In arriving at Langres, Claudet enrolled in the seventeenth battalion of
light infantry. Five days later, paying no attention to the lamentations
of Manette, he left Vivey, going, by way of Lyon, to the camp at
Lathonay, where his battalion was stationed. Julien was thus left alone
at the chateau to recover as best he might from the dazed feeling
caused by the startling events of the last few weeks. After Claudet’s
departure, he felt an uneasy sensation of discomfort, and as if he
himself had lessened in value. He had never before realized how little
space he occupied in his own dwelling, and how much living heat Claudet
had infused into the house which was now so cold and empty. He felt poor
and diminished in spirit, and was ashamed of being so useless to
himself and to others. He had before him a prospect of new duties,
which frightened him. The management of the district, which Claudet had
undertaken for him, would now fall entirely on his shoulders, and just
at the time of the timber sales and the renewal of the fences. Besides
all this, he had Manette on his conscience, thinking he ought to try
to soften her grief at her son’s unexpected departure. The ancient
housekeeper was like Rachel, she refused to be comforted, and her
temper was not improved by her recent trials. She filled the air
with lamentations, and seemed to consider Julien responsible for her
troubles. The latter treated her with wonderful patience and indulgence,
and exhausted his ingenuity to make her time pass more pleasantly. This
was the first real effort he had made to subdue his dislikes and his
passive tendencies, and it had the good effect of preparing him, by
degrees, to face more serious trials, and to take the initiative in
matters of greater importance. He discovered that the energy he expended
in conquering a first difficulty gave him more ability to conquer the
second, and from that result he decided that the will is like a muscle,
which shrivels in inaction and is developed by exercise; and he made
up his mind to attack courageously the work before him, although it had
formerly appeared beyond his capabilities.
He now rose always at daybreak. Gaitered like a huntsman, and escorted
by Montagnard, who had taken a great liking to him, he would proceed to
the forest, visit the cuttings, hire fresh workmen, familiarize himself
with the woodsmen, interest himself in their labors, their joys and
their sorrows; then, when evening came, he was quite astonished to find
himself less weary, less isolated, and eating with considerable appetite
the supper prepared for him by Manette. Since he had been traversing
the forest, not as a stranger or a person of leisure, but with the
predetermination to accomplish some useful work, he had learned to
appreciate its beauties. The charms of nature and the living creatures
around no longer inspired him with the defiant scorn which he had
imbibed from his early solitary life and his priestly education; he now
viewed them with pleasure and interest. In proportion, as his sympathies
expanded and his mind became more virile, the exterior world presented a
more attractive appearance to him.
While this work of transformation was going on within him, he was aided
and sustained by the ever dear and ever present image of Reine Vincart.
The trenches, filled with dead leaves, the rows of beech-trees, stripped
of their foliage by the rude breath of winter, the odor peculiar
to underwood during the dead season, all recalled to his mind the
impressions he had received while in company with the woodland queen.
Now that, he could better understand the young girl’s adoration of the
marvellous forest world, he sought out, with loving interest, the sites
where she had gone into ecstasy, the details of the landscape which she
had pointed out to him the year before, and had made him admire. The
beauty of the scene was associated in his thoughts with Reine’s love,
and he could not think of either separately. But, notwithstanding the
steadfastness and force of his love, he had not yet made any effort to
see Mademoiselle Vincart. At first, the increase of occupation caused
by Claudet’s departure, the new duties devolving upon him, together with
his inexperience, had prevented Julien from entertaining the possibility
of renewing relations that had been so violently sundered. Little by
little, however; as he reviewed the situation of affairs, which his
cousin’s generous sacrifice had engendered, he began to consider how he
could benefit thereby. Claudet’s departure had left the field free, but
Julien felt no more confidence in himself than before. The fact that
Reine had so unaccountably refused to marry the grand chasserot did
not seem to him sufficient encouragement. Her motive was a secret,
and therefore, of doubtful interpretation. Besides, even if she were
entirely heart-whole, was that a reason why she should give Julien a
favorable reception? Could she forget the cruel insult to which he had
subjected her? And immediately after that outrageous behavior of his, he
had had the stupidity to make a proposal for Claudet. That was the kind
of affront, thought he, that a woman does not easily forgive, and the
very idea of presenting himself before her made his heart sink. He had
seen her only at a distance, at the Sunday mass, and every time he
had endeavored to catch her eye she had turned away her head. She also
avoided, in every way, any intercourse with the chateau. Whenever a
question arose, such as the apportionment of lands, or the allotment of
cuttings, which would necessitate her having recourse to M. de Buxieres,
she would abstain from writing herself, and correspond only through
the notary, Arbillot. Claudet’s heroic departure, therefore, had really
accomplished nothing; everything was exactly at the same point as the
day after Julien’s unlucky visit to La Thuiliere, and the same futile
doubts and fears agitated him now as then. It also occurred to him, that
while he was thus debating and keeping silence, days, weeks, and months
were slipping away; that Reine would soon reach her twenty-third year,
and that she would be thinking of marriage. It was well known that she
had some fortune, and suitors were not lacking. Even allowing that she
had no afterthought in renouncing Claudet, she could not always live
alone at the farm, and some day she would be compelled to accept a
marriage of convenience, if not of love.
