LOVE IN THE FOREST
The winter season drew along and came near to its end. From the
piled-up accumulation of clouds which lay on the great group of
mountains the rain pelted with more violence but at longer intervals
each day. Between storms the clouds rolled away and opened, blown
by sudden winds, leaving in the sky great sparkling blue deeps
through which the rays of the sun flamed and fell upon the Post. The
atmosphere, one moment dark and thick, and the next suddenly full of
light, was heavy, moist, and charged with deadly heat.
Wanda and Pierre since their arrival at the Post had introduced a
certain regularity into their daily life. The same monotony brought
them together in their difficulties as well as in their pleasures.
Every morning they went over to the Mission where Father Ravennes gave
them a lesson in Banhar, the rough and primitive dialect of the natives
of the region. In the afternoon they wandered on horseback all about
the station, some days by themselves and others accompanied by the
missionary. Now and then they climbed up towards the mountain, making
a circuit about the mysterious village, but always being careful not
to get too deep into the forest. Then, in the evening, after dinner,
on the seats under the veranda at the Post they talked together, while
through the night rose the thin sound of the flutes with which the
_linhs_ accompanied their homesick chants which they had brought with
them from their country of Laos.
And this was the peaceful hour--the hour they liked best--during which
unconsciously both of them put aside restraint at the call of this
mysterious destiny which had brought them together in the depths of the
forest alone, each with a heart so ardent and so young.
Lursac, particularly, fell under the charm of this camaraderie and
enjoyed it to the full, light-heartedly. But soon with this plain
and simple feeling something more complex, less peaceful also, had
become mingled. Pierre had very soon indeed found awakening in himself
for this strange, wilful and beautiful girl a tenderness in which
admiration, fear, and weakness were mingled. Then, spending his days
side by side with her, he had felt an eager love take possession of
him little by little with its hitherto unguessed-at sweetness, and,
finally, flood his whole being with its irresistible power. Wanda,
however, continually bewildered him. Generally distant or reserved,
she sometimes became childlike and tender. At such moments she flung
constraint to the winds without any warning: then as suddenly froze
again, disconcerting him by these sudden changes in humor, by the
caprices of a heart whose secret he could never fathom. So in her
presence he remained hesitant and timid, irritated by his own weakness
and impatience, feeling her difficult to understand, impossible to
follow, with every fibre of his being in revolt against her instability
of temperament which day by day forced him to put off the avowal which
he had sworn to himself to make.
On this particular afternoon they were taking their usual ride.
Through thick foliage shining with the damp the path led away,
obstructed here and there with swamps and blocked in places by trunks
of uprooted trees. At their regular, undeviating pace, the sure-footed
ponies followed it, the bridles hanging on their necks. Around them
the great Lao-ese forest pressed in upon them, vast and deep, cradling
between its enormous upspringing shafts, which gave it the aspect of
a giant cathedral, the heavy perfume of rotting earth, voluptuous and
unhealthy. Among the bushes and the undergrowth a bluish-green daylight
drifted, uncertain and deceptive--a sunless daylight, transparent,
the color of green leaves, such as sifts sometimes through the dusty
windows of an old sanctuary long abandoned and given up to shadows and
forgetfulness....
Plucking as she went an orchid which hung from a thorny creeper, Wanda
announced:
"We will stop at the first clearing: I feel tired...."
Absorbed in contemplation of her, Pierre gave no answer. Clothed
in her gray tailored suit--the same that she had worn that night,
already so long past, on which she had paid him that strange visit at
Khône-Sud--she rode before him, and he with his mind lost in a vague
thoughtfulness watched her. His glance slowly dwelt on the dainty
outline which not even the jolting trot of the ponies could dishevel,
and every detail came to him with a new joy:--a bit of her neck shining
white in the shadow of the felt hat; the curve of her shoulders, as
the strong and flexible figure gave gracefully to the motion of the
horse; the supple waist, and the long delicate line of her leg outlined
in red leather, and the fine arch of the foot strongly planted in the
stirrup....
With her hand lying on the croup of her animal she turned back towards
him. Catching the long look charged with emotion and admiration with
which he seemed to embrace her, she blushed.
"Do you hear me, Pierre, I am tired."
Her voice a little sharp, she spoke louder than usual.
He started, and pushed his mount alongside that of the girl.
"Certainly," said he, "we will stop as soon as you wish."
And he fell again into his dream. At last, watching him out of the
corners of her eyes, she said:
"You are not very pleasant this morning. I suppose you slept badly?"
He nodded his head.
"True," said he, "I hardly closed my eyes."
And as he spoke there came before him the sleepless night that he had
just passed. A troubled and feverish night, through which he had done
nothing but think long thoughts of Wanda; and the visions which had
obsessed him and kept him wide awake at his window came back into his
mind. With the sudden beating of his heart there flowed upon him once
more the violent emotion which had tormented him through the night;
and the same question which had then haunted him faced him again for
solution: Did Wanda love him?
The uncertainty was no longer to be borne.
The path, now widening, opened into a clearing. Wanda jumped down from
her horse and Pierre imitated her. With the bridles over their arms
they made a few steps side by side.
"Now," thought Pierre, "I will speak to her, I will tell her...."
But the girl's voice breaking the silence interrupted him.
"A poor harvest!" said she.
And sitting on a stump overgrown with moss she spread out before him a
few curiously shaped stones. She repeated:
"A poor harvest! Father Ravennes will not be able to congratulate us on
that!"
He stood facing her.
