He led her to Christ, the consoler, showing her how the joy ofreligion will calm all sorrow; and she knelt at the confessional,humbling herself, feeling herself small and weak in presence of thispriest, who appeared to be about fifteen.
He was, however, very soon detested in all the countryside. Inflexiblysevere toward himself, he was implacably intolerant toward others, andthe one thing that especially roused his wrath and indignation waslove. The young men and girls looked at each other slyly across thechurch, and the old peasants who liked to joke about such thingsdisapproved his severity. All the parish was in a ferment. Soon theyoung men all stopped going to church.
The curé dined at the château every Thursday, and often came duringthe week to chat with his penitent. She became enthusiastic likehimself, talked about spiritual matters, handling all the antique andcomplicated arsenal of religious controversy.
They walked together along the baroness' avenue, talking of Christ andthe apostles, the Virgin Mary and the Fathers of the Church as thoughthey were personally acquainted with them.
Julien treated the new priest with great respect, saying constantly:"That priest suits me, he does not back down." And he went toconfession and communion, setting a fine example. He now went to theFourvilles' nearly every day, gunning with the husband, who was neverhappy without him, and riding with the comtesse, in spite of rain andstorm. The comte said: "They are crazy about riding, but it does mywife good."
The baron returned to the château about the middle of November. He waschanged, aged, faded, filled with a deep sadness. And his love for hisdaughter seemed to have gained in strength, as if these few months ofdreary solitude had aggravated his need of affection, confidence andtenderness. Jeanne did not tell him about her new ideas, and herfriendship for the Abbé Tolbiac. The first time he saw the priest heconceived a great aversion to him. And when Jeanne asked him thatevening how he liked him, he replied: "That man is an inquisitor! Hemust be very dangerous."
When he learned from the peasants, whose friend he was, of theharshness and violence of the young priest, of the kind of persecutionwhich he carried on against all human and natural instincts, hedeveloped a hatred toward him. He, himself, was one of the old race ofnatural philosophers who bowed the knee to a sort of pantheisticDivinity, and shrank from the catholic conception of a God withbourgeois instincts, Jesuitical wrath, and tyrannical revenge. To himreproduction was the great law of nature, and he began from farm tofarm an ardent campaign against this intolerant priest, the persecutorof life.
Jeanne, very much worried, prayed to the Lord, entreated her father;but he always replied: "We must fight such men as that, it is our dutyand our right. They are not human."
And he repeated, shaking his long white locks: "They are not human;they understand nothing, nothing, nothing. They are moving in a morbiddream; they are anti-physical." And he pronounced the word"anti-physical" as though it were a malediction.
The priest knew who his enemy was, but as he wished to remain ruler ofthe château and of Jeanne, he temporized, sure of final victory. Hewas also haunted by a fixed idea. He had discovered by chance theamours of Julien and Gilberte, and he desired to put a stop to them atall costs.
He came to see Jeanne one day and, after a long conversation onspiritual matters, he asked her to give her aid in helping him tofight, to put an end to the evil in her own family, in order to savetwo souls that were in danger.
She did not understand, and did not wish to know. He replied: "Thehour has not arrived. I shall see you some other time." And he leftabruptly.
The winter was coming to a close, a rotten winter, as they say in thecountry, damp and mild. The abbé called again some days later andhinted mysteriously at one of those shameless intrigues betweenpersons whose conduct should be irreproachable. It was the duty, hesaid, of those who were aware of the facts to use every means to bringit to an end. He took Jeanne's hand and adjured her to open her eyesand understand and lend him her aid.
This time she understood, but she was silent, terrified at the thoughtof all that might result in the house that was now peaceful, and shepretended not to understand. Then he spoke out clearly.
She faltered: "What do you wish me to do, Monsieur l'Abbé?"
"Anything, rather than permit this infamy. Anything, I say. Leave him.Flee from this impure house!"
"But I have no money; and then I have no longer any courage; and,besides, how can I go without any proof? I have not the right to doso."
The priest arose trembling: "That is cowardice, madame; I am mistakenin you. You are unworthy of God's mercy!"
She fell on her knees: "Oh, I pray you not to leave me, tell me whatto do!"
"Open M. de Fourville's eyes," he said abruptly. "It is his place tobreak up this intrigue."
This idea filled her with terror. "Why, he would kill them, Monsieurl'Abbé! And I should be guilty of denouncing them! Oh, never that,never!"
He raised his hand as if to curse her in his fury: "Remain in yourshame and your crime; for you are more guilty than they are. You arethe complaisant wife! There is nothing more for me to do here." And hewent off so furious that he trembled all over.
She followed him, distracted and ready to do as he suggested. But hestrode along rapidly, shaking his large blue umbrella in his rage. Heperceived Julien standing outside the gate superintending the loppingof the trees, so he turned to the left to go across the Couillardfarm, and he said: "Leave me alone, madame, I have nothing further tosay to you."
Jeanne was entreating him to give her a few days for reflection, andthen if he came back to the château she would tell him what she haddone, and they could take counsel together.
Right in his road, in the middle of the farmyard, a group of children,those of the house and some neighbor's children, were standing aroundthe kennel of Mirza, the dog, looking curiously at something withsilent and concentrated attention. In the midst of them stood thebaron, his hands behind his back, also looking on with curiosity. Onewould have taken him for a schoolmaster. When he saw the priestapproaching, he moved away so as not to have to meet him and speak tohim.
The priest did not call again; but the following Sunday from thepulpit he hurled imprecations, curses and threats against the château,anathematizing the baron, and making veiled allusions, but timidly, toJulien's latest intrigue. The vicomte was furious, but the dread of ashocking scandal kept him silent. At each service thereafter thepriest declared his indignation, predicting the approach of the hourwhen God would smite all his enemies.
Julien wrote a firm, but respectful letter to the archbishop; the abbéwas threatened with suspension. He was silent thereafter.
Gilberte and Julien now frequently met him during their rides readinghis breviary, but they turned aside so as not to pass him by. Springhad come and reawakened their love. As the foliage was still sparseand the grass damp, they used to meet in a shepherd's movable hut thathad been deserted since autumn. But one day when they were leaving it,they saw the Abbé Tolbiac, almost hidden in the sea rushes on theslope.
"We must leave our horses in the ravine," said Julien, "as they can beseen from a distance and would betray us." One evening as they werecoming home together to La Vrillette, where they were to dine with thecomte, they met the curé of Étouvent coming out of the château. Hestepped to the side of the road to let them pass, and bowed withouttheir eyes meeting. They were uneasy for a few moments, but soonforgot it.
One afternoon, Jeanne was reading beside the fire while a storm ofwind was raging outside, when she suddenly perceived Comte Fourvillecoming on foot at such a pace that she thought some misfortune hadhappened.
