As Benassis finished his story,
he was struck by the troubled
expression of the officer's face.
It touched him to have been so
well understood. He was almost
ready to reproach himself for
having distressed his visitor.
He spoke:
"But these
troubles of mine, Captain Bluteau----"
"Do not call me Captain Bluteau," cried
Genestas, breaking in upon the
doctor, and springing to his
feet with sudden energy, a change
of position that seemed to be
prompted by inward dissatisfaction
of some kind. "There is no such
person as Captain Bluteau. .
. . I am a scoundrel!"
With no little astonishment,
Benassis beheld Genestas pacing
to and fro in the salon, like
a bumble-bee in quest of an exit
from the room which he has incautiously
entered.
"Then who are you, sir?" inquired
Benassis.
"Ah! there now!" the officer
answered, as he turned and took
his stand before the doctor,
though he lacked courage to look
at his friend. "I have deceived
you!" he went on (and there was
a change in his voice). "I have
acted a lie for the first time
in my life, and I am well punished
for it; for after this I cannot
explain why I came here to play
the spy upon you, confound it!
Ever since I have had a glimpse
of your soul, so to speak, I
would far sooner have taken a
box on the ear whenever I heard
you call me Captain Bluteau!
Perhaps you may forgive me for
this subterfuge, but I shall
never forgive myself; I, Pierre
Joseph Genestas, who would not
lie to save my life before a
court- martial!"
"Are you Commandant Genestas?" cried
Benassis, rising to his feet.
He grasped the officer's hand
warmly, and added: "As you said
but a short time ago, sir, we
were friends before we knew each
other. I have been very anxious
to make your acquaintance, for
I have often heard M. Gravier
speak of you. He used to call
you, 'one of Plutarch's men.' "
"Plutarch? Nothing of the sort!" answered
Genestas. "I am not worthy of
you; I could thrash myself. I
ought to have told you my secret
in a straightforward way at the
first. Yet, now! It is quite
as well that I wore a mask, and
came here myself in search of
information concerning you, for
now I know that I must hold my
tongue. If I had set about this
business in the right fashion
it would have been painful to
you, and God forbid that I should
give you the slightest annoyance."
"But I do not
understand you, commandant."
"Let the matter
drop. I am not ill; I have
spent a pleasant
day, and I will go back to-morrow.
Whenever you come to Grenoble,
you will find that you have one
more friend there, who will be
your friend through thick and
thin. Pierre Joseph Genestas'
sword and purse are at your disposal,
and I am yours to the last drop
of my blood. Well, after all,
your words have fallen on good
soil. When I am pensioned off,
I will look for some out-of-the-way
little place, and be mayor of
it, and try to follow your example.
I have not your knowledge, but
I will study at any rate."
"You are right,
sir; the landowner who spends
his time in convincing
a commune of the folly of some
mistaken notion of agriculture,
confers upon his country a benefit
quite as great as any that the
most skilful physician can bestow.
The latter lessens the sufferings
of some few individuals, and
the former heals the wounds of
his country. But you have excited
my curiosity to no common degree.
Is there really something in
which I can be of use to you?"
"Of use?" repeated
the commandant in an altered
voice.
"Mon Dieu!
I was about to ask you to do
me a service which
is all but impossible, M. Benassis.
Just listen a moment! I have
killed a good many Christians
in my time, it is true; but you
may kill people and keep a good
heart for all that; so there
are some things that I can feel
and understand, rough as I look."
"But go on!"
"No, I do not
want to give you any pain if
I can help it."
"Oh! commandant,
I can bear a great deal."
"It is a question of a child's
life, sir," said the officer,
nervously.
Benassis suddenly knitted his
brows, but by a gesture he entreated
Genestas to continue.
"A child," repeated the commandant,"whose
life may yet be saved by constant
watchfulness and incessant care.
Where could I expect to find
a doctor capable of devoting
himself to a single patient?
Not in a town, that much was
certain. I had heard you spoken
of as an excellent man, but I
wished to be quite sure that
this reputation was well founded.
So before putting my little charge
into the hands of this M. Benassis
of whom people spoke so highly,
I wanted to study him myself.
But now----"
"Enough," said the doctor; "so
this child is yours?"
"No, no, M.
Benassis. To clear up the mystery,
I should have
to tell you a long story, in
which I do not exactly play the
part of a hero; but you have
given me your confidence and
I can readily give you mine."
"One moment, commandant," said
the doctor. In answer to his
summons, Jacquotte appeared at
once, and her master ordered
tea. "You see, commandant, at
night when every one is sleeping,
I do not sleep. . . . The thought
of my troubles lies heavily on
me, and then I try to forget
them by taking tea. It produces
a sort of nervous inebriation--
a kind of slumber, without which
I could not live. Do you still
decline to take it?"
"For my own part," said Genestas, "I
prefer your Hermitage."
"By all means. Jacquotte," said
Benassis, turning to his housekeeper, "bring
in some wine and biscuits. We
will both of us have our night-
cap after our separate fashions."
"That tea must be very bad
for you!" Genestas remarked.
"It brings
on horrid attacks of gout,
but I cannot break myself
of the habit, it is too soothing;
it procures for me a brief respite
every night, a few moments during
which life becomes less of a
burden. . . . Come. I am listening;
perhaps your story will efface
the painful impressions left
by the memories that I have just
recalled."
Genestas set
down his empty glass upon the
chimney-piece. "After
the Retreat from Moscow," he
said, "my regiment was stationed
to recruit for a while in a little
town in Poland. We were quartered
there, in fact, till the Emperor
returned, and we bought up horses
at long prices. So far so good.
I ought to say that I had a friend
in those days. More than once
during the Retreat I had owed
my life to him. He was a quartermaster,
Renard by name; we could not
but be like brothers (military
discipline apart) after what
he had done for me. They billeted
us on the same house, a sort
of shanty, a rat-hole of a place
where a whole family lived, though
you would not have thought there
was room to stable a horse. This
particular hovel belonged to
some Jews who carried on their
six-and-thirty trades in it.
The frost had not so stiffened
the old father Jew's fingers
but that he could count gold
fast enough; he had thriven uncommonly
during our reverses. That sort
of gentry lives in squalor and
dies in gold.
"There were
cellars underneath (lined with
wood of course, the
whole house was built of wood);
they had stowed their children
away down there, and one more
particularly, a girl of seventeen,
as handsome as a Jewess can be
when she keeps herself tidy and
has not fair hair. She was as
white as snow, she had eyes like
velvet, and dark lashes to them
like rats' tails; her hair was
so thick and glossy that it made
you long to stroke it. She was
perfection, and nothing less!
I was the first to discover this
curious arrangement. I was walking
up and down outside one evening,
smoking my pipe, after they thought
I had gone to bed. The children
came in helter-skelter, tumbling
over one another like so many
puppies. It was fun to watch
them. Then they had supper with
their father and mother. I strained
my eyes to see the young Jewess
through the clouds of smoke that
her father blew from his pipe;
she looked like a new gold piece
among a lot of copper coins.
"I had never
reflected about love, my dear
Benassis, I had
never had time; but now at the
sight of this young girl I lost
my heart and head and everything
else at once, and then it was
plain to me that I had never
been in love before. I was hard
hit, and over head and ears in
love. There I stayed smoking
my pipe, absorbed in watching
the Jewess until she blew out
the candle and went to bed. I
could not close my eyes. The
whole night long I walked up
and down the street smoking my
pipe and refilling it from time
to time. I had never felt like
that before, and for the first
and last time in my life I thought
of marrying.
