XXI

At daybreak Mlle de Saint-Geneix was awakened by the hens clucking and

scratching around her. She rose and walked on, looking at the doors of

the houses as they opened one by one, and saying to herself with reason

that in a hamlet so small and stowed so close among the rocks, she could

not stray far without finding the face she sought.

But here a difficulty presented itself. Was she sure of recognizing this

nurse, whom she had never seen since she was ten years old? She had

Justine's voice and accent in her memory far more clearly than her face.

She followed the ups and downs of the road as far as the last house

behind the rock, and there she saw written on the door "Peyraque

Lanion." A horseshoe nailed over this sign indicated his occupation of

farrier.

Justine had risen first, as was her custom, while the closed calico

curtains of the bed shaded the last nap of M. Peyraque. The principal

apartment on this ground-floor showed the comfort of a well-to-do

household, and the mark of this easy competence consisted particularly

in the garniture of the ceiling; which was trellised with racks of

monumental supplies of vegetables and divers rural commodities; but the

strict cleanliness, a rare deviation from the customs of the country,

removed everything which might offend the eye or the sense of smell.

Justine was lighting her fire, and preparing to make the soup her

husband was to find smoking hot on his awakening, when she saw Mlle de

Saint-Geneix come in with her hood on, carrying her bundle. She cast a

look of perplexity upon the stranger, and said at last, "What have you

to sell?"

Caroline, hearing Peyraque snore behind his curtain, put her finger to

her lips and threw her hood back on her shoulders. Justine stood still

an instant, suppressed a cry of joy, and opened her stout arms with

rapture. She had recognized her child. "Come, come!" said she, leading

her toward a little break-neck staircase at the farther end of the

entry, "your room is all ready. We have been hoping for you every day

this year." And she called to her husband, "Get up, Peyraque, at once,

and shut the door. Here is news, O, such good news!"

The little chamber, whitewashed and furnished in rustic fashion, was,

like the lower room, of irreproachable neatness. The view was

magnificent; and blossoming fruit-trees came up to the level of the

window. "It is a paradise!" exclaimed Caroline to the good woman. "It

only needs a little fire, which you are going to make for me. I am cold

and hungry, but happy to see you and be with you. I must tell you

something, first of all. I don't want it known here who I am. My reasons

are good ones, and you shall know them; they will meet your approval.

Let us begin by agreeing on our facts; you have lived at Brioude?"

"Yes; I was in service there before I was married."

"Brioude is a long way from here. Is there any one from that country in

Lantriac?"

"No one; and strangers never come. There is no road except for

ox-carts."

"I saw that myself. Then you can pass me off for some one you knew at

Brioude?"

"Very easily,--the daughter of my old mistress."

"No; I'm not to be a young lady."

"But she was not a young lady; she was a little tradeswoman."

"That's it; but I must have an occupation."

"Wait a minute!--that's easy enough. Be a pedler of small wares, like

the one I am speaking of."

"But then I shall have to sell something."

"I'll see to that. Besides, you are supposed to have made your rounds,

and I shall have detained you here as a matter of friendship; for you

are going to stay?"

"A month, at least."

"You must stay always. We will find you something to do, never fear.

But, let's see; what shall be your name?"

"Charlette; you called me that when I was a little thing; so it will not

give you any trouble. I am supposed to be a widow, and you must say

'thou' to me."

"Just as I used to. Good! it is agreed. But how will you dress, my dear

Charlette?"

"Like this. You see it's not luxurious."

"It's not very rich, to be sure; though it will pass; but this lovely

blond hair of yours will attract the eye; and a city bonnet will be a

wonder."

"I thought of that; so I bought at Brioude one of the head-dresses worn

there. I have it in my travelling-bag, and I'm going to don my costume

at once for fear of a surprise."

"Then I'll go at once and get you some breakfast. You will eat with

Peyraque, I take it?"

"And with you, I hope. To-morrow I mean to help you about the house and

in the kitchen."

"O, you may pretend to do that! I don't want you to spoil those little

hands I used to take such care of. Now I'm going to see if Peyraque is

up, and let him know what has been agreed upon; then you must tell us

why there is need of all this mystery."

While talking, Justine had kindled the wood already in the fireplace.

