THE INVITATION.
A merry little troop lined the way leading into the forest. Song and
mirth echoed through the trees as the happy band tripped along the
road, their object being to invite the Barraus to a wedding. In certain
rural parts of France it is the custom for the engaged couple, their
relatives and best friends to visit in a body those they desire to
invite to the wedding, and the future bridegroom, if it be a woman
addressed, or the future bride, if it be a man, offers sugar-plums,
which if accepted signifies that the implied invitation to the wedding
is likewise accepted. In refusing, one also refuses to be present
at the wedding. Moreover, a solemn obligation is involved in the
acceptance. Those who partake of the sweet almonds are expected not
only to join in the festivities, but to furnish a wedding-gift. Eggs,
game, fruit, vegetables, and articles of food are usually the principal
presents received by the happy couple.
The marriage of pretty little Suzanne Perrogon with Jacques Percier was
about to be celebrated. Suzanne was the niece of Jeannille Marselon,
whose strange character was referred to in the preceding chapter.
Jacques owned a pretty little house and lot--an inheritance from his
mother. In the contract he exacted the promise that his wife should
engage herself formally, after the birth of her first child, as a
wet-nurse in Paris, which is frequently done by the peasants of Morvan
and of other sections. As a matter of fact, hundreds of marriage
contracts contain such a provision.
For a period of some sixty years Morvan was one of the poorest and
most destitute provinces of France. The soil was unyieldingly sterile
and the climate cruel. The people found it extremely difficult to
subsist on black bread alone, and the outlook for them seemed gloomy
enough, until the idea occurred to one of the female Morvandelles--as
they are called--to seek the position of wet-nurse in Paris. After a
time wet-nursing became a means of livelihood for many peasant women,
an industry, so to speak. These women proved to be the agents of
civilization in the Morvan, and by degrees they brought not only money
there, but certain ideas of luxury and of social propriety. The more
intelligent women, while pursuing their vocation among well-bred and
even distinguished families, acquired a certain refinement of manner,
and to them the little province owed its increased prosperity and
enlightenment. It is true, the hard-earned money too often found its
way into the pockets of the wine-seller, who became the richest man in
the village in a short time; but times were better than ever before in
the Morvan, and the peasants rejoiced in their good fortune.
In small provincial towns to which strangers seldom come the
inhabitants are all, or nearly all, related to each other. For
instance, Andoche claimed relationship with everybody in the village.
He professed to be a grand-nephew of Jeannille Marselon; and as the
villagers did not deny it, he established his claims by virtue of the
axiom--“silence gives consent.”
He accompanied the procession on the invitation tour. Perhaps his
superfluous jollity was due to the fact that he held in his arms a
demijohn which Monsieur Eugène had just presented to the betrothed.
Having persuaded Jacques Percier that he was fainting with thirst,
the future groom reluctantly consented to let Andoche test the wine.
Without further ceremony Andoche offered a sip to everybody, extending
his politeness so far as to permit nobody to drink alone--which he said
meant bad luck.
By the time he reached Barrau’s cottage his spirits were very much
elevated and his dangerous tongue wagged incessantly.
“Attention! Halt! Right about face!” he shouted as Savin appeared
at the door. The latter was pleased at the spectacle, and his face
brightened as he thought what a pleasant diversion it would be for
Catherine.
“Come in, Jacques,” said Savin, “and welcome, Suzanne. Happy to see you
all.”
The little party entered joyously, but the face of Catherine froze the
words upon their tongues, the smiles upon their lips. Pale, stern, and
relentless, she scarcely replied to those who addressed her.
“She will bring bad luck upon us with that terrible look,” thought
Suzanne.
Jacques Percier spoke to Catherine, extending the usual compliments and
saying: “Madame Barrau, our happiness will not be complete unless you
are present at our marriage. Will you accept a bonbon?”
He offered her the box. She stepped back a little.
“I thank you, Jacques,” said she. “May you be happy as you deserve to
be.”
A look of disappointment passed over his face, and noticing it
Catherine added: “It is not for me to accept or to decline. I am not
mistress here.”
“Then you, Monsieur Savin, will you not--” But before Jacques had
finished speaking Savin took two _dragées_ from the box, eating one and
giving the other to his wife.
“Catherine exaggerates,” said he. “There are some things that a
wife cannot do without consulting her husband, but she accepts your
invitation, I am sure, and so do I, with pleasure. You will please
accept from me a roebuck--if Madame le Hausseur allows me to kill one.”
