DARK DAYS.
October with its kaleidoscopic dress comes on apace. Upon seeing the
woods made glorious by the regal hues of gold and scarlet, we are
tempted to say that the ending season is not less beautiful in its
way than the beginning one. Great yellow patches on the foliage gleam
in the wan sunlight. Nature is ablaze with color. The holly boughs
are flaunting their bold red berries in the face of the wind, and
everywhere the leaves in brilliant confusion flutter through the air.
Now and then in the distance a gun’s report is heard. The gamekeepers
are now on the alert for prowling poachers. Water stands in the
ditches. The fog is dense at night and in the morning, and the meadows
already are often too cold for the flocks. The old belfry in the
village--its greatest pride--is a mass of vines, now turned to vivid
crimson.
At the door of his little shop stands Andoche the blacksmith, adorned
with his leather apron. His brawny arms are bare to the elbows. In one
uplifted hand he holds a glass of wine, while with the other he holds
Firmin by the arm.
“My friend,” says he, “your affairs do not concern me in the least. You
are old enough to know how to conduct yourself. But if you wish to hear
a bit of good advice I will say--_beware!_”
“Of what? Of whom?”
“Of everybody in general and in particular of--Madame Catherine.”
“The gamekeeper’s wife?” said Firmin, with an egotistical leer.
“To be sure. There are not _two_ Catherines.”
“Why do you say ‘beware’?”
“Why? Are you a fool?”
“I hope not.”
“Well, my friend, you now have the appearance----”
“O Andoche!”
“Well, old comrade. I may be a drunkard, but you can make up your mind
to one thing--my eyes are wide open just the same.”
“And what do you see _in particular_ just at present?”
“That you are making a fool of yourself, and I am not the only one who
thinks so.”
Firmin makes an indignant gesture, as though in protest against the
assertion or assumption that a man of his importance should be so
regarded by his friends; as though he could be led about by the nose!
He--Firmin!
“Your health, Firmin,” adds Andoche, touching his visitor’s glass.
“Here’s to you,” returns Firmin, in a preoccupied manner.
The blacksmith, having drained his glass to the dregs with one toss
of the hand, goes on to say: “My friend, I have not lived in the city
and frequented the haunts of society like you--though I was once in
garrison at Château Thierry--but I have a grain or two of common sense,
and were I in your place I should not prowl around the little cottage
over there like a dog.”
“And why, pray, should I not visit the gamekeeper’s house?”
“Because there are more poachers than millionnaires in the world.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Nothing; only Savin Barrau is a man who attends strictly to his own
business.”
“And how does that concern me?”
“Ah, so you do not understand? Well, then, come into my shop and I will
explain. Now then,” he continues as they seat themselves inside the
little shop, “only four days ago Savin was shot at by some poacher on
his mistress’ preserves.”
“So I heard. Well?”
“The bullet missed that time, but who knows whether he will escape the
next?”
“That does not concern me.”
“But don’t you see, you simpleton, that if Savin is killed, the world
will say you, egged on by Catherine, committed the deed?”
“What? You mean----”
“If such a thing should occur, there are two of you to prove an alibi.”
“Two? How so?”
“Bruno also might be suspected.”
“That young scamp? But she cares nothing for him.”
“Has she said so?”
“Yes, a dozen times.”
“Ah, so she converses with you frequently, eh? But, my friend, that is
not the only danger you encounter. You, too, are sometimes given to
poaching.”
“I?”
“Oh, yes. I know a thing or two about dogs myself, and the young hound
crouching there by the forge with such a harmless air is the finest
hunter in St. Benoit, and we all know the country is not wanting in
good dogs.”
“And what of that, if you please?”
“Nothing at all, my friend, only should Catherine’s husband catch you
at it a shot from his gun would soon put an end to you, and the law
would exonerate him. Poachers always get the worst of it in those
cases.”
Firmin turns visibly pale. True valor is quite an unknown quantity in
his composition.
“Your health, my boy,” repeats Andoche, “and take my advice: Be careful
what you do. Everybody knows Madame Catherine’s love of coquetry. It
is not that she cares for you--oh, no! but she hates her husband.
If Barrau at any time since the raspberry _fête_ had but asked
forgiveness, she would have turned her back on you fast enough, you may
be sure.”
In spite of Firmin’s rising indignation, Andoche continues: “And if she
were not so often twitted by the village girls of being at odds with
Savin, she might now, even, overlook the humiliation she endured that
day. But Rosalie and Félicité are always mocking her on the subject,
and it only adds fuel to the flame. There will be trouble one of these
days, mark my words, and as you are my friend, I advise you to keep out
of it.”
