[Frontispiece: Thereupon he blew into his flute.]



[Illustration: Title page]



  THE BAGPIPERS

  BY

  GEORGE SAND



  BOSTON
  LITTLE, BROWN
  AND COMPANY




  _Copyright_, 1890,
  BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.


  UNIVERSITY PRESS:
  JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.




TO M. EUGÈNE LAMBERT.

MY DEAR CHILD,--As you like to hear me relate the tales told by the
peasants at our _veillées_,--I mean the watch-nights of my youth,
when I had time to listen to them,--I shall try to recall the story
of Étienne Depardieu, and piece together the scattered fragments of
it still remaining in my memory.  It was told to me by the man
himself during several of the _breyage_ evenings,--a name given, as
you know, to the late hours of the night spent in grinding hemp, when
those present relate their village chronicles.  It is long since Père
Depardieu slept the sleep of the just, and he was quite old when he
told me this story of the naïve adventures of his youth.  For this
reason I shall try to let him speak for himself, imitating his manner
as closely as I can.  You will not blame me for insisting on so
doing, because you know from experience that the thoughts and
emotions of a peasant cannot be rendered in our own style of language
without making them unnatural and giving them a tone of even shocking
affectation.

You also know by experience, that the peasantry guess or comprehend
much more than we believe them capable of understanding; and you have
often been struck with their sudden insight, which, even in matters
of art, has an appearance of revelation.  If I were to tell you in my
language and yours certain things which you have heard and understood
in theirs, you would find those very things so unlike what is natural
to these people that you would accuse me of unconsciously putting
something of my own into the relation, and of attributing to the
peasantry reflections and feelings which they could not have.  It
suffices to introduce into the expression of their ideas a single
word that is not in their vocabulary to raise a doubt as to whether
the idea itself emanated from them.  But when we listen to their
speech, we at once observe that although they may not have, like us,
a choice of words suited to every shade of thought, yet they
assuredly have words enough to formulate what they think and to
describe what strikes their senses.

Therefore it is not, as some have reproachfully declared, for the
petty pleasure of producing a style hitherto unused in literature,
and still less to revive ancient forms of speech and old expressions
which all the world knows and is familiar with, that I have bound
myself to the humble task of preserving to Étienne Depardieu's tale
the local color that belongs to it.  It is, rather, because I find it
impossible to make him speak as we do without distorting the methods
by which his mind worked when he expressed himself on points with
which he was not familiar, and as to which he evidently had a strong
desire both to understand and to make himself understood.

If, in spite of the care and conscientiousness which I shall put into
this task, you find that my narrator sometimes sees too clearly or
too deeply into the subjects he takes up, you must blame the weakness
of my presentation.  Forced as I am to choose among our familiar
terms of speech such only as all classes can understand, I
voluntarily deprive myself of those that are most original and most
expressive; but, at any rate, I shall endeavor to employ none which
would be unknown to the peasant who tells the tale, and who (far
superior in this to the peasant of to-day) did not pride himself on
using words that were unintelligible to both his hearers and himself.

I dedicate this novel to you, my dear Eugène, not to give you a proof
of motherly affection, which you do not need to make you feel at home
in my family, but to leave with you, after I am gone, a point of
contact for your recollections of Berry, which has now become, in a
way, the land of your adoption.  You will hereafter recall that you
said, at the time I was writing it: "By the bye, it will soon be ten
years since I came here, intending to spend a month.  I must be
thinking of leaving."  And as I did not see the why and the
wherefore, you explained to me that, being a painter, you had worked
ten years among us to observe and feel nature, and that it was now
necessary you should go to Paris and seek discipline of thought and
the experience of others.  I let you go; but on condition that you
would return to us every summer.  Do not forget your promise.  I send
this book, a distant echo of our bagpipes, to remind you that the
trees are budding, the nightingales have come, and the great
spring-tide festival of nature is beginning in the fields.

GEORGE SAND.

NOHANT, April, 1853.




  CONTENTS.


  First Evening
  Second Evening
  Third Evening
  Fourth Evening
  Fifth Evening
  Sixth Evening
  Seventh Evening
  Eighth Evening
  Ninth Evening
  Tenth Evening
  Eleventh Evening
  Twelfth Evening
  Thirteenth Evening
  Fourteenth Evening
  Fifteenth Evening
  Sixteenth Evening
  Seventeenth Evening
  Eighteenth Evening
  Nineteenth Evening
  Twentieth Evening
  Twenty-First Evening
  Twenty-Second Evening
  Twenty-Third Evening
  Twenty-Fourth Evening
  Twenty-Fifth Evening
  Twenty-Sixth Evening
  Twenty-Seventh Evening
  Twenty-Eighth Evening
  Twenty-Ninth Evening
  Thirtieth Evening
  Thirty-First Evening
  Thirty-Second Evening




THE BAGPIPERS.



FIRST EVENING.

I was not born yesterday, said Père Étienne in 1828.  I came into the
world, as near as I can make out, in the year 54 or 55 of the last
century.  But not remembering much of my earlier years, I shall only
tell you about myself from the time of my first communion, which took
place in '70 in the parish church of Saint-Chartier, then in charge
of the Abbé Montpéron, who is now very deaf and broken down.

This was not because our own parish of Nohant was suppressed in those
days; but our curate having died, the two churches were united for a
time under the ministry of the priest of Saint-Chartier, and we went
every day to be catechised,--that is, I and my little cousin and a
lad named Joseph, who lived in the same house with my uncle, with a
dozen other children of the neighborhood.

I say "my uncle" for short, but he was really my great-uncle, the
brother of my grandmother, and was named Brulet; hence his little
granddaughter and only heir was called Brulette, without any mention
whatever of her Christian name, which was Catherine.

Now, to tell you at once about things as they were, I soon felt that
I loved Brulette better than I was obliged to do as a cousin; and I
was jealous because Joseph lived in the same house, which stood about
a stone's throw distant from the last houses in the village and
rather more than three quarters of a mile from mine,--so that he
could see her at all times, while I saw her only now and then, till
the time when we met to be catechised.

I will tell you how it happened that Brulette's grandfather and
Joseph's mother lived under the same roof.  The house belonged to the
old man, and he let a small part of it to the woman, who was a widow
with only one child.  Her name was Marie Picot, and she was still
marriageable, being little over thirty, and bearing traces in her
face and figure of having been in her day a very pretty woman.  She
was still called by some people "handsome Mariton,"--which pleased
her very much, for she would have liked to marry again.  But
possessing nothing except her bright eyes and her honest tongue, she
thought herself lucky to pay a low price for her lodging and get a
worthy and helpful old man for a landlord and neighbor,--one too who
wouldn't worry her, but might sometimes help her.

Père Brulet and the widow Picot, called Mariton, had thus lived in
each other's good graces for about a dozen years; that is, ever since
the day when Brulette's mother died in giving birth to her, and
Mariton had taken charge of the infant with as much love and care as
if it had been her own.

Joseph, who was three years older than Brulette, remembered being
rocked in the same cradle; and the baby was the first burden ever
trusted to his little arms.  Later, Père Brulet, noticing that his
neighbor had her hands full with the care of the two as they grew
stronger, took Joseph into his part of the house; and so it came to
pass that the little girl slept with the widow, and the little boy
with the old man.

All four, however, ate together.  Mariton cooked the meals, kept the
house, made over and darned the clothes, while the old man, who was
still sturdy enough to work, went out by the day and paid the greater
part of the household expenses.  He did not do this because he was
well-off and his living was bound to be good accordingly, but because
the widow was kind and amiable, and excellent company; and Brulette
considered her so much like a mother that my uncle grew to treat her
as a daughter, or at any rate as a daughter-in-law.

Nothing in the world was ever prettier or sweeter than the little
girl under Mariton's bringing up.  The woman loved cleanliness, and
kept herself as spick and span as her means allowed; and she had
early taught Brulette to do the same.  At the age, therefore, when
children usually roll in the dirt like little animals, the darling
was so clean and dainty in all her ways that everybody wanted to kiss
her; but she was already very chary of her favors, and would never be
familiar unless quite sure of her company.

When she was twelve years old she was really, at times, like a little
woman; and if, carried away by the liveliness of her years, she did
forget herself so far as to play while being catechised, she soon
caught herself up, even more, it seemed to me, out of self-respect
than for the sake of religion.

I don't know if any of us could have told why, but all of us lads,
unlike enough when it came to catechising, felt the difference that
there was between Brulette and the other little girls.

I must own that some in the class were rather big boys.  Joseph was
fifteen and I was sixteen, which our parents and the curate declared
was a disgrace to us.  Such backwardness certainly did prove that
Joseph was too lazy to study, and I too lively to give my mind to it.
In fact, for three years he and I had been rejected from the class;
and if it had not been for the Abbé Montpéron, who was less
particular than our old curate, I suppose we might have continued so
to this day.

However, it is only fair to confess that boys are always younger in
mind than girls; and you will find in every Confirmation class just
this difference between the two species,--the males being already
strong, grown lads, and the females still small, hardly old enough to
wear the coif.

As for knowledge, we were all about alike; none of us knew how to
read, still less to write, and we only learned what we did just as
the little birds learn to sing, without knowing either notes or
Latin, by dint only of using their ears.  But all the same, Monsieur
le curé knew very well which of the flock had the quickest minds, and
which of them remembered what he said.  The cleverest head among the
girls was little Brulette's, and the stupidest of all the stupid boys
was Joseph.

Not that he was really duller than the rest, but he was quite unable
to listen and so get a smattering of things he did not understand;
and he showed so little liking for instruction that I was surprised
at him,--I who could take hold of my lessons fast enough when I
managed to keep still, and quiet down my lively spirits.

Though Brulette scolded him for it sometimes, she never got anything
out of him but tears of vexation.

"I am not worse than others," he would say; "I don't want to offend
God; but words don't come right in my memory, and I can't help it."

"Yes, you can," replied the little one, who already took a tone of
ordering him about; "you can if you choose.  You can do whatever you
like; but you let your mind run after all sorts of things,--it is no
wonder Monsieur l'abbé calls you 'Joseph the absent-minded.'

"He can call me so if he likes," answered Joseph.  "I don't
understand what it means."

But the rest of us understood very well, and turned it into our own
childish language by calling him José l'ébervigé [literally, the
bewildered, the staring-eyed]; a name which stuck to him, to his
great disgust.

Joseph was a melancholy child, with a puny body and a mind turned
inward.  He never left Brulette, and was very submissive to her;
nevertheless, she said he was as obstinate as a mule, and found fault
with him all the time.  Though she did not say much to me about my
lawless, do-nothing ways, I often wished she would take as much
notice of me as she did of him.  However, in spite of the jealousy he
caused me, I cared more for José than for my other comrades, because
he was one of the weakest, and I one of the strongest.  Besides, if I
had not stood up for him, Brulette would have blamed me.  When I told
her that she loved him more than she did me, who was her cousin, she
would say,--

"It is not on his account; it is because of his mother, whom I love
better than I do either of you.  If anything happened to him, I
should not dare go home; for as he never thinks of what he is about,
she charged me to think for both, and I try not to forget it."

I often hear our betters say: "I went to school with such a one; he
was my college companion."  We peasants, who never went to school in
my young days, we say, "I was catechised with such a one; that's my
communion comrade."  Then is the time we make our youthful
friendships, and sometimes, too, the hatreds that last a lifetime.
In the fields, at work, or at the festivals, we talk and laugh
together, and meet and part; but at the catechism classes, which last
a year, and often two, we must put up with each other's company, and
even help each other five or six hours a day.  We always started off
together in a body every morning across the fields and meadows,
beside the coverts and fences, and along the foot-paths; and we came
back in the evening anyhow, as it pleased the good God, for we took
advantage of our liberty to run where we chose, like frolicking
birds.  Those who liked each other's company stayed together; the
disagreeable ones went alone, or banded in twos and threes to tease
and frighten the rest.

Joseph had his ways; they were neither horrid nor sulky, and yet they
were not amiable.  I never remember seeing him really enjoying
himself, nor really frightened, nor really contented, nor really
annoyed with anything that ever happened to us.  In our fights he
never got out of the way, and he usually received blows which he did
not know how to return; but he made no complaint.  You might have
supposed he did not feel them.

When we loitered to play some game, he would sit or lie down at a
little distance and say nothing, answering wide of the mark if we
spoke to him.  He seemed to be listening or looking at something
which the others could not perceive; that's why he was thought to be
one of those who "see the wind."  Sometimes, when Brulette, who knew
his crotchets, but would not explain them, called him, he did not
answer.  Then she would begin to sing,--that was sure to wake him up,
as a whistle is sure to stop people from snoring.

To tell you why I attached myself to a fellow who was such poor
company is more than I am able to do; for I was just the opposite
myself.  I could not do without companions, and I was always
listening and observing others; I liked to talk and question, felt
dull when I was alone, and went about looking for fun and friendship.
Perhaps that was the reason why, pitying the serious, reserved boy, I
imitated Brulette, who would shake him up sometimes,--which did him
more good than it did her, for in fact she indulged his whims much
more than she controlled them.  As far as words went she ordered him
about finely, but as he never obeyed her it was she (and I through
her) who followed in his wake and had patience with him.

The day of our first communion came at last; and, returning from
church, I made such strong resolutions not to give way to my
lawlessness any more that I followed Brulette home to her
grandfather's house, as the best example I could lay hold of to guide
me.

While she went, at Mariton's bidding, to milk the goat, Joseph and I
stayed talking with his mother in my uncle's room.

We were looking at the devotional images which the curate had given
us in remembrance of the sacrament,--or rather I was, for Joseph was
thinking of something else, and fingered them without seeing what
they were.  So the others paid no attention to us; and presently
Mariton said to her old neighbor, alluding to our first communion,--

"Well, it is a good thing done, and now I can hire my lad out to
work.  I have decided to do what I told you I should."

My uncle shook his head sadly, and she continued:

"Just listen to one thing, neighbor.  My José has got no mind.  I
know that, worse luck!  He takes after his poor deceased father, who
hadn't two ideas a week, but who was a well-to-do and well-behaved
man, for all that.  Still, it is an infirmity to have so little
faculty in your head, because if ill-luck has it that a man marries a
silly wife, everything goes to the bad in a hurry.  That's why I said
to myself, when I saw my boy growing so long in the legs, that his
brain would never feed him; and that if I could only leave him a
little sum of money I should die happy.  You know the good a few
savings can do.  In our poor homes it is everything.  Now, I have
never been able to lay by a penny, and I do suppose I'm not young
enough to please a man, for I have not remarried.  Well, if that's
so, God's will be done!  I am still young enough to work; and so I
may as well tell you, neighbor, that the innkeeper at Chartier wants
a servant.  He pays good wages,--thirty crowns a year! besides
perquisites, which come to half as much again.  With all that, strong
and lively as I know I am, I shall have made my fortune in ten years.
I can take my ease in my old days, and leave a little something to my
poor boy.  What do you say to that?"

Père Brulet thought a little, and then replied,--

"You are wrong, neighbor; indeed you are wrong!"

Mariton thought too; and then, understanding what the old man meant,
she said,--

"No doubt, no doubt.  A woman is exposed to blame in a country inn;
even if she behaves properly, people won't believe it.  That's what
you meant, isn't it?  Well, but what am I to do?  Of course it
deprives me of all chance of re-marrying; but we don't regret what we
suffer for our children,--indeed, sometimes we rejoice in it."

"There is something worse than suffering," said my uncle,--"there is
shame; and that recoils upon the children."

Mariton sighed.

"Yes," she said, "a woman is exposed to daily insults in a house of
that kind.  She must always be on the look-out to defend herself.  If
she gets angry, that injures the custom, and her masters don't like
it."

"Some of them," said the old man, "try to find handsome and
good-humored women like you to help sell their liquors; a saucy maid
is often all an inn-keeper needs to do a better business than his
neighbors."

"I know that," said Mariton; "but a woman can be gay and lively, and
quick to serve the guests, without allowing herself to be insulted."

"Bad language is always insulting," said Père Brulet; "and it ought
to cost an honest woman dear to get accustomed to such ways.  Think
how mortified your son will be when he hears the carters and the
bagmen joking with his mother."

"Luckily he's simple," said Mariton, looking at Joseph.

I looked at him too, and I was surprised that he did not hear a word
of what his mother was saying in a voice loud enough for me to catch
every word.  I gathered from that that he was "hearing thick," as we
said in those days, meaning one who was hard of hearing.

Joseph got up presently and went after Brulette, who was in her
little goat-pen, which was nothing more than a shed made of planks
stuffed with straw, where she kept about a dozen animals.

He flung himself on a pile of brushwood; and having followed him (for
fear of being thought inquisitive if I stayed behind), I saw that he
was crying inside of him, though there were no tears in his eyes.

"Are you asleep, José?" said Brulette; "if not, why are you lying
there like a sick sheep?  Come, give me those sticks you are lying
on; I want the leaves for my goats."

So saying, she began to sing,--but very softly, because it wasn't the
thing to make a racket on the day of her first communion.

I fancied her song had the usual effect of drawing Joseph from his
dreams, for he rose, and went away.  Then Brulette said to me,--

"What is the matter?  He seems worse than usual."

"I think he must have heard that he is to be hired out and leave his
mother," I replied.

"He expected it," said Brulette; "isn't it the custom for all of us
to go out to service as soon as we have received the sacrament?  If I
were not lucky enough to be my grandfather's only child, I should
have to leave home and earn my living as others do."

Brulette did not seem much distressed at the thought of parting from
Joseph; but when I told her that Mariton was also going to hire
herself out and live far away, she began to sob, and rushing into the
house, she flung herself on Mariton's neck, drying out,--

"Is it true, darling, that you are going to leave me?"

"Who told you that?" asked Mariton.  "It is not decided."

"Yes, it is," cried Brulette; "you said so, and you want to hide it
from me."

"As some inquisitive boys don't know how to hold their tongue," said
Mariton, with a severe glance at me, "I must tell you all.  Yes, my
child, you must bear it like a brave and sensible girl who has given
her soul to the good God this very day."

"Papa," said Brulette, turning to her grandfather, "how can you
consent to let her go?  Who is to take care of you?"

"You, my child," replied Mariton; "you are now old enough to do your
duty.  Listen to me,--and you too, neighbor; for here is something I
have not yet told you."

Taking the little girl on her knee, while I stood between my uncle's
legs (for his grieved look drew me to him), Mariton continued to
reason, first with one, and then with the other.

"If it had not been for the friendship I owe you," she said, "I ought
long ago to have left Joseph here and paid his board while I went out
to service and laid by a little money.  But I felt I was bound to
bring you up, my Brulette, till you made your first communion,
because you are the youngest, and because a girl wants a mother
longer than a boy.  I hadn't the heart to leave you as long as you
couldn't do without me.  But now, you see, the time has come; and if
anything can reconcile you to losing me, it is that you will soon
feel useful to your grandfather.  I have taught you how to manage a
household and all that a good girl ought to know for the service of
her parents and family.  You'll practise it for my sake and to do
credit to my teaching.  It will be my pride and consolation to hear
people tell how my Brulette takes good care of her grandfather, and
manages his money like a little woman.  Come, be brave, and don't
deprive me of the little courage that I have got; for if you feel
badly at my departure, I feel worse than you.  Remember that I am
leaving Père Brulet, who has been the best of friends to me, and my
poor José, who will hear hard things said of his mother and his home.
But my duty bids me do it, and you wouldn't wish me to go against
that?"

Brulette cried till evening, and could not help Mariton in anything;
but when she saw her hiding her tears as she cooked the supper, the
girl flung her arms round her foster-mother's neck and vowed to do as
she had taught her; and thereupon set to work with a will.

They sent me to find Joseph, who had forgotten (not for the first
time, nor for the last either) that he ought to come home and get his
supper like other people.

I found him in a corner all alone, dreaming and gazing at the ground
as if his eyes would take root in it.  Contrary to his usual custom,
he did let me drag a few words out of him, in which, as I thought,
there was more annoyance than grief.  He was not surprised at having
to go out to service, knowing that he was now old enough, and could
not do otherwise; but without showing that he had overheard his
mother's plans, he complained that nobody loved him or thought him
capable of doing good work.

I could not get him to explain himself any farther; and all that
evening--for I stayed to say my prayers with him and with
Brulette--he seemed to sulk, while Brulette, on the contrary, was
full of kindness and caresses for everybody.

Soon after this, Joseph was hired out as a laborer to Père Michel on
the estate of Aulnières.

Mariton went to work at an inn called the Bœuf Couronné, kept by
Benoît at Saint-Chartier.

Brulette remained with her grandfather, and I with my parents, who
had a small property and kept me at home to help them cultivate it.

The day of my first communion affected my spirits.  I had made great
efforts to bring myself into thoughts that were suitable to my age;
and the catechising with Brulette had also changed me.  Thoughts of
her were always mixed up, I don't know how, with those I tried to
give to the good God; and all the while that I was growing in grace
as to my behavior, my head was running on follies of love which were
beyond her years, and even for mine they were a little ahead of the
proper season.

About this time my father took me to the fair at Orval, near
Saint-Armand, to sell a brood-mare; and for the first time in my life
I was away from home.  My mother observed that I did not sleep or eat
enough to support my growth, which was faster than customary in our
part of the country, and my father thought a little amusement would
do me good.  But I did not find as much in seeing the world and new
places as I should have done six months earlier.  I had a foolish,
languishing desire to look at the girls, without daring to say a word
to them; then I thought of Brulette, whom I fancied I could marry,
for the sole reason that she was the only one I was not afraid of,
and I reckoned her age and mine over and over again,--which didn't
make the time go any faster than the good God had marked it on his
clock.

As I rode back on the crupper behind my father on another mare which
we had bought at the fair, we met, in a dip of the road, a
middle-aged man who was driving a little cart laden with furniture,
the which, being drawn by nothing better than a donkey, had stuck
fast in the mud, and couldn't go on.  The man was beginning to
lighten the load by taking off part of it; and my father, seeing
this, said to me,--

"Let us get down, and help a neighbor out of his trouble."

The man thanked us; and then, as if speaking to his cart, he said,--

"Come, little one, wake up; I shouldn't like to upset you."

When he said that, I saw, rising from a mattress, a pretty little
girl, apparently about fifteen or sixteen years old, who rubbed her
eyes, and asked what had happened.

"The road is bad, daughter," said the man, taking her up in his arms.
"Come, I can't let you get your feet wet,--for you must know," he
added, turning to my father, "she is ill with fever from having grown
so fast.  Just see what a rampant vine she is for a girl of eleven
and a half!"

"True as God," said my father; "she is a fine sprig of a girl, and
pretty as the sunshine, though the fever has rather paled her.  But
that will go off; feed her up, and she won't sell the worse for it."

When my father said this his head was still full of the talk of the
horse-dealers at the fair.  But seeing that the girl had left her
sabots in the cart, and that it would be no easy matter to find them,
he said to me,--

"Here! you are strong enough to hold the little girl for a while."

Then, putting her into my arms, he harnessed our mare into the place
of the useless donkey, and pulled the cart out of the mud-hole.  But
there was another quagmire farther on, as my father knew, having gone
that road several times; so calling to me to come on, he walked in
front with the peasant, who was twisting his ass's ears.

I carried the great girl and looked at her with amazement; for though
she was a head taller than Brulette, I could see by her figure that
she was no older.

She was white and slender as a wax taper, and her black hair,
breaking loose from a little cap made in the fashion of other parts,
which had been rumpled as she slept, fell over my breast and almost
down to my knees.  I had never seen anything so perfect as her pale
face, her clear blue eyes fringed with thick lashes, her gentle,
tired air, and even a perfectly black mark at one corner of her
mouth, which made her beauty something strange and never to be
forgotten.

She seemed so young that my heart said nothing to me, though it was
close to hers; yet it was not so much her want of years, perhaps, as
the languor of her illness that made her appear so childish.  I did
not speak to her, and walked along without thinking her heavy; but I
took pleasure in looking at her, the same pleasure that one feels at
the sight of any fine thing, whether it be a girl or a woman, a
flower or a fruit.

As we neared the second mud-hole, where her father and mine began,
the one to urge his horse, the other to shove the wheel, the little
girl spoke to me in a language which made me laugh, for I did not
understand a word of it.  She was surprised at my surprise, and then
she spoke in the language we all speak.

"Don't strain yourself carrying me," she said; "I can walk very well
without sabots; I am as much used to it as others."

"Yes, but you are ill," said I; "and I could carry four like you.
What country do you belong to?  That was a queer language you spoke
just now."

"What country?" she said.  "I don't belong to any country; I come
from the woods, that's all.  And you, where do you come from?"

"Ah! my little fairy, if you belong to the woods, I belong to the
fields," I answered, laughing.

I was going to question her further, when her father came and took
her from me.

"Well," he said, shaking hands with my father, "I thank you, my good
people.  And you, little one, kiss the kind lad who has carried you
like a load of game."

The child did as she was bid; she was not old enough to be coy, and
thinking no harm, she made no difficulty.  She kissed me on both
cheeks, saving: "Thanks to you, my fine carrier;" then, passing into
her father's arms, she was laid on her mattress, and seemed about to
go to sleep again, without minding the jolts or thinking about the
risks of the journey.

"Good-bye again!" said her father, taking me by the knee, to mount me
on the mare's crupper.  "A fine lad!" he remarked to my father,
looking me over, "and as forward for the age you say he is as my
little girl is for hers."

"He is a little the worse for it in the way of health," answered my
father; "but, God willing, work will soon cure him.  Excuse us if we
go on before you; we have far to go, and I want to get home before
night."

Thereupon my father struck his heels into the mare, which trotted
off, while I, looking back, saw the man turn his cart to the right,
and go off in another direction.

I was soon thinking of something else, but a recollection of Brulette
coming into my head, I remembered the free kisses the little girl had
given me, and wondered why Brulette always slapped me when I tried to
get a kiss from her; then, as the ride was long, and I had got up
before daylight, I fell asleep behind my father, mixing up in my
tired head, I'm sure I don't know how, the faces of the two little
girls.

My father pinched me to wake up, for he felt my weight on his
shoulders, and was afraid I should tumble off.  I asked him who those
people we had met were.

"Which of them do you mean?" he said, laughing at my sleepy way.  "We
have met more than five hundred since morning."

"Those with the cart and donkey," I replied.

"Oh!" said he, "well, faith, I don't know; I never thought to ask.
Probably they come from either La Marche or Champagne, for they speak
with a foreign accent; but I was so busy watching to see if the mare
was good at the collar that I didn't take notice of much else.  She
does pull very well, and didn't hang back at all; I think she will
prove serviceable, and that I have not paid too dear for her."

From that time on (the trip having certainly done me good) I got
better and better, and took a liking for work.  My father gave me
first the care of the mare, then that of the garden, and finally that
of the field; and, little by little, I came to take pleasure in
digging, planting, and harvesting.

By that time my father was a widower, and seemed anxious to let me
benefit by the property my mother had left me.  So he gave me a share
in all our little profits, and wished for nothing so much as to see
me turn out a good farmer.  It was not long before he found I had a
relish for the life; for if youth needs courage to deprive itself of
pleasure in the service of others, it needs none at all to work for
its own interests, above all when they are in common with those of a
worthy family, honest in the division of profits, and agreeing well
as to the work.

I still continued rather fond of gossiping and amusing myself on
Sundays.  But no one blamed me for that at home, because I was a good
worker during the week.  Such a life brought me health of body and
good-humor, and a little more sense in my head than I gave promise of
at first.  I forgot all the vaporings of love, for nothing keeps you
so quiet as to sweat with a spade from sunrise to sunset; and when
night comes, those who have had to do with the heavy, rich soil of
our parts (the hardest mistress there is), amuse themselves best by
going to sleep, to be ready for the morrow.

That is how I peacefully reached the age when it is allowable to
think, not of little girls, but of grown-up ones; and at the very
first stirring of such ideas, I found my cousin Brulette still fixed,
above all others, in my inclinations.

Living alone with her grandfather, Brulette had done her best to be
older than her years in sense and courage.  But some children are
born with the gift or the fate of being always petted and cared for.
Mariton's former lodging was let to Mère Lamouche, of Vieilleville,
who was poor, and was therefore ready to serve the Brulets as though
they paid her wages, hoping thereby to get a hearing when she
declared herself unable to pay the rent.  It so turned out; and
Brulette, finding that the new neighbor helped her, forestalled her,
and made things comfortable for her, had time and ease to grow in
mind and beauty without much effort of soul or body.




SECOND EVENING.

Little Brulette was now called "handsome Brulette," and was much
talked of in our country-side; for within the memory of man no
prettier girl or finer eyes or slimmer waist or rosier cheek or hair
of brighter gold had ever been seen; her hand was like satin, and her
foot as dainty as a young lady's.

All that tells you plain enough that my cousin did not work very
hard; she never went out in bad weather, took care to shade herself
from the sun, did not wash the clothes, and made no use of her limbs
to tire them.

Perhaps you will think she was idle?  Not at all.  She did everything
that she could not help doing fast and well.  She had too much good
sense not to keep order and neatness in the household and take the
best care of her grandfather, as in duty bound.  Moreover, she liked
finery too well not to do a good bit of sewing; but as to hard work,
she never so much as heard of it.  There was no occasion that she
should, and therefore it can't be said she was to blame.

There are some families where toil and nothing else comes early to
warn young people that life is not so much a question of amusement in
this low world as of earning a living among their fellows.  But in
Père Brulet's home there was little to do to make both ends meet.
The old man was only in the seventies, and being a good workman, very
clever at cutting stone (which, you know, is quite a science in these
parts), steady, and much in demand by every one, he earned a good
living; and, thanks to the fact of being a widower with no one to
support but his granddaughter, he had laid by quite a little sum
against illness or accident.  Fortunately he kept his health, so
that, without riches, he was never in want.

My father, however, declared that Brulette loved ease and comfort too
well; meaning by that, that she might have to come down to other
things when it was time for her to marry.  He agreed with me that she
was as sweet and amiable in her ways as in her person; but he would
not encourage me to court her in marriage.  She was too poor, he
said, to be a lady, and he often declared that a wife should be
either rich or very full of energy.  "At first sight, I like one as
well as the other," he would say; "though perhaps, on second
thoughts, I would rather have the energy than the money.  But
Brulette has not enough of either to tempt a wise man."

I knew my father was right; but my cousin's sweet eyes and gentle
speech had more influence over me than he could have, and over other
young fellows too,--for you must know that I was not the only one.
From the time she was fifteen she was surrounded with striplings like
me, whom she knew how to restrain and order about as she had done in
her childish days.  You might say she was born proud, and knew her
value long before compliments had given her an idea of it.  She loved
praise and submission, and while she never allowed any one to make
free with her, she was very willing they should love her timidly.  I,
like a good many others, was filled with the strongest desire to
please her, and at the same time I was often annoyed to find myself
only one of a crowd.

Two of us, however, were privileged to talk to her rather more
intimately, and to walk home with her when we met at a dance, or
after church.  I mean Joseph Picot and I.  But we gained little or
nothing by that; and perhaps, without saying so, we laid the blame to
each other.

Joseph was still on the farm at Aulnières, about a mile and a half
from Brulette's house, and half that distance from mine.  He was a
mere laborer.  Though he was not really handsome, some, who did not
object to a melancholy face, might think him so.  His face was lean
and yellow, and his brown hair, falling straight from his head and
down his cheeks, made him even more puny in appearance.
Nevertheless, he was not ill-made, nor ungraceful in body, and there
was something in his closed jaw which always seemed to me the reverse
of weakness.  He was thought ill because he moved slowly and had none
of the gayety of youth; but seeing him often, as I did, I knew it was
his nature to be so, and that he really was not suffering at all.

He was, however, a very poor laborer of the soil, not over careful
with cattle, and far from agreeable in temper.  His wages were the
lowest that were ever paid to a plough-boy, and people were surprised
that his master still kept him; for nothing prospered with him,
either in the stable or the fields, and he was so sullen when
reproved that no one could do anything with him.  But Père Michel
declared that he never gave any angry answer, and he preferred those
who submitted without a word, even if they did have sulky looks, to
those who deceived you with flattery.

His faithfulness and the contempt he showed at all times for
injustice made his master respect him, though he often remarked what
a pity it was that an honest, upright lad had such soft muscles and a
mind so indifferent to his work.  But he kept him for what he was
worth, from habit, and also out of consideration for Père Brulet, who
was one of Père Michel's earliest friends.

In what I have said of Joseph you will readily see that he could not
please the girls.  Indeed, they never looked at him, except to wonder
why they never caught his eye, which was large and clear as an owl's
and never seemed to see anything.

Yet I was always jealous of him, because Brulette paid him more
attention than she gave to any one else, and obliged me to do the
same.  She no longer lectured him, and openly accepted his temper as
God made it, without getting angry or seeming at all annoyed.  She
forgave him his want of gallantry, and even politeness,--two things
which she exacted from the rest of us.  He might do all sorts of
stupid things,--such as sit down on a chair if she left it for a
moment, and oblige her to find another; or neglect to pick up her
balls of wool when they rolled away; or break a bodkin or some other
sewing utensil,--he might do all such things, and she would never say
an impatient word to him; whereas she scolded and ridiculed me if I
did a tenth part of them.

Then, she took care of him as if he were a brother.  She kept a bit
of meat put by for him when he came to see her, and made him eat it
whether he was hungry or not, telling him he ought to strengthen his
stomach and make blood.  She had an eye to his clothes just like
Mariton, and even took upon herself to make him new ones, saying that
his mother had not time to cut and sew them.  Sometimes she would
lead her cattle to pasture over where he was at work, and talked to
him; though he talked very little, and very badly when he tried to do
so.

Besides all this, she would not allow any one to treat him with
contempt, or to make fun of his melancholy face and his staring eyes.
To all such remarks she replied that his health was not good; also
that he was not more stupid than other people; if he talked little,
it was not that he did not think; and, in short, that it was better
to be silent than to talk a great deal with nothing to say.

Sometimes I was tempted to contradict her; but she quickly cut me
short by saying,--

"You must have a very bad heart, Tiennet, to abandon that poor lad to
the jeers of others, instead of defending him when they torment him.
I thought better of you than that."

Then of course I did her will, and defended Joseph; though for my
part I could not see what illness or affliction he had, unless
laziness and distrust were infirmities of nature,--which might be
possible; though it certainly seemed to me in the power of man to
subdue them.

On his side, Joseph, without showing an aversion for me, treated me
just as coldly as he did the rest, and never appeared to remember the
assistance he got from me in his various encounters.  Whether he
cared for Brulette, like all the others, or whether he cared only for
himself, he smiled in a strange manner and with an air of contempt
whenever she gave me the most trifling mark of friendship.

One day, when he had pushed the thing so far as to shrug his
shoulders, I resolved to have an explanation with him,--as quietly as
possible, so as not to displease my cousin, but frankly enough to
make him feel that if I put up with him in her presence with great
patience, I expected him to treat me in the same way.  But as on that
occasion a number of Brulette's other lovers were present, I put off
doing this until the first time I should find him alone.
Accordingly, I went the next day to join him in a field where he was
at work.

I was a good deal surprised to find Brulette with him, sitting on the
roots of a big tree by the side of a ditch, where he was supposed to
be cutting brush to make pegs.  But in fact he was cutting nothing at
all; though by way of work he was whittling something which he
quickly put in his pocket as soon as he saw me, closing his knife and
beginning to talk as if I had been his master and had caught him in a
fault, or as if he had been saying secret things to my cousin which I
had interrupted.

I was so troubled and vexed that I was going away without a word,
when Brulette called to me, and beginning to knit (for she too had
laid aside her work while talking to him), she told me to sit down
beside her.

It struck me it was only a sop to soothe my vexation, so I refused,
saying that the weather was not pleasant enough to sit about in
ditches.  And truly, though not cold, it was very damp; the thaw had
made the brook full and the grass muddy.  There was still a little
snow in the furrows, and the wind was disagreeable.  According to my
notions, Brulette must have thought Joseph very interesting to make
her lead her flock out there in such weather--she who so often and so
readily turned them over to the care of her neighbor.

"José," said Brulette, "our friend Tiennet is sulky because he sees
we have a secret between us.  Won't you let me tell it to him?  His
advice will do no harm, and he will tell you just what he thinks of
your idea."

"He!" said Joseph, beginning to shrug his shoulders just as had done
the night before.

"Does your back itch whenever you see me?" I said to him, spitefully.
"I can scratch you in a way that will cure you once for all."

He looked at me from under his lids as if ready to bite me; but
Brulette touched him gently on the shoulder with the end of her
distaff, and calling him to her, she whispered in his ear.

"No, no!" he answered, without taking the trouble to hide his answer.
"Tiennet is no good at all to advise me,--he knows no more than your
goat; and if you tell him the least thing, I won't tell you anything
more."

Thereupon he picked up his shears and his chopper, and went to work
at some distance.

"There!" said Brulette, rising to call in her flock, "now he is
cross.  But never mind, Tiennet, it is nothing serious,--I know his
fancies; there is nothing to be done, and indeed the best way is to
let him alone.  He's a lad who has had a bee in his bonnet ever since
he came into the world.  He doesn't know how to express what he
feels, and he really can't.  It is better, therefore, to leave him to
himself; for if one worries him with questions, he only cries, and
then we have hurt his feelings for nothing."

"It is my opinion, though," I said to Brulette, "that you know how to
make him confess himself."

"I was mistaken," she answered; "I thought he had some much worse
trouble.  It would make you laugh if I could tell you what the
trouble really is; but as he chooses to tell no one but me, let us
think no more about it."

"If it is such a little thing," I persisted, "you would not take so
much interest in it."

"Do you think I take too much?" she said.  "Don't I owe it to the
woman who brought him into the world and who brought me up with more
care and kindness than she gave to her own child?"

"That's a good reason, Brulette.  If it is Mariton you love in her
son, very good; in that case, I wish Mariton was my mother,--it would
be better for me than being your cousin."

"Leave that sort of nonsense to my other sweethearts," answered
Brulette, blushing a little.  But no compliments ever came amiss to
her, though she pretended to laugh at them.

As we left the fields just opposite to my house she came in with me
to say good-evening to my sister.

But my sister was out, and Brulette could not wait, because her sheep
were in the road.  In order to keep her a moment, I bethought me of
taking off her sabots, to remove the lumps of snow, and drying them.
And so, holding her as it were by the paws,--for she was obliged to
sit down while she waited for me to finish,--I tried to tell her,
better than I had ever yet dared to do, the trouble my love for her
was piling up in my heart.

But there! see the devilish thing,--I couldn't get out the crowning
word of it.  I managed the second and the third, but the first
wouldn't come.  My forehead was sweating.  The girl could have helped
me out, if she only would, for she knew the tune of my song well
enough; others had sung it to her already.  But with Brulette, one
had to have patience and discretion; and though I was not altogether
new at gallant speeches, those I had exchanged with others who were
less difficult than Brulette (just by way of getting my hand in) had
taught me nothing that was proper to say to a high-priced young girl
like my cousin.

All that I could manage was to hark back to the subject of her
favorite, Joseph.  At first she laughed; then, little by little,
seeing that I was seriously finding fault with him, she became
herself serious.  "Let the poor lad alone," she said; "he is much to
be pitied."

"But why and wherefore?  Is he consumptive, or crazy, that you are so
afraid of his being meddled with?"

"He is worse than that," answered Brulette; "he is an egotist."

"Egotist" was one of the curate's words which Brulette had picked up,
though it was not used among us in my day.  Brulette had a wonderful
memory; and that was how she sometimes came out with words which I
might have recollected too, only I did not, and consequently I could
not understand them.

I was too shy to ask her for an explanation and admit my ignorance.
Besides, I imagined it was a mortal illness; and I felt that such a
great affliction convicted me of injustice.  I begged Brulette's
pardon for having annoyed her, adding,--

"If I had known what you tell me sooner, I shouldn't have felt any
bitterness or rancor for the poor fellow."

"How came you never to notice it?" she said.  "Don't you see how he
makes every one give way to him and oblige him, without ever dreaming
of thanking them; how the least neglect affronts him, and the
slightest joke angers him; how he sulks and suffers about things
nobody else would ever notice; and how one must put one's best self
into a friendship with him without his ever comprehending that it is
not his due, but an offering made to God of love to our neighbor?"

"Is that the effect of illness?" I asked, a little puzzled by
Brulette's explanation.

"Isn't it the very worst thing he can have in his heart?" she replied.

"Does his mother know he has something the matter with his heart?"

"She guesses at it; but, you see, I can't talk to her about it for
fear of grieving her."

"Has no one tried to cure him?"

"I have done, and I mean to do, my best," she answered, continuing a
topic on which we didn't understand each other; "but I think my way
of managing him only makes him worse."

"It is true," I said, after reflecting awhile, "that the fellow
always did have something queer about him.  My grandmother, who is
dead,--and you know how she piqued herself on foretelling the
future,--said he had misfortune written on his face; that he was
doomed to live in misery or to die in the flower of his age, because
of a line he has on his forehead.  Ever since then, I declare to you
that when Joseph is gloomy I see that line of ill-luck, though I
never knew where my grandmother saw it.  At such times I'm afraid of
him, or rather of his fate, and I feel led to spare him blame and
annoyance as if he was not long for this world."

"Bah!" said Brulette, laughing, "nothing but my great-aunt's fancies!
I remember them very well.  Didn't she also tell you that light eyes,
like Joseph's, can see spirits and hidden things?  As for me, I don't
believe a word of it, neither do I think he is in danger of dying.
People live a long time with a mind like his; they take their comfort
in worrying others, though perhaps, while threatening to die, they
will live to bury all about them."

I could not understand what she said, and I was going to question her
further, when she asked for her sabots and slipped her feet easily
into them, though they were so small I couldn't get my hand in.
Then, calling to her dog and shortening her petticoat, she left me,
quite anxious and puzzled by all she said, and as little advanced as
ever in my courtship.

The following Sunday, as she was starting for mass at Saint-Chartier,
where she liked better to go than to our own parish church, because
there was dancing in the market-place between mass and vespers, I
asked if I could go with her.

"No," she said.  "I am going with my grandfather; and he does not
like a crowd of sweethearts after me along the roads."

"I am not a crowd of sweethearts," I said.  "I am your cousin, and my
uncle never wanted me out of his way."

"Well, keep out of mine now," she said,--"only for to-day.  My father
and I want to talk with José, who is in the house and is going to
mass with us."

"Then he has come to propose marriage; and you are glad enough to
listen to him."

"Are you crazy, Tiennet?  After all I told you about José!"

"You told me he had an illness that would make him live longer than
other people; and I don't see what there is in that to quiet me."

"Quiet you for what?" exclaimed Brulette, astonished.  "What illness?
Where are your wits?  Upon my word, I think all the men are crazy!"

Then, taking her grandfather's arm, who just then came out of the
house with José, she started, as light as a feather and gay as a
fawn, while my good uncle, who thought there was nothing like her,
smiled at the passers-by as much as to say, "You have no such girl as
that to show!"

I followed them at a distance, to see if Joseph drew any closer to
her on the way, and whether she took his arm, and whether the old man
left them together.  Nothing of the kind.  Joseph walked all the time
at my uncle's left, and Brulette on his right, and they seemed to be
talking gravely.

After the service I asked Brulette to dance with me.

"Oh, you are too late!" she said; "I have promised at least fifteen
dances.  You must come back about vesper time."

This annoyance did not include Joseph, for he never danced; and to
avoid seeing Brulette surrounded by her other swains, I followed him
into the inn of the "Bœuf Couronné," where he went to see his
mother, and I to kill time with a few friends.

I was rather a frequenter of wine-shops, as I have already told
you,--not because of the bottle, which never got the better of my
senses, but from a liking for company and talk and songs.  I found
several lads and lasses whom I knew and with whom I sat down to
table, while Joseph sat in a corner, not drinking a drop or saying a
word,--sitting there to please his mother, who liked to look at him
and throw him a word now and then as she passed and repassed.  I
don't know if it ever occurred to Joseph to help her in the hard work
of serving so many people, but Benoit wouldn't have allowed such an
absent-minded fellow to stumble about among his dishes and bottles.

You have heard tell of the late Benoit?  He was a fat man with a
topping air, rather rough in speech, but a good liver and a fine
talker when occasion served.  He was upright enough to treat Mariton
with the respect she deserved; for she was, to tell the truth, the
queen of servants, and Benoit's house had never had so much custom as
while she reigned over it.

The thing Père Brulet warned her of never happened.  The danger of
the business cured her of coquetry, and she kept her own person as
safe as she did the property of her master.  The truth is, it was
chiefly for her son's sake that she had brought herself down to
harder work and greater discretion than was natural to her.  In that
she was seen to be so good a mother that instead of losing the
respect of others, she had gained more since she served at the inn;
and that's a thing which seldom happens in our country villages,--nor
elsewhere, as I've heard tell.

Seeing that Joseph was paler and gloomier than usual, the thought of
what my grandmother had said of him, together with the illness (very
queer, it seemed to me) which Brulette imputed to him, somehow struck
my mind and touched my heart.  No doubt he was still angry with me
for the harsh words I had used to him.  I wanted to make him forget
them, and to force him to sit at our table, thinking I could unawares
make him a trifle drunk; for, like others of my age, I thought the
fumes of a little good white wine a sovereign cure for low spirits.

Joseph, who paid little attention to what was going on around him,
let us fill his glass and nudge his elbow so often that any one but
he would soon have felt the effects.  Those who were inciting him to
drink, and thoughtlessly setting him the example, soon had too much;
but I, who wanted my legs for the dance, stopped short as soon as I
felt that I had had enough.  Joseph fell into a deep cogitation,
leaned his two elbows on the table, and seemed to me neither brighter
nor duller than he was before.

No one paid any attention to him; everybody laughed and chattered on
their own account.  Some began to sing, just as folks sing when they
have been drinking, each in his own key and his own time, one fellow
trolling his chorus beside another who trolls his, the whole together
making a racket fit to split your head, while the whole company
laughed and shouted so that nobody could hear anything at all.

Joseph sat still without flinching, and looked at us in his staring
way for quite a time.  Then he got up and went away, without saying
anything.

I thought he might be ill, and I followed him.  But he walked
straight and fast, like a man who was none the worse for wine; and he
went so far up the slope of the hill above the town of Saint-Chartier
that I lost sight of time, and came back again, for fear I should
miss my dance with Brulette.

She danced so prettily, my dear Brulette, that every eye was upon
her.  She adored dancing and dress and compliments, but she never
encouraged any one to make serious love to her; and when the bell
rang for vespers, she would walk away, dignified and serious, into
church, where she certainly prayed a little, though she never forgot
that all eyes were on her.

As for me, I remembered that I had not paid my score at the Bœuf
Couronné, and I went back to settle with Mariton, who took occasion
to ask me where her son had gone.

"You made him drink," she said; "and that's not his habit.  You might
at least not have let him wander off alone; accidents happen so
easily."




THIRD EVENING.

I went back to the slope and followed the road Joseph had taken,
inquiring for him as I went along, but could hear nothing except that
he had been seen to pass, and had not returned.  The road led me to
the right of the forest, and I went in to question the forester,
whose house, a very ancient building, stands at the top of a large
tract of heathland lying on the hillside.  It is a melancholy place,
though you can see from there to a great distance; and nothing grows
there at the edge of the oak-copses but brake and furze.

The forester of those days was Jarvois, a relation of mine, born in
Verneuil.  As soon as he saw me, and because I did not often walk
that way, he was so friendly and hospitable that I could not get away.

"Your comrade, Joseph, was here about an hour ago," he said, "and
asked if the charcoal-burners were in the woods; his master probably
told him to inquire.  He spoke clear enough and was steady on his
legs, and he went on up to the big oak; you need not be uneasy.  And
now you are here, you must drink a bottle with me, and wait till my
wife comes back with the cows, for she will be hurt if you go away
without seeing her."

Thinking there was no reason to worry, I stayed with my relations
till sunset.  It was about the middle of February; and when it got to
be nearly dark I said good-night, and took the upper road, intending
to cross to Verneuil and go home by the straight road, without
returning to Saint-Chartier, where I had nothing further to do.

My relative explained the road, as I had never been in the forest
more than once or twice in my life.  You know that in these parts we
seldom go far from home, especially those of us who till the ground,
and keep near our dwellings like chicks round a coop.

So, in spite of a warning, I kept too far to the left; and instead of
striking a great avenue of oaks, I got among the birches, at least a
mile and a half from where I ought to have been.

The night was dark, and I could not see a thing; for in those days
the forest of Saint-Chartier was still a fine one,--not as to size,
for it was never very large, but from the age of the trees, which
allowed no light from the sky to get through them.  What it thus
gained in grandeur and greenery it made you pay for in other ways.
Below it was all roots and brambles, sunken paths and gullies full of
spongy black mud, out of which you could hardly draw your feet, and
where you sank knee-deep if you got even a little way off the track.
Presently, getting lost in the forest and scratched and muddied in
the opens, I began to curse the luckless time and the luckless place.

After struggling and wading till I was overheated, though the night
was chilly, I got among some dry brake which were up to my chin; and
looking straight before me, I saw in the gray of the night something
like a huge black mass in the middle of an open tract.  I felt sure
it was the big oak, and that I had reached the end of the forest.  I
had never seen the tree, but I had heard tell of it, for it was
famous as one of the oldest in the country; and from the talk of
others I knew pretty well how it was shaped.  You must surely have
seen it.  It is a gnarled tree, topped in its youth by some accident
so that it grew in breadth and thickness; its foliage, shrivelled by
the winter, still clung to it, and it stood up there like a rock
looking to heaven.

I was about to go towards it, thinking I should find the path, which
made a straight line through the woods, when I heard a sound of music
that was something like bagpipes, but so loud you might think it
thunder.

Don't ask me why a thing which ought to have comforted me, by showing
the presence of a human being, did actually frighten me like a child.
I must honestly tell you that in spite of my nineteen years and a
good pair of fists, I had not felt easy after I found I had lost my
way.  It was not because wolves do come down sometimes into that
forest from the great woods of Saint-Aoust that I lost heart, nor yet
that I feared any evil-intentioned Christian; but I was chilled
through with the kind of fear that you can't explain to your own
self, because you don't really know the cause of it.  The dark night;
the wintry fog; a jumble of noises heard in the woods, with others
coming from the plain; a crowd of foolish stories which you have
heard, and which now start up in your head; and finally the idea of
being all alone far from your own belongings,--there's enough in all
that to upset your mind when you are young, and, indeed, when you are
old.

You can laugh at me if you like; but that music, in that lonely
place, seemed to me devilish.  It was too loud and strong to be
natural, and the tune was so sad and strange that it was not like any
other known music on this Christian earth.  I quickened my steps;
then I stopped, amazed at another sound.  While the music clashed on
one side, a bell chimed on the other; and the two sounds came at me,
as if to prevent me from going forward or back.

I jumped to one side and hid in the brake; and as I did so, there was
a flash of light about four feet from me, and I saw a large black
animal, that I couldn't make out distinctly, spring up and disappear
at a run.

Instantly from all parts of the undergrowth a crowd of the same
animals sprang out, stamping, and running towards the bell and
towards the music, which now seemed to be getting nearer to each
other.  There might have been two hundred of these animals, but I saw
at least thirty thousand; for terror got hold of me, and I began to
see sparks and white specks in my eyes, such as fear produces in
those who can't defend themselves.

I don't know whose legs carried me to the oak; I seemed to have none
of my own.  But I got there, quite astonished to have crossed that
bit of ground like a whirlwind; and when I recovered breath I heard
nothing, neither far nor near, and could see nothing under the tree
nor yet in the brake, and was not quite sure that I hadn't dreamed a
pandemonium of crazy music and evil beasts.

I began to look about me and find out where I was.  The oak-branches
overhung a large piece of grassy ground; it was so dark under them
that I could not see my feet, and I stumbled over a big root and
fell, hands forward, upon the body of a man who was lying there as if
asleep or dead.  I don't know what fear made me say or shout, but at
any rate my voice was recognized, and that of Joseph replied,
saying,--

"Is that you, Tiennet?  What are you doing here at this time of
night?"

"And you yourself, what are you doing, old fellow?" I replied, much
pleased and comforted to have found him.  "I have looked everywhere
for you.  Your mother was worrying, and I hoped you had got back to
her long ago."

"I had business over here," he replied, "and before starting back I
wanted to rest, that's all."

"Were not you afraid of being here alone at night in this hideous,
gloomy place?"

"Afraid of what?  Why should I be afraid, Tiennet?  I don't
understand you."

I was ashamed to confess what a fool I had been.  Still, I did
venture to ask if he hadn't seen people and animals in the open.

"Yes, yes," he said, "I have seen plenty of animals, and people too;
but they are not mischievous, and we can go away together without
their harming us."

I fancied from his voice that he was sneering at my fears.  I left
the oak as he did; but when we got out of its shadow, I fancied that
José's face and figure were not the same as usual.  He seemed to me
taller, and carried his head higher, walking quickly, and speaking
with more energy than naturally belonged to him.  This did not ease
my mind, for all sorts of queer recollections crossed it.  It was not
from my grandmother only that I had heard tell that folks with white
faces and green eyes, gloomy tempers and speech that you couldn't
understand, were apt to consort with evil spirits; and in all
countries, as you know, old trees are said to be haunted by sorcerers
and _other such_.

I hardly dared to breathe as long as we were in the undergrowth.  I
kept expecting to see the same things I had either dreamed in my
brain or seen with my senses.  But all was still; there was no sound
except the breaking of the dried branches as we went along, or the
crunching of the remains of ice under our feet.

Joseph, who walked in front, did not follow the main path, but cut
across the covert.  You would have thought he was a hare, well
acquainted with the ins and outs, and he led me so quickly to the
ford of the Igneraie, without crossing the potter's village, that it
seemed as if I got there by magic.  Then he left me, without having
opened his lips, except to say that he wished to show himself to his
mother, as she was worried about him; and he followed the road to
Saint-Chartier, while I took a short cut through the two parishes to
my own house.

I no sooner found myself in the places I was familiar with than my
terror left me, and I was very much ashamed not to have conquered it.
Joseph would no doubt have told me the things I wanted to know if I
had only asked him; for, for once in his life, he had lost his sleepy
air, and I had even detected for an instant a sort of laugh in his
voice, and something in his behavior like a wish to give assistance.

However, when I had slept upon the adventure, and my senses were
calmer, I was convinced that I had not dreamed what I had seen in the
undergrowth, and I began to think there was something queer about
Joseph's tranquillity under the oak.  The animals that I had seen in
such number were certainly not an ordinary sight.  In our part of the
country we have no flocks, except sheep, and those I had seen were
animals of another color and another shape.  They were neither horses
nor cattle nor sheep nor goats; besides, no animals were allowed to
pasture in the forest.

Now, as I tell you all this, I think I was a great fool.  And yet
there's a deal that's unknown in the affairs of this world into which
a man sticks his nose, and more still in God's affairs, which He
chooses to keep secret.  Anyhow, I did not venture to question
Joseph; for though you may be inquisitive about good things, you
ought not to be so about evil ones; and, indeed, a wise man feels
reluctant to poke into matters where he may find a good deal more
than he looks for.




FOURTH EVENING.

One thing gave me still more to think about in the following days.
It was discovered in Aulnières that Joseph every now and then stayed
out at night.

People joked about it, thinking he had a love-affair; but it was no
use following and watching him, no one ever saw him turn to inhabited
parts, or speak to a living person.  He went away across the fields
into the open country so quickly and slyly that it was impossible to
find out his secret.  He returned about dawn, and went to work like
the rest; but instead of being weary, he seemed livelier and more
contented than usual.

This was noticed three times in the course of the winter, which was
very long and very severe that year.  But neither the snow nor the
north wind was able to keep Joseph from going off at night when the
fancy took him.  People imagined he was one of those who walk or work
in their sleep; but it was nothing of the kind, as you will see.

On Christmas Eve, as Véret, the sabot-maker, was on his way to keep
the midnight feast with his parents at Ourouer, he saw under the big
elm Râteau, not the giant who is said to walk under it with a rake on
his shoulder, but a tall dark man who did not have a good face, and
who was whispering quite low to another man not so tall, and who had
a more Christian kind of look.  Véret was not actually afraid, and he
passed near enough to listen to what they were saying.  But as soon
as the other two saw him, they separated.  The dark man made off,
nobody knows where, and his comrade, coming up to Véret, said to him
in a strangled sort of voice,--

"Where are you going, Denis Véret?"

The shoemaker began to be uneasy; and knowing that you must not speak
to the things of darkness, especially near an evil tree, he continued
his way without looking round; but he was followed by the being he
took to be a spirit, who walked behind, keeping step with him.

When they reached the end of the open ground the pursuer turned to
the left, saying, "Good-night, Denis Véret!"

And then for the first time Véret recognized Joseph, and laughed at
his own fears; but still without being able to imagine for what
purpose and in whose company Joseph had come to the big elm between
one and two o'clock in the morning.

When this last affair came to my knowledge I felt very sorry, and
reproached myself for not trying to turn Joseph from the evil ways he
seemed to be taking.  But I had let so much time elapse I did not
like to take the matter up then.  I spoke to Brulette, who only made
fun of it; from which I began to believe they had a secret love for
each other of which I had been the dupe, like other folks who tried
to see magic in it and only saw fire.

I was more grieved than angry.  Joseph, so slack at his work and so
cranky, seemed to me a weak stay and a poor companion for Brulette.
I could have told her that (putting myself entirely out of the
question) she could have played a better game with her cards; but I
was afraid to say it, thinking I might make her angry, and so lose
her friendship, which seemed to me very sweet, even without her other
favors.

One night, coming home, I found Joseph sitting on the edge of the
fountain which is called the Font de Fond.  My house, then known by
the name of "God's crossing," because it was built where two roads,
since altered, crossed each other, looked out upon that fine
greensward which you saw not long ago sold and cut up as waste
land,--a great misfortune for the poor, who used it as a common to
feed their beasts, but hadn't enough money to buy it.  It was a wide
bit of pasture-land, very green, and watered here and there by the
brook, which was not kept within bounds but ran as it pleased through
the grass, cropped short by the flocks, and always pleasing to the
eye as it stretched away in the distance.

I contented myself with bidding Joseph good-evening; but he rose and
walked beside me, as if seeking a conversation, and seemed so
agitated that I was quite uneasy about him.

"What's the matter with you?" I said at last, seeing that he was
talking at random, and twisting his body and groaning as though he
had stepped on an ant-hill.

"How can you ask me?" he said, impatiently.  "Is it nothing to you?
Are you deaf?"

"Who? why? what is it?" I cried, thinking he must see some vision,
and not very anxious to share it.

Then I listened, and heard in the distance the sound of a bagpipe,
which seemed to me natural enough.

"Well," I said, "that's only some musician returning from a wedding
over at Berthenoux.  Why should that annoy you?"

Joseph answered with an air of decision,--

"That is Carnat's bagpipe, but he is not playing it; it is some one
more clumsy even than he."

"Clumsy?  Do you call Carnat clumsy with the bagpipe?"

"Not clumsy with his hands, but clumsy in his ideas, Tiennet.  Poor
man, he is not worthy of the blessing of a bagpipe! and that fellow
who is trying it now deserves that the good God should stop his
breath."

"That's very strange talk, and I don't know where you have picked it
up.  How do you know that is Carnat's bagpipe?  It seems to me that
bagpipes are all alike, and grunt in the same way.  I do hear that
the one down there is not properly played, and the tune is rather
choked off; but that doesn't trouble me, for I couldn't do as well.
Do you think you could do any better?"

"I don't know; but there are certainly some who can play better than
that fellow and better than Carnat, his master.  There are some who
have got at the truth of the thing."

"Do you know them?  Where are the people that you are talking about?"

"I don't know.  But somewhere truth must be, and when one has neither
time nor means to search for it, one's only chance is to meet it."

"So your head is running on music, is it, José?  I never should have
thought it.  I have always known you as mute as a fish, never
catching nor humming a tune.  When you used to practise on the
cornstalks like the herd-boys, you made such a jumble of the tunes
that nobody recognized them.  In the matter of music we all thought
you more simple than children, who fancy they can play the bagpipes
with reeds; if you are not satisfied with Carnat, who keeps such good
time for dancing, and manages his fingers so skilfully, I am more
than ever sure your ear can't be good."

"Yes, yes," said Joseph, "you are right to reprove me, for I say
foolish things and talk of what I know nothing about.  Well,
good-night, Tiennet; forget what I said, for it is not what I wanted
to say; but I will think it over and try to tell you better another
time."

And off he went, quickly, as if sorry for having spoken; but
Brulette, who came out of our house just then with my sister, called
to him and brought him back to me, saying,--

"It is time to put an end to these tales.  Here is my cousin, who has
heard so much gossip about Joseph that she begins to think he is a
werewolf; the thing must be cleared up, once for all."

"Let it be as you say," said Joseph, "for I am tired of being taken
for a sorcerer; I would rather be thought an idiot."

"You are neither an idiot nor crazy," returned Brulette; "but you are
very obstinate, my poor José.  You must know, Tiennet, that the lad
has nothing wrong in his head, except a fancy for music, which is not
so unreasonable as it is dangerous."

"Then," answered I, "I understand what he was saying to me just now.
But where the devil did he pick up these ideas?"

"Wait a minute!" said Brulette; "we must not irritate him unjustly.
Don't be in a hurry to say he can't make music; though perhaps you
think, like his mother and my grandfather, that his mind is as dense
to that as it used to be to the catechism.  But I can tell you that
Mariton, and grandfather, and you are the ones who know nothing about
it.  Joseph can't sing,--not that he is short of breath, but because
he can't make his throat do as he wants it; and as he isn't able to
satisfy himself he prefers not to use a voice he doesn't know how to
manage.  Therefore, naturally enough, he wants to play upon some
instrument which has a voice in place of his own, and which can sing
for him whatever comes in his head.  It is because he has failed to
get this borrowed voice that our poor lad is so sad and dreamy and
wrapped up in himself."

"It is exactly as she tells you," remarked Joseph, who seemed
comforted to hear the young girl lift his thoughts out of his heart
and make me comprehend them.  "But she does not tell you that she has
a voice for me, so sweet, so clear, which repeats so correctly the
music she hears that ever since I was a child my greatest pleasure is
to listen to her."

"Yes," said Brulette, "but we always had a crow to pick with each
other.  I liked to do as all the other little girls who kept their
flocks did; that is, sing at the top of my voice so that I could be
heard a long distance.  Screaming like that, I outdid my strength and
spoilt all, and hurt José's ears.  Then, after I settled down to
singing reasonably, he thought I had a good memory for all the tunes
that were singable, those which pleased the lad and those that put
him in a rage; and more than once I've known him turn his back on me
suddenly and rush off without a word, though he had asked me to sing.
For that matter, he is not always civil or kind; but as it is he, I
laugh instead of getting angry.  I know very well he'll come back,
for his memory is not sure, and when he has heard an air that pleases
him he comes to me for it, and he is pretty sure to find it in my
head."

I remarked to Brulette that as Joseph had such a poor memory he
didn't seem to me born to play the bagpipes.

"Oh nonsense!" she said, "it is just there that you have got to turn
your opinion wrong side out.  You see, my poor Tiennet, that neither
you nor I know the _truth of the thing_, as José says.  But by dint
of living with him and his visions I have come to understand what he
either does not know or dares not say.  The 'truth of the thing' is
that José thinks he can invent his own music; and he does invent it,
for sure.  He has succeeded in making a flute out of a reed, and he
plays upon it; I don't know how, for he won't let me, nor any one
else, hear him.  When he wants to play he goes off, on Sundays and
sometimes at night, into lonely places where he can flute as he
likes; but when I ask him to play for me he answers that he does not
yet know what he wants to know, and that he can't do as I ask until
it is worth while.  That's why, ever since he invented his
instrument, he goes off on Sundays and sometimes, during the week, at
night, when his music grips him hard.  So you see, Tiennet, that it
is all very harmless.  But it is time we should have an explanation
between us three; for José has now set his mind on spending his next
wages--up to this time he has always given them to his mother--in
buying a bagpipe; and, as he knows he is a poor hand at farm-labor
and yet his heart is set on relieving his mother of hard work, he
wants to take up the business of playing the bagpipe because, true
enough, it pays well."

"It would be a good idea," said my sister, who was listening to us,
"if Joseph really has a talent for it.  But, before buying the
bagpipe, it is my opinion he ought to know something about using it."

"That's a matter of time and patience," said Brulette, "and there's
no hindrance there.  Don't you know that for some time past Carnat's
son has been learning to play, so as to take his father's place."

"Yes," I answered, "and I see what will come of it.  Carnat is old
and some one might have a chance for his custom; but his son wants
it, and will get it because he is rich and has influence in the
neighborhood; while you, José, have neither money to buy your bagpipe
nor a master to teach you, nor friends who like your music to push
you on."

"That is true," replied Joseph, sadly; "I have nothing but my idea,
my reed, and--_her_."

So saying he motioned towards Brulette, who took his hand
affectionately as she answered:--

"José, I believe in what you have in your head, but I can't feel
certain that you will ever get it out.  To will and to do are not the
same thing; to dream music and play the flute differ widely.  I know
what you have in your ears, in your brain, in your heart,--the music
of the good God; for I saw it in your eyes when I was a little thing
and you took me on your knee and said, in a weird kind of way,
'Listen, and don't make a noise, and try to remember what you hear.'
Then I did listen faithfully, and all I heard was the wind talking in
the trees, or the brook murmuring along the pebbles; but you, you
heard something else, and you were so certain of it that I was, too,
for sympathy.  Well, my lad, keep the music that is so sweet and dear
in your secret heart, but don't try to make yourself a piper by
profession; for if you do, one of two things will happen.  Either you
will never make your bagpipes say what the wind and the brook whisper
in your ear, or you will become such a fine and delicate musician
that all the petty pipers in the countryside will pick a quarrel with
you and prevent you from getting custom.  They will wish you ill and
do you harm, for that's their way to prevent others from sharing
their profits and their fame.  There are a dozen here and in the
neighborhood who can't agree together, but who will join and support
each other in keeping out a new hand.  Your mother, who hears them
talk on Sundays,--for they are thirsty folk and accustomed to drink
late at night after the dances,--is very unhappy to think you want to
join such a set of people.  They are rough and ill-behaved, and
always foremost in quarrels and fights.  The habit of being at all
festivals and idle resorts makes them drunkards and spendthrifts.  In
short, they are a tribe unlike any of the people belonging to you,
among whom, she thinks, you will go to the bad.  As for me, I think
they are jealous and revengeful, and would try to crush your spirit,
and perhaps your body, too.  And so, José, I do ask you to at least
put off your plan and lay aside your wishes, and even to give them up
altogether, if it is not asking too much of your friendship for me,
and for your mother and Tiennet."

