Père Bastien, observing that Joseph listened with great attention,
continued as follows:--
"Music has two modes which the learned, as I have heard tell, call
major and minor, but which I call the clear mode and the troubled
mode; or, if you like it better, the blue-sky mode and the gray-sky
mode, or, still otherwise, the mode of strength and joy, and the mode
of dreaminess and gloom. You may search till morning and you will
find no end to the contrasts between the two modes; but you will
never find a third, for all things on this earth are light or
darkness, rest or action. Now listen to me, Joseph! The plains sing
in the major, and the mountains in the minor mode. If you had stayed
in your own country your ideas would belong to the clear and tranquil
mode; in returning: there now, you ought to see the use that a soul
like yours could make of that mode; for the one mode is neither less
nor more than the other. But while you lived at home, feeling
yourself a thorough musician, you fretted at not hearing the minor
sound in your ears. The fiddlers and the singing-girls of your parts
only acquire it; for song is like the wind which blows everywhere and
carries the seeds of plants from one horizon to another. But
inasmuch as nature has not made your people dreamy and passionate,
they make a poor use of the minor mode, and corrupt it by that use.
That is why you thought your bagpipes were always false. Now, if you
want to understand the minor, go seek it in wild and desolate places,
and learn that many a tear must be shed before you can duly use a
mode which was given to man to utter his griefs, or, at any rate, to
sigh his love."
Joseph understood Père Bastien so well that he asked him to play the
last air he had composed, so as to give us a specimen of the sad gray
mode which he called the minor.
"There, there!" cried the old man; "so you overheard the air I have
been trying for the last week to put to certain words. I thought I
was singing to myself; but, as you were listening, here it is, such
as I expect to leave it."
Lifting his bagpipe he removed the chanter, on which he softly played
an air which, though it was not melancholy, brought memories of the
past and a sense of longing after many things to the consciousness of
those who listened.
Joseph was evidently not at ease, and Brulette, who listened without
stirring, seemed to waken from a dream when it ended.
"And the words," said Thérence, "are they sad too, father?"
"The words," said he, "are, like the air, rather confused and demand
reflection. They tell the story of how three lovers courted a girl."
Whereupon he sang a song, now very popular in our parts, though the
words have been a good deal altered; but this is how the Père Bastien
sang them:--
Three woodsmen there were,
In springtime, on the grass
(Listen to the nightingale);
Three woodsmen were there,
Speaking each with the lass.
The youngest he said,
He who held the flower
(Listen to the nightingale),
The youngest then said he
I love thee, but I cower.
The oldest cried out,
He who held the tool
(Listen to the nightingale),
The oldest cried aloud,
When I love I rule.
The third sang to her,
Bearing the almond spray
(Listen to the nightingale),
The third sang in her ear,
I love thee and I pray.
Friend shall never be
You who bear the flower
(Listen to the nightingale),
Friend shall never be
A coward, or I cower.
Master will I none,
You who hold the tool
(Listen to the nightingale),
No master thou of mine,
Love obeys no rule.
Lover thou shalt be
Who bear the almond spray
(Listen to the nightingale),
My lover shalt thou be,
Gifts are for those who pray.
I liked the air when joined to the words better than the first time I
heard it; and I was so pleased that I asked to hear it again; but
Père Bastien, who had no vanity about his compositions, declared it
was not worth while, and went on playing other airs, sometimes in the
major, sometimes in the minor, and even employing both modes in the
same song, teaching Joseph, as he did so, how to pass from one to the
other and then back again.
The stars were casting their light long before we wanted to retire;
even the townspeople assembled in numbers at the foot of the ravine
to listen, with much satisfaction to their ears. Some said: "That's
one of the Bourbonnais bagpipers, and what is more, he is a master;
he knows the art, and not one of us can hold a candle to him."
On our way back to the inn Père Bastien continued to instruct Joseph,
and the latter, never weary of such talk, lagged a little behind us
to listen and question him. So I walked in front with Thérence, who,
useful and energetic as ever, helped me to carry the baskets.
Brulette walked alone between the pairs, dreaming of I don't know
what,--as she had taken to doing of late; and Thérence sometimes
turned round as if to look at her, but really to see if Joseph were
following.
"Look at him well, Thérence," I said to her, at a moment when she
seemed in great anxiety, "for your father said truly, 'When we part
for a day it may be for life.'"
