A cuckoo had deposited her egg there, and the parents, stupidly deceived, lavishing the same care upon the intruder as upon their own young, had succeeded only in absurdly favouring the strongest. Meanwhile, he had grown to twice or thrice the size of his "brothers," and without, presumably, seeking any satisfaction but his "liberty," as the economists put it, he was taking up the room of others, for the sole reason that the development of his organs required it.
Like all young birds, the baby cuckoo automatically flapped his wings, to exercise his joints. In a normal nest, this movement of each inmate is limited and regulated by the same movement on the part of the others. But here, too great strength was in conflict with too great weakness, and the cuckoo's thick, stumpy wings, on which feathers were already appearing, spread to the very edge of the nest, lifting the feeble little ones on to the monster's back, whence a shake flung them overboard. The crime occurred even while I watched. The worst of it was seeing the stupid parents, in spite of all, diligently feeding the infamous fratricide. Careless of the lamentations of their own children, they could see in the nest only the huge hollow of a voracious beak, which gobbled whatever they brought, notwithstanding the timid efforts of the competitors, doomed beforehand to defeat. And so the disproportion in growth augmented daily, the one taking everything, and the others condemned to watch him helplessly. The social question is repeated in every thicket on earth!
For the principle of the thing, I replaced two little birds in the nest. They were promptly hurled to the ground. Next day, the whole crime was accomplished, and the false father and the false mother were still idiotically wearing themselves out to nourish their children's murderer. What to do about it? How many human stories there are, in the likeness of that incident! One cannot even justly blame the cuckoo, if the great principle: "Remove yourself, that I may have your place!" remains in this universe the watchword added by Providence to the express recommendation to love one another.
I am fond of observing animals, real ones, whose spirit has not been perverted by the insufferable pretence and affectations which are all too often accompaniments of the human form. Whoever watches them with a seeing eye may gather deep lessons from the activities of animal life. In man and beast the motions of being are governed by one philosophy, however much trouble the sacristans of letters may take to separate under the heads of "instinct" and "thought" phenomena differing in degree but identical in nature.
Analogies of structure and function in the entire hierarchy of the organic world were one day perceived, and Lamarck and Darwin drew from these their well-known conclusions, to the confusion of biblical tradition. Comparative anatomy and comparative physiology are now flourishing sciences of which academicians find it less easy to assimilate the results than to proclaim the failure. At the point we have reached in the knowledge of vital manifestations all along the scale of living creatures, unlimited material is day by day accumulating for the science of comparative psychology which will soon be established.
While experts are elaborating general laws, the profane may be permitted to set down the observations suggested to them by the passing show of life. In this character I wish to relate a domestic drama the scene of which, I grieve to say, was my own garden. The actors, fair readers, were simple pigeons. The difference between feathers and hair will perhaps seem to you to excuse many things. You shall compare and judge. My only ambition is to point out analogies resulting from the nature of things, and lead such of my contemporaries as do me the honour to read what I write, to a wider comprehension of the human soul.
Our natural tendency is to observe the thoughts and feelings of our equals rather than those of animals. They touch us more nearly, and we often need, in the course of our study of humanity, to balance the indulgence of our judgments upon ourselves by the severity of our judgments upon others. Only, man under observation has the advantage of articulate speech, which is, of course, a disadvantage to the observer. For everyone will agree that man makes use of this chiefly to pervert, to conceal, or at the very least to disguise, the truth. Hence arise difficulties of analysis, which are not encountered among the innocent beasts of the field whom the imperfection of their organism obliges to show themselves as nature made them. In defining the characteristics of man, it has been said that he alone among animals is gifted with laughter, with ability to light a fire, and to state abstractions by means of articulate speech. We must not neglect to mention his conspicuous faculty for lying. Animals can dissimulate, for the purpose of seizing the weaker, or escaping from the stronger. Man alone has received from Providence the gift of a perfect mendacity. So he often disparages animals, and accuses them of cynicism! Ah—if dogs could speak!
But this tale is concerned with pigeons, and when I tell you that sitting at my work table I have my dovecote all day under my eyes, you will understand that I am necessarily familiar with the manœuvres of the amorous tribe. The pigeon has a reputation for sentimentality. He is inclined toward voluptuousness, and has officially but one mate. His fidelity has been sufficient to arouse the wonder of man. Poetry, music, and art, after long centuries, still find a rich subject in the attachment of turtle doves.
"Two pigeons loved with a tender love——"
It is still usual for the fruit vender in Rue St. Denis, swooning in the conjugal arms, to call her spouse "My pigeon!" and for him to answer in a sigh, "My dove!" Well—at the risk of bringing disillusion to these ingenuous souls, and driving them to search for other comparisons, I feel obliged to establish facts in their truth, and show pigeons guilty of human frailty.
The ones whose story it is my sad duty to record were two big blue "Romans," united by the most demonstrative tenderness. They had no other occupation than to bill and coo all day long. After their eggs had been laid, they took turns at sitting on them, each for half a day at a time—and as soon as the little ones had their first feathers, returned to their ardent lovemaking.
One day I perceived on a chestnut tree belonging to me a big white pigeon who seemed to find the neighbourhood to its liking. After a few short turns about the place, the newcomer, in the course of its search for food, settled upon the home of the two Romans, and deliberately entered it, attracted by the buckwheat and corn. Mr. Pigeon drove the intruder out. He returned, and the performance of expulsion began over again. This game lasted all day.
The obstinacy of the newcomer seemed to me to indicate the weaker sex—which diagnosis was confirmed by my recognition that the Roman pigeon, while upholding his rights as first occupant, merely went through the motions of battle, and never effectively attacked his opponent. For eight days this proceeding continued. Several hundred times a day the white pigeon flew from the tree to the dovecote, only to turn back at the first threat of the tenant's beak, and then return at once from her branch to the blue pigeon's door, where, owing to his prompt hostility, she would barely alight.
Wearying of the performance, I, finally, with a desire to protect my friends, the Romans, caught the white bird, and presented it to a friend who was improving some property in the wilds of Sannois. My chestnut tree relapsed into peace, and the feathered pair continued to taste the joys of love.
Two months later, to my surprise, I perceived my white visitor on the chestnut tree. She had already recommenced her visits to the Roman family, and seemed very little affected by the hostile reception given to her persistent offers of friendship. At the same time a letter from Sannois informed me that the prisoner, taking advantage of a hole in the netting, had escaped. Touched by the sentiment that had brought a wandering soul back from such a distance to the home of her choice, I resolved worthily to exercise the hospitality so perseveringly demanded of me. I had a new house built, and I gave a beautiful husband to the lady whose heart was so obviously oppressed by the weight of solitude. Peace settled upon the amorous pigeon world. Each bent his energies, in accordance with established order, to the occupation of reproducing himself, and seemed to find happiness therein.
Who does not know that the joys of this world are brief?
One day the white lady's husband was found dead, without having given any sign of illness. His funeral was scarcely over, I blush to say, before the light creature began visiting the Roman pair again. I soon noticed that the male pigeon had reached a sort of reconcilement to those obstinate visits. He continued, to be sure, to drive the intruder away, but so nervelessly that she returned after a few flaps of her wings, without even bothering to go back as far as the chestnut tree.
