THE FOUNDRIES OF LA FRONTENAY
I
It was a strange experience for Fernande to see Ronnay de Maurel in the
midst of the men who worked under his orders. Outwardly--by dress and
appearance--one of themselves, there was obviously an inward force and
authority in him which the workers readily recognized. Somehow her visit
to the foundries discouraged and disappointed her. Not that Ronnay was
in any way less under her sway than he had been in the romantic
atmosphere of the woods. On the contrary, every time that her eyes met
his, she read in them more and more clearly the progress which his
passion for her was making in the subjugation of his will-power and of
his senses; and every time that in the course of his demonstrations to
her, of the various processes which went to the making of the "mouths of
fire," his hand came in contact with hers, she could feel the tremor
which went through him at her touch.
No, indeed! she had no cause to think that the untamed bear would not be
ready to dance the moment she began to pipe; but here, in the foundries
where he ruled as lord and master, where thousands of men obeyed at a
word or sign from him, she first realized that between enslaving a man
like de Maurel, through his passions or his sensibilities, to the
chariot wheel of her beauty, and gaining a real mastery over his
thoughts and actions, there was the immeasurable gulf of ingrained
convictions and of the fetish of intellectual freedom.
That de Maurel was the real master in the foundries of La Frontenay
Fernande could not doubt for a moment.
"Keep your eyes and ears open, child," Madame la Marquise had said to
her, when she at last expressed reluctant approval of her niece's plan
to visit the ogre in his lair. "We hear many rumours of discontent at
the works--of insubordination--of open revolt. It would serve an
abominable democrat like my son Ronnay right, if the proletariat which
he upholds against his own traditions and his own caste were to turn
against him now as they turned against us in '89. Keep your eyes and
ears open, Fernande; the discontent of which we hear may prove a
splendid card in our hands."
Fernande had not altogether understood what Madame la Marquise was
driving at.
"Of what use can discontent among M. de Maurel's workmen be to us?" she
had asked, wondering.
"If they were to turn against their master, my dear," quoth Madame
dryly.
"Oh!"
"And rally round to us...."
"Do you think it likely, _ma tante_?"
"More than likely. Laurent and your father and I have a plan ..." said
Madame with some hesitation; "we have put it before de Puisaye and our
other leaders.... I can't speak of it just yet, child," she added
somewhat impatiently, "but it is most important that you should keep
your eyes and ears open to-day. We must reckon, remember, that King Mob,
in whose name these execrable revolutionists have murdered their King
and hundreds of innocent men, women and children, has felt the power of
his own will. He has tasted the sweets of open revolt against
constituted authority, and he has been given a free hand to murder, to
pillage and to outrage. He is not likely to be so easily curbed again;
he will rebel as he has rebelled before. His so-called Emperor has
placed an iron heel upon his neck ... and Ronnay de Maurel and his like
think that they can quench the flame of lawlessness which they
themselves have kindled. Bah! methinks that it is King Mob who will
avenge us all one day, by turning against the hands that first led him
to strike against imaginary tyrants, and then forged the chains that
made a slave of him."
And Fernande de Courson, as she wandered through the workshops of La
Frontenay, thought of Madame la Marquise's impassioned tirade. How
little revolt was there in these ordered places wherein men toiled and
sweated in order that the Emperor might have all the cannons and powder
he wanted wherewith to conquer the enemies of France! Here were no
murmurings, no rebellion over authority; every man knew, as de Maurel
passed him by and gave a look to the work in hand, that here was the
master whose word and will must be law if all the toil, the patriotism,
the enthusiasm which went to the making of these "mouths of fire" were
to prove useful to the State.
The place was not picturesque. It was not inviting. The men, stripped to
the waist, were covered with grime. But on their bearded faces they wore
the same look of energy and of determination which glowed in the eyes of
the soldiers who followed the young General Bonaparte over the Alps and
across the Danube, through the snows of Poland and the sands of the
desert from victory to victory. There was the same spirit--of that there
could be no doubt--which had roused the whole nation to defend itself
against the foreigners--the same spirit that made every man, woman and
child, who could not fight the foe, toil in order to help subjugate him.
That de Maurel understood how to deal with the men was equally obvious.
They evidently looked up to and trusted him, and Madame la Marquise's
dream of seeing the proletariat turn against the hands that fed it would
certainly not come true at La Frontenay.
