"Swear, then," she said; "but give all your mind, and all your religion to what you are going to say. Swear by your father and your mother, by your conscience and the good God, that no girl ever seemed to you as beautiful as I."
I was about to swear, when, I am sure I don't know why, a recollection made my tongue tremble. Perhaps I was very silly to heed it; a shrewder fellow wouldn't have done so, but I couldn't lie at the moment when a certain image came clearly before my mind. And yet, I had totally forgotten it up to that very moment, and should probably never have remembered it at all if it had not been for Brulette's questions and adjurations.
"You are in no hurry to swear," she said, "but I like that best; I shall respect you for the truth and despise you for a lie."
"Well then, Brulette," I answered, "as you want me to tell the exact truth I will do so. In all my life I have seen two girls, two children I might say, between whom I might have wavered as to preference if any one had said to me (for I was a child myself at the time), 'Here are two little darlings who may listen to you in after days; choose which you will have for a wife.' I should doubtless have answered, 'I choose my cousin,' because I knew how amiable you were, and I knew nothing of the other, having only seen her for ten minutes. And yet, when I came to think of it, it is possible I might have felt some regret, not because her beauty was greater than yours, for I don't think that possible, but because she gave me a good kiss on both cheeks, which you never gave me in your life. So I conclude that she is a girl who will some day give her heart generously, whereas your discretion holds me and always has held me in fear and trembling."
"Where is she now?" asked Brulette, who seemed struck by what I said. "What is her name?"
She was much surprised to hear that I knew neither her name nor the place she lived in, and that I called her in my memory "the girl of the woods." I told her the little story of the cart that stuck in the mud, and she asked me a variety of questions which I could not answer, my recollections being much confused and the whole affair being of less interest to me than Brulette supposed. She turned over in her head every word she got out of me, and it almost seemed as if she were questioning herself, with some vexation, to know if she were pretty enough to be so exacting, and whether frankness or coyness was the best way of pleasing the lads.
Perhaps she was tempted for a moment to try coquetry and make me forget the little vision that had come into my head, and which, for more reasons than one, had displeased her; but after a few joking words she answered seriously:—
"No, Tiennet, I won't blame you for having eyes to see a pretty girl when the matter is as innocent and natural as you tell me; but nevertheless it makes me think seriously, I hardly know why, about myself. Cousin, I am a coquette. I feel the fever of it to the very roots of my hair. I don't know that I shall ever be cured of it; but, such as I am, I look upon love and marriage as the end of all my comfort and pleasure. I am eighteen,—old enough to reflect. Well, reflection comes to me like a blow on the stomach; whereas you have been considering how to get yourself a happy home ever since you were fifteen or sixteen, and your simple heart has given you an honest answer. What you need is a wife as simple and honest as yourself, without caprices, or pride, or folly: I should deceive you shamefully if I told you that I am the right kind of girl for you. Whether from caprice or distrust I don't know, but I have no inclination for any of those I can choose from, and I can't say that I ever shall have. The longer I live the more my freedom and my light-heartedness satisfy me. Therefore be my friend, my comrade, my cousin; I will love you just as I love Joseph, and better, if you are faithful to our friendship; but don't think any more about marrying me. I know that your relations would be opposed to it, and so am I, in spite of myself, and with great regret for disappointing you. See, the others are coming after us to break up this long talk. Promise me not to sulk; choose a course; be my brother. If you say yes, we'll build the midsummer bonfire when we get back to the village, and open the dance together gayly."
"Well, Brulette," I answered, sighing, "it shall be as you say. I'll do my best not to love you, except as you wish, and in any case I shall still be your cousin and good friend, as in duty bound."
She took my hand and ran with me to the village market-place, delighted to make her lovers scamper after her; there we found that the old people had already piled up the fagots and straw of the bonfire. Brulette, being the first to arrive, was called to set fire to it, and soon the flames darted higher than the church porch.
We had no music to dance by until Carnat's son, named François, came along with his bagpipe; and he was very willing to play, for he, too, like the rest, was putting his best foot foremost to please Brulette.
So we opened the ball joyously, but after a minute or two everybody cried out that the music tired their legs. François Carnat was new at the business, and though he did his best, we found we couldn't get along. He let us make fun of him, however, and kept on playing,—being, as I suppose, rather glad of the practice, as it was the first time he had played for people to dance.
Nobody liked it, however, and when the young men found that dancing, instead of resting their tired legs, only tired them more, they talked of bidding good-night or spending the evening in the tavern. Brulette and the other girls exclaimed against that, and told us we were unmannerly lads and clodhoppers. This led to an argument, in the midst of which, all of a sudden, a tall, handsome fellow appeared, before it could be seen where he came from.
"Hallo there, children!" he cried, in such a loud tone that it drowned our racket and forced us to listen. "If you want to go on dancing, you shall. Here's a bagpiper who will pipe for you as long as you like, and won't ask anything for his trouble. Give me that," he said to François Carnat, taking hold of his bagpipe, "and listen; it may do you good, for though music is not my business, I know more about it than you."
Then, without waiting for François's consent, he blew out the bag and began to play, amid cries of joy from the girls and with many thanks from the lads.
At his very first words I had recognized the Bourbonnais accent of the muleteer, but I could hardly believe my eyes, so changed was he for the better in looks. Instead of his coal-dusty smock-frock, his old leathern gaiters, his battered hat, and his grimy face, he had a new suit of clothes of fine white woollen stuff streaked with blue, handsome linen, a straw hat with colored ribbons, his beard trimmed, his face washed and as rosy as a peach. In short, he was the handsomest man I ever saw; grand as an oak, well-made in every part of him, clean-limbed and vigorous; with teeth that were bits of ivory, eyes like the blades of a knife, and the affable air and manners of a gentleman. He ogled all the girls, smiled at the beauties, laughed with the plain ones, and was merry, good company with every one, encouraging and inspiriting the dancers with eye and foot and voice (for he did not blow much into his bagpipe, so clever was he in managing his wind), and shouting between the puffs a dozen drolleries and funny sayings, which put everybody in good humor for the evening.
Moreover, instead of doling out exact measure like an ordinary piper, and stopping short when he had earned his two sous for every couple, he went on bagpiping a full quarter of an hour, changing his tunes you couldn't tell how, for they ran into one another without showing the join; in short, it was the best reel music ever heard, and quite unknown in our parts, but so enlivening and danceable that we all seemed to be flying in the air instead of jigging about on the grass.
I think he would have played and we should have danced all night without getting tired, if it had not been that Père Carnat, hearing the music from the wine-shop of La Biaude and wondering much that his son could play so well, came proudly over to listen. But when he saw his own bagpipe in the hands of a stranger, and François dancing away without seeing the harm of yielding his place, he was furious; and pushing the muleteer from behind, he made him jump from the stone on which he was perched into the very middle of the dancers.
Maître Huriel was a good deal surprised, and turning round he saw Carnat, red with anger, ordering him to give up the instrument.
You never knew Carnat the piper? He was getting in years even then, but he was still as sturdy and vicious as an old devil.
The muleteer began by showing fight, but noticing Carnat's white hair, he returned the bagpipe gently, remarking, "You might have spoken with more civility, old fellow; but if you don't like me to take your place I give it up to you,—all the more willingly that I should like to dance myself, if the young people will allow a stranger in their company."
