her chiefly from fear of her "casting an evil spell" upon them. But
Little Nick was everywhere received with open arms. A piece of bread and
three potatoes are not extravagant pay for a day's work from a man, and
Little Nick was as good as two men. From time to time he was given an
old pair of trousers, or a torn waistcoat, when his too-primitive
costume might have disgraced his fellow workers; on winter evenings he
had his place in the firecorner and good straw to sleep on in the stable
smelling of the friendly beasts.
The legend ran, I must add, if I am to be a faithful reporter, that
Little Nick had sometimes taken shepherdesses unawares in thickets or
rocky solitudes. The victims of the "accident," if there had really been
any such, made no boast of it, and the dumb boy was impeccably discreet.
It is certain that Little Nick cast upon rustic beauty tender glances
which made him more grotesque still. Young women ran from him with
grimaces of disgust and cries of horror which he did not resent. The
young men were more reserved, out of respect for his formidable fists.
Everything considered, Little Nick was one of the happiest among
mortals, practicing without effort the maxim of the wise, which is to
limit one's desire to one's means, and conceiving no destiny finer than
that with which a kind Providence had fitted him. And what proof is
there that his fellow citizens in St. Bartholemew were mentally so very
superior to him? Was it the part of wisdom to seek, or to despise,
money? The entire village was engaged in a bitter struggle for gain, and
the hardest worker rarely escaped want in old age. Little Nick worked
for the sole pleasure of using his strength, and without any effort of
his the rarest good fortune befell him.
The witch having been found dead one morning, was expedited to the
cemetery with a more than usual perfunctory recommendation from the
Church to the Saints in Paradise. Little Nick, who had been sent for,
found half a dozen neighbours in his hovel "taking stock" of his
property. He was looking about the empty place without a word, when a
chest being moved aside, a stone was exposed to view, which had every
appearance of having recently been lifted. A spade inserted under the
edge disclosed a hoard of gold: a very burst of sunshine. With a single
cry, all hands were outstretched. But the warm emanation of the metal,
inflaming the desire of all, had also waked up Little Nick. With three
blows he had thrust everyone aside, with three kicks he had emptied the
house. Half an hour later, the entire village stood in front of his
locked and bolted door, waiting for the miracle that must issue from it.
The gossips, surrounded by the gaping populace, made their report: "A
great hole full of gold! How much could there be? Ten thousand francs,
at least," said some. "Twenty, thirty," declared others.
"It would not surprise me if there were 100,000," opined one old woman.
"And then, we did not see what might be under other stones----"
"It must be the Devil's money," said the sexton. "I wouldn't take it if
it were given to me."
"Nor I," said another.
"Nor I."
"Nor I."
Everyone disdainfully refused what was not offered him.
"All the same," said a peasant, "I am his nearest relative, I am his
guardian."
"You are not!" said another, "It is I who am his guardian!"
And the discussion was soon followed by a quarrel, concerning a
relationship which no one had ever before thought of.
Presently the door opened, and Little Nick appeared.
"Good morning, Little Nick, it is I, your good friend Pierre."
"No, it is I, Jean, you know me, I am your uncle."
"No, it is I, Matthew, you remember that good soup I gave you. Come with
me. You shall have a big piece of bacon."
"Come with me!" "Come with me!"
What a lot of friends! Little Nick growls with anger, and energetically
motions them all to be gone. They obey, each meaning to return later.
On the following day, the many "guardians" betake themselves to the
justice of peace to explain matters, and lay claim to their "rights."
The magistrate comes.
"Little Nick, you have some gold pieces?"
"Yes."
"Will you tell me where you have put them?"
"No."
They rummage everywhere, and find nothing. Little Nick has spent the day
in the woods. Doubtless he has buried his treasure there. They will
follow him and discover his hiding place. They must wait until then.
But already the "guardians" are wrangling over Little Nick, who does not
know which to listen to. The cleverest among them suggests his unloading
a cart of manure for him. That means pleasure. Little Nick runs to it,
and having finished his task finds himself seated at the table before a
dish of bacon and cabbage, beside his new cousin "Phemie."
