THE STAMPEDE.
Three weeks later. The annual cattle show at St. Benoit is about to
open. St. Benoit is the great region for fine cattle in France. From
miles around the farmers and peasants assemble to exhibit the beasts
they have fattened to sell in Paris at a reasonable profit.
Every road is crowded. Oxen, cows, and sheep fill the thoroughfares and
byways, and the quaint rural habitations are gayly decorated with flags
and streamers. Not a drop of rain has fallen since the famous day of
the raspberry _fête_, and each morning the sun has risen in the east
with more scorching radiance.
The large hamlet of St. Benoit, perfectly suited to such a fair, is
crowded in spite of its size. As the sun climbs above the horizon,
the cattle accumulate in greater numbers. The peasants are in the
best of good spirits, and talk is heard and laughter rings on all
sides. Perhaps the buyers are treated with rather more deference than
the sellers, but those who come neither to buy nor to sell address
themselves to the various schemes of pleasure. The fair is for
everybody, and, at all events, it offers an admirable opportunity to
“eat, drink, and be merry.”
The two public houses of the place are not without guests, and the
respective landlords are gathering in a goodly supply of the _sine
qua non_ of life and not stopping to count the centimes. More than one
young rascal, with nothing to sell and no money to buy, finds his way
to the village inn and does not leave there thirsty. Among this class
are two men who make more noise than all the rest, and who await the
inevitable fistic encounter with interest. One of them is Andoche the
blacksmith, an expert in his trade, but still more skilful in spoiling
wine by drinking it.
As he sits just outside the door of the public house, at one of the
tables, he appears ill at ease. In the rural portions of France people
do not like to drink conspicuously, but in Paris it is different.
The peasant, conscious that he might better spend his money in some
other direction, prefers to take his libations under cover or behind
a screen. To get tipsy is all well enough, he thinks; but it is not
necessary that the whole world should witness the process from start to
finish.
At length, Andoche and his friend proceed to the fair-grounds, not
because they prefer to do so, but for the very simple reason that
Jeanrobert, the landlord, will not trust either for another centime’s
worth. Andoche cannot hope to find another man so generous as Fadard,
with whom he has taken his last tipple. Fadard is either an old man
who seems to have petrified in his youth, or a young man who too soon
has been claimed by a precocious old age. Fadard does not belong in
the town, but everybody knows him, for several times in the course of
a year he comes to pay his respects--as he claims--to one Léocadia
Faillot, who passes as his cousin. Evil tongues, like those of Rosalie
and Victoire, make up all sorts of stories in regard to them; but they
really do Mlle. Faillot an injustice. The fact is, this dried-up old
young or young old man is actually a _relative_, who only comes to see
her to borrow money now and then.
In the centre of the market-place, the Mayor, a large, solemn old man,
stands talking with four or five equally aged citizens. He is a hardy
old man of eighty-five years, strong as an oak, straight as a classic
marble pillar, but avaricious, penurious, and cunning in the extreme.
He owes his administrative position alone to his skilful management in
once conducting a herd of cattle through the circuitous pathways of
Forêt-au-Duc. A more truly imposing sight than that of the sturdy old
man driving his oxen, and making them obey with a simple touch of the
lash, could scarcely be found. As he stands near the cattle, suddenly
a refractory bull, seizing his opportunity, lowers his horns as if to
strike.
“Pardon me, Father Jerome,” speaks a voice behind him at this moment,
“but, at your age, a blow from a bull would be an ugly present.”
“It is you, then, Savin, my boy. Thanks for your caution. And how is
Madame Catherine to-day?”
Savin’s face takes on a glowering look.
“For good health, my wife has no equal,” he replies, evasively.
“Well, well, that is certainly a blessing. But does she remain as
indifferent?”
“There is no change, good father,” answered Savin, sadly.
Madame Barrau herself now joins the group, and so the subject is
dropped. While they greet Catherine with due courtesy, it is plain to
see that a barrier divides the husband and wife. Catherine remains but
a moment, and then excuses herself to speak with an acquaintance. As
for Savin, he waits an instant after her departure, and then turning
upon his heel walks away in an opposite direction.
“Noble fellow,” observes the Mayor, as Savin disappears from view. “I
fear he has made a bitter mistake.”
“What! In marrying D’Angerolles’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“Opinions differ as to that. Some say he loved her in secret for many
months, while that sot of an Andoche declares that he was caught in a
trap.”
