PLOUGHING IN SEPTEMBER.
It was Monday, the third day after Rousille had seen the Michelonnes.
On the previous day, from morn till eve, storm clouds, rising out of
the sea, had discharged their contents on the arid earth, as pockets
full of corn are scattered by the sower. Showers of leaves, mostly
from the topmost branches, had fallen; others, heavy with moisture,
hung pendant. An aroma of damp earth rose up to the calm, milky sky;
there was not a breath stirring, the birds were silenced, the land
seemed intent upon the last drops of rain formed during the night,
that came crashing down at the foot of the trees with a ring as of
falling glass. Something in Nature seemed to have died with the last
breath of summer, and the whole earth to be conscious of its loss.
And in truth, on the hills of Chalons, the most distant area of La
Fromentiere, the far-off grinding of a plough, and the calls of the
man to his oxen, proclaimed that Autumn labour had begun.
In the farm bakery, left of the building, and dividing their room from
that of Francois, Eleonore and Marie-Rose were engaged heating the
oven. From the semicircular opening flames were shooting up, now in
heavy wreaths, now in groups of red petals set on upright stems.
Eleonore standing before it, in a print gown, was feeding the oven
with faggots of bramble, thrusting them with an iron fork into the
furnace. Marie-Rose was busily going backwards and forwards bringing
in the baskets of dough. They did not speak; for a long time there had
been a coolness between the sisters. But as for the tenth time
Eleonore looked towards the door, as if expecting to see some person
or thing in the courtyard, Rousille asked:
"What are you expecting, Eleonore?"
"Nothing," was the cross reply. "I am hot. My eyes smart." And she
busied herself with separating the burning embers, arranging them in
layers at the sides of the oven; this finished:
"Help me to fill the oven," she said.
One by one the loaves of leavened dough were placed by Rousille upon a
large flat shovel, which Eleonore slid over the burning bricks, and
drew out again with a sharp jerk. Twenty loaves there were of twelve
pound each; enough wherewith to feed all at La Fromentiere, and to
give to the poor of Monday for a fortnight. The last having been
placed, Eleonore closed the mouth of the oven with an iron plate; the
sisters had wiped their hot cheeks with their sleeves, the smell of
new bread was beginning to be perceptible through the chinks of the
oven, when a loud laughing voice called in from the yard:
"M Francois Lumineau. Is he at home?" and the postman, a visitor who
had been seen fairly often at La Fromentiere for some months past,
held out a letter with printed heading on it. He added jocosely, for
something to say:
"Another letter from the State Railways, Mam'selle Eleonore. Any of
you got friends there?"
"Thank you," returned Eleonore, hastily taking the letter and putting
it into the pocket of her apron, "I will give it to my brother. Fine
weather to-day for your round?"
"Aye, that it is. Better than for heating the oven I should say by the
look of you." The man made a half-turn on his well-worn shoes, and
went his way in the steady jog-trot of seven leagues a day at thirty
sous.
Eleonore, leaning against the doorpost, paid no further attention to
him; she was gazing, as if hypnotized, on the corner of white paper
that protruded from her pocket. She seemed strangely agitated, her
eyelids swelled, her breast heaved beneath the calico bodice all
streaked with flour and soot.
"There is some secret, I am sure," exclaimed Marie-Rose from behind
her. "I do not ask what it is, I am accustomed at home to be left to
myself. But still I cannot help seeing what is going on; only
yesterday, after mass, you and Francois went off by yourselves to
read some paper in the lane by the Michelonnes, I was there to fetch
my money, and saw you gesticulating.... And now you are crying. It is
hard, Eleonore, to see one's sister cry and not to know the
reason--not to be able to say one word to comfort her."
To Rousille's intense surprise, Eleonore, without turning, held out a
trembling hand towards her, and drew her younger sister tumultuously
to her beating heart; and for the first time for many years, overcome
with emotion, she leant her cheek on Rousille's, then suddenly broke
out into sobs.
