|
On a lovely spring morning in
the year 1829, a man of fifty
or thereabouts was wending his
way on horseback along the mountain
road that leads to a large village
near the Grande Chartreuse. This
village is the market town of
a populous canton that lies within
the limits of a valley of some
considerable length. The melting
of the snows had filled the boulder-strewn
bed of the torrent (often dry)
that flows through this valley,
which is closely shut in between
two parallel mountain barriers,
above which the peaks of Savoy
and of Dauphine tower on every
side.
All the scenery of the country
that lies between the chain of
the two Mauriennes is very much
alike; yet here in the district
through which the stranger was
traveling there are soft undulations
of the land, and varying effects
of light which might be sought
for elsewhere in vain. Sometimes
the valley, suddenly widening,
spreads out a soft irregularly-shaped
carpet of grass before the eyes;
a meadow constantly watered by
the mountain streams that keep
it fresh and green at all seasons
of the year. Sometimes a roughly-built
sawmill appears in a picturesque
position, with its stacks of
long pine trunks with the bark
peeled off, and its mill stream,
brought from the bed of the torrent
in great square wooden pipes,
with masses of dripping filament
issuing from every crack. Little
cottages, scattered here and
there, with their gardens full
of blossoming fruit trees, call
up the ideas that are aroused
by the sight of industrious poverty;
while the thought of ease, secured
after long years of toil, is
suggested by some larger houses
farther on, with their red roofs
of flat round tiles, shaped like
the scales of a fish. There is
no door, moreover, that does
not duly exhibit a basket in
which the cheeses are hung up
to dry. Every roadside and every
croft is adorned with vines;
which here, as in Italy, they
train to grow about dwarf elm
trees, whose leaves are stripped
off to feed the cattle.
Nature, in her caprice, has
brought the sloping hills on
either side so near together
in some places, that there is
no room for fields, or buildings,
or peasants' huts. Nothing lies
between them but the torrent,
roaring over its waterfalls between
two lofty walls of granite that
rise above it, their sides covered
with the leafage of tall beeches
and dark fir trees to the height
of a hundred feet. The trees,
with their different kinds of
foliage, rise up straight and
tall, fantastically colored by
patches of lichen, forming magnificent
colonnades, with a line of straggling
hedgerow of guelder rose, briar
rose, box and arbutus above and
below the roadway at their feet.
The subtle perfume of this undergrowth
was mingled just then with scents
from the wild mountain region
and with the aromatic fragrance
of young larch shoots, budding
poplars, and resinous pines.
Here and there a wreath of
mist about the heights sometimes
hid and sometimes gave glimpses
of the gray crags, that seemed
as dim and vague as the soft
flecks of cloud dispersed among
them. The whole face of the country
changed every moment with the
changing light in the sky; the
hues of the mountains, the soft
shades of their lower slopes,
the very shape of the valleys
seemed to vary continually. A
ray of sunlight through the tree-stems,
a clear space made by nature
in the woods, or a landslip here
and there, coming as a surprise
to make a contrast in the foreground,
made up an endless series of
pictures delightful to see amid
the silence, at the time of year
when all things grow young, and
when the sun fills a cloudless
heaven with a blaze of light.
In short, it was a fair land--it
was the land of France!
The traveler was a tall man,
dressed from head to foot in
a suit of blue cloth, which must
have been brushed just as carefully
every morning as the glossy coat
of his horse. He held himself
firm and erect in the saddle
like an old cavalry officer.
Even if his black cravat and
doeskin gloves, the pistols that
filled his holsters, and the
valise securely fastened to the
crupper behind him had not combined
to mark him out as a soldier,
the air of unconcern that sat
on his face, his regular features
(scarred though they were with
the smallpox), his determined
manner, self-reliant expression,
and the way he held his head,
all revealed the habits acquired
through military discipline,
of which a soldier can never
quite divest himself, even after
he has retired from service into
private life.
Any other traveler would have
been filled with wonder at the
loveliness of this Alpine region,
which grows so bright and smiling
as it becomes merged in the great
valley systems of southern France;
but the officer, who no doubt
had previously traversed a country
across which the French armies
had been drafted in the course
of Napoleon's wars, enjoyed the
view before him without appearing
to be surprised by the many changes
that swept across it. It would
seem that Napoleon has extinguished
in his soldiers the sensation
of wonder; for an impassive face
is a sure token by which you
may know the men who served erewhile
under the short-lived yet deathless
Eagles of the great Emperor.
