CATHERINE’S COQUETRIES
_A Tale of French Country Life_
BY
CAMILLE DEBANS
TRANSLATED BY LEON MEAD
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK:
WM. L. ALLISON COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY
WORTHINGTON COMPANY.
[Illustration]
CATHERINE’S COQUETRIES.
A TALE OF FRENCH PEASANT LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
A GAME THAT ENDS BADLY.
“Bravo, Sidonie!”
“Ah, but he escapes her, the scamp!”
Thus shout the spectators as they watch a poor young lame girl chase,
with all her energy, a young fellow of two and twenty, who makes all
possible effort to elude her.
Sidonie’s right hand clasps an important adjunct of the homely game--a
little cluster of red raspberries. In the absorbed ardor of pursuit the
“Little Crook,” as they call her, holds it quite mechanically, and from
her tightly clinched fingers trickle drops of the crimson juice as she
runs.
“Good, little one, good,” cries the little old man, who is highly
amused at the endeavors of the unfortunate lame girl.
Sidonie makes a fresh start--this time determined to catch the
fugitive. The aspect of the afflicted girl as she hobbles about on
limbs of unequal length does not engender among these peasants any
particular feeling of compassion. None of her companions ever dreamed
of offering her pity. She perfectly enjoys the game. She would be
utterly astounded and piqued if any one manifested an open sympathy on
account of her deformity. With that great endurance so natural among
hardy peasants, and often so inexplicable to the city born and bred,
she pursues the young man. After running in a straight line a short
distance, he suddenly changes his tactics. A tree--several for that
matter, but one in particular--stands near by. He runs behind it and
awaits Sidonie, his hands clasping the trunk. Reaching the tree she
fully expects to seize him. But he pretends to go to the right, and as
she confidently advances he makes for another tree to the left, and so
the game is prolonged. And the brave girl, always smiling, continues
the pursuit, until at length Bruno, the young peasant, slips and falls
upon the sward, and before he can recover himself, Sidonie holds him
down and daubs his face over and over again with the juice of her
crushed raspberries.
Everybody approaches to congratulate “Little Crook,” who laughs in
glee at her triumph. Her good-natured adversary joins in the ensuing
merriment.
What game are they playing? Indeed, it has no name as yet, for it has
just been invented by Catherine, the wife of Madame le Hausseur’s
gamekeeper; but its novelty has rendered it at once popular among the
country lads and lasses.
The game continues for perhaps an hour, and more than one pretty face
is smeared with the bright red juice. If a kiss is taken now and then,
who complains of that? Surely not the lovely Catherine, who, though
married to the gamekeeper, is not averse to a friendly caress. In
truth, it is oftenest after her that the young men give chase--she is
so gay, so bright, so little scandalized by the familiarities of her
young adorers. Presently her turn comes to play the pursuer’s _rôle_.
She selects Bruno as her victim. Graceful, Diana-like in form, and
charming in her abandon, she bounds through the bushes.
In the background of this living picture stand the great trees--chiefly
beeches and oaks--as erect as proud sentinels, their wide-spread
branches forming a grateful shade where the peasants are sitting in
sociable groups. In the clearing, just in front of the older people,
who are watching with enjoyment the sport of the younger ones, is a
dense mass of raspberry bushes that are fairly loaded down with ripe
fruit. Never before have raspberries been so abundant in this locality.
Under a tree are ranged all sizes and kinds of baskets. Soon in the hot
July sunshine old and young will begin to gather this wild crop, which
may be had for the picking. Some have come solely for the purpose of
improving each shining hour of this Sunday morning in obtaining as much
of the fruit as possible. Others think a little diversion is not out of
order on such an occasion. And so the impromptu game proposed by the
vivacious wife of the gamekeeper has been eagerly approved by a dozen
or more participants.
Bruno now runs breathlessly after Catherine, but she is too fleet of
foot to be caught. Animated and happy, the gamekeeper’s wife is wholly
absorbed in the sport, and triumphs because she is able to distance her
pursuer.
At length, a towering, broad-shouldered fellow, with a confident air,
is seen coming along the footpath. By his side walks a queer little
being, with uneven steps, misshapen body, short, twisted legs, and
enormous arms. Both stop to watch the game--the first like a man who
cannot be induced to enter into any such frivolous pastime; the other
like a man incapable of doing so by reason of his poor physique.
“Good-morning, Andoche,” salutes Catherine as she passes the deformed
little man, who smiles with a wry, disagreeable face.
“Good-morning, Madame Catherine,” he returns, with a look of malice in
his eyes. Then turning to the other he remarks, “You will see how she
will manage to invite you to join in.”
Bruno, running at a swift pace, passes before the newcomers. The young
woman, making a sudden _detour_, again approaches them, and asks in a
voice of admirable nonchalance:
“Would you not like to play for a while, Monsieur Firmin?”
“Ah, what did I tell you?” exclaims Andoche, bursting into laughter.
“Will you be one of us?” continues the young woman.
“I do not know the game, but I will play,” responds Firmin.
Catherine, by an adroit manœuvre, leads the waiting Bruno to one
side and smilingly makes him a sign. He throws himself upon Firmin
and besmears his face with berry juice. Firmin’s surprise quickly
curdles into anger. Like a giant he resents the treatment, but it is
quite unnecessary for him to give poor Bruno such a resistless blow.
Advancing to interpose hasten Rosalie, Félicité, Suzanne, Justine,
Nicholas, Mathieu, Constant, and others. Firmin has not time to give a
second blow. He strikes out only once, but that is quite sufficient.
Catherine briefly explains the nature of the game. During her
explanation the jeering Andoche regards her insolently, and when she
has finished he observes: “It is not a proper or neat game for Sunday,
when one is quite clean and fresh.”
“And now,” continues Catherine, coolly, paying no heed to the sneer of
Andoche, “it is your turn to run after some one, and decorate her face
if you catch her.”
“I will, then, run after you,” declares this young Antinous, rather
stupidly.
“How foolish!” exclaims the disagreeable Andoche. “If you expect to
catch Madame Catherine, you will have to double your speed.”
Firmin does not notice the evil slur in the old man’s suggestion. As
soon as he dashes forth, all seek to evade him.
Catherine, blushing a little in spite of herself, leaves the open
glade and gains the forest. In two or three long strides Firmin might
overtake her, but she is too quick for him, because she darts first to
the right and then to the left so skilfully that the great fellow, each
time going as straight as an arrow, overleaps her by several feet and
so loses her, much to the amusement of the others.
“What a goose!” grumbles that beast of an Andoche. “She will lead as
far as you care to follow her.”
Though the beautiful Catherine is evidently fatigued, Firmin cannot
catch her. Now she disappears from view behind the raspberry hedges,
some minutes perhaps elapsing before she and her pursuer are again
seen. Sometimes the gamekeeper’s wife reappears with a little grimace
on her face, for the game begins to pall. The cries of enthusiasm cease.
But Catherine remains indefatigable. Old Andoche continues to jeer,
and finally in his garrulous, cynical voice cries: “How interesting it
would be should Monsieur Barrau happen to pass this way! He might not
be altogether pleased at the sight.”
Scarcely has Andoche finished speaking when through the trees they
see the gleam of a musket. The branches are pushed aside, and a man
clad in velvet, with long gaiters extending from his knees, makes his
appearance, followed by a dog which as he bounds to and fro barks
joyously.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]