DWELLERS IN TOWNS.
The farmer soon recovered consciousness. Sitting up, he looked about
him, and hearing Mathurin moaning and saying: "He is dead!" answered:
"No, my boy, I am all right," then with the aid of the farm-servant he
went back to his bed.
At dawn next morning, he started for a tour round the farms to try and
learn particulars of his son. It seemed that neither Mathurin nor the
man had had the least suspicion of Andre's flight; they had neither
seen nor heard the slightest thing.
Thus Toussaint Lumineau went to make inquiries among the old and new
friends frequented by Andre during the last few months, sons of
farmers, gooseherds, or sailors. For three whole days he scoured the
Marais from Saint Gervais to Fromentiere, from Sallertaine to Saint
Gilles. Those he asked knew but little, or were unwilling to betray
confidence. All agreed in stating that Andre had often talked of
making his fortune across the sea where the land was new and fertile.
The best informed went on to say:
"Last Sunday he said good-bye to several of us, myself among the
number. He told me he was off to South America, where, for a mere
nothing, he would get a farm of seventy-four acres of virgin soil; but
I do not remember the name of the place where he was going."
On the evening of the third day, when, having had this information,
the farmer returned home, he found the cripple sitting by the
fireside.
"Mathurin," he said, "you ought still to have some of those books
where countries are sketched out, you know what I mean?"
"Geography books? Yes, there must be some left from old schooldays.
Why?"
"I want to look at America," replied the old man. "It is there that
your brother is going they all say."
Dragging himself to the chest, from under the clothes at the bottom
the cripple brought forth a handful of school books, which had
belonged to one or other of them as boys, and came back with a little
elementary atlas, on the cover of which was written in a beginner's
large handwriting: "This book belongs to Lumineau Andre, son of
Lumineau Toussaint, of La Fromentiere, Commune of Sallertaine,
Vendee." The father stroked his hand over the writing, as if to caress
it.
"It was his," he said.
Mathurin opened the atlas. It was all to pieces; the maps were rounded
at the corners from wear, crumpled or torn, the edges frayed. The
cripple's fingers turned the pages gingerly, and stopped at a map
covered with ink-blots in which the two Americas, united by their
isthmus, in deep orange colour, looked like a pair of huge spectacles.
The two men bent over it. "This is South America," said Mathurin. "And
here is the sea."
The farmer pondered for a considerable time over Mathurin's words,
endeavouring to harmonise them with the inky map, then shook his head.
"I cannot picture to myself where he is," he said sadly, "but I see
that there is sea, and that he is lost to us...."
Mathurin slowly shut his book and said:
"They were both bad sons; they have forsaken you."
The farmer did not seem to have heard him; turning to Rousille, he
said gently, far more gently than was his wont: "Rousille, have a
cup of coffee ready for me the first thing to-morrow morning. I
will go and find out Francois." And accordingly at ten o'clock the
next morning, the fourth day after Driot's departure, the farmer
of La Fromentiere alighted from the train at the station of La
Roche-sur-Yon. The moment he set foot on the platform, he began
looking for his son amongst the porters engaged in shutting the
carriage doors, or taking the luggage from the van. Taller by a head
than most of the passengers who were hurrying hither and thither, he
would stop every ten paces to follow with his eyes some porter with
young, full face like Francois. He wanted to see his son again, but
was nervous at meeting him in so public a place. He, clad in his black
cloth suit, with blue waistband, his new hat bound with velvet set
well at the back of his head, free to come and go at his own time--he,
the master of his working and leisure hours, felt a kind of shame at
the thought that among that group of paid servants, hustled about by
their superiors, clad in a uniform they had no right to exchange for
ordinary clothes, was a Lumineau of La Fromentiere.
Not finding Francois on the platform, he was proceeding to a part of
the line where carriages were uncoupled, and was watching a gang of
men push a loaded truck along with their shoulders, thinking the
while, "Why, they are doing the work of our oxen at home," when a
voice called out:
"Hey! Where are you going?"
"To find my boy."
"Who is he?"
