But the young man, just as they were passing the priest, made thewheel of the wagon, which was going at full speed, sink into a rut,splashing the abbé with mud from head to foot.
Rosalie was delighted and turned round to shake her fist at him, whilethe priest was wiping off the mud with his big handkerchief.
All at once Jeanne exclaimed: "We have forgotten Massacre!" Theystopped, and, getting down, Denis ran to fetch the dog, while Rosalieheld the reins. He presently reappeared, carrying in his arms theshapeless and crippled animal, which he placed at the feet of the twowomen.
Two hours later the carriage stopped at a little brick house built inthe middle of a lot planted with pear trees at the side of the highroad.
Four trellised arbors covered with honeysuckle and clematis formed thefour corners of the garden, which was divided into little beds ofvegetables separated by narrow paths bordered with fruit trees.
A very high box hedge enclosed the whole property, which was separatedby a field from the neighboring farm. There was a blacksmith's shopabout a hundred feet further along the road. There were no otherhouses within three-quarters of a mile.
The house commanded a view of the level district of Caux, covered withfarms surrounded by their four double rows of tall trees whichenclosed the courtyard planted with apple trees.
As soon as they reached the house, Jeanne wanted to rest; but Rosaliewould not allow her to do so for fear she would begin to think of thepast.
The carpenter from Goderville was there, and they began at once toplace the furniture that had already arrived while waiting for thelast load. This required a good deal of thought and planning.
At the end of an hour the wagon appeared at the gate and had to beunloaded in the rain. When night fell the house was in utter disorder,with things piled up anyhow. Jeanne, tired out, fell asleep as soon asshe got into bed.
She had no time to mourn for some days, as there was so much to bedone. She even took a certain pleasure in making her new house lookpretty, the thought that her son would come back there haunting hercontinually. The tapestries from her old room were hung in thedining-room, which also had to serve as a parlor; and she took specialpains with one of the two rooms on the first floor, which she thoughtof as "Poulet's room."
She kept the other room herself, Rosalie sleeping above, next to theloft. The little house, furnished with care, was very pretty, andJeanne was happy there at first, although she seemed to lacksomething, but she did not know what.
One morning the lawyer's clerk from Fécamp brought her three thousandsix hundred francs, the price of the furniture left at "The Poplars,"and valued by an upholsterer. She had a little thrill of pleasure atreceiving this money, and as soon as the man had gone, she ran to puton her hat, so as to get to Goderville as quickly as possible to sendPaul this unexpected sum.
But as she was hurrying along the high road she met Rosalie comingfrom market. The servant suspected something, without at once guessingthe facts; and when she discovered them, for Jeanne could hide nothingfrom her, she placed her basket on the ground that she might get angrywith more comfort.
She began to scold with her fists on her hips; then taking hold of hermistress with her right arm and taking her basket in her left, andstill fuming, she continued on her way to the house.
As soon as they were in the house the servant asked to have the moneyhanded over to her. Jeanne gave all but six hundred francs, which sheheld back; but Rosalie soon saw through her tricks, and she wasobliged to hand it all over. However, she consented to her sendingthis amount to the young man.
A few days later he wrote: "You have rendered me a great service, mydear mother, for we were in the greatest distress."
Jeanne, however, could not get accustomed to Batteville. It seemed toher as if she could not breathe as she did formerly, that she was morelonely, more deserted, more lost than ever. She went out for a walk,got as far as the hamlet of Verneuil, came back by the Trois-Mares,came home, then suddenly wanted to start out again, as if she hadforgotten to go to the very place she intended.
And every day she did the same thing without knowing why. But oneevening a thought came to her unconsciously which revealed to her thesecret of her restlessness. She said as she was sitting down todinner: "Oh, how I long to see the sea!"
That was what she had missed so greatly, the sea, her big neighbor fortwenty-five years, the sea with its salt air, its rages, its scoldingvoice, its strong breezes, the sea which she sought from her window at"The Poplars" every morning, whose air she breathed day and night, thesea which she felt close to her, which she had taken to lovingunconsciously as she would a person.
Winter was approaching, and Jeanne felt herself overcome by anunconquerable discouragement. It was not one of those acute griefswhich seemed to wring the heart, but a dreary, mournful sadness.
Nothing roused her. No one paid any attention to her. The high roadbefore her door stretched to right and left with hardly any passersby.Occasionally a dogcart passed rapidly, driven by a red-faced man, withhis blouse puffed out by the wind, making a sort of blue balloon;sometimes a slow-moving wagon, or else two peasants, a man and awoman, who came near, passed by, and disappeared in the distance.
As soon as the grass began to grow again, a young girl in a shortskirt passed by the gate every morning with two thin cows who browsedalong the side of the road. She came back every evening with the samesleepy face, making a step every ten minutes as she walked behind theanimals.
Jeanne dreamed every night that she was still at "The Poplars." Sheseemed to be there with father and little mother, and sometimes evenwith Aunt Lison. She did over again things forgotten and done with,thought she was supporting Madame Adelaide in her walk along theavenue. And each awakening was attended with tears.
She thought continually of Paul, wondering what he was doing--how hewas--whether he sometimes thought of her. As she walked slowly in theby-roads between the farms, she thought over all these things whichtormented her, but above all else, she cherished an intense jealousyof the woman who had stolen her son from her. It was this hatred alonewhich prevented her from taking any steps, from going to look for him,to see him. It seemed to her that she saw that woman standing on thedoorsill asking: "What do you want here, madame?" Her mother's priderevolted at the possibility of such a meeting. And her haughty prideof a good woman whose character is blameless made her all the moreindignant at the cowardice of a man subjugated by an unworthy passion.
When autumn returned with its long rains, its gray sky, its darkclouds, such a weariness of this kind of life came over her that shedetermined to make a great effort to get her Poulet back; he must havegot over his infatuation by this time.
She wrote him an imploring letter:
"My Dear Child: I am going to entreat you to come back to me. Rememberthat I am old and delicate, all alone the whole year round except fora servant maid. I am now living in a little house on the main road. Itis very lonely, but if you were here all would be different for me. Ihave only you in the world, and I have not seen you for seven years!You were my life, my dream, my only hope, my one love, and you failedme, you deserted me!
"Oh, come back, my little Poulet--come and embrace me. Come back toyour old mother, who holds out her despairing arms towards you.
"Jeanne."
He replied a few days later:
"My Dear Mother: I would ask nothing better than to go and see you,but I have not a penny. Send me some money and I will come. I wanted,in any case, to see you to talk to you about a plan that would make itpossible for me to do as you ask.
