Before we relate the domestic drama which the coming of Jacques Brigaut
was destined to bring about in the Rogron family it is best to explain
how the lad came to be in Provins; for he is, as it were, a somewhat
mute personage on the scene.
When he ran from the house Brigaut was not only frightened by
Pierrette’s gesture, he was horrified by the change he saw in his little
friend. He could scarcely recognize the voice, the eyes, the gestures
that were once so lively, gay, and withal so tender. When he had gained
some distance from the house his legs began to tremble under him; hot
flushes ran down his back. He had seen the shadow of Pierrette, but not
Pierrette herself! The lad climbed to the Upper town till he found a
spot from which he could see the square and the house where Pierrette
lived. He gazed at it mournfully, lost in many thoughts, as though he
were entering some grief of which he could not see the end. Pierrette
was ill; she was not happy; she pined for Brittany--what was the matter
with her? All these questions passed and repassed through his heart and
rent it, revealing to his own soul the extent of his love for his little
adopted sister.
It is extremely rare to find a passion existing between two children of
opposite sexes. The charming story of Paul and Virginia does not, any
more than this of Pierrette and Brigaut, answer the question put by that
strange moral fact. Modern history offers only the illustrious instance
of the Marchesa di Pescara and her husband. Destined to marry by their
parents from their earliest years, they adored each other and were
married, and their union gave to the sixteenth century the noble
spectacle of a perfect conjugal love without a flaw. When the marchesa
became a widow at the age of thirty-four, beautiful, intellectually
brilliant, universally adored, she refused to marry sovereigns and
buried herself in a convent, seeing and knowing thenceforth only nuns.
Such was the perfect love that suddenly developed itself in the heart
of the Breton workman. Pierrette and he had often protected each other;
with what bliss had he given her the money for her journey; he had
almost killed himself by running after the diligence when she left him.
Pierrette had known nothing of all that; but for him the recollection
had warmed and comforted the cold, hard life he had led for the last
three years. For Pierrette’s sake he had struggled to improve himself;
he had learned his trade for Pierrette; he had come to Paris for
Pierrette, intending to make his fortune for _her_. After spending a
fortnight in the city, he had not been able to hold out against the
desire to see her, and he had walked from Saturday night to Monday
morning. He intended to return to Paris; but the moving sight of his
little friend nailed him to Provins. A wonderful magnetism (still denied
in spite of many proofs) acted upon him without his knowledge. Tears
rolled from his eyes when they rose in hers. If to her he was Brittany
and her happy childhood, to him she was life itself.
At sixteen years of age Brigaut did not yet know how to draw or to model
a cornice; he was ignorant of much, but he had earned, by piece-work
done in the leisure of his apprenticeship, some four or five francs a
day. On this he could live in Provins and be near Pierrette; he would
choose the best cabinet-maker in the town, and learn the rest of his
trade in working for him, and thus keep watch over his darling.
Brigaut’s mind was made up as he sat there thinking. He went back to
Paris and fetched his certificate, tools, and baggage, and three days
later he was a journeyman in the establishment of Monsieur Frappier,
the best cabinet-maker in Provins. Active, steady workmen, not given to
junketing and taverns, are so rare that masters hold to young men like
Brigaut when they find them. To end Brigaut’s history on this point, we
will say here that by the end of the month he was made foreman, and was
fed and lodged by Frappier, who taught him arithmetic and line drawing.
The house and shop were in the Grand’Rue, not a hundred feet from the
little square where Pierrette lived.
Brigaut buried his love in his heart and committed no imprudence. He
made Madame Frappier tell him all she knew about the Rogrons. Among
other things, she related to him the way in which their father had laid
hands on the property of old Auffray, Pierrette’s grandfather. Brigaut
obtained other information as to the character of the brother and
sister. He met Pierrette sometimes in the market with her cousin,
and shuddered to see the heavy basket she was carrying on her arm. On
Sundays he went to church to look for her, dressed in her best
clothes. There, for the first time, he became aware that Pierrette was
Mademoiselle Lorrain. Pierrette saw him and made him a hasty sign to
keep out of sight. To him, there was a world of things in that little
gesture, as there had been, a fortnight earlier, in the sign by which
she told him from her window to run away. Ah! what a fortune he must
make in the coming ten years in order to marry his little friend, to
whom, he was told, the Rogrons were to leave their house, a hundred
acres of land, and twelve thousand francs a year, not counting their
savings!