She ran downstairs to meet him, and when she saw him she thought hemust be crazy. He wore a large quilted cap that he wore only at home,his hunting jacket, and looked so pale that his red mustache, usuallythe color of his skin, now seemed like a flame. His eyes were haggard,rolling as though his mind were vacant.
He stammered: "My wife is here, is she not?" Jeanne, losing herpresence of mind, replied: "Why, no, I have not seen her to-day."
He sat down as if his legs had given way. He then took off his cap andwiped his forehead with his handkerchief mechanically several times.Then starting up suddenly, he approached Jeanne, his hands stretchedout, his mouth open, as if to speak, to confide some great sorrow toher. Then he stopped, looked at her fixedly and said as though he werewandering: "But it is your husband--you also----" And he fled, goingtoward the sea.
Jeanne ran after him, calling him, imploring him to stop, her heartbeating with apprehension as she thought: "He knows all! What will hedo? Oh, if he only does not find them!"
But she could not come up to him, and he disregarded her appeals. Hewent straight ahead without hesitation, straight to his goal. Hecrossed the ditch, then, stalking through the sea rushes like a giant,he reached the cliff.
Jeanne, standing on the mound covered with trees, followed him withher eyes until he was out of sight. Then she went into the house,distracted with grief.
He had turned to the right and started to run. Threatening wavesoverspread the sea, big black clouds were scudding along madly,passing on and followed by others, each of them coming down in afurious downpour. The wind whistled, moaned, laid the grass and theyoung crops low and carried away big white birds that looked likespecks of foam and bore them far into the land.
The hail which followed beat in the comte's face, filling his earswith noise and his heart with tumult.
Down yonder before him was the deep gorge of the Val de Vaucotte.There was nothing before him but a shepherd's hut beside a desertedsheep pasture. Two horses were tied to the shafts of the hut onwheels. What might not happen to one in such a tempest as this?
As soon as he saw them the comte crouched on the ground and crawledalong on his hands and knees as far as the lonely hut and hid himselfbeneath the hut that he might not be seen through the cracks. Thehorses on seeing him became restive. He slowly cut their reins withthe knife which he held open in his hand, and a sudden squall comingup, the animals fled, frightened at the hail which rattled on thesloping roof of the wooden hut and made it shake on its wheels.
The comte then kneeling upright, put his eye to the bottom of the doorand looked inside. He did not stir; he seemed to be waiting.
A little time elapsed and then he suddenly rose to his feet, coveredwith mud from head to foot. He frantically pushed back the bolt whichclosed the hut on the outside, and seizing the shafts, he began toshake the hut as though he would break it to pieces. Then all at oncehe got between the shafts, bending his huge frame, and with adesperate effort dragged it along like an ox, panting as he went. Hedragged it, with whoever was in it, toward the steep incline.
Those inside screamed and banged with their fists on the door, notunderstanding what was going on.
When he reached the top of the cliff he let go the fragile dwelling,which began to roll down the incline, going ever faster and faster,plunging, stumbling like an animal and striking the ground with itsshafts.
An old beggar hidden in a ditch saw it flying over his head and heardfrightful screams coming from the wooden box.
All at once a wheel was wrenched off and it fell on its side and beganto roll like a ball, as a house torn from its foundations might rollfrom the summit of a mountain. Then, reaching the ledge of the lastravine, it described a circle, and, falling to the bottom, burst openas an egg might do. It was no sooner smashed on the stones than theold beggar, who had seen it going past, went down toward it slowlyamid the rushes, and with the customary caution of a peasant, notdaring to go directly to the shattered hut, he went to the nearestfarm to tell of the accident.
They all ran to look at it and raised the wreck of the hut. They foundtwo bodies, bruised, crushed and bleeding. The man's forehead wassplit open and his whole face crushed; the woman's jaw was hanging,dislocated in one of the jolts, and their shattered limbs were soft aspulp.
"What were they doing in that shanty?" said a woman.
The old beggar then said that they had apparently taken refuge in itto get out of the storm and that a furious squall must have blown thehut over the cliff. He said he had intended to take shelter therehimself, when he saw the horses tied to it, and understood that someone else must be inside. "But for that," he added in a satisfied tone,"I might have rolled down in it." Some one remarked: "Would not thathave been a good thing?"
The old man, in a furious rage, said: "Why would it have been a goodthing? Because I am poor and they are rich! Look at them now." Andtrembling, ragged and dripping with rain, he pointed to the two deadbodies with his hooked stick and exclaimed: "We are all alike when weget to this."
The comte, as soon as he saw the hut rolling down the steep slope, ranoff at full speed through the blinding storm. He ran in this way forseveral hours, taking short cuts, leaping across ditches, breakingthrough the hedges, and thus got back home at dusk, not knowing howhimself.
The frightened servants were awaiting his return and told him that thetwo horses had returned riderless some little time before, that ofJulien following the other one.
Then M. de Fourville reeled and in a choked voice said: "Somethingmust have happened to them in this dreadful weather. Let every onehelp to look for them."
He started off himself, but he was no sooner out of sight than heconcealed himself in a clump of bushes, watching the road along whichshe whom he even still loved with an almost savage passion was toreturn dead, dying or maybe crippled and disfigured forever.
And soon a carriole passed by carrying a strange burden.
It stopped at the château and passed through the gate. It was that, itwas she. But a fearful anguish nailed him to the spot, a fear to knowthe worst, a dread of the truth, and he did not stir, hiding as ahare, starting at the least sound.
He waited thus an hour, two hours perhaps. The buggy did not come out.He concluded that his wife was expiring, and the thought of seeingher, of meeting her gaze filled him with so much horror that hesuddenly feared to be discovered in his hiding place and of beingcompelled to return and be present at this agony, and he then fledinto the thick of the wood. Then all of a sudden it occurred to himthat she perhaps might be needing his care, that no one probably couldproperly attend to her. Then he returned on his tracks, runningbreathlessly.
On entering the château he met the gardener and called out to him,"Well?" The man did not dare answer him. Then M. de Fourville almostroared at him: "Is she dead?" and the servant stammered: "Yes, M. leComte."
He experienced a feeling of immense relief. His blood seemed to cooland his nerves relax somewhat of their extreme tension, and he walkedfirmly up the steps of his great hallway.
The other wagon had reached "The Poplars." Jeanne saw it from afar.She descried the mattress; she guessed that a human form was lyingupon it, and understood all. Her emotion was so vivid that she swoonedand fell prostrate.
When she regained consciousness her father was holding her head andbathing her temples with vinegar. He said hesitatingly: "Do you know?"She murmured: "Yes, father." But when she attempted to rise she foundherself unable to do so, so intense was her agony.
That very night she gave birth to a stillborn infant, a girl.
Jeanne saw nothing of the funeral of Julien; she knew nothing of it.She merely noticed at the end of a day or two that Aunt Lison wasback, and in her feverish dreams which haunted her she persistentlysought to recall when the old maiden lady had left "The Poplars," atwhat period and under what circumstances. She could not make this out,even in her lucid moments, but she was certain of having seen hersubsequent to the death of "little mother."
