LA BRETONNE
By André Theuriet
Done into English by the Editor
One evening in November, the Eve of Saint Catherine, the iron gate of the Central Prison of Auberive turned on its hinges and allowed a woman of about thirty years to pass out. She was clad in a faded woollen gown, and her head was surmounted by a bonnet of linen that in an odd fashion framed her face—pallid and puffed by that grayish fat which is born of prison fare.
She was a prisoner whom they had just liberated. Her fellow-convicts called herLa Bretonne. Condemned for infanticide, it was just six years since the prison van had brought her tola Centrale. At length, after having donned again her street clothes, and drawing from the registry the stock of money which had been saved for her, she found herself once more free, with her road-pass viséed for Langres.
The post-cart for Langres had left; so, cowed and awkward, she directed her way stumblingly toward the principal inn of the place, and in scarcely a confident voice asked a lodging for the night. The inn was full, and the landlady, whodid not care to harbor “one of those jail-birds,” advised her to push on as far as the little public-house situated at the other end of the village.
La Bretonne, more awkward and frightened than ever, went on her way, and knocked at the door of the public-house, which, to speak precisely, was only a drinking place for laborers. This proprietress also cast over her a distrustful eye, doubtless scenting a woman fromla Centrale, and finally turned her away on the pretense that she did not keep lodgers.La Bretonnedared not insist, she merely moved away with her head down, while from the depths of her soul arose a sullen hate against this world which so repulsed her.
She had no other recourse than to travel to Langres on foot.
In late November night comes quickly. Soon she found herself enveloped in darkness, on the gray road which stretched between the edges of the woods, and where the north wind whistled rudely as it drove the heaps of dead leaves hither and yon.
After six years of sedentary life as a recluse, she no longer knew how to walk; and the joints of her knees were rickety; her feet, accustomed to sabots, were tortured in her new shoes. After about a league they were blistered, and she herselfwas exhausted. She sat down on a milestone, shivering and asking herself if she must die of cold and hunger in this black night, under that icy wind which so chilled her.
Suddenly, in the solitude of the road, over the squalls of wind she seemed to hear the trailing sounds of a voice in song. She strained her ears and distinguished the cadence of one of those caressing and monotonous chants with which one lulls children to sleep. Thereupon, rising again to her feet, she pressed on in the direction of the voice, and at the turn of a cross-road she saw a light which reddened through the branches.
Five minutes later she reached a mud hovel, whose roof, covered with clods of earth, leaned against the rock, and whose single window had sent forth that luminous ray. With anxious heart she decided to knock. The song ceased and a peasant opened the door—a woman of the same age asla Bretonne, but already faded and aged by work. Her bodice, torn in places, showed a rough and swarthy skin; her red hair escaped dishevelled from under a little cloth cap; her gray eyes regarded with amazement this stranger whose figure revealed something of loneliness.
“Well, good evening,” said she, raising higher the lamp which she held in her hand. “What do you want?”
“I can go no further,” murmuredla Bretonnein a voice broken by a sob. “The town is far, and if you will lodge me for this night, you’ll render me a service. I have some money, and will pay you for your trouble.”
“Come in!” replied the other, after a moment of hesitation; then she continued in a tone more of curiosity than of suspicion, “Why didn’t you sleep at Auberive?”
“They were not willing to lodge me”—and, lowering her blue eyes,la Bretonne, seized with a scruple, added—“because, you see, I come from the Central Prison, and that does not give folks confidence.”
“Ah! Come in all the same. I, who never knew anything but poverty—I fear nothing! I have a conscience against turning a Christian from the door on a night like this. I’ll go make you a bed by strewing some heather.”
She proceeded to take from under a shed several bundles of dry sweet-heather and spread them in a corner before the chimney.
“You live here alone?” timidly askedla Bretonne.
“Yes, with my youngster, who is nearly seven years old. I earn our living by working in the woods.”
“Your man is dead?”
“I never had one,” saidla Fleuriottebruskly. “The poor child hasn’t any father. As the saying is, ‘to each his sorrow.’ There, your bed is made, and here are two or three potatoes which are left over from supper—it’s all I have to offer you.”
She was interrupted by a childish voice coming from a dark closet, separated from the main room by a board partition.
