I have indicated in several places of these essays what I conceive

to be the objects the devil has in view in lending himself to

spiritualism. His main object, I can hardly doubt, is to do with

religious sentiment what we are told Mr. Fisk tried to do with the

gold currency of America--"corner it," get its circulation into his

own hands. In the numberless cases where religion is nothing more

than sentiment, he is only too likely to succeed; second-sight is

so much more satisfying to the imagination, and at the same time so

far more modest in its demands upon the will, than faith. The spread

of spiritualism in the last few years is notorious, and there is

every prospect of its continuing. Whether it will ever enter upon a

new phase of existence, and become a fact publicly acknowledged by

scientific men, is a question. It has never been so recognized amongst

civilized nations. Whatever miracles, divine or diabolical, were meant

to effect, it was not to overbalance the general sway of purely human

power, of which this world is the appointed stage. As a general rule,

the brilliant series of miracles by which the Christian martyr has

baffled death in the presence of admiring crowds has ended in quiet

decapitation at a convenient mile-stone. Many a time, doubtless, has

the Roman headsman flattered himself that his good straight-down blow

effectually upset that fine story made up out of a drugged lion and

a fagot of green wood, which had somehow imposed upon so many stupid

people. Not, of course, that I am denying that there have been miracles

which imperiously asserted themselves over all obstacles, like the

series which ended in Pharao's drowning; but, as a general rule, God

has spoken once and again, and then prosaic obstinacy has been given

its way. On these occasions, God has no doubt submitted himself to a

general law which he has made for all direct spiritual interference,

and which he mercifully enforces with especial strictness in the case

of the devil.

Any civilized nation engaged in active pursuits will always be likely

to contain, one should think, a majority among its scientific men who

will be unfitted to experience, and indisposed to believe in, and

still more to acknowledge, the phenomena of spiritualism. But it is

impossible to say; the spiritualistic system as developed by Allan

Kardec (see Miss Blackwell's communication, _Rep._, p 284) seems

to lend itself in a remarkable way to some of the most prominent

scientific tendencies of the day. If ever Darwinists should stand in

need of the consolations of religious enthusiasm, they might find a

congenial home in spiritualism. In the vast system of metempsychosis

to which Miss Blackwell introduces us, we have all the Darwinian

stages and to spare. First in order comes the "primordial fluid,"

"containing all the elements of derived existence," "the first

substantiation of creative thought." "There are three orders or modes

of substantiality"--"psychic substance," and "corporeal substance," and

"dynamic substance, or force," which last is stated to partake of the

nature of the two other modes, and to be the intermediary between them.

(P. 300) "Every state of the psychic element determines corresponding

vibrations of the dynamic element, which, effecting corresponding

aggregations of the atoms of the material element, produce the

substance or body which is the material expression of that state." The

soul's magnetic envelope, "perisprit," is at once its first garment and

the instrument by which it aggregates to itself the elements of its

body.

This system embraces a twofold metempsychosis--that of formation and

that of reformation. The first is the process by which the impersonal

psychic element is gradually prepared for individualization or the

attainment of conscious personality by being transfused progressively

through the mineral, vegetable, and animal worlds--the same process,

but with a different final cause, it would seem, as that described by

the poet:

"Spiritus intus alit, totamque infusa per artus,

Mens agitat molem et magno se corpore miscet."

The psychic element is presented, not as feeding, but as feeding

on successive worlds, like a silk-worm on mulberry-leaves, leaving

geological strata behind it, for instance, as the refuse of its mineral

sojourn.

Souls are first individualized in the fluidic or atmospheric world;

and if they are docile to the instruction of that world, they never

"incur the penalty of incarceration in bodies of planetary matter, and

consequently never become men," but remain in this or that fluidic

world until ripe for the highest or "sidereal order." On the other

hand, the spirits who are indocile enter upon the second series of

metempsychosis, "having brought upon themselves the penalty of exile in

a planet corresponding, in the compactness or comparative fluidity of

its material constituents, to the degree of their culpability."

(P. 309) "The moral and intellectual state of the soul decides the

corresponding magnetic action of the perisprit, and thereby decides the

nature of the body which is formed by that action."

(319) "While accomplishing the new series of incorporations in

progressively nobler forms, in higher and higher planets, the spirit

goes back, at each disaggregation of its material envelope, into the

fluidic sphere of the planet in which its last material embodiment has

been accomplished."

(322) "The fluidic world being the normal world of souls, we remain

in intimate (though usually unconscious) connection with the fluidic

sphere of the planet, while incarnated on its surface. We return to

it during sleep, when, through the elasticity of the perisprit (which

has been seen by clairvoyants elongated into a sort of luminous cord

connecting the soul with the sleeping body), we are enabled to visit

our friends in the other life."

(326) "The more extended vision of the fluidic sphere shows (its

inhabitants) a wide range of human actions and intentions, and thus

enables them to forecast with more or less correctness, and, when

permitted to do so, to predict the same with more or less exactness,

according to the flexibility of the medium."

S. Augustine has a fine passage in his _De Divinatione Dæmonum_, cap.

iii., comparing the keenness and swiftness (_acrimonia sensûs et

celeritas motûs_) which the devils possess in virtue of their fluidic

state (_aerium corpus_) to the vulture's knowledge, who, "when the

carcase is thrown out, flies up from an unseen distance; and to the

osprey's, who, floating aloft, is said at that vast height to see the

fish swimming beneath the waves, and fiercely smiting the water with

outstretched legs and talons, to ravish it."

I can conceive the attractions of such a system, combining, as it

does, the ingenuity and fulness of Platonism with something of the

color and rhythm of modern science. If any concordat is to be made

between religious enthusiasm unattached and science, I do not think the

chances of spiritualism are to be despised. Just at present, however,

although some scientific men have taken up spiritualism, there can be

no doubt that, on the whole, spiritualism and science are at daggers

drawn. There is no mistaking the utter loathing expressed in Professor

Huxley's letter (_Rep._, p. 229), in which he declines to take any part

in the committee's investigation, on the ground that, "supposing the

phenomena to be true, they do not interest me." He has a perfect right

to compare spiritualistic talk to "the chatter of old women and curates

in a cathedral town"; but his anger has made him quite miss the logical

point of the position. The privilege he declines as worthless is the

opportunity, not of listening to such conversation, but of examining

and testing the hitherto ignored faculty; and this no man can seriously

reject as uninteresting.

There is no difficulty in understanding the bitterness with which

modern science regards spiritualism. It had been for so long carrying

everything before it; it had weighed so many things on earth and in

the heavens; it had reduced so many apparently eccentric phenomena

to law; its discoveries had been so brilliant, and its still more

brilliant projections were so plausible, that it flattered itself that

all idea of the supernatural was fairly relegated to the obscure past

or to the obscurer future. The philosophy of the XIXth century was

being fast reduced to a bare statement of the contents of sensation,

and the philosophers of the day were looking for an easy victory over

the most respectable of dogmatic traditions, when, lo! full in the

calm scientific light, the singularly grotesque form of spiritualism

lifts its head, and the warrior who had so loudly challenged the king

to mortal combat finds himself set upon by the court fool. When earth,

according to the poet's dream, should be "lapped in universal law," up

starts a mass of phenomena not merely inexplicable by any known law,

but, in popular estimation at least, incompatible with any hypothesis

but that of supernatural agency. It has been the more intolerable that

spiritualism had affected an imposing vocabulary of scientific terms,

recommending itself to its audience by an appeal to partially known

laws, such as magnetism and electricity, whilst really indulging in the

most unblushing necromancy. Thus the scientific formulæ have been given

somewhat the _rôle_ of captives in the triumph of superstition. No

wonder scientific men are angry. But whilst they "do well to be angry,"

I think they do by no means well to refuse to investigate the subject

because on various accounts it is offensive to them.

Scientific men frequently complain that spiritualists will not submit

their séances to the test of a public examination in broad daylight.

Now, this is really not a fair statement of the case. Spiritualists say

that they have found by experience that a certain class of phenomena

require dark or twilight; but a vast number of independent physical

manifestations do take place in broad daylight. On the other hand,

when the scientific investigator insists upon interfering with the

constituents of the séance, the arrangement of the circle, etc.,

the spiritualist answers, fairly enough, that, since under the most

favorable conditions the success of the séance cannot be reckoned on,

it would be absurd to allow the abandonment of what experience has

shown to be a necessary condition of success. "With the phenomena of

magic we can experimentalize but little; neither can we evoke the

least of them at our good pleasure. We can but observe them where they

present themselves, gather them into corresponding groups, and discover

among them common features and common laws." (Perty, _Mystisch.

Erscheinungen--Vorrede_, p. xi.) This being understood, spiritualists

invite the representatives of science to make what observations they

please in broad daylight, when, at least, they will be able to discount

such disturbing conditions as they may not eliminate. It is an _onus_,

certainly, for the investigator to have to form a part of what is going

on; but this is no more than the detective undergoes when he plays

the accomplice in order to discover the thief. Say that spiritualism

is a folly, a disease, what you will, it is at least of the highest

scientific interest and practical importance that we should understand

its conditions and action as thoroughly as possible. If scientific men

have no more serious scruple to keep them aloof than the dignity of

their order--for, after all, this is what Mr. Huxley's excuses come

to--the exigencies of the case require that it should be put aside. If

the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain.

Nothing is more calculated to bring out the inherent diversities of

the human mind than the investigation of spiritualism; for it not

only involves an examination of some of the most difficult problems

relating to evidence, but, indirectly at least, an examination of the

whole process by which each individual concerned rejects or assimilates

his mental pabulum. Hence the extraordinary difficulty of conducting

such an inquiry without incessant wrangling. The Committee of the

Dialectical Society, to whose _Report_ I have so often referred, is

quite a case in point. Its _Report_ is the record of a schism, of an

irreconcilable clash of opinions. If the committee had waited until

these had been reduced to harmony, the _Report_ would never have been

published. One of the principal members--Dr. Edmunds--was, I think,

exceptionally tried. His own opinion was and is that spiritualism is

a mixture of trickery and delusion; but his own dining-room table

habitually took sides against him, and this in the most treacherous

manner. It used to wait until he had left the room, and then, in the

presence of the other investigators, run around with nobody touching it.

You might almost as well meddle with a man's digestion as with his

belief. Prove that his convictions are groundless, and he feels as

outraged as though you had affixed a register to his waistcoat which

showed the world that his favorite dish had disagreed with him. Dr.

Garth Wilkinson (_Rep._, p. 234) is by no means singular in his

experience "that nearly all truth is temperamental to us, or given in

the affections or intuitions, and that discussion and inquiry do little

more than feed the temperament." And what a variety of temperaments

will inevitably be found in any committee of investigation--men who,

like Mr. Lewes, consider the possibility of an hypothesis which cannot

be rigidly tested unworthy of consideration, or like Mr. Grattan

Geary (_Rep._, p. 95), who, on finding that many eminent men are

spiritualists, is simply impressed by the number of eminent men who are

enjoying an unmerited reputation for sanity. After all, men make more

account, as a general rule, of one little bit of experience, the real

force of which is incommunicable, and which, when put into words for

another's benefit, is often to the last degree trivial, than of all

the arguments in the world. A charming example of this is given by Dr.

