"And she whispered to me, as if she had put a red-hot iron under mynose: 'You are not a man. Now you are going to run away and surrenderyour place! Go, then, Bazaine!'
"I felt hurt, but yet I did not move, while the other fellow pulledout a bream. Oh, I never saw such a large one before, never! And thenmy wife began to talk aloud, as if she were thinking, and you can seeher tricks. She said: 'That is what one might call stolen fish, seeingthat we set the bait ourselves. At any rate, they ought to give usback the money we have spent on bait.'
"Then the fat woman in the cotton dress said in her turn: 'Do you meanto call us thieves, madame?' Explanations followed and complimentsbegan to fly. Oh, Lord! those creatures know some good ones. Theyshouted so loud that our two witnesses, who were on the other bank,began to call out by way of a joke: 'Less noise over there; you willinterfere with your husbands' fishing.'
"The fact is that neither the little man nor I moved any more than ifwe had been two tree stumps. We remained there, with our eyes fixed onthe water, as if we had heard nothing; but, by Jove! we heard all thesame. 'You are a thief! You are nothing better than a tramp! You are aregular jade!' and so on and so on. A sailor could not have said more.
"Suddenly I heard a noise behind me and turned round. It was the otherone, the fat woman, who had attacked my wife with her parasol.Whack, whack!Mélie got two of them. But she was furious, andshe hits hard when she is in a rage. She caught the fat woman by thehair and thenthump! thump!slaps in the face rained down likeripe plums. I should have let them fight it out: women together, mentogether. It does not do to mix the blows. But the little man in thelinen jacket jumped up like a devil and was going to rush at my wife.Ah! no, no, not that, my friend! I caught the gentleman with the endof my fist, andcrash! crash!One on the nose, the other in thestomach. He threw up his arms and legs and fell on his back into theriver, just into the hole.
"I should have fished him out most certainly, Monsieur le Président,if I had had time. But, to make matters worse, the fat woman had theupper hand and was pounding Mélie for all she was worth. I know Iought not to have interfered while the man was in the water, but Inever thought that he would drown and said to myself: 'Bah, it willcool him.'
"I therefore ran up to the women to separate them and all I receivedwas scratches and bites. Good Lord, what creatures! Well, it took mefive minutes, and perhaps ten, to separate those two viragos. When Iturned round there was nothing to be seen. The water was as smooth asa lake and the others yonder kept shouting: 'Fish him out! fish himout!' It was all very well to say that, but I cannot swim and stillless dive.
"At last the man from the dam came and two gentlemen with boathooks,but over a quarter of an hour had passed. He was found at the bottomof the hole, in eight feet of water, as I have said. There he was, thepoor little man, in his linen suit! Those are the facts such as I havesworn to. I am innocent, on my honor."
The witnesses having given testimony to the same effect, the accusedwas acquitted.
The hotel guests slowly entered the dining-room and took their places.The waiters did not hurry themselves, in order to give the late comersa chance and thus avoid the trouble of bringing in the dishes a secondtime. The old bathers, the habitués, whose season was almost over,glanced, gazed toward the door whenever it opened, to see what newfaces might appear.
This is the principal distraction of watering places. People lookforward to the dinner hour in order to inspect each day's newarrivals, to find out who they are, what they do, and what they think.We always have a vague desire to meet pleasant people, to makeagreeable acquaintances, perhaps to meet with a love adventure. Inthis life of elbowings, unknown strangers assume an extremeimportance. Curiosity is aroused, sympathy is ready to exhibit itself,and sociability is the order of the day.
We cherish antipathies for a week and friendships for a month; we seepeople with different eyes, when we view them through the medium ofacquaintanceship at watering places. We discover in men suddenly,after an hour's chat, in the evening after dinner, under the trees inthe park where the healing spring bubbles up, a high intelligence andastonishing merits, and a month afterward we have completely forgottenthese new friends, who were so fascinating when we first met them.
Permanent and serious ties are also formed here sooner than anywhereelse. People see each other every day; they become acquainted veryquickly, and their affection is tinged with the sweetness andunrestraint of long-standing intimacies. We cherish in after years thedear and tender memories of those first hours of friendship, thememory of those first conversations in which a soul was unveiled, ofthose first glances which interrogate and respond to questions andsecret thoughts which the mouth has not as yet uttered, the memory ofthat first cordial confidence, the memory of that delightful sensationof opening our hearts to those who seem to open theirs to us inreturn.
And the melancholy of watering places, the monotony of days that areall alike, proves hourly an incentive to this heart expansion.
* * * * *
Well, this evening, as on every other evening, we awaited theappearance of strange faces.
Only two appeared, but they were very remarkable, a man and awoman--father and daughter. They immediately reminded me of someof Edgar Poe's characters; and yet there was about them a charm,the charm associated with misfortune. I looked upon them as the victimsof fate. The man was very tall and thin, rather stooped, with perfectlywhite hair, too white for his comparatively youthful physiognomy;and there was in his bearing and in his person that austeritypeculiar to Protestants. The daughter, who was probably twenty-fouror twenty-five, was small in stature, and was also very thin, verypale, and she had the air of one who was worn out with utter lassitude.We meet people like this from time to time, who seem too weak forthe tasks and the needs of daily life, too weak to move about, towalk, to do all that we do every day. She was rather pretty, with atransparent, spiritual beauty. And she ate with extreme slowness, as ifshe were almost incapable of moving her arms.
It must have been she, assuredly, who had come to take the waters.
They sat facing me, on the opposite side of the table; and I at oncenoticed that the father had a very singular, nervous twitching.
Every time he wanted to reach an object, his hand described a sort ofzigzag before it succeeded in reaching what it was in search of, andafter a little while this movement annoyed me so that I turned asidemy head in order not to see it.
I noticed, too, that the young girl, during meals, wore a glove on herleft hand.
After dinner I went for a stroll in the park of the bathingestablishment. This led toward the little Auvergnese station ofChâtel-Guyon, hidden in a gorge at the foot of the high mountain, fromwhich flowed so many boiling springs, arising from the deep bed ofextinct volcanoes. Over yonder, above our heads, the domes of extinctcraters lifted their ragged peaks above the rest in the long mountainchain. For Châtel-Guyon is situated at the entrance to the land ofmountain domes.
Beyond it stretches out the region of peaks, and, farther on again,the region of precipitous summits.
