Veronique wrote to Monsieur Grossetete on the morrow. A few days later
she received from Limoges three saddle-horses sent by her old friend.
Monsieur Bonnet found at Veronique’s request, a young man, son of the
postmaster, who was delighted to serve Veronique and earn good wages.
This young fellow, small but active, with a round face, black eyes and
hair, and named Maurice Champion, pleased Veronique very much and was
immediately inducted into his office, which was that of taking care of
the horses and accompanying his mistress on her excursions.
The head-forester of Montegnac was a former cavalry-sergeant in the
Royal guard, born at Limoges, whom the Duc de Navarreins had sent to his
estate at Montegnac to study its capabilities and value, in order that
he might derive some profit from it. Jerome Colorat found nothing but
waste land utterly barren, woods unavailable for want of transportation,
a ruined chateau, and enormous outlays required to restore the house and
gardens. Alarmed, above all, by the beds of torrents strewn with granite
rocks which seamed the forest, this honest but unintelligent agent was
the real cause of the sale of the property.
“Colorat,” said Madame Graslin to her forester, for whom she had sent,
“I shall probably ride out every morning, beginning with to-morrow. You
know all the different parts of the land that belonged originally to
this estate and those which Monsieur Graslin added to it: I wish you to
go with me and point them out; for I intend to visit every part of the
property myself.”
The family within the chateau saw with joy the change that now appeared
in Veronique’s behavior. Without being told to do so, Aline got out her
mistress’s riding-habit and put it in good order for use. The next day
Madame Sauviat felt unspeakable relief when her daughter left her room
dressed to ride out.
Guided by the forester and Champion, who found their way by
recollection, for the paths were scarcely marked on these unfrequented
mountains, Madame Graslin started on the first day for the summits,
intending to explore those only, so as to understand the watershed and
familiarize herself with the lay of the ravines, the natural path of the
torrents when they tore down the slopes. She wished to measure the task
before her,--to study the land and the water-ways, and find for herself
the essential points of the enterprise which the rector had suggested to
her. She followed Colorat, who rode in advance; Champion was a few steps
behind her.
So long as they were making their way through parts that were dense with
trees, going up and down undulations of ground lying near to each other
and very characteristic of the mountains of France, Veronique was lost
in contemplation of the marvels of the forest. First came the venerable
centennial trees, which amazed her till she grew accustomed to them;
next, the full-grown younger trees reaching to their natural height;
then, in some more open spot, a solitary pine-tree of enormous height;
or--but this was rare--one of those flowing shrubs, dwarf elsewhere,
but here attaining to gigantic development, and often as old as the soil
itself. She saw, with a sensation quite unspeakable, a cloud rolling
along the face of the bare rocks. She noticed the white furrows made
down the mountain sides by the melting snows, which looked at a distance
like scars and gashes. Passing through a gorge stripped of vegetation,
she nevertheless admired, in the cleft flanks of the rocky slope, aged
chestnuts as erect as the Alpine fir-trees.
The rapidity with which she advanced left her no time to take in all
the varied scene, the vast moving sands, the quagmires boasting a few
scattered trees, fallen granite boulders, overhanging rocks, shaded
valleys, broad open spaces with moss and heather still in bloom
(though some was dried), utter solitudes overgrown with juniper and
caper-bushes; sometimes uplands with short grass, small spaces enriched
by an oozing spring,--in short, much sadness, many splendors, things
sweet, things strong, and all the singular aspects of mountainous Nature
in the heart of France.
As she watched these many pictures, varied in form but all inspired with
the same thought, the awful sadness of this Nature, so wild, so ruined,
abandoned, fruitless, barren, filled her soul and answered to her secret
feelings. And when, through an opening among the trees, she caught a
glimpse of the plain below her, when she crossed some arid ravine over
gravel and stones, where a few stunted bushes alone could grow, the
spirit of this austere Nature came to her, suggesting observations new
to her mind, derived from the many significations of this varied scene.
