IN WHICH THINGS DO NOT HAPPEN PRECISELY AS BARON
MICHEL DREAMED THEY WOULD.
Our lover's first idea was to follow Courtin's original advice and
send the dogs back to the Marquis de Souday by Rousseau and La
Belette, two serving-men belonging partly to the château and partly to
the farm, who owed the nicknames by which Courtin has presented them
to the reader, one to the ruddy color of his hair, the other to the
resemblance of his face to that of a weasel whose obesity La Fontaine
has celebrated in one of his prettiest fables.
But after due reflection the young man feared that the Marquis de
Souday might content himself with sending a simple letter of thanks
and no invitation. If, unfortunately, the marquis should act thus, the
occasion was lost; he would have to wait for another; and one so
excellent as this could not be expected to happen every day. If, on
the contrary, he took the dogs back himself he must infallibly be
received; a neighbor would never be allowed to bring back valuable
strayed dogs in person, over a distance of ten or a dozen miles,
without being invited in to rest, and possibly, if it was late, to
pass the night at the castle.
Michel pulled out his watch; it was a little after six. We think we
mentioned that Madame la Baronne Michel had preserved, or rather had
taken a habit of dining at four o'clock. In her father's house Madame
la baronne had dined at mid-day. The young baron had therefore ample
time to go to the castle.
But it was a great resolution to take; and decision of character was
not, as we have already informed the reader, the predominating feature
in Monsieur Michel's character. He lost a quarter of an hour in
hesitation. Fortunately, in these May days the sun did not set till
eight o'clock. Besides, he could properly present himself as late as
nine.
But then--perhaps the young ladies after a hunting-day would go to bed
early? It was not, of course, the marquis whom the baron wanted to
see. He wouldn't have gone a mile for that purpose; whereas to see
Mary he felt he could march a hundred. So at last he decided to start
at once.
Only, and this was indeed a hindrance, he suddenly perceived that he
had no hat. To get it he must return to the château, at the risk of
encountering his mother and all her cross-questioning,--whose dogs
were those? where was he going? etc.
But did he really want a hat? The hat, that is, the lack of it, would
be set down to neighborly eagerness; or else the wind had taken it; or
else a branch had knocked it down a ravine, and he could not follow it
on account of the dogs. At any rate, it was worse to encounter his
mother than to go without his hat; accordingly he started, hatless,
leading the dogs in the leash.
He had hardly made a dozen steps before he discovered that it would
not take him the seventy-five minutes he had calculated to get to
Souday. No sooner were the hounds aware of the direction in which
their new leader was taking them than it was all he could do to hold
them back. They smelt their kennel, and dragged at the leash with all
their might; if harnessed to a light carriage they would have made the
distance in half an hour. The young man, forced to keep up with them
at a trot, would certainly do it in three-quarters.
After twenty minutes of this lively gait Michel reached the forest of
Machecoul, intending to make a short cut through it. It was necessary
to mount a rather steep slope before entering the wood, and when he
reached the top he halted to get his breath. Not so with the dogs, who
got their breath while running and wanted to keep on their way. The
baron opposed this desire by planting himself firmly on his feet and
leaning back while they dragged him forward. Two equal forces
neutralize each other,--that is one of the first principles of
mechanics. The young baron was the stronger, therefore he neutralized
the force of the two dogs.
This done, and quiet resulting, he took out his handkerchief to mop
his forehead. While he did so, enjoying the cool freshness of the
breeze as it breathed on his face from the invisible lips of evening,
he fancied he heard a cry wafted upon that breeze. The dogs heard it
too, and they answered it with that long, mournful cry of a lost
animal. Then they began to pull at their chain with fresh energy.
The baron was now rested and his forehead was mopped; he was therefore
quite as ready as Galon-d'Or and Allégro to continue the way; instead
of leaning back he leaned forward, and his little jog-trot was
resumed.
He had scarcely gone a few hundred steps before the same cry, or
rather call, was repeated, but very much nearer and therefore more
distinct than the first. The dogs answered by a long howl and a more
determined drag on their collars. The young man now felt certain that
the cry proceeded from some one in search of the dogs, and he bawled
to them (_hauler_). We beg pardon of our readers for using so
unacademic a word, but it is the one our peasants use to represent the
peculiar shout of a huntsman calling in his dogs. It has the advantage
of being expressive; and besides (for a last and better reason), I
know no other.