“She is not the wife for him, that is certain.”
“Be that as it may, he has been captured by the fair Catherine.
How--nobody knows.”
“Ah, but somebody knows,” insists Parjeau, with emphasis.
“Who?”
“Why, Andoche, to be sure. He is coming this way. Shall I call him?”
“Yes, on condition that he is sober. When in his cups he respects
neither man nor beast.”
Celestin Parjeau beckons to the blacksmith, but the latter, fearing
lest he lose a chance to gain another “smile,” pretends not to see the
signal. One of the little urchins playing near by is sent to bring him,
and so Andoche is obliged to join them.
“The gamekeeper,” he begins, “you want to know about him? A very
delicate subject to discuss, because one cannot speak openly. The
army teaches us two great duties. One is never to imbibe spirituous
liquors to excess, and the other is to be generous in dealing with all
questions of sentiment, especially where a woman is concerned, and
practically to say nothing. I am a soldier and have had experience in
those things.”
“You are drunk again,” remarks the Mayor, candidly.
“I? Indeed, no! You may place Parjeau there in my arms, and I will
carry him straight as a die to the post road.”
“Well, if you are not intoxicated, you at least are talking
nonsense--cheap nonsense.”
“But I have more to say.”
“Well, proceed, but be quick about it.”
“You were speaking of Savin, eh? A man who is the soul of honor, and
generous, too, by the saints. Being a sergeant-major he knows the world
as it stands. He has seen service, too, and----”
“To the point,” cry his hearers, impatiently.
“Ah, well, why pursue the subject? You all know D’Angerolles’s story.”
“Yes. He was suspected of shooting----”
“Suspected?”
“Yes, Andoche. It was but a mere suspicion.”
“They found old Martin dead on his doorstep. D’Angerolles had passed by
only twenty-five minutes before, with his gun on his shoulder, and as
a report was heard but a moment previous to his quitting the mill, you
understand, it looked more than suspicious.”
“But, Andoche, D’Angerolles had no motive or object in killing Martin.”
“Vengeance is strong.”
“But he never said a word against the old man.”
“That counts for nothing.”
“But how is Savin concerned?”
“True--I had forgotten. Savin, full of sympathy and kind-heartedness,
took D’Angerolles’s part in the affair and bravely upheld him from
beginning to end. Nobody could speak aught against Catherine’s father
before him.”
“Did he love her at that time?”
“It appears not. But her youth, after her father’s death, appealed to
him. She was all alone and unprotected from the taunts of malevolent
persons who went so far as to call her the daughter of an assassin.
None spoke to her save to insult her, and her life was wretched. Poor
child! She cried day and night. Somebody advised her to go away--to
Paris--where no questions would be asked. But Savin came to the
rescue. He learned how cruelly people were talking about her and he
was incensed. He picked many a quarrel on her account. Among others
Rosalie did not hesitate to calumniate Mademoiselle d’Angerolles and to
insinuate that between her and Savin too intimate relations existed. At
this Barrau was furious, of course, and the upshot of it all was that
he protected Catherine by making her his wife. Nobody now dares to say
a word. But it was a queer thing, after all. Had she been a peasant,
it would have seemed different. But her father was a gentleman, and it
appears she has no common talent for learning.”
“That is nothing derogatory to her character, my friend.”
“No, but we do not live like Parisians here. A different _ménage_ might
better please the haughty Catherine.”
“Pshaw! Her lot should be a happy one.”
“Come, come,” breaks out Andoche, “let us drink to our Mayor’s health.”
“Thanks, thanks, Andoche; but none for me, if you please.”
“Upon my invitation? I beg you will not refuse,” returns Andoche, with
mock politeness. “As a soldier and gentleman, however, I will have the
grace to excuse you should you insist.”
The Mayor, Parjeau, and others refuse, and the blacksmith turns to join
his companion, Fadard. The fair progresses, the business transactions
being concluded with more celerity as the heat becomes more intense.
The sun tortures the animals like the close heat of a furnace fire.
Those that by fortunate chance are near wells or ponds can leap in and
cool themselves in the water, but the rest--that is to say, ninety
per cent. of them--raise their parched heads toward heaven as if
seeking some rain-cloud to refresh themselves. Besides, the flies, the
mosquitoes, and especially the gnats exasperate them to desperation.
