GUY DE MAUPASSANT

UNE VIE

A Piece of StringAnd Other Stories

Translated byAlbert M. C. McMaster, B. A. A. E. Henderson, B. A. Mme. Quesada and Others

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VOLUME I. 

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[Illustration: "JEANNE"]

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION BY POL. NEVEUX

UNE VIE (The History of a Heart) I. The Home by the Sea II. Happy Days III. M. De Lamare IV. Marriage and Disillusion V. Corsica and a New Life VI. Disenchantment VII. Jeanne's DiscoveryVIII. Maternity IX. Death of La Baronne X. Retribution XI. The Development of Paul XII. A New HomeXIII. Jeanne in Paris XIV. Light at Eventide

A VAGABOND

THE FISHING HOLE

THE SPASM

IN THE WOOD

MARTINE

ALL OVER

THE PARROT

A PIECE OF STRING

[Illustration: Guy de Maupassant]

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

A Study by Pol. Neveux

"I entered literary life as a meteor, and I shall leave it like athunderbolt. " These words of Maupassant to José Maria de Heredia onthe occasion of a memorable meeting are, in spite of their morbidsolemnity, not an inexact summing up of the brief career during which, for ten years, the writer, by turns undaunted and sorrowful, with thefertility of a master hand produced poetry, novels, romances andtravels, only to sink prematurely into the abyss of madness anddeath.... 

In the month of April, 1880, an article appeared in the "Le Gaulois"announcing the publication of the Soirées de Médan. It was signed by aname as yet unknown: Guy de Maupassant. After a juvenile diatribeagainst romanticism and a passionate attack on languorous literature, the writer extolled the study of real life, and announced thepublication of the new work. It was picturesque and charming. In thequiet of evening, on an island in the Seine, beneath poplars insteadof the Neapolitan cypresses dear to the friends of Boccaccio, amid thecontinuous murmur of the valley, and no longer to the sound of thePyrennean streams that murmured a faint accompaniment to the tales ofMarguerite's cavaliers, the master and his disciples took turns innarrating some striking or pathetic episode of the war. And the issue, in collaboration, of these tales in one volume, in which the masterjostled elbows with his pupils, took on the appearance of a manifesto, the tone of a challenge, or the utterance of a creed. 

In fact, however, the beginnings had been much more simple, and theyhad confined themselves, beneath the trees of Médan, to deciding on ageneral title for the work. Zola had contributed the manuscript of the"Attaque du Moulin, " and it was at Maupassant's house that the fiveyoung men gave in their contributions. Each one read his story, Maupassant being the last. When he had finished Boule de Suif, with aspontaneous impulse, with an emotion they never forgot, filled withenthusiasm at this revelation, they all rose and, without superfluouswords, acclaimed him as a master. 

He undertook to write the article for the Gaulois and, in coöperationwith his friends, he worded it in the terms with which we arefamiliar, amplifying and embellishing it, yielding to an inborn tastefor mystification which his youth rendered excusable. The essentialpoint, he said, is to "unmoor" criticism. 

It was unmoored. The following day Wolff wrote a polemicaldissertation in the Figaro and carried away his colleagues. The volumewas a brilliant success, thanks to Boule de Suif. Despite the novelty, the honesty of effort, on the part of all, no mention was made of theother stories. Relegated to the second rank, they passed withoutnotice. From his first battle, Maupassant was master of the field inliterature. 

At once the entire press took him up and said what was appropriateregarding the budding celebrity. Biographers and reporters soughtinformation concerning his life. As it was very simple and perfectlystraightforward, they resorted to invention. And thus it is that atthe present day Maupassant appears to us like one of those ancientheroes whose origin and death are veiled in mystery. 

I will not dwell on Guy de Maupassant's younger days. His relatives, his old friends, he himself, here and there in his works, havefurnished us in their letters enough valuable revelations and touchingremembrances of the years preceding his literary début. His worthybiographer, H. Édouard Maynial, after collecting intelligently all thewritings, condensing and comparing them, has been able to give us somedefinite information regarding that early period. 

I will simply recall that he was born on the 5th of August, 1850, nearDieppe, in the castle of Miromesnil which he describes in Une Vie.... 

Maupassant, like Flaubert, was a Norman, through his mother, andthrough his place of birth he belonged to that strange and adventurousrace, whose heroic and long voyages on tramp trading ships he liked torecall. And just as the author of "Éducation sentimentale" seems tohave inherited in the paternal line the shrewd realism of Champagne, so de Maupassant appears to have inherited from his Lorraine ancestorstheir indestructible discipline and cold lucidity. 

His childhood was passed at Étretat, his beautiful childhood; it wasthere that his instincts were awakened in the unfoldment of hisprehistoric soul. Years went by in an ecstasy of physical happiness. The delight of running at full speed through fields of gorse, thecharm of voyages of discovery in hollows and ravines, games beneaththe dark hedges, a passion for going to sea with the fishermen and, onnights when there was no moon, for dreaming on their boats ofimaginary voyages. 

Mme. De Maupassant, who had guided her son's early reading, and hadgazed with him at the sublime spectacle of nature, put off as long aspossible the hour of separation. One day, however, she had to take thechild to the little seminary at Yvetot. Later, he became a student atthe college at Rouen, and became a literary correspondent of LouisBouilhet. It was at the latter's house on those Sundays in winter whenthe Norman rain drowned the sound of the bells and dashed against thewindow panes that the school boy learned to write poetry. 

Vacation took the rhetorician back to the north of Normandy. Now itwas shooting at Saint Julien-l'Hospitalier, across fields, bogs, andthrough the woods. From that time on he sealed his pact with theearth, and those "deep and delicate roots" which attached him to hisnative soil began to grow. It was of Normandy, broad, fresh andvirile, that he would presently demand his inspiration, fervent andeager as a boy's love; it was in her that he would take refuge when, weary of life, he would implore a truce, or when he simply wished towork and revive his energies in old-time joys. It was at this timethat was born in him that voluptuous love of the sea, which in laterdays could alone withdraw him from the world, calm him, console him. 

In 1870 he lived in the country, then he came to Paris to live; for, the family fortunes having dwindled, he had to look for a position. For several years he was a clerk in the Ministry of Marine, where heturned over musty papers, in the uninteresting company of the clerksof the admiralty. 

Then he went into the department of Public Instruction, wherebureaucratic servility is less intolerable. The daily duties arecertainly scarcely more onerous and he had as chiefs, or colleagues, Xavier Charmes and Leon Dierx, Henry Roujon and René Billotte, but hisoffice looked out on a beautiful melancholy garden with immense planetrees around which black circles of crows gathered in winter. 

Maupassant made two divisions of his spare hours, one for boating, andthe other for literature. Every evening in spring, every free day, heran down to the river whose mysterious current veiled in fog orsparkling in the sun called to him and bewitched him. In the islandsin the Seine between Chatou and Port-Marly, on the banks ofSartrouville and Triel he was long noted among the population ofboatmen, who have now vanished, for his unwearying biceps, his cynicalgaiety of goodfellowship, his unfailing practical jokes, his broadwitticisms. Sometimes he would row with frantic speed, free andjoyous, through the glowing sunlight on the stream; sometimes, hewould wander along the coast, questioning the sailors, chatting withthe ravageurs, or junk gatherers, or stretched at full length amid theirises and tansy he would lie for hours watching the frail insectsthat play on the surface of the stream, water spiders, or whitebutterflies, dragon flies, chasing each other amid the willow leaves, or frogs asleep on the lily-pads. 

The rest of his life was taken up by his work. Without ever becomingdespondent, silent and persistent, he accumulated manuscripts, poetry, criticisms, plays, romances and novels. Every week he docilelysubmitted his work to the great Flaubert, the childhood friend of hismother and his uncle Alfred Le Poittevin. The master had consented toassist the young man, to reveal to him the secrets that makechefs-d'oeuvre immortal. It was he who compelled him to make copiousresearch and to use direct observation and who inculcated in him ahorror of vulgarity and a contempt for facility. 

Maupassant himself tells us of those severe initiations in the RueMurillo, or in the tent at Croisset; he has recalled the implacabledidactics of his old master, his tender brutality, the paternal adviceof his generous and candid heart. For seven years Flaubert slashed, pulverized, the awkward attempts of his pupil whose success remaineduncertain. 

Suddenly, in a flight of spontaneous perfection, he wrote Boule deSuif. His master's joy was great and overwhelming. He died two monthslater. 

Until the end Maupassant remained illuminated by the reflection of thegood, vanished giant, by that touching reflection that comes from thedead to those souls they have so profoundly stirred. The worship ofFlaubert was a religion from which nothing could distract him, neitherwork, nor glory, nor slow moving waves, nor balmy nights. 

At the end of his short life, while his mind was still clear, he wroteto a friend: "I am always thinking of my poor Flaubert, and I say tomyself that I should like to die if I were sure that anyone wouldthink of me in the same manner. "

During these long years of his novitiate Maupassant had entered thesocial literary circles. He would remain silent, preoccupied; and ifanyone, astonished at his silence, asked him about his plans heanswered simply: "I am learning my trade. " However, under thepseudonym of Guy de Valmont, he had sent some articles to thenewspapers, and, later, with the approval and by the advice ofFlaubert, he published, in the "République des Lettres, " poems signedby his name. 

These poems, overflowing with sensuality, where the hymn to the Earthdescribes the transports of physical possession, where the impatienceof love expresses itself in loud melancholy appeals like the calls ofanimals in the spring nights, are valuable chiefly inasmuch as theyreveal the creature of instinct, the fawn escaped from his nativeforests, that Maupassant was in his early youth. But they add nothingto his glory. They are the "rhymes of a prose writer" as JulesLemaitre said. To mould the expression of his thought according to thestrictest laws, and to "narrow it down" to some extent, such was hisaim. Following the example of one of his comrades of Médan, beingreadily carried away by precision of style and the rhythm ofsentences, by the imperious rule of the ballad, of the pantoum or thechant royal, Maupassant also desired to write in metrical lines. However, he never liked this collection that he often regretted havingpublished. His encounters with prosody had left him with thatmonotonous weariness that the horseman and the fencer feel after aperiod in the riding school, or a bout with the foils. 

Such, in very broad lines, is the story of Maupassant's literaryapprenticeship. 

The day following the publication of "Boule de Suif, " his reputationbegan to grow rapidly. The quality of his story was unrivalled, but atthe same time it must be acknowledged that there were some who, forthe sake of discussion, desired to place a young reputation inopposition to the triumphant brutality of Zola. 

From this time on, Maupassant, at the solicitation of the entirepress, set to work and wrote story after story. His talent, free fromall influences, his individuality, are not disputed for a moment. Witha quick step, steady and alert, he advanced to fame, a fame of whichhe himself was not aware, but which was so universal, that nocontemporary author during his life ever experienced the same. The"meteor" sent out its light and its rays were prolonged without limit, in article after article, volume on volume. 

He was now rich and famous.... He is esteemed all the more as theybelieve him to be rich and happy. But they do not know that this youngfellow with the sunburnt face, thick neck and salient muscles whomthey invariably compare to a young bull at liberty, and whose loveaffairs they whisper, is ill, very ill. At the very moment thatsuccess came to him, the malady that never afterwards left him camealso, and, seated motionless at his side, gazed at him with itsthreatening countenance. He suffered from terrible headaches, followedby nights of insomnia. He had nervous attacks, which he soothed withnarcotics and anesthetics, which he used freely. His sight, which hadtroubled him at intervals, became affected, and a celebrated oculistspoke of abnormality, asymetry of the pupils. The famous young mantrembled in secret and was haunted by all kinds of terrors. 

The reader is charmed at the saneness of this revived art and yet, here and there, he is surprised to discover, amid descriptions ofnature that are full of humanity, disquieting flights towards thesupernatural, distressing conjurations, veiled at first, of the mostcommonplace, the most vertiginous shuddering fits of fear, as old asthe world and as eternal as the unknown. But, instead of beingalarmed, he thinks that the author must be gifted with infallibleintuition to follow out thus the taints in his characters, eventhrough their most dangerous mazes. The reader does not know thatthese hallucinations which he describes so minutely were experiencedby Maupassant himself; he does not know that the fear is in himself, the anguish of fear "which is not caused by the presence of danger, orof inevitable death, but by certain abnormal conditions, by certainmysterious influences in presence of vague dangers, " the "fear offear, the dread of that horrible sensation of incomprehensibleterror. "

How can one explain these physical sufferings and this morbid distressthat were known for some time to his intimates alone? Alas! theexplanation is only too simple. All his life, consciously orunconsciously, Maupassant fought this malady, hidden as yet, which waslatent in him. 

Those who first saw Maupassant when the Contes de la Bécasse and BelAmi were published were somewhat astonished at his appearance. He wassolidly built, rather short and had a resolute, determined air, ratherunpolished and without those distinguishing marks of intellect andsocial position. But his hands were delicate and supple, and beautifulshadows encircled his eyes. 

He received visitors with the graciousness of the courteous head of adepartment, who resigns himself to listen to demands, allowing them totalk as he smiled faintly, and nonplussing them by his calmness. 

How chilling was this first interview to young enthusiasts who hadlistened to Zola unfolding in lyric formula audacious methods, or tothe soothing words of Daudet, who scattered with prodigality striking, thrilling ideas, picturesque outlines and brilliant synopses. Maupassant's remarks, in têtes-à-têtes, as in general conversation, were usually current commonplaces and on ordinary time-worn topics. Convinced of the superfluousness of words, perhaps he confounded themall in the same category, placing the same estimate on a thought noblyexpressed as on a sally of coarse wit. One would have thought so, tosee the indifference with which he treated alike the chatter of themost decided mediocrities and the conversation of the noblest minds ofthe day. Not an avowal, not a confidence, that shed light on his lifework. Parsimonious of all he observed, he never related a typicalanecdote, or offered a suggestive remark. Praise, even, did not movehim, and if by chance he became animated it was to tell some practicaljoke, some atelier hoaxes, as if he had given himself up to thepleasure of hoaxing and mystifying people. 

He appeared besides to look upon art as a pastime, literature as anoccupation useless at best, while he willingly relegated love to theperformance of a function, and suspected the motives of the mostmeritorious actions. 

Some say that this was the inborn basis of his personal psychology. Ido not believe it. That he may have had a low estimate of humanity, that he may have mistrusted its disinterestedness, contested thequality of its virtue, is possible, even certain. But that he was notpersonally superior to his heroes I am unwilling to admit. And if Isee in his attitude, as in his language, an evidence of his inveteratepessimism, I see in it also a method of protecting his secret thoughtsfrom the curiosity of the vulgar. 

Perhaps he overshot the mark. By dint of hearing morality, art andliterature depreciated, and seeing him preoccupied with boating, andlistening to his own accounts of love affairs which he did not alwayscarry on in the highest class, many ended by seeing in him one ofthose terrible Normans who, all through his novels and stories, carouse and commit social crimes with such commanding assurance andsuch calm unmorality. 

He was undoubtedly a Norman, and, according to those who knew himbest, many of his traits of character show that atavism is not alwaysan idle word.... 

To identify Maupassant with his characters is a gross error, but isnot without precedent. We always like to trace the author in the heroof a romance, and to seek the actor beneath the disguise. No doubt, asTaine has said, "the works of an intelligence have not theintelligence alone for father and mother, but the whole personality ofthe man helps to produce them.... "

That is why Maupassant himself says to us, "No, I have not the soul ofa decadent, I cannot look within myself, and the effort I make tounderstand unknown souls is incessant, involuntary and dominant. It isnot an effort; I experience a sort of overpowering sense of insightinto all that surrounds me. I am impregnated with it, I yield to it, Isubmerge myself in these surrounding influences. "

That is, properly speaking, the peculiarity of all great novelists. Who experiences this insight, this influence more than Balzac, orFlaubert, in Madame Bovary? And so with Maupassant, who, pen in hand, is the character he describes, with his passions, his hatreds, hisvices and his virtues. He so incorporates himself in him that theauthor disappears, and we ask ourselves in vain what his own opinionis of what he has just told us. He has none possibly, or if he has hedoes not tell it. 

This agrees admirably with the theory of impassivity in literature, somuch in vogue when Maupassant became known. But despite that theory heis, if one understands him, quite other than

 "A being without pity who contemplated suffering. "

He has the deepest sympathy for the weak, for the victims of thedeceptions of society, for the sufferings of the obscure. If thesuccessful adventurer, Lesable, and the handsome Maze are the objectsof his veiled irony, he maintains, or feels a sorrowful, thoughsomewhat disdainful tenderness, for poor old Savon, the old copyingclerk of the Ministry of Marine, who is the drudge of the office andwhose colleagues laugh at him because his wife deceived him, _sansespoir d'"heritage. "_

Why did Maupassant at the start win universal favor? It is because hehad direct genius, the clear vision of a "primitive" (an artist of thepre-Renaissance). His materials were just those of a graduate who, having left college, has satisfied his curiosity. Grasping the simpleand ingenious, but strong and appropriate tools that he himself hasforged, he starts out in the forest of romance, and instead of beingovercome by the enchantment of its mystery, he walks through itunfalteringly with a joyful step.... 

He was a minstrel. Offspring of a race, and not the inheritor of aformula, he narrated to his contemporaries, bewildered by the lyricaldeformities of romanticism, stories of human beings, simple andlogical, like those which formerly delighted our parents. 

The French reader who wished to be amused was at once at home, on thesame footing with him.... More spontaneous than the first troubadours, he banished from his writings abstract and general types, "romanticized" life itself, and not myths, those eternal legends thatstray through the highways of the world. 

Study closely these minstrels in recent works; read M. Joseph Bédier'sbeautiful work, Les Fabliaux, and you will see how, in Maupassant'sprose, ancestors, whom he doubtless never knew, are brought to life. 

The Minstrel feels neither anger nor sympathy; he neither censures, nor moralizes; for the self-satisfied Middle Ages cannot conceive thepossibility of a different world. Brief, quick, he despises aims andmethods, his only object is to entertain his auditors. Amusing andwitty, he cares only for laughter and ridicule.... 

But Maupassant's stories are singularly different in character. In thenineteenth century the Gallic intellect had long since foundered amidvileness and debauchery. In the provinces the ancient humor haddisappeared; one chattered still about nothing, but without point, without wit; "trifling" was over, as they call it in Champagne. Thenauseating pabulum of the newspapers and low political intrigue hadwithered the French intellect, that delicate, rare intellect, the lasttraces of which fade away in the Alsatian stories of Erckman-Chatrian, in the Provençal tales of Alphonse Daudet, in the novels of EmilePouvillon. Maupassant is not one of them. He knows nothing abouthumor, for he never found it in Life.... 

His ambition was not to make one laugh; he writes for the pleasure ofrecalling, without bias, what, to him, seems a halfway and dangeroustruth.... In his pessimism, Maupassant despises the race, society, civilization and the world.... 

If Maupassant draws from anyone it is Schopenhauer and HerbertSpencer, of whom he often speaks, although one does not know if hestudied them very deeply. In all his books, excepting, of course, inthe case of lines from the great tragic poets, one finds only onecredited reference, which in to Sir John Lubbock's work on ants, anextract from which is introduced into Yvette. 

No one was less bookish than himself. He was a designer, and one ofthe greatest in literature. His heroes, little folk, artisans orrustics, bureaucrats or shopkeepers, prostitutes or rakes, he placesthem in faintly colored, but well-defined surroundings. And, immediately, the simplified landscape gives the keynote of the story. 

In his descriptions he resists the temptation of asserting hispersonal view. He will not allow himself to see more of his landscapethan his characters themselves see. He is also careful to avoid allrefined terms and expressions, to introduce no element superior to thecharacters of his heroes. 

He never makes inanimate nature intervene directly in humantribulations; she laughs at our joys and our sorrows.... Once, only, in one of his works, the trees join in the universal mourning--thegreat, sad beeches weep in autumn for the soul, the little soul, of lapetite Roque. 

And yet Maupassant adores this nature, the one thing that moveshim.... But, in spite of this, he can control himself; the artist isaware of the danger to his narration should he indulge in thetransports of a lover. 

With an inborn perception, Maupassant at once seizes on the principaldetail, the essential peculiarity that distinguishes a character andbuilds round it. He also, in the presentation of his character, assumes an authority that no writer, not even Balzac, everequalled.... 

He traces what he sees with rapid strokes. His work is a vastcollection of powerful sketches, synthetic draftings. Like all greatartists, he was a simplifier; he knew how to "sacrifice" like theEgyptians and Greeks.... 

Thanks to his rapid methods the master "cinematographed, " if I may usethe word, inexhaustible stories. Among them, each person may findhimself represented, the artist, the clerk, the thinker, and thenon-commissioned officer. 

Maupassant was always impatient to "realize" his observations. Hemight forget, and above all, the flower of the sensation might loseits perfume. In Une Vie he hastens to sum up his childhood'srecollections. As for Bel Ami, he wrote it from day to day as hehaunted the offices of Editors. 

As for his style, it is limpid, accurate, easy and strongly marked, with a sound framework and having the suppleness of a living organism. 

Very industrious and very careful at first, Maupassant, in the feverof production, became less careful. He early accustomed himself tocomposing in his mind. "Composition amuses me, " he said, "when I amthinking it out, and not when I am writing it. " ... Once he hadthought out his novels or romances, he transcribed them hurriedly, almost mechanically. In his manuscripts, long pages follow each otherwithout an erasure. 

His language appears natural, easy, and at first sight seemsspontaneous. But at the price of what effort was it not acquired! ... 

In reality, in the writer, his sense of sight and smell wereperfected, to the detriment of the sense of hearing which is not verymusical. Repetitions, assonances, do not always shock Maupassant, whois sometimes insensible to quantity as he is to harmony. He does not"orchestrate, " he has not inherited the "organ pipes" of Flaubert. 

In his vocabulary there is no research; he never even requires a rareword.... 

Those whom Flaubert's great organ tones delighted, those whomTheophile Gautier's frescoes enchanted, were not satisfied, andaccused Maupassant, somewhat harshly, of not being a "writer" in thehighest sense of the term. The reproach is unmerited, for there is butone style. 

But, on the other hand, it is difficult to admit, with an eminentacademician that Maupassant must be a great writer, a classicalwriter, in fact, simply because he "had no style, " a condition ofperfection "in that form of literary art in which the personality ofthe author should not appear, in the romance, the story, and thedrama. "

A classic, Maupassant undoubtedly is, as the critic to whom I alludedhas said, "through the simple aptness of his terms and his contemptfor frivolous ornamentation. "

He remains a great writer because, like Molière, La Bruyère, and LaFontaine, he is always close to nature, disdaining all studiedrhetorical effect and all literary verbosity. 

For applause and fame Maupassant cared nothing, and his proud contemptfor Orders and Academies is well known. 

In a letter to Marie Bashkirtseff he writes as follows:

"Everything in life is almost alike to me, men, women, events. This ismy true confession of faith, and I may add what you may not believe, which is that I do not care any more for myself than I do for therest. All is divided into ennui, comedy and misery. I am indifferentto everything. I pass two-thirds of my time in being terribly bored. Ipass the third portion in writing sentences which I sell as dear as Ican, regretting that I have to ply this abominable trade. "

And in a later letter:

"I have no taste that I cannot get rid of at my pleasure, not a desirethat I do not scoff at, not a hope that does not make me smile orlaugh. I ask myself why I stir, why I go hither or thither, why I givemyself the odious trouble of earning money, since it does not amuse meto spend it. "

And again:

"As for me, I am incapable of really loving my art. I am too critical, I analyze it too much. I feel strongly how relative is the value ofideas, words, and even of the loftiest intelligences. I cannot helpdespising thought, it is so weak; and form, it is so imperfect. Ireally have, in an acute, incurable form, the sense of humanimpotence, and of effort which results in wretched approximations. "

For nature, Maupassant had an ardent passion.... His whole beingquivered when she bathed his forehead with her light ocean breeze. She, alone, knew how to rock and soothe him with her waves. 

Never satisfied, he wished to see her under all aspects, and travelledincessantly, first in his native province, amid the meadows and watersof Normandy, then on the banks of the Seine along which he coasted, bending to the oar. Then Brittany with its beaches, where high wavesrolled in beneath low and dreary skies, then Auvergne, with itsscattered huts amid the sour grass, beneath rocks of basalt; and, finally, Corsica, Italy, Sicily, not with artistic enthusiasm, butsimply to enjoy the delight of grand, pure outlines. Africa, thecountry of Salammbô, the desert, finally call him, and he breathesthose distant odors borne on the slow winds; the sunlight inundateshis body, "laves the dark corners of his soul. " And he retains atroubled memory of the evenings in those warm climes, where thefragrance of plants and trees seems to take the place of air. 

Maupassant's philosophy is as little complicated as his vision ofhumanity. His pessimism exceeds in its simplicity and depth that ofall other realistic writers. 

Still there are contradictions and not unimportant ones in him. Themost striking is certainly his fear of Death. He sees it everywhere, it haunts him. He sees it on the horizon of landscapes, and it crosseshis path on lonely roads. When it is not hovering over his head, it iscircling round him as around Gustave Moreau's pale youth.... Can he, the determined materialist, really fear the stupor of eternal sleep, or the dispersion of the transient individuality? ... 

Another contradiction. He who says that contact with the crowd"tortures his nerves, " and who professes such contempt for mankind, yet considers solitude as one of the bitterest torments of existence. And he bewails the fact that he cannot live just for himself, "keepwithin himself that secret place of the ego, where none can enter. "

"Alas!" said his master, "we are all in a desert. " Nobody understandsanyone else and "whatever we attempt, whatever be the impulse of ourheart and the appeal of our lips, we shall always be alone!"

In this gehenna of death, in these nostalgias of the past, in thesetrances of eternal isolation, may we not find some relinquishing ofhis philosophy? Certainly not, for these contradictions accentuate allthe more the pain of existence and become a new source of suffering. 

In any case, Maupassant's pessimism becomes logical in terminating inpity, like that of Schopenhauer. I know that I am running foul ofcertain admirers of the author who do not see any pity in his work, and it is understood that he is pitiless. But examine his stories moreclosely and you will find it revealed in every page, provided you goto the very bottom of the subject. That is where it exists naturally, almost against the desire of the writer, who does not arouse pity, norteach it. 

And, again, if it remains concealed from so many readers, it isbecause it has nothing to do with the humanitarian pity retailed byrhetoricians. It is philosophical and haughty, detached from any"anthropocentric" characteristics. It is universal suffering that itcovers. And to tell the truth, it is man, the hypocritical and cunningbiped who has the least share in it. Maupassant is helpful to allthose of his fellows who are tortured by physical suffering, socialcruelty and the criminal dangers of life, but he pities them withoutcaring for them, and his kindness makes distinctions. 

On the other hand, the pessimist has all the tenderness of a Buddhistfor animals, whom the gospels despise. When he pities the animals, whoare worth more than ourselves, their executioners, when he pities theelementary existences, the plants and trees, those exquisitecreations, he unbends and pours out his heart. The humbler the victim, the more generously does he espouse its suffering. His compassion isunbounded for all that lives in misery, that is buffeted about withoutunderstanding why, that "suffers and dies without a word. " And if hemourned Miss Harriet, in this unaccustomed outburst of enthusiasm, itis because, like himself, the poor outcast cherished a similar lovefor "all things, all living beings. "

Such appears to me to be Maupassant, the novelist, a story-teller, awriter, and a philosopher by turns. I will add one more trait; he wasdevoid of all spirit of criticism. When he essays to demolish atheory, one is amazed to find in this great, clear writer such lack ofprecision of thought, and such weak argument. He wrote the leasteloquent and the most diffuse study of Flaubert, of "that old, deadmaster who had won his heart in a manner he could not explain. " And, later, he shows the same weakness in setting forth, as in proving histheory, in his essay on the "Evolution of the Novel, " in theintroduction to Pierre et Jean. 

On the other hand, he possesses, above many others, a power ofcreating, hidden and inborn, which he exercises almost unconsciously. Living, spontaneous and yet impassive he is the glorious agent of amysterious function, through which he dominated literature and willcontinue to dominate it until the day when he desires to becomeliterary. 

He is as big as a tree. The author of "Contemporains" has written thatMaupassant produced novels as an apple-tree yields apples. Never was acriticism more irrefutable. 

On various occasions he was pleased with himself at the fertility thathad developed in him amid those rich soils where a frenzy mounts toyour brain through the senses of smell and sight. He even feels theinfluence of the seasons, and writes from Provence: "The sap is risingin me, it is true. The spring that I find just awakening here stirsall my plant nature, and causes me to produce those literary fruitsthat ripen in me, I know not how. "

The "meteor" is at its apogee. All admire and glorify him. It is theperiod when Alexandre Dumas, fils, wrote to him thrice: "You are theonly author whose books I await with impatience. "

The day came, however, when this dominant impassivity became stirred, when the marble became flesh by contact with life and suffering. Andthe work of the romancer, begun by the novelist, became warm with atenderness that is found for the first time in Mont Oriol.... 

But this sentimental outburst that astonished his admirers quicklydies down, for the following year, there appeared the sober Pierre etJean, that admirable masterpiece of typical reality constructed with"human leaven, " without any admixture of literary seasoning, orromantic combinations. The reader finds once more in his splendidintegrity the master of yore. 

But his heart has been touched, nevertheless. In the books thatfollow, his impassivity gives way like an edifice that has been slowlyundermined. With an ever-growing emotion he relates under slightdisguises all his physical distress, all the terrors of his mind andheart. 

What is the secret of this evolution? The perusal of his works givesus a sufficient insight into it. 

The Minstrel has been received in country houses; has been admitted to"the ladies' apartments. " He has given up composing those hurriedtales which made his fame, in order to construct beautiful romances oflove and death.... The story teller has forsaken rustics and peasants, the comrades of the "Repues franches, " for the nobility and thewealthy. He who formerly frequented Mme. Tellier's establishment nowpraises Michèle de Burne. 

Ysolde replaces Macette. In "l'Ostel de Courtoisie, " Maupassantcultivates the usual abstractions of the modern Round Table:Distinction and Moderation; Fervor and Delicacy. We see him inditinglove sonnets and becoming a knight of chivalry. The apologist ofbrutal pleasures has become a devotee of the "culte de la Dame. "

Everywhere he was sought after, fêted, petted.... But Maupassant neverlet himself be carried away by the tinsel of his prestige, nor thepuerility of his enchantment. He despised at heart the puppets thatmoved about him as he had formerly despised his short stories and hispetit bourgeois. "Ah, " he cries, "I see them, their heads, theirtypes, their hearts and their souls! What a clinic for a maker ofbooks! The disgust with which this humanity inspires me makes meregret still more that I could not become what I should most havepreferred--an Aristophanes, or a Rabelais. " And he adds: "The worldmakes failures of all scientists, all artists, all intelligences thatit monopolizes. It aborts all sincere sentiment by its manner ofscattering our taste, our curiosity, our desire, the little spark ofgenius that burns in us. "

Maupassant had to bend to the conditions of his new life. Being wellbred, he respected, outwardly at least, the laws of artificiality andconventionality, and bowed before the idols of the cave he hadentered.... 

If Maupassant never became the slave of worldly ideas, the creature ofinstinct that was part of his being acquired the refined tastes of thesalons, and the manners of the highest civilization. 

The novelist lived for some time in these enchanted and artificialsurroundings, when, suddenly, his malady became aggravated. He wastortured by neuralgia, and by new mysterious darting pains. Hissuffering was so great that he longed to scream. At the same time, hisunhappy heart became softened and he became singularly emotional. Hisearly faculties were intensified and refined, and in the overtensionof his nerves through suffering his perceptions broadened, and hegained new ideas of things. This nobler personality Maupassant owes tothose sufferings dear to great souls of whom Daudet speaks. This iswhat he says:

"If I could ever tell all, I should utter all the unexplored, repressed and sad thoughts that I feel in the depths of my being. Ifeel them swelling and poisoning me as bile does some people. But if Icould one day give them utterance they would perhaps evaporate, and Imight no longer have anything but a light, joyful heart. Who can say?Thinking becomes an abominable torture when the brain is an openwound. I have so many wounds in my head that my ideas cannot stirwithout making me long to cry out. Why is it? Why is it? Dumas wouldsay that my stomach is out of order. I believe, rather, that I have apoor, proud, shameful heart, that old human heart that people laughat, but which is touched, and causes me suffering, and in my head aswell; I have the mind of the Latin race, which is very worn out. And, again, there are days when I do not think thus, but when I suffer justthe same; for I belong to the family of the thin-skinned. But then Ido not tell it, I do not show it; I conceal it very well, I think. Without any doubt, I am thought to be one of the most indifferent menin the world. I am sceptical, which is not the same thing, scepticalbecause I am clear-sighted. And my eyes say to my heart, Hideyourself, old fellow, you are grotesque, and it hides itself. "

This describes, in spite of reservation, the struggle between twoconflicting minds, that of yesterday, and that of to-day. But thissensitiveness that Maupassant seeks to hide, is plain to allclear-seeing people. 

He soon begins to be filled with regrets and forebodings. He has adesire to look into the unknown, and to search for the inexplicable. He feels in himself that something is undergoing destruction; he is attimes haunted by the idea of a double. He divines that his malady ison guard, ready to pounce on him. He seeks to escape it, but on themountains, as beside the sea, nature, formerly his refuge, nowterrifies him. 

Then his heart expands. All the sentiments that he once reviled, henow desires to experience. He now exalts in his books the passion oflove, the passion of sacrifice, the passion of suffering; he extolsself-sacrifice, devotion, the irresistible joy of ever giving oneselfup more and more. The hour is late, the night is at hand; weary ofsuffering any longer, he hurriedly begs for tenderness andremembrance. 

Occasionally, the Maupassant of former days protests against thebondage of his new personality; he complains that he no longer feelsabsolutely as formerly that he has no contact with anything in theworld, that sweet, strong sensation that gives one strength. "Howsensible I was, " he says, "to wall myself round with indifference! Ifone did not feel, but only understand, without giving fragments ofoneself to other beings! ... It is strange to suffer from theemptiness, the nothingness, of this life, when one is resigned, as Iam, to nothingness. But, there, I cannot live without recollections, and recollections sadden me. I can have no hope, I know, but I feelobscurely and unceasingly the harm of this statement, and the regretthat it should be so. And the attachments that I have in life act onmy sensibility, which is too human, and not literary enough. "

Maupassant's pity now takes a pathetic turn. He no longer despises, but holds out his hand to those unfortunates who, like himself, aretormented on the pathway without hope. The tears that he sees flowmake him sad, and his heart bleeds at all the wounds he discovers. Hedoes not inquire into the quality or origin of the misfortune. Hesympathizes with all suffering; physical suffering, moral suffering, the suffering caused by treachery, the bitter twilight of wastedlives.... 

His mind has also become active. He desires to dabble in science. Oneday he studies the Arab mystics, Oriental legends, and the next, hestudies the marine fauna, etc. His perceptions have never been soclear. His brain is in continual activity. "It is strange, " heacknowledges, "what a different man I am becoming mentally from what Iwas formerly. I can see it as I watch myself thinking, discovering, and developing stories, weighing and analyzing the imaginary beingsthat float through my imagination. I take the same enjoyment incertain dreams, certain exaltations of mind, as I formerly took inrowing like mad in the sunlight. "

For the first time, his assurance as a writer wavers. As his lastvolumes show, he is endeavoring to transform, to renew himself. Heacquires a desire to learn the secrets of obscure and precious hearts, to visit unknown races. He has lost his magnificent serenity.... 

 * * * * *

As his malady began to take a more definite form, he turned his stepstowards the south, only visiting Paris to see his physicians andpublishers. In the old port of Antibes beyond the causeway of Cannes, his yacht, Bel Ami, which he cherished as a brother, lay at anchor andawaited him. He took it to the white cities of the Genoese Gulf, towards the palm trees of Hyères, or the red bay trees of Anthéor. 

It was during one of these idle cruises on the open sea, outside ofAgay and Saint-Raphael that he wrote "Sur l'Eau. "

It was on the sacred sea of the old poets and philosophers, on the seawhose voice has rocked the thought of the world, that he cast into theshadow that long lament, so heartrending and sublime, that posteritywill long shudder at the remembrance of it. The bitter strophes ofthis lament seem to be cadenced by the Mediterranean itself and to bein rhythm, like its melopoeia. 

"Sur l'Eau" is the last Will and Testament, the general confession ofMaupassant. To those who come after him he leaves the legacy of hishighest thought; then he says farewell to all that he loved, todreams, to starlit nights, and to the breath of roses. "Sur l'Eau" isthe book of modern disenchantment, the faithful mirror of the latestpessimism. The journal written on board ship, disconnected and hasty, but so noble in its disorder, has taken a place forever beside Wertherand René, Manfred and Oberman. 

He had for a long time, to his sorrow, seen his health failing underthe attacks of an obscure malady which left him with a sense of thediminution of his powers and a gradual clouding of his intellect. Symptoms of general paralysis set in, at first mistaken for neuroticdisturbances. He changed greatly. Those who met him as I did, thin andshivering, on that rainy Sunday when they were celebrating theinauguration of Flaubert's monument at Rouen would scarcely haverecognized him. I shall never forget, as long as I live, his facewasted by suffering, his large eyes with a distressed expression, which emitted dying gleams of protest against a cruel fate.... 

Maupassant retired to Cannes not far from his mother. He read medicalbooks and, in spite of what they taught, persisted in attributing hissufferings to "rheumatism localized in the brain, " contracted amid thefogs on the Seine.... 

Vainly he endeavored to work, he became gloomy and the idea of suicideimpressed him more and more.... 

The months passed, however, and in June he was able to go to Divonneto take a cure. After a very characteristic attack of optimism, hesuddenly appeared at Champel and astonished everyone by his frightfuleccentricities. One evening, however, he felt better, and read to thepoet Dorchain the beginning of his novel "The Angelus, " which hedeclared would be his masterpiece. When he had finished, he wept. "Andwe wept also, " writes Dorchain, "at seeing all that now remained ofgenius, of tenderness and pity in this soul that would never again becapable of expressing itself so as to impress other minds.... In hisaccent, in his language, in his tears, Maupassant had, I know notwhat, of a religious character, which exceeded his horror of life, andhis sombre terror of annihilation. "

At the end of September he again visited Cannes, but the fatal daypredicted by the physician was at hand. 

After several tragic weeks in which, from instinct, he made adesperate fight, on the 1st of January, 1892, he felt he washopelessly vanquished, and in a moment of supreme clearness ofintellect, like Gerard de Nerval, he attempted suicide. Less fortunatethan the author of Sylvia, he was unsuccessful. But his mind, henceforth "indifferent to all unhappiness, " had entered into eternaldarkness. 

He was taken back to Paris and placed in Dr. Meuriot's sanatorium, where, after eighteen months of mechanical existence, the "meteor"quietly passed away. 

 * * * * *

UNE VIE

OR, THE HISTORY OF A HEART

CHAPTER I

THE HOME BY THE SEA

The weather was most distressing. It had rained all night. The roaringof the overflowing gutters filled the deserted streets, in which thehouses, like sponges, absorbed the humidity, which penetrating to theinterior, made the walls sweat from cellar to garret. Jeanne had leftthe convent the day before, free for all time, ready to seize all thejoys of life, of which she had dreamed so long. She was afraid herfather would not set out for the new home in bad weather, and for thehundredth time since daybreak she examined the horizon. Then shenoticed that she had omitted to put her calendar in her travellingbag. She took from the wall the little card which bore in goldenfigures the date of the current year, 1819. Then she marked with apencil the first four columns, drawing a line through the name of eachsaint up to the 2d of May, the day that she left the convent. A voiceoutside the door called "Jeannette. " Jeanne replied, "Come in, papa. "And her father entered. Baron Simon-Jacques Le Perthuis des Vauds wasa gentleman of the last century, eccentric and good. An enthusiasticdisciple of Jean Jacques Rousseau, he had the tenderness of a loverfor nature, in the fields, in the woods and in the animals. Ofaristocratic birth, he hated instinctively the year 1793, but being aphilosopher by temperament and liberal by education, he execratedtyranny with an inoffensive and declamatory hatred. His great strengthand his great weakness was his kind-heartedness, which had not armsenough to caress, to give, to embrace; the benevolence of a god, thatgave freely, without questioning; in a word, a kindness of inertiathat became almost a vice. A man of theory, he thought out a plan ofeducation for his daughter, to the end that she might become happy, good, upright and gentle. She had lived at home until the age oftwelve, when, despite the tears of her mother, she was placed in theConvent of the Sacred Heart. He had kept her severely secluded, cloistered, in ignorance of the secrets of life. He wished the Sistersto restore her to him pure at seventeen years of age, so that he mightimbue her mind with a sort of rational poetry, and by means of thefields, in the midst of the fruitful earth, unfold her soul, enlightenher ignorance through the aspect of love in nature, through the simpletenderness of the animals, through the placid laws of existence. Shewas leaving the convent radiant, full of the joy of life, ready forall the happiness, all the charming incidents which her mind hadpictured in her idle hours and in the long, quiet nights. She was likea portrait by Veronese with her fair, glossy hair, which seemed tocast a radiance on her skin, a skin with the faintest tinge of pink, softened by a light velvety down which could be perceived when the sunkissed her cheek. Her eyes were an opaque blue, like those of Dutchporcelain figures. She had a tiny mole on her left nostril and anotheron the right of her chin. She was tall, well developed, with willowyfigure. Her clear voice sounded at times a little too sharp, but herfrank, sincere laugh spread joy around her. Often, with a familiargesture, she would raise her hands to her temples as if to arrange herhair. 

She ran to her father and embraced him warmly. "Well, are we going tostart?" she said. He smiled, shook his head and said, pointing towardthe window, "How can we travel in such weather?" But she implored in acajoling and tender manner, "Oh, papa, do let us start. It will clearup in the afternoon. " "But your mother will never consent to it. ""Yes, I promise you that she will, I will arrange that. " "If yousucceed in persuading your mother, I am perfectly willing. " In a fewmoments she returned from her mother's room, shouting in a voice thatcould be heard all through the house, "Papa, papa, mamma is willing. Have the horses harnessed. " The rain was not abating; one might almosthave said that it was raining harder when the carriage drove up to thedoor. Jeanne was ready to step in when the baroness came downstairs, supported on one side by her husband and on the other by a tallhousemaid, strong and strapping as a boy. She was a Norman woman ofthe country of Caux, who looked at least twenty, although she was buteighteen at the most. She was treated by the family as a seconddaughter, for she was Jeanne's foster sister. Her name was Rosalie, and her chief duty lay in guiding the steps of her mistress, who hadgrown enormous in the last few years and also had an affection of theheart, which kept her complaining continually. The baroness, gaspingfrom over-exertion, finally reached the doorstep of the old residence, looked at the court where the water was streaming and remarked: "Itreally is not wise. " Her husband, always pleasant, replied: "It wasyou who desired it, Madame Adelaide. " He always preceded her pompousname of Adelaide with the title madame with an air of half respectfulmockery. Madame mounted with difficulty into the carriage, causing allthe springs to bend. The baron sat beside her, while Jeanne andRosalie were seated opposite, with their backs to the horses. Ludivine, the cook, brought a heap of wraps to put over their kneesand two baskets, which were placed under the seats; then she climbedon the box beside Father Simon, wrapping herself in a great rug whichcovered her completely. The porter and his wife came to bid themgood-by as they closed the carriage door, taking the last orders aboutthe trunks, which were to follow in a wagon. So they started. FatherSimon, the coachman, with head bowed and back bent in the pouringrain, was completely covered by his box coat with its triple cape. Thehowling storm beat upon the carriage windows and inundated thehighway. 

They drove rapidly to the wharf and continued alongside the line oftall-masted vessels until they reached the boulevard of Mont Riboudet. Then they crossed the meadows, where from time to time a drownedwillow, its branches drooping limply, could be faintly distinguishedthrough the mist of rain. No one spoke. Their minds themselves seemedto be saturated with moisture like the earth. 

The baroness leaned her head against the cushions and closed her eyes. The baron looked out with mournful eyes at the monotonous and drenchedlandscape. Rosalie, with a parcel on her knee, was dreaming in thedull reverie of a peasant. But Jeanne, under this downpour, feltherself revive like a plant that has been shut up and has just beenrestored to the air, and so great was her joy that, like foliage, itsheltered her heart from sadness. Although she did not speak, shelonged to burst out singing, to reach out her hands to catch the rainthat she might drink it. She enjoyed to the full being carried alongrapidly by the horses, enjoyed gazing at the desolate landscape andfeeling herself under shelter amid this general inundation. Beneaththe pelting rain the gleaming backs of the two horses emitted a warmsteam. 

Little by little the baroness fell asleep, and presently began tosnore sonorously. Her husband leaned over and placed in her hands alittle leather pocketbook. 

This awakened her, and she looked at the pocket-book with the stupid, sleepy look of one suddenly aroused. It fell off her lap and sprangopen and gold and bank bills were scattered on the floor of thecarriage. This roused her completely, and Jeanne gave vent to hermirth in a merry peal of girlish laughter. 

The baron picked up the money and placed it on her knees. "This, mydear, " he said, "is all that is left of my farm at Eletot. I have soldit--so as to be able to repair the 'Poplars, ' where we shall oftenlive in the future. "

She counted six thousand four hundred francs and quietly put them inher pocket. This was the ninth of thirty-one farms that they hadinherited which they had sold in this way. Nevertheless they stillpossessed about twenty thousand livres income annually in landrentals, which, with proper care, would have yielded about thirtythousand francs a year. 

Living simply as they did, this income would have sufficed had therenot been a bottomless hole always open in their house--kind-heartedgenerosity. It dried up the money in their hands as the sun dries thewater in marshes. It flowed, fled, disappeared. How? No one knew. Frequently one would say to the other, "I don't know how it happens, but I have spent one hundred francs to-day, and I have bought nothingof any consequence. " This faculty of giving was, however, one of thegreatest pleasures of their life, and they all agreed on this point ina superb and touching manner. 

Jeanne asked her father, "Is it beautiful now, my castle?" The baronreplied, "You shall see, my little girl. "

The storm began to abate. The vault of clouds seemed to rise andheighten and suddenly, through a rift, a long ray of sunshine fellupon the fields, and presently the clouds separated, showing the bluefirmament, and then, like the tearing of a veil, the opening grewlarger and the beautiful azure sky, clear and fathomless, spread overthe world. A fresh and gentle breeze passed over the earth like ahappy sigh, and as they passed beside gardens or woods they heardoccasionally the bright chirp of a bird as he dried his wings. 

Evening was approaching. Everyone in the carriage was asleep exceptJeanne. They stopped to rest and feed the horses. The sun had set. Inthe distance bells were heard. They passed a little village as theinhabitants were lighting their lamps, and the sky became alsoilluminated by myriads of stars. Suddenly they saw behind a hill, through the branches of the fir trees, the moon rising, red and fullas if it were torpid with sleep. 

The air was so soft that the windows were not closed. Jeanne, exhausted with dreams and happy visions, was now asleep. Finally theystopped. Some men and women were standing before the carriage doorwith lanterns in their hands. They had arrived. Jeanne, suddenlyawakened, was the first to jump out. Her father and Rosalie hadpractically to carry the baroness, who was groaning and continuallyrepeating in a weak little voice, "Oh, my God, my poor children!" Sherefused all offers of refreshment, but went to bed and immediatelyfell asleep. 

Jeanne and her father, the baron, took supper together. They were inperfect sympathy with each other. Later, seized with a childish joy, they started on a tour of inspection through the restored manor. Itwas one of those high and vast Norman residences that comprise bothfarmhouse and castle, built of white stone which had turned gray, large enough to contain a whole race of people. 

An immense hall divided the house from front to rear and a staircasewent up at either side of the entrance, meeting in a bridge on thefirst floor. The huge drawing-room was on the ground floor to theright and was hung with tapestries representing birds and foliage. Allthe furniture was covered with fine needlework tapestry illustratingLa Fontaine's fables, and Jeanne was delighted at finding a chair shehad loved as a child, which pictured the story of "The Fox and theStork. "

Beside the drawing-room were the library, full of old books, and twounused rooms; at the left was the dining-room, the laundry, thekitchen, etc. 