"Yes, yes! come and dance! you have earned it," cried the whole parish, who had turned out to hear the fine music and were charmed with him,—old and young both.
"Then," he said, taking Brulette's hand, for he had looked at her more than at all the rest, "I ask, by way of payment, to be allowed to dance with this pretty girl, even though she be engaged to some one else."
"She is engaged to me, Huriel," said I, "but as we are friends, I yield my rights to you for this dance."
"Thank you," answered he, shaking hands; then he whispered in my ear, "I pretended not to know you; but if you see no harm to yourself so much the better."
"Don't say you are a muleteer and it is all right," I replied.
While the folks were questioning about the stranger, another fuss arose at the musician's stone. Père Carnat refused to play or to allow his son to play. He even scolded François openly for letting an unknown man supplant him; and the more people tried to settle the matter by telling him the stranger had not taken any money, the angrier he got. In fact when Père Maurice Viaud told him he was jealous, and that the stranger could outdo him and all the other neighboring players, he was beside himself with rage.
He rushed into the midst of us and demanded of Huriel whether he had a license to play the bagpipes,—which made every body laugh, and the muleteer most of all. At last, being summoned by the old savage to reply, Huriel said, "I don't know the customs in your part of the country, old man, but I have travelled enough to know the laws, and I know that nowhere in France do artists buy licenses."
"Artists!" exclaimed Carnat, puzzled by a word which, like the rest of us, he had never heard, "What does that mean? Are you talking gibberish?"
"Not at all," replied Huriel. "I will call them musicians if you like; and I assert that I am free to play music wherever I please without paying toll to the king of France."
"Well, well, I know that," answered Carnat, "but what you don't know yourself is that in our part of the country musicians pay a tax to an association of public players, and receive a license after they have been tried and initiated."
"I know that too," said Huriel, "and I also know how much money is paid into your pockets during those trials. I advise you not to try that upon me. However, happily for you, I don't practise the profession, and want nothing in your parts. I play gratis where I please, and no one can prevent that, for the reason that I have got my degree as master-piper, which very likely you have not, big as you talk."
Carnat quieted down a little at these words, and they said something privately to each other that nobody heard, by which they discovered that they belonged to the same corporation, if not to the same company. The two Carnats, having no further right to object, as every one present testified that Huriel had not played for money, departed grumbling and saying spiteful things, which no one answered so as to be sooner rid of them.
As soon as they were gone we called on Marie Guillard, a lass with a carrying voice, and made her sing, so that the stranger might have the pleasure of dancing with us.
He did not dance in our fashion, though he accommodated himself very well to the time and figures. But his style was much the best, and gave such free play to his body that he really looked handsomer and taller than ever. Brulette watched him attentively and when he kissed her, which is the fashion in our parts when each dance begins, she grew quite red and confused, contrary to her usual indifferent and easy way of taking a kiss.
I argued from this that she had rather overdone her contempt for love when talking with me about mine; but I took no notice, and I own that in spite of it all I felt a good deal set up on my own account by the fine manners and talents of the muleteer.
When the dance was over he came up to me with Brulette on his arm, saying,—
"It is your turn now, comrade; and I can't thank you better than by returning the pretty dancer you lent me. She is a beauty like those of my own land, and for her sake I do homage to the Berrichon girls. But why end the evening so early? Is there no other bagpipe in the village besides that of the old cross patch?"
"Yes, there is," said Brulette quickly, letting out the secret she wanted to keep in her eagerness for dancing; then, catching herself up, she added, blushing, "That is to say, there are shepherd's pipes, and herd-boys who can play them after a fashion."
"Pipes indeed!" cried the muleteer; "if you happen to laugh they go down your throat and make you cough! My mouth is too big for that kind of instrument; and yet I want to make you dance, my pretty Brulette; for that is your name, I have heard it," he said, drawing us both aside; "and I know, too, that there's a fine bagpipe in your house, which came from the Bourbonnais, and belongs to a certain Joseph Picot, your friend from childhood, and your companion at the first communion."
"Oh! how did you know that?" cried Brulette, much astonished. "Do you know our Joseph? Perhaps you can tell us where he has gone?"
"Are you anxious about him?" said Huriel, looking narrowly at her.
"So anxious that I will thank you with all my heart if you can give me news of him."
"Well, I'll give you some, my pretty one; but not until you bring me his bagpipe, which he wants me to carry to him at the place where he now is."
"What!" cried Brulette, "is he very far away?"
"So far that he has no idea of coming back."
"Is that true? Won't he come back? has he gone for good and all? That ends my wanting to laugh and dance any more to-night."
"Ho, ho, pretty one!" cried Huriel; "so you are Joseph's sweetheart, are you? He did not tell me that."
"I am nobody's sweetheart," answered Brulette, drawing herself up.
"Nevertheless," said the muleteer, "here is a token which he told me to show you in case you hesitated to trust me with the bagpipe."
"Where is it? what is it?" I exclaimed.
"Look at my ear," said the muleteer, lifting a great lock of his curly black hair and showing us a tiny silver heart hanging to a large earring of fine gold, which pierced his ears after a fashion among the middle classes of those days.
I think that earring began to open Brulette's eyes, for she said to Huriel, "You can't be what you seem to be, but I see plainly that you are not a man to deceive poor folks. Besides, that token is really mine, or rather it is Joseph's, for it is a present his mother made to me on the day of our first communion, and I gave it to him the next day as a remembrance, when he left home to go to service. So, Tiennet," she said, turning to me, "go to my house and fetch the bagpipe, and bring it over there, under the church porch, where it is dark, so that people can't see where it comes from; for Père Carnat is a wicked old man and might do my grandfather some harm if he thought we were mixed up in the matter."
I did as I was told, not pleased, however, at leaving Brulette alone with the muleteer in a place already darkened by the coming night. When I returned, bringing the bagpipe, taken apart and folded up under my blouse, I found them still in the same corner arguing over something with a good deal of vehemence. Seeing me, Brulette said: "Tiennet, I take you to witness that I do not consent to give this man that token which is hung on his earring. He declares he cannot give it back because it belongs to Joseph, but he also says that Joseph does not want it; it is a little thing, to be sure, not worth ten sous, but I don't choose to give it to a stranger. I was scarcely twelve years old when I gave it to José, and people must be suspicious to see any meaning in that; but, as they will have it so, it is only the more reason why I should refuse to give it to another."
It seemed to me that Brulette was taking unnecessary pains to show the muleteer she was not in love with Joseph, and also that Huriel, on his side, was very glad to find her heart was free. However that may be, he did not trouble himself to stop courting her before me.
"My pretty one," he said, "you are too suspicious. I would not show your gifts to any one, even if I had them to boast of; but I admit here, before Tiennet, that you do not encourage me to love you. I can't say that that will stop me; at any rate, you cannot hinder me from remembering you, and I shall value this ten-sous token in my ear above anything I ever coveted. Joseph is my friend, and I know he loves you; but the lad's affection is so quiet he will never think of asking for his token again. So, if it is one year or ten before we meet again, you will see it just where it is; that is, unless the ear is gone."
