CHAPTER XIV

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE

Jeanne never went out now, never stirred about. She rose at the same

hour every day, looked out at the weather and then went downstairs and

sat before the parlor fire.

She would remain for days motionless, gazing into the fire, thinking

of nothing in particular. It would grow dark before she stirred,

except to put a fresh log on the fire. Rosalie would then bring in the

lamp and exclaim: "Come, Madame Jeanne, you must stir about or you

will have no appetite again this evening."

She lived over the past, haunted by memories of her early life and her

wedding journey down yonder in Corsica. Forgotten landscapes in that

isle now rose before her in the blaze of the fire, and she recalled

all the little details, all the little incidents, the faces she had

seen down there. The head of the guide, Jean Ravoli, haunted her, and

she sometimes seemed to hear his voice.

Then she remembered the sweet years of Paul's childhood, when they

planted salad together and when she knelt in the thick grass beside

Aunt Lison, each trying what they could do to please the child, and

her lips murmured: "Poulet, my little Poulet," as though she were

talking to him. Stopping at this word, she would try to trace it,

letter by letter, in space, sometimes for hours at a time, until she

became confused and mixed up the letters and formed other words, and

she became so nervous that she was almost crazy.

She had all the peculiarities of those who live a solitary life. The

least thing out of its usual place irritated her.

Rosalie often obliged her to walk and took her on the high road, but

at the end of twenty minutes she declared she could not take another

step and sat down on the side of the road.

She soon became averse to all movement and stayed in bed as late as

possible. Since her childhood she had retained one custom, that of

rising the instant she had drunk her café au lait in the morning. But

now she would lie down again and begin to dream, and as she was daily

growing more lazy, Rosalie would come and oblige her to get up and

almost force her to get dressed.

She seemed no longer to have any will power, and each time the maid

asked her a question or wanted her advice or opinion she would say:

"Do as you think best, my girl."

She imagined herself pursued by some persistent ill luck and was like

an oriental fatalist, and having seen her dreams all fade away and her

hopes crushed, she would sometimes hesitate a whole day or longer

before undertaking the simplest thing, for fear she might be on the

wrong road and it would turn out badly. She kept repeating: "Talk of

bad luck--I have never had any luck in life."

Then Rosalie would say: "What would you do if you had to work for your

living, if you were obliged to get up every morning at six o'clock to

go out to your work? Many people have to do that, nevertheless, and

when they grow too old they die of want."

Jeanne replied: "Remember that I am all alone; that my son has

deserted me." And Rosalie would get very angry: "That's another thing!

Well, how about the sons who are drafted into the army and those who

go to America?"

America to her was an undefined country, where one went to make a

fortune and whence one never returned. She continued: "There always

comes a time when people have to part, for old people and young people

are not made to live together." And she added fiercely: "Well, what

would you say if he were dead?"

Jeanne had nothing more to say.

One day in spring she had gone up to the loft to look for something

and by chance opened a box containing old calendars which had been

preserved after the manner of some country folks.

She took them up and carried them downstairs. They were of all sizes,

and she laid them out on the table in the parlor in regular order.

Suddenly she spied the earliest, the one she had brought with her to

"The Poplars." She gazed at it for some time, at the days crossed off

by her the morning she left Rouen, the day after she left the convent,

and she wept slow, sorrowful tears, the tears of an old woman at sight

of her wretched life spread out before her on this table.

One morning the maid came into her room earlier than usual, and

placing the bowl of café au lait on the little stand beside her bed,

she said: "Come, drink it quickly. Denis is waiting for us at the

door. We are going to 'The Poplars,' for I have something to attend

to down there."

Jeanne dressed herself with trembling hands, almost fainting at the

thought of seeing her dear home once more.

The sky was cloudless and the nag, who was inclined to be frisky,

would suddenly start off at a gallop every now and then. As they

entered the commune of Étouvent Jeanne's heart beat so that she could

hardly breathe.

They unharnessed the horse at the Couillard place, and while Rosalie

and her son were attending to their own affairs, the farmer and his

wife offered to let Jeanne go over the chateau, as the proprietor was

away and they had the keys.

She went off alone, and when she reached the side of the chateau from

which there was a view of the sea she turned round to look. Nothing

had changed on the outside. When she turned the heavy lock and went

inside the first thing she did was to go up to her old room, which she

did not recognize, as it had been newly papered and furnished. But the

view from the window was the same, and she stood and gazed out at the

landscape she had so loved.

She then wandered all over the house, walking quietly all alone in

this silent abode as though it were a cemetery. All her life was

buried here. She went down to the drawing-room, which was dark with

its closed shutters. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light

she recognized some of the old hangings. Two easy chairs were drawn up

before the fire, as if some one had just left them, and as Jeanne

stood there, full of old memories, she suddenly seemed to see her

father and mother sitting there, warming their feet at the fire.

She started back in terror and knocked up against the edge of the

door, against which she leaned to support herself, still staring at

the armchairs.

The vision had vanished.

She remained bewildered for some minutes. Then she slowly recovered

her composure and started to run away, for fear she might become

insane. She chanced to look at the door against which she had been

leaning and saw there "Poulet's ladder."

All the little notches were there showing the age and growth of her

child. Here was the baron's writing, then hers, a little smaller, and

then Aunt Lison's rather shaky characters. And she seemed to see her

boy of long ago with his fair hair standing before her, leaning his

little forehead against the door while they measured his height.

And she kissed the edge of the door in a frenzy of affection.

But some one was calling her outside. It was Rosalie's voice: "Madame

Jeanne, Madame Jeanne, they are waiting breakfast for you." She went

out in a dream and understood nothing of what they were saying to her.

She ate what they gave her, heard them talking, but about what she

knew not, let them kiss her on the cheeks and kissed them in return

and then got into the carriage.

When they lost sight of the château behind the tall trees she felt a

wrench at her heart, convinced that she had bid a last farewell to her

old home.

When they reached Batteville and just as she was going into her new

house, she saw something white under the door. It was a letter that

the postman had slipped under the door while she was out. She

recognized Paul's writing and opened it, trembling with anxiety. He

wrote:

"My Dear Mother: I have not written sooner because I did not wish you

to make a useless journey to Paris when it was my place to go and see

you. I am just now in great sorrow and in great straits. My wife is

dying after giving birth to a little girl three days ago, and I have

not one sou. I do not know what to do with the child, whom my

janitor's wife is bringing up on the bottle as well as she can, but I

fear I shall lose her. Could you not take charge of it? I absolutely

do not know what to do, and I have no money to put her out to nurse.

Answer by return mail.

"Your son, who loves you,

"Paul."

Jeanne sank into a chair and had scarcely strength to call Rosalie.

When the maid came into the room they read the letter over together

and then remained silent for some time, face to face.

At last Rosalie said: "I am going to fetch the little one, madame. We

cannot leave it like that."

"Go, my girl," replied Jeanne.

Then they were silent until the maid said: "Put on your hat, madame,

and we will go to Goderville to see the lawyer. If she is going to

die, the other one, M. Paul must marry her for the little one's sake

later on."

Jeanne, without replying, put on her hat. A deep, inexpressible joy

filled her heart, a treacherous joy that she sought to hide at any

cost, one of those things of which one is ashamed, although cherishing

it in one's soul--her son's sweetheart was going to die.

The lawyer gave the servant minute instructions, making her repeat

them several times. Then, sure that she could make no mistake, she

said: "Do not be afraid. I will see to it now."

She set out for Paris that very night.

Jeanne passed two days in such a troubled condition that she could not

think. The third morning she received merely a line from Rosalie

saying she would be back on the evening train. That was all.

About three o'clock she drove in a neighbor's light wagon to the

station at Beuzeville to meet Rosalie.

She stood on the platform, looking at the railroad track as it

disappeared on the horizon. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes

still--five minutes still--two minutes more. Then the hour of the

train's arrival, but it was not in sight. Presently, however, she saw

a cloud of white smoke and gradually it drew up in the station. She

looked anxiously and at last perceived Rosalie carrying a sort of

white bundle in her arms.

She wanted to go over toward her, but her knees seemed to grow weak

and she was afraid of falling.

But the maid had seen her and came forward with her usual calm manner

and said: "How do you do, madame? Here I am back again, but not

without some difficulty."

"Well?" faltered Jeanne.

"Well," answered Rosalie, "she died last night. They were married and

here is the little girl." And she held out the child, who could not be

seen under her wraps.

Jeanne took it mechanically and they left the station and got into the

carriage.

"M. Paul will come as soon as the funeral is over--to-morrow about

this time, I believe," resumed Rosalie.

Jeanne murmured "Paul" and then was silent.

The wagon drove along rapidly, the peasant clacking his tongue to urge

on the horse. Jeanne looked straight ahead of her into the clear sky

through which the swallows darted in curves. Suddenly she felt a

gentle warmth striking through to her skin; it was the warmth of the

little being who was asleep on her lap.

Then she was overcome with an intense emotion, and uncovering gently

the face of the sleeping infant, she raised it to her lips and kissed

it passionately.

But Rosalie, happy though grumpy, stopped her; "Come, come, Madame

Jeanne, stop that; you will make it cry."

And then she added, probably in answer to her own thoughts: "Life,

after all, is not as good or as bad as we believe it to be."

* * * * *

A VAGABOND

He was a journeyman carpenter, a good workman and a steady fellow,

twenty-seven years old, but, although the eldest son, Jacques Randel

had been forced to live on his family for two months, owing to the

general lack of work. He had walked about seeking work for over a

month and had left his native town, Ville-Avary, in La Manche, because

he could find nothing to do and would no longer deprive his family of

the bread they needed themselves, when he was the strongest of them

all. His two sisters earned but little as charwomen. He went and

inquired at the town hall, and the mayor's secretary told him that he

would find work at the Labor Agency, and so he started, well provided

with papers and certificates, and carrying another pair of shoes, a

pair of trousers and a shirt in a blue handkerchief at the end of his

stick.

And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, along

interminable roads, in sun and rain, without ever reaching that

mysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixed

idea that he must only work as a carpenter, but at every carpenter's

shop where he applied he was told that they had just dismissed men on

account of work being so slack, and, finding himself at the end of his

resources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that he might come

across on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy, stableman,

stonecutter; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug wells,

mixed mortar, tied up fagots, tended goats on a mountain, and all for

a few pence, for he only obtained two or three days' work occasionally

by offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to tempt the

avarice of employers and peasants.

And now for a week he had found nothing, and had no money left, and

nothing to eat but a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of some

women from whom he had begged at house doors on the road. It was

getting dark, and Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, his

stomach empty, and with despair in his heart, was walking barefoot on

the grass by the side of the road, for he was taking care of his last

pair of shoes, as the other pair had already ceased to exist for a

long time. It was a Saturday, toward the end of autumn. The heavy gray

clouds were being driven rapidly through the sky by the gusts of wind

which whistled among the trees, and one felt that it would rain soon.

The country was deserted at that hour on the eve of Sunday. Here and

there in the fields there rose up stacks of wheat straw, like huge

yellow mushrooms, and the fields looked bare, as they had already been

sown for the next year.

Randel was hungry, with the hunger of some wild animal, such a hunger

as drives wolves to attack men. Worn out and weakened with fatigue, he

took longer strides, so as not to take so many steps, and with heavy

head, the blood throbbing in his temples, with red eyes and dry mouth,

he grasped his stick tightly in his hand, with a longing to strike the

first passerby who might be going home to supper.

He looked at the sides of the road, imagining he saw potatoes dug up

and lying on the ground before his eyes; if he had found any he would

have gathered some dead wood, made a fire in the ditch and have had a

capital supper off the warm, round vegetables with which he would

first of all have warmed his cold hands. But it was too late in the

year, and he would have to gnaw a raw beetroot which he might pick up

in a field as he had done the day before.