Jeanne did not leave her room for three months and was so wan and palethat no one thought she would recover. But she picked up by degrees.Little father and Aunt Lison never left her; they had both taken uptheir abode at "The Poplars." The shock of Julien's death had left herwith a nervous malady. The slightest sound made her faint and she hadlong swoons from the most insignificant causes.
She had never asked the details of Julien's death. What did it matterto her? Did she not know enough already? Every one thought it was anaccident, but she knew better, and she kept to herself this secretwhich tortured her: the knowledge of his infidelity and theremembrance of the abrupt and terrible visit of the comte on the dayof the catastrophe.
And now she was filled with tender, sweet and melancholy recollectionsof the brief evidences of love shown her by her husband. Sheconstantly thrilled at unexpected memories of him, and she seemed tosee him as he was when they were betrothed and as she had known him inthe hours passed beneath the sunlight in Corsica. All his faultsdiminished, all his harshness vanished, his very infidelities appearedless glaring in the widening separation of the closed tomb. AndJeanne, pervaded by a sort of posthumous gratitude for this man whohad held her in his arms, forgave all the suffering he had caused her,to remember only moments of happiness they had passed together. Then,as time went on and month followed month, covering all her grief andreminiscences with forgetfulness, she devoted herself entirely to herson.
He became the idol, the one thought of the three beings who surroundedhim, and he ruled as a despot. A kind of jealousy even arose among hisslaves. Jeanne watched with anxiety the great kisses he gave hisgrandfather after a ride on his knee, and Aunt Lison, neglected by himas she had been by every one else and treated often like a servant bythis little tyrant who could scarcely speak as yet, would go to herroom and weep as she compared the slight affection he showed her withthe kisses he gave his mother and the baron.
Two years passed quietly, and at the beginning of the third winter itwas decided that they should go to Rouen to live until spring, and thewhole family set out. But on their arrival in the old damp house, thathad been shut up for some time, Paul had such a severe attack ofbronchitis that his three relatives in despair declared that he couldnot do without the air of "The Poplars." They took him back there andhe got well.
Then began a series of quiet, monotonous years. Always around thelittle one, they went into raptures at everything he did. His mothercalled him Poulet, and as he could not pronounce the word, he said"Pol," which amused them immensely, and the nickname of "Poulet" stuckto him.
The favorite occupation of his "three mothers," as the baron calledhis relatives, was to see how much he had grown, and for this purposethey made little notches in the casing of the drawing-room door,showing his progress from month to month. This ladder was called"Poulet's ladder," and was an important affair.
A new individual began to play a part in the affairs of thehousehold--the dog "Massacre," who became Paul's inseparablecompanion.
Rare visits were exchanged with the Brisevilles and the Couteliers.The mayor and the doctor alone were regular visitors. Since theepisode of the mother dog and the suspicion Jeanne had entertained ofthe priest on the occasion of the terrible death of the comtesse andJulien, Jeanne had not entered the church, angry with a divinity thatcould tolerate such ministers.
The church was deserted and the priest came to be looked on as asorcerer because he had, so they said, driven out an evil spirit froma woman who was possessed, and although fearing him the peasants cameto respect him for this occult power as well as for the unimpeachableausterity of his life.
When he met Jeanne he never spoke. This condition of affairsdistressed Aunt Lison, and when she was alone, quite alone with Paul,she talked to him about God, telling him the wonderful stories of theearly history of the world. But when she told him that he must loveHim very much, the child would say: "Where is He, auntie?" "Up there,"she would say, pointing to the sky; "up there, Poulet, but do not sayso." She was afraid of the baron.
One day, however, Poulet said to her: "God is everywhere, but He isnot in church." He had told his grandfather of his aunt's wonderfulrevelations.
When Paul was twelve years old a great difficulty arose on the subjectof his first communion.
Lison came to Jeanne one morning and told her that the little fellowshould no longer be kept without religious instruction and from hisreligious duties. His mother, troubled and undecided, hesitated,saying that there was time enough. But a month later, as she wasreturning a call at the Brisevilles', the comtesse asked her casuallyif Paul was going to make his first communion that year. Jeanne,unprepared for this, answered, "Yes," and this simple word decidedher, and without saying a word to her father, she asked Aunt Lison totake the boy to the catechism class.
All went well for a month, but one day Paul came home with ahoarseness and the following day he coughed. On inquiry his motherlearned that the priest had sent him to wait till the lesson was overat the door of the church, where there was a draught, because he hadmisbehaved. So she kept him at home and taught him herself. But theAbbé Tobiac, despite Aunt Lison's entreaties, refused to admit him asa communicant on the ground that he was not thoroughly taught.
The same thing occurred the following year, and the baron angrilyswore that the child did not need to believe all that tomfoolery, soit was decided that he should be brought up as a Christian, but not asan active Catholic, and when he came of age he could believe as hepleased.
The Brisevilles ceased to call on her and Jeanne was surprised,knowing the punctiliousness of these neighbors in returning calls, butthe Marquise de Coutelier haughtily told her the reason. Consideringherself, in virtue of her husband's rank and fortune, a sort of queenof the Norman nobility, the marquise ruled as a queen, said what shethought, was gracious or the reverse as occasion demanded,admonishing, restoring to favor, congratulating whenever she saw fit.So when Jeanne came to see her, this lady, after a few chillingremarks, said drily: "Society is divided into two classes: those whobelieve in God and those who do not believe in Him. The former, eventhe humblest, are our friends, our equals; the latter are nothing tous."
Jeanne, perceiving the insinuation, replied: "But may one not believein God without going to church?"
"No, madame," answered the marquise. "The faithful go to worship Godin His church, just as one goes to see people in their homes."
Jeanne, hurt, replied: "God is everywhere, madame. As for me, whobelieves from the bottom of my heart in His goodness, I no longer feelHis presence when certain priests come between Him and me."
The marquise rose. "The priest is the standard bearer of the Church,madame. Whoever does not follow the standard is opposed to Him andopposed to us."
Jeanne had risen in her turn and said, trembling: "You believe,madame, in a partisan God. I believe in the God of upright people."She bowed and took her leave.
The peasants also blamed her among themselves for not having letPoulet make his first communion. They themselves never attendedservice or took the sacrament unless it might be at Easter, accordingto the rule ordained by the Church; but for boys it was quite anotherthing, and they would have all shrunk in horror at the audacity ofbringing up a child outside this recognized law, for religion isreligion.
She saw how they felt and was indignant at heart at all thesediscriminations, all these compromises with conscience, this generalfear of everything, the real cowardice of all hearts and the mask ofrespectability assumed in public.
The baron took charge of Paul's studies and made him study Latin, hismother merely saying: "Above all things, do not get over tired."
As soon as the boy was at liberty he went down to work in the gardenwith his mother and his aunt.