"Yes," she replied, "but on the other hand, when we think we are
parting for life it may be for only a day."
"You remind me," said I, "that when I first saw you you floated away
like a dream and I never expected to see you again."
"I know what you mean," she exclaimed. "My father reminded me of it
yesterday, in speaking of you. Father really loves you, Tiennet, and
has great respect for you."
"I am glad and honored, Thérence; but I don't know what I have done
to deserve it, for there is nothing in me that is different from the
common run of men."
"My father is never mistaken in his judgment, and what he says, I
believe; why should that make you sigh, Tiennet?"
"Did I sigh, Thérence? I didn't mean to."
"No, of course you did not," she replied; "but that is no reason why
you should hide your feelings from me. You love Brulette and are
afraid--"
"I love Brulette very much, that is true, but without any
love-sighing, and without any regrets or worries about what she
thinks of me. I have no love in my heart, because it would do me no
good to have any."
"Ah, you are very lucky, Tiennet!" she cried, "to be able to govern
your feelings by your mind in that way."
"I should be better worth something, Thérence, if, like you, I
governed them by my heart. Yes, yes, I know you; I have watched you,
and I know the true secret of your conduct. I have seen how, for the
last eight days, you have set aside your own feelings to cure Joseph,
and how you secretly do everything for his good without letting him
see so much as your little finger in it. You want him to be happy,
and you said true when you told Brulette and me that if we can do
good to those we love there is no need to be thinking of our own
happiness. That's what you do and what you are; and though jealousy
may sometimes get the better of you, you recover directly. It is
marvellous to see how strong and generous you are; it is saintly.
You must allow that if either of us two is to respect the other, it
is I you, not you me. I am a rather sensible fellow, and that is
all; you are a girl with a great heart, and a stern hand upon
yourself."
"Thanks for the good you think of me," replied Thérence, "but perhaps
I don't deserve it, my lad. You want me to be in love with Joseph,
and I am not. As God is my judge, I have never thought of being his
wife, and the attachment I feel to him is rather that of a sister or
a mother."
"Oh! as for that, I am not sure that you don't deceive yourself,
Thérence. Your disposition is impulsive."
"That is just why I do not deceive myself. I love my father and
brother deeply and almost madly. If I had children I should defend
them like a wolf and brood over them like a hen; but the thing they
call love, such, for instance, as my brother feels for Brulette,--the
desire to please, and a nameless sort of feeling which makes him
suffer when alone, and not be able to think of her without pain,--all
that I do not feel at all, and I cannot imagine it. Joseph may leave
us forever if it will do him good, and I shall thank God, and only
grieve if it turns out that he is the worse for it."
Thérence's way of looking at the matter gave me a good deal to think
of. I could not understand it very well, for she now seemed to me
above all others and above me. I walked a little way beside her
without saying a word, not knowing whither my mind was going; for I
was seized with such a feeling of ardent friendship that I longed
with all my heart to embrace her, with all respect and thinking no
harm, till suddenly a glance at her, so young and beautiful, filled
me with shame and fear. When we reached the inn I asked her, apropos
of what I forget, to tell me exactly what her father had said of me.
"He said," she replied, "that you were a man of the strongest good
sense he had ever known."
"You might as well call me a good-natured fool at once, don't you
think so?" I said, laughing, but rather mortified.
"Not at all!" cried Thérence; "here are my father's very words: 'He
who sees clearest into the things of this world is he who acts with
the highest justice.' Now it is true that great good sense leads to
great kindness of heart, and I do not think that my father is
mistaken."
"In that case, Thérence," I cried, rather agitated at the bottom of
my heart, "have a little regard for me."
"I have a great deal," she said, shaking the hand which I held out to
her; but it was said with an air of good-fellowship which killed all
vaporing, and I slept upon her speech with no more imagination than
justly belonged to it.
The next day came the parting. Brulette cried when she kissed Père
Bastien, and made him promise that he would come and visit us and
bring Thérence; then the two dear girls embraced each other with such
pledges of affection that they really seemed unable to part. Joseph
offered his thanks to his late master for all the benefits he had
received from him, and when he came to part with Thérence he tried to
say the same to her; but she looked at him with a perfect frankness
which disconcerted him, and pressing each other's hands, they said
only, "Good-bye, and take care of yourself."
