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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Autumn Glory, by René Bazin, Translated by
+Ellen Waugh
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: Autumn Glory
+       The Toilers of the Field
+
+
+Author: René Bazin
+
+
+
+Release Date: December 9, 2011  [eBook #38255]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUTUMN GLORY***
+
+
+E-text prepared by Hélène de Mink, renebazin, and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
+
+
+
+Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
+      file which includes the original illustrations.
+      See 38255-h.htm or 38255-h.zip:
+      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38255/38255-h/38255-h.htm)
+      or
+      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38255/38255-h.zip)
+
+
+Transcriber's note:
+
+   Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
+
+   Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
+
+
+
+
+
+AUTUMN GLORY
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Jarrold & Sons'
+
+    New Six-Shilling Fiction.
+
+    By MAURUS JOKAI.
+
+    _Halil the Pedlar._
+
+    (The White Rose.)
+
+
+    By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI.
+
+    _Tales From Tolstoi._
+
+    Translated from the Russian by R. NISBET
+    BAIN, and with Biography of the Author.
+
+
+    By the Author of "ANIMA VILIS."
+
+    _Distaff._
+
+    By MARYA RODZIEWICZ.
+
+    Translated from the Polish by COUNT STANISLAUS
+    C. DE SOISSONS.
+
+
+    By RENE BAZIN.
+
+    _Autumn Glory._
+
+    Translated by MRS. ELLEN WAUGH.
+
+
+    By the Author of
+
+    "DUKE RODNEY'S SECRET."
+
+    _Ivy Cardew._
+
+    By PERRINGTON PRIMM.
+
+
+    By HULBERT FULLER.
+
+    _God's Rebel._
+
+
+    By MARTHA BAKER DUNN.
+
+    _Memory Street._
+
+
+    London:
+    JARROLD & SONS,
+    Publishers,
+    10 & 11, Warwick Lane,
+    E.C.
+
+    At the Libraries.
+    And of all Booksellers.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Illustration: Rene Bazin]
+
+
+AUTUMN GLORY
+
+Or
+
+The Toilers of the Field
+
+by
+
+RENE BAZIN
+
+Author of "A Blot of Ink," etc.
+
+Translated by Mrs. Ellen Waugh
+
+With Photogravure Portrait of the Author
+
+SANS PEUR ET
+SANS REPROCHE
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Authorised Edition
+
+London
+Jarrold & Sons      All Rights Reserved
+10 & 11, Warwick Lane, E.C.      1901
+
+Translated from the French, "La Terre qui Meurt,"
+by Mrs. Ellen Waugh.
+
+Copyright
+London: Jarrold & Sons
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+    CHAPTER                                  PAGE
+
+        I. LA FROMENTIERE                       7
+
+       II. THE FAMILY LUMINEAU                 24
+
+      III. THE DWARF ORCHARD                   48
+
+       IV. THE MICHELONNES                     65
+
+        V. PLOUGHING IN SEPTEMBER              77
+
+       VI. THE APPEAL TO THE MASTER           102
+
+      VII. DRIOT'S RETURN                     116
+
+     VIII. IN THE PLACE DE L'EGLISE           133
+
+       IX. THE CONSCRIPTS OF SALLERTAINE      147
+
+        X. THE UPROOTED VINEYARD              158
+
+       XI. THE DANCE AT LA SEULIERE           178
+
+      XII. ROUSILLE'S LOVE DREAM              196
+
+     XIII. THE AUCTION                        208
+
+      XIV. DWELLERS IN TOWNS                  240
+
+       XV. THE EMIGRANT                       255
+
+      XVI. HER FATHER'S BIDDING               264
+
+     XVII. A FEBRUARY NIGHT                   274
+
+    XVIII. SPRINGTIDE                         289
+
+
+
+
+AUTUMN GLORY.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+LA FROMENTIERE.
+
+
+"Quiet! Bas-Rouge, down! Don't you know folk born and bred here?"
+
+The dog thus addressed, a mongrel in which some twenty breeds were
+mixed, with grey long-haired coat changing to auburn silky fleece
+about the paws, at once left off barking at the gate, trotted along
+the grassy path bordering the field, and, content at having done his
+duty, sat down at the extreme edge of the line of cabbages which the
+farmer was trimming. Along the same path a man was approaching, clad
+in gaiters and a suit of well-worn corduroys. His pace was the even
+steady gait of a man accustomed to tramp the country. The face in its
+setting of black beard was drawn and pale, the eyes, accustomed to
+roam the hedges and rest nowhere, bore an expression of weariness and
+mistrust, the contested authority of an agent. He was the head-keeper
+and steward to the Marquis de la Fromentiere.
+
+He came to a halt behind Bas-Rouge, whose eyelids gave a furtive
+quiver, though his ears made not the slightest movement.
+
+"Good day, Lumineau."
+
+"Good day."
+
+"I have a word to say to you. M. le Marquis has written."
+
+Probably he expected the farmer to leave his cabbages and come towards
+him. Not a bit of it. The yeoman of the Marais bending double, a huge
+bundle of green leaves in his arms, stood some thirty feet off,
+looking askance at the keeper waiting motionless in the path. What did
+he want of him? His well-fed cheeks broadened into a smile, his clear,
+deep-set eyes lengthened. In order to show his independence, he bent
+down and resumed his labours for a moment without reply. He felt
+himself upon the ground that he looked upon as his own, which his race
+had cultivated by virtue of a contract indefinitely renewed. Around
+him, his cabbages formed an immense square, a billowy mass of superb
+growth, firm and heavy, their colour comprising every imaginable shade
+of green, blue, and violet, tinting in harmony with the hues of the
+setting sun. Of huge stature though he was, the farmer plunged to his
+middle, like a ship, in this compact sea of vegetation. All that was
+to be seen above it was the short coat and round felt hat, set well
+back on his head, from which hung velvet streamers, the headgear of La
+Vendee.
+
+When by this period of silence and labour he had sufficiently marked
+the superiority of a tenant farmer over a hired labourer, Lumineau
+straightening himself, said:
+
+"You can talk on; there's no one here but me and my dog."
+
+Nettled, the man replied,
+
+"M. le Marquis is displeased that you did not pay your rent at
+Midsummer. It will soon be three months in arrears."
+
+"But he knows that I have lost two oxen this year; that the wheat is
+poor; and that one must live, I and my sons, and the 'Creatures.'"
+
+By "Creatures" the farmer meant, as is customary in the Marais, his
+two daughters, Eleonore and Marie-Rose.
+
+"Tut, tut," replied the keeper, "it is not reasons he wants from you,
+my good man, it's the money."
+
+The farmer shrugged his shoulders.
+
+"Were he here at the Chateau the Marquis would not require it; I would
+soon explain how things stand. He and I were friends, I may say, as
+his father and mine were before us. I could show him what changes time
+has brought about with me. He would understand. But now one only has
+to do with paid agents, no longer the Master; he is no more to be
+seen, and some folks say we shall never see him at La Fromentiere any
+more. It is a bad thing for us."
+
+"Very likely," returned the keeper, "but it is not my place to discuss
+orders. When will you pay?"
+
+"It's easy to ask when will you pay, but it's another thing to find
+the money."
+
+"Well then, I am to answer, No."
+
+"You will answer, Yes, as it must be. I will pay at Michaelmas, which
+is not far off now."
+
+The farmer was about to stoop to resume his work when the keeper
+added:
+
+"You will do well, too, Lumineau, to look after your man. I found some
+snares the other day in the preserves of La Cailleterie, which could
+only have been laid by him."
+
+"Had he written his name upon them?"
+
+"No. But he is known to be the most desperate poacher in the country
+round. You beware! The Marquis has written to me that you were to go
+out, bag and baggage, if I caught any one of you poaching again."
+
+The farmer let fall his armful of cabbage leaves, and extending his
+two fists, cried:
+
+"You liar! He cannot have said that. I know him better than you do,
+and he knows me. And it's not to a fellow of your sort that he would
+give any such instructions. M. le Marquis to turn me off his land, me,
+his old Lumineau! It is false."
+
+"Those were his written instructions."
+
+"Liar!" repeated the farmer.
+
+"All very well; we shall see," quoth the agent, turning to resume his
+way. "You have been warned. That Jean Nesmy will pay you a bad turn
+one of these days; without taking into account, that for a penniless
+lad from the Bocage, he is rather too sweet on your daughter. People
+are talking, you know."
+
+Ramming his hat down on his head, with crimsoned face and inflated
+chest, the farmer advanced a few steps, as though to fall upon the man
+who had insulted him; but he, leaning on his stout thorn stick, had
+already walked on, and his discontented face was seen outlined against
+the hedge as he rapidly receded. He had a certain dread of the
+colossal farmer whose strength was still formidable despite his years,
+and, moreover, an uneasy sense of the past ill success of his threats,
+a recollection of having been, more than once, disavowed by the
+Marquis de la Fromentiere, their joint master, whose leniency towards
+the Lumineau family he never could understand.
+
+The farmer stopped short, following with his eyes the head-keeper's
+receding figure. He watched as it passed along the fence in the
+opposite corner to the gate, scaled it, and disappeared to the left of
+the farm buildings along the green path leading to the Chateau. When
+he had watched the man finally out of sight:
+
+"No," the farmer exclaimed aloud. "No, the Marquis did not say it!
+Turn us out!"
+
+For the moment the agent's evil insinuations against Marie-Rose, his
+youngest daughter, were completely forgotten, his mind wholly absorbed
+in the threat of being turned out. Slowly, with a harder look in them
+than was their wont, he suffered his eyes to wander around, as if to
+call all the familiar objects to witness that the man had lied; then,
+stooping down, he resumed his labours.
+
+The sun, already low in the heavens, had nearly reached the row of
+young elms which bordered the field to the west, their lopped branches
+that ended in tufts of leaves resembling huge marguerites were bending
+to the strong sea breeze. It was the beginning of September, the time
+of evening when a glow of heat seems to traverse the descending chills
+of night. The farmer worked on as quickly and unremittingly as any
+younger man; his outstretched hand snapped off the crisp leaves close
+down to the stem of the cabbages with a noise as of breaking glass,
+where they lay in heaps along the furrows beneath the over-arching
+rows of plants. Hidden in the gloom, whence was emitted the warm,
+moist smell of earth, he was lost amid the huge velvety leaves
+intersected with their purple veins of colour. In truth he made one
+with the vegetation, and it would have been difficult to discern which
+was corduroy and which cabbage in the billowy expanse of the
+blue-green field.
+
+Withal, close to earth as was his bent body, his soul was agitated and
+deep in thought; and as he worked, the farmer continued to ponder
+many things. The irritation caused by the keeper's threats had
+subsided; it only needed reflection to dismiss all fear of hard
+treatment from the Marquis. Did they not both come of a good stock;
+and did they not acknowledge it, one of the other? For the yeoman's
+ancestor was a Lumineau who had fought in the great war; and although
+now in these changed times he never mentioned past glories, neither
+the nobles nor the peasants were ignorant that his ancestor, a giant,
+surnamed Brin d'Amour, in the war of La Vendee, had taken the generals
+of the insurrection across the marshes in his own punt, had fought
+brilliantly, and had received a sword of honour, which now hung, eaten
+with rust, behind one of the farm presses. The family was one of the
+most widely connected in the country side. He claimed cousinship with
+thirty farmers, spread over that district which formed the Marais,
+extending from Saint Gilles to the Ile de Bouin. No one, himself
+included, could tell at what period his forefathers had begun to till
+the fields of La Fromentiere. They had been there of right for
+generations, the Marquis in his Castle, the Lumineaus in their farm,
+united through long custom, each knowing the land and alike loving it;
+drinking the vintage of the soil together when they met; never
+dreaming that one or the other could ever forsake Chateau or farm
+bearing one and the same name.
+
+And, in truth, eight years ago, great had been the astonishment when
+one Christmas morning, amid falling sleet, M. Henri, the present
+Marquis, a man of forty, a greater hunter, harder drinker, and more
+boorish mannered than any of his predecessors, had said to Toussaint
+Lumineau, "My Toussaint, I am going to live in Paris. My wife cannot
+accustom herself to this place; it is too dull and too cold for her.
+But do not worry; I shall come back." He had never come back, save on
+rare occasions for a day or two. But, of course, he had not forgotten
+the past. He still remained the same uncouth, kindly master known of
+old, and the keeper had lied when he talked of their being turned out.
+
+No, the more Toussaint Lumineau thought of it the less did he believe
+that a master so rich, so liberal, so good at heart, could have
+written such words. Only the rent must be paid. Well, so it should.
+The farmer himself did not possess two hundred francs ready-money in
+the walnut wood chest beside his bed; but his children were rich,
+having inherited over two thousand francs apiece from their mother, La
+Luminette, dead now these three years past. So he would ask Francois,
+his second son, to lend him the sum due to the master. Francois was
+not a lad without heart, he would not let his old father be in
+difficulties. Once again anxiety for the morrow would be dispelled,
+good harvests would come, prosperous years which should make all
+hearts light again.
+
+Weary of his stooping posture, the farmer straightened himself, passed
+his flannel shirt sleeve over his perspiring face, then turned his
+eyes to the roof of La Fromentiere with the expression of one gazing
+on some well beloved object. To wipe his brow he had taken off his
+hat; now, in the oblique ray of sunshine which no longer reached the
+grass or the cabbages, in the soft declining light like that of a
+happy old age, he raised his firm, square-cut face. His complexion,
+unlike the cadaverous hue of peasants accustomed to scant living, was
+clear and healthy; the full cheeks with their narrow line of black
+whisker, straight nose, broad at the base, square jaw, in fact the
+whole face and clear grey eyes--eyes that always looked a man full in
+the face, betokened health, vigour, and the habit of command, while
+the long lips, refined-looking despite the weather-beaten skin,
+drooping at the corners, bespoke the ready fluency and somewhat
+haughty spirit of a son of the Marshes, who looks down upon everyone
+not belonging to that favoured spot. The perfectly white hair,
+dishevelled and fine, formed a fitting setting to the head, and shone
+with a silvery sheen.
+
+Standing thus motionless with head uncovered in the waning light, the
+farmer of La Fromentiere presented an imposing appearance, making it
+easy to understand the distinction of _la Seigneurie_ commonly given
+him in the neighbourhood. He was called Lumineau l'Eveque, to single
+him out from others of the name, Lumineau le Pauvre; Lumineau
+Barbefine; Lumineau Tournevire.
+
+He was looking at his beloved La Fromentiere. Some hundred yards away
+to the south, among the stems of elms, the pale red tiles stood out
+like rough enamels. Borne on the evening wind there came the sound of
+the lowing of cattle going home to their sheds, the smell of the
+stables, the pungent aroma of camomile and fennel stored up in the
+barn. Nor was that all that presented itself to the farmer's mind as
+he gazed on his roof illuminated by the last rays of the declining
+sun; he called to his mental vision the two sons and two daughters
+living under that roof, Mathurin, Francois, Eleonore, and Marie-Rose,
+the heavy burdens, yet mixed with how much sweetness of his life. The
+eldest, his splendid eldest, doomed by a terrible misfortune to be a
+cripple, only to see others work, never to share it himself; Eleonore,
+who took the place of her dead mother; Francois, weak of nature, in
+whom could be seen but the incomplete, uncertain future master of the
+farm; Rousille, the youngest girl, just twenty.... Had the keeper lied
+again when speaking of the farm-servant's love-making? Not unlikely.
+How could a servant, the son of a poor widow in the Bocage, that
+heavy, unproductive land, how could he dare to pay court to the
+daughter of a farmer of the Marais? He might feel friendship and
+respect for the pretty girl, whose smiling face attracted many a
+remark on the way back from Mass on Sundays at Sallertaine; but
+anything more?... Well, one must watch.... It was but for a moment
+that Toussaint Lumineau pondered the man's insinuations; then with a
+sense of tenderness and comfort his thoughts flew to the absent one,
+the son next in age to Rousille, Andre, the Chasseur d'Afrique, now in
+Algiers as orderly to his Colonel, a brother of the Marquis de la
+Fromentiere. But one month more and that youngest son would be home,
+his time of service expired. They would see him again, the fair,
+handsome young fellow, so tall, the living portrait of his father
+grown young again, full of noble vigour and love for Sallertaine and
+the farmstead. And all anxieties would be forgotten and merged in the
+joy of having the son home again, who used to make the ladies of
+Chalons turn as he passed, to say to each other: "That is a handsome
+lad, Lumineau's youngest son!"
+
+The farmer often remained thus, the day's work done, sunk in thought
+before his farmstead. This time he remained longer than usual in the
+midst of the swaying masses of leaves, now grown grey, indistinct
+looking in the gathering darkness like some unfamiliar ground. The
+trees themselves had become but vague outlines bordering the fields.
+The large expanse of clear sky overhead, still bright with golden
+glory, suffered but faint rays to fall to earth, making objects
+visible but only dimly. Lumineau, putting both hands to his mouth to
+carry the sound, turned towards the farm, and called out lustily:
+
+"Ohe! Rousille?"
+
+The first to respond to the call was the dog, Bas-Rouge, who, at the
+sound of his master's voice, flew like an arrow from the far end of
+the field. Then a young, clear voice was heard in the distance:
+
+"Yes, father, I am coming."
+
+The farmer stooped, took a cord, and bound a huge mass of leaves
+together, loaded it on his shoulder, and staggering under its weight,
+with arms raised to steady it, his head buried in the soft burden,
+followed the furrow, turned, and proceeded down the trodden path. As
+he reached the corner of the field a girl's slender form rose up
+before a break in the hedge. With agile movement Rousille cleared the
+fence; as she alighted her short petticoats revealed a pair of black
+stockings and sabots turned up at the toes.
+
+"Good evening, father."
+
+He could not refrain from thinking of what the keeper had said, and
+made no reply.
+
+Marie-Rose, her two hands on her hips, nodding her little head as if
+meditating something grave, watched him go. Then entering in among the
+furrows she gathered together the remainder of the fallen leaves,
+knotted them with the cord she had brought, and, as her father had
+done, raised the green mass, and though bending beneath the weight,
+proceeded with light step down the grassy path.
+
+To go into the field, collect, and bind together the leaves must have
+taken some ten minutes; her father should have reached the farm by
+now. She neared the fence, when suddenly from the top of the slope,
+the foot of which she was skirting, came a whistle like that of a
+plover. She was not frightened. Now a man jumped over the brambles
+into the field. Rousille threw down her burden. He approached no
+nearer, and they began to talk in brief sentences.
+
+"Oh, Rousille, what a heavy load you are carrying."
+
+"I am strong enough. Have you seen my father?"
+
+"No, I have only just come. Has he said anything against me?"
+
+"He did not say a word. But he looked at me.... Believe me, Jean, he
+mistrusts us. You ought not to stay out to-night, for he dislikes
+poaching and you will be scolded."
+
+"What can it matter to him if I shoot at night, so long as I am as
+early next morning at my work as anyone else? Do I grumble over my
+work? Rousille, I was told at La Seuliere, and the miller of
+Moque-Souris told me too, that plovers have been seen on the Marais.
+It will be full moon to-night, I mean to go out, and you shall have
+some to-morrow morning."
+
+"Jean," she returned, "you ought not.... I assure you."
+
+The young man was carrying a gun slung across his shoulder; over his
+brown coat he wore a short blouse scarcely reaching to his waist-belt.
+He was slim, about the same height as Rousille, dark, sinewy, pale,
+with regular features, and a small moustache, slightly curled at the
+corners of the mouth. The complexion alone served to show that he was
+not a native of the Marais, where the mists soften and tint the skin,
+but of a district where the soil is poor and chalky, and where small
+holdings and penury abound. Withal, from his lean, self-possessed
+countenance, straight-pencilled eyebrows, the fire and vivacity of the
+eyes, one could discern a fund of indomitable energy, a tenacity of
+purpose that would yield to no opposition.
+
+Not for an instant did Rousille's fears move him. A little for love of
+her, but far more for the pleasure of sport and of nocturnal marauding
+so dear to the heart of primitive man, he had made up his mind to go
+shooting that night on the Marais. That being the case, nothing would
+have made him desist, not even the thought of displeasing Marie-Rose.
+
+She looked but a child. Her girlish figure, her fresh young
+complexion, the full oval of her face, the pure brow with its bands of
+hair smoothly parted on either side, straight lips, which one never
+knew were they about to part in a smile or to droop for tears, gave
+her the appearance of a virgin in some sacred procession wearing a
+broad band across the shoulders. Her eyes alone were those of a
+woman, dark chestnut eyes the colour of the hair, wherein lay and
+shone a tenderness youthful yet grave, noble and enduring.
+
+Without having known it, she had been loved for a long time by her
+father's farm-servant. For a year now they had been secretly engaged.
+On Sundays, as she returned from Mass, wearing the flowered muslin
+coif in the form of a pyramid, the coif of Sallertaine, many a
+farmer's, or horse and cattle breeder's son, tried to attract her
+gaze. But she paid no attention to them; had she not betrothed herself
+to Jean Nesmy, the taciturn stranger, poor and friendless, who had no
+place, no authority, no friendship save in her young heart? Already
+she obeyed him. In her home they never spoke to each other.
+Out-of-doors when they could meet their talk was always hurried on
+account of her brothers' watchfulness, that of Mathurin especially,
+the cripple, who was ever jealously prowling about. This time, too,
+they must avoid being surprised.
+
+Jean Nesmy, therefore, without stopping to consider Rousille's cause
+for uneasiness, asked abruptly:
+
+"Have you brought everything?"
+
+Without further insistence she gave in.
+
+"Yes," she answered; and producing from her pocket a bottle of wine
+and slice of coarse bread, she held them out to him with a smile that
+irradiated her whole face, despite the darkness. "Here, my Jean," she
+said, "it was not easy; Lionore is always on the watch, and Mathurin
+follows me about everywhere;" there was melody in her voice, as though
+she was saying, "I love you."
+
+"When will you be back?" she added.
+
+"At dawn. I shall come by the dwarf orchard."
+
+As he spoke, the youth raising his blouse had opened a linen ration
+bag, brought back from his military service, and which he wore hung
+round his neck. In it he stored the wine and bread.
+
+Absorbed in the action, intent on the thing of the moment, he did not
+notice that Rousille was bending forward listening to a sound from the
+farm. When he had finished fastening the two buttons of the ration
+bag, the girl was still listening.
+
+"What am I to answer," she gravely said, "if father asks for you
+presently? He is now shutting the door of the barn."
+
+With a smile that displayed two rows of teeth white as milk, Jean
+Nesmy, touching his hat, unadorned and wider than those worn in the
+Marais, said:
+
+"Good night, Rousille. Tell your father that I am going to be out all
+night, and hope to bring back some plovers for my little sweetheart!"
+
+He turned, sprang up the slope, jumped down into the neighbouring
+field, and the next second the barrel of his gun caught the light as
+it disappeared among the branches.
+
+Rousille still stood before the break in the hedge, her heart had
+gone forth with the wanderer. Then, for the second time, a noise broke
+the stillness of evening. Now it was the sound of frightened fowls,
+the flapping of wings, the noise of a key turning in the lock--the
+sign that Eleonore, as always before supper, was locking the door of
+the fowl-house; Marie-Rose would be late. Hurriedly she caught up her
+load of leaves, cleared the fence, and hastened back to the farm. Soon
+she had reached the uneven grassy path, which, coming from the high
+lands, makes a bend ere, a little further on, it reaches the edge of
+the Marais. Crossing it, she pushed open the side entrance of a large
+gate, followed a half-fallen wall covered with creepers, and passing
+through a ruined archway, whose gaping interstices had once formed the
+imposing centre of the ancient walls, she entered a courtyard,
+surrounded with farm buildings. The barn wherein was piled the green
+forage stood to the left beside the stables. The girl threw in the
+bundle of leaves she had brought, and shaking her damp dress, went
+towards the long, low, tiled dwelling-house forming the end of the
+courtyard. Arrived at the last door on the right, where light shone
+through chinks and keyhole, she paused a little. A feeling of dread,
+often experienced, had come over her. From inside could be heard the
+sound of spoons clinking against the sides of plates; men's voices, a
+dragging step along the floor. Softly as she could she opened the door
+and slipped in.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+THE FAMILY LUMINEAU.
+
+
+The family was assembled in the large living-room, or "house-place" of
+the farm. As the girl entered all eyes were turned upon her, but not a
+word was spoken. Feeling isolated, she crept along beside the wall,
+trying by lessening the noise of her sabots the sooner to escape
+observation, and having reached the chimney-corner, stooped down and
+held out her hands to the fire, as if she were cold.
+
+Her sister Eleonore, a tall young woman with horse-like profile,
+lifeless blue eyes, and heavy apathetic face, drew back either to make
+way for her or to mark the ill-feeling existing between them, and
+continued to eat her slice of bread and few scraps of meat standing,
+the time-honoured custom among the women of La Vendee. The
+chimney-corner, blackened with smoke, hid them from the rest of the
+family as they stood one on either side; the dancing flames between
+them lit up, from time to time, the inmates and contents of the big
+house-place, built at a period when wood was plentiful, and houses
+and furniture were intended to last; while overhead numberless rafters
+discoloured with smoke and dust, joined the huge centre beam. The
+fitful flames anon rested on the woodwork of two four-post beds that
+stood against the wall, each with a walnut wood chest beside it, by
+aid of which the occupants mounted to the heavy structures, two
+wardrobes, some photographs, and a rosary hung round a copper crucifix
+over the nearest bed.
+
+The three men at the table in the centre of the room were seated on
+the same bench in order of precedence; first, at the farthest end from
+the door, the father, then Mathurin, then Francois. A small petroleum
+lamp shed its light upon their bent heads, upon the soup-tureen, a
+dish of cold bacon, and another of uncooked apples. They were not
+eating from the tureen as do many peasant farmers, but each had his
+plate, and beside it his metal spoon, fork, and knife, not a
+pocket-knife but a proper table one, a luxury introduced by Francois
+on his return from military service; from which the old farmer had
+drawn his conclusion that the outside world was full of changes.
+
+Toussaint Lumineau looked worried and kept silence. His calm, strong
+face, though that of an old man, contrasted strangely with the
+deformed features of his eldest son, Mathurin. Formerly they had been
+alike; but since the misfortune of which they never spoke and which
+yet haunted the memories of all at La Fromentiere, the son was only
+the grotesque suffering caricature of his father. The enormous head,
+covered with a bush of tawny hair, was sunk between his high,
+thickened shoulders. The width of chest, length of arms, and size of
+hands denoted a man of gigantic stature; but when this giant,
+supported by his crutches, stood up, one saw a poor twisted, thickened
+torso, with contorted powerless legs dragging after it; a
+prize-fighter's body terminating in two wasted limbs, capable at most
+of supporting it for a few seconds, and from which even, powerless as
+they now were, the life was gradually ebbing. Scarce thirty years of
+age, the beard which grew almost to his cheek-bones was grey in
+places. Above the muddy-veined cheek-bones, from out the tangled mass
+of hair and beard which gave him the appearance of a wild animal,
+shone a pair of deep blue eyes, small, sad-looking, whence would flash
+all suddenly the wild exasperation of one condemned to a living death,
+who counted each stage of his torture. It was as though one half of
+him were assisting with impotent rage at the slow agony of the other.
+His forehead was lined with wrinkles which made deep furrows between
+the eyebrows.
+
+"Our poor eldest son, the handsomest of them all, what a wreck he is!"
+their mother used sorrowfully to say.
+
+She had reason to pity him. Six years ago he had come home from his
+military service as handsome a fellow as when he went. The three
+years of barrack life had passed over his simple peasant nature, over
+his dreams of ploughing the land and harvesting, over the tenets of
+faith he held in common with his race, with scarce a trace of harm.
+Innate contempt of the life led in towns had been his protection.
+"Lumineau's eldest son is not like other lads; he is not a bit
+changed," was the verdict of the neighbours.
+
+One evening when he had taken a waggon-load of corn to the
+flour-miller of Chalons, he came back with empty sacks, but beside
+him, sitting upon a pile of them, was a laughing girl from
+Sallertaine, Felicite Gauvrit, of La Seuliere, whom he wished to take
+for wife. The dusk of evening was over the roads, it was hard to
+distinguish ruts from tufts of grass; but he, all absorbed in his
+sweetheart, confident that his horse knew the way, was not even
+holding the reins that had fallen and were dragging on the ground. And
+suddenly, as they were descending a hill close to La Fromentiere, the
+horse, struck by a branch from a tree, started into a gallop. The
+waggon jerked from side to side, was in danger of being upset; the
+wheels were on the bank, the girl wanted to jump out.
+
+"Don't be frightened, Felicite, I will manage him!" cried her lover.
+And standing up he leant forward to seize the horse by the bit and
+stop him. But whether the darkness, a jolt, or ill-luck deceived him,
+he overbalanced and fell along the harness. There were two
+simultaneous cries, one from the waggon, one from beneath it. The
+wheel had gone over his limbs. When Felicite Gauvrit could get to her
+lover's assistance, she found him trying in vain to struggle up from
+the ground. For eight months Mathurin was groaning in agony; then his
+groans ceased, his sufferings grew less acute; but first the feet
+became paralyzed, then the knees, and gradually the slow death
+mounted.... At the present time he could only drag his lower limbs
+after him, crawling on his knees and wrists, grown to an enormous
+size. He could still guide a punt upon the canals of the Marais, but
+his strength was soon exhausted. In a hand-cart, such as farm children
+use for a plaything, the father or brother would draw him to the more
+distant fields whither the plough had preceded them; and thus, utterly
+useless, the young man would look on at the work to which he was born,
+and which he still loved so passionately. "Our poor eldest Lumineau,
+the handsomest of them all!"
+
+His gay spirits had flown; his character had become as changed and
+warped as his body. He had grown hard, suspicious, cruel. His brothers
+and sisters hid all their little concerns from the man who looked upon
+the happiness of others as a personal wrong to himself; they feared
+his skill at ferreting out any love-making; the treachery which would
+prompt him to try and mar it. He, who never could hope now to inspire
+love, could not brook that others should possess it. Above all, could
+not brook that another should take the place which came to him by
+right of birth, that of future master, of the father's successor to
+the farm.
+
+On that account he was jealous of Francois, and still more of Andre,
+the handsome young Chasseur d'Afrique, their father's favourite. He
+even was jealous of the farm-servant, who might become dangerous, did
+he marry Rousille.
+
+Sometimes Mathurin Lumineau said to himself:
+
+"If only I could get well again! I believe I do feel better!" At other
+times a kind of rage would take possession of him, and he would not
+speak for days, would hide away in corners or in the stables, until a
+flood of tears would melt his passion. At those times one man only
+could go near him: his father. One thing alone softened the cripple's
+churlishness, and that was to look on the home fields, to see the oxen
+at work, the seed sown which should yield abundantly in its season,
+and to gaze out on to the horizon where he had tasted of the fulness
+of life.
+
+For the whole six years in which the girl he had loved had deserted
+him, he had never once been into the town of Sallertaine, even to
+Easter Communion, which he no longer attended. Nor had he ever met
+Felicite Gauvrit, of La Seuliere, along the lanes.
+
+He sometimes asked Eleonore:
+
+"Do you ever hear any talk of her marrying? Is she still as handsome
+as when she loved me?"
+
+When Marie-Rose went into the supper-room that night, it was Mathurin
+only whom she furtively glanced at, and his face seemed to her to wear
+a malicious smile, as though he had seen, or guessed Jean's absence.
+
+Near Mathurin sat Francois, a very different looking man from the
+other, of middle height, stout, red faced, easy going. Of him,
+Rousille had no fear.
+
+He was more pleasure-loving than the rest of the family. No great
+worker, extravagant, running off to all the fairs and markets, easy to
+get on with because he needed the indulgence of others. Physically and
+morally the counterpart of Eleonore, two years his senior, like her he
+had a broad face, dull blue eyes, and the same apathetic nature which
+so often called forth lectures from their father.
+
+But while the girl in the protection of her home remained pure under
+the influence of her good mother, now dead, who, like so many of the
+simple peasant women of those parts, had lived a humble saint-like
+life, Francois had been ruined by barrack life.
+
+He had submitted to military discipline, but without understanding the
+necessity for it; therefore without deriving the corresponding
+benefit. He had been subject to his superiors, had received
+punishment, had been sent hither and thither for three years; but he
+had never made a friend, never felt himself encouraged in the few
+halting intentions for good that he had taken with him from the home
+life, never been treated as a man, who has a soul, and whom sacrifice,
+however humble, can ennoble. On the other hand, he fell an easy prey
+to all the evils of a soldier's life; the loose talk at mess, the
+drinking habits of his companions, the constant endeavour to shirk
+duty, the prejudices, in a word the hundred and one corruptions into
+which young men can sink who are taken from their homes and sent out
+into the world, new to the temptations of great cities, without a
+guide at the very period when most they stand in need of one.
+
+Neither better nor worse than the average of men home from military
+training, he had brought back with him to La Fromentiere a remembrance
+of illicit pleasures that followed him everywhere; defiance of all
+authority, a disgust for the hard, uncertain, often unproductive work
+of farming, which he contrasted with vague notions about civil
+employment of which the leisure and privileges had been vaunted to
+him. How far off was he now from the simple son of the marshes, with
+fearless eyes, the inseparable companion, model and protector of
+Andre, who, twirling his tamarind stick, would make the round of the
+canals to see if the cows had strayed from the meadows, or to search
+for any ducks which might have wandered into the ditches! With
+unwilling spirit, and because he had nothing better to do, he had
+returned to the care of the animals and to follow the plough. The
+proximity of Chalons, its wine shops and taverns was a temptation to
+him; urged on by his companions, weak and passive, he suffered himself
+to be led away. On Tuesdays, particularly, market day, the poor old
+father too often saw his son of seven-and-twenty start off from the
+farm under various pretexts before it was dawn, to come back late at
+night, stupefied, insensible to reproaches. It was an ever abiding
+grief to the father. Francois had made La Fromentiere no longer the
+sacred abode beloved by, defended by all, which no one had dreamed of
+deserting. In that room where they were now assembled what a long line
+of mothers and children, of grandsires and grandames, united or
+resigned, had lived and died!
+
+In those high beds ranged against the walls how many children had been
+born, fed, and at last had slept their last sleep! There had been
+sorrow and weeping there, but never ingratitude.
+
+A whole forest might have been re-planted if all the wood burned in
+that chimney, by those bearing the same name, could have re-taken
+root. What was in store for his descendants hereafter?
+
+The old farmer had noticed for months past that Francois and Eleonore
+were plotting something; they received letters, one and the other, of
+which they never spoke; they talked together in corners; sometimes of
+a Sunday, Eleonore would write a letter on plain paper, not such as
+she would use when writing to a friend. And the thought had come to
+him that his two children, weary of rule and scoldings, were on the
+look-out for a farm in some neighbouring parish, where they would be
+their own masters--it was a thought he dared not dwell upon; he cast
+it from him as unjust. Still it haunted his mind, for the future of La
+Fromentiere was his one chief care, and, since his eldest son's
+misfortune, Francois was the heir. When work went well, the father
+would think joyfully, "After all, the lad is buckling to again."
+
+In truth, of the four young people assembled that September evening in
+the farm house-place, one only personified intact all the
+characteristics, all the energy of the race, and this was little
+Rousille, who was eating the crust of bread given her by Eleonore; one
+face alone expressed the joy of living, the health of body and soul,
+the brave spirit of one who has not yet had to do battle but who bides
+her time, and this was the face of the girl to whom no one, as yet,
+had spoken a word, and who was standing erect in the chimney-corner.
+
+"Now the soup is finished," said the farmer. "Come, Mathurin, try a
+slice of bacon with me."
+
+"No. It is always the same thing with us."
+
+"Well, and so much the better," replied the father, "bacon is very
+good fare; I like it."
+
+But the cripple, shrugging his shoulders, pushed away the dish,
+muttering:
+
+"I suppose other meat is too dear for us now, eh?"
+
+Toussaint Lumineau's brows contracted at the mention of former
+prosperity, but he replied, gently:
+
+"You are right, my poor boy, it is a bad year, and expenses are
+heavy," then, wishing to change the subject--"Has Jean not come in
+yet?"
+
+Three voices, in succession, replied:
+
+"I have not seen him!"
+
+"Nor I."
+
+"Nor I."
+
+After a silence, during which all eyes were turned towards the
+chimney-corner.
+
+"It would be best to ask Rousille," exclaimed Eleonore, "she must
+know."
+
+The girl half turning towards the table, her profile standing out in
+the firelight, answered:
+
+"Of course I do. I met him at the turn of the road by our swing gate;
+he was going shooting."
+
+"Again!" exclaimed the farmer. "Once for all this must be put a stop
+to. To-night, when I was tying up my cabbages, the keeper of M. le
+Marquis reprimanded me for that lad's poaching."
+
+"But is he not free to shoot plovers?" asked Rousille. "Everyone
+does."
+
+A simultaneous snort proceeding from Eleonore and Francois marked
+their hostility to the _Boquin_, the alien, Rousille's friend.
+
+The farmer, reassured by the reflection that the keeper would not
+trouble himself about Nesmy's shooting in the neutral ground of the
+Marais, where anyone was free to go after wild-fowl as much as he
+pleased, resumed his supper.
+
+Francois was already nodding, and ate no more.
+
+The cripple drank slowly, his eyes fixed on space, perhaps he was
+thinking of the time when he, too, loved shooting.
+
+There was an interval of apparent peace.
+
+The summer breeze came through the chinks of the door with a gentle
+murmur, regular as the waves on a seashore.
+
+The two girls sitting on either side of the chimney-corner, were each
+giving all their attention to the peeling of an apple, the conclusion
+of their supper. But the farmer's mind was unsettled by the keeper's
+words, and by Mathurin's "Meat is too dear for us, now." The old man
+was looking back to the long ago, when the four children before him
+had been busied with their own childish experiences, and could only
+take their little part in the parents' interests according to their
+age. First he looked at Mathurin, then at Francois, as though to
+appeal to their memory about the old days when as tiny boys they drove
+the cattle, or fished for eels. Too moved longer to keep silence, he
+ended by saying:
+
+"Ah, the country side has changed greatly since M. le Marquis' time!
+Do you remember him, Mathurin?"
+
+"Yes," returned Mathurin's thick voice. "I remember him. A big fellow,
+very red in the face, who used to call out when he came in, 'Good
+evening, my lads! Has father another bottle of old wine in the cellar?
+Go and ask him, Mathurin, or you, Francois.'"
+
+"Yes, that was just him all over," said the good farmer, with an
+affectionate smile.
+
+"He knew how to drink; and you would never find noblemen so affable as
+ours; they would tell you stories that made you die with laughing. And
+rich, children! They never used to mind waiting for the rent if there
+had been a bad harvest. They have even made me a loan, more than once,
+to buy oxen or seed. They were hot-tempered, but not to those who knew
+how to manage them; while these agents...." he made a violent gesture
+as if to knock someone down.
+
+"Yes," replied Mathurin, "they are a bad lot."
+
+"And Mademoiselle Ambroisine! She used to come to play with you,
+Eleonore, but particularly with Rousille, for she was between Eleonore
+and Rousille for age. I should say she must be about twenty-five by
+now. How pretty she used to look, with her lace frocks, her hair
+dressed like one of the saints in a church, her pretty laughing nods
+to everyone she met when she went into Sallertaine. Ah, what a pity
+that they have gone away. There are people who do not regret them; but
+I am not one of those!"
+
+Mathurin shook his tawny head, and in a voice that rose at the
+slightest contradiction, exclaimed:
+
+"What else could they do? They are ruined."
+
+"Oh, ruined! Not so bad as that."
+
+"You only need to look at the Chateau, shut up these eight years like
+a prison; only need to hear what people say. All their property is
+mortgaged; the notary makes no secret about it. You will see before
+long that La Fromentiere is sold, and we with it!"
+
+"No, Mathurin, that I shall not see, thank God, I shall be dead before
+that. Besides, our nobles are not like us, my boy; they always have
+property to come into when their own money runs a little short. I hope
+better things than you. It is my idea that M. Henri will one day come
+back to the Chateau, that he will stand just where you now are, and
+with outstretched hand, say: 'Good day, Father Lumineau!' and
+Mademoiselle Ambroisine too, who will be so delighted to kiss my two
+girls on both cheeks, as we do in the Marais, and cry, 'How do you do,
+Eleonore? How do you do, Marie-Rose?' Ah, it may all come about sooner
+than you suppose."
+
+With eyes raised to the mantel-piece, the old man seemed to be seeing
+his master's daughter standing between his own two girls, while
+something like a tear moistened his eyelids.
+
+But Mathurin, striking the table with his fist, said, as he turned his
+peevish face towards his father:
+
+"Do you believe they are thinking of us? I tell you, no, unless it is
+about Midsummer. I'll wager that the keeper just now asked you again
+for the rent? The beggar only has that one word in his mouth."
+
+Toussaint Lumineau leant back on the bench, thought for a moment, then
+said in a low voice:
+
+"You are right. Only one never can tell if the master really did order
+him to speak as he did, Mathurin. He often invents words!"
+
+"Yes, yes. And what did you answer?"
+
+"That I would pay at Michaelmas."
+
+"With what?"
+
+A few minutes before the two girls had gone into the kitchen, to the
+left of the house-place, and thence came in the sound of running water
+and the washing of dishes. Every evening, at this hour, the men were
+left to themselves; it was the time when they discussed matters of
+interest. Already, in the previous year, the farmer had borrowed from
+his eldest son the larger portion of the money that he had inherited
+from his mother. He could therefore only hope for help from the
+younger; but of that he had so little doubt that, speaking in a low
+voice to avoid being overheard by his daughters, he said:
+
+"I was thinking that Francois would help."