The "Puy de Dôme" is the highest of the domes, the Peak of Sancy isthe loftiest of the peaks, and Cantal is the most precipitous of thesemountain heights.
It was a very warm evening, and I was walking up and down a shadypath, listening to the opening strains of the Casino band, which wasplaying on an elevation overlooking the park.
And I saw the father and the daughter advancing slowly in mydirection. I bowed as one bows to one's hotel companions at a wateringplace; and the man, coming to a sudden halt, said to me:
"Could you not, monsieur, tell us of a nice walk to take, short,pretty, and not steep; and pardon my troubling you?"
I offered to show them the way toward the valley through which thelittle river flowed, a deep valley forming a gorge between two tall,craggy, wooded slopes.
They gladly accepted my offer.
And we talked, naturally, about the virtue of the waters.
"Oh," he said, "my daughter has a strange malady, the seat of which isunknown. She suffers from incomprehensible nervous attacks. At onetime the doctors think she has an attack of heart disease, at anothertime they imagine it is some affection of the liver, and at anotherthey declare it to be a disease of the spine. To-day this proteanmalady, that assumes a thousand forms and a thousand modes of attack,is attributed to the stomach, which is the great caldron and regulatorof the body. This is why we have come here. For my part, I am ratherinclined to think it is the nerves. In any case it is very sad."
Immediately the remembrance of the violent spasmodic movement of hishand came back to my mind, and I asked him:
"But is this not the result of heredity? Are not your own nervessomewhat affected?"
He replied calmly:
"Mine? Oh, no--my nerves have always been very steady."
Then, suddenly, after a pause, he went on:
"Ah! You were alluding to the jerking movement of my hand every time Itry to reach for anything? This arises from a terrible experiencewhich I had. Just imagine, this daughter of mine was actually buriedalive!"
I could only utter, "Ah!" so great were my astonishment and emotion.
He continued:
"Here is the story. It is simple. Juliette had been subject for sometime to serious attacks of the heart. We believed that she had diseaseof that organ, and were prepared for the worst.
"One day she was carried into the house cold, lifeless, dead. She hadfallen down unconscious in the garden. The doctor certified that lifewas extinct. I watched by her side for a day and two nights. I laidher with my own hands in the coffin, which I accompanied to thecemetery, where she was deposited in the family vault. It is situatedin the very heart of Lorraine.
"I wished to have her interred with her jewels, bracelets, necklaces,rings, all presents which she had received from me, and wearing herfirst ball dress.
"You may easily imagine my state of mind when I re-entered our home.She was the only one I had, for my wife had been dead for many years.I found my way to my own apartment in a half-distracted condition,utterly exhausted, and sank into my easy-chair, without the capacityto think or the strength to move. I was nothing better now than asuffering, vibrating machine, a human being who had, as it were, beenflayed alive; my soul was like an open wound.
"My old valet, Prosper, who had assisted me in placing Juliette in hercoffin, and aided me in preparing her for her last sleep, entered theroom noiselessly, and asked:
"'Does monsieur want anything?'
"I merely shook my head in reply.
"'Monsieur is wrong,' he urged. 'He will injure his health. Wouldmonsieur like me to put him to bed?'
"I answered: 'No, let me alone!'
"And he left the room.
"I know not how many hours slipped away. Oh, what a night, what anight! It was cold. My fire had died out in the huge grate; and thewind, the winter wind, an icy wind, a winter hurricane, blew with aregular, sinister noise against the windows.
"How many hours slipped away? There I was without sleeping, powerless,crushed, my eyes wide open, my legs stretched out, my body limp,inanimate, and my mind torpid with despair. Suddenly the greatdoorbell, the great bell of the vestibule, rang out.
"I started so that my chair cracked under me. The solemn, ponderoussound vibrated through the empty country house as through a vault. Iturned round to see what the hour was by the clock. It was just two inthe morning. Who could be coming at such an hour?
"And, abruptly, the bell again rang twice. The servants, withoutdoubt, were afraid to get up. I took a wax candle and descended thestairs. I was on the point of asking: 'Who is there?'
"Then I felt ashamed of my weakness, and I slowly drew back the heavybolts. My heart was throbbing wildly. I was frightened. I opened thedoor brusquely, and in the darkness I distinguished a white figure,standing erect, something that resembled an apparition.
"I recoiled, petrified with horror, faltering:
"'Who--who--who are you?'
"A voice replied:
"'It is I, father.'
"It was my daughter.
"I really thought I must be mad, and I retreated backward before thisadvancing spectre. I kept moving away, making a sign with my hand,as if to drive the phantom away, that gesture which you havenoticed--that gesture which has remained with me ever since.
"'Do not be afraid, papa,' said the apparition. 'I was not dead.Somebody tried to steal my rings and cut one of my fingers; the bloodbegan to flow, and that restored me to life.'
"And, in fact, I could see that her hand was covered with blood.
"I fell on my knees, choking with sobs and with a rattling in mythroat.
"Then, when I had somewhat collected my thoughts, though I was stillso bewildered that I scarcely realized the awesome happiness thathad befallen me, I made her go up to my room and sit down in myeasy-chair; then I rang excitedly for Prosper to get him to rekindlethe fire and to bring some wine, and to summon assistance.
"The man entered, stared at my daughter, opened his mouth with a gaspof alarm and stupefaction, and then fell back dead.
"It was he who had opened the vault, who had mutilated and thenabandoned my daughter; for he could not efface the traces of thetheft. He had not even taken the trouble to put back the coffin intoits place, feeling sure, besides, that he would not be suspected byme, as I trusted him absolutely.
"You see, monsieur, that we are very unfortunate people."
* * * * *
He was silent.
The night had fallen, casting its shadows over the desolate, mournfulvale, and a sort of mysterious fear possessed me at finding myself bythe side of those strange beings, of this young girl who had come backfrom the tomb, and this father with his uncanny spasm.
I found it impossible to make any comment on this dreadful story. Ionly murmured:
"What a horrible thing!"
Then, after a minute's silence, I added:
"Let us go indoors. I think it is growing cool."
And we made our way back to the hotel.
As the mayor was about to sit down to breakfast, word was brought tohim that the rural policeman, with two prisoners, was awaiting him atthe Hotel de Ville. He went there at once and found old Hochedurstanding guard before a middle-class couple whom he was regarding witha severe expression on his face.
