IN THE WOODS.
Sidonie, the picture of sorrow, was leaning against the trunk of a
giant oak crying as though her heart would break. In her merry moods
she was never at a loss for friends, but in her sorrow she wept alone.
Her life seemed ended. She felt crushed and soul wounded. However,
when Mademoiselle Faillot approached her, and addressed her in mocking
terms, Sidonie staunchly defended herself.
“Don’t provoke me! Don’t provoke me, I say.”
“What! you threaten?”
“Never mind. Only go, I tell you!”
“Insolent hussy!” cried the enraged Léocadia.
“Take care!” replied Sidonie. “But for you no one would have believed
Bruno. You shall pay for it. The occasion for revenge always comes. And
I will find a way to get mine if I have to wait until the day of your
death.”
Mademoiselle Faillot did not like to have her death mentioned in such a
manner.
“Come, come, don’t talk so,” she said, meekly. Then, followed by a
number of her satellites, she walked away.
Jeannille Marselon, to whom none paid any attention, had planted
herself in front of the gamekeeper’s house and was watching the windows
of the rooms in which Bruno and Catherine were imprisoned. There she
stood as though turned to stone. As Léocadia, however, approached the
house, Jeannille quietly directed her steps toward Sidonie. Touching
the lame girl softly on the shoulder, she whispered: “_L’Ours!_”
Sidonie uttered a hopeful, joyful cry. Taking Jeannille’s hand she
raised it to her lips, saying: “I thank you!”
Then she rose with a radiant face. In every instance but one, where
death or danger had threatened Bruno, Jean Manant--L’Ours as he was
called--had come to his rescue.
“Why did I not think of him before, Aunt Jeannille? Do you know where
he is?”
“At Vaumarin.”
“Not so far but that I shall find him.”
The weather had changed. Immense clouds were chasing each other across
the heavens. A storm was imminent. But Sidonie knew no fear. Covered
with her mantle, a narrow cap on her head, and sabots on her feet, the
brave girl fared forth and soon disappeared among the forest trees.
Jeannille Marselon watched her little red skirt until she was lost to
view.
“Vaumarin,” she softly murmured. The place was seven good miles away,
and the roads were bad. Up hill and down dale for seven miles the
little maid must go and come back again, over the mountainous roads.
What love, what devotion impelled her! It was to save the man she
adored. If it were in his power Jean Manant would save Bruno. Of that
she was convinced. Never before had she attempted such an undertaking.
It was not the journey to Vaumarin she dreaded, but the return.
“Well,” she murmured to herself, “I will stay there awhile, and Jean
can come on at once.”
And so the lame girl hobbled on. At about one o’clock she reached a
darker and more dismal part of the wood. It began to snow.
“Better this than rain,” she thought. At first merry little flakes
danced before her eyes, tumbling pell-mell from above and fluttering
joyously about in her path. For a while the snow did not impede her
course. But when great flakes began to descend, covering her from head
to foot, powdering her fluffy hair, entering her mouth and filling her
eyes--it was more difficult to proceed.
A melancholy sort of darkness settled around her. She could not see
a dozen steps before her. The reader must have been in the depths of
a great forest, alone and unprotected, to understand the lame girl’s
sensations. The steady, silent downfall of snow alarmed her. She
imagined all kinds of terrible things. It seemed as though the snow
were preparing a shroud for her. She was now suffering intensely with
the cold. Time and again she stumbled against the trunk of a tree and
for a moment or more was unable to proceed. But she bravely started on
again, always with Bruno’s fate in her mind.
She stopped to remove her sabots, thinking she might go faster. But
fear possessed her and she fancied some one was lying in wait to strike
her. “Who then would save Bruno?” was her boding question. Terror
increased her pace. She looked to the right and to the left as though
expecting to see somebody dart out from the darkness and seize her. The
snow, the difficulty in advancing, the cold which was intense, and the
dampness which penetrated her clothing, all conduced to render her
situation anything but comfortable. And then to be alone in the awful
stillness! Rain falling upon dry dead leaves makes a gentle swish,
alike soothing and grateful; the wind, with its soughing monotone,
is companionable; but the snow, with its mysterious white stillness,
suggests a phantom--silent, lone, and solitary.
Shivering and shuddering little Sidonie sped on through the forest. Ere
long she became aware that she was approaching Vaumarin. What mattered
it to her that her garments were drenched, her feet sore and bleeding,
and her hands almost frozen? She was nearly there. It was for Bruno’s
sake that she had ventured forth.
While advancing toward one of the cottages she met a peasant with a
load of hay.
“Where is L’Ours?” she asked, in a voice which startled even herself.
“Ah, it is you, little one! You come from St. Benoit at this hour.
Well, well!”
“Where is Jean Manant?” repeated Sidonie, in a fever of excitement.