+
+Francois, roused from his sleepiness by the foregoing talk, answered
+hastily:
+
+"No, no. Do not count on me. It cannot be done...." He had not the
+courage to look his father in the face as he spoke, but fixed his gaze
+on the ground like a schoolboy.
+
+His father was not angry, he only replied gently:
+
+"I would have repaid you, Francois, as I shall repay your brother. One
+year is not like another. Good times will come back to us." And he
+waited, looking at the thick tawny hair and bull neck of his eldest
+son that scarcely rose above the table. But Francois must have already
+made up his mind, and that very decidedly, for in a half-smothered
+voice he made answer:
+
+"Father, I cannot; nor can Eleonore. Our money is our own, is it not?
+and each of us is free to use it as he or she pleases? Ours is already
+invested. What does it matter to us if the Marquis does have to wait a
+year for his money? You say he is so rich."
+
+"What matter to us, Francois?" Then, and not till then, the father's
+voice rose and became authoritative. He did not put himself into a
+passion, he rather felt hurt as though not recognising his own flesh
+and blood; it was as if, all suddenly, there had dawned upon him
+without his understanding it the wide gulf that existed between the
+feelings of the present generation and the past, and he said:
+
+"What you say is not to my taste, Francois Lumineau. For my part, I
+consider it a duty to pay what I owe--the family at the Chateau have
+never done me a wrong. I and your mother, and Mathurin, who have known
+them better than you, have always respected them; do you understand?
+They are perfectly justified in spending their wealth as it seems them
+best; that is a matter that does not concern us.... Not pay? And do
+you know that they could turn us out of La Fromentiere?"
+
+"Bah!" returned Francois. "And what does it matter whether we are here
+or elsewhere? as far as farming goes, it does not pay so mighty well
+anywhere."
+
+Treacherously, without seeing the old man's pallor, struck to the
+heart, he thus seceded from La Fromentiere. The sound of washing of
+dishes was heard no more in the adjacent kitchen, the girls were
+listening.
+
+The farmer made no reply; but, rising, he drew himself up to his full
+height, passed before his son, his intimidated son, who watched him
+from the corner of his eye, and flung open the door that led into the
+courtyard. A rush of air, the scent of leaves, the breath of green
+fields, came into the heated room redolent of food. Francois,
+hastening to make off, sidled along the wall, passed through the
+kitchen, exchanging a few words with Eleonore as he went, and going
+through the girls' bedchamber went out into the night.
+
+It was the farmer's custom every night to cross his threshold and
+breathe the fresh air before going to rest; to-night as usual he
+walked out to the middle of the courtyard to judge of the weather for
+the morrow. Some light clouds were gliding away towards the west,
+rear-guard of a bank of more extended clouds deep down in the horizon.
+Swept on by the wind to the neighbouring coast they formed themselves
+into transparent islands, separating abysses of deep-blue sky studded
+with stars. With the leisurely movement of a laden vessel the wind
+bore on towards the ever-changing sea the kiss of earth, the scent and
+thrill of vegetation, the scattered seeds, the germs entangled in the
+dust failing hither and thither in mysterious rain-showers, the voice
+of innumerable insects that sing in the grasses, and have no other
+witness than the winds.
+
+There was a sense of content, a series of waves, as it were, of calm
+and fecundity following one upon the other, which should spread abroad
+in many a sea-solitude the scent of the harvests of France.
+
+And the farmer, drinking in the air wherein floated the essence of his
+beloved Vendee, felt that love-thrill within him which, unable to
+express, he experienced for it to the very marrow of his bones.
+
+"How is it with these young people," he thought, "that they can he
+indifferent to the farmstead? I have been young in my day, but it
+would have taken a good deal to make me leave La Fromentiere. Perhaps
+they find it dull; the house is not like it was in my dear wife's
+time; I do not know how to keep them together as she did." And he
+thought of la mere Lumineau, the good, saving housewife, haughty
+towards strangers, loving to her own, who, with a word in the right
+place, could always so quietly influence and control her boys, and
+check the rivalry of her girls. Around him the stables, the barns, the
+huge hayrick glistened in the moonlight.
+
+A distant shot resounded from the Marais. Toussaint heard it, and his
+thoughts turned at once to the man shooting. At the same instant a
+voice behind him exclaimed:
+
+"There's another plover down for Rousille!"
+
+"That's enough, Mathurin!" said his father, who, without looking back,
+had recognised the speaker. "Do not be telling tales, which you know
+irritate me, against your sister. I am troubled to-night, my boy,
+troubled enough about Francois."
+
+The crutches striking on the gravel came nearer, and the farmer felt
+the shaggy head touch his shoulder as the cripple straightened
+himself.
+
+"I am only speaking the truth, father," he said in a low voice, "these
+are no tales. It makes my blood boil to see this _Boquin_ making love
+to my sister in order to get hold of our money, and play the master
+here. A fellow who has not a halfpenny to bless himself with! There is
+no time to be lost, if he is to be brought to his senses."
+
+"Do you really believe," asked the father, bending down a little to
+him, "that a girl like Rousille would listen to my hired labourer?
+Does she care anything for him, Mathurin?"
+
+It was a weakness of Toussaint Lumineau to lend too ready ear to the
+judgment and strictures of his eldest son. Even now that all hope had
+been abandoned of seeing him his successor; after all the many proofs
+experienced of the violence and malevolence of the cripple, he still
+retained predominant influence over the father.
+
+"Father, they are lovers!" As a whispered breath the words came to the
+father's ear.
+
+Rage at the happiness of others had distorted the younger man's
+features. Toussaint Lumineau looked down at the face raised to his, so
+white in the moonlight, and was struck by the air of suffering it
+wore.
+
+"If you watched them as I do," continued his son, "you would see that
+though they never speak to each other indoors, outside they always
+contrive to meet. I have often caught them talking and laughing
+together like acknowledged lovers. You do not know that Jean Nesmy; he
+is audacity itself. He lets you think that he likes shooting, and I do
+not say but what he may, but he does not carry his love for it to
+that extent, I'll be bound. Is it only for his own pleasure that he
+is off to the far end of the Marais to shoot plovers; only for his own
+pleasure that he risks malarial fever fishing for eels; that he spends
+whole nights out after being hard at work all day? No, I tell you, it
+is for Rousille, for Rousille, for Rousille!" His voice had risen, it
+could be heard from within the house.
+
+"I will be on the watch, my boy," returned his father soothingly, "do
+not you worry yourself."
+
+"Ah, if I were you, I would go at dawn to-morrow along the road to the
+Marais, and if I caught them together...."
+
+"Enough!" exclaimed his father, "you do yourself no good by so much
+talking, Mathurin. Here is Eleonore coming to help you in."
+
+Eleonore had come, as usual, to help Mathurin up the steps, and unlace
+his boots. No sooner did she touch his arm than turning, he went in
+with her. The sound of crutches and of footsteps died away; the father
+was alone again.
+
+"Come," he thought aloud, "if this be true, I will not suffer the
+laugh to last long against me in the Marais!" He drew in a deep breath
+of pure air, as though it were a bumper of wine, then to make sure
+that Rousille had not gone out again, he entered the house by the door
+in the middle, which was that of his daughter's bedchamber. All was
+dark within; a ray of moonlight fell across the well-waxed wardrobes
+furnishing the sides of the room--wardrobes always kept in perfect
+order by Eleonore and Rousille. The farmer felt his way round the huge
+walnut wood one which had formed his mother's dowry, had crossed the
+room, and was making his way out into the kitchen communicating with
+the large living-room where he and Mathurin slept, when behind him, in
+the angle of a bed, a shadowy form arose:
+
+"Father!"
+
+He stopped.
+
+"Is it you, Rousille? Are you not in bed?"
+
+"No, I was waiting for you. I wanted to say something to you." They
+were separated by the length of the room; the darkness was too great
+for them to see each other. "As Francois cannot give you his money, I
+have been thinking that I will give you mine."
+
+"You are not afraid then that I shall not repay you?" the farmer asked
+harshly.
+
+The girlish voice, as if discouraged by this reception, and checked in
+its enthusiasm, replied timidly:
+
+"I will go to-morrow to fetch it ... the Michelonne's nephew has
+it.... I will, indeed, and you shall have it the day after to-morrow."
+
+If a tear rolled down his cheeks, the farmer was unaware of it; he
+passed on into his own room.
+
+Some minutes later, when Eleonore came into the room, a lighted candle
+in her hand, Marie-Rose was no longer beside her bed, but was standing
+before the open windows looking out on to the courtyard.
+
+The farmhouse stood upon an eminence, and from this window there was a
+view over the low wall, and through the arched gateway to the slopes
+beyond, and even across the sedge-covered Marais.
+
+The sisters often undressed without exchanging a word. Rousille was
+gazing straight before her into the clear moonlight; her accustomed
+eye could distinguish objects by it almost as accurately as by the
+light of day. Immediately beyond the wall came a group of elms, under
+shelter of which stood carts and ploughs, then a stretch of land lying
+fallow, and beyond that again the broad flat expanse of marshland,
+across which on most nights would come now faintly, now loudly, the
+sound of the roll of the ocean, as of some far-off chariot that never
+stopped. The immense grassy plain looked blue in the darkness; here
+and there the water of a dyke shone in the moonlight. A few distant
+lights, a window lit up, pierced the veil of mist that spread over the
+meadows. Unerringly Rousille could name each farmstead to herself by
+its beacon light, similar to that on the mast-head of a ship riding at
+anchor; La Pinconniere, La Paree du Mont, both near; further away, Les
+Levrelles; then so distant that their lights were only visible at
+intervals, like tiny stars, La Terre-Aymont, La Seuliere, Malabrit,
+and the flour-mill of Moque-Souris. By a group of starry points on the
+right, she could discern the town of Sallertaine standing out on an
+invisible mound in the middle of the Marais. Somewhere about there
+Jean Nesmy was wading among the reeds, for love of Rousille. So she
+continued to think of him; she seemed to see him so far, so very far
+away, amid the dreamy shadows, and her lips pressed together, then
+parted in a long, silent kiss.
+
+There was a sudden swish of wings over the tiles of La Fromentiere.
+
+"Do shut the window, Rousille," said Eleonore, waking up. "It is the
+turn of the night, and blows in cold."
+
+The sky was clear, the clouds had dispersed. The lights of
+Moque-Souris were extinguished; those of Sallertaine had gradually
+diminished like a bunch of currants pecked by birds.
+
+"Until to-morrow, my Jean, in the dwarf orchard," murmured Rousille.
+And slowly, musingly, the girl began unfastening her dress by the
+light reflected from her white sheet, her young heart filled with
+dreams of youth.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+THE DWARF ORCHARD.
+
+
+Towards four o'clock the stars began to fade in the sky, the first
+signs of daybreak to appear. A cock crowed. It was the same
+golden-feathered cock, with fiery eyes under his red crest, that
+crowed every morning. Marie-Rose had reared him. Now hearing it she
+thought, "Thank you, little cock!" Then began to dress quietly, for
+fear of rousing Eleonore, who still slept soundly.
+
+She was quickly ready, and crossing the courtyard, turned to the left
+past the ruined wall by a grassy path on the farm property, strewn
+with fallen branches, which led down to the Marais. About some hundred
+yards from La Fromentiere all vegetation abruptly ceased, and one came
+upon a low wall grown with lichen and moss, surrounding an orchard of
+about an acre in extent. Rousille, pushing open a gate in the middle
+of the wall, entered.
+
+It was a curious sight, this dwarf orchard. The cider apple and pear
+trees with which it was planted had never been able to grow higher
+than the top of the wall on account of the strong winds that blew
+from the sea. Their stems were thick and gnarled, their branches all
+bent and driven towards the east; leafless above, they met and
+over-arched beneath. Looking at it from outside one simply saw a
+billowy mass of bare branches; but on making one's way down the
+central path, one found oneself in a leafy shade some four feet high,
+safe from inquisitive eyes, from rain and heat, and from the gales
+which sweep over the Marais. It was a sailor's folly, such as might be
+found in far-off isles. As a child, it had been Rousille's playground;
+now grown up, it was here she had come to meet her betrothed.
+
+Entering, she stooped and made a path for herself towards the western
+wall, then sitting upon the forked branch of an apple-tree, hidden
+among them like a partridge in a corn-field, she gazed out upon the
+vast plain along which Jean Nesmy must come.
+
+At this early hour the Marais was covered with mists which did not
+rise, but parted ever and anon, undulating in the breeze. The solitude
+was unbroken, the atmosphere light, sensitive, nervous, carrying the
+faintest sound without diminution. The bark of a dog at Sallertaine
+came to her ears as if it were beside her. Great square corn-fields
+that looked like patches of grey fur stitched together faded away into
+nothing in the distance. Here and there canals, cutting each other at
+right angles, looked like tarnished mirrors, the mist curling in smoke
+above them. Then vaguely from out the fog darker outlines began to
+appear, like oases in the desert; they were farmhouses built on the
+low-lying ground of the marshland, with their outbuildings and groups
+of poplars to lend shade. Now the undulating veil of mist began to
+rise, rays of light touched the grasses, sheets of water sparkled like
+windows in a setting sun. For many a league, from the bay of Bourgneuf
+to Saint Gilles, the Marais of La Vendee had awakened to the light of
+a fresh day.
+
+Rousille rejoiced in it. She loved her native soil, faithful, true,
+generous soil, ever yielding its increase whether in rain or sunshine;
+where one would sleep one's last sleep to the sighing of the wind,
+under the shelter of the Cross. She loved nothing better than that
+horizon where every tiniest road was familiar to her, from the fence
+that ran along the first meadow of La Fromentiere close at hand, to
+the paths on the embankment which must be traversed pole in hand to
+jump the dykes.
+
+"Four o'clock," she said to herself, "and he has not come back yet!
+What will father say?" She was beginning to grow uneasy, when, as she
+was gazing into the distance towards the pointed clock tower of
+Sallertaine, a voice startled her with:
+
+"Rousille!" On the rising path, the marshland behind him, standing
+looking at her in the light of the early morning, was Jean Nesmy.
+
+"I did not see you come," she said.
+
+He laughed, and with a proud air raised above his head a bundle of
+feathers, four plovers and a teal tied together. The next moment,
+resting the gun he carried against the inside of the wall, and
+flinging over the birds, he dropped down beside Rousille.
+
+"Rousille," he said, taking her hand under the arching apple-trees, "I
+have had luck! Four plovers and such fine ones! I had a couple of
+hours' sleep in the barn at La Pinconniere, and if the farmer had not
+dragged me out this morning, I should have been late, I was so sound
+asleep. And you?"
+
+"I," replied Marie-Rose, as he sat opposite to her, "I am afraid.
+Father spoke to me so angrily last night--he had been talking to
+Mathurin in the courtyard--they must know."
+
+"Well, and if they do? I am doing nothing to anger them. I mean to win
+you by my work, to ask your father for your hand, and take you home as
+my wife."
+
+She looked at him, happy, despite her fears, at the determination she
+read in the lad's face. And reserving her thought which answered yes,
+she said without direct reply:
+
+"What is it like in your home?"
+
+"In my home," replied Jean Nesmy, contracting his eyes as if to fix
+the picture thus evoked, and looking over Rousille's head--"in my home
+is my mother, who is old and poor. The house she lives in is called
+the Chateau, as I have told you before, in the parish of Chatelliers;
+but it is not by any means a castle, Rousille, only two rooms, in
+which live six little Nesmys besides myself, who am the eldest ... it
+was, as you know, on account of our poverty and the number of children
+that I could only serve one year in the army."
+
+"Oh, yes, I remember," she answered, laughing, "that year seemed to me
+longer than any other."
+
+"I am the eldest; then come two girls, who are growing up. They are
+not dressed altogether like you, for instance...."
+
+An idea seized him, and with his hand quite near yet without touching
+Rousille, he sketched about the young girl's shoulders and waist, the
+little shawl and the long velvet ribbons encircling the bust. "All
+round there two rows of velvet; rich girls have even three. You would
+be charming, Rousille, in the costume of the Chatelliers and La
+Flocelliere, for they dress in the same manner, the villages are quite
+close."
+
+She laughed, as if caressed by the hand which never touched her,
+following its action with half-closed eyes.
+
+"As you may suppose," he continued, "they only dress like that on
+Sundays! There would not be bread in the house every day if I did not
+send home the wages that your father gives me. Then I have two
+brothers who have finished their schooling, and look after cows and
+begin to do little odd jobs. The farmer who hires them gives them
+each one row of potatoes to dig up for their own. It is a great help!"
+
+"So I should think!" returned Rousille, with an air of conviction
+
+"But above all," continued the lad, "our air is superb. We have plenty
+of rain, indeed it rains without ceasing when the wind blows from
+Saint Michael, a place about one league from us. But immediately after
+we are in full sunshine; and as we have plenty of trees and moss and
+ferns about us, the air is a very joy to breathe, quite different from
+here; for our country is not at all like that of the Marais; it is all
+hills, here, there, and everywhere, big and little; there is no
+getting away from them. From any height it looks a perfect paradise.
+Ah, Rousille, if you only knew Le Bocage, and the moors of Nouzillac,
+you would never want to leave them!"
+
+"And is the land tilled like this?"
+
+"Very nearly, but much deeper. It takes strong oxen, sometimes six or
+eight to plough."
+
+"Father uses as many, when it pleases him."
+
+"Yes, for the honour of it, Rousille, because your father is a rich
+man. But down there, believe me, the soil has more granite and is
+harder to turn."
+
+She hesitated a little, the smile left her face as she asked:
+
+"Do the women work in the fields?"
+
+"Oh, no, of course not," answered the lad warmly. "We respect and
+care for them as much as men do here in your Marais. Even my mother,
+who goes gleaning at harvest-time and when the chestnuts are gathered,
+is never seen working in the fields like a man. No, you may depend on
+it, our women are more indoors spinning, than doing out-of-door work."
+
+Recalled to the stern conditions of his daily life, the young man grew
+grave, and added slowly:
+
+"Rest assured, I will never slacken in my work. I am known for more
+than two leagues round Chatelliers as a lad who has no fear of hard
+work. We will have our own little house to ourselves, and if only I
+have your love, Rousille, like my father and mother, I will never
+complain of any hardships."
+
+He had scarcely ended his speech of humble love-making when a voice
+from the road called:
+
+"Rousille!"
+
+"We are betrayed!" she said, turning pale. "It is father."
+
+They both remained motionless, with beating hearts, thinking only of
+the voice that would call again.
+
+And, in truth, it was now heard nearer.
+
+"Rousille!"
+
+She did not resist. Signing to Jean Nesmy to remain under cover of the
+trees, and bending half double, she made her way out to the path that
+divided the orchard. There straightening herself, she saw her father
+standing before her in the road. He looked at his daughter for a
+moment, as she presented herself, pale, breathless, dishevelled by the
+branches, then said:
+
+"What were you doing there?"
+
+She would not lie; she felt herself lost. In her trouble involuntarily
+she turned her head as if to invoke the protection of him in hiding,
+and there just behind, erect, quite close to her, Rousille saw her
+lover, who had come to her aid in the moment of danger. With an air of
+defiance he drew himself up, and strode in front of her. Then the girl
+ventured to look again at her father. He was no longer occupied with
+her, nor had he the angry aspect she expected to see; his expression
+was grave and sad, and he looked steadily at Jean Nesmy, who, pressing
+forward on the grassy walk, had stopped at the opening, within three
+feet of him:
+
+"You here, my farm-servant!" he said.
+
+Jean Nesmy made answer:
+
+"Yes, I am here."
+
+"You have been with Rousille, then?"
+
+"And what is the harm?" inquired the lad, with a slight tremor, which
+he could not control, not of fear, but of the hot blood of youth.
+
+There was no anger in the farmer's voice. With head bent on his
+breast, as of a master whose kindness has been abused, and who is
+sorrowing, he said with a sigh:
+
+"Come you here, at once, with me."
+
+Not a word to Marie-Rose, not one look. It was a matter to be settled
+among men first; the daughter did not count at present.
+
+The farmer was already retracing his steps, walking with leisurely
+stride towards La Fromentiere; Jean Nesmy followed at a short
+distance, his gun slung on his back, swinging the birds he had shot in
+one hand. Far behind them came Rousille in sore distress, sometimes
+looking at Jean Nesmy, sometimes at the master who was to decide his
+fate.
+
+When the two men had gone into the courtyard, she did not dare to
+follow them in, but leaning against a pillar of the ruined gateway,
+half hidden behind it, her head on her arm, she waited to see what
+would happen.
+
+Her father and his man, crossing the yard, proceeded to Jean Nesmy's
+room, which was to the left beyond the stables. There was no sound but
+the noise of wooden shoes on the gravel; but Rousille had seen the
+cripple crouching down in the first rays of the sun, beyond the
+stables; he was nodding his head with an air of satisfaction, his
+malicious eyes never leaving the stranger he had denounced, who,
+yesterday so happy, was now the culprit.
+
+Not far off, Francois, on a ladder, was cutting out a wedge of hay
+from a rick, firm and compact as a wall; he, too, was watching slyly
+from under the brim of his hat, but there was no malice upon his
+phlegmatic countenance, nothing more than a mild curiosity broadening
+his lips into a half smile under the heavy yellow moustache. He did
+his work as slowly as possible so as to be able to remain there and
+see the end of it.
+
+Toussaint Lumineau and his man had soon reached the shed piled with
+empty casks, baskets, spades, and pickaxes, that had for many a year
+served as sleeping-place for the farm-servants. The master sat down on
+the foot of the bed. The look on his face had not changed; it was
+still the dignified paternal look of one who regrets parting from a
+good servant, and yet is resolutely determined to suffer no
+encroachment upon his authority, no disrespect to his position.
+Leaning his elbow upon an old cask showing marks of tallow, on which
+Jean Nesmy used to rest his candle at night, he slowly raised his
+head, and in the daylight that streamed in at the open door, he at
+length addressed the young man, who was standing bare-headed in the
+middle of the shed.
+
+"I hired you for forty pistoles," he said. "You received your wages at
+Midsummer; how much is now owing to you?"
+
+The lad, absorbed, began counting and recounting with his fingers on
+his blouse, the veins of his forehead swelling with the effort; his
+eyes were fixed on the ground, and not another thought disturbed the
+complicated operation of the countryman calculating the price of his
+labour. During this time, the farmer mentally went over the brief
+history of his connection with the lad, who, come by chance to the
+Marais in search of burnt cow-dung, used by the Vendeens for manure,
+had been then and there hired by him, and had quickly fallen into the
+ways of his new master. The farmer thought of the three years that the
+stranger lad had lived under the roof of La Fromentiere, one before
+his military training, two since; years of hard, thorough work, of
+good conduct, without having once given cause for serious reproof, of
+astonishing gentleness and submission despite his sons' hostility,
+which, manifested on the very first day, had never lessened.
+
+"It should make ninety-five francs," said Jean Nesmy.
+
+"That is what I make it," said the farmer. "Here is the money. Count
+and see if it is right." From his coat pocket where he had already
+placed them, Toussaint Lumineau drew out a number of silver pieces
+which he threw on the top of the cask. "Take it, lad."
+
+Without touching the money Jean Nesmy had drawn back.
+
+"You will not have me any longer at La Fromentiere?"
+
+"No, my lad, you are going." The old man's voice faltered, and he
+continued: "I am not sending you away because you are idle, nor even,
+though it did annoy me, because you are too fond of shooting
+wild-fowl. You have served me well. But my daughter is my own, Jean
+Nesmy, and I have not given my consent to your courting her."
+
+"If she likes me, and I like her, Maitre Lumineau?"
+
+"You are not one of us, my poor boy. That a _Boquin_ should marry a
+girl like Rousille is an impossibility, as you know. You should have
+thought of it before."
+
+For the first time Jean Nesmy's face grew a shade paler, he half
+closed his eyes, the corners of his mouth drooped as though he were
+about to burst into tears. In a low voice he said:
+
+"I will wait for her as long as you think fit. She is young, and so am
+I. Only say how long it must be, and I will submit."
+
+But the farmer answered:
+
+"No, it cannot be. You must go."
+
+The young man quivered from head to foot. He hesitated for a moment,
+with knitted brows, his eyes fixed on the ground, then decided not to
+speak his thought: I will not give her up. I will come back. She shall
+be mine. True to the taciturn race from which he sprang, he said
+nothing, took up the money, counted it, dropping the pieces one by one
+into his pocket as he did so. Then without another word, as though the
+farmer were not in existence, he began to collect his clothes and
+belongings. The blue blouse that he knotted by the sleeves to the
+barrel of his gun held them all, save a pair of boots that he slung
+on to a piece of string. When he had finished, he raised his hat, and
+went out.
+
+It was broad sunshine. Jean Nesmy walked slowly; the strong will that
+dominated the slight youth made him hold his head high, and his eyes
+scanned the windows of the house seeking Rousille. She was nowhere to
+be seen. Then in the middle of the great courtyard, he, the hired
+servant, who had been dismissed, who had but another moment to tread
+the ground of La Fromentiere, called:
+
+"Rousille!"
+
+A pointed coif appeared at the angle of the gateway; Rousille came
+forth from her shelter and ran to him, tears streaming down her face.
+But almost at the same moment she stopped, intimidated by the sight of
+her father on the threshold of the shed, and stricken with terror at a
+cry which, rising from that side of the courtyard, some fifty paces
+off, had caused Nesmy to turn his head:
+
+"_Dannion!_"
+
+A monstrous apparition came out from the stables. The cripple,
+bare-headed, with eyes bloodshot, inspired by impotent rage, had
+rushed out, with arms rigid on his crutches, his huge body shaking
+with the effort. Roaring like some wild beast with wide-open mouth he
+hurled the old cry of hatred at the stranger, the cry with which the
+children of the Marais greet the despised dwellers of the Bocage.
+
+"_Dannion! Dannion Sarraillon_--look to yourself!"
+
+Rushing with a speed that betokened the violence and strength of the
+man, he neared Nesmy. The rage in his heart, the jealousy that
+tortured him, the agony caused by the effort he was making, rendered
+the convulsed face terrible to behold, as it was projected forward by
+jerks; while onlookers could not but think, with a shudder, what a
+powerful man this deformed, unearthly looking creature had once been.
+
+Seeing him come close up to the farm-servant, Rousille was terrified
+for the man she loved. She ran to Jean Nesmy, put her two hands on his
+arms, and drew him backward towards the road.
+
+And, on her account, Jean Nesmy began to draw back, slowly, step by
+step, while the cripple, growing still more furious, shouted
+insultingly:
+
+"Let go of my sister, _Dannion_!"
+
+The farmer's loud voice interposed from the depths of the courtyard:
+
+"Stop where you are, Mathurin; and you, Nesmy, loose your hold of my
+daughter!"
+
+And he advanced to them, without haste, as a man not desiring to
+compromise his dignity. The cripple stopped short, let go of his
+crutches, and sank exhausted to the ground.
+
+But Jean Nesmy continued to retreat. He had placed his hand in
+Rousille's; and soon they were within the portal of the gateway,
+framed in sunshine. There lay the road. The young man bent towards
+Rousille and kissed her cheek.
+
+"Farewell, my Rousille," he said.
+
+And she, running across the courtyard without looking back, her hands
+to her face, wept bitterly.
+
+Having watched her disappear round the corner of the house by the
+barn, Nesmy called out:
+
+"Mathurin Lumineau, I shall come back!"
+
+"Only try!" retorted the cripple.
+
+The whilom farm-servant of La Fromentiere began to mount the hill
+beside the farm; clad in his russet work-day clothes he walked with
+difficulty as if worn out with fatigue. His whole wardrobe, slung on
+to his gun, consisted of but one coat, a blouse, three shirts, a
+couple of boxwood bird calls for quails that clapped together as he
+walked, and yet the load seemed heavy. A feeling of dismay at having
+to go back to the daily seeking of employment had come over him while
+making up the modest bundle. He was already thinking of his mother's
+alarm at this sudden return. Every step was a wrench from some loved
+object, for he had lived three years in this Fromentiere. His heart
+was heavy with memories; he walked on slowly, looking at nothing yet
+seeing every stick and stone. The trees he brushed past had all been
+pruned by him, or flicked by his whip; every inch of ground had been
+ploughed and reaped by him; he knew how every furrow was to be sown on
+the morrow.
+
+Having reached the back of the farm, at the rise of the road where
+formerly four mills had been busily grinding corn and now only two
+were at work, he turned to look back that he might increase the pain
+of parting.
+
+Below him, bathed in sunlight, lay the plain of the Marais, where
+rushes, taking on their autumn array, formed golden circles round the
+meadows; there were farms distinguishable by their groups of poplars,
+inhabited islands in the desert of marshland, where he was leaving
+good friends, and the recollection of happy hours that come back in
+sorrow; his eyes scanned the crowded houses of Sallertaine and its
+church dominating them all, recalling bygone Sundays. Then, with his
+soul in his eyes, he bent them upon La Fromentiere, as a bird would
+hover with wide extended wings.
+
+From the height on which he stood the lad could discern the whole of
+the farm, even to its slightest details. One by one he counted the
+windows, the doors and gates, the paths round the fields along which
+every evening, for the last two years especially, he had never failed
+to sing as he drove the cattle homewards. When his eyes lighted on the
+dwarf orchard, so distant that it looked no larger than a pea-pod, he
+quickly turned away; as he did so, his foot struck against something
+in the path, it was a dog lying down, quite still.
+
+"What, you, Bas-Rouge?" said Jean. "My poor doggie, you cannot follow
+me where I am going;" and, walking on, he stroked the dog's head
+between his ears, in the place where Rousille loved to fondle him.
+After some twenty paces, he said again:
+
+"You must go back, Bas-Rouge. I do not belong to you any more."
+
+Bas-Rouge trotted on a little further with his friend; but when they
+had reached the last hedge of La Fromentiere, he stopped, and turned
+slowly homewards.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+THE MICHELONNES.
+
+
+"Rousille," said her father, as shortly before noon she went into the
+house to help her sister prepare dinner, "you will not take your meals
+with us either to-day, or for some days to come. A girl like Eleonore,
+who respects herself, would be ashamed to eat her food beside a young
+woman who could allow a penniless _Boquin_ to make love to her. A
+pretty kind of lover! A fellow from I don't know where, who would not
+even have a wardrobe to furnish his house with! All very well for a
+serving-maid, such as they are in those parts; but the whole kit of
+them are not worth their salt in the Marais, those _dannions_! I am
+cured of taking them into my service. There must have been some fine
+tales going the round at my expense. And now, Rousille, mind that you
+conduct yourself properly; and take yourself out of my sight!"
+
+So the farmer spoke, far more harshly than he felt, because Mathurin
+had been talking to him a long time after Nesmy had gone, and had
+inspired him with some of his resentment.
+
+Marie-Rose made no reply, shed no tear, but withdrew to her room. She
+had no thought of dinner, either with or without them; but began to
+dress herself in her best, as for Sunday, taking by turns from the
+wardrobe a black skirt, raised from the ground by a broad tuck,
+showing the pretty feet beneath; her most dainty coif and embroidered
+pyramid of muslin kept in shape by silver paper that rested on her
+hair; open-work stockings; sabots, like the prow of a ship, so much
+did they turn up. A blue silk kerchief filled in the low bodice, as
+was the custom in the Marais; there only remained to smooth the bands
+of chestnut hair with a little water, to bathe her red eyes, then
+going out into the courtyard she turned off on the road to
+Sallertaine.
+
+For the first time in her life she had a feeling of standing alone in
+the world. Mathurin did not love her; Francois did not understand her.
+Andre himself, the soldier brother so soon coming home, who had always
+been kind, only treated her as a child to be teased and petted. And
+she felt herself a woman--a woman who was learning to know sorrow, and
+one who needed to pour out her trouble to sympathetic ears.
+
+Hitherto, if they were unkind, if they neglected her, she had never
+felt the need of telling her troubles to anyone; the thought of Jean
+Nesmy had been enough to make her forget them all. But now that he
+whom she loved had had to go, and that his going was the sorrow, her
+soul cried out for aid--sought some safe place wherein to rest. In her
+distress she thought of the sisters Michelonne. Rousille passed close
+beside the dwarf orchard; Rousille skirted the edge of the Marais
+whence can be seen Sallertaine upon its eminence. No, she had no other
+hope save in those two dear old friends; no other regret than that she
+had not before been to that little house in the town. The old sisters'
+warmth of heart seemed to her just now a thing of priceless worth,
+which, hitherto, had not been valued half enough. The mere thought of
+their round faces, withered and smiling, was a goal to her. It seemed
+as if only to see the Michelonnes, even if she might not speak one
+word of her trouble, would be a consolation, because of their kind
+hearts, and because, old maids though they were, they were not the
+people to gossip about a young girl's red eyes. What excuse could she
+make for going to them? Oh, it was very simple. She had promised to
+draw out her money and lend it to her father to pay the rent. She had
+only to say, "I have come for my money; father needs it." Then if they
+guessed the slightest thing, she would tell all, all her trouble, all
+the grief she could not endure alone.
+
+It was close upon one o'clock. A mist of heat quivered over the
+meadows. Rousille walked fast. Now she had reached the Grand Canal,
+smooth as a mirror; there was the bridge across it, the winding road
+flanked on either side by the white-washed houses of the outskirts of
+Sallertaine, their orchards at the back looking towards the Marais.
+Rousille walks faster. She is afraid of being hailed and stopped, for
+the Lumineaus are known to everyone in the district. But the good
+folks are either taking their noonday sleep, or else without quitting
+their shady corners they call to her, "Good day, little one! How fast
+you are walking!" "Yes, I am in a hurry. Sometimes one is." "Yes,
+indeed," they reply, and on she goes. She has reached the long open
+Place that narrows as it reaches the church. Now she has only eyes for
+the humble dwelling which stands at the extreme end where the street
+is narrowest, facing the side door of the church by which the faithful
+enter on Sundays. It is a very little house, one window looks on to
+the Place, the other on to a steep lane, the three steps to the
+entrance are at the corner; it is also very old, and built under the
+shadow of the clock tower, beneath the peal of bells, thus nearer to
+Heaven.
+
+The sisters Michelonne have lived there all their lives. Rousille can
+picture them within the walls; a half smile, a ray of hope crosses her
+sad face. She ascends the three steps, and pauses to regain breath.
+
+When Rousille presses down the iron latch, the door opens to the
+tinkle of so tiny a bell that it would need the ears of a cat to hear
+it.
+
+But they were true cats, ever on the watch, these two old sisters,
+cloak-makers to the whole of Sallertaine. Scarcely did they divine a
+visitor from the shadow cast through the glass door, than with
+simultaneous movement their chairs, always close together, were pushed
+back, their heads turned towards the door, and their busy hands sunk
+on their laps. The two sisters were very much alike; the same deep,
+arched wrinkles in the rosy faces, round the toothless mouths, round
+the short noses, round the blue, childlike eyes that had a light in
+them as of a perpetual laugh, and was the reflection of their sixty
+years of work, of sisterly affection, and their good consciences.
+There was also a twinkle in their eyes of fun without malice; a
+something as of the flame of youth economised in the course of their
+lives, and leaving a fund for their old age. Poverty had not been
+wanting, but it had always been borne by them together. From
+childhood's day they had worked side by side in the light of the same
+window, day rising and setting on their busy needles never at rest.
+There was no one in all Sallertaine, nor in Perrier, nor Saint Gervais
+who could cut and make cloaks as skilfully as they could; and they
+were general favourites. As soon as the weather was mild enough for
+them to stand a pot of ivy geranium on the sill and to sit by the open
+window, there was not a person coming down the lane, whether
+fisherman, sportsman, drover, or horse-breeder, who did not call in as
+he passed "Good day and good luck, _les Michelonnes_." To which they
+would make some kind reply in soft voices, so alike that it was
+impossible to distinguish one from the other. They were asked to St.
+Sylvester gatherings because they had an inexhaustible store of songs,
+when young folks had long come to the end of all they knew.
+
+The Cure said of them: "The flower of my flock; it is a pity they have
+no successors."
+
+When Rose-Marie entered, they did not get up, but said both together,
+Adelaide at the window, Veronique a little away:
+
+"It is you, little Lumineau! Good day, pretty one!"
+
+"Sit down, child," said Adelaide, "you are quite out of breath."
+
+"But not ill?" asked Veronique. "Your eyes are as bright as if you had
+fever?"
+
+"Thank you, aunts," answered Marie-Rose. She called them aunts on
+account of a distant relationship difficult to establish, but
+principally on account of the old ladies' kindness. "I have been
+walking quickly, and I do feel a little tired. I have come for some of
+my money."
+
+The sisters exchanged a side-look, laughing already at the thought of
+the coming marriage, and the eldest, Adelaide, drawing her needle
+across her lips as if to smooth out the wrinkles, asked:
+
+"You are about to marry, then?"
+
+"Oh, indeed no!" returned Marie-Rose, "I shall be married like you, my
+aunts, to my seat in church and my rosary. It is for father, who has
+not money to pay the rent of the farm; he is in arrears."
+
+And as, while speaking, she did not look into her old friends' faces,
+but into the shade of the room, somewhere towards the two beds ranged
+along the side of the wall, the sisters Michelonne shook their heads
+as though to communicate the impression that, all the same, some
+disturbing element had entered into Rousille's life. But the sisters
+were more instinctively polite than curious. They reserved their
+thought for the long hours of chat together, and Adelaide, throwing
+down her half-finished work, clasping her white bony hands, and
+bending forward her thin body, said gaily:
+
+"Well, my pretty one, you have come just at the right time! I had lent
+your money on interest to my nephew, who, you know, breeds foals, and
+very good ones, on the Marais. He is a sharp fellow, that Francois.
+Would you believe it, yesterday he actually sold his dappled grey
+filly--that flies like a plover, and was the envy of all the breeders
+and dannions that went by the meadow--and for such a big price that he
+would not even tell us the amount. So, you see, it will be quite easy
+for him to pay back a good part of the loan. How much will you want?"
+
+"A hundred and twenty pistoles."
+
+"You shall have them. Are they wanted at once?"
+
+"Yes, Aunt Adelaide. I promised them by to-morrow."
+
+"Then, Veronique, my girl, suppose you were to go to our nephew? The
+cloak can well wait an hour."
+
+The younger sister rose at once; she was so short standing, that she
+did not reach above the head of Marie-Rose sitting. Rapidly shaking
+off the threads of cotton from her black apron, she kissed the girl on
+both cheeks:
+
+"Good-bye, Rousille. To-morrow the money will be here, and you will
+only have to come and fetch it."
+
+In the quiet of the sleepy town, Veronique's gliding steps could be
+heard as they went down the lane. No sooner had she gone than Adelaide
+went up to Marie-Rose and fixing upon the girl her clear kind eyes,
+her eyelids quivering with uneasiness:
+
+"Child," she said hurriedly, "you are in trouble; you have been
+crying. Why, you are crying now!" The wrinkled hand seized the girl's
+pink palm. "What is it, my Rousille? Tell me, as you would tell your
+own mother. I love you as she would do."
+
+Marie-Rose repressed her tears. She would not cry when she could
+speak. Trembling at the contact of the hand which touched her own, her
+eyes like diamonds, her face set, as though she were addressing those
+enemies before whom her tongue had been tied:
+
+"They have sent away Jean Nesmy," she said rising.
+
+"He, my dear? Such a good worker? And why?"
+
+"Because I love him, Aunt Michelonne. They turned him out this
+morning. And they think that all is over between us because I shall
+not see him again. They little know the girls of these parts."
+
+"Well said, _Maraichine_," exclaimed the old aunt.
+
+"I will give them all my money, yes, readily; but my love--where I
+have placed it there I will leave it. It is as sacred as my baptismal
+vows. I have no fear of poverty; no fear that he will forget me. The
+day he comes back, for he has promised to come back, I will go to meet
+him, and no one shall prevent me--had I to cross the Marais, were
+there snow and ice, and all the girls of the town to mock at me, did
+my father and my brothers forbid me to go, still I would do it!"
+
+Erect, passionate, she made the walls of the little room unused to
+loud voices ring with the voice of love and bitterness. It was to
+herself, herself only, that she spoke, because she suffered. She was
+looking straight before her, vaguely, apparently unaware of the
+Michelonne's presence.
+
+Adelaide, however, had risen, and was listening, agitated and excited,
+so struck by Rousille's words, so carried out of the restricted circle
+of everyday thought, that all the calm had vanished from her face, and
+the quiet old maid, oppressed by the small cares of life, seemed
+transformed into a woman--a woman who remembered and had regained her
+youth to suffer with the other.
+
+"You are right, dear child. I thoroughly approve. Love him truly!"
+
+At these words Rousille, looking down at the old lady, had the
+revelation of a being hitherto unknown to her. There was a light in
+her face; the poor arms, helpless from rheumatism, were held out
+towards Rousille trembling with emotion.
+
+"Yes, love him truly. Your happiness is with him. Leave it to time,
+but do not yield, my Rousille, for I know others who in their youth
+refused to marry to please their fathers, and who had such difficulty
+afterwards to kill their hearts! Do not live alone, it is worse than
+death! Your Nesmy, I know him--your Nesmy and you are true lovers of
+the soil, such as the land can boast but few nowadays, and if old Aunt
+Adelaide can help you, defend you, give you what is wanted to enable
+you to marry, come to me, my child, at any time, come!"