For the last two days he had talked to himself as he quickened his

steps under the influence of his thoughts. He had never thought much

hitherto, as he had given all his mind, all his simple faculties to

his mechanical work. But now fatigue and this desperate search for

work which he could not get, refusals and rebuffs, nights spent in the

open air lying on the grass, long fasting, the contempt which he knew

people with a settled abode felt for a vagabond, and that question

which he was continually asked, "Why do you not remain at home?"

distress at not being able to use his strong arms which he felt so

full of vigor, the recollection of the relations he had left at home

and who also had not a penny, filled him by degrees with rage, which

had been accumulating every day, every hour, every minute, and which

now escaped his lips in spite of himself in short, growling sentences.

As he stumbled over the stones which tripped his bare feet, he

grumbled: "How wretched! how miserable! A set of hogs--to let a man

die of hunger--a carpenter--a set of hogs--not two sous--not two

sous--and now it is raining--a set of hogs!"

He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men,

on all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, cruel

and perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth: "A set of

hogs" as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the roofs,

for it was the dinner hour. And, without considering that there is

another injustice which is human, and which is called robbery and

violence, he felt inclined to go into one of those houses to murder

the inhabitants and to sit down to table in their stead.

He said to himself: "I have no right to live now, as they are letting

me die of hunger, and yet I only ask for work--a set of hogs!" And the

pain in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head like

terrible intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in his

brain: "I have the right to live because I breathe and because the air

is the common property of everybody. So nobody has the right to leave

me without bread!"

A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down, and he stopped and

murmured: "Oh, misery! Another month of walking before I get home." He

was indeed returning home then, for he saw that he should more easily

find work in his native town, where he was known--and he did not mind

what he did--than on the highroads, where everybody suspected him. As

the carpentering business was not prosperous, he would turn day

laborer, be a mason's hodman, a ditcher, break stones on the road. If

he only earned a franc a day, that would at any rate buy him something

to eat.

He tied the remains of his last pocket handkerchief round his neck to

prevent the cold rain from running down his back and chest, but he

soon found that it was penetrating the thin material of which his

clothes were made, and he glanced about him with the agonized look of

a man who does not know where to hide his body and to rest his head,

and has no place of shelter in the whole world.

Night came on and wrapped the country in obscurity, and in the

distance, in a meadow, he saw a dark spot on the grass; it was a cow,

and so he got over the ditch by the roadside and went up to her

without exactly knowing what he was doing. When he got close to her

she raised her great head to him, and he thought: "If I only had a jug

I could get a little milk." He looked at the cow and the cow looked at

him, and then, suddenly giving her a kick in the side, he said: "Get

up!"

The animal got up slowly, letting her heavy udders hang down. Then the

man lay down on his back between the animal's legs and drank for a

long time, squeezing her warm, swollen teats, which tasted of the

cowstall, with both hands, and he drank as long as she gave any milk.

But the icy rain began to fall more heavily, and he saw no place of

shelter on the whole of that bare plain. He was cold, and he looked at

a light which was shining among the trees in the window of a house.

The cow had lain down again heavily, and he sat down by her side and

stroked her head, grateful for the nourishment she had given him. The

animal's strong, thick breath, which came out of her nostrils like two

jets of steam in the evening air, blew on the workman's face, and he

said: "You are not cold inside there!" He put his hands on her chest

and under her stomach to find some warmth there, and then the idea

struck him that he might pass the night beside that large, warm

animal. So he found a comfortable place and laid his head on her side,

and then, as he was worn out with fatigue, fell asleep immediately.

He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach half

frozen, according as he put one or the other against the animal's

flank. Then he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body which

had remained exposed to the night air, and soon went soundly to sleep

again.

The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longer

raining, and the sky was bright. The cow was resting with her muzzle

on the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kiss

those wide, moist nostrils, and said: "Good-by, my beauty, until next

time. You are a nice animal. Good-by." Then he put on his shoes and

went off, and for two hours walked straight before him, always

following the same road, and then he felt so tired that he sat down on

the grass. It was broad daylight by that time, and the church bells

were ringing; men in blue blouses, women in white caps, some on foot,

some in carts, began to pass along the road, going to the neighboring

villages to spend Sunday with friends or relations.

A stout peasant came in sight, driving before him a score of

frightened, bleating sheep, with the help of an active dog. Randel got

up, and raising his cap, said: "You do not happen to have any work for

a man who is dying of hunger?" But the other, giving an angry look at

the vagabond, replied: "I have no work for fellows whom I meet on the

road."

And the carpenter went back and sat down by the side of the ditch

again. He waited there for a long time, watching the country people

pass and looking for a kind, compassionate face before he renewed his

request, and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach was

adorned with a gold chain. "I have been looking for work," he said,

"for the last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a sou in

my pocket." But the would-be gentleman replied: "You should have read

the notice which is stuck up at the entrance to the village: 'Begging

is prohibited within the boundaries of this parish.' Let me tell you

that I am the mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quickly

I shall have you arrested."

Randel, who was getting angry, replied: "Have me arrested if you like;

I should prefer it, for, at any rate, I should not die of hunger." And

he went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in about

a quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road. They were

walking slowly side by side, glittering in the sun with their shining

hats, their yellow accoutrements and their metal buttons, as if to

frighten evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance. He knew

that they were coming after him, but he did not move, for he was

seized with a sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, and

to have his revenge later.

They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking heavily, with

military step, and balancing themselves as if they were doing the

goose step; and then, suddenly, as they passed him, appearing to have

noticed him, they stopped and looked at him angrily and threateningly,

and the brigadier came up to him and asked: "What are you doing here?"

"I am resting," the man replied calmly. "Where do you come from?" "If

I had to tell you all the places I have been to it would take me more

than an hour." "Where are you going to?" "To Ville-Avary." "Where is

that?" "In La Manche." "Is that where you belong?" "It is." "Why did

you leave it?" "To look for work."

The brigadier turned to his gendarme and said in the angry voice of a

man who is exasperated at last by an oft-repeated trick: "They all say

that, these scamps. I know all about it." And then he continued: "Have

you any papers?" "Yes, I have some." "Give them to me."

Randel took his papers out of his pocket, his certificates, those

poor, worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gave

them to the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing, and

then, having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back to

Randel with the dissatisfied look of a man whom some one cleverer than

himself has tricked.

After a few moments' further reflection, he asked him: "Have you any

money on you?" "No." "None whatever?" "None." "Not even a sou?" "Not

even a sou!" "How do you live then?" "On what people give me." "Then

you beg?" And Randel answered resolutely: "Yes, when I can."

Then the gendarme said: "I have caught you on the highroad in the act

of vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so I

command you to come with me." The carpenter got up and said: "Wherever

you please." And, placing himself between the two soldiers, even

before he had received the order to do so, he added: "Well, lock me

up; that will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains."

And they set off toward the village, the red tiles of which could be

seen through the leafless trees, a quarter of a league off. Service

was about to begin when they went through the village. The square was

full of people, who immediately formed two lines to see the criminal

pass. He was being followed by a crowd of excited children. Male and

female peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, with

hatred in their eyes and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear his

skin with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They asked

each other whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher,

who was an ex-spahi, declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconist

thought that he recognized him as the man who had that very morning

passed a bad half-franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declared

that he was the murderer of Widow Malet, whom the police had been

looking for for six months.

In the municipal court, into which his custodians took him, Randel saw

the mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with the

schoolmaster by his side. "Aha! aha!" the magistrate exclaimed, "so

here you are again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have you

locked up. Well, brigadier, what is he charged with?"

"He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, without

any resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act of

begging, but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers are

all in order."

"Show me his papers," the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread,

returned them and then said: "Search him." So they searched him, but

found nothing, and the mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:

"What were you doing on the road this morning?" "I was looking for

work." "Work? On the highroad?" "How do you expect me to find any if I

hide in the woods?"

They looked at each other with the hatred of two wild beasts which

belong to different hostile species, and the magistrate continued: "I

am going to have you set at liberty, but do not be brought up before

me again." To which the carpenter replied: "I would rather you locked

me up; I have had enough running about the country." But the

magistrate replied severely: "Be silent." And then he said to the two

gendarmes: "You will conduct this man two hundred yards from the

village and let him continue his journey."

"At any rate, give me something to eat," the workman said, but the

other grew indignant: "Have we nothing to do but to feed you? Ah! ah!

ah! that is rather too much!" But Randel went on firmly: "If you let

me nearly die of hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime,

and then, so much the worse for you other fat fellows."

The mayor had risen and he repeated: "Take him away immediately or I

shall end by getting angry."

The two gendarmes thereupon seized the carpenter by the arms and

dragged him out. He allowed them to do it without resistance, passed

through the village again and found himself on the highroad once more;

and when the men had accompanied him two hundred yards beyond the

village, the brigadier said: "Now off with you and do not let me catch

you about here again, for if I do, you will know it."

Randel went off without replying or knowing where he was going. He

walked on for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, so stupefied

that he no longer thought of anything. But suddenly, as he was passing

a small house, where the window was half open, the smell of the soup

and boiled meat stopped him suddenly, and hunger, fierce, devouring,

maddening hunger, seized him and almost drove him against the walls of

the house like a wild beast.

He said aloud in a grumbling voice: "In Heaven's name! they must give

me some this time!" And he began to knock at the door vigorously with

his stick, and as no one came he knocked louder and called out: "Hey!

hey! you people in there, open the door!" And then, as nothing

stirred, he went up to the window and pushed it wider open with his

hand, and the close warm air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hot

soup, meat and cabbage, escaped into the cold outer air, and with a

bound the carpenter was in the house. Two places were set at the

table, and no doubt the proprietors of the house, on going to church,

had left their dinner on the fire, their nice Sunday boiled beef

and vegetable soup, while there was a loaf of new bread on the

chimney-piece, between two bottles which seemed full.

Randel seized the bread first of all and broke it with as much

violence as if he were strangling a man, and then he began to eat

voraciously, swallowing great mouthfuls quickly. But almost

immediately the smell of the meat attracted him to the fireplace, and,

having taken off the lid of the saucepan, he plunged a fork into it

and brought out a large piece of beef tied with a string. Then he took

more cabbage, carrots and onions until his plate was full, and, having

put it on the table, he sat down before it, cut the meat into four

pieces, and dined as if he had been at home. When he had eaten nearly

all the meat, besides a quantity of vegetables, he felt thirsty and

took one of the bottles off the mantelpiece.

Scarcely had he poured the liquor into his glass when he saw it was

brandy. So much the better; it was warming and would instill some fire

into his veins, and that would be all right, after being so cold; and

he drank some. He certainly enjoyed it, for he had grown unaccustomed

to it, and he poured himself out another glassful, which he drank

at two gulps. And then almost immediately he felt quite merry and

light-hearted from the effects of the alcohol, just as if some great

happiness filled his heart.

He continued to eat, but more slowly, and dipping his bread into the

soup. His skin had become burning, and especially his forehead, where

the veins were throbbing. But suddenly the church bells began to ring.

Mass was over, and instinct rather than fear, the instinct of

prudence, which guides all beings and makes them clear-sighted in

danger, made the carpenter get up. He put the remains of the loaf into

one pocket and the brandy bottle into the other, and he furtively went

to the window and looked out into the road. It was still deserted, so

he jumped out and set off walking again, but instead of following the

highroad he ran across the fields toward a wood he saw a little way

off.