She had filled the pitchers with pure cold water, which had trickled

from the rock, coming through an earthen pipe to the toilet-table of her

little chamber, and then down into the kitchen sink. This was an

invention of Peyraque's, who prided himself oh having ideas of his own.

Half an hour afterward Caroline, whose simple attire marked no

particular station, put up her fine hair under the little head-dress

from Brioude, less scantily contrived, and more prettily curved than the

round dish-cover--which, like it, is of black felt trimmed with

velvet--worn by the women of Velay. It was all in vain; she was still

charming in spite of the weariness that dimmed the large eyes "green

like the sea," formerly so bepraised by the Marchioness.

The soup of rice and potatoes was quickly served in a small room where

Peyraque at odd moments did a little carpenter-work. The good man

thought this an unsuitable reception, and wanted to sweep away the

shavings. "On the contrary," said his wife, spreading the chips and

sawdust over the floor, "you don't understand at all! She will think it

a pretty carpet. O you don't know her yet! She is a daughter of the good

Providence, this one is!"

Caroline made acquaintance with Peyraque by embracing him. He was a man

of about sixty years, still very robust though thin, of medium height,

and plain-featured, like most of the mountaineers in this region; but

that his austere and even stern countenance bore the stamp of integrity

was evident at the first glance. His rare smile was remarkably genial.

You saw in it real affection and sincerity, which were all the more

unmistakable from the fact that they were never lavished

demonstratively.

Justine also had rigid features, and a blunt way of speaking. She was a

strong generous character. An earnest Roman Catholic, she respected the

silence of her husband who was of Protestant descent, nominally

converted indeed, but a free-thinker if there ever was one. Caroline

knew these circumstances and was touched to see the delicate respect

which this superior woman knew how to weave into her love for her

husband. It must be remembered that Mlle de Saint-Geneix, the daughter

of a very weak man, and the sister of an inefficient woman, owed the

great courage she possessed first to her mother, who was of Cévenol

parentage, and afterward to the ideas Justine had given her in early

life. She perceived this very clearly when she found herself seated

between this old couple whose precise language and notions caused her

neither fear nor surprise. It seemed as if the milk of her mountain

nurse had passed into her whole being, and as if she were there in the

presence of types with which she had already been made familiar in some

previous existence.

"My friends," said she, when Justine had brought her the cream of the

dessert, while Peyraque washed down his soup with a draught of hot wine,

followed up before long with a draught of black coffee, "I promised to

tell you my story and here it is in few words. One of the sons of my old

lady had some idea of marrying me."

"Ah, indeed! that might well be," said Justine.

"You are right, because our characters and ideas are alike. Any one

ought to have foreseen that, and I myself first of all."

"And the mother, too!" said Peyraque.

"Well, no one seems to have thought of it; and the son surprised and

even angered the mother when he told her he loved me."

"And you?" asked Justine.

"I--I--why he never told me of it at all; and, as I knew I was not noble

enough or wealthy enough for him, I should never have allowed him to

think of it."

"Yes, that's right!" returned Peyraque.

"And it's true!" added Justine.

"Then I saw I could not stay a day longer, and at the first angry word

from the mother I went away without seeing the son again; but the son

would have hurried after me if I had remained with my sister. The

Marchioness wanted me to stay a little to have an explanation with him,

to tell him I did not love him--"

"That is what ought to have been done, perhaps," said Peyraque.

Caroline was forcibly impressed by the austere logic of the peasant.

"Yes, unquestionably," thought she, "my courage ought to have been

pushed thus far."

And, as she still kept silence, the nurse, enlightened by the

penetration of a loving heart, said to her husband, sharply, "Stop

talking there, you! How you run on! How do you know she did n't love

him, this poor child?"

"Ah! that, that is another thing," replied Peyraque, bowing his serious,

thoughtful head, which now looked nobler for the sense of delicate pity

expressed upon his face.

Caroline was touched in an unspeakable degree by the straightforwardness

of this simple friendship, which with one word touched the sorest spot

in her wound. What she had not had strength or confidence to tell her

sister, she was impelled not to disguise from these hearts, so

thoroughly true and so able to read her own. "Well, my friends, you are

right," said she, taking their hands. "I should not perhaps have been

able to lie to you, for, in spite of myself, I--I do love him!"