Phemie is a blonde. Phemie has blue eyes. Phemie has fresh, rosy cheeks,
and large caressing hands with which to fondle her "dear little cousin,"
promoted to the dignity of "Nicholas." The "guardian" obligingly retires
after supper, leaving the two "cousins" to make acquaintance. Phemie
pours out a glass of a certain white wine for "Nicholas."
On the following day the acquaintance has progressed so well that
Nicholas has no desire to leave. He has found his real guardian. Evil
tongues are busy, but Phemie holds on to Nicholas and will never let
go.
"Have you some beautiful gold pieces?" she sometimes whispers in his
ear.
"Yes."
"Will you tell me where they are?"
"No."
But this "no" is feeble, and when Phemie adds: "If you don't tell me, I
sha'n't love you any more," Nicholas, by an expressive dumb show lets it
be known that above all things he wishes to be loved.
Months pass, and years. Little Nick lives in an ecstasy of bliss. His
pleasure in work is less keen. But evidently he has compensations, for
the fair Phemie is always with him. It is now five years since the witch
rendered up her soul to the Devil. Not a day has passed, not a night,
without Phemie questioning Little Nick about the treasure. The "Beast's"
resistance has weakened to the point that when the "Beauty" asks him:
"Will you show me where the gold pieces are?" he now answers "Yes."
"Come, let us go," says Phemie, redoubling her caresses.
Little Nick motions to her to wait, but sometimes he takes a few steps
in the supposed direction of the treasure, and Phemie is convinced that
she will soon finally wrest from him the secret of the undiscoverable
hiding place.
It is high time, for the woods around St. Bartholemew are incessantly
being searched by the villagers, and if Little Nick does not make up his
mind to speak, Phemie may be the victim of "thieves," for the gold
pieces are hers, are they not? She has surely earned them! Already, as
soon as a peasant buys a piece of property, everyone wonders whether he
may not have found the St. Bartholemew treasure.
Finally Phemie has an idea. She has noticed that when she accompanies
Little Nick on his walks he avoids the river. She leads him thither,
saying: "Let us go and have a look at the gold pieces."
Mechanically, Little Nick says "Yes" and obediently follows her.
When they have reached the wildest spot, "Is it here?" asks she,
pointing at a cavity among the rocks, covered over with bushes.
"No," says Little Nick.
"Up there, then," she pursues, pointing at a sharp rock by the water's
edge.
"Yes."
"Come."
And both of them, helping themselves with feet and knees and hands, torn
by the brambles and jagged edges, climb the steep slope to the top.
"There?" breathes Phemie, panting.
"Yes."
And Little Nick, lying flat, hanging over the abyss, extracts from an
invisible hole in the rock, where it makes a straight wall to the river,
a handful of gold pieces, which he flings, laughing, at his beloved.
There is a frightful scream. Phemie, mad with rage, rises like a fury
lusting for vengeance. The gold pieces are pasteboard, ironical gift of
the travelling salesman to the "witch," to overcome her last resistance,
and heritage of Nicholas, from which, it cannot be denied, the
"simpleton" has drawn his profit.
"Beast! Beast!" shouts Phemie, foaming at the mouth.
And as Nicholas tries to rise, she pushes him over the edge. He loses
his balance, but clinging to Phemie's skirt, drags her with him.
The river is deep in that spot. Neither of them could swim.
Their bodies were found at the foot of the rock, and the pasteboard gold
pieces scattered on the summit, whence their footprints showed that they
had fallen.
"A trick of the Devil!" said the peasants.
And there was, to be sure, something in that.
XXI
A HAPPY UNION
There are happy marriages, whatever novelists say. There are married
couples who love each other, and live happily together to the end of
their days. The conditions of this happiness, the circumstances of this
harmony may not always, perhaps, be such as one solely interested in the
aesthetic aspects of society might advocate. But what can we do? For
many centimes there is no virtue but the loftiest minds have commended
it to the world with arguments as attractive in form as they have been
sublime in purport. And have they changed us? What is the history of the
past if not the history of to-day?
There are happy unions. There are unions middling happy. And there are
unhappy unions. "I alone know where my shoe pinches," said a celebrated
American, when congratulated upon his happy home. Men or women, great
numbers can say the same, for Providence seems not to have cared to shoe
us all according to our measurements. Our subsequent behaviour is the
important thing. Advice on this point is not lacking, which is not
surprising, since we have expressly entrusted to a corps of celibates
the direction of domestic life, and the instruction of man and wife
separately in the most secret details of a relation which, by his very
profession, the instructor cannot practically know.
