WHEN Zabelle saw him thus, she thought he was dead. All her love for him
returned, and with no more thought of the miller or his wicked old
mother, she seized the child from Madeleine, and began to kiss him, with
sobs and cries. They sat down beside the river, and, laying him across
their knees, they washed his wounds and stanched the blood with their
handkerchiefs; but they had nothing with which to bring him to.
Madeleine warmed his head against her bosom, and breathed on his face
and into his mouth as people do with the drowned. This revived him, and
as soon as he opened his eyes and saw what care they were taking of him,
he kissed Madeleine and Zabelle, one after the other, so passionately
that they were obliged to check him, fearing that he might faint again.
"Come, come," said Zabelle, "we must go home. No, I can never, never
leave that child; I see now, and I shall never think of it again. I
shall keep your ten crowns, Madeleine, so I can pay my rent to-night if
I am forced to do so. Do not tell about it; I shall go to-morrow to the
lady in Presles, so that she may not inform against you, and she can
say, in case of need, that she has not as yet given you the price of
your spinning. In this way we shall gain time, and I shall try so hard
that, even if I have to beg for it, I shall succeed in paying my debt to
you, so that you need not suffer on my account. You cannot take this
child to the mill; your husband would kill him. Leave him to me; I swear
to you that I shall take as good care of him as before, and if we are
tormented any further, we tan think of something else."
It came to pass that the waif's return was effected without disturbance,
and without exciting attention; for it happened that Mother Blanchet had
just fallen ill of a stroke of apoplexy, without having had an
opportunity of telling her son what she had exacted from Zabelle about
the waif, and Master Blanchet sent in all haste for Zabelle to come and
help in the household, while Madeleine and the servant were taking care
of his mother. For three days everything was in confusion at the mill.
Madeleine did not spare herself, and watched for three nights at the
bedside of her husband's mother, who died in her arms.
This blow allayed the miller's bad temper for some time. He had loved
his mother as much as he was capable of loving, and his vanity was
concerned in making as fine a funeral for her as his means allowed. He
forgot his mistress for the required time, and with pretended generosity
distributed his dead mother's clothes to the poor neighbors. Zabelle had
her share of the alms, and the waif received a franc piece, because
Blanchet remembered that once, when they were in urgent need of leeches
for the sick woman, and everybody was running futilely hither and
thither to look for them, the waif went off, without saying a word, to
fish some out of a pool where he knew they were, and brought them back
in less time than it took the others to start out for them.
So Cadet Blanchet gradually forgot his dislike, and nobody at the mill
knew of Zabelle's freak of sending back the waif to the asylum. The
question of Madeleine's ten crowns came up later, for the miller did not
neglect to make Zabelle pay the rent for her wretched cottage. Madeleine
said that she had lost them as she ran home through the fields, on
hearing of her mother-in-law's accident. Blanchet made a long search for
them and scolded a great deal, but he never found out the use to which
the money had been put, and Zabelle was not suspected.
After his mother's death, Blanchet's disposition changed little by
little, though not for the better. He found life still more tedious at
home, was less observant of what went on, and less niggardly in his
expenditure. He no longer earned anything, and, in proportion as he grew
fat, led a disorderly life, and cared no more for his work. He looked to
make his profit by dishonest bargains and unfair dealings, which would
have enriched him, if he had not spent on one hand what he gained on the
other. His mistress acquired more ascendency over him every day. She
took him with her to fairs and feasts, induced him to engage in petty
trickeries, and spend his time at the tavern. He learned how to gamble,
and was often lucky; but it would have been better for him to lose
always than acquire this unfortunate taste; for his dissipations threw
him entirely off his balance, and at the most trifling loss, he became
furious with himself, and ill-tempered toward everybody else.
While he was leading this wretched life, his wife, always wise and good,
governed the house and tenderly reared their only child. But she thought
herself doubly a mother, for she loved and watched over the waif almost
as much as if he were her own. As her husband became more dissolute, she
was less miserable and more her own mistress. In the beginning of his
licentious career he was still very churlish, because he dreaded
reproaches, and wished to hold his wife in a state of fear and
subjection. When he saw that she was by nature an enemy to strife, and
showed no jealousy, he made up his mind to leave her in peace. As his
mother was no longer there to stir him up against her, he was obliged to
recognize that no other woman was as thrifty as Madeleine. He grew
accustomed to spend whole weeks away from home, and whenever he came
back in the mood for a quarrel, he met with a mute patience that turned
away his wrath, and he was first astonished and ended by going to sleep.
So finally he came to see his wife only when he was tired and in need of
rest.