As I supported Brulette's arguments, which seemed to me sound, Joseph
was in despair; but presently he took courage and said:--

"I thank you for your advice, my friends, which I know is given for
my good; but I beg you to leave me my freedom of mind for a short
time longer.  When I have reached a point I think I shall reach, I
will ask you to hear me play the flute, or the bagpipe if it please
God to enable me to buy one.  Then, if you decide that my music is
good for anything it will be worth while for me to make use of my
talent and I will face the struggle for love of it.  If not, I will
go on digging the earth and amusing myself with my reed-pipe on
Sundays, without making a living and so offending anybody.  Promise
me this, and I will have patience."

We made the promise, to quiet him, for he seemed more annoyed by our
fears than touched by our sympathy.  I looked in his face by the
light of the stars, and saw it even more distinctly because the
bright water of the fountain was before us like a mirror, which
reflected on our faces the whiteness of the sky.  I noticed that his
eyes had the very color of the water and seemed as usual to be
looking at things which the rest of us did not see.

A month later Joseph came to see me at my own house.

"The time has come," he said, with a clear look and a confident
voice, "for the two persons whose judgment I trust to hear me play.
I want Brulette to come here to-morrow night, because here we can be
quiet by ourselves.  I know your relations start on a pilgrimage
to-morrow on account of that fever your brother had; so that you will
be alone in the house, which is far enough in the country for no one
to overhear us.  I have spoken to Brulette, and she is willing to
leave the village after nightfall; I shall wait for her on the lower
road, and we can get here without any one seeing us.  Brulette relies
on you not to tell of it; and her grandfather, who approves of
whatever she wishes, consents too, if you will make that promise,
which I have given for you."

At the appointed hour I waited in front of my house, having closed
all the doors and windows, so that the passers-by (if any there were)
should think me in bed or absent.  It was now spring; and as it had
thundered during the day, the sky was still thick with clouds.  Gusts
of warm wind brought all the sweet smells of the month of May.  I
listened to the nightingales answering each other from distance to
distance as far as I could hear, and I thought to myself that Joseph
would be hard put to it to flute like them.  I saw the lights of the
houses in the village going out one by one; and about ten minutes
after the last disappeared I found the couple I was waiting for close
beside me.  They had stepped so softly on the young grass and so
close to the big bushes at the side of the road that I had neither
seen nor heard them.  I took them into the house, where the lamp was
lit; and when I looked at them--she with her hair so coquettishly
dressed, and he, as usual, cold and thoughtful--I could scarcely
suppose them to be ardently tender lovers.

While I talked a little with Brulette, to do the honors of the house
(which was quite a nice one, and I wanted her to take a fancy to it),
Joseph, without a word to me, had set about tuning his flute.  He
found the damp weather had affected it, and he threw a handful of
flax chips on the hearth to warm it.  When the chips blazed up they
cast a strong light upon his face, which was bent towards the
fireplace; and I thought his look so strange that I called Brulette's
attention to it in a low voice.

"You may think," I said to her, "that he hides by day and wanders off
at night solely to surfeit himself with that flute; but I know that
he has in him or about him some secret that he does not tell us."

"Bah!" she exclaimed, laughing; "just because Véret, the sabot-maker,
fancies he saw him with a tall, dark man near the Râteau elm!"

"Perhaps Véret dreamed that," I answered; "but as for me, I know what
I saw and heard in the forest."

"What did you see?" said José, suddenly, who had heard every word,
though we spoke quite low.  "What did you hear?  You saw him who is
my friend, but whom I cannot make known to you; and as for what you
heard, you are going now to hear it again if it pleases you to do so."

Thereupon he blew into his flute, his eye on fire and his face
blazing as if with fever.

Don't ask me what he played.  I don't know if the devil would have
understood it; as for me, I didn't, except that it seemed the same
air I had heard among the brake, on the bagpipes.  At that time I was
so frightened that I didn't listen to it all; but now, whether it was
that the music was longer, or that Joseph put some of his own into
it, he never stopped fluting for a quarter of an hour, setting his
fingers very delicately, never losing his breath, and getting such
sounds out of his miserable reed that you would have thought, at
times, there were three bagpipes going at once.  At other times he
played so softly that you could hear the cricket indoors and the
nightingales without; and when José played low I confess I liked
it,--though the whole together was so little like what we were
accustomed to that it seemed to me a crazy racket.

"Oh, oh!" I exclaimed, when he had finished; "that's a mad sort of
music!  Where the devil did you learn that?  What is the use of it?
Is there any meaning in it?"

He did not answer, and seemed as if he had not heard me.  He was
looking at Brulette, who was leaning against a chair with her face
turned to the wall.

As she did not say a word, José was seized with a rush of anger
either against her or against himself, and I saw him make a motion as
if to break his flute; but just at that moment the girl looked round,
and I was much surprised to see great tears running down her cheeks.

Joseph ran to her and caught her hands.

"Tell me what you feel, my darling!" he cried; "let me know if it is
pity for me that makes you cry, or whether it is pleasure."

"I don't know how pleasure in a thing like that could make me cry,"
she said.  "Don't ask me if I feel pain or pleasure; all that I know
is that I can't help crying."

"But what were you thinking of while I played?" said Joseph, looking
fixedly at her.

"So many things that I can't give account of them," replied Brulette.

"Well, tell me one," he said, in a tone that was impatient and
dictatorial.

"I did not think of anything," said Brulette, "but a thousand
recollections of old times came into my mind.  I seemed not to see
you playing, though I heard you clearly enough; you appeared to be no
older than when we lived together, and I felt as if you and I were
driven by a strong wind, sometimes through the ripe wheat, sometimes
into the long grass, at other times upon the running streams; and I
saw the fields, the woods, the springs, the flowery meadows, and the
birds in the sky among the clouds.  I saw, too, in my dream, your
mother and my grandfather sitting before the fires, and talking of
things I could not understand; and all the while you were in the
corner on your knees saying your prayers, and I thought I was asleep
in my little bed.  Then again I saw the ground covered with snow, and
the willows full of larks, and the nights full of falling stars; and
we looked at each other, sitting on a hillock, while the sheep made
their little noise of nibbling the grass.  In short, I dreamed so
many things that they are all jumbled up in my head; and if they made
me cry, it was not for grief, but because my mind was shaken in a way
I can't at all explain to you."

"It is all right," said José.  "What I saw and what I dreamed as I
played you saw too!  Thank you, Brulette.  Through you I know now
that I am not crazy, and that there is a truth in what we hear within
us, as there is in what we see.  Yes, yes," he said, taking long
strides up and down the room and holding his flute above his head,
"it speaks!--that miserable bit of reed! it says what we think; it
shows what we see; it tells a tale as if with words; it loves like
the heart, it lives, it has a being!  And now, José the madman, José
the idiot, José the starer, go back to your imbecility; you can
afford to do so, for you are as powerful, and as wise, and as happy
as others!"

So saying, he sat down and paid no further attention to anything
about him.




FIFTH EVENING.

We stared at him, Brulette and I, for he was no longer the José we
knew.  As for me, there was something in all this which reminded me
of the tales they tell among us of the wandering bagpipers, who are
supposed to tame wild animals and to lead packs of wolves by night
along the roads, just as other people lead their flocks in the
meadows.  José did not have a natural look as he sat there before me.
Instead of being pale and puny, he seemed taller and better in
health, as I had seen him in the forest.  In short, he looked like a
person.  His eyes beamed in his head with the glitter of two stars,
and any one who had called him the handsomest fellow in the world
wouldn't have been mistaken at that particular moment.

It seemed to me that Brulette also was under some spell or witchery,
because she had seen so many things in that fluting when I could only
see the excitement of it.  I sorely wanted to make her admit that
José would never get any one but the devil to dance to such music;
but she wouldn't listen to me, and asked him to begin again.

He was ready enough to do that, and began with a tune which was like
the first, and yet was not quite the same; but I saw that his ideas
had not changed, and that he was determined not to give in to our
country fashions.  Seeing that Brulette listened as if she had a
taste for the thing, I made an effort in my mind to see if I couldn't
like it too; and I seemed to get accustomed to this new kind of music
so quickly that something was stirred inside of me.  I too had a
vision: I thought I saw Brulette dancing alone by the light of the
moon under a hawthorn all in bloom, and shaking her pink apron as if
about to fly away.  But just then, all of a sudden, a sort of ringing
of bells was heard not far off, like that I had heard in the forest,
and Joseph stopped fluting, cut short in the very middle of a tune.

I came out of my vision, quite convinced that the bell was not a
dream; Joseph himself was interrupted, and stood stock-still,
evidently vexed; while Brulette gazed at him, not less astonished
than I was.

All my terrors came back to me.

"José," I said, reproachfully, "there is more in this than you choose
to confess.  You did not learn what you know all by yourself; there's
a companion outside who is answering you, whether you will or no.
Come, tell him to go away; for I don't want to have him in my house.
I invited you, and not him, nor any of his tribe.  If he doesn't go,
I'll sing him an anthem he won't like."

So saying, I took my father's old gun from over the chimney-piece,
knowing it was loaded with three consecrated balls; for the Evil
Beast was in the habit of roaming about the Font de Fond, and though
I had never seen him, I was always prepared to do so, knowing that my
parents feared him very much and that he had frequently molested them.

Joseph began to laugh instead of answering me; then, calling to his
dog, he went to open the door.  My own dog had followed my family on
their pilgrimage, so that I had no way of ascertaining whether they
were real people or evil ones who were ringing the bells; for you
must know that animals, particularly dogs, are very wise in such
matters, and bark in a way that lets human beings know the truth.

It is a fact that Parpluche, Joseph's dog, instead of getting angry,
ran at once to the door and sprang out gayly enough; as soon as it
was opened but the creature might have been bewitched, and so far as
I could see, there was nothing good in the matter.

Joseph went out; the wind, which had grown very high, slammed the
door after him.  Brulette, who had risen, made as if she would open
it to see what was going on; but I stopped her quickly, saying there
was certainly some wicked secret under it all, so that she, too,
began to be afraid and wished she had never come.

"Don't be frightened, Brulette," said I; "I believe in evil spirits,
but I am not afraid of them.  They do no harm except to those who
seek them, and all they can ever do to real Christians is to frighten
them.  But that's a fear we can and ought to conquer.  Come, say a
prayer, and I'll hold the door, and you may be sure no harmful thing
can get in."

"But that poor lad," said Brulette; "if he is in danger, ought we not
to get him back?"

I made her a sign to be silent, and putting myself close to the door
with my loaded gun I listened with all my ears.  The wind blew high
and the bell could only be heard now and then and seemed to be moving
farther off.  Brulette was at the farther end of the room,
half-laughing, half-trembling, for she was a brave, intrepid sort of
girl, who joked about the devil, though she would not have liked to
make acquaintance with him.

Presently I heard José coming back and saying, not far from the
door,--

"Yes, yes, directly after midsummer.  Thank you and the good God!  I
will do just as you say; you have my word for that."

As he mentioned the good God I felt more confidence, so opening the
door a trifle I looked out, and there I saw, by the light that
streamed from the house, José, walking beside a villanous-looking
man, all black from head to foot, even his face and hands, and behind
him two big black dogs who were romping with Joseph's dog.  The man
answered, with such a loud voice that Brulette heard him and
trembled: "Good-bye, little man; we shall meet again.  Here, Clairin!"

He had no sooner said that than the bells began to jingle, and I saw
a lean little horse come up to him, half-crouching, with eyes like
live coals, and a bell which shone bright as gold upon his neck.
"Call up your comrades!" said the tall dark man.  The little horse
galloped away, followed by the two dogs, and his master after shaking
hands with José went away too.  Joseph came in and shut the door,
saying with a scornful air,--

"What were you doing here, Tiennet?"

"And you, José, what have you got there?" I retorted, seeing that he
had a parcel wrapped in black oil-cloth under his arm.

"That?" he said, "that is something the good God has sent me at the
very hour it was promised.  Come, Tiennet; come, Brulette; see the
fine present God has made me!"

"The good God doesn't send black angels or make presents to
wrong-doers."

"Hush," said Brulette, "let José explain himself."

But she had hardly said the words when a loud commotion, like the
galloping of two hundred animals, was heard from the broad
grass-ground around the fountain, some sixty feet from the house,
from which it was separated by the garden and hemp-field.  The bell
tinkled, the dogs barked, and the man's rough voice was heard
shouting, "Quick, quick! here, here! to me, Clairin! come, come!  I
miss three!  You, Louveteau, you, Satan! off with you, quick!"

For a moment Brulette was so frightened that she ran from Joseph to
me, which gave me fine courage, and seizing my gun again I said to
Joseph:--

"I don't choose that your people should come racketing round here at
night.  Brulette has had enough of it and she wants to be taken home.
Come now, stop this sorcery or I'll chase your witches."

Joseph stopped me as I was going out.

"Stay here," he said, "and don't meddle with what does not concern
you; or maybe you'll regret it later.  Keep still, and see what I
brought in; you shall know all about it presently."

As the uproar was now dying away in the distance, I did look, all the
more because Brulette was crazy to know what was in the parcel; and
Joseph, undoing it, showed us a bagpipe, so large, and full, and
handsome that it was really a splendid thing, and such as I had never
seen before.

It had double bellows, one of which measured five feet from end to
end; and the wood of the instrument, which was black cherry, dazzled
the eyes with the pewter ornaments, made to shine like silver, which
were inlaid at all the joints.  The wind-bag was of handsome leather
tied with a knot of calico, striped blue and white; indeed, the whole
workmanship was done in so clever a way that it only took a very
little breath to fill the bag and send out a sound like thunder.

"The die is cast!" said Brulette, to whom Joseph was not listening,
so intent was he in taking apart and replacing the various parts of
his bagpipe.  "You will be a piper, José, in spite of the hindrances
you will meet with, and the trouble it will be to your mother."

"I shall be a piper," he said, "when I know how to play the bagpipe.
Before then the wheat will ripen and the leaves will fall.  Don't let
us trouble ourselves about what will happen, children; but see things
as they are, and don't accuse me of dealings with the devil.  He who
brought me that bagpipe is neither a sorcerer nor a demon.  He is a
man rather rough at times, for his business requires it, and as he is
going to spend the night not far from here I advise you and I beg
you, friend Tiennet, not to go where he is.  Excuse me for not
telling you his name or his business; and also promise me not to say
that you have seen him or that he came round this way.  It might
cause him annoyance as well as the rest of us.  Be content to know
that he is a man of good sense and good judgment.  It is he whom you
saw in the underbrush of the forest of Saint-Chartier, playing a
bagpipe like this one; for though he is not a piper by trade, he
understands it thoroughly, and has played me airs that are much more
beautiful than ours.  He saw that not having enough money I could not
buy such an instrument, and so he was satisfied with a small amount
and lent me the rest, promising to buy the instrument and bring it me
just about this time, letting me pay for it as I am able.  For this
thing, you see, costs eight pistoles, nearly one year's wages!  Now,
as I hadn't a third of it, he said, 'Trust me, give me what you have,
and I will trust you in the same way.'  That's how the thing
happened.  I didn't know him a mite and we had no witnesses: he could
have cheated me if he wished, and if I had asked your advice you
would have dissuaded me from trusting him.  But you see now that he
is a faithful man, for he said, 'I will come round your way at
Christmas and give you an answer.'  At Christmas I met him under the
Râteau elm, and sure enough he came, and said: 'The thing is not yet
finished; but it is being made; between the first and tenth of May I
will be here again, and bring it.'  This is the eighth.  He has come,
and just as he turned a little out of his way to look for me in the
village he heard the air I was playing, which he was certain no one
in these parts knew but me; and as for me, I heard and recognized his
bell.  That's how it happened, and the devil had nothing to do with
it.  We said good-evening to each other and promised to meet at
midsummer."

"If that is so," I remarked, "why didn't you bring him in here, where
he could have rested and been refreshed with a glass of good wine?  I
would have given him a hearty welcome for keeping his word to you
faithfully."

"Oh! as for that," replied Joseph, "he is a man who doesn't always
behave like other people.  He has his ways, and his own ideas and
reasons.  Don't ask me more than I ought to tell you."

"Why not? is it because he is hiding from honest people?" asked
Brulette.  "I think that is worse than being a sorcerer.  He must be
some one who has done wrong, or he would not be roaming round at
night, and you wouldn't be forbidden to speak of him."

"I will tell you all about it to-morrow," said Joseph, smiling at our
fears.  "To-night, you can think what you please, for I shall tell
you nothing more.  Come, Brulette, there's the cuckoo striking
midnight.  I'll take you home and leave my bagpipe hidden away in
your charge.  For I certainly shall not practise on it in this
neighborhood; the time to make myself known has not yet come."

Brulette said good-night to me very prettily, putting her hand into
mine.  But when I saw that she put her arm into Joseph's to go away,
jealousy galloped off with me again, and as they went along the
high-road I cut across the hemp-field and posted myself beneath the
hedge to see them pass.  The weather had cleared a little, but there
had been a shower, and Brulette let go of Joseph's arm to pick up her
dress, saying, "It is not easy to walk two together; go in front."

If I had been in José's place I should have offered to carry her over
the muddy places, or, if I had not dared to take her in my arms, I
should have lingered behind her to look at her pretty ankles.  But
José did nothing of the kind, he concerned himself about nothing but
his bagpipe; and as I saw him handling it with care and looking
lovingly at it, I said to myself that he hadn't any other love just
then.

I returned home, easy in mind in more ways than one, and went to bed,
somewhat fatigued both in body and mind.

But it was not half an hour before Monsieur Parpluche, who had been
amusing himself with the stranger's dogs, came scratching at the door
in search of his master.  I rose to let him in, and just then I
fancied I heard a noise in my oats, which were coming up green and
thick at the back of the house.  It seemed to me that they were being
cropped and trampled by some four-footed beast who had no business
there.

I caught up the first stick that came to hand and ran out, whistling
to Parpluche, who did not obey me but made off, looking for his
master, after snuffing about the house.

Entering the field, I saw something rolling on its back with its paws
in the air, crushing the oats right and left, getting up, jumping
about and browsing quite at its ease.  For a moment I was afraid to
run after it, not knowing what kind of beast it was.  I could see
nothing clearly but its ears, which were too long for a horse; but
the body was too black and stout for a donkey.  I approached it
gently; it seemed neither wild nor mischievous, and then I knew it
was a mule, though I had seldom seen one, for we don't raise them in
our part of the country, and the muleteers never pass this way.  I
was just going to catch him and already had my hand on his mane when
he threw up his hindquarters and lashing out a dozen kicks which I
had scarcely time to avoid, he leaped like a hare over the ditch and
ran away so quickly that in a moment he was out of sight.

Not wishing to have my oats ruined by the return of the beast, I put
off going to bed till I could have an easy mind.  I returned to the
house to get my shoes and waistcoat, and after fastening the doors I
went through the fields in the direction the mule had taken.  I had
little doubt that he belonged to the troop of the dark man, Joseph's
friend.  Joseph had certainly advised me to see nothing of him, but
now that I had touched a living animal I was afraid of nothing.
Nobody likes ghosts; but when you know you are dealing with solid
things it is another affair; and the moment I realized that the dark
man was a man, no matter how strong he was or how much he had daubed
himself over, I didn't care for him any more than I did for a weasel.

You must have heard say that I was one of the strongest fellows of
these parts in my young days; in fact, such as I am now, I am not yet
afraid of any man.

Moreover, I was as nimble as a roach, and I knew that in dangers
where the strength of a man was not enough to save him, it would have
needed the wings of a bird to overtake me in running.  Accordingly,
having provided myself with a rope and my own gun (which didn't have
consecrated balls, but could carry truer than my father's), I set out
on a voyage of discovery.

I had scarcely taken a couple of hundred steps when I saw three more
animals of the same kind in my brother-in-law's pasture, where they
were behaving themselves just as badly as possible.  Like the first
brute, they allowed me to approach them, and then immediately
galloped off to a farm on the estate of Aulnières, where they met
another troop of mules capering about as lively as mice, rearing and
kicking in the rising moonlight,--a regular _donkey-chase_, which you
know is what they call the dance of the devil's she-asses, when the
fairies and the will-o-the-wisps gallop up there among the clouds.

However, there was really no magic here; but only a great robbery of
pasture, and abominable mischief done to the grain.  The crop was not
mine, and I might have said that it was none of my business, but I
felt provoked to have run after the troublesome animals for nothing,
and you can't see the fine wheat of the good God trampled and
destroyed without answer.

I went on into the big wheat-field without meeting a single Christian
soul, though the mules seemed to increase in numbers every minute.  I
meant to catch at least one, which would serve as proof when I
complained to the authorities of the damage done to the farm.

I singled out one which seemed to be more docile than the rest, but
when I got near him I saw that he wasn't the same game, but the lean
little horse with a bell round his neck; which bell, as I learned
later, is called in the Bourbonnais districts a _clairin_, and the
horse that wears it goes by the same name.  Not knowing the habits of
these animals, it was by mere good luck that I chanced upon the right
way to manage them, which was to get hold of the bell-horse, or
_clairin_, and lead him away, being certain to catch a mule or two
afterwards if I succeeded.

The little animal, which seemed good-natured and well-trained, let me
pet him and lead him away without seeming to care; but as soon as he
began to walk, the bell on his neck began to jingle, and great was my
surprise to see the crowd of mules, scattered here and there among
the wheat, come trooping upon us, and tearing after me like bees
after their queen.  I saw then that they were trained to follow the
_clairin_, and that they knew its ring just as well as good monks
know the bell for matins.




SIXTH EVENING.

I did not long debate what I should do with the mischievous horde.  I
went straight for the manor of Aulnières, thinking that I could
easily open the gates of the yard and drive the beasts in; after
which I would wake the farmers and they, when informed of the damage
done, would do as they saw fit.

I was just nearing the yard when, as it happened, I fancied I saw a
man running on the road behind me.  I cocked my gun, thinking that if
he was the muleteer I should have a bone to pick with him.  But it
was Joseph, on his way back to Aulnières after escorting Brulette to
the village.

"What are you doing here, Tiennet?" he said to me, coming up as fast
as he could run.  "Didn't I tell you not to leave home to-night?  You
are in danger of death; Let go that horse and don't meddle with those
mules.  What can't be helped must be endured for fear of worse evils."

"Thank you, comrade," I answered.  "Your fine friends pasture their
cavalry in my field and you expect me to say nothing!  Very good,
very good! go your ways if you are afraid yourself, but as for me, I
shall see the thing out, and get justice done by law or might."

As I spoke, having stopped a moment to answer him, we heard a dog
bark in the distance, and José, seizing the rope by which I was
leading the horse, cried out:--

"Quick, Tiennet! here come the muleteer's dogs!  If you don't want to
be torn in pieces, let go the horse; see, he hears them and you can't
do anything with him now."

Sure enough, the _clairin_ pricked his ears to listen; then laying
them back, which is a great sign of ill-temper, he began to neigh and
rear and kick, which brought all the mules capering round us, so that
we had scarcely time to get out of the way before the whole of them
rushed by at full speed in the direction of the dogs.

I was not satisfied to yield, however, and as the dogs, having called
in their wild troop, showed signs of making straight for us, I took
aim with my gun as if to shoot the first of the two that came at me.
But Joseph went up to the dog and made him recognize him.

"Ah!  Satan," he said to him, "the fault is yours.  Why did you chase
the hares into the wheat instead of watching your beasts?  When your
master wakes up you will be whipped if you are not at your post with
Louveteau and the _clairin_."

Satan, understanding that he was being reproved for his behavior,
obeyed Joseph, who called him towards a large tract of waste land
where the mules could feed without doing any damage, and where
Joseph, as he told me, intended to watch them until their master
returned.

"Nevertheless, José," I said to him, "matters won't blow over as
quietly as you think for; and if you will not tell me where the owner
of these mules hides himself, I shall stay here and wait for him, and
say what I think to his face, and demand reparation for the harm
done."

"You don't know muleteers if you think it easy to get the better of
them," replied Joseph.  "I believe it is the first time any of them
have ever passed this way.  It is not their usual road; they commonly
come down from the Bourbonnais forests through those of Meillant and
L'Éspinasse into the Cheurre woods.  I happened accidentally to meet
them in the forest of Saint-Chartier, where they were halting on
their way to Saint-Août; among them was the man who is here now,
whose name is Huriel, and who is on his way to the iron works of
Ardentes for coal and ore.  He has been kind enough to come two hours
out of his way to oblige me.  And it may be that, having left his
companions and the heath country through which the roads frequented
by men of his business run, where his mules can pasture without
injuring any one, he fancied he was just as free here in our
wheat-lands; and though he is altogether wrong, it would be best not
to tell him so."

"He will have to know what I think," I answered, "for I see now how
the land lays.  Ho! ho! muleteers! we know what they are.  You remind
me of things I have heard my godfather, Gervais the forester, tell
of.  Muleteers are lawless men, wicked and ignorant, who would kill a
man with as little conscience as they would a rabbit.  They think
they have a right to feed their beasts at the expense of the
peasantry, and if any one complains who is not strong enough to
resist them, they will come back later or send their comrades to kill
the poor man's cattle or burn his house, or worse; they live on
plunder, like thieves at a fair."

"As you have heard those things," said Joseph, "you must see that we
should be very foolish to draw down some great harm to the farmers
and my master and your family in revenge for a little one.  I don't
defend what has been done, and when Maître Huriel told me he was
going to pasture his mules and camp at Nohant, as he does elsewhere
at all seasons, I told him about this bit of common and advised him
not to let his mules stray into the wheat-fields.  He promised he
would not; for he is not at all ill-disposed.  But his temper is
quick, and he wouldn't back down if a whole crowd of people fell upon
him.  Please go back to your own property, keep clear of these
beasts, and don't pick a quarrel with anybody.  If you are questioned
to-morrow, say you saw nothing; for to swear in a court of law
against a muleteer is quite as dangerous as to swear against a lord."

Joseph was right; so I gave in, and took the road towards home; but I
was not satisfied, for backing down before a threat is wisdom to old
men and bitter wrath to young ones.

As I neared the house, quite resolved not to go to bed, I fancied I
saw a light in it.  I quickened my steps and finding the door, which
I had latched, wide open, I rushed in and saw a man in the
chimney-corner lighting his pipe by a blaze he had made.  He turned
round and looked at me as quietly as if the house were his, and I
recognized the charcoal-blackened man whom Joseph called Huriel.

My wrath returned; and closing the door behind me I exclaimed as I
went up to him:--

"Well done!  I am glad you have walked into the lion's den.  I've a
couple of words to say to you."

"Three, if you like," he said, squatting on his heels and drawing
fire through his pipe, for the tobacco was damp and did not light
readily.  Then he added, as if scornfully, "There's not even a pair
of tongs to pick up the embers."

"No," I retorted, "but there's a good cudgel to flatten you out with."

"And pray why?" he demanded without losing an atom of assurance.
"You are angry because I have entered your house without permission.
Why were not you at home?  I knocked on the door and asked to light
my pipe, a thing no one ever refuses.  Silence gives consent, so I
pulled the latch.  Why did not you lock the door if you are afraid of
thieves?  I looked at the beds and saw the house was empty; I lighted
my pipe, and here I am.  What have you to say to that?"

So saying, as I tell you, he took up his gun as if to examine the
lock, but it was really as much as to say, "If you are armed, so am
I; two can play at that game."

I had an idea of aiming at him to make him respect me; but the longer
I looked at his blackened face the more I was struck with his frank
air and his lively, jovial eye, so that I ceased to be angry and felt
only piqued.  He was a young man of twenty-five, tall and strong, and
if washed and shaved, would have been quite a handsome fellow.  I put
my gun down beside the wall and went up to him without fear.

"Let us talk," I said, sitting down by him.

"As you will," he answered, laying aside his gun.

"Is it you they call Huriel?"

"And you Étienne Depardieu?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Just as you know mine,--from our little friend Joseph Picot."

"Then they are your mules that I have caught?"

"Caught!" he exclaimed, half-rising in astonishment.  Then, laughing,
he added: "You are joking! you can't catch my mules."

"Yes, I can," I said, "if I catch and lead the horse."

"Ha! you have learned the trick?" he cried, with a defiant air.  "But
how about the dogs?"

"I don't fear dogs when I've a gun in my hand."

"Have you killed my dogs?" he shouted, jumping up.  His face flamed
with anger, which let me know that though he might be jovial by
nature he could be terrible at times.

"I might have killed your dogs," I replied, "and I might have led
your mules into a farmyard where you would have found a dozen strong
fellows to deal with.  I did not do it because Joseph told me you
were alone, and that it was not fair for a mere piece of mischief to
put you in danger of losing your life.  I agreed to that reason.  But
now we are one to one.  Your beasts have injured my field and my
sister's field, and what's more, you have entered my house in my
absence, which is improper and insolent.  You will beg pardon for
your behavior and pay damages for my oats, or--"

"Or what?" he said, with a sneer.

"Or we will settle the matter according to the laws and customs of
Berry, which are, I think, the same as those of the Bourbonnais where
fists are lawyers."

"That is to say, the law of the strongest," he replied, turning up
his sleeves.  "That suits me better than going before the justices,
and if you are really alone and don't play traitor--"

"Come outside," I said, "and you shall see that I am alone.  You are
wrong to insult me in that way, for I might have shot you as I came
in.  But guns are made to kill wolves and mad dogs.  I didn't want to
treat you like a beast, and though you have a chance to shoot me at
this moment I think it cowardly for men to pepper each other with
balls when fists were given to human beings to fight with.  As to
that, I don't think you are a greater fool than I, and if you have
got pluck--"

"My lad," he said, pulling me towards the fire to look at me,
"perhaps you are making a mistake.  You are younger than I am, and
though you look pretty wiry and solid I wouldn't answer for that skin
of yours.  I would much rather you spoke me fairly about your damages
and trusted to my honesty."

"Enough," I said, knocking his hat into the ashes to anger him; "the
best bruised of us two will get justice presently."

He quietly picked up his hat and laid it on the table saying,--

"What are the rules in this part of the country?"

"Among young fellows," I replied, "there is no ill-will or treachery.
We seize each other round the body, or strike where we can except on
the face.  He who takes a stick or a stone is thought a scoundrel."

"That is not exactly our way," he said.  "But come on, I shan't spare
you; if I hit harder than I mean to, surrender; for there's a time,
you know, when one can't answer for one's self."

Once outside on the thick sward we off coats (not to spoil them
uselessly), and began to wrestle, clasping thighs and lifting one
another bodily.  I had the advantage of him there, for he was taller
than I by a head, and in bending over he gave me a better grip.
Besides, he was not angry, and thinking he would soon get the better
of me, he didn't put forth his strength.  So being, I was able to
floor him at the third round, falling on top of him, but there he
recovered himself, and before I had time to strike he wound himself
round me like a snake and squeezed me so closely that I lost my
breath.  Nevertheless, I managed to get up first and attack him
again.  When he saw that he had to do with a free hitter, and caught
it well in the stomach and on the shoulders, he gave me as good as I
sent, and I must own that his fist was like a sledge-hammer.  But I
would have died sooner than show I felt it; and each time that he
cried out, "Surrender!" I plucked up courage and strength to pay him
in his own coin.  So for a good quarter of an hour the fight seemed
even.  Presently, however, I felt I was getting exhausted while he
was only warming to the work; for if he had less activity than I, his
age and temperament were in his favor.  The end of it was that I was
down beneath him and fairly beaten and unable to release myself.  But
for all that I wouldn't cry mercy; and when he saw that I would
rather be killed he behaved like a generous fellow.

"Come, enough!" he cried, loosing his grip on my throat; "your will
is stronger than your bones, I see that, and I might break them to
bits before you would give in.  That's right! and as you are a true
man let us be friends.  I beg your pardon for entering your house;
and now let us talk over the damage my mules have done to you.  I am
as ready to pay you as to fight you; and afterwards, you shall give
me a glass of wine so that we may part good friends."

The bargain concluded, I pocketed three crowns which he paid me for
myself and my brother-in-law; then I drew the wine and we sat down to
table.  Three flagons of two pints each disappeared, for we were both
thirsty enough after the game we had been playing, and Maître Huriel
had a carcass which could hold as much as he liked to put into it.  I
found him a good fellow, a fine talker, and easy to get on with; and
I, not wishing to seem behindhand in words or actions, filled his
glass every two minutes and swore friendship till the roof rang.

Apparently, he felt no effects of the fight.  I felt them badly
enough; but not wishing to show it, I proposed a song, and squeezed
one, with some difficulty, from my throat, which was still hot from
the grip of his hands.  He only laughed.

"Comrade," said he, "neither you nor yours know anything about
singing.  Your tunes are as flat and your wind as stifled as your
ideas and your pleasures.  You are a race of snails, always snuffing
the same wind and sucking the same bark; for you think the world ends
at those blue hills which limit your sky and which are the forests of
my native land.  I tell you, Tiennet, that's where the world begins,
and you would have to walk pretty fast for many a night and day
before you got out of those grand woods, to which yours are but a
patch of pea-brush.  And when you do get out of them you will find
mountains and more forests, such as you have never seen, of the tall
handsome fir-trees of Auvergne, unknown to your rich plains.  But
what's the good of telling you about these places that you will never
see?  You Berry folks are like stones which roll from one rut to
another, coming back to the right hand when the cart-wheels have
shoved them for a time to the left.  You breathe a heavy atmosphere,
you love your ease, you have no curiosity; you cherish your money and
don't spend it, but also you don't know how to increase it; you have
neither nerve nor invention.  I don't mean you personally, Tiennet;
you know how to fight (in defence of your own property), but you
don't know how to acquire property by industry as we muleteers do,
travelling from place to place, and taking, by fair means or foul,
what isn't given with a good will."

"Oh!  I agree to all that," I answered; "but don't you call yours a
brigand's trade?  Come, friend Huriel, wouldn't it be better to be
less rich and more honest? for when it comes to old age will you
enjoy your ill-gotten property with a clear conscience?"

"Ill-gotten!  Look here, friend Tiennet," he said, laughing, "you who
have, I suppose, like all the small proprietors about here, a couple
of dozen sheep, two or three goats, and perhaps an old mare that
feeds on the common, do you go and offer reparation if, by accident,
your beasts bark your neighbor's trees and trample his young wheat?
Don't you call in your animals as fast as you can, without saying a
word about it; and if your neighbors take the law of you, don't you
curse them and the law too?  And if you could, without danger, get
them off into a corner, wouldn't you make amends to yourself by
belaboring their shoulders?  I tell you, it is either cowardice or
force that makes you respect the law, and it is because we avoid both
that you blame us, out of jealousy of the freedom that we have known
how to snatch."

"I don't like your queer morality, Huriel; but what has all this got
to do with music?  Why do you laugh at my song?  Do you know a
better?"

"I don't pretend to, Tiennet; but I tell you that music, liberty,
beautiful wild scenery, lively minds, and, if you choose, the art of
making money without getting stupefied,--all belong together like
fingers to the hand.  I tell you that shouting is not singing; you
can bellow like deaf folks in your fields and taverns, but that's not
music.  Music is on our side of those hills, and not on yours.  Your
friend Joseph felt this, for his senses are more delicate than yours;
in fact, my little Tiennet, I should only lose my time in trying to
show you the difference.  You are a Berrichon, as a swallow is a
swallow; and what you are to-day you will be fifty years hence.  Your
head will whiten, but your brain will never be a day older."

"Why, do you think me a fool?" I asked, rather mortified.

"Fool?  Not at all," he said.  "Frank as to heart and shrewd as to
interest,--that's what you are and ever will be; but living in body
and lively in soul you never can be.  And this is why, Tiennet," he
added, pointing to the furniture of the room.  "See these big-bellied
beds where you sleep in feathers up to your eyes.  You are spade and
pickaxe folk,--toilers in the sun,--but you must have your downy beds
to rest in.  We forest fellows would soon be ill if we had to bury
ourselves alive in sheets and blankets.  A log hut, a fern
bed,--that's our home and our furniture; even those of us who travel
constantly and don't mind paying the inn charges, can't stand a roof
over our heads; we sleep in the open air in the depth of winter, on
the pack-saddles of our mules, with the snow for a coverlet.  Here
you have dresses and tables and chairs and fine china, ground glass,
good wine, a roasting-jack and soup-pots, and heaven knows what?  You
think you must have all that to make you happy; you work your jaws
like cows that chew the cud; and so, when obliged to get upon your
feet and go back to work, you have a pain in your chest two or three
times a day.  You are heavy, and no gayer at heart than your beasts
of burden.  On Sundays you sit, with your elbows on the table, eating
more than your hunger tells you to, and drinking more than your
thirst requires; you think you are amusing yourself by storing up
indigestion and sighing after girls who are only bored with you
though they don't know why,--your partners in those dragging dances
in rooms and barns where you suffocate; turning your holidays and
festivals into a burden the more upon your spirits and stomachs.
Yes, Tiennet, that's the life you live.  To indulge your ease you
increase your wants, and in order to live well you don't live at all."

"And how do you live, you muleteers?" I said, rather shaken by his
remarks.  "I don't speak now of your part of the country, of which I
know nothing, but of you, a muleteer, whom I see there before me,
drinking hard, with your elbows on the table, not sorry to find a
fire to light your pipe and a Christian to talk with.  Are you made
different from other men?  When you have led this hard life you boast
of for a score of years, won't you spend your money, which you have
amassed by depriving yourself of everything, in procuring a wife, a
house, a table, a good bed, good wine, and rest at last?"

"What a lot of questions, Tiennet!" replied my guest.  "You argue
fairly well for a Berrichon.  I'll try to answer you.  You see me
drink and talk because I am a man and like wine.  Company and the
pleasures of the table please me even more than they do you, for the
very good reason that I don't need them and am not accustomed to
them.  Always afoot, snatching a mouthful as I can, drinking at the
brooks, sleeping under the first oak I come to, of course it is a
feast for me to come across a good table and plenty of good wine; but
it is a feast, and not a necessity.  To me, living alone for weeks at
a time, the society of a friend is a holiday; I say more to him in
one hour's talk than you would say in a day at a tavern.  I enjoy
all, and more, than you fellows do, because I abuse nothing.  If a
pretty girl or a forward woman comes after me in the woods to tell me
that she loves me, she knows I have no time to dangle after her like
a ninny and wait her pleasure; and I admit that in the matter of love
I prefer that which is soon found to that you have to search and wait
for.  As to the future, Tiennet, I don't know if I shall ever have a
home and a family; but if I do, I shall be more grateful to the good
God than you are, and I shall enjoy its sweetness more, too.  But I
swear that my helpmate shall not be one of your buxom, red-faced
women, let her be ever so rich.  A man who loves liberty and true
happiness never marries for money.  I shall never love any woman who
isn't slender and fair as a young birch,--one of those dainty, lively
darlings, who grow in the shady woods and sing better than your
nightingales."

"A girl like Brulette," I thought to myself.  "Luckily she isn't
here, for though she despises all of us, she might take a fancy to
this blackamoor, if only by way of oddity."

The muleteer went on talking.

"And so, Tiennet, I don't blame you for following the road that lies
before you; but mine goes farther and I like it best.  I am glad to
know you, and if you ever want me send for me.  I can't ask the same
of you, for I know that a dweller on the plains makes his will and
confesses to the priest before he travels a dozen leagues to see a
friend.  But with us it isn't so; we fly like the swallows, and can
be met almost everywhere.  Good-bye.  Shake hands.  If you get tired
of a peasant's life call the black crow from the Bourbonnais to get
you out of it; he'll remember that he played the bagpipe on your back
without anger, and surrendered to your bravery."




SEVENTH EVENING.

Thereupon Huriel departed to find Joseph, and I went to bed; for if
up to that time I had concealed out of pride and forgotten out of
curiosity the ache in my bones, I was none the less bruised from head
to foot.  Maître Huriel walked off gayly enough, apparently without
feeling anything, but as for me I was obliged to stay in bed for
nearly a week, spitting blood, with my stomach all upset.  Joseph
came to see me and did not know what to make of it all; for I was shy
of telling him the truth, because it appeared that Huriel, in
speaking to him of me, hadn't mentioned how we came to an explanation.

Great was the amazement of the neighborhood over the injury done to
the wheat-fields of Aulnières, and the mule-tracks along the roads
were something to wonder at.  When I gave my brother-in-law the money
I had earned with my sore bones I told him the whole story secretly,
and as he was a good, prudent fellow, no one got wind of it.

Joseph had left his bagpipe at Brulette's and could not make use of
it, partly because the haying left him no time, and also because
Brulette, fearing Carnat's spite, did her best to put him out of the
notion of playing.

Joseph pretended to give in; but we soon saw that he was concocting
some other plan and thinking to hire himself out in another parish,
where he could slip his collar and do as he pleased.

About midsummer he gave warning to his master to get another man in
his place; but it was impossible to get him to say where he was
going; and as he always replied, "I don't know," to any question he
didn't choose to answer, we began to think he would really let
himself be hired in the market-place, like the rest, without caring
where he went.

As the Christians' Fair, so-called, is one of the great festivals of
the town, Brulette went there to dance, and so did I.  We thought we
should meet Joseph and find out before the end of the day what master
and what region he had chosen.  But he did not appear either morning
or evening on the market-place.  No one saw him in the town.  He had
left his bagpipe, but he had carried off, the night before, all the
articles he usually left in Père Brulet's house.

That evening as we came home,--Brulette and I and all her train of
lovers with the other young folks of our parish,--she took my arm,
and walking on the grassy side of the road away from the others, she
said:--

"Do you know, Tiennet, that I am very anxious about José?  His
mother, whom I saw just now in town, is full of trouble and can't
imagine where he has gone.  A long time ago he told her he thought of
going away; but now she can't find out where, and the poor woman is
miserable."

"And you, Brulette," I said, "it seems to me that you are not very
gay, and you haven't danced with the same spirit as usual."

"That's true," she answered; "I have a great regard for the poor
lunatic fellow,--partly because I ought to have it, on account of his
mother, and then for old acquaintance' sake, and also because I care
for his fluting."

"Fluting! does it really have such an effect upon you?"

"There's nothing wrong in its effect, cousin.  Why do you find fault
with it?"

"I don't; but--"

"Come, say what you mean," she exclaimed, laughing; "for you are
always chanting some sort of dirge about it, and I want to say amen
to you once for all, so that I may hear the last of it."

"Well then, Brulette," I replied, "we won't say another word about
Joseph, but let us talk of ourselves.  Why won't you see that I have
a great love for you? and can't you tell me that you will return it
one of these days?"

"Oh! oh! are you talking seriously, this time?"

"This time and all times.  It has always been serious on my part,
even when shyness made me pretend to joke about it."

"Then," said Brulette, quickening her step with me that the others
might not overhear us, "tell me how and why you love me; I'll answer
you afterwards."

I saw she wanted compliments and flattery, but my tongue was not very
ready at that kind of thing.  I did my best, however, and told her
that ever since I came into the world I had never thought of any one
but her; for she was the prettiest and sweetest of girls, and had
captivated me even before she was twelve years old.

I told nothing that she did not know already; indeed she said so, and
owned she had seen it at the time we were catechised.  But she added
laughing:--

"Now explain why you have not died of grief, for I have always put
you down; and tell me also why you are such a fine-grown, healthy
fellow, if love, as you declare, has withered you."

"That's not talking seriously, as you promised me," I said.

"Yes, it is," she replied; "I am serious, for I shall never choose
any one who can't swear that he has never in his life fancied, or
loved, or desired any girl but me."

"Then it is all right, Brulette," I cried.  "If that's so, I fear
nobody, not even that José of yours, who, I will allow, never looked
at a girl in his life, for his eyes can't even see you, or he
wouldn't go away and leave you."

"Don't talk of Joseph; we agreed to let him alone," replied Brulette,
rather sharply, "and as you boast of such very keen eyes, please
confess that in spite of your love for me you have ogled more than
one pretty girl.  Now, don't tell fibs, for I hate lying.  What were
you saying so gayly to Sylvia only last year?  And it isn't more than
a couple of months since you danced two Sundays running, under my
very nose, with that big Bonnina.  Do you think I am blind, and that
nobody comes and tells me things?"

I was rather mortified at first; but then, encouraged by the thought
that there was a spice of jealousy in Brulette, I answered, frankly,--

"What I was saying to such girls, cousin, is not proper to repeat to
a person I respect.  A fellow may play the fool sometimes to amuse
himself, and the regret he feels for it afterwards only proves that
his heart and soul had nothing to do with it."

Brulette colored; but she answered immediately,--

"Then, can you swear to me, Tiennet, that my character and my face
have never been lowered in your esteem by the prettiness or the
amiability of any other girl,--never, since you were born?"

"I will swear to it," I said.

"Swear, then," she said; "but give all your mind, and all your
religion to what you are going to say.  Swear by your father and your
mother, by your conscience and the good God, that no girl ever seemed
to you as beautiful as I."

I was about to swear, when, I am sure I don't know why, a
recollection made my tongue tremble.  Perhaps I was very silly to
heed it; a shrewder fellow wouldn't have done so, but I couldn't lie
at the moment when a certain image came clearly before my mind.  And
yet, I had totally forgotten it up to that very moment, and should
probably never have remembered it at all if it had not been for
Brulette's questions and adjurations.

"You are in no hurry to swear," she said, "but I like that best; I
shall respect you for the truth and despise you for a lie."

"Well then, Brulette," I answered, "as you want me to tell the exact
truth I will do so.  In all my life I have seen two girls, two
children I might say, between whom I might have wavered as to
preference if any one had said to me (for I was a child myself at the
time), 'Here are two little darlings who may listen to you in after
days; choose which you will have for a wife.'  I should doubtless
have answered, 'I choose my cousin,' because I knew how amiable you
were, and I knew nothing of the other, having only seen her for ten
minutes.  And yet, when I came to think of it, it is possible I might
have felt some regret, not because her beauty was greater than yours,
for I don't think that possible, but because she gave me a good kiss
on both cheeks, which you never gave me in your life.  So I conclude
that she is a girl who will some day give her heart generously,
whereas your discretion holds me and always has held me in fear and
trembling."

"Where is she now?" asked Brulette, who seemed struck by what I said.
"What is her name?"

She was much surprised to hear that I knew neither her name nor the
place she lived in, and that I called her in my memory "the girl of
the woods."  I told her the little story of the cart that stuck in
the mud, and she asked me a variety of questions which I could not
answer, my recollections being much confused and the whole affair
being of less interest to me than Brulette supposed.  She turned over
in her head every word she got out of me, and it almost seemed as if
she were questioning herself, with some vexation, to know if she were
pretty enough to be so exacting, and whether frankness or coyness was
the best way of pleasing the lads.

Perhaps she was tempted for a moment to try coquetry and make me
forget the little vision that had come into my head, and which, for
more reasons than one, had displeased her; but after a few joking
words she answered seriously:--

"No, Tiennet, I won't blame you for having eyes to see a pretty girl
when the matter is as innocent and natural as you tell me; but
nevertheless it makes me think seriously, I hardly know why, about
myself.  Cousin, I am a coquette.  I feel the fever of it to the very
roots of my hair.  I don't know that I shall ever be cured of it;
but, such as I am, I look upon love and marriage as the end of all my
comfort and pleasure.  I am eighteen,--old enough to reflect.  Well,
reflection comes to me like a blow on the stomach; whereas you have
been considering how to get yourself a happy home ever since you were
fifteen or sixteen, and your simple heart has given you an honest
answer.  What you need is a wife as simple and honest as yourself,
without caprices, or pride, or folly: I should deceive you shamefully
if I told you that I am the right kind of girl for you.  Whether from
caprice or distrust I don't know, but I have no inclination for any
of those I can choose from, and I can't say that I ever shall have.
The longer I live the more my freedom and my light-heartedness
satisfy me.  Therefore be my friend, my comrade, my cousin; I will
love you just as I love Joseph, and better, if you are faithful to
our friendship; but don't think any more about marrying me.  I know
that your relations would be opposed to it, and so am I, in spite of
myself, and with great regret for disappointing you.  See, the others
are coming after us to break up this long talk.  Promise me not to
sulk; choose a course; be my brother.  If you say yes, we'll build
the midsummer bonfire when we get back to the village, and open the
dance together gayly."

"Well, Brulette," I answered, sighing, "it shall be as you say.  I'll
do my best not to love you, except as you wish, and in any case I
shall still be your cousin and good friend, as in duty bound."

She took my hand and ran with me to the village market-place,
delighted to make her lovers scamper after her; there we found that
the old people had already piled up the fagots and straw of the
bonfire.  Brulette, being the first to arrive, was called to set fire
to it, and soon the flames darted higher than the church porch.

We had no music to dance by until Carnat's son, named François, came
along with his bagpipe; and he was very willing to play, for he, too,
like the rest, was putting his best foot foremost to please Brulette.

So we opened the ball joyously, but after a minute or two everybody
cried out that the music tired their legs.  François Carnat was new
at the business, and though he did his best, we found we couldn't get
along.  He let us make fun of him, however, and kept on
playing,--being, as I suppose, rather glad of the practice, as it was
the first time he had played for people to dance.

Nobody liked it, however, and when the young men found that dancing,
instead of resting their tired legs, only tired them more, they
talked of bidding good-night or spending the evening in the tavern.
Brulette and the other girls exclaimed against that, and told us we
were unmannerly lads and clodhoppers.  This led to an argument, in
the midst of which, all of a sudden, a tall, handsome fellow
appeared, before it could be seen where he came from.

"Hallo there, children!" he cried, in such a loud tone that it
drowned our racket and forced us to listen.  "If you want to go on
dancing, you shall.  Here's a bagpiper who will pipe for you as long
as you like, and won't ask anything for his trouble.  Give me that,"
he said to François Carnat, taking hold of his bagpipe, "and listen;
it may do you good, for though music is not my business, I know more
about it than you."

Then, without waiting for François's consent, he blew out the bag and
began to play, amid cries of joy from the girls and with many thanks
from the lads.

At his very first words I had recognized the Bourbonnais accent of
the muleteer, but I could hardly believe my eyes, so changed was he
for the better in looks.  Instead of his coal-dusty smock-frock, his
old leathern gaiters, his battered hat, and his grimy face, he had a
new suit of clothes of fine white woollen stuff streaked with blue,
handsome linen, a straw hat with colored ribbons, his beard trimmed,
his face washed and as rosy as a peach.  In short, he was the
handsomest man I ever saw; grand as an oak, well-made in every part
of him, clean-limbed and vigorous; with teeth that were bits of
ivory, eyes like the blades of a knife, and the affable air and
manners of a gentleman.  He ogled all the girls, smiled at the
beauties, laughed with the plain ones, and was merry, good company
with every one, encouraging and inspiriting the dancers with eye and
foot and voice (for he did not blow much into his bagpipe, so clever
was he in managing his wind), and shouting between the puffs a dozen
drolleries and funny sayings, which put everybody in good humor for
the evening.

Moreover, instead of doling out exact measure like an ordinary piper,
and stopping short when he had earned his two sous for every couple,
he went on bagpiping a full quarter of an hour, changing his tunes
you couldn't tell how, for they ran into one another without showing
the join; in short, it was the best reel music ever heard, and quite
unknown in our parts, but so enlivening and danceable that we all
seemed to be flying in the air instead of jigging about on the grass.

I think he would have played and we should have danced all night
without getting tired, if it had not been that Père Carnat, hearing
the music from the wine-shop of La Biaude and wondering much that his
son could play so well, came proudly over to listen.  But when he saw
his own bagpipe in the hands of a stranger, and François dancing away
without seeing the harm of yielding his place, he was furious; and
pushing the muleteer from behind, he made him jump from the stone on
which he was perched into the very middle of the dancers.

Maître Huriel was a good deal surprised, and turning round he saw
Carnat, red with anger, ordering him to give up the instrument.

You never knew Carnat the piper?  He was getting in years even then,
but he was still as sturdy and vicious as an old devil.

The muleteer began by showing fight, but noticing Carnat's white
hair, he returned the bagpipe gently, remarking, "You might have
spoken with more civility, old fellow; but if you don't like me to
take your place I give it up to you,--all the more willingly that I
should like to dance myself, if the young people will allow a
stranger in their company."

"Yes, yes! come and dance! you have earned it," cried the whole
parish, who had turned out to hear the fine music and were charmed
with him,--old and young both.

"Then," he said, taking Brulette's hand, for he had looked at her
more than at all the rest, "I ask, by way of payment, to be allowed
to dance with this pretty girl, even though she be engaged to some
one else."

"She is engaged to me, Huriel," said I, "but as we are friends, I
yield my rights to you for this dance."

"Thank you," answered he, shaking hands; then he whispered in my ear,
"I pretended not to know you; but if you see no harm to yourself so
much the better."

"Don't say you are a muleteer and it is all right," I replied.

While the folks were questioning about the stranger, another fuss
arose at the musician's stone.  Père Carnat refused to play or to
allow his son to play.  He even scolded François openly for letting
an unknown man supplant him; and the more people tried to settle the
matter by telling him the stranger had not taken any money, the
angrier he got.  In fact when Père Maurice Viaud told him he was
jealous, and that the stranger could outdo him and all the other
neighboring players, he was beside himself with rage.

He rushed into the midst of us and demanded of Huriel whether he had
a license to play the bagpipes,--which made every body laugh, and the
muleteer most of all.  At last, being summoned by the old savage to
reply, Huriel said, "I don't know the customs in your part of the
country, old man, but I have travelled enough to know the laws, and I
know that nowhere in France do artists buy licenses."

"Artists!" exclaimed Carnat, puzzled by a word which, like the rest
of us, he had never heard, "What does that mean?  Are you talking
gibberish?"

"Not at all," replied Huriel.  "I will call them musicians if you
like; and I assert that I am free to play music wherever I please
without paying toll to the king of France."

"Well, well, I know that," answered Carnat, "but what you don't know
yourself is that in our part of the country musicians pay a tax to an
association of public players, and receive a license after they have
been tried and initiated."

"I know that too," said Huriel, "and I also know how much money is
paid into your pockets during those trials.  I advise you not to try
that upon me.  However, happily for you, I don't practise the
profession, and want nothing in your parts.  I play gratis where I
please, and no one can prevent that, for the reason that I have got
my degree as master-piper, which very likely you have not, big as you
talk."

Carnat quieted down a little at these words, and they said something
privately to each other that nobody heard, by which they discovered
that they belonged to the same corporation, if not to the same
company.  The two Carnats, having no further right to object, as
every one present testified that Huriel had not played for money,
departed grumbling and saying spiteful things, which no one answered
so as to be sooner rid of them.

As soon as they were gone we called on Marie Guillard, a lass with a
carrying voice, and made her sing, so that the stranger might have
the pleasure of dancing with us.

He did not dance in our fashion, though he accommodated himself very
well to the time and figures.  But his style was much the best, and
gave such free play to his body that he really looked handsomer and
taller than ever.  Brulette watched him attentively and when he
kissed her, which is the fashion in our parts when each dance begins,
she grew quite red and confused, contrary to her usual indifferent
and easy way of taking a kiss.

I argued from this that she had rather overdone her contempt for love
when talking with me about mine; but I took no notice, and I own that
in spite of it all I felt a good deal set up on my own account by the
fine manners and talents of the muleteer.

When the dance was over he came up to me with Brulette on his arm,
saying,--

"It is your turn now, comrade; and I can't thank you better than by
returning the pretty dancer you lent me.  She is a beauty like those
of my own land, and for her sake I do homage to the Berrichon girls.
But why end the evening so early?  Is there no other bagpipe in the
village besides that of the old cross patch?"

"Yes, there is," said Brulette quickly, letting out the secret she
wanted to keep in her eagerness for dancing; then, catching herself
up, she added, blushing, "That is to say, there are shepherd's pipes,
and herd-boys who can play them after a fashion."

"Pipes indeed!" cried the muleteer; "if you happen to laugh they go
down your throat and make you cough!  My mouth is too big for that
kind of instrument; and yet I want to make you dance, my pretty
Brulette; for that is your name, I have heard it," he said, drawing
us both aside; "and I know, too, that there's a fine bagpipe in your
house, which came from the Bourbonnais, and belongs to a certain
Joseph Picot, your friend from childhood, and your companion at the
first communion."

"Oh! how did you know that?" cried Brulette, much astonished.  "Do
you know our Joseph?  Perhaps you can tell us where he has gone?"

"Are you anxious about him?" said Huriel, looking narrowly at her.

"So anxious that I will thank you with all my heart if you can give
me news of him."

"Well, I'll give you some, my pretty one; but not until you bring me
his bagpipe, which he wants me to carry to him at the place where he
now is."

"What!" cried Brulette, "is he very far away?"

"So far that he has no idea of coming back."

"Is that true?  Won't he come back? has he gone for good and all?
That ends my wanting to laugh and dance any more to-night."

"Ho, ho, pretty one!" cried Huriel; "so you are Joseph's sweetheart,
are you?  He did not tell me that."

"I am nobody's sweetheart," answered Brulette, drawing herself up.

"Nevertheless," said the muleteer, "here is a token which he told me
to show you in case you hesitated to trust me with the bagpipe."

"Where is it? what is it?" I exclaimed.

"Look at my ear," said the muleteer, lifting a great lock of his
curly black hair and showing us a tiny silver heart hanging to a
large earring of fine gold, which pierced his ears after a fashion
among the middle classes of those days.

I think that earring began to open Brulette's eyes, for she said to
Huriel, "You can't be what you seem to be, but I see plainly that you
are not a man to deceive poor folks.  Besides, that token is really
mine, or rather it is Joseph's, for it is a present his mother made
to me on the day of our first communion, and I gave it to him the
next day as a remembrance, when he left home to go to service.  So,
Tiennet," she said, turning to me, "go to my house and fetch the
bagpipe, and bring it over there, under the church porch, where it is
dark, so that people can't see where it comes from; for Père Carnat
is a wicked old man and might do my grandfather some harm if he
thought we were mixed up in the matter."




EIGHTH EVENING.

I did as I was told, not pleased, however, at leaving Brulette alone
with the muleteer in a place already darkened by the coming night.
When I returned, bringing the bagpipe, taken apart and folded up
under my blouse, I found them still in the same corner arguing over
something with a good deal of vehemence.  Seeing me, Brulette said:
"Tiennet, I take you to witness that I do not consent to give this
man that token which is hung on his earring.  He declares he cannot
give it back because it belongs to Joseph, but he also says that
Joseph does not want it; it is a little thing, to be sure, not worth
ten sous, but I don't choose to give it to a stranger.  I was
scarcely twelve years old when I gave it to José, and people must be
suspicious to see any meaning in that; but, as they will have it so,
it is only the more reason why I should refuse to give it to another."

It seemed to me that Brulette was taking unnecessary pains to show
the muleteer she was not in love with Joseph, and also that Huriel,
on his side, was very glad to find her heart was free.  However that
may be, he did not trouble himself to stop courting her before me.

"My pretty one," he said, "you are too suspicious.  I would not show
your gifts to any one, even if I had them to boast of; but I admit
here, before Tiennet, that you do not encourage me to love you.  I
can't say that that will stop me; at any rate, you cannot hinder me
from remembering you, and I shall value this ten-sous token in my ear
above anything I ever coveted.  Joseph is my friend, and I know he
loves you; but the lad's affection is so quiet he will never think of
asking for his token again.  So, if it is one year or ten before we
meet again, you will see it just where it is; that is, unless the ear
is gone."

So saying, he took Brulette's hand and kissed it, and then he set to
work to put the bagpipe together and fill it.

"What are you doing?" cried Brulette.  "I told you that I had no
heart to amuse myself, now that Joseph has left his mother and
friends for such a time, and as for you, you'll be in danger of a
fight if the other pipers should come this way and find you playing."

"Bah!" said Huriel, "we'll see about that; don't be troubled for
me,--you must dance, Brulette, or I shall think you are really in
love with an ungrateful fellow who has left you."

Whether it was that Brulette was too proud to let him think that, or
that the dancing mania was too strong for her, it is certain that the
bagpipe was no sooner fitted and filled and beginning to sound than
she held out no longer and let me carry her off for the first reel.

You would hardly believe, friends, what cries of satisfaction and
delight filled the marketplace at the resounding noise of that
bagpipe and the return of the muleteer, for every one thought him
gone.  The dancing had flagged and the company were about to disperse
when he made his appearance once more on the piper's stone.
Instantly such a hubbub arose! no longer four to eight couples were
dancing, but sixteen to thirty-two, joining hands, skipping,
shouting, laughing, so that the good God himself couldn't have got a
word in edgewise.  And presently every one in the market-place, old
and young, children who couldn't yet use their legs, grandfathers
tottering on theirs, old women jigging in the style of their youth,
awkward folk who couldn't get the time or the tune,--they all set to
spinning; and, indeed, it is a wonder the clock of the parish church
didn't spin too.  Fancy! the finest music ever heard in our parts and
costing nothing!  It seemed as if the devil had a finger in it, for
the piper never asked to rest, and tired out everybody except
himself.  "I'm determined to be the last," he cried when they advised
him to rest.  "The whole parish shall give in before me; I intend to
keep it up till sunrise, and you shall all cry me mercy!"  So on we
went, he piping and we twirling like mad.

Mère Biaude, who kept the tavern, seeing there was profit in it,
brought out tables and benches and something to eat and drink; as to
the latter article, she couldn't furnish enough for so many stomachs
hungry by dancing, so folks living near brought out for their friends
and acquaintance the victuals they had laid in for the week.  One
brought cheese, another a bag of nuts, another the quarter of a kid,
or a sucking pig, all of which were roasted and broiled at a fire
hastily built in the market-place.  It was like a wedding to which
every one flocked.  The children were not sent to bed, for no one had
time to think of them, and they fell asleep, like a heap of lambs, on
the piles of lumber which always lay about the market-place, to the
wild racket of the dance and the bagpipe, which never stopped except
it was to let the piper drink a jorum of the best wine.

The more he drank the gayer he was and the better he played.  At last
hunger seized the sturdiest, and Huriel was forced to stop for lack
of dancers.  So, having won his wager to bury us all, he consented to
go to supper.  Everybody invited him and quarrelled for the honor and
pleasure of feasting him; but seeing that Brulette was coming to my
table, he accepted my invitation and sat down beside her, boiling
over with wit and good humor.  He ate fast and well, but instead of
getting torpid from digestion he was the first to clink his glass for
a song; and although he had blown his pipe like a whirlwind for six
hours at a stretch, his voice was as fresh and as true as if he had
done nothing.  The others tried to hold their own, but even our
renowned singers soon gave it up for the pleasure of listening to
him; his songs were far beyond theirs, as much for the tunes as the
words; indeed, we had great difficulty in catching the chorus, for
there was nothing in his throat that wasn't new to our ears, and of a
quality, I must own, above our knowledge.

People left their tables to listen to him, and just as day was
beginning to dawn through the leaves a crowd of people were standing
round him, more bewitched and attentive than at the finest sermon.

At that moment he rose, jumped on his bench, and waved his empty
glass to the first ray of sunlight that shone above his head, saying,
in a manner that made us all tremble without knowing why or
wherefore:--

"Friends, see the torch of the good God!  Put out your little candles
and bow to the clearest and brightest light that shines on the world.
And now," he said, sitting down again and setting his glass bottom up
on the table, "we have talked enough and sung enough for one night.
What are you about, verger?  Go and ring the Angelus, that we may see
who signs the cross like a Christian; and that will show which of us
have enjoyed ourselves decently, and which have degraded our pleasure
like fools.  After we have rendered thanks to God I must depart, my
friends, thanking you for this fine fête and all your signs of
confidence.  I owed you a little reparation for some damage I did a
few of you lately without intending it.  Guess it if you can,--I did
not come here to confess it; but I think I have done my best to amuse
you; and as pleasure, to my thinking, is worth more than profit, I
feel that I am quits with you.  Hush!" he added, as they began to
question him, "hear the Angelus!"

He knelt down, which led every one to do likewise, and do it, too,
with soberness of manner, for the man seemed to have some
extraordinary power over his fellows.

When the prayer ended we looked about for him, but he was gone,--and
so completely that there were people who rubbed their eyes, fancying
that they had dreamed this night of gayety and merriment.




NINTH EVENING.

Brulette was trembling all over, and when I asked her what the matter
was and what she was thinking of, she answered, rubbing her cheek
with the back of her hand, "That man is pleasant, Tiennet, but he is
very bold."

As I was rather more heated than usual, I found courage to say,--

"If the lips of a stranger offend your skin, perhaps those of a
friend can remove the stain."

But she pushed me away, saying,--

"He has gone, and it is wisest to forget those who go."

"Even poor José?"

"He! oh, that's different," she answered.

"Why different?  You don't answer me.  Oh, Brulette, you care for--"

"For whom?" she said, quickly.  "What is his name?  Out with it, as
you know it!"

"It is," I said, laughing, "the black man for whose sake José has
given himself over to the devil,--that man who frightened you one
night last spring when you were at my house."

"No, no; nonsense! you are joking.  Tell me his name, his business,
and where he comes from."

"No, I shall not, Brulette.  You say we ought to forget the absent,
and I would rather you didn't change your mind."

The whole parish was surprised when it was known that the piper had
departed before they had thought of discovering who he was.  To be
sure, a few had questioned him, but he gave them contradictory
answers.  To one he said he was a Marchois and was named thus and so;
to another he gave a different name, and no one could make out the
truth.  I gave them still another name to throw them off the
scent,--not that Huriel the wheat-spoiler need fear any one after
Huriel the piper had turned everybody's head, but simply to amuse
myself and to tease Brulette.  Then, when I was asked where I had
known him, I answered, laughing, that I didn't know him at all,--that
he had taken it into his head on arriving to accost me as a friend,
and that I had answered him in kind by way of a joke.

