"Then, can you swear to me, Tiennet, that my character and my face
have never been lowered in your esteem by the prettiness or the
amiability of any other girl,--never, since you were born?"
"I will swear to it," I said.
"Swear, then," she said; "but give all your mind, and all your
religion to what you are going to say. Swear by your father and your
mother, by your conscience and the good God, that no girl ever seemed
to you as beautiful as I."
I was about to swear, when, I am sure I don't know why, a
recollection made my tongue tremble. Perhaps I was very silly to
heed it; a shrewder fellow wouldn't have done so, but I couldn't lie
at the moment when a certain image came clearly before my mind. And
yet, I had totally forgotten it up to that very moment, and should
probably never have remembered it at all if it had not been for
Brulette's questions and adjurations.
"You are in no hurry to swear," she said, "but I like that best; I
shall respect you for the truth and despise you for a lie."
"Well then, Brulette," I answered, "as you want me to tell the exact
truth I will do so. In all my life I have seen two girls, two
children I might say, between whom I might have wavered as to
preference if any one had said to me (for I was a child myself at the
time), 'Here are two little darlings who may listen to you in after
days; choose which you will have for a wife.' I should doubtless
have answered, 'I choose my cousin,' because I knew how amiable you
were, and I knew nothing of the other, having only seen her for ten
minutes. And yet, when I came to think of it, it is possible I might
have felt some regret, not because her beauty was greater than yours,
for I don't think that possible, but because she gave me a good kiss
on both cheeks, which you never gave me in your life. So I conclude
that she is a girl who will some day give her heart generously,
whereas your discretion holds me and always has held me in fear and
trembling."
"Where is she now?" asked Brulette, who seemed struck by what I said.
"What is her name?"
She was much surprised to hear that I knew neither her name nor the
place she lived in, and that I called her in my memory "the girl of
the woods." I told her the little story of the cart that stuck in
the mud, and she asked me a variety of questions which I could not
answer, my recollections being much confused and the whole affair
being of less interest to me than Brulette supposed. She turned over
in her head every word she got out of me, and it almost seemed as if
she were questioning herself, with some vexation, to know if she were
pretty enough to be so exacting, and whether frankness or coyness was
the best way of pleasing the lads.
Perhaps she was tempted for a moment to try coquetry and make me
forget the little vision that had come into my head, and which, for
more reasons than one, had displeased her; but after a few joking
words she answered seriously:--
"No, Tiennet, I won't blame you for having eyes to see a pretty girl
when the matter is as innocent and natural as you tell me; but
nevertheless it makes me think seriously, I hardly know why, about
myself. Cousin, I am a coquette. I feel the fever of it to the very
roots of my hair. I don't know that I shall ever be cured of it;
but, such as I am, I look upon love and marriage as the end of all my
comfort and pleasure. I am eighteen,--old enough to reflect. Well,
reflection comes to me like a blow on the stomach; whereas you have
been considering how to get yourself a happy home ever since you were
fifteen or sixteen, and your simple heart has given you an honest
answer. What you need is a wife as simple and honest as yourself,
without caprices, or pride, or folly: I should deceive you shamefully
if I told you that I am the right kind of girl for you. Whether from
caprice or distrust I don't know, but I have no inclination for any
of those I can choose from, and I can't say that I ever shall have.
The longer I live the more my freedom and my light-heartedness
satisfy me. Therefore be my friend, my comrade, my cousin; I will
love you just as I love Joseph, and better, if you are faithful to
our friendship; but don't think any more about marrying me. I know
that your relations would be opposed to it, and so am I, in spite of
myself, and with great regret for disappointing you. See, the others
are coming after us to break up this long talk. Promise me not to
sulk; choose a course; be my brother. If you say yes, we'll build
the midsummer bonfire when we get back to the village, and open the
dance together gayly."
"Well, Brulette," I answered, sighing, "it shall be as you say. I'll
do my best not to love you, except as you wish, and in any case I
shall still be your cousin and good friend, as in duty bound."
She took my hand and ran with me to the village market-place,
delighted to make her lovers scamper after her; there we found that
the old people had already piled up the fagots and straw of the
bonfire. Brulette, being the first to arrive, was called to set fire
to it, and soon the flames darted higher than the church porch.
We had no music to dance by until Carnat's son, named François, came
along with his bagpipe; and he was very willing to play, for he, too,
like the rest, was putting his best foot foremost to please Brulette.
So we opened the ball joyously, but after a minute or two everybody
cried out that the music tired their legs. François Carnat was new
at the business, and though he did his best, we found we couldn't get
along. He let us make fun of him, however, and kept on
playing,--being, as I suppose, rather glad of the practice, as it was
the first time he had played for people to dance.