+
+She was holding Rousille now in close embrace, the girl bending over
+the little black-robed figure and suffering her tears to flow on the
+friendly shoulder, now that she had unburdened her heart.
+
+For a moment the room was as silent as was the town slumbering in the
+mid-day sun. Then the Michelonne, gently disengaging herself from the
+girl's arms, went towards the window, standing where she could not be
+seen from outside. Between the roofs of two adjoining houses, looking
+westwards, was set, as in a frame, a corner of the Marais, its
+reddish-brown rushes finally fading away on the horizon.
+
+"It was Mathurin, was it not, who denounced you?" she asked in a low
+voice.
+
+"Yes, he was always watching me."
+
+"He is jealous, you see. He has a grudge against you."
+
+"For what, poor creature!"
+
+"Your youth, my poor child. He is jealous of all who take the place
+that should have been his; jealous of Francois, of Andre, of you. He
+is like a lost soul when he hears that anyone but himself is to manage
+your father's farm. Shall I tell you all?"
+
+Her frail hand uplifted, she pointed to the distant Marais, where the
+poplars, tiny as grains of oats, were standing out against the sky.
+
+"Well, he still thinks of Felicite."
+
+"Poor brother!" exclaimed Rousille, nodding her head. "If he is still
+thinking of her, she is only making fun of him."
+
+"Innocent," returned the old woman in a whisper, "I know what I know.
+Beware of Mathurin, he has drunk too deeply of love to forget. Beware
+of Felicite Gauvrit, because she is furious that being an heiress, no
+suitors come to her."
+
+Rousille was about to reply. Adelaide made her a sign to keep silence;
+she had heard a footstep in the lane. Hastily drying her eyes, the old
+lady re-seated herself and picked up her work, like a child surprised
+in some fault by her mother. A pair of sabots was heard at the foot of
+the wall, they passed the doorsteps, and went on down the Place. It
+was not Veronique. Marie-Rose had drawn back; she was looking at her
+one friend, so old, so worn, so timid, yet whose heart was so young.
+And she thought no more of what she had been about to reply; she only
+said simply:
+
+"Good-bye, Aunt Michelonne. If I need help I shall know where to
+come."
+
+"Good-bye, dear child. Beware of Mathurin. Beware of the girl out
+there!"
+
+They said no more in words, only their eyes were fixed on each
+other's, Rousille looking back until she had reached the door; then
+the latch was lifted, fell back into its socket, and there only
+remained in the silent chamber a little old woman stooping down over
+her black work, but who could not see her needle for the mist of tears
+in her eyes.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+PLOUGHING IN SEPTEMBER.
+
+
+It was Monday, the third day after Rousille had seen the Michelonnes.
+On the previous day, from morn till eve, storm clouds, rising out of
+the sea, had discharged their contents on the arid earth, as pockets
+full of corn are scattered by the sower. Showers of leaves, mostly
+from the topmost branches, had fallen; others, heavy with moisture,
+hung pendant. An aroma of damp earth rose up to the calm, milky sky;
+there was not a breath stirring, the birds were silenced, the land
+seemed intent upon the last drops of rain formed during the night,
+that came crashing down at the foot of the trees with a ring as of
+falling glass. Something in Nature seemed to have died with the last
+breath of summer, and the whole earth to be conscious of its loss.
+
+And in truth, on the hills of Chalons, the most distant area of La
+Fromentiere, the far-off grinding of a plough, and the calls of the
+man to his oxen, proclaimed that Autumn labour had begun.
+
+In the farm bakery, left of the building, and dividing their room from
+that of Francois, Eleonore and Marie-Rose were engaged heating the
+oven. From the semicircular opening flames were shooting up, now in
+heavy wreaths, now in groups of red petals set on upright stems.
+Eleonore standing before it, in a print gown, was feeding the oven
+with faggots of bramble, thrusting them with an iron fork into the
+furnace. Marie-Rose was busily going backwards and forwards bringing
+in the baskets of dough. They did not speak; for a long time there had
+been a coolness between the sisters. But as for the tenth time
+Eleonore looked towards the door, as if expecting to see some person
+or thing in the courtyard, Rousille asked:
+
+"What are you expecting, Eleonore?"
+
+"Nothing," was the cross reply. "I am hot. My eyes smart." And she
+busied herself with separating the burning embers, arranging them in
+layers at the sides of the oven; this finished:
+
+"Help me to fill the oven," she said.
+
+One by one the loaves of leavened dough were placed by Rousille upon a
+large flat shovel, which Eleonore slid over the burning bricks, and
+drew out again with a sharp jerk. Twenty loaves there were of twelve
+pound each; enough wherewith to feed all at La Fromentiere, and to
+give to the poor of Monday for a fortnight. The last having been
+placed, Eleonore closed the mouth of the oven with an iron plate; the
+sisters had wiped their hot cheeks with their sleeves, the smell of
+new bread was beginning to be perceptible through the chinks of the
+oven, when a loud laughing voice called in from the yard:
+
+"M Francois Lumineau. Is he at home?" and the postman, a visitor who
+had been seen fairly often at La Fromentiere for some months past,
+held out a letter with printed heading on it. He added jocosely, for
+something to say:
+
+"Another letter from the State Railways, Mam'selle Eleonore. Any of
+you got friends there?"
+
+"Thank you," returned Eleonore, hastily taking the letter and putting
+it into the pocket of her apron, "I will give it to my brother. Fine
+weather to-day for your round?"
+
+"Aye, that it is. Better than for heating the oven I should say by the
+look of you." The man made a half-turn on his well-worn shoes, and
+went his way in the steady jog-trot of seven leagues a day at thirty
+sous.
+
+Eleonore, leaning against the doorpost, paid no further attention to
+him; she was gazing, as if hypnotized, on the corner of white paper
+that protruded from her pocket. She seemed strangely agitated, her
+eyelids swelled, her breast heaved beneath the calico bodice all
+streaked with flour and soot.
+
+"There is some secret, I am sure," exclaimed Marie-Rose from behind
+her. "I do not ask what it is, I am accustomed at home to be left to
+myself. But still I cannot help seeing what is going on; only
+yesterday, after mass, you and Francois went off by yourselves to
+read some paper in the lane by the Michelonnes, I was there to fetch
+my money, and saw you gesticulating.... And now you are crying. It is
+hard, Eleonore, to see one's sister cry and not to know the
+reason--not to be able to say one word to comfort her."
+
+To Rousille's intense surprise, Eleonore, without turning, held out a
+trembling hand towards her, and drew her younger sister tumultuously
+to her beating heart; and for the first time for many years, overcome
+with emotion, she leant her cheek on Rousille's, then suddenly broke
+out into sobs.
+
+"Yes," she sobbed, "there is a secret, my poor Rousille, such a secret
+that I can never have the like again in all my life. I cannot tell it
+to you ... it is there in the letter ... but Francois must read it
+first, and then father--Heavens! what an unhappy girl I am!"
+
+Tenderly Rousille pressed her face against her sister's all bathed in
+tears.
+
+"But the secret, Eleonore, it only concerns Francois, does it?"
+
+"No, me too; me too! Oh, when you hear it, Rousille.... It was
+Francois who persuaded me, he talked until I yielded ... and then I
+signed ... and now it is all done. Still, were it not for him, I feel
+that even now I could not do it; I would break the agreement--I would
+refuse."
+
+"You are going, Eleonore?" cried the girl, drawing back.
+
+Her sister's white face was the only answer.
+
+"You are going?" she repeated. "Oh, where? Oh, do not leave us."
+
+Eleonore, stupefied for the moment, now gave way to a feeling of
+anger, and repulsed the girl whom the instant before she had drawn to
+her.
+
+"Hold your tongue!" she said roughly. "Do not talk like that. Are you
+going to tell tales of us?"
+
+"I have no wish to do so."
+
+"They are coming. You heard them. You said it aloud for them to hear,
+you sneak!"
+
+"Indeed, I did not."
+
+"They are coming. Hark!"
+
+The distant footsteps of the men, one following the other, were
+audible. They were returning for the mid-day meal.
+
+Eleonore, in terror, almost suppliant, her voice shaken with emotion,
+ejaculated:
+
+"Mathurin is coming first--if only he did not hear what you were
+saying, Rousille. If he catches sight of me, he will guess
+everything.... I dare not go back into the house with such red eyes.
+You take my place. Go and pour out the soup, I will be with you in a
+moment."
+
+The men went into the house, walking in their usual leisurely manner;
+Francois alone had a presentiment of the news awaiting them. The hot
+sun had dried the moisture on grass and leaves, a soft haze lay all
+around, the air was mild and balmy; linnets, innumerable, had settled
+on the waggon-ruts, where lay thistles trodden down by the oxen. An
+aroma of hot bread pervaded the farmyard, and cheered by the wholesome
+smell the fine old farmer entered the house-place, whither Mathurin
+had preceded him.
+
+As soon as they had disappeared within the house, Eleonore, who had
+been watching at the door of the bakery, crossed the yard to the
+stable where Francois, having deposited his load of maize, was coiling
+up the rope by which he had carried it.
+
+"Francois," she exclaimed, "they want you. Your letter has been
+burning me like fire." And still quite pale, Eleonore held out the
+letter, watching it pass from her hands to those of her brother with a
+nervous dread of the unknown future.
+
+"When is it?" she asked. "Be quick!"
+
+Without showing any emotion Francois tried to smile, as though to mark
+masculine superiority over the weaker sex, as he proceeded
+deliberately to open the envelope with his thick, moist fingers. He
+read, reflected for a moment, then answered:
+
+"Humph! to-morrow."
+
+"To-morrow?"
+
+"Yes, I have to be at La Roche at noon, to begin work on the railway."
+
+Eleonore covered her face with both hands.
+
+"Oh, I say, don't you go and leave me now," he continued. "Do you want
+to?"
+
+"No, Francois, but to go to-morrow--to-morrow!"
+
+"Not to-morrow, to-night--at once. You ought to have expected it. Why,
+you engaged with the owner of the coffee shop in Rue Neuve two months
+ago. Did you sign the lease or not?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Did you promise to keep house for me?"
+
+"Yes, Francois."
+
+"When you bothered me to find you a good place at La Roche, did I not
+trouble myself about you on the condition that you would keep house
+for me? Yes or no? Of course, I want someone, and now you are not
+willing to go?"
+
+"I do not say...."
+
+"Oh, well. I shall tell father presently what you promised. Stay
+behind, if you like; but I warn you they will lead you a pretty life
+at La Fromentiere when I am gone; without mentioning the action the
+landlord at La Roche will bring against you at once, do you
+understand? at once, if you refuse to take the shop you have rented.
+Stay, if you like. I am going!"
+
+She raised her arms above her head and always under the impression of
+the moment, said:
+
+"I will go; whatever time you like, I will be ready. Only I cannot
+hear you tell father. Do not speak to him when I am there." She
+hurriedly left the stable and went into the house to serve the
+dinner, whilst Francois proceeded to give the oxen their forage,
+taking as much time over it as he could.
+
+Toussaint Lumineau was quietly talking with Mathurin. Sitting side by
+side at the table, they watched their steaming plates of soup cool as
+they discussed the new farm-servant whom it was necessary to engage
+shortly.
+
+"I will hire him at Chalons fair," said the father.
+
+"That will be too late."
+
+"We must do our best till then, my boy. I will look out for a strong
+fellow, a lad from these parts."
+
+"Yes, no _Boquin_, above all things! We know what they are!"
+
+Toussaint Lumineau shook his head as he replied gently:
+
+"Do not wrong the lad, Mathurin. I sent Jean Nesmy away, and for a
+reason. But as regards work, I have nothing but good to say of him; he
+worked well, and he loved farming, whilst others...." Little Rousille
+was listening with eyes lowered, standing like a statue by the window.
+Francois entered. "Whilst others," continued the farmer, slightly
+raising his voice, "do not show as much energy as they might. Eh, my
+Francois?"
+
+The fair, ruddy-cheeked youth shrugged his shoulders as he took his
+seat.
+
+"The work is too hard," he said. "Since I came back I have felt that I
+cannot accustom myself to that kind of thing."
+
+"Oh, you half of a man," cried Mathurin. "Are you not ashamed of
+yourself? If I could but walk, our father would have no need to hire
+anyone. Look at these arms," and he held them out, the muscles showing
+under his coat sleeves like knots of an oak-tree imprisoned within the
+bark, while his face was suffused with crimson, the veins of his
+forehead swelled, and his eyes were bloodshot.
+
+"My poor boy!" said his father, touching his hand to calm him. "My
+poor boy, I well know your misfortune has cost La Fromentiere dear."
+Then after a short silence, he added: "Still we will get through some
+good work, children, with Francois and Driot, who will soon be home,
+and the man I am about to hire. I have a mind to start to-day on the
+field of La Cailleterie, that has lain fallow there two years. The
+rain we have had must have softened the ground, the plough will bite."
+
+Eleonore, who had just then pushed open the inner door, stopped
+tremblingly, seeing Francois in the act of moving his lips as if to
+speak and tell their secret. But no word escaped the young man's lips
+during the remainder of the meal. Towards the end, as they were rising
+from table, Mathurin, looking at the sky through the smoke-begrimed
+windows, said:
+
+"Father, will you take me up there in the cart?"
+
+"Of course I will. Go fetch the cart, Eleonore, and you, Francois,
+yoke the oxen."
+
+The farmer was well-nigh gay; the young people thought his mind was
+dwelling upon Driot, whose name was now so constantly upon his lips.
+But it was nothing but the first tillage of the season that made him
+so content.
+
+A quarter of an hour later the farmer passed round his body the strap
+fixed to the box on wheels in which the cripple was seated and began
+dragging it as one tows a boat; the oxen, led by Francois, going on in
+front. They took the same road which Jean Nesmy had taken the morning
+of his dismissal; his footprints were still visible in the dust. There
+were four superb oxen, preceded by a grey mare, Noblet, Cavalier,
+Paladin, and Matelot, all with tawny coats, widespread horns, high
+backs, and slow supple gait. With perfect ease they drew the plough,
+the share raised, up the steep ascent; and when a trail of bramble
+across their path tempted them, they would simultaneously slacken
+speed, and the iron chain that linked the foremost couple to the beam
+would clank on the ground. Francois walked gloomily beside them, deep
+in thought on matters not connected with the day's work.
+
+Those following him, the farmer and his crippled son, were equally
+silent, but their thoughts were centred on the soil over which they
+were passing; and with the like sense of peaceful content their eyes
+roamed over gates, ditches, fields, their minds filled with the same
+simple interests. With them meditation was a sign of their calling,
+the mark of the noble vocation of those by whose labours the world is
+fed. Arrived at the top of the knoll in the field of La Cailleterie,
+his father helped Mathurin out of the little cart to the foot of an
+ash-tree, whose branches threw a light shadow over the slope. Before
+them the fallow land, covered with weeds and ferns, fell away in an
+even descent, surrounded by hedges on the four sides. Looking down the
+slope and over the lower hedge could be seen the Marais fading away in
+the distance like a blue plain.
+
+And now the farmer, having loosened the pin that held the share,
+himself guided the plough to the extreme left of the field, and put it
+in place.
+
+"You stay there in the sun," he said to Mathurin. "And you, Francois,
+lead your oxen straight. This is a grand day for ploughing. Ohe!
+Noblet, Cavalier, Paladin, Matelot!"
+
+A cut of the whip sent the mare off, the four oxen lowered their horns
+and extended their hocks, the ploughshare cut into the earth with the
+noise of a scythe being whetted; the earth parted in brown clods that
+formed high ridges on either side, falling back in powdery masses upon
+themselves like water divided by the bow of a ship. The well-trained
+oxen went straight and steadily. Their muscles under the supple skin
+moved regularly and without more apparent effort than if they had been
+drawing an empty cart upon an even road. Weeds lay uprooted in the
+ruts; trefoil, wild oats, plantains, pimpernels, broom, its yellow
+blossoms already mixed with brown pods, brakes folded back on their
+long stems like young oaks cut down. A haze ascended from the upturned
+earth exposed to the heat of the sun; in front the dust raised by the
+feet of the oxen caused the team to proceed in a ruddy aureole,
+through which numberless gnats and flies were darting.
+
+Mathurin, in the shade of the mountain ash, looked on with envy as the
+team descended the slope of the hill, and the forms of his father and
+brother, the oxen and mare, grew smaller in the distance.
+
+"Francois," exclaimed his father, enjoying the feeling of the shaft
+under his hand, "Francois, see to Noblet, he is slackening. Touch up
+Matelot! The mare is drawing to the left. Brisk up, my boy, you look
+half asleep!"
+
+And, in truth, Francois was taking no interest in guiding the plough.
+He was feeling that the time had come for him to speak, and the
+difficulty of beginning made him walk with head downcast. At the far
+end of the field they turned and began the ascent, the plough marking
+a second line of furrows beside the first. From where Mathurin sat he
+had lost sight of them on the low ground; now the horns of the oxen
+and his brother's goad came into view, and, to greet the return of the
+plough, he began with stentorian voice to chant the slow refrain which
+can be varied or ended at pleasure. The notes were flung far and wide
+from his powerful chest, embellished with _fioriture_ ancient as the
+art of ploughing itself. The oxen knew the rhythm, and stepped in time
+to it; the cadence accompanied the groan of the wheels on their axes;
+borne on the air, it was wafted afar o'er the hedges, telling other
+labourers in fields that the plough was at work on the fallow land of
+La Cailleterie. The cadence rejoiced the farmer's heart. But Francois
+remained gloomy. As the plough neared the shade of the ash-tree,
+Mathurin, whose thoughts were always busied with the future of La
+Fromentiere, said:
+
+"Father, it would be a good thing to re-plant our vineyard that is
+dying off. As soon as Driot is home we should do it; what think you?"
+
+The farmer stayed his oxen, lifted his hat to cool his hot head, and
+smiled, well pleased.
+
+"You are always thinking of something to the point, Mathurin. If the
+wheat comes up well in La Cailleterie, faith of a Lumineau! I will lay
+in a stock of vines. I am hopeful of our work to-day. Come on,
+youngster, straighten the harness. Look to your mare, she is hot; coax
+her a bit, walk beside her, that she may see you and go more quietly."
+
+The team moved off again; a mist of heat enveloped men and beasts; the
+air was thick with flies; turtle-doves, gorged with seed, took shelter
+in the ash-trees from the burning heat of the stubble fields. The
+cripple had ceased his song, and the farmer, as they got to the middle
+of the field, said:
+
+"It is your turn to tune up now, Francois. Sing, boy, it will gladden
+your heart!"
+
+The young man went on a few paces, then began: "Oh! oh! my men, oh!
+oh! oh!" His voice, of higher register than Mathurin's, made the oxen
+prick up their ears as it faltered past them; then, all suddenly, it
+came to a dead stop, rendered mute by the fear that mastered the
+singer. He pulled himself together, raised his head, and, looking
+towards the Marais, made a fresh effort; a few more notes faltered
+out, then a sob choked them, and, crimson with shame, the young man
+resumed his way in silence, his face turned towards the fallow land,
+walking in front of his father, who looked at him across the croup of
+the oxen. No word was said by either until the farmer had finished the
+furrow; then, at the end of the field, Toussaint Lumineau, troubled to
+the very depths of his soul, said:
+
+"You have news for me, Francois, what is it?"
+
+They were some three feet apart, the father standing level with the
+hedge, his son on the far side of the plough at the head of the oxen.
+
+"That I am going away, father."
+
+"What, Francois? The heat has turned your head, my boy. Are you
+feeling ill?" But from the expression of his son's eyes he quickly saw
+that this was a very different thing from some passing illness; that
+misfortune was coming.
+
+Francois had made up his mind to speak. With one hand resting on
+Noblet's back, as if to support himself, trembling and nervous, yet
+with hard, insolent look, he cried:
+
+"I have had enough of this. I shall cut it."
+
+"Enough of what, my lad?"
+
+"Enough of digging the ground, enough of looking after the cattle,
+enough of drudgery at seven-and-twenty to make money that all goes to
+pay the rent of the farm. I mean to be my own master, and make money
+for myself. I have got a situation on the railway, and I begin
+to-morrow--to-morrow, do you hear?" His voice rose in a kind of
+frenzy.
+
+"I am accepted; there is nothing more to be said. The thing is done. I
+am taking Eleonore to La Roche to keep house for me. She, too, has had
+enough of this. She has found a good place, a shop where she will make
+more than with you; at any rate, she will have a chance of
+marrying.... And I don't see that we have acted badly towards you in
+what we have done. Don't say that we have! And don't make that rueful
+face about it! We have served our time with you, father, have waited
+patiently for Andre's return. Now that he is coming home, let him help
+you. It is his turn."
+
+The unexpected blow had stupefied the farmer; he had grown very white.
+With set teeth, one arm resting on the plough, he remained speechless,
+his eyes fixed upon Francois as if demented. Slowly the full force of
+the situation, with all its pain, filtered into his soul.
+
+"But, Francois, what you tell me cannot be true; Eleonore never
+complained of her work."
+
+"Oh yes, she has; not to you."
+
+"As for you, you have always had plenty of help. If I have sometimes
+reproached you for idleness, it has been because times are hard for
+everyone. But now that I am going to take on a farm-servant, now that
+another fortnight will see Driot home, we shall be four of us,
+counting myself, who am still of some use. You will not go, Francois?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Where will you do better than at home? Have you been short of food?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Have I ever refused you clothes, or even money for your tobacco?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Francois, it must be that military service has changed your heart
+towards us."
+
+"That may be."
+
+"But say that you will not leave us?"
+
+The young man put his hand into his coat pocket, and held out the
+letter.
+
+"I have to be there at noon to-morrow," he said. "If you don't believe
+me, read for yourself."
+
+The father stretched out his hand across the team for the letter,
+trembling so much that he could scarcely take it. Once in his hands,
+without opening it, in a sudden access of indignation he crumpled and
+tore it into atoms, then crushed the pieces under his sabots into the
+soft earth.
+
+"There," he cried, "is an end to the letter. Now are you going?"
+
+"That alters nothing," returned Francois.
+
+He would have passed his father, but a powerful hand was laid upon his
+shoulders, a voice commanded:
+
+"Stay here!"
+
+And the son was constrained to stay.
+
+"Who engaged you, Francois?"
+
+"The head of the office."
+
+"No; who advised you? You did not do this thing by yourself, you had
+the help of some gentleman. Who was it?"
+
+The young man hesitated for a moment, then, feeling himself a
+prisoner, stammered out:
+
+"M. Meffray."
+
+With one thrust the farmer sent him flying.
+
+"Run; harness La Rousse to the dog-cart. Quick! I am going myself to
+M. Meffray."
+
+So he shouted in his rage. But when he saw his son obey him and take
+the path towards the farm--when he found himself alone in the far end
+of his field, he was seized with anguish. So far he had ever found
+help in the difficulties of his life; this time, taken unawares by
+danger in the full swing of work, he turned him slowly round as if
+moved by habit, and searched the landscape as far as his eyes would
+carry, for a helper, a support, someone who should defend his cause
+and advise with him. His oxen standing still, looked at him out of
+their large soft eyes. The first object he saw, in among the trees,
+was the belfry of Sallertaine. He shook his head. No, the Cure, the
+good old friend he consulted so willingly, could do nothing. Toussaint
+Lumineau knew him to be powerless against town officials and
+authorities, all the great unknown outside the parish. His gaze left
+the church, passed over the farm without stopping, but rested awhile
+on the pointed roofs of La Fromentiere. Ah! were the Marquis but
+there! He feared nothing: neither uniforms, nor titles, nor long words
+that poor uncultured people could not understand. And expense was
+nothing to him. He would have made the journey from Paris to prevent a
+_Maraichin_ from leaving the soil. Alas! the Chateau was empty. No
+longer the Master to appeal to.... The old farmer's eyes fell upon the
+two newly made furrows rising before him to the ash-tree on the hill;
+then it struck him that Mathurin was waiting and wondering, and that
+he must say something to prevent his growing uneasy.
+
+"Ohe!" cried he, "Lumineau!"
+
+Over the curve of the hill, through the still air, a voice replied:
+
+"Here I am. You are not coming up again?"
+
+"No; the chain has snapped. I must take back the team."
+
+"All right."
+
+"Do not mind waiting a bit; Rousille will come to fetch you. I am
+going round by the slope of the meadow."
+
+At the foot of the field, filled in with bundles of thorn, was a gap
+in the hedge leading on to a narrow slip of meadow, and thence to the
+farm. To avoid having to answer Mathurin's questions, the farmer
+touched up his oxen and took this way back. In the middle of the
+courtyard he perceived the dog-cart already harnessed, Francois
+standing beside it in his Sunday clothes.
+
+"Fasten up the oxen," he said roughly. Then, passing in front of him,
+he opened the house door and called:
+
+"Eleonore!"
+
+There was no answer. Going through the house-place he passed into the
+kitchen, where he met Rousille.
+
+"Where is your sister?"
+
+"She was talking to Francois in the courtyard just now. Shall I look
+for her?"
+
+"No, that will do. I will see her later on. Rousille, we have some
+business at Chalons, Francois and I. We shall be back before supper.
+Go to Mathurin, who will be tired of waiting so long at La
+Cailleterie, and bring him back."
+
+Without another word, the farmer returned to the yard, where Francois
+awaited him. Getting into the cart, he signed to his son to take the
+place beside him, and with a cut of the whip sent the mare,
+unaccustomed to such harsh usage, off at a gallop.
+
+"Where are they going at such speed?" thought the few spectators whom
+they passed on their way--spectators whom nothing escapes: innkeepers
+standing at their doors, tramps on the highway, peasants lopping the
+trees. "What has come to them? Old Lumineau is lashing La Rousse, and
+jerking the reins like a groom afraid of his master, and not a word
+does he say to his lad."
+
+In fact the farmer's wrath was growing as he meditated his wrongs; he
+muttered between his teeth what he would say to that Meffray, while
+his stalwart arms, eager for strife and vengeance, lashed into the
+mare. Francois, on the contrary, exhausted by the effort he had made,
+had relapsed into his usual apathy, and suffered himself to be carried
+on towards his fate, looking at the hedges with vacant stare.
+
+It was he, who on arrival at the Place by the Halles-Neuves of
+Chalons, jumped down and tied the mare to a ring attached to one of
+the pillars; then followed his father who turned up one of the streets
+on the left, and stopped before a modern, narrow, red-brick building.
+An iron plate, under the door bell, was inscribed, "Jules Meffray,
+Ex-Sheriff's Officer, Town Councillor."
+
+The farmer pulled the bell vigorously.
+
+"Is your master in?" he asked the servant who opened the door.
+
+The girl examined the peasant who inquired for her master in a tone
+and look not of the pleasantest, and who presented himself in work-day
+clothes soiled with mud, and replied:
+
+"I think he is. What may be your business?"
+
+"Tell him that Toussaint Lumineau, of La Fromentiere, wants to speak
+to him; and let him be quick, I am in a hurry."
+
+Astonished, not daring to show Lumineau into the dining-room where M.
+Meffray was wont to receive his clients, the maid left the farmer and
+his son standing in the shabby passage at the foot of the stairs. So
+taken aback was she, that she did not see the shamefaced Francois
+hidden in the background, but only the stalwart old peasant, whose
+broad shoulders almost blocked the way as he stood erect, hat on head,
+under the ill-kept hall lamp that was never lighted.
+
+A few seconds later the garden door opened, and a tall, stout man came
+in, dressed in a white flannel suit, a cap of the same material on his
+head; his face was clean-shaven, his small eyes blinking, probably
+with the sudden change from the outer glare. This was M. Meffray,
+member for Chalons, an ambitious small tradesman, who, originally one
+of them, was possessed by a secret animosity towards the peasant
+class; and who, living amongst them, had only learnt to know their
+defects of which he made use.
+
+Informed of the manner in which Lumineau had presented himself,
+dreading some violence, he stopped short at the foot of the staircase,
+rested his elbow on the banisters, and touching the brim of his cap
+with three fingers, said carelessly:
+
+"They should have shown you in, farmer. But as it seems that you are
+in haste, we can talk just as well here. I have done your son a
+service, is that your reason for coming?"
+
+"Just so," returned Lumineau.
+
+"Can I do anything more for you?"
+
+"I want to keep my boy, M. Meffray."
+
+"Keep him? What do you mean?"
+
+"Yes; that you should undo what you have done."
+
+"But that depends upon him. Have you had your summons, Francois?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Well, my friend, if you do not want to take the post, there is no
+lack of candidates to fill your place, as you know. I have now ten
+other applications which I have far more reason to support than I had
+yours. For after all, you Lumineaus, you do not vote with us in the
+elections. So do you wish to give up the place?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"It is I who will not have him go," broke in Toussaint Lumineau, "I
+want him at La Fromentiere."
+
+"But he is of age, farmer!"
+
+"He is my son, M. Meffray. It is his part to work for me. Put
+yourself in my place, I who am an old man. I had counted on leaving my
+farm to him, as my father left it to me. He goes away, and takes my
+daughter with him. So I lose two children, and through your fault."
+
+"Excuse me; I did not seek him; he came to me."
+
+"But without you he would not be going, nor Eleonore either! They had
+to have recommendations. You call that doing a service, M. Meffray?
+Did you even know what would be best for Francois--had you ever seen
+him in his home to know if he was unhappy there? Monsieur Meffray, you
+must give him back to me."
+
+"Settle it with your son. It does not concern me."
+
+"You will not speak to those who have entrapped my son, and annul the
+agreement?" Advancing a step, and pointing at him with extended arm,
+Toussaint Lumineau said in a loud voice: "Then you have done my son
+more harm in one single day than I in all my life."
+
+M. Meffray's heavy face crimsoned.
+
+"Be off, old hound!" he shouted. "Be off, take your son! Manage your
+own affairs. Ah! these peasants! Such are the thanks one gets for
+troubling about them!"
+
+The farmer seemed not to have heard; he remained motionless. But there
+was a strange fire in his eyes; from the depths of his tortured
+heart, from the depths of the faith taught to his race for generations
+past, the words came to his lips:
+
+"You shall answer for them," he said.
+
+"How so?"
+
+"There where they are going they will both be lost, M. Meffray. You
+shall answer for their eternal perdition."
+
+As though stupefied by a speech so unlike any he had ever heard, the
+town councillor made no reply; it needed time for him to take in an
+idea so different from those usually filling his mind; then throwing a
+contemptuous glance at the huge peasant standing erect before him, he
+turned on his heel, and moved to the garden door, with a muttered:
+
+"Boor--go!"
+
+Toussaint Lumineau and his son went out into the street, walking
+silently side by side until they reached the Place. There the father,
+unfastening the mare, said as he was about to put his foot on the step
+of the cart:
+
+"Get up, Francois. We will go home."
+
+But the young man drew back.
+
+"No," he said, "the thing is done; you will not make me alter it.
+Besides, I arranged with Eleonore, who must have left La Fromentiere
+by now. You will not find her there when you go back." He had taken
+off his hat in farewell, and was looking uneasily at his old father,
+who, leaning against the shaft with half-closed eyes, seemed about to
+swoon. Under the colonnade of the Halles there was not a soul; a few
+women in their shops round the Place were carelessly looking at the
+two men. After a moment, Francois drew a little nearer and held out
+his hand, doubtless to clasp that of his father for the last time; but
+seeing him approach the old man revived, motioned his son away, sprang
+into the cart, and lashing up La Rousse, drove off at a gallop.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+THE APPEAL TO THE MASTER.
+
+
+Eleonore had suffered herself to be persuaded. She had left her home.
+Weak, and easily led, she had for months past listened too readily to
+the promptings of vanity and laziness, which, censured by her father
+at La Fromentiere, could be yielded to at will in the town. To have no
+more baking to do, no more cows to milk, to be in some sort a lady, to
+wear a hat trimmed with ribbons--such were the reasons for which she
+went out into the unknown, with only her brother, who would be away
+all day, for protector. Eleonore had yielded from force of example,
+and in complete ignorance of the step she was taking. Thus she cast
+herself adrift, and exposed herself to life in a suburb, to the
+familiarities of frequenters of the cafe, without dreaming of its
+dangers, with the utter ignorance of the peasant who knows nothing
+beyond the troubles incidental to life in the country.
+
+The separation was accomplished. At the moment that the farmer drove
+away, intent upon the hope of still recovering his children, Eleonore
+had hurriedly left the shelter of the barn where she had been hiding,
+and, despite the entreaties of Marie-Rose and even of Mathurin, going
+from room to room she had hurriedly collected the little store of
+personal clothing and trinkets belonging to her. To all Rousille's
+pleading, as to the calmer adjurations of Mathurin, she had replied:
+
+"It is Francois' wish, my dears! I cannot tell if I shall be happy;
+but it is too late now. My promise is given."
+
+She was so greatly in fear of seeing her father come back that she was
+almost frenzied with haste. Quickly she made up her bundle, went out
+from La Fromentiere, and reached the hollow road, where, crouching
+beneath the hedge, she waited for the steam tram that runs between
+Fromentiere and Chalons. There some hours later Francois was to rejoin
+her.
+
+Meanwhile the farmer, driving La Rousse at her greatest speed, had
+returned home.
+
+"Eleonore!" he had cried.
+
+"Gone," Mathurin had answered.
+
+Then, half-mad with grief, the old man had flung the reins across the
+steaming beast, and without a word of explanation had stridden away in
+the direction of Sallertaine. Had he been actuated by a last hope and
+idea? Or did his deserted house inspire him with dread?
+
+Night was falling. He had not yet returned. A damp, encircling mist,
+silent as death, enveloped all around. In the living-room of La
+Fromentiere, beside the fire that no one tended, beside the simmering
+pot that murmured as if in low plaint, the two remaining inmates of
+the farm sat watching, but how differently! Rousille, nervous, burning
+with fever, could not keep still; she was for ever rising from her
+chair, clasping her hands, and murmuring: "My God, my God!" then going
+to the open door to look out, shivering, into the dark, thick night.
+
+"Listen!" she said.
+
+The cripple listened, then said:
+
+"It is the goatherd of Malabrit taking home his flock."
+
+"Listen again!"
+
+A distant sound of barking, borne on the silent air, died away in the
+stillness.
+
+"That is not Bas-Rouge's bark," returned Mathurin.
+
+So from hour to hour, and minute to minute, a step, a cry, the rolling
+of a vehicle, would keep their senses on the alert.
+
+What were they expecting? Their father, who came not. But Rousille,
+younger, more credulous, was expecting the others too, or if not both,
+at least one, either Francois or Eleonore, who, repentant--was it too
+much to hope--had come back. Oh, what joy it would be, what rapture to
+see one of them! It seemed as if the other would have the right to go
+if one came back to take his place in the home. The young girl felt
+raised out of herself as a vague sense of duty came over her; she, the
+only woman, the only one to act in her deserted home.
+
+Mathurin sat in a stooping posture by the hearth, his feet wrapped in
+a rug, the glow of the fire reddening the beard crushed beneath his
+chin. For hours he had sat so, never moving, speaking as little as
+possible; from time to time tears rolled down his cheeks; at other
+times Rousille, looking at him, was astonished to see the shadow of a
+smile cross his face--a smile she could in nowise understand.
+
+Nine o'clock struck.
+
+"Mathurin," exclaimed the girl, "I am afraid that some misfortune has
+befallen father."
+
+"He may be talking over his trouble with the Cure, or the Mayor."
+
+"So I tell myself; yet, all the same, I am frightened."
+
+"That's because you are not accustomed to wait as I am. What do you
+want to do?"
+
+"To go towards Sallertaine to meet him."
+
+"Go, if you like."
+
+Rousille ran to her room to get her black cloak. When she came back,
+looking like a little nun, she found that Mathurin had thrown off the
+rug, and was standing up. His crutches were lying on the ground, and
+by an effort of will he stood nearly upright, resting one hand on the
+table, the other on the back of his chair. He looked at his sister
+with an air of pride and of suppressed pain, perspiration standing on
+his forehead.
+
+"Rousille," he said, "what should you do if father did not come back?"
+
+"Oh, don't say such things," she exclaimed, covering her eyes with her
+hand. "And do not exert yourself to stand like that; you make me feel
+quite ill!"
+
+"Well, I," continued Mathurin gravely, "should take the management
+here. I feel strong enough. I feel that I am recovering."
+
+"Sit down; sit down, I beg of you. You will fall."
+
+But he remained standing until she reached the door. Scarce had she
+crossed the threshold before she heard the human mass sink together
+with a groan. She turned back, saw that he was in a sitting posture on
+the chair, pressing both hands to his side, doubtless to still his
+fast-beating heart; then noiselessly, timid as a fawn rising out of
+the bracken, she ran into the courtyard, and out on to the road.
+
+The rising moon had lessened the mist, already one could see a
+considerable distance; in another hour it would be clear moonlight.
+Avoiding the shade of the hedges, Marie-Rose followed the middle of
+the path that, leading past the dwarf orchard, skirted the meadows;
+she was frightened, almost running, nor did she slacken speed until
+she reached the edge of the Marais, where the road suddenly widening
+like a river that falls into the sea, mingled its grasses with those
+of the marshland. Then, reassured by the moonlight, she stood still
+and listened. Where could her father be?
+
+She hoped to hear footsteps on the road, or even Bas-Rouge's bark. But
+no; in the dream-like mist that incessantly formed and dispersed about
+her, amid the dim moving lights and shadows around, there was but one
+sound, that of the distant roll of the sea against the shores of La
+Vendee. She was about to turn, follow the dyke to reach the bridge of
+Sallertaine and its familiar houses, when a well-known whistle, like
+that of a plover, met her ear. Could it be possible?
+
+The young girl's blood rushed to her heart; she stopped short in
+rapture and astonishment, without strength to look behind her.
+Motionless she stood, listening to the coming of one her heart had
+recognised. He came by the road she had come, from the thickets of La
+Fromentiere. Erect, trembling, she stood on the grass-grown road, felt
+two hands placed on her shoulders, then a rush of air that moved the
+right side of her cloak, and a man had lightly sprung in front of her,
+with the words:
+
+"It is I, Rousille. I have not frightened you?"
+
+There he was in his brown coat, stick in hand, looking well pleased at
+his piece of audacity.
+
+Notwithstanding her distress, Rousille could not repress a cry of joy.
+A smile rose to her face like an air bubble on troubled waters that
+none can hinder, and that widens as it goes.
+
+"Oh how happy I am!" she said. But then quickly resumed: "No, I am
+wrong to speak like that. You do not know of our trouble at home.
+Francois has gone, Eleonore has gone; I am all alone there, and I have
+come out to find father, who has not come home. I have no time to
+spare for you, Jean Nesmy. It would be wrong!"
+
+He watched the smile fade from her face in the moonlight; and as she
+drew her cloak about her to resume her way, he said hurriedly:
+
+"I know all, Rousille. For the last three days I have been at Chalons
+trying to find a situation as near here as possible. I have not found
+one. But this evening I heard of Francois' going; it is the talk of
+the town in one way and another. I ran at once to La Fromentiere,
+keeping out of sight. I watched you in the garden, in the barn. Since
+sundown I have heard you crying; but the farmer was the only one I saw
+go out."
+
+"Where is he--at Sallertaine?"
+
+"No; he went, but came back. I was in hiding about here. He passed
+just where we are now standing, and he was gesticulating and talking
+to himself as if he were demented."
+
+Terrified, she asked:
+
+"Was that long ago?"
+
+"A quarter of an hour."
+
+"Which way did he go?"
+
+Jean Nesmy pointed in the direction of the mainland, and to the
+wooden heights further away.
+
+"To the grounds of the Chateau, I believe. He jumped the fence some
+hundred yards from here."
+
+"Thanks and good-bye, Jean. I must go."
+
+But he, taking her hand, grew very grave in his turn.
+
+"Yes," he replied, "I know quite well--but myself--soon you will have
+me no longer. To-morrow I am going home to the Bocage; and I came back
+to ask you one thing, Rousille. What shall I say to my mother
+to-morrow when she asks me, 'Is it really true that she loves you?
+What word of plighted troth did she give you when you parted? My poor
+Jean, when true-hearted girls see their sweethearts going away from
+them they say some word that is as binding as a betrothal ring,
+something to comfort him in absence. What did she of La Fromentiere
+say to you?' If you have said no word, she will not believe me!"
+
+The dim solitude enveloping them threw their shadows faintly on the
+grey grass. Rousille, her sweetheart's glowing eyes fixed upon her,
+answered sadly:
+
+"Do not come back until Driot is well settled at home. Some months
+hence, in mid-winter, if our neighbours who frequent your markets tell
+you that he is working like a true farmer, that he is to be seen at
+fairs and gatherings, above all, that he is courting a girl at
+Sallertaine, then come back and speak to father. My father will not
+hear of a _Boquin_ for son-in-law; but if I will have no other husband
+than you--if Andre speaks for me, who can tell? Father spoke well of
+you after you went."
+
+"Really, Rousille? What did he say?"
+
+"No, not now. I must be going. Good-bye."
+
+He raised his hat with a natural courtesy that sat well upon him; nor
+did he seek to detain her longer.
+
+Already Rousille, turning her back upon Sallertaine, was running
+across the meadow; she had reached the last bushes that border the
+Marais, her cloak fluttering in the mist. For more than a minute after
+she had disappeared beyond the fence Jean Nesmy remained motionless,
+on the same spot, where the words she had spoken were still ringing in
+his ears. Then slowly, as one learning by heart who looks not about
+him, he took his way towards Sallertaine and on from thence to
+Chalons. His heart sang with joy as he repeated to himself: "In
+mid-winter, if our neighbours who frequent your markets tell you that
+he is working like a true farmer, come back...."