The man, a fat old fellow with a red nose and white hair, seemedutterly dejected; while the woman, a little roundabout individual withshining cheeks, looked at the official who had arrested them, withdefiant eyes.
"What is it? What is it, Hochedur?"
The rural policeman made his deposition: He had gone out that morningat his usual time, in order to patrol his beat from the forest ofChampioux as far as the boundaries of Argenteuil. He had not noticedanything unusual in the country except that it was a fine day, andthat the wheat was doing well, when the son of old Bredel, who wasgoing over his vines, called out to him: "Here, Daddy Hochedur, go andhave a look at the outskirts of the wood. In the first thicket youwill find a pair of pigeons who must be a hundred and thirty years oldbetween them!"
He went in the direction indicated, entered the thicket, and there heheard words which made him suspect a flagrant breach of morality.Advancing, therefore, on his hands and knees as if to surprise apoacher, he had arrested the couple whom he found there.
The mayor looked at the culprits in astonishment, for the man wascertainly sixty, and the woman fifty-five at least, and he began toquestion them, beginning with the man, who replied in such a weakvoice that he could scarcely be heard.
"What is your name?"
"Nicholas Beaurain."
"Your occupation?"
"Haberdasher, in the Rue des Martyrs, in Paris."
"What were you doing in the wood?"
The haberdasher remained silent, with his eyes on his fat paunch, andhis hands hanging at his sides, and the mayor continued:
"Do you deny what the officer of the municipal authorities states?"
"No, monsieur."
"So you confess it?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"What have you to say in your defence?"
"Nothing, monsieur."
"Where did you meet the partner in your misdemeanor?"
"She is my wife, monsieur."
"Your wife?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Then--then--you do not live together--in Paris?"
"I beg your pardon, monsieur, but we are living together!"
"But in that case--you must be mad, altogether mad, my dear sir, toget caught playing lovers in the country at ten o'clock in themorning."
The haberdasher seemed ready to cry with shame, and he muttered: "Itwas she who enticed me! I told her it was very stupid, but when awoman once gets a thing into her head--you know--you cannot get itout."
The mayor, who liked a joke, smiled and replied: "In your case, thecontrary ought to have happened. You would not be here, if she had hadthe idea only in her head."
Then Monsieur Beaurain was seized with rage, and turning to his wife,he said: "Do you see to what you have brought us with your poetry? Andnow we shall have to go before the courts at our age, for a breach ofmorals! And we shall have to shut up the shop, sell our good will, andgo to some other neighborhood! That's what it has come to."
Madame Beaurain got up, and without looking at her husband, sheexplained herself without embarrassment, without useless modesty, andalmost without hesitation.
"Of course, monsieur, I know that we have made ourselves ridiculous.Will you allow me to plead my cause like an advocate, or rather like apoor woman? And I hope that you will be kind enough to send us home,and to spare us the disgrace of a prosecution.
"Years ago, when I was young, I made Monsieur Beaurain's acquaintanceone Sunday in this neighborhood. He was employed in a draper's shop,and I was a saleswoman in a ready-made clothing establishment. Iremember it as if it were yesterday. I used to come and spend Sundayshere occasionally with a friend of mine, Rose Levèque, with whom Ilived in the Rue Pigalle, and Rose had a sweetheart, while I had none.He used to bring us here, and one Saturday he told me laughing that heshould bring a friend with him the next day. I quite understood whathe meant, but I replied that it would be no good; for I was virtuous,monsieur.
"The next day we met Monsieur Beaurain at the railway station, and inthose days he was good-looking, but I had made up my mind not toencourage him, and I did not. Well, we arrived at Bezons. It was alovely day, the sort of day that touches your heart. When it is fineeven now, just as it used to be formerly, I grow quite foolish, andwhen I am in the country I utterly lose my head. The green grass, theswallows flying so swiftly, the smell of the grass, the scarletpoppies, the daisies, all that makes me crazy. It is like champagnewhen one is not accustomed to it!
"Well, it was lovely weather, warm and bright, and it seemed topenetrate your body through your eyes when you looked, and throughyour mouth when you breathed. Rose and Simon hugged and kissed eachother every minute, and that gave me a queer feeling! MonsieurBeaurain and I walked behind them, without speaking much, for whenpeople do not know each other, they do not find anything to talkabout. He looked timid, and I liked to see his embarrassment. At lastwe got to the little wood; it was as cool as in a bath there, and wefour sat down. Rose and her lover teased me because I looked ratherstern, but you will understand that I could not be otherwise. And thenthey began to kiss and hug again, without putting any more restraintupon themselves than if we had not been there; and then they whisperedtogether, and got up and went off among the trees, without saying aword. You may fancy what I looked like, alone with this young fellowwhom I saw for the first time. I felt so confused at seeing them gothat it gave me courage, and I began to talk. I asked him what hisbusiness was, and he said he was a linen draper's assistant, as I toldyou just now. We talked for a few minutes, and that made him bold, andhe wanted to take liberties with me, but I told him sharply to keephis place. Is not that true, Monsieur Beaurain?"
Monsieur Beaurain, who was looking at his feet in confusion, did notreply, and she continued: "Then he saw that I was virtuous, and hebegan to make love to me nicely, like an honorable man, and from thattime he came every Sunday, for he was very much in love with me. I wasvery fond of him also, very fond of him! He was a good-looking fellow,formerly, and in short he married me the next September, and westarted in business in the Rue des Martyrs.
"It was a hard struggle for some years, monsieur. Business did notprosper, and we could not afford many country excursions, and,besides, we had got out of the way of them. One has other things inone's head, and thinks more of the cash box than of pretty speeches,when one is in business. We were growing old by degrees withoutperceiving it, like quiet people who do not think much about love. Onedoes not regret anything as long as one does not notice what one haslost.
"And then, monsieur, business became better, and we were tranquil asto the future! Then, you see, I do not exactly know what went on in mymind, no, I really do not know, but I began to dream like a littleboarding-school girl. The sight of the little carts full of flowerswhich are drawn about the streets made me cry; the smell of violetssought me out in my easy-chair, behind my cash box, and made my heartbeat! Then I would get up and go out on the doorstep to look at theblue sky between the roofs. When one looks up at the sky from thestreet, it looks like a river which is descending on Paris, winding asit flows, and the swallows pass to and fro in it like fish. Theseideas are very stupid at my age! But how can one help it, monsieur,when one has worked all one's life? A moment comes in which oneperceives that one could have done something else, and that oneregrets, oh! yes, one feels intense regret! Just think, for twentyyears I might have gone and had kisses in the woods, like other women.I used to think how delightful it would be to lie under the trees andbe in love with some one! And I thought of it every day and everynight! I dreamed of the moonlight on the water, until I felt inclinedto drown myself.