"The disinterestedness and love of the one who has been my companionin the dark days through which I have passed can never be forgotten byme. It is not possible for me to remain any longer without publiclyrecognizing her love and her faithful devotion. She has very pleasingmanners, which you would appreciate. She is also educated and reads agood deal. In fact, you cannot understand what she has been to me. Ishould be a brute if I did not show her my gratitude. I am going,therefore, to ask you to give me your permission to marry her. Youwill forgive all my follies and we will all live together in your newhouse.
"If you knew her you would at once give your consent. I can assure youthat she is perfect and very distingué. You will love her, I am sure.As for me, I could not live without her.
"I shall expect your reply with impatience, my dear mother, and weboth embrace you with all our heart.
"Your son,
"Vicomte Paul de Lamare."
Jeanne was crushed. She remained motionless, the letter on her lap,seeing through the cunning of this girl who had had such a hold on herson for so long, and had not let him come to see her once, biding hertime until the despairing old mother could no longer resist the desireto clasp her son in her arms, and would weaken and grant all theyasked.
And grief at Paul's persistent preference for this creature wrung herheart. She said: "He does not love me. He does not love me."
Rosalie just then entered the room. Jeanne faltered: "He wants tomarry her now."
The maid was startled. "Oh, madame, you will not allow that. M. Paulmust not pick up that rubbish."
And Jeanne, overcome with emotion, but indignant, replied: "Neverthat, my girl. And as he will not come here, I am going to see him,myself, and we shall see which of us will carry the day."
She wrote at once to Paul to prepare him for her visit, and to arrangeto meet him elsewhere than in the house inhabited by that baggage.
While awaiting a reply she made her preparations for departure.Rosalie began to pack her mistress' clothes in an old trunk, but asshe was folding a dress, one of those she had worn in the country, sheexclaimed: "Why, you have nothing to put on your back. I will notallow you to go like that. You would be a disgrace to everyone; andthe Parisian ladies would take you for a servant."
Jeanne let her have her own way, and the two women went together toGoderville to choose some material, which was given a dressmaker inthe village. Then they went to the lawyer, M. Roussel, who spent afortnight in the capital every year, in order to get some information;for Jeanne had not been in Paris for twenty-eight years.
He gave them lots of advice on how to avoid being run over, on methodsof protecting yourself from thieves, advising her to sew her money upinside the lining of her coat, and to keep in her pocket only what sheabsolutely needed. He spoke at length about moderate pricedrestaurants, and mentioned two or three patronized by women, and toldthem that they might mention his name at the Hotel Normandie.
Jeanne had never yet seen the railroad, though trains had been runningbetween Paris and Havre for six years, and were revolutionizing thewhole country.
She received no answer from Paul, although she waited a week, then twoweeks, going every morning to meet the postman, asking himhesitatingly: "Is there anything for me, Père Malandain?" And the manalways replied in his hoarse voice: "Nothing again, my good lady."
It certainly must be this woman who was keeping Paul from writing.
Jeanne, therefore, determined to set out at once. She wanted to takeRosalie with her, but the maid refused for fear of increasing theexpense of the journey. She did not allow her mistress to take morethan three hundred francs, saying: "If you need more you can write tome and I will go to the lawyer and ask him to send it to you. If Igive you any more, M. Paul will put it in his pocket."
One December morning Denis Lecoq came for them in his light wagon andtook them to the station. Jeanne wept as she kissed Rosalie good-by,and got into the train. Rosalie was also affected and said: "Good-by,madame, bon voyage, and come back soon!"
"Good-by, my girl."
A whistle and the train was off, beginning slowly and gradually goingwith a speed that terrified Jeanne. In her compartment there were twogentlemen leaning back in the two corners of the carriage.
She looked at the country as they swept past, the trees, the farms,the villages, feeling herself carried into a new life, into a newworld that was no longer the life of her tranquil youth and of herpresent monotonous existence.
She reached Paris that evening. A commissionaire took her trunk andshe followed him in great fear, jostled by the crowd and not knowinghow to make her way amid this mass of moving humanity, almost runningto keep up with the man for fear of losing sight of him.
On reaching the hotel she said at the desk: "I was recommended here byM. Roussel."
The proprietress, an immense woman with a serious face, who was seatedat the desk, inquired:
"Who is he--M. Roussel?"
Jeanne replied in amazement: "Why, he is the lawyer at Goderville, whostops here every year."
"That's very possible," said the big woman, "but I do not know him. Doyou wish a room?"
"Yes, madame."
A boy took her satchel and led the way upstairs. She felt a pang ather heart. Sitting down at a little table she sent for some luncheon,as she had eaten nothing since daybreak. As she ate, she was thinkingsadly of a thousand things, recalling her stay here on the return fromher wedding journey, and the first indication of Julien's characterbetrayed while they were in Paris. But she was young then, andconfident and brave. Now she felt old, embarrassed, even timid, weakand disturbed at trifles. When she had finished her luncheon she wentover to the window and looked down on the street filled with people.She wished to go out, but was afraid to do so. She would surely getlost. She went to bed, but the noise, the feeling of being in astrange city, kept her awake. About two o'clock in the morning, justas she was dozing off, she heard a woman scream in an adjoining room;she sat up in bed and then she thought she heard a man laugh. Asdaylight dawned the thought of Paul came to her, and she dressedherself before it was light.
Paul lived in the Rue du Sauvage, in the old town. She wanted to gothere on foot so as to carry out Rosalie's economical advice. Theweather was delightful, the air cold enough to make her skin tingle.People were hurrying along the sidewalks. She walked as fast as shecould, according to directions given her, along a street, at the endof which she was to turn to the right and then to the left, when shewould come to a square where she must make fresh inquiries. She didnot find the square, and went into a baker's to ask her way, and hedirected her differently. She started off again, went astray, inquiredher way again, and finally got lost completely.
Half crazy, she now walked at random. She had made up her mind to calla cab, when she caught sight of the Seine. She then walked along thequays.
After about an hour she found the Rue Sauvage, a sort of dark alley.She stopped at a door, so overcome that she could not move.
He was there, in that house--Poulet.
She felt her knees and hands trembling; but at last she entered thedoor, and walking along a passage, saw the janitor's quarters. Shesaid, as she held out a piece of money: "Would you go up and tell M.Paul de Lamare that an old lady, a friend of his mother's, isdownstairs, and wishes to see him?"
"He does not live here any longer, madame," replied the janitor.
A shudder went over her. She faltered:
"Oh! Where--where is he living now?"
"I do not know."
