CHAPTER XIX
BEFORE setting to work, François, as soon as he was left alone with Madeleine and Jeannie (for the young child always slept in the room with his mother), went to take a look at the sleeping woman, and thought her appearance better than when he had first arrived. He was happy to think that she would have no need of a doctor, and that he alone, by the comfort he brought, would preserve her health and fortune.
He began to look over the papers, and was soon fully acquainted with Sévère's claims and the amount of property that Madeleine still possessed with which to satisfy them. Besides all that Sévère had already made Cadet Blanchet squander upon her, she declared that she was still a creditor for two hundred pistoles, and Madeleine had scarcely anything of her own property left in addition to the inheritance that Blanchet had bequeathed to Jeannie—an inheritance now reduced to the mill and its immediate belongings—that is, the courtyard, the meadow, the outbuildings, the garden, the hemp-field, and a bit of planted ground; for the broad fields and acres had melted like snow in the hands of Cadet Blanchet.
"Thank God!" thought François, "I have four hundred pistoles in the charge of the priest of Aigurande, and in case I can do no better, Madeleine can still have her house, the income of her mill, and what remains of her dowry. But I think we can get off more easily than that. In the first place, I must find out whether the notes signed by Blanchet to Sévère were not extorted by stratagem and undue influence, and then I must do a stroke of business on the lands he sold. I understand how such affairs are managed, and knowing the names of the purchasers, I will put my hand in the fire if I cannot bring this to a successful issue."
The fact was that Blanchet, two or three years before his death, straightened for money and over head and ears in debt to Sévère, had sold his land at a low price to whomsoever wanted to buy, and turned all his claims for it over to Sévère, thus expecting to rid himself of her and of her comrades who had helped her to ruin him. But, as usually happens in such sales, almost all those who hastened to buy, attracted by the sweet fragrance of the fertile lands, had not a penny with which to pay for them, and only discharged the interest with great difficulty. This state of things might last from ten to twenty years; it was an investment for Sévère and her friends, but a bad investment, and she complained loudly of Cadet Blanchet's rashness, and feared that she would never be paid. So she said, at least; but the speculation was really a reasonably good one. The peasant, even if he has to lie on straw, pays his interest, so unwilling is he to let go the bit of land he holds, which his creditor may seize if he is not satisfied.
We all know this, my good friends, and we often try to grow rich the wrong way, by buying fine property at a low price. However low it may be, it is always too high for us. Our covetousness is more capacious than our purse, and we take no end of trouble to cultivate a field the produce of which does no cover half the interest exacted by the seller.
When we have delved and sweated all our poor lives, we find ourselves ruined, and the earth alone is enriched by our pains and toil. Just as we have doubled its value, we are obliged to sell it. If we could sell it advantageously, we should be safe; but this is never possible. We have been so drained by the interest we have had to pay, that we must sell in haste, and for anything we can get. If we rebel, we are forced into it by the law-courts, and the man who first sold the land gets back his property in the condition in which he finds if; that means that for long years he has placed his land in our hands at eight or ten per cent, and when he resumes possession of it, it is by our labors, twice as valuable, in consequence of a careful cultivation which has lost him neither trouble nor expense, and also by the lapse of time which always increases the value of property. Thus we poor little minnows are to be continually devoured by the big fish which pursue us; punished always for our love of gain, and just as foolish as we were before.
Sévère's money was thus profitably invested in a mortgage at a high interest, but at the same time she had a firm hold of Cadet Blanchet's estate, because she had managed him so cleverly that he had pledged himself for the purchasers of his land, and had gone surety for their payment.
François saw all this intrigue, and meditated some possible means of buying back the land at a low price, without ruining anybody, and of playing a tine trick upon Sévère and her clan, by causing the failure of their speculation.
It was no easy matter. He had enough money to buy back almost everything at the price of the original sale, and neither Sévère nor anybody else could refuse to be reimbursed. The buyers would find it to their profit to sell again in all haste, in order to escape approaching ruin; for I tell you all, young and old, if you buy land on credit, you take out a patent for beggary in your old age. It is useless for me to tell you this, for you will have the buying mania no whit the less. Nobody can see a plowed furrow smoking in the sun, without being in a fever to possess it, and it was the peasant's mad fever to hold on to his own piece of soil that caused Francois's uneasiness.
