For five months they had been talking of going to take luncheon in one
of the country suburbs of Paris on Madame Dufour's birthday, and as
they were looking forward very impatiently to the outing, they rose very
early that morning. Monsieur Dufour had borrowed the milkman's wagon and
drove himself. It was a very tidy, two-wheeled conveyance, with a cover
supported by four iron rods, with curtains that had been drawn up,
except the one at the back, which floated out like a sail. Madame
Dufour, resplendent in a wonderful, cherry colored silk dress, sat by
the side of her husband.
The old grandmother and a girl sat behind them on two chairs, and a boy
with yellow hair was lying at the bottom of the wagon, with nothing to
be seen of him except his head.
When they reached the bridge of Neuilly, Monsieur Dufour said: “Here
we are in the country at last!” and at that signal his wife grew
sentimental about the beauties of nature. When they got to the
crossroads at Courbevoie they were seized with admiration for the
distant landscape. On the right was Argenteuil with its bell tower, and
above it rose the hills of Sannois and the mill of Orgemont, while on
the left the aqueduct of Marly stood out against the clear morning sky,
and in the distance they could see the terrace of Saint-Germain; and
opposite them, at the end of a low chain of hills, the new fort of
Cormeilles. Quite in the distance; a very long way off, beyond the
plains and village, one could see the sombre green of the forests.
The sun was beginning to burn their faces, the dust got into their eyes,
and on either side of the road there stretched an interminable tract of
bare, ugly country with an unpleasant odor. One might have thought
that it had been ravaged by a pestilence, which had even attacked the
buildings, for skeletons of dilapidated and deserted houses, or
small cottages, which were left in an unfinished state, because the
contractors had not been paid, reared their four roofless walls on each
side.
Here and there tall factory chimneys rose up from the barren soil. The
only vegetation on that putrid land, where the spring breezes wafted
an odor of petroleum and slate, blended with another odor that was even
less agreeable. At last, however, they crossed the Seine a second time,
and the bridge was a delight. The river sparkled in the sun, and they
had a feeling of quiet enjoyment, felt refreshed as they drank in the
purer air that was not impregnated by the black smoke of factories nor
by the miasma from the deposits of night soil. A man whom they met told
them that the name of the place was Bezons. Monsieur Dufour pulled up
and read the attractive announcement outside an eating house: Restaurant
Poulin, matelottes and fried fish, private rooms, arbors, and swings.
“Well, Madame Dufour, will this suit you? Will you make up your mind at
last?”
She read the announcement in her turn and then looked at the house for
some time.
It was a white country inn, built by the roadside, and through the open
door she could see the bright zinc of the counter, at which sat two
workmen in their Sunday clothes. At last she made up her mind and said:
“Yes, this will do; and, besides, there is a view.”
They drove into a large field behind the inn, separated from the river
by the towing path, and dismounted. The husband sprang out first and
then held out his arms for his wife, and as the step was very high
Madame Dufour, in order to reach him, had to show the lower part of her
limbs, whose former slenderness had disappeared in fat, and Monsieur
Dufour, who was already getting excited by the country air, pinched her
calf, and then, taking her in his arms, he set her on the ground, as if
she had been some enormous bundle. She shook the dust out of the silk
dress and then looked round to see in what sort of a place she was.
She was a stout woman, of about thirty-six, full-blown, and delightful
to look at. She could hardly breathe, as her corsets were laced too
tightly, and their pressure forced her superabundant bosom up to her
double chin. Next the girl placed her hand on her father's shoulder
and jumped down lightly. The boy with the yellow hair had got down
by stepping on the wheel, and he helped Monsieur Dufour to lift his
grandmother out. Then they unharnessed the horse, which they had tied to
a tree, and the carriage fell back, with both shafts in the air. The men
took off their coats and washed their hands in a pail of water and then
went and joined the ladies, who had already taken possession of the
swings.
Mademoiselle Dufour was trying to swing herself standing up, but she
could not succeed in getting a start. She was a pretty girl of about
eighteen, one of those women who suddenly excite your desire when
you meet them in the street and who leave you with a vague feeling of
uneasiness and of excited senses. She was tall, had a small waist and
large hips, with a dark skin, very large eyes and very black hair. Her
dress clearly marked the outlines of her firm, full figure, which was
accentuated by the motion of her hips as she tried to swing herself
higher. Her arms were stretched upward to hold the rope, so that her
bosom rose at every movement she made. Her hat, which a gust of wind
had blown off, was hanging behind her, and as the swing gradually rose
higher and higher, she showed her delicate limbs up to the knees each
time, and the breeze from her flying skirts, which was more heady than
the fumes of wine, blew into the faces of the two men, who were looking
at her and smiling.