H. More in a letter to Glanville, published at the beginning of the

latter's _Sadducismus Triumphatus_: "I remember an old gentleman in the

country of my acquaintance, an excellent justice of the peace, and a

piece of a mathematician; but what sort of a philosopher he was you may

understand from a rhime of his own making, which he commended to me on

my taking horse in his yard, which rhime is this:

An _ens_ is nothing till sense find out,

Sense ends in nothing, so naught goes about;

which rhime of his was so rapturous to himself that, at the reciting

of the second verse, the old man turned himself about upon his toe as

nimbly as one may see a dry leaf whisk'd round in the corner of an

orchard-walk by some little whirlwind. With this philosopher I have

had many discourses concerning the immortality of the soul and its

distinction. When I have run him quite down by reason, he would laugh

and say, 'That is logick, H.,' calling me by my Christian name. To

which I replied, 'This is reason, Fr. L. (for so I and some others

used to call him), but it seems you are for the new light and direct

inspiration,' which, I confess, he was as little for as for the other;

but I said so only by way of drollery to him in those times. But truth

is, nothing but palpable experience could move him; and being a bold

man, and fearing nothing, he told me he had tried all the ceremonies

of conjuration he could to raise the devil or a spirit, and had a most

earnest desire to meet with one, but never could do it. But this he

told me: when he did not so much as think of it, while his servant was

pulling off his boots in the hall, some invisible hand gave him such

a clap on the back that it made all ring again. So, thought he, now I

am invited to the converse of my spirit; and therefore, so soon as his

boots were off and his shoes on, out he went into the yard and next

field to find out the spirit that had given him this familiar clap on

the back, but found none neither in the yard nor field next to it. But

though he did not feel the stroke, albeit he thought it afterwards

(finding nothing come of it) a mere delusion, yet, not long before his

death, it had more force with him than all the philosophical arguments

I could use to him, though I could wind him and nonplus as I pleased;

but yet all my arguments, how solid soever, made no impression upon

him. Wherefore, after several reasonings of this nature, whereby I

would prove the soul's distinction from the body, and its immortality,

when nothing of such subtile considerations did any more execution on

his mind than some lightning is said to do, though it melts the sword,

upon the fuzzy consistency of the scabbard, well, said I, Fr. L.,

though none of these things move you, I have something still behind,

and what you yourself acknowledged to me, that may do the business. Do

you remember that clap on the back when your servant was pulling off

your boots in the hall? Assure yourself, said I, Fr. L., that goblin

will be the first that will bid you welcome into the other world. Upon

that his countenance changed most sensibly, and he was more confounded

with this rubbing up of his memory than with all the rational and

philosophical arguments I could produce."

Whilst admitting that the _Report_ of the Dialectical Society indicates

a very considerable initial success, I cannot but feel the undiminished

importance of W. M. Wilkinson's rather caustic warning (_Rep._, p.

231): "The first thing in such an investigation is to assume nothing,

not even that a committee of the Dialectical Society can 'obtain a

satisfactory elucidation of the phenomena.' No committee has ever done

so yet. A committee of professors of Harvard University, amongst whom

was Agassiz, after they had made an examination, did not think proper

to publish their report, though they had published their intention

to do so, and were frequently and publicly asked for it." The London

Society has, at least improved upon the example.

I have maintained throughout that neither the hypothesis of trickery

nor of delusion can be sustained for a moment as an adequate

explanation of the phenomena of spiritualism, on grounds which may

be thus summarized: 1. Many of these phenomena outdo all conjuring.

2. They take place where the possibility of trickery has been

eliminated. 3. The exhibition of imaginative excitement is, on the

whole, inconsiderable, and there is no appreciable proportion between

the degrees of excitement and the phenomena. But, at the same time, I

am far from maintaining that there is no trickery amongst the mediums,

and no predisposition in the company tending more or less to disqualify

them from detecting it. I am inclined to think that more or less

trickery forms part of the stock in trade of most mediums, but that its

share in the production of phenomena is comparatively slight.

Mr. Browning's marvellous conception of _Sludge the Medium_ is based,

I admit, upon a real, existing unscrupulosity on the one side, and on

a real, existing gullibility on the other; but these are magnified

into colossal and perfectly unreal proportions so far as Sludge is

to be taken as a representative of his class. In many cases a single

fraud may fairly be taken to vitiate the whole projection. If in a

chemical demonstration, for instance, we were to discover the secret

substitution, by the operator, of an ingredient not in the programme,

we might fairly conclude that the whole thing was a pretence; that

there was nothing in it. But this is not necessarily so in the case of

spiritualism; the lie or trick does not always imply the total absence

of other force, but may be an initial ceremony, preparing the company

by quickening their expectations, and propitiating the evil influence

by an acceptable sacrifice of human honor.

It must be confessed that there is something very suggestive of

trickery, and of silly trickery, in the attempts made from time to

time by the spirits to flatter into good-humor the anti-spiritualistic

critic of the company; as when Professor Tyndall was dubbed "Poet

of Science,"[196] and when Dr. Edmunds' portrait was given in such

glowing colors that, except in the character of a sceptic, he would

have been ashamed to reproduce it (_Report_). Again, that something

like systematic trickery has sometimes been attempted would seem to be

established by the very remarkable evidence of Mr. W. Faulkener Surgeon

(_Rep._, p. 125): "He said that for years he had been in the habit of

supplying magnets for the production of rapping sounds at spiritual

séances.... Some of these magnets--as, for instance, the one he had

brought with him--were made for concealment about the person; while

others were constructed with a view to their attachment to various

articles of furniture.... He had never himself fitted up a house with

these magnets, and he only knew of one house, Mr. Addison's, that is so

fitted up. He also stated that he had not supplied any of these magnets

for two or three years."

As regards the company's predisposition to believe in spiritualism, I

admit that a sufficient predisposing reaction against materialism has

taken place, giving room for a man to constitute what "Sludge" calls

"Your peacock perch, pet post

To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon,

Just as you thought, much as you might expect,

There be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio."

Nay, I admit that the following fiercely graphic catalogue of the

medium's patrons only sins by omission:

1. "Fools who are smitten by imaginary antecedent probabilities.

2. ... "their opposites

Who never did at bottom of their hearts

Believe for a moment--men emasculate,

Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use,

With superstition safely.

3. "The other picker-up of pearl

From dung-heaps, ay, your literary man,

Who draws on his kid gloves to play with Sludge

Daintily and discreetly; shakes a dust

Of the doctrine, flavors thence he well knows how

The narrative or the novel--half believes

All for the book's sake, and the public stare,

And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world.

4. "There's a more hateful kind of foolery--

The social sage's Solomon of saloons

And philosophic diner-out, the fribble

Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block

To try the edge of his faculty upon;

Prove how much common sense he'll hack and hew

In the critical minute 'twixt the soup and fish:

These were my patrons...."

And far stronger than any such predispositions is the intense and

widespread feeling, so pathetic even in its uncouthest manifestations,

to which Dr. Edmunds refers (_Rep._, p. 57): "Prior to the experience

gained in this inquiry, I never realized the vast hold which the

supernatural has upon mankind. Minds which have broken away from the

commonplace lines of faith, and thrown overboard their belief in

revealed religion, have not cast out the longing after immortality."

And I may add, that when all religious assurance of what the soul must

needs desire is absent, the longing for some visible, palpable witness

becomes proportionably intenser. And so just now, from the very lack of

faith, there is an exceptionally vehement desire that some one should

come with unmistakable credentials from beyond the grave, and make

us see, and feel, and know what we cannot help longing for; and it

is difficult to say to what extent the wish may not be father to the

thought.

I admit that all this constitutes an adverse momentum of antecedent

probability. But, after all, spiritualists, as a whole, are not

persons who have given any indications that this yearning has so

wholly overbalanced their critical faculty as to make them incompetent

witnesses. Moreover, we have, as witnesses to spiritualistic phenomena,

not merely the spiritualists proper, but persons who, as regards the

predominance of this sentiment, are their extremest opposites--viz.,

the advocates of psychic force. It must be admitted that these persons

are either without the yearning for evidence of a future life, or at

least hold it in complete subordination to the critical faculty.

It may easily be contended that I have been overrating the progress and

prospects of spiritualism, for that the public prints as a rule make

fun of it. I may be reminded that Mr. Browning has exposed it, in the

region of poetry, in his _Sludge the Medium_; Professor Tyndall in that

of prose, in his delicious account of a séance, in which he discomfits

the medium and plays spirits himself, to the great edification of the

company, who rebuke him solemnly for his want of faith in his own

make-believe; that the keen critics of the _Saturday_ and the _Pall

Mall_ invariably treat spiritualism as unmitigated humbug.

In reply, I point to the _Report_; to the testimony of an antagonist

like Mr. Geary, as to the number of eminent men who believe in

spiritualism; to the notorious fact that scientific men, as a whole,

in Germany and America have ceased to regard spiritualism as a mere

delusion; to the recent correspondence in the _Times_, and particularly

to the article of December 26, 1872, wherein the writer, after

reviewing the _Report_, exclaims that "it is high time competent hands

undertook the unravelling of this gordian knot. It must be fairly and

patiently unravelled, and not cut through. The slash of the Alexandrian

blade has been tried often enough, and has never sufficed. Scientific

men forget that, in the matter of spiritualism, they must make

themselves fools in order that they may become wise." The writer then

proceeds to relate how he went off to examine for himself. He tells us

that he and his friend enter a room, the furniture of which consisted

of a table and a few cane-bottomed chairs, which he previously

examines; that in an inner room, during a dark séance, in which the

medium's hands and feet have been carefully secured, a chair is lifted

up and thrown upon the table; that afterwards, in the outer room, "the

furniture became quite lively, and this in broad daylight; a chair

jumped three or four yards across the carpet, our hat fell to our feet,

and numerous other phenomena occurred"; but the mediums are free, and

he is nervous about them. In another séance, the same writer, whilst

the medium's hands and feet are in custody, has various things thrust

into his hand, and once "felt distinctly the touch of a large finger

and thumb." Several times during the séance he takes the opportunity,

freely accorded, of carefully searching under the table with a lamp.

He confesses there was nothing during the whole evening, except the

phenomena themselves, to suggest imposture. "We tried our best to

detect it, but found no trace of it." And then he ends with "a slash of

the Alexandrian blade," after all, and suggests that still trickery it

must be.

Spiritualism indubitably affords, and in all probability will continue

to afford, an abundant and legitimate field for the satirist of human

folly, even when its substantial reality has been admitted; for it is

a condescension to a great vulgar want, and its supplies are detailed,

for the most part, through the unwashed fingers of very scurvy fellows

indeed. Neither is there anything in the discipline necessary for the

development of a medium, so far as I know, which makes his refinement

as a class probable.

Educated men are naturally shy of admitting their connection with

anything involving so much that is low and disagreeable, except as

a sort of "casual ward" experience; just as men are usually shy of

its being known that they eat strange meats, such as rats, out of

siege-time. But once let an heroic rat-eater come forward, impelled

by a sense of public duty, to tell the world what a noble viand it is

neglecting, when, lo! it appears, from confessions on this side and on

that, that numbers know all about it, and have been secretly indulging

in the rat feast. So it is with spiritualism and its adherents; it is

only now and again that the curtain is lifted up, and we are enabled

to appreciate the hold which it is steadily making good on the public

imagination.

As to the line taken by the _Pall Mall_ and the _Saturday_, the

question is whether the critics who write in these periodicals

could, under any circumstances, adapt their method and style, I will

not say to the support, but to the fair discussion, of an uncouth,

ill-conditioned, sensational enthusiasm like spiritualism. As it was

the Crusader's boast that he never touched the unbeliever save with

the sword, so, it would seem, some of our critics plume themselves

upon never touching enthusiasm but with a sneer. Our present school of

critics is the result of a reaction from the enthusiastic Young England

school of forty years ago, who were romanticists, patronizing religious

enthusiasm as one of the many forms of romance. We can hardly expect

that a school which is inclined to regard all religious sentiment as

something essentially weak and finikin; which can talk of Joan of Arc

as a "crazy servant-girl,"[197] should be civil to an exhibition of

enthusiasm much weaker, and vulgar to boot. Neither do I see how it

would be possible to write a trenchant _critique_ of such a nondescript

medley, except by treating it as a form of mania. It admits of no

precise scientific treatment, for it falls under no one category.