Do you know what the soil is, my children? Once upon a time, everybody in our parishes was talking about it. They said that the old nobles had attached us to the soil to make us drudge and die, but the Revolution had burst our bonds, and that we no longer drew our master's cart like oxen. The truth is that we have bound ourselves to our own acres, and we drudge and die no less than before.
The city people tell us that our only remedy would be to have no wants or desires. Only last Sunday, I answered a man who was preaching this doctrine very eloquently, that if we poor peasants could only be sensible enough never to eat or sleep, to work all the time, and to drink nothing but fresh clear water, provided the frogs had no objection, we might succeed in saving a goodly hoard, and in receiving a shower of compliments for our wisdom and discretion.
Following this same train of thought, François cudgeled his brains to find some means of inducing the purchasers of the land to sell it back again. He finally hit upon the plan of whispering in their ears the little falsehood, that though Sévère had the reputation of being fabulously rich, she had really as many debts as a sieve has holes, and that some fine morning her creditors would lay hands upon all her claims, as well as upon all her property. He meant to tell them this confidentially, and when they were thoroughly alarmed, he expected to buy back Madeleine Blanchet's lands at the original price, with his own money.
He scrupled, however, to tell this untruth, until it occurred to him that he could give a small bonus to all the poor purchasers, to make them amends for the interest they had already paid. In this manner Madeleine could be restored to her rights and possessions without loss or injury to the purchasers.
The discredit in which Sévère would be involved by his plan caused him no scruple whatever. It is right for the hen to pull out a feather from the cruel bird that has plucked her chickens.
When François had reached this conclusion, Jeannie awoke, and arose softly, to avoid disturbing his mother's slumbers; then, after a good-morning to François, he lost no time in going off to announce to the rest of their customers that the mill was in good order, and that a strong young miller stood in readiness to grind the corn.
CHAPTER XX
IT was already broad daylight when Mariette Blanchet emerged from her nest, carefully attired in her mourning, which was so very black and so very white that she looked as spick and span as a little magpie. The poor child had one great care, and that was that her mourning would long prevent her going to dances, and that all her admirers would be missing her. Her heart was so good that she pitied them greatly.
"How is this?" said she, as she saw François arranging the papers in Madeleine's room. "You attend to everything here, Master Miller! You make flour, you settle the business, you mix the medicines; soon we shall see you sewing and spinning."
"And you, my young lady," said François, who saw that she regarded him favorably, although she slashed him with her tongue, "I have never as yet seen you sewing or spinning; I think we shall soon find you sleeping till noon, and it will do you good, and keep your cheeks rosy!"
"Oho! Master François, you are already beginning to tell me truths about myself. You had better take care of that little game; I can tell you something in return."
"I await your pleasure, my young lady."
"It will soon come; do not be afraid, Master Miller. Have the kindness to tell me where Catherine is, and why you are here watching beside our patient. Should you like a hood and gown?"
"Are you going to ask, in your turn, for a cap and blouse, so that you may go to the mill? As I see you do no woman's work, which would be nursing your sister for a little while, I suppose you would like to sift out the chaff, and turn the grindstone. At your service. Let us change clothes."
"It looks as if you were trying to give me a lesson."
"No; you gave me one first, and I am only returning, out of politeness, what you lent me."
"Good! You like to laugh and tease, but you have chosen the wrong time. We are not merry here, and it is only a short time ago that we had to go to the graveyard. If you chatter so much, you will prevent my sister-in-law from getting the sleep she needs so greatly."
"On that very account, you should not raise your voice so much, my young lady; for I am speaking very low, and you are not speaking, just now, as you should in a sick-room."
"Enough, if you please, Master François," said Mariette, lowering her tone, and flushing angrily. "Be so good as to see if Catherine is at hand, and tell me why she leaves my sister-in-law in your charge."
"Excuse me, my young lady," said François, with no sign of temper. "She could not leave her in your charge, because you are too fond of sleeping, so she was obliged to intrust her to mine. I shall not call her, because the poor woman is jaded with fatigue. Without meaning to offend you, I must say that she has been sitting up every night for two weeks. I sent her off to bed, and, until noon, I mean to do her work and mine too, for it is only right for us all to help one another."