"At daybreak
I saddled my horse and rode
out into the country,
to clear my head. I kept him
at a trot for two mortal hours,
and all but foundered the animal
before I noticed it----"
Genestas stopped
short, looked at his new friend
uneasily, and
said, "You must excuse me, Benassis,
I am no orator; things come out
just as they turn up in my mind.
In a room full of fine folk I
should feel awkward, but here
in the country with you----"
"Go on," said
the doctor.
"When I came
back to my room I found Renard
finely flustered.
He thought I had fallen in a
duel. He was cleaning his pistols,
his head full of schemes for
fastening a quarrel on any one
who should have turned me off
into the dark. . . . Oh! that
was just the fellow's way! I
confided my story to Renard,
showed him the kennel where the
children were; and, as my comrade
understood the jargon that those
heathens talked, I begged him
to help me to lay my proposals
before her father and mother,
and to try to arrange some kind
of communication between me and
Judith. Judith they called her.
In short, sir, for a fortnight
the Jew and his wife so arranged
matters that we supped every
night with Judith, and for a
fortnight I was the happiest
of men. You understand and you
know how it was, so I shall not
wear out your patience; still,
if you do not smoke, you cannot
imagine how pleasant it was to
smoke a pipe at one's ease with
Renard and the girl's father
and one's princess there before
one's eyes. Oh! yes, it was very
pleasant!
"But I ought
to tell you that Renard was
a Parisian, and dependent
on his father, a wholesale grocer,
who had educated his son with
a view to making a notary of
him; so Renard had come by a
certain amount of book learning
before he had been drawn by the
conscription and had to bid his
desk good-bye. Add to this that
he was the kind of man who looks
well in a uniform, with a face
like a girl's, and a thorough
knowledge of the art of wheedling
people. It was HE whom Judith
loved; she cared about as much
for me as a horse cares for roast
fowls. Whilst I was in the seventh
heaven, soaring above the clouds
at the bare sight of Judith,
my friend Renard (who, as you
see, fairly deserved his name)
arrived at an understanding with
the girl, and to such good purpose,
that they were married forthwith
after the custom of her country,
without waiting for permission,
which would have been too long
in coming. He promised her, however,
that if it should happen that
the validity of this marriage
was afterwards called in question,
they were to be married again
according to French law. As a
matter of fact, as soon as she
reached France, Mme. Renard became
Mlle. Judith once more.
"If I had known
all this, I would have killed
Renard then
and there, without giving him
time to draw another breath;
but the father, the mother, the
girl herself, and the quartermaster
were all in the plot like thieves
in a fair. While I was smoking
my pipe, and worshiping Judith
as if she had been one of the
saints above, the worthy Renard
was arranging to meet her, and
managing this piece of business
very cleverly under my very eyes.
"You are the
only person to whom I have
told this story.
A disgraceful thing, I call it.
I have always asked myself how
it is that a man who would die
of shame if he took a gold coin
that did not belong to him, does
not scruple to rob a friend of
happiness and life and the woman
he loves. My birds, in fact,
were married and happy; and there
was I, every evening at supper,
moonstruck, gazing at Judith,
responding like some fellow in
a farce to the looks she threw
to me in order to throw dust
in my eyes. They have paid uncommonly
dear for all this deceit, as
you will certainly think. On
my conscience, God pays more
attention to what goes on in
this world than some of us imagine.
"Down come
the Russians upon us, the country
is overrun, and
the campaign of 1813 begins in
earnest. One fine morning comes
an order; we are to be on the
battlefield of Lutzen by a stated
hour. The Emperor knew quite
well what he was about when he
ordered us to start at once.
The Russians had turned our flank.
Our colonel must needs get himself
into a scrape, by choosing that
moment to take leave of a Polish
lady who lived outside the town,
a quarter of a mile away; the
Cossack advanced guard just caught
him nicely, him and his picket.
There was scarcely time to spring
into our saddles and draw up
before the town so as to engage
in a cavalry skirmish. We must
check the Russian advance if
we meant to draw off during the
night. Again and again we charged,
and for three hours did wonders.
Under cover of the fighting the
baggage and artillery set out.
We had a park of artillery and
great stores of powder, of which
the Emperor stood in desperate
need; they must reach him at
all costs.
"Our resistance
deceived the Russians, who
thought at first
that we were supported by an
army corps; but before very long
they learned their error from
their scouts, and knew that they
had only a single regiment of
cavalry to deal with and the
invalided foot soldiers in the
depot. On finding it out, sir,
they made a murderous onslaught
on us towards evening; the action
was so hot that a good few of
us were left on the field. We
were completely surrounded. I
was by Renard's side in the front
rank, and I saw how my friend
fought and charged like a demon;
he was thinking of his wife.
Thanks to him, we managed to
regain the town, which our invalids
had put more or less in a state
of defence, but it was pitiful
to see it. We were the last to
return-- he and I. A body of
Cossacks appeared in our way,
and on this we rode in hot haste.
One of the savages was about
to run me through with a lance,
when Renard, catching a sight
of his manoeuvre, thrust his
horse between us to turn aside
the blow; his poor brute--a fine
animal it was, upon my word--received
the lance thrust and fell, bringing
down both Renard and the Cossack
with him. I killed the Cossack,
seized Renard by the arm, and
laid him crosswise before me
on my horse like a sack of wheat.
" 'Good-bye,
captain,' Renard said; 'it
is all over with me.'
" 'Not yet,'
I answered; 'I must have a
look at you.' We
had reached the town by that
time; I dismounted, and propped
him up on a little straw by the
corner of the house. A wound
in the head had laid open the
brain, and yet he spoke! . .
. Oh! he was a brave man.
" 'We are quits,'
he said. 'I have given you
my life, and
I had taken Judith from you.
Take care of her and of her child,
if she has one. And not only
so--you must marry her.'
"I left him
then and there sir, like a
dog; when the first
fury of anger left me, and I
went back again--he was dead.
The Cossacks had set fire to
the town, and the thought of
Judith then came to my mind.
I went in search of her, took
her up behind me in the saddle,
and, thanks to my swift horse,
caught up the regiment which
was effecting its retreat. As
for the Jew and his family, there
was not one of them left, they
had all disappeared like rats;
there was no one but Judith in
the house, waiting alone there
for Renard. At first, as you
can understand, I told her not
a word of all that had happened.
"So it befell
that all through the disastrous
campaign of 1813
I had a woman to look after,
to find quarters for her, and
to see that she was comfortable.
She scarcely knew, I think, the
straits to which we were reduced.
I was always careful to keep
her ten leagues ahead of us as
we drew back towards France.
Her boy was born while we were
fighting at Hanau. I was wounded
in the engagement, and only rejoined
Judith at Strasburg; then I returned
to Paris, for, unluckily, I was
laid up all through the campaign
in France. If it had not been
for that wretched mishap, I should
have entered the Grenadier Guards,
and then the Emperor would have
promoted me. As it was, sir,
I had three broken ribs and another
man's wife and child to support!