+
+The one thing he saw on the road to Chalons was that the topmost
+leaves of the willows were already turning yellow, and that the
+branches were growing leafless.
+
+Rousille, through a gap in the fence, had made her way into a stubble
+field, thence through a narrow belt of wood. Then finding that she was
+in the gravel walk of an avenue, she paused, terrified by the
+solitude, and seized by the instinctive respect for the seigniorial
+domain, where even then her people ventured but rarely, from fear of
+displeasing the Marquis. She was in the outskirts of the park. On all
+sides, lit by the peaceful light of the moon, were sloping lawns,
+broken now by groups of forest-trees forming islands of black shade,
+now disappearing in the blue mist of distance. Sometimes in light,
+sometimes in shadow, Rousille followed the path, her eyes on the
+watch, her heart beating wildly. She was seeking marks of footsteps on
+the gravel; straining to see objects amid the dense thickets. Was that
+her father over there, that dark form through the wood? No, it was but
+the pile of a fence overgrown with brambles. Everywhere thorn-bushes,
+roots, dead branches impeded the moss-grown paths. How neglect had
+grown with years! The master absent, all was deserted, gone to waste.
+As she pursued her way, Rousille began to realise more keenly her
+sorrow at her brother's and sister's flight. They too, perhaps, would
+never come back to their home; fear in her gave place to grief.
+
+Suddenly, the path winding round a clump of cedars, she found herself
+in front of the Chateau, with its huge main building flanked by towers
+and pointed roofs, on which the weather-cocks that once told the
+direction of the wind were now motionless with rust. Night owls were
+silently chasing each other round the gables; the windows were shut,
+the ground-floor secured with shutters strongly battened.
+
+Anxious as she was, the young girl could not but stop for a moment to
+look at the melancholy pile, stained by winter rains, already as grey
+as any ruin; and as she stood there on the broad carriage-drive, her
+ear detected a distant murmur of words.
+
+"It is father," she thought without a moment's hesitation.
+
+He was sitting some hundred yards away from the Chateau, on a bench
+that Rousille knew well, placed in the half-bend of a group of
+birches, and called by the country people the bench of the Marquise.
+Bent double, his head resting on his hands, the old man was looking at
+the Chateau and down the avenues that sloped towards the Marais. Under
+the shadow of the birches Rousille drew nearer to him, and as she came
+closer, she began to distinguish the words he was saying, like a
+refrain: "Monsieur le Marquis! Monsieur le Marquis!" And as she
+hastened over the soft turf which deadened her footsteps, Rousille had
+the horrible dread that her father was mad. No, it was not that, but
+grief, fatigue, and hunger, of which he was unconscious, had excited
+his brain. Finding neither help nor support anywhere, in his despair
+instinct and habit had brought him to the door of the Chateau, where
+so often before he had come in sure hope of relief. He had lost all
+knowledge of time, and only continued to address his lament,
+"Monsieur le Marquis! Monsieur le Marquis!" to the ears of the master
+too distant to pay heed. The girl, throwing back the hood of her
+cloak, said softly so as not to startle him:
+
+"Father, it is Rousille. I have been looking for you for an hour.
+Father, it is late--come!"
+
+The old farmer shuddered, looking at her with absent eyes that saw not
+present objects.
+
+"Only think," he said, "the Marquis is not here, Rousille. My house is
+going to ruin, and he is not here to defend me. He should come back
+when I am in trouble, should he not?"
+
+"Of course, father, but he does not know of it; he is far away, in
+Paris."
+
+"The others, the people of Sallertaine, they can do nothing for us
+because they are humble folks like ourselves, who have no authority
+beyond their farms. I have been to the Mayor, to Guerineau, to de la
+Pinconniere, le Glorieux, de la Terre-Aymont. They sent me away with
+empty words. But the Marquis, Rousille, when he comes back--when he
+knows all! Perhaps to-morrow?"
+
+"Perhaps."
+
+"Then he will not leave me alone in my grief. He will help me; he will
+give me back Francois--eh, child? will he not give me back Francois?"
+
+His voice was raised; the shrill words struck against the walls of the
+Chateau, that sent them echoing back in softened accents to the
+avenues, the lawns, until they were lost in the forest. The still,
+pure night listened as they died away, as it listened to the rustle of
+insects in the thickets.
+
+Rousille, seeing her father in so great distress, sat down beside him,
+and talked to him for a while, trying to inspire a hope which she did
+not feel. And, possibly, a calming influence, a consoling power
+emanated from her, for when she said: "There is Mathurin at home,
+father, waiting for you," of his own accord he rose, and took his
+daughter's arm. For a long while he looked into the face of his pretty
+little Rousille, so pale with emotion and fatigue.
+
+"True," he replied, "there is Mathurin. We must go."
+
+And together they passed in front of the Chateau, turned into the
+avenue leading towards the servants' offices, and thence into the
+fields belonging to the farm. As they neared La Fromentiere, Rousille
+felt that the farmer was gradually recovering his self-control, and
+when they were in the courtyard, with a rush of pity for the cripple,
+Rousille said:
+
+"Father, Mathurin is very unhappy too. Do not talk much to him of your
+distress."
+
+Hereupon the farmer, whose courage and clear reasoning had revived,
+passed his hand over his eyes, and preceding Rousille, pushed open the
+door of the house-place, where his crippled son lay stretched deep in
+thought, beside the nearly burnt-out candle.
+
+"Mathurin, my son," he said, "do not worry overmuch ... they have
+gone, but our Driot will soon be home again!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+DRIOT'S RETURN.
+
+
+"Our Driot is coming." For a fortnight La Fromentiere lived on these
+words. Work had been resumed the day after the trouble. A
+farm-labourer, hired by Lumineau at Saint Jean-de-Mont, a tall, lean
+man, with thighs as flat as his cheeks, replaced Jean Nesmy, and slept
+in the room beyond the stable. Marie-Rose did, single-handed, the work
+before shared by both sisters: housekeeping, cooking, dairy-work, and
+bread-making. She rose earlier and went to bed later. Under her coif
+she ever had some wise idea in her little head which prevented her
+from thinking of the past; and in all her movements was displayed that
+silent activity that the farmer had loved in his old Luminette.
+
+Mathurin had of himself offered to look after the "birds," that is to
+say, the stock of half-wild turkeys and geese bred at La Fromentiere.
+Carrying a sack fastened across his shoulders, he would drag himself
+down every morning to the edge of the first canal of the Marais,
+where, at a part that widened out, were fastened the two boats
+belonging to La Fromentiere. In the shallow water he would scatter his
+supply of corn or buck-wheat, and from across the meadows drakes with
+blue-tinted wings, ducks, grey, with a double notch cut on the right
+side of their beaks to mark them as belonging to Lumineau, would hurry
+and dive for their food. For hours Mathurin would find amusement in
+watching them, then, lowering himself gently into one of the boats,
+seated or kneeling, would try to recover the sure and rapid stroke
+which at one time had made him famous among the puntsmen of the
+Marais.
+
+Toussaint Lumineau delighted to see him managing his boat near the
+farm, thus distracting his mind, as he thought, from the ever present
+regret. He would say: "The lad is regaining his old pleasure in
+punting. It can but be good for him and for us all." But to Mathurin,
+to Rousille, to his man, to the passers-by, sometimes even to his
+oxen, often when alone to himself, he would talk of the son so soon to
+be home again among them. Help was coming; youth and joy were
+returning to sorrow-stricken La Fromentiere. At table nothing else was
+talked about:
+
+"Only twelve days; only ten; only seven. I will drive to Chalons to
+meet him," said Lumineau.
+
+"And I will make him some porridge," said Rousille, "he used to be so
+fond of it before he joined his regiment."
+
+"And I" said Mathurin, "will go in the punt with him the first time
+he looks up his friends."
+
+"How much there will be to hear!" exclaimed Rousille. "When he was
+home on furlough he had an endless store of tales to tell. As for me,
+I shall have no time to listen to them. I shall have to send him to
+you, Mathurin. And what a change it will make in the house to have a
+chatterbox among us." Then she added, with the grave air of one
+entrusted with the household purse: "One change we must make, father,
+and that will be to buy a paper on Sunday. He will not like to go
+without one; our Andre is sure to want to know the news."
+
+"He is young," said the father, as if to excuse him.
+
+And all Andre's predilections, every recollection connected with him,
+all the hopes that centred in his return were incessantly
+recapitulated by one and the other in the living-room of La
+Fromentiere, where the caress of such discourses must have ascended
+more than once to the smoke-stained rafters.
+
+Meanwhile the son thus occupying all their thoughts had not been told
+by any of them of the going of Francois and Eleonore. Partly from
+dislike to letter-writing, but principally to spare him pain, and to
+avoid giving him bad news on the eve of his homecoming, the blow which
+had so diminished the number of those he was to rejoin had been
+withheld from him. For they could not tell how he would take the
+absence of his favourite brother, his childhood's companion; it would
+be better to break the news to him gently, when he should have come
+back to France, back to his home. Soon a letter came, bearing the
+Algiers postmark, giving from day to day the itinerary of the journey;
+and under the elms of La Fromentiere would be heard, every successive
+four-and-twenty hours, announced by one of the family lovingly,
+meditated over by the others, "Now Driot must be leaving Algiers."
+"Now Driot is on the sea." "Now Driot is in the train for Marseilles."
+"Children, he has reached the soil of France."
+
+So one morning, which chanced to be the last Saturday in September,
+Toussaint Lumineau gave La Rousse a double feed of oats, and drew out
+from the coach-house a tilbury, the body and wheels of which were
+painted red. This tilbury was a relic of former prosperity, and as
+well known in all the country side as were the round head, white hair,
+and clear eyes of Toussaint Lumineau himself. He, harnessing the mare,
+looked so joyous and happy, that Rousille, who had not heard him laugh
+for many a day, as she watched him from the doorway, felt her eyes
+fill with tears, she knew not wherefore, as though it were the return
+of spring. The last strap buckled, the old farmer put on his best coat
+with upright collar, fastened the broad blue Sunday belt round his
+waist, and slipped two cigars at a halfpenny each into his coat
+pocket, a luxury he never indulged in nowadays. Then swinging himself
+up into the tilbury with a cheery, "Ohe, La Rousse!" he was off.
+
+The mare started at such a pace that an instant later her headstall,
+ornamented with a rosette, looked like a poppy swept along the hedges
+by the wind. Bas-Rouge tore along after them. His master had called
+out on starting, "Driot is coming, Bas-Rouge! Come to meet him!" and
+the dog, all excitement, had dashed after La Rousse in ungainly
+gallop. Soon they had reached Chalons. Without slackening speed, the
+farmer drove through the streets, responding to the greeting of the
+landlord of the Hotel des Voyageurs, and nicely marking by the angle
+at which he raised his hat his sense of a tenant farmer's superiority
+over shopkeepers as he returned their salutations, then proudly erect
+upon the box-seat, tightening the reins, he turned in the direction of
+the railway station, some two miles beyond the town.
+
+People looking after him, said:
+
+"He has gone to meet his lad, that's certain. Well, poor fellow, he
+has had plenty of trouble, now he is having his share of good luck!"
+
+La Rousse being restive, Lumineau alighted in the railway yard, and
+stood at the head of the mare. Thence could be seen the perspective of
+lines going towards La Roche--the lines by which one son had left, and
+the other was so soon to return to La Fromentiere. He had not long to
+wait. The train dashed into the station with a whistle; the farmer was
+still quieting the mare, terrified by the noise, when the passengers
+came thronging out: townspeople, men-of-war's men on leave,
+fishmongers from Saint Gilles or Sables, and lastly a smart Chasseur
+d'Afrique, slight and tall, his kepi well balanced, fair moustaches
+waxed to a point, his knapsack full to bursting, who, after looking
+eagerly round the yard, smiled and ran out with widespread arms:
+
+"Father! Ah! what luck, it's father!"
+
+The bystanders, indifferently looking on, saw the two men embrace each
+other with a strong, almost suffocating pressure.
+
+"My Driot!" exclaimed the old man. "How happy I am!"
+
+"And I too, father!"
+
+"No, not so happy as I am! If you only knew!"
+
+"What, then?"
+
+"I will tell you. Oh, my Driot, the joy of seeing you again!"
+
+They disengaged themselves from each other's arms. The young soldier
+adjusted his collar, and restored the equilibrium of his kepi on the
+point of falling.
+
+"Ah, I expect you will have no end of things to tell me, after all
+this long time? Important, perhaps? You will tell me by degrees at La
+Fromentiere, while we are at work. Ever so much better than letters,
+eh?" And he threw back his fair head with a merry laugh.
+
+His father could only respond with a faint smile; then, going towards
+the tilbury, one on either side, they swung themselves up with the
+elasticity of two men of the same age.
+
+"Shall I drive?" asked Andre, and taking up the reins he gave a click
+with his tongue. La Rousse pricked up her ears, reared playfully to
+show that she recognised her young master, and with arched neck and
+eyes aflame, she soon left far behind the two empty hotel omnibuses,
+which were in the habit of racing each other on their way back from
+the station. Those who had exchanged greetings with the farmer on his
+way to the train, and many others, watched to see the two men pass by;
+clear-starchers looking out as they ironed; the little dressmaker from
+Nantes who came at the beginning of each season to take orders from
+her ladies at Chalons; shopkeepers standing at their doors; peasants
+at their dinners in inn parlours; all attracted by the sight of a
+soldier, or gratified to have a sign of recognition from the two
+Lumineaus. La Rousse trotted at such speed that the old man had not
+time to resume his hat between his salutations. Remarks followed the
+tilbury in the vacuum of air made by its rapid course.
+
+"That's the son from Africa. A handsome lad! How well his blue tunic
+suits him. And the old man, how happy he looks!"
+
+The farmer sat close to his recovered son. Halfway down the last
+street, bordered by an elm hedge shedding its leaves on the road, the
+old man plunged his big hand into his pocket and nudged Driot's elbow
+to call attention to the two choice cigars he held between finger and
+thumb.
+
+"With pleasure," responded the young man, and taking one he lit it,
+somewhat slackening the mare's pace as he did so, then, after a few
+puffs, as the gorse-covered slopes, golden with blossom, the stony
+fields, the crown-topped elms, came in sight, bringing with them the
+sweetness of old familiar scenes, Driot, hitherto somewhat silent and
+abashed by the attention they had excited, began:
+
+"And all the home-folks, father, how are they?"
+
+A deep furrow lined the farmer's brow. Toussaint Lumineau turned a
+little in his seat and looked away towards the landscape, distressed
+at having to tell the trouble, and still more by the fear of what his
+handsome Driot would think about it.
+
+"My poor boy," he said, "we have only Mathurin and Rousille at home
+now."
+
+"And Francois, where is he?"
+
+"Only fancy! Ah! you little think what I am going to tell you. A
+fortnight ago yesterday he left La Fromentiere to work on the railway
+at La Roche. Eleonore went with him. It seems that she was to keep a
+coffee shop. Can you believe it?"
+
+"You sent them away from home?" asked the young man, removing the
+cigar from his mouth and looking straight at his father. "They are not
+such fools as to have left you for any other reason!"
+
+The words gave the old father a thrill of joy. His Driot understood
+him; his Driot was at one with him. Returning the frank gaze, he
+answered:
+
+"No; they are a couple of idlers, who want to make money without doing
+anything for it ... ungrateful, both of them, leaving their old father
+... and then you know that Francois loves pleasure. Since he served
+his time he has always had a hankering after town life."
+
+"I know; and I know that town has its attractions," returned Andre,
+touching up La Rousse with the point of the whip; "but to grease the
+wheels of a railway carriage, or serve out drink! Well, everyone goes
+his own way in this world. All the better for them if they succeed.
+But I cannot tell you what the fact of Francois' going is to me. I was
+so looking forward to our farm-life together."
+
+He remained bending forward awhile as if only intent on the twitching
+of the mare's delicate ears, then asked in his caressing voice:
+
+"Things are going badly with us then, father?"
+
+"They have been somewhat, my boy. But they won't now that you are
+home."
+
+Andre made no direct reply, nor did he say anything at all just then.
+He was scanning the horizon for a slate-covered clock tower and
+certain tree-tops not yet distinguishable in the distance; his heart
+was already in the old home.
+
+"At any rate," said he, "Rousille is left to us. She had grown a
+pretty girl when I was last home on leave, very taking, and with a
+will of her own! You cannot imagine how often I used to think of her
+when I was out in Africa, and try to sketch her portrait from memory.
+Is she as jolly as ever?"
+
+"She is not bad," replied the farmer.
+
+"And a good girl, I hope? She is not the sort to turn herself into a
+barmaid."
+
+"No, certainly not."
+
+The good-looking young soldier slackened the mare's pace, partly
+because they had reached a turn in the road where there was a steep
+descent, partly that he might the better see, at the foot of the
+sloping ground, the Marais of La Vendee opening out like a gulf. He
+had only been home once before in his three years of service; with
+growing emotion he gazed upon the groups of poplars and tiny red roofs
+standing out from the waste of marshland; his eyes roved from one to
+the other; his lips trembled as he named the farms one by one; all
+other emotion was silenced in that of coming home again.
+
+"Paree-du-Mont!" he exclaimed. "What has become of the eldest Ertus?"
+
+"Nothing much; he is in the Customs."
+
+"And Guerineau of la Pinconniere, who was in the 32nd line regiment?"
+
+"Oh, he went off like Francois; is conductor on the tramway to
+Nantes."
+
+"And Dominique Perrocheau of Levrelles?"
+
+The farmer shrugged his shoulders with annoyance, for, in
+truth, it was aggravating to be obliged constantly to answer
+"Gone--left--deserted the Marais." However he had to say:
+
+"You heard, doubtless, that he gained his gold stripes at the end of
+his first leave; then he obtained further promotion, and was given
+some post, I don't know where, as Government clerk. A set of stupid
+fellows, all of them--not worth much, my Driot!"
+
+"Ah, now I see Terre d'Aymont," cried Driot. "It seems nearer than it
+used to be; I can distinguish their wind-mill. Tell me, father, there
+were two of my playfellows there, sons of Massonneau le Glorieux, one
+older, the other younger than me. What are they doing?"
+
+Radiant, Toussaint Lumineau made reply:
+
+"Both on the farm. The eldest exempted his brother. They are fine
+fellows who do not mind hard work; you will see them to-morrow at mass
+in Sallertaine."
+
+With a light, happy laugh the young soldier said:
+
+"Ah, by-the-bye, one must get into the way of attending mass again, I
+suppose. In the army devotion did not trouble us much. Sundays were
+rather a favourite day for our chiefs to hold reviews ... they don't
+look at things as you do. But you see, father, I will soon accustom
+myself to going to mass again--even to high mass--it is not that that
+will be the difficulty."
+
+"What then, my lad?"
+
+They were both silent for a moment. Another turn in the road had
+revealed La Fromentiere on their left. With a simultaneous movement
+father and son had risen and were standing almost upright, one hand on
+the front of the carriage, contemplating the property, La Rousse
+trotting along, unheeded by the driver.
+
+A great, tender rush of feeling, cruel withal, paled Andre's face. The
+land was welcoming a son of its soil; all the scattered recollections
+of his childhood awoke and called aloud to him; there was not a
+hillock that did not greet him, not a furze-bush, not a lopped elm but
+had a friendly look for him. But one and all, too, recalled the
+brother and sister he would find there no more.
+
+Without turning his eyes from La Fromentiere Driot replied, after a
+silence, and without naming those of whom he was thinking:
+
+"I will go and see them at La Roche ... of course I will ... but
+brotherhood is not altogether the same when one has broken from the
+old place...."
+
+An instant later he was holding Rousille, who had run out into the
+courtyard to meet him, high in his arms, looking her full in the face,
+into the very depth of her eyes, with the gaze of a brother whose
+military experience has made him somewhat suspicious of maidenly
+virtue; but seeing that her eyes met his in all frankness, but with
+something of a sad expression, he kissed her, and set her down on
+terra firma again.
+
+"Always the same, little sister! That's good; but a little sorry at
+having lost Lionore, eh?"
+
+"You can see that?"
+
+"Ah well! But I have come now. We will try to get on without them,
+won't we?"
+
+"And I?" put in a thick voice.
+
+The soldier left Rousille, and hastened to Mathurin who was coming
+towards them; dragging his limbs after him.
+
+"Do not hurry, old man! I must do the running for both; I have sound
+legs."
+
+Stooping over his crutches, and stroking his elder brother's tawny
+head, Andre could find no words of comfort. Coming fresh from a
+military centre where all was young, active, alert, he could not hide
+the distress and a certain feeling of horror with which Mathurin's
+infirmity inspired him. However, compelled by the other's anxious
+look, which seemed to ask, "What do you think of me?--you who come
+back, judge--can I live?" he hastened to say:
+
+"My poor old man, I am so glad to find you like this. So you have not
+got any worse?"
+
+With a shrug of the shoulders, the cripple angrily pushed him away.
+
+"I am much better," he returned. "You will see. I walk more easily. I
+can stand as firmly as I did three years ago, when I thought I was
+getting well ... and, for a beginning, I am going with you to mass at
+Sallertaine to-morrow."
+
+To avoid answering, the young soldier turned to meet his father, who,
+having unharnessed La Rousse, was coming towards them, with happy,
+smiling face, having eyes only for his Driot come home to him again.
+The men, one following the other, turned towards the house, and went
+in; but on this happy day it was the farmer who held back, and the
+returned son who went first. Alert, interested as on a first visit,
+rejoiced to be made the object of the eyes and ears of the others, he
+did not sit down but wandered from room to room, the blue and red
+uniform an unfamiliar sight in this home of the toilers of the field.
+
+To amuse his auditors he made the old walls ring again with words of
+command; knocked up against corners to feel the strength of the
+massive stones; opened the cupboard, cut himself a slice of bread, and
+tasted it, with a, "Better than the bread of Algiers, my friends. This
+is Rousille's baking, eh? It is excellent; we shall have a good
+farmer's wife in her."
+
+Followed everywhere by his father, Mathurin, and Marie-Rose, he went
+from the house into the stables and barns.
+
+"I do not know these oxen," said he.
+
+"No, my boy, I bought them last winter at Beauvoir fair."
+
+"Well, I'll bet that I can tell their names from their faces. This
+dun-coloured one, that does not look great shakes, is Noblet, and his
+companion, the little tawny one, is Matelot?"
+
+"Right," answered his father.
+
+"As for the others, our old ones, they have not changed much, save to
+put on more horn and muscle. The plough ought to work well drawn by
+them. Good day, Paladin; good day, Cavalier!"
+
+The good creatures lying in the straw, hearing the young voice that
+called to them, thrust out their heads, and with their thoughtful eyes
+followed the young master.
+
+A little further, stooping down, he took up a handful of green forage.
+
+"Fine maize for the time of year," he said. "This must have come from
+our high land; from La Cailleterie?"
+
+"No."
+
+"From Jobiniere then, where not a grain is lost. Here's a good
+specimen!"
+
+The father was ready to join in praise of his oxen, his fields,
+everything, so happy was he that the last of his sons, after three
+years' absence, still loved the ground.
+
+But the handsome young soldier laughed more than he felt inclined to
+do, to hide the sad thoughts that would come during his round, and
+when in the shed affected not to see the traps for blackbirds, made by
+Francois the preceding winter. In the threshing floor, seeing a bundle
+of faded grass lying on the neatly made hayrick, he bent towards
+Rousille, and murmured:
+
+"Did Francois gather that? Ah, it pains me more than I could have
+believed, Rousille, not to find Francois here. It quite changes La
+Fromentiere for me."
+
+But the father heard nothing of this. He only saw that his son was
+home again, and the future of La Fromentiere assured. When they had
+re-entered the general sitting-room, Lumineau passed his hand over the
+blue tunic of the Chasseur d'Afrique, saying:
+
+"I like you in this, but I bet anything that you will not be sorry to
+lay aside your soldier's toggery."
+
+"All right, father," returned Andre, laughing at the unwitting affront
+to his uniform, and his father's indirect mode of inviting him to
+change to civilian dress. "I am not got up in Sallertaine guise; I'll
+go and change."
+
+From the bottom of the chest in the end room, beside the bed where he
+was to sleep, Andre took the carefully folded work-day suit, laid
+there by him the day he left. He took great pains with the waxing of
+his moustache, and adjusting the brim of his hat, adorned his
+button-hole with a sprig of jasmine; then going the length of the
+house, opened the kitchen door, and there, framed against the old
+walls, his slim figure clad in cloth suit, was seen the handsomest
+young Vendeen of the Marais. Bronzed and fair-haired, his joyous face
+reflected the happiness of the others.
+
+"Ah, Driot," exclaimed the farmer merrily, "now you are quite yourself
+again! You were my son before, but not so completely my very own as
+now," then added: "Now come, and we will drink to your health, and
+that you may stay at La Fromentiere; for I am ageing fast, and you
+shall take my place."
+
+Mathurin, sitting at table beside his father, became very gloomy. When
+the glasses were filled, he raised his with the others, but did not
+clink it against that of Andre.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+IN THE PLACE DE L'EGLISE.
+
+
+The bells rang out the close of High Mass; choir boys chanted the _Deo
+gratias_.
+
+As in its early days, when in the last years of the twelfth century it
+was erected on the summit of the Isle of Sallertaine, the little
+church, now yellow with age and growth of lichen and wild-flower,
+witnessed the crowd of worshippers, dressed in the same fashions as
+then, pour out from the same doors in the same order and collect in
+the same groups in the same Place.
+
+The first to be seen were the farm-labourers and farmers' sons, who
+came out by the east door from the transept where they had heard mass,
+and who, passing round the choir, grouped themselves on the other
+side, where the young girls would presently emerge. Two by two they
+appeared between the pillars of the west porch with eyes lowered to
+the tips of their sabots. They were well aware that their rosy cheeks,
+smoothly braided hair beneath the pyramid of muslin, the embroidered
+stockings peeping under the short petticoat, the manner in which they
+walked with hands demurely crossed over the moire aprons, made them
+the cynosure of all eyes. This retired bearing only lasted for some
+twenty paces; soon the girls had formed themselves into a group close
+by the Michelonnes' house, at a short distance from that of the
+younger men. And now in their turn they waited. Eyes grey, blue,
+brown, very much on the alert; eyes sparkling with life; eyes in which
+lived a remembrance. Laughing lips, telling of the mere joy of living;
+the chirping as of a flock of birds greeting one another. Following
+them came the farmers and their wives; widows, distinguishable by the
+band of velvet in front of their coifs; older men, men of position;
+these all issuing from the nave, among them many a grave face still
+under the influence of devotion, in which like walking saints they
+seemed wholly absorbed. Many tall, finely set up men there were, with
+calm, fresh complexioned faces closely shaven, save for a thin line of
+whisker. All wore the same costume of black cloth coat with straight
+collar, trousers with flaps, raised on the ankle by a fold in the
+cloth, blue or green belt extending half way up the waistcoat, round
+felt hat bound with velvet. They joined the younger men, swelling the
+groups that shouldered each other, forming by this time a dark swaying
+mass reaching to the last buttress of the choir.
+
+The matrons, on the contrary, making a passage for themselves through
+the crowd, went their way, looking in their plaited skirts like
+ornamental round towers. From their calm eyes, and the brief smile
+with which they exchanged greetings with a town acquaintance, it was
+plain to see that, having outgrown the follies and illusions of youth,
+each had settled down to her store of domestic happiness, joy, or
+sorrow that a green patch in the Marais had reserved for her. They
+talked with other farmers' wives, were joined by one or other for the
+homeward way, and thus accompanied, dignified and worthy, they
+directed their steps towards the plain, or to the various boating
+stages.
+
+Despite their departure, the gathering in the Place grew denser and
+denser. It was the place of Sunday meeting where for centuries past
+the dwellers of the marshes, prisoners of the canal-bound land, had
+been wont to assemble. To them attendance at mass was alike a
+religious duty and an occasion of social gathering. Before wending
+their way back to their farms, not a man, even the gravest and most
+considered among them, would have failed to pass an hour in a wine
+shop chatting with his friends over a bottle of muscadet and a game of
+cards, _luette_ particularly, a game imported from Spain in ancient
+times. Already innkeepers were standing at their doors at the foot of
+the Place, sounds of merriment and laughter were to be heard from
+within, and the stock-phrases of _luette_ players, "Your turn." "My
+turn." "I play a horse." "I take merienne."
+
+Meanwhile there was more than ordinary animation among the girls
+stationed behind the groups of men. They were scanning all the church
+doors, whence were now issuing good women, tellers of rosaries, who
+had lingered long over their devotions.
+
+"He is coming out," exclaimed tall Aimee Massonneau, the daughter of
+farmer Glorieux, of Terre-Aymont. "Did you see him, that poor Mathurin
+Lumineau? He insisted upon coming to mass. I am sure he might have got
+dispensation!"
+
+"Yes," returned the little auburn-haired daughter of Malabrit, "it is
+six years since he came to Sallertaine."
+
+"Six years--really?"
+
+"Yes, I remember. It was the year my sister was married."
+
+"And why do you think he came?" asked Victoire Guerineau, of La
+Pinconniere, a sharp-tongued pretty girl, with a complexion like a
+wild rose. "For he must have shown some spirit to manage it."
+
+"To stand by his father," said a voice; "the old man had been so
+saddened by the going of Eleonore and Francois."
+
+"To show himself with his brother Andre," put in another. "He's a
+good-looking fellow is Andre Lumineau! I should not mind----"
+
+Victoire Guerineau and the others broke into a peal of laughter.
+
+"You are quite out of it. It's for Felicite Gauvrit he came!"
+
+"Oh, oh!" exclaimed those in front.
+
+"How ill-natured you are! If she were to hear you."
+
+And several turned towards the Michelonnes' doorstep, near to which,
+amid a little throng, stood Mathurin's former fiancee.
+
+Suddenly a murmur ran through the crowd.
+
+"There he is. Poor fellow! How difficult it is for him to walk."
+
+And under the pointed arch of a low doorway, one half of which only
+was open, a deformed figure was seen struggling to force a passage
+through the narrow aperture, one hand holding a crutch clutched hold
+of a pillar outside, by which the poor man strove to drag himself
+through, but he had only succeeded in freeing one shoulder. With head
+thrown back, there was an expression of agony upon the face which
+attested the violence of the effort, and the strength of will that
+would not give in. Mathurin Lumineau seemed on the point of
+suffocation; he looked at no one in the throng of people whose gaze
+was riveted upon him; his eyes on a higher level than those of the
+spectators were fixed upon the blue vault of heaven with an expression
+of anguish that re-acted upon them.
+
+Conversation was interrupted; voices began to murmur,
+
+"Oh, help him! He is suffocating!"
+
+Some of the men made a movement to go to his assistance; at that
+moment, from the gloom of the interior, his father asked:
+
+"Shall I help you out, Mathurin? You cannot squeeze through there. Let
+me help you."
+
+In a low voice, inaudible to those without, but with terrible energy,
+Mathurin answered:
+
+"Don't touch me. Confound it! Don't touch me. I will get out by
+myself."
+
+At length the man forced his huge bust through the door, and with a
+tremendous effort steadied himself, stroked his tawny beard and
+settled his hat on his head. Then with the aid of his crutches,
+standing as upright as he could, Mathurin looked straight before him,
+and advanced towards the group of men, which opened out silently at
+his approach. No one ventured to address him, it was so long since he
+had been among them, the old habit of familiarity seemed lost; but the
+attention of all was concentrated upon their former comrade, and no
+one noticed that his old father with Andre and Marie-Rose were
+following close behind him.
+
+The cripple had soon reached the spot where the girls were standing.
+They fell apart even more quickly than the men had done, for they
+guessed his intention; a lane opened between them reaching up to the
+houses. At the far end of this living avenue, clad in black dresses
+and white coifs, standing erect, quite alone, was seen Felicite
+Gauvrit. She was the one he sought. She knew it; she had foreseen her
+triumph. No sooner had she observed Mathurin Lumineau sitting on the
+family bench in church, then she had said to herself: "He has come for
+me. I will hide away by the Michelonnes' house, and he will follow
+me." For she was gratified to have it seen that he still loved her,
+the girl to whom, handsome though she was, no suitors came. The women
+with whom she had been talking had prudently moved away; she stood
+alone, under the Michelonnes' window, looking like a lay figure from
+some museum in her costume of heavy stiff material, the braids of her
+lustrous brown hair shining under the small coif, her dazzlingly white
+complexion and uncovered throat. Erect, with arms pendant on either
+side of the moire apron, she watched her former lover coming towards
+her between the double row of inquisitive lookers-on. The many faces
+bent upon the girl in nowise intimidated her. Perhaps in the suit and
+cravat Mathurin was wearing she recognised the very ones he had worn
+at the time of the accident; any way, she remained calm and unabashed,
+her face even wore a slight smile. He drew nearer, leaning on his
+crutches, his eyes fixed, not on the path, but on Felicite Gauvrit.
+What the poor fellow wanted was to see her once again; to make her
+understand that health was returning, that hope was awakening out of
+his misery, that the heart of Mathurin Lumineau had never wavered.
+All this his sad eyes told her as he drew near, offering in piteous
+pleading the bodily and mental suffering he had endured to her who had
+been their cause. But his strength was unequal to the effort, he grew
+deadly white; and when the insolent beauty, the first to speak, said
+calmly before all the throng:
+
+"Good day, Mathurin," he could not answer. To have seen the smile on
+those rosy lips, to be so near to her, and to hear her address him in
+the same easy tones as if they had but parted the day before, was more
+than he could bear.
+
+He grew faint, leant heavily on his crutches, and slightly turned his
+tawny head to Driot, who was behind him, as if to say: "Take me away,"
+and the younger brother understanding the appeal, passed the suffering
+man's arm under his and led him away, saying as he did so, to divert
+the attention of the crowd:
+
+"Good day to yourself, Felicite. It is an age since I have seen you.
+You are not a bit altered."
+
+"Nor are you," she retorted.
+
+A few laughed; but among those assembled there were many who were
+deeply touched, even disposed to tears. Some of the girls of
+Sallertaine pitied the poor fellow so exhausted and confused, led away
+on his brother's arm; they sorrowed that he could never enjoy that
+love which each, in the recesses of her heart, hoped some day to share
+with the yet unknown swain. One of them murmured:
+
+"It is not only in body that he is afflicted, his mind, too, seems
+gone, poor fellow!"
+
+Many women, mothers going home with their children, walked more
+sedately as they saw the group on the way to Chalons: old farmer
+Toussaint, Andre and Mathurin, with Marie-Rose bringing up the rear.
+They recalled with a shudder what a magnificent youth the poor cripple
+once had been, and thought: Heaven send that no such calamity befall
+our boys when they grow up!
+
+Felicite Gauvrit began to be affected in her turn, but in a different
+manner. The departure of the Lumineaus had turned attention away from
+her. Some of the men surrounded the district crier, who was calling
+out the list of lost articles and farms to be let; others repaired to
+the inns. The girls collected in little companies to seek the homeward
+way. Every minute five or six white coifs were to be seen bowing and
+bending in farewell salute, separating from the others, and going off
+to the right hand or the left. Felicite, left alone for some minutes,
+joined one of the groups going west of Sallertaine, towards the high
+Marais; she was received with some embarrassment, as one whom they did
+not want to fall out with, yet who was somewhat compromising, and
+whose company their mothers did not desire for them.
+
+Young men drinking together in the inns called after her the slighting
+remarks men make on girls for whom they have little respect. She did
+not answer them back, but with her companions descended the hilly
+road bordered with houses, and thence on to the open Marais in the
+direction of Perrier.
+
+At that time of the year, before autumn rains had set in, many of the
+farms could be reached on foot without the aid of boats. A raised
+path, rough and ill-kept, flanked by dykes on either side, led across
+the meadows; grey-green grass covered the level plain until the
+uniform tint dissolved in brownish hue in the distant horizon. Horses
+grazing, stretched out their necks, and looked at the little group
+clad in black and white, breaking the continuity of grey-green plain.
+Ducks, at the sound of their footsteps, ran in among the rushes that
+trembled on the edge. From time to time a shelving embankment branched
+off the path, and one of the girls, separating from the group, would
+make her way by it to some distant house, only marked by the customary
+cluster of poplar-trees; and Felicite Gauvrit, roused for a moment
+from her abstraction, would say "Good-bye," and then walk on silently
+as before.
+
+Soon she was left alone on the path that stretches to the sea. Then
+slackening her pace, she gave herself up without restraint to her
+thoughts. She was not happy at home. At sixty-five her father had
+married again a woman of thirty of loose character, whom he had met at
+Barre-de-Mont, and to whom in virtue of her youth he had made over the
+most realisable part of his property. The young stepmother was not
+kind to Felicite. One reproached the other with extravagance and
+ruining the home. The eldest brother, in the Customs at Sables
+d'Olonne, a gambler and hard drinker, was perpetually threatening the
+old man with a summons for falsified accounts, and by thus
+intimidating him drained still further the diminished capital of the
+Gauvrits. The old family, once so respected in the Marais, was rapidly
+declining, and this Felicite knew too well. The young men of
+Sallertaine and the neighbouring parishes came readily enough to
+dances at La Seuliere; they danced, drank, joked with her, but not one
+of them offered to marry her. The impending ruin, the family
+divisions, kept suitors away.
+
+Yet another reason, more real, and one that appealed more strongly to
+sentiment than any other, held back the sons of farmers, and even
+farm-labourers from asking the hand of Felicite Gauvrit in marriage;
+and this was the tie, binding only in honour, the debt of fidelity,
+rendered even more sacred by misfortune, which public opinion
+obstinately maintained as still existing between La Seuliere and La
+Fromentiere. In everybody's opinion Felicite Gauvrit remained one of
+the Lumineau household; a girl who had not the right to withdraw her
+betrothal promise, and who was not to be sought in marriage by any
+other while Mathurin was living. Some men even had a superstitious
+dread of her; they would have been afraid to set up housekeeping with
+a girl whose first love had met so unhappy a fate. All the advances
+she had made had come to nought. Soured and embittered, in her rage
+she had gone so far as to regret that the cripple had not been killed
+on the spot. Had the poor wretch, who was scarcely to be called
+living, died then and there, she would have recovered her liberty, the
+past would have been quickly forgotten; while now, it was kept in
+everyone's memory by the sight of the maimed man on crutches, hanging
+about the farmstead of which he should have been master. She had found
+that Death is sometimes long in claiming its victims. Then courage had
+returned; in her astuteness Felicite had recognised that public
+opinion holding her as belonging to the Lumineau family, by them only
+could she realise her ambition: to go away from La Seuliere, escape
+the domination of her stepmother, and become the mistress of a large
+farm, with more means and freedom than ever she had possessed at home.
+Never having loved her former betrothed, actuated only by vanity, as
+is sometimes the case in country surroundings, she had said to
+herself:
+
+"I will bide my time. I will make them long the more for me by not
+going to La Fromentiere. One day Mathurin will come to me, or will
+call me to him. I am positive that he has not forgotten me. Stupid of
+him; but it will help my ends. Thanks to him, I shall see them all
+again; the old man who mistrusts me, the young men who will admire me
+for my beauty. And I shall marry either Francois or Andre, and shall
+be the mistress of a farm as I ought to be, and of the richest farm
+in the whole parish."
+
+Now Francois, whom she had tried to captivate, had gone away. But, on
+the other hand, Mathurin had come to her; at the cost of terrible
+fatigue and suffering he had dragged himself to Sallertaine to greet
+her publicly; while Andre, before all the girls, had said: "It is an
+age since I saw you. You are not a bit altered."
+
+Felicite had gathered one of the yellow irises that grew so profusely
+on the Marais. Half laughing she thought over her recent triumph, the
+iris lightly held between her lips; her arms swinging as she walked
+caused the full sleeves to rustle against the moire of her apron; her
+smiling gaze was directed to the distant meadows. She was thinking
+that Andre would make a handsome husband, better looking than ever
+Mathurin had been; that, after all, he was one year younger than
+herself, that he had engaging manners, and had not been wanting in
+audacity either to have said: "You have not altered." And she went on
+to think: "The first opportunity that offers, I will invite them to a
+dance at home. I am sure that Andre will come."
+
+Slowly she walked along the raised path in the burning rays of the
+mid-day sun. Grasshoppers were chirping; every now and again the acrid
+scent of fading rushes was in the air. Wholly absorbed in her
+daydream, Felicite Gauvrit did not perceive that she had nearly
+reached home. The white buildings of La Seuliere, standing out in the
+meadow, came as an unwelcome surprise. At the same moment a doubt
+crossed her mind, disturbing, unbidden ending to her dream. Suppose
+Andre too were to go away? Or that Mathurin, elated as he was sure to
+be by the least sign of remembrance, and made thereby more eager, more
+jealous, were to guess what was in the wind?
+
+Felicite had stopped in the middle of the bridge that led from the
+path to the farm. The tall, supple young woman raised her arms above
+her head, scowled impatiently, and snapped the stem of the yellow
+iris, which fell prone into the dyke, then following it with her eyes
+for a second, she looked at her own reflection in the water, and
+smiled again. "I shall succeed," she said. And descending the slope of
+the bridge she reached La Seuliere by the cross road.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+THE CONSCRIPTS OF SALLERTAINE.
