Chapter VIII: Part 8

"If it is that I love Brulette and value her token," replied Huriel, "you know all that I know myself; but you cannot know more, for I am not even sure of her friendship, and as for anything else--but that's neither here nor there. I want to tell you the ill-luck that brought me back here. I did not wish Brulette to see me, neither did I mean to speak to her, because I saw the misery Joseph endured on my account. But I knew Joseph had not the strength to protect her, and that Malzac was shrewd and tricky enough to escape you. So I came at the beginning of the dance, and kept out of sight under the trees, meaning to depart without being seen, if Malzac did not make his appearance. You know the rest until the moment when we took the sticks. At that moment I was angry, I confess it, but it couldn't have been otherwise unless I were a saint in Paradise. And yet my only thought was to give a lesson to my enemy, and to stop him from saying, especially while Brulette was here, that because I was gentle and patient I was timid as a hare. You saw that my father, sick of such talk, did not object to my proving myself a man; but there! ill-luck surely pursues me, when in my first fight and almost at my first blow--ah! Tiennet, there is no use saying I was driven into it, or that I feel within me kind and humane; that is no consolation for having a fatal hand. A man is a man, no matter how foul-mouthed and ill-behaved he be. There was little or no good in that one, but he might have mended, and I have sent him to his account before he had come to repentance. Tiennet, I am sick of a muleteer's life; I agree with Brulette that it is not easy for a God-fearing man to be one of them and maintain his own conscience and the respect of others. I am obliged to stay in the craft for some time longer, owing to engagements which I have made; but you may rely upon it, I shall give up the business as soon as possible, and find another that is quiet and decent."

"That is what you want me to tell Brulette, isn't it?" I said.

"No," replied Huriel, with much decision, "not unless Joseph gets over his love and his illness so entirely as to give her up. I love Joseph as much as you all love him; besides, he told me his secret, and asked my advice and support; I will not deceive him, nor undermine him."

"But Brulette does not want him as a lover or a husband, and perhaps he had better know it as soon as possible. I'll take upon myself to reason with him, if the others dare not, for there is somebody in your house who could make Joseph happy, and he never could be happy with Brulette. The longer he waits and the more he flatters himself she will love him, the harder the blow will seem; instead of which, if he opens his eyes to the true attachment he might find elsewhere--"

"Never mind that," said Huriel, frowning slightly, which made him look like a man who was suffering from a great hole in his head, which in fact there was under the bloody handkerchief. "All things are in God's hand, and in our family nobody is in a hurry to make his own happiness at the expense of others. As for me, I must go, for I could make no lying answer to those who might ask me where Malzac is and why no one sees him any more. Listen, however, to another thing about Joseph and Brulette. It is better not to tell them the evil I have done. Except the muleteers, and my father and sister, the monk and you, no one knows that when that man fell he never rose again. I had only time to say to Thérence, 'He is dead, I must leave these parts.' Maître Archignat said the same thing to my father; but the other foresters know nothing, and wish not to know anything. The monk himself would have seen only part of it if he had not followed us with remedies for the wound. The muleteers were inclined to send him back at once, but the chief answered for him, and I, though I might be risking my neck, could not endure that the man should be buried like a dog, without Christian prayer. The future is in God's hands. You understand, of course, that a man involved as I am in a bad business cannot, at least for a long time, think of courting a girl as much sought after and respected as Brulette. But I do ask you, for my sake, not to tell her the extent of the trouble I am in. I am willing she should forget me, but not that she should hate or fear me."

"She has no right to do either," I replied, "since it was for love of her--"

"Ah!" exclaimed Huriel, sighing and passing his hand before his eyes, "it is a love that costs me dear!"

"Come, come," I said, "courage! she shall know nothing; you may rely upon my word; and all that I can do, if occasion offers to make her see your merits, shall be done faithfully."

"Gently, gently, Tiennet," returned Huriel, "I don't ask you to take my side as I take Joseph's. You don't know me as well, neither do you owe me the same friendship; I know what it is to push another into the place we would like to occupy. You care for Brulette yourself; and among three lovers, as we are, two must be just and reasonable when the third is preferred. But, whatever happens, I hope we shall all three remain brothers and friends."

"Take me out of the list of suitors," I said, smiling without the least vexation. "I have always been the least ardent of Brulette's lovers, and now I am as calm as if I had never dreamed of loving her. I know what is in the secret heart of the girl; she has made a good choice, and I am satisfied. Adieu, my Huriel; may the good God help you, and give you hope, and so enable you to forget the troubles of this bad night."

We clasped each other for good-bye, and I inquired where he was going.

"To the mountains of the Forez," he replied. "Write to me at the village of Huriel, which is my birth-place and where we have relations. They will send me your letters."