Soon, I realized that the fascinating person with the white plumage had free access to the home of her neighbours. When I inquired into the reason for the Roman not barring his entrance to the stranger, I found that his mate, hunched in a ball, was seriously ill, and that the perturbed husband would not leave her. I greatly admired this exemplary conduct. The trouble was that the stranger, taking advantage of the open door, formed the annoying habit of perching there inside, day and night. The pigeon stayed close by his mate, and hunched himself also in a ball to express his sympathy, while the stranger looked, dry-eyed, on the ruin of the home, and waited for her day.
As this day was long in coming, the hussy ventured to intrude upon the sorrow of the suffering couple. Thereupon, the sick nurse, listening only to the voice of duty, hurled himself upon the wicked beast, and with beak and claw drove her across the threshold—even a little way beyond. Alas! this was precisely the object of her detestable machinations. The widow wished to be pursued. She succeeded, returning incessantly to the charge—which obliged the pigeon to escort her out of the house—and defending herself only enough to lend vivacity to the encounter. Then, when the moment seemed opportune, she abruptly ceased to resist, and crouching down, half spread her wings, asking that the battle of conjugal duty be transformed into a lovers' contest. Rarely has human creature given such an exhibition of immoral conduct.
I must say that the virtuous pigeon at first expressed his indignation by coos expressive of fury. But what can you expect? The flesh is weak. When temptation is offered every minute of the day there is some excuse for stumbling. I was a witness of my Roman pigeon's weakening. I saw him finally succumb to the suggestions of the wanton, and fall into sin! It is true that, ashamed of his weakness, he immediately chastised vice by pecking the one who had just given him delight, and quickly flew back to the bed of straw where the invalid lay wondering at his prolonged absence.
Every creature has its destiny. The betrayed wife refused to die. She remained motionless all day long, ate copiously, in spite of her illness, and did not waste away. Little by little the gallant husband formed the habit of infidelity, and even ended by showing a grievous alacrity in evil doing. I must, however, say to his credit, that if he found the attraction of sin stronger now than the call of duty, he never ceased to observe the strictest decorum under the conjugal roof. He always treated the one responsible for his fall as a courtesan whose acquaintance was not to be acknowledged. As soon as they were inside the dovecote, the two accomplices were not acquainted. The Roman pigeon lived faithfully at the side of his Roman wife. The white pigeon would go to roost, with an assumption of indifference, on the highest perch. Bourgeois decency was preserved. As we see it daily among human beings, respectability among animals may be coupled with scandalous debauchery. The sad, confiding little invalid seemed to express gratitude to her spouse, by tender, cuddling motions, to which, I prefer to believe, he did not submit without some feeling of shame. I should think that the victim would have suspected something, if only because the two culprits looked so remarkably above suspicion. But there are especial immunities.
This state of things might have endured indefinitely if the ill-starred idea of an experiment had not come into my mind. I took away the sick bird and isolated her for two days in a cage. I planned to observe the psychology of her return home, fancying that a crisis would be precipitated, from which virtue might issue triumphant.
At first the widower wished to make sure of his "misfortune." He searched the garden, then the neighbouring roofs where he had formerly spent long periods in the company of his better half. When he finally believed that his legitimate mate had vanished into nothingness, he plunged into bottomless deeps of bliss with the illegitimate one. What an example to the inhabitants of Passy!
For two days a joy so scandalous reigned in the guilty establishment that I could not resist the desire to break up the indecent festival. I therefore took the unfortunate prisoner and exposed her well in view on the lawn. As soon as the adulterous couple beheld her, the courtesan hastened to the dovecote, doubtless to establish her rights of proprietorship, and the faithless spouse fell furiously upon the wife restored to his bosom. He beat her with wing and beak, uttering angry coos. I supposed that he was calling her to account for her disappearance, and reproaching her with what he might have considered a prank, he whose heart should have been racked with remorse. It seemed to me that he was driving her toward the dovecote, and thinking that it might be well to sustain him in his demand that she resume her position in the home, whence it was high time that the adventuress be expelled, I myself put back the ailing pigeon in the spot from which I had taken her three days before.
I had scarcely left her when a terrible flutter of wings warned me that something was happening. I hastened back. The irreproachable wife was dead, killed by the lovers, whom two days had sufficed to unite in indissoluble bonds of infamy. The unlucky creature lay with her skull broken open by their beaks, and the murderers sated their ferocity upon the dead body, which I had difficulty in wresting from them.
There are no courts of law in the animal world, wherefore Providence had no option but to crown the triumph of crime with happy peace. This it did with its customary generosity. The two villains live happy in their love. They have had, and will yet have, many children.
Here is the history of a man without a history. As far back as I can remember, I can see in the great court of honour of the Manor, devoted to plebeian uses since the Revolution, Six Cents, the sawyer, silently occupied with making boards out of the trunks of poplars, elms, and oaks, which at the end of my last vacation I had left green and living, filled with the song of birds, and whose corpses I found on my return tragically piled up for the posthumous torture by which man pursues his work of death-dealing civilization.
Jacques Barbot, commonly called Six Cents, was in those days the representative of industry in the rural world; he typified man in the first stage above the purely agricultural labourer of olden times. To prepare the raw material for the next man to use was his social function. He had certainly never given thought to this, any more than to the cruel fate which makes of man the first victim of his inventions, pregnant though they be of future benefit. For how many centuries the grinding of wheat chained the slave to the millstone, until the day dawned when the beast of burden, the wind, water and steam, came to take his place. Even to-day, how much serf's labour still awaits the ingenuity of future liberators!
It is certain that Six Cents, although he expressed his views to nobody, for discretion of thought was chief among his characteristics, did not feel himself a slave, in his quiet patience under the common subjugation of labour. As it happened, the machine which set him free promptly dealt him his death blow.
Employee and employer as well, he hired a comrade, whose pay was nearly equal to his own, and all the year round, in the cold and the rain, the sun or the wind, he matched himself with untiring energy against the wide-branched giants, and defeated those adversaries. The ever-renewed struggle against the eternal resistance of the woody monsters made up his entire life. Beyond that, no horizon, no thought; his was the unconsciousness of the soul in the making. Gladstone, stupidly and without the excuse of necessity, used to hack down the noble leafy creations that form so great a part of the earth's beauty. Six Cents, as insensible as he to the esthetic aspect of tree life, engaged in a mortal combat to wrest his living from the obstinate fibres clinging to life with obscure yet tenacious vitality.
On winter days, favourable for felling trees, the executioners would arrive on the spot, axe in hand, to carry out the death sentence pronounced by interest against life and beauty. In the desolate country, overflown by bands of crows with their ill-omened croaking, the strokes of the sinister axe would echo far around, as they accomplished their work of death. The tall trunk rocks at each deeper entering of the iron, while the plumy branches beat the air in shudders of agony. The rope fastened to the top of the tree grows taut—a sharp blow, followed by a long wail, and the groaning colossus falls heavily to earth. Like a hero on the fields of Ilion hurling himself upon the spoils of the vanquished foe, Six Cents on the instant is chopping, cutting, trimming, drawing lines where the saw is to divide the tree into logs. Soon the stripped shaft, chained to the sawing trestle, will show on its length as well as its girth black lines, drawn straight by aid of a string for the sawyer's reliance in guiding the steel teeth.