Brulette, however, sifted me to the bottom, and I was forced to tell
her what I knew; and though it was not much, she was sorry she had
heard it, for like most country folks, she had a great prejudice
against strangers, and muleteers in particular.

I thought this repugnance would soon make her forget Huriel; and if
she ever thought of him she never showed it, but continued to lead
the gay life she liked so well, declaring that she meant to be as
faithful a wife as she was thoughtless a girl, and therefore she
should take her time and study her suitors; and to me she kept
repeating that she wanted my faithful, quiet friendship, without any
thought of marriage.

As my nature never turned to gloominess, I made no complaint; in
fact, like Brulette, I had a leaning to liberty, and I used mine like
other young fellows, taking pleasure where I found it, without the
yoke.  But the excitement once over, I always came back to my
beautiful cousin for gentle, virtuous, and lively companionship,
which I couldn't afford to lose by sulking.  She had more sense and
wit than all the women and girls of the neighborhood put together.
And her home was so pleasant,--always neat and well-managed, never
pinched for means, and filled, during the winter evenings and on all
the holidays of the year, with the nicest young folks of the parish.
The girls liked to follow in my cousin's train, where there was
always a rush of young fellows to choose from, and where they could
pick up, now and then, a husband of their own.  In fact, Brulette
took advantage of the respect they all felt for her to make the lads
think of the lasses who wanted their attentions; for she was generous
with her lovers,--like people rich in other ways who know it is their
duty to give away.

Grandfather Brulet loved his young companion, and amused her with his
old-fashioned songs and the many fine tales he told her.  Sometimes
Mariton would drop in for a moment just to talk of her boy.  She was
a great woman for gossip, still fresh in appearance, and always ready
to show the young girls how to make their clothes,--being well
dressed herself to please her master Benoit, who thought her handsome
face and finery a good advertisement of his house.

It was well-nigh a year that these amusements had been going on
without other news of Joseph than by two letters, in which he told
his mother he was well in health and was earning his living in the
Bourbonnais.  He did not give the name of the place, and the two
letters were postmarked from different towns.  Indeed, the second
letter was none so easy to make out, though our curate was very
clever at reading writing; but it appeared that Joseph was getting
himself educated, and had tried, for the first time, to write
himself.  At last a third letter came, addressed to Brulette, which
Monsieur le curé read off quite fluently, declaring that the
sentences were very well turned.  This letter stated that Joseph had
been ill, and a friend was writing for him; it was nothing more than
a spring fever, and his family were not to be uneasy about him.  The
letter went on to say that he was living with friends who were in the
habit of travelling about; that he was then starting with them for
the district of Chambérat, from which they would write again if he
grew worse in spite of the great care they were taking of him.

"Good gracious!" cried Brulette, when the curate had read her all
that was in the letter, "I'm afraid he is going to make himself a
muleteer.  I dare not tell his mother about either his illness or the
trade he is taking up.  Poor soul! she has troubles enough without
that."

Then, glancing at the letter, she asked what the signature meant.
Monsieur le curé, who had paid no attention to it, put on his glasses
and soon began to laugh, declaring that he had never seen anything
like it, and all he could make out, in place of a name, was the
sketch of an ear and an earring with a sort of a heart stuck through
it.

"Probably," said he, "it is the emblem of some fraternity.  All
guilds have their badges, and other people can't understand them."

But Brulette understood well enough; she seemed a little worried and
carried off the letter, to examine it, I don't doubt, with a less
indifferent eye than she pretended; for she took it into her head to
learn to read, and very secretly she did so, by the help of a former
lady's-maid in a noble family, who often came to gossip in a sociable
house like my cousin's.  It didn't take long for such a clever head
as Brulette's to learn all she wanted, and one fine day I was amazed
to find she could write songs and hymns as prettily turned as
anybody's.  I could not help asking her if she had learned these fine
things above her station so as to correspond with Joseph, or the
handsome muleteer.

"As if I cared for a common fellow with earrings!" she cried,
laughing.  "Do you think I am such an ill-behaved girl as to write to
a perfect stranger?  But if Joseph comes back educated he will have
done a very good thing to get rid of his stupidity; and as for me, I
shall not be sorry to be a little less of a goose than I was."

"Brulette, Brulette!" I retorted, "you are setting your thoughts
outside your own country and your friends.  Take care, harm will come
of it!  I'm not a bit less uneasy about you here than I am about
Joseph down there."

"You can be easy about me, Tiennet; my head is cool, no matter what
people say of me.  As for our poor boy, I am troubled enough; it will
soon be six months since we heard from him, and that fine muleteer
who promised to send us news has never once thought of it.  Mariton
is miserable at Joseph's neglect of her; for she has never known of
his illness, and perhaps he is dead without our suspecting it."

I assured her that in that case we should certainly have been
informed of the fact, and that no news was always good news in such
cases.

"You may say what you like," she replied; "I dreamed, two nights ago,
that the muleteer arrived here, bringing his bagpipe and the news
that José was dead.  Ever since I dreamed that I have been sad at
heart, and I am sorry I have let so much time go by without thinking
of the poor lad or trying to write to him.  But how could I have sent
my letter?--for I don't even know where he is."

So saying, Brulette, who was sitting near a window and chanced to
look out, gave a loud cry and turned white with fear.  I looked out
too, and saw Huriel, black with charcoal dust on his face and
clothes, just as I saw him the first time.  He came towards us, while
the children ran out of his way, screaming, "The devil! the devil!"
and the dogs yelped at him.

Struck with what Brulette had just said, and wishing to spare her the
pain of hearing ill-news suddenly, I ran to meet the muleteer, and my
first words were,--

"Is he dead?"

"Who?  Joseph?" he replied.  "No, thank God.  But how did you know he
was still ill?"

"Is he in danger?"

"Yes and no.  But what I have to say is for Brulette.  Is that her
house?  Take me to her."

"Yes, yes, come!" I cried; and rushing ahead I told my cousin to be
comforted, for the news was not nearly so bad as she expected.

She called her grandfather, who was at work in the next room,
intending to receive the muleteer in a proper manner; but when she
saw him so different from the idea she had kept of him, so
unrecognizable in face and clothes, she lost her self-possession and
turned away sadly and in much confusion.

Huriel perceived it, for he smiled, and lifting his black hair as if
by accident, showed Brulette her token which was still in his ear.

"It is really I," he said, "and no one else.  I have come from my own
parts expressly to tell you about a friend who, thanks to God, is
neither dead nor dying, but of whom I must speak to you at some
length.  Have you leisure to hear me now?"

"That we have," said Père Brulet.  "Sit down, my man, and take
something to eat."

"I want nothing," said Huriel, seating himself.  "I will wait till
your own meal-time.  But, first of all, I ought to make myself known
to those I am now speaking to."




TENTH EVENING.

"Say on," said my uncle, "we are listening."

Then said the muleteer: "My name is Jean Huriel, muleteer by trade,
son of Sebastien Huriel, otherwise called Bastien, the Head-Woodsman,
a renowned bagpiper, and considered the best worker in the forests of
the Bourbonnais.  Those are my names and claims, to which I can bring
honorable proof.  I know that to win your confidence I ought to
present myself in the guise in which I have the right to appear; but
men of my calling have a custom--"

"I know your custom, my lad," said Père Brulet, who watched him
attentively.  "It is good or bad, according as you yourselves are
good or bad.  I have not lived till now without knowing what the
muleteers are; I have travelled outside our own borders, and I know
your customs and behavior.  They say your fraternity are given to
evil deeds,--they are known to abduct girls, attack Christian people,
and even kill them in pretended quarrels so as to get their money."

"Well," said Huriel, laughing, "I think that is an exaggerated
account of us.  The things you speak of are long passed away; you
would not hear of such deeds now-a-days.  But the fear your people
had of us was so great that for years the muleteers did not dare to
leave the woods unless in troops and with great precautions.  The
proof that they have mended their ways and are no longer to be feared
is that they no longer fear for themselves; so here I am, alone in
the midst of you."

"Yes," said Père Brulet, who was not easy to convince; "but your face
is blackened all the same.  You have sworn to follow the rule of your
fraternity, which is to travel thus disguised through the districts
where you are still distrusted, so that if folks see you do an evil
deed they can't say afterwards, when they meet your companions, 'That
is he,' or, 'That is not he.'  You consider yourselves all
responsible for one another.  This has its good side, for it makes
you faithful friends, and each man has the help and good-will of all;
but, nevertheless, it leaves the rest of us in doubt as to the
character of your morality, and I shall not deny that if a
muleteer--no matter how good a fellow he may be nor how much money he
may have--comes here to ask for my alliance, I'll cheerfully offer
him bite and sup, but I'll not invite him to marry my daughter."

"And I," said the muleteer, his eyes flashing as he boldly looked at
Brulette, who pretended to be thinking of something else, "had no
such idea in coming here.  You are not called upon to refuse me, Père
Brulet, for you don't know whether I am married or single.  I have
said nothing about it."

Brulette dropped her eyes, and I could not tell whether she was
pleased or displeased.  Then she recovered spirit, and said to the
muleteer: "This has nothing to do with the matter--which is José.
You have brought news of him; I am distressed at heart about his
health.  This is my grandfather, who brought him up and takes an
interest in him.  Please talk of Joseph instead of other things."

Huriel looked steadily at Brulette, seeming to struggle with a
momentary vexation and to gather himself together before he spoke;
then he said:--

"Joseph is ill,--so ill that I resolved to come and say to the woman
who is the cause of it, 'Do you wish to cure him, and are you able to
do so?'"

"What are you talking about?" said my uncle, pricking up his ears,
which were beginning to be a little hard of hearing.  "How can my
daughter cure the lad?"

"If I spoke of myself before I spoke of him," continued Huriel, "it
was because I have delicate things to say of him which you would
scarcely allow a total stranger to mention.  Now, if you think me a
decent man, allow me to speak my mind freely and tell you all I know."

"Explain everything," said Brulette, eagerly.  "Don't be afraid; I
shall not care for any idea people take of me."

"I have none but good ideas of you, Brulette," replied the muleteer.
"It is not your fault if Joseph loves you; and if you return his love
in your secret heart no one can blame you.  We may envy Joseph in
that case, but not betray him or do anything to trouble you.  Let me
tell you how things have gone between him and me since the day we
first made friends, when I persuaded him to come over to our parts
and learn the music he was so crazy about."

"I don't think you did him much good by that advice," observed my
uncle.  "It is my opinion he could have learned it just as well here,
without grieving and distressing his family."

"He told me," replied Huriel, "and I have since found it true, that
the other bagpipers would not allow it.  Besides, I owed him the
truth, because he trusted me at first sight.  Music is a wild flower
which does not bloom in your parts.  It loves our heather; but I
can't tell you why.  In our woods and dells it lives and thrives and
lives again, like the flowers of spring; there it sows and harvests
ideas for lands that are barren of them.  The best things your pipers
give you come from there; but as your players are lazy and niggardly,
and you are satisfied to hear the same things over and over again,
they only come to us once in their lives, and live on what they learn
then for the rest of their days.  At this very time they are teaching
pupils to strum a corruption of our old music, and they never think
of consulting at the fountainhead to find how such airs should be
played.  So when a well-intentioned young fellow like your José (as I
said to him) comes to drink at the spring, he is sure to return so
fresh and full that the other players could not stand up against him.
That is why José agreed to go over into the Bourbonnais the following
midsummer, where he could have enough work in the woods to support
him, and lessons from our best master.  I must tell you that the
finest bagpipers are in Upper Bourbonnais, among the pine forests,
over where the Sioule comes down from the Dôme mountains; and that my
father, born in the village of Huriel, from which he takes his name,
has spent his life among these players, and keeps his wind in good
order and his art well-trained.  He is a man who does not like to
work two years running in the same place, and the older he gets the
livelier and more fond of change he is.  Last year he was in the
forest of Troncay; since then he has been in that of Éspinasse.  Just
now he is in the woods of Alleu, where Joseph has followed him
faithfully, chopping and felling and bagpiping by his side,--for he
loves him like a son and boasts that the love is returned.  The lad
has been as happy as a lover can be when parted from his mistress.
But life is not as easy and comfortable with us as with you; and
though my father, taught by experience, tried to prevent Joseph (who
was in a hurry to succeed) from straining his lungs on our
pipes,--which are, as you may have noticed, differently made from
yours, and very fatiguing to the chest until you know how to use
them,--the poor fellow took a fever and began to spit blood.  My
father, who understood the disease and knew how to manage it, took
away his bagpipe and ordered him to rest; but then, though his bodily
health improved, he took sick in another way.  He ceased to cough and
spit blood, but he fell into a state of depression and weakness which
made them fear for his life.  So that when I got home from a trip
eight days ago I found him so pallid that I scarcely knew him, and so
weak on his legs that he could not stand.  When I questioned him he
burst into tears and said, very sadly: 'Huriel, I know I shall die in
the depths of these woods, far from my own country, from my mother
and my friends, unloved by her to whom I long to show the art I have
learned.  This dreadful dulness eats into my mind, impatience withers
my heart.  I wish your father would give me back my bagpipe and let
me die of it.  I could draw my last breath in sending from afar to
her I love the sweetness my lips can never utter to her, dreaming for
a moment that I was at her side.  No doubt Père Bastien meant kindly;
I know I was killing myself with eagerness.  But what do I gain by
dying more slowly?  I must renounce life any way.  On the one hand, I
can't chop wood and earn my bread, and must live at your expense; on
the other, my chest is too weak to pipe.  No, it is all over with me.
I shall never be anything; I must die without the joy of remembering
a single day of love and happiness.'"

"Don't cry, Brulette," continued the muleteer, taking the hand with
which she wiped her tears; "all is not hopeless.  Listen to me.
Seeing the poor lad's misery, I went after a good doctor, who
examined him, and then told us that it was more depression than
illness, and he would answer for his cure if Joseph would give up
music and wood-cutting for another month.  As to that last matter, it
was quite convenient, for my father, and I too, thank God, are not
badly off, and it is no great merit to us to take care of a friend
who can't work.  But the doctor was wrong; the same causes remain,
and José is no better.  He did not want me to let you know his state,
but I made him agree to it and I even tried to bring him here with
me.  I put him carefully on one of my mules, but at the end of a few
miles he became so weak I was obliged to take him back to my father,
who thereupon said to me: 'Do you go to the lad's people and bring
back either his mother or his sweetheart.  He is homesick, that's
all, and if he sees one or the other of them he will recover health
and courage enough to finish his apprenticeship here; or else he must
go home with them.'  That being said before Joseph, he was much
excited.  'My mother!' he cried, like a child; 'my poor mother, make
her come quickly!'  Then checking himself, he added, 'No, no; I don't
want her to see me die; her grief would kill me all the faster.'
'How about Brulette?' I whispered to him.  'Oh!  Brulette would not
come,' he answered.  'Brulette is good; but she must have chosen a
lover by this time who would not let her come and comfort me.'  Then
I made José swear he would have patience till I returned, and I came
off.  Père Brulet, decide what ought to be done; and you, Brulette,
consult your heart."

"Maître Huriel," said Brulette, rising, "I will go, though I am not
Joseph's sweetheart, as you called me, and nothing obliges me to go
to him except that his mother fed me with her milk and carried me in
her arms.  Why do you think the young man is in love with me?  Just
as true as that my grandfather is sitting there, he never said the
first word of it to me."

"Then he did tell me truth!" cried Huriel, as if delighted with what
he heard; but catching himself hastily up, he added, "It is none the
less true that he may die of it, and all the more because he has no
hope; I must therefore plead his cause and explain his feelings."

"Are you deputed to do so?" asked Brulette, haughtily and as if
annoyed with the muleteer.

"Deputed or not, I must do it," said Huriel; "I must clear my
conscience of it,--for his sake who told me his troubles and asked my
help.  This is what he said to me: 'I always longed to give myself up
to music, as much because I loved it as for love of my dear Brulette.
She considers me as a brother; she has always shown me the greatest
kindness and true pity; but for all that she received everybody's
attentions except mine, and I can't blame her.  The girl loves finery
and all that sets her off.  She has a right to be coquettish and
exacting.  My heart aches for it, but if she gives her affections to
those who are worth more than I the fault is mine for being worth so
little.  Such as I am--unable to dig hard, or speak soft, or dance,
or jest, or even sing, feeling ashamed of myself and my condition, I
deserve that she should think me the lowest of those who aspire to
her hand.  Well, don't you see that this grief will kill me if it
lasts? and I want to find a cure for it.  I feel within me something
which declares that I can make better music than any one else in our
parts; if I could only succeed I should be no longer a mere nothing.
I should become even more than others; and as that girl has much
taste and a gift for singing, she would understand, out of her own
self, what I was worth; moreover, her pride would be flattered at the
praises I should receive.'"

"You speak," said Brulette, smiling, "as if I had an understanding
with him; whereas he has never said a word of all this to me.  His
pride has always been up in arms, and I see that it is through pride
that he expects to influence me.  However, as his illness puts him
really in danger of dying, I will, in order to give him courage, do
everything that belongs to the sort of friendship I feel for him.  I
will go to see him with Mariton, provided my grandfather advises and
is willing I should do so."

"I don't think it possible that Mariton can go with you," said Père
Brulet, "for reasons which I know and you will soon know, my
daughter.  I can only tell you just now that she cannot leave her
master, because of some trouble in his affairs.  Besides, if Joseph's
illness can really be cured it is better not to worry and upset the
poor woman.  I will go with you, because I have great confidence that
you, who have always managed Joseph for the best, will have influence
enough over his mind to bring him back to reason and give him
courage.  I know what you think of him, and it is what I think too;
well, if we find him in a desperate condition we can write to his
mother at once to come and close his eyes."

"If you will allow me in your company," said Huriel.  "I will guide
you as the swallow flies to where Joseph is.  I can even take you in
a single day if you are not afraid of bad roads."

"We will talk about that at table," replied my uncle.  "As for your
company, I wish for it and claim it; for you have spoken well, and I
know something of the family of honest folks to whom you belong."

"Do you know my father?" cried Huriel.  "When he heard us speaking of
Brulette he told us, Joseph and me, that his father had had an early
friend named Brulet."

"It was I, myself," said my uncle.  "I cut wood for a long time,
thirty years ago, in the Saint-Amand region with your grandfather,
and I knew your father when a boy; he worked with us and played the
bagpipes wonderfully well, even then.  He was a fine lad, and years
can't trouble him much yet.  When you named yourself just now I did
not wish to interrupt you, and if I twitted you a little about your
customs, it was only to draw you out.  Now, sit down, and don't spare
the food at your service."

During supper Huriel showed as much good sense in his talk and
pleasantness in his gravity as he had wit and liveliness on the night
of his first appearance at midsummer.  Brulette listened attentively
and seemed to get accustomed to his blackened face; but when the
journey was talked of and the method of making it was mentioned, she
grew uneasy about her grandfather, fearing the fatigue and the
upsetting of his habits; so, as Huriel could not deny that the
journey would be painful to a man of his years, I offered to
accompany Brulette in place of my uncle.

"That's the very thing," said Huriel.  "If we are only three we can
take the cross-cut, and by starting to-morrow morning we can get
there to-morrow night.  I have a sister, a very steady, good girl,
who will take Brulette into her own hut; for I must not conceal from
you that where we are now living you will find neither houses nor
places to sleep in such as you are accustomed to here."

"It is true," replied my uncle, "that I am too old to sleep on the
heather; and though I am not very indulgent to my body, if I happened
to fall ill over there, I should be a great trouble to you, my dear
children.  So, if Tiennet will go, I know him well enough to trust
his cousin to him.  I shall rely on his not leaving her a foot's
length in any circumstances where there may be danger for a young
girl; and I rely on you, too, Huriel, not to expose her to any risks
on the way."

I was mightily pleased with this plan, which gave me the pleasure of
escorting Brulette and the honor of defending her in case of need.
We parted early and met again before daylight at the door of the
house,--Brulette all ready and holding a little bundle in her hand,
Huriel leading his _clairin_ and three mules, one of which was
saddled with a very soft, clean pad, on which he seated Brulette.
Then he himself mounted the horse and I another mule, which seemed
much surprised to find me on his back.  The other, laden with new
hampers, followed of her own accord, while Satan brought up the rear.
Nobody was yet afoot in the village; for which I was sorry, for I
would have liked to make Brulette's other lovers jealous in return
for the rage they had often put me in.  But Huriel seemed anxious to
get away without being noticed and criticised under Brulette's nose
for his blackened face.

We had not gone far before he made me feel that I should not be
allowed to manage everything as I liked.  We reached the woods of
Maritet at noon, which was nearly half-way.  There was a little
inclosure near by called "La Ronde," where I should have liked to go
and get a good breakfast.  But Huriel laughed at what he called my
love for a knife and fork, and as Brulette, who was determined to
think everything amusing, agreed with him, he made us dismount in a
narrow ravine, through which ran a tiny river called "La
Portefeuille."--so-called because (at that season at least) the water
was covered with the green trays of the water-lily and shaded with
the leafage of the woods which came to the very banks of the river on
either side.  Huriel let the animals loose among the reeds, selected
a pretty spot covered with wild flowers, opened the hampers, uncorked
the flask, and served as good a lunch as we could have had at
home,--all so neatly done and with such consideration for Brulette
that she could not help showing pleasure.  When she saw that before
touching the bread to cut it, and before removing the white napkin
which wrapped the provisions, he carefully washed his hands, plunging
his arms above the elbows in the river, she smiled and said to him,
with her gracious little air of command: "While you are about it,
could not you also wash your face, so that we might see if you were
really the handsome bagpiper of the midsummer dance?"

"No, my pretty one," he replied, "you must get used to the reverse of
the coin.  I make no claims upon your heart but those of friendship
and esteem, though I am only a heathen of a muleteer.  Consequently I
need not try to please you by my face, and it will not be for your
sake that I wash it."

She was mortified, but she would not give up the point.

"You ought not to frighten your friends," she said; "and the fear of
you, looking as you now do, takes away my appetite."

"In that case I'll go and eat apart, so as not to upset you."

He did as he said, and sat down upon a little rock which jutted into
the water behind the place where we were sitting, and ate his food
alone, while I enjoyed the pleasure of serving Brulette.

At first she laughed, thinking she had provoked him, and taking
pleasure in it, like all coquettes; but when she got tired of the
game and wanted to recall him, and did her best to excite him by
words, he held firm, and every time she turned her head toward him he
turned his back on her, while answering all her nonsense very
cleverly and without the least vexation, which, to her, was perhaps
the very worst of the thing.  So presently she began to feel sorry,
and, after a rather sharp speech which he launched about haughty
minxes, and which she fancied was meant for her, two tears rolled
from her eyes though she tried hard to keep them back in my presence.
Huriel did not see them, and I took very good care not to show her
that I did.

When we had eaten all we wanted, Huriel packed up the remainder of
the provisions, saying,--

"If you are tired, children, you can take a nap, for the animals want
a rest in the heat of the day; that's the time when the flies torment
them, and in this copse they can rub and shake themselves as much as
they please.  Tiennet, I rely on you to keep good guard over our
princess.  As for me, I am going a little way into the forest, to see
how the works of God are going on."

Then with a light step, and no more heed to the heat than if we were
in the month of April, instead of the middle of July, he sprang up
the slope, and was lost to sight among the tall trees.




ELEVENTH EVENING.

Brulette did her best not to let me see the annoyance she felt at his
departure; but having no heart for talk, she pretended to go to sleep
on the fine sand of the river-bank, her head upon the panniers which
were taken from the mule to rest him, and her face protected from the
flies by a white handkerchief.  I don't know whether she slept; I
spoke to her two or three times without getting any answer, and as
she had let me lay my cheek on a corner of her apron, I kept quiet
too, but without sleeping at first, for I felt a little agitated by
her close neighborhood.

However, weariness soon overtook me, and I lost consciousness for a
short time; when I woke I heard voices, and found that the muleteer
had returned and was talking with Brulette.  I did not dare move the
apron that I might hear more distinctly, but I held it tightly in my
fingers so that the girl could not have got away even had she wished
to.

"I certainly have the right," Huriel was saying, "to ask you what
course you mean to pursue with that poor lad.  I am his friend more
than I can claim to be yours, and I should blame myself for bringing
you, if you mean to deceive him."

"Who talks of deceiving him?" cried Brulette.  "Why do you criticise
my intentions without knowing them?"

"I don't criticise, Brulette; I question you because I like Joseph
very much, and I esteem you enough to believe you will deal frankly
with him."

"That is my affair, Maître Huriel; you are not the judge of my
feelings, and I am not obliged to explain them.  I don't ask you, for
instance, if you are faithful to your wife."

"My wife!" exclaimed Huriel, as if astonished.

"Why, yes," returned Brulette, "are not you married?"

"Did I say I was?"

"I thought you said so at our house last night, when my grandfather,
thinking you came to talk of marriage, made haste to refuse you."

"I said nothing at all, Brulette, except that I was not seeking
marriage.  Before obtaining the person, one must win the heart, and I
have no claim to yours."

"At any rate," said Brulette, "I see you are more reasonable and less
bold than you were last year."

"Oh!" returned Huriel, "If I said a few rather warm words to you at
the village dance, it was because they popped into my head at the
sight of you; but time has passed, and you ought to forget the
affront."

"Who said I recollected it?" demanded Brulette.  "Have I reproached
you?"

"You blame me in your heart; or at any rate you bear the thing in
mind, for you are not willing to speak frankly to me about Joseph."

"I thought," said Brulette, whose voice showed signs of impatience,
"that I had fully explained myself on that point night before last.
But how do the two things affect each other?  The more I forget you,
the less I should wish to explain to you my feelings for any man, no
matter who."

"But the fact is, pretty one," said the muleteer, who seemed not to
give in to any of Brulette's little ways, "You spoke about the past
last night, and said nothing about the future; and I don't yet know
what you mean to say to Joseph to reconcile him with life.  Why do
you object to tell me frankly?"

"What is it to you, I should like to know?  If you are married, or
merely pledged, you ought not to be looking into a girl's heart."

"Brulette, you are trying to make me say that I am free to court you,
and yet you won't tell me anything about your own position; I am not
to know whether you mean some day to favor Joseph, or whether you are
pledged to some one else,--perhaps that tall fellow who is lying
asleep on your apron."

"You are too inquisitive!" exclaimed Brulette, rising and hastily
twitching away the apron, which I was forced to let go, pretending to
wake at that moment.

"Come, let us start," said Huriel, who seemed not to care for
Brulette's ill-humor, but continued to smile with his white teeth and
his large eyes,--the only parts of his face which were not in
mourning.

We continued our route to the Bourbonnais.  The sun was hidden behind
a heavy cloud and thunder was rumbling in the distance.

"That storm over there is nothing," said the muleteer, "it is going
off to the left.  If we don't meet another as we get near the
confluence of the Joyeuse, we shall reach our destination without
difficulty.  But the atmosphere is so heavy we must be prepared for
anything."

So saying, he unfolded a mantle, with a woman's hood, new and
handsome, which was fastened on his back, and which Brulette admired
greatly.

"You won't tell me now," she exclaimed, blushing, "that you are not
married,--unless that is a wedding present you have bought on your
way."

"Perhaps it is," said Huriel in the same tone, "but if it comes on to
rain you can take possession of it; you won't find it too heavy, and
your cape is thin."

Just as he predicted, the sky cleared on one side and clouded on the
other; and while we were crossing an open heath between
Saint-Saturnin and Sidiailles, the weather suddenly grew tempestuous,
and we were blown about by a gale of wind.  The country itself was
wild, and I began to feel anxious in spite of myself.  Brulette, too,
thought the place very dreary, and remarked that there was not a tree
for shelter.  Huriel laughed at us.

"Oh! you folks from the wheat-lands!" he cried, "as soon as your feet
touch the heather you think you are lost in the wilderness."

He was guiding us in a bee-line, knowing well all the paths and
cross-cuts by which a mule could pass to shorten the
distance,--leaving Sidiailles on the left, and making straight for
the banks of the little river Joyeuse, a poor rivulet that looked
harmless enough, but which nevertheless he seemed in a hurry to get
over.  Just as we had done so, the rain began, and we were forced
either to get wet or to stop for shelter at a mill, called the mill
of Paulmes.  Brulette wanted to go on, and so did the muleteer, who
thought we had better not wait till the roads grew worse; but I said
that the girl was trusted to my care, and that I could not have her
exposed to harm; so Huriel, for once, gave in to my wishes.

We stayed there two hours, and when the weather cleared and we were
able to start again the sun was already going down.  The Joyeuse was
now so swollen that the crossing would have been difficult; happily
it was behind us; but the roads had become abominable, and we had
still one stream to cross before we entered the Bourbonnais.

We were able to go on as long as daylight lasted; but the night soon
grew so dark that Brulette was frightened, without, however, daring
to say so; but Huriel, perceiving it from her silence, got off his
horse, which he drove before him, for the animal knew the road as
well as he did, and taking the bridle of my cousin's mule, led him
carefully for several miles, watching that he did not stumble,
plunging, himself, into water or sand up to his knees, and laughing
whenever Brulette pitied him and entreated him not to expose himself
for her.  She began to discover now that he was a friend in need,
more helpful than her usual lovers, and that he knew how to serve her
without making a show of it.

The country grew more and more dreary; it was nothing but little
grassy slopes cut into by rivulets bordered with reeds and flowers
which smelt good but did not better the hay.  The trees were fine,
and the muleteer declared the country richer and prettier than ours
on account of its pasture and fruit lands.  But, for my part, I did
not see any prospect of great harvests, and I wished I were at home
again,--all the more because I was not assisting Brulette, having
enough to do in keeping myself out of the ruts and bogs on the way.

At last the moon shone out, and we reached the woods of La Roche, at
the confluence of the Arnon and another river, the name of which I
have forgotten.

"Stay there, on that bit of high ground," Huriel said to us; "you can
even dismount and stretch your legs.  The place is sandy, and the
rain has hardly got through the oak-leaves.  I am going to see if we
can ford the stream."

He went down to the river and came back at once, saying: "The
stepping-stones are covered, and we shall have to go up as far as
Saint-Pallais to get across.  If we had not lost time at the mill we
could have crossed before the river rose, and been at our destination
by this time.  But what is done is done; let us see what to do now.
The water is going down.  By staying here we can get across in five
or six hours, and reach home by daybreak without fatigue or danger,
for the plain between the two arms of the Arnon is sure to be dry.
Whereas, if we go up to Saint-Pallais, we may stumble about half the
night and not get there any sooner."

"Well, then," said Brulette, "let us stay here.  The place is dry and
the weather is clear; and though the wood is rather wild, I shall not
be afraid with you two by me."

"That's a brave girl!" said Huriel.  "Come, now let's have supper, as
there is nothing better to do.  Tiennet, tie the _clairin_, for there
are several woods all round us and I can't be sure about wolves.
Unsaddle the mules; they won't stray from far the horse; and you, my
pretty one, help me make a fire, for the air is damp and I want you
to sup comfortably and not take cold."

I felt greatly discouraged and sad at heart, I could hardly tell why.
Whether I was mortified at being of no service to Brulette in such a
difficult journey, or whether the muleteer seemed to make light of
me, certain it is I was already homesick.

"What are you grumbling about?" said Huriel, who seemed all the gayer
as we got deeper and deeper into trouble.  "Are not you as well off
as a monk in his refectory?  These rocks make a fine chimney, and
here are seats and sideboards.  Isn't this the third meal you have
had to-day?  Don't you think the moon gives a better light than your
old pewter lamp?  The provisions are not hurt by the rain, for my
hampers were tightly covered.  This blazing hearth is drying the air
all round us; the branches overhead and the moist plants underfoot
smell better, it seems to me, than your cheeses and rancid butter.
Don't you breathe another breath under these great vaulting branches?
Look at them lighted by the flames!  They are like hundreds of arms
interlaced to shelter us.  If now and then a bit of a breeze shakes
the damp foliage, see how the diamonds rain down to crown us!  What
do you find so melancholy in the idea that we are all alone in a
place unknown to you?  There is everything here that is most
comforting; God, in the first place, who is everywhere; next, a
charming girl and two good friends ready to stand by each other.
Besides, do you think a man ought to live in a hive all his days?  I
think, on the contrary, that it is his duty to roam; that he will be
a hundred times stronger, gayer, healthier in body and mind if he
doesn't look after his own comfort too much, for that makes him
languid, timid, and subject to diseases.  The more you avoid heat and
cold the more you will suffer when they catch you.  You will see my
father, who, like me, has never slept in a bed ten times in his life;
he has no rheumatism or lumbago, though he works in his shirtsleeves
in the dead of winter.  And then, too, is it not glorious to feel you
are firmer and more solid than the wind and the thunder?  When the
storm rages isn't the music splendid?  And the mountain torrents
which rush down the ravines and go dancing from root to root,
carrying along the pebbles and leaving their white foam clinging to
the bracken, don't they sing a song as gay as any you can dream of as
you fall asleep on some islet they have scooped out around you?
Animals are gloomy in bad weather, I admit that; the birds are
silent, the foxes run to earth; even my dog finds shelter under the
horse's belly; what distinguishes man from beast is that he keeps his
heart gay and peaceful through the battles of the air and the whims
of the clouds.  He alone, who knows how by reasoning to save himself
from fear and danger, has the instinct to feel what is so beautiful
in the uproar of nature."

Brulette listened eagerly to the muleteer.  She followed his eyes and
all his gestures and entered into everything he said, without
explaining to herself how such novel ideas and words excited her mind
and stirred her heart.  I felt rather touched by them, too (though I
resisted somewhat), for Huriel had such an open, resolute face under
all the blacking that he won folks in spite of themselves, just as
when we are beaten at rackets by a fine player we admire him though
we lose the stakes.

We were in no great hurry to finish our supper, for certainly the
place was dry, and when the fire burned down to a bed of hot ashes,
the weather had grown so warm and clear that we felt very comfortable
and quite ready to listen to the lively talk and fine ideas of the
muleteer.  He was silent from time to time, listening to the river,
which still roared a good deal; and as the mountain brooks were
pouring into it with a thousand murmuring voices, there was no
likelihood that we could set forth again that night.  Huriel, after
going down to examine it, advised us to go to sleep.  He made a bed
for Brulette with the mule-pads, wrapping her well up in all the
extra garments he had with him, and talking gayly, but with no
gallant speeches, showing her the same interest and tenderness, and
no more, that he would have shown to a little child.

Then he stretched himself, without cushion or covering, on the bare
ground which was well dried by the fire, invited me to do the same,
and was soon as fast asleep as a dormouse--or nearly so.

I was lying quiet, though not asleep, for I did not like that kind of
dormitory, when I heard a bell in the distance, as if the _clairin_
had got loose and was straying in the forest.  I lifted myself a
little and saw him still where I had tied him.  I knew therefore it
was some other _clairin_, which gave notice of the approach or
vicinity of other muleteers.

Huriel had instantly risen on his elbow, listening; then he got on
his feet and came to me.  "I am a sound sleeper," he said, "when I
have only my mules to watch; but now that I have a precious princess
in charge it is another matter, and I have only been asleep with one
eye.  Neither have you, Tiennet, and that's all right.  Speak low and
don't move; I don't want to meet my comrades; and as I chose this
place for its solitude I think they won't find us out."

He had hardly said the words when a dark form glided through the
trees and passed so close to Brulette that a little more and it would
have knocked her.  It was that of a muleteer, who at once gave a loud
cry like a whistle, to which other cries responded from various
directions, and in less than a minute half a dozen of these devils,
each more hideous to behold than the others, were about us.  We had
been betrayed by Huriel's dog, who, nosing his friends and companions
among the dogs of the muleteers, had gone to find them, and acted as
guide to their masters in discovering our retreat.

Huriel tried to conceal his uneasiness; for though I softly told
Brulette not to stir, and placed myself before her, it seemed
impossible, surrounded as we were, to keep her long from their prying
eyes.

I had a confused sense of danger, guessing at more than I really saw,
for Huriel had not had time to explain the character of the men who
were now with us.  He spoke to the first-comer in the half-Auvergnat
patois of the Upper Bourbonnais, which he seemed to speak quite as
well as the other man, though he was born in the low-country.  I
could understand only a word here and there, but I made out that the
talk was friendly, and that the other was asking him who I was and
what he was doing here.  I saw that Huriel was anxious to draw him
away, and he even said to me, as if to be overheard by the rest, for
they could all understand the French language, "Come, Tiennet, let us
say good-night to these friends and start on our way."

But instead of leaving us alone to make our preparations for
departure, the others, finding the place warm and dry, began to
unpack their mules and turned them loose to feed until daybreak.

"I will give a wolf-cry to get them out of sight for a few minutes,"
whispered Huriel.  "Don't move from here, and don't let her move till
I return.  Meantime saddle the mules so that we can start quickly;
for to stay here is the worst thing we can do."

He did as he said, and the muleteers all ran to where the cry
sounded.  Unhappily I lost patience, and thought I could profit by
the confusion to save Brulette.  I thought I could make her rise
without any one seeing her, for the wrappings made her look like a
bale of clothes.  She reminded me that Huriel had told us to wait for
him; but I was so possessed with anger and fear and jealousy, even
suspecting Huriel himself, that I fairly lost my head, and seeing a
close copse very near us, I took my cousin firmly by the hand and
began to run towards it.

But the moon was bright, and the muleteers so near that we were seen,
and a cry arose,--"Hey! hey! a woman!" and all the scoundrels ran
after us.  I saw at once there was nothing to be done but let myself
be killed.  So lowering my head like a boar and raising my stick in
in the air, I was just about to deliver a blow on the jaws of the
first-comer which might have sent his soul to Paradise, when Huriel
caught my arm as he came swiftly to my side.

Then he spoke to the others with great vehemence and yet firmness.  A
sort of dispute arose, of which Brulette and I could not understand a
word; and it seemed far from satisfactory, for Huriel was listened to
only now and then, and twice one of the miscreants got near enough to
Brulette to lay his devilish paw upon her arm as if to lead her away.
Indeed, if it had not been for my driving my nails into his buck's
skin to make him let go he would have dragged her from my arms by the
help of the rest; for there were eight of them, all armed with stout
boar-spears, and they seemed used to quarrels and violence.

Huriel, who kept cool and stood firmly between us and the enemy,
prevented my delivering the first blow, which, as I saw later, would
have ruined us.  He merely continued to speak, sometimes in a tone of
remonstrance, sometimes with a menacing air, and finally he turned
round to me and said in the French language: "Isn't it true, Étienne,
that this is your sister, an honest girl, betrothed to me, and now on
her way to the Bourbonnais to make acquaintance with my family?
These men here, my good friends and comrades in matters of right and
justice, are trying to pick a quarrel with me because they don't
believe this.  They fancy that you and I were talking here with some
woman we had just met, and they want to join company.  But I tell
them, and I swear to God, that before they insult this young woman by
so much as a word they will have to kill both you and me, and bear
our blood on their souls in sight of God and man."

"Well, what then?" answered one of the wretches, speaking French,--it
was the one who first came in my way, and I was thirsting to deliver
him a blow in the pit of the stomach with my fist that should fell
him to earth.  "If you get yourself killed, so much the worse for
you! there are plenty of ditches hereabouts to bury fools in.
Suppose your friends come to find you; we shall be gone, and the
trees and the stones have no tongues to tell what they have seen."

Happily, he was the only real scoundrel in the party.  The others
rebuked him, and a tall blond fellow, who seemed to have authority,
took him by the arm and shoved him away from us, swearing and abusing
him in a gibberish that made the whole forest resound.

After that all real danger was over,--the idea of shedding blood
having touched the consciences of these rough men.  They turned the
matter off with a laugh, and joked with Huriel, who answered them in
the same tone.  Nevertheless, they seemed unwilling to let us go.
They wanted to see Brulette's face, which she kept hidden under her
hood, wishing, for once in her life, that she was old and ugly.

But all of a sudden she changed her mind, having guessed at the
meaning of the words said to Huriel and me in the Auvergne dialect.
Stung with anger and pride, she let go my arm, and throwing back her
hood she said, with an offended air and plenty of courage:
"Dishonorable men!  I have the good fortune not to understand what
you say, but I see in your faces that you insult me in your hearts.
Well, look at me! and if you have ever seen the face of a woman who
deserves respect, you may know that you see one now.  Shame on your
vile behavior! let me go my way without hearing more of you."

Brulette's action, bold as it was, worked marvels.  The tall fellow
shrugged his shoulders and whistled a moment, while the others
consulted together, seeming rather confused; then suddenly he turned
his back on us, saying in a loud voice, "There's been talk enough;
let us go!  You elected me captain of the company, and I will punish
any one who annoys Jean Huriel any longer; for he is a good comrade
and respected by the whole fraternity."

The party filed off, and Huriel, without saying a word, saddled the
mules and made us mount; then, going before but looking round at
every step, he led us at a sharp pace to the river.  It was still
swollen and roaring, but he plunged right in, and when he got to the
middle he cried out, "Come, don't be afraid!" and then, as I
hesitated to allow Brulette to get wet, he came angrily back to us
and struck her mule to make it go on, swearing that it was better to
die than be insulted.

"I think so too," answered Brulette in the same tone, and striking
the mule herself, she plunged boldly into the current, which foamed
higher than the breast of the animal.




TWELFTH EVENING.

There was an instant when the animal seemed to lose footing, but
Brulette just then was between us two, and showed a great deal of
courage.  When we reached the other bank Huriel again lashed the
beasts and put them to a gallop, and it was not until we reached open
ground in full view of the sky, and were nearing habitations, that he
allowed us to draw breath.

"Now," said he, walking his horse between Brulette and me, "I must
blame both of you.  I am not a child to have led you into danger and
left you there.  Why did you run from the spot where I told you to
wait for me?"

"It is you who blame us, is it?" said Brulette, rather sharply.  "I
should have thought it was all the other way."

"Say what you have to say," returned Huriel, gravely.  "I will speak
later.  What do you blame me for?"

"I blame you," she answered, "for not having foreseen the dangerous
encounter we were likely to make; I blame you, above all, for giving
assurances of safety to my grandfather and me, in order to induce me
to leave my home and country, where I am loved and respected, and for
having brought me through desolate woods where you were scarcely able
to save me from the insults of your friends.  I don't know what
coarse language they used about me, but I understood enough to see
that you were forced to answer for my being a decent girl.  So, being
in your company was enough to make my character doubted!  Ah, what a
miserable journey!  This is the first time in my life I was ever
insulted, and I did not think such a thing could happen to me!"

Thereupon, her heart swelling with mortification and anger, she began
to cry.  Huriel at first said nothing; he seemed very sad.  Then he
plucked up courage and replied:--

"It is true, Brulette, that you were misjudged.  You shall be
revenged, I promise you that.  But as I could not punish those men at
the time without endangering you, I suffer within me such pangs of
baffled rage as I cannot describe to you and you could never
comprehend."

Tears cut short his words.

"I don't want to be avenged," said Brulette, "and I beg you won't
think of it again; I will try to forget it all myself."

"But you will always curse the day when you trusted yourself to me,"
he said, clenching his fist as though he would fain knock himself
down.

"Come, come," I said to them, "you must not quarrel now that the harm
and the danger are well over.  I admit it was my fault.  Huriel
enticed the muleteers away in one direction and could have got us
away in another.  It was I who threw Brulette into the lion's jaws,
thinking I could save her quicker."

"There would have been no danger but for that," said Huriel.  "Of
course, among muleteers, as among all men who lead a half-wild life,
there are scoundrels.  There was one of the kind in that band; but
you saw that they all blamed him.  It is also true that many of us
are uneducated and make unseemly jokes.  But I don't know what you
really accuse our fraternity of doing.  We may be partners in money
and pleasure, as we are in losses and dangers, but we all of us
respect women quite as much as other Christian folk do.  You saw
yourself that virtue was respected for its own sake, because one word
from you brought those men at once to their duty."

"Nevertheless," said Brulette, still angry, "you were in a great
hurry to get us away; you made us go fast enough to risk being
drowned in the river.  You know you were not master of those bad men,
and you were afraid they might return to their evil wishes."

"It all came from their seeing you run away with Tiennet," said
Huriel.  "They thought you were doing wrong.  If it had not been for
your fear and your distrust of me you would never have been seen by
my comrades.  You may as well confess, both of you, that you had a
very bad idea of me."

"I never had a bad idea of you," said Brulette.

"I had," said I, "just then, for a moment; I confess it, for I don't
wish to lie."

"It is always better not," returned Huriel, "and I hope you will soon
think differently of me."

"I do now," I said.  "I saw how firm you were, and how you mastered
your anger, and I agree that it was wiser to speak soft in the
beginning than to end soft; blows come fast enough.  If it were not
for you, I should be dead now, and so would you for helping me, which
would have been a dreadful thing for Brulette.  And now, here we are
well out of it, thanks to you; and I think we ought, all three of us,
to be the better friends."

"That's good!" cried Huriel, pressing my hand.  "That's the
Berrichon's best nature; he shows his good sense and his sober
judgment.  You ought to be a Bourbonnaise, Brulette, you are so hasty
and impulsive."

She allowed him to take her hand in his, but she continued
thoughtful; and as I feared she might take cold after getting so wet
in the river, we entered the first house we came to to change our
clothes and refresh ourselves with a little mulled wine.  It was now
daybreak, and the country-folk seemed very kind and ready to help us.

When we resumed our journey the sun was already warm, and the
country, which lay rather high between two rivers, was delightful to
the eye and reminded me a little of our own plains.  Brulette's
vexation was all over; for, in talking with her beside the fire of
the good Bourbonnais, I had proved to her that an honest girl was not
degraded by the talk of a drunken man, and that no woman was safe if
such things were to be considered.  The muleteer had left us for a
moment, and when he returned to put Brulette into her saddle she
could not restrain a cry of amazement.  He had washed and shaved and
dressed himself properly,--not so handsomely as the first time she
had seen him, but looking well enough in face and well enough clothed
to do her honor.

However, she uttered neither compliment nor jest; she only looked at
him intently when his eyes were not upon her, as if to renew her
acquaintance with him.  She seemed sorry to have been crabbed with
him, and as if she did not know how to make it up; but he talked of
other things, explained the Bourbonnais district which we had entered
after crossing the river, told me about the manners and customs, and
discoursed like a man who was not wanting for sense in any way.

At the end of two hours, without fatigue or further adventure, but
still riding up hill, we reached Mesples, the parish adjoining the
forest where we were to find Joseph.  We passed straight through the
village, where Huriel was accosted by many persons who seemed to hold
him in much esteem,--not to mention some young girls who eyed with
surprise the company he had with him.

We had not, however, reached our destination.  We were bound for the
depths, or rather I should say the highest part, of the wood; for the
forest of the Alleu, which joins that of Chambérat, covers the
plateau from which five or six little rivers or brooks come down,
forming a wild tract of country surrounded by barren plains, where
the view is extensive on all sides, towards other forests and other
heaths stretching endlessly away.

We were as yet only in what is called the Lower Bourbonnais, which
adjoins the upper part of Berry.  Huriel told me that the ground
continued to ascend as far as Auvergne.  The woods were
fine,--chiefly full-grown trees of white oak, which are the finest
species.  The brooks, which cut into and ravine these woods in every
direction, form in many places moist coverts, where alders, willows,
and aspen grow; all fine trees, which those of our region can't
compare with.  I saw also, for the first time, a tree with white
stems and beautiful foliage, called the beech, which does not grow
with us.  It is the king of trees after the oak; for if it is less
handsome than the latter, it is certainly quite as lovely.  There
were but few of them in these forests, and Huriel told me they
abounded only in the centre of the Bourbonnais country.

I gazed at all these things with much interest, expecting, however,
to see more rare things than there were, and half-believing the trees
would have their roots in the air and their heads in the ground,
after the manner of those who imagine about distant parts that they
have never seen.  As for Brulette, whether it was that she had a
natural taste for wild scenery, or whether she wanted to console
Huriel for the reproaches she had showered on him, it is certain that
she admired things out of all reason, and did honor and reverence to
the least little wild flower she saw in the path.

We advanced for some time without meeting a living soul, when
suddenly Huriel said, pointing to an open and some felled trees:
"Here we are, at the clearing; now in a minute more you will see our
city and my father's castle."

He laughed as he said it, and we were still looking about us for
something like a village, when he added, pointing to some mud huts
which were more like the lairs of animals than the abodes of men:
"These are our summer palaces, our country-houses.  Stay here, and I
will call Joseph."

He went off at a gallop, looked into the doorways of all the huts,
and came back, evidently uneasy, but hiding it as best he could, to
say: "There is no one here, and that is a good sign.  Joseph must be
better, and has gone to work with my father.  Wait for me here; sit
down and rest in our cabin; it is the first, right before you; I'll
go and see where the patient is."

"No, no," said Brulette; "we will go with you."

"Are you afraid to be alone here?  You are quite mistaken.  You are
now in the domain of the woodsmen, and they are not, like the
muleteers, imps of Satan.  They are honest country-folk, like those
you have at home, and where my father rules you have nothing to fear."

"I am not afraid of your people," replied Brulette, "but it frightens
me not to find José.  Who knows? perhaps he is dead and buried.  The
idea has just come into my head and it makes my blood creep."

Huriel turned pale, as if the same thought struck him; but he would
not give heed to it.  "The good God would never have allowed it," he
said.  "But get down, leave the mules just here, and come with me."

He took a little path which led to another clearing; but even there
we did not find Joseph nor any one else.

"You fancy these woods are deserted," said Huriel; "and yet I see by
fresh marks of the axe that the woodsmen have been at work here all
the morning.  This is the hour when they take a little nap, and they
are probably all lying among the bracken, where we should not see
them unless we stepped upon them.  But listen! there's a sound that
delights my heart.  My father is playing the bagpipe,--I recognize
his method; and that's a sign that José is better, for it is not a
sad tune, and my father would be very sad if any misfortune had
happened to the lad."

We followed Huriel, and the music was certainly so delightful that
Brulette, hurrying as she was to get to Joseph, could not help
stopping now and then, as if charmed, to listen.  And I myself,
without being able to comprehend the thing as she did, felt all five
of my natural senses stirred up within me.  At every step I fancied I
saw differently, heard differently, breathed and walked in a
different manner from what I ever did before.  The trees seemed
finer, so did the earth and sky, and my heart was full of a
satisfaction I couldn't give a reason for.

Presently, standing on some rocks, round which a pretty rivulet all
full of flowers was murmuring along, we saw Joseph, looking very sad,
beside a man who was sitting down and playing a bagpipe to please the
poor sick fellow.  The dog, Parpluche, was beside them and seemed to
be listening too, like an intelligent human being.

As the pair paid no heed to us Brulette held us back, wishing to
examine Joseph and judge of his health by his appearance before she
spoke to him.  He was as white as a sheet and as shrunken as a bit of
dead wood, by which we knew that the muleteer had not deceived us;
but what was very consoling was the fact that he was nearly a head
taller than when he left us; which of course the people about him
might not notice, but which, to us, explained his illness as the
result of his growth.  In spite of his sunken cheeks and white lips,
he had grown to be a handsome man; his eyes, notwithstanding his
languid manner, were clear, and even bright as running water, his
hair fine and parted above his pallid face like that of the blessed
Jesus; in short, he was the image of an angel from heaven, which made
him as different from other peasants as the almond-flower differs
from an almond in its husk.  His hands were as white as a woman's,
for the reason that he had not worked of late, and the Bourbonnais
costume which he had taken to wearing showed off his well-built
figure better than the hempen blouses and big sabots of our parts.

Having given our first attention to Joseph we were next compelled to
look at Huriel's father, a man I have seldom seen the like of,--one
who, without education, had great knowledge and a mind that would not
have disgraced the wealthy and famous.  He was tall and strong, of
fine carriage, like Huriel, but stouter and broader about the
shoulders; his head was ponderous and set on like that of a bull.
His face was not at all handsome, for his nose was flat, his lips
thick, and his eyes round; but for all that, it was one you liked to
look at, for it satisfied you with its air of command and of strength
and of goodness.  His large black eyes glittered like
lightning-flashes from his head, and his broad mouth laughed with a
glee which would have brought you back from the jaws of death.

At the present moment his head was covered with a blue handkerchief
knotted behind, and he wore no other garments than his shirt and
breeches, with a big leather apron, which his hands, hardened by
toil, matched in color and texture.  In fact, his fingers, scarred
and crushed by many an accident, for he never spared himself danger,
looked like roots of box twisted into knots, and the wonder was that
he was able to do any work beyond breaking stones with a pick-axe.
Nevertheless he used them as delicately on the chanter of his bagpipe
as if they were slender reeds, or tiny bird's claws.

Beside him were the trunks of several large oaks, lately cut down and
sawn apart; among them lay his tools,--his axe, shining like a razor,
his saw as pliable a reed, and his earthen bottle, the wine of which
kept up his strength.

Presently Joseph, who was listening breathlessly to the music, saw
his dog Parpluche run towards us; he raised his eyes and beheld us
within ten feet of him.  From pallid he grew red as fire, but did not
stir, thinking probably it was a vision called up by the music which
had made him dream.

Brulette ran to him, her arms extended; then he uttered a cry and
fell, as if choking, on his knees, which frightened me, for I had no
conception of that sort of love, and I thought he had a fit which
might kill him.  But he recovered himself quickly and began to thank
Brulette and me and also Huriel, with such friendly words so readily
uttered, that you would never think it was the same José who in the
olden time always answered, "I don't know" to everything that was
said to him.

Père Bastien, or rather the Head-Woodsman (for such he was always
called in these parts), laid aside his bagpipe, and while Brulette
and Joseph were talking together, he shook me by the hand and
welcomed me as if he had known me from my birth up.

"So this is your friend Tiennet?" he said to his son.  "Well, his
face suits me, and his body, too, for I warrant I can hardly meet my
arms round it, and I have always noticed that the biggest and
strongest men are the gentlest.  I see it in you, my Huriel, and in
myself, too, for I'm always inclined to love my neighbor rather than
crush him.  So, Tiennet, I give you welcome to our wild woods; you
won't find your fine wheaten bread nor the variety of salads you get
from your garden, but we will try to regale you with good talk and
hearty good-will.  I see you have brought that handsome Nohant girl
who is half-sister, half-mother to our poor José.  That's a good deed
done, for he had no heart to get well; now I shall feel easier about
him, for I think the medicine is good."

As he said this he looked at José, who was sitting on his heels at
Brulette's feet, holding her hand and gazing at her with all his
eyes, while he asked questions about his mother, and Père Brulet, and
the neighbors, and all the parish.  Brulette, observing that the
Head-Woodsman was speaking of her, came to him and begged pardon for
not having saluted him at first.  But he, without more ado, took her
round the waist and set her on a high rock, as if to see her all at
once, like the figure of a saint or some other precious thing.  Then,
placing her on the ground again, he kissed her on the forehead,
saying to José, who blushed as much as Brulette:--

"You told me true; she is pretty from top to toe.  Here, I think, is
a bit of nature without a flaw.  Body and soul are of the best
quality; I can see that in her eye.  Tell me, Huriel, for I am so
blind about my own children that I can't judge, is she prettier than
your sister?  I think she is not less so, and if they were both mine
I don't know which I should be proudest of.  Come, come, Brulette,
don't be ashamed of being handsome, and don't be vain of it, either.
The workman who made the creatures of this world beautiful did not
consult you, and you count for nothing in his work.  What he has done
for us we can spoil by folly or stupidity; but I see by your
appearance that, far from doing that, you respect his gifts in
yourself.  Yes, yes, you are a beautiful girl, healthy in heart and
upright in mind.  I know you already, for you have come here to
comfort that poor lad, who longed for you as the earth longs for
rain.  Many another would not have done as you have done, and I
respect you for it.  Therefore, I ask your friendship for me, who
will be to you a father, and for my two children, who will be as
brother and sister to you."

Brulette, whose heart was still swelling with the insults of the
muleteers in the woods of La Roche, was so gratified by the respect
and the compliments of the Head-Woodsman that the tears began to
fall, and flinging herself upon his neck she could answer only by
kissing him, as though he were her own father.

"The best of all answers," he said, "and I am content with it.  Now,
my children, my rest hour is over and I must go to work.  If you are
hungry, here is my wallet with some provisions in it.  Huriel will go
and find his sister, so that she may keep you company; and, meantime,
my Berrichons, you must talk with Joseph, for I imagine you have a
deal to say to each other.  But don't go far away from the sound of
my axe, for you don't know the forest and you might get lost."

Thereupon he set to work among the trees, after hanging his bagpipe
to the branches of one that was still standing.  Huriel ate some food
with us and answered Brulette, who questioned him about his sister.

"My sister Thérence," he said, "is a pretty girl and a good girl, of
about your own age.  I shall not say, as my father did, that she
compares with you; but such as she is she lets people look at her,
and her spirit is none of the tamest either.  She follows my father
to all his stations, so that he may not miss his home; for the life
of a woodsman, like that of a muleteer, is very hard and dreary if he
has no companionship for his heart."

"Where is she now?" asked Brulette.  "Can't we go and find her?"

"I don't know where she is," replied Huriel; "and I rather wonder she
did not hear us, for she is seldom far from the lodges.  Have you
seen her to-day, Joseph?"

"Yes," he answered, "but not since morning.  She was feeling ill and
complained of head-ache."

"She is not used to complain of anything," said Huriel.  "If you will
excuse me, Brulette, I will go and fetch her to you as fast as I can."




THIRTEENTH EVENING.

After Huriel left us we walked about and talked to Joseph; but
thinking that it was enough for him to have seen me and that he might
like to be alone with Brulette, I left them together, without
appearing to do so, and went after Père Bastien to watch him at work.

It was a more cheering sight than you can possibly imagine.  Never in
my life have I seen man's handiwork despatched in so free and jovial
a manner.  I believe he could, without tiring himself, have done the
work of four of the strongest men in his employ; and that, too, while
talking and laughing in company, or singing and whistling when alone.
He told me that wood-cutters as a general thing lived near the woods
where they worked, and that when their houses were within easy
distance they went daily to and from their work.  Others, living
farther off, came by the week, starting from home Monday before
daybreak, and returning the following Saturday night.  As for those
who came down with him from the uplands, they were hired for three
months, and their huts were larger and better built and victualled
than those of the men who came by the week.

The same plan was followed with the charcoal men, meaning by them not
those who buy charcoal to sell, but those who make it on the spot for
the benefit of the owners of the woods and forests.  There were other
men who bought the right to put it in the market, just as there were
muleteers who bought and sold charcoal on their own account; but as a
general thing, the business of the muleteer was solely that of
transporting it.

At the present time this business of the muleteers is going down, and
it will probably soon be extinct.  The forests are better cleared;
there are fewer of those impassable places for horses and wagons
where mules alone can make their way.  The number of manufactories
and ironworks which still use wood-coal is much restricted; in fact,
there are but few muleteers now in our part of the country.  Only a
few remain in the great forests of Cheurre in Berry, together with
the woodsmen in the Upper Bourbonnais.  But at the time of which I am
telling you, when the forests covered one-half of our provinces, all
these trades were flourishing and much sought after.  So much so that
in a forest which was being cleared you might find a whole population
of these different trades, each having its customs and its
fraternities, and living, as much as possible, on good terms with
each other.

Père Bastien told me, and later I saw it for myself, that all men who
went to work in the woods grew so accustomed to the roving and
hazardous life that they suffered a kind of homesickness if they were
obliged to live on the plains.  As for him, he loved the woods like a
fox or a wolf, though he was the kindest of men and the liveliest
companion that you could find anywhere.

For all that, he never laughed, as Huriel did, at my preference for
my own region.  "All parts of the country are fine," he said, "if
they are our own; it is right that every one should feel a particular
liking for the region that brought him up.  That's a provision of
God, without which the barren and dreary places would be neglected
and abandoned.  I have heard tell of folks who travelled far into
lands covered with snow and ice the greater part of the year; and
into others where fire came from the mountains and ravaged the land.
Nevertheless, people build fine houses on these bedevilled mountains,
and hollow caves to live in under the snow.  They love, and marry,
and dance, and sing, and sleep, and bring up children, just as we do.
Never despise any man's home or lodging or family.  The mole loves
his dark tomb as much as the bird loves its nest in the foliage; and
the ant would laugh in your face if you tried to make him believe
there were kings who built better palaces than he."

The day was getting on, and still Huriel did not return with his
sister Thérence.  Père Bastien seemed surprised but not uneasy.  I
went towards Brulette and José several times, for they were not far
off; but as they were always talking and took no notice of my
approach, I finally went off by myself, not knowing very well how to
while away the time.  I was, above all things, the true friend of
that dear girl.  Ten times a day I felt I was in love with her, and
ten times a day I knew I was cured of it; and now I made no pretence
of love, and so felt no chagrin.  I had never been very jealous of
Joseph before the muleteer told us of the great love that was
consuming him; and after that time, strange to say, I was not jealous
at all.  The more compassion Brulette showed for him, the more I
seemed to see that she gave it from a sense of friendly duty.  And
that grieved me instead of pleasing me.  Having no hope for myself, I
still wanted to keep the presence and companionship of a person who
made everything comfortable about her; and I also felt that if any
one deserved her, it was the young fellow who had always loved her,
and who, no doubt, could never make any one else love him.

I was even surprised that Brulette did not feel it so in her heart,
especially when it appeared how José, in spite of his illness, had
grown handsome, well-informed, and agreeable in speech.  No doubt he
owed this change for the better to the companionship of the
Head-Woodsman and his son, but he had also set his own will to it,
and she ought to have approved of him for that.  However, Brulette
seemed to take no notice of the change, and I fancied that during the
journey she had thought more of the muleteer Huriel than I had known
her to do of any other man.  That idea began to distress me more and
more; for if her fancy turned upon this stranger, two terrible
disasters faced me; one was that our poor José would die of grief,
the other, that our dear Brulette would leave our part of the country
and I should no longer see her, or have her to talk to.

I had got about so far in my reasoning when I saw Huriel returning,
bringing with him so beautiful a girl that Brulette could not compare
with her.  She was tall, slender, broad in the shoulders, and free,
like her brother, in all her movements.  Her complexion was naturally
brown, but living always in the shade of woods she was pale, though
not pallid,--a sort of whiteness which was charming to the eye,
though it surprised you,--and all the other features of her face were
faultless.  I was rather shocked by her little straw hat, turned up
behind like the stern of a boat; but from it issued a mass of such
marvellous black hair that I soon grew reconciled to its oddity.  I
noticed from the first moment I saw her that, unlike Brulette, she
was neither smiling nor gracious.  She did not try to make herself
prettier than she was, and her whole aspect was of a more decided
character, hotter in will and colder in manner.

As I was sitting against a pile of cut wood, neither of them saw me,
and when they stopped close by where two paths forked they were
speaking to each other as though they were alone.

"I shall not go," said the beautiful Thérence, in a firm voice.  "I
am going to the lodges to prepare their beds and their supper.  That
is all that I choose to do at the present time."

"Won't you speak to them?  Are you going to show ill-temper?" said
Huriel, as if surprised.

"I am not out of temper," answered the young girl.  "Besides, if I
were, I am not forced to show it."

"You do show it though, if you won't go and welcome that young girl,
who must be getting very tired of the company of men, and who will be
glad enough to see another girl like herself."

"She can't be very tired of them," replied Thérence, "unless she has
a bad heart.  However, I am not bound to amuse her.  I will serve her
and help her; that is all that I consider my duty."

"But she expects you; what am I to tell her?"

"Tell her what you like; I am not obliged to render account of myself
to her."

So saying, the daughter of the Head-Woodsman turned into a wood-path
and Huriel stood still a moment, thinking, like a man who is trying
to guess a riddle.

Then he went on his way; but I remained just where I was, rigid as a
stone image.  A sort of vision came over me when I first beheld
Thérence; I said to myself: "That face is known to me; who is it she
is like?"

Then, slowly, as I looked at her and heard her speak, I knew she
reminded me of the little girl in the cart that was stuck in the
mire,--the little girl who had set me dreaming all one evening, and
who may have been the reason why Brulette, thinking me too simple in
my tastes, had turned her love away from me.  At last, when she
passed close by me in going away, I noticed the black mole at the
corner of her mouth, and I knew by that that she was indeed the girl
of the woods whom I had carried in my arms, and who had kissed me
then as readily as she now seemed unwilling even to receive me.

I stayed a long time thinking of many things in connection with this
encounter; but finally Père Bastien's bagpipe, sounding a sort of
fanfare, warned me that the sun was going down.  I had no trouble in
finding the path to the lodges, as they call the huts of the
woodsmen.  That belonging to Huriel was larger and better built than
the rest; it consisted of two rooms, one of them being for Thérence.
In front of it was a kind of shed roofed with green boughs, which
served as a shelter from wind and rain; two boards placed on trestles
made a table, laid for the occasion.

Usually the Huriel family lived on bread and cheese, with a little
salt meat once a day.  This was neither miserliness nor poverty, but
simplicity of life and customs; these children of the woods think our
need of hot meals and the way we have of keeping our women cooking
from morning till night both useless and exacting.

However, expecting the arrival of Joseph's mother or that of Père
Brulet, Thérence, wishing to give them what they were accustomed to,
had gone the night before to Mesples for provisions.  She now lighted
a fire in the glade and called her neighbors to assist her.  These
were the wives of woodsmen, one old and one ugly.  There were no
other women in the forest, as it is not the custom, nor have these
people the means, to take their families into the woods.

The neighboring lodges, six in number, held about a dozen men, who
were beginning to assemble on a pile of fagots to sup in each other's
company on their frugal bit of lard and rye bread; but the
Head-Woodsman, going up to them before he went to his own lodge to
put away his tools and his leathern apron, said, in his kind and
manly way: "Brothers, I have a party of strangers with me to-day,
whom I shall not condemn to follow our customs.  But it shall never
be said that roast meat is eaten and the wine of Sancerre served in
the lodge of the Head-Woodsman when his friends are not there to
partake with him.  Come, therefore, that I may make you friendly with
my guests; those of you who refuse will give me pain."