“And to think,” he would say to himself, “that she is there, only a
few steps away, that I am consumed with longing, that I have only
to traverse those pastures, to throw myself at her feet, and that I
positively dare not! Miserable wretch that I am, it was last spring,
while we were in that but together, that I should have spoken of my
love, instead of terrifying her with my brutal caresses! Now it is too
late! I have wounded and humiliated her; I have driven away Claudet, who
would at any rate have made her a stalwart lover, and I have made
two beings unhappy, without counting myself. So much for my miserable
shufflings and evasion! Ah! if one could only begin life over again!”
While thus lamenting his fate, the march of time went steadily on, with
its pitiless dropping out of seconds, minutes, and hours. The worst part
of winter was over; the March gales had dried up the forests; April was
tingeing the woods with its tender green; the song of the cuckoo was
already heard in the tufted bowers, and the festival of St. George had
passed.
Taking advantage of an unusually clear day, Julien went to visit a farm,
belonging to him, in the plain of Anjeures, on the border of the forest
of Maigrefontaine. After breakfasting with the farmer, he took the way
home through the woods, so that he might enjoy the first varied effects
of the season.
The forest of Maigrefontaine, situated on the slope of a hill, was full
of rocky, broken ground, interspersed with deep ravines, along which
narrow but rapid streams ran to swell the fishpond of La Thuiliere.
Julien had wandered away from the road, into the thick of the forest
where the budding vegetation was at its height, where the lilies
multiply and the early spring flowers disclose their umbellshaped
clusters, full of tiny, white stars. The sight of these blossoms, which
had such a tender meaning for him, since he had identified the name with
that of Reine, brought vividly before him the beloved image of the
young girl. He walked slowly and languidly on, heated by his feverish
recollections and desires, tormented by useless self-reproach, and
physically intoxicated by the balmy atmosphere and the odor of the
flowering shrubs at his feet. Arriving at the edge of a somewhat deep
pit, he tried to leap across with a single bound, but, whether he made
a false start, or that he was weakened and dizzy with the conflicting
emotions with which he had been battling, he missed his footing and
fell, twisting his ankle, on the side of the embankment. He rose with an
effort and put his foot to the ground, but a sharp pain obliged him to
lean against the trunk of a neighboring ash-tree. His foot felt as heavy
as lead, and every time he tried to straighten it his sufferings were
intolerable. All he could do was to drag himself along from one tree to
another until he reached the path.
Exhausted by this effort; he sat down on the grass, unbuttoned
his gaiter, and carefully unlaced his boot. His foot had swollen
considerably. He began to fear he had sprained it badly, and wondered
how he could get back to Vivey. Should he have to wait on this lonely
road until some woodcutter passed, who would take him home? Montagnard,
his faithful companion, had seated himself in front of him, and
contemplated him with moist, troubled eyes, at the same time emitting
short, sharp whines, which seemed to say:
“What is the matter?” and, “How are we going to get out of this?”
Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching. He perceived a flutter of white
skirts behind the copse, and just at the moment he was blessing the
lucky chance that had sent some one in that direction, his eyes were
gladdened with a sight of the fair visage of Reine.
She was accompanied by a little girl of the village, carrying a basket
full of primroses and freshly gathered ground ivy. Reine was quite
familiar with all the medicinal herbs of the country, and gathered them
in their season, in order to administer them as required to the people
of the farm. When she was within a few feet of Julien, she recognized
him, and her brow clouded over; but almost immediately she noticed his
altered features and that one of his feet was shoeless, and divined that
something unusual had happened. Going straight up to him, she said:
“You seem to be suffering, Monsieur de Buxieres. What is the matter?”