My pay, as you can imagine, was
not exactly the wealth of the
Indies. Renard's father, the
toothless old shark, would have
nothing to say to his daughter-in-
law; and the old father Jew had
made off. Judith was fretting
herself to death. She cried one
morning while she was dressing
my wound.
" 'Judith,'
said I, 'your child has nothing
in this world----'
" 'Neither
have I!' she said.
" 'Pshaw!'
I answered, 'we will send for
all the necessary
papers, I will marry you; and
as for the child, I will look
on him as mine----' I could not
say any more.
"Ah, my dear
sir, what would not one do
for the look by which
Judith thanked me--a look of
thanks from dying eyes; I saw
clearly that I had loved, and
should love her always, and from
that day her child found a place
in my heart. She died, poor woman,
while the father and mother Jews
and the papers were on the way.
The day before she died, she
found strength enough to rise
and dress herself for her wedding,
to go through all the usual performance,
and set her name to their pack
of papers; then, when her child
had a name and a father, she
went back to her bed again; I
kissed her hands and her forehead,
and she died.
"That was my
wedding. Two days later, when
I had bought the
few feet of earth in which the
poor girl is laid, I found myself
the father of an orphan child.
I put him out to nurse during
the campaign of 1815. Ever since
that time, without letting any
one know my story, which did
not sound very well, I have looked
after the little rogue as if
he were my own child. I don't
know what became of his grandfather;
he is wandering about, a ruined
man, somewhere or other between
Russia and Persia. The chances
are that he may make a fortune
some day, for he seemed to understand
the trade in precious stones.
"I sent the
child to school. I wanted him
to take a good place
at the Ecole Polytechnique and
to see him graduate there with
credit, so of late I have had
him drilled in mathematics to
such good purpose that the poor
little soul has been knocked
up by it. He has a delicate chest.
By all I can make out from the
doctors in Paris, there would
be some hope for him still if
he were allowed to run wild among
the hills, if he was properly
cared for, and constantly looked
after by somebody who was willing
to undertake the task. So I thought
of you, and I came here to take
stock of your ideas and your
ways of life. After what you
have told me, I could not possibly
cause you pain in this way, for
we are good friends already."
"Commandant," said Benassis
after a moment's pause, "bring
Judith's child here to me. It
is doubtless God's will to submit
me to this final trial, and I
will endure it. I will offer
up these sufferings to God, whose
Son died upon the cross. Besides,
your story has awakened tender
feelings; does not that auger
well for me?"
Genestas took both of Benassis'
hands and pressed them warmly,
unable to check the tears that
filled his eyes and coursed down
his sunburned face.
"Let us keep silence with regard
to all this," he said.
"Yes, commandant.
You are not drinking?"
"I am not thirsty," Genestas
answered. "I am a perfect fool!"
"Well, when
will you bring him to me?"
"Why, to-morrow,
if you will let me. He has
been at Grenoble
these two days."
"Good! Set
out to-morrow morning and come
back again. I shall
wait for you in La Fosseuse's
cottage, and we will all four
of us breakfast there together."
"Agreed," said
Genestas, and the two friends
as they went
upstairs bade each other good-night.
When they reached the landing
that lay between their rooms,
Genestas set down his candle
on the window ledge and turned
towards Benassis.
"Tonnerre de Dieu!" he said,
with outspoken enthusiasm; "I
cannot let you go without telling
you that you are the third among
christened men to make me understand
that there is Something up there," and
he pointed to the sky.
The doctor's answer was a smile
full of sadness and a cordial
grasp of the hand that Genestas
held out to him.
Before daybreak next morning
Commandant Genestas was on his
way. On his return, it was noon
before he reached the spot on
the highroad between Grenoble
and the little town, where the
pathway turned that led to La
Fosseuse's cottage. He was seated
in one of the light open cars
with four wheels, drawn by one
horse, that are in use everywhere
on the roads in these hilly districts.
Genestas' companion was a thin,
delicate-looking lad, apparently
about twelve years of age, though
in reality he was in his sixteenth
year. Before alighting, the officer
looked round about him in several
directions in search of a peasant
who would take the carriage back
to Benassis' house. It was impossible
to drive to La Fosseuse's cottage,
the pathway was too narrow. The
park-keeper happened to appear
upon the scene, and helped Genestas
out of his difficulty, so that
the officer and his adopted son
were at liberty to follow the
mountain footpath that led to
the trysting- place.
"Would you
not enjoy spending a year in
running about in this
lovely country, Adrien? Learning
to hunt and to ride a horse,
instead of growing pale over
your books? Stay! look there!"
Adrien obediently
glanced over the valley with
languid indifference;
like all lads of his age, he
cared nothing for the beauty
of natural scenery; so he only
said, "You are very kind, father," without
checking his walk.
The invalid listlessness of
this answer went to Genestas'
heart; he said no more to his
son, and they reached La Fosseuse's
house in silence.
"You are punctual, commandant!" cried
Benassis, rising from the wooden
bench where he was sitting.
But at the sight of Adrien
he sat down again, and seemed
for a while to be lost in thought.
In a leisurely fashion he scanned
the lad's sallow, weary face,
not without admiring its delicate
oval outlines, one of the most
noticeable characteristics of
a noble head. The lad was the
living image of his mother. He
had her olive complexion, beautiful
black eyes with a sad and thoughtful
expression in them, long hair,
a head too energetic for the
fragile body; all the peculiar
beauty of the Polish Jewess had
been transmitted to her son.
"Do you sleep soundly, my little
man?" Benassis asked him.
"Yes, sir."
"Let me see
your knees; turn back your
trousers."
Adrien reddened, unfastened
his garters, and showed his knee
to the doctor, who felt it carefully
over.
"Good. Now speak; shout, shout
as loud as you can." Adrien obeyed.
"That will
do. Now give me your hands."
The lad held them out; white,
soft, and blue-veined hands,
like those of a woman.
"Where were
you at school in Paris?"
"At Saint Louis."
"Did your master
read his breviary during the
night?"
"Yes, sir."
"So you did
not go straight off to sleep?"
As Adrien made
no answer to this, Genestas
spoke. "The master
is a worthy priest; he advised
me to take my little rascal away
on the score of his health," he
told the doctor.
"Well," answered Benassis,
with a clear, penetrating gaze
into Adrien's frightened eyes, "there
is a good chance. Oh, we shall
make a man of him yet. We will
live together like a pair of
comrades, my boy! We will keep
early hours. I mean to show this
boy of yours how to ride a horse,
commandant. He shall be put on
a milk diet for a month or two,
so as to get his digestion into
order again, and then I will
take out a shooting license for
him, and put him in Butifer's
hands, and the two of them shall
have some chamois-hunting. Give
your son four or five months
of out-door life, and you will
not know him again, commandant!
How delighted Butifer will be!
I know the fellow; he will take
you over into Switzerland, my
young friend; haul you over the
Alpine passes and up the mountain
peaks, and add six inches to
your height in six months; he
will put some color into your
cheeks and brace your nerves,
and make you forget all these
bad ways that you have fallen
into at school. And after that
you can go back to your work;
and you will be a man some of
these days. Butifer is an honest
young fellow. We can trust him
with the money necessary for
traveling expenses and your hunting
expeditions. The responsibility
will keep him steady for six
months, and that will be a very
good thing for him."
Genestas' face brightened more
and more at every word the doctor
spoke.
"Now, let us go in to breakfast.