+
+
+The afternoon of that autumn Sunday was marked by a deeper
+peacefulness than usual. The air was warm, the light veiled, the wind,
+which, rising with the tide, had outstripped it, sweeping over the
+vast grassy plain, brought no sound of work in its train, no creak of
+plough, no ring of hammer, spade, or axe. The bells alone were heard
+answering each other from Sallertaine, Perrier, Saint Gervais, Chalons
+with its new church, vast as a cathedral, and Seullans hidden among
+the trees on the hill. Chimes for High Mass, ringing for Angelus, the
+three strokes for vespers left the bells but little rest; far and near
+they told out the familiar tones, understood for centuries past.
+Adoration of the Holy One; forgetfulness of earth; pardon for sin;
+union in prayer; equality of all men in the light of eternal promises.
+The tones rang out into space and interlocked with a vibration, and
+were as garlands flung from one belfry to another. Among the toilers
+of the fields, cattle drivers, sowers, there were but few who did not
+obey the summons. Along roads deserted all the week were to be seen
+families hastening, passing and repassing one another, of those who
+lived at the remotest portions of the parish; while those who lived
+nearer took it more leisurely. On the canal, which, broadening at the
+foot of the church, forms the quay of Sallertaine, boats were
+constantly moving hither and thither.
+
+Towards evening the bells had ceased; the frequenters of inn parlours
+too had betaken themselves to their farms, lying peacefully in the
+light of the setting sun. Universal silence reigned over the land.
+Quiet as it was on working-days, at the close of the week it seemed
+sunk in meditation and silence; dominical truce that had its great
+significance, when weary souls refresh themselves, and whole families
+unite in calm and meditation to review their living and their dead.
+
+But to-day the quiet was to be of short duration.
+
+Mathurin and Andre were lying under the shade of the elms that
+afforded provisional shelter to the harrows and ploughs close by the
+old stonework gateway. The cripple, leaning against the cross-bars of
+a harrow, was resting after the fatigue and excitement of the morning.
+Andre, from concern for him, had not gone into town again with his
+father, but lying at full-length on the grass was reading the paper
+aloud, pausing every now and then to make his comments on the news,
+and, as a travelled man, to explain the whereabouts of places and
+countries--Clermont Ferrand, India, Japan, the while twirling his
+little fair moustache, a very youthful and ingenuous self-sufficiency
+showing itself in his frank, merry face. At about four o'clock, to the
+left of Sallertaine, was heard the sound of a bugle, coming apparently
+from the open marsh between the parishes of Lumineau and Seullans.
+Mathurin roused from the torpor into which he had sunk, looked at
+Andre, who at the first sound of the bugle had let fall the paper, and
+with uplifted face and straining ears was listening to the call.
+
+"It is the cadets," said his brother, "they are out this afternoon.
+Soon they will be leaving."
+
+"They are playing the call of the 'Chasseurs d'Afrique,'" returned
+Andre, a light in his eyes. "I recognise it. Is there anyone of our
+old regiment in the Marais?"
+
+"Yes, the son of a gooseherd in Fief; he served his time with the
+Zouaves."
+
+They were silent, both men listening to the bugling of the ex-Zouave,
+their thoughts very different. Andre with eyes fixed on the distant
+marshland was seeing in imagination a white town, with narrow streets,
+and a troop of horsemen emerging from a crenulated gateway, its arches
+echoing with the ring of their horses' hoofs.
+
+Mathurin, watching the expression on his brother's face, thought: "His
+heart is still with the regiment." For an instant his features
+distended, his eyes dilated as those of a wild beast detecting its
+prey, then he returned to his one idea.
+
+"Driot," he exclaimed after a while, "you like that music?"
+
+"I should think so."
+
+"Do you regret the regiment?"
+
+"No, that I don't. No one does."
+
+"Then what was the attraction out there?"
+
+The young man looked inquiringly into his brother's face as though to
+say, why should he want to know, then answered:
+
+"The country----Hark! that's the reveille now."
+
+The sounds of the bugle, sharp, incisive, stopped. Now five or six
+strong untrained voices struck up "Le chant du depart." Occasional
+words reached the listeners where they lay. "Mourir pour la patrie ...
+le plus beau ... d'envie." The rest was lost in space.
+
+Meanwhile the sounds were approaching; the two brothers motionless
+under the elms, each pursuing the train of thought evoked by the first
+notes of the bugle, could hear the conscripts of Sallertaine coming up
+the hill towards them.
+
+Toussaint Lumineau, on his way home from vespers with his friend
+Massonneau, heard them also. Massonneau, an old tenant farmer, tall
+and thin, with skin as dark as a ripe ear of corn, the cartilages of
+his neck standing out like the breast-bone of a fowl, had acquired his
+name of "Le Glorieux" from a nervous twitch he had, which caused his
+chin to jerk upwards at every instant; Lumineau and he were discussing
+the latest events of La Fromentiere. The two men represented the age
+and wisdom of the Marais; moreover, they could tell the names and
+nicknames of every living soul at Sallertaine, their history and
+parentage. As they reached the last houses of the town, both
+simultaneously stopped and turned their faces windward.
+
+"Do you hear, Glorieux?" exclaimed Lumineau. "They are bugling and
+singing, poor boys! But the parents of those who are going may well
+weep."
+
+"Yes," returned Massonneau, with a twitch of the chin, "the parents
+are to be pitied."
+
+"I could name them, everyone, from only hearing their lad's voices,"
+continued Lumineau. "You, good people of La Bounellerie, and you, of
+Grand Paiement; you, of Juch-Pie; you, of Linotteries; and you, of
+Belle-Blanche, I recognise your boys' voices. May it not do the same
+work for them that it did for my Francois! They are going to the place
+that changed my boy's heart--to the town that robbed me of him."
+
+"As it robbed La Pinconniere," said his companion.
+
+"And Leverells."
+
+"And Paree-du-Mont."
+
+The litany might have been prolonged; Massonneau hearing the voices at
+the edge of the Marais broke in with:
+
+"They are singing again," he said, "they are going up the hill to you,
+Lumineau."
+
+And in truth the young conscripts had begun the ascent towards La
+Fromentiere; soon the bugle call, soon their voices, resounded over
+the silent Marais, carried afar by the wind, like grains of seed
+falling everywhere. And everywhere, without apparent reason, emotions
+were stirred, old sorrows awoke, and the humble occupants of isolated
+farms or remote villages listened with a tightening of the heart to
+the tramp of the conscripts of Sallertaine.
+
+As they reached the meadow-land of La Fromentiere, Mathurin, who had
+been following the sounds, and with his marvellous sense of
+observation had marked every step of their way, said to Andre:
+
+"They have already halted at three farms. I think they must be
+collecting for their class. You did not do that? For the last two
+years they have started calling at all the houses where there is a
+young girl of their own age, to ask her for a fowl as compensation for
+having to serve. Rousille is drawn among the other girls. You should
+catch a fowl to give them when they come."
+
+"So I will," returned Andre, laughing and springing up with a bound.
+"I'm off. What do they do with all the fowls?"
+
+"Eat them. They get three or four farewell dinners out of them. Be
+quick! they are coming!"
+
+Andre disappeared within the courtyard. Soon could be heard his merry
+laugh, and a rush in the direction of the barn, then the terrified
+cries of the fowl he had evidently caught; and soon he reappeared
+holding his prize by the legs, its round spotted wings, grey and
+white, rising and falling on the grass as he walked. At the same
+moment a blast on the bugle was heard at the foot of the dwarf
+orchard; Mathurin half-raised himself upon the harrow, his hands
+clasping the cross-bars, his arms extended, his shaggy head bent
+forward, awaited the arrival of the troop, Andre standing beside him.
+Opposite them, just at the opening of the road leading down to the
+Marais, the setting sun, an enormous ball tinted orange by the mist,
+filled the entire space between the two treeless banks.
+
+In this sun-bathed glory three girls advanced, arm-in-arm, up the
+ascent, the tallest in the middle; all were dressed in black with lace
+coifs; the jet on their velvet kerchiefs sparkling in the light. As
+they walked they rhythmically swayed their heads; they were girls from
+Sallertaine, but the light was behind them, and only Mathurin could
+recognise in the centre one Felicite Gauvrit. A few paces in the rear
+came the bugler, a standard-bearer, and five young men walking
+abreast, carrying either in their arms or suspended from a hempen cord
+the fowls collected from the farmhouses. The procession advanced some
+hundred yards along the road, then pulled up between the elms and the
+ruined wall of La Fromentiere.
+
+"Good day, brothers Lumineau!" said a voice.
+
+There was a burst of laughter from the band, excited by their march
+and the muscadet they had drunk on the way. The cripple's hands gave
+way, he glanced up at Andre.
+
+Felicite Gauvrit, without leaving hold of her companions, had advanced
+slightly in front of them, and was gazing with a pleased expression at
+the youngest Lumineau, who held out the grey fowl to her.
+
+"You guessed then, Andre?" she said. "Ah, that's what it is to have to
+do with intelligent boys. Here, Sosthene Pageot, come and take
+Rousille's fowl."
+
+A sturdy lad with ruddy face, and the stupefied air of one beginning
+to feel the effects of drink, stepped out from among the others and
+took the fowl. But from the mocking attitude of Andre, and his studied
+silence, Felicite guessed that he was surprised to see a girl of her
+position in such company, therefore she added carelessly:
+
+"You may be satisfied that I do not range the Marais every day with
+conscripts. My doing it to-day is out of kindness. My two friends
+here, who belong to the class, were called upon to go the round to
+collect; they are shy and dared not go alone, and so it must have been
+given up, had I not come to the rescue." She expressed herself well,
+with a certain refinement that came with the habit of reading.
+
+"That would have been a pity!" said the young man coldly.
+
+"Yes, would it not? The more so, that I am not often seen in your part
+of the world."
+
+She turned her head towards the windows of La Fromentiere, the
+stables, the hayricks, sighed, then immediately remarked in a playful
+tone:
+
+"You will come to one of our dances, will you not, Andre? The
+Maraichines hope so."
+
+At this there were signs of approval to the right and left of her.
+
+"Perhaps," replied Andre. "It is so long since I was at a dance in
+Sallertaine; inclination may return."
+
+She thanked him with a knowing wink; then for the first time seemed to
+be aware of the presence of Mathurin, who was looking at her with an
+air of mingled passion and grief.
+
+A look of pity and embarrassment, not altogether feigned, came into
+her face as she said:
+
+"You understand, Mathurin, what I say to one I say to all in your
+house.... If it were not too fatiguing for you?... I was glad to see
+you at mass again this morning ... it shows that you are feeling
+better...."
+
+The cripple, only able to express himself clearly when he had time to
+think over his words, stammered out:
+
+"Thank you, Felicite ... you are very kind, Felicite," and he uttered
+her name with a kind of adoration that seemed to touch two or three of
+the conscripts, stupefied as they were.
+
+"What was your regiment, Mathurin?" asked the standard-bearer.
+
+"The third Cuirassiers."
+
+"Bugler, a _fanfare_ of the Cuirassiers in honour of Mathurin
+Lumineau! Forward, march!"
+
+The three girls, the bugler, the standard-bearer, and the five young
+men bringing up the rear, left the shade of the elms, and went on
+their way towards Quatre-Moulins, raising clouds of dust crossed by
+the slanting rays of the sun. The _fanfare_ shook the walls of the old
+farmhouse.
+
+When the last lace coif had disappeared among the furze-bushes and
+willows that bordered the road, Mathurin said to his brother, who had
+taken up the paper again and was absently reading:
+
+"Would you believe it, Driot, this is the first time for six years
+that she has been here!"
+
+Andre replied, too abruptly:
+
+"She did for you once, old man. Better take care that she does not do
+it a second time."
+
+With muttered words of anger Mathurin Lumineau picked up his crutches,
+and moving away to a little distance, leant up against a tree. The two
+brothers spoke no more to each other; both were absently gazing out
+over the marshland, where the daylight was dying away. The sun was
+rapidly sinking in the lowland, only a red crescent broken by shadows
+remained of the fiery globe, against which some dark object in the
+horizon, a willow, or a group of rushes, stood out like a crown of
+thorns. It faded away; a fresh breeze rose on the hills; the sounds of
+the bugle and of voices were no longer heard. Profound silence was
+over the country, here and there in the grey distance was the glimmer
+of a fire. Peace had returned; sorrows, one by one, were ending in
+sleep or in prayer.
+
+Old Lumineau coming back from the town saw his two sons standing
+motionless among the trees wrapt in contemplation of the quiet scene,
+and not knowing their thoughts, said brightly:
+
+"A fine sight, our Marais, eh, boys? Now let us go in together; supper
+will be waiting." Then as, in the darkness, Andre came first, he
+added:
+
+"How glad I am to have you home again from the regiment, my Driot!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+THE UPROOTED VINEYARD.
+
+
+Winter had come. La Fromentiere seemed peaceful and happy. Anyone
+going over the fields and watching the men at work, would have had no
+fear for the future of the farmstead. The new farm-hand did not excite
+himself, as Toussaint Lumineau said, that is to say, he worked his
+fourteen hours a day regularly, without uttering fourteen words. As
+for Andre, he was the joy and pride of his father, who, on his part,
+did not spare himself. Good labourer, good sower, an early riser,
+careful of the animals and of everything else that came to his hand,
+the young man seemed to prove that he had found his vocation, and was
+determined to remain a farmer all his life.
+
+And yet at the bottom of his affectionate, restless heart, there was a
+growing sore. Andre could not accustom himself to Francois' absence.
+He missed the friend of his young life, the companion without whom La
+Fromentiere had never presented itself to his mind.
+
+The week after his return home, Andre had gone to see Francois and
+Eleonore at La Roche-sur-Yon. He had found them settled in a house in
+the outskirts, already somewhat discontented: one inveighing against
+the hardness of his employers; the other that customers did not come;
+without any regrets, however, for what they had done, and quite
+decided as to the advantages of living in a town, and being their own
+masters. He had gone back without the least wish to follow their
+example--more severe even than before against the renegades from the
+old home life; but possessed of a fixed idea, he sought Francois in
+everything. La Fromentiere that knew Francois no longer was to him
+empty and void. It became a thing of which he could not shake himself
+free; a suffering of which he never spoke, but that everyone
+unwittingly renewed.
+
+The farmer, whose anger had abated, more particularly since he knew
+that the position of his two absent children at La Roche was none too
+brilliant, began voluntarily to speak of Francois as if to secretly
+encourage the others to remember him, and to do their best to bring
+him home again. It would be: "To-day we will sow La Cailleterie, where
+Francois ploughed the first two furrows," or, "let us have some
+chestnuts roasted in the embers to-night, Rousille, Francois used to
+like them." He thought to do well by so speaking, to re-unite, as it
+were, in some degree those whom misfortune had parted. And Rousille
+did the same. Still oftener did everyday objects speak of, and recall
+the absent one. Now it was a fork he had been wont to use; a basket
+woven by him; the rope twisted round a rafter of the stables by a hand
+no longer there; or even a nook or corner of a road or field to which
+some memory clung; the stump of a tree; a furze-bush; in fact, the
+whole Marais, where for years two boys of almost the same age,
+brothers inseparable, had driven the cows, jumped dykes, and gone
+birds'-nesting together.
+
+Poor Francois, lazy, spendthrift, pleasure-loving as he was in
+reality, legendary virtues were already gathering round him at La
+Fromentiere. His place in the diminished family was reserved to him
+with tender, affectionate regret, a regret that even magnified what
+had been his place there. Andre, disheartened, and disappointed in the
+joy of home coming, had not the same love for the new La Fromentiere
+that he had had for the old one. It was all so changed! He had known
+it bright with the noise and bustle of a large, united family under
+the control of a man who, despite his years, was cheery and vigorous,
+and with more willing hands than were needed to get through the day's
+work--a home as passionately loved and defended as any nest from which
+the fledgelings have not yet flown. He found it unrecognisable. Two
+had gone, leaving the house desolate, the old father inconsolable, the
+work too heavy for those left behind. Rousille was wearing herself
+out. Andre saw clearly that he alone would not suffice to keep La
+Fromentiere in a state of good cultivation, certainly not to improve
+it, as he had so often meditated through the hot, sleepless nights in
+Africa, thinking of the elm-trees at home. For this two strong young
+pair of arms were needed, without counting the help of a farm-servant:
+Francois should have been there with Andre! He struggled against the
+discouragement that oppressed him, for he was a brave lad. Every
+morning he went out into the fields with the determination to work so
+hard that there should be no room for thought; and he worked and
+ploughed, sowed seed or dug ditches, planted apple-trees with all zest
+and energy, not taking a moment's rest. But the recollection of
+Francois followed him everywhere; in everything he saw the decline of
+the farmstead. Working alone made the days long; longer still were
+they in the company of the new farm-hand, who went about his work
+stolidly, interested neither in the projects nor regrets of the
+farmer's son.
+
+In the evening when Andre returned from work in whom should he
+confide, or who was there to comfort him? His mother was dead; his
+father had need of all his own hope and buoyancy of spirit that he
+might not break down himself; Mathurin was so uncertain and so soured
+that pity might well go out to him, but not real brotherly love. There
+remained Rousille, possibly. But Rousille was seventeen when Andre
+had left home, and he continued to treat her as a child, and told her
+nothing. Besides she was scarcely ever to be seen, poor girl, always
+on the run and hurried. The house was dull, and the young man felt it
+the more that regimental life, hard enough in all conscience, was yet
+full of go and movement.
+
+Weeks went by, and there was no break in the sadness. Weary of being
+thus thrown upon himself, little by little Andre suffered his thoughts
+to go out from the mournful surroundings amid which he, in vain, tried
+to recognise the home of his youth. Like all peasants of the coast, he
+was one of those taciturn labourers who look over the sand-hills
+towards the sea, and who dream dreams when the wind blows. Sad and
+dejected he fell back upon the fatal knowledge he had acquired in
+absence: that life was possible in other places than at La Fromentiere
+on the borders of the Marais of La Vendee.
+
+The temptation grew stronger. Two months after having re-taken
+possession of the room that the two brothers had formerly shared
+together, one night, when the other inmates of the farm were sound
+asleep, Andre began a letter to a comrade in the foreign legion, whom
+he had known in Africa. "I find it too dull here. My brother and
+sister have left home. If you happen to know of any good investment in
+land in Algiers, or elsewhere, let me know. I have not come to any
+decision, but I am thinking of going away. I am, as it were, alone
+here." And answers soon came. To the great astonishment of Toussaint
+Lumineau the postman began bringing pamphlets, papers, and
+prospectuses to La Fromentiere, over which Andre did not make merry as
+did Rousille and Mathurin. Laughingly his father, who had no suspicion
+of Andre, said:
+
+"There has never been such a supply of paper at La Fromentiere, Driot,
+as in the few weeks since you have been home. I don't grudge it you,
+reading is such a hobby of yours! As for me, I should be tired to
+death with all the printed stuff."
+
+Only on Sundays the old father suffered a little from his son's
+passion for reading and writing. On that day after vespers it was his
+habit to bring back some old friend, either Le Glorieux de la
+Terre-Aymont, or Pipet de la Pinconniere to pay a visit of inspection
+round the farm fields. Up hill and down dale they would go in single
+file, examining everything, expressing approval or disapproval by
+uplifted eye or shrug of the shoulder, exchanging an occasional word
+that had always the same object: the harvest, present or future, good
+or indifferent, threatened or gathered in. In this winter season it
+was the fields, the young wheat, and patches of lucerne that were
+under consideration; and Toussaint Lumineau, who had not succeeded in
+getting Andre to accompany them, would confide to his neighbour of La
+Terre-Aymont, or La Pinconniere as they stopped where the slanting
+rays of the sun fell on the corner of a field:
+
+"My son Andre is quite different from anyone I have ever known, and
+not a bit like we used to be. Not that he despises the land, on the
+contrary, he loves it, and I have no fault to find with his work all
+the week. But since he came home from the regiment, his one idea on
+Sunday is reading."
+
+Rousille, too, was sometimes surprised. She had too much to do indoors
+to occupy herself with the work or amusements of the others. Busy with
+housekeeping, and the thousand and one duties of the farmyard, she
+never saw Andre save at meal-times, and in presence of the others. At
+those times, whether by an effort of will, or that youth obtained the
+mastery over depression, Andre was usually in gay and careless
+spirits, bantering Rousille and trying to make her laugh. But as a
+woman and one who had suffered, Rousille had learned to discern the
+sorrows of others; and from many a little sign, eyes fixed on the
+upper window, words dropped that might bear some other meaning, her
+loving heart had divined that Andre was not altogether happy; without
+knowing more, she felt sorry for him. But even she was far from
+guessing the crisis through which her brother was passing, or the
+project he was meditating.
+
+One solitary member of the family had penetrated the designs of Andre,
+and that was Mathurin. He had observed his brother's increasing
+sadness; the useless efforts he was making to regain his former
+equability of temper; his calm fortitude in daily labour. Sometimes
+he would follow him into the fields, then watch for the arrival of the
+postman and take charge of the letters and papers addressed to Andre.
+The smallest details remained engraven on his brooding memory; and one
+day, under the guise of indifference, with a skilfully put question
+his brooding took shape. He was aware that the greater number of the
+letters received by Andre bore the stamp either of Algiers or Antwerp,
+and the latter place conveying nothing to Mathurin, Andre had
+explained:
+
+"It is a large port in Belgium, larger than Nantes that you once
+passed through."
+
+"How do you come to know anyone living so far from here and far from
+Algiers?"
+
+"It's very simple," replied his brother. "My best friend in Algiers is
+a Belgian in the foreign legion, whose family live in Antwerp.
+Sometimes I hear from Demolder, sometimes from his people, who write
+to give me the information I want."
+
+"News of old comrades, then?"
+
+"No, things that interest me in the matter of voyages, other
+countries.... One of the sons has settled across the sea, in America.
+He has a farm as large as this whole parish."
+
+"Was he rich?"
+
+"No. He is now."
+
+Mathurin did not further press the subject, but he continued to
+observe, to add indication on indication. If Andre chanced to leave a
+pamphlet on emigration lying about, or an advertisement of land to be
+let or sold, taking it up Mathurin would seek to discover the places
+over which his brother's brows had met in a frown, or where something
+like a smile, a wish, a desire had lighted up his eyes.
+
+By proof on proof he had arrived at the conviction that Driot was
+thinking of leaving La Fromentiere. When? For what remote land where
+money was easily made? Those were the problems. Thus in the month of
+December, when opportunities for confidential chat are more frequent
+by reason of days of snow and rain and squall, when alone with Andre
+in the stables or the house, he would say treacherously:
+
+"Tell me about Africa, Driot. Tell me some yarns of men who have made
+money out there. I like to hear such things." Or at other times he
+would say: "La Fromentiere must seem small and insignificant to a
+fellow like you who read so much. It certainly is not as productive as
+it used to be."
+
+Mathurin had settled coming events in his mind, while Driot was still
+in doubt.
+
+So the year drew to a close, and the new year began. It was a wet
+winter, with hard frost at nights; every morning spiders' webs covered
+with frozen mist would wave in the breeze like white wings, the damp
+earth would steam in the mid-day sun, and the white wings turn grey.
+The main work of the fields was suspended; the owners of land on high
+ground felled trees, or re-made fences; those on the Marais were
+perforce reduced to idleness; it was holiday-time with them; dykes
+and ditches were overflowing. The greater number of the farms
+surrounded by water, and, as it were, floating above it, were cut off
+from all communication with the neighbouring towns or each other save
+by boats steered over the inundated meadows. It was the time for
+dancing and shooting.
+
+The ground, however, was not too hard to work upon, and, following
+Mathurin's advice, Toussaint Lumineau resolved to dig up his vineyard
+attacked by phylloxera.
+
+So one morning the farmer and Andre made their way up to the little
+field lying well exposed to the south on the high ground which cuts
+the road between Chalons and La Fromentiere. Before them they saw
+nothing but seven rows of vine enclosed by furze hedges, stony ground,
+and the revolving sails of two wind-mills.
+
+"You begin on one row," said the farmer, "I will take the next," and
+pulling off their coats, despite the cold, for it meant hard work,
+they began on their task. Coming up the hill they had talked cheerily
+to each other; but no sooner did they begin to dig than their spirits
+sank, and they grew silent, not wanting to impart the thoughts that
+the work of destruction engendered. If a root, perchance, made very
+tough resistance, the father once or twice attempted to joke, saying
+playfully: "It felt quite comfortable there, and did not want to be
+turned out," or something else to that effect. But he soon gave up the
+attempt. He could not succeed in banishing from his mind, nor from
+that of the son working beside him, sad thoughts of the time when the
+vine prospered, and yielded abundantly the white foaming wine they had
+drunk so merrily in the old happy days of fetes and gatherings. The
+contrast of his former prosperity with present hard times fretted him;
+and as far as he could see, it weighed still more upon the spirits of
+his Driot.
+
+Thus, in silence, they plied their huge, old-fashioned pickaxes, made
+to be wielded by giants. The earth flew in showers; the trunks
+trembled; some few shrivelled leaves left upon the branches fell, and
+were blown about in the wind with a noise as of broken glass; now the
+stem was disclosed, vigorous but warped, covered with green moss, the
+effects of many a summer dew and rain, and tapering off to the size of
+a tendril. The marks of pruning made by successive vinedressers were
+not to be numbered; no one could tell the age of the vineyard. Every
+year since he could remember anything, Driot had pruned it, dressed
+it, gathered its grapes, drunk of its juice. And now it was dying.
+Each time that he gave the final blow to a root he felt a pang; each
+time that, seizing a portion of the lifeless fibres he threw it on the
+heap of dead uprooted stems, he shrugged his shoulders with mingled
+sorrow and rage. Dead those veins through which the red, joyous sap
+was wont to rise. Dead the fertile branches once bending under the
+weight of bunches of grapes, until they rested a golden glory on the
+ground! Never again would the flowerets, pale stars with drops of
+honey in each centre, attract the summer gnats, nor diffuse their
+mignonette-like perfume far over the fields, even to La Fromentiere.
+Never again would the children of the farmstead push eager hands
+through the gaps in the hedge to clutch the bunches within reach!
+Never again would the women carry away basketfuls at vintage time. For
+many a long day wine would be scarce at the farm, and would be no more
+of "our own growing." Something belonging to the family, an hereditary
+and sacred possession seemed to perish with the vineyard, old and
+faithful servant of the Lumineaus. Father and son were both so
+intensely penetrated by the sense of their loss, that, as night
+descended, and the father raised his pickaxe for a final stroke, he
+could not help exclaiming:
+
+"It's a hateful work, Driot, we have done to-day."
+
+All the same, there was a difference between the sadness of father and
+son. Toussaint Lumineau, as he rooted up the vines, was already
+thinking of the day when he would plant fresh ones, and in his silent
+musings had seen his successor gathering in the vintage and drinking
+the muscadet of the new vineyard. He possessed that love, strong and
+tried, which rises hopefully after every stroke of misfortune. With
+Andre hope did not speak, because with him love had waxed feeble.
+
+The two men, their figures indistinct in the darkening day, turned to
+skirt the grassy edge of the vineyard, then descended the sloping
+fields that led towards the farm. With weary, stooping frame,
+shouldering their heavy implements, they looked across the Marais to
+the crimson horizon, and at the clouds driven by the wind towards the
+setting sun. It was a melancholy evening; all around them were
+furze-bushes, ground uncultivated, hedges devastated, leafless trees,
+the gloom and chill of autumn. Thus they had gone some two hundred
+yards before the son could make up his mind to speak, as though
+feeling that his reply would be too hard for the father, who lived on
+in the same old groove.
+
+"Yes," he said, "the day of the vine is at an end in our land, but it
+flourishes elsewhere."
+
+"Where, my Driot?"
+
+In the half dark the son extended his disengaged hand above La
+Fromentiere, sunk below in the shadows; and the action extended so
+far, away over the Marais and over La Vendee, that through his stout
+woollen garments Toussaint Lumineau felt the keen blast of the wind.
+
+"What do other countries matter to us, my Driot," said he, "seeing
+that we are living in our own?"
+
+Did the son understand the anxious tenderness of the words? He
+answered:
+
+"Because in ours it becomes more and more difficult to live."
+
+Toussaint Lumineau remembered words, almost similar, spoken by
+Francois and was silent, trying to explain to himself how it was that
+Andre, who was neither lazy nor a frequenter of town pleasures, could
+have fallen upon the very same way of thought. As the men, skirting
+the brown fields, came nearer home, La Fromentiere with its masses of
+trees rose like a dome of denser darkness, above which the winter
+night was lighting its first stars. The farmer never entered the
+beloved precincts of his home without emotion; to-night, more than
+ever, he experienced its sweetness, dear to him as any bridal promise.
+
+Rousille, hearing their approaching footsteps, opened the door, and
+raised the lamp high in air, like a signal.
+
+"You are late to-night," she said.
+
+Before they could make reply, the long-drawn sound of a horn was heard
+coming from the depths of the Marais, beyond Sallertaine.
+
+"It is the horn of La Seuliere," cried the voice of Mathurin from
+within. The two men, followed by Rousille, entered the warm room with
+its blazing hearth.
+
+Mathurin resumed:
+
+"There's a dance at La Seuliere to-night. Will you come, Driot?"
+
+The cripple, half-rising, supporting himself by his arms against the
+table with a nervous movement, his eyes glaring with long-suppressed
+desire, was alike painful to see, and fear-inspiring, as one whose
+reason was tottering.
+
+"I am not much in the mood for dancing," returned Andre carelessly,
+"but it may do me good to-night."
+
+Silently the farmer pressed his hand on the shoulder of his afflicted
+eldest son, and the fevered eyes relaxed their stare, the body obeyed,
+and fell back upon the bench like a sack of wheat that expands as it
+touches the ground. The men ate their supper hurriedly; towards the
+end of the meal Toussaint Lumineau, whose mind had reverted to Andre's
+words, wishing to take those of his children to witness whose hearts
+had never swerved in their loyal love to La Fromentiere, said:
+
+"Would you believe, Mathurin, what foolish stuff this Driot was
+talking to-night? He declares that vines have had their day with us;
+that they flourish better elsewhere. But when one plants a vine, one
+expects it to die some day, does one not?"
+
+"Many enough have died before ours," responded the cripple roughly.
+"We are not more unlucky than our neighbours."
+
+"That is just what I say," put in Andre, and he raised his head. His
+eyes were lit by a spirit of contradiction, and his silky moustache
+quivered as he spoke. "It is not our vineyard alone that is played
+out, it is the soil; ours, our neighbours', that of the whole
+country, as far and further than you have ever been. One must have new
+land to produce good results."
+
+"New land?" returned his father. "I know none about here. It is all
+cultivated."
+
+"Ah, but there is in many a country." He hesitated an instant, then
+enumerated hurriedly: "In America, the Cape, Australia, British
+possessions--everything flourishes in those countries. There the earth
+is prolific; while here----"
+
+"Don't speak ill of it, Driot; it is worth the very best!"
+
+"Used up; too dear!"
+
+"Too dear, yes, somewhat. But feed it well, and you will see!"
+
+"Feed it then. You have nothing to buy the stuff with."
+
+"Only come a good year, not too dry, not too wet, and we shall have
+money enough!"
+
+The farmer had drawn himself up, as if under a personal insult, and
+now awaited Driot's answer.
+
+He, carried away by passion, rose. Everyone looked at him, even the
+farm-servant, who, with chin sunk in his horny hand, was trying to
+understand the situation. And there was something in the fluency of
+words, ease of gesture that made all vaguely feel that Andre was no
+longer like one of themselves.
+
+"Yes," said the youth, proud of an audience, "there might still be
+some work to be done here, in the old country; but we are taught
+nothing of such things in our schools; that would be too practical.
+Then taxes are too heavy, and rents too high; and all the time that we
+are leading a miserable existence, they out yonder are having
+magnificent harvests. That I hear every day. Our vineyards are ruined,
+and they have wine. Wheat grows without their having to dress the
+land, and they export it to us in shiploads as full as, from what you
+say, the granaries of the old Chateau used to be----"
+
+"Cock and bull stories! You have read them in books."
+
+"Some of them; but I have seen ships in port, and sacks of wheat being
+unloaded like the water of a dyke overflowing its banks. If you were
+to read the papers, you would know that everything now comes to us
+from abroad far cheaper than we can produce it ourselves: corn, oats,
+horses, oxen; and that we have competing with us Americans,
+Australians, and soon we shall have Japanese, Chinese----" he was
+intoxicated with words; he was but the echo of the few pamphlets he
+had read, or of what he had heard from others. La Fromentiere heard
+him with stupor. China, Japan, America, the names circled round the
+room like some unknown variety of bird, brought by the tempest from
+far-off regions. The farmhouse walls had heard many uncouth peasant
+sounds, but never had they resounded under the shock of these foreign
+words.
+
+Astonishment was marked upon the faces that, in the light of the lamp,
+were turned upon Driot, who continued:
+
+"I have learnt things, I can assure you! I learn more every day. And,
+look you, when one comes home as I have done to-night, from rooting up
+a vineyard, it makes one savage to think that there are parts of
+America, and I could give you the names, where one can settle without
+opening one's purse----"
+
+"You be off!" quoth the ploughman.
+
+"Yes! Government gives the agriculturist his passage free; keeps him
+when he first lands; and gives him a ranch of seventy-four acres of
+land."
+
+This time the farmer shook his head, scandalised at the enormity of
+his son's statement, and said in a tone of disapprobation:
+
+"You are telling up a parcel of lies, my boy. Seventy-four acres, that
+makes two hundred and ninety-six roods. I am not much of a reader, it
+is true, but I do not let myself be crammed with all the stuff you
+believe in like the Gospel. Two hundred and ninety-six roods.
+Governments would soon be ruined if they made a present like that to
+everyone who wanted it.... Hold your tongue.... It vexes me to hear
+our native land talked ill of. Since you want to cultivate it with me,
+Driot, do as we do, and don't talk ill of it.... It has always
+supported us."
+
+There ensued an embarrassed silence, of which the farm-servant took
+advantage to get up, and betake himself to bed.
+
+The call from La Seuliere sounded out again in the still night.
+Mathurin said no word, but looked at his brother; he, ill at ease,
+excited by the recent discussion, understood the mute question, and
+answered promptly, in a manner that should show that he was free to do
+as he chose:
+
+"Very well. Yes, I am going."
+
+"I will go with you as far as the boat," responded the cripple.
+
+Toussaint Lumineau foresaw danger.
+
+"It is bad enough that your brother should be going to La Seuliere,"
+said he. "But for you, my poor boy, on no account would it do to go to
+their dance. It is cold out of doors. Do not go further than the duck
+meadow, and come back quickly." He followed with his eyes the cripple,
+who, in great haste, with the unnatural energy given him by emotion,
+raised himself on his crutches, hobbled the length of the table, down
+the steps, and following Andre, was lost in the night.
+
+His sons had gone; an icy wind blew in at the wide open door. Alas!
+how difficult it had become to govern the household! Sitting on the
+bench, his head on his arm, looking out into the dark farmyard, the
+old man pondered the things he had heard that night, and his
+powerlessness, despite his great love and long experience, to make
+himself obeyed, now that interest was lessening in the work of the old
+farmstead.
+
+But it was not long before he called to his daughter, busy at her work
+of washing up; the least word was such a relief in the empty rooms!
+"Rousille!"
+
+The girl opened the connecting door, and came, drying the plate in her
+hands without looking at him.
+
+"I am afraid that Mathurin may go back to see her----"
+
+"Oh, father, he would not do that. Besides, he cannot have his shoes,
+and he dare not appear at La Seuliere" ... stooping, she searched
+under Mathurin's bed, then in the chest, then said as she rose:
+
+"Yes. He has taken them ... he must have put them on beforehand ...
+the first sound of the horn came at six o'clock."
+
+The old father began pacing the room with great strides, stopping
+uneasily from minute to minute to listen for the sound of crutches on
+the gravel that should announce Mathurin's return.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+THE DANCE AT LA SEULIERE.
+
+
+Toussaint Lumineau's uneasiness was well founded. His two sons had
+gone down to the meadow, where the dyke, widening, served as a
+drinking place for the animals on the farm, and as a harbour for the
+two punts belonging to it.
+
+There Andre had offered no resistance when Mathurin had said:
+
+"Take me. I want to see Felicite." Venturesome, imprudent in things
+concerning himself, soldier of but yesterday, still impregnated with
+barrack maxims, he had merely said:
+
+"There's not a shadow of sense in it; but if it amuses you!"
+
+And he had chosen the best of the boats, and helped the cripple to
+stretch himself in the prow; then, standing on the raised part in the
+stern, and taking up the pole, had begun to punt, now pressing the
+iron point into the bed of the dyke, now into the bank on either side.
+
+Soon they were far out in the middle of the Marais, the night
+intensely cold with no moon. Clouds were chasing each other towards
+the sea; and yet it was not one unbroken darkness; up above in the
+grey firmament were lighter trails, clear patches constantly broken
+and effaced by shifting clouds reflected in their passage on the
+surface of the waters, not only of the dykes, but of the submerged
+meadows which had been changed into a series of lakes by winter rains,
+and above which the sloping embankments were scarcely perceptible.
+Every light was multiplied. The darkness had eddies of light, which
+enabled Andre to keep a right course.
+
+The punt followed the canals, cut at right angles; progress was slow,
+impeded by ice needles, that formed by the cold clustered on the
+sedges of the bank. Did the wind not rise, the whole Marais would be
+one sheet of ice before morning; Andre knew this, and tried to reach
+La Seuliere as quickly as possible. He began to realise the imprudence
+he had committed in taking Mathurin with him on such a night and so
+far. The cripple neither moved nor spoke, anxious not to attract his
+brother's attention to himself, lest he should straightway turn back.
+But when he saw that they were more than two thousand yards from La
+Fromentiere, sure of reaching their destination, he broke the silence.
+Lying on his back, his face hidden by the side of the boat, he asked:
+
+"Driot, when you were speaking to-night of land being given to
+agricultural emigrants, you were not joking?"
+
+"Of course not."
+
+"Have they proposed to give you some?"
+
+Noiselessly, he had raised his head, and was watching with eyes and
+ears for Andre's answer. No reply came. In the vast extent of
+inundated meadows there was heard no sound but the swish of the water
+parted by the punt and washing up as the tide rose against the hard
+mud of the shore with little sharp gurgles. Mathurin resumed:
+
+"You miss Francois, do you not? The house seems different to you with
+only me there?"
+
+The young man standing so erect in the stern, his profile scarcely
+defined in the darkness, stooped precipitately:
+
+"Look out!" he cried, "lie back, Mathurin!" Perfect darkness was
+around them; they were passing under one of the single-arched stone
+bridges that intersect the Marais here and there. When they had passed
+through Mathurin noticed that the boat was going more slowly, as
+though the propeller were absorbed in thought. Encouraged by this,
+resolved to be put in possession of the secret that concerned the
+future of La Fromentiere, the cripple resumed persuasively:
+
+"We are quite by ourselves here, Andre; why not tell me all you are
+pondering? You would like to cultivate newer soil than ours; you, too,
+want to go away, but further than Francois, and for another purpose?"
+
+Then the younger brother ceased to punt. He still stood erect on the
+raised stern of the boat, and suffered the pole to float aimlessly
+behind him.
+
+"As you have discovered it, Mathurin," he said, "keep my secret. It is
+true that proposals have been made to me.... With my two thousand
+francs I might have, on the other side of the Atlantic, a whole farm
+of my own and a brood of horses.... Some friends of mine are looking
+into the matter for me ... but I have not made up my mind. I have not
+yet consented."
+
+"You are afraid of father?"
+
+"I am afraid of leaving him in difficulties. If I were to go, who
+would carry on La Fromentiere? There is certainly Rousille, she might
+marry."
+
+"Not that _Boquin_ fellow! That would not do for us at all! But my
+father has said No; and he is not the man to go back on his word."
+
+"Then I do not see who is to carry on the farm?"
+
+In a hard, imperious voice, which betrayed the intensity of his
+feelings, the cripple cried:
+
+"Then I count for nothing?"
+
+"My poor Mathurin...."
+
+"I am better, I shall recover," continued Mathurin, in the same tone.
+"When it comes to be my turn to rule, no one but myself will manage La
+Fromentiere, do you understand?"
+
+Not to exasperate him, Andre replied:
+
+"Your recovery would be a happy thing for us all, old man. I, for one,
+heartily wish it may come about."
+
+But the cripple's wrath was not to be appeased so easily nor so
+quickly. Rising from his recumbent position with an effort which
+threatened to capsize the punt, he dragged himself on hands and knees
+to the stern, where shouting, "Give me your place, boy, you shall see
+me punt," he struggled for possession of the pole; and seating himself
+in the stern, began propelling the boat with astonishing force and
+steadiness, keeping it clear of the banks, and with a rapidity,
+despite ice splinters and sedges, which Andre could not have
+accomplished. His huge frame took up the whole width of the boat; his
+powerful chest bent and raised itself with all the ease of robust
+health. As he went on arms and punt pole worked ever more vigorously;
+the banks flew by on either side. Soon he turned off into a canal on
+the right for some hundred yards. Now rays of light appeared on the
+surface of the water, rendering them more dazzling. They proceeded
+from the door of La Seuliere. The farm buildings rose up indistinctly
+from out the darkness; sounds of voices singing broke the stillness,
+mingled with the noise of footsteps on the paved court. With a couple
+of strokes, Mathurin brought up the boat into line with some ten other
+punts lying side by side; and before Andre had thought of going to his
+help, had rolled with his crutches on to the slope before the house
+where he got up unaided.
+
+"Well punted, Mathurin," cried his younger brother, jumping on shore.
