Helen and her little sister were left very much to themselves for some
time after they settled in M. Goudron’s house, and the village life
going on round them soon became interesting and important to the
strangers. Little Janey played all day long with Marie and Petit-Jean,
and acquired a Burgundian accent, and an ease of speech much beyond that
of Helen, who still talked as with a shadow behind her of her governess,
and was tremulous about her genders, and afraid of the subjunctive mood.
It was wonderful how soon they came to know the stories which hid under
each little thatched roof. Though Helen did not dare in the face of
public opinion to unfasten the closely strained curtain that covered her
windows, she managed to draw its fulness towards the centre, leaving a
little corner by which she could see what was going on. The chief thing
she saw, it must be allowed, was old Goudron standing at the door
watching everything that went on with his hungry old eyes, and grinning
with malicious pleasure at every mishap. Nothing escaped the old man,
and his grin was the chief thing in Latour which soured the milk of
human kindness, made the good wives cross, they could not tell why, and
exasperated the men. He was always there with malignant and mocking
words whatever happened, to say that “I told you so”--which makes every
misfortune a little more unbearable;--“if you had listened to me.” The
house next door was the only house in the village which made any
pretensions to gentility. M. le Précepteur who lived in it was not a
schoolmaster, as the English reader may suppose, but the collector of
taxes, a Government _employé_, who held on with a very stern clutch to
the skirts of the aristocracy, as a man well born, with a wife who found
herself sadly out of place in this desert. When madame went by in her
pretty toilets, M. Goudron had always a gibe. The public virtue of M. le
Précepteur, and his devotion to the country, was his favourite subject.
“_Quoi_, madame! it is too much to have an old Roman for a husband.
Again you go out alone,” he would say. Madame knew that her
irreproachable husband was playing billiards at the moment, thinking
very little of public duty, and still less of the enormity of leaving
her to go out alone, but she held up her head and smiled disdainfully.
“In our class, monsieur,” she said, “we are trained from our cradles to
recognise that each has their share of duty--society for the women, but
for the men the country. It is difficult, I am aware, to make it
comprehensible among the _bourgeois_,” she added, sweeping past with the
sweetest smile. Old Goudron grinned, but he had his match. Helen watched
their passages of arms daily. The _employé’s_ wife was a good mother and
an excellent housewife, but neither for home nor children would she have
relinquished the grandeur of her caste. She paid visits at the
_château_; she patronised the Curé; and visited the good Sisters, who
kept their little school at the other end of the village; and maintained
her little social circle with the stateliness of a duchess. Once a-week
she had her little reception, which was attended by M. le Curé, M. le
Vicaire (for it was a large parish), and the notary. Once a-week she and
her husband dined at the _château_. Regularly as the weeks came round
were these social rules observed, for, as she justly remarked, “Without
society one vegetates, one does not live.” It was much in the mind of
this one representative of high life in Latour, to open her doors to the
strangers. The father’s appearance was perfectly _comme il faut_; and
though Helen was shy, she had still the air of a young person who had
been instructed, and might have been _né_, like madame herself.
Nobody else in Latour had a _salon_ or the ghost of a _salon_. But
Helen, peeping from her corner, soon got to know which of the cottage
wives looked out anxiously for the return of their husbands, and which
reposed with pride and calm upon the certainty of Jean or Jacques’
sobriety and good behaviour. She began to know the different clank of
the _sabots_--from the little patter of the children, in their dark-blue
homespun frocks and close little caps, to the heavy resounding tread of
the big boys and men. She knew M. le Curé’s measured step, and the pause
he made to leave his wooden overshoes behind when he went in to see a
sick man; and the brisker little trot of M. le Vicaire, who had been in
the war, and who was a fiery little martyr, tramping leagues off to the
edge of the parish to see the sick, or any one who called for his aid.