"Yes," she sobbed, "there is a secret, my poor Rousille, such a secret
that I can never have the like again in all my life. I cannot tell it
to you ... it is there in the letter ... but Francois must read it
first, and then father--Heavens! what an unhappy girl I am!"
Tenderly Rousille pressed her face against her sister's all bathed in
tears.
"But the secret, Eleonore, it only concerns Francois, does it?"
"No, me too; me too! Oh, when you hear it, Rousille.... It was
Francois who persuaded me, he talked until I yielded ... and then I
signed ... and now it is all done. Still, were it not for him, I feel
that even now I could not do it; I would break the agreement--I would
refuse."
"You are going, Eleonore?" cried the girl, drawing back.
Her sister's white face was the only answer.
"You are going?" she repeated. "Oh, where? Oh, do not leave us."
Eleonore, stupefied for the moment, now gave way to a feeling of
anger, and repulsed the girl whom the instant before she had drawn to
her.
"Hold your tongue!" she said roughly. "Do not talk like that. Are you
going to tell tales of us?"
"I have no wish to do so."
"They are coming. You heard them. You said it aloud for them to hear,
you sneak!"
"Indeed, I did not."
"They are coming. Hark!"
The distant footsteps of the men, one following the other, were
audible. They were returning for the mid-day meal.
Eleonore, in terror, almost suppliant, her voice shaken with emotion,
ejaculated:
"Mathurin is coming first--if only he did not hear what you were
saying, Rousille. If he catches sight of me, he will guess
everything.... I dare not go back into the house with such red eyes.
You take my place. Go and pour out the soup, I will be with you in a
moment."
The men went into the house, walking in their usual leisurely manner;
Francois alone had a presentiment of the news awaiting them. The hot
sun had dried the moisture on grass and leaves, a soft haze lay all
around, the air was mild and balmy; linnets, innumerable, had settled
on the waggon-ruts, where lay thistles trodden down by the oxen. An
aroma of hot bread pervaded the farmyard, and cheered by the wholesome
smell the fine old farmer entered the house-place, whither Mathurin
had preceded him.
As soon as they had disappeared within the house, Eleonore, who had
been watching at the door of the bakery, crossed the yard to the
stable where Francois, having deposited his load of maize, was coiling
up the rope by which he had carried it.
"Francois," she exclaimed, "they want you. Your letter has been
burning me like fire." And still quite pale, Eleonore held out the
letter, watching it pass from her hands to those of her brother with a
nervous dread of the unknown future.
"When is it?" she asked. "Be quick!"
Without showing any emotion Francois tried to smile, as though to mark
masculine superiority over the weaker sex, as he proceeded
deliberately to open the envelope with his thick, moist fingers. He
read, reflected for a moment, then answered:
"Humph! to-morrow."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes, I have to be at La Roche at noon, to begin work on the railway."
Eleonore covered her face with both hands.
"Oh, I say, don't you go and leave me now," he continued. "Do you want
to?"
"No, Francois, but to go to-morrow--to-morrow!"
"Not to-morrow, to-night--at once. You ought to have expected it. Why,
you engaged with the owner of the coffee shop in Rue Neuve two months
ago. Did you sign the lease or not?"
"Yes."
"Did you promise to keep house for me?"
"Yes, Francois."
"When you bothered me to find you a good place at La Roche, did I not
trouble myself about you on the condition that you would keep house
for me? Yes or no? Of course, I want someone, and now you are not
willing to go?"
"I do not say...."
"Oh, well. I shall tell father presently what you promised. Stay
behind, if you like; but I warn you they will lead you a pretty life
at La Fromentiere when I am gone; without mentioning the action the
landlord at La Roche will bring against you at once, do you
understand? at once, if you refuse to take the shop you have rented.
Stay, if you like. I am going!"
She raised her arms above her head and always under the impression of
the moment, said:
"I will go; whatever time you like, I will be ready. Only I cannot
hear you tell father. Do not speak to him when I am there." She
hurriedly left the stable and went into the house to serve the
dinner, whilst Francois proceeded to give the oxen their forage,
taking as much time over it as he could.