Not that every cog-wheel of the gigantic machinery worked with equal
smoothness. Though, for the most part, de Maurel's progress through his
workshops was accompanied by looks of deference and at times of genuine
affection and gratitude, there were murmurings, too. More than once
Fernande caught the drift of a muttered complaint: "The heaviness of the
toil, the unhealthy conditions, the dearness of food at home." De
Maurel, however, had only one answer for all and sundry: "France," he
said, and his ringing voice sounded above the din of hammers and heavy
tools, above the roar of furnaces and bellows, "France has her back up
against the wall, my men! the whole of Europe is up in arms against her!
every one of her sons must either fight or toil till victory is assured.
After that ... well ... toil will be less hard ... life more healthy ...
food less dear!"
"My wife and children have not tasted meat for a month," retorted one
man moodily.
"I have not tasted any for half a year," was de Maurel's cheerful reply.
"My uncle and I up at La Vieuville live as you do down here; we toil as
you do, suffer as much as you. When the Emperor hath brought the
Prussian to his knees and compelled Austria to sue for peace, we'll all
feast together ... and not before."
"'Tis dog's work sweating in front of these furnaces all the day ..."
growled another man.
"Try sweating in front of the Prussian cannon, _mon ami_," retorted "the
General," with a careless shrug of his broad shoulders.
He passed on and in his wake the murmurings somehow died down. He had a
way with him, and he was so full of energy and breathed vitality from
every pore to such a degree, that instinctively toil appeared lighter,
and it seemed a humiliation to grumble.
It was only in the powder factory that the tempers of the men appeared
of a different mettle.
II
The factory stood some little way from the smelting works. It was
surrounded by a high wall, and its numerous sheds and imposing magazine,
surmounted by a clock-tower, nestled at the foot of the hills some
distance back from the road.
Mathurin, the chief overseer--a burly giant, who followed de Maurel's
every movement with the look of a faithful watchdog--ventured to lay a
restraining hand on his master's arm when he was told to lead the way to
that more risky and dangerous portion of the great armament works.
"Leroux," he said, and there was a tone of anxiety in his gruff voice,
"is in one of his most surly moods. He has given a deal of trouble
lately."
"All the more reason why I should speak with him," retorted de Maurel.
"But the lady, _mon général_," rejoined Mathurin, as he indicated
Fernande.
De Maurel turned to the young girl. "Would you care to wait,
Mademoiselle Fernande," he asked, "till I have spoken to the
recalcitrants? Mathurin will make you comfortable in his office...."
"Eh, _mon cousin_," she said boldly, with a toss of her pretty head,
"are you thinking that I am afraid?"
"Indeed not, Mademoiselle," he rejoined; "nor would I allow you to enter
the factory if there was the slightest cause for anxiety. But the men in
there are rough; they are," he added with a harsh laugh, "the jail-birds
for whom my brother Laurent hath such great contempt. They rebel against
their work--and it is hard and dangerous work, I own--but the State hath
need of it, and ... well, someone has to do it. But, of course, some of
them hate their taskmaster, and I for one cannot altogether blame them."
"And," queried Fernande, "do they hate you, _mon cousin_?"
"Of course," he replied with a smile; "I am the taskmaster."
"But ... in that case ..." she hazarded, somewhat timidly this time,
"are you not exposing yourself to unnecessary danger by...."
She hesitated, then paused abruptly, as he broke in with a loud laugh.
"Danger!" he exclaimed. "I? In my own workshops? Why, I fought at
Austerlitz, Mademoiselle."
She said nothing more, for already she was ashamed of her sudden access
of sensibility. Mathurin, once more ordered to lead the way to the
factory, obeyed in silence.
No doubt that here the men wore a sullen and glowering aspect which had
been wholly absent in the foundries. The risky nature of the work, when
the slightest inattention or carelessness might cause the most terrible
accident, the rank smell of the black carbon, of the saltpetre and
sulphur, together with the dirt and the mud and the weight of the
mortars, all seemed to produce an ill-effect upon the tempers of the
men, and as de Maurel entered the first and most important workshed, the
looks which greeted him and which swept over Fernande were furtive, if
not openly hostile.
It was clear that muttered discontent was in the air, and as de Maurel
went from one group to another of the workers, and either praised or
criticized what was done, murmurings were only suppressed by the awe
which his personality obviously inspired. Mathurin stuck close to his
heels, and the look of faithful watch-dog became more marked on his
large, ruddy face.
A word of severe blame from the master for grave contravention of rules
set the spark to the smouldering fire of discontent. A short, thick-set
man, with tousled red hair and tawny beard, on whom the blame had
fallen, threw down his tool at de Maurel's feet.