La Fosseuse is very anxious to
see you," said Benassis, giving
Adrien a gentle tap on the cheek.
Genestas took
the doctor's arm and drew him
a little aside. "Then
he is not consumptive after all?" he
asked.
"No more than
you or I."
"Then what
is the matter with him?"
"Pshaw!" answered Benassis; "he
is a little run down, that is
all."
La Fosseuse appeared on the
threshold of the door, and Genestas
noticed, not without surprise,
her simple but coquettish costume.
This was not the peasant girl
of yesterday evening, but a graceful
and well-dressed Parisian woman,
against whose glances he felt
that he was not proof. The soldier
turned his eyes on the table,
which was made of walnut wood.
There was no tablecloth, but
the surface might have been varnished,
it was so well rubbed and polished.
Eggs, butter, a rice pudding,
and fragrant wild strawberries
had been set out, and the poor
child had put flowers everywhere
about the room; evidently it
was a great day for her. At the
sight of all this, the commandant
could not help looking enviously
at the little house and the green
sward about it, and watched the
peasant girl with an air that
expressed both his doubts and
his hopes. Then his eyes fell
on Adrien, with whom La Fosseuse
was deliberately busying herself,
and handing him the eggs.
"Now, commandant," said Benassis, "you
know the terms on which you are
receiving hospitality. You must
tell La Fosseuse 'something about
the army.' "
"But let the
gentleman first have his breakfast
in peace,
and then, after he has taken
a cup of coffee----"
"By all means, I shall be very
glad," answered the commandant; "but
it must be upon one condition:
you will tell us the story of
some adventure in your past life,
will you not, mademoiselle?"
"Why, nothing worth telling
has ever happened to me, sir," she
answered, as her color rose. "Will
you take a little more rice pudding?" she
added, as she saw that Adrien's
plate was empty.
"If you please,
mademoiselle."
"The pudding is delicious," said
Genestas.
"Then what will you say to
her coffee and cream?" cried
Benassis.
"I would rather
hear our pretty hostess talk."
"You did not put that nicely,
Genestas," said Benassis. He
took La Fosseuse's hand in his
and pressed it as he went on: "Listen,
my child; there is a kind heart
hidden away beneath that officer's
stern exterior, and you can talk
freely before him. We do not
want to press you to talk, do
not tell us anything unless you
like: but if ever you can be
listened to and understood, poor
little one, it will be by the
three who are with you now at
this moment. Tell us all about
your love affairs in the old
days, that will not admit us
into any of the real secrets
of your heart."
"Here is Mariette with the
coffee," she answered, "and as
soon as you are all served, I
will tell about my 'love affairs'
very willingly. But M. le Commandant
will not forget his promise?" she
added, challenging the officer
with a shy glance.
"That would be impossible,
mademoiselle," Genestas answered
respectfully.
"When I was sixteen years old," La
Fosseuse began, "I had to beg
my bread on the roadside in Savoy,
though my health was very bad.
I used to sleep at Echelles,
in a manger full of straw. The
innkeeper who gave me shelter
was kind, but his wife could
not abide me, and was always
saying hard things. I used to
feel very miserable; for though
I was a beggar, I was not a naughty
child; I used to say my prayers
every night and morning, I never
stole anything, and I did as
Heaven bade me in begging for
my living, for there was nothing
that I could turn my hands to,
and I was really unfit for work--quite
unable to handle a hoe or to
wind spools of cotton.
"Well, they
drove me away from the inn
at last; a dog was the
cause of it all. I had neither
father nor mother nor friends.
I had met with no one, ever since
I was born, whose eyes had any
kindness in them for me. Morin,
the old woman who had brought
me up, was dead. She had been
very good to me, but I cannot
remember that she ever petted
me much; besides, she worked
out in the fields like a man,
poor thing; and if she fondled
me at times, she also used to
rap my fingers with the spoon
if I ate the soup too fast out
of the porringer we had between
us. Poor old woman, never a day
passes but I remember her in
my prayers! If it might please
God to let her live a happier
life up there than she did here
below! And, above all things,
if she might only lie a little
softer there, for she was always
grumbling about the pallet-bed
that we both used to sleep upon.
You could not possibly imagine
how it hurts one's soul to be
repulsed by every one, to receive
nothing but hard words and looks
that cut you to the heart, just
as if they were so many stabs
of a knife. I have known poor
old people who were so used to
these things that they did not
mind them a bit, but I was not
born for that sort of life. A
'No' always made me cry. Every
evening I came back again more
unhappy than ever, and only felt
comforted when I had said my
prayers. In all God's world,
in fact, there was not a soul
to care for me, no one to whom
I could pour out my heart. My
only friend was the blue sky.
I have always been happy when
there was a cloudless sky above
my head. I used to lie and watch
the weather from some nook among
the crags when the wind had swept
the clouds away. At such times
I used to dream that I was a
great lady. I used to gaze into
the sky till I felt myself bathed
in the blue; I lived up there
in thought, rising higher and
higher yet, till my troubles
weighed on me no more, and there
was nothing but gladness left.
"But to return
to my 'love affairs.' I must
tell you that
the innkeeper's spaniel had a
dear little puppy, just as sensible
as a human being; he was quite
white, with black spots on his
paws, a cherub of a puppy! I
can see him yet. Poor little
fellow, he was the only creature
who ever gave me a friendly look
in those days; I kept all my
tidbits for him. He knew me,
and came to look for me every
evening. How he used to spring
up at me! And he would bite my
feet, he was not ashamed of my
poverty; there was something
so grateful and so kind in his
eyes that it brought tears into
mine to see it. 'That is the
one living creature that really
cares for me!' I used to say.
He slept at my feet that winter.
It hurt me so much to see him
beaten, that I broke him of the
habit of going into houses, to
steal bones, and he was quite
contented with my crusts. When
I was unhappy, he used to come
and stand in front of me, and
look into my eyes; it was just
as if he said, 'So you are sad,
my poor Fosseuse?'
"If a traveler
threw me some halfpence, he
would pick them
up out of the dust and bring
them to me, clever little spaniel
that he was! I was less miserable
so long as I had that friend.
Every day I put away a few halfpence,
for I wanted to get fifteen francs
together, so that I might buy
him of Pere Manseau. One day
his wife saw that the dog was
fond of me, so she herself took
a sudden violent fancy to him.
The dog, mind you, could not
bear her. Oh, animals know people
by instinct! If you really care
for them, they find it out in
a moment. I had a gold coin,
a twenty-franc piece, sewed into
the band of my skirt; so I spoke
to M. Manseau: 'Dear sir, I meant
to offer you my year's savings
for your dog; but now your wife
has a mind to keep him, although
she cares very little about him,
and rather than that, will you
sell him to me for twenty francs?
Look, I have the money here.'
" 'No, no,
little woman,' he said; 'put
up your twenty francs.
Heaven forbid that I should take
their money from the poor! Keep
the dog; and if my wife makes
a fuss about it, you must go
away.'
"His wife made
a terrible to-do about the
dog. Ah! mon Dieu!
any one might have thought the
house was on fire! You never
would guess the notion that next
came into her head. She saw that
the little fellow looked on me
as his mistress, and that she
could only have him against his
will, so she had him poisoned;
and my poor spaniel died in my
arms. . . . I cried over him
as if he had been my child, and
buried him under a pine-tree.
