little Marie could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast
asleep. She felt uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could
not guess what was passing in his mind. But she dared not speak to
him more, and as she was too astonished at what had passed to have
any desire to sleep, she waited impatiently for dawn, tending the
fire with care and watching over the child, whose existence Germain
appeared to forget. Yet Germain was not asleep. He did not mope
over his lot. He made no plans to encourage himself, nor schemes to
entrap the girl. He suffered; he felt a great weight of grief at
his heart. He wished that he were dead. The world seemed to turn
against him, and if he could have wept at all, his tears would have
come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was a feeling of
anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the power or the
wish to complain.
When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to
Germain’s senses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He
saw that little Marie had slept no more than he, but he knew no
words in which to tell her of his anxiety. He was very discouraged.
Hiding the gray’s saddle once more in the thicket, he slung his
sack over his shoulder and took his son by the hand.
“Now, Marie,” said he, “we are going to try to end our journey. Do
you wish me to take you to Ormeaux?”
“Let us leave the woods together,” answered she, “and when we know
where we are, we shall separate, and go our different ways.”
Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him
to take her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had
asked her in a tone well fitted to provoke a refusal.
After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out
the highroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain,
one must turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their
different destinations, which were so near together that the houses
of Fourche were in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and _vice
versa_.
When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called
them back to ask whether they had not lost a horse.
“Yes,” he said, “I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where
perhaps a wolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the
whole night long, and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She
is there now. Come along with me, and if you recognize her, you may
take her.”
When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt
convinced that it was really she, he started back to find his
saddle. Little Marie offered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither
he might go to get him after he had introduced himself at Fourche.
“He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed,” said she.
“I will brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair,
and when he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new
family.”
“Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?” answered Germain,
petulantly. “Perhaps I shall not go.”
“But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go
there,” replied the girl.
“You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be
quite sure that I shall not trouble you again?”
“Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which
came to you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away
your spirits. But now you must come to your senses. I promise you
to forget everything that you said to me, and not to breathe it to
a soul.”
“Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have
spoken. What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush
for it before anybody.”
“Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you
were thinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you.
So take care how you speak now. Don’t look at me before everybody
with such a rapt expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on
your obedience, and who would be enraged at me if I were to turn
you from his will. Good-by, Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order
to force you to go to Fourche. He is a pledge which I keep on your
behalf.”
“So you want to go with her?” said the husbandman to his son,
seeing that the boy had clasped Marie’s hands and was following her
resolutely.
“Yes, father,” answered the child, who had heard the conversation
and understood after his own fashion the words spoken so
unguardedly before him. “I am going away with my dearest little
Marie. You shall come to find me when you have done marrying, but I
wish Marie to be my little mother.”
“You see how much he wishes it,” said Germain to the girl. “Listen
to me, Petit-Pierre,” he added. “I wish her to be your mother and
to stay with you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to
make her grant you what she has denied me.”
“Don’t be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie
does everything that I wish.”
He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and
more irresolute than ever.
[Illustration: (Ornament)]
XI
The Belle of the Village
And after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his
clothes and from his horse’s harness, when he had mounted the gray,
and when he had learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat
and that he must forget that anxious night as though it had been a
dangerous dream.
He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green.
The six stone steps leading up to the door showed that the house
had a cellar. The walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were
plastered with lime and sand. It was a handsome house, and might
almost have been mistaken for the dwelling of a bourgeois.
Germain’s future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and having
plied him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entire
family, he added that conventional phrase with which one passer-by
addresses another concerning the object of his journey: “So you are
taking a little trip in this part of the country?”
“I have come to see you,” replied the husbandman, “to give you this
little present of game with my father’s compliments, and to tell
you from him that you ought to know with what intentions I come to
your house.”
“Oh, ho!” said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capacious
stomach, “I see, I understand, I am with you, and,” he added with a
wink, “you will not be the only one to pay your court, young man.
There are three already in the house dancing attendance like you.
I never turn anybody away, and I should find it hard to say yes or
no to any of them, for they are all good matches. Yet, on account
of Father Maurice and for the sake of the rich fields you till, I
hope that it may be you. But my daughter is of age and mistress
of her own affairs. She will do as she likes. Go in and introduce
yourself. I hope that you will draw the prize.”
“I beg your pardon,” answered Germain, amazed to find himself an
extra when he had counted on being alone in the field. “I was not
aware that your daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I
did not come to quarrel over her.”
“If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter
would be left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son,”
replied Father Leonard with unshaken good humor. “Catherine has
the wherewithal to attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies
in choosing. But come in; don’t lose heart. The woman is worth a
struggle.”
And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, he
called to his daughter as they entered the house:
“So, Catherine, here is another!”
This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, in
the presence of her other devotees, completed Germain’s distress
and embarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and
stood for a few moments without daring to look upon the beauty and
her court.
The Widow Guérin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but
her expression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw
her. She had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with
three lace flounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black
lace were little in accord with the staid and sober widow he had
pictured to himself.
Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge
the widow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He
thought that such finery and playful manners might well suit little
Marie’s years and wit, but that the widow’s fun was labored and
over bold, and that she wore her fine clothes in bad taste.
