A VILLAIN’S OFFER.
Irritated beyond expression, Savin proceeded homeward, and, as it
happened, the first man he met was Andoche--about a mile from St.
Benoit.
The blacksmith was a little the worse for liquor, but that was by no
means a novelty in him.
“Well, well,” he remarked, as he and Barrau came face to face, “I see
you have two guns. Have you been capturing somebody?”
“Better than that,” returned Savin, whose anger increased the more he
recalled his recent experience.
“Oh, with what have you regaled him? For I will wager it is Firmin’s
rifle.”
“Quite right, Andoche. And permit me to add that your friend Firmin is
the biggest coward in the country.”
“_Mon Dieu!_ Have you just discovered that?”
“I did not know that such a craven existed on the face of the earth.
No.”
“How did you find it out at last?”
“I was down at Balance Rock, and he killed a young doe under my very
nose.”
“A doe? Indeed that is a crime. And so you got angry and thumped him
without further ceremony, eh?”
“No; but I demanded satisfaction.”
“_À propos_ of what?”
“Of my wife,” replied Savin, laconically.
At that moment Jacques Percier, with his usual stupid demeanor, came
across the fields and joined them. He heard Barrau’s last words, and
quite naturally inferred that Bruno also figured in the subject of
conversation.
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” said he, cheerfully.
“Good-afternoon, Percier.”
“Your wife!” repeated the blacksmith in surprise.
“Yes. You know she is indiscreet. I do not for a moment believe
anything further; but she is imprudent and I am greatly disturbed by
it.”
“Perhaps you are too hard upon her.”
“No, I only ask her love and respect.”
“Well,” interposed Jacques, with the pompous air of a bridegroom, “we
all expect that.”
“At all events, I have given the rascal a good lesson.”
“And he deserved it,” replied Jacques, thinking all the time Savin was
speaking of Bruno.
In a voice vibrating with anger, Barrau then related the details of the
occurrence at Balance Rock, not, however, mentioning Firmin’s name,
since Andoche knew of whom he was speaking.
In the mean time, one by one, the little group increased. Other
peasants listened to Savin’s story. When he had finished Jacques
Percier, with his great globe-like eyes fixed upon Barrau’s face,
foolishly asked: “Then you, too, saw them embrace each other?”
Barrau sprang forward in a frenzy. “Where? When?” he cried.
Andoche slyly touched Jacques’s foot, and the latter saw his mistake.
But Savin, taking him savagely by the collar, shouted: “Did you see
him embrace my wife?”
“Don’t strangle me,” cried Percier. “It isn’t my fault if Madame
Catherine----”
“Answer me,” insisted Barrau, shaking Jacques violently. “Answer me!
Did you see them embrace?”
“Well, yes! There!”
“You must be mistaken,” interposed Andoche.
“Let him explain, if you please,” requested Savin. “When was this?”
“After dinner.”
“To-day? Where?”
“In the walnut grove.”
“At what hour?”
“About half-past three.”
“Imbecile! It is impossible!”
“Oh, well,” said Jacques, with a titter, “just as you say, of course.”
This reply exasperated Barrau.
“I tell you it is impossible, and I do not know what should prevent me
from punishing you for lying.”
“Lying?” repeated Jacques, with rising indignation.
“Yes, lying; for I met him myself, and thrashed him, at about four
o’clock, at Balance Rock.”
Percier was astounded.
“Surely you are speaking of Bruno,” said Jacques at length.
“Was it, then, Bruno who embraced Catherine in the walnut grove?”
Ashamed of his stupidity, Suzanne’s husband remained silent for a
moment, and then essayed to repair his mistake. But Savin, refusing to
listen to his ridiculous explanations, turned angrily away and took
the nearest path for his home.
“There are beasts that never ought to open their mouths,” growled
Andoche, as soon as Savin was out of hearing.
“You mean me?” inquired Jacques.
“No--oh, no. I mean Napoleon I., of course.”
“Well, how did I know that everybody was in love with his wife, eh?”