One man stands above and one below the trestle. The thin notched blade, working its way forward with a soft swish muffled by the sawdust, rises and falls with the rhythmic motion of the bodies alternately bending down and straightening up. From a distance you see two men in front of each other, one facing earthward, the other skyward, and perpetually bowing as if in mutual greeting. When the entire existence of a human being has for its sole activity an incessant bowing, not even to the tree about to die, but to its corpse, into which he is driving the iron a little further with each courteous gesture, there results a monotony of sensation, of thought (if the two words may be used in this connection,) progressively benumbing the spirit, or reducing it to the minimum of cogitation compatible with a continuance of life. The inert intelligence becomes atrophied. What is the mentality of the slave harnessed to the millstone? Not greatly superior to that of the beast of burden substituted for him. Six Cents, slaughtering his trees, took from them only vegetative life. His victims unconsciously revenged themselves by bringing him down through the continuity of enforced labour to the lowest rank of conscious life.
One must not suppose that Six Cents was stupid. His countenance, with its regular features, was frank and open. His eyes, which though lacking in fire were gentle and appeared to dwell on something far away, reminded one of those of certain dogs, "very intelligent," but incapable of any effort beyond primitive comprehension. He was not a mere animal, but simply an undeveloped man. He did not know how to read, nor had he ever stopped to wonder what might be contained in a book. To saw to-day, to saw to-morrow: a narrow cycle of dull thoughts brought him continually back to his starting point. The wide gray velvet trousers from the pocket of which protruded the points of a pair of compasses distinguished him from tillers of the soil. The stamp of science and art was upon him, but so rudimentary, that the appropriate mechanical gesture was the Ultima Thule of his attainment. The smooth-shaven face, framed in long gray locks, under a cloth cap in the fashion of Louis XI, inspired respect by its placid gravity. His slow, heavy step could be heard on the road as he went silently to his work, whereas the plowmen, exchanging greetings as they passed one another, urged on their beasts with shouts, held them back with oaths, or brightened the day with love songs. Presently, they would be turning over their furrows, still shouting, still swearing, and still singing, followed by the feathered host, to whom the plowshare furnishes inexhaustible feasts. During this, Six Cents, at the foot of the trestle, gazing upward open mouthed, without sound, his attention centred upon not departing from the straight line, would stretch to full height with arms extended, then stoop to the ground as if to touch it, bend over only to lift himself, and lift himself only to bend again.
And what of the interludes between work hours? There is the cheer of the coarse but comforting repast, with the zest of its thin, sourish white wine "warming to the heart"—the walk from work to food and from food to work; sleep, when strength is spent, and rising when it would be pleasant to go on sleeping. On Sundays, there is first and foremost the joy of doing nothing, then there are the heavy conversations during which no one has anything to say, each having no interest in any but his own case, "feeling only his own ills," as the popular saying has it; there is the talk about the weather, the tedium of an idle day, occasionally the diversion of rural debate on the church square after mass; there is communion with the blessed bottle, substituting a paradise of dreams for the irksome reality of things. What further?
Married in a purely animal sense, as is the case with the majority of the human race, Six Cents lived in the relation of male to female with his "good wife," finding in marriage the advantage of partnership in labour. Were they faithful to each other? In a village these matters, which create so much commotion in the city, have small importance. People are too close to nature to resist the attraction of the moment. And I cannot see that the dwellers in cities set them such a shining example. The distraction of fairs is unknown to the sawyer who has nothing to sell. Thefts are too common, crimes too rare, they are not common subjects of conversation. Finally, to satisfy the rudimentary urge of idealism, there are politics and religion, represented by the mayor and the priest. From the pulpit fall incomprehensible words to which no one pays attention, since no one can see that they have any real effect upon anything whatsoever. Religion consists principally in believing that we must by means of certain ceremonies get on the right side of a God who will otherwise burn us up. At the approach of death one tries to get the balance in his favour at all costs. But this changes nothing in the conduct of life. Local politics are in general, as they are everywhere, a matter of business. The calculation can quickly be made as to the value of a vote on one side or the other. There is no other problem. This is how a great many Frenchmen still express the "national will" concerning the most important matters of politics and sociology. The point ever present to the mind is the question of remuneration. But the conditions determining the wages of labour escape the power of analysis of such fellows as Six Cents. What can they do but say "I work too much and earn too little," and stop, amazed before the insoluble puzzle.
One day, however, Six Cents heard news, when he happened to complain that "Boards did not find as good market as they used to." He was told about pines, and water power, and sawmills in Norway, and cheap transportation, a tale which he did not entirely understand, but from which he gathered that the evil was irremediable. He therefore resigned himself as he had always done, bowing under the inevitable. He earned less and still less, while working harder and harder because of arms grown weaker, and back grown stiff with the years. In spite of the kindly advice of philanthropical political economists, Six Cents, wearing out his body by continual labour, had no savings. He had no old sock filled with gold pieces against a rainy day, such as the simple like to believe in. Why economize, when one knows that a lifetime of pinching would lead to a ludicrously inadequate result?
Old age is upon him. Pitiless progress has done its work. Humble village craftsmen like Six Cents are out of date. The concentration of capital demands the mustering of labourers in the all-devouring factory. Six Cents looks on without understanding, without complaining. He has come to poverty, want. Utter destitution as he nears the grave seems to him but one fate-ordained calamity more to throw on the heap with the others. Is any one surprised at heat in summer and cold in winter? We must accept things as they come, and if nothing comes, still be content, since we cannot change the actual course of things. It is the same resignation as that of beasts under the whip. Six Cents' wife with a sack on her back goes from door to door begging for a crust or a few potatoes, grudgingly given to her. The sawyer does such small odd jobs as he finds to do. They keep alive, and at times appear contented. Seated on a stone at the threshold of his hut, Six Cents watches the world go by. The young come, merry, wilful, noisy. The aged pass, dejected, resigned, silent.
"With all the boards I have sawed," said he, the other day, "it will certainly be strange if four cannot be found to make my last home."
The history of a man without a history I have called this. But even without events, without passions, without desires, without revolts, without search for better things, and with the apathy of lifelong labour directed to no end, is it not still a history? The evolution of human society cannot be denied. But the time seems distant when men shall keep abreast in their progression. Up to the present time, what a lot of laggards! Consider the mental development of the cave man, chipping his flint, polishing his stone axe, sharpening his arrows, dividing his time between hunting and fighting, defending his hearth with vigilant effort, and trying to destroy the hearth of his neighbour, and then tell me whether the wretched man who spends all the days of his life sawing the same board, hammering the same iron-bar, turning the same crank of the same machine all day long—whether this man is intellectually superior to the cave man? All this, of course, must change. Let us, in order to help on the good work, take account as we go of the temporary conditions of human kind.