Spiritualism, to discuss, not to banter, would be as uncongenial a

subject for the _Pall Mall_ or the _Saturday_ as a case of chronic

bronchitis for a brilliant public operator.

When the "Jupiter" of the latter days is engaged in duly chronicling,

for the edification of the public, the splendid spiritualistic

phenomena with which Antichrist will dazzle the world, should the _Pall

Mall_ and _Saturday_ still exist, we should not look for them even

then amongst the enthusiastic crowd. Though employed in the government

interest, they will surely be allowed to do their old work in their old

way, and we shall find them engaged in the congenial task of mocking

the last miracles by which Enoch and Elias are gathering in the remnant

of the elect.

It may be insisted that the one effectual way of repressing

spiritualism is to pooh-pooh it. Surely it is too late; you must give

its many sober adherents some better reason against trusting their own

senses than its making other people laugh.

Assuredly spiritualism can never be safely despised until its reality

has been discounted and its author recognized.

FOOTNOTES:

[192] _Apoth._ l. 409.

[193] _Lib. de Divers. Quæst._, qu. 12.

[194] See Görres, _Mystik_, tom. iii. p. 346, French trans.

[195] St. Aug., _De Unit. Eccles._, c. 19.

[196] Tyndall, _Scientific Scraps_.

[197] This was in the _Spectator_, but surely not of it.

THE FARM OF MUICERON.

BY MARIE RHEIL.

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

XII.

The Sunday after the last day of the harvest, M. le Marquis invited

all the boys up to the château, where a magnificent banquet was

prepared, and they were expected to remain until the evening. He

ordered a splendid repast, and music besides; the principal barn, which

ordinarily was crammed full at this season, but that, owing to the

bad season, was comparatively empty, was decorated for the occasion.

Our master desired that nothing should be spared to make the _fête_ a

great success. All the fine linen of the château--and the closets were

heaping-full of it--the china, and silver were put into requisition, so

that there never was given a more superb banquet to great personages

than to our delighted villagers. As for the _fricassée_, it is

remembered to this day; it was composed, to commence with, of a dozen

kinds of poultry, so well disguised under different sauces that one ate

chicken in confidence as chicken, because it was so written on little

strips of paper laid beside each plate, but without being positive that

it was not turkey or pigeon; and every one agreed in acknowledging

that such a delicious compound had never passed down country throats,

and that the wines, if possible, surpassed the eating; so that the

good fellows commenced to be merry and perfectly happy when the roast

appeared.

Of this roast I will say a word before passing to other things, for

I fancy you have seldom seen it equalled. With all respect, imagine

a huge hog, weighing at least a hundred pounds, roasted whole,

beautifully gilded, and trimmed with ribbons, and reposing so quietly

on a plank covered with water-cresses you would have thought him asleep.

It was really a curious and most appetizing sight, and sufficiently

rare to be remarked; but see how stupid some people are! On seeing

this superb dish, whose delicious perfume would have brought the dead

back to life--that is to say, if they were hungry--some of the fellows

said that M. le Marquis might have better chosen another roast, as

pork was something they ate all through the year. Whereupon Master

Ruinard, the head-cook of the château, made a good-natured grimace, and

apostrophized them as a heap of fools, but without any other sign of

displeasure; and then seizing his big knife, that he sharpened with a

knowing air, he cut the animal open, and out tumbled snipe, woodcock,

rennets, and partridges, done to a turn, and of which each one had

his good share. As for the hog, no one touched it, which proved two

things--first, that you must not speak too soon; secondly, that when a

great lord gives an entertainment, it is always sure to be remarkably

fine.

At the dessert, which was abundant in pastry, ice-cream, and fresh and

dried fruits, they served a delicate wine, the color of old straw, the

name of which I don't know exactly, but which was sweet and not at all

disagreeable. At this time, M. le Marquis, accompanied by mademoiselle,

Dame Berthe, and Jeannette, entered and mingled with the guests, who

rose and bowed low. Our good master thanked the young men for the great

service they had rendered him; and as he could not drink with each one,

he touched his glass to that of Jean-Louis, saying it was to the health

of all the commune. They cried, "Long live M. le Marquis!" until the

roof shook; and as their heads were as heated as the boilers at the big

yearly wash, they whispered among themselves that it would be well to

carry Jean-Louis again in triumph, as much to please the master as to

render justice to him who was the cause of all this festivity.

Now, our Jean-Louis was the only one who remained composed after all

this eating and drinking. He had eaten with good appetite, and fully

quenched his thirst, but not one mouthful more than was necessary. He

heard all that was said without appearing to listen; and when others

might have felt vain, he was displeased; he therefore watched his

chance, slid under the table, and, working his way like an eel between

the legs of his comrades, who were too busily occupied to notice him,

in three seconds was out of the door, running for dear life, for fear

of being caught.

He was delighted to breathe the fresh air, and did not slacken his pace

until he had gone a good quarter of a league, and was near Muiceron.

Then he stopped to take breath, laughing aloud at the good trick he had

played.

"Thank goodness!" thought he, "I have at last escaped. They can run as

fast as they choose now; there is no chance of catching up with me.

What would M. le Marquis and the family have thought to have seen me

hoisted up on the shoulders of those half-tipsy fellows, and paraded

around the court, like a learned beast on a fair-ground? Not knowing

that I had come to the château only to oblige the master, who had

besides given me a valuable watch, it would have looked as though I

wished to receive in vain applause what I refused in money. None of

that, none of that for me; there is enough nonsense going on, without

my mixing myself up in it. They can drink and dance until sunrise

to-morrow, if they so please, it is all the same to me; and I will go

home to bed, after having told all to my dear mother, who will not fail

to approve of my conduct, and laugh heartily at my escape."

As he said this to himself, he entered the wood, of which we have

already spoken, that skirts La Range and throws its shade nearly to

the fir-trees which surround Muiceron. It was such a delightful spot,

either by night or day, that it was difficult to pass through it

without feeling a disposition to loiter and meditate, particularly for

such a dreamer as Jean-Louis. After all, now that he was safe, there

was nothing to hurry him home for at least half an hour. He therefore

put his hands in his pockets, and strolled along, resting both mind and

body in a dreamy reverie for the benefit of the one, and walking slowly

to the great good of the other.

Really, the evening was delicious. The great heat of the day had been

succeeded by a fresh breeze, which, passing over the orchards around,

brought into the wood the sweet odor of young fruit, mingled with that

of the foliage and bark of the trees, damp with the August sap. The hum

of insects was heard, and not far off the joyous murmur of the stream

leaping over the stones. As the ground had been thoroughly soaked for

several weeks past, quantities of wild flowers strewed the soil, and

added to the balmy air a taste of spring, entirely out of season. You

surely must have felt, at some time or other, how such nights and

such scenes enervate the brain. The will cannot resist the bewitching

influence; insensibly we become dreamers, and feel a strong desire to

converse with the stars. August nights especially are irresistible,

and I imagine no one, unless somebody depraved by wicked deeds and

thoughts, or a born idiot, can fail to understand and acknowledge the

effect.

Judge if our Jean-Louis, with his pure soul and young heart of twenty

years, was happy in the midst of these gifts of the good God. He was

like a child who hears for the first time the sound of the bagpipes;

and I beg you will not sneer at this comparison, for the reveries of

an innocent heart have precisely the same gentle effect on the soul

as the grand harmonies that roll through vast cathedrals on the great

festivals of the church.

Doubtless, that he might better listen to this music, he seated himself

on the moss at the bottom of a birch-tree, rested his head against

the trunk, and looked up at the leaves, shaken by the wind, his feet

crossed, and in the most comfortable position possible, to dream at his

ease. Now, whether he was more fatigued than he imagined, on account of

his week's hard labor, or whether the unusual feasting at the château

made him drowsy, certain it is that he first closed one eye, then both,

and ended by falling as soundly asleep as though he were in his bed at

Muiceron.

It happened that, during this time, a storm arose behind the hill

of Chaumier, to the right of the river that runs through the parish

of Val-Saint and Ordonniers--something which our sleeper had not

foreseen, although he was very expert in judging of the weather.

Ordinarily, the river cuts the thunder-clouds, so that this side of La

Range is seldom injured by storms; but this time it was not so. At the

end of an hour or two that his sleep lasted, Jean-Louis was suddenly

awakened by a clap of thunder which nearly deafened him; and in an

instant the rain commenced to fall in great drops that came down on his

face, and of which he received the full benefit as he lay stretched out

on the grass.

He rose at a bound, and started off on a gallop, that his best clothes

might not be injured. Muiceron was not far distant, and the storm had

just commenced; he therefore hoped to reach the house in time to escape

it. Not that he thought only of his costume, like a vain, effeminate

boy, but because his mother Pierrette was very careful, and did not

like to see his Sunday suit spoiled or spotted with the rain.

But the storm ran faster than he; the rain fell as from a great

watering-pot in the trees, lightning glared on all sides at once, and

one would have said that two thunder-clouds were warring against each

other, trying to see which could show the greatest anger.

In the midst of this infernal noise, Jean-Louis suddenly saw what he

thought, by the flash of lightning, to be a little brown form trotting

before him in the middle of the path. He was not a boy to be alarmed by

the raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories with which we frighten children

to make them behave, and which many grown-up men, with beards on their

chin, half believe to be true; but, nevertheless, the thing appeared

quite unusual. He hastened his steps, and, as sometimes he could see

in the lightning-glare as well as at noonday, he soon recognized the

costume of the women of the country, or at least the cloak they throw

over their clothes when the weather is threatening.

"Oh!" said the kind-hearted Jeannet, "here is a poor little thing half

frightened to death on account of the storm. I must catch up with her,

and offer to take her to the village."

For Jean-Louis, although he had very little ever to do with girls,

was so kindly disposed he was always ready to be of service to his

neighbors, whether they wore blouses or petticoats.

But as he hurried on, that he might put in practice his charitable

thought, there came a flash of lightning that seemed to set the woods

on fire, and, immediately after, a terrible clap of thunder as loud

as though the heavens were rent asunder. Jeannet involuntarily closed

his eyes, and stopped short, fastened to the ground like a stake. It

was what the _savants_ call--an electric shock. But don't expect me to

explain that expression, for I know nothing about it, and, besides, I

don't worry my head about such things.

When our boy opened his eyes, after one or two seconds, which appeared

to him very long, his first care was to explore the path, in order that

he might discover the unknown country-girl; but there was nowhere to

be seen a trace of a girl, a cloak, or anything that resembled a human

being.

"Well, this is at least singular," said he very uneasily. "Has my

sight grown dim? No; I would stake my head that I saw before me a

flesh-and-bone woman. I saw it--that I am positive and sure. If she has

been hurt by this stroke of lightning, which must surely have fallen

near here, she must be lying on the ground; for I have never heard

that the storm kills people by making them melt like snow under the

March sun."

This sudden disappearance excited him to such a degree that, without

thinking of the rain, which was pouring down in torrents, and had

drenched his new coat of Vierzon cloth, he resolved to enter the

copse, at the risk of losing his way, and search around until he would

discover the lost girl. But before leaving the beaten path, by a sudden

inspiration, he cried out with a loud voice:

"If there is any one here who needs assistance, let her speak. I will

bring two strong arms to the rescue."

Instantly a faint voice, stifled and weeping, replied, "Oh! for S.

Sylvain's sake, good people, have mercy on me!"

"Holy Virgin Mary!" cried Jean-Louis, "is not that the voice of my

sister Jeannette? She is the last person for three leagues around I

would have expected to find in such a plight at this hour of the night.

But I must be mistaken; it can't be possible."

