The Masterpieces of George Sand
Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, Baroness
Dudevant, _NOW FOR THE FIRST
TIME COMPLETELY TRANSLATED
INTO ENGLISH THE SIN
OF MONSIEUR ANTOINE, AND LEONE
LEONI BY G. BURNHAM IVES_
_WITH TWELVE PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY
PIERRE VIDAL_
_VOLUME I_
_PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY
GEORGE BARRIE & SON
PHILADELPHIA_
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER
I. EGUZON
II. THE MANOR OF CHÂTEAUBRUN
III. MONSIEUR CARDONNET
IV. THE VISION
V. THE DRIBE
VI. JEAN THE CARPENTER
VII. THE ARREST
VIII. GILBERTE
IX. MONSIEUR ANTOINE
X. A GOOD ACTION
XI. A GHOST
XII. INDUSTRIAL DIPLOMACY
XIII. THE STRUGGLE
XIV. FIRST LOVE
XV-. THE STAIRCASE
XVI. THE TALISMAN
XVII. THAW
XVIII. STORM
XIX. THE PORTRAIT
XX. THE FORTRESS OF CROZANT
XXI. MONSIEUR ANTOINE'S NAP
XXII. INTRIGUE
XXIII. THE DEVIL'S ROCK
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE SIN OF MONSIEUR ANTOINE
_VOLUME I_
EMILE'S FIRST MEETING WITH GILBERTE
EMILE ENTERTAINED BY MONSIEUR ANTOINE
MONSIEUR DE BOISGUILBAULT TRIES EMILE'S HORSE
EMILE IN CONFERENCE WITH HIS FATHER
EMILE EXAMINES THE PORTRAIT OF THE MARQUISE DE
BOISGUILBAULT
GALUCHET SURPRISED
[Illustration: _EMILE'S FIRST MEETING WITH
GILBERTE_
_A fresh young voice was singing, or rather humming, at a little
distance, one of those sweet melodies, which are peculiar to the
country. And the châtelain's daughter, the bachelor's child, whose
mother's name was a mystery to the whole neighborhood, appeared at the
corner of a clump of eglantine, as lovely as the loveliest wild flower
of that charming solitude._]
INTRODUCTION
I wrote the _Sin of Monsieur Antoine_ in the country, during a season of
tranquillity, outward and inward, such as seldom occurs in one's life.
It was in 1845, a period when criticism of society, as it was, and
dreams of an ideal society attained in the press a degree of freedom of
development comparable to that of the eighteenth century. Some day,
perhaps, people will find it difficult to believe the trivial but
exceedingly characteristic fact I am about to mention.
At that period, if one wished to be independent, to maintain directly or
indirectly the boldest ideas opposed to the vices of the existing social
organization and to give expression to the liveliest hopes of the
philosophical sentiment, it was hardly possible to apply to the
opposition newspapers. The most advanced of them unfortunately had not
readers enough to give satisfactory publicity to the ideas one desired
to put forth. The more moderate nourished a profound aversion for
socialism, and, in the course of the last ten years of Louis-Philippe's
reign, one of these organs of the reformist opposition, the most
important by reason of its age and the number of its subscribers, did me
the honor several times to ask me for a serial novel, always on the
condition that it should contain nothing of a socialistic tendency.
That condition was very difficult, perhaps impossible of fulfilment, to
a mind absorbed by the sufferings and the needs of its generation. There
are very few serious-minded artists who do not allow themselves to be
influenced in their work by the threats of the present or the promises
of the future, with more or less adroit circumlocution, with more or
less effusion and enthusiasm. Moreover it was the time to say all that
one thought, all that one believed. It was one's duty to do it, because
it was possible. As the social war did not seem imminent, the monarchy,
making no concessions to the needs of the people, seemed powerful enough
to defy longer than it did the current of ideas.
These ideas, at which only a small number of conservative minds had as
yet taken fright, had really taken firm root only in a small number of
observant and laborious minds. So long as they seemed to have no
application to political actualities, the ruling power worried very
little about theories and allowed every man to make one for himself, to
publish his dream, to construct the future city innocently in his
chimney corner, in the garden of his imagination.
The conservative journals became therefore the refuge of the socialist
novel. Eugène Sue published his in the _Débats_ and the
_Constitutionnel_. I published mine in the _Constitutionnel_ and the
_Epoque_. At about the same time the _National_ was attacking the
socialistic writers in its _feuilletons_, and overwhelming them with
very bitter insults or very clever satire.
The _Epoque_, a journal which had a very brief life, but which began by
surpassing in ardor all the conservative and absolutist organs of the
moment, was the frame wherein I was given absolute liberty to publish a
socialistic novel. On all the blank walls of Paris was placarded in huge
letters: _Read the Epoque_! _Read the Sin of Monsieur Antoine_!
The following year, as we were wandering through the moors of Crozant
and among the ruins of Châteaubrun, a rustic field in which my pen had
always taken delight, a Parisian friend of mine called out facetiously
to the half-civilized shepherds of those solitudes: "Have you read the
_Epoque_? Have you read the _Sin of Monsieur Antoine_?" And as they
fled, terrified by those incomprehensible words, he said to me with a
laugh: "How evident it is that these socialistic novels go to the heads
of the country people!"