The persevering Breton was determined to be thoroughly educated for his
trade, and he set about acquiring all the knowledge that he lacked. As
long as only the principles of his work were concerned he could learn
those in Provins as well as in Paris, and thus remain near Pierrette,
to whom he now became anxious to explain his projects and the sort of
protection she could rely on from him. He was determined to know the
reason of her pallor, and of the debility which was beginning to appear
in the organ which is always the last to show the signs of failing life,
namely the eyes; he would know, too, the cause of the sufferings which
gave her that look as though death were near and she might drop at any
moment beneath its scythe. The two signs, the two gestures--not denying
their friendship but imploring caution--alarmed the young Breton.
Evidently Pierrette wished him to wait and not attempt to see her;
otherwise there was danger, there was peril for her. As she left the
church she was able to give him one look, and Brigaut saw that her eyes
were full of tears. But he could have sooner squared the circle
than have guessed what had happened in the Rogrons’ house during the
fortnight which had elapsed since his arrival.
It was not without keen apprehension that Pierrette came downstairs on
the morning after Brigaut had invaded her morning dreams like another
dream. She was certain that her cousin Sylvie must have heard the song,
or she would not have risen and opened her window; but Pierrette was
ignorant of the powerful reasons that made the old maid so alert. For
the last eight days, strange events and bitter feelings agitated the
minds of the chief personages who frequented the Rogron salon. These
hidden matters, carefully concealed by all concerned, were destined to
fall in their results like an avalanche on Pierrette. Such mysterious
things, which we ought perhaps to call the putrescence of the human
heart, lie at the base of the greatest revolutions, political, social or
domestic; but in telling of them it is desirable to explain that their
subtle significance cannot be given in a matter-of-fact narrative. These
secret schemes and calculations do not show themselves as brutally and
undisguisedly while taking place as they must when the history of them
is related. To set down in writing the circumlocutions, oratorical
precautions, protracted conversations, and honeyed words glossed over
the venom of intentions, would make as long a book as that magnificent
poem called “Clarissa Harlowe.”
Mademoiselle Habert and Mademoiselle Sylvie were equally desirous
of marrying, but one was ten years older than the other, and the
probabilities of life allowed Celeste Habert to expect that her children
would inherit all the Rogron property. Sylvie was forty-two, an age
at which marriage is beset by perils. In confiding to each other
their ideas, Celeste, instigated by her vindictive brother the priest,
enlightened Sylvie as to the dangers she would incur. Sylvie trembled;
she was terribly afraid of death, an idea which shakes all celibates
to their centre. But just at this time the Martignac ministry came into
power,--a Liberal victory which overthrew the Villele administration.
The Vinet party now carried their heads high in Provins. Vinet himself
became a personage. The Liberals prophesied his advancement; he would
certainly be deputy and attorney-general. As for the colonel, he would
be made mayor of Provins. Ah, to reign as Madame Garceland, the wife of
the present mayor, now reigned! Sylvie could not hold out against that
hope; she determined to consult a doctor, though the proceeding would
only cover her with ridicule. To consult Monsieur Neraud, the Liberal
physician and the rival of Monsieur Martener, would be a blunder.
Celeste Habert offered to hide Sylvie in her dressing-room while she
herself consulted Monsieur Martener, the physician of her establishment,
on this difficult matter. Whether Martener was, or was not, Celeste’s
accomplice need not be discovered; at any rate, he told his client that
even at thirty the danger, though slight, did exist. “But,” he added,
“with your constitution, you need fear nothing.”
“But how about a woman over forty?” asked Mademoiselle Celeste.
“A married woman who has had children has nothing to fear.”
“But I mean an unmarried woman, like Mademoiselle Rogron, for instance?”
“Oh, that’s another thing,” said Monsieur Martener. “Successful
childbirth is then one of those miracles which God sometimes allows
himself, but rarely.”
“Why?” asked Celeste.
The doctor answered with a terrifying pathological description; he
explained that the elasticity given by nature to youthful muscles and
bones did not exist at a later age, especially in women whose lives were
sedentary.
“So you think that an unmarried woman ought not to marry after forty?”
“Not unless she waits some years,” replied the doctor. “But then, of
course, it is not marriage, it is only an association of interests.”
The result of the interview, clearly, seriously, scientifically and
sensibly stated, was that an unmarried woman would make a great mistake
in marrying after forty. When the doctor had departed Mademoiselle
Celeste found Sylvie in a frightful state, green and yellow, and with
the pupils of her eyes dilated.
“Then you really love the colonel?” asked Celeste.
“I still hoped,” replied Sylvie.
“Well, then, wait!” cried Mademoiselle Habert, Jesuitically, aware that
time would rid her of the colonel.
Sylvie’s new devotion to the church warned her that the morality of such
a marriage might be doubtful. She accordingly sounded her conscience in
the confessional. The stern priest explained the opinions of the Church,
which sees in marriage only the propagation of humanity, and rebukes
second marriages and all passions but those with a social purpose.