"But can you travel so far with that wound in your head? Isn't it dangerous?"

"Oh no!" he said, "it is nothing. I wish _the other's_ head had been as hard as mine!"

When I was alone I began to think over with amazement all that must have happened that night in the forest without my hearing or detecting the slightest thing. I was still more surprised when, passing once more, in broad daylight, the spot where the dance had taken place, I saw that since midnight persons had returned to mow the grass and dig over the ground to remove all trace of what had happened. In short, from one direction persons had come twice to make things safe at this particular point; from the other, Thérence had contrived to communicate with her brother; and, besides all this, a burial had been performed, without the faintest appearance or the lightest sound having warned me of what was taking place, although the night was clear and I had gone from end to end of the silent woods looking and listening with the utmost attention. It turned my mind to the difference between the habits, and indeed the characters, of these woodland people and the laborers of the open country. On the plains, good and evil are too clearly seen not to make the inhabitants from their youth up submit to the laws and behave with prudence. But in the forests, where the eyes of their fellows can be escaped, men invoke no justice but that of God or the devil, according as they are well or ill intentioned.

When I reached the lodges the sun was up; the Head-Woodsman had gone to his work; Joseph was still asleep; Thérence and Brulette were talking together under the shed. They asked me why I had got up so early, and I noticed that Thérence was uneasy lest I had seen or heard something. I behaved as if I knew nothing, and had not gone further than the adjoining wood.

Joseph soon joined us, and I remarked that he looked much better than when we arrived.

"Yet I have hardly slept all night," he replied; "I was restless till nearly day-break; but I think the reason was that the fever which has weakened me so much left me last evening, for I feel stronger and more vigorous than I have been for a long time."

Thérence, who understood fevers, felt his pulse, and then her face, which looked very tired and depressed, brightened suddenly.

"See!" she cried; "the good God sends us at least one happiness; here is our patient on the road to recovery! The fever has gone, and his blood is already recovering strength."

"If you want to know what I have felt this night," said Joseph, "you must promise not to call it a dream; but here it is--In the first place, however, tell me if Huriel got off without a wound, and if the other did not get more than he wanted. Have you had any news from the forest of Chambérat?"

"Yes, yes," replied Thérence, hastily. "They have both gone to the upper country. Say what you were going to say."

"I don't know if you will comprehend it, you two," resumed Joseph, addressing the girls, "but Tiennet will. When I saw Huriel fight so resolutely my knees gave way under me, and, feeling weaker than any woman, I came near losing consciousness; but at the very moment when my body was giving way my heart grew hot within me, and my eyes never ceased to look at the fight. When Huriel struck the fellow down and remained standing himself, I could have shouted 'Victory!' like a drunken man, if I had not restrained myself; I would have rushed if I could to embrace him. But the impulse was soon gone, and when I got back here I felt as though I had received and given every blow, and as if all the bones in my body were broken."

"Don't think any more about it," said Thérence; "it was a horrid thing to see and recollect. I dare say it gave you bad dreams last night."

"I did not dream at all," said Joseph; "I lay thinking, and little by little I felt my mind awakened and my body healed, as if the time had come to take up my bed and walk, like the paralytic of the Gospels. I saw Huriel before me, shining with light; he blamed my illness, and declared it was a cowardice of the mind. He seemed to say: 'I am a man, you are a child; you shake with fever while my blood is fire. You are good for nothing, but I am good in all ways, for others and for myself. Come, listen to this music.' And I heard an air muttering like a storm, which raised me in my bed as the wind lifts the fallen leaves. Ah, Brulette, I think I have done with being ill and cowardly; I can go now to my own country and kiss my mother, and make my plans to start,--for start I must, upon a journey; I must see and learn, and make myself what I should be."

"You wish to travel?" said Thérence, her face, so lately lighted like a star with pleasure, growing white and cloudy as an autumn moon. "You think to find a better teacher than my father, and better friends than people here? Go and see your mother; that is right, if you are strong enough to go,--unless, indeed, you are deceiving us and longing to die in distant parts--"

Grief and displeasure choked her voice. Joseph, who watched her, suddenly changed both his language and his manner.

"Never mind what I have been dreaming this morning, Thérence," he said; "I shall never find a better master or better friends. You asked me to tell my dreams, and I did tell them, that is all. When I am cured I shall ask advice of all three of you, and of your father also. Till then pay no attention to what comes into my head; let us be happy for the time that we are together."

Thérence was pacified; but Brulette and I, who knew how dogged and obstinate Joseph could be under his gentle manner, and remembered how he had left us without allowing us a chance to remonstrate or persuade him, felt sure that his mind was already fully made up, and that no one could change it.

