I saw that Brulette was inclined to blame Joseph very severely, and I
thought I ought to defend him a little. "I don't approve of his
conduct so far as it shows ingratitude to you, Thérence," I said,
"but inasmuch as you are now able to judge him quite fairly, won't
you admit that at the bottom of his heart there was a sense of
respect for you and a fear of deceiving you? All the world is not
like you, my beautiful girl of the woods, and I think that very few
persons have a pure enough heart and courage enough to go straight to
the point and tell things just as they are. You have an amount of
strength and virtue in you of which Joseph, and many others in his
place, would be wholly incapable."
"I don't understand you," said Thérence.
"I do," said Brulette; "Joseph feared, perhaps, to put himself in the
way of being charmed by your beauty, and of loving you for that,
without giving you his whole heart as you deserved."
"Oh!" cried Thérence, scarlet with wounded pride, "that is just what
I complain of. Say it boldly. Joseph feared to entice me into
wrong-doing. He took no account of my good sense or my honor. Well,
his respect would have consoled me; his fear is humiliating. Never
mind, Brulette, I forgive him, because I no longer suffer, and I feel
myself above him; but nothing can ever take out of my heart the sense
that Joseph was ungrateful to me, and took a low view of his duty. I
would ask you to let us say no more about it, if I were not obliged
to tell you the rest; but I must speak, otherwise you will not know
what to think of my brother's conduct."
"Ah, Thérence!" said Brulette, "I long to know what were the
consequences of that misfortune which troubled us all so much over
there."
"My brother did not do as we expected," replied Thérence. "Instead
of hiding his unfortunate secret in distant places, he retraced his
steps at the end of a week, and went to find the Carmelite friar in
his convent, which is over by Montluçon. 'Brother Nicolas,' he said
to him, 'I can't live with such a weight on my heart. You told me to
confess myself to God, but there is such a thing as justice on this
earth; it may not be practised, but it is none the less a law from
heaven. I must confess before men, and bear the blame and the
penalty I deserve.' 'One moment, my son,' answered the friar; 'men
invented the penalty of death, which God disapproves, and they might
kill you deliberately for having killed another unintentionally.'
'That is not possible,' said my brother; 'I never intended to kill
him, and I can prove it.' 'To prove it you must call witnesses,'
said the monk, 'and that will compromise your comrades and your
chief, who is my nephew, and no more a murderer than you in his
heart; you will expose them all to be harassed by the law, and you
will see them forced to betray the oaths of your fraternity. Come,
stay here in my convent, and wait for me. I will undertake to settle
the matter, provided you won't ask me too closely how I have done it.'
"Thereupon the friar went to consult his abbé, who sent him to the
bishop, whom we call in our parts the chief priest, as they did in
the olden time, and who is the bishop of Montluçon. The chief
priest, who has a right to be heard by the chief judges, said and did
things we know nothing about. Then he sent for my brother and said
to him, 'My son, confess yourself to me as you would to God.' When
Huriel had told him the whole truth, from end to end, the bishop
said: 'Repent and do penance, my son. The matter is settled before
men; you have nothing to dread in future; but you must appease the
wrath of God, and in order to do that, I desire you to leave the
company and brotherhood of the muleteers, who are men without
religion and whose secret practices are contrary to the laws of
heaven and earth.' My brother having humbly remarked to him that
there were honest folk among them, the chief priest replied: 'So much
the worse; if those honest folk refused to take the oaths they
require, the society would cease to do evil, and would become a
corporation of working-men as respectable as any other.' My brother
thought over these words of the chief priest, and would have wished
to reform the practices of his fraternity rather than do away with
them altogether. He went to meet an assembly of muleteers and talked
to them very sensibly,--so they told me; but after listening to him
quietly, they answered that they neither could nor would change any
of their customs. Whereupon he paid his forfeit and sold his mules,
keeping only the _clairin_ for our use. So Brulette, you are not
going to see a muleteer, but a good, steady wood-cutter who works for
his father."
"And who may find it very hard to get accustomed to such work," said
Brulette, hiding the pleasure this news gave her.
"If he did find it hard to change his ways of life," answered
Thérence, "he is well consoled when he remembers how afraid you were
of the muleteers, and that in your country they are looked upon as an
abomination. But now that I have satisfied your impatience to know
how my brother got out of his troubles, I must tell you something
more about Joseph, which may make you angry, Brulette, though it will
also astonish you."
