SIDONIE.
Scarcely had the door closed upon the crowd when Monsieur Eugène threw
off his coat, and bending over Bruno’s prostrate form said:
“First let us see if there is life.”
With these words he rested his head on Bruno’s chest. Jean Manant could
hardly breathe, so deep was his dread of the possible truth; while
poor little Sidonie was choked with anguish. After a moment of cruel
suspense Eugène raised his head sadly, as if to regain his breath, and
then once more inclined his ear.
Jean Manant and Sidonie were in despair. Catherine alone remained calm
and collected. A few more moments of suspense passed, and then with a
little cry Monsieur Eugène sprang up.
“He is living. His heart is beating, though faintly,” said he. “Wait!”
He immediately selected a lance from an unpretentious little surgeon’s
case near by and summoned the three women to help him.
“Here, Jeannille,” he quickly called, “support Bruno’s head and
shoulders--like that. And you, Madame Barrau, will you kindly hold his
wrist firmly? You are not easily frightened, are you? I am going to
bleed him.”
“All right,” answered Catherine, without a sign of flinching, as she
seized his wrist, but poor Sidonie was trembling like an aspen-leaf.
Under the lance the vein was opened and there spurted out a stream of
blood, the sight of which nearly distracted the little lame girl.
“Good! good!” said Monsieur Eugène, with a smile.
“Is he saved?” asked Jean in a trembling whisper.
“At all events, the chances are in his favor.”
“But those cattle must have crushed his bones,” insisted Manant, who
was still possessed by a horrible doubt.
“Jean, my boy, it is a miracle; but, barring more or less severe
contusions, Bruno has escaped.”
Still incredulous, Jean regarded Monsieur Eugène steadily for half a
minute as if to read the truth in the latter’s face. Calmly Eugène
returned his gaze and soon Jean’s doubts vanished, for a sigh fell from
Bruno’s lips.
A great joy illumined Manant’s face and Sidonie lifted her eyes in
prayer. Old Jeannille sat unmoved and impenetrable. Catherine looked at
the young man a little curiously. He seemed too slender and delicate a
fellow to be so daring. His white arm was like a woman’s. Indeed, what
woman in St. Benoit could not boast of more muscle than he? And his
slender wrist inspired a sort of pity in her breast.
“Poor fellow!” she murmured to herself, as she reflected how ardently,
though respectfully, Bruno loved her--not daring to confess it.
Poor fellow, indeed!
Sidonie gazed upon his shapely form in mute admiration. How perfect he
seemed to her. How noble and graceful. Ah! could he but learn to love
her!
Bruno moved gently. Another sigh--a deeper one than before--came from
his lips. Monsieur Eugène was bathing his wounds with arnica and
bandaging them. Bruno’s long-fringed drooping eyelids feebly opened,
and he slowly looked around him.
Catherine affected an air of cool indifference, but Sidonie wore a look
of absolute devotion. Bruno abruptly changed his gaze from the lame
girl’s enraptured face to Madame Barrau’s, and his own became radiant
for a moment. A bit of color crept into his cheeks. Catherine continued
to hold his wrist while the vein was bleeding, and the contact of her
soft hand sent a delicious magnetic thrill through his body.
“Thank you, Madame Catherine,” he murmured--hardly above a whisper--and
then, with a smile on his lips, he again fainted away.
Catherine also smiled, but in a spirit of triumph, and Jeannille turned
upon her a look of such frigidity that the gamekeeper’s wife, blushing
and disconcerted, asked if the operation was not nearly over.
“A moment more; but if you are tired Jean will relieve you,” answered
Monsieur Eugène. Jean Manant did not require a second bidding. With a
delicacy that was wonderful in so clumsy a man, he took Bruno’s arm in
his hands. In a few minutes Bruno returned to consciousness.
“Where do you suffer?” asked Monsieur Eugène.
“I am not in pain,” said Bruno, his eyes riveted on Catherine’s face.
Just then the door slammed.
“Who’s there?” shouted Eugène, impatiently.
“It is I, Monsieur,” answered the awkward Firmin, as he entered.
“What do you want? Didn’t they tell you I was engaged and did not wish
to be disturbed?”
“But important business brings me.”
“Well, well, speak quickly.”
“I wish to ask Monsieur my rights.”
“In what respect?”
“Monsieur knows of the stampede. Well, I had just bought a pair of oxen
from Carassol, who lives at Bocasse, but they had not been surrendered
to me when the stampede commenced.”
“Well?”
“Well, they did like all the rest. They ran away.”
“Ah! And Carassol claims that the transaction was concluded in good
faith and that he is not responsible for the oxen?”