An old woman, an excellent talker, came to Châteaubrun to reprove me
because I had written a book _full of lies_ about her and her master.
She thought that I had intended to introduce the proprietor of the
château and herself on my stage. She had heard of the book. People had
told her that there was _not a word of truth_ in it. It was impossible
to make her understand what a novel is, and yet she invented one
herself, for she told us of the assassination of Louis XVI. and Marie
Antoinette, _who were stabbed in their carriage by the populace of
Paris_. They who accuse socialistic writers of inflaming people's minds
should remember that they have forgotten to teach the peasants to read.
Shall I deny, now that the masses are stirring, the communism of
Monsieur de Boisguilbault, a very eccentric and yet not altogether
imaginary character in my novel? God forbid, especially after the
socialists have been accused, in every key, of preaching the division of
property.
The diametrically opposite idea, that of common ownership by
association, should be the least dangerous of all in the eyes of the
conservatives, since it is unfortunately the least understood and the
least popular among the masses. It is especially antipathetic in the
country districts and can be realized only by the initiative of a strong
government or by a philosophic, religious and Christian renovation, the
work of centuries it may be!
Attempts to form workingmen's associations have been made, however,
among the best informed, the most moral, the most patient portion of the
industrial population of the large cities. Enlightened governments,
whatever their motto, will always protect these associations, because
they offer a refuge to the genuinely social and religious thought of the
future. Probably imperfect at their birth, they will perfect themselves
in time, and when it is clearly proved that they do not destroy, but, on
the contrary, preserve respect for family and property, they will
insensibly lead to reciprocity among all classes, and to a union of
interests and attachments,--the only path of safety open to the society
of the future.
GEORGE SAND.
THE SIN OF MONSIEUR ANTOINE
I
EGUZON
There are few localities in France as unattractive as the town of Eguzon
on the confines of La Marche and Berry, in the southwest part of the
latter province. Eighty to a hundred houses, all of more or less
wretched appearance, with the exception of two or three whose opulent
proprietors we will not name for fear of offending their modesty, line
the two or three streets and surround the public square of that
municipality, famous for leagues around by reason of the litigious
nature of its population and the difficulty of reaching it. Despite this
last drawback, which will soon disappear, thanks to the laying out of a
new road, Eguzon sees many travellers boldly traverse the solitudes by
which it is surrounded and risk the springs of their _carrioles_ on its
terrible pavement. The only inn is situated on the only square, which
seems the more vast because it has one side open to the fields as if
awaiting the new buildings of future citizens; and this inn is sometimes
compelled, in the summer, to invite its too numerous guests to accept
accommodation in the neighboring houses, which are thrown open to them,
we are bound to say, with much hospitality. Eguzon, you see, is the
central point of a picturesque neighborhood dotted with imposing ruins,
and whether one desires to visit Châteaubrun, Crozant, Prugne-au-Pot,
or the still habitable and inhabited château of Saint-Germain, he must
necessarily sleep at Eguzon, in order to start betimes on these
different excursions on the following morning.
Several years ago, one lowering, stormy evening in June, the good people
of Eguzon opened their eyes to their fullest extent to see a young man
of attractive exterior crossing the square to leave the town just after
sunset. The weather was threatening; it was growing dark more quickly
than usual, and yet the young traveller, after taking a light repast at
the inn, where he halted just long enough to rest his horse, rode boldly
away toward the north, heedless of the representations of the innkeeper,
and apparently caring naught for the dangers of the road. None knew him;
he had answered all questions with an impatient gesture only, and all
remonstrances with a smile. When the sound of his horse's hoofs had died
away in the distance, the loafers about the inn said to one another:
"That fellow knows the road well or doesn't know it at all. Either he
has been over it a hundred times and knows every stone by name, or he
doesn't suspect what sort of a place it is, and will find himself in a
deal of trouble."
"He's a stranger and not of these parts," said a knowing individual with
a judicial air. "He wouldn't listen to anything but his own head; but
half an hour hence, when the storm breaks, you'll see him coming back
again."
"If he doesn't break his neck first, going down the Pont des Piles,"
observed a third.
"Faith!" said the bystanders in chorus, "that's his business! Let's go
and close our shutters, so that the hail won't break our window-panes."
And throughout the village there was a great noise of doors and windows
being hastily barred, while the wind, which was beginning to moan over
the moors, outstripped the breathless maid-servants, and sent back into
their faces the folding leaves of the heavy shutters wherein the
mechanics of the province, in conformity with the traditions of their
ancestors, spared neither oak nor iron bolts. From time to time a voice
could be heard from one end of the street to the other, and such remarks
as these were shouted from doorway to doorway: "Is all yours in?" "_Ah
oua!_ I've got two loads still on the ground." "And I've got six
standing!" "Well, I don't care, mine are all in the barn." They were
talking about hay.
