had applied for information.
"Yes, to be sure; he's a devil of a fellow for running after the girls.
But I don't believe he caught that one; although, after all, if he had
seen her--"
"That's enough, thanks!" And he flew rather than ran to Leonard's
stable. He threw the saddle on Grise's back, leaped upon her, and
galloped away in the direction of the woods of Chanteloube.
His heart was beating fast with anxiety and wrath, the perspiration
rolled down his forehead. He covered Grise's sides with blood, although
the mare, when she found that she was on the way to her stable, did not
need to be urged to go at full speed.
XIV
THE OLD WOMAN
Germain soon found himself at the spot on the edge of the pool where he
had passed the night. The fire was still smoking; an old woman was
picking up what was left of the dead wood Marie had collected. Germain
stopped to question her. She was deaf, and misunderstood his questions.
"Yes, my boy," she said, "this is the Devil's Pool. It's a bad place,
and you mustn't come near it without throwing three stones in with your
left hand and crossing yourself with your right: that drives away the
spirits. Unless they do that, misfortune comes to those who walk around
it."
"I didn't ask you about that," said Germain, drawing nearer to her and
shouting at the top of his voice: "Haven't you seen a girl and a young
child going through the woods?"
"Yes," said the old woman, "there was a small child drowned there!"
Germain shivered from head to foot; but luckily the old woman added:
"That was a long, long while ago; they put up a beautiful cross; but on
a fine stormy night the evil spirits threw it into the water. You can
still see one end of it. If any one had the bad luck to stop here at
night, he would be very sure not to be able to go away before dawn. It
would do him no good to walk, walk: he might travel two hundred leagues
through the woods and find himself still in the same place."--The
ploughman's imagination was impressed, do what he would, by what he
heard, and the idea of the misfortune which might follow, to justify the
remainder of the old woman's assertions, took such complete possession
of his brain that he felt cold all over his body. Despairing of
obtaining any additional information, he mounted his horse and began to
ride through the woods, calling Pierre at the top of his voice,
whistling, cracking his whip, breaking off branches to fill the forest
with the noise of his progress, then listening to see if any voice
answered; but he heard naught but the bells on the cows scattered among
the bushes, and the fierce grunting of pigs fighting over the acorns.
At last, Germain heard behind him the footsteps of a horse following in
his track, and a man of middle age, swarthy, robust, dressed like a
semi-bourgeois, shouted to him to stop. Germain had never seen the
farmer of Ormeaux; but an angry instinct led him to determine at once
that it was he. He turned, and, eyeing him from head to foot, waited to
hear what he had to say to him.
"Haven't you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen, with a little boy,
pass this way?" said the farmer, affecting an indifferent manner,
although he was visibly moved.
"What do you want of her?" demanded Germain, not seeking to disguise his
indignation.
"I might tell you that that was none of your business, my friend, but as
I have no reason to hide it, I will tell you that she's a shepherdess I
hired for the year without knowing her.--When she came to the farm, she
seemed to me too young and not strong enough for the work. I thanked
her, but I insisted on paying her what her little journey had cost; and
she went off in a rage while my back was turned.--She was in such a
hurry that she even forgot part of her things and her purse, which
hasn't very much in it, to be sure; a few sous, I suppose!--but as I had
business in this direction, I thought I might meet her and give her what
she forgot and what I owe her."
Germain was too honest a soul not to hesitate when he heard that story,
which was possible at least, if not very probable. He fixed a piercing
gaze on the farmer, who bore his scrutiny with much impudence or else
with perfect innocence.
"I want to have a clear conscience," said Germain to himself, and,
restraining his indignation, he continued aloud:
"She's a girl from our neighborhood; I know her: she must be somewhere
about here. Let us go on together--we shall find her, I've no doubt."
"You are right," said the farmer. "Let's go on--but, if we don't find
her at the end of the path, I give it up--for I must take the Ardentes
road."
"Oho!" thought the ploughman, "I won't leave you! even if I should have
to twist around the Devil's Pool with you for twenty-four hours!"
"Stay!" said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of furze which
was moving back and forth in a peculiar way: "holà! holà! Petit-Pierre,
my child, is that you?"
The child, recognizing his father's voice, leaped out of the bushes like
a kid, but when he saw that he was with the farmer, he stopped as if in
terror, and stood still, uncertain what to do.