You do not know all that I laid
in that grave. As I sat there
beside it, I told myself that
henceforward I should always
be alone in the world; that I
had nothing left to hope for;
that I should be again as I had
been before, a poor lonely girl;
that I should never more see
a friendly light in any eyes.
I stayed out there all through
the night, praying God to have
pity on me. When I went back
to the highroad I saw a poor
little child, about ten years
old, who had no hands.
" 'God has
heard me,' I thought. I had
prayed that night as I
had never prayed before. 'I will
take care of the poor little
one; we will beg together, and
I will be a mother to him. Two
of us ought to do better than
one; perhaps I should have more
courage for him than I have for
myself.'
"At first the
little boy seemed to be quite
happy, and, indeed,
he would have been hard to please
if he had not been content. I
did everything that he wanted,
and gave him the best of all
that I had; I was his slave in
fact, and he tyrannized over
me, but that was nicer than being
alone, I used to think! Pshaw!
no sooner did the little good-for-nothing
know that I carried a twenty-franc
piece sewed into my skirtband
than he cut the stitches, and
stole my gold coin, the price
of my poor spaniel! I had meant
to have masses said with it.
. . . A child without hands,
too! Oh, it makes one shudder!
Somehow that theft took all the
heart out of me. It seemed as
if I was to love nothing but
it should come to some wretched
end.
"One day at
Echelles, I watched a fine
carriage coming slowly
up the hillside. There was a
young lady, as beautiful as the
Virgin Mary, in the carriage,
and a young man, who looked like
the young lady. 'Just look,'
he said; 'there is a pretty girl!'
and he flung a silver coin to
me.
"No one but
you, M. Benassis, could understand
how pleased
I was with the compliment, the
first that I had ever had: but,
indeed, the gentleman ought not
to have thrown the money to me.
I was in a flutter; I knew of
a short cut, a footpath among
the rocks, and started at once
to run, so that I reached the
summit of the Echelles long before
the carriage, which was coming
up very slowly. I saw the young
man again; he was quite surprised
to find me there; and as for
me, I was so pleased that my
heart seemed to be throbbing
in my throat. Some kind of instinct
drew me towards him. After he
had recognized me, I went on
my way again; I felt quite sure
that he and the young lady with
him would leave the carriage
to see the waterfall at Couz,
and so they did. When they alighted,
they saw me once more, under
the walnut-trees by the wayside.
They asked me many questions,
and seemed to take an interest
in what I told them about myself.
In all my life I had never heard
such pleasant voices as they
had, that handsome young man
and his sister, for she was his
sister, I am sure. I thought
about them for a whole year afterwards,
and kept on hoping that they
would come back. I would have
given two years of my life only
to see that traveler again, he
looked so nice. Until I knew
M. Benassis these were the greatest
events of my life. Although my
mistress turned me away for trying
on that horrid ball-dress of
hers, I was sorry for her, and
I have forgiven her, for candidly,
if you will give me leave to
say so, I thought myself the
better woman of the two, countess
though she was."
"Well," said Genestas, after
a moment's pause, "you see that
Providence has kept a friendly
eye on you, you are in clover
here."
At these words La Fosseuse
looked at Benassis with eyes
full of gratitude.
"Would that I was rich!" came
from Genestas. The officer's
exclamation was followed by profound
silence.
"You owe me a story," said
La Fosseuse at last, in coaxing
tones.
"I will tell it at once," answered
Genestas. "On the evening before
the battle of Friedland," he
went on, after a moment, "I had
been sent with a despatch to
General Davoust's quarters, and
I was on the way back to my own,
when at a turn in the road I
found myself face to face with
the Emperor. Napoleon gave me
a look.
" 'You are
Captain Genestas, are you not?'
he said.
" 'Yes, your
Majesty.'
" 'You were
out in Egypt?'
" 'Yes, your
Majesty.'
" 'You had
better not keep to the road
you are on,' he said;
'turn to the left, you will reach
your division sooner that way.'
"That was what
the Emperor said, but you would
never imagine
how kindly he said it; and he
had so many irons in the fire
just then, for he was riding
about surveying the position
of the field. I am telling you
this story to show you what a
memory he had, and so that you
may know that he knew my face.
I took the oath in 1815. But
for that mistake, perhaps I might
have been a colonel to-day; I
never meant to betray the Bourbons,
France must be defended, and
that was all I thought about.
I was a Major in the Grenadiers
of the Imperial Guard; and although
my wound still gave me trouble,
I swung a sabre in the battle
of Waterloo. When it was all
over, and Napoleon returned to
Paris, I went too; then when
he reached Rochefort, I followed
him against his orders; it was
some sort of comfort to watch
over him and to see that no mishap
befell him on the way. So when
he was walking along the beach
he turned and saw me on duty
ten paces from him.
" 'Well, Genestas,'
he said, as he came towards
me, 'so we
are not yet dead, either of us?'
"It cut me
to the heart to hear him say
that. If you had
heard him, you would have shuddered
from head to foot, as I did.
He pointed to the villainous
English vessel that was keeping
the entrance to the Harbor. 'When
I see THAT,' he said, 'and think
of my Guard, I wish that I had
perished in that torrent of blood.'
"Yes," said Genestas, looking
at the doctor and at La Fosseuse, "those
were his very words.
" 'The generals
who counseled you not to charge
with the Guard,
and who hurried you into your
traveling carriage, were not
true friends of yours,' I said.
" 'Come with
me,' he cried eagerly, 'the
game is not ended
yet.'
" 'I would
gladly go with your Majesty,
but I am not free; I
have a motherless child on my
hands just now.'
"And so it
happened that Adrien over there
prevented me from
going to St. Helena.
" 'Stay,' he
said, 'I have never given you
anything. You
are not one of those who fill
one hand and then hold out the
other. Here is the snuff-box
that I have used though this
last campaign. And stay on in
France; after all, brave men
are wanted there! Remain in the
service, and keep me in remembrance.
Of all my army in Egypt, you
are the last that I have seen
still on his legs in France.'
And he gave me a little snuff-box.
" 'Have "Honneur et patrie" engraved
on it,' he said; 'the history
of our last two campaigns is
summed up in those three words.'
"Then those
who were going out with him
came up, and I spent
the rest of the morning with
them. The Emperor walked to and
fro along the beach; there was
not a sign of agitation about
him, though he frowned from time
to time. At noon, it was considered
hopeless for him to attempt to
escape by sea. The English had
found out that he was at Rochefort;
he must either give himself up
to them, or cross the breadth
of France again. We were wretchedly
anxious; the minutes seemed like
hours! On the one hand there
were the Bourbons, who would
have shot Napoleon if he had
fallen into their clutches; and
on the other, the English, a
dishonored race: they covered
themselves with shame by flinging
a foe who asked for hospitality
away on a desert rock, that is
a stain which they will never
wash away. Whilst they were anxiously
debating, some one or other among
his suite presented a sailor
to him, a Lieutenant Doret, who
had a scheme for reaching America
to lay before him. As a matter
of fact, a brig from the States
and a merchant vessel were lying
in the harbor.
" 'But how
could you set about it, captain?'
the Emperor asked
him.
" 'You will
be on board the merchant vessel,
Sire,' the man
answered. 'I will run up the
white flag and man the brig with
a few devoted followers. We will
tackle the English vessel, set
fire to her, and board her, and
you will get clear away.'