She grew dizzy as though she were about to fall over, and stood therefor some moments without being able to speak. At length, with a greateffort, she collected her senses and murmured:
"How long is it since he left?"
"About two weeks ago. They went off like that, one evening, and nevercame back. They were in debt everywhere in the neighborhood, so youcan understand that they did not care to leave their address."
Jeanne saw lights before her eyes, flashes of flame, as though a gunhad been fired off in front of her eyes. But she had one fixed idea inher mind, and that sustained her, and kept her outwardly calm andrational. She wished to find Poulet and know all about him.
"Then he said nothing when he was going away?"
"Nothing at all; they ran off to escape their debts, that's all."
"But he surely sends someone to get his mail."
"More frequently than I send it. He never got more than ten letters ayear. I took one up to them, however, two days before they left."
That was probably her letter. She said abruptly: "Listen! I am hismother, his own mother, and I have come to look for him. Here are tenfrancs for you. If you can get any news or any particulars about him,come and see me at the Hotel Normandie, Rue du Havre, and I will payyou well."
"You may count on me, madame," he replied.
She left him and began to walk away without caring whither she went.She hurried along as though she were on some important business,knocking up against people with packages, crossing the streets withoutpaying attention to the approaching vehicles, and being sworn at bythe drivers, stumbling on the curb of the sidewalk, and tearing alongstraight ahead in utter despair.
All at once she found herself in a garden, and was so tired that shesat down on a bench to rest. She stayed there some time apparently,weeping without being conscious of it, for passersby stopped to lookat her. Then she felt very cold, and rose to go on her way; but herlegs would scarcely carry her, she was so weak and distressed.
She wanted to go into a restaurant and get a cup of bouillon, but asort of shame, of fear, of modesty at her grief being observed heldher back. She would pause at the door, look in, see all the peoplesitting at table eating, and would turn away, saying: "I will go intothe next one." But she had not the courage.
Finally she went into a bakery and bought a crescent and ate it as shewalked along. She was very thirsty, but did not know where to go toget something to drink, so did without it.
Presently she found herself in another garden surrounded by arcades.She recognized the Palais Royal. Being tired and warm, she sat downhere for an hour or two.
A crowd of people came in, a well-dressed crowd, chatting, smiling,bowing to each other, that happy crowd of beautiful women and wealthymen who live only for dress and amusement. Jeanne felt bewildered inthe midst of this brilliant assemblage, and got up to make her escape.But suddenly the thought came to her that she might meet Paul in thisplace; and she began to wander about, looking into the faces, goingand coming incessantly with her quick step from one end of the gardento the other.
People turned round to look at her, others laughed as they pointed herout. She noticed it and fled, thinking that they were doubtless amusedat her appearance and at her dress of green plaid, selected byRosalie, and made according to her ideas by the dressmaker atGoderville.
She no longer dared even to ask her way of passersby, but at last sheventured to do so and found her way back to the hotel.
The following day she went to the police department to ask them tolook for her child. They could promise her nothing, but said theywould do all they could. She wandered about the streets hoping thatshe might come across him. And she felt more alone in this bustlingcrowd, more lost, more wretched than in the lonely country.
That evening when she came back to the hotel she was informed that aman had come to see her from M. Paul, and that he would come backagain the following day. Her heart began to beat violently and shenever closed her eyes that night. If it should be he! Yes, itassuredly was, although she would not have recognized him from thedescription they gave her.
About nine o'clock the following morning there was a knock at thedoor. She cried: "Come in!" ready to throw herself into certainoutstretched arms. But an unknown person appeared; and while heexcused himself for disturbing her, and explained his business, whichwas to collect a debt of Paul's, she felt the tears beginning tooverflow, and wiped them away with her finger before they fell on hercheeks.
He had learned of her arrival through the janitor of the Rue Sauvage,and as he could not find the young man, he had come to see his mother.He handed her a paper, which she took without knowing what she wasdoing and read the figures--ninety francs--which she paid without aword.
She did not go out that day.
The next day other creditors came. She gave them all that she had leftexcept twenty francs and then wrote to Rosalie to explain matters toher.
She passed her days wandering about, waiting for Rosalie's answer, notknowing what to do, how to kill the melancholy, interminable hours,having no one to whom she could say an affectionate word, no one whoknew her sorrow. She now longed to return home to her little house atthe side of the lonely high road. A few days before she thought shecould not live there, she was so overcome with grief, and now she feltthat she could never live anywhere else but there where her seriouscharacter had been formed.
One evening the letter at last came, enclosing two hundred francs.Rosalie wrote:
"Madame Jeanne: Come back at once, for I shall not send you any more.As for M. Paul, it is I who will go and get him when we know where heis.
"With respect, your servant,
"Rosalie."
Jeanne set out for Batteville one very cold, snowy morning.
Jeanne never went out now, never stirred about. She rose at the samehour every day, looked out at the weather and then went downstairs andsat before the parlor fire.
She would remain for days motionless, gazing into the fire, thinkingof nothing in particular. It would grow dark before she stirred,except to put a fresh log on the fire. Rosalie would then bring in thelamp and exclaim: "Come, Madame Jeanne, you must stir about or youwill have no appetite again this evening."
She lived over the past, haunted by memories of her early life and herwedding journey down yonder in Corsica. Forgotten landscapes in thatisle now rose before her in the blaze of the fire, and she recalledall the little details, all the little incidents, the faces she hadseen down there. The head of the guide, Jean Ravoli, haunted her, andshe sometimes seemed to hear his voice.
Then she remembered the sweet years of Paul's childhood, when theyplanted salad together and when she knelt in the thick grass besideAunt Lison, each trying what they could do to please the child, andher lips murmured: "Poulet, my little Poulet," as though she weretalking to him. Stopping at this word, she would try to trace it,letter by letter, in space, sometimes for hours at a time, until shebecame confused and mixed up the letters and formed other words, andshe became so nervous that she was almost crazy.
She had all the peculiarities of those who live a solitary life. Theleast thing out of its usual place irritated her.
Rosalie often obliged her to walk and took her on the high road, butat the end of twenty minutes she declared she could not take anotherstep and sat down on the side of the road.
She soon became averse to all movement and stayed in bed as late aspossible. Since her childhood she had retained one custom, that ofrising the instant she had drunk her café au lait in the morning. Butnow she would lie down again and begin to dream, and as she was dailygrowing more lazy, Rosalie would come and oblige her to get up andalmost force her to get dressed.
She seemed no longer to have any will power, and each time the maidasked her a question or wanted her advice or opinion she would say:"Do as you think best, my girl."