Toussaint Lumineau was quietly talking with Mathurin. Sitting side by
side at the table, they watched their steaming plates of soup cool as
they discussed the new farm-servant whom it was necessary to engage
shortly.
"I will hire him at Chalons fair," said the father.
"That will be too late."
"We must do our best till then, my boy. I will look out for a strong
fellow, a lad from these parts."
"Yes, no _Boquin_, above all things! We know what they are!"
Toussaint Lumineau shook his head as he replied gently:
"Do not wrong the lad, Mathurin. I sent Jean Nesmy away, and for a
reason. But as regards work, I have nothing but good to say of him; he
worked well, and he loved farming, whilst others...." Little Rousille
was listening with eyes lowered, standing like a statue by the window.
Francois entered. "Whilst others," continued the farmer, slightly
raising his voice, "do not show as much energy as they might. Eh, my
Francois?"
The fair, ruddy-cheeked youth shrugged his shoulders as he took his
seat.
"The work is too hard," he said. "Since I came back I have felt that I
cannot accustom myself to that kind of thing."
"Oh, you half of a man," cried Mathurin. "Are you not ashamed of
yourself? If I could but walk, our father would have no need to hire
anyone. Look at these arms," and he held them out, the muscles showing
under his coat sleeves like knots of an oak-tree imprisoned within the
bark, while his face was suffused with crimson, the veins of his
forehead swelled, and his eyes were bloodshot.
"My poor boy!" said his father, touching his hand to calm him. "My
poor boy, I well know your misfortune has cost La Fromentiere dear."
Then after a short silence, he added: "Still we will get through some
good work, children, with Francois and Driot, who will soon be home,
and the man I am about to hire. I have a mind to start to-day on the
field of La Cailleterie, that has lain fallow there two years. The
rain we have had must have softened the ground, the plough will bite."
Eleonore, who had just then pushed open the inner door, stopped
tremblingly, seeing Francois in the act of moving his lips as if to
speak and tell their secret. But no word escaped the young man's lips
during the remainder of the meal. Towards the end, as they were rising
from table, Mathurin, looking at the sky through the smoke-begrimed
windows, said:
"Father, will you take me up there in the cart?"
"Of course I will. Go fetch the cart, Eleonore, and you, Francois,
yoke the oxen."
The farmer was well-nigh gay; the young people thought his mind was
dwelling upon Driot, whose name was now so constantly upon his lips.
But it was nothing but the first tillage of the season that made him
so content.
A quarter of an hour later the farmer passed round his body the strap
fixed to the box on wheels in which the cripple was seated and began
dragging it as one tows a boat; the oxen, led by Francois, going on in
front. They took the same road which Jean Nesmy had taken the morning
of his dismissal; his footprints were still visible in the dust. There
were four superb oxen, preceded by a grey mare, Noblet, Cavalier,
Paladin, and Matelot, all with tawny coats, widespread horns, high
backs, and slow supple gait. With perfect ease they drew the plough,
the share raised, up the steep ascent; and when a trail of bramble
across their path tempted them, they would simultaneously slacken
speed, and the iron chain that linked the foremost couple to the beam
would clank on the ground. Francois walked gloomily beside them, deep
in thought on matters not connected with the day's work.
Those following him, the farmer and his crippled son, were equally
silent, but their thoughts were centred on the soil over which they
were passing; and with the like sense of peaceful content their eyes
roamed over gates, ditches, fields, their minds filled with the same
simple interests. With them meditation was a sign of their calling,
the mark of the noble vocation of those by whose labours the world is
fed. Arrived at the top of the knoll in the field of La Cailleterie,
his father helped Mathurin out of the little cart to the foot of an
ash-tree, whose branches threw a light shadow over the slope. Before
them the fallow land, covered with weeds and ferns, fell away in an
even descent, surrounded by hedges on the four sides. Looking down the
slope and over the lower hedge could be seen the Marais fading away in
the distance like a blue plain.