The authority of this advice being all that gives it interest, each
takes as much of it as he sees fit, and goes on doing what he pleases.
One cries out and the other is silent. One philosophically resigns
himself to limping all the way to the grave. Another prefers amputation
and the hope of comparative comfort with a wooden leg. Who is right and
who is wrong? Let him decide who has attained certainty in such matters.
As for me, all I dare affirm is that it is easier to theorize than to
prove, considering the variety of the problems and the complexity of the
psychology in which their solution might be found.
Let me, by way of example, briefly sketch the history, as simple as it
is true, of the happiest couple I have ever known. I will admit that it
is not a tale proper for publication in a Manual of Morals. Rarely do
bare facts, unembellished by fiction, authentically illustrate precepts
which we are more inclined to advocate than to follow. The sole merit of
this tale is that it is true, from first to last. I leave out nothing
and add nothing. I knew the people. I kept them in sight all along the
hard road that led them from crime to perfect conjugal felicity. I am
not attempting to prove any theory. I am telling what I have known and
seen.
Adèle was a handsome girl according to country esthetics. Large, strong,
of brilliant colouring, with a mop of tangled red hair and iron-gray
eyes which never dropped before those of any man. She helped her father,
Girard the fishmonger, to carry on his business. In a lamentable old
broken-down cart, behind a small, knock-kneed horse, who knew no gait
but a walk, Girard would set out at nightfall for Luçon, the large town,
and come back in time to sell his fish before midday. Immediately upon
arrival, the fishmonger, his wife and their children, each loaded with a
basket of shell fish, mullet, sole, and whiting, packed under sticky
seaweed, would disperse over the village, the outlying hamlets, the
farms, and peddle their wares.
This trade entails much travelling about and seeing many people. Bold,
and pleasant to the eye, Adèle was welcomed everywhere. No speech or
behaviour from the country lads was likely to fluster her. Peasants, who
are no more obtuse than city men, have long since recognized the value
in business of an agreeable young person to attract trade. Any country
inn that wants to prosper must first adorn itself with a pretty servant.
There is everywhere a demand for beauty. For lack of anything better,
men will philosophically fall back upon ugliness. Life takes upon itself
to accommodate almost everybody.
Adèle, not being one of those young women who are only chosen when there
is scarcity, early became the blessing of her family. The fish in her
basket seemed to leap of its own accord into the frying pan, although
the pretty wheedler took pride in selling it at a high price. Any chance
meeting on the road furnished occasion for selling her wares. Often a
kiss was added as a premium. Occasionally something more. What she lost
or what she won at this game would to-day be hard to reckon. On Sunday,
at the fair, she exhibited herself in fine attire and ornaments: these
were her profit. Her name ran from mouth to mouth accompanied by tales
to which public malice did not always need to add lies: this was her
loss. But far from being disturbed by the "_chronique scandaleuse_" she
insolently gloried in it, declaring that the hard-favoured meddlers
would have been altogether too happy had she found a chance to talk
scandal about them.
"When they are done tattling, they will stop," she used to say.
Which proved true. So that one day, when there was nothing else that
Adèle could do to astonish people, the report spread that she was about
to become the legitimate wife of Hippolyte Morin, the shoemaker. I must
add that the event was accepted by all as a decent ending to a
tempestuous youth.
"He will certainly beat her," thought the women, when they saw Morin's
infatuation.
"He will not make a troublesome husband," said the men, as they looked
at the sallow and weakly though choleric shoemaker.
Public approval was therefore unanimous. The circumstances of the
marriage were simple. Girard owed Morin 500 francs, and could not even
manage to pay the interest on them. Seeing his creditor prowling with
smouldering eyes about the stalwart Adèle, he had proposed to him to
marry the girl and give a receipted bill, and the shoemaker, overjoyed
at the thought of possessing such a marvel all to himself, had gladly
closed the bargain. As for Adèle, she had said yes without difficulty,
as she had to so many others. Hippolyte owned land. He was a good match.