" 'We will
go with you!' I cried to the
captain. But Napoleon
looked at us and said, 'Captain
Doret, keep yourself for France.'
"It was the
only time I ever saw Napoleon
show any emotion.
With a wave of his hand to us
he went in again. I watched him
go on board the English vessel,
and then I went away. It was
all over with him, and he knew
it. There was a traitor in the
harbor, who by means of signals
gave warning to the Emperor's
enemies of his presence. Then
Napoleon fell back on a last
resource; he did as he had been
wont to do on the battlefield:
he went to his foes instead of
letting them come to him. Talk
of troubles! No words could ever
make you understand the misery
of those who loved him for his
own sake."
"But where is his snuff-box?" asked
La Fosseuse.
"It is in a box at Grenoble," the
commandant replied.
"I will go
over to see it, if you will
let me. To think
that you have something in your
possession that his fingers have
touched! . . . Had he a well-shaped
hand?"
"Very."
"Can it be
true that he is dead? Come,
tell me the real
truth?"
"Yes, my dear
child, he is dead; there is
no doubt about
it."
"I was such
a little girl in 1815. I was
not tall enough to
see anything but his hat, and
even so I was nearly crushed
to death in the crowd at Grenoble."
"Your coffee and cream is very
nice indeed," said Genestas. "Well,
Adrien, how do you like this
country? Will you come here to
see mademoiselle?"
The boy made no answer; he
seemed afraid to look at La Fosseuse.
Benassis never took his eyes
off Adrien; he appeared to be
reading the lad's very soul.
"Of course he will come to
see her," said Benassis. "But
let us go home again, I have
a pretty long round to make,
and I shall want a horse. I daresay
you and Jacquotte will manage
to get on together whilst I am
away."
"Will you not come with us?" said
Genestas to La Fosseuse.
"Willingly," she answered; "I
have a lot of things to take
over for Mme. Jacquotte.
They started out for the doctor's
house. Her visitors had raised
La Fosseuse's spirits; she led
the way along narrow tracks,
through the loneliest parts of
the hills.
"You have told us nothing about
yourself, Monsieur l'Officier," she
said. "I should have liked to
hear you tell us about some adventure
in the wars. I liked what you
told us about Napoleon very much,
but it made me feel sad. . .
. If you would be so very kind----"
"Quite right!" Benassis exclaimed. "You
ought to tell us about some thrilling
adventure during our walk. Come,
now, something really interesting
like that business of the beam
in Beresina!"
"So few of my recollections
are worth telling," said Genestas. "Some
people come in for all kinds
of adventures, but I have never
managed to be the hero of any
story. Oh! stop a bit though,
a funny thing did once happen
to me. I was with the Grand Army
in 1805, and so, of course, I
was at Austerlitz. There was
a great deal of skirmishing just
before Ulm surrendered, which
kept the cavalry pretty fully
occupied. Moreover, we were under
the command of Murat, who never
let the grass grow under his
feet.
"I was still
only a sub-lieutenant in those
days. It was just at
the opening of the campaign,
and after one of these affairs,
that we took possession of a
district in which there were
a good many fine estates; so
it fell out that one evening
my regiment bivouacked in a park
belonging to a handsome chateau
where a countess lived, a young
and pretty woman she was. Of
course, I meant to lodge in the
house, and I hurried there to
put a stop to pillage of any
sort. I came into the salon just
as my quartermaster was pointing
his carbine at the countess,
his brutal way of asking for
what she certainly could not
give the ugly scoundrel. I struck
up his carbine with my sword,
the bullet went through a looking-glass
on the wall, then I dealt my
gentleman a back-handed blow
that stretched him on the floor.
The sound of the shot and the
cries of the countess fetched
all her people on the scene,
and it was my turn to be in danger.
" 'Stop!' she
cried in German (for they were
going to run me
through the body), 'this officer
has saved my life!'
"They drew
back at that. The lady gave
me her handkerchief
(a fine embroidered handkerchief,
which I have yet), telling me
that her house would always be
open to me, and that I should
always find a sister and a devoted
friend in her, if at any time
I should be in any sort of trouble.
In short, she did not know how
to make enough of me. She was
as fair as a wedding morning
and as charming as a kitten.
We had dinner together. Next
day, I was distractedly in love,
but next day I had to be at my
place at Guntzburg, or wherever
it was. There was no help for
it, I had to turn out, and started
off with my handkerchief.
"Well, we gave
them battle, and all the time
I kept on saying
to myself, 'I wish a bullet would
come my way! Mon Dieu! they are
flying thick enough!'
"I had no wish
for a ball in the thigh, for
I should have
had to stop where I was in that
case, and there would have been
no going back to the chateau,
but I was not particular; a nice
wound in the arm I should have
liked best, so that I might be
nursed and made much of by the
princess. I flung myself on the
enemy, like mad; but I had no
sort of luck, and came out of
the action quite safe and sound.
We must march, and there was
an end of it; I never saw the
countess again, and there is
the whole story."
By this time they had reached
Benassis' house; the doctor mounted
his horse at once and disappeared.
Genestas recommended his son
to Jacquotte's care, so the doctor
on his return found that she
had taken Adrien completely under
her wing, and had installed him
in M. Gravier's celebrated room.
With no small astonishment, she
heard her master's order to put
up a simple camp-bed in his own
room, for that the lad was to
sleep there, and this in such
an authoritative tone, that for
once in her life Jacquotte found
not a single word to say.
After dinner the commandant
went back to Grenoble. Benassis'
reiterated assurances that the
lad would soon be restored to
health had taken a weight off
his mind.
Eight months later, in the
earliest days of the following
December, Genestas was appointed
to be lieutenant-colonel of a
regiment stationed at Poitiers.
He was just thinking of writing
to Benassis to tell him of the
journey he was about to take,
when a letter came from the doctor.
His friend told him that Adrien
was once more in sound health.
"The boy has grown strong and
tall," he said; "and he is wonderfully
well. He has profited by Butifer's
instruction since you saw him
last, and is now as good a shot
as our smuggler himself. He has
grown brisk and active too; he
is a good walker, and rides well;
he is not in the least like the
lad of sixteen who looked like
a boy of twelve eight months
ago; any one might think that
he was twenty years old. There
is an air of self-reliance and
independence about him. In fact
he is a man now, and you must
begin to think about his future
at once."
"I shall go over to Benassis
to-morrow, of course," said Genestas
to himself, "and I will see what
he says before I make up my mind
what to do with that fellow," and
with that he went to a farewell
dinner given to him by his brother
officers. He would be leaving
Grenoble now in a very few days.
As the lieutenant-colonel returned
after the dinner, his servant
handed him a letter. It had been
brought by a messenger, he said,
who had waited a long while for
an answer.
Genestas recognized Adrien's
handwriting, although his head
was swimming after the toasts
that had been drunk in his honor;
probably, he thought, the letter
merely contained a request to
gratify some boyish whim, so
he left it unopened on the table.
The next morning, when the fumes
of champagne had passed off,
he took it up and began to read.
"My dear father----"
"Oh! you young rogue," was
his comment, "you know how to
coax whenever you want something."
"Our dear M.
Benassis is dead----"
The letter dropped from Genestas'
hands; it was some time before
he could read any more.