On Monday every week M. le Curé went to the _château_ to say a mass for
the old Count in the little chapel, and stayed afterwards to take his
_déjeûner_, the second breakfast, which, till all these masses were
over, was the first meal for the good Curé. It was on Thursday that the
priest and the Précepteur and his wife dined at the Château of Latour,
and on Sunday was the reception of madame next door. On Sunday all the
village was astir. There was a great deal going on in the church in the
morning, and a tolerable amount of people there--a far larger number
than was justified by the professions of the villagers, who disowned all
the habits of piety, and made themselves out much less Christian than
they were. It is the fashion to be religious in the upper classes, and
all who would aspire to belong to them in France: and it is the fashion
among the peasantry to hate the Church; yet notwithstanding, there were
a great many people at High Mass, wherever they came from. M. le
Précepteur was there with his wife in her prettiest toilet, and their
little girl as fine as a little girl could be; and M. le Maire and the
adjoint both thought it expedient to set a good example to the
community. But it was only the morning that the best of Catholics
thought it necessary to devote to the services of religion. Even Madame
la Comtesse at the _château_, though orthodox to the fingers’ tips, took
care to assure her guests that vespers were not a duty, _pas
obligatoire_, and in the afternoon and evening all the merriment of the
village, such as it was, was in full swing. The Lion d’Or and the Cheval
Blanc were both full; and in a large loft belonging to the former there
was dancing, which Helen and Janey watched with a fearful joy through
the open window. To be able to see this, even at a distance, was an
amusement they had not hoped for; yet Helen was very uneasy as to
whether it was justifiable on Sunday even to look on at a dance. But it
was not very riotous dancing, or even very gay, as we are led to suppose
the amusements of our gayer neighbours are. They took their pleasure
very seriously, these Burgundian peasants, just as our own country folks
do. The violinist of the village had no great variety of music in his
_répertoire_, and the peasant couples, solemnly circling round and round
with their hands on each others’ shoulders, displayed little of that
characteristic gaiety of France which we hear so much about.
Down below, in front of the windows on the benches outside, the men
drank steadily and talked, till it became too cold, while the women
sitting by, knitting their stockings, sometimes threw in a word. They
made a great deal more noise than similar assemblies do in England, but
there was not much more mirth. Very often a passing show, a travelling
establishment of pedlar’s wares--a “Cheap Jack,” or at the worst, a
dentist in a triumphal car, making their last rounds before the winter
set in, would arrive at Latour, and this made Sunday very piquant,
before everything succumbed under the chills of the declining season.
Madame Dupré at the Lion d’Or, in her whitest cap, with her long
ear-rings, occupied the large chair on these Sundays, leaving the
waiting to Auguste, and Baptiste, and Jeanne from the kitchen, whose
holiday it was to emerge from that hot and stifling place, putting also
long ear-rings in her ears, and a cap that might have been starched in
Paris, it was so _comme il faut_. Jeanne liked to show herself in the
_salle_ among all the people on these Sunday nights. But Baptiste for
his part was always seeking to get away. He stole up to the dancing-room
to have one waltz with his Blanchette, then rushed down to get a
_chope_ for Jean Pierre, or a new bottle of _piquette_ for Père Roussel,
or the absinthe which the little city clerk, who had come to help M. le
Notaire, thought it fine to call for. And thus the Sunday evenings went
on. Madame la Comtesse would have liked to shut up the _auberges_ and
have Sunday kept as in England, if she could; and Madame Vincent, the
Précepteur’s wife, had fixed her reception for Sunday in order to
prevent her husband and the notary from patronising the vulgar popular
meeting in the Lion d’Or. But neither of these great ladies influenced
the village. The first it regarded as a hostile power, whom to thwart
was one of the first of its duties, the other as a laughing-stock.
Mr Goulburn walked about the village for the first Sunday evening, and
amused himself, while his daughters at the window saw all the rude
little frolicking at a distance--the dancing-room with its open windows,
the oil-lamps burning hot and smoky in the gloom, the dancers gyrating,
not always in time, to the squeak of the village fiddle; and down below,
the light in the windows of the _salle_ at the Lion d’Or broken by the
figures of the people who sat outside. The girls were not so soon bored
as he was. He was a man who liked to be popular, as has been said. He
went in to pay his respects to Madame Dupré and made her his little
compliments.
“All the world is here,” he said, “to-night. I find you on your throne,
madame, the queen of the village.”
Madame Dupré was so pleased that she accorded him a civility shown to
few. She got up to offer him a seat, and called to Baptiste to bring her
a certain precious little bottle.
“Monsieur must taste it--it is genuine,” she said; “it was brought me
from the hands of the monks who have the secret.”
“Ah, the monks!” some one said; “they like to keep all the good things
to themselves.”
“And with good reason,” said Mr Goulburn. “Could I make anything so good
as this, certainly I should keep it to myself.”
This _mot_ had a little _succès_ in the company which pleased its
author. It is hard to say how far down we will go for applause without
any sense of lowering ourselves. Praise is always pleasant.
“Monsieur has reason,” said Madame Dupré. “I am not _dévote_, but now
and then I like to hear one who will say a good word for the clergy.”
Old M. Goudron, who was sitting by, took his cigar out of his mouth.
“Madame is too good,” said the old man; “she would say a good word for
the devil, if there is such a person, and if he were a customer at the
Lion d’Or.”