Flower o' the Wheat was the prettiest girl in my village. Tall, well set up, stepping along with a fine self-confidence, she brightened by her clear laughter the fields, the woods, the deep road cuts of the Vendée. With the first warm days of spring the milky whiteness of her skin would be dotted over with a constellation of freckles.
The peasants used to say: "The good Lord threw a handful of bran in her face."
Bran and flour, it would seem, for her face under the sun's rays remained as white as if dusted over with the powder of bolted wheat. Hence, perhaps, her surname, or possibly she owed it to her red hair, matched rather unusually by tawny eyes. She gave one the impression of being all of the beautiful gold-brown tone of ripe wheat. Flower o' the Wheat was beautiful, and knew it because she was told so all day long.
The man of the fields is not by a long way insensible to beauty. His esthetic sense is not the same as ours. He is not moved by a line, a contour, the grace of a moving form, but he is powerfully affected by colour, as are all whom civilization has not overrefined. Flower o' the Wheat being a creature of living colour, had, therefore, the pleasure of hearing herself proclaimed fair, and of having to fend off the playfulness, and occasionally the somewhat robust caresses, of manly youth all the way from Sainte Hermine to Chantonnay. Plant a flower wherever you will, there the bees will congregate. Wherever you meet beauty, you will see men coming to forage, with eyes and hands and lips. Between city and country there is only a difference of setting.
As her fame spread beyond the borders of the canton, Flower o' the Wheat had a throng of admirers such as had not been seen for many a day in our neighbourhood. The pride of it shone in her eyes, dazzled by their own attractiveness, and if she had been told of Cleopatra on whom was centred the gaze of the world, it is not certain that she would have thought the Egyptian queen had an advantage over the country maid. For which I praise her, for enumerating a multitude of adorers is a foolish pastime. Moreover, the queen was dead and the peasant girl alive: the best argument of all.
The delightful part of the story is that Flower o' the Wheat, while permitting herself to be admired by every man, and envied by every woman, kept her heart faithful to the friend who had known how to win it, in which she differed notably from Cleopatra. Now, that friend, for I must finally come to my confession, was none other than your humble servant. I may be pardoned the pride of that avowal: I loved Flower o' the Wheat, and Flower o' the Wheat entertained sentiments for me which she was not in the least loth to exhibit. I used to follow her about the fields with her dog, "Red Socks," so called because of his four tawny paws, and while the flock browsed very improperly beyond the limit set by the rural guard, I told her all about Nantes, where I had spent the winter. I amazed her with tales from my books, or else she talked to me about animals, what they did, what they thought; she told me extraordinary stories. Our souls were very near to each other, I will not say the same of our hearts, for the sad part of our love was, alas, that she was twenty and I was six—or seven, if I stood on tiptoe. This did not make it difficult for either of us, however, to hug the other. It was only later that I realized my misfortune.
Our best days were at harvest time. The abominable smoke of the threshing machine had not yet invaded the countryside. The flail was still in use. At dawn, men and women divided into groups would begin the round of the threshing floor, their motions accompanied by the rhythmic thud of the wooden flail, muffled by the straw on the ground; one half of the quadrille would slowly retreat, while the other half gradually advanced. The necessity for attention, and the sustained effort, obliged them to be silent. But what a reaction of laughter and song when the wooden pitch forks came into play, stacking the straw! Noonday would see the ground strewn with harvesters taking their rest in the full glare of the sun, for the peasant fears the treacherous shade. Upon the stroke of a bell, the noisy concert of the flails would again fill the air on every side.
At evening there were dances, and there were songs, in which Flower o' the Wheat excelled. She knew every song of that region, and would sing in a nasal, untutored voice, delicious to the rustic ear, ingenuous poems, in which "The King's Son," the "Nightingale," and the "Rose" appeared in fantastic splendours, joyful or sad. A local bard had even made about Flower o' the Wheat, a somewhat free and outspoken song in dialect, the refrain of which said that the flower of the wheat surrenders its grain under the harvester's flail. Flower o' the Wheat without false shame celebrated herself in song, and there were fine jostlings if some young fellow jokingly made believe to put the refrain into action.
Sooner or later, Flower o' the Wheat was bound to come under the harvester's flail. And here I call the reader's attention to this story, whose merit is that it is the story of everyone. I know of no greater error than to suppose that extraordinary adventures are what make life interesting. If one looks closely, one finds that the truly marvellous things are those which happen to us every day, and that duels, dagger thrusts, even automobile accidents, with accompanying hatred, jealousy, betrayed love, and treachery, are in reality the vulgar incidents in the enormous drama of our common life from birth to death.
To bring, without any will of our own, our ego to the consciousness of this world, be subject to a fatal concatenation of joys and sorrows dealt by the hazard of fortune, and end in the slow decay which brings us back to the condition preceding our existence, is not this the supreme adventure? What more is needed to make us marvel? Some, who are called pessimists, accept it with a certain amount of grumbling. Others, regarded as optimists, consider their misfortune so great that they eagerly add to it, by way of consolation, the dream of a celestial adventure which everyone is free to embellish as much as he pleases.
Flower o' the Wheat did not bother her head with any of this. She was twenty, a more engrossing fact. She listened to the voice of her youth, like the women gone before her, as well as those who will follow her on this earth. In the fields, nature being so close, people are very little hampered by the more or less fantastic social conventions, which undertake to regulate the human relations between two young creatures hungering and thirsting for each other.
A special sort of cake called "échaudé" is the chief industrial product of my village: a cake made of flour and eggs, very delectable when fresh from the oven, but heavy, and cause of a formidable thirstiness, by the time it has travelled through the bracken as far as Niort, La Rochelle, or Fontenay. Its transportation is carried on by night, in long carts drawn by a horse whose slow and steady gait rocks the slumbers of the driver and of the woman who accompanies him to preside over the sale of the cakes. These carts are terrible go-betweens. The scent of fern is full of danger. The two lie down to sleep, side by side, under the open sky. They do not always sleep, even after a long day's labour. The market town is far away. The unkindly disposed and censorious are shut within their own four walls. Temptation is increased by the jolts that throw people one against the other. Wherefore resist, since one must finally surrender?
Flower o' the Wheat, who was in the service of a rich dealer inéchaudés, one fine day married her "master," after having given him, to the surprise of no one, two unequivocal proofs of her aptitude for the joys as well as duties of maternity. Her neighbours in the country will tell you that there was nothing out of the ordinary in her life. Her husband beat her only on Sundays, after vespers, when he had been drinking too much, and she took no more revenge upon him than was necessary to show outsiders that he did not have the last word.
I saw her again, at that time, after a fairly long period of absence. The handful of flour and bran was still there. Her eyes had kept their lustre, and her hair still blazed under the fluttering white wings of her coif. But her glance seemed to me sharper, and already the curve of her lips betrayed weariness of life. Her pretty name still clung to her, but the flower had lost its bloom. She still laughed, but she no longer sang. Fortune had come to her, as rings and brooches and gold chains attested. On Sundays she wore a silk skirt and apron to church, and carried a gilded book, a thing found useful even by those who cannot read, since it gives them the satisfaction of exciting their neighbours' envy.
