am thinking of what my mother has always told me: that a woman of sixty
is much to be pitied when her husband is seventy or seventy-five and
can't work any longer to support her. He grows infirm, and she must take
care of him at an age when she herself is beginning to have great need
of care and rest. That is how people come to end their lives in the
gutter."
"Parents are right to say that, I agree, Marie," said Germain; "but,
after all, they would sacrifice the whole of youth, which is the best
part of life, to provide against what may happen at an age when one has
ceased to be good for anything, and when one is indifferent about ending
his life in one way or another. But I am in no danger of dying of hunger
in my old age. I am in a fair way to save up something, because, living
as I do with my wife's people, I work hard and spend nothing. Besides, I
will love you so well, you know, that that will prevent me from growing
old. They say that when a man's happy he retains his youth, and I feel
that I am younger than Bastien just from loving you; for he doesn't love
you, he's too stupid, too much of a child to understand how pretty and
good you are, and made to be courted. Come, Marie, don't hate me, I am
not a bad man; I made my Catherine happy; she said before God, on her
death-bed, that she had never been anything but contented with me, and
she advised me to marry again. It seems that her heart spoke to her
child to-night, just as he went to sleep. Didn't you hear what he said?
and how his little mouth trembled while his eyes were looking at
something in the air that we couldn't see! He saw his mother, you may be
sure, and she made him say that he wanted you to take her place."
"Germain," Marie replied, greatly surprised and very grave, "you talk
straightforwardly, and all you say is true. I am sure that I should do
well to love you, if it wouldn't displease your relations too much; but
what would you have me do? my heart says nothing to me for you. I like
you very much; but although your age doesn't make you ugly, it frightens
me. It seems to me as if you were something like an uncle or godfather
to me; that I owe you respect, and that there would be times when you
would treat me as a little girl rather than as your wife and your equal.
And then my girl friends would laugh at me, perhaps, and although it
would be foolish to pay any attention to that, I think I should be
ashamed and a little bit sad on my wedding-day."
"Those are childish reasons; you talk exactly like a child, Marie!"
"Well, yes, I am a child," she said, "and that is just why I am afraid
of a man who knows too much. You see, I'm too young for you, for you are
finding fault with me already for talking foolishly! I can't have more
sense than belongs to my years."
"Alas! _mon Dieu_! how I deserve to be pitied for being so awkward and
for my ill-success in saying what I think! Marie, you don't love me,
that's the fact; you think I am too simple and too dull. If you loved me
a little, you wouldn't see my defects so plainly. But you don't love me,
you see!"
"Well, it isn't my fault," she replied, a little wounded by his dropping
the familiar form of address he had hitherto used; "I do the best I can
while I listen to you, but the harder I try, the less able I am to make
myself believe that we ought to be husband and wife."
Germain did not reply. He hid his face in his hands and it was
impossible for little Marie to tell whether he was crying or sulking or
asleep. She was a little disturbed to see him so depressed, and to be
unable to divine what was going on in his mind; but she dared say no
more to him, and as she was too much astonished by what had taken place
to have any desire to go to sleep again, she waited impatiently for
daybreak, continuing to keep up the fire and watching the child, whom
Germain seemed to have forgotten. Germain, meanwhile, was not asleep; he
was not reflecting on his lot, nor was he devising any bold stroke, or
any plan of seduction. He was suffering keenly, he had a mountain of
_ennui_ upon his heart. He wished he were dead. Everything seemed to be
turning out badly for him, and if he could have wept, he would not have
done it by halves. But there was a little anger with himself mingled
with his suffering, and he was suffocating, unable and unwilling to
complain.
When day broke and the noise in the fields announced the fact to
Germain, he took his hands from his face and rose. He saw that little
Marie had not slept, either, but he could think of nothing to say to her
to show his solicitude. He was utterly discouraged. He concealed Grise's
saddle in the bushes once more, took his bag over his shoulder, and
said, taking his son's hand:
"Now, Marie, we'll try and finish our journey. Do you want me to take
you to Ormeaux?"
"We will go out of the woods together," she replied, "and when we know
where we are, we will go our separate ways."