Hardly had she spoken the words, when she was seized with terror, and

looked around as if Urbain might have been there to hear them; then she

burst into tears at the thought that he never would hear them.

"Courage, my daughter, the Lord will aid you," exclaimed Peyraque,

rising.

"And we will aid you, too," said Justine, embracing her. "We will hide

you, we will love you, we will pray for you!"

She led her back to her room, undressed her, and made her lie down, with

motherly care that she should be warm and not see the sun shining in too

early on her bed. Then she went down to apprise her neighbors of the

arrival from Brioude of a person named Charlette, to answer all their

questions, mentioning her paleness and her beauty that these might not

strike them too forcibly. She took pains to tell them also that the

speech of Brioude was not at all like that of the mountains, so

Charlette would be unable to talk with them. "Ah! the poor creature,"

replied the gossips. "She will find it very dull and tiresome with us!"

A week later, after having informed her sister, in the proper time and

place, of her safe arrival, Caroline gave her some detailed account of

her new mode of life. It must not be forgotten that, hiding her actual

sorrow, she was trying to reassure her sister, and to divert her own

thoughts by affecting an independence far from being so complete or so

real as it seemed.

"You can form no idea of the care they take of me, these Peyraques.

Justine is always the same noble woman, with a heart like an angel's,

whom you know, and whom our father could not bear to see going away from

us. So it is saying more than a little to declare that her husband is

worthy of her. He has even more intelligence, although he is slower of

comprehension; but what he does understand is as if engraved on marble

without spot or blemish. I assure you I am not weary a single moment

with them. I could be alone much more than I am, for my little room is

free from all intrusion of servants, and I can dream without being

disturbed; but I rarely feel the need of this: I am contented among

these worthy people, I am conscious of being loved.

"They have, besides, something of intellectual life, like most of the

people here. They inquire about things in the world without; and it is

astonishing to find in a kind of blind alley, among such wild mountains,

a peasantry with so many notions foreign to their own necessities and

habits. Their children, their neighbors, and their friends impress me as

active, intelligent, and honest, while Peyraque tells me it is the same

in villages farther still from all civilization.

"As an offset to this, the dwellers in the little groups of cottages

scattered over the mountain, those who are only peasants, shepherds, or

laborers, live in an apathy beyond all comprehension. The other day I

asked a woman the name of a river which formed a magnificent cascade not

more than a hundred paces from her house. 'That is water,' she replied.

'But the water has a name, has n't it?' 'I will ask my husband; I don't

know myself; we women always call all the rivers water.'

"The husband knew enough to tell me the names of the torrent and the

cascade; but when I asked for those of the mountains on the horizon, he

said he knew nothing about them, he had never been there. 'But you must

have heard that those are the Cévennes?'

"'Perhaps so! The Mézenc and the Gerbier de Joncs [sheaf or stack of

reeds] are over there, but I don't know which they are.'

"I pointed them out to him; they are easily recognized,--Mézenc, the

loftiest of the peaks, and the Gerbier, an elegant cone, which holds in

its crater reeds and swamp-grasses. Only, the good man would not even

look. It was all precisely the same to him. He showed me the 'grottos of

the ancient savages,' that is, a kind of Gallic or Celtic village

hollowed out of the rock, with the same precautions that beasts of the

wilderness use to conceal their dens; for you can examine this rock and

follow it without discovering anything unusual unless you know the path

which penetrates this labyrinth and its habitations. Ah, my dear

Camille, am I not here a little like those 'ancient savages,' who, for

fear of intrusion, hid themselves in caves and sought their peace in

forgetfulness of the whole world?

"At all events, the inhabitants of La Roche impress me as being the

direct descendants of those poor Celts, hidden in their rock, and, as it

were, bound to it. I looked at the woman, with bare legs and dull eyes,

who conducted us into the grottos, and asked myself whether three or

four thousand years had really passed away since her ancestors took root

in these stones.

"You see I go out, for prudence does not require the in-door life, which

you feared for me. On the contrary, having nothing to read here, I feel

the need of strolling about, and my movements surprise the good people

of Lantriac much less than a mysterious retreat would do. I run no risk

of meeting strangers. You saw me set out in clothing that would not

attract attention in the least. Besides, I have a black felt hat, larger

than those worn here, which shades my face quite nicely. In case of

need, too, I can conceal it entirely under the brown hood I brought with

me, which the capricious weather gives me an excuse for wearing in my

walks. I am not just like the women of the country; but there is nothing

in my appearance to create a sensation in the places where I go.