And with that, more dead than alive from the violent palpitation of the

heart which suddenly seized him, Jean-Louis rushed towards a thicket of

young chestnut-trees that bordered the path, and from which seemed to

come the weak, mournful voice that implored pity. He pushed aside the

branches with a vigorous hand, and soon discovered a girl, in cloak and

hood, crouched upon the ground, and so doubled up in a heap she could

have been mistaken at first sight for a large ant-heap or bundle of old

rags left there by some passing beggar.

"For the love of our Lord and Saviour, tell me who you are, and don't

be afraid of me," said Jeannet, leaning over the poor little thing.

She raised her head, and instantly let it fall again on her knees,

around which her hands were clasped; but as the lightning continued

without ceasing a moment, the movement sufficed for Jean-Louis to

recognize her.

It was really Jeanne Ragaud, but so paralyzed with fear, so wet and

fainting, she seemed about to breathe her last. Her piteous moans were

enough to break one's heart. Her whole body trembled, and thus huddled

up in the middle of the mud in the dense underbrush, her situation

was so perilous I verily believe she would have met her death in that

lonely spot, but for the assistance sent by Heaven.

"Jeanne, Jeanne!" cried Jean-Louis, coming close to her, "keep up your

courage, my darling. Rouse up, I beg of you. Be brave; you are already

chilled through. It is dangerous to remain in the woods in such a

storm."

But the poor little creature did not move. The fright and cold of the

terrible tempest had totally bewildered her. Jeannet vainly shook her

by the shoulders, trying to raise her on her feet, and to unclasp her

hands, which had stiffened around her knees. He could not make her

change her position in the least. What could be done? He did not know

precisely how long she had wandered in the wood before falling down;

and although he had just heard her speak a moment before, he feared

that she was about to die, as perhaps she had been struck by lightning.

He made the sign of the cross, and invoked the angels of paradise.

Immediately he remembered that not far from this grove was a miserable

cabin, used by the wood-cutters, half tumbling down, but still

sufficiently sound to shelter a Christian. This thought gave him fresh

strength; and taking the little thing, doubled up as she was, in his

arms, he raised her from the ground, and carried her, without stopping,

to the wretched hut.

Well was it that he thought of this retreat, and, still better, that it

was not far distant; for Jeannette, although slender and not tall, was

in a dead faint, and consequently so heavy that Jeannet was perfectly

exhausted when he reached the shelter.

By a still greater mercy, he had his flint in his pocket, and, luckily,

it had not been injured by the dampness. He thus was able to strike

a light, after having laid the poor girl on the dry earthen floor.

He quickly lighted some handfuls of brush and straw that strewed the

ground, and by their smoky light discovered, in a corner of the cabin,

a good moss mattress, which the wood-men used when they came to sleep

in the place, and near by a little board, upon which laid a packet of

_auribus_--little resin candles very much used in our province.

"May God be praised for helping me!" thought the brave boy, delighted

at having found poor little Jeannette. "It is a poor bed-room in

comparison with the fine apartments at the château, but worth a palace

when we think of the thicket just now."

He unfastened his sister's cloak, with a thousand respectful

precautions, just as he would have touched the veil that covers the

statue of Our Lady, and in the same manner took off her shoes and

stockings, which he found very difficult, as, owing to the dampness,

the fine thread stockings clung tightly to the skin. That accomplished,

he built up the fire with all the rubbish he could find, and, turning

the moss mattress in such a manner that Jeannette's feet were in front

of the fire, he stretched her gently upon it, and seated himself beside

her, waiting for her to recover her senses.

Thus passed half an hour without the little one stirring; fortunately,

her cloak was very thick, so that the rest of her clothes were not wet,

and he could thus hope for the best. But it was the first time Jeannet

had ever watched by the side of a fainting girl; and, not knowing by

experience what to do in such a case, the time seemed to him very long

before she revived. He himself was dripping wet, and, although he

scarcely gave it a thought, he shivered as one who might soon have the

chills-and-fever.

"It would be very queer if I also should have an inclination to faint;

what then would become of us?" thought Jean-Louis, who really began to

feel very uncomfortable.

As this idea entered his head, Jeannette moved her little feet before

the fire, and began to sigh, and then to yawn, which was the best sign

that there was no danger of dying, as there is always hope as long as

a sick person can yawn. A minute afterwards, she raised herself, and

looked around with astonished eyes that asked an explanation.

"Well," said the happy Jeannet, "how do you feel, my poor little

sister?"

"Is it you?" she asked, still trembling. "O Jeannet! how frightened I

was."

And as she spoke, she tried to throw her arms around his neck, like

a child who seeks refuge in his mother's breast. Jean-Louis drew

back--something which was entirely different from his usual manner of

receiving her caresses.

"Are you angry?" said she. "I have done nothing wrong, except to

venture out to-night to return home; but the weather was not bad when I

started, and I did not dream of such a storm."

"I angry? Why should I be?" cried Jean-Louis, kissing both her hands.

"No, no, my pet; on the contrary, I am most happy to see you a little

restored. But I am thoroughly drenched with the rain; that is the

reason I don't wish you to touch me."

"That is true," said she; "I did not notice it before. What were you

doing before this good fire, instead of drying yourself?"

"I was looking at you," replied Jeannet innocently.

"Big goose!" cried the little thing laughing heartily with her usual

good humor. "Hadn't you any more sense than that? And now you are just

ready to catch the ague."

"Don't be uneasy, Jeannette; it is not the first time I have had a

check of perspiration. What I hope is that you will not suffer by this

adventure, any more than I. But tell me, why did you run away from the

_fête_ at the very moment the dancing was about to commence?"

"I cannot say why," replied Jeannette. "Sometimes we have ideas we

must follow, whether or no. It is as though some one stronger than we

were pushing us by the shoulders the way he wished us to go. To speak

frankly, I saw you leave hastily, and I instantly became more serious,

and felt less desire to be amused. I said to myself, Doubtless Jeannet,

who is better than I, knows that father and mother are alone waiting

for him at Muiceron, and he cannot bear the thought of their sitting

up for him until late at night. And I, what am I doing? Am I not also

a child of the house? Jeannet will relate all that happened at the

dinner, and they will ask, 'And Jeannette?' 'Oh! yes, Jeannette;

does Jeannette think of anything else but amusing herself and talking

nonsense far away from her parents?' At these thoughts my heart

throbbed so I nearly burst into tears; just then mademoiselle was busy

replying to the compliments every one was offering her; so I left the

barn, and went after my cloak, and, without further reflection, started

for Muiceron. You know how afraid I am of thunder and lightning; when

I saw the storm coming up, I became bewildered, and don't know which

way I went, but I suppose it was the wrong one. When I regained what

I thought was the right path, the storm was still raging, and I would

have died of fright, but for you, my old fellow."

"Thank God you escaped this time!" said Jean-Louis, very much touched

by the simple recital, which showed the good heart of the little girl;

"but, nevertheless, you ran a great risk. Now, Jeannette, let us hurry

home; we must quit this place, as it must be late."

"I suppose it is," said she. "Haven't you your watch to see what time

it is?"

"I left it hanging up in my room," replied Jeannet. "I did not wish to

wear it when at dinner in the château, for fear it might look as though

I wished to display it before those who had none; and it is well I did

not take it, as it would have been ruined by the rain."

"How can I walk barefooted?" asked Jeannette. "I can't put on my wet

stockings."

"And your shoes still less," replied her brother, laughing. "But if you

will let me, Jeannette, I can carry you."

"Poor Jeannet! Not at all; it would be too much for you," said she.

"Go to Muiceron, and bring me my wooden shoes. It is all quiet now

outside; I don't hear any noise, and I will not be afraid to remain

here alone for a little while."

It was really the best and shortest way of getting over the difficulty.

Jean-Louis opened the door of the cabin, and saw that the sky was clear

and bright; not this time with the lightning's glare, but with the soft

rays of the moon and beautiful stars of the good God. All was quiet and

peaceful, except that great drops fell from the trees, still wet with

the heavy rain, and that the ruts in the road were filled with water,

that made them look like little rivulets.

"Watch the fire, Jeannette, and be patient ten minutes," said he; "and

in two strides I will be there and back again."

It took a little longer time than that to return, as on entering the

farm he met Ragaud, who was looking to see if the storm had injured the

palings around the barn-yard, and was therefore obliged to stop and in

a few words relate the night's adventure.

The good man, while grumbling and scolding at the imprudence of his

daughter, who, he said, had no more sense than a child six years old,

felt fearfully anxious, as was easily shown by the rapid questions he

asked Jean-Louis. To assure himself that nothing was kept behind, and

that the boy, from kindness of heart, had not disguised the truth, he

hastily took down his big woollen scarf from the hook, and hurried off.

"I will lecture the giddy child well," said he. "Go before, Jeannet; I

will follow you. It is not far, so hurry."

"Mother will be anxious," said Jeannet. "Let me go alone; I will be

back the sooner."

"Your mother has been asleep a long time," replied Ragaud, "or else

she would have been on our heels before this, and we would have had to

carry her back also. Fasten the bolt, without any noise, and let us be

off."

With that they started. Ragaud was quick and light for his age, and

they proceeded at a rapid rate, which soon brought them to their

journey's end. Jean-Louis carried a bright lantern and a bundle of

woollen stockings and wooden shoes he had taken at random out of the

chest; for it was all-important that Jeannette's feet should be well

warmed, and that she should be in her comfortable bed as soon as

possible, so as to prevent fresh chills.

It was nearly midnight when they reached the hut, which enables us to

see what a long time had elapsed since Jean-Louis' flight from the

château, what a good sound sleep he had had in the wood, and proves

that the storm and Jeannette's swoon were not slight affairs.

As soon as they entered--Jeannet the first, Ragaud behind him--they

saw that the lantern was a wise precaution. The heap of brush-wood was

burnt up, and there was no light, except from a little pile of red

ashes, as even the resin candle glued to the wall was flickering and

falling in big drops, which announced its speedy death.

"Here we are, my Jeanne," cried Jean-Louis from the threshold of the

door. "Father is with me, and we have brought fresh lights."

No answer. The child was so weak and faint, it looked as though she had

swooned again. Ragaud, at this sight, forgot the scolding he intended

giving his daughter by way of welcome, and, leaning over her, placed

his hand on her forehead, which was icy cold.

"She is very ill, I tell you," murmured the good man. "Bring the

lantern here, Jeannet. God have mercy on me, how pale the poor child

is!... Jeanne, Jeanne, don't you know us?"

"Ah! yes, my father," she whispered, looking languidly at him. "I hear

you, but I am so sleepy ... so sleepy ... I can't talk."

"But you must wake up, and leave this place," said Ragaud. "Try and

rouse yourself, my child; in five minutes we will be at the house."

She made the effort, and tried to stand on her feet; but for Jeannet,

who was near and caught her, she would have fallen down.

"I am so tired!" she said again, closing her eyes.

"Shall we carry you on _a chair to see the king_?" asked Jean-Louis.

"Perhaps that will be the best way."

"Yes, yes," said she, smiling at this remembrance of her childhood;

"that will be fun."

Undoubtedly you know what is _a chair to see the king_? It is a child's

play, which generally is done by three persons--two boys and a girl;

the boys clasp hands in such a manner that a good seat is made for the

girl, who thus, without any fatigue to the bearers, can be carried as

easily as in a carriage.

Ragaud highly approved of the idea. Jeannet, who thought of everything,

tied the lantern to a piece of cord, and suspended it to Jeannette's

neck, who recovered enough strength to laugh; and thus, well lighted

and very happy, they started on their return to the farm, which they

soon reached safe and sound.

They entered Muiceron by the kitchen door, so softly that Pierrette,

who was sleeping in the big front room, did not hear the slightest

noise. Jeannette appeared perfectly restored; she was gay, although

still pale and shivering; but she assured them the warmth of the bed

would soon make her feel better. So they embraced, and, after many

good-nights, retired to their rooms.