“A--a foolish accident,” replied he, putting on a careless manner. “I
fell and sprained my ankle.”
The young girl knit her brows with an anxious expression; then, after a
moment’s hesitation; she said:
“Will you let me see your foot? My mother understood about bone-setting,
and I have been told that I inherit her gift of curing sprains.”
She drew from the basket an empty bottle and a handkerchief.
“Zelie,” said she to the little damsel, who was standing astonished at
the colloquy, “go quickly down to the stream, and fill this bottle.”
While she was speaking, Julien, greatly embarrassed, obeyed her
suggestions, and uncovered his foot. Reine, without any prudery or
nonsense, raised the wounded limb, and felt around cautiously.
“I think,” said she at last, “that the muscles are somewhat injured.”
Without another word, she tore the handkerchief into narrow strips, and
poured the contents of the bottle, which Zelie had filled, slowly over
the injure member, holding her hand high for that purpose. Then, with a
soft yet firm touch, she pressed the injured muscles into their places,
while Julien bit his lips and did his very utmost to prevent her seeing
how much he was suffering. After this massage treatment, the young
girl bandaged the ankle tightly with the linen bands, and fastened them
securely with pins.
“There,” said she, “now try to put on your shoe and stocking; they will
give support to the muscles. Now you, Zelie, run, fit to break your
neck, to the farm, make them harness the wagon, and tell them to bring
it here, as close to the path as possible.”
The girl picked up her basket and started on a trot.
“Monsieur de Buxieres;” said Reine, “do you think you can walk as far as
the carriage road, by leaning on my arm?”
“Yes;” he replied, with a grateful glance which greatly embarrassed
Mademoiselle Vincart, “you have relieved me as if by a miracle. I feel
much better and as if I could go anywhere you might lead, while leaning
on your arm!”
She helped him to rise, and he took a few steps with her aid.
“Why, it feels really better,” sighed he.
He was so happy in feeling himself thus tenderly supported by Reine,
that he altogether forgot his pain.
“Let us walk slowly,” continued she, “and do not be afraid to lean on
me. All you have to think of is reaching the carriage.”
“How good you are,” stammered he, “and how ashamed I am!”
“Ashamed of what?” returned Reine, hastily. “I have done nothing
extraordinary; anyone else would have acted in the same manner.”
“I entreat you,” replied he, earnestly, “not to spoil my happiness. I
know very well that the first person who happened to pass would have
rendered me some charitable assistance; but the thought that it is
you--you alone--who have helped me, fills me with delight, at: the same
time that it increases my remorse. I so little deserve that you should
interest yourself in my behalf!”
He waited, hoping perhaps that she would ask for an explanation, but,
seeing that she did not appear to understand, he added:
“I have offended you. I have misunderstood you, and I have been cruelly
punished for my mistake. But what avails my tardy regret in healing
the injuries I have inflicted! Ah! if one could only go backward, and
efface, with a single stroke, the hours in which one has been blind and
headstrong!”
“Let us not speak of that!” replied she, shortly, but in a singularly
softened tone.
In spite of herself, she was touched by this expression of repentance,
so naively acknowledged in broken, disconnected sentences, vibrating
with the ring of true sincerity. In proportion as he abased himself, her
anger diminished, and she recognized that she loved him just the same,
notwithstanding his defects, his weakness, and his want of tact and
polish. She was also profoundly touched by his revealing to her, for the
first time, a portion of his hidden feelings.
They had become silent again, but they felt nearer to each other than
ever before; their secret thoughts seemed to be transmitted to each
other; a mute understanding was established between them. She lent him
the support of her arm with more freedom, and the young man seemed to
experience fresh delight in her firm and sympathetic assistance.
Progressing slowly, although more quickly than they would have chosen
themselves, they reached the foot of the path, and perceived the wagon
waiting on the beaten road. Julien mounted therein with the aid of
Reine and the driver. When he was stretched on the straw, which had
been spread for him on the bottom of the wagon, he leaned forward on
the side, and his eyes met those of Reine. For a few moments their
gaze seemed riveted upon each other, and their mutual understanding was
complete. These few, brief moments contained a whole confession of
love; avowals mingled with repentance, promises of pardon, tender
reconciliation!