He now loved to dig in the ground, and all three planted young treesin the spring, sowed seed and watched it growing with the deepestinterest, pruned branches and cut flowers for bouquets.
Poulet was almost fifteen, but was a mere child in intelligence,ignorant, silly, suppressed between petticoat government and this kindold man who belonged to another century.
One evening the baron spoke of college, and Jeanne at once began tosob. Aunt Lison timidly remained in a dark corner.
"Why does he need to know so much?" asked his mother. "We will make agentleman farmer of him. He can cultivate his land, as many of thenobility do. He will live and grow old happily in this house, where wehave lived before him and where we shall die. What more can one do?"
But the baron shook his head. "What would you say to him if he shouldsay to you when he is twenty-five: 'I amount to nothing, I knownothing, all through your fault, the fault of your maternalselfishness. I feel that I am incapable of working, of makingsomething of myself, and yet I was not intended for a secluded, simplelife, lonely enough to kill one, to which I have been condemned byyour shortsighted affection.'"
She was weeping and said entreatingly: "Tell me, Poulet, you will notreproach me for having loved you too well?" And the big boy, insurprise, promised that he never would. "Swear it," she said. "Yes,mamma." "You want to stay here, don't you?" "Yes, mamma."
Then the baron spoke up loud and decidedly: "Jeanne, you have no rightto make disposition of this life. What you are doing is cowardly andalmost criminal; you are sacrificing your child to your own privatehappiness."
She hid her face in her hands, sobbing convulsively, and stammered outamid her tears: "I have been so unhappy--so unhappy! Now, just as I amliving peacefully with him, they want to take him away from me. Whatwill become of me now--all by myself?" Her father rose and, sittingdown beside her, put his arms round her. "And how about me, Jeanne?"
She put her arms suddenly round his neck, gave him a hearty kiss andwith her voice full of tears, she said: "Yes, you are right perhaps,little father. I was foolish, but I have suffered so much. I am quitewilling he should go to college."
And without knowing exactly what they were going to do with him,Poulet in his turn began to weep.
Then the three mothers began to kiss him and pet him and encouragehim. When they retired to their rooms it was with a weight at theirhearts, and they all wept, even the baron, who had restrained himselfup to that.
It was decided that when the term began to put the young boy to schoolat Havre, and during the summer he was petted more than ever; hismother sighed often as she thought of the separation. She prepared hiswardrobe as if he were going to undertake a ten years' voyage. OneOctober morning, after a sleepless night, the two women and the barongot into the carriage with him and set out on their journey.
They had previously selected his place in the dormitory and his deskin the school room. Jeanne, aided by Aunt Lison, spent the whole dayin arranging his clothes in his little wardrobe. As it did not hold aquarter of what they had brought, she went to look for thesuperintendent to ask for another. The treasurer was called, but hepointed out that all that amount of clothing would only be in the wayand would never be needed, and he refused, on behalf of the directors,to let her have another chest of drawers. Jeanne, much annoyed,decided to hire a room in a small neighboring hotel, begging theproprietor to go himself and take Poulet whatever he required as soonas the boy asked for it.
They then took a walk on the pier to look at the ships coming andgoing. They went into a restaurant to dine, but they were none of themable to eat, and looked at one another with moistened eyes as thedishes were brought on and taken away almost untouched.
They now returned slowly toward the school. Boys of all ages werearriving from all quarters, accompanied by their families or byservants. Many of them were crying.
Jeanne held Poulet in a long embrace, while Aunt Lison remained in thebackground, her face hidden in her handkerchief. The baron, however,who was becoming affected, cut short the adieus by dragging hisdaughter away. They got into the carriage and went back through thedarkness to "The Poplars," the silence being broken by an occasionalsob.
Jeanne wept all the following day and on the day after drove to Havrein the phaeton. Poulet seemed to have become reconciled to theseparation. For the first time in his life he now had playmates, andin his anxiety to join them he could scarcely sit still on his chairwhen his mother called. She continued her visits to him every otherday and called to take him home on Sundays. Not knowing what to dowith herself while school was in session until recreation time, shewould remain sitting in the reception room, not having the strength orthe courage to go very far from the school. The superintendent sent toask her to come to his office and begged her not to come sofrequently. She paid no attention to his request. He thereforeinformed her that if she continued to prevent her son from taking hisrecreation at the usual hours, obliging him to work without a changeof occupation, they would be forced to send him back home again, andthe baron was also notified to the same effect. She was consequentlywatched like a prisoner at "The Poplars."
She became restless and worried and would ramble about for whole daysin the country, accompanied only by Massacre, dreaming as she walkedalong. Sometimes she would remain seated for a whole afternoon,looking out at the sea from the top of the cliff; at other times shewould go down to Yport through the wood, going over the ground of herformer walks, the memory of which haunted her. How long ago--how longago it was--the time when she had gone over these same paths as ayoung girl, carried away by her dreams.
Poulet was not very industrious at school; he was kept two years inthe fourth form. The third year's work was only tolerable and he hadto begin the second over again, so that he was in rhetoric when he wastwenty.
He was now a big, fair young man, with downy whiskers and a faint signof a mustache. He now came home to "The Poplars" every Sunday, ridingover in a couple of hours, his mother, Aunt Lison and the baronstarting out early to go and meet him.
Although he was a head taller than his mother, she always treated himas though he were a child, and when he returned to school in theevening she would charge him anxiously not to go too fast and to thinkof his poor mother, who would break her heart if anything happened tohim.
One Saturday morning she received a letter from Paul, saying that hewould not be home on the following day because some friends hadarranged an excursion and had invited him. She was tormented withanxiety all day Sunday, as though she dreaded some misfortune, and onThursday, as she could endure it no longer, she set out for Havre.
He seemed to be changed, though she could not have told in whatmanner. He appeared excited and his voice seemed deeper. And suddenly,as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he said: "Isay, mother, as long as you have come to-day, I want to tell you thatI will not be at 'The Poplars' next Sunday, for we are going to haveanother excursion."
She was amazed, smothering, as if he had announced his departure forAmerica. At last, recovering herself, she said: "Oh, Poulet, what isthe matter with you? Tell me what is going on."
He began to laugh, and kissing her, replied: "Why, nothing, nothing,mamma. I am going to have a good time with my friends; I am just atthat age."
She had nothing to say, but when she was alone in the carriage allmanner of ideas came into her mind. She no longer recognized him, herPoulet, her little Poulet of former days. She felt for the first timethat he was grown up, that he no longer belonged to her, that he wasgoing to live his life without troubling himself about the old people.It seemed to her that one day had wrought this change in him. Was itpossible that this was her son, her poor little boy who had helped herto replant the lettuce, this great big bearded youth who had a will ofhis own!