They had a fine wedding, and for a full half year happiness appeared to
reign in the new establishment. Six months of fidelity were surely, for
Adèle, a sufficient concession to _Monsieur le Maire's_ injunctions.
Presently lovers reappeared, to Morin's lively displeasure. Adèle was
thrashed, as the public had foreseen. The muscular young swains none the
less made game of the husband, at best a puny adversary, as public
opinion had equally foretold. The worst of it was that the
unaccommodating shoemaker had a way of watching his rivals with a
vicious eye, while drawing the sharp blade of his knife across the
whetstone. No one in a village is afraid of kicks and blows. But no one
likes the thought of steel coming into play. And so, when the belief
was established that Morin would some day "do something desperate," the
ardour of the followers began to abate. They gradually dropped away, and
it was Adèle's turn to experience the fiercest resentment against her
sullen lord.
Three years passed in quarrels, in hourly battles. There were no
children. Grass does not grow on the high road, as Michelet observes.
One morning the news ran that Morin was seriously ill, then that he was
dead. On the day before, he had been playing bowls without any sign of
ill health. The doctor who had been sent for, shook his head gravely,
and asked to speak to Adèle in private. At the end of the interview the
bystanders noticed that Adèle kept out of sight, while the doctor,
without a word, poured the contents of the soup tureen into a jug, and
carried it away in his gig. That evening, two gendarmes came to arrest
"Hippolyte Morin's wife," accused of poisoning her husband.
Conversations in the village were not dull that evening.
The inquiry was brief. Bits of the blue shards of cantharides floating
among the bread and potatoes in the soup permitted no denial. Adèle
confessed that passing under an ash tree, and seeing some of those
insects lying dead in the grass, she picked them up, "to play a joke on
her husband." Later on, after she had been instructed by her lawyer,
she said that the aphrodisiacal properties attributed to the beetle
gave the obvious reason for the matrimonial "joke." But it being proved
that her extra-*conjugal resources in that line were rather calculated
to foster a desire to rid herself of an inconvenient husband, the story
gained small credence. Morin, who had not consented to die, was the only
witness for the defence.
"Of course it was a joke," he repeated, stupidly. "The proof of it is
that she had told me."
"And you deliberately took the poison?"
"As long as it was a joke, of course I did, your Honour."
The jury, which readily absolves husbands for a too prompt use of the
revolver in the direction of their wives, always shows itself resolutely
hostile to women who attempt to rid themselves of their legitimate
master. Two years' imprisonment were considered by the representatives
of social order a just retribution for Adèle, as well as a practical
incentive to virtue in the home.
Morin returned to his shoes, grieving over his long separation from
Adèle.
"All that was our own affair," he said. "What business was it of the
judge's?"
And many shared his opinion. A lot of noise about a "joke!" Adèle was
too good hearted a girl to have aroused any deep hatreds. As long as
Morin defended her, why should others hurl obloquy? Husbands looking at
their wives, and wives at their husbands, mostly refrained from comment.
Morin, furthermore, sure, now, of his wife's fidelity for at least two
years, poured himself out in eulogies of the great Adèle, and declared
that he had often been in the wrong.
"To whom did she ever do any harm?" he would ask everyone that came
along.
"Not to me!" "Not to me!" all would answer.
The man had received the gift of a lofty philosophy or rather, he had a
dim feeling that from all this "fuss" a great good might result from his
wife and for himself.
"When she comes back," he would say, "it will not be as it was before."
"Surely," replied the others, "a little bad luck gives one a lot of
sense!"
"Two years, that is not so much," answered Morin, who was counting the
days.
Meanwhile Adèle was silently sewing shirts, and vaguely dreaming. It
would never have occurred to her to complain. She even found a certain
contentment in this quiet after the agitations of her youth. She
tranquilly awaited the release which would take her back to her friendly
village, and to that good Morin who loved her, and whom she loved, too,
in spite of all "the judges had done to cross them," as she said after
her trial. From the very first day, Morin placed to the account of the
prisoner all the money permitted by the regulations. But she rarely
touched it, and when, on his visits, he urged her to spend it:
"I need nothing," she would say. "Keep it for yourself, my man. You must
not be ailing when I come out of jail."
And this allusion to the past made them both laugh in great good humour.