A corridor divided the whole first floor, the doors of ten roomsopening into it. At the end, on the right, was Jeanne's room. She andher father went in. He had had it all newly done over, using thefurniture and draperies that had been in the storeroom. 

There were some very old Flemish tapestries, with their peculiarlooking figures. At sight of her bed, the young girl uttered a screamof joy. Four large birds carved in oak, black from age and highlypolished, bore up the bed and seemed to be its protectors. On thesides were carved two wide garlands of flowers and fruit, and fourfinely fluted columns, terminating in Corinthian capitals, supported acornice of cupids with roses intertwined. The tester and the coverletwere of antique blue silk, embroidered in gold fleur de lys. WhenJeanne had sufficiently admired it, she lifted up the candle toexamine the tapestries and the allegories they represented. They weremostly conventional subjects, but the last hanging represented adrama. Near a rabbit, which was still nibbling, a young man laystretched out, apparently dead. A young girl, gazing at him, wasplunging a sword into her bosom, and the fruit of the tree had turnedblack. Jeanne gave up trying to divine the meaning underlying thispicture, when she saw in the corner a tiny little animal which therabbit, had he lived, could have swallowed like a blade of grass; andyet it was a lion. Then she recognized the story of "Pyramus andThisbe, " and though she smiled at the simplicity of the design, shefelt happy to have in her room this love adventure which wouldcontinually speak to her of her cherished hopes, and every night thislegendary love would hover about her dreams. 

It struck eleven and the baron kissed Jeanne goodnight and retired tohis room. Before retiring, Jeanne cast a last glance round her roomand then regretfully extinguished the candle. Through her window shecould see the bright moonlight bathing the trees and the wonderfullandscape. Presently she arose, opened a window and looked out. Thenight was so clear that one could see as plainly as by daylight. Shelooked across the park with its two long avenues of very tall poplarsthat gave its name to the château and separated it from the two farmsthat belonged to it, one occupied by the Couillard family, the otherby the Martins. Beyond the enclosure stretched a long, uncultivatedplain, thickly overgrown with rushes, where the breeze whistled dayand night. The land ended abruptly in a steep white cliff threehundred feet high, with its base in the ocean waves. 

Jeanne looked out over the long, undulating surface that seemed toslumber beneath the heavens. All the fragrance of the earth was in thenight air. The odor of jasmine rose from the lower windows, and lightwhiffs of briny air and of seaweed were wafted from the ocean. 

Merely to breathe was enough for Jeanne, and the restful calm of thecountry was like a soothing bath. She felt as though her heart wasexpanding and she began dreaming of love. What was it? She did notknow. She only knew that she would adore _him_ with all her souland that he would cherish her with all his strength. They would walkhand in hand on nights like this, hearing the beating of their hearts, mingling their love with the sweet simplicity of the summer nights insuch close communion of thought that by the sole power of theirtenderness they would easily penetrate each other's most secretthoughts. This would continue forever in the calm of an enduringaffection. It seemed to her that she felt _him_ there beside her. And an unusual sensation came over her. She remained long musing thus, when suddenly she thought she heard a footstep behind the house. "Ifit were _he_. " But it passed on and she felt as if she had beendeceived. The air became cooler. The day broke. Slowly bursting asidethe gleaming clouds, touching with fire the trees, the plains, theocean, all the horizon, the great flaming orb of the sun appeared. 

Jeanne felt herself becoming mad with happiness. A delirious joy, an infinite tenderness at the splendor of nature overcame herfluttering heart. It was _her_ sun, _her_ dawn! The beginningof _her_ life! Thoroughly fatigued at last, she flung herself downand slept till her father called her at eight o'clock. He walked intothe room and proposed to show her the improvements of the castle, of_her_ castle. The road, called the parish road, connecting thefarms, joined the high road between Havre and Fécamp, a mile and ahalf further on. 

Jeanne and the baron inspected everything and returned home forbreakfast. When the meal was over, as the baroness had decided thatshe would rest, the baron proposed to Jeanne that they should go downto Yport. They started, and passing through the hamlet of Etouvent, where the poplars were, and going through the wooded slope by awinding valley leading down to the sea, they presently perceived thevillage of Yport. Women sat in their doorways mending linen; brownfish-nets were hanging against the doors of the huts, where an entirefamily lived in one room. It was a typical little French fishingvillage, with all its concomitant odors. To Jeanne it was all like ascene in a play. On turning a corner they saw before them thelimitless blue ocean. They bought a brill from a fisherman and anothersailor offered to take them out sailing, repeating his name, "Lastique, Joséphin Lastique, " several times, that they might notforget it, and the baron promised to remember. They walked home, chattering like two children, carrying the big fish between them, Jeanne having pushed her father's walking cane through its gills. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER II

HAPPY DAYS

A delightful life commenced for Jeanne, a life in the open air. Shewandered along the roads, or into the little winding valleys, theirsides covered with a fleece of gorse blossoms, the strong sweet odorof which intoxicated her like the bouquet of wine, while the distantsound of the waves rolling on the beach seemed like a billow rockingher spirit. 

A love of solitude came upon her in the sweet freshness of thislandscape and in the calm of the rounded horizon, and she would remainsitting so long on the hill tops that the wild rabbits would bound byher feet. 

She planted memories everywhere, as seeds are cast upon the earth, memories whose roots hold till death. It seemed to Jeanne that she wascasting a little of her heart into every fold of these valleys. Shebecame infatuated with sea bathing. When she was well out from shore, she would float on her back, her arms crossed, her eyes lost in theprofound blue of the sky which was cleft by the flight of a swallow, or the white silhouette of a seabird. 

After these excursions she invariably came back to the castle palewith hunger, but light, alert, a smile on her lips and her eyessparkling with happiness. 

The baron on his part was planning great agricultural enterprises. Occasionally, also, he went out to sea with the sailors of Yport. Onseveral occasions he went fishing for mackerel and, again, bymoonlight, he would haul in the nets laid the night before. He lovedto hear the masts creak, to breathe in the fresh and whistling gustsof wind that arose during the night; and after having tacked a longtime to find the buoys, guiding himself by a peak of rocks, the roofof a belfry or the Fécamp lighthouse, he delighted to remainmotionless beneath the first gleams of the rising sun which made theslimy backs of the large fan-shaped rays and the fat bellies of theturbots glisten on the deck of the boat. 

At each meal he gave an enthusiastic account of his expeditions, andthe baroness in her turn told how many times she had walked down themain avenue of poplars. 

As she had been advised to take exercise she made a business ofwalking, beginning as soon as the air grew warm. Leaning uponRosalie's arm and dragging her left foot, which was rather heavierthan the right, she wandered interminably up and down from the houseto the edge of the wood, sitting down for five minutes at either end. The walking was resumed in the afternoon. A physician, consulted tenyears before, had spoken of hypertrophy because she had suffered fromsuffocation. Ever since, this word had been used to describe theailment of the baroness. The baron would say "my wife's hypertrophy"and Jeanne "mamma's hypertrophy" as they would have spoken of her hat, her dress, or her umbrella. She had been very pretty in her youth andslim as a reed. Now she had grown older, stouter, but she stillremained poetical, having always retained the impression of "Corinne, "which she had read as a girl. She read all the sentimental lovestories it was possible to collect, and her thoughts wandered amongtender adventures in which she always figured as the heroine. Her newhome was infinitely pleasing to her because it formed such a beautifulframework for the romance of her soul, the surrounding woods, thewaste land, and the proximity of the ocean recalling to her mind thenovels of Sir Walter Scott, which she had been devouring for somemonths. On rainy days she remained shut up in her room, sendingRosalie in a special manner for the drawer containing her "souvenirs, "which meant to the baroness all her old private and family letters. 

Occasionally, Jeanne replaced Rosalie in the walks with her mother, and she listened eagerly to the tales of the latter's childhood. Theyoung girl saw herself in all these romantic stories, and wasastonished at the similarity of ideas and desires; each heart imaginesitself to have been the first to tremble at those very sensations thatawakened the hearts of the first beings, and that will awaken thehearts of the last. 

One afternoon as the baroness and Jeanne were resting on the beach atthe end of the walk, a stout priest who was moving in their directiongreeted them with a bow, while still at a distance. He bowed whenwithin three feet and, assuming a smiling air, cried: "Well, Madame laBaronne, how are you?" It was the village priest. The baroness seldomwent to church, though she liked priests, from a sort of religiousinstinct peculiar to women. She had, in fact, entirely forgotten theAbbé Picot, her priest, and blushed as she saw him. She made apologiesfor not having prepared for his visit, but the good man was not at allembarrassed. He looked at Jeanne, complimented her on her appearanceand sat down, placing his three-cornered hat on his knees. He was verystout, very red, and perspired profusely. He drew from his pocketevery moment an enormous checked handkerchief and passed it over hisface and neck, but hardly was the task completed when necessity forcedhim to repeat the process. He was a typical country priest, talkativeand kindly. 

Presently the baron appeared. He was very friendly to the abbé andinvited him to dinner. The priest was well versed in the art of beingpleasant, thanks to the unconscious astuteness which the guiding ofsouls gives to the most mediocre of men who are called by the chanceof events to exercise a power over their fellows. Toward dessert hebecame quite merry, with the gaiety that follows a pleasant meal, andas if struck by an idea he said: "I have a new parishioner whom I mustpresent to you, Monsieur le Vicomte de Lamare. " The baroness, who wasat home in heraldry, inquired if he was of the family of Lamares ofEure. The priest answered, "Yes, madame, he is the son of Vicomte Jeande Lamare, who died last year. " After this, the baroness, who lovedthe nobility above all other things, inquired the history of the youngvicomte. He had paid his father's debts, sold the family castle, madehis home on one of the three farms which he owned in the town ofEtouvent. These estates brought him in an income of five or sixthousand livres. The vicomte was economical and lived in this modestmanner for two or three years, so that he might save enough to cut afigure in society, and to marry advantageously, without contractingdebts or mortgaging his farms. The priest added, "He is a verycharming young man, so steady and quiet, though there is very littleto amuse him in the country. " The baron said, "Bring him in to see us, Monsieur l'Abbé, it will be a distraction for him occasionally. " Afterthe coffee the baron and the priest took a turn about the grounds andthen returned to say good-night to the ladies. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER III

M. DE LAMARE

The following Sunday the baroness and Jeanne went to mass, prompted bya feeling of respect for their pastor, and after service waited to seethe priest and invite him to luncheon the following Thursday. He cameout of the sacristy leaning familiarly on the arm of a tall young man. As soon as he perceived the ladies, he exclaimed:

"How fortunate! Allow me, baroness and Mlle. Jeanne, to present to youyour neighbor, M. Le Vicomte de Lamare. "

The vicomte said he had long desired to make their acquaintance, andbegan to converse in a well-bred manner. He had a face of which womendream and that men dislike. His black, wavy hair shaded a smooth, sunburnt forehead, and two large straight eyebrows, that looked almostartificial, cast a deep and tender shadow over his dark eyes, thewhites of which had a bluish tinge. 

His long, thick eyelashes accentuated the passionate eloquence of hisexpression which wrought havoc in the drawing-rooms of society, andmade peasant girls carrying baskets turn round to look at him. Thelanguorous fascination of his glance impressed one with the depth ofhis thoughts and lent weight to his slightest words. His beard, fineand glossy, concealed a somewhat heavy jaw. 

Two days later, M. De Lamare made his first call, just as they werediscussing the best place for a new rustic bench. The vicomte wasconsulted and agreed with the baroness, who differed from her husband. 

M. De Lamare expatiated on the picturesqueness of the country and fromtime to time, as if by chance, his eyes met those of Jeanne, and shefelt a strange sensation at the quickly averted glance which betrayedtender admiration and an awakened sympathy. 

M. De Lamare's father, who had died the preceding year, had known anintimate friend of the baroness's father, M. Cultaux, and this factled to an endless conversation about family, relations, dates, etc. , and names heard in her childhood were recalled, and led toreminiscences. 

The baron, whose nature was rather uncultivated, and whose beliefs andprejudices were not those of his class, knew little about theneighboring families, and inquired about them from the vicomte, whoresponded:

"Oh, there are very few of the nobility in the district, " just as hemight have said, "there are very few rabbits on the hills, " and hebegan to particularize: There was the Marquis de Coutelier, a sort ofleader of Norman aristocracy, Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Briseville, people of excellent stock, but living to themselves, and the Comte deFourville, a kind of ogre, who was said to have made his wife die ofsorrow, and who lived as a huntsman in his château of La Vrillette, built on a pond. There were a few parvenus among them who had boughtproperties here and there, but the vicomte did not know them. 

As he left, his last glance was for Jeanne, as if it were a specialtender and cordial farewell. The baroness was delighted with him, andthe baron said: "Yes, indeed, he is a gentleman. " And he was invitedto dinner the following week, and from that time came regularly. 

He generally arrived about four o'clock in the afternoon, went to jointhe baroness in "her avenue, " and offered her his arm while she tookher "exercise, " as she called her daily walks. When Jeanne was at homeshe would walk on the other side of her mother, supporting her, andall three would walk slowly back and forth from one end of the avenueto the other. He seldom addressed Jeanne directly, but his eyefrequently met hers. 

He went to Yport several times with Jeanne and the baron. One evening, when they were on the beach, Père Lastique accosted him, and withoutremoving his pipe, the absence of which would possibly have been moreremarkable than the loss of his nose, he said:

"With this wind, m'sieu le baron, we could easily go to Étretat andback to-morrow. "

Jeanne clasped her hands imploringly:

"Oh, papa, let us do it!"

The baron turned to M. De Lamare:

"Will you join us, vicomte? We can take breakfast down there. "

And the matter was decided at once. From daybreak Jeanne was up andwaiting for her father, who dressed more slowly. They walked in thedew across the level and then through the wood vibrant with thesinging of birds. The vicomte and Père Lastique were seated on acapstan. 

Two other sailors helped to shove off the boat from shore, which wasnot easy on the shingly beach. Once the boat was afloat, they all tooktheir seats, and the two sailors who remained on shore shoved it off. A light, steady breeze was blowing from the ocean and they hoisted thesail, veered a little, and then sailed along smoothly with scarcelyany motion. To landward the high cliff at the right cast a shadow onthe water at its base, and patches of sunlit grass here and therevaried its monotonous whiteness. Yonder, behind them, brown sails werecoming out of the white harbor of Fécamp, and ahead of them they saw arock of curious shape, rounded, with gaps in it looking something likean immense elephant with its trunk in the water; it was the littleport of Étretat. 

Jeanne, a little dizzy from the motion of the waves, held the side ofthe boat with one hand as she looked out into the distance. It seemedto her as if only three things in the world were really beautiful:light, space, water. 

No one spoke. Père Lastique, who was at the tiller, took a pull everynow and then from a bottle hidden under the seat; and he smoked ashort pipe which seemed inextinguishable, although he never seemed torelight it or refill it. 

The baron, seated in the bow looked after the sail. Jeanne and thevicomte seemed a little embarrassed at being seated side by side. Someunknown power seemed to make their glances meet whenever they raisedtheir eyes; between them there existed already that subtle and vaguesympathy which arises so rapidly between two young people when theyoung man is good looking and the girl is pretty. They were happy ineach other's society, perhaps because they were thinking of eachother. The rising sun was beginning to pierce through the slight mist, and as its beams grew stronger, they were reflected on the smoothsurface of the sea as in a mirror. 

"How beautiful!" murmured Jeanne, with emotion. 

"Beautiful indeed!" answered the vicomte. The serene beauty of themorning awakened an echo in their hearts. 

And all at once they saw the great arches of Étretat, like twosupports of a cliff standing in the sea high enough for vessels topass under them; while a sharp-pointed white rock rose in front of thefirst arch. They reached shore, and the baron got out first to makefast the boat, while the vicomte lifted Jeanne ashore so that sheshould not wet her feet. Then they walked up the shingly beach side byside, and they overheard Père Lastique say to the baron, "My! but theywould make a pretty couple!"

They took breakfast in a little inn near the beach, and while theocean had lulled their thoughts and made them silent, the breakfasttable had the opposite effect, and they chattered like children on avacation. The slightest thing gave rise to laughter. 

Père Lastique, on taking his place at table, carefully hid his lightedpipe in his cap. That made them laugh. A fly, attracted no doubt byhis red nose, persistently alighted on it, and each time it did sothey burst into laughter. Finally the old man could stand it nolonger, and murmured: "It is devilishly persistent!" whereupon Jeanneand the vicomte laughed till they cried. 

After breakfast Jeanne suggested that they should take a walk. Thevicomte rose, but the baron preferred to bask in the sun on the beach. 

"Go on, my children, you will find me here in an hour. "

They walked straight ahead of them, passing by several cottages andfinally by a small château resembling a large farm, and foundthemselves in an open valley that extended for some distance. They nowhad a wild longing to run at large in the fields. Jeanne seemed tohave a humming in her ears from all the new and rapidly changingsensations she had experienced. The burning rays of the sun fell onthem. On both sides of the road the crops were bending over from theheat. The grasshoppers, as numerous as the blades of grass, wereuttering their thin, shrill cry. 

Perceiving a wood a little further on to the right, they walked overto it. They saw a narrow path between two hedges shaded by tall treeswhich shut out the sun. A sort of moist freshness in the air wasperceptible, giving them a sensation of chilliness. There was nograss, owing to the lack of sunlight, but the ground was covered witha carpet of moss. 

"See, we can sit down there a little while, " she said. 

They sat down and looked about them at the numerous forms of life thatwere in the air and on the ground at their feet, for a ray of sunlightpenetrating the dense foliage brought them into its light. 

"How beautiful it is here! How lovely it is in the country! There aremoments when I should like to be a fly or a butterfly and hide in theflowers, " said Jeanne with emotion. 

They spoke in low tones as one does in exchanging confidences, tellingof their daily lives and of their tastes, and declaring that they werealready disgusted with the world, tired of its useless monotony; itwas always the same thing; there was no truth, no sincerity in it. 

The world! She would gladly have made its acquaintance; but she feltconvinced beforehand that it was not equal to a country life, and themore their hearts seemed to be in sympathy, the more ceremonious theybecame, the more frequently their glances met and blended smiling; andit seemed that a new feeling of benevolence was awakened in them, awider affection, an interest in a thousand things of which they hadnever hitherto thought. 

They wended their way back, but the baron had already set off on footfor the Chambre aux Demoiselles, a grotto in a cleft at the summit ofone of the cliffs, and they waited for him at the inn. He did notreturn until five in the evening after a long walk along the cliffs. 

They got into the boat, started off smoothly with the wind at theirbacks, scarcely seeming to make any headway. The breeze was irregular, at one moment filling the sail and then letting it flap idly along themast. The sea seemed opaque and lifeless, and the sun was slowlyapproaching the horizon. The lulling motion of the sea had made themsilent again. Presently Jeanne said, "How I should love to travel!"

"Yes, but it is tiresome to travel alone; there should be at leasttwo, to exchange ideas, " answered the vicomte. She reflected a moment. 

"That is true--I like to walk alone, however--how pleasant it is todream all alone----"

He gazed at her intently. 

"Two can dream as well as one. "

She lowered her eyes. Was it a hint? Possibly. She looked out at thehorizon as if to discover something beyond it, and then said slowly:

"I should like to go to Italy--and Greece--ah, yes, Greece--and toCorsica--it must be so wild and so beautiful!"

He preferred Switzerland on account of its chalets and its lakes. 

"No, " said she, "I like new countries like Corsica, or very oldcountries full of souvenirs, like Greece. It must be delightful tofind the traces of those peoples whose history we have known sincechildhood, to see places where great deeds were accomplished. "

The vicomte, less enthusiastic, exclaimed: "As for me, Englandattracts me very much; there is so much to be learned there. "

Then they talked about the world in general, discussing theattractions of each country from the poles to the equator, enthusingover imaginary scenes and the peculiar manners of certain peoples likethe Chinese and the Lapps; but they arrived at the conclusion that themost beautiful country in the world was France, with its temperateclimate, cool in summer, mild in winter, its rich soil, its greenforests, its worship of the fine arts which existed nowhere else sincethe glorious centuries of Athens. Then they were silent. The settingsun left a wide dazzling train of light which extended from thehorizon to the edge of their boat. The wind subsided, the ripplesdisappeared, and the motionless sail was red in the light of the dyingday. A limitless calm seemed to settle down on space and make asilence amid this conjunction of elements; and by degrees the sunslowly sank into the ocean. 

Then a fresh breeze seemed to arise, a little shiver went over thesurface of the water, as if the engulfed orb cast a sigh ofsatisfaction across the world. The twilight was short, night fell withits myriad stars. Père Lastique took the oars, and they saw that thesea was phosphorescent. Jeanne and the vicomte, side by side, watchedthe fitful gleams in the wake of the boat. They were hardly thinking, but simply gazing vaguely, breathing in the beauty of the evening in astate of delicious contentment; Jeanne had one hand on the seat andher neighbor's finger touched it as if by accident; she did not move;she was surprised, happy, though embarrassed at this slight contact. 

When she reached home that evening and went to her room, she feltstrangely disturbed, and so affected that the slightest thing impelledher to weep. She looked at her clock, imagining that the little bee onthe pendulum was beating like a heart, the heart of a friend; that itwas aware of her whole life, that with its quick, regular tickings itwould accompany her whole life; and she stopped the golden fly topress a kiss on its wings. She would have kissed anything, no matterwhat. She remembered having hidden one of her old dolls of former daysat the bottom of a drawer; she looked for it, took it out, and wasdelighted to see it again, as people are to see loved friends; andpressing it to her heart, she covered its painted cheeks and curly wigwith kisses. And as she held it in her arms, she thought:

Can _he_ be the husband promised through a thousand secretvoices, whom a superlatively good Providence had thus thrown acrossher path? Was he, indeed, the being created for her--the being to whomshe would devote her existence? Were they the two predestined beingswhose affection, blending in one, would beget love?

She did not as yet feel that tumultuous emotion, that mad enchantment, those deep stirrings which she thought were essential to the tenderpassion; but it seemed to her she was beginning to fall in love, forshe sometimes felt a sudden faintness when she thought of him, and shethought of him incessantly. His presence stirred her heart; sheblushed and grew pale when their eyes met, and trembled at the soundof his voice. 

From day to day the longing for love increased. She consulted themarguerites, the clouds, and coins which she tossed in the air. 

One day her father said to her:

"Make yourself look pretty to-morrow morning. "

"Why, papa?"

"That is a secret, " he replied. 

And when she came downstairs the following morning, looking fresh andsweet in a pretty light dress, she found the drawing-room tablecovered with boxes of bonbons, and on a chair an immense bouquet. 

A covered wagon drove into the courtyard bearing the inscription, "Lerat, Confectioner, Fécamp; Wedding Breakfasts, " and from the backof the wagon Ludivine and a kitchen helper were taking out large flatbaskets which emitted an appetizing odor. 

The Vicomte de Lamare appeared on the scene, his trousers werestrapped down under his dainty boots of patent leather, which made hisfeet appear smaller. His long frock coat, tight at the waist line, wasopen at the bosom showing the lace of his ruffle, and a fine neckclothwound several times round his neck obliged him to hold erect hishandsome brown head, with its air of serious distinction. Jeanne, inastonishment, looked at him as though she had never seen him before. She thought he looked the grand seigneur from his head to his feet. 

He bowed and said, smiling:

"Well, comrade, are you ready?"

"But what is it? What is going on?" she stammered. 

"You will know presently, " said the baron. 

The carriage drove up to the door, and Madame Adelaide, in festalarray, descended the staircase, leaning on the arm of Rosalie, who wasso much affected at the sight of M. De Lamare's elegant appearancethat the baron whispered:

"I say, vicomte, I think our maid admires you. "

The vicomte blushed up to his ears, pretended not to have heard and, taking up the enormous bouquet, handed it to Jeanne. She accepted it, more astonished than ever. They all four got into the carriage, andLudivine, who brought a cup of bouillon to the baroness to sustain herstrength, said: "Truly, madame, one would say it was a wedding!"

They alighted as soon as they entered Yport, and as they walkedthrough the village the sailors, in their new clothes, still showingthe creases, came out of their homes, and shaking hands with thebaron, followed the party as if it were a procession. The vicomte, whohad offered his arm to Jeanne, walked with her at the head. 

When they reached the church they stopped, and an acolyte appearedholding upright the large silver crucifix, followed by another boy inred and white, who bore a chalice containing holy water. 

Then came three old cantors, one of them limping; then the trumpet("serpent"), and last, the curé with his gold embroidered stole. Hesmiled and nodded a greeting; then, with his eyes half closed, hislips moving in prayer, his beretta well over his forehead, he followedhis surpliced bodyguard, walking in the direction of the sea. 

On the beach a crowd was standing around a new boat wreathed withflowers. Its mast, sail and ropes were covered with long streamers ofribbon that floated in the breeze, and the name, "Jeanne, " was paintedin gold letters on the stern. 

Père Lastique, the proprietor of this boat, built with the baron'smoney, advanced to meet the procession. All the men, simultaneously, took off their hats, and a row of pious persons wearing long blackcloaks falling in large folds from their shoulders, knelt down in acircle at sight of the crucifix. 

The curé walked, with an acolyte on either side of him, to one end ofthe boat, while at the other end, the three old cantors, in theirwhite surplices, with a serious air and their eyes fixed on thepsalter, sang at the top of their voices in the clear morning air. Each time they stopped to take breath, the "serpent" continued itsbellowing alone, and as he puffed out his cheeks the musician's littlegray eyes disappeared, and the skin of his forehead and neck seemed todistend. 

The motionless, transparent sea seemed to be taking part meditativelyin the baptism of this boat, rolling its tiny waves, no higher than afinger, with the faint sound of a rake on the shingle. And the bigwhite gulls, with their wings unfurled, circled about in the blueheavens, flying off and then coming back in a curve above the heads ofthe kneeling crowd, as if to see what they were doing. 

The singing ceased after an Amen that lasted five minutes; and thepriest, in an unctuous voice, murmured some Latin words, of which onecould hear only the sonorous endings. He then walked round the boat, sprinkling it with holy water, and next began to murmur the "Oremus, "standing alongside the boat opposite the sponsors, who remainedmotionless, hand in hand. 

The vicomte had the usual grave expression on his handsome face, butJeanne, choking with a sudden emotion, and on the verge of fainting, began to tremble so violently that her teeth chattered. The dream thathad haunted her for some time was suddenly beginning, as if in a kindof hallucination, to take the appearance of reality. They had spokenof a wedding, a priest was present, blessing them; men in surpliceswere singing psalms; was it not she whom they were giving in marriage?

Did her fingers send out an electric shock, did the emotion of herheart follow the course of her veins until it reached the heart of hercompanion? Did he understand, did he guess, was he, like herself, pervaded by a sort of intoxication of love? Or else, did he know byexperience, alone, that no woman could resist him? She suddenlynoticed that he was squeezing her hand, gently at first, and thentighter, tighter, till he almost crushed it. And without moving amuscle of his face, without anyone perceiving it, he said--yes, hecertainly said:

"Oh, Jeanne, if you would consent, this would be our betrothal. "

She lowered her head very slowly, perhaps meaning it for "yes. " Andthe priest, who was still sprinkling the holy water, sprinkled some ontheir fingers. 

The ceremony was over. The women rose. The return was unceremonious. The crucifix had lost its dignity in the hands of the acolyte, whowalked rapidly, the crucifix swaying to right and left, or bendingforward as though it would fall. The priest, who was not praying now, walked hurriedly behind them; the cantors and the musician with the"serpent" had disappeared by a narrow street, so as to get off theirsurplices without delay; and the sailors hurried along in groups. Onethought prompted their haste, and made their mouths water. 

A good breakfast was awaiting them at "The Poplars. "

The large table was set in the courtyard, under the apple trees. 

Sixty people sat down to table, sailors and peasants. The baroness inthe middle, with a priest at either side of her, one from Yport, andthe other belonging to "The Poplars. " The baron seated opposite her onthe other side of the table, the mayor on one side of him, and hiswife, a thin peasant woman, already aging, who kept smiling and bowingto all around her, on the other. 

Jeanne, seated beside her co-sponsor, was in a sea of happiness. Shesaw nothing, knew nothing, and remained silent, her mind bewilderedwith joy. Presently she said:

"What is your Christian name?"

"Julien, " he replied. "Did you not know?"

But she made no reply, thinking to herself:

"How often I shall repeat that name!"

When the feast was over, the courtyard was given up to the sailors, and the others went over to the other side of the château. Thebaroness began to take her exercise, leaning on the arm of the baronand accompanied by the two priests. Jeanne and Julien went toward thewood and walked along one of the mossy paths. Suddenly seizing herhands, the vicomte said:

"Tell me, will you be my wife?"

She lowered her head, and as he stammered: "Answer me, I implore you!"she raised her eyes to his timidly, and he read his answer there. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER IV

MARRIAGE AND DISILLUSION

The baron, one morning, entered Jeanne's room before she was up, andsitting down at the foot of her bed, said:

"M. Le Vicomte de Lamare has asked us for your hand in marriage. "

She wanted to hide her face under the sheets. 

Her father continued:

"We have postponed our answer for the present. "

She gasped, choking with emotion. At the end of a minute the baron, smiling, added:

"We did not wish to do anything without consulting you. Your motherand I are not opposed to this marriage, but we would not seek toinfluence you. You are much richer than he is; but, when it is aquestion of the happiness of a life, one should not think too muchabout money. He has no relations left. If you marry him, then, itwould be as if a son should come into our family; if it were anyoneelse, it would be you, our daughter, who would go among strangers. Theyoung fellow pleases us. Would he please you?"

She stammered, blushing up to the roots of her hair:

"I am willing, papa. "

And the father, looking into her eyes and still smiling, murmured:

"I half suspected it, young lady. "

She lived till evening in a condition of exhilaration, not knowingwhat she was doing, mechanically thinking of one thing by mistake foranother, and with a feeling of weariness, although she had not walkedat all. 

Toward six o'clock, as she was sitting with her mother under the planetree, the vicomte appeared. 

Jeanne's heart began to throb wildly. The young man approached themapparently without any emotion. When he was close beside them, he tookthe baroness' hand and kissed her fingers, then raising to his lipsthe trembling hand of the young girl, he imprinted upon it a long, tender and grateful kiss. 

And the radiant season of betrothal commenced. They would chattogether alone in the corner of the parlor, or else seated on the mossat the end of the wood overlooking the plain. Sometimes they walked inLittle Mother's Avenue; he, talking of the future, she, with her eyescast down, looking at the dusty footprints of the baroness. 

Once the matter was decided, they desired to waste no time inpreliminaries. It was, therefore, decided that the ceremony shouldtake place in six weeks, on the fifteenth of August; and that thebride and groom should set out immediately on their wedding journey. Jeanne, on being consulted as to which country she would like tovisit, decided on Corsica where they could be more alone than in thecities of Italy. 

They awaited the moment appointed for their marriage without too greatimpatience, but enfolded, lost in a delicious affection, expressed inthe exquisite charm of insignificant caresses, pressure of hands, longpassionate glances in which their souls seemed to blend; and, vaguelytortured by an uncertain longing for they knew not what. 

They decided to invite no one to the wedding except Aunt Lison, thebaron's sister, who boarded in a convent at Versailles. After thedeath of their father, the baroness wished to keep her sister withher. But the old maid, possessed by the idea that she was in everyone's way, was useless, and a nuisance, retired into one of thosereligious houses that rent apartments to people that live a sad andlonely existence. She came from time to time to pass a month or twowith her family. 

She was a little woman of few words, who always kept in thebackground, appeared only at mealtimes, and then retired to her roomwhere she remained shut in. 

She looked like a kind old lady, though she was only forty-two, andhad a sad, gentle expression. She was never made much of by her familyas a child, being neither pretty nor boisterous, she was never petted, and she would stay quietly and gently in a corner. She had beenneglected ever since. As a young girl nobody paid any attention toher. She was something like a shadow, or a familiar object, a livingpiece of furniture that one is accustomed to see every day, but aboutwhich one does not trouble oneself. 

Her sister, from long habit, looked upon her as a failure, analtogether insignificant being. They treated her with carelessfamiliarity which concealed a sort of contemptuous kindness. Shecalled herself Lise, and seemed embarrassed at this frivolous youthfulname. When they saw that she probably would not marry, they changed itfrom Lise to Lison, and since Jeanne's birth, she had become "AuntLison, " a poor relation, very neat, frightfully timid, even with hersister and her brother-in-law, who loved her, but with an uncertainaffection verging on indifference, with an unconscious compassion anda natural benevolence. 

Sometimes, when the baroness talked of far away things that happenedin her youth, she would say, in order to fix a date: "It was the timethat Lison had that attack. "

They never said more than that; and this "attack" remained shrouded, as in a mist. 

One evening, Lise, who was then twenty, had thrown herself into thewater, no one knew why. Nothing in her life, her manner, gave anyintimation of this seizure. They fished her out half dead, and herparents, raising their hands in horror, instead of seeking themysterious cause of this action, had contented themselves with callingit "that attack, " as if they were talking of the accident thathappened to the horse "Coco, " who had broken his leg a short timebefore in a ditch, and whom they had been obliged to kill. 

From that time Lise, presently Lison, was considered feeble-minded. The gentle contempt which she inspired in her relations gradually madeits way into the minds of all those who surrounded her. Little Jeanneherself, with the natural instinct of children, took no notice of her, never went up to kiss her good-night, never went into her room. GoodRosalie, alone, who gave the room all the necessary attention, seemedto know where it was situated. 

When Aunt Lison entered the dining-room for breakfast, the little onewould go up to her from habit and hold up her forehead to be kissed;that was all. 

If anyone wished to speak to her, they sent a servant to call her, andif she was not there, they did not bother about her, never thought ofher, never thought of troubling themselves so much as to say: "Why, Ihave not seen Aunt Lison this morning!"

When they said "Aunt Lison, " these two words awakened no feeling ofaffection in anyone's mind. It was as if one had said: "The coffeepot, or the sugar bowl. "

She always walked with little, quick, silent steps, never made anoise, never knocking up against anything; and seemed to communicateto surrounding objects the faculty of not making any sound. Her handsseemed to be made of a kind of wadding, she handled everything solightly and delicately. 

She arrived about the middle of July, all upset at the idea of thismarriage. She brought a quantity of presents which, as they came fromher, remained almost unnoticed. On the following day they hadforgotten she was there at all. 

But an unusual emotion was seething in her mind, and she never tookher eyes off the engaged couple. She interested herself in Jeanne'strousseau with a singular eagerness, a feverish activity, working likea simple seamstress in her room, where no one came to visit her. 

She was continually presenting the baroness with handkerchiefs she hadhemmed herself, towels on which she had embroidered a monogram, sayingas she did so: "Is that all right, Adelaide?" And little mother, asshe carelessly examined the objects, would reply: "Do not giveyourself so much trouble, my poor Lison. "

One evening, toward the end of the month, after an oppressively warmday, the moon rose on one of those clear, mild nights which seem tomove, stir and affect one, apparently awakening all the secret poetryof one's soul. The gentle breath of the fields was wafted into thequiet drawing-room. The baroness and her husband were playing cards bythe light of a lamp, and Aunt Lison was sitting beside them knitting;while the young people, leaning on the window sill, were gazing out atthe moonlit garden. 

The linden and the plane tree cast their shadows on the lawn whichextended beyond it in the moonlight, as far as the dark wood. Attracted by the tender charm of the night, and by this mistyillumination that lighted up the trees and the bushes, Jeanne turnedtoward her parents and said: "Little father, we are going to take ashort stroll on the grass in front of the house. "

The baron replied, without looking up: "Go, my children, " andcontinued his game. 

They went out and began to walk slowly along the moonlit lawn as faras the little wood at the end. The hour grew late and they did notthink of going in. The baroness grew tired, and wishing to retire, shesaid:

"We must call the lovers in. "

The baron cast a glance across the spacious garden where the two formswere wandering slowly. 

"Let them alone, " he said; "it is so delicious outside! Lison willwait for them, will you not, Lison?"

The old maid raised her troubled eyes and replied in her timid voice:

"Certainly, I will wait for them. "

Little father gave his hand to the baroness, weary himself from theheat of the day. 

"I am going to bed, too, " he said, and went up with his wife. 

Then Aunt Lison rose in her turn, and leaving on the arm of the chairher canvas with the wool and the knitting needles, she went over andleaned on the window sill and gazed out at the night. 

The two lovers kept on walking back and forth between the house andthe wood. They squeezed each other's fingers without speaking, asthough they had left their bodies and formed part of this visiblepoetry that exhaled from the earth. 

All at once Jeanne perceived, framed in the window, the silhouette ofthe aunt, outlined by the light of the lamp behind her. 

"See, " she said, "there is Aunt Lison looking at us. "

The vicomte raised his head, and said in an indifferent tone withoutthinking:

"Yes, Aunt Lison is looking at us. "

And they continued to dream, to walk slowly, and to love each other. But the dew was falling fast, and the dampness made them shiver alittle. 

"Let us go in now, " said Jeanne. And they went into the house. 

When they entered the drawing-room, Aunt Lison had gone back to herwork. Her head was bent over her work, and her fingers were tremblingas if she were very tired. 

"It is time to go to bed, aunt, " said Jeanne, approaching her. 

Her aunt turned her head, and her eyes were red as if she had beencrying. The young people did not notice it; but suddenly M. De Lamareperceived that Jeanne's thin shoes were covered with dew. He wasworried, and asked tenderly:

"Are not your dear little feet cold?"

All at once the old lady's hands shook so violently that she let fallher knitting, and hiding her face in her hands, she began to sobconvulsively. 

The engaged couple looked at her in amazement, without moving. Suddenly Jeanne fell on her knees, and taking her aunt's hands awayfrom her face, said in perplexity:

"Why, what is the matter, Aunt Lison?"

Then the poor woman, her voice full of tears, and her whole bodyshaking with sorrow, replied:

"It was when he asked you--are not your--your--dear little feetcold?--no one ever said such things to me--to me--never--never----"

Jeanne, surprised and compassionate, could still hardly help laughingat the idea of an admirer showing tender solicitude for Lison; and thevicomte had turned away to conceal his mirth. 

But the aunt suddenly rose, laying her ball of wool on the floor andher knitting in the chair, and fled to her room, feeling her way upthe dark staircase. 

Left alone, the young people looked at one another, amused andsaddened. Jeanne murmured:

"Poor aunt!" Julien replied. "She must be a little crazy thisevening. "

They held each other's hands and presently, gently, very gently, theyexchanged their first kiss, and by the following day had forgotten allabout Aunt Lison's tears. 

The two weeks preceding the wedding found Jeanne very calm, as thoughshe were weary of tender emotions. She had no time for reflection onthe morning of the eventful day. She was only conscious of a feelingas if her flesh, her bones and her blood had all melted beneath herskin, and on taking hold of anything, she noticed that her fingerstrembled. 

She did not regain her self-possession until she was in the chancel ofthe church during the marriage ceremony. 

Married! So she was married! All that had occurred since daybreakseemed to her a dream, a waking dream. There are such moments, whenall appears changed around us; even our motions seem to have a newmeaning; even the hours of the day, which seem to be out of theirusual time. She felt bewildered, above all else, bewildered. Lastevening nothing had as yet been changed in her life; the constant hopeof her life seemed only nearer, almost within reach. She had gone torest a young girl; she was now a married woman. She had crossed thatboundary that seems to conceal the future with all its joys, itsdreams of happiness. She felt as though a door had opened in front ofher; she was about to enter into the fulfillment of her expectations. 

When they appeared on the threshold of the church after the ceremony, a terrific noise caused the bride to start in terror, and the baronessto scream; it was a rifle salute given by the peasants, and the firingdid not cease until they reached "The Poplars. "

After a collation served for the family, the family chaplain, and thepriest from Yport, the mayor and the witnesses, who were some of thelarge farmers of the district, they all walked in the garden. On theother side of the château one could hear the boisterous mirth of thepeasants, who were drinking cider beneath the apple trees. The wholecountryside, dressed in their best, filled the courtyard. 

Jeanne and Julien walked through the copse and then up the slope and, without speaking, gazed out at the sea. The air was cool, although itwas the middle of August; the wind was from the north, and the sunblazed down unpityingly from the blue sky. The young people sought amore sheltered spot, and crossing the plain, they turned to the right, toward the rolling and wooded valley that leads to Yport. As soon asthey reached the trees the air was still, and they left the road andtook a narrow path beneath the trees, where they could scarcely walkabreast. 

Jeanne felt an arm passed gently round her waist. She said nothing, her breath came quick, her heart beat fast. Some low branches caressedtheir hair, as they bent to pass under them. She picked a leaf; twoladybirds were concealed beneath it, like two delicate red shells. 

"Look, a little family, " she said innocently, and feeling a littlemore confidence. 

Julien placed his mouth to her ear, and whispered: "This evening youwill be my wife. "

Although she had learned many things during her sojourn in thecountry, she dreamed of nothing as yet but the poetry of love, and wassurprised. His wife? Was she not that already?

Then he began to kiss her temples and neck, little light kisses. Startled each time afresh by these masculine kisses to which she wasnot accustomed, she instinctively turned away her head to avoid them, though they delighted her. But they had come to the edge of the wood. She stopped, embarrassed at being so far from home. What would theythink?

"Let us go home, " she said. 

He withdrew his arm from her waist, and as they turned round theystood face to face, so close that they could feel each other's breathon their faces. They gazed deep into one another's eyes with that gazein which two souls seem to blend. They sought the impenetrable unknownof each other's being. They sought to fathom one another, mutely andpersistently. What would they be to one another? What would this lifebe that they were about to begin together? What joys, what happiness, or what disillusions were they preparing in this long, indissolubletête-à-tête of marriage? And it seemed to them as if they had neveryet seen each other. 

Suddenly, Julien, placing his two hands on his wife's shoulders, kissed her full on the lips as she had never before been kissed. Thekiss, penetrating as it did her very blood and marrow, gave her such amysterious shock that she pushed Julien wildly away with her two arms, almost falling backward as she did so. 

"Let us go away, let us go away, " she faltered. 

He did not reply, but took both her hands and held them in his. Theywalked home in silence, and the rest of the afternoon seemed long. Thedinner was simple and did not last long, contrary to the usual Normancustom. A sort of embarrassment seemed to paralyze the guests. The twopriests, the mayor, and the four farmers invited, alone betrayed alittle of that broad mirth that is supposed to accompany weddings. 

They had apparently forgotten how to laugh, when a remark of themayor's woke them up. It was about nine o'clock; coffee was about tobe served. Outside, under the apple-trees of the first court, the balchampêtre was beginning, and through the open window one could see allthat was going on. Lanterns, hung from the branches, gave the leaves agrayish green tint. Rustics and their partners danced in a circleshouting a wild dance tune to the feeble accompaniment of two violinsand a clarinet, the players seated on a large table as a platform. Theboisterous singing of the peasants at times completely drowned theinstruments, and the feeble strains torn to tatters by theunrestrained voices seemed to fall from the air in shreds, in littlefragments of scattered notes. 

Two large barrels surrounded by flaming torches were tapped, and twoservant maids were kept busy rinsing glasses and bowls in order torefill them at the tap whence flowed the red wine, or at the tap ofthe cider barrel. On the table were bread, sausages and cheese. Everyone swallowed a mouthful from time to time, and beneath the roof ofilluminated foliage this wholesome and boisterous fête made themelancholy watchers in the dining-room long to dance also, and todrink from one of those large barrels, while they munched a slice ofbread and butter and a raw onion. 

The mayor, who was beating time with his knife, cried: "By Jove, thatis all right; it is like the wedding of Ganache. "

A suppressed giggle was heard, but Abbé Picot, the natural enemy ofcivil authority, cried: "You mean of Cana. " The other did not acceptthe correction. "No, monsieur le curé, I know what I am talking about;when I say Ganache, I mean Ganache. "

They rose from table and went into the drawing-room, and then outsideto mix with the merrymakers. The guests soon left. 

They went into the house. They were surprised to see Madame Adelaidesobbing on Julien's shoulder. Her tears, noisy tears, as if blown outby a pair of bellows, seemed to come from her nose, her mouth and hereyes at the same time; and the young man, dumfounded, awkward, wassupporting the heavy woman who had sunk into his arms to commend tohis care her darling, her little one, her adored daughter. 

The baron rushed toward them, saying: "Oh, no scenes, no tears, I begof you, " and, taking his wife to a chair, he made her sit down, whileshe wiped away her tears. Then, turning to Jeanne: "Come, little one, kiss your mother and go to bed. "

What happened then? She could hardly have told, for she seemed to havelost her head, but she felt a shower of little grateful kisses on herlips. 

Day dawned. Julien awoke, yawned, stretched, looked at his wife, smiled and asked: "Did you sleep well, darling?"

She noticed that he now said "thou, " and she replied, bewildered, "Why, yes. And you?" "Oh, very well, " he answered. And turning towardher, he kissed her and then began to chat quietly. He set before herplans of living, with the idea of economy, and this word occurringseveral times, astonished Jeanne. She listened without grasping themeaning of his words, looked at him, but was thinking of a thousandthings that passed rapidly through her mind hardly leaving a trace. 

The clock struck eight. "Come, we must get up, " he said. "It wouldlook ridiculous for us to be late. " When he was dressed he assistedhis wife with all the little details of her toilet, not allowing herto call Rosalie. As they left the room he stopped. "You know, when weare alone, we can now use 'thou, ' but before your parents it is betterto wait a while. It will be quite natural when we come back from ourwedding journey. "

She did not go down till luncheon was ready. The day passed like anyordinary day, as if nothing new had occurred. There was one man morein the house, that was all. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER V

CORSICA AND A NEW LIFE

Four days later the travelling carriage arrived that was to take themto Marseilles. 

After the first night Jeanne had become accustomed to Julien's kissesand caresses, although her repugnance to a closer intimacy had notdiminished. She thought him handsome, she loved him. She again felthappy and cheerful. 

The farewells were short and without sadness. The baroness aloneseemed tearful. As the carriage was just starting she placed a purse, heavy as lead, in her daughter's hand, saying, "That is for yourlittle expenses as a bride. "

Jeanne thrust the purse in her pocket and the carriage started. 

Toward evening Julien said: "How much money did your mother give youin that purse?"

She had not given it a thought, and she poured out the contents on herknees. A golden shower filled her lap: two thousand francs. Sheclapped her hands. "I shall commit all kinds of extravagance, " shesaid as she replaced it in the purse. 

After travelling eight days in terribly hot weather they reachedMarseilles. The following day the _Roi-Louis_, a little mailsteamer which went to Naples by way of Ajaccio, took them to Corsica. 

Corsica! Its "maquis, " its bandits, its mountains! The birthplace ofNapoleon! It seemed to Jeanne that she was leaving real life to enterinto a dream, although wide awake. Standing side by side on the bridgeof the steamer, they looked at the cliffs of Provence as they passedswiftly by them. The calm sea of deep blue seemed petrified beneaththe ardent rays of the sun. 

"Do you remember our excursion in Père Lastique's boat?" said Jeanne. 

Instead of replying, he gave her a hasty kiss on the ear. 

The paddle-wheels struck the water, disturbing its torpor, and a longtrack of foam like the froth of champagne remained in the wake of theboat, reaching as far as the eye could see. Jeanne drank in withdelight the odor of the salt mist that seemed to go to the very tipsof her fingers. Everywhere the sea. But ahead of them there wassomething gray, not clearly defined in the early dawn; a sort ofmassing of strange-looking clouds, pointed, jagged, seemed to rest onthe waters. 

Presently it became clearer, its outline more distinct on thebrightening sky; a large chain of mountains, peaked and weird, appeared. It was Corsica, covered with a light veil of mist. The sunrose behind it, outlining the jagged crests like black shadows. Thenall the summits were bathed in light, while the rest of the islandremained covered with mist. 