She imagined herself pursued by some persistent ill luck and was likean oriental fatalist, and having seen her dreams all fade away and herhopes crushed, she would sometimes hesitate a whole day or longerbefore undertaking the simplest thing, for fear she might be on thewrong road and it would turn out badly. She kept repeating: "Talk ofbad luck--I have never had any luck in life."
Then Rosalie would say: "What would you do if you had to work for yourliving, if you were obliged to get up every morning at six o'clock togo out to your work? Many people have to do that, nevertheless, andwhen they grow too old they die of want."
Jeanne replied: "Remember that I am all alone; that my son hasdeserted me." And Rosalie would get very angry: "That's another thing!Well, how about the sons who are drafted into the army and those whogo to America?"
America to her was an undefined country, where one went to make afortune and whence one never returned. She continued: "There alwayscomes a time when people have to part, for old people and young peopleare not made to live together." And she added fiercely: "Well, whatwould you say if he were dead?"
Jeanne had nothing more to say.
One day in spring she had gone up to the loft to look for somethingand by chance opened a box containing old calendars which had beenpreserved after the manner of some country folks.
She took them up and carried them downstairs. They were of all sizes,and she laid them out on the table in the parlor in regular order.Suddenly she spied the earliest, the one she had brought with her to"The Poplars." She gazed at it for some time, at the days crossed offby her the morning she left Rouen, the day after she left the convent,and she wept slow, sorrowful tears, the tears of an old woman at sightof her wretched life spread out before her on this table.
One morning the maid came into her room earlier than usual, andplacing the bowl of café au lait on the little stand beside her bed,she said: "Come, drink it quickly. Denis is waiting for us at thedoor. We are going to 'The Poplars,' for I have something to attendto down there."
Jeanne dressed herself with trembling hands, almost fainting at thethought of seeing her dear home once more.
The sky was cloudless and the nag, who was inclined to be frisky,would suddenly start off at a gallop every now and then. As theyentered the commune of Étouvent Jeanne's heart beat so that she couldhardly breathe.
They unharnessed the horse at the Couillard place, and while Rosalieand her son were attending to their own affairs, the farmer and hiswife offered to let Jeanne go over the chateau, as the proprietor wasaway and they had the keys.
She went off alone, and when she reached the side of the chateau fromwhich there was a view of the sea she turned round to look. Nothinghad changed on the outside. When she turned the heavy lock and wentinside the first thing she did was to go up to her old room, which shedid not recognize, as it had been newly papered and furnished. But theview from the window was the same, and she stood and gazed out at thelandscape she had so loved.
She then wandered all over the house, walking quietly all alone inthis silent abode as though it were a cemetery. All her life wasburied here. She went down to the drawing-room, which was dark withits closed shutters. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim lightshe recognized some of the old hangings. Two easy chairs were drawn upbefore the fire, as if some one had just left them, and as Jeannestood there, full of old memories, she suddenly seemed to see herfather and mother sitting there, warming their feet at the fire.
She started back in terror and knocked up against the edge of thedoor, against which she leaned to support herself, still staring atthe armchairs.
The vision had vanished.
She remained bewildered for some minutes. Then she slowly recoveredher composure and started to run away, for fear she might becomeinsane. She chanced to look at the door against which she had beenleaning and saw there "Poulet's ladder."
All the little notches were there showing the age and growth of herchild. Here was the baron's writing, then hers, a little smaller, andthen Aunt Lison's rather shaky characters. And she seemed to see herboy of long ago with his fair hair standing before her, leaning hislittle forehead against the door while they measured his height.
And she kissed the edge of the door in a frenzy of affection.
But some one was calling her outside. It was Rosalie's voice: "MadameJeanne, Madame Jeanne, they are waiting breakfast for you." She wentout in a dream and understood nothing of what they were saying to her.She ate what they gave her, heard them talking, but about what sheknew not, let them kiss her on the cheeks and kissed them in returnand then got into the carriage.
When they lost sight of the château behind the tall trees she felt awrench at her heart, convinced that she had bid a last farewell to herold home.
When they reached Batteville and just as she was going into her newhouse, she saw something white under the door. It was a letter thatthe postman had slipped under the door while she was out. Sherecognized Paul's writing and opened it, trembling with anxiety. Hewrote:
"My Dear Mother: I have not written sooner because I did not wish youto make a useless journey to Paris when it was my place to go and seeyou. I am just now in great sorrow and in great straits. My wife isdying after giving birth to a little girl three days ago, and I havenot one sou. I do not know what to do with the child, whom myjanitor's wife is bringing up on the bottle as well as she can, but Ifear I shall lose her. Could you not take charge of it? I absolutelydo not know what to do, and I have no money to put her out to nurse.Answer by return mail.
"Your son, who loves you,
"Paul."
Jeanne sank into a chair and had scarcely strength to call Rosalie.When the maid came into the room they read the letter over togetherand then remained silent for some time, face to face.
At last Rosalie said: "I am going to fetch the little one, madame. Wecannot leave it like that."
"Go, my girl," replied Jeanne.
Then they were silent until the maid said: "Put on your hat, madame,and we will go to Goderville to see the lawyer. If she is going todie, the other one, M. Paul must marry her for the little one's sakelater on."
Jeanne, without replying, put on her hat. A deep, inexpressible joyfilled her heart, a treacherous joy that she sought to hide at anycost, one of those things of which one is ashamed, although cherishingit in one's soul--her son's sweetheart was going to die.
The lawyer gave the servant minute instructions, making her repeatthem several times. Then, sure that she could make no mistake, shesaid: "Do not be afraid. I will see to it now."
She set out for Paris that very night.
Jeanne passed two days in such a troubled condition that she could notthink. The third morning she received merely a line from Rosaliesaying she would be back on the evening train. That was all.
About three o'clock she drove in a neighbor's light wagon to thestation at Beuzeville to meet Rosalie.
She stood on the platform, looking at the railroad track as itdisappeared on the horizon. She looked at the clock. Ten minutesstill--five minutes still--two minutes more. Then the hour of thetrain's arrival, but it was not in sight. Presently, however, she sawa cloud of white smoke and gradually it drew up in the station. Shelooked anxiously and at last perceived Rosalie carrying a sort ofwhite bundle in her arms.
She wanted to go over toward her, but her knees seemed to grow weakand she was afraid of falling.
But the maid had seen her and came forward with her usual calm mannerand said: "How do you do, madame? Here I am back again, but notwithout some difficulty."
"Well?" faltered Jeanne.
"Well," answered Rosalie, "she died last night. They were married andhere is the little girl." And she held out the child, who could not beseen under her wraps.
Jeanne took it mechanically and they left the station and got into thecarriage.
