find her before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for
I must turn off toward Ardentes.”
“Oh, oh!” thought the peasant, “I shall not part with you, even if
I have to follow you around the Devil’s Pool for twenty-four hours.”
“Stop,” said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom
which waved in a peculiar manner. “Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is
that you, my child?”
The boy recognized his father’s voice, and came out from the broom
leaping like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with
the farmer, he stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. “Come, my
Pierre, come. It is I,” cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his
horse and ran toward his boy to take him in his arms; “and where is
little Marie?”
“She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black
man, and so am I.”
“You needn’t be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I.”
Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the
farmer close behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into
his arms, clung to him as a daughter to her father.
“Oh, my brave Germain!” she cried, “you will defend me. I am not
afraid when you are near.”
Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes
were torn by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed,
rushing toward the brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But
neither shame nor despair were in her face.
“Your master wishes to speak to you,” said he, his eyes fixed on
her features.
“My master!” she exclaimed fiercely; “that man is no master of
mine, and he never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I
want you to take me home with you. I will be your servant for
nothing.”
The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. “Little girl,” said he,
“you left something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to
you.”
“No, you are not, sir,” answered little Marie. “I didn’t forget
anything, and I have nothing to ask of you.”
“Listen a moment,” returned the farmer. “It’s I who have something
to tell you. Come with me. Don’t be afraid. It’s only a word or
two.”
“You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you.”
“At any rate, do take your money.”
“My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!”
“I suspected as much,” said Germain under his breath, “but I don’t
care, Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for--I am curious
to know. You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not
lose sight of you.”
Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel
of his saddle, and lowering his voice he said:
“Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don’t say
anything about it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too
frail to work on my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I
shall be passing by your house one of these days; and if you have
not said anything, I will give you something more; and then if you
are more sensible, you have only to speak. I will take you home
with me, or I will come at dusk and talk with you in the meadows.
What present would you like me to bring you?”
“Here, sir, is the present I have for you,” answered little Marie,
aloud, as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her
might. “I thank you heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere
near our house, you will be good enough to let me know. All the
boys in the neighborhood will go out to welcome you, because, where
I live, we are very fond of gentlemen who try to make love to poor
girls. You shall see. They will be on the lookout for you.”
“You lie with your dirty tongue,” cried the farmer, raising his
stick with a dangerous air. “You wish to make people believe what
is not so, but you shall never get a penny out of me. We know what
kind of a girl you are.”
Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of
the farmer’s horse and shook it violently.
“I understand now,” said he; “it is easy to see what is going on.
Get down, my man, get down; I want to talk to you.”
The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape,
he set spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant’s grasp
by striking down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the
blow, and seizing hold of his antagonist’s leg, he unseated him and
flung him to the earth. The farmer regained his feet, but although
he defended himself vigorously, he was knocked down once more.
Germain held him to the ground. Then he said:
“Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don’t want to
do you an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help
your conscience--but you shall not stir from this spot until you
beg the girl’s pardon, on your knees.”
The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all
as a joke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since
it lay in words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing
to ask her pardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward.
Finally, he proposed that they go and drink a pint of wine at the
nearest tavern, and so part good friends.
“You are disgusting!” answered Germain, rubbing his victim’s head
in the dirt, “and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So
blush, if you are able, and when you come to our village, you had
better slink along Sneak’s Alley.”[2]
He picked up the farmer’s holly-stick, broke it over his knee to
show the strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with
disgust. Then giving one hand to his son and the other to little
Marie, he walked away, still trembling with anger.
[2] This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at
the entrance of villages, makes a circuit about them. Persons who
are in dread of receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed
to take this route to escape attention.
[Illustration: (Ornament)]
XIV
The Return to the Farm
At the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them.
They trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each
familiar object. Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could
understand of what had passed.
“When we reached the farm,” said he, “that man came to speak to my
Marie in the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had
climbed into the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then
he said good morning to Marie, and he kissed her.”
“You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?” said Germain, trembling with
anger.
“I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers,
just as at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who
enter her service to show that she adopts them and will be a mother
to them.”
“And next,” went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an
adventure to tell of, “_that man_ told you something wicked, which
you have told me never to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot
it right away. Still, if father wishes, I will tell him what it
was--”
“No, Pierre, I don’t wish to hear, and I don’t wish you ever to
think of it again.”
“Then I will forget it all over again,” replied the child. “Next,
_that man_ seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that
she was going away. He told her he would give her whatever she
wanted,--a hundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he
came toward her as if he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I
ran to Marie and cried. Then _that man_ said: ‘What’s that? Where
did that child come from? Put it out,’ and he raised his cane to
beat me. But my Marie prevented him, and she spoke to him this
way: ‘We will talk later, sir; now I must take this child back to
Fourche, and then I shall return.’ And as soon as he had left the
fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: ‘We must run, my Pierre; we
must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wicked man and
he is trying to do us harm.’ Then when we had gone back of the
farm-houses, we crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to
find you. But you were not there, and they wouldn’t let us wait.