The traveler was, in fact, one
of those soldiers (seldom met
with nowadays) whom shot and
shell have respected, although
they have borne their part on
every battlefield where Napoleon
commanded.
There had been nothing unusual
in his life. He had fought valiantly
in the ranks as a simple and
loyal soldier, doing his duty
as faithfully by night as by
day, and whether in or out of
his officer's sight. He had never
dealt a sabre stroke in vain,
and was incapable of giving one
too many. If he wore at his buttonhole
the rosette of an officer of
the Legion of Honor, it was because
the unanimous voice of his regiment
had singled him out as the man
who best deserved to receive
it after the battle of Borodino.
He belonged
to that small minority of undemonstrative
retiring natures,
who are always at peace with
themselves, and who are conscious
of a feeling of humiliation at
the mere thought of making a
request, no matter what its nature
may be. So promotion had come
to him tardily, and by virtue
of the slowly-working laws of
seniority. He had been made a
sub-lieutenant in 1802, but it
was not until 1829 that he became
a major, in spite of the grayness
of his moustaches. His life had
been so blameless that no man
in the army, not even the general
himself, could approach him without
an involuntary feeling of respect.
It is possible that he was not
forgiven for this indisputable
superiority by those who ranked
above him; but, on the other
hand, there was not one of his
men that did not feel for him
something of the affection of
children for a good mother. For
them he knew how to be at once
indulgent and severe. He himself
had also once served in the ranks,
and knew the sorry joys and gaily-endured
hardships of the soldier's lot.
He knew the errors that may be
passed over and the faults that
must be punished in his men--"his
children," as he always called
them--and when on campaign he
readily gave them leave to forage
for provision for man and horse
among the wealthier classes.
His own personal
history lay buried beneath
the deepest reserve.
Like almost every military man
in Europe, he had only seen the
world through cannon smoke, or
in the brief intervals of peace
that occurred so seldom during
the Emperor's continual wars
with the rest of Europe. Had
he or had he not thought of marriage?
The question remained unsettled.
Although no one doubted that
Commandant Genestas had made
conquests during his sojourn
in town after town and country
after country where he had taken
part in the festivities given
and received by the officers,
yet no one knew this for a certainty.
There was no prudery about him;
he would not decline to join
a pleasure party; he in no way
offended against military standards;
but when questioned as to his
affairs of the heart, he either
kept silence or answered with
a jest. To the words, "How are
you, commandant?" addressed to
him by an officer over the wine,
his reply was, "Pass the bottle,
gentlemen."
M. Pierre Joseph Genestas was
an unostentatious kind of Bayard.
There was nothing romantic nor
picturesque about him--he was
too thoroughly commonplace. His
ways of living were those of
a well-to-do man. Although he
had nothing beside his pay, and
his pension was all that he had
to look to in the future, the
major always kept two years'
pay untouched, and never spent
his allowances, like some shrewd
old men of business with whom
cautious prudence has almost
become a mania. He was so little
of a gambler that if, when in
company, some one was wanted
to cut in or to take a bet at
ecarte, he usually fixed his
eyes on his boots; but though
he did not allow himself any
extravagances, he conformed in
every way to custom.
His uniforms lasted longer
than those of any other officer
in his regiment, as a consequence
of the sedulously careful habits
that somewhat straitened means
had so instilled into him, that
they had come to be like a second
nature. Perhaps he might have
been suspected of meannesss if
it had not been for the fact
that with wonderful disinterestedness
and all a comrade's readiness,
his purse would be opened for
some harebrained boy who had
ruined himself at cards or by
some other folly. He did a service
of this kind with such thoughtful
tact, that it seemed as though
he himself had at one time lost
heavy sums at play; he never
considered that he had any right
to control the actions of his
debtor; he never made mention
of the loan. He was the child
of his company; he was alone
in the world, so he had adopted
the army for his fatherland,
and the regiment for his family.
Very rarely, therefore, did any
one seek the motives underlying
his praiseworthy turn for thrift;
for it pleased others, for the
most part, to set it down to
a not unnatural wish to increase
the amount of the savings that
were to render his old age comfortable.
Till the eve of his promotion
to the rank of lieutenant-colonel
of cavalry it was fair to suppose
that it was his ambition to retire
in the course of some campaign
with a colonel's epaulettes and
pension.