The captain, a little sun-browned man, dried up, stunted, toughenedand shrivelled by the harsh salt winds, appeared on the bridge and ina voice hoarse after twenty years of command and worn from shoutingamid the storms, said to Jeanne:

"Do you perceive it, that odor?"

She certainly noticed a strong and peculiar odor of plants, a wildaromatic odor. 

"That is Corsica that sends out that fragrance, madame, " said thecaptain. "It is her peculiar odor of a pretty woman. After being awayfor twenty years, I should recognize it five miles out at sea. Ibelong to it. He, down there, at Saint Helena, he speaks of it always, it seems, of the odor of his native country. He belongs to my family. "

And the captain, taking off his hat, saluted Corsica, saluted downyonder, across the ocean, the great captive emperor who belonged tohis family. 

Jeanne was so affected that she almost cried. 

Then, pointing toward the horizon, the captain said: "LesSanguinaires. "

Julien was standing beside his wife, with his arm round her waist, andthey both looked out into the distance to see what he was alluding to. They at length perceived some pyramidal rocks which the vessel roundedpresently to enter an immense peaceful gulf surrounded by loftysummits, the base of which was covered with what looked like moss. 

Pointing to this verdant growth, the captain said: "Le maquis. "

As they proceeded on their course the circle of mountains appeared toclose in behind the steamer, which moved along slowly in such a lakeof transparent azure that one could sometimes see to the bottom. 

The town suddenly appeared perfectly white at the end of the gulf, onthe edge of the water, at the base of the mountains. Some littleItalian boats were anchored in the dock. Four or five rowboats came upbeside the _Roi-Louis_ to get passengers. 

Julien, who was collecting the baggage, asked his wife in a low tone:"Twenty sous is enough, is it not, to give to the porter?" For a weekhe had constantly asked the same question, which annoyed her eachtime. She replied somewhat impatiently: "When one is not sure ofgiving enough, one gives too much. "

He was always disputing with the hotel proprietors, with the servants, the drivers, the vendors of all kinds, and when, by dint ofbargaining, he had obtained a reduction in price, he would say toJeanne as he rubbed his hands: "I do not like to be cheated. "

She trembled whenever a bill came in, certain beforehand of theremarks that he would make about each item, humiliated at thisbargaining, blushing up to the roots of her hair beneath thecontemptuous glances of the servants as they looked after her husband, while they held in their hand the meagre tip. 

He had a dispute with the boatmen who landed him. 

The first tree Jeanne saw was a palm. They went to a great, emptyhotel at the corner of an immense square and ordered breakfast. 

After an hour's rest they arranged an itinerary for their trip, and atthe end of three days spent in this little town, hidden at the end ofthe blue gulf, and hot as a furnace enclosed in its curtain ofmountains, which keep every breath of air from it, they decided tohire some saddle horses, so as to be able to cross any difficult pass, and selected two little Corsican stallions with fiery eyes, thin andunwearying, and set out one morning at daybreak. A guide, mounted on amule, accompanied them and carried the provisions, for inns areunknown in this wild country. 

The road ran along the gulf and soon turned into a kind of valley, andon toward the high mountains. They frequently crossed the dry beds oftorrents with only a tiny stream of water trickling under the stones, gurgling faintly like a wild animal in hiding. 

The uncultivated country seemed perfectly barren. The sides of thehills were covered with tall weeds, yellow from the blazing sun. Sometimes they met a mountaineer, either on foot or mounted on alittle horse, or astride a donkey about as big as a dog. They allcarried a loaded rifle slung across their backs, old rusty weapons, but redoubtable in their hands. 

The pungent odor of the aromatic herbs with which the island isovergrown seemed to make the air heavy. The road ascended graduallyamid the long curves of the mountains. The red or blue granite peaksgave an appearance of fairyland to the wild landscape, and on thefoothills immense forests of chestnut trees looked like green brush, compared with the elevations above them. 

Sometimes the guide, reaching out his hand toward some of theseheights, would repeat a name. Jeanne and Julien would look where hepointed, but see nothing, until at last they discovered somethinggray, like a mass of stones fallen from the summit. It was a littlevillage, a hamlet of granite hanging there, fastened on like averitable bird's nest and almost invisible on the huge mountain. 

Walking their horses like this made Jeanne nervous. "Let us gofaster, " she said. And she whipped up her horse. Then, as she did nothear her husband following her, she turned round and laughed heartilyas she saw him coming along, pale, and holding on to his horse's maneas it bounced him up and down. His very appearance of a "beaucavalier" made his awkwardness and timidity all the more comical. 

They trotted along quietly. The road now ran between two interminableforests of brush, which covered the whole side of the mountain like agarment. This was the "Maquis, " composed of scrub oak, juniper, arbutus, mastic, privet, gorse, laurel, myrtle and boxwood, intertwined with clematis, huge ferns, honeysuckle, cytisus, rosemary, lavender and brambles, which covered the sides of the mountain with animpenetrable fleece. 

They were hungry. The guide rejoined them and led them to one of thosecharming springs so frequent in rocky countries, a tiny thread of icedwater issuing from a little hole in the rock and flowing into achestnut leaf that some passerby had placed there to guide the waterinto one's mouth. 

Jeanne felt so happy that she could hardly restrain herself fromscreaming for joy. 

They continued their journey and began to descend the slope windinground the Bay of Sagone. Toward evening they passed through Cargese, the Greek village founded by a colony of refugees who were driven fromtheir country. Tall, beautiful girls, with rounded hips, long handsand slender waists, and singularly graceful, were grouped beside afountain. Julien called out, "Good evening, " and they replied inmusical tones in the harmonious language of their own land. 

When they reached Piana they had to beg for hospitality, as in ancienttimes and in desert lands. Jeanne trembled with joy as they waited forthe door to be opened after Julien knocked. Oh, this was a journeyworth while, with all the unexpected of unexplored paths. 

It happened to be the home of a young couple. They received thetravellers as the patriarchs must have received the guest sent by God. They had to sleep on a corn husk mattress in an old moldy house. Thewoodwork, all eaten by worms, overrun with long boring-worms, seemedto emit sounds, to be alive and to sigh. 

They set off again at daybreak, and presently stopped before a forest, a veritable forest of purple granite. There were peaks, pillars, bell-towers, wondrous forms molded by age, the ravaging wind and thesea mist. As much as three hundred metres in height, slender, round, twisted, hooked, deformed, unexpected and fantastic, these amazingrocks looked like trees, plants, animals, monuments, men, monks intheir garb, horned devils, gigantic birds, a whole population ofmonsters, a menagerie of nightmares petrified by the will of someeccentric divinity. 

Jeanne had ceased talking, her heart was full. She took Julien's handand squeezed it, overcome with a longing for love in presence of thebeauty of nature. 

Suddenly, as they emerged from this chaos, they saw before themanother gulf, encircled by a wall of blood-red granite. And these redrocks were reflected in the blue waters. 

"Oh, Julien!" faltered Jeanne, unable to speak for wonder and chokingwith her emotion. Two tears fell from her eyes. Julien gazed at her inastonishment and said:

"What is the matter, my pet?"

She wiped away her tears, smiled and replied in a rather shaky voice:

"Nothing--I am nervous--I do not know--it just came over me. I am sohappy that the least thing affects me. "

He could not understand these feminine attacks of "nerves, " the shocksof these vibrant beings, excited at nothing, whom enthusiasm stirs asmight a catastrophe, whom an imperceptible sensation completelyupsets, driving them wild with joy or despair. 

These tears seemed absurd to him, and thinking only of the bad road, he said:

"You would do better to watch your horse. "

They descended an almost impassable path to the shore of the gulf, then turned to the right to ascend the gloomy Val d'Ota. 

But the road was so bad that Julien proposed that they should go onfoot. Jeanne was delighted. She was enchanted at the idea of walking, of being alone with him after her late emotion. 

The guide went ahead with the mule and the horses and they walkedslowly. 

The mountain, cleft from top to bottom, spreads apart. The path liesin this breach, between two gigantic walls. A roaring torrent flowsthrough the gorge. The air is icy, the granite looks black, and highabove one the glimpse of blue sky astonishes and bewilders one. 

A sudden noise made Jeanne start. She raised her eyes. An immense birdflew away from a hollow; it was an eagle. His spread wings seemed tobrush the two walls of the gorge and he soared into the blue anddisappeared. 

Farther on there was a double gorge and the path lay between the twoin abrupt zigzags. Jeanne, careless and happy, took the lead, thepebbles rolling away beneath her feet, fearlessly leaning over theabysses. Julien followed her, somewhat out of breath, his eyes on theground for fear of becoming dizzy. 

All at once the sun shone down on them, and it seemed as if they wereleaving the infernal regions. They were thirsty, and following a trackof moisture, they crossed a wilderness of stones and found a littlespring conducted into a channel made of a piece of hollowed-out woodfor the benefit of the goatherds. A carpet of moss covered the groundall round it, and Jeanne and Julien knelt down to drink. 

As they were enjoying the fresh cold water, Julien tried to drawJeanne away to tease her. She resisted and their lips met and parted, and the stream of cold water splashed their faces, their necks, theirclothes and their hands, and their kisses mingled in the stream. 

They were a long time reaching the summit of the declivity, as theroad was so winding and uneven, and they did not reach Evisa untilevening and the house of Paoli Palabretti, a relative of their guide. 

He was a tall man, somewhat bent, with the mournful air of aconsumptive. He took them to their room, a cheerless room of barestone, but handsome for this country, where all elegance is ignored. He expressed in his language--the Corsican patois, a jumble of Frenchand Italian--his pleasure at welcoming them, when a shrill voiceinterrupted him. A little swarthy woman, with large black eyes, a skinwarmed by the sun, a slender waist, teeth always showing in aperpetual smile, darted forward, kissed Jeanne, shook Julien's handand said: "Good-day, madame; good-day, monsieur; I hope you are well. "

She took their hats, shawls, carrying all on one arm, for the otherwas in a sling, and then she made them all go outside, saying to herhusband: "Go and take them for a walk until dinner time. "

M. Palabretti obeyed at once and walked between the two young peopleas he showed them the village. He dragged his feet and his words, coughing frequently, and repeating at each attack of coughing:

"It is the air of the Val, which is cool, and has struck my chest. "

He led them on a by-path beneath enormous chestnut trees. Suddenly hestopped and said in his monotonous voice: "It is here that my cousin, Jean Rinaldi, was killed by Mathieu Lori. See, I was there, close toJean, when Mathieu appeared at ten paces from us. 'Jean, ' he cried, 'do not go to Albertacce; do not go, Jean, or I will kill you. I warnyou!'

"I took Jean's arm: 'Do not go there, Jean; he will do it. '

"It was about a girl whom they were both after, Paulina Sinacoupi. 

"But Jean cried out: 'I am going, Mathieu; you will not be the one toprevent me. '

"Then Mathieu unslung his gun, and before I could adjust mine, hefired. 

"Jean leaped two feet in the air, like a child skipping, yes, monsieur, and he fell back full on me, so that my gun went off androlled as far as the big chestnut tree over yonder. 

"Jean's mouth was wide open, but he did not utter a word; he wasdead. "

The young people gazed in amazement at the calm witness of this crime. Jeanne asked:

"And what became of the assassin?"

Paoli Palabretti had a long fit of coughing and then said:

"He escaped to the mountain. It was my brother who killed him thefollowing year. You know, my brother, Philippi Palabretti, thebandit. "

Jeanne shuddered. 

"Your brother a bandit?"

With a gleam of pride in his eye, the calm Corsican replied:

"Yes, madame. He was celebrated, that one. He laid low six gendarmes. He died at the same time as Nicolas Morali, when they were trapped inthe Niolo, after six days of fighting, and were about to die ofhunger. 

"The country is worth it, " he added with a resigned air in the sametone in which he said: "It is the air of the Val, which is cool. "

Then they went home to dinner, and the little Corsican woman behavedas if she had known them for twenty years. 

But Jeanne was worried. When Julien again held her in his arms, wouldshe experience the same strange and intense sensation that she hadfelt on the moss beside the spring? And when they were alone togetherthat evening she trembled lest she should still be insensible to hiskisses. But she was reassured, and this was her first night of love. 

The next day, as they were about to set out, she decided that shewould not leave this humble cottage, where it seemed as though a freshhappiness had begun for her. 

She called her host's little wife into her room and, while makingclear that she did not mean it as a present, she insisted, even withsome annoyance, on sending her from Paris, as soon as she arrived, aremembrance, a remembrance to which she attached an almostsuperstitious significance. 

The little Corsican refused for some time, not wishing to accept it. But at last she consented, saying:

"Well, then, send me a little pistol, a very small one. "

Jeanne opened her eyes in astonishment. The other added in her ear, asone confides a sweet and intimate secret: "It is to kill mybrother-in-law. " And smiling, she hastily unwound the bandages aroundthe helpless arm, and showing her firm, white skin with the scratch ofa stiletto across it, now almost healed, she said: "If I had not beenalmost as strong as he is, he would have killed me. My husband is notjealous, he knows me; and, besides, he is ill, you know, and thatquiets your blood. And, besides, madame, I am an honest woman; but mybrother-in-law believes all that he hears. He is jealous for myhusband and he will surely try it again. Then I shall have my littlepistol; I shall be easy, and sure of my revenge. "

Jeanne promised to send the weapon, kissed her new friend tenderly andthey set out on their journey. 

The rest of the trip was nothing but a dream, a continual series ofembraces, an intoxication of caresses. She saw nothing, neither thelandscape, nor the people, nor the places where they stopped. She sawnothing but Julien. 

On arriving at Bastia, they had to pay the guide. Julien fumbled inhis pockets. Not finding what he wanted, he said to Jeanne: "As youare not using your mother's two thousand francs, give them to me tocarry. They will be safer in my belt, and it will avoid my having tomake change. "

She handed him her purse. 

They went to Leghorn, visited Florence, Genoa and all the Cornici. They reached Marseilles on a morning when the north wind was blowing. Two months had elapsed since they left the "Poplars. " It was now the15th of October. 

Jeanne, affected by the cold wind that seemed to come from yonder, from far-off Normandy, felt sad. Julien had, for some time, appearedchanged, tired, indifferent, and she feared she knew not what. 

They delayed their return home four days longer, not being able tomake up their minds to leave this pleasant land of the sun. It seemedto her that she had come to an end of her happiness. 

At length they left. They were to make all their purchases in Paris, prior to settling down for good at the "Poplars, " and Jeanne lookedforward to bringing back some treasures, thanks to her mother'spresent. But the first thing she thought of was the pistol promised tothe little Corsican woman of Evisa. 

The day after they arrived she said to Julien: "Dear, will you give methat money of mamma's? I want to make my purchases. "

He turned toward her with a look of annoyance. 

"How much do you want?"

"Why--whatever you please. "

"I will give you a hundred francs, " he replied, "but do not squanderit. "

She did not know what to say, amazed and confused. At length shefaltered: "But--I--handed you the money to----"

He did not give her time to finish. 

"Yes, of course. Whether it is in my pocket or yours makes nodifference from the moment that we have the same purse. I do notrefuse you, do I, since I am giving you a hundred francs?"

She took the five gold pieces without saying a word, but she did notventure to ask for any more, and she bought nothing but the pistol. 

Eight days later they set out for the "Poplars. "

 * * * * *

CHAPTER VI

DISENCHANTMENT

The family and servants were awaiting them outside the white gate withbrick supports. The post-chaise drew up and there were long andaffectionate greetings. Little mother wept; Jeanne, affected, wipedaway some tears; father nervously walked up and down. 

Then, as the baggage was being unloaded, they told of their travelsbeside the parlor fire. Jeanne's words flowed freely, and everythingwas told, everything, in a half hour, except, perhaps, a few littledetails forgotten in this rapid account. 

The young wife then went to undo her parcels. Rosalie, also greatlyaffected, assisted her. When this was finished and everything had beenput away, the little maid left her mistress, and Jeanne, somewhatfatigued, sat down. 

She asked herself what she was now going to do, seeking someoccupation for her mind, some work for her hands. She did not care togo down again into the drawing-room, where her mother was asleep, andshe thought she would take a walk. But the country seemed so sad thatshe felt a weight at her heart on only looking out of the window. 

Then it came to her that she had no longer anything to do, never againanything to do. All her young life at the convent had been preoccupiedwith the future, busied with dreams. The constant excitement of hopefilled her hours at that time, so that she was not aware of theirflight. Then hardly had she left those austere walls, where herillusions had unfolded, than her expectations of love were at oncerealized. The longed-for lover, met, loved and married within a fewweeks, as one marries on these sudden resolves, had carried her off inhis arms, without giving her time for reflection. 

But now the sweet reality of the first days was to become the everydayreality, which closed the door on vague hopes, on the enchantingworries of the unknown. Yes, there was nothing more to look forwardto. And there was nothing more to do, today, to-morrow, never. Shefelt all this vaguely as a certain disillusion, a certain crumbling ofher dreams. 

She rose and leaned her forehead against the cold window panes. 

Then, after gazing for some time at the sky across which dark cloudswere passing, she decided to go out. 

Was this the same country, the same grass, the same trees as in May?What had become of the sunlit cheerfulness of the leaves and thepoetry of the green grass, where dandelions, poppies and moon daisiesbloomed and where yellow butterflies fluttered as though held byinvisible wires? And this intoxication of the air teeming with life, with fragrance, with fertilizing pollen, existed no longer!

The avenues, soaked by the constant autumnal downpours, were coveredwith a thick carpet of fallen leaves which extended beneath theshivering bareness of the almost leafless poplars. She went as far asthe shrubbery. It was as sad as the chamber of a dying person. A greenhedge which separated the little winding walks was bare of leaves. Little birds flew from place to place with a little chilly cry, seeking a shelter. 

The thick curtain of elm trees that formed a protection against thesea wind, the lime tree and the plane tree with their crimson andyellow tints seemed clothed, the one in red velvet and the other inyellow silk. 

Jeanne walked slowly up and down petite mère's avenue, alongside theCouillards' farm. Something weighed on her spirit like a presentimentof the long boredom of the monotonous life about to begin. 

She seated herself on the bank where Julien had first told her of hislove and remained there, dreaming, scarcely thinking, depressed to thevery soul, longing to lie down, to sleep, in order to escape thedreariness of the day. 

All at once she perceived a gull crossing the sky, carried away in agust of wind, and she recalled the eagle she had seen down there inCorsica, in the gloomy vale of Ota. She felt a spasm at her heart asat the remembrance of something pleasant that is gone by, and she hada sudden vision of the beautiful island with its wild perfume, its sunthat ripens oranges and lemons, its mountains with their rosy summits, its azure gulfs and its ravines through which the torrents flowed. 

And the moist, severe landscape that surrounded her, with the fallingleaves and the gray clouds blown along by the wind, enfolded her insuch a heavy mantle of misery that she went back to the house to keepfrom sobbing. 

Her mother was dozing in a torpid condition in front of the fire, accustomed to the melancholy of the long days, and not noticing it anylonger. Her father and Julien had gone for a walk to talk aboutbusiness matters. Night was coming on, filling the large drawing-roomwith gloom lighted by reflections of light from the fire. 

The baron presently appeared, followed by Julien. As soon as thevicomte entered the room he rang the bell, saying: "Quick, quick, letus have some light! It is gloomy in here. "

And he sat down before the fire. While his wet shoes were steaming inthe warmth and the mud was drying on his soles, he rubbed his handscheerfully as he said: "I think it is going to freeze; the sky isclearing in the north, and it is full moon to-night; we shall have astinger to-night. "

Then turning to his daughter: "Well, little one, are you glad to beback again in your own country, in your own home, with the old folks?"

This simple question upset Jeanne. She threw herself into her father'sarms, her eyes full of tears, and kissed him nervously, as thoughasking pardon, for in spite of her honest attempt to be cheerful, shefelt sad enough to give up altogether. She recalled the joy she hadpromised herself at seeing her parents again, and she was surprised atthe coldness that seemed to numb her affection, just as if, afterconstantly thinking of those one loves, when at a distance and unableto see them at any moment, one should feel, on seeing them again, asort of check of affection, until the bonds of their life in commonhad been renewed. 

Dinner lasted a long time. No one spoke much. Julien appeared to haveforgotten his wife. 

In the drawing-room Jeanne sat before the fire in a drowsy condition, opposite little mother, who was sound asleep. Aroused by the voices ofthe men, Jeanne asked herself, as she tried to rouse herself, if she, too, was going to become a slave to this dreary lethargy of habit thatnothing varies. 

The baron approached the fire, and holding out his hands to theglowing flame, he said, smiling: "Ah, that burns finely this evening. It is freezing, children; it is freezing. " Then, placing his hand onJeanne's shoulder and pointing to the fire, he said: "See here, littledaughter, that is the best thing in life, the hearth, the hearth, withone's own around one. Nothing else counts. But supposing we retire. You children must be tired out. "

When she was in her room, Jeanne asked herself how she could feel sodifferently on returning a second time to the place that she thoughtshe loved. Why did she feel as though she were wounded? Why did thishouse, this beloved country, all that hitherto had thrilled her withhappiness, now appear so distressing?

Her eyes suddenly fell on her clock. The little bee was still swingingfrom left to right and from right to left with the same quick, continuous motion above the scarlet blossoms. All at once an impulseof tenderness moved her to tears at sight of this little piece ofmechanism that seemed to be alive. She had not been so affected onkissing her father and mother. The heart has mysteries that noarguments can solve. 

For the first time since her marriage she was alone, Julien, underpretext of fatigue, having taken another room. 

She lay awake a long time, unaccustomed to being alone and disturbedby the bleak north wind which beat against the roof. 

She was awakened the next morning by a bright light that flooded herroom. She put on a dressing gown and ran to the window and opened it. 

An icy breeze, sharp and bracing, streamed into the room, making herskin tingle and her eyes water. The sun appeared behind the trees on acrimson sky, and the earth, covered with frost and dry and hard, rangout beneath one's footsteps. In one night all the leaves had blown offthe trees, and in the distance beyond the level ground was seen thelong green line of water, covered with trails of white foam. 

Jeanne dressed herself and went out, and for the sake of an object shewent to call on the farmers. 

The Martins held up their hands in surprise, and Mrs. Martin kissedher on both cheeks, and then they made her drink a glass of noyau. Shethen went to the other farm. The Couillards also were surprised. Mrs. Couillard pecked her on the ears and she had to drink a glass ofcassis. Then she went home to breakfast. 

The day went by like the previous day, cold instead of damp. And theother days of the week resembled these two days, and all the weeks ofthe month were like the first week. 

Little by little, however, she ceased to regret far-off lands. Theforce of habit was covering her life with a layer of resignationsimilar to the lime-stone formation deposited on objects by certainsprings. And a kind of interest for the thousand-and-one littleinsignificant things of daily life, a care for the simple, ordinaryeveryday occupations, awakened in her heart. A sort of pensivemelancholy, a vague disenchantment with life was growing up in hermind. What did she lack? What did she want? She did not know. She hadno worldly desires, no thirst for amusement, no longing forpermissible pleasures. What then? Just as old furniture tarnishes intime, so everything was slowly becoming faded to her eyes, everythingseemed to be fading, to be taking on pale, dreary shades. 

Her relations with Julien had completely changed. He seemed to bequite different since they came back from their honeymoon, like anactor who has played his part and resumes his ordinary manner. Hescarcely paid any attention to her or even spoke to her. All trace oflove had suddenly disappeared, and he seldom came into her room atnight. 

He had taken charge of the money and of the house, changed the leases, worried the peasants, cut down expenses, and having adopted thecostume of a gentleman farmer, he had lost his polish and elegance asa fiancé. 

He always wore the same suit, although it was covered with spots. Itwas an old velveteen shooting jacket with brass buttons, that he hadfound among his former wardrobe, and with the carelessness that isfrequent with those who no longer seek to please, he had given upshaving, and his long beard, badly cut, made an incredible change forthe worse in his appearance. His hands were never cared for, and aftereach meal he drank four or five glasses of brandy. 

Jeanne tried to remonstrate with him gently, but he had answered herso abruptly: "Won't you let me alone!" that she never ventured to givehim any more advice. 

She had adapted herself to these changes in a manner that surprisedherself. He had become a stranger to her, a stranger whose mind andheart were closed to her. She constantly thought about it, askingherself how it was that after having met, loved, married in an impulseof affection, they should all at once find themselves almost as muchstrangers as though they had never shared the same room. 

And how was it that she did not feel this neglect more deeply? Wasthis life? Had they deceived themselves? Did the future hold nothingfurther for her?

If Julien had remained handsome, carefully dressed, elegant, she mightpossibly have suffered more deeply. 

It had been agreed that after the new year the young couple shouldremain alone and that the father and mother should go back to spend afew months at their house in Rouen. The young people were not to leavethe "Poplars" that winter, so as to get thoroughly settled and tobecome accustomed to each other and to the place where all their lifewould be passed. They had a few neighbors to whom Julien wouldintroduce his wife. These were the Brisevilles, the Colteliers and theFourvilles. 

But the young people could not begin to pay calls because they had notas yet been able to get a painter to alter the armorial bearings onthe carriage. 

The old family coach had been given up to his son-in-law by the baron, and nothing would have induced him to show himself at the neighboringchâteaux if the coat-of-arms of the De Lamares were not quartered withthose of the Le Perthuis des Vauds. 

There was only one man in the district who made a specialty ofheraldic designs, a painter of Bolbec, called Bataille, who was indemand at all the Norman castles in turn to make these preciousdesigns on the doors of carriages. 

At length one morning in December, just as they were finishingbreakfast, they saw an individual open the gate and walk toward thehouse. He was carrying a box on his back. This was Bataille. 

They offered him some breakfast, and, while he was eating, the baronand Julien made sketches of quarterings. The baroness, all upset assoon as these things were discussed, gave her opinion. And even Jeannetook part in the discussion, as though some mysterious interest hadsuddenly awakened in her. 

Bataille, while eating, gave his ideas, at times taking the pencil andtracing a design, citing examples, describing all the aristocraticcarriages in the countryside, and seemed to have brought with him inhis ideas, even in his voice, a sort of atmosphere of aristocracy. 

As soon as he had finished his coffee, they all went to the coachhouse. They took off the cover of the carriage and Bataille examinedit. He then gravely gave his views as to the size he consideredsuitable for the design, and after an exchange of ideas, he set towork. 

Notwithstanding the cold, the baroness had her chair brought out so asto watch him working, and then her foot-stove, for her feet werefreezing. She then began to chat with the painter, on all the recentbirths, deaths and marriages of which she had not heard, thus addingto the genealogical tree which she carried in her memory. 

Julien sat beside her, astride on a chair. He was smoking, spitting onthe ground, listening and following with his glances the emblazoningof his rank. 

Presently old Simon, who was on his way to the vegetable garden, hisspade on his shoulder, stopped to look at the work; and as Bataille'sarrival had become known at the two farms, the farmers' wives soon putin an appearance. They went into raptures, standing one at either sideof the baroness, exclaiming: "My! it requires some cleverness all thesame to fix up those things. "

The two doors could not be finished before the next day about eleveno'clock. Every one was on hand; and they dragged the carriage outsideso as to get a better view of it. 

It was perfect. Bataille was complimented, and went off with his boxon his back. They all agreed that the painter had great ability, andif circumstances had been favorable would doubtless have been a greatartist. 

Julien, by way of economy, had introduced great reforms whichnecessitated making some changes. The old coachman had been madegardener, Julien undertaking to drive himself, having sold thecarriage horses to avoid buying feed for them. But as it was necessaryto have some one to hold the horses when he and his wife got out ofthe carriage, he had made a little cow tender named Marius into agroom. Then in order to get some horses, he introduced a specialclause into the Couillards' and Martins' leases, by which they werebound to supply a horse each, on a certain day every month, the dateto be fixed by him; and this would exempt them from their tribute ofpoultry. 

So the Couillards brought a big yellow horse, and the Martins a smallwhite animal with long, unclipped coat, and the two were harnessed uptogether. Marius, buried in an old livery belonging to old Simon, ledthe carriage up to the front door. 

Julien, looking clean and brushed up, looked a little like his formerself; but his long beard gave him a common look in spite of all. Helooked over the horses, the carriage, and the little groom, and seemedsatisfied, the only really important thing to him being the newlypainted escutcheon. 

The baroness came down leaning on her husband's arm and got into thecarriage. Then Jeanne appeared. She began to laugh at the horses, saying that the white one was the son of the yellow horse; then, perceiving Marius, his face buried under his hat with its cockade, hisnose alone preventing it from covering his face altogether, his handshidden in his long sleeves, and the tail of his coat forming a skirtround his legs, his feet encased in immense shoes showing in a comicalmanner beneath it, and then when he threw his head back so as to see, and lifted up his leg to walk as if he were crossing a river, sheburst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. 

The baron turned round, glanced at the little bewildered groom and he, too, burst out laughing, calling to his wife: "Look at Ma-Ma-Marius!Is he not comical? Heavens, how funny he looks!"

The baroness, looking out of the carriage window, was also convulsed, so that the carriage shook on its springs. 

But Julien, pale with anger, asked: "What makes you laugh like that?Are you crazy?"

Jeanne, quite convulsed and unable to stop laughing, sat down on thedoorstep; the baron did the same, while, in the carriage, spasmodicsneezes, a sort of constant chuckling, told that the baroness waschoking. Presently there was a motion beneath Marius' livery. He had, doubtless, understood the joke, for he was shaking with laughterbeneath his hat. 

Julien darted forward in exasperation. With a box on the ear he sentthe boy's hat flying across the lawn; then, turning toward hisfather-in-law, he stammered in a voice trembling with rage: "It seemsto me that you should be the last to laugh. We should not be where weare now if you had not wasted your money and ruined your property. Whose fault is it if you are ruined?"

The laughter ceased at once, and no one spoke. Jeanne, now ready tocry, got into the carriage and sat beside her mother. The baron, silent and astonished, took his place opposite the two ladies, andJulien sat on the box after lifting to the seat beside him the weepingboy, whose face was beginning to swell. 

The road was dreary and appeared long. The occupants of the carriagewere silent. All three sad and embarrassed, they would not acknowledgeto one another what was occupying their thoughts. They felt that theycould not talk on indifferent subjects while these thoughts hadpossession of them, and preferred to remain silent than to allude tothis painful subject. 

They drove past farmyards, the carriage jogging along unevenly withthe ill-matched animals, putting to flight terrified black hens whoplunged into the bushes and disappeared, occasionally followed by abarking wolf-hound. 

At length they entered a wide avenue of pine trees, at the end ofwhich was a white, closed gate. Marius ran to open it, and they drovein round an immense grass plot, and drew up before a high, spacious, sad-looking building with closed shutters. 

The hall door opened abruptly, and an old, paralyzed servant wearing ablack waistcoat with red stripes partially covered by his workingapron slowly descended the slanting steps. He took the visitors' namesand led them into an immense reception room, and opened withdifficulty the Venetian blinds which were always kept closed. Thefurniture had covers on it, and the clock and candelabra were wrappedin white muslin. An atmosphere of mildew, an atmosphere of formerdays, damp and icy, seemed to permeate one's lungs, heart and skinwith melancholy. 

They all sat down and waited. They heard steps in the hall above themthat betokened unaccustomed haste. The hosts were hurriedly dressing. The baroness, who was chilled, sneezed constantly. Julien paced up anddown. Jeanne, despondent, sat beside her mother. The baron leanedagainst the marble mantelpiece with his head bent down. 

Finally, one of the tall doors opened, and the Vicomte and Vicomtessede Briseville appeared. They were both small, thin, vivacious, of noage in particular, ceremonious and embarrassed. 

After the first greetings, there seemed to be nothing to say. So theybegan to congratulate each other for no special reason, and hoped thatthese friendly relations would be kept up. It was a treat to seepeople when one lived in the country the year round. 

The icy atmosphere pierced to their bones and made their voiceshoarse. The baroness was coughing now and had stopped sneezing. Thebaron thought it was time to leave. The Brisevilles said: "What, sosoon? Stay a little longer. " But Jeanne had risen in spite of Julien'ssignals, for he thought the visit too short. 

They attempted to ring for the servant to order the carriage to thedoor, but the bell would not ring. The host started out himself toattend to it, but found that the horses had been put in the stable. 

They had to wait. Every one tried to think of something to say. Jeanne, involuntarily shivering with cold, inquired what their hostsdid to occupy themselves all the year round. The Brisevilles were muchastonished; for they were always busy, either writing letters to theiraristocratic relations, of whom they had a number scattered all overFrance, or attending to microscopic duties, as ceremonious to oneanother as though they were strangers, and talking grandiloquently ofthe most insignificant matters. 

At last the carriage passed the windows with its ill-matched team. ButMarius had disappeared. Thinking he was off duty until evening, he haddoubtless gone for a walk. 

Julien, perfectly furious, begged them to send him home on foot, andafter a great many farewells on both sides, they set out for the"Poplars. "

As soon as they were inside the carriage, Jeanne and her father, inspite of Julien's brutal behavior of the morning which still weighedon their minds, began to laugh at the gestures and intonations of theBrisevilles. The baron imitated the husband, and Jeanne the wife. Butthe baroness, a little touchy in these particulars, said: "You arewrong to ridicule them thus; they are people of excellent family. "They were silent out of respect for little mother, but nevertheless, from time to time, Jeanne and her father began again. The baronesscould not forbear smiling in her turn, but she repeated: "It is notnice to laugh at people who belong to our class. "

Suddenly the carriage stopped, and Julien called out to someone behindit. Then Jeanne and the baron, leaning out, saw a singular creaturethat appeared to be rolling along toward them. His legs entangled inhis flowing coattails, and blinded by his hat which kept falling overhis face, shaking his sleeves like the sails of a windmill, andsplashing into puddles of water, and stumbling against stones in theroad, running and bounding, Marius was following the carriage as fastas his legs could carry him. 

As soon as he caught up with it, Julien, leaning over, seized him bythe collar of his coat, sat him down beside him, and letting go thereins, began to shower blows on the boy's hat, which sank down to hisshoulders with the reverberations of a drum. The boy screamed, triedto get away, to jump from the carriage, while his master, holding himwith one hand, continued beating him with the other. 

Jeanne, dumfounded, stammered: "Father--oh, father!" And the baroness, wild with indignation, squeezed her husband's arm. "Stop him, Jack!"she exclaimed. The baron quickly lowered the front window, and seizinghold of his son-in-law's sleeve, he sputtered out in a voice tremblingwith rage: "Have you almost finished beating that child?"

Julien turned round in astonishment: "Don't you see what a conditionhis livery is in?"

But the baron, placing his head between them, said: "Well, what do Icare? There is no need to be brutal like that!"

Julien got angry again: "Let me alone, please; this is not youraffair!" And he was raising his hand again when his father-in-lawcaught hold of it and dragged it down so roughly that he knocked itagainst the wood of the seat, and he roared at him so loud: "If you donot stop, I shall get out, and I will see that you stop it, myself, "that Julien calmed down at once, and shrugging his shoulders withoutreplying, he whipped up the horses, who set out at a quick trot. 

The two women, pale as death, did not stir, and one could heardistinctly the thumping of the baroness' heart. 

At dinner Julien was more charming than usual, as though nothing hadoccurred. Jeanne, her father, and Madame Adelaide, pleased to see himso amiable, fell in with his mood, and when Jeanne mentioned theBrisevilles, he laughed at them himself, adding, however: "All thesame, they have the grand air. "

They made no more visits, each one fearing to revive the Mariusepisode. They decided, to send New Year's cards, and to wait until thefirst warm days of spring before paying any more calls. 

At Christmas they invited the curé, the mayor and his wife to dinner, and again on New Year's Day. These were the only events that variedthe monotony of their life. The baron and his wife were to leave "ThePoplars" on the ninth of January. Jeanne wanted to keep them, butJulien did not acquiesce, and the baron sent for a post-chaise fromRouen, seeing his son-in-law's coolness. 

The day before their departure, as it was a clear frost, Jeanne andher father decided to go to Yport, which they had not visited sinceher return from Corsica. They crossed the wood where she had strolledon her wedding-day, all wrapped up in the one whose lifelong companionshe had become; the wood where she had received her first kiss, trembled at the first breath of love, had a presentiment of thatsensual love of which she did not become aware until she was in thewild vale of Ota beside the spring where they mingled their kisses asthey drank of its waters. The trees were now leafless, the climbingvines dead. 

They entered the little village. The empty, silent streets smelled ofthe sea, of wrack, of fish. Huge brown nets were still hanging up todry outside the houses, or stretched out on the shingle. The gray, cold sea, with its eternal roaring foam, was going out, uncovering thegreen rocks at the foot of the cliff toward Fécamp. 

Jeanne and her father, motionless, watched the fishermen setting outin their boats in the dusk, as they did every night, risking theirlives to keep from starving, and so poor, nevertheless, that theynever tasted meat. 

The baron, inspired at the sight of the ocean, murmured: "It isterrible, but it is beautiful. How magnificent this sea is on whichthe darkness is falling, and on which so many lives are in peril, isit not, Jeannette?"

She replied with a cold smile: "It is nothing to the Mediterranean. "

Her father, indignant, exclaimed: "The Mediterranean! It is oil, sugarwater, bluing water in a washtub. Look at this sea, how terrible it iswith its crests of foam! And think of all those men who have set outon it, and who are already out of sight. "

Jeanne assented with a sigh: "Yes, if you think so. " But this name, "Mediterranean, " had wrung her heart afresh, sending her thoughts backto those distant lands where her dreams lay buried. 

Instead of returning home by the woods, they walked along the road, mounting the ascent slowly. They were silent, sad at the thought ofthe approaching separation. As they passed along beside the farmyardsan odor of crushed apples, that smell of new cider which seems topervade the atmosphere in this season all through Normandy, rose totheir nostrils, or else a strong smell of the cow stables. A smalllighted window at the end of the yard indicated the farmhouse. 

It seemed to Jeanne that her mind was expanding, was beginning tounderstand the psychic meaning of things; and these little scatteredgleams in the landscape gave her, all at once, a keen sense of theisolation of all human lives, a feeling that everything detaches, separates, draws one far away from the things they love. 

She said, in a resigned tone: "Life is not always cheerful. "

The baron sighed: "How can it be helped, daughter? We can do nothing. "

The following day the baron and his wife went away, and Jeanne andJulien were left alone. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER VII

JEANNE'S DISCOVERY

Cards now became a distraction in the life of the young people. Everymorning after breakfast, Julien would play several games of beziquewith his wife, smoking and sipping brandy as he played. She would thengo up to her room and sit down beside the window, and as the rain beatagainst the panes, or the wind shook the windows, she would embroideraway steadily. Occasionally she would raise her eyes and look out atthe gray sea which had white-caps on it. Then, after gazing listlesslyfor some time, she would resume her work. 

She had nothing else to do, Julien having taken the entire managementof the house, to satisfy his craving for authority and his craze foreconomy. He was parsimonious in the extreme, never gave any tips, cutdown the food to the merest necessaries; and as Jeanne since herreturn had ordered the baker to make her a little Norman "galette" forbreakfast, he had cut down this extra expense, and condemned her toeat toast. 

She said nothing in order to avoid recriminations, arguments andquarrels; but she suffered keenly at each fresh manifestation ofavarice on the part of her husband. It appeared to her low and odious, brought up as she had been in a family where money was neverconsidered. How often had she not heard her mother say: "Why, money ismade to be spent. " Julien would now say: "Will you never becomeaccustomed to not throwing money away?" And each time he deducted afew sous from some one's salary or on a note, he would say with asmile, as he slipped the change into his pocket: "Little streams makebig rivers. "

On certain days Jeanne would sit and dream. She would gradually ceasesewing and, with her hands idle, and forgetting her surroundings, shewould weave one of those romances of her girlhood and be lost in someenchanting adventure. But suddenly Julien's voice giving some ordersto old Simon would snatch her abruptly from her dreams, and she wouldtake up her work again, saying: "That is all over, " and a tear wouldfall on her hands as she plied the needle. 

Rosalie, formerly so cheerful and always singing, had changed. Herrounded cheeks had lost their color, and were now almost hollow, andsometimes had an earthy hue. Jeanne would frequently ask her: "Are youill, my girl?" The little maid would reply: "No, madame, " while hercheeks would redden slightly and she would retire hastily. 

At the end of January the snow came. In one night the whole plain wascovered and the trees next morning were white with icy foam. 

On one of these mornings, Jeanne was sitting warming her feet beforethe fire in her room, while Rosalie, who had changed from day to day, was making the bed. Suddenly hearing behind her a kind of moan, Jeanneasked, without turning her head: "What is the matter?"

The maid replied as usual: "Nothing, madame"; but her voice was weakand trembling. 

Jeanne's thoughts were on something else, when she noticed that thegirl was not moving about the room. She called: "Rosalie!" Still nosound. Then, thinking she might have left the room, she cried in alouder tone: "Rosalie!" and she was reaching out her arm to ring thebell, when a deep moan close beside her made her start up with ashudder. 

The little servant, her face livid, her eyes haggard, was seated onthe floor, her legs stretched out, and her back leaning against thebed. Jeanne sprang toward her. "What is the matter with you--what isthe matter?" she asked. 

The girl did not reply, did not move. She stared vacantly at hermistress and gasped as though she were in terrible pain. Then, suddenly, she slid down on her back at full length, clenching herteeth to smother a cry of anguish. 

Jeanne suddenly understood, and almost distracted, she ran to the headof the stairs, crying: "Julien, Julien!"

"What do you want?" he replied from below. 

She hardly knew how to tell him. "It is Rosalie, who----"

Julien rushed upstairs two steps at a time, and going abruptly intothe room, he found the poor girl had just been delivered of a child. He looked round with a wicked look on his face, and pushing histerrified wife out of the room, exclaimed: "This is none of youraffair. Go away. Send me Ludivine and old Simon. "

Jeanne, trembling, descended to the kitchen, and then, not daring togo upstairs again, she went into the drawing-room, in which there hadbeen no fire since her parents left, and anxiously awaited news. 

She presently saw the man-servant running out of the house. Fiveminutes later he returned with Widow Dentu, the nurse of the district. 

Then there was a great commotion on the stairs as though they werecarrying a wounded person, and Julien came in and told Jeanne that shemight go back to her room. 

She trembled as if she had witnessed some terrible accident. She satdown again before the fire, and asked: "How is she?"

Julien, preoccupied and nervous, was pacing up and down the room. Heseemed to be getting angry, and did not reply at first. Then hestopped and said: "What do you intend to do with this girl?"

She did not understand, and looked at her husband. "Why, what do youmean? I do not know. "

Then suddenly flying into a rage, he exclaimed: "We cannot keep abastard in the house. "

Jeanne was very much bewildered, and said at the end of a longsilence: "But, my friend, perhaps we could put it out to nurse?"

He cut her short: "And who will pay the bill? You will, no doubt. "

She reflected for some time, trying to find some way out of thedifficulty; at length she said: "Why, the father will take care of it, of the child; and if he marries Rosalie, there will be no moredifficulty. "

Julien, as though his patience were exhausted, replied furiously: "Thefather!--the father!--do you know him--the father? No, is it not so?Well then----?"

Jeanne, much affected, became excited: "But you certainly would notlet the girl go away like that. It would be cowardly! We will inquirethe name of the man, and we will go and find him, and he will have toexplain matters. "

Julien had calmed down and resumed his pacing up and down. "My dear, "he said, "she will not tell the name of the man; she will not tell youany more than she will tell me--and, if he does not want her? ... Wecannot, however, keep a woman and her illegitimate child under ourroof, don't you understand?"

Jeanne, persistent, replied: "Then he must be a wretch, this man. Butwe must certainly find out who it is, and then he will have us to dealwith. "

Julien colored, became annoyed again, and said: "But--meanwhile----?"

She did not know what course to take, and asked: "What do youpropose?"

"Oh, I? That's very simple. I would give her some money and send herto the devil with her brat. "

The young wife, indignant, was disgusted with him. "That shall neverbe, " she said. "She is my foster-sister, that girl; we grew uptogether. She has made a mistake, so much the worse; but I will notcast her out of doors on that account; and, if it is necessary, I willbring up the child. "

Then Julien's wrath exploded: "And we should earn a fine reputation, we, with our name and our position! And they would say of useverywhere that we were protecting vice, harboring beggars; and decentpeople would never set their foot inside our doors. What are youthinking of? You must be crazy!"

She had remained quite calm. "I shall never cast off Rosalie; and ifyou do not wish her to stay, my mother will take her; and we shallsurely succeed in finding out the name of the father of the child. "

He left the room in exasperation, banging the door after him andexclaiming: "What stupid ideas women have!"

In the afternoon Jeanne went up to see the patient. The little maid, watched over by Widow Dentu, was lying still in her bed, her eyes wideopen, while the nurse held the new-born babe in her arms. 

As soon as Rosalie perceived her mistress, she began to sob, hidingher face in the covers and shaking with her sorrow. Jeanne wanted tokiss her, but she avoided it by keeping her face covered. But thenurse interfered, and drawing away the sheet, uncovered her face, andshe let Jeanne kiss her, weeping still, but more quietly. 

A meagre fire was burning in the grate; the room was cold; the childwas crying. Jeanne did not dare to speak of the little one, for fearof another attack, and she took her maid's hand as she saidmechanically: "It will not matter, it will not matter. " The poor girlglanced furtively at the nurse, and trembled as the infant cried, andthe remembrance of her sorrow came to her mind occasionally in aconvulsive sob, while suppressed tears choked her. 

Jeanne kissed her again, and murmured softly in her ear: "We will takegood care of it, never fear, my girl. " Then as she was beginning tocry again, Jeanne made her escape. 

She came to see her every day, and each time Rosalie burst into tearsat the sight of her mistress. 

The child was put out to nurse at a neighbor's. 

Julien, however, hardly spoke to his wife, as though he had nourishedanger against her ever since she refused to send away the maid. Hereferred to the subject one day, but Jeanne took from her pocket aletter from the baroness asking them to send the girl to them at onceif they would not keep her at the "Poplars. " Julien, furious, cried:"Your mother is as foolish as you are!" but he did not insist anymore. 

Two weeks later the patient was able to get up and take up her workagain. 

One morning, Jeanne made her sit down and, taking her hands andlooking steadfastly at her, she said:

"See here, my girl, tell me everything. "

Rosalie began to tremble, and faltered:

"What, madame?"

"Whose is it, this child?"

The little maid was overcome with confusion, and she sought wildly towithdraw her hands so as to hide her face. But Jeanne kissed her inspite of herself, and consoled her, saying: "It is a misfortune, butcannot be helped, my girl. You were weak, but that happens to manyothers. If the father marries you, no one will think of it again. "

Rosalie sighed as if she were suffering, and from time to time made aneffort to disengage herself and run away. 

Jeanne resumed: "I understand perfectly that you are ashamed; but yousee that I am not angry, that I speak kindly to you. If I ask you thename of the man it is for your own good, for I feel from your griefthat he has deserted you, and because I wish to prevent that. Julienwill go and look for him, you see, and we will oblige him to marryyou; and as we will employ you both, we will oblige him also to makeyou happy. "

This time Rosalie gave such a jerk that she snatched her hands awayfrom her mistress and ran off as if she were mad. 

That evening at dinner Jeanne said to Julien: "I tried to persuadeRosalie to tell me the name of her betrayer. I did not succeed. Youtry to find out so that we can compel this miserable man to marryher. "

But Julien became angry: "Oh! you know I do not wish to hear anythingabout it. You wish to keep this girl. Keep her, but do not bother meabout her. "

Since the girl's illness he appeared to be more irritable than ever;and he had got into the way of never speaking to his wife withoutshouting as if he were in a rage, while she, on the contrary, wouldlower her voice, be gentle and conciliating, to avoid all argument;but she often wept at night after she went to bed. 

In spite of his constant irritability, her husband had become moreaffectionate than customary since their return. 

Rosalie was soon quite well and less sad, although she appearedterrified, pursued by some unknown fear, and she ran away twice whenJeanne tried to question her again. 