So saying, he took Brulette's hand and kissed it, and then he set to work to put the bagpipe together and fill it.
"What are you doing?" cried Brulette. "I told you that I had no heart to amuse myself, now that Joseph has left his mother and friends for such a time, and as for you, you'll be in danger of a fight if the other pipers should come this way and find you playing."
"Bah!" said Huriel, "we'll see about that; don't be troubled for me,—you must dance, Brulette, or I shall think you are really in love with an ungrateful fellow who has left you."
Whether it was that Brulette was too proud to let him think that, or that the dancing mania was too strong for her, it is certain that the bagpipe was no sooner fitted and filled and beginning to sound than she held out no longer and let me carry her off for the first reel.
You would hardly believe, friends, what cries of satisfaction and delight filled the marketplace at the resounding noise of that bagpipe and the return of the muleteer, for every one thought him gone. The dancing had flagged and the company were about to disperse when he made his appearance once more on the piper's stone. Instantly such a hubbub arose! no longer four to eight couples were dancing, but sixteen to thirty-two, joining hands, skipping, shouting, laughing, so that the good God himself couldn't have got a word in edgewise. And presently every one in the market-place, old and young, children who couldn't yet use their legs, grandfathers tottering on theirs, old women jigging in the style of their youth, awkward folk who couldn't get the time or the tune,—they all set to spinning; and, indeed, it is a wonder the clock of the parish church didn't spin too. Fancy! the finest music ever heard in our parts and costing nothing! It seemed as if the devil had a finger in it, for the piper never asked to rest, and tired out everybody except himself. "I'm determined to be the last," he cried when they advised him to rest. "The whole parish shall give in before me; I intend to keep it up till sunrise, and you shall all cry me mercy!" So on we went, he piping and we twirling like mad.
Mère Biaude, who kept the tavern, seeing there was profit in it, brought out tables and benches and something to eat and drink; as to the latter article, she couldn't furnish enough for so many stomachs hungry by dancing, so folks living near brought out for their friends and acquaintance the victuals they had laid in for the week. One brought cheese, another a bag of nuts, another the quarter of a kid, or a sucking pig, all of which were roasted and broiled at a fire hastily built in the market-place. It was like a wedding to which every one flocked. The children were not sent to bed, for no one had time to think of them, and they fell asleep, like a heap of lambs, on the piles of lumber which always lay about the market-place, to the wild racket of the dance and the bagpipe, which never stopped except it was to let the piper drink a jorum of the best wine.
The more he drank the gayer he was and the better he played. At last hunger seized the sturdiest, and Huriel was forced to stop for lack of dancers. So, having won his wager to bury us all, he consented to go to supper. Everybody invited him and quarrelled for the honor and pleasure of feasting him; but seeing that Brulette was coming to my table, he accepted my invitation and sat down beside her, boiling over with wit and good humor. He ate fast and well, but instead of getting torpid from digestion he was the first to clink his glass for a song; and although he had blown his pipe like a whirlwind for six hours at a stretch, his voice was as fresh and as true as if he had done nothing. The others tried to hold their own, but even our renowned singers soon gave it up for the pleasure of listening to him; his songs were far beyond theirs, as much for the tunes as the words; indeed, we had great difficulty in catching the chorus, for there was nothing in his throat that wasn't new to our ears, and of a quality, I must own, above our knowledge.
People left their tables to listen to him, and just as day was beginning to dawn through the leaves a crowd of people were standing round him, more bewitched and attentive than at the finest sermon.
At that moment he rose, jumped on his bench, and waved his empty glass to the first ray of sunlight that shone above his head, saying, in a manner that made us all tremble without knowing why or wherefore:—
"Friends, see the torch of the good God! Put out your little candles and bow to the clearest and brightest light that shines on the world. And now," he said, sitting down again and setting his glass bottom up on the table, "we have talked enough and sung enough for one night. What are you about, verger? Go and ring the Angelus, that we may see who signs the cross like a Christian; and that will show which of us have enjoyed ourselves decently, and which have degraded our pleasure like fools. After we have rendered thanks to God I must depart, my friends, thanking you for this fine fête and all your signs of confidence. I owed you a little reparation for some damage I did a few of you lately without intending it. Guess it if you can,—I did not come here to confess it; but I think I have done my best to amuse you; and as pleasure, to my thinking, is worth more than profit, I feel that I am quits with you. Hush!" he added, as they began to question him, "hear the Angelus!"
He knelt down, which led every one to do likewise, and do it, too, with soberness of manner, for the man seemed to have some extraordinary power over his fellows.
When the prayer ended we looked about for him, but he was gone,—and so completely that there were people who rubbed their eyes, fancying that they had dreamed this night of gayety and merriment.
Brulette was trembling all over, and when I asked her what the matter was and what she was thinking of, she answered, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand, "That man is pleasant, Tiennet, but he is very bold."
As I was rather more heated than usual, I found courage to say,—
"If the lips of a stranger offend your skin, perhaps those of a friend can remove the stain."
But she pushed me away, saying,—
"He has gone, and it is wisest to forget those who go."
"Even poor José?"
"He! oh, that's different," she answered.
"Why different? You don't answer me. Oh, Brulette, you care for—"
"For whom?" she said, quickly. "What is his name? Out with it, as you know it!"
"It is," I said, laughing, "the black man for whose sake José has given himself over to the devil,—that man who frightened you one night last spring when you were at my house."
"No, no; nonsense! you are joking. Tell me his name, his business, and where he comes from."
"No, I shall not, Brulette. You say we ought to forget the absent, and I would rather you didn't change your mind."
The whole parish was surprised when it was known that the piper had departed before they had thought of discovering who he was. To be sure, a few had questioned him, but he gave them contradictory answers. To one he said he was a Marchois and was named thus and so; to another he gave a different name, and no one could make out the truth. I gave them still another name to throw them off the scent,—not that Huriel the wheat-spoiler need fear any one after Huriel the piper had turned everybody's head, but simply to amuse myself and to tease Brulette. Then, when I was asked where I had known him, I answered, laughing, that I didn't know him at all,—that he had taken it into his head on arriving to accost me as a friend, and that I had answered him in kind by way of a joke.
Brulette, however, sifted me to the bottom, and I was forced to tell her what I knew; and though it was not much, she was sorry she had heard it, for like most country folks, she had a great prejudice against strangers, and muleteers in particular.
I thought this repugnance would soon make her forget Huriel; and if she ever thought of him she never showed it, but continued to lead the gay life she liked so well, declaring that she meant to be as faithful a wife as she was thoughtless a girl, and therefore she should take her time and study her suitors; and to me she kept repeating that she wanted my faithful, quiet friendship, without any thought of marriage.
As my nature never turned to gloominess, I made no complaint; in fact, like Brulette, I had a leaning to liberty, and I used mine like other young fellows, taking pleasure where I found it, without the yoke. But the excitement once over, I always came back to my beautiful cousin for gentle, virtuous, and lively companionship, which I couldn't afford to lose by sulking. She had more sense and wit than all the women and girls of the neighborhood put together. And her home was so pleasant,—always neat and well-managed, never pinched for means, and filled, during the winter evenings and on all the holidays of the year, with the nicest young folks of the parish. The girls liked to follow in my cousin's train, where there was always a rush of young fellows to choose from, and where they could pick up, now and then, a husband of their own. In fact, Brulette took advantage of the respect they all felt for her to make the lads think of the lasses who wanted their attentions; for she was generous with her lovers,—like people rich in other ways who know it is their duty to give away.