"I did not venture to speak to Monsieur Beaurain about this at first.I knew that he would make fun of me, and send me back to sell myneedles and cotton! And then, to speak the truth, Monsieur Beaurainnever said much to me, but when I looked in the glass, I alsounderstood quite well that I no longer appealed to any one!
"Well, I made up my mind, and I proposed to him an excursion into thecountry, to the place where we had first become acquainted. He agreedwithout mistrusting anything, and we arrived here this morning, aboutnine o'clock.
"I felt quite young again when I got among the wheat, for a woman'sheart never grows old! And really, I no longer saw my husband as he isat present, but just as he was formerly! That I will swear to you,monsieur. As true as I am standing here I was crazy. I began to kisshim, and he was more surprised than if I had tried to murder him. Hekept saying to me: 'Why, you must be mad! You are mad this morning!What is the matter with you?' I did not listen to him, I only listenedto my own heart, and I made him come into the wood with me. That isall. I have spoken the truth, Monsieur le Maire, the whole truth."
The mayor was a sensible man. He rose from his chair, smiled, andsaid: "Go in peace, madame, and when you again visit our forests, bemore discreet."
It came to him one Sunday after mass. He was walking home from churchalong the by-road that led to his house when he saw ahead of himMartine, who was also going home.
Her father walked beside his daughter with the important gait of arich farmer. Discarding the smock, he wore a short coat of gray clothand on his head a round-topped hat with wide brim.
She, laced up in a corset which she wore only once a week, walkedalong erect, with her squeezed-in waist, her broad shoulders andprominent hips, swinging herself a little. She wore a hat trimmed withflowers, made by a milliner at Yvetot, and displayed the back of herfull, round, supple neck, reddened by the sun and air, on whichfluttered little stray locks of hair.
Benoist saw only her back; but he knew well the face he loved,without, however, having ever noticed it more closely than he did now.
Suddenly he said: "Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl, all the same,that Martine." He watched her as she walked, admiring her hastily,feeling a desire taking possession of him. He did not long to see herface again, no. He kept gazing at her figure, repeating to himself:"Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl."
Martine turned to the right to enter "La Martinière," the farm of herfather, Jean Martin, and she cast a glance behind her as she turnedround. She saw Benoist, who looked to her very comical. She calledout: "Good-morning, Benoist." He replied: "Good-morning, Martine;good-morning, mait' Martin," and went on his way.
When he reached home the soup was on the table. He sat down oppositehis mother beside the farm hand and the hired man, while the maidservant went to draw some cider.
He ate a few spoonfuls, then pushed away his plate. His mother said:
"Don't you feel well?"
"No. I feel as if I had some pap in my stomach and that takes away myappetite."
He watched the others eating, as he cut himself a piece of bread fromtime to time and carried it lazily to his mouth, masticating itslowly. He thought of Martine. "She is a fine girl, all the same." Andto think that he had not noticed it before, and that it came to him,just like that, all at once, and with such force that he could noteat.
He did not touch the stew. His mother said:
"Come, Benoist, try and eat a little; it is loin of mutton, it will doyou good. When one has no appetite, they should force themselves toeat."
He swallowed a few morsels, then, pushing away his plate, said:
"No. I can't go that, positively."
When they rose from table he walked round the farm, telling the farmhand he might go home and that he would drive up the animals as hepassed by them.
The country was deserted, as it was the day of rest. Here and there ina field of clover cows were moving along heavily, with full bellies,chewing their cud under a blazing sun. Unharnessed plows were standingat the end of a furrow; and the upturned earth ready for the seedshowed broad brown patches of stubble of wheat and oats that hadlately been harvested.
A rather dry autumn wind blew across the plain, promising a coolevening after the sun had set. Benoist sat down on a ditch, placed hishat on his knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloudin the stillness of the country: "If you want a fine girl, she is afine girl."
He thought of it again at night, in his bed, and in the morning whenhe awoke.
He was not sad, he was not discontented, he could not have told whatailed him. It was something that had hold of him, something fastenedin his mind, an idea that would not leave him and that produced a sortof tickling sensation in his heart.
Sometimes a big fly is shut up in a room. You hear it flying about,buzzing, and the noise haunts you, irritates you. Suddenly it stops;you forget it; but all at once it begins again, obliging you to lookup. You cannot catch it, nor drive it away, nor kill it, nor make itkeep still. As soon as it settles for a second, it starts off buzzingagain.
The recollection of Martine disturbed Benoist's mind like animprisoned fly.
Then he longed to see her again and walked past the Martinière severaltimes. He saw her, at last, hanging out some clothes on a linestretched between two apple trees.
It was a warm day. She had on only a short skirt and her chemise,showing the curves of her figure as she hung up the towels. Heremained there, concealed by the hedge, for more than an hour, evenafter she had left. He returned home more obsessed with her image thanever.
For a month his mind was full of her, he trembled when her name wasmentioned in his presence. He could not eat, he had night sweats thatkept him from sleeping.
On Sunday, at mass, he never took his eyes off her. She noticed it andsmiled at him, flattered at his appreciation.
One evening, he suddenly met her in the road. She stopped short whenshe saw him coming. Then he walked right up to her, choking with fearand emotion, but determined to speak to her. He began falteringly:
"See here, Martine, this cannot go on like this any longer."
She replied as if she wanted to tease him:
"What cannot go on any longer, Benoist?"
"My thinking of you as many hours as there are in the day," heanswered.
She put her hands on her hips.
"I do not oblige you to do so."
"Yes, it is you," he stammered; "I cannot sleep, nor rest, nor eat,nor anything."
"What do you need to cure you of all that?" she asked.
He stood there in dismay, his arms swinging, his eyes staring, hismouth agape.
She hit him a punch in the stomach and ran off.
From that day they met each other along the roadside, in by-roads orelse at twilight on the edge of a field, when he was going home withhis horses and she was driving her cows home to the stable.