My visits to the village had become brief and far spaced. We had lived very far apart, when I met her one day, in one of our deep road cuts, leading her cow to pasture. An old, wrinkled, broken, worn-out woman. We stopped to chat. Her husband was dead and had left her with "property," but the children were pressing her to make over everything to them. They would have an allowance settled on her "at the notary's," they said.
"I shall have to make up my mind to do it," she ended with a sigh. "Will you believe that my son came near beating me yesterday, because I would not say yes or no?"
Ten more years passed. One day, as I was going through a neighbouring hamlet, a tumble-down hovel was pointed out to me and I was told that "the Barbotte" was ending her days there. Flower o' the Wheat was no more. She was now "the Barbotte," from her husband's name, Barbot.
I entered. In the half light, I could see, under the remnants of an old mantle, the shaking head of an aged woman, with a dried-up, shrivelled parchment face, pierced by two yellow eyes wherein slumbered the dim vestiges of a glance. A neighbour told me all about it. The children did not pay the allowance, which surprised no one. It was the usual thing. From time to time, they brought her a crust of bread, occasionally soup, or scraps of food on Sunday, after mass. The old woman was infirm, and waited on herself with difficulty. A servant was supposed to come and see her once a day. Often she forgot.
"Why not make a complaint?" said I, thoughtlessly.
"She spoke, one day, of letting the notary know. They beat her for it. And who would be willing to take her message? No one is anxious to make enemies. Her children are already none too well pleased that any one should enter the hut. They do not want people meddling with their affairs."
During this talk tears were shining in the blinking yellow eyes. "The Barbotte" had recognized me.
"Don't be troubled on my account," she said in a thin voice that betrayed the fear of being beaten. "I need nothing. My children are very kind. They come every day. Maybe you are like the rest, sir, you think I find time heavy on my hands. Do you know what I do, when I am here alone? I sing, in my mind, all the songs of long ago. I had forgotten them, and now they have come back to me. All day I sing them, without making any noise.I sing them inside.One after the other. When I have finished them all, I begin over again. It is like telling my beads. It is funny, is it not?"
And she tried to smile.
"Monsieur le curéscolds me," she took up again. "He wishes me to say my prayers. But I have no sooner started on the prayers than back come the songs. I cannot help it. You remember, don't you, 'The King's Son?' Oh, the 'King's Son!' And the 'Nightingale?' And the 'Rose?' I want to sing one for you. Out loud, instead of in my mind. Which one? 'Flower o' the Wheat!' Flower o' the Wheat! Ah...." She seemed on the point of singing, but dropping from it, exclaimed: "The flail of the harvester came. The grain was taken. Nothing is left but the straw ... and that badly damaged. It was threshed too much.... Dear sir, you who know everything, can you tell me why we come into this world?"
"I will tell you another day, my dear friend, when I come again."
But I never went back.
Without examining the question whether life is sad or gay, without attempting to say which is right, the groaning pessimist or the optimist singing hymns of praise, one may be allowed the remark that a great many people encounter between birth and death a great deal of trouble. Conspicuous among them is the multitude of wretches who from morning until night wear themselves out in ungrateful and monotonous labour for which they receive just enough to enable them to continue wearing themselves out without rest or reward.
The "fortunate ones of the world," those whom the others call fortunate because they are safe from cold and hunger day by day, readily believe that men bowed all their lives in the slavery of labour can no more than beasts of burden feel the cruelty of their fate. It is, in fact, a great aid to optimism to believe that the small allowance of worldly good which some of us can get along with, though we feel our share insufficient, is not paid for by a corresponding amount of worldly evil at the other end of the divinely instituted social scale. In so far as he thinks at all, the peasant entertains the same idea about the animals, whom he uses without forbearance, and beats unmercifully, satisfied with the argument that "they cannot feel anything." As for him, what exactly does he feel in connection with the good and evil of life? In looking for an answer one should discriminate between the peasant of the past and the peasant of to-day, who in a vague way has been developed by military service, emancipated, not very coherently, by the primary school and universal suffrage, to say nothing of the railroads.
When I look at the peasant of to-day, and compare him with the one I knew in my youth, I realize that a breach has been made in the impenetrable hedge that once closed his horizon. I do not know whether he is happier or less happy. He has come into relation with the rest of the world; that is the chief difference. I do not say that he personally has even a dim conception of things in general. I do not believe he asks himself any troublesome questions concerning the universe. But how many inhabitants of cities are like him in that respect? Schools have remained a place where words are taught. Barracks teach obedience and discourage thought, agreeing in this withMonsieur le Curé, who exacts blind faith, to the detriment of reason, that instrument of the devil. Finally, the right to vote, which makes of men with such poor preparation the sovereign arbiters of the most important social and political questions, the right to vote so frequently reduces itself to a simple matter of business or local interest, that the least daring generalizations are beyond the understanding of the average peasant.
So it happens that despite the daily advance of civilization the countryman continues to lead an elementary kind of life, knowing little of society save his obligation to pay taxes, finding nothing in life beyond the necessity to work without sufficient remuneration to provide for inevitable old age. His distractions, his pleasures, he finds in the Church, in fairs and the shows attached, in markets and the drinking appurtenant, with interludes of amorous expansion which will be granted to the veriest slave by the harshest master, interested in the continuance of a servile caste.
It is true that aside from the joys of thought our average citizen, even with theatres and music halls, attains to no higher pleasures. To eat, to drink, to go out of their way to strip love of the dreams and idealism which make it beautiful, these, when all is said, compose the everlasting "life of pleasure" of our most assiduous "racketers." As love among peasants is unhampered by idealism, the countryman has the two other diversions left him, eating and drinking, which few mortals hold in contempt, as anybody can see.
My friend Jean Piot, who for many years honourably occupied in broad sunlight a position between that of beggar and labourer by the day, or "odd jobber," was never one of those good for nothings who grumble over their task. In the wood yard he would do double work without flagging. On the other hand, he would have been ashamed of himself had he not taken as his legitimate reward an equivalent ration of "fun." Puritans, turn away your heads! Jean Piot, after his enormous share of work, exacted remuneration from Providence, in the shape of joys.
In his youth, labour and joy went hand in hand. If the pay was not large in spite of the excellence of the work, neither, on the other hand, is the expense large, when a kiss only asks for a kiss in return, when the soup of beans, cabbage, potatoes, and the bacon to go with it, are plentiful, when the white wine demanded by the labourer with sweat on his brow is grudged him by no one. Jean Piot had no trade, or rather he had all trades. He was equally good as digger, teamster, herdsman, or plowman, he took as much pleasure in all toil connected with the earth as if he derived strength from it for his revels.
Then old age came. Jean Piot performed fewer prodigies, and when he did the work of one man only, the master rebuked his laziness. He had encumbered himself on the way with a certain Jeanne, whom public opinion reproached with having put the two or three children she had had before her marriage into a Foundlings' Home—she was reproached, that is to say, with having estimated that the Republic would provide better than she could for their maintenance and education. The sin is not one for which in the opinion of the village there is no remission. Jeanne having become "the Piotte," showed no less ardour for work and no less love of good cheer than did her legitimate spouse. But her best days were already past. Illness overtook her. There were no savings. Jean Piot, who still caroused, was now no better than an ordinary workman, and sometimes complained of stiff muscles, though he continued to drive them beyond their strength.