Grandfather Brulet loved his young companion, and amused her with his old-fashioned songs and the many fine tales he told her. Sometimes Mariton would drop in for a moment just to talk of her boy. She was a great woman for gossip, still fresh in appearance, and always ready to show the young girls how to make their clothes,—being well dressed herself to please her master Benoit, who thought her handsome face and finery a good advertisement of his house.
It was well-nigh a year that these amusements had been going on without other news of Joseph than by two letters, in which he told his mother he was well in health and was earning his living in the Bourbonnais. He did not give the name of the place, and the two letters were postmarked from different towns. Indeed, the second letter was none so easy to make out, though our curate was very clever at reading writing; but it appeared that Joseph was getting himself educated, and had tried, for the first time, to write himself. At last a third letter came, addressed to Brulette, which Monsieur le curé read off quite fluently, declaring that the sentences were very well turned. This letter stated that Joseph had been ill, and a friend was writing for him; it was nothing more than a spring fever, and his family were not to be uneasy about him. The letter went on to say that he was living with friends who were in the habit of travelling about; that he was then starting with them for the district of Chambérat, from which they would write again if he grew worse in spite of the great care they were taking of him.
"Good gracious!" cried Brulette, when the curate had read her all that was in the letter, "I'm afraid he is going to make himself a muleteer. I dare not tell his mother about either his illness or the trade he is taking up. Poor soul! she has troubles enough without that."
Then, glancing at the letter, she asked what the signature meant. Monsieur le curé, who had paid no attention to it, put on his glasses and soon began to laugh, declaring that he had never seen anything like it, and all he could make out, in place of a name, was the sketch of an ear and an earring with a sort of a heart stuck through it.
"Probably," said he, "it is the emblem of some fraternity. All guilds have their badges, and other people can't understand them."
But Brulette understood well enough; she seemed a little worried and carried off the letter, to examine it, I don't doubt, with a less indifferent eye than she pretended; for she took it into her head to learn to read, and very secretly she did so, by the help of a former lady's-maid in a noble family, who often came to gossip in a sociable house like my cousin's. It didn't take long for such a clever head as Brulette's to learn all she wanted, and one fine day I was amazed to find she could write songs and hymns as prettily turned as anybody's. I could not help asking her if she had learned these fine things above her station so as to correspond with Joseph, or the handsome muleteer.
"As if I cared for a common fellow with earrings!" she cried, laughing. "Do you think I am such an ill-behaved girl as to write to a perfect stranger? But if Joseph comes back educated he will have done a very good thing to get rid of his stupidity; and as for me, I shall not be sorry to be a little less of a goose than I was."
"Brulette, Brulette!" I retorted, "you are setting your thoughts outside your own country and your friends. Take care, harm will come of it! I'm not a bit less uneasy about you here than I am about Joseph down there."
"You can be easy about me, Tiennet; my head is cool, no matter what people say of me. As for our poor boy, I am troubled enough; it will soon be six months since we heard from him, and that fine muleteer who promised to send us news has never once thought of it. Mariton is miserable at Joseph's neglect of her; for she has never known of his illness, and perhaps he is dead without our suspecting it."
I assured her that in that case we should certainly have been informed of the fact, and that no news was always good news in such cases.
"You may say what you like," she replied; "I dreamed, two nights ago, that the muleteer arrived here, bringing his bagpipe and the news that José was dead. Ever since I dreamed that I have been sad at heart, and I am sorry I have let so much time go by without thinking of the poor lad or trying to write to him. But how could I have sent my letter?—for I don't even know where he is."
So saying, Brulette, who was sitting near a window and chanced to look out, gave a loud cry and turned white with fear. I looked out too, and saw Huriel, black with charcoal dust on his face and clothes, just as I saw him the first time. He came towards us, while the children ran out of his way, screaming, "The devil! the devil!" and the dogs yelped at him.
Struck with what Brulette had just said, and wishing to spare her the pain of hearing ill-news suddenly, I ran to meet the muleteer, and my first words were,—
"Is he dead?"
"Who? Joseph?" he replied. "No, thank God. But how did you know he was still ill?"
"Is he in danger?"
"Yes and no. But what I have to say is for Brulette. Is that her house? Take me to her."
"Yes, yes, come!" I cried; and rushing ahead I told my cousin to be comforted, for the news was not nearly so bad as she expected.
She called her grandfather, who was at work in the next room, intending to receive the muleteer in a proper manner; but when she saw him so different from the idea she had kept of him, so unrecognizable in face and clothes, she lost her self-possession and turned away sadly and in much confusion.
Huriel perceived it, for he smiled, and lifting his black hair as if by accident, showed Brulette her token which was still in his ear.
"It is really I," he said, "and no one else. I have come from my own parts expressly to tell you about a friend who, thanks to God, is neither dead nor dying, but of whom I must speak to you at some length. Have you leisure to hear me now?"
"That we have," said Père Brulet. "Sit down, my man, and take something to eat."
"I want nothing," said Huriel, seating himself. "I will wait till your own meal-time. But, first of all, I ought to make myself known to those I am now speaking to."
"Say on," said my uncle, "we are listening."
Then said the muleteer: "My name is Jean Huriel, muleteer by trade, son of Sebastien Huriel, otherwise called Bastien, the Head-Woodsman, a renowned bagpiper, and considered the best worker in the forests of the Bourbonnais. Those are my names and claims, to which I can bring honorable proof. I know that to win your confidence I ought to present myself in the guise in which I have the right to appear; but men of my calling have a custom—"
"I know your custom, my lad," said Père Brulet, who watched him attentively. "It is good or bad, according as you yourselves are good or bad. I have not lived till now without knowing what the muleteers are; I have travelled outside our own borders, and I know your customs and behavior. They say your fraternity are given to evil deeds,—they are known to abduct girls, attack Christian people, and even kill them in pretended quarrels so as to get their money."
"Well," said Huriel, laughing, "I think that is an exaggerated account of us. The things you speak of are long passed away; you would not hear of such deeds now-a-days. But the fear your people had of us was so great that for years the muleteers did not dare to leave the woods unless in troops and with great precautions. The proof that they have mended their ways and are no longer to be feared is that they no longer fear for themselves; so here I am, alone in the midst of you."
"Yes," said Père Brulet, who was not easy to convince; "but your face is blackened all the same. You have sworn to follow the rule of your fraternity, which is to travel thus disguised through the districts where you are still distrusted, so that if folks see you do an evil deed they can't say afterwards, when they meet your companions, 'That is he,' or, 'That is not he.' You consider yourselves all responsible for one another. This has its good side, for it makes you faithful friends, and each man has the help and good-will of all; but, nevertheless, it leaves the rest of us in doubt as to the character of your morality, and I shall not deny that if a muleteer—no matter how good a fellow he may be nor how much money he may have—comes here to ask for my alliance, I'll cheerfully offer him bite and sup, but I'll not invite him to marry my daughter."