The traveller, riding an excellent Brenne hackney, left the clouds
behind him and, quickening his pace, flattered himself that he could
outstrip the storm; but, at a sudden turn in the road, he realized that
he must inevitably be taken in flank. He unfolded his cloak, which was
strapped to his valise, tied his cap under his chin, and, digging his
spurs into his horse, galloped on once more, hoping at least to reach
and cross, by daylight, the dangerous spot that had been described to
him. But his hope was disappointed; the road became so difficult that he
had to go at a footpace and watch his horse to keep him from falling
over the rocks with which the ground was strewn. When he reached the top
of the ravine of La Creuse, the storm-cloud had enveloped the whole sky;
it was quite dark, and he could judge the depth of the abyss he was
skirting only by the dull, muffled roar of the torrent.
With the rashness of his twenty years the young man disregarded his
horse's prudent hesitation and forced him to take the chances of a
descent which the docile beast found more uneven and steeper at every
step. But suddenly he stopped and threw himself back on his haunches,
and his rider, who was slightly startled by the shock, saw, by the light
of a brilliant flash, that he was on the extreme edge of a perpendicular
precipice, and that another step would infallibly have hurled him to the
bottom of La Creuse.
The rain was beginning to fall, and a furious squall twisted the tops of
the old chestnut trees on the level of the road. The west wind forced
man and horse alike toward the stream, and the danger became so real
that the traveller was obliged to dismount, in order to present less
surface to the wind and to guide his horse more surely in the darkness.
What the lightning flash had enabled him to see of the landscape had
seemed wonderfully beautiful to him; moreover, his situation whetted the
task for adventure which is characteristic of youth.
A second flash enabled him to distinguish his surroundings, and he
profited by a third to familiarize himself with the objects nearest at
hand. The road was not narrow, but its very width made it hard to
follow. There were some half a dozen vaguely defined tracks, marked only
by hoof-prints and wheel-ruts, forming divers paths, interlaced as if by
chance, on the slope of a hill; and as there was neither hedge, nor
ditch, nor any sign of cultivation, those who passed that way had
climbed the hill wherever they happened to choose; thus with each season
a new road was opened, or some old one reopened which time and nonuse
had closed. Between each two of these capricious tracks were little
mounds of rock or tufts of furze, which looked just alike in the
darkness, and as no two of them were on the same level it was difficult
to pass from one to the other without risking a fall which might well
end in the abyss; for they all sloped sidewise as well as forward, so
that one must lean backward and to the left. Thus no one of these
winding paths was safe; for since the spring all had been trodden
equally hard, the natives taking any one of them at random in broad
daylight; but, on a dark night, it was of the greatest importance not to
lose one's footing, and the young man, who was more careful of the knees
of the horse he loved than of his own life, concluded to halt behind a
rock that was high enough to shelter them both from the violence of the
wind, and to wait there until the sky should brighten up a bit. He
leaned against _Corbeau_, and, raising a corner of his waterproof cloak
in such wise as to protect his companion's quarters and the saddle, he
fell into a romantic reverie, as well pleased to hear the howling of the
tempest as the good people of Eguzon, assuming them to be thinking of
him at all at that moment, supposed him to be anxious and disappointed.
The successive flashes soon afforded him a sufficient acquaintance with
the surrounding country. Directly in front of him the road climbed the
opposite slope of the ravine, equally steep and presenting difficulties
of the same nature. The Creuse, a clear, swift stream, flowed not very
noisily at the foot of the precipice and drew its banks together to pass
with a dull, never-ending roar under the arches of an old bridge that
seemed in a very dilapidated condition. The view opposite was limited by
the steep incline; but at the left he could catch glimpses of sloping,
well-cultivated meadows, through the middle of which the stream wound;
and opposite our traveller, on the crest of a hill bristling with huge
boulders interspersed with rich vegetation, rose the dilapidated towers
of a vast ruined manor. But, even if it had occurred to the young man to
seek shelter there from the storm, it would have been difficult to find
a way of reaching it; for there was no apparent communication between
the road and the ruin, and another ravine, traversed by a stream that
emptied into the Creuse, separated the two hills. The site was most
picturesque and the pallid gleam of the lightning imparted a touch of
the terrible which one would have sought in vain by daylight. Gigantic
chimneys, exposed by the falling of the roofs, towered up toward the
heavy clouds that hovered over the château and seemed to rend it
asunder. When the sky was lighted by the swift flashes, the ruins were
outlined in white against the dark background of the atmosphere, and, on
the contrary, when the eyes had accustomed themselves to the succeeding
darkness, they formed a dark mass against a lighter horizon. A large
star, which the clouds seemed not to dare to cover, shone a long while
over the haughty donjon, like a carbuncle on a giant's head. At last it
disappeared, and the torrents of rain, falling with redoubled force,
made it impossible for the traveller to distinguish anything except
through a thick veil. The water, falling on the rocks near by and on the
ground hardened by the recent extreme heat, rebounded like white foam
and at times resembled clouds of dust raised by the wind.
As he moved forward to shelter his horse more effectually behind the
rock, the young man discovered that he was not alone. Another man had
come to that spot in search of shelter, or perhaps had taken possession
of it first. It was impossible to tell, in those alternations of
dazzling light and intense darkness. The horseman had not time to obtain
a good view of the pedestrian; he seemed to be wretchedly dressed and
not of very attractive appearance. Indeed he seemed inclined to keep out
of sight by crouching as far under the rock as possible; but as soon as
he concluded, from an exclamation of the traveller, that he was
discovered, he unhesitatingly addressed him in a loud, clear voice:
"This is bad weather for riding, monsieur, and if you're wise you will
go back to Eguzon to sleep."