Germain said nothing. He was wounded because the girl did not ask him to
escort her to Ormeaux, and he did not realize that he had made the offer
in a tone that seemed to challenge a refusal.
A wood-cutter, whom they met within two hundred paces, pointed out the
path they must take, and told them that after crossing the great meadow
they had only to go, in the one case straight ahead, in the other to
the left, to reach their respective destinations, which, by the way,
were so near together that the houses at Fourche could be distinctly
seen from the farm of Ormeaux, and _vice versa_.
When they had thanked the wood-cutter and passed on, he called them back
to ask if they had not lost a horse.
"I found a fine gray mare in my yard," he said, "where she may have gone
to escape the wolf. My dogs barked all night long, and at daybreak I saw
the beast under my shed; she's there still. Go and look at her, and if
you know her, take her."
Germain, having described Grise and being convinced that it was really
she, started back to get his saddle. Little Marie thereupon offered to
take the child to Ormeaux, where he could come and get him after he had
paid his respects at Fourche.
"He isn't very clean after the night we have passed," she said. "I will
brush his clothes, wash his pretty little face, and comb his hair, and
when he's all spick and span, you can present him to your new family."
"How do you know that I am going to Fourche?" rejoined Germain testily.
"Perhaps I shan't go there."
"Oh! yes, Germain, you ought to go, and you will," said the girl.
"You are in a great hurry to have me married to somebody else, so that
you can be sure I won't make myself a nuisance to you."
"Come, come, Germain, don't think any more about that; that's an idea
that came to you in the night, because our unpleasant adventure
disturbed your wits a little. But now you must be reasonable again; I
promise to forget what you said to me and never to mention it to any
one."
"Oh! mention it, if you choose. I am not in the habit of taking back
what I say. What I said to you was true and honest, and I shan't blush
for it before any one."
"Very good; but if your wife knew that you had thought of another woman
just at the moment you called on her, it might turn her against you. So
be careful what you say now; don't look at me like that, with such a
strange expression, before other people. Think of Père Maurice, who
relies on your obedience, and who would be very angry with me if I
turned you from doing as he wants you to. Good-by, Germain; I'll take
Petit-Pierre with me so as to force you to go to Fourche. I keep him as
a pledge."
"Do you want to go with her?" said the ploughman to his son, seeing
that he was clinging to little Marie's hands and following her
resolutely.
"Yes, father," replied the child, who had been listening and understood
in his own way what they had been saying unsuspectingly before him. "I
am going with my darling Marie: you can come and get me when you're done
getting married; but I want Marie to be my little mother, just the
same."
"You see that he wants it to be so," Germain said to the young girl.
"Listen, Petit-Pierre," he added, "I want her to be your mother and stay
with you always: she's the one that isn't willing. Try to make her do
what I want her to."
"Don't you be afraid, papa, I'll make her say yes: little Marie always
does what I want her to."
He walked away with the girl. Germain was left alone, more depressed and
irresolute than ever.
XII
THE VILLAGE LIONESS
However, when he had repaired the disorder of travel in his clothes and
his horse's accoutrements, when he was mounted upon Grise and had
ascertained the road to Fourche, he reflected that there was no drawing
back and that he must forget that night of excitement as a dangerous
dream.
He found Père Léonard in the doorway of his white house, sitting on a
pretty wooden bench painted spinach green. There were six stone steps
leading to the frontdoor, showing that the house had a cellar. The wall
between the garden and hemp-field was roughcast with lime and pebbles.
It was an attractive place; one might almost have taken it for the abode
of a substantial bourgeois.
Germain's prospective father-in-law came to meet him, and, after five
minutes spent in questioning him concerning his whole family, he added
this phrase, invariably used to question courteously those whom one
meets as to the object of their journey: "So you have come out this way
for a little ride, eh?"
"I came to see you," replied the ploughman, "and to offer you this
little gift of game from my father-in-law, and to say, also from him,
that you would know my purpose in coming."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Père Léonard, patting his round paunch, "I see, I
hear, I understood!" And he added, with a wink: "You'll not be alone in
paying your respects, my young friend. There are three in the house
already, dancing attendance like you. I don't turn anybody away, and I
should be hard put to it to decide against any one of them, for they're
all good matches. However, on account of Pere Maurice and the quality of
your lands, I should prefer you. But my daughter's of age and mistress
of her own property; so she will do as she pleases. Go in and introduce
yourself; I hope you may draw the lucky number!"