"And I," said the muleteer, his eyes flashing as he boldly looked at Brulette, who pretended to be thinking of something else, "had no such idea in coming here. You are not called upon to refuse me, Père Brulet, for you don't know whether I am married or single. I have said nothing about it."
Brulette dropped her eyes, and I could not tell whether she was pleased or displeased. Then she recovered spirit, and said to the muleteer: "This has nothing to do with the matter—which is José. You have brought news of him; I am distressed at heart about his health. This is my grandfather, who brought him up and takes an interest in him. Please talk of Joseph instead of other things."
Huriel looked steadily at Brulette, seeming to struggle with a momentary vexation and to gather himself together before he spoke; then he said:—
"Joseph is ill,—so ill that I resolved to come and say to the woman who is the cause of it, 'Do you wish to cure him, and are you able to do so?'"
"What are you talking about?" said my uncle, pricking up his ears, which were beginning to be a little hard of hearing. "How can my daughter cure the lad?"
"If I spoke of myself before I spoke of him," continued Huriel, "it was because I have delicate things to say of him which you would scarcely allow a total stranger to mention. Now, if you think me a decent man, allow me to speak my mind freely and tell you all I know."
"Explain everything," said Brulette, eagerly. "Don't be afraid; I shall not care for any idea people take of me."
"I have none but good ideas of you, Brulette," replied the muleteer. "It is not your fault if Joseph loves you; and if you return his love in your secret heart no one can blame you. We may envy Joseph in that case, but not betray him or do anything to trouble you. Let me tell you how things have gone between him and me since the day we first made friends, when I persuaded him to come over to our parts and learn the music he was so crazy about."
"I don't think you did him much good by that advice," observed my uncle. "It is my opinion he could have learned it just as well here, without grieving and distressing his family."
"He told me," replied Huriel, "and I have since found it true, that the other bagpipers would not allow it. Besides, I owed him the truth, because he trusted me at first sight. Music is a wild flower which does not bloom in your parts. It loves our heather; but I can't tell you why. In our woods and dells it lives and thrives and lives again, like the flowers of spring; there it sows and harvests ideas for lands that are barren of them. The best things your pipers give you come from there; but as your players are lazy and niggardly, and you are satisfied to hear the same things over and over again, they only come to us once in their lives, and live on what they learn then for the rest of their days. At this very time they are teaching pupils to strum a corruption of our old music, and they never think of consulting at the fountainhead to find how such airs should be played. So when a well-intentioned young fellow like your José (as I said to him) comes to drink at the spring, he is sure to return so fresh and full that the other players could not stand up against him. That is why José agreed to go over into the Bourbonnais the following midsummer, where he could have enough work in the woods to support him, and lessons from our best master. I must tell you that the finest bagpipers are in Upper Bourbonnais, among the pine forests, over where the Sioule comes down from the Dôme mountains; and that my father, born in the village of Huriel, from which he takes his name, has spent his life among these players, and keeps his wind in good order and his art well-trained. He is a man who does not like to work two years running in the same place, and the older he gets the livelier and more fond of change he is. Last year he was in the forest of Troncay; since then he has been in that of Éspinasse. Just now he is in the woods of Alleu, where Joseph has followed him faithfully, chopping and felling and bagpiping by his side,—for he loves him like a son and boasts that the love is returned. The lad has been as happy as a lover can be when parted from his mistress. But life is not as easy and comfortable with us as with you; and though my father, taught by experience, tried to prevent Joseph (who was in a hurry to succeed) from straining his lungs on our pipes,—which are, as you may have noticed, differently made from yours, and very fatiguing to the chest until you know how to use them,—the poor fellow took a fever and began to spit blood. My father, who understood the disease and knew how to manage it, took away his bagpipe and ordered him to rest; but then, though his bodily health improved, he took sick in another way. He ceased to cough and spit blood, but he fell into a state of depression and weakness which made them fear for his life. So that when I got home from a trip eight days ago I found him so pallid that I scarcely knew him, and so weak on his legs that he could not stand. When I questioned him he burst into tears and said, very sadly: 'Huriel, I know I shall die in the depths of these woods, far from my own country, from my mother and my friends, unloved by her to whom I long to show the art I have learned. This dreadful dulness eats into my mind, impatience withers my heart. I wish your father would give me back my bagpipe and let me die of it. I could draw my last breath in sending from afar to her I love the sweetness my lips can never utter to her, dreaming for a moment that I was at her side. No doubt Père Bastien meant kindly; I know I was killing myself with eagerness. But what do I gain by dying more slowly? I must renounce life any way. On the one hand, I can't chop wood and earn my bread, and must live at your expense; on the other, my chest is too weak to pipe. No, it is all over with me. I shall never be anything; I must die without the joy of remembering a single day of love and happiness.'"
"Don't cry, Brulette," continued the muleteer, taking the hand with which she wiped her tears; "all is not hopeless. Listen to me. Seeing the poor lad's misery, I went after a good doctor, who examined him, and then told us that it was more depression than illness, and he would answer for his cure if Joseph would give up music and wood-cutting for another month. As to that last matter, it was quite convenient, for my father, and I too, thank God, are not badly off, and it is no great merit to us to take care of a friend who can't work. But the doctor was wrong; the same causes remain, and José is no better. He did not want me to let you know his state, but I made him agree to it and I even tried to bring him here with me. I put him carefully on one of my mules, but at the end of a few miles he became so weak I was obliged to take him back to my father, who thereupon said to me: 'Do you go to the lad's people and bring back either his mother or his sweetheart. He is homesick, that's all, and if he sees one or the other of them he will recover health and courage enough to finish his apprenticeship here; or else he must go home with them.' That being said before Joseph, he was much excited. 'My mother!' he cried, like a child; 'my poor mother, make her come quickly!' Then checking himself, he added, 'No, no; I don't want her to see me die; her grief would kill me all the faster.' 'How about Brulette?' I whispered to him. 'Oh! Brulette would not come,' he answered. 'Brulette is good; but she must have chosen a lover by this time who would not let her come and comfort me.' Then I made José swear he would have patience till I returned, and I came off. Père Brulet, decide what ought to be done; and you, Brulette, consult your heart."
"Maître Huriel," said Brulette, rising, "I will go, though I am not Joseph's sweetheart, as you called me, and nothing obliges me to go to him except that his mother fed me with her milk and carried me in her arms. Why do you think the young man is in love with me? Just as true as that my grandfather is sitting there, he never said the first word of it to me."
"Then he did tell me truth!" cried Huriel, as if delighted with what he heard; but catching himself hastily up, he added, "It is none the less true that he may die of it, and all the more because he has no hope; I must therefore plead his cause and explain his feelings."
"Are you deputed to do so?" asked Brulette, haughtily and as if annoyed with the muleteer.