"Blame? Blame?" he snarled, showing his yellow teeth like an
ill-conditioned cur, "nothing but blame in this place of malediction.
Are we beasts that we should be made to work and risk our lives for a
tyranny that would make a slave of every free citizen?"
"You'll soon become a beast, _mon ami_," retorted de Maurel coolly, "if
you refuse to work; a useless beast and a burden to the State, fit only
to be cast into a ditch, or thrown as food for foreign cannon. Pick up
your tool and show that you are a man and a free citizen by doing your
duty for France."
"Not another stroke will I do," growled Leroux sullenly, "till I've
eaten and drunk my fill, which I've not done these past twenty days. Not
another stroke, do you hear? And if I lift that accursed tool again it
will be to crack your skull with it! Do you hear, _mon Général_? I am
under one sentence for murder already--another cannot do me much more
harm. So look to yourself--what? for not another stroke of work will I
do ... _Foi de_ Paul Leroux."
"Then by all means go and eat and drink your fill, friend Leroux,"
rejoined de Maurel imperturbably; "go, and wait as leisurely as you
please for the hour when the Emperor's orders send you to join your
battalion in Poland. Never another stroke of work will you do in this
factory, _mon ami_, but 'tis the Russian cannons who will eat their fill
of you."
Then he turned to the overseer.
"Mathurin!" he called peremptorily.
"Yes, _mon Général_!"
"Give Leroux the money that is due to him. He is no longer in my
employ."
"Name of a dog ..." came with an ominous imprecation from Leroux, "is
this the way to treat an honest citizen?..."
"There is no honest citizen, my man," spoke de Maurel firmly, "save he
who toils for France. Get you gone! Get you gone, I say! France has no
use for slackers."
"You'll rue that, General, on my faith," here interposed one of Leroux'
mates in tones that held an overt threat. "No one can finish this
crushing save Leroux. If you dismiss him now, some of us go with him ...
and the twelve hundred cannon-balls of this high calibre which the
Emperor hath ordered will not be completed for want of a few skilled
men."
"Those of you who wish to go," retorted de Maurel loudly, "can go hence
at once, and to hell with the lot of you," he added, with a sudden
outburst of contemptuous anger. "Have I not said that France hath no use
for slackers? You grumblers! you miserable, dissatisfied curs! Go an you
wish! The workshop stinks of your treachery!"
Then as some of the men, somewhat awed by his aspect and by the flame of
unbridled wrath which shot from his glowing eyes, congregated in a
little group of malcontents, egging one another on to more open revolt,
he went close up to them, forcing the group to scatter before him, till
he stood right in the midst of them, looking down from his great height
on the skulking heads which were obstinately turned away from him and on
the furtive glances which equally stubbornly avoided his own.
"You miserable cowards!" he exclaimed. "Have you no entrails, no hearts,
no mind? When the sons of France--her true sons--bleed and die on the
fields of Prussia and in the mountains of Italy--sometimes unfed, always
ill-clothed, under a grilling sun or in snowstorms and
blizzards--dragging half-shattered limbs up the precipitous heights of
the Alps, or falling uncared for, unattended and unshriven, into the
nearest ditch--when your brothers and your sons die for France with a
'Vive l'Empereur' upon their lips, with the unsullied flag held
victorious in their dying hands, you murmur here because food is dear
and work heavy! To hell, I say! to hell! Give me that, tool, Mathurin.
The Emperor shall not lack for gunpowder because a few traitors refuse
to toil for France!"
To Fernande, who watched this scene from a remote and dark angle of the
workshop, to which she had crept on tiptoe, terrified lest her presence
be noticed and considered an outrage in the midst of these turbulent
quarrels--to Fernande, it seemed as if the whole personality of de
Maurel had undergone an awesome change. There was something almost
supernatural in that huge, massive figure with the proud head thrown
back, the face lit up by the grey light which came through the skylight
above.
Then suddenly, with a quick, impatient gesture, he cast off his blouse
and shirt and stood there in the midst of the sullen and threatening
crowd--a workman among his kindred--a man amongst men; stripped to the
waist as they were, with huge, powerful torso bare, and massive arms
whereon the muscles stood out as if carved in stone, as he lifted from
the floor the enormous iron pestle which Leroux had flung down, and
wielded it as if it were a stick. And Fernande bethought herself of all
the mythological heroes of old of which she had read as a child in her
story-books; of men who were as strong and mighty as the gods; of those
who defied Jupiter and Mars and dared to look into the sun, or to
enslave the hidden forces of the earth to their will.