And now the farmer, having loosened the pin that held the share,
himself guided the plough to the extreme left of the field, and put it
in place.
"You stay there in the sun," he said to Mathurin. "And you, Francois,
lead your oxen straight. This is a grand day for ploughing. Ohe!
Noblet, Cavalier, Paladin, Matelot!"
A cut of the whip sent the mare off, the four oxen lowered their horns
and extended their hocks, the ploughshare cut into the earth with the
noise of a scythe being whetted; the earth parted in brown clods that
formed high ridges on either side, falling back in powdery masses upon
themselves like water divided by the bow of a ship. The well-trained
oxen went straight and steadily. Their muscles under the supple skin
moved regularly and without more apparent effort than if they had been
drawing an empty cart upon an even road. Weeds lay uprooted in the
ruts; trefoil, wild oats, plantains, pimpernels, broom, its yellow
blossoms already mixed with brown pods, brakes folded back on their
long stems like young oaks cut down. A haze ascended from the upturned
earth exposed to the heat of the sun; in front the dust raised by the
feet of the oxen caused the team to proceed in a ruddy aureole,
through which numberless gnats and flies were darting.
Mathurin, in the shade of the mountain ash, looked on with envy as the
team descended the slope of the hill, and the forms of his father and
brother, the oxen and mare, grew smaller in the distance.
"Francois," exclaimed his father, enjoying the feeling of the shaft
under his hand, "Francois, see to Noblet, he is slackening. Touch up
Matelot! The mare is drawing to the left. Brisk up, my boy, you look
half asleep!"
And, in truth, Francois was taking no interest in guiding the plough.
He was feeling that the time had come for him to speak, and the
difficulty of beginning made him walk with head downcast. At the far
end of the field they turned and began the ascent, the plough marking
a second line of furrows beside the first. From where Mathurin sat he
had lost sight of them on the low ground; now the horns of the oxen
and his brother's goad came into view, and, to greet the return of the
plough, he began with stentorian voice to chant the slow refrain which
can be varied or ended at pleasure. The notes were flung far and wide
from his powerful chest, embellished with _fioriture_ ancient as the
art of ploughing itself. The oxen knew the rhythm, and stepped in time
to it; the cadence accompanied the groan of the wheels on their axes;
borne on the air, it was wafted afar o'er the hedges, telling other
labourers in fields that the plough was at work on the fallow land of
La Cailleterie. The cadence rejoiced the farmer's heart. But Francois
remained gloomy. As the plough neared the shade of the ash-tree,
Mathurin, whose thoughts were always busied with the future of La
Fromentiere, said:
"Father, it would be a good thing to re-plant our vineyard that is
dying off. As soon as Driot is home we should do it; what think you?"
The farmer stayed his oxen, lifted his hat to cool his hot head, and
smiled, well pleased.
"You are always thinking of something to the point, Mathurin. If the
wheat comes up well in La Cailleterie, faith of a Lumineau! I will lay
in a stock of vines. I am hopeful of our work to-day. Come on,
youngster, straighten the harness. Look to your mare, she is hot; coax
her a bit, walk beside her, that she may see you and go more quietly."
The team moved off again; a mist of heat enveloped men and beasts; the
air was thick with flies; turtle-doves, gorged with seed, took shelter
in the ash-trees from the burning heat of the stubble fields. The
cripple had ceased his song, and the farmer, as they got to the middle
of the field, said:
"It is your turn to tune up now, Francois. Sing, boy, it will gladden
your heart!"
The young man went on a few paces, then began: "Oh! oh! my men, oh!
oh! oh!" His voice, of higher register than Mathurin's, made the oxen
prick up their ears as it faltered past them; then, all suddenly, it
came to a dead stop, rendered mute by the fear that mastered the
singer. He pulled himself together, raised his head, and, looking
towards the Marais, made a fresh effort; a few more notes faltered
out, then a sob choked them, and, crimson with shame, the young man
resumed his way in silence, his face turned towards the fallow land,
walking in front of his father, who looked at him across the croup of
the oxen. No word was said by either until the farmer had finished the
furrow; then, at the end of the field, Toussaint Lumineau, troubled to
the very depths of his soul, said:
"You have news for me, Francois, what is it?"