"Deputed or not, I must do it," said Huriel; "I must clear my conscience of it,—for his sake who told me his troubles and asked my help. This is what he said to me: 'I always longed to give myself up to music, as much because I loved it as for love of my dear Brulette. She considers me as a brother; she has always shown me the greatest kindness and true pity; but for all that she received everybody's attentions except mine, and I can't blame her. The girl loves finery and all that sets her off. She has a right to be coquettish and exacting. My heart aches for it, but if she gives her affections to those who are worth more than I the fault is mine for being worth so little. Such as I am—unable to dig hard, or speak soft, or dance, or jest, or even sing, feeling ashamed of myself and my condition, I deserve that she should think me the lowest of those who aspire to her hand. Well, don't you see that this grief will kill me if it lasts? and I want to find a cure for it. I feel within me something which declares that I can make better music than any one else in our parts; if I could only succeed I should be no longer a mere nothing. I should become even more than others; and as that girl has much taste and a gift for singing, she would understand, out of her own self, what I was worth; moreover, her pride would be flattered at the praises I should receive.'"
"You speak," said Brulette, smiling, "as if I had an understanding with him; whereas he has never said a word of all this to me. His pride has always been up in arms, and I see that it is through pride that he expects to influence me. However, as his illness puts him really in danger of dying, I will, in order to give him courage, do everything that belongs to the sort of friendship I feel for him. I will go to see him with Mariton, provided my grandfather advises and is willing I should do so."
"I don't think it possible that Mariton can go with you," said Père Brulet, "for reasons which I know and you will soon know, my daughter. I can only tell you just now that she cannot leave her master, because of some trouble in his affairs. Besides, if Joseph's illness can really be cured it is better not to worry and upset the poor woman. I will go with you, because I have great confidence that you, who have always managed Joseph for the best, will have influence enough over his mind to bring him back to reason and give him courage. I know what you think of him, and it is what I think too; well, if we find him in a desperate condition we can write to his mother at once to come and close his eyes."
"If you will allow me in your company," said Huriel. "I will guide you as the swallow flies to where Joseph is. I can even take you in a single day if you are not afraid of bad roads."
"We will talk about that at table," replied my uncle. "As for your company, I wish for it and claim it; for you have spoken well, and I know something of the family of honest folks to whom you belong."
"Do you know my father?" cried Huriel. "When he heard us speaking of Brulette he told us, Joseph and me, that his father had had an early friend named Brulet."
"It was I, myself," said my uncle. "I cut wood for a long time, thirty years ago, in the Saint-Amand region with your grandfather, and I knew your father when a boy; he worked with us and played the bagpipes wonderfully well, even then. He was a fine lad, and years can't trouble him much yet. When you named yourself just now I did not wish to interrupt you, and if I twitted you a little about your customs, it was only to draw you out. Now, sit down, and don't spare the food at your service."
During supper Huriel showed as much good sense in his talk and pleasantness in his gravity as he had wit and liveliness on the night of his first appearance at midsummer. Brulette listened attentively and seemed to get accustomed to his blackened face; but when the journey was talked of and the method of making it was mentioned, she grew uneasy about her grandfather, fearing the fatigue and the upsetting of his habits; so, as Huriel could not deny that the journey would be painful to a man of his years, I offered to accompany Brulette in place of my uncle.
"That's the very thing," said Huriel. "If we are only three we can take the cross-cut, and by starting to-morrow morning we can get there to-morrow night. I have a sister, a very steady, good girl, who will take Brulette into her own hut; for I must not conceal from you that where we are now living you will find neither houses nor places to sleep in such as you are accustomed to here."
"It is true," replied my uncle, "that I am too old to sleep on the heather; and though I am not very indulgent to my body, if I happened to fall ill over there, I should be a great trouble to you, my dear children. So, if Tiennet will go, I know him well enough to trust his cousin to him. I shall rely on his not leaving her a foot's length in any circumstances where there may be danger for a young girl; and I rely on you, too, Huriel, not to expose her to any risks on the way."
I was mightily pleased with this plan, which gave me the pleasure of escorting Brulette and the honor of defending her in case of need. We parted early and met again before daylight at the door of the house,—Brulette all ready and holding a little bundle in her hand, Huriel leading hisclairinand three mules, one of which was saddled with a very soft, clean pad, on which he seated Brulette. Then he himself mounted the horse and I another mule, which seemed much surprised to find me on his back. The other, laden with new hampers, followed of her own accord, while Satan brought up the rear. Nobody was yet afoot in the village; for which I was sorry, for I would have liked to make Brulette's other lovers jealous in return for the rage they had often put me in. But Huriel seemed anxious to get away without being noticed and criticised under Brulette's nose for his blackened face.
We had not gone far before he made me feel that I should not be allowed to manage everything as I liked. We reached the woods of Maritet at noon, which was nearly half-way. There was a little inclosure near by called "La Ronde," where I should have liked to go and get a good breakfast. But Huriel laughed at what he called my love for a knife and fork, and as Brulette, who was determined to think everything amusing, agreed with him, he made us dismount in a narrow ravine, through which ran a tiny river called "La Portefeuille."—so-called because (at that season at least) the water was covered with the green trays of the water-lily and shaded with the leafage of the woods which came to the very banks of the river on either side. Huriel let the animals loose among the reeds, selected a pretty spot covered with wild flowers, opened the hampers, uncorked the flask, and served as good a lunch as we could have had at home,—all so neatly done and with such consideration for Brulette that she could not help showing pleasure. When she saw that before touching the bread to cut it, and before removing the white napkin which wrapped the provisions, he carefully washed his hands, plunging his arms above the elbows in the river, she smiled and said to him, with her gracious little air of command: "While you are about it, could not you also wash your face, so that we might see if you were really the handsome bagpiper of the midsummer dance?"
"No, my pretty one," he replied, "you must get used to the reverse of the coin. I make no claims upon your heart but those of friendship and esteem, though I am only a heathen of a muleteer. Consequently I need not try to please you by my face, and it will not be for your sake that I wash it."
She was mortified, but she would not give up the point.
"You ought not to frighten your friends," she said; "and the fear of you, looking as you now do, takes away my appetite."
"In that case I'll go and eat apart, so as not to upset you."
He did as he said, and sat down upon a little rock which jutted into the water behind the place where we were sitting, and ate his food alone, while I enjoyed the pleasure of serving Brulette.
At first she laughed, thinking she had provoked him, and taking pleasure in it, like all coquettes; but when she got tired of the game and wanted to recall him, and did her best to excite him by words, he held firm, and every time she turned her head toward him he turned his back on her, while answering all her nonsense very cleverly and without the least vexation, which, to her, was perhaps the very worst of the thing. So presently she began to feel sorry, and, after a rather sharp speech which he launched about haughty minxes, and which she fancied was meant for her, two tears rolled from her eyes though she tried hard to keep them back in my presence. Huriel did not see them, and I took very good care not to show her that I did.
When we had eaten all we wanted, Huriel packed up the remainder of the provisions, saying,—
"If you are tired, children, you can take a nap, for the animals want a rest in the heat of the day; that's the time when the flies torment them, and in this copse they can rub and shake themselves as much as they please. Tiennet, I rely on you to keep good guard over our princess. As for me, I am going a little way into the forest, to see how the works of God are going on."
Then with a light step, and no more heed to the heat than if we were in the month of April, instead of the middle of July, he sprang up the slope, and was lost to sight among the tall trees.