"You may perhaps know him," replied the farmer, touching the brim of
his hat. "He is employed on the line; his name is Francois Lumineau."
The inspector said carelessly:
"Lumineau? Ah, yes, one of the men on the line. Been here four
months?"
"Five," returned the father.
"Maybe. A stout, red-faced fellow, somewhat lazy. Do you want to speak
to him?"
"Yes."
"Very well. If you know where he lives, go to him there. You can do
your business with him when he goes home to his dinner. Foot
passengers are not allowed on the lines, my good man." And as he went
away, the inspector grumbled: "These peasants think they have the
right to go anywhere, as if they were in their own fields."
The farmer controlling himself on Francois' account, made no reply. He
left the railway station and began wandering among the broad, deserted
streets with their rows of low-built houses on either side; rain had
been falling since early morning. The people he stopped to inquire of
did not know Cafe la Faucille, the name of which he had learned from
the Maraichins who came to the fairs of La Roche. At length, by means
of the sign-board, he found it out for himself, in the outskirts of
the town. Like the others in the street it was a little one-storied
house, with one window. Pushing open the door, Toussaint Lumineau
found himself in a coffee shop, furnished with deal tables, cane
stools, and a glass cupboard, wherein were displayed bottles of wine
and spirits, and on a counter at the foot were a few plates of cold
meat, between two boxes of sweet biscuits. Nobody was there. Lumineau
took his stand in the middle of the shop; the bell, set ringing by the
farmer's entrance, continued to sound more and more feebly. Before it
had altogether ceased, an inner door opposite opened, emitting a
whiff of cookery, and a woman, without cap, her hair very much
dressed, came forward in a mincing manner.
Although he stood with his back to the light she at once recognised
the new-comer, coloured vividly, let fall the corner of her apron she
was holding in both hands, and stopped short.
"Oh," she said, "it is you, father! What a surprise! How long it is
since we have seen you!"
"Yes, true. A very long time."
She hesitated, glad to see her father, and not daring to say so, not
knowing his object in coming, and whether she ought to ask him to sit
down, to kiss him, or to keep her distance as one who may not hope to
be forgiven.
Her eyes were fixed on him. However, the words, not hard, the gentle
tones and voice that trembled, reassured her; and she asked:
"May I kiss you, father, despite all?"
He suffered her embrace, but did not return the kiss. Then sitting on
a stool, while Eleonore went to the other side of the table, he looked
at his daughter with melancholy curiosity to see in what way she had
changed. Eleonore, standing near the wall, embarrassed by the
penetrating gaze, began fastening the collar of her grey woollen
dress, drawing down the sleeves over her bare arms, then twisted a
ring she was wearing on her right hand.
"I did not expect," she stammered, casting down her eyes.... "It has
quite startled me to see you again! Francois will be astonished too.
He comes in at eleven every day, sometimes half-past. Father, you will
have something to eat?"
He made a negative gesture.
"A glass of wine? You will not refuse that?"
For all answer, Toussaint Lumineau said:
"Do you know what has happened at home, Eleonore?"
Suddenly the slight amount of self-possession she had assumed left
her. She drew back still further. Her light blue eyes assumed an
expression of fear, while she glanced towards the street as if,
perchance, the expected help were coming from that direction. Then,
obliged to speak, leaning her head against the wall, with eyes
downcast:
"Yes," she said. "He came to La Roche. He wanted to see Francois."
"What!" exclaimed Toussaint Lumineau, rising and pushing back the
stool. "Andre? You have spoken to Andre?"
"Very early on Monday he came. His face had a look on it that is
always coming back to me when I am alone. Oh! a look as of a world of
sorrow. He pushed open the door, like you did, and said: 'Francois, I
am going away from La Fromentiere, because you are not there!' I am
sure, father, it is a blow to you ... but do not be angry, for we said
nothing to induce him to go. We were even sorry on your account."
She had put out her hand as if to ward the old man off; but she saw at
once that there was nothing to fear, and the outstretched hand fell
beside the dingy plastered wall. For Toussaint Lumineau was crying as
he looked at her. The tears were coursing down his face, wrinkled by
suffering. He wanted to know everything, and asked:
"Did he speak of me?"