He felt alert, strong, light-hearted, glad of what he had done, and so

nimble that he sprang over the enclosure of the fields at a single

bound, and as soon as he was under the trees he took the bottle out of

his pocket again and began to drink once more, swallowing it down as

he walked, and then his ideas began to get confused, his eyes grew

dim, and his legs as elastic as springs, and he started singing the

old popular song:

_"Oh! what joy, what joy it is,

To pick the sweet, wild strawberries."_

He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss, and that soft carpet

under his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heels

as he used to do when a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault,

got up and began over again. And between each time he began to sing

again:

_"Oh! what joy, what joy it is,

To pick the sweet, wild strawberries."_

Suddenly he found himself above a deep road, and in the road he saw a

tall girl, a servant, who was returning to the village with two pails

of milk. He watched, stooping down, and with his eyes as bright as

those of a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him, raised her head

and said: "Was that you singing like that?" He did not reply, however,

but jumped down into the road, although it was a fall of at least six

feet and when she saw him suddenly standing in front of her, she

exclaimed: "Oh! dear, how you frightened me!"

But he did not hear her, for he was drunk, he was mad, excited by

another requirement which was more imperative than hunger, more

feverish than alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who has

been deprived of everything for two months, and who is drunk; who is

young, ardent and inflamed by all the appetites which nature has

implanted in the vigorous flesh of men.

The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, his

half-open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by the

shoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.

She let her two pails fall, and they rolled over noisily, and all the

milk was spilt, and then she screamed lustily, but it was of no avail

in that lonely spot.

When she got up the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filled

her with fury, and, taking off one of her wooden sabots, she threw it

at the man to break his head if he did not pay her for her milk.

But he, mistaking the reason of this sudden violent attack, somewhat

sobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as he

could, while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in the

back.

He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than he

had ever been before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcely

carry him; all his ideas were confused, he lost recollection of

everything and could no longer think about anything, and so he sat

down at the foot of a tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. He

was soon awakened, however, by a rough shake, and, on opening his

eyes, he saw two cocked hats of shiny leather bending over him, and

the two gendarmes of the morning, who were holding him and binding his

arms.

"I knew I should catch you again," said the brigadier jeeringly. But

Randel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready to

ill treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now. He had

become a jailbird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would not

let him go again.

"Now, start!" the brigadier said, and they set off. It was late

afternoon, and the autumn twilight was setting in over the land, and

in half an hour they reached the village, where every door was open,

for the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant women

and girls, excited with anger, as if every man had been robbed and

every woman attacked, wished to see the wretch brought back, so that

they might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the first

house in the village until they reached the Hotel de Ville, where the

mayor was waiting for him to be himself avenged on this vagabond, and

as soon as he saw him approaching he cried:

"Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!" And he rubbed his hands, more

pleased than he usually was, and continued: "I said so. I said so, the

moment I saw him in the road."

And then with increased satisfaction:

"Oh, you blackguard! Oh, you dirty blackguard! You will get your

twenty years, my fine fellow!"

* * * * *

THE FISHING HOLE

"Cuts and wounds which caused death." Such was the charge upon which

Leopold Renard, upholsterer, was summoned before the Court of Assizes.

Round him were the principal witnesses, Madame Flamèche, widow of the

victim, and Louis Ladureau, cabinetmaker, and Jean Durdent, plumber.

Near the criminal was his wife, dressed in black, an ugly little

woman, who looked like a monkey dressed as a lady.

This is how Renard (Leopold) recounted the drama:

"Good heavens, it is a misfortune of which I was the prime victim all

the time, and with which my will has nothing to do. The facts are

their own commentary, Monsieur le Président. I am an honest man, a

hard-working man, an upholsterer, living in the same street for the

last sixteen years, known, liked, respected and esteemed by all, as my

neighbors can testify, even the porter's wife, who is not amiable

every day. I am fond of work, I am fond of saving, I like honest men

and respectable amusements. That is what has ruined me, so much the

worse for me; but as my will had nothing to do with it, I continue to

respect myself.

"Every Sunday for the last five years my wife and I have spent the day

at Passy. We get fresh air, and, besides, we are fond of fishing. Oh!

we are as fond of it as we are of little onions. Mélie inspired me

with that enthusiasm, the jade, and she is more enthusiastic than I

am, the scold, seeing that all the mischief in this business is her

fault, as you will see immediately.

"I am strong and mild tempered, without a pennyworth of malice in me.

But she! oh! la! la! she looks like nothing; she is short and thin.

Very well, she does more mischief than a weasel. I do not deny that

she has some good qualities; she has some, and very important ones for

a man in business. But her character! Just ask about it in the

neighborhood, and even the porter's wife, who has just sent me about

my business ... she will tell you something about it.

"Every day she used to find fault with my mild temper: 'I would not

put up with this! I would not put up with that.' If I had listened

to her, Monsieur le Président, I should have had at least three

hand-to-hand fights a month...."

Madame Renard interrupted him: "And for good reasons, too; they laugh

best who laugh last."

He turned toward her frankly: "Well, I can't blame you, since you were

not the cause of it."

Then, facing the President again, he said:

"I will continue. We used to go to Passy every Saturday evening, so as

to begin fishing at daybreak the next morning. It is a habit which has

become second nature with us, as the saying is. Three years ago this

summer I discovered a place, oh! such a spot. Oh, dear, dear! In the

shade, eight feet of water at least and perhaps ten, a hole with

cavities under the bank, a regular nest for fish and a paradise for

the fisherman. I might look upon that fishing hole as my property,

Monsieur le Président, as I was its Christopher Columbus. Everybody in

the neighborhood knew it, without making any opposition. They would

say: 'That is Renard's place'; and nobody would have gone there, not

even Monsieur Plumeau, who is well known, be it said without any

offense, for poaching on other people's preserves.

"Well, I returned to this place of which I felt certain, just as if I

had owned it. I had scarcely got there on Saturday, when I got into

_Delila_, with my wife. _Delila_ is my Norwegian boat, which

I had built by Fournaire, and which is light and safe. Well, as I

said, we got into the boat and we were going to set bait, and for

setting bait there is none to be compared with me, and they all know

it. You want to know with what I bait? I cannot answer that question;

it has nothing to do with the accident. I cannot answer; that is my

secret. There are more than three hundred people who have asked me; I

have been offered glasses of brandy and liqueur, fried fish,

matelotes, to make me tell. But just go and try whether the chub will

come. Ah! they have tempted my stomach to get at my secret, my recipe.

Only my wife knows, and she will not tell it any more than I will. Is

not that so, Mélie?"

The president of the court interrupted him.

"Just get to the facts as soon as you can," and the accused continued:

"I am getting to them, I am getting to them. Well, on Saturday, July

8, we left by the twenty-five past five train and before dinner we

went to set bait as usual. The weather promised to keep fine and I

said to Mélie: 'All right for tomorrow.' And she replied: 'It looks

like it.' We never talk more than that together.

"And then we returned to dinner. I was happy and thirsty, and that was

the cause of everything. I said to Mélie: 'Look here, Mélie, it is

fine weather, suppose I drink a bottle of _Casque à mèche_.' That

is a weak white wine which we have christened so, because if you drink

too much of it it prevents you from sleeping and takes the place of a

nightcap. Do you understand me?

"She replied: 'You can do as you please, but you will be ill again and

will not be able to get up tomorrow.' That was true, sensible and

prudent, clearsighted, I must confess. Nevertheless I could not

resist, and I drank my bottle. It all came from that.

"Well, I could not sleep. By Jove! it kept me awake till two o'clock

in the morning, and then I went to sleep so soundly that I should not

have heard the angel sounding his trump at the last Judgment.

"In short, my wife woke me at six o'clock and I jumped out of bed,

hastily put on my trousers and jersey, washed my face and jumped on

board _Delila_. But it was too late, for when I arrived at my

hole it was already occupied! Such a thing had never happened to me in

three years, and it made me feel as if I were being robbed under my

own eyes. I said to myself: 'Confound it all! confound it!' And then

my wife began to nag at me. 'Eh! what about your _Casque à

mèche?_ Get along, you drunkard! Are you satisfied, you great

fool?' I could say nothing, because it was all true, but I landed all

the same near the spot and tried to profit by what was left. Perhaps

after all the fellow might catch nothing and go away.

"He was a little thin man in white linen coat and waistcoat and a

large straw hat, and his wife, a fat woman, doing embroidery, sat

behind him.

"When she saw us take up our position close to them she murmured: 'Are

there no other places on the river?' My wife, who was furious,

replied: 'People who have any manners make inquiries about the habits

of the neighborhood before occupying reserved spots.'

"As I did not want a fuss, I said to her: 'Hold your tongue, Mélie.

Let them alone, let them alone; we shall see.'

"Well, we fastened _Delila_ under the willows and had landed and

were fishing side by side, Mélie and I, close to the two others. But

here, monsieur, I must enter into details.

"We had only been there about five minutes when our neighbor's line

began to jerk twice, thrice, and then he pulled out a chub as thick as

my thigh; rather less, perhaps, but nearly as big! My heart beat, the

perspiration stood on my forehead and Mélie said to me: 'Well, you

sot, did you see that?'

"Just then Monsieur Bru, the grocer of Poissy, who is fond of gudgeon

fishing, passed in a boat and called out to me: 'So somebody has taken

your usual place, Monsieur Renard?' And I replied--: 'Yes, Monsieur

Bru, there are some people in this world who do not know the rules of

common politeness.'

"The little man in linen pretended not to hear, nor his fat lump of a

wife, either."

Here the president interrupted him a second time: "Take care, you are

insulting the widow, Madame Flamèche, who is present."

Renard made his excuses: "I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon; my

anger carried me away. Well, not a quarter of an hour had passed when

the little man caught another chub, and another almost immediately,

and another five minutes later.

"Tears were in my eyes, and I knew that Madame Renard was boiling with

rage, for she kept on nagging at me: 'Oh, how horrid! Don't you see

that he is robbing you of your fish? Do you think that you will catch

anything? Not even a frog, nothing whatever. Why, my hands are

tingling, just to think of it.'

"But I said to myself: 'Let us wait until twelve o'clock. Then this

poacher will go to lunch and I shall get my place again. As for me,

Monsieur le Président, I lunch on that spot every Sunday. We bring our

provisions in _Delila_. But there! At noon the wretch produced a

chicken in a newspaper, and while he was eating, he actually caught

another chub!

"Mélie and I had a morsel also, just a bite, a mere nothing, for our

heart was not in it.

"Then I took up my newspaper to aid my digestion. Every Sunday I read

the _Gil Blas_ in the shade by the side of the water. It is

Columbine's day, you know; Columbine, who writes the articles in

the _Gil Blas_. I generally put Madame Renard into a rage by

pretending to know this Columbine. It is not true, for I do not know

her and have never seen her, but that does not matter. She writes very

well, and then she says things that are pretty plain for a woman. She

suits me and there are not many of her sort.

"Well, I began to tease my wife, but she got angry immediately, and

very angry, so I held my tongue. At that moment our two witnesses who

are present here, Monsieur Ladureau and Monsieur Durdent, appeared on

the other side of the river. We knew each other by sight The little

man began to fish again and he caught so many that I trembled with

vexation and his wife said: 'It is an uncommonly good spot, and we

will come here always, Désiré.' As for me, a cold shiver ran down my

back, and Madame Renard kept repeating: 'You are not a man; you have

the blood of a chicken in your veins'; and suddenly I said to her:

'Look here, I would rather go away or I shall be doing something

foolish.'

"And she whispered to me, as if she had put a red-hot iron under my

nose: 'You are not a man. Now you are going to run away and surrender

your place! Go, then, Bazaine!'

"I felt hurt, but yet I did not move, while the other fellow pulled

out a bream. Oh, I never saw such a large one before, never! And then

my wife began to talk aloud, as if she were thinking, and you can see

her tricks. She said: 'That is what one might call stolen fish, seeing

that we set the bait ourselves. At any rate, they ought to give us

back the money we have spent on bait.'