No one refused, and we were a company of over twenty,--not all round
the table, for these folk don't care for comfort, but seated, some on
stones, some on the grass, one lying on his back among the shavings,
another perched on the twisted limb of a tree; and all--saving the
matter of holy baptism--more like a troop of wild boars than a
company of Christian people.

All this time the beautiful Thérence seemed, as she came and went
about her duties, not a whit more inclined to take notice of us until
her father, who had called to her in vain, caught her as she passed,
and leading her up to us against her will, presented her.

"Please excuse her, my friends," he said; "she is a little savage,
born and reared in the woods.  She is shy and bashful; but she will
get over it, and I ask you, Brulette, to help her do so, for she
improves on acquaintance."

Thereupon Brulette, who was neither shy nor ill-humored herself,
opened both arms and flung them round Thérence's neck; and the
latter, not daring to forbid her, yet unable to escape, stood
stock-still and threw up her head, looking out of her eyes, which had
hitherto been glued to the ground.  In this attitude, so near each
other, eye to eye and almost cheek to cheek, they made me think of a
pair of young bulls, one of which butts his head in play, while the
other, distrustful and already conscious of horns, awaits the moment
when he can strike him treacherously.

But all of a sudden Thérence seemed conquered by Brulette's soft
eyes, and lowering her head she dropped it on the other's shoulder to
hide her tears.

"Well, well!" said Père Bastien, teasing and caressing his daughter,
"this is what you call skittish!  I never should have thought a
girl's shyness would bring her to tears.  Try to understand these
young things if you can!  Come, Brulette, you seem the more
reasonable of the two; take her away, and don't let go of her till
she has talked to you.  It is only the first word that costs."

"Very good," answered Brulette.  "I will help her, and the first
order she gives me I will obey so well that she will forgive me for
having frightened her."

As they went off together, Père Bastien said to me: "Just see what
women are!  The least coquettish of them (and my Thérence is of that
kind) cannot come face to face with a rival in beauty without getting
scarlet with anger or frozen with fear.  The stars live contentedly
side by side in the sky, but when two daughters of Mother Eve come
together there is always one who is miserable at the comparison that
can be made between them."

"I think, father, that you are not doing justice to Thérence in
saying that," observed Huriel.  "She is neither shy nor envious."
Then lowering his voice, "I think I know what grieves her, but it is
best to pay no attention."

They brought in the broiled meat, with some fine yellow mushrooms,
which I could not make up my mind to taste, though I saw everybody
else eat them fearlessly; then came eggs fricasseed with all sorts of
strong herbs, buckwheat cakes, and the Chambérat cheeses which are
famous everywhere.  All the laborers junketed to their heart's
content, but in a very different way from ours.  Instead of taking
their time and chewing each morsel, they swallowed the food whole
like famished creatures, a thing that is not considered at all proper
with us; in fact, they could not wait to be through eating before
they began to sing and dance in the very middle of the feast.

These men, whose blood is not as cool as ours, seemed to me unable to
keep still a moment.  They would not wait till the dishes were passed
round, but carried up their slices of bread to hold the stew,
refusing plates, and then returned to their perch in the trees or
their bed in the sawdust.  Some ate standing, others talking and
gesticulating, each telling his own tale and singing his own song.
They were like bees buzzing about the hive; it made me giddy, and I
felt I was not enjoying the feast at all.

Although the wine was good and the Head-Woodsman did not spare it, no
one took more than was good for him; for each man had his work to do
and would not let himself be unfitted for the labor of the morrow.
So the feast was short, and, although at one time it seemed to me to
be getting rather boisterous, still it ended early and peacefully.
The Head-Woodsman received many compliments for his hospitality, and
it was quite plain that he had a natural control over the whole band,
not so much by any method as by the influence of his kind heart and
his wise head.

We received many assurances of friendship and offers of service; and
I must admit that the people were heartier and readier to oblige than
we are in our part of the country.  I noticed that Huriel took them
up, one after the other, to Brulette, and presented each by name,
telling them to regard her as neither more nor less than his sister;
whereupon she received so many salutations and civilities that she
had never, even in her own village, been so courted.  When night came
the Head-Woodsman offered to share his cabin with me.  Joseph's lodge
was next to ours, but it was smaller, and I should have been much
cramped.  So I followed my host,--all the more willingly because I
was charged to watch over Brulette's safety; but I soon saw that she
ran no risk, for she shared the bed of the beautiful Thérence, and
the muleteer, faithful to his usual habits, had already stretched
himself on the ground outside the door, so that neither wolf nor
thief could get an entrance.

Casting a glance into the little room where the two girls were to
sleep, I saw it contained a bed and a few very decent articles of
furniture.  Huriel, thanks to his mules, was able to transport his
sister's household belongings very easily and without expense.  Those
of his father gave little trouble, for they consisted solely of a
heap of dry fern and a coverlet.  Indeed, the Head-Woodsman thought
even that too much, and would have preferred to sleep under the
stars, like his son.

I was tired enough to do without a bed, and I slept soundly till
daylight.  I thought Brulette did the same, for I heard no sound
behind the plank partition which separated us.  When I rose the
Woodsman and his son were already up and consulting together.

"We were speaking of you," said the father; "and as we must go to our
work, I should like the matter I was talking of to be settled now.  I
have explained to Brulette that Joseph needs her company for some
time yet, and she has promised to stay a week at least; but she could
not speak for you, and has asked us to beg you to stay.  We hope you
will do so, assuring you that it will give us pleasure; you will not
be a burden on us; and we beg you to act with us as freely as we
would with you if occasion demanded."

This was said with such an air of sincerity and friendship that I
could not refuse; and indeed, as it was impossible to abandon
Brulette to the company of strangers, I was obliged to give in to her
wishes and Joseph's interests, though eight days seemed to me rather
long.

"Thank you, my kind Tiennet," said Brulette, coming out of Thérence's
room; "and I thank these good people who have given me such a kind
reception; but if I stay, it must be on condition that no expense is
incurred for us, and that we shall be allowed to provide for
ourselves as we intended to do."

"It shall be just as you like," said Huriel; "for if the fear of
being a burden on us drives you away, we would rather renounce the
pleasure of serving you.  But remember one thing; my father and I
both earn money, and nothing gives either of us so much pleasure as
to oblige our friends and show them hospitality."

It seemed to me that Huriel was rather fond of jingling his money, as
if to say, "I am a good match."  However, he immediately acted like a
man who sets himself aside, for he told us that he was about to start
on a journey.

When she heard that Brulette gave a little quiver, which nobody
noticed but me, for she recovered instantly and asked, apparently
with indifference, where he was going and for how long.

"I am going to work in the woods of La Roche," he replied; "I shall
be near enough to come back if you send for me; Tiennet knows the
way.  I am going now, in the first instance, to the moor round La
Croze to get my mules and their trappings.  I will stop as I come
back and bid you good-bye."

Thereupon he departed, and the Head-Woodsman, enjoining on his
daughter to take good care of us, went off to his work in another
direction.

So there we were, Brulette and I, in company of the beautiful
Thérence, who, though she waited on us as actively as if we were
paying her wages, did not seem inclined to be friendly, and answered
shortly, yes or no, to all we said to her.  This coolness soon
annoyed Brulette, who said to me, when we were alone for a moment, "I
think, Tiennet, that this girl is displeased with us.  She took me
into her bed last night as if she were forced to receive a porcupine.
She flung herself on the farther edge with her nose to the wall, and
except when she asked if I wanted more bedclothes, she would not say
a word to me.  I was so tired I would gladly have gone to sleep at
once; indeed, seeing that she pretended to sleep, to avoid speaking
to me, I pretended too; but I could not close my eyes for a long,
long time, for I heard her choking down her sobs.  If you will
consent, we will not trouble her any longer; we can find plenty of
empty huts in the forest, and if not, I could arrange with an old
woman I saw here yesterday to send her husband to a neighbor and take
us in.  If it is only a grass bed I shall be content; it costs too
much to sleep on a mattress if tears are to pay for it.  As for our
meals, I suppose that you can go to Mesples and buy all we want, and
I'll take charge of the cooking."

"That's all right, Brulette," I answered, "and I'll do as you say.
Look for a lodging for yourself, and don't trouble about me.  I am
not sugar nor salt any more than the muleteer who slept at your door
last night.  I'll do for you as he did, without fearing that the dew
will melt me.  However, listen to this: if we quit the Woodsman's
lodge and table in this way he will think we are angry, and as he has
treated us too well to have given any cause for it himself, he will
see at once that his daughter has rebuffed us.  Perhaps he will scold
her; and that might not be just.  You say the girl did all she could,
and was even submissive to you.  Now, suppose she has some hidden
trouble, have we the right to complain of her silence and her sobs?
Would it not be better to take no notice, and to leave her free all
day to go and meet her lover, if she has one, and spend our own time
with José, for whose sake alone we came here?  Are not you rather
afraid that if we look for a place to live apart in, people may fancy
we have some evil motive?"

"You are right, Tiennet," said Brulette.  "Well, I'll have patience
with that tall sulky girl, and let her come and go as she likes."




FOURTEENTH EVENING.

The beautiful Thérence had prepared everything for our breakfast, and
seeing that the sun was getting up she asked Brulette if she had
thought of waking Joseph.  "It is time," she said, "and he does not
like it if I let him sleep too late, because the next night it keeps
him wakeful."

"If you are accustomed to wake him, dear," answered Brulette, "please
do so now.  I don't know what his habits are."

"No," said Thérence, curtly, "it is your business to take care of him
now; that is what you have come for.  I shall give up and take a
rest, and leave you in charge."

"Poor José!" Brulette could not help exclaiming.  "I see he has been
a great care to you, and that he had better go back with us to his
own country."

Thérence turned her back without replying, and I said to Brulette,
"Let us both go and call him.  I'll bet he will be glad to hear your
voice first."

José's lodge joined that of the Head-Woodsman.  As soon as he heard
Brulette's voice he came running to the door, crying out: "Ah!  I
feared I was dreaming, Brulette; then it is really true that you are
here?"

When he was seated beside us on the logs he told us that for the
first time in many months he had slept all night in one gulp: in
fact, we could see it on his face, which was ten sous better than it
was the night before.  Thérence brought him some chicken-broth in a
porringer, and he wanted to give it to Brulette, who refused to take
it,--all the more because the black eyes of the girl of the woods
blazed with anger at José's offer.

Brulette, who was too shrewd to give any ground for the girl's
vexation, declined, saying that she did not like broth and it would
be a great pity to waste it upon her, adding, "I see, my lad, that
you are cared for like a bourgeois, and that these kind people spare
nothing for your comfort and recovery."

"Yes," said José, taking Thérence's hand and joining it in his with
that of Brulette, "I have been a great expense to my master (he
always called the Woodsman by that title, because he had taught him
music).  Brulette, I must tell you that I have found another angel
upon earth beside you.  Just as you helped my mind and consoled my
heart when I was half an idiot and well-nigh good for nothing, so she
has cared for my poor suffering body when I fell ill with fever here.
I can never thank her as I ought for all she has done for me; but I
can say one thing--there's not a third like you two; and in the day
of recompense the good God will grant his choicest crowns to
Catherine Brulet, the rose of Berry, and to Thérence Huriel, the
sweet-briar of the woods."

It seemed as if Joseph's gentle words poured a balm into the girl's
blood, for Thérence no longer refused to sit down and eat with us;
and Joseph sat between the two beauties, while I, profiting by the
easy ways I had noticed the night before, walked about as I ate, and
sat sometimes near one and sometimes near the other.

I did my best to please the woodland lass with my attentions, and I
made it a point of honor to show her that we Berrichons were not
bears.  She answered my civilities very gently, but I could not make
her raise her eyes to mine all the time we were talking.  She seemed
to me to have an odd temper, quick to take offence and full of
distrust.  And yet, when she was tranquil, there was something so
good in her expression and in her voice that it was impossible to
take a bad idea of her.  But neither in her good moments nor at any
other time did I dare ask her if she remembered that I had carried
her in my arms and that she had rewarded me with a kiss.  I was very
sure it was she, for her father, to whom I had already spoken, had
not forgotten the circumstance, and declared he had recalled my face
without knowing where he had seen it.

During breakfast Brulette, as she told me afterwards, began to have
an inkling of a certain matter, and she at once took it into her head
to watch and keep quiet so as to get at the bottom of it.

"Now," said she, "do you suppose I am going to sit all day with my
arms folded?  Without being a hard worker, I don't say my beads from
one meal to another, and I beg of you, Thérence, to give me some work
by which I can help you."

"I don't want any help," replied Thérence; "and as for you, you don't
need any work to occupy you."

"Why not, my dear?"

"Because you have your friend, and as I should be in the way when you
talk with him I shall go away if you wish to stay here, or I shall
stay here if you wish to go away."

"That won't please either José or me," said Brulette, rather
maliciously.  "I have no secrets to tell him; all that we had to say
to each other we said yesterday.  And now the pleasure we take in
each other's company will only be increased if you are with us, and
we beg you to stay--unless you have some one you prefer to us."

Thérence seemed undecided, and the way she looked at Joseph showed
Brulette that her pride suffered from the fear of being in the way.
Whereupon Brulette said to Joseph, "Help me to keep her!  You want
her, don't you?  Didn't you say just now that we were your two
guardian angels?  Don't you want us to work together for your
recovery?"

"You are right, Brulette," said Joseph.  "Between two such kind
hearts I shall get well quickly; and if you both love me I think each
will love me better,--just as we do a task better with a good comrade
who gives us his strength and doubles ours."

"And you think it is I," said Thérence, "whom your compatriot needs
as a companion?  Well, so be it!  I'll fetch my work and do it here."

She brought some linen cut out for a shirt, and began to sew.
Brulette wanted to help her, and when Thérence refused she said to
Joseph, "Then bring me your clothes to mend; they must be in need of
it by this time."

Thérence let her look through Joseph's whole wardrobe without saying
a word; but there was neither a hole to mend nor a button to sew on,
so well had they been cared for; and Brulette talked of buying linen
the next day at Mesples to make him some new shirts.  Then it
appeared that those Thérence was making were for Joseph, and that she
wanted to finish them, as she had begun them, all by herself.
Suspicion grew stronger and stronger in Brulette's mind, and she
pretended to insist on sharing the work; even Joseph was obliged to
put in a word, for he thought that Brulette would feel dull if she
had nothing to do.  On that, Thérence flung down her work angrily,
saying to Brulette: "Finish them yourself!  I won't touch them,
again!" and off she went to sulk in the house.

"José," said Brulette, "that girl is neither capricious nor crazy, as
I first thought she was.  She is in love with you."

Joseph was so overcome that Brulette saw she had said too much.  She
did not understand that a sick man, ill in body from the action of
his mind, fears reflection.

"Why do you tell me so!" he cried; "what new misfortune is to come
upon me?"

"Why is it a misfortune?"

"Do you ask me that, Brulette?  Do you think I could ever return her
feelings?"

"Well," said Brulette, trying to pacify him, "she will get over it."

"I don't know that people ever get over love," he replied; "but if,
through ignorance and want of precaution I have done any harm to the
daughter of my master, and Huriel's sister, the virgin of the woods,
who has prayed to God for me and watched over my life, I am so guilty
that I can never forgive myself."

"Did not you ever think that her friendship might change to love?"

"No, Brulette, never."

"That's curious, José."

"Why so?  Have not I been accustomed from my youth up to be pitied
for my stupidity and helped in my weakness?  Did the friendship you
have shown me, Brulette, ever make me vain enough to believe that
you--"  Here Joseph became as red as fire, and did not say another
word.

"You are right," said Brulette, who was prudent and judicious just as
Thérence was quick and sensitive.  "We can easily make mistakes about
the feelings which we give and receive.  I had a silly idea about the
girl, but if you don't share it there can be nothing in it.  Thérence
is, no doubt, just as I am, ignorant of what they call true love, and
waits the time when the good God will put it into her head to live
for the man he has chosen for her."

"All the same," said Joseph, "I wish to leave this part of the
country and I ought to."

"We came to take you back," I said, "as soon as you feel strong
enough to go."

Contrary to my expectation, he rejected the idea vehemently.  "No,
no," he said, "I have but one power, and that is my force of will to
be a great musician; I want to have my mother with me, and live
honored and courted in my own country.  If I quit these parts now I
shall go to the Upper Bourbonnais till I am admitted into the
fraternity of bagpipers."

We dared not tell him that we feared he would never have sound lungs.

Brulette talked to him of other things, while I, much occupied with
the revelation she had made about Thérence, and indeed anxious about
the girl, who had just left her lodge and plunged into the woods,
started in the same direction, with no apparent object, but feeling
curious and very desirous of meeting her.  It was not very long
before I heard the sound of choking sighs, which let me know where
she was hiding.  No longer feeling shy of her when I knew she was in
trouble, I went forward and spoke to her resolutely.

"Thérence," I said, observing that she did not weep, and only
quivered and choked with repressed anger, "I think my cousin and I
are the cause of your annoyance.  Our coming displeases you; or
rather, Brulette does, for I myself can claim no attention.  We were
speaking of you this morning, she and I, and I prevented her from
leaving your lodge, where she thought she was a burden to you.  Now
please say frankly if we are, and we will go elsewhere; for though
you may have a low opinion of us, we are none the less right-minded
towards you and fearful of causing you annoyance."

The proud girl seemed offended by my frankness; she got up from her
seat, for I had placed myself near her.

"Your cousin wants to go, does she?" she said, with a threatening
air; "she wants to shame me?  No, she shall not do it! or else--"

"Or else what?" I asked, determined to make her confess her feelings.

"Or else I will leave the woods, and my father and family, and go and
die in the desert."

She spoke feverishly, with so gloomy an eye and so pale a face, that
I was frightened.

"Thérence," I said taking her very kindly by the hand and making her
sit down again, "either you were born without a sense of justice or
you have some reason for hating Brulette.  If so, tell me what it is;
for it is possible I could clear her of the blame you put upon her."

"No, you can't clear her, for I know her," cried Thérence, no longer
controlling herself.  "Don't think that I know nothing about her!  I
have thought enough and questioned Joseph and my brother enough to be
able to judge her conduct and to know what an ungrateful heart and
deceitful nature hers is.  She is a flirt, that's what she is, your
compatriot! and all honest girls ought to hate her."

"That's a hard thing to say," I replied, without seeming troubled.
"What do you base it on?"

"Doesn't she know," cried Thérence, "that here are three young men in
love with her? and she is tricking all of them,--Joseph, who is dying
of it; my brother, who is now avoiding her; and you, who are trying
to cure yourself.  Do you mean to tell me that she does not know all
this; or that she has the slightest preference for any one of you?
No; she has no preference for any one; she pities Joseph, she esteems
my brother, and she does not love you.  Your pangs amuse her, and as
she has fifty other lovers in her own village, she pretends she lives
for all and not for one.  Well, I don't care for you, Tiennet, for I
don't know you; but as for my brother, who is so often obliged to be
away from us, and goes away now to escape her when he might really
stay at home; and as for poor Joseph, who is ill and partly crazy for
her--Ah! your Brulette is a guilty creature towards both, and ought
to blush for not being able to say a tender word to either of them."

Just then Brulette, who overheard her, came forward.  Though quite
unaccustomed to be spoken of in that way, she was doubtless
well-pleased to know the motive of Huriel's absence, and she seated
herself by Thérence and took her hand with a serious air which was
half pity and half reproach.  Thérence was a little pacified, and
said, in a gentler tone:--

"Excuse me, Brulette, if I have pained you; but, indeed, I shall not
blame myself, if it brings you to better feelings.  Come, admit that
your conduct is treacherous and your heart hard.  I don't know if it
is the custom in your country to let men wish for you when you intend
only to refuse them; but I, a poor girl of the woods, think such lies
criminal, and I cannot comprehend such behavior.  Open your eyes, and
see the harm you are doing!  I don't say that my brother will break
down under it, because he is too strong and too courageous a man, and
there are too many girls, worth more than you, who love him, among
whom he will make his choice one of these days; but have pity upon
poor José, Brulette!  You don't know him, though you have been
brought up with him.  You thought him half an imbecile; on the
contrary he has a great genius, but his body is feeble and cannot
bear up under the grief you persist in causing him.  Give him your
heart, for he deserves it; it is I who entreat you, and who will
curse you if you kill him."

"Do you really mean what you are saying to me, my poor Thérence?"
answered Brulette, looking her straight in the eye.  "If you want to
know what I think, it is that you love Joseph, and that I cause you,
in spite of myself, a bitter jealousy, which leads you to impute this
wrong-doing to me.  Well, look at the matter as it is; I don't want
to make José love me; I never thought of doing so, and I am sorry he
does.  I even long to help you to cure him of it: and if I had known
what you have now let me see, I would never have come here, though
your brother did tell me it was necessary that I should do so."

"Brulette," said Thérence, "you must think I have no pride if you
suppose that I love Joseph in the way you mean, and that I condescend
to be jealous of your charms.  I have no need to be ashamed before
any one of the sort of love I feel for him.  If it were as you
suppose, I should at least have sufficient pride not to let you think
I would dispute him with you.  But my friendship for him is so frank
that I dare to protect him openly against your wiles.  Love him
truly, and, far from being jealous, I will love and respect you; I
recognize your rights, which are older than mine, and I will help you
to take him back into your own country, on condition that you will
choose him for your sole lover and husband.  Otherwise, you may
expect in me an enemy, who will hold you up to condemnation openly.
It shall never be said that I loved the poor lad and nursed him in
illness only to see a village flirt kill him before my very eyes."

"Very good," said Brulette, who had recovered all her native pride,
"I see more plainly than ever that you are in love with him and
jealous; and I feel all the more satisfied to go away and leave him
to your care.  That your attachment to him is honest and faithful I
have no doubt; and I have no reasons, such as you have, to be angry
or unjust.  Still I do wonder why you should want me to remain and to
be your friend.  Your sincerity gives way there, and I admit that I
should like to know the reason why."

"The reason," replied Thérence, "is one you give yourself, when you
use shameful words to humiliate me.  You have just said that I am
lovesick and jealous: that's how you explain the strength and the
kindness of my feeling for Joseph!  you will, no doubt, put it into
his head, and the young man, who owes me respect and gratitude, will
think he has the right to despise me, and ridicule me in his heart."

"There you are right, Thérence," said Brulette, whose heart and mind
were both too just not to respect the pride of the woodland girl.  "I
ought to help you to keep your secret, and I will.  I don't say that
I will help you to the extent of my power over Joseph; your pride
would take offence if I did, and I fully understand that you do not
want to receive his regard as a favor from me.  But I beg you to be
just, to reflect, and even to give me some good advice, which I, who
am weaker and more humble than you, ask of you to guide my
conscience."

"Ask it; I will listen to you," said Thérence, pacified by Brulette's
good sense and submission.

"You must first know," said the latter, "that I have never had any
love for Joseph; and if it will help you, I will tell you why."

"Tell me; I want to know!" cried Thérence.

"Well, the reason is," continued Brulette, "that he does not love me
as I should wish to be loved.  I have known Joseph from a baby; he
was never amiable to others until he came to live here; he was so
wrapped up in himself that I considered him selfish.  I am now
willing to believe that if he was so it was not in a bad sense; but
after the conversation which he and I had together yesterday I am
still convinced that I have a rival in his heart that would soon
crush me if I were his.  This mistress whom he would surely prefer to
his wife--don't deceive yourself, Thérence--is music."

"I have sometimes thought that very thing," replied Thérence, after
reflecting a moment, and showing by her soothed manner that she would
rather struggle with music for Joseph's heart, than with the pretty
Brulette.  "Joseph," she added, "is often in a state in which I have
sometimes seen my father,--when the pleasure of making music is so
great that they are not conscious of anything about them; but my
father is always so loving and lovable that I am never jealous of his
pleasure."

"Well, then, Thérence," said Brulette, "let us hope he will make
Joseph like himself and worthy of you."

"Of me? why of me more than of you?  God is my witness that I am not
thinking of myself when I work and pray for Joseph.  My future
troubles me very little, Brulette; I don't understand why people
should be thinking of themselves in the friendship they give to
others."

"Then," said Brulette, "you are a sort of saint, dear Thérence, and I
feel I am not worthy of you; for I do think about myself, and a great
deal, too, when I dream of love and happiness.  Perhaps you do not
love Joseph as I fancied you did; but, however that may be, I ask you
to tell me how I had better behave to him.  I am not at all sure that
if I take all hope away from him the blow would kill him; otherwise
you would not see me so easy.  But he is ill, that's very true; and I
owe him great consideration.  Here is where my friendship for him has
been loyal and sincere; and I have not been as coquettish as you
think for.  For if it is true that I have, as you say, fifty lovers
in my own village, what advantage or amusement would it be to me to
follow the humblest of them all into these woods?  I think, on the
contrary, that I deserve your good-will for having, as it seemed
right to do so, sacrificed without regret my lively friends to bring
comfort to a poor fellow who asked for my remembrance."

Thérence, understanding at last that she was wrong, threw herself
into Brulette's arms, without making any excuses, but showing plainly
by tears and kisses that she was heartily sorry.

They were sitting thus together when Huriel, followed by his mules,
preceded by his dogs, and mounted on his little horse, appeared at
the end of the path where we were.  He came to bid us good-bye; but
nothing in his air or manner showed the grief of a man who seeks by
flight to cure a hopeless love.  He seemed, on the contrary, cheerful
and content; and Brulette thought that Thérence had put him on the
list of her admirers only to give one reason more, good or bad, for
her vexation.  She even tried to make him tell the real reason for
his departure; and when he pretended that it was pressing business,
which Thérence denied, urging him to stay, Brulette, rather piqued at
his coolness, reproached him with getting tired of his Berrichon
guests.  He let himself be teased without making any change in his
plans; and this finally affronted Brulette, and led her to say,--

"As I may never see you again, Maître Huriel, don't you think you had
better return me the little token which you wear in your ear though
it does not belong to you?"

"Yes, but it does," he answered.  "It belongs to me as much as my ear
belongs to my head, for my sister gave it to me."

"Your sister could not have given you what is either Joseph's or
mine."

"My sister made her first communion just as you did, Brulette; and
when I returned your jewel to José she gave me hers.  Ask her if that
isn't true."

Thérence colored high, and Huriel laughed in his beard.  Brulette
thought to herself that the most deceived of the three was Joseph,
who was probably wearing Thérence's silver heart round his neck as a
souvenir, while the muleteer was wearing the one she had given him.
She was resolved not to allow the fraud, so she said to Thérence:
"Dearest, I think the token José wears will bring him happiness, and
therefore he ought to keep it; but inasmuch as this one belongs to
you, I ask you to get it back from your brother, so as to make me a
present which will be extremely precious to me as coming from you."

"I will give you anything else you ask of me," replied Thérence, "and
with all my heart too; but this thing does not belong to me.  What is
given is given, and I don't think that Huriel would be willing to
give it back."

"I will do so," said Huriel, quickly, "if Brulette requires it.  Do
you demand it?" he added, turning to her.

"Yes," said Brulette, who could not back down, though she regretted
her whim when she saw the hurt look of the muleteer.  He at once
opened his earring and took off the token, which he gave to Brulette,
saying: "Be it as you please.  I should be consoled for the loss of
my sister's gift if I could think you would neither give it away nor
exchange it."

"The proof that I will do neither," said Brulette, fastening it on
Thérence's necklace, "is that I give it to her to keep.  And as for
you, whose ear is now released of its weight, you do not need any
token to enable me to recognize you when you come again into our
parts."

"That is very handsome of you to say," replied the muleteer; "but as
I only did my duty to Joseph, and as you now know all that you need
to know to make him happy, I shall not meddle any further in his
affairs.  I suppose you will take him home with you, and I shall have
no further occasion to visit your country.  Adieu, therefore, my
beautiful Brulette; I foretell all the blessings you deserve, and I
leave you now with my family, who will serve you while here and
conduct you home whenever you may wish to go."

So saying, off he went, singing:--

  "One mule, two mules, three mules,
  On the mountain, don't you see them?
  Hey, the devil! 'tis the band."


But his voice did not sound as steady as he tried to make it; and
Brulette, not feeling happy and wishing to escape the searching eyes
of Thérence, returned with us both to find Joseph.




FIFTEENTH EVENING.

I shall not give you the history of all the days that we passed in
the forest.  They differed little from one another.  Joseph grew
better and better, and Thérence decided that it was wiser not to
destroy his hopes, sharing in Brulette's resolution to prevent him
from explaining his feelings.  This was not difficult to manage, for
Joseph had vowed to himself that he would not declare his sentiments
till the moment came when he felt worthy of her notice.  Brulette
must have made herself very seductive indeed to have dragged a word
of love out of him.  To make doubly sure, she managed to avoid ever
being alone with him; and she kept Thérence so cleverly at her side
that the woodland nymph began to understand that she was really not
deceiving her and sincerely wished that she should manage the health
and the mind of the patient in all things.

These three young people did not weary of each other's company.
Thérence sewed for Joseph, and Brulette, having made me buy her a
white handkerchief, set about scalloping and embroidering it for
Thérence, for she was very clever at such work, and it was really
marvellous that a country-girl could do such exquisitely fine
stitches.  She even declared before Joseph and me that she was tired
of sewing and taking care of linen, so as to show that she did not
work for him, and to force him to thank Thérence, who was doing it so
assiduously.  But just see how ungrateful men can be when their minds
are all upset by a woman!  Joseph hardly looked at Thérence's
fingers, employed as they were in his service; his eyes were fixed on
Brulette's pretty hands, and you would really have thought that every
time she drew her needle he counted each stitch as a moment of
happiness.

I wondered how love could fill his mind and occupy his whole time,
without his ever dreaming of making any use of his hands.  As for me,
I tried peeling osier and making baskets, or plaiting rye-straw for
hats and bonnets, but for all that, at the end of forty-eight hours I
was so eaten up with ennui that I was fairly ill.  Sunday is a fine
thing, for it brings a rest after six days' toil, but seven Sundays
in a week is too much for a man who is accustomed to make use of his
limbs.  I might not have realized this if either of the girls had
bestowed any notice on me; indeed, the beautiful Thérence, with her
great eyes somewhat sunken in her head and the black mole at the
corner of her mouth, could easily have turned my head if she had
wanted to; but she was in no humor to think of anything but her one
idea.  She talked little and laughed less, and if I tried the
slightest joking she looked at me with such an astonished air that I
lost all courage to make an explanation.

So, after spending three or four days in fluttering with this
tranquil trio round the lodges and sitting with them in various
places in the woods, and having convinced myself that Brulette was
quite as safe in this country as in our own, I looked about me for
something to do, and finally asked the Head-Woodsman to allow me to
help him.  He received my request very kindly, and I began to get
much amusement out of his company, when, unfortunately, I told him I
did not want to be paid, and was chopping wood only to get rid of the
time; on which his kind heart no longer compelled him to excuse my
blunders, and he began to let me see that there never was a more
exacting man than he in the matter of work.  As his trade was not
mine and I did not even know how to use his tools, I provoked him by
my awkwardness, and I soon saw that he could scarcely restrain
himself from calling me a blockhead and imbecile; for his eyes
actually started from his head and the sweat rolled down his face.

Not wishing to quarrel with a man who was so kind and agreeable in
other ways, I found employment with the sawyers, and they were
satisfied with me.  But dear me!  I soon learned what a dull thing
work is when it is nothing but an exercise for the body, and is not
joined to the idea of profit for one's self or others.

Brulette said to me on the fourth day, "Tiennet, I see you are very
dull, and I don't deny that I am, too; but to-morrow is Sunday, and
we must invent some kind of amusement.  I know that the foresters
meet in a pretty place, where the Head-Woodsman plays for them to
dance.  Well, let us buy some wine and provisions and give them a
better Sunday than usual, and so do honor to our own country among
these strangers."

I did as Brulette told me, and the next day we assembled on a pretty
bit of grass with all the forest workmen and several girls and women
of the neighborhood, whom Thérence invited for a dance.  The
Head-Woodsman piped for us.  His daughter, superb in her Bourbonnais
costume, was much complimented, which made no change in her dignified
manner.  José, quite intoxicated by the charms of Brulette, who had
not forgotten to bring a little finery from home, and who bewitched
all eyes with her pretty face and her dainty ways, sat looking on at
the dancing.  I busied myself in regaling the company with
refreshments, and as I wished to do things in good style, I had not
spared the money.  The feast cost me three good silver crowns out of
my own pocket, but I never regretted it, for the company were pleased
with my hospitality.  Everything went well, and they all said that
within the memory of man the woodland folk had never been so well
entertained.  There was even a mendicant friar, who happened to come
along, and who, under pretext of begging for his convent, stuffed his
stomach as full and drank as much as any woodchopper of them all.
This amused me mightily, though it was at my expense, for it was the
first time I had seen a Carmelite drink, and I had always heard tell
that in the matter of crooking their elbows they were the best men in
Christendom.

I was just re-filling his glass, astonished that I didn't intoxicate
him, when the dancers fell into confusion and a great uproar arose.
I went out of the little arbor which I had made, and where I received
the thirsty crowd, to know what had happened; and there I saw a troop
of three or perhaps four hundred mules following a _clairin_ which
had taken it into its head to go through the assembly, and was being
pushed, and kicked, and frightened, till it darted right and left
among the people; while the mules, who are obstinate beasts, very
strong-boned and accustomed to follow the _clairin_, pressed on
through the dancers, caring little for blows and kicks, jostling
those in their way, and behaving as if they were in a field of
thistles.  The animals did not go so fast, laden as they were, but
what the people had time to get out of their way.  No one was hurt,
but some of the lads, excited by dancing and provoked at being
interrupted, stamped and shouted so vociferously that the scene was
most amusing to behold, and the Head-Woodsman stopped piping to hold
his sides with laughter.

Presently, knowing the musical call which collects the mules, and
which I knew too, having heard it in the forest of Saint-Chartier,
Père Bastien sounded it in the usual manner; and when the _clairin_
and his followers trotted up and surrounded the cask on which he was
seated, he laughed more than ever to see a troup of black beasts
dancing round him instead of the late gala company.

Brulette, however, who escaped from the confusion and took refuge
with Joseph and me, seemed terrified, and did not take it as a joke.

"What is the matter?" I said to her.  "Perhaps it is friend Huriel
who has come back for a dance with you."

"No, no!" she answered.  "Thérence, who knows her brother's mules,
says there is not one of his in the troop; besides, that's not his
horse nor his dog.  I am afraid of all muleteers except Huriel, and I
wish we could get away from here."

As she spoke, we saw some twenty muleteers coming out of the
surrounding forest.  They presently called off their beasts and stood
round to see the dancing.  I reassured Brulette; for in full day and
in sight of so many people I knew there was nothing to fear.  Only I
told her not to go away far from me, and then I returned to the
arbor, where I saw the muleteers were about to help themselves
without ceremony.

As they shouted out, "To drink! something to drink!" like folks in a
tavern, I told them civilly that I did not sell my wine, but that if
they asked for it politely I should be happy to give them the loving
cup.

"Then it is a wedding?" said the tallest of them, whom I recognized
by his fair skin as the leader of those we had met so unluckily in
the woods of La Roche.

"Wedding or not," I replied, "it is I who give the feast, and with
all my heart to those I please; but--"

He did not leave me time to finish before he answered, "We have no
rights here,--you are the master; thank you for your good intentions,
but you don't know us, and you had better keep your wine for your
friends."

He said a few words to the others in their own dialect and led them
to a place apart, where they sat down and ate their own suppers very
quietly.  The Head-Woodsman went to speak with them, and showed much
regard for their leader, named Archignat, who was considered an
upright man,--as far as a muleteer can be one.

Among those present were several who could play the bagpipe,--not
like Père Bastien, who hadn't his equal in the world, and could make
the stones dance and the old oaks curtsey if he liked,--but much
better than Carnat and his son.  So the bagpipe changed hands until
it reached those of the muleteer chief Archignat; while the
Head-Woodsman, whose heart and body were still young, went to dance
with his daughter, of whom he was just as proud--and with as good
right, too--as Père Brulet was of his.

But just as he was calling Brulette to come and be his vis-à-vis, a
rascally fellow, coming from I don't know where, endeavored to take
her hand.  Though it was getting dusk, Brulette recognized him as the
man who had threatened us in the woods of La Roche, and had even
talked of killing her protectors and burying them under a tree that
could tell no tales.  Fear and horror made her refuse him quickly and
press back against me, who, having exhausted all my provisions, was
just going to dance with her.

"The girl promised me this dance," I said to the muleteer, seeing he
was determined to get her; "find some one else."

"Very good," he said; "but after this set with you, my turn will
come."

"No," said Brulette, hastily, "I would rather never dance again."

"That's what we shall see!" he exclaimed, following us to the dance,
where he remained standing behind us, and criticising us, I think, in
his own language.  Every time Brulette passed him he gave vent to
language which, from the expression of his bad eyes, I judged to be
insolent.

"Wait till I have finished dancing," I said, punching him as I
passed; "I'll settle your bill for you in language your back shall
understand."

But when the dance was over I could not find him anywhere, he had
hidden himself so carefully.  Brulette, seeing what a coward he was,
got over her fright and danced with the others, who paid her very
pretty respect; but just as I ceased for a moment to watch her, the
scoundrel came back and took her from the midst of a number of young
girls, forcing her into the middle of the dance, and taking advantage
of the darkness which hid her resistance, tried to embrace her.  At
that moment I ran up, not seeing clearly, but thinking I heard
Brulette call me.  I had no time to do justice on the man myself, for
before his blackened face had touched hers the fellow received such a
blow on the nape of his neck that his eyes must have bulged like
those of a rat pinned in a trap.

Brulette, thinking the help came from me, threw herself into her
defender's arms, and was much amazed to find herself in those of
Huriel.

I tried to take advantage of the fact that our friend had his arms
full, to seize the scoundrel myself; and I would have paid him all I
owed him if the company had not interfered between us.  As the man
now assailed us with words, calling us cowards because we had
attacked him two to one, the music stopped; the crowd gathered about
the scene of the quarrel, and the Head-Woodsman came up with
Archignat,--one forbidding the muleteers, and the other the
woodcutters and sawyers, from taking part in the affair until the
meaning of it were known.

Malzac--that was our enemy's name (and he had a tongue as venomous as
an adder's)--made his statement first, declaring that he had civilly
invited the Berrichon girl to dance; that in kissing her he had only
used his right and followed the custom of the dance, and that two of
the girl's lovers, to wit, Huriel and I, had unfairly attacked him
together and foully struck him.

"That is false," I replied.  "It is a lasting regret to me that I did
not belabor the man who has just addressed you; but the truth is I
arrived too late to touch him in any way, fair or foul; for the
people round withheld my arm as I was going to strike.  I tell you
the thing as it happened; but give me a chance, and I will make true,
what he has said!"

"As for me," said Huriel, "I took him by the neck as you would a
hare, but without striking him, and it is not my fault if his clothes
didn't protect his skin.  But I owe him a better lesson, and I came
here to-night to find an opportunity to give it.  Therefore, I demand
of Maître Archignat, my chief, and of Maître Bastien, my father, to
be heard at once, or directly after this fête is over, and to receive
justice if my claim is recognized as good."

On this the mendicant friar came forward and began to preach peace;
but he had too much of the good Bourbon wine in his head to manage
his tongue, and he couldn't make himself heard in the uproar.

"Silence!" cried the Head-Woodsman, in a voice that would have
drowned the thunder of heaven.  "Stand back all of you, and let us
manage our own affairs; you can listen if you like, but you have no
voice in this chapter.  Stand here, muleteers, for Malzac and Huriel.
And here stand I, and the men of the forest, as sponsors and judges
for this youth of Berry.  Speak, Tiennet, and bring your charge.
What have you against this muleteer?  If it be true that he kissed
your compatriot in the dance I know that such is the custom in your
part of the country as well as in our own.  That is not reason enough
even to think of striking a man.  Tell us the cause of your anger
against him; that is where we must begin."

I did not need urging, and although such an assemblage of muleteers
and foresters caused me some embarrassment, I managed to oil my
tongue sufficiently to tell, in a proper manner, the story of what
happened in the woods of La Roche; and I claimed the testimony of
chief Archignat himself, to whom I did justice, even more perhaps
than he deserved; but I saw very well that I must not throw any blame
on him if I wished to have him favorable to me; and in this way I
proved to him that Berrichons are not greater fools than other
people, nor any easier to put in the wrong.

The company, who had already formed a good opinion of Brulette and
me, blamed Malzac's conduct; but the Head-Woodsman again commanded
silence, and addressing Maître Archignat, demanded to know if there
were anything false in my statement.

The tall red-haired chief was a shrewd and prudent man.  His face was
as white as a sheet, and no matter what annoyance he felt, he never
seemed to have a drop more or a drop less of blood in his body.  His
parti-colored eyes were soft and not deceitful in expression; but his
mouth, partly hidden by his red beard, smiled every now and then with
a silly air which concealed a fund of intelligent malevolence.  He
did not like Huriel, though he behaved as if he did, and he was
generally considered an honest man.  In reality, he was the greatest
pillager of them all, and his conscience set the interests of his
fraternity above every other consideration.  They had chosen him
chief on account of his cool-bloodedness, which enabled him to act by
stratagem and thus save the band from quarrels and legal proceedings,
in which indeed he was considered as clever as a lawyer's clerk.

He made no answer to the Head-Woodsman's question,--whether from
caution or stupidity it was impossible to say; for the more his
attention was roused, the more he looked like a man who was
half-asleep and did not hear what was said to him.  He merely made a
sign to Huriel as if to ask if the testimony he was going to give
would agree with his own.  But Huriel who, without being sly, was as
cautious as he, answered: "Master, you are appealed to as witness by
this young man.  If it please you to corroborate him, I am not needed
to corroborate you; and if you think fit to blame him, the customs of
our fraternity forbid me to contradict you.  No one here has anything
to do with our affairs.  If Malzac has been to blame I know
beforehand that you will blame him.  My affair is a totally different
matter.  In the dispute we had together before you in the woods of La
Roche, the cause of which I am not obliged to reveal, Malzac told me
three times that I lied, and he threatened me personally.  I don't
know if you heard him, but I declare it on my oath; and as I was then
insulted and dishonored I now claim the right of battle according to
the rules of our order."

Archignat consulted the other muleteers in a low voice, and it
appeared that they all sustained Huriel, for they formed a ring, and
the chief uttered one word only, "Go!" on which Malzac and Huriel
advanced and faced each other.

I tried to put myself forward, declaring it was for me to revenge my
cousin, and that my complaint was of more importance than that of
Huriel; but Archignat shoved me aside, saying: "If Huriel is beaten,
you can come forward; but if Malzac goes down you must be satisfied
with what you have seen done."

"The women will retire!" cried the Head-Woodsman, "they are out of
place here."

He was pale as he said it, but he did not flinch from the danger his
son was about to meet.

"They can retire if they choose," said Thérence, who was pale, too,
but quite as firm as he.  "I must remain for my brother; he may need
me to stanch his blood."

Brulette, more dead than alive, implored Huriel and me not to go on
with the quarrel; but it was too late to listen to her.  I gave her
to Joseph's care, and he took her to a distance, while I laid aside
my jacket to be ready to revenge Huriel if he fell.

I had no idea what sort of fight it would be, and I watched it
carefully, so as not to be taken unawares when my turn should come.
They had lighted two pine torches and had measured, by pacing, the
space to which the combatants should be confined.  Each was furnished
with a holly stick, short and knotted, and the Head-Woodsman assisted
Archignat in making these preparations with a calmness which was not
in his heart and which it grieved me to see.

Malzac, who was short and thin, was not as strong as Huriel, but he
was quicker in his movements and knew better how to fight; for
Huriel, though skilful with the stick, was so kindly in temper that
he had seldom had occasion to use it.  All this passed through my
mind during the few moments in which they were feeling each other's
strength; and I confess my heart thumped within me, as much from fear
for Huriel as from anger against his enemy.

For two or three minutes, which seemed to me hours by the clock, not
a blow reached its aim, each being well parried on either side;
presently, however, we began to hear that the sticks no longer struck
wood, and the muffled sound they made falling on flesh gave me a cold
sweat.  In our part of the country we never fight under rules except
with fists, and I own that my feelings were not hardened enough to
stand the idea of split heads and broken jaws.  I felt disgust,
anger, and pity for the whole thing, and yet I watched with open
mouth and eyes to lose nothing of it; for the wind blew the flame of
the torches, and sometimes nothing more than a hazy light surrounded
the combatants.  Suddenly, however, one of the two gave a moan like
that of a tree cut in two by a blast of wind, and rolled in the dust.

Which was it?  I could not see, for the dazzles were in my eyes, but
I heard Thérence exclaim,--

"Thank God, my brother has won!"

I began to see again.  Huriel was standing erect, waiting, like a
fair fighter, to see if his adversary rose, but not approaching him,
for fear of some treachery, of which he knew the man capable.

But Malzac did not rise, and Archignat, forbidding the others to
move, called him three times.  No answer being given he advanced
towards him, saying,--

"Malzac, it is I, don't touch me."

Malzac appeared to have no desire to do so,--he lay as still as a
stone; and the chief stooping over him, touched him, looked at him,
and then called two of the muleteers by name and said to them:--

"The game is up with him; do what there is to do."

They immediately took him by the feet and head and disappeared at
full speed in the forest, followed by the other muleteers, who
prevented all who did not belong to their fraternity from making any
inquiry as to the result of the affair.  Maître Archignat was the
last to go, after saying a word to the Head-Woodsman, who replied,--

"That's enough; adieu."

Thérence had fastened on her brother, and was wiping the perspiration
from his face with a handkerchief, asking him if he was wounded, and
trying to detain him and examine him.  But he, too, whispered in her
ear, and she at once replied,--

"Yes, yes--adieu!"

Huriel then took Archignat's arm, and the pair disappeared in the
darkness; for, as they went, they knocked over the torches, and I
felt for a moment as if I were in the act of waking out of an ugly
dream, full of lights and noises, into the silence and thick darkness
of the night.




SIXTEENTH EVENING.

However, I began to see clearly, little by little, and my feet, whose
soles had seemed pegged to the ground, followed the Head-Woodsman in
the direction of the lodges.  I was much surprised to find that there
was no one there but his daughter, Brulette, Joseph, and three or
four old men who had been at the fight.  All the others, it appeared,
had run away when they saw the sticks produced, to avoid giving
witness in a court of justice if the matter ended fatally.  These
woodland people never betray each other, and to escape being summoned
and harassed by the law, they manage so as to see nothing and have
nothing to say.  The Head-Woodsman spoke to the old men in their own
language, and I saw them go back to the place where the fight
occurred, without understanding what they intended to do there.
Meantime I followed Joseph and the women, and we reached the lodges
without saying a word to each other.

As for me, I had been so shaken in mind that I did not want to talk.
When we entered the lodge and sat down we were all as white as if we
were afraid.  The Head-Woodsman, who soon joined us, sat down too,
evidently in deep thought, with his eyes fixed to the earth.
Brulette, who had compelled herself not to ask questions, was crying
in a corner; Joseph, as if worn out with fatigue, had thrown himself
at full length on a pile of dried ferns; Thérence alone came and
went, and prepared the beds for the night; but her teeth were set,
and when she tried to speak she stammered.

After a while the Head-Woodsman rose and looking round upon us said:
"Well, my children, after all, what is it?  A lesson has been given,
and justly given, to a bad man, known everywhere for his evil
conduct,--a man who abandoned his wife and let her die of grief and
poverty.  Malzac has long disgraced the fraternity of muleteers, and
if he were to die no one would regret him.  Must we make ourselves
unhappy because Huriel gave him a few hard blows in honest battle?
Why do you cry, Brulette?  Have you such a soft heart that you are
shedding tears for the beaten man?  Do you not think that my son was
right to defend your honor and his own?  He had told me all that
happened in the woods of La Roche, and I knew that out of prudent
regard for your safety he refrained from punishing that man at the
time.  He even hoped that Tiennet would have said nothing about it
to-night, so that the cause might never be known.  But I, who never
approve of concealing the truth, allowed Tiennet to say what he
liked.  I am well-pleased that he was prevented from entering a fight
which is most dangerous for those who do not understand the passes.
I am also well-pleased that victory was with my son; for as between
an honest man and a bad man, my heart would have gone with the honest
man even if he were not blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh.  And
so let us thank God, who judged the right, and ask him to be ever
with us, in this and in all things."

The Head-Woodsman knelt down and offered the evening prayer; which
comforted and tranquillized every one of us.  Then we separated in
hearty friendship to seek some rest.

It was not long before I heard the Head-Woodsman, whose little
chamber I shared, snoring loudly, in spite of the anxiety he had
undergone.  But in his daughter's room Brulette was still crying,
unable to recover herself, and evidently ill.  I heard her talking to
Thérence, and so, not from curiosity but out of pity for her trouble,
I put my ear to the partition to hear what I could.

"Come, come," Thérence was saying, in decided tones, "stop crying and
you will go to sleep.  Tears won't do any good, and, as I told you, I
must go; if you wake my father, who does not know he is wounded, he
will want to go too, and that may compromise him in this bad
business; whereas for me, I risk nothing."

"You terrify me, Thérence; how can you go alone among those
muleteers?  They frighten me badly enough, but you must let me go
with you; I ought to, for I was the cause of the fight.  Let us call
Tiennet--"

"No, no! neither you nor him!  The muleteers won't regret Malzac if
he should die,--quite the reverse; but if he had been injured by any
one not belonging to their own body, especially a stranger, your
friend Tiennet would be in the greatest danger.  Let him sleep; it is
enough that he tried to meddle in the affair to make it important
that he should keep quiet now.  As for you, Brulette, you would be
very ill-received; you have not, as I have, a family interest to take
you there.  No one among them would attempt to injure me; they all
know me, and they are not afraid to let me into their secrets."

"But do you think you will still find them in the forest?  Did not
your father say they were going to the uplands, and would not spend
the night in this neighborhood?"

"They must wait long enough to dress the wounds.  But if I do not
find them I shall be all the more easy; for it will prove that my
brother is not seriously hurt, and that he could start with them at
once."

"Did you see his wound? tell me, dear Thérence, don't hide anything
from me."

"I did not see it,--no one saw it; he said he was not hurt, and did
not even think of himself.  But see, Brulette,--only don't cry
out,--here is the handkerchief with which, as I thought, I wiped the
perspiration from his face.  When I got back here I found it was
saturated with blood; and I had to gather all my courage to hide my
feelings from my father, who is very anxious, and from Joseph, who is
really ill."

Then came silence, as if Brulette, taking or gazing at the
handkerchief, was choking.  Presently Thérence said: "Give it back to
me; I must wash it in the first brook I come to."

"Ah, no!" said Brulette, "let me keep it; I'll hide it safely."

"No, my dear," replied Thérence; "if the authorities get wind of the
battle they will come and rummage every place here,--they will even
search our persons.  They have grown very annoying of late; they want
us to give up our old customs, which are dying out of themselves,
without their meddling in the matter."

"Alas!" said Brulette, "isn't it to be wished that the custom of
these dangerous fights should be given up?"

"Yes, but that depends on many things which the officers of the law
cannot or will not do.  For instance, they ought to do justice, and
that they never do except to those who have the means to pay for it.
Is it different in your parts?  You don't know? well, I will bet it
is the same thing there.  Only, the Berrichon blood is sluggish, and
your people are patient under the wrongs done them, and so they don't
expose themselves to worse.  Here it is not so.  A man who lives in
the forest could not live at all if he did not defend himself against
bad men as he would against wolves and other dangerous beasts.
Surely you don't blame my brother for having demanded justice of his
own people for an insult and a threat he was made to endure before
you?  Perhaps you are slightly to blame in the matter; think of that,
Brulette, before you blame him.  If you had not shown such anger and
fear at the insults of that muleteer he might have overlooked those
to himself, for there never was a gentler man than Huriel or one more
ready to forgive; but you held yourself insulted, Huriel promised you
reparation, and he kept his word.  I am not reproaching you, nor him
either; I might have been just as sensitive as you, and as for him,
he only did his duty."

"No, no!" said Brulette, beginning to cry again; "He ought not to
have exposed himself for me, and I was very wrong to show such pride.
I shall never forgive myself if any harm, no matter what, comes to
him; and you and your father, who have been so good to me, can never
forgive me either."

"Don't fret about that," replied Thérence.  "Whatever happens is
God's will, and you will never be blamed by us.  I know you now,
Brulette; I know that you deserve respect.  Come, dry your eyes and
go to sleep.  I hope I shall bring you back good news, and I am
certain my brother will be consoled and half-cured if you will let me
tell him how sorry you are for his wound."

"I think," said Brulette, "that he will think more of your regard,
for there is no woman in the world he could ever love like his own
good and brave sister.  And, Thérence, that is why I am sorry I made
you ask him for that token, and if he had a fancy to have it back, I
dare say you would give it to him."

"That's right, Brulette," cried Thérence; "I kiss you for those
words.  Sleep in peace, I am off."

"I shall not sleep," replied Brulette; "I shall pray to God to help
you till I see you safe back again."

I heard Thérence softly leave the lodge, and a minute later I also
went out.  I could not bring my conscience to allow a beautiful girl
to expose herself all alone to the dangers of the night; nor could I,
out of fear for myself, withhold what power I had to give her
assistance.  The people she was going to seek did not seem to me such
gentle and good Christians as she made them out to be, and besides,
perhaps they were not the only ones in the wood that night.  Our
dance had attracted beggars, and we know that folks who ask charity
don't always show it to others when occasion offers.  Moreover,--and
I am sure I don't know why,--the red and shining face of the
Carmelite friar, who had paid such attention to my wine, kept coming
into my head.  He struck me as not lowering his eyes very much when
he passed near the girls, and I hadn't noticed what became of him in
the general hullaballoo.

But Thérence had declared to Brulette that she did not want my
company in her search for the muleteers; so, not wishing to displease
her, I determined not to let her see me, and to follow her only
within hearing, in case she had occasion to cry for help.
Accordingly, I let her get about a minute in advance, not more,
though I would have liked to stay and tranquillize Brulette by
telling her my plan.  I was, however, afraid to delay and so lose the
trail of the woodland beauty.

I saw her cross the open and enter a copse which sloped toward the
bed of a brook, not far from the lodges.  I entered after her, by the
same path, and as there were numerous turns, I soon lost sight of
her; but I heard the sound of her light step, which every now and
then broke a dead branch, or rolled a pebble.  She seemed to be
walking rapidly, and I did the same, to prevent her getting too far
in advance of me.  Two or three times I thought I was so near her
that I slackened my pace in order that she might not see me.  We came
thus to one of the roads which lead through the woods; but the shadow
of the tall trees was so dense that I, looking from right to left,
was unable to see anything that indicated which way she had gone.

I listened, ear to earth, and I heard in the path, which continued
across the road, the same breaking of branches which had already
guided me.  I hastened forward till I reached another road which led
down to the brook; there I began to fear I had lost trace of her, for
the brook was wide and the bank muddy, and I saw no sign of
footsteps.  There is nothing so deceiving as the paths of a wood.  In
some places the trees stand so that one fancies there must be a path;
or perhaps wild animals going to water have beaten out a track; and
then all of a sudden we find ourselves tangled in underbrush, or
sinking in such a bog that it is useless trying to go further.

However, I persisted, because I still heard the noise before me, and
it was so distinct that finally I began to run, tearing my clothes in
the brambles, and plunging deeper and deeper into the thicket, when
suddenly a savage growl let me know that the creature I was pursuing
was a boar, which was beginning to be annoyed by my company, and
wished to show that he had had enough of it.  Having no weapon but a
stick, and not knowing how to deal with that kind of beast, I turned
round and retraced my steps, rather uneasy lest the boar should take
it into his head to accompany me.  Fortunately, he did not think of
it, and I returned as far as the first road, where by mere chance I
took the direction which led to the entrance of the woods of
Chambérat, where we had held the fête.

Though baffled, I did not choose to renounce my search; for Thérence
might meet some wild beast, as I had, and I didn't believe she knew
any language that that kind of enemy would listen to.  I already knew
enough of the forest not to get lost for any length of time, and I
soon reached the place where we had danced.  It took me a few moments
to be certain that it was the same open, for I expected to find my
arbor, with the utensils which I had not had time to carry away; but
the place where I left it was as smooth as if it had never been
there.  Nevertheless, searching carefully, I found the holes where I
had driven in the stakes, and the place where the feet of the dancers
had worn off the turf.

I wanted to find the spot where the muleteers had disappeared leading
Huriel and carrying Malzac, but try as I would, I had been so
confused in mind just then that I could not recall it.  So I was
forced to advance haphazard, and I marched in that way all
night,--weary enough, as you may suppose, stopping often to listen,
and hearing nothing but the owls hooting in the branches, or some
poor hare who was more afraid of me than I of him.

Though the Chambérat wood was really at that time joined to those of
Alleu, I did not know it, having only entered it once since coming to
that part of the country.  I soon got lost; which did not trouble me,
however, because I knew that neither wood was extensive enough to
reach to Rome.  Besides, the Head-Woodsman had already taught me to
take my bearings, not by the stars, which are not always to be seen
in a forest, but by the bend of the leading branches, which, in our
midland provinces, are lashed by north-westerly winds and lean
permanently toward the east.

The night was very clear, and so warm that if I had not been goaded
by worry of mind and fatigued in body, I should have enjoyed the
walk.  It was not moonlight, but the stars shone in a cloudless sky,
and I saw my way quite plainly even under the foliage.  I was much
improved in courage since the time when I was so frightened in the
little forest of Saint-Chartier; for, although I knew I was going
wrong, I felt as easy as if on our own roads, and when I saw that the
animals ran away from me, I had no anxiety at all.  I began to see
how it was that these covered glades, these brooks murmuring in the
ravines, the soft herbage, the sandy paths, and the trees of splendid
growth and lofty pride made this region dear to those who belonged to
it.  There were certain large wild-flowers the name of which I did
not know, something like a foxglove, white with yellow spots, the
perfume of which was so keen and delicious that I could almost have
fancied myself in a garden.

Keeping steadily toward the west, I struck the heath and skirted the
edge of it, listening and looking about me.  But I saw no signs of
human beings, and about daybreak I began to return toward the lodges
without finding Thérence or anybody else.  I had had enough of it,
and seeing that I could not make myself useful, I tried a short cut
through the woods, where, in a very wild place, beneath a large oak,
I saw something which seemed to me a person.  Day was beginning to
light up the bushes, and I walked noiselessly forward till I
recognized the brown garment of the Carmelite friar.  The poor man,
whom in my heart I had suspected, was virtuously and devoutly on his
knees, saying his prayers without thought of evil.

I coughed as I approached, to let him know I was there and not to
frighten him; but there was no need of that, for the monk was a
worthy soul who feared none but God,--neither devil nor man.  He
raised his head and looked at me without surprise; then burying his
face in his cowl he went on muttering his orisons, and I could see
nothing but the end of his beard, which jerked up and down as he
spoke, like that of a goat munching salt.

When he seemed to have finished, I bade him good-morning, hoping to
get some news out of him, but he made me a sign to hold my tongue;
then he rose, picked up his wallet, looked carefully at the place
where he had been kneeling, and with his bare feet poked up the grass
and levelled the sand he had disturbed; after which he led me to a
little distance, and said in a muffled voice:--

"Inasmuch as you know all about it, I am not sorry to talk to you
before I go on my way."

Finding he was inclined to talk, I took care not to question him,
which might have made him mistrustful; but just as he was opening his
mouth to speak, Huriel appeared, and seemed so surprised and even
annoyed to see me that I was greatly embarrassed, as if I had in some
way done wrong.

I must also remark that Huriel would probably have frightened me if I
had met him alone in the gloom of the morning.  He was more daubed
with black than I had ever seen him, and a cloth bound round his head
hid his hair and his forehead, so that all one saw of his face was
his big eyes, which seemed sunken and as if they had lost their usual
fire.  In fact, he looked like his own spirit rather than his own
body, and he glided gently upon the heather as if he feared to awaken
even the crickets and the gnats which were asleep in it.

The monk was the first to speak; not as a man who accosts another,
but as one who continues a conversation after a break in it.

"As he is here," he said, pointing to me, "it is best to give him
some useful instructions, and I was on the point of telling him--"

"As you have told him everything--" began Huriel, cutting him short
with a reproachful look.

Here I, in turn, interrupted Huriel to tell him I knew nothing as
yet, and that he was free to conceal what he was just going to say.

"That's all right in you," replied Huriel, "not to seek to know more
than you need; but if this is the way, Brother Nicolas, that you keep
a secret of such importance, I am sorry I ever trusted you."

"Fear nothing," said the Carmelite.  "I thought the young man was
compromised with you."

"He is not compromised at all, thank God!" said Huriel; "one is
enough!"

"So much the better for him if he only sinned by intention," replied
the monk.  "He is your friend, and you have nothing to fear.  But as
for me, I should be glad if he would tell no one that I passed the
night in these woods."

"What harm could that do you?" asked Huriel.  "A muleteer met with an
accident; you succored him, and thanks to you, he will soon be well.
Who can blame you for that charity?"

"True, true," said the monk.  "Keep the phial and use the stuff twice
a day.  Wash the wound carefully in running water as often as you can
do so; don't let the hair stick in the wound, and keep it covered
from dust; that is all that is necessary.  If you have any fever get
yourself well bled by the first friar you meet."

"Thank you," said Huriel, "but I have lost enough blood as it is, and
I think we can never have too much.  May you be rewarded, my brother,
for your kind help, which I did not greatly need, but for which I am
none the less grateful.  And now permit us to say good-bye, for it is
daylight and your prayers have detained you here too long."

"No doubt," answered the monk, "but will you let me depart without a
word of confession?  I have cured your flesh,--that was the first
thing to be done; but is your conscience in any better state?  Do you
think you have no need of absolution, which is to the soul what that
balsam is to the body?"

"I have great need of it, my father," said Huriel, "but you would do
wrong to give it to me; I am not worthy to receive it until I have
done penance.  As to my confession, you do not need to hear it, for
you saw me commit a mortal sin.  Pray God for me; that is what I ask
of you, and see that many masses are said for the soul of--those who
let anger get the better of them."

I thought at first he was joking; but I knew better when I saw the
money he gave to the friar, and heard the sad tone of his last words.

"Be sure you shall receive according to your generosity," said the
friar putting the money in his wallet.  Then he added, in a tone in
which there was nothing hypocritical: "Maître Huriel, we are all
sinners and there is but one just judge.  He alone, who has never
sinned, has the right to condemn or to absolve the faults of men.
Commit yourself to him, and be sure that whatever there is to your
credit he will in his mercy place to your account.  As for the judges
of earth, very foolish and very cowardly would he be who would send
you before them, for they are weak or hardened creatures.  Repent,
for you have cause to, but do not betray yourself; and when you feel
that grace is calling you to a confession of repentance go to some
good priest, though he may only be a poor barefooted Carmelite like
Brother Nicolas.  And you, my son," added the good man, who felt in a
preaching mood and wanted to sprinkle me too with his holy water,
"learn to moderate your appetites and conquer your passions.  Avoid
occasions for sin; flee from quarrels and bloody encounters--"

"That will do, that will do, Brother Nicolas," interrupted Huriel.
"You are preaching to a believer, you need not call a man with pure
hands to repentance.  Farewell.  Go, I tell you; it is high time."

The monk departed, after shaking hands with us kindly and with a
great air of frankness.  When he had got to a distance Huriel, taking
me by the arm, led me back to the tree where I had found the monk in
prayer.

"Tiennet," he said, "I have no distrust of you, and if I compelled
the good friar to hold his tongue it was only to make him cautious.
However, there is no danger from him.  He is own uncle to our chief
Archignat, and he is, moreover, a safe man, always on good terms with
the muleteers, who often help him to carry the provisions he collects
from one place to another.  But though I am not afraid of you or of
him, it does not follow that I should tell you what you have no need
to know, unless you make it a test of my friendship."

"You shall do as you like," I answered.  "If it is useful for you
that I should know the results of your fight with Malzac, tell me,
even though I may deeply regret to hear them; if not, I would just as
soon not know what has become of him."

"What has become of him!" echoed Huriel, whose voice was choked by
some great distress.  He stopped me when we reached the first
branches which the oak stretched toward us, as if he feared to tread
upon a spot where I saw no trace of what I was beginning to guess.
Then he added, casting a look black with gloom before him, and
speaking as if something were forcing him to betray himself:
"Tiennet, do you remember the threatening words that man said to us
in the woods of La Roche?--'There is no lack of ditches in the forest
to bury fools in, and the stones and the trees have no tongues to
tell what they see.'"

"Yes," I answered, feeling a cold sweat creeping over my whole body.
"It seems that evil words tempt fate, and bring disaster to those who
say them."




SEVENTEENTH EVENING.

Huriel crossed himself and sighed.  I did as he did, and then turning
from the accursed tree we went our way.

I wished, as the friar did, to say a few comforting words to him, for
I saw that his mind was troubled; but, besides being a poor hand at
moralizing, I felt guilty myself after a fashion.  I knew, for
instance, that if I had not related aloud the affair that happened in
the woods of La Roche, Huriel might not have remembered his promise
to Brulette to avenge her; and that if I had not been in such a hurry
to be the first to defend her in presence of the muleteers and the
foresters, Huriel would not have been so eager to get that honor
before me in her eyes.

Worried by these thoughts, I could not help telling them to Huriel
and blaming myself to him, just as Brulette had blamed herself to
Thérence.