“Thanks!” he sighed at last, “will you give me your hand?”
She gave it, and while he held it in his own, Reine turned toward the
driver on the seat.
“Felix,” said she, warningly, “drive slowly and avoid the ruts.
Good-night, Monsieur de Buxieres, send for the doctor as soon as you
get in, and all will be well. I will send to inquire how you are getting
along.”
She turned and went pensively down the road to La Thuiliere, while the
carriage followed slowly the direction to Vivey.
The doctor, being sent for immediately on Julien’s arrival, pronounced
it a simple sprain, and declared that the preliminary treatment had been
very skilfully applied, that the patient had now only to keep perfectly
still. Two days later came La Guite from Reine, to inquire after M.
de Buxieres’s health. She brought a large bunch of lilies which
Mademoiselle Vincart had sent to the patient, to console him for not
being able to go in the woods, which Julien kept for several days close
by his side.
This accident, happening at Maigrefontaine, and providentially attended
to by Reine Vincart, the return to the chateau in the vehicle belonging
to La Thuiliere, the sending of the lilies, were all a source of great
mystification to Manette. She suspected some amorous mystery in all
these events, commented somewhat uncharitably on every minor detail,
and took care to carry her comments all over the village. Very soon
the entire parish, from the most insignificant woodchopper to the
Abbe Pernot himself, were made aware that there was something going on
between M. de Buxieres and the daughter of old M. Vincart.
In the mean time, Julien, quite unconscious that his love for Reine was
providing conversation for all the gossips of the country, was cursing
the untoward event that kept him stretched in his invalid-chair. At
last, one day, he discovered he could put his foot down and walk a
little with the assistance of his cane; a few days after, the doctor
gave him permission to go out of doors. His first visit was to La
Thuiliere.
He went there in the afternoon and found Reine in the kitchen, seated
by the side of her paralytic father, who was asleep. She was reading a
newspaper, which she retained in her hand, while rising to receive her
visitor. After she had congratulated him on his recovery, and he had
expressed his cordial thanks for her timely aid, she showed him the
paper.
“You find me in a state of disturbance,” said she, with a slight degree
of embarrassment, “it seems that we are going to have war and that our
troops have entered Italy. Have you any news of Claudet?”
Julien started. This was the last remark he could have expected.
Claudet’s name had not been once mentioned in their interview at
Maigrefontaine, and he had nursed the hope that Reine thought no longer
about him.
All his mistrust returned in a moment on hearing this name come from
the young girl’s lips the moment he entered the house, and seeing the
emotion which the news in the paper had caused her.
“He wrote me a few days ago,” replied he.
“Where is he?”
“In Italy, with his battalion, which is a part of the first army corps.
His last letter is dated from Alexandria.”
Reine’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she gazed absently at the
distant wooded horizon.
“Poor Claudet!” murmured she, sighing, “what is he doing just now, I
wonder?”
“Ah!” thought Julien, his visage darkening, “perhaps she loves him
still!”
Poor Claudet! At the very time they are thus talking about him at the
farm, he is camping with his battalion near Voghera, on the banks of one
of the obscure tributaries of the river Po, in a country rich in waving
corn, interspersed with bounteous orchards and hardy vines climbing up
to the very tops of the mulberry-trees. His battalion forms the extreme
end of the advance guard, and at the approach of night, Claudet is on
duty on the banks of the stream. It is a lovely May night, irradiated
by millions of stars, which, under the limpid Italian sky, appear larger
and nearer to the watcher than they appeared in the vaporous atmosphere
of the Haute-Marne.
Nightingales are calling to one another among the trees of the orchard,
and the entire landscape seems imbued with their amorous music. What
ecstasy to listen to them! What serenity their liquid harmonies spread
over the smiling landscape, faintly revealing its beauties in the mild
starlight.
Who would think that preparations for deadly combat were going on
through the serenity of such a night? Occasionally a sharp exchange of
musketry with the advanced post of the enemy bursts upon the ear, and
all the nightingales keep silence. Then, when quiet is restored in the
upper air, the chorus of spring songsters begins again. Claudet leans
on his gun, and remembers that at this same hour the nightingales in the
park at Vivey, and in the garden of La Thuiliere, are pouring forth
the same melodies. He recalls the bright vision of Reine: he sees her
leaning at her window, listening to the same amorous song issuing from
the coppice woods of Maigrefontaine. His heart swells within him, and an
over-powering homesickness takes possession of him. But the next moment
he is ashamed of his weakness, he remembers his responsibility, primes
his ear, and begins investigating the dark hollows and rising hillocks
where an enemy might hide.