“Exactly.”
“Let us see, Finnin. Had you been drinking?”
“To speak honestly, a little, Monsieur.”
“That is right--be honest. Do you know where Carassol’s oxen were
standing?”
“Near the watering-trough.”
“And you wish my opinion in the matter? Listen. Carassol must assist
you to recover the oxen, and you must make a diligent search for them.”
“But I have paid for the beasts.”
“Then Carassol is in the right.”
“I will go to law about it.”
“You will lose the case, my boy.”
“Well, we shall see,” returned Firmin, who, seeing Catherine,
immediately approached her.
“Ah, good-day, Madame Barrau. Are you well? I perceive that you are
charming as ever.”
Blushing a little at this bold overture, Catherine answered quietly
with a word. Firmin assumed such an offensive manner toward her that,
obliged to treat it as insolence, she prepared to leave. Firmin, too,
showed his intention to depart.
“_Au revoir_,” said he. “Thanks for your advice, Monsieur.”
Catherine, with disgust, turning to go, observed near the door old
Jeannille, who was staring at her with cold, penetrating eyes.
Catherine again changed color. “It seems as though she were playing the
spy on me,” she thought. “Can it be that my husband has put a watch
over me? If I knew that to be the fact----”
Always impulsive, Catherine now imagined the worst. She fancied she had
discovered a plot in which everybody was arrayed against her. “This is
the third time I have caught that old hag watching me as if she would
read my thoughts.”
Firmin, meanwhile, was walking by her side.
“Go away,” said Catherine disdainfully. “One would think you had taken
it upon yourself to compromise me.”
The man certainly was a sot, but he possessed an enormous amount of
vanity. Catherine’s words therefore flattered his self-conceit.
“Upon my honor, Madame----”
Firmin for several years had served as valet to a Parisian gentleman,
and he once had heard his master speak thus to a great lady. So
thinking to please Catherine he made use of the high-sounding phrase,
adding _sotto voce_ in her ear: “Meet me to-morrow at three o’clock at
Bemacle’s Cross, _chère_ madame,” and without waiting for her reply he
passed on ahead with rapid step.
Catherine shrugged her shoulders. A feeling of indignation took
possession of her. She redoubled her pace and proceeded home. Since the
day when Savin humiliated her before the peasants she had been enraged
and miserable. “On my knees,” she would repeat a dozen times a day,
“he compelled me to ask pardon. On my knees!” And through her brain
all sorts of schemes of vengeance were flitting. With all the force
of her darker nature she had begun to hate the valiant soldier whose
generosity she should have recognized and reciprocated. Haunted by the
idea that ever since that memorable day people had distrusted her, she
felt able less and less to strive against the evil spirit to which she
had fallen a prey.
On every side as she walked homeward an extraordinary confusion
reigned. Many were engaged in a search after the missing cattle. The
men taunted each other and quarrelled, and more than one peasant, after
searching in vain for his cow, ox, or bull, took the one nearest him
and declared without hesitation that it belonged to him. Nobody can be
more ferocious than the peasant who loses his worldly goods, and in the
present instance more than fifty had been dispossessed.
Fadard stood leaning against the wall in the bar-room of the inn
when Andoche entered. His face had been rendered hideous by a large
gash--the result of a blow from a bottle. Night was approaching. The
sun, in a flood of glowing crimson and amber, was sinking beyond the
world’s west. The leaves of the tall poplars were gently soughing as
the twilight breeze, prodigal with caresses, wooed them into soothing
accents. Still the wrathy peasants haggled and disputed the claims
of possession as the animals slowly and with great difficulty were
recaptured. No one claimed the dead cattle. The controversy was alone
confined to the living. The sun in a final burst of glory flashed a
brilliant farewell to this section of the earth as Madame Barrau,
excited to hatred and anger and imagining all kinds and degrees of
troubles to be hers, went on her way with downcast eyes. Once, however,
she glanced at the parting orb, whose lustrous rays recalled to her
mind Bruno’s look of joy when he beheld her beside the couch.
If Catherine had allowed herself to remember only Savin’s generosity
instead of harboring wicked thoughts; if she had studied the situation
and reflected a little, she would have realized what a meagre sacrifice
of self-love would have won her husband over to devotion once more. But
this effort seemed to her out of the question. She only remembered that
if Savin did not love her two other men did. Had not Firmin and Bruno
evinced how much she was to be desired? Ah! they would know--either one
of them--how to appreciate her beauty and fine qualities. Thus onward
she walked, with vengeance in her heart.
Beyond the village comparative calm prevailed. Here no disputes were
heard. On the rustic little bridge she met Mother Mathurine. The poor
woman was hurrying toward St. Benoit.