Catherine bit her lips in mortification and vexation. But Savin had
broken the ice, and when he brought out some fine old curaçoa the
callers regaled themselves freely and all became merry again.
As soon as they had gone Catherine said petulantly: “You need no longer
fear that I shall be too gay. I could not be so if I tried.”
“I never objected to your having a good time--in a proper way,” replied
Barrau gently, but with an unmistakable accent of firmness.
“But if I am not to dance it will be absurd for me to go to the
wedding.”
“Nobody will prevent you from dancing.”
“Yes, so you say _to-day_; but when the time comes you will be just as
jealous as ever, and I shall have to suffer for it.”
“Why talk so foolishly? You only weary me with this useless discussion.”
“I know it.”
“But believe me, my child, a woman who will excite her husband’s
jealousy is either a coquette or a wilful vixen. It rests with you
whether Suzanne’s wedding-day shall be an agreeable one to us.”
“Agreeable! I suppose it would be so to you if I neither raised my
eyes, nor opened my mouth, nor danced with Bruno, nor Firmin, nor
Andoche, or any young man whatsoever. But if old Father Mathieu, or
Grassy, or Monsieur the Mayor should be so good as to invite me, then I
may accept with alacrity. Bah!”
Savin, who had hoped to pave the way toward a reconciliation, now saw
the folly of the endeavor and replied nothing. Whistling to Patachaud
and taking his gun, he left the house.
“What a wretched existence!” he muttered as he disappeared under the
frost-touched trees.
Left alone, Catherine raised her arms toward heaven with an expression
of utter despair. “_Mon Dieu!_ how dearly would I pay for freedom,” she
cried.
Savin, on the other hand, soothed by the quiet atmosphere of the woods,
flattered himself that upon reflection Catherine would understand
the conciliatory spirit which had prompted him to accept the wedding
invitation. The wedding would be a diversion for Catherine, and he made
up his mind not to dictate to or upbraid her whatever she might do;
even if she danced with Bruno or Firmin, both of whom he disapproved.
He resolved to bring about a reconciliation if possible, and he thought
this little concession on his part would accomplish it. Knowing his
wife’s love for gayety, he felt confident that a day’s unrestrained
enjoyment would dispel the cloud and restore her to good-nature once
more. And the brave-hearted fellow smiled to himself as he thought of
his home again blessed with peace and happiness.
On the narrow path which plunged down a steep declivity into a ravine
he encountered Fadard, the friend of Andoche and the cousin of
Mademoiselle Faillot.
The man was proceeding, with the assistance of his cane, like a
sober-minded citizen.
“Ah! it is Monsieur Fadard,” said Barrau; “and where the devil did you
come from?”
“From Dun les Places. I have cut across country, as you see.”
The gamekeeper examined Fadard’s shoes and trousers. They bore no
traces of mud, and there were swamps in the region of which he had
spoken.
“And you are going to see Mademoiselle Faillot?” asked Barrau.
“Just so,” returned Fadard.
Savin continued to question him in order to study him the more closely.
There seemed something suspicious in the man’s movements. Why was he
prowling about this gloomy, forsaken spot, which bore an ill name among
the peasants and which most people avoided? The trees were so dense
that scarcely a bit of light penetrated into the forest, and it was
still and lonely here on this chill autumn day. Fadard’s deceitful air
was obvious to Barrau, who faced him with a stern countenance on which
suspicion was plainly written. Before this look Fadard’s eyes fell.
“At what time did you set out from Dun?”
“At two o’clock,” replied Fadard tartly.
“You must be a good walker to have come so far in so short a time.”
As Barrau spoke he fancied he spied something concealed under the
other’s clothing. Fadard appeared ill at ease.
“Another time,” continued Savin, “you had better take the main road.
One sometimes has a bad encounter in such places as this.”
While speaking he put his hand familiarly on Fadard’s shoulder. The
latter lost countenance, and without reflecting that he compromised
himself in so doing, he turned and fled.
“Ah! it seems that Monsieur Fadard has something to conceal. And what
cause has he to fear me, unless, as I suspect, he is a poacher?”
His first thought was to chase the runaway, but he abandoned the idea
as useless. One might as well hunt for a needle in a haystack as for a
man in this wilderness.
“Never mind. He will come back again some day, unless his cowardice
gets the better of him.”
And smiling at the thought, Savin went on his way.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]