strains of bagpipe, fife and tambourine announced the arrival of the
peasants. Robineau realized that it was his duty to go out and receive
the guests to whom he had promised a ball. So they left the table, to
the great regret of Monsieur Férulus, who seemed disposed to pass the
evening there, and went into the courtyard, where the Auvergnats were
assembled. Robineau tried to assume a seignorial air as he saluted the
good people, who were glad to come to his house to dance. Alfred and
Edouard accosted the prettiest of the peasant girls, to obtain a
moment’s distraction; for one must needs divert one’s thoughts, even
when one is in love, and especially when one is not certain of being
loved in return. The two young men were not yet at that point; they
thought a great deal about little Isaure, it is true, but they did not
choose to avow to themselves that there was anything more than curiosity
in their desire to see her again. When we begin to love, we play with
our sentiments; and when we try to overcome them, we discover that it
is too late to remedy the mischief.
They went to the garden, and selected the place where the beets were
fewest and stationed an orchestra there on empty casks; that was not
very dignified, but as the notabilities of the neighborhood were not
present, they could afford to be less particular. The orchestra
consisted of bagpipes, drums and fifes. The peasants took their places
in high glee. Robineau considered it incumbent on him to open the ball,
and, his two friends having already invited the prettiest girls, he
selected the one who wore the best clothes. Monsieur Férulus, seeing
that monseigneur proposed to dance, hastened to take a partner and to
stand opposite Monsieur de la Roche-Noire.
The ball began; the Auvergnat music was not melodious, but it was noisy,
and the dancers, male and female, were accustomed to accompany their
steps with shouts and clapping of hands. It was difficult to remain
indifferent amid such an uproar. Alfred and Edouard capered and twirled
about with their partners, and laughingly struck the great hands that
the peasant girls held out to them. Monsieur Férulus never ceased to say
to his partner:
"You are opposite Monsieur de la Roche-Noire; be careful of your steps,
stand straight, lower your eyes, and watch your partner."
The Auvergnate followed her own devices, shouting, stamping and clapping
her hands. As the Auvergne _bourrées_ never come to an end, Robineau
danced for half an hour, until he could hold out no longer. Monsieur
Férulus was drenched, but he thought that politeness forbade him to
leave the ball before Monsieur de la Roche-Noire. Luckily for them both,
the concierge and the gardener appeared laden with hampers of wine, and
the orchestra spontaneously paused to partake of refreshments.
They drank, then the dancing began again; they stopped again to drink,
then returned to their capering. This lasted four hours, for the
Auvergnats are indefatigable drinkers and dancers.
But it was after eleven o’clock; the open-air ball-room, which had been
indifferently well lighted with candle ends, began to grow dark. Alfred
and Edouard had taken their partners to walk in the garden, and the
village maidens had returned to the dance in some slight disarray. Some
papas and mammas were sleeping on the benches; Monsieur Férulus had
taken his leave long before, and Robineau, who was anxious to retire,
was thinking that he would be glad to show his guests to the door, when
he heard outcries and loud oaths from one part of the assemblage.
Messieurs Vincent and Cunette did not dance, but they had not stopped
drinking since the opening of the ball. The concierge had finished
himself, and the gardener had attained the level reached by his comrade.
But Monsieur Vincent was ugly in his cups; it took very little to anger
him, and then he always wanted to fight everybody. He had fallen into a
dispute with an Auvergnat, and they had already come to blows, Cunette,
like a staunch friend, taking Vincent’s part, when Robineau, who was
very angry that anyone should presume to fight on his premises, appeared
on the scene, not doubting for an instant that his presence would
suffice to restore tranquillity.
"What! is it my concierge and my gardener who are making all this
noise?" he said as he drew near. "Why are you fighting, knaves?"
"Go to the devil! Let us alone!" said Cunette, not recognizing his
master. "I am defending my friend Vincent, and----"
"Villain! do you dare to speak thus to me?"
"I’ll hit you if you come any nearer!" cried Vincent, striking to right
and left; and the new seigneur, being in the midst of the _mêlée_, was
in imminent danger of receiving a storm of blows, when Mademoiselle
Cheval succeeded in forcing her way through the crowd, and taking her
master in her arms as easily as if she were lifting a child, she bore
him away, clearing a passage by distributing fisticuffs on every side.