"Listen, Master François," said the young girl, with a sudden change of tone; "you appear to hint that I think only of myself and leave all the work to others. Perhaps I should have sat up in my turn, if Catherine had told me that she was tired; but she insisted that she was not at all tired, and I did not understand that my sister was so seriously ill. You think that I have a bad heart, but I cannot imagine where you have learned it. You never knew me before yesterday, and we are not, as yet, intimate enough for you to scold me as you do. You behave exactly as if you were the head of the family, and yet—"
"Come, out with it, beautiful Mariette, say what you have on the tip of your tongue. And yet I was taken in and brought up out of charity, is not it so? And I cannot belong to the family, because I have no family; I have no right to it, as I am a foundling! Is that all you wanted to say?"
As François gave Mariette this straightforward answer, he looked at her in a way that made her blush up to the roots of her hair, for she saw that his expression was that of a stem and serious person, although he appeared so serene and gentle that it was impossible to irritate him, or to make him think or say anything unjust.
The poor child, who was ordinarily so ready with her tongue, was overawed for a moment, but although she was a little frightened, she still felt a desire to please this handsome fellow, who spoke so decidedly and looked her so frankly in the eyes. She was so confused and embarrassed, that it was with difficulty she restrained her tears, and she turned her face quickly the other way, to hide her emotion.
He observed it, however, and said very kindly:
"I am not angry, Mariette, and you have no cause to be, on your part. I think no ill of you; I see only that you are young, that there is misfortune in the house, and that you are thoughtless. I must tell you what I think about it."
"What do you think about it?" asked she; "tell me at once, that I may know whether you are my friend or my enemy."
"I think that you are not fond of the care and pains people take for those whom they love, who are in trouble. You like to have your time to yourself, to turn everything into sport, to think about your dress, your lovers, and your marriage by and by, and you do not mind having others do your share. If you have any heart, my pretty child, if you really love your sister-in-law, and your dear little nephew, and even the poor, faithful servant who is capable of dying in harness like a good horse, you must wake up a little earlier in the morning, you must care for Madeleine, comfort Jeannie, relieve Catherine, and, above all, shut your ears to the enemy of the family, Madame Sévère, who is, I assure you, a very bad woman. Now you know what I think, neither more nor less."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mariette, rather dryly; "and now please tell me by what right you wish to make me think as you do."
"Oh! This is the way you take it, is it?" answered François. "My right is the waif's right, and to tell you the whole truth, the right of the child who was taken in and brought up by Madame Blanchet; for this, it is my duty to love her as my mother, and my right to try to requite her for her kindness."
"I have no fault to find," returned Mariette, "and I see that I cannot do better than give you my respect at once, and my friendship as time goes on."
"I like that," said François; "shake hands with me on it."
He strode toward her, holding out his great hand, without the slightest awkwardness; but the little Mariette was suddenly stung by the fly of coquetry, and, withdrawing her hand, she announced that it was not proper to shake hands so familiarly with a young man.
François laughed and left her, seeing plainly that she was not frank, and that her first object was to entangle him in a flirtation.
"Now, my pretty girl," thought he, "you are much mistaken in me, and we shall not be friends in the way you mean."
He went up to Madeleine, who had just waked, and who said to him, taking both his hands in hers:
"I have slept well, my son, and God is gracious to let me see your face first of all, on waking. How Is it that Jeannie is not with you?"
Then, after hearing his explanation, she spoke some kind words to Mariette, telling the young girl how sorry she was to have her sit up all night, and assuring her that she needed no such great care. Mariette expected François to say that she had risen very late; but François said nothing and left her alone with Madeleine, who had no more fever and wanted to try to get up.
After three days, she was so much better that she was able to talk over business affairs with François.
"You may put yourself at ease, my dear mother," said he. "I sharpened my wits when I was away from here, and I understand business pretty well. I mean to see you through these straits, and I shall succeed. Let me have my way; please do not contradict anything I say, and sign all the papers I shall bring you. Now, that my mind is at ease on the score of your health, I am going to town to consult some lawyers. It is market-day, and I shall find some people there whom I want to see, and I do not think my time will be wasted."