During the next two days I once more felt dreadfully dull; and so did Brulette, though she amused herself by finishing the embroidery she wanted to give Thérence, and spent some hours in the woods with Père Bastien, partly to leave Joseph to the care of Thérence, and partly to talk of Huriel and comfort the worthy man for the danger and distress the fight had caused him. The Head-Woodsman, touched by the friendship which she showed him, told her the truth about Malzac, and, far from her blaming Huriel, as the latter had feared, it only drew her closer to him through the gratitude which she now felt she owed him.

On the sixth day we began to talk of separating. Joseph was getting better hourly; he worked a little, and did his best in every way to recover his strength. He had decided to go with us and spend a few days at home, saying that he should return almost immediately to the woods of Alleu,--which Brulette and I doubted, and so did Thérence, who was almost as uneasy about his health as she had been about his illness. I don't know if it was she who persuaded her father to accompany us half-way, or whether the notion came into Père Bastien's own mind; at any rate, he made us the offer, which Brulette instantly accepted. Joseph was only half pleased at this, though he tried not to show it.

The little trip naturally diverted the Head-Woodsman's thoughts from his anxieties, and while making his preparations the evening before our departure he recovered much of his natural fine spirits. The muleteers had left the neighborhood without hindrance, and nothing had been said about Malzac, who had neither relations nor friends to inquire for him. A year or two might go by before the authorities troubled themselves to know what had become of him, and indeed, they might never do so; for in those days there was no great policing in France, and a man might disappear without any notice being taken of it. Moreover, the Head-Woodsman and his family would leave those parts at the end of the chopping season, and as father and son never stayed six months in the same place, the law would be very clever indeed to know where to catch them.

For these reasons the Head-Woodsman, who had feared only the first results of the affair, finding that no one got wind of the secret, grew easy in mind and so restored our courage.

On the morning of the eighth day he put us all into a little cart he had borrowed, together with a horse, from a friend of his in the forest, and taking the reins he drove us by the longest but safest road to Saint-Sevère, where we were to part from him and his daughter.

Brulette inwardly regretted returning by a new way, where she could not revisit any of the scenes she had passed through with Huriel. As for me, I was glad to travel and to see Saint-Pallais in Bourbonnais and Préveranges, two little villages on the heights, also Saint-Prejet and Pérassay, other villages lower down along the banks of the Indre; moreover, as we followed that river from its source and I remembered that it ran through our village I no longer felt myself a stranger in a strange land. When we reached Saint-Sevère, I felt at home, for it is only six leagues from our place, and I had already been there two or three times. While the rest were bidding each other farewell, I went to hire a conveyance to take us to Nohant, but I could only find one for the next day as early as I wanted it.

When I returned and reported the fact, Joseph seemed annoyed. "What do we want with a conveyance?" he said. "Can't we start in the fresh of the morning on foot and get home in the cool of the evening? Brulette has walked that distance often enough to dance at some assembly, and I feel able to do as much as she."

Thérence remarked that so long a walk might bring back his fever, and that only made him more obstinate; but Brulette, seeing Thérence's vexation, cut the matter short by saying she was too tired, and she would prefer to pass the night at the inn and start in a carriage the next morning.

"Well, then," said the Head-Woodsman, "Thérence and I will do the same. Our horse shall rest here for the night, and we will part from you at daybreak to-morrow morning. But instead of eating our meal in this inn which is full of flies, I propose that we take the dinner into some shady place or to the bank of the river, and sit there and talk till it is time to go to bed."

So said, so done. I engaged two bedrooms, one for the girls, the other for us men, and wishing to entertain Père Bastien (who I had noticed was a good eater) according to my own ideas, I filled a big basket with the best the inn could afford in patés, white bread, wine, and wine-brandy, and carried it outside the village. It was lucky that the present fashion of drinking coffee and beer did not exist in those days, for I shouldn't have spared the cost, and my pockets would have been emptied.

Saint-Sevère is a fine neighborhood, cut into by ravines that are well watered and refreshing to the eye. We chose a spot of rising ground, where the air was so exhilarating that not a crust nor a drop remained after the feast. Presently Père Bastien, feeling lively, picked up his bagpipe, which never left him, and said to Joseph:--

"My lad, we never know who is to live or who to die; we are parting, you say, for three or four days; in my opinion, you are thinking of a much longer absence; and it may be in God's mind that we shall never meet again. This is what all persons who part at the crossways ought to say and feel to each other. I hope that you leave us satisfied with me and with my children; I am satisfied with you and with your friends here; but I do not forget that the prime object of all was to teach you music, and I regret that your two months' illness put a stop to it. I don't say that I could have made you a learned musician; I know there are such in the cities, both ladies and gentlemen, who play instruments that we know nothing about, and read off written airs just as others read words in a book. Except chanting, which I learned in my youth, I know very little of such music, and I have taught you all I know, namely, the keys, notes, and time measures. If you desire to know more you must go to the great cities, where the violinists will teach you both minuet and quadrille music; but I don't know what good that would be to you unless you want to leave your own parts and renounce the position of peasant."