The next morning, May 20th, he is awakened by a general hubbub and noise
of fighting. The battalion to which he belongs has made an attack upon
Montebello, and is sending its sharpshooters among the cornfields and
vineyards. Some of the regiments invade the rice-fields, climb the walls
of the vineyards, and charge the enemy’s column-ranks. The sullen
roar of the cannon alternates with the sharp report of guns, and whole
showers of grape-shot beat the air with their piercing whistle. All
through the uproar of guns and thunder of the artillery, you can
distinguish the guttural hurrahs of the Austrians, and the broken oaths
of the French troopers. The trenches are piled with dead bodies, the
trumpets sound the attack, the survivors, obeying an irresistible
impulse, spring to the front. The ridges are crested with human masses
swaying to and fro, and the first red uniform is seen in the streets of
Montebello, in relief against the chalky facades bristling with Austrian
guns, pouring forth their ammunition on the enemy below. The soldiers
burst into the houses, the courtyards, the enclosures; every instant
you hear the breaking open of doors, the crashing of windows, and
the scuffling of the terrified inmates. The white uniforms retire in
disorder. The village belongs to the French! Not just yet, though.
From the last houses on the street, to the entrance of the cemetery,
is rising ground, and just behind stands a small hillock. The enemy has
retrenched itself there, and, from its cannons ranged in battery, is
raining a terrible shower on the village just evacuated.
The assailants hesitate, and draw back before this hailstorm of iron;
suddenly a general appears from under the walls of a building already
crumbling under the continuous fire, spurs his horse forward, and
shouts: “Come, boys, let us carry the fort!”
Among the first to rally to this call, one rifleman in particular, a
fine, broad-shouldered active fellow, with a brown moustache and olive
complexion, darts forward to the point indicated. It is Claudet. Others
are behind him, and soon more than a hundred men, with their bayonets,
are hurling themselves along the cemetery road; the grand chasserot
leaps across the fields, as he used formerly in pursuit of the game in
the Charbonniere forest. The soldiers are falling right and left of
him, but he hardly sees them; he continues pressing forward, breathless,
excited, scarcely stopping to think. As he is crossing one of the
meadows, however, he notices the profusion of scarlet gladiolus and also
observes that the rye and barley grow somewhat sturdier here than in
his country; these are the only definite ideas that detach themselves
clearly from his seething brain. The wall of the cemetery is scaled;
they are fighting now in the ditches, killing one another on the side of
the hill; at last, the fort is taken and they begin routing the enemy.
But, at this moment, Claudet stoops to pick up a cartridge, a ball
strikes him in the forehead, and, without a sound, he drops to the
ground, among the noisome fennels which flourish in graveyards--he
drops, thinking of the clock of his native village.
......................
“I have sad news for you,” said Julien to Reine, as he entered the
garden of La Thuiliere, one June afternoon.
He had received official notice the evening before, through the
mayor, of the decease of “Germain-Claudet Sejournant, volunteer in the
seventeenth battalion of light infantry, killed in an engagement with
the enemy, May 20, 1859.”
Reine was standing between two hedges of large peasant-roses. At
the first words that fell from M. de Buxieres’s lips, she felt a
presentiment of misfortune.
“Claudet?” murmured she.
“He is dead,” replied Julien, almost inaudibly, “he fought bravely and
was killed at Montebello.”
The young girl remained motionless, and for a moment de Buxieres
thought she would be able to bear, with some degree of composure, this
announcement of the death in a foreign country of a man whom she had
refused as a husband. Suddenly she turned aside, took two or three
steps, then leaning her head and folded arms on the trunk of an adjacent
tree, she burst into a passion of tears. The convulsive movement of her
shoulders and stifled sobs denoted the violence of her emotion. M. de
Buxieres, alarmed at this outbreak, which he thought exaggerated, felt
a return of his old misgivings. He was jealous now of the dead man whom
she was so openly lamenting. Her continued weeping annoyed him; he tried
to arrest her tears by addressing some consolatory remarks to her;
but, at the very first word, she turned away, mounted precipitately
the kitchen-stairs, and disappeared, closing the door behind her. Some
minutes after, La Guite brought a message to de Buxieres that Reine
wished to be alone, and begged him to excuse her.
