CLOUDS.
Savin was still sitting at the table. Though he had finished eating and
drinking he still remained there, not wishing to move lest his wife
should think he was following her to spy upon her actions. Fadard had
the effrontery to accost him and ask permission to dance with Catherine.
“Madame Barrau,” replied the gamekeeper, “is at liberty to do as she
pleases.”
Though he was daring by nature, Fadard thought it wiser to make no
reply, and he was turning to withdraw when Andoche, flushed and
besotted by a too senseless indulgence in his “besetting sin,” seized
him by the lapel of his coat, saying: “_You_ want to dance? Did you say
you were thinking of dancing, at your age? It must have been a long
time since you last looked in a mirror--ha! ha! ha! So you want to
dance, eh?”
“And why shouldn’t I dance if I feel that way?”
“Fellow-citizens,” shouted Andoche in a high voice, pointing to Fadard,
“behold this gentleman. Is it not a broad hint on the part of the
ladies when they must needs ask their husbands’ consent to dance with
him? And just to think of it--he doesn’t know people are laughing at
him. My friend, you had much better remain in my society.”
Strange as it appeared, Fadard did not resent the blacksmith’s cutting
remarks, and he offered no reply. Doubtless his reasons were good
for not wishing to antagonize Andoche, or he certainly would have
retaliated there and then. He walked toward the dancing-room, and
rejoining Madame Barrau, acquainted her with Savin’s answer.
“So you see, madame, you are at liberty to dance with me or with
another, just as you choose.”
“Oh, no,” replied Catherine. “Not unless I am legally authorized to do
so.”
“You must be jesting.”
“No, indeed I am not.”
“But, believe me, Monsieur Barrau declared you are free to dance
whenever you please.”
“Yes, but that is not sufficient. Go back and bid him express himself
in due form of the law. His response, I fear, was illegal.”
Fadard intently regarded Catherine for a moment, but she so defiantly
returned his gaze that he was perplexed.
“Perhaps,” she added, “he was only making a fool of you.”
“You are, at all events,” he rejoined.
“Well!”
“Take care, my little woman. It will cost you dear to make fun of
Fadard.”
“You should say that to my husband. But perhaps it is only in dealing
with women that you are so brave.”
“Pooh! I would as soon tackle Monsieur Barrau as anybody else,” cried
Fadard, with rising anger. “Only let me find him in a tight corner----”
“Who?” thundered Savin from behind.
“Enough! We shall see,” answered Fadard as he sneaked away like a
whipped cur.
Catherine quickly apprised the other girls of Fadard’s discomfiture.
To hide his embarrassment, Fadard hastened to ask Jenny Fourès for the
next dance. The merriest, liveliest girl in the whole province was
Jenny, and the name of “Madcap” just suited her.
“Monsieur,” said she, “it seems to me you are not very polite.”
“How so, Mademoiselle?” asked Fadard.
“When a gentleman asks for a dance he takes off his cap, Monsieur.”
Fadard smiled. In the provinces the peasants, as a rule, wear little
skull-caps not unlike the Turkish fez, and in a dance they lend a
rather picturesque effect. It is the custom to touch the cap, without
removing it, when a man is asking for the pleasure of a dance. But
Jenny’s rebuke did not disconcert the gay Fadard in the least. He bowed
low, took off his cap, and again besought her for a dance.
A burst of laughter greeted his gallantry.
“I am indeed honored, Monsieur,” remarked Jenny coquettishly, “but I
cannot dance without my father’s permission. Go and ask him.”
“Ah, Madcap, you are joking. Come.”
But she would not listen. She disappeared in the crowd; while the
chagrined Fadard addressed another girl, who in a similar way answered:
“Go and ask my brother, Monsieur Fadard.”
Fadard by this time was furious. Not only was he deprived of a partner,
but he evidently was unpopular among the village girls. He resolved to
make one more attempt, and turning to Rosalie he asked for a dance.
“With pleasure, Monsieur, upon one condition.”
“You mean I must ask somebody’s permission, eh?”
“Oh, no. I shall be delighted to dance with you if you will kindly tell
me your age.”
His age was a tender point with Fadard, and he turned toward the
offender with a menacing gesture. Just at that moment Rosalie’s elderly
husband, who, though henpecked at home, was still the possessor of a
brawny pair of arms abroad, quickly settled the matter by administering
a severe fistic correction which landed Fadard in a corner, panting for
breath.
Recovering himself, the coward rushed off to relate his woes to
Andoche, hoping that the latter in his intoxicated condition would take
his part and avenge his wrongs.
But Andoche just then was enjoying himself too well to be beguiled into
a quarrel and an encounter. So Fadard seated himself beside Andoche,
who urged him to drown his grievances in the flowing bowl.
Meanwhile the dancing had begun. Nearly every one was thus engaged but
Catherine. She obstinately refused to participate in it. If Fadard
thought he alone was the victim of her caprice he was mistaken.
