends, singing us such time-worn +songs. You see very well that we can stop you at the first word.” + + “‘She was a prince’s daughter....’” + + “‘Right gladly would she wed,’” + +answered the hemp-dresser. “Come, move on to the next; we know that +a little too well.” + +_The Grave-digger_: “How do you like this one?”-- + + “‘As I was journeying home from Nantes.’” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: + + “‘Weary, oh, weary, was I, was I.’” + +“That dates from my grandmother’s time. Let’s have another.” + +_The Grave-digger_: + + “‘One day I went a-walking....’” + +_The Hemp-dresser_: + + “‘Along a lovely wood!’” + +“That one is too stupid! Our little children wouldn’t take the +trouble to answer you. What! Are these all you know?” + +_The Grave-digger_: “Oh, we shall sing you so many that you will +never be able to hear them all.” + +In this way a full hour passed. As the two antagonists were +champions of the country round in the matter of songs, and as +their store seemed inexhaustible, the contest might last all night +with ease, all the more because the hemp-dresser, with a touch of +malice, allowed several ballads of ten, twenty, or thirty couplets +to be sung through, feigning by his silence to admit his defeat. +Then the bridegroom’s camp rejoiced and sang aloud in chorus, and +thought that this time the foe was worsted; but at the first line +of the last couplet, they heard the hoarse croaking of the old +hemp-dresser bellow forth the second rhyme. Then he cried: + +“You need not tire yourselves by singing such a long one, my +children--we know that one to our finger-tips.” + +Once or twice, however, the hemp-dresser made a wry face, +contracted his brow, and turned toward the expectant housewives +with a baffled air. The grave-digger was singing something so old +that his adversary had forgotten it, or perhaps had never even +heard it; but instantly the good gossips chanted the victorious +refrain through their noses with voices shrill as a sea-mew’s, and +the grave-digger, forced to surrender, went on to fresh attempts. + +It would have taken too long to wait for a decision of the victory. +The bride’s party declared itself disposed to be merciful, provided +that the bride were given a present worthy of her. + +Then began the song of the favors to a tune solemn as a church +chant. + +The men without sang together in bass voices: + + “‘Open the door, true love, + Open the door; + I have presents for you, love, + Oh, say not adieu, love.’” + +To this the women answered from within in falsetto, with mournful +voices: + + “‘My father is sorry, my mother is sad, + And I am a maiden too kind by far + At such an hour my gate to unbar.’” + +The men took up the first verse as far as the fourth line and +modified it thus: + + “‘And a handkerchief new, love.’” + +But, on behalf of the bride, the women answered in the same way as +at first. + +For twenty couplets, at least, the men enumerated all the +wedding-presents, always mentioning something new in the last line: +a handsome apron, pretty ribbons, a cloth dress, laces, a golden +cross, and even a hundred pins to complete the modest list of +wedding-presents. The refusal of the women could not be shaken, but +at length the men decided to speak of + + “A good husband, too, love.” + +And the women answered, turning toward the bride and singing in +unison with the men: + + “‘Open the door, true love, + Open the door; + Here’s a sweetheart for you, love, + Pray let us enter, too, love.’” + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +III + +The Wedding + + +Immediately the hemp-dresser drew back the wooden bolt which barred +the door within. At this time it was still the only fastening known +in most of the dwellings of our hamlet. The groom’s band burst into +the bride’s house, but not without a struggle; for the young men +quartered within, and even the old hemp-dresser and the gossips, +made it their duty to defend the hearth. The spit-bearer, upheld +by his supporters, had to plant the roast before the fireplace. +It was a regular battle, although people abstained from striking, +and there was no anger shown in this struggle. But everybody was +pushing and shoving so hard, and there was so much playful pride +in this display of muscular strength, that the results might well +have been serious, although they did not appear so across the +laughs and songs. The poor old hemp-dresser, fighting like a lion, +was pinned to the wall and squeezed by the crowd until his breath +almost left him. More than one champion was upset and trodden under +foot involuntarily; more than one hand, jammed against the spit, +was covered with blood. These games are dangerous, and latterly the +accidents have been so severe that our peasants have determined to +allow the ceremony of the favors to fall into disuse; I believe we +saw the last at the marriage of François Meillant, although there +was no real struggle on that occasion. + +The battle was earnest enough, however, at Germain’s wedding. It +was a point of honor on one side to invade, on the other to defend, +Mother Guillette’s hearth. The great spit was twisted like a screw +beneath the strong fists which fought for it. A pistol-shot set +fire to a small quantity of hemp arranged in sheaves and laid on a +wicker shelf near the ceiling. This incident created a diversion, +and while some of the company crowded about to extinguish the +sparks, the grave-digger, who had climbed unbeknown into the +garret, came down the chimney and seized the spit, at the very +moment when the ox-driver, who was defending it near the hearth, +raised it above his head to prevent it from being torn away. Some +time before the attack, the women had taken the precaution to put +out the fire lest in the struggle somebody should fall in and get +burned. The jocular grave-digger, in league with the ox-driver, +grasped the trophy and tossed it easily across the andirons. It was +done! Nobody might interfere. The grave-digger sprang to the middle +of the room and lighted a few wisps of straw, which he placed about +the spit under pretense of cooking the roast, for the goose was in +pieces and the floor was strewn with its scattered fragments. + +Then there was a great deal of laughter and much boastful dispute. +Everybody showed the marks of the blows he had received, and as it +was often a friend’s hand that had struck them, there was no word +of complaint nor of quarreling. The hemp-dresser, half flattened +out, kept rubbing the small of his back and saying that, although +it made small difference to him, he protested against the ruse of +his friend, the grave-digger, and that if he had not been half +dead, the hearth had never been captured so easily. The women swept +the floor and order was restored. The table was covered with jugs +of new wine. When the contestants had drunk together and taken +breath, the bridegroom was led to the middle of the chamber, and, +armed with a wand, he was obliged to submit to a fresh trial. + +During the struggle, the bride and three of her companions had been +hidden by her mother, godmother, and aunts, who had made the four +girls sit down in a remote corner of the room while they covered +them with a large white cloth. Three friends of Marie’s height, +with caps of a uniform size, were chosen, so that when they were +enveloped from head to toe by the cloth it was impossible to tell +them apart. + +The bridegroom might not touch them, except with the tip of his +staff, and then merely to designate which he thought to be his +wife. They allowed him time enough to make an examination with no +other help than his eyes afforded, and the women, placed on either +side, kept zealous watch lest cheating should occur. Should he +guess wrong, he might not dance with his bride, but only with her +he had chosen by mistake. + +When Germain stood in front of these ghosts wrapped in the same +shroud, he feared he should make a wrong choice; and, in truth, +that had happened to many another, so carefully and conscientiously +were the precautions made. His heart beat loud. Little Marie did +her best to breathe hard and shake the cloth a little, but her +malicious companions followed her example, and kept poking the +cloth with their fingers, so that there were as many mysterious +signals as there were girls beneath the canopy. The square +head-dresses upheld the cloth so evenly that it was impossible to +discern the contour of a brow outlined by its folds. + +After ten minutes’ hesitation, Germain shut his eyes, commended his +soul to God, and stretched out the wand at random. It touched the +forehead of little Marie, who cast the cloth from her, and shouted +with triumph. Then it was his right to kiss her, and lifting her +in his strong arms, he bore her to the middle of the room, where +together they opened the dance, which lasted until two in the +morning. The company separated to meet again at eight. As many +people had come from the country round, and as there were not beds +enough for everybody, each of the village maidens took to her bed +two or three other girls, while the men spread themselves pell-mell +on the hay in the barn-loft. You can imagine well that they had +little sleep, for they did nothing but wrestle and joke, and tell +foolish stories. Properly, there were three sleepless nights at +weddings, and these we cannot regret. + +At the time appointed for departure, when they had partaken of +milk-soup, seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to stimulate the +appetite,--for the wedding-feast gave promise of great bounty,--the +guests assembled in the farm-yard. Since our parish had been +abolished, we had to go half a league from home to receive the +marriage blessing. It was cool and pleasant weather, but the +roads were in such wretched condition that everybody was on +horseback, and each man took a companion on his crupper, whether +she were young or old. Germain started on the gray, and the mare, +well-groomed, freshly shod, and decked out with