Julien all at once became more amiable, and the young wife, clingingto vain hopes, also became more cheerful. The thaw had not yet set inand a hard, smooth, glittering covering of snow extended over thelandscape. Neither men nor animals were to be seen; only the chimneysof the cottages gave evidence of life in the smoke that ascended fromthem into the icy air. 

One evening the thermometer fell still lower, and Julien, shivering ashe left the table--for the dining-room was never properly heated, hewas so economical with the wood--rubbed his hands, murmuring: "It willbe warmer to-night, won't it, my dear?" He laughed with his jollylaugh of former days, and Jeanne threw her arms around his neck: "I donot feel well, dear; perhaps I shall be better to-morrow. "

"As you wish, my dear. If you are ill you must take care of yourself. "And they began to talk of other things. 

She retired early. Julien, for a wonder, had a fire lighted in herroom. As soon as he saw that it was burning brightly, he kissed hiswife on the forehead and left the room. 

The whole house seemed to be penetrated by the cold; the very wallsseemed to be shivering, and Jeanne shivered in her bed. Twice she gotup to put fresh logs on the fire and to look for dresses, skirts, andother garments which she piled on the bed. Nothing seemed to warm her;her feet were numbed and her lower limbs seemed to tingle, making herexcessively nervous and restless. 

Then her teeth began to chatter, her hands shook, there was atightness in her chest, her heart began to beat with hard, dullpulsations, and at times seemed to stop beating, and she gasped forbreath. A terrible apprehension seized her, while the cold seemed topenetrate to her marrow. She never had felt such a sensation, she hadnever seemed to lose her hold on life like this before, never been sonear her last breath. 

"I am going to die, " she thought, "I am dying----"

And filled with terror, she jumped out of bed, rang for Rosalie, waited, rang again, waited again, shivering and frozen. 

The little maid did not come. She was doubtless asleep, that first, sound sleep that nothing can disturb. Jeanne, in despair, dartedtoward the stairs in her bare feet, and groping her way, she ascendedthe staircase quietly, found the door, opened it, and called, "Rosalie!" She went forward, stumbled against the bed, felt all overit with her hands and found that it was empty. It was empty and cold, and as if no one had slept there. Much surprised, she said: "What! Hasshe gone out in weather like this?"

But as her heart began to beat tumultuously till she seemed to besuffocating, she went downstairs again with trembling limbs in orderto wake Julien. She rushed into his room filled with the idea that shewas going to die, and longing to see him before she lostconsciousness. 

By the light of the dying embers she perceived Rosalie's head leaningon her husband's shoulder. 

At the cry she gave they both started to their feet; she stoodmotionless for a second, horrified at this discovery, and then fled toher room; and when Julien, at his wit's end, called "Jeanne!" she wasseized with an overmastering terror of seeing him, of hearing hisvoice, of listening to him explaining, lying, of meeting his gaze; andshe darted toward the stairs again and went down. 

She now ran along in the darkness, at the risk of falling downstairs, at the risk of breaking her neck on the stone floor of the hall. Sherushed along, impelled by an imperious desire to flee, to know nothingabout it, to see no one. 

When she was at the bottom of the stairs she sat down on one of thesteps, still in her nightdress, and in bare feet, and remained in adazed condition. She heard Julien moving and walking about. Shestarted to her feet in order to escape him. He was starting to comedownstairs and called: "Listen, Jeanne!"

No, she would not listen nor let him touch her with the tips of hisfingers; and she darted into the dining-room as if she were fleeingfrom an assassin. She looked for a door of escape, a hiding place, adark corner, some way of avoiding him. She hid under the table. But hewas already at the door, a candle in his hand, still calling:"Jeanne!" She started off again like a hare, darted into the kitchen, ran round it twice like a trapped animal, and as he came near her, shesuddenly opened the door into the garden and darted out into thenight. 

The contact with the snow, into which she occasionally sank up to herknees, seemed to give her the energy of despair. She did not feelcold, although she had little on. She felt nothing, her body was sonumbed from the emotion of her mind, and she ran along as white as thesnow. 

She followed the large avenue, crossed the wood, crossed the ditch, and started off across the plain. 

There was no moon, the stars were shining like sparks of fire in theblack sky; but the plain was light with a dull whiteness, and lay ininfinite silence. 

Jeanne walked quickly, hardly breathing, not knowing, not thinking ofanything. She suddenly stopped on the edge of the cliff. She stoppedshort, instinctively, and crouched down, bereft of thought and of willpower. 

In the abyss before her the silent, invisible sea exhaled the saltodor of its wrack at low tide. 

She remained thus some time, her mind as inert as her body; then, allat once, she began to tremble, to tremble violently, like a sailshaken by the wind. Her arms, her hands, her feet, impelled by aninvisible force, throbbed, pulsated wildly, and her consciousnessawakened abruptly, sharp and poignant. 

Old memories passed before her mental vision: the sail with him inPère Lastique's boat, their conversation, his nascent love, thechristening of the boat; then she went back, further back, to thatnight of dreams when she first came to the "Poplars. " And now! _Andnow!_ Oh, her life was shipwrecked, all joy was ended, allexpectation at an end; and the frightful future full of torture, ofdeception, and of despair appeared before her. Better to die, it wouldall be over at once. 

But a voice cried in the distance: "Here it is, here are her steps;quick, quick, this way!" It was Julien who was looking for her. 

Oh! she did not wish to see him again. In the abyss down yonder beforeher she now heard a slight sound, the indistinct ripple of the wavesover the rocks. She rose to her feet with the idea of throwing herselfover the cliff and bidding life farewell. Like one in despair, sheuttered the last word of the dying, the last word of the young soldierslain in battle: "Mother!"

All at once the thought of little mother came to her mind, she saw hersobbing, she saw her father on his knees before her mangled remains, and in a second she felt all the pain of their sorrow. 

She sank down again into the snow; and when Julien and old Simon, followed by Marius, carrying a lantern, seized her arm to pull herback as she was so close to the brink, she made no attempt to escape. 

She let them do as they would, for she could not stir. She felt thatthey were carrying her, and then that she was being put to bed andrubbed with hot cloths; then she became unconscious. 

Then she had a nightmare, or was it a nightmare? She was in bed. Itwas broad daylight, but she could not get up. Why? She did not know. Then she heard a little noise on the floor, a sort of scratching, arustling, and suddenly a mouse, a little gray mouse, ran quicklyacross the sheet. Another followed it, then a third, who ran towardher chest with his little, quick scamper. Jeanne was not afraid, andshe reached out her hand to catch the animal, but could not catch it. Then other mice, ten, twenty, hundreds, thousands, rose up on allsides of her. They climbed the bedposts, ran up the tapestries, covered the bed completely. And soon they got beneath the covers;Jeanne felt them gliding over her skin, tickling her limbs, running upand down her body. She saw them running from the bottom of the bed toget into her neck under the sheets; and she tried to fight them off, throwing her hands out to try and catch them, but always finding themempty. 

She was frantic, wanted to escape, screamed, and it seemed as if shewere being held down, as if strong arms enfolded her and rendered herhelpless; but she saw no one. 

She had no idea of time. It must have been long, a very long time. 

Then she awoke, weary, aching, but quiet. She felt weak, very weak. She opened her eyes and was not surprised to see little mother seatedin her room with a man whom she did not know. 

How old was she? She did not know, and thought she was a very littlegirl. She had no recollection of anything. 

The big man said: "Why, she has regained consciousness. " Little motherbegan to weep. Then the big man resumed: "Come, be calm, baroness; Ican ensure her recovery now. But do not talk to her at all. Let hersleep, let her sleep. "

Then it seemed to Jeanne that she remained in a state of exhaustionfor a long time, overcome by a heavy sleep as soon as she tried tothink; and she tried not to remember anything whatever, as though shehad a vague fear that the reality might come back to her. 

Once when she awoke she saw Julien, alone, standing beside her; andsuddenly it all came back to her, as if the curtain which hid her pastlife had been raised. 

She felt a horrible pain in her heart, and wanted to escape once more. She threw back the coverlets, jumped to the floor and fell down, herlimbs being too weak to support her. 

Julien sprang toward her, and she began to scream for him not to touchher. She writhed and rolled on the floor. The door opened. Aunt Lisoncame running in with Widow Dentu, then the baron, and finally littlemother, puffing and distracted. 

They put her back into bed, and she immediately closed her eyes, so asto escape talking and be able to think quietly. 

Her mother and aunt watched over her anxiously, saying: "Do you hearus now, Jeanne, my little Jeanne?"

She pretended to be deaf, not to hear them, and did not answer. Nightcame on and the nurse took up her position beside the bed. She did notsleep; she kept trying to think of things that had escaped her memoryas though there were holes in it, great white empty places whereevents had not been noted down. 

Little by little she began to recall the facts, and she pondered overthem steadily. 

Little mother, Aunt Lison, the baron had come, so she must have beenvery ill. But Julien? What had he said? Did her parents know? AndRosalie, where was she? And what should she do? What should she do? Anidea came to her--she would return to Rouen and live with father andlittle mother as in old days. She would be a widow; that's all. 

Then she waited, listening to what was being said around her, understanding everything without letting them see it, rejoiced at herreturning reason, patient and crafty. 

That evening, at last, she found herself alone with the baroness andcalled to her in a low tone: "Little Mother!" Her own voice astonishedher, it seemed strange. The baroness seized her hands: "My daughter, my darling Jeanne! My child, do you recognize me?"

"Yes, little mother, but you must not weep; we have a great deal totalk about. Did Julien tell you why I ran away in the snow?"

"Yes, my darling, you had a very dangerous fever. "

"It was not that, mamma. I had the fever afterward; but did he tellyou what gave me the fever and why I ran away?"

"No, my dearie. "

"It was because I found Rosalie in his room. "

Her mother thought she was delirious again and soothed her, saying:"Go to sleep, darling, calm yourself, try to sleep. "

But Jeanne, persistent, continued: "I am quite sensible now, littlemother. I am not talking wildly as I must have done these last days. Ifelt ill one night and I went to look for Julien. Rosalie was with himin his room. I did not know what I was doing, for sorrow, and I ranout into the snow to throw myself off the cliff. "

But the baroness reiterated, "Yes, darling, you have been very ill, very ill. "

"It is not that, mamma. I found Rosalie in with Julien, and I will notlive with him any longer. You will take me back with you to Rouen tolive as we used to do. "

The baroness, whom the doctor had warned not to thwart Jeanne in anyway, replied: "Yes, my darling. "

But the invalid grew impatient: "I see that you do not believe me. Goand fetch little father, he will soon understand. "

The baroness left the room and presently returned, leaning on herhusband's arm. They sat down beside the bed and Jeanne began to talk. She told them all, quietly, in a weak voice, but clearly; all aboutJulien's peculiar character, his harshness, his avarice, and, finally, his infidelity. 

When she had finished, the baron saw that she was not delirious, buthe did not know what to think, what to determine, or what to answer. He took her hand, tenderly, as he used to do when he put her to sleepwith stories, and said: "Listen, dearie, we must act with prudence. Wemust do nothing rash. Try to put up with your husband until we cancome to some decision--promise me this?"

"I will try, but I will not stay here after I get well, " she replied. 

Then she added in a lower tone: "Where is Rosalie now?"

"You will not see her any more, " replied the baron. But she persisted:"Where is she? I wish to know. " Then he confessed that she had notleft the house, but declared that she was going to leave. 

On leaving the room the baron, filled with indignation and wounded inhis feelings as a father, went to look for Julien, and said to himabruptly: "Sir, I have come to ask you for an explanation of yourconduct toward my daughter. You have been unfaithful to her with yourmaid, which is a double insult. "

Julien pretended to be innocent, denied everything positively, swore, took God as his witness. What proof had they? he asked. Was not Jeannedelirious? Had she not had brain fever? Had she not run out in thesnow, in an attack of delirium, at the very beginning of her illness?And it was just at this time, when she was running about the housealmost naked, that she pretends that she saw her maid in her husband'sroom!

And he grew angry, threatened a lawsuit, became furious. The baron, bewildered, made excuses, begged his pardon, and held out his loyalhand to Julien, who refused to take it. 

When Jeanne heard what her husband had said, she did not show anyannoyance, but replied: "He is lying, papa, but we shall end byconvicting him. "

For some days she remained taciturn and reserved, thinking overmatters. The third morning she asked to see Rosalie. The baron refusedto send her up, saying she had left. Jeanne persisted, saying: "Well, let some one go and fetch her. "

She was beginning to get excited when the doctor came. They told himeverything, so that he could form an opinion. But Jeanne suddenlyburst into tears, her nerves all unstrung, and almost screamed: "Iwant Rosalie; I wish to see her!"

The doctor took hold of her hand and said in a low tone: "Calmyourself, madame; any emotion may lead to serious consequences, foryou are enceinte. "

She was dumfounded, as though she had received a blow; and it seemedto her that she felt the first stirrings of life within her. Then shewas silent, not even listening to what was being said, absorbed in herown thoughts. She could not sleep that night for thinking of the newlife that was developing in her, and was sad at the thought that itwas Julien's child, and might resemble him. The following morning shesent for the baron. "Little father, " she said, "my resolution isformed; I wish to know everything, and especially just now; youunderstand, I insist, and you know that you must not thwart me in mypresent condition. Listen! You must go and get M. Le Curé. I need himhere to keep Rosalie from telling a lie. Then, as soon as he comes, send him up to me, and you stay downstairs with little mother. And, above all things, see that Julien does not suspect anything. "

An hour later the priest came, looking fatter than ever, and puffinglike the baroness. He sat down in an arm-chair and began to joke, wiping his forehead as usual with his plaid handkerchief. "Well, baroness, I do not think we grow any thinner; I think we make a goodpair. " Then, turning toward the patient, he said: "Eh, what is this Ihear, young lady, that we are soon to have a fresh baptism? Aha, itwill not be a boat this time. " And in a graver tone he added: "It willbe a defender of the country; unless"--after a moment's reflection--"itshould be the prospective mother of a family, like you, madame, "bowing to the baroness. 

The door at the end of the room opened and Rosalie appeared, besideherself, weeping, refusing to enter the room, clinging to the doorframe, and being pushed forward by the baron. Quite out of patience, he thrust her into the room. She covered her face with her hands andremained standing there, sobbing. 

Jeanne, as soon as she saw her, rose to a sitting posture, whiter thanthe sheets, and with her heart beating wildly. She could not speak, could hardly breathe. At length she said, in a voice broken withemotion: "I--I--will not--need--to question you. It--it is enough forme to see you thus--to--to see your--your shame in my presence. "

After a pause, for she was out of breath, she continued: "I had M. LeCuré come, so that it might be like a confession, you understand. "

Rosalie, motionless, uttered little cries that were almost screamsbehind her hands. 

The baron, whose anger was gaining ground, seized her arms, andsnatching her hands from her face, he threw her on her knees besidethe bed, saying: "Speak! Answer!"

She remained on the ground, in the position assigned to Magdalens, hercap awry, her apron on the floor, and her face again covered by herhands. 

Then the priest said: "Come, my girl, listen to what is said to you, and reply. We do not want to harm you, but we want to know whatoccurred. "

Jeanne, leaning over, looked at her and said: "Is it true that youwere with Julien when I surprised you?"

Rosalie moaned through her fingers, "Yes, madame. "

Then the baroness suddenly began to cry in a choking fashion, and herconvulsive sobs accompanied those of Rosalie. 

Jeanne, with her eyes fixed on the maid, said: "How long had this beengoing on?"

"Ever since he came here, " faltered Rosalie. 

Jeanne could not understand. "Ever since he came--then--eversince--ever since the spring?"

"Yes, madame. "

"Ever since he came into this house?"

"Yes, madame. "

And Jeanne, as if overflowing with questions, asked, speakingprecipitately:

"But how did it happen? How did he approach you? How did he persuadeyou? What did he say? When, how did you ever yield to him? How couldyou ever have done it?"

Rosalie, removing her hands from her face, and overwhelmed also with afeverish desire to speak, said:

"How do I know, myself? It was the day he dined here for the firsttime, and he came up to my room. He had hidden himself in the loft. Idid not dare to scream for fear of making a scandal. I no longer knewwhat I was doing. Then I said nothing because I liked him. "

Then Jeanne exclaimed with almost a scream:

"But--your--your child--is his child?"

Rosalie sobbed. 

"Yes, madame. "

Then they were both silent. The only sound to be heard was the sobs ofRosalie and of the baroness. 

Jeanne, quite overcome, felt her tears also beginning to flow; andthey fell silently down her cheeks. 

The maid's child had the same father, as her child! Her anger was atan end; she now was filled with a dreary, slow, profound and infinitedespair. She presently resumed in a changed, tearful voice, the voiceof a woman who has been crying:

"When we returned from--from down there--from our journey--when did hebegin again?"

The little maid, who had sunk down on the floor, faltered: "The firstevening. "

Each word wrung Jeanne's heart. So on the very first night of theirreturn to the "Poplars" he left her for this girl. That was why hewanted to sleep alone!

She now knew all she wanted to know, and exclaimed: "Go away, goaway!" And as Rosalie, perfectly crushed, did not stir, Jeanne calledto her father: "Take her away, carry her away!" The priest, who hadsaid nothing as yet, thought that the moment had arrived for him topreach a little sermon. 

"What you have done is very wrong, my daughter, very wrong, and Godwill not pardon you so easily. Consider the hell that awaits you ifyou do not always act right. Now that you have a child you must behaveyourself. No doubt madame la baronne will do something for you, and wewill find you a husband. "

He would have continued speaking, but the baron, having again seizedRosalie by the shoulders, raised her from the floor and dragged her tothe door, and threw her like a package into the corridor. As he turnedback into the room, looking paler than his daughter, the priestresumed: "What can one do? They are all like that in the district. Itis shocking, but cannot be helped, and then one must be a littleindulgent toward the weaknesses of our nature. They never get marrieduntil they have become enceinte, never, madame. " He added, smiling:"One might call it a local custom. So, you see, monsieur, your maiddid as all the rest do. "

But the baron, who was trembling with nervousness, interrupted him, saying, "She! what do I care about her! It is Julien with whom I amindignant. It is infamous, the way he has behaved, and I shall take mydaughter away. "

He walked up and down excitedly, becoming more and more exasperated:"It is infamous to have betrayed my child, infamous! He is a wretch, this man, a cad, a wretch! and I will tell him so. I will slap hisface. I will give him a horsewhipping!"

The priest, who was slowly taking a pinch of snuff, seated beside thebaroness still in tears, and endeavoring to fulfill his office of apeacemaker, said: "Come, monsieur le baron, between ourselves, he hasdone what every one else does. Do you know many husbands who arefaithful?" And he added with a sly good humor: "Come now, I wager thatyou have had your turn. Your hand on your heart, am I right?" Thebaron had stopped in astonishment before the priest, who continued:"Why, yes, you did just as others did. Who knows if you did not makelove to a little sugar plum like that? I tell you that every one does. Your wife was none the less happy, or less loved; am I not right?"

The baron had not stirred, he was much disturbed. What the priest saidwas true, and he had sinned as much as any one and had not hesitatedwhen his wife's maids were in question. Was he a wretch on thataccount? Why should he judge Julien's conduct so severely when his ownhad not been above blame?

The baroness, still struggling with her sobs, smiled faintly at therecollection of her husband's escapades, for she belonged to thesentimental class for whom love adventures are a part of existence. 

Jeanne, exhausted, lay with wide-open eyes, absorbed in painfulreflection. Something Rosalie had said had wounded her as though anarrow had pierced her heart: "As for me, I said nothing, because Iliked him. "

She had liked him also, and that was the only reason why she had givenherself, bound herself for life to him, why she had renouncedeverything else, all her cherished plans, all the unknown future. Shehad fallen into this marriage, into this hole without any edges bywhich one could climb out, into this wretchedness, this sadness, thisdespair, because, like Rosalie, she had liked him!

The door was pushed violently open and Julien appeared, with a furiousexpression on his face. He had caught sight of Rosalie moaning on thestairs, and suspected that something was up, that the maid hadprobably told all. The sight of the priest riveted him to the spot. 

"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in a trembling but quiet tone. 

The baron, so violent a short while ago, did not venture to speak, afraid of the priest's remarks, and of what his son-in-law might sayin the same strain. Little mother was weeping more copiously thanever; but Jeanne had raised herself with her hands and looked, breathing quickly, at the one who had caused her such cruel sorrow. She stammered out: "The fact is, we know all, all your rascalitysince--since the day you first entered this house--we know that thechild of this maid is your child, just as--as--mine is--they will bebrothers. " Overcome with sorrow at this thought, she buried herself inthe sheets and wept bitterly. 

Julien stood there gaping, not knowing what to say or do. The priestcame to the rescue. 

"Come, come, do not give way like that, my dear young lady, besensible. " He rose, approached the bed and placed his warm hand on thedespairing girl's forehead. This seemed to soothe her strangely. Shefelt quieted, as if this strong peasant's hand, accustomed to thegesture of absolution, to kindly consolations, had conveyed by itstouch some mysterious solace. 

The good man, still standing, continued: "Madame, we must alwaysforgive. A great sorrow has come to you; but God in His mercy hasbalanced it by a great happiness, since you will become a mother. Thischild will be your comfort. In his name I implore you, I adjure you toforgive M. Julien's error. It will be a new bond between you, a pledgeof his future fidelity. Can you remain apart in your heart from himwhose child you bear?"

She did not reply, crushed, mortified, exhausted as she was, withouteven strength for anger or resentment. Her nerves seemed relaxed, almost severed, she seemed to be scarcely alive. 

The baroness, who seemed incapable of resentment, and whose mind wasunequal to prolonged effort, murmured: "Come, come, Jeanne. "

Then the priest took the hand of the young man and leading him up tothe bed, he placed his hand in that of his wife, and gave it a littletap as though to unite them more closely. Then laying aside hisprofessional tone and manner, he said with a satisfied air: "Well, now, that's done. Believe me, that is the best thing to do. " The twohands, joined for a moment, separated immediately. Julien, not daringto kiss Jeanne, kissed his mother-in-law on the forehead, turned onhis heel, took the arm of the baron, who acquiesced, happy at heartthat the thing had been settled thus, and they went out together tosmoke a cigar. 

The patient, overcome, dozed off, while the priest and little mothertalked in a low tone. 

The priest explained and propounded his ideas, to which the baronessassented by nodding her head. He said in conclusion: "Well, then, thatis understood; you will give this girl the Barville farm, and I willundertake to find her a husband, a good, steady fellow. Oh! with aproperty worth twenty thousand francs we shall have no lack ofsuitors. There will be more than enough to choose from. "

The baroness was smiling now, quite happy, with the remains of twotears that had dried on her cheeks. 

She repeated: "That is settled. Barville is worth at least twentythousand francs, but it will be settled on the child, the parentshaving the use of it during their lifetime. "

The curé rose, shook little mother's hand, saying: "Do not disturbyourself, Madame la Baronne, do not disturb yourself; I know what aneffort it is. "

As he went out he met Aunt Lison coming to see her patient. Shenoticed nothing; they told her nothing; and she knew nothing, asusual. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER VIII

MATERNITY

Rosalie had left the house. Jeanne felt no joy at the thought of beinga mother, she had had so much sorrow. She awaited the advent of herchild without curiosity, still filled with the apprehension of unknownmisfortunes. 

A big woman, big as a house, had taken Rosalie's place and supportedthe baroness in her monotonous walks along her avenue. The baron gavehis arm to Jeanne, who was now always ailing, while Aunt Lison, uneasy, and busied about the approaching event, held her other hand, bewildered at this mystery which she would never know. 

They all walked along like this almost in silence for hours at a time, while Julien was riding about the country on horseback, havingsuddenly acquired this taste. Nothing ever came to disturb theirdreary life. The baron, his wife, and the vicomte paid a visit to theFourvilles, whom Julien seemed to be already well acquainted with, without one knowing just how. Another ceremonious visit was exchangedwith the Brisevilles, who were still hidden in their manor house. 

One afternoon, about four o'clock, two persons, a lady and gentlemanon horseback, rode up into the courtyard of the château. Julien, greatly excited, ran up to Jeanne's room. "Quick, quick, comedownstairs; here are the Fourvilles. They have just come as neighbors, knowing your condition. Tell them that I have gone out, but that Iwill be back. I will just go and make myself presentable. "

Jeanne, much surprised, went downstairs. A pale, pretty young womanwith a sad face, dreamy eyes, and lustreless, fair hair, looking asthough the sunlight had never kissed it, quietly introduced herhusband, a kind of giant, or ogre with a large red mustache. Sheadded: "We have several times had the pleasure of meeting M. DeLamare. We heard from him how you were suffering, and we would not putoff coming to see you as neighbors, without any ceremony. You see thatwe came on horseback. I also had the pleasure the other day of a visitfrom madame, your mother, and the baron. "

She spoke with perfect ease, familiar but refined. Jeanne was charmed, and fell in love with her at once. "This is a friend, " she thought. 

The Comte de Fourville, on the contrary, seemed like a bear in thedrawing-room. As soon as he was seated, he placed his hat on the chairnext him, did not know what to do with his hands, placed them on hisknees, then on the arms of the chair, and finally crossed his fingersas if in prayer. 

Suddenly Julien entered the room. Jeanne was amazed and did notrecognize him. He was shaved. He looked handsome, elegant, andattractive as on the day of their betrothal. He shook the comte'shairy paw, kissed the hand of the comtesse, whose ivory cheeks coloredup slightly while her eyelids quivered. 

He began to speak; he was charming as in former days. His large eyes, the mirrors of love, had become tender again. And his hair, lately sodull and unkempt, had regained its soft, glossy wave, with the use ofa hairbrush and perfumed oil. 

At the moment that the Fourvilles were taking their leave thecomtesse, turning toward him, said: "Would you like to take a ride onThursday, dear vicomte?"

As he bowed and murmured, "Why, certainly, madame, " she took Jeanne'shand and said in a sympathetic and affectionate tone, with a cordialsmile: "Oh! when you are well, we will all three gallop about thecountry. It will be delightful. What do you say?"

With an easy gesture she held up her riding skirt and then jumped intothe saddle with the lightness of a bird, while her husband, afterbowing awkwardly, mounted his big Norman steed. As they disappearedoutside the gate, Julien, who seemed charmed, exclaimed: "Whatdelightful people! those are friends who may be useful to us. "

Jeanne, pleased also without knowing why, replied: "The littlecomtesse is charming, I feel that I shall love her, but the husbandlooks like a brute. Where did you meet them?"

He rubbed his hands together good humoredly. "I met them by chance atthe Brisevilles'. The husband seems a little rough. He cares fornothing but hunting, but he is a real noble for all that. "

The dinner was almost cheerful, as though some secret happiness hadcome into the house. 

Nothing new happened until the latter days of July, when Jeanne wastaken ill. As she seemed to grow worse, the doctor was sent for and atthe first glance recognized the symptoms of a premature confinement. 

Her sufferings presently abated a little, but she was filled with aterrible anguish, a despairing sinking, something like a presentiment, the mysterious touch of death. It is in these moments when it comes sonear to us that its breath chills our hearts. 

The room was full of people. Little mother, buried in an armchair, waschoking with grief. The baron, his hands trembling, ran hither andthither, carrying things, consulting the doctor and losing his head. Julien paced up and down, looking concerned, but perfectly calm, andWidow Dentu stood at the foot of the bed with an appropriateexpression, the expression of a woman of experience whom nothingastonishes. The cook, Ludivine, and Aunt Lison remained discreetlyconcealed behind the door of the lobby. 

Toward morning Jeanne became worse, and as her involuntary screamsescaped from between her closed teeth, she thought incessantly ofRosalie, who had not suffered, who had hardly moaned, who had borneher child without suffering and without difficulty, and in herwretched and troubled mind she continually compared their conditionsand cursed God, whom she had formerly thought to be just. She rebelledat the wicked partiality of fate and at the wicked lies of those whopreach justice and goodness. 

At times her sufferings were so great that her mind was a blank. Shehad neither strength, life nor knowledge for anything but suffering. 

All at once her sufferings ceased. The nurse and the doctor leanedover her and gave her all attention. Presently she heard a little cryand, in spite of her weakness, she unconsciously held out her arms. She was suddenly filled with joy, with a glimpse of a new-foundhappiness which had just unfolded. Her child was born, she wassoothed, happy, happy as she never yet had been. Her heart and herbody revived; she was now a mother. She felt that she was saved, secure from all despair, for she had here something to love. 

From now on she had but one thought--her child. She was a fanaticalmother, all the more intense because she had been deceived in herlove, deceived in her hopes. She would sit whole days beside thewindow, rocking the little cradle. 

The baron and little mother smiled at this excess of tenderness, butJulien, whose habitual routine had been interfered with and hisoverweening importance diminished by the arrival of this noisy andall-powerful tyrant, unconsciously jealous of this mite of a man whohad usurped his place in the house, kept on saying angrily andimpatiently: "How wearisome she is with her brat!"

She became so obsessed by this affection that she would pass theentire night beside the cradle, watching the child asleep. As she wasbecoming exhausted by this morbid life, taking no rest, growing weakerand thinner and beginning to cough, the doctor ordered the child to betaken from her. She got angry, wept, implored, but they were deaf toher entreaties. His nurse took him every evening, and each night hismother would rise, and in her bare feet go to the door, listen at thekeyhole to see if he was sleeping quietly, did not wake up and wantednothing. 

Julien found her here one night when he came home late, after diningwith the Fourvilles. After that they locked her in her room to obligeher to stay in bed. 

The baptism took place at the end of August. The baron was godfatherand Aunt Lison godmother. The child was named Pierre-Simon-Paul andcalled Paul for short. 

At the beginning of September Aunt Lison left without any commotion. Her absence was as little felt as her presence. 

One evening after dinner the priest appeared. He seemed embarrassed asif he were burdened by some mystery, and after some idle remarks, heasked the baroness and her husband to grant him a short interview inprivate. 

They all three walked slowly down the long avenue, talking withanimation, while Julien, who was alone with Jeanne, was astonished, disturbed and annoyed at this secret. 

He accompanied the priest when he took his leave, and they went offtogether toward the church where the Angelus was ringing. 

As it was cool, almost cold, the others went into the drawing-room. They were all dozing when Julien came in abruptly, his face red, looking very indignant. 

From the door he called out to his parents-in-law, without rememberingthat Jeanne was there: "Are you crazy, for God's sake! to go and throwaway twenty thousand francs on that girl?"

No one replied, they were so astonished. He continued, bellowing withrage: "How can one be so stupid as that? Do you wish to leave uswithout a sou?"

The baron, who had recovered his composure, attempted to stop him:"Keep still! Remember that you are speaking before your wife. "

But Julien was trembling with excitement: "As if I cared; she knowsall about it, anyway. It is robbing her. "

Jeanne, bewildered, looked at him without understanding. She faltered:"What in the world is the matter?"

Julien then turned toward her, to try and get her on his side as apartner who has been cheated out of an unexpected fortune. Hehurriedly told her about the conspiracy to marry off Rosalie and aboutthe gift of the Barville property, which was worth at least twentythousand francs. He said: "Your parents are crazy, my dear, crazyenough to be shut up! Twenty thousand francs! twenty thousand francs!Why, they have lost their heads! Twenty thousand francs for abastard!"

Jeanne listened without emotion and without anger, astonished at herown calmness, indifferent now to everything but her own child. 

The baron was raging, but could find nothing to say. He finally burstforth and, stamping his foot, exclaimed: "Think of what you aresaying; it is disgusting. Whose fault was it if we had to give thisgirl-mother a dowry? Whose child is it? You would like to abandon itnow!"

Julien, amazed at the baron's violence, looked at him fixedly. He thenresumed in a calmer tone: "But fifteen hundred francs would be quiteenough. They all have children before they are legally married. Itmakes no difference whose child it is, in any case. Instead of givingone of your farms, to the value of twenty thousand francs, in additionto making the world aware of what has happened, you should, to say theleast, have had some regard for our name and our position. "

He spoke in a severe tone like a man who stood on his rights and wasconvinced of the logic of his argument. The baron, disturbed at thisunexpected discussion, stood there gaping at him. Julien then, seeinghis advantage, concluded: "Happily, nothing has yet been settled. Iknow the young fellow who is going to marry her. He is an honest chapand we can make a satisfactory arrangement with him. I will takecharge of the matter. "

And he went out immediately, fearing no doubt to continue thediscussion, and pleased that he had had the last word, a proof, hethought, that they acquiesced in his views. 

As soon as he had left the room, however, the baron exclaimed: "Oh, that is going too far, much too far!"

But Jeanne, happening to look up at her father's bewildered face, began to laugh with her clear, ringing laugh of former days, whenanything amused her. She said: "Father, father, did you hear the tonein which he said: 'Twenty thousand francs?'"

Little mother, whose mirth was as ready as her tears, as she recalledher son-in-law's angry expression, his indignant exclamations and hisrefusal to allow the girl whom he had led astray to be given moneythat did not belong to him, delighted also at Jeanne's mirth, gave wayto little bursts of laughter till the tears came to her eyes. Thebaron caught the contagion, and all three laughed to kill themselvesas they used to do in the good old days. 

As soon as they quieted down a little Jeanne said: "How strange it isthat all this does not affect me. I look upon him now as a stranger. Icannot believe that I am his wife. You see how I can laugh athis--his--want of delicacy. "

And without knowing why they all three embraced each other, smilingand happy. 

Two days later, after breakfast, just as Julien had started away fromthe house on horseback, a strapping young fellow from twenty-one totwenty-five years old, clad in a brand-new blue blouse with widesleeves buttoning at the wrist, slyly jumped over the gate, as thoughhe had been there awaiting his opportunity all the morning, creptalong the Couillards' ditch, came round the château, and cautiouslyapproached the baron and his wife, who were still sitting under theplane-tree. 

He took off his cap and advanced, bowing in an awkward manner. As soonas he was close to them he said: "Your servant, Monsieur le Baron, madame and the company. " Then, as no one replied, he said: "It is I, Iam Desiré Lecocq. "

As the name conveyed nothing to them, the baron asked, "What do youwant?"

Then, altogether upset at the necessity of explaining himself, theyoung fellow stuttered out as he gazed alternately at his cap, whichhe held in his hands, and at the roof of the château: "It was M'sieule Curé who said something to me about this matter----" And then hestopped, fearing he might say too much and compromise his owninterests. 

The other, lowering his voice, blurted out: "That matter of yourmaid--Rosalie----"

Jeanne, who had guessed what was coming, had risen and moved away withher infant in her arms. 

"Come nearer, " said the baron, pointing to the chair his daughter hadjust left. The peasant sat down, murmuring: "You are very good. " Thenhe waited as though he had no more to say. After a long silence, hescrewed up courage, and looking up at the sky, remarked: "There's fineweather for the time of year. But the earth will be none the betterfor it, as the seed is already sown. " And then he was silent again. 

The baron was growing impatient. He plunged right into the subject andsaid drily: "Then it is you who are going to marry Rosalie?"

The man at once became uneasy, his Norman caution being on the alert. He replied with more animation, but with a tinge of defiance: "Thatdepends; perhaps yes, perhaps no; it depends. "

The baron, annoyed at this hedging, exclaimed angrily: "Answerfrankly, damn it! Was this what you came here for? Yes or no! Will youmarry her? Yes or no!"

The bewildered man looked steadfastly at his feet: "If it is as M'sieule Curé said, I will take her, but if it is as M'sieu Julien said, Iwill not take her. "

"What did M. Julien tell you?"

"M'sieu Julien told me fifteen hundred francs and M'sieu le Curé toldme that I should have twenty thousand. I will do it for twentythousand, but I will not do it for fifteen hundred. "

The baroness, who was buried in her easy chair, began to giggle at theanxious expression of the peasant, who, not understanding thisfrivolity, glanced at her angrily out of the corner of his eye andwaited in silence. 

The baron, who was embarrassed at this bargaining, cut it short bysaying: "I told M. Le Curé that you should have the Barville farmduring your lifetime and that then it would revert to the child. It isworth twenty thousand francs. I do not go back on my word. Is itsettled? Yes or no!"

The man smiled with a humble and satisfied expression, and suddenlybecoming loquacious, said: "Oh, in that case, I will not say no. Thatwas all that stood in my way. When M'sieu le Curé spoke to me, I wasready at once, by gosh! and I was very pleased to accommodate thebaron who was giving me that. I said to myself, 'Is it not true thatwhen people are willing to do each other favors, they can always finda way and can make it worth while?' But M'sieu Julien came to see me, and it was only fifteen hundred francs. I said to myself: 'I must seeabout that, ' and so I came here. That is not to say that I did nottrust you, but I wanted to know. Short accounts make long friends. Isnot that true, M'sieu le Baron?"

The baron interrupted him by asking, "When do you wish to getmarried?"

The man became timid again, very much embarrassed, and finally said, hesitatingly: "I will not do it until I get a little paper. "

This time the baron got angry: "Doggone it! you will have the marriagecontract. That is the best kind of paper. "

But the peasant was stubborn: "Meanwhile I might take a little turn;it will not be dark for a while. "

The baron rose to make an end of the matter: "Answer yes or no atonce. If you do not wish her, say so; I have another suitor. "

The fear of a rival terrified the crafty Norman. He suddenly made uphis mind and held out his hand, as after buying a cow, saying: "Put itthere, M'sieu le Baron; it is a bargain. Whoever draws back is askunk!"

The baron shook his hand, then called out: "Ludivine!" The cookappeared at the window. "Bring us a bottle of wine. " They clinkedglasses to seal the matter and the young peasant went off with a lighttread. 

Nothing was said to Julien about this visit. The contract was drawn upwith all secrecy and as soon as the banns were published the weddingtook place one Monday morning. 

A neighbor carried the child to church, walking behind the bride andgroom, as a sure sign of good luck. And no one in all the district wassurprised; they simply envied Desiré Lecocq. "He was born with acaul, " they said, with a sly smile into which there entered noresentment. 

Julien was terribly angry and made such a scene that his parents-in-lawcut short their visit to the "Poplars. " Jeanne was only moderatelysad at their departure, for little Paul had become for her aninexhaustible source of happiness. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER IX

DEATH OF LA BARONNE

As Jeanne's health was quite restored, they determined to go andreturn the Fourvilles' visit and also to call on the Marquis deCoutelier. 

Julien had bought at a sale a new one-horse phaeton, so that theycould go out twice a month. They set out one fine December morning, and after driving for two hours across the plains of Normandy, theybegan to descend a little slope into a little valley, the sides ofwhich were wooded, while the valley itself was cultivated. After anabrupt turn in the valley they saw the Château of Vrillette, a woodedslope on one side of it and a large pond on the other, out of whichrose one of its walls and which was bounded by a wood of tall pinetrees that formed the other side of the valley. 

Julien explained all the portions of the building to Jeanne, like onewho knows his subject thoroughly, and went into raptures over itsbeauty, adding; "It is full of game, this country. The comte loves tohunt here. This is a true seignorial residence. "

The hall door was opened and the pale comtesse appeared, comingforward to meet the visitors, all smiles, and wearing a long-traineddress, like a chatelaine of olden times. She looked a fitting lady ofthe lake, born to inhabit this fairy castle. 

The comtesse took both Jeanne's hands, as if she had known her all herlife, and made her sit down beside her in a low chair, while Julien, all of whose forgotten elegance seemed to have revived within the pastfive months, chatted and smiled quietly and familiarly. 

The comtesse and he talked of their horseback rides. She was laughingat his manner of mounting a horse and called him "Le ChevalierTrébuche, " and he smiled also, having nicknamed her "The AmazonQueen. " A gun fired beneath the windows caused Jeanne to give a littlescream. It was the comte, who had killed a teal. 

His wife called to him. A sound of oars was heard, a boat grindingagainst the stones, and he appeared, enormous, booted, followed by twodrenched dogs of a ruddy color like himself, who lay down on the matoutside the door. 

He seemed more at his ease in his own home, and was delighted to seehis visitors. He put some wood on the fire, sent for madeira andbiscuits and then exclaimed suddenly: "Why, you will take dinner withus, of course. "

Jeanne, whose child was never out of her thoughts, declined. Heinsisted, and as she could not be persuaded, Julien made a gesture ofannoyance. She feared to arouse his ugly, quarrelsome temper, andalthough she was very unhappy at the thought that she should not seePaul until the next day, she consented to stay. 

The afternoon was delightful. They first visited the springs whichbubbled up at the foot of a mossy rock and then took a row on thepond. At one end of the boat Julien and the comtesse, wrapped inshawls, were smiling happily like those who have nothing left to wishfor. 

A huge fire was blazing in the spacious reception room, which imparteda sense of warmth and contentment. The comte seized his wife in hisarms and lifted her from the floor as though she had been a child andgave her a hearty kiss on each cheek, like a man satisfied with theworld. 

Jeanne, smiling, looked at this good giant whom one would have thoughtwas an ogre at the very sight of his mustaches, and she thought: "Howone may be deceived each day about everybody. " Then, almostinvoluntarily, she glanced at Julien standing in the doorway, lookinghorribly pale and with his eyes fixed on the comte. She approached himand said in a low tone: "Are you ill? What is the matter with you?" Heanswered her angrily: "Nothing. Let me alone! I was cold. "

When they went into the dining-room the count asked if he might lethis dogs come in, and they settled themselves one on either side oftheir master. 

After dinner, as Jeanne and Julien were preparing to leave, M. DeFourville kept them a little longer to look at some fishing bytorchlight. When they finally set out, wrapped up in their cloaks andsome rugs they had borrowed, Jeanne said almost involuntarily: "What afine man that giant is!" Julien, who was driving, replied: "Yes, buthe does not always restrain himself before company. "

A week later they called on the Couteliers, who were supposed to bethe chief noble family in the province. Their property of Remeniladjoined the large town of Cany. The new château built in the reign ofLouis XIV. Was hidden in a magnificent park enclosed by walls. Theruins of the old château could be seen on an eminence. They wereushered into a stately reception room by men servants in livery. Inthe middle of the room a sort of column held an immense bowl of Sèvresware and on the pedestal of the column an autograph letter from theking, under glass, requested the Marquis Leopold-Hervé-Joseph-Germerde Varneville de Rollebosc de Coutelier to receive this present fromhis sovereign. 

Jeanne and Julien were looking at this royal gift when the marquis andmarquise entered the room. 

They were very ceremonious people whose minds, sentiments and wordsseemed always to be on stilts. They spoke without waiting for ananswer, smiling complacently, appearing always to be fulfilling theduty imposed on them by their position, of showing civilities to theinferior nobility of the region. 

Jeanne and Julien, somewhat taken aback, endeavored to be agreeable, but although they felt too embarrassed to remain any longer, they didnot know exactly how to take their leave. The marquise herself put anend to the visit naturally and simply by bringing the conversation toa close like a queen giving a dismissal. 

On the way home Julien said: "If you like, we will make this our firstand last call; the Fourvilles are good enough for me. " Jeanne was ofthe same opinion. December passed slowly and the shut-in life beganagain as in the previous year. But Jeanne did not find it wearisome, as she was always taken up with Paul, whom Julien looked at askance, uneasy and annoyed. Often when the mother held the child in her arms, kissing it frantically as women do their children, she would hold itup to its father, saying: "Give him a kiss; one would suppose you didnot love him. " He would hardly touch with his lips the child's smoothforehead, walking all round it, as though he did not wish to touch therestless little fists. Then he would walk away abruptly as though fromsomething distasteful. 

The mayor, the doctor and the curé came to dinner occasionally, andsometimes it was the Fourvilles, with whom they were becoming more andmore intimate. The comte appeared to worship Paul. He held him on hisknees during the whole visit and sometimes during the whole afternoon, playing with him and amusing him and then kissing him tenderly asmothers do. He always lamented that he had no children of his own. 

Comtesse Gilberte again mentioned the rides they all four were goingto take together. Jeanne, a little weary of the monotonous days andnights, was quite happy in anticipation of these plans, and for a weekamused herself making a riding habit. 

They always set out two and two, the comtesse and Julien ahead, thecount and Jeanne a hundred feet behind them, talking quietly, likegood friends, for such they had become through the sympathy of theirstraightforward minds and simple hearts. The others often spoke in alow tone, sometimes bursting into laughter and looking quickly at eachother, as though their eyes were expressing what they dared not utter. And they would suddenly set off at a gallop, impelled by a desire toflee, to get away, far away. 

Then Gilberte would seem to be growing irritable. Her sharp voice, borne on the breeze, occasionally reached the ears of the loiteringcouple. The comte would smile and say to Jeanne: "She does not alwaysget out of bed the right side, that wife of mine. "

One evening as they were coming home the comtesse was teasing hermount, spurring it and then checking it abruptly. They heard Juliensay several time: "Take care, take care; you will be thrown. " "So muchthe worse, " she replied; "it is none of your business, " in a hardclear tone that resounded across the fields as though the words hungin the air. 

The animal reared, plunged and champed the bit. The comte, uneasy, shouted: "Be careful, Gilberte!" Then, as if in defiance, with one ofthose impulses of a woman whom nothing can stop, she struck her horsebrutally between the ears. The animal reared in anger, pawed the airwith his front feet and, landing again on his feet, gave a bound anddarted across the plain at full speed. 

First it crossed the meadow, then plunging into a ploughed fieldkicked up the damp rich earth behind it, going so fast that one couldhardly distinguish its rider. Julien remained transfixed withastonishment, calling out in despair: "Madame, madame!" but the comtewas rather annoyed, and, bending forward on his heavy mount, he urgedit forward and started out at such a pace, spurring it on with hisvoice, his gestures and the spur, that the huge horseman seemed to becarrying the heavy beast between his legs and to be lifting it up asif to fly. They went at incredible speed, straight ahead, and Jeannesaw the outline of the wife and of the husband fleeing getting smallerand disappearing in the distance, as if they were two birds pursuingeach other to the verge of the horizon. 

Julien, approaching Jeanne slowly, murmured angrily: "I think she iscrazy to-day. " And they set out together to follow their friends, whowere now hidden by the rising ground. 

At the end of about a quarter of an hour they saw them returning andpresently joined them. The comte, perspiring, his face red, butsmiling, happy and triumphant, was holding his wife's trembling horsein his iron grasp. Gilberte was pale, her face sad and drawn, and shewas leaning one hand on her husband's shoulder as if she were going tofaint. Jeanne understood now that the comte loved her madly. 

After this the comtesse for some months seemed happier than she hadever been. She came to the "Poplars" more frequently, laughedcontinually and kissed Jeanne impulsively. One might have said thatsome mysterious charm had come into her life. Her husband was alsoquite happy and never took his eyes off her. He said to Jeanne oneevening: "We are very happy just now. Gilberte has never been so niceas this. She never is out of humor, never gets angry. I feel that sheloves me; until now I was not sure of it. "

Julien also seemed changed, no longer impatient, as though thefriendship between the two families had brought peace and happiness toboth. The spring was singularly early and mild. Everything seemed tobe coming to life beneath the quickening rays of the sun. Jeanne wasvaguely troubled at this awakening of nature. Memories came to her ofthe early days of her love. Not that her love for Julien was renewed;that was over, over forever. But all her being, caressed by thebreeze, filled with the fragrance of spring, was disturbed as thoughin response to some invisible and tender appeal. She loved to bealone, to give herself up in the sunlight to all kinds of vague andcalm enjoyment which did not necessitate thinking. 

One morning as she was in a reverie a vision came to her, a swiftvision of the sunlit nook amid the dark foliage in the little woodnear Étretat. It was there that she had for the first time trembled, when beside the young man who loved her then. It was there that he haduttered for the first time the timid desire of his heart. It was therethat she thought that she had all at once reached the radiant futureof her hopes. She wished to see this wood again, to make a sort ofsentimental and superstitious pilgrimage, as though a return to thisspot might somehow change the current of her life. Julien had beengone since daybreak, she knew not whither. She had the little whitehorse, which she sometimes rode, saddled, and she set out. It was oneof those days when nothing seemed stirring, not a blade of grass, nota leaf. All seemed wrapped in a golden mist beneath the blazing sun. Jeanne walked her horse, soothed and happy. 