He did as he said; and after receiving instructions and advice from the lawyers, he saw clearly that the last promissory notes which Blanchet had given Sévère would be a good subject for a lawsuit; for he had signed them when he was beside himself with drink, fever, and infatuation. Sévère believed that Madeleine would not dare to go to law, on account of the expense. François was unwilling to advise Madame Blanchet to embark in a lawsuit, but he thought there was a reasonable chance of bringing the matter to an amicable close, if he began by putting a bold face on it; and as he needed somebody to carry a message into the enemy's camp, he bethought himself of a plan which succeeded perfectly.
For several days he had watched little Mariette, and assured himself that she took a daily walk in the direction of Dollins, where Sévère lived, and that she was on more friendly terms with this woman than he could wish, chiefly because she met at her house all her young acquaintances, and some men from town who made love to her. She did not listen to them, for she was still an innocent girl, and had no idea that the wolf was so near the sheepfold, but she loved flattery, and was as thirsty for it as a fly for milk. She kept her walks secret from Madeleine; and as Madeleine never gossiped with the other women, and had not as yet left her sick-room, she guessed nothing, and suspected no evil. Big Catherine was the last person in the world to notice anything, so that the little girl cocked her cap over her ear, and, under the pretext of driving the sheep to pasture, she soon left them in charge of some little shepherd-boy, and was off to play the fine lady in poor company.
François, however, who was going continually to and fro on the affairs of the mill, took note of what the girl was doing. He never mentioned it at home, but turned it to account, as you shall hear.
CHAPTER XXI
HE planted himself directly in her way at the river-crossing; and just as she stepped on the foot-bridge which leads to Dollins, she beheld the waif, astride of the plank, a leg dangling on each side above the water, and on his face the expression of a man who has all the time in the world to spare. She blushed as red as a cherry, and if she had not been taken so by surprise, she would have swerved aside, and pretended to be passing by accident.
But the approach to the bridge was obstructed by branches, and she did not see the wolf till she felt his teeth. His face was turned toward her, so she had no means of advancing or retreating, without being observed.
"Master Miller," she began, saucily, "can't you move a hairbreadth to let anybody pass?"
"No, my young lady," replied François, "for I am the guardian of this bridge till evening, and I claim the right to collect toll of everybody."
"Are you mad, François? Nobody pays toll in our country, and you have no right on any bridge, or foot-bridge, or whatever you may call it in your country of Aigurande. You may say what you like, but take yourself off from here, as quickly as you can; this is not the place for jesting; you will make me tumble into the water."
"Then," said François, without moving, and folding his arms in front of him, "you think that I want to laugh and joke with you, and that my right of toll is that of paying you my court? Pray get rid of that idea, my young lady; I wish to speak sensibly to you, and I will allow you to pass if you give me permission to accompany you for a short part of your way."
"That would not be at all proper," said Mariette, somewhat flustered by her notion of what François was thinking. "What would they say of me hereabouts, if anybody met me out walking alone with a man to whom I am not betrothed?"
"You are right," said François; "as Sévère is not here to protect you, people would talk of you; that is why you are going to her house, so that you may walk about in her garden with all your admirers. Very well, so as not to embarrass you, I shall speak to you here, and briefly, for my business is pressing, and this it is. You are a good girl; you love your sister-in-law Madeleine; you see that she is in difficulties, and you must want to help her out of them."
"If that is what you want to say," returned Mariette, "I shall listen to you, for you are speaking the truth."
"Very well, my dear young lady," said François, rising and leaning beside her, against the bank beside the little bridge, "you can do a great service to Madame Blanchet. Since it is for her good and interest, as I fondly believe, that you are so friendly with Sévère, you must make that woman agree to a compromise. Sévère is trying to attain two objects which are incompatible: she wants to make Master Blanchet's estate security for the payment of the land he sold for the purpose of paying his debts to her; and in the second place, she means to exact payment of the notes which he signed in her favor. She may go to law, if she likes, and wrangle about this poor little estate, but she cannot succeed in getting more out of it than there is. Make her understand that if she does not insist upon our guaranteeing the payment of the land, we can pay her notes; but if she does not allow us to get rid of one debt, we shall not have funds enough to pay the other, and if she makes us drain ourselves with expenses which bring her no profit, she runs the risk of losing everything."
"That is true," said Mariette; "although I understand very little about business, I think I can understand as much as that. If I am able, by any chance, to influence her, which would be better: for my sister-in-law to pay the notes, or to be obliged to redeem the security?"