There is perhaps no person on the face of the earth more invulnerable
to the sun’s rays than the French peasant. To-day, however, there is a
general admission that it is intolerably hot. Some, fearing that even
their cattle may die of sunstroke, place them under shelter without
reference to whether they can be sold. But many poor beasts are left to
suffer, and their piteous lowing is distinctly heard above the hum and
din of the fair.
The Mayor, with his experienced eye, surveys the scene on all sides.
Like a mariner who feels a coming storm before any sign is evident
to his eyes, Father Jerome has the air of a man who foresees danger.
Walking in the shade of the great trees, he touches his neighbor’s
elbow and says: “My friend, this heat is going to play bad pranks on
us.”
“What makes you think so?” demands Parjeau.
“_Mon Dieu!_ It is not well to predict evil, but do you see those eight
or ten yoke of oxen down there by Simmonet’s mill? Well, there it will
begin--the stampede, I mean. Do you see that great ox rearing in the
air and----”
The sense of danger makes him silent, and rushing to the nearest house
he shouts at the top of his voice: “A stampede! A stampede! Call the
women and children in quickly!”
“What! Is old Father Jerome crazy?” cries Andoche, who remains seated
at a table, half overcome by his potations. Others at once realize the
danger, and shouts of “A stampede!” resound in the ears of the peasants
like the peals of a tocsin.
Among marching armies as well as sleeping camps sometimes a terrible
fright takes possession of soldiers. The horror-stricken men, without
a moment’s pause, throw down their arms and run here and there in mad
confusion. How many times has a general, sure of his campaign, seen
victory vanish because of a sudden panic without reason and for which
nobody (?) is responsible.
So with these cattle that a moment since were quiet and under control.
Some nameless terror, like an insidious simoom, has seized the herd.
The fury spreads like magic, and they madly plunge and rear, and turn
the market-place into a scene of wild and noisy chaos. The danger is
supreme. “A stampede!” The appalling announcement echoes like a peal of
thunder throughout the startled fair.
Then suddenly an ominous stillness prevails, and for half a minute
not a movement is made among the frightened people who are watching
the spectacle from a neighboring cottage. But an unearthly bellowing
breaks the brief silence, and with heads erect and glittering eyes the
cattle madly paw the ground, upturning stones and tearing up the earth
until thick, blinding clouds of dust obscure the landscape. Who now can
doubt the danger? The merciless sun goads the herd to frenzy.
Fadard, intoxicated but still prudent, followed by Andoche, approaches
the door of the _cabaret_[A] where they have been dawdling. A cloud of
hot dust fills their eyes and nostrils, and they gladly seek refuge
within.
[Footnote A: A drinking pavilion.]
At the same moment the distracted beasts make another dash. Like demons
they career about the market-place, trampling upon and killing each
other in their desperate struggle to reach the exit gates. Through
these they plunge and go tearing along the highway, the earth seeming
to tremble beneath their feet. The little booths by the wayside are
far from safe. A part of Andoche’s jacket is carried away impaled upon
the horn of a bull which has dashed against the wall of the _cabaret_.
Consternation fills the hearts of the villagers. All who have dear ones
abroad on the road or in the fields are pale with anguish. Children,
too, are missing, and the suspense is heart-breaking. What will be the
sequel? They hardly dare look out to see if the storm and fury have at
all abated.
Under a cart-shed at the end of the market-place stands a huddled group
of men. They await the end. Suddenly a little child, about two years
old, runs out of a wood-chopper’s house and starts across the road
along which a part of the herd is still rushing like a whirlwind.
“He will be killed!” yelled some one, as a young heifer racing forward
just overleaps the boy.
But a special providence seems to protect children, and for the nonce
the little fellow escapes. He miraculously reaches the shed unharmed.
There is not a man in the cart-shed who is not thrilled with the desire
to go and save other little ones from certain death. To be sure, many
sit rooted to the spot, lacking the courage to move; but not all of
them are cowards.
Just as a young girl ventures to cross the road, an enormous bull comes
thundering along. She is in imminent peril. Who will attempt an heroic
act of rescue? A sickening fear seizes the spectators. Onward course
the foaming animals, following in the dusty wake of their formidable
leader.