“This way, my girl, to the left. Walk down a little way and you will
hear his axe.”
Without even thanking him Sidonie started away, resolved to find him
before succumbing to her fatigue. If she only could see Jean and tell
her story, then she would not care what happened to herself. Bruno
must be saved! Soon she was rewarded by hearing the woodcutter’s axe.
Jean was wielding it. He was a powerful man, and with one stroke
at the heart of a giant tree it trembled and presently yielded to
his herculean blows. Around him on all sides lay enormous trees
with interlacing branches. Each trunk which had seemed slender and
unpretentious in life, now, prone on the ground, assumed larger
proportions, like certain men whose measurements while living cannot
be casually estimated. The snow made the progress of the work going on
around him difficult. Every tree was covered with feathery layers, and
the branches showed fantastic formations of all sorts. The glare was
blinding.
Ready to fall with fatigue, Sidonie ran from one man to another crying:
“Where is L’Ours? Where is he?”
One of the choppers pointed to the spot where Jean, with arms bare to
the elbow, was striking his last blow into the tottering tree.
Conscious only of the idea which for over two hours had sustained her,
Sidonie did not realize her danger. She hastened toward Jean Manant
with unsteady steps. He did not recognize her as he cried: “Look out
there, will you? You will be killed!”
The large oak-tree, wavering for an instant, fell toward Sidonie.
Jean uttered a desperate cry. Bracing himself against a broken trunk,
he pushed with all his might against the falling tree. His gigantic
strength deviated it from the course in which it started, and as it
crashed to the earth, a mass of twigs and splinters was showered
around. Sidonie had not been conscious of her peril, so centred were
her thoughts upon the man whom it was her dream to save.
“L’Ours! Bruno!” she gasped, and fainted at his feet.
Jean heard but the last exclamation.
The blood mounted to his head and perspiration broke out on his
forehead. After recognizing Sidonie he knew at once that something had
happened to Bruno. He must be in danger. But of what?
Sidonie remained inanimate upon the ground. Unused to seeing people in
fainting spells, he knew not what to do.
“Perhaps,” he thought, “cognac will revive her.”
He put his flask to Sidonie’s lips and soon afterward she opened her
eyes. Then Jean eagerly began to question her.
“He is accused of murder. Murder, Jean! But he is innocent.”
“Who accuses him?”
“_Mon Dieu!_” she cried, “he accuses himself.”
“What!” thundered Jean, picking up his coat.
“He will save him,” Sidonie joyously murmured.
“Get up and follow me,” he demanded, tersely.
With an effort she struggled to her feet, and he led her toward the
village. At the entrance to the little street stood a picturesque
cottage ingeniously made of twisted roots. It was Jean’s own handiwork,
and he lived very happily in this snug habitation.
Before he entered the house Sidonie said: “You are going to St. Benoit,
are you not?”
“Yes,” he replied.
On entering the house he shouted: “Wife, warm up something for the
little one. She is Bruno’s best friend.”
“Say not so, Jean, say not so.”
“Why, you love him, do you not?”
“Oh, if--but----”
“I owe him a favor. And I will save him if I can. You eat something,
change your clothing, and then we will start.”
He had seen the condition of her garments, and out of solicitude for
her had suggested that she discard them for dry ones.
“But why should I change my clothing? At the end of a quarter of an
hour I shall be as wet as ever.”
“No. You will see. But we must not waste time. Make haste,
child.--Wife, give her some dry clothing.”
Sidonie submitted. Jean’s wife, a bright, alert little woman, with
large brown eyes and a delicate skin, contrasted strongly with her
husband. “Beauty and the Beast” people called them. Jeanne appeared
surprisingly happy. There was not a wrinkle on her brow, and her frank,
honest eyes and smiling, tender mouth spoke well for her husband’s love
and care.
After donning some warm, dry clothing Sidonie ate with a keen relish
the homely little repast Jeanne had prepared, for nothing had she eaten
since morning.
“Now I am going to fix your feet, little one, so you can walk
comfortably,” said Jean, when she had finished.
Then he carefully bound up her bruised and bleeding feet in soft
linen rags, and Jeanne brought out a pair of soft woollen stockings
and rubbers of her own as further expedients of relief. Now, warm and
carefully protected against the dampness, the little lame girl regained
her fortitude and good spirits, and the reaction gave fresh vigor to
her weary limbs.
“Now come, my child,” said he, as he put on his coat. After tenderly
embracing his wife, he took Sidonie’s hand in his and together they
started for St. Benoit. As they walked along Sidonie acquainted him
with the facts of the case as well as she was able.
“Yes, I agree with you, little one. It surely was not Bruno who killed
Savin.”