The next morning Ragaud told Pierrette all the events of the preceding

night, but forbade her entering Jeannette's room, for fear she might be

awakened too soon after her great fatigue; but at the same time, unable

to restrain his own curiosity, he took off his wooden shoes, softly

lifted the latch, walked on tiptoe to the bed, and peeped between the

curtains, just to see, for a second, how the child was resting.

Alas! poor Jeannette was sitting up in bed, her face on fire, her eyes

wandering in delirium, her whole body burning with fever. She knew no

one. Her excitement was so great she beat the air with her bare arms,

while her throat was so choked up the voice was nearly stifled. Ragaud

thought she was dying; he uttered a loud cry, which brought Pierrette

to the bedside, where the poor mother fell down, half fainting with

grief and fright.

In an instant the whole farm was in a tumult. Big Marion set up

a blubbering, crying that the child was dying; the cow-herds and

stable-boys burst into the room, and, seeing every one in tears, began

to whine in their turn without exactly knowing why. Jean-Louis alone,

when he saw his sister's dreadful condition, did not shed a tear or

make a sound, but, darting out of the room like an arrow, leaped on a

horse's bare back, and galloped off for the doctor, who lived half a

league beyond Val-Saint, towards the large town of Preuilly.

By good fortune, he found him at home, as it was quite early; and,

while explaining the pressing case that brought him, spied the

doctor's wagon under the shed, and quickly harnessed to it the horse

which he had ridden, so that, in less time than it takes to say it,

doctor, wagon, horse, and Jean-Louis were on the way to Muiceron, and

reached there before any one else had thought that, before such great

lamentation, no matter what was the trouble, it would have been better

to have run promptly for assistance.

And here you will excuse me if I add, by way of advice, that presence

of mind, which is not counted among the virtues, is one nevertheless,

and not at all to be disdained in the life of this world; and,

therefore, I beg of you always to keep a good share in reserve, for

I do not doubt you may soon find use for it, if not to-day, perhaps

to-morrow, and you will always do well to remember what I say.

XIII.

The doctor, on seeing the room of the patient filled with people

lamenting from useless tenderness of heart, instead of doing something

for her relief, began by being very angry. He was a good man,

rather rough and coarse in manner, but skilful in his profession,

and understood perfectly how to manage peasants, for he had always

practised in the country, and was himself of the upper class of

villagers.

"What is such a lot of noisy, lazy bawlers doing around a sick girl,

who needs air and quiet?" he cried. "Get out of here, the whole of

you, and don't one dare come within ten yards. You, Ragaud, can stay

if you choose, but keep as quiet as you are now, and don't look as if

you were more dead than alive, with your miserable face a foot long;

you, Mme. Ragaud, stop hugging your daughter. Let her go; don't you see

you are smothering her? And above all, don't be dropping your tears

on her face; she don't know you. Jean-Louis, don't stir from here;

you are reasonable and courageous, and will be useful to me. And now

open the window, and let out this smell of the stables brought by

those abominable cow-herds, who ought to have been driven out with a

pitchfork. Good. Now tell me what has happened to this child."

All being thus quieted, and the room purified by the fresh morning

air, which came freely in through the open window, a slight change for

the better was soon seen in Jeannette. She let them lay her head on

the pillow, and, although she was still insensible, her pretty face,

crimson and swollen with the fever, looked less excited. The doctor

counted her pulse while he listened to the night's adventure, which was

correctly related by Jean-Louis, as neither the father nor mother could

have put two ideas together at that particular moment.

"Just as I thought," said the doctor; "a violent fever brought on by

exposure to the cold, and wet feet. All the danger is in the head, and

I do not deny that it is very great. The child has a cerebral fever;

do you understand? Cerebral means _of the brain_. Now the brain is the

inside of the head; so the sickness is there, under this beautiful

blonde hair, which you must instantly cut off. I hope, Mme. Ragaud, you

will not hesitate to sacrifice your daughter's hair to save her life?"

"O my God!" cried poor Pierrette, sobbing. "Do what you please, my dear

doctor; if it would be of any use to cut off one of my arms, I would

willingly allow it."

"Yes, my good woman, but that would not help you much, and her not at

all; so keep your arms, we will need them for something else. Come, we

must relieve her. Jump in the wagon, Jeannet, and go to the château,

and tell them to send me some ice, mustard, and other things that I

will write on this slip of paper; and remember to tell mademoiselle not

to be uneasy, and not to put her foot in this house short of a week.

While waiting for the return of Jean-Louis, Mme. Ragaud, draw a bucket

of water from the well, and bring it to me immediately."

Poor Pierrette obeyed without saying a word, which was very beautiful

in her; for hearing it announced that her daughter was ill from cold,

the words ice and well-water confused her terribly. She had already

been horrified when commanded to open the window. Indeed, Dr. Aubry was

no fool, as had been well proved for twenty years; and the best way was

to think that he knew what he was about, no matter how unreasonable his

words might sound.

Jean-Louis performed his errand with his usual promptitude; he brought

back what was needed for the first applications. During his absence,

the doctor had constantly applied bandages, soaked in very cold water,

to Jeannette's head; but that was not effective enough, and, as soon

as the ice was brought from the château, he prepared to use it. It

was the moment to accomplish the sacrifice of Jeannette's beautiful

hair, which was still dressed as for the previous night's dance. To

tell the truth, the thick, heavy braids were enough to weigh down the

poor sick head. Pierrette showed great courage; she only cared for the

relief of her child. As for the doctor, he thought no more of cutting

off this splendid hair than of pulling up a bunch of nettle out of the

flower-beds in his garden.

Ragaud sat as though nailed to his chair, and seemed neither to hear

nor see anything passing around him. You would have pitied the poor

old man. But our Jeannet, so brave until then, could not look on

indifferently at the murderous play of the scissors around that dear

head, which would so soon be shorn of its crowning beauty. As the

doctor cut off a tress and threw it on the floor, as if it were a

noxious weed, he picked it up and smoothed it with his hand, as though

to repay by caresses the condemnation it had received. Thus he soon had

all the fair hair in his hands; and then, as he thought that soon--too

soon, perhaps--it might be the only living vestige of Jeannette, his

courage vanished; he sank on a chair near the window, hid his face in

the mass of hair, that was still warm, and sobbed as though his heart

would break....

This touched Dr. Aubry, who was kind-hearted under his rough exterior.

He never talked sentiment, being too much accustomed to tears and

lamentations around sick-beds; but he loved Jeannet, and thought him

more refined and superior in tone to the surrounding boys. So he

approached the poor child, and, tapping him on the shoulder, he said by

way of consolation: "Bah! you big ninny, that will improve her hair; in

one year it will be handsomer and thicker than ever, and you will have

enough of this to make a hundred yards of watch-chain."

"In one year!" cried Jean-Louis, who only heard this word of all the

fine consolation. "Then you don't think she will die?"

"What are you talking about? Die? A beautiful young girl of seventeen,

who has always been healthy and good, don't die from having got her

feet soaked on a stormy night. Be reasonable, follow my orders, keep

everything around quiet and fresh, don't fatigue her with words and

embraces when she recovers her senses, and, with the help of God, I

will answer for her."

"Oh!" said Jean-Louis, throwing his arms around the doctor's neck,

"may Heaven listen to you, M. Aubry!"

These cheering words brought old Ragaud back to life; big tears rolled

from his dry, fixed eyes, and relieved him greatly. Pierrette fell on

her knees by the bedside; for, before thanking the doctor, it was right

to raise her heart to God, who saw further still than he.

M. Aubry again repeated his orders, which he always did--oftener six

times than once with his village patients; for it must be acknowledged

we are very stupid about nursing, and, outside of the common remedies,

which are purgatives, emetics, and quinine to break the fever, all

the rest of the medical gibberish appears to us very strange, and

often rather contrary to good sense. That is the reason those who are

cured burn a candle to S. Sylvain. But for his kind protection, there

would be as many deaths as sick people; and if you find fault with

that expression, I will tell you that I am very sorry for it, but that

is the way we talk, and I cannot express myself differently or more

delicately than I was taught.

The doctor drove off in his wagon, to which the farm-horse was still

harnessed, and he had the privilege of keeping it several days, which

was a great convenience to him, as his own beast was out at pasture.

He took care to pass by Val-Saint, where he found mademoiselle very

anxious and sad about her god-daughter's accident. As soon as she heard

it was a serious illness, she rushed to the bell, crying that she must

have the carriage immediately to go to her darling; but M. Aubry, who

had his own way with every one, caught her by the arm.

"I beg your pardon," said he; "but you are not going there at all."

"Why not?" she asked. "I cannot stay here without seeing my Jeanne,

when I know she is suffering."

"You shall not go," repeated M. Aubry firmly. "It would be dangerous

for you; and I am your physician as well as hers."

"What nonsense!" said mademoiselle, who, gentle as she was, did not

like him to oppose her. "You will never make me believe a brain fever

is contagious."

"That is yet to be seen," replied M. Aubry, who could lie when

necessary as well as any dentist; "and, if you should get sick, I

declare that, daughter of a marquis as you are, I would not have

the time to take care of you. At this moment I have more sick

people--maimed, wounded, and down with fever--than I can manage, and I

don't want another case; without counting that your château is perched

up as high as the devil, and, to get up here, I would lose half a day."

"You horrid man!" said mademoiselle, who could not help smiling, for

she knew the doctor's way, and never took offence at what he said. "You

talk like a car-driver; but you are perfectly capable of doing as you

say, so I dare not risk it. But when can I go?"

"We will see about that; neither to-morrow nor next day, nor for

several days after. I will come and bring news of her."

"But how will you find time, with all your patients?" asked

mademoiselle, delighted to catch the doctor in a little falsehood.

"You give me the change for my money," said M. Aubry, laughing in

his turn. "I see you are as malicious as ever. Well, then, to speak

frankly, it is not the contagion that I fear, but your chattering and

gabbling, which never stop. If La Ragaudine recovers, it will depend

upon quiet and repose. Not even the buzzing of a fly must be heard

in her room for a week; therefore, it would be useless for you to go

there. But now you can act as you think proper."

"You should have told me this at first," said mademoiselle. "I will not

go; but promise me you will always tell the truth about her, and never

conceal any danger."

"My God! no," said the doctor quietly; "and, to commence, since you

do not wish me to disguise the truth, I will tell you that, if Jeanne

Ragaud does not recover her senses to-night, she will be dead to-morrow

at twelve o'clock."

"But you are a monster!" cried mademoiselle, the tears streaming from

her eyes. "How can you be so hard-hearted as to tell me such news

without any preparation?"

"There!" said the doctor, "you are off again. I thought you wished me

to tell you the whole truth."

"My poor Jeanne! Dead to-morrow!" sobbed mademoiselle.

"One moment--pay attention to what I say--if she does not recover her

senses to-night; but she will, for she was already a little better

before I left Muiceron."

"Oh! I wish you would go away!" cried mademoiselle. "I hate to hear you

talk; you will set me wild.... Come now, doctor, speak seriously: is

poor dear Jeannette really in danger?"

"I tell you yes, but I have great hope. And now I am going away; you

are not angry with me, dear mademoiselle?"

"I will have to forgive you," said she, giving him her hand; "but know

well that I detest you from the bottom of my heart, and, when I am

sick, I will send for another doctor."

"Bah! I bet you won't," replied M. Aubry, perfectly unmoved; "you are

so amiable and gentle when the fever comes on!"

Mademoiselle laughed through her tears; she knew from experience it

was not easy to have the last word with M. Aubry, and she let him go

without further discussion.