About six hundred paces farther on the same cry was repeated for the
third time by the seeking man and the missing hounds. This time
Galon-d'Or and Allégro tore along with such vigor that their conductor
was almost carried off his feet, and was forced to make his jog-trot a
quick trot and his quick trot a gallop.
He had scarcely kept along at that pace for three minutes before a man
appeared among the trees, jumped the ditch beside the road, and barred
the baron's way. The man was Jean Oullier.
"Ah, ha!" he cried; "so it's you, my pretty man, who not only turn my
dogs off the trail of the wolf I am hunting to that of a hare you're
after, but actually couple them, and lead 'em in a leash!"
"Monsieur," said the young man, all out of breath, "if I have coupled
them and led them it is to have the honor of returning them to
Monsieur le Marquis de Souday myself."
"Ho! yes, that's a likely story,--with no hat on your head! You
needn't trouble yourself any further, my good sir. Now you've met me
I'll take them back myself."
So saying, and before Monsieur Michel had time to oppose or even guess
his intention, Jean Oullier wrenched the chain from his hand and threw
it on the necks of the hounds, very much as we throw a bridle on the
neck of a horse. Finding themselves at liberty the dogs darted at full
speed in the direction of the castle, followed by Jean Oullier, whose
pace was equal to theirs as he cracked his whip and shouted:--
"Kennel! kennel, scamps!"
The whole scene was so rapid that dogs and man were nearly out of
sight before the young baron recovered himself. He stopped short
helplessly in the roadway, and must have been there ten minutes,
gazing, with his mouth open, in the direction Jean Oullier and the
dogs had taken, when the soft and caressing voice of a young girl said
close beside him:--
"Gracious goodness! Monsieur le baron, what are you doing here at this
hour, bareheaded?"
What he was doing, the young man would have been rather puzzled to
say; in point of fact he was following his hopes, which had flown away
in the direction of the castle, whither he dared not follow them. He
turned round to see who spoke to him, and recognized his
foster-sister, the daughter of the farmer Tinguy.
"Oh, it is you, Rosine, is it?" he said; "what are you doing here
yourself?"
"Monsieur le baron," said the girl, in a tearful voice, "I have just
come from the château de la Logerie, where Madame la baronne treated
me very unkindly."
"Why so, Rosine? You know my mother loves you and takes care of you."
"Yes, as a general thing; but not to-day."
"Why not to-day?"
"She has just had me turned out of the house."
"Why didn't you ask for me?"
"I did ask for you, Monsieur le baron, but they said yon were not at
home."
"I was at home; I have only just come out, my dear; for fast as you
may have come, I'll answer for it I came faster!"
"Maybe; it is likely enough, Monsieur le baron; for when Madame was so
cruel to me I thought I would come and ask the wolves to help me, but
couldn't decide at once to do so."
"What help can the _wolves_ give you?"
Michel forced himself to utter the word.
"The help I wanted Madame la baronne to give me, for my poor father
who is very ill."
"What is the matter with him?"
"A fever he caught in the marshes."
"A fever?" repeated Michel; "is it a malignant fever,--intermittent or
typhoid?"
"I don't know, Monsieur le baron."
"What does the doctor say?"
"Oh, goodness! the doctor lives at Palluau; he won't trouble himself
to come here under five francs, and we are not rich enough to pay five
francs for a doctor's visit."
"And didn't my mother give you any money?"
"Why, I told you she wouldn't even see me! 'A fever!' she said; 'and
Rosine dares to come to the château when her father has a fever? Send
her away.'"
"Oh, impossible!"
"I heard her, Monsieur le baron, she spoke so loud; besides, the proof
is that they turned me out of the house."
"Wait, wait!" cried the young man eagerly, "I'll give you the money."
He felt in his pockets. Then he remembered that he had given Courtin
all he had with him. "Confound it! I haven't a penny on me," he said.
"Come back with me to the château, Rosine, and I'll give you all you
want."
"No, no!" said the young girl; "I wouldn't go back for all the gold in
the world! No, my resolution is taken: I shall go to the wolves; they
are charitable; they won't turn away a poor girl who wants help for a
dying father."