He felt himself carried, cast toward her by a strong impulse of hisheart and body. He would have liked to squeeze her, strangle her, eather, make her part of himself. And he trembled with impotence,impatience, rage, to think she did not belong to him entirely, as ifthey were one being.
People gossiped about it in the countryside. They said they wereengaged. He had, besides, asked her if she would be his wife, and shehad answered "Yes."
They were waiting for an opportunity to talk to their parents aboutit.
But, all at once, she stopped coming to meet him at the usual hour. Hedid not even see her as he wandered round the farm. He could onlycatch a glimpse of her at mass on Sunday. And one Sunday, after thesermon, the priest actually published the banns of marriage betweenVictoire-Adelaide-Martin and Joséphin-Isidore Vallin.
Benoist felt a sensation in his hands as if the blood had been drainedoff. He had a buzzing in the ears, and could hear nothing; andpresently he perceived that his tears were falling on his prayer book.
For a month he stayed in his room. Then he went back to his work.
But he was not cured, and it was always in his mind. He avoided theroads that led past her home, so that he might not even see the treesin the yard, and this obliged him to make a great circuit morning andevening.
She was now married to Vallin, the richest farmer in the district.Benoist and he did not speak now, though they had been comrades fromchildhood.
One evening, as Benoist was passing the town hall, he heard that shewas enceinte. Instead of experiencing a feeling of sorrow, heexperienced, on the contrary, a feeling of relief. It was over, now,all over. They were more separated by that than by her marriage. Hereally preferred that it should be so.
Months passed, and more months. He caught sight of her, occasionally,going to the village with a heavier step than usual. She blushed asshe saw him, lowered her head and quickened her pace. And he turnedout of his way so as not to pass her and meet her glance.
He dreaded the thought that he might one morning meet her face toface, and be obliged to speak to her. What could he say to her now,after all he had said formerly, when he held her hands as he kissedher hair beside her cheeks? He often thought of those meetings alongthe roadside. She had acted horridly after all her promises.
By degrees his grief diminished, leaving only sadness behind. And oneday he took the old road that led past the farm where she now lived.He looked at the roof from a distance. It was there, in there, thatshe lived with another! The apple trees were in bloom, the cockscrowed on the dunghill. The whole dwelling seemed empty, the farmhands had gone to the fields to their spring toil. He stopped near thegate and looked into the yard. The dog was asleep outside his kennel,three calves were walking slowly, one behind the other, towards thepond. A big turkey was strutting before the door, parading before theturkey hens like a singer at the opera.
Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized with adesire to weep. But suddenly, he heard a cry, a loud cry for helpcoming from the house. He was struck with dismay, his hands graspingthe wooden bars of the gate, and listened attentively. Another cry, aprolonged, heartrending cry, reached his ears, his soul, his flesh. Itwas she who was crying like that! He darted inside, crossed the grasspatch, pushed open the door, and saw her lying on the floor, her bodydrawn up, her face livid, her eyes haggard, in the throes ofchildbirth.
He stood there, trembling and paler than she was, and stammered:
"Here I am, here I am, Martine!"
She replied in gasps:
"Oh, do not leave me, do not leave me, Benoist!"
He looked at her, not knowing what to say, what to do. She began tocry out again:
"Oh, oh, it is killing me. Oh, Benoist!"
She writhed frightfully.
Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help her, toquiet her, to remove her pain. He leaned over, lifted her up and laidher on her bed; and while she kept on moaning he began to take off herclothes, her jacket, her skirt and her petticoat. She bit her fists tokeep from crying out. Then he did as he was accustomed to doing forcows, ewes, and mares: he assisted in delivering her and found in hishands a large infant who was moaning.
He wiped it off and wraped it up in a towel that was drying in frontof the fire, and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for ironing thatwas on the table. Then he went back to the mother.
He took her up and placed her on the floor again, then he changed thebedclothes and put her back into bed. She faltered:
"Thank you, Benoist, you have a noble heart." And then she wept alittle as if she felt regretful.
He did not love her any longer, not the least bit. It was all over.Why? How? He could not have said. What had happened had cured himbetter than ten years of absence.
She asked, exhausted and trembling:
"What is it?"
He replied calmly:
"It is a very fine girl."
Then they were silent again. At the end of a few moments, the mother,in a weak voice, said:
"Show her to me, Benoist."
He took up the little one and was showing it to her as if he wereholding the consecrated wafer, when the door opened, and IsidoreVallin appeared.
He did not understand at first, then all at once he guessed.
Benoist, in consternation, stammered out:
"I was passing, I was just passing by when I heard her crying out, andI came--there is your child, Vallin!"
Then the husband, his eyes full of tears, stepped forward, took thelittle mite of humanity that he held out to him, kissed it, unable tospeak from emotion for a few seconds; then placing the child on thebed, he held out both hands to Benoist, saying:
"Your hand upon it, Benoist. From now on we understand each other. Ifyou are willing, we will be a pair of friends, a pair of friends!"
And Benoist replied:
"Indeed I will, certainly, indeed I will."
Comte de Lormerin had just finished dressing. He cast a partingglance at the large mirror which occupied an entire panel in hisdressing-room and smiled.
He was really a fine-looking man still, although quite gray. Tall,slight, elegant, with no sign of a paunch, with a small mustache ofdoubtful shade, which might be called fair, he had a walk, a nobility,a "chic," in short, that indescribable something which establishes agreater difference between two men than would millions of money. Hemurmured:
"Lormerin is still alive!"
And he went into the drawing-room where his correspondence awaitedhim.
On his table, where everything had its place, the work table of thegentleman who never works, there were a dozen letters lying besidethree newspapers of different opinions. With a single touch he spreadout all these letters, like a gambler giving the choice of a card; andhe scanned the handwriting, a thing he did each morning before openingthe envelopes.
It was for him a moment of delightful expectancy, of inquiry and vagueanxiety. What did these sealed mysterious letters bring him? What didthey contain of pleasure, of happiness, or of grief? He surveyed themwith a rapid sweep of the eye, recognizing the writing, selectingthem, making two or three lots, according to what he expected fromthem. Here, friends; there, persons to whom he was indifferent;further on, strangers. The last kind always gave him a littleuneasiness. What did they want from him? What hand had traced thosecurious characters full of thoughts, promises, or threats?