The good God showed that he loved Muiceron. For three days Jeannette

was very ill, after which her youth and good constitution overcame the

disease. M. Aubry declared he would answer with his head for hers,

and soon the dear child recovered strength and color. But this was

the moment to be careful; for convalescence is very uncertain and

dangerous, they say, in such a case, and the least imprudence will

suffice to cause a relapse. Therefore the doctor for ever repeated:

"Attend to what I say; because she is better, that is no reason to

think she is cured. Don't let her stir any more than you would let

loose a chicken among the fir-trees; these affections of the brain are

terrible if there is a relapse."

That word, _affections_, was another that Pierrette could not manage to

understand; each time he said it she was terribly perplexed, and looked

intently at the doctor, to see if he could not use a more appropriate

one in its place.

"For," thought she, "I see nothing affectionate in such a wicked fever

that nearly brought my daughter to the threshold of the grave. Whoever

does or speaks ill is always called a great enemy; and I don't think an

enemy can ever be affectionate, or friendly, or anything else of the

sort."

And you will acknowledge the argument was not bad for a good

countrywoman, who knew nothing except to read her Mass-prayers by force

of habit.

It is not necessary to inform you that all the people around were very

much interested in Jeannette's illness; and if there is a consolation

that softens the bitterness of grief, it is surely that which is given

by friends who offer to share trouble. Many of the neighbors were

anxious to relieve Pierrette by taking her place at night; but you

understand that a mother is always mother, and, unless she had fallen

dead at her daughter's bedside, she would yield her post to no one.

Happily, the great danger which demanded such extreme care did not

last long; and as at the end of a week the fever left Jeannette, and

she then slept tranquilly the greater part of the night, Pierrette

consented to lie down, without undressing, on a little bed temporarily

placed in the sick-room by Jean-Louis, and thus was enabled to obtain

some rest.

But many weeks elapsed before Jeannette was strong enough to resume her

accustomed life; and as she daily felt herself improving, the great

difficulty was to keep her quiet in bed, and furnish her amusement, so

that she would not get up too soon, at the risk of falling ill again;

and here, again, Jean-Louis, with his devotion and thoughtfulness,

provided a remedy.

Not far off lived a beautiful young girl, a year or two older than

Jeannette, and the friend of her childhood, named Solange Luguet, the

sister of Pierre; she was tall, rather thin and pale, like Jean-Louis,

whom she somewhat resembled in features and character. This will not

astonish you, as I have already told you they were first-cousins

without knowing it; and, whether legitimate or illegitimate, near

relatives generally have a certain family resemblance.

Solange led a retired life, some said from piety, others from

shyness. She was a skilful seamstress, and embroidered beautifully;

consequently, she never wanted work, and passed her time by her little

window, sewing from morning till night. Jean-Louis was very fond of

her. He often wished Jeannette's tastes and habits were as quiet,

and he sometimes held up Solange to her as a model. But Jeannette's

character was entirely different, and what seemed to Solange the

perfection of happiness would have been miserably tiresome for her;

nevertheless, the two girls were great friends, and were always happy

to meet.

It was, therefore, Solange Luguet whom Jeannet thought of as a means

of distracting Jeannette during her convalescence. He went to her,

and begged that she would come and pass several hours every day with

Jeannette. Solange willingly consented, as she could take her work

with her, and whether she embroidered at home or at Muiceron was all

the same to her; and, besides, she could be useful to her friends,

especially Jean-Louis, for whom it was easy to see she felt a great

preference.

Now, Solange, in spite of her reputation for piety and shyness, was

very lively and bright. The first day she came to the farm Jeannette

was quite subdued; without saying it, she was afraid her companion

would be very serious and frown at the least joke. But it was just

the contrary; Solange amused her so much with her stories, and

gossip--which was never ill-natured--and songs, that Jeannette never

let her go until she promised to return next day. This pleasant

arrangement suited everybody. Ragaud and Jean-Louis gradually resumed

their outdoor work, and Pierrette was less tied down. We all know

that weariness of mind is the worst of ills, as it renders one sad,

and sadness makes both body and soul sick: so this little spoiled

Jeannette, who laughed and chatted from morning till night, recovered

four times as rapidly, thanks to Solange's agreeable company, and was

soon able to sit up an hour or two about noon.

Who had caused all this happiness? Even he who never gave it a second

thought, and to whom it was so perfectly natural to serve others that

it seemed a part of his everyday life; for the excellent Jeannet spoke

so seldom of himself, neither Jeanne nor the Ragauds ever dreamt of

thanking him for having brought Solange, seeing that they knew nothing,

and simply thought the Luguet girl came of her own free will, which

certainly she never would have done, if even the idea had ever entered

her head.

As soon as mademoiselle received permission, she hastened to

Jeannette's side. Every other day her beautiful carriage was seen

coming down the road, and, a minute after, she alighted, accompanied by

Dame Berthe, who always brought a little basket filled with dainties

and delicacies fitted to tempt an invalid's stomach.

Poor mademoiselle found the days very long since Jeanne had left, and

was very impatient for her complete recovery, that she might carry her

back to the château. She did not hesitate to express her desire at each

visit before the Ragauds, never remarking that neither ever replied

to her proposition. The reason was that Ragaud had received such a

severe shock by the narrow escape of his daughter, he had promised and

sworn never again to expose the child to such a fearful risk, which

had so nearly proved fatal. He saw in this terrible sickness a warning

from the good God; and, as he felt it in the bottom of his heart, he

acknowledged in the end that if Jeanne had not led a life above her

position, nothing like it would have happened.

Between ourselves, mademoiselle, who was much better informed than

Ragaud, should have even more clearly understood it. Still further,

as M. le Curé, who you can well imagine came constantly to Muiceron

since the accident, had been confidentially told by Ragaud of his

good resolutions, which he highly approved, and cautiously approached

the subject whenever an opportunity offered of conversing with

mademoiselle. But "none are so deaf as those who will not hear," said

this good pastor; "and even without a scene mischief will come of

taking Jeannette from the château. Her acquaintance there is too long

formed."

It did not happen precisely so. Jeanne, without scenes or difficulty

with any one, had been forced to seek refuge under the paternal roof,

and should have remained there until the present time from her own

free will and accord; but when one has strayed ever so little from the

right path, it is not easy to return to it, even when it has not gone

as far as mortal sin; and you will see this time again that I have

strong proofs to support what I have advanced, as Jeanne Ragaud had to

undergo severe and bitter trials before she could entirely give up the

half-noble position she had involuntarily filled, and resume fully the

simple peasant life.

XIV.

One day, when mademoiselle was making her accustomed visit, after she

had talked and laughed, and played dinner-party with the fruits and

delicacies she had brought to Jeannette, she suddenly exclaimed:

"You are looking admirably, my child--as pretty as a picture; your

color is more brilliant than even before you were sick, and your short

hair, which made me feel so sad the first time I saw it, is more

becoming than the way in which you formerly wore it; but you are very

badly dressed. What have you done with all the dresses I gave you?"

"They are still at the château, godmother," replied Jeannet. "I have

not needed them for a long time. If you will send me some of them, I

will try and look better at your next visit."

"You are very much thinner, poor little thing, so that none of them

will fit you; besides, it will be a long while yet before you can go

out. What you want is a dressing-gown, and I will have one made for

you, if you will promise me to wear it."

"When you come, I will," answered Jeannette, who knew well such a dress

did not suit her position, and that her parents would not like it.

"No, I wish you to wear what I will send, and not only when I am here,

but every day; do you understand, child? I wish it."

"O godmother!" said Jeannette, "I beg you will not insist upon it;

such a dress is very well at the château, but here I cannot dress

differently from my mother."

"I do not wish to transform you into a princess," replied mademoiselle;

"but neither do I like to see you dressed, as you are, in serge. I have

my own reasons for it."

Jeannette bowed her head, although at heart she was very much

dissatisfied. Pretty Solange, who was silently working away in her

corner by the window, gave her an encouraging glance, to keep her firm

in her good resolution; but for ten years Jeannette had given in to all

her godmother's whims and caprices, and dared not answer.

Two days afterwards, a large bandbox, directed to Jeannette, was

brought to Muiceron. She was still in bed, and was quite curious until

it was opened; and there was the promised dress, made of beautiful blue

cashmere, so fine and soft it looked like silk. As to how it was made,

I really cannot describe it; but it is enough to know that mademoiselle

herself could have worn it without impropriety, so that it can easily

be understood it was not suitable for Jeanne Ragaud.

"Isn't it beautiful?" exclaimed Jeannette, admiring the dress, fit

for a marchioness. "But I will never wear it; do you think I should,

Solange?"

"No, indeed," said Solange. "Don't do it for the world, Jeannette; it

would be very wrong for you to wear it, and the neighbors would laugh

at you."

"Help me to get up," replied Jeanne. "It will be no harm to try it on

once; it will amuse us. Can I?"

"Yes, to be sure," said good Solange; "I should like to see you for

once dressed as you were at the château."

Jeannette jumped quickly out of bed, and Solange, to amuse her, brushed

her short hair in such a way that she looked like a little angel; then

she put on some fine white petticoats, and, last of all, the beautiful

robe, which fitted her splendidly. Thus dressed, Jeannette was one of

the prettiest young ladies you can imagine; and I rather think she

looked at herself in the mirror with great satisfaction.

She sat down in the big arm-chair her godmother had sent her from the

château as soon as she was convalescent, and it was easy to see she was

not ill at ease in her beautiful present, but that, on the contrary,

was infinitely satisfied, and not at all anxious to take it off.

However, she feared the arrival of her parents, and did not wish them

to see her in such a costume. Solange, from the same thought, had not

resumed her work, and remained standing before her, ready to undress

her. You see the will was good, but the devil was upon the watch. At

the very moment that Jeannette, with a little sigh of regret, was about

to put off her gay trappings and don her peasant dress, the big white

horses of mademoiselle were heard pawing the ground in the yard.

"It is my godmother!" said Jeannette, blushing. "Well, I am not sorry;

she will see that I do honor to her present."

Mademoiselle entered immediately after, and, seeing Jeannette so pretty

and so stylish in her beautiful dress, kissed her heartily, and loaded

her with praises.

"You are perfectly lovely," said she; "and for the penalty, I have

prepared a great surprise. There is a handsome gentleman, who has come

with me, and wishes very much to see you."

"Will you please tell me who it is?" asked Jeannette.

"No; I wish to see if you will recognize him. Come in, Isidore," cried

mademoiselle to some one who was waiting outside the door.

The said Isidore immediately appeared--a tall young man, well made,

and dressed in the latest Parisian style. His hair was elaborately

curled, and his cravat, gloves, and shoes were so elegant he looked as

though he had just been taken out of a bandbox. He made a low bow to

Jeannette, and paid her a compliment such as we read in books.

Jeannette, much amazed, rose without speaking, and, as her astonished

look showed she did not recognize him in the least, mademoiselle

laughingly relieved her embarrassment.

"What!" said she, "you don't remember Isidore Perdreau, the son

of Master Perdreau, my father's notary, and the playmate of your

childhood?"

"You must excuse me," said Jeanne, "but he is so much changed."

"In size, perhaps," said M. Isidore, "but not in beauty, as you most

certainly are."

"He has returned from Paris, and will in future live at Val-Saint. It

is very good in him," said mademoiselle, "for his life will be very

different; but his father wishes to associate him with himself in

business."

"To all true hearts one's native place is dear," replied M. Isidore,

placing his hand on his waistcoat.

"Don't you remember the young girl by Jeannette?" asked mademoiselle.

"Not precisely," he replied.

"I am the sister of Pierre Luguet, with whom you used to go hunting for

blackbirds."

"Pierre Luguet? Ah! yes, little Pierre; and where is he now?"

"Always in the same place," replied Solange, without stirring.