"Then the fat woman in the cotton dress said in her turn: 'Do you mean

to call us thieves, madame?' Explanations followed and compliments

began to fly. Oh, Lord! those creatures know some good ones. They

shouted so loud that our two witnesses, who were on the other bank,

began to call out by way of a joke: 'Less noise over there; you will

interfere with your husbands' fishing.'

"The fact is that neither the little man nor I moved any more than if

we had been two tree stumps. We remained there, with our eyes fixed on

the water, as if we had heard nothing; but, by Jove! we heard all the

same. 'You are a thief! You are nothing better than a tramp! You are a

regular jade!' and so on and so on. A sailor could not have said more.

"Suddenly I heard a noise behind me and turned round. It was the other

one, the fat woman, who had attacked my wife with her parasol.

_Whack, whack!_ Mélie got two of them. But she was furious, and

she hits hard when she is in a rage. She caught the fat woman by the

hair and then _thump! thump!_ slaps in the face rained down like

ripe plums. I should have let them fight it out: women together, men

together. It does not do to mix the blows. But the little man in the

linen jacket jumped up like a devil and was going to rush at my wife.

Ah! no, no, not that, my friend! I caught the gentleman with the end

of my fist, and _crash! crash!_ One on the nose, the other in the

stomach. He threw up his arms and legs and fell on his back into the

river, just into the hole.

"I should have fished him out most certainly, Monsieur le Président,

if I had had time. But, to make matters worse, the fat woman had the

upper hand and was pounding Mélie for all she was worth. I know I

ought not to have interfered while the man was in the water, but I

never thought that he would drown and said to myself: 'Bah, it will

cool him.'

"I therefore ran up to the women to separate them and all I received

was scratches and bites. Good Lord, what creatures! Well, it took me

five minutes, and perhaps ten, to separate those two viragos. When I

turned round there was nothing to be seen. The water was as smooth as

a lake and the others yonder kept shouting: 'Fish him out! fish him

out!' It was all very well to say that, but I cannot swim and still

less dive.

"At last the man from the dam came and two gentlemen with boathooks,

but over a quarter of an hour had passed. He was found at the bottom

of the hole, in eight feet of water, as I have said. There he was, the

poor little man, in his linen suit! Those are the facts such as I have

sworn to. I am innocent, on my honor."

The witnesses having given testimony to the same effect, the accused

was acquitted.

* * * * *

THE SPASM

The hotel guests slowly entered the dining-room and took their places.

The waiters did not hurry themselves, in order to give the late comers

a chance and thus avoid the trouble of bringing in the dishes a second

time. The old bathers, the habitués, whose season was almost over,

glanced, gazed toward the door whenever it opened, to see what new

faces might appear.

This is the principal distraction of watering places. People look

forward to the dinner hour in order to inspect each day's new

arrivals, to find out who they are, what they do, and what they think.

We always have a vague desire to meet pleasant people, to make

agreeable acquaintances, perhaps to meet with a love adventure. In

this life of elbowings, unknown strangers assume an extreme

importance. Curiosity is aroused, sympathy is ready to exhibit itself,

and sociability is the order of the day.

We cherish antipathies for a week and friendships for a month; we see

people with different eyes, when we view them through the medium of

acquaintanceship at watering places. We discover in men suddenly,

after an hour's chat, in the evening after dinner, under the trees in

the park where the healing spring bubbles up, a high intelligence and

astonishing merits, and a month afterward we have completely forgotten

these new friends, who were so fascinating when we first met them.

Permanent and serious ties are also formed here sooner than anywhere

else. People see each other every day; they become acquainted very

quickly, and their affection is tinged with the sweetness and

unrestraint of long-standing intimacies. We cherish in after years the

dear and tender memories of those first hours of friendship, the

memory of those first conversations in which a soul was unveiled, of

those first glances which interrogate and respond to questions and

secret thoughts which the mouth has not as yet uttered, the memory of

that first cordial confidence, the memory of that delightful sensation

of opening our hearts to those who seem to open theirs to us in

return.

And the melancholy of watering places, the monotony of days that are

all alike, proves hourly an incentive to this heart expansion.

* * * * *

Well, this evening, as on every other evening, we awaited the

appearance of strange faces.

Only two appeared, but they were very remarkable, a man and a

woman--father and daughter. They immediately reminded me of some

of Edgar Poe's characters; and yet there was about them a charm,

the charm associated with misfortune. I looked upon them as the victims

of fate. The man was very tall and thin, rather stooped, with perfectly

white hair, too white for his comparatively youthful physiognomy;

and there was in his bearing and in his person that austerity

peculiar to Protestants. The daughter, who was probably twenty-four

or twenty-five, was small in stature, and was also very thin, very

pale, and she had the air of one who was worn out with utter lassitude.

We meet people like this from time to time, who seem too weak for

the tasks and the needs of daily life, too weak to move about, to

walk, to do all that we do every day. She was rather pretty, with a

transparent, spiritual beauty. And she ate with extreme slowness, as if

she were almost incapable of moving her arms.

It must have been she, assuredly, who had come to take the waters.

They sat facing me, on the opposite side of the table; and I at once

noticed that the father had a very singular, nervous twitching.

Every time he wanted to reach an object, his hand described a sort of

zigzag before it succeeded in reaching what it was in search of, and

after a little while this movement annoyed me so that I turned aside

my head in order not to see it.

I noticed, too, that the young girl, during meals, wore a glove on her

left hand.

After dinner I went for a stroll in the park of the bathing

establishment. This led toward the little Auvergnese station of

Châtel-Guyon, hidden in a gorge at the foot of the high mountain, from

which flowed so many boiling springs, arising from the deep bed of

extinct volcanoes. Over yonder, above our heads, the domes of extinct

craters lifted their ragged peaks above the rest in the long mountain

chain. For Châtel-Guyon is situated at the entrance to the land of

mountain domes.

Beyond it stretches out the region of peaks, and, farther on again,

the region of precipitous summits.

The "Puy de Dôme" is the highest of the domes, the Peak of Sancy is

the loftiest of the peaks, and Cantal is the most precipitous of these

mountain heights.

It was a very warm evening, and I was walking up and down a shady

path, listening to the opening strains of the Casino band, which was

playing on an elevation overlooking the park.

And I saw the father and the daughter advancing slowly in my

direction. I bowed as one bows to one's hotel companions at a watering

place; and the man, coming to a sudden halt, said to me:

"Could you not, monsieur, tell us of a nice walk to take, short,

pretty, and not steep; and pardon my troubling you?"

I offered to show them the way toward the valley through which the

little river flowed, a deep valley forming a gorge between two tall,

craggy, wooded slopes.

They gladly accepted my offer.

And we talked, naturally, about the virtue of the waters.

"Oh," he said, "my daughter has a strange malady, the seat of which is

unknown. She suffers from incomprehensible nervous attacks. At one

time the doctors think she has an attack of heart disease, at another

time they imagine it is some affection of the liver, and at another

they declare it to be a disease of the spine. To-day this protean

malady, that assumes a thousand forms and a thousand modes of attack,

is attributed to the stomach, which is the great caldron and regulator

of the body. This is why we have come here. For my part, I am rather

inclined to think it is the nerves. In any case it is very sad."

Immediately the remembrance of the violent spasmodic movement of his

hand came back to my mind, and I asked him:

"But is this not the result of heredity? Are not your own nerves

somewhat affected?"

He replied calmly:

"Mine? Oh, no--my nerves have always been very steady."

Then, suddenly, after a pause, he went on:

"Ah! You were alluding to the jerking movement of my hand every time I

try to reach for anything? This arises from a terrible experience

which I had. Just imagine, this daughter of mine was actually buried

alive!"

I could only utter, "Ah!" so great were my astonishment and emotion.

He continued:

"Here is the story. It is simple. Juliette had been subject for some

time to serious attacks of the heart. We believed that she had disease

of that organ, and were prepared for the worst.

"One day she was carried into the house cold, lifeless, dead. She had

fallen down unconscious in the garden. The doctor certified that life

was extinct. I watched by her side for a day and two nights. I laid

her with my own hands in the coffin, which I accompanied to the

cemetery, where she was deposited in the family vault. It is situated

in the very heart of Lorraine.

"I wished to have her interred with her jewels, bracelets, necklaces,

rings, all presents which she had received from me, and wearing her

first ball dress.

"You may easily imagine my state of mind when I re-entered our home.

She was the only one I had, for my wife had been dead for many years.

I found my way to my own apartment in a half-distracted condition,

utterly exhausted, and sank into my easy-chair, without the capacity

to think or the strength to move. I was nothing better now than a

suffering, vibrating machine, a human being who had, as it were, been

flayed alive; my soul was like an open wound.

"My old valet, Prosper, who had assisted me in placing Juliette in her

coffin, and aided me in preparing her for her last sleep, entered the

room noiselessly, and asked:

"'Does monsieur want anything?'

"I merely shook my head in reply.

"'Monsieur is wrong,' he urged. 'He will injure his health. Would

monsieur like me to put him to bed?'

"I answered: 'No, let me alone!'

"And he left the room.

"I know not how many hours slipped away. Oh, what a night, what a

night! It was cold. My fire had died out in the huge grate; and the

wind, the winter wind, an icy wind, a winter hurricane, blew with a

regular, sinister noise against the windows.

"How many hours slipped away? There I was without sleeping, powerless,

crushed, my eyes wide open, my legs stretched out, my body limp,

inanimate, and my mind torpid with despair. Suddenly the great

doorbell, the great bell of the vestibule, rang out.

"I started so that my chair cracked under me. The solemn, ponderous

sound vibrated through the empty country house as through a vault. I

turned round to see what the hour was by the clock. It was just two in

the morning. Who could be coming at such an hour?

"And, abruptly, the bell again rang twice. The servants, without

doubt, were afraid to get up. I took a wax candle and descended the

stairs. I was on the point of asking: 'Who is there?'

"Then I felt ashamed of my weakness, and I slowly drew back the heavy

bolts. My heart was throbbing wildly. I was frightened. I opened the

door brusquely, and in the darkness I distinguished a white figure,

standing erect, something that resembled an apparition.

"I recoiled, petrified with horror, faltering:

"'Who--who--who are you?'

"A voice replied:

"'It is I, father.'

"It was my daughter.

"I really thought I must be mad, and I retreated backward before this

advancing spectre. I kept moving away, making a sign with my hand,

as if to drive the phantom away, that gesture which you have

noticed--that gesture which has remained with me ever since.

"'Do not be afraid, papa,' said the apparition. 'I was not dead.

Somebody tried to steal my rings and cut one of my fingers; the blood

began to flow, and that restored me to life.'

"And, in fact, I could see that her hand was covered with blood.

"I fell on my knees, choking with sobs and with a rattling in my

throat.

"Then, when I had somewhat collected my thoughts, though I was still

so bewildered that I scarcely realized the awesome happiness that

had befallen me, I made her go up to my room and sit down in my

easy-chair; then I rang excitedly for Prosper to get him to rekindle

the fire and to bring some wine, and to summon assistance.

"The man entered, stared at my daughter, opened his mouth with a gasp

of alarm and stupefaction, and then fell back dead.

"It was he who had opened the vault, who had mutilated and then

abandoned my daughter; for he could not efface the traces of the

theft. He had not even taken the trouble to put back the coffin into

its place, feeling sure, besides, that he would not be suspected by

me, as I trusted him absolutely.

"You see, monsieur, that we are very unfortunate people."

* * * * *

He was silent.

The night had fallen, casting its shadows over the desolate, mournful

vale, and a sort of mysterious fear possessed me at finding myself by

the side of those strange beings, of this young girl who had come back

from the tomb, and this father with his uncanny spasm.

I found it impossible to make any comment on this dreadful story. I

only murmured:

"What a horrible thing!"

Then, after a minute's silence, I added:

"Let us go indoors. I think it is growing cool."

And we made our way back to the hotel.