This day one letter in particular caught his eye. It was simple,nevertheless, without seeming to reveal anything; but he looked at ituneasily, with a sort of chill at his heart. He thought: "From whomcan it be? I certainly know this writing, and yet I can't identifyit."
He raised it to a level with his face, holding it delicately betweentwo fingers, striving to read through the envelope, without making uphis mind to open it.
Then he smelled it, and snatched up from the table a little magnifyingglass which he used in studying all the niceties of handwriting. Hesuddenly felt unnerved. "Whom is it from? This hand is familiar to me,very familiar. I must have often read its tracings, yes, very often.But this must have been a long, long time ago. Whom the deuce can itbe from? Pooh! it's only somebody asking for money."
And he tore open the letter. Then he read:
My Dear Friend: You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for it is nowtwenty-five years since we saw each other. I was young; I am old. WhenI bade you farewell, I left Paris in order to follow into theprovinces my husband, my old husband, whom you used to call "myhospital." Do you remember him? He died five years ago, and now I amreturning to Paris to get my daughter married, for I have a daughter,a beautiful girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen. I informed youof her birth, but you certainly did not pay much attention to sotrifling an event.
You are still the handsome Lormerin; so I have been told. Well if youstill recollect little Lise, whom you used to call Lison, come anddine with her this evening, with the elderly Baronne de Vance, yourever faithful friend, who, with some emotion, although happy, reachesout to you a devoted hand, which you must clasp, but no longer kiss,my poor Jaquelet.
Lise de Vance.
Lormerin's heart began to throb. He remained sunk in his armchair withthe letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome by apoignant emotion that made the tears mount up to his eyes! If he hadever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise, Lise deVance, whom he called "Ashflower," on account of the strange color ofher hair and the pale gray of her eyes. Oh! what a dainty, pretty,charming creature she was, this frail baronne, the wife of that gouty,pimply baron, who had abruptly carried her off to the provinces, shuther up, kept her in seclusion through jealousy, jealousy of thehandsome Lormerin.
Yes, he had loved her, and he believed that he, too, had been trulyloved. She familiarly gave him the name of Jaquelet, and wouldpronounce that word in a delicious fashion.
A thousand forgotten memories came back to him, far off and sweet andmelancholy now. One evening she had called on him on her way home froma ball, and they went for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, she inevening dress, he in his dressing-jacket. It was springtime; theweather was beautiful. The fragrance from her bodice embalmed the warmair--the odor of her bodice, and perhaps, too, the fragrance of herskin. What a divine night! When they reached the lake, as the moon'srays fell across the branches into the water, she began to weep. Alittle surprised, he asked her why.
She replied:
"I don't know. The moon and the water have affected me. Every time Isee poetic things I have a tightening at the heart, and I have tocry."
He smiled, affected himself, considering her feminine emotioncharming--the unaffected emotion of a poor little woman whom everysensation overwhelms. And he embraced her passionately, stammering:
"My little Lise, you are exquisite."
What a charming love affair, short-lived and dainty, it had been andover all too quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor by this oldbrute of a baron, who had carried off his wife, and never let any onesee her afterward.
Lormerin had forgotten, in fact, at the end of two or three months.One woman drives out another so quickly in Paris, when one is abachelor! No matter; he had kept a little altar for her in his heart,for he had loved her alone! He assured himself now that this was so.
He rose, and said aloud: "Certainly, I will go and dine with her thisevening!"
And instinctively he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself fromhead to foot. He reflected: "She must look very old, older than Ilook." And he felt gratified at the thought of showing himself to herstill handsome, still fresh, of astonishing her, perhaps of fillingher with emotion, and making her regret those bygone days so far, fardistant!
He turned his attention to the other letters. They were of noimportance.
The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of other days. What wasshe like now? How strange it was to meet in this way after twenty-fiveyears! But would he recognize her?
He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat,which suited him better with the coat than a black one, sent for thehairdresser to give him a finishing touch with the curling iron, forhe had preserved his hair, and started very early in order to show hiseagerness to see her.
The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room newlyfurnished was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating fromthe days when he was a beau, hanging on the wall in an antique silkframe.
He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly,and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extendedboth hands toward him.
He seized them, kissed them one after the other several times; then,lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved.
Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, andwho, while she smiled, seemed ready to weep.
He could not abstain from murmuring:
"Is it you, Lise?"
She replied:
"Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed. You would not have known me, wouldyou? I have had so much sorrow--so much sorrow. Sorrow has consumed mylife. Look at me now--or, rather, don't look at me! But how handsomeyou have kept--and young! If I had by chance met you in the street Iwould have exclaimed: 'Jaquelet!' Now, sit down and let us, first ofall, have a chat. And then I will call my daughter, my grown-updaughter. You'll see how she resembles me--or, rather, how I resembledher--no, it is not quite that; she is just like the 'me' of formerdays--you shall see! But I wanted to be alone with you first. I fearedthat there would be some emotion on my side, at the first moment. Nowit is all over; it is past. Pray be seated, my friend."
He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what tosay; he did not know this woman--it seemed to him that he had neverseen her before. Why had he come to this house? What could he talkabout? Of the long ago? What was there in common between him and her?He could no longer recall anything in presence of this grandmotherlyface. He could no longer recall all the nice, tender things, so sweet,so bitter, that had come to his mind that morning when he thought ofthe other, of little Lise, of the dainty Ashflower. What, then, hadbecome of her, the former one, the one he had loved? That woman offar-off dreams, the blonde with gray eyes, the young girl who used tocall him "Jaquelet" so prettily?
They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained, troubled,profoundly ill at ease.
As they talked only commonplaces, awkwardly and spasmodically andslowly, she rose and pressed the button of the bell.
"I am going to call Renée," she said.
There was a tap at the door, then the rustle of a dress; then a youngvoice exclaimed:
"Here I am, mamma!"
Lormerin remained bewildered as at the sight of an apparition.
He stammered:
"Good-day, mademoiselle."
Then, turning toward the mother:
"Oh! it is you!"
In fact, it was she, she whom he had known in bygone days, the Lisewho had vanished and come back! In her he found the woman he had wontwenty-five years before. This one was even younger, fresher, morechildlike.
He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her to his heartagain, murmuring in her ear:
"Good-morning, Lison!"
A man-servant announced:
"Dinner is ready, madame."