And then _that man_, riding his black horse, came behind us, and
we ran on as fast as we could and hid in the woods. And then he
followed us, and when we heard him coming, we hid again. And then,
when he had passed, we began to run toward home, and then you came
and found us, and that is how it all happened. I haven’t forgotten
anything, have I, my Marie?”
“No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be
my witness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not
stay there it was not from want of courage and industry.”
“And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is
too old when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be
revenged. I should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty
boy, ten years better off than I, would not have been knocked to
pieces by _that man_, as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?”
“I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that
I shall be grateful all my life.”
“Is that all?”
“Little father,” said the child, “I forgot to ask little Marie what
I promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at
home, and I will speak to my grandmother too.”
The child’s promise set Germain to thinking. He must explain his
conduct to his family and give his objections to the widow Guam,
and all the while conceal the true reasons which had made him
so judicious and so decided. When a man is proud and happy, it
seems an easy task to thrust his happiness upon others, but to be
repulsed on one side and blamed on the other is not a very pleasant
position.
Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the
farm, and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon
all sorts of explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged
stool before the door, listened with gravity; and, although he
was ill-content with the result of the journey, when Germain told
him about the widow’s systematic coquetry, and demanded of his
father-in-law whether he had the time to go and pay his court
fifty-two Sundays in the year at the risk of being dismissed in the
end, the old man nodded his head in assent and answered: “You were
not wrong, Germain; that could never be.” And then, when Germain
described how he had been obliged to bring back little Marie, with
the utmost haste, in order to protect her from the insults or
perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice nodded
approvingly again and said: “You were not wrong, Germain; that was
right.”
When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons,
the old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of
resignation, and looked at each other. Then the head of the house
rose and said: “God’s will be done. Love can’t be made to order.”
“Come to supper, Germain,” said his mother-in-law. “It is
unfortunate that this did not come to a better end, but, after all,
it seems that God did not wish it. We must look elsewhere.”
“Yes,” added the old man, “as my wife says, we must look elsewhere.”
There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when
Petit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer
excited by the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like
other little peasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot
everything that had been running in his head, and thought only of
playing with his brothers, and of pretending to drive the horses
and oxen like a man. Germain plunged into his work, and tried
to forget, too; but he became so absent-minded and so sad that
everybody noticed it. He never spoke to little Marie, he never
even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked him in what meadow
she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not a moment in
the day when he could not have answered if he would. He dared not
ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and
yet he knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not
suffer; and Mother Guillette could not understand how her little
store of wood never grew less, and how her shed was full in the
morning, although she had left it almost empty at night. It was the
same with the wheat and potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret
window, and emptied a sack on the floor without awaking a soul or
leaving a trace of his coming. The widow was at once uneasy and
delighted. She made her daughter promise to tell nobody, and said
that were people to know of the miracle performed at her house they
would take her for a witch. She felt confident that the devil had
a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrel with him
by calling down the priest’s exorcisms on the house. It would be
time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in
return for his gifts.
Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not
speak to Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of
marriage, and, before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.
[Illustration: (Ornament)]
XV
Mother Maurice
One day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and
spoke to him kindly:
“My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don’t eat as well as
usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us,
or all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without
wishing it.”
“No, my mother,” answered Germain, “you have always been as kind
to me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be
very ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of
anybody in the household.”
“Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife’s death which comes
back to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief
becomes worse, and as your father has said very wisely, it is
absolutely necessary for you to marry again.”
“Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised
me to ask don’t suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting
my Catherine, I think of her all the more.”
“Apparently that’s because we haven’t been able to understand
your taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must
be a woman somewhere who is made for you, for God doesn’t make
anybody without placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you
know where to find this woman whom you need, take her, and be she
pretty or ugly, young or old, rich or poor, we have made up our
minds, my husband and I, to give our consent, for we are tired
of seeing you so sad, and we can never be happy while you are
sorrowful.”
“My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,”
answered Germain; “but your compassion brings small help to my
troubles, for the girl I love doesn’t care for me.”
“She is too young, then? It’s foolish for you to love a young girl.”
“Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl,
and it’s my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but,
working or sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with
you, I can think of nothing else.”
“Then it’s like a fate cast over you, Germain. There’s but one
remedy, and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen
to you. It’s my duty to look into this, and see whether it’s
practicable. Tell me where she lives, and what’s her name.”
“Oh, my dear mother, I dare not,” said Germain, “because you will
make fun of me.”
“I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble,
and I don’t wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?”
“No, mother, of course not.”
“Or Rosette?”
“No.”
“Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl
in the countryside.”
Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer.
“Very good,” said Mother Maurice, “I shall let you alone for
to-day; to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me,
or possibly your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly.”
And she picked up her basket to go and spread her linen on the
bushes.
Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see
that they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his
mother, and at length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette.
Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person
she would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out,
and made her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt
Germain, she stretched out her basket toward him and said:
“Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this
load, and come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain?
Are you fully decided?”
“Alas, dear mother, you mustn’t speak in that way. I should be
decided if I had a chance of success, but as I could never be
heard, I have only made up my mind to cure myself, if I can.”
“And if you can’t.”
“There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is
laden too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat,
she dies.”
“Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God
grant not, Germain. I don’t like to hear a man like you talk of
those things; for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and
weakness is dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can’t conceive
that a poverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to
ask her to marry you, will refuse you.”
“Yet it’s the truth: she does refuse me.”
“And what reasons does she give you?”
“That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a
great deal to yours, and that she doesn’t wish to displease you by
turning me away from a rich marriage.”
“If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an
honest girl she is. But, Germain, she doesn’t cure you; for of
course she tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we
were willing?”
“That’s the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be
mine.”
“If she says what she doesn’t think in order to keep you at a
safer distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass
over her youth on account of her great good sense.”
“Yes,” said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before;
“that would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so
sensible, I am sure it is because I displease her.”
“Germain,” said Mother Maurice, “you must promise me not to worry
for a whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be
as gay as you used to be. For my part, I’ll speak to my husband,
and if I gain his consent, you shall know the girl’s real feelings
toward you.”
Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in
private from Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The
husbandman did his best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and
more troubled.
[Illustration: (Ornament)]
XVI
Little Marie
At length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-law
asked Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart
since the conversation in the orchard.
“Why, none at all,” answered he; “I haven’t spoken to her.”
“How can you expect to win her if you don’t speak to her?”
“I have spoken to her but once,” replied Germain. “That was when we
were together at Fourche, and since then I haven’t said a single
word. Her refusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear
her begin again to tell me that she doesn’t love me.”
“But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his
approval. So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if
need be, I shall order you to do it, for you can’t rest in this
uncertainty.”
Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette’s house, hanging his
head with a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth
so thoughtful that she did not hear Germain’s step. When she saw
him before her, she started from her chair in surprise and grew
very red.
“Little Marie,” said he, sitting down near her, “I come to trouble
you and to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and
his wife at home [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he
designated the heads of the house] wish me to speak to you, and beg
you to marry me. You don’t care for me. I am prepared for it.”
“Germain,” answered little Marie, “are you sure that you love me?”
“It pains you, I know, but it isn’t my fault. If you could change
your mind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I
don’t deserve it. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?”
“No, Germain,” she answered, with a smile, “you are better looking
than I.”
“Don’t make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never
lost a single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how
much I love you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there,
and every girl knows how to read that writing.”
Marie looked into Germain’s eyes with playful boldness; then of a
sudden she turned away her head and trembled.
“Good God,” exclaimed Germain, “I make you afraid; you look at me
as though I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don’t be afraid of me,
please don’t; that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words
to you, I shall not kiss you if you will not have me, and when you
wish me to go away, you have only to show me the door. Must I go in
order to stop your trembling?”
Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning
her head, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a
word.
“I understand,” said Germain. “You pity me, for you are kind; you
are sorry to make me unhappy; but you can’t love me.”
“Why do you say these things to me, Germain?” answered little
Marie, after a pause. “Do you wish to make me cry?”
“Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don’t
love me, and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see
your dislike and your repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your
hand! In the forest, when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping
too, I almost kissed you very gently. But I would have died of
shame rather than ask it of you, and that night I suffered as a man
burning over a slow fire. Since that time I have dreamed of you
every night. Ah! how I have kissed you, Marie! Yet during all that
time you have slept without a dream. And now, do you know what I
think? I think that were you to turn and look at me with the eyes
I have for you, and were you to move your face close to mine, I
believe I should fall dead for joy. And you, you think that if such
a thing were to happen, you would die of anger and shame!”
Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little
Marie was trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more
and did not notice it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were
filled with tears, and she looked at him reproachfully. The poor
husbandman thought that this was the last blow, and without waiting
for his sentence, he rose to go, but the girl stopped him, and
throwing both her arms about him, she hid her face in his breast.
“Oh, Germain,” she sobbed, “didn’t you feel that I loved you?”
Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into
the cottage on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper,
scourging the imaginary steed with a willow branch, had not brought
him to his senses. He lifted the boy and placed him in the girl’s
arms.
“See,” said he, “by loving me, you have made more than one person
happy.”
[Illustration: (Ornament)]
APPENDIX
I
A Country Wedding
Here ends the history of Germain’s marriage as he told it to me
himself, good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind
reader, that I know not how to translate it better; for it is a
real translation that is needed by this old-fashioned and artless
language of the peasants of the country “that I sing,” as they
used to say. These people speak French that is too true for us,
and since Rabelais and Montaigne, the advance of the language has
lost for us many of its old riches. Thus it is with every advance,
and we must make the best of it. Yet it is a pleasure still to
hear those picturesque idioms used in the old districts in the
center of France; all the more because it is the genuine expression
of the laughing, quiet, and delightfully talkative character of
the people who make use of it. Touraine has preserved a certain
precious number of patriarchal phrases. But Touraine was civilized
greatly during the Renaissance, and since its decline she is filled
with fine houses and highroads, with foreigners and traffic. Berry
remained as she was, and I think that after Brittany and a few
provinces in the far south of France, it is the best preserved
district to be found at the present day. Some of the costumes are
so strange and so curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes
more, kind reader, if you will allow me to describe to you in
detail a country wedding--Germain’s, for example--at which I had
the pleasure of assisting several years ago.