"Much obliged, my friend," replied the young man, making his stout,
lead-handled hunting-crop whistle through the air, in order to give his
problematical companion to understand that he was armed.
The latter understood the warning and answered it by tapping the rock,
as if absent-mindedly, with an enormous holly staff, which broke off
several splinters of stone. The weapon was stout and so was the wrist
that wielded it.
"You won't go far to-night in such weather," continued the pedestrian.
"I shall go as far as I choose," replied the horseman, "and I should not
advise anybody to take it into his head to delay me on the way."
"Are you afraid of robbers that you meet friendly overtures with
threats? I don't know what province you come from, my young man, but you
hardly seem to know what province you are in. Thank God, there are
neither highwaymen, nor assassins among us."
The stranger's proud but frank tone inspired confidence. The young man
rejoined more mildly:
"You're of this province, are you, comrade?"
"Yes, monsieur, I am, and always shall be."
"You are right to propose to remain here; it's a beautiful country."
"Not always though! At this moment, for instance, it's none too
pleasant; the weather is venting its spite, and it will be bad all
night."
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it. If you follow the valley of the Creuse you'll have the
storm for company till to-morrow noon, but I fancy that you didn't start
out so late without expecting to find shelter near at hand?"
"To tell you the truth, I am inclined to think that the place I am going
to is farther away than I supposed at first. I fancied that they tried
to keep me at Eguzon by exaggerating the distance and the bad condition
of the roads; but I see, from the little progress I have made in an
hour, that they hardly overstated it."
"Not to be inquisitive, where might you be going?"
"To Gargilesse. How far do you call it?"
"Not far, monsieur, if you could see where you are going; but, if you
don't know the country, it will take you all night; for what you see
from here is nothing in comparison with the break-neck places you have
to descend to go from the ravine of La Creuse to that of Gargilesse, and
you risk your life to boot."
"Well, my friend, will you undertake to guide me, for a good round sum?"
"No, monsieur, thank you."
"Is the road very dangerous that you are so disobliging?"
"The road is not dangerous to me, for I know it as well as you probably
know the streets of Paris; but what reason have I for passing the night
in getting drenched just to please you?"
"I am not particular about it, and I can do without your help; but I
didn't ask you to favor me for nothing; I offered you----"
"Enough! enough! you are rich and I am poor, but I am not a beggar yet,
and I have reasons for not making myself the servant of the first comer.
However, if I knew who you were----"
"Are you suspicious of me?" said the young man, whose curiosity was
aroused by his companion's proud and fearless character. "To prove that
distrust is an unworthy feeling, I will pay you in advance. How much do
you want?"
"I beg your pardon, excuse me, monsieur, I want nothing; I have neither
wife nor children, I need nothing for the moment; besides I have a
friend, a good fellow, whose house is not far away, and I shall take
advantage of the first flash to go there and have supper and sleep on a
good bed. Why should I deprive myself of that for you? Let us see! is it
because you have a good horse and new clothes?"
"I like your pride, so far as that goes! But it seems to me not well
done of you to refuse an exchange of favors."
"I have done you all the service in my power by telling you not to take
any risks at night in such vile weather, on roads that will be
impassable in half an hour. What more do you want?"
"Nothing. When I asked for your assistance I wanted to ascertain the
character of the people of this neighborhood, that's all. I see now that
their good will toward strangers is limited to words."
"Toward strangers!" cried the native, in a melancholy and reproachful
tone which impressed the traveller. "In Heaven's name isn't that too
much for those who have never done us aught but harm? I tell you,
monsieur, men are unjust; but God's sight is clear, and he knows well
that the poor peasant allows himself to be shorn, without revenging
himself, by the shrewd people who come from the great cities."
"Have the people from the cities done so much harm in your country
districts, pray? That is a fact that I know nothing of and am not
responsible for, as this is my first visit."
"You are going to Gargilesse. I suppose of course you are going to see
Monsieur Cardonnet? You are either a relation or friend of his, I am
sure?"
"Who is this Monsieur Cardonnet, whom you seem to hold in ill-will?"
asked the young man, after a moment's hesitation.
"Enough, monsieur," the peasant replied; "if you don't know him anything
that I could say would hardly interest you, and if you are rich you have
nothing to fear from him. The poor people are the only ones he has a
grudge against."
"But after all," rejoined the traveller, with a sort of restrained
emotion, "it may be that I have reasons for wanting to know what people
in this country think of this Monsieur Cardonnet. If you refuse to give
any reason for your bad opinion of him, it must be because you have some
personal spite against him, not at all creditable to yourself."
"I am accountable to nobody," retorted the peasant, "and my opinion is
my own. Good-night, monsieur. See, the rain is a little less violent. I
am sorry to be unable to offer you a shelter; but I have only the
château you see yonder, which is not mine. However," he added, after
taking a few steps, and as if regretting that he had not shown more
respect for the duties of hospitality, "if your heart should prompt you
to come and ask a bed for the night, I can answer for it you would be
welcome."