* * * * *

IN THE WOOD

As the mayor was about to sit down to breakfast, word was brought to

him that the rural policeman, with two prisoners, was awaiting him at

the Hotel de Ville. He went there at once and found old Hochedur

standing guard before a middle-class couple whom he was regarding with

a severe expression on his face.

The man, a fat old fellow with a red nose and white hair, seemed

utterly dejected; while the woman, a little roundabout individual with

shining cheeks, looked at the official who had arrested them, with

defiant eyes.

"What is it? What is it, Hochedur?"

The rural policeman made his deposition: He had gone out that morning

at his usual time, in order to patrol his beat from the forest of

Champioux as far as the boundaries of Argenteuil. He had not noticed

anything unusual in the country except that it was a fine day, and

that the wheat was doing well, when the son of old Bredel, who was

going over his vines, called out to him: "Here, Daddy Hochedur, go and

have a look at the outskirts of the wood. In the first thicket you

will find a pair of pigeons who must be a hundred and thirty years old

between them!"

He went in the direction indicated, entered the thicket, and there he

heard words which made him suspect a flagrant breach of morality.

Advancing, therefore, on his hands and knees as if to surprise a

poacher, he had arrested the couple whom he found there.

The mayor looked at the culprits in astonishment, for the man was

certainly sixty, and the woman fifty-five at least, and he began to

question them, beginning with the man, who replied in such a weak

voice that he could scarcely be heard.

"What is your name?"

"Nicholas Beaurain."

"Your occupation?"

"Haberdasher, in the Rue des Martyrs, in Paris."

"What were you doing in the wood?"

The haberdasher remained silent, with his eyes on his fat paunch, and

his hands hanging at his sides, and the mayor continued:

"Do you deny what the officer of the municipal authorities states?"

"No, monsieur."

"So you confess it?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"What have you to say in your defence?"

"Nothing, monsieur."

"Where did you meet the partner in your misdemeanor?"

"She is my wife, monsieur."

"Your wife?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Then--then--you do not live together--in Paris?"

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, but we are living together!"

"But in that case--you must be mad, altogether mad, my dear sir, to

get caught playing lovers in the country at ten o'clock in the

morning."

The haberdasher seemed ready to cry with shame, and he muttered: "It

was she who enticed me! I told her it was very stupid, but when a

woman once gets a thing into her head--you know--you cannot get it

out."

The mayor, who liked a joke, smiled and replied: "In your case, the

contrary ought to have happened. You would not be here, if she had had

the idea only in her head."

Then Monsieur Beaurain was seized with rage, and turning to his wife,

he said: "Do you see to what you have brought us with your poetry? And

now we shall have to go before the courts at our age, for a breach of

morals! And we shall have to shut up the shop, sell our good will, and

go to some other neighborhood! That's what it has come to."

Madame Beaurain got up, and without looking at her husband, she

explained herself without embarrassment, without useless modesty, and

almost without hesitation.

"Of course, monsieur, I know that we have made ourselves ridiculous.

Will you allow me to plead my cause like an advocate, or rather like a

poor woman? And I hope that you will be kind enough to send us home,

and to spare us the disgrace of a prosecution.

"Years ago, when I was young, I made Monsieur Beaurain's acquaintance

one Sunday in this neighborhood. He was employed in a draper's shop,

and I was a saleswoman in a ready-made clothing establishment. I

remember it as if it were yesterday. I used to come and spend Sundays

here occasionally with a friend of mine, Rose Levèque, with whom I

lived in the Rue Pigalle, and Rose had a sweetheart, while I had none.

He used to bring us here, and one Saturday he told me laughing that he

should bring a friend with him the next day. I quite understood what

he meant, but I replied that it would be no good; for I was virtuous,

monsieur.

"The next day we met Monsieur Beaurain at the railway station, and in

those days he was good-looking, but I had made up my mind not to

encourage him, and I did not. Well, we arrived at Bezons. It was a

lovely day, the sort of day that touches your heart. When it is fine

even now, just as it used to be formerly, I grow quite foolish, and

when I am in the country I utterly lose my head. The green grass, the

swallows flying so swiftly, the smell of the grass, the scarlet

poppies, the daisies, all that makes me crazy. It is like champagne

when one is not accustomed to it!

"Well, it was lovely weather, warm and bright, and it seemed to

penetrate your body through your eyes when you looked, and through

your mouth when you breathed. Rose and Simon hugged and kissed each

other every minute, and that gave me a queer feeling! Monsieur

Beaurain and I walked behind them, without speaking much, for when

people do not know each other, they do not find anything to talk

about. He looked timid, and I liked to see his embarrassment. At last

we got to the little wood; it was as cool as in a bath there, and we

four sat down. Rose and her lover teased me because I looked rather

stern, but you will understand that I could not be otherwise. And then

they began to kiss and hug again, without putting any more restraint

upon themselves than if we had not been there; and then they whispered

together, and got up and went off among the trees, without saying a

word. You may fancy what I looked like, alone with this young fellow

whom I saw for the first time. I felt so confused at seeing them go

that it gave me courage, and I began to talk. I asked him what his

business was, and he said he was a linen draper's assistant, as I told

you just now. We talked for a few minutes, and that made him bold, and

he wanted to take liberties with me, but I told him sharply to keep

his place. Is not that true, Monsieur Beaurain?"

Monsieur Beaurain, who was looking at his feet in confusion, did not

reply, and she continued: "Then he saw that I was virtuous, and he

began to make love to me nicely, like an honorable man, and from that

time he came every Sunday, for he was very much in love with me. I was

very fond of him also, very fond of him! He was a good-looking fellow,

formerly, and in short he married me the next September, and we

started in business in the Rue des Martyrs.

"It was a hard struggle for some years, monsieur. Business did not

prosper, and we could not afford many country excursions, and,

besides, we had got out of the way of them. One has other things in

one's head, and thinks more of the cash box than of pretty speeches,

when one is in business. We were growing old by degrees without

perceiving it, like quiet people who do not think much about love. One

does not regret anything as long as one does not notice what one has

lost.

"And then, monsieur, business became better, and we were tranquil as

to the future! Then, you see, I do not exactly know what went on in my

mind, no, I really do not know, but I began to dream like a little

boarding-school girl. The sight of the little carts full of flowers

which are drawn about the streets made me cry; the smell of violets

sought me out in my easy-chair, behind my cash box, and made my heart

beat! Then I would get up and go out on the doorstep to look at the

blue sky between the roofs. When one looks up at the sky from the

street, it looks like a river which is descending on Paris, winding as

it flows, and the swallows pass to and fro in it like fish. These

ideas are very stupid at my age! But how can one help it, monsieur,

when one has worked all one's life? A moment comes in which one

perceives that one could have done something else, and that one

regrets, oh! yes, one feels intense regret! Just think, for twenty

years I might have gone and had kisses in the woods, like other women.

I used to think how delightful it would be to lie under the trees and

be in love with some one! And I thought of it every day and every

night! I dreamed of the moonlight on the water, until I felt inclined

to drown myself.

"I did not venture to speak to Monsieur Beaurain about this at first.

I knew that he would make fun of me, and send me back to sell my

needles and cotton! And then, to speak the truth, Monsieur Beaurain

never said much to me, but when I looked in the glass, I also

understood quite well that I no longer appealed to any one!

"Well, I made up my mind, and I proposed to him an excursion into the

country, to the place where we had first become acquainted. He agreed

without mistrusting anything, and we arrived here this morning, about

nine o'clock.

"I felt quite young again when I got among the wheat, for a woman's

heart never grows old! And really, I no longer saw my husband as he is

at present, but just as he was formerly! That I will swear to you,

monsieur. As true as I am standing here I was crazy. I began to kiss

him, and he was more surprised than if I had tried to murder him. He

kept saying to me: 'Why, you must be mad! You are mad this morning!

What is the matter with you?' I did not listen to him, I only listened

to my own heart, and I made him come into the wood with me. That is

all. I have spoken the truth, Monsieur le Maire, the whole truth."

The mayor was a sensible man. He rose from his chair, smiled, and

said: "Go in peace, madame, and when you again visit our forests, be

more discreet."

* * * * *

MARTINE

It came to him one Sunday after mass. He was walking home from church

along the by-road that led to his house when he saw ahead of him

Martine, who was also going home.

Her father walked beside his daughter with the important gait of a

rich farmer. Discarding the smock, he wore a short coat of gray cloth

and on his head a round-topped hat with wide brim.

She, laced up in a corset which she wore only once a week, walked

along erect, with her squeezed-in waist, her broad shoulders and

prominent hips, swinging herself a little. She wore a hat trimmed with

flowers, made by a milliner at Yvetot, and displayed the back of her

full, round, supple neck, reddened by the sun and air, on which

fluttered little stray locks of hair.

Benoist saw only her back; but he knew well the face he loved,

without, however, having ever noticed it more closely than he did now.

Suddenly he said: "Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl, all the same,

that Martine." He watched her as she walked, admiring her hastily,

feeling a desire taking possession of him. He did not long to see her

face again, no. He kept gazing at her figure, repeating to himself:

"Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl."

Martine turned to the right to enter "La Martinière," the farm of her

father, Jean Martin, and she cast a glance behind her as she turned

round. She saw Benoist, who looked to her very comical. She called

out: "Good-morning, Benoist." He replied: "Good-morning, Martine;

good-morning, mait' Martin," and went on his way.

When he reached home the soup was on the table. He sat down opposite

his mother beside the farm hand and the hired man, while the maid

servant went to draw some cider.

He ate a few spoonfuls, then pushed away his plate. His mother said:

"Don't you feel well?"

"No. I feel as if I had some pap in my stomach and that takes away my

appetite."

He watched the others eating, as he cut himself a piece of bread from

time to time and carried it lazily to his mouth, masticating it

slowly. He thought of Martine. "She is a fine girl, all the same." And

to think that he had not noticed it before, and that it came to him,

just like that, all at once, and with such force that he could not

eat.

He did not touch the stew. His mother said:

"Come, Benoist, try and eat a little; it is loin of mutton, it will do

you good. When one has no appetite, they should force themselves to

eat."

He swallowed a few morsels, then, pushing away his plate, said:

"No. I can't go that, positively."

When they rose from table he walked round the farm, telling the farm

hand he might go home and that he would drive up the animals as he

passed by them.

The country was deserted, as it was the day of rest. Here and there in

a field of clover cows were moving along heavily, with full bellies,

chewing their cud under a blazing sun. Unharnessed plows were standing

at the end of a furrow; and the upturned earth ready for the seed

showed broad brown patches of stubble of wheat and oats that had

lately been harvested.

A rather dry autumn wind blew across the plain, promising a cool

evening after the sun had set. Benoist sat down on a ditch, placed his

hat on his knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloud

in the stillness of the country: "If you want a fine girl, she is a

fine girl."

He thought of it again at night, in his bed, and in the morning when

he awoke.

He was not sad, he was not discontented, he could not have told what

ailed him. It was something that had hold of him, something fastened

in his mind, an idea that would not leave him and that produced a sort

of tickling sensation in his heart.

Sometimes a big fly is shut up in a room. You hear it flying about,

buzzing, and the noise haunts you, irritates you. Suddenly it stops;

you forget it; but all at once it begins again, obliging you to look

up. You cannot catch it, nor drive it away, nor kill it, nor make it

keep still. As soon as it settles for a second, it starts off buzzing

again.

The recollection of Martine disturbed Benoist's mind like an

imprisoned fly.

Then he longed to see her again and walked past the Martinière several

times. He saw her, at last, hanging out some clothes on a line

stretched between two apple trees.

It was a warm day. She had on only a short skirt and her chemise,

showing the curves of her figure as she hung up the towels. He

remained there, concealed by the hedge, for more than an hour, even

after she had left. He returned home more obsessed with her image than

ever.