For three months Paul came home only occasionally, and always seemedimpatient to get away again, trying to steal off an hour earlier eachevening. Jeanne was alarmed, but the baron consoled her, saying: "Lethim alone; the boy is twenty years old."
One morning, however, an old man, poorly dressed, inquired inGerman-French for "Madame la Vicomtesse," and after many ceremoniousbows, he drew from his pocket a dilapidated pocketbook, saying: "Che unbetit bapier bour fous," and unfolding as he handed it to her a pieceof greasy paper. She read and reread it, looked at the Jew, read itover again and asked: "What does it mean?"
He obsequiously explained: "I will tell you. Your son needed a littlemoney, and as I knew that you are a good mother, I lent him a trifleto help him out."
Jeanne was trembling. "But why did he not ask me?" The Jew explainedat length that it was a question of a debt that must be paid beforenoon the following day; that Paul not being of age, no one would havelent him anything, and that his "honor would have been compromised"without this little service that he had rendered the young man.
Jeanne tried to call the baron, but had not the strength to rise, shewas so overcome by emotion. At length she said to the usurer: "Wouldyou have the kindness to ring the bell?"
He hesitated, fearing some trap, and then stammered out: "If I amintruding, I will call again." She shook her head in the negative. Hethen rang, and they waited in silence, sitting opposite each other.
When the baron came in he understood the situation at once. The notewas for fifteen hundred francs. He paid one thousand, saying close tothe man's face: "And on no account come back." The other thanked himand went his way.
The baron and Jeanne set out at once for Havre. On reaching thecollege they learned that Paul had not been there for a month. Theprincipal had received four letters signed by Jeanne saying that hispupil was not well and then to tell how he was getting along. Eachletter was accompanied by a doctor's certificate. They were, ofcourse, all forged. They were all dumbfounded, and stood there lookingat each other.
The principal, very much worried, took them to the commissary ofpolice. Jeanne and her father stayed at a hotel that night. Thefollowing day the young man was found in the apartment of a courtesanof the town. His grandfather and mother took him back to "The Poplars"and not a word was exchanged between them during the whole journey.
A week later they discovered that he had contracted fifteen thousandfrancs' worth of debts within the last three months. His creditors hadnot come forward at first, knowing that he would soon be of age.
They entered into no discussion about it, hoping to win him back bygentleness. They gave him dainty food, petted him, spoiled him. It wasspring and they hired a boat for him at Yport, in spite of Jeanne'sfears, so that he might amuse himself on the water.
They would not let him have a horse, for fear he should ride to Havre.
He was there with nothing to do and became irritable and occasionallybrutally so. The baron was worried at the discontinuance of hisstudies. Jeanne, distracted at the idea of a separation, asked herselfwhat they could do with him.
One evening he did not come home. They learned that he had gone out ina boat with two sailors. His mother, beside herself with anxiety, wentdown to Yport without a hat in the dark. Some men were on the beach,waiting for the boat to come in. There was a light on board anincoming boat, but Paul was not on board. He had made them take him toHavre.
The police sought him in vain; he could not be found. The woman withwhom he had been found the first time had also disappeared withoutleaving any trace; her furniture was sold and her rent paid. In Paul'sroom at "The Poplars" were found two letters from this person, whoseemed to be madly in love with him. She spoke of a voyage to England,having, she said, obtained the necessary funds.
The three dwellers in the château lived silently and drearily, theirminds tortured by all kinds of suppositions. Jeanne's hair, which hadbecome gray, now turned perfectly white. She asked in her innocencewhy fate had thus afflicted her.
She received a letter from the Abbé Tolbiac: "Madame, the hand of Godis weighing heavily on you. You refused Him your child; He took himfrom you in His turn to cast him into the hands of a prostitute. Willnot you open your eyes at this lesson from Heaven? God's mercy isinfinite. Perhaps He may pardon you if you return and fall on yourknees before Him. I am His humble servant. I will open to you the doorof His dwelling when you come and knock at it."
She sat a long time with this letter on her lap. Perhaps it was truewhat the priest said. And all her religious doubts began to tormenther conscience. And in her cowardly hesitation, which drives to churchthe doubting, the sorrowful, she went furtively one evening attwilight to the parsonage, and kneeling at the feet of the thin abbé,begged for absolution.
He promised her a conditional pardon, as God could not pour down allHis favors on a roof that sheltered a man like the baron. "You willsoon feel the effects of the divine mercy," he declared.
Two days later she did, indeed, receive a letter from her son, and inher discouragement and grief she looked upon this as the commencementof the consolation promised her by the abbé. The letter ran:
"My Dear Mamma: Do not be uneasy. I am in London, in good health, invery great need of money. We have not a sou left, and we do not haveanything to eat some days. The one who is with me, and whom I lovewith all my heart, has spent all that she had so as not to leaveme--five thousand francs--and you see that I am bound in honor toreturn her this sum in the first place. So I wish you would be kindenough to advance me fifteen thousand francs of papa's fortune, for Ishall soon be of age. This will help me out of very seriousdifficulties.
"Good-by, my dear mamma. I embrace you with all my heart, and alsograndfather and Aunt Lison. I hope to see you soon.
"Your son,
"Vicomte Paul de Lamare."
He had written to her! He had not forgotten her then. She did not careanything about his asking for money! She would send him some as longas he had none. What did money matter? He had written to her! And sheran, weeping for joy, to show this letter to the baron. Aunt Lison wascalled and read over word by word this paper that told of him. Theydiscussed each sentence.
Jeanne, jumping from the most complete despair to a kind ofintoxication of hope, took Paul's part. "He will come back, he willcome back as he has written."
The baron, more calm, said: "All the same he left us for thatcreature, so he must love her better than us, as he did not hesitateabout it."
A sudden and frightful pang struck Jeanne's heart, and immediately shewas filled with hatred of this woman who had stolen her son from her,an unappeasable, savage hate, the hatred of a jealous mother. Untilnow all her thoughts had been given to Paul. She scarcely took intoconsideration that a girl had been the cause of his vagaries. But thebaron's words had suddenly brought before her this rival, had revealedher fatal power, and she felt that between herself and this woman astruggle was about to begin, and she also felt that she would ratherlose her son than share his affection with another. And all her joywas at an end.
They sent him the fifteen thousand francs and heard nothing more fromhim for five months.
Then a business man came to settle the details of Julien'sinheritance. Jeanne and the baron handed over the accounts without anydiscussion, even giving up the interest that should come to hismother. When Paul came back to Paris he had a hundred and twentythousand francs. He then wrote four letters in six months, giving hisnews in concise terms and ending the letters with coldly affectionateexpressions. "I am working," he said; "I have obtained a position onthe stock exchange. I hope to go and embrace you at 'The Poplars' someday, my dear parents."
He did not mention his companion, and this silence implied more thanif he had filled four pages with news of her. Jeanne, in these coldletters, felt this woman in ambush, the implacable, eternal enemy ofmothers, the courtesan.