As Thérence said that with a spice of malice and a laugh, Brulette
showed no uneasiness, and told her to explain.
"You must know," continued Thérence, "that we have spent the last
three months in the forest of Montaigu, where we met Joseph, in good
health, but serious as usual, and still wrapped up in himself. If
you want to know where he now is, I will tell you that we have left
him there with my father, who is helping him to get admitted to the
association of bagpipers; for you know, or you don't know, that they
too, are a fraternity, and have secret practices which others know
nothing about. At first Joseph was rather embarrassed at seeing us.
He seemed ashamed to speak to me and might have avoided us altogether
if my father, after reproaching him for his want of confidence and
friendship, had not pressed him to remain,--for he knew he could
still be useful to him. When Joseph perceived that I was quite at my
ease and had no unkind recollections, he made bold to ask for the
return of our friendship, and he even tried to excuse his conduct;
but my father, who would not let him lay a finger on my wound, turned
the matter into a joke, and made him go to work, both in the woods
and at his music, so as to bring the matter to an end as soon as
possible. I was a good deal astonished that he never mentioned any
of you, and I questioned him without getting a word out of him.
Neither my brother nor I had heard anything of you (until last week,
when we came through the village of Huriel). We were much worried
about you, and my father told Joseph rather sharply that if he had
letters from his own people he ought at least to tell us whether you
were dead or alive. Joseph answered shortly, in a voice that sounded
very hollow: 'Everybody is well, and so am I.' My father, who never
beats about the bush, told him to speak out, but he answered stiffly,
'I tell you, master, that our friends over there are well and quite
contented, and if you will give me your daughter in marriage I shall
be contented too.' At first we thought he was crazy, and tried to
make a joke of it, though his manner made us rather uneasy. But he
returned to the subject two days later, and asked me if I had any
regard for him. I took no other revenge for his tardy offer than to
say, 'Yes, Joseph, I have as much regard for you as Brulette has.'
He drew in his lips, lowered his head, and did not say another word.
But my brother, having questioned him later, received this reply:
'Huriel, I no longer think of Brulette, and I beg you never to
mention her to me again.' We could get nothing more out of him
except that he was resolved, as soon as he should be received into
the fraternity of bagpipers, to begin his service for a time in his
own country, and prove to his mother that he was able to support her;
after which he intended to take her to live with him in La Marche or
the Bourbonnais, provided I would become his wife. This brought
about a grand explanation between my father, my brother, and myself.
Both tried to make me own that I might be induced to consent. But
Joseph had come back too late for me, and I had made too many
reflections about him. I quietly refused, feeling no longer any
regard for him, and conscious also that he had none for me. I am too
proud a girl to be taken as a remedy for disappointment. I supposed
you had written him to put an end to his hopes."
"No," said Brulette, "I did not, and it is only by the mercy of God
that he has forgotten me. Perhaps it was that he began to know you
better, my Thérence."
"No, no," cried the girl of the woods, resolutely, "If it was not
disappointment at your refusal, it was pique at my cure. He only
cared for me because I had ceased to care for him. If that is his
love, it is not mine, Brulette. All or nothing; yes for life, in all
frankness; or no for life, with all freedom. There's that child
waking up," she continued, interrupting herself, "and I want to take
you to my new abode for a moment; it is in the old castle of Chassin."
"But won't you tell us," said Brulette, who was very much puzzled by
all she heard, "how and why you are in this part of the country?"
"You are in too much of a hurry to know," replied Thérence; "I want
you to see first."
Taking Brulette round the neck with her beautiful bare arm, well
browned by the sun, she led her away without giving her time to take
Charlot, whom she herself caught up like a bundle under her other
arm, although he was now as heavy as a little calf.
The fief of Chassin was once a castle, as I have heard say, with
seignorial rights and laws; but at the time of which I am telling,
nothing remained of the building but the porch, which was a structure
of some importance, heavily built, and so arranged that there were
lodging-rooms on both sides of it. It seemed that the part of the
building which I have called a porch, the use of which is difficult
to explain at the present time (on account of its peculiar
construction), was really a vaulted chamber leading to other
buildings; for as to those that still remain around the courtyard,
which are only miserable stables and dilapidated barns, I don't know
what uses they could have been put to, or what comfort could have
been found in them. There were still, at the time of which I am
speaking, three or four unfurnished rooms which seemed quite ancient,
but if any great lord ever took his pleasure in them he must have
wanted very little of that article.