“Good night!” she repeated. “I must go look up the little one—she’s crying. Have a good night’s sleep!”
She took the lamp and went to the adjacent closet, leavingla Bretonnein darkness.
Soon she was stretched upon her bed of heather. After having eaten, she tried to close her eyes, but sleep would not come. Through the partition she heardla Fleuriottetalking softly with her baby, whom the arrival of the stranger had awakened, and who did not wish to go to sleep again.La Fleuriottepetted her, she embraced her with caressing words—naïve expressions which strangely stirredla Bretonne.
The outburst of tenderness awakened a confused instinct of motherhood buried deep in the soul of that girl who had once been condemned for having stifled her new-born babe.La Bretonnereflected that “if things had not gone badly” with her, her own child would have been just asold as this little girl. At that thought, and at the sound of the childish voice, she shuddered in her inmost soul; something tender and loving was born in that embittered heart, and she felt an overwhelming need for tears.
“Come, my pet,” saidla Fleuriotte, “hurry off to sleep. If you are good, I’ll take you to-morrow to the fête of Saint Catherine.”
“Saint Catherine’s—that’s the fête for little girls, isn’t it, Mamma?”
“Yes, my own.”
“Is it true, then, that on this day Saint Catherine gives playthings to the children?”
“Yes—sometimes.”
“Why doesn’t she ever bring anything to our house?”
“We live too far away; and, besides, we are too poor.”
“Then, she brings them only to rich children! Why? I—I’d love to have some playthings.”
“Ah, well! Some day—if you are quite good—if you go to sleep nicely—perhaps she will bring you some.”
“All right—I’m going to sleep—so that she’ll bring me some to-morrow.”
Silence. Then regular and gentle breathing. The child had fallen asleep, and the mother too. Onlyla Bretonnedid not sleep. An emotion bothpoignant and tender wrung her heart, and she thought more fixedly than ever of that little one whom long ago she had stifled. This lasted until the first gleams of dawn.
At early daylightla Fleuriotteand her child still slept.La Bretonnefurtively glided out of the house, and, walking hastily in the direction of Auberive, did not pause until she reached the first houses. Once there, she again passed slowly up the single street, scanning the signs of the shops. At last one of these seemed to fix her attention. She rapped upon the window-shutter, and by and by it was opened. It was a dry-goods shop, but they also had some children’s playthings—poor shopworn toys—paper dolls, a Noah’s ark, a sheep-fold. To the great amazement of the shopkeeper,la Bretonnebought them all, paid, and went out.
She was again on the road tola Fleuriotte’shovel when a hand was laid heavily on her shoulder. Tremblingly she turned and found herself facing a corporal ofgensdarmes. The unhappy woman had forgotten that convicts were not permitted after their release to remain in the neighborhood of the prison!
“Instead of loafing here, you should be already at Langres,” said the corporal severely. “Go along—on your way!”
She sought to explain—her pains were lost! In the twinkling of an eye a cart was requisitioned, she was put in under the escort of agendarme, and the driver whipped up his horse.
The cart rumbled joltingly over the frozen road. Poorla Bretonneheart-brokenly clutched the package of playthings in her chilled fingers.
At a turn of the highway she recognized the cross-path through the woods. Her heart leaped, and she pleaded with thegendarmeto stop—she had an errand forla Fleuriotte, a woman who lived there, only a couple of steps away. She pleaded with so much earnestness that thegendarme, a good fellow at heart, allowed himself to be persuaded. They tied the horse to the tree and went up the path.
In front of her doorla Fleuriottewas chopping up wood into faggots. Upon seeing her visitor back again, accompanied by agendarme, she stood open-mouthed, her arms hanging.
“Chut!” saidla Bretonne, “is the little one still asleep?”
“Yes, but——”
“Lay these playthings gently on her bed, and tell her that Saint Catherine sent them. I went back to Auberive to hunt for them, but it seems that I hadn’t the right to do so, and they are sending me to Langres.”
“Holy Mother of God!” criedla Fleuriotte.
“Pshaw!”
She drew near the bed. Followed always by her guard,la Bretonnespread over the coverlet the dolls, the ark, and the flock of sheep. Then she kissed the bare arm of the sleeping child, and, turning toward thegendarme, who stood staring:
“Now,” said she, “we can go on.”