For a while Leroux and the others looked on "the General" with shifty
eyes wherein hatred and murder had kindled an ill-omened light. But in
the mighty figure which towered above them there was not the slightest
tremor of fear; in the commanding glance that met their own there was
not a quiver and not the remotest sign of submission. The intrepid
soldier, who at Austerlitz, bleeding, muddy, with leg shattered by a
bullet, a sabre-slash across his forehead, a broken sword in his hand,
had with two thousand men--some of them ex-jail-birds, as he said--held
ten thousand Russians and their young Czar at bay, until the arrival of
Rapp and his reinforcements, and then fell with shattered leg almost
beneath the hoofs of the victorious cavalry still shouting: "Vive la
France!"--he was not like to give in or to retreat before a few
murderous threats from a sulky crowd of dissatisfied workmen. No, not
though he knew that in the hip-pocket of more than one pair of breeches
there was--always ready--the clasp-knife of the ex-jail-bird made to
toil in the defence of the country which his crimes had outraged, and
still at war with the authority which he had once defied. Rumour in this
had not lied; it was with flails that some of these men were kept to
their work--the flails of the mighty will-power of one man, of his
burning patriotism and of his boundless energy. Even now his look of
withering contempt, his open scorn of their threats, his appropriation
of Leroux' tool and the skill and strength wherewith he wielded it,
whipped them like a lash. In a moment Leroux, the leader of the
malcontents, found himself alone, a hang-dog expression in his face,
hatred still lurking in his narrow eyes, but subdued and held in
submission by a power which he could not attack save by the united will
of his mates.
"I'll finish my work," he muttered after a while.
"You'll do double shift at half-pay for ten days," said de Maurel, ere
he handed him back his tool, "and one month in the black carbon factory
for insubordination."
For a moment it looked as if the men would rebel again. A murmur went
round the workshop.
"Another sound," said the General loudly and firmly, "and I send the lot
of you back to rot in jail."
He threw Leroux' tool down and quietly struggled back into his shirt and
blouse. The incident was obviously closed. A minute or two later the men
were back at their work, with renewed energy, perhaps, certainly in
perfect silence and discipline. Mathurin, the overseer, shrugged his
shoulders as he conducted Fernande and "the General" out of the
workshop.
"That means peace and quiet for a few weeks," he said gruffly, "but
Leroux is a real malcontent, and gives me any amount of trouble. He was
condemned to deportation for murder and arson--one of the worst
characters we have in the place. I wouldn't trust that man, General...."
"He is a good workman," was de Maurel's only comment.
"A good workman? Yes," Mathurin admitted, "but he is always ready with
his knife. We have had two or three affrays with him. He gave me a nasty
cut on the forearm less than a week ago."
"You did not tell me."
"Why should I? The cut will heal all right."
"And I would have had the fellow thrashed like the cur he is," came with
a harsh oath from de Maurel. "So no doubt you were wise not to tell
me--good old Mathurin," he added, and placed his hand affectionately on
the workman's shoulder.
"It would be better to have him sent elsewhere," suggested the overseer.
"No one would have him."
"Let him join the army. He is good fodder for Prussian cannon."
"A mischief-maker in the army is more dangerous than here at home. And
if he is a skilled workman, the Emperor hath more need of him just now
at La Frontenay than in Poland."
Mathurin was silent for a moment or two, then he muttered between his
teeth:
"We ought to have a couple of military overseers here, as they have at
Nevers and at Ruelle. The Minister of War is ready to send us help
whenever we want it."
"Are we puling infants," rejoined de Maurel lightly, "that we want
nurses to look after us? You must have a poor opinion of your employer,
my good Mathurin, if you think he cannot keep a few recalcitrant workmen
in order."
"No one can guard against a madman striking in the dark."
"If a madman chooses to strike at me in the dark," rejoined de Maurel
coolly, "all the military representatives in the world could not ward
off the blow."
"But...."
"Enough, my good friend," broke in the other, with a slight tone of
impatience. "You know my feelings in the matter well enough. I do not
intend to have military overseers in my works, whilst I have the
strength to look after them myself. When the Emperor allows me to rejoin
the army I'll write to the Minister of War, for a couple of
representatives to take my place during my absence ... but not before."
III
Then at last he turned to Fernande.