"Is yonder ruin occupied?" asked the traveller, who had to descend the
ravine to cross the Creuse, and had walked along beside the peasant,
supporting his horse by the rein.
"It is a ruin, in truth," his companion replied, repressing a sigh; "but
although I am not so very old, I have seen that château in perfect
repair, and so magnificent, outside as well as inside, that a king would
have been well lodged there. The owner didn't spend a great deal, but it
didn't require much repairing, it was so solid and well built; and the
walls were so well laid, the stone mantels and window frames so
beautifully carved that it would have been impossible to make it any
finer than the architects and masons did when they built it. But
everything goes, riches like all the rest, and the last lord of
Châteaubrun has just repurchased the château of his ancestors for four
thousand francs."
"Is it possible that such a mass of stone, even in its present
condition, is worth so little?"
"What is left would still be worth a good deal if one could take it down
and carry it away; but where in this vicinity can he find workmen and
machines capable of pulling down those old walls? I don't know what they
built with in old times, but that cement is so hard that you would say
the towers and high walls are made of a single stone. And then, you see
how it was planted on the very top of a mountain, with precipices on all
sides! What carts and what horses could carry down such materials?
Unless the hill crumbles they will stay there as long as the rock that
holds them, and there are still ceilings enough left to cover one poor
gentleman and one poor girl."
"So this last of the Châteaubruns has a daughter, has he?" asked the
young man, pausing to look at the manor with more interest than he had
yet shown. "And she lives there?"
"Yes, yes, she lives there among the gerfalcons and screech-owls, and
yet she is young and pretty, all the same. There's no lack of air and
water here, and in spite of the new laws against free hunting, we still
see hares and partridges now and then on the lord of Châteaubrun's
table. Look you, if you have no business that compels you to risk your
life to arrive before daybreak, come with me; I will undertake to
procure you a warm welcome at the château. Even if you should arrive
there alone, without recommendation, it's enough that the weather is bad
and that you have the face of a Christian, to ensure your being well
received and well treated at Monsieur Antoine de Châteaubrun's."
"But this gentleman is poor, it seems, and I am reluctant to impose on
his goodness of heart."
"On the contrary, you will gratify him. Come, the storm, you see, is
going to begin again with more violence than before, and my conscience
would trouble me if I should leave you thus all alone on the mountain.
You mustn't bear me ill-will because I refused my services. I have my
reasons, which you could not judge fairly, and which there is no need of
my telling you; but I shall sleep better if you follow my advice.
Besides, I know Monsieur Antoine; he would be angry with me for not
holding fast to you and taking you to his house; he would be quite
capable of running after you, which would be a bad thing for him after
supper."
"And you don't think that his daughter would be displeased to have a
stranger arrive thus unexpectedly?"
"His daughter is his daughter; that is to say, she is as good as he is,
if not better, although that seems hardly possible."
The young man hesitated some time longer, but, drawn on by a romantic
attraction, and already drawing in his imagination the portrait of the
pearl of beauty he was about to find behind those frowning walls, he
said to himself that he was not expected at Gargilesse until the
following day; that by arriving at midnight he should disturb his
parents in their sleep; and, lastly, that it would be downright
imprudence to persist in his plan, and that his mother would certainly
dissuade him from it, if she could see him at that moment. Moved by all
the excellent reasons which a man gives himself when the demon of youth
and curiosity takes a hand, he followed his guide in the direction of
the old château.
II
THE MANOR OF CHÂTEAUBRUN
After climbing with difficulty a very steep road, or rather a stairway
cut in the rock, our travellers reached the entrance of Châteaubrun in
about twenty minutes. The wind and the rain redoubled in violence, and
the young man hardly had leisure to observe the huge portal, which
offered to his sight, at that moment, nothing more than an ill-defined
mass of formidable proportions. He noticed simply that the seignorial
portcullis was replaced by a wooden fence like those which enclose all
the fields in the province.
"Wait a moment, monsieur," said his guide. "I will climb over and get
the key; for latterly old Janille has minded to have a padlock here, as
if there were anything to steal in her master's house! However, her
intentions are good, and I don't blame her."
The peasant scaled the fence very cleverly, and, while awaiting for him
to return and admit him, the young man tried in vain to make out the
arrangement of the ruined masses of architecture which he could see
confusedly inside the courtyard; it was like a glimpse of chaos.
After a few moments he saw several persons approaching. The gate was
speedily opened; one took his horse, another his hand, and a third went
ahead carrying a lantern, which was very essential for their guidance
among the rubbish and brushwood that obstructed their passage. At last,
after passing across part of the courtyard and through several enormous
dark rooms, open to all the winds of heaven, they reached a small oblong
room with an arched ceiling, which might formerly have been used as a
pantry or as a store-room between the kitchen and the stables. This room
had been cleaned and whitewashed, and was used by the lord of
Châteaubrun as salon and dining-room. A small fireplace had recently
been built there, with mantel and uprights of polished, glistening wood;
the huge cast-iron plate, which had been taken from one of the great
fireplaces and which filled the whole back, together with the great
fire-dogs of polished iron, sent out the heat and light beautifully into
the bare white room, which, with the aid of a small tin lamp, was
perfectly lighted. A chestnut table, which could be made to hold as many
as six covers on great occasions, a few straw-seated chairs, and a
German cuckoo clock, purchased from a peddler for six francs, composed
the whole furniture of this modest salon. But everything was
scrupulously clean; the table and chairs, roughly carved by some local
cabinet-maker, shone in a way that bore witness to the assiduous use of
the brush and duster. The hearth was carefully swept, the floor sanded
in the English fashion, contrary to the customs of the province; and in
an earthenware pot on the mantel was a huge bunch of roses mingled with
wild-flowers plucked on the hillside roundabout.
