The first thing next morning
Genestas went to the stable,
drawn thither by the affection
that every man feels for the
horse that he rides. Nicolle's
method of rubbing down the animal
was quite
satisfactory.
"Up already, Commandant Bluteau?" cried
Benassis, as he came upon his
guest. "You hear the drum beat
in the morning wherever you go,
even in the country! You are
a regular soldier!"
"Are you all right?" replied
Genestas, holding out his hand
with a friendly gesture.
"I am never really all right," answered
Benassis, half merrily, half
sadly.
"Did you sleep well, sir?" inquired
Jacquotte.
"Faith, yes,
my beauty; the bed as you made
it was fit for
a queen."
Jacquotte's face beamed as
she followed her master and his
guest, and when she had seen
them seat themselves at table,
she remarked to Nicolle:
"He is not
a bad sort, after all, that
officer gentleman."
"I am sure
he is not, he has given me
two francs already."
"We will begin to-day by calling
at two places where there have
been deaths," Benassis said to
his visitor as they left the
dining-room. "Although doctors
seldom deign to confront their
supposed victims, I will take
you round to the two houses,
where you will be able to make
some interesting observations
of human nature; and the scenes
to which you will be a witness
will show you that in the expression
of their feelings our folk among
the hills differ greatly from
the dwellers in the lowlands.
Up among the mountain peaks in
our canton they cling to customs
that bear the impress of an older
time, and that vaguely recall
scenes in the Bible. Nature has
traced out a line over our mountain
ranges; the whole appearance
of the country is different on
either side of it. You will find
strength of character up above,
flexibility and quickness below;
they have larger ways of regarding
things among the hills, while
the bent of the lowlands is always
towards the material interests
of existence. I have never seen
a difference so strongly marked,
unless it has been in the Val
d'Ajou, where the northern side
is peopled by a tribe of idiots,
and the southern by an intelligent
race. There is nothing but a
stream in the valley bottom to
separate these two populations,
which are utterly dissimilar
in every respect, as different
in face and stature as in manners,
customs, and occupation. A fact
of this kind should compel those
who govern a country to make
very extensive studies of local
differences before passing laws
that are to affect the great
mass of the people. But the horses
are ready, let us start!"
In a short time the two horsemen
reached a house in a part of
the township that was overlooked
by the mountains of the Grande
Chartreuse. Before the door of
the dwelling, which was fairly
clean and tidy, they saw a coffin
set upon two chairs, and covered
with a black pall. Four tall
candles stood about it, and on
a stool near by there was a shallow
brass dish full of holy water,
in which a branch of green box-wood
was steeping. Every passer-by
went into the yard, knelt by
the side of the dead, said a
Pater noster, and sprinkled a
few drops of holy water on the
bier. Above the black cloth that
covered the coffin rose the green
sprays of a jessamine that grew
beside the doorway, and a twisted
vine shoot, already in leaf,
overran the lintel. Even the
saddest ceremonies demand that
things shall appear to the best
advantage, and in obedience to
this vaguely-felt requirement
a young girl had been sweeping
the front of the house. The dead
man's eldest son, a young peasant
about twenty-two years of age,
stood motionless, leaning against
the door-post. The tears in his
eyes came and went without falling,
or perhaps he furtively brushed
them away. Benassis and Genestas
saw all the details of this scene
as they stood beyond the low
wall; they fastened their horses
to one of the row of poplar trees
that grew along it, and entered
the yard just as the widow came
out of the byre. A woman carrying
a jug of milk was with her, and
spoke.
"Try to bear up bravely, my
poor Pelletier," she said.
"Ah! my dear, after twenty-five
years of life together, it is
very hard to lose your man," and
her eyes brimmed over with tears. "Will
you pay the two sous?" she added,
after a moment, as she held out
her hand to her neighbor.
"There, now! I had forgotten
about it," said the other woman,
giving her the coin. "Come, neighbor,
don't take on so. Ah! there is
M. Benassis!"
"Well, poor mother, how are
you going on? A little better?" asked
the doctor.
"DAME!" she said, as the tears
fell fast, "we must go on, all
the same, that is certain. I
tell myself that my man is out
of pain now. He suffered so terribly!
But come inside, sir. Jacques,
set some chairs for these gentlemen.
Come, stir yourself a bit. Lord
bless you! if you were to stop
there for a century, it would
not bring your poor father back
again. And now, you will have
to do the work of two."
"No, no good
woman, leave your son alone,
we will not sit down.
You have a boy there who will
take care of you, and who is
quite fit to take his father's
place."
"Go and change your clothes,
Jacques," cried the widow; "you
will be wanted directly."
"Well, good-bye, mother," said
Benassis.
"Your servant,
gentlemen."
"Here, you see, death is looked
upon as an event for which every
one is prepared," said the doctor; "it
brings no interruption to the
course of family life, and they
will not even wear mourning of
any kind. No one cares to be
at the expense of it; they are
all either too poor or too parsimonious
in the villages hereabouts, so
that mourning is unknown in country
districts. Yet the custom of
wearing mourning is something
better than a law or a usage,
it is an institution somewhat
akin to all moral obligations.
But in spite of our endeavors
neither M. Janvier nor I have
succeeded in making our peasants
understand the great importance
of public demonstrations of feeling
for the maintenance of social
order. These good folk, who have
only just begun to think and
act for themselves, are slow
as yet to grasp the changed conditions
which should attach them to these
theories. They have only reached
those ideas which conduce to
economy and to physical welfare;
in the future, if some one else
carries on this work of mine,
they will come to understand
the principles that serve to
uphold and preserve public order
and justice. As a matter of fact,
it is not sufficient to be an
honest man, you must appear to
be honest in the eyes of others.
Society does not live by moral
ideas alone; its existence depends
upon actions in harmony with
those ideas.
"In most country
communes, out of a hundred
families deprived
by death of their head, there
are only a few individuals capable
of feeling more keenly than the
others, who will remember the
deaths for very long; in a year's
time the rest will have forgotten
all about it. Is not this forgetfulness
a sore evil? A religion is the
very heart of a nation; it expresses
their feelings and their thoughts,
and exalts them by giving them
an object; but unless outward
and visible honor is paid to
a God, religion cannot exist;
and, as a consequence, human
ordinances lose all their force.
If the conscience belongs to
God and to Him only, the body
is amenable to social law. Is
it not therefore, a first step
towards atheism to efface every
sign of pious sorrow in this
way, to neglect to impress on
children who are not yet old
enough to reflect, and on all
other people who stand in need
of example, the necessity of
obedience to human law, by openly
manifested resignation to the
will of Providence, who chastens
and consoles, who bestows and
takes away worldly wealth? I
confess that, after passing through
a period of sneering incredulity,
I have come during my life here
to recognize the value of the
rites of religion and of religious
observances in the family, and
to discern the importance of
household customs and domestic
festivals. The family will always
be the basis of human society.
Law and authority are first felt
there; there, at any rate, the
habit of obedience should be
learned. Viewed in the light
of all their consequences, the
spirit of the family and paternal
authority are two elements but
little developed as yet in our
new legislative system. Yet in
the family, the commune, the
department, lies the whole of
our country. The laws ought therefore
to be based on these three great
divisions.
"In my opinion,
marriages, the birth of infants,
and the
deaths of heads of households
cannot be surrounded with too
much circumstance. The secret
of the strength of Catholicism,
and of the deep root that it
has taken in the ordinary life
of man, lies precisely in this--that
it steps in to invest every important
event in his existence with a
pomp that is so naively touching,
and so grand, whenever the priest
rises to the height of his mission
and brings his office into harmony
with the sublimity of Christian
doctrine.
"Once I looked
upon the Catholic religion
as a cleverly exploited
mass of prejudices and superstitions,
which an intelligent civilization
ought to deal with according
to its desserts. Here I have
discovered its political necessity
and its usefulness as a moral
agent; here, moreover, I have
come to understand its power,
through a knowledge of the actual
thing which the word expresses.
Religion means a bond or tie,
and certainly a cult--or, in
other words, the outward and
visible form of religion is the
only force that can bind the
various elements of society together
and mould them into a permanent
form. Lastly, it was also here
that I have felt the soothing
influence that religion sheds
over the wounds of humanity,
and (without going further into
the subject) I have seen how
admirably it is suited to the
fervid temperaments of southern
races.
"Let us take the road up the
hillside," said the doctor, interrupting
himself; "we must reach the plateau
up there. Thence we shall look
down upon both valleys, and you
will see a magnificent view.
The plateau lies three thousand
feet above the level of the Mediterranean;
we shall see over Savoy and Dauphine,
and the mountain ranges of the
Lyonnais and Rhone. We shall
be in another commune, a hill
commune, and on a farm belonging
to M. Gravier you will see the
kind of scene of which I have
spoken. There the great events
of life are invested with a solemnity
which comes up to my ideas. Mourning
for the dead is vigorously prescribed.
Poor people will beg in order
to purchase black clothing, and
no one refuses to give in such
a case. There are few days in
which the widow does not mention
her loss; she always speaks of
it with tears, and her grief
is as deep after ten days of
sorrow as on the morning after
her bereavement. Manners are
patriarchal: the father's authority
is unlimited, his word is law.
He takes his meals sitting by
himself at the head of the table;
his wife and children wait upon
him, and those about him never
address him without using certain
respectful forms of speech, while
every one remains standing and
uncovered in his presence. Men
brought up in this atmosphere
are conscious of their dignity;
to my way of thinking, it is
a noble education to be brought
up among these customs. And,
for the most part, they are upright,
thrifty, and hardworking people
in this commune. The father of
every family, when he is old
and past work, divides his property
equally among his children, and
they support him; that is the
usual way here. An old man of
ninety, in the last century,
who had divided everything he
had among his four children,
went to live with each in turn
for three months in the year.
As he left the oldest to go to
the home of a younger brother,
one of his friends asked him,
'Well, are you satisfied with
the arrangement?' 'Faith! yes,'
the old man answered; 'they have
treated me as if I had been their
own child.' That answer of his
seemed so remarkable to an officer
then stationed at Grenoble, that
he repeated it in more than one
Parisian salon. That officer
was the celebrated moralist Vauvenargues,
and in this way the beautiful
saying came to the knowledge
of another writer named Chamfort.
Ah! still more forcible phrases
are often struck out among us,
but they lack a historian worthy
of them."
"I have come across Moravians
and Lollards in Bohemia and Hungary," said
Genestas. "They are a kind of
people something like your mountaineers,
good folk who endure the sufferings
of war with angelic patience."
"Men living
under simple and natural conditions
are bound
to be almost alike in all countries.
Sincerity of life takes but one
form. It is true that a country
life often extinguishes thought
of a wider kind; but evil propensities
are weakened and good qualities
are developed by it. In fact,
the fewer the numbers of the
human beings collected together
in a place, the less crime, evil
thinking, and general bad behavior
will be found in it. A pure atmosphere
counts for a good deal in purity
of morals."
The two horsemen, who had been
climbing the stony road at a
foot pace, now reached the level
space of which Benassis had spoken.
It is a strip of land lying round
about the base of a lofty mountain
peak, a bare surface of rock
with no growth of any kind upon
it; deep clefts are riven in
its sheer inaccessible sides.
The gray crest of the summit
towers above the ledge of fertile
soil which lies around it, a
domain sometimes narrower, sometimes
wider, and altogether about a
hundred acres in extent. Here,
through a vast break in the line
of the hills to the south, the
eye sees French Maurienne, Dauphine,
the crags of Savoy, and the far-off
mountains of the Lyonnais. Genestas
was gazing from this point, over
a land that lay far and wide
in the spring sunlight, when
there arose the sound of a wailing
cry.
"Let us go on," said Benassis; "the
wail for the dead has begun,
that is the name they give to
this part of the funeral rites."
On the western slope of the
mountain peak, the commandant
saw the buildings belonging to
a farm of some size. The whole
place formed a perfect square.
The gateway consisted of a granite
arch, impressive in its solidity,
which added to the old-world
appearance of the buildings with
the ancient trees that stood
about them, and the growth of
plant life on the roofs. The
house itself lay at the farther
end of the yard. Barns, sheepfolds,
stables, cowsheds, and other
buildings lay on either side,
and in the midst was the great
pool where the manure had been
laid to rot. On a thriving farm,
such a yard as this is usually
full of life and movement, but
to-day it was silent and deserted.
The poultry was shut up, the
cattle were all in the byres,
there was scarcely a sound of
animal life. Both stables and
cowsheds had been carefully swept
across the yard. The perfect
neatness which reigned in a place
where everything as a rule was
in disorder, the absence of stirring
life, the stillness in so noisy
a spot, the calm serenity of
the hills, the deep shadow cast
by the towering peak--everything
combined to make a strong impression
on the mind.
Genestas was
accustomed to painful scenes,
yet he could
not help shuddering as he saw
a dozen men and women standing
weeping outside the door of the
great hall. "THE MASTER IS DEAD!" they
wailed; the unison of voices
gave appalling effect to the
words which they repeated twice
during the time required to cross
the space between the gateway
and the farmhouse door. To this
wailing lament succeeded moans
from within the house; the sound
of a woman's voice came through
the casements.
"I dare not intrude upon such
grief as this," said Genestas
to Benassis.
"I always go to visit a bereaved
family," the doctor answered, "either
to certify the death, or to see
that no mischance caused by grief
has befallen the living. You
need not hesitate to come with
me. The scene is impressive,
and there will be such a great
many people that no one will
notice your presence."
As Genestas followed the doctor,
he found, in fact, that the first
room was full of relations of
the dead. They passed through
the crowd and stationed themselves
at the door of a bedroom that
opened out of the great hall
which served the whole family
for a kitchen and a sitting-room;
the whole colony, it should rather
be called, for the great length
of the table showed that some
forty people lived in the house.
Benassis' arrival interrupted
the discourse of a tall, simply-
dressed woman, with thin locks
of hair, who held the dead man's
hand in hers in a way that spoke
eloquently.
The dead master of the house
had been arrayed in his best
clothes, and now lay stretched
out cold and stiff upon the bed.
They had drawn the curtains aside;
the thought of heaven seemed
to brood over the quiet face
and the white hair--it was like
the closing scene of a drama.