The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and
meats which were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday
morning; for Father Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the
widow was not sorry to display her pretty china and keep a table
like a rich lady. Germain, simple and unsuspecting as he was,
watched everything with a penetrating glance, and for the first
time in his life he kept on the defensive when he drank. Father
Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, and taking a chair
opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talked to him
rather than to the others.
The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his
own account, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The
widow did not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast
disdainful glances in its direction.
Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily.
Father Leonard poked fun at him.
“You look very melancholy,” said he, “and you are ill-using your
glass. You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a
fasting lover can make no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas
are brightened with a drop of wine.”
Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and the
artificial manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with a
smile as a woman does who is sure of her calculations, made him
long to protest against his pretended surrender; but fearing to
appear uncivil, he smiled and held his peace.
He thought the widow’s beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been
rich for her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty,
and fat as Father Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like
a sot. The third was a young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he
kept insisting on displaying his wit, and would say things so silly
that they were painful to hear. Yet the widow laughed as though she
admired all his foolishness, and made small proof of her good taste
thereby. At first Germain thought her infatuated with him, but soon
he perceived that he himself was especially encouraged, and that
they wished him to make fresh advances. For this reason he felt an
increasing stiffness and severity which he took no pains to conceal.
The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither
in company. It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good
half-league away, and Germain was so tired that he longed to take a
nap before they went; but he was not in the habit of missing mass,
and he started with the others.
The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly
along, escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one
and then of another, and carrying her head high with an air of
importance. She was eager to display the fourth to the eyes of the
passers-by; but Germain felt so ridiculous to be dragged along in
the train of a petticoat where all the world might see, that he
kept at a respectable distance, chatting with Father Leonard, and
succeeded in occupying his attention so well that they did not look
at all as if they belonged to the party.
[Illustration: (Ornament)]
XII
The Master
When they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to
catch up. She was bent upon making her entry with all her train;
but Germain, denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard,
and after conversing with several acquaintances, he entered the
church by another door. The widow was vexed.
When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn,
where dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her three
lovers in turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well,
but with affectation.
“So, you don’t ask my daughter?” said Leonard, tapping him on the
shoulder. “You are too easily frightened.”
“I have not danced since I lost my wife,” answered the husbandman.
“But now that you are looking for another, mourning’s over in
heart as well as in clothes.”
“That’s no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I
don’t care for dancing.”
“Listen,” said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired
corner, “when you entered my house you were vexed to see the place
already besieged, and I see that you are very proud. But that is
not reasonable, my boy. My daughter is used to a great deal of
attention, particularly since she left off her mourning two years
ago, and it is not her place to lead you on.”
“Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years already
without making her choice?” asked Germain.
“She doesn’t wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has
lively manners, and although you may not think that she reflects
a great deal, she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows
very well what she is about.”
“It does not appear to me so,” said Germain ingenuously, “for she
has three suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there
are two of them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and
request to stay at home.”
“Why, Germain, you don’t understand at all. She doesn’t wish the
old man, nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain;
yet if she were to turn them off, people would think that she
wished to remain a widow, and nobody else would come.”
“Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post.”
“As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?”
“Every man to his taste,” said Germain.
“I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen,
then they would leave the coast clear.”
“Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to
whistle?”
“That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, my
daughter has always thought that she would pass the best part of
her life while she was being courted, and she is in no hurry to
become the servant of one man when she can order so many others
about. So she will please herself as long as the game amuses her;
but if you please her more than the game, the game will cease. Only
you must not lose courage. Come back every Sunday, dance with her,
let her know that you are amongst her followers, and if she finds
you more agreeable and better bred than the others, some fine day
she will tell you so, no doubt.”
“Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as
she pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in
her place, I should do differently. I should be more frank, and
should not waste the time of men who have, doubtless, something
better to do than dancing attendance on a woman who makes fun of
them. Still, if that is what amuses her and makes her happy, it is
no affair of mine. Only there is one thing I must tell you which is
a little embarrassing, since you have mistaken my intentions from
the start, for you are so sure of what is not so, that you have
given me no chance to explain. You must know, then, that I did not
come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but merely to buy a
pair of oxen which you are going to take to market next week, and
which my father-in-law thinks will suit him.”
“I understand, Germain,” answered Leonard very calmly; “you changed
your plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you
please. It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and
you are perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared
your intentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and
see them in the pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you
will come back to dinner with us before you return.”
“I don’t wish to trouble you,” answered Germain. “Perhaps you have
something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join
you at your house.”
Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows
where Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was
true that Father Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that
if he were to bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price,
he might more easily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing
the purpose of his journey. He walked rapidly, and soon found
himself at some distance from Ormeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a
desire to kiss his son and to see little Marie once again, although
he had lost all hope and even had chased away the thought that he
might some day owe his happiness to her. Everything that he had
heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain; this father, at
once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter in habits
of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a
transgression against the dignity of country manners; this time
wasted in foolish, empty words; this home so different from his
own; and above all, that deep uneasiness which comes to a laborer
of the fields when he leaves his accustomed toil: all the trouble
and annoyance of the past few hours made Germain long to be with
his child and with his little neighbor. Even had he not been in
love, he would have sought her to divert his mind and raise his
spirits to their wonted level.