+He, crimsoned, breathless, pleased as if with a victory won, looked
+round:
+
+"Then don't worry yourself!" he said. "A man who can punt a boat as I
+do, is capable of managing a farm," and with a blow of his shoulder he
+shook the house door. A voice from within called out:
+
+"Gently there! Who wants to break the door in?"
+
+It was flung noisily open, revealing Mathurin standing in the full
+glare of the lamplight. The appearance of a ghost could not have
+produced greater effect. The noise ceased abruptly, the girls,
+frightened, ran away or clustered in groups against the walls. In
+their astonishment, many of the lads took off their hats, which they
+had kept on while dancing; farmers' wives half rose from the chairs on
+which they were sitting. Scarcely did they recognise the new-comer at
+such an hour and place.
+
+Tired and crimsoned from his exertions, affected by the hot air of the
+room, but proud of the stupefaction he was causing, Mathurin stood
+erect on his crutches, and, laughing in his tawny beard, called out in
+a stentorian voice:
+
+"How do you do, all of you!"
+
+Then, addressing the group of girls who were retreating to the other
+end of the room:
+
+"Who will dance a round with me, my beauties? Why do you look at me
+like that? I am not a ghost. I have brought my brother, handsome
+Driot, to dance _vis-a-vis_ with me." And they saw him approach,
+followed by the youngest son of La Fromentiere, tall and slim, his
+hand at his forehead in military salute. Then the room resounded with
+merry laughter, questions, and greetings; the girls ran towards them
+as precipitately as they had before retreated; men's hands were
+extended on all sides. Old Gauvrit's loud voice drowned all others,
+as, already somewhat heated with wine, he called out from an inner
+room:
+
+"The handsomest girl to dance with Mathurin! the handsomest! Let her
+show herself!"
+
+It was not in obedience to her father that Felicite Gauvrit came
+forward. But, though for an instant disconcerted by this abrupt entry
+before all these men and women, she realised that she must put a bold
+face on it, and going up to Mathurin Lumineau, her black eyes looking
+into his, she threw her arms round his neck and embraced him.
+
+"I embrace him," she said, "because he has more courage than most of
+the lads in the parish. It was I who invited him!"
+
+Stupefied, intoxicated by the memories awakened in him, Mathurin once
+more shrank away. They saw him grow livid, and, turning on his
+crutches, force a path through the group of men on his left, with:
+
+"Make way, make way, lads. I want to sit down!"
+
+He found a place in the second room, beside some of the elder men, old
+Gauvrit among them; who rising, poured him out a bumper of the white
+wine of Sallertaine, in token of welcome. Still quite pale, Mathurin
+lifted the glass with the customary formula, "I drink to you all with
+cordiality and love!"
+
+Soon he appeared to be forgotten, and dancing was resumed.
+
+The farmstead where the gathering was held was a fairly modern
+building, the usual large house-place being divided into two rooms of
+unequal size. In the smaller of these the elder men, with the master
+of the house, were drinking and playing luette. In the larger, that by
+which the two Lumineaus had entered, dancing was going on. The tables
+had been pushed along the walls beside the beds, the curtains of which
+had been spread over the counterpanes to save them from being torn.
+Some half-dozen matrons, who had accompanied their daughters, had
+collected round the hearth before a fire of dried cow-dung, the fuel
+of that treeless district, each having on the mantel-piece her cup of
+coffee, with a dash of brandy in it, from which she took an occasional
+sip.
+
+Petroleum lamps placed along the wall lighted the narrow space
+reserved for dancing. A smoky, heated, vinous atmosphere pervaded the
+house. The icy air from without drew in under the door, sometimes
+making the young Maraichines, despite their stout woollen gowns,
+shiver with cold. But no one minded. The room was filled with
+laughter, chatter, and movement. Youths and maidens from isolated
+farmhouses, cut off from one another by periodical inundations, they
+were tired of solitude and repose. Escaped from their tedium and
+restored for a brief space of social intercourse, they seemed
+possessed by feverish excitement. Soon all the gay dancers would be
+dispersed again over the mute, trembling sheet of water. They knew it;
+and made the most of the short reprieve.
+
+So dancing recommenced.
+
+First the Maraichine, a dance for four, a kind of ancient _bourree_,
+which the lookers-on accompanied by a rhythmic humming; then _rondes_
+sung by a male or female voice, taken up by the others in chorus to
+the accompaniment of an accordeon played by a sickly, deformed boy of
+twelve; or there were modern dances, polkas and quadrilles, danced to
+one and the same tune, the time only made to vary. The girls, for the
+most part, danced well, some with a keen sense of rhythm and grace.
+Round their waists the most dainty had knotted a white handkerchief,
+to preserve their dresses when, after each refrain, their partner
+seized his lady round the waist and jumped her as high as possible, to
+demonstrate the lightness of the Maraichines and the strength of the
+Maraichins. Known to each other, these young people from the same
+parish, often neighbours, resumed the flirtations of the preceding
+winter; they made love; appointed meetings at Chalons fair, or at
+some coming dance at another farm; new-comers were gladly welcomed.
+Among these latter Andre Lumineau was the most sought after, the most
+cheery, most fertile at inventing nonsense and talking it.
+
+Time passed. Twice Pere Gauvrit had gone through the two rooms, opened
+the house door, and said:
+
+"The moon is rising and will soon be visible; the wind is getting up
+and it freezes hard," then had gone back to resume his place at the
+card-table where the players awaited him. Mathurin Lumineau had taken
+a hand, but was playing absently, attending far less to his cards than
+to every movement, look, and word of Felicite. Already the artful
+beauty had several times contrived to bring her partner to a halt in
+the inner room, that she might exchange a few words with Mathurin. She
+was radiant with pride; on the bold, regular features that towered
+above the greater number of tulle coifs could be read triumphant joy,
+that after six whole years, the mad love she had inspired still
+endured, and had brought back to her the young men of La Fromentiere.
+
+It was ten o'clock. A little Maraichine, her complexion russet as a
+thrush, started the first notes of a _ronde_:
+
+    "When as a little child I played,
+      Light-hearted, never dull;
+    Down to the spring one day I strayed
+      The cresses fresh to cull."
+
+Twenty lads and as many girls took up the chorus:
+
+    "The ducks, the ducks, the ducklings, oh!
+    To the Marais forth they go!"
+
+And the _ronde_ invaded both rooms. At the same time Felicite Gauvrit,
+who had refused to take her place in the chain of dancers, drew near
+the table where Mathurin was sitting. He at once rose, throwing down
+his cards to the man sitting next him.
+
+"Stay where you are, Mathurin," she exclaimed. "Do not trouble about
+me. I have come to watch the dancers."
+
+But she drew a chair into a corner of the room, assisted Mathurin to
+it, and then sat down beside him. Neither spoke. They were sitting in
+the half shade of a projecting piece of furniture; the cripple was not
+looking at Felicite, nor she at him. Side by side they sat in the
+shade of the cherry wood wardrobe, apparently engrossed in watching
+the dancers as they passed in and out of the room. But what they
+really saw was something very different; one saw the past love
+meetings, the plighted troth, the return that night in the waggon, the
+awful suffering stretching out through years, the desertion--now at
+this very moment--at an end. The other saw the possible, perhaps, near
+future; the farmstead of La Fromentiere where she would reign; the
+bench in church where she would sit; the greetings that would be hers
+from the proudest girls round about; and the husband she would
+have--Andre Lumineau--who was now dancing the _ronde_ with the little
+girl of fifteen, the singer of the couplets.
+
+Mathurin began speaking in a low voice, words broken by long periods
+of silence; he was very pale and in fear that this brief happiness
+would too soon come to an end.
+
+Grave and reserved, her hands crossed upon her apron, the daughter of
+La Seuliere spoke without haste words heard by none but themselves.
+Many eyes were turned upon this strange pair of once betrothed lovers.
+
+The dance went on, the refrain echoed from the walls.
+
+The clear, laughing voice of the little Maraichine sang:
+
+    "The spring was deep, alas, alas,
+      Therein I needs must fall.
+    Along the road just then did pass
+      Three barons valiant all.
+
+    "'What will you give us, maiden fair,
+      If to your help we press?'
+    'An' you do that,' I did declare,
+      'My gift you'll never guess.'
+
+    "Now when the little maid was freed
+      And home again that day,
+    Straight to the window she did speed
+      And sang a merry lay.
+
+    "'Not that we ask, oh, maiden fair,
+      'Tis hard to treat us so,
+    But tresses of your golden hair,
+      Or tokens ere we go.'"
+
+The dance grew faster and more furious. The big Maraichins seized
+their partners and sprang them so high that their muslin coifs touched
+the ceiling. The mothers drank a final cup of coffee. The card-players
+watched the _sarabande_ through the dusty atmosphere by the uneven
+light of the smoking lamps. Mathurin and Felicite, sitting closer
+together, still talked on. But the daughter of La Seuliere had
+suffered one of her hands to be taken between those of the cripple,
+and it was the huge hairy hands that trembled, and the little white
+hand that seemed not to understand, or to be unwilling to respond.
+
+The _ronde_ came to an end:
+
+    "'Ah, tokens give I none,' said she,
+      'To barons gay like you,
+    For chosen I am proud to be
+      By Pierre, who serves us true.'"
+
+For the first time Felicite, looking at Mathurin said confidentially,
+with a laugh:
+
+"That song is Rousille's story."
+
+"Do you know what she wanted?" returned Mathurin hotly, "to marry our
+farm-servant; to become mistress of La Fromentiere! But I was on the
+watch. I had that fellow Jean Nesmy turned out, and I swear to you it
+will be long before he dare show his face there again. And now...."
+
+Here he lowered his voice and bent forward until the tawny hair
+touched the outer rim of the muslin coif, which did not draw
+back--"And now, if you will still have me, Felicite, it is you who
+shall be the mistress of La Fromentiere." She had not time to answer.
+She had risen, the last refrain of the _ronde_ had ended in a murmur
+of surprise. A man, whose white head towered above those of the
+assembled guests, had abruptly entered and advanced into the middle of
+the first room, without removing the hat he wore on his entrance, or
+making any salutation. His clothes were coated with ice; on his left
+arm he carried an old brown cloak that swept the ground as he walked.
+Severe of countenance, with eyes half closed from coming suddenly into
+the glare of light, he was evidently seeking someone.
+
+All made way for the farmer of La Fromentiere, "Are my lads here?" he
+asked.
+
+"Yes, of course," returned a voice behind him. "Here I am, father."
+
+"That's right, Driot," said the old man without looking back, "I am
+not afraid for you, though this is not the place for my sons. But it
+is freezing so hard that it seems likely that the whole Marais will be
+frozen before sunrise; and it may be the death of Mathurin, crippled
+as he is. Why did you bring him?"
+
+In the general silence the farmer's eyes swept the larger room; a
+movement of some of those present showed him Mathurin sitting in the
+inner one; and the father saw his crippled son, and beside him the
+girl who had been the cause of so much suffering and sorrow.
+
+"That girl!" he muttered, "lying in wait for him again!" With
+imperious gesture he forced a passage through the dancers, shouldering
+them to right and left. "Gauvrit," he exclaimed, nodding to the host,
+who had risen and was staggering towards him, "Gauvrit, I have no wish
+to offend you; but I must take away my lads. The Marais is a deathtrap
+in weather such as this."
+
+"I couldn't prevent your sons coming," stammered Gauvrit. "I assure
+you, Toussaint Lumineau...."
+
+Without heeding him, the farmer raised his voice:
+
+"Out of this, Mathurin!" said he. "Take the wrap I have brought you,"
+and he threw the shabby old cloak over the cripple's shoulders, who
+rising, meek as a child, followed his father without a word. The
+guests looked on, some mockingly, others with emotion, at the sight of
+the fine old man who had come that bitter night across the Marais to
+rescue his son from the wiles of La Seuliere. Some of the girls said
+to each other, "He had not a word for Felicite." Others, "How handsome
+he must have been as a young man." And one voice murmured, and it was
+that of the young girl who had sung the _ronde_, "Andre is the image
+of his father."
+
+Toussaint Lumineau and his sons heard nothing of this. The door of La
+Seuliere had shut behind them, and they were out in the darkness and
+the icy wind.
+
+The clouds were very high; as they scudded along in huge irregular
+bodies they formed a succession of black patches, their edges silvered
+by the moon. The cold was so intense it seemed to pierce through the
+stoutest clothing, and chill to the very marrow of the bones. It was
+indeed death to any but the strongest. The farmer, who knew the
+danger, hurriedly untied the two punts, and getting into the first
+motioned Mathurin to lie down in the bottom of the boat, then pushed
+out into the middle of the canal. Again the cripple obeyed, curling
+himself up on the boards; wrapped in his brown cloak, motionless, he
+looked like a mass of sea-wrack. But, unnoticed by the others, he had
+lain down with his face turned towards La Seuliere, and raising his
+cloak with one finger, was looking back towards the farm. As long as
+distance and the canal banks allowed him to distinguish the light
+proceeding from the chinks of the door, he remained with eyes fixed
+upon the paling ray that recalled to him a new hope. Then the cloak
+fell back into its place, covering the radiant, tearful face of the
+crippled man.
+
+Andre followed in the second punt. By the same dykes, past the same
+meadows they returned, struggling against the strong gusts of wind
+that blew. The storm that had burst had prevented the sheet of ice
+from covering the water. The farmer, unaccustomed to punting, did not
+make rapid progress. From time to time he would ask:
+
+"You are not too cold, Mathurin?"
+
+Then in a louder voice:
+
+"Are you following, Andre?"
+
+And in their wake a cheery voice would reply:
+
+"I am all right."
+
+The strain was tremendous, but with it was mingled the joy of taking
+back his two sons.
+
+Although there was no apparent reason, and he had not thought of her
+for weeks, the farmer's thoughts flew to his dead wife: "She would be
+pleased with me," he mused, "for taking Mathurin away from La
+Seuliere." And at times in the turn of a canal he would seem to see a
+pair of blue eyes like those of his old wife smiling upon him, which
+gradually sank until they rested among the reeds under the punt. And
+he would dry his eyelids with his sleeve, shake himself free from the
+overmastering drowsiness, and say again to his youngest son:
+
+"Are you following?"
+
+The younger son was not dreaming. He was thinking over what he had
+seen and heard: Mathurin's senseless infatuation, his violence, which,
+when their father should be no more, would make life very difficult
+to the head at La Fromentiere. The events of that evening had
+increased the temptation of pastures new to this disturbed mind. In
+course of time both punts had reached the duck meadow.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+ROUSILLE'S LOVE DREAM.
+
+
+Sunday afternoon had become Rousille's hour for solitude. She could
+only go to vespers when the farm-servant was left in charge of the
+house; and he had stipulated that he should go once a fortnight to
+Saint Jean-de-Mont to his sister, a deaf-mute. Mathurin, who formerly
+had not left La Fromentiere, now never missed attending High Mass at
+Sallertaine, where he met Felicite Gauvrit, greeted her for the most
+part without speaking, in order not to vex his father, watched her as
+she moved about the Place, then sat down at one of the inn tables to
+luette. As for Andre, he seemed just now to like to be away from La
+Fromentiere as much as possible, and on Sundays would be off as early
+as he could to the villages on the sea coast, where he sought out old
+sailors and travellers who could tell him of the countries where
+fortunes were to be made.
+
+Rousille knew nothing of the attraction that led her brother so far
+afield. One day she affectionately reproached him with leaving her so
+much alone. At first he had laughed, then suddenly had grown serious
+and said:
+
+"Don't reproach me with leaving you so much alone, Rousille. Perhaps
+you will reap the benefit of my tramps one of these days; I am acting
+in your interests."
+
+Thus on the fourth Sunday in January La Fromentiere was in charge of
+Rousille. But Rousille did not find time hang heavy on her hands; she
+had taken refuge in the threshing-floor at the back of the farm, and
+was sitting at the foot of a great heap of straw, her face turned
+towards the Marais, visible through a break in the hedge. She would
+have been frozen in the north wind that was blowing, had not the straw
+all about her kept in the warmth like a nest. Leaning her head back
+against it, she had buried her elbows in the soft depths of some loose
+straw that had been forked out from the compact mass and not yet taken
+away.
+
+The air was so clear that she could see away to the clock tower of
+Perrier, to the most remote farmsteads of the Marais, and even to the
+ruddy streaks, but rarely visible, of the pine-grown downs that
+bordered the sea more than three leagues distant. She was looking
+before her, but her mind was travelling beyond her father's meadows,
+beyond the great Marais, beyond the horizon--for Jean Nesmy had
+written to her. Rousille had the letter in her pocket--was feeling it
+with the tips of her fingers. Since morning she had known it by
+heart, had said it over to herself many a time, that letter of Jean
+Nesmy; the smile it called forth did not leave her lips, save to light
+up her eyes. All care was driven away, forgotten. Little Rousille was
+still loved by someone; the letter testified to it. It said:
+
+   "Le Chateau, Parish des Chatelliers,
+     "January 25th.
+
+   "MY DEAR FRIEND,
+
+   "We are all in good health, and I hope it is the same with you,
+   though one is never sure when so far away. I have hired myself as
+   labourer in a farm on the back of a hill as you leave the moor of
+   Nouzillac, about which I have told you. In fine weather one can
+   see six clock towers round about, and I think that but for the
+   Mount of Saint Michel one might see the trees of the Marais where
+   you are. Despite that, I see you always before my eyes. On
+   Saturdays I generally go home to La Mere Nesmy, and so does my
+   brother next in age to myself, who also has hired himself to one
+   of the farmers of La Flocelliere. We talk of you at mother's, and
+   I often say that I am not as happy as I was before I knew you, or
+   as I should be if they all at home knew you. At any rate, they
+   know your name! My sister Noemi and the little ones, when they
+   come along the road to meet me on Saturday evenings, always call
+   out to make me laugh: 'Any news of Rousille?' But Mother Nesmy
+   will not believe that you care for me, because we are too poor.
+   If only she saw you, she would understand that it is for life.
+   And I spend my time on Sundays telling her all about La
+   Fromentiere.
+
+   "Rousille, it is now four months since I have seen you, according
+   to your desire. It was only at the fair at Pouzanges that,
+   through a man from the Marais who came to buy wood, I heard that
+   your brother Andre had come home, and that he was working on the
+   land as the master of La Fromentiere likes those about him to
+   work; so it will not be very long before I come back to see you.
+   Some evening I shall come, when the men are still out in the
+   fields, and you, perhaps, are thinking of me as you boil the soup
+   in the big room. I shall come round by the barn, and when you
+   hear or see me, open the window, Rousille, and tell me with one
+   of your little smiles, tell me that you still care for me. Then
+   La Mere Nesmy will make the journey in the proper manner, and
+   will ask your hand from your father, and if he says, Yes, by my
+   baptism! I swear to you that I will bring you home to be my wife.
+   You are my one thought and desire; there is no one but you that I
+   cherish in my heart of hearts. Take care of yourself. I greet you
+   with my whole heart.
+
+    "JEAN NESMY."
+
+One by one, like the beads of a rosary being told, and that pass
+between the fingers of the devotee, the sentences of the letter
+passed through the mind of Marie-Rose, and her eyes gazing intently on
+the landscape, saw only the image of Jean Nesmy. The young girl saw
+him in his coat with the horn buttons, his high cheek-bones, his eager
+eyes that only laughed for her and for good work done, when at the
+close of day, his scythe slung on to his bare arm, he scanned the corn
+he had cut, and the sheaves he had tied standing upright in the
+stubble.
+
+"Father no longer talks against him," thought she. "He even defended
+him once to Mathurin. As for me, he has never found me complain, nor
+refuse to do the work I had to do, and I think he is pleased with me
+for having done my best. If Andre were to settle down now, and to
+bring a wife to La Fromentiere, perhaps father would not refuse to let
+me marry. And I begin to think that Master Andre has his reasons for
+absenting himself on Sundays, and going off to Saint Jean, Perrier,
+and Saint Gervais, as he does...."
+
+She smiled. Her eyes had taken the colour of the fresh straw that
+surrounded her. Far away, on the road to the meadows, she saw a fine
+strapping youth walking with swaying movement, carrying over one
+shoulder a pole to jump the dykes with.
+
+"Driot," she murmured. "I will tease him about his Sunday walks."
+
+Soon she saw Andre come up the hill, skirt the dwarf orchard, then
+pass between the leafless hedges in the road. When he was at a little
+distance, she coughed to attract his attention. He looked up. His face
+which had worn an anxious expression cleared; instead of continuing
+his way to the courtyard of La Fromentiere, he jumped over into a
+small field that ran beside it, passed the row of hives where the bees
+were sleeping their winter sleep, and stopped beside Rousille in the
+threshing-floor, leaning on his pole. As he did so, he endeavoured to
+assume the half-bantering, half-protecting air he usually adopted
+towards his sister, thinking himself obliged to laugh with her as with
+a child.
+
+"I was looking for you," he said.
+
+"Oh, you were looking for me very badly then. Your head was bent down.
+I believe you were thinking of someone else than me."
+
+"Indeed!"
+
+"Yes. Where do you come from with your pole, you roamer? Not from
+vespers?"
+
+"No, from Saint Jean. The water is grand, and jolly cold. On the other
+side of Le Perrier there are inundations on both sides of the road."
+
+"You have been calling at the farms, I suppose. Did you stop at La
+Seuliere?"
+
+"You do not know me one bit; do you think I should go against...."
+
+He was about to say "against the intrigues of Mathurin, who has
+returned to his former infatuation," but he stopped short.
+
+So happy herself that she did not notice his reticence, she resumed:
+
+"To the Levrelles? No? Then to the mill of Moque-Souris, where there
+is that pretty little Marie Dieu-donnee, the prettiest miller's
+daughter between here and Beauvoir?"
+
+"Still wrong."
+
+Trying to be grave, but without succeeding in hiding the joy that
+pervaded her whole soul, she resumed:
+
+"You see, I want you so much to marry, Andre. And such a dear boy as
+you are, I think it would be easy. Indeed, you have no idea how
+greatly I wish it!"
+
+Andre's face grew careworn again as before, and he said:
+
+"On the contrary I know very well...."
+
+"No. You always think of me as a child. But I am twenty, Driot. I know
+when others are unhappy. You, for instance, are grieving over our
+Francois; you miss him even more than father does. If you were to
+marry, you would forget your sorrow a little. Settled down at La
+Fromentiere, married to a girl you love, your thoughts would no longer
+be brooding over the past as now."
+
+"And above all," put in Andre, "there would be a housekeeper here, and
+little Rousille could marry her faithful swain."
+
+Pressing herself back against the rick with a girlish movement of
+shoulders, head, and arms, Rousille raised herself and knelt forward
+the better to reach her pocket. Bending over the aperture hidden
+amongst the innumerable folds of her dress, she extracted the letter
+and gently held up the square of paper to her brother, raising it to
+the level of her head and following it with her eyes as she did so.
+
+"I would show it to no one but you, Andre ... read my letter ... I
+want to prove that I have confidence in you. And then you will
+understand how light it makes one's heart to receive such a dear
+letter, so light that one feels like air. It will make you want to
+receive such an one yourself."
+
+Andre took the letter without showing the slightest impatience, and
+without a word of thanks. But as he read, he grew moved, not with
+jealousy of such love, but with pity for the girl, who was dreaming
+her dream of happiness between two misfortunes.
+
+For he had definitely decided to leave the farmstead and La Vendee.
+Some tidings, in a measure foreseen, dreaded for some time past, very
+serious for La Fromentiere, had caused him to come to a decision that
+very afternoon. He had returned home, sorrow stricken, weighing all
+the pain he was about to cause; and now coming upon this joy, this
+hope of Rousille's, those eyes that persisted in smiling at life, that
+flower of the ruined farmstead, the feeling came over him that he must
+spare the child, at least, that one evening, and not tell her at once
+all he knew.
+
+Having read the letter he slowly folded it, and gave it back to
+Rousille, who, impatient for an appreciative comment, her whole soul
+in her eyes, her lips breaking into a smile, asked:
+
+"Do you think that father would consent, if you were to marry, and if
+you spoke for my Jean?"
+
+"Would you go to live in the Bocage, Rousille?"
+
+"I should have to on account of Mathurin, who would never suffer us
+near him."
+
+She was surprised at the manner in which Andre looked at her, so
+gravely and so tenderly. Taking her hand in both of his, her hand
+which still held the letter, he said:
+
+"No, little Rousille, I will not speak for you. But I will shortly do
+something else, of which I cannot tell you now, and which will avail
+you. The day I do it, your marriage will be assured, unless father
+breaks up everything.... And it will not be at the Bocage that you
+will make your home, but at La Fromentiere, in our mother's place--the
+dear mother with whom we were so happy in the days of our childhood.
+Put your faith in what I say, and do not worry about Mathurin."
+
+Letting go her hand, which fell to her side, he added:
+
+"I have an idea that you, at least, will be happy, Rousille."
+
+She opened her lips to speak; he made her a sign that he would say no
+more. All the same Rousille asked hurriedly, seeing him move away:
+
+"One thing only, Andre, tell me only one thing. Promise me that you
+will always till the ground, for father would be so grieved...."
+
+And he answered:
+
+"I promise you, I will."
+
+Rousille watched him as he went round the corner, and on into the
+courtyard. What was the matter with him? What meant those mysterious
+words? Why had he spoken the last so sadly? For a moment she wondered;
+but the trouble was evanescent. Scarce had solitude returned about
+her, than Rousille heard again the words of her love-letter singing
+their soft refrain to her. They came into her heart, one by one, like
+transparent waves, each opening out in its turn and covering the
+shore. "It cannot be a very important secret," thought she, "since
+Driot will continue to till the ground, that will make father happy,
+and I shall be happy too."
+
+She recalled the smile that had passed over her brother's face, and
+thought: "It is nothing," and peace, entire, unquestioning, returned
+to her.
+
+In the twilight of that winter afternoon on the borders of the Marais
+of Sallertaine, for one short hour there was a girl who smiled at
+life, and deemed that bad times were past and gone. She was still
+smiling, still sheltered in her retreat amid the straw, when Andre
+accosted his father, coming in from the Sunday tour of inspection,
+with:
+
+"Everything is certainly going to the bad, father."
+
+The farmer, his head full of the promise of hay and wheat harvests he
+had just been examining, answered contentedly:
+
+"No, everything is coming up well. The spring crop of oats is
+promising; what is going to the bad?"
+
+"I heard at Saint Jean-de-Mont that there is to be a sale of the
+furniture at the Chateau, father!"
+
+For a moment Toussaint Lumineau could not take it in.
+
+"Yes, all the furniture," repeated Andre. "It is advertised in the
+papers. See, if you don't believe me, here's the list. Everything is
+to be sold."
+
+He drew a paper from his pocket, and pointed with his finger to an
+advertisement, from which the old farmer laboriously read:
+
+"On Sunday, February 20th, Maitre Oulry, notary at Chalons, will
+proceed to sell the furniture of the Chateau de la Fromentiere. There
+will be sold: the entire drawing-room and dining-room furniture, old
+tapestries, oak chests, pictures, beds, tables, china and glass,
+wines, guns, contents of the library, wardrobes, etc."
+
+"Well?" exclaimed Andre.
+
+"Oh," returned his father, "who would have foretold this eight years
+ago? Have they become poor, then, in Paris?" He fell into silence, not
+willing to judge his master too hardly.
+
+"It is ruin," said Andre. "After the furniture, they will be for
+selling the land, and us with it!"
+
+The head of La Fromentiere, the successor of so many farmers under the
+same masters, was standing in the middle of the room; he raised his
+weary eyes until they rested upon the little copper crucifix hanging
+at the head of his bed, then let them fall again in sign of
+acceptance.
+
+"It will be a great misfortune," he said, "but it will not hinder our
+working!"
+
+And he went out, perhaps to shed tears.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+THE AUCTION.
+
+
+In the ensuing week the coming sale at the Chateau was the frequent
+subject of discussion among the men of La Fromentiere. Andre openly
+attacked the masters.
+
+"They are ruined," he said. "All the nobles go the same road, because
+they do nothing. So much the worse for them!"
+
+"So much the worse for the farmers," replied his father; "they do not
+often gain much by changing masters."
+
+Toussaint Lumineau was painfully hit by the coming event, not only in
+his sincere and lifelong affection for the master's family, but in his
+honest pride as a peasant.
+
+It was a humiliation to hear people talk of the downfall of the family
+to whom the Lumineaus were allied by traditions of generations; he
+took his share of the blame, his share of the disgrace; he felt he had
+lost stability, that in future he must be exposed to chances and
+changes, like so many another; and even found himself envying those
+whose farms belonged to wealthy proprietors, clear of mortgage.
+
+"No," he resumed, "you do wrong to speak as you do, Driot. Our masters
+may have their reasons for this, of which we know nothing. Perhaps M.
+le Marquis is about to marry his daughter, and is in want of ready
+money. Rich and poor alike find it an expensive business to settle
+their children."
+
+"If that is their only means to obtain money, they must be at a pretty
+low ebb!" rejoined Andre. "To think that even family portraits are to
+be sold. I remember seeing them one day when I went with you to pay
+the rent."
+
+"Bah! Perhaps they were not good likenesses. Besides, the Marquis
+probably has others. How are people in our station in life to know all
+that families like theirs possess?"
+
+"And personal clothing? Is that usually sold? It is not very
+creditable in them to let everything go in a public sale, as if they
+were bankrupts."
+
+"I tell you what, Andre, I do not believe that half the things will be
+sold that are down in the catalogue; it is merely to draw people." But
+all the same, in his heart of hearts, the farmer well knew how poor
+were the reasons which respect for the family led him to urge.
+
+Rising from the table, under pretext of having work to do, he
+shortened the meal.
+
+Andre's aggressiveness did not lessen, indeed his irritation seemed
+to increase as the day fixed for the sale approached. The poor lad
+needed to anger himself against something or somebody to gain courage.
+February 20th was the date on which he had secretly planned to leave
+La Fromentiere, four days before the departure of an emigrant ship
+that he was to join at Antwerp. His anger was inspired not by temper,
+but by the ever-increasing grief within him. He forced himself to
+speak ill of La Fromentiere because he still loved it, and was about
+to desert it.
+
+Thus Sunday, the 20th of February, arrived. On that day the silence
+that had reigned over La Fromentiere vanished, but to give place to
+what noises--what clatter! Visitors were again seen within its walls,
+but what visitors! People had come from afar, curiosity dealers from
+Nantes, from La Rochelle, even from Paris. Before eight in the morning
+they had gathered in groups beside the two flights of steps leading to
+the portico. Men, short, stout, red-faced; some with auburn beards,
+others with bird-like noses, talking together in subdued voices,
+sitting on chairs--to be sold--that had been ranged in rows on the
+broad carriage drive, laid with the red gravel that used to crunch so
+pleasantly beneath the roll of carriage wheels. On the topmost of the
+entrance steps, now converted into an auctioneer's rostrum, were the
+notary, Maitre Oulry, his eyes displaying discreet satisfaction behind
+his spectacles, the public crier, indifferent as any stone-breaker to
+the relics of which he was about to announce the dispersion, and the
+furniture removers standing in their shirt-sleeves despite the intense
+cold. The two flights of stone steps, stained with mud even to half
+way up the balustrades, testified to the crowds admitted on the
+previous two days to see the interior of the Chateau. Some had gone
+from curiosity, taking advantage of their first opportunity to go over
+a seigniorial dwelling; but all within was in disorder, faded, covered
+with dust. The battens, which for years had secured the windows of the
+rooms on the ground-floor, had been unnailed on one side, and hung
+down beside the open _persiennes_. In the dining-hall, and the two
+drawing-rooms _en suite_, had been piled the greater part of the
+bedroom furniture, cooking utensils, and crockery. Pictures, turned
+with their faces to the wall, formed a dado in front of couches and
+easy-chairs; there were four clocks on one mantel-piece, candelabras
+standing in fireplaces, fire-dogs on occasional tables, book shelves
+on the billiard table, baskets of choice wine standing in the boudoir
+of the dowager Marquise, hung with its dainty cherry-coloured satin;
+silk draperies trailing on a kitchen table. Broken bell-ropes and
+strips of torn paper hung from the walls. Everywhere was disorder and
+desolation as complete as is produced by Death in the human frame.
+
+Pushing their way through the narrow passages left by all these piles
+of costly objects were to be seen coarse men accustomed to the
+handling of rags and rubbish, discharged servants, dealers in old
+clothes, coffee-house keepers covetously fingering carved oak chests,
+scratching the gold off picture frames to see how deep it was laid;
+opening cupboards and drawers, and bursting into rude loud laughter
+if, perchance, they lighted upon some private token, such as
+photographs, letters, missals, rosaries, relics of departed souls thus
+exposed to, and profaned by vulgar eyes.
+
+On the upper floors boys in their sabots had perched themselves on the
+window-sills with legs hanging out, or were trying the mattresses
+still left on their wooden bedsteads. Gradually as the late February
+day dispersed the fog, and it was drifted by the wind in heavy masses
+over the woods, vehicles of all descriptions--cabriolets, victorias,
+tilburys, closed carriages formerly graced with armorial bearings, now
+let out on hire, mixed with some few well-appointed turn-outs--drove
+into the park. These were unharnessed, the carriages standing upon the
+lawns, some of the horses tied to the trees with nosebags of hay;
+while others, their feet clogged, were left to graze where they would.
+A row of carts stood on the border of a neighbouring copse, their
+shafts raised diagonally.
+
+All round the Chateau was like a fair; the stables and coach-houses
+had been appropriated; plough horses were to be seen in the loose
+boxes; coachmen and stable-boys from inns, in their straw hats, gazed
+admiringly at the vast proportions of the stables and dependencies,
+or stood hypnotized before the copper appointments of the stalls, the
+nickel locks, the iron bars separating one from the other.
+
+"It was a fine place after all," they said to themselves.
+
+The sight of all the careful appointments seemed to give them a vague
+insight into the ancient splendours of the domain, while at the same
+time it came across them with stupefying force: how could a man have
+lost such a fortune? how could there be ruin, with a rental of
+hundreds of thousands of pounds? And, as a natural consequence, they
+gave the family credit for vices which had but a very small share in
+the disaster, for, spitting on the cemented floors, they exclaimed: "A
+pleasure-loving set!"
+
+In front of the entrance the crowd increased rapidly, some impelled by
+the desire to buy, others by curiosity. Three hundred people, seated
+on chairs and benches, formed a compact, immovable, semicircular mass;
+outside them was perpetual movement of coming and going. Dealers in
+antiquities, sellers of old clothes, occupied the first row; after
+them came a number of shopkeepers, former purveyors to the Marquis,
+householders of Chalons with their wives, country dames dressed up as
+if for Easter Day, with bright eyes and loud voices, wearing little
+bunches of spring flowers in their bodices which they themselves had
+cut from the hot-houses of La Fromentiere, given up this day to
+pillage. They commented derisively to each other on the ill-kept
+state of the apartments in the Chateau, the dirty windows, the
+grass-grown avenues, the bogs in the cross roads of the park. "We keep
+things very differently," said they. "Thank goodness, we know better
+what is fitting than your ruined Marquises do!" And with an air of
+"knowing all about it," they called up memories of bygone fetes.
+Behind them, again, were to be seen peasants of Saint Gervais, of
+Soullans, of Saint Urbian, but men only. Very few had come from the
+parish itself. The auction was not for them; what should take them
+there? To many who had known the family, it had seemed as if it would
+have been an insult to assist at the humiliating spectacle. At the
+most some ten of the old inhabitants of Sallertaine were there, and
+they not the most important, keeping well at the back, not daring to
+sit down. Shamefaced, as though the lord of the Chateau were there
+before them and sorrowful, they had followed the crowd, having nothing
+else to do in their Sunday leisure, and now exchanged recollections of
+kind words spoken by "Monsieur Henri," of greetings and girlish smiles
+given by Mademoiselle Ambroisine. Alas! after all the money so
+lavishly spent, so many a kindly action, so much cordiality and
+urbanity shown for centuries past by successive Marquises of La
+Fromentiere--after eight years there only remained that slight
+expression of regret to be seen in the sad faces of a handful of
+farmers.
+
+Still fewer in number were the neighbouring gentry. Hidden among the
+throng was the Baron de la Houvelle, whose mania for collecting led
+him to forget what was due to his rank; the Comte de Bouart, coarse
+and red-faced, attracted by the wine cellar, and young d'Escaron,
+whose object was to secure a breeding mare.
+
+But the notary had many commissions to buy; for earlier in the week,
+before the day on which the Chateau had been on view to the invasion
+of plebeians, chatelaines, young and old, friends of the family, had
+driven over and, shown round by the game-keeper, might have been seen
+in private apartments and reception rooms, examining old tapestries
+and household linen with many an exclamation and regret.
+
+Only one member of the Lumineau family was present at the auction, and
+that was Mathurin, to whom every event, even of a painful character,
+was a grateful change to his sufferings and weariness. When he had
+announced "I shall go," his father had said:
+
+"I could not; it would irritate me too much. Go if you like; and when
+they come to selling personal things, send me word, Mathurin, for I
+want some little thing as a remembrance of M. le Marquis."
+
+At some distance from the circle of buyers, to the left of the
+entrance, Mathurin Lumineau had found a seat under a group of trees.
+Wrapped in his brown cloak, more taciturn and brooding than ever, he
+had gradually pushed back his chair until he was almost hidden
+between the branches of two fir-trees, thence, as if lying in ambush,
+he listened to all that was going on, and his blue eyes, ever and anon
+lit up with sudden anger, scanned the front of the Chateau, now the
+buyers, now the passers-by.
+
+At half-past eight the auction began. The auctioneer, a small
+bloodless man, endowed with a strong voice, announced from the top of
+the entrance steps to the crowd assembled, to brute nature, to the
+forests left for the past eight years to solitude and silence:
+
+"The reception-room furniture of M. le Marquis, comprising six
+_fauteuils_, a couch, four ebony chairs upholstered in old gold satin,
+Louis XV. style, with gilt nails, for fifteen hundred francs; the
+covers will be thrown in. Going at fifteen hundred francs! Fifteen
+hundred and twenty; fifteen hundred and fifty; sixteen hundred." He
+rolled his eyes as the price augmented.
+
+At sixteen hundred francs, the old gold satin _suite_ was knocked
+down; and while the notary was putting the curtains up for auction,
+Mathurin's eyes followed the _fauteuils_, couch, and chairs he had
+only seen once before and that by chance on a quarter-day, now being
+carted away by the furniture removers who fell at once on these the
+first spoils. After the contents of the reception rooms followed
+tables, wardrobes, beds, these latter especially coveted; crockery,
+covered with dust and displayed to view on the steps, clocks, the
+billiard table.
+
+The sale lasted the whole day, save a short interval at half-past ten.
+The auctioneer's voice was untiring. As people went, their places were
+taken by new-comers; the pale rays of the February sun lighted up
+clouds of dust issuing from the open windows; the rooms were thronged.
+Many of the purchasers were carrying away their lots themselves;
+others, who were only later to come into possession of their
+acquisitions, were writing their names in chalk on old oak chests, or
+pieces of furniture, covered for the time being with heaps of
+incongruous articles. Costly hangings, partly unnailed, hung from the
+cornices, and streaming over step-ladders, trailed on the dusty
+floors.
+
+Towards four o'clock, the number of spectators had diminished;
+tethered horses had been taken from under sheltering trees; vehicles
+of all kinds and descriptions were on the homeward way to town and
+outskirts. Mathurin had not left his nook under the shade of the
+fir-trees. An uneasy suspicion was agitating him violently. Twice, at
+some distance in the direction of the offices, he had thought to
+recognise the eager face of Jean Nesmy. The young man, clad in brown,
+his hat drawn over his eyes, who only stealthily advanced, but who had
+been seen by Mathurin now here, now there in the copse on the other
+side of the lawn, could be no other than the dismissed farm-servant,
+Rousille's lover.
+
+Mathurin sat and waited for his father, to whom he had despatched a
+village lad, telling him of the approaching close of the sale. In the
+bluish mist, to right of the Chateau, Farmer Lumineau appeared, and
+with him Marie-Rose. Despite the growing dusk, both were somewhat
+shamefaced. Rousille did not go far, at a hundred paces from the front
+of the Chateau she stopped, and sitting on the bench of _la Marquise_,
+looked on with startled eyes at the scene of devastation, while her
+father went up closer to make his purchase. Among the two hundred
+people still grouped round the granite steps, women predominated. They
+had stayed to see the "wearing apparel and toilet appurtenances,"
+given out by the notary as being the next lot. And now the auctioneer
+lifted above his head a soft, clinging, pale violet material, that
+unfolded and fluttered in the wind.
+
+"A young lady's dress of mauve silk with muslin collarette--ten
+francs!" he called.
+
+"Show it!" cried the women's voices.
+
+And Rousille saw the object lowered on to the stone steps, the little
+silken gown left behind, forgotten, that still retained something of
+the supple grace of its wearer, Mademoiselle Ambroisine de la
+Fromentiere. And coarse words and low jests reached her, made by the
+brokers as they handled the dainty relics of refinement and purity.
+
+"Can they put up that for sale!" she murmured; she shrank from the
+profanation, and would gladly have gone away.
+
+But at that moment two sudden emotions, two surprises nailed her to
+her seat. Across the lawn, facing her, in front of a group of
+fir-trees, she had seen Mathurin, who had left the protection of the
+branches, and was looking over at the bench of _la Marquise_, shaking
+his fist; while, quite close behind her, she heard a voice from out
+the flowering laurels, say:
+
+"My Rousille, Jean Nesmy has come!"