M. Isidore did not condescend to continue the conversation with one so

little disposed to talk, and, turning towards Jeanne, lavished upon

her some more foolish compliments, which, without being exactly to the

taste of the child, were not displeasing to her vanity.

It was evident that mademoiselle encouraged Isidore, and thought

him very charming. It was not because she was wanting in sense or

penetration, but the custom of living alone in her big château, where

she rarely saw any one but country people, and the new distraction of

carrying out a plot that she had concocted, and which you will soon

guess, made her see things dimly; and whilst Solange, simple girl as

she was, saw at the first glance that young Perdreau had become an

insolent, ridiculous fop, this high-born young lady, who had read so

many books, was ready to faint at the least word of that simpleton--for

simpleton was the name he well deserved until after-circumstances

proved that he was worthy of a still more odious title.

Dame Berthe behaved just like her mistress; but, as the good creature

had scarcely any common sense, that can very easily be understood.

Isidore, since his return three days before, had never ceased to

flatter her and relate long stories about Paris, principally his own

inventions, but to which, nevertheless, the old governess, with eyes,

ears, and mouth wide open, listened with devoted attention. So, when

Solange showed such coldness to her old school-fellow, mademoiselle

looked at her with anything but a gentle expression, and Dame Berthe

instantly shrugged her shoulders and made big eyes at her.

But Solange remained perfectly indifferent; in the first place, because

her back was turned to the ladies, and, secondly, because she worked

away as though she expected to be paid a franc an hour.

Meanwhile, Pierrette and Ragaud came back from the pool Saint-Jean,

where they had commenced to soak the hemp, and Jean-Louis soon

followed. When they saw such fine company in the room, they all three

stopped, rather ashamed of their working-clothes, which was doubtless

the reason they did not observe that Jeannet, in her elegant costume,

was a great contrast to them.

Ragaud, as you already know, was rather given to vain-glory, and his

vanity was easily tickled. It was the only defect of this good man,

but it must be acknowledged this defect clung to his heart as a tree

is tied by its root to the ground; so that in Isidore Perdreau he only

saw the favorable side--to wit, a young man, brought up in the capital,

very rich and handsome, who could be received in the best houses, and

who did not disdain to hasten to greet old friends so far beneath

him. Pierrette, without further reasoning, was very sensible of what

she likewise considered a great honor. So the excellent couple, whose

honest souls were rather stupefied for the moment, quite overwhelmed

Perdreau with the warmth of their reception, and pressed him so

earnestly to repeat his visit you would really have thought they were

welcoming the return of their own son.

Mademoiselle was in a gale of delight, and, when she re-entered the

carriage with her attendants, the lackeys' faces were in a broad grin

at seeing her so gay, and even the horses made two or three little

jumps on starting, as though they, too, participated in the good-humor

of their mistress.

"Well, what did I tell you?" asked mademoiselle of Isidore, who was

seated opposite to her. "Is she pretty enough, well-bred enough? And,

in spite of all your Parisian acquaintances, do you think she is a

woman to be scorned?"

"O mademoiselle!" cried Perdreau, "she is adorable, delightful! But you

brought her up; isn't that enough?"

"She will make a lovely bride," said mademoiselle; "and it will be the

happiest day of my life when I shall see you both leave the church

arm-in-arm."

"How becoming the wreath of orange-blossoms will be to her!" cried Dame

Berthe.

"But will she have me?" asked Isidore in a hypocritical tone.

"Bah! be assured she will be most happy, and her parents immensely

honored," replied mademoiselle; "besides, I have only to say a word, as

you know."

"You are an angel!" said M. Perdreau, as he kissed mademoiselle's hand;

"and if I had not seen you again before Jeanne Ragaud, my happiness

would make me crazy. I can only say that you are the most beautiful and

graceful woman in the world, and she is the second."

Poor mademoiselle, who was humpbacked and anything but handsome, and,

besides, nearly thirty, smiled nevertheless at this insolent speech,

so out of place from the mouth of her notary's son; so true is it that

compliments are swallowed as easily as ripe strawberries, no matter how

false they may be, if the mind is not properly balanced, and cannot

rise above the frivolity and nonsense heard on all sides in this world.

While the carriage rolled away to the château, each one at the farm

had something to say, and Perdreau was there, also, the subject of

conversation.

"He is a very pleasant fellow," said good Ragaud, "not at all proud,

and much better-looking than when he left home. He must have studied

very hard in Paris, and his dear, good father will have a worthy

successor."

"When I think," replied Pierrette, "how readily he accepted your

invitation to supper, never raising the slightest difficulty, that

proves he has a good heart."

"We won't know what to say to him," remarked Jeannette, "he is so much

more learned than we."

"Yes, but very simple with it all," said Pierrette. "I will not be the

least embarrassed. I am sure he will like to talk over all his boyish

tricks and adventures--how he stole apples from Cotentin's garden,

and how he would keep M. le Curé waiting when it was his turn to be

altar-boy."

"He was always full of fun," replied Ragaud, "and is so still; but that

is no defect."

"Oh! certainly not," cried Jeannette.

"For what evening have you invited him?" asked Jean-Louis, who had not

yet expressed an opinion.

"Next Sunday," said Ragaud; "that will not take us from our work, and

we can bring him back with us in the wagon after Vespers."

"What a beautiful dress you have on!" said Jeannet, looking at his

sister.

"Mademoiselle gave it to me," she replied, looking down. "I put it on

to receive her; but I will not wear it again."

"Until Sunday?" asked Jean-Louis.

"Certainly," said Pierrette, "Jeannette must be prettily dressed in

honor of Isidore."

Jean-Louis said nothing; he walked to the window where Solange was

sitting, and leaned on the back of her chair, apparently absorbed in

watching her embroider.

"Jeannet," said Solange, without raising her eyes, "what do you think

of all this?"

"It makes me sad," he replied.

"You have reason to feel so," said she. "That smooth-tongued Isidore

has turned all their heads. Mademoiselle is even more carried away

than the others; and, from the way things are going on, there will be

trouble before long."

Jean-Louis sighed. As they had spoken in a low tone, and the Ragauds

were conversing with Jeannette, their little conversation had not been

remarked.

"Will you go home with us after Mass next Sunday?" continued Solange.

"Pierre will be glad to see you, and Michou has promised to dine with

us at noon, and taste our boiled corn."

"Thank you," said Jeannet, "I will go with pleasure."

This was on Tuesday; the four following days Isidore Perdreau came

constantly to Muiceron, sometimes with mademoiselle, sometimes alone,

and was most cordially received by the Ragauds, and Jeannette also, I

regret to say.

If you are of my opinion, you will allow that nothing is pleasanter

than to listen to a story when there is only question of good people

and happy events. It makes our hearts glad, and we forget for a little

while that life is like the clouds in the sky, streaked with white,

gray, and black, and that often the dark clouds overshadow the light;

but as truth must be loved above all, I am very sorry to tell you

that for the present I have nothing good to relate. You must pardon

me, then, if I am obliged to sadden you by the recital of sinful and

criminal acts, and believe me that, if it is painful for you to have to

listen to them, it is not less so for me to recount them to you.

When mademoiselle once became possessed with the charming idea of

marrying her god-daughter to Isidore, never was the caprice of a woman

without occupation more obstinately pursued and more firmly fastened in

the very bottom of her brain. Very true, she only sought the happiness

of her beloved Jeannette, and thought she had thereby secured it. She

incessantly repeated to Dame Berthe that it would be the greatest

misfortune if Jeannette should marry a peasant, that after all the care

she had lavished upon her for ten years she could not bear to see her

milking the cows, and hardening her hands by washing and working in

the fields. On the other side, she would not risk the happiness of her

pet by marrying her to a man she did not know; consequently, she should

marry some one in the neighborhood; and Isidore was the only person

around who united all the requisites desired by mademoiselle, as the

other young men were only of the laboring class. She communicated her

idea to M. le Marquis, who, without making any objections, thought the

project might be attempted. He himself went to see M. Perdreau, the

father, and announced to him his wishes upon the subject, and Isidore

was immediately recalled from Paris.

Old Perdreau, the notary, passed for one of the most honest men in his

profession. For thirty years M. le Marquis had closed his eyes and left

him the entire control of his affairs, which, truth to say, were not

very complicated, as the principal wealth of the château consisted of

fertile land, woods, meadows, and vineyards, the revenues of which he

received and controlled.

More than that--and this was the worst--our master made him the special

confidant of his most secret expeditions. Thus, when he left home

on one of his mysterious journeys, where he expected to encounter

great dangers, Perdreau alone knew exactly the hiding-places of M. le

Marquis, the plots that were there concocted--in a word, the great

conspiracies that monsieur and his friends thought legitimate in their

souls and consciences, although they could scarcely be called such in

my opinion.

This was very astonishing, it must be acknowledged, as it bound M. le

Marquis hand and foot to his notary. But what could you expect? My

late beloved father, who had been an enthusiastic _Chouan_, contrary to

most of the people of his province, who did not care a fig for all that

fuss, said that perfectly honest souls can never think ill of any one,

and that is the reason they are often duped and vilified without their

even dreaming of it.

For it is time to let you know that Master Perdreau, the notary of

Val-Saint, was, and had been always, the most cunning rascal, not

only of our neighborhood, but of the whole country for twenty leagues

around, including all the towns, little and big. His only idea was

to make money, and for that he would have sold his master, his

conscience--in case he had one--his best friends, his soul, and even

the sacred vessels of the tabernacle. In the way of hypocrisy, deep

wickedness, theft, stinginess, and falsehood he had nothing to fear

from any rival, saving, perhaps, his only son, Isidore, who was rapidly

learning to play the knave, and promised, with the help of the devil,

to become very soon the true pendant of monsieur, his father.

In order to perfect this shameful education, Isidore had finished his

studies in Paris, and Master Perdreau, I need not say, had chosen a

college for him where he would neither learn virtue nor the fear of God.

For the consolation of good people, evil-doers seldom profit by their

crimes. Thus, at this period of our story, Master Perdreau was on the

eve of reaping the fruits of thirty years of criminal conduct, and it

was precisely the opposite of what he had sought all his life that was

about to happen to him.

Holding in his hand the secrets of M. le Marquis, he had used them to

obtain large sums from the poor deluded man, under the pretence of

advancing his interests; and with this money, added to other thefts,

he had first supplied his son with means for continuing his dissipation

in Paris, and then speculated so often and so well in a place not very

Christian--called, I believe, the Exchange--that he had nothing left

he could call his own but his little country office and debts enough

to drive him crazy. Judge, then, if he thought himself favored by

fortune when M. le Marquis came and proposed Jeanne Ragaud to him for

daughter-in-law. Never did a drowning man grasp more eagerly at the

plank held out to keep him from death. The girl's fortune was well

known. Muiceron and the adjoining property was worth at least one

hundred thousand francs; and to rightly estimate the money good Ragaud

laid by every year, one would have to count on his fingers a tolerably

long while. Further, Jeannette was an extremely pretty girl, brought

up as a young lady, and there was no doubt her godmother would leave

her--perhaps might give her at her marriage--a very handsome present.

All being thus arranged to the satisfaction of this scoundrel of a

notary, he had only to rub his hands and chuckle at the idea of having

fooled everybody during his whole life.

I will not sadden you by relating what was the conversation on the

subject between father and son on the evening of Isidore's arrival in

the village, and the means which they proposed to accomplish their

ends, which was to wheedle old Ragaud into giving up all the property

to his daughter, only reserving for himself a modest annuity. As for

the shameful way in which these arrant swindlers held up to ridicule M.

le Marquis, whom they called "old fool," and mademoiselle, whom they

stigmatized as the "yellow dwarf," on account of her crooked figure, it

would make me sick to relate all they said. However, in saying that

Perdreau deceived everybody, I have rather exaggerated, for two men in

the village saw through his villany, and, thank God, they were two of

the most worthy--namely, Jacques Michou, and our dear, holy _curé_.