Not an instant too soon some one rushes out of a neighboring cottage
and, clasping the young girl in his arms, prepares to shield her from
the oncoming cattle. His presence of mind is remarkable; but no time is
left for escape, for the herd is upon him. He makes one more effective
move--he hurls the little maid into a clump of rushes, where she falls
heavily, but beyond the pale of danger. He rolls under the trampling
hoofs, and the whole battalion of beasts passes over the body of one
who has attempted the impossible. What a terrible sight! He is crushed
and bruised, but they expect to find him a shapeless mass.
“Who is he?” shout a hundred or more people nearly in unison.
“I believe he is Bruno Volane,” answers a peasant of Trinquelin.
“It’s just like him,” observes an old woman, “to rush to certain death.
Ah! but he is brave.”
By this time the people, too, are in a panic. Husbands and wives and
parents and children have become separated, and terrible havoc has been
made by the cattle along the roads, and valuable beasts are lost or
killed. The adjacent country looks not unlike a battle-field. Here and
there the wounded beasts lie bleeding upon the ground. The market-place
shows traces of an unusual struggle and of hard usage; the cottages are
battered, windows knocked out and doors unhinged.
This stampede surpasses anything in the way of a calamity ever known in
the annals of St. Benoit.
At length, a man armed with a cudgel strides forth as if to encounter
the foe. Each advancing bull is driven into the ring by the man Andoche
calls “the Bear.” He is a singular-looking figure as he stands there,
with his unkempt beard and hair fluttering in the breeze.
Rushing to the spot where Bruno has fallen, L’Ours (“the Bear”) takes a
guarded attitude and then strikes out in every direction, beating down
the cattle right and left.
“He will be killed!” cries some one. “Why should he go to Bruno’s aid
now? The fellow must certainly be dead.”
“Have you not noticed that L’Ours always happens around when Mother
Mathurine’s son is in danger?”
“Yes--how strange it is!”
“And why is it?” asks Rosalie, who is always prying into others’
affairs, being the most inquisitive of women.
“Why? Why? Go and ask _him_. Perhaps he will tell you.”
Meanwhile L’Ours is beating off the infuriated animals, and the panic
gradually subsides. Seizing Bruno with one hand and protecting himself
with the other, he speeds to a neighboring cottage, regardless of the
disorder and confusion that prevail.
The house in question belongs to an eccentric personage, well known
throughout the country for his benevolence. Assistance is never
withheld from the worthy seeker by Monsieur Eugène. Day and night he is
always ready to give advice or succor to the unfortunate, and one can
enter his house without going through the form of knocking. A welcome
is always certain and the latch-string is never within.
Without ceremony, therefore, L’Ours enters the cottage, and advancing
to a couch gently places his burden on the counterpane. A crowd of
curious people has followed and now enters in procession. Bruno’s eyes
and cheeks are ghastly with blood and his lips are set and colorless.
As he lies motionless upon the bed Jean Manant (L’Ours) begins to feel
his hands and limbs with anxious haste.
“Nothing broken here,” he remarks, stroking the unfortunate’s left leg.
“Nor there, nor there,” he continues, probing Bruno’s arms and chest.
Large beads of perspiration stand on his forehead and tears fall from
his eyes like rain.
Monsieur Eugène arrives at this moment.
“What is the matter?” he inquires solicitously.
Jean makes no reply, and Brigitte Martinet and Félicité Mafflu proceed
in discordant concert to relate the adventure. As both speak at
once and each has a different version to tell, Eugène is unable to
understand a word. So calling Catherine, who is lingering near the
door, he says: “Madame Barrau, will you have the kindness to explain
the situation? Come, Brigitte, let Madame speak.”
Catherine comes forward. All are surprised at her lack of emotion. In
a few words she tells Monsieur Eugène all the circumstances: how Bruno
rushed to the child’s rescue, and how Jean bravely fought his way to
Bruno’s prostrate body and carried him here.
“Remarkable!” exclaims Monsieur in cheerful tones. “And now, good
people, do me the favor to wait outside in the yard until we see what
can be done. Too many here will be an inconvenience, but one or two of
you may stay to assist.”
Catherine and Sidonie, the little cripple, remain, but the others file
slowly out into the yard. As she is leaving an old peasant woman is
motioned to remain. She is a nonentity, but a woman who will follow
Monsieur Eugène’s directions to the letter without a quiver of the
eyelids or the lips. Nothing astonishes her, for she is like an
iceberg--immovable and unfathomable. In the village there are people
who declare she never speaks. Jeannille Marselon is a curiosity to the
villagers, who years since have ceased trying to thaw out this living
icicle.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]