“There will be a great scene when he reaches home, and you will be the
cause, you simpleton. _Mon Dieu!_ That man told the truth who said that
the wicked are less to be feared than fools, because they sometimes
keep quiet, while fools never do.”
Barrau took long strides, and he breathed as with difficulty. If he
had encountered Catherine at that moment, a terrible catastrophe might
have been the result. His mind, travelling faster than his limbs,
was occupied with reflections that may be summarized thus: “What
effrontery! In open daylight to caress a blackguard like that Bruno.
They were right in predicting that I should repent of my contract. The
coquette! But is it true? Bah! What interest would he have in making
up such a story? But perhaps he did not really see it. Perhaps--but
no! Jacques is not a liar. Oh, miserable woman! To make herself the
laughing-stock of the whole country. But who knows?”
He paused a moment, and then went on: “Like all deceived husbands, I
was unable to believe that such a misfortune could come to me, that
such shame could enter my home. In all St. Benoit there is not a
fireside where they are not mocking me.”
Barrau’s love and vanity were equally wounded. His anger knew no
bounds, and by the time he reached the cottage he was half mad with
doubt and sorrow.
Hearing his step on the walk, Catherine came out to meet him, her face
softened by smiles and her general manner indicating that she desired
a reconciliation. While awaiting Savin she had arranged a little
confession she now purposed to offer. If on this day Firmin had kept
out of Savin’s path, conjugal harmony would have been restored, for
Catherine was resolved to make the _amende honorable_. But fatality
willed it otherwise.
As Barrau approached, he saw his wife standing by the door. Irritated
to a state of madness, he fancied he perceived in her friendly attitude
and advances only deception, and in his brutality as a betrayed husband
he raised the butt of his gun and struck her without a word of warning
or explanation. Never afterward could the misguided fellow forgive
himself or forget that scene.
Catherine stood silent and immovable. Never had she dreamed of this.
Not only had he insulted her, but the blow had given her pain; but the
latter was as nothing compared to the fury which took possession of her
brain. Springing to her feet, she made one bound for his throat, and a
pitiful struggle ensued. Catherine was naturally the first to yield,
and she cried for help. Her cries brought Barrau partially to his
senses. He stopped and stepped back, leaving his wife leaning against
the buffet, panting for breath.
A moment’s silence intervened, and then seizing her arm he exclaimed:
“You are lost, do you know it? And as for that villain Bruno--I will
kill him! Do you understand?”
“Oh, it is Bruno, then, that you want to kill? Well, he is no coward.”
“Shameless woman!”
“Cruel monster!”
After uttering these words Catherine, with the manner of a maniac,
rushed up the staircase and locked herself in her room, resolved to
wait until the morrow before breaking with the man from whom there was
now nothing to hope.
“He does not dare to come here,” she mentally exclaimed as she crossed
the apartment.
Left to himself, Barrau speedily repented of his infamous conduct. To
assault a woman, be she ever so culpable, is a dishonorable, shameful
proceeding, and to think that he, a soldier and gentleman, had been
guilty of such a thing. He was mortified and penitent. But when he
thought of Bruno and Firmin his heart seemed bursting with indignation.
He foresaw greater trouble and despair claimed him as her own. “If I
could die,” he whispered to himself, “all would be settled. But no.
That is a cowardly thought. However, this state of affairs must end.
To-morrow she will probably go away. If she doesn’t I shall return to
my old lodgings in the barracks.”
The night passed and neither slept. A prey to melancholy thoughts and
schemes of vengeance, each paced the floor through the long watches of
darkness, lonely and wretched.
At about nine o’clock on the following morning Catherine descended the
stairs and passed the exhausted Savin, who was asleep in a chair. With
nervous step she left the house and started toward the village.
At the pond where Rosalie and others were engaged in washing
clothes, tongues were wagging industriously. The latest gossip
was in everybody’s mouth. For the moment Firmin was the subject of
conversation. He had just passed by and they had persuaded him to tell
his grievance.