Then came stark poverty. Alas! if the ability to work had diminished, hunger and thirst, more pressing than ever, had not ceased to claim their dues. Jean and his wife asked first one favour of their neighbours, then another, and when they had worn these out they applied to their friends, finally to strangers. Thus they passed by a scarcely perceptible transition from salaried pride to resigned beggary. Jean Piot and his Piotte were well thought of, never having had the reputation of being sluggards. They had, to be sure, led a merry life, fork and glass in hand. But which of their fellow labourers had never been tempted to drown care in the cup? People helped them without too bad a grace. From time to time they still worked when an opportunity came not out of all proportion with their strength, sapped by work and disease and white wine.
Slowly, age increased the inconveniences of being alive. In spite of all, the two seemed happy, unmindful of the humiliation of begging,—or sometimes even taking without having begged—accepted by all as established parasites, always ready to lend a hand if there were pressing work. It is not certain that, counting fairly, the collected gifts falling into Jean Piot and the Piotte's scrip amounted to more than an equitable reward for services rendered.
However that might be, no one seemed to complain of the state of things brought about by the natural course of events, when a strange rumour came from the county town. Jean Piot had inherited, it was said, inherited from an unknown great uncle, who had "had property," and left to his numerous relatives the task of dividing a "considerable" sum among themselves. At this news, Jean Piot held up his head, and the Piotte, going about with her crutch, asked for alms with a braver front. Public opinion could but be favourably impressed by the great news. Everybody's generosity suddenly increased, to the satisfaction of both parties.
"Well, and those potatoes that I offered you the other day? You did not take them, my good woman—you must carry them home." The Piotte could not remember anybody mentioning potatoes, but she trustfully took whatever was offered. From all sides gifts poured in, along with congratulations on the wealth to come, which was to raise the Piots from the dignity of beggars to the higher functions of the idle living on the labour of others. The news soon received confirmation that an inheritance there was, of which Jean Piot was a beneficiary. Whether large or small, no one knew.
The heirs were said to be numerous, and the most contradictory reports ran on the subject of the division. Jean Piot said nothing except "perhaps," or "it is not impossible," which gave small satisfaction. Everyone knew that he had been to see the lawyer, and that he had seemed happy when he came home. The law does nothing quickly. There was a long period of waiting, but public generosity did not weary, and Jean Piot and his Piotte had easily fallen into the way of being received as "the Lord's guests."
Finally, the news burst upon the community that Jean Piot had inherited 500 francs, all told. The disappointment caused a violent reaction, and from one day to the next, the couple found everywhere resisting doors and frowning faces. But Jean Piot seemed not to notice them, and before long his look of pleasure and his expressions of satisfaction gave rise to the idea that there must be something more than appeared. "We do not know the whole," people whispered, and each, to forestall the unknown, entrenched himself in a position of benevolent neutrality.
Five hundred francs was after all something, and as no one supposed that Jean Piot intended to make a three per cent. investment, many wondered if they might not draw some small advantage from the inheritance.
"Jean," said the maker of wooden shoes, "your shoes are a sorry sight. I will make you a pair, cheap, if you like."
No representative of commerce or industry but came with offers of obliging the "heir" with bargains in his wares.
Jean Piot shook his head, with gracious thanks. That was not what he wanted.
Presently it wasMonsieur le curé'sturn.
"Jean Piot, do you ever give thought to your soul?"
"Why, of course,Monsieur le curé, I am a good Christian, I think of nothing else."
"Well, and what do you do to save your soul from the mighty blaze of hell? I never even see you at mass."
"That is no fault of mine,Monsieur le curé, I have to earn my living. You know very well that I go to the church door. On Sundays people are readier to give alms than on week days."
"You should not work on Sundays."
"No danger. I can't work any more. Begging is not work."
"Do you know what would be a good thing to do? You ought to have masses said, to redeem your sins."
"There's nothing I should like better. Will you say some for me?"
"Good. How much will you give me?"
"How much money? Does God ask for money, now, to save me from hell? Why, then, did he not give me money to give him?"
"Hush—wretched man——! You blaspheme! Have you not just inherited?"
"Ah, you mean those five hundred francs? Wait a bit,Monsieur le curé, you shall have your share."
"You will have masses said?"
"No, I have not enough for that."
"But for the small sum of twenty francs, I will say——"
"Impossible,Monsieur le curé, it is impossible."
"You grieve me, Jean Piot. You will die like a heathen."
"I wish you a good day,Monsieur le curé."
When this conversation was retailed, everyone wondered. What! not even twenty francs to the Church? Jean Piot surely had some plan. What was he going to do?
Soon they knew, for without solicitation orders began to be placed with the best tradespeople. Jean Piot had engaged and paid for the largest stable in the village. Tables were being set up in it, and covered with a miscellaneous collection of dishes, as if for a Camacho's banquet, such as was never seen outside of Cervantes' romance.
The two village inn keepers had received gigantic orders for food and drink. And Jean Piot, his eyes sparkling with pride, went with a kindly smile from door to door, no longer to beg, but to let everyone know that "in remembrance of their good friendship" he was going to treat the entire countryside for three days. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday there was feasting, junketing, merrymaking—and everyone invited! There were cauldrons of soup; cabbage, potatoes, and beef at will, and fish, and fowls, and cakes and coffee. As for wine, casks of it were tapped, and it was of the best; on top of that, little glasses of spirits, "as much as you liked."
Amazement! Exclamations! Certainly Jean Piot was an extraordinary man. It was perhaps unwise to spend all that money at once, when he must necessarily be penniless on the day after. But who was there to blame him, when everybody was taking his share of the feast? Only thecuréshook his head, regretting his masses. But public opinion was set in Jean Piot's favour, and not even the Church could swim against the stream.
At early dawn on Saturday Jean Piot and the Piotte settled themselves in the middle seats at the table of honour, and the crowd having flocked thither in their best attire, fell upon the victuals, and washed them down with generous potations. At first they were too happy to speak, but how everybody loved everybody else! How glad they were to say so! On all sides handshaking—on all sides affectionate embraces—on all sides cries of joy! And for Jean Piot and his Piotte, what kind and laudatory expressions! What admiration!
During three days the enormous festival took its tumultuous course, amid the muffled crunching of jaws, the gurgling of jugs and bottles, mingled with laughter and shouts and songs. Women, children, old people—everyone gorged himself immoderately. When evening came, young and old danced to the music of fiddles. The church, alas, was empty on Sunday, and when thecurécame to fetch his flock—God forgive me!—they made him drink, and he, enkindled and set up, pressed Jean Piot's two hands warmly to his heart. All the mean emotions of daily life were forgotten, wiped away from the soul by this great human communion. Tramps who were passing found themselves welcomed, stuffed to capacity, beloved——And when the evening of the third day fell, not a soul was there to mourn the too early close of an epic so glorious. The entire village, exhausted, was asleep and snoring, fortifying itself by dreams to meet the gloomy return to life's realities.