"My dear friend Tiennet," replied the muleteer, "you are a good
fellow with a good heart.  Don't trouble your conscience for a thing
which God, in the day of judgment, will not lay at your door, perhaps
not at mine.  Brother Nicolas is right, God is the only judge who
renders just judgment, for he alone knows things as they are.  He
needs no witnesses and makes no inquiry into the truth.  He reads all
hearts; he knows that mine has never sworn nor sought the death of a
man, even at the moment when I took that stick to punish the
evil-doer.  Those weapons are bad, but they are the only ones which
our customs allow us to use in such cases, and I am not responsible
for their use.  Certainly a fight with fists alone would be far
better,--such as you and I had that night in your field, all about my
mules and your oats.  But let me tell you that a muleteer is bound to
be as brave and jealous for his honor as any of the great lords who
bear the sword.  If I had swallowed Malzac's insults without
demanding reparation I should deserve to be expelled from our
fraternity.  It is true that I did not demand it coolly, as I ought
to have done.  I had met Malzac alone that morning, in that same wood
of La Roche, where I was quietly at work without thinking of him.  He
again annoyed me with foolish language, declaring that Brulette was
nothing better than a dried-wood picker, which means, with us, a
ghost that walks by night,--a superstition which often helps girls of
bad lives to escape recognition, for good people are afraid of these
ghosts.  So, among muleteers, who are not as credulous, the term is
very insulting.  Nevertheless, I bore with him as long as possible,
until at last, driven to extremities, I threatened him in order to
drive him away.  He replied that I was a coward, capable of attacking
him in a lonely place, but that I dared not challenge him to open
fight with sticks before witnesses; that everybody knew I had never
had occasion to show my courage, for when I was in company of others
I always agreed with what they said so as not to be obliged to
measure swords with them.  Then he left me, saying there was a dance
in the woods of Chambérat, and that Brulette gave a supper to the
company; for which she had ample means, as she was the mistress of a
rich tradesman in her own country; and, for his part, he should go
and amuse himself by courting the girl, in defiance of me if I had
courage to go and see him do it.  You know, Tiennet, that I intended
never to see Brulette again, and that for reasons which I will tell
you later."

"I know them," said I; "and I see that your sister met you to-night;
for here, hanging to your ear below the bandage, is a token which
proves something I had strongly suspected."

"If it is that I love Brulette and value her token," replied Huriel,
"you know all that I know myself; but you cannot know more, for I am
not even sure of her friendship, and as for anything else--but that's
neither here nor there.  I want to tell you the ill-luck that brought
me back here.  I did not wish Brulette to see me, neither did I mean
to speak to her, because I saw the misery Joseph endured on my
account.  But I knew Joseph had not the strength to protect her, and
that Malzac was shrewd and tricky enough to escape you.  So I came at
the beginning of the dance, and kept out of sight under the trees,
meaning to depart without being seen, if Malzac did not make his
appearance.  You know the rest until the moment when we took the
sticks.  At that moment I was angry, I confess it, but it couldn't
have been otherwise unless I were a saint in Paradise.  And yet my
only thought was to give a lesson to my enemy, and to stop him from
saying, especially while Brulette was here, that because I was gentle
and patient I was timid as a hare.  You saw that my father, sick of
such talk, did not object to my proving myself a man; but there!
ill-luck surely pursues me, when in my first fight and almost at my
first blow--ah!  Tiennet, there is no use saying I was driven into
it, or that I feel within me kind and humane; that is no consolation
for having a fatal hand.  A man is a man, no matter how foul-mouthed
and ill-behaved he be.  There was little or no good in that one, but
he might have mended, and I have sent him to his account before he
had come to repentance.  Tiennet, I am sick of a muleteer's life; I
agree with Brulette that it is not easy for a God-fearing man to be
one of them and maintain his own conscience and the respect of
others.  I am obliged to stay in the craft for some time longer,
owing to engagements which I have made; but you may rely upon it, I
shall give up the business as soon as possible, and find another that
is quiet and decent."

"That is what you want me to tell Brulette, isn't it?" I said.

"No," replied Huriel, with much decision, "not unless Joseph gets
over his love and his illness so entirely as to give her up.  I love
Joseph as much as you all love him; besides, he told me his secret,
and asked my advice and support; I will not deceive him, nor
undermine him."

"But Brulette does not want him as a lover or a husband, and perhaps
he had better know it as soon as possible.  I'll take upon myself to
reason with him, if the others dare not, for there is somebody in
your house who could make Joseph happy, and he never could be happy
with Brulette.  The longer he waits and the more he flatters himself
she will love him, the harder the blow will seem; instead of which,
if he opens his eyes to the true attachment he might find elsewhere--"

"Never mind that," said Huriel, frowning slightly, which made him
look like a man who was suffering from a great hole in his head,
which in fact there was under the bloody handkerchief.  "All things
are in God's hand, and in our family nobody is in a hurry to make his
own happiness at the expense of others.  As for me, I must go, for I
could make no lying answer to those who might ask me where Malzac is
and why no one sees him any more.  Listen, however, to another thing
about Joseph and Brulette.  It is better not to tell them the evil I
have done.  Except the muleteers, and my father and sister, the monk
and you, no one knows that when that man fell he never rose again.  I
had only time to say to Thérence, 'He is dead, I must leave these
parts.'  Maître Archignat said the same thing to my father; but the
other foresters know nothing, and wish not to know anything.  The
monk himself would have seen only part of it if he had not followed
us with remedies for the wound.  The muleteers were inclined to send
him back at once, but the chief answered for him, and I, though I
might be risking my neck, could not endure that the man should be
buried like a dog, without Christian prayer.  The future is in God's
hands.  You understand, of course, that a man involved as I am in a
bad business cannot, at least for a long time, think of courting a
girl as much sought after and respected as Brulette.  But I do ask
you, for my sake, not to tell her the extent of the trouble I am in.
I am willing she should forget me, but not that she should hate or
fear me."

"She has no right to do either," I replied, "since it was for love of
her--"

"Ah!" exclaimed Huriel, sighing and passing his hand before his eyes,
"it is a love that costs me dear!"

"Come, come," I said, "courage! she shall know nothing; you may rely
upon my word; and all that I can do, if occasion offers to make her
see your merits, shall be done faithfully."

"Gently, gently, Tiennet," returned Huriel, "I don't ask you to take
my side as I take Joseph's.  You don't know me as well, neither do
you owe me the same friendship; I know what it is to push another
into the place we would like to occupy.  You care for Brulette
yourself; and among three lovers, as we are, two must be just and
reasonable when the third is preferred.  But, whatever happens, I
hope we shall all three remain brothers and friends."

"Take me out of the list of suitors," I said, smiling without the
least vexation.  "I have always been the least ardent of Brulette's
lovers, and now I am as calm as if I had never dreamed of loving her.
I know what is in the secret heart of the girl; she has made a good
choice, and I am satisfied.  Adieu, my Huriel; may the good God help
you, and give you hope, and so enable you to forget the troubles of
this bad night."

We clasped each other for good-bye, and I inquired where he was going.

"To the mountains of the Forez," he replied.  "Write to me at the
village of Huriel, which is my birth-place and where we have
relations.  They will send me your letters."

"But can you travel so far with that wound in your head?  Isn't it
dangerous?"

"Oh no!" he said, "it is nothing.  I wish _the other's_ head had been
as hard as mine!"

When I was alone I began to think over with amazement all that must
have happened that night in the forest without my hearing or
detecting the slightest thing.  I was still more surprised when,
passing once more, in broad daylight, the spot where the dance had
taken place, I saw that since midnight persons had returned to mow
the grass and dig over the ground to remove all trace of what had
happened.  In short, from one direction persons had come twice to
make things safe at this particular point; from the other, Thérence
had contrived to communicate with her brother; and, besides all this,
a burial had been performed, without the faintest appearance or the
lightest sound having warned me of what was taking place, although
the night was clear and I had gone from end to end of the silent
woods looking and listening with the utmost attention.  It turned my
mind to the difference between the habits, and indeed the characters,
of these woodland people and the laborers of the open country.  On
the plains, good and evil are too clearly seen not to make the
inhabitants from their youth up submit to the laws and behave with
prudence.  But in the forests, where the eyes of their fellows can be
escaped, men invoke no justice but that of God or the devil,
according as they are well or ill intentioned.

When I reached the lodges the sun was up; the Head-Woodsman had gone
to his work; Joseph was still asleep; Thérence and Brulette were
talking together under the shed.  They asked me why I had got up so
early, and I noticed that Thérence was uneasy lest I had seen or
heard something.  I behaved as if I knew nothing, and had not gone
further than the adjoining wood.

Joseph soon joined us, and I remarked that he looked much better than
when we arrived.

"Yet I have hardly slept all night," he replied; "I was restless till
nearly day-break; but I think the reason was that the fever which has
weakened me so much left me last evening, for I feel stronger and
more vigorous than I have been for a long time."

Thérence, who understood fevers, felt his pulse, and then her face,
which looked very tired and depressed, brightened suddenly.

"See!" she cried; "the good God sends us at least one happiness; here
is our patient on the road to recovery!  The fever has gone, and his
blood is already recovering strength."

"If you want to know what I have felt this night," said Joseph, "you
must promise not to call it a dream; but here it is--In the first
place, however, tell me if Huriel got off without a wound, and if the
other did not get more than he wanted.  Have you had any news from
the forest of Chambérat?"

"Yes, yes," replied Thérence, hastily.  "They have both gone to the
upper country.  Say what you were going to say."

"I don't know if you will comprehend it, you two," resumed Joseph,
addressing the girls, "but Tiennet will.  When I saw Huriel fight so
resolutely my knees gave way under me, and, feeling weaker than any
woman, I came near losing consciousness; but at the very moment when
my body was giving way my heart grew hot within me, and my eyes never
ceased to look at the fight.  When Huriel struck the fellow down and
remained standing himself, I could have shouted 'Victory!' like a
drunken man, if I had not restrained myself; I would have rushed if I
could to embrace him.  But the impulse was soon gone, and when I got
back here I felt as though I had received and given every blow, and
as if all the bones in my body were broken."

"Don't think any more about it," said Thérence; "it was a horrid
thing to see and recollect.  I dare say it gave you bad dreams last
night."

"I did not dream at all," said Joseph; "I lay thinking, and little by
little I felt my mind awakened and my body healed, as if the time had
come to take up my bed and walk, like the paralytic of the Gospels.
I saw Huriel before me, shining with light; he blamed my illness, and
declared it was a cowardice of the mind.  He seemed to say: 'I am a
man, you are a child; you shake with fever while my blood is fire.
You are good for nothing, but I am good in all ways, for others and
for myself.  Come, listen to this music.'  And I heard an air
muttering like a storm, which raised me in my bed as the wind lifts
the fallen leaves.  Ah, Brulette, I think I have done with being ill
and cowardly; I can go now to my own country and kiss my mother, and
make my plans to start,--for start I must, upon a journey; I must see
and learn, and make myself what I should be."

"You wish to travel?" said Thérence, her face, so lately lighted like
a star with pleasure, growing white and cloudy as an autumn moon.
"You think to find a better teacher than my father, and better
friends than people here?  Go and see your mother; that is right, if
you are strong enough to go,--unless, indeed, you are deceiving us
and longing to die in distant parts--"

Grief and displeasure choked her voice.  Joseph, who watched her,
suddenly changed both his language and his manner.

"Never mind what I have been dreaming this morning, Thérence," he
said; "I shall never find a better master or better friends.  You
asked me to tell my dreams, and I did tell them, that is all.  When I
am cured I shall ask advice of all three of you, and of your father
also.  Till then pay no attention to what comes into my head; let us
be happy for the time that we are together."

Thérence was pacified; but Brulette and I, who knew how dogged and
obstinate Joseph could be under his gentle manner, and remembered how
he had left us without allowing us a chance to remonstrate or
persuade him, felt sure that his mind was already fully made up, and
that no one could change it.

During the next two days I once more felt dreadfully dull; and so did
Brulette, though she amused herself by finishing the embroidery she
wanted to give Thérence, and spent some hours in the woods with Père
Bastien, partly to leave Joseph to the care of Thérence, and partly
to talk of Huriel and comfort the worthy man for the danger and
distress the fight had caused him.  The Head-Woodsman, touched by the
friendship which she showed him, told her the truth about Malzac,
and, far from her blaming Huriel, as the latter had feared, it only
drew her closer to him through the gratitude which she now felt she
owed him.

On the sixth day we began to talk of separating.  Joseph was getting
better hourly; he worked a little, and did his best in every way to
recover his strength.  He had decided to go with us and spend a few
days at home, saying that he should return almost immediately to the
woods of Alleu,--which Brulette and I doubted, and so did Thérence,
who was almost as uneasy about his health as she had been about his
illness.  I don't know if it was she who persuaded her father to
accompany us half-way, or whether the notion came into Père Bastien's
own mind; at any rate, he made us the offer, which Brulette instantly
accepted.  Joseph was only half pleased at this, though he tried not
to show it.

The little trip naturally diverted the Head-Woodsman's thoughts from
his anxieties, and while making his preparations the evening before
our departure he recovered much of his natural fine spirits.  The
muleteers had left the neighborhood without hindrance, and nothing
had been said about Malzac, who had neither relations nor friends to
inquire for him.  A year or two might go by before the authorities
troubled themselves to know what had become of him, and indeed, they
might never do so; for in those days there was no great policing in
France, and a man might disappear without any notice being taken of
it.  Moreover, the Head-Woodsman and his family would leave those
parts at the end of the chopping season, and as father and son never
stayed six months in the same place, the law would be very clever
indeed to know where to catch them.

For these reasons the Head-Woodsman, who had feared only the first
results of the affair, finding that no one got wind of the secret,
grew easy in mind and so restored our courage.

On the morning of the eighth day he put us all into a little cart he
had borrowed, together with a horse, from a friend of his in the
forest, and taking the reins he drove us by the longest but safest
road to Saint-Sevère, where we were to part from him and his daughter.

Brulette inwardly regretted returning by a new way, where she could
not revisit any of the scenes she had passed through with Huriel.  As
for me, I was glad to travel and to see Saint-Pallais in Bourbonnais
and Préveranges, two little villages on the heights, also
Saint-Prejet and Pérassay, other villages lower down along the banks
of the Indre; moreover, as we followed that river from its source and
I remembered that it ran through our village I no longer felt myself
a stranger in a strange land.  When we reached Saint-Sevère, I felt
at home, for it is only six leagues from our place, and I had already
been there two or three times.  While the rest were bidding each
other farewell, I went to hire a conveyance to take us to Nohant, but
I could only find one for the next day as early as I wanted it.

When I returned and reported the fact, Joseph seemed annoyed.  "What
do we want with a conveyance?" he said.  "Can't we start in the fresh
of the morning on foot and get home in the cool of the evening?
Brulette has walked that distance often enough to dance at some
assembly, and I feel able to do as much as she."

Thérence remarked that so long a walk might bring back his fever, and
that only made him more obstinate; but Brulette, seeing Thérence's
vexation, cut the matter short by saying she was too tired, and she
would prefer to pass the night at the inn and start in a carriage the
next morning.

"Well, then," said the Head-Woodsman, "Thérence and I will do the
same.  Our horse shall rest here for the night, and we will part from
you at daybreak to-morrow morning.  But instead of eating our meal in
this inn which is full of flies, I propose that we take the dinner
into some shady place or to the bank of the river, and sit there and
talk till it is time to go to bed."

So said, so done.  I engaged two bedrooms, one for the girls, the
other for us men, and wishing to entertain Père Bastien (who I had
noticed was a good eater) according to my own ideas, I filled a big
basket with the best the inn could afford in patés, white bread,
wine, and wine-brandy, and carried it outside the village.  It was
lucky that the present fashion of drinking coffee and beer did not
exist in those days, for I shouldn't have spared the cost, and my
pockets would have been emptied.

Saint-Sevère is a fine neighborhood, cut into by ravines that are
well watered and refreshing to the eye.  We chose a spot of rising
ground, where the air was so exhilarating that not a crust nor a drop
remained after the feast.  Presently Père Bastien, feeling lively,
picked up his bagpipe, which never left him, and said to Joseph:--

"My lad, we never know who is to live or who to die; we are parting,
you say, for three or four days; in my opinion, you are thinking of a
much longer absence; and it may be in God's mind that we shall never
meet again.  This is what all persons who part at the crossways ought
to say and feel to each other.  I hope that you leave us satisfied
with me and with my children; I am satisfied with you and with your
friends here; but I do not forget that the prime object of all was to
teach you music, and I regret that your two months' illness put a
stop to it.  I don't say that I could have made you a learned
musician; I know there are such in the cities, both ladies and
gentlemen, who play instruments that we know nothing about, and read
off written airs just as others read words in a book.  Except
chanting, which I learned in my youth, I know very little of such
music, and I have taught you all I know, namely, the keys, notes, and
time measures.  If you desire to know more you must go to the great
cities, where the violinists will teach you both minuet and quadrille
music; but I don't know what good that would be to you unless you
want to leave your own parts and renounce the position of peasant."

"God forbid!" replied Joseph, looking at Brulette.

"Therefore," continued the Head-Woodsman, "you will have to look
elsewhere for instruction on the bagpipe or the hurdy-gurdy.  If you
choose to come back to me, I will help you; but if you think you can
do better in the Upper country, you must go there.  What I should
wish to do would be to guide you slowly till your lungs grew so
strong that you could use them without effort, and your fingers no
longer failed you.  As for the idea within us, that can't be taught;
you have your own, and I know it to be of good quality.  I gave you,
however, what was in my own head, and whatever you can remember of it
you may use as you like.  But as your wish seems to be to compose,
you can't do better than travel about, and so compare your ideas and
stock of knowledge with that of others.  You had better go as far up
as Auvergne and the Forez, and see how grand and beautiful the world
is beyond our valleys, and how the heart swells when we stand on the
heights of a real mountain, and behold the waters, whose voice is
louder than the voice of man, rolling downward to nourish the trees
the verdure of which never dies.  Don't go into the lowlands of those
other regions.  You will find there what you have left in your own
country, and that isn't what you want.  Now is the time to give you a
bit of information which you should never forget; listen carefully to
what I say to you."




EIGHTEENTH EVENING.

Père Bastien, observing that Joseph listened with great attention,
continued as follows:--

"Music has two modes which the learned, as I have heard tell, call
major and minor, but which I call the clear mode and the troubled
mode; or, if you like it better, the blue-sky mode and the gray-sky
mode, or, still otherwise, the mode of strength and joy, and the mode
of dreaminess and gloom.  You may search till morning and you will
find no end to the contrasts between the two modes; but you will
never find a third, for all things on this earth are light or
darkness, rest or action.  Now listen to me, Joseph!  The plains sing
in the major, and the mountains in the minor mode.  If you had stayed
in your own country your ideas would belong to the clear and tranquil
mode; in returning: there now, you ought to see the use that a soul
like yours could make of that mode; for the one mode is neither less
nor more than the other.  But while you lived at home, feeling
yourself a thorough musician, you fretted at not hearing the minor
sound in your ears.  The fiddlers and the singing-girls of your parts
only acquire it; for song is like the wind which blows everywhere and
carries the seeds of plants from one horizon to another.  But
inasmuch as nature has not made your people dreamy and passionate,
they make a poor use of the minor mode, and corrupt it by that use.
That is why you thought your bagpipes were always false.  Now, if you
want to understand the minor, go seek it in wild and desolate places,
and learn that many a tear must be shed before you can duly use a
mode which was given to man to utter his griefs, or, at any rate, to
sigh his love."

Joseph understood Père Bastien so well that he asked him to play the
last air he had composed, so as to give us a specimen of the sad gray
mode which he called the minor.

"There, there!" cried the old man; "so you overheard the air I have
been trying for the last week to put to certain words.  I thought I
was singing to myself; but, as you were listening, here it is, such
as I expect to leave it."

Lifting his bagpipe he removed the chanter, on which he softly played
an air which, though it was not melancholy, brought memories of the
past and a sense of longing after many things to the consciousness of
those who listened.

Joseph was evidently not at ease, and Brulette, who listened without
stirring, seemed to waken from a dream when it ended.

"And the words," said Thérence, "are they sad too, father?"

"The words," said he, "are, like the air, rather confused and demand
reflection.  They tell the story of how three lovers courted a girl."

Whereupon he sang a song, now very popular in our parts, though the
words have been a good deal altered; but this is how the Père Bastien
sang them:--

  Three woodsmen there were,
  In springtime, on the grass
  (Listen to the nightingale);
  Three woodsmen were there,
  Speaking each with the lass.

  The youngest he said,
  He who held the flower
  (Listen to the nightingale),
  The youngest then said he
  I love thee, but I cower.

  The oldest cried out,
  He who held the tool
  (Listen to the nightingale),
  The oldest cried aloud,
  When I love I rule.

  The third sang to her,
  Bearing the almond spray
  (Listen to the nightingale),
  The third sang in her ear,
  I love thee and I pray.

  Friend shall never be
  You who bear the flower
  (Listen to the nightingale),
  Friend shall never be
  A coward, or I cower.

  Master will I none,
  You who hold the tool
  (Listen to the nightingale),
  No master thou of mine,
  Love obeys no rule.

  Lover thou shalt be
  Who bear the almond spray
  (Listen to the nightingale),
  My lover shalt thou be,
  Gifts are for those who pray.


I liked the air when joined to the words better than the first time I
heard it; and I was so pleased that I asked to hear it again; but
Père Bastien, who had no vanity about his compositions, declared it
was not worth while, and went on playing other airs, sometimes in the
major, sometimes in the minor, and even employing both modes in the
same song, teaching Joseph, as he did so, how to pass from one to the
other and then back again.

The stars were casting their light long before we wanted to retire;
even the townspeople assembled in numbers at the foot of the ravine
to listen, with much satisfaction to their ears.  Some said: "That's
one of the Bourbonnais bagpipers, and what is more, he is a master;
he knows the art, and not one of us can hold a candle to him."

On our way back to the inn Père Bastien continued to instruct Joseph,
and the latter, never weary of such talk, lagged a little behind us
to listen and question him.  So I walked in front with Thérence, who,
useful and energetic as ever, helped me to carry the baskets.
Brulette walked alone between the pairs, dreaming of I don't know
what,--as she had taken to doing of late; and Thérence sometimes
turned round as if to look at her, but really to see if Joseph were
following.

"Look at him well, Thérence," I said to her, at a moment when she
seemed in great anxiety, "for your father said truly, 'When we part
for a day it may be for life.'"

"Yes," she replied, "but on the other hand, when we think we are
parting for life it may be for only a day."

"You remind me," said I, "that when I first saw you you floated away
like a dream and I never expected to see you again."

"I know what you mean," she exclaimed.  "My father reminded me of it
yesterday, in speaking of you.  Father really loves you, Tiennet, and
has great respect for you."

"I am glad and honored, Thérence; but I don't know what I have done
to deserve it, for there is nothing in me that is different from the
common run of men."

"My father is never mistaken in his judgment, and what he says, I
believe; why should that make you sigh, Tiennet?"

"Did I sigh, Thérence?  I didn't mean to."

"No, of course you did not," she replied; "but that is no reason why
you should hide your feelings from me.  You love Brulette and are
afraid--"

"I love Brulette very much, that is true, but without any
love-sighing, and without any regrets or worries about what she
thinks of me.  I have no love in my heart, because it would do me no
good to have any."

"Ah, you are very lucky, Tiennet!" she cried, "to be able to govern
your feelings by your mind in that way."

"I should be better worth something, Thérence, if, like you, I
governed them by my heart.  Yes, yes, I know you; I have watched you,
and I know the true secret of your conduct.  I have seen how, for the
last eight days, you have set aside your own feelings to cure Joseph,
and how you secretly do everything for his good without letting him
see so much as your little finger in it.  You want him to be happy,
and you said true when you told Brulette and me that if we can do
good to those we love there is no need to be thinking of our own
happiness.  That's what you do and what you are; and though jealousy
may sometimes get the better of you, you recover directly.  It is
marvellous to see how strong and generous you are; it is saintly.
You must allow that if either of us two is to respect the other, it
is I you, not you me.  I am a rather sensible fellow, and that is
all; you are a girl with a great heart, and a stern hand upon
yourself."

"Thanks for the good you think of me," replied Thérence, "but perhaps
I don't deserve it, my lad.  You want me to be in love with Joseph,
and I am not.  As God is my judge, I have never thought of being his
wife, and the attachment I feel to him is rather that of a sister or
a mother."

"Oh! as for that, I am not sure that you don't deceive yourself,
Thérence.  Your disposition is impulsive."

"That is just why I do not deceive myself.  I love my father and
brother deeply and almost madly.  If I had children I should defend
them like a wolf and brood over them like a hen; but the thing they
call love, such, for instance, as my brother feels for Brulette,--the
desire to please, and a nameless sort of feeling which makes him
suffer when alone, and not be able to think of her without pain,--all
that I do not feel at all, and I cannot imagine it.  Joseph may leave
us forever if it will do him good, and I shall thank God, and only
grieve if it turns out that he is the worse for it."

Thérence's way of looking at the matter gave me a good deal to think
of.  I could not understand it very well, for she now seemed to me
above all others and above me.  I walked a little way beside her
without saying a word, not knowing whither my mind was going; for I
was seized with such a feeling of ardent friendship that I longed
with all my heart to embrace her, with all respect and thinking no
harm, till suddenly a glance at her, so young and beautiful, filled
me with shame and fear.  When we reached the inn I asked her, apropos
of what I forget, to tell me exactly what her father had said of me.

"He said," she replied, "that you were a man of the strongest good
sense he had ever known."

"You might as well call me a good-natured fool at once, don't you
think so?" I said, laughing, but rather mortified.

"Not at all!" cried Thérence; "here are my father's very words: 'He
who sees clearest into the things of this world is he who acts with
the highest justice.'  Now it is true that great good sense leads to
great kindness of heart, and I do not think that my father is
mistaken."

"In that case, Thérence," I cried, rather agitated at the bottom of
my heart, "have a little regard for me."

"I have a great deal," she said, shaking the hand which I held out to
her; but it was said with an air of good-fellowship which killed all
vaporing, and I slept upon her speech with no more imagination than
justly belonged to it.

The next day came the parting.  Brulette cried when she kissed Père
Bastien, and made him promise that he would come and visit us and
bring Thérence; then the two dear girls embraced each other with such
pledges of affection that they really seemed unable to part.  Joseph
offered his thanks to his late master for all the benefits he had
received from him, and when he came to part with Thérence he tried to
say the same to her; but she looked at him with a perfect frankness
which disconcerted him, and pressing each other's hands, they said
only, "Good-bye, and take care of yourself."

Not feeling at the moment too shy, I asked Thérence to allow me to
kiss her, thinking to set a good example to Joseph; but he took no
notice, and got hastily into the carriage to cut short these parting
civilities.  He seemed dissatisfied with himself and others.
Brulette took the last seat in the conveyance, and, so long as she
could see our Bourbonnais friends, she kept her eyes upon them, while
Thérence, standing at the inn-door, seemed to be thinking rather than
grieving.

We did the rest of the journey somewhat sadly.  Joseph said not a
word.  Perhaps he hoped that Brulette might take some notice of him;
but according as Joseph grew stronger, Brulette had recovered her
freedom of thinking about other people, and being full of her
friendship for Huriel's father and sister, she talked to me about
them, regretting to part with them and singing their praises, as if
she had really left her heart behind and regretted even the country
we were quitting.

"It is strange," she said to me, "how, as we get nearer home, the
trees seem to me so small, the grass so yellow, and the river
sluggish.  Before I ever left the plains I fancied I could not endure
three days in the woods, and now I believe I could pass my life there
like Thérence, if I had my old father with me."

"I can't say as much, cousin," said I.  "Though, if I were forced to
do so, I don't suppose I should die of it.  But the trees may be as
tall, the grass as green, and the streams as sparkling as they
please; I prefer a nettle in my own land to an oak in foreign parts.
My heart jumps with joy at each familiar rock and bush, as if I had
been absent two or three years, and when I catch sight of the church
clock I mean, for sure, to take off my hat to it."

"And you, José?" said Brulette, noticing the annoyed look of our
companion for the first time.  "You, who have been absent more than a
year, are not you glad to get home again?"

"Excuse me, Brulette, I don't know what you are talking about.  My
head is full of that song the Head-Woodsman sang last night, and in
the middle of it there is a little refrain which I can't remember."

"Bah!" cried Brulette, "it is where the song says, 'Listen to the
nightingale.'"

So saying, she sang the tune quite correctly, which roused Joseph so
much that he jumped with joy in the cart, clapping his hands.

"Ah, Brulette!" he cried, "how lucky you are to remember like that!
Again! sing it again!  'Listen to the nightingale.'"

"I would rather sing the whole song," she answered; and thereupon she
sang it straight through without missing a word, which delighted
Joseph so much that he pressed her hands, saying, with a courage I
didn't think him capable of, that only a musician could be worthy of
her.

"Well, certainly," said Brulette, thinking of Huriel, "if I had a
lover I should wish him to be both a good singer and a good bagpiper."

"It is rare to be both," returned Joseph.  "A bagpipe ruins the
voice, and except the Head-Woodsman--"

"And his son," said Brulette, heedlessly.

I nudged her elbow, and she began to talk of something else, but
Joseph, who was eaten up with jealousy, persisted in harking back to
the song.

"I believe," he said, "that when Père Bastien composed those words he
was thinking of three fellows of our acquaintance; for I remember a
talk we had with him after supper the day of your arrival in the
forest."

"I don't remember it," said Brulette, blushing.

"But I do," returned Joseph.  "We were speaking of a girl's love, and
Huriel said it couldn't be won by tossing up for it.  Tiennet
declared, laughing, that softness and submission were of no use, and
to be loved we must needs be feared, instead of being too kind and
good.  Huriel argued against Tiennet, and I listened without saying a
word.  Am not I the one who 'bears the flower,--the youngest of the
three, who loves and cowers'?  Repeat the last verse, Brulette, as
you know it so well--about 'gifts for those who ask.'"

"Since you know it as well as I do," said Brulette, rather nettled,
"keep it to sing to the first girl you make love to.  If Père Bastien
likes to turn the talk he hears into songs, it is not for me to draw
conclusions.  Besides, I know nothing about it.  But my feet are
tingling with cold, and while the horse walks up this hill, I shall
take a run to warm them."

Not waiting till I could stop the horse, she jumped on to the road
and walked off in front of us as light as a little milkmaid.

I wanted to get down too, but Joseph caught me by the arm and, always
pursuing his own ideas, "Don't you think," said he, "that we despise
those who show their desires as much as those who do not show them at
all?"

"If you mean me--"

"I mean no one.  I was only thinking of the talk we had over there,
which Père Bastien turned into a song against your speech and my
silence.  It seems that Huriel will win his suit with the girl."

"What girl?" I said, out of patience, for Joseph had never taken me
into his confidence before, and I was none too pleased to have him
give it out of vexation.

"What girl?" he cried in a tone of angry sarcasm, "the girl of the
song."

"Then what suit is Huriel to win? does the girl live at a distance?
is that where Huriel has gone?"

Joseph thought a moment and then continued: "It is true enough, what
he said, that between mastership and silence, there is prayer.  That
comes round to your first remark, that in order to attract we must
not love too well.  He who loves too well is the timid, silent one;
not a word can he tear from his throat, and he is thought a fool
because he is dumb with desire and false shame."

"No doubt of that," I said.  "I have gone through it myself many a
time.  But it also happened to me sometimes to speak out so badly
that I had better have held my tongue; I might have fancied myself
beloved a little longer."

Poor Joseph bit his lips and said no more.  I was sorry I had vexed
him, and yet I could not prevent myself from resenting his jealousy
of Huriel, knowing as I did how the latter had done his best for him
against his own interests.  I took, at this very time, such a disgust
for jealousy that since then I have never felt a twinge of it, and I
don't think I could now without good reason.

I was, however, just going to speak kindly to him, when we noticed
that Brulette, who was still ahead of us, had stopped on the wayside
to speak to a monk, who looked short and fat, like the one I had seen
in the woods of Chambérat.  I whipped up the horse, and soon
convinced myself that it was really Brother Nicolas.  He had asked
Brulette if he were far from our village, and, as he was still three
miles distant and said he was very tired, she had offered to give him
a lift in our conveyance.

We made room for him and for a large covered basket which he was
carrying, and which he deposited with much precaution on his knees.
None of us dreamed of asking what it contained, except perhaps
myself, who am naturally rather curious; but I feared to be
indiscreet, for I knew the mendicant friars gathered up all sorts of
things from pious shopkeepers, which they sold again for the benefit
of their monastery.  Everything came handy for this traffic, even
women's trumpery, which, however, some of them did not venture to
dispose of openly.

I drove at a trot, and presently we caught sight of the church clock
and the old elms on the market-place, then of all the houses of the
village, both big and little,--which did not afford me as much
pleasure as I had expected, for the meeting with Brother Nicolas had
brought to mind certain painful things about which I was still
uneasy.  I saw, however, that he was on his guard as well as I, for
he said not a word before Brulette and Joseph showing that we had met
elsewhere than at the dance, or that he and I knew more of what had
happened than the rest.

He was a very pleasant man, with a jovial nature that might have
amused me under other circumstances, but I was in a hurry to reach
home and get him alone by himself, so as to ask if he had any news of
the affair.  As we entered the village Joseph jumped off, and
notwithstanding that Brulette begged him to come and rest at her
grandfather's, he took the road to Saint-Chartier, saying that he
would pay his respects to Père Brulet after he had seen and embraced
his mother.

I fancied that the friar rather urged it on him as a duty, as if to
get rid of him; and then, instead of accepting my proposal that he
should dine and sup at my house, Brother Nicolas declared that he
could stop only an hour at Père Brulet's, with whom he had business.

"You will be very welcome," said Brulette; "but do you know my
grandfather?  I have never seen you at the house."

"I do not know either him or your village," answered the monk, "but I
am charged with an errand to him, which I can deliver only at his
house."

"I returned to my first notion, namely, that he had ribbons and laces
in his basket, and that, having heard from the neighbors that
Brulette was the smartest girl in these parts, he wanted to show her
his merchandise without exposing himself to gossip, which, in those
days, spared neither good monks nor wicked ones."

I thought this idea was in Brulette's head too, for when she got down
first at the door, she held out both arms for the basket, saying,
"Don't be afraid; I guess what is in it."  But the friar refused to
give it up, saying it was valuable and he feared it might get broken.

"I see, Brother," I said to him in a low voice, detaining him a
moment, "that you are very busy.  I don't want to hinder you, but I
should like you to tell me quickly if there is any news from over
there."

"None that I know of," he said in the same tone; "but no news is good
news."  Then shaking me by the hand in a friendly way, he entered the
house after Brulette, who was already hanging to her grandfather's
neck.

I thought old Brulet, who was generally polite, owed me a hearty
welcome and some thanks for the care I had taken of his
granddaughter; but instead of keeping me even a moment, he seemed
more interested in the arrival of the friar; for, taking him at once
by the hand, he led him into an inner room, begging me to excuse him
and saying he had matters of importance to discuss and wished to be
alone with his granddaughter.




NINETEENTH EVENING.

I am not easily affronted, but I was so now at being thus received;
and I went off home to put up the cart and to inquire after my
family.  After that, the day being too far gone to go to work, I
sauntered about the village to see if everything was in its old
place, and found no change, except that one of the trees felled on
the common before the cobbler's door had been chopped up into sabots,
and that Père Godard had trimmed up his poplar and put new flags on
his path.  I certainly supposed that my journey into the Bourbonnais
had made a stir, and I expected to be assailed with questions which I
might find it hard to answer; but the folks in our region are very
indifferent, and I seemed, for the first time, to realize how dull
they were,--being obliged to tell a good many that I had just
returned from a trip.  They did not even know I had been away.

Towards evening, as I was loitering home, I met the friar on his way
to La Chatre, and he told me that Père Brulet wanted me to sup with
him.

What was my astonishment on entering the house to see Père Brulet on
one side of the table, and his granddaughter on the other, gazing at
the monk's basket which lay open before them, and in it a big baby
about a year old, sitting on a pillow and trying to eat some
blackheart cherries, the juice of which had daubed and stained his
face!

Brulette seemed to me thoughtful and rather sad; but when she saw my
amazement she couldn't help laughing; after which she wiped her eyes,
for she seemed to me to have been shedding tears of grief or vexation
rather than of gayety.

"Come," she said at last, "shut the door tight and listen to us.
Here is grandfather who wants to tell you all about the fine present
the monk has brought us."

"You must know, nephew," said Père Brulet, who never smiled at
pleasant things any more than he frowned at disagreeable ones, "that
this is an orphan child; and we have agreed with the monk to take
care of him for the price of his board.  We know nothing about the
child, neither his father, his mother, his country, nor anything
else.  He is called Charlot, and that is all we do know.  The pay is
good, and the friar gave us the preference because he met Brulette in
the Bourbonnais, and hearing where she lived and how well-behaved she
was, and, moreover, that she was not rich and had time at her
disposal, he thought he could give her a pleasure and do her a
service by putting the little fellow under her charge and letting her
earn the money."

Though the matter was tolerably surprising, I was not much astonished
at first hearing of it, and only asked if the monk was formerly known
to Père Brulet, and whether he could trust him as to the future
payment.

"I had never seen him," replied the old man, "but I knew that he had
been in this neighborhood several times, and he is known to persons
in whom I have confidence, and who informed me, two or three days
ago, of the matter he was to come about.  Besides, a year's board is
paid in advance, and when the money doesn't come it will be soon
enough to worry."

"Very good, uncle; you know your own affairs; but I should not have
expected to see my cousin, who loves her freedom, tied down to the
care of a little monkey who is nothing to her, and who, be it said
without offence, is not at all nice in his appearance."

"That is just what annoys me," said Brulette, "and I was saying so to
my grandfather as you came in.  And," she added, rubbing the muzzle
of the little animal with her handkerchief, "no wiping will make his
mouth any better; I wish I could have begun my apprenticeship with a
child that was prettier to kiss.  This one looks surly, and won't
even smile; he cares only for things to eat."

"Bah!" said Père Brulet, "he is not uglier than all children of his
age, and it is your business to make him nice.  He is tired with his
journey, and doesn't know where he is, nor what we mean to do with
him."

Père Brulet went out to look for his knife, which he had left at a
neighbor's, and I began to get more and more surprised when alone
with Brulette.  She seemed annoyed at times, and even distressed.

"What worries me is that I don't know how to take care of a child,"
she said.  "I could not bear to let a poor creature that can't help
itself suffer; but I am so unhandy; I am sorry now that I never was
inclined to look after the little ones."

"It is a fact," I said, "that you don't seem born for the business,
and I can't understand why your grandfather who I never thought was
eager after money, should put such a care upon you for the sake of a
few crowns."

"You talk like a rich man."  she said.  "Remember that I have no
dower, and that a fear of poverty has always deterred me from
marrying."

"That's a very bad reason, Brulette.  You have been and still will be
sought after by men who are richer than you, and who love your sweet
eyes and your pretty chatter."

"My sweet eyes will fade, and my pretty chatter won't be worth much
when the beauty has gone.  I don't wish to be reproached at the end
of a few years with having lost my dower of charms and brought
nothing more solid into the household."

"Is it that you are really thinking of marrying--since we left the
Bourbonnais?" I asked.  "This is the first time I ever heard you talk
of money."

"I am not thinking of it any more than I have always thought,"
returned Brulette, but in a less confident tone than usual, "I never
said I meant to live unmarried."

"I see how it is!" I cried, laughing, "you are thinking of it, and
you needn't try to hide it from me, for I have given up all hopes of
my own.  I see plainly enough that in taking care of this little
wretch, who has money and no mother, you are laying up a store, like
the squirrels.  If not, your grandfather, whom you have always ruled
as if he were your grandson, would not have forced you to take such a
boy to nurse."

Brulette lifted the child from the table, and as she carried him to
her grandfather's bed she gave him a rather sad look.

"Poor Charlot!" she said, "I'll do my best for you; you are much to
be pitied for having come into the world, and it is my belief that
nobody wanted you."

But her gayety soon returned; she even had some hearty laughs at
supper in feeding Charlot, who had the appetite of a little wolf, and
answered all her attentions by trying to scratch her face.

Toward eight o'clock Joseph came in and was very well received by
Père Brulet; but I observed that Brulette, who had just been putting
Charlot to bed, closed the curtains quickly as if to hide him, and
seemed disturbed all the time that Joseph remained.  I observed also
that not a word was said to him of this singular event, either by the
old man or by Brulette, and I therefore thought it my duty to hold my
tongue.  Joseph was cross, and said as little as possible in answer
to my uncle's questions.  Brulette asked him if he had found his
mother in good health, and if she had been surprised and pleased to
see him.  Then, as he said "yes" to everything, she asked if he had
not tired himself too much by walking to Saint-Chartier and back in
one evening.

"I did not wish to let the day go by without paying my respects to
your grandfather," he said; "and now, as I really am tired, I shall
go and spend the night with Tiennet, if I don't inconvenience him."

I answered that it would give me pleasure, and took him to my house
where, after we were in bed, he said: "Tiennet, I am really on the
point of departure.  I came here only to get away from the woods of
Alleu, for I was sick of them."

"That's the worst of you, Joseph; you were there with friends who
took the place of those you left here in the same way--"

"Well, it is what I choose to do," he said, rather shortly; then in a
milder tone he added: "Tiennet, Tiennet, there are some things one
can tell, and others which force us to keep silence.  You hurt me
to-day in telling me I could never please Brulette."

"Joseph, I never said anything of the kind, for the reason that I
don't know if you really care for her."

"You do know it," he replied; "and you blame me for not having opened
my heart to you.  But how could I?  I am not one of those who tell
their secrets willingly.  It is my misfortune; I believe I have
really no other illness than one sole idea, always stretching toward
the same end, and always beaten back when it rises to my lips.
Listen to me now, while I do feel able to talk; for God knows how
soon I may fall mute again.  I love; and I see plainly I am not
loved.  So many years have passed in this way (for I loved Brulette
when we were little children) that I have grown accustomed to the
pain.  I have never flattered myself that I could please her; I have
lived in the belief that she would never care for me.  Lately,
however, I saw by her coming to the Bourbonnais that I was something
to her, and it gave me strength and the will not to die.  But I soon
perceived that she met some one over there who suited her better than
I."

"I know nothing about it," I replied; "but if it were so, that some
one you speak of gave you no ground for complaint or reproach."

"That is true," said Joseph; "and my anger is unjust,--all the more
because Huriel, knowing Brulette to be an honest girl, and not being
able to marry her so long as he remains in the fraternity of
muleteers, has himself done what he could to separate from her.  I
can still hope to return to Brulette hereafter, more worthy of her
than I have been; but I cannot bear to stay here now, for I am still
nothing better than I was in the past.  There is something in the
manner and language of every one who speaks to me that seems to mean:
'You are sick, you are thin, you are ugly, you are feeble, you know
nothing new and nothing good that can interest us in you.'  Yes,
Tiennet, what I tell you is exactly so; my mother seemed frightened
by my face when she saw me, and she cried so when she kissed me that
the pain of seeing her was greater than the joy.  This evening, too,
Brulette looked annoyed when I came in, and her grandfather, good and
kind as he always is to me, seemed uneasy lest I should stay too
long.  Now don't tell me that I imagined all that.  Like all those
who speak little, I see much.  My time has not yet come; I must go,
and the sooner the better."

"I think you ought to take at least a few days' rest," I said; "for I
fancy you mean to go to a great distance, and I do not think it
friendly in you to give us unnecessary anxiety."

"You need not be anxious, Tiennet.  I have all the strength I want,
and I shall not be ill again.  I have learned one thing; and that is
that frail bodies, to which God has given slender physical powers,
are provided with a force of will which carries them farther than the
vigorous health of others.  I was not exaggerating when I told you
over there that I became, as it were, a new man on seeing Huriel
fight so boldly; and that I was wide awake in the night when I heard
his voice saying to me, 'Come, cheer up!  I am a man, and as long as
you are not one you will count for nothing.'  I want therefore to
shake myself free of my poor nature, and return here some day as good
to look at and better to hear than all Brulette's other lovers."

"But," I said, "suppose she makes her choice before you return?  She
is going on nineteen, and for a girl as much courted as she is it is
time to decide."

"She will decide only between Huriel and me," answered Joseph, in a
confident tone.  "There is no one but him and myself who are capable
of teaching her to love.  Excuse me, Tiennet; I know, or at least I
believe, that you dreamed of it."

"Yes," I replied, "but I don't dream of it any longer."

"Well for you!" said Joseph; "for you could never have been happy
with her.  She has tastes and ideas which don't belong to the ground
she has grown in; she needs another wind to rock her; the one that
blows here is not pure enough and it might wither her.  She feels all
this, though she may not know how to say it; and I tell you that
unless Huriel is treacherous, I shall find her still free, a year or
two hence."

So saying, Joseph, as if wearied out by letting himself talk so much,
dropped his head on his pillow and went to sleep.  For the last hour
I had been struggling to keep awake, for I was tired out myself.  I
slept soundly, and when at daybreak I called him he did not answer.
I looked about, and he was gone without awaking any one.

Brulette went the next day to see Mariton, to break the news to her,
and find out what had passed between her and her son.  She would not
let me accompany her, and told me on her return that she could not
get Mariton to say much, because her master Benoît was ill and even
in some danger from congestion of the brain.  I concluded, therefore,
that the woman, being obliged to nurse her master, had not had time
to talk with her son as much as he would have liked, and consequently
he had become jealous, as his nature led him to be at such times.

"That is very likely," said Brulette, "for the wiser Joseph gets
through ambition the more exacting he becomes.  I think I liked him
better when he was simple and submissive as he used to be."

When I related to Brulette all that he had said to me the night
before, she replied: "If he really has so high an ambition, we should
only hamper him by showing an anxiety he does not wish for.  Leave
him in God's care!  If I were the flirt you declared I was in former
times, I should be proud to be the cause of his endeavoring to
improve his mind and his career; but I am not; and my feeling is
chiefly regret that he does nothing for his mother or himself."

"But isn't he right when he says that you can only choose between
Huriel and him?"

"There is time enough to think about that," she said, laughing with
her lips, though her face was not cheerful, "especially as the only
two lovers Joseph allows me are running away as fast as their legs
can go."

During the next week the arrival of the child which the monk had
brought was the subject of village gossip and the torment of the
inquisitive.  So many tales were founded upon it that Charlot came
near being the son of a prince, and every one wanted to borrow money
of Père Brulet, or sell goods to him, convinced that the stipend
which induced his granddaughter to take up a duty so contrary to her
tastes must at least be a princely revenue.  The jealousy of some and
the discontent of others made the old man enemies, which he had never
had in his life, and he was much astonished by it; for, simple, pious
soul that he was, it had never occurred to him that the matter might
give occasion for gossip.  Brulette, however, only laughed and
persuaded him to pay no attention to it.

Days and weeks went by and we heard nothing of Joseph, or of Huriel,
or of the Woodsman and his daughter.  Brulette wrote to Thérence and
I to Huriel, but we got no answers.  Brulette was troubled and even
annoyed; so much so that she told me she did not mean to think
anything more of those foreigners, who did not even remember her, and
made no return for the friendship she had offered them.  So she began
once more to dress herself smartly and appear at the dances; for the
gallants complained of her gloomy looks and the headaches she talked
of ever since her trip to the Bourbonnais.  The journey had been
rather criticised; people even said she had some secret love over
there, either for Joseph or for some one else; and they expected her
to be more amiable than ever, before they would forgive her for going
off without a word to any one.

Brulette was too proud to give in to cajoling them, but she dearly
loved pleasure, and being drawn in that direction, she gave Charlot
in charge of her neighbor, Mère Lamouche, and took her amusement as
before.

One evening, as I was coming back with her from the pilgrimage of
Vaudevant, which is a great festival, we heard Charlot howling, far
as we were from the house.

"That dreadful child," said Brulette, "is never out of mischief.  I
am sure I don't know who can ever manage him."

"Are you sure," I said, "the Mère Lamouche takes as good care of him
as she promised you?"

"Of course she does.  She has nothing else to do, and I pay her
enough to satisfy her."

Charlot continued to yell, and the house looked as though it were
locked up and there was no one in it.  Brulette ran and knocked
loudly on the door, but no one answered except Charlot, who screamed
louder than ever, either from fright, or loneliness, or anger.

I was obliged to climb to the thatch of the roof and clamber down
through the trap-door of the loft.  I opened the door for Brulette
and then we saw Charlot all alone, rolling in the ashes, where by
great good luck there was no fire, and purple as a beet from
screaming.

"Heavens!" cried Brulette, "is that the way to care for the poor
little wretch?  Well, whoso takes a child gets a master.  I ought to
have known it, and either not taken this one, or given up my own
enjoyments."

So saying, she carried Charlot to her own home, half in pity and half
impatiently, and having washed, fed, and consoled him as best she
could, she put him to sleep, and sat down to reflect, with her head
in her hands.  I tried to show her that it would be easy enough, by
sacrificing the money she was gaining, to employ some kindly, careful
woman to take charge of the boy.

"No," she exclaimed, "I must look after him, because I am responsible
for him, and you see what looking after him means.  If I think I can
let up for one day it is just that very day that I ought not to have
done so.  Yes, that's it, I ought not," she said, crying.  "It would
be wrong; and I should be sorry for it all my life."

"On the other hand, you would do wrong if the child were to be the
gainer by it.  He is not happy with you, and he might be elsewhere."

"Why, isn't he happy with me?  I hope he is, except on the days when
I am absent; and so I say I will not absent myself again."

"I tell you he is no better off when you are here."

"What do you mean?" cried Brulette, striking her hands with vexation;
"where have you heard that?  Did you ever see me ill-treat the child,
or even threaten him?  Can I help it if he is an unpleasant child
with a sulky disposition?  If he were my own I could not do better
for him."

"Oh!  I know you are not unkind to him and never let him want for
anything, because you are a dear, sweet Christian; but you can't love
him, for that doesn't depend upon yourself.  He feels this without
knowing it, and that keeps him from loving and caressing others.
Animals know when people like them or dislike them; why shouldn't
little human beings do the same?"




TWENTIETH EVENING.

Brulette colored, pouted, began to cry, and said nothing; but the
next day I met her leading her beasts to pasture with Charlot in her
arms.  She sat down in the middle of the field with the child on the
skirt of her gown, and said to me:--

"You were right, Tiennet.  Your reproaches made me reflect, and I
have made up my mind what to do.  I can't promise to love this
Charlot much, but I'll behave as if I did, and perhaps God will
reward me some day by giving me children of my own more lovable than
this one."

"Ah, my darling!" I cried.  "I don't know what makes you say that.  I
never blamed you; I have nothing to reproach you with except the
obstinacy with which you now resolve to bring up the little wretch
yourself.  Come, let me write to that friar, or let me go and find
him and make him put the child in another family.  I know where the
convent is, and I would rather make another long journey than see you
condemned to this sort of thing."

"No, Tiennet," replied Brulette.  "We must not even think of changing
what was agreed upon.  My grandfather promised for me, and I was
bound to consent.  If I could tell you--but I can't!  One thing I
want you to know; it is that money counts for nothing in the bargain,
and that my grandfather and I will never accept a penny for a duty we
are bound to perform."

"Now you do surprise me.  Whose child is it?  It must belong to some
of your relatives,--consequently, mine."

"Possibly," she replied.  "Some of our family live away from here.
But consider that I have told you nothing, for I cannot and ought not
to do so.  Let people believe that the little monkey is a stranger to
us, and that we are paid for the care of him.  Otherwise, evil
tongues might accuse those who don't deserve it."

"The devil!" said I.  "If you haven't set me on thorns!  I can't
think--"

"That's just it," she said, "you are not to think; I forbid
it,--though I am quite sure you never could find out."

"Very good! but do you really mean to wean yourself from all
amusements, just as that child is weaned of the breast?  The devil
take your grandfather's promise!"

"My grandfather did right, and if I had gone against him I should
have been a heartless girl.  I repeat, I don't choose to do things by
halves, even if I die of it."

Brulette was resolute.  From that day such a change came over her
that she was scarcely recognizable.  She never left the house except
to pasture her sheep and her goats with Charlot beside her; and when
she had put him to bed for the night she would take her work and sit
near him.  She went to none of the dances, and bought no more finery,
having no longer any occasion for it.  This dull life made her
serious and even sad, for she soon found herself neglected.  There is
no girl so pretty but what she is forced to be amiable with everybody
if she wants to have followers; and Brulette, who now showed no
desire to please, was called sullen, all the more because she had
once been so much the reverse.  In my opinion she had only changed
for the better, for, having never played the coquette, only my lady
the princess with me, she seemed to my mind more gentle in manner,
more sensible and interesting in her behavior; but others didn't
think so.  In the past she had allowed her lovers just so much hope
as now made each of them feel affronted by her neglect, as if he
considered he had a right to her; and although her coquetry had
always been very harmless she was punished for it as if it were a
wrong done to others; which proves, as I think, that men have as
much, if not more, vanity than women, and consider that no one ever
does enough to please or pacify the conceit they have of themselves.

There is one thing certain at least, and that is that many persons
are very unjust,--even young men who seem such good fellows and such
willing slaves as long as they are in love.  Many of Brulette's old
admirers now turned against her, and more than once I had words with
them in defending my cousin from the blame they put upon her.
Unfortunately, they were encouraged by the gossips and the selfish
folk who were jealous of Père Brulet's supposed bit of luck; until
finally Brulette was obliged to refuse to see these maliciously
inquisitive people, and even the false friends who came and repeated
to her what they had heard others say.

This is how it was that in less than one year the queen of the
village, the Rose of Nohant, was condemned by evil minds and
abandoned by fools.  They told dark stories about her, and I
shuddered lest she should hear them; indeed, I myself was often
harassed and puzzled how to answer them.  The worst lie of all was
one Père Brulet ought to have expected, namely, that Charlot was
neither some poor foundling nor the son of a prince, brought up
secretly, but really Brulette's own child.  In vain I pointed out
that the girl had always lived openly under the eyes of everybody;
and having never encouraged any particular lover she could not have
committed a fault so difficult to hide.  They answered that such and
such a one had boldly concealed her condition till the very last day,
and had reappeared, sometimes the day after, as composed and lively
as if nothing had happened, and had even hidden the consequences
until she was married to the author, or the dupe, of her sin.
Unfortunately, this had happened more than once in our village.  In
these little country places, where the houses are surrounded by
gardens, and separated from each other by hemp and lucern fields,
some of them of great extent, it is not easy to see and hear from one
to another at all hours of the night, and, indeed, things are done at
any time which the good God alone takes account of.

One of the worst tongues against Brulette was that of Mère Lamouche,
ever since Brulette had found her out and taken the boy away from
her.  She had so long been the willing servant and slave of the girl
that she knew she could look for no further gain from her, and in
revenge she invented and told anything that people wanted her to say.
She related, to whoever listened, how Brulette had sacrificed her
honor to that "puny fellow, José," and that she was so ashamed of it
that she had forced him to leave the place.  José had submitted, on
condition that she would marry no one else; and he was now in foreign
parts trying to earn enough money to marry her.  The child, said the
woman, had been taken into the Bourbonnais country by men with
blackened faces who called themselves muleteers, and whose
acquaintance Joseph had made under pretence of buying his bagpipe;
but there had never been any other bagpipe in the case than that
squalling Charlot.  About a year after his birth Brulette had gone to
see her lover and the baby, in company with me and a muleteer who was
as ugly as the devil.  There we made acquaintance with a mendicant
friar, who offered to bring the baby back for us, and with whom we
concocted the story of its being a rich foundling; which was
altogether false, for this child had brought not one penny of profit
to Père Brulet.

When Mère Lamouche invented this tale, in which, you see, lies were
mixed up with facts, her word was believed by everybody, and Joseph's
short and almost secret visit assisted the belief.  So, with much
laughter and derision, Brulette was nicknamed "Josette."

In spite of my wrath at these outrageous stories, Brulette took so
little pains to make herself agreeable, and showed by her care for
the child such contempt for the gossips, that I began to get
bewildered myself.  Was it absolutely impossible that I had been a
dupe?  Once upon a time I had certainly been jealous of Joseph.
However virtuous and discreet a girl might be, however shy the lad,
it had often happened that love and ignorance got the better of them,
and some young couples had never known the meaning of evil until they
had committed it.  If she had once done wrong, Brulette, a clever
girl, was none the less capable of hiding her misfortune, being too
proud to confess it, yet too right-minded to deceive others.  Was it
not by her orders that Joseph wished to make himself a worthy husband
and father?  It was certainly a wise and patient scheme.  Was I
deceived in thinking she had a fancy for Huriel?  I might have been;
but even if she had felt it, in spite of herself, she had not yielded
to her feelings, and so had done no wrong to Joseph.  In short, was
it conscientious duty, or strength of friendship, which made her go
to the relief of the poor sick man?  In either case she was right to
do so.  If she were a mother, she was a good mother, though her
natural inclinations were not that way.  All women can have children,
but all women are not fond of children for all that, and Brulette
ought therefore to have the more credit for taking back her own in
spite of her love for company, and the questions she thus raised as
to the truth.

All things considered, I did not see, even in what I might suppose
the worst of my cousin's conduct, anything that lowered my friendship
for her.  Only I felt she had been so contradictory in her statements
that I no longer knew how to rely on them.  If she loved Joseph then
she had certainly been artful; but if she did not love him, she had
been too lively in spirits and forgetful of what had happened, for a
person who was resolved to do her duty.

If she had not been so ill-treated by the community, I might have
lessened my visits, for these doubts certainly lowered my confidence
in her; but on the contrary, I controlled myself and went to the
house every day, taking pains not to show her the least distrust.
For all this, I was continually surprised at the difficulty with
which she broke herself in, as it were, to the duties of a mother.
In spite of the weight of care I believed she had on her mind, there
were times when all her beauty and youth came back to her.  She wore
neither silk nor laces, that is true, but her hair was silky, her
stockings well-fitting, and her pretty little feet were itching for a
dance wherever she saw a bit of greensward or heard the sound of the
bagpipes.  Sometimes at home, when the thought of a Bourbonnais reel
came over her, she would put Charlot on her grandfather's knee and
make me dance it with her, singing and laughing and carrying herself
jauntily, as if all the parish were there to see her; but a minute
later, if Charlot cried or wanted to go to bed, or to be carried, or
to be fed when he wasn't hungry, or given drink that he didn't want,
she would take him in her arms with tears in her eyes, like a dog who
is being chained up, and then, with a sigh, she would croon him a
tune or pamper him with a bit of cake.

Seeing how she regretted her gay life, I offered her my sister's
services in taking care of the little one, while she went to the
fêtes at Saint-Chartier.  I must tell you that in those days there
lived in the old castle (of which nothing is now left but the shell)
an old maiden lady, who was very good-natured and gave balls to all
the country round.  Tradesmen and noblemen, peasants and artisans, as
many as liked, went there.  You saw gentlemen and ladies going along
the abominable roads in mid-winter, mounted on horses and donkeys,
and wearing silk stockings, silver shoe-buckles, and powdered wigs as
white as the snow on the trees along the road.  Nothing deterred the
company, rich or poor, for they amused them hugely and were well
entertained from midday till six at night.

The lady of Saint-Chartier, who had noticed Brulette dancing in the
market-place the year before, and was always anxious to have pretty
girls at her daylight balls, invited her, and by my advice, she went
once.  I thought it was good advice, for she seemed to be getting
depressed and to make no effort to raise her spirits.  She was always
so sweet to look at, and so ready with the right thing to say, that I
never thought it possible people wouldn't receive her kindly,
especially when she dressed so well and looked so handsome.

When she entered on my arm, whisperings went round, but no one dared
to do more.  She danced first with me, and as she had that sort of
charm that everybody yields to, others came and asked her, possibly
intending to show her some freedom, but not daring to risk it.  All
went well till a party of rich folks came into the room where we
were; for the peasantry, I should tell you, had their ballroom apart
and did not mix with the rich till nearly the end, when the ladies,
deserted by their partners, would come and mingle with the country
girls, who attracted people of all kinds by their lively chatter and
their healthy looks.

Brulette was at first stared at as the handsomest article of the
show, and the silk stockings paid such attention to the woollen
stockings that no one could get near her.  Then, in the spirit of
contradiction, all those who had been tearing her to pieces for the
last six months became frantically jealous all at once, and more in
love than they had ever been.  So then it was a struggle who should
invite her first; in fact, they were almost ready to fight for the
kiss that opened the dance.

The ladies and the young ladies were provoked; and our class of women
complained to the lads for not keeping up their ill-will; but they
might as well have talked to the winds; one glance of a pretty girl
has more sweetness than the tongue of an ugly one has venom.

"Well, Brulette," I said, on our way home, "Wasn't I right to tell
you to shake off your low spirits?  You see the game is never lost if
you know how to play it boldly."

"Thank you, cousin," she replied; "you are my best friend; indeed, I
think, you are the only true and faithful friend I have ever had.  I
am glad to have got the better of my enemies, and now, I think I
shall never be dull at home again."

"The devil! how fast you change!  Yesterday it was all sulks, and
to-day it is all merriment!  You'll take your place as queen of the
village."

"No," she said, "you don't understand me.  This is the last ball I
mean to go to so long as I keep Charlot; for, if you want me to tell
you the truth, I haven't enjoyed myself one bit.  I put a good face
on it to please you, and I am glad, now it is over, to have done it;
but all the while I was thinking of that poor baby.  I fancied him
crying and howling, no matter how kind your sister might be to him;
he is so awkward in making known his wants, and so annoying to
others."

Brulette's words set my teeth on edge.  I had forgotten the little
wretch when I saw her laughing and dancing.  The love she no longer
concealed for him brought to my mind what seemed to be her past lies,
and I began to think she must be an utter deceiver, who had now grown
tired of restraining herself.

"Then you love him as your own flesh and blood?" I cried, not
thinking much of the words I used.

"My own flesh and blood?" she repeated, as if surprised.  "Well, yes,
perhaps we love all children that way when we think of what we owe
them.  I never pretended, as some girls do when they are craving to
get married, that my instincts were those of a brooding hen.  Perhaps
my head was too giddy to deserve a family in my young days.  I know
girls who can't sleep for thinking about it before they are sixteen.
But I have got to be twenty, without feeling that I am rather late.
If it is wrong, it is not my fault.  I am as God made me, and I have
gone along as he pushed me.  To tell the truth, a baby is a hard
task-master, unreasonable as a crazy husband and obstinate as a
hungry animal.  I like justice and good sense, and I should much
prefer quieter and more sensible company.  Also I like cleanliness;
you have often laughed at me for worrying about a speck of dust on
the dresser and letting a fly in the milk turn my stomach.  Now a
baby is always getting into the dirt, no matter how you may try to
prevent it.  And then I am fond of thinking, and dreaming, and
recollecting things; but a baby won't let you think of anything but
his wants, and gets angry if you pay no attention to him.  But all
that is neither here nor there, Tiennet, when God takes the matter in
hand.  He invented a sort of miracle which takes place inside of us
when need be; and now I know a thing which I never believed until it
happened to me, and that is that a child, no matter how ugly and
ill-tempered it is, may be bitten by a wolf or trampled by a goat,
but never by a woman, and that he will end by managing her--unless
she is made of another wood than the rest of us."

As she said this we were entering my house, where Charlot was playing
with my sister's children.  "Well, I'm glad you have come," said my
sister to Brulette; "you certainty have the most ill-tempered child
that ever lived.  He has beaten mine, and bitten them, and provoked
them, and one needs forty cartloads of patience and pity to get along
with him."

Brulette laughed, and going up to Charlot, who never gave her any
welcome, she said, as she watched him playing after his fashion, and
as if he could understand what she said: "I knew very well you could
not make these kind people love you.  There is no one but me, you
poor little screech-owl, who can put up with your claws and your
beak."

Though Charlot was only eighteen months old it seemed as if he really
understood what Brulette was saying; for he got up, after looking at
her for a moment with a thoughtful air, and jumped upon her and
seized her hand and devoured it with kisses.

"Hey!" cried my sister, "then he really has his good moments, after
all?"

"My dear," said Brulette, "I am just as much astounded as you are.
This is the first time I have ever known him behave so."  Then,
kissing Charlot on his heavy eyelids she began to cry with joy and
tenderness.

I can't tell why I was overcome by the action, as if there were
something marvellous in it.  But, in good truth, if the child was not
hers, Brulette at that moment was transformed before my eyes.  This
girl, so proud-spirited that she wouldn't have shrunk before the king
six months ago, and who that very morning had had all the lads of the
neighborhood, rich and poor, at her knee, had gathered such pity and
Christianity into her heart that she thought herself rewarded for all
her trouble by the first kisses of an odious little slobberer, who
had no pleasant ways and indeed seemed half-idiotic.

The tears were in my eyes, thinking of what those kisses cost her,
and taking Charlot on my shoulder, I carried him back with her to her
own door.

Twenty times I had it on my tongue to ask her the truth; for if she
had done wrong as to Charlot, I was ready to forgive her the sin, but
if, on the contrary, she was bearing the burden of other people's
guilt, I desired to kiss her feet as the sweetest and most patient
winner of Paradise.

But I dared not ask her any questions, and when I told my doubts to
my sister, who was no fool, she replied: "If you dare not question
her it is because in the depths of your heart you know her to be
innocent.  Besides," she added, "such a fine girl would have
manufactured a better-looking boy.  He is no more like her than a
potato is like a rose."




TWENTY-FIRST EVENING.

The winter passed and the spring came, but Brulette never went back
to her amusements.  She did not even regret them, having seen that
she could still be mistress of all hearts if she chose; but she said
that so many men and women had betrayed her friendship that now she
should care for quality only, not quantity.  The poor child did not
then know all the wrong that had been done to her.  Everybody had
vilified her, but no one had yet dared to insult her.  When they
looked at her they saw virtue written on her face; but when her back
was turned they revenged themselves in words, for the respect which
they could not help feeling, and they yelped at her heels like a
cowardly dog that dares not spring at your face.

Père Brulet was getting old; he grew deafer, and lived so much in
himself, like all aged people, that he paid no attention to the talk
of the town.  Father and daughter were therefore less troubled than
people hoped to make them, and my own father, who was of a wise and
Christian spirit (as were the rest of my family), advised me, and
also set me the example, not to worry them about it, saying that the
truth would come to light some day and the wicked tongues be punished.

