headerCHAPTER VI.DARK DAYS.
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October with its kaleidoscopic dress comes on apace. Upon seeing the woods made glorious by the regal hues of gold and scarlet, we are tempted to say that the ending season is not less beautiful in its way than the beginning one. Great yellow patches on the foliage gleam in the wan sunlight. Nature is ablaze with color. The holly boughs are flaunting their bold red berries in the face of the wind, and everywhere the leaves in brilliant confusion flutter through the air.
Now and then in the distance a gun’s report is heard. The gamekeepers are now on the alert for prowling poachers. Water stands in the ditches. The fog is dense at night and in the morning, and the meadows already are often too cold for the flocks. The old belfry in the village—its greatest pride—is a mass of vines, now turned to vivid crimson.
At the door of his little shop stands Andoche the blacksmith, adorned with his leather apron. His brawny arms are bare to the elbows. In one uplifted hand he holds a glass of wine, while with the other he holds Firmin by the arm.
“My friend,” says he, “your affairs do not concern me in the least. You are old enough to know how to conduct yourself. But if you wish to hear a bit of good advice I will say—beware!”
“Of what? Of whom?”
“Of everybody in general and in particular of—Madame Catherine.”
“The gamekeeper’s wife?” said Firmin, with an egotistical leer.
“To be sure. There are nottwoCatherines.”
“Why do you say ‘beware’?”
“Why? Are you a fool?”
“I hope not.”
“Well, my friend, you now have the appearance——”
“O Andoche!”
“Well, old comrade. I may be a drunkard, but you can make up your mind to one thing—my eyes are wide open just the same.”
“And what do you seein particularjust at present?”
“That you are making a fool of yourself, and I am not the only one who thinks so.”
Firmin makes an indignant gesture, as though in protest against the assertion or assumption that a man of his importance should be so regarded by his friends; as though he could be led about by the nose! He—Firmin!
“Your health, Firmin,” adds Andoche, touching his visitor’s glass.
“Here’s to you,” returns Firmin, in a preoccupied manner.
The blacksmith, having drained his glass to the dregs with one toss of the hand, goes on to say: “My friend, I have not lived in the city and frequented the haunts of society like you—though I was once in garrison at Château Thierry—but I have a grain or two of common sense, and were I in your place I should not prowl around the little cottage over there like a dog.”
“And why, pray, should I not visit the gamekeeper’s house?”
“Because there are more poachers than millionnaires in the world.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Nothing; only Savin Barrau is a man who attends strictly to his own business.”
“And how does that concern me?”
“Ah, so you do not understand? Well, then, come into my shop and I will explain. Now then,” he continues as they seat themselves inside the little shop, “only four days ago Savin was shot at by some poacher on his mistress’ preserves.”
“So I heard. Well?”
“The bullet missed that time, but who knows whether he will escape the next?”
“That does not concern me.”
“But don’t you see, you simpleton, that if Savin is killed, the world will say you, egged on by Catherine, committed the deed?”
“What? You mean——”
“If such a thing should occur, there are two of you to prove an alibi.”
“Two? How so?”
“Bruno also might be suspected.”
“That young scamp? But she cares nothing for him.”
“Has she said so?”
“Yes, a dozen times.”
“Ah, so she converses with you frequently, eh? But, my friend, that is not the only danger you encounter. You, too, are sometimes given to poaching.”
“I?”
“Oh, yes. I know a thing or two about dogs myself,and the young hound crouching there by the forge with such a harmless air is the finest hunter in St. Benoit, and we all know the country is not wanting in good dogs.”
“And what of that, if you please?”
“Nothing at all, my friend, only should Catherine’s husband catch you at it a shot from his gun would soon put an end to you, and the law would exonerate him. Poachers always get the worst of it in those cases.”
Firmin turns visibly pale. True valor is quite an unknown quantity in his composition.
“Your health, my boy,” repeats Andoche, “and take my advice: Be careful what you do. Everybody knows Madame Catherine’s love of coquetry. It is not that she cares for you—oh, no! but she hates her husband. If Barrau at any time since the raspberryfêtehad but asked forgiveness, she would have turned her back on you fast enough, you may be sure.”
In spite of Firmin’s rising indignation, Andoche continues: “And if she were not so often twitted by the village girls of being at odds with Savin, she might now, even, overlook the humiliation she endured that day. But Rosalie and Félicité are always mocking her on the subject, and it only adds fuel to the flame. There will be trouble one of these days, mark my words, and as you are my friend, I advise you to keep out of it.”