"Come, my Pierre, come, it's me!" cried the ploughman, riding toward him
and leaping down from his horse to take him in his arms: "and where's
little Marie?"
"She's hiding there, because she's afraid of that bad black man, and so
am I."
"Oh! don't you be afraid; I am here--Marie! Marie! it's me!"
Marie came crawling out from the bushes, and as soon as she saw Germain,
whom the farmer was following close, she ran and threw herself into his
arms; and, clinging to him like a daughter to her father, she exclaimed:
"Ah! my good Germain, you will defend me; I'm not afraid with you."
Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie: she was pale, her clothes were
torn by the brambles through which she had run, seeking the thickest
underbrush, like a doe with the hunters on her track. But there was
neither despair nor shame on her face.
"Your master wants to speak to you," he said, still watching her
features.
"My master?" she said proudly; "that man is not my master and never will
be!--You are my master, you, Germain. I want you to take me back with
you--will work for you for nothing!"
The farmer had ridden forward, feigning some impatience.
"Ah! little one," he said, "you forgot something which I have brought
you."
"No, no, monsieur," replied little Marie, "I didn't forget anything, and
there's nothing I want to ask you for--"
"Hark ye a minute," said the farmer, "I have something to say to
you!--Come!--don't be afraid--just two words."
"You can say them out loud. I have no secrets with you."
"Come and get your money, at least."
"My money? You don't owe me anything, thank God!"
"I suspected as much," said Germain in an undertone; "but never mind,
Marie, listen to what he has to say to you--for, for my part, I am
curious to find out. You can tell me afterward: I have my reasons for
that. Go beside his horse--I won't lose sight of you."
Marie took three steps toward the farmer, who said to her, leaning
forward on the pommel of his saddle, and lowering his voice:
"Here's a bright louis-d'or for you, little one! you won't say anything,
understand? I'll say that I concluded you weren't strong enough for the
work on my farm.--And don't let anything more be said about it. I'll
come and see you again one of these days, and if you haven't said
anything, I'll give you something else. And then, if you're more
reasonable, you'll only have to say the word: I will take you home with
me, or else come and talk with you in the pasture at dusk. What present
shall I bring you?"
"There is my gift to you, monsieur!" replied little Marie aloud,
throwing his louis-d'or in his face with no gentle hand. "I thank you
very much, and I beg you to let me know beforehand when you are coming
our way: all the young men in my neighborhood will turn out to receive
you, because our people are very fond of bourgeois who try to make love
to poor girls! You'll see, they'll be on the lookout for you!"
"You're a liar and a silly babbler!" said the farmer in a rage, raising
his stick threateningly. "You'd like to make people believe what isn't
true, but you won't get any money out of me: I know your kind!"
Marie had recoiled in terror; but Germain darted to the farmer's horse's
head, seized the rein, and shook it vigorously:
"I understand now!" he said, "and I see plainly enough what the trouble
was. Dismount! my man! come down and let us have a talk!"
The farmer was by no means anxious to take a hand in the game: he
spurred his horse in order to free himself, and tried to strike the
ploughman's hands with his stick and make him relax his hold; but
Germain eluded the blow, and, taking him by the leg, unhorsed him and
brought him to the heather, where he knocked him down, although the
farmer was soon upon his feet again and defended himself sturdily.
[Illustration: Chapter XIV
_Marie had recoiled in terror; but Germain darted to the farmer's
horse's head, seized the rein, and shook it vigorously._]
"Coward!" said Germain, when he had him beneath him, "I could break
every bone in your body if I chose! But I don't like to harm anybody,
and besides, no punishment would mend your conscience. However, you
shan't stir from this spot until you have asked this girl's pardon on
your knees."
The farmer, who was familiar with affairs of that sort, tried to turn it
off as a joke. He claimed that his offence was not so very serious, as
it consisted only in words, and said that he was willing to beg the
girl's pardon, on condition that he might kiss her and that they should
all go and drink a pint of wine at the nearest inn and part good
friends.
"You disgust me!" replied Germain, pressing his face against the ground,
"and I long to see the last of your ugly face. There, blush if you can,
and you had better take the road of the _affronteux_[2] when you come to
our town."