Nobody liked it, however, and when the young men found that dancing,
instead of resting their tired legs, only tired them more, they
talked of bidding good-night or spending the evening in the tavern.
Brulette and the other girls exclaimed against that, and told us we
were unmannerly lads and clodhoppers. This led to an argument, in
the midst of which, all of a sudden, a tall, handsome fellow
appeared, before it could be seen where he came from.
"Hallo there, children!" he cried, in such a loud tone that it
drowned our racket and forced us to listen. "If you want to go on
dancing, you shall. Here's a bagpiper who will pipe for you as long
as you like, and won't ask anything for his trouble. Give me that,"
he said to François Carnat, taking hold of his bagpipe, "and listen;
it may do you good, for though music is not my business, I know more
about it than you."
Then, without waiting for François's consent, he blew out the bag and
began to play, amid cries of joy from the girls and with many thanks
from the lads.
At his very first words I had recognized the Bourbonnais accent of
the muleteer, but I could hardly believe my eyes, so changed was he
for the better in looks. Instead of his coal-dusty smock-frock, his
old leathern gaiters, his battered hat, and his grimy face, he had a
new suit of clothes of fine white woollen stuff streaked with blue,
handsome linen, a straw hat with colored ribbons, his beard trimmed,
his face washed and as rosy as a peach. In short, he was the
handsomest man I ever saw; grand as an oak, well-made in every part
of him, clean-limbed and vigorous; with teeth that were bits of
ivory, eyes like the blades of a knife, and the affable air and
manners of a gentleman. He ogled all the girls, smiled at the
beauties, laughed with the plain ones, and was merry, good company
with every one, encouraging and inspiriting the dancers with eye and
foot and voice (for he did not blow much into his bagpipe, so clever
was he in managing his wind), and shouting between the puffs a dozen
drolleries and funny sayings, which put everybody in good humor for
the evening.
Moreover, instead of doling out exact measure like an ordinary piper,
and stopping short when he had earned his two sous for every couple,
he went on bagpiping a full quarter of an hour, changing his tunes
you couldn't tell how, for they ran into one another without showing
the join; in short, it was the best reel music ever heard, and quite
unknown in our parts, but so enlivening and danceable that we all
seemed to be flying in the air instead of jigging about on the grass.
I think he would have played and we should have danced all night
without getting tired, if it had not been that Père Carnat, hearing
the music from the wine-shop of La Biaude and wondering much that his
son could play so well, came proudly over to listen. But when he saw
his own bagpipe in the hands of a stranger, and François dancing away
without seeing the harm of yielding his place, he was furious; and
pushing the muleteer from behind, he made him jump from the stone on
which he was perched into the very middle of the dancers.
Maître Huriel was a good deal surprised, and turning round he saw
Carnat, red with anger, ordering him to give up the instrument.
You never knew Carnat the piper? He was getting in years even then,
but he was still as sturdy and vicious as an old devil.
The muleteer began by showing fight, but noticing Carnat's white
hair, he returned the bagpipe gently, remarking, "You might have
spoken with more civility, old fellow; but if you don't like me to
take your place I give it up to you,--all the more willingly that I
should like to dance myself, if the young people will allow a
stranger in their company."
"Yes, yes! come and dance! you have earned it," cried the whole
parish, who had turned out to hear the fine music and were charmed
with him,--old and young both.
"Then," he said, taking Brulette's hand, for he had looked at her
more than at all the rest, "I ask, by way of payment, to be allowed
to dance with this pretty girl, even though she be engaged to some
one else."
"She is engaged to me, Huriel," said I, "but as we are friends, I
yield my rights to you for this dance."
"Thank you," answered he, shaking hands; then he whispered in my ear,
"I pretended not to know you; but if you see no harm to yourself so
much the better."
"Don't say you are a muleteer and it is all right," I replied.
While the folks were questioning about the stranger, another fuss
arose at the musician's stone. Père Carnat refused to play or to
allow his son to play. He even scolded François openly for letting
an unknown man supplant him; and the more people tried to settle the
matter by telling him the stranger had not taken any money, the
angrier he got. In fact when Père Maurice Viaud told him he was
jealous, and that the stranger could outdo him and all the other
neighboring players, he was beside himself with rage.
He rushed into the midst of us and demanded of Huriel whether he had
a license to play the bagpipes,--which made every body laugh, and the
muleteer most of all. At last, being summoned by the old savage to
reply, Huriel said, "I don't know the customs in your part of the
country, old man, but I have travelled enough to know the laws, and I
know that nowhere in France do artists buy licenses."