At first glance there was nothing _cherché_, in the poetic or
picturesque sense, in that modest interior; and yet, on examining it
more closely, one would see that, in that abode, as in all those of all
mankind, the natural taste and temperament of its presiding genius had
governed in the choice as in the arrangement of the furniture. The young
man, who then entered the room for the first time, and who was left
alone there for a moment while his hosts busied themselves in
preparations to make him as comfortable as possible, soon formed an idea
of the mental condition of the inhabitants of that retreat. It was
evident that they had refined habits and that they still felt a craving
for the comforts of life; that, being in a very precarious financial
condition, they had had the good sense to proscribe every species of
mere external vanity, and had chosen, for their place of assemblage,
among the few still intact apartments in that great building, the one
that could most easily be kept clean, heated, furnished and lighted; and
that, nevertheless, they had instinctively given the preference to a
well-proportioned, attractive room. This little nook was in fact the
first floor of a square pavilion added, toward the close of the
Renaissance, to the venerable buildings which looked upon the principal
courtyard. The artist who had planned this sharp-angled turret had done
his best to soften the transition from one to the other of two such
different styles. For the shape of the windows he had gone back to the
defensive system of loop-holes and small apertures through which to
watch the enemy; but it was easy to see that the small round windows had
never been intended to fire cannon through, and that they were simply
for purposes of ornament. Being tastefully framed with red brick and
white stone, in alternation, they formed an attractive setting for the
interior of the room, and divers recesses between the windows decorated
in the same way, avoided the necessity for papers, hangings, or even
articles of furniture, with which the wall might have been covered,
without adding to their simple and pleasant aspect.
In one of these recesses, the base of which, about three feet from the
floor, was formed by a flagstone white as snow and glistening like
marble, stood a pretty little rustic spinning-wheel, with its distaff
filled with brown flax; and as he contemplated that slight and primitive
instrument of toil the traveller lost himself in reflections from which
he was roused by the rustling of a woman's dress behind him. He turned
hastily; but the sudden rapid beating of his youthful heart was checked
by a severe disappointment. It was an old servant, who had entered the
room noiselessly, thanks to the fine sand with which the floor was
covered, and was leaning over to throw an armful of wild grapevine roots
on the fire.
"Come near the fire, monsieur," she said, lisping with a sort of
affectation, "and give me your cap and cloak, so that I can have them
dried in the kitchen. That's a fine cloak for the rain; I don't know
what they call this material, but I've seen it in Paris. It would be a
good thing to see such a cloak on Monsieur le Comte's shoulders! But it
must cost a lot, and besides, he hasn't said that he would wear it. He
thinks he's still twenty-five years old, and he declares that the water
from the sky never yet gave an honest man a cold; however, he began to
have a touch of sciatica last winter. But a man isn't afraid of those
things at your age. Never mind, warm your bones all the same; here, turn
your chair like this and you'll be more comfortable. You're from Paris,
I am sure; I can tell by your complexion, which is too fresh for our
country; a fine country, monsieur, but very hot in summer and very cold
in winter. You will say that it's as cold to-night as a night in
November; that's true enough, but what can you expect? it's on account
of the storm. But this little room is very comfortable, very easy to
heat; in a moment you'll see if I'm not right. We are lucky to have
plenty of dead wood. There are so many old trees about here, and we can
keep the oven going all winter just with the brambles that grow in the
courtyard. To be sure, we don't do much cooking. Monsieur le Comte is a
small eater and his daughter's like him; the little servant is the
heartiest eater in the house; why, he has to have three pounds of bread
a day; but I bake for him separate, and I don't spare the rye. That's
good enough for him, and with a little bran it goes farther and isn't
bad for the health. Ha! ha! that makes you laugh, does it? and me too.
You see, I have always liked to laugh and talk; the work goes off just
as fast, for I like to be quick in everything. Monsieur Antoine is like
me; when he has once spoken, off you must go like the wind. So we have
always agreed on that point. You'll excuse us, monsieur, if we keep you
waiting a little while. Monsieur has gone down the cellar with the man
who brought you here, and the stairs are so broken down that they can't
go very fast; but it's a fine cellar, monsieur; the walls are more than
ten feet thick, and it's so far underground that when you're down there
you feel as if you were buried alive. Really! it's a funny feeling. They
say that there was a time when they used to put prisoners of war there;
now, we don't put anybody there and our wine keeps very well. What
delays us is that our child has already gone to bed; she had a sick
headache to-day because she went out in the sun without a hat. She says
that she means to get used to it, and that she can get along without hat
or umbrella just as well as I can; but she's mistaken; she's been
brought up like a young lady, as she should have been, poor child! for
when I say _our_ child, I don't mean that I am Mademoiselle Gilberte's
mother; she's no more like me than a goldfinch is like a sparrow; but as
I brought her up, I have always kept the habit of calling her my girl:
she would never let me stop calling her _thou_. She's such a sweet
child! I am sorry she's in bed, but you will see her to-morrow; for you
won't go away without breakfast, you won't be let go, and she'll help me
to serve you a little better than I can do alone. It's not courage that
I lack, however, monsieur, for I have a good pair of legs; I have always
been thin, as you see me, with my short body, and you would never think
me as old as I am. Come! how old would you call me?"
