headerCHAPTER VII.THE INVITATION.
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A merry little troop lined the way leading into the forest. Song and mirth echoed through the trees as the happy band tripped along the road, their object being to invite the Barraus to a wedding. In certain rural parts of France it is the custom for the engaged couple, their relatives and best friends to visit in a body those they desire to invite to the wedding, and the future bridegroom, if it be a woman addressed, or the future bride, if it be a man, offers sugar-plums, which if accepted signifies that the implied invitation to the wedding is likewise accepted. In refusing, one also refuses to be present at the wedding. Moreover, a solemn obligation is involved in the acceptance. Those who partake of the sweet almonds are expected not only to join in the festivities, but to furnish a wedding-gift. Eggs, game, fruit, vegetables, and articles of food are usually the principal presents received by the happy couple.
The marriage of pretty little Suzanne Perrogon with Jacques Percier was about to be celebrated. Suzanne was the niece of Jeannille Marselon, whose strange character was referred to in the preceding chapter. Jacques owned a pretty little house and lot—an inheritance from his mother. In the contract he exacted the promise that his wife should engage herself formally,after the birth of her first child, as a wet-nurse in Paris, which is frequently done by the peasants of Morvan and of other sections. As a matter of fact, hundreds of marriage contracts contain such a provision.
For a period of some sixty years Morvan was one of the poorest and most destitute provinces of France. The soil was unyieldingly sterile and the climate cruel. The people found it extremely difficult to subsist on black bread alone, and the outlook for them seemed gloomy enough, until the idea occurred to one of the female Morvandelles—as they are called—to seek the position of wet-nurse in Paris. After a time wet-nursing became a means of livelihood for many peasant women, an industry, so to speak. These women proved to be the agents of civilization in the Morvan, and by degrees they brought not only money there, but certain ideas of luxury and of social propriety. The more intelligent women, while pursuing their vocation among well-bred and even distinguished families, acquired a certain refinement of manner, and to them the little province owed its increased prosperity and enlightenment. It is true, the hard-earned money too often found its way into the pockets of the wine-seller, who became the richest man in the village in a short time; but times were better than ever before in the Morvan, and the peasants rejoiced in their good fortune.
In small provincial towns to which strangers seldom come the inhabitants are all, or nearly all, related to each other. For instance, Andoche claimed relationship with everybody in the village. He professed to be a grand-nephew of Jeannille Marselon; and as the villagers did not deny it, he established his claims by virtue of the axiom—“silence gives consent.”
He accompanied the procession on the invitation tour. Perhaps his superfluous jollity was due to the fact that he held in his arms a demijohn which Monsieur Eugène had just presented to the betrothed. Having persuaded Jacques Percier that he was fainting with thirst, the future groom reluctantly consented to let Andoche test the wine. Without further ceremony Andoche offered a sip to everybody, extending his politeness so far as to permit nobody to drink alone—which he said meant bad luck.
By the time he reached Barrau’s cottage his spirits were very much elevated and his dangerous tongue wagged incessantly.
“Attention! Halt! Right about face!” he shouted as Savin appeared at the door. The latter was pleased at the spectacle, and his face brightened as he thought what a pleasant diversion it would be for Catherine.
“Come in, Jacques,” said Savin, “and welcome, Suzanne. Happy to see you all.”
The little party entered joyously, but the face of Catherine froze the words upon their tongues, the smiles upon their lips. Pale, stern, and relentless, she scarcely replied to those who addressed her.
“She will bring bad luck upon us with that terrible look,” thought Suzanne.
Jacques Percier spoke to Catherine, extending the usual compliments and saying: “Madame Barrau, our happiness will not be complete unless you are present at our marriage. Will you accept a bonbon?”
He offered her the box. She stepped back a little.
“I thank you, Jacques,” said she. “May you be happy as you deserve to be.”
A look of disappointment passed over his face, andnoticing it Catherine added: “It is not for me to accept or to decline. I am not mistress here.”
“Then you, Monsieur Savin, will you not—” But before Jacques had finished speaking Savin took twodragéesfrom the box, eating one and giving the other to his wife.
“Catherine exaggerates,” said he. “There are some things that a wife cannot do without consulting her husband, but she accepts your invitation, I am sure, and so do I, with pleasure. You will please accept from me a roebuck—if Madame le Hausseur allows me to kill one.”