"Every one
is in consternation. The trouble
is all the greater
because it came as a sudden shock.
It was so unexpected. M. Benassis
seemed perfectly well the day
before; there was not a sign
of ill-health about him. Only
the day before yesterday he went
to see all his patients, even
those who lived farthest away;
it was as if he had known what
was going to happen; and he spoke
to every one whom he met, saying,
'Good-bye, my friends,' each
time. Towards five o'clock he
came back just as usual to have
dinner with me. He was tired;
Jacquotte noticed the purplish
flush on his face, but the weather
was so very cold that she would
not get ready a warm foot-bath
for him, as she usually did when
she saw that the blood had gone
to his head. So she has been
wailing, poor thing, through
her tears for these two days
past, 'If I had ONLY given him
a foot-bath, he would be living
now!'
"M Benassis
was hungry; he made a good
dinner. I thought
that he was in higher spirits
than usual; we both of us laughed
a great deal, I had never seen
him laugh so much before. After
dinner, towards seven o'clock,
a man came with a message from
Saint Laurent du Pont; it was
a serious case, and M. Benassis
was urgently needed. He said
to me, 'I shall have to go, though
I never care to set out on horseback
when I have hardly digested my
dinner, more especially when
it is as cold as this. It is
enough to kill a man!'
"For all that,
he went. At nine o'clock the
postman Goguelat,
brought a letter for M. Benassis.
Jacquotte was tired out, for
it was her washing-day. She gave
me the letter and went off to
bed. She begged me to keep a
good fire in our bedroom, and
to have some tea ready for M.
Benassis when he came in, for
I am still sleeping in the little
cot- bed in his room. I raked
out the fire in the salon, and
went upstairs to wait for my
good friend. I looked at the
letter, out of curiosity, before
I laid it on the chimney- piece,
and noticed the handwriting and
the postmark. It came from Paris,
and I think it was a lady's hand.
I am telling you about it because
of things that happened afterwards.
"About ten
o'clock, I heard the horse
returning, and M. Benassis'
voice. He said to Nicolle, 'It
is cold enough to-night to bring
the wolves out. I do not feel
at all well.' Nicolle said, 'Shall
I go and wake Jacquotte?' And
M. Benassis answered, 'Oh! no,
no,' and came upstairs.
"I said, 'I
have your tea here, all ready
for you,' and he smiled
at me in the way that you know,
and said, 'Thank you, Adrien.'
That was his last smile. In a
moment he began to take off his
cravat, as though he could not
breathe. 'How hot it is in here!'
he said and flung himself down
in an armchair. 'A letter has
come for you, my good friend,'
I said; 'here it is;' and I gave
him the letter. He took it up
and glanced at the handwriting.
'Ah! mon Dieu!' he exclaimed,
'perhaps she is free at last!'
Then his head sank back, and
his hands shook. After a little
while he set the lamp on the
table and opened the letter.
There was something so alarming
in the cry he had given that
I watched him while he read,
and saw that his face was flushed,
and there were tears in his eyes.
Then quite suddenly he fell,
head forwards. I tried to raise
him, and saw how purple his face
was.
" 'It is all
over with me,' he said, stammering;
it was terrible
to see how he struggled to rise.
'I must be bled; bleed me!' he
cried, clutching my hand. . .
. 'Adrien,' he said again, 'burn
this letter!' He gave it to me,
and I threw it on the fire. I
called for Jacquotte and Nicolle.
Jacquotte did not hear me, but
Nicolle did, and came hurrying
upstairs; he helped me to lay
M. Benassis on my little bed.
Our dear friend could not hear
us any longer when we spoke to
him, and although his eyes were
open, he did not see anything.
Nicolle galloped off at once
to fetch the surgeon, M. Bordier,
and in this way spread the alarm
through the town. It was all
astir in a moment. M. Janvier,
M. Dufau, and all the rest of
your acquaintance were the first
to come to us. But all hope was
at an end, M. Benassis was dying
fast. He gave no sign of consciousness,
not even when M. Bordier cauterized
the soles of his feet. It was
an attack of gout, combined with
an apoplectic stroke.
"I am giving
you all these details, dear
father, because
I know how much you cared for
him. As for me, I am very sad
and full of grief, for I can
say to you that I cared more
for him than for any one else
except you. I learned more from
M. Benassis' talk in the evenings
than ever I could have learned
at school.
"You cannot
imagine the scene next morning
when the news of
his death was known in the place.
The garden and the yard here
were filled with people. How
they sobbed and wailed! Nobody
did any work that day. Every
one recalled the last time that
they had seen M. Benassis, and
what he had said, or they talked
of all that he had done for them;
and those who were least overcome
with grief spoke for the others.
Every one wanted to see him once
more, and the crowd grew larger
every moment. The sad news traveled
so fast that men and women and
children came from ten leagues
round; all the people in the
district, and even beyond it,
had that one thought in their
minds.
"It was arranged
that four of the oldest men
of the commune
should carry the coffin. It was
a very difficult task for them,
for the crowd was so dense between
the church and M. Benassis' house.
There must have been nearly five
thousand people there, and almost
every one knelt as if the Host
were passing. There was not nearly
room for them in the church.
In spite of their grief, the
crowd was so silent that you
could hear the sound of the bell
during mass and the chanting
as far as the end of the High
Street; but when the procession
started again for the new cemetery,
which M. Benassis had given to
the town, little thinking, poor
man, that he himself would be
the first to be buried there,
a great cry went up. M. Janvier
wept as he said the prayers;
there were no dry eyes among
the crowd. And so we buried him.
"As night came
on the people dispersed, carrying
sorrow and
mourning everywhere with them.
The next day Gondrin and Goguelat,
and Butifer, with others, set
to work to raise a sort of pyramid
of earth, twenty feet high, above
the spot where M. Benassis lies;
it is being covered now with
green sods, and every one is
helping them. These things, dear
father, have all happened in
three days.
"M. Dufau found
M. Benassis' will lying open
on the table
where he used to write. When
it was known how his property
had been left, affection and
regret for his loss became even
deeper if possible. And now,
dear father, I am writing for
Butifer (who is taking this letter
to you) to come back with your
answer. You must tell me what
I am to do. Will you come to
fetch me, or shall I go to you
at Grenoble? Tell me what you
wish me to do, and be sure that
I shall obey you in everything.
"Farewell,
dear father, I send my love,
and I am your affectionate
son,
ADRIEN GENESTAS."
"Ah! well, I must go over," the
soldier exclaimed.
He ordered his horse and started
out. It was one of those still
December mornings when the sky
is covered with gray clouds.
The wind was too light to disperse
the thick fog, through which
the bare trees and damp house
fronts seemed strangely unfamiliar.
The very silence was gloomy.
There is such a thing as a silence
full of light and gladness; on
a bright day there is a certain
joyousness about the slightest
sound, but in such dreary weather
nature is not silent, she is
dumb. All sounds seemed to die
away, stifled by the heavy air.