She descended into the valley which leads to the sea, between thegreat arches in the cliff that are called the "Gates" of Étretat, andslowly reached the wood. The sunlight was streaming through the stillscanty foliage. She wandered about the little paths, looking for thespot. 

All at once, as she was going along one of the lower paths, sheperceived at the farther end of it two horses tied to a tree andrecognized them at once; they belonged to Gilberte and Julien. Theloneliness of the place was beginning to be irksome to her, and shewas pleased at this chance meeting, and whipped up her horse. 

When she reached the two patient animals, who were probably accustomedto these long halts, she called. There was no reply. A woman's gloveand two riding whips lay on the beaten-down grass. So they had nodoubt sat down there awhile and then walked away leaving their horsestied. 

She waited a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, surprised, notunderstanding what could be keeping them. She had dismounted. She satthere, leaning against a tree trunk. Suddenly a thought came to her asshe glanced again at the glove, the whips and the two horses left tiedthere, and she sprang to her saddle with an irresistible desire tomake her escape. 

She started off at a gallop for the "Poplars. " She was turning thingsover in her mind, trying to reason, to put two and two together, tocompare facts. How was it that she had not suspected this sooner? Howwas it that she had not noticed anything? How was it she had notguessed the reason of Julien's frequent absences, the renewal of hisformer attention to his appearance and the improvement in his temper?She now recalled Gilberte's nervous abruptness, her exaggeratedaffection and the kind of beaming happiness in which she seemed toexist latterly and that so pleased the comte. 

She reined in her horse, as she wanted to think, and the quick pacedisturbed her ideas. 

As soon as the first emotion was over she became almost calm, withoutjealousy or hatred, but filled with contempt. She hardly gave Julien athought; nothing he might do could astonish her. But the doubletreachery of the comtesse, her friend, disgusted her. Everyone, then, was treacherous, untruthful and false. And tears came to her eyes. Onesometimes mourns lost illusions as deeply as one does the death of afriend. 

She resolved, however, to act as though she knew nothing, to close thedoors of her heart to all ordinary affection and to love no one butPaul and her parents and to endure other people with an undisturbedcountenance. 

As soon as she got home she ran to her son, carried him up to her roomand kissed him passionately for an hour. 

Julien came home to dinner, smiling and attentive, and appearedinterested as he asked: "Are not father and little mother coming thisyear?"

She was so grateful to him for this little attention that she almostforgave him for the discovery she had made in the wood, and she wasfilled all of a sudden with an intense desire to see without delay thetwo beings in the world whom she loved next to Paul, and passed thewhole evening writing to them to hasten their journey. 

They promised to be there on the 20th of May and it was now the 7th. 

She awaited their arrival with a growing impatience, as though shefelt, in addition to her filial affection, the need of opening herheart to honest hearts, to talk with frankness to pure-minded people, devoid of all infamy, all of whose life, actions and thoughts had beenupright at all times. 

What she now felt was a sort of moral isolation, amid all thisimmorality, and, although she had learned suddenly to disseminate, although she received the comtesse with outstretched hand and smilinglips, she felt this consciousness of hollowness, this contempt forhumanity increasing and enveloping her, and the petty gossip of thedistrict gave her a still greater disgust, a still lower opinion ofher fellow creatures. 

The immorality of the peasants shocked her, and this warm springseemed to stir the sap in human beings as well as in plants. Jeannedid not belong to the race of peasants who are dominated by theirlower instincts. Julien one day awakened her aversion anew by tellingher a coarse story that had been told to him and that he consideredvery amusing. 

When the travelling carriage stopped at the door and the happy face ofthe baron appeared at the window Jeanne was stirred with so deep anemotion, such a tumultuous feeling of affection as she had neverbefore experienced. But when she saw her mother she was shocked andalmost fainted. The baroness, in six months, had aged ten years. Herheavy cheeks had grown flabby and purple, as though the blood werecongested; her eyes were dim and she could no longer move about unlesssupported under each arm. Her breathing was difficult and wheezing andaffected those near her with a painful sensation. 

When Jeanne had taken them to their room, she retired to her own inorder to have a good cry, as she was so upset. Then she went to lookfor her father, and throwing herself into his arms, she exclaimed, hereyes still full of tears: "Oh, how mother is changed! What is thematter with her? Tell me, what is the matter?" He was much surprisedand replied: "Do you think so? What an idea! Why, no. I have neverbeen away from her. I assure you that I do not think she looks ill. She always looks like that. "

That evening Julien said to his wife: "Your mother is in a pretty badway. I think she will not last long. " And as Jeanne burst out sobbing, he became annoyed. "Come, I did not say there was no hope for her. Youalways exaggerate everything. She is changed, that's all. She is nolonger young. "

The baroness was not able to walk any distance and only went out forhalf an hour each day to take one turn in her avenue and then shewould sit on the bench. And when she felt unequal to walking to theend of her avenue, she would say: "Let us stop; my hypertrophy isbreaking my legs today. " She hardly ever laughed now as she did theprevious year at anything that amused her, but only smiled. As shecould see to read excellently, she passed hours reading "Corinne" orLamartine's "Meditations. " Then she would ask for her drawer of"souvenirs, " and emptying her cherished letters on her lap, she wouldplace the drawer on a chair beside her and put back, one by one, her"relics, " after she had slowly gone over them. And when she was alone, quite alone, she would kiss some of them, as one kisses in secret alock of hair of a loved one passed away. 

Sometimes Jeanne, coming in abruptly, would find her weeping and wouldexclaim: "What is the matter, little mother?" And the baroness, sighing deeply, would reply: "It is my 'relics' that make me cry. Theystir remembrances that were so delightful and that are now pastforever, and one is reminded of persons whom one had forgotten andrecalls once more. You seem to see them, to hear them and it affectsyou strangely. You will feel this later. "

When the baron happened to come in at such times he would say gently:"Jeanne, dearie, take my advice and burn your letters, all ofthem--your mother's, mine, everyone's. There is nothing more dreadful, when one is growing old, than to look back to one's youth. " But Jeannealso kept her letters, was preparing a chest of "relics" in obedienceto a sort of hereditary instinct of dreamy sentimentality, althoughshe differed from her mother in every other way. 

The baron was obliged to leave them some days later, as he had somebusiness that called him away. 

One afternoon Jeanne took Paul in her arms and went out for a walk. She was sitting on a bank, gazing at the infant, whom she seemed to belooking at for the first time. She could hardly imagine him grown up, walking with a steady step, with a beard on his face and talking in abig voice. She heard someone calling and raised her head. Marius camerunning toward her. 

"Madame, Madame la Baronne is very bad!"

A cold chill seemed to run down her back as she started up and walkedhurriedly toward the house. 

As she approached she saw a number of persons grouped around the planetree. She darted forward and saw her mother lying on the ground withtwo pillows under her head. Her face was black, her eyes closed andher breathing, which had been difficult for twenty years, now quitehushed. The nurse took the child out of Jeanne's arms and carried itoff. 

Jeanne, with drawn, anxious face, asked: "What happened? How did shecome to fall? Go for the doctor, somebody. " Turning round, she saw theold curé, who had heard of it in some way. He offered his services andbegan rolling up the sleeves of his cassock. But vinegar, eau decologne and rubbing the invalid proved ineffectual. 

"She should be undressed and put to bed, " said the priest. 

Joseph Couillard, the farmer, was there and old Simon and Ludivine. With the assistance of Abbé Picot, they tried to lift the baroness, but after an attempt were obliged to bring a large easy chair from thedrawing-room and place her in it. In this way they managed to get herinto the house and then upstairs, where they laid her on her bed. 

Joseph Couillard set out in hot haste for the doctor. As the priestwas going to get the holy oil, the nurse, who had "scented a death, "as the servants say, and was on the spot, whispered to him: "Do notput yourself out, monsieur; she is dead. I know all about thesethings. "

Jeanne, beside herself, entreated them to do something. The priestthought it best to pronounce the absolution. 

They watched for two hours beside this lifeless, discolored body. Jeanne, on her knees, was sobbing in an agony of grief. 

When the door opened and the doctor appeared, Jeanne darted towardhim, stammering out what she knew of the accident, but seeing thenurse exchange a meaning glance with the doctor, she stopped to askhim: "Is it serious? Do you think it is serious?"

He said presently: "I am afraid--I am afraid--it is all over. Bebrave, be brave. "

Jeanne, extending her arms, threw herself on her mother's body. Julienjust then came in. He stood there amazed, visibly annoyed, without anyexclamation of sorrow, any appearance of grief, taken so unawares thathe had not time to prepare a suitable expression of countenance. Hemuttered: "I was expecting it, I felt that the end was near. " Then hetook out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, knelt down, crossedhimself, and then rising to his feet, attempted to raise his wife. Butshe was clasping the dead body and kissing it, and it became necessaryto carry her away. She appeared to be out of her mind. 

At the end of an hour she was allowed to come back. There was nolonger any hope. The room was arranged as a death chamber. Julien andthe priest were talking in a low tone near the window. It was growingdark. The priest came over to Jeanne and took her hands, trying toconsole her. He spoke of the defunct, praised her in pious phrases andoffered to pass the night in prayer beside the body. 

But Jeanne refused, amid convulsive sobs. She wished to be alone, quite alone on this last night of farewell. Julien came forward: "Butyou must not do it; we will stay together. " She shook her head, unableto speak. At last she said: "It is my mother, my mother. I wish towatch beside her alone. " The doctor murmured: "Let her do as shepleases; the nurse can stay in the adjoining room. "

The priest and Julien consented, more interested in their own rest. Then Abbé Picot knelt down in his turn, and as he rose and left theroom, he said: "She was a saint" in the same tone as he said "Dominusvobiscum. "

The vicomte in his ordinary tone then asked: "Are you not going to eatsomething?" Jeanne did not reply, not knowing he was speaking to her, and he repeated: "You had better eat something to keep up yourstomach. " She replied in a bewildered manner: "Send at once for papa. "And he went out of the room to send someone on horseback to Rouen. 

She remained plunged in a sort of motionless grief, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, understanding nothing. She only wanted to be alone. Julien came back. He had dined and he asked her again: "Won't you takesomething?" She shook her head. He sat down with an air of resignationrather than sadness, without speaking, and they both sat there silent, till at length Julien arose, and approaching Jeanne, said: "Would youlike to stay alone now?" She took his hand impulsively and replied:"Oh, yes! leave me!"

He kissed her forehead, murmuring: "I will come in and see you fromtime to time. " He went out with Widow Dentu, who rolled her easy chairinto the next room. 

Jeanne shut the door and opened the windows wide. She felt the softbreath from the mown hay that lay in the moonlight on the lawn. Itseemed to harrow her feelings like an ironical remark. 

She went back to the bed, took one of the cold, inert hands and lookedat her mother earnestly. She seemed to be sleeping more peacefullythan she had ever done, and the pale flame of the tapers whichflickered at every breath made her face appear to be alive, as if shehad stirred. Jeanne remembered all the little incidents of herchildhood, the visits of little mother to the "parloir" of theconvent, the manner in which she handed her a little paper bag ofcakes, a multitude of little details, little acts, little caresses, words, intonations, familiar gestures, the creases at the corner ofher eyes when she laughed, the big sigh she gave when she sat down. 

And she stood there looking at her, repeating half mechanically: "Sheis dead, " and all the horror of the word became real to her. It wasmamma lying there--little mother--Mamma Adelaide who was dead. Shewould never move about again, nor speak, nor laugh, nor sit at dinneropposite little father. She would never again say: "Good-morning, Jeannette. " She was dead!

And she fell on her knees in a paroxysm of despair, her handsclutching the sheet, her face buried in the covers as she cried in aheartrending tone: "Oh, mamma, my poor mamma!" Then feeling that shewas losing her reason as she had done on the night when she fledacross the snow, she rose and ran to the window to drink in the freshair. The soothing calmness of the night entered her soul and she beganto weep quietly. 

Presently she turned back into the room and sat down again besideher mother. Other remembrances came to her: those of her ownlife--Rosalie, Gilberte, the bitter disillusions of her heart. Everything, then, was only misery, grief, unhappiness and death. Everyone tried to deceive, everyone lied, everyone made you suffer andweep. Where could one find a little rest and happiness? In anotherexistence no doubt, when the soul is freed from the trials of earth. And she began to ponder on this insoluble mystery. 

A tender and curious thought came to her mind. It was to read over inthis last watch, as though they were a litany, the old letters thather mother loved. It seemed to her that she was about to perform adelicate and sacred duty which would give pleasure to little mother inthe other world. 

She rose, opened the writing desk and took from the lower drawer tenlittle packages of yellow letters, tied and arranged in order, side byside. She placed them all on the bed over her mother's heart from asort of sentiment and began to read them. They were old letters thatsavored of a former century. The first began, "My dear littlegranddaughter, " then again "My dear little girl, " "My darling, " "Mydearest daughter, " then "My dear child, " "My dear Adelaide, " "My deardaughter, " according to the periods--childhood, youth or youngwomanhood. They were all full of little insignificant details andtender words, about a thousand little matters, those simple butimportant events of home life, so petty to outsiders: "Father has thegrip; poor Hortense burnt her finger; the cat, 'Croquerat, ' is dead;they have cut down the pine tree to the right of the gate; mother losther prayerbook on the way home from church, she thinks it was stolen. "

All these details affected her. They seemed like revelations, asthough she had suddenly entered the past secret heart life of littlemother. She looked at her lying there and suddenly began to readaloud, to read to the dead, as though to distract, to console her. 

And the dead woman appeared to be pleased. 

Jeanne tossed the letters as she read them to the foot of the bed. Sheuntied another package. It was a new handwriting. She read: "I cannotdo without your caresses. I love you so that I am almost crazy. "

That was all; no signature. 

She put back the letter without understanding its meaning. The addresswas certainly "Madame la Baronne Le Perthuis des Vauds. "

Then she opened another: "Come this evening as soon as he goes out; weshall have an hour together. I worship you. " In another: "I passed thenight longing in vain for you, longing to look into your eyes, topress my lips to yours, and I am insane enough to throw myself fromthe window at the thought that you are another's.... "

Jeanne was perfectly bewildered. What did that mean? To whom, forwhom, from whom were these words of love?

She went on reading, coming across fresh impassioned declarations, appointments with warnings as to prudence, and always at the end thesix words: "Be sure to burn this letter!"

At last she opened an ordinary note, accepting an invitation todinner, but in the same handwriting and signed: "Paul d'Ennemare, "whom the baron called, whenever he spoke of him, "My poor old Paul, "and whose wife had been the baroness' dearest friend. 

Then a suspicion, which immediately became a certainty, flashed acrossJeanne's mind: He had been her mother's lover. 

And, almost beside herself, she suddenly threw aside these infamousletters as she would have thrown off some venomous reptile and ran tothe window and began to cry piteously. Then, collapsing, she sank downbeside the wall, and hiding her face in the curtain so that no oneshould hear her, she sobbed bitterly as if in hopeless despair. 

She would have remained thus probably all night, if she had not hearda noise in the adjoining room that made her start to her feet. Itmight be her father. And all the letters were lying on the floor! Hewould have to open only one of them to know all! Her father!

She darted into the other room and seizing the letters in handfuls, she threw them all into the fireplace, those of her grandparents aswell as those of the lover; some that she had not looked at and somethat had remained tied up in the drawers of the desk. She then tookone of the tapers that burned beside the bed and set fire to this pileof letters. When they were reduced to ashes she went back to the openwindow, as though she no longer dared to sit beside the dead, andbegan to cry again with her face in her hands: "Oh, my poor mamma! oh, my poor mamma!"

The stars were paling. It was the cool hour that precedes the dawn. The moon was sinking on the horizon and turning the sea to mother ofpearl. The recollection of the night she passed at the window when shefirst came to the "Poplars" came to Jeanne's mind. How far away itseemed, how everything was changed, how different the future nowseemed!

The sky was becoming pink, a joyous, love-inspiring, enchanting pink. She looked at it in surprise, as at some phenomenon, this radiantbreak of day, and asked herself if it were possible that, on a planetwhere such dawns were found, there should be neither joy norhappiness. 

A noise at the door made her start. It was Julien. "Well, " he said, "are you not very tired?"

She murmured, "No, " happy at being no longer alone. "Go and rest now, "he said. She kissed her mother a long, sad kiss; then she went to herroom. 

The next day passed in the usual attentions to the dead. The baronarrived toward evening. He wept for some time. 

The funeral took place the following day. After pressing a last kisson her mother's icy forehead and seeing the coffin nailed down, Jeanneleft the room. The invited guests would soon arrive. 

Gilberte was the first to come, and she threw herself sobbing on herfriend's shoulder. Women in black presently entered the room one afteranother, people whom Jeanne did not know. The Marquise de Coutelierand the Vicomtesse de Briseville embraced her. She suddenly saw AuntLison gliding in behind her. She turned round and kissed her tenderly. 

Julien came in, dressed all in black, elegant, very important, pleasedat seeing so many people. He asked his wife some question in a lowtone and added confidentially: "All the nobility are here; it will bea fine affair. " And he walked away, gravely bowing to the ladies. AuntLison and Comtesse Gilberte alone remained with Jeanne during theservice for the dead. The comtesse kissed her repeatedly, exclaiming:"My poor dear, my poor dear!"

When Comte de Fourville came to fetch his wife he was also crying asthough it were for his own mother. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER X

RETRIBUTION

The following days were very sad and dreary, as they always are whenthere has been a death in the house. And, in addition, Jeanne wascrushed at the thought of what she had discovered; her last shred ofconfidence had been destroyed with the destruction of her faith. Little father, after a short stay, went away to try and distract histhoughts from his grief, and the large house, whose former masterswere leaving it from time to time, resumed its usual calm andmonotonous course. 

Then Paul fell ill, and Jeanne was almost beside herself, not sleepingfor ten days, and scarcely tasting food. He recovered, but she washaunted by the idea that he might die. Then what should she do? Whatwould become of her? And there gradually stole into her heart the hopethat she might have another child. She dreamed of it, became obsessedwith the idea. She longed to realize her old dream of seeing twolittle children around her; a boy and a girl. 

But since the affair of Rosalie she and Julien had lived apart. Areconciliation seemed impossible in their present situation. Julienloved some one else, she knew it; and the very thought of sufferinghis approach filled her with repugnance. She had no one left whom shecould consult. She resolved to go and see Abbé Picot and tell him, under the seal of confession, all that weighed upon her mind in thismatter. 

He was reading from his breviary in his little garden planted withfruit trees when she arrived. 

After a few minutes' conversation on indifferent matters, shefaltered, her color rising: "I want to confess, Monsieur l'Abbé. "

He looked at her in astonishment, as he pushed his spectacles back onhis forehead; then he began to laugh. "You surely have no great sinson your conscience. " This embarrassed her greatly, and she replied:"No, but I want to ask your advice on a subject that is so--so--sopainful that I dare not mention it casually. "

He at once laid aside his jovial manner and assumed his priestlyattitude. "Well, my child, I will listen to you in the confessional;come along. "

But she held back, undecided, restrained by a kind of scruple atspeaking of these matters, of which she was half ashamed, in theseclusion of an empty church. 

"Or else, no--Monsieur le Curé--I might--I might--if you wish, tellyou now what brings me here. Let us go and sit over there, in yourlittle arbor. "

They walked toward it, and Jeanne tried to think how she could begin. They sat down in the arbor, and then, as if she were confessingherself, she said: "Father----" then hesitated, and repeated:"Father----" and was silent from emotion. 

He waited, his hands crossed over his paunch. Seeing herembarrassment, he sought to encourage her: "Why, my daughter, onewould suppose you were afraid; come, take courage. "

She plucked up courage, like a coward who plunges headlong intodanger. "Father, I should like to have another child. " He did notreply, as he did not understand her. Then she explained, timid andunable to express herself clearly:

"I am all alone in life now; my father and my husband do not get alongtogether; my mother is dead; and--and----" she added with a shudder, "the other day I nearly lost my son! What would have become of methen?"

She was silent. The priest, bewildered, was gazing at her. "Come, getto the point of your subject. "

"I want to have another child, " she said. Then he smiled, accustomedto the coarse jokes of the peasants, who were not embarrassed in hispresence, and he replied, with a sly motion of his head:

"Well, it seems to me that it depends only on yourself. "

She raised her candid eyes to his face, and said, hesitating withconfusion: "But--but--you understand that since--since--what you knowabout--about that maid--my husband and I have lived--have lived quiteapart. "

Accustomed to the promiscuity and undignified relations of thepeasants, he was astonished at the revelation. All at once he thoughthe guessed at the young woman's real desire, and looking at her out ofthe corner of his eye, with a heart full of benevolence and ofsympathy for her distress, he said: "Oh, I understand perfectly. Iknow that your widowhood must be irksome to you. You are young and ingood health. It is natural, quite natural. "

He smiled, bearing out his easy-going character of a country priest, and tapping Jeanne lightly on the hand, he said: "That is permissible, very permissible indeed, according to the commandments. You aremarried, are you not? Well, then, what is the harm?"

She, in her turn, had not understood his hidden meaning; but as soonas she saw through it, she blushed scarlet, shocked, and with tears inher eyes exclaimed: "Oh, Monsieur le Curé, what are you saying? Whatare you thinking of? I swear to you--I swear to you----" And sobschoked her words. 

He was surprised and sought to console her: "Come, I did not mean tohurt your feelings. I was only joking a little; there is no harm inthat when one is decent. But you may rely on me, you may rely on me. Iwill see M. Julien. "

She did not know what to say. She now wished to decline thisintervention, which she thought clumsy and dangerous, but she did notdare to do so, and she went away hurriedly, faltering: "I am gratefulto you, Monsieur le Curé. "

A week passed. One day at dinner Julien looked at her with a peculiarexpression, a certain smiling curve of the lips that she had noticedwhen he was teasing her. He was even almost ironically gallant towardher, and as they were walking after dinner in little mother's avenue, he said in a low tone: "We seem to have made up again. "

She did not reply, but continued to look on the ground at a sort oftrack that was almost effaced now that the grass was sprouting anew. They were the footprints of the baroness, which were vanishing as doesa memory. And Jeanne was plunged in sadness; she felt herself lost inlife, far away from everyone. 

"As for me, I ask nothing better. I was afraid of displeasing you, "continued Julien. 

The sun was going down, the air was mild. A longing to weep came overJeanne, one of those needs of unbosoming oneself to a kindred spirit, of unbending and telling one's griefs. A sob rose in her throat; sheopened her arms and fell on Julien's breast, and wept. He glanced downin surprise at her head, for he could not see her face which washidden on his shoulder. He supposed that she still loved him, andplaced a condescending kiss on the back of her head. 

They entered the house and he followed her to her room. And thus theyresumed their former relations, he, as a not unpleasant duty, and she, merely tolerating him. 

She soon noticed, however, that his manner had changed, and one daywith her lips to his, she murmured: "Why are you not the same as youused to be?"

"Because I do not want any more children, " he said jokingly. 

She started. "Why not?"

He appeared greatly surprised. "Eh, what's that you say? Are youcrazy? No, indeed! One is enough, always crying and botheringeveryone. Another baby! No, thank you!"

At the end of a month she told the news to everyone, far and wide, with the exception of Comtesse Gilberte, from reasons of modesty anddelicacy. 

What the priest had foreseen finally came to pass. She becameenceinte. Then, filled with an unspeakable happiness, she locked herdoor every night when she retired, vowing herself from henceforth toeternal chastity, in gratitude to the vague divinity she adored. 

She was now almost quite happy again. Her children would grow up andlove her; she would grow old quietly, happy and contented, withouttroubling herself about her husband. 

Toward the end of September, Abbé Picot called on a visit of ceremonyto introduce his successor, a young priest, very thin, very short, with an emphatic way of talking, and with dark circles round hissunken eyes. 

The old abbé had been appointed Dean of Goderville. 

Jeanne was really sorry to lose the old man, who had been associatedwith all her recollections as a young woman. He had married her, baptized Paul, and buried the baroness. She could not imagine Étouventwithout Abbé Picot and his paunch passing along by the farms, and sheloved him because he was cheerful and natural. 

But he did not seem very cheerful at the thought of his promotion. "Itis a wrench, it is a wrench, madame la comtesse. I have been here foreighteen years. Oh, the place does not bring in much, and is notwealthy. The men have no more religion than they need, and the women, look you, the women have no morals. But nevertheless, I loved it. "

The new curé appeared impatient, and said abruptly: "When I am hereall that will have to be changed. " He looked like an angry boy, thinand frail in his somewhat worn, though clean cassock. 

Abbé Picot looked at him sideways, as he did when he was in a jokingmood, and said: "You see, abbé, in order to prevent those happenings, you will have to chain up your parishioners; and even that would notbe of much use. " The little priest replied sharply: "We shall see. "And the older man smiled as he took a pinch of snuff, and said: "Agewill calm you down, abbé, and experience also. You will drive awayfrom the church the remaining faithful ones, and that is all the goodit will do. In this district they are religious, but pig-headed; becareful. Faith, when I see a girl come to confess who looks ratherstout, I say to myself: 'She is bringing me a new parishioner, ' and Itry to get her married. You cannot prevent them from making mistakes;but you can go and look for the man, and prevent him from desertingthe mother. Get them married, abbé, get them married, and do nottrouble yourself about anything else. "

"We think differently, " said the young priest rudely; "it is uselessto insist. " And Abbé Picot once more began to regret his village, thesea which he saw from his parsonage, the little valleys where hewalked while repeating his breviary, glancing up at the boats as theypassed. 

As the two priests took their leave, the old man kissed Jeanne, whowas on the verge of tears. 

A week later Abbé Tolbiac called again. He spoke of reforms which heintended to accomplish, as a prince might have done on takingpossession of a kingdom. Then he requested the vicomtesse not to missthe service on Sunday, and to communicate a all the festivals. "Youand I, " he said, "we are at the head of the district; we must rule itand always set them an example to follow. We must be of one accord sothat we may be powerful and respected. The church and the château injoining forces will make the peasants obey and fear us. "

Jeanne's religion was all sentiment; she had all a woman's dreamfaith, and if she attended at all to her religious duties, it was froma habit acquired at the convent, the baron's advanced ideas havinglong since overthrown her convictions. Abbé Picot contented himselfwith what observances she gave him, and never blamed her. But hissuccessor, not seeing her at mass the preceding Sunday, had come tocall, uneasy and stern. 

She did not wish to break with the parsonage, and promised, making upher mind to be assiduous in attendance the first few weeks, out ofpoliteness. 

Little by little, however, she got into the habit of going to church, and came under the influence of this delicate, upright and dictatorialabbé. A mystic, he appealed to her in his enthusiasm and zeal. He setin vibration in her soul the chord of religious poetry that all womenpossess. His unyielding austerity, his disgust for ordinary humaninterests, his love of God, his youthful and untutored inexperience, his harsh words, and his inflexible will, gave Jeanne an idea of thestuff martyrs were made of; and she let herself be carried away, alldisillusioned as she was, by the fanaticism of this child, theminister of God. 

He led her to Christ, the consoler, showing her how the joy ofreligion will calm all sorrow; and she knelt at the confessional, humbling herself, feeling herself small and weak in presence of thispriest, who appeared to be about fifteen. 

He was, however, very soon detested in all the countryside. Inflexiblysevere toward himself, he was implacably intolerant toward others, andthe one thing that especially roused his wrath and indignation waslove. The young men and girls looked at each other slyly across thechurch, and the old peasants who liked to joke about such thingsdisapproved his severity. All the parish was in a ferment. Soon theyoung men all stopped going to church. 

The curé dined at the château every Thursday, and often came duringthe week to chat with his penitent. She became enthusiastic likehimself, talked about spiritual matters, handling all the antique andcomplicated arsenal of religious controversy. 

They walked together along the baroness' avenue, talking of Christ andthe apostles, the Virgin Mary and the Fathers of the Church as thoughthey were personally acquainted with them. 

Julien treated the new priest with great respect, saying constantly:"That priest suits me, he does not back down. " And he went toconfession and communion, setting a fine example. He now went to theFourvilles' nearly every day, gunning with the husband, who was neverhappy without him, and riding with the comtesse, in spite of rain andstorm. The comte said: "They are crazy about riding, but it does mywife good. "

The baron returned to the château about the middle of November. He waschanged, aged, faded, filled with a deep sadness. And his love for hisdaughter seemed to have gained in strength, as if these few months ofdreary solitude had aggravated his need of affection, confidence andtenderness. Jeanne did not tell him about her new ideas, and herfriendship for the Abbé Tolbiac. The first time he saw the priest heconceived a great aversion to him. And when Jeanne asked him thatevening how he liked him, he replied: "That man is an inquisitor! Hemust be very dangerous. "

When he learned from the peasants, whose friend he was, of theharshness and violence of the young priest, of the kind of persecutionwhich he carried on against all human and natural instincts, hedeveloped a hatred toward him. He, himself, was one of the old race ofnatural philosophers who bowed the knee to a sort of pantheisticDivinity, and shrank from the catholic conception of a God withbourgeois instincts, Jesuitical wrath, and tyrannical revenge. To himreproduction was the great law of nature, and he began from farm tofarm an ardent campaign against this intolerant priest, the persecutorof life. 

Jeanne, very much worried, prayed to the Lord, entreated her father;but he always replied: "We must fight such men as that, it is our dutyand our right. They are not human. "

And he repeated, shaking his long white locks: "They are not human;they understand nothing, nothing, nothing. They are moving in a morbiddream; they are anti-physical. " And he pronounced the word"anti-physical" as though it were a malediction. 

The priest knew who his enemy was, but as he wished to remain ruler ofthe château and of Jeanne, he temporized, sure of final victory. Hewas also haunted by a fixed idea. He had discovered by chance theamours of Julien and Gilberte, and he desired to put a stop to them atall costs. 

He came to see Jeanne one day and, after a long conversation onspiritual matters, he asked her to give her aid in helping him tofight, to put an end to the evil in her own family, in order to savetwo souls that were in danger. 

She did not understand, and did not wish to know. He replied: "Thehour has not arrived. I shall see you some other time. " And he leftabruptly. 

The winter was coming to a close, a rotten winter, as they say in thecountry, damp and mild. The abbé called again some days later andhinted mysteriously at one of those shameless intrigues betweenpersons whose conduct should be irreproachable. It was the duty, hesaid, of those who were aware of the facts to use every means to bringit to an end. He took Jeanne's hand and adjured her to open her eyesand understand and lend him her aid. 

This time she understood, but she was silent, terrified at the thoughtof all that might result in the house that was now peaceful, and shepretended not to understand. Then he spoke out clearly. 

She faltered: "What do you wish me to do, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

"Anything, rather than permit this infamy. Anything, I say. Leave him. Flee from this impure house!"

"But I have no money; and then I have no longer any courage; and, besides, how can I go without any proof? I have not the right to doso. "

The priest arose trembling: "That is cowardice, madame; I am mistakenin you. You are unworthy of God's mercy!"

She fell on her knees: "Oh, I pray you not to leave me, tell me whatto do!"

"Open M. De Fourville's eyes, " he said abruptly. "It is his place tobreak up this intrigue. "

This idea filled her with terror. "Why, he would kill them, Monsieurl'Abbé! And I should be guilty of denouncing them! Oh, never that, never!"

He raised his hand as if to curse her in his fury: "Remain in yourshame and your crime; for you are more guilty than they are. You arethe complaisant wife! There is nothing more for me to do here. " And hewent off so furious that he trembled all over. 

She followed him, distracted and ready to do as he suggested. But hestrode along rapidly, shaking his large blue umbrella in his rage. Heperceived Julien standing outside the gate superintending the loppingof the trees, so he turned to the left to go across the Couillardfarm, and he said: "Leave me alone, madame, I have nothing further tosay to you. "

Jeanne was entreating him to give her a few days for reflection, andthen if he came back to the château she would tell him what she haddone, and they could take counsel together. 

Right in his road, in the middle of the farmyard, a group of children, those of the house and some neighbor's children, were standing aroundthe kennel of Mirza, the dog, looking curiously at something withsilent and concentrated attention. In the midst of them stood thebaron, his hands behind his back, also looking on with curiosity. Onewould have taken him for a schoolmaster. When he saw the priestapproaching, he moved away so as not to have to meet him and speak tohim. 

The priest did not call again; but the following Sunday from thepulpit he hurled imprecations, curses and threats against the château, anathematizing the baron, and making veiled allusions, but timidly, toJulien's latest intrigue. The vicomte was furious, but the dread of ashocking scandal kept him silent. At each service thereafter thepriest declared his indignation, predicting the approach of the hourwhen God would smite all his enemies. 

Julien wrote a firm, but respectful letter to the archbishop; the abbéwas threatened with suspension. He was silent thereafter. 

Gilberte and Julien now frequently met him during their rides readinghis breviary, but they turned aside so as not to pass him by. Springhad come and reawakened their love. As the foliage was still sparseand the grass damp, they used to meet in a shepherd's movable hut thathad been deserted since autumn. But one day when they were leaving it, they saw the Abbé Tolbiac, almost hidden in the sea rushes on theslope. 

"We must leave our horses in the ravine, " said Julien, "as they can beseen from a distance and would betray us. " One evening as they werecoming home together to La Vrillette, where they were to dine with thecomte, they met the curé of Étouvent coming out of the château. Hestepped to the side of the road to let them pass, and bowed withouttheir eyes meeting. They were uneasy for a few moments, but soonforgot it. 

One afternoon, Jeanne was reading beside the fire while a storm ofwind was raging outside, when she suddenly perceived Comte Fourvillecoming on foot at such a pace that she thought some misfortune hadhappened. 

She ran downstairs to meet him, and when she saw him she thought hemust be crazy. He wore a large quilted cap that he wore only at home, his hunting jacket, and looked so pale that his red mustache, usuallythe color of his skin, now seemed like a flame. His eyes were haggard, rolling as though his mind were vacant. 

He stammered: "My wife is here, is she not?" Jeanne, losing herpresence of mind, replied: "Why, no, I have not seen her to-day. "

He sat down as if his legs had given way. He then took off his cap andwiped his forehead with his handkerchief mechanically several times. Then starting up suddenly, he approached Jeanne, his hands stretchedout, his mouth open, as if to speak, to confide some great sorrow toher. Then he stopped, looked at her fixedly and said as though he werewandering: "But it is your husband--you also----" And he fled, goingtoward the sea. 

Jeanne ran after him, calling him, imploring him to stop, her heartbeating with apprehension as she thought: "He knows all! What will hedo? Oh, if he only does not find them!"

But she could not come up to him, and he disregarded her appeals. Hewent straight ahead without hesitation, straight to his goal. Hecrossed the ditch, then, stalking through the sea rushes like a giant, he reached the cliff. 

Jeanne, standing on the mound covered with trees, followed him withher eyes until he was out of sight. Then she went into the house, distracted with grief. 

He had turned to the right and started to run. Threatening wavesoverspread the sea, big black clouds were scudding along madly, passing on and followed by others, each of them coming down in afurious downpour. The wind whistled, moaned, laid the grass and theyoung crops low and carried away big white birds that looked likespecks of foam and bore them far into the land. 

The hail which followed beat in the comte's face, filling his earswith noise and his heart with tumult. 

Down yonder before him was the deep gorge of the Val de Vaucotte. There was nothing before him but a shepherd's hut beside a desertedsheep pasture. Two horses were tied to the shafts of the hut onwheels. What might not happen to one in such a tempest as this?

As soon as he saw them the comte crouched on the ground and crawledalong on his hands and knees as far as the lonely hut and hid himselfbeneath the hut that he might not be seen through the cracks. Thehorses on seeing him became restive. He slowly cut their reins withthe knife which he held open in his hand, and a sudden squall comingup, the animals fled, frightened at the hail which rattled on thesloping roof of the wooden hut and made it shake on its wheels. 

The comte then kneeling upright, put his eye to the bottom of the doorand looked inside. He did not stir; he seemed to be waiting. 

A little time elapsed and then he suddenly rose to his feet, coveredwith mud from head to foot. He frantically pushed back the bolt whichclosed the hut on the outside, and seizing the shafts, he began toshake the hut as though he would break it to pieces. Then all at oncehe got between the shafts, bending his huge frame, and with adesperate effort dragged it along like an ox, panting as he went. Hedragged it, with whoever was in it, toward the steep incline. 

Those inside screamed and banged with their fists on the door, notunderstanding what was going on. 

When he reached the top of the cliff he let go the fragile dwelling, which began to roll down the incline, going ever faster and faster, plunging, stumbling like an animal and striking the ground with itsshafts. 

An old beggar hidden in a ditch saw it flying over his head and heardfrightful screams coming from the wooden box. 

All at once a wheel was wrenched off and it fell on its side and beganto roll like a ball, as a house torn from its foundations might rollfrom the summit of a mountain. Then, reaching the ledge of the lastravine, it described a circle, and, falling to the bottom, burst openas an egg might do. It was no sooner smashed on the stones than theold beggar, who had seen it going past, went down toward it slowlyamid the rushes, and with the customary caution of a peasant, notdaring to go directly to the shattered hut, he went to the nearestfarm to tell of the accident. 

They all ran to look at it and raised the wreck of the hut. They foundtwo bodies, bruised, crushed and bleeding. The man's forehead wassplit open and his whole face crushed; the woman's jaw was hanging, dislocated in one of the jolts, and their shattered limbs were soft aspulp. 

"What were they doing in that shanty?" said a woman. 

The old beggar then said that they had apparently taken refuge in itto get out of the storm and that a furious squall must have blown thehut over the cliff. He said he had intended to take shelter therehimself, when he saw the horses tied to it, and understood that someone else must be inside. "But for that, " he added in a satisfied tone, "I might have rolled down in it. " Some one remarked: "Would not thathave been a good thing?"

The old man, in a furious rage, said: "Why would it have been a goodthing? Because I am poor and they are rich! Look at them now. " Andtrembling, ragged and dripping with rain, he pointed to the two deadbodies with his hooked stick and exclaimed: "We are all alike when weget to this. "

The comte, as soon as he saw the hut rolling down the steep slope, ranoff at full speed through the blinding storm. He ran in this way forseveral hours, taking short cuts, leaping across ditches, breakingthrough the hedges, and thus got back home at dusk, not knowing howhimself. 

The frightened servants were awaiting his return and told him that thetwo horses had returned riderless some little time before, that ofJulien following the other one. 

Then M. De Fourville reeled and in a choked voice said: "Somethingmust have happened to them in this dreadful weather. Let every onehelp to look for them. "

He started off himself, but he was no sooner out of sight than heconcealed himself in a clump of bushes, watching the road along whichshe whom he even still loved with an almost savage passion was toreturn dead, dying or maybe crippled and disfigured forever. 

And soon a carriole passed by carrying a strange burden. 

It stopped at the château and passed through the gate. It was that, itwas she. But a fearful anguish nailed him to the spot, a fear to knowthe worst, a dread of the truth, and he did not stir, hiding as ahare, starting at the least sound. 

He waited thus an hour, two hours perhaps. The buggy did not come out. He concluded that his wife was expiring, and the thought of seeingher, of meeting her gaze filled him with so much horror that hesuddenly feared to be discovered in his hiding place and of beingcompelled to return and be present at this agony, and he then fledinto the thick of the wood. Then all of a sudden it occurred to himthat she perhaps might be needing his care, that no one probably couldproperly attend to her. Then he returned on his tracks, runningbreathlessly. 

On entering the château he met the gardener and called out to him, "Well?" The man did not dare answer him. Then M. De Fourville almostroared at him: "Is she dead?" and the servant stammered: "Yes, M. LeComte. "

He experienced a feeling of immense relief. His blood seemed to cooland his nerves relax somewhat of their extreme tension, and he walkedfirmly up the steps of his great hallway. 

The other wagon had reached "The Poplars. " Jeanne saw it from afar. She descried the mattress; she guessed that a human form was lyingupon it, and understood all. Her emotion was so vivid that she swoonedand fell prostrate. 

When she regained consciousness her father was holding her head andbathing her temples with vinegar. He said hesitatingly: "Do you know?"She murmured: "Yes, father. " But when she attempted to rise she foundherself unable to do so, so intense was her agony. 

That very night she gave birth to a stillborn infant, a girl. 

Jeanne saw nothing of the funeral of Julien; she knew nothing of it. She merely noticed at the end of a day or two that Aunt Lison wasback, and in her feverish dreams which haunted her she persistentlysought to recall when the old maiden lady had left "The Poplars, " atwhat period and under what circumstances. She could not make this out, even in her lucid moments, but she was certain of having seen hersubsequent to the death of "little mother. "

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XI

THE DEVELOPMENT OF PAUL

Jeanne did not leave her room for three months and was so wan and palethat no one thought she would recover. But she picked up by degrees. Little father and Aunt Lison never left her; they had both taken uptheir abode at "The Poplars. " The shock of Julien's death had left herwith a nervous malady. The slightest sound made her faint and she hadlong swoons from the most insignificant causes. 

She had never asked the details of Julien's death. What did it matterto her? Did she not know enough already? Every one thought it was anaccident, but she knew better, and she kept to herself this secretwhich tortured her: the knowledge of his infidelity and theremembrance of the abrupt and terrible visit of the comte on the dayof the catastrophe. 

And now she was filled with tender, sweet and melancholy recollectionsof the brief evidences of love shown her by her husband. Sheconstantly thrilled at unexpected memories of him, and she seemed tosee him as he was when they were betrothed and as she had known him inthe hours passed beneath the sunlight in Corsica. All his faultsdiminished, all his harshness vanished, his very infidelities appearedless glaring in the widening separation of the closed tomb. AndJeanne, pervaded by a sort of posthumous gratitude for this man whohad held her in his arms, forgave all the suffering he had caused her, to remember only moments of happiness they had passed together. Then, as time went on and month followed month, covering all her grief andreminiscences with forgetfulness, she devoted herself entirely to herson. 

He became the idol, the one thought of the three beings who surroundedhim, and he ruled as a despot. A kind of jealousy even arose among hisslaves. Jeanne watched with anxiety the great kisses he gave hisgrandfather after a ride on his knee, and Aunt Lison, neglected by himas she had been by every one else and treated often like a servant bythis little tyrant who could scarcely speak as yet, would go to herroom and weep as she compared the slight affection he showed her withthe kisses he gave his mother and the baron. 

Two years passed quietly, and at the beginning of the third winter itwas decided that they should go to Rouen to live until spring, and thewhole family set out. But on their arrival in the old damp house, thathad been shut up for some time, Paul had such a severe attack ofbronchitis that his three relatives in despair declared that he couldnot do without the air of "The Poplars. " They took him back there andhe got well. 

Then began a series of quiet, monotonous years. Always around thelittle one, they went into raptures at everything he did. His mothercalled him Poulet, and as he could not pronounce the word, he said"Pol, " which amused them immensely, and the nickname of "Poulet" stuckto him. 

The favorite occupation of his "three mothers, " as the baron calledhis relatives, was to see how much he had grown, and for this purposethey made little notches in the casing of the drawing-room door, showing his progress from month to month. This ladder was called"Poulet's ladder, " and was an important affair. 

A new individual began to play a part in the affairs of thehousehold--the dog "Massacre, " who became Paul's inseparablecompanion. 

Rare visits were exchanged with the Brisevilles and the Couteliers. The mayor and the doctor alone were regular visitors. Since theepisode of the mother dog and the suspicion Jeanne had entertained ofthe priest on the occasion of the terrible death of the comtesse andJulien, Jeanne had not entered the church, angry with a divinity thatcould tolerate such ministers. 

The church was deserted and the priest came to be looked on as asorcerer because he had, so they said, driven out an evil spirit froma woman who was possessed, and although fearing him the peasants cameto respect him for this occult power as well as for the unimpeachableausterity of his life. 

When he met Jeanne he never spoke. This condition of affairsdistressed Aunt Lison, and when she was alone, quite alone with Paul, she talked to him about God, telling him the wonderful stories of theearly history of the world. But when she told him that he must loveHim very much, the child would say: "Where is He, auntie?" "Up there, "she would say, pointing to the sky; "up there, Poulet, but do not sayso. " She was afraid of the baron. 

One day, however, Poulet said to her: "God is everywhere, but He isnot in church. " He had told his grandfather of his aunt's wonderfulrevelations. 

When Paul was twelve years old a great difficulty arose on the subjectof his first communion. 

Lison came to Jeanne one morning and told her that the little fellowshould no longer be kept without religious instruction and from hisreligious duties. His mother, troubled and undecided, hesitated, saying that there was time enough. But a month later, as she wasreturning a call at the Brisevilles', the comtesse asked her casuallyif Paul was going to make his first communion that year. Jeanne, unprepared for this, answered, "Yes, " and this simple word decidedher, and without saying a word to her father, she asked Aunt Lison totake the boy to the catechism class. 

All went well for a month, but one day Paul came home with ahoarseness and the following day he coughed. On inquiry his motherlearned that the priest had sent him to wait till the lesson was overat the door of the church, where there was a draught, because he hadmisbehaved. So she kept him at home and taught him herself. But theAbbé Tobiac, despite Aunt Lison's entreaties, refused to admit him asa communicant on the ground that he was not thoroughly taught. 

The same thing occurred the following year, and the baron angrilyswore that the child did not need to believe all that tomfoolery, soit was decided that he should be brought up as a Christian, but not asan active Catholic, and when he came of age he could believe as hepleased. 

The Brisevilles ceased to call on her and Jeanne was surprised, knowing the punctiliousness of these neighbors in returning calls, butthe Marquise de Coutelier haughtily told her the reason. Consideringherself, in virtue of her husband's rank and fortune, a sort of queenof the Norman nobility, the marquise ruled as a queen, said what shethought, was gracious or the reverse as occasion demanded, admonishing, restoring to favor, congratulating whenever she saw fit. So when Jeanne came to see her, this lady, after a few chillingremarks, said drily: "Society is divided into two classes: those whobelieve in God and those who do not believe in Him. The former, eventhe humblest, are our friends, our equals; the latter are nothing tous. "

Jeanne, perceiving the insinuation, replied: "But may one not believein God without going to church?"

"No, madame, " answered the marquise. "The faithful go to worship Godin His church, just as one goes to see people in their homes. "

Jeanne, hurt, replied: "God is everywhere, madame. As for me, whobelieves from the bottom of my heart in His goodness, I no longer feelHis presence when certain priests come between Him and me. "

The marquise rose. "The priest is the standard bearer of the Church, madame. Whoever does not follow the standard is opposed to Him andopposed to us. "

Jeanne had risen in her turn and said, trembling: "You believe, madame, in a partisan God. I believe in the God of upright people. "She bowed and took her leave. 

The peasants also blamed her among themselves for not having letPoulet make his first communion. They themselves never attendedservice or took the sacrament unless it might be at Easter, accordingto the rule ordained by the Church; but for boys it was quite anotherthing, and they would have all shrunk in horror at the audacity ofbringing up a child outside this recognized law, for religion isreligion. 

She saw how they felt and was indignant at heart at all thesediscriminations, all these compromises with conscience, this generalfear of everything, the real cowardice of all hearts and the mask ofrespectability assumed in public. 

The baron took charge of Paul's studies and made him study Latin, hismother merely saying: "Above all things, do not get over tired. "

As soon as the boy was at liberty he went down to work in the gardenwith his mother and his aunt. 

He now loved to dig in the ground, and all three planted young treesin the spring, sowed seed and watched it growing with the deepestinterest, pruned branches and cut flowers for bouquets. 

Poulet was almost fifteen, but was a mere child in intelligence, ignorant, silly, suppressed between petticoat government and this kindold man who belonged to another century. 

One evening the baron spoke of college, and Jeanne at once began tosob. Aunt Lison timidly remained in a dark corner. 

"Why does he need to know so much?" asked his mother. "We will make agentleman farmer of him. He can cultivate his land, as many of thenobility do. He will live and grow old happily in this house, where wehave lived before him and where we shall die. What more can one do?"