“The clergy are no customers of mine, nor do I hold with them any more
than you do,” Madame Dupré began, with rising colour, when the
Englishman poured oil on the waves.
“In my country,” he said, “the clergy are not a separate class as in
yours. They marry and live like other men; but no one in England speaks
of them as you do here in France. They do a great deal of good among us.
They take care of the poor.”
“Pah! a married priest!” cried Madame Dupré, with an expression of
disgust. “I am no bigot, but I could not put up with that.”
“And as for what monsieur says about the poor,” cried M. Goudron, “there
ought not to be any poor. A man who wants help, who cannot keep himself
alive, there is no place for him in the world.”
At this a little murmur rose, and one of the silent spectators spoke.
“We are all poor,” he said; “and when there is a bad harvest, or a bad
winter, or illness in the house, how are we to live without the help of
a kind hand?”
“Ah, it is you, Paul le Roux; every one knows why you speak. There is
solidarity between the enemies of mankind,--the priest and the
aristocrat; they have but one end. It is for this they wander about the
village to take persons at a disadvantage who may happen to be badly
off. You do not see how their charity is an impudence. What! give you
their crumbs, and their fragments! ‘Take what falls from my table, I am
better than thou.’ It is an insult--such an insult,” old Goudron said
suddenly, with the grin that divided his face in two, “as I never would
venture to offer to any neighbours of mine.”
At this there was a general laugh. “Père Goudron,” said some one from
the window, “will never fail in respect to his neighbours in that way.”
“Never!” cried the old man, with his malignant grin.
In the meantime young Baptiste had escaped from the table and the
drinking, and had gone back to the dancers, who were now beginning to
disperse. He went across the street with his Blanchette and her friends,
and secure in the occupation of both their parents, talked for half a
happy hour with her at the door. When he bade her good night at last,
and little Blanchette went in with the blush on her cheeks, Helen,
somewhat pale from her vigil, was standing at the door of the
sitting-room. “Will you come in?” she said. She had been sitting there
a long time alone, since Janey went to bed, watching the dancers, and
listening to the squeak of the fiddle and the hum of all the voices. It
was not a kind of merrymaking which Helen could have shared; yet to see
people enjoying themselves, and to sit alone and look from a distance at
their pleasure, is sad when one is young. She was glad to see the bright
countenance of the other girl, who was in the midst of all that little
agitation of youthful life from which she was herself shut out. There
was but one candle in the bare little _salon_, and that was put away in
a corner not to interrupt the sight of the village gaiety outside.
Blanchette came in, proud of the invitation, and looked out with great
sympathy upon the scene she had herself left, where now the dancing
figures were fewer and more irregular, and the lights more smoky and
lurid than ever.
“Was mademoiselle looking at us all the time?” she said; and then she
suddenly took and kissed with fervour, to Helen’s great surprise, her
unwilling hand. “_Mon dieu_!” said little Blanchette, “but how sad for
mademoiselle!”
“Oh, thanks,” cried Helen, much confused and not knowing what to do. She
would have liked to kiss the little girl who felt for her, but she was
too shy to do this. “It amused me very much,” she said with a little
sigh--perhaps she had scarcely thought that her amusement was sad till
Blanchette suggested it. “I think I saw you dancing with Baptiste.”
“Oh yes, mademoiselle. He came as often as he could. Mademoiselle knows
that we are _fiancés_.”
“Yes; but you are too young to be married,” Helen said.
“Does mademoiselle think so? Baptiste is almost twenty. Provided that
he draws a good number, that is all we have to hope for. Will
mademoiselle say a little prayer for us when the moment comes? Ursule
has promised a candle to St Hubert if all goes well. Ursule has no
wishes for herself. She is a saint upon earth. All that she asks from
heaven is for me.”
“But she is only a very little older than you are. Why should she have
no wishes for herself?”
“Mademoiselle, she has a vocation,” said Blanchette with awe; the candle
shone back, doubled and reflected in those twin mirrors, from her eyes.
The gravity on her face brought out all its sweetness--a little face,
all alive with love, and hope, and reverential admiration, and faith.
Helen felt her own passiveness all the more from the contrast. She felt
half ashamed of her ignorance, and of standing, as she did, outside of
all this world so full of life.
“What is a vocation?” she said.
