CHAPTER III.
THE CORNER OF THE WOOD.
Under arches of foliage made beautiful by an occasional stray gleam of sunshine, Savin and Catherine walked homeward in silence.
With tears trickling down her cheeks and suffusing her long eyelashes, the young woman put one foot before the other like an automaton, and saw nothing but the black earth under her feet. She took no notice of the trees and blossoming flowers, of the delicate blue gentians that fringed the path, of the soothing peace of nature.
At any other time Catherine would have gloried in the picture. The sylvan verdure, the fragrant air, the exquisite landscape had always appealed to her sense of the beautiful. But now, with downcast eyes, she cared not for the charming spectacle.
Savin, too, was an ardent admirer of nature, and he passionately loved the grand old forest. But now, jealous and discontented, he walked moodily along, while Patachaud, leaping by his side, in vain pleaded for attention.
For a long time Barrau and his wife proceeded without speaking, each keeping to his or her own path and brooding over the sorrowful situation. And yet how charming they were—she with her raven hair and lustrous dark eyes, straight aquiline nose, and perfect mouth; and he, a man of thirty-two, with the carriage of a soldier, and a strong intellectual face, a rich deep voice, and skin bronzed by the summer sun. A blond mustache gave to his face a look which the French are accustomed to trace back to their ancestors the Gauls. Certainly there could not have been found in all the countryside two handsomer persons than Savin and Catherine. Faithfully and fondly, too, had they loved each other, and until now had been happy. But a little coquetry and ardent love for pleasure on the one hand, and jealousy on the other, had spoiled it all, and—who could tell?—might lead to the direst misery.
Barrau did not know how imprudent it is for a man to take the conceit out of a pretty woman, and Catherine did not realize how hard it is to attempt to dissuade a strong man from what he considers right.
And so they, at length, reached the border of the wood—she ruminating upon vengeance, and he almost tragically annoyed by the thought that they had given cause for scandal to the gossips they had left behind.
Finally, the path became more devious, and as they advanced the magnificent beauty of the scene burst upon them. Through an opening in the trees the sun burned like a ball of fire. From every hand were wafted strains of rapturous melody. Thousands of feathered songsters were joining in one grand chorus of praise to God.
Affected in spite of himself, Savin’s face became more gentle, while Catherine’s softened almost to tenderness. But the moment of possible reconciliation passed, and home was reached.
Upon a small bluff, half hidden by trees, stood a cosy little cottage, built of wood and brick. As if conscious of its modest architectural pretensions, the chalet was quite enveloped in a network of clematis and woodbine, and a rustic veranda afforded a picturesque effect to the tiny villa. Behind it the forest plunged into a vast ravine, at the bottom of which brawled a little brook among the rocks. The mid-day sunlight beat upon the façade of the cottage and radiantly glinted the leaves of the surrounding trees, among which a dozen or more poplars extended a grateful shade over the little garden.
Catherine and Savin did not linger without, but entered the house together. The former, throwing upon the table the fichu she had worn, seated herself by the open window and began nervously tapping the floor with her foot.
A quarrel seemed imminent. Once more in their own home Catherine knew her husband would cease to be vehement. Barrau seated himself on one side of the table and watched Patachaud as he eagerly drank a cup of water which was always ready for him. Two strangers passed by, remarking on the flowers which covered the cottage roof.
At length, Barrau rose from his chair and broke the silence by saying: “We must have dinner now, Catherine.”
“You are hungry, then,” said she, with reproach. “Well, then, go and eat. I do not prevent you. Surely in order to keep so strong as you are, you must eat heartily.”
Her words cut him to his soul’s quick.
“Do not be rebellious, Catherine. Come, now.”
She bounded to her feet and bent upon him her flashing eyes.
“It is I who am wrong, then. I am the culprit, eh? You strike me, and then call me rebellious. Indeed, I ought to rebel, and for good, too.”
“Catherine,” said Savin severely.
“Ah, why did I marry a common brutal soldier?”
Barrau blushed. The thrust struck home.
“Enough! Enough!” said he, rudely; “I am the master here, at least. And any honest woman should not make such a remark.”
“Indeed! I am a worthless jade, am I? A coquette? A good-for-nothing?”
Savin made an impatient gesture.
“Say it,” she went on; “do not hesitate.”
As though to prevent further disagreement, Savin started to go, but his anger forced him to stop and say: “Ah, well, yes. Yes, then! A woman who compromises herself in the presence of evil tongues has no self-respect.”
“Take care!” cried Catherine, advancing toward him in anger.
“Take care yourself, my child. Do your duty and be circumspect is all I ask. But no more coquetry, you understand, or——”
“Or—you will kill me, perhaps. Well, then, do it. Kill me, if you will.”
“Madame,” said he, solemnly, “I do not come from a family of assassins.”
Catherine’s face turned livid. She fell heavily to the floor, and Savin could have bitten his tongue out for his cruel words.