And they proceeded toward the dining-room.
What passed at this dinner? What did they say to him, and what couldhe say in reply? He found himself plunged in one of those strangedreams which border on insanity. He gazed at the two women with afixed idea in his mind, a morbid, self-contradictory idea:
"Which is the real one?"
The mother smiled, repeating over and over again:
"Do you remember?" And it was in the bright eyes of the young girlthat he found again his memories of the past. Twenty times he openedhis mouth to say to her: "Do you remember, Lison?" forgetting thiswhite-haired lady who was looking at him tenderly.
And yet, there were moments when he no longer felt sure, when he losthis head. He could see that the woman of to-day was not exactly thewoman of long ago. The other one, the former one, had in her voice, inher glances, in her entire being, something which he did not findagain. And he made prodigious efforts of mind to recall his lady love,to seize again what had escaped from her, what this resuscitated onedid not possess.
The baronne said:
"You have lost your old vivacity, my poor friend."
He murmured:
"There are many other things that I have lost!"
But in his heart, touched with emotion, he felt his old love springingto life once more, like an awakened wild beast ready to bite him.
The young girl went on chattering, and every now and then somefamiliar intonation, some expression of her mother's, a certain styleof speaking and thinking, that resemblance of mind and manner whichpeople acquire by living together, shook Lormerin from head to foot.All these things penetrated him, making the reopened wound of hispassion bleed anew.
He got away early, and took a turn along the boulevard. But the imageof this young girl pursued him, haunted him, quickened his heart,inflamed his blood. Apart from the two women, he now saw only one, ayoung one, the old one come back out of the past, and he loved her ashe had loved her in bygone years. He loved her with greater ardor,after an interval of twenty-five years.
He went home to reflect on this strange and terrible thing, and tothink what he should do.
But, as he was passing, with a wax candle in his hand, before theglass, the large glass in which he had contemplated himself andadmired himself before he started, he saw reflected there an elderly,gray-haired man; and suddenly he recollected what he had been in oldendays, in the days of little Lise. He saw himself charming andhandsome, as he had been when he was loved! Then, drawing the lightnearer, he looked at himself more closely, as one inspects a strangething with a magnifying glass, tracing the wrinkles, discovering thosefrightful ravages, which he had not perceived till now.
And he sat down, crushed at the sight of himself, at the sight of hislamentable image, murmuring:
"All over, Lormerin!"
Everybody in Fécamp knew Mother Patin's story. She had certainly beenunfortunate with her husband, for in his lifetime he used to beat her,just as wheat is threshed in the barn.
He was master of a fishing bark and had married her, formerly, becauseshe was pretty, although poor.
Patin was a good sailor, but brutal. He used to frequent FatherAuban's inn, where he would usually drink four or five glasses ofbrandy, on lucky days eight or ten glasses and even more, according tohis mood. The brandy was served to the customers by Father Auban'sdaughter, a pleasing brunette, who attracted people to the house onlyby her pretty face, for nothing had ever been gossiped about her.
Patin, when he entered the inn, would be satisfied to look at her andto compliment her politely and respectfully. After he had had hisfirst glass of brandy he would already find her much nicer; at thesecond he would wink; at the third he would say: "If you were onlywilling, Mam'zelle Désirée----" without ever finishing his sentence;at the fourth he would try to hold her back by her skirt in order tokiss her; and when he went as high as ten it was Father Auban whobrought him the remaining drinks.
The old innkeeper, who knew all the tricks of the trade, made Désiréewalk about between the tables in order to increase the consumption ofdrinks; and Désirée, who was a worthy daughter of Father Auban,flitted around among the benches and joked with them, her lips smilingand her eyes sparkling.
Patin got so well accustomed to Désirée's face that he thought of iteven while at sea, when throwing out his nets, in storms or in calms,on moonlit or dark evenings. He thought of her while holding thetiller in the stern of his boat, while his four companions wereslumbering with their heads on their arms. He always saw her, smiling,pouring out the yellow brandy with a peculiar shoulder movement andthen exclaiming as she turned away: "There, now; are you satisfied?"
He saw her so much in his mind's eye that he was overcome by anirresistible desire to marry her, and, not being able to hold out anylonger, he asked for her hand.
He was rich, owned his own vessel, his nets and a little house at thefoot of the hill on the Retenue, whereas Father Auban had nothing. Themarriage was therefore eagerly agreed upon and the wedding took placeas soon as possible, as both parties were desirous for the affair tobe concluded as early as convenient.
Three days after the wedding Patin could no longer understand how hehad ever imagined Désirée to be different from other women. What afool he had been to encumber himself with a penniless creature, whohad undoubtedly inveigled him with some drug which she had put in hisbrandy!
He would curse all day long, break his pipe with his teeth and maulhis crew. After he had sworn by every known term at everything thatcame his way he would rid himself of his remaining anger on the fishand lobsters, which he pulled from the nets and threw into the basketsamid oaths and foul language. When he returned home he would find hiswife, Father Auban's daughter, within reach of his mouth and hand, andit was not long before he treated her like the lowest creature in theworld. As she listened calmly, accustomed to paternal violence, hegrew exasperated at her quiet, and one evening he beat her. Then lifeat his home became unbearable.
For ten years the principal topic of conversation on the Retenue wasabout the beatings that Patin gave his wife and his manner of cursingat her for the least thing. He could, indeed, curse with a richness ofvocabulary in a roundness of tone unequalled by any other man inFécamp. As soon as his ship was sighted at the entrance of the harbor,returning from the fishing expedition, every one awaited the firstvolley he would hurl from the bridge as soon as he perceived hiswife's white cap.
Standing at the stern, he would steer, his eye fixed on the bows andon the sail, and, notwithstanding the difficulty of the narrow passageand the height of the turbulent waves, he would search among thewatching women and try to recognize his wife, Father Auban's daughter,the wretch!
Then, as soon as he saw her, notwithstanding the noise of the wind andwaves, he would let loose upon her with such power and volubility thatevery one would laugh, although they pitied her greatly. When hearrived at the dock he would relieve his mind, while unloading thefish, in such an expressive manner that he attracted around him allthe loafers of the neighborhood. The words left his mouth sometimeslike shots from a cannon, short and terrible, sometimes like peals ofthunder, which roll and rumble for five minutes, such a hurricane ofoaths that he seemed to have in his lungs one of the storms of theEternal Father.