"M. Paul will come as soon as the funeral is over--to-morrow aboutthis time, I believe," resumed Rosalie.
Jeanne murmured "Paul" and then was silent.
The wagon drove along rapidly, the peasant clacking his tongue to urgeon the horse. Jeanne looked straight ahead of her into the clear skythrough which the swallows darted in curves. Suddenly she felt agentle warmth striking through to her skin; it was the warmth of thelittle being who was asleep on her lap.
Then she was overcome with an intense emotion, and uncovering gentlythe face of the sleeping infant, she raised it to her lips and kissedit passionately.
But Rosalie, happy though grumpy, stopped her; "Come, come, MadameJeanne, stop that; you will make it cry."
And then she added, probably in answer to her own thoughts: "Life,after all, is not as good or as bad as we believe it to be."
He was a journeyman carpenter, a good workman and a steady fellow,twenty-seven years old, but, although the eldest son, Jacques Randelhad been forced to live on his family for two months, owing to thegeneral lack of work. He had walked about seeking work for over amonth and had left his native town, Ville-Avary, in La Manche, becausehe could find nothing to do and would no longer deprive his family ofthe bread they needed themselves, when he was the strongest of themall. His two sisters earned but little as charwomen. He went andinquired at the town hall, and the mayor's secretary told him that hewould find work at the Labor Agency, and so he started, well providedwith papers and certificates, and carrying another pair of shoes, apair of trousers and a shirt in a blue handkerchief at the end of hisstick.
And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, alonginterminable roads, in sun and rain, without ever reaching thatmysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixedidea that he must only work as a carpenter, but at every carpenter'sshop where he applied he was told that they had just dismissed men onaccount of work being so slack, and, finding himself at the end of hisresources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that he might comeacross on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy, stableman,stonecutter; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug wells,mixed mortar, tied up fagots, tended goats on a mountain, and all fora few pence, for he only obtained two or three days' work occasionallyby offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to tempt theavarice of employers and peasants.
And now for a week he had found nothing, and had no money left, andnothing to eat but a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of somewomen from whom he had begged at house doors on the road. It wasgetting dark, and Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, hisstomach empty, and with despair in his heart, was walking barefoot onthe grass by the side of the road, for he was taking care of his lastpair of shoes, as the other pair had already ceased to exist for along time. It was a Saturday, toward the end of autumn. The heavy grayclouds were being driven rapidly through the sky by the gusts of windwhich whistled among the trees, and one felt that it would rain soon.The country was deserted at that hour on the eve of Sunday. Here andthere in the fields there rose up stacks of wheat straw, like hugeyellow mushrooms, and the fields looked bare, as they had already beensown for the next year.
Randel was hungry, with the hunger of some wild animal, such a hungeras drives wolves to attack men. Worn out and weakened with fatigue, hetook longer strides, so as not to take so many steps, and with heavyhead, the blood throbbing in his temples, with red eyes and dry mouth,he grasped his stick tightly in his hand, with a longing to strike thefirst passerby who might be going home to supper.
He looked at the sides of the road, imagining he saw potatoes dug upand lying on the ground before his eyes; if he had found any he wouldhave gathered some dead wood, made a fire in the ditch and have had acapital supper off the warm, round vegetables with which he wouldfirst of all have warmed his cold hands. But it was too late in theyear, and he would have to gnaw a raw beetroot which he might pick upin a field as he had done the day before.
For the last two days he had talked to himself as he quickened hissteps under the influence of his thoughts. He had never thought muchhitherto, as he had given all his mind, all his simple faculties tohis mechanical work. But now fatigue and this desperate search forwork which he could not get, refusals and rebuffs, nights spent in theopen air lying on the grass, long fasting, the contempt which he knewpeople with a settled abode felt for a vagabond, and that questionwhich he was continually asked, "Why do you not remain at home?"distress at not being able to use his strong arms which he felt sofull of vigor, the recollection of the relations he had left at homeand who also had not a penny, filled him by degrees with rage, whichhad been accumulating every day, every hour, every minute, and whichnow escaped his lips in spite of himself in short, growling sentences.
As he stumbled over the stones which tripped his bare feet, hegrumbled: "How wretched! how miserable! A set of hogs--to let a mandie of hunger--a carpenter--a set of hogs--not two sous--not twosous--and now it is raining--a set of hogs!"
He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men,on all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, crueland perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth: "A set ofhogs" as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the roofs,for it was the dinner hour. And, without considering that there isanother injustice which is human, and which is called robbery andviolence, he felt inclined to go into one of those houses to murderthe inhabitants and to sit down to table in their stead.
He said to himself: "I have no right to live now, as they are lettingme die of hunger, and yet I only ask for work--a set of hogs!" And thepain in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head liketerrible intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in hisbrain: "I have the right to live because I breathe and because the airis the common property of everybody. So nobody has the right to leaveme without bread!"
A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down, and he stopped andmurmured: "Oh, misery! Another month of walking before I get home." Hewas indeed returning home then, for he saw that he should more easilyfind work in his native town, where he was known--and he did not mindwhat he did--than on the highroads, where everybody suspected him. Asthe carpentering business was not prosperous, he would turn daylaborer, be a mason's hodman, a ditcher, break stones on the road. Ifhe only earned a franc a day, that would at any rate buy him somethingto eat.
He tied the remains of his last pocket handkerchief round his neck toprevent the cold rain from running down his back and chest, but hesoon found that it was penetrating the thin material of which hisclothes were made, and he glanced about him with the agonized look ofa man who does not know where to hide his body and to rest his head,and has no place of shelter in the whole world.
Night came on and wrapped the country in obscurity, and in thedistance, in a meadow, he saw a dark spot on the grass; it was a cow,and so he got over the ditch by the roadside and went up to herwithout exactly knowing what he was doing. When he got close to hershe raised her great head to him, and he thought: "If I only had a jugI could get a little milk." He looked at the cow and the cow looked athim, and then, suddenly giving her a kick in the side, he said: "Getup!"
The animal got up slowly, letting her heavy udders hang down. Then theman lay down on his back between the animal's legs and drank for along time, squeezing her warm, swollen teats, which tasted of thecowstall, with both hands, and he drank as long as she gave any milk.But the icy rain began to fall more heavily, and he saw no place ofshelter on the whole of that bare plain. He was cold, and he looked ata light which was shining among the trees in the window of a house.