Brulette did her best not to let me see the annoyance she felt at his departure; but having no heart for talk, she pretended to go to sleep on the fine sand of the river-bank, her head upon the panniers which were taken from the mule to rest him, and her face protected from the flies by a white handkerchief. I don't know whether she slept; I spoke to her two or three times without getting any answer, and as she had let me lay my cheek on a corner of her apron, I kept quiet too, but without sleeping at first, for I felt a little agitated by her close neighborhood.
However, weariness soon overtook me, and I lost consciousness for a short time; when I woke I heard voices, and found that the muleteer had returned and was talking with Brulette. I did not dare move the apron that I might hear more distinctly, but I held it tightly in my fingers so that the girl could not have got away even had she wished to.
"I certainly have the right," Huriel was saying, "to ask you what course you mean to pursue with that poor lad. I am his friend more than I can claim to be yours, and I should blame myself for bringing you, if you mean to deceive him."
"Who talks of deceiving him?" cried Brulette. "Why do you criticise my intentions without knowing them?"
"I don't criticise, Brulette; I question you because I like Joseph very much, and I esteem you enough to believe you will deal frankly with him."
"That is my affair, Maître Huriel; you are not the judge of my feelings, and I am not obliged to explain them. I don't ask you, for instance, if you are faithful to your wife."
"My wife!" exclaimed Huriel, as if astonished.
"Why, yes," returned Brulette, "are not you married?"
"Did I say I was?"
"I thought you said so at our house last night, when my grandfather, thinking you came to talk of marriage, made haste to refuse you."
"I said nothing at all, Brulette, except that I was not seeking marriage. Before obtaining the person, one must win the heart, and I have no claim to yours."
"At any rate," said Brulette, "I see you are more reasonable and less bold than you were last year."
"Oh!" returned Huriel, "If I said a few rather warm words to you at the village dance, it was because they popped into my head at the sight of you; but time has passed, and you ought to forget the affront."
"Who said I recollected it?" demanded Brulette. "Have I reproached you?"
"You blame me in your heart; or at any rate you bear the thing in mind, for you are not willing to speak frankly to me about Joseph."
"I thought," said Brulette, whose voice showed signs of impatience, "that I had fully explained myself on that point night before last. But how do the two things affect each other? The more I forget you, the less I should wish to explain to you my feelings for any man, no matter who."
"But the fact is, pretty one," said the muleteer, who seemed not to give in to any of Brulette's little ways, "You spoke about the past last night, and said nothing about the future; and I don't yet know what you mean to say to Joseph to reconcile him with life. Why do you object to tell me frankly?"
"What is it to you, I should like to know? If you are married, or merely pledged, you ought not to be looking into a girl's heart."
"Brulette, you are trying to make me say that I am free to court you, and yet you won't tell me anything about your own position; I am not to know whether you mean some day to favor Joseph, or whether you are pledged to some one else,—perhaps that tall fellow who is lying asleep on your apron."
"You are too inquisitive!" exclaimed Brulette, rising and hastily twitching away the apron, which I was forced to let go, pretending to wake at that moment.
"Come, let us start," said Huriel, who seemed not to care for Brulette's ill-humor, but continued to smile with his white teeth and his large eyes,—the only parts of his face which were not in mourning.
We continued our route to the Bourbonnais. The sun was hidden behind a heavy cloud and thunder was rumbling in the distance.
"That storm over there is nothing," said the muleteer, "it is going off to the left. If we don't meet another as we get near the confluence of the Joyeuse, we shall reach our destination without difficulty. But the atmosphere is so heavy we must be prepared for anything."
So saying, he unfolded a mantle, with a woman's hood, new and handsome, which was fastened on his back, and which Brulette admired greatly.
"You won't tell me now," she exclaimed, blushing, "that you are not married,—unless that is a wedding present you have bought on your way."
"Perhaps it is," said Huriel in the same tone, "but if it comes on to rain you can take possession of it; you won't find it too heavy, and your cape is thin."
Just as he predicted, the sky cleared on one side and clouded on the other; and while we were crossing an open heath between Saint-Saturnin and Sidiailles, the weather suddenly grew tempestuous, and we were blown about by a gale of wind. The country itself was wild, and I began to feel anxious in spite of myself. Brulette, too, thought the place very dreary, and remarked that there was not a tree for shelter. Huriel laughed at us.
"Oh! you folks from the wheat-lands!" he cried, "as soon as your feet touch the heather you think you are lost in the wilderness."
He was guiding us in a bee-line, knowing well all the paths and cross-cuts by which a mule could pass to shorten the distance,—leaving Sidiailles on the left, and making straight for the banks of the little river Joyeuse, a poor rivulet that looked harmless enough, but which nevertheless he seemed in a hurry to get over. Just as we had done so, the rain began, and we were forced either to get wet or to stop for shelter at a mill, called the mill of Paulmes. Brulette wanted to go on, and so did the muleteer, who thought we had better not wait till the roads grew worse; but I said that the girl was trusted to my care, and that I could not have her exposed to harm; so Huriel, for once, gave in to my wishes.
We stayed there two hours, and when the weather cleared and we were able to start again the sun was already going down. The Joyeuse was now so swollen that the crossing would have been difficult; happily it was behind us; but the roads had become abominable, and we had still one stream to cross before we entered the Bourbonnais.
We were able to go on as long as daylight lasted; but the night soon grew so dark that Brulette was frightened, without, however, daring to say so; but Huriel, perceiving it from her silence, got off his horse, which he drove before him, for the animal knew the road as well as he did, and taking the bridle of my cousin's mule, led him carefully for several miles, watching that he did not stumble, plunging, himself, into water or sand up to his knees, and laughing whenever Brulette pitied him and entreated him not to expose himself for her. She began to discover now that he was a friend in need, more helpful than her usual lovers, and that he knew how to serve her without making a show of it.
The country grew more and more dreary; it was nothing but little grassy slopes cut into by rivulets bordered with reeds and flowers which smelt good but did not better the hay. The trees were fine, and the muleteer declared the country richer and prettier than ours on account of its pasture and fruit lands. But, for my part, I did not see any prospect of great harvests, and I wished I were at home again,—all the more because I was not assisting Brulette, having enough to do in keeping myself out of the ruts and bogs on the way.
At last the moon shone out, and we reached the woods of La Roche, at the confluence of the Arnon and another river, the name of which I have forgotten.
"Stay there, on that bit of high ground," Huriel said to us; "you can even dismount and stretch your legs. The place is sandy, and the rain has hardly got through the oak-leaves. I am going to see if we can ford the stream."
He went down to the river and came back at once, saying: "The stepping-stones are covered, and we shall have to go up as far as Saint-Pallais to get across. If we had not lost time at the mill we could have crossed before the river rose, and been at our destination by this time. But what is done is done; let us see what to do now. The water is going down. By staying here we can get across in five or six hours, and reach home by daybreak without fatigue or danger, for the plain between the two arms of the Arnon is sure to be dry. Whereas, if we go up to Saint-Pallais, we may stumble about half the night and not get there any sooner."
"Well, then," said Brulette, "let us stay here. The place is dry and the weather is clear; and though the wood is rather wild, I shall not be afraid with you two by me."