"Then, too, I have a pretext for going out, which accounts for

everything. Justine has a little trade in small wares and gives me

charge of a box whose contents I offer for sale, while Peyraque, who is

a farrier, busies himself with visiting sick animals. This enables me to

go into the houses and observe the manners and customs of the country. I

sell but little, for the women are so absorbed in their lace-making that

they never mend for their husbands, their children, or themselves. Here

is the triumph of rags worn with pride. Their devotion to their one

occupation is so passionate as to exclude all material well-being and

all cleanliness even, as a profane superfluity. Avarice finds its

account in this, and vanity also, for if Justine gave me jewelry to sell

I should soon have customers more eager for that than for linen and

shoes.

"They produce all those marvellous black and white laces, which you have

seen Justine make at our house. It is wonderful to see, here among the

mountains, this fairy-like work coming from the hands of these poor

creatures, and the trifling sum they realize shocks the traveller. They

would cheerfully give you for twenty sous what they ask twenty francs

for in Paris, if they were allowed to trade with the consumer; but this

is strictly forbidden. Under the pretext of having furnished silk,

thread, and patterns, the dealer monopolizes and sets a price on their

work. In vain you offer to supply the peasant-woman with materials and

pay her well. The poor woman sighs, looks at the money, shakes her head,

and replies that she will not risk losing the patronage of 'her master'

in order to profit by the liberality of a person who will not employ her

permanently, and whom she may possibly never see again. And then all

these women are pious, or pretend to be so. Those who are sincere have

sworn by the Virgin and the saints not to sell to individuals, and one

is forced to honor their respect for a promise given. Those who make

religion a regular profession (and I see there are more such than one

would suppose) are conscious of being always under the hand and beneath

the eye of the priests, nuns, monks, and seminarists, with whom this

country is literally sown and covered even in the most uninhabitable

places. The convents have the work done; and here, as elsewhere, under

conditions of trade still more lucrative than those of the dealers. You

can see, in the vestibules of the churches even, the women from the

village in a sort of community, sitting in a circle, making their

bobbins fly as they murmur litanies or chant offices in Latin; which

does not, however, prevent them from gazing curiously at the passers-by

and exchanging remarks, while they reply _ora pro nobis_ to the gray,

black, or blue sister who oversees the work and the psalmody.

"These women are generally kind and hospitable. Their children interest

me, and when I find those who are ill, I am glad to be able to point out

the more simple attentions that should be given them. There is either

great ignorance or great indifference on this point. Maternity here is

rather passionate than tender. It is as if they told you that children

are created for the single purpose of learning how to suffer.

"Peyraque's business, as his services are much in demand, leads us into

some almost inaccessible places on the mountain, giving me a chance to

see the finest landscapes in the world, for this wonderful country is

like a dream,--and my own life is a strange dream also, is it not?

"Our fashion of going in search of adventures is quite primitive.

Peyraque has a little cart, which he is pleased to denominate a

carriage, because it has an awning of canvas, which somewhat ambitiously

pretends to shelter us. He harnesses to this vehicle now an intrepid

little mule, and now a pony, spirited but gentle, all skin and bone like

its owner, but like him, too, never flinching at anything. So, while

Justine's eldest son, just returned from the regiment, where he has been

shoeing artillery horses, continues his trade under the paternal roof,

his father and I wander over hill and vale without regard to the

weather. Justine pretends this does me so much good that I must stay

with her 'always,' and vows she will find some way for me to earn our

livelihood without humiliating myself to serve any great lady.

"Alas! I never felt humiliated so long as I knew I was loved; and then I

loved so sincerely in return! Do you know it saddens me no longer to

receive a blessing every morning from that poor old Marchioness, and not

only so, but I am quite uneasy, alarmed about her even, as if I felt she

could not live without me? God grant she may soon forget me, that my

place may already have been filled by one less fatal than I to her

peace. But will she be cared for, morally speaking, as I cared for her?