They were some three feet apart, the father standing level with the
hedge, his son on the far side of the plough at the head of the oxen.
"That I am going away, father."
"What, Francois? The heat has turned your head, my boy. Are you
feeling ill?" But from the expression of his son's eyes he quickly saw
that this was a very different thing from some passing illness; that
misfortune was coming.
Francois had made up his mind to speak. With one hand resting on
Noblet's back, as if to support himself, trembling and nervous, yet
with hard, insolent look, he cried:
"I have had enough of this. I shall cut it."
"Enough of what, my lad?"
"Enough of digging the ground, enough of looking after the cattle,
enough of drudgery at seven-and-twenty to make money that all goes to
pay the rent of the farm. I mean to be my own master, and make money
for myself. I have got a situation on the railway, and I begin
to-morrow--to-morrow, do you hear?" His voice rose in a kind of
frenzy.
"I am accepted; there is nothing more to be said. The thing is done. I
am taking Eleonore to La Roche to keep house for me. She, too, has had
enough of this. She has found a good place, a shop where she will make
more than with you; at any rate, she will have a chance of
marrying.... And I don't see that we have acted badly towards you in
what we have done. Don't say that we have! And don't make that rueful
face about it! We have served our time with you, father, have waited
patiently for Andre's return. Now that he is coming home, let him help
you. It is his turn."
The unexpected blow had stupefied the farmer; he had grown very white.
With set teeth, one arm resting on the plough, he remained speechless,
his eyes fixed upon Francois as if demented. Slowly the full force of
the situation, with all its pain, filtered into his soul.
"But, Francois, what you tell me cannot be true; Eleonore never
complained of her work."
"Oh yes, she has; not to you."
"As for you, you have always had plenty of help. If I have sometimes
reproached you for idleness, it has been because times are hard for
everyone. But now that I am going to take on a farm-servant, now that
another fortnight will see Driot home, we shall be four of us,
counting myself, who am still of some use. You will not go, Francois?"
"Yes."
"Where will you do better than at home? Have you been short of food?"
"No."
"Have I ever refused you clothes, or even money for your tobacco?"
"No."
"Francois, it must be that military service has changed your heart
towards us."
"That may be."
"But say that you will not leave us?"
The young man put his hand into his coat pocket, and held out the
letter.
"I have to be there at noon to-morrow," he said. "If you don't believe
me, read for yourself."
The father stretched out his hand across the team for the letter,
trembling so much that he could scarcely take it. Once in his hands,
without opening it, in a sudden access of indignation he crumpled and
tore it into atoms, then crushed the pieces under his sabots into the
soft earth.
"There," he cried, "is an end to the letter. Now are you going?"
"That alters nothing," returned Francois.
He would have passed his father, but a powerful hand was laid upon his
shoulders, a voice commanded:
"Stay here!"
And the son was constrained to stay.
"Who engaged you, Francois?"
"The head of the office."
"No; who advised you? You did not do this thing by yourself, you had
the help of some gentleman. Who was it?"
The young man hesitated for a moment, then, feeling himself a
prisoner, stammered out:
"M. Meffray."
With one thrust the farmer sent him flying.