“When I saw he had determined to criminate himself, I was perfectly
willing to die,” said Sidonie, with a sigh.
“Poor child, I understand,” replied Jean, consolingly.
“It was Jeannille Marselon who thought of _you_ first.”
“Jeannille Marselon!”
“Yes. She said to me: ‘Go and find L’Ours, child.’”
“Brave woman! For once in her life she spoke well.”
“And so I came. I remembered your love for Bruno, and knew you would
help him if anybody would. And you _will_ save him, dear, good Jean,
won’t you?”
“Yes. He shall not go to prison.”
“Oh, Jean, how good you are!”
“No, no, child. It is he that is good and noble. Listen. No one knows
why I would die for Bruno. But I am going to tell _you_, because you
appreciate his worth.”
“Oh, yes, tell me.”
“Well, listen. Five years ago at the Rouvray fair, while passing the
ox-stalls, I received a terrible blow from the horn of a cow, on the
face. I was badly hurt and in a sorry plight, when Monsieur Morris the
doctor, passing by told me I must have the wound dressed. I made light
of it, but the doctor seized my arm and drew me into a little cottage,
the nearest one from the spot where we were standing. It was terribly
hot weather. You remember--in ’81.”
“Yes, yes, I remember.”
“As I said before, he took me by the arm and led me in. A widow and
her daughter occupied the cottage. The latter gave me a drink of cold
water, and from that moment I was not conscious what the doctor was
doing to my face. I was too much in love with the pretty young woman to
mind what he did. I watched her come and go, and my heart was hers from
that moment. You can guess who it was. Yes, it was Jeanne, God bless
her!”
Sidonie gave a little gasp. Jean did not realize that he was taking
long strides and that the little lame girl was desperately trying to
keep up with him. L’Ours continued, not noticing her discomfort:
“I said to myself, ‘God never made such a beautiful creature to be
mated with a man like me.’ When the doctor had finished I thanked
everybody--first Monsieur Morris, then the widow, and finally Jeanne.
She smiled at me, but I was so stupid I knew not what I said. But she
answered sweetly, and then I went away.”
“Jean, I cannot walk so fast,” interrupted Sidonie.
“Forgive me, little one. I forget.”
He stopped a moment for Sidonie to rest, and then they started on.
“I never remembered having seen such eyes as hers before, and such a
pretty mouth, dainty figure, and glossy hair. Well, when I went out I
forgot all about the fair and returned to the woods.”
Thoroughly exhausted, Sidonie said: “L’Ours, leave me here. I can go no
farther.”
“Why, little one?”
“You must go on to St. Benoit to save Bruno, and I can only hinder you.
I cannot walk.”
“Lean against my arm, child, and you can go better. We are just half
way now. Keep up your courage, child, I cannot leave you here.”
They again started.
“Once alone, I dreamed of her at will. I was mad with love.”
“Poor Jean! Yes, it is terrible.”
“You know--yes. I shall do for you what he did for me.”
“What?”
“Was I dreaming or waking, her face haunted me. I lost strength. I
could not eat or sleep, and for a year I suffered in silence. Sometimes
in the winter, in spite of cold and snow, I would set out for Rouvray.
I would watch her window, and when the light was extinguished I would
walk back four miles, rewarded by having seen her shadow on the
curtain. One night I met Fadard.”
“Jean, good Jean, I cannot go any farther. My feet are sinking from
under me. Leave me.”
“What! Leave you here? Oh, no! Would you die in the snow?”
“It would not matter.”
“Don’t be foolish. I dreamed of dying once, too, but Jeanne saved me.”
Sidonie had stumbled upon a stick, and Jean now stooped down and lifted
her upon his shoulder.
“What are you doing, Jean? You will be worn out and delayed if you
carry me.”
“You are like a bird, little one. Have no fear. We will go faster now.”
“Finish your story, Jean,” she requested at last.
“Well, time went on, and still I suffered. Bruno noticed it finally,
and asked me the trouble--Bruno, who had come to me with all his little
troubles. Like a fool, I began to cry. My heart was full and I told
him all. The following day he went away on foot to Rouvray, and he saw
Jeanne and her mother. I do not know what he said, but a week later he
brought us together. I could only look at her, with wide open eyes. It
was Jeanne who first spoke. She told me it would not be so disagreeable
to be my wife--she so pretty, so dainty, so winning, and I so ugly,
uncouth, and boorish. Well, I asked her if she could really love
me--and in three months we were married. And I am so happy! so happy!
And, Sidonie, my wife--ah, she loves me--ugly and clumsy as I am; and
it is to Bruno, who brought it about, that I owe my happiness. Bruno!
Yes, I would lay down my life for him. I owe him everything.”
Jean would have continued, but Sidonie, exhausted and benumbed with
cold, had fallen asleep in his arms.
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