But the baron shook his head. "What would you say to him if he shouldsay to you when he is twenty-five: 'I amount to nothing, I knownothing, all through your fault, the fault of your maternalselfishness. I feel that I am incapable of working, of makingsomething of myself, and yet I was not intended for a secluded, simplelife, lonely enough to kill one, to which I have been condemned byyour shortsighted affection. '"

She was weeping and said entreatingly: "Tell me, Poulet, you will notreproach me for having loved you too well?" And the big boy, insurprise, promised that he never would. "Swear it, " she said. "Yes, mamma. " "You want to stay here, don't you?" "Yes, mamma. "

Then the baron spoke up loud and decidedly: "Jeanne, you have no rightto make disposition of this life. What you are doing is cowardly andalmost criminal; you are sacrificing your child to your own privatehappiness. "

She hid her face in her hands, sobbing convulsively, and stammered outamid her tears: "I have been so unhappy--so unhappy! Now, just as I amliving peacefully with him, they want to take him away from me. Whatwill become of me now--all by myself?" Her father rose and, sittingdown beside her, put his arms round her. "And how about me, Jeanne?"

She put her arms suddenly round his neck, gave him a hearty kiss andwith her voice full of tears, she said: "Yes, you are right perhaps, little father. I was foolish, but I have suffered so much. I am quitewilling he should go to college. "

And without knowing exactly what they were going to do with him, Poulet in his turn began to weep. 

Then the three mothers began to kiss him and pet him and encouragehim. When they retired to their rooms it was with a weight at theirhearts, and they all wept, even the baron, who had restrained himselfup to that. 

It was decided that when the term began to put the young boy to schoolat Havre, and during the summer he was petted more than ever; hismother sighed often as she thought of the separation. She prepared hiswardrobe as if he were going to undertake a ten years' voyage. OneOctober morning, after a sleepless night, the two women and the barongot into the carriage with him and set out on their journey. 

They had previously selected his place in the dormitory and his deskin the school room. Jeanne, aided by Aunt Lison, spent the whole dayin arranging his clothes in his little wardrobe. As it did not hold aquarter of what they had brought, she went to look for thesuperintendent to ask for another. The treasurer was called, but hepointed out that all that amount of clothing would only be in the wayand would never be needed, and he refused, on behalf of the directors, to let her have another chest of drawers. Jeanne, much annoyed, decided to hire a room in a small neighboring hotel, begging theproprietor to go himself and take Poulet whatever he required as soonas the boy asked for it. 

They then took a walk on the pier to look at the ships coming andgoing. They went into a restaurant to dine, but they were none of themable to eat, and looked at one another with moistened eyes as thedishes were brought on and taken away almost untouched. 

They now returned slowly toward the school. Boys of all ages werearriving from all quarters, accompanied by their families or byservants. Many of them were crying. 

Jeanne held Poulet in a long embrace, while Aunt Lison remained in thebackground, her face hidden in her handkerchief. The baron, however, who was becoming affected, cut short the adieus by dragging hisdaughter away. They got into the carriage and went back through thedarkness to "The Poplars, " the silence being broken by an occasionalsob. 

Jeanne wept all the following day and on the day after drove to Havrein the phaeton. Poulet seemed to have become reconciled to theseparation. For the first time in his life he now had playmates, andin his anxiety to join them he could scarcely sit still on his chairwhen his mother called. She continued her visits to him every otherday and called to take him home on Sundays. Not knowing what to dowith herself while school was in session until recreation time, shewould remain sitting in the reception room, not having the strength orthe courage to go very far from the school. The superintendent sent toask her to come to his office and begged her not to come sofrequently. She paid no attention to his request. He thereforeinformed her that if she continued to prevent her son from taking hisrecreation at the usual hours, obliging him to work without a changeof occupation, they would be forced to send him back home again, andthe baron was also notified to the same effect. She was consequentlywatched like a prisoner at "The Poplars. "

She became restless and worried and would ramble about for whole daysin the country, accompanied only by Massacre, dreaming as she walkedalong. Sometimes she would remain seated for a whole afternoon, looking out at the sea from the top of the cliff; at other times shewould go down to Yport through the wood, going over the ground of herformer walks, the memory of which haunted her. How long ago--how longago it was--the time when she had gone over these same paths as ayoung girl, carried away by her dreams. 

Poulet was not very industrious at school; he was kept two years inthe fourth form. The third year's work was only tolerable and he hadto begin the second over again, so that he was in rhetoric when he wastwenty. 

He was now a big, fair young man, with downy whiskers and a faint signof a mustache. He now came home to "The Poplars" every Sunday, ridingover in a couple of hours, his mother, Aunt Lison and the baronstarting out early to go and meet him. 

Although he was a head taller than his mother, she always treated himas though he were a child, and when he returned to school in theevening she would charge him anxiously not to go too fast and to thinkof his poor mother, who would break her heart if anything happened tohim. 

One Saturday morning she received a letter from Paul, saying that hewould not be home on the following day because some friends hadarranged an excursion and had invited him. She was tormented withanxiety all day Sunday, as though she dreaded some misfortune, and onThursday, as she could endure it no longer, she set out for Havre. 

He seemed to be changed, though she could not have told in whatmanner. He appeared excited and his voice seemed deeper. And suddenly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he said: "Isay, mother, as long as you have come to-day, I want to tell you thatI will not be at 'The Poplars' next Sunday, for we are going to haveanother excursion. "

She was amazed, smothering, as if he had announced his departure forAmerica. At last, recovering herself, she said: "Oh, Poulet, what isthe matter with you? Tell me what is going on. "

He began to laugh, and kissing her, replied: "Why, nothing, nothing, mamma. I am going to have a good time with my friends; I am just atthat age. "

She had nothing to say, but when she was alone in the carriage allmanner of ideas came into her mind. She no longer recognized him, herPoulet, her little Poulet of former days. She felt for the first timethat he was grown up, that he no longer belonged to her, that he wasgoing to live his life without troubling himself about the old people. It seemed to her that one day had wrought this change in him. Was itpossible that this was her son, her poor little boy who had helped herto replant the lettuce, this great big bearded youth who had a will ofhis own!

For three months Paul came home only occasionally, and always seemedimpatient to get away again, trying to steal off an hour earlier eachevening. Jeanne was alarmed, but the baron consoled her, saying: "Lethim alone; the boy is twenty years old. "

One morning, however, an old man, poorly dressed, inquired inGerman-French for "Madame la Vicomtesse, " and after many ceremoniousbows, he drew from his pocket a dilapidated pocketbook, saying: "Che unbetit bapier bour fous, " and unfolding as he handed it to her a pieceof greasy paper. She read and reread it, looked at the Jew, read itover again and asked: "What does it mean?"

He obsequiously explained: "I will tell you. Your son needed a littlemoney, and as I knew that you are a good mother, I lent him a trifleto help him out. "

Jeanne was trembling. "But why did he not ask me?" The Jew explainedat length that it was a question of a debt that must be paid beforenoon the following day; that Paul not being of age, no one would havelent him anything, and that his "honor would have been compromised"without this little service that he had rendered the young man. 

Jeanne tried to call the baron, but had not the strength to rise, shewas so overcome by emotion. At length she said to the usurer: "Wouldyou have the kindness to ring the bell?"

He hesitated, fearing some trap, and then stammered out: "If I amintruding, I will call again. " She shook her head in the negative. Hethen rang, and they waited in silence, sitting opposite each other. 

When the baron came in he understood the situation at once. The notewas for fifteen hundred francs. He paid one thousand, saying close tothe man's face: "And on no account come back. " The other thanked himand went his way. 

The baron and Jeanne set out at once for Havre. On reaching thecollege they learned that Paul had not been there for a month. Theprincipal had received four letters signed by Jeanne saying that hispupil was not well and then to tell how he was getting along. Eachletter was accompanied by a doctor's certificate. They were, ofcourse, all forged. They were all dumbfounded, and stood there lookingat each other. 

The principal, very much worried, took them to the commissary ofpolice. Jeanne and her father stayed at a hotel that night. Thefollowing day the young man was found in the apartment of a courtesanof the town. His grandfather and mother took him back to "The Poplars"and not a word was exchanged between them during the whole journey. 

A week later they discovered that he had contracted fifteen thousandfrancs' worth of debts within the last three months. His creditors hadnot come forward at first, knowing that he would soon be of age. 

They entered into no discussion about it, hoping to win him back bygentleness. They gave him dainty food, petted him, spoiled him. It wasspring and they hired a boat for him at Yport, in spite of Jeanne'sfears, so that he might amuse himself on the water. 

They would not let him have a horse, for fear he should ride to Havre. 

He was there with nothing to do and became irritable and occasionallybrutally so. The baron was worried at the discontinuance of hisstudies. Jeanne, distracted at the idea of a separation, asked herselfwhat they could do with him. 

One evening he did not come home. They learned that he had gone out ina boat with two sailors. His mother, beside herself with anxiety, wentdown to Yport without a hat in the dark. Some men were on the beach, waiting for the boat to come in. There was a light on board anincoming boat, but Paul was not on board. He had made them take him toHavre. 

The police sought him in vain; he could not be found. The woman withwhom he had been found the first time had also disappeared withoutleaving any trace; her furniture was sold and her rent paid. In Paul'sroom at "The Poplars" were found two letters from this person, whoseemed to be madly in love with him. She spoke of a voyage to England, having, she said, obtained the necessary funds. 

The three dwellers in the château lived silently and drearily, theirminds tortured by all kinds of suppositions. Jeanne's hair, which hadbecome gray, now turned perfectly white. She asked in her innocencewhy fate had thus afflicted her. 

She received a letter from the Abbé Tolbiac: "Madame, the hand of Godis weighing heavily on you. You refused Him your child; He took himfrom you in His turn to cast him into the hands of a prostitute. Willnot you open your eyes at this lesson from Heaven? God's mercy isinfinite. Perhaps He may pardon you if you return and fall on yourknees before Him. I am His humble servant. I will open to you the doorof His dwelling when you come and knock at it. "

She sat a long time with this letter on her lap. Perhaps it was truewhat the priest said. And all her religious doubts began to tormenther conscience. And in her cowardly hesitation, which drives to churchthe doubting, the sorrowful, she went furtively one evening attwilight to the parsonage, and kneeling at the feet of the thin abbé, begged for absolution. 

He promised her a conditional pardon, as God could not pour down allHis favors on a roof that sheltered a man like the baron. "You willsoon feel the effects of the divine mercy, " he declared. 

Two days later she did, indeed, receive a letter from her son, and inher discouragement and grief she looked upon this as the commencementof the consolation promised her by the abbé. The letter ran:

"My Dear Mamma: Do not be uneasy. I am in London, in good health, invery great need of money. We have not a sou left, and we do not haveanything to eat some days. The one who is with me, and whom I lovewith all my heart, has spent all that she had so as not to leaveme--five thousand francs--and you see that I am bound in honor toreturn her this sum in the first place. So I wish you would be kindenough to advance me fifteen thousand francs of papa's fortune, for Ishall soon be of age. This will help me out of very seriousdifficulties. 

"Good-by, my dear mamma. I embrace you with all my heart, and alsograndfather and Aunt Lison. I hope to see you soon. 

"Your son, "Vicomte Paul de Lamare. "

He had written to her! He had not forgotten her then. She did not careanything about his asking for money! She would send him some as longas he had none. What did money matter? He had written to her! And sheran, weeping for joy, to show this letter to the baron. Aunt Lison wascalled and read over word by word this paper that told of him. Theydiscussed each sentence. 

Jeanne, jumping from the most complete despair to a kind ofintoxication of hope, took Paul's part. "He will come back, he willcome back as he has written. "

The baron, more calm, said: "All the same he left us for thatcreature, so he must love her better than us, as he did not hesitateabout it. "

A sudden and frightful pang struck Jeanne's heart, and immediately shewas filled with hatred of this woman who had stolen her son from her, an unappeasable, savage hate, the hatred of a jealous mother. Untilnow all her thoughts had been given to Paul. She scarcely took intoconsideration that a girl had been the cause of his vagaries. But thebaron's words had suddenly brought before her this rival, had revealedher fatal power, and she felt that between herself and this woman astruggle was about to begin, and she also felt that she would ratherlose her son than share his affection with another. And all her joywas at an end. 

They sent him the fifteen thousand francs and heard nothing more fromhim for five months. 

Then a business man came to settle the details of Julien'sinheritance. Jeanne and the baron handed over the accounts without anydiscussion, even giving up the interest that should come to hismother. When Paul came back to Paris he had a hundred and twentythousand francs. He then wrote four letters in six months, giving hisnews in concise terms and ending the letters with coldly affectionateexpressions. "I am working, " he said; "I have obtained a position onthe stock exchange. I hope to go and embrace you at 'The Poplars' someday, my dear parents. "

He did not mention his companion, and this silence implied more thanif he had filled four pages with news of her. Jeanne, in these coldletters, felt this woman in ambush, the implacable, eternal enemy ofmothers, the courtesan. 

The three lonely beings discussed the best plan to follow in order torescue Paul, but could decide on nothing. A voyage to Paris? What goodwould it do?

"Let his passion exhaust itself. He will come back then of his ownaccord, " said the baron. 

Some time passed without any further news. But one morning they wereterrified at the receipt of a despairing letter:

"My Poor Mamma: I am lost. There is nothing left for me to do but toblow out my brains unless you come to my aid. A speculation that gaveevery prospect of success has fallen through, and I am eighty-fivethousand dollars in debt. I shall be dishonored if I do not payup--ruined--and it will henceforth be impossible for me to doanything. I am lost. I repeat that I would rather blow out my brainsthan undergo this disgrace. I should have done so already, probably, but for the encouragement of a woman of whom I never speak to you, and who is my providence. 

"I embrace you from the bottom of my heart, my dear mamma--perhaps forthe last time. Good-by. 

"Paul. "

A package of business papers accompanying the letter gave the detailsof the failure. 

The baron answered by return mail that they would see what could bedone. Then he set out for Havre to get advice and he mortgaged someproperty to raise the money which was sent to Paul. 

The young man wrote three letters full of the most heartfelt thanksand passionate affection, saying he was coming home at once to see hisdear parents. 

But he did not come. 

A whole year passed. Jeanne and the baron were about to set out forParis to try and make a last effort, when they received a line to saythat he was in London again, setting an enterprise on foot inconnection with steamboats under the name of "Paul de Lamare & Co. " Hewrote: "This will give me an assured fortune, and perhaps greatwealth, and I am risking nothing. You can see at once what a splendidthing it is. When I see you again I shall have a fine position insociety. There is nothing but business these days to help you out ofdifficulties. "

Three months later the steamboat company failed and the manager wasbeing sought for on account of certain irregularities in businessmethods. Jeanne had a nervous attack that lasted several hours andthen she took to her bed. 

The baron again went to Havre to make inquiries, saw some lawyers, some business men, some solicitors and bailiffs and found that theliabilities of the De Lamare concern were two hundred and thirty-fivethousand francs, and he once more mortgaged some property. The châteauof "The Poplars" and the two farms and all that went with them weremortgaged for a large sum. 

One evening as he was arranging the final details in the office of abusiness man, he fell over on the floor with a stroke of apoplexy. 

A man was sent on horseback to notify Jeanne, but when she arrived hewas dead. 

She took his body back to "The Poplars, " so overcome that her griefwas numbness rather than despair. 

Abbé Tolbiac refused to permit the body to be brought to the church, despite the distracted entreaties of the two women. The baron wasinterred at twilight without any religious ceremony. 

Paul learned of the event through one of the men who was settling uphis affairs. He was still in hiding in England. He wrote to makeexcuses for not having come home, saying that he had learned of hisgrandfather's death too late. "However, now that you have helped meout of my difficulties, my dear mamma, I shall go back to France andhope to embrace you soon. "

Jeanne was so crushed in spirit that she appeared not to understandanything. Toward the end of the winter Aunt Lison, who was nowsixty-eight, had an attack of bronchitis that developed into pneumonia, and she died quietly, murmuring with her last breath: "My poorlittle Jeanne, I will ask God to take pity on you. "

Jeanne followed her to the grave, and as the earth fell on her coffinshe sank to the ground, wishing that she might die also, so as not tosuffer, to think. A strong peasant woman lifted her up and carried heraway as if she had been a child. 

When she reached the château Jeanne, who had spent the last fivenights at Aunt Lison's bedside, allowed herself to be put to bedwithout resistance by this unknown peasant woman, who handled her withgentleness and firmness, and she fell asleep from exhaustion, overcomewith weariness and suffering. 

She awoke about the middle of the night. A night light was burning onthe mantelpiece. A woman was asleep in her easy chair. Who was thiswoman? She did not recognize her, and leaning over the edge of herbed, she sought to examine her features by the dim light of the wickfloating in oil in a tumbler of water. 

It seemed to her that she had seen this face. But when, but where? Thewoman was sleeping peacefully, her head to one side and her cap on thefloor. She might be about forty or forty-five. She was stout, with ahigh color, squarely built and powerful. Her large hands hung down ateither side of the chair. Her hair was turning gray. Jeanne looked ather fixedly, her mind in the disturbed condition of one awaking from afeverish sleep after a great sorrow. 

She had certainly seen this face! Was it in former days? Was it oflate years? She could not tell, and the idea distressed her, upset hernerves. She rose noiselessly to take another look at the sleepingwoman, walking over on tiptoe. It was the woman who had lifted her upin the cemetery and then put her to bed. She remembered thisconfusedly. 

But had she met her elsewhere at some other time of her life or didshe only imagine she recognized her amid the confused recollections ofthe day before? And how did she come to be there in her room and why?

The woman opened her eyes and, seeing Jeanne, she rose to her feetsuddenly. They stood face to face, so close that they touched oneanother. The stranger said crossly: "What! are you up? You will beill, getting up at this time of night. Go back to bed!"

"Who are you?" asked Jeanne. 

But the woman, opening her arms, picked her up and carried her back toher bed with the strength of a man. And as she laid her down gentlyand drew the covers over her, she leaned over close to Jeanne and, weeping as she did so, she kissed her passionately on the cheeks, herhair, her eyes, the tears falling on her face as she stammered out:"My poor mistress, Mam'zelle Jeanne, my poor mistress, don't yourecognize me?"

"Rosalie, my girl!" cried Jeanne, throwing her arms round her neck andhugging her as she kissed her, and they sobbed together, clasped ineach other's arms. 

Rosalie was the first to regain her calmness. "Come, " she said, "youmust be sensible and not catch cold. " And she covered her up warm andstraightened the pillow under her former mistress' head. The lattercontinued to sob, trembling all over at the recollections that wereawakened in her mind. She finally inquired: "How did you come back, mypoor girl?"

"Pardi! do you suppose I was going to leave you all alone like that, now?" replied Rosalie. 

"Light a candle, so I may see you, " said Jeanne. And when the candlewas brought to the bedside they looked at each other for some timewithout speaking a word. Then Jeanne, holding out her hand to herformer maid, murmured: "I should not have recognized you, my girl, youhave changed greatly; did you know it? But not as much as I have. " AndRosalie, looking at this white-haired woman, thin and faded, whom shehad left a beautiful and fresh young woman, said: "That is true, youhave changed, Madame Jeanne, and more than you should. But remember, however, that we have not seen each other for twenty-five years. "

They were silent, thinking over the past. At length Jeanne saidhesitatingly: "Have you been happy?"

Rosalie, fearful of awakening certain painful souvenirs, stammeredout: "Why--yes--yes--madame. I have nothing much to complain of. Ihave been happier than you have--that is sure. There was only onething that always weighed on my heart, and that was that I did notstay here--" And she stopped suddenly, sorry she had referred to thatunintentionally. But Jeanne replied gently: "How could you help it, mygirl? One cannot always do as they wish. You are a widow now, also, are you not?" Then her voice trembled with emotion as she said: "Haveyou other--other children?"

"No, madame. "

"And he--your--your boy--what has become of him? Has he turned outwell?"

"Yes, madame, he is a good boy and works industriously. He has beenmarried for six months, and he can take my farm now, since I have comeback to you. "

Jeanne murmured in a trembling voice: "Then you will never leave meagain, my girl?"

"No, indeed, madame, I have arranged all that. "

Jeanne, in spite of herself, began to compare their lives, but withoutany bitterness, for she was now resigned to the unjust cruelty offate. She said: "And your husband, how did he treat you?"

"Oh, he was a good man, madame, and not lazy; he knew how to makemoney. He died of consumption. "

Then Jeanne, sitting up in bed, filled with a longing to know more, said: "Come, tell me everything, my girl, all about your life. It willdo me good just now. "

Rosalie, drawing up her chair, began to tell about herself, her home, her people, entering into those minute details dear to country people, describing her yard, laughing at some old recollection that remindedher of good times she had had, and raising her voice by degrees like afarmer's wife accustomed to command. She ended by saying: "Oh, I amwell off now. I don't have to worry. " Then she became confused again, and said in a lower tone: "It is to you that I owe it, anyhow; and youknow I do not want any wages. No, indeed! No, indeed! And if you willnot have it so, I will go. "

Jeanne replied: "You do not mean that you are going to serve me fornothing?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, madame. Money! You give me money! Why, I have almostas much as you. Do you know what is left to you will all your jumbleof mortgages and borrowing, and interests unpaid which are mounting upevery year? Do you know? No, is it not so? Well, then, I can promiseyou that you have not even ten thousand francs income. Not tenthousand, do you understand? But I will settle all that for you, andvery quickly. "

She had begun talking loud again, carried away in her indignation atthese interests left unpaid, at this threatening ruin. And as a faint, tender smile passed over the face of her mistress, she cried in a toneof annoyance: "You must not laugh, madame, for without money we arenothing but laborers. "

Jeanne took hold of her hands and kept them in her own; then she saidslowly, still full of the idea that haunted her: "Oh, I have had noluck. Everything has gone against me. Fate has a grudge against mylife. "

But Rosalie shook her head: "You must not say that, madame. Youmarried badly, that's all. One should not marry like that, anyway, without knowing anything about one's intended. "

And they went on talking about themselves just as two old friendsmight have done. 

The sun rose while they were still talking. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XII

A NEW HOME

In a week's time Rosalie had taken absolute control of everything andeveryone in the château. Jeanne was quite resigned and obeyedpassively. Weak and dragging her feet as she walked, as little motherhad formerly done, she went out walking leaning on Rosalie's arm, thelatter lecturing her and consoling her with abrupt and tender words asthey walked slowly along, treating her mistress as though she were asick child. 

They always talked of bygone days, Jeanne with tears in her throat, and Rosalie in the quiet tone of a phlegmatic peasant. The servantkept referring to the subject of unpaid interests; and at lastrequested Jeanne to give her up all the business papers that Jeanne, in her ignorance of money matters, was hiding from her, out ofconsideration for her son. 

After that, for a week, Rosalie went to Fécamp every day to havematters explained to her by a lawyer whom she knew. 

One evening, after having put her mistress to bed, she sat down by thebedside and said abruptly: "Now that you are settled quietly, madame, we will have a chat. " And she told her exactly how matters stood. 

When everything was settled, there would be about seven thousandfrancs of income left, no more. 

"We cannot help it, my girl, " said Jeanne. "I feel that I shall notmake old bones, and there will be quite enough for me. "

But Rosalie was annoyed: "For you, madame, it might be; but M. Paul--will you leave nothing for him?"

Jeanne shuddered. "I beg you not to mention him again. It hurts me toomuch to think about him. "

"But I wish to speak about him, because you see you are not brave, Madame Jeanne. He does foolish things. Well! what of it? He will notdo so always; and then he will marry and have children. He will needmoney to bring them up. Pay attention to me: you must sell 'ThePoplars. '"

Jeanne sprang up in a sitting posture. "Sell 'The Poplars'! Do youmean it? Oh, never, never!"

But Rosalie was not disturbed. "I tell you that you will sell theplace, madame, because it must be done. " And then she explained hercalculations, her plans, her reasons. 

Once they had sold "The Poplars" and the two farms belonging to it toa buyer whom she had found, they would keep four farms situated at St. Leonard, which, free of all mortgage, would bring in an income ofeight thousand three hundred francs. They would set aside thirteenhundred francs a year for repairs and for the upkeep of the property;there would then remain seven thousand francs, five thousand of whichwould cover the annual expenditures and the other two thousand wouldbe put away for a rainy day. 

She added: "All the rest has been squandered; there is an end of it. And then I am to keep the key, you understand. As for M. Paul, he willhave nothing left, nothing; he would take your last sou from you. "

Jeanne, who was weeping silently, murmured:

"But if he has nothing to eat?"

"He can come and eat with us if he is hungry. There will always be abed and some stew for him. Do you believe he would have acted as hehas done if you had not given him a sou in the first place?"

"But he was in debt, he would have been disgraced. "

"When you have nothing left, will that prevent him from making freshdebts? You have paid his debts, that is all right; but you will notpay any more; it is I who am telling you this. Now goodnight, madame. "

And she left the room. 

Jeanne did not sleep, she was so upset at the idea of selling "ThePoplars, " of going away, of leaving this house to which all her lifewas linked. 

When Rosalie came into the room next morning she said to her: "My poorgirl, I never could make up my mind to go away from here. "

But the servant grew angry: "It will have to be, however, madame; thelawyer will soon be here with the man who wants to buy the château. Otherwise, in four years you will not have a rap left. "

Jeanne was crushed, and repeated: "I could not do it; I never could. "

An hour later the postman brought her a letter from Paul asking forten thousand francs. What should she do? At her wit's end, sheconsulted Rosalie, who threw up her hands, exclaiming: "What was Itelling you, madame? Ah! You would have been in a nice fix, both ofyou, if I had not come back. " And Jeanne, bending to her servant'swill, wrote as follows to the young man:

"My Dear Son: I can do nothing more for you. You have ruined me; I ameven obliged to sell 'The Poplars. ' But never forget that I shallalways have a home whenever you want to seek shelter with your oldmother, to whom you have caused much suffering. Jeanne. "

When the notary arrived with M. Jeoffrin, a retired sugar refiner, shereceived them herself, and invited them to look over the château. 

A month later, she signed a deed of sale, and also bought herself alittle cottage in the neighborhood of Goderville, on the high road toMontiviliers, in the hamlet of Batteville. 

Then she walked up and down all alone until evening, in littlemother's avenue, with a sore heart and troubled mind, biddingdistracted and sobbing farewells to the landscape, the trees, therustic bench under the plane tree, to all those things she knew sowell and that seemed to have become part of her vision and her soul, the grove, the mound overlooking the plain, where she had so oftensat, and from where she had seen the Comte de Fourville running towardthe sea on that terrible day of Julian's death, to an old elm whoseupper branches were missing, against which she had often leaned, andto all this familiar garden spot. 

Rosalie came out and took her by the arm to make her come into thehouse. 

A tall young peasant of twenty-five was waiting outside the door. Hegreeted her in a friendly manner as if he had known her for some time:"Good-morning, Madame Jeanne. I hope you are well. Mother told me tocome and help you move. I would like to know what you are going totake away, seeing that I shall do it from time to time so as not tointerfere with my farm work. "

It was her maid's son, Julien's son, Paul's brother. 

She felt as if her heart stopped beating; and yet she would have likedto embrace this young fellow. 

She looked at him, trying to find some resemblance to her husband orto her son. He was ruddy, vigorous, with fair hair and his mother'sblue eyes. And yet he looked like Julien. In what way? How? She couldnot have told, but there was something like him in the whole makeup ofhis face. 

The young man resumed: "If you could show me at once, I should be muchobliged. "

But she had not yet decided what she was going to take with her, asher new home was very small; and she begged him to come back again atthe end of the week. 

She was now entirely occupied with getting ready to move, whichbrought a little variety into her very dreary and hopeless life. Shewent from room to room, picking out the furniture which recalledepisodes in her life, old friends, as it were, who have a share in ourlife and almost of our being, whom we have known since childhood, andto which are linked our happy or sad recollections, dates in ourhistory; silent companions of our sad or sombre hours, who have grownold and become worn at our side, their covers torn in places, theirjoints shaky, their color faded. 

She selected them, one by one, sometimes hesitating and troubled, asif she were taking some important step, changing her mind everyinstant, weighing the merits of two easy chairs or of some oldwriting-desk and an old work table. 

She opened the drawers, sought to recall things; then, when she hadsaid to herself, "Yes, I will take this, " the article was taken downinto the dining-room. 

She wished to keep all the furniture of her room, her bed, hertapestries, her clock, everything. 

She took away some of the parlor chairs, those that she had loved as alittle child; the fox and the stork, the fox and the crow, the ant andthe grasshopper, and the melancholy heron. 

Then, while wandering about in all the corners of this dwelling shewas going to forsake, she went one day up into the loft, where she wasfilled with amazement; it was a chaos of articles of every kind, somebroken, others tarnished only, others taken up there for no specialreason probably, except that they were tired of them or that they hadbeen replaced by others. She saw numberless knick-knacks that sheremembered, and that had disappeared suddenly, trifles that she hadhandled, those old little insignificant articles that she had seenevery day without noticing, but which now, discovered in this loft, assumed an importance as of forgotten relics, of friends that she hadfound again. 

She went from one to the other of them with a little pang, saying:"Why, it was I who broke that china cup a few evenings before mywedding. Ah! there is mother's little lantern and a cane that littlefather broke in trying to open the gate when the wood was swollen withthe rain. "

There were also a number of things that she did not remember that hadbelonged to her grandparents or to their parents, dusty things thatappeared to be exiled in a period that is not their own, and thatlooked sad at their abandonment, and whose history, whose experiencesno one knows, for they never saw those who chose them, bought them, owned them, and loved them; never knew the hands that had touched themfamiliarly, and the eyes that looked at them with delight. 

Jeanne examined carefully three-legged chairs to see if they recalledany memories, a copper warming pan, a damaged foot stove that shethought she remembered, and a number of housekeeping utensils unfitfor use. 

She then put together all the things she wished to take, and goingdownstairs, sent Rosalie up to get them. The servant indignantlyrefused to bring down "that rubbish. " But Jeanne, who had not muchwill left, held her own this time, and had to be obeyed. 

One morning the young farmer, Julien's son, Denis Lecoq, came with hiswagon for the first load. Rosalie went back with him in order tosuperintend the unloading and placing of furniture where it was tostand. 

Rosalie had come back and was waiting for Jeanne, who had been out onthe cliff. She was enchanted with the new house, declaring it was muchmore cheerful than this old box of a building, which was not even onthe side of the road. 

Jeanne wept all the evening. 

Ever since they heard that the château was sold, the farmers were notmore civil to her than necessary, calling her among themselves "thecrazy woman, " without knowing exactly why, but doubtless because theyguessed with their animal instinct at her morbid and increasingsentimentality, at all the disturbance of her poor mind that hadundergone so much sorrow. 

The night before they left she chanced to go into the stable. A growlmade her start. It was Massacre, whom she had hardly thought of formonths. Blind and paralyzed, having reached a great age for an animal, he existed in a straw bed, taken care of by Ludivine, who never forgothim. She took him in her arms, kissed him, and carried him into thehouse. As big as a barrel, he could scarcely carry himself along onhis stiff legs, and he barked like the wooden dogs that one gives tochildren. 

The day of departure finally came. Jeanne had slept in Julien's oldroom, as hers was dismantled. She got up exhausted and short of breathas if she had been running. The carriage containing the trunks and therest of the furniture was in the yard ready to start. Anothertwo-wheeled vehicle was to take Jeanne and the servant. Old Simon andLudivine were to stay until the arrival of a new proprietor, and thento go to some of their relations, Jeanne having provided a littleincome for them. They had also saved up some money, and being now veryold and garrulous, they were not of much use in the house. Marius hadlong since married and left. 

About eight o'clock it began to rain, a fine icy rain, driven by alight breeze. On the kitchen table, some cups of café au lait weresteaming. Jeanne sat down and sipped hers, then rising, she said, "Come along. "

She put on her hat and shawl, and while Rosalie was putting on herovershoes, she said in a choking voice: "Do you remember, my girl, howit rained when we left Rouen to come here?"

As she said this, she put her two hands to her breast and fell over onher back, unconscious. She remained thus over an hour, apparentlydead. Then she opened her eyes and was seized with convulsionsaccompanied by floods of tears. 

When she was a little calmer she was so weak that she could not standup, and Rosalie, fearing another attack if they delayed theirdeparture, went to look for her son. They took her up and carried herto the carriage, placed her on the wooden bench covered with leather;and the old servant got in beside her, wrapped her up with a bigcloak, and holding an umbrella over her head, cried: "Quick, Denis, let us be off. " The young man climbed up beside his mother and whippedup the horse, whose jerky pace made the two women bounce aboutvigorously. 

As they turned the corner to enter the village, they saw some onestalking along the road; it was Abbé Tolbiac, who seemed to bewatching for them to go by. He stopped to let the carriage pass. Hewas holding up his cassock with one hand, to keep it out of the mud, and his thin legs, encased in black stockings, ended in a pair ofenormous muddy shoes. 

Jeanne lowered her eyes so as not to meet his glance, and Rosalie, whohad heard all about him, flew into a rage. "Peasant! Peasant!" shemurmured; and then seizing her son's hand: "Give him a good slash withthe whip. "

But the young man, just as they were passing the priest, made thewheel of the wagon, which was going at full speed, sink into a rut, splashing the abbé with mud from head to foot. 

Rosalie was delighted and turned round to shake her fist at him, whilethe priest was wiping off the mud with his big handkerchief. 

All at once Jeanne exclaimed: "We have forgotten Massacre!" Theystopped, and, getting down, Denis ran to fetch the dog, while Rosalieheld the reins. He presently reappeared, carrying in his arms theshapeless and crippled animal, which he placed at the feet of the twowomen. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XIII

JEANNE IN PARIS

Two hours later the carriage stopped at a little brick house built inthe middle of a lot planted with pear trees at the side of the highroad. 

Four trellised arbors covered with honeysuckle and clematis formed thefour corners of the garden, which was divided into little beds ofvegetables separated by narrow paths bordered with fruit trees. 

A very high box hedge enclosed the whole property, which was separatedby a field from the neighboring farm. There was a blacksmith's shopabout a hundred feet further along the road. There were no otherhouses within three-quarters of a mile. 

The house commanded a view of the level district of Caux, covered withfarms surrounded by their four double rows of tall trees whichenclosed the courtyard planted with apple trees. 

As soon as they reached the house, Jeanne wanted to rest; but Rosaliewould not allow her to do so for fear she would begin to think of thepast. 

The carpenter from Goderville was there, and they began at once toplace the furniture that had already arrived while waiting for thelast load. This required a good deal of thought and planning. 

At the end of an hour the wagon appeared at the gate and had to beunloaded in the rain. When night fell the house was in utter disorder, with things piled up anyhow. Jeanne, tired out, fell asleep as soon asshe got into bed. 

She had no time to mourn for some days, as there was so much to bedone. She even took a certain pleasure in making her new house lookpretty, the thought that her son would come back there haunting hercontinually. The tapestries from her old room were hung in thedining-room, which also had to serve as a parlor; and she took specialpains with one of the two rooms on the first floor, which she thoughtof as "Poulet's room. "

She kept the other room herself, Rosalie sleeping above, next to theloft. The little house, furnished with care, was very pretty, andJeanne was happy there at first, although she seemed to lacksomething, but she did not know what. 

One morning the lawyer's clerk from Fécamp brought her three thousandsix hundred francs, the price of the furniture left at "The Poplars, "and valued by an upholsterer. She had a little thrill of pleasure atreceiving this money, and as soon as the man had gone, she ran to puton her hat, so as to get to Goderville as quickly as possible to sendPaul this unexpected sum. 

But as she was hurrying along the high road she met Rosalie comingfrom market. The servant suspected something, without at once guessingthe facts; and when she discovered them, for Jeanne could hide nothingfrom her, she placed her basket on the ground that she might get angrywith more comfort. 

She began to scold with her fists on her hips; then taking hold of hermistress with her right arm and taking her basket in her left, andstill fuming, she continued on her way to the house. 

As soon as they were in the house the servant asked to have the moneyhanded over to her. Jeanne gave all but six hundred francs, which sheheld back; but Rosalie soon saw through her tricks, and she wasobliged to hand it all over. However, she consented to her sendingthis amount to the young man. 

A few days later he wrote: "You have rendered me a great service, mydear mother, for we were in the greatest distress. "

Jeanne, however, could not get accustomed to Batteville. It seemed toher as if she could not breathe as she did formerly, that she was morelonely, more deserted, more lost than ever. She went out for a walk, got as far as the hamlet of Verneuil, came back by the Trois-Mares, came home, then suddenly wanted to start out again, as if she hadforgotten to go to the very place she intended. 

And every day she did the same thing without knowing why. But oneevening a thought came to her unconsciously which revealed to her thesecret of her restlessness. She said as she was sitting down todinner: "Oh, how I long to see the sea!"

That was what she had missed so greatly, the sea, her big neighbor fortwenty-five years, the sea with its salt air, its rages, its scoldingvoice, its strong breezes, the sea which she sought from her window at"The Poplars" every morning, whose air she breathed day and night, thesea which she felt close to her, which she had taken to lovingunconsciously as she would a person. 

Winter was approaching, and Jeanne felt herself overcome by anunconquerable discouragement. It was not one of those acute griefswhich seemed to wring the heart, but a dreary, mournful sadness. 

Nothing roused her. No one paid any attention to her. The high roadbefore her door stretched to right and left with hardly any passersby. Occasionally a dogcart passed rapidly, driven by a red-faced man, withhis blouse puffed out by the wind, making a sort of blue balloon;sometimes a slow-moving wagon, or else two peasants, a man and awoman, who came near, passed by, and disappeared in the distance. 

As soon as the grass began to grow again, a young girl in a shortskirt passed by the gate every morning with two thin cows who browsedalong the side of the road. She came back every evening with the samesleepy face, making a step every ten minutes as she walked behind theanimals. 

Jeanne dreamed every night that she was still at "The Poplars. " Sheseemed to be there with father and little mother, and sometimes evenwith Aunt Lison. She did over again things forgotten and done with, thought she was supporting Madame Adelaide in her walk along theavenue. And each awakening was attended with tears. 

She thought continually of Paul, wondering what he was doing--how hewas--whether he sometimes thought of her. As she walked slowly in theby-roads between the farms, she thought over all these things whichtormented her, but above all else, she cherished an intense jealousyof the woman who had stolen her son from her. It was this hatred alonewhich prevented her from taking any steps, from going to look for him, to see him. It seemed to her that she saw that woman standing on thedoorsill asking: "What do you want here, madame?" Her mother's priderevolted at the possibility of such a meeting. And her haughty prideof a good woman whose character is blameless made her all the moreindignant at the cowardice of a man subjugated by an unworthy passion. 

When autumn returned with its long rains, its gray sky, its darkclouds, such a weariness of this kind of life came over her that shedetermined to make a great effort to get her Poulet back; he must havegot over his infatuation by this time. 

She wrote him an imploring letter:

"My Dear Child: I am going to entreat you to come back to me. Rememberthat I am old and delicate, all alone the whole year round except fora servant maid. I am now living in a little house on the main road. Itis very lonely, but if you were here all would be different for me. Ihave only you in the world, and I have not seen you for seven years!You were my life, my dream, my only hope, my one love, and you failedme, you deserted me!

"Oh, come back, my little Poulet--come and embrace me. Come back toyour old mother, who holds out her despairing arms towards you. 

"Jeanne. "

He replied a few days later:

"My Dear Mother: I would ask nothing better than to go and see you, but I have not a penny. Send me some money and I will come. I wanted, in any case, to see you to talk to you about a plan that would make itpossible for me to do as you ask. 

"The disinterestedness and love of the one who has been my companionin the dark days through which I have passed can never be forgotten byme. It is not possible for me to remain any longer without publiclyrecognizing her love and her faithful devotion. She has very pleasingmanners, which you would appreciate. She is also educated and reads agood deal. In fact, you cannot understand what she has been to me. Ishould be a brute if I did not show her my gratitude. I am going, therefore, to ask you to give me your permission to marry her. Youwill forgive all my follies and we will all live together in your newhouse. 

"If you knew her you would at once give your consent. I can assure youthat she is perfect and very distingué. You will love her, I am sure. As for me, I could not live without her. 

"I shall expect your reply with impatience, my dear mother, and weboth embrace you with all our heart. 

"Your son, "Vicomte Paul de Lamare. "

Jeanne was crushed. She remained motionless, the letter on her lap, seeing through the cunning of this girl who had had such a hold on herson for so long, and had not let him come to see her once, biding hertime until the despairing old mother could no longer resist the desireto clasp her son in her arms, and would weaken and grant all theyasked. 

And grief at Paul's persistent preference for this creature wrung herheart. She said: "He does not love me. He does not love me. "

Rosalie just then entered the room. Jeanne faltered: "He wants tomarry her now. "

The maid was startled. "Oh, madame, you will not allow that. M. Paulmust not pick up that rubbish. "

And Jeanne, overcome with emotion, but indignant, replied: "Neverthat, my girl. And as he will not come here, I am going to see him, myself, and we shall see which of us will carry the day. "

She wrote at once to Paul to prepare him for her visit, and to arrangeto meet him elsewhere than in the house inhabited by that baggage. 

While awaiting a reply she made her preparations for departure. Rosalie began to pack her mistress' clothes in an old trunk, but asshe was folding a dress, one of those she had worn in the country, sheexclaimed: "Why, you have nothing to put on your back. I will notallow you to go like that. You would be a disgrace to everyone; andthe Parisian ladies would take you for a servant. "

Jeanne let her have her own way, and the two women went together toGoderville to choose some material, which was given a dressmaker inthe village. Then they went to the lawyer, M. Roussel, who spent afortnight in the capital every year, in order to get some information;for Jeanne had not been in Paris for twenty-eight years. 

He gave them lots of advice on how to avoid being run over, on methodsof protecting yourself from thieves, advising her to sew her money upinside the lining of her coat, and to keep in her pocket only what sheabsolutely needed. He spoke at length about moderate pricedrestaurants, and mentioned two or three patronized by women, and toldthem that they might mention his name at the Hotel Normandie. 

Jeanne had never yet seen the railroad, though trains had been runningbetween Paris and Havre for six years, and were revolutionizing thewhole country. 

She received no answer from Paul, although she waited a week, then twoweeks, going every morning to meet the postman, asking himhesitatingly: "Is there anything for me, Père Malandain?" And the manalways replied in his hoarse voice: "Nothing again, my good lady. "

It certainly must be this woman who was keeping Paul from writing. 

Jeanne, therefore, determined to set out at once. She wanted to takeRosalie with her, but the maid refused for fear of increasing theexpense of the journey. She did not allow her mistress to take morethan three hundred francs, saying: "If you need more you can write tome and I will go to the lawyer and ask him to send it to you. If Igive you any more, M. Paul will put it in his pocket. "

One December morning Denis Lecoq came for them in his light wagon andtook them to the station. Jeanne wept as she kissed Rosalie good-by, and got into the train. Rosalie was also affected and said: "Good-by, madame, bon voyage, and come back soon!"

"Good-by, my girl. "

A whistle and the train was off, beginning slowly and gradually goingwith a speed that terrified Jeanne. In her compartment there were twogentlemen leaning back in the two corners of the carriage. 

She looked at the country as they swept past, the trees, the farms, the villages, feeling herself carried into a new life, into a newworld that was no longer the life of her tranquil youth and of herpresent monotonous existence. 

She reached Paris that evening. A commissionaire took her trunk andshe followed him in great fear, jostled by the crowd and not knowinghow to make her way amid this mass of moving humanity, almost runningto keep up with the man for fear of losing sight of him. 

On reaching the hotel she said at the desk: "I was recommended here byM. Roussel. "

The proprietress, an immense woman with a serious face, who was seatedat the desk, inquired:

"Who is he--M. Roussel?"

Jeanne replied in amazement: "Why, he is the lawyer at Goderville, whostops here every year. "

"That's very possible, " said the big woman, "but I do not know him. Doyou wish a room?"

"Yes, madame. "

A boy took her satchel and led the way upstairs. She felt a pang ather heart. Sitting down at a little table she sent for some luncheon, as she had eaten nothing since daybreak. As she ate, she was thinkingsadly of a thousand things, recalling her stay here on the return fromher wedding journey, and the first indication of Julien's characterbetrayed while they were in Paris. But she was young then, andconfident and brave. Now she felt old, embarrassed, even timid, weakand disturbed at trifles. When she had finished her luncheon she wentover to the window and looked down on the street filled with people. She wished to go out, but was afraid to do so. She would surely getlost. She went to bed, but the noise, the feeling of being in astrange city, kept her awake. About two o'clock in the morning, justas she was dozing off, she heard a woman scream in an adjoining room;she sat up in bed and then she thought she heard a man laugh. Asdaylight dawned the thought of Paul came to her, and she dressedherself before it was light. 

Paul lived in the Rue du Sauvage, in the old town. She wanted to gothere on foot so as to carry out Rosalie's economical advice. Theweather was delightful, the air cold enough to make her skin tingle. People were hurrying along the sidewalks. She walked as fast as shecould, according to directions given her, along a street, at the endof which she was to turn to the right and then to the left, when shewould come to a square where she must make fresh inquiries. She didnot find the square, and went into a baker's to ask her way, and hedirected her differently. She started off again, went astray, inquiredher way again, and finally got lost completely. 

Half crazy, she now walked at random. She had made up her mind to calla cab, when she caught sight of the Seine. She then walked along thequays. 

After about an hour she found the Rue Sauvage, a sort of dark alley. She stopped at a door, so overcome that she could not move. 

He was there, in that house--Poulet. 

She felt her knees and hands trembling; but at last she entered thedoor, and walking along a passage, saw the janitor's quarters. Shesaid, as she held out a piece of money: "Would you go up and tell M. Paul de Lamare that an old lady, a friend of his mother's, isdownstairs, and wishes to see him?"

"He does not live here any longer, madame, " replied the janitor. 

A shudder went over her. She faltered:

"Oh! Where--where is he living now?"

"I do not know. "

She grew dizzy as though she were about to fall over, and stood therefor some moments without being able to speak. At length, with a greateffort, she collected her senses and murmured:

"How long is it since he left?"

"About two weeks ago. They went off like that, one evening, and nevercame back. They were in debt everywhere in the neighborhood, so youcan understand that they did not care to leave their address. "

Jeanne saw lights before her eyes, flashes of flame, as though a gunhad been fired off in front of her eyes. But she had one fixed idea inher mind, and that sustained her, and kept her outwardly calm andrational. She wished to find Poulet and know all about him. 

"Then he said nothing when he was going away?"

"Nothing at all; they ran off to escape their debts, that's all. "

"But he surely sends someone to get his mail. "

"More frequently than I send it. He never got more than ten letters ayear. I took one up to them, however, two days before they left. "

That was probably her letter. She said abruptly: "Listen! I am hismother, his own mother, and I have come to look for him. Here are tenfrancs for you. If you can get any news or any particulars about him, come and see me at the Hotel Normandie, Rue du Havre, and I will payyou well. "

"You may count on me, madame, " he replied. 

She left him and began to walk away without caring whither she went. She hurried along as though she were on some important business, knocking up against people with packages, crossing the streets withoutpaying attention to the approaching vehicles, and being sworn at bythe drivers, stumbling on the curb of the sidewalk, and tearing alongstraight ahead in utter despair. 

All at once she found herself in a garden, and was so tired that shesat down on a bench to rest. She stayed there some time apparently, weeping without being conscious of it, for passersby stopped to lookat her. Then she felt very cold, and rose to go on her way; but herlegs would scarcely carry her, she was so weak and distressed. 

She wanted to go into a restaurant and get a cup of bouillon, but asort of shame, of fear, of modesty at her grief being observed heldher back. She would pause at the door, look in, see all the peoplesitting at table eating, and would turn away, saying: "I will go intothe next one. " But she had not the courage. 

Finally she went into a bakery and bought a crescent and ate it as shewalked along. She was very thirsty, but did not know where to go toget something to drink, so did without it. 

Presently she found herself in another garden surrounded by arcades. She recognized the Palais Royal. Being tired and warm, she sat downhere for an hour or two. 