The three lonely beings discussed the best plan to follow in order torescue Paul, but could decide on nothing. A voyage to Paris? What goodwould it do?
"Let his passion exhaust itself. He will come back then of his ownaccord," said the baron.
Some time passed without any further news. But one morning they wereterrified at the receipt of a despairing letter:
"My Poor Mamma: I am lost. There is nothing left for me to do but toblow out my brains unless you come to my aid. A speculation that gaveevery prospect of success has fallen through, and I am eighty-fivethousand dollars in debt. I shall be dishonored if I do not payup--ruined--and it will henceforth be impossible for me to doanything. I am lost. I repeat that I would rather blow out my brainsthan undergo this disgrace. I should have done so already, probably,but for the encouragement of a woman of whom I never speak to you,and who is my providence.
"I embrace you from the bottom of my heart, my dear mamma--perhaps forthe last time. Good-by.
"Paul."
A package of business papers accompanying the letter gave the detailsof the failure.
The baron answered by return mail that they would see what could bedone. Then he set out for Havre to get advice and he mortgaged someproperty to raise the money which was sent to Paul.
The young man wrote three letters full of the most heartfelt thanksand passionate affection, saying he was coming home at once to see hisdear parents.
But he did not come.
A whole year passed. Jeanne and the baron were about to set out forParis to try and make a last effort, when they received a line to saythat he was in London again, setting an enterprise on foot inconnection with steamboats under the name of "Paul de Lamare & Co." Hewrote: "This will give me an assured fortune, and perhaps greatwealth, and I am risking nothing. You can see at once what a splendidthing it is. When I see you again I shall have a fine position insociety. There is nothing but business these days to help you out ofdifficulties."
Three months later the steamboat company failed and the manager wasbeing sought for on account of certain irregularities in businessmethods. Jeanne had a nervous attack that lasted several hours andthen she took to her bed.
The baron again went to Havre to make inquiries, saw some lawyers,some business men, some solicitors and bailiffs and found that theliabilities of the De Lamare concern were two hundred and thirty-fivethousand francs, and he once more mortgaged some property. The châteauof "The Poplars" and the two farms and all that went with them weremortgaged for a large sum.
One evening as he was arranging the final details in the office of abusiness man, he fell over on the floor with a stroke of apoplexy.
A man was sent on horseback to notify Jeanne, but when she arrived hewas dead.
She took his body back to "The Poplars," so overcome that her griefwas numbness rather than despair.
Abbé Tolbiac refused to permit the body to be brought to the church,despite the distracted entreaties of the two women. The baron wasinterred at twilight without any religious ceremony.
Paul learned of the event through one of the men who was settling uphis affairs. He was still in hiding in England. He wrote to makeexcuses for not having come home, saying that he had learned of hisgrandfather's death too late. "However, now that you have helped meout of my difficulties, my dear mamma, I shall go back to France andhope to embrace you soon."
Jeanne was so crushed in spirit that she appeared not to understandanything. Toward the end of the winter Aunt Lison, who was nowsixty-eight, had an attack of bronchitis that developed into pneumonia,and she died quietly, murmuring with her last breath: "My poorlittle Jeanne, I will ask God to take pity on you."
Jeanne followed her to the grave, and as the earth fell on her coffinshe sank to the ground, wishing that she might die also, so as not tosuffer, to think. A strong peasant woman lifted her up and carried heraway as if she had been a child.
When she reached the château Jeanne, who had spent the last fivenights at Aunt Lison's bedside, allowed herself to be put to bedwithout resistance by this unknown peasant woman, who handled her withgentleness and firmness, and she fell asleep from exhaustion, overcomewith weariness and suffering.
She awoke about the middle of the night. A night light was burning onthe mantelpiece. A woman was asleep in her easy chair. Who was thiswoman? She did not recognize her, and leaning over the edge of herbed, she sought to examine her features by the dim light of the wickfloating in oil in a tumbler of water.
It seemed to her that she had seen this face. But when, but where? Thewoman was sleeping peacefully, her head to one side and her cap on thefloor. She might be about forty or forty-five. She was stout, with ahigh color, squarely built and powerful. Her large hands hung down ateither side of the chair. Her hair was turning gray. Jeanne looked ather fixedly, her mind in the disturbed condition of one awaking from afeverish sleep after a great sorrow.
She had certainly seen this face! Was it in former days? Was it oflate years? She could not tell, and the idea distressed her, upset hernerves. She rose noiselessly to take another look at the sleepingwoman, walking over on tiptoe. It was the woman who had lifted her upin the cemetery and then put her to bed. She remembered thisconfusedly.
But had she met her elsewhere at some other time of her life or didshe only imagine she recognized her amid the confused recollections ofthe day before? And how did she come to be there in her room and why?
The woman opened her eyes and, seeing Jeanne, she rose to her feetsuddenly. They stood face to face, so close that they touched oneanother. The stranger said crossly: "What! are you up? You will beill, getting up at this time of night. Go back to bed!"
"Who are you?" asked Jeanne.
But the woman, opening her arms, picked her up and carried her back toher bed with the strength of a man. And as she laid her down gentlyand drew the covers over her, she leaned over close to Jeanne and,weeping as she did so, she kissed her passionately on the cheeks, herhair, her eyes, the tears falling on her face as she stammered out:"My poor mistress, Mam'zelle Jeanne, my poor mistress, don't yourecognize me?"
"Rosalie, my girl!" cried Jeanne, throwing her arms round her neck andhugging her as she kissed her, and they sobbed together, clasped ineach other's arms.
Rosalie was the first to regain her calmness. "Come," she said, "youmust be sensible and not catch cold." And she covered her up warm andstraightened the pillow under her former mistress' head. The lattercontinued to sob, trembling all over at the recollections that wereawakened in her mind. She finally inquired: "How did you come back, mypoor girl?"
"Pardi! do you suppose I was going to leave you all alone like that,now?" replied Rosalie.
"Light a candle, so I may see you," said Jeanne. And when the candlewas brought to the bedside they looked at each other for some timewithout speaking a word. Then Jeanne, holding out her hand to herformer maid, murmured: "I should not have recognized you, my girl, youhave changed greatly; did you know it? But not as much as I have." AndRosalie, looking at this white-haired woman, thin and faded, whom shehad left a beautiful and fresh young woman, said: "That is true, youhave changed, Madame Jeanne, and more than you should. But remember,however, that we have not seen each other for twenty-five years."
They were silent, thinking over the past. At length Jeanne saidhesitatingly: "Have you been happy?"
Rosalie, fearful of awakening certain painful souvenirs, stammeredout: "Why--yes--yes--madame. I have nothing much to complain of. Ihave been happier than you have--that is sure. There was only onething that always weighed on my heart, and that was that I did notstay here--" And she stopped suddenly, sorry she had referred to thatunintentionally. But Jeanne replied gently: "How could you help it, mygirl? One cannot always do as they wish. You are a widow now, also,are you not?" Then her voice trembled with emotion as she said: "Haveyou other--other children?"