Sitting in the other swing, Madame Dufour kept saying in a monotonous
voice:
“Cyprian, come and swing me; do come and swing me, Cyprian!”
At last he went, and turning up his shirt sleeves, as if undertaking a
hard piece of work, with much difficulty he set his wife in motion.
She clutched the two ropes and held her legs out straight, so as not to
touch the ground. She enjoyed feeling dizzy at the motion of the swing,
and her whole figure shook like a jelly on a dish, but as she went
higher and higher; she became too giddy and was frightened. Each time
the swing came down she uttered a piercing scream, which made all the
little urchins in the neighborhood come round, and down below, beneath
the garden hedge, she vaguely saw a row of mischievous heads making
various grimaces as they laughed.
When a servant girl came out they ordered luncheon.
“Some fried fish, a rabbit saute, salad and dessert,” Madame Dufour
said, with an important air.
“Bring two quarts of beer and a bottle of claret,” her husband said.
“We will have lunch on the grass,” the girl added.
The grandmother, who had an affection for cats, had been running after
one that belonged to the house, trying to coax it to come to her for the
last ten minutes. The animal, who was no doubt secretly flattered by her
attentions, kept close to the good woman, but just out of reach of
her hand, and quietly walked round the trees, against which she rubbed
herself, with her tail up, purring with pleasure.
“Hello!” suddenly exclaimed the young man with the yellow hair, who was
wandering about. “Here are two swell boats!” They all went to look
at them and saw two beautiful canoes in a wooden shed; they were as
beautifully finished as if they had been ornamental furniture. They
hung side by side, like two tall, slender girls, in their narrow shining
length, and made one wish to float in them on warm summer mornings and
evenings along the flower-covered banks of the river, where the trees
dip their branches into the water, where the rushes are continually
rustling in the breeze and where the swift kingfishers dart about like
flashes of blue lightning.
The whole family looked at them with great respect.
“Oh, they are indeed swell boats!” Monsieur Dufour repeated gravely, as
he examined them like a connoiseur. He had been in the habit of rowing
in his younger days, he said, and when he had spat in his hands--and he
went through the action of pulling the oars--he did not care a fig
for anybody. He had beaten more than one Englishman formerly at the
Joinville regattas. He grew quite excited at last and offered to make
a bet that in a boat like that he could row six leagues an hour without
exerting himself.
“Luncheon is ready,” the waitress said, appearing at the entrance to
the boathouse, and they all hurried off. But two young men had taken
the very seats that Madame Dufour had selected and were eating their
luncheon. No doubt they were the owners of the sculls, for they were in
boating costume. They were stretched out, almost lying on the chairs;
they were sun-browned and their thin cotton jerseys, with short sleeves,
showed their bare arms, which were as strong as a blacksmith's. They
were two strong, athletic fellows, who showed in all their movements
that elasticity and grace of limb which can only be acquired by exercise
and which is so different to the deformity with which monotonous heavy
work stamps the mechanic.
They exchanged a rapid smile when they saw the mother and then a glance
on seeing the daughter.
“Let us give up our place,” one of them said; “it will make us
acquainted with them.”
The other got up immediately, and holding his black and red boating cap
in his hand, he politely offered the ladies the only shady place in
the garden. With many excuses they accepted, and that it might be more
rural, they sat on the grass, without either tables or chairs.
The two young men took their plates, knives, forks, etc., to a table a
little way off and began to eat again, and their bare arms, which they
showed continually, rather embarrassed the girl. She even pretended to
turn her head aside and not to see them, while Madame Dufour, who was
rather bolder, tempted by feminine curiosity, looked at them every
moment, and, no doubt, compared them with the secret unsightliness of
her husband. She had squatted herself on ground, with her legs tucked
under her, after the manner of tailors, and she kept moving about
restlessly, saying that ants were crawling about her somewhere. Monsieur
Dufour, annoyed at the presence of the polite strangers, was trying to
find a comfortable position which he did not, however, succeed in doing,
and the young man with the yellow hair was eating as silently as an
ogre.
“It is lovely weather, monsieur,” the stout lady said to one of the
boating men. She wished to be friendly because they had given up their
place.
“It is, indeed, madame,” he replied. “Do you often go into the country?”
“Oh, only once or twice a year to get a little fresh air. And you,
monsieur?”
“I come and sleep here every night.”
“Oh, that must be very nice!”
“Certainly it is, madame.” And he gave them such a practical account
of his daily life that it awakened afresh in the hearts of these
shopkeepers who were deprived of the meadows and who longed for country
walks, to that foolish love of nature which they all feel so strongly
the whole year round behind the counter in their shop.