Finally the day of liberation came. Morin, as you would know, was on the
spot to fetch his wife. They flew to each other's arms, laughing aloud,
for lack of words to express their joy. It was Sunday. Adèle and her
husband reached home just as mass was over. In a twinkling they were
surrounded by the crowd, and acclaimed like conquerors. There was mutual
embracing and shedding of happy tears, and asking of a thousand absurd
questions from sheer need to talk and show how glad they were to see one
another again. Upon arrival at her house Adèle found the table spread;
at this, twenty guests sat down to celebrate her return with proper
ceremony. A grand feast, which lasted until daylight. At dessert,
friends came in, and merest acquaintances, too, swept along by the
current of universal sympathy. Bottle after bottle was emptied. There
was a great clinking of glasses. The women kissed Morin, and the men
Adèle. Never in their lives was there a more wonderful day.
And yet, from that time forward, good days followed one another without
break. Adèle remained gay, easy, and approachable, quick in the uptake
of broad jests, but Morin had her heart, and never was word or deed
charged to her account which could have given umbrage to the most
suspicious husband. Her spouse, proud of his conquest, tasted the joys
of a well-earned happiness.
They were during forty years the model of a perfect match. How many of
the people around them, with an irreproachable past, could boast an
advantage so rare?
XXII
A WELL-ASSORTED COUPLE
They were not good. They were not bad. They had neither virtues nor
faults of their own from never having done or said anything except in
conformity with what others were doing or saying. Never had it entered
their minds to desire anything on their own initiative. Nothing had ever
made them reflect upon themselves, and take a decision according to an
idea, whether good or bad, that was the result of their own
individuality rather than "established opinions."
He had been born into the cork business. She had seen the light of day
in the Elbeuf cloth trade. The arrest of a lawyer, unable to return
several millions to the people whom he had deprived of them, united
their parents in a common expression of indignation against impecunious
embezzlers. In court, under the eyes of the Christ who bids us forgive,
and amidst the encouragements of avenging law, cork and wool came
together to destroy the unfortunate lawyer whose activities were
proclaimed criminal because lacking the success which would have made
his reputation for integrity. The cork merchant and the cloth merchant,
both of them noisy about their small losses, conceived a "high" mutual
"esteem," which subsequent acquaintance converted into "friendship."
The heir to corks was twenty-three years old.
"A good sort of boy," said his father.
He was, as a matter of fact, soft, flabby, and spiritless.
The cloth heiress had just completed her twentieth year.
"The sweetest child!" bleated her mother.
The truth being that the girl's inertia took the impulsion of any
movement near her.
They were married after magnificent promises on both sides of the house.
It later appeared that the manufacturer of corks was on the verge of
failure, and that the cloth business had long since gone into the hands
of a partner. As the fraud was reciprocal, there could be no reproaches
on either side. They remained "good friends," and from the remnants of
past splendour collected a small capital with which to set up the young
couple in the linen draper's business at Caen.
The two young people, who were equally well fitted to manufacture butter
or deal in building stone, by scrupulously adhering to the rules and
regulations established for them, made a decent income from their
business. Their parents died, rather fortunately, before becoming a
burden and after inculcating into them those principles of public and
private morals which would enable them to reach the end of their career
without disaster. They had two daughters whom they married off, one into
"ribbons," the other into "hardware," while they themselves died, as
they had lived, in "linen."
"Colourless lives," some will remark.
Not everyone can write Hamlet, or discover the laws of universal
gravitation. The present order of nature stands upon a foundation of
passive beings, whence, from some combination of century-old heredities,
springs, now and then, the miracle of genius. What surprises for us,
could we examine the authentic genealogies of Shakespeare and Newton,
and see from what an accumulation of weaknesses their strength emerged!
The _processus_ of any human life is, in truth, not less a marvel. Only,
from our low level we instinctively look toward the heights. And there
is no denying that the psychology of St. Francis of Assisi is more
interesting than that of the ordinary mortal. Still, if one examines
closely, one finds that the "great man" is not different in substance
from the little man: the principal difference is that in the two cases
the forces are differently related. Infinite are the transitional types
between the two extremes, and all are worthy of analysis as human
samples capable of furnishing, according to circumstances of time and
place, acts which would remove them from common mediocrity.