On either side of the bed stood
the children and the nearest
relations of the husband and
wife. These last stood in a line
on either side; the wife's kin
upon the left, and those of her
husband on the right. Both men
and women were kneeling in prayer,
and almost all of them were in
tears. Tall candles stood about
the bed. The cure of the parish
and his assistants had taken
their places in the middle of
the room, beside the bier. There
was something tragical about
the scene, with the head of the
family lying before the coffin,
which was waiting to be closed
down upon him forever.
"Ah!" cried the widow, turning
as she saw Benassis, "if the
skill of the best of men could
not save you, my dear lord, it
was because it was ordained in
heaven that you should precede
me to the tomb! Yes, this hand
of yours, that used to press
mine so kindly, is cold! I have
lost my dear helpmate for ever,
and our household has lost its
beloved head, for truly you were
the guide of us all! Alas! there
is not one of those who are weeping
with me who has not known all
the worth of your nature, and
felt the light of your soul,
but I alone knew all the patience
and the kindness of your heart.
Oh! my husband, my husband! must
I bid you farewell for ever?
Farewell to you, our stay and
support! Farewell to you, my
dear master! And we, your children,--for
to each of us you gave the same
fatherly love,--all we, your
children, have lost our father!"
The widow flung herself upon
the dead body and clasped it
in a tight embrace, as if her
kisses and the tears with which
she covered it could give it
warmth again; during the pause,
came the wail of the servants:
"THE MASTER
IS DEAD!"
"Yes," the widow went on, "he
is dead! Our beloved who gave
us our bread, who sowed and reaped
for us, who watched over our
happiness, who guided us through
life, who ruled so kindly among
us. NOW, I may speak in his praise,
and say that he never caused
me the slightest sorrow; he was
good and strong and patient.
Even while we were torturing
him for the sake of his health,
so precious to us, 'Let it be,
children, it is all no use,'
the dear lamb said, just in the
same tone of voice with which
he had said, 'Everything is all
right, friends,' only a few days
before. Ah! grand Dieu! a few
days ago! A few days have been
enough to take away the gladness
from our house and to darken
our lives, to close the eyes
of the best, most upright, most
revered of men. No one could
plow as he could. Night or day,
he would go about over the mountains,
he feared nothing, and when he
came back he had always a smile
for his wife and children. Ah!
he was our beloved! It was dull
here by the fireside when HE
was away, and our food lost all
its relish. Oh! how will it be
now, when our guardian angel
will be laid away under the earth,
and we shall never see him any
more? Never any more, dear kinsfolk
and friends; never any more,
my children! Yes, my children
have lost their kind father,
our relations and friends have
lost their good kinsman and their
trusty friend, the household
has lost its master, and I have
lost everything!"
She took the
hand of the dead again, and
knelt, so that she
might press her face close to
his as she kissed it. The servants'
cry, "THE MASTER IS DEAD!" was
again repeated three times.
Just then the
eldest son came to his mother
to say, "The people
from Saint-Laurent have just
come, mother; we want some wine
for them."
"Take the keys," she said in
a low tone, and in a different
voice from that in which she
had just expressed her grief; "you
are the master of the house,
my son; see that they receive
the welcome that your father
would have given them; do not
let them find any change.
"Let me have one more long
look," she went on. "But alas!
my good husband, you do not feel
my presence now, I cannot bring
back warmth to you! I only wish
that I could comfort you still,
could let you know that so long
as I live you will dwell in the
heart that you made glad, could
tell you that I shall be happy
in the memory of my happiness--
that the dear thought of you
will live on in this room. Yes,
as long as God spares me, this
room shall be filled with memories
of you. Hear my vow, dear husband!
Your couch shall always remain
as it is now. I will sleep in
it no more, since you are dead;
henceforward, while I live, it
shall be cold and empty. With
you, I have lost all that makes
a woman: her master, husband,
father, friend, companion, and
helpmate: I have lost all!"
"THE MASTER IS DEAD!" the
servants wailed. Others raised
the cry,
and the lament became general.
The widow took a pair of scissors
that hung at her waist, cut off
her hair, and laid the locks
in her husband's hand. Deep silence
fell on them all.
"That act means that she will
not marry again," said Benassis; "this
determination was expected by
many of the relatives."
"Take it, dear lord!" she said;
her emotion brought a tremor
to her voice that went to the
hearts of all who heard her. "I
have sworn to be faithful; I
give this pledge to you to keep
in the grave. We shall thus be
united for ever, and through
love of your children I will
live on among the family in whom
you used to feel yourself young
again. Oh! that you could hear
me, my husband! the pride and
joy of my heart! Oh! that you
could know that all my power
to live, now you are dead, will
yet come from you; for I shall
live to carry out your sacred
wishes and to honor your memory."
Benassis pressed Genestas'
hand as an invitation to follow
him, and they went out. By this
time the first room was full
of people who had come from another
mountain commune; all of them
waited in meditative silence,
as if the sorrow and grief that
brooded over the house had already
taken possession of them. As
Benassis and the commandant crossed
the threshold, they overheard
a few words that passed between
one of the newcomers and the
eldest son of the late owner.
"Then when
did he die?"
"Oh!" exclaimed the eldest
son, a man of five-and-twenty
years of age, "I did not see
him die. He asked for me, and
I was not there!" His voice was
broken with sobs, but he went
on: "He said to me the night
before, 'You must go over to
the town, my boy, and pay our
taxes; my funeral will put that
out of your minds, and we shall
be behindhand, a thing that has
never happened before.' It seemed
the best thing to do, so I went;
and while I was gone, he died,
and I never received his last
embrace. I have always been at
his side, but he did not see
me near him at the last in my
place where I had always been."
"THE MASTER
IS DEAD!"
"Alas! he is
dead, and I was not there to
receive his last
words and his latest sigh. And
what did the taxes matter? Would
it not have been better to lose
all our money than to leave home
just then? Could all that we
have make up to me for the loss
of his last farewell. No. MON
DIEU! If YOUR father falls ill,
Jean, do not go away and leave
him, or you will lay up a lifelong
regret for yourself."
"My friend," said Genestas, "I
have seen thousands of men die
on the battlefield; death did
not wait to let their children
bid them farewell; take comfort,
you are not the only one."
"But a father who was such
a good man!" he replied, bursting
into fresh tears.
Benassis took Genestas in the
direction of the farm buildings.
"The funeral oration will only
cease when the body has been
laid in its coffin," said the
doctor, "and the weeping woman's
language will grow more vivid
and impassioned all the while.
But a woman only acquires the
right to speak in such a strain
before so imposing an audience
by a blameless life. If the widow
could reproach herself with the
smallest of shortcomings, she
would not dare to utter a word;
for if she did, she would pronounce
her own condemnation, she would
be at the same time her own accuser
and judge. Is there not something
sublime in this custom which
thus judges the living and the
dead? They only begin to wear
mourning after a week has elapsed,
when it is publicly worn at a
meeting of all the family. Their
near relations spend the week
with the widow and children,
to help them to set their affairs
in order and to console them.
A family gathering at such a
time produces a great effect
on the minds of the mourners;
the consideration for others
which possesses men when they
are brought into close contact
acts as a restraint on violent
grief. On the last day, when
the mourning garb has been assumed,
a solemn banquet is given, and
their relations take leave of
them. All this is taken very
seriously. Any one who was slack
in fulfilling his duties after
the death of the head of a family
would have no one at his own
funeral."
The doctor had reached the
cowhouse as he spoke; he opened
the door and made the commandant
enter, that he might show it
to him.
"All our cowhouses
have been rebuilt after this
pattern, captain.
Look! Is it not magnificent?"
Genestas could not help admiring
the huge place. The cows and
oxen stood in two rows, with
their tails towards the side
walls, and their heads in the
middle of the shed. Access to
the stalls was afforded by a
fairly wide space between them
and the wall; you could see their
horned heads and shining eyes
through the lattice work, so
that it was easy for the master
to run his eyes over the cattle.
The fodder was placed on some
staging erected above the stalls,
so that it fell into the racks
below without waste of labor
or material. There was a wide-
paved space down the centre,
which was kept clean, and ventilated
by a thorough draught of air.
"In the winter time," Benassis
said, as he walked with Genestas
down the middle of the cowhouse, "both
men and women do their work here
together in the evenings. The
tables are set out here, and
in this way the people keep themselves
warm without going to any expense.
The sheep are housed in the same
way. You would not believe how
quickly the beasts fall into
orderly ways. I have often wondered
to see them come in; each knows
her proper place, and allows
those who take precedence to
pass in before her. Look! there
is just room enough in each stall
to do the milking and to rub
the cattle down; and the floor
slopes a little to facilitate
drainage."
"One can judge of everything
else from the sight of this cowhouse," said
Genestas; "without flattery,
these are great results indeed!"
"We have had some trouble to
bring them about," Benassis answered; "but
then, see what fine cattle they
are!"
"They are splendid beasts certainly;
you had good reason to praise
them to me," answered Genestas.
"Now," said
the doctor, when he had mounted
his horse and
passed under the gateway, we
are going over some of the newly
cleared waste, and through the
corn land. I have christened
this little corner of our Commune,
'La Beauce.' "
For about an hour they rode
at a foot pace across fields
in a state of high cultivation,
on which the soldier complimented
the doctor; then they came down
the mountain side into the township
again, talking whenever the pace
of their horses allowed them
to do so. At last they reached
a narrow glen, down which they
rode into the main valley.
"I promised yesterday," Benassis
said to Genestas, "to show you
one of the two soldiers who left
the army and came back to us
after the fall of Napoleon. We
shall find him somewhere hereabouts,
if I am not mistaken. The mountain
streams flow into a sort of natural
reservoir or tarn up here; the
earth they bring down has silted
it up, and he is engaged in clearing
it out. But if you are to take
any interest in the man, I must
tell you his history. His name
is Gondrin. He was only eighteen
years old when he was drawn in
the great conscription of 1792,
and drafted into a corps of gunners.
He served as a private soldier
in Napoleon's campaigns in Italy,
followed him to Egypt, and came
back from the East after the
Peace of Amiens. In the time
of the Empire he was incorporated
in the Pontoon Troop of the Guard,
and was constantly on active
service in Germany, lastly the
poor fellow made the Russian
campaign."
"We are brothers-in-arms then,
to some extent," said Genestas; "I
have made the same campaigns.
Only an iron frame would stand
the tricks played by so many
different climates. My word for
it, those who are still standing
on their stumps after marching
over Italy, Egypt, Germany, Portugal,
and Russia must have applied
to Providence and taken out a
patent for living."
"Just so, you will see a solid
fragment of a man," answered
Benassis. "You know all about
the Retreat from Moscow; it is
useless to tell you about it.
This man I have told you of is
one of the pontooners of the
Beresina; he helped to construct
the bridge by which the army
made the passage, and stood waist-deep
in water to drive in the first
piles. General Eble, who was
in command of the pontooners,
could only find forty-two men
who were plucky enough, in Gondrin's
phrase, to tackle that business.
The general himself came down
to the stream to hearten and
cheer the men, promising each
of them a pension of a thousand
francs and the Cross of the Legion
of Honor. The first who went
down into the Beresina had his
leg taken off by a block of ice,
and the man himself was washed
away; but you will better understand
the difficulty of the task when
you hear the end of the story.
Of the forty-two volunteers,
Gondrin is the only one alive
to-day. Thirty-nine of them lost
their lives in the Beresina,
and the two others died miserably
in a Polish hospital.
"The poor fellow
himself only returned from
Wilna in 1814,
to find the Bourbons restored
to power. General Eble (of whom
Gondrin cannot speak without
tears in his eyes) was dead.
The pontooner was deaf, and his
health was shattered; and as
he could neither read nor write,
he found no one left to help
him or to plead his cause. He
begged his way to Paris, and
while there made application
at the War Office, not for the
thousand francs of extra pension
which had been promised to him,
nor yet for the Cross of the
Legion of Honor, but only for
the bare pension due to him after
twenty-two years of service,
and I do not know how many campaigns.
He did not obtain his pension
or his traveling expenses; he
did not even receive his arrears
of pay. He spent a year in making
fruitless solicitations, holding
out his hands in vain to those
whom he had saved; and at the
end of it he came back here,
sorely disheartened but resigned
to his fate. This hero unknown
to fame does draining work on
the land, for which he is paid
ten sous the fathom. He is accustomed
to working in a marshy soil,
and so, as he says, he gets jobs
which no one else cares to take.
He can make about three francs
a day by clearing out ponds,
or draining meadows that lie
under water. His deafness makes
him seem surly, and he is not
naturally inclined to say very
much, but there is a good deal
in him.
"We are very
good friends. He dines with
me on the day of
Austerlitz, on the Emperor's
birthday, and on the anniversary
of the disaster at Waterloo,
and during the dessert he always
receives a napoleon to pay for
his wine very quarter. Every
one in the Commune shares in
my feeling of respect for him;
if he would allow them to support
him, nothing would please them
better. At every house to which
he goes the people follow my
example, and show their esteem
by asking him to dine with them.
It is a feeling of pride that
leads him to work, and it is
only as a portrait of the Emperor
that he can be induced to take
my twenty-franc piece. He has
been deeply wounded by the injustice
that has been done to him; but
I think regret for the Cross
is greater than the desire for
his pension.
"He has one
great consolation. After the
bridges had been constructed
across the Beresina, General
Eble presented such of the pontooners
as were not disabled to the Emperor,
and Napoleon embraced poor Gondrin--
perhaps but for that accolade
he would have died ere now. This
memory and the hope that some
day Napoleon will return are
all that Gondrin lives by. Nothing
will ever persuade him that Napoleon
is dead, and so convinced is
he that the Emperor's captivity
is wholly and solely due to the
English, that I believe he would
be ready on the slightest pretext
to take the life of the best-natured
alderman that ever traveled for
pleasure in foreign parts."
"Let us go on as fast as possible!" cried
Genestas. He had listened to
the doctor's story with rapt
attention, and now seemed to
recover consciousness of his
surroundings. "Let us hurry!
I long to see that man!"
Both of them put their horses
to a gallop.
"The other soldier that I spoke
of," Benassis went on, "is another
of those men of iron who have
knocked about everywhere with
our armies. His life, like that
of all French soldiers, has been
made up of bullets, sabre strokes,
and victories; he has had a very
rough time of it, and has only
worn the woolen epaulettes. He
has a fanatical affection for
Napoleon, who conferred the Cross
upon him on the field of Valontina.