The girl raised her eyes and looked at the oarsman with emotion and
Monsieur Dufour spoke for the first time.
“It is indeed a happy life,” he said. And then he added: “A little more
rabbit, my dear?”
“No, thank you,” she replied, and turning to the young men again, and
pointing to their arms, asked: “Do you never feel cold like that?”
They both began to laugh, and they astonished the family with an account
of the enormous fatigue they could endure, of their bathing while in a
state of tremendous perspiration, of their rowing in the fog at night;
and they struck their chests violently to show how hollow they sounded.
“Ah! You look very strong,” said the husband, who did not talk any more
of the time when he used to beat the English. The girl was looking at
them sideways now, and the young fellow with the yellow hair, who
had swallowed some wine the wrong way, was coughing violently and
bespattering Madame Dufour's cherry-colored silk dress. She got angry
and sent for some water to wash the spots.
Meanwhile it had grown unbearably hot, the sparkling river looked like
a blaze of fire and the fumes of the wine were getting into their
heads. Monsieur Dufour, who had a violent hiccough, had unbuttoned his
waistcoat and the top button of his trousers, while his wife, who felt
choking, was gradually unfastening her dress. The apprentice was shaking
his yellow wig in a happy frame of mind, and kept helping himself to
wine, and the old grandmother, feeling the effects of the wine, was
very stiff and dignified. As for the girl, one noticed only a peculiar
brightness in her eyes, while the brown cheeks became more rosy.
The coffee finished, they suggested singing, and each of them sang or
repeated a couplet, which the others applauded frantically. Then they
got up with some difficulty, and while the two women, who were rather
dizzy, were trying to get a breath of air, the two men, who were
altogether drunk, were attempting gymnastics. Heavy, limp and with
scarlet faces they hung or, awkwardly to the iron rings, without being
able to raise themselves.
Meanwhile the two boating men had got their boats into the water, and
they came back and politely asked the ladies whether they would like a
row.
“Would you like one, Monsieur Dufour?” his wife exclaimed. “Please
come!”
He merely gave her a drunken nod, without understanding what she said.
Then one of the rowers came up with two fishing rods in his hands,
and the hope of catching a gudgeon, that great vision of the Parisian
shopkeeper, made Dufour's dull eyes gleam, and he politely allowed them
to do whatever they liked, while he sat in the shade under the bridge,
with his feet dangling over the river, by the side of the young man with
the yellow hair, who was sleeping soundly.
One of the boating men made a martyr of himself and took the mother.
“Let us go to the little wood on the Ile aux Anglais!” he called out as
he rowed off. The other boat went more slowly, for the rower was looking
at his companion so intently that by thought of nothing else, and his
emotion seemed to paralyze his strength, while the girl, who was sitting
in the bow, gave herself up to the enjoyment of being on the water. She
felt a disinclination to think, a lassitude in her limbs and a total
enervation, as if she were intoxicated, and her face was flushed and her
breathing quickened. The effects of the wine, which were increased by
the extreme heat, made all the trees on the bank seem to bow as she
passed. A vague wish for enjoyment and a fermentation of her blood
seemed to pervade her whole body, which was excited by the heat of the
day, and she was also disturbed at this tete-a-tete on the water, in
a place which seemed depopulated by the heat, with this young man who
thought her pretty, whose ardent looks seemed to caress her skin and
were as penetrating and pervading as the sun's rays.
Their inability to speak increased their emotion, and they looked about
them. At last, however, he made an effort and asked her name.
“Henriette,” she said.
“Why, my name is Henri,” he replied. The sound of their voices had
calmed them, and they looked at the banks. The other boat had passed
them and seemed to be waiting for them, and the rower called out:
“We will meet you in the wood; we are going as far as Robinson's,
because Madame Dufour is thirsty.” Then he bent over his oars again and
rowed off so quickly that he was soon out of sight.
Meanwhile a continual roar, which they had heard for some time, came
nearer, and the river itself seemed to shiver, as if the dull noise were
rising from its depths.
“What is that noise?” she asked. It was the noise of the weir which cut
the river in two at the island, and he was explaining it to her, when,
above the noise of the waterfall, they heard the song of a bird, which
seemed a long way off.
“Listen!” he said; “the nightingales are singing during the day, so the
female birds must be sitting.”
A nightingale! She had never heard one before, and the idea of listening
to one roused visions of poetic tenderness in her heart. A nightingale!
That is to say, the invisible witness of her love trysts which Juliet
invoked on her balcony; that celestial music which it attuned to human
kisses, that eternal inspirer of all those languorous romances which
open an ideal sky to all the poor little tender hearts of sensitive
girls!