If Genestas' name came up when
the officers gossiped after drill,
they were wont to classify him
among the men who begin with
taking the good-conduct prize
at school, and who, throughout
the term of their natural lives,
continue to be punctilious, conscientious,
and passionless--as good as white
bread, and just as insipid. Thoughtful
minds, however, regarded him
very differently. Not seldom
it would happen that a glance,
or an expression as full of significance
as the utterance of a savage,
would drop from him and bear
witness to past storms in his
soul; and a careful study of
his placid brow revealed a power
of stifling down and repressing
his passions into inner depths,
that had been dearly bought by
a lengthy acquaintance with the
perils and disastrous hazards
of war. An officer who had only
just joined the regiment, the
son of a peer of France, had
said one day of Genestas, that
he would have made one of the
most conscientious of priests,
or the most upright of tradesmen.
"Add, the least of a courtier
among marquises," put in Genestas,
scanning the young puppy, who
did not know that his commandant
could overhear him.
There was a burst of laughter
at the words, for the lieutenant's
father cringed to all the powers
that be; he was a man of supple
intellect, accustomed to jump
with every change of government,
and his son took after him.
Men like Genestas are met with
now and again in the French army;
natures that show themselves
to be wholly great at need, and
relapse into their ordinary simplicity
when the action is over; men
that are little mindful of fame
and reputation, and utterly forgetful
of danger. Perhaps there are
many more of them than the shortcomings
of our own characters will allow
us to imagine. Yet, for all that,
any one who believed that Genestas
was perfect would be strangely
deceiving himself. The major
was suspicious, given to violent
outbursts of anger, and apt to
be tiresome in argument; he was
full of national prejudices,
and above all things, would insist
that he was in the right, when
he was, as a matter of fact,
in the wrong. He retained the
liking for good wine that he
had acquired in the ranks. If
he rose from a banquet with all
the gravity befitting his position,
he seemed serious and pensive,
and had no mind at such times
to admit any one into his confidence.
Finally, although he was sufficiently
acquainted with the customs of
society and with the laws of
politeness, to which he conformed
as rigidly as if they had been
military regulations; though
he had real mental power, both
natural and acquired; and although
he had mastered the art of handling
men, the science of tactics,
the theory of sabre play, and
the mysteries of the farrier's
craft, his learning had been
prodigiously neglected. He knew
in a hazy kind of way that Caesar
was a Roman Consul, or an Emperor,
and that Alexander was either
a Greek or a Macedonian; he would
have conceded either quality
or origin in both cases without
discussion. If the conversation
turned on science or history,
he was wont to become thoughtful,
and to confine his share in it
to little approving nods, like
a man who by dint of profound
thought has arrived at scepticism.
When, at Schonbrunn, on May
13, 1809, Napoleon wrote the
bulletin addressed to the Grand
Army, then the masters of Vienna,
in which he said that like Medea,
the Austrian princes had slain
their children with their own
hands; Genestas, who had been
recently made a captain, did
not wish to compromise his newly
conferred dignity by asking who
Medea was; he relied upon Napoleon's
character, and felt quite sure
that the Emperor was incapable
of making any announcement not
in proper form to the Grand Army
and the House of Austria. So
he thought that Medea was some
archduchess whose conduct was
open to criticism. Still, as
the matter might have some bearing
on the art of war, he felt uneasy
about the Medea of the bulletin
until a day arrived when Mlle.
Raucourt revived the tragedy
of Medea. The captain saw the
placard, and did not fail to
repair to the Theatre Francais
that evening, to see the celebrated
actress in her mythological role,
concerning which he gained some
information from his neighbors.
A man, however, who as a private
soldier had possessed sufficient
force of character to learn to
read, write, and cipher, could
clearly understand that as a
captain he ought to continue
his education. So from this time
forth he read new books and romances
with avidity, in this way gaining
a half-knowledge, of which he
made a very fair use. He went
so far in his gratitude to his
teachers as to undertake the
defence of Pigault-Lebrun, remarking
that in his opinion he was instructive
and not seldom profound.
This officer, whose acquired
practical wisdom did not allow
him to make any journey in vain,
had just come from Grenoble,
and was on his way to the Grande
Chartreuse, after obtaining on
the previous evening a week's
leave of absence from his colonel.
He had not expected that the
journey would be a long one;
but when, league after league,
he had been misled as to the
distance by the lying statements
of the peasants, he thought it
would be prudent not to venture
any farther without fortifying
the inner man. Small as were
his chances of finding any housewife
in her dwelling at a time when
every one was hard at work in
the fields, he stopped before
a little cluster of cottages
that stood about a piece of land
common to all of them, more or
less describing a square, which
was open to all comers.