A crowd of people came in, a well-dressed crowd, chatting, smiling, bowing to each other, that happy crowd of beautiful women and wealthymen who live only for dress and amusement. Jeanne felt bewildered inthe midst of this brilliant assemblage, and got up to make her escape. But suddenly the thought came to her that she might meet Paul in thisplace; and she began to wander about, looking into the faces, goingand coming incessantly with her quick step from one end of the gardento the other. 

People turned round to look at her, others laughed as they pointed herout. She noticed it and fled, thinking that they were doubtless amusedat her appearance and at her dress of green plaid, selected byRosalie, and made according to her ideas by the dressmaker atGoderville. 

She no longer dared even to ask her way of passersby, but at last sheventured to do so and found her way back to the hotel. 

The following day she went to the police department to ask them tolook for her child. They could promise her nothing, but said theywould do all they could. She wandered about the streets hoping thatshe might come across him. And she felt more alone in this bustlingcrowd, more lost, more wretched than in the lonely country. 

That evening when she came back to the hotel she was informed that aman had come to see her from M. Paul, and that he would come backagain the following day. Her heart began to beat violently and shenever closed her eyes that night. If it should be he! Yes, itassuredly was, although she would not have recognized him from thedescription they gave her. 

About nine o'clock the following morning there was a knock at thedoor. She cried: "Come in!" ready to throw herself into certainoutstretched arms. But an unknown person appeared; and while heexcused himself for disturbing her, and explained his business, whichwas to collect a debt of Paul's, she felt the tears beginning tooverflow, and wiped them away with her finger before they fell on hercheeks. 

He had learned of her arrival through the janitor of the Rue Sauvage, and as he could not find the young man, he had come to see his mother. He handed her a paper, which she took without knowing what she wasdoing and read the figures--ninety francs--which she paid without aword. 

She did not go out that day. 

The next day other creditors came. She gave them all that she had leftexcept twenty francs and then wrote to Rosalie to explain matters toher. 

She passed her days wandering about, waiting for Rosalie's answer, notknowing what to do, how to kill the melancholy, interminable hours, having no one to whom she could say an affectionate word, no one whoknew her sorrow. She now longed to return home to her little house atthe side of the lonely high road. A few days before she thought shecould not live there, she was so overcome with grief, and now she feltthat she could never live anywhere else but there where her seriouscharacter had been formed. 

One evening the letter at last came, enclosing two hundred francs. Rosalie wrote:

"Madame Jeanne: Come back at once, for I shall not send you any more. As for M. Paul, it is I who will go and get him when we know where heis. 

"With respect, your servant, "Rosalie. "

Jeanne set out for Batteville one very cold, snowy morning. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XIV

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE

Jeanne never went out now, never stirred about. She rose at the samehour every day, looked out at the weather and then went downstairs andsat before the parlor fire. 

She would remain for days motionless, gazing into the fire, thinkingof nothing in particular. It would grow dark before she stirred, except to put a fresh log on the fire. Rosalie would then bring in thelamp and exclaim: "Come, Madame Jeanne, you must stir about or youwill have no appetite again this evening. "

She lived over the past, haunted by memories of her early life and herwedding journey down yonder in Corsica. Forgotten landscapes in thatisle now rose before her in the blaze of the fire, and she recalledall the little details, all the little incidents, the faces she hadseen down there. The head of the guide, Jean Ravoli, haunted her, andshe sometimes seemed to hear his voice. 

Then she remembered the sweet years of Paul's childhood, when theyplanted salad together and when she knelt in the thick grass besideAunt Lison, each trying what they could do to please the child, andher lips murmured: "Poulet, my little Poulet, " as though she weretalking to him. Stopping at this word, she would try to trace it, letter by letter, in space, sometimes for hours at a time, until shebecame confused and mixed up the letters and formed other words, andshe became so nervous that she was almost crazy. 

She had all the peculiarities of those who live a solitary life. Theleast thing out of its usual place irritated her. 

Rosalie often obliged her to walk and took her on the high road, butat the end of twenty minutes she declared she could not take anotherstep and sat down on the side of the road. 

She soon became averse to all movement and stayed in bed as late aspossible. Since her childhood she had retained one custom, that ofrising the instant she had drunk her café au lait in the morning. Butnow she would lie down again and begin to dream, and as she was dailygrowing more lazy, Rosalie would come and oblige her to get up andalmost force her to get dressed. 

She seemed no longer to have any will power, and each time the maidasked her a question or wanted her advice or opinion she would say:"Do as you think best, my girl. "

She imagined herself pursued by some persistent ill luck and was likean oriental fatalist, and having seen her dreams all fade away and herhopes crushed, she would sometimes hesitate a whole day or longerbefore undertaking the simplest thing, for fear she might be on thewrong road and it would turn out badly. She kept repeating: "Talk ofbad luck--I have never had any luck in life. "

Then Rosalie would say: "What would you do if you had to work for yourliving, if you were obliged to get up every morning at six o'clock togo out to your work? Many people have to do that, nevertheless, andwhen they grow too old they die of want. "

Jeanne replied: "Remember that I am all alone; that my son hasdeserted me. " And Rosalie would get very angry: "That's another thing!Well, how about the sons who are drafted into the army and those whogo to America?"

America to her was an undefined country, where one went to make afortune and whence one never returned. She continued: "There alwayscomes a time when people have to part, for old people and young peopleare not made to live together. " And she added fiercely: "Well, whatwould you say if he were dead?"

Jeanne had nothing more to say. 

One day in spring she had gone up to the loft to look for somethingand by chance opened a box containing old calendars which had beenpreserved after the manner of some country folks. 

She took them up and carried them downstairs. They were of all sizes, and she laid them out on the table in the parlor in regular order. Suddenly she spied the earliest, the one she had brought with her to"The Poplars. " She gazed at it for some time, at the days crossed offby her the morning she left Rouen, the day after she left the convent, and she wept slow, sorrowful tears, the tears of an old woman at sightof her wretched life spread out before her on this table. 

One morning the maid came into her room earlier than usual, andplacing the bowl of café au lait on the little stand beside her bed, she said: "Come, drink it quickly. Denis is waiting for us at thedoor. We are going to 'The Poplars, ' for I have something to attendto down there. "

Jeanne dressed herself with trembling hands, almost fainting at thethought of seeing her dear home once more. 

The sky was cloudless and the nag, who was inclined to be frisky, would suddenly start off at a gallop every now and then. As theyentered the commune of Étouvent Jeanne's heart beat so that she couldhardly breathe. 

They unharnessed the horse at the Couillard place, and while Rosalieand her son were attending to their own affairs, the farmer and hiswife offered to let Jeanne go over the chateau, as the proprietor wasaway and they had the keys. 

She went off alone, and when she reached the side of the chateau fromwhich there was a view of the sea she turned round to look. Nothinghad changed on the outside. When she turned the heavy lock and wentinside the first thing she did was to go up to her old room, which shedid not recognize, as it had been newly papered and furnished. But theview from the window was the same, and she stood and gazed out at thelandscape she had so loved. 

She then wandered all over the house, walking quietly all alone inthis silent abode as though it were a cemetery. All her life wasburied here. She went down to the drawing-room, which was dark withits closed shutters. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim lightshe recognized some of the old hangings. Two easy chairs were drawn upbefore the fire, as if some one had just left them, and as Jeannestood there, full of old memories, she suddenly seemed to see herfather and mother sitting there, warming their feet at the fire. 

She started back in terror and knocked up against the edge of thedoor, against which she leaned to support herself, still staring atthe armchairs. 

The vision had vanished. 

She remained bewildered for some minutes. Then she slowly recoveredher composure and started to run away, for fear she might becomeinsane. She chanced to look at the door against which she had beenleaning and saw there "Poulet's ladder. "

All the little notches were there showing the age and growth of herchild. Here was the baron's writing, then hers, a little smaller, andthen Aunt Lison's rather shaky characters. And she seemed to see herboy of long ago with his fair hair standing before her, leaning hislittle forehead against the door while they measured his height. 

And she kissed the edge of the door in a frenzy of affection. 

But some one was calling her outside. It was Rosalie's voice: "MadameJeanne, Madame Jeanne, they are waiting breakfast for you. " She wentout in a dream and understood nothing of what they were saying to her. She ate what they gave her, heard them talking, but about what sheknew not, let them kiss her on the cheeks and kissed them in returnand then got into the carriage. 

When they lost sight of the château behind the tall trees she felt awrench at her heart, convinced that she had bid a last farewell to herold home. 

When they reached Batteville and just as she was going into her newhouse, she saw something white under the door. It was a letter thatthe postman had slipped under the door while she was out. Sherecognized Paul's writing and opened it, trembling with anxiety. Hewrote:

"My Dear Mother: I have not written sooner because I did not wish youto make a useless journey to Paris when it was my place to go and seeyou. I am just now in great sorrow and in great straits. My wife isdying after giving birth to a little girl three days ago, and I havenot one sou. I do not know what to do with the child, whom myjanitor's wife is bringing up on the bottle as well as she can, but Ifear I shall lose her. Could you not take charge of it? I absolutelydo not know what to do, and I have no money to put her out to nurse. Answer by return mail. 

"Your son, who loves you, "Paul. "

Jeanne sank into a chair and had scarcely strength to call Rosalie. When the maid came into the room they read the letter over togetherand then remained silent for some time, face to face. 

At last Rosalie said: "I am going to fetch the little one, madame. Wecannot leave it like that. "

"Go, my girl, " replied Jeanne. 

Then they were silent until the maid said: "Put on your hat, madame, and we will go to Goderville to see the lawyer. If she is going todie, the other one, M. Paul must marry her for the little one's sakelater on. "

Jeanne, without replying, put on her hat. A deep, inexpressible joyfilled her heart, a treacherous joy that she sought to hide at anycost, one of those things of which one is ashamed, although cherishingit in one's soul--her son's sweetheart was going to die. 

The lawyer gave the servant minute instructions, making her repeatthem several times. Then, sure that she could make no mistake, shesaid: "Do not be afraid. I will see to it now. "

She set out for Paris that very night. 

Jeanne passed two days in such a troubled condition that she could notthink. The third morning she received merely a line from Rosaliesaying she would be back on the evening train. That was all. 

About three o'clock she drove in a neighbor's light wagon to thestation at Beuzeville to meet Rosalie. 

She stood on the platform, looking at the railroad track as itdisappeared on the horizon. She looked at the clock. Ten minutesstill--five minutes still--two minutes more. Then the hour of thetrain's arrival, but it was not in sight. Presently, however, she sawa cloud of white smoke and gradually it drew up in the station. Shelooked anxiously and at last perceived Rosalie carrying a sort ofwhite bundle in her arms. 

She wanted to go over toward her, but her knees seemed to grow weakand she was afraid of falling. 

But the maid had seen her and came forward with her usual calm mannerand said: "How do you do, madame? Here I am back again, but notwithout some difficulty. "

"Well?" faltered Jeanne. 

"Well, " answered Rosalie, "she died last night. They were married andhere is the little girl. " And she held out the child, who could not beseen under her wraps. 

Jeanne took it mechanically and they left the station and got into thecarriage. 

"M. Paul will come as soon as the funeral is over--to-morrow aboutthis time, I believe, " resumed Rosalie. 

Jeanne murmured "Paul" and then was silent. 

The wagon drove along rapidly, the peasant clacking his tongue to urgeon the horse. Jeanne looked straight ahead of her into the clear skythrough which the swallows darted in curves. Suddenly she felt agentle warmth striking through to her skin; it was the warmth of thelittle being who was asleep on her lap. 

Then she was overcome with an intense emotion, and uncovering gentlythe face of the sleeping infant, she raised it to her lips and kissedit passionately. 

But Rosalie, happy though grumpy, stopped her; "Come, come, MadameJeanne, stop that; you will make it cry. "

And then she added, probably in answer to her own thoughts: "Life, after all, is not as good or as bad as we believe it to be. "

 * * * * *

A VAGABOND

He was a journeyman carpenter, a good workman and a steady fellow, twenty-seven years old, but, although the eldest son, Jacques Randelhad been forced to live on his family for two months, owing to thegeneral lack of work. He had walked about seeking work for over amonth and had left his native town, Ville-Avary, in La Manche, becausehe could find nothing to do and would no longer deprive his family ofthe bread they needed themselves, when he was the strongest of themall. His two sisters earned but little as charwomen. He went andinquired at the town hall, and the mayor's secretary told him that hewould find work at the Labor Agency, and so he started, well providedwith papers and certificates, and carrying another pair of shoes, apair of trousers and a shirt in a blue handkerchief at the end of hisstick. 

And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, alonginterminable roads, in sun and rain, without ever reaching thatmysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixedidea that he must only work as a carpenter, but at every carpenter'sshop where he applied he was told that they had just dismissed men onaccount of work being so slack, and, finding himself at the end of hisresources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that he might comeacross on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy, stableman, stonecutter; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug wells, mixed mortar, tied up fagots, tended goats on a mountain, and all fora few pence, for he only obtained two or three days' work occasionallyby offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to tempt theavarice of employers and peasants. 

And now for a week he had found nothing, and had no money left, andnothing to eat but a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of somewomen from whom he had begged at house doors on the road. It wasgetting dark, and Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, hisstomach empty, and with despair in his heart, was walking barefoot onthe grass by the side of the road, for he was taking care of his lastpair of shoes, as the other pair had already ceased to exist for along time. It was a Saturday, toward the end of autumn. The heavy grayclouds were being driven rapidly through the sky by the gusts of windwhich whistled among the trees, and one felt that it would rain soon. The country was deserted at that hour on the eve of Sunday. Here andthere in the fields there rose up stacks of wheat straw, like hugeyellow mushrooms, and the fields looked bare, as they had already beensown for the next year. 

Randel was hungry, with the hunger of some wild animal, such a hungeras drives wolves to attack men. Worn out and weakened with fatigue, hetook longer strides, so as not to take so many steps, and with heavyhead, the blood throbbing in his temples, with red eyes and dry mouth, he grasped his stick tightly in his hand, with a longing to strike thefirst passerby who might be going home to supper. 

He looked at the sides of the road, imagining he saw potatoes dug upand lying on the ground before his eyes; if he had found any he wouldhave gathered some dead wood, made a fire in the ditch and have had acapital supper off the warm, round vegetables with which he wouldfirst of all have warmed his cold hands. But it was too late in theyear, and he would have to gnaw a raw beetroot which he might pick upin a field as he had done the day before. 

For the last two days he had talked to himself as he quickened hissteps under the influence of his thoughts. He had never thought muchhitherto, as he had given all his mind, all his simple faculties tohis mechanical work. But now fatigue and this desperate search forwork which he could not get, refusals and rebuffs, nights spent in theopen air lying on the grass, long fasting, the contempt which he knewpeople with a settled abode felt for a vagabond, and that questionwhich he was continually asked, "Why do you not remain at home?"distress at not being able to use his strong arms which he felt sofull of vigor, the recollection of the relations he had left at homeand who also had not a penny, filled him by degrees with rage, whichhad been accumulating every day, every hour, every minute, and whichnow escaped his lips in spite of himself in short, growling sentences. 

As he stumbled over the stones which tripped his bare feet, hegrumbled: "How wretched! how miserable! A set of hogs--to let a mandie of hunger--a carpenter--a set of hogs--not two sous--not twosous--and now it is raining--a set of hogs!"

He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men, on all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, crueland perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth: "A set ofhogs" as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the roofs, for it was the dinner hour. And, without considering that there isanother injustice which is human, and which is called robbery andviolence, he felt inclined to go into one of those houses to murderthe inhabitants and to sit down to table in their stead. 

He said to himself: "I have no right to live now, as they are lettingme die of hunger, and yet I only ask for work--a set of hogs!" And thepain in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head liketerrible intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in hisbrain: "I have the right to live because I breathe and because the airis the common property of everybody. So nobody has the right to leaveme without bread!"

A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down, and he stopped andmurmured: "Oh, misery! Another month of walking before I get home. " Hewas indeed returning home then, for he saw that he should more easilyfind work in his native town, where he was known--and he did not mindwhat he did--than on the highroads, where everybody suspected him. Asthe carpentering business was not prosperous, he would turn daylaborer, be a mason's hodman, a ditcher, break stones on the road. Ifhe only earned a franc a day, that would at any rate buy him somethingto eat. 

He tied the remains of his last pocket handkerchief round his neck toprevent the cold rain from running down his back and chest, but hesoon found that it was penetrating the thin material of which hisclothes were made, and he glanced about him with the agonized look ofa man who does not know where to hide his body and to rest his head, and has no place of shelter in the whole world. 

Night came on and wrapped the country in obscurity, and in thedistance, in a meadow, he saw a dark spot on the grass; it was a cow, and so he got over the ditch by the roadside and went up to herwithout exactly knowing what he was doing. When he got close to hershe raised her great head to him, and he thought: "If I only had a jugI could get a little milk. " He looked at the cow and the cow looked athim, and then, suddenly giving her a kick in the side, he said: "Getup!"

The animal got up slowly, letting her heavy udders hang down. Then theman lay down on his back between the animal's legs and drank for along time, squeezing her warm, swollen teats, which tasted of thecowstall, with both hands, and he drank as long as she gave any milk. But the icy rain began to fall more heavily, and he saw no place ofshelter on the whole of that bare plain. He was cold, and he looked ata light which was shining among the trees in the window of a house. 

The cow had lain down again heavily, and he sat down by her side andstroked her head, grateful for the nourishment she had given him. Theanimal's strong, thick breath, which came out of her nostrils like twojets of steam in the evening air, blew on the workman's face, and hesaid: "You are not cold inside there!" He put his hands on her chestand under her stomach to find some warmth there, and then the ideastruck him that he might pass the night beside that large, warmanimal. So he found a comfortable place and laid his head on her side, and then, as he was worn out with fatigue, fell asleep immediately. 

He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach halffrozen, according as he put one or the other against the animal'sflank. Then he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body whichhad remained exposed to the night air, and soon went soundly to sleepagain. 

The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longerraining, and the sky was bright. The cow was resting with her muzzleon the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kissthose wide, moist nostrils, and said: "Good-by, my beauty, until nexttime. You are a nice animal. Good-by. " Then he put on his shoes andwent off, and for two hours walked straight before him, alwaysfollowing the same road, and then he felt so tired that he sat down onthe grass. It was broad daylight by that time, and the church bellswere ringing; men in blue blouses, women in white caps, some on foot, some in carts, began to pass along the road, going to the neighboringvillages to spend Sunday with friends or relations. 

A stout peasant came in sight, driving before him a score offrightened, bleating sheep, with the help of an active dog. Randel gotup, and raising his cap, said: "You do not happen to have any work fora man who is dying of hunger?" But the other, giving an angry look atthe vagabond, replied: "I have no work for fellows whom I meet on theroad. "

And the carpenter went back and sat down by the side of the ditchagain. He waited there for a long time, watching the country peoplepass and looking for a kind, compassionate face before he renewed hisrequest, and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach wasadorned with a gold chain. "I have been looking for work, " he said, "for the last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a sou inmy pocket. " But the would-be gentleman replied: "You should have readthe notice which is stuck up at the entrance to the village: 'Beggingis prohibited within the boundaries of this parish. ' Let me tell youthat I am the mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quicklyI shall have you arrested. "

Randel, who was getting angry, replied: "Have me arrested if you like;I should prefer it, for, at any rate, I should not die of hunger. " Andhe went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in abouta quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road. They werewalking slowly side by side, glittering in the sun with their shininghats, their yellow accoutrements and their metal buttons, as if tofrighten evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance. He knewthat they were coming after him, but he did not move, for he wasseized with a sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, andto have his revenge later. 

They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking heavily, withmilitary step, and balancing themselves as if they were doing thegoose step; and then, suddenly, as they passed him, appearing to havenoticed him, they stopped and looked at him angrily and threateningly, and the brigadier came up to him and asked: "What are you doing here?""I am resting, " the man replied calmly. "Where do you come from?" "IfI had to tell you all the places I have been to it would take me morethan an hour. " "Where are you going to?" "To Ville-Avary. " "Where isthat?" "In La Manche. " "Is that where you belong?" "It is. " "Why didyou leave it?" "To look for work. "

The brigadier turned to his gendarme and said in the angry voice of aman who is exasperated at last by an oft-repeated trick: "They all saythat, these scamps. I know all about it. " And then he continued: "Haveyou any papers?" "Yes, I have some. " "Give them to me. "

Randel took his papers out of his pocket, his certificates, thosepoor, worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gavethem to the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing, andthen, having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back toRandel with the dissatisfied look of a man whom some one cleverer thanhimself has tricked. 

After a few moments' further reflection, he asked him: "Have you anymoney on you?" "No. " "None whatever?" "None. " "Not even a sou?" "Noteven a sou!" "How do you live then?" "On what people give me. " "Thenyou beg?" And Randel answered resolutely: "Yes, when I can. "

Then the gendarme said: "I have caught you on the highroad in the actof vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so Icommand you to come with me. " The carpenter got up and said: "Whereveryou please. " And, placing himself between the two soldiers, evenbefore he had received the order to do so, he added: "Well, lock meup; that will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains. "

And they set off toward the village, the red tiles of which could beseen through the leafless trees, a quarter of a league off. Servicewas about to begin when they went through the village. The square wasfull of people, who immediately formed two lines to see the criminalpass. He was being followed by a crowd of excited children. Male andfemale peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, withhatred in their eyes and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear hisskin with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They askedeach other whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher, who was an ex-spahi, declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconistthought that he recognized him as the man who had that very morningpassed a bad half-franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declaredthat he was the murderer of Widow Malet, whom the police had beenlooking for for six months. 

In the municipal court, into which his custodians took him, Randel sawthe mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with theschoolmaster by his side. "Aha! aha!" the magistrate exclaimed, "sohere you are again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have youlocked up. Well, brigadier, what is he charged with?"

"He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, withoutany resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act ofbegging, but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers areall in order. "

"Show me his papers, " the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread, returned them and then said: "Search him. " So they searched him, butfound nothing, and the mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:

"What were you doing on the road this morning?" "I was looking forwork. " "Work? On the highroad?" "How do you expect me to find any if Ihide in the woods?"

They looked at each other with the hatred of two wild beasts whichbelong to different hostile species, and the magistrate continued: "Iam going to have you set at liberty, but do not be brought up beforeme again. " To which the carpenter replied: "I would rather you lockedme up; I have had enough running about the country. " But themagistrate replied severely: "Be silent. " And then he said to the twogendarmes: "You will conduct this man two hundred yards from thevillage and let him continue his journey. "

"At any rate, give me something to eat, " the workman said, but theother grew indignant: "Have we nothing to do but to feed you? Ah! ah!ah! that is rather too much!" But Randel went on firmly: "If you letme nearly die of hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime, and then, so much the worse for you other fat fellows. "

The mayor had risen and he repeated: "Take him away immediately or Ishall end by getting angry. "

The two gendarmes thereupon seized the carpenter by the arms anddragged him out. He allowed them to do it without resistance, passedthrough the village again and found himself on the highroad once more;and when the men had accompanied him two hundred yards beyond thevillage, the brigadier said: "Now off with you and do not let me catchyou about here again, for if I do, you will know it. "

Randel went off without replying or knowing where he was going. Hewalked on for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, so stupefiedthat he no longer thought of anything. But suddenly, as he was passinga small house, where the window was half open, the smell of the soupand boiled meat stopped him suddenly, and hunger, fierce, devouring, maddening hunger, seized him and almost drove him against the walls ofthe house like a wild beast. 

He said aloud in a grumbling voice: "In Heaven's name! they must giveme some this time!" And he began to knock at the door vigorously withhis stick, and as no one came he knocked louder and called out: "Hey!hey! you people in there, open the door!" And then, as nothingstirred, he went up to the window and pushed it wider open with hishand, and the close warm air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hotsoup, meat and cabbage, escaped into the cold outer air, and with abound the carpenter was in the house. Two places were set at thetable, and no doubt the proprietors of the house, on going to church, had left their dinner on the fire, their nice Sunday boiled beefand vegetable soup, while there was a loaf of new bread on thechimney-piece, between two bottles which seemed full. 

Randel seized the bread first of all and broke it with as muchviolence as if he were strangling a man, and then he began to eatvoraciously, swallowing great mouthfuls quickly. But almostimmediately the smell of the meat attracted him to the fireplace, and, having taken off the lid of the saucepan, he plunged a fork into itand brought out a large piece of beef tied with a string. Then he tookmore cabbage, carrots and onions until his plate was full, and, havingput it on the table, he sat down before it, cut the meat into fourpieces, and dined as if he had been at home. When he had eaten nearlyall the meat, besides a quantity of vegetables, he felt thirsty andtook one of the bottles off the mantelpiece. 

Scarcely had he poured the liquor into his glass when he saw it wasbrandy. So much the better; it was warming and would instill some fireinto his veins, and that would be all right, after being so cold; andhe drank some. He certainly enjoyed it, for he had grown unaccustomedto it, and he poured himself out another glassful, which he drankat two gulps. And then almost immediately he felt quite merry andlight-hearted from the effects of the alcohol, just as if some greathappiness filled his heart. 

He continued to eat, but more slowly, and dipping his bread into thesoup. His skin had become burning, and especially his forehead, wherethe veins were throbbing. But suddenly the church bells began to ring. Mass was over, and instinct rather than fear, the instinct ofprudence, which guides all beings and makes them clear-sighted indanger, made the carpenter get up. He put the remains of the loaf intoone pocket and the brandy bottle into the other, and he furtively wentto the window and looked out into the road. It was still deserted, sohe jumped out and set off walking again, but instead of following thehighroad he ran across the fields toward a wood he saw a little wayoff. 

He felt alert, strong, light-hearted, glad of what he had done, and sonimble that he sprang over the enclosure of the fields at a singlebound, and as soon as he was under the trees he took the bottle out ofhis pocket again and began to drink once more, swallowing it down ashe walked, and then his ideas began to get confused, his eyes grewdim, and his legs as elastic as springs, and he started singing theold popular song:

 _"Oh! what joy, what joy it is, To pick the sweet, wild strawberries. "_

He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss, and that soft carpetunder his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heelsas he used to do when a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault, got up and began over again. And between each time he began to singagain:

 _"Oh! what joy, what joy it is, To pick the sweet, wild strawberries. "_

Suddenly he found himself above a deep road, and in the road he saw atall girl, a servant, who was returning to the village with two pailsof milk. He watched, stooping down, and with his eyes as bright asthose of a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him, raised her headand said: "Was that you singing like that?" He did not reply, however, but jumped down into the road, although it was a fall of at least sixfeet and when she saw him suddenly standing in front of her, sheexclaimed: "Oh! dear, how you frightened me!"

But he did not hear her, for he was drunk, he was mad, excited byanother requirement which was more imperative than hunger, morefeverish than alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who hasbeen deprived of everything for two months, and who is drunk; who isyoung, ardent and inflamed by all the appetites which nature hasimplanted in the vigorous flesh of men. 

The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, hishalf-open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by theshoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road. 

She let her two pails fall, and they rolled over noisily, and all themilk was spilt, and then she screamed lustily, but it was of no availin that lonely spot. 

When she got up the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filledher with fury, and, taking off one of her wooden sabots, she threw itat the man to break his head if he did not pay her for her milk. 

But he, mistaking the reason of this sudden violent attack, somewhatsobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as hecould, while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in theback. 

He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than hehad ever been before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcelycarry him; all his ideas were confused, he lost recollection ofeverything and could no longer think about anything, and so he satdown at the foot of a tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. Hewas soon awakened, however, by a rough shake, and, on opening hiseyes, he saw two cocked hats of shiny leather bending over him, andthe two gendarmes of the morning, who were holding him and binding hisarms. 

"I knew I should catch you again, " said the brigadier jeeringly. ButRandel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready toill treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now. He hadbecome a jailbird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would notlet him go again. 

"Now, start!" the brigadier said, and they set off. It was lateafternoon, and the autumn twilight was setting in over the land, andin half an hour they reached the village, where every door was open, for the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant womenand girls, excited with anger, as if every man had been robbed andevery woman attacked, wished to see the wretch brought back, so thatthey might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the firsthouse in the village until they reached the Hotel de Ville, where themayor was waiting for him to be himself avenged on this vagabond, andas soon as he saw him approaching he cried:

"Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!" And he rubbed his hands, morepleased than he usually was, and continued: "I said so. I said so, themoment I saw him in the road. "

And then with increased satisfaction:

"Oh, you blackguard! Oh, you dirty blackguard! You will get yourtwenty years, my fine fellow!"

 * * * * *

THE FISHING HOLE

"Cuts and wounds which caused death. " Such was the charge upon whichLeopold Renard, upholsterer, was summoned before the Court of Assizes. 

Round him were the principal witnesses, Madame Flamèche, widow of thevictim, and Louis Ladureau, cabinetmaker, and Jean Durdent, plumber. 

Near the criminal was his wife, dressed in black, an ugly littlewoman, who looked like a monkey dressed as a lady. 

This is how Renard (Leopold) recounted the drama:

"Good heavens, it is a misfortune of which I was the prime victim allthe time, and with which my will has nothing to do. The facts aretheir own commentary, Monsieur le Président. I am an honest man, ahard-working man, an upholsterer, living in the same street for thelast sixteen years, known, liked, respected and esteemed by all, as myneighbors can testify, even the porter's wife, who is not amiableevery day. I am fond of work, I am fond of saving, I like honest menand respectable amusements. That is what has ruined me, so much theworse for me; but as my will had nothing to do with it, I continue torespect myself. 

"Every Sunday for the last five years my wife and I have spent the dayat Passy. We get fresh air, and, besides, we are fond of fishing. Oh!we are as fond of it as we are of little onions. Mélie inspired mewith that enthusiasm, the jade, and she is more enthusiastic than Iam, the scold, seeing that all the mischief in this business is herfault, as you will see immediately. 

"I am strong and mild tempered, without a pennyworth of malice in me. But she! oh! la! la! she looks like nothing; she is short and thin. Very well, she does more mischief than a weasel. I do not deny thatshe has some good qualities; she has some, and very important ones fora man in business. But her character! Just ask about it in theneighborhood, and even the porter's wife, who has just sent me aboutmy business ... She will tell you something about it. 

"Every day she used to find fault with my mild temper: 'I would notput up with this! I would not put up with that. ' If I had listenedto her, Monsieur le Président, I should have had at least threehand-to-hand fights a month.... "

Madame Renard interrupted him: "And for good reasons, too; they laughbest who laugh last. "

He turned toward her frankly: "Well, I can't blame you, since you werenot the cause of it. "

Then, facing the President again, he said:

"I will continue. We used to go to Passy every Saturday evening, so asto begin fishing at daybreak the next morning. It is a habit which hasbecome second nature with us, as the saying is. Three years ago thissummer I discovered a place, oh! such a spot. Oh, dear, dear! In theshade, eight feet of water at least and perhaps ten, a hole withcavities under the bank, a regular nest for fish and a paradise forthe fisherman. I might look upon that fishing hole as my property, Monsieur le Président, as I was its Christopher Columbus. Everybody inthe neighborhood knew it, without making any opposition. They wouldsay: 'That is Renard's place'; and nobody would have gone there, noteven Monsieur Plumeau, who is well known, be it said without anyoffense, for poaching on other people's preserves. 

"Well, I returned to this place of which I felt certain, just as if Ihad owned it. I had scarcely got there on Saturday, when I got into_Delila_, with my wife. _Delila_ is my Norwegian boat, whichI had built by Fournaire, and which is light and safe. Well, as Isaid, we got into the boat and we were going to set bait, and forsetting bait there is none to be compared with me, and they all knowit. You want to know with what I bait? I cannot answer that question;it has nothing to do with the accident. I cannot answer; that is mysecret. There are more than three hundred people who have asked me; Ihave been offered glasses of brandy and liqueur, fried fish, matelotes, to make me tell. But just go and try whether the chub willcome. Ah! they have tempted my stomach to get at my secret, my recipe. Only my wife knows, and she will not tell it any more than I will. Isnot that so, Mélie?"

The president of the court interrupted him. 

"Just get to the facts as soon as you can, " and the accused continued:"I am getting to them, I am getting to them. Well, on Saturday, July8, we left by the twenty-five past five train and before dinner wewent to set bait as usual. The weather promised to keep fine and Isaid to Mélie: 'All right for tomorrow. ' And she replied: 'It lookslike it. ' We never talk more than that together. 

"And then we returned to dinner. I was happy and thirsty, and that wasthe cause of everything. I said to Mélie: 'Look here, Mélie, it isfine weather, suppose I drink a bottle of _Casque à mèche_. ' Thatis a weak white wine which we have christened so, because if you drinktoo much of it it prevents you from sleeping and takes the place of anightcap. Do you understand me?

"She replied: 'You can do as you please, but you will be ill again andwill not be able to get up tomorrow. ' That was true, sensible andprudent, clearsighted, I must confess. Nevertheless I could notresist, and I drank my bottle. It all came from that. 

"Well, I could not sleep. By Jove! it kept me awake till two o'clockin the morning, and then I went to sleep so soundly that I should nothave heard the angel sounding his trump at the last Judgment. 

"In short, my wife woke me at six o'clock and I jumped out of bed, hastily put on my trousers and jersey, washed my face and jumped onboard _Delila_. But it was too late, for when I arrived at myhole it was already occupied! Such a thing had never happened to me inthree years, and it made me feel as if I were being robbed under myown eyes. I said to myself: 'Confound it all! confound it!' And thenmy wife began to nag at me. 'Eh! what about your _Casque àmèche?_ Get along, you drunkard! Are you satisfied, you greatfool?' I could say nothing, because it was all true, but I landed allthe same near the spot and tried to profit by what was left. Perhapsafter all the fellow might catch nothing and go away. 

"He was a little thin man in white linen coat and waistcoat and alarge straw hat, and his wife, a fat woman, doing embroidery, satbehind him. 

"When she saw us take up our position close to them she murmured: 'Arethere no other places on the river?' My wife, who was furious, replied: 'People who have any manners make inquiries about the habitsof the neighborhood before occupying reserved spots. '

"As I did not want a fuss, I said to her: 'Hold your tongue, Mélie. Let them alone, let them alone; we shall see. '

"Well, we fastened _Delila_ under the willows and had landed andwere fishing side by side, Mélie and I, close to the two others. Buthere, monsieur, I must enter into details. 

"We had only been there about five minutes when our neighbor's linebegan to jerk twice, thrice, and then he pulled out a chub as thick asmy thigh; rather less, perhaps, but nearly as big! My heart beat, theperspiration stood on my forehead and Mélie said to me: 'Well, yousot, did you see that?'

"Just then Monsieur Bru, the grocer of Poissy, who is fond of gudgeonfishing, passed in a boat and called out to me: 'So somebody has takenyour usual place, Monsieur Renard?' And I replied--: 'Yes, MonsieurBru, there are some people in this world who do not know the rules ofcommon politeness. '

"The little man in linen pretended not to hear, nor his fat lump of awife, either. "

Here the president interrupted him a second time: "Take care, you areinsulting the widow, Madame Flamèche, who is present. "

Renard made his excuses: "I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon; myanger carried me away. Well, not a quarter of an hour had passed whenthe little man caught another chub, and another almost immediately, and another five minutes later. 

"Tears were in my eyes, and I knew that Madame Renard was boiling withrage, for she kept on nagging at me: 'Oh, how horrid! Don't you seethat he is robbing you of your fish? Do you think that you will catchanything? Not even a frog, nothing whatever. Why, my hands aretingling, just to think of it. '

"But I said to myself: 'Let us wait until twelve o'clock. Then thispoacher will go to lunch and I shall get my place again. As for me, Monsieur le Président, I lunch on that spot every Sunday. We bring ourprovisions in _Delila_. But there! At noon the wretch produced achicken in a newspaper, and while he was eating, he actually caughtanother chub!

"Mélie and I had a morsel also, just a bite, a mere nothing, for ourheart was not in it. 

"Then I took up my newspaper to aid my digestion. Every Sunday I readthe _Gil Blas_ in the shade by the side of the water. It isColumbine's day, you know; Columbine, who writes the articles inthe _Gil Blas_. I generally put Madame Renard into a rage bypretending to know this Columbine. It is not true, for I do not knowher and have never seen her, but that does not matter. She writes verywell, and then she says things that are pretty plain for a woman. Shesuits me and there are not many of her sort. 

"Well, I began to tease my wife, but she got angry immediately, andvery angry, so I held my tongue. At that moment our two witnesses whoare present here, Monsieur Ladureau and Monsieur Durdent, appeared onthe other side of the river. We knew each other by sight The littleman began to fish again and he caught so many that I trembled withvexation and his wife said: 'It is an uncommonly good spot, and wewill come here always, Désiré. ' As for me, a cold shiver ran down myback, and Madame Renard kept repeating: 'You are not a man; you havethe blood of a chicken in your veins'; and suddenly I said to her:'Look here, I would rather go away or I shall be doing somethingfoolish. '

"And she whispered to me, as if she had put a red-hot iron under mynose: 'You are not a man. Now you are going to run away and surrenderyour place! Go, then, Bazaine!'

"I felt hurt, but yet I did not move, while the other fellow pulledout a bream. Oh, I never saw such a large one before, never! And thenmy wife began to talk aloud, as if she were thinking, and you can seeher tricks. She said: 'That is what one might call stolen fish, seeingthat we set the bait ourselves. At any rate, they ought to give usback the money we have spent on bait. '

"Then the fat woman in the cotton dress said in her turn: 'Do you meanto call us thieves, madame?' Explanations followed and complimentsbegan to fly. Oh, Lord! those creatures know some good ones. Theyshouted so loud that our two witnesses, who were on the other bank, began to call out by way of a joke: 'Less noise over there; you willinterfere with your husbands' fishing. '

"The fact is that neither the little man nor I moved any more than ifwe had been two tree stumps. We remained there, with our eyes fixed onthe water, as if we had heard nothing; but, by Jove! we heard all thesame. 'You are a thief! You are nothing better than a tramp! You are aregular jade!' and so on and so on. A sailor could not have said more. 

"Suddenly I heard a noise behind me and turned round. It was the otherone, the fat woman, who had attacked my wife with her parasol. _Whack, whack!_ Mélie got two of them. But she was furious, andshe hits hard when she is in a rage. She caught the fat woman by thehair and then _thump! thump!_ slaps in the face rained down likeripe plums. I should have let them fight it out: women together, mentogether. It does not do to mix the blows. But the little man in thelinen jacket jumped up like a devil and was going to rush at my wife. Ah! no, no, not that, my friend! I caught the gentleman with the endof my fist, and _crash! crash!_ One on the nose, the other in thestomach. He threw up his arms and legs and fell on his back into theriver, just into the hole. 

"I should have fished him out most certainly, Monsieur le Président, if I had had time. But, to make matters worse, the fat woman had theupper hand and was pounding Mélie for all she was worth. I know Iought not to have interfered while the man was in the water, but Inever thought that he would drown and said to myself: 'Bah, it willcool him. '

"I therefore ran up to the women to separate them and all I receivedwas scratches and bites. Good Lord, what creatures! Well, it took mefive minutes, and perhaps ten, to separate those two viragos. When Iturned round there was nothing to be seen. The water was as smooth asa lake and the others yonder kept shouting: 'Fish him out! fish himout!' It was all very well to say that, but I cannot swim and stillless dive. 

"At last the man from the dam came and two gentlemen with boathooks, but over a quarter of an hour had passed. He was found at the bottomof the hole, in eight feet of water, as I have said. There he was, thepoor little man, in his linen suit! Those are the facts such as I havesworn to. I am innocent, on my honor. "

The witnesses having given testimony to the same effect, the accusedwas acquitted. 

 * * * * *

THE SPASM

The hotel guests slowly entered the dining-room and took their places. The waiters did not hurry themselves, in order to give the late comersa chance and thus avoid the trouble of bringing in the dishes a secondtime. The old bathers, the habitués, whose season was almost over, glanced, gazed toward the door whenever it opened, to see what newfaces might appear. 

This is the principal distraction of watering places. People lookforward to the dinner hour in order to inspect each day's newarrivals, to find out who they are, what they do, and what they think. We always have a vague desire to meet pleasant people, to makeagreeable acquaintances, perhaps to meet with a love adventure. Inthis life of elbowings, unknown strangers assume an extremeimportance. Curiosity is aroused, sympathy is ready to exhibit itself, and sociability is the order of the day. 

We cherish antipathies for a week and friendships for a month; we seepeople with different eyes, when we view them through the medium ofacquaintanceship at watering places. We discover in men suddenly, after an hour's chat, in the evening after dinner, under the trees inthe park where the healing spring bubbles up, a high intelligence andastonishing merits, and a month afterward we have completely forgottenthese new friends, who were so fascinating when we first met them. 

Permanent and serious ties are also formed here sooner than anywhereelse. People see each other every day; they become acquainted veryquickly, and their affection is tinged with the sweetness andunrestraint of long-standing intimacies. We cherish in after years thedear and tender memories of those first hours of friendship, thememory of those first conversations in which a soul was unveiled, ofthose first glances which interrogate and respond to questions andsecret thoughts which the mouth has not as yet uttered, the memory ofthat first cordial confidence, the memory of that delightful sensationof opening our hearts to those who seem to open theirs to us inreturn. 

And the melancholy of watering places, the monotony of days that areall alike, proves hourly an incentive to this heart expansion. 

 * * * * *

Well, this evening, as on every other evening, we awaited theappearance of strange faces. 

Only two appeared, but they were very remarkable, a man and awoman--father and daughter. They immediately reminded me of someof Edgar Poe's characters; and yet there was about them a charm, the charm associated with misfortune. I looked upon them as the victimsof fate. The man was very tall and thin, rather stooped, with perfectlywhite hair, too white for his comparatively youthful physiognomy;and there was in his bearing and in his person that austeritypeculiar to Protestants. The daughter, who was probably twenty-fouror twenty-five, was small in stature, and was also very thin, verypale, and she had the air of one who was worn out with utter lassitude. We meet people like this from time to time, who seem too weak forthe tasks and the needs of daily life, too weak to move about, towalk, to do all that we do every day. She was rather pretty, with atransparent, spiritual beauty. And she ate with extreme slowness, as ifshe were almost incapable of moving her arms. 

It must have been she, assuredly, who had come to take the waters. 

They sat facing me, on the opposite side of the table; and I at oncenoticed that the father had a very singular, nervous twitching. 

Every time he wanted to reach an object, his hand described a sort ofzigzag before it succeeded in reaching what it was in search of, andafter a little while this movement annoyed me so that I turned asidemy head in order not to see it. 

I noticed, too, that the young girl, during meals, wore a glove on herleft hand. 

After dinner I went for a stroll in the park of the bathingestablishment. This led toward the little Auvergnese station ofChâtel-Guyon, hidden in a gorge at the foot of the high mountain, fromwhich flowed so many boiling springs, arising from the deep bed ofextinct volcanoes. Over yonder, above our heads, the domes of extinctcraters lifted their ragged peaks above the rest in the long mountainchain. For Châtel-Guyon is situated at the entrance to the land ofmountain domes. 

Beyond it stretches out the region of peaks, and, farther on again, the region of precipitous summits. 

The "Puy de Dôme" is the highest of the domes, the Peak of Sancy isthe loftiest of the peaks, and Cantal is the most precipitous of thesemountain heights. 

It was a very warm evening, and I was walking up and down a shadypath, listening to the opening strains of the Casino band, which wasplaying on an elevation overlooking the park. 

And I saw the father and the daughter advancing slowly in mydirection. I bowed as one bows to one's hotel companions at a wateringplace; and the man, coming to a sudden halt, said to me:

"Could you not, monsieur, tell us of a nice walk to take, short, pretty, and not steep; and pardon my troubling you?"

I offered to show them the way toward the valley through which thelittle river flowed, a deep valley forming a gorge between two tall, craggy, wooded slopes. 

They gladly accepted my offer. 

And we talked, naturally, about the virtue of the waters. 

"Oh, " he said, "my daughter has a strange malady, the seat of which isunknown. She suffers from incomprehensible nervous attacks. At onetime the doctors think she has an attack of heart disease, at anothertime they imagine it is some affection of the liver, and at anotherthey declare it to be a disease of the spine. To-day this proteanmalady, that assumes a thousand forms and a thousand modes of attack, is attributed to the stomach, which is the great caldron and regulatorof the body. This is why we have come here. For my part, I am ratherinclined to think it is the nerves. In any case it is very sad. "

Immediately the remembrance of the violent spasmodic movement of hishand came back to my mind, and I asked him:

"But is this not the result of heredity? Are not your own nervessomewhat affected?"

He replied calmly:

"Mine? Oh, no--my nerves have always been very steady. "

Then, suddenly, after a pause, he went on:

"Ah! You were alluding to the jerking movement of my hand every time Itry to reach for anything? This arises from a terrible experiencewhich I had. Just imagine, this daughter of mine was actually buriedalive!"

I could only utter, "Ah!" so great were my astonishment and emotion. 

He continued:

"Here is the story. It is simple. Juliette had been subject for sometime to serious attacks of the heart. We believed that she had diseaseof that organ, and were prepared for the worst. 

"One day she was carried into the house cold, lifeless, dead. She hadfallen down unconscious in the garden. The doctor certified that lifewas extinct. I watched by her side for a day and two nights. I laidher with my own hands in the coffin, which I accompanied to thecemetery, where she was deposited in the family vault. It is situatedin the very heart of Lorraine. 

"I wished to have her interred with her jewels, bracelets, necklaces, rings, all presents which she had received from me, and wearing herfirst ball dress. 

"You may easily imagine my state of mind when I re-entered our home. She was the only one I had, for my wife had been dead for many years. I found my way to my own apartment in a half-distracted condition, utterly exhausted, and sank into my easy-chair, without the capacityto think or the strength to move. I was nothing better now than asuffering, vibrating machine, a human being who had, as it were, beenflayed alive; my soul was like an open wound. 

"My old valet, Prosper, who had assisted me in placing Juliette in hercoffin, and aided me in preparing her for her last sleep, entered theroom noiselessly, and asked:

"'Does monsieur want anything?'

"I merely shook my head in reply. 

"'Monsieur is wrong, ' he urged. 'He will injure his health. Wouldmonsieur like me to put him to bed?'

"I answered: 'No, let me alone!'

"And he left the room. 

"I know not how many hours slipped away. Oh, what a night, what anight! It was cold. My fire had died out in the huge grate; and thewind, the winter wind, an icy wind, a winter hurricane, blew with aregular, sinister noise against the windows. 

"How many hours slipped away? There I was without sleeping, powerless, crushed, my eyes wide open, my legs stretched out, my body limp, inanimate, and my mind torpid with despair. Suddenly the greatdoorbell, the great bell of the vestibule, rang out. 

"I started so that my chair cracked under me. The solemn, ponderoussound vibrated through the empty country house as through a vault. Iturned round to see what the hour was by the clock. It was just two inthe morning. Who could be coming at such an hour?

"And, abruptly, the bell again rang twice. The servants, withoutdoubt, were afraid to get up. I took a wax candle and descended thestairs. I was on the point of asking: 'Who is there?'

"Then I felt ashamed of my weakness, and I slowly drew back the heavybolts. My heart was throbbing wildly. I was frightened. I opened thedoor brusquely, and in the darkness I distinguished a white figure, standing erect, something that resembled an apparition. 

"I recoiled, petrified with horror, faltering:

"'Who--who--who are you?'

"A voice replied:

"'It is I, father. '

"It was my daughter. 

"I really thought I must be mad, and I retreated backward before thisadvancing spectre. I kept moving away, making a sign with my hand, as if to drive the phantom away, that gesture which you havenoticed--that gesture which has remained with me ever since. 

"'Do not be afraid, papa, ' said the apparition. 'I was not dead. Somebody tried to steal my rings and cut one of my fingers; the bloodbegan to flow, and that restored me to life. '

"And, in fact, I could see that her hand was covered with blood. 