He is of a jovial turn of mind,
and like a genuine Dauphinois,
has always looked after his own
interests, has his pension, and
the honors of the Legion. Goguelat
is his name. He was an infantry
man, who exchanged into the Guard
in 1812. He is Gondrin's better
half, so to speak, for the two
have taken up house together.
They both lodge with a peddler's
widow, and make over their money
to her. She is a kind soul, who
boards them and looks after them,
and their clothes as if they
were her children.
"In his quality
of local postman, Goguelat
carries all the news
of the countryside, and a good
deal of practice acquired in
this way has made him an orator
in great request at up-sittings,
and the champion teller of stories
in the district. Gondrin looks
upon him as a very knowing fellow,
and something of a wit; and whenever
Goguelat talks about Napoleon,
his comrade seems to understand
what he is saying from the movement
of his lips. There will be an
up-sitting (as they call it)
in one of my barns to-night.
If these two come over to it,
and we can manage to see without
being seen, I shall treat you
to a view of the spectacle. But
here we are, close to the ditch,
and I do not see my friend the
pontooner."
The doctor and the commandant
looked everywhere about them;
Gondrin's soldier's coat lay
there beside a heap of black
mud, and his wheelbarrow, spade,
and pickaxe were visible, but
there was no sign of the man
himself along the various pebbly
watercourses, for the wayward
mountain streams had hollowed
out channels that were almost
overgrown with low bushes.
"He cannot be so very far away.
Gondrin! Where are you?" shouted
Benassis.
Genestas first saw the curling
smoke from a tobacco pipe rise
among the brushwood on a bank
of rubbish not far away. He pointed
it out to the doctor, who shouted
again. The old pontooner raised
his head at this, recognized
the mayor, and came towards them
down a little pathway.
"Well, old friend," said Benassis,
making a sort of speaking-trumpet
with his hand. "Here is a comrade
of yours, who was out in Egypt,
come to see you."
Gondrin raised is face at once
and gave Genestas a swift, keen,
and searching look, one of those
glances by which old soldiers
are wont at once to take the
measure of any impending danger.
He saw the red ribbon that the
commandant wore, and made a silent
and respectful military salute.
"If the Little Corporal were
alive," the officer cried, "you
would have the Cross of the Legion
of Honor and a handsome pension
besides, for every man who wore
epaulettes on the other side
of the river owed his life to
you on the 1st of October 1812.
But I am not the Minister of
War, my friend," the commandant
added as he dismounted, and with
a sudden rush of feeling he grasped
the laborer's hand.
The old pontooner drew himself
up at the words, he knocked the
ashes from his pipe, and put
it in his pocket.
"I only did my duty, sir," he
said, with his head bent down; "but
others have not done their duty
by me. They asked for my papers!
Why, the Twenty-ninth Bulletin,
I told them, must do instead
of my papers!"
"But you must
make another application, comrade.
You are
bound to have justice done you
in these days, if influence is
brought to bear in the right
quarter."
"Justice!" cried
the veteran. The doctor and
the commandant
shuddered at the tone in which
he spoke.
In the brief pause that followed,
both the horsemen looked at the
man before them, who seemed like
a fragment of the wreck of great
armies which Napoleon had filled
with men of bronze sought out
from among three generations.
Gondrin was certainly a splendid
specimen of that seemingly indestructible
mass of men which might be cut
to pieces but never gave way.
The old man was scarcely five
feet high, wide across the shoulders,
and broad-chested; his face was
sunburned, furrowed with deep
wrinkles, but the outlines were
still firm in spite of the hollows
in it, and one could see even
now that it was the face of a
soldier. It was a rough-hewn
countenance, his forehead seemed
like a block of granite; but
there was a weary expression
about his face, and the gray
hairs hung scantily about his
head, as if life were waning
there already. Everything about
him indicated unusual strength;
his arms were covered thickly
with hair, and so was the chest,
which was visible through the
opening of his coarse shirt.
In spite of his almost crooked
legs, he held himself firm and
erect, as if nothing could shake
him.
"Justice," he said once more; "there
will never be justice for the
like of us. We cannot send bailiffs
to the Government to demand our
dues for us; and as the wallet
must be filled somehow," he said,
striking his stomach, "we cannot
afford to wait. Moreover, these
gentry who lead snug lives in
government offices may talk and
talk, but their words are not
good to eat, so I have come back
here again to draw my pay out
of the commonalty," he said,
striking the mud with his spade.
"Things must not be left in
that way, old comrade," said
Genestas. "I owe my life to you,
and it would be ungrateful of
me if I did not lend you a hand.
I have not forgotten the passage
over the bridges in the Beresina,
and it is fresh in the memories
of some brave fellows of my acquaintance;
they will back me up, and the
nation shall give you the recognition
you deserve."
"You will be called a Bonapartist!
Please do not meddle in the matter,
sir. I have gone to the rear
now, and I have dropped into
my hole here like a spent bullet.
But after riding on camels through
the desert, and drinking my glass
by the fireside in Moscow, I
never thought that I should come
back to die here beneath the
trees that my father planted," and
he began to work again.
"Poor old man!" said Genestas,
as they turned to go. "I should
do the same if I were in his
place; we have lost our father.
Everything seems dark to me now
that I have seen that man's hopelessness," he
went on, addressing Benassis; "he
does not know how much I am interested
in him, and he will think that
I am one of those gilded rascals
who cannot feel for a soldier's
sufferings."
He turned quickly and went
back, grasped the veteran's hand,
and spoke loudly in his ear:
"I swear by
the Cross I wear--the Cross
of Honor it used to be--that
I will do all that man can do
to obtain your pension for you;
even if I have to swallow a dozen
refusals from the minister, and
to petition the king and the
dauphin and the whole shop!"
Old Gondrin
quivered as he heard the words.
He looked hard
at Genestas and said, "Haven't
you served in the ranks?" The
commandant nodded. The pontooner
wiped his hand and took that
of Genestas, which he grasped
warmly and said:
"I made the army a present
of my life, general, when I waded
out into the river yonder, and
if I am still alive, it is all
so much to the good. One moment!
Do you care to see to the bottom
of it? Well, then, ever since
SOMEBODY was pulled down from
his place, I have ceased to care
about anything. And, after all," he
went on cheerfully, as he pointed
to the land, "they have made
over twenty thousand francs to
me here, and I am taking it out
in detail, as HE used to say!"
"Well, then, comrade," said
Genestas, touched by the grandeur
of this forgiveness, "at least
you shall have the only thing
that you cannot prevent me from
giving to you, here below." The
commandant tapped his heart,
looked once more at the old pontooner,
mounted his horse again, and
went his way side by side with
Benassis.
"Such cruelty as this on the
part of the government foments
the strife between rich and poor," said
the doctor. "People who exercise
a little brief authority have
never given a serious thought
to the consequences that must
follow an act of injustice done
to a man of the people. It is
true that a poor man who needs
must work for his daily bread
cannot long keep up the struggle;
but he can talk, and his words
find an echo in every sufferer's
heart, so that one bad case of
this kind is multiplied, for
every one who hears of it feels
it as a personal wrong, and the
leaven works. Even this is not
so serious, but something far
worse comes of it. Among the
people, these causes of injustice
bring about a chronic state of
smothered hatred for their social
superiors. The middle class becomes
the poor man's enemy; they lie
without the bounds of his moral
code, he tells lies to them and
robs them without scruple; indeed,
theft ceases to be a crime or
a misdemeanor, and is looked
upon as an act of vengeance.
"When an official,
who ought to see that the poor
have justice
done them, uses them ill and
cheats them of their due, how
can we expect the poor starving
wretches to bear their troubles
meekly and to respect the rights
of property? It makes me shudder
to think that some understrapper
whose business it is to dust
papers in a government office,
has pocketed Gondrin's promised
thousand francs of pension. And
yet there are folk who, never
having measured the excess of
the people's sufferings, accuse
the people of excess in the day
of their vengeance! When a government
has done more harm than good
to individuals, its further existence
depends on the merest accident,
the masses square the account
after their fashion by upsetting
it. A statesman ought always
to imagine Justice with the poor
at her feet, for justice was
only invented for the poor."
When they had come within the
compass of the township, Benassis
saw two people walking along
the road in front of them, and
turned to his companion, who
had been absorbed for some time
in thought.
"You have seen
a veteran soldier resigned
to his life of wretchedness,
and now you are about to see
an old agricultural laborer who
is submitting to the same lot.
The man there ahead of us has
dug and sown and toiled for others
all his life."
Genestas looked and saw an
old laborer making his way along
the road, in company with an
aged woman. He seemed to be afflicted
with some form of sciatica, and
limped painfully along. His feet
were encased in a wretched pair
of sabots, and a sort of wallet
hung over his shoulder. Several
tools lay in the bottom of the
bag; their handles, blackened
with long use and the sweat of
toil, rattled audibly together;
while the other end of the wallet
behind his shoulder held bread,
some walnuts, and a few fresh
onions. His legs seemed to be
warped, as it were, his back
was bent by continual toil; he
stooped so much as he walked
that he leaned on a long stick
to steady himself. His snow-white
hair escaped from under a battered
hat, grown rusty by exposure
to all sorts of weather, and
mended here and there with visible
stitches of white thread. His
clothes, made of a kind of rough
canvas, were a mass of patches
of contrasting colors. This piece
of humanity in ruins lacked none
of the characteristics that appeal
to our hearts when we see ruins
of other kinds.
His wife held herself somewhat
more erect. Her clothing was
likewise a mass of rags, and
the cap that she wore was of
the coarsest materials. On her
back she carried a rough earthen
jar by means of a thong passed
through the handles of the great
pitcher, which was round in shape
and flattened at the sides. They
both looked up when they heard
the horses approaching, saw that
it was Benassis, and stopped.
The man had worked till he
was almost past work, and his
faithful helpmate was no less
broken with toil. It was painful
to see how the summer sun and
the winter's cold had blackened
their faces, and covered them
with such deep wrinkles that
their features were hardly discernible.
It was not their life history
that had been engraven on their
faces; but it might be gathered
from their attitude and bearing.
Incessant toil had been the lot
of both; they had worked and
suffered together; they had had
many troubles and few joys to
share; and now, like captives
grown accustomed to their prison,
they seemed to be too familiar
with wretchedness to heed it,
and to take everything as it
came. Yet a certain frank light-heartedness
was not lacking in their faces;
and on a closer view, their monotonous
life, the lot of so many a poor
creature, well-nigh seemed an
enviable one. Trouble had set
its unmistakable mark on them,
but petty cares had left no traces
there.
"Well, my good
Father Moreau, I suppose there
is no help for
it, and you must always be working?"
"Yes, M. Benassis, there are
one or two more bits of waste
that I mean to clear for you
before I knock off work," the
old man answered cheerfully,
and light shone in his little
black eyes.
"Is that wine
that your wife is carrying?
If you will not
take a rest now, you ought at
any rate to take wine."
"I take a rest?
I should not know what to do
with myself.
The sun and the fresh air put
life into me when I am out of
doors and busy grubbing up the
land. As to the wine, sir, yes,
that is wine sure enough, and
it is all through your contriving
I know that the Mayor at Courteil
lets us have it for next to nothing.
Ah, you managed it very cleverly,
but, all the same, I know you
had a hand in it."
"Oh! come,
come! Good-day, mother. You
are going to work
on that bit of land of Champferlu's
to-day of course?"
"Yes, sir;
I made a beginning there yesterday
evening."
"Capital!" said Benassis. "It
must be a satisfaction to you,
at times, to see this hillside.
You two have broken up almost
the whole of the land on it yourselves."
"Lord! yes, sir," answered
the old woman, "it has been our
doing! We have fairly earned
our bread."
"Work, you
see, and land to cultivate
are the poor man's
consols. That good man would
think himself disgraced if he
went into the poorhouse or begged
for his bread; he would choose
to die pickaxe in hand, out in
the open, in the sunlight. Faith,
he bears a proud heart in him.
He has worked until work has
become his very life; and yet
death has no terrors for him!
He is a profound philosopher,
little as he suspects it. Old
Moreau's case suggested the idea
to me of founding an almshouse
for the country people of the
district; a refuge for those
who, after working hard all their
lives, have reached an honorable
old age of poverty.
"I had by no
means expected to make the
fortune which I have
acquired here; indeed, I myself
have no use for it, for a man
who has fallen from the pinnacle
of his hopes needs very little.
It costs but little to live,
the idler's life alone is a costly
one, and I am not sure that the
unproductive consumer is not
robbing the community at large.
There was some discussion about
Napoleon's pension after his
fall; it came to his ears, and
he said that five francs a day
and a horse to ride was all that
he needed. I meant to have no
more to do with money when I
came here; but after a time I
saw that money means power, and
that it is in fact a necessity,
if any good is to be done. So
I have made arrangements in my
will for turning my house into
an almshouse, in which old people
who have not Moreau's fierce
independence can end their days.
Part of the income of nine thousand
francs brought in by the mill
and the rest of my property will
be devoted to giving outdoor
relief in hard winters to those
who really stand in need of it.
"This foundation
will be under the control of
the Municipal
Council, with the addition of
the cure, who is to be president;
and in this way the money made
in the district will be returned
to it. In my will I have laid
down the lines on which this
institution is to be conducted;
it would be tedious to go over
them, it is enough to say that
I have a fund which will some
day enable the Commune to award
several scholarships for children
who show signs of promise in
art or science. So, even after
I am gone, my work of civilization
will continue. When you have
set yourself to do anything,
Captain Bluteau, something within
you urges you on, you see, and
you cannot bear to leave it unfinished.
This craving within us for order
and for perfection is one of
the signs that point most surely
to a future existence. Now, let
us quicken our pace, I have my
round to finish, and there are
five or six more patients still
to be visited."
They cantered
on for some time in silence,
till Benassis said
laughingly to his companion, "Come
now, Captain Bluteau, you have
drawn me out and made me chatter
like a magpie, and you have not
said a syllable about your own
history, which must be an interesting
one. When a soldier has come
to your time of life, he has
seen so much that he must have
more than one adventure to tell
about."
"Why, my history has been simply
the history of the army," answered
Genestas. "Soldiers are all after
one pattern. Never in command,
always giving and taking sabre-cuts
in my place, I have lived just
like anybody else. I have been
wherever Napoleon led us, and
have borne a part in every battle
in which the Imperial Guard has
struck a blow; but everybody
knows all about these events.