Time, which is a grand sweeper, began, before long, to get rid of the
vile dust.  Brulette, who disdained revenge, would take none but that
of receiving very coldly the advances that were made to her.  It
happened, as it usually does, that she found friends among those who
had never been her lovers, and these friends, having no interest of
their own, protected her in a way that she was not aware of.  I am
not speaking of Mariton, who was like a mother to her, and who, in
her inn bar-room, came very near flinging the jugs at the heads of
the drinkers when they ventured to sing out "Josette;" but I mean
persons whom no one could accuse of blindly supporting her, and who
shamed her detractors.

Thus it was that Brulette had brought herself down, at first with
difficulty, then, little by little, contentedly, to a quieter life
than in the past.  She was visited by sensible persons, and came
often to our house, bringing Charlot, whose swollen face had improved
during the preceding winter, while his temper had grown much more
amiable.  The child was really not so ugly as he was coarse, and
after Brulette had tamed him by the winsome force of her gentleness
and affection we saw that his big black eyes were not without
intelligence, and that when his broad mouth was willing to smile it
was really more funny than hideous.  He had passed through a drooling
illness, during which Brulette, formerly so easily disgusted, had
nursed him and wiped him and tended him carefully, till he was now
the healthiest little fellow, and the nicest and the cleanest in the
village.  His jaws were still too heavy and his nose too short for
beauty, but inasmuch as health is the chief thing with the little
beggars, every one took notice of his size, his strength, and his
determined air.

But the thing that made Brulette proudest of her handiwork was that
Charlot became every day prettier in speech and more generous in
heart.  When she first had him he swore in a way to daunt a regiment;
but she had made him forget all that, and had taught him a number of
nice little prayers, and all sorts of amusing and quaint sayings,
which he employed in his own way to the entertainment of everybody.
He was not born affectionate and would never kiss any one willingly,
but for his darling, as he called Brulette, he showed such a violent
attachment that if he had done anything naughty,--such as cutting up
his pinafore to make cravats, or sticking his sabots into the
soup-pot, he would forestall all reproaches and cling to her neck
with such strength that she hadn't the heart to scold him.

In May of that year we were invited to the wedding of a cousin at
Chassin, who sent over a cart the night before to fetch us, with a
message to Brulette that if she did not come and bring Charlot, it
would throw a gloom over the marriage day.

Chassin is a pretty place on the river Gourdon, about six miles
distant from our village.  The country reminded me slightly of the
Bourbonnais.  Brulette, who was a small eater, soon left the noise of
the feast, and went to walk outside and amuse Charlot.  "Indeed," she
said to me, "I should like to take him into some quiet, shady place;
for this is his sleeping-time, and the noise of the party keeps him
awake, and I am afraid he will be very cross this evening."

As it was very hot, I offered to take her into a little wood,
formerly kept as a warren, which adjoins the old castle, and being
chokeful of briers and ditches, is a very sheltered and retired spot.
"Very good," she said, "the little one can sleep on my petticoat, and
you can go back and enjoy yourself."

When we got there I begged her to let me stay.

"I am not so devoted to weddings as I once was," I said to her.  "I
shall amuse myself as well, if not better, talking with you.  A party
is very tiresome if you are not among your own people and don't know
what to do."

"Very well," she replied, "but I see plainly, my poor cousin, that I
am a weight upon your hands; and yet you take it with such patience
and good-will that I don't know how I shall ever do without it.
However, that time must come, for you are now of an age to settle,
and the wife you choose may cast an evil eye upon me, as so many do,
and might never be brought to believe that I deserve your friendship
and hers."

"It is too soon to worry yourself about that," I replied, settling
the fat Charlot on my blouse, which I laid on the grass while she sat
down beside him to keep off the flies.  "I am not thinking of
marriage, and if I were, I swear my wife should keep on good terms
with you or I would be on bad terms with her.  She would have a
crooked heart indeed if she could not see that my regard for you is
the most honorable of all friendships, and if she couldn't comprehend
that having followed you through all your joys and all your troubles,
I am so accustomed to your companionship that you and I are one.  But
how about you, cousin? are you thinking of marriage, or have you
sworn off on that subject?"

"Oh! as for me, yes, I think so, Tiennet, if it suits the will of
God.  I am all but of age, and I think I have waited so long for the
wish to marry that now I have let the time go by."

"Perhaps it is only just beginning, dear.  The love of amusement has
gone, and the love of children has come, and I see how you are
settling down to a quiet home life; but nevertheless you are still in
your spring-time, like the earth whose flowers are just blooming.
You know I don't flatter you, and so you may believe me when I tell
you that you have never been so pretty, though you have grown rather
pale--like Thérence, the girl of the woods.  You have even caught a
sad little look like hers, which goes very well with your plain caps
and that gray gown.  The fact is, I believe your inside being has
changed and you are going to be a sister of charity--if you are not
in love."

"Don't talk about that, my dear friend," cried Brulette.  "I might
have turned either to love or piety a year ago.  I felt, as you say,
changed within.  But now, here I am, tied to the cares of life
without finding either the sweetness of love or the strength of
faith.  It seems to me that I am tied to a yoke and can only push
forward by my head, without knowing what sort of cart I am dragging
behind me.  You see that I am not very sad under it and that I don't
mean to die of it; and yet, I own that I regret something in my
life--not what has been, but what might have been."

"Come, Brulette," I said, sitting down by her and taking her hand,
"perhaps the time has come for confidence.  You can tell me
everything without fear of my feeling grief or jealousy.  I am cured
of wishing for anything that you can't give me.  But give me one
thing, for it is my due,--give me your confidence about your
troubles."

Brulette became scarlet and made an effort to speak, but could not
say a word.  It almost seemed as if I were forcing her to confess to
her own soul, and she had foreborne so long that now she did not know
how to do it.

She raised her beautiful eyes and looked at the country before us,
for we were sitting at the edge of the wood, on a grassy terrace
overlooking a pretty valley broken up into rolling ground green with
cultivation.  At our feet flowed the little river, and beyond, the
ground rose rapidly under a fine wood of full-grown oaks, less
extensive but boasting as large trees as any we had seen in the
forest of Alleu.  I saw in Brulette's eyes the thoughts she was
thinking, and taking her hand, which she had withdrawn from mine to
press her heart as if it pained her, I said, in a tone that was
neither jest nor mischief,--

"Tell me, is it Huriel or Joseph?"

"It is not Joseph!" she replied, hastily.

"Then it is Huriel; but are you free to follow your inclinations?"

"How can I have any inclinations," she answered, blushing more and
more, "for a person who has doubtless never thought of me?"

"That is no reason."

"Yes it is, I tell you."

"No, I swear it isn't.  I had plenty of inclination for you."

"But you got over it."

"And you are trying hard to get over yours; that shows you are still
ill of it.  But Joseph?"

"Well, what of Joseph?"

"You were never bound to him?"

"You know that well enough!"

"But--Charlot?"

"Charlot?"

As my eyes turned to the child, hers turned too; then they fell back
on me, so puzzled, so clear with innocence, that I was ashamed of my
suspicions as though I had offered her an insult.

"Oh, nothing," I replied, hastily.  "I said 'Charlot' because I
thought he was waking up."

At that moment a sound of bagpipes reached us from the other side of
the river among the oaks, and Brulette trembled like a leaf in the
wind.

"There!" said I, "the bride's dance is beginning, and I do believe
they are sending the music to fetch you."

"No, no," said Brulette, who had grown very pale, "neither the air
nor the instrument belong to this region.  Tiennet, Tiennet, either I
am crazy--or he who is down there--"

"Do you see him?" I cried, running to the edge of the terrace and
looking with all my eyes; "can it be Père Bastien?"

"I see no one," she said, having followed me, "but it was not Père
Bastien--neither was it Joseph--it was--"

"Huriel, perhaps! that seems to me less certain than the river that
parts us.  But let us go at any rate; we may find a ford, and if he
is there we shall certainly catch him, the gay muleteer, and find out
what he is thinking about."

"No, Tiennet, I can't leave Charlot."

"The devil take that child!  Then wait for me here; I am going alone."

"No, no, no!  Tiennet," cried Brulette, holding me with both hands;
"it is dangerous to go down that steep place."

"Whether I break my neck or not, I am going to put you out of your
misery."

"What misery?" she exclaimed, still holding me, but recovering from
her first agitation by an effort of pride.  "What does it matter to
me whether Huriel or some one else is in the wood?  Do you suppose I
want you to run after a man who, knowing I was close by, wanted to
pass on?"

"If that is what you think," said a soft voice behind us, "I think we
had better go away."

We turned round at the first word, and there was Thérence, the
beautiful Thérence, before our eyes.

At the sight Brulette, who had fretted so much at being forgotten by
her, lost all her nerve and fell into Thérence's arms with a great
burst of tears.

"Well, well!" said Thérence, kissing her with the energy of a
daughter of the woods.  "Did you think I had forgotten our
friendship?  Why do you judge hardly of people who have never passed
a day without thinking of you?"

"Tell her quickly if your brother is here, Thérence," I cried,
"for--"  Brulette, turning quickly, put her hand on my lips, and I
caught myself up, adding, with a laugh, "for I am dying to see him."

"My brother is over there," said Thérence, "but he does not know you
are so near.  Listen, he is going farther off; you can hardly hear
his music now."

She looked at Brulette, who had grown pale again, and added,
laughing: "He is too far off to call him; but he will soon turn and
come round by the ruined castle.  Then, if you don't disdain him,
Brulette, and will not prevent me, I shall give him a surprise he
does not expect; for he did not think of seeing you till to-night.
We were on our way to your village to pay you a visit, and it is a
great happiness to me to have met you here and saved a delay in our
meeting.  Let us go under the trees, for if he sees you from where he
is, he is capable of drowning himself in that river in trying to get
to you, not knowing the fords."

We turned back and sat down near Charlot, Thérence asking, with that
grand, simple manner of hers, whether he was mine.  "Not unless I
have been married a long time," I answered, "which is not so."

"True," she said, looking closely at the child, "he is already a
little man; but you might have been married before you came to us."

Then she added, laughing, that she knew little about the growth of
babies, never seeing any in the woods where she always lived, and
where few parents ever reared their children.  "You will find me as
much of a savage as ever," she continued, "but a good deal less
irritable, and I hope my dear Brulette will have no cause to complain
of my ill-temper."

"I do think," said Brulette, "that you seem gayer, and better in
health,--and so much handsomer that it dazzles my eyes to look at
you."

The same thought had struck my mind on seeing Thérence.  She had laid
in a stock of health and fresh clear color in her cheeks which made
her another woman.  If her eyes were still too deep sunken, the black
brows no longer lowered over them and hid their fire; and though her
smile was still proud, there was a charming gayety in it at times,
which made her teeth gleam like dewdrops on a flower.  The pallor of
fever had left her face, which the May sun had rather burned during
her journey, though it had made the roses bloom; and there was
something, I scarcely know what, so youthful, so strong, so valiant
in her face, that my heart jumped with an idea that came to me,
heaven knows how, as I looked to see if the velvety black mark at the
corner of her mouth was still in the same place.

"Friends," she said, wiping her beautiful hair, which curled
naturally and which the heat had glued to her forehead, "as we have a
little time to talk before my brother joins us, I want to tell you my
story, without any false shame or pretences; for several other
stories hang upon it.  Only, before I begin, tell me, Brulette, if
Tiennet, whom you used to think so much of, is, as I think he is,
still the same, so that I can take up the conversation where we left
it--a year ago come next harvest."

"Yes, dear Thérence, that you may," answered my cousin, pleased at
her friend's tone.

"Well, then, Tiennet," continued Thérence, with a valiant sincerity
all her own, which made the difference between her and the reserved
and timid Brulette, "I reveal nothing you did not know in telling you
that before your visit to us last year I attached myself to a poor
fellow, sick and sad in mind and body, very much as a mother is
attached to her child.  I did not then know he loved another girl,
and he, seeing my regard for him, which I did not hide, had not the
courage to tell me it was not returned.  Why Joseph--for I can name
him, and you see, dear friends, that I don't change color in doing
so--why Joseph, whom I had so often entreated to tell me the causes
of his grief, should have sworn to me it was nothing more than a
longing for his mother and his own country, I do not know.  He must
have thought me base, and he did me great injustice; for, had he told
me the truth, I myself would have gone to fetch Brulette without a
murmur, and without making the great mistake of forming a low opinion
of her which I did, and which I now confess, and ask her to pardon."

"You did that long ago, Thérence, and there is nothing to pardon
where friendship is."

"Yes, dear," replied Thérence, "but the wrong which you forget, I
remember, and I would have given the world to repair it by taking
good care of Joseph, and showing him friendship and good-nature after
you left us.  Remember, friends, that I had never said or done a
false thing; so that in my childhood, my father, who is a good judge,
used to call me Thérence the Sincere.  When I last saw you, on the
banks of your own Indre, half-way to your village, I spoke privately
with Joseph for a moment, begging him to return to us and promising
there should be no change in my interest and care for his health and
well-being.  Why, then, did he disbelieve me in his heart; and why,
promising with his lips to return (a lie of which I was not the
dupe),--why did he contemptuously leave me forever, as though I were
a shameless girl who would torment him with love-sick folly?"

"Do you mean to say," I interrupted, "that Joseph, who stayed only
twenty-four hours with us, did not return to your woods,--if only to
tell you his plans and say good-bye?  Since he left us that day we
have heard nothing of him."

"If you have had no news of him," replied Thérence, "I have some to
give you.  He did return--by night, like a thief who fears the
sunshine.  He went to his own lodge and took his clothes and his
bagpipe, and went away without crossing the threshold of my father's
hut, or so much as glancing our way.  I was awake and saw it all.  I
watched every action, and when he disappeared in the woods, I felt I
was as rigid as death.  My father warmed me in the rays of the good
God and his own great heart.  He took me away to the open moor, and
talked to me all one day, and all the next night, till I was able to
pray and sleep.  You know my father a little, dear friends, but you
cannot know how he loves his children, how he comforts them, how he
finds just the right thing to say to make them like himself, who is
an angel from heaven hidden under the bark of an old oak!  My father
cured me.  If it were not for him, I should despise Joseph; as it is,
I have only ceased to love him."

Ending thus, Thérence again wiped her fine forehead, wet with
perspiration, drew a long breath, kissed Brulette, and held out to
me, laughing, her large and well-shaped white hand, and shook mine
with the frankness of a young man.




TWENTY-SECOND EVENING.

I saw that Brulette was inclined to blame Joseph very severely, and I
thought I ought to defend him a little.  "I don't approve of his
conduct so far as it shows ingratitude to you, Thérence," I said,
"but inasmuch as you are now able to judge him quite fairly, won't
you admit that at the bottom of his heart there was a sense of
respect for you and a fear of deceiving you?  All the world is not
like you, my beautiful girl of the woods, and I think that very few
persons have a pure enough heart and courage enough to go straight to
the point and tell things just as they are.  You have an amount of
strength and virtue in you of which Joseph, and many others in his
place, would be wholly incapable."

"I don't understand you," said Thérence.

"I do," said Brulette; "Joseph feared, perhaps, to put himself in the
way of being charmed by your beauty, and of loving you for that,
without giving you his whole heart as you deserved."

"Oh!" cried Thérence, scarlet with wounded pride, "that is just what
I complain of.  Say it boldly.  Joseph feared to entice me into
wrong-doing.  He took no account of my good sense or my honor.  Well,
his respect would have consoled me; his fear is humiliating.  Never
mind, Brulette, I forgive him, because I no longer suffer, and I feel
myself above him; but nothing can ever take out of my heart the sense
that Joseph was ungrateful to me, and took a low view of his duty.  I
would ask you to let us say no more about it, if I were not obliged
to tell you the rest; but I must speak, otherwise you will not know
what to think of my brother's conduct."

"Ah, Thérence!" said Brulette, "I long to know what were the
consequences of that misfortune which troubled us all so much over
there."

"My brother did not do as we expected," replied Thérence.  "Instead
of hiding his unfortunate secret in distant places, he retraced his
steps at the end of a week, and went to find the Carmelite friar in
his convent, which is over by Montluçon.  'Brother Nicolas,' he said
to him, 'I can't live with such a weight on my heart.  You told me to
confess myself to God, but there is such a thing as justice on this
earth; it may not be practised, but it is none the less a law from
heaven.  I must confess before men, and bear the blame and the
penalty I deserve.'  'One moment, my son,' answered the friar; 'men
invented the penalty of death, which God disapproves, and they might
kill you deliberately for having killed another unintentionally.'
'That is not possible,' said my brother; 'I never intended to kill
him, and I can prove it.'  'To prove it you must call witnesses,'
said the monk, 'and that will compromise your comrades and your
chief, who is my nephew, and no more a murderer than you in his
heart; you will expose them all to be harassed by the law, and you
will see them forced to betray the oaths of your fraternity.  Come,
stay here in my convent, and wait for me.  I will undertake to settle
the matter, provided you won't ask me too closely how I have done it.'

"Thereupon the friar went to consult his abbé, who sent him to the
bishop, whom we call in our parts the chief priest, as they did in
the olden time, and who is the bishop of Montluçon.  The chief
priest, who has a right to be heard by the chief judges, said and did
things we know nothing about.  Then he sent for my brother and said
to him, 'My son, confess yourself to me as you would to God.'  When
Huriel had told him the whole truth, from end to end, the bishop
said: 'Repent and do penance, my son.  The matter is settled before
men; you have nothing to dread in future; but you must appease the
wrath of God, and in order to do that, I desire you to leave the
company and brotherhood of the muleteers, who are men without
religion and whose secret practices are contrary to the laws of
heaven and earth.'  My brother having humbly remarked to him that
there were honest folk among them, the chief priest replied: 'So much
the worse; if those honest folk refused to take the oaths they
require, the society would cease to do evil, and would become a
corporation of working-men as respectable as any other.'  My brother
thought over these words of the chief priest, and would have wished
to reform the practices of his fraternity rather than do away with
them altogether.  He went to meet an assembly of muleteers and talked
to them very sensibly,--so they told me; but after listening to him
quietly, they answered that they neither could nor would change any
of their customs.  Whereupon he paid his forfeit and sold his mules,
keeping only the _clairin_ for our use.  So Brulette, you are not
going to see a muleteer, but a good, steady wood-cutter who works for
his father."

"And who may find it very hard to get accustomed to such work," said
Brulette, hiding the pleasure this news gave her.

"If he did find it hard to change his ways of life," answered
Thérence, "he is well consoled when he remembers how afraid you were
of the muleteers, and that in your country they are looked upon as an
abomination.  But now that I have satisfied your impatience to know
how my brother got out of his troubles, I must tell you something
more about Joseph, which may make you angry, Brulette, though it will
also astonish you."

As Thérence said that with a spice of malice and a laugh, Brulette
showed no uneasiness, and told her to explain.

"You must know," continued Thérence, "that we have spent the last
three months in the forest of Montaigu, where we met Joseph, in good
health, but serious as usual, and still wrapped up in himself.  If
you want to know where he now is, I will tell you that we have left
him there with my father, who is helping him to get admitted to the
association of bagpipers; for you know, or you don't know, that they
too, are a fraternity, and have secret practices which others know
nothing about.  At first Joseph was rather embarrassed at seeing us.
He seemed ashamed to speak to me and might have avoided us altogether
if my father, after reproaching him for his want of confidence and
friendship, had not pressed him to remain,--for he knew he could
still be useful to him.  When Joseph perceived that I was quite at my
ease and had no unkind recollections, he made bold to ask for the
return of our friendship, and he even tried to excuse his conduct;
but my father, who would not let him lay a finger on my wound, turned
the matter into a joke, and made him go to work, both in the woods
and at his music, so as to bring the matter to an end as soon as
possible.  I was a good deal astonished that he never mentioned any
of you, and I questioned him without getting a word out of him.
Neither my brother nor I had heard anything of you (until last week,
when we came through the village of Huriel).  We were much worried
about you, and my father told Joseph rather sharply that if he had
letters from his own people he ought at least to tell us whether you
were dead or alive.  Joseph answered shortly, in a voice that sounded
very hollow: 'Everybody is well, and so am I.'  My father, who never
beats about the bush, told him to speak out, but he answered stiffly,
'I tell you, master, that our friends over there are well and quite
contented, and if you will give me your daughter in marriage I shall
be contented too.'  At first we thought he was crazy, and tried to
make a joke of it, though his manner made us rather uneasy.  But he
returned to the subject two days later, and asked me if I had any
regard for him.  I took no other revenge for his tardy offer than to
say, 'Yes, Joseph, I have as much regard for you as Brulette has.'
He drew in his lips, lowered his head, and did not say another word.
But my brother, having questioned him later, received this reply:
'Huriel, I no longer think of Brulette, and I beg you never to
mention her to me again.'  We could get nothing more out of him
except that he was resolved, as soon as he should be received into
the fraternity of bagpipers, to begin his service for a time in his
own country, and prove to his mother that he was able to support her;
after which he intended to take her to live with him in La Marche or
the Bourbonnais, provided I would become his wife.  This brought
about a grand explanation between my father, my brother, and myself.
Both tried to make me own that I might be induced to consent.  But
Joseph had come back too late for me, and I had made too many
reflections about him.  I quietly refused, feeling no longer any
regard for him, and conscious also that he had none for me.  I am too
proud a girl to be taken as a remedy for disappointment.  I supposed
you had written him to put an end to his hopes."

"No," said Brulette, "I did not, and it is only by the mercy of God
that he has forgotten me.  Perhaps it was that he began to know you
better, my Thérence."

"No, no," cried the girl of the woods, resolutely, "If it was not
disappointment at your refusal, it was pique at my cure.  He only
cared for me because I had ceased to care for him.  If that is his
love, it is not mine, Brulette.  All or nothing; yes for life, in all
frankness; or no for life, with all freedom.  There's that child
waking up," she continued, interrupting herself, "and I want to take
you to my new abode for a moment; it is in the old castle of Chassin."

"But won't you tell us," said Brulette, who was very much puzzled by
all she heard, "how and why you are in this part of the country?"

"You are in too much of a hurry to know," replied Thérence; "I want
you to see first."

Taking Brulette round the neck with her beautiful bare arm, well
browned by the sun, she led her away without giving her time to take
Charlot, whom she herself caught up like a bundle under her other
arm, although he was now as heavy as a little calf.

The fief of Chassin was once a castle, as I have heard say, with
seignorial rights and laws; but at the time of which I am telling,
nothing remained of the building but the porch, which was a structure
of some importance, heavily built, and so arranged that there were
lodging-rooms on both sides of it.  It seemed that the part of the
building which I have called a porch, the use of which is difficult
to explain at the present time (on account of its peculiar
construction), was really a vaulted chamber leading to other
buildings; for as to those that still remain around the courtyard,
which are only miserable stables and dilapidated barns, I don't know
what uses they could have been put to, or what comfort could have
been found in them.  There were still, at the time of which I am
speaking, three or four unfurnished rooms which seemed quite ancient,
but if any great lord ever took his pleasure in them he must have
wanted very little of that article.

And yet it was among these ruins that happiness was awaiting some of
those whose history I am telling you; and, as if there were something
within each human being which tells him in advance of coming
blessings, neither Brulette nor I saw anything sad or ugly in this
old place.  The grassy courtyard, surrounded on two sides by the
ruins and on the other two by the moat and the little wood through
which we passed; the great hedge, where I saw with surprise shrubs
which are seen only in the gardens of the wealthy (showing that the
place had once known care and beauty); the clumsy gateway, choked up
with rubbish, where stone benches could still be seen, as if in
former days some warder had had charge of this barrack then
considered precious; the long brambles which ran from end to end of
this squalid enclosure,--all these things, which made the whole place
resemble a prison, closed, deserted, and forgotten, seemed as
cheerful to our eyes as the springtide sun which was forcing its way
in through the crevices and drying up the dampness.  Perhaps, too,
the sight of our old acquaintance, the _clairin_, who was feeding on
the turf, gave us warning of the coming of a true friend.  I think he
recognized us, for he came up to be stroked, and Brulette could not
refrain from kissing the white star on his forehead.

"This is my château," said Thérence, taking us into a room where her
bed and other bits of furniture were already installed; "and there
you see Huriel's room and my father's on the other side."

"Your father! then he is coming!" I cried, jumping for joy.  "I am so
glad, for there is no man under the sun I like better."

"And right you are," said Thérence, tapping my ear in sign of
friendship.  "And he likes you.  Well, you will see him if you come
back next week, and even--but it is too soon to speak of that.  Here
is the master."

Brulette blushed, thinking it was Huriel that Thérence meant; but it
was only the foreign dealer who had bought the timber of the forest
of Chassin.

I say "forest" because, no doubt, there were forests there once,
which joined the small but beautiful growth of lofty trees that we
saw beyond the river.  As the name remains, it is to be supposed it
was not bestowed for nothing.  The conversation which ensued between
Thérence and the wood-merchant explained to us very quickly the whole
thing.  He came from the Bourbonnais, and had long known the
Head-Woodsman and his family as hard-working people who kept their
word.  Being in quest, through his business, of some tall masts for
the king's navy, he had discovered these remains of a virgin forest
(very rare indeed in our country), and had given the work of felling
and trimming the trees to Père Bastien; and the latter had taken it
all the more willingly because his son and daughter, knowing the
place to be in our neighborhood, were delighted with the idea of
spending the whole summer and perhaps part of the winter near us.

The Head-Woodsman was allowed the selection and management of his
workmen under a contract with forfeiture between himself and the
purchaser of the timber; and the latter had induced the owner of the
estate to cede him the use, gratis, of the old castle, where he, a
well-to-do tradesman, would have thought himself very ill-lodged, but
where a family of wood-cutters might be far better off as the season
grew late than in their usual lodges of logs and heather.

Huriel and his sister had arrived that morning; the one had
immediately begun to install herself, the other had been making
acquaintance with the wood, the land, and the people of the
neighborhood.

We overheard the purchaser reminding Thérence, who talked business as
well as any man, of a condition in his agreement with Père
Bastien,--namely, that he would employ none but Bourbonnais workmen
to prepare the trunks, inasmuch as they alone understood the work and
would not spoil the finest pieces, like the laborers of our part of
the country.  "Very good," replied the woodland girl; "but for the
branches and light-wood we shall employ whom we please.  We do not
think it wise to take all the work away from the people of the
neighborhood, who might be annoyed and molest us in consequence.
They are already ill-inclined to all who are not of their parish."

"Now listen, my dear Brulette," she said, when the dealer had
departed, "it is my opinion that, if nothing detains you in your
village, you might persuade your grandfather to employ his time very
pleasantly here this summer.  You have told me that he is still a
good workman, and he would have to do with a good master,--I mean my
father, who would let him work at his ease.  You could lodge here at
no expense and we would share the housekeeping together."

Then, while Brulette was burning with the desire to say yes, but not
daring to betray herself, Thérence added, "If you hesitate, I shall
think your heart is given in your own village and that my brother has
come too late."

"Too late!" cried a ringing voice which came from the ivy-covered
window.  "God grant that those words be false!"

And Huriel, handsome and fresh-looking as he always was when the
charcoal no longer concealed him, sprang into the room and caught
Brulette in his arms to kiss her on the cheeks; for he wouldn't stand
on ceremony, and he had no notion of the rather icy behavior of the
people in our parts.  He seemed so glad, and talked so loud, and
laughed so heartily that she could not be angry with him.  He kneaded
me like a bit of dough and jumped about the room as if joy and
friendship had the effect of new wine.

All of a sudden he spied Charlot and stopped short, tried to look
away, forced himself to say a few words which had no connection with
the child, then sat down on his sister's bed and turned so pale that
I thought he was going to faint away.

"What's the matter with him?" cried Thérence, amazed.  Then, touching
his head, she said, "Good heavens, it is a cold sweat!  Do you feel
ill?"

"No, no," said Huriel, rising and shaking himself.  "It is joy--the
sudden excitement--it is nothing."

Just then the mother of the bride came to ask why we had left the
wedding, and whether Brulette or the child were ill.  Seeing that we
were detained by the company of strangers, she very politely invited
Huriel and Thérence to come with us to the feast and to the dance.
This woman, who was my aunt, being the sister of my father and
Brulette's deceased father, seemed to me to know the secret of
Charlot's birth; for she had asked no questions and had taken great
care of him when brought to her house.  I had even heard of her
saying that he was a relative, and the people of Chassin had no
suspicion about the child.

As Huriel, who was still troubled in mind, merely thanked my aunt
without giving any decided answer, Thérence roused him with the
remark that Brulette was obliged to go back to the wedding, and that
if he did not go he might lose his opportunity of bringing about what
they both desired.  Huriel, however, was still uneasy and hesitating,
when Brulette said to him, "Do you really not wish to dance with me
to-day?"

"Do you speak true, Brulette?" he said, looking her in the eye.  "Do
you wish me for a partner?"

"Yes," she said, "for I remember how well you dance."

"Is that the only reason why you wish for me?"

Brulette was embarrassed, thinking that the fellow was too much in a
hurry, yet not daring to play off her former coquettish little airs,
so fearful was she of seeing him hurt or disappointed again.  But
Thérence tried to help her out by reproaching Huriel for asking too
much the first day.

"You are right, sister," he answered.  "And yet I cannot behave
differently.  Hear me, Brulette, and forgive me.  You must promise to
have no other partner but me at this wedding, or I cannot go at all."

"What a funny fellow!" cried my aunt, who was a lively little woman
and took all things for the best.  "A lover of yours, my Brulette?  I
see that plainly; and no half-hearted one either!  But, my lad," she
added, turning to Huriel, "I would have you know that it is not the
custom in these parts to show all you feel; and no one dances several
times running with a girl unless there has been promise of heart and
hand."

"It is here as it is with us, my good dame," replied Huriel;
"nevertheless, with or without promise of her heart, Brulette must
now promise me her hand for the whole dance."

"If she wishes it, I shall not prevent her," said my aunt, "she is a
sensible girl, who knows very well how to behave.  I have done my
duty in warning her that she will be talked about."

"Brother," said Thérence, "I think you are crazy.  Is that the way to
do with Brulette, whom you know to be so reserved, and who has never
yet given you the rights you claim?"

"Yes, I may be mad, and she may be shy," said Huriel, "but all the
same my madness must gain the day and her shyness lose it, and at
once.  I ask nothing more of her than to allow me to dance with her
to the end of this wedding.  If after that she does not wish to hear
of me again, she is mistress of her actions."

"That is all very well," said my aunt, "but the harm will then have
been done, and if you withdraw from her then who will repair it?"

"She knows that I shall not withdraw," said Huriel.

"If you know that," said my aunt to Brulette, "why don't you explain
yourself?  I really can't understand this matter at all.  Did you
engage yourself to this lad in the Bourbonnais?"

"No," said Huriel, without giving Brulette time to answer.  "I have
never asked her, never!  What I now ask of her she, and she alone,
without consulting any one, must decide to grant or not, as she
chooses."

Brulette, trembling like a leaf, had turned to the wall and was
hiding her face in her hands.  If she was glad to find Huriel so
resolute about her, she was also annoyed that he had no compassion
for her natural hesitation and timidity.  She was not made, like
Thérence, to speak out a noble "yes" before all the world; so being,
and not knowing how else to get out of the matter, she took refuge in
her eyes and began to cry.




TWENTY-THIRD EVENING.

"You are a downright bashaw, my friend," said my aunt to Huriel,
giving him a push away from Brulette, whom he had approached in much
excitement.  Then, taking her niece's hands, she soothed her and
asked her very gently to tell her the real meaning of it all.

"If your grandfather were here," she said, "he would explain what
there is between you and this stranger lad, and we could then leave
the matter to his judgment; but since I am here now as father and
mother both, you must confide in me.  Do you wish me to put an end to
this pursuit?  Shall I, instead of inviting this brute, or this
rogue,--for I don't know which to call him,--tell him that he must
let you alone?"

"Exactly," said Huriel, "that's what I want.  I want her to say what
she wishes, and I will obey her without anger, and she shall still
retain my friendship and respect.  If she thinks me a brute or a
rogue let her pack me off.  Speak, Brulette; I shall always be your
friend and servant,--you know that very well."

"Be what you will," said Brulette at last, rising and giving him her
hand; "you protected me in danger, and you have suffered such
troubles on my account that I neither can nor will refuse so little a
thing as to dance with you as much as you like."

"But think what your aunt has said," replied Huriel, holding her
hand.  "You will be talked of, and if nothing good comes of it
between us, which on your side may still be, any plan you may have
for another marriage would be destined or delayed."

"Well, that is a less danger than the one you threw yourself into on
my account," said Brulette.  "Aunt, please excuse me," she added, "if
I cannot explain matters just now; but believe that your niece loves
and respects you, and will never give you reason to blush for her."

"I am certain of that," said my aunt; "but what answer am I to give
to the questions they will be sure to ask?"

"None at all, aunt," said Brulette, resolutely.  "I can afford to put
up with all their talk; you know I am in the habit of doing so."

"Thank you, darling of my heart!" cried Huriel, kissing her hand six
or seven times.  "You shall never repent what you have granted to me."

"Are you coming, you obstinate fellow?" said my aunt; "I can't stay
away any longer, and if I don't carry Brulette down there at once,
the bride is capable of leaving the wedding and coming after her."

"Go down, Brulette!" cried Thérence, "and leave the baby with me; I
promise I will take care of him."

"Won't you come, too, my handsome Bourbonnaise?" said my aunt, who
could not keep her eyes off Thérence, "I count upon you."

"I will go later, my good woman," replied Thérence.  "But just now I
want to give my brother suitable clothes in which to do honor to your
invitation; for, as you see, we are still in our travelling things."

My aunt carried off Brulette, who wanted to take Charlot; but
Thérence insisted on keeping him, wishing to leave her brother free
with his darling without the trouble and annoyance of a small child.
This was not at all satisfactory to Charlot, who set up a yell when
he saw that Brulette was leaving him, and fought with all his
strength in Thérence's arms; but she, looking at him with a grave and
determined manner, said quietly:--

"You must be quiet, my boy; you must, you know."

Charlot, who had never been ordered in his life, was so astonished at
her tone that he gave in immediately; but as I saw that Brulette was
distressed at leaving him with a girl who had never in her life
touched a baby, I promised to bring him to her myself if there should
be the least trouble, and persuaded her to go with our good little
aunt who was getting impatient.

Huriel, urged by his sister, went off to his room to shave and dress,
and I, left alone with Thérence, helped her to unpack her boxes and
shake out the clothes, while Charlot, quite subdued, stood, with open
mouth, looking on.  When I had carried Huriel the clothes which
Thérence piled on my arms, I returned to ask if she didn't mean to
dress herself too, and to offer to take the child to walk while she
did so.

"As for me," she said, laying out her finery on her bed, "I will go
if Brulette worries after me; but I will admit that if she would only
forget me for a time, I would prefer to stay quietly here.  In any
case, I can be ready in a minute, and I need no one to escort me.  I
am accustomed to hunt up and get ready our lodgings in travelling,
like a regular quartermaster on a campaign, and nothing disturbs me
wherever I am."

"Then you don't like dancing?" I said; "or is it shyness at making
new acquaintances that makes you wish to stay at home?"

"No, I don't like dancing," she replied; "nor the racket, nor the
suppers, and particularly not the waste of time which brings
weariness."

"But one doesn't love dancing for dancing's sake only.  Do you fear,
or dislike, the attentions the young men pay to the girls?"

"No, I have neither fear nor repugnance," she said, simply.  "It does
not amuse me, that is all.  I am not witty, like Brulette.  I don't
know how to answer patly, nor how to make other people talk, and I
can't be amusing.  I am stupid and dreamy, and I am as much out of
place in a lively company as a wolf or a fox at a dance."

"You don't look like a wolf nor any other villanous beast, and you
dance as gracefully as the willow branches when the breeze caresses
them--"

I don't know what more I was going to say, when Huriel came out of
his room, handsome as the sun and more in a hurry to get off than I
was, for I should have been just as satisfied to stay with his
sister.  She kept him a moment to straighten his cravat and to tie
his garters at the knee, apparently not thinking him jaunty enough to
dance through the wedding with Brulette, and as she did so she said:
"Tell me, why were you so jealous of her dancing with any one but
you?  Were not you afraid of frightening her with such masterful
orders?"

"Tiennet!" exclaimed Huriel, stopping short in what he was doing, and
taking Charlot, whom he placed on the table and gazed at with all his
eyes, "Whose child is this?"

Thérence, astonished, first asked him what he meant by the question,
and then asked me why I did not answer it.

We looked each other in the eyes, like three dolts, and I would have
given all I had to know how to answer, for I saw that a sword was
hanging over our heads.  At last, recollecting the virtue and truth I
had seen that very afternoon in my cousin's eyes when I had pretty
nigh asked her the same question, I plucked up courage and going
straight to the point I said to Huriel, "Comrade, if you ask that
question in our village many persons will tell you he is Brulette's
child--"

He did not let me say more; but picking up the boy, he felt him and
turned him over as a hunter examines a head of game.  Fearing his
anger, I tried to take the child from him; but he held him firmly,
saying:--

"No fear for the poor innocent thing; my heart is not bad, and if I
saw any resemblance to her I might not be able to refrain from
kissing him, though I should hate the fate that brought me to it.
But there is no such resemblance; my blood runs neither the hotter
nor the colder with this child in my arms."

"Tiennet, Tiennet, answer him," cried Thérence, as if waking from a
dream.  "Answer me, too, for I don't know what all this means, and it
makes me wild to think of it.  There is no stain on our family and if
my father believed--"

Huriel cut her short.  "Wait, sister," he said; "a word too much is
soon said.  It is for Tiennet to speak.  Come, Tiennet, you who are
an honest man, tell me--one--two--whose child is that?"

"I swear to God I don't know," I answered.

"If it were hers, you would know?"

"I think she could not have hidden it from me."

"Did she ever hide anything else?"

"Never."

"Does she know the parents of the child?"

"Yes, but she will not even let me question her about them."

"Does she deny the child is hers?"

"No one has ever dared to ask her."

"Not even you?"

Thereupon I related in a few words what I knew, and what I believed,
and finished by saying: "I can find no proof for or against Brulette;
but, for the life of me, I cannot doubt her."

"Nor I either!" said Huriel, and kissing Charlot, he set him on the
floor.

"Nor I either!" exclaimed Thérence, "but why should this idea have
come into people's heads?  Why into yours, brother, as soon as you
looked at the child?  I did not even think of asking whether it were
Brulette's nephew or cousin; I thought it must belong to the family,
and seeing it in her arms made me wish to take it in mine."

"I see I must explain," said Huriel, "though the words will scorch my
mouth.  But no," he added, "I would rather tell it! it will be the
first and the last time, for my mind is made up, whatever the truth
may be, and whatever happens.  You must know, Thérence, that three
days ago, when we were parting with Joseph at Montaigu--and you know
with what a light heart I left him! he was cured, he gave her up, he
asked you in marriage, and Brulette was still free!  He knew she was,
and said so, and when I spoke of her he answered, 'Do what you like,
I no longer love her; you can love her without hurting me.'  Well,
sister, at the very moment we were parting, Joseph caught me by the
arm as you were getting into the cart, and said, 'Is it true, Huriel,
that you are going into our parts; and that you mean to court the
girl I loved so well?'"

"Yes," I answered, "since you ask me, that is my intention; and you
have no right to change your mind, or I shall think you were tricking
us when you asked for my sister in marriage."

"'I was not,'" replied Joseph, "'but I should feel I was deceiving
you now if I allowed you to leave without telling you a miserable
thing.  God is my witness that these words should never have left my
lips against a person whose father brought me up, if you were not on
the point of taking a false step.  But your father has also brought
me up, educating my mind just as the other fed and clothed my body,
and I am forced to tell you the truth.  Huriel, at the time when I
left Brulette with my heart full of love, she had already, without my
knowledge, loved another man, and to-day there is a living proof of
it which she does not even take the trouble to hide.  Now, then, do
as you please; I shall think no more about her.'  So saying, Joseph
turned his back on me and went into the woods.  He looked so wild
that I, with my heart full of faith and love, accused him in my
thoughts of madness and wicked anger.  You remember, sister, that you
thought me ill as we drove that day to the village of Huriel.  When
we got there you found two letters from Brulette, and I found three
from Tiennet, which our friends there had neglected to send on in
spite of their promises.  Those letters were so simple, so
affectionate, and showed such truth in every word, that I said to
myself, 'I will go!' and Joseph's words went out of my mind like a
bad dream.  I was ashamed for him, and would not remember them.  And
then, just now, when I saw Brulette, with that look of hers, so
gentle, so modest, that charmed me so in the old days, I swear to God
I had forgotten all as though it had never happened.  The sight of
the child killed me!  And that was why I was resolved to know if
Brulette were free to love me.  She is; because she has promised to
expose herself for my sake to the criticisms and neglect of others.
Well, as she is now tied to no one--even if there be a fault in
her--whether I believe it a little or not at all--whether she
confesses or explains it--it is all one; I love her!"

"Would you love a degraded girl?" cried Thérence.  "No, no, think of
your father, of your sister!  Don't go to this wedding; wait till we
know the truth.  I don't distrust Brulette, I don't believe in
Joseph.  I am sure that Brulette is spotless, but she must say so;
she must do more, she must prove it.  Go and fetch her, Tiennet.  Let
her explain this thing at once, before my brother takes one of those
steps from which an honest man cannot back down."

"You shall not go, Tiennet," said Huriel, "I forbid you.  If, as I
believe, Brulette is as innocent as my sister Thérence, she shall not
be subjected to the insult of that question before I have openly
pledged my word to her."

"Think it over, brother," said Thérence, again urging him.

"Sister," said Huriel, "you forget one thing; if Brulette has done a
wrong thing, I have committed a crime; if love betrayed her into
bringing a child into the world, anger betrayed me into sending a man
out of it."  Then as Thérence still remonstrated, he added, kissing
her and pushing her aside, "Enough, enough; I need pardon before I
judge of others; did I not kill a man?"

So saying he rushed off without waiting for me, and I saw him running
towards the bride's house, where the smoke of the chimney and the
uproar within bespoke the wedding feast.

"Ah!" said Thérence, following him with her eyes, "My poor brother
cannot forget his misfortune, and perhaps he will never be comforted."

"He will be comforted, Thérence," I replied, "when he sees how the
girl he loves loves him; I'll answer for her loving him, and in times
past, too."

"I think so too, Tiennet; but suppose she were unworthy of him?"

"My beautiful Thérence, are you so stern that you would think it a
mortal sin if a misfortune happened to a mere child,--and, who knows?
perhaps ignorantly or by force?"

"It is not the misfortune or the fault I should blame so much as the
lies told and acted, and the behavior that followed.  If at the first
your cousin had said openly to my brother, 'Do not court me, for I
have been betrayed,' I could understand that he might have forgiven
all to such an honest confession.  But to let him court her and
admire her so much without saying a word!  Come, Tiennet, tell me, do
you really know nothing about it?  Can't you at least guess or
imagine something to set my mind at ease?  I do so love Brulette that
I haven't the courage to condemn her.  And yet, what will my father
say if he thinks I might have saved Huriel from such a danger?"

"Thérence, I know nothing and can tell you nothing, except that now,
less than ever, do I doubt Brulette; for, if you wish me to tell you
the only person whom I could possibly suspect of abusing her, and on
whom public suspicion fell with some slight appearance of reason, I
must honestly say it was Joseph, who now seems to me, after what your
brother told us, to be as white as the driven snow.  Now there is but
one other person who, to my knowledge, was, I will not say capable,
but in a position to use his friendship for Brulette to lead her
wrong.  And that is I.  Do you believe I did, Thérence?  Look me in
the eyes before you answer.  No one has accused me of it, that I know
of, but I might be the sinner all the same, and you don't know me
well enough yet to be sure of my honesty and good faith.  That is why
I say to you, look in my face and see if falsehood and cowardice are
at home there."

Thérence did as I told her, and looked at me, without showing the
least embarrassment; then she said:--

"No, Tiennet, it is not in you to lie like that.  If you are
satisfied about Brulette, I will be too.  Come, my lad, now go off to
the dance; I don't want you here any longer."

"Yes, you do," I said; "that child is going to plague you.  He is not
amiable with persons he does not know, and I would like either to
carry him off or help you to take care of him."

"Not amiable, isn't he?" said Thérence, taking him on her knee.
"Bah! what difficulty is therein managing a little monkey like that?
I never tried, but I don't believe there is much art in it.  Come, my
young man, what do you want?  Don't you want something to eat?"

"No," said Charlot, who was sulky without daring to show it.

"Well, just as you like.  When you want your broth you can ask for
it.  I'll give you all you want, and even play with you, if you get
tired.  Say, do you want me to play with you?"

"No," said Charlot, frowning fiercely.

"Very good; then play alone," said Thérence, quietly, setting him on
the floor.  "I am going into the courtyard to see the pretty little
black horse."

She moved to go; Charlot wept; Thérence pretended not to hear him
till he came to her.  "Dear me! what's the matter?" she said, as if
surprised; "make haste and tell me, for I am going,--I can't wait."

"I want to see the pretty little black horse," sobbed Charlot.

"Then come along; but stop crying, for he runs away when he hears
children cry."

Charlot choked down his sobs, and went off to stroke and admire the
_clairin_.

"Should you like to get on him?" asked Thérence.

"No, I'm afraid."

"I'll hold you."

"No, I'm afraid."

"Very good, then don't get on."

In a minute more he wanted to.

"No," said Thérence, "you'll be afraid."

"No."

"Yes, you will."

"No, no!" said Charlot.

She put him on the horse and led it along, holding the child very
carefully.  After watching them a little while, I saw that Charlot's
whims could not hold out against so quiet a will as Thérence's.  She
had discovered the way to manage a troublesome child at her first
attempt, though it had taken Brulette a year of patience and
weariness; but it really seemed as if the good God had made Thérence
a mother without an apprenticeship.  She had guessed the astuteness
and decision needed, and practised them without worrying herself, or
feeling surprised or impatient at anything.

Charlot, who had thought himself master of everybody, was much
astonished to find that with her he was only master of the power to
sulk, and as she did not trouble herself about that, he soon saw it
was trouble wasted.  At the end of half an hour he became quite
pleasant, asking for what he wanted, and making haste to accept
whatever was offered to him.  Thérence gave him something to eat; and
I admired how, out of her own judgment, she knew just what quantity
to give him, not too much nor yet too little, and how to keep him
occupied beside her while she was occupied in her own affairs,
talking with him as if he were a reasonable being, and treating the
imp with such confidence that, without seeming to question him, he
soon ran over all his little tales, which he usually required much
begging to do when others tried to make him.  He even took such
pleasure in her and was so proud of knowing how to converse that he
got impatient at not knowing the words he wanted, and so invented
some to express his meaning,--and they were not at all silly or
meaningless either.

"What are you doing here, Tiennet?" she said to me suddenly, as if to
let me know she thought I had been there long enough.

As I had already invented about fifty little reasons for staying on,
her question took me short, and I could think of nothing to say
except that I was occupied in looking at her.  "Does that amuse you?"
she exclaimed.

"I don't know," I answered; "You might as well ask the wheat if it
likes to grow in the sunshine."

"Oh, oh! so you are getting mischievous and turning compliments, are
you? but please remember it is lost time with me, for I know nothing
about them and can't make any reply."

"I don't know anything about them either, Thérence.  All that I meant
to say was that to my mind there is nothing so beautiful and saintly
as a young girl taking pleasure in a child's prattle."

"Is not that natural?" said Thérence.  "It seems to me that I get to
the truth of the things of the good God when I look at that little
fellow and talk with him.  I feel that I do not live, usually, as a
woman ought to like to live; but I did not choose my own lot, and the
wandering life I lead is my duty, because I am the support and
happiness of my dear father.  Therefore I never complain, and never
wish for a life which would not be his; only I can understand the
happiness of others; for instance, that of Brulette with her Charlot,
whether he be her own or just the good God's, would be very sweet to
me.  I have not often had a chance to enjoy such amusement, so I take
it when I find it.  Yes, I like the company of this little man, and I
had no idea he was so clever and knew so much."

"And yet, dear, Charlot is only tolerable because Brulette has taken
such pains with him; he will have to improve very much before he is
as amiable as the children God sends good into the world."

"You surprise me," said Thérence.  "If there are nicer children than
he it must be very pleasant to live with them.  But now, that's
enough, Tiennet.  Go away; or they will send after you, and then they
will ask me to go too; and that would, I confess, annoy me, for I am
tired, and would much rather stay quietly here with the little one."

I had to obey; and I departed with my heart full, and topsy-turvy
with ideas that suddenly came into my head about that girl.




TWENTY-FOURTH EVENING.

It was not only Thérence's extreme beauty which filled my thoughts,
but a something, I don't know what, which made her seem to be above
all others.  I was surprised that I had loved Brulette, who was so
unlike her, and I kept asking myself if the one were too frank, or
the other too coy.  I thought Brulette the most amiable; for she had
always something kind to say to her friends, and she knew how to keep
them about her with all sorts of little orders; which flatter young
fellows, for they like to fancy themselves of use.  On the other
hand, Thérence showed you frankly that she did not want you, and even
seemed surprised and annoyed if you paid her any attention.  Both
knew their own value, however; but whereas Brulette took the trouble
to make you feel it, the other seemed only to wish for the same sort
of regard as that she gave you.  I don't know how it was that the
spice of pride hidden under all this seemed to me an allurement which
brought temptation as well as fear.

I found the dance at its height, and Brulette was skimming like a
butterfly in Huriel's arms.  Such ardor was in their faces, she was
so intoxicated within and he without, that it really seemed as if
neither could hear or see anything about them.  The music carried
them away, and I do believe that their feet did not touch the earth
and that their souls were dancing in paradise.  Now, among those who
lead a reel, there are seldom any who have neither love nor some
other wild fancy in their heads, and therefore no attention was paid
to this pair; and there was so much wine, noise, dust, music, and
lively talk in the heated air of the wedding feast that night came on
before any one took much notice of the actions of others.

Brulette merely asked me about Charlot, and why Thérence did not come
and dance; my answers satisfied her, and Huriel did not give her time
to say much about the boy.

I did not feel inclined to dance, for I could not see any pretty
girls; I believe there were plenty, but not one that compared with
Thérence; and I could not get Thérence out of my head.  I stood in a
corner to watch her brother, so as to have something to tell her if
she questioned me.  Huriel had so completely forgotten his troubles
that he was all youth and happiness.  He was well-mated with
Brulette, for he loved pleasure and racket as much as she did when he
was in it, and he carried the day against the other lads, for he
never got tired of dancing.  All the world knows, for it is so in all
lands, that women can floor the men at a reel, and can keep
themselves going while we poor fellows are dying of heat and thirst.
Huriel never cared for eating or drinking, and you would really have
thought he had sworn to surfeit Brulette with her choice amusement;
but I could see beneath the surface that he was doing it for his own
pleasure, and that he would gladly have gone round the world on one
foot could he have kept his airy partner in his arms.

At last, however, some of the youths, beginning to get annoyed that
Brulette refused them, took notice that a stranger had cut them out,
and talk began about it round the tables.  I must tell you that
Brulette, not expecting much amusement, and rather inclined to
despise the young men of that neighborhood on account of their
ill-natured speeches, was not dressed with her usual daintiness.  She
looked more like a little nun than the queen of our parts; and as
others had come to the wedding in gala costumes, she did not produce
the great effect of former days.  Still, she was so animated in
dancing that the company were forced to admit that no one compared
with her; and as those who did not know her questioned those who did,
a great deal of evil as well as good was talked around me.

I listened, wishing to make sure of what was being said, and not
revealing that she was my relation.  I heard the whole story of the
monk and the child, and of Joseph and the Bourbonnais; it was also
told that Joseph was probably not the father of the child, but more
likely that tall fellow, who seemed so sure of his rights that no one
else was allowed to approach her.

"Well," said one, "if it was he and he comes to make reparation,
better late than never."

"Faith!" cried another, "she didn't choose badly.  He is a splendid
fellow, and seems good company."

"After all," said a third, "they make a fine couple, and when the
priest has said his say, their home will be as good as any."

All of which let me know that a woman is never lost if she has good
protection; but it must be the honest and lasting protection of one
man, not the support of hundreds, for the more who meddle in the
matter, the more there are to pull her down.

Just then my aunt took Huriel apart, and bringing him close into my
neighborhood said to him, "I want you to drink a glass of wine to my
health, for it does my heart good to see your fine dancing, which
stirred up the company and made the wedding go off so well."

Huriel seemed not to like to leave Brulette even for a moment, but
the mistress of the house was very peremptory, and he could not help
showing her civility.  They sat down at an empty table, with a candle
between them, face to face.  My aunt Marghitonne was, as I told you,
a very small woman who had never been a fool.  She had the drollest
little face you ever saw, very fair and very rosy, though she was in
the fifties and had brought fourteen children into the world.  I have
never seen such a long nose as hers, with very small eyes sunken each
side of it, sharp as gimlets, and so bright and mischievous that one
couldn't look into them without wishing to laugh and chatter.

I saw, however, that Huriel was on his guard and was cautious about
the wine she poured out for him.  He seemed to feel there was
something quizzical and inquisitive about her, and without knowing
why, he put himself on the defence.  My aunt, who since early morning
had not stopped talking and moving about, had a very pretty taste for
good wine, and had scarcely drunk a glass or two when the end of her
long nose grew as red as a haw, and her broad mouth, with its rows of
narrow white teeth (enough to furnish three ordinary mouths), began
to smile from ear to ear.  However, she was not at all upset as to
judgment, for no woman could be gay without freedom and mischievous
without spite better than she.

"Well, now, my lad," she said, after some general talk which served
only to lead up to her object, "here you are, for good and all,
pledged to our Brulette.  You can't go back now, for what you wished
has happened; everybody is talking, and if you could hear, as I do,
what is being said on all sides you would find that they have saddled
you with the past as well as the future of my pretty niece."

I saw that the words drove a knife into Huriel's heart, and knocked
him from the stars into the brambles; but he put a good face upon the
matter and answered, laughing: "I might wish, my good lady, to have
had her past, for everything about her is beautiful and good; but as
I can have her future only I expect to share it with the good God."

"And right you are," returned my aunt, laughing still and looking
closely at him with her little green eyes, which were very
near-sighted, so that she seemed about to prick his forehead with the
sharp end of her nose.  "When people love they should love right
through, and not be repelled by anything."

"That is my intention," said Huriel, in a curt tone, which did not
disconcert my aunt.

"And that's all the more to your credit," she continued, "because
poor Brulette has more virtue than property.  You know, I suppose,
that you could put her dowry into that glass, and there are no louis
d'or to her account."

"Well, so much the better," said Huriel, "the reckoning is the sooner
made; I don't like to spend my time doing sums."

"And besides," said my aunt, "a child already weaned is less trouble
in a household, especially if the father does his duty, as I'll
warrant he will in this case."

Poor Huriel went hot and cold; but thinking it was meant as a test,
he stood it well, and answered:--

"I'll warrant, too, that the father will do his duty; for there will
be no other father than I for all the children born or to be born."

"Oh! as for that!" she returned, "you won't be the master, I give you
my word."

"I hope I shall," he said, clenching his glass as though he would
crush it in his hand.  "He who abandons his property has no right to
filch it back; and I am too faithful a guardian to allow marauders
about."

my aunt stretched out her skinny little hand and passed it over
Huriel's forehead.  She felt the sweat, though he was very pale, and
then, suddenly changing her look of elfish mischief to one that
expressed the goodness and kindness of her heart, she said: "My lad,
put your elbows on the table and bring your face quite close to my
mouth; I want to give you a good kiss upon your cheek."

Huriel, surprised at her softened manner, obeyed her fancy.  She
raised his thick hair and saw Brulette's token, which he still wore
and which she probably recognized.  Then, bringing her big mouth
close to his ear as if she meant to bite him, she whispered three or
four words into its orifice, but so low that I couldn't catch a
sound.  Then she added out loud, pinching his ear:--

"Here's a faithful ear! but you must admit, it is well-rewarded."

Huriel made but one bound right over the table, knocking over the
glasses and candle before I had time to catch them; in a second he
was sitting by my little aunt and kissing her as if she had been the
mother that bore him; in short, he behaved like a crazy man,
shouting, and singing, and waving his glass, while my aunt, laughing
like a jack-daw, cried as she clinked her glass to his:--

"To the health of the father of your child!  All of which proves,"
she said, turning to me, "that the cleverest folk are often those who
are thought the greatest fools; just as the greatest fools are those
who have thought themselves so clever.  You can say that too, my
Tiennet,--you with your honest heart and your faithful cousinship; I
know that you behaved to Brulette as if you had been her brother.
You deserve to be rewarded, and I rely on the good God to see that
you get your dues; some day or other he will give you, too, your
perfect contentment."

Thereupon she went off, and Huriel, clasping me in his arms, cried
out: "Your aunt is right; she is the best of women.  You are not in
the secret, but that's no matter.  You are only the better friend for
it.  Give me your word, Tiennet, that you will come and work here all
summer with us; for I have got an idea about you, and please God to
help me, you shall thank me for it fine and good."

"If I understand what you mean," I replied, "you have just been
drinking your wine pure, and my aunt has taken the fly out of your
cup; but any idea of yours about me seems more difficult to carry
out."

"Friend Tiennet, happiness can be earned; and if you have no ideas
contrary to mine--"

"I am afraid they are only too like; but ideas won't suffice."

"Of course not; but nothing venture nothing have.  Are you such a
Berrichon that you dare not tempt fate?"

"You set me too good an example to let me be a coward," I answered,
"but do you think--"

Brulette here came up and interrupted us, and we saw by her manner
that she had no suspicion of what had occurred.

"Sit here," said Huriel, drawing her to his knee, as we do in our
parts without any thought of harm, "and tell me, my dear love, if you
have no wish to dance with some one besides me?  You gave me your
word and you have kept it.  That was all I needed to take a
bitterness out of my heart; but if you think people will talk in a
way to hurt your feelings, I will submit to your pleasure and not
dance with you again till you command me."

"Is it because you are tired of my company, Maître Huriel," replied
Brulette, "and that you want to make acquaintance with the other
girls at the wedding?"

"Oh! if you take it that way," cried Huriel, beside himself with joy,
"so much the better!  I don't even know if there are other girls here
besides you, and I don't want to know."

Then he offered her his glass, begging her to touch it with her lips
and then drinking its contents with a full heart; after which he
dashed it to pieces, so that no one should use it again, and carried
off his betrothed, leaving me to think over the matter he had
suggested, about which I felt I'm sure I don't know how.

I had not yet felt myself all over about it; and it had never seemed
to me that my nature was ardent enough to fall in love lightly,
especially with so grave a girl as Thérence.  I had escaped all
annoyance at not being able to please Brulette, thanks to my lively
nature, which was always willing to be diverted; but somehow, I could
not think of Thérence without a sort of trembling in the marrow of my
bones, as if I had been asked to make a sea-voyage,--I, who had never
set foot on a river boat!

"Can it be," thought I, "that I have fallen in love to-day without
knowing it?  Perhaps I ought to believe it, for here is Huriel urging
me on, and his eye must have seen it in my face.  Still I am not
certain, because I feel half-suffocated, and love certainly ought to
be a livelier thing than that."

Thinking over all this, I reached, I couldn't tell you how, the
ruined castle.  That old heap of stones was sleeping in the moonlight
as mute as those who built it; but a tiny light, coming from the room
which Thérence occupied on the courtyard, showed that the dead were
not the only guardians of the building.  I went softly to the window,
which had neither glass nor woodwork, and looking through the leaves
that shaded it, I saw the girl of the woods on her knees saying her
prayers beside the bed, where Charlot was sleeping soundly with his
eyes tightly closed.

I might live a thousand years and I should never forget her face as
it was at that moment.  It was that of a saint; as peaceful as those
they carve in stone for the churches.  I had just seen Brulette,
radiant as the summer sun, in the joy of her love and the whirl of
the dance; and here was Thérence, alone, content, and white as the
moonlight of the springtide sky.  Afar I heard the wedding music; but
that said nothing to the ear of the woodland girl; I think she was
listening to the nightingale as it sang its tender canticle in the
neighboring covert.

I don't know what took place within me; but, all of a sudden, I
thought of God,--a thought that did not often come to me in those
days of youth and carelessness; but now it bent my knees, as by some
secret order, and filled my eyes with tears which fell like rain, as
though a great cloud had burst within my head.

Do not ask me what prayer I made to the good angels of the sky.  I
know it not myself.  Certainly I did not dare to ask of God to give
me Thérence, but I think I prayed him to make me worthier of so great
an honor.

When I rose from the ground I saw that Thérence had finished her
prayer and was preparing for the night.  She had taken off her cap,
and I noticed that her black hair fell in coils to her feet; but
before she had taken the first pin from her garments, believe me if
you will, I had fled as though I feared to be guilty of sacrilege.
And yet I was no fool either, and not at all in the habit of making
faces at the devil.  But Thérence filled my soul with respect as
though she were cousin of the Holy Virgin.

As I left the old castle, a man, whom I had not seen in the shadow of
the great portal, surprised me by saying:

"Hey, friend! tell me if this is, as I think it is, the old castle of
Chassin?"

"The Head-Woodsman!" I cried, recognizing the voice.  And I kissed
him with such ardor that he was quite astonished, for, naturally, he
did not remember me as I did him.  But when he did recollect me he
was very friendly and said:--

"Tell me quick, my boy, if you have seen my children, or if you know
whether they are here."

"They came this morning," I said, "and so did I and my cousin
Brulette.  Your daughter Thérence is in there, very quiet and
tranquil, and my cousin is close by, at a wedding with your dear good
son Huriel."

"Thank God, I am not too late!" said Père Bastien.  "Joseph has gone
on to Nohant expecting to find them there together."

"Joseph!  Did he come with you?  They did not expect you for five or
six days, and Huriel told us--"

"Just see how matters turn out in this world," said Père Bastien,
drawing me out on the road so as not to be overheard.  "Of all the
things that are blown about by the wind, the brains of lovers are the
lightest!  Did Huriel tell you all that relates to Joseph?"

"Yes, everything."

"When Joseph saw Thérence and Huriel starting for these parts, he
whispered something in Huriel's ear.  Do you know what he told him?"

"Yes, I know, Père Bastien, but--"

"Hush! for I know, too.  Seeing that my son changed color, and that
Joseph rushed into the woods in a singular way, I followed him and
ordered him to tell me what secret he had just told Huriel.
'Master,' he replied, 'I don't know if I have done well or ill; but I
felt myself obliged to do it; this is what it is, for I am also bound
to tell you.'  Thereupon he told me how he had received a letter from
friends telling him that Brulette was bringing up a child that could
only be her own.  After telling me all this, with much suffering and
anger, he begged me to follow Huriel and prevent him from committing
a great folly and swallowing a bitter shame.  When I questioned him
as to the age of the child and he had read me the letter he carried
with him, as though it were a remedy for his wounded love, I did not
feel at all sure that it was not written to plague him,--more
especially as the Carnat lad, who wrote the letter (in answer to a
proposal of Joseph's to be properly admitted as a bagpiper in your
parts), seemed to have an ill-natured desire to prevent his return.
Besides, remembering the modesty and proper behavior of that little
Brulette, I felt more and more persuaded that injustice was being
done her; and I could not help blaming and ridiculing Joseph for so
readily believing such a wicked story.  Doubtless I should have done
better, my good Tiennet, to have left him in the belief that Brulette
was unworthy of his love; but I can't help that; a sense of justice
guided my tongue, and prevented me from seeing the consequences.  I
was so displeased to hear an innocent young girl defamed that I spoke
as I felt.  It had a greater effect upon Joseph than I expected.  He
went instantly from one extreme to the other.  Bursting into tears
like a child, he let himself drop on the ground, tearing his clothes
and pulling out his hair, with such anger and self-reproach that I
had great trouble in pacifying him.  Luckily his health has grown
nearly as strong as yours; for a year sooner such despair, seizing
him in this manner, would have killed him.  I spent the rest of the
day and all that night in trying to compose his mind.  It was not an
easy thing for me to do.  On the one hand, I knew that my son had
fallen in love with Brulette in a very earnest way from the day he
first saw her, and that he was only reconciled to life after Joseph
had given up a suit which thwarted his hopes.  On the other hand, I
have always felt a great regard for Joseph, and I know that Brulette
has been in his thoughts since childhood.  I had to sacrifice one or
the other, and I asked myself if I should not do a selfish deed in
deciding for the happiness of my own son against that of my pupil.
Tiennet, you don't know Joseph, and perhaps you have never known him.
My daughter Thérence may have spoken of him rather severely.  She
does not judge him in the same way that I do.  She thinks him
selfish, hard, and ungrateful.  There is some truth in that; but what
excuses him in my eyes cannot excuse him in those of a young girl
like Thérence.  Women, my lad, only want us to love them.  They take
into their hearts alone the food they live on.  God made them so; and
we men are fortunate if we are worthy to understand this."

"I think," I remarked to the Head-Woodsman, "that I do now understand
it, and that women are very right to want nothing else of us but our
hearts, for that is the best thing in us."

"No doubt, no doubt, my son," returned the fine old man; "I have
always thought so.  I loved the mother of my children more than
money, more than talent, more than pleasure or livery talk, more,
indeed, than anything in the world.  I see that Huriel is tarred with
the same brush, for he has changed, without regret, all his habits
and tastes so as to fit himself to be worthy of Brulette.  I believe
that you feel in the same way, for you show it plainly enough.  But,
nevertheless, talent is a thing which God likewise values, for he
does not bestow it on everybody, and we are bound to respect and help
those whom he has thus marked as the sheep of his fold."

"But don't you think that your son Huriel has as much mind and more
talent for music than José?"

"My son Huriel has both mind and talent.  He was received into the
fraternity of the bagpipers when he was only eighteen years old, and
though he has never practised the profession, he has great knowledge
and aptitude for it.  But there is a wide difference, friend Tiennet,
between those who acquire and those who originate; there are some
with ready fingers and accurate memory who can play agreeably
anything they learn, but there are others who are not content with
being taught,--who go beyond all teaching, seeking ideas, and
bestowing on all future musicians the gift of their discoveries.
Now, I tell you that Joseph is one of them; in him are two very
remarkable natures: the nature of the plain, as I may say, where he
was born, which gives him his tranquil, calm, and solid ideas, and
the nature of our hills and woods, which have enlarged his
understanding and brought him tender and vivid and intelligent
thoughts.  He will one day be, for those who have ears to hear,
something more than a mere country minstrel.  He will become a true
master of the bagpipe as in the olden time,--one of those to whom the
great musicians listened with attention, and who changed at times the
customs of their art."