Not feeling at the moment too shy, I asked Thérence to allow me to
kiss her, thinking to set a good example to Joseph; but he took no
notice, and got hastily into the carriage to cut short these parting
civilities. He seemed dissatisfied with himself and others.
Brulette took the last seat in the conveyance, and, so long as she
could see our Bourbonnais friends, she kept her eyes upon them, while
Thérence, standing at the inn-door, seemed to be thinking rather than
grieving.
We did the rest of the journey somewhat sadly. Joseph said not a
word. Perhaps he hoped that Brulette might take some notice of him;
but according as Joseph grew stronger, Brulette had recovered her
freedom of thinking about other people, and being full of her
friendship for Huriel's father and sister, she talked to me about
them, regretting to part with them and singing their praises, as if
she had really left her heart behind and regretted even the country
we were quitting.
"It is strange," she said to me, "how, as we get nearer home, the
trees seem to me so small, the grass so yellow, and the river
sluggish. Before I ever left the plains I fancied I could not endure
three days in the woods, and now I believe I could pass my life there
like Thérence, if I had my old father with me."
"I can't say as much, cousin," said I. "Though, if I were forced to
do so, I don't suppose I should die of it. But the trees may be as
tall, the grass as green, and the streams as sparkling as they
please; I prefer a nettle in my own land to an oak in foreign parts.
My heart jumps with joy at each familiar rock and bush, as if I had
been absent two or three years, and when I catch sight of the church
clock I mean, for sure, to take off my hat to it."
"And you, José?" said Brulette, noticing the annoyed look of our
companion for the first time. "You, who have been absent more than a
year, are not you glad to get home again?"
"Excuse me, Brulette, I don't know what you are talking about. My
head is full of that song the Head-Woodsman sang last night, and in
the middle of it there is a little refrain which I can't remember."
"Bah!" cried Brulette, "it is where the song says, 'Listen to the
nightingale.'"
So saying, she sang the tune quite correctly, which roused Joseph so
much that he jumped with joy in the cart, clapping his hands.
"Ah, Brulette!" he cried, "how lucky you are to remember like that!
Again! sing it again! 'Listen to the nightingale.'"
"I would rather sing the whole song," she answered; and thereupon she
sang it straight through without missing a word, which delighted
Joseph so much that he pressed her hands, saying, with a courage I
didn't think him capable of, that only a musician could be worthy of
her.
"Well, certainly," said Brulette, thinking of Huriel, "if I had a
lover I should wish him to be both a good singer and a good bagpiper."
"It is rare to be both," returned Joseph. "A bagpipe ruins the
voice, and except the Head-Woodsman--"
"And his son," said Brulette, heedlessly.
I nudged her elbow, and she began to talk of something else, but
Joseph, who was eaten up with jealousy, persisted in harking back to
the song.
"I believe," he said, "that when Père Bastien composed those words he
was thinking of three fellows of our acquaintance; for I remember a
talk we had with him after supper the day of your arrival in the
forest."
"I don't remember it," said Brulette, blushing.
"But I do," returned Joseph. "We were speaking of a girl's love, and
Huriel said it couldn't be won by tossing up for it. Tiennet
declared, laughing, that softness and submission were of no use, and
to be loved we must needs be feared, instead of being too kind and
good. Huriel argued against Tiennet, and I listened without saying a
word. Am not I the one who 'bears the flower,--the youngest of the
three, who loves and cowers'? Repeat the last verse, Brulette, as
you know it so well--about 'gifts for those who ask.'"
"Since you know it as well as I do," said Brulette, rather nettled,
"keep it to sing to the first girl you make love to. If Père Bastien
likes to turn the talk he hears into songs, it is not for me to draw
conclusions. Besides, I know nothing about it. But my feet are
tingling with cold, and while the horse walks up this hill, I shall
take a run to warm them."
Not waiting till I could stop the horse, she jumped on to the road
and walked off in front of us as light as a little milkmaid.
I wanted to get down too, but Joseph caught me by the arm and, always
pursuing his own ideas, "Don't you think," said he, "that we despise
those who show their desires as much as those who do not show them at
all?"
"If you mean me--"
"I mean no one. I was only thinking of the talk we had over there,
which Père Bastien turned into a song against your speech and my
silence. It seems that Huriel will win his suit with the girl."
"What girl?" I said, out of patience, for Joseph had never taken me
into his confidence before, and I was none too pleased to have him
give it out of vexation.