"Run; harness La Rousse to the dog-cart. Quick! I am going myself to
M. Meffray."
So he shouted in his rage. But when he saw his son obey him and take
the path towards the farm--when he found himself alone in the far end
of his field, he was seized with anguish. So far he had ever found
help in the difficulties of his life; this time, taken unawares by
danger in the full swing of work, he turned him slowly round as if
moved by habit, and searched the landscape as far as his eyes would
carry, for a helper, a support, someone who should defend his cause
and advise with him. His oxen standing still, looked at him out of
their large soft eyes. The first object he saw, in among the trees,
was the belfry of Sallertaine. He shook his head. No, the Cure, the
good old friend he consulted so willingly, could do nothing. Toussaint
Lumineau knew him to be powerless against town officials and
authorities, all the great unknown outside the parish. His gaze left
the church, passed over the farm without stopping, but rested awhile
on the pointed roofs of La Fromentiere. Ah! were the Marquis but
there! He feared nothing: neither uniforms, nor titles, nor long words
that poor uncultured people could not understand. And expense was
nothing to him. He would have made the journey from Paris to prevent a
_Maraichin_ from leaving the soil. Alas! the Chateau was empty. No
longer the Master to appeal to.... The old farmer's eyes fell upon the
two newly made furrows rising before him to the ash-tree on the hill;
then it struck him that Mathurin was waiting and wondering, and that
he must say something to prevent his growing uneasy.
"Ohe!" cried he, "Lumineau!"
Over the curve of the hill, through the still air, a voice replied:
"Here I am. You are not coming up again?"
"No; the chain has snapped. I must take back the team."
"All right."
"Do not mind waiting a bit; Rousille will come to fetch you. I am
going round by the slope of the meadow."
At the foot of the field, filled in with bundles of thorn, was a gap
in the hedge leading on to a narrow slip of meadow, and thence to the
farm. To avoid having to answer Mathurin's questions, the farmer
touched up his oxen and took this way back. In the middle of the
courtyard he perceived the dog-cart already harnessed, Francois
standing beside it in his Sunday clothes.
"Fasten up the oxen," he said roughly. Then, passing in front of him,
he opened the house door and called:
"Eleonore!"
There was no answer. Going through the house-place he passed into the
kitchen, where he met Rousille.
"Where is your sister?"
"She was talking to Francois in the courtyard just now. Shall I look
for her?"
"No, that will do. I will see her later on. Rousille, we have some
business at Chalons, Francois and I. We shall be back before supper.
Go to Mathurin, who will be tired of waiting so long at La
Cailleterie, and bring him back."
Without another word, the farmer returned to the yard, where Francois
awaited him. Getting into the cart, he signed to his son to take the
place beside him, and with a cut of the whip sent the mare,
unaccustomed to such harsh usage, off at a gallop.
"Where are they going at such speed?" thought the few spectators whom
they passed on their way--spectators whom nothing escapes: innkeepers
standing at their doors, tramps on the highway, peasants lopping the
trees. "What has come to them? Old Lumineau is lashing La Rousse, and
jerking the reins like a groom afraid of his master, and not a word
does he say to his lad."
In fact the farmer's wrath was growing as he meditated his wrongs; he
muttered between his teeth what he would say to that Meffray, while
his stalwart arms, eager for strife and vengeance, lashed into the
mare. Francois, on the contrary, exhausted by the effort he had made,
had relapsed into his usual apathy, and suffered himself to be carried
on towards his fate, looking at the hedges with vacant stare.
It was he, who on arrival at the Place by the Halles-Neuves of
Chalons, jumped down and tied the mare to a ring attached to one of
the pillars; then followed his father who turned up one of the streets
on the left, and stopped before a modern, narrow, red-brick building.
An iron plate, under the door bell, was inscribed, "Jules Meffray,
Ex-Sheriff's Officer, Town Councillor."
The farmer pulled the bell vigorously.
"Is your master in?" he asked the servant who opened the door.
The girl examined the peasant who inquired for her master in a tone
and look not of the pleasantest, and who presented himself in work-day
clothes soiled with mud, and replied:
"I think he is. What may be your business?"
"Tell him that Toussaint Lumineau, of La Fromentiere, wants to speak
to him; and let him be quick, I am in a hurry."
Astonished, not daring to show Lumineau into the dining-room where M.
Meffray was wont to receive his clients, the maid left the farmer and
his son standing in the shabby passage at the foot of the stairs. So
taken aback was she, that she did not see the shamefaced Francois
hidden in the background, but only the stalwart old peasant, whose
broad shoulders almost blocked the way as he stood erect, hat on head,
under the ill-kept hall lamp that was never lighted.