When Catherine crossed the little bridge under which the women were at
work, all tongues ceased. Andoche alone saluted her with a sarcastic
“Good-morning,” adding, “and did you pass a pleasant night?”
Catherine hastened on without replying. The village, the meadows, the
forest, the people, all seemed hateful to her. To leave the country was
all that she now desired. But she wished to be free to go where she
liked and to do as she pleased, to which end she was going to consult
with Monsieur Eugène.
“I have had enough of this wretched life. The courts shall separate us,
and I will go to earn my living in Paris or elsewhere.”
As she proceeded some peasants bowed to her, but she did not notice
them. Upon arriving at Monsieur Eugène’s house she knocked, and old
Jeannette, the servant, opened the door.
“Is your master at home?”
“Yes, Madame. Will you come in?”
Monsieur Eugène was occupied for the moment with a land-owner who was
consulting him as to whether he should sell a piece of property, so
the maid ushered Catherine into a waiting-room where a man was also
waiting. Upon seeing him Catherine stepped backward toward the door,
but the man, greatly excited, rose to his feet and said: “Your husband,
then, has lost his senses?”
“Yes, Monsieur Firmin, I fear so.”
“But that is no reason why he should insult me.”
“Is it on your account that he has been tempted to kill me?” demanded
Madame Barrau.
“Without doubt, since it is on your account that he has insulted me.
He has boasted all over the country of having thrashed me, of having
broken my head.”
“And it is not true?”
“No, it is not true,” he declared with bravado.
No witnesses to his chastisement having been present, Firmin had
decided to tell his own story. If the gamekeeper had said nothing
concerning the encounter at Balance Rock, Firmin doubtless would have
kept silent. But to have it proclaimed abroad was too much of a shock
to his _amour propre_ to pass over in silence.
Early on this day, therefore, he had come to consult with Monsieur
Eugène as to the best method of summoning Savin to court. But all along
the road he had been twitted about his encounter with Barrau, and upon
his arrival at the counselor’s house he was fairly boiling with rage.
He had been asked to wait, but he was restless and disturbed, when the
door had opened and Catherine had walked in. But she was more angered
than Firmin and her words were nettling and impetuous.
“If he has not struck you down,” she said, with the intention of
pushing him to the last extremity, “be sure he will do it, and that,
too, before the world.”
“He does not dare!”
“Bah! Who is to prevent him, eh? Are _you_ the man to do it?”
“Take care, Madame Catherine Barrau! Don’t excite me beyond all reason.
It wouldn’t take much urging for me to kill him--your charming husband.”
“Come, now, I defy you! You are too much of a coward!”
Though they were speaking in muffled tones, they were thoroughly
aroused and the energy of mad passion controlled their words.
“If only you could have loved me, fair tigress,” said Firmin in a
whisper, overcome by her imperial beauty.
“I do not love people who are the laughing-stock of the village.
Everybody is making fun of you. Were you less a coward Savin would have
paid for his insults from you before this. Bruno would have found a way
to have punished him.”
Bruno! Catherine well knew how to touch Firmin’s jealousy. For a month
she had listened to his advances half condescendingly, but Bruno’s name
always strangely affected him. Was Bruno his rival? At any rate, her
way of exasperating him was successful.
“The gamekeeper shall die before to-morrow morning!” said he
desperately.
“Nonsense!”
“I swear it! And it will be so much the worse for you.”
“So much the worse for me! How so?” she inquired, trying to appear
unconcerned and succeeding only in looking terribly in earnest. Without
answering her question Firmin, after a brief hesitation, held out his
hand.
“Is it agreed?” he asked with a significant look.
In reply Catherine raised her hand and the compact was sealed.
“In order to accomplish my purpose, he must remain out to-night.”
“He shall do so.”
“When you hear a gunshot----”
He stopped. It was useless to continue or to explain, and as his
consultation with Monsieur Eugène was now objectless, he left the house.
Catherine, however, was not yet ready to make her adieus. Her errand
was still to be performed.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]