But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neither
little Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when
shepherds are in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture.
He asked of a young boy who tended them whether the sheep belonged
to the farm of Ormeaux.
“Yes,” said the child.
“Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongst
you?”
“No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went
away. She was ill.”
“But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?”
“Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already.”
“What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?”
“Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had
been here two hours.”
“Went away! Where?”
“Where they came from, I suppose. I didn’t ask them.”
“But why did they go away?” asked Germain, growing more and more
uneasy.
“How the deuce do I know?”
“Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settled
before.”
“I can tell you nothing about it. I saw them come and go, nothing
more.”
Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody
could give him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer,
he felt sure that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had
taken the weeping child with her.
“Can they have been ill-treating my son?” cried Germain.
“It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little
girl? Where do you come from, and what is your name?”
Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they were
answering him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and
asked to speak with the master.
The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when
he came to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to
one of his other farms.
“But, honestly,” said Germain, growing very anxious, “can’t you
tell me why this girl left?”
The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former
answered that he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his.
All that Germain could learn was that both girl and child had
started off toward Fourche. He rushed back to Fourche. The widow
and her lovers were still away; so was Father Leonard. The maid
told him that a girl and a child had come to ask for him, but that
as she did not know them, she did not wish to let them in, and had
advised them to go to Mers.
“And why did you refuse to let them in?” said Germain, angrily.
“People are very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the
door to a neighbor.”
“But you see,” answered the maid, “in a house as rich as this, I
must keep my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible
for everything, and I cannot open the door to the first person that
comes along.”
“It is a bad custom,” said Germain, “and I had rather be poor than
to live in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman,
and good-by to your vile country.”
He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess
and child had been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly,
carelessly dressed, with his blouse torn, and his little lambskin
over his shoulders, and as little Marie was necessarily poorly clad
at all times, they had been taken for beggars. People had offered
them bread. The girl had accepted a crust for the child, who was
hungry, then she had walked away with him very quickly, and had
entered the forest.
Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of
Ormeaux had not been at Fourche.
“Yes,” they answered, “he passed on horseback a few seconds after
the girl.”
“Was he chasing her?”
“Oh, so you understand?” answered the village publican, with a
laugh. “Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running
after girls. But I don’t believe that he caught her; though, after
all, if he had seen her--”
“That is enough, thank you!” And he flew rather than ran to
Leonard’s stable. Throwing the saddle on the gray’s back, he leaped
upon it, and set off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube.
His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down his
forehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the gray
needed no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable.
[Illustration: (Ornament)]
XIII
The Old Woman
Germain came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on the
border of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman was
gathering the remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there.
Germain stopped to question her. She was deaf and mistook his
inquiries.
“Yes, my son,” said she, “this is the Devil’s Pool. It is an evil
spot, and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones
with your left hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That
drives away the spirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go
around it.”
“I am not asking about that,” said Germain, moving nearer her, and
screaming at the top of his lungs. “Have you seen a girl and a
child walking through the wood?”
“Yes,” said the old woman, “a little child was drowned there.”
Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:
“That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they
raised a handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad
spirits threw it into the water. You can still see one end of it.
If anybody were unlucky enough to pass the night here, he could
never find his way out before daylight. He must walk and walk, and
though he went two hundred leagues into the forest, he must always
return to the same place.”
The peasant’s imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and the
thought of the evils that must come in order that the old woman’s
assertions might be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind
that he felt chilled through and through. Hopeless of obtaining
more news, he remounted, and traversed the woods afresh, calling
Pierre with all his might, whistling, cracking his whip, and
snapping the branches that the whole forest might reëcho with the
noise of his coming; then he listened for an answering voice, but
he heard no sound save the cowbells scattered through the glades,
and the wild cries of the swine as they fought over the acorns.
At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following
in his traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed
after the city fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never
seen the farmer of Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at
once that this was the man. He turned, and eyeing him from head to
foot, waited for him to speak.
“Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a
small boy?” asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference,
although he was evidently ill at ease.
“What do you want of her?” answered Germain, taking no pains to
conceal his anger.
“I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend.
But as I have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is
a shepherdess whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When
I saw her, she looked too young and frail to work on the farm. I
thanked her, but I wished to pay the expenses of her short journey,
and while my back was turned, she went off in a huff. She was in
such a hurry that she forgot even some of her belongings and her
purse, which has certainly not much in it, probably but a few
pennies; but since I was going in this direction, I hoped to meet
her, and give her back the things which she left behind, as well as
what I owe her.”
Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story
which, however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his
penetrating gaze on the farmer, who submitted to the examination
with a plentiful supply of impudence or of good faith.
“I wish to get at the bottom of this matter,” said Germain; “and,”
continued he, suppressing his indignation, “the girl lives in
my village. I know her. She can’t be far away. Let’s ride on
together; we shall find her, no doubt.”