A soldier has to look after his
horse, to endure hunger and thirst
at times, to fight whenever there
is fighting to be done, and there
you have the whole history of
his life. As simple as saying
good-day, is it not? Then there
are battles in which your horse
casts a shoe at the outset, and
lands you in a quandary; and
as far as you are concerned,
that is the whole of it. In short,
I have seen so many countries,
that seeing them has come to
be a matter of course; and I
have seen so many men die, that
I have come to value my own life
at nothing."
"But you yourself
must have been in danger at
times, and
it would be interesting to hear
you tell of your personal adventures."
"Perhaps," answered
the commandant.
"Well, then,
tell me about the adventure
that made the deepest
impression upon you. Come! do
not hesitate. I shall not think
that you are wanting in modesty
even if you should tell me of
some piece of heroism on your
part; and when a man is quite
sure that he will not be misunderstood,
ought he not to find a kind of
pleasure in saying, 'I did thus'?"
"Very well,
then, I will tell you about
something that gives
me a pang of remorse from time
to time. During fifteen years
of warfare it never once happened
that I killed a man, save in
legitimate defence of self. We
are drawn up in a line, and we
charge; and if we do not strike
down those before us, they will
begin to draw blood without asking
leave, so you have to kill if
you do not mean to be killed,
and your conscience is quite
easy. But once I broke a comrade's
back; it happened in a singular
way, and it has been a painful
thing to me to think of afterwards--the
man's dying grimace haunts me
at times. But you shall judge
for yourself.
"It was during the retreat
from Moscow," the commandant
went on. "The Grand Army had
ceased to be itself; we were
more like a herd of over- driven
cattle. Good-bye to discipline!
The regiments had lost sight
of their colors, every one was
his own master, and the Emperor
(one need not scruple to say
it) knew that it was useless
to attempt to exert his authority
when things had gone so far.
When we reached Studzianka, a
little place on the other side
of the Beresina, we came upon
human dwellings for the first
time after several days. There
were barns and peasants' cabins
to destroy, and pits full of
potatoes and beetroot; the army
had been without vitual, and
now it fairly ran riot, the first
comers, as you might expect,
making a clean sweep of everything.
"I was one
of the last to come up. Luckily
for me, sleep was
the one thing that I longed for
just then. I caught sight of
a barn and went into it. I looked
round and saw a score of generals
and officers of high rank, all
of them men who, without flattery,
might be called great. Junot
was there, and Narbonne, the
Emperor's aide-de-camp, and all
the chiefs of the army. There
were common soldiers there as
well, not one of whom would have
given up his bed of straw to
a marshal of France. Some who
were leaning their backs against
the wall had dropped off to sleep
where they stood, because there
was no room to lie down; others
lay stretched out on the floor--it
was a mass of men packed together
so closely for the sake of warmth,
that I looked about in vain for
a nook to lie down in. I walked
over this flooring of human bodies;
some of the men growled, the
others said nothing, but no one
budged. They would not have moved
out of the way of a cannon ball
just then; but under the circumstances,
one was not obliged to practise
the maxims laid down by the Child's
Guide to Manners. Groping about,
I saw at the end of the barn
a sort of ledge up above in the
roof; no one had thought of scrambling
up to it, possibly no one had
felt equal to the effort. I clambered
up and ensconced myself upon
it; and as I lay there at full
length, I looked down at the
men huddled together like sheep
below. It was a pitiful sight,
yet it almost made me laugh.
A man here and there was gnawing
a frozen carrot, with a kind
of animal satisfaction expressed
in his face; and thunderous snores
came from generals who lay muffled
up in ragged cloaks. The whole
barn was lighted by a blazing
pine log; it might have set the
place on fire, and no one would
have troubled to get up and put
it out.
"I lay down
on my back, and, naturally,
just before I dropped
off, my eyes traveled to the
roof above me, and then I saw
that the main beam which bore
the weight of the joists was
being slightly shaken from east
to west. The blessed thing danced
about in fine style. 'Gentlemen,'
said I, 'one of our friends outside
has a mind to warm himself at
our expense.' A few moments more
and the beam was sure to come
down. 'Gentlemen! gentlemen!'
I shouted, 'we shall all be killed
in a minute! Look at the beam
there!' and I made such a noise
that my bed-fellows awoke at
last. Well, sir, they all stared
up at the beam, and then those
who had been sleeping turned
round and went off to sleep again,
while those who were eating did
not even stop to answer me.
"Seeing how
things were, there was nothing
for it but to get
up and leave my place, and run
the risk of finding it taken
by somebody else, for all the
lives of this heap of heroes
were at stake. So out I go. I
turn the corner of the barn and
come upon a great devil of a
Wurtemberger, who was tugging
at the beam with a certain enthusiasm.
'Aho! aho!' I shouted, trying
to make him understand that he
must desist from his toil. 'Gehe
mir aus dem Gesicht, oder ich
schlag dich todt!--Get out of
my sight, or I will kill you,'
he cried. 'Ah! yes, just so,
Que mire aous dem guesit,' I
answered; 'but that is not the
point.' I picked up his gun that
he had left on the ground, and
broke his back with it; then
I turned in again, and went off
to sleep. Now you know the whole
business."
"But that was a case of self-defence,
in which one man suffered for
the good of many, so you have
nothing to reproach yourself
with," said Benassis.
"The rest of
them thought that it had only
been my fancy; but
fancy or no, a good many of them
are living comfortably in fine
houses to-day, without feeling
their hearts oppressed by gratitude."
"Then would you only do people
a good turn in order to receive
that exorbitant interest called
gratitude?" said Benassis, laughing. "That
would be asking a great deal
for your outlay."
"Oh, I know quite well that
all the merit of a good deed
evaporates at once if it benefits
the doer in the slightest degree," said
Genestas. "If he tells the story
of it, the toll brought in to
his vanity is a sufficient substitute
for gratitude. But if every doer
of kindly actions always held
his tongue about them, those
who reaped the benefits would
hardly say very much either.
Now the people, according to
your system, stand in need of
examples, and how are they to
hear of them amid this general
reticence? Again, there is this
poor pontooner of ours, who saved
the whole French army, and who
was never able to tell his tale
to any purpose; suppose that
he had lost the use of his limbs,
would the consciousness of what
he had done have found him in
bread? Answer me that, philosopher!"
"Perhaps the rules of morality
cannot be absolute," Benassis
answered; "though this is a dangerous
idea, for it leaves the egoist
free to settle cases of conscience
in his own favor. Listen, captain;
is not the man who never swerves
from the principles of morality
greater than he who transgresses
them, even through necessity?
Would not our veteran, dying
of hunger, and unable to help
himself, be worthy of rank with
Homer? Human life is doubtless
a final trial of virtue as of
genius, for both of which a better
world is waiting. Virtue and
genius seem to me to be the fairest
forms of that complete and constant
surrender of self that Jesus
Christ came among men to teach.
Genius sheds its light in the
world and lives in poverty all
its days, and virtue sacrifices
itself in silence for the general
good."
"I quite agree with you, sir," said
Genestas; "but those who dwell
on earth are men after all, and
not angels; we are not perfect."
"That is quite true," Benassis
answered. "And as for errors,
I myself have abused the indulgence.
But ought we not to aim, at any
rate, at perfection? Is not virtue
a fair ideal which the soul must
always keep before it, a standard
set up by Heaven?"
"Amen," said the soldier. "An
upright man is a magnificent
thing, I grant you; but, on the
other hand, you must admit that
virtue is a divinity who may
indulge in a scrap of gossip
now and then in the strictest
propriety."
The doctor
smiled, but there was a melancholy
bitterness in
his tone as he said, "Ah! sir,
you regard things with the lenience
natural to those who live at
peace with themselves; and I
with all the severity of one
who sees much that he would fain
obliterate in the story of his
life."
The two horsemen
reached a cottage beside the
bed of the
torrent, the doctor dismounted
and went into the house. Genestas,
on the threshold, looked over
the bright spring landscape that
lay without, and then at the
dark interior of the cottage,
where a man was lying in bed.
Benassis examined his patient,
and suddenly exclaimed, "My good
woman, it is no use my coming
here unless you carry out my
instructions! You have been giving
him bread; you want to kill your
husband, I suppose? Botheration!
If after this you give him anything
besides the tisane of couch-grass,
I will never set foot in here
again, and you can look where
you like for another doctor."
"But, dear
M. Benassis, my old man was
starving, and when
he had eaten nothing for a whole
fortnight----"
"Oh, yes, yes.
Now will you listen to me.
If you let your
husband eat a single mouthful
of bread before I give him leave
to take solid food, you will
kill him, do you hear?"
"He shall not have anything,
sir. Is he any better?" she asked,
following the doctor to the door.
"Why, no. You
have made him worse by feeding
him. Shall I
never get it into your stupid
heads that you must not stuff
people who are being dieted?"
"The peasants are incorrigible," Benassis
went on, speaking to Genestas. "If
a patient has eaten nothing for
two or three days, they think
he is at death's door, and they
cram him with soup or wine or
something. Here is a wretched
woman for you that has all but
killed her husband."
"Kill my husband
with a little mite of a sop
in wine!"
"Certainly,
my good woman. It amazes me
that he is still
alive after the mess you cooked
for him. Mind that you do exactly
as I have told you."
"Yes, dear
sir, I would far rather die
myself than lose him."
"Oh! as to
that I shall soon see. I shall
come again to-morrow
evening to bleed him."
"Let us walk along the side
of the stream," Benassis said
to Genestas; "there is only a
footpath between this cottage
and the next house where I must
pay a call. That man's little
boy will hold our horses."
"You must admire this lovely
valley of ours a little," he
went on; "it is like an English
garden, is it not? The laborer
who lives in the cottage which
we are going to visit has never
got over the death of one of
his children. The eldest boy,
he was only a lad, would try
to do a man's work last harvest-tide;
it was beyond his strength, and
before the autumn was out he
died of a decline. This is the
first case of really strong fatherly
love that has come under my notice.
As a rule, when their children
die, the peasant's regret is
for the loss of a useful chattel,
and a part of their stock-in-trade,
and the older the child, the
heavier their sense of loss.
A grown-up son or daughter is
so much capital to the parents.
But this poor fellow really loved
that boy of his. 'Nothing cam
comfort me for my loss,' he said
one day when I came across him
out in the fields. He had forgotten
all about his work, and was standing
there motionless, leaning on
his scythe; he had picked up
his hone, it lay in his hand,
and he had forgotten to use it.
He has never spoken since of
his grief to me, but he has grown
sad and silent. Just now it is
one of his little girls who is
ill."
Benassis and his guest reached
the little house as they talked.
It stood beside a pathway that
led to a bark-mill. They saw
a man about forty years of age,
standing under a willow tree,
eating bread that had been rubbed
with a clove of garlic.
"Well, Gasnier,
is the little one doing better?"
"I do not know, sir," he said
dejectedly, "you will see; my
wife is sitting with her. In
spite of all your care, I am
very much afraid that death will
come to empty my home for me."
"Do not lose
heart, Gasnier. Death is too
busy to take up
his abode in any dwelling."
Benassis went
into the house, followed by
the father. Half
an hour later he came out again.
The mother was with him this
time, and he spoke to her, "You
need have no anxiety about her
now; follow out my instructions;
she is out of danger."
"If you are growing tired of
this sort of thing," the doctor
said to the officer, as he mounted
his horse, "I can put you on
the way to the town, and you
can return."
"No, I am not
tired of it, I give you my
word."
"But you will
only see cottages everywhere,
and they are all
alike; nothing, to outward seeming,
is more monotonous than the country."
"Let us go on," said
the officer.
They rode on in this way for
several hours, and after going
from one side of the canton to
the other, they returned towards
evening to the precincts of the
town.
"I must just go over there," the
doctor said to Genestas, as he
pointed out a place where a cluster
of elm-trees grew. "Those trees
may possibly be two hundred years
old," he went on, "and that is
where the woman lives, on whose
account the lad came to fetch
me last night at dinner, with
a message that she had turned
quite white."
"Was it anything
serious?"
"No," said Benassis, "an
effect of pregnancy. It is
the last
month with her, a time at which
some women suffer from spasms.
But by way of precaution, I must
go in any case to make sure that
there are no further alarming
symptoms; I shall see her through
her confinement myself. And,
moreover, I should like to show
you one of our new industries;
there is a brick-field here.
It is a good road; shall we gallop?"
"Will your animal keep up with
mine?" asked Genestas. "Heigh!
Neptune!" he called to his horse,
and in a moment the officer had
been carried far ahead, and was
lost to sight in a cloud of dust,
but in spite of the paces of
his horse he still heard the
doctor beside him. At a word
from Benassis his own horse left
the commandant so far behind
that the latter only came up
with him at the gate of the brick-
field, where the doctor was quietly
fastening the bridle to the gate-
post.
"The devil take it!" cried
Genestas, after a look at the
horse, that was neither sweated
nor blown. "What kind of animal
have you there?"
"Ah!" said the doctor, "you
took him for a screw! The history
of this fine fellow would take
up too much time just now; let
it suffice to say that Roustan
is a thoroughbred barb from the
Atlas mountains, and a Barbary
horse is as good as an Arab.
This one of mine will gallop
up the mountain roads without
turning a hair, and will never
miss his footing in a canter
along the brink of a precipice.
He was a present to me, and I
think that I deserved it, for
in this way a father sought to
repay me for his daughter's life.
She is one of the wealthiest
heiresses in Europe, and she
was at the brink of death when
I found her on the road to Savoy.
If I were to tell you how I cured
that young lady, you would take
me for a quack. Aha! that is
the sound of the bells on the
horses and the rumbling of a
wagon; it is coming along this
way; let us see, perhaps that
is Vigneau himself; and if so,
take a good look at him!"
In another moment the officer
saw a team of four huge horses,
like those which are owned by
prosperous farmers in Brie. The
harness, the little bells, and
the knots of braid in their manes,
were clean and smart. The great
wagon itself was painted bright
blue, and perched aloft in it
sat a stalwart, sunburned youth,
who shouldered his whip like
a gun and whistled a tune.
"No," said Benassis, "that
is only the wagoner. But see
how the master's prosperity in
business is reflected by all
his belongings, even by the carter's
wagon! Is it not a sign of a
capacity for business not very
often met with in remote country
places?"