"God forbid!" replied Joseph, looking at Brulette.

"Therefore," continued the Head-Woodsman, "you will have to look elsewhere for instruction on the bagpipe or the hurdy-gurdy. If you choose to come back to me, I will help you; but if you think you can do better in the Upper country, you must go there. What I should wish to do would be to guide you slowly till your lungs grew so strong that you could use them without effort, and your fingers no longer failed you. As for the idea within us, that can't be taught; you have your own, and I know it to be of good quality. I gave you, however, what was in my own head, and whatever you can remember of it you may use as you like. But as your wish seems to be to compose, you can't do better than travel about, and so compare your ideas and stock of knowledge with that of others. You had better go as far up as Auvergne and the Forez, and see how grand and beautiful the world is beyond our valleys, and how the heart swells when we stand on the heights of a real mountain, and behold the waters, whose voice is louder than the voice of man, rolling downward to nourish the trees the verdure of which never dies. Don't go into the lowlands of those other regions. You will find there what you have left in your own country, and that isn't what you want. Now is the time to give you a bit of information which you should never forget; listen carefully to what I say to you."

EIGHTEENTH EVENING.

Père Bastien, observing that Joseph listened with great attention, continued as follows:--

"Music has two modes which the learned, as I have heard tell, call major and minor, but which I call the clear mode and the troubled mode; or, if you like it better, the blue-sky mode and the gray-sky mode, or, still otherwise, the mode of strength and joy, and the mode of dreaminess and gloom. You may search till morning and you will find no end to the contrasts between the two modes; but you will never find a third, for all things on this earth are light or darkness, rest or action. Now listen to me, Joseph! The plains sing in the major, and the mountains in the minor mode. If you had stayed in your own country your ideas would belong to the clear and tranquil mode; in returning: there now, you ought to see the use that a soul like yours could make of that mode; for the one mode is neither less nor more than the other. But while you lived at home, feeling yourself a thorough musician, you fretted at not hearing the minor sound in your ears. The fiddlers and the singing-girls of your parts only acquire it; for song is like the wind which blows everywhere and carries the seeds of plants from one horizon to another. But inasmuch as nature has not made your people dreamy and passionate, they make a poor use of the minor mode, and corrupt it by that use. That is why you thought your bagpipes were always false. Now, if you want to understand the minor, go seek it in wild and desolate places, and learn that many a tear must be shed before you can duly use a mode which was given to man to utter his griefs, or, at any rate, to sigh his love."

Joseph understood Père Bastien so well that he asked him to play the last air he had composed, so as to give us a specimen of the sad gray mode which he called the minor.

"There, there!" cried the old man; "so you overheard the air I have been trying for the last week to put to certain words. I thought I was singing to myself; but, as you were listening, here it is, such as I expect to leave it."

Lifting his bagpipe he removed the chanter, on which he softly played an air which, though it was not melancholy, brought memories of the past and a sense of longing after many things to the consciousness of those who listened.

Joseph was evidently not at ease, and Brulette, who listened without stirring, seemed to waken from a dream when it ended.

"And the words," said Thérence, "are they sad too, father?"

"The words," said he, "are, like the air, rather confused and demand reflection. They tell the story of how three lovers courted a girl."

Whereupon he sang a song, now very popular in our parts, though the words have been a good deal altered; but this is how the Père Bastien sang them:--

Three woodsmen there were,
In springtime, on the grass
(Listen to the nightingale);
Three woodsmen were there,
Speaking each with the lass.

The youngest he said,
He who held the flower
(Listen to the nightingale),
The youngest then said he
I love thee, but I cower.

The oldest cried out,
He who held the tool
(Listen to the nightingale),
The oldest cried aloud,
When I love I rule.

The third sang to her,
Bearing the almond spray
(Listen to the nightingale),
The third sang in her ear,
I love thee and I pray.

Friend shall never be
You who bear the flower
(Listen to the nightingale),
Friend shall never be
A coward, or I cower.

Master will I none,
You who hold the tool
(Listen to the nightingale),
No master thou of mine,
Love obeys no rule.

Lover thou shalt be
Who bear the almond spray
(Listen to the nightingale),
My lover shalt thou be,
Gifts are for those who pray.

I liked the air when joined to the words better than the first time I heard it; and I was so pleased that I asked to hear it again; but Père Bastien, who had no vanity about his compositions, declared it was not worth while, and went on playing other airs, sometimes in the major, sometimes in the minor, and even employing both modes in the same song, teaching Joseph, as he did so, how to pass from one to the other and then back again.