ribbons, pranced +about and snorted fire from her nostrils. The husbandman went to +the cottage for his bride in company with his brother-in-law, +Jacques, who rode the old gray, and carried Mother Guillette on +the crupper, while Germain returned to the farm-yard in triumph, +holding his dear little wife before him. + +Then the merry cavalcade set out, escorted by the children, who +ran ahead and fired off their pistols to make the horses jump. +Mother Maurice was seated in a small cart, with Germain’s three +children and the fiddlers. They led the march to the sound of their +instruments. Petit-Pierre was so handsome that his old grandmother +was pride itself. But the eager child did not stay long at her +side. During a moment’s halt made on the journey, before passing +through a difficult piece of road, he slipped away and ran to beg +his father to carry him in front on the gray. + +“No, no,” replied Germain, “that will call forth some disagreeable +joke; we mustn’t do it.” + +“It’s little that I care what the people of Saint Chartier say,” +said little Marie. “Take him up, Germain, please do; I shall be +prouder of him than I am of my wedding-gown.” + +Germain yielded, and the pretty trio darted into the crowd borne by +the triumphant gallop of the gray. + +And so it was; the people of Saint Chartier, although they were +very sarcastic, and somewhat disdainful of the neighboring parishes +which had been annexed to theirs, never thought of laughing when +they saw such a handsome husband, such a lovely wife, and a child +that a king’s wife might court. Petit-Pierre was all dressed in +light blue cloth, with a smart red waistcoat so short that it +descended scarcely below his chin. The village tailor had fitted +his armholes so tight that he could not bring his two little hands +together. But, oh, how proud he was! He wore a round hat, with a +black-and-gold cord, and a peacock’s plume which stuck out proudly +from a tuft of guinea feathers. A bunch of flowers, bigger than +his head, covered his shoulder, and ribbons fluttered to his feet. +The hemp-dresser, who was also the barber and hair-dresser of the +district, had cut his hair evenly, by covering his head with a +bowl, and clipping off the protruding locks, an infallible method +for guiding the shears. Thus arrayed, the poor child was less +poetic, certainly, than with his curls streaming in the wind, and +his Saint John Baptist’s sheepskin about him; but he knew nothing +of this, and everybody admired him and said that he had quite the +air of a little man. His beauty triumphed over everything, for what +is there over which the exceeding beauty of childhood could not +triumph? + +His little sister, Solange, had, for the first time in her life, +a peasant’s cap in place of the calico hood which little girls +wear until they are two or three years old. And what a cap it was! +Longer and larger than the poor little thing’s whole body. How +beautiful she thought it! She dared not even turn her head; so she +kept quite still and thought the people would take her for the +bride. + +As for little Sylvain, he was still in long clothes, and, fast +asleep on his grandmother’s knees, he did not even know what a +wedding was. + +Germain looked at his children tenderly, and when they reached the +town hall, he said to his bride: + +“Marie, I have come here with a happier heart than I had the day +when I brought you home from the forest of Chanteloube, thinking +that you could never love me. I took you in my arms to put you on +the ground as I do here; but I thought that never again should we +be mounted on the good gray with the child on our knees. I love you +so dearly, I love these little creatures so dearly, I am so happy +that you love me and that you love them, and that my family love +you, and I love your mother so well and all my friends so well, +and everybody else so well to-day, that I wish I had three or four +hearts to fill all of them; for surely one is too small to hold so +much love and so much happiness. It almost makes my stomach ache.” + +There was a crowd at the door of the town hall and another at +the church to see the pretty bride. Why should we not tell about +her dress? it became her so well. Her muslin cap, without spot +and covered with embroidery, had lappets trimmed with lace. At +that time peasant women never allowed a single lock to be seen, +and, although they conceal beneath their caps splendid coils of +hair tied up with tape to hold the coif in place, even to-day it +would be thought a scandal and a shame for them to show themselves +bareheaded to men. Nowadays, however, they allow a slender braid +to appear over their foreheads, and this improves their appearance +very much. Yet I regret the classic head-dress of my time; its +spotless laces next the bare skin gave an effect of pristine purity +which seemed to me very solemn; and when a face looked beautiful +thus it was with a beauty of which nothing can express the charm +and unaffected majesty. + +Little Marie wore