_Que c’est beau, le jaune!_
Van Gogh.
It was understood.
The last time he had sent her a long kiss, his eyes closed as in
ecstasy, and she had smiled tenderly, drooping her lashes.
They had never spoken to each other.
She lived there. There were houses, along the river bank and half way
up the hill, bordering the road that wound up the slope: there was a
mill, a tavern, a sabot factory and two or three little farmhouses,
with a shed in which slumbered a cart. One could hear whinnying, a
waggoner’s heavy oath, the crowing of a cock, the patter of the water
under the mill wheels and its murmuring beneath the wooden bridge.
He, too, lived there, but higher up, behind the trees that framed the
horizon. At evening, returning from the hunt, he would pause upon the
bridge, look at the water, the willows, the grass, the narrow valley,
where the sun, before dying, came to rest for a moment.
It was from this point that he had beheld her. She was spreading out
upon the fresh lawn some strips of unbleached linen. He thought she
must be the daughter of the weaver who could be heard at work near
the tavern, or else some servant. On other days she would be washing
clothes beneath the large hazel tree whose branches bent to kiss the
stream, and would lay them on the bushes; then, before returning, she
would pick some hazel nuts, or flowers, or would throw pebbles into the
water. When she felt that she was being observed she would laugh, but
she refused to be disturbed in her work or her play.
One day, however, she stood for a long time looking at him, eating
hazel nuts that she cracked between her teeth with all the nimbleness
of a squirrel.
Then he came daily. She would be there, or else she would arrive
slowly, raising her head. They might have spoken to each other, but
they said nothing. He threw flowers to her, or twigs, and she paid no
attention. He brought her a yellow carnation: she hid it in her corsage
and, without a token, disappeared.
It was on the next day that their mute agreement was concluded.
The following evening, after the first glances had been exchanged,
he saw her climb in the direction of the woods and plunge into the
coppice. He made a detour and caught up with her just as she was
clearing the rails of a fence. Her short skirt pulled up. She showed a
white knee. That decided him. This fresh little peasant lass was just
the thing. Desire made him tremble a little.
He received her into his arms, pressed her close, kissed her upon the
lips, but gently she freed herself and, curving her shoulders, glided
in under the branches.
It was a sunken, abandoned path that led to an old cart-road; she ran
quickly, avoiding the brambles, grazing the broom, the honeysuckle and
the foxglove that made a crazy arabesque in this sombre lair of sand
and gravel which the branches of the beeches, the ash-trees and the
oaks sheltered with their thick green mantle.
Stopped by a bramble that clutched at her legs, she was caught by him;
he knelt down, vanquished the bramble and threw his arm about her
knees. But she did not wish to fall yet. She stiffened; she turned her
back upon him. He rose to his feet; his hands ascended to the breasts
which she was pressing; he kissed the back of her neck; he nibbled at
an ear.
Then she turned her head; her eyes were serious; she abandoned all
resistance. Leaning against the arm that encircled her waist, she
surrendered her mouth to kisses, her body to caresses.
They fell tenderly.
Seated now side by side they glanced at each other from the corners of
their eyes, occupied in similar motions. She was dressing her hair; he
was knotting his cravat.
She was smiling.
He was dreaming.
This happy encounter enchanted him. In his career as an equivocal
huntsman he had met with few that could match it. “But how difficult
it is to rouse women! The transports of this loving lass were pretty
feeble. She seemed more ashamed than tender, more resolved than
self-abandoned, I can’t just say.”
He, however, had tasted intense happiness, and what sweet peace he now
enjoyed! What charm in this young body, in those contours fresh with
their first form. “She is as lissome as the trunk of a beech-tree and
her flesh yielded with such pride, yet with such simplicity as well!
How simple is love!”
He looked at the young girl, hunting words to say to her, but he did
not have the habit of speech, and above all of tender speeches.
She appeared prettier than ever, now--more natural. This sensation of
naturalness he had never before experienced. Perhaps the silence had
led him to reflect.
At last he spoke, mentioning the charm of the moment, the coolness of
this grotto, his happiness, his repose.
She tapped her skirt awkwardly, twisted a scape of foxglove between her
fingers, smiled, but gave no sign of contentment.
“It seems to me that I could love her, almost, if she would only fondle
me.”
Wishing to take out his pipe, he put his hand into the wrong pocket and
struck his purse.
“Ah!”
Secretly he extracted a gold-piece, took the child’s hand and clamped
her fingers over the surprise. She opened them immediately, looked, and
blushed; her bosom swelled, she heaved a deep sigh, then crushed into
her friend’s arms, all aquiver with nervous sobs of joy.
On her knees before him, she kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his chin, the
corners of his lips.
She was happy.