“Does not mademoiselle know? A vocation is something one does not talk
of carelessly, as we are talking; it is too sacred, when it is a true
vocation. She would have been at the Sacré Cœur now, had not grandpapa
been so----Figure to yourself, mademoiselle, that grandpapa is very
violent against the Church. He hates even the good Sisters, who are so
kind. When M. le Curé passes he spits on the ground. It is terrible,”
cried Blanchette, with tears in her eyes, “to be so old and to be like
that. If Baptiste draws a good number, he will not be able to refuse
that we should marry,” she added very seriously, too grave for blushing,
“and then perhaps my poor Ursule---- The holy mother will take her
without _dot_, they have such faith in her; but she would not leave me
alone with the grandfather. Provided only that Baptiste draws a good
number!” the girl said, clasping her hands.
“Surely, surely he will!” Helen said fervently.
Little Blanchette shook her head. “If things would happen because we
wish them to happen!” she said--and then she added, “Baptiste, perhaps,
has been a little idle, mademoiselle; but all Latour wishes him well,
and the ladies of the Sacré Cœur have promised to make a _neuvaine_ for
us. They would do anything for Ursule’s sister. I wish I had a little
more faith, mademoiselle,” she said, shaking her head once more.
Helen had that vague confidence that what is desired must happen, which
is common to the very young, when their own feelings are not so deeply
concerned as to make them despondent; and though she could not possibly
know anything about it, and her assurances that all would be well were
absolutely worthless, still they consoled Blanchette, who was very
grateful for the interest shown in her, and cried, and smiled, and
declared mademoiselle to be an angel. This was not unpleasant, on the
other hand, to the lonely little Englishwoman. To be sure Blanchette was
not a lady, but she was a girl, and the freemasonry of youth is warm.
Helen got quite excited as she speculated upon the chances which
involved the happiness of this young pair. She herself knew nothing of
such agitations. She felt to herself like a very pale little shadow
standing by looking on, while the others were involved in all those
hopes and fears. She, too, had been plunged into a stormy sea, but it
was very different from this one; Helen did not understand the change in
her own life, and notwithstanding all that her father had said, could
not feel at all sure that this mysterious chapter might not end as it
began, and Fareham and its splendours reappear again in her existence.
But as she sat down in the semi-darkness after Blanchette had left her,
her mind followed an altogether different line of thinking. Blanchette
was the perennial heroine of human story. All the romances, all the
poetry were occupied with troubles like hers. None of them took any
interest in the fate of a girl whose father was the cause of her
misfortunes, and with whose griefs no warmer thought of possible
happiness was twisted. She was altogether in the shadow, and sympathy
was not for her. She had not even a chance of sympathy without a
complaint, without, perhaps, betraying her father, which was impossible.
But with Blanchette everybody sympathised, even the ladies of the Sacré
Cœur, who might be expected to be not too favourable to marriage. Helen
knew nothing of this phase of life. She wondered, with a shy alarm at
her own thoughts, if, as the novels said, something of the kind happened
in everybody’s experience? The thought made her laugh faintly by
herself, and made her blush, though without the slightest reason; and
then suddenly there came before her, like a scene in a theatre, the
_table d’hôte_ at Sainte-Barbe, and the young stranger who had startled
her by his recognition, and who had been so glad to see her. Why had he
been so glad to see her? A little tremble ran over Helen, a flush to her
face, and she laughed again, this time more faintly than ever, then
sprang up and took down the candle from the oldfashioned marble-topped
sideboard in the corner, and put it on the table, and got her book. She
had been reading a pious French book which she had found in her room,
because it was Sunday; it was not very engrossing. Her thoughts strayed
away from it in spite of herself. But she tried her best to hold them
fast and read very steadily. By-and-by the sounds outside lessened and
withdrew, and steps could be heard passing, one group after another,
taking their way home. The day of leisure was over, and to-morrow the
work would begin once more. Helen had begun to watch for her father’s
step among the heavier ones outside, when Blanchette suddenly put her
head within the door.
“Mademoiselle!” she cried, breathless, “here is monsieur coming home,
and Antoine Roussel. Baptiste told me that I ought to warn you. One does
not like to say ill of one’s neighbours, but Antoine is a _mauvais
sujet_. All the village says so. One cannot trust him. If mademoiselle
were to say as much to monsieur _son père_?--and good night--good
night--and a thousand times thanks, _ma bonne et chère demoiselle_.”
Her head disappeared as quickly as it had come. Helen was a little
confused by the sudden warning, by the complications of the language
with which she was still so unfamiliar. To be addressed in the third
person still mystified her a little, and so did monsieur _son père_. But
she had a strong youthful prejudice against Antoine, who followed her
father about everywhere, and whom Janey could not bear. “But what will
papa care?” she said to herself, though indeed it was possible that he
might care for the altogether causeless prejudice of little Janey, if
not for any remonstrance of hers.