"Do you really think, Père Bastien, that José will become a second
Head-Woodsman of your craft?"

"Ah! my poor Tiennet," replied the old minstrel, sighing, "you don't
know what you are talking about, and I should have hard work to make
you understand it."

"Try to do so, at any rate," I replied; "you are good to listen to,
and it isn't good that I should continue the simpleton that I am."




TWENTY-FIFTH EVENING.

"You must know," began Père Bastien, very readily (for he was fond of
talking when he was listened to willingly), "that I might have been
something if I had given myself wholly up to music.  I could have
done so had I made myself a fiddler, as I thought of doing in my
youth.  I don't mean that one improves a talent by fiddling three
days and nights at a wedding, like that fellow I can hear from here,
murdering the tune of our mountain jig.  When a man has no object
before his mind but money, he gets tired and rusty; but there's a way
for an artist to live by his body without killing the soul within
him.  As every festival brings him in at least twenty or thirty
francs, that's enough for him to take his ease, to live frugally, and
travel about for pleasure and instruction.  That's what Joseph wants
to do, and I have always advised him to do it.  But here's what
happened to me.  I fell in love, and the mother of my dear children
would not hear of marrying a fiddler without hearth or home, always
a-going, spending his nights in a racket and his days in sleeping,
and ending his life with a debauch; for, unhappily, it is seldom that
a man can keep himself straight at that business.  She kept me tied
to the woodsman's craft, and that's the whole story.  I never
regretted my talent as long as she lived.  To me, as I told you, love
is the divinest music.  When I was left a widower with two young
children, I gave myself wholly to them; but my music got very rusty
and my fingers very stiff by dint of handling axe and shears; and, I
confess to you, Tiennet, that if my two children were happily
married, I should quit this burdensome business of slinging iron and
chopping wood, and I would be off, happy and young again, to live as
I liked, seeking converse with angels, until old age brought me back,
feeble but satisfied, to my children's hearth.  And then, too, I am
sick of felling trees.  Do you know, Tiennet, I love them, those
noble old companions of my life, who have told me so many things by
the murmur of their leaves and the crackling of their branches.  And
I, more malignant than the fire from heaven, I have thanked them by
driving an axe into their hearts and laying them low at my feet like
so many dismembered corpses!  Don't laugh at me, but I have never
seen an old oak fall, nor even a young willow, without trembling with
pity or with fear, as an assassin of the works of God.  I long to
walk beneath their shady branches, repulsed no longer as an ingrate,
and listening at last to the secrets I was once unworthy to hear."

The Head-Woodsman, whose voice had grown impassioned, stopped short
and thought a moment; and so did I, amazed not to think him the
madman I should have thought another in his place,--perhaps because
he had managed to put his ideas into me, or possibly because I myself
had had some such ideas in my own head.

"No doubt you are thinking," he resumed, "that we have got a long way
from Joseph.  But you are mistaken, we are all the nearer; and now
you shall understand how it was that I decided, after some
hesitation, to treat the poor fellow's troubles sternly.  I have
often said to myself, and I have seen, in the way his grief affected
him, that he could never make a woman happy, and also that he would
never be happy himself with any woman, unless she could make him the
pride of her life.  For it must be admitted that Joseph has more need
of praise and encouragement than of love and friendship.  What made
him in love with Brulette in the first instance was that she listened
to his music and urged him on; what kept him from loving my daughter
(for his return to her was only pique) was that Thérence requires
affection more than knowledge, and treated him like a son rather than
a man of great talent.  I venture to say that I have read the lad's
heart, and that his one idea has been to dazzle Brulette some day
with his success.  So long as Brulette was held to be the queen of
beauty and dignity in her own country he would, thanks to her, enjoy
a double royalty; but Brulette smirched by a fault, or merely
degraded by the suspicion of one, was no longer his cherished dream.
I, who knew the heart of my son Huriel, I knew he would never condemn
Brulette without a hearing, and that if she had not done anything
wrong he would love her and protect her all the more because she was
misjudged.  So that decided me, finally, to oppose Joseph's love, and
to advise him to think no longer of marriage.  Indeed, I tried to
make him understand that Brulette prefers my son, which is what I
believe myself.  He seemed to give in to my arguments, but it was
only, I think, to get rid of them; for yesterday morning, before it
was light, I saw him making his preparations for departure.  Though
he thought himself cleverer than I, and expected to get off without
being seen, I kept with him until, losing patience, he let out the
whole truth.  I saw then that his anger was great, and that he meant
to follow Huriel and quarrel with him about Brulette, if he found
that Brulette was worth it.  As he was still uncertain on the latter
point, I thought best to blame him and even to ridicule a love like
his which was only jealousy without respect,--gluttony, as one might
say, without appetite.  He confessed I was right; but he went off all
the same, and by that you can judge of his obstinacy.  Just as he was
about to be received into the guild of his art (for an appointment
was made for the competition near Auzances) he abandoned everything,
though certain to lose the opportunity, saying he could get himself
admitted willingly or unwillingly in his own country.  Finding him so
determined that he even came near getting angry with me, I decided to
come with him, fearing some bad action on his part and some fresh
misfortune for Huriel.  We parted only a couple of miles from here at
the village of Sarzay, where he took the road to Nohant, while I came
on here, hoping to find Huriel and reason with him, thinking that if
necessary my legs could still take me to Nohant to-night."

"Luckily, you can rest them to-night," I said; "to-morrow will be
time enough to discuss matters.  But are you really anxious for what
may happen if the two gallants meet?  Joseph was never quarrelsome,
to my knowledge; in fact, I have always seen him hold his tongue when
people showed him their teeth."

"Yes, yes," answered Père Bastien; "but that was in the days when he
was a sickly child and doubted his strength.  There is no more
dangerous water than still water; it is not always healthy to stir
the depths."

"Don't you want to come in to your new abode and see your daughter?"

"No, you said she was resting; I am not anxious about her, I am much
more desirous to know the truth about Brulette; for, though my heart
defends her, still my reason tells me that there may have been some
little thing in her conduct which lays her open to blame; and I feel
I ought to know more before going too far."

I was about to tell him what had happened an hour before, under my
very eyes, between Huriel and my aunt, when Huriel himself appeared,
sent by Brulette, who was afraid Thérence might be unable to get
Charlot to sleep.  Father and son had an explanation, in which
Huriel, begging his father not to ask for a secret he was bound not
to tell, and which Brulette herself was not aware that he knew, swore
on his baptism that Brulette was worthy of his father's blessing.

"Come and see her, dear father," he added; "you can do it very easily
because we are now dancing out of doors, and you need no invitation
to be present.  By the very way she kisses you, you will know that no
girl so sweet and amiable was ever more pure in heart."

"I do not doubt it, my son; and I will go to please you, and also for
the pleasure of seeing her.  But wait a moment, for I want to speak
to you of Joseph."

I thought I had better leave them alone, so I went off to tell my
aunt of Père Bastien's arrival, knowing she would welcome him
heartily and not let him stay outside.  But I found no one in the
house but Brulette.  The whole wedding party, with the music at their
head, had gone to carry the roast to the newly married couple, who
had retired to a neighboring house, for it was past eleven o'clock at
night.  It is an ancient custom, which I have never thought very
nice, to shame a young bride by a visit and joking songs.  Though the
other girls had all gone, with or without malicious intention,
Brulette had had the decency to stay in the chimney-corner, where I
found her sitting, as if keeping watch in the kitchen, but really
taking the sleep she so much needed.  I did not care to disturb her
nor to deprive her of the fine surprise she would feel on waking, at
sight of the Head-Woodsman.

Very tired myself, I sat down at a table, laid my arms on it and my
head on my arms, as you do when you mean to take a five minutes' nap;
but I thought of Thérence and did not sleep.  For a moment only my
thoughts were hazy, and just then a trifling noise made me open my
eyes without lifting my head, and I saw a man enter and walk up to
the chimney.  Though the candles had all been carried off for the
visit to the bride, the fire of fagots which flamed on the hearth
gave light enough to enable me to recognize at once who it was.  It
was Joseph, who no doubt had met some of the wedding guests on his
way to Nohant, and finding where we were, had retraced his steps.  He
was dusty with his journey and carried a bundle on the end of his
stick, which he threw into a corner and then stood stock still like a
mile-stone, looking at Brulette asleep, and taking no notice of me.

The year during which I had not seen him had made as great a change
in him as it had in Thérence.  His health being better than it ever
was, it was safe to call him a handsome man, whose square shoulders
and wiry figure were more muscular than thin.  His face was sallow,
partly from a bilious constitution and partly from the heat of the
sun; and this swarthy tint went singularly well with his large light
eyes, and his long straight hair.  It was still the same sad and
dreamy face; but something bold and decided, showing the harsh will
so long concealed, was mingled in it.

I did not move, wishing to observe the manner in which he approached
Brulette and so judge of his coming meeting with Huriel.  No doubt he
did study the girl's face seeking for truth; and perhaps beneath the
eyelids, closed in quiet slumber, he perceived her peace of heart;
for the girl was sweetly pretty seen at that moment in the blaze from
the hearth.  Her complexion was still bright with pleasure, her mouth
smiled with contentment, and the silken lashes of her closed eyes
cast a soft shadow on her cheeks, which seemed to quiver beneath them
like the sly glances that girls cast on their lovers.  But Brulette
was sound asleep, dreaming no doubt of Huriel, and thinking as little
of alluring Joseph as of repelling him.

I saw that he felt her beauty so much that his wrath hung by a
thread, for he leaned over her and, with a courage I did not give him
credit for, he put his lips quite close to hers and would have
touched them if I, in a sudden rage, had not coughed violently and
stopped the kiss on its way.

Brulette woke up with a start; I pretended to do the same, and Joseph
felt a good deal of a fool between the pair of us, who both asked
what he was doing, without any appearance of confusion on Brulette's
part or of malice on mine.




TWENTY-SIXTH EVENING.

Joseph recovered himself quickly, and showing plainly that he did not
mean to be put in the wrong, he said to Brulette, "I am glad to find
you here.  After a year's absence don't you mean to kiss an old
friend?"

He approached her again, but she drew back, surprised at his singular
manner, and said, "No, José, it is not my way to kiss any lad, no
matter how old a friend he is or how glad I am to see him."

"You have grown very coy!" he said, in an angry and scoffing tone.

"I don't think I have ever been coy with you, Joseph; you never gave
me any reason to be; and as you never asked me to be familiar, I
never had occasion to forbid your kissing me.  Nothing is changed
between us and I do not know why you should now lay claim to what has
never entered into our friendship."

"What an amount of talk and wry faces, all about a kiss," said
Joseph, his anger rising.  "If I never asked for what you were ready
enough to give others it was because I was a young fool.  I thought
you would receive me better now that I am neither a ninny nor a
coward."

"What is the matter with him?" asked Brulette, surprised and even
frightened, and coming close up to me.  "Is it really he, or some one
who looks like him?  I thought I saw our José, but this is not his
speech nor his face nor his friendship."

"How have I changed, Brulette?" began José, a little disconcerted and
already repentant.  "Is it that I now have the courage I once lacked
to tell you that you are to me the loveliest in the world, and that I
have always longed for your good graces?  There's no offence in that,
I hope; and perhaps I am not more unworthy of them than others whom
you allow to hang round you."

So saying, with a return of his vexation, he looked me in the face,
and I saw he was trying to pick a quarrel with whoever would take him
up.  I asked nothing better than to draw his first fire.  "Joseph," I
said, "Brulette is right in thinking you changed.  There is nothing
surprising in that.  We know how we part, but not how we meet again.
You need not be surprised, either, if you find a little change in me.
I have always been quiet and patient, standing by you in all your
difficulties and consoling your vexations; but if you have grown more
unjust than you used to be, I have grown more touchy, and I take it
ill that you should say to my cousin before me that she is prodigal
of her kisses and allows too many young men about her."

Joseph eyed me contemptuously, and put on a really devilish look of
malice as he laughed in my face.  Then he said, crossing his arms,
and looking at me as though he were taking my measure, "Well, is it
possible, Tiennet?  Can this be you?  However, I always did doubt
you, and the friendship you professed--to deceive me."

"What do you mean by that, José?" said Brulette, much affronted and
fancying he had lost his mind.  "Where did you get the right to blame
me, and why are you trying to see something wrong or ridiculous
between my cousin and me?  Are you ill or drunken, that you forget
the respect you owe me and the affection that you know I deserve?"

Joseph drew in his horns, and taking Brulette's hand in his, he said
to her, with his eyes full of tears, "I am to blame, Brulette; yes,
I'm irritable from fatigue and the desire to get here; but I feel
nothing but devotion for you, and you ought not to take it in bad
part.  I know very well that your manners are dignified and that you
exact the respect of everybody.  It is due to your beauty, which, I
see, is greater, not less, than ever.  But you surely will allow that
you love pleasure, and that people often kiss each other when
dancing.  It is the custom, and I shall think it a very good one when
I profit by it; which will be now, for I have learned how to dance
like others, and for the first time in my life I am going to dance
with you.  I hear the bagpipes returning.  Come, you shall see that
all my ill-humor will clear off under the happiness of being your
sweetheart."

"José," replied Brulette, not more than half pleased at this speech,
"you are very much mistaken if you think I still have sweethearts; I
may have been coquettish,--that's my way, and I am not bound to give
account of my actions; but I have also the right and the will to
change my ways.  I no longer dance with everybody, and to-night I
shall not dance again."

"I should have thought," said Joseph, piqued, "that I was not
'everybody,' as you say, to an old friend with whom I made my first
communion, and under whose roof I lived."

The music and the wedding guests returning with a great racket, cut
short their words, and Huriel, also entering, full of eagerness and
taking no notice of Joseph, caught Brulette on his arm and carried
her like a feather to his father, who was waiting outside, and who
kissed her joyously, to the great annoyance of Joseph, who clenched
his fists as he watched her paying the old man the filial attentions
of a daughter.

Creeping up to the Head-Woodsman I whispered that Joseph was there,
in a bad temper, and I proposed that he should draw Huriel aside
while I persuaded Brulette to go to bed.  Joseph, who was not invited
to the wedding, would thus be obliged to go off and sleep at Nohant
or at some other house in Chassin.  The Head-Woodsman thought the
suggestion good, and pretending not to see Joseph, who kept in the
background, he talked apart with Huriel, while Brulette went away to
see in what part of the house she could stow herself for the night.
But my aunt, who had counted on lodging us, did not expect that
Brulette would take it into her head to go to bed before three or
four in the morning.  The young men never go to bed at all on the
first night of a wedding, and do their best to keep up the dance for
three days and three nights running.  If one of them gets tired, he
goes into the hayloft and takes a nap.  As to the girls and women,
they all retire into one room; but generally it is only the old women
and the ugly ones who abandon the dance.

So, when Brulette went up to the room where she expected to find a
place next to some of her relatives, she came upon a crowd of
snorers, among whom not a corner as big as the palm of her hand was
vacant; and the few who woke up told her to come again towards
morning, when they would be ready to go down and serve the tables.
She came back to us and told her difficulty.

"Well, then," said Père Bastien, "you must go and sleep with
Thérence.  My son and I will spend the night here so that no talk can
be made about it."

I declared that in order to avoid giving a pretext for Joseph's
jealousy Brulette could easily slip out with me without saying a
word; and Père Bastien going up to him and plying him with questions,
I took my cousin to the old castle by a back way through my aunt's
garden.

When I returned I found the Head-Woodsman, Joseph, and Huriel at
table together.  They called me, and I sat down to supper with them,
eating, drinking, talking, and singing to avoid an explosion of anger
which might follow on any talk about Brulette.  Joseph, seeing us
determined to keep the peace, controlled himself at first, and even
seemed gay; but he could not help biting as he caressed, and every
joke he made had a sting at the end of it.  The Head-Woodsman tried
to keep down his bile with a measure of wine, and I think Joseph
might willingly have yielded in order to forget himself, if it were
not that wine never affected him.  He drank four times as much as the
rest of us, who had no reason to wish to drown our intelligence, and
yet his ideas were all the clearer and his speech, too.

At last, after some particularly spiteful remarks on the slyness of
women and the treachery of friends, Huriel, striking his fist on the
table and grasping his father's elbow, which for some time past had
been nudging him to keep quiet, said in a decided tone:--

"No, father, excuse me, but I cannot stand any more of this, and it
is much better to say so openly.  I know very well that Joseph's
teeth will be as sharp a year hence as they are now, and though I
have closed my ears to his sayings up to this time, it is right that
they should open now to his unjust remarks and reproaches.  Come,
Joseph, for the last hour I have seen what you mean; you have wasted
a great deal of wit.  Talk plain, I'm listening; say what you have on
your mind, with the whys and the wherefores.  I will answer you
frankly."

"Well, so be it; come to an explanation," said the Head-Woodsman,
reversing his glass and deciding the situation, as he well knew how
to do when it became necessary; "we will have no more drinking if it
is not to be in friendship, for it is ill mixing the devil's venom
with the good God's wine."

"You surprise me, both of you," said Joseph, who had grown yellow to
the whites of his eyes, though he still continued to laugh
vindictively.  "What the devil are you angry about, and why do you
scratch yourselves when nothing is biting you?  I have nothing
against anybody; only I happen to be in the humor to jeer at
everything, and I don't think you are likely to rid me of it."

"Perhaps I could," said Huriel, provoked.

"Try," said Joseph, sneering.

"That's enough!" said the Head-Woodsman, striking the table with his
heavy hand, "Hold your tongues, both of you, and as there is no
frankness in you, Joseph, I shall have enough for the two.  You
misjudged in your heart the woman you wished to love; that is a wrong
that God can pardon, for it is not always easy for a man to be
trustful or distrustful in his friendships; but it is, unfortunately,
a wrong that cannot be repaired.  You fell into that blunder; you
must accept the consequences and submit to them."

"Why so, master?" said Joseph, setting up his back like an angry cat,
"who will tell the wrong to Brulette? she has not known or suffered
from it."

"No one," said Huriel, "I am not a blackguard."

"Then who will tell it?" demanded Joseph.

"Yourself," said Père Bastien.

"What can make me?"

"The consciousness of your love for her.  Doubt never comes singly.
You may get over the first twinge, but there comes a second, which
will issue from your lips at the first words you say to her."

"In fact, I think it has happened already, Joseph," said I, "for this
very evening you offended the person we are speaking of."

"Perhaps I did," he said haughtily, "but that is between her and me.
If I choose that she shall return to me what makes you think she will
not return?  I remember my master's song,--the music is beautiful and
the words are true,--'Gifts are for those who pray.'  Well, Huriel,
go ahead.  Ask in words and I will ask in music, and we will see
whether or no I can't win her back again.  Come, play fair, you who
blame what you call my crooked ways.  The game is between us, and
we'll have no shuffling.  A fine house has more than one door, and
we'll each knock at the one that suits us."

"I am willing," said Huriel, "but you will please to remember one
thing.  I will stand no more fault-finding, whether in jest or
earnest.  If I overlook the past, my good-nature does not go so far
as to allow any more of it."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Joseph, whose bile interfered
with his memory.

"I forbid you to ask," said the Head-Woodsman, "and I command you to
bethink yourself.  If you fight my son you will be none the more
innocent for that, and it will not add to your credit if I withdraw
the forgiveness which, without a word of explanation, my heart has
already granted you."

"Master!" cried Joseph, hot with excitement, "if you think you have
anything to forgive I thank you for your forgiveness; but, in my
opinion, I have done you no wrong.  I never dreamed of deceiving you;
and if your daughter had said yes, I should not have backed down from
my offer.  She is a girl without an equal for sense and uprightness;
I should have loved her, ill or well, but at any rate sincerely and
without betraying her.  She might perhaps have saved me from much
evil and much suffering; but she did not think me worthy of her.
Therefore I am at liberty to court whom I will; and I consider that
the man I trusted and who promised me his help has made haste to take
advantage of my momentary pique to supplant me."

"Your momentary pique lasted a month, Joseph," said Huriel; "be fair
about it,--one month, during which you asked my sister in marriage
three times.  I am forced to believe that you held her in derision;
if you wish to clear yourself of that insult you must admit that I
was not to blame in the matter.  I believed your word; that is the
only wrong I have done; don't give me reason to think it is one I
must repent of."

Joseph kept silence; then, rising, he said, "Yes, you are good at
argument; you are both cleverer than I at that; I have spoken and
acted like a man who does not know what he wants; but you are greater
fools than I if you don't know that, without being mad, we may wish
for two opposite things.  Leave me to be what I am, and I will leave
you to be what you wish to be.  If your heart is honest, Huriel, I
shall soon know it, and if you win the game fairly, I will do you
justice and withdraw without resentment."

"How can you tell if my heart is honest when you have been unable to
judge it rightly hitherto??

"I can tell by what you now say of me to Brulette," replied Joseph.
"You are in a position to prejudice her against me and I cannot do
the same by you."

"Stop!" I said to Joseph, "don't blame any one unjustly.  Thérence
has already told Brulette that you asked her in marriage not a
fortnight ago."

"But nothing further has been or will be told," added Huriel;
"Joseph, we are better than you think us.  We do not want to deprive
you of Brulette's friendship."

The words touched Joseph, and he put out his hand as if to take
Huriel's; but the good intention stopped half-way, and he went off
without another word to any one.

"A hard heart!" cried Huriel, who was too kind himself not to suffer
from this ingratitude.

"No, an unhappy one," said his father.

Struck by the words, I followed Joseph to either scold him or console
him, for he looked as if death were in his eyes.  I was quite as much
displeased with him as Huriel was, but the old habit of pitying and
protecting him was so strong that it carried me after him whether I
would or no.

He walked so rapidly along the road to Nohant that I soon lost sight
of him; but he stopped at the edge of the Lajon, a little pond on a
barren heath.  The place is very dreary, and without shade, except
that of a few stunted trees ill-fed in the poor soil; but the swampy
land around the pond abounded with wild-flowers, and as the white
water-lily and other marsh plants were now in bloom, the place smelt
as sweet as a garden.

Joseph had flung himself down among the reeds, and not knowing that
he was followed but believing himself all alone, he was groaning and
growling at the same time, like a wounded wolf.  I called him, merely
to let him know I was there, for I knew he would not answer me, and I
went straight up to him.

"This is not the right thing at all," I said to him; "you ought to
take counsel with yourself; tears are not reasons."

"I am not weeping, Tiennet," he answered, in a steady voice.  "I am
neither so weak nor so happy that I can find comfort that way.  It is
seldom, in my worst moments, that a tear gets out of my eyes, and it
is fire, not water, that is forcing its way now, for it burns like
live coal.  But don't ask me why; I can't tell why, and I don't want
to seek for the cause of it.  The day of trusting in others is over
with me.  I know my strength, and I no longer need their help.  It
was only given out of pity, and I want no more of it; I can rely in
future on myself.  Thank you for your good intentions.  Thank you,
and please leave me."

"But where are you going to spend the night?"

"I am going to my mother's."

"It is very late, and it is so far from here to Saint-Chartier."

"No matter," he said, rising, "I can't stay here.  We shall meet
to-morrow, Tiennet."

"Yes, at home; we go back tomorrow."

"I don't care where," he said.  "Wherever she is--your Brulette--I
shall find her, and perhaps it will be seen that she has not made her
final choice!"

He went off with a determined air, and seeing that his pride
supported him I offered no further consolation.  Fatigue, and the
pleasure of seeing his mother, and a day or two for reflection might,
I hoped, bring him to reason.  I planned, therefore, to advise
Brulette to stay at Chassin over the next day, and making my way back
to the village with this idea in my head I came upon the
Head-Woodsman and his son, in a corner of the field through which I
was making a short cut.  They were preparing what they called their
bed-clothes; in other words, making ready to sleep on the ground, not
wishing to disturb the two girls in the castle, and really preferring
to lie under the stars at this sweet season of the year.  I liked the
idea, too, for the fresh grass seemed much nicer than the hay of a
barn heated by the bodies of a score of other fellows.  So I
stretched myself beside Huriel, looked at the little white clouds in
the clear sky, smelt the hawthorn odors, and fell asleep, thinking of
Thérence in the sweetest slumber I ever had in my life.

I have always been a good sleeper, and in my youth I seldom wakened
of myself.  My two companions, who had walked a long distance the day
before, let the sun rise without their knowing it, and woke up
laughing to find him ahead of them, which didn't happen very often.
They laughed still more to see how cautious I was not to tumble out
of bed when I opened my eyes and looked about to see where I was.

"Come, up, my boy!" said Huriel; "we are late enough already.  Do you
know something?  It is the last day of May, and it is the fashion in
our parts to tie a nosegay to our sweetheart's door when there was no
chance to do it on the first of the month.  There is no fear that any
one has got ahead of us, because, for one thing, no one knows where
my sister and your cousin are lodging, and for another, it isn't the
custom in this part of the country to leave, as we say, the
_call-again_ bunch.  But we are so late I fear the girls are up, and
if they leave their rooms before the May-bunch is hung to the door
they will cry out upon us for laziness."

"As cousin," I answer, laughing, "I permit you to hang your bunch,
and, as brother, I ask your permission to hang mine; but perhaps the
father won't hear of it with your ears."

"Yes, he will," said Père Bastien.  "Huriel said something to me
about it.  There's no difficulty in trying; succeeding is another
thing.  If you know how to manage it, so much the better, my lad.  It
is your affair."

Encouraged by his friendliness, I rushed into the adjoining copse
with a light heart, and cut off the whole branch of a wild
cherry-tree in full bloom, while Huriel, who had already provided
himself with one of those beautiful silk and gold ribbons which the
women of his country wear beneath their lace coifs, gathered a bunch
of white hawthorn and a bunch of pink and tied them in a nosegay that
was worthy of a queen.

We made but three strides from the field to the castle, where the
silence assured us that the beauties still slept,--no doubt from
having talked half the night.  But imagine our amazement when, on
entering the courtyard, our eyes lighted on a superb nosegay, decked
with silver and white ribbons, hanging to the door we intended to
garland.

"The devil!" cried Huriel, preparing to tear away the offending
bunch, and looking askance at his dog whom he had stationed in the
courtyard.  "Is this the way you guard the house, master Satan?  Have
you made acquaintances already? why didn't you bite the legs of this
Mayday prowler?"

"Stop," said the Head-Woodsman, preventing his son from taking down
the nosegay.  "There is but one person in these parts whom Satan
knows and who also knows our custom of the call-again bunch, for he
has seen it practised among us.  Now, you pledged your word to that
person not to interfere with him.  You must be satisfied to make
yourself acceptable and not undermine him; respect his offering, just
as he, no doubt, would have respected yours."

"Yes, father," replied Huriel, "if I were sure it was he; but it may
be some one else, and the bunch may be intended for Thérence."

I remarked that no one knew Thérence or had even seen her, and
looking closer at the flowers I saw that a mass of white pond-lilies
had been freshly gathered and tied in bunches, and I remembered that
these plants were not common in the neighborhood and grew only in the
Lajon, on the banks of which I had found Joseph lying.  No doubt,
instead of going to Saint-Chartier he had returned upon his steps;
and he must even have waded into the water on the shifting sand of
the pond, which is dangerous, before he could gather such an armful.

"Well, the battle has begun," said Huriel, sighing, as he fastened
his May-bunch to the door with an anxious look that seemed to me very
modest, for he might well have felt sure of success and feared no
one.  I wished I could feel as certain of his sister, and I hung up
my cherry-bough with a beating heart, as if she were just behind the
door all ready to fling it in my face.

And pale I was when the door opened; but it was Brulette who came
first, and gave a kiss for good-morning to Père Bastien, a hand-shake
to me, and a rosy blush of pleasure to Huriel, though she did not
venture to speak to him.

"Oh, father!" cried Thérence, following her and clasping the
Head-Woodsman in her arms; "have you been playing the young man all
night?  Come, come in, and let me give you some breakfast.  But
first, let me look at those nosegays.  Three, Brulette! oh, what a
girl you are! is the procession to last all day?"

"Only two for Brulette," said Huriel; "the third is for you, sister;"
and he gave her my cherry-bough, so full of bloom that it had rained
a white shower all round the door.

"For me?" said Thérence, surprised.  "Then you did it, brother, to
prevent my being jealous of Brulette?"

"Brothers are not so gallant," said Père Bastien.  "Have you no
suspicion of a timid and discreet lover who keeps his mouth shut
instead of declaring himself?"

Thérence looked all round her as if she were trying to see some one
beside me, and when at last her black eyes rested on my discomfited
and idiotic face I thought she was going to laugh, which would have
stabbed me to the heart.  But she did nothing of the kind, and even
blushed a little.  Then, holding out her hand she said: "Thank you,
Tiennet; you have shown that you remember me, and I accept the gift
without giving it other meaning than belongs to a nosegay."

"Well," said Père Bastien, "if you accept it, my daughter, you must
follow the usual custom, and fasten a spray of it to your coif."

"No," said Thérence, "that might displease some of the girls
hereabouts, and I don't want my good Tiennet to repent of having done
me a kindness."

"Oh, that won't displease anybody," I cried; "if it does not annoy
you, it would hugely please me."

"So be it!" she said, breaking off a little twig of my flowers, which
she fastened with a pin to her head.  "We are here in the Chassin,
Tiennet; if we were in your part of the country I should be more
careful, for fear of getting you into trouble with some compatriot."

"You can get me into trouble with all of them, Thérence," I said; "I
ask nothing better."

"As for that," she replied, "you go too fast.  I don't know you well
enough, Tiennet, to say if it would be well for either of us."  Then
changing the subject with that forgetfulness of herself which came so
naturally to her, she said to Brulette: "It is your turn, darling;
what return are you going to make for your two May bunches? which of
them is to deck your cap?"

"Neither, till I know where they came from," replied my prudent
cousin.  "Tell me, Huriel, and keep me from making a mistake."

"I can't tell you," said Huriel, "except that this is mine."

"Then I shall carry it whole," she said, taking it down, "and as to
that bunch of water-flowers, they must feel very much out of place on
a door.  I think they will be happier in the moat."

So saying, she adorned her cap and the front of her dress with
Huriel's flowers, and took the rest into her room; then, returning,
she was about to throw the lilies into the old moat which separated
the courtyard from the park, when Huriel, unwilling that such an
insult should be offered to his rival, stopped her hand.  At this
moment the sound of a bagpipe came from the shrubbery which closed
the little court in front of us, and some one, who had been near
enough to hear every word that had passed, played Père Bastien's air
of the "Three Woodsmen."

He played it first as we knew it, next a little differently, in a
softer and sadder way, then changing it throughout, varying the keys,
adding music of his own, which was not less beautiful, and even
seemed to sigh and to entreat in so tender a manner that we who heard
it could hardly help being touched with compassion.  At last the
player took a stronger and louder tone,--as though it were a song of
reproach and authority, and Brulette, who had gone to the edge of the
moat intending to ding away the lilies, drew back as if terrified by
the anger which was expressed in the sounds.  Then Joseph, shoving
aside the bushes with his feet and shoulders, appeared on the other
side of the moat, still piping, his eyes blazing, and seeming, both
by his looks and by his music, to threaten Brulette with some great
disaster if she did not desist from the insult she was about to offer
him.




TWENTY-SEVENTH EVENING.

"Noble music and a fine player," cried Père Bastien, clapping his
hands when the sounds ceased.  "That is both good and beautiful,
Joseph; it is easy to console yourself for everything when you have
the ball at your feet in that way.  Come over here, and let us
compliment you."

"Nothing consoles for an insult, master," replied Joseph; "and for
the rest of my days there will be a ditch full of thorns between
Brulette and me if she throws my offering into that moat."

"Heaven forbid," cried Brulette, "that I should make such an ill
return for the beautiful nosegay.  Come over here, José; there need
be no thorns between us but those you plant yourself."

Joseph sprang into the courtyard, bursting like a wild boar through
the line of thick-set brambles which divided him from the moat, and
darting across the green slime which filled the bottom of it; then
snatching the flowers from Brulette's hand, he pulled out several,
which he tried to fasten on her head beside Huriel's pink and white
hawthorn-blossoms.  He did it with an air of authority, as though he
had a right to exercise his will.  But Brulette stopped him, saying:--

"One moment, Joseph; I have an idea of my own, and you must submit to
it.  You will soon be received into the bagpipers' guild; now God has
given me a sense of music, enough to let me understand something of
it without ever having learned.  I've a fancy to have a competition
here, and to reward the one who plays best.  Give your bagpipe to
Huriel, and let him make his trial just as you have now made yours."

"Yes, yes, I agree to that entirely," cried Joseph, whose face shone
with defiance.  "It is your turn, Huriel; make the buck-skin warble
like the throat of a nightingale, if you can!"

"That was not in our agreement, Joseph," answered Huriel.  "You
agreed that I should speak, and I have spoken.  I agreed to leave
music, in which you excel me, to you.  Take back your bagpipe, and
speak again in your own language; no one here will weary of hearing
you."

"As you own yourself vanquished," returned Joseph, "I shall play no
more, unless Brulette requests it."

"Play," she said; and while he played in a marvellous way, she wove a
garland of white lilies and tied it with the silver ribbon that bound
the bunch.  When the music ended she went up to Joseph and twisted
the wreath about the pipe of his instrument, saying,--

"José, noblest piper, I receive thee into the guild, and give thee
the prize.  May this wreath bring thee happiness and glory, and prove
to thee the high esteem in which I hold thy great talents."

"Yes, that's all very well," said Joseph.  "Thank you, my Brulette;
now complete my happiness and make me prouder still by wearing one of
the flowers you give me.  Select the finest and put it next your
heart, if you will not wear it on your head."

Brulette smiled and blushed, beautiful as an angel; then she looked
at Huriel, who turned pale, thinking it was all over with him.

"Joseph," she answered, "I have granted you the first of all
triumphs, that of music.  You must be satisfied, and cease to ask for
that of love, which is not won by strength or knowledge, but by the
will of the good God."

Huriel's face lighted, Joseph's darkened.

"Brulette," he cried, "God's will must be as my will!"

"Gently," she said, "He alone is master; and here is one of his
little angels, who must not hear words against our holy religion."

As she spoke she took Charlot, who came bounding after her like a
lamb to its mother, into her arms.  Thérence, who returned to her
room while Joseph was playing, had just taken him up, and the child,
without letting himself be dressed, had run out half-naked to kiss
his darling, as he called Brulette, with a jealous and masterful air
which contrasted amusingly with that of the lovers.

Joseph, who had forgotten his suspicions, concluding he was duped by
young Carnat's letter, drew back on seeing Charlot as though the
child were a snake; and as he watched him kissing Brulette eagerly
and calling her "mamma" and "Charlot's darling," a mist came over his
eyes and he well-nigh swooned away; but almost immediately he sprang
in a burst of anger toward the child, and clutching him brutally,
cried out in a choking voice: "Here's the truth at last!  This is the
trick that has been played upon me, and the mastery of love that has
defeated me!"

Brulette, frightened by Joseph's violence and Charlot's cries, tried
to rescue the child; but Joseph, quite beside himself, pulled him
away, laughing savagely and saying he wanted to look at him with all
his eyes and see the resemblance; so doing he nearly choked the
child, without meaning it, to Brulette's horror, and she, not daring
to add to the boy's danger by attempting to rescue him, turned back
to Huriel, crying,--

"My child, my child! he is killing my poor child!"

Huriel made but one stride; catching Joseph by the nape of the neck,
he held him so tightly and firmly that his arms relaxed and I caught
Charlot from him and gave the half unconscious child back to Brulette.

Joseph nearly fainted too, as much from the violence of his anger as
from the way in which Huriel had handled him.  A fight would
certainly have followed (and the Head-Woodsman had already flung
himself between them) if Joseph had understood what was happening;
but he was unable to consider anything except that Brulette was a
mother, and that both she and we had deceived him.

"You no longer hide it?" he said to her, in a choking voice.

"What are you saying to me?" asked Brulette, who was sitting on the
grass, all in tears, and trying to ease the bruises on Charlot's
arms; "you are a wicked madman, I know that.  Don't come near me, and
never harm this child again or God will curse you."

"One word, Brulette," said Joseph; "if you are his mother, confess
it.  I will pity and forgive you; in fact, I will even defend you, if
necessary.  But if you can only deny it by a lie--I shall despise
you, and forget you."

"His mother?  I, his mother?" cried Brulette, springing up as if to
cast off Charlot.  "You think I am his mother?" she said again,
taking back the poor child, the cause of all the trouble, and
pressing him to her heart.  Then she looked about her with a
bewildered air, and her eyes sought Huriel.  "Can it be possible,"
she cried, "that any one could think such a thing of me?"

"The proof that no one thinks it," cried Huriel, going up to her and
kissing Charlot, "is that we love the child whom you love."

"Say something better than that, brother," cried Thérence, eagerly.
"Say what you said to me yesterday: 'Whether the child is hers or
not, he shall be mine, if she will be mine.'"

Brulette flung both arms round Huriel's neck and hung there like a
vine to an oak.

"Be my master, then," she said; "I never had, and I never will have
another than you."

Joseph watched this sudden understanding, of which he was the cause,
with an anguish and regret that were terrible to see.  The cry of
truth in Brulette's words had convinced him, and he fancied he had
dreamed the wrong he had just done her.  He felt that all was over
between them, and without a word he picked up his bagpipe and fled
away.

Père Bastien ran after him and brought him back, saying:--

"No, no, that is not the way to part after a lifelong friendship.
Bring down your pride, Joseph, and ask pardon of this honest girl.
She is my daughter, their word is now pledged, and I am glad of it;
but she must remain your sister.  A woman forgives a brother for what
she could never pardon in a lover."

"She may pardon me if she can and if she will," said Joseph; "but if
I am guilty, I can receive no absolution but my own.  Hate me,
Brulette; that may be best for me.  I see I have done the one thing
that was needed to lose your regard.  I can never get it back; but if
you pity me, don't tell me so.  I ask nothing further of you."

"All this would not have happened," said Brulette, "if you had done
your duty, which was to go and see your mother.  Go now, Joseph; but,
above all, don't tell her what you have accused me of.  She would die
of grief."

"My dear daughter," said the Head-Woodsman, still detaining Joseph,
"I think we do better not to scold children until their minds are
quiet.  Otherwise, they take things crookedly and do not profit by
rebuke.  To my thinking Joseph has times of aberration; and if he
does not make honorable amends as readily as others do, it is perhaps
because he feels his wrong-doing and suffers more from his own
self-blame than from the blame of others.  Set him an example of good
sense and kindness.  It is not difficult to forgive when we are
happy, and you ought to be content to be loved as you are here.  More
love you could not have; for I now know things of you which make me
hold you in such esteem that here are a pair of hands that will wring
the neck of whoever insults you deliberately.  But that was not the
nature of Joseph's insult, which came from excitement, not
reflection, and shame followed so swiftly that his heart is now
making you full reparation.  Come, Joseph, add your word to mine; I
ask no more than that of you; and Brulette too, will be satisfied,
will you not, my daughter?"

"You don't know him, father, if you think he will say that word,"
replied Brulette; "but I won't exact it, because I want, above all
things, to satisfy you.  And so, Joseph, I forgive you, though you
don't care much about that.  Stay and breakfast with us, and talk
about something else; what has happened is forgotten."

Joseph said not a word, but he took off his hat and laid down his
stick as if meaning to stay.  The two girls re-entered the house to
prepare the meal, and Huriel, who took great care of his horse, began
to groom and currycomb him.  I looked after Charlot, whom Brulette
handed over to my keeping; and the Head-Woodsman, wishing to divert
Joseph's mind, talked music, and praised the variations he had given
to his song.

"Never speak to me of that song again," said Joseph; "it can only
remind me of painful things, and I wish to forget it."

"Well then," said Père Bastien, "play me something of your own
composition, here and now, just as the thought comes to you."

Joseph led the way into the park, and we heard him in the distance
playing such sad and plaintive airs that his soul seemed really
prostrate with contrition and repentance.

"Do you hear him?" I said to Brulette; "that is certainly his way of
confessing, and if sorrow is a reparation, he gives you of his best."

"I don't think there is a very tender heart beneath that rough pride
of his," replied Brulette.  "I feel, just now, like Thérence; a
little tenderness is more attractive to me than much talent.  But I
forgive him; and if my pity is not as great as Joseph wants to make
it by his music, it is because I know he has a consolation of which
my indifference cannot deprive him,--I mean the admiration which he
and others feel for his talents.  If Joseph did not care for that
more than for love or friendship, his tongue would not now be dumb
and his eye dry to the reproof of friendship.  He is quite capable of
asking for what he wants."

"Well," said the Head-Woodsman, returning alone from the park, "did
you hear him, my children?  He said all he could and would say, and,
satisfied to have drawn tears from my old eyes, he has gone away
tranquillized."

"But you could not keep him to breakfast," said Thérence, smiling.

"No," answered her father; "he played too well not to be three parts
comforted; and he prefers to go away in that mood, rather than after
some folly he might be led into saying or doing at table."




TWENTY-EIGHTH EVENING.

We ate our meal in peace, feeling relieved of the apprehensions of
the night before as to the quarrel between Joseph and Huriel: and, as
Thérence plainly showed, both in Joseph's presence and in his
absence, that she had no feeling, good or ill, about the past, I
indulged, as did Huriel and Fere Bastien, in tranquil and joyous
thoughts.  Charlot, finding that everybody petted him, began to
forget the man who had frightened and bruised him.  Every now and
then he would start and look behind him at some trifling noise, but
Thérence laughingly assured him the man was safely gone and would not
return.  We seemed like a family party, and I thought to myself,
while courting Thérence with the utmost deference, that I would make
my love less imperious and more patient than Joseph's.

Brulette seemed anxious and overcome, as though cut to the heart by a
foul blow.  Huriel was uneasy about her, but the Head-Woodsman, who
knew the human soul in all its windings, and who was so good that his
face and his words poured balm into every wound, took her little
hands in his and drew her pretty head to his breast, saying, at the
end of the meal:--

"Brulette, we have one thing to ask of you, and though you look so
sad and distressed, my son and I will venture to make our request
now.  Won't you give us a smile of encouragement?"

"Tell me what it is, father, and I will obey you," answered Brulette.

"Well, my daughter, it is that you will present us to-morrow to your
grandfather, so that he may be asked to accept Huriel as a grandson."

"Oh, it is too soon, father," cried Brulette, shedding a few more
tears, "or rather, it is too late; if you had told me to do so an
hour ago, before Joseph uttered those words, I would gladly have
consented.  But now, I confess, I should be ashamed to accept so
readily the love of an honest man, when I find I am no longer
supposed to be an honest girl.  I knew I had been blamed for
coquetry.  Your son himself twitted me about it a year ago.  Thérence
blamed me,--though, for all that, she gave me her friendship.  So,
seeing that Huriel had the courage to leave me without asking for
anything, I made a great many reflections in my own mind.  The good
God helped me by sending me this child, whom I did not like at first
and might possibly have rejected, if my sense of duty had not been
mixed with a sort of idea that I should be better worthy of being
loved through a little suffering and self-denial than for my chatter
and my pretty clothes.  I thought I could atone for my thoughtless
years and trample my love for my own little person underfoot.  I knew
that I was criticised and neglected, but I consoled myself with the
thought: 'If he comes back to me he will know that I do not deserve
to be blamed for getting serious and sensible.'  But now I have heard
something very different, partly through Joseph's conduct, partly by
Thérence's remark.  It was not Joseph only who thought I had gone
astray, but Huriel also, or his great heart and his strong love would
have had no need to say to his sister yesterday: 'Guilty or not
guilty, I love her, and will take her as she is.'  Ah, Huriel!  I
thank you; but I will not let you marry me till you know me.  I
should suffer too much to see you blamed, as you doubtless would be,
on my account.  I respect you too much to let it be said that you
take upon yourself the paternity of a foundling.  I must indeed have
been light in my behavior, or such an accusation could never have
been made against me!  Well, I wish you to judge me now by my
every-day conduct; I want you to be sure that I am not only a gay
dancer at a wedding but the good guardian of my duty in my home.  We
will come and live here, as you desire it; and in a year from now, if
I am not able to prove to you that my care of Charlot need not cause
me to blush, I shall at least have given you by my actions a proof
that I am reasonable in mind and sound in conscience."

Huriel snatched Brulette from his father's arms, and reverently
kissed the tears that were flowing from her beautiful eyes; then he
gave her back to Père Bastien, saying:--

"Bless her, my father; for you can now judge if I told you false when
I said she was worthy of your blessing.  The dear golden tongue has
spoken well, and there is no answer to make to it, unless it be that
we want neither year nor day of trial, but desire to go this very
evening and ask her of her grandfather; for to pass another night
still doubtful of his consent is more than I can bear, and to get it
is all I need to make me sovereign of the world."

"See what has happened to you by asking for a respite," said Père
Bastien to Brulette.  "Instead of asking your grandfather to-morrow,
it seems it must be to-night.  Come, my child, you must submit; it is
the punishment of your naughty conduct in times gone by."

Contentment overspread her sweet face, and the hurt she had received
from Joseph was forgotten.  However, just as we left the table,
another hesitation seized her.  Charlot, hearing Huriel address the
Head-Woodsman as father, called him so himself, and was kissed and
fondled for it, but Brulette was a trifle vexed.

"Wouldn't it be best," she said, "to take the trouble to invent
parents for the poor child; every time he calls me mother it seems
like a stab to those I love."

We were beginning to reassure her on this point when Thérence said:
"Speak low; some one is listening to us;" and following her glance
toward the porch, we saw the end of a stick resting on the ground,
and the bulging side of a full sack, showing that a beggar was there,
waiting till some one took notice of him, and hearing things that he
ought not to hear.

I went up to the intruder and recognized Brother Nicolas, who came
forward at once and admitted without hesitation that he had been
listening for the last quarter of an hour, and had been very well
pleased with what he had heard.

"I thought I knew Huriel's voice," he said, "but I so little expected
to find him on my rounds that I should not have been certain, my dear
friends, that it was he, but for some things which you have been
saying, in which, as Brulette knows, I have a right to intrude."

"We know it too," said Huriel.

"Do you?" exclaimed the monk.  "Well, that's as it should be."

"And the reason is," said Huriel to Brulette, "that your aunt told me
everything last night.  So you see, dearest, I don't deserve all the
credit you give me."

"Yes," said Brulette, much comforted, "but yesterday morning!  Well,
since everything is known," she added, turning to the monk, "what do
you advise me to do, Brother Nicolas?  You have been employed on
Charlot's account; can't you find some story to spread about to cover
the secret of his parentage and repair the harm done to my
reputation?"

"Story?" said the friar.  "I, advise and abet a lie?  I am not one of
those who damn their souls for the love of the young girls, my little
one.  I should gain nothing by it.  You must be helped some other
way; and I have already been working at it more than you think.  Have
patience; all will come out right, as it did in another matter,
where, as Maître Huriel knows, I have not been a bad friend to him."

"I know that I owe you the peace and safety of my life," said Huriel.
"People may say what they like of monks, I know one, at least, for
whom I would be drawn and quartered.  Sit down, Brother, and spend
the day with us.  What is ours is yours, and the house we are in is
yours too."

Thérence and the Head-Woodsman were showing their hospitality to the
good friar, when my aunt Marghitonne came hurrying up, and would not
let us stay anywhere but with her.  She said the wedding party were
going to perform the "cabbage ceremony;" which is an old-fashioned
foolery practised the day after the marriage; the procession, she
said, was already forming and was coming round our way.  The company
drank, and sang, and danced at each stopping-place.  It was
impossible for Thérence now to keep aloof, and she accepted my arm to
go and meet the crowd, while Huriel escorted Brulette.  My aunt took
charge of the little one, and the Head-Woodsman marched off with the
monk, who was easily persuaded into joining a jovial company.

The fellow who played the part of gardener, or as we still say among
us, the pagan, seated on a hand-barrow, was decorated in a style that
astonished everybody.  He had picked up near the park a beautiful
garland of waterlilies tied with a silver ribbon, which he had bound
about his flaxen poll.  It didn't take us much time to recognize
Joseph's bunch, which he had dropped or thrown away on leaving us.
The ribbons were the envy of all the girls of the party, who
deliberated how to get possession of them unspoiled; at last,
flinging themselves on the pagan, they snatched them away from him
and divided the booty, though in defending himself he managed to kiss
more than one with a mouth that was covered with foam.  So scraps of
Joseph's ribbon glittered all day in the caps of the prettiest girls
in the neighborhood, and came to a much better end than their owner
thought for when he left his bunch in the dust of the road.

This farce, played from door to door through the village, was as
crazy as usual, ending with a fine repast and dancing till twilight.
After which, we all took leave, Brulette and I, the Head-Woodsman,
Thérence, and Huriel, and started for Nohant, with the monk at our
head, leading the _clairin_, on which Charlot was perched, tipsy with
excitement at what he had seen, laughing like a monkey, and trying to
sing as he had heard others do all that day.

Though the young people of the present age have degenerated wofully,
you must often have seen girls in their teens tramping fifteen miles
in the morning and as much more in the evening in the hottest
weather, for a day's dancing, and so you can easily believe that we
arrived at home without fatigue.  Indeed, we danced part of the way
along the road, we four; the Head-Woodsman playing his bagpipe, and
the friar declaring we were crazy, but clapping his hands to excite
us on.

We reached Brulette's door about ten at night, and found Père Brulet
sound asleep in his bed.  As he was quite deaf and slept hard,
Brulette put the baby to bed, served us a little collation, and
consulted with us whether to wake him before he had finished his
first nap.  However, turning over on his side, he saw the light,
recognized his granddaughter and me, seemed surprised at the others,
and sitting up in bed as sober as a judge, listened to a statement
the Head-Woodsman made to him in a few words, spoken rather loud but
very civilly.  The monk, in whom Père Brulet had the utmost
confidence, followed in praise of the Huriel family, and Huriel
himself declared his wishes and all his good intentions both present
and to come.

Père Brulet listened without saying a word, and I began to fear he
had not understood; but no such thing; though he seemed to be
dreaming, his mind was really quite clear, and he presently answered
discreetly that he recognized in the Head-Woodsman the son of a
former friend; that he held the family in much esteem, and considered
Brother Nicolas as worthy of all confidence; and, above all, he
trusted in the sense and good judgment of his granddaughter.  Then he
went on to say that she had not delayed her choice and refused the
best offers of the neighborhood to commit a folly in the end, and
that if she wished to marry Huriel, Huriel would certainly be a good
husband.

He spoke in a collected manner: yet his memory failed him on one
point, which he recalled soon after, as we were about to take leave,
namely, that Huriel was a muleteer.

"That is the only thing that troubles me," he said.  "My girl will be
so lonely at home by herself for three-quarters of the year."

We satisfied him at once with the news that Huriel had left the craft
and become a woodsman; and thereupon he readily agreed to the plan of
working in the woods of Chassin during the summer months.

We parted, all well pleased with one another.  Thérence stayed with
Brulette, and I took the others to my own house.

We learned the next evening, through the monk, who had been begging
about all day, that Joseph had not gone near the village of Nohant,
but had spent an hour with his mother at Saint-Chartier, after which
he started to go round the neighborhood and collect all the bagpipers
for a meeting, at which he would demand a competition for admission
to the craft and the right to practise the calling.  Mariton was much
troubled by this determination, believing that the Carnats, father
and son, and all the bagpipers of the country round, who were already
more in number than were needed, would oppose it and cause him both
trouble and injury.  But Joseph would not listen to her, still saying
that he was resolved to get her out of service and take her to some
distant place to live with him, though she seemed not as much
inclined to that idea as he had hoped.

On the third day, all our preparations having been made, and Huriel
and Brulette's first banns published in the parish church, we started
to return to Chassin.  It was like departing on a pilgrimage to the
ends of the earth.  We were obliged to carry furniture, for Brulette
was determined that her grandfather should lack for nothing; so a
cart was hired and the whole village opened its eyes very wide to see
the entire contents of the house going off, even to the baskets.  The
goats and the hens went too, for Thérence was delighted at the idea
of taking care of them; never having known how to manage animals, she
wanted to learn, as she said, when the opportunity offered.  This
gave me the chance to propose myself in jest for her management, as
the most docile and faithful animal of the flock.  She was not
annoyed, but gave me no encouragement to pass from jest to earnest.
Only, it did seem to me that she was not displeased to find me
cheerfully leaving home and family to follow her; and that if she did
little to attract me she certainly did still less to repulse me.

Just as old Brulet and the women, with Charlot, were getting into the
cart (Brulette very proud of going off with such a handsome lover, in
the teeth of all the lovers who had misjudged her), the friar came up
to say good-bye, adding for the benefit of inquisitive ears: "As I am
going over to your parts, I'll ride a bit of the way with you."

He got up beside Père Brulet, and at the end of the third mile, in a
shady road, he asked to be set down.  Huriel was leading the
_clairin_, which was a good draught horse as well as a pack horse,
and the Head-Woodsman and I walked in front.  Seeing that the cart
lagged behind, we turned back, thinking there might have been an
accident, and found Brulette in tears, kissing Charlot, who clung to
her screaming because the friar was endeavoring to carry him off.
Huriel interceded against it, for he was so troubled at Brulette's
tears that he came near crying himself.

"What is the matter?" said Père Bastien.  "Why do you wish to send
away the child, my daughter?  Is it because of the notion you
expressed the other day?"

"No, father," replied Brulette, "his real parents have sent for him,
and it is for his good to go.  The poor little fellow can't
understand that; and even I, though I do understand it, my heart
fails me.  But as there are good reasons why the thing should be done
without delay, give me courage instead of taking it away from me."

Though talking of courage she had none at all against Charlot's tears
and kisses, for she had really come to love him with much tenderness;
so Thérence was called in to help her.  Every look and tone of the
woodland girl conveyed such a sense of her loving-kindness that the
stones themselves would have been persuaded, and the child felt it,
though he did not know why.  She succeeded in pacifying him, making
him understand that Brulette was leaving him for a short time only,
so that Brother Nicolas was able to carry him off without using
force; and the pair disappeared to the tune of a sort of rondo which
the monk sang to divert his charge, though it was more like a church
chant than a song.  But Charlot was pleased, and when their voices
were lost in the distance that of the monk had drowned his expiring
moans.

"Come, Brulette, start on," said Père Bastien.  "We love you so well
we can soon console you."

Huriel jumped on the shaft to be near her, and talked to her so
gently all the way that she said to him just before we arrived:
"Don't think me inconsolable, my true friend.  My heart failed me for
a second; but I know where to turn the love I felt for that child,
and where I shall find the happiness he gave me."

It did not take us long to settle down in the old castle and even to
feel at home in it.  There were several habitable chambers, though
they hardly looked so, and at first we thought them likely to fall
about our heads.  But the ruins had so long been shaken by the wind
without collapsing that we felt they might outlast our time.

Aunt Marghitonne, delighted to have us near her, furnished the
household with the various little comforts to which we were
accustomed, and which the Huriel family were coaxed with some
difficulty into sharing with us, for they were not used to such
things and cared very little for them.  The Bourbonnais wood-cutters,
whom the Head-Woodsman had engaged, arrived duly, and he hired others
in the neighborhood.  So that we made quite a colony, quartered
partly in the village and partly in the ruins, working cheerfully
under the rule of a just man, who knew what it was to spare over-work
and to reward the willing workman, and assembling every night in the
courtyard for the evening meal; relating stories and listening to
them; singing and frolicking in the open air, and dancing on Sundays
with all the lads and lasses of the neighborhood, who were glad
enough to get our Bourbonnais music, and who brought us little gifts
from all parts, showing us a deal of attention.

The work was hard on account of the steep slopes on which the forest
grew, which rose straight from the river, and made the felling a very
dangerous matter.  I had had experience of the quick temper of the
Head-Woodsman in the woods of Alleu.  As he was employing none but
choice workmen for the felling, and the choppers understood the
cutting up, nothing happened to irritate him; but I was ambitious to
become a first-class chopper in order to please him, and I dreaded
lest my want of practice should once more make him call me unhandy
and imprudent, which would have mortified me cruelly in presence of
Thérence.  So I begged Huriel to take me apart and show me how to
work and to let me watch him at the business.  He was quite willing
to oblige me, and I went at it with such a will that before long I
surprised the master himself by my ability.  He praised me, and even
asked me before his daughter why I took hold so valiantly of a
business I had no occasion for in my own country.  "Because," I
replied, "I am not sorry to know how to earn my living wherever I am.
Who knows what may happen?  If I loved a woman who wanted me to live
in the depths of the woods, I could follow her, and support her there
as elsewhere."

To prove to Thérence I was not so self-indulgent as perhaps she
thought, I practised sleeping on the bare ground, and living
frugally; trying to become as hardy a forester as the rest of them.
I did not find myself any the worse for it; in fact I felt that my
mind grew more active and my thoughts clearer.  Many things that I
did not at first understand without long explanations, unravelled
themselves little by little, of their own accord, so that Thérence
had no longer any occasion to smile at my stupid questions.  She
talked to me without getting weary and appeared to feel confidence in
my judgment.

Still, a full fortnight went by before I felt the slightest hope of
success; though when I bemoaned myself to Huriel that I dared not say
a word to a girl who seemed so far above me that she could never so
much as look at me, he replied,--

"Don't worry, Tiennet; my sister has the truest heart in existence;
and if, like all young girls, she has her fanciful moments, there is
no fancy in her head which will not yield to the love of a noble
truth and an honest devotion."

His father said the same, and together they lent me courage; and
Thérence found me so good an attendant, I watched so closely that no
pain, fatigue, or annoyance should touch her from any cause within my
power to control, and I was so careful never to look at another
girl,--indeed I had little desire to,--in short, I behaved myself
with such honest respect, showing her plainly on what a pinnacle I
set her, that her eyes began to open; and several times I saw her
watch how I went beforehand of her wishes with a softened, reflective
look, and then reward me with thanks of which, I can tell you, I was
proud enough.  She was not accustomed, like Brulette, to have her
wishes anticipated, and would never have known, like her, how to
encourage it prettily.  She seemed surprised that any one thought of
her; and when it did happen, she showed such a sense of obligation
that I never felt at my ease when she said to me with her serious air
and guileless frankness, "Really, Tiennet, you are too kind," or
perhaps, "Tiennet, you take too much trouble for me; I wish I could
take as much for you some day."

One morning she was speaking to me in this way before a number of
woodcutters, and one of them, a handsome Bourbonnais lad, remarked in
a low tone that she showed a deal of interest in me.

"Certainly I do, Leonard," she replied, looking at him with a
confident air.  "I feel the interest that is due to him for all his
kindness and friendship to me and mine."

"Don't you know that every one would do as he does," remarked
Leonard, "if they thought they would be paid in the same coin?"

"I would try to be just to everybody," she replied, "if I felt a
liking or a need for everybody's attentions.  But I don't; and to one
of my disposition the friendship of one person suffices."

I was sitting on the turf beside her as she said this, and I took her
hand in mine, without daring to retain it more than a second.  She
drew it away, but as she did so she let it rest a moment on my
shoulder in sign of confidence and relationship of soul.

However, things still went on in this way, and I began to suffer
greatly from the reserve between us,--all the more because the lovers
Huriel and Brulette were so tender and happy, and the contrast
grieved my heart and troubled my spirit.  Their day of joy was
coming, but mine was not within sight.




TWENTY-NINTH EVENING.

One Sunday--it was that of the last publication of Brulette's
banns--the Head-Woodsman and his son, who had seemed all day to be
consulting privately, went off together, saying that a matter
connected with the marriage called them to Nohant.  Brulette, who
knew all about the arrangements for her wedding, was a good deal
surprised at their sudden activity, and still more that they told her
nothing about it.  She was even inclined to pout at Huriel, who said
he should be absent for twenty-four hours; but he would not yield,
and managed to pacify her by letting her think he was only going on
her business and planning to give her some pleasant surprise.

But Thérence, whom I watched narrowly, seemed to me to make an effort
to hide her uneasiness, and as soon as her father and Huriel had
started, she carried me off into the little park and said:--

"Tiennet, I am worried to death, and I don't know what can be done to
remedy matters.  Listen to what has happened, and tell me if we can
do anything to prevent harm.  Last night as I lay awake I heard my
father and brother agreeing to go and protect Joseph, and from what
they said I made out that Joseph, though very ill-received by the
bagpipers of your parts, to whom he applied for admission to the
guild, is determined to insist on admittance,--a thing that they dare
not refuse him openly without having put his talents to the test.  It
appears that the younger Carnat has also applied for admittance in
place of his father, who retires; and his trial was to take place
before the corporation this very day; so that Joseph has put himself
forward to interfere with a claim that was not to be contested, and
which was promised and half-granted in advance.  Now, some of our
wood-cutters who frequent the wine-shops have overheard certain
wicked plans which the bagpipers of your neighborhood are making; for
they are resolved to eject Joseph, if they can, by sneering at his
music.  If there was no greater risk than his having to bear
injustice and defeat, I should not be so uneasy as you see me; but my
father and brother, who belong to the guild and have a voice in all
proceedings, feel it their duty to be present at this competition
solely to protect Joseph.  And, more than that, there was something I
could not make out, because the guild have certain secret terms among
themselves which my father and brother used, and which I did not
understand.  But however one looks at it, I am sure they are going
into danger, for they carried under their blouses those little
single-sticks, the harm of which you have already seen, and they even
sharpened their pruning-hooks and hid them under their clothes,
saying to each other early this morning, 'The devil is in that lad;
he can neither be happy himself nor let others be.  We must protect
him, however; though he is obstinately rushing among the wolves,
without thinking of his own skin or that of others.'  My brother
complained, saying he did not want to break anybody's head or have
his own broken just as he was going to be married.  To which my
father replied that there was no use in anticipating evil; what one
had to do was to go where humanity required us to help our neighbor.
As they named Leonard among those who had overheard the malicious
talk, I questioned him hastily just now, and he told me that Joseph,
and consequently those who support him, have been threatened for a
week or more, and that your bagpipers talk of not only refusing him
admittance at this competition, but also of depriving him of the wish
and the power to try again.  I know, from having heard it spoken of
as a child when my brother was admitted, that the candidates must
behave boldly and endure all sorts of trials of their strength and
courage.  With us, the bagpipers lead a wandering life and do not
make their music so much of a business as yours do; therefore they
don't stand in each other's way and never persecute the candidates.
It seems, from what Leonard told me and from my father's
preparations, that here it is different, and that such matters end in
fights which last till one or the other side gives up.  Help me,
Tiennet, for I am half-dead with fear and anxiety.  I dare not rouse
our wood-cutters; if my father thought I had overheard and betrayed
the secrets of the guild he would deny me all trust and confidence in
future.  He expects me to be as brave as any woman can be in danger;
but ever since that dreadful Malzac affair, I own to you I have no
courage at all, and that I am tempted to fling myself into the middle
of the fight, so much do I dread the results for those I love."

"And you call that want of courage, my brave girl?" I replied.  "Now
don't be troubled and leave me to act.  The devil will be very
cunning if I can't discover for myself, without suspicion falling on
you, what those bagpipers are about; and if your father blames me, if
he even drives me away and refuses the happiness I have been hoping
to win,--I shall not care, Thérence!  So long as I bring him or send
him safe back to you, and Huriel also, I shall have my reward even if
I never see you again.  Good-bye; don't give way to anxiety; say
nothing to Brulette, for she would lose her head.  I know what should
be done.  Look as if you knew nothing.  I take it all on my
shoulders."

Thérence flung herself on my breast and kissed me on both cheeks with
the innocence of a pure girl; so, filled to the brim with courage and
confidence, I went to work.

I began by finding Leonard, whom I knew to be a good fellow, very
bold and strong, and much attached to Père Bastien.  Though he was
rather jealous of me on the score of Thérence, he entered into my
scheme, and I questioned him as to the number of bagpipers who were
to meet for the competition, and the place where we could watch the
assembly.  He could not tell me anything under the first head; as to
the second he knew that the trial was not to be in secret, and the
place appointed was Saint-Chartier, in Benoît's tavern, an hour after
vespers.  The deliberation on the merits of the candidates was all
that was to be held in secret, and even that was to be in the same
house, and the decision was to be rendered in public.

I thought of half a dozen resolute lads fully able to keep the peace
if, as Thérence feared, the matter should end in a quarrel; and I
felt that justice being on our side, plenty of other fellows would
come forward to support us.  So I chose four who consented to follow
me,--making, with Leonard and myself, six in all.  They hesitated
only on one point,--the fear of displeasing their master, the
Head-Woodsman, by giving him help he had never asked for; but I swore
to them that he should never know that they gave it deliberately, for
we could easily pretend we were there by accident, and then, if any
one were blamed, they could throw it all on me, who had asked them
there to drink without their knowing what was going on.

So it was all agreed, and I went to tell Thérence that we were fully
prepared against every danger.  After which we started, each carrying
a stout cudgel, and reached Saint-Chartier at the hour named.

Benoît's wine-shop was so full there was no turning round in it, and
we were obliged to take a table outside.  Indeed I was not sorry to
leave my contingent there (exhorting them not to get drunk), and to
slip myself into the shop, where I counted sixteen professional
bagpipers, without reckoning Huriel and his father, who were sitting
at table in a dark corner with their hats over their eyes, and all
the less likely to be recognized because few of those present had met
them in our parts.  I pretended not to see them, and speaking so that
they could hear me, I asked Benoît what this meeting of bagpipers was
for, as if I had not heard a word about it, and did not understand
its object.

"Why, don't you know," said the host, who was getting over his
illness but was pallid and much reduced, "that your old friend
Joseph, the son of my housekeeper, is going to compete with Carnat's
son?  I must say it is great folly on his part," added Benoît,
lowering his voice.  "His mother is much distressed, and fears the
ill-will that grows out of these competitions.  Indeed, she is so
troubled that she has lost her head, and the customers are
complaining, for the first time, that she does not serve them
properly."