The cow had lain down again heavily, and he sat down by her side andstroked her head, grateful for the nourishment she had given him. Theanimal's strong, thick breath, which came out of her nostrils like twojets of steam in the evening air, blew on the workman's face, and hesaid: "You are not cold inside there!" He put his hands on her chestand under her stomach to find some warmth there, and then the ideastruck him that he might pass the night beside that large, warmanimal. So he found a comfortable place and laid his head on her side,and then, as he was worn out with fatigue, fell asleep immediately.
He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach halffrozen, according as he put one or the other against the animal'sflank. Then he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body whichhad remained exposed to the night air, and soon went soundly to sleepagain.
The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longerraining, and the sky was bright. The cow was resting with her muzzleon the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kissthose wide, moist nostrils, and said: "Good-by, my beauty, until nexttime. You are a nice animal. Good-by." Then he put on his shoes andwent off, and for two hours walked straight before him, alwaysfollowing the same road, and then he felt so tired that he sat down onthe grass. It was broad daylight by that time, and the church bellswere ringing; men in blue blouses, women in white caps, some on foot,some in carts, began to pass along the road, going to the neighboringvillages to spend Sunday with friends or relations.
A stout peasant came in sight, driving before him a score offrightened, bleating sheep, with the help of an active dog. Randel gotup, and raising his cap, said: "You do not happen to have any work fora man who is dying of hunger?" But the other, giving an angry look atthe vagabond, replied: "I have no work for fellows whom I meet on theroad."
And the carpenter went back and sat down by the side of the ditchagain. He waited there for a long time, watching the country peoplepass and looking for a kind, compassionate face before he renewed hisrequest, and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach wasadorned with a gold chain. "I have been looking for work," he said,"for the last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a sou inmy pocket." But the would-be gentleman replied: "You should have readthe notice which is stuck up at the entrance to the village: 'Beggingis prohibited within the boundaries of this parish.' Let me tell youthat I am the mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quicklyI shall have you arrested."
Randel, who was getting angry, replied: "Have me arrested if you like;I should prefer it, for, at any rate, I should not die of hunger." Andhe went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in abouta quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road. They werewalking slowly side by side, glittering in the sun with their shininghats, their yellow accoutrements and their metal buttons, as if tofrighten evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance. He knewthat they were coming after him, but he did not move, for he wasseized with a sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, andto have his revenge later.
They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking heavily, withmilitary step, and balancing themselves as if they were doing thegoose step; and then, suddenly, as they passed him, appearing to havenoticed him, they stopped and looked at him angrily and threateningly,and the brigadier came up to him and asked: "What are you doing here?""I am resting," the man replied calmly. "Where do you come from?" "IfI had to tell you all the places I have been to it would take me morethan an hour." "Where are you going to?" "To Ville-Avary." "Where isthat?" "In La Manche." "Is that where you belong?" "It is." "Why didyou leave it?" "To look for work."
The brigadier turned to his gendarme and said in the angry voice of aman who is exasperated at last by an oft-repeated trick: "They all saythat, these scamps. I know all about it." And then he continued: "Haveyou any papers?" "Yes, I have some." "Give them to me."
Randel took his papers out of his pocket, his certificates, thosepoor, worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gavethem to the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing, andthen, having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back toRandel with the dissatisfied look of a man whom some one cleverer thanhimself has tricked.
After a few moments' further reflection, he asked him: "Have you anymoney on you?" "No." "None whatever?" "None." "Not even a sou?" "Noteven a sou!" "How do you live then?" "On what people give me." "Thenyou beg?" And Randel answered resolutely: "Yes, when I can."
Then the gendarme said: "I have caught you on the highroad in the actof vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so Icommand you to come with me." The carpenter got up and said: "Whereveryou please." And, placing himself between the two soldiers, evenbefore he had received the order to do so, he added: "Well, lock meup; that will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains."
And they set off toward the village, the red tiles of which could beseen through the leafless trees, a quarter of a league off. Servicewas about to begin when they went through the village. The square wasfull of people, who immediately formed two lines to see the criminalpass. He was being followed by a crowd of excited children. Male andfemale peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, withhatred in their eyes and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear hisskin with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They askedeach other whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher,who was an ex-spahi, declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconistthought that he recognized him as the man who had that very morningpassed a bad half-franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declaredthat he was the murderer of Widow Malet, whom the police had beenlooking for for six months.
In the municipal court, into which his custodians took him, Randel sawthe mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with theschoolmaster by his side. "Aha! aha!" the magistrate exclaimed, "sohere you are again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have youlocked up. Well, brigadier, what is he charged with?"
"He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, withoutany resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act ofbegging, but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers areall in order."
"Show me his papers," the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread,returned them and then said: "Search him." So they searched him, butfound nothing, and the mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:
"What were you doing on the road this morning?" "I was looking forwork." "Work? On the highroad?" "How do you expect me to find any if Ihide in the woods?"
They looked at each other with the hatred of two wild beasts whichbelong to different hostile species, and the magistrate continued: "Iam going to have you set at liberty, but do not be brought up beforeme again." To which the carpenter replied: "I would rather you lockedme up; I have had enough running about the country." But themagistrate replied severely: "Be silent." And then he said to the twogendarmes: "You will conduct this man two hundred yards from thevillage and let him continue his journey."
"At any rate, give me something to eat," the workman said, but theother grew indignant: "Have we nothing to do but to feed you? Ah! ah!ah! that is rather too much!" But Randel went on firmly: "If you letme nearly die of hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime,and then, so much the worse for you other fat fellows."
The mayor had risen and he repeated: "Take him away immediately or Ishall end by getting angry."
The two gendarmes thereupon seized the carpenter by the arms anddragged him out. He allowed them to do it without resistance, passedthrough the village again and found himself on the highroad once more;and when the men had accompanied him two hundred yards beyond thevillage, the brigadier said: "Now off with you and do not let me catchyou about here again, for if I do, you will know it."
Randel went off without replying or knowing where he was going. Hewalked on for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, so stupefiedthat he no longer thought of anything. But suddenly, as he was passinga small house, where the window was half open, the smell of the soupand boiled meat stopped him suddenly, and hunger, fierce, devouring,maddening hunger, seized him and almost drove him against the walls ofthe house like a wild beast.
He said aloud in a grumbling voice: "In Heaven's name! they must giveme some this time!" And he began to knock at the door vigorously withhis stick, and as no one came he knocked louder and called out: "Hey!hey! you people in there, open the door!" And then, as nothingstirred, he went up to the window and pushed it wider open with hishand, and the close warm air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hotsoup, meat and cabbage, escaped into the cold outer air, and with abound the carpenter was in the house. Two places were set at thetable, and no doubt the proprietors of the house, on going to church,had left their dinner on the fire, their nice Sunday boiled beef andvegetable soup, while there was a loaf of new bread on thechimney-piece, between two bottles which seemed full.