He picked up the farmer's holly staff, broke it across his knee to show
the strength of his wrists, and threw the pieces away with a
contemptuous gesture.
Then, taking his son's hand in one of his, and little Marie's in the
other, he walked away, trembling with indignation.
XV
THE RETURN TO THE FARM
Within a quarter of an hour they had crossed the moors. They trotted
along the high-road, and Grise neighed at every familiar object.
Petit-Pierre told his father what had taken place so far as he had been
able to understand it.
"When we got there," he said, "_that man_ came and talked to _my Marie_
in the sheepfold, where we went first to see the fine sheep. I'd got up
into the crib to play, and _that man_ didn't see me. Then he said
good-day to my Marie and then he kissed her."
"You let him kiss you, Marie?" said Germain, trembling with anger.
"I thought it was a compliment, a custom of the place for new arrivals,
just as grandma, at your house, kisses the girls who take service with
her, to show that she adopts them and will be like a mother to them."
"And then," continued Petit-Pierre, who was very proud to have a story
to tell, "_that man_ said something naughty, something you told me not
to say and not to remember: so I forgot it right away. But if my papa
wants me to tell him what it was--"
"No, my Pierre, I don't want to hear it, and I don't want you to
remember it ever."
"Then I'll forget it again," said the child. "And then _that man_ acted
as if he was mad because Marie said she was going away. He told her he'd
give her all she wanted,--a hundred francs! And my Marie got mad, too.
Then he went at her, just like he was going to hurt her. I was afraid,
and I ran up to Marie and cried. Then _that man_ said like this: 'What's
that? where did that child come from? Put him out of here.' And he put
up his stick to beat me. But my Marie stopped him, and she said like
this: 'We will talk by and by, monsieur; now I must take this child to
Fourche, and then I'll come back again.' And as soon as he'd gone out of
the sheepfold, my Marie says to me like this: 'Let's run away, my
Pierre, we must go away right off, for that man's a bad man, and he
would only hurt us.'--Then we went behind the barns and crossed a little
field and went to Fourche to look for you. But you weren't there, and
they wouldn't let us wait for you. And then _that man_ came up behind
us on his black horse, and we ran still farther away, and then we went
and hid in the woods. Then he came, too, and we hid when we heard him
coming. And then, when he'd gone by, we began to run for ourselves so as
to go home; and then at last you came and found us; and that's all there
was. I didn't forget anything, did I, my Marie?"
"No, Pierre, and it's the truth. Now, Germain, you will bear witness for
me and tell everybody at home that it wasn't for lack of courage and
being willing to work that I couldn't stay over yonder."
"And I will ask you, Marie," said Germain, "to ask yourself the
question, whether, when it comes to defending a woman and punishing a
knave, a man of twenty-eight isn't too old? I'd like to know if Bastien,
or any other pretty boy who has the advantage of being ten years younger
than I am, wouldn't have been crushed by _that man_, as Petit-Pierre
calls him: what do you think about it?"
"I think, Germain, that you have done me a very great service, and that
I shall thank you for it all my life."
"Is that all?"
"My little father," said the child, "I didn't think to tell little Marie
what I promised you. I didn't have time, but I'll tell her at home, and
I'll tell grandma, too."
This promise on his child's part gave Germain abundant food for
reflection. The problem now was how to explain his position to his
family, and while setting forth his grievances against the widow Guérin,
to avoid telling them what other thoughts had predisposed him to be so
keen-sighted and so harsh in his judgment.
When one is happy and proud, the courage to make others accept one's
happiness seems easily within reach; but to be rebuffed in one direction
and blamed in another is not a very pleasant plight.
Luckily, Pierre was asleep when they reached the farm, and Germain put
him down on his bed without waking him. Then he entered upon such
explanations as he was able to give. Père Maurice, sitting upon his
three-legged stool in the doorway, listened gravely to him, and,
although he was ill pleased with the result of the expedition, when
Germain, after describing the widow's system of coquetry, asked his
father in-law if he had time to go and pay court to her fifty-two
Sundays in the year with the chance of being dismissed at the end of the
year, the old man replied, nodding his head in token of assent: "You are
not wrong, Germain; that couldn't be." And again, when Germain told how
he had been compelled to bring little Marie home again without loss of
time to save her from the insults, perhaps from the violence, of an
unworthy master, Père Maurice again nodded assent, saying: "You are not
wrong, Germain; that's as it should be."