"Pardon, excuse me," replied Germain, greatly surprised to find himself
one of several, where he had expected to be alone. "I didn't know that
your daughter was already provided with suitors, and I didn't come to
dispute for her with others."
"If you thought that because you were slow in coming," retorted Père
Léonard, with undiminished good-humor, "you would catch my daughter
napping, you made a very great mistake, my boy. Catherine has something
to attract husbands with, and she'll have only too many to choose from.
But go into the house, I tell you, and don't lose courage. She's a woman
worth disputing for."
And, pushing Germain by the shoulders with rough good-humor, "Here,
Catherine," he cried, entering the house, "here's one more!"
This jovial but vulgar manner of being introduced to the widow, in the
presence of her other suitors, put the finishing touch to the
ploughman's confusion and annoyance. He felt ill at ease, and stood for
some moments without venturing to turn his eyes on the fair one and her
court.
The Widow Guérin was well made, and did not lack freshness. But the
expression of her face and her costume repelled Germain at the first
glance. She had a forward, self-satisfied air, and her mob-cap trimmed
with a triple row of lace, her silk apron, and her black lace fichu were
decidedly not in harmony with the idea he had conceived of a sedate,
serious-minded widow.
This elegance in dress and her free and easy manners made her appear
old and ugly to him, although she was neither. He thought that such
coquettish attire and such playful manners would be well suited to the
age and keen wit of little Marie, but that such pleasantry on the
widow's part was heavy and stale, and that there was no distinction in
the way she wore her fine clothes.
The three suitors were sitting at a table laden with food and wine,
which were kept there for them through the whole of Sunday morning; for
Père Léonard loved to exhibit his opulence, nor was the widow sorry to
display her fine plate and to keep open house like a woman of means.
Germain, simple and trustful as he was, did not lack penetration in his
observation of things, and for the first time in his life he stood on
the defensive while drinking. Père Léonard had compelled him to take a
seat with his rivals, and, seating himself opposite him, he treated him
as handsomely as possible, and devoted himself to him with evident
partiality. The gift of game, despite the breach Germain had made in it
on his own account, was still considerable enough to produce an effect.
The widow seemed to appreciate it, and the suitors eyed it disdainfully.
Germain felt ill at ease in that company, and did not eat with any
heartiness. Père Léonard rallied him about it.--"You seem very down in
the mouth," he said, "and you're sulking with your glass. You mustn't
let love spoil your appetite, for a fasting lover can't find so many
pretty things to say as the man who has sharpened up his wits with a
mouthful of wine."
Germain was mortified that it should be assumed that he was in love; and
the affected demeanor of the widow, who lowered her eyes with a smile,
like one who is sure of her game, made him long to protest against his
alleged surrender; but he feared to seem discourteous, so he smiled and
took patience.
The widow's lovers seemed to him like three rustic clowns. They must
have been rich, or she would not have listened to their suits. One of
them was more than forty, and was about as stout as Père Léonard;
another had but one eye, and drank so much that it made him stupid; the
third was young and not a bad-looking fellow; but he attempted to be
witty, and said such insane things that one could but pity him. But the
widow laughed as if she admired all his idiotic remarks, and therein she
gave no proof of good taste. Germain thought at first that she was in
love with the young man; but he soon perceived that he was himself the
recipient of marked encouragement, and that she wished him to yield more
readily to her charms. That was to him a reason for feeling and
appearing even colder and more solemn.
The hour of Mass arrived, and they left the table to attend in a body.
They had to go to Mers, a good half-league away, and Germain was so
tired that he would have been glad of an opportunity to take a nap
first: but he was not in the habit of being absent from Mass, and he
started with the others.
The roads were filled with people, and the widow walked proudly along,
escorted by her three suitors, taking the arm of one, then of another,
bridling up and carrying her head high. She would have been very glad to
exhibit the fourth to the passers-by; but it seemed so ridiculous to be
paraded thus in company by a petticoat, in everybody's sight, that he
kept at a respectful distance, talking with Père Léonard and finding a
way to divert his thoughts and occupy his mind so that they did not seem
to belong to the party.