"That's a brave girl!" said Huriel. "Come, now let's have supper, as there is nothing better to do. Tiennet, tie theclairin, for there are several woods all round us and I can't be sure about wolves. Unsaddle the mules; they won't stray from far the horse; and you, my pretty one, help me make a fire, for the air is damp and I want you to sup comfortably and not take cold."
I felt greatly discouraged and sad at heart, I could hardly tell why. Whether I was mortified at being of no service to Brulette in such a difficult journey, or whether the muleteer seemed to make light of me, certain it is I was already homesick.
"What are you grumbling about?" said Huriel, who seemed all the gayer as we got deeper and deeper into trouble. "Are not you as well off as a monk in his refectory? These rocks make a fine chimney, and here are seats and sideboards. Isn't this the third meal you have had to-day? Don't you think the moon gives a better light than your old pewter lamp? The provisions are not hurt by the rain, for my hampers were tightly covered. This blazing hearth is drying the air all round us; the branches overhead and the moist plants underfoot smell better, it seems to me, than your cheeses and rancid butter. Don't you breathe another breath under these great vaulting branches? Look at them lighted by the flames! They are like hundreds of arms interlaced to shelter us. If now and then a bit of a breeze shakes the damp foliage, see how the diamonds rain down to crown us! What do you find so melancholy in the idea that we are all alone in a place unknown to you? There is everything here that is most comforting; God, in the first place, who is everywhere; next, a charming girl and two good friends ready to stand by each other. Besides, do you think a man ought to live in a hive all his days? I think, on the contrary, that it is his duty to roam; that he will be a hundred times stronger, gayer, healthier in body and mind if he doesn't look after his own comfort too much, for that makes him languid, timid, and subject to diseases. The more you avoid heat and cold the more you will suffer when they catch you. You will see my father, who, like me, has never slept in a bed ten times in his life; he has no rheumatism or lumbago, though he works in his shirtsleeves in the dead of winter. And then, too, is it not glorious to feel you are firmer and more solid than the wind and the thunder? When the storm rages isn't the music splendid? And the mountain torrents which rush down the ravines and go dancing from root to root, carrying along the pebbles and leaving their white foam clinging to the bracken, don't they sing a song as gay as any you can dream of as you fall asleep on some islet they have scooped out around you? Animals are gloomy in bad weather, I admit that; the birds are silent, the foxes run to earth; even my dog finds shelter under the horse's belly; what distinguishes man from beast is that he keeps his heart gay and peaceful through the battles of the air and the whims of the clouds. He alone, who knows how by reasoning to save himself from fear and danger, has the instinct to feel what is so beautiful in the uproar of nature."
Brulette listened eagerly to the muleteer. She followed his eyes and all his gestures and entered into everything he said, without explaining to herself how such novel ideas and words excited her mind and stirred her heart. I felt rather touched by them, too (though I resisted somewhat), for Huriel had such an open, resolute face under all the blacking that he won folks in spite of themselves, just as when we are beaten at rackets by a fine player we admire him though we lose the stakes.
We were in no great hurry to finish our supper, for certainly the place was dry, and when the fire burned down to a bed of hot ashes, the weather had grown so warm and clear that we felt very comfortable and quite ready to listen to the lively talk and fine ideas of the muleteer. He was silent from time to time, listening to the river, which still roared a good deal; and as the mountain brooks were pouring into it with a thousand murmuring voices, there was no likelihood that we could set forth again that night. Huriel, after going down to examine it, advised us to go to sleep. He made a bed for Brulette with the mule-pads, wrapping her well up in all the extra garments he had with him, and talking gayly, but with no gallant speeches, showing her the same interest and tenderness, and no more, that he would have shown to a little child.
Then he stretched himself, without cushion or covering, on the bare ground which was well dried by the fire, invited me to do the same, and was soon as fast asleep as a dormouse—or nearly so.
I was lying quiet, though not asleep, for I did not like that kind of dormitory, when I heard a bell in the distance, as if theclairinhad got loose and was straying in the forest. I lifted myself a little and saw him still where I had tied him. I knew therefore it was some otherclairin, which gave notice of the approach or vicinity of other muleteers.
Huriel had instantly risen on his elbow, listening; then he got on his feet and came to me. "I am a sound sleeper," he said, "when I have only my mules to watch; but now that I have a precious princess in charge it is another matter, and I have only been asleep with one eye. Neither have you, Tiennet, and that's all right. Speak low and don't move; I don't want to meet my comrades; and as I chose this place for its solitude I think they won't find us out."
He had hardly said the words when a dark form glided through the trees and passed so close to Brulette that a little more and it would have knocked her. It was that of a muleteer, who at once gave a loud cry like a whistle, to which other cries responded from various directions, and in less than a minute half a dozen of these devils, each more hideous to behold than the others, were about us. We had been betrayed by Huriel's dog, who, nosing his friends and companions among the dogs of the muleteers, had gone to find them, and acted as guide to their masters in discovering our retreat.
Huriel tried to conceal his uneasiness; for though I softly told Brulette not to stir, and placed myself before her, it seemed impossible, surrounded as we were, to keep her long from their prying eyes.
I had a confused sense of danger, guessing at more than I really saw, for Huriel had not had time to explain the character of the men who were now with us. He spoke to the first-comer in the half-Auvergnat patois of the Upper Bourbonnais, which he seemed to speak quite as well as the other man, though he was born in the low-country. I could understand only a word here and there, but I made out that the talk was friendly, and that the other was asking him who I was and what he was doing here. I saw that Huriel was anxious to draw him away, and he even said to me, as if to be overheard by the rest, for they could all understand the French language, "Come, Tiennet, let us say good-night to these friends and start on our way."
But instead of leaving us alone to make our preparations for departure, the others, finding the place warm and dry, began to unpack their mules and turned them loose to feed until daybreak.
"I will give a wolf-cry to get them out of sight for a few minutes," whispered Huriel. "Don't move from here, and don't let her move till I return. Meantime saddle the mules so that we can start quickly; for to stay here is the worst thing we can do."
He did as he said, and the muleteers all ran to where the cry sounded. Unhappily I lost patience, and thought I could profit by the confusion to save Brulette. I thought I could make her rise without any one seeing her, for the wrappings made her look like a bale of clothes. She reminded me that Huriel had told us to wait for him; but I was so possessed with anger and fear and jealousy, even suspecting Huriel himself, that I fairly lost my head, and seeing a close copse very near us, I took my cousin firmly by the hand and began to run towards it.
But the moon was bright, and the muleteers so near that we were seen, and a cry arose,—"Hey! hey! a woman!" and all the scoundrels ran after us. I saw at once there was nothing to be done but let myself be killed. So lowering my head like a boar and raising my stick in in the air, I was just about to deliver a blow on the jaws of the first-comer which might have sent his soul to Paradise, when Huriel caught my arm as he came swiftly to my side.
Then he spoke to the others with great vehemence and yet firmness. A sort of dispute arose, of which Brulette and I could not understand a word; and it seemed far from satisfactory, for Huriel was listened to only now and then, and twice one of the miscreants got near enough to Brulette to lay his devilish paw upon her arm as if to lead her away. Indeed, if it had not been for my driving my nails into his buck's skin to make him let go he would have dragged her from my arms by the help of the rest; for there were eight of them, all armed with stout boar-spears, and they seemed used to quarrels and violence.