"You are right," he said sharply. "Since Father Ravennes showed you his
collection of prehistoric remains there doesn't seem to be anything
else that interests you!"
"Yes, he made a good convert of me," she said, smiling. "Here am I, who
two months ago didn't even know there was such a thing as anthropology
or palæontology, now mad about carved flints and dreaming of nothing
but axes and scrapers and skeletons. But how learned he is on the
subject, and what words he finds to describe his dear prehistoric
man!... I shall never forget his face, at once horrified and amazed,
when I told him that our ancestors must have been horribly ugly.
'Quaternary man _ugly_!' cried he, 'Who put that into your head?
Uncivilized, savage, wild, without doubt!--but _ugly_? Good Heavens!
No! Unless you find horrible anything that resembles nature, anything
that is strong, powerful and active! Primitive man? He was certainly
a rough, strong being, with rude health, formidable muscles, and a
splendid lithe body; a primitive athlete, superb in strength, browned
by the sun and burned by the weather, hardened by privations and as
dangerous to the wild beasts as to his fellows....'" She remained a
moment thoughtful and then:
"After all, suppose he was right?"
Pierre had sat down beside her. With hanging head he absently handled
the stones laid on the earth before her.
"Yes," said he, "and for a whole week I have beaten the forest with you
looking for fossils...."
She turned to him and looked at him:
"Are you complaining of it?"
He protested:
"No.... No...."
And, suddenly making up his mind, in an uncertain voice he continued:
"No ... but today, if you will let me, we will not talk of prehistoric
things, I have something to tell you...."
She drew herself lightly away, but still turned towards him she watched
him attentively with her frank glance.
He felt his heart beat furiously in little short feverish throbs.
"Something to say to you ...," said he, "a confession ... I...."
Quickly she stretched out her arm and laid her hand across his lips:
"I know," she said steadily, "you love me...."
Pierre, seizing her hand, kissed it passionately.
"No," said he, "you do not know.... It was back there on the
_Vien-Thian_, when I saw you for the first time!... You were talking to
Captain Rabaud. Do you remember?... I do not know why the sound of your
voice attracted me, and when you had refused to take me for a fellow
traveler I felt disappointment and a strange pain ... and then you came
to see me at Khône...."
She did not withdraw her fingers. With her head lowered and her eyes
half-shut she seemed to be thinking deeply.
"I hardly saw you that morning going on shore, and yet, nevertheless,
somehow I knew that you would not refuse my request," she said.
"Yes ... and your victory was so easy and so complete that you must
have been surprised at it yourself!"
She raised her eyes to his. He noticed the softened look in them, one
which he had never seen there before. Profoundly moved, he stammered:
"Wanda ... Wanda ... I love you,--so, so much. Tell me, you believe me?"
Her look flowed into his and seemed to search into the most hidden
corners of his heart.
There was a little silence which she suddenly broke:
"Yes," she said simply, "I believe you...."
He breathed heavily as though freed from some agony. A wave of joy
spread over his face.
"When your brother comes back I will speak to him ... you wish me to,
do you?"
She got up and walked towards her horse.
He followed her.
"Answer me, Wanda!" he implored, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Her foot in the stirrup, she sprang up lightly and settled herself in
the saddle.
His hand on the neck of her horse and his head raised in anxiety he
repeated:
"I may?... Tell me!..."
She bent towards him. Their faces were so close that the details of her
features seemed to escape him and before his eyes Pierre could only
see two brown eyes wonderfully liquid, the color of dead leaves, and
palpitating with the beating of the dark lashes.
His look fell lower and caught sight of the moist crimson lips like a
marvellous fruit.
A violent spasm of emotion overwhelmed him, he shut his eyes and
shivered at the thought of those lips laid on his in a kiss.
At the same time, with his hands moist and his throat dry, he searched
vainly for words, for some tender phrase to serve as a plea for his
love. But in his feverish brain one single question, the same, came to
the surface like an obsession and for the third time he asked:
"Will you let me?"
She bent a little over him and suddenly taking his face between her
hands she kissed him on the lips almost savagely while her breath
mingled with his.
"Yes," she cried, "for I, I love you also."
And she repeated passionately:
"I love you!... I love you!..."
Then flinging herself quickly back from him, she whipped up her pony,
which started off at a gallop.
He caught up with her in a few seconds, and then they descended
together the flank of the mountain, letting their animals go as they
liked. Between the springing shafts of the _dau_ trees, the _igieurs_,
the _trueuls_, the path zigzagged, here turning to go round a bush and
there avoiding a mass of creepers. Side by side they jogged along, as
they went building castles in Spain for the future, and sketching their
lives together according to their most secret longings.
Suddenly pulling his signet ring from his ring-finger, Pierre held it
out to the girl.
"I have no other ring to offer you just now," he said, "no jewel, no
diamond! ... will you wear this for me meanwhile?"
She took the ring, slipped it on to her finger and with her long pale
hand raised before her eyes she asked:
"Is it very old?"
"Yes, my great-great-grandfather had it when he was killed at the
battle of Fontenoy. Since then it has passed from father to eldest son."
She examined the coat of arms:
"A lion.... A chevron...."
"_Dexter, argent, a lion sable--Sinister, azure, a chevron or_," he
quoted, smiling.
She repeated the heraldic description slowly.
"Very well," she said, "I shall know now how to blazon our arms, and I
will keep them faithfully--as faithfully as my love...."
And in her turn she smiled, with a look at once solemn and tender.