Meanwhile François, Alfred and Edouard, each armed with a broomstick,
succeeded in driving all the guests outside the walls. Messieurs Cunette
and Vincent went to bed, and peace finally reigned once more within the
château.
"That was a very nice party!" said Alfred, as he and Edouard returned,
laughing heartily, from expelling the peasants.
"Oh, yes!" replied Robineau, feeling his ribs, "I shan’t forget my ball!
If ever I ask those worthies to dance here again!--Ouf! what an infernal
racket! I came near being beaten to death!--And how disrespectful my
servants were. I will discharge them to-morrow."
"Why, my dear fellow, they were drunk! You must forgive them."
"They will simply get drunk again!"
"But you won’t employ them every day distributing provisions and
entertaining the peasants!"
"No! God forbid!"
"You chose to begin on a large scale; one must pay for one’s
apprenticeship in everything."
"Good-night, Monsieur Jules," said Edouard.
"Good-night, Monsieur de la Roche-Noire," said Alfred, following Edouard
from the room.
Robineau was left alone. It was nearly midnight; his bedroom was lighted
only by a single candle and three-fourths of it was in darkness.
Robineau called François to help him to undress, and ordered him to
sleep in the adjoining room, so that he might come to him at once if he
should call.
At last Robineau climbed into bed, after placing a lamp by the bedside.
The man of Clermont-Ferrand recurred to his mind. His bedroom began to
seem too large; the hangings to be very gloomy, and Susannah’s face,
which he had admired in the morning, frightened him at night. He was no
longer so much in love with the antique, and he did not go to sleep
until he had determined to begin on the morrow to give a more modern
aspect to his domain.
XII
A VISIT TO ISAURE
Edouard rose with the dawn. He had no desire to pass another day roaming
about the Château of La Roche-Noire, but he promised himself a much
sweeter pleasure--he was determined to see the little goatherd again, to
revisit the valley where Isaure lived; he had not forgotten the girl for
an instant, and, although he had had less to say about her than his
friend, he had certainly been more engrossed by thoughts of her. In love
as in politics, those who talk little are more to be feared than
chatterers.
Edouard went down into the courtyard, where he found the concierge and
the gardener, entirely sober, awaiting their master’s waking to make
their excuses to him. Paying no heed to those worthies’ assurances of
repentance, Edouard left the château, crossed the green and inquired of
the first person he met the shortest road to Chadrat. Then he started
for that village, climbing the hills and mountains at a rapid pace. In
an hour he covered the distance which had taken them twice as long on
the preceding day. He soon recognized his surroundings; he saw the
valley, the White House, and Isaure’s cottage. Not until then did he
stop to take breath before going down into the valley at a more
leisurely pace and looking all about.
He halted a few yards from the cottage, at which he gazed for some time,
saying to himself:
"There, far from the world, she lives alone. She is as lovely as the
angels are painted; she seems virtuous, and as artless as innocence
itself! But it is impossible that she should not turn some mountaineer’s
head ere long. They are afraid of her, the idiots! But the travellers,
the people from the city who see her! It is unreasonable to leave that
young girl thus exposed to innumerable perils.--But why should I worry
about her? I have seen the child but once; I hardly spoke to her. Am I
going to take fire at the first glance, like Alfred? Oh, no! I am more
sensible. It would be shocking to try to seduce that sweet girl! But one
may come to see her without instantly falling in love with her.--Let us
see if she is at home."
Edouard walked to the cottage; but the door was closed, and only the
yelping of Vaillant answered the young man, who was sorely disappointed
not to find the girl at home. He remembered that she drove her goats to
pasture on the neighboring mountain, and he walked in that direction. He
soon discovered Isaure seated on a low mound, reading, while her goats
cropped the grass nearby.
"These mountaineers are not altogether wrong," thought Edouard, as he
watched from a distance the little goatherd, who had not seen him. "It
is no common thing to see goatherds reading, and this girl expresses
herself altogether too well to be confounded with the ordinary peasant.
Someone must have taught her what the other young women in these
mountains do not know; and that someone cannot have been either of the
peasants who took care of her when she was a child. There is something
very strange, mysterious, in everything connected with this
girl--doubtless that is why she interests me. How pretty she is, leaning
over her book, with her head resting on one of her hands! If I were a
painter, how I should like to paint that picture!"