For a month his mind was full of her, he trembled when her name was

mentioned in his presence. He could not eat, he had night sweats that

kept him from sleeping.

On Sunday, at mass, he never took his eyes off her. She noticed it and

smiled at him, flattered at his appreciation.

One evening, he suddenly met her in the road. She stopped short when

she saw him coming. Then he walked right up to her, choking with fear

and emotion, but determined to speak to her. He began falteringly:

"See here, Martine, this cannot go on like this any longer."

She replied as if she wanted to tease him:

"What cannot go on any longer, Benoist?"

"My thinking of you as many hours as there are in the day," he

answered.

She put her hands on her hips.

"I do not oblige you to do so."

"Yes, it is you," he stammered; "I cannot sleep, nor rest, nor eat,

nor anything."

"What do you need to cure you of all that?" she asked.

He stood there in dismay, his arms swinging, his eyes staring, his

mouth agape.

She hit him a punch in the stomach and ran off.

From that day they met each other along the roadside, in by-roads or

else at twilight on the edge of a field, when he was going home with

his horses and she was driving her cows home to the stable.

He felt himself carried, cast toward her by a strong impulse of his

heart and body. He would have liked to squeeze her, strangle her, eat

her, make her part of himself. And he trembled with impotence,

impatience, rage, to think she did not belong to him entirely, as if

they were one being.

People gossiped about it in the countryside. They said they were

engaged. He had, besides, asked her if she would be his wife, and she

had answered "Yes."

They were waiting for an opportunity to talk to their parents about

it.

But, all at once, she stopped coming to meet him at the usual hour. He

did not even see her as he wandered round the farm. He could only

catch a glimpse of her at mass on Sunday. And one Sunday, after the

sermon, the priest actually published the banns of marriage between

Victoire-Adelaide-Martin and Joséphin-Isidore Vallin.

Benoist felt a sensation in his hands as if the blood had been drained

off. He had a buzzing in the ears, and could hear nothing; and

presently he perceived that his tears were falling on his prayer book.

For a month he stayed in his room. Then he went back to his work.

But he was not cured, and it was always in his mind. He avoided the

roads that led past her home, so that he might not even see the trees

in the yard, and this obliged him to make a great circuit morning and

evening.

She was now married to Vallin, the richest farmer in the district.

Benoist and he did not speak now, though they had been comrades from

childhood.

One evening, as Benoist was passing the town hall, he heard that she

was enceinte. Instead of experiencing a feeling of sorrow, he

experienced, on the contrary, a feeling of relief. It was over, now,

all over. They were more separated by that than by her marriage. He

really preferred that it should be so.

Months passed, and more months. He caught sight of her, occasionally,

going to the village with a heavier step than usual. She blushed as

she saw him, lowered her head and quickened her pace. And he turned

out of his way so as not to pass her and meet her glance.

He dreaded the thought that he might one morning meet her face to

face, and be obliged to speak to her. What could he say to her now,

after all he had said formerly, when he held her hands as he kissed

her hair beside her cheeks? He often thought of those meetings along

the roadside. She had acted horridly after all her promises.

By degrees his grief diminished, leaving only sadness behind. And one

day he took the old road that led past the farm where she now lived.

He looked at the roof from a distance. It was there, in there, that

she lived with another! The apple trees were in bloom, the cocks

crowed on the dunghill. The whole dwelling seemed empty, the farm

hands had gone to the fields to their spring toil. He stopped near the

gate and looked into the yard. The dog was asleep outside his kennel,

three calves were walking slowly, one behind the other, towards the

pond. A big turkey was strutting before the door, parading before the

turkey hens like a singer at the opera.

Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized with a

desire to weep. But suddenly, he heard a cry, a loud cry for help

coming from the house. He was struck with dismay, his hands grasping

the wooden bars of the gate, and listened attentively. Another cry, a

prolonged, heartrending cry, reached his ears, his soul, his flesh. It

was she who was crying like that! He darted inside, crossed the grass

patch, pushed open the door, and saw her lying on the floor, her body

drawn up, her face livid, her eyes haggard, in the throes of

childbirth.

He stood there, trembling and paler than she was, and stammered:

"Here I am, here I am, Martine!"

She replied in gasps:

"Oh, do not leave me, do not leave me, Benoist!"

He looked at her, not knowing what to say, what to do. She began to

cry out again:

"Oh, oh, it is killing me. Oh, Benoist!"

She writhed frightfully.

Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help her, to

quiet her, to remove her pain. He leaned over, lifted her up and laid

her on her bed; and while she kept on moaning he began to take off her

clothes, her jacket, her skirt and her petticoat. She bit her fists to

keep from crying out. Then he did as he was accustomed to doing for

cows, ewes, and mares: he assisted in delivering her and found in his

hands a large infant who was moaning.

He wiped it off and wraped it up in a towel that was drying in front

of the fire, and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for ironing that

was on the table. Then he went back to the mother.

He took her up and placed her on the floor again, then he changed the

bedclothes and put her back into bed. She faltered:

"Thank you, Benoist, you have a noble heart." And then she wept a

little as if she felt regretful.

He did not love her any longer, not the least bit. It was all over.

Why? How? He could not have said. What had happened had cured him

better than ten years of absence.

She asked, exhausted and trembling:

"What is it?"

He replied calmly:

"It is a very fine girl."

Then they were silent again. At the end of a few moments, the mother,

in a weak voice, said:

"Show her to me, Benoist."

He took up the little one and was showing it to her as if he were

holding the consecrated wafer, when the door opened, and Isidore

Vallin appeared.

He did not understand at first, then all at once he guessed.

Benoist, in consternation, stammered out:

"I was passing, I was just passing by when I heard her crying out, and

I came--there is your child, Vallin!"

Then the husband, his eyes full of tears, stepped forward, took the

little mite of humanity that he held out to him, kissed it, unable to

speak from emotion for a few seconds; then placing the child on the

bed, he held out both hands to Benoist, saying:

"Your hand upon it, Benoist. From now on we understand each other. If

you are willing, we will be a pair of friends, a pair of friends!"

And Benoist replied:

"Indeed I will, certainly, indeed I will."

* * * * *

ALL OVER

Comte de Lormerin had just finished dressing. He cast a parting

glance at the large mirror which occupied an entire panel in his

dressing-room and smiled.

He was really a fine-looking man still, although quite gray. Tall,

slight, elegant, with no sign of a paunch, with a small mustache of

doubtful shade, which might be called fair, he had a walk, a nobility,

a "chic," in short, that indescribable something which establishes a

greater difference between two men than would millions of money. He

murmured:

"Lormerin is still alive!"

And he went into the drawing-room where his correspondence awaited

him.

On his table, where everything had its place, the work table of the

gentleman who never works, there were a dozen letters lying beside

three newspapers of different opinions. With a single touch he spread

out all these letters, like a gambler giving the choice of a card; and

he scanned the handwriting, a thing he did each morning before opening

the envelopes.

It was for him a moment of delightful expectancy, of inquiry and vague

anxiety. What did these sealed mysterious letters bring him? What did

they contain of pleasure, of happiness, or of grief? He surveyed them

with a rapid sweep of the eye, recognizing the writing, selecting

them, making two or three lots, according to what he expected from

them. Here, friends; there, persons to whom he was indifferent;

further on, strangers. The last kind always gave him a little

uneasiness. What did they want from him? What hand had traced those

curious characters full of thoughts, promises, or threats?

This day one letter in particular caught his eye. It was simple,

nevertheless, without seeming to reveal anything; but he looked at it

uneasily, with a sort of chill at his heart. He thought: "From whom

can it be? I certainly know this writing, and yet I can't identify

it."

He raised it to a level with his face, holding it delicately between

two fingers, striving to read through the envelope, without making up

his mind to open it.

Then he smelled it, and snatched up from the table a little magnifying

glass which he used in studying all the niceties of handwriting. He

suddenly felt unnerved. "Whom is it from? This hand is familiar to me,

very familiar. I must have often read its tracings, yes, very often.

But this must have been a long, long time ago. Whom the deuce can it

be from? Pooh! it's only somebody asking for money."

And he tore open the letter. Then he read:

My Dear Friend: You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for it is now

twenty-five years since we saw each other. I was young; I am old. When

I bade you farewell, I left Paris in order to follow into the

provinces my husband, my old husband, whom you used to call "my

hospital." Do you remember him? He died five years ago, and now I am

returning to Paris to get my daughter married, for I have a daughter,

a beautiful girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen. I informed you

of her birth, but you certainly did not pay much attention to so

trifling an event.

You are still the handsome Lormerin; so I have been told. Well if you

still recollect little Lise, whom you used to call Lison, come and

dine with her this evening, with the elderly Baronne de Vance, your

ever faithful friend, who, with some emotion, although happy, reaches

out to you a devoted hand, which you must clasp, but no longer kiss,

my poor Jaquelet.

Lise de Vance.

Lormerin's heart began to throb. He remained sunk in his armchair with

the letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome by a

poignant emotion that made the tears mount up to his eyes! If he had

ever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise, Lise de

Vance, whom he called "Ashflower," on account of the strange color of

her hair and the pale gray of her eyes. Oh! what a dainty, pretty,

charming creature she was, this frail baronne, the wife of that gouty,

pimply baron, who had abruptly carried her off to the provinces, shut

her up, kept her in seclusion through jealousy, jealousy of the

handsome Lormerin.

Yes, he had loved her, and he believed that he, too, had been truly

loved. She familiarly gave him the name of Jaquelet, and would

pronounce that word in a delicious fashion.

A thousand forgotten memories came back to him, far off and sweet and

melancholy now. One evening she had called on him on her way home from

a ball, and they went for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, she in

evening dress, he in his dressing-jacket. It was springtime; the

weather was beautiful. The fragrance from her bodice embalmed the warm

air--the odor of her bodice, and perhaps, too, the fragrance of her

skin. What a divine night! When they reached the lake, as the moon's

rays fell across the branches into the water, she began to weep. A

little surprised, he asked her why.

She replied:

"I don't know. The moon and the water have affected me. Every time I

see poetic things I have a tightening at the heart, and I have to

cry."

He smiled, affected himself, considering her feminine emotion

charming--the unaffected emotion of a poor little woman whom every

sensation overwhelms. And he embraced her passionately, stammering:

"My little Lise, you are exquisite."

What a charming love affair, short-lived and dainty, it had been and

over all too quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor by this old

brute of a baron, who had carried off his wife, and never let any one

see her afterward.

Lormerin had forgotten, in fact, at the end of two or three months.

One woman drives out another so quickly in Paris, when one is a

bachelor! No matter; he had kept a little altar for her in his heart,

for he had loved her alone! He assured himself now that this was so.

He rose, and said aloud: "Certainly, I will go and dine with her this

evening!"

And instinctively he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself from

head to foot. He reflected: "She must look very old, older than I

look." And he felt gratified at the thought of showing himself to her

still handsome, still fresh, of astonishing her, perhaps of filling

her with emotion, and making her regret those bygone days so far, far

distant!

He turned his attention to the other letters. They were of no

importance.

The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of other days. What was

she like now? How strange it was to meet in this way after twenty-five

years! But would he recognize her?

He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat,

which suited him better with the coat than a black one, sent for the

hairdresser to give him a finishing touch with the curling iron, for

he had preserved his hair, and started very early in order to show his

eagerness to see her.

The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room newly

furnished was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating from

the days when he was a beau, hanging on the wall in an antique silk

frame.

He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly,

and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extended

both hands toward him.

He seized them, kissed them one after the other several times; then,

lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved.

Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, and

who, while she smiled, seemed ready to weep.

He could not abstain from murmuring:

"Is it you, Lise?"

