MADELEINE bore her sorrow very well at first. She heard from her new
servant, who had met with François, that he had been hired for eighteen
pistoles a year by a farmer, who had a good mill and some land over
toward Aigurande. She was happy to know that he had found a good place,
and did her utmost to return to her occupations, without grieving too
much. In spite of her efforts, however, she fell ill for a long time of
a low fever, and pined quietly away, without anybody's noticing it.
François was right when he said that in him she lost her best friend.
She was sad and lonely, and, having nobody to talk with, she petted all
the more her son Jeannie, who was a very nice boy, as gentle as a lamb.
But he was too young to understand all that she had to say of François,
and, besides, he showed her no such kind cares and attentions as the
waif had done at his age. Jeannie loved his mother, more even than
children ordinarily do, because she was such a mother as is hard to
find; but he never felt the same wonder and emotion about her as
François did. He thought it quite natural to be so tenderly loved and
caressed. He received it as his portion, and counted on it as his due,
whereas the waif had never been unmindful of the slightest kindness from
her, and made his gratitude so apparent in his behavior, his words and
looks, his blushes and tears, that when Madeleine was with him she
forgot that her home was bereft of peace, love, and comfort.
When she was left again forlorn, all this evil returned upon her, and
she meditated long on the sorrows which François's affectionate
companionship had kept in abeyance. Now she had nobody to read with her,
to help her in caring for the poor, to pray with her, or even now and
then to exchange a few frank, good-natured jests with her. Nothing that
she saw or did gave her any more pleasure, and her thoughts wandered
back to the time when she had with her such a kind, gentle, and loving
friend. Whether she went into her vineyard, into her orchard, or into
the mill, there was not a spot as large as a pocket-handkerchief, that
she had not passed over ten thousand times, with this child clinging to
her skirts, or this faithful, zealous friend at her side. It was as if
she had lost a son of great worth and promise; and it was in vain she
heaped her affection on the one who still remained, for half her heart
was left untenanted.
Her husband saw that she was wearing away, and felt some pity for her
languid, melancholy looks. He feared lest she might fall seriously ill,
and was loath to lose her, as she was a skilful manager, and saved on
her side as much as he wasted on his. As Sévère would not allow him to
attend to his mill, he knew that his business would go to pieces if
Madeleine no longer had the charge of it, and though he continued to
upbraid her from habit, and complained of her lack of care, he knew that
nobody else would serve him better.
He exerted himself to contrive some means of curing her of her sickness
and sorrow, and just at this juncture it happened that his uncle died.
His youngest sister had been under this uncle's guardianship, and now
she fell into his own care. He thought, at first, of sending the girl to
live with Sévère, but his other relations made him ashamed of this
project; and, besides, when Sévère found that the girl was only just
fifteen, and promised to be as fair as the day, she had no further
desire to be intrusted with such a charge, and told Blanchet that she
was afraid of the risks attendant on the care of a young girl.
So Blanchet--who saw that he should gain something by being his sister's
guardian, as the uncle, who had brought her up, had left her money in
his will; and who was unwilling to place her with any of his other
relations--brought her home to his mill, and requested his wife to treat
her as a sister and companion, to teach her to work, and let her share
in the household labors, and yet to make the task so easy that she
should have no desire to go elsewhere.
Madeleine acquiesced gladly in this family arrangement. She liked
Mariette Blanchet from the first for the sake of her beauty, the very
cause for which Sévère had disliked her. She believed, too, that a
sweet disposition and a good heart always go with a pretty face, and she
received the young girl not so much as a sister as a daughter, who might
perhaps take the place of poor François.
During all this time poor François bore his trouble with as much
patience as he had, and this was none at all; for never was man nor boy
visited with so heavy an affliction. He fell ill, in the first place,
and this was almost fortunate for him, for it proved the kindness of his
master's family, who would not allow him to be sent to the hospital, but
kept him at home, and tended him carefully. The miller, his present
master, was most unlike Cadet Blanchet, and his daughter, who was about
thirty years old, and not yet married, had a reputation for her
charities and good conduct.
These good people plainly saw, too, in spite of the waif's illness, that
they had found a treasure in him.
He was so strong and well-built that he threw off his disease more
quickly than most people, and though he set to work before he was cured,
he had no relapse. His conscience spurred him on to make up for lost
time and repay his master and mistress for their kindness. He still felt
ill for more than two months, and every morning, when he began his work,
he was as giddy as if he had just fallen from the roof of a house, but
little by little he warmed up to it, and never told the trouble it cost
him to begin. The miller and his daughter were so well pleased with him
that they intrusted him with the management of many things which were
far above his position. When they found that he could read and write,
they made him keep the accounts, which had never been kept before, and
the need of which had often involved the mill in difficulties. In short,
he was as well off as was compatible with his misfortune; and as he had
the prudence to refrain from saying that he was a foundling, nobody
reproached him with his origin.
But neither the kind treatment he received, nor his work, nor his
illness, could make him forget Madeleine, his dear mill at Cormouer, his
little Jeannie, and the graveyard where Zabelle was lying. His heart was
always far away, and on Sundays he did nothing but brood, and so had no
rest from the labors of the week. He was at such a distance from his
home, which was more than six leagues off, that no news from it ever
reached him. He thought at first that he would become used to this, but
he was consumed with anxiety, and tried to invent means of finding out
about Madeleine, at least twice a year. He went to the fairs for the
purpose of meeting some acquaintance from the old place, and if he saw
one, he made inquiries about all his friends, beginning prudently with
those for whom he cared least, and leading up to Madeleine, who
interested him most; and thus he had some tidings of her and her family.
"But it is growing late, my friends, and I am going to sleep in the
middle of my story. I shall go on with it to-morrow, if you care to hear
it Good night, all."
The hemp-dresser went off to bed, and the farmer lit his lantern and
took Mother Monique back to the parsonage, for she was an old woman, and
could not see her way clearly.
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