"It would be worse for her to pay the notes, for it would be more unjust. We could contest the notes and go to law about them; but the law requires money, and you know that there is none, and never will be any, at the mill. So, it is all one to your sister, whether her little all goes in a lawsuit or in paying Sévère; whereas it is better for Sévère to be paid, without having a lawsuit.
"As Madeleine is sure to be ruined in either case, she prefers to have all her possessions seized at once, than to drag on after this under a heavy burden of debt, which may last all her lifetime; for the purchasers of Cadet Blanchet's land are not able to pay for it. Sévère knows this well, and will be forced, some fine day, to take back her land; but this idea is not at all distressing to her, as it will be a profitable speculation for her to receive the land in an improved condition, having long drawn a heavy rate of interest from it. Thus, Sévère risks nothing in setting us free, and assures the payment of her notes."
"I shall do as you say," said Mariette; "and if I fail, you may think as ill of me as you choose."
"Then, good luck, Mariette, and a pleasant walk to you," said François, stepping out of her way.
Little Mariette started off to Dollins, well pleased to have such a fine excuse for going there, for staying a long time, and for returning often during the next few days. Sévère pretended to like what she heard, but she really determined to be in no haste. She had always hated Madeleine Blanchet, because of the involuntary respect her husband had felt for her. She thought she held her safely in her claws for the whole of her lifetime, and preferred to give up the notes, which she knew to be of no great value, rather than renounce the pleasure of harassing her with the burden of an endless debt.
François understood all this perfectly, and was anxious to induce her to exact the payment of this debt, so that he might have an opportunity to buy back Jennie's broad fields from those who had purchased them for a song. When Mariette returned with her answer, he saw that they were trying to mislead him with words; that, on one hand, the young girl was glad to have her errands last for a long time to come, and that, on the other hand. Sévère had not reached the point of being more desirous for Madeleine's rain than for the payment of her notes.
To clinch matters, he took Mariette aside, two days afterward.
"My dear young lady," said he, "you most not go to Dollins to-day. Your sister has learned, though I do not know how, that you go there more than once a day, and she says it is no place for a respectable girl. I have tried to make her understand that it is for her interest that you are so friendly with Sévère; but she blamed me as well as you. She says that she would rather be ruined than have you lose your reputation, that you are under her guardianship, and that she has authority over you. If you do not obey of your own free will, you will be prevented from going by main force. If you do as she says, she will not mention this to you, as she wishes to avoid giving you pain, but she is very much displeased with you, and it would be well for you to beg her pardon."
François had no sooner unleashed the dog than it began to bark and bite. He was correct in his estimate of little Mariette's temper, which was as hasty and inflammable as her brother's had been.
"Indeed, indeed!" she exclaimed; "do you expect me to obey my sister-in-law, as if I were a child of three? You talk as if she were my mother, and I owed her submission! What makes her think that I may lose my reputation? Tell her that it is quite as well buckled on as her own, and perhaps better. Why does she imagine that Sévère is not so good as other people? Is it wicked not to spend the whole day sewing, spinning, and praying? My sister-in-law is unjust because she has a quarrel with her about money, and she thinks she can treat her as she pleases. It is very imprudent of her, for if Sévère wished she could turn her out of the house she lives in; and as Sévère is patient, and does not make use of her advantage, she is certainly better than she is said to be. And this is the way in which you thank me, who have been obliging enough to take part in these disputes, which are no concern of mine! I can tell you, François, that the most respectable people are not always the most prudish, and when I go to Sévère's I do no more mischief than if I stayed at home."
"I don't know about that," said François, who was determined to make all the scum of the vat mount to the surface; "perhaps your sister was right in thinking that you are in some mischief there. Look here, Mariette, I see that you like to go there too well. It is not natural. You have delivered your message about Madeleine's affairs, and since Sévère has sent no answer, it is evident that she means to give none. Do not go back there any more, or I shall think, with Madeleine, that you go with no good intention."
"Then, Master François," cried Mariette, in a fury, "you think you are going to dictate to me? Do you mean to take my brother's place at home, and make yourself master there? You have not enough beard on your chin to give me such a lecture, and I advise you to leave me alone. Your humble servant," she added, adjusting her coif; "if my sister-in-law asks where I am, tell her that I am at Sévère's, and if she sends you after me, you will see how you are received."