When Germain had finished his story and given all his reasons, his
father-in-law and mother-in-law simultaneously uttered a heavy sigh of
resignation as they exchanged glances.
Then the head of the family rose, saying: "Well! God's will be done!
affection isn't made to order!"
"Come to supper, Germain," said the mother-in-law. "It's a pity that
couldn't be arranged better; however, it wasn't God's will, it seems. We
must look somewhere else."
"Yes," the old man added, "as my wife says, we must look somewhere
else."
There was no further sound in the house, and when Petit-Pierre rose the
next morning with the larks, at dawn, being no longer excited by the
extraordinary events of the last two days, he relapsed into the normal
apathy of little peasants of his age, forgot all that had filled his
little head, and thought of nothing but playing with his brothers, and
_being a man_ with the horses and oxen.
Germain tried to forget, too, by plunging into his work again; but he
became so melancholy and so absent-minded that everybody noticed it. He
did not speak to little Marie, he did not even look at her; and yet, if
any one had asked him in which pasture she was, or in what direction she
had gone, there was not an hour in the day when he could not have told
if he had chosen to reply. He had not dared ask his people to take her
on at the farm during the winter, and yet he was well aware that she
must be suffering from poverty. But she was not suffering, and Mère
Guillette could never understand why her little store of wood never grew
less, and how her shed was always filled in the morning when she had
left it almost empty the night before. It was the same with the wheat
and potatoes. Some one came through the window in the loft, and emptied
a bag on the floor without waking anybody or leaving any tracks. The old
woman was anxious and rejoiced at the same time; she bade her daughter
not mention the matter, saying that if people knew what was happening in
her house they would take her for a witch. She really believed that the
devil had a hand in it, but she was by no means eager to fall out with
him by calling upon the curé to exorcise him from her house; she said to
herself that it would be time to do that when Satan came and demanded
her soul in exchange for his benefactions.
Little Marie had a clearer idea of the truth, but she dared not speak to
Germain for fear that he would recur to his idea of marriage, and she
pretended when with him to notice nothing.
XVI
MÈRE MAURICE
One day, Mère Maurice, being alone in the orchard with Germain, said to
him affectionately: "My poor son, I don't think you're well. You don't
eat as much as usual, you never laugh, and you talk less and less. Has
any one in the house, have we ourselves wounded you, without meaning to
do it or knowing that we had done it?"
"No, mother," replied Germain, "you have always been as kind to me as
the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be an ungrateful
fellow if I complained of you, or your husband, or any one in the
house."
"In that case, my child, it must be that your grief for your wife's
death has come back. Instead of lessening with time, your loneliness
grows worse, and you absolutely must do what your father-in-law very
wisely advised, you must marry again."
"Yes, mother, that would be my idea, too; but the women you advised me
to seek don't suit me. When I see them, instead of forgetting Catherine,
I think of her all the more."
"The trouble apparently is, Germain, that we haven't succeeded in
divining your taste. So you must help us by telling us the truth.
Doubtless there's a woman somewhere who was made for you, for the good
Lord doesn't make anybody without putting by his happiness for him in
somebody else. So if you know where to go for the wife you need, go and
get her; and whether she's pretty or ugly, young or old, rich or poor,
we have made up our minds, my old man and I, to give our consent; for
we're tired of seeing you so sad, and we can't live at peace if you are
not."
"You are as good as the good Lord, mother, and so is father," replied
Germain; "but your compassion can't cure my trouble: the girl I would
like won't have me."
"Is it because she's too young? It's unwise for you to put your thoughts
on a young girl."
"Well, yes, mother, I am foolish enough to have become attached to a
young girl, and I blame myself for it. I do all I can not to think of
her; but whether I am at work or resting, whether I am at Mass or in my
bed, with my children or with you, I think of her all the time, and
can't think of anything else."
"Why, it's as if there'd been a spell cast on you, Germain, isn't it?
There's only one cure for it, and that is to make the girl change her
mind and listen to you. So I must take a hand in it, and see if it can
be done. You tell me where she lives and what her name is."