The young man thought that, thanks to this question, he would be able to
put in a word at last, to thank her and to guide her, for he was very
desirous of fuller details concerning Mademoiselle Gilberte; but the
good woman did not await his reply, but continued volubly:
"I am sixty-four years old, monsieur, that is to say, I shall be on
Saint-Jean's day, and I do more work alone than three young hussies
could ever do. My blood runs quick, you see, monsieur. I am not from
Berry, I was born in Marche, more than half a league from here; so you
can understand it. Ah! you are looking at our child's work? Do you know
that is spun as even and fine as the best spinner in the province can do
it? She wanted me to teach her to spin. 'Look you, mother,' she said,
for she always calls me that; she never knew her own mother and always
loved me as if I was, although we were about as much alike as a rose and
a nettle; 'look you, mother,' she said, 'all that embroidery and drawing
and nonsense they taught me at the convent will never do me any good
here. Teach me to spin and knit and sew, so that I can help you make
father's clothes.'"
Just as the good woman's indefatigable monologue was beginning to be
interesting to her weary auditor, she left the room, as she had already
done several times; for she did not remain quiet a moment, and, while
talking, had covered the table with a coarse white cloth, laid plates,
glasses and knives; had swept the hearth, wiped the chairs and rekindled
the fire ten times, always resuming her soliloquy at the point where she
had let it drop. But this time her voice, which began to lisp in the
passageway outside the door, was drowned by other stronger voices, and
the Comte de Châteaubrun and the peasant who had guided our traveller
at last appeared before him, each carrying two large earthenware jugs
which they placed on the table. Not until then had the young man had an
opportunity to see their faces distinctly.
Monsieur de Châteaubrun was a man of some fifty years, of medium
height, with a noble and commanding figure, broad-shouldered, with a
neck like a bull, the limbs of an athlete, a skin quite as tanned as his
companion's, and large hands, calloused and roughened by hunting and by
the sunlight and the cold air; a genuine poacher's hands, if such things
can be, for the worthy nobleman had too little land not to hunt on that
of other people.
He had a frank, ruddy, smiling face, a firm walk and the voice of a
stentor. His hunting costume, neat and clean although patched at the
elbow, his coarse shirt, his leather gaiters, his grizzly beard which
was patiently waiting for Sunday,--everything about him indicated that
his life was rough and wild, whereas his pleasant face, his hearty,
affectionate manners and an ease of bearing, not unmixed with dignity,
recalled the courteous gentleman and the man who was accustomed to
protect and assist, rather than to be protected and assisted.
His companion the peasant was not nearly as presentable. The storm and
the muddy roads had wrought havoc with his jacket and his shoes. While
the nobleman's beard may have been six or seven days old, the villager's
was fully fourteen or fifteen. He was thin, bony and wiry, several
inches taller than the other, and although his face also expressed
good-nature and cordiality, it had, if we may so describe it, flashes of
malevolence, of melancholy and haughty aloofness. It was evident that he
had more intelligence or was more unfortunate than the lord of
Châteaubrun.
"Well, monsieur," said the nobleman, "are you a little dryer than you
were? You are welcome here and my supper is at your service."
"I am grateful for your generous welcome," replied the traveller, "but I
am afraid you will deem me lacking in courtesy if I do not tell you
first of all who I am."
"No matter, no matter," rejoined the count, whom hereafter we shall call
Monsieur Antoine, as he was generally called in the neighborhood; "you
can tell me that later, if you choose; so far as I am concerned, I have
no questions to ask you, and I consider that I can satisfy the demands
of hospitality without making you give your names and titles. You are
travelling, you are a stranger in the province, caught by an infernal
night at the very gate of my house; those are your titles and your
claims. In addition you have an attractive face and a manner that
pleases me; I believe therefore that I shall be rewarded for my
confidences by the pleasure of having accommodated a good fellow. Come,
sit you down, and eat and drink."
"You are too kind and I am touched by your frank and amiable manner of
welcoming strangers. But I do not need any refreshment, monsieur, and it
is quite enough that you should allow me to wait here until the end of
the storm. I had supper at Eguzon hardly an hour ago. So do not serve
anything for me, I beg you."