And yet it was among these ruins that happiness was awaiting some of
those whose history I am telling you; and, as if there were something
within each human being which tells him in advance of coming
blessings, neither Brulette nor I saw anything sad or ugly in this
old place. The grassy courtyard, surrounded on two sides by the
ruins and on the other two by the moat and the little wood through
which we passed; the great hedge, where I saw with surprise shrubs
which are seen only in the gardens of the wealthy (showing that the
place had once known care and beauty); the clumsy gateway, choked up
with rubbish, where stone benches could still be seen, as if in
former days some warder had had charge of this barrack then
considered precious; the long brambles which ran from end to end of
this squalid enclosure,--all these things, which made the whole place
resemble a prison, closed, deserted, and forgotten, seemed as
cheerful to our eyes as the springtide sun which was forcing its way
in through the crevices and drying up the dampness. Perhaps, too,
the sight of our old acquaintance, the _clairin_, who was feeding on
the turf, gave us warning of the coming of a true friend. I think he
recognized us, for he came up to be stroked, and Brulette could not
refrain from kissing the white star on his forehead.
"This is my château," said Thérence, taking us into a room where her
bed and other bits of furniture were already installed; "and there
you see Huriel's room and my father's on the other side."
"Your father! then he is coming!" I cried, jumping for joy. "I am so
glad, for there is no man under the sun I like better."
"And right you are," said Thérence, tapping my ear in sign of
friendship. "And he likes you. Well, you will see him if you come
back next week, and even--but it is too soon to speak of that. Here
is the master."
Brulette blushed, thinking it was Huriel that Thérence meant; but it
was only the foreign dealer who had bought the timber of the forest
of Chassin.
I say "forest" because, no doubt, there were forests there once,
which joined the small but beautiful growth of lofty trees that we
saw beyond the river. As the name remains, it is to be supposed it
was not bestowed for nothing. The conversation which ensued between
Thérence and the wood-merchant explained to us very quickly the whole
thing. He came from the Bourbonnais, and had long known the
Head-Woodsman and his family as hard-working people who kept their
word. Being in quest, through his business, of some tall masts for
the king's navy, he had discovered these remains of a virgin forest
(very rare indeed in our country), and had given the work of felling
and trimming the trees to Père Bastien; and the latter had taken it
all the more willingly because his son and daughter, knowing the
place to be in our neighborhood, were delighted with the idea of
spending the whole summer and perhaps part of the winter near us.
The Head-Woodsman was allowed the selection and management of his
workmen under a contract with forfeiture between himself and the
purchaser of the timber; and the latter had induced the owner of the
estate to cede him the use, gratis, of the old castle, where he, a
well-to-do tradesman, would have thought himself very ill-lodged, but
where a family of wood-cutters might be far better off as the season
grew late than in their usual lodges of logs and heather.
Huriel and his sister had arrived that morning; the one had
immediately begun to install herself, the other had been making
acquaintance with the wood, the land, and the people of the
neighborhood.
We overheard the purchaser reminding Thérence, who talked business as
well as any man, of a condition in his agreement with Père
Bastien,--namely, that he would employ none but Bourbonnais workmen
to prepare the trunks, inasmuch as they alone understood the work and
would not spoil the finest pieces, like the laborers of our part of
the country. "Very good," replied the woodland girl; "but for the
branches and light-wood we shall employ whom we please. We do not
think it wise to take all the work away from the people of the
neighborhood, who might be annoyed and molest us in consequence.
They are already ill-inclined to all who are not of their parish."
"Now listen, my dear Brulette," she said, when the dealer had
departed, "it is my opinion that, if nothing detains you in your
village, you might persuade your grandfather to employ his time very
pleasantly here this summer. You have told me that he is still a
good workman, and he would have to do with a good master,--I mean my
father, who would let him work at his ease. You could lodge here at
no expense and we would share the housekeeping together."
Then, while Brulette was burning with the desire to say yes, but not
daring to betray herself, Thérence added, "If you hesitate, I shall
think your heart is given in your own village and that my brother has
come too late."
"Too late!" cried a ringing voice which came from the ivy-covered
window. "God grant that those words be false!"