"Yes, yes, it all looks very
smart indeed," the officer answered.
"Well, Vigneau
has two more wagons and teams
like that one,
and he has a small pony besides
for business purposes, for he
does trade over a wide area.
And only four years ago he had
nothing in the world! Stay, that
is a mistake--he had some debts.
But let us go in."
"Is Mme. Vigneau in the house?" Benassis
asked of the young wagoner.
"She is out
in the garden, sir; I saw her
just now by the
hedge down yonder; I will go
and tell her that you are here."
Genestas followed Benassis
across a wide open space with
a hedge about it. In one corner
various heaps of clay had been
piled up, destined for tiles
and pantiles, and a stack of
brushwood and logs (fuel for
the kiln no doubt) lay in another
part of the enclosure. Farther
away some workmen were pounding
chalk stones and tempering the
clay in a space enclosed by hurdles.
The tiles, both round and square,
were made under the great elms
opposite the gateway, in a vast
green arbor bounded by the roofs
of the drying-shed, and near
this last the yawning mouth of
the kiln was visible. Some long-handled
shovels lay about the worn cider
path. A second row of buildings
had been erected parallel with
these. There was a sufficiently
wretched dwelling which housed
the family, and some outbuildings--sheds
and stables and a barn. The cleanliness
that predominated throughout,
and the thorough repair in which
everything was kept, spoke well
for the vigilance of the master's
eyes. Some poultry and pigs wandered
at large over the field.
"Vigneau's predecessor," said
Benassis, "was a good-for-nothing,
a lazy rascal who cared about
nothing by drink. He had been
a workman himself; he could keep
a fire in his kiln and could
put a price on his work, and
that was about all he knew; he
had no energy, and no idea of
business. If no one came to buy
his wares of him, they simply
stayed on hand and were spoiled,
and so he lost the value of them.
So he died of want at last. He
had ill-treated his wife till
she was almost idiotic, and she
lived in a state of abject wretchedness.
It was so painful to see this
laziness and incurable stupidity,
and I so much disliked the sight
of the tile-works, that I never
came this way if I could help
it. Luckily, both the man and
his wife were old people. One
fine day the tile-maker had a
paralytic stroke, and I had him
removed to the hospital at Grenoble
at once. The owner of the tile-works
agreed to take it over without
disputing about its condition,
and I looked round for new tenants
who would take their part in
improving the industries of the
canton.
"Mme. Gravier's
waiting-maid had married a
poor workman, who
was earning so little with the
potter who employed him that
he could not support his household.
He listened to my advice, and
actually had sufficient courage
to take a lease of our tile-works,
when he had not so much as a
penny. He came and took up his
abode here, taught his wife,
her aged mother, and his own
mother how to make tiles, and
made workmen of them. How they
managed, I do not know, upon
my honor! Vigneau probably borrowed
fuel to heat his kiln, he certainly
worked by day, and fetched in
his materials in basket-loads
by night; in short, no one knew
what boundless energy he brought
to bear upon his enterprise;
and the two old mothers, clad
in rags, worked like negroes.
In this way Vigneau contrived
to fire several batches, and
lived for the first year on bread
that was hardly won by the toil
of his household.
"Still, he
made a living. His courage,
patience, and sterling
worth interested many people
in him, and he began to be known.
He was indefatigable. He would
hurry over to Grenoble in the
morning, and sell his bricks
and tiles there; then he would
return home about the middle
of the day, and go back again
to the town at night. He seemed
to be in several places at once.
Towards the end of the first
year he took two little lads
to help him. Seeing how things
were, I lent him some money,
and since then from year to year
the fortunes of the family have
steadily improved. After the
second year was over the two
old mothers no longer moulded
bricks nor pounded stones; they
looked after the little gardens,
made the soup, mended the clothes,
they did spinning in the evenings,
and gathered firewood in the
daytime; while the young wife,
who can read and write, kept
the accounts. Vigneau had a small
horse, and rode on his business
errands about the neighborhood;
next he thoroughly studied the
art of brick and tile making,
discovering how to make excellent
square white paving-tiles, and
sold them for less than the usual
prices. In the third year he
had a cart and a pair of horses,
and at the same time his wife's
appearance became almost elegant.
Everything about his household
improved with the improvement
in his business, and everywhere
there was the same neatness,
method, and thrift that had been
the making of his little fortune.
"At last he
had work enough for six men,
to whom he pays
good wages; he employs a wagoner,
and everything about him wears
an air of prosperity. Little
by little, in short, by dint
of taking pains and extending
his business, his income has
increased. He bought the tile-
works last year, and next year
he will rebuild his house. To-day
all the worthy folk there are
well clothed and in good health.
His wife, who used to be so thin
and pale when the burden of her
husband's cares and anxieties
used to press so hardly upon
her, has recovered her good looks,
and has grown quite young and
pretty again. The two old mothers
are thoroughly happy, and take
the deepest interest in every
detail of the housekeeping or
of the business. Work has brought
money, and the money that brought
freedom from care brought health
and plenty and happiness. The
story of this household is a
living history in miniature of
the Commune since I have known
it, and of all young industrial
states. The tile factory that
used to look so empty, melancholy,
ill-kept, and useless, is now
in full work, astir with life,
and well stocked with everything
required. There is a good stock
of wood here, and all the raw
material for the season's work:
for, as you know, tiles can only
be made during a few months in
the year, between June and September.
Is it not a pleasure to see all
this activity? My tile-maker
has done his share of the work
in every building going, always
busy--'the devourer,' they call
him in these parts."
Benassis had
scarcely finished speaking
when the wicket gate
which gave entrance to the garden
opened, and a nicely-dressed
young woman appeared. She came
forward as quickly as her condition
allowed, though the two horsemen
hastened towards her. Her attire
somewhat recalled her former
quality of ladies' maid, for
she wore a pretty cap, a pink
dress, a silk apron, and white
stockings. Mme. Vigneau in short,
was a nice-looking woman, sufficiently
plump, and if she was somewhat
sunburned, her natural complexion
must have been very fair. There
were a few lines still left on
her forehead, traced there by
the troubles of past days, but
she had a bright and winsome
face. She spoke in a persuasive
voice, as she saw that the doctor
came no further, "Will you not
do me the honor of coming inside
and resting for a moment, M.
Benassis?"
"Certainly
we will. Come this way, captain."
"The gentleman
must be very hot! Will you
take a little milk
or some wine? M. Benassis, please
try a little of the wine that
my husband has been so kind as
to buy for my confinement. You
will tell me if it is good."
"You have a
good man for your husband."
"Yes, sir," she turned and
spoke in quiet tones, "I am very
well off."
"We will not
take anything, Mme. Vigneau;
I only came round
this way to see that nothing
troublesome had happened."
"Nothing," she said. "I
was busy out in the garden,
as you
saw, turning the soil over for
the sake of something to do."
Then the two old mothers came
out to speak to Benassis, and
the young wagoner planted himself
in the middle of the yard, in
a spot from whence he could have
a good view of the doctor.
"Let us see, let me have your
hand," said Benassis, addressing
Mme. Vigneau; and as he carefully
felt her pulse, he stood in silence,
absorbed in thought. The three
women, meanwhile, scrutinized
the commandant with the undisguised
curiosity that country people
do not scruple to express.
"Nothing could be better!" cried
the doctor cheerily.
"Will she be confined soon?" both
the mothers asked together.
"This week beyond a doubt.
Is Vigneau away from home?" he
asked, after a pause.
"Yes, sir," the young wife
answered; "he is hurrying about
settling his business affairs,
so as to be able to stay at home
during my confinement, the dear
man!"
"Well, my children,
go on and prosper; continue
to increase
your wealth and to add to your
family."
The cleanliness of the almost
ruinous dwelling filled Genestas
with admiration.
Benassis saw
the officer's astonishment,
and said, "There
is no one like Mme. Vigneau for
keeping a house clean and tidy
like this. I wish that several
people in the town would come
here to take a lesson."
The tile-maker's wife blushed
and turned her head away; but
the faces of the two old mothers
beamed with pleasure at the doctor's
words, and the three women walked
with them to the spot where the
horses were waiting.
"Well, now," the doctor said
to the two old women, "here is
happiness for you both! Were
you not longing to be grandmothers?"
"Oh, do not talk about it," said
the young wife; "they will drive
me crazy among them. My two mothers
wish for a boy, and my husband
would like to have a little girl.
It will be very difficult to
please them all, I think."
"But you yourself," asked Benassis; "what
is your wish?"
"Ah, sir, I
wish for a child of my own."
"There! She is a mother already,
you see," said the doctor to
the officer, as he laid his hand
on the bridle of his horse.
"Good-bye,
M. Benassis; my husband will
be sadly disappointed
to learn that you have been here
when he was not at home to see
you."
"He has not
forgotten to send the thousand
tiles to the Grange-aux-
Belles for me?"
"You know quite
well, sir, that he would keep
all the orders
in the canton waiting to serve
you. Why, taking your money is
the thing that troubles him most;
but I always tell him that your
crowns bring luck with them,
and so they do."
"Good-bye," said
Benassis.
A little group gathered about
the bars across the entrance
to the tile-works. The three
women, the young wagoner, and
two workmen who had left off
work to greet the doctor, lingered
there to have the pleasure of
being with him until the last
moment, as we are wont to linger
with those we love. The promptings
of men's hearts must everywhere
be the same, and in every land
friendship expresses itself in
the same gracious ways.
Benassis looked at the height
of the sun and spoke to his companion:
"There are still two hours
of daylight left; and if you
are not too hungry, we will go
to see some one with whom I nearly
always spend the interval between
the last of my visits and the
hour for dinner. She is a charming
girl whom every one here calls
my 'good friend.' That is the
name that they usually give to
an affianced bride; but you must
not imagine that there is the
slightest imputation of any kind
implied or intended by the use
of the word in this case. Poor
child, the care that I have taken
of her has, as may be imagined,
made her an object of jealousy,
but the general opinion entertained
as to my character has prevented
any spiteful gossip. If no one
understands the apparent caprice
that has led me to make an allowance
to La Fosseuse, so that she can
live without being compelled
to work, nobody has any doubts
as to her character. I have watched
over her with friendly care,
and every one knows that I should
never hesitate to marry her if
my affection for her exceeded
the limits of friendship. But
no woman exists for me here in
the canton or anywhere else," said
the doctor, forcing a smile. "Some
natures feel a tyrannous need
to attach themselves to some
one thing or being which they
single out from among the beings
and things around them; this
need is felt most keenly by a
man of quick sympathies, and
all the more pressingly if his
life has been made desolate.
So, trust me, it is a favorable
sign if a man is strongly attached
to his dog or his horse! Among
the suffering flock which chance
has given into my care, this
poor little sufferer has come
to be for me like the pet lamb
that the shepherd lasses deck
with ribbons in my own sunny
land of Languedoc; they talk
to it and allow it to find pasture
by the side of the cornfields,
and its leisurely pace is never
hurried by the shepherd's dog."
Benassis stood with his hand
on his horse's mane as he spoke,
ready to spring into the saddle,
but making no effort to do so,
as though the thoughts that stirred
in him were but little in keeping
with rapid movements.
"Let us go," he said at last; "come
with me and pay her a visit.
I am taking you to see her; does
not that tell you that I treat
her as a sister?"
As they rode
on their way again, Genestas
said to the doctor, "Will
you regard it as inquisitiveness
on my part if I ask to hear more
of La Fosseuse? I have come to
know the story of many lives
through you, and hers cannot
be less interesting than some
of these."
Benassis stopped
his horse as he answered. "Perhaps
you will not share in the feelings
of interest awakened in me by
La Fosseuse. Her fate is like
my own; we have both alike missed
our vocation; it is the similarity
of our lots that occasions my
sympathy for her and the feelings
that I experience at the sight
of her. You either followed your
natural bent when you entered
upon a military career, or you
took a liking for your calling
after you had adopted it, otherwise
you would not have borne the
heavy yoke of military discipline
till now; you, therefore, cannot
understand the sorrows of a soul
that must always feel renewed
within it the stir of longings
that can never be realized; nor
the pining existence of a creature
forced to live in an alien sphere.
Such sufferings as these are
known only to these natures and
to God who sends their afflictions,
for they alone can know how deeply
the events of life affect them.
You yourself have seen the miseries
produced by long wars, till they
have almost ceased to impress
you, but have you never detected
a trace of sadness in your mind
at the sight of a tree bearing
sere leaves in the midst of spring,
some tree that is pining and
dying because it has been planted
in soil in which it could not
find the sustenance required
for its full development? Ever
since my twentieth year, there
has been something painful and
melancholy for me about the drooping
of a stunted plant, and now I
cannot bear the sight and turn
my head away. My youthful sorrow
was a vague presentiment of the
sorrows of my later life; it
was a kind of sympathy between
my present and a future dimly
foreshadowed by the life of the
tree that before its time was
going the way of all trees and
men."
"I thought
that you had suffered when
I saw how kind you were."
"You see, sir," the doctor
went on without any reply to
the remark made by Genestas, "that
to speak of La Fosseuse is to
speak of myself. La Fosseuse
is a plant in an alien soil;
a human plant moreover, consumed
by sad thoughts that have their
source in the depths of her nature,
and that never cease to multiply.
The poor girl is never well and
strong. The soul within her kills
the body. This fragile creature
was suffering from the sorest
of all troubles, a trouble which
receives the least possible sympathy
from our selfish world, and how
could I look on with indifferent
eyes? for I, a man, strong to
wrestle with pain, was nightly
tempted to refuse to bear the
burden of a sorrow like hers.
Perhaps I might actually have
refused to bear it but for a
thought of religion which soothes
my impatience and fills my heart
with sweet illusions. Even if
we were not children of the same
Father in heaven, La Fosseuse
would still be my sister in suffering!"
Benassis pressed
his knees against his horse's
sides, and
swept ahead of Commandant Genestas,
as if he shrank from continuing
this conversation any further.