"No."
"Did he speak of La Fromentiere?"
"No."
"Did he at last say where he was going?"
"He would neither sit down nor stay. He kissed us both; but words
neither came to him nor to us. Francois asked him: 'Where are you
going, Driot?' and he answered: 'To Buenos Ayres, in America. I mean
to try and make money. When I am a rich man you shall all hear of me.
Good-bye, Lionore. Good-bye, Francois,' and he was gone."
"Gone," repeated Lumineau; "my last one gone!"
Eleonore's feelings were touched in sympathy, the corners of her eyes
grew moist; but they still turned towards the street, while her father
shut his.
"Father," she said, "will you mind coming into the kitchen with me?
Francois will soon be coming in, and if he does not find his dinner
ready, you know what it will be! He is not always easy to get on
with." She went into the inner room, followed by her father. It was
but a shed built on, quite dark even in broad daylight, whose only
window looked on to a narrow yard built up on all sides. An iron
stove, at present alight, three chairs, and a table took up nearly all
the space. The farmer, taking a chair, sat down between the window and
the open door, that he might see Francois when he came in. Eleonore
busied herself with cookery, laid the table for two, went backwards
and forwards from one room to the other, always in a hurry, never
getting on much with what she had in hand. Toussaint Lumineau was
silent. She felt it necessary to sigh as she passed him, and say:
"Things have gone sadly against you. And how melancholy it must be at
La Fromentiere now! Poor father, I am sorry for you!"
He, listening, took her empty words as words of pity.
"Lionore," he said, after a while, as she stooping was cutting the
bread for the soup, "Lionore, you have given up the coif of La
Vendee?"
"Yes, they ironed them so badly here at La Roche, and it cost so much.
Besides, no one wears caps here."
"Humph! Well, since you have given up dressing as did your mother and
grandmother, and all the women of the family I have ever known, are
you any the happier? Are you content in your new circumstances?"
She went on cutting the bread into thin slices, and answered:
"It is not the same kind of work, but I cannot say but that I have as
much to do as I had at home. There are the rooms to keep in order,
marketing to do, my stones to wash every other day when it rains, as
to-day, or snows; cooking at all times of the day, and that for people
who are not always very civil, I assure you. Sometimes there are
complaints that there are so few customers, for there was too high a
price paid for the cafe--much too high. And then when men passing come
in for a drink, I am often afraid of them. Indeed, if I had not
neighbours----"
"And your brother, is he content?" interrupted the farmer.
"Half and half. The pay is so poor, you see. Two francs at La
Fromentiere go farther than three here."
The father hesitated a little. Then asked, lowering his voice:
"Tell me, perhaps he regrets what he has done? I have no son with me
now, Lionore; I am wretched. Do you think that Francois would come
back to his home?"
He forgave all, forgot all; he craved help from the children who had
wronged him.
Eleonore's face changed abruptly. Drying her eyes with a corner of her
handkerchief, she shook her pointed chignon, and replied drily:
"I do not think so, father. I would rather tell you so out straight.
You will be seeing my brother--will talk it over with him, but I do
not think----" And as if deeply hurt she turned abruptly away to the
store.
The half-hour had struck, the door of the cafe opened noisily, a man
came in. Without looking up, or moving from her place, the girl said:
"Here he is."
Despite the railway uniform and cap he was wearing, the farmer, in the
semi-darkness of the shop, had already recognised his son by the
downcast head, slouching gait, and habit of holding his arms out from
his body. Soon Francois stood before him in the doorway of the
kitchen, and a glance revealed the same heavy features as of
old--russet-red complexion, drooping moustache, and look of stolid
indifference.
On seeing his father a shade of emotion passed over his face.
"Good day, father," said he, holding out his hand. "So things are not
going well by what I see?"
The farmer made a sign of acquiescence.
"You are in trouble. Yes, I understand. So should I be if I were you.