Will her fanciful whims be understood, the dulness of her leisure hours

charmed away, or her children spoken of as she loves to hear them spoken

of? On my arrival here, I drank in the free air with long breaths; I

gazed at this grand, rugged scenery which I had felt so strong a wish to

know. I said to myself, 'Here I am then free! I shall go where I please;

I will talk as little as I please; I shall no longer write the same

letter ten times a day to ten different people; I shall not live in a

hot-house; I shall not breathe the sharp perfumes of flowers distilled

by chemical processes, or of plants half dead on the windowsills; I

shall drink from the breeze hawthorn and wild thyme in their real

fragrance.' Yes, I said all this to myself, and I could not rejoice. I

saw my poor friend sad and lonely, perhaps weeping for having made me

weep so much!

"But she chose this, and to all appearance, it was necessary. I have no

right to blame her for a moment of unjust anger. The mother thought only

of her son, and such a son well deserves all a mother's sacrifice.

Perhaps she calls me hard and ungrateful for not falling in with her

plans, and I often ask myself if I ought not to have fallen in with

them; but I always answer that the end would not have been attained. The

Marquis de V---- is not one of those men who can be sent off with a few

commonplaces of cool disdain. Besides, you have no right to act thus

toward one who, far from declaring his passion, has surrounded you with

respect and delicate affection. In vain I seek some language, half cold,

half tender, which I might have used in telling him that I hold his

mother's happiness and his own equally sacred: I do not find in myself

the requisite tact or skill. Either the real friendship I have for him

would have deceived him as to my feelings, leading him to think I was

sacrificing myself to a sense of duty, or my firmness would have

offended him, as if I were parading a virtue whose aid he has never

given me occasion to invoke. No, no! it could not be, it ought not to

be.

"I have an impression that the Marchioness hinted that I might tell him

I had an engagement, another love. For Heaven's sake, let her invent all

she will now! Let her sacrifice my life and that which I hold still more

sacred, if need be. I have left the field clear: but, for my own part, I

could never have improvised a romance for the occasion. And would he

have been duped by it?

"Camille, you will see him, you have doubtless already seen him again

since that first visit, when you admitted it was hard for you to play

your part. You say it made you very unhappy to see him; he was almost

distracted--He is certainly calm now. He has so much moral strength, he

will understand so well that I must never see him again? However, be on

your guard! He is very keen. Tell him my nature is a cold one--no, not

that; he would n't believe it. But speak of my invincible pride. That is

true; yes, I am proud, I feel it! And if I were not, should I deserve

his affection?

"Perhaps it would have been liked if I had become really unworthy of his

regard,--not the mother; not she! no, never! She is too upright, too

pious, too pure in heart; but the Duke, I mean. Now, I can recall a

number of things which I did not understand, and they appear in a new

light. The Duke is excellent; he worships his brother. I believe his

wife, who is an angel, will purify his life and thoughts; but at Séval,

when he told me to save his brother at any cost,--I think of it now, and

I blush to think of it!

"Ah, that I might be allowed to disappear, that I might be allowed to

forget all! For a year I believed myself calm, worthy, happy. One day,

one hour has spoiled the whole. With one word, Madame de Villemer has

poisoned all the memories I had hoped to carry away unsoiled,--memories

which now I dare not dwell upon. In truth, Camille, you were right in

saying, as you sometimes did, that one should not be too ingenuous, that

I ventured out into life too quixotically. This will serve me as a

lesson, and I will renounce friendship as well as love. I ask myself why

I should not from this time onward break off all relations with a world

so full of dangers and snares, why I should not accept my misery more

bravely indeed than I have done. I could create some resources in this

province even, remote as it is in point of civilization. I could not be

a school-mistress, as Justine imagined last year; the clergy have

usurped everything here, and the good sisters would not let me teach,

even in Lantriac; but in a city I could find pupils, or I could become a

book-keeper in some mercantile house.

"First of all, I must make sure of being forgotten there; but when this

oblivion is complete, I must indeed take thought for our children, and I

dwell upon this a little in advance. After all, be at ease. I will find

something. I shall manage to conquer the malicious fates. I do not

sleep, I cannot falter; you know this perfectly. You have enough to live

on for two months more, and I need absolutely nothing here. Do not

worry, let us always trust the good God, as you, for your part, must

trust the sister who loves you."