+
+With perfect self-control she did not turn her head, made no movement;
+feeling herself to be spied upon, she had all the courage of her
+ancestors whom peril had ever found ready. Scarce opening her lips as
+if only breathing to calm her beating heart, she said to him who had
+rustled the leaves behind her:
+
+"Beware! Mathurin is watching us."
+
+"I know, he has already seen me."
+
+"Then, go quickly! Come back later."
+
+"When?"
+
+"To-night, in the barn; when I put my candlestick on the window-sill."
+
+Mathurin was hurrying across with the aid of his crutches to satisfy
+himself that he had seen a man's figure among the shadows of trees in
+that opposite group. Jean Nesmy meanwhile slipped away amid the
+undergrowth, and through the lonely copses. Round the steps, already
+in darkness, loud talking and laughing rose from the diminished crowd.
+
+"I will have it. That's what I want," was heard in Lumineau's strong
+voice. The auctioneer was offering a walking-stick, with horn handle
+bound with a gold ring.
+
+"That depends, my good man," was the reply, amid the jibes of the
+townspeople of Chalons, "that depends! To say 'I will have it' in an
+auction is not enough. What price do you put on it?"
+
+"Two francs," said a broker.
+
+"Five francs!" cried the farmer. Now no one laughed; the bid was an
+unusual one. Toussaint Lumineau had made it greatly to prevent
+competition, but also, as he would have said, from a spirit of bravado
+to prove that the tenant was not ruined like his master. Mounting the
+lower steps he reached up a crown piece, seized the cane, and, not
+venturing to lean upon it, tucked it under his arm, and slouched away
+from the remaining group of bargainers who were greedily snapping up
+odd remnants of the furniture of La Fromentiere, hastily priced, given
+for next to nothing. Skirting the excited cluster of buyers, he went
+towards the group of trees where Mathurin had again taken up his post.
+
+"Let us go," he said, "I have made my purchase. M. Henri's
+walking-stick."
+
+"You paid too much for it," said the cripple.
+
+"My poor lad," returned the farmer reproachfully, "he would have
+given it to me had he been there. I paid that price that no one should
+dispute it with me.... All those fellows would have made game of me,
+had I not!--"
+
+And with a movement of the shoulder he signified the notary, the
+auctioneer, the invisible agents of the law, who to his excited fancy
+had had a hand in the proceedings now coming to an end. Moderating his
+pace so as not to hurry Mathurin, whose crutches struck against the
+mole-hills on the lawn, the farmer crossed the broad expanse where the
+blue mist thickened. They could hear the cracking of whips; see the
+red light of lanterns passing along the leafless woods, the frightened
+wood-pigeons circling over head. Rousille saw her father coming. She
+had remained in the same place sitting on the bench, joyous at heart,
+but with somewhat too much of love's dream in her eyes, for her father
+asked severely:
+
+"What is it, child? This is no day for laughter."
+
+"Nothing," she answered, rising.
+
+"Then walk on in front," put in Mathurin. "You might be meeting
+someone."
+
+And she went down the avenues, then along the path by the leafless
+hedges in front as she had been hidden. Her white coif turned neither
+to the right nor to the left; but proud as one enduring for her love,
+she walked on with elastic step down the hill towards the elm-trees of
+the farmstead, and her eyes gazing fixedly into the gathering
+night--those eyes which none could read, gazing at everything, seeing
+nothing, were filled with tender musings. She entered her domain, and
+began to pour over the bread the soup which had been simmering in her
+absence. The men stayed without, talking. When they came in she felt
+sure that she had been again betrayed by Mathurin, and that her father
+was angry with her. Andre came in last, at about eight o'clock. The
+farmer had proposed waiting supper until his return, and he and
+Mathurin had sat in the chimney-corner warming themselves, by turns
+taking and trying the cane of M. Henri as they talked over the sad
+events of the day: the men who had come from Sallertaine to bid, how
+they had heard the battens nailed up again across the lower windows as
+they came away; the lights they had seen wandering along the corridors
+of the upper floor as in the good old days when the great white house
+was full of guests.
+
+"Our masters will never come back now," said Toussaint Lumineau. "And
+I, who always believed in them! This is the end!"
+
+"The end!" repeated Andre, as he came in at the door from the outer
+darkness. "I am glad not to have seen it."
+
+The good-looking young Maraichin seemed tired and troubled; his eyes
+were brilliant as if about to shed tears. Toussaint Lumineau thought
+that the shame of this public auction, so painful to him, had
+affected his son in like manner, and had been the sole cause of his
+long absence.
+
+"Sit down, Driot," he said, "you must be hungry. The soup is ready."
+
+"No, I am not hungry," replied Andre.
+
+"Nor am I," returned his father.
+
+Mathurin alone, dragging himself to the table, ladled out a plate of
+soup; while his father remained sitting beside the fire, and Driot
+stood leaning against the projecting chimney-corner, looking
+alternately at his father and brother.
+
+"Where did you go?" asked the farmer.
+
+Andre made a sweeping gesture:
+
+"From one to the other. To your friend Guerineau, of La Pinconniere;
+to the miller of Moque-Souris; the Levrelles; the Massonneau...."
+
+"A good fellow, le Glorieux," interrupted the farmer; "worthy family
+his."
+
+"I saw the Ricolleaus of Malabrit too."
+
+"What, you went as far as that?"
+
+"The Ertus of La Paree du Mont----"
+
+Toussaint Lumineau looked straight into his son's clear eyes, trying
+to understand.
+
+"What led you to go and see all these people, my boy?"
+
+"An idea"--no longer able to endure his father's inquiring look, his
+eyes sought the dark corner wherein stood the bed--"an idea. Well
+then, going along, I thought I would go as far as La Roche and see
+Francois."
+
+"Francois?" murmured the farmer. "You are like me then, dear lad, your
+thoughts are often with him?"
+
+Slowly the young man nodded his head, as he answered:
+
+"Yes, this evening especially; this evening, more than any evening of
+my whole life, I would have liked to have him beside me."
+
+Andre's words were spoken with such strong emotion, with so mournful a
+solemnity, that Mathurin, who had not known the date of Andre's
+departure, understood that the time had come, and that his brother had
+not many more minutes to remain in La Fromentiere.
+
+The blood rushed to his head, his lips half opened, a violent fit of
+trembling seized him, while his eyes stared fixedly at Andre. There
+was an unwonted animation in those eyes of his, for, while they
+expressed triumphant pride, there was also, in that supreme hour,
+something of pity and affection, perhaps of remorse. Andre knew that
+they bade him farewell. The father, meanwhile, had drawn up his chair
+to the table, and raising the cane horizontally to the level of the
+lamp, that Andre might the better see it, was caressing the gold ring
+with his fingers, none too clean from the day's toil. He imagined that
+his son's thoughts were again with the present, or like his own, were
+embracing the same future.
+
+"See," said he, "what I bought as a souvenir of M. Henri. How often
+he has knocked against my door with the point of this cane, tap! tap!
+tap! 'Are you there, my old Lumineau?' Andre, when you are the master
+of La Fromentiere----"
+
+At these words the young man, who was standing behind the farmer, felt
+all his courage give way. Unable to restrain his tears, and fearing
+lest his father should turn towards him, he retreated silently towards
+the door.
+
+Toussaint Lumineau had noticed nothing; he continued: "When you are
+the master at La Fromentiere, you will see no more of the family. I do
+not believe that the farmstead will be sold. I greatly hope not, but
+our Marquises will not come amongst us again. My lad, the new times
+you will be living in will not be like those I used to know!"
+
+Now Driot's tears fell fast as he looked at the old walls worn with
+the shoulders of many a Lumineau past and gone.
+
+"Do not distress yourself, dear boy. If the masters go, the land
+remains." Driot's tears fell fast as he looked on the rosary of Mere
+Lumineau, hanging at the head of the bed.
+
+"The land is good, though you have spoken ill of it, and so you will
+find out."
+
+Driot's tears fell as he looked at Mathurin.
+
+"You will do your best for it; and it will do its best for you!"
+
+Driot's tears fell fast as he looked at his father, still fondling
+the light wood cane. He gazed for some time by the light of the lamp
+on the tired hands, the horny hands, seamed with scars gained working
+for his family for their support and education--the hands that had
+never known discouragement, and, impelled by respect and grief, he did
+a thing unknown at La Fromentiere, now that the sons were grown up and
+the mother dead; he came close in the shadow behind his father, leant
+over him, and kissed the old man's wrinkled brow.
+
+"Dear boy!" said Toussaint Lumineau, kissing him in return.
+
+"I will be off to bed," murmured Andre. "I am done up."
+
+He seized Mathurin's hand in a warm, hurried clasp. But he took some
+time to go the ten paces which separated him from the door leading
+into the kitchen where Rousille was washing up her dishes. As he shut
+the door he looked back once more into the room. Then he was heard
+talking to his sister. Then he was heard no more.
+
+Deep night enveloped the farmstead, the last on which the roof of La
+Fromentiere would shelter Driot. An hour after, any late wanderers
+along the road, seeing the mass of buildings standing out from the
+trees, darker even than the enveloping fog and as silent, would surely
+have thought that all within were sleeping soundly. But, save the
+farm-servant, all within were wide-awake.
+
+Mathurin, greatly excited, had not ceased talking and turning
+restlessly. The light extinguished, talking still continued between
+father and son, whose beds were ranged, near each other, beside the
+wall. Not daring to speak of Andre's flight, the idea of which was
+ever present with him like a persistent nightmare, the cripple turned
+feverishly from one subject to another, and his father found it
+impossible to calm him.
+
+"I assure you I did see the _Boquin_. I was some distance from him,
+but I detest him too much to make any mistake about the fellow; he has
+a sly way of running about like a ferret. He wore a brown suit, and
+had something tawny in his hat, like oak leaves."
+
+"Go to sleep, Mathurin, you must be mistaken."
+
+"Yes, of course they were oak leaves. When he was here he used to
+stick them in his hat every now and then out of bombast, to show that
+his province was richer and more wooded than ours. Ah, the _dannion_!
+If I could but have run!"
+
+"You would not have found him, my poor boy! He is at home in his
+Bocage. What should have brought him to the Marquis' sale?"
+
+"To see my sister, of course! He may even have spoken to her for all I
+know, for it was too dark for me to see Rousille plainly."
+
+The father, lying in his large canopied bed, sighed, and said:
+
+"Always your sister! You worry yourself too much about her. Go to
+sleep, Mathurin. They would not dare to speak to each other; they know
+I should not allow it."
+
+The cripple was silent for a few seconds, then his mind reverted to
+the events of the day; he enumerated the neighbours who had spoken to
+him, and what they had said about the probable sale of La Fromentiere;
+then, impelled by the one master-thought, he recapitulated the things
+to be done for the improvement of the farmstead, the conditions of the
+fresh lease to be arranged for with the owners, and added:
+
+"You do think me better, don't you? My back is straighter. I am not so
+short of breath. Did yoo notice, as we came home to-night, how at
+every step I used my legs without needing my crutches?"
+
+Several times in the middle of a sentence he had stopped short to
+listen, seeming to hear that which in imagination he never ceased to
+see; Driot for the last time leaving the room at the end of the house;
+Driot going stealthily through the courtyard that his footsteps might
+not be heard on the gravel; Driot passing the door close by, and going
+away for ever.
+
+Towards eleven o'clock, Bas-Rouge, who had growled at times earlier in
+the night, began to bark violently to the right of the yard.
+
+"What is the matter with him?" exclaimed Toussaint Lumineau; "one
+would think there were people moving about in our lane."
+
+Mathurin, growing cold, silently raised himself on his elbows. After a
+minute the farmer resumed:
+
+"Do you hear how our dog is barking? There certainly must be someone
+near."
+
+"Father," returned Mathurin, "he is as mad as a March hare at this
+time of year. I think he sees bernacles flying in the air." The
+barking sounded nearer, not angry but joyous, as of a dog being taken
+for a walk. Then a footstep was distinctly heard, and the animal began
+to howl.
+
+"They are throwing stones at Bas-Rouge," exclaimed the farmer. "I must
+go."
+
+"No; do not go. I will not have you go! Stay, father, stay!"
+
+"Why?" asked Toussaint Lumineau. "I have done it scores of times
+before, and have taken no harm."
+
+Sitting on the side of his bed, the old peasant listened yet for a few
+seconds, before hastily putting on his breeches and running to the
+door. A thought flashed through Mathurin's mind:
+
+"It is Andre. I have but to say one word, and my father will be with
+him in time. Shall I?" Six years of suffering and of being in
+subordinate position to the younger ones, answered: "No!" and letting
+himself fall back on his pillow, he said, as if reassured:
+
+"It is not worth the trouble. The sounds are already further off."
+
+And, in truth, Bas-Rouge must have run out into the lane towards the
+main road. His barks were more faintly heard and at intervals; he
+evidently was seeing the intruder off the premises.
+
+The farmer lay down again, and no longer hearing Mathurin move, fell
+asleep. It was a little past midnight.
+
+At that hour Rousille was still at work in her room, with doors bolted
+and window shut, waiting for him who had promised to come. The thought
+of seeing her lover once more, of what she should say to him, and the
+idea that there might be some danger to Jean Nesmy, were he surprised
+by her father, had occupied the long hours during which the murmur of
+voices from the adjoining room had not ceased to reach her. "What can
+they have to say to each other?" she thought. On the side towards the
+barn she had carefully closed the shutter of a narrow little window,
+cut in the thickness of the wall, breast high, and protected by an
+iron bar. Sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed, she was hemming
+some coarse kitchen aprons. The candle standing near lit up the bowed
+head of the young girl and the more distant panels of the five
+wardrobes, the polished pillars of the bedsteads, and the sides of the
+chests, each of which gave a different softened reflection; there was
+the violet of wild cherry wood, the dark-red of the cherry-tree, the
+golden-brown of walnut and oak, and finally the ghostly reflection of
+one, made for a somewhat eccentric great grandmother, of the finest
+ash wood; and in the same room and atmosphere that had surrounded her
+ancestresses, industrious as was their descendant, now sat Rousille,
+the last daughter of the Lumineaus, with eyes modestly bent upon her
+needlework.
+
+Rousille was never idle. However, in this self-imposed night-watch, it
+sometimes happened that she would pause with thread outstretched, or
+would rise and go with slippered feet to listen at the door of the
+room nearest to the house-place whence voices were still audible.
+
+When nothing more was heard, neither the barking of the dog, nor the
+vague sound of voices, she still listened, but she had ceased to ply
+her needle. Looking round the room with the eye of a housekeeper, she
+thought:
+
+"Will he find it in good order, and as he would like his house to be
+kept?" Rousille tied the kerchief she wore as protection from the cold
+more closely; then a little shudder of fear ran through her at the
+thought that her father might suddenly appear; and her face grew grave
+and stern, as before, when she had had to do battle for Jean Nesmy;
+then, rising, she placed her candlestick on the deep window-sill,
+which by reason of the thickness of the wall was triangular, like the
+loophole of a fortress. After that she opened back the shutter on its
+hinges. A breath of icy fog enveloped the flame, nearly extinguishing
+it; almost on tip-toe, with both hands shading her eyes, Rousille
+endeavoured to distinguish objects from out the darkness. Was he
+there? She only saw the bare branches of two gooseberry-bushes trained
+against the wall. There was no sound of footsteps; no sign of anyone;
+she only heard the dull thud of mist-drops falling from the slates on
+to the turf beneath. A minute passed.
+
+Suddenly the branches were pushed aside, a dark head emerging from the
+total darkness was framed in the window between the wall and the iron
+bar. The face was pale, but the eyes laughing, half-closed, dazzled by
+the candle-flame.
+
+"I thought," said Jean Nesmy, "that you were not coming. I was chilled
+to the bone. I was going!" He looked so radiant as he said it, his
+eyes gradually opening, revealing the rapture of perfect delight.
+
+Rousille, more grave, for she had within her the recollection of her
+past meditations, said:
+
+"We must talk quickly. Father has only just fallen asleep. If he were
+to awake! If he were to come upon us!"
+
+But Jean Nesmy seemed in nowise to share her fears. Nor did he look
+about the room to see if all was in order. He only looked at Rousille,
+so agitated under her little coif. The light placed between them
+illuminated their eyes to the very depths.
+
+"You are as pretty as ever," replied the lad. "One might well walk
+miles to catch a sight of you! Mother Nesmy did not want me to come
+on account of the expense; but I said to her: 'I would rather go
+without my bread,' and it was true, my Rousille."
+
+She could not help smiling.
+
+"You always know how to pay compliments, Jean Nesmy; and really I see
+no change in you."
+
+"There is none," he returned, showing his white teeth.
+
+And now she forgot all her previous uneasiness, and it seemed to them
+both, as though they had never been apart, so natural was the
+interchange of ideas; the candle quivered under the mutual stream of
+question and answer.
+
+"Tell me, Rousille, how are things going? Are you happy?"
+
+"Not very. At La Fromentiere we have more sorrow than happiness. Now,
+as you know, our master the Marquis has had all his furniture sold.
+Such a pity!"
+
+"Our nobles of Le Bocage would not have done such a thing," said the
+_Boquin_, throwing back his head.
+
+"Besides," resumed Rousille, "since Francois left us nothing goes
+right. Driot is inconsolable at his absence."
+
+"Even now?"
+
+"Even now. We thought him so lively when he first came home. Well,
+this evening he actually cried. Why could it have been? Was it fear
+that the farm would be sold over our heads? Was it anything else?
+With him one never knows."
+
+"Perhaps he is thinking of a sweetheart about here?"
+
+"I wish indeed it were so, Jean, for his sake and ours, because his
+marriage would be the signal for our own. You see, all our hope is in
+Andre. I have thought many a time, indeed why not tell you--every day
+since the one on which you went: If Andre does not marry, my poor
+Jean, I shall be quite white-haired before our banns are published in
+your church and mine. Father will not let me go unless there is a
+housekeeper here to take my place. And as for our coming to live here
+with Mathurin--he hates us both too much. There would be bad blood at
+La Fromentiere. Father would never put us on the farm with Mathurin."
+
+"Does he ever speak of me when he is ploughing?" asked Jean.
+
+"I never go into the fields," replied Rousille. "But one evening I
+heard him say to my eldest brother, 'Do not speak ill of the _Boquin_,
+Lumineau! I refused him my daughter, and in that I did well; but he
+was a good worker, he had a love for soil.'"
+
+Behind the iron bar the face of the former farm-hand coloured with
+pride.
+
+"It is true that I loved everything about the place for your sake,
+Rousille. And so Andre will not marry?"
+
+"I do not say that. He is still in such low spirits; but time will
+cure that. We shall have him on our side, that good Andre; he spoke so
+kindly to me the day of the letter. He promised to help me; but did
+not explain in what way."
+
+"Did he mean soon?"
+
+"I think so," said Rousille, "for his manner was very decided, and he
+was very sure about the step he was going to take."
+
+Suddenly she lowered her voice--"Did you hear that?" she asked.
+
+"No, nothing."
+
+"Something moved in the bakery."
+
+"Look at me, Rousille. Nothing moved," returned Jean.
+
+Obedient, victorious over all fear for love of him, she bent once more
+towards the window, even began to laugh as she said:
+
+"It is easy to see that you have no fear of anything. Where were you
+hidden, just now, before I opened the shutter?"
+
+"Among the layers of straw. The wind was as keen as on one of my worst
+wild-fowl expeditions; it stupefied me, and seeing no light I must
+have fallen asleep for a while."
+
+"Really? and what woke you?"
+
+"Bas-Rouge, going after your farm-servant."
+
+"Going after the farm-servant?" exclaimed Rousille in astonishment. "I
+heard the dog bark, but I thought he was after a tramp, there are so
+many about on these roads; or that he had recognised you----"
+
+"You know very well, Rousille, that he never barks at me, since I used
+to take him out with me when I went shooting. No, I am certain that it
+was the farm-servant.... I heard the latch fall, and the distinct
+sound of footsteps on the gravel at the back of the house. I tell you
+it was the servant, or else your brother.... I am convinced that a man
+went out from here."
+
+She blanched a little and then drew herself up:
+
+"No!" she replied, "Andre does not go out shooting like you; nor does
+he go off to Chalons as Francois did! Can Mathurin have got up to spy
+upon us while father was asleep? Oh, do take care of yourself, Jean
+Nesmy! Listen!"
+
+Seizing the candlestick from the window-sill, she held it out at
+arm's-length towards the other end of the room, the light shining on
+the polished furniture as she moved it.
+
+"You are right, someone is moving about in the bakery," said Jean
+Nesmy. Now the door was gently pushed from the outer side, and the
+bolt shaken in its socket. Rousille grew white. But she had brave
+blood in her veins, and still holding the light as far forward as
+possible, she noiselessly crossed the room, cautiously slid back the
+bolt, and flung open the door.
+
+A shadow moving about in the room sprang towards Rousille, and she saw
+it was Bas-Rouge. "What are you doing here--where do you come from?"
+she said.
+
+A rush of air came whistling in from the adjoining room. Had the outer
+door not been fastened? The girl glanced towards the window, and saw
+Jean Nesmy still there; then she went into the bakery: the straw
+baskets, the kneading trough, the ladder reaching to the hayloft, the
+faggots for next baking day, all was there; but the door leading into
+the furthermost room, Andre's, was wide open. Rousille went on, the
+wind nearly extinguishing the light which she was obliged to shade
+with her hand. It blew in unimpeded from the courtyard. Yes, Andre had
+gone out.... She ran to the bed; it was untouched.... A doubt seized
+her that, at first, she repelled. She thought of Francois; of Andre's
+tears that evening--his agitation....
+
+"Oh, my God," she murmured.
+
+Rapidly she stooped and lowered the candle to see under the bed where
+Andre kept his boots and shoes; they had gone. She opened his trunk,
+it was empty. Going back into the bakery, she clambered up into the
+loft. There to the right, beside a heap of wheat, she ought to find a
+little black portmanteau he had brought home from Africa. She lifted
+the candle, the portmanteau was not there.
+
+Everything pointed to the one fact. There was no manner of doubt
+concerning the misfortune that had befallen them. Terrified, she
+hastily descended the ladder, and unable to keep the secret, she
+screamed:
+
+"Father!"
+
+A voice, muffled by the intervening walls, replied:
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"Driot has gone!" she cried, as she ran through the rooms. Outside the
+barred window, her eyes seeking him, she thought she discerned a
+shadow.
+
+"Farewell, Jean Nesmy," she called, without stopping. "Never come back
+any more. All is lost to us," and she disappeared into the kitchen, to
+the door of her father's room.
+
+Toussaint had sprung out of bed, and now came, barefoot, hurriedly
+buttoning his work-day clothes over his night-shirt. Startled out of
+his first sleep, only half understanding the purport of her words,
+stern of countenance, he came forth into the light shed by his
+daughter's candle.
+
+"What are you screaming about?" he said. "He cannot be far off."
+
+Then seeing her terrified face he, too, thought of Francois, and
+trembling, followed her.
+
+They traversed the whole length of the house, and on into Andre's
+room; there Rousille made way for her father to enter first. He did
+not go far into the room; he looked at the undisturbed bed, and that
+sufficed to make him understand.
+
+For a moment he remained motionless, tears blinding him; then,
+staggering, turned towards the courtyard, on the threshold, clinging
+to the doorposts for support, he took a long breath, as if to call
+into the night, but only a stifled, scarce audible sound escaped him:
+
+"My Driot!"
+
+And the noble old man, struck by the bitter cold, fell backwards in a
+swoon.
+
+At that instant from the other end of the house Mathurin, swearing,
+and striking head and crutches against the walls and furniture, came
+struggling along.
+
+"Lend me a hand, Rousille," he cried, "I must see what is going on!"
+Rousille was kneeling beside her father, kissing him amid her tears.
+The farm-servant, roused by the noise, came through the yard with a
+lantern.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+DWELLERS IN TOWNS.
+
+
+The farmer soon recovered consciousness. Sitting up, he looked about
+him, and hearing Mathurin moaning and saying: "He is dead!" answered:
+"No, my boy, I am all right," then with the aid of the farm-servant he
+went back to his bed.
+
+At dawn next morning, he started for a tour round the farms to try and
+learn particulars of his son. It seemed that neither Mathurin nor the
+man had had the least suspicion of Andre's flight; they had neither
+seen nor heard the slightest thing.
+
+Thus Toussaint Lumineau went to make inquiries among the old and new
+friends frequented by Andre during the last few months, sons of
+farmers, gooseherds, or sailors. For three whole days he scoured the
+Marais from Saint Gervais to Fromentiere, from Sallertaine to Saint
+Gilles. Those he asked knew but little, or were unwilling to betray
+confidence. All agreed in stating that Andre had often talked of
+making his fortune across the sea where the land was new and fertile.
+The best informed went on to say:
+
+"Last Sunday he said good-bye to several of us, myself among the
+number. He told me he was off to South America, where, for a mere
+nothing, he would get a farm of seventy-four acres of virgin soil; but
+I do not remember the name of the place where he was going."
+
+On the evening of the third day, when, having had this information,
+the farmer returned home, he found the cripple sitting by the
+fireside.
+
+"Mathurin," he said, "you ought still to have some of those books
+where countries are sketched out, you know what I mean?"
+
+"Geography books? Yes, there must be some left from old schooldays.
+Why?"
+
+"I want to look at America," replied the old man. "It is there that
+your brother is going they all say."
+
+Dragging himself to the chest, from under the clothes at the bottom
+the cripple brought forth a handful of school books, which had
+belonged to one or other of them as boys, and came back with a little
+elementary atlas, on the cover of which was written in a beginner's
+large handwriting: "This book belongs to Lumineau Andre, son of
+Lumineau Toussaint, of La Fromentiere, Commune of Sallertaine,
+Vendee." The father stroked his hand over the writing, as if to caress
+it.
+
+"It was his," he said.
+
+Mathurin opened the atlas. It was all to pieces; the maps were rounded
+at the corners from wear, crumpled or torn, the edges frayed. The
+cripple's fingers turned the pages gingerly, and stopped at a map
+covered with ink-blots in which the two Americas, united by their
+isthmus, in deep orange colour, looked like a pair of huge spectacles.
+The two men bent over it. "This is South America," said Mathurin. "And
+here is the sea."
+
+The farmer pondered for a considerable time over Mathurin's words,
+endeavouring to harmonise them with the inky map, then shook his head.
+
+"I cannot picture to myself where he is," he said sadly, "but I see
+that there is sea, and that he is lost to us...."
+
+Mathurin slowly shut his book and said:
+
+"They were both bad sons; they have forsaken you."
+
+The farmer did not seem to have heard him; turning to Rousille, he
+said gently, far more gently than was his wont: "Rousille, have a
+cup of coffee ready for me the first thing to-morrow morning. I
+will go and find out Francois." And accordingly at ten o'clock the
+next morning, the fourth day after Driot's departure, the farmer
+of La Fromentiere alighted from the train at the station of La
+Roche-sur-Yon. The moment he set foot on the platform, he began
+looking for his son amongst the porters engaged in shutting the
+carriage doors, or taking the luggage from the van. Taller by a head
+than most of the passengers who were hurrying hither and thither, he
+would stop every ten paces to follow with his eyes some porter with
+young, full face like Francois. He wanted to see his son again, but
+was nervous at meeting him in so public a place. He, clad in his black
+cloth suit, with blue waistband, his new hat bound with velvet set
+well at the back of his head, free to come and go at his own time--he,
+the master of his working and leisure hours, felt a kind of shame at
+the thought that among that group of paid servants, hustled about by
+their superiors, clad in a uniform they had no right to exchange for
+ordinary clothes, was a Lumineau of La Fromentiere.
+
+Not finding Francois on the platform, he was proceeding to a part of
+the line where carriages were uncoupled, and was watching a gang of
+men push a loaded truck along with their shoulders, thinking the
+while, "Why, they are doing the work of our oxen at home," when a
+voice called out:
+
+"Hey! Where are you going?"
+
+"To find my boy."
+
+"Who is he?"
+
+"You may perhaps know him," replied the farmer, touching the brim of
+his hat. "He is employed on the line; his name is Francois Lumineau."
+
+The inspector said carelessly:
+
+"Lumineau? Ah, yes, one of the men on the line. Been here four
+months?"
+
+"Five," returned the father.
+
+"Maybe. A stout, red-faced fellow, somewhat lazy. Do you want to speak
+to him?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Very well. If you know where he lives, go to him there. You can do
+your business with him when he goes home to his dinner. Foot
+passengers are not allowed on the lines, my good man." And as he went
+away, the inspector grumbled: "These peasants think they have the
+right to go anywhere, as if they were in their own fields."
+
+The farmer controlling himself on Francois' account, made no reply. He
+left the railway station and began wandering among the broad, deserted
+streets with their rows of low-built houses on either side; rain had
+been falling since early morning. The people he stopped to inquire of
+did not know Cafe la Faucille, the name of which he had learned from
+the Maraichins who came to the fairs of La Roche. At length, by means
+of the sign-board, he found it out for himself, in the outskirts of
+the town. Like the others in the street it was a little one-storied
+house, with one window. Pushing open the door, Toussaint Lumineau
+found himself in a coffee shop, furnished with deal tables, cane
+stools, and a glass cupboard, wherein were displayed bottles of wine
+and spirits, and on a counter at the foot were a few plates of cold
+meat, between two boxes of sweet biscuits. Nobody was there. Lumineau
+took his stand in the middle of the shop; the bell, set ringing by the
+farmer's entrance, continued to sound more and more feebly. Before it
+had altogether ceased, an inner door opposite opened, emitting a
+whiff of cookery, and a woman, without cap, her hair very much
+dressed, came forward in a mincing manner.
+
+Although he stood with his back to the light she at once recognised
+the new-comer, coloured vividly, let fall the corner of her apron she
+was holding in both hands, and stopped short.
+
+"Oh," she said, "it is you, father! What a surprise! How long it is
+since we have seen you!"
+
+"Yes, true. A very long time."
+
+She hesitated, glad to see her father, and not daring to say so, not
+knowing his object in coming, and whether she ought to ask him to sit
+down, to kiss him, or to keep her distance as one who may not hope to
+be forgiven.
+
+Her eyes were fixed on him. However, the words, not hard, the gentle
+tones and voice that trembled, reassured her; and she asked:
+
+"May I kiss you, father, despite all?"
+
+He suffered her embrace, but did not return the kiss. Then sitting on
+a stool, while Eleonore went to the other side of the table, he looked
+at his daughter with melancholy curiosity to see in what way she had
+changed. Eleonore, standing near the wall, embarrassed by the
+penetrating gaze, began fastening the collar of her grey woollen
+dress, drawing down the sleeves over her bare arms, then twisted a
+ring she was wearing on her right hand.
+
+"I did not expect," she stammered, casting down her eyes.... "It has
+quite startled me to see you again! Francois will be astonished too.
+He comes in at eleven every day, sometimes half-past. Father, you will
+have something to eat?"
+
+He made a negative gesture.
+
+"A glass of wine? You will not refuse that?"
+
+For all answer, Toussaint Lumineau said:
+
+"Do you know what has happened at home, Eleonore?"
+
+Suddenly the slight amount of self-possession she had assumed left
+her. She drew back still further. Her light blue eyes assumed an
+expression of fear, while she glanced towards the street as if,
+perchance, the expected help were coming from that direction. Then,
+obliged to speak, leaning her head against the wall, with eyes
+downcast:
+
+"Yes," she said. "He came to La Roche. He wanted to see Francois."
+
+"What!" exclaimed Toussaint Lumineau, rising and pushing back the
+stool. "Andre? You have spoken to Andre?"
+
+"Very early on Monday he came. His face had a look on it that is
+always coming back to me when I am alone. Oh! a look as of a world of
+sorrow. He pushed open the door, like you did, and said: 'Francois, I
+am going away from La Fromentiere, because you are not there!' I am
+sure, father, it is a blow to you ... but do not be angry, for we said
+nothing to induce him to go. We were even sorry on your account."
+
+She had put out her hand as if to ward the old man off; but she saw at
+once that there was nothing to fear, and the outstretched hand fell
+beside the dingy plastered wall. For Toussaint Lumineau was crying as
+he looked at her. The tears were coursing down his face, wrinkled by
+suffering. He wanted to know everything, and asked:
+
+"Did he speak of me?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Did he speak of La Fromentiere?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Did he at last say where he was going?"
+
+"He would neither sit down nor stay. He kissed us both; but words
+neither came to him nor to us. Francois asked him: 'Where are you
+going, Driot?' and he answered: 'To Buenos Ayres, in America. I mean
+to try and make money. When I am a rich man you shall all hear of me.
+Good-bye, Lionore. Good-bye, Francois,' and he was gone."
+
+"Gone," repeated Lumineau; "my last one gone!"
+
+Eleonore's feelings were touched in sympathy, the corners of her eyes
+grew moist; but they still turned towards the street, while her father
+shut his.
+
+"Father," she said, "will you mind coming into the kitchen with me?
+Francois will soon be coming in, and if he does not find his dinner
+ready, you know what it will be! He is not always easy to get on
+with." She went into the inner room, followed by her father. It was
+but a shed built on, quite dark even in broad daylight, whose only
+window looked on to a narrow yard built up on all sides. An iron
+stove, at present alight, three chairs, and a table took up nearly all
+the space. The farmer, taking a chair, sat down between the window and
+the open door, that he might see Francois when he came in. Eleonore
+busied herself with cookery, laid the table for two, went backwards
+and forwards from one room to the other, always in a hurry, never
+getting on much with what she had in hand. Toussaint Lumineau was
+silent. She felt it necessary to sigh as she passed him, and say:
+
+"Things have gone sadly against you. And how melancholy it must be at
+La Fromentiere now! Poor father, I am sorry for you!"
+
+He, listening, took her empty words as words of pity.
+
+"Lionore," he said, after a while, as she stooping was cutting the
+bread for the soup, "Lionore, you have given up the coif of La
+Vendee?"
+
+"Yes, they ironed them so badly here at La Roche, and it cost so much.
+Besides, no one wears caps here."
+
+"Humph! Well, since you have given up dressing as did your mother and
+grandmother, and all the women of the family I have ever known, are
+you any the happier? Are you content in your new circumstances?"
+
+She went on cutting the bread into thin slices, and answered:
+
+"It is not the same kind of work, but I cannot say but that I have as
+much to do as I had at home. There are the rooms to keep in order,
+marketing to do, my stones to wash every other day when it rains, as
+to-day, or snows; cooking at all times of the day, and that for people
+who are not always very civil, I assure you. Sometimes there are
+complaints that there are so few customers, for there was too high a
+price paid for the cafe--much too high. And then when men passing come
+in for a drink, I am often afraid of them. Indeed, if I had not
+neighbours----"
+
+"And your brother, is he content?" interrupted the farmer.
+
+"Half and half. The pay is so poor, you see. Two francs at La
+Fromentiere go farther than three here."
+
+The father hesitated a little. Then asked, lowering his voice:
+
+"Tell me, perhaps he regrets what he has done? I have no son with me
+now, Lionore; I am wretched. Do you think that Francois would come
+back to his home?"
+
+He forgave all, forgot all; he craved help from the children who had
+wronged him.
+
+Eleonore's face changed abruptly. Drying her eyes with a corner of her
+handkerchief, she shook her pointed chignon, and replied drily:
+
+"I do not think so, father. I would rather tell you so out straight.
+You will be seeing my brother--will talk it over with him, but I do
+not think----" And as if deeply hurt she turned abruptly away to the
+store.
+
+The half-hour had struck, the door of the cafe opened noisily, a man
+came in. Without looking up, or moving from her place, the girl said:
+
+"Here he is."
+
+Despite the railway uniform and cap he was wearing, the farmer, in the
+semi-darkness of the shop, had already recognised his son by the
+downcast head, slouching gait, and habit of holding his arms out from
+his body. Soon Francois stood before him in the doorway of the
+kitchen, and a glance revealed the same heavy features as of
+old--russet-red complexion, drooping moustache, and look of stolid
+indifference.
+
+On seeing his father a shade of emotion passed over his face.
+
+"Good day, father," said he, holding out his hand. "So things are not
+going well by what I see?"
+
+The farmer made a sign of acquiescence.
+
+"You are in trouble. Yes, I understand. So should I be if I were you.
+Andre ought not to have done it; he was the last, he ought to have
+stayed."
+
+Toussaint Lumineau had seized Francois' hand, and was pressing it
+between both of his with a tenderness that spoke volumes, and his
+eyes, which sought the eyes of his son, uttered the same entreaty. In
+measure, however, that his father's mute pleading entered his soul,
+Francois quickly recovered from his surprise, hardening himself
+against the momentary feeling of compassion. Presently, drawing back
+his hand, he retreated a step, saying with the air of a man defiant
+and on the defensive.
+
+"I understand. You are not wanting to engage another servant, but
+would rather have Lionore and me back at Sallertaine?"
+
+"If you could, Francois. I have no one else to look to."
+
+A half-satisfied smile at the correctness of his surmise passed over
+Francois' face as he rejoined:
+
+"Yet you see that the other has gone too; and that there is nothing
+more to be done with the land."
+
+"You are mistaken. He has gone to cultivate it elsewhere, in America!
+It was because he missed you so sorely, Francois, that he lost heart
+at home."
+
+"Yes," said Francois, drawing up a chair for himself and sitting down
+to the table. "It seems to be a wonderful country, America! But here
+with us it's too hard."
+
+The farmer did not take up the words which had angered him before.
+
+"Well!" he said, "I will give you help. I have no other son now, for
+you know that Mathurin is of no account in the management of a farm.
+You will soon be the master; the next lease shall be drawn up in your
+name, and there will still be a Lumineau at La Fromentiere. Will you
+come back?"
+
+Francois made a gesture of annoyance and gave no reply.
+
+"You are making nothing," resumed the farmer, "by what Eleonore tells
+me."
+
+"No, the pay is poor enough."
+
+"The cafe has not many customers?"
+
+"No; but we paid too much for it. We are not sure that it will
+answer." He turned to his sister who was listening passive and
+tearful. "But we scrape along, eh, Lionore? In time I may get a rise,
+so the sub-inspector tells me. Then I shall be better off. I don't
+want more. We have got to know people already; on Sundays I have my
+half-day off."
+
+"You had the whole day at La Fromentiere!"
+
+"I don't say that I hadn't. But what you ask, father, can't be done."
+
+A man, whose entrance they had not perceived, now called out from the
+adjoining room:
+
+"Is no one here? Is there no dinner to be had?"
+
+Eleonore, glad of the interruption, passed between her brother and
+father, and they heard her laugh to appease the customer. Francois
+drew the soup-tureen towards him, and put in the ladle.
+
+"You must not mind my helping myself," he said to his father, who
+remained sitting at the window behind him, "I have only got a quarter
+of an hour; it's a long way to the station. I shall be fined," and
+between the mouthfuls of soup he asked in a softened voice: "You have
+not given me news of Rousille. Is she quite well? And Mathurin, does
+he still imagine that he will be all right again? He who always was so
+keen on being master at La Fromentiere did nothing to keep Andre back,
+I suppose?"
+
+Toussaint Lumineau rose abruptly, unable longer to control his anger.
+
+"You are a couple of ungrateful children, both of you!" he exclaimed
+in a loud voice. "Stay in your town!" and going out of the kitchen, he
+crossed the cafe before the eyes of the sickly-looking mechanic, and
+of Eleonore, who, terrified, leant forward:
+
+"I told you so, poor father. I told you he would not! I knew it.
+Still, _au revoir_."
+
+Then to Francois who was following him:
+
+"You are going with him to the station."
+
+He shook his head.
+
+"Yes, go! It would look better; he would not then be able to say that
+we had not treated him kindly."
+
+The farmer had opened the door into the street.
+
+"I will go with you to the station, if you like," said Francois
+sheepishly.
+
+"I did not ask you to go with me to the station, ungrateful son; I
+asked you to come back and save us all from ruin, and you have
+refused!" was the reply. They saw him stride down the street erect,
+his fine figure making two of the puny town mechanics, his silvery
+hair shining through the mist of rain. The door shut behind him.
+
+"No easy customer, the old papa," said the man who was dining.
+
+"Don't talk of it," exclaimed Eleonore; "I am quite ill."
+
+"What was it he wanted?"
+
+With a coarse laugh Francois said as he went back to the kitchen:
+
+"Wanted me to go back and dig for him."
+
+The mechanic, shrugging his shoulders, said with a self-satisfied air:
+
+"A fine idea! The old gentleman was a bit unreasonable, I think."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+THE EMIGRANT.
+
+
+It was late afternoon when Toussaint Lumineau returned to La
+Fromentiere. It had rained heavily all day. On the hearth in the
+house-place the largest pot was boiling full of potatoes for the men's
+supper, and to give food for the pigs. Sitting by the fireside
+Mathurin and the farm-servant, kept indoors by the inclement weather,
+were warming themselves and waiting for news. The cripple who had been
+very gloomy, and in a state of nervous excitement since Andre's
+departure, had not spoken a word the whole afternoon. Rousille could
+be heard folding linen and arranging it in piles in the cupboard of
+the adjacent room.
+
+The farmer ascended the house steps and opened the door.
+Simultaneously the thought came into the minds of the three awaiting
+him: "What did they say? Will they come back? Did they let you go away
+without even a promise to return?" But no one dared to ask him.
+
+With a curt greeting to his household the farmer went straight to his
+bedside, and began silently changing his Sunday garb for his working
+clothes. The best coat, new hat, shoes, were all laid away. The answer
+must have been unsatisfactory. An awkward silence reigned in the room;
+as the minutes went on Mathurin's irritation increased. Bent almost
+double in the chimney-corner, his face drawn, he, the eldest son, felt
+hurt at being treated like a servant or a woman. Why not have taken
+him apart? A sign would have sufficed. Why not have given it him?