her cap thus, and her forehead was so white and +so pure that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the +shade. Although she had not closed an eye the night before, the +morning air and, yet more, the joy within of a soul pure as the +heaven, and, more than all, a small secret flame guarded with the +modesty of girlhood, caused a bloom to mount to her cheeks delicate +as the peach-blossom in the first beams of an April sun. + +Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible +only the soft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove’s; her +home-made cloth gown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure, +which looked already perfect, yet which must still grow and +develop, for she was but seventeen. She wore an apron of violet +silk with the bib our peasant women were so foolish as to suppress, +which added so much elegance and decency to the breast. Nowadays +they display their scarfs more proudly, but there is no longer in +their dress that delicate flower of the purity of long ago, which +made them look like Holbein’s virgins. They are more forward and +more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom used to be a +kind of staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper and more +ideal. + +During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed +the “thirteen”--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his +bride’s hand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form +unchanged for centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by +the golden wedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said +in a low voice: + +“Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for, +Germain?” + +“Yes,” answered he, “my Catherine wore it on her finger when she +died. There is but one ring for both my weddings.” + +“Thank you, Germain,” said the young woman, in a serious and +impressive tone. “I shall die with it on, and if I go before you, +you must keep it for the marriage of your little Solange.” + + + + +[Illustration: (Ornament)] + +IV + +The Cabbage + + +They mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast was +bountiful, and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted until +midnight. For fourteen hours the old people did not leave the +table. The grave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well. He +was celebrated for this, and he would leave his fire to come in +and dance and sing before and after every course. And yet this +poor Father Bontemps was epileptic. Who would have thought it? He +was fresh and strong, and merry as a young man. One day we found +him in a ditch, struck down by his malady at nightfall. We carried +him home with us, in a wheelbarrow, and we spent all night in +caring for him. Three days afterward, he was at a wedding, singing +like a thrush, jumping like a kid, and bustling about after his +old fashion. When he left a marriage, he would go to dig a grave, +and nail up a coffin. Then he would become very grave, and though +nothing of this appeared in his gay humor, it left a melancholy +impression which hastened the return of his attacks. His wife was +paralyzed, and had not stirred from her chair for twenty years. His +mother is living yet, at a hundred and forty, but he, poor man, so +happy and good and amusing, was killed last year by falling from +his loft to the sidewalk. Doubtless he died a victim to a fatal +attack of his disease, and, as was his habit, had hidden in the +hay, so as not to frighten and distress his family. In this tragic +manner he ended a life strange as his disposition--a medley of +things sad and mad, awful and gay; and, in the midst of all, his +heart was ever good and his nature kind. + +Now we come to the third day of the wedding, the most curious of +all, which is kept to-day in all its vigor. We shall not speak of +the roast which they carry to the bridal bed; it is a very silly +custom, and hurts the self-respect of the bride, while it tends to +ruin the modesty of the attendant girls. Besides, I believe that it +is practised in all the provinces, and does not belong peculiarly +to our own. + +Just as the ceremony of the wedding favors is a symbol that the +heart and home of the bride are won, that of the cabbage is a +symbol of the fruitfulness of marriage. When breakfast is over on +the day after the wedding, this fantastic representation begins. +Originally of Gallic derivation, it has passed through primitive +Christianity, and little by little it has become a kind of mystery, +or droll morality-play of the Middle Ages. + +Two boys, the merriest and most intelligent of the company, +disappear from breakfast, and after costuming themselves, return +escorted by dogs, children, and pistol-shots. They represent a +pair of beggars--husband and wife--dressed in rags. The husband is +the filthier of the two; it is vice which has brought him so low; +the wife is unhappy and degraded only through the misdeeds of her +husband. + +They are called