When their horses were once more
cantering abreast of each other,
he spoke again: "Nature has created
this poor girl for sorrow," he
said, "as she has created other
women for joy. It is impossible
to do otherwise than believe
in a future life at the sight
of natures thus predestined to
suffer. La Fosseuse is sensitive
and highly strung. If the weather
is dark and cloudy, she is depressed;
she 'weeps when the sky is weeping,'
a phrase of her own; she sings
with the birds; she grows happy
and serene under a cloudless
sky; the loveliness of a bright
day passes into her face; a soft
sweet perfume is an inexhaustible
pleasure to her; I have seen
her take delight the whole day
long in the scent breathed forth
by some mignonette; and, after
one of those rainy mornings that
bring out all the soul of the
flowers and give indescribable
freshness and brightness to the
day, she seems to overflow with
gladness like the green world
around her. If it is close and
hot, and there is thunder in
the air, La Fosseuse feels a
vague trouble that nothing can
soothe. She lies on her bed,
complains of numberless different
ills, and does not know what
ails her. In answer to my questions,
she tells me that her bones are
melting, that she is dissolving
into water; her 'heart has left
her,' to quote another of her
sayings.
"I have sometimes
come upon the poor child suddenly
and found
her in tears, as she gazed at
the sunset effects we sometimes
see here among our mountains,
when bright masses of cloud gather
and crowd together and pile themselves
above the golden peaks of the
hills. 'Why are you crying, little
one?' I have asked her. 'I do
not know, sir,' has been the
answer; 'I have grown so stupid
with looking up there; I have
looked and looked, till I hardly
know where I am.' 'But what do
you see there?' 'I cannot tell
you, sir,' and you might question
her in this way all the evening,
yet you would never draw a word
from her; but she would look
at you, and every glance would
seem full of thoughts, or she
would sit with tears in her eyes,
scarcely saying a word, apparently
rapt in musing. Those musings
of hers are so profound that
you fall under the spell of them;
on me, at least, she has the
effect of a cloud overcharged
with electricity. One day I plied
her with questions; I tried with
all my might to make her talk;
at last I let fall a few rather
hasty words; and, well--she burst
into tears.
"At other times
La Fosseuse is bright and winning,
active,
merry, and sprightly; she enjoys
talking, and the ideas which
she expresses are fresh and original.
She is however quite unable to
apply herself steadily to any
kind of work. When she was out
in the fields she used to spend
whole hours in looking at a flower,
in watching the water flow, in
gazing at the wonders in the
depths of the clear, still river
pools, at the picturesque mosaic
made up of pebbles and earth
and sand, of water plants and
green moss, and the brown soil
washed down by the stream, a
deposit full of soft shades of
color, and of hues that contrast
strangely with each other.
"When I first
came to the district the poor
girl was starving. It
hurt her pride to accept the
bread of others; and it was only
when driven to the last extremity
of want and suffering that she
could bring herself to ask for
charity. The feeling that this
was a disgrace would often give
her energy, and for several days
she worked in the fields; but
her strength was soon exhausted,
and illness obliged her to leave
the work that she had begun.
She had scarcely recovered when
she went to a farm on the outskirts
of the town and asked to be taken
on to look after the cattle;
she did her work well and intelligently,
but after a while she left without
giving any reason for so doing.
The constant toil, day after
day, was no doubt too heavy a
yoke for one who is all independence
and caprice. Then she set herself
to look for mushrooms or for
truffles, going over to Grenoble
to sell them. But the gaudy trifles
in the town were very tempting,
the few small coins in her hand
seemed to be great riches; she
would forget her poverty and
buy ribbons and finery, without
a thought for tomorrow's bread.
But if some other girl here in
the town took a fancy to her
brass crucifix, her agate heart
or her velvet ribbon, she would
make them over to her at once,
glad to give happiness, for she
lives by generous impulses. So
La Fosseuse was loved and pitied
and despised by turns. Everything
in her nature was a cause of
suffering to her--her indolence,
her kindness of heart, her coquetry;
for she is coquettish, dainty,
and inquisitive, in short, she
is a woman; she is as simple
as a child, and, like a child,
she is carried away by her tastes
and her impressions. If you tell
her about some noble deed, she
trembles, her color rises, her
heart throbs fast, and she sheds
tears of joy; if you begin a
story about robbers, she turns
pale with terror. You could not
find a more sincere, open-hearted,
and scrupulously loyal nature
anywhere; if you were to give
a hundred gold pieces into her
keeping, she would bury them
in some out-of-the-way nook and
beg her bread as before."
There was a change in Benassis'
tone as he uttered these last
words.
"I once determined to put her
to the proof," he said, "and
I repented of it. It is like
espionage to bring a test to
bear upon another, is it not?
It means that we suspect them
at any rate."
Here the doctor paused, as
though some inward reflection
engrossed him; he was quite unconscious
of the embarrassment that his
last remark had caused to his
companion, who busied himself
with disentangling the reins
in order to hide his confusion.
Benassis soon resumed his talk.
"I should like
to find a husband for my Fosseuse.
I should be
glad to make over one of my farms
to some good fellow who would
make her happy. And she would
be happy. The poor girl would
love her children to distraction;
for motherhood, which develops
the whole of a woman's nature,
would give full scope to her
overflowing sentiments. She has
never cared for any one, however.
Yet her impressionable nature
is a danger to her. She knows
this herself, and when she saw
that I recognized it, she admitted
the excitability of her temperament
to me. She belongs to the small
minority of women whom the slightest
contact with others causes to
vibrate perilously; so that she
must be made to value herself
on her discretion and her womanly
pride. She is as wild and shy
as a swallow! Ah! what a wealth
of kindness there is in her!
Nature meant her to be a rich
woman; she would be so beneficent:
for a well-loved woman; she would
be so faithful and true. She
is only twenty-two years old,
and is sinking already beneath
the weight of her soul; a victim
to highly-strung nerves, to an
organization either too delicate
or too full of power. A passionate
love for a faithless lover would
drive her mad, my poor Fosseuse!
I have made a study of her temperament,
recognized the reality of her
prolonged nervous attacks, and
of the swift mysterious recurrence
of her uplifted moods. I found
that they were immediately dependent
on atmospheric changes and on
the variations of the moon, a
fact which I have carefully verified;
and since then I have cared for
her, as a creature unlike all
others, for she is a being whose
ailing existence I alone can
understand. As I have told you,
she is the pet lamb. But you
shall see her; this is her cottage."
They had come about one-third
of the way up the mountain side.
Low bushes grew on either hand
along the steep paths which they
were ascending at a foot pace.
At last, at a turn in one of
the paths, Genestas saw La Fosseuse's
dwelling, which stood on one
of the largest knolls on the
mountain. Around it was a green
sloping space of lawn about three
acres in extent, planted with
trees, and surrounded by a wall
high enough to serve as a fence,
but not so high as to shut out
the view of the landscape. Several
rivulets that had their source
in this garden formed little
cascades among the trees. The
brick-built cottage with a low
roof that projected several feet
was a charming detail in the
landscape. It consisted of a
ground floor and a single story,
and stood facing the south. All
the windows were in the front
of the house, for its small size
and lack of depth from back to
front made other openings unnecessary.
The doors and shutters were painted
green, and the underside of the
penthouses had been lined with
deal boards in the German fashion,
and painted white. The rustic
charm of the whole little dwelling
lay in its spotless cleanliness.
Climbing plants and briar roses
grew about the house; a great
walnut tree had been allowed
to remain among the flowering
acacias and trees that bore sweet-scented
blossoms, and a few weeping willows
had been set by the little streams
in the garden space. A thick
belt of pines and beeches grew
behind the house, so that the
picturesque little dwelling was
brought out into strong relief
by the sombre width of background.
At that hour of the day, the
air was fragrant with the scents
from the hillsides and the perfume
from La Fosseuse's garden. The
sky overhead was clear and serene,
but low clouds hung on the horizon,
and the far-off peaks had begun
to take the deep rose hues that
the sunset often brings. At the
height which they had reached
the whole valley lay before their
eyes, from distant Grenoble to
the little lake at the foot of
the circle of crags by which
Genestas had passed on the previous
day. Some little distance above
the house a line of poplars on
the hill indicated the highway
that led to Grenoble. Rays of
sunlight fell slantwise across
the little town which glittered
like a diamond, for the soft
red light which poured over it
like a flood was reflected by
all its window-panes. Genestas
reined in his horse at the sight,
and pointed to the dwellings
in the valley, to the new town,
and to La Fosseuse's house.
"Since the victory of Wagram,
and Napoleon's return to the
Tuileries in 1815," he said,
with a sigh, "nothing has so
stirred me as the sight of all
this. I owe this pleasure to
you, sir, for you have taught
me to see beauty in a landscape."
"Yes," said the doctor, smiling
as he spoke, "It is better to
build towns than to storm them."
"Oh! sir, how about the taking
of Moscow and the surrender of
Mantua! Why, you do not really
know what that means! Is it not
a glory for all of us? You are
a good man, but Napoleon also
was a good man. If it had not
been for England, you both would
have understood each other, and
our Emperor would never have
fallen. There are no spies here," said
the officer, looking around him, "and
I can say openly that I love
him, now that he is dead! What
a ruler! He knew every man when
he saw him! He would have made
you a Councillor of State, for
he was a great administrator
himself; even to the point of
knowing how many cartridges were
left in the men's boxes after
an action. Poor man! While you
were talking about La Fosseuse,
I thought of him, and how he
was lying dead in St. Helena!
Was that the kind of climate
and country to suit HIM, whose
seat had been a throne, and who
had lived with his feet in the
stirrups; hein? They say that
he used to work in the garden.
The deuce! He was not made to
plant cabbages. . . . And now
we must serve the Bourbons, and
loyally, sir; for, after all,
France is France, as you were
saying yesterday."
Genestas dismounted as he uttered
these last words, and mechanically
followed the example set by Benassis,
who fastened his horse's bridle
to a tree.
"Can she be away?" said
the doctor, when he did not
see La
Fosseuse on the threshold. They
went into the house, but there
was no one in the sitting room
on the ground floor.
"She must have heard the sound
of a second horse," said Benassis,
with a smile, "and has gone upstairs
to put on her cap, or her sash,
or some piece of finery."
He left Genestas
alone, and went upstairs in
search of La
Fosseuse. The commandant made
a survey of the room. He noticed
the pattern of the paper that
covered the walls--roses scattered
over a gray background, and the
straw matting that did duty for
a carpet on the floor. The armchair,
the table, and the smaller chairs
were made of wood from which
the bark had not been removed.
The room was not without ornament;
some flower-stands, as they might
be called, made of osiers and
wooden hoops, had been filled
with moss and flowers, and the
windows were draped by white
dimity curtains bordered with
a scarlet fringe. There was a
mirror above the chimney-piece,
where a plain china jar stood
between two candlesticks. Some
calico lay on the table; shirts,
apparently, had been cut out
and begun, several pairs of gussets
were finished, and a work-basket,
scissors, needles and thread,
and all a needle-woman's requirements
lay beside them. Everything was
as fresh and clean as a shell
that the sea had tossed up on
the beach. Genestas saw that
a kitchen lay on the other side
of the passage, and that the
staircase was at the further
end of it. The upper story, like
the ground floor, evidently consisted
of two rooms only. "Come, do
not be frightened," Benassis
was saying to La Fosseuse; "come
down-stairs!"
Genestas promptly retreated
into the sitting-room when he
heard these words, and in another
moment a slender girl, well and
gracefully made, appeared in
the doorway. She wore a gown
of cambric, covered with narrow
pink stripes, and cut low at
the throat, so as to display
a muslin chemisette. Shyness
and timidity had brought the
color to a face which had nothing
very remarkable about it save
a certain flatness of feature
which called to mind the Cossack
and Russian countenances that
since the disasters of 1814 have
unfortunately come to be so widely
known in France. La Fosseuse
was, in fact, very like these
men of the North. Her nose turned
up at the end, and was sunk in
her face, her mouth was wide
and her chin small, her hands
and arms were red and, like her
feet, were of the peasant type,
large and strong. Although she
had been used to an outdoor life,
to exposure to the sun and the
scorching summer winds, her complexion
had the bleached look of withered
grass; but after the first glance
this made her face more interesting,
and there was such a sweet expression
in her blue eyes, so much grace
about her movements, and such
music in her voice, that little
as her features seemed to harmonize
with the disposition which Benassis
had praised to the commandant,
the officer recognized in her
the capricious and ailing creature,
condemned to suffering by a nature
that had been thwarted in its
growth.
La Fosseuse deftly stirred
the fire of dry branches and
turfs of peat, then sat down
in an armchair and took up one
of the shirts that she had begun.
She sat there under the officer's
eyes, half bashful, afraid to
look up, and calm to all appearance;
but her bodice rose and fell
with the rapid breathing that
betrayed her nervousness, and
it struck Genestas that her figure
was very graceful.
"Well, my poor child, is your
work going on nicely?" said Benassis,
taking up the material intended
for the shirts, and passing it
through his fingers.
La Fosseuse gave the doctor
a timid and beseeching glance.
"Do not scold me, sir," she
entreated; "I have not touched
them to- day, although they were
ordered by you, and for people
who need them very badly. But
the weather has been so fine!
I wandered out and picked a quantity
of mushrooms and white truffles,
and took them over to Jacquotte;
she was very pleased, for some
people are coming to dinner.
I was so glad that I thought
of it; something seemed to tell
me to go to look for them."
She began to ply her needle
again.
"You have a very pretty house
here, mademoiselle," said Genestas,
addressing her.
"It is not mine at all, sir," she
said, looking at the stranger,
and her eyes seemed to grow red
and tearful; "it belongs to M.
Benassis," and she turned towards
the doctor with a gentle expression
on her face.
"You know quite well, my child,
that you will never have to leave
it," he said, as he took her
hand in his.
La Fosseuse suddenly rose and
left the room.
"Well," said the doctor, addressing
the officer,"what do you think
of her?"
"There is something strangely
touching about her," Genestas
answered. "How very nicely you
have fitted up this little nest
of hers!"
"Bah! a wall-paper at fifteen
or twenty sous; it was carefully
chosen, but that was all. The
furniture is nothing very much
either, my basket-maker made
it for me; he wanted to show
his gratitude; and La Fosseuse
made the curtains herself out
of a few yards of calico. This
little house of hers, and her
simple furniture, seem pretty
to you, because you come upon
them up here on a hillside in
a forlorn part of the world where
you did not expect to find things
clean and tidy. The reason of
the prettiness is a kind of harmony
between the little house and
its surroundings. Nature has
set picturesque groups of trees
and running streams about it,
and has scattered her fairest
flowers among the grass, her
sweet-scented wild strawberry
blossoms, and her lovely violets.