She burst the door open violently, and flew off with a light foot toward Dollins; but as François was afraid that her anger would cool on the way, especially as the weather was frosty, he allowed her a little start. He waited until he thought she had nearly reached Sévère's house, and then putting his long legs in motion he ran like a horse let loose, and caught up with her, to make her believe that Madeleine had sent him in pursuit of her.
He was so provoking that she raised her hand against him. He dodged her every time, being well aware that anger evaporates with blows, and that a woman's temper improves when she has relieved herself by striking. Then he ran away, and as soon as Mariette arrived at Sévère's house she made a great explosion. The poor child had really no bad designs; but in the first flame of her anger she disclosed everything, and put Sévère into such a towering passion that François, who was retreating noiselessly through the lane, heard them at the other end of the hemp-field, hissing and crackling like fire in a barn full of hay.
CHAPTER XXII
HIS plan succeeded admirably, and he was so sure of it that he went over to Aigurande next day, took his money from the priest, and returned at night, carrying the four little notes of thin paper, which were of such great value, and yet made no more noise in his pocket than a crumb of bread in a cap. After a week's time, Sévère made herself heard. All the purchasers of Blanchet's land were summoned to pay up, and as not one was able to do it. Sévère threatened to make Madeleine pay instead.
Madeleine was much alarmed when she heard the news, for she had received no hint from François of what was coming.
"Good!" said he to her, rubbing his hands; "a trader cannot always gain, nor a thief always rob. Madame Sévère is going to make a bad bargain and you a good one. All the same, my dear mother, you must behave as if you thought you were ruined. The sadder you are, the gladder she will be to do what she thinks is to your harm. But that harm is your salvation, for when you pay Sévère you will buy back your son's inheritance."
"What do you expect me to pay her with, my child?"
"With the money I have in my pocket, and which belongs to you."
Madeleine tried to dissuade him; but the waif was headstrong, as he said himself, and no one could loose what he had bound. He hastened to deposit two hundred pistoles with the notary, in the widow Blanchet's name, and Sévère was paid in full, willingly or unwillingly, and also all the other creditors of the estate, who had made common cause with her.
Moreover, after François had indemnified all the poor purchasers of the land for their losses, he had still enough money with which to go to law, and he let Sévère know that he was about to embark in a lawsuit on the subject of the promissory notes which she had wrongfully and fraudulently extracted from the miller. He set afloat a report which spread far and wide through the land. He pretended that in fumbling about an old wall of the mill which he was trying to prop up, he had found old Mother Blanchet's money-box, filled with gold coins of an ancient stamp, and that by this means Madeleine was richer than she had ever been. Weary of warfare, Sévère consented to a compromise, hoping also that François would be lavish of the crowns winch he had so opportunely discovered, and that she could wheedle from him more than he gave her to expect. She got nothing for her pains, however, and he was so hard with her that she was forced to return the notes in exchange for a hundred crowns.
To revenge herself, she worked upon little Mariette, telling her that the money-box of old Mother Blanchet, who was the girl's grandmother, should have been divided between her and Jeannie, that she had a right to her share, and should go to law against her sister.
Then the waif was forced to tell the true source of the money he had provided, and the priest of Aigurande sent him the proofs, in case of there being a lawsuit.
He began by showing these proofs to Mariette, begging her to make no unnecessary disclosures, and making it dear to her that she had better keep quiet. But Mariette would not keep at all quiet; her little brain was excited by the confusion in the family, and the devil tempted the poor child. In spite of all the kindness she had received from Madeleine, who had treated her as a daughter and indulged all her whims, she felt a dislike and jealousy of her sister-in-law, although her pride prevented her from acknowledging it. The truth is that in the midst of her tantrums and quarrels with François, she had inadvertently fallen in love with him, and never suspected the trap which the devil had set for her. The more François upbraided her for her faults and vagaries, the more crazy she was to please him.
She was not the kind of girl to pine and consume away in grief and tears; but it robbed her of her peace to think that François was so handsome, rich, and upright, so kind to everybody, and so clever and brave; that he was a man to shed his last drop of blood for the woman he loved, and yet that none of this was for her, although she was the prettiest and richest girl in the neighborhood, and counted her lovers by the dozen.