the gardener and the gardener’s wife, and they +pretend it is their duty to guard and care for the sacred cabbage. +The husband has several names, each with a meaning. Sometimes they +call him the “scarecrow,” because his head is covered with straw or +hemp, and because his legs and a portion of his body are surrounded +with straw to hide his nakedness, ill concealed by his rags. He has +also a great belly, or hump, constructed of straw or hay underneath +his blouse. Then he is known as the “ragamuffin,” on account of his +covering of rags. Lastly he is termed the “infidel,” and this is +most significant of all, because by his cynicism and his debauchery +he is supposed to typify the opposite of every Christian virtue. + +He comes with his face all smeared with soot and the lees of +wine, and sometimes made yet more hideous by a grotesque mask. An +earthenware cup, notched and broken, or an old sabot attached to +his girdle by a cord, shows that he has come to beg for alms of +wine. Nobody refuses him, and he pretends to drink; then he pours +the wine on the ground by way of libation. At every step he falls, +rolls in the mud, and feigns to be a prey to the most shameful +drunkenness. His poor wife runs after him, picks him up, calls for +help, arranges his hempen locks, which straggle forth in unkempt +wisps from beneath his filthy hat, sheds tears over her husband’s +degradation, and pours forth pathetic reproaches. + +“Wretched man,” she cries, “see the misery to which your wickedness +has brought us. I have to spend all my time sewing and working +for you, mending your clothes. You tear and bedraggle yourself +incessantly. You have eaten up all my little property; our six +children lie on straw, and we are living in a stable with the +beasts. Here we are forced to beg for alms, and, besides, you are +so ugly and vile and despicable that very soon they will be tossing +us bread as if we were dogs. Ah, my poor people, take pity on us! +Take pity on me! I haven’t deserved my lot, and never had woman +a more dirty and detestable husband. Help me to pick him up, else +the wagons will run over him as they run over broken bottles, and +I shall be a widow, and that will end by killing me with grief, +though all the world says it would be an excellent riddance for +me.” Such is the part of the gardener’s wife, and her continued +lamentations last during the entire play. For it is a genuine +spontaneous comedy acted on the spur of the moment in the open +air, along the roads and across the fields, aided by every chance +occurrence that presents itself. Everybody shares in the acting, +people within the wedding-party and people without, wayfarers and +dwellers in houses, for three or four hours of the day, as we +shall see. The theme is always the same, but the variations are +infinite; and it is here that we can see the instinct of mimicry, +the abundance of droll ideas, the fluency, the wit at repartee, and +even the natural eloquence of our peasants. + +The rôle of gardener’s wife is intrusted commonly to a slender +man, beardless and fresh of face, who can give a great appearance +of truth to his personification and plays the burlesque despair +naturally enough to make people sad and glad at once, as they are +in real life. These thin, beardless men are not rare among us, and, +strangely enough, they are sometimes most remarkable for their +muscular strength. + +When the wife’s misfortunes have been explained, the young men of +the company try to persuade her to leave her drunken husband and +to amuse herself with them. They offer her their arms and drag her +away. Little by little she gives way; her spirits rise, and she +begins to run about, first with one and then with another, and +grows more scandalous in her behavior: a fresh “morality”; the +ill-conduct of the husband excites and aggravates the evil in the +wife. + +Then the “infidel” wakes from his drunkenness. He looks about for +his companion, arms himself with a rope and a stick and rushes +after her. They make him run, they hide, they pass the wife from +one to another, they try to divert her attention and to deceive +her jealous spouse. His friends try to get him drunk. At length he +catches his unfaithful wife, and wishes to beat her. What is truest +and most carefully portrayed in this play is that the jealous +husband never attacks the men who carry off his wife. He is very +polite and prudent with them, and wishes only to take vengeance +on the sinning woman, because she is supposed to be too feeble to +offer resistance. + +At the moment, however, when he raises his stick and prepares his +cord to strike the delinquent, all the men in the party interpose +and throw themselves between husband and wife. + +“Don’t strike her! Never strike your wife,” is the formula repeated +to satiety during these scenes. They disarm the husband, and force +him to pardon and to kiss his wife, and soon he pretends to love +her better than ever. He walks along, his arm linked in hers, +singing and