Randel seized the bread first of all and broke it with as muchviolence as if he were strangling a man, and then he began to eatvoraciously, swallowing great mouthfuls quickly. But almostimmediately the smell of the meat attracted him to the fireplace, and,having taken off the lid of the saucepan, he plunged a fork into itand brought out a large piece of beef tied with a string. Then he tookmore cabbage, carrots and onions until his plate was full, and, havingput it on the table, he sat down before it, cut the meat into fourpieces, and dined as if he had been at home. When he had eaten nearlyall the meat, besides a quantity of vegetables, he felt thirsty andtook one of the bottles off the mantelpiece.
Scarcely had he poured the liquor into his glass when he saw it wasbrandy. So much the better; it was warming and would instill some fireinto his veins, and that would be all right, after being so cold; andhe drank some. He certainly enjoyed it, for he had grown unaccustomedto it, and he poured himself out another glassful, which he drank attwo gulps. And then almost immediately he felt quite merry andlight-hearted from the effects of the alcohol, just as if some greathappiness filled his heart.
He continued to eat, but more slowly, and dipping his bread into thesoup. His skin had become burning, and especially his forehead, wherethe veins were throbbing. But suddenly the church bells began to ring.Mass was over, and instinct rather than fear, the instinct ofprudence, which guides all beings and makes them clear-sighted indanger, made the carpenter get up. He put the remains of the loaf intoone pocket and the brandy bottle into the other, and he furtively wentto the window and looked out into the road. It was still deserted, sohe jumped out and set off walking again, but instead of following thehighroad he ran across the fields toward a wood he saw a little wayoff.
He felt alert, strong, light-hearted, glad of what he had done, and sonimble that he sprang over the enclosure of the fields at a singlebound, and as soon as he was under the trees he took the bottle out ofhis pocket again and began to drink once more, swallowing it down ashe walked, and then his ideas began to get confused, his eyes grewdim, and his legs as elastic as springs, and he started singing theold popular song:
"Oh! what joy, what joy it is,To pick the sweet, wild strawberries."
He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss, and that soft carpetunder his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heelsas he used to do when a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault,got up and began over again. And between each time he began to singagain:
"Oh! what joy, what joy it is,To pick the sweet, wild strawberries."
Suddenly he found himself above a deep road, and in the road he saw atall girl, a servant, who was returning to the village with two pailsof milk. He watched, stooping down, and with his eyes as bright asthose of a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him, raised her headand said: "Was that you singing like that?" He did not reply, however,but jumped down into the road, although it was a fall of at least sixfeet and when she saw him suddenly standing in front of her, sheexclaimed: "Oh! dear, how you frightened me!"
But he did not hear her, for he was drunk, he was mad, excited byanother requirement which was more imperative than hunger, morefeverish than alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who hasbeen deprived of everything for two months, and who is drunk; who isyoung, ardent and inflamed by all the appetites which nature hasimplanted in the vigorous flesh of men.
The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, hishalf-open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by theshoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.
She let her two pails fall, and they rolled over noisily, and all themilk was spilt, and then she screamed lustily, but it was of no availin that lonely spot.
When she got up the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filledher with fury, and, taking off one of her wooden sabots, she threw itat the man to break his head if he did not pay her for her milk.
But he, mistaking the reason of this sudden violent attack, somewhatsobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as hecould, while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in theback.
He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than hehad ever been before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcelycarry him; all his ideas were confused, he lost recollection ofeverything and could no longer think about anything, and so he satdown at the foot of a tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. Hewas soon awakened, however, by a rough shake, and, on opening hiseyes, he saw two cocked hats of shiny leather bending over him, andthe two gendarmes of the morning, who were holding him and binding hisarms.
"I knew I should catch you again," said the brigadier jeeringly. ButRandel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready toill treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now. He hadbecome a jailbird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would notlet him go again.
"Now, start!" the brigadier said, and they set off. It was lateafternoon, and the autumn twilight was setting in over the land, andin half an hour they reached the village, where every door was open,for the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant womenand girls, excited with anger, as if every man had been robbed andevery woman attacked, wished to see the wretch brought back, so thatthey might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the firsthouse in the village until they reached the Hotel de Ville, where themayor was waiting for him to be himself avenged on this vagabond, andas soon as he saw him approaching he cried:
"Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!" And he rubbed his hands, morepleased than he usually was, and continued: "I said so. I said so, themoment I saw him in the road."
And then with increased satisfaction:
"Oh, you blackguard! Oh, you dirty blackguard! You will get yourtwenty years, my fine fellow!"
"Cuts and wounds which caused death." Such was the charge upon whichLeopold Renard, upholsterer, was summoned before the Court of Assizes.
Round him were the principal witnesses, Madame Flamèche, widow of thevictim, and Louis Ladureau, cabinetmaker, and Jean Durdent, plumber.
Near the criminal was his wife, dressed in black, an ugly littlewoman, who looked like a monkey dressed as a lady.
This is how Renard (Leopold) recounted the drama:
"Good heavens, it is a misfortune of which I was the prime victim allthe time, and with which my will has nothing to do. The facts aretheir own commentary, Monsieur le Président. I am an honest man, ahard-working man, an upholsterer, living in the same street for thelast sixteen years, known, liked, respected and esteemed by all, as myneighbors can testify, even the porter's wife, who is not amiableevery day. I am fond of work, I am fond of saving, I like honest menand respectable amusements. That is what has ruined me, so much theworse for me; but as my will had nothing to do with it, I continue torespect myself.
"Every Sunday for the last five years my wife and I have spent the dayat Passy. We get fresh air, and, besides, we are fond of fishing. Oh!we are as fond of it as we are of little onions. Mélie inspired mewith that enthusiasm, the jade, and she is more enthusiastic than Iam, the scold, seeing that all the mischief in this business is herfault, as you will see immediately.
"I am strong and mild tempered, without a pennyworth of malice in me.But she! oh! la! la! she looks like nothing; she is short and thin.Very well, she does more mischief than a weasel. I do not deny thatshe has some good qualities; she has some, and very important ones fora man in business. But her character! Just ask about it in theneighborhood, and even the porter's wife, who has just sent me aboutmy business ... she will tell you something about it.
"Every day she used to find fault with my mild temper: 'I would notput up with this! I would not put up with that.' If I had listened toher, Monsieur le Président, I should have had at least threehand-to-hand fights a month...."
Madame Renard interrupted him: "And for good reasons, too; they laughbest who laugh last."