"No, madame."
"And he--your--your boy--what has become of him? Has he turned outwell?"
"Yes, madame, he is a good boy and works industriously. He has beenmarried for six months, and he can take my farm now, since I have comeback to you."
Jeanne murmured in a trembling voice: "Then you will never leave meagain, my girl?"
"No, indeed, madame, I have arranged all that."
Jeanne, in spite of herself, began to compare their lives, but withoutany bitterness, for she was now resigned to the unjust cruelty offate. She said: "And your husband, how did he treat you?"
"Oh, he was a good man, madame, and not lazy; he knew how to makemoney. He died of consumption."
Then Jeanne, sitting up in bed, filled with a longing to know more,said: "Come, tell me everything, my girl, all about your life. It willdo me good just now."
Rosalie, drawing up her chair, began to tell about herself, her home,her people, entering into those minute details dear to country people,describing her yard, laughing at some old recollection that remindedher of good times she had had, and raising her voice by degrees like afarmer's wife accustomed to command. She ended by saying: "Oh, I amwell off now. I don't have to worry." Then she became confused again,and said in a lower tone: "It is to you that I owe it, anyhow; and youknow I do not want any wages. No, indeed! No, indeed! And if you willnot have it so, I will go."
Jeanne replied: "You do not mean that you are going to serve me fornothing?"
"Oh, yes, indeed, madame. Money! You give me money! Why, I have almostas much as you. Do you know what is left to you will all your jumbleof mortgages and borrowing, and interests unpaid which are mounting upevery year? Do you know? No, is it not so? Well, then, I can promiseyou that you have not even ten thousand francs income. Not tenthousand, do you understand? But I will settle all that for you, andvery quickly."
She had begun talking loud again, carried away in her indignation atthese interests left unpaid, at this threatening ruin. And as a faint,tender smile passed over the face of her mistress, she cried in a toneof annoyance: "You must not laugh, madame, for without money we arenothing but laborers."
Jeanne took hold of her hands and kept them in her own; then she saidslowly, still full of the idea that haunted her: "Oh, I have had noluck. Everything has gone against me. Fate has a grudge against mylife."
But Rosalie shook her head: "You must not say that, madame. Youmarried badly, that's all. One should not marry like that, anyway,without knowing anything about one's intended."
And they went on talking about themselves just as two old friendsmight have done.
The sun rose while they were still talking.
In a week's time Rosalie had taken absolute control of everything andeveryone in the château. Jeanne was quite resigned and obeyedpassively. Weak and dragging her feet as she walked, as little motherhad formerly done, she went out walking leaning on Rosalie's arm, thelatter lecturing her and consoling her with abrupt and tender words asthey walked slowly along, treating her mistress as though she were asick child.
They always talked of bygone days, Jeanne with tears in her throat,and Rosalie in the quiet tone of a phlegmatic peasant. The servantkept referring to the subject of unpaid interests; and at lastrequested Jeanne to give her up all the business papers that Jeanne,in her ignorance of money matters, was hiding from her, out ofconsideration for her son.
After that, for a week, Rosalie went to Fécamp every day to havematters explained to her by a lawyer whom she knew.
One evening, after having put her mistress to bed, she sat down by thebedside and said abruptly: "Now that you are settled quietly, madame,we will have a chat." And she told her exactly how matters stood.
When everything was settled, there would be about seven thousandfrancs of income left, no more.
"We cannot help it, my girl," said Jeanne. "I feel that I shall notmake old bones, and there will be quite enough for me."
But Rosalie was annoyed: "For you, madame, it might be; but M.Paul--will you leave nothing for him?"
Jeanne shuddered. "I beg you not to mention him again. It hurts me toomuch to think about him."
"But I wish to speak about him, because you see you are not brave,Madame Jeanne. He does foolish things. Well! what of it? He will notdo so always; and then he will marry and have children. He will needmoney to bring them up. Pay attention to me: you must sell 'ThePoplars.'"
Jeanne sprang up in a sitting posture. "Sell 'The Poplars'! Do youmean it? Oh, never, never!"
But Rosalie was not disturbed. "I tell you that you will sell theplace, madame, because it must be done." And then she explained hercalculations, her plans, her reasons.
Once they had sold "The Poplars" and the two farms belonging to it toa buyer whom she had found, they would keep four farms situated at St.Leonard, which, free of all mortgage, would bring in an income ofeight thousand three hundred francs. They would set aside thirteenhundred francs a year for repairs and for the upkeep of the property;there would then remain seven thousand francs, five thousand of whichwould cover the annual expenditures and the other two thousand wouldbe put away for a rainy day.
She added: "All the rest has been squandered; there is an end of it.And then I am to keep the key, you understand. As for M. Paul, he willhave nothing left, nothing; he would take your last sou from you."
Jeanne, who was weeping silently, murmured:
"But if he has nothing to eat?"
"He can come and eat with us if he is hungry. There will always be abed and some stew for him. Do you believe he would have acted as hehas done if you had not given him a sou in the first place?"
"But he was in debt, he would have been disgraced."
"When you have nothing left, will that prevent him from making freshdebts? You have paid his debts, that is all right; but you will notpay any more; it is I who am telling you this. Now goodnight, madame."
And she left the room.
Jeanne did not sleep, she was so upset at the idea of selling "ThePoplars," of going away, of leaving this house to which all her lifewas linked.
When Rosalie came into the room next morning she said to her: "My poorgirl, I never could make up my mind to go away from here."
But the servant grew angry: "It will have to be, however, madame; thelawyer will soon be here with the man who wants to buy the château.Otherwise, in four years you will not have a rap left."
Jeanne was crushed, and repeated: "I could not do it; I never could."
An hour later the postman brought her a letter from Paul asking forten thousand francs. What should she do? At her wit's end, sheconsulted Rosalie, who threw up her hands, exclaiming: "What was Itelling you, madame? Ah! You would have been in a nice fix, both ofyou, if I had not come back." And Jeanne, bending to her servant'swill, wrote as follows to the young man:
"My Dear Son: I can do nothing more for you. You have ruined me; I ameven obliged to sell 'The Poplars.' But never forget that I shallalways have a home whenever you want to seek shelter with your oldmother, to whom you have caused much suffering. Jeanne."
When the notary arrived with M. Jeoffrin, a retired sugar refiner, shereceived them herself, and invited them to look over the château.
A month later, she signed a deed of sale, and also bought herself alittle cottage in the neighborhood of Goderville, on the high road toMontiviliers, in the hamlet of Batteville.