The stars were casting their light long before we wanted to retire; even the townspeople assembled in numbers at the foot of the ravine to listen, with much satisfaction to their ears. Some said: "That's one of the Bourbonnais bagpipers, and what is more, he is a master; he knows the art, and not one of us can hold a candle to him."

On our way back to the inn Père Bastien continued to instruct Joseph, and the latter, never weary of such talk, lagged a little behind us to listen and question him. So I walked in front with Thérence, who, useful and energetic as ever, helped me to carry the baskets. Brulette walked alone between the pairs, dreaming of I don't know what,--as she had taken to doing of late; and Thérence sometimes turned round as if to look at her, but really to see if Joseph were following.

"Look at him well, Thérence," I said to her, at a moment when she seemed in great anxiety, "for your father said truly, 'When we part for a day it may be for life.'"

"Yes," she replied, "but on the other hand, when we think we are parting for life it may be for only a day."

"You remind me," said I, "that when I first saw you you floated away like a dream and I never expected to see you again."

"I know what you mean," she exclaimed. "My father reminded me of it yesterday, in speaking of you. Father really loves you, Tiennet, and has great respect for you."

"I am glad and honored, Thérence; but I don't know what I have done to deserve it, for there is nothing in me that is different from the common run of men."

"My father is never mistaken in his judgment, and what he says, I believe; why should that make you sigh, Tiennet?"

"Did I sigh, Thérence? I didn't mean to."

"No, of course you did not," she replied; "but that is no reason why you should hide your feelings from me. You love Brulette and are afraid--"

"I love Brulette very much, that is true, but without any love-sighing, and without any regrets or worries about what she thinks of me. I have no love in my heart, because it would do me no good to have any."

"Ah, you are very lucky, Tiennet!" she cried, "to be able to govern your feelings by your mind in that way."

"I should be better worth something, Thérence, if, like you, I governed them by my heart. Yes, yes, I know you; I have watched you, and I know the true secret of your conduct. I have seen how, for the last eight days, you have set aside your own feelings to cure Joseph, and how you secretly do everything for his good without letting him see so much as your little finger in it. You want him to be happy, and you said true when you told Brulette and me that if we can do good to those we love there is no need to be thinking of our own happiness. That's what you do and what you are; and though jealousy may sometimes get the better of you, you recover directly. It is marvellous to see how strong and generous you are; it is saintly. You must allow that if either of us two is to respect the other, it is I you, not you me. I am a rather sensible fellow, and that is all; you are a girl with a great heart, and a stern hand upon yourself."

"Thanks for the good you think of me," replied Thérence, "but perhaps I don't deserve it, my lad. You want me to be in love with Joseph, and I am not. As God is my judge, I have never thought of being his wife, and the attachment I feel to him is rather that of a sister or a mother."

"Oh! as for that, I am not sure that you don't deceive yourself, Thérence. Your disposition is impulsive."

"That is just why I do not deceive myself. I love my father and brother deeply and almost madly. If I had children I should defend them like a wolf and brood over them like a hen; but the thing they call love, such, for instance, as my brother feels for Brulette,--the desire to please, and a nameless sort of feeling which makes him suffer when alone, and not be able to think of her without pain,--all that I do not feel at all, and I cannot imagine it. Joseph may leave us forever if it will do him good, and I shall thank God, and only grieve if it turns out that he is the worse for it."

Thérence's way of looking at the matter gave me a good deal to think of. I could not understand it very well, for she now seemed to me above all others and above me. I walked a little way beside her without saying a word, not knowing whither my mind was going; for I was seized with such a feeling of ardent friendship that I longed with all my heart to embrace her, with all respect and thinking no harm, till suddenly a glance at her, so young and beautiful, filled me with shame and fear. When we reached the inn I asked her, apropos of what I forget, to tell me exactly what her father had said of me.

"He said," she replied, "that you were a man of the strongest good sense he had ever known."

"You might as well call me a good-natured fool at once, don't you think so?" I said, laughing, but rather mortified.

"Not at all!" cried Thérence; "here are my father's very words: 'He who sees clearest into the things of this world is he who acts with the highest justice.' Now it is true that great good sense leads to great kindness of heart, and I do not think that my father is mistaken."

"In that case, Thérence," I cried, rather agitated at the bottom of my heart, "have a little regard for me."

"I have a great deal," she said, shaking the hand which I held out to her; but it was said with an air of good-fellowship which killed all vaporing, and I slept upon her speech with no more imagination than justly belonged to it.

The next day came the parting. Brulette cried when she kissed Père Bastien, and made him promise that he would come and visit us and bring Thérence; then the two dear girls embraced each other with such pledges of affection that they really seemed unable to part. Joseph offered his thanks to his late master for all the benefits he had received from him, and when he came to part with Thérence he tried to say the same to her; but she looked at him with a perfect frankness which disconcerted him, and pressing each other's hands, they said only, "Good-bye, and take care of yourself."