She replied:

"Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed. You would not have known me, would

you? I have had so much sorrow--so much sorrow. Sorrow has consumed my

life. Look at me now--or, rather, don't look at me! But how handsome

you have kept--and young! If I had by chance met you in the street I

would have exclaimed: 'Jaquelet!' Now, sit down and let us, first of

all, have a chat. And then I will call my daughter, my grown-up

daughter. You'll see how she resembles me--or, rather, how I resembled

her--no, it is not quite that; she is just like the 'me' of former

days--you shall see! But I wanted to be alone with you first. I feared

that there would be some emotion on my side, at the first moment. Now

it is all over; it is past. Pray be seated, my friend."

He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what to

say; he did not know this woman--it seemed to him that he had never

seen her before. Why had he come to this house? What could he talk

about? Of the long ago? What was there in common between him and her?

He could no longer recall anything in presence of this grandmotherly

face. He could no longer recall all the nice, tender things, so sweet,

so bitter, that had come to his mind that morning when he thought of

the other, of little Lise, of the dainty Ashflower. What, then, had

become of her, the former one, the one he had loved? That woman of

far-off dreams, the blonde with gray eyes, the young girl who used to

call him "Jaquelet" so prettily?

They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained, troubled,

profoundly ill at ease.

As they talked only commonplaces, awkwardly and spasmodically and

slowly, she rose and pressed the button of the bell.

"I am going to call Renée," she said.

There was a tap at the door, then the rustle of a dress; then a young

voice exclaimed:

"Here I am, mamma!"

Lormerin remained bewildered as at the sight of an apparition.

He stammered:

"Good-day, mademoiselle."

Then, turning toward the mother:

"Oh! it is you!"

In fact, it was she, she whom he had known in bygone days, the Lise

who had vanished and come back! In her he found the woman he had won

twenty-five years before. This one was even younger, fresher, more

childlike.

He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her to his heart

again, murmuring in her ear:

"Good-morning, Lison!"

A man-servant announced:

"Dinner is ready, madame."

And they proceeded toward the dining-room.

What passed at this dinner? What did they say to him, and what could

he say in reply? He found himself plunged in one of those strange

dreams which border on insanity. He gazed at the two women with a

fixed idea in his mind, a morbid, self-contradictory idea:

"Which is the real one?"

The mother smiled, repeating over and over again:

"Do you remember?" And it was in the bright eyes of the young girl

that he found again his memories of the past. Twenty times he opened

his mouth to say to her: "Do you remember, Lison?" forgetting this

white-haired lady who was looking at him tenderly.

And yet, there were moments when he no longer felt sure, when he lost

his head. He could see that the woman of to-day was not exactly the

woman of long ago. The other one, the former one, had in her voice, in

her glances, in her entire being, something which he did not find

again. And he made prodigious efforts of mind to recall his lady love,

to seize again what had escaped from her, what this resuscitated one

did not possess.

The baronne said:

"You have lost your old vivacity, my poor friend."

He murmured:

"There are many other things that I have lost!"

But in his heart, touched with emotion, he felt his old love springing

to life once more, like an awakened wild beast ready to bite him.

The young girl went on chattering, and every now and then some

familiar intonation, some expression of her mother's, a certain style

of speaking and thinking, that resemblance of mind and manner which

people acquire by living together, shook Lormerin from head to foot.

All these things penetrated him, making the reopened wound of his

passion bleed anew.

He got away early, and took a turn along the boulevard. But the image

of this young girl pursued him, haunted him, quickened his heart,

inflamed his blood. Apart from the two women, he now saw only one, a

young one, the old one come back out of the past, and he loved her as

he had loved her in bygone years. He loved her with greater ardor,

after an interval of twenty-five years.

He went home to reflect on this strange and terrible thing, and to

think what he should do.

But, as he was passing, with a wax candle in his hand, before the

glass, the large glass in which he had contemplated himself and

admired himself before he started, he saw reflected there an elderly,

gray-haired man; and suddenly he recollected what he had been in olden

days, in the days of little Lise. He saw himself charming and

handsome, as he had been when he was loved! Then, drawing the light

nearer, he looked at himself more closely, as one inspects a strange

thing with a magnifying glass, tracing the wrinkles, discovering those

frightful ravages, which he had not perceived till now.

And he sat down, crushed at the sight of himself, at the sight of his

lamentable image, murmuring:

"All over, Lormerin!"

* * * * *

THE PARROT

I

Everybody in Fécamp knew Mother Patin's story. She had certainly been

unfortunate with her husband, for in his lifetime he used to beat her,

just as wheat is threshed in the barn.

He was master of a fishing bark and had married her, formerly, because

she was pretty, although poor.

Patin was a good sailor, but brutal. He used to frequent Father

Auban's inn, where he would usually drink four or five glasses of

brandy, on lucky days eight or ten glasses and even more, according to

his mood. The brandy was served to the customers by Father Auban's

daughter, a pleasing brunette, who attracted people to the house only

by her pretty face, for nothing had ever been gossiped about her.

Patin, when he entered the inn, would be satisfied to look at her and

to compliment her politely and respectfully. After he had had his

first glass of brandy he would already find her much nicer; at the

second he would wink; at the third he would say: "If you were only

willing, Mam'zelle Désirée----" without ever finishing his sentence;

at the fourth he would try to hold her back by her skirt in order to

kiss her; and when he went as high as ten it was Father Auban who

brought him the remaining drinks.

The old innkeeper, who knew all the tricks of the trade, made Désirée

walk about between the tables in order to increase the consumption of

drinks; and Désirée, who was a worthy daughter of Father Auban,

flitted around among the benches and joked with them, her lips smiling

and her eyes sparkling.

Patin got so well accustomed to Désirée's face that he thought of it

even while at sea, when throwing out his nets, in storms or in calms,

on moonlit or dark evenings. He thought of her while holding the

tiller in the stern of his boat, while his four companions were

slumbering with their heads on their arms. He always saw her, smiling,

pouring out the yellow brandy with a peculiar shoulder movement and

then exclaiming as she turned away: "There, now; are you satisfied?"

He saw her so much in his mind's eye that he was overcome by an

irresistible desire to marry her, and, not being able to hold out any

longer, he asked for her hand.

He was rich, owned his own vessel, his nets and a little house at the

foot of the hill on the Retenue, whereas Father Auban had nothing. The

marriage was therefore eagerly agreed upon and the wedding took place

as soon as possible, as both parties were desirous for the affair to

be concluded as early as convenient.

Three days after the wedding Patin could no longer understand how he

had ever imagined Désirée to be different from other women. What a

fool he had been to encumber himself with a penniless creature, who

had undoubtedly inveigled him with some drug which she had put in his

brandy!

He would curse all day long, break his pipe with his teeth and maul

his crew. After he had sworn by every known term at everything that

came his way he would rid himself of his remaining anger on the fish

and lobsters, which he pulled from the nets and threw into the baskets

amid oaths and foul language. When he returned home he would find his

wife, Father Auban's daughter, within reach of his mouth and hand, and

it was not long before he treated her like the lowest creature in the

world. As she listened calmly, accustomed to paternal violence, he

grew exasperated at her quiet, and one evening he beat her. Then life

at his home became unbearable.

For ten years the principal topic of conversation on the Retenue was

about the beatings that Patin gave his wife and his manner of cursing

at her for the least thing. He could, indeed, curse with a richness of

vocabulary in a roundness of tone unequalled by any other man in

Fécamp. As soon as his ship was sighted at the entrance of the harbor,

returning from the fishing expedition, every one awaited the first

volley he would hurl from the bridge as soon as he perceived his

wife's white cap.

Standing at the stern, he would steer, his eye fixed on the bows and

on the sail, and, notwithstanding the difficulty of the narrow passage

and the height of the turbulent waves, he would search among the

watching women and try to recognize his wife, Father Auban's daughter,

the wretch!

Then, as soon as he saw her, notwithstanding the noise of the wind and

waves, he would let loose upon her with such power and volubility that

every one would laugh, although they pitied her greatly. When he

arrived at the dock he would relieve his mind, while unloading the

fish, in such an expressive manner that he attracted around him all

the loafers of the neighborhood. The words left his mouth sometimes

like shots from a cannon, short and terrible, sometimes like peals of

thunder, which roll and rumble for five minutes, such a hurricane of

oaths that he seemed to have in his lungs one of the storms of the

Eternal Father.

When he left his ship and found himself face to face with her,

surrounded by all the gossips of the neighborhood, he would bring up a

new cargo of insults and bring her back to their dwelling, she in

front, he behind, she weeping, he yelling at her.

At last, when alone with her behind closed doors, he would thrash her

on the slightest pretext. The least thing was sufficient to make him

raise his hand, and when he had once begun he did not stop, but he

would throw into her face the true motive for his anger. At each blow

he would roar: "There, you beggar! There, you wretch! There, you

pauper! What a bright thing I did when I rinsed my mouth with your

rascal of a father's apology for brandy!"

The poor woman lived in continual fear, in a ceaseless trembling of

body and soul, in everlasting expectation of outrageous thrashings.

This lasted ten years. She was so timorous that she would grow pale

whenever she spoke to any one, and she thought of nothing but the

blows with which she was threatened; and she became thinner, more

yellow and drier than a smoked fish.

II

One night, when her husband was at sea, she was suddenly awakened by

the wild roaring of the wind! She sat up in her bed, trembling, but,

as she heard nothing more, she lay down again; almost immediately

there was a roar in the chimney which shook the entire house; it

seemed to cross the heavens like a pack of furious animals snorting

and roaring.

Then she arose and rushed to the harbor. Other women were arriving

from all sides, carrying lanterns. The men also were gathering, and

all were watching the foaming crests of the breaking waves.

The storm lasted fifteen hours. Eleven sailors never returned; Patin

was among them.

In the neighborhood of Dieppe the wreck of his bark, the

_Jeune-Amélie_, was found. The bodies of his sailors were found

near Saint-Valéry, but his body was never recovered. As his vessel

seemed to have been cut in two, his wife expected and feared his return

for a long time, for if there had been a collision he alone might have

been picked up and carried afar off.

Little by little she grew accustomed to the thought that she was rid

of him, although she would start every time that a neighbor, a beggar

or a peddler would enter suddenly.

One afternoon, about four years after the disappearance of her

husband, while she was walking along the Rue aux Juifs, she stopped

before the house of an old sea captain who had recently died and whose

furniture was for sale. Just at that moment a parrot was at auction.

He had green feathers and a blue head and was watching everybody with

a displeased look. "Three francs!" cried the auctioneer. "A bird that

can talk like a lawyer, three francs!"

A friend of the Patin woman nudged her and said: "You ought to buy

that, you who are rich. It would be good company for you. That bird is

worth more than thirty francs. Anyhow, you can always sell it for

twenty or twenty-five!"

Patin's widow added fifty centimes, and the bird was given her in a

little cage, which she carried away. She took it home, and, as she was

opening the wire door in order to give it something to drink, he bit

her finger and drew blood.

"Oh, how naughty he is!" she said.

Nevertheless she gave it some hemp-seed and corn and watched it

pruning its feathers as it glanced warily at its new home and its new

mistress.

On the following morning, just as day was breaking, the Patin woman

distinctly heard a loud, deep, roaring voice calling: "Are you going

to get up, carrion?"

Her fear was so great that she hid her head under the sheets, for when

Patin was with her as soon as he would open his eyes he would shout

those well-known words into her ears.

Trembling, rolled into a ball, her back prepared for the thrashing

which she already expected, her face buried in the pillows, she

murmured: "Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! he

has come back!"

Minutes passed; no noise disturbed the quiet room. Then, trembling,

she stuck her head out of the bed, sure that he was there, watching,

ready to beat her. Except for a ray of sun shining through the window,

she saw nothing, and she said to herself: "He must be hidden."

She waited a long time and then, gaining courage, she said to herself:

"I must have dreamed it, seeing there is nobody here."