There was something in the
gloom without him that harmonized
with Colonel Genestas' mood;
his heart was oppressed with
grief, and thoughts of death
filled his mind. Involuntarily
he began to think of the cloudless
sky on that lovely spring morning,
and remembered how bright the
valley had looked when he passed
through it for the first time;
and now, in strong contrast with
that day, the heavy sky above
him was a leaden gray, there
was no greenness about the hills,
which were still waiting for
the cloak of winter snow that
invests them with a certain beauty
of its own. There was something
painful in all this bleak and
bare desolation for a man who
was traveling to find a grave
at his journey's end; the thought
of that grave haunted him. The
lines of dark pine-trees here
and there along the mountain
ridges against the sky seized
on his imagination; they were
in keeping with the officer's
mournful musings. Every time
that he looked over the valley
that lay before him, he could
not help thinking of the trouble
that had befallen the canton,
of the man who had died so lately,
and of the blank left by his
death.
Before long, Genestas reached
the cottage where he had asked
for a cup of milk on his first
journey. The sight of the smoke
rising above the hovel where
the charity-children were being
brought up recalled vivid memories
of Benassis and of his kindness
of heart. The officer made up
his mind to call there. He would
give some alms to the poor woman
for his dead friend's sake. He
tied his horse to a tree, and
opened the door of the hut without
knocking.
"Good-day, mother," he said,
addressing the old woman, who
was sitting by the fire with
the little ones crouching at
her side. "Do you remember me?"
"Oh! quite
well, sir! You came here one
fine morning last spring
and gave us two crowns."
"There, mother!
that is for you and the children"
"Thank you
kindly, sir. May Heaven bless
you!"
"You must not thank me, mother," said
the officer; "it is all through
M. Benassis that the money had
come to you."
The old woman raised her eyes
and gazed at Genestas.
"Ah! sir," she said, "he
has left his property to our
poor
countryside, and made all of
us his heirs; but we have lost
him who was worth more than all,
for it was he who made everything
turn out well for us."
"Good-bye, mother! Pray for
him," said Genestas, making a
few playful cuts at the children
with his riding-whip.
The old woman and her little
charges went out with him; they
watched him mount his horse and
ride away.
He followed the road along
the valley until he reached the
bridle-path that led to La Fosseuse's
cottage. From the slope above
the house he saw that the door
was fastened and the shutters
closed. In some anxiety he returned
to the highway, and rode on under
the poplars, now bare and leafless.
Before long he overtook the old
laborer, who was dressed in his
Sunday best, and creeping slowly
along the road. There was no
bag of tools on his shoulder.
"Good-day,
old Moreau!"
"Ah! good-day, sir. . . . I
mind who you are now!" the old
fellow exclaimed after a moment. "You
are a friend of monsieur, our
late mayor! Ah! sir, would it
not have been far better if God
had only taken a poor rheumatic
old creature like me instead?
It would not have mattered if
He had taken me, but HE was the
light of our eyes."
"Do you know
how it is that there is no
one at home up there
at La Fosseuse's cottage?"
The old man gave a look at
the sky.
"What time is it, sir? The
sun has not shone all day," he
said.
"It is ten
o'clock."
"Oh! well,
then, she will have gone to
mass or else to the cemetery.
She goes there every day. He
has left her five hundred livres
a year and her house for as long
as she lives, but his death has
fairly turned her brain, as you
may say----"
"And where
are you going, old Moreau?"
"Little Jacques is to be buried
to-day, and I am going to the
funeral. He was my nephew, poor
little chap; he had been ailing
for a long while, and he died
yesterday morning. It really
looked as though it was M. Benassis
who kept him alive. That is the
way! All these younger ones die!" Moreau
added, half-jestingly, half-sadly.
Genestas reined
in his horse as he entered
the town, for he
met Gondrin and Goguelat, each
carrying a pickaxe and shovel.
He called to them, "Well, old
comrades, we have had the misfortune
to lose him----"
"There, there, that is enough,
sir!" interrupted Goguelat, "we
know that well enough. We have
just been cutting turf to cover
his grave."
"His life will
make a grand story to tell,
eh?"
"Yes," answered Goguelat, "he
was the Napoleon of our valley,
barring the battles."
As they reached the parsonage,
Genestas saw a little group about
the door; Butifer and Adrien
were talking with M. Janvier,
who, no doubt, had just returned
from saying mass. Seeing that
the officer made as though he
were about to dismount, Butifer
promptly went to hold the horse,
while Adrien sprang forward and
flung his arms about his father's
neck. Genestas was deeply touched
by the boy's affection, though
no sign of this appeared in the
soldier's words or manner.
"Why, Adrien," he said, "you
certainly are set up again. My
goodness! Thanks to our poor
friend, you have almost grown
into a man. I shall not forget
your tutor here, Master Butifer."
"Oh! colonel," entreated Butifer, "take
me away from here and put me
into your regiment. I cannot
trust myself now that M. le Maire
is gone. HE wanted me to go for
a soldier, didn't he? Well, then,
I will do what he wished. He
told you all about me, and you
will not be hard on me, will
you, M. Genestas?"
"Right, my fine fellow," said
Genestas, as he struck his hand
in the other's. "I will find
something to suit you, set your
mind at rest---- And how is it
with you, M. le Cure?"
"Well, like
every one else in the canton,
colonel, I feel
sorrow for his loss, but no one
knows as I do how irreparable
it is. He was like an angel of
God among us. Fortunately, he
did not suffer at all; it was
a painless death. The hand of
God gently loosed the bonds of
a life that was one continual
blessing to us all."
"Will it be
intrusive if I ask you to accompany
me to the
cemetery? I should like to bid
him farewell, as it were."
Genestas and the cure, still
in conversation, walked on together.
Butifer and Adrien followed them
at a few paces distance. They
went in the direction of the
little lake, and as soon as they
were clear of the town, the lieutenant-colonel
saw on the mountain-side a large
piece of waste land enclosed
by walls.
"That is the cemetery," the
cure told him. "He is the first
to be buried in it. Only three
months before he was brought
here, it struck him that it was
a very bad arrangement to have
the churchyard round the church;
so, in order to carry out the
law, which prescribes that burial
grounds should be removed a stated
distance from human dwellings,
he himself gave this piece of
land to the commune. We are burying
a child, poor little thing, in
the new cemetery to-day, so we
shall have begun by laying innocence
and virtue there. Can it be that
death is after all a reward?
Did God mean it as a lesson for
us when He took these two perfect
natures to Himself? When we have
been tried and disciplined in
youth by pain, in later life
by mental suffering, are we so
much nearer to Him? Look! there
is the rustic monument which
has been erected to his memory."
Genestas saw a mound of earth
about twenty feet high. It was
bare as yet, but dwellers in
the district were already busily
covering the sloping sides with
green turf. La Fosseuse, her
face buried in her hands, was
sobbing bitterly; she was sitting
on the pile of stones in which
they had planted a great wooden
cross, made from the trunk of
a pine-tree, from which the bark
had not been removed. The officer
read the inscription; the letters
were large, and had been deeply
cut in the wood.
D. O. M.
HERE LIES
THE GOOD MONSIEUR BENASSIS
THE FATHER OF US ALL
PRAY FOR HIM.
"Was it you, sir," asked Genestas, "who----?"
"No," answered
the cure; it is simply what
is said everywhere,
from the heights up there above
us down to Grenoble, so the words
have been carved here."
Genestas remained silent for
a few moments. Then he moved
from where he stood and came
nearer to La Fosseuse, who did
not hear him, and spoke again
to the cure.
"As soon as I have my pension," he
said, "I will come to finish
my days here among you." |