A man of Firmin’s character and disposition, however, never accepts
good advice. His egotism is too great, his mind too stupid for that. So
now, with a supercilious smile, Firmin listens to Andoche’s not wholly
unreasonable or irrelevant harangue.
“You can accept my advice or not, as you choose, my friend. But were I
in your place, I should much prefer to pass my time with old Andoche,
tinkling the merry glass of wine, than to throw myself away on a
designing woman.”
Firmin indulges in a burst of laughter.
“So that is your opinion, is it? Well, well--let us drink a bumper and
change the subject, for I am not a little weary of it, old fellow.
Here’s to you and to all good counselors.”
And so for the time the subject is dropped. Andoche, however, poor sot
that he is, has expressed opinions that are not altogether wrong.
For over two months Catherine has daily become more sullen and
capricious. At times her face wears a terrible expression, and though
she has lost none of her beauty, still, under the influence of the
fixed idea that haunts her, she appears less gracious and agreeable. In
her face lurks a defiant, scornful expression, which does not become
her, and her smile is constrained and bitter. To those who know her
well but one solution is evident.
Her thirst for revenge is inordinate. She evinces it in her actions.
And Savin lacks that suppleness of discernment to characterize it as a
craving for revenge, and thus obtusely fails to endeavor to turn her
mind into other channels. He simply accepts his wife’s silence, and, to
him, only odd conduct as a sudden caprice.
“When she is ready to do so she will return to my heart’s shelter,” he
thinks, little imagining the true state of the case.
The love and magnanimity he displayed by rescuing her from the
wretched thraldom of her position after the D’Angerolles _esclandre_,
he assumes, have rendered Catherine ever grateful to him, and have
precluded all chance of prolonged anger on her part toward him who has
so definitely proven his passion for her. And thus reflecting and
thus reasoning, he waits for her to manifest some sign of her desire
for a reconciliation. But as time goes on and Madame Barrau reveals
more quixotic tendencies, he becomes impatient. There is naught more
fatiguing than the existence of two people who, forced to dwell under
the same roof, are at war with each other. Then each word has a special
meaning. Every step, gesture, and movement may be misinterpreted
by the injured one. The torture of mind endured nearly amounts to
frenzy. For a day it is a terrible ordeal; for months it is a cruel
nightmare. Barrau has a magnanimous nature, and if Catherine should
come to him with one expression of regret he would take her in his arms
eagerly and lovingly. But no. Catherine remains frigid in feeling and
manner. Accordingly Savin, showing an equal disposition to maintain an
obstinate silence, allows his animosity to ripen. He is exasperated and
unhappy over their relations. To go on living in this way will soon be
unbearable. But he constantly asks himself what is to be done.
Catherine is quite as miserable. “What! I am not yet twenty, and must
I live all my life under this horrible yoke? Surely death will be
preferable. Ah, if he but loved me. But he despises me.”
And thus she rebels--racking her brains for some means of escape.
Unfortunately, she has not the nature which can forgive and forget.
To punish the man who has treated her like a slave--yes, like a
_slave_--that is her one idea. But how? That is not yet clear to her.
“Only to be free! only to be free!” she repeats. But how? No solution
occurs to her mind until one day she finds herself saying: “What if
Savin should die?” In justice, however, be it said, she rejects that
thought as too horrible. “Wretched creature that I am to think of it!”
she cries.
Alas! how bitter are her reflections. And as she looks out upon the
late autumn landscape and watches the scattering leaves of red and
gold, again she thinks: “After all, he may not live long. Stronger men
than he have been vanquished by a bad cold--a sudden fever.”
And in imagination she sees him, pale and emaciated, reduced by
sickness to a shadow--in a proper condition to be humiliated. At this
very moment Barrau appears at the gate, and his powerful step resounds
on the gravel. Patachaud dances about him with canine glee. Graceful,
young, and vigorous, with broad shoulders and magnificent physique, the
gamekeeper advances, opens the door, and enters.
His presence arouses Catherine from her sullen revery.
“Fool! that I should dream of his becoming ill. Why, he is made of
iron.”
And brooding over her wretched existence, the idea of her husband’s
death seems less revolting to her.
“It would be still better if he killed me himself,” she inwardly
declares; “I deserve it.”
But a contemptuous smile (or is it a commiserating look?) from Savin
serves to dispel all thoughts save those of hatred from her breast.
[Illustration]