A little reassured, she closed her eyes, when from quite near a

furious voice, the thunderous voice of the drowned man, could be heard

crying: "Say! when in the name of all that's holy are you going to get

up, you b----?"

She jumped out of bed, moved by obedience, by the passive obedience of

a woman accustomed to blows and who still remembers and always will

remember that voice! She said: "Here I am, Patin; what do you want?"

But Patin did not answer. Then, at a complete loss, she looked around

her, then in the chimney and under the bed and finally sank into a

chair, wild with anxiety, convinced that Patin's soul alone was there,

near her, and that he had returned in order to torture her.

Suddenly she remembered the loft, in order to reach which one had to

take a ladder. Surely he must have hidden there in order to surprise

her. He must have been held by savages on some distant shore, unable

to escape until now, and he had returned, worse that ever. There was

no doubting the quality of that voice. She raised her head and asked:

"Are you up there, Patin?"

Patin did not answer. Then, with a terrible fear which made her heart

tremble, she climbed the ladder, opened the skylight, looked, saw

nothing, entered, looked about and found nothing. Sitting on some

straw, she began to cry, but while she was weeping, overcome by a

poignant and supernatural terror, she heard Patin talking in the room

below. He seemed less angry and he was saying: "Nasty weather! Fierce

wind! Nasty weather! I haven't eaten, damn it!"

She cried through the ceiling: "Here I am, Patin; I am getting your

meal ready. Don't get angry."

She ran down again. There was no one in the room. She felt herself

growing weak, as if death were touching her, and she tried to run and

get help from the neighbors, when a voice near her cried out: "I

haven't had my breakfast, by G----!"

And the parrot in his cage watched her with his round, knowing, wicked

eye. She, too, looked at him wildly, murmuring: "Ah! so it's you!"

He shook his head and continued: "Just you wait! I'll teach you how to

loaf."

What happened within her? She felt, she understood that it was he, the

dead man, who had come back, who had disguised himself in the feathers

of this bird in order to continue to torment her; that he would curse,

as formerly, all day long, and bite her, and swear at her, in order to

attract the neighbors and make them laugh. Then she rushed for the

cage and seized the bird, which scratched and tore her flesh with its

claws and beak. But she held it with all her strength between her

hands. She threw it on the ground and rolled over it with the frenzy

of one possessed. She crushed it and finally made of it nothing but a

little green, flabby lump which no longer moved or spoke. Then she

wrapped it in a cloth, as in a shroud, and she went out in her

nightgown, barefoot; she crossed the dock, against which the choppy

waves of the sea were beating, and she shook the cloth and let drop

this little dead thing, which looked like so much grass. Then she

returned, threw herself on her knees before the empty cage, and,

overcome by what she had done, kneeled and prayed for forgiveness, as

if she had committed some heinous crime.

* * * * *

THE PIECE OF STRING

It was market-day, and from all the country round Goderville the

peasants and their wives were coming toward the town. The men walked

slowly, throwing the whole body forward at every step of their long,

crooked legs. They were deformed from pushing the plough which makes

the left shoulder higher, and bends their figures sideways; from

reaping the grain, when they have to spread their legs so as to keep

on their feet. Their starched blue blouses, glossy as though

varnished, ornamented at collar and cuffs with a little embroidered

design and blown out around their bony bodies, looked very much like

balloons about to soar, whence issued two arms and two feet.

Some of these fellows dragged a cow or a calf at the end of a rope.

And just behind the animal followed their wives beating it over the

back with a leaf-covered branch to hasten its pace, and carrying large

baskets out of which protruded the heads of chickens or ducks. These

women walked more quickly and energetically than the men, with their

erect, dried-up figures, adorned with scanty little shawls pinned over

their flat bosoms, and their heads wrapped round with a white cloth,

enclosing the hair and surmounted by a cap.

Now a char-à-banc passed by, jogging along behind a nag and shaking up

strangely the two men on the seat, and the woman at the bottom of the

cart who held fast to its sides to lessen the hard jolting.

In the market-place at Goderville was a great crowd, a mingled

multitude of men and beasts. The horns of cattle, the high,

long-napped hats of wealthy peasants, the headdresses of the women

came to the surface of that sea. And the sharp, shrill, barking voices

made a continuous, wild din, while above it occasionally rose a huge

burst of laughter from the sturdy lungs of a merry peasant or a

prolonged bellow from a cow tied fast to the wall of a house.

It all smelled of the stable, of milk, of hay and of perspiration

giving off that half-human, half-animal odor which is peculiar to

country folks.

Maître Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, had just arrived at Goderville and was

making his way toward the square when he perceived on the ground a

little piece of string. Maître Hauchecorne, economical as are all true

Normans, reflected that everything was worth picking up which could be

of any use, and he stooped down, but painfully, because he suffered

from rheumatism. He took the bit of thin string from the ground and

was carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maître Malandain,

the harness maker, on his doorstep staring at him. They had once had a

quarrel about a halter, and they had borne each other malice ever

since. Maître Hauchecorne was overcome with a sort of shame at being

seen by his enemy picking up a bit of string in the road. He quickly

hid it beneath his blouse and then slipped it into his breeches

pocket, then pretended to be still looking for something on the

ground which he did not discover and finally went off toward the

market-place, his head bent forward and his body almost doubled in

two by rheumatic pains.

He was at once lost in the crowd, which kept moving about slowly and

noisily as it chaffered and bargained. The peasants examined the cows,

went off, came back, always in doubt for fear of being cheated, never

quite daring to decide, looking the seller square in the eye in the

effort to discover the tricks of the man and the defect in the beast.

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, had taken

out the poultry, which lay upon the ground, their legs tied together,

with terrified eyes and scarlet combs.

They listened to propositions, maintaining their prices in a decided

manner with an impassive face or perhaps deciding to accept the

smaller price offered, suddenly calling out to the customer who was

starting to go away:

"All right, I'll let you have them, Maît' Anthime."

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the Angelus

struck midday those who lived at a distance poured into the inns.

At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast

court was filled with vehicles of every sort--wagons, gigs,

chars-à-bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name,

yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to

heaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose, on the ground and

their rear in the air.

Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge fireplace,

with its bright flame, gave out a burning heat on the backs of those

who sat at the right. Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens,

with pigeons and with joints of mutton, and a delectable odor of roast

meat and of gravy flowing ever crisp brown skin arose from the hearth,

kindled merriment, caused mouths to water.

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Maît'

Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp

fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day.

The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow

cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales.

They exchanged news about the crops. The weather was good for greens,

but too wet for grain.

Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house.

Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet at

once and ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full and

napkins in their hand.

When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth in a

jerky voice, pausing in the wrong places:

"Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to all

persons present at the market that there has been lost this morning on

the Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather

pocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers. You are

requested, to return it to the mayor's office at once or to Maitre

Fortuné Houlbrèque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francs

reward."

Then the man went away. They heard once more at a distance the dull

beating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier. Then they all

began to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which Maître

Houlbrèque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.

The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal

of gendarmes appeared on the threshold.

He asked:

"Is Maître Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, here?"

Maître Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table, answered:

"Here I am, here I am."

And he followed the corporal.

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair. He was the

notary of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech.

"Maître Hauchecorne," said he, "this morning on the Beuzeville road,

you were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maître Houlbrèque, of

Manneville."

The countryman looked at the mayor in amazement, frightened already at

this suspicion which rested on him, he knew not why.

"I--I picked up that pocketbook?"

"Yes, you."

"I swear I don't even know anything about it."

"You were seen."

"I was seen--I? Who saw me?"

"M. Malandain, the harness-maker."

Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening with anger,

said:

"Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking up this string

here, M'sieu le Maire."

And fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it the

little end of string.

But the mayor incredulously shook his head:

"You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that M. Malandain,

who is a man whose word can be relied on, has mistaken this string for

a pocketbook."

The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spat on the ground beside

him as if to attest his good faith, repeating:

"For all that, it is God's truth, M'sieu le Maire. There! On my soul's

salvation, I repeat it."

The mayor continued:

"After you picked up the object in question, you even looked about for

some time in the mud to see if a piece of money had not dropped out of

it."

The good man was choking with indignation and fear.

"How can they tell--how can they tell such lies as that to slander an

honest man! How can they?"

His protestations were in vain; he was not believed.

He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and sustained his

testimony. They railed at one another for an hour. At his own request

Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. Nothing was found on him.

At last the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning him that he

would inform the public prosecutor and ask for orders.

The news had spread. When he left the mayor's office the old man was

surrounded, interrogated with a curiosity which was serious or

mocking, as the case might be, but into which no indignation entered.

And he began to tell the story of the string. They did not believe

him. They laughed.

He passed on, buttonholed by every one, himself buttonholing his

acquaintances, beginning over and over again his tale and his

protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that he

had nothing in them.

They said to him:

"You old rogue!"

He grew more and more angry, feverish, in despair at not being

believed, and kept on telling his story.

The night came. It was time to go home. He left with three of his

neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the

string, and all the way he talked of his adventure.

That evening he made the round of the village of Breauté for the

purpose of telling every one. He met only unbelievers.

He brooded over it all night long.

The next day, about one in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle, a farm hand

of Maitre Breton, the market gardener at Ymauville, returned the

pocketbook and its contents to Maitre Holbrèque, of Manneville.

This man said, indeed, that he had found it on the road, but not

knowing how to read, he had carried it home and given it to his

master.

The news spread to the environs. Maître Hauchecorne was informed. He

started off at once and began to relate his story with the dénoûment.

He was triumphant.

"What grieved me," said he, "was not the thing itself, do you

understand, but it was being accused of lying. Nothing does you so

much harm as being in disgrace for lying."

All day he talked of his adventure. He told it on the roads to the

people who passed, at the cabaret to the people who drank and next

Sunday when they came out of church. He even stopped strangers to tell

them about it. He was easy now, and yet something worried him without

his knowing exactly what it was. People had a joking manner while they

listened. They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel their remarks

behind his back.

On Tuesday of the following week he went to market at Goderville,

prompted solely by the need of telling his story.

Malandain, standing on his doorstep, began to laugh as he saw him

pass. Why?

He accosted a farmer of Criquetot, who did not let him finish, and

giving him a punch in the pit of the stomach, cried in his face: "Oh,

you great rogue!" Then he turned his heel upon him.

Maître Hauchecorne remained speechless and grew more and more uneasy.

Why had they called him "great rogue"?

When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to explain

the whole affair.

A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him:

"Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string."

Hauchecorne stammered:

"But since they found it again, the pocketbook!"

But the other continued:

"Hold your tongue, daddy; there's one who finds it and there's another

who returns it. And no one the wiser."

The farmer was speechless. He understood at last. They accused him of

having had the pocketbook brought back by an accomplice, by a

confederate.

He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner, and went away amid a chorus of jeers.

He went home indignant, choking with rage, with confusion, the more

cast down since with his Norman craftiness he was, perhaps, capable of

having done what they accused him of and even of boasting of it as a

good trick. He was dimly conscious that it was impossible to prove his

innocence, his craftiness being so well known. He felt himself struck

to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.

He began anew to tell his tale, lengthening his recital every day,

each day adding new proofs, more energetic declarations and more

sacred oaths, which he thought of, which he prepared in his hours of

solitude, for his mind was entirely occupied with the story of the

string. The more he denied it, the more artful his arguments, the less

he was believed.

"Those are liars' proofs," they said behind his back.

He felt this. It preyed upon him and he exhausted himself in useless

efforts.

He was visibly wasting away.

Jokers would make him tell the story of "the piece of string" to amuse

them, just as you make a soldier who has been on a campaign tell his

story of the battle. His mind kept growing weaker and about the end of

December he took to his bed.

He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of death agony,

he protested his innocence, repeating:

"A little bit of string--a little bit of string. See, here it is,

M'sieu le Maire."