He took his departure, disconcerted, downhearted, and ready to weep
himself, over the crumbling of his hopes. As he was nearing the first
outlying houses of the village, he came across the Abbe Pernot, who was
striding along at a great rate, toward the chateau.
“Ah!” exclaimed the priest, “how are you, Monsieur de Buxieres, I was
just going over to see you. Is it true that you have received bad news?”
Julien nodded his head affirmatively, and informed the cure of the sad
notice he had received. The Abbe’s countenance lengthened, his mouth
took on a saddened expression, and during the next few minutes he
maintained an attitude of condolence.
“Poor fellow!” he sighed, with a slight nasal intonation, “he did not
have a fair chance! To have to leave us at twenty-six years of age,
and in full health, it is very hard. And such a jolly companion; such a
clever shot!”
Finally, not being naturally of a melancholy turn of mind, nor able
to remain long in a mournful mood, he consoled himself with one of the
pious commonplaces which he was in the habit of using for the benefit
of others: “The Lord is just in all His dealings, and holy in all His
works; He reckons the hairs of our heads, and our destinies are in His
hands. We shall celebrate a fine high mass for the repose of Claudet’s
soul.”
He coughed, and raised his eyes toward Julien.
“I wished,” continued he, “to see you for two reasons, Monsieur de
Buxieres: first of all, to hear about Claudet, and secondly, to speak to
you on a matter--a very delicate matter--which concerns you, but
which also affects the safety of another person and the dignity of the
parish.”
Julien was gazing at him with a bewildered air. The cure pushed open the
little park gate, and passing through, added:
“Let us go into your place; we shall be better able to talk over the
matter.”
When they were underneath the trees, the Abbe resumed:
“Monsieur de Buxieres, do you know that you are at this present time
giving occasion for the tongues of my parishioners to wag more than
is at all reasonable? Oh!” continued he, replying to a remonstrating
gesture of his companion, “it is unpremeditated on your part, I am sure,
but, all the same, they talk about you--and about Reine.”
“About Mademoiselle Vincart?” exclaimed Julien, indignantly, “what can
they say about her?”
“A great many things which are displeasing to me. They speak of your
having sprained your ankle while in the company of Reine Vincart; of
your return home in her wagon; of your frequent visits to La Thuiliere,
and I don’t know what besides. And as mankind, especially the female
portion, is more disposed to discover evil than good, they say you are
compromising this young person. Now, Reine is living, as one may say,
alone and unprotected. It behooves me, therefore, as her pastor, to
defend her against her own weakness. That is the reason why I have taken
upon myself to beg you to be more circumspect, and not trifle with her
reputation.”
“Her reputation?” repeated Julien, with irritation. “I do not understand
you, Monsieur le Cure!”
“You don’t, hey! Why, I explain my meaning pretty clearly. Human beings
are weak; it is easy to injure a girl’s reputation, when you try to make
yourself agreeable, knowing you can not marry her.”
“And why could I not marry her?” inquired Julien, coloring deeply.
“Because she is not in your own class, and you would not love her enough
to overlook the disparity, if marriage became necessary.”
“What do you know about it?” returned Julien, with violence. “I have no
such foolish prejudices, and the obstacles would not come from my side.
But, rest easy, Monsieur,” continued he, bitterly, “the danger exists
only in the imagination of your parishioners. Reine has never cared for
me! It was Claudet she loved!”
“Hm, hm!” interjected the cure, dubiously.
“You would not doubt it,” insisted de Buxieres, provoked at the Abbe’s
incredulous movements of his head, “if you had seen her, as I saw her,
melt into tears when I told her of Sejournant’s death. She did not
even wait until I had turned my back before she broke out in her
lamentations. My presence was of very small account. Ah! she has but too
cruelly made me feel how little she cares for me!”
“You love her very much, then?” demanded the Abbe, slyly, an almost
imperceptible smile curving his lips.
“Oh, yes! I love her,” exclaimed he, impetuously; then coloring and
drooping his head. “But it is very foolish of me to betray myself, since
Reine cares nothing at all for me!”
There was a moment of silence, during which the curb took a pinch of
snuff from a tiny box of cherry wood.