“Have you seen Bruno, Madame Catherine?” she asked, with heart-broken
sobs.
“Do not take on so, Mother Mathurine. He is safe. Monsieur Eugène is
taking care of him.”
“Tell me the worst, Madame,” pleaded the old woman.
“I have, Madame. It is true--but he owes his life to Jean Manant.”
“To _him_? Did _he_ save him?”
“Yes, Madame. From under the trampling herd he rescued him.”
“_Again!_ Thanks, Madame Catherine. But I must hasten to Bruno’s side.
I may be able to do something for him.”
And with quickened steps Mother Mathurine proceeded to Monsieur
Eugène’s house, where she arrived a few moments later, breathless and
trembling. Through the yard all instinctively made way for her to pass.
“Where is my son?” she asked, hoarsely. They pointed to the front room.
Seeing her enter, Monsieur Eugène came forward to speak to her.
“One moment before you embrace Bruno. He has just fainted again.”
“You would tell me he is dead!”
“No! no! He is living and doing well. But you may embrace a brave lad
here and thank him for his courage,” and Monsieur Eugène pointed to
Jean Manant.
Mother Mathurine, turning, seized his hands and kissed them.
“Mother Mathurine,” cried the brawny Jean, somewhat embarrassed, “do
not thank _me_.”
“What! When you have saved his life for the fourth time! _Mon Dieu!_
What courage!”
“It was nothing,” answered he, astonished that his action in Bruno’s
behalf should be judged so meritorious.
At this moment Bruno stirred.
“Bruno wants to embrace you,” observed Monsieur Eugène to Mother
Mathurine.
“O Bruno! Naughty, careless boy,” she cried. “Did you not promise me
that you would not again expose yourself to danger? You will be the
death of me--running so many risks.”
“What could I do, mother? Could I leave a child to die without raising
a finger to save her?”
“O my boy! You know how much I love you. Do not torment me again. Be
more careful in the future.”
“But you forget, mother, that my friend Jean comes in time to save me
always,” and he seized Manant’s hand, the latter trying to conceal
his emotion. Some one was silently weeping tears of joy in a secluded
corner of the room. Poor little Sidonie! Ordinarily she would have
hastened to embrace Mother Mathurine. But now a fear possessed her and
she could not trust herself to speak. For worlds she would not expose
her swollen eyes that Bruno might see what she endured.
“Are you suffering now?” asked Mother Mathurine.
“My body seems broken, but I have no actual pain,” answered Bruno.
“What a miracle that your brain was not crushed. God be praised!” said
the grateful mother. “But can you not come home?”
“I believe so.”
“No imprudence, if you please,” expostulated Eugène. “Bruno must remain
here for a few days or a week if necessary.”
“You are too good, Monsieur Eugène,” said the young man. “Already I
have given you so much trouble. With Jean’s assistance I can easily go
home.”
Sidonie was hoping that Bruno would mention her presence. The poor girl
was looking reproachfully at him when Mother Mathurine noticed her for
the first time.
“Why, Sidonie, child! You have been very quiet. How long have you been
here? Come and kiss me.”
“Madame Catherine also assisted Monsieur Eugène when he bled my arm.
_She_ held it for him,” broke out Bruno, unconsciously wounding the
already suffering Sidonie.
“Yes, I know. I met her on the way here. Poor Catherine! She looked
unhappy!”
“But she ought to be the happiest woman in the village,” said Monsieur
Eugène earnestly.
Bruno’s countenance assumed a peculiar expression, while Madame
Mathurine, who understood matters, drew little Sidonie closer to her
side. “Ah, my dear,” she said in a whisper, “if it ever depends upon
me it is you he shall choose.” Sidonie clasped Mother Mathurine with
gracious joy.
By the side of Monsieur Eugène old Jeannille sat as though transfixed,
with her eyes sharply directed at the lame girl. One by one the stars
began to blossom in the heavens. Night was come. Nature had fallen
asleep and the beautiful silver lights were keeping guard on high.
With renewed thanks to his kind benefactor Bruno, assisted by Mother
Mathurine, Jean, and Sidonie, started for home. Sidonie’s face beamed
with pleasure as the young man leaned his right arm on her shoulder.
Happy Sidonie! How tender were her thoughts for him! She stepped with
great care lest her limp should bother him.
The moon now hanging high in the heavens lent an enchantment to the
scene, touching with its mellow light the grand old trees and tender
flowers. A silence more eloquent than words fell upon the little train;
but all in their hearts thanked God for the beautiful night and for
preserving the well-beloved Bruno from a violent death.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]