The surface of the soil thus
held in conjoint ownership was
hard and carefully swept, but
intersected by open drains. Roses,
ivy, and tall grasses grew over
the cracked and disjointed walls.
Some rags were drying on a miserable
currant bush that stood at the
entrance of the square. A pig
wallowing in a heap of straw
was the first inhabitant encountered
by Genestas. At the sound of
horse hoofs the creature grunted,
raised its head, and put a great
black cat to flight. A young
peasant girl, who was carrying
a bundle of grass on her head,
suddenly appeared, followed at
a distance by four little brats,
clad in rags, it is true, but
vigorous, sunburned, picturesque,
bold-eyed, and riotous; thorough
little imps, looking like angels.
The sun shone down with an indescribable
purifying influence upon the
air, the wretched cottages, the
heaps of refuse, and the unkempt
little crew.
The soldier asked whether it
was possible to obtain a cup
of milk. All the answer the girl
made him was a hoarse cry. An
old woman suddenly appeared on
the threshold of one of the cabins,
and the young peasant girl passed
on into a cowshed, with a gesture
that pointed out the aforesaid
old woman, towards whom Genestas
went; taking care at the same
time to keep a tight hold on
his horse, lest the children
who were already running about
under his hoofs should be hurt.
He repeated his request, with
which the housewife flatly refused
to comply. She would not, she
said, disturb the cream on the
pans full of milk from which
butter was to be made. The officer
overcame this objection by undertaking
to repay her amply for the wasted
cream, and then tied up his horse
at the door, and went inside
the cottage.
The four children belonging
to the woman all appeared to
be of the same age--an odd circumstance
which struck the commandant.
A fifth clung about her skirts;
a weak, pale, sickly-looking
child, who doubtless needed more
care than the others, and who
on that account was the best
beloved, the Benjamin of the
family.
Genestas seated himself in
a corner by the fireless hearth.
A sublime symbol met his eyes
on the high mantel-shelf above
him--a colored plaster cast of
the Virgin with the Child Jesus
in her arms. Bare earth made
the flooring of the cottage.
It had been beaten level in the
first instance, but in course
of time it had grown rough and
uneven, so that though it was
clean, its ruggedness was not
unlike that of the magnified
rind of an orange. A sabot filled
with salt, a frying-pan, and
a large kettle hung inside the
chimney. The farther end of the
room was completely filled by
a four-post bedstead, with a
scalloped valance for decoration.
The walls were black; there was
an opening to admit the light
above the worm-eaten door; and
here and there were a few stools
consisting of rough blocks of
beech-wood, each set upon three
wooden legs; a hutch for bread,
a large wooden dipper, a bucket
and some earthen milk-pans, a
spinning-wheel on the top of
the bread-hutch, and a few wicker
mats for draining cheeses. Such
were the ornaments and household
furniture of the wretched dwelling.
The officer, who had been absorbed
in flicking his riding-whip against
the floor, presently became a
witness to a piece of by-play,
all unsuspicious though he was
that any drama was about to unfold
itself. No sooner had the old
woman, followed by her scald-headed
Benjamin, disappeared through
a door that led into her dairy,
than the four children, after
having stared at the soldier
as long as they wished, drove
away the pig by way of a beginning.
This animal, their accustomed
playmate, having come as far
as the threshold, the little
brats made such an energetic
attack upon him, that he was
forced to beat a hasty retreat.
When the enemy had been driven
without, the children besieged
the latch of a door that gave
way before their united efforts,
and slipped out of the worn staple
that held it; and finally they
bolted into a kind of fruit-loft,
where they very soon fell to
munching the dried plums, to
the amusement of the commandant,
who watched this spectacle. The
old woman, with the face like
parchment and the dirty ragged
clothing, came back at this moment,
with a jug of milk for her visitor
in her hand.
"Oh! you good-for-nothings!" cried
she.
She ran to the children, clutched
an arm of each child, bundled
them into the room, and carefully
closed the door of her storeroom
of plenty. But she did not take
their prunes away from them.
"Now, then, be good, my pets!
If one did not look after them," she
went on, looking at Genestas, "they
would eat up the whole lot of
prunes, the madcaps!"
Then she seated herself on
a three-legged stool, drew the
little weakling between her knees,
and began to comb and wash his
head with a woman's skill and
with motherly assiduity. The
four small thieves hung about.
Some of them stood, others leant
against the bed or the bread-
hutch. They gnawed their prunes
without saying a word, but they
kept their sly and mischievous
eyes fixed upon the stranger.