"Alas! my dear mother, I don't dare," said Germain, "for you'll laugh at
me."
"No, I won't laugh at you, Germain, because you're in trouble, and I
don't want to make it any worse for you. Can it be Fanchette?"
"No, mother, not her."
"Or Rosette?"
"No."
"Tell me, then, for I won't stop, if I have to name all the girls in the
province."
Germain hung his head, and could not make up his mind to reply.
"Well," said Mère Maurice, "I leave you in peace for to-day, Germain;
perhaps to-morrow you will feel more like trusting me, or your
sister-in-law will show more skill in questioning you."
And she picked up her basket to go and stretch her linen on the bushes.
Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see that
you have ceased to pay any attention to them. He followed his
mother-in-law, and at last gave her the name in fear and trembling--_La
Guillette's little Marie_.
Great was Mère Maurice's surprise: she was the last one of whom she
would have thought. But she had the delicacy not to cry out at it, and
to make her comments mentally. Then, seeing that her silence was
oppressive to Germain, she held out her basket to him, saying: "Well, is
that any reason why you shouldn't help me in my work? Carry this load,
and come and talk with me. Have you reflected, Germain? have you made up
your mind?"
"Alas! my dear mother, that's not the way you must talk: my mind would
be made up if I could succeed; but as I shouldn't be listened to, I have
made up my mind simply to cure myself if I can."
"And if you can't?"
"Everything in its time, Mère Maurice: when the horse is overloaded, he
falls; and when the ox has nothing to eat, he dies."
"That is to say that you will die if you don't succeed, eh? God forbid,
Germain! I don't like to hear a man like you say such things as that,
because when he says them he thinks them. You're a very brave man, and
weakness is a dangerous thing in strong men. Come, take hope. I can't
imagine how a poor girl, who is much honored by having you want her, can
refuse you."
"It's the truth, though, she does refuse me."
"What reasons does she give you?"
"That you have always been kind to her, that her family owes a great
deal to yours, and that she doesn't want to displease you by turning me
away from a wealthy marriage."
"If she says that, she shows good feeling, and it's very honest on her
part. But when she tells you that, Germain, she doesn't cure you, for
she tells you she loves you, I don't doubt, and that she'd marry you if
we were willing."
"That's the worst of it! she says that her heart isn't drawn toward me."
"If she says what she doesn't mean, the better to keep you away from
her, she's a child who deserves to have us love her and to have us
overlook her youth because of her great common-sense."
"Yes," said Germain, struck with a hope he had not before conceived;
"it would be very good and very _comme il faut_ on her part! but if
she's so sensible, I am very much afraid it's because she doesn't like
me."
"Germain," said Mère Maurice, "you must promise to keep quiet the whole
week and not worry, but eat and sleep, and be gay as you used to be.
I'll speak to my old man, and if I bring him round, then you can find
out the girl's real feeling with regard to you."
Germain promised, and the week passed without Père Maurice saying a word
to him in private or giving any sign that he suspected anything. The
ploughman tried hard to seem tranquil, but he was paler and more
perturbed than ever.
XVII
LITTLE MARIE
At last, on Sunday morning as they came out from Mass, his mother-in-law
asked him what he had obtained from his sweetheart since their interview
in the orchard.
"Why, nothing at all," he replied. "I haven't spoken to her."
"How do you expect to persuade her, pray, if you don't speak to her?"
"I have never spoken to her but once," said Germain. "That was when we
went to Fourche together; and since then I haven't said a single word to
her. Her refusal hurt me so, that I prefer not to hear her tell me again
that she doesn't love me."
"Well, my son, you must speak to her now; your father-in-law authorizes
you to do it. Come, make up your mind! I tell you to do it, and, if
necessary, I insist on it; for you can't remain in this state of doubt."
Germain obeyed. He went to Mère Guillette's, with downcast eyes and an
air of profound depression. Little Marie was alone in the
chimney-corner, musing so deeply that she did not hear Germain come in.
When she saw him before her, she leaped from her chair in surprise and
her face flushed.
"Little Marie," he said, sitting beside her, "I have pained you and
wearied you, I know; but _the man and the woman at our house_"--so
designating the heads of the family in accordance with custom--"want me
to speak to you and ask you to marry me. You won't be willing to do it,
I expect that."