When his heavy drunkenness was dispelled, Jean Piot realized, for the first thing, that the Piotte's sleep would have no awakening. Congestion had done for her. He had on the subject philosophical thoughts to which he did not give utterance for fear of being misunderstood. In the depth of his heart he felt that neither of them had any further reason for living, since they had fully lived.
And so, when, left alone, he saw gradual oblivion close over the imposing revel of which he had been the hero, when the current of life swept ever farther and farther from him that tiny fraction of humanity which made up his universe, when countenances darkened at sight of him, when doors closed and when he was reproached with having "wasted his substance"—he was not surprised, and without a murmur accepted the inevitable.
For days and days he remained stretched on his straw, quiet, even happy, it seemed, but without anything to eat. He starved, it is said.
Two days before his death, thecuréhad come to see him.
"Well, Jean Piot, my friend, do you repent of your sins?"
"Oh, yes,Monsieur le curé!"
"You remember when I proposed to say masses for you? If you had listened to me, you would not to-day be suffering remorse."
"And why should I suffer remorse,Monsieur le curé? I have done no harm to anybody. You see, I quite believe that the next world is beautiful, as you say it is, but I wanted my share of this world. And I had it. Rich people have theirs. It would not have been fair otherwise. Ah, I can say that I was as happy as any rich man, not for so long, that is all. And what does that matter, since it must end sometime anyhow? Do you remember? You drank a glass, and you took both my hands, just as if I had been a rich man,Monsieur le curé. We were like two brothers. If you cannot say a mass for me without money, surely you will remember me in your prayers, will you not?"
"I promise to, Jean Piot," said thecuré, who had grown thoughtful.
St. Bartholemew is a village in the Creuse, whose exact location I abstain from indicating lest I disturb a peaceful community by calling up unpleasant memories. St. Bartholemew is a village like any other. It has its main street, with old sagging houses huddled one against the other; here and there, the discordant note of a new building with wrought-iron gateway and gateposts topped by cast-iron vases. There are streets running at right angles, oozy with sewage, littered with manure, where numerous chickens scratch for their living. There are little gardens ornamented with bright shiny balls, reflecting people and things, and making them look ugly at close range, beautiful in the distance, even as our eyes do.
As far as I have ever been able to judge, the inhabitants of St. Bartholemew differ in no wise from those of other villages. There, as everywhere in the world, people are born, they live, and they die, without knowing exactly why, and without arriving at any reasonable explanation of the strange event. They seem, however, quite untroubled by the difficulty of the problem. When they come into the world, their first business is to lament. All their life long, they lament over the labour involved in preserving their lives, but when it comes to dying, they cannot make up their minds to it without lamentation! What bonds hold them so closely to earth? Although "gifted with reason," they could not tell you. What do they see beyond the fatal impulsion which sets men at odds in a fierce struggle for life, the results of which seem uncommensurate with the effort expended? They have no idea. Man comes into collision with brutal fact, and can see nothing beyond a conflict of interests. Three persons there are, having a direct action upon him: thecuré, the mayor, and the rural guard, whose injunction will bring him to court.
Thecuréis the purveyor of ideals appointed by the government. His church, with its pictures, its gilded candlesticks, its tapers, and its anthems, constitutes the only manifestation of art furnished by the powers. It provides, in addition, a body of doctrine, texts, and uplifting admonitions, the misfortune of which is, that although everyone repeats them, no one pays any attention to them. The practice of the cult seems to be the important thing. As to the precepts of which that same cult is the support, everyone applies them to suit himself. Gifts of money, a mechanical deathbed repentance, set the sinner on good terms with the Master of the Beyond. With regard to the common events of life, Lourdes and St. Anthony of Padua will attend to them for a consideration.
As thecuréfills the office of God's mayor on earth, so the mayor and the rural guard are thecurésof that far-away terrestrial divinity called: "the Government." What, exactly, that word means, no one has the necessary learning to explain. All that is known (and nothing further is required), is that it is a mysterious power, as implacable as the Other, and that one cannot even acquire merit with it by offering one's money willingly, for it has liberty to force open doors and drawers and take at its convenience. No one loves it, by whatever fine name it may call itself, for it has, like the Other, a court of demons, a fierce company of bailiffs, attorneys, judges, and jailers, cruel and vindictive toward poor people who have the misfortune to displease it. This conception of the social order may not express a very elevated philosophy, but it has the great advantage of being exactly adapted to the tangible realities of daily life.
If it were objected that at election time the "sovereign (!) voter" might feel that he himself is the Government, I should answer that he does not feel it for the simple reason that it is not so. To make it true, an understanding of things and conditions would be necessary, which the law may presuppose, but which it has not so far been able to bring about, either among the people, or, for the greater part, among the delegates of the people. Promises, of course, have not been wanting, but what has followed? One is put in mind of a flock of sheep, given their choice of tormentors, and as the personal interest of each, clear and conspicuous, comes before the incomprehensible "general interest" (a Pandora's box, concealing so many things!) the representative whom it is good to elect is the one who will tear up the greatest number of legal summonses and substitute for them the greatest number of office holders' receipts and tobacconist shops.
It will be admitted, I fancy, that the spiritual condition of St. Bartholemew, as shown in all this, does not greatly differentiate it from the rural communities known to each one of us. The special attribute of the place, aside from its excellentcuré, and no less excellent mayor, was that it boasted a "fool." To be sure, St. Bartholemew's was not the usual village fool. He was not one of those fantastic creatures in novels, who, happening on the scene at the right moment, save the virtuous maiden, and bring the villain to punishment before he has carried out his dark designs. No. He was a thickset dwarf, with a bestial, twisted face, whose peculiarity was that he never spoke. "Yes," and "no" formed his entire vocabulary. This viaticum was, however, sufficient to ensure his worldly prosperity, given his notions of prosperity. His mother, who had been something of a simpleton herself, and whom the birth of the dwarf had firmly established in the character of a "witch," had had him, she said, by a passing travelling salesman. The adventure was in no way novel, but the appearance of the dwarf caused the more superstitious to believe that her travelling salesman travelled for the house of Satan!
This might have prejudiced the community against "Little Nick," as the simpleton was called, had he not been gifted with more than ordinary muscular strength, which impelled him to hurl himself with hyena howls upon any one refusing him a bowl of soup, or straw to lie on in the stable. Beside which, a strange lust for work possessed the diabolically gnarled body. Hard physical labour was joy to Little Nick. He worked gladly at any occupation whatsoever, even showing rudiments of art as a carpenter or a blacksmith, which had given rise to the suspicion "that he was not as stupid as he wished to be thought." But as he worked for the love of it, and never demanded payment, he was universally judged to be an "idiot," which did not keep the farmers from contending for his favours.
The mother lived "from door to door," begging her bread. People gave to her chiefly from fear of her "casting an evil spell" upon them. But Little Nick was everywhere received with open arms. A piece of bread and three potatoes are not extravagant pay for a day's work from a man, and Little Nick was as good as two men. From time to time he was given an old pair of trousers, or a torn waistcoat, when his too-primitive costume might have disgraced his fellow workers; on winter evenings he had his place in the firecorner and good straw to sleep on in the stable smelling of the friendly beasts.