Resolved to pose as a martyr to her husband’s whims, she treated each
new-comer with the same answer, and many thinking she did not wish to
dance with them, sought other partners. Some, however, took her at her
word. Bruno would have given his life to have held her in his arms,
but she gave him the same response, and he went away in despair, poor
Sidonie watching him with tears in her eyes.
“Oh, that he could be consoled with one who would die for his
happiness,” she murmured to herself, not daring to speak to him openly.
After Bruno nearly all of the young men besought her, but Catherine
returned the one answer to them: “You must ask my husband’s permission.”
Firmin, taking her _au serieux_, went to Savin, who by this time was
thoroughly vexed and who retorted to the young man not a little harshly.
Savin was most disgusted at his wife’s conduct. Instead of profiting
by this occasion to settle their differences, Catherine played a
disagreeable and unexpected _rôle_. One by one the young men sought
him out to ask permission to dance with his wife. It became a painful
persecution to him; but when, at length, he divined her intention he
decided to make as light of the situation as possible.
“How stupid you are,” said he to the young men. “Don’t you see that
Catherine is only joking you?”
But the farce continued. Each moment brought a fresh applicant and
Savin’s patience was about exhausted. Besides, he felt that his
wife was making a fool of him, and that everybody was amused at the
little comedy being acted by Catherine and himself. To be made a
laughing-stock for the sake of his charming spouse he could not endure.
Everybody felt more or less oppressed by the heat of the room and
excited by the wine, and the gamekeeper was by no means an exception.
Irritated beyond forbearance, Savin approached his wife and bade her to
get ready to go home. Then he added: “You do not wish a reconciliation,
it seems. Very well.”
“Perhaps you have some complaint to make against me right here,”
remarked Catherine, with a provoking air.
Savin felt himself the object of a hundred eyes.
“I have no desire to pass for a fool whose wife may ridicule him at
will.”
“You will always pass for just what you are.”
“Catherine, pray do not get in a passion here.”
The young woman looked crestfallen and feigned fear. She hypocritically
looked to the right and to the left, as though seeking protection and
as though afraid of violence from her husband.
“You ought to be ashamed,” exclaimed Mademoiselle Faillot, coming up at
that moment, “to treat a woman in such a manner.”
“Please do not meddle in my affairs, Mademoiselle. I do not accuse you
of your little peccadilloes, nor do I _ask how you dispense the money
intrusted to you for the babes of wet-nurses that you have in charge_.”
“What! What is that?” shouted the old spinster, turning crimson with
rage.
“Mademoiselle, when one has a cousin like Fadard, one need have no
uneasiness.”
“Ah, indeed. Not so a man who has married the daughter of a criminal.”
The young bride now interposed. “Mademoiselle,” she said, “you were not
invited--at the last moment--to insult my friends.”
“Very well. Then your friends should not make any such insinuations.”
“Oh, if I had a husband like other husbands,” broke in Catherine, “all
would go well.”
For an instant Savin was beside himself. To intimate that he was
disturbing the festivities was more than the mildest of men could
endure. Had he not submitted for over two hours to everything
disagreeable for her sake? Besides, had not that Mademoiselle Faillot
insulted his wife? And then Catherine--his own wife--had as much as
declared that he was responsible for this disgraceful scene.
His brain was on fire with indignation. A few friends approached and
endeavored to calm him, but in vain. He stepped toward his wife with
a furious gesture. He was determined that she should leave the place.
Bruno, observing his threatening attitude, bounded with rage toward the
gamekeeper.
“You are a coward!” he fairly yelled, laying hold of Barrau’s collar.
Surprised and still more incensed, Savin took a backward step, prepared
to grapple with the young fellow. A terrible struggle seemed imminent,
for Barrau was a powerful, vigorous man, and L’Ours was not here to
defend Bruno this time. But Sidonie was, and the love she had for her
hero made her brave to defend him.
“Are you mad?” she cried, as she seized Bruno’s arm and dragged him
away. Barrau did not follow, as every spectator thought he would. He
turned toward his wife, and taking her arm pushed her forward.
“Come,” he said, sternly, “let us end this wretched row. We will go
home.”
For a moment there was silence, but just as the two reached the door
Fadard impertinently and loudly exclaimed: “Well, that is what you get
for inviting common people.”
Scarcely had he uttered these words when he was dealt hard blow on
the cheek by Savin. Smarting with pain, Fadard threw himself upon the
gamekeeper, but the latter adroitly warded off his fist and with one
movement left his antagonist knocked senseless on the floor.
Once more Barrau, with Catherine by his side, started for home. On the
face of one was written sullen determination; on that of the other
bitter despair.
Meanwhile old Jeannille Marselon, her hands crossed on her breast,
looked like a being from another world. Her eyes were transfixed and
her long, lank, sallow face seemed cold as marble--a face on which
the closest observer could not have discovered a sign of sensation or
emotion.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]