"I fell on my knees, choking with sobs and with a rattling in mythroat. 

"Then, when I had somewhat collected my thoughts, though I was stillso bewildered that I scarcely realized the awesome happiness thathad befallen me, I made her go up to my room and sit down in myeasy-chair; then I rang excitedly for Prosper to get him to rekindlethe fire and to bring some wine, and to summon assistance. 

"The man entered, stared at my daughter, opened his mouth with a gaspof alarm and stupefaction, and then fell back dead. 

"It was he who had opened the vault, who had mutilated and thenabandoned my daughter; for he could not efface the traces of thetheft. He had not even taken the trouble to put back the coffin intoits place, feeling sure, besides, that he would not be suspected byme, as I trusted him absolutely. 

"You see, monsieur, that we are very unfortunate people. "

 * * * * *

He was silent. 

The night had fallen, casting its shadows over the desolate, mournfulvale, and a sort of mysterious fear possessed me at finding myself bythe side of those strange beings, of this young girl who had come backfrom the tomb, and this father with his uncanny spasm. 

I found it impossible to make any comment on this dreadful story. Ionly murmured:

"What a horrible thing!"

Then, after a minute's silence, I added:

"Let us go indoors. I think it is growing cool. "

And we made our way back to the hotel. 

 * * * * *

IN THE WOOD

As the mayor was about to sit down to breakfast, word was brought tohim that the rural policeman, with two prisoners, was awaiting him atthe Hotel de Ville. He went there at once and found old Hochedurstanding guard before a middle-class couple whom he was regarding witha severe expression on his face. 

The man, a fat old fellow with a red nose and white hair, seemedutterly dejected; while the woman, a little roundabout individual withshining cheeks, looked at the official who had arrested them, withdefiant eyes. 

"What is it? What is it, Hochedur?"

The rural policeman made his deposition: He had gone out that morningat his usual time, in order to patrol his beat from the forest ofChampioux as far as the boundaries of Argenteuil. He had not noticedanything unusual in the country except that it was a fine day, andthat the wheat was doing well, when the son of old Bredel, who wasgoing over his vines, called out to him: "Here, Daddy Hochedur, go andhave a look at the outskirts of the wood. In the first thicket youwill find a pair of pigeons who must be a hundred and thirty years oldbetween them!"

He went in the direction indicated, entered the thicket, and there heheard words which made him suspect a flagrant breach of morality. Advancing, therefore, on his hands and knees as if to surprise apoacher, he had arrested the couple whom he found there. 

The mayor looked at the culprits in astonishment, for the man wascertainly sixty, and the woman fifty-five at least, and he began toquestion them, beginning with the man, who replied in such a weakvoice that he could scarcely be heard. 

"What is your name?"

"Nicholas Beaurain. "

"Your occupation?"

"Haberdasher, in the Rue des Martyrs, in Paris. "

"What were you doing in the wood?"

The haberdasher remained silent, with his eyes on his fat paunch, andhis hands hanging at his sides, and the mayor continued:

"Do you deny what the officer of the municipal authorities states?"

"No, monsieur. "

"So you confess it?"

"Yes, monsieur. "

"What have you to say in your defence?"

"Nothing, monsieur. "

"Where did you meet the partner in your misdemeanor?"

"She is my wife, monsieur. "

"Your wife?"

"Yes, monsieur. "

"Then--then--you do not live together--in Paris?"

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, but we are living together!"

"But in that case--you must be mad, altogether mad, my dear sir, toget caught playing lovers in the country at ten o'clock in themorning. "

The haberdasher seemed ready to cry with shame, and he muttered: "Itwas she who enticed me! I told her it was very stupid, but when awoman once gets a thing into her head--you know--you cannot get itout. "

The mayor, who liked a joke, smiled and replied: "In your case, thecontrary ought to have happened. You would not be here, if she had hadthe idea only in her head. "

Then Monsieur Beaurain was seized with rage, and turning to his wife, he said: "Do you see to what you have brought us with your poetry? Andnow we shall have to go before the courts at our age, for a breach ofmorals! And we shall have to shut up the shop, sell our good will, andgo to some other neighborhood! That's what it has come to. "

Madame Beaurain got up, and without looking at her husband, sheexplained herself without embarrassment, without useless modesty, andalmost without hesitation. 

"Of course, monsieur, I know that we have made ourselves ridiculous. Will you allow me to plead my cause like an advocate, or rather like apoor woman? And I hope that you will be kind enough to send us home, and to spare us the disgrace of a prosecution. 

"Years ago, when I was young, I made Monsieur Beaurain's acquaintanceone Sunday in this neighborhood. He was employed in a draper's shop, and I was a saleswoman in a ready-made clothing establishment. Iremember it as if it were yesterday. I used to come and spend Sundayshere occasionally with a friend of mine, Rose Levèque, with whom Ilived in the Rue Pigalle, and Rose had a sweetheart, while I had none. He used to bring us here, and one Saturday he told me laughing that heshould bring a friend with him the next day. I quite understood whathe meant, but I replied that it would be no good; for I was virtuous, monsieur. 

"The next day we met Monsieur Beaurain at the railway station, and inthose days he was good-looking, but I had made up my mind not toencourage him, and I did not. Well, we arrived at Bezons. It was alovely day, the sort of day that touches your heart. When it is fineeven now, just as it used to be formerly, I grow quite foolish, andwhen I am in the country I utterly lose my head. The green grass, theswallows flying so swiftly, the smell of the grass, the scarletpoppies, the daisies, all that makes me crazy. It is like champagnewhen one is not accustomed to it!

"Well, it was lovely weather, warm and bright, and it seemed topenetrate your body through your eyes when you looked, and throughyour mouth when you breathed. Rose and Simon hugged and kissed eachother every minute, and that gave me a queer feeling! MonsieurBeaurain and I walked behind them, without speaking much, for whenpeople do not know each other, they do not find anything to talkabout. He looked timid, and I liked to see his embarrassment. At lastwe got to the little wood; it was as cool as in a bath there, and wefour sat down. Rose and her lover teased me because I looked ratherstern, but you will understand that I could not be otherwise. And thenthey began to kiss and hug again, without putting any more restraintupon themselves than if we had not been there; and then they whisperedtogether, and got up and went off among the trees, without saying aword. You may fancy what I looked like, alone with this young fellowwhom I saw for the first time. I felt so confused at seeing them gothat it gave me courage, and I began to talk. I asked him what hisbusiness was, and he said he was a linen draper's assistant, as I toldyou just now. We talked for a few minutes, and that made him bold, andhe wanted to take liberties with me, but I told him sharply to keephis place. Is not that true, Monsieur Beaurain?"

Monsieur Beaurain, who was looking at his feet in confusion, did notreply, and she continued: "Then he saw that I was virtuous, and hebegan to make love to me nicely, like an honorable man, and from thattime he came every Sunday, for he was very much in love with me. I wasvery fond of him also, very fond of him! He was a good-looking fellow, formerly, and in short he married me the next September, and westarted in business in the Rue des Martyrs. 

"It was a hard struggle for some years, monsieur. Business did notprosper, and we could not afford many country excursions, and, besides, we had got out of the way of them. One has other things inone's head, and thinks more of the cash box than of pretty speeches, when one is in business. We were growing old by degrees withoutperceiving it, like quiet people who do not think much about love. Onedoes not regret anything as long as one does not notice what one haslost. 

"And then, monsieur, business became better, and we were tranquil asto the future! Then, you see, I do not exactly know what went on in mymind, no, I really do not know, but I began to dream like a littleboarding-school girl. The sight of the little carts full of flowerswhich are drawn about the streets made me cry; the smell of violetssought me out in my easy-chair, behind my cash box, and made my heartbeat! Then I would get up and go out on the doorstep to look at theblue sky between the roofs. When one looks up at the sky from thestreet, it looks like a river which is descending on Paris, winding asit flows, and the swallows pass to and fro in it like fish. Theseideas are very stupid at my age! But how can one help it, monsieur, when one has worked all one's life? A moment comes in which oneperceives that one could have done something else, and that oneregrets, oh! yes, one feels intense regret! Just think, for twentyyears I might have gone and had kisses in the woods, like other women. I used to think how delightful it would be to lie under the trees andbe in love with some one! And I thought of it every day and everynight! I dreamed of the moonlight on the water, until I felt inclinedto drown myself. 

"I did not venture to speak to Monsieur Beaurain about this at first. I knew that he would make fun of me, and send me back to sell myneedles and cotton! And then, to speak the truth, Monsieur Beaurainnever said much to me, but when I looked in the glass, I alsounderstood quite well that I no longer appealed to any one!

"Well, I made up my mind, and I proposed to him an excursion into thecountry, to the place where we had first become acquainted. He agreedwithout mistrusting anything, and we arrived here this morning, aboutnine o'clock. 

"I felt quite young again when I got among the wheat, for a woman'sheart never grows old! And really, I no longer saw my husband as he isat present, but just as he was formerly! That I will swear to you, monsieur. As true as I am standing here I was crazy. I began to kisshim, and he was more surprised than if I had tried to murder him. Hekept saying to me: 'Why, you must be mad! You are mad this morning!What is the matter with you?' I did not listen to him, I only listenedto my own heart, and I made him come into the wood with me. That isall. I have spoken the truth, Monsieur le Maire, the whole truth. "

The mayor was a sensible man. He rose from his chair, smiled, andsaid: "Go in peace, madame, and when you again visit our forests, bemore discreet. "

 * * * * *

MARTINE

It came to him one Sunday after mass. He was walking home from churchalong the by-road that led to his house when he saw ahead of himMartine, who was also going home. 

Her father walked beside his daughter with the important gait of arich farmer. Discarding the smock, he wore a short coat of gray clothand on his head a round-topped hat with wide brim. 

She, laced up in a corset which she wore only once a week, walkedalong erect, with her squeezed-in waist, her broad shoulders andprominent hips, swinging herself a little. She wore a hat trimmed withflowers, made by a milliner at Yvetot, and displayed the back of herfull, round, supple neck, reddened by the sun and air, on whichfluttered little stray locks of hair. 

Benoist saw only her back; but he knew well the face he loved, without, however, having ever noticed it more closely than he did now. 

Suddenly he said: "Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl, all the same, that Martine. " He watched her as she walked, admiring her hastily, feeling a desire taking possession of him. He did not long to see herface again, no. He kept gazing at her figure, repeating to himself:"Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl. "

Martine turned to the right to enter "La Martinière, " the farm of herfather, Jean Martin, and she cast a glance behind her as she turnedround. She saw Benoist, who looked to her very comical. She calledout: "Good-morning, Benoist. " He replied: "Good-morning, Martine;good-morning, mait' Martin, " and went on his way. 

When he reached home the soup was on the table. He sat down oppositehis mother beside the farm hand and the hired man, while the maidservant went to draw some cider. 

He ate a few spoonfuls, then pushed away his plate. His mother said:

"Don't you feel well?"

"No. I feel as if I had some pap in my stomach and that takes away myappetite. "

He watched the others eating, as he cut himself a piece of bread fromtime to time and carried it lazily to his mouth, masticating itslowly. He thought of Martine. "She is a fine girl, all the same. " Andto think that he had not noticed it before, and that it came to him, just like that, all at once, and with such force that he could noteat. 

He did not touch the stew. His mother said:

"Come, Benoist, try and eat a little; it is loin of mutton, it will doyou good. When one has no appetite, they should force themselves toeat. "

He swallowed a few morsels, then, pushing away his plate, said:

"No. I can't go that, positively. "

When they rose from table he walked round the farm, telling the farmhand he might go home and that he would drive up the animals as hepassed by them. 

The country was deserted, as it was the day of rest. Here and there ina field of clover cows were moving along heavily, with full bellies, chewing their cud under a blazing sun. Unharnessed plows were standingat the end of a furrow; and the upturned earth ready for the seedshowed broad brown patches of stubble of wheat and oats that hadlately been harvested. 

A rather dry autumn wind blew across the plain, promising a coolevening after the sun had set. Benoist sat down on a ditch, placed hishat on his knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloudin the stillness of the country: "If you want a fine girl, she is afine girl. "

He thought of it again at night, in his bed, and in the morning whenhe awoke. 

He was not sad, he was not discontented, he could not have told whatailed him. It was something that had hold of him, something fastenedin his mind, an idea that would not leave him and that produced a sortof tickling sensation in his heart. 

Sometimes a big fly is shut up in a room. You hear it flying about, buzzing, and the noise haunts you, irritates you. Suddenly it stops;you forget it; but all at once it begins again, obliging you to lookup. You cannot catch it, nor drive it away, nor kill it, nor make itkeep still. As soon as it settles for a second, it starts off buzzingagain. 

The recollection of Martine disturbed Benoist's mind like animprisoned fly. 

Then he longed to see her again and walked past the Martinière severaltimes. He saw her, at last, hanging out some clothes on a linestretched between two apple trees. 

It was a warm day. She had on only a short skirt and her chemise, showing the curves of her figure as she hung up the towels. Heremained there, concealed by the hedge, for more than an hour, evenafter she had left. He returned home more obsessed with her image thanever. 

For a month his mind was full of her, he trembled when her name wasmentioned in his presence. He could not eat, he had night sweats thatkept him from sleeping. 

On Sunday, at mass, he never took his eyes off her. She noticed it andsmiled at him, flattered at his appreciation. 

One evening, he suddenly met her in the road. She stopped short whenshe saw him coming. Then he walked right up to her, choking with fearand emotion, but determined to speak to her. He began falteringly:

"See here, Martine, this cannot go on like this any longer. "

She replied as if she wanted to tease him:

"What cannot go on any longer, Benoist?"

"My thinking of you as many hours as there are in the day, " heanswered. 

She put her hands on her hips. 

"I do not oblige you to do so. "

"Yes, it is you, " he stammered; "I cannot sleep, nor rest, nor eat, nor anything. "

"What do you need to cure you of all that?" she asked. 

He stood there in dismay, his arms swinging, his eyes staring, hismouth agape. 

She hit him a punch in the stomach and ran off. 

From that day they met each other along the roadside, in by-roads orelse at twilight on the edge of a field, when he was going home withhis horses and she was driving her cows home to the stable. 

He felt himself carried, cast toward her by a strong impulse of hisheart and body. He would have liked to squeeze her, strangle her, eather, make her part of himself. And he trembled with impotence, impatience, rage, to think she did not belong to him entirely, as ifthey were one being. 

People gossiped about it in the countryside. They said they wereengaged. He had, besides, asked her if she would be his wife, and shehad answered "Yes. "

They were waiting for an opportunity to talk to their parents aboutit. 

But, all at once, she stopped coming to meet him at the usual hour. Hedid not even see her as he wandered round the farm. He could onlycatch a glimpse of her at mass on Sunday. And one Sunday, after thesermon, the priest actually published the banns of marriage betweenVictoire-Adelaide-Martin and Joséphin-Isidore Vallin. 

Benoist felt a sensation in his hands as if the blood had been drainedoff. He had a buzzing in the ears, and could hear nothing; andpresently he perceived that his tears were falling on his prayer book. 

For a month he stayed in his room. Then he went back to his work. 

But he was not cured, and it was always in his mind. He avoided theroads that led past her home, so that he might not even see the treesin the yard, and this obliged him to make a great circuit morning andevening. 

She was now married to Vallin, the richest farmer in the district. Benoist and he did not speak now, though they had been comrades fromchildhood. 

One evening, as Benoist was passing the town hall, he heard that shewas enceinte. Instead of experiencing a feeling of sorrow, heexperienced, on the contrary, a feeling of relief. It was over, now, all over. They were more separated by that than by her marriage. Hereally preferred that it should be so. 

Months passed, and more months. He caught sight of her, occasionally, going to the village with a heavier step than usual. She blushed asshe saw him, lowered her head and quickened her pace. And he turnedout of his way so as not to pass her and meet her glance. 

He dreaded the thought that he might one morning meet her face toface, and be obliged to speak to her. What could he say to her now, after all he had said formerly, when he held her hands as he kissedher hair beside her cheeks? He often thought of those meetings alongthe roadside. She had acted horridly after all her promises. 

By degrees his grief diminished, leaving only sadness behind. And oneday he took the old road that led past the farm where she now lived. He looked at the roof from a distance. It was there, in there, thatshe lived with another! The apple trees were in bloom, the cockscrowed on the dunghill. The whole dwelling seemed empty, the farmhands had gone to the fields to their spring toil. He stopped near thegate and looked into the yard. The dog was asleep outside his kennel, three calves were walking slowly, one behind the other, towards thepond. A big turkey was strutting before the door, parading before theturkey hens like a singer at the opera. 

Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized with adesire to weep. But suddenly, he heard a cry, a loud cry for helpcoming from the house. He was struck with dismay, his hands graspingthe wooden bars of the gate, and listened attentively. Another cry, aprolonged, heartrending cry, reached his ears, his soul, his flesh. Itwas she who was crying like that! He darted inside, crossed the grasspatch, pushed open the door, and saw her lying on the floor, her bodydrawn up, her face livid, her eyes haggard, in the throes ofchildbirth. 

He stood there, trembling and paler than she was, and stammered:

"Here I am, here I am, Martine!"

She replied in gasps:

"Oh, do not leave me, do not leave me, Benoist!"

He looked at her, not knowing what to say, what to do. She began tocry out again:

"Oh, oh, it is killing me. Oh, Benoist!"

She writhed frightfully. 

Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help her, toquiet her, to remove her pain. He leaned over, lifted her up and laidher on her bed; and while she kept on moaning he began to take off herclothes, her jacket, her skirt and her petticoat. She bit her fists tokeep from crying out. Then he did as he was accustomed to doing forcows, ewes, and mares: he assisted in delivering her and found in hishands a large infant who was moaning. 

He wiped it off and wraped it up in a towel that was drying in frontof the fire, and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for ironing thatwas on the table. Then he went back to the mother. 

He took her up and placed her on the floor again, then he changed thebedclothes and put her back into bed. She faltered:

"Thank you, Benoist, you have a noble heart. " And then she wept alittle as if she felt regretful. 

He did not love her any longer, not the least bit. It was all over. Why? How? He could not have said. What had happened had cured himbetter than ten years of absence. 

She asked, exhausted and trembling:

"What is it?"

He replied calmly:

"It is a very fine girl. "

Then they were silent again. At the end of a few moments, the mother, in a weak voice, said:

"Show her to me, Benoist. "

He took up the little one and was showing it to her as if he wereholding the consecrated wafer, when the door opened, and IsidoreVallin appeared. 

He did not understand at first, then all at once he guessed. 

Benoist, in consternation, stammered out:

"I was passing, I was just passing by when I heard her crying out, andI came--there is your child, Vallin!"

Then the husband, his eyes full of tears, stepped forward, took thelittle mite of humanity that he held out to him, kissed it, unable tospeak from emotion for a few seconds; then placing the child on thebed, he held out both hands to Benoist, saying:

"Your hand upon it, Benoist. From now on we understand each other. Ifyou are willing, we will be a pair of friends, a pair of friends!"

And Benoist replied:

"Indeed I will, certainly, indeed I will. "

 * * * * *

ALL OVER

Comte de Lormerin had just finished dressing. He cast a partingglance at the large mirror which occupied an entire panel in hisdressing-room and smiled. 

He was really a fine-looking man still, although quite gray. Tall, slight, elegant, with no sign of a paunch, with a small mustache ofdoubtful shade, which might be called fair, he had a walk, a nobility, a "chic, " in short, that indescribable something which establishes agreater difference between two men than would millions of money. Hemurmured:

"Lormerin is still alive!"

And he went into the drawing-room where his correspondence awaitedhim. 

On his table, where everything had its place, the work table of thegentleman who never works, there were a dozen letters lying besidethree newspapers of different opinions. With a single touch he spreadout all these letters, like a gambler giving the choice of a card; andhe scanned the handwriting, a thing he did each morning before openingthe envelopes. 

It was for him a moment of delightful expectancy, of inquiry and vagueanxiety. What did these sealed mysterious letters bring him? What didthey contain of pleasure, of happiness, or of grief? He surveyed themwith a rapid sweep of the eye, recognizing the writing, selectingthem, making two or three lots, according to what he expected fromthem. Here, friends; there, persons to whom he was indifferent;further on, strangers. The last kind always gave him a littleuneasiness. What did they want from him? What hand had traced thosecurious characters full of thoughts, promises, or threats?

This day one letter in particular caught his eye. It was simple, nevertheless, without seeming to reveal anything; but he looked at ituneasily, with a sort of chill at his heart. He thought: "From whomcan it be? I certainly know this writing, and yet I can't identifyit. "

He raised it to a level with his face, holding it delicately betweentwo fingers, striving to read through the envelope, without making uphis mind to open it. 

Then he smelled it, and snatched up from the table a little magnifyingglass which he used in studying all the niceties of handwriting. Hesuddenly felt unnerved. "Whom is it from? This hand is familiar to me, very familiar. I must have often read its tracings, yes, very often. But this must have been a long, long time ago. Whom the deuce can itbe from? Pooh! it's only somebody asking for money. "

And he tore open the letter. Then he read:

My Dear Friend: You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for it is nowtwenty-five years since we saw each other. I was young; I am old. WhenI bade you farewell, I left Paris in order to follow into theprovinces my husband, my old husband, whom you used to call "myhospital. " Do you remember him? He died five years ago, and now I amreturning to Paris to get my daughter married, for I have a daughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen. I informed youof her birth, but you certainly did not pay much attention to sotrifling an event. 

You are still the handsome Lormerin; so I have been told. Well if youstill recollect little Lise, whom you used to call Lison, come anddine with her this evening, with the elderly Baronne de Vance, yourever faithful friend, who, with some emotion, although happy, reachesout to you a devoted hand, which you must clasp, but no longer kiss, my poor Jaquelet. 

Lise de Vance. 

Lormerin's heart began to throb. He remained sunk in his armchair withthe letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome by apoignant emotion that made the tears mount up to his eyes! If he hadever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise, Lise deVance, whom he called "Ashflower, " on account of the strange color ofher hair and the pale gray of her eyes. Oh! what a dainty, pretty, charming creature she was, this frail baronne, the wife of that gouty, pimply baron, who had abruptly carried her off to the provinces, shuther up, kept her in seclusion through jealousy, jealousy of thehandsome Lormerin. 

Yes, he had loved her, and he believed that he, too, had been trulyloved. She familiarly gave him the name of Jaquelet, and wouldpronounce that word in a delicious fashion. 

A thousand forgotten memories came back to him, far off and sweet andmelancholy now. One evening she had called on him on her way home froma ball, and they went for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, she inevening dress, he in his dressing-jacket. It was springtime; theweather was beautiful. The fragrance from her bodice embalmed the warmair--the odor of her bodice, and perhaps, too, the fragrance of herskin. What a divine night! When they reached the lake, as the moon'srays fell across the branches into the water, she began to weep. Alittle surprised, he asked her why. 

She replied:

"I don't know. The moon and the water have affected me. Every time Isee poetic things I have a tightening at the heart, and I have tocry. "

He smiled, affected himself, considering her feminine emotioncharming--the unaffected emotion of a poor little woman whom everysensation overwhelms. And he embraced her passionately, stammering:

"My little Lise, you are exquisite. "

What a charming love affair, short-lived and dainty, it had been andover all too quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor by this oldbrute of a baron, who had carried off his wife, and never let any onesee her afterward. 

Lormerin had forgotten, in fact, at the end of two or three months. One woman drives out another so quickly in Paris, when one is abachelor! No matter; he had kept a little altar for her in his heart, for he had loved her alone! He assured himself now that this was so. 

He rose, and said aloud: "Certainly, I will go and dine with her thisevening!"

And instinctively he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself fromhead to foot. He reflected: "She must look very old, older than Ilook. " And he felt gratified at the thought of showing himself to herstill handsome, still fresh, of astonishing her, perhaps of fillingher with emotion, and making her regret those bygone days so far, fardistant!

He turned his attention to the other letters. They were of noimportance. 

The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of other days. What wasshe like now? How strange it was to meet in this way after twenty-fiveyears! But would he recognize her?

He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat, which suited him better with the coat than a black one, sent for thehairdresser to give him a finishing touch with the curling iron, forhe had preserved his hair, and started very early in order to show hiseagerness to see her. 

The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room newlyfurnished was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating fromthe days when he was a beau, hanging on the wall in an antique silkframe. 

He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly, and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extendedboth hands toward him. 

He seized them, kissed them one after the other several times; then, lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved. 

Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, andwho, while she smiled, seemed ready to weep. 

He could not abstain from murmuring:

"Is it you, Lise?"

She replied:

"Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed. You would not have known me, wouldyou? I have had so much sorrow--so much sorrow. Sorrow has consumed mylife. Look at me now--or, rather, don't look at me! But how handsomeyou have kept--and young! If I had by chance met you in the street Iwould have exclaimed: 'Jaquelet!' Now, sit down and let us, first ofall, have a chat. And then I will call my daughter, my grown-updaughter. You'll see how she resembles me--or, rather, how I resembledher--no, it is not quite that; she is just like the 'me' of formerdays--you shall see! But I wanted to be alone with you first. I fearedthat there would be some emotion on my side, at the first moment. Nowit is all over; it is past. Pray be seated, my friend. "

He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what tosay; he did not know this woman--it seemed to him that he had neverseen her before. Why had he come to this house? What could he talkabout? Of the long ago? What was there in common between him and her?He could no longer recall anything in presence of this grandmotherlyface. He could no longer recall all the nice, tender things, so sweet, so bitter, that had come to his mind that morning when he thought ofthe other, of little Lise, of the dainty Ashflower. What, then, hadbecome of her, the former one, the one he had loved? That woman offar-off dreams, the blonde with gray eyes, the young girl who used tocall him "Jaquelet" so prettily?

They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained, troubled, profoundly ill at ease. 

As they talked only commonplaces, awkwardly and spasmodically andslowly, she rose and pressed the button of the bell. 

"I am going to call Renée, " she said. 

There was a tap at the door, then the rustle of a dress; then a youngvoice exclaimed:

"Here I am, mamma!"

Lormerin remained bewildered as at the sight of an apparition. 

He stammered:

"Good-day, mademoiselle. "

Then, turning toward the mother:

"Oh! it is you!"

In fact, it was she, she whom he had known in bygone days, the Lisewho had vanished and come back! In her he found the woman he had wontwenty-five years before. This one was even younger, fresher, morechildlike. 

He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her to his heartagain, murmuring in her ear:

"Good-morning, Lison!"

A man-servant announced:

"Dinner is ready, madame. "

And they proceeded toward the dining-room. 

What passed at this dinner? What did they say to him, and what couldhe say in reply? He found himself plunged in one of those strangedreams which border on insanity. He gazed at the two women with afixed idea in his mind, a morbid, self-contradictory idea:

"Which is the real one?"

The mother smiled, repeating over and over again:

"Do you remember?" And it was in the bright eyes of the young girlthat he found again his memories of the past. Twenty times he openedhis mouth to say to her: "Do you remember, Lison?" forgetting thiswhite-haired lady who was looking at him tenderly. 

And yet, there were moments when he no longer felt sure, when he losthis head. He could see that the woman of to-day was not exactly thewoman of long ago. The other one, the former one, had in her voice, inher glances, in her entire being, something which he did not findagain. And he made prodigious efforts of mind to recall his lady love, to seize again what had escaped from her, what this resuscitated onedid not possess. 

The baronne said:

"You have lost your old vivacity, my poor friend. "

He murmured:

"There are many other things that I have lost!"

But in his heart, touched with emotion, he felt his old love springingto life once more, like an awakened wild beast ready to bite him. 

The young girl went on chattering, and every now and then somefamiliar intonation, some expression of her mother's, a certain styleof speaking and thinking, that resemblance of mind and manner whichpeople acquire by living together, shook Lormerin from head to foot. All these things penetrated him, making the reopened wound of hispassion bleed anew. 

He got away early, and took a turn along the boulevard. But the imageof this young girl pursued him, haunted him, quickened his heart, inflamed his blood. Apart from the two women, he now saw only one, ayoung one, the old one come back out of the past, and he loved her ashe had loved her in bygone years. He loved her with greater ardor, after an interval of twenty-five years. 

He went home to reflect on this strange and terrible thing, and tothink what he should do. 

But, as he was passing, with a wax candle in his hand, before theglass, the large glass in which he had contemplated himself andadmired himself before he started, he saw reflected there an elderly, gray-haired man; and suddenly he recollected what he had been in oldendays, in the days of little Lise. He saw himself charming andhandsome, as he had been when he was loved! Then, drawing the lightnearer, he looked at himself more closely, as one inspects a strangething with a magnifying glass, tracing the wrinkles, discovering thosefrightful ravages, which he had not perceived till now. 

And he sat down, crushed at the sight of himself, at the sight of hislamentable image, murmuring:

"All over, Lormerin!"

 * * * * *

THE PARROT

I

Everybody in Fécamp knew Mother Patin's story. She had certainly beenunfortunate with her husband, for in his lifetime he used to beat her, just as wheat is threshed in the barn. 

He was master of a fishing bark and had married her, formerly, becauseshe was pretty, although poor. 

Patin was a good sailor, but brutal. He used to frequent FatherAuban's inn, where he would usually drink four or five glasses ofbrandy, on lucky days eight or ten glasses and even more, according tohis mood. The brandy was served to the customers by Father Auban'sdaughter, a pleasing brunette, who attracted people to the house onlyby her pretty face, for nothing had ever been gossiped about her. 

Patin, when he entered the inn, would be satisfied to look at her andto compliment her politely and respectfully. After he had had hisfirst glass of brandy he would already find her much nicer; at thesecond he would wink; at the third he would say: "If you were onlywilling, Mam'zelle Désirée----" without ever finishing his sentence;at the fourth he would try to hold her back by her skirt in order tokiss her; and when he went as high as ten it was Father Auban whobrought him the remaining drinks. 

The old innkeeper, who knew all the tricks of the trade, made Désiréewalk about between the tables in order to increase the consumption ofdrinks; and Désirée, who was a worthy daughter of Father Auban, flitted around among the benches and joked with them, her lips smilingand her eyes sparkling. 

Patin got so well accustomed to Désirée's face that he thought of iteven while at sea, when throwing out his nets, in storms or in calms, on moonlit or dark evenings. He thought of her while holding thetiller in the stern of his boat, while his four companions wereslumbering with their heads on their arms. He always saw her, smiling, pouring out the yellow brandy with a peculiar shoulder movement andthen exclaiming as she turned away: "There, now; are you satisfied?"

He saw her so much in his mind's eye that he was overcome by anirresistible desire to marry her, and, not being able to hold out anylonger, he asked for her hand. 

He was rich, owned his own vessel, his nets and a little house at thefoot of the hill on the Retenue, whereas Father Auban had nothing. Themarriage was therefore eagerly agreed upon and the wedding took placeas soon as possible, as both parties were desirous for the affair tobe concluded as early as convenient. 

Three days after the wedding Patin could no longer understand how hehad ever imagined Désirée to be different from other women. What afool he had been to encumber himself with a penniless creature, whohad undoubtedly inveigled him with some drug which she had put in hisbrandy!

He would curse all day long, break his pipe with his teeth and maulhis crew. After he had sworn by every known term at everything thatcame his way he would rid himself of his remaining anger on the fishand lobsters, which he pulled from the nets and threw into the basketsamid oaths and foul language. When he returned home he would find hiswife, Father Auban's daughter, within reach of his mouth and hand, andit was not long before he treated her like the lowest creature in theworld. As she listened calmly, accustomed to paternal violence, hegrew exasperated at her quiet, and one evening he beat her. Then lifeat his home became unbearable. 

For ten years the principal topic of conversation on the Retenue wasabout the beatings that Patin gave his wife and his manner of cursingat her for the least thing. He could, indeed, curse with a richness ofvocabulary in a roundness of tone unequalled by any other man inFécamp. As soon as his ship was sighted at the entrance of the harbor, returning from the fishing expedition, every one awaited the firstvolley he would hurl from the bridge as soon as he perceived hiswife's white cap. 

Standing at the stern, he would steer, his eye fixed on the bows andon the sail, and, notwithstanding the difficulty of the narrow passageand the height of the turbulent waves, he would search among thewatching women and try to recognize his wife, Father Auban's daughter, the wretch!

Then, as soon as he saw her, notwithstanding the noise of the wind andwaves, he would let loose upon her with such power and volubility thatevery one would laugh, although they pitied her greatly. When hearrived at the dock he would relieve his mind, while unloading thefish, in such an expressive manner that he attracted around him allthe loafers of the neighborhood. The words left his mouth sometimeslike shots from a cannon, short and terrible, sometimes like peals ofthunder, which roll and rumble for five minutes, such a hurricane ofoaths that he seemed to have in his lungs one of the storms of theEternal Father. 

When he left his ship and found himself face to face with her, surrounded by all the gossips of the neighborhood, he would bring up anew cargo of insults and bring her back to their dwelling, she infront, he behind, she weeping, he yelling at her. 

At last, when alone with her behind closed doors, he would thrash heron the slightest pretext. The least thing was sufficient to make himraise his hand, and when he had once begun he did not stop, but hewould throw into her face the true motive for his anger. At each blowhe would roar: "There, you beggar! There, you wretch! There, youpauper! What a bright thing I did when I rinsed my mouth with yourrascal of a father's apology for brandy!"

The poor woman lived in continual fear, in a ceaseless trembling ofbody and soul, in everlasting expectation of outrageous thrashings. 

This lasted ten years. She was so timorous that she would grow palewhenever she spoke to any one, and she thought of nothing but theblows with which she was threatened; and she became thinner, moreyellow and drier than a smoked fish. 

II

One night, when her husband was at sea, she was suddenly awakened bythe wild roaring of the wind! She sat up in her bed, trembling, but, as she heard nothing more, she lay down again; almost immediatelythere was a roar in the chimney which shook the entire house; itseemed to cross the heavens like a pack of furious animals snortingand roaring. 

Then she arose and rushed to the harbor. Other women were arrivingfrom all sides, carrying lanterns. The men also were gathering, andall were watching the foaming crests of the breaking waves. 

The storm lasted fifteen hours. Eleven sailors never returned; Patinwas among them. 

In the neighborhood of Dieppe the wreck of his bark, the_Jeune-Amélie_, was found. The bodies of his sailors were foundnear Saint-Valéry, but his body was never recovered. As his vesselseemed to have been cut in two, his wife expected and feared his returnfor a long time, for if there had been a collision he alone might havebeen picked up and carried afar off. 

Little by little she grew accustomed to the thought that she was ridof him, although she would start every time that a neighbor, a beggaror a peddler would enter suddenly. 

One afternoon, about four years after the disappearance of herhusband, while she was walking along the Rue aux Juifs, she stoppedbefore the house of an old sea captain who had recently died and whosefurniture was for sale. Just at that moment a parrot was at auction. He had green feathers and a blue head and was watching everybody witha displeased look. "Three francs!" cried the auctioneer. "A bird thatcan talk like a lawyer, three francs!"

A friend of the Patin woman nudged her and said: "You ought to buythat, you who are rich. It would be good company for you. That bird isworth more than thirty francs. Anyhow, you can always sell it fortwenty or twenty-five!"

Patin's widow added fifty centimes, and the bird was given her in alittle cage, which she carried away. She took it home, and, as she wasopening the wire door in order to give it something to drink, he bither finger and drew blood. 

"Oh, how naughty he is!" she said. 

Nevertheless she gave it some hemp-seed and corn and watched itpruning its feathers as it glanced warily at its new home and its newmistress. 

On the following morning, just as day was breaking, the Patin womandistinctly heard a loud, deep, roaring voice calling: "Are you goingto get up, carrion?"

Her fear was so great that she hid her head under the sheets, for whenPatin was with her as soon as he would open his eyes he would shoutthose well-known words into her ears. 

Trembling, rolled into a ball, her back prepared for the thrashingwhich she already expected, her face buried in the pillows, shemurmured: "Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! hehas come back!"

Minutes passed; no noise disturbed the quiet room. Then, trembling, she stuck her head out of the bed, sure that he was there, watching, ready to beat her. Except for a ray of sun shining through the window, she saw nothing, and she said to herself: "He must be hidden. "

She waited a long time and then, gaining courage, she said to herself:"I must have dreamed it, seeing there is nobody here. "

A little reassured, she closed her eyes, when from quite near afurious voice, the thunderous voice of the drowned man, could be heardcrying: "Say! when in the name of all that's holy are you going to getup, you b----?"

She jumped out of bed, moved by obedience, by the passive obedience ofa woman accustomed to blows and who still remembers and always willremember that voice! She said: "Here I am, Patin; what do you want?"

But Patin did not answer. Then, at a complete loss, she looked aroundher, then in the chimney and under the bed and finally sank into achair, wild with anxiety, convinced that Patin's soul alone was there, near her, and that he had returned in order to torture her. 

Suddenly she remembered the loft, in order to reach which one had totake a ladder. Surely he must have hidden there in order to surpriseher. He must have been held by savages on some distant shore, unableto escape until now, and he had returned, worse that ever. There wasno doubting the quality of that voice. She raised her head and asked:"Are you up there, Patin?"

Patin did not answer. Then, with a terrible fear which made her hearttremble, she climbed the ladder, opened the skylight, looked, sawnothing, entered, looked about and found nothing. Sitting on somestraw, she began to cry, but while she was weeping, overcome by apoignant and supernatural terror, she heard Patin talking in the roombelow. He seemed less angry and he was saying: "Nasty weather! Fiercewind! Nasty weather! I haven't eaten, damn it!"

She cried through the ceiling: "Here I am, Patin; I am getting yourmeal ready. Don't get angry. "

She ran down again. There was no one in the room. She felt herselfgrowing weak, as if death were touching her, and she tried to run andget help from the neighbors, when a voice near her cried out: "Ihaven't had my breakfast, by G----!"

And the parrot in his cage watched her with his round, knowing, wickedeye. She, too, looked at him wildly, murmuring: "Ah! so it's you!"

He shook his head and continued: "Just you wait! I'll teach you how toloaf. "

What happened within her? She felt, she understood that it was he, thedead man, who had come back, who had disguised himself in the feathersof this bird in order to continue to torment her; that he would curse, as formerly, all day long, and bite her, and swear at her, in order toattract the neighbors and make them laugh. Then she rushed for thecage and seized the bird, which scratched and tore her flesh with itsclaws and beak. But she held it with all her strength between herhands. She threw it on the ground and rolled over it with the frenzyof one possessed. She crushed it and finally made of it nothing but alittle green, flabby lump which no longer moved or spoke. Then shewrapped it in a cloth, as in a shroud, and she went out in hernightgown, barefoot; she crossed the dock, against which the choppywaves of the sea were beating, and she shook the cloth and let dropthis little dead thing, which looked like so much grass. Then shereturned, threw herself on her knees before the empty cage, and, overcome by what she had done, kneeled and prayed for forgiveness, asif she had committed some heinous crime. 

 * * * * *

THE PIECE OF STRING

It was market-day, and from all the country round Goderville thepeasants and their wives were coming toward the town. The men walkedslowly, throwing the whole body forward at every step of their long, crooked legs. They were deformed from pushing the plough which makesthe left shoulder higher, and bends their figures sideways; fromreaping the grain, when they have to spread their legs so as to keepon their feet. Their starched blue blouses, glossy as thoughvarnished, ornamented at collar and cuffs with a little embroidereddesign and blown out around their bony bodies, looked very much likeballoons about to soar, whence issued two arms and two feet. 

Some of these fellows dragged a cow or a calf at the end of a rope. And just behind the animal followed their wives beating it over theback with a leaf-covered branch to hasten its pace, and carrying largebaskets out of which protruded the heads of chickens or ducks. Thesewomen walked more quickly and energetically than the men, with theirerect, dried-up figures, adorned with scanty little shawls pinned overtheir flat bosoms, and their heads wrapped round with a white cloth, enclosing the hair and surmounted by a cap. 

Now a char-à-banc passed by, jogging along behind a nag and shaking upstrangely the two men on the seat, and the woman at the bottom of thecart who held fast to its sides to lessen the hard jolting. 

In the market-place at Goderville was a great crowd, a mingledmultitude of men and beasts. The horns of cattle, the high, long-napped hats of wealthy peasants, the headdresses of the womencame to the surface of that sea. And the sharp, shrill, barking voicesmade a continuous, wild din, while above it occasionally rose a hugeburst of laughter from the sturdy lungs of a merry peasant or aprolonged bellow from a cow tied fast to the wall of a house. 

It all smelled of the stable, of milk, of hay and of perspirationgiving off that half-human, half-animal odor which is peculiar tocountry folks. 

Maître Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, had just arrived at Goderville and wasmaking his way toward the square when he perceived on the ground alittle piece of string. Maître Hauchecorne, economical as are all trueNormans, reflected that everything was worth picking up which could beof any use, and he stooped down, but painfully, because he sufferedfrom rheumatism. He took the bit of thin string from the ground andwas carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maître Malandain, the harness maker, on his doorstep staring at him. They had once had aquarrel about a halter, and they had borne each other malice eversince. Maître Hauchecorne was overcome with a sort of shame at beingseen by his enemy picking up a bit of string in the road. He quicklyhid it beneath his blouse and then slipped it into his breechespocket, then pretended to be still looking for something on theground which he did not discover and finally went off toward themarket-place, his head bent forward and his body almost doubled intwo by rheumatic pains. 

He was at once lost in the crowd, which kept moving about slowly andnoisily as it chaffered and bargained. The peasants examined the cows, went off, came back, always in doubt for fear of being cheated, neverquite daring to decide, looking the seller square in the eye in theeffort to discover the tricks of the man and the defect in the beast. 

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, had takenout the poultry, which lay upon the ground, their legs tied together, with terrified eyes and scarlet combs. 

They listened to propositions, maintaining their prices in a decidedmanner with an impassive face or perhaps deciding to accept thesmaller price offered, suddenly calling out to the customer who wasstarting to go away:

"All right, I'll let you have them, Maît' Anthime. "

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the Angelusstruck midday those who lived at a distance poured into the inns. 

At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vastcourt was filled with vehicles of every sort--wagons, gigs, chars-à-bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name, yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts toheaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose, on the ground andtheir rear in the air. 

Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge fireplace, with its bright flame, gave out a burning heat on the backs of thosewho sat at the right. Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens, with pigeons and with joints of mutton, and a delectable odor of roastmeat and of gravy flowing ever crisp brown skin arose from the hearth, kindled merriment, caused mouths to water. 

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Maît'Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharpfellow who had made a great deal of money in his day. 

The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellowcider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales. They exchanged news about the crops. The weather was good for greens, but too wet for grain. 

Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house. Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet atonce and ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full andnapkins in their hand. 

When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth in ajerky voice, pausing in the wrong places:

"Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to allpersons present at the market that there has been lost this morning onthe Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leatherpocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers. You arerequested, to return it to the mayor's office at once or to MaitreFortuné Houlbrèque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francsreward. "

Then the man went away. They heard once more at a distance the dullbeating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier. Then they allbegan to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which MaîtreHoulbrèque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again. 

The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporalof gendarmes appeared on the threshold. 

He asked:

"Is Maître Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, here?"

Maître Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table, answered:

"Here I am, here I am. "

And he followed the corporal. 

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair. He was thenotary of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech. 

"Maître Hauchecorne, " said he, "this morning on the Beuzeville road, you were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maître Houlbrèque, ofManneville. "

The countryman looked at the mayor in amazement, frightened already atthis suspicion which rested on him, he knew not why. 

"I--I picked up that pocketbook?"

"Yes, you. "

"I swear I don't even know anything about it. "

"You were seen. "

"I was seen--I? Who saw me?"

"M. Malandain, the harness-maker. "

Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening with anger, said:

"Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking up this stringhere, M'sieu le Maire. "

And fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it thelittle end of string. 

But the mayor incredulously shook his head:

"You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that M. Malandain, who is a man whose word can be relied on, has mistaken this string fora pocketbook. "

The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spat on the ground besidehim as if to attest his good faith, repeating:

"For all that, it is God's truth, M'sieu le Maire. There! On my soul'ssalvation, I repeat it. "

The mayor continued:

"After you picked up the object in question, you even looked about forsome time in the mud to see if a piece of money had not dropped out ofit. "

The good man was choking with indignation and fear. 

"How can they tell--how can they tell such lies as that to slander anhonest man! How can they?"

His protestations were in vain; he was not believed. 

He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and sustained histestimony. They railed at one another for an hour. At his own requestMaitre Hauchecorne was searched. Nothing was found on him. 

At last the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning him that hewould inform the public prosecutor and ask for orders. 

The news had spread. When he left the mayor's office the old man wassurrounded, interrogated with a curiosity which was serious ormocking, as the case might be, but into which no indignation entered. And he began to tell the story of the string. They did not believehim. They laughed. 

He passed on, buttonholed by every one, himself buttonholing hisacquaintances, beginning over and over again his tale and hisprotestations, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that hehad nothing in them. 

They said to him:

"You old rogue!"

He grew more and more angry, feverish, in despair at not beingbelieved, and kept on telling his story. 

The night came. It was time to go home. He left with three of hisneighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up thestring, and all the way he talked of his adventure. 

That evening he made the round of the village of Breauté for thepurpose of telling every one. He met only unbelievers. 

He brooded over it all night long. 

The next day, about one in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle, a farm handof Maitre Breton, the market gardener at Ymauville, returned thepocketbook and its contents to Maitre Holbrèque, of Manneville. 

This man said, indeed, that he had found it on the road, but notknowing how to read, he had carried it home and given it to hismaster. 

The news spread to the environs. Maître Hauchecorne was informed. Hestarted off at once and began to relate his story with the dénoûment. He was triumphant. 

"What grieved me, " said he, "was not the thing itself, do youunderstand, but it was being accused of lying. Nothing does you somuch harm as being in disgrace for lying. "

All day he talked of his adventure. He told it on the roads to thepeople who passed, at the cabaret to the people who drank and nextSunday when they came out of church. He even stopped strangers to tellthem about it. He was easy now, and yet something worried him withouthis knowing exactly what it was. People had a joking manner while theylistened. They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel their remarksbehind his back. 

On Tuesday of the following week he went to market at Goderville, prompted solely by the need of telling his story. 

Malandain, standing on his doorstep, began to laugh as he saw himpass. Why?

He accosted a farmer of Criquetot, who did not let him finish, andgiving him a punch in the pit of the stomach, cried in his face: "Oh, you great rogue!" Then he turned his heel upon him. 

Maître Hauchecorne remained speechless and grew more and more uneasy. Why had they called him "great rogue"?

When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to explainthe whole affair. 

A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him:

"Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string. "

Hauchecorne stammered:

"But since they found it again, the pocketbook!"

But the other continued:

"Hold your tongue, daddy; there's one who finds it and there's anotherwho returns it. And no one the wiser. "

The farmer was speechless. He understood at last. They accused him ofhaving had the pocketbook brought back by an accomplice, by aconfederate. 

He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh. 

He could not finish his dinner, and went away amid a chorus of jeers. 

He went home indignant, choking with rage, with confusion, the morecast down since with his Norman craftiness he was, perhaps, capable ofhaving done what they accused him of and even of boasting of it as agood trick. He was dimly conscious that it was impossible to prove hisinnocence, his craftiness being so well known. He felt himself struckto the heart by the injustice of the suspicion. 

He began anew to tell his tale, lengthening his recital every day, each day adding new proofs, more energetic declarations and moresacred oaths, which he thought of, which he prepared in his hours ofsolitude, for his mind was entirely occupied with the story of thestring. The more he denied it, the more artful his arguments, the lesshe was believed. 

"Those are liars' proofs, " they said behind his back. 

He felt this. It preyed upon him and he exhausted himself in uselessefforts. 

He was visibly wasting away. 

Jokers would make him tell the story of "the piece of string" to amusethem, just as you make a soldier who has been on a campaign tell hisstory of the battle. His mind kept growing weaker and about the end ofDecember he took to his bed. 

He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of death agony, he protested his innocence, repeating:

"A little bit of string--a little bit of string. See, here it is, M'sieu le Maire. "