“Monsieur de Buxieres;” said he, With a particularly oracular air,
“Claudet is dead, and the dead, like the absent, are always in the
wrong. But who is to say whether you are not mistaken concerning the
nature of Reine’s unhappiness? I will have that cleared up this very
day. Good-night; keep quiet and behave properly.”
Thereupon he took his departure, but, instead of returning to the
parsonage, he directed his steps hurriedly toward La Thuiliere.
Notwithstanding a vigorous opposition from La Guite, he made use of his
pastoral authority to penetrate into Reine’s apartment, where he shut
himself up with her. What he said to her never was divulged outside the
small chamber where the interview took place. He must, however, have
found words sufficiently eloquent to soften her grief, for when he had
gone away the young girl descended to the garden with a soothed although
still melancholy mien. She remained a long time in meditation in the
thicket of roses, but her meditations had evidently no bitterness in
them, and a miraculous serenity seemed to have spread itself over her
heart like a beneficent balm.
A few days afterward, during the unpleasant coolness of one of those
mornings, white with dew, which are the peculiar privilege of the
mountain-gorges in Langres, the bells of Vivey tolled for the dead,
announcing the celebration of a mass in memory of Claudet. The grand
chasserot having been a universal favorite with every one in the
neighborhood, the church was crowded. The steep descent from the high
plain overlooked the village. They came thronging in through the wooded
glens of Praslay; by the Auberive road and the forests of Charbonniere;
companions in hunting and social amusements, foresters and wearers
of sabots, campers in the woods, inmates of the farms embedded in the
forests--none failed to answer the call. The rustic, white-walled nave
was too narrow to contain them all, and the surplus flowed into the
street. Arbeltier, the village carpenter, had erected a rudimentary
catafalque, which was draped in black and bordered with wax tapers, and
placed in front of the altar steps. On the pall, embroidered with
silver tears, were arranged large bunches of wild flowers, sent from La
Thuiliere, and spreading an aromatic odor of fresh verdure around. The
Abbe Pernot, wearing his insignia of mourning, officiated. Through the
side windows were seen portions of the blue sky; the barking of the
dogs and singing of birds were heard in the distance; and even while
listening to the ‘Dies irae’, the curb could not help thinking of the
robust and bright young fellow who, only the year previous, had been so
joyously traversing the woods, escorted by Charbonneau and Montagnard,
and who was now lying in a foreign land, in the common pit of the little
cemetery of Montebello.
As each verse of the funeral service was intoned, Manette Sejournant,
prostrate on her prie-dieu, interrupted the monotonous chant with
tumultuous sobs. Her grief was noisy and unrestrained, but those present
sympathized more with the quiet though profound sorrow of Reine Vincart.
The black dress of the young girl contrasted painfully with the dead
pallor of her complexion. She emitted no sighs, but, now and then,
a contraction of the lips, a trembling of the hands testified to the
inward struggle, and a single tear rolled slowly down her cheek.
From the corner where he had chosen to stand alone, Julien de Buxieres
observed, with pain, the mute eloquence of her profound grief, and
became once more a prey to the fiercest jealousy. He could not help
envying the fate of this deceased, who was mourned in so tender a
fashion. Again the mystery of an attachment so evident and so tenacious,
followed by so strange a rupture, tormented his uneasy soul. “She must
have loved Claudet, since she is in mourning for him,” he kept repeating
to himself, “and if she loved him, why this rupture, which she herself
provoked, and which drove the unhappy man to despair?”
At the close of the absolution, all the assistants defiled close beside
Julien, who was now standing in front of the catafalque. When it came to
Reine Vincart’s turn, she reached out her hand to M. de Buxieres; at the
same time, she gazed at him with such friendly sadness, and infused into
the clasp of her hand something so cordial and intimate that the young
man’s ideas were again completely upset. He seemed to feel as if it were
an encouragement to speak. When the men and women had dispersed, and a
surging of the crowd brought him nearer to Reine, he resolved to follow
her, without regard to the question of what people would say, or the
curious eyes that might be watching him.
A happy chance came in his way. Reine Vincart had gone home by the path
along the outskirts of the wood and the park enclosure. Julien went
hastily back to the chateau, crossed the gardens, and followed an
interior avenue, parallel to the exterior one, from which he was
separated only by a curtain of linden and nut trees. He could just
distinguish, between the leafy branches, Reine’s black gown, as she
walked rapidly along under the ashtrees. At the end of the enclosure, he
pushed open a little gate, and came abruptly out on the forest path.