In spite of grimy countenances
and noses that stood in need
of wiping, they all looked strong
and healthy.
"Are they your children?" the
soldier asked the old woman.
"Asking your
pardon, sir, they are charity
children. They give
me three francs a month and a
pound's weight of soap for each
of them."
"But it must
cost you twice as much as that
to keep them,
good woman?"
"That is just
what M. Benassis tells me,
sir; but if other folk
will board the children for the
same money, one has to make it
do. Nobody wants the children,
but for all that there is a good
deal of performance to go through
before they will let us have
them. When the milk we give them
comes to nothing, they cost us
scarcely anything. Besides that,
three francs is a great deal,
sir; there are fifteen francs
coming in, to say nothing of
the five pounds' weight of soap.
In our part of the world you
would simply have to wear your
life out before you would make
ten sous a day."
"Then you have some land of
your own?" asked the commandant.
"No, sir. I
had some land once when my
husband was alive; since
he died I have done so badly
that I had to sell it"
"Why, how do you reach the
year's end without debts?" Genestas
went on, "when you bring up children
for a livelihood and wash and
feed them on two sous a day?"
"Well, we never go to St. Sylvester's
Day without debt, sir," she went
on without ceasing to comb the
child's hair. "But so it is--Providence
helps us out. I have a couple
of cows. Then my daughter and
I do some gleaning at harvest-time,
and in winter we pick up firewood.
Then at night we spin. Ah! we
never want to see another winter
like this last one, that is certain!
I owe the miller seventy-five
francs for flour. Luckily he
is M. Benassis' miller. M. Benassis,
ah! he is a friend to poor people.
He has never asked for his due
from anybody, and he will not
begin with us. Besides, our cow
has a calf, and that will set
us a bit straighter."
The four orphans for whom the
old woman's affection represented
all human guardianship had come
to an end of their prunes. As
their foster-mother's attention
was taken up by the officer with
whom she was chatting, they seized
the opportunity, and banded themselves
together in a compact file, so
as to make yet another assault
upon the latch of the door that
stood between them and the tempting
heap of dried plums. They advanced
to the attack, not like French
soldiers, but as stealthily as
Germans, impelled by frank animal
greediness.
"Oh! you little
rogues! Do you want to finish
them up?"
The old woman rose, caught
the strongest of the four, administered
a gentle slap on the back, and
flung him out of the house. Not
a tear did he shed, but the others
remained breathless with astonishment.
"They give
you a lot of trouble----"
"Oh! no, sir,
but they can smell the prunes,
the little
dears. If I were to leave them
alone here for a moment, they
would stuff themselves with them."
"You are very
fond of them?"
The old woman raised her head
at this, and looked at him with
gentle malice in her eyes.
"Fond of them!" she said. "I
have had to part with three of
them already. I only have the
care of them until they are six
years old," she went on with
a sigh.
"But where
are your own children?"
"I have lost
them."
"How old are you?" Genestas
asked, to efface the impression
left by his last question.
"I am thirty-eight
years old, sir. It will be
two years come
next St. John's Day since my
husband died."
She finished dressing the poor
sickly mite, who seemed to thank
her by a loving look in his faded
eyes.
"What a life of toil and self-denial!" thought
the cavalry officer.
Beneath a roof worthy of the
stable wherein Jesus Christ was
born, the hardest duties of motherhood
were fulfilled cheerfully and
without consciousness of merit.
What hearts were these that lay
so deeply buried in neglect and
obscurity! What wealth, and what
poverty! Soldiers, better than
other men, can appreciate the
element of grandeur to be found
in heroism in sabots, in the
Evangel clad in rags. The Book
may be found elsewhere, adorned,
embellished, tricked out in silk
and satin and brocade, but here,
of a surety, dwelt the spirit
of the Book. It was impossible
to doubt that Heaven had some
holy purpose underlying it all,
at the sight of the woman who
had taken a mother's lot upon
herself, as Jesus Christ had
taken the form of a man, who
gleaned and suffered and ran
into debt for her little waifs;
a woman who defrauded herself
in her reckonings, and would
not own that she was ruining
herself that she might be a Mother.
One was constrained to admit,
at the sight of her, that the
good upon earth have something
in common with the angels in
heaven; Commandant Genestas shook
his head as he looked at her.
"Is M. Benassis a clever doctor?" he
asked at last.
"I do not know,
sir, but he cures poor people
for nothing."
"It seems to me that this is
a man and no mistake!" he went
on, speaking to himself.