He turned toward her frankly: "Well, I can't blame you, since you werenot the cause of it."
Then, facing the President again, he said:
"I will continue. We used to go to Passy every Saturday evening, so asto begin fishing at daybreak the next morning. It is a habit which hasbecome second nature with us, as the saying is. Three years ago thissummer I discovered a place, oh! such a spot. Oh, dear, dear! In theshade, eight feet of water at least and perhaps ten, a hole withcavities under the bank, a regular nest for fish and a paradise forthe fisherman. I might look upon that fishing hole as my property,Monsieur le Président, as I was its Christopher Columbus. Everybody inthe neighborhood knew it, without making any opposition. They wouldsay: 'That is Renard's place'; and nobody would have gone there, noteven Monsieur Plumeau, who is well known, be it said without anyoffense, for poaching on other people's preserves.
"Well, I returned to this place of which I felt certain, just as if Ihad owned it. I had scarcely got there on Saturday, when I got intoDelila, with my wife.Delilais my Norwegian boat, whichI had built by Fournaire, and which is light and safe. Well, as Isaid, we got into the boat and we were going to set bait, and forsetting bait there is none to be compared with me, and they all knowit. You want to know with what I bait? I cannot answer that question;it has nothing to do with the accident. I cannot answer; that is mysecret. There are more than three hundred people who have asked me; Ihave been offered glasses of brandy and liqueur, fried fish,matelotes, to make me tell. But just go and try whether the chub willcome. Ah! they have tempted my stomach to get at my secret, my recipe.Only my wife knows, and she will not tell it any more than I will. Isnot that so, Mélie?"
The president of the court interrupted him.
"Just get to the facts as soon as you can," and the accused continued:"I am getting to them, I am getting to them. Well, on Saturday, July8, we left by the twenty-five past five train and before dinner wewent to set bait as usual. The weather promised to keep fine and Isaid to Mélie: 'All right for tomorrow.' And she replied: 'It lookslike it.' We never talk more than that together.
"And then we returned to dinner. I was happy and thirsty, and that wasthe cause of everything. I said to Mélie: 'Look here, Mélie, it isfine weather, suppose I drink a bottle ofCasque à mèche.' Thatis a weak white wine which we have christened so, because if you drinktoo much of it it prevents you from sleeping and takes the place of anightcap. Do you understand me?
"She replied: 'You can do as you please, but you will be ill again andwill not be able to get up tomorrow.' That was true, sensible andprudent, clearsighted, I must confess. Nevertheless I could notresist, and I drank my bottle. It all came from that.
"Well, I could not sleep. By Jove! it kept me awake till two o'clockin the morning, and then I went to sleep so soundly that I should nothave heard the angel sounding his trump at the last Judgment.
"In short, my wife woke me at six o'clock and I jumped out of bed,hastily put on my trousers and jersey, washed my face and jumped onboardDelila. But it was too late, for when I arrived at myhole it was already occupied! Such a thing had never happened to me inthree years, and it made me feel as if I were being robbed under myown eyes. I said to myself: 'Confound it all! confound it!' And thenmy wife began to nag at me. 'Eh! what about yourCasque àmèche?Get along, you drunkard! Are you satisfied, you greatfool?' I could say nothing, because it was all true, but I landed allthe same near the spot and tried to profit by what was left. Perhapsafter all the fellow might catch nothing and go away.
"He was a little thin man in white linen coat and waistcoat and alarge straw hat, and his wife, a fat woman, doing embroidery, satbehind him.
"When she saw us take up our position close to them she murmured: 'Arethere no other places on the river?' My wife, who was furious,replied: 'People who have any manners make inquiries about the habitsof the neighborhood before occupying reserved spots.'
"As I did not want a fuss, I said to her: 'Hold your tongue, Mélie.Let them alone, let them alone; we shall see.'
"Well, we fastenedDelilaunder the willows and had landed andwere fishing side by side, Mélie and I, close to the two others. Buthere, monsieur, I must enter into details.
"We had only been there about five minutes when our neighbor's linebegan to jerk twice, thrice, and then he pulled out a chub as thick asmy thigh; rather less, perhaps, but nearly as big! My heart beat, theperspiration stood on my forehead and Mélie said to me: 'Well, yousot, did you see that?'
"Just then Monsieur Bru, the grocer of Poissy, who is fond of gudgeonfishing, passed in a boat and called out to me: 'So somebody has takenyour usual place, Monsieur Renard?' And I replied--: 'Yes, MonsieurBru, there are some people in this world who do not know the rules ofcommon politeness.'
"The little man in linen pretended not to hear, nor his fat lump of awife, either."
Here the president interrupted him a second time: "Take care, you areinsulting the widow, Madame Flamèche, who is present."
Renard made his excuses: "I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon; myanger carried me away. Well, not a quarter of an hour had passed whenthe little man caught another chub, and another almost immediately,and another five minutes later.
"Tears were in my eyes, and I knew that Madame Renard was boiling withrage, for she kept on nagging at me: 'Oh, how horrid! Don't you seethat he is robbing you of your fish? Do you think that you will catchanything? Not even a frog, nothing whatever. Why, my hands aretingling, just to think of it.'
"But I said to myself: 'Let us wait until twelve o'clock. Then thispoacher will go to lunch and I shall get my place again. As for me,Monsieur le Président, I lunch on that spot every Sunday. We bring ourprovisions inDelila. But there! At noon the wretch produced achicken in a newspaper, and while he was eating, he actually caughtanother chub!
"Mélie and I had a morsel also, just a bite, a mere nothing, for ourheart was not in it.
"Then I took up my newspaper to aid my digestion. Every Sunday I readtheGil Blasin the shade by the side of the water. It isColumbine's day, you know; Columbine, who writes the articles intheGil Blas. I generally put Madame Renard into a rage bypretending to know this Columbine. It is not true, for I do not knowher and have never seen her, but that does not matter. She writes verywell, and then she says things that are pretty plain for a woman. Shesuits me and there are not many of her sort.
"Well, I began to tease my wife, but she got angry immediately, andvery angry, so I held my tongue. At that moment our two witnesses whoare present here, Monsieur Ladureau and Monsieur Durdent, appeared onthe other side of the river. We knew each other by sight The littleman began to fish again and he caught so many that I trembled withvexation and his wife said: 'It is an uncommonly good spot, and wewill come here always, Désiré.' As for me, a cold shiver ran down myback, and Madame Renard kept repeating: 'You are not a man; you havethe blood of a chicken in your veins'; and suddenly I said to her:'Look here, I would rather go away or I shall be doing somethingfoolish.'