The first, who, as you know, had never been drawn into the promising

conspiracies of his good lord, had always suspected Perdreau for

catching so readily at the alluring bait. He had watched him closely,

and, to fully unravel his plans, pretended to become very intimate with

M. Riponin, the steward, who was scarcely any better than the notary,

but who owed Perdreau a grudge for his having duped him in some knavish

trick they undertook together. Since then, Michou, who knew how to play

one against the other, in order to serve his master, made one thief

steal from the other, and fully succeeded in his design. As for our

_curé_, he knew both the good and the bad, and looked out for a squall.

The great misfortune was that mademoiselle was so fully possessed with

her idea of the marriage she neglected to consult him and ask his

advice.

Alas! I am bound now to avow that poor little Jeannette, whose sin was

more of the head than the heart, allowed herself to be very quickly

caught in the net held out to her. Never did a giddy, inconstant little

fish make the leap as willingly as she. In a village marriages are soon

arranged. The parties are supposed to be well acquainted. At the first

proposition, when the interests agree, they have only to say yes; and

so it happened no later than the second Sunday after the arrival of

Isidore Perdreau.

Every one assisted to hurry up the affair with lightning speed. Jeanne

solemnly believed all the nonsense poured into her ear by Isidore,

thought herself adored by him, and regarded him as infinitely superior

to all other men in style, manner, and fine speeches. Ragaud and

Pierrette were puffed up with pride; monsieur and mademoiselle did

not conceal their satisfaction; and the people around, with the sole

exception of Michou, who was looked upon as a cross, peevish old

fellow, hastened to congratulate the fortunate couple.

Sickness was no longer thought of. Jeannette, happy and triumphant,

rapidly regained her strength. The poor silly child only thought of her

new dresses and of the promised visit to Paris after her marriage, the

delights of which Isidore dwelt upon in glowing terms, which would have

turned a stronger head than hers. Never, in fact, did a family rush

blindfolded and more willingly into a bottomless abyss.

However, there was one person at Muiceron whose presence tormented

M. Isidore, and whom he had hated from the first day. You can guess

it was Jean-Louis. Each time that he entered the house and saw that

tall figure, the face pale and serious, silently seated in a corner,

the only one who did not receive him with joy, his eyes flashed with

anger, and he would turn his back on him in the most contemptuous

manner--something which the Ragauds would certainly have resented in

any one else; but the poor people were so bewitched they were unjust

enough to be angry with Jean-Louis, and even to fancy that he was

jealous, whilst he was only very properly grieved at what had happened.

His life had become very different. No more friendly talks, no more

watching for him, no more tender caresses; not that they had ceased to

love him, but there was no time for these innocent family recreations,

and, besides, it would have embarrassed them to make a display of

affection before M. Isidore, who thought all such country performances

beneath him. Poor Jean-Louis, who for so many years had always entered

Muiceron with joyful heart at the thought of embracing his dear mother,

now came in with sad and troubled brow. Pierrette always appeared busy

and worried. She would rapidly say "good-evening" in reply to Jeannet's

gentle salutation whispered in her ear, and immediately go on with

her work; for there were always sauce-pans to overlook, or orders to

give to Marion, who was not the least bewildered of them all. As for

Jeannette, the cold manner in which Jean-Louis always treated her

intended, and, above all, the wicked insinuations Isidore made against

him, aroused her displeasure; and, if Pierrette was always absorbed

in her household cares, Jeannette pained him still more by her frigid

manner, bordering on sullenness.

Jean-Louis felt all this most keenly. He was not a person who liked to

complain or ask explanations; besides, what would he have gained by it?

He knew too well the reason of their conduct to be obliged to ask why.

In a moment he could have changed all by appearing as delighted as the

rest; but that was precisely what he would not do. In truth, when we

see those we love at the point of drowning, how can we applaud?

Still worse was it when the family circle of Muiceron was increased

by the presence of old Perdreau, who nearly every evening showed his

weasel-face at the table, and drank with great friendliness to the

health of the good people whose ruin he was mercilessly plotting.

Jean-Louis two or three times bore it patiently; then he felt he could

take himself off, and be missed by no one; so one fine evening he

mustered up courage, left the farm before supper, and went off to the

house of his friends, the Luguets.

As usual, he found the little house quiet, clean, and shining with

neatness. Pierre was reading aloud the life of a saint, while Solange,

always employed, was sewing by the lamp. Their old parents and Jacques

Michou, seated around the fire, listened in silence, and the dog lay

snoring on the warm hearth-stones. Jeannet on entering motioned with

his hand for them not to stir, and seated himself by Solange, who

nodded to him.

"My friends," said Jean-Louis when the reading was over, "I have come

to ask for my supper this evening, and perhaps I may again to-morrow."

"Whenever you please, my boy," said Luguet.

"Things don't please you at Muiceron, eh?" asked Michou.

"Ah!" replied Jeannet sadly, "perhaps I am unjust and wrong; but I

cannot bring myself to help in that marriage."

"What difference does it make to you?" said Pierre; "when people are

possessed, they will do as they please. You are too sensitive, Jean;

after all, you will not have to marry Perdreau."

"I am so sure," replied Jeannet, "that poor child will be unhappy."

"No one forces her!" said Pierre. "She wishes it, so do the Ragauds, so

do M. le Marquis and mademoiselle. All agree; well, then, let them run

the risk!"

"Be still, Pierre," said Solange; "you speak as though you had no

heart. Remember that Jeannette has been from her infancy like a sister

to Jean-Louis; would you like to see me marry Isidore?"

"Ah!" cried Pierre, "I would sooner cut his throat; but you are not

like Jeannette."

"Don't say anything against her," replied good Solange with warmth.

"She is the best girl in the world; and because her head is rather

light and giddy, that does not prevent her having an excellent heart.

I understand Jean-Louis' feelings, for, certainly, Isidore Perdreau's

reputation is not very good. But who knows? Perhaps, when he is married

and settles down, he may make Jeannette a good husband."

"Thank you, Solange," said Jeannet, taking her hand, "it is so kind

in you to defend her; it makes me feel happy. If I could only show a

little friendship for Isidore, I think I would be less miserable; but I

cannot conquer myself; I cannot change...."

"It is not worth while trying to do it, boy," said Michou; "when we see

misfortune coming, and cannot prevent it, the best we can do is to keep

at a distance, and not meddle."

"Then, M. Michou, you really think trouble will come of it?" asked

Jeannet.

"Yes, my son, such overwhelming trouble," answered the game-keeper,

"that until the day I see them standing before the mayor and the

_curé_, I shall hope the good God will work a miracle to prevent

it. The Ragauds at present are like men who have taken too much

brandy--that is to say, they are as tipsy as a beggar after the

vintage. They can neither hear nor understand. But mind what I say; you

others who are in your senses. I will tell you what sort of men they

are, that infamous notary and his rascal of a son, and then you will

see whether Jean-Louis is right or wrong."

Thereupon he recounted to his astonished friends what we already know,

but went into greater details than I have thought necessary.

"We can only pray to God," said Solange when he had ended. "Alas!

poor Jeannette, what will become of her? M. Michou, you must warn the

Ragauds."

"You think that would be easy?" said Michou. "In the first place, they

would not believe me. Monsieur and mademoiselle would be indignant. The

Perdreaux are too thorough scoundrels not to have at hand a crowd of

proofs and protestations which would make them appear as white as snow.

Every one is against us, up to that obstinate Jeannette, who is dead in

love with Isidore, so they say--hare-brained little fool!"

"It is only too true," said Jeannet, much overcome.

"As for you," resumed Michou, "in consequence of your peculiar

position, you can say less than any one else; but if I were in your

place, I would not remain an indifferent spectator of such a sad

affair."

"What can I do?" said Jeannet. "How can I abandon them?"

"Come and stay with me a while. I am clearing a part of the wood;

you can overlook the workmen, and we can manage to keep house with

Barbette, if you are not very difficult to please about the cooking."

"Oh! I would like it very much, M. Michou, and you will do me a great

favor. But I must ask my father about it; will you see him, and get his

consent?"

"To-morrow we will have it all arranged," replied Michou.

"Jeannet," said Solange, "the wood of Val-Saint is not very far from

here; when your day's work is over, you must remember there is always a

place at our table for a friend. Come, and we will console you. Don't

worry yourself too much about all this affair; often the storm is so

terrible we expect every moment to be struck with lightning, and then

the clouds break, the sky clears, and, after all the fright, nobody is

killed."

Jean-Louis, notwithstanding his sadness, could not help smiling at

these hopeful words, spoken by this good and beautiful girl, so

reasonable in all things, and still always so cheerful. He pressed her

hand, and helped her set the table for supper. Michou, reflecting on

these words of Solange, wisely remarked that the future being in the

hands of God, who always concealed it from us through mercy or to grant

us agreeable surprises, it was unbecoming in us to torment ourselves

too much about it.

At which speech good Pierre, who never liked trouble, loudly applauded;

and then, the repast being served, all sat down to table, and, while

eating, conversed on various topics not the least connected with

Muiceron.

XV.

According to his promise, Michou the next day paid an early visit to

the Ragauds, accompanied by his old blackened pipe, which he always

kept firmly between his teeth when he feared he might become impatient

or angry in conversation. He said that, without it, the big words

would rush out of his mouth before he had time to prevent them; but

that, with it, while he smoked, shook it, or relighted it, he regained

his composure, and gathered time to arrange his ideas. And never was

_puffer_--as he called his pipe--more necessary than on this visit

to Muiceron. Seeing his friends on the point of throwing themselves

into the enemy's clutches, and knowing that remonstrance would

avail nothing, he felt that anger and sorrow might carry him to any

extremity--in words only, let it be well understood.

He found Ragaud seated before the door, shelling gray peas, while

Pierrette was washing dishes; for, since she had commenced to feed the

Perdreaux, all the crockery was in use, and they went to bed so late

half the work remained for next day.

"I wish you good-morning," said Michou to his friends. "I see you are

very busy, but I have only come to remain a few moments."

"Come in," said Pierrette.

"No, I prefer to remain outside," replied Michou. "I like the fresh

air. Ragaud, do you feel inclined to do me a favor?"

"What a question!" said the good man. "I am always ready for that, my

old friend."

"Thank you, it is not a very great request. Can you spare me Jean-Louis

for a fortnight? I have twenty men at work in the wood of Montreux, and

no one to oversee them. The young fellow can help me a great deal."

"Very willingly," said Ragaud; "the hemp is nearly ready, and I do not

want Jeannet just now."

"He will take his meals with me," replied Michou, "and sleep at my

house the nights. He will be obliged to work late; so you need not be

uneasy if he does not return home sometimes."

"Agreed," said Ragaud. "Do you employ the wood-cutters of the

neighborhood?"

"Deuce take it, no!" replied Michou. "I hire them right and left, and

truly they are the stupidest asses. The way they talk makes one's hair

stand up under his cap."

"Bah! what do they say?"

"Devilish nonsense! Why, they talk of nothing but revolution,

overthrowing everything and everybody, massacring the nobility, and

theft. I remember how my father, long ago, told me about the people

before the Reign of Terror, and I imagine these men must be something

of the same stamp. Some of them disappear sometimes; when they return,

they speak in whispers, and, when I order them to go to work, you

should see the way they glare at me. It is very well I don't know what

fear means; but, reinforced by Jeannet, all will go well."

"Take him right away," said Ragaud; "and if he is not enough, well,

send for me; I will give you a helping hand."

"You?" replied Michou, who commenced to mumble over his pipe. "You are

too busy in this house with the wedding."