She was going to hear a nightingale.
“We must not make a noise,” her companion said, “and then we can go into
the wood, and sit down close beside it.”
The boat seemed to glide. They saw the trees on the island, the banks of
which were so low that they could look into the depths of the thickets.
They stopped, he made the boat fast, Henriette took hold of Henri's arm,
and they went beneath the trees.
“Stoop,” he said, so she stooped down, and they went into an
inextricable thicket of creepers, leaves and reed grass, which formed an
undiscoverable retreat, and which the young man laughingly called “his
private room.”
Just above their heads, perched in one of the trees which hid them, the
bird was still singing. He uttered trills and roulades, and then loud,
vibrating notes that filled the air and seemed to lose themselves on the
horizon, across the level country, through that burning silence which
weighed upon the whole landscape. They did not speak for fear of
frightening it away. They were sitting close together, and, slowly,
Henri's arm stole round the girl's waist and squeezed it gently. She
took that daring hand without any anger, and kept removing it whenever
he put it round her; without, however, feeling at all embarrassed by
this caress, just as if it had been something quite natural, which she
was resisting just as naturally.
She was listening to the bird in ecstasy. She felt an infinite longing
for happiness, for some sudden demonstration of tenderness, for the
revelation of superhuman poetry, and she felt such a softening at her
heart, and relaxation of her nerves, that she began to cry, without
knowing why. The young man was now straining her close to him, yet
she did not remove his arm; she did not think of it. Suddenly the
nightingale stopped, and a voice called out in the distance:
“Henriette!”
“Do not reply,” he said in a low voice; “you will drive the bird away.”
But she had no idea of doing so, and they remained in the same position
for some time. Madame Dufour had sat down somewhere or other, for from
time to time they heard the stout lady break out into little bursts of
laughter.
The girl was still crying; she was filled with strange sensations.
Henri's head was on her shoulder, and suddenly he kissed her on the
lips. She was surprised and angry, and, to avoid him, she stood up.
They were both very pale when they left their grassy retreat. The blue
sky appeared to them clouded and the ardent sun darkened; and they felt
the solitude and the silence. They walked rapidly, side by side,
without speaking or touching each other, for they seemed to have become
irreconcilable enemies, as if disgust and hatred had arisen between
them, and from time to time Henriette called out: “Mamma!”
By and by they heard a noise behind a bush, and the stout lady appeared,
looking rather confused, and her companion's face was wrinkled with
smiles which he could not check.
Madame Dufour took his arm, and they returned to the boats, and Henri,
who was ahead, walked in silence beside the young girl. At last they got
back to Bezons. Monsieur Dufour, who was now sober, was waiting for them
very impatiently, while the young man with the yellow hair was having
a mouthful of something to eat before leaving the inn. The carriage was
waiting in the yard, and the grandmother, who had already got in, was
very frightened at the thought of being overtaken by night before they
reached Paris, as the outskirts were not safe.
They all shook bands, and the Dufour family drove off.
“Good-by, until we meet again!” the oarsmen cried, and the answer they
got was a sigh and a tear.
Two months later, as Henri was going along the Rue des Martyrs, he saw
Dufour, Ironmonger, over a door, and so he went in, and saw the stout
lady sitting at the counter. They recognized each other immediately, and
after an interchange of polite greetings, he asked after them all.
“And how is Mademoiselle Henriette?” he inquired specially.
“Very well, thank you; she is married.”
“Ah!” He felt a certain emotion, but said: “Whom did she marry?”
“That young man who accompanied us, you know; he has joined us in
business.”
“I remember him perfectly.”
He was going out, feeling very unhappy, though scarcely knowing why,
when madame called him back.
“And how is your friend?” she asked rather shyly.
“He is very well, thank you.”
“Please give him our compliments, and beg him to come and call, when he
is in the neighborhood.”
She then added: “Tell him it will give me great pleasure.”
“I will be sure to do so. Adieu!”
“Do not say that; come again very soon.”
The next year, one very hot Sunday, all the details of that adventure,
which Henri had never forgotten, suddenly came back to him so clearly
that he returned alone to their room in the wood, and was overwhelmed
with astonishment when he went in. She was sitting on the grass, looking
very sad, while by her side, still in his shirt sleeves, the young man
with the yellow hair was sleeping soundly, like some animal.
She grew so pale when she saw Henri that at first he thought she was
going to faint; then, however, they began to talk quite naturally. But
when he told her that he was very fond of that spot, and went there
frequently on Sundays to indulge in memories, she looked into his eyes
for a long time.
“I too, think of it,” she replied.
“Come, my dear,” her husband said, with a yawn. “I think it is time for
us to be going.”