On beholding him standing in advance of her, the young girl appeared
more surprised than displeased. After a momentary hesitation, she walked
quietly toward him.
“Mademoiselle Reine,” said he then, gently, “will you allow me to
accompany you as far as La Thuiliere?”
“Certainly,” she replied, briefly.
She felt a presentiment that something decisive was about to take place
between her and Julien, and her voice trembled as she replied. Profiting
by the tacit permission, de Buxieres walked beside Reine; the path was
so narrow that their garments rustled against each other, yet he did
not seem in haste to speak, and the silence was interrupted only by the
occasional flight of a bird, or the crackling of some falling branches.
“Reine,” said Julien, suddenly, “you have so often and so kindly
extended to me the hand of friendship, that I have decided to speak
frankly, and open my heart to you. I love you, Reine, and have loved you
for a long time. But I have been so accustomed to hide what I think,
I know so little how to conduct myself in the varying circumstances of
life, and I have so much mistrust of myself, that I never have dared to
tell you before now. This will explain to you my stupid behavior. I am
suffering the penalty to-day, for while I was hesitating, another took
my place; although he is dead, his shadow stands between us, and I know
that you love him still.”
She listened to him with bent head and half-closed eyes, and her heart
began to beat violently.
“I never have loved him in the way you suppose,” she replied, simply.
A gleam of light shot through Julien’s melancholy blue eyes. Both
remained silent. The green pasture-lands, bathed in the full noonday
sun, were lying before them. The grasshoppers were chirping in the
bushes, and the skylarks were soaring aloft with their joyous songs.
Julien was endeavoring to extract the exact meaning from the reply he
had just heard. He was partly reassured, but some points had still to be
cleared up.
“But still,” said he, “you are lamenting his loss.”
A melancholy smile flitted for an instant over Reine’s pure, rosy lips.
“Are you jealous of my tears?” said she, softly.
“Oh, yes!” he exclaimed, with sudden exultation, “I love you so entirely
that I can not help envying Claudet his share in your affections! If
his death causes you such poignant regret, he must have been nearer and
dearer to you than those that survive.”
“You might reasonably suppose otherwise,” replied she, almost in a
whisper, “since I refused to marry him.”
He shook his head, seemingly unable to accept that positive statement.
Then Reine began to reflect that a man of his distrustful and despondent
temperament would, unless the whole truth were revealed to him, be
forevermore tormented by morbid and injurious misgivings. She knew he
loved her, and she wished him to love her in entire faith and security.
She recalled the last injunctions she had received from the Abbe Pernot,
and, leaning toward Julien, with tearful eyes and cheeks burning with
shame, she whispered in his ear the secret of her close relationship to
Claudet.
This painful and agitating confidence was made in so low a voice as to
be scarcely distinguished from the soft humming of the insects, or the
gentle twittering of the birds.
The sun was shining everywhere; the woods were as full of verdure and
blossoms as on the day when the young man had manifested his passion
with such savage violence. Hardly had the last words of her avowal
expired on Reine’s lips, when Julien de Buxieres threw his arms around
her and fondly kissed away the tears from her eyes.
This time he was not repelled.
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
Accustomed to hide what I think
Amusements they offered were either wearisome or repugnant
Consoled himself with one of the pious commonplaces
Dreaded the monotonous regularity of conjugal life
Fawning duplicity
Had not been spoiled by Fortune’s gifts
How small a space man occupies on the earth
Hypocritical grievances
I am not in the habit of consulting the law
I measure others by myself
It does not mend matters to give way like that
Like all timid persons, he took refuge in a moody silence
More disposed to discover evil than good
Nature’s cold indifference to our sufferings
Never is perfect happiness our lot
Opposing his orders with steady, irritating inertia
Others found delight in the most ordinary amusements
Plead the lie to get at the truth
Sensitiveness and disposition to self-blame
The ease with which he is forgotten
There are some men who never have had any childhood
Those who have outlived their illusions
Timidity of a night-bird that is made to fly in the day
To make a will is to put one foot into the grave
Toast and white wine (for breakfast)
Vague hope came over him that all would come right
Vexed, act in direct contradiction to their own wishes
Women: they are more bitter than death
Yield to their customs, and not pooh-pooh their amusements
You have considerable patience for a lover
You must be pleased with yourself--that is more essential
End of Project Gutenberg’s A Woodland Queen, Complete, by Andre Theuriet