"Oh! yes, sir,
and a good man too! There is
scarcely any one
hereabouts that does not put
his name in their prayers, morning
and night!"
"That is for you, mother," said
the soldier, as he gave her several
coins, "and that is for the children," he
went on, as he added another
crown. "Is M. Benassis' house
still a long way off?" he asked,
when he had mounted his horse.
"Oh! no, sir,
a bare league at most."
The commandant set out, fully
persuaded that two leagues remained
ahead of him. Yet after all he
soon caught a glimpse through
the trees of the little town's
first cluster of houses, and
then of all the roofs that crowded
about a conical steeple, whose
slates were secured to the angles
of the wooden framework by sheets
of tin that glittered in the
sun. This sort of roof, which
has a peculiar appearance, denotes
the nearness of the borders of
Savoy, where it is very common.
The valley is wide at this particular
point, and a fair number of houses
pleasantly situated, either in
the little plain or along the
side of the mountain stream,
lend human interest to the well-tilled
spot, a stronghold with no apparent
outlet among the mountains that
surround it.
It was noon when Genestas reined
in his horse beneath an avenue
of elm-trees half-way up the
hillside, and only a few paces
from the town, to ask the group
of children who stood before
him for M. Benassis' house. At
first the children looked at
each other, then they scrutinized
the stranger with the expression
that they usually wear when they
set eyes upon anything for the
first time; a different curiosity
and a different thought in every
little face. Then the boldest
and the merriest of the band,
a little bright-eyed urchin,
with bare, muddy feet, repeated
his words over again, in child
fashion.
"M. Benassis' house, sir?" adding, "I
will show you the way there."
He walked along in front of
the horse, prompted quite as
much by a wish to gain a kind
of importance by being in the
stranger's company, as by a child's
love of being useful, or the
imperative craving to be doing
something, that possesses mind
and body at his age. The officer
followed him for the entire length
of the principal street of the
country town. The way was paved
with cobblestones, and wound
in and out among the houses,
which their owners had erected
along its course in the most
arbitrary fashion. In one place
a bake-house had been built out
into the middle of the roadway;
in another a gable protruded,
partially obstructing the passage,
and yet farther on a mountain
stream flowed across it in a
runnel. Genestas noticed a fair
number of roofs of tarred shingle,
but yet more of them were thatched;
a few were tiled, and some seven
or eight (belonging no doubt
to the cure, the justice of the
peace, and some of the wealthier
townsmen) were covered with slates.
There was a total absence of
regard for appearances befitting
a village at the end of the world,
which had nothing beyond it,
and no connection with any other
place. The people who lived in
it seemed to belong to one family
that dwelt beyond the limits
of the bustling world, with which
the collector of taxes and a
few ties of the very slenderest
alone served to connect them.
When Genestas had gone a step
or two farther, he saw on the
mountain side a broad road that
rose above the village. Clearly
there must be an old town and
a new town; and, indeed, when
the commandant reached a spot
where he could slacken the pace
of his horse, he could easily
see between the houses some well-built
dwellings whose new roofs brightened
the old-fashioned village. An
avenue of trees rose above these
new houses, and from among them
came the confused sounds of several
industries. He heard the songs
peculiar to busy toilers, a murmur
of many workshops, the rasping
of files, and the sound of falling
hammers. He saw the thin lines
of smoke from the chimneys of
each household, and the more
copious outpourings from the
forges of the van-builder, the
blacksmith, and the farrier.
At length, at the very end of
the village towards which his
guide was taking him, Genestas
beheld scattered farms and well-tilled
fields and plantations of trees
in thorough order. It might have
been a little corner of Brie,
so hidden away in a great fold
of the land, that at first sight
its existence would not be suspected
between the little town and the
mountains that closed the country
round.
Presently the child stopped.
"There is the door of HIS house," he
remarked.
The officer dismounted and
passed his arm through the bridle.
Then, thinking that the laborer
is worthy of his hire, he drew
a few sous from his waistcoat
pocket, and held them out to
the child, who looked astonished
at this, opened his eyes very
wide, and stayed on, without
thanking him, to watch what the
stranger would do next.
"Civilization has not made
much headway hereabouts," thought
Genestas; "the religion of work
is in full force, and begging
has not yet come thus far."
His guide, more from curiosity
than from any interested motive,
propped himself against the wall
that rose to the height of a
man's elbow. Upon this wall,
which enclosed the yard belonging
to the house, there ran a black
wooden railing on either side
of the square pillars of the
gates. The lower part of the
gates themselves was of solid
wood that had been painted gray
at some period in the past; the
upper part consisted of a grating
of yellowish spear-shaped bars.