. . . Well, what is the matter?" asked
Benassis, as La Fosseuse came
back to them.
"Oh! nothing, nothing," she
answered. "I fancied that one
of my chickens was missing, and
had not been shut up."
Her remark
was disingenuous, but this
was only noticed by
the doctor, who said in her ear, "You
have been crying!"
"Why do you say things like
that to me before some one else?" she
asked in reply.
"Mademoiselle," said Genestas, "it
is a great pity that you live
here all by yourself; you ought
to have a mate in such a charming
cage as this."
"That is true," she said, "but
what would you have? I am poor,
and I am hard to please. I feel
that it would not suit me at
all to carry the soup out into
the fields, nor to push a hand-cart;
to feel the misery of those whom
I should love, and have no power
to put an end to it; to carry
my children in my arms all day,
and patch and re-patch a man's
rags. The cure tells me that
such thoughts as these are not
very Christian; I know that myself,
but how can I help it? There
are days when I would rather
eat a morsel of dry bread than
cook anything for my dinner.
Why would you have me worry some
man's life out with my failings?
He would perhaps work himself
to death to satisfy my whims,
and that would not be right.
Pshaw! an unlucky lot has fallen
to me, and I ought to bear it
by myself."
"And besides, she is a born
do-nothing," said Benassis. "We
must take my poor Fosseuse as
we find her. But all that she
has been saying to you simply
means that she has never loved
as yet," he added, smiling. Then
he rose and went out on to the
lawn for a moment.
"You must be very fond of M.
Benassis?" asked Genestas.
"Oh! yes, sir;
and there are plenty of people
hereabouts who
feel as I do--that they would
be glad to do anything in the
world for him. And yet he who
cures other people has some trouble
of his own that nothing can cure.
You are his friend, perhaps you
know what it is? Who could have
given pain to such a man, who
is the very image of God on earth?
I know a great many who think
that the corn grows faster if
he has passed by their field
in the morning."
"And what do
you think yourself?"
"I, sir? When I have seen him," she
seemed to hesitate, then she
went on, "I am happy all the
rest of the day."
She bent her head over her
work, and plied her needle with
unwonted swiftness.
"Well, has the captain been
telling you something about Napoleon?" said
the doctor, as he came in again.
"Have you seen the Emperor,
sir?" cried La Fosseuse, gazing
at the officer's face with eager
curiosity.
"PARBLEU!" said Genestas, "hundreds
of times!"
"Oh! how I
should like to know something
about the army!"
"Perhaps we will come to take
a cup of coffee with you to-morrow,
and you shall hear 'something
about the army,' dear child," said
Benassis, who laid his hand on
her shoulder and kissed her brow. "She
is my daughter, you see!" he
added, turning to the commandant; "there
is something wanting in the day,
somehow, when I have not kissed
her forehead."
La Fosseuse
held Benassis' hand in a tight
clasp as she
murmured, "Oh! you are very kind!"
They left the
house; but she came after them
to see them mount.
She waited till Genestas was
in the saddle, and then whispered
in Benassis' ear, "Tell me who
that gentleman is?"
"Aha!" said the doctor, putting
a foot in the stirrup, "a husband
for you, perhaps."
She stood on the spot where
they left her, absorbed in watching
their progress down the steep
path; and when they came past
the end of the garden, they saw
her already perched on a little
heap of stones, so that she might
still keep them in view and give
them a last nod of farewell.
"There is something very unusual
about that girl, sir," Genestas
said to the doctor when they
had left the house far behind.
"There is, is there not?" he
answered. "Many a time I have
said to myself that she will
make a charming wife, but I can
only love her as a sister or
a daughter, and in no other way;
my heart is dead."
"Has she any relations?" asked
Genestas. "What did her father
and mother do?"
"Oh, it is quite a long story," answered
Benassis. "Neither her father
nor mother nor any of her relations
are living. Everything about
her down to her name interested
me. La Fosseuse was born here
in the town. Her father, a laborer
from Saint Laurent du Pont, was
nicknamed Le Fosseur, which is
no doubt a contraction of fossoyeur,
for the office of sexton had
been in his family time out of
mind. All the sad associations
of the graveyard hang about the
name. Here as in some other parts
of France, there is an old custom,
dating from the times of the
Latin civilization, in virtue
of which a woman takes her husband's
name, with the addition of a
feminine termination, and this
girl has been called La Fosseuse,
after her father.
"The laborer
had married the waiting-woman
of some countess
or other who owns an estate at
a distance of a few leagues.
It was a love- match. Here, as
in all country districts, love
is a very small element in a
marriage. The peasant, as a rule,
wants a wife who will bear him
children, a housewife who will
make good soup and take it out
to him in the fields, who will
spin and make his shirts and
mend his clothes. Such a thing
had not happened for a long while
in a district where a young man
not unfrequently leaves his betrothed
for another girl who is richer
by three or four acres of land.
The fate of Le Fosseur and his
wife was scarcely happy enough
to induce our Dauphinois to forsake
their calculating habits and
practical way of regarding things.
La Fosseuse, who was a very pretty
woman, died when her daughter
was born, and her husband's grief
for his loss was so great that
he followed her within the year,
leaving nothing in the world
to this little one except an
existence whose continuance was
very doubtful--a mere feeble
flicker of a life. A charitable
neighbor took the care of the
baby upon herself, and brought
her up till she was nine years
old. Then the burden of supporting
La Fosseuse became too heavy
for the good woman; so at the
time of year when travelers are
passing along the roads, she
sent her charge to beg for her
living upon the highways.
"One day the
little orphan asked for bread
at the countess'
chateau, and they kept the child
for her mother's sake. She was
to be waiting-maid some day to
the daughter of the house, and
was brought up to this end. Her
young mistress was married five
years later; but meanwhile the
poor little thing was the victim
of all the caprices of wealthy
people, whose beneficence for
the most part is not to be depended
upon even while it lasts. They
are generous by fits and starts--sometimes
patrons, sometimes friends, sometimes
masters, in this way they falsify
the already false position of
the poor children in whom they
interest themselves, and trifle
with the hearts, the lives, and
futures of their protegees, whom
they regard very lightly. From
the first La Fosseuse became
almost a companion to the young
heiress; she was taught to read
and write, and her future mistress
sometimes amused herself by giving
her music lessons. She was treated
sometimes as a lady's companion,
sometimes as a waiting-maid,
and in this way they made an
incomplete being of her. She
acquired a taste for luxury and
for dress, together with manners
ill-suited to her real position.
She has been roughly schooled
by misfortune since then, but
the vague feeling that she is
destined for a higher lot has
not been effaced in her.
"A day came
at last, however, a fateful
day for the poor girl,
when the young countess (who
was married by this time) discovered
La Fosseuse arrayed in one of
her ball dresses, and dancing
before a mirror. La Fosseuse
was no longer anything but a
waiting-maid, and the orphan
girl, then sixteen years of age,
was dismissed without pity. Her
idle ways plunged her once more
into poverty; she wandered about
begging by the roadside, and
working at times as I have told
you. Sometimes she thought of
drowning herself, sometimes also
of giving herself to the first
comer; she spent most of her
time thinking dark thoughts,
lying by the side of a wall in
the sun, with her face buried
in the grass, and passers-by
would sometimes throw a few halfpence
to her, simply because she asked
them for nothing. One whole year
she spent in a hospital at Annecy
after heavy toil in the harvest
field; she had only undertaken
the work in the hope that it
would kill her, and that so she
might die. You should hear her
herself when she speaks of her
feelings and ideas during this
time of her life; her simple
confidences are often very curious.
"She came back
to the little town at last,
just about the
time when I decided to take up
my abode in it. I wanted to understand
the minds of the people beneath
my rule; her character struck
me, and I made a study of it;
then when I became aware of her
physical infirmities, I determined
to watch over her. Perhaps in
time she may grow accustomed
to work with her needle, but,
whatever happens, I have secured
her future."
"She is quite alone up there!" said
Genestas.
"No. One of my herdswomen sleeps
in the house," the doctor answered. "You
did not see my farm buildings
which lie behind the house. They
are hidden by the pine-trees.
Oh! she is quite safe. Moreover,
there are no mauvais sujets here
in the valley; if any come among
us by any chance, I send them
into the army, where they make
excellent solders."
"Poor girl!" said
Genestas.
"Oh! the folk round about do
not pity her at all," said Benassis; "on
the other hand, they think her
very lucky; but there is this
difference between her and the
other women: God has given strength
to them and weakness to her,
and they do not see that."
The moment that the two horsemen
came out upon the road to Grenoble,
Benassis stopped with an air
of satisfaction; a different
view had suddenly opened out
before them; he foresaw its effect
upon Genestas, and wished to
enjoy his surprise. As far as
the eye could see, two green
walls sixty feet high rose above
a road which was rounded like
a garden path. The trees had
not been cut or trimmed, each
one preserved the magnificent
palm-branch shape that makes
the Lombard poplar one of the
grandest of trees; there they
stood, a natural monument which
a man might well be proud of
having reared. The shadow had
already reached one side of the
road, transforming it into a
vast wall of black leaves, but
the setting sun shone full upon
the other side, which stood out
in contrast, for the young leaves
at the tips of every branch had
been dyed a bright golden hue,
and, as the breeze stirred through
the waving curtain, it gleamed
in the light.
"You must be very happy here!" cried
Genestas. "The sight of this
must be all pleasure to you."
"The love of Nature is the
only love that does not deceive
human hopes. There is no disappointment
here," said the doctor. "Those
poplars are ten years old; have
you ever seen any that are better
grown than these of mine?"
"God is great!" said
the soldier, coming to a stand
in the middle
of the road, of which he saw
neither beginning nor end.
"You do me good," cried Benassis. "It
was a pleasure to hear you say
over again what I have so often
said in the midst of this avenue.
There is something holy about
this place. Here, we are like
two mere specks; and the feeling
of our own littleness always
brings us into the presence of
God."
They rode on slowly and in
silence, listening to their horses'
hoof- beats; the sound echoed
along the green corridor as it
might have done beneath the vaulted
roof of a cathedral.
"How many things have a power
to stir us which town-dwellers
do not suspect," said the doctor. "Do
you not notice the sweet scent
given off by the gum of the poplar
buds, and the resin of the larches?
How delightful it is!"
"Listen!" exclaimed Genestas. "Let
us wait a moment."
A distant sound of singing
came to their ears.
"Is it a woman or a man, or
is it a bird?" asked the commandant
in a low voice. "Is it the voice
of this wonderful landscape?"
"It is something of all these
things," the doctor answered,
as he dismounted and fastened
his horse to a branch of a poplar
tree.
He made a sign
to the officer to follow his
example and to
come with him. They went slowly
along a footpath between two
hedges of blossoming hawthorn
which filled the damp evening
air with its delicate fragrance.
The sun shone full into the pathway;
the light and warmth were very
perceptible after the shade thrown
by the long wall of poplar trees;
the still powerful rays poured
a flood of red light over a cottage
at the end of the stony track.
The ridge of the cottage roof
was usually a bright green with
its overgrowth of mosses and
house-leeks, and the thatch was
brown as a chestnut shell, but
just now it seemed to be powdered
with a golden dust. The cottage
itself was scarcely visible through
the haze of light; the ruinous
wall, the doorway and everything
about it was radiant with a fleeting
glory and a beauty due to chance,
such as is sometimes seen for
an instant in a human face, beneath
the influence of a strong emotion
that brings warmth and color
into it. In a life under the
open sky and among the fields,
the transient and tender grace
of such moments as these draws
from us the wish of the apostle
who said to Jesus Christ upon
the mountain, "Let us build a
tabernacle and dwell here."
The wide landscape seemed at
that moment to have found a voice
whose purity, and sweetness equaled
its own sweetness and purity,
a voice as mournful as the dying
light in the west--for a vague
reminder of Death is divinely
set in the heavens, and the sun
above gives the same warning
that is given here on earth by
the flowers and the bright insects
of the day. There is a tinge
of sadness about the radiance
of sunset, and the melody was
sad. It was a song widely known
in the days of yore, a ballad
of love and sorrow that once
had served to stir a national
hatred of France for England.
Beaumarchais, in a later day,
had given it back its true poetry
by adapting it for the French
theatre and putting it into the
mouth of a page, who pours out
his heart to his stepmother.
Just now it was simply the air
that rose and fell. There were
no words; the plaintive voice
of the singer touched and thrilled
the soul.
"It is the swan's song," said
Benassis. "That voice does not
sound twice in a century for
human ears. Let us hurry; we
must put a stop to the singing!
The child is killing himself;
it would be cruel to listen to
him any longer. Be quiet, Jacques!
Come, come, be quiet!" cried
the doctor.
The music ceased. Genestas
stood motionless and overcome
with astonishment. A cloud had
drifted across the sun, the landscape
and the voice were both mute.
Shadow, chillness, and silence
had taken the place of the soft
glory of the light, the warm
breath of the breeze, and the
child's singing.
"What makes you disobey me?" asked
Benassis. "I shall not bring
you any more rice pudding nor
snail broth! No more fresh dates
and white bread for you! So you
want to die and break your poor
mother's heart, do you?"
Genestas came into a little
yard, which was sufficiently
clean and tidily kept, and saw
before him a lad of fifteen,
who looked as delicate as a woman.
His hair was fair but scanty,
and the color in his face was
so bright that it seemed hardly
natural. He rose up slowly from
the bench where he was sitting,
beneath a thick bush of jessamine
and some blossoming lilacs that
were running riot, so that he
was almost hidden among the leaves.
"You know very well," said
the doctor, "that I told you
not to talk, not to expose yourself
to the chilly evening air, and
to go to bed as soon as the sun
was set. What put it into your
head to sing?"
"DAME! M. Benassis,
it was so very warm out here,
and it
is so nice to feel warm! I am
always cold. I felt so happy
that without thinking I began
to try over Malbrouk s'en va-t-en
guerre, just for fun, and then
I began to listen to myself because
my voice was something like the
sound of the flute your shepherd
plays."
"Well, my poor Jacques, this
must not happen again; do you
hear? Let me have your hand," and
the doctor felt his pulse.
The boy's eyes had their usual
sweet expression, but just now
they shone with a feverish light.
"It is just as I thought, you
are covered with perspiration," said
Benassis. "Your mother has not
come in yet?"