A man of Firmin’s character and disposition, however, never accepts good advice. His egotism is too great, his mind too stupid for that. So now, with a supercilious smile, Firmin listens to Andoche’s not wholly unreasonable or irrelevant harangue.
“You can accept my advice or not, as you choose, my friend. But were I in your place, I should muchprefer to pass my time with old Andoche, tinkling the merry glass of wine, than to throw myself away on a designing woman.”
Firmin indulges in a burst of laughter.
“So that is your opinion, is it? Well, well—let us drink a bumper and change the subject, for I am not a little weary of it, old fellow. Here’s to you and to all good counselors.”
And so for the time the subject is dropped. Andoche, however, poor sot that he is, has expressed opinions that are not altogether wrong.
For over two months Catherine has daily become more sullen and capricious. At times her face wears a terrible expression, and though she has lost none of her beauty, still, under the influence of the fixed idea that haunts her, she appears less gracious and agreeable. In her face lurks a defiant, scornful expression, which does not become her, and her smile is constrained and bitter. To those who know her well but one solution is evident.
Her thirst for revenge is inordinate. She evinces it in her actions. And Savin lacks that suppleness of discernment to characterize it as a craving for revenge, and thus obtusely fails to endeavor to turn her mind into other channels. He simply accepts his wife’s silence, and, to him, only odd conduct as a sudden caprice.
“When she is ready to do so she will return to my heart’s shelter,” he thinks, little imagining the true state of the case.
The love and magnanimity he displayed by rescuing her from the wretched thraldom of her position after the D’Angerollesesclandre, he assumes, have rendered Catherine ever grateful to him, and have precluded all chance of prolonged anger on her part toward him who has sodefinitely proven his passion for her. And thus reflecting and thus reasoning, he waits for her to manifest some sign of her desire for a reconciliation. But as time goes on and Madame Barrau reveals more quixotic tendencies, he becomes impatient. There is naught more fatiguing than the existence of two people who, forced to dwell under the same roof, are at war with each other. Then each word has a special meaning. Every step, gesture, and movement may be misinterpreted by the injured one. The torture of mind endured nearly amounts to frenzy. For a day it is a terrible ordeal; for months it is a cruel nightmare. Barrau has a magnanimous nature, and if Catherine should come to him with one expression of regret he would take her in his arms eagerly and lovingly. But no. Catherine remains frigid in feeling and manner. Accordingly Savin, showing an equal disposition to maintain an obstinate silence, allows his animosity to ripen. He is exasperated and unhappy over their relations. To go on living in this way will soon be unbearable. But he constantly asks himself what is to be done.
Catherine is quite as miserable. “What! I am not yet twenty, and must I live all my life under this horrible yoke? Surely death will be preferable. Ah, if he but loved me. But he despises me.”
And thus she rebels—racking her brains for some means of escape. Unfortunately, she has not the nature which can forgive and forget. To punish the man who has treated her like a slave—yes, like aslave—that is her one idea. But how? That is not yet clear to her.
“Only to be free! only to be free!” she repeats. But how? No solution occurs to her mind until one day she finds herself saying: “What if Savin should die?”In justice, however, be it said, she rejects that thought as too horrible. “Wretched creature that I am to think of it!” she cries.
Alas! how bitter are her reflections. And as she looks out upon the late autumn landscape and watches the scattering leaves of red and gold, again she thinks: “After all, he may not live long. Stronger men than he have been vanquished by a bad cold—a sudden fever.”
And in imagination she sees him, pale and emaciated, reduced by sickness to a shadow—in a proper condition to be humiliated. At this very moment Barrau appears at the gate, and his powerful step resounds on the gravel. Patachaud dances about him with canine glee. Graceful, young, and vigorous, with broad shoulders and magnificent physique, the gamekeeper advances, opens the door, and enters.
His presence arouses Catherine from her sullen revery.
“Fool! that I should dream of his becoming ill. Why, he is made of iron.”
And brooding over her wretched existence, the idea of her husband’s death seems less revolting to her.
“It would be still better if he killed me himself,” she inwardly declares; “I deserve it.”
But a contemptuous smile (or is it a commiserating look?) from Savin serves to dispel all thoughts save those of hatred from her breast.