XIII
THE MASTER
When they reached the village, the widow stopped to wait for them. She
was determined to make her entry with her whole suite; but Germain,
refusing to afford her that satisfaction, left Père Léonard, spoke with
several people of his acquaintance, and entered the church by another
door. The widow was vexed with him.
After the Mass, she made her appearance in triumph on the greensward
where dancing was in progress, and opened three successive dances with
her three lovers. Germain watched her, and concluded that she danced
well, but with affectation.
"Well!" said Léonard, clapping him on the shoulder, "so you don't ask my
daughter to dance? You are altogether too bashful!"
"I don't dance since I lost my wife," the ploughman replied.
"Oh! but when you're looking for another, mourning's at an end in your
heart as well as in your clothes."
"That's no argument, Père Léonard; besides, I feel too old, I don't care
for dancing any more."
"Hark ye," rejoined Léonard, leading him apart, "you took offence when
you entered my house, because you found the citadel already surrounded
by besiegers, and I see that you're very proud; but that isn't
reasonable, my boy. My daughter's used to being courted, especially
these last two years since her mourning came to an end, and it isn't her
place to make advances to you."
"Your daughter has been free to marry again for two years, you say, and
hasn't made up her mind yet?" said Germain.
"She doesn't choose to hurry, and she's right. Although she has rather a
lively way with her, and you may think she doesn't reflect much, she's a
woman of great good sense and one who knows very well what she's about."
"I don't see how that can be," said Germain ingenuously, "for she has
three gallants in her train, and if she knew what she wanted, at least
two of them would seem to her to be in the way and she would request
them to stay at home."
"Why so? you don't know anything about it, Germain. She doesn't want
either the old man or the one-eyed one or the young one, I'm almost
certain of it; but if she should turn them away, people would say she
meant to remain a widow and no others would come."
"Ah, yes! they act as a sign-post for her!"
"As you say. Where's the harm if they like it?"
"Every one to his taste!" said Germain.
"That wouldn't be to your taste, I see. But come, now, we can come to an
understanding: supposing that she prefers you, the field could be left
clear for you."
"Yes, supposing! And how long must I stand with my nose in the air
before I can find out?"
"That depends on yourself, I fancy, if you know how to talk and argue.
So far my daughter has understood very clearly that the best part of her
life would be the part that she passed in letting men court her, and she
doesn't feel in any hurry to become one man's servant when she can give
orders to several. And so, as long as the game pleases her, she can
divert herself with it; but if you please her more than the game, the
game may be stopped. All you have to do is not to be discouraged. Come
every Sunday, ask her to dance, give her to understand that you're on
the list, and if she finds you more likeable and better informed than
the others, I don't doubt that she'll tell you so some fine day."
"Excuse me, Père Léonard, your daughter is entitled to act as she
pleases, and I have no right to blame her. I would act differently if I
were in her place; I'd be more honest, and I wouldn't let men throw away
their time who probably have something better to do than hang around a
woman who laughs at them. But, after all, if that entertains her and
makes her happy, it's none of my business. But I must tell you one thing
that is a little embarrassing for me to confess since this morning,
seeing that you began by making a mistake as to my intentions and didn't
give me any time to reply; so that you believe something that isn't so.
Pray understand that I didn't come here to ask for your daughter's hand,
but to buy a pair of oxen that you intend to take to the fair next week
and that my father-in-law thinks will suit him."
"I understand, Germain," said Léonard calmly; "you changed your mind
when you saw my daughter with her lovers. That's as you please. It seems
that what attracts one repels another, and you have the right to
withdraw as long as you haven't spoken yet. If you really want to buy
my oxen, come and look at them in the pasture; we'll talk it over, and
whether we strike a bargain or not, you'll come and take dinner with us
before you go back."
"I don't want you to put yourself out," replied Germain, "perhaps you
have business here; I'm a little tired of watching them dance and of
doing nothing. I'll go to look at your cattle, and join you later at
your house."