"No, sir."
"Come! go in-doors
and get into bed."
The young invalid went back
into the cottage, followed by
Benassis and the officer.
"Just light a candle, Captain
Bluteau," said the doctor, who
was helping Jacques to take off
his rough, tattered clothing.
When Genestas had struck a
light, and the interior of the
room was visible, he was surprised
by the extreme thinness of the
child, who seemed to be little
more than skin and bone. When
the little peasant had been put
to bed, Benassis tapped the lad's
chest, and listened to the ominous
sounds made in this way by his
fingers; then, after some deliberation,
he drew back the coverlet over
Jacques, stepped back a few paces,
folded his arms across his chest,
and closely scrutinized his patient.
"How do you
feel, my little man?"
"Quite comfortable,
sir."
A table, with four spindle
legs, stood in the room; the
doctor drew it up to the bed,
found a tumbler and a phial on
the mantel-shelf, and composed
a draught, by carefully measuring
a few drops of brown liquid from
the phial into some water, Genestas
holding the light the while.
"Your mother
is very late."
"She is coming, sir," said
the child; "I can hear her footsteps
on the path."
The doctor and the officer
looked around them while they
waited. At the foot of the bed
there was a sort of mattress
made of moss, on which, doubtless,
the mother was wont to sleep
in her clothes, for there were
neither sheets nor coverlet.
Genestas pointed out this bed
to Benassis, who nodded slightly
to show that he likewise had
already admired this motherly
devotion. There was a clatter
of sabots in the yard, and the
doctor went out.
"You will have
to sit up with Jacques to-night,
Mother Colas.
If he tells you that his breathing
is bad, you must let him drink
some of the draught that I have
poured into the tumbler on the
table. Take care not to let him
have more than two or three sips
at a time; there ought to be
enough in the tumbler to last
him all through the night. Above
all things, do not touch the
phial, and change the child's
clothing at once. He is perspiring
heavily."
"I could not
manage to wash his shirts to-day,
sir; I had
to take the hemp over to Grenoble,
as we wanted the money."
"Very well,
then, I will send you some
shirts."
"Then is he worse, my poor
lad?" asked the woman.
"He has been
so imprudent as to sing, Mother
Colas; and it
is not to be expected that any
good can come of it; but do not
be hard upon him, nor scold him.
Do not be down-hearted about
it; and if Jacques complains
overmuch, send a neighbor to
fetch me. Good-bye."
The doctor called to his friend,
and they went back along the
foot- path.
"Is that little peasant consumptive?" asked
Genestas.
"Mon Dieu! yes," answered Benassis. "Science
cannot save him, unless Nature
works a miracle. Our professors
at the Ecole de Medecine in Paris
often used to speak to us of
the phenomenon which you have
just witnessed. Some maladies
of this kind bring about changes
in the voice-producing organs
that give the sufferer a short-lived
power of song that no trained
voice can surpass. I have made
you spend a melancholy day, sir," said
the doctor when he was once more
in the saddle. "Suffering and
death everywhere, but everywhere
also resignation. All these peasant
folk take death philosophically;
they fall ill, say nothing about
it, and take to their beds like
dumb animals. But let us say
no more about death, and let
us quicken our horses' paces
a little; we ought to reach the
town before nightfall, so that
you may see the new quarter."
"Eh! some place is on fire
over there," said Genestas, pointing
to a spot on the mountain, where
a sheaf of flames was rising.
"It is not
a dangerous fire. Our lime-burner
is heating his
kiln, no doubt. It is a newly-started
industry, which turns our heather
to account."
There was the
sudden report of a gun, followed
by an involuntary
exclamation from Benassis, who
said, with an impatient gesture, "If
that is Butifer, we shall see
which of us two is the stronger."
"The shot came from that quarter," said
Genestas, indicating a beech-
wood up above them on the mountain
side. "Yes, up there; you may
trust an old soldier's ear."
"Let us go there at once!" cried
Benassis, and he made straight
for the little wood, urging his
horse at a furious speed across
the ditches and fields, as if
he were riding a steeplechase,
in his anxiety to catch the sportsman
red-handed.
"The man you are after has
made off," shouted Genestas,
who could scarcely keep up with
him.
Benassis wheeled his horse
round sharply, and came back
again. The man of whom he was
in search soon appeared on the
top of a perpendicular crag,
a hundred feet above the level
of the two horsemen.
"Butifer!" shouted Benassis
when he saw that this figure
carried a fowling-piece; "come
down!"
Butifer recognized the doctor,
and replied by a respectful and
friendly sign which showed that
he had every intention of obeying.
"I can imagine that if a man
were driven to it by fear or
by some overmastering impulse
that he might possibly contrive
to scramble up to that point
among the rocks," said Genestas; "but
how will he manage to come down
again?"
"I have no anxiety on that
score," answered Benassis; "the
wild goats must feel envious
of that fellow yonder! You will
see."
The emergencies of warfare
had accustomed the commandant
to gauge the real worth of men;
he admired the wonderful quickness
of Butifer's movements, the sure-footed
grace with which the hunter swung
himself down the rugged sides
of the crag, to the top of which
he had so boldly climbed. The
strong, slender form of the mountaineer
was gracefully poised in every
attitude which the precipitous
nature of the path compelled
him to assume; and so certain
did he seem of his power to hold
on at need, that if the pinnacle
of rock on which he took his
stand had been a level floor,
he could not have set his foot
down upon it more calmly. He
carried his fowling-piece as
if it had been a light walking-cane.
Butifer was a young man of middle
height, thin, muscular, and in
good training; his beauty was
of a masculine order, which impressed
Genestas on a closer view.
Evidently he belonged to the
class of smugglers who ply their
trade without resorting to violent
courses, and who only exert patience
and craft to defraud the government.
His face was manly and sunburned.
His eyes, which were bright as
an eagle's, were of a clear yellow
color, and his sharply-cut nose
with its slight curve at the
tip was very much like an eagle's
beak. His cheeks were covered
with down, his red lips were
half open, giving a glimpse of
a set of teeth of dazzling whiteness.
His beard, moustache, and the
reddish whiskers, which he allowed
to grow, and which curled naturally,
still further heightened the
masculine and forbidding expression
of his face. Everything about
him spoke of strength. He was
broad-chested; constant activity
had made the muscles of his hands
curiously firm and prominent.
There was the quick intelligence
of a savage about his glances;
he looked resolute, fearless,
and imperturbable, like a man
accustomed to put his life in
peril, and whose physical and
mental strength had been so often
tried by dangers of every kind,
that he no longer felt any doubts
about himself. He wore a blouse
that had suffered a good deal
from thorns and briars, and he
had a pair of leather soles bound
to his feet by eel-skin thongs,
and a pair of torn and tattered
blue linen breeches through which
his legs were visible, red, wiry,
hard, and muscular as those of
a stag.
"There you see the man who
once fired a shot at me," Benassis
remarked to the commandant in
a low voice. "If at this moment
I were to signify to him my desire
to be rid of any one, he would
kill them without scruple.--Butifer!" he
went on, addressing the poacher, "I
fully believed you to be a man
of your word; I pledged mine
for you because I had your promise.
My promise to the procureur du
roi at Grenoble was based upon
your vow never to go poaching
again, and to turn over a new
leaf and become a steady, industrious
worker. You fired that shot just
now, and here you are, on the
Comte de Labranchoir's estate!
Eh! you miscreant? Suppose his
keeper had happened to hear you?
It is a lucky thing for you that
I shall take no formal cognizance
of this offence; if I did, you
would come up as an old offender,
and of course you have no gun
license! I let you keep that
gun of yours out of tenderness
for your attachment to the weapon."
"It is a beauty," said
the commandant, who recognized
a
duck gun from Sainte Etienne.
The smuggler raised his head
and looked at Genestas by way
of acknowledging the compliment.
"Butifer," continued Benassis, "if
your conscience does not reproach
you, it ought to do so. If you
are going to begin your old tricks
again, you will find yourself
once more in a park enclosed
by four stone walls, and no power
on earth will save you from the
hulks; you will be a marked man,
and your character will be ruined.
Bring your gun to me to-night,
I will take care of it for you."
Butifer gripped the barrel
of his weapon in a convulsive
clutch.
"You are right, sir," he said; "I
have done wrong, I have broken
bounds, I am a cur. My gun ought
to go to you, but when you take
it away from me, you take all
that I have in the world. The
last shot which my mother's son
will fire shall be through my
own head. . . . What would you
have? I did as you wanted me.
I kept quiet all winter; but
the spring came, and the sap
rose. I am not used to day labor.
It is not in my nature to spend
my life in fattening fowls; I
cannot stoop about turning over
the soil for vegetables, nor
flourish a whip and drive a cart,
nor scrub down a horse in a stable
all my life, so I must die of
starvation, I suppose? I am only
happy when I am up there," he
went on after a pause, pointing
to the mountains. "And I have
been about among the hills for
the past week; I got a sight
of a chamois, and I have the
chamois there," he said, pointing
to the top of the crag; "it is
at your service! Dear M. Benassis,
leave me my gun. Listen! I will
leave the Commune, foi de Butifer!
I will go to the Alps; the chamois-hunters
will not say a word; on the contrary,
they will receive me with open
arms. I shall come to grief at
the bottom of some glacier; but,
if I am to speak my mind, I would
rather live for a couple of years
among the heights, where there
are no governments, nor excisemen,
nor gamekeepers, nor procureurs
du roi, than grovel in a marsh
for a century. You are the only
one that I shall be sorry to
leave behind; all the rest of
them bore me! When you are in
the right, at any rate you don't
worry one's life out----"
"And how about Louise?" asked
Benassis. Butifer paused and
turned thoughtful.
"Eh! learn to read and write,
my lad," said Genestas; "come
and enlist in my regiment, have
a horse to ride, and turn carabineer.
If they once sound 'to horse'
for something like a war, you
will find out that Providence
made you to live in the midst
of cannon, bullets, and battalions,
and they will make a general
of you."
"Ye-es, if Napoleon was back
again," answered Butifer.
"You know our agreement," said
the doctor. "At the second infraction
of it, you undertook to go for
a soldier. I give you six months
in which to learn to read and
write, and then I will find some
young gentleman who wants a substitute."
Butifer looked at the mountains.
"Oh! you shall not go to the
Alps," cried Benassis. "A man
like you, a man of his word,
with plenty of good stuff in
him, ought to serve his country
and command a brigade, and not
come to his end trailing after
a chamois. The life that you
are leading will take you straight
to the convict's prison. After
over-fatiguing yourself, you
are obliged to take a long rest;
and, in the end, you will fall
into idle ways that will be the
ruin of any notions of orderly
existence that you have; you
will get into the habit of putting
your strength to bad uses, and
you will take the law into your
own hands. I want to put you,
in spite of yourself, into the
right path."
"So I am to
pine and fret myself to death?
I feel suffocated whenever
I am in a town. I cannot hold
out for more than a day, in Grenoble,
when I take Louise there----"
"We all have
our whims, which we must manage
to control, or
turn them to account for our
neighbor's benefit. But it is
late, and I am in a hurry. Come
to see me to-morrow, and bring
your gun along with you. We will
talk this over, my boy. Good-bye.
Go and sell your chamois in Grenoble."
The two horsemen went on their
way.
"That is what I call a man," said
Genestas.
"A man in a bad way," answered
Benassis. "But what help is there
for it? You heard what he said.
Is it not lamentable to see such
fine qualities running to waste?
If France were invaded by a foreign
foe, Butifer at the head of a
hundred young fellows would keep
a whole division busy in Maurienne
for a month; but in a time of
peace the only outlets for his
energy are those which set the
law at defiance. He must wrestle
with something; whenever he is
not risking his neck he is at
odds with society, he lends a
helping hand to smugglers. The
rogue will cross the Rhone, all
by himself, in a little boat,
to take shoes over into Savoy;
he makes good his retreat, heavy
laden as he is, to some inaccessible
place high up among the hills,
where he stays for two days at
a time, living on dry crusts.
In short, danger is as welcome
to him as sleep would be to anybody
else, and by dint of experience
he has acquired a relish for
extreme sensations that has totally
unfitted him for ordinary life.
It vexes me that a man like that
should take a wrong turn and
gradually go to the bad, become
a bandit, and die on the gallows.
But, see, captain, how our village
looks from here!"
Genestas obtained a distant
view of a wide circular space,
planted with trees, a fountain
surrounded by poplars stood in
the middle of it. Round the enclosure
were high banks on which a triple
line of trees of different kinds
were growing; the first row consisted
of acacias, the second of Japanese
varnish trees, and some young
elms grew on the highest row
of all.
"That is where we hold our
fair," said Benassis. "That is
the beginning of the High Street,
by those two handsome houses
that I told you about; one belongs
to the notary, and the other
to the justice of the peace."
They came at that moment into
a broad road, fairly evenly paved
with large cobble-stones. There
were altogether about a hundred
new houses on either side of
it, and almost every house stood
in a garden.
The view of the church with
its doorway made a pretty termination
to this road. Two more roads
had been recently planned out
half-way down the course of the
first, and many new houses had
already been built along them.
The town-hall stood opposite
the parsonage, in the square
by the church. As Benassis went
down the road, women and children
stood in their doorways to wish
him good-evening, the men took
off their caps, and the little
children danced and shouted about
his horse, as if the animal's
good-nature were as well known
as the kindness of its master.
The gladness was undemonstrative;
there was the instinctive delicacy
of all deep feeling about it,
and it had the same pervasive
power. At the sight of this welcome
it seemed to Genestas that the
doctor had been too modest in
his description of the affection
with which he was regarded by
the people of the district. His
truly was a sovereignty of the
sweetest kind; a right royal
sovereignty moreover, for its
title was engraven in the hearts
of its subjects. However dazzling
the rays of glory that surround
a man, however great the power
that he enjoys, in his inmost
soul he soon comes to a just
estimate of the sentiments that
all external action causes for
him. He very soon sees that no
change has been wrought in him,
that there is nothing new and
nothing greater in the exercise
of his physical faculties, and
discovers his own real nothingness.
Kings, even should they rule
over the whole world, are condemned
to live in a narrow circle like
other men. They must even submit
to the conditions of their lot,
and their happiness depends upon
the personal impressions that
they receive. But Benassis met
with nothing but goodwill and
loyalty throughout the district.
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