"Artists!" exclaimed Carnat, puzzled by a word which, like the rest
of us, he had never heard, "What does that mean? Are you talking
gibberish?"
"Not at all," replied Huriel. "I will call them musicians if you
like; and I assert that I am free to play music wherever I please
without paying toll to the king of France."
"Well, well, I know that," answered Carnat, "but what you don't know
yourself is that in our part of the country musicians pay a tax to an
association of public players, and receive a license after they have
been tried and initiated."
"I know that too," said Huriel, "and I also know how much money is
paid into your pockets during those trials. I advise you not to try
that upon me. However, happily for you, I don't practise the
profession, and want nothing in your parts. I play gratis where I
please, and no one can prevent that, for the reason that I have got
my degree as master-piper, which very likely you have not, big as you
talk."
Carnat quieted down a little at these words, and they said something
privately to each other that nobody heard, by which they discovered
that they belonged to the same corporation, if not to the same
company. The two Carnats, having no further right to object, as
every one present testified that Huriel had not played for money,
departed grumbling and saying spiteful things, which no one answered
so as to be sooner rid of them.
As soon as they were gone we called on Marie Guillard, a lass with a
carrying voice, and made her sing, so that the stranger might have
the pleasure of dancing with us.
He did not dance in our fashion, though he accommodated himself very
well to the time and figures. But his style was much the best, and
gave such free play to his body that he really looked handsomer and
taller than ever. Brulette watched him attentively and when he
kissed her, which is the fashion in our parts when each dance begins,
she grew quite red and confused, contrary to her usual indifferent
and easy way of taking a kiss.
I argued from this that she had rather overdone her contempt for love
when talking with me about mine; but I took no notice, and I own that
in spite of it all I felt a good deal set up on my own account by the
fine manners and talents of the muleteer.
When the dance was over he came up to me with Brulette on his arm,
saying,--
"It is your turn now, comrade; and I can't thank you better than by
returning the pretty dancer you lent me. She is a beauty like those
of my own land, and for her sake I do homage to the Berrichon girls.
But why end the evening so early? Is there no other bagpipe in the
village besides that of the old cross patch?"
"Yes, there is," said Brulette quickly, letting out the secret she
wanted to keep in her eagerness for dancing; then, catching herself
up, she added, blushing, "That is to say, there are shepherd's pipes,
and herd-boys who can play them after a fashion."
"Pipes indeed!" cried the muleteer; "if you happen to laugh they go
down your throat and make you cough! My mouth is too big for that
kind of instrument; and yet I want to make you dance, my pretty
Brulette; for that is your name, I have heard it," he said, drawing
us both aside; "and I know, too, that there's a fine bagpipe in your
house, which came from the Bourbonnais, and belongs to a certain
Joseph Picot, your friend from childhood, and your companion at the
first communion."
"Oh! how did you know that?" cried Brulette, much astonished. "Do
you know our Joseph? Perhaps you can tell us where he has gone?"
"Are you anxious about him?" said Huriel, looking narrowly at her.
"So anxious that I will thank you with all my heart if you can give
me news of him."
"Well, I'll give you some, my pretty one; but not until you bring me
his bagpipe, which he wants me to carry to him at the place where he
now is."
"What!" cried Brulette, "is he very far away?"
"So far that he has no idea of coming back."
"Is that true? Won't he come back? has he gone for good and all?
That ends my wanting to laugh and dance any more to-night."
"Ho, ho, pretty one!" cried Huriel; "so you are Joseph's sweetheart,
are you? He did not tell me that."
"I am nobody's sweetheart," answered Brulette, drawing herself up.
"Nevertheless," said the muleteer, "here is a token which he told me
to show you in case you hesitated to trust me with the bagpipe."
"Where is it? what is it?" I exclaimed.
"Look at my ear," said the muleteer, lifting a great lock of his
curly black hair and showing us a tiny silver heart hanging to a
large earring of fine gold, which pierced his ears after a fashion
among the middle classes of those days.
I think that earring began to open Brulette's eyes, for she said to
Huriel, "You can't be what you seem to be, but I see plainly that you
are not a man to deceive poor folks. Besides, that token is really
mine, or rather it is Joseph's, for it is a present his mother made
to me on the day of our first communion, and I gave it to him the
next day as a remembrance, when he left home to go to service. So,
Tiennet," she said, turning to me, "go to my house and fetch the
bagpipe, and bring it over there, under the church porch, where it is
dark, so that people can't see where it comes from; for Père Carnat
is a wicked old man and might do my grandfather some harm if he
thought we were mixed up in the matter."