Catherine bit her lips in mortification and vexation. But Savin had broken the ice, and when he brought out some fine old curaçoa the callers regaled themselves freely and all became merry again.
As soon as they had gone Catherine said petulantly: “You need no longer fear that I shall be too gay. I could not be so if I tried.”
“I never objected to your having a good time—in a proper way,” replied Barrau gently, but with an unmistakable accent of firmness.
“But if I am not to dance it will be absurd for me to go to the wedding.”
“Nobody will prevent you from dancing.”
“Yes, so you sayto-day; but when the time comes you will be just as jealous as ever, and I shall have to suffer for it.”
“Why talk so foolishly? You only weary me with this useless discussion.”
“I know it.”
“But believe me, my child, a woman who will excite her husband’s jealousy is either a coquette or a wilfulvixen. It rests with you whether Suzanne’s wedding-day shall be an agreeable one to us.”
“Agreeable! I suppose it would be so to you if I neither raised my eyes, nor opened my mouth, nor danced with Bruno, nor Firmin, nor Andoche, or any young man whatsoever. But if old Father Mathieu, or Grassy, or Monsieur the Mayor should be so good as to invite me, then I may accept with alacrity. Bah!”
Savin, who had hoped to pave the way toward a reconciliation, now saw the folly of the endeavor and replied nothing. Whistling to Patachaud and taking his gun, he left the house.
“What a wretched existence!” he muttered as he disappeared under the frost-touched trees.
Left alone, Catherine raised her arms toward heaven with an expression of utter despair. “Mon Dieu!how dearly would I pay for freedom,” she cried.
Savin, on the other hand, soothed by the quiet atmosphere of the woods, flattered himself that upon reflection Catherine would understand the conciliatory spirit which had prompted him to accept the wedding invitation. The wedding would be a diversion for Catherine, and he made up his mind not to dictate to or upbraid her whatever she might do; even if she danced with Bruno or Firmin, both of whom he disapproved. He resolved to bring about a reconciliation if possible, and he thought this little concession on his part would accomplish it. Knowing his wife’s love for gayety, he felt confident that a day’s unrestrained enjoyment would dispel the cloud and restore her to good-nature once more. And the brave-hearted fellow smiled to himself as he thought of his home again blessed with peace and happiness.
On the narrow path which plunged down a steep declivity into a ravine he encountered Fadard, the friend of Andoche and the cousin of Mademoiselle Faillot.
The man was proceeding, with the assistance of his cane, like a sober-minded citizen.
“Ah! it is Monsieur Fadard,” said Barrau; “and where the devil did you come from?”
“From Dun les Places. I have cut across country, as you see.”
The gamekeeper examined Fadard’s shoes and trousers. They bore no traces of mud, and there were swamps in the region of which he had spoken.
“And you are going to see Mademoiselle Faillot?” asked Barrau.
“Just so,” returned Fadard.
Savin continued to question him in order to study him the more closely. There seemed something suspicious in the man’s movements. Why was he prowling about this gloomy, forsaken spot, which bore an ill name among the peasants and which most people avoided? The trees were so dense that scarcely a bit of light penetrated into the forest, and it was still and lonely here on this chill autumn day. Fadard’s deceitful air was obvious to Barrau, who faced him with a stern countenance on which suspicion was plainly written. Before this look Fadard’s eyes fell.
“At what time did you set out from Dun?”
“At two o’clock,” replied Fadard tartly.
“You must be a good walker to have come so far in so short a time.”
As Barrau spoke he fancied he spied something concealed under the other’s clothing. Fadard appeared ill at ease.
“Another time,” continued Savin, “you had better take the main road. One sometimes has a bad encounter in such places as this.”
While speaking he put his hand familiarly on Fadard’s shoulder. The latter lost countenance, and without reflecting that he compromised himself in so doing, he turned and fled.
“Ah! it seems that Monsieur Fadard has something to conceal. And what cause has he to fear me, unless, as I suspect, he is a poacher?”
His first thought was to chase the runaway, but he abandoned the idea as useless. One might as well hunt for a needle in a haystack as for a man in this wilderness.
“Never mind. He will come back again some day, unless his cowardice gets the better of him.”
And smiling at the thought, Savin went on his way.
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