After contemplating her for several minutes more, Edouard approached
Isaure. He walked softly in order not to disturb her; but he stumbled
over a stone, and at the noise the girl turned quickly. She started in
surprise when she discovered a young man near her; but he soon saw that
she recognized him, and a faint smile came to her lips. She rose as
Edouard drew nearer.
"Remain seated, pray; I do not mean to disturb you," said Edouard,
walking to her side awkwardly enough; for we are often most awkward when
we wish to appear least so. "I was taking a walk among the hills. I saw
you, so I came this way.--But you were reading, were you not?"
"Yes, monsieur, I am very fond of reading!"
"That is a pleasure with which most of the people of these mountains are
unacquainted, I fancy."
"True, monsieur; but I thank heaven that I know more than they do; for,
as I am almost always alone, I rest myself with a book when I have been
working hard."
"May I venture to ask what you are reading?"
"Why not, monsieur?"
Isaure handed Edouard her book, which proved to be a volume of Florian.
He stared at the girl in surprise, then returned the book, saying:
"You certainly are not a village girl like the others."
"Because I can read?" rejoined Isaure, with a smile.
"Not that only; but your refined manners, your way of expressing
yourself."
"I speak like other people, monsieur."
"Not like the people who live about you; the very choice of this
book----"
"I did not choose it; it was given to me."
Edouard was on the point of asking: "By whom?" But he dared not; he
checked the impulse because he felt that his acquaintance with Isaure
was of too recent date to justify such a question. He was conscious of a
certain dissatisfaction, and it occurred to him that if Robineau were
there, he would say that the girl received a good many presents.
"Mon Dieu! perhaps you have not breakfasted, monsieur?" exclaimed the
young goatherd suddenly. "Will you come to the house? I never thought of
it!"
"No, no, I do not care for anything," said Edouard, detaining her; "I
only wish to talk with you, if it doesn’t bore you."
"Bore me! far from it, monsieur! People talk with me so seldom! The
shepherds drive their flocks as far as possible from mine, the
shepherdesses avoid me, and yet I have never injured anybody; have I a
wicked look, monsieur?"
"Oh, no! quite the opposite!" cried Edouard, on the point of taking her
hand and squeezing it tenderly; but again he restrained himself.
"Since my dear mother’s death, I have noticed that people avoid me, that
they hardly speak to me. At first that made me unhappy--it seemed very
sad to be all alone in the world, at my age--but since I have had
Vaillant, I am no longer alone. He loves me dearly, Vaillant does! He
doesn’t turn away when I want to caress him!"
There was in Isaure’s tone and language a blending of innocence and
charm, whose fascination it was hard to resist. It was the language of a
well-educated girl with the ingenuous tone of a native of the mountains.
As he listened to her Edouard felt that his suspicions faded away.
"You have no objection, then," he said, "to my coming sometimes to talk
with you?"
"Whenever you please, monsieur. Do you live near?"
"Why--yes--at La Roche-Noire; within two short leagues."
"Two leagues! that seems a long way to me. I have never been beyond the
tops of these hills."
"Have you never been to the next town? to Saint-Amand?"
"Oh! no, monsieur! I am strictly forbidden ever to leave my mountains."
"Who forbids you, pray, as you are all alone in the world, and have no
relations?"
Isaure made no reply for some seconds; at last she said:
"It was my dear mother who forbade me."
"But now that she is no more--are you not at liberty to follow your own
inclinations?"
"To be sure, monsieur; but I have no desire to go to the town. Why
should I go there?--Oh, no! I shall never leave dear, kind André’s
house, where my childhood was passed."
Edouard was silent for a moment. Isaure ran after one of her goats,
which had strayed away; he watched her run lightly up the cliff, then
seated himself near where she had been sitting and awaited her return.
The beauty of the spot, the perfect peace that reigned among the
mountains, which the sun was just beginning to bathe with light, the
solitude which surrounded himself and the pretty shepherdess--everything
coincided to suggest numberless thoughts to Edouard’s mind. He realized
that his heart beat more violently than usual, that his breath came
faster, that his imagination was perturbed by a longing for love, or
rather for pleasure.
But Isaure returned; she ran up and seated herself beside him, saying
with a smile: "Here I am at last!" And there was such perfect innocence,
and trust in her action and in her glance, that Edouard blushed inwardly
at the thoughts that had come to him; his brain became calm, his heart
less agitated; and not until then did he dare to look at Isaure.