She had been terribly frightened at first, but the same magnetic power
which had quelled the turbulent spirit of a pack of jail-birds had also
acted on Fernande's overstrung nerves. Her fright had soon given way
before the power and confidence which de Maurel's attitude inspired. In
the same way as she had marvelled at his dealings with the workmen who
were loyal, so did she render unwilling homage in her thoughts to his
unflinching courage in the face of treachery. Perhaps she realized more
completely than she had ever done before that here was a man whom it was
easy enough to hate, but not one whom it was possible to despise. That
she--Fernande--still hated him, she felt more than sure ... hated him
for his rough ways, which had perhaps never been so apparent as now,
when he tried to reassure her. His blouse was more stained and crumpled
than ever. It had lain in the mud of the workshop, when he flung it away
from him in a fit of passionate wrath. As for his hands, they were
smeared with grime, and she could see that the sweat was pouring down
from his forehead when with an impatient movement he brushed his thick,
brown hair with his hand away from his brow.
"I am deeply grieved, Mademoiselle Fernande," he said in his unapt and
halting way, "that your ears should have been offended and your eyes
outraged by the sayings and doings of a pack of traitors. Meseems you
will be able to regale your kinsfolk up at Courson with tales of the
mutinous spirit of these unworthy soldiers of the Empire. I can hear my
brother Laurent laughing his fill at your tale. Indeed, I know that I am
to blame. I ought not to have brought you here. But Mathurin and I are
passing proud of the work done by these men, and I wanted to show you
what the spirit of patriotism will often do with fellows, whom my
brother Laurent hath so scornfully dubbed my jail-birds. 'Twas
unfortunate," he added with quaint shamefacedness, "that the rascals
just chose to-day for breaking out in such senseless and childish
revolt."
"Childish and senseless," Fernande said, with a contemptuous smile round
her pretty lips; "you take things easily, by my faith!" Then she added
earnestly: "Take care, _mon cousin_! one of them will kill you one day."
He turned brusquely to face her, and for a moment looked at her with a
dark, puzzled frown between his eyes; then he asked abruptly: "Would you
care if they did?"
She drew back suddenly, as if his strange and earnest query had hit her
in the face. He did not withdraw his gaze from her, however--a curious,
searching, intense gaze--which sent the blood coursing hotly through her
veins in unbounded pride and anger. Indeed, for the moment she forget
her rôle, forgot her foolish boast, her childish wager that she would
bring this untamed ogre to his knees. For the first time now she felt
appalled at the magnitude of a passion which she had wantonly kindled,
and with the marvellous prodigality of youth--she would at this moment
have bartered twenty years of her life to undo the mischief which she
had already done. She felt like a sleep-walker who--suddenly
awakened--sees a yawning abyss at his feet, and with a strange instinct
of self-protection she put up her hands as if to ward off a threatened
blow.
The gesture, and a vague look of fear in her eyes, sobered him quickly
enough, and after a while he reiterated quite gently:
"Would you care, Mademoiselle Fernande?"
Fernande de Courson, young as she was, had a great fund of self-control
and self-confidence, and already she had recovered from that sense of
fear which had paralysed her for a moment and of which she was already
heartily ashamed.
"Of course I would care, _mon cousin_," she replied coolly and with a
forced little laugh. "Did you not care when our kinsfolk were murdered
on the guillotine by a lot of insensate brutes? You are my kinsman, too!
Surely you do not credit me with less sensibility than you or M. Gaston
de Maurel possess?"
She had hit back boldly this time, and he was not quite so
unsophisticated as not to know that she was punishing him for all the
bitter words which he had spoken so freely--even in the woods, when her
beauty and her helplessness ought to have put a curb upon his tongue. A
hot flush rose to his brow, and a look of remorse, which seemed
intensely pathetic and appealing, crept into his eyes. But Fernande,
after her fright of a while ago, was in no mood for gentleness, and she
responded to his mute prayer for forgiveness by a light, ironical laugh
and a careless shrug of the shoulders.
Before she had time to speak again, however, good old Mathurin had
intervened in a blundering fashion, which had the effect of adding more
fuel to the smouldering flames of Fernande's wrath.
"Ah, Mademoiselle," he said, his voice quivering with emotion, "I would
to God you could persuade the General not to expose himself alone in the
midst of those hellhounds in there. As you say, one of them will be
sticking a knife into him one day ... and...."
"Mathurin!" came in stern reproof from de Maurel.
But Mathurin had ventured too far now to draw back. He gave a shrug of
his broad shoulders, as if to show that he was prepared to take all the
consequences of his boldness. Worthy old Mathurin--who was wholly
unversed in the ways of women--had an idea that in Fernande he had
found an ally who would second him in his anxiety for his master.