Not feeling at the moment too shy, I asked Thérence to allow me to kiss her, thinking to set a good example to Joseph; but he took no notice, and got hastily into the carriage to cut short these parting civilities. He seemed dissatisfied with himself and others. Brulette took the last seat in the conveyance, and, so long as she could see our Bourbonnais friends, she kept her eyes upon them, while Thérence, standing at the inn-door, seemed to be thinking rather than grieving.

We did the rest of the journey somewhat sadly. Joseph said not a word. Perhaps he hoped that Brulette might take some notice of him; but according as Joseph grew stronger, Brulette had recovered her freedom of thinking about other people, and being full of her friendship for Huriel's father and sister, she talked to me about them, regretting to part with them and singing their praises, as if she had really left her heart behind and regretted even the country we were quitting.

"It is strange," she said to me, "how, as we get nearer home, the trees seem to me so small, the grass so yellow, and the river sluggish. Before I ever left the plains I fancied I could not endure three days in the woods, and now I believe I could pass my life there like Thérence, if I had my old father with me."

"I can't say as much, cousin," said I. "Though, if I were forced to do so, I don't suppose I should die of it. But the trees may be as tall, the grass as green, and the streams as sparkling as they please; I prefer a nettle in my own land to an oak in foreign parts. My heart jumps with joy at each familiar rock and bush, as if I had been absent two or three years, and when I catch sight of the church clock I mean, for sure, to take off my hat to it."

"And you, José?" said Brulette, noticing the annoyed look of our companion for the first time. "You, who have been absent more than a year, are not you glad to get home again?"

"Excuse me, Brulette, I don't know what you are talking about. My head is full of that song the Head-Woodsman sang last night, and in the middle of it there is a little refrain which I can't remember."

"Bah!" cried Brulette, "it is where the song says, 'Listen to the nightingale.'"

So saying, she sang the tune quite correctly, which roused Joseph so much that he jumped with joy in the cart, clapping his hands.

"Ah, Brulette!" he cried, "how lucky you are to remember like that! Again! sing it again! 'Listen to the nightingale.'"

"I would rather sing the whole song," she answered; and thereupon she sang it straight through without missing a word, which delighted Joseph so much that he pressed her hands, saying, with a courage I didn't think him capable of, that only a musician could be worthy of her.

"Well, certainly," said Brulette, thinking of Huriel, "if I had a lover I should wish him to be both a good singer and a good bagpiper."

"It is rare to be both," returned Joseph. "A bagpipe ruins the voice, and except the Head-Woodsman--"

"And his son," said Brulette, heedlessly.

I nudged her elbow, and she began to talk of something else, but Joseph, who was eaten up with jealousy, persisted in harking back to the song.

"I believe," he said, "that when Père Bastien composed those words he was thinking of three fellows of our acquaintance; for I remember a talk we had with him after supper the day of your arrival in the forest."

"I don't remember it," said Brulette, blushing.

"But I do," returned Joseph. "We were speaking of a girl's love, and Huriel said it couldn't be won by tossing up for it. Tiennet declared, laughing, that softness and submission were of no use, and to be loved we must needs be feared, instead of being too kind and good. Huriel argued against Tiennet, and I listened without saying a word. Am not I the one who 'bears the flower,--the youngest of the three, who loves and cowers'? Repeat the last verse, Brulette, as you know it so well--about 'gifts for those who ask.'"

"Since you know it as well as I do," said Brulette, rather nettled, "keep it to sing to the first girl you make love to. If Père Bastien likes to turn the talk he hears into songs, it is not for me to draw conclusions. Besides, I know nothing about it. But my feet are tingling with cold, and while the horse walks up this hill, I shall take a run to warm them."

Not waiting till I could stop the horse, she jumped on to the road and walked off in front of us as light as a little milkmaid.

I wanted to get down too, but Joseph caught me by the arm and, always pursuing his own ideas, "Don't you think," said he, "that we despise those who show their desires as much as those who do not show them at all?"

"If you mean me--"

"I mean no one. I was only thinking of the talk we had over there, which Père Bastien turned into a song against your speech and my silence. It seems that Huriel will win his suit with the girl."

"What girl?" I said, out of patience, for Joseph had never taken me into his confidence before, and I was none too pleased to have him give it out of vexation.

"What girl?" he cried in a tone of angry sarcasm, "the girl of the song."

"Then what suit is Huriel to win? does the girl live at a distance? is that where Huriel has gone?"

Joseph thought a moment and then continued: "It is true enough, what he said, that between mastership and silence, there is prayer. That comes round to your first remark, that in order to attract we must not love too well. He who loves too well is the timid, silent one; not a word can he tear from his throat, and he is thought a fool because he is dumb with desire and false shame."