The legend ran, I must add, if I am to be a faithful reporter, that Little Nick had sometimes taken shepherdesses unawares in thickets or rocky solitudes. The victims of the "accident," if there had really been any such, made no boast of it, and the dumb boy was impeccably discreet. It is certain that Little Nick cast upon rustic beauty tender glances which made him more grotesque still. Young women ran from him with grimaces of disgust and cries of horror which he did not resent. The young men were more reserved, out of respect for his formidable fists.
Everything considered, Little Nick was one of the happiest among mortals, practicing without effort the maxim of the wise, which is to limit one's desire to one's means, and conceiving no destiny finer than that with which a kind Providence had fitted him. And what proof is there that his fellow citizens in St. Bartholemew were mentally so very superior to him? Was it the part of wisdom to seek, or to despise, money? The entire village was engaged in a bitter struggle for gain, and the hardest worker rarely escaped want in old age. Little Nick worked for the sole pleasure of using his strength, and without any effort of his the rarest good fortune befell him.
The witch having been found dead one morning, was expedited to the cemetery with a more than usual perfunctory recommendation from the Church to the Saints in Paradise. Little Nick, who had been sent for, found half a dozen neighbours in his hovel "taking stock" of his property. He was looking about the empty place without a word, when a chest being moved aside, a stone was exposed to view, which had every appearance of having recently been lifted. A spade inserted under the edge disclosed a hoard of gold: a very burst of sunshine. With a single cry, all hands were outstretched. But the warm emanation of the metal, inflaming the desire of all, had also waked up Little Nick. With three blows he had thrust everyone aside, with three kicks he had emptied the house. Half an hour later, the entire village stood in front of his locked and bolted door, waiting for the miracle that must issue from it. The gossips, surrounded by the gaping populace, made their report: "A great hole full of gold! How much could there be? Ten thousand francs, at least," said some. "Twenty, thirty," declared others.
"It would not surprise me if there were 100,000," opined one old woman.
"And then, we did not see what might be under other stones——"
"It must be the Devil's money," said the sexton. "I wouldn't take it if it were given to me."
"Nor I," said another.
"Nor I."
"Nor I."
Everyone disdainfully refused what was not offered him.
"All the same," said a peasant, "I am his nearest relative, I am his guardian."
"You are not!" said another, "It is I who am his guardian!"
And the discussion was soon followed by a quarrel, concerning a relationship which no one had ever before thought of.
Presently the door opened, and Little Nick appeared.
"Good morning, Little Nick, it is I, your good friend Pierre."
"No, it is I, Jean, you know me, I am your uncle."
"No, it is I, Matthew, you remember that good soup I gave you. Come with me. You shall have a big piece of bacon."
"Come with me!" "Come with me!"
What a lot of friends! Little Nick growls with anger, and energetically motions them all to be gone. They obey, each meaning to return later.
On the following day, the many "guardians" betake themselves to the justice of peace to explain matters, and lay claim to their "rights."
The magistrate comes.
"Little Nick, you have some gold pieces?"
"Yes."
"Will you tell me where you have put them?"
"No."
They rummage everywhere, and find nothing. Little Nick has spent the day in the woods. Doubtless he has buried his treasure there. They will follow him and discover his hiding place. They must wait until then.
But already the "guardians" are wrangling over Little Nick, who does not know which to listen to. The cleverest among them suggests his unloading a cart of manure for him. That means pleasure. Little Nick runs to it, and having finished his task finds himself seated at the table before a dish of bacon and cabbage, beside his new cousin "Phemie."
Phemie is a blonde. Phemie has blue eyes. Phemie has fresh, rosy cheeks, and large caressing hands with which to fondle her "dear little cousin," promoted to the dignity of "Nicholas." The "guardian" obligingly retires after supper, leaving the two "cousins" to make acquaintance. Phemie pours out a glass of a certain white wine for "Nicholas."
On the following day the acquaintance has progressed so well that Nicholas has no desire to leave. He has found his real guardian. Evil tongues are busy, but Phemie holds on to Nicholas and will never let go.
"Have you some beautiful gold pieces?" she sometimes whispers in his ear.
"Yes."
"Will you tell me where they are?"
"No."
But this "no" is feeble, and when Phemie adds: "If you don't tell me, I sha'n't love you any more," Nicholas, by an expressive dumb show lets it be known that above all things he wishes to be loved.
Months pass, and years. Little Nick lives in an ecstasy of bliss. His pleasure in work is less keen. But evidently he has compensations, for the fair Phemie is always with him. It is now five years since the witch rendered up her soul to the Devil. Not a day has passed, not a night, without Phemie questioning Little Nick about the treasure. The "Beast's" resistance has weakened to the point that when the "Beauty" asks him: "Will you show me where the gold pieces are?" he now answers "Yes."
"Come, let us go," says Phemie, redoubling her caresses.
Little Nick motions to her to wait, but sometimes he takes a few steps in the supposed direction of the treasure, and Phemie is convinced that she will soon finally wrest from him the secret of the undiscoverable hiding place.
It is high time, for the woods around St. Bartholemew are incessantly being searched by the villagers, and if Little Nick does not make up his mind to speak, Phemie may be the victim of "thieves," for the gold pieces are hers, are they not? She has surely earned them! Already, as soon as a peasant buys a piece of property, everyone wonders whether he may not have found the St. Bartholemew treasure.
Finally Phemie has an idea. She has noticed that when she accompanies Little Nick on his walks he avoids the river. She leads him thither, saying: "Let us go and have a look at the gold pieces."
Mechanically, Little Nick says "Yes" and obediently follows her.
When they have reached the wildest spot, "Is it here?" asks she, pointing at a cavity among the rocks, covered over with bushes.
"No," says Little Nick.
"Up there, then," she pursues, pointing at a sharp rock by the water's edge.
"Yes."
"Come."
And both of them, helping themselves with feet and knees and hands, torn by the brambles and jagged edges, climb the steep slope to the top.
"There?" breathes Phemie, panting.
"Yes."
And Little Nick, lying flat, hanging over the abyss, extracts from an invisible hole in the rock, where it makes a straight wall to the river, a handful of gold pieces, which he flings, laughing, at his beloved.
There is a frightful scream. Phemie, mad with rage, rises like a fury lusting for vengeance. The gold pieces are pasteboard, ironical gift of the travelling salesman to the "witch," to overcome her last resistance, and heritage of Nicholas, from which, it cannot be denied, the "simpleton" has drawn his profit.
"Beast! Beast!" shouts Phemie, foaming at the mouth.
And as Nicholas tries to rise, she pushes him over the edge. He loses his balance, but clinging to Phemie's skirt, drags her with him.
The river is deep in that spot. Neither of them could swim.
Their bodies were found at the foot of the rock, and the pasteboard gold pieces scattered on the summit, whence their footprints showed that they had fallen.
"A trick of the Devil!" said the peasants.
And there was, to be sure, something in that.