Sylvie’s perplexities were great. These internal struggles gave
extraordinary force to her passion, investing it with that inexplicable
attraction which, from the days of Eve, the thing forbidden possesses
for women. Mademoiselle Rogron’s perturbation did not escape the
lynx-eyed lawyer.
One evening, after the game had ended, Vinet approached his dear friend
Sylvie, took her hand, and led her to a sofa.
“Something troubles you,” he said.
She nodded sadly. The lawyer let the others depart; Rogron walked home
with the Chargeboeufs, and when Vinet was alone with the old maid he
wormed the truth out of her.
“Cleverly played, abbe!” thought he. “But you’ve played into my hands.”
The foxy lawyer was more decided in his opinion than even the doctor.
He advised marriage in ten years. Inwardly he was vowing that the whole
Rogron fortune should go to Bathilde. He rubbed his hands, his pinched
lips closed more tightly as he hurried home. The influence exercised
by Monsieur Habert, physician of the soul, and by Vinet, doctor of the
purse, balanced each other perfectly. Rogron had no piety in him; so the
churchman and the man of law, the black-robed pair, were fairly matched.
On discovering the victory obtained by Celeste, in her anxiety to marry
Rogron herself, over Sylvie, torn between the fear of death and the joy
of being baronness and mayoress, the lawyer saw his chance of driving
the colonel from the battlefield. He knew Rogron well enough to be
certain he could marry him to Bathilde; Jerome had already succumbed
inwardly to her charms, and Vinet knew that the first time the pair were
alone together the marriage would be settled. Rogron had reached the
point of keeping his eyes fixed on Celeste, so much did he fear to look
at Bathilde. Vinet had now possessed himself of Sylvie’s secrets, and
saw the force with which she loved the colonel. He fully understood the
struggle of such a passion in the heart of an old maid who was also in
the grasp of religious emotion, and he saw his way to rid himself of
Pierrette and the colonel both by making each the cause of the other’s
overthrow.
The next day, after the court had risen, Vinet met the colonel and
Rogron talking a walk together, according to their daily custom.
Whenever the three men were seen in company the whole town talked of it.
This triumvirate, held in horror by the sub-prefect, the magistracy,
and the Tiphaine clique, was, on the other hand, a source of pride
and vanity to the Liberals of Provins. Vinet was sole editor of the
“Courrier” and the head of the party; the colonel, the working manager,
was its arm; Rogron, by means of his purse, its nerves. The Tiphaines
declared that the three men were always plotting evil to the government;
the Liberals admired them as the defenders of the people. When Rogron
turned to go home, recalled by a sense of his dinner-hour, Vinet stopped
the colonel from following him by taking Gouraud’s arm.
“Well, colonel,” he said, “I am going to take a fearful load off your
shoulders; you can do better than marry Sylvie; if you play your cards
properly you can marry that little Pierrette in two years’ time.”
He thereupon related the Jesuit’s manoeuvre and its effect on Sylvie.
“What a skulking trick!” cried the colonel; “and spreading over years,
too!”
“Colonel,” said Vinet, gravely, “Pierrette is a charming creature; with
her you can be happy for the rest of your life; your health is so sound
that the difference in your ages won’t seem disproportionate. But, all
the same, you mustn’t think it an easy thing to change a dreadful fate
to a pleasant one. To turn a woman who loves you into a friend and
confidant is as perilous a business as crossing a river under fire of
the enemy. Cavalry colonel as you are, and daring too, you must study
the position and manoeuvre your forces with the same wisdom you have
displayed hitherto, and which has won us our present position. If I get
to be attorney-general you shall command the department. Oh! if you had
been an elector we should be further advanced than we are now; I should
have bought the votes of those two clerks by threatening them with the
loss of their places, and we should have had a majority.”
The colonel had long been thinking about Pierrette, but he concealed his
thoughts with the utmost dissimulation. His roughness to the child was
only a mask; but she could not understand why the man who claimed to
be her father’s old comrade should usually treat her so ill, when
sometimes, if he met her alone, he would chuck her under the chin and
give her a friendly kiss. But after the conversation with Vinet relating
to Sylvie’s fears of marriage Gouraud began to seek opportunities to
find Pierrette alone; the rough colonel made himself as soft as a cat;
he told her how brave her father was and what a misfortune it had been
for her that she lost him.