These decorations, which had
lost all their color, gradually
rose on either half of the gates
till they reached the centre
where they met; their spikes
forming, when both leaves were
shut, an outline similar to that
of a pine-cone. The worm-eaten
gates themselves, with their
patches of velvet lichen, were
almost destroyed by the alternate
action of sun and rain. A few
aloe plants and some chance-sown
pellitory grew on the tops of
the square pillars of the gates,
which all but concealed the stems
of a couple of thornless acacias
that raised their tufted spikes,
like a pair of green powder-puffs,
in the yard.
The condition of the gateway
revealed a certain carelessness
of its owner which did not seem
to suit the officer's turn of
mind. He knitted his brows like
a man who is obliged to relinquish
some illusion. We usually judge
others by our own standard; and
although we indulgently forgive
our own shortcomings in them,
we condemn them harshly for the
lack of our special virtues.
If the commandant had expected
M. Benassis to be a methodical
or practical man, there were
unmistakable indications of absolute
indifference as to his material
concerns in the state of the
gates of his house. A soldier
possessed by Genestas' passion
for domestic economy could not
help at once drawing inferences
as to the life and character
of its owner from the gateway
before him; and this, in spite
of his habits of circumspection,
he in nowise failed to do. The
gates were left ajar, moreover--another
piece of carelessness!
Encouraged by this countrified
trust in all comers, the officer
entered the yard without ceremony,
and tethered his horse to the
bars of the gate. While he was
knotting the bridle, a neighing
sound from the stable caused
both horse and rider to turn
their eyes involuntarily in that
direction. The door opened, and
an old servant put out his head.
He wore a red woolen bonnet,
exactly like the Phrygian cap
in which Liberty is tricked out,
a piece of head-gear in common
use in this country.
As there was room for several
horses, this worthy individual,
after inquiring whether Genestas
had come to see M. Benassis,
offered the hospitality of the
stable to the newly-arrived steed,
a very fine animal, at which
he looked with an expression
of admiring affection. The commandant
followed his horse to see how
things were to go with it. The
stable was clean, there was plenty
of litter, and there was the
same peculiar air of sleek content
about M. Benassis' pair of horses
that distinguished the cure's
horse from all the rest of his
tribe. A maid-servant from within
the house came out upon the flight
of steps and waited. She appeared
to be the proper authority to
whom the stranger's inquiries
were to be addressed, although
the stableman had already told
him that M. Benassis was not
at home.
"The master has gone to the
flour-mill," said he. "If you
like to overtake him, you have
only to go along the path that
leads to the meadow; and the
mill is at the end of it."
Genestas preferred seeing the
country to waiting about indefinitely
for Benassis' return, so he set
out along the way that led to
the flour-mill. When he had gone
beyond the irregular line traced
by the town upon the hillside,
he came in sight of the mill
and the valley, and of one of
the loveliest landscapes that
he had ever seen.
The mountains bar the course
of the river, which forms a little
lake at their feet, and raise
their crests above it, tier on
tier. Their many valleys are
revealed by the changing hues
of the light, or by the more
or less clear outlines of the
mountain ridges fledged with
their dark forests of pines.
The mill had not long been built.
It stood just where the mountain
stream fell into the little lake.
There was all the charm about
it peculiar to a lonely house
surrounded by water and hidden
away behind the heads of a few
trees that love to grow by the
water-side. On the farther bank
of the river, at the foot of
a mountain, with a faint red
glow of sunset upon its highest
crest, Genestas caught a glimpse
of a dozen deserted cottages.
All the windows and doors had
been taken away, and sufficiently
large holes were conspicuous
in the dilapidated roofs, but
the surrounding land was laid
out in fields that were highly
cultivated, and the old garden
spaces had been turned into meadows,
watered by a system of irrigation
as artfully contrived as that
in use in Limousin. Unconsciously
the commandant paused to look
at the ruins of the village before
him.
How is it that men can never
behold any ruins, even of the
humblest kind, without feeling
deeply stirred? Doubtless it
is because they seem to be a
typical representation of evil
fortune whose weight is felt
so differently by different natures.
The thought of death is called
up by a churchyard, but a deserted
village puts us in mind of the
sorrows of life; death is but
one misfortune always foreseen,
but the sorrows of life are infinite.
