There is still merriment in the world; song, music, and laughter.
Joyous, singing, laughing people drive along the plateau in wagons
decorated with flowers and green boughs. They are seen and heard from
Landolin's house; he nods to them from the open window; he is in
holiday attire and has decided to go to the celebration, and take part
again in the world's gayety. Turning, he said to his wife, who sat in
the room:
"Hanne, Thoma won't go; can't you go with me?"
"I would rather you'd let me stay at home."
Landolin would have liked to say, "If you are with me they will pay me
more respect;" but he could not bring himself to say it. He had humbled
himself before the humblest; but before his wife he could not--she had
always been so submissive to him. He often looked toward Thoma and
wondered if she would not tell him what had passed between her and
Anton the day before; and if she would not go with him to the
celebration; but she remained motionless and silent. He ordered the
wagon to be hitched up immediately; but Peter said that the horses had
worked so much in the harvest-field during the week that they would
have to rest to-day: at most the bay mare might be saddled, but that
wouldn't be wise. Landolin looked at Peter furiously, but he did not
want to quarrel with him; for, as long as they did not disagree openly,
it was not noticeable that the authority was no longer his. So he
consented to ride, but soon changed his mind and said he would go on
foot.
As the church bells began to ring, he started for the city. "Won't you
go to church, too?" asked his wife timidly. He answered angrily:
"No! They have sung and prayed thus far without me. I guess they can
keep it up awhile longer."
This he said; but he thought besides: "They must treat me kindly before
they can pray with clear conscience."
"Won't you wait till afternoon? I have something nice for you," said
his wife.
"You are always talking about eating--beginning about dinner already! I
have money in my pocket, and shall get myself something in town."
His wife made no answer, but pressed her prayer-book to her bosom.
There are no more good thoughts in the book than in her heart, but both
are now dumb.
As the bells were ringing for the third time, Landolin went down the
road toward the city. A rider was trotting along after him. He came
nearer. Landolin lifted his hat and said:
"Good-morning, Baron Discher. I owe you an explanation."
"I did not know it."
"I refused you as a juryman, through my attorney. I know you are a just
man."
"Thank you."
"I only refused you because it would be pleasanter for you not to have
to sit on a jury in such hot weather."
The Baron laughed and held the knob of his riding-whip to his mouth;
then he said, "Good-morning," gave his horse the spur, and rode on.
A presentiment of the reception he was exposing himself to came over
Landolin. He wanted to turn back: there was no necessity for his
presence at the festival; but he was ashamed for his family to see him
so irresolute. Peter is, then, in the right in having taken the reins
from his hand. He went toward the town with long strides. Gunshots
echoed, multiplying themselves in the wood through which he was
passing, for the dedication of the flag was just beginning in the
church.
Landolin moderated his step; indeed he sat down on the side of the
road; he had already missed the chief solemnity, and could take his
ease. The coach came up from the railway station. The driver asked
Landolin if he would ride. Landolin was tired, and it was a good
opportunity for returning; but he refused as if something drove him to
the city. He laughed at himself as he recollected that in his childhood
the May-meadow had been a place of execution. What can happen to him?
He is acquitted, free, and in all honor.
Now clear trumpet-notes sounded from the upper town. Landolin hastened
his steps--not to miss the procession.