A few days before Brigaut’s arrival Sylvie had come suddenly upon
Gouraud and Pierrette talking together. Instantly, jealousy rushed into
her heart with monastic violence. Jealousy, eminently credulous and
suspicious, is the passion in which fancy has most freedom, but for all
that it does not give a person intelligence; on the contrary, it hinders
them from having any; and in Sylvie’s case jealousy only filled her with
fantastic ideas. When (a few mornings later) she heard Brigaut’s ditty,
she jumped to the conclusion that the man who had used the words “Madam’
le mariee,” addressing them to Pierrette, must be the colonel. She was
certain she was right, for she had noticed for a week past a change in
his manners. He was the only man who, in her solitary life, had ever
paid her any attention. Consequently she watched him with all her eyes,
all her mind; and by giving herself up to hopes that were sometimes
flourishing, sometimes blighted, she had brought the matter to such
enormous proportions that she saw all things in a mental mirage. To use
a common but excellent expression, by dint of looking intently she
saw nothing. Alternately she repelled, admitted, and conquered the
supposition of this rivalry. She compared herself with Pierrette; she
was forty-two years old, with gray hair; Pierrette was delicately fair,
with eyes soft enough to warm a withered heart. She had heard it said
that men of fifty were apt to love young girls of just that kind. Before
the colonel had come regularly to the house Sylvie had heard in the
Tiphaines’ salon strange stories of his life and morals. Old maids
preserve in their love-affairs the exaggerated Platonic sentiments which
young girls of twenty are wont to profess; they hold to these fixed
doctrines like all who have little experience of life and no personal
knowledge of how great social forces modify, impair, and bring to nought
such grand and noble ideas. The mere thought of being jilted by the
colonel was torture to Sylvie’s brain. She lay in her bed going over
and over her own desires, Pierrette’s conduct, and the song which had
awakened her with the word “marriage.” Like the fool she was, instead
of looking through the blinds to see the lover, she opened her window
without reflecting that Pierrette would hear her. If she had had the
common instinct of a spy she would have seen Brigaut, and the fatal
drama then begun would never have taken place.
It was Pierrette’s duty, weak as she was, to take down the bars that
closed the wooden shutters of the kitchen, which she opened and fastened
back; then she opened in like manner the glass door leading from the
corridor to the garden. She took the various brooms that were used for
sweeping the carpets, the dining-room, the passages and stairs, together
with the other utensils, with a care and particularity which no servant,
not even a Dutchwoman, gives to her work. She hated reproof. Happiness
for her was in seeing the cold blue pallid eyes of her cousin, not
satisfied (that they never were), but calm, after glancing about her
with the look of an owner,--that wonderful glance which sees what
escapes even the most vigilant eyes of others. Pierrette’s skin was
moist with her labor when she returned to the kitchen to put it in
order, and light the stove that she might carry up hot water to her two
cousins (a luxury she never had for herself) and the means of lighting
fires in their rooms. After this she laid the table for breakfast and
lit the stove in the dining-room. For all these various fires she had
to fetch wood and kindling from the cellar, leaving the warm rooms for
a damp and chilly atmosphere. Such sudden transitions, made with the
quickness of youth, often to escape a harsh word or obey an order,
aggravated the condition of her health. She did not know she was ill,
and yet she suffered. She began to have strange cravings; she liked raw
vegetables and salads, and ate them secretly. The innocent child was
quite unaware that her condition was that of serious illness which
needed the utmost care. If Neraud, the Rogrons’ doctor, had told this to
Pierrette before Brigaut’s arrival she would only have smiled; life was
so bitter she could smile at death. But now her feelings changed; the
child, to whose physical sufferings was added the anguish of Breton
homesickness (a moral malady so well-known that colonels in the army
allow for it among their men), was suddenly content to be in Provins.
The sight of that yellow flower, the song, the presence of her
friend, revived her as a plant long without water revives under rain.
Unconsciously she wanted to live, and even thought she did not suffer.
Pierrette slipped timidly into her cousin’s bedroom, made the fire, left
the hot water, said a few words, and went to wake Rogron and do the same
offices for him. Then she went down to take in the milk, the bread, and
the other provisions left by the dealers. She stood some time on the
sill of the door hoping that Brigaut would have the sense to come to
her; but by that time he was already on his way to Paris.
She had finished the arrangement of the dining-room and was busy in
the kitchen when she heard her cousin Sylvie coming down. Mademoiselle
Rogron appeared in a brown silk dressing-gown and a cap with bows; her
false front was awry, her night-gown showed above the silk wrapper, her
slippers were down at heel. She gave an eye to everything and then
came straight to Pierrette, who was awaiting her orders to know what to
prepare for breakfast.
“Ha! here you are, lovesick young lady!” said Sylvie, in a mocking tone.
“What is it, cousin?”
“You came into my room like a sly cat, and you crept out the same way,
though you knew very well I had something to say to you.”
“To me?”
“You had a serenade this morning, as if you were a princess.”
“A serenade!” exclaimed Pierrette.
“A serenade!” said Sylvie, mimicking her; “and you’ve a lover, too.”
“What is a lover, cousin?”