Thereupon, Germain slipped away and walked toward the meadows, where
Léonard had pointed out some of his beasts in the distance. It was true
that Père Maurice wanted to buy, and Germain thought that if he should
take back a good yoke at a moderate price, he would be pardoned more
readily for having voluntarily failed to accomplish the real object of
his journey.
He walked fast, and was soon within a short distance of Ormeaux.
Thereupon he felt that he must go and kiss his son and see little Marie
once more, although he had lost the hope and banished from his mind the
thought of owing his happiness to her. All that he had seen and
heard--the vain, giddy woman; the father, at once cunning and shallow,
who encouraged his daughter in her pride and disingenuous habits; the
imitation of city luxury, which seemed to him an offence against the
dignity of country manners; the time wasted in indolent, foolish
conversation, that household so different from his own, and, above all,
the profound discomfort that the husbandman feels when he lays aside his
laborious habits; all the _ennui_ and annoyance he had undergone within
the last few hours--made Germain long to be once more with his child and
his little neighbor. Even if he had not been in love with the latter, he
would have sought her none the less for distraction, and to restore his
mind to its accustomed channels.
But he looked in vain in the neighboring fields, he saw neither little
Marie nor little Pierre; and yet it was the time when the shepherds are
in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture; he asked a young
boy who was tending them if the sheep belonged to the farm of Ormeaux.
"Yes," said the child.
"Are you the shepherd? do boys tend woolly beasts for the farmers in
your neighborhood?"
"No. I'm tending 'em to-day because the shepherdess has gone away: she
was sick."
"But haven't you a new shepherdess who came this morning?"
"Oh! yes! she's gone, too, already."
"What! gone? didn't she have a child with her?"
"Yes, a little boy; he cried. They both went away after they'd been here
two hours."
"Where did they go?"
"Where they came from, I suppose. I didn't ask 'em."
"But what did they go away for?" said Germain, with increasing anxiety.
"Why, how do I know?"
"Didn't they agree about wages? but that must have been agreed on
beforehand."
"I can't tell you anything about it. I saw them go in and come out,
that's all."
Germain went on to the farm and questioned the farm-hands. No one could
explain what had happened; but all agreed that, after talking with the
farmer, the girl had gone away without saying a word, taking with her
the child, who was weeping.
"Did they ill-treat my son?" cried Germain, his eyes flashing fire.
"He was your son, was he? How did he come to be with that girl? Where
are you from, and what's your name?"
Germain, seeing that his questions were answered by other questions,
according to the custom of the country, stamped his foot impatiently,
and asked to speak with the master.
The master was not there: he was not in the habit of staying the whole
day when he came to the farm. He had mounted his horse, and ridden off
to some other of his farms.
"But surely you can find out the reason of that young girl's going
away?" said Germain, assailed by keen anxiety.
The farm-hand exchanged a strange smile with his wife, then replied that
he knew nothing about it, that it did not concern him. All that Germain
could learn was that the girl and the child had gone in the direction of
Fourche. He hurried to Fourche: the widow and her lovers had not
returned, nor had Père Léonard. The servant told him that a young girl
and a child had come there and inquired for him, but that she, not
knowing them, thought it best not to admit them and advised them to go
to Mers.
"Why did you refuse to let them in?" said Germain angrily. "Are you so
suspicious in these parts that you don't open your door to your
neighbor?"
"Oh! bless me!" the servant replied, "in a rich house like this, one
has to keep a sharp lookout. I am responsible for everything when the
masters are away, and I can't open the door to everybody that comes."
"That's a vile custom," said Germain, "and I'd rather be poor than live
in fear like that. Adieu, girl! adieu to your wretched country!"
He inquired at the neighboring houses. Everybody had seen the
shepherdess and the child. As the little one had left Belair
unexpectedly, without being dressed for the occasion, with a torn blouse
and his little lamb's fleece over his shoulders; and as little Marie was
necessarily very shabbily dressed at all times, they had been taken for
beggars. Some one had offered them bread; the girl had accepted a piece
for the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away very fast with
him and had gone into the woods.
Germain reflected a moment, then asked if the farmer from Ormeaux had
not come to Fourche.
"Yes," was the reply; "he rode by on horseback a few minutes after the
girl."
"Did he ride after her?"