"No doubt of that," I said. "I have gone through it myself many a time. But it also happened to me sometimes to speak out so badly that I had better have held my tongue; I might have fancied myself beloved a little longer."

Poor Joseph bit his lips and said no more. I was sorry I had vexed him, and yet I could not prevent myself from resenting his jealousy of Huriel, knowing as I did how the latter had done his best for him against his own interests. I took, at this very time, such a disgust for jealousy that since then I have never felt a twinge of it, and I don't think I could now without good reason.

I was, however, just going to speak kindly to him, when we noticed that Brulette, who was still ahead of us, had stopped on the wayside to speak to a monk, who looked short and fat, like the one I had seen in the woods of Chambérat. I whipped up the horse, and soon convinced myself that it was really Brother Nicolas. He had asked Brulette if he were far from our village, and, as he was still three miles distant and said he was very tired, she had offered to give him a lift in our conveyance.

We made room for him and for a large covered basket which he was carrying, and which he deposited with much precaution on his knees. None of us dreamed of asking what it contained, except perhaps myself, who am naturally rather curious; but I feared to be indiscreet, for I knew the mendicant friars gathered up all sorts of things from pious shopkeepers, which they sold again for the benefit of their monastery. Everything came handy for this traffic, even women's trumpery, which, however, some of them did not venture to dispose of openly.

I drove at a trot, and presently we caught sight of the church clock and the old elms on the market-place, then of all the houses of the village, both big and little,--which did not afford me as much pleasure as I had expected, for the meeting with Brother Nicolas had brought to mind certain painful things about which I was still uneasy. I saw, however, that he was on his guard as well as I, for he said not a word before Brulette and Joseph showing that we had met elsewhere than at the dance, or that he and I knew more of what had happened than the rest.

He was a very pleasant man, with a jovial nature that might have amused me under other circumstances, but I was in a hurry to reach home and get him alone by himself, so as to ask if he had any news of the affair. As we entered the village Joseph jumped off, and notwithstanding that Brulette begged him to come and rest at her grandfather's, he took the road to Saint-Chartier, saying that he would pay his respects to Père Brulet after he had seen and embraced his mother.

I fancied that the friar rather urged it on him as a duty, as if to get rid of him; and then, instead of accepting my proposal that he should dine and sup at my house, Brother Nicolas declared that he could stop only an hour at Père Brulet's, with whom he had business.

"You will be very welcome," said Brulette; "but do you know my grandfather? I have never seen you at the house."

"I do not know either him or your village," answered the monk, "but I am charged with an errand to him, which I can deliver only at his house."

"I returned to my first notion, namely, that he had ribbons and laces in his basket, and that, having heard from the neighbors that Brulette was the smartest girl in these parts, he wanted to show her his merchandise without exposing himself to gossip, which, in those days, spared neither good monks nor wicked ones."

I thought this idea was in Brulette's head too, for when she got down first at the door, she held out both arms for the basket, saying, "Don't be afraid; I guess what is in it." But the friar refused to give it up, saying it was valuable and he feared it might get broken.

"I see, Brother," I said to him in a low voice, detaining him a moment, "that you are very busy. I don't want to hinder you, but I should like you to tell me quickly if there is any news from over there."

"None that I know of," he said in the same tone; "but no news is good news." Then shaking me by the hand in a friendly way, he entered the house after Brulette, who was already hanging to her grandfather's neck.

I thought old Brulet, who was generally polite, owed me a hearty welcome and some thanks for the care I had taken of his granddaughter; but instead of keeping me even a moment, he seemed more interested in the arrival of the friar; for, taking him at once by the hand, he led him into an inner room, begging me to excuse him and saying he had matters of importance to discuss and wished to be alone with his granddaughter.

NINETEENTH EVENING.

I am not easily affronted, but I was so now at being thus received; and I went off home to put up the cart and to inquire after my family. After that, the day being too far gone to go to work, I sauntered about the village to see if everything was in its old place, and found no change, except that one of the trees felled on the common before the cobbler's door had been chopped up into sabots, and that Père Godard had trimmed up his poplar and put new flags on his path. I certainly supposed that my journey into the Bourbonnais had made a stir, and I expected to be assailed with questions which I might find it hard to answer; but the folks in our region are very indifferent, and I seemed, for the first time, to realize how dull they were,--being obliged to tell a good many that I had just returned from a trip. They did not even know I had been away.

Towards evening, as I was loitering home, I met the friar on his way to La Chatre, and he told me that Père Brulet wanted me to sup with him.

What was my astonishment on entering the house to see Père Brulet on one side of the table, and his granddaughter on the other, gazing at the monk's basket which lay open before them, and in it a big baby about a year old, sitting on a pillow and trying to eat some blackheart cherries, the juice of which had daubed and stained his face!