+
+His ill temper broke forth when his father, having changed his
+clothes, said peremptorily:
+
+"Rousille, you will come with me and the man into the barn to make
+baskets. You, Mathurin, for once will take your sister's place, and
+watch the pot."
+
+"So you think me of no use at all?" said the cripple.
+
+Contrary to his usual habit, which was to give reasons and modify
+orders, the farmer, raising his voice, made answer:
+
+"I am sole master here. Come, Rousille!" Followed by his daughter and
+the man, he crossed the yard in the front of the house, went into the
+barn, and threw open the double doors that separated it from the cart
+shed. There was the wine press, the red tilbury; and ranged against
+the walls were wheelbarrows, hen-coops, ladders, rafters, and poles;
+in the middle of the circle formed by this medley was a sandy space,
+where the fowls came to scratch and cover themselves with sand. The
+farmer sat down upon a joist beside a vat in which a bundle of osiers
+were steeping, his face turned towards the farmhouse. Rousille
+kneeling close to him, her back to the light, drew the twigs from the
+water one by one, peeled them with her pocket-knife and handed them to
+her father. He, taking the white stems, twisted them round the already
+prepared framework of the baskets. In a corner the man was chopping
+poles of chestnut wood with a hedge-bill. The rain came down faster
+than ever, the air grew colder and more penetrating, spreading a veil
+of mist between the barn and the house. A fantastic twilight, coming
+from one knew not whither, uncertain as the rain and driven by the
+wind, cast a faint glimmer upon the workers. The ducks were quacking
+merrily in the Marais; sparrows were chirping in the gutters of the
+roof. Not a word passed between the father, his daughter, and the man.
+Toussaint Lumineau was looking at Rousille--looking at her more often
+and attentively than was his wont; his thought was: "She is all that
+is left to me." At times he stopped plaiting, the white osier remained
+motionless, and his hand sank nerveless to his side. Then it was that
+the remembrance of his other children was passing, like the rain, in a
+torrent over his soul. In the depths of his heart the father would
+cry, "Francois! Andre!" He tried to picture South America as he had
+seen it on map. Where was his youngest son now in the great wide
+world? Was he in a town, or wandering along unknown roads, or on the
+great ocean that sucks in so many victims? Toussaint Lumineau strove
+to get to him, but the effort was vain. All the scenes his imagination
+could picture were lost in the unknown.
+
+At that same hour, far away, the heart of a young man was recalling
+with all the faithfulness of familiar scenes, La Fromentiere and its
+elms, his father, Rousille, Mathurin, the meadows of the Marais and
+all the country round. It was the son of whom the old man was thinking
+with such poignant regret; he, whom all three in the barn were vainly
+trying to follow in their inexperience of travel.
+
+Tired after a night passed in the train, and in going from one agent's
+office to the other, a stranger and unknown, Andre was sitting on a
+bundle of sheep-skins in the docks of a great seaport, awaiting the
+hour of embarkation in a steamer that was to bear him away to the new
+country. In front of him the waters of the River Scheldt dashed up
+against the quay; emerging from the fog on one side they formed a kind
+of half circle, to be lost in deeper fog on the other, their broad
+expanse covered with shipping. Andre's weary eyes followed the moving
+panorama of sailing vessels, steamers, coasting and fishing boats all
+standing out grey in the fog and the fading light of day, now massed
+together, now disentangling and gliding away each to its own
+destination.
+
+More often he looked beyond to the low-lying land round which the
+river curved, meadows half under water, deserted, immeasurable,
+seeming to float on the pale waters. How they reminded him of the
+province he had left! How they spoke to him! Neither the rolling of
+trucks, nor the whistle of commanding officers, nor the voices of the
+thousands of men of all nations unloading their ships round about him
+could draw away his thoughts. Nor did he feel any interest in the
+great city that extended behind him, and whence at times, amid the
+noise and bustle of the quay, came the sound of peals of bells such as
+he had never yet heard. But the time was drawing near. He knew this by
+the increasing agitation within him. The tramp of an approaching body
+of people made him turn his head; they were emigrants coming out of
+the sheds where they had been penned in by the agents, forming a long
+grey stream, seen through the mist. They come nearer, the foremost
+making their way through the casks and piles of sacks heaped upon the
+quay, and crossing the muddy gangway, hasten to secure the best places
+between decks; others follow, a confused mass of men, women, and
+children. Young and old are hard to distinguish; like tears, all look
+alike; all have the same sad look in their eyes; all are wearing
+their oldest clothes for the voyage: shapeless coats, jerseys, old
+mantles, kerchiefs over the women's heads, patched petticoats, odd
+garments in which they have worked and toiled many a day. They rub
+against Andre Lumineau, sitting on the bundle of skins, and pay no
+heed to him. They do not speak to one another, but in their hurried
+progress families form into distinct groups; mothers holding their
+children by the hand and shielding them from the wind, fathers with
+elbows extended protecting them from the pressure. All are carrying
+something: a bundle of clothing, a loaf of bread, a handbag tied
+together with string. All have made the same pause at the same place.
+As they turn in from the streets through the dock gates, they
+straighten themselves and stretch out their necks to look across, ever
+in the same direction, to the plains of the Scheldt, where a golden
+shimmer through the fog denotes the quarter of the setting sun; and,
+as though it were their own, they gaze upon a solitary little clock
+tower which rises out of the misty distance. Then they turn into the
+docks, find which is their boat, the steam already up, the windlass at
+work, the bridge black with emigrants. And their courage fails, they
+are afraid; many among them would fain turn back. But for them there
+is no turning back, they must embark, their tickets tremble in their
+shaking hands. In spirit only they return to the old country, to the
+poverty they have anathematized and now regret; to the deserted
+rooms, the suburbs, the factories, the country sides where once was
+"home." Pale and nerveless the living stream suffers itself to be
+swept on, and embarks.
+
+For a long time Andre Lumineau looked on without joining the crowd. He
+was seeking a fellow-countryman. Seeing none, he at last put himself
+in line with the others; he was wearing his military cloak, the
+buttons of which had been changed, and was carrying the black
+portmanteau that five days ago reposed in the hayloft of Fromentiere.
+His neighbours glanced at him with indifference, accepting him without
+remark.
+
+Among them he crossed the quay, mounted the gangway, and stepped on
+board, the ship already swaying with the motion of the river. Then
+while others in the throng who had friends or relations with them were
+walking the decks in groups, or examining the machinery, or inspecting
+the cabins, he leaned over the side of the boat at the stern trying to
+distinguish the river and the grey meadow land, for memories were
+rushing thickly upon him, and his courage was nigh to deserting him.
+But doubtless the fog had deepened, for he saw nothing.
+
+Beside him, hunched up upon the seat, was an old woman with still
+fresh complexion, wrapped in a black cloak with a cape to it, her coif
+fastened with a pair of gold pins, and rocking a child in her arms.
+
+Andre took no notice of her. But she, unable to fix her eyes anywhere
+in the bustle and confusion of a ship on the point of departure,
+raised them every now and then to the stranger standing beside her,
+who so surely was thinking of the home he was leaving. Perhaps she had
+a son of the same age. The feeling of pity grew in her and albeit,
+well knowing that her neighbour would not understand her language, the
+old woman said:
+
+"U heeft pyn."
+
+After she had repeated it several times he understood by the word
+"pain" and the intonation with which it was said, that the woman
+asked, "You are in sorrow?" and answered:
+
+"Yes, madame."
+
+The old mother took Driot's hand in her soft shrivelled one, all cold
+and damp with the fog, and stroked it tenderly, and the young Vendeen
+broke down utterly and wept, thinking of bygone caresses from his old
+mother, who, too, had worn a white coif and gold pins on grand
+occasions.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Mist and fog were sweeping over the Marais of La Vendee, as over the
+plains of the Scheldt, driven by gusts of wind.
+
+At times an expression of anguish crossed the face of Toussaint
+Lumineau as he followed with his eyes the quivering points of the
+osiers Rousille held out to him, as though they had been the masts of
+ships labouring in the ocean. At other times he would look long and
+lingeringly at his one remaining child, and Rousille knew that she was
+fair to look upon. A violent squall struck the elm-trees, stripping
+them clear of leaves, and beating their branches against the roof of
+La Fromentiere. The rainspouts, the tiles, the rafters and walls, the
+very lizards in the barn groaned and creaked together--and the
+storm-cry groaned, wildly and madly, over the Marais.
+
+Three hundred leagues away the melancholy whistle of a sirene awoke
+the echoes, the screw of a huge steamer parted the waters of the river
+and drew away slowly from shore, as though yet half inert and
+drifting. No sooner did the emigrants, outcasts of the old world, poor
+and hopelessly miserable, feel themselves afloat, than they were
+terrified. The thoughts of all on board flew back to their deserted
+homes. It was in the darkness of night that Andre Lumineau went forth.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The farmer threw back a handful of osiers into the vat, saying:
+
+"Let us go in. My old hands can work no longer."
+
+But he did not stir. The man, alone, ceased chopping the poles of
+chestnut wood, and left the barn. Rousille, seeing that her father
+made no movement to rise, stayed where she was.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+HER FATHER'S BIDDING.
+
+
+Evening had come, the evening of a February day, which casts its
+shadow so soon. Through the door of the barn came only a deceptive
+gleam, like that of a smouldering cinder, blotting out all form.
+Toussaint Lumineau's arms had sunk on either side of his body; still
+sitting on the joist, his face uplifted in the dusk, he waited till
+the man should have crossed the yard. When he had seen the door of the
+house-place, where Mathurin was watching, open and shut, he lowered
+his eyes to his daughter.
+
+"Rousille," he said, "are you still of the same mind concerning Jean
+Nesmy?"
+
+The girl, kneeling on the ground, her profile indistinct in the
+darkness, slowly raised her head and stooped forward as though better
+to see him who spoke in so unexpected a manner. But she had nothing to
+conceal, she was not one of those who are timid and fearful; she only
+quieted her beating heart, which could have cried aloud with joy, and
+said, with apparent calm:
+
+"Always, father. I have given him my love, and shall never withdraw
+it. Now that Andre is gone, I quite understand that I cannot leave you
+to go and live in the Bocage. But I shall never marry; I will stay
+with you and serve you."
+
+"Then you will not forsake me as they have done?"
+
+"No, father, never."
+
+Her father rested his hand upon her shoulder, and the girl felt
+herself enveloped in a tenderness hitherto unknown. A hymn of
+thanksgiving passed from soul to soul. Around them the wind and rain
+were raging.
+
+"Rousille," resumed the farmer, "I have no longer a son to lean upon.
+Andre was the last to betray me. Francois has refused to come back.
+And yet La Fromentiere must continue ours."
+
+A firm, sweet voice answered:
+
+"It must."
+
+"Then, little one," continued her father, "your wedding bells must
+ring!"
+
+Rousille dared not understand. Still on her knees she drew a little
+closer so as to touch her father. She longed that daylight would come
+back to reveal the expression of the eyes fixed upon her. But the
+darkness was impenetrable.
+
+"I had always hoped," continued the farmer, "that there would be one
+of my name to carry on the farm after me. God has refused me my
+desire. As for you, Rousille, I should have liked to have given you
+to a Maraichin like ourselves; one in like position, and from our
+part. Perhaps it was pride. Things have not turned out according to my
+wishes. Do you think that Jean Nesmy will consent to come back to La
+Fromentiere?"
+
+"I am certain of it! I can answer for him. He will come back!"
+
+"And his mother will not seek to offer us any affront?"
+
+"No, no. She loves her son too well for that; she knows everything.
+But Mathurin!" and she stretched out her arm towards the house lying
+hidden in the darkness. "Mathurin would not have it. He hates us! He
+would make life so hard for us that we could not stay here."
+
+"But I am still here, dear child, and I mean to gather the three of
+you about me."
+
+Had Rousille heard aright? Had her father really in so many words
+given his consent to her marriage? Yes, for he was now standing
+upright, and in rising he had raised his daughter, and was holding her
+in close embrace, his tears falling so fast that he could not speak.
+But contact with her youthful happiness seemed to have lent him fresh
+courage.
+
+"Do not fear Mathurin," he said, "I will reason with him, and he must
+obey. It was I who dismissed Jean Nesmy; it is now my will that he
+comes back to be my son and helper, and the master here when I am
+gone."
+
+The girl listened in the darkness.
+
+"It is my wish that he should come back as quickly as possible, for a
+place does not prosper in hired hands however good they may be. I have
+thought it all out for you, Rousille. You will go from here where we
+now are, straight to the Michelonnes."
+
+"Yes, father."
+
+"That will give me the time to speak to your brother. You will
+therefore go to them and say: 'My father cannot leave La Fromentiere
+and Mathurin, who has not been well these last few days. He asks you
+to go for him to the Bocage, and to beg the mother of Jean Nesmy to
+let her son come back to be my husband. The sooner you start the
+better for us.'"
+
+Now Rousille's tears were falling fast. Toussaint Lumineau continued:
+
+"Go, my Rousille. Greet the Michelonnes from me ... tell them it is to
+save La Fromentiere."
+
+A whisper answered:
+
+"Yes," and a pair of young arms were thrown round the old farmer's
+neck, and his face drawn down for a long, loving kiss. Then, going a
+little away from him, across the darkness through which they could not
+see each other, Rousille said: "I am happy, father. I will go at once
+to the Michelonnes ... but, oh! how much better it would have been if
+we could have had all our people at my wedding!"
+
+And she ran out into the night. Her father stood for a moment, proud
+and happy. She had said "our people," this little Rousille; she spoke
+like her ancestresses who had ruled in La Fromentiere. She was a true
+descendant of the great-grandmothers she had never known, thorough
+housewives, who from the very day they were brought home as wives,
+staid and happy, seemed to bring with them as reading in an ever open
+book the sense of family cares and joys.
+
+Rousille ran along the road, unheeding the stoniness of the way. Rain
+fell heavily, but she did not feel it. Sometimes she pressed her hand
+to her heart, to calm its beating. She thought, "I am happy," and with
+that she wept.
+
+The windows of all the houses in Sallertaine were lighted when she
+reached the long street. The timid sisters Michelonne had already shut
+their shutters, and drawn their bolts.
+
+"Aunts Michelonne!" she cried, knocking with her hand on the door,
+"please let me in quickly."
+
+It was the work of a moment for Veronique to draw the bolt, open the
+door, and shut it behind the new-comer.
+
+"How wet you are, Rousille!" she exclaimed, "and without cloak or
+kerchief in such weather! It has struck seven. What brings you out at
+such an hour?"
+
+At the far end of the room, on a chest beside the bed nearest to the
+fireplace, Adelaide had stood the solitary tallow candle, its long
+smoky wick burnt to a thick glowing knob. By its dim light she was
+beginning to undress, and had already taken off her apron. A corner of
+the sheet turned back upon the coverlet showed a patch of whiteness;
+the rest of the shop was in gloom--chairs, spinning wheels, the table,
+the other bedstead, and the clock beside it calmly ticking.
+
+"Do not let me disturb you, Aunt Adelaide," said the girl going
+towards her; "I have news."
+
+The eldest of the sisters taking the candlestick, held it up to
+Rousille's face, and seeing traces of tears upon it, said:
+
+"Sad news, again, dear child?"
+
+"No, aunts, glad news."
+
+"Then let us sit down, and tell it quickly."
+
+The old sisters sat on the oak chest and made Rousille take a chair
+facing them, close up that they might see her happy face, and each
+taking a hand in hers prepared to listen. The three faces were close
+together; the candle gave just light enough to reveal lip or eyes
+irradiated with a smile.
+
+"My news is," said Rousille, "that my father, having no longer a son
+to help him, wishes Jean Nesmy to come back."
+
+"What, Rousille, your sweetheart?"
+
+"Aunt Michelonne, it is to save La Fromentiere."
+
+"Then you are going to be married, pet; you are going to be married?"
+exclaimed Aunt Adelaide enthusiastically, half rising; while her
+sister, on the contrary, bent lower to hide her emotion.
+
+"Yes, father has said so. If you will help me."
+
+"If! You know I will; you are my daughter. You have only to ask for
+what you want--but tell me, is it money?"
+
+"No, aunt."
+
+"A trousseau that we will both set about making?"
+
+"Something far more difficult," said Rousille. "To make a journey--a
+long one."
+
+"I, a journey?"
+
+"You, or Aunt Veronique. As far as the Bocage. Father cannot leave
+home; you are to go in his stead to see Jean Nesmy's mother, and
+persuade her to let her son come away. Will you do it?"
+
+Veronique sat upright. "You go to the Bocage, Adelaide, you are more
+active than I am."
+
+"Is that any reason? So great a pleasure; to do Rousille so great a
+service, why should you not have the privilege?"
+
+"Sister, you are the elder; you take the place of the mother."
+
+"You are right," said Adelaide simply.
+
+She was silent for a short time; in the agitation of the news and her
+decision, the pretty pink cheeks had paled. Then she said:
+
+"You see, it is forty years since I have been beyond the town of
+Chalons. I never thought to make any journey again. Where is Jean
+Nesmy's country?"
+
+With a pretty smile on her face at the recollections it evoked,
+Rousille touched Aunt Michelonne's black dress three times with the
+tip of her finger.
+
+"Here," she said, "is the farm of Nouzillac, where he is employed;
+there, a parish called La Flocelliere; and there Les Chatelliers,
+where is his house, called La Chateau."
+
+"I do not know any of those names, pet."
+
+"There are hills in all directions, some small, some large, and a
+great many trees. When the wind blows from Saint Michel it rains
+without ceasing. Pouzanges is not far."
+
+"I have heard speak of Saint Michel and Pouzanges when I was quite a
+child by _Boquins_, who used in those days to come to our part to seek
+for fuel. And when must I go?"
+
+Lowering her soft eyes, Rousille answered:
+
+"Father is hard pressed. He said the sooner the better."
+
+"Holy Virgin! But I cannot start to-night. Still, look at the clock,
+Veronique, your eyes are better than mine."
+
+The younger sister rising, trotted to the foot of the tall clock
+which stood between the beds, and with difficulty read the time from
+the copper-clock face.
+
+"Too late, sister. The last tramway for Chalons has just passed."
+
+"Then," said Adelaide, "I will start to-morrow morning. I have good
+legs to carry me to Quatre-Moulins, and a good tongue to ask my way
+later from the shopkeepers at Chalons. I will go. All the way I shall
+be thinking of you, Rousille, and when I see La Mere Nesmy--you will
+say I am conceited--but I shall not be a bit embarrassed, I will tell
+her of you, and I shall have plenty to tell. Why are you getting up,
+little one?"
+
+"To go home, Aunt Michelonne."
+
+The two old sisters laughing, cried simultaneously:
+
+"No, that you are not indeed! You have told us nothing. What did your
+father say when he gave you permission? And what about Francois? And
+what does Mathurin think of it all? Stay, dearie, and tell us all
+about everything; and what is to be the message for Jean Nesmy?"
+
+As when night falls over the fields partridges cluster together in a
+furrow, feather to feather, so the three women again grouped
+themselves, in close vicinity, in the corner of the shop. Words,
+looks, smiles, gestures, sometimes tears, all that bespeaks deep
+feeling, found utterance, and was re-echoed by the two auditors. A
+joyous murmur floated through the dwelling of the two old maids.
+Adelaide was slightly fevered; Veronique, without wishing to confess
+it, was already nervous at the idea of being left alone. Time went on.
+The neighbours, as they extinguished their lamps said: "Mademoiselles
+Michelonne are sitting up late to-night! Work seems plentiful in their
+trade!"
+
+The town was sunk in darkness and silence under an icy rain when
+Rousille left her aunt's doorstep. On both sides the same words served
+for their parting. Adelaide said it first; Rousille repeated it. In
+one case it was a promise; in the other an expression of thanks.
+
+"To-morrow morning!"
+
+"To-morrow morning!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+A FEBRUARY NIGHT.
+
+
+When Rousille had crossed the courtyard and taken the road to
+Sallertaine, the farmer, having taken the pot off the fire, left the
+barn. He found the man sitting in the chimney-corner, pushing together
+the half-dead twigs that had fallen from the fire-dogs with the points
+of his sabots. At the far end of the room, Mathurin was moving
+restlessly about on his crutches, with crimsoned face, utterly unable
+to keep his nerves under control. He did not speak to his father, did
+not appear to have heard him enter. But after a minute, as the farmer,
+bending down, was speaking in a low voice to the man, he exclaimed
+violently:
+
+"And Rousille, what had you to say to her that kept you so long in the
+barn?"
+
+Before replying, Toussaint Lumineau followed with his eyes the
+movements of the unhappy young man, a prey to a species of madness
+produced by rage and pain, such as was too well known at La
+Fromentiere--since Andre's departure the paroxysms had become more
+frequent--and the father was moved to pity. Ignoring the insolence of
+the question, he said simply:
+
+"Your sister will come back later, Mathurin. Where she has gone I have
+sent her."
+
+"I am not to know where she is, then?" cried the cripple still more
+violently. "Everything is hidden from me here, and she is told all!"
+
+At a sign from the farmer the man took out a couple of potatoes with
+his knife from the saucepan, slipped them into his coat pocket, cut a
+slice of bread from the loaf on the table, and carrying off his
+supper, went out into the yard.
+
+The father and son were alone. Toussaint Lumineau, standing erect in
+the firelight, said:
+
+"On the contrary, you are going to know all, Mathurin. Your brother
+Francois refuses to come home to us."
+
+"I thought so."
+
+The cripple had drawn back into a dark corner between the two beds,
+out of the range of the lamplight; there, as though on the watch for
+the words spoken, he listened; his trembling hands resting on the
+crutches shook the bed-curtains.
+
+"La Fromentiere cannot go on as it is now," resumed the farmer. "I
+have bidden Rousille take a message to the Michelonnes. One or the
+other of the sisters, whether it be Adelaide or Veronique matters not,
+is to go to the Bocage to bring back Jean Nesmy."
+
+"Ah! you are marrying Rousille?"
+
+"Yes, my friend."
+
+"To a dismissed farm-servant!"
+
+"I am taking him back."
+
+"A _Boquin_! A man not of these parts!"
+
+"A good worker, Mathurin, and one who always loved our soil."
+
+"And he is to live at La Fromentiere?"
+
+"Of course. I need help. I need a son to stand by me."
+
+Mathurin's tawny head was thrust out from darkness.
+
+"And me," he cried, "what are you going to do with me?"
+
+In his look was a concentrated reproach, all pent-up suffering and
+wrath of years.
+
+"So I, the eldest, the rightful heir, am only to bear my suffering and
+submit to the will of others?"
+
+"My son," replied his father gently, "you will continue to live with
+us as now; you will do what you can, and no one will expect more. No
+work will be undertaken here without your having first been consulted,
+that I promise you. The farmstead will be your home after my death as
+now."
+
+"No. I will not be ordered about by a man who does not bear my name. A
+Lumineau, and a Lumineau only, must be master here!"
+
+"It is the sorrow of my life, Mathurin, that this cannot be."
+
+"I could have borne with Francois, even with Andre," continued the
+cripple, with equal vehemence, "but Rousille and her _Boquin_ shall
+never be the masters here. It is my home, and, I tell you, it is my
+turn!"
+
+"But, my poor boy, you cannot take the management."
+
+The serge curtains shook, and the unhappy man, suffocating with rage,
+made a few uncertain steps forward.
+
+"I cannot tell what is good ploughing?" he gasped.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I cannot buy a pair of oxen?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I cannot have myself drawn about in a cart, or punt a boat? Answer,
+if you please."
+
+"Yes, my son."
+
+"Then what further do I need for the management of a farm? Labourers I
+can hire. A wife?"
+
+His father dared not say Yes.
+
+"I will bring one!" Mathurin had reached the corner of the table and
+was now leaning upon it, the upper part of his body swaying and
+struggling to maintain its equilibrium. "One who has more heart than
+all of you put together! She knows that I shall get well. She has
+almost given me her promise to marry me as I am ... when I shall have
+persuaded her."
+
+"Do not trust to what the girls tell you, my poor lad. It is only
+fathers and mothers who love and cherish those afflicted as you
+are.... You are ill this evening. See, your limbs are failing you.
+Come to bed, I will help you."
+
+The cripple did not try to answer. His eyes closed, his head sank on
+to his shoulder; the crutches slipped from under the arms that
+stretched out as those of a drowning man seeking help. He would have
+fallen to the ground had not the farmer rushed forward to support him.
+
+The giddiness did not last long. It was a sharp but short attack.
+Hardly had his father got him into a recumbent position on the chest
+at the foot his bed than Mathurin opened his eyes. He looked at his
+father, raised himself unaided, and putting hand to the back of his
+neck, said:
+
+"You see, it is nothing. The pain you caused did it.... I am not ill."
+
+All trace of anger had disappeared, but the misery in his face was the
+same, mingled with that kind of horror men experience when they have
+been at the very verge of death.
+
+"Would you like me to help you?" asked his father.
+
+With a shrug of the shoulders the cripple began to undress himself,
+and taking off his coat, folded it, and laid it on the chest.
+
+"No. I will get to bed by myself. I want to be left in peace." His
+voice trembled as much as his hands. "You had better go to meet
+Rousille. She will have her news to tell you--and, moreover, it is
+pitch dark, the roads are not too safe----"
+
+Toussaint Lumineau, who knew the danger of opposing his son in such an
+attack, made no demur.
+
+"I will go as far as the road, Mathurin, and will tell the man to be
+at hand in the bakery in case you need him."
+
+He did not go even as far as the road. He was too uneasy. He went some
+hundred yards along the wall of La Fromentiere in the rain, turned
+back, and then not wishing to go in too soon as to allow Mathurin time
+to calm down, he went into the stables to look to the animals, and see
+that none had broken loose.
+
+But, all unsuspected, Mathurin had slipped out after him. The farmer
+had not gone ten paces beyond the gate ere the cripple had come out
+into the courtyard, cautiously shut the outer door, and was making his
+way towards the threshing-floor in order to reach the meadow by the
+short cut.
+
+His marvellous energy, and the diseased state of nervous excitability
+he was in, sustained him. A mad fancy, born of all his misery and all
+his dreams, forced him out on that cruel night to his doom. He would
+seek his lost love; would appeal by all the slights, all the
+suffering, all the affronts he had endured, to her who had been and
+still was the arbitress of his life; would say to her: "All forsake
+me; I have only you. Tell me that you love me, and they will scorn me
+no more. Save me, Felicite Gauvrit!"
+
+Despite the dark night, the slippery ground, the two fences he had to
+climb, he went quickly along the track which bordered the park. Like a
+naughty child fearing pursuit, he turned his head every now and then
+to listen. Many a sound came to him, but it was only the whistling of
+the wind among the elms; the rain crashing down upon the slates; the
+roll of a distant train, probably on the way to Chalons. Mathurin
+descended the sloping meadow; the darkness was so dense that he had to
+turn back twice before he found the landing-stage. Feeling for a punt
+with his crutch he threw himself into the first one, and with a stroke
+of the pole pushed it out, not into the canal which led direct to Le
+Perrier and La Seuliere, but to the left into a dyke rarely made use
+of by the occupants of the farm.
+
+The bottom of the boat was full of water; at each movement it washed
+over the limbs of the cowering man, but he heeded it not. What
+mattered the wet boat, the icy rain that was falling, the pitch
+darkness, the weeds that checked his progress many a time, the length
+of the way, the fatigue. He must reach her, did he strain his last
+nerve and die in the effort.
+
+The darkness was so great that Mathurin could scarce see the bow of
+his boat. Since sundown the wind had been driving the fog into the
+Marais; in its length and breadth it was full of it, covering whole
+spaces with its swaying mass; it lay over the inundated meadows, the
+embankments, and islets, shrouding them all in its malarial folds. It
+dripped in poisonous drops down poplars and willows, from the thatched
+roofs of hovels on the edge of the great sea shore where men,
+condemned to live in them, drank in fever without the power of
+struggling against it.
+
+On such a deadly night was it that Mathurin, already a prey to the
+malady hanging over him, the blood surging to his head, found his
+strength ebbing away. In vain he threw himself from side to side of
+the punt, unable to distinguish which way to go. Sometimes his breath
+failed, he grew unconscious, and the puntsman would sit leaning
+forward motionless in the boat; then the cold would restore him, and
+with a shake he would continue his course.
+
+As he went on further into the wildest part of the Marais, the shades
+of night grew peopled with forms. Birds, more and more numerous, rose
+as he brushed past the quivering willows. It was the time of their
+flight. Plovers, wild duck, bernacles, snipe, flew up, uttering their
+shrill or plaintive cry, soaring in invisible flocks, now high up in
+the icy fog, now close down to the sides of the boat. At each flight
+the cripple shuddered: "Why do you cry thus at me, ye birds of
+ill-omen?" he thought. "Leave me in peace, I am going to Felicite--she
+will consent--we shall make preparation again for our wedding--we
+will live at La Fromentiere."
+
+But his strength was exhausted. Little by little the torpor increased.
+His efforts relaxed; his sight failed. He continued touching the banks
+with the punt pole but fitfully, and not knowing where it struck. All
+suddenly the boat, which drifted across an embankment into the middle
+of a submerged meadow, stopped. Water was all around. Mathurin's hands
+relaxed their hold of the pole, his eyes opened wide with terror; he
+felt Death creeping up from limbs to brain. Raising himself, he cried
+out into the night with a loud voice: "Felicite! Father!" Then his
+body swayed backwards and forwards, his hand made the sign of the
+cross, and with mouth still open he sank lifeless to the bottom of the
+boat.
+
+Through the labyrinth of dykes another punt was being rapidly
+propelled; at its bow a lantern was slung, just clearing the water,
+its tiny flame swaying with a rapid movement, and shaken by the wind.
+The farmer had discovered Mathurin's flight, and was seeking him.
+
+Around him, too, coveys of birds arose. White wings fluttered in the
+light of the lantern.
+
+"Ye birds," murmured the farmer, "tell me where to find him!"
+
+Did the thousands of voices make answer?
+
+At each crossway of the canals the father stood in the stern of his
+boat, and turning successively to the four winds of heaven, he called
+out with all his strength the name of his son. Twice men returning to
+their island homes from wild duck shooting, or belated farmers, had
+opened their windows to cry in the darkness:
+
+"What do you want?"
+
+"My son."
+
+The voices had given no reply. The third time Toussaint Lumineau
+thought he distinguished a feeble cry, very distant, coming through
+the icy fog, and leaving the canal which runs straight to Perrier, he
+turned off to the left. From time to time he called again, but hearing
+no further sound, and fearing to have taken a wrong direction, he
+unfastened the lantern, and drew up to the side to see if there were
+traces of a punt pole. Some hundred yards further on he detected by
+newly-made marks in the mud that the bank had been grazed; a punt had
+certainly passed that way. Was it Mathurin's? He followed it. The punt
+had made the circuit of a meadow, but on which side had it gone out?
+In vain the farmer, forcing his way through the rushes, tried the
+different canals that cut it at right angles, each time he came back
+baffled; all traces had disappeared. He was about to turn back when,
+by the light of his lantern, he caught sight of a piece of floating
+wood. He stooped to catch it; a presentiment of the truth flashed
+across him; it was one of the Fromentiere punt poles, drifting,
+carried by the wind towards the spot where the banks under water had
+converted meadow and dyke into one great lake.
+
+The farmer thought his son's boat had upset.
+
+"Hold on, Mathurin!" he cried. "I am coming. Hold on!" and with a
+stroke of the pole he pushed on into the channel. "Where are you,
+Mathurin?"
+
+In the chopping waves of the open water he had made some thirty yards,
+when he was suddenly thrown forward. Stooping over the side, he felt
+about, and caught hold of another boat, which he drew alongside his
+own. Then turning the lantern upon it, he saw at the bottom of the
+punt his son, lying motionless. Toussaint Lumineau threw himself on
+his knees, nearly sending the boat under water; he felt his son's
+temples, there was no pulsation; his hands, they were icy cold; he put
+his mouth to the dead man's ear, and twice called him by name.
+
+"Answer me, my son," he implored. "Answer! Move but a finger to show
+me you are still living."
+
+But his son's fingers did not move; the lips clothed by the tawny
+beard remained motionless, open as when the last cry proceeded from
+them.
+
+"My God!" groaned Lumineau, still kneeling. "Grant that he may not be
+called away before his Easter Communion. Grant that he be not dead!"
+And taking off his coat he covered his son in it, like a bed, and
+leaving his own punt he got into the one where Mathurin lay, and
+pushed off. A shade of hope sustained him, giving renewed vigour to
+his old arms. He must find help. Standing upright, endeavouring to
+find out where he was in the pitch darkness, the father had punted on
+some distance before he detected the light of a farmhouse. Then, to
+the right, a ray of light pierced through the fog. The punt glided on
+more rapidly through the dyke, it neared the building, and Toussaint
+could make out that it was a farm from the shape of the doors and the
+lighted windows. Alas! it was La Seuliere, and a dance was going in.
+The noise of laughter, songs, the muffled notes of an accordeon
+plainly audible within, died away in the wind without.
+
+The farmer went on past the brown hillock, but even while he punted
+with all speed he watched to see if the great dark shade cast by
+Mathurin had not stirred; then seeing it motionless, thought to
+himself: "My son is dead!"
+
+Some five hundred yards away on the other side of the canal, he knew
+now that there was another house, and he made all haste to reach it.
+For this time it was Terre-Aymont, the farm of Massonneau le Glorieux,
+his friend. And soon the farmer, throwing his boat-chain round a
+willow, had sprung to land, and going to the farmhouse door, was
+crying: "Glorieux! Glorieux! Help!"
+
+Soon lights were moving along the muddy slopes between the farm and
+the willow to which the boat had been attached, and men and women
+were hurrying to and fro with tears, laments, and low-voiced prayers.
+The whole sleeping household had been quickly roused, and were
+assembled on the bank. Massonneau would have had Mathurin carried into
+the house-place of La Terre-Aymont and have sent to fetch the doctor
+of Chalons, but Toussaint Lumineau, having once more examined and felt
+over his son's body, said:
+
+"No, Glorieux. His sufferings are at an end. I will take him back to
+La Fromentiere."
+
+Then the farmer of La Terre-Aymont turned to two young lads standing
+in the background, who with arms round each other's necks, their brown
+heads touching, seemed to be looking on death for the first time.
+
+"My lads," he said, "go and fetch our large punt."
+
+Disappearing in the fog, they ran to fetch the boat which was kept in
+a meadow close by La Seuliere, and as they passed they told the
+merrymakers what had happened.
+
+It was nearly ten at night when the body of Mathurin Lumineau was
+reverently placed by friendly hands in the great punt used for
+carrying forage, and which had so often been seen returning from the
+meadows laden with hay, one of the Terre-Aymont children perched on
+the top, singing.
+
+The body was laid in the middle of the boat, covered with a white
+sheet by the hands of Mere Massonneau; on it she placed a copper
+crucifix.
+
+Toussaint Lumineau took his place in the stern at his son's head.
+Standing in the bow with their punt poles were the two sons of
+Glorieux de la Terre-Aymont, two lanterns at their feet to light them
+on their way.
+
+The boat left the bank amid the laments of those present, and
+proceeded slowly down the Grand Canal, the wind driving the mists of
+the Marais towards it as it advanced.
+
+When at a short distance from La Seuliere, a voice from land
+exclaimed:
+
+"There it is! I hear the punt poles; I see the lights!"
+
+The doors of both rooms were thrown open; the lamplight shone out,
+illuminating the hillock on which the house stood; the stunted trees
+on the edge of the dyke looked silvery out of the darkness. Now all
+those present at the dance, young men and maidens, came forth in long
+procession down to the bank to greet the mournful convoy. In their
+gala dresses they knelt on the muddy bank, their coifs and aprons
+blown about in the wind. Silently they watched the approach of the
+white shroud covering the remains of the cripple, their senior by so
+few years, and the poor old father sitting bent double in the stern,
+his head almost touching his knees, motionless as the dead son he was
+guarding.
+
+Behind the others knelt a tall girl supported by two of her companions
+kneeling on either side of her, the blue kerchief and gold chain she
+wore conspicuous in the light that streamed from the house. All were
+silent. All followed with their eyes the boat as it slowly glided away
+again into the darkness. The sound of the punt poles, as they dipped
+the water, gradually died away; the ripples left on the smooth surface
+of the water subsided. The white shroud had passed away into the
+ever-deepening fog. There remained only a glimmer of light, the faint
+reflection of the lanterns passing across the meadows; soon nothing
+could be distinguished from out the enveloping darkness into which the
+punt had disappeared.
+
+"Poor eldest Lumineau! the handsomest of us all!"
+
+In the solitude of the Marais, whither the pity of his fellow
+creatures could not accompany him, the old father wept as he looked on
+the burden at his feet; he wept, too, when lifting up his head his
+eyes lighted on the stalwart lads plying the punt poles, who, faithful
+to their home and soil, were keeping on the straight course.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+SPRINGTIDE.
+
+
+The second week of April was extremely mild throughout the Marais of
+La Vendee; Spring was at hand. The first to announce its coming were
+the blackthorns and willows; they were not yet in blossom but in bud.
+And those buds which precede the blossoms have a perfume of their
+own--the whole country side was permeated with it. In the low-lying
+meadows, from which the water had retired, flowering moss was sending
+up its slender heads amid the fresh blades of grass. The plover was
+making its nest. Horses, turned out to grass, were enjoying their
+gallops on sunny banks, once more dry and firm. Pools were blue as the
+clouds were white, because Spring was coming.
+
+On an afternoon of that happy week when all life was young again,
+Toussaint Lumineau, standing at his gate, was awaiting the return of
+the eldest Michelonne, whom, a week ago, he had sent on a mission to
+the town of Chatelliers. For she had written him that her quest had
+been successful, and that she was bringing back from the Bocage the
+humble labourer who was to be Rousille's husband, the mainstay and
+eventually the master of La Fromentiere. That morning Veronique had
+come to fetch Rousille to go and meet the travellers, and now the time
+was approaching when the tilted cart drawn by La Rousse should have
+rounded the corner and appeared at the foot of the hill between the
+two corn-fields swaying in the breeze.
+
+The farmer stood waiting on his own domain, leaning on the gate which,
+alas! had opened to let forth, without return, all the sons of La
+Fromentiere, and which he, himself, would now open to let in the
+new-comers. Truly his heart was sad. Life had treated him hardly; the
+future was not reassuring. Would not the land soon be sold and left to
+chance? At the very moment that he was about to welcome those who
+should succeed him, could Toussaint Lumineau chase away the thought
+that the long traditions of bygone generations were coming to an end,
+and that, inseparable for centuries, his family name and that of the
+farm would no longer be one and the same? However, he was too old, and
+came of too good a stock to surrender hope. The blood that coursed in
+his veins contained, like wheat, something of eternal youth. It might
+be deemed dead, it sprang to life again.
+
+A dull, rapid thud, like the sound of men threshing, smote on the
+balmy air. Toussaint Lumineau recognised his mare's pace. She was
+coming at a gallop, as when returning from fairs, or fetes, or
+weddings.
+
+He raised his head. Once more he felt within him the courage to live
+on, and turning towards the road where the old trees were putting on
+their fresh glad verdure, knowing that beyond them joy was hastening
+to him, he took off his hat, and with outstretched arms said:
+
+"Come, my Rousille, with your Jean Nesmy."
+
+
+THE END.
+
+_Jarrold and Sons, The Empire Press, Norwich and London._
+
+
+
+
+    =Selections from
+    Jarrold & Sons'
+    List of Fiction=
+
+
+     =Maurus Jokai's Famous Novels.=
+
+  _Authorised Editions. Crown 8vo, Art Linen, 6/- each._
+
+
+=Black Diamonds.= (_Fifth Edition._)
+
+   By MAURUS JOKAI, Author of "The Green Book," "Poor Plutocrats,"
+   etc. Translated by Frances Gerard. With Special Preface by the
+   Author.
+
+   "Full of vigour ... his touches of humour are
+   excellent."--_Morning Post._
+   "An interesting story."--_Times._
+
+
+=The Green Book.= (FREEDOM UNDER THE SNOW.) (_Sixth Edition._)
+
+   By MAURUS JOKAI. Translated by Mrs. Waugh. With a finely engraved
+   Portrait of Dr. Jokai.
+
+   "Brilliantly drawn ... a book to be read."--_Daily Chronicle._
+   "Thoroughly calculated to charm the novel-reading public by its
+   ceaseless excitement ... from first to last the interest never
+   flags. A work of the most exciting interests and superb
+   descriptions."--_Athenaeum._
+
+
+=Pretty Michal.= (_Fourth Edition._)
+
+   By MAURUS JOKAI. Translated by R. Nisbet Bain. With a specially
+   engraved Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jokai.
+
+   "A fascinating novel."--_The Speaker._
+   "His workmanship is admirable, and he possesses a degree of
+   sympathetic imagination not surpassed by any living novelist. The
+   action of his stories is life-like, and full of movement and
+   interest."--_Westminster Gazette._
+
+
+=A Hungarian Nabob.= (_Fifth Edition._)
+
+    By MAURUS JOKAI. Translated by R. Nisbet Bain.
+    With a fine Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jokai.
+
+    "Full of exciting incidents and masterly studies of
+    character."--_Court Circular._
+    "The work of a genius."--_Pall Mall Gazette._
+
+
+
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