dancing until, in a new access of drunkenness, he rolls +upon the ground, and then begin all over again the lamentations +of the wife, her discouragements, her pretended unfaithfulness, +her husband’s jealousy, the interference of the neighbors, and +the reconciliation. In all this there is a simple and even coarse +lesson, which, though it savors strongly of its Middle-Age origin, +does not fail to fix its impression if not on the married folk, +who are too loving or too sensible to have need of it, at least +upon the children and the young people. The “infidel,” racing after +young girls and pretending to wish to kiss them, frightens and +disgusts them to such a degree that they fly in unaffected terror. +His dirty face and his great stick, harmless as it is, make the +children shriek aloud. It is the comedy of customs in their most +elementary but their most striking state. + +When this farce is well under way, people make ready to hunt +for the cabbage. They bring a stretcher and place upon it the +“infidel,” armed with a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four +powerful men raise him on their shoulders. His wife follows on +foot, and after her come the “elders” in a body with serious and +thoughtful looks; then the wedding-march begins by couples to +a step tuned to music. Pistol-shots begin anew, and dogs bark +louder than ever at the sight of the filthy “infidel” borne aloft +in triumph. The children swing incense in derision with sabots +fastened at the end of a cord. + +But why this ovation to an object so repulsive? They are marching +to the capture of the sacred cabbage, emblem of the fruitfulness of +marriage, and it is this drunkard alone who can bear the symbolic +plant in his hand. Doubtless, there is in it a pre-Christian +mystery which recalls the Saturnalian feasts or some rout of the +Bacchanals. Perhaps this “infidel,” who is, at the same time, +preeminently a gardener, is none other than Priapus himself, god of +gardens and of drunkenness, a divinity who must have been pure and +serious in his origin as is the mystery of birth, but who has been +degraded bit by bit through license of manners and distraction of +thought. + +However this may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the +bride’s house, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest +cabbage, and this is not done very quickly, for the old people +keep consulting and disputing interminably, each one pleading for +the cabbage he thinks most suitable. They put it to vote, and when +the choice is made the gardener fastens his cord to the stalk, and +moves away as far as the size of the garden permits. The gardener’s +wife takes care that the sacred vegetable shall not be hurt in its +fall. The wits of the wedding, the hemp-dresser, the grave-digger, +the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, form a ring about the cabbage, +for men who do not till the soil, but pass their lives in other +people’s houses, are thought to be, and are really, wittier and +more talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with a spade, a +ditch deep enough to uproot an oak. Another places on his nose a +pair of wooden or cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of +“engineer,” walks up and down, constructs a plan, stares at the +workmen through his glasses, plays the pedant, cries out that +everything will be spoiled, has the work stopped and begun afresh +as his fancy directs, and makes the whole performance as long +and ridiculous as he can. This is an addition to the formula of +an ancient ceremony held in mockery of theorists in general, for +peasants despise them royally, or from hatred of the surveyors who +decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of the workmen employed +on bridges and causeways, who transform commons into highways, and +suppress old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as it may, +this character in the comedy is called the “geometrician,” and does +his best to make himself unbearable to those who are toiling with +pickaxe and shovel. + +After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties +raised in order to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the +cabbage without injury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into +the faces of the onlookers,--so much the worse for him who does not +retreat in time, for were he bishop or prince he must receive the +baptism of earth,--the “infidel” pulls the rope, the “infidel’s +wife” holds her apron, and the cabbage falls majestically amidst +the applause of the spectators. Then a basket is brought, and +the “infidel” pair plant the cabbage therein with every care and +precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, and support it with +sticks and strings, such as city florists use for their splendid +potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of the sticks, +and twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; they +bedeck the whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophy +upon the stretcher with the “infidel,” whose duty it is to maintain +its equilibrium and preserve it from harm; and, at length, they +move away from the garden in good order and in marching step. + +But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter +the yard of the bridegroom’s house, an imaginary obstacle blocks +the way. The bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries, +retreat, advance once more, and, as though crushed by a resistless +force, they pretend to sink beneath its weight. While this is going +on, the bystanders shout loudly, exciting and steadying this human +team. + +“Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be +patient! Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it’s too +narrow! A little more to the left; now to the right; on with you; +don’t be afraid; you’re almost there.” + +Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded +to overflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter +the barn door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong +beasts, to restrain them or to urge them on; thus it is that with +skill and mighty efforts they force this mountain of riches beneath +the rustic arch of triumph. It is, above all, the last load, +called “the cart of sheaves,” which requires these precautions, +for this is a rural festival, and the last sheaf lifted from the +last furrow is placed on the top of the cart-load ornamented with +ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads of the oxen and the whip +of the driver are decorated also. The triumphant and toilsome entry +of the cabbage into the house is a symbol of the prosperity and +fruitfulness it represents. + +Safe within the bridegroom’s yard, the cabbage is taken from its +stretcher and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn. +Whether it be a chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the +roof, the burden must, at any risk, be carried to the very highest +point of the building. The “infidel” accompanies it as far as this, +sets it down securely, and waters it with a great pitcher of wine, +while a salvo of pistol-shots and demonstrations of joy from the +“infidel’s wife” proclaim its inauguration. + +Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again. +Another cabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is +carried with the same formalities and laid upon the roof which his +wife has deserted to follow him. These trophies remain in their +places until the wind and the rain destroy the baskets and carry +away the cabbage. Yet their lives are long enough to give some +chance of fulfilment to the prophecies which the old men and women +make with bows and courtesies. + +“Beautiful cabbage,” they say, “live and flourish that our young +bride may have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die +too quickly it is a sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there +like an ill omen.” + +The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished. +All that remains undone is to take home the godfathers and +godmothers of the newly married couple. When the so-called parents +dwell at a distance, they are accompanied by the music and the +whole wedding procession as far as the limits of the parish; there +they dance anew on the highroad, and everybody kisses them good-by. +The “infidel” and his wife are then washed and dressed decently, if +the fatigue of their parts has not already driven them away to take +a nap. + +Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall +of Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain +was married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good +reason. They recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn +on the morrow. While they were regaining their dwellings, silently +and with uncertain steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to +hitch his oxen, leaving his young wife to slumber until daylight. +The lark, caroling as it mounted to the skies, seemed to him the +voice of his heart returning thanks to Providence. The hoar-frost, +sparkling on the leafless bushes, seemed to him the whiteness of +April flowers that comes before the budding leaves. Everything in +nature was laughing and happy for him. Little Pierre had laughed +and jumped so much the evening before that he did not come to +help lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone. He fell on +his knees in the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said his +morning prayer with such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled +down his cheeks, still moist with sweat. + +Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages, +who were starting on their return home, singing again in their +hoarse voices the happy tunes of the night before. + + +THE END. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL’S POOL *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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