"What girl?" he cried in a tone of angry sarcasm, "the girl of the
song."
"Then what suit is Huriel to win? does the girl live at a distance?
is that where Huriel has gone?"
Joseph thought a moment and then continued: "It is true enough, what
he said, that between mastership and silence, there is prayer. That
comes round to your first remark, that in order to attract we must
not love too well. He who loves too well is the timid, silent one;
not a word can he tear from his throat, and he is thought a fool
because he is dumb with desire and false shame."
"No doubt of that," I said. "I have gone through it myself many a
time. But it also happened to me sometimes to speak out so badly
that I had better have held my tongue; I might have fancied myself
beloved a little longer."
Poor Joseph bit his lips and said no more. I was sorry I had vexed
him, and yet I could not prevent myself from resenting his jealousy
of Huriel, knowing as I did how the latter had done his best for him
against his own interests. I took, at this very time, such a disgust
for jealousy that since then I have never felt a twinge of it, and I
don't think I could now without good reason.
I was, however, just going to speak kindly to him, when we noticed
that Brulette, who was still ahead of us, had stopped on the wayside
to speak to a monk, who looked short and fat, like the one I had seen
in the woods of Chambérat. I whipped up the horse, and soon
convinced myself that it was really Brother Nicolas. He had asked
Brulette if he were far from our village, and, as he was still three
miles distant and said he was very tired, she had offered to give him
a lift in our conveyance.
We made room for him and for a large covered basket which he was
carrying, and which he deposited with much precaution on his knees.
None of us dreamed of asking what it contained, except perhaps
myself, who am naturally rather curious; but I feared to be
indiscreet, for I knew the mendicant friars gathered up all sorts of
things from pious shopkeepers, which they sold again for the benefit
of their monastery. Everything came handy for this traffic, even
women's trumpery, which, however, some of them did not venture to
dispose of openly.
I drove at a trot, and presently we caught sight of the church clock
and the old elms on the market-place, then of all the houses of the
village, both big and little,--which did not afford me as much
pleasure as I had expected, for the meeting with Brother Nicolas had
brought to mind certain painful things about which I was still
uneasy. I saw, however, that he was on his guard as well as I, for
he said not a word before Brulette and Joseph showing that we had met
elsewhere than at the dance, or that he and I knew more of what had
happened than the rest.
He was a very pleasant man, with a jovial nature that might have
amused me under other circumstances, but I was in a hurry to reach
home and get him alone by himself, so as to ask if he had any news of
the affair. As we entered the village Joseph jumped off, and
notwithstanding that Brulette begged him to come and rest at her
grandfather's, he took the road to Saint-Chartier, saying that he
would pay his respects to Père Brulet after he had seen and embraced
his mother.
I fancied that the friar rather urged it on him as a duty, as if to
get rid of him; and then, instead of accepting my proposal that he
should dine and sup at my house, Brother Nicolas declared that he
could stop only an hour at Père Brulet's, with whom he had business.
"You will be very welcome," said Brulette; "but do you know my
grandfather? I have never seen you at the house."
"I do not know either him or your village," answered the monk, "but I
am charged with an errand to him, which I can deliver only at his
house."
"I returned to my first notion, namely, that he had ribbons and laces
in his basket, and that, having heard from the neighbors that
Brulette was the smartest girl in these parts, he wanted to show her
his merchandise without exposing himself to gossip, which, in those
days, spared neither good monks nor wicked ones."
I thought this idea was in Brulette's head too, for when she got down
first at the door, she held out both arms for the basket, saying,
"Don't be afraid; I guess what is in it." But the friar refused to
give it up, saying it was valuable and he feared it might get broken.
"I see, Brother," I said to him in a low voice, detaining him a
moment, "that you are very busy. I don't want to hinder you, but I
should like you to tell me quickly if there is any news from over
there."
"None that I know of," he said in the same tone; "but no news is good
news." Then shaking me by the hand in a friendly way, he entered the
house after Brulette, who was already hanging to her grandfather's
neck.
I thought old Brulet, who was generally polite, owed me a hearty
welcome and some thanks for the care I had taken of his
granddaughter; but instead of keeping me even a moment, he seemed
more interested in the arrival of the friar; for, taking him at once
by the hand, he led him into an inner room, begging me to excuse him
and saying he had matters of importance to discuss and wished to be
alone with his granddaughter.