Madeleine must have been a very Christian woman to live thus alone with
an old servant and two children, and perhaps she was a still better
Christian than if she had been a nun. God had given her the great
privilege of learning to read, and of understanding what she read. Yet
she always read the same thing, for she possessed only two books, the
Holy Gospel and an abbreviated copy of the "Lives of the Saints." The
Gospel sanctified her, and saddened her to tears, when she read alone in
the evening beside her son's bed. The "Lives of the Saints" produced a
different effect upon her; it was just as when idle people read stories
and excite themselves over dreams and illusions. These beautiful tales
inspired her with courage and even gaiety. Sometimes, out in the fields,
the waif saw her smile and flush, when she had her book in her lap. He
wondered at it, and found it hard to understand how the stories which
she told him, with some little alteration in order adapt them to his
capacity (and also perhaps because she could not perfectly grasp them
from beginning to end), could come from that thing which she called her
book. He wanted to read, too, and learned so quickly and well that she
was amazed, and in his turn he was able to teach little Jeannie. When
François was old enough to make his first communion, Madeleine helped
him with his catechism, and the parish priest was delighted with the
intelligence and excellent memory of this child, who had always passed
for a simpleton, because he was very shy and never had anything to say.
After his first communion, and he was old enough to be hired out,
Zabelle was pleased to have him engaged as servant at the mill; and
Master Blanchet made no opposition, because it was plain to all that the
waif was a good boy, very industrious and obliging, and stronger, more
alert and sensible than the other children of his age. Then, too, he was
satisfied with ten crowns for wages, and it was an economical
arrangement for the miller. François was very happy to be entirely in
the service of Madeleine and the dear little Jeannie he loved so much,
and when he found that Zabelle could pay for her farm with his earnings,
and thus be relieved of her most besetting care, he thought himself as
rich as a king.
Unfortunately, poor Zabelle could not long enjoy her reward. At the
beginning of the winter, she fell seriously ill, and in spite of
receiving every care from the waif and Madeleine, she died on Candlemas
Day, after having so far recovered that they thought her well again.
Madeleine sorrowed and wept for her sincerely, but she tried to comfort
the poor waif, who but for her would have been inconsolable.
Even after a year's time, he still thought of her every day, and almost
every instant. Once he said to the miller's wife:
"I feel a kind of remorse when I pray for my poor mother's soul; it is
because I did not love her enough. I am very sure that I always did my
best to please her, that I never said any but kind words to her, and
that I served her in all ways as I serve you; but I must confess
something, Madame Blanchet, which troubles me, and for which, in secret,
I often ask God's forgiveness. Ever since the day my poor mother wanted
to send me back to the asylum, and you took my part, and prevented her
doing so, my love for her, against my will, grew less. I was not angry
with her; I did not allow myself even to think that she was wrong in
trying to rid herself of me. It was her right to do so; I stood in her
way; she was afraid of your mother-in-law, and after all she did it very
reluctantly; for I could see that she loved me greatly. In some way or
other, the idea keeps recurring to my mind, and I cannot drive it away.
From the moment you said to me those words which I shall never forget, I
loved you more than her, and in spite of all I could do, I thought of
you more often than of her. She is dead now, and I did not die of grief
as I should if you died!"
"What were the words I said, my poor child, that made you love me so
much? I do not remember them."
"You do not remember them?" said the waif, sitting down at the feet of
Madeleine, who was turning her wheel as she listened. "When you gave the
crowns to my mother, you said: 'There, I buy that child of you; he is
mine!' And then you kissed me and said: 'Now you are no longer a waif;
you have a mother who will love you as if you were her own!' Did not you
say so, Madame Blanchet?"
"If I did, I said what I meant, and am still of the same mind. Do you
think I have failed to keep my word?"
"Oh no! only--"
"Only what?"
"No. I cannot tell you, for it is wrong to complain and be thankless and
ungrateful."
"I know that you cannot be ungrateful, and I want you to say what you
have on your mind. Come, in what respect don't I treat you like my own
child? I order you to tell me, as I should order Jeannie."
"Well, it is--it is that you kiss Jeannie very often, and have never
kissed me since the day we were just speaking of. Yet I am careful to
keep my face and hands very clean, because I know that you do not like
dirty children, and are always running after Jeannie to wash and comb
him. But this does not make you kiss me any more, and my mother Zabelle
did not kiss me either. I see that other mothers caress their children,
and so I know that I am always a waif, and that you cannot forget it."
"Come and kiss me, François," said the miller's wife, making the child
sit on her knees and kissing him with much feeling. "It is true that I
did wrong never to think of it, and you deserved better of me. You see
now that I kiss you with all my heart, and you are very sure that you
are not a waif, are not you?"
The child flung his arms round Madeleine's neck, and turned so pale that
she was surprised, and putting him down gently from her lap, tried to
distract his attention. After a minute, he left her, and ran off to
hide. The miller's wife felt some uneasiness, and making a search for
him, she finally found him on his knees, in a corner of the barn, bathed
in tears.
"What does this mean, François?" said she, raising him up. "I don't
know what is the matter with you. If you are thinking of your poor
mother Zabelle, you had better say a prayer for her, and then you will
feel more at rest."
"No, no," said the child, twisting the end of Madeleine's apron, and
kissing it with all his might. "Are not you my mother?"
"Why are you crying then? You give me pain!"
"Oh, no! oh, no! I am not crying," answered François, drying his eyes
quickly, and looking up cheerfully; "I mean, I do not know why I was
crying. Truly, I cannot understand it, for I am as happy as if I were in
heaven."
[Illustration]