"But--but," said the young man, hesitating, "I am told they are not
rich."
"Who are not rich?"
"The Demoiselles de Souday."
"Oh! it isn't money people ask of them,--it isn't alms they give; it
is something better than that, and God knows it."
"What is it, then?"
"They go themselves when people are sick; and if they can't cure them,
they comfort them in dying, and mourn with those who are left."
"Yes," said the young man, "that may be for ordinary illness, but when
it is a dangerous fever--"
"They wouldn't mind that,--not they! There's nothing dangerous to kind
hearts. I shall go to them, and you'll see they'll come. If you stay
here ten minutes more you'll see me coming back with one or other of
the sisters, who will help me nurse my father. Good-bye, Monsieur
Michel. I never would have thought Madame la baronne could be so
cruel! To drive away like a thief the daughter of the woman who nursed
you!"
The girl walked on and the young man made no answer; there was nothing
he could say. But Rosine had dropped a word which remained in his
mind: "If you stay here ten minutes you will see me coming back with
one or other of the sisters." He resolved to stay. The opportunity he
had lost in one direction came back to him from another. Oh! if only
Mary should be the one to come out with Rosine!
But how could he suppose that a young girl of eighteen, the daughter
of the Marquis de Souday, would leave her home at eight o'clock at
night and go five miles to nurse a poor peasant ill of a dangerous
fever? It was not only improbable, but it was actually impossible.
Rosine must have made the sisters better than they were, just as
others made them worse.
Besides, was it believable that his mother, noted for her piety and
claiming all the virtues, could have acted in this affair just the
reverse of two young girls of whom so much evil was said in the
neighborhood? But if things should happen as Rosine said, wouldn't
that prove that these young girls had souls after God's own heart? Of
course, however, it was quite certain that neither of them would come.
The young man was repeating this for the tenth time in as many minutes
when he saw, at the angle of the road round which Rosine had
disappeared, the shadows of two women. In spite of the coming darkness
he saw that one was Rosine; but as for the person with her, it was
impossible to recognize her identity, for she was wrapped in a large
mantle.
Baron Michel was so perplexed in mind, and his heart above all was so
agitated, that his legs failed him, and he stood stock-still till the
girls came up to him.
"Well, Monsieur le baron," said Rosine, with much pride, "what did I
tell you?"
"What did you tell him?" said the girl in the mantle.
Michel sighed. By the firm and decided tone of voice he knew she was
Bertha.
"I told him that I shouldn't be turned away from your house as I was
from the château de la Logerie," answered Rosine.
"But," said Michel, "perhaps you have not told Mademoiselle de Souday
what is the matter with your father."
"From the symptoms," said Bertha, "I suppose it is typhoid fever. That
is why we have not a minute to lose; it is an illness that requires to
be taken in time. Are you coming with us, Monsieur Michel?"
"But, mademoiselle," said the young man, "typhoid fever is
contagious."
"Some say it is, and others say it is not," replied Bertha,
carelessly.
"But," insisted Michel, "it is deadly."
"Yes, in many cases; though it is often cured."
The young man went close up to Bertha.
"Are you really going to expose yourself to such a danger?" he said.
"Of course I am."
"For an unknown man, a stranger to you?"
"Those who are strangers to us," said Bertha, with infinite
gentleness, "are fathers, brothers, husbands, to other human beings.
There is no such thing as a stranger in this world, Monsieur Michel;
even to you this man may be something."
"He was the husband of my nurse," stammered Michel.
"There! you see," said Bertha, "you can't regard him as a stranger."
"I did offer to go back to the château with Rosine and give her the
money to get a doctor."
"And she refused, preferring to come to us? Thank you, Rosine," said
Bertha.
The young man was dumfounded. He had heard of charity, but he had
never seen it; and here it was embodied in the form of Bertha. He
followed the young girls thoughtfully, with his head down.
"If you are coming with us, Monsieur Michel," said Bertha, "be so kind
as to carry this little box, which contains the medicines."
"No," said Rosine, "Monsieur le baron can't come with us, for he knows
what a dread madame has of contagious diseases."
"You are mistaken, Rosine," said the young man; "I am going with you."
And he took the box from Bertha's hands. An hour later they all three
reached the cottage of the sick man.