And Huriel, handsome and fresh-looking as he always was when the
charcoal no longer concealed him, sprang into the room and caught
Brulette in his arms to kiss her on the cheeks; for he wouldn't stand
on ceremony, and he had no notion of the rather icy behavior of the
people in our parts. He seemed so glad, and talked so loud, and
laughed so heartily that she could not be angry with him. He kneaded
me like a bit of dough and jumped about the room as if joy and
friendship had the effect of new wine.
All of a sudden he spied Charlot and stopped short, tried to look
away, forced himself to say a few words which had no connection with
the child, then sat down on his sister's bed and turned so pale that
I thought he was going to faint away.
"What's the matter with him?" cried Thérence, amazed. Then, touching
his head, she said, "Good heavens, it is a cold sweat! Do you feel
ill?"
"No, no," said Huriel, rising and shaking himself. "It is joy--the
sudden excitement--it is nothing."
Just then the mother of the bride came to ask why we had left the
wedding, and whether Brulette or the child were ill. Seeing that we
were detained by the company of strangers, she very politely invited
Huriel and Thérence to come with us to the feast and to the dance.
This woman, who was my aunt, being the sister of my father and
Brulette's deceased father, seemed to me to know the secret of
Charlot's birth; for she had asked no questions and had taken great
care of him when brought to her house. I had even heard of her
saying that he was a relative, and the people of Chassin had no
suspicion about the child.
As Huriel, who was still troubled in mind, merely thanked my aunt
without giving any decided answer, Thérence roused him with the
remark that Brulette was obliged to go back to the wedding, and that
if he did not go he might lose his opportunity of bringing about what
they both desired. Huriel, however, was still uneasy and hesitating,
when Brulette said to him, "Do you really not wish to dance with me
to-day?"
"Do you speak true, Brulette?" he said, looking her in the eye. "Do
you wish me for a partner?"
"Yes," she said, "for I remember how well you dance."
"Is that the only reason why you wish for me?"
Brulette was embarrassed, thinking that the fellow was too much in a
hurry, yet not daring to play off her former coquettish little airs,
so fearful was she of seeing him hurt or disappointed again. But
Thérence tried to help her out by reproaching Huriel for asking too
much the first day.
"You are right, sister," he answered. "And yet I cannot behave
differently. Hear me, Brulette, and forgive me. You must promise to
have no other partner but me at this wedding, or I cannot go at all."
"What a funny fellow!" cried my aunt, who was a lively little woman
and took all things for the best. "A lover of yours, my Brulette? I
see that plainly; and no half-hearted one either! But, my lad," she
added, turning to Huriel, "I would have you know that it is not the
custom in these parts to show all you feel; and no one dances several
times running with a girl unless there has been promise of heart and
hand."
"It is here as it is with us, my good dame," replied Huriel;
"nevertheless, with or without promise of her heart, Brulette must
now promise me her hand for the whole dance."
"If she wishes it, I shall not prevent her," said my aunt, "she is a
sensible girl, who knows very well how to behave. I have done my
duty in warning her that she will be talked about."
"Brother," said Thérence, "I think you are crazy. Is that the way to
do with Brulette, whom you know to be so reserved, and who has never
yet given you the rights you claim?"
"Yes, I may be mad, and she may be shy," said Huriel, "but all the
same my madness must gain the day and her shyness lose it, and at
once. I ask nothing more of her than to allow me to dance with her
to the end of this wedding. If after that she does not wish to hear
of me again, she is mistress of her actions."
"That is all very well," said my aunt, "but the harm will then have
been done, and if you withdraw from her then who will repair it?"
"She knows that I shall not withdraw," said Huriel.
"If you know that," said my aunt to Brulette, "why don't you explain
yourself? I really can't understand this matter at all. Did you
engage yourself to this lad in the Bourbonnais?"
"No," said Huriel, without giving Brulette time to answer. "I have
never asked her, never! What I now ask of her she, and she alone,
without consulting any one, must decide to grant or not, as she
chooses."
Brulette, trembling like a leaf, had turned to the wall and was
hiding her face in her hands. If she was glad to find Huriel so
resolute about her, she was also annoyed that he had no compassion
for her natural hesitation and timidity. She was not made, like
Thérence, to speak out a noble "yes" before all the world; so being,
and not knowing how else to get out of the matter, she took refuge in
her eyes and began to cry.