_Cum vere rubenti Candida venit avis._
Virgil.
She was already returning, her arms rigid with the weight of the milk
pails; her sabots were wet with the dew, and the hem of her skirt felt
cold. When the sun became visible, red through the morning mist, she
said to herself:
“It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
She mused upon this for a long while, avoiding the pebbles of the
path so as not to spill her milk, and the tall bending, weeping grass
because her bare legs were really cold.
“It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
She walked on, now crossing a field of gorse where the path, much
wider, made expressly for the farmhands, stretched straight ahead of
her. The mist had disappeared, enchanted by the sun--had risen yonder
above, doubtless, whence it would descend again gently, as serene
dew, a mantle of coolness which the stars spread fraternally over the
shoulders of the parched earth.
She mused again:
“It’s going to be very warm.”
Then a stem of buckwheat, lost there by a bird, suggested to her:
“The buckwheat will be ripe for threshing.”
This idea gave her pleasure, then became a source of worriment, for
the season had been a wet one, and if the buckwheat were ripe for
threshing, surely it would be threshed. This meant that she must
quickly get in, quickly strain the milk, feed the fowl and many things,
so many that she felt a tug at her heart.
As she was striding along too quickly, a drop of milk splashed from the
pail and fell upon her sabot. She stopped, put down the pails, happy
for a chance to rest, although she was somewhat remorseful, too; in
order to limber them she raised her beautiful pink arms very high, thus
gilding them with the fire of the sun.
Suddenly she started, becoming almost pale, and bringing her hand to
her bosom. She had not been frightened. She had simply been surprised
by the first gun shot of the year.
At the same moment she saw a cloudlet of smoke; a feather flew by her;
a wounded partridge fell amidst the gorse.
“Here, Tom!” cried a voice. “Go look. Fetch it.”
The dog bounded along the path, pressed forward, returned, intent and
troubled, but definitely resolved not to plunge into the dangerous
forest. As the voice, now more imperious, more angry and nearer as
well, repeated the commandment, Tom, his tail between his legs, took
refuge in the skirts of the young girl, who bent over to caress him and
encourage him.
“Don’t fondle him, beat him!” cried the voice.
It was that of a young man who now appeared, standing in the hedge
amidst the branches.
The milk maid straightened up, looked and turned red. From the voice
she had not been able to tell whether it was the father or the son. She
thought that it was the father; she wished it were, for the scorn of
the haughty young man, who had never spoken a word to her, pained her
deeply.
She went red and felt uneasy, but could not lower her glance. She was
lost in admiration, she was ready to fall to her knees.
The command was repeated, the dog pretended death.
Then, with legs and arm bare, she plunged into the gorse and was badly
scratched. She walked along almost blindly, as fast as she could,
holding back her tears.
Having fetched the partridge she threw it into Tom’s mouth.
The young man, still standing amidst the trees, above the sea of cruel
gorse, made her a friendly sign then jumped forward, proceeding in
front of his hound.
She, without replying, perhaps without having seen the friendly gesture
that thanked the poor servant, once more bent her shoulders beneath the
neck yoke, and the milk pails, well balanced, hung from her red hands.
She walked on, thinking no longer of anything but matters so vague and
so deep that her mind could not grasp them.
Her legs were bleeding, her hand was bleeding, and around her right arm
was a scratch that encircled it like a bracelet.
“That’s a briar.”
The gorse pricks but does not tear.
The milk pails, in the meantime, seemed to grow lighter. She walked on,
quickly, as quickly as her unstable burden would permit.
A man whom she passed near the farmhouse looked at her bleeding arm.
Then she turned red. Later, as she strained the milk, she thought that
she felt ill.
The purple bracelet gripped her arm, but it was in her heart that she
felt the clutch.
Tom was running up to her. She was afraid.
“Is it going to begin all over again?” she asked herself, upset by
emotion.
Panting but happy, the dog lay at her feet. Then, espying a bowl, she
poured out a little milk for him.
“You spoil him,” said the young man, approaching. “I told you, he
rather deserved a beating.”
She found some words to say:
“Beat your dog?”
“Upon my word, if I had been alone, the partridge should have remained
in the gorse. Did you hurt yourself? Oh! You’re bleeding?”
She was so happy that she no longer felt her joy. She was in another
world. She was a woman face to face with a man.
“Let me see!”
She held out her pink, golden arm and at once drew it back, thus
causing her breasts to shake under the coarse plaited linen. The young
man was tempted, but controlled himself:
“Don’t say anything. But I don’t want anybody to know that I met you
near the gorse.”
He went off, knowing full well what he was to do.
The next morning as the dew was disappearing and Tom was off in search
of yesterday’s partridges, a sudden cry, a sweet and dolorous cry, rose
from amidst the tall dry grass, near the gorse field, yonder where the
heather begins.
The servant returned as on the previous day, her shoulders beneath the
yoke, her hands hanging, holding the milk pails. She did not stop on
the way, although she was very weary and deeply moved. She strained
her milk, as on every other day, sunk in vague thought. But, her task
finished, she sat down upon a stool and gazed at her arm.
A mad bite had placed upon the bracelet of blood a red clasp.