Then she walked up and down all alone until evening, in littlemother's avenue, with a sore heart and troubled mind, biddingdistracted and sobbing farewells to the landscape, the trees, therustic bench under the plane tree, to all those things she knew sowell and that seemed to have become part of her vision and her soul,the grove, the mound overlooking the plain, where she had so oftensat, and from where she had seen the Comte de Fourville running towardthe sea on that terrible day of Julian's death, to an old elm whoseupper branches were missing, against which she had often leaned, andto all this familiar garden spot.
Rosalie came out and took her by the arm to make her come into thehouse.
A tall young peasant of twenty-five was waiting outside the door. Hegreeted her in a friendly manner as if he had known her for some time:"Good-morning, Madame Jeanne. I hope you are well. Mother told me tocome and help you move. I would like to know what you are going totake away, seeing that I shall do it from time to time so as not tointerfere with my farm work."
It was her maid's son, Julien's son, Paul's brother.
She felt as if her heart stopped beating; and yet she would have likedto embrace this young fellow.
She looked at him, trying to find some resemblance to her husband orto her son. He was ruddy, vigorous, with fair hair and his mother'sblue eyes. And yet he looked like Julien. In what way? How? She couldnot have told, but there was something like him in the whole makeup ofhis face.
The young man resumed: "If you could show me at once, I should be muchobliged."
But she had not yet decided what she was going to take with her, asher new home was very small; and she begged him to come back again atthe end of the week.
She was now entirely occupied with getting ready to move, whichbrought a little variety into her very dreary and hopeless life. Shewent from room to room, picking out the furniture which recalledepisodes in her life, old friends, as it were, who have a share in ourlife and almost of our being, whom we have known since childhood, andto which are linked our happy or sad recollections, dates in ourhistory; silent companions of our sad or sombre hours, who have grownold and become worn at our side, their covers torn in places, theirjoints shaky, their color faded.
She selected them, one by one, sometimes hesitating and troubled, asif she were taking some important step, changing her mind everyinstant, weighing the merits of two easy chairs or of some oldwriting-desk and an old work table.
She opened the drawers, sought to recall things; then, when she hadsaid to herself, "Yes, I will take this," the article was taken downinto the dining-room.
She wished to keep all the furniture of her room, her bed, hertapestries, her clock, everything.
She took away some of the parlor chairs, those that she had loved as alittle child; the fox and the stork, the fox and the crow, the ant andthe grasshopper, and the melancholy heron.
Then, while wandering about in all the corners of this dwelling shewas going to forsake, she went one day up into the loft, where she wasfilled with amazement; it was a chaos of articles of every kind, somebroken, others tarnished only, others taken up there for no specialreason probably, except that they were tired of them or that they hadbeen replaced by others. She saw numberless knick-knacks that sheremembered, and that had disappeared suddenly, trifles that she hadhandled, those old little insignificant articles that she had seenevery day without noticing, but which now, discovered in this loft,assumed an importance as of forgotten relics, of friends that she hadfound again.
She went from one to the other of them with a little pang, saying:"Why, it was I who broke that china cup a few evenings before mywedding. Ah! there is mother's little lantern and a cane that littlefather broke in trying to open the gate when the wood was swollen withthe rain."
There were also a number of things that she did not remember that hadbelonged to her grandparents or to their parents, dusty things thatappeared to be exiled in a period that is not their own, and thatlooked sad at their abandonment, and whose history, whose experiencesno one knows, for they never saw those who chose them, bought them,owned them, and loved them; never knew the hands that had touched themfamiliarly, and the eyes that looked at them with delight.
Jeanne examined carefully three-legged chairs to see if they recalledany memories, a copper warming pan, a damaged foot stove that shethought she remembered, and a number of housekeeping utensils unfitfor use.
She then put together all the things she wished to take, and goingdownstairs, sent Rosalie up to get them. The servant indignantlyrefused to bring down "that rubbish." But Jeanne, who had not muchwill left, held her own this time, and had to be obeyed.
One morning the young farmer, Julien's son, Denis Lecoq, came with hiswagon for the first load. Rosalie went back with him in order tosuperintend the unloading and placing of furniture where it was tostand.
Rosalie had come back and was waiting for Jeanne, who had been out onthe cliff. She was enchanted with the new house, declaring it was muchmore cheerful than this old box of a building, which was not even onthe side of the road.
Jeanne wept all the evening.
Ever since they heard that the château was sold, the farmers were notmore civil to her than necessary, calling her among themselves "thecrazy woman," without knowing exactly why, but doubtless because theyguessed with their animal instinct at her morbid and increasingsentimentality, at all the disturbance of her poor mind that hadundergone so much sorrow.
The night before they left she chanced to go into the stable. A growlmade her start. It was Massacre, whom she had hardly thought of formonths. Blind and paralyzed, having reached a great age for an animal,he existed in a straw bed, taken care of by Ludivine, who never forgothim. She took him in her arms, kissed him, and carried him into thehouse. As big as a barrel, he could scarcely carry himself along onhis stiff legs, and he barked like the wooden dogs that one gives tochildren.
The day of departure finally came. Jeanne had slept in Julien's oldroom, as hers was dismantled. She got up exhausted and short of breathas if she had been running. The carriage containing the trunks and therest of the furniture was in the yard ready to start. Anothertwo-wheeled vehicle was to take Jeanne and the servant. Old Simon andLudivine were to stay until the arrival of a new proprietor, and thento go to some of their relations, Jeanne having provided a littleincome for them. They had also saved up some money, and being now veryold and garrulous, they were not of much use in the house. Marius hadlong since married and left.
About eight o'clock it began to rain, a fine icy rain, driven by alight breeze. On the kitchen table, some cups of café au lait weresteaming. Jeanne sat down and sipped hers, then rising, she said,"Come along."
She put on her hat and shawl, and while Rosalie was putting on herovershoes, she said in a choking voice: "Do you remember, my girl, howit rained when we left Rouen to come here?"
As she said this, she put her two hands to her breast and fell over onher back, unconscious. She remained thus over an hour, apparentlydead. Then she opened her eyes and was seized with convulsionsaccompanied by floods of tears.
When she was a little calmer she was so weak that she could not standup, and Rosalie, fearing another attack if they delayed theirdeparture, went to look for her son. They took her up and carried herto the carriage, placed her on the wooden bench covered with leather;and the old servant got in beside her, wrapped her up with a bigcloak, and holding an umbrella over her head, cried: "Quick, Denis,let us be off." The young man climbed up beside his mother and whippedup the horse, whose jerky pace made the two women bounce aboutvigorously.
As they turned the corner to enter the village, they saw some onestalking along the road; it was Abbé Tolbiac, who seemed to bewatching for them to go by. He stopped to let the carriage pass. Hewas holding up his cassock with one hand, to keep it out of the mud,and his thin legs, encased in black stockings, ended in a pair ofenormous muddy shoes.
Jeanne lowered her eyes so as not to meet his glance, and Rosalie, whohad heard all about him, flew into a rage. "Peasant! Peasant!" shemurmured; and then seizing her son's hand: "Give him a good slash withthe whip."