"Mademoiselle," he went on, imperturbed by de Maurel's glowering look,
"the General's life is too precious to be thrown to those dogs....
Mademoiselle ... if you love him...."
"Silence, Mathurin!" thundered de Maurel roughly, and this time he
succeeded in stopping the flow of the worthy man's eloquence. Mathurin
hung his head, looking shamed and sheepish.
"What have I said?" he queried ruefully.
"Nothing that you need be ashamed of, my good friend," said Fernande de
Courson with gentle earnestness, "and I honour you for your devotion to
your master. Indeed, he were well advised--I feel sure--to listen to
your counsels." Then she turned to de Maurel and said coolly:
"Shall we go, _mon cousin_? My father and _ma tante_, not to speak of
Laurent, will be desperately anxious if I do not return."
Once more it seemed as if between her and him some subtle sortilege had
suddenly been broken. De Maurel felt as if he had been roughly wakened
from a dream, wherein angels and demons had alternately soothed and
teased him. His brother's name acted as a counter-charm upon his mood.
In a moment he became constrained, halting in his speech, clumsy in his
manner. His self-consciousness returned, and at the same time his
delight in Fernande's company vanished. He thought that in the blue eyes
which met his now so unconcernedly, he read mockery and contempt, as
well as the indifference which had stung him a while ago, but which he
had schooled himself in a measure to endure. Once again he felt hot
shame of his ignorance, of his soiled blouse and grimy hands; and his
shame and irritation were aggravated by the sting of suddenly awakened
jealousy against the young and handsome brother, who even in absence
appeared to exercise a sort of acknowledged mentorship over Fernande. He
lost control over his temper and retorted with unwarrantable gruffness
and worse discourtesy:
"Do not let me detain you, Mademoiselle," he said. "Mathurin will see
you safely into the carriole, and the man will drive you to Courson as
fast as the horse can trot. I would not like to be the innocent cause of
my brother's anxiety. But I fear me," he added, "that you will carry
away a very unpleasant impression of La Frontenay--the jail-birds have
pecked at their keeper, eh? Well, if I have to dismiss some of them,
they'll be available for the campaign of highway robbery and pillage
which I hear the adherents of the dispossessed King have set on foot, in
order to fill his coffers; and my brother Laurent will be satisfied, I
hope."
Strangely enough, Fernande--proud, imperious, high-handed Fernande--felt
all her anger against de Maurel suddenly melt away at his scornful
tirade. Indeed, had he been less blind and more sophisticated, he could
not have failed to notice the little smile of triumph which lit up her
entire face as she listened to words which of a surety ought to have
filled the measure of her wrath. There could be no doubt now that the
bear was over-ready to dance whithersoever he was led, seeing that the
mere mention of his brother's name had caused him to forget himself
completely in this new feeling of jealousy, and to hit out senselessly
in every direction. Well, thought Mademoiselle Fernande--and she drew a
contented little sigh--he should suffer punishment for this outburst of
temper--punishment far more severe than he had endured a while ago, for
it would be accompanied by stinging remorse and a gnawing fear that
forgiveness would never be granted to him again. With this thought of
retributive justice in her mind, she allowed becoming tears to gather in
her eyes and a slight tremor to veil her voice, as she drew herself up
to her full height with stately dignity and said coldly:
"My cousin Laurent would, indeed, be satisfied if he saw me once more
safely at Courson, where, though we are poor, and still, in a measure,
strangers in our native land, we are at least not subjected to insult.
My good Mathurin," she added, placing her small white hand on the grimy
sleeve of the overseer, "I pray you escort me to the carriole. The heat
and noise of the workshops have made me faint. I should be grateful for
the support of your arm. _Au revoir, mon cousin!_" she said in
conclusion, with a slight nod of her dainty head toward de Maurel,
accompanied by a look of cold reproach. "Let us go, my good Mathurin!"
And before de Maurel had time to throw himself at her feet, as he,
indeed, was longing to do, and to sue for pardon on his knees, weeping
tears of blood for his brutality, she had sailed out of the workshop,
with small head erect, her final glance turned deliberately away from
him. And he remained there as if rooted to the spot, his heart aching
with the bitterness of his remorse, gazing on the marks which her tiny
heelless shoe had made upon the mud floor of the workshop, and longing
with a mad and senseless aching of his whole heart to grovel on that
floor and kiss each small footprint which was all that was left to him
of her fragrant presence and the magic of her person.