Brulette seemed to me thoughtful and rather sad; but when she saw my amazement she couldn't help laughing; after which she wiped her eyes, for she seemed to me to have been shedding tears of grief or vexation rather than of gayety.

"Come," she said at last, "shut the door tight and listen to us. Here is grandfather who wants to tell you all about the fine present the monk has brought us."

"You must know, nephew," said Père Brulet, who never smiled at pleasant things any more than he frowned at disagreeable ones, "that this is an orphan child; and we have agreed with the monk to take care of him for the price of his board. We know nothing about the child, neither his father, his mother, his country, nor anything else. He is called Charlot, and that is all we do know. The pay is good, and the friar gave us the preference because he met Brulette in the Bourbonnais, and hearing where she lived and how well-behaved she was, and, moreover, that she was not rich and had time at her disposal, he thought he could give her a pleasure and do her a service by putting the little fellow under her charge and letting her earn the money."

Though the matter was tolerably surprising, I was not much astonished at first hearing of it, and only asked if the monk was formerly known to Père Brulet, and whether he could trust him as to the future payment.

"I had never seen him," replied the old man, "but I knew that he had been in this neighborhood several times, and he is known to persons in whom I have confidence, and who informed me, two or three days ago, of the matter he was to come about. Besides, a year's board is paid in advance, and when the money doesn't come it will be soon enough to worry."

"Very good, uncle; you know your own affairs; but I should not have expected to see my cousin, who loves her freedom, tied down to the care of a little monkey who is nothing to her, and who, be it said without offence, is not at all nice in his appearance."

"That is just what annoys me," said Brulette, "and I was saying so to my grandfather as you came in. And," she added, rubbing the muzzle of the little animal with her handkerchief, "no wiping will make his mouth any better; I wish I could have begun my apprenticeship with a child that was prettier to kiss. This one looks surly, and won't even smile; he cares only for things to eat."

"Bah!" said Père Brulet, "he is not uglier than all children of his age, and it is your business to make him nice. He is tired with his journey, and doesn't know where he is, nor what we mean to do with him."

Père Brulet went out to look for his knife, which he had left at a neighbor's, and I began to get more and more surprised when alone with Brulette. She seemed annoyed at times, and even distressed.

"What worries me is that I don't know how to take care of a child," she said. "I could not bear to let a poor creature that can't help itself suffer; but I am so unhandy; I am sorry now that I never was inclined to look after the little ones."

"It is a fact," I said, "that you don't seem born for the business, and I can't understand why your grandfather who I never thought was eager after money, should put such a care upon you for the sake of a few crowns."

"You talk like a rich man." she said. "Remember that I have no dower, and that a fear of poverty has always deterred me from marrying."

"That's a very bad reason, Brulette. You have been and still will be sought after by men who are richer than you, and who love your sweet eyes and your pretty chatter."

"My sweet eyes will fade, and my pretty chatter won't be worth much when the beauty has gone. I don't wish to be reproached at the end of a few years with having lost my dower of charms and brought nothing more solid into the household."

"Is it that you are really thinking of marrying--since we left the Bourbonnais?" I asked. "This is the first time I ever heard you talk of money."

"I am not thinking of it any more than I have always thought," returned Brulette, but in a less confident tone than usual, "I never said I meant to live unmarried."

"I see how it is!" I cried, laughing, "you are thinking of it, and you needn't try to hide it from me, for I have given up all hopes of my own. I see plainly enough that in taking care of this little wretch, who has money and no mother, you are laying up a store, like the squirrels. If not, your grandfather, whom you have always ruled as if he were your grandson, would not have forced you to take such a boy to nurse."

Brulette lifted the child from the table, and as she carried him to her grandfather's bed she gave him a rather sad look.

"Poor Charlot!" she said, "I'll do my best for you; you are much to be pitied for having come into the world, and it is my belief that nobody wanted you."

But her gayety soon returned; she even had some hearty laughs at supper in feeding Charlot, who had the appetite of a little wolf, and answered all her attentions by trying to scratch her face.

Toward eight o'clock Joseph came in and was very well received by Père Brulet; but I observed that Brulette, who had just been putting Charlot to bed, closed the curtains quickly as if to hide him, and seemed disturbed all the time that Joseph remained. I observed also that not a word was said to him of this singular event, either by the old man or by Brulette, and I therefore thought it my duty to hold my tongue. Joseph was cross, and said as little as possible in answer to my uncle's questions. Brulette asked him if he had found his mother in good health, and if she had been surprised and pleased to see him. Then, as he said "yes" to everything, she asked if he had not tired himself too much by walking to Saint-Chartier and back in one evening.