Does not the thought of the infinite
underlie all great melancholy?
The officer reached the stony
path by the mill-pond before
he could hit upon an explanation
of this deserted village. The
miller's lad was sitting on some
sacks of corn near the door of
the house. Genestas asked for
M. Benassis.
"M. Benassis went over there," said
the miller, pointing out one
of the ruined cottages.
"Has the village been burned
down?" asked the commandant.
"No, sir."
"Then how did it come to be
in this state?" inquired Genestas.
"Ah! how?" the miller answered,
as he shrugged his shoulders
and went indoors; "M. Benassis
will tell you that."
The officer went over a rough
sort of bridge built up of boulders
taken from the torrent bed, and
soon reached the house that had
been pointed out to him. The
thatched roof of the dwelling
was still entire; it was covered
with moss indeed, but there were
no holes in it, and the door
and its fastenings seemed to
be in good repair. Genestas saw
a fire on the hearth as he entered,
an old woman kneeling in the
chimney-corner before a sick
man seated in a chair, and another
man, who was standing with his
face turned toward the fireplace.
The house consisted of a single
room, which was lighted by a
wretched window covered with
linen cloth. The floor was of
beaten earth; the chair, a table,
and a truckle-bed comprised the
whole of the furniture. The commandant
had never seen anything so poor
and bare, not even in Russia,
where the moujik's huts are like
the dens of wild beasts. Nothing
within it spoke of ordinary life;
there were not even the simplest
appliances for cooking food of
the commonest description. It
might have been a dog-kennel
without a drinking-pan. But for
the truckle-bed, a smock-frock
hanging from a nail, and some
sabots filled with straw, which
composed the invalid's entire
wardrobe, this cottage would
have looked as empty as the others.
The aged peasant woman upon her
knees was devoting all her attention
to keeping the sufferer's feet
in a tub filled with a brown
liquid. Hearing a footstep and
the clank of spurs, which sounded
strangely in ears accustomed
to the plodding pace of country
folk, the man turned to Genestas.
A sort of surprise, in which
the old woman shared was visible
in his face.
"There is no need to ask if
you are M. Benassis," said the
soldier. "You will pardon me,
sir, if, as a stranger impatient
to see you, I have come to seek
you on your field of battle,
instead of awaiting you at your
house. Pray do not disturb yourself;
go on with what you are doing.
When it is over, I will tell
you the purpose of my visit."
Genestas half seated himself
upon the edge of the table, and
remained silent. The firelight
shone more brightly in the room
than the faint rays of the sun,
for the mountain crests intercepted
them, so that they seldom reached
this corner of the valley. A
few branches of resinous pinewood
made a bright blaze, and it was
by the light of this fire that
the soldier saw the face of the
man towards whom he was drawn
by a secret motive, by a wish
to seek him out, to study and
to know him thoroughly well.
M. Benassis, the local doctor,
heard Genestas with indifference,
and with folded arms he returned
his bow, and went back to his
patient, quite unaware that he
was being subjected to a scrutiny
as earnest as that which the
soldier turned upon him.
Benassis was
a man of ordinary height, broad-shouldered
and
deep- chested. A capacious green
overcoat, buttoned up to the
chin, prevented the officer from
observing any characteristic
details of his personal appearance;
but his dark and motionless figure
served as a strong relief to
his face, which caught the bright
light of the blazing fire. The
face was not unlike that of a
satyr; there was the same slightly
protruding forehead, full, in
this case, of prominences, all
more or less denoting character;
the same turned-up nose, with
a sprightly cleavage at the tip;
the same high cheek-bones. The
lines of the mouth were crooked;
the lips, thick and red. The
chin turned sharply upwards.
There was an alert, animated
look in the brown eyes, to which
their pearly whites gave great
brightness, and which expressed
passions now subdued. His iron-gray
hair, the deep wrinkles in his
face, the bushy eyebrows that
had grown white already, the
veins on his protuberant nose,
the tanned face covered with
red blotches, everything about
him, in short, indicated a man
of fifty and the hard work of
his profession. The officer could
come to no conclusion as to the
capacity of the head, which was
covered by a close cap; but hidden
though it was, it seemed to him
to be one of the square-shaped
kind that gave rise to the expression "square-headed." Genestas
was accustomed to read the indications
that mark the features of men
destined to do great things,
since he had been brought into
close relations with the energetic
natures sought out by Napoleon;
so he suspected that there must
be some mystery in this life
of obscurity, and said to himself
as he looked at the remarkable
face before him:
|