"My goats sometimes make me run quite a long way," continued the girl;
"I know that I might take Vaillant with me, and that he would watch
them; but someone must watch the house."
"Do none of your neighbors in the mountains ever come to chat with you,
Isaure?"
"No, monsieur, never."
"And among all the travellers who pass through the valley, has there
never been one who, like myself, has returned to the mountains to see
you?"
"No, monsieur; but it very rarely happens that strangers come here, for
the valley is not on any well-travelled route, and the mountaineers who
act as guides to travellers always avoid passing the White House."
For a moment there was silence between the two young people. Edouard
scrutinized the girl more closely; she watched her goats wandering about
the hillside, and when from time to time she looked at Edouard, she
smiled artlessly. It was not the smile of a coquette seeking to beguile,
it was the smile of innocence which sees no peril in the pleasure to
which it gives birth.
"I was told at Chadrat that reading is not your sole talent," said
Edouard; "you sing also."
"Yes, monsieur, I often sing; I have nothing better to do! But I sing
very badly, I imagine."
"Who can have taught you songs that are unknown in these mountains?"
A faint flush rose to Isaure’s cheeks as she replied, lowering her eyes:
"It was a traveller who stayed some time with us."
"When your mother was alive?"
"Oh! yes, monsieur!"
Edouard said no more; in spite of himself vague suspicions assailed his
mind. To dissipate them he glanced at the girl, whose every feature was
so instinct with innocence. After several minutes passed thus, he
realized that he ought to return to the château, for he wished that his
absence should not be noticed, or, at all events, to conceal the fact
that he had been to Chadrat. So he rose and said to Isaure:
"I must leave you now."
"Already, monsieur?" said the girl ingenuously.
"What!" cried Edouard; "may I hope that my presence has given you some
pleasure?"
"As I have told you, monsieur, I very seldom have an opportunity to talk
with anyone here in the mountains."
"Oh! to be sure," said Edouard more coldly; "and that is the only
reason?"
He interrupted himself, thinking:
"Well! one would suppose that I expected this girl to be in love with me
already?--I preach at Alfred, and I am no better than he is."
"I will go down the mountain with you," said Isaure; "it is time for me
to go home--my poor Vaillant must be tired."
She ran at once to collect her herd, and drove it toward the valley,
skipping about and laughing heartily at every antic of her goats.
Edouard followed her, saying to himself:
"Her heart is calm and undisturbed; this frank gayety, this sweet
unrestraint show that her mind is not burdened with thoughts of love.
Poor child! for her own good, I pray that she may never know that
passion, which causes more sorrow than pleasure!"
Edouard sighed; something whispered to him that he would be very glad to
make that sorrow and that pleasure known to Isaure.
They reached the cottage, Isaure opened her door, and her dog ran out
and leaped upon her; then he looked at Edouard and walked around him,
but showed no temper.
"I believe that he recognizes you already," said the girl.
Edouard walked up to Vaillant and patted him a moment; the dog made no
objection, but kept his eyes fixed on his mistress, as if to ask her
whether the young man was a friend of hers.
"Good!" said Edouard, "I see that we shall be very good friends before
long.--Adieu, charming Isaure! until to-morrow morning."
"Until to-morrow, Monsieur--Pardon me, but I do not know your name."
"My name is Edouard."
"Very well; until to-morrow, Monsieur Edouard, as you will not rest a
moment under my roof to-day."
As she spoke, the girl curtsied gracefully to Edouard, then entered the
house singing. The young man retraced his steps to La Roche-Noire,
dreaming of the little goatherd.
"She is charming!" he said to himself again and again; "her manners, her
voice, her artlessness--all are fascinating!--Oh! I am not going to fall
in love with her--that would be foolish; but she is so interesting that
I wish it were to-morrow morning already.--I won’t tell Alfred that I
have been to see her; he would be quite capable of doing the same thing.
Alfred is a reckless fellow; he would begin making love to the child at
once. That would be an outrage, and I certainly would not permit it."
Poor Edouard! he did not propose to fall in love, and he was jealous
already!--Ah! what is the sense of trying to resist a passion so natural
at his age? Only when the age of reason comes must we be on our guard
against love, which, like the smallpox, is the more virulent the later
in life it attacks you.