"You have supped already? why, that's no reason! Is your stomach one of
those that can digest only one meal at a time? At your age I would have
supped every hour in the night if I had had the chance. A ride in the
saddle and the mountain air are quite enough to renew the appetite. To
be sure, one's stomach is less obliging at fifty; so that I consider
myself well-treated if I have half a glass of good wine with a crust of
stale bread. But do not stand on ceremony here. You have come in the
nick of time, for I was just about to sit down, and as my poor little
one has a sick-headache to-day, Janille and I were very depressed at the
idea of eating alone: so your arrival is a comfort to us, and this good
fellow's too, my old playmate, whom I am always glad to see. Come, sit
you down here beside me," he said to the peasant, "and you, Mère
Janille, opposite me. Do the honors; for you know I have a heavy hand,
and when I undertake to carve, I cut the joint and platter and cloth,
and sometimes the table, and you don't like that."
The supper which Dame Janille had spread on the table with an air of
condescension consisted of a goat's-milk cheese, a sheep's-milk cheese,
a plate of nuts, a plateful of prunes, a large round loaf of rye bread,
and four jugs of wine brought by the master in person. The
table-companions set about discussing this frugal meal with evident
satisfaction, with the exception of the traveller, who had no appetite,
and who was well content to observe the good grace with which the worthy
host invited him, without embarrassment or false shame, to partake of
his splendid banquet. There was in that cordial and ingenuous ease
something at once fatherly and childlike which won the young man's
heart.
True to the law of generosity which he had imposed upon himself,
Monsieur Antoine asked his guest no questions and even avoided remarks
which might suggest curiosity in disguise. The peasant seemed a little
more uneasy and was more reserved. But soon, being insensibly drawn into
the general conversation which Monsieur Antoine and Dame Janille had
begun, he laid aside his reserve and allowed his glass to be filled so
often that the traveller began to stare in amazement at a man capable of
drinking so much, not only without losing his wits but without departing
from his usual self-possession and gravity.
But with the master of the house it was very different. He had not drunk
half of the contents of the jug beside him when his eye began to kindle,
his nose to turn red and his hand to tremble. However he did not lose
his wits, even after all the jugs had been emptied by himself and his
friend the peasant--for Janille, whether from economy or from natural
sobriety, merely poured a few drops of wine into her water, and the
traveller, having made a heroic effort to swallow the first bumper,
abstained from further indulgence in that sour, cloudy and execrable
beverage.
[Illustration: _EMILE ENTERTAINED BY MONSIEUR
ANTOINE._
_But this time, her voice, which began to lisp in the passage-way
outside the door, was drowned by other stronger voices, and the Comte de
Châteaubrun and the peasant who had guided our traveller at last
appeared before him, each carrying two large earthenware jugs which they
placed on the table._]
The two countrymen, however, seemed to enjoy it hugely. After a quarter
of an hour, Janille, who could not live without moving about, left the
table, took up her knitting and began to work in the chimney corner,
constantly scratching her head with her needle, but never disturbing the
thin bands of hair, still black as a crow's wing, which protruded from
under her cap. That spruce little old woman might once have been pretty;
her delicate profile did not lack distinction, and if she had been less
affected, less intent upon appearing fashionable and knowing, our
traveller would have been attracted to her as well.
The other persons, who, in the absence of the _young lady_, formed
Monsieur Antoine's household, were a young peasant, of some fifteen
years, wide-awake and light-footed, who performed the functions of
factotum, and an old hunting-dog, with a lifeless eye, thin flanks and a
melancholy, dreamy air; he lay beside his master and dropped asleep
philosophically between every two mouthfuls that he gave him, calling
him monsieur with a gravely jocose air.
III
MONSIEUR CARDONNET
They had been at table more than an hour, and Monsieur Antoine seemed in
nowise weary of sitting there. He and his friend the peasant lingered
over their little cheeses and their great tankards with the majestic
indifference which is almost an art in the native Berrichon. Putting
their knives alternately to that appetizing morsel, the odor of which
was devoid of any agreeable quality, they cut it into small pieces,
which they placed carefully on their earthenware plates and ate crumb by
crumb on their rye bread. Between every two mouthfuls they took a
swallow of the native wine, after touching their glasses and exchanging
such compliments as: "Here's to you, comrade!" "Here's to you, Monsieur
Antoine!" or: "Here's your good health, old fellow!" "The same to you,
master!"
At that rate, the feast might well last all night, and the traveller,
who had exhausted himself in efforts to appear to eat and drink,
although he avoided doing it as far as possible, was beginning to find
it difficult to contend against his drowsiness, when the conversation,
which had thus far been concerned with the weather, the hay crop, the
price of cattle and the new growth of the vines, gradually took a turn
which interested him deeply.
"If this weather continues," said the peasant, listening to the rain
which was falling in torrents, "the streams will fill up this month as
they did in March. The Gargilesse is not in good humor and Monsieur
Cardonnet may suffer some damage."
"So much the worse," rejoined Monsieur Antoine; "it would be a pity, for
he has made some extensive and valuable improvements on that little
stream."
"True, but the little stream snaps its fingers at them," replied the
peasant, "and for my part I don't think it would be such a great pity."
"Yes it would, yes it would! that man has already spent more than two
hundred thousand francs at Gargilesse, and it needs only a fit of temper
on the part of the river, as we say, to ruin it all."
"Well, would that be such a great misfortune, Monsieur Antoine?"