Andre ought not to have done it; he was the last, he ought to have
stayed."
Toussaint Lumineau had seized Francois' hand, and was pressing it
between both of his with a tenderness that spoke volumes, and his
eyes, which sought the eyes of his son, uttered the same entreaty. In
measure, however, that his father's mute pleading entered his soul,
Francois quickly recovered from his surprise, hardening himself
against the momentary feeling of compassion. Presently, drawing back
his hand, he retreated a step, saying with the air of a man defiant
and on the defensive.
"I understand. You are not wanting to engage another servant, but
would rather have Lionore and me back at Sallertaine?"
"If you could, Francois. I have no one else to look to."
A half-satisfied smile at the correctness of his surmise passed over
Francois' face as he rejoined:
"Yet you see that the other has gone too; and that there is nothing
more to be done with the land."
"You are mistaken. He has gone to cultivate it elsewhere, in America!
It was because he missed you so sorely, Francois, that he lost heart
at home."
"Yes," said Francois, drawing up a chair for himself and sitting down
to the table. "It seems to be a wonderful country, America! But here
with us it's too hard."
The farmer did not take up the words which had angered him before.
"Well!" he said, "I will give you help. I have no other son now, for
you know that Mathurin is of no account in the management of a farm.
You will soon be the master; the next lease shall be drawn up in your
name, and there will still be a Lumineau at La Fromentiere. Will you
come back?"
Francois made a gesture of annoyance and gave no reply.
"You are making nothing," resumed the farmer, "by what Eleonore tells
me."
"No, the pay is poor enough."
"The cafe has not many customers?"
"No; but we paid too much for it. We are not sure that it will
answer." He turned to his sister who was listening passive and
tearful. "But we scrape along, eh, Lionore? In time I may get a rise,
so the sub-inspector tells me. Then I shall be better off. I don't
want more. We have got to know people already; on Sundays I have my
half-day off."
"You had the whole day at La Fromentiere!"
"I don't say that I hadn't. But what you ask, father, can't be done."
A man, whose entrance they had not perceived, now called out from the
adjoining room:
"Is no one here? Is there no dinner to be had?"
Eleonore, glad of the interruption, passed between her brother and
father, and they heard her laugh to appease the customer. Francois
drew the soup-tureen towards him, and put in the ladle.
"You must not mind my helping myself," he said to his father, who
remained sitting at the window behind him, "I have only got a quarter
of an hour; it's a long way to the station. I shall be fined," and
between the mouthfuls of soup he asked in a softened voice: "You have
not given me news of Rousille. Is she quite well? And Mathurin, does
he still imagine that he will be all right again? He who always was so
keen on being master at La Fromentiere did nothing to keep Andre back,
I suppose?"
Toussaint Lumineau rose abruptly, unable longer to control his anger.
"You are a couple of ungrateful children, both of you!" he exclaimed
in a loud voice. "Stay in your town!" and going out of the kitchen, he
crossed the cafe before the eyes of the sickly-looking mechanic, and
of Eleonore, who, terrified, leant forward:
"I told you so, poor father. I told you he would not! I knew it.
Still, _au revoir_."
Then to Francois who was following him:
"You are going with him to the station."
He shook his head.
"Yes, go! It would look better; he would not then be able to say that
we had not treated him kindly."
The farmer had opened the door into the street.
"I will go with you to the station, if you like," said Francois
sheepishly.
"I did not ask you to go with me to the station, ungrateful son; I
asked you to come back and save us all from ruin, and you have
refused!" was the reply. They saw him stride down the street erect,
his fine figure making two of the puny town mechanics, his silvery
hair shining through the mist of rain. The door shut behind him.
"No easy customer, the old papa," said the man who was dining.
"Don't talk of it," exclaimed Eleonore; "I am quite ill."
"What was it he wanted?"
With a coarse laugh Francois said as he went back to the kitchen:
"Wanted me to go back and dig for him."
The mechanic, shrugging his shoulders, said with a self-satisfied air:
"A fine idea! The old gentleman was a bit unreasonable, I think."