A few seconds later the garden door opened, and a tall, stout man came
in, dressed in a white flannel suit, a cap of the same material on his
head; his face was clean-shaven, his small eyes blinking, probably
with the sudden change from the outer glare. This was M. Meffray,
member for Chalons, an ambitious small tradesman, who, originally one
of them, was possessed by a secret animosity towards the peasant
class; and who, living amongst them, had only learnt to know their
defects of which he made use.
Informed of the manner in which Lumineau had presented himself,
dreading some violence, he stopped short at the foot of the staircase,
rested his elbow on the banisters, and touching the brim of his cap
with three fingers, said carelessly:
"They should have shown you in, farmer. But as it seems that you are
in haste, we can talk just as well here. I have done your son a
service, is that your reason for coming?"
"Just so," returned Lumineau.
"Can I do anything more for you?"
"I want to keep my boy, M. Meffray."
"Keep him? What do you mean?"
"Yes; that you should undo what you have done."
"But that depends upon him. Have you had your summons, Francois?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, my friend, if you do not want to take the post, there is no
lack of candidates to fill your place, as you know. I have now ten
other applications which I have far more reason to support than I had
yours. For after all, you Lumineaus, you do not vote with us in the
elections. So do you wish to give up the place?"
"No, sir."
"It is I who will not have him go," broke in Toussaint Lumineau, "I
want him at La Fromentiere."
"But he is of age, farmer!"
"He is my son, M. Meffray. It is his part to work for me. Put
yourself in my place, I who am an old man. I had counted on leaving my
farm to him, as my father left it to me. He goes away, and takes my
daughter with him. So I lose two children, and through your fault."
"Excuse me; I did not seek him; he came to me."
"But without you he would not be going, nor Eleonore either! They had
to have recommendations. You call that doing a service, M. Meffray?
Did you even know what would be best for Francois--had you ever seen
him in his home to know if he was unhappy there? Monsieur Meffray, you
must give him back to me."
"Settle it with your son. It does not concern me."
"You will not speak to those who have entrapped my son, and annul the
agreement?" Advancing a step, and pointing at him with extended arm,
Toussaint Lumineau said in a loud voice: "Then you have done my son
more harm in one single day than I in all my life."
M. Meffray's heavy face crimsoned.
"Be off, old hound!" he shouted. "Be off, take your son! Manage your
own affairs. Ah! these peasants! Such are the thanks one gets for
troubling about them!"
The farmer seemed not to have heard; he remained motionless. But there
was a strange fire in his eyes; from the depths of his tortured
heart, from the depths of the faith taught to his race for generations
past, the words came to his lips:
"You shall answer for them," he said.
"How so?"
"There where they are going they will both be lost, M. Meffray. You
shall answer for their eternal perdition."
As though stupefied by a speech so unlike any he had ever heard, the
town councillor made no reply; it needed time for him to take in an
idea so different from those usually filling his mind; then throwing a
contemptuous glance at the huge peasant standing erect before him, he
turned on his heel, and moved to the garden door, with a muttered:
"Boor--go!"
Toussaint Lumineau and his son went out into the street, walking
silently side by side until they reached the Place. There the father,
unfastening the mare, said as he was about to put his foot on the step
of the cart:
"Get up, Francois. We will go home."
But the young man drew back.
"No," he said, "the thing is done; you will not make me alter it.
Besides, I arranged with Eleonore, who must have left La Fromentiere
by now. You will not find her there when you go back." He had taken
off his hat in farewell, and was looking uneasily at his old father,
who, leaning against the shaft with half-closed eyes, seemed about to
swoon. Under the colonnade of the Halles there was not a soul; a few
women in their shops round the Place were carelessly looking at the
two men. After a moment, Francois drew a little nearer and held out
his hand, doubtless to clasp that of his father for the last time; but
seeing him approach the old man revived, motioned his son away, sprang
into the cart, and lashing up La Rousse, drove off at a gallop.