When he left his ship and found himself face to face with her,surrounded by all the gossips of the neighborhood, he would bring up anew cargo of insults and bring her back to their dwelling, she infront, he behind, she weeping, he yelling at her.
At last, when alone with her behind closed doors, he would thrash heron the slightest pretext. The least thing was sufficient to make himraise his hand, and when he had once begun he did not stop, but hewould throw into her face the true motive for his anger. At each blowhe would roar: "There, you beggar! There, you wretch! There, youpauper! What a bright thing I did when I rinsed my mouth with yourrascal of a father's apology for brandy!"
The poor woman lived in continual fear, in a ceaseless trembling ofbody and soul, in everlasting expectation of outrageous thrashings.
This lasted ten years. She was so timorous that she would grow palewhenever she spoke to any one, and she thought of nothing but theblows with which she was threatened; and she became thinner, moreyellow and drier than a smoked fish.
One night, when her husband was at sea, she was suddenly awakened bythe wild roaring of the wind! She sat up in her bed, trembling, but,as she heard nothing more, she lay down again; almost immediatelythere was a roar in the chimney which shook the entire house; itseemed to cross the heavens like a pack of furious animals snortingand roaring.
Then she arose and rushed to the harbor. Other women were arrivingfrom all sides, carrying lanterns. The men also were gathering, andall were watching the foaming crests of the breaking waves.
The storm lasted fifteen hours. Eleven sailors never returned; Patinwas among them.
In the neighborhood of Dieppe the wreck of his bark, theJeune-Amélie, was found. The bodies of his sailors were foundnear Saint-Valéry, but his body was never recovered. As his vesselseemed to have been cut in two, his wife expected and feared his returnfor a long time, for if there had been a collision he alone might havebeen picked up and carried afar off.
Little by little she grew accustomed to the thought that she was ridof him, although she would start every time that a neighbor, a beggaror a peddler would enter suddenly.
One afternoon, about four years after the disappearance of herhusband, while she was walking along the Rue aux Juifs, she stoppedbefore the house of an old sea captain who had recently died and whosefurniture was for sale. Just at that moment a parrot was at auction.He had green feathers and a blue head and was watching everybody witha displeased look. "Three francs!" cried the auctioneer. "A bird thatcan talk like a lawyer, three francs!"
A friend of the Patin woman nudged her and said: "You ought to buythat, you who are rich. It would be good company for you. That bird isworth more than thirty francs. Anyhow, you can always sell it fortwenty or twenty-five!"
Patin's widow added fifty centimes, and the bird was given her in alittle cage, which she carried away. She took it home, and, as she wasopening the wire door in order to give it something to drink, he bither finger and drew blood.
"Oh, how naughty he is!" she said.
Nevertheless she gave it some hemp-seed and corn and watched itpruning its feathers as it glanced warily at its new home and its newmistress.
On the following morning, just as day was breaking, the Patin womandistinctly heard a loud, deep, roaring voice calling: "Are you goingto get up, carrion?"
Her fear was so great that she hid her head under the sheets, for whenPatin was with her as soon as he would open his eyes he would shoutthose well-known words into her ears.
Trembling, rolled into a ball, her back prepared for the thrashingwhich she already expected, her face buried in the pillows, shemurmured: "Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! hehas come back!"
Minutes passed; no noise disturbed the quiet room. Then, trembling,she stuck her head out of the bed, sure that he was there, watching,ready to beat her. Except for a ray of sun shining through the window,she saw nothing, and she said to herself: "He must be hidden."
She waited a long time and then, gaining courage, she said to herself:"I must have dreamed it, seeing there is nobody here."
A little reassured, she closed her eyes, when from quite near afurious voice, the thunderous voice of the drowned man, could be heardcrying: "Say! when in the name of all that's holy are you going to getup, you b----?"
She jumped out of bed, moved by obedience, by the passive obedience ofa woman accustomed to blows and who still remembers and always willremember that voice! She said: "Here I am, Patin; what do you want?"
But Patin did not answer. Then, at a complete loss, she looked aroundher, then in the chimney and under the bed and finally sank into achair, wild with anxiety, convinced that Patin's soul alone was there,near her, and that he had returned in order to torture her.
Suddenly she remembered the loft, in order to reach which one had totake a ladder. Surely he must have hidden there in order to surpriseher. He must have been held by savages on some distant shore, unableto escape until now, and he had returned, worse that ever. There wasno doubting the quality of that voice. She raised her head and asked:"Are you up there, Patin?"
Patin did not answer. Then, with a terrible fear which made her hearttremble, she climbed the ladder, opened the skylight, looked, sawnothing, entered, looked about and found nothing. Sitting on somestraw, she began to cry, but while she was weeping, overcome by apoignant and supernatural terror, she heard Patin talking in the roombelow. He seemed less angry and he was saying: "Nasty weather! Fiercewind! Nasty weather! I haven't eaten, damn it!"
She cried through the ceiling: "Here I am, Patin; I am getting yourmeal ready. Don't get angry."
She ran down again. There was no one in the room. She felt herselfgrowing weak, as if death were touching her, and she tried to run andget help from the neighbors, when a voice near her cried out: "Ihaven't had my breakfast, by G----!"
And the parrot in his cage watched her with his round, knowing, wickedeye. She, too, looked at him wildly, murmuring: "Ah! so it's you!"
He shook his head and continued: "Just you wait! I'll teach you how toloaf."
What happened within her? She felt, she understood that it was he, thedead man, who had come back, who had disguised himself in the feathersof this bird in order to continue to torment her; that he would curse,as formerly, all day long, and bite her, and swear at her, in order toattract the neighbors and make them laugh. Then she rushed for thecage and seized the bird, which scratched and tore her flesh with itsclaws and beak. But she held it with all her strength between herhands. She threw it on the ground and rolled over it with the frenzyof one possessed. She crushed it and finally made of it nothing but alittle green, flabby lump which no longer moved or spoke. Then shewrapped it in a cloth, as in a shroud, and she went out in hernightgown, barefoot; she crossed the dock, against which the choppywaves of the sea were beating, and she shook the cloth and let dropthis little dead thing, which looked like so much grass. Then shereturned, threw herself on her knees before the empty cage, and,overcome by what she had done, kneeled and prayed for forgiveness, asif she had committed some heinous crime.