XIII
THE VAGRANT AGAIN
Edouard returned to the Château of La Roche-Noire, unmindful of the
length of the walk he had taken. When a man is falling in love, he is so
preoccupied that he is never bored; that is some slight recompense, at
all events, for the torments which love sometimes causes.
Edouard met Alfred in the courtyard.
"You went out very early, did you not?" observed young De Marcey, gazing
fixedly at his friend; "when I got up I asked for you, and they told me
that you had been gone more than an hour. The devil! you are an early
bird! I confess that last night’s ball tired me a little; there’s no end
to those _bourrées_, and the damsels of Auvergne are no light
weights.--I’ll wager that I can guess where you’ve been--toward the
White House, eh? You wanted to see little Isaure again?"
"No, I haven’t been in that direction; I have been walking about the
neighborhood; it’s a lovely country.--Indeed, what is the sense of
trying to see that young girl again? It seems to me that it is useless,
to say the least."
"Useless to see a girl who’s as pretty as the Loves! For my part, I
think on the contrary that it’s a most excellent way to employ one’s
time."
"It is just because she is so pretty that it may be a dangerous
business. You especially, Alfred, who take fire so easily, would be
capable of falling in love, that is to say, of taking a fancy to this
village maiden.--I cannot think, however, that you intend to seduce
her."
"You cannot think!--you cannot think!--Look here, my dear Edouard, do
you propose to give me a course of moral lectures?--So far as I am
concerned, I have no plans as yet; but still that little girl is
pretty--I mean to see her again, and if she takes to me--faith, come
what come may!--Where would be the harm, after all?"
"That girl is virtuous and innocent, and you would disturb her
tranquillity! You would seek to arouse a sentiment which you will not
feel a week, and then you would abandon her to her grief! That would be
ghastly!"
"You are becoming romantic, Edouard.--In the first place, you say that
this girl is virtuous--which is not absolutely demonstrated. Her
peculiar situation--what people say about her--and the difference
between her manners and those of her neighbors, give rise to many
conjectures. But still, assume that she is virtuous--at any moment, some
peasant, some clown, may fall in love with her and attract her; why then
are you unwilling that I should try to be as fortunate as one of these
country bumpkins? Furthermore, my dear fellow, if we were always guided
by such reflections, we should never have the least little love affair,
and we should always go about with downcast eyes for fear of meeting a
charming woman and of conceiving evil thoughts!--It would be
magnificent, I agree; but what can you expect? perfection is not in
human nature; our first parents yielded to temptation, and I shall never
have the self-command to be more virtuous than they were!"
Edouard said no more; he would have liked to be able to conceal the
vexation he felt, and he was about to leave Alfred, when Robineau
appeared, followed by several workmen whom François had brought from the
town.
"The thing to be done, my boys," said Robineau, "is to make this château
over new--or, at least, something like it. The rooms are certainly too
dark, the hangings too old, the windows too small, and the stairways too
rickety. Repair, replace, pull down, paint, paste; and, above all
things, work fast. I will pay you--like a grand seigneur.--François,
show these fellows where to begin; you know my plans."
"What, my friend!" said Alfred; "are you going to repair the whole
château?"
"No, not the whole of it; but at all events the part I shall occupy, and
where I shall receive company. As for the North Tower, that may remain
as it is; I shall never go there.--Next, we must dig up the whole garden
and replant it. Do you suppose that I can receive the best society of
Saint-Amand, and take them to walk among beet greens? I should give them
a fine idea of my taste!--I am going to spend a lot of money, to be
sure, but a rich marriage will repay it all."
"Are you thinking of marriage already?"
"Faith, yes! In my opinion, marriage gives a man ballast, consideration.
However, we will see about that.--But I am going to Saint-Amand; you
will come with me, I hope?"
Alfred hesitated--he had another plan in mind. Edouard, observing his
hesitation, made haste to say:
"Yes, yes; let’s go to Saint-Amand. They say it’s a very pretty town,
and we must become acquainted with the townspeople."
After a moment’s reflection, Alfred agreed to go. Monsieur Cunette came
forward, bowing to the ground before his master, whose feet he was
ready to kiss, and announced that the cabriolet was ready.
"What’s that? have you a cabriolet?"