There is no spot in a forest which does not have its significance; not
a glade, not a thicket but has its analogy with the labyrinth of human
thought. Who is there among those whose minds are cultivated or whose
hearts are wounded who can walk alone in a forest and the forest not
speak to him? Insensibly a voice lifts itself, consoling or terrible,
but oftener consoling than terrifying. If we seek the causes of the
sensation--grave, simple, sweet, mysterious--that grasps us there,
perhaps we shall find it in the sublime and artless spectacle of all
these creations obeying their destiny and immutably submissive. Sooner
or later the overwhelming sense of the permanence of Nature fills our
hearts and stirs them deeply, and we end by being conscious of God. So
it was with Veronique; in the silence of those summits, from the odor
of the woods, the serenity of the air, she gathered--as she said that
evening to Monsieur Bonnet--the certainty of God’s mercy. She saw
the possibility of an order of deeds higher than any to which her
aspirations had ever reached. She felt a sort of happiness within her;
it was long, indeed since she had known such a sense of peace. Did
she owe that feeling to the resemblance she found between that barren
landscape and the arid, exhausted regions of her soul? Had she seen
those troubles of nature with a sort of joy, thinking that Nature was
punished though it had not sinned? At any rate, she was powerfully
affected; Colorat and Champion, following her at a little distance,
thought her transfigured.
At a certain sport Veronique was struck with the stern harsh aspect of
the steep and rocky beds of the dried-up torrents. She found herself
longing to hear the sound of water splashing through those scorched
ravines.
“The need to love!” she murmured.
Ashamed of the words, which seemed to come to her like a voice, she
pushed her horse boldly toward the first peak of the Correze, where,
in spite of the forester’s advice, she insisted on going. Telling her
attendants to wait for her she went on alone to the summit, which is
called the Roche-Vive, and stayed there for some time, studying
the surrounding country. After hearing the secret voice of the many
creations asking to live she now received within her the touch, the
inspiration, which determined her to put into her work that wonderful
perseverance displayed by Nature, of which she had herself already given
many proofs.
She fastened her horse to a tree and seated herself on a large rock,
letting her eyes rove over the broad expanse of barren plain, where
Nature seemed a step-mother,--feeling in her heart the same stirrings of
maternal love with which at times she gazed upon her infant. Prepared by
this train of emotion, these half involuntary meditations (which, to
use her own fine expression, winnowed her heart), to receive the
sublime instruction offered by the scene before her, she awoke from her
lethargy.
“I understood then,” she said afterwards to the rector, “that our souls
must be ploughed and cultivated like the soil itself.”
The vast expanse before her was lighted by a pale November sun. Already
a few gray clouds chased by a chilly wind were hurrying from the west.
It was then three o’clock. Veronique had taken more than four hours to
reach the summit, but, like all others who are harrowed by an inward
misery, she paid no heed to external circumstances. At this moment her
being was actually growing and magnifying with the sublime impetus of
Nature itself.
“Do not stay here any longer, madame,” said a man, whose voice made her
quiver, “or you will soon be unable to return; you are six miles from
any dwelling, and the forest is impassable at night. But that is not
your greatest danger. Before long the cold on this summit will become
intense; the reason of this is unknown, but it has caused the death of
many persons.”
Madame Graslin saw before her a man’s face, almost black with sunburn,
in which shone eyes that were like two tongues of flame. On either side
of this face hung a mass of brown hair, and below it was a fan-shaped
beard. The man was raising respectfully one of those enormous
broad-brimmed hats which are worn by the peasantry of central France,
and in so doing displayed a bald but splendid forehead such as we
sometimes see in wayside beggars. Veronique did not feel the slightest
fear; the situation was one in which all the lesser considerations that
make a woman timid had ceased.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“My home is near by,” he answered.
“What can you do in such a desert?” she said.
“I live.”
“But how? what means of living are there?”
“I earn a little something by watching that part of the forest,” he
answered, pointing to the other side of the summit from the one that
overlooked Montegnac. Madame Graslin then saw the muzzle of a gun and
also a game-bag. If she had had any fears this would have put an end to
them.
“Then you are a keeper?” she said.
“No, madame; in order to be a keeper we must take a certain oath; and to
take an oath we must have civic rights.”
“Who are you, then?”
“I am Farrabesche,” he said, with deep humility, lowering his eyes to
the ground.
Madame Graslin, to whom the name told nothing, looked at the man and
noticed in his face, the expression of which was now very gentle, the
signs of underlying ferocity; irregular teeth gave to the mouth, the
lips blood-red, an ironical expression full of evil audacity; the dark
and prominent cheek-bones had something animal about them. The man was
of middle height, with strong shoulders, a thick-set neck, and the large
hairy hands of violent men capable of using their strength in a brutal
manner. His last words pointed to some mystery, to which his bearing,
the expression of his countenance, and his whole person, gave a sinister
meaning.
“You must be in my service, then?” said Veronique in a gentle voice.
“Have I the honor of speaking to Madame Graslin?” asked Farrabesche.
“Yes, my friend,” she answered.
Farrabesche instantly disappeared, with the rapidity of a wild animal,
after casting a glance at his mistress that was full of fear.