"Can I help you?" I said, glad to get a reason for staying inside and
going about among the tables.

"Faith, my boy," he replied, "if you really mean it, you can do me
good service; for I don't deny that I am still pretty weak, and I
can't stoop to draw the wine without getting giddy.  Here is the key
of the cellar.  Take charge of filling and bringing in the jugs.  I
hope that Mariton and her scullions can do the rest."

I didn't need telling twice; I ran out for an instant to tell my
companions of the employment I had taken for the good of the cause,
and then I went to work as tapster, which enabled me to see and hear
everything.

Joseph and the younger Carnat were at either end of a long table
feasting the guild, each taking the guests half-way down.  There was
more noise than pleasure going on.  The company were shouting and
singing to avoid talking, for they were all on the defensive, and it
was easy to feel the jealousies and self-interests heaving below.  I
soon observed that all the bagpipers were not, as I had feared, in
favor of the Carnats against Joseph; for, no matter how well a guild
is managed, there are always old grudges which set members by the
ears.  But I also saw, little by little, that there was no comfort
for Joseph in this, because those who did not want his rival, wanted
him still less, and hoped to get the number of professional bagpipers
lessened by the retirement of old Carnat.  I even fancied that the
greater number thought in this way, and I concluded that both
candidates would be rejected.

After feasting for about two hours, the competition began.  Silence
was not demanded; for bagpipes in a room are instruments that don't
trouble themselves about other noises, and the shouters and talkers
soon gave up the contest.  A crowd of people pressed in from outside.
My five comrades climbed on the open window sill, and I went and
stood near them.  Huriel and his father did not stir from their
corner.  Carnat, who drew the lot to begin, mounted the bread-box
and, encouraged by his father, who could not restrain himself from
beating time with his sabots, played for half an hour on the
old-fashioned bagpipe of the country with its narrow wind-bag.

He played very badly, being much agitated, and I saw that this
pleased the greater part of the bagpipers.  They kept silence, as
they always did, so as to seem solemn and important, but others
present kept silence too.  This hurt the poor fellow, who had hoped
for a little encouragement, and his father began to growl, and to
show his revengeful and malicious nature.

When Joseph's turn came, he tore himself away from his mother, who
was still entreating him in a low voice not to compete.  He, too,
mounted the box, holding his great Bourbonnaise bagpipe with great
ease, the which quite dazzled the eyes of all present with its silver
ornaments, its bits of looking-glass, and the great length of its
pipes.  Joseph carried himself proudly, looking round contemptuously
on those who were to hear him.  Everyone noticed his good looks, and
the young fellows about asked if he could really be "José the
dullard," whom they had once thought so stupid, and seen so puny.
But his haughty air disgusted everybody, and as soon as the sound of
his instrument filled the room there was more fear than pleasure in
the curiosity he excited.

Nevertheless, there were present persons who knew good music,
particularly the choir of the parish church and the hemp-spinners,
who are great judges, and even elderly women, guardians of the good
things of the past; and among such as these Joseph's music was
quickly accepted, as much for the easy manner in which he used his
instrument as for the good taste he displayed and the correct
rendering which he gave to the new and very beautiful airs he played.
A remark being made by the Carnats that his bagpipe, having a fuller
sound, gave him an advantage, he unscrewed it and used only the
chanter, which he played so well that the music was even more
delightful than before.  Finally, he took Carnat's old fashioned
bagpipe, and played it so cleverly that any one would have said it
was another instrument than the one first used.

The judges said nothing; but all others present trembled with
pleasure and applauded vehemently, declaring that nothing so fine had
ever been heard in our parts; and old mother Bline de la Breuille,
who was eighty-seven years old and neither deaf nor dumb, walked up
to the table and rapping it with her distaff said to the bagpipers,
with the freedom her age warranted:--

"You may make faces as much as you like and shake your heads, but
there's not one of you can play against that lad; he'll be talked of
two hundred years hence; but all your names will be forgotten before
your carcasses are rotten in the earth."

Then she left the room, saying (as did all present) that if the
bagpipers rejected Joseph it would be the worst injustice that was
ever done, and the wickedest jealousy that could be confessed.

The conclave of bagpipers now ascended to an upper room, and I
hurried to open the door, hoping to gather something by overhearing
what they said to each other in going up the stairs.  The last to
enter were the Head-Woodsman and his son; as they did so, Père
Carnat, who recognized Huriel from having seen him with us at the
midsummer bonfire, asked what they wanted and by what right they came
to the council.

"The right of membership in your guild," answered Père Bastien; "and
if you doubt it, ask us the usual questions, or try us with any music
you like."

On this they were allowed to enter and the door was shut.  I tried to
listen, but every one spoke in a low voice, and I could not be sure
of anything, except that they recognized the right of the two
strangers to be present, and that they were deliberating about the
competition without either noise or dispute.  Through a crack in the
door I could see that they divided into parties of five or six,
exchanging opinions in a low voice before they began to vote.  But
when the time for voting came, one of the bagpipers looked out to see
if any one were listening, and I was forced to disappear in a hurry
lest I should be caught in a position which would put me to shame
without an excuse; for I certainly could not say that my friends were
in danger in such a peaceful conclave.

I found my young fellows below, sitting at table with others of our
acquaintance, who were toasting and complimenting Joseph.  Carnat the
younger was alone and gloomy in a corner,--forgotten and mortified.
The monk was there, too, in the chimney-corner, inquiring of Mariton
and Benoît what was going on.  When told all about it he came up to
the long table, where they were drinking with Joseph, and asking him
where and from whom he had got his teaching.

"Friend Joseph," said he, "we know each other, you and I, and I wish
to add my voice to the applause you are now, of good right,
receiving.  But permit me to point out that it is generous as well as
wise to console the vanquished, and that in your place, I should make
friendly advances to young Carnat, whom I see over there all alone
and very sad."

The monk spoke so as to be heard only by Joseph and a few others who
were near him, and I thought he did so as much out of
kind-heartedness as by instigation of Joseph's mother, who wanted the
Carnats to get over their aversion to her son.

This appeal to Joseph's generosity flattered his vanity.  "You are
right, Brother Nicolas," he said; then, in a loud voice, he called to
young Carnat:--

"Come, François, don't sulk at your friends.  You did not play as
well as you know how to, I am quite sure.  But you shall have your
revenge another time; besides, judgment is not given yet.  So,
instead of turning your back on us, come and drink, and let us be as
quiet together as a pair of oxen yoked to a cart."

Everybody approved of this speech, and Carnat, fearing to seem
jealous, accepted the offer and sat down near him.  So far so good,
but Joseph could not keep from showing his opinion that his art was
far above that of others, and in offering civilities to his rival he
put on such a patronizing manner that Carnat was more hurt than ever.

"You talk as if you were already elected," he said, "and it is no
such thing.  It is not always for the skill of the fingers and the
cleverest compositions that those who know what they are about select
a man.  Sometimes they choose him for being the best-known and most
respected player in the country, for that makes him a good comrade to
the rest of the guild."

"Oh!  I expect that," returned Joseph.  "I have been long absent, and
though I pique myself on deserving as much respect as any man, yet I
know they will try to fall back on the foolish reason that I am
little known.  Well, I don't care for that, François!  I did not
expect to find a company of good musicians among you, capable of
judging me or my merits, and lovers enough of true knowledge to
prefer my talent to their own interests and that of their
acquaintances.  All that I wanted was to be heard and judged by my
mother and friends,--by intelligent ears and reasonable beings.  For
the rest, I laugh at your screaming and bellowing bagpipes, and I
must say, God forgive me! that I shall be prouder of being rejected
than accepted."

The monk remarked gently that he was not speaking judiciously.  "You
should not challenge the judges you demanded of your own free-will,"
he said; "pride spoils the highest merit."

"Leave him his pride," said Carnat; "I am not jealous of what he can
show.  He ought to have some talent, to cover his other misfortunes.
Remember the old saying: 'Good player, good dupe.'"

"What do you mean by that?" said Joseph, setting down his glass and
looking the other in the eye.

"I am not obliged to tell you," said Carnat; "all the others
understand it."

"But I don't understand it, and as you are speaking to me I'll call
you a coward if you dare not explain yourself."

"Oh, I can tell you to your face," returned Carnat; "it is something
that need not offend you at all, for perhaps it is no more your fault
to be unlucky in love than it is mine to be unlucky to-night in
music."

"Come, come!" said one of the young men who were present; "let
_Josette_ alone.  She has found some one to marry her, and that's
enough; it is nobody's business."

"It is my opinion," said another, "that it was not Joseph who was
tricked in that affair, but the other who is going to shoulder his
work."

"Whom are you speaking of?" cried Joseph, as if his head were
reeling.  "Who is it you call _Josette_?  What wicked nonsense are
you trying on me?"

"Hold your tongues!" cried Mariton, turning scarlet with anger and
grief, as she always did when Brulette was attacked.  "I wish your
wicked tongues were torn out and nailed to the church door."

"Speak lower," said one of the young men; "you know that Mariton
won't allow a word against her José's fair friend.  All beauties
uphold each other, and Mariton is not yet so old but what she has a
voice in the chapter."

Joseph was puzzling his brains to know whether they were blaming or
ridiculing him.

"Explain it to me," he said, pulling me by the arm.  "Don't leave me
without a word to say."

I was just going to meddle, though I had vowed I wouldn't get into
any dispute in which Père Bastien and his son were not concerned,
when François Carnat cut me short.  "Nonsense!" he said to Joseph,
with a sneer; "Tiennet can't tell you more than what I wrote you."

"That is what you are talking of, is it?" said Joseph.  "Well, I
swear you lie! and that you have written and signed false witness.
Never--"

"Bravo!" cried Carnat.  "You knew how to make your profit out of my
letter! and if, as people think, you are the author of that child,
you have not been such a fool, after all, in getting rid of your
property to a friend,--a faithful friend, too, for there he is
upstairs, looking after your interests in the council.  But if, as I
now think, you came into these parts to assert your right to the
child, which was refused, that accounts for a queer scene which I saw
from a distance at the castle of Chassin--"

"What scene?" said the monk.  "Let me tell you, young man, that I too
may have witnessed it, and I want to know how truly you relate the
things that you see."

"As you please," returned Carnat.  "I will tell you what I saw with
my own eyes, without hearing a word that was said; and you may
explain it as you can.  You are to know, the rest of you, that on the
last day of last month Joseph got up early in the morning to hang his
May bunch on Brulette's door; and seeing a baby about two years old,
which of course was his, he wanted no doubt to get possession of it,
for he seized it, as if to go off with it; and then began a sharp
dispute, in which his friend the Bourbonnais wood-cutter (the same
that is upstairs now with his father, and who is to marry Brulette
next Sunday) struck him violently and then embraced the mother and
child; after which Joseph was gently shoved out of the door and did
not show his face there again.  I call that one of the queerest
histories I ever knew.  Twist it as you will, it still remains the
tale of a child claimed by two fathers, and of a girl who, instead of
giving herself to the first seducer, kicks him away as unworthy or
incapable of bringing up the child of their loves."

Instead of answering, as he had proposed to do, Brother Nicolas
returned to the chimney, and talked in a low voice, but very eagerly,
with Benoît.  Joseph was so taken aback at the interpretation put
upon a matter of which, after all, he did not know the real meaning,
that he looked all round him for assistance, and as Mariton had
rushed from the room like a crazy woman, there was no one but me to
put down Carnat.  The latter's speech had created some astonishment,
but no one thought of defending Brulette, against whom they still
felt piqued.  I began to take her part; but Carnat interrupted me at
the first word:--

"Oh! as for you," he said, "no one accuses you.  I dare say you
played your part in good faith, though it is known that you were used
to deceive people by bringing the child from the Bourbonnais.  But
you are so simple, Tiennet, you may never have suspected
anything.--The devil take me!" he continued, addressing the company,
"if that fellow isn't as stupid as a basket.  He is capable of being
godfather to a child believing all the while they were christening a
clock.  He probably went into the Bourbonnais to fetch this godson of
his, who, they told him, was found in a cabbage, and he brought it
back in a pilgrim's sack.  In fact he is such a slave and good cousin
to the girl, that if she had tried to make him believe the boy was
like him he would have thought so too."




THIRTIETH EVENING.

There was no use in protesting and getting angry; the company were
more inclined to laugh than to listen, for it is always a great
delight to misbehaving fellows to speak ill of a poor girl.  They
make haste to plunge her in the mire, reserving the right to deny it
if they find she is innocent.

In the midst of their slanderous speeches, however, a loud voice,
slightly weakened by illness but still capable of drowning every
other in the room, made itself heard.  It was that of the master of
the tavern, long accustomed to quell the dissensions of wine and the
hubbub of junketing.

"Hold your tongues," he said, "and listen to me, or I'll turn you out
this moment, if I never open the house again.  Be silent about an
honest girl whom you decry because you have all found her too
virtuous.  As to the real parents of the child who has given rise to
these tales, tell them to their face what fault you find with them,
for here they are before you.  Yes," he continued, drawing Mariton,
who was holding Charlot in her arms and weeping, up to him, "here is
the mother of my heir, and this is my son whom I recognize by my
marriage to this good woman.  If you ask me for exact dates, I shall
tell you to mind your own business; nevertheless, to any who have the
right to question me, I will show deeds which prove that I have
always recognized the child as mine, and that his mother was my
legitimate wife before his birth, though the matter was kept secret."

The silence of astonishment fell on everybody; and Joseph, who had
risen at the first words, stood stock still like a stone image.  The
monk who noticed the doubt, shame, and anger in his eyes, thought
best to add further explanations.  He told us that Benoît had been
unable to make his marriage public because of the opposition of a
rich relative, who had lent him money for his business, and who might
have ruined him by demanding it back.  As Mariton feared for her
reputation, specially on account of her son Joseph, they had
concealed Charlot's birth and had put him to nurse at Saint-Sevère;
but, at the end of a year Mariton had found him so ill-used that she
begged Brulette to take charge of him, thinking that no one else
would give him as much care.  She had not foreseen the harm this
would do to the young girl, and when she did find it out, she wished
to remove the child, but Benoît's illness had prevented her doing so,
and moreover Brulette had become so attached to Charlot that she
would not part with him.

"Yes!" cried Mariton, "poor dear soul that she is, she proved her
courage for me.  'You will have trouble enough,' she said to me, 'if
you lose your husband; and, perhaps your marriage will be questioned
by the family.  He is too ill to trouble him now about declaring it.
Have patience; don't kill him by talking of your affairs.  Everything
will come right if God grant that he recovers.'"

"And if I have recovered," added Benoît, "it is by the care of this
good woman, my wife, and the kindheartedness of the young girl in
question, who patiently endured both blame and insult rather than
cause me injury at that time by exposing our secrets.  And here is
another faithful friend," he added, pointing to the monk,--"a man of
sense, of action, and of honest speech, an old school friend of mine
in the days when I was educating at Montluçon.  He it was who went
after my old devil of an uncle, and who at last, no later than this
morning, persuaded him to consent to my marriage with my good
housekeeper; and when my uncle had given his word to make me heir to
his whole property, Brother Nicolas told him the priest had already
joined Mariton and me, and showed him that fat Charlot, whom he
thought a fine boy and very like the author of his existence."

Benoît's satisfaction revived the lost gayety of the party; every one
was struck with the resemblance, which, however, no one had yet
noticed,--I as little as any.

"So, Joseph," continued the innkeeper, "you can and ought to love and
respect your mother, just as I love and respect her.  I take my oath
here and now that she is the bravest and most helpful Christian woman
that ever a sick man had about him; and I have never had a moment's
hesitation in my resolve to declare sooner or later what I have
declared to-day.  We are now very well off in our worldly affairs,
thank God, and as I swore to her and to God that I would replace the
father you lost, I will agree, if you will live here with us, to take
you into partnership and to give you a good share of the profits.' So
you needn't fling yourself into bagpiping, in which your mother sees
all sorts of ills for you and anxieties for her.  Your notion was to
get her a home.  That's my affair now, and I even offer to make hers
yours.  Come, you'll listen to us, won't you, and give up that damned
music?  Why can't you live in your own country and stay at home?  You
needn't blush at having an honest innkeeper for a step-father."

"You are my step-father, that's very certain," replied Joseph, not
showing either pleasure or displeasure, but remaining coldly on the
defensive; "you are an honest man, I know, and rich, I see, and if my
mother is happy with you--"

"Yes, yes, Joseph, as happy as possible; above all to-day," cried
Mariton, kissing him, "for I hope you will never leave me again."

"You are mistaken, mother," answered Joseph; "you no longer have any
need of me, and you are contented.  All is well.  You were the only
thing that brought me back into this part of the country; you were
all I had to love, for Brulette--and it is well that all present
should hear this from my own mouth--for Brulette never had any
feeling but that of a sister for me.  Now I am free to follow my
destiny; which is not a very kindly one, but it is so plainly mine
that I prefer it to all the money of innkeeping and the comfort of
family life.  Farewell, mother, God bless those who make you happy;
as for me, I want nothing in these parts, not even admission to the
guild which evil-intentioned fools are trying to deny me.  My inward
thoughts and my bagpipe go with me wherever I am; and I know I can
always earn my living, for wherever my music is heard I shall be
welcome."

As he spoke the door to the staircase opened and the whole company of
bagpipers entered in silence.  Père Carnat requested the attention of
those present, and in a firm and cheerful manner, which surprised
everybody, he said:--

"François Carnat, my son, after careful examination of your merits
and full discussion of your rights, you are declared too much of a
novice for present admission.  You are advised to study a while
longer, without discouragement, so as to present yourself for
competition later when circumstances may be more favorable.  And you,
Joseph Picot, of the village of Nohant, the decision of the masters
of this part of the country is that you be, by reason of your
unparalleled talents, received into the first class of the guild; and
this decision is unanimous."

"Well," replied Joseph, who seemed wholly indifferent to his victory
and to the applause with which it was received, "as the matter has
turned out this way, I accept the decision, although, not expecting
it, I hardly care for it."

Joseph's haughty manner displeased everybody, and Père Carnat
hastened to sav, with an air which I thought showed disguised
malignity: "Does that mean, Joseph, that you wish for the honor and
the title, and do not intend to take your place among the
professional bagpipers in these parts?"

"I don't know yet," said Joseph, evidently by way of bravado, and not
wishing to satisfy his judges.  "I'll think about it."

"I believe," said young Carnat to his father, "that he has thought
about it already, and his decision is made, for he hasn't the courage
to go on with the matter."

"Courage?" cried Joseph, "courage for what, if you please?"

Then the dean of the bagpipers, old Paillou of Verneuil, said to
Joseph:--

"You are surely not ignorant, young man, that something more than
playing an instrument is required, to be received into our guild;
there is such a thing as a musical catechism, which you must know and
on which you will be questioned, if you feel you have the knowledge
and also the boldness to answer.  Moreover, there are certain oaths
to be taken.  If you feel no repugnance to these things, you must
decide at once to submit to them, so that the matter may be settled
to-morrow morning."

"I understand you," said Joseph.  "The guild has secret oaths, and
tests and trials.  They are all great folly, as far as I know, and
music has no part in them, for I defy you to reply to any musical
question which I might put to you.  Consequently, the questions you
address to me on a subject you know less about than the frogs in the
pond, are no better than old women's gabble."

"If you take it that way," said Renet, the Mers bagpiper, "we are
willing you should think yourself a great genius and the rest of us
jackasses.  So be it.  Keep your secrets, and we will keep ours.  We
are not anxious to tell them to those who despise us.  But remember
one thing: here is your certificate as a master bagpiper, which we
now hand to you, signed and sealed by all, including your friends the
Bourbonnais bagpipers, who agree that all is done in good order.  You
are free to exercise your talents where you please and where you can;
except in the parishes where we play and which number one hundred and
fifty, according to the distribution we make among ourselves, the
list of which will be handed to you; in those parishes you are
forbidden to play.  We give notice that if you break this rule it
will be at your own risk and peril, for we shall put a stop to it, if
need be, by main force."

Here Mariton spoke up.

"You needn't threaten him," she said, "it is safe to leave him to his
own fancy, which is to play his music and look for no profit.  He has
no need to do that, thank God, and besides, his lungs are not strong
enough for your business.  Come, Joseph, thank them for the honor
have done you, and don't keep them anxious about their interests.
Let the matter be settled now, and here's my man who will pay the
pipers with a good quartern of Sancerre or Issoudun wine, at the
choice of the company."

"That's all right," said old Carnat.  "We are quite willing the
matter should end thus.  It is best, no doubt, for your son; for one
needn't be either a fool or a coward to shrink from the tests, and I
do think the poor fellow is not cut out to endure them."

"We will see about that!" cried Joseph, falling into the trap that
was set for him, in spite of the warnings Père Bastien was giving him
in a low voice.  "I demand the tests; and as you have no right to
refuse them after delivering to me the certificate, I intend to
practise your calling if I choose, or, at any rate, to prove that I
am not prevented from doing so by any of you."

"Agreed!" said the dean, showing plainly, as did Carnat and several
others, the malignant pleasure Joseph's words afforded them.  "We
will now prepare for your initiation, friend Joseph.  Remember there
is no going back, and that you will be considered a milk-sop or a
braggart if you change your mind."

"Go on, go on!" cried Joseph.  "I'll await you on a firm foot."

"It is for us to await you," said old Carnat in his ear, "at the
stroke of midnight."

"Where?" said Joseph, coolly.

"At the gate of the cemetery," replied the dean, in a low voice.
Then, without accepting the wine which Benoît offered them, or giving
heed to the remonstrances of his wife, they went off in a body,
threatening evil to all who followed them or spied upon their
mysteries.

The Head-Woodsman and Huriel went with them without a word to Joseph,
by which I plainly saw that, although the pair were opposed to the
spirit of the other bagpipers, they thought it none the less their
duty not to warn Joseph, nor to betray in the slightest degree the
secrets of the guild.

In spite of the threats which were made, I was not deterred from
following them at a distance, without other precaution than
carelessly sauntering down the same road, with my hands in my
pockets, and whistling as if I were paying no attention to them or
their affairs.  I knew they would not let me get near enough to
overhear their plots, but I wanted to make sure in what direction
they meant to lie in wait, so as to get there later, if possible,
unobserved.  With that notion in my head, I signed to Leonard to keep
the others at the tavern until I returned to call them.  But my
pursuit was soon ended.  The inn stood on a street which ran
down-hill to the river, and is now the mail route to Issoudun.  In
those days it was a breakneck little place, narrow and ill-paved,
lined with old houses with pointed gables and stone mullions.  The
last of these houses was pulled down a year ago.  From the river,
which ran along the wall below the inn of the Bœuf Couronné, a
steep ascent led to the market-place, which was then, as it is now,
that long unevenly paved space, planted with trees, bordered on the
left by old houses, on the right by the broad moat, full of water,
and the great wall (then unbroken) of the castle.  The church closes
the market-place at the further end, and two alleys lead down from
it, one to the parsonage, the other past the cemetery.  The bagpipers
turned down the latter path.  They were about a gunshot in advance of
me, that is to say, just time enough to pass along the path by the
cemetery and out into the open country by the postern of the English
tower, unless they chose to stop at this particular spot; which was
not very convenient, for the path--which ran between the moat of the
castle on one side and the bank of the cemetery on the other--was
only wide enough for one person at a time.

When I judged that the bagpipers must have reached the postern, I
turned the corner of the castle under an arcade which in those days
was used as a footpath by the gentry on their way to the parish
church.  I found I was all alone when I entered the path by the
churchyard, a place few Christian men would set foot in alone after
nightfall,--not only because it led past the cemetery, but because
the north flank of the castle had a bad name.  There was talk of I
don't know how many persons drowned in the moat in the days of the
English war; and some folks swore they had heard the cocadrillos
whistle on that particular path when epidemics were about.

You know of course that the cocadrillo is a sort of lizard, which
sometimes seems no bigger than your little finger, and sometimes
swells to the size of an ox and grows five or six yards long.  This
beast, which I have never seen, and whose existence I couldn't
warrant, is supposed to vomit a venom which poisons the air and
brings the plague.  Now, though I did not believe much of this, I was
not over-fond of going along this path, where the high wall of the
castle and the tall trees of the cemetery shut out every speck of
light.  On this occasion I walked fast, without looking to the right
or left, and passed through the postern of the English gate, of
which, by the bye, not one stone upon another remains to the present
day.

Once there, and notwithstanding that the night was fine and the moon
clear, I could not see, either far or near, the slightest trace of
the eighteen persons I was after.  I looked in every direction; I
even went as far as Père Begneux's cottage, the only house they could
have entered.  The occupants were all asleep, and nowhere about was
there any noise, or trace, or sign, of a living person.  I therefore
concluded that the missing bagpipers had entered the cemetery to
perform some wicked conjuring, and--though far from liking to do so,
but determined to risk all for Thérence's relations--I returned
through the postern and along the accursed path, stepping softly,
skirting the bank so close that I touched the tombstones, and keeping
my ears open to the slightest sound.  I heard the screech-owl hooting
in the casemates, and the adders hissing in the black water of the
moat, but that was all.  The dead slept in the ground as tranquilly
as the living in their beds.  I plucked up courage to climb over the
cemetery bank and to give a glance round the field of death.  All was
quiet,--no signs whatever of the bagpipers.

Then I walked all round the castle.  It was locked up, and as it was
after ten o'clock masters and servants slept like stones.

Then I returned to the inn, not being able to imagine what had become
of the guild, but determined to station my comrades in the path
leading to the English gate, from which we could see what happened to
Joseph when he reached the rendezvous at midnight at the gate of the
cemetery.  I found them on the bridge debating whether or not they
should start for home, and declaring they could see no danger to the
Huriels, because it was evident they had agreed amicably with the
other bagpipers in the matter of the competition.  As for what
concerned Joseph, they cared little or nothing, and tried to prevent
me from interfering.  I told them that to my thinking the danger for
all three would be when the tests were applied, for the evil
intentions of the bagpipers had been plainly shown, and the Huriels,
I knew, were there to protect Joseph.

"Are you already sick of the enterprise?" I said.  "Is it because we
are only eight to sixteen, and you haven't a heart for two inside of
you?"

"How do you count eight?" asked Leonard.  "Do you think the
Head-Woodsman and his son would go with us against their
fellow-members?"

"I did count wrong;" I answered; "for we are really nine.  Joseph
won't let himself be fleeced if they make it too hot for him, and as
both the Huriels carry arms, I feel quite sure they mean to defend
him if they can't be heard otherwise."

"That's not the point," returned Leonard.  "We are only six, and they
are twenty; but there's another thing which pleases us even less than
a fight.  People have been talking in the inn, and each had a story
to relate of these tests.  The monk denounced them as impious and
abominable; and though Joseph laughed at what was said, we don't feel
certain there is nothing in it.  They told of candidates nailed on a
bier, and furnaces into which they were tripped, and red-hot iron
crosses which they were made to clasp.  Such things seem hard to
believe; and if I were certain that that was all I'd like to punish
the fellows who are bad enough to ill-treat a neighbor in that way.
Unfortunately--"

"There, there!" said I, "I see you have let yourself be scared.  What
is behind it all?  Tell the whole, and let's either laugh at it or
take warning."

"This is it," said one of the lads, seeing that Leonard was ashamed
to own his fears.  "None of us have ever seen the devil, and we don't
want to make his acquaintance."

"Ho, ho!" I cried, seeing that they were all relieved, now the words
were out.  "So it is Lucifer himself that frightens you!  Well, I'm
too good a Christian to be afraid of him; I give my soul to God, and
I'll be bound I'll take him by the horns, yes I myself, alone against
the enemy of mankind, as fearlessly as I would take a goat by the
beard.  He has been allowed to do evil to those who fear him long
enough, and it is my opinion that an honest fellow who dared to
wrench off his horns could deprive him of half his power, and that
would be something gained at any rate."

"Faith!" said Leonard, ashamed of his fears, "if you look at it that
way I won't back down, and if you'll smash his horns I'll try to pull
out his tail.  They say it is fine, and we'll find out if it is gold
or hemp."

There is no such remedy against fear as fun, but I don't deny that
though I took the matter on that tone, I was not at all anxious to
pit myself against "Georgeon," as we call the devil in our parts.  I
wasn't a bit more easy in mind than the rest, but for Thérence's sake
I felt ready to march into the jaws of hell.  I had promised her, and
the good God himself couldn't have turned me back now.

But that's an ill way to talk.  The good God, on the contrary, gave
me strength and confidence, and the more anxiety I felt all that
night, the more I thought on him and asked his aid.

When our other comrades saw that our minds, Leonard's and mine, were
made up, they followed us.  To make the affair safer, I went back to
the inn to see if I could find other friends who, without knowing
what we were after, would follow us for fun, and, if occasion came,
would fight with us.  But it was late, and there was no one at the
Bœuf Couronné but Benoît, who was supping with the monk, Mariton,
who was saying her prayers, and Joseph, who had thrown himself on a
bed and was sound asleep with, I must own, a tranquillity that put us
to shame.

"I have only one hope," said Mariton, as she got off her knees; "and
that is that he will sleep over the time and not wake up till
morning."

"That's just like all women!" cried Benoît, laughing, "they want life
at the price of shame.  But I gave my word to her lad to wake him
before midnight, and I shall not fail to do so."

"Ah, you don't love him!" cried the mother.  "We'll see if you push
our Charlot into danger when his turn comes."

"You don't know what you are talking about, wife," replied the
innkeeper; "go to bed and to sleep with my boy; I promise you I'll
not fail to wake yours.  You would not wish him to blame me for his
dishonor?"

"Besides," said the monk, "what danger do you suppose there is in the
nonsense they are going to perform?  I tell you you are dreaming, my
good woman.  The devil doesn't get hold of anybody; God doesn't allow
it, and you have not brought your boy up so ill that you need fear
that he will get himself damned for his music.  I tell you that the
villanous tests of the bagpipers are really nothing worse than
impious jokes, from which sensible people can easily protect
themselves; and Joseph need only laugh at the demons they will set
upon him, to put them all to flight."

The monk's words heartened up my comrades wonderfully.

"If it is only a farce," they said to me, "we will tumble into the
middle of it and thrash the devil well; but hadn't we better take
Benoît into our confidence?  He might help us."

"To tell you the truth," I said, "I am not sure that he would.  He is
thought a worthy man; but you never know the secrets of a family,
especially when there are children by a first marriage.  Step-fathers
don't always like them, and Joseph has been none too amiable this
evening with his.  Let's get off without a word to anyone; that's
best, and it is nearly time we were there."

Taking the road past the church, walking softly and in single file,
we posted ourselves in the little path near the English gate.  The
moon was so low we could creep in the shadow of the cemetery bank and
not be seen, even if any one passed quite close to us.  My comrades,
being strangers, had no such repugnance to the place as the
villagers, and I let them go in front while I hid within the
cemetery, near enough to the gate to see who entered, and also near
enough to call to them when wanted.




THIRTY-FIRST EVENING.

I waited a good long time,--all the longer because the hours go so
slow in company with dead folks.  At last midnight struck in the
church steeple and I saw the head of a man rising beyond the low wall
of the cemetery quite near the gate.  Another quarter of an hour
dragged along without my seeing or hearing anything but that man,
who, getting tired of waiting, began to whistle a Bourbonnais tune,
whereby I knew it was Joseph, who no doubt betrayed the hopes of his
enemies by seeming so cool in presence of the dead.

At last, another man, who was stuck close to the wall inside the
gate, and whom I hadn't seen on account of the big box-trees which
hid him, popped his head quickly over the wall as if to take Joseph
by surprise; but the latter did not stir, and said, laughing: "Well,
Père Carnat, you are rather late; I came near going to sleep while
waiting.  Will you open the gate, or must I enter that
'nettle-field,' by the breach?"

"No," said Carnat, "the curate would not like it; we mustn't openly
offend the church people.  I will go to you."

He climbed over the wall and told Joseph he must let his head and
arms be covered with a very thick canvas sack, and then walk wherever
he was led.

"Very good," said Joseph in a contemptuous tone.  "Go on."

I watched them from over the wall, and saw them enter the little path
to the English gate; then I made a short cut to the place where I had
left my comrades and found only four of them; the youngest had
slipped off without a word, and I was rather afraid the others would
do the same, for they found the time long and told me they had heard
very queer noises, which seemed to come from under the earth.

Presently Joseph came along, with his head covered and led by Carnat.
The pair got close upon us, but turned from the path about twenty
feet off.  Carnat made Joseph clamber down to the edge of the moat,
and we thought he meant to drown him.  At once we were on our legs to
stop such treachery, but in a minute more we saw they were both
walking in the water, which was shallow at that place, until they
reached a low archway in the wall of the castle which was partly in
the water of the moat.  They passed through it, and this explained to
me what had become of the others whom I had hunted for.

It was necessary to do as they did; which didn't seem to me very
difficult, but my comrades were hard to persuade.  They had heard
that the vaults of the castle ran nine miles out into the country, as
far as Deols, and that persons who did not know their windings had
been lost in them.  I was forced to declare that I knew them very
well, though I had never set foot there in my life, and had no idea
whether they were common wine-cellars or a subterraneous town, as my
friends declared.

I walked first, without seeing where I set my feet, feeling the
walls, which inclosed a narrow passage where one's head very nearly
touched the roof.  We advanced in this way for a short time, when a
hullaballoo sounded beneath us like forty thunder-claps rolling round
the devil's cave.  It was so strange and alarming that I stopped
short to try and find out what it meant; then I went quickly forward,
not to let myself get chilled with the idea of some devil's caper,
telling my companions to follow me.  But the noise was so loud they
did not hear me and I, thinking they were at my heels, went on and
on, till, hearing nothing more, I turned to speak to them and got no
answer.  Not wishing to call aloud, I went back four or five steps;
it was all dark.  I stretched out my hands, and called cautiously;
good-bye to my valiant contingent,--they had deserted me!

I thought I must be pretty near the entrance and could surely catch
up with them within or without.  I returned through the arch by which
we had entered, and searched carefully along the little path beside
the cemetery; but no! my comrades had disappeared just like the
bagpipers; it seemed as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up.

I had a moment of horrid worry, thinking I must either give up the
whole thing or return to those devilish caverns and take myself all
alone into the traps and terrors they were preparing for Joseph.  But
I asked myself whether, even if the matter concerned only him, I
could quietly leave him in danger.  My soul answered no, and then I
asked my heart if love for Thérence wasn't quite as real a thing as
one's duty to one's neighbor, and the answer I received sent me back
through the dark and slimy archway and along the subterranean
passages--I won't say as gayly, but at any rate as quickly as if I
were going to my own wedding.

While I was feeling my way forward I found, on my right, an opening
to another passage, which I had not found before because I then felt
to my left; and I thought to myself that my comrades in going out had
probably found it and turned that way.  I followed the passage, for
there was no sign that the other way would bring me any nearer to the
bagpipers.  I did not find my comrades, but as for the bagpipers, I
had not taken twenty steps before I heard their din much nearer than
it sounded the first time; and presently a quivering kind of light
let me see that I was entering a large round cave which had three or
four exits, black as the jaws of hell.

I was surprised to see so clearly in a vault where there wasn't any
light, but I presently noticed that gleams were coming from below
through the ground I trod upon.  I noticed that this ground seemed to
swell up in the middle, and fearing it was not solid, I kept close to
the wall, and getting near to a crevice, I lay down with my eye close
to it and saw very plainly what was going on in another cavern just
below the one I was in.  It was, as I afterwards learned, a former
dungeon, adjoining an oubliette or black hole, the mouth of which
could still be seen thirty years ago in the upper hall of the castle.
I thought as much when I saw the remains of human bones at the lower
end of the cave, which the bagpipers had set up in rows to terrify
the candidate, with pine torches inside their skulls.  Joseph was
there all alone, his eyes unbound, his arms crossed, just as cool as
I was not, listened contemptuously to the uproar of eighteen
bagpipes, which all brayed together, prolonging a single note into a
roar.  This crazy music came from an adjoining cave where the
bagpipers were hidden, and where, as they doubtless knew, a curious
echo multiplied the sound.  I, who knew nothing about it then,
fancied at first that all the bagpipes of Berry, Auvergne, and the
Bourbonnais were collected together in that cave.

When they had had enough of growling with their instruments, they
began to squeal and squall themselves, and the walls echoed them,
till you would have fancied they were a great troop of furious
animals of all kinds.  But Joseph, who was really an unusual kind of
man among our peasantry,--indeed, I hardly ever knew his
like,--merely shrugged his shoulders and yawned, as if tired with
such fool's play.  His courage passed into me, and I began to think
of laughing at the farce, when a little noise at my back made me turn
my head.  There I saw, at the entrance of the passage by which I had
come, a figure which froze my senses.

It was that of a lord of the olden time, carrying a lance and wearing
an iron breastplate and leathern garments of a style no longer seen.
But the most awful part of him was his face, which was actually like
a death's head.

I partly recovered myself, thinking it was only a disguise some of
the enemy had put on to frighten Joseph; but on reflection I saw the
danger was really mine, because, finding me on the watch, he would
surely do me some damage.  However, though he saw me as plain as I
could see him, he did not stir, but remained stock-still like a
ghost, half in shadow, and half in the light that came up from below;
and as this light flickered according as it was moved about, there
were moments when, not seeing him, I thought he was a notion of my
own brain,--until suddenly he would reappear, all but his legs, which
remained in darkness behind a sort of step or barrier, which made me
fancy he was as it were floating on a cloud.

I don't know how long I was tortured with this vision, which made me
forget to watch Joseph, and scared me lest I was going mad in trying
to do more than it was in me to perform.  I recollected that I had
seen in the hall of the castle an old picture which they said was the
portrait of a wicked warrior whom a lord of the castle in the olden
time, who was the warrior's brother, had flung into the dungeon.  The
garments of leather and iron which I saw before me on that skeleton
figure, were certainly like those in the picture, and the notion came
into my head that here was a ghost in pain, watching the desecration
of his sepulchre, and waiting to show his displeasure in some way or
other.

What made this idea the more probable was that the ghost said nothing
to me, and evidently took no notice of my presence,--apparently aware
that I had no evil intentions against his poor carcass.

At last a noise different from all others attracted my eyes away from
him.  I looked back into the cave below me, where stood Joseph, and
something near him very ugly and very strange.

Joseph stood boldly in front of an abominable creature, dressed in
the skin of a dog, with horns sticking out of his tangled hair, and a
red face, and claws and tail; the which beast was jumping about and
making faces like one possessed of the devil.  It was vile to see,
and yet I wasn't the dupe of it very long, for though the creature
tried to disguise his voice I thought I recognized that of
Doré-Fratin, the bagpiper of Pouligny, one of the strongest and most
quarrelsome men in our neighborhood.

"You may sneer as you please," he was saying to Joseph, "at me and at
hell, but I am the king of all musicians, and you shall not play your
instrument without my permission unless you sell me your soul."

Joseph answered, "What can such a fool of a devil as you do with the
soul of a musician?  You have no use for it."

"Mind what you say," returned the other.  "Don't you know that down
here you must either give yourself to the devil or prove that you are
stronger than he?"

"Yes, yes, I know the proverb," said Joseph: "'Kill the devil or the
devil will kill you.'"

As he spoke, I saw Huriel and his father come from a dark opening
into the vault and go up to the devil as if to speak to him; but they
were pulled back by the other bagpipers who now showed themselves,
and Carnat the elder addressed Joseph.

"You have proved," he said, "that you don't fear witchcraft, and we
will let you go free if you will now conform to the usual custom,
which is to fight the devil, in proof that you, a Christian man,
refuse to submit to him."

"If the devil wants to be well thrashed," replied Joseph, "let me go
at him at once, and we'll see if his skin is any tougher than mine.
What weapons?"

"None but your fists," replied Carnat.

"It is fair play, I hope," said the Head-Woodsman.

Joseph took no time to inquire; his temper was up.  Enraged by the
tricks that were played on him, he sprang on the devil, tore off his
horns and head-dress, and caught him so resolutely round the body
that he brought him to earth and fell on top of him.

But he instantly got up, and I fancied he gave a cry of surprise and
pain; but the bagpipers all began to play, except Huriel and his
father, who stood watching the encounter with an expression of doubt
and uneasiness.

Joseph, meantime, was tumbling the devil about and seeming to get the
better of him; but his rage seemed to me unnatural, and I feared he
might put himself in the wrong through too much violence.  The
bagpipers seemed to help him, for instead of rescuing their comrade,
who was knocked down three times, they marched round and round the
fight, piping loudly, and beating with their feet to excite him.

Suddenly the Head-Woodsman separated the combatants by levelling a
blow with his stick on the devil's paws, and threatening to strike
harder the second time if he was not listened to.  Huriel ran to his
father's side, raising his stick also, while all the others stopped
walking round and round and piping; and a moment's silence and
stillness fell on all.

Then I saw that Joseph, overcome with pain, was wiping his torn hands
and his face, which was covered with blood, and that he would have
fainted if Huriel had not caught him in his arms, while Doré-Fratin
merely threw aside his trappings, panting with heat, and wiping the
sweat from his forehead with a grin.

"What does this mean?" cried Carnat, coming up to the Plead-Woodsman
with a threatening air, "Are you a traitor to the guild?  By what
right do you interfere with the tests?"

"I interfere at my own risk and to your shame," replied the
Head-Woodsman.  "I am not a traitor, and you are evil-doers, both
treacherous and cruel.  I suspected that you were tricking us to lead
this young man here and wound him, perhaps dangerously.  You hate him
because you know that every one will prefer him to you, and that
wherever he is heard no one will listen to your music.  You have not
dared to refuse him admission to the guild, because the whole country
would blame you for such a crying injustice; but you are trying to
frighten him from playing in the parishes you have taken possession
of, and you have put him through hard and dangerous tests which none
of you could have borne as long as he."

"I don't know what you mean," said the old dean, Pailloux de
Verneuil; "and the blame you cast upon us here, in presence of a
candidate, is unheard-of insolence.  We don't know how you practise
initiation in your part of the country, but here we are following our
customs and shall not allow you to interfere."

"I shall interfere," said Huriel, who was sopping Joseph's blood with
his handkerchief, and had brought him back to consciousness, as he
held him on his knee.  "I neither can nor will tell of your conduct
away from here, because I belong to the brotherhood, but at least I
will tell you to your faces that you are brutes.  In our country we
fight with the devil in jest, taking care to do no one any harm.
Here you choose the strongest among you and furnish him with hidden
weapons, with which he endeavors to put out the eyes and stab the
veins of your victims.  See! this young man is exhausted, and in the
rage which your wickedness excited in him, he would have let you kill
him if we had not stopped the fight.  And then what would you have
done?  You would have flung his body into that vault, where so many
other unfortunates have perished, whose bones ought to rise and
condemn you for being as cruel as your former lords."

These words reminded me of the apparition I had forgotten, and I
turned round to see if it was still there.  I could not see it, and
then I bethought me of finding my way to the lower cave, where, as I
began to think, I might be useful to my friends.  I found the
stairway at once and went down to the entrance of the vault, not
trying to conceal myself, for such disputing and confusion were going
on that no one paid any attention to me.

The Head-Woodsman had picked up the devil's skin-coat and showed that
it was covered with spikes like a comb for currying oxen; and also
the mittens which the sham devil wore on his hands, in which strong
nails were fastened with the points outside.  The bagpipers were
furious.  "Here's a pretty fuss about a few scratches," cried Carnat.
"Isn't it in the order of things that a devil should have claws?  And
this young fool, who attacked him so imprudently, why didn't he know
how far he could play at that game without getting his snout scraped?
Come, come, don't pity him so much; it's a mere nothing; and since he
has had enough of it, let him confess he can't play at our games, and
is not fit to belong to our guild in any way."

"I shall belong to it!" cried Joseph, wrenching himself from Huriel's
arms and showing as he did so his torn shirt and bleeding breast.  "I
shall belong to it in spite of you!  I insist that the fight shall go
on, and one of us be left in this cavern."

"I forbid it!" said the Head-Woodsman, "and I insist that this young
man shall be proclaimed victor, or I swear to bring into this place a
company of bagpipers who shall teach you how to behave, and who will
see justice done."

"You?" said Doré-Fratin, drawing a sort of boar-knife from his belt.
"You can do so if you choose, but you shall carry with you some marks
on your body, so that people may believe your reports."

The Head-Woodsman and Huriel put themselves in an attitude of
defence.  Joseph flung himself upon Fratin to get away his knife, and
I made one bound in amongst them.  But before any of us could strike
a blow the figure that startled me so in the upper cavern appeared at
the opening of the lower one, stretched forth his lance, and slowly
advanced in a way to strike terror to the minds of the evil-doers.
Then, as they all paused, dumbfounded with fear and amazement, a
piteous voice was heard from the depths of the dungeon, reciting the
prayers for the dead.

This routed the whole brotherhood.  One of the pipers cried out: "The
dead! the dead are rising!" and they all fled, pell-mell, yelling and
pushing through the various openings except that to the dungeon,
where stood another figure wrapped in a winding-sheet, chanting the
most dismal sing-song that anybody ever heard.  A minute later all
our enemies had disappeared, and the warrior flinging off his helmet
and mask, we beheld the jovial face of Benoît, while the monk,
getting out of his winding sheet, was holding his sides in
convulsions of laughter.

"May God forgive me for masquerading," he said.  "I did it with the
best intentions; those rascals deserve a good lesson, if it is only
to teach them not to laugh at the devil, of whom they are really more
afraid than those whom they threaten with him."

"For my part, I felt quite certain," said Benoît, "that our comedy
would put an end to theirs."  Then, noticing Joseph's wounds, he grew
very uneasy, and showed such feeling for him that all this, together
with the succor he had brought in so timely a manner, proved to my
mind his regard for his step-son, and his good heart, which I had
hitherto doubted.

While we examined Joseph and convinced ourselves he was not very
seriously hurt, the monk told us how the butler at the castle had
once said to him that he allowed the bagpipers and other societies to
hold their secret meetings in the cellars of the castle.  Those in
which we found ourselves were too far from the inhabited parts of the
castle to disturb the lady mistress of Saint-Chartier, and, indeed,
if it had, she would only have laughed, not imagining that any
mischief could come of it.  But Benoît, who suspected some evil
intent, had got the same butler to give him a key to the cellars, and
a disguise; and that was how it was that he got these in time to
avert all danger.

"Well," said the Head-Woodsman, addressing him, "thank you for your
assistance; but I rather regret you came, for those fellows are
capable of declaring that I asked you to do so and consequently that
I betrayed the secrets of the guild.  If you will take my advice we
had better get away noiselessly, at once, and leave them to think you
were really ghosts."

"All the more," added Benoît, "that their wrath may deprive me of
their custom, which is no slight matter.  I hope they did not
recognize Tiennet--but how the devil was it that Tiennet got here in
the nick of time?"

"Didn't you bring him?" asked Huriel.

"That he didn't," said I.  "I came on my own account, because of the
stories they tell of your deviltries.  I was curious to see them; but
I swear to you those fellows were too scared and the sight of their
eyes was too wide of the mark ever to have recognized me."

We were about to leave when the sound of angry voices and an uproar
like that of a fight was heard.

"Dear, dear!" cried the monk, "what's that now?  I think they are
coming back and we have not yet done with them.  Quick, let's get
back into our disguises!"

"No," said Benoît, listening, "I know what it is.  I met, as I came
along through the castle cellars, four or five young fellows, one of
whom is known to me; and that is Leonard, your Bourbonnais
wood-chopper, Père Bastien.  These lads were there from curiosity no
doubt; but they had got bewildered in the caverns, and I lent them my
lantern, telling them to wait for me.  The bagpipers must have met
them and they are giving chase."

"It is more likely that they are being chased themselves if there are
not more than five of them," said Huriel.  "Let us go and see."

We were just starting when the noise and the footsteps approached,
and Carnat, Doré-Fratin, and eight others returned to the cave,
having, in fact, exchanged a few blows with our comrades, and finding
that they had to do with real flesh and blood instead of spectres,
were ashamed of their cowardice and so came back again.  They
reproached the Huriels for having betrayed them and driven them into
an ambush.  The Head-Woodsman defended himself, and the monk tried to
secure peace by taking it all upon himself, telling the bagpipers to
repent of their sins.  But they felt themselves in good force, for
others kept coming back to their support; and when they found their
numbers nearly complete they raised their voices to a roar, and went
from reproaches to threats and from threats to blows.  Seeing there
was no way to avoid an encounter, all the more because they had drunk
a good deal of brandy while the tests were going on and were more or
less intoxicated, we put ourselves in an attitude of defence,
pressing one against the other, and showing front to the enemy on all
sides, like oxen when a troop of wolves attack them at pasture.  The
monk, having already lost his morality and his Latin, now lost his
patience also, and seizing the pipe of an instrument which had got
broken in the scrimmage, he laid about him as hard as a man well
could, in defence of his own skin.

Unluckily, Joseph was weakened by the loss of blood, and Huriel, who
bore upon his heart the recollection of Malzac's death, was more
fearful of giving blows than of receiving them.  Anxious to protect
his father, who sprang into the fray like an old lion, he put himself
in great danger.  Benoît fought very well for a man who was just out
of an illness; but the truth is we were only six against fifteen or
sixteen, and as the blood rose anger came, and I saw our enemies
opening their knives.  I had only time to fling myself before the
Head-Woodsman, who, still unwilling to draw his blade, was the object
of their bitterest anger.  I received a wound in the arm, which I
hardly felt at the moment, but which hindered my fighting on, and I
thought the day was lost, when, by great good luck, my four comrades
decided to come and see what the noise was about.  The reinforcement
was sufficient, and together we put to flight, for the second time
and the last, our exhausted enemies, taken in the rear and ignorant
how many were upon them.

I saw that victory was ours and that none of my friends were much
hurt; then, suddenly perceiving that I had got more than I wanted, I
fell like a log and neither knew nor felt another thing.




THIRTY-SECOND EVENING.

When I came to my senses I found myself in the same bed with Joseph,
and it took me some time to recover full consciousness.  When I did,
I saw I was in Benoît's own room, that the bed was good, the sheets
very white, and my arm bound up after a bleeding.  The sun was
shining through the yellow bed-curtains, and, except for a sense of
weakness, I felt no ill.  I turned to Joseph, who was a good deal cut
about the head, but in no way to disfigure him, and who said, as he
kissed me: "Well, my Tiennet, here we are, as in the old days, when
we fought the boys of Verneuil on our way back from catechism, and
were left lying together at the bottom of a ditch.  You have
protected me to your hurt, just as you did then, and I can never
thank you as I ought; but you know, and I think you always knew, that
my heart is not as churlish as my tongue."

"I have always known it," I replied, returning his kiss, "and if I
have again protected you I am very glad of it.  But you mustn't take
too much for yourself.  I had another motive--"

Here I stopped, fearing I might give way and let out Thérence's name;
but just then a white hand drew back the curtain, and there I saw a
vision of Thérence herself, leaning towards me, while Mariton went
round between the bed and the wall to kiss and question her son.

Thérence bent over me, as I said; and I, quite overcome and thinking
I was dreaming, tried to rise and thank her for her visit and assure
her I was out of danger, when there! like a sick fool and blushing
like a girl, I received from her lips the finest kiss that ever
recalled the dead.

"What are you doing, Thérence?" I cried, grasping her hands, which I
could almost have eaten up.  "Do you want to make me crazy?"

"I want to thank you and love you all my life," she answered, "for
you have kept your word to me; you have brought my father and my
brother back to me safe and sound, and I know that all that you have
done, all that has happened to you, is because you loved them and
loved me.  Therefore I am here to nurse you and not to leave you as
long as you are ill."

"Ah, that's good, Thérence!" I said, sighing; "it is more than I
deserve.  Please God not to let me get well, for I don't know what
would become of me afterwards."

"Afterwards?" said Père Bastien, coming into the room with Huriel and
Brulette.  "Come, daughter, what shall we do with him afterwards?"

"Afterwards?" said Thérence, blushing scarlet for the first time.

"Yes, Thérence the Sincere," returned her father, "speak as becomes a
girl who never lies."

"Well, father, then afterwards, I will never leave him, either," she
said.

"Go away, all of you!" I cried; "close the curtains; I want to get up
and dress and dance and sing.  I'm not ill; I have paradise inside of
me--" and so saying I fell back in a faint, and saw and knew nothing
more, except that I felt, in a kind of a dream, that Thérence was
holding me in her arms and giving me remedies.

In the evening I felt better; Joseph was already about, and I might
have been, too, only they wouldn't let me; and I was made to spend
the evening in bed, while the rest sat and talked in the room, and my
Thérence, sitting by my pillow, listened tenderly to what I said,
letting me pour out in words all the balm that was in my heart.

The monk talked with Benoît, the pair washing down their conversation
with several jorums of white wine, which they swallowed under the
guise of a restorative medicine.  Huriel and Brulette were together
in a corner; Joseph with his mother and the Head-Woodsman in another.

Huriel was saying to Brulette: "I told you, the very first day I saw
you, when I showed you your token in my earring, that it should stay
there forever unless the ear itself came off.  Well, the ear, though
slit in the fight, is still there, and the token, though rather bent,
is in the ear--see!  The wound will heal, the token can be mended,
and everything will come all right, by the grace of God."

Mariton was saying to Père Bastien: "What is going to be the result
of this fight?  Those men are capable of murdering my poor boy if he
attempts to play his bagpipe in this region."

"No," replied Père Bastien, "all has happened for the best; they have
had a good lesson, and there were witnesses enough outside of the
brotherhood to keep them from venturing to attack Joseph or any of us
again.  They are capable of doing harm when, by force or persuasion,
they have brought the candidate to take an oath.  But Joseph took
none; he will, however, be silent because he is generous.  Tiennet
will do the same, and so will our young woodsmen by my advice and
order.  But your bagpipers know very well that if they touch a hair
of our heads all tongues will be loosened and the affair brought to
justice."

And the monk was saying to Benoît: "I can't laugh as you do about the
adventure, for I got into a passion which compels me to confess and
do penance.  I can forgive them the blows they tried to give me, but
not those they forced me to give them.  Ah! the prior of my convent
is right enough to taunt me with my temper, and tell me I ought to
combat not only the old Adam in me but the old peasant too,--that is,
the man within me who loves wine and fighting.  Wine," continued the
monk, sighing, and filling his glass to the brim, "is conquered,
thank God! but I discovered this night that my blood is as
quarrelsome as ever, and that a mere tap could make me furious."

"But weren't you in a position of legitimate defence?" said Benoît.
"Come, come; you spoke to those fellows in a proper manner, and you
didn't strike till you were obliged to."

"That's all very true," replied the friar, "but my evil genius the
prior will ask me questions,--he'll pump the truth out of me; and I
shall be forced to confess that instead of doing it regretfully, I
was carried away with the pleasure of striking like a sledge-hammer,
forgetting I had a cassock on my back and thinking of the days when,
keeping my flocks in the Bourbonnais pastures, I went about
quarrelling with the other shepherds for the mere earthly vanity of
proving I was the strongest and most obstinate of them all."

Joseph was silent; no doubt he felt badly at seeing two such happy
couples without the right to sulk at them, after receiving such good
support from Huriel and me.  The Head-Woodsman, who had a tender spot
in his heart for the fellow on account of his music, kept talking to
him of glory.  Joseph made great efforts to witness the happiness of
others without showing jealousy; and we had to admit that, proud and
cold as he was, there was in him an uncommon force of will for
self-conquest.  He remained hidden, as I did, for some time in his
mother's house, till the marks of the fray were effaced; for the
secret of the whole affair was very well kept by my comrades, though
Leonard, who behaved very boldly and yet judiciously, threatened the
bagpipers to reveal all to the authorities of the canton, if they did
not conduct themselves peacefully.

When we all got about again it was found that no one was seriously
damaged, except Père Carnat, whose wrist, as it proved, I had
dislocated, and a parley and settlement ensued.  It was agreed that
Joseph should have certain parishes; and he had them assigned to him,
though with no intention of using his privilege.

I was rather more ill than I thought for; not so much on account of
my wound, which was not severe, nor yet of the blows that had been
rained on my body, but because of the bleeding the monk had done to
me with the best intentions.  Huriel and Brulette had the charming
amiability to put off their marriage till ours could take place; and
a month later, the two weddings were celebrated,--in fact, there were
three, for Benoît wished to acknowledge his publicly, and to
celebrate the occasion with us.  The worthy man, delighted to have
had his heir so well taken care of by Brulette, tried to get her to
accept a gift of some consequence, but she steadily refused, and
throwing herself into Mariton's arms she said: "Remember that this
dear woman was a mother to me for more than a dozen years; do you
think I can take money when I am not yet out of her debt?"

"That maybe," said Mariton, "but your bringing up was nothing but
honor and profit to me, whereas that of my Charlot brought you
trouble and insult."

"My dear friend," replied Brulette, "that very fact is all that evens
our account.  I would gladly have made your José happy in return for
all your goodness to me; but that did not depend on my poor heart,
and so to compensate you for the grief I caused him, I was bound to
suffer all I did for your other child."

"There's a girl for you!" cried Benoît, wiping his big round eyes,
which were not used to shed tears.  "Yes, yes, indeed, there's a
girl!--" and he couldn't say any more.

To get even with Brulette, he was determined to pay all the costs of
her wedding, and mine into the bargain.  As he spared nothing and
invited at least two hundred guests, it cost him a pretty sum, which
he paid without a murmur.

The monk promised faithfully to be present, all the more because the
prior had kept him on bread and water for a month and the embargo on
his gullet was raised the very day of the wedding.  He did not abuse
his liberty, however, and behaved in such a pleasant way that we all
became as fast friends with him as Huriel and Benoît had previously
been.

Joseph kept up his courage till the day of the wedding.  In the
morning he was pale, and apparently deep in thought; but as we left
the church he took the bagpipe from my father-in-law's hand, and
played a wedding march which he had composed that very night in our
honor.  It was such a beautiful piece of music, and was so applauded,
that his gloom disappeared, and he played triumphantly his best dance
airs all the evening, and quite forgot himself and his troubles the
whole time the festivities lasted.

He followed us back to Chassin, and there the Head-Woodsman, having
settled his affairs, addressed us one and all, as follows:--

"My children, you are now happy, and rich for country folks; I leave
you the business of this forest, which is a good one, and all I
possess elsewhere is yours.  You can spend the rest of the season
here, and during that time you can decide on your plans for the
future.  You belong to different parts of the country; your tastes
and habits are not alike.  Try, my sons, both of you, to find what
kind of life will make your wives happy and keep them from regretting
their marriages now so well begun.  I shall return within a year.
Let me have two fine grandchildren to welcome me.  You can then tell
me what you have decided to do.  Take your time; a thing that seems
good to-day may seem worse, or better, to-morrow."

"Where are going, father?" said Thérence, clasping him in her arms in
fear.

"I am going to travel about with Joseph, and play our music as we
go," answered Père Bastien.  "He needs it; and as for me, I have
hungered for it these thirty years."

Neither tears nor entreaties could keep him, and that evening we
escorted them half way to Saint Sevère.  There, as we embraced Père
Bastien with many tears, Joseph said to us: "Don't be unhappy.  I
know very well he is sacrificing the sight of your happiness to my
good, for he has a father's heart for me and knows I am the most to
be pitied of his children; but perhaps I shall not need him long; and
I have an idea you will see him sooner than he thinks for."  Then he
added, kneeling before my wife and Huriel's, "Dear sisters, I have
offended both of you, and I have been punished enough by my own
thoughts.  Will you not forgive me, so that I may forgive myself and
go away more peacefully?"

They both kissed him with the utmost affection, and then he came to
each of us, and said, with surprising warmth of heart, the kindest
and most affectionate words he had ever said in his life, begging us
to forgive his faults and to hold him in remembrance.

We stood on a hill to watch them as long as possible.  Père Bastien
played vigorously on his bagpipe, turning round from time to time to
wave his cap and blow kisses with his hand.

Joseph did not turn round; he walked in silence, with his head down
as if in thought or in grief.  I could not help saying to Huriel that
I saw on his face as he left us that strange look I had seen in his
childhood, which, in our parts, is thought the sign of a man doomed
to evil.

Our tears were dried, little by little, in the sunshine of happiness
and hope.  My beautiful dear wife made a greater effort than the rest
of us, for never before being parted from her father, she seemed to
have lost a portion of her soul in losing him; and I saw that in
spite of her courage, her love for me, and the happiness she felt in
the prospect of becoming a mother, there was always something lacking
for which she sighed in secret.  So my mind was constantly turning on
how to arrange our lives to live in future with Père Bastien, were it
even necessary to sell my property, give up my family, and follow my
wife wherever she wished to live.

It was just the same with Brulette, who was determined to consult
only her husband's tastes, specially when her old grandfather, after
a brief illness, died quietly, as he had lived, protected by the care
and love of his dear daughter.

"Tiennet," she often said to me, "I see plainly that Berry must give
way to the Bourbonnais in you and me.  Huriel is too fond of this
free, strong life and change of air to endure our sleepy plains.  He
makes me so happy I will never let him feel a secret pain.  I have no
family now in our parts; all my friends there, except you, have hurt
me; I live only for Huriel.  Where he is happy there I am happiest."

The winter found us still in the forest of Chassin.  We had stripped
that beautiful region of its beauty, for the old oak wood was its
finest feature.  The snow covered the prostrate bodies of the noble
trees, flung head-foremost into the river, which held them, cold and
dead, in its ice.  One morning Huriel and I were lunching beside a
fire of brushwood which our wives had lighted to warm our soup, and
we were looking at them with delight, for both were in a fair way to
keep the promise they had made to Père Bastien to give him
descendants, when suddenly they both cried out, and Thérence,
forgetting she was not so light as she once was, sprang almost across
the fire to kiss a man whom the smoke of damp leaves had hidden from
our sight.  It was her good father, who soon had neither arms nor
lips enough to reply to our welcome.  After the first joy was over,
we asked him about Joseph, and then his face darkened and his eyes
filled with tears.

"He told you that you would see me sooner than I expected," said Père
Bastien, sadly; "he may have had a presentiment of his fate, and God,
who softened the hard shell of his heart at that moment, no doubt
counselled him to reflect upon himself."

We dared not inquire further.  Père Bastien sat down, opened his sack
and drew forth the pieces of a broken bagpipe.

"This is all that remains of that poor lad," he said.  "He could not
escape his star.  I thought I had softened his pride, but, alas! in
everything connected with music he grew daily more haughty and
morose.  Perhaps it was my fault.  I tried to console him for his
love troubles by proving to him the happiness of his art.  From me,
at least, he got the sweets of praise, but the more he sucked them
the greater his thirst.  We went far,--as far even as the mountains
of the Morvan, where there are many bagpipers as jealous as those in
these parts, not so much for their selfish interests as for their
conceit in their talents.  Joseph was imprudent; he used language
that offended them at a supper to which they hospitably invited him
with the kindest intentions.  Unhappily, I was not there; not feeling
very well, and having no reason to fear a misunderstanding, I stayed
away.  He was absent all night, but that often happened, and as I had
noticed he was rather jealous of the applause people were pleased to
give to my old ditties, I was apt not to go with him.  In the morning
I went out, still not feeling well, and I heard in the village that a
broken bagpipe had been picked up at the edge of a pond.  I ran to
see it, and knew it at a glance.  Then I went to the place where it
was found, and breaking the ice of the pond, I found his poor body,
quite frozen.  There were no marks of violence on it, and the
bagpipers swore that they had parted from him, soberly and without a
quarrel, about a league from the spot.  I searched in vain for the
cause of his death.  The place was in a very wild region, where the
law fears the peasant and the peasant fears nought but the devil.  I
was forced to content myself with their foolish remarks and reasons.
In those parts they firmly believe a great deal that we should laugh
at here; for instance, they think you can't be a musician without
selling your soul to hell; and that Satan tears the bagpipe from the
player's hands and breaks it upon his back, which drives him wild and
maddens him, and then he kills himself.  That is how they explain the
revenge which bagpipers often take upon each other; and the latter
never contradict, for it suits them to be feared and to escape all
consequences.  Indeed, all musicians are held in such fear and
disrepute that I could get no attention to my complaints, and if I
had remained in the neighborhood I might even have been accused of
summoning the devil to rid me of my companion."

"Alas!" said Brulette, weeping, "my poor José, my poor dear
companion!  Good God, what are we to say to his mother?"

"We must tell her," said Père Bastien, sadly, "not to let Charlot
take a fancy to music.  It is too harsh a mistress for folks like us;
we have not head enough to stand on the heights to which it leads
without turning giddy."

"Oh, father!" cried Thérence, "if you would only give it up!  God
knows what misfortunes it may yet bring upon you."

"Be comforted, my darling," said Père Bastien, "I have given it up!
I return to live with my family, to be happy with my grandchildren,
whom I dream of already as they dance at my knee.  Where shall we
settle ourselves, my dear children?"

"Where you wish," said Thérence.

"Where our husbands wish," said Brulette.

"Where my wife wishes," I cried.

"Where you all wish," said Huriel.

"Well," said Père Bastien, "as I know your likings and your means,
and as, moreover, I bring you back a bit of money, I've been
thinking; as I trudged along that we could all be satisfied.  When
you wish the peach to ripen you mustn't pull out the stone.  The
peach-stone is the property which Tiennet owns at Nohant.  We will
buy other land that adjoins it, and build a good house for all of us.
I shall be content to watch the wheat-fields,--glad not to fell God's
noble trees, but to make my little songs in the olden fashion, at
evening, by my door, among mine own, instead of drinking the wine of
others and making jealousies.  Huriel likes to roam, and his wife,
just now, is of the same turn of mind.  They can undertake such
enterprises as we have now finished in this forest (where I see you
have worked well), and they can spend the fine season in the woods.
If their young family is in the way, Thérence has strength and heart
enough to manage a double nest, and you will all meet together in the
autumn with increased pleasure, until my son, long after he has
closed my eyes, will feel the need of resting all the year round, as
I feel it now."

All that my father-in-law said came to pass, just as he advised and
prophesied.  The good God blessed our obedience; and as life is a
pasty mixed of sadness and content, poor Mariton often came to us to
weep, and the worthy monk, as often, came to laugh.



THE END.