One day she opened her heart to her false friend, Sévère. It was in the pasture at the end of the road of the water-lilies, underneath an old apple-tree that was then in blossom. While all these things were happening, the month of May had come, and Sévère strolled out under the apple-blossoms, to chat with Mariette, who was tending her flock beside the river.
It pleased God that François, who was near by, should overhear their conversation. He had seen Sévère enter the pasture, and at once suspected her of meditating some intrigue against Madeleine; and as the river was low, he walked noiselessly along the bank, beneath the bushes which are so tall just there that a hay-cart could pass under their shade. When he came within hearing distance, he sat down on the ground, without making a sound, and opened his ears very wide.
The two women plied their tongues busily. In the first place, Mariette confessed to not caring for a single one of her suitors, for the sake of a young miller, who was not at all courteous to her, and the thought of whom kept her awake at night. Sévère, on the other hand, wanted to unite her to a young man of her acquaintance, who was so much in love with the girl, that he had promised a handsome wedding-present to Sévère, if she succeeded in marrying him to Mariette Blanchet. It appeared also that Sévère had exacted a gratuity beforehand from him and from several others; so she naturally did all in her power to put Mariette out of conceit with François.
"A plague take the waif!" she exclaimed. "What, Mariette, a girl in your position marry a foundling! You would be called Madame Strawberry, for he has no other name. I should be ashamed for you, my poor darling. Then you have no chance; you would be obliged to light for him with your sister-in-law, for he is her lover, as true as I live."
"Sévère," cried Mariette, "you have hinted this to me more than once; but I cannot believe you; my sister-in-law is too old."
"No, no, Mariette; your sister-in-law is not old enough to do without this sort of thing; she is only thirty, and when the waif was but a boy, your brother discovered that he was too familiar with his wife. That is why he gave him a sound thrashing with the butt of his whip, and turned him out of doors."
François felt a lively desire to spring out of the bushes and tell Sévère that she lied; but he restrained himself, and sat motionless.
Sévère continued to ring the changes on this subject, and told so many shocking lies that François's face burned, and it was with great difficulty that he kept his patience.
"Then," said Mariette, "he probably means to marry her now that she is a widow; he has already given her a good part of his fortune, and he must wish to have a share in the property which he has bought back."
"Somebody else will outbid him," said the other; "for now that Madeleine has plundered him, she will be on the lookout for a richer suitor, and will be sure to find one. She must take a husband to manage her property, but while she is trying to find him, she keeps this great simpleton with her, who serves her for nothing, and amuses her solitude."
"If she is going along at that pace," said Mariette, much vexed, "I am in a most disreputable house; in which I run too many dangers! Do you consider, my dear Sévère, that I am very ill-lodged, and that people will talk against me? Indeed, I cannot stay where I am; I must leave. Oh! yes, these pious women criticize everybody else, because they themselves are shameless only in God's sight! I should like to hear her say anything against you and me now! Very well! I am going to say good-by to her, and I am coming to live with you; if she is angry, I shall answer her; if she tries to bring me back by force, to live with her, I shall go to law; and I shall let people know what she is—do you hear?"
"A better remedy for you, Mariette, is to get married as soon as possible. She will not refuse her consent, because I am sure she is anxious to rid herself of you. You stand in the way of her relations with the handsome waif. You must not delay, cannot you understand, for people will say that he belongs to both of you, and then nobody will marry you. Go and get married, then, and take the man I advise."
"Agreed," said Mariette, breaking her shepherd's crook violently, against the old apple-tree. "I give you my word. Go and tell him, Sévère; let him come to my house this evening, to ask for my hand, and let our banns be published next Sunday."
CHAPTER XXIII
FRANÇOIS was never sadder than when he emerged from the river-bank where he had hidden himself to listen to the women's talk. His heart was as heavy as lead, and when he had gone half-way home he lost courage to return, and, stepping aside into the path of the water-lilies, he sat down in the little grove of oaks, at the end of the meadow.
Once there, by himself, he wept like a child, and his heart was bursting with sorrow and shame; for he was ashamed to hear of what he was accused, and to think that his poor dear friend Madeleine, whom, through all his life, he had loved so purely and constantly, reaped nothing but insult and slander from his devotion and fidelity.
"Oh! my God, my God!" said he to himself, "how can it be that the world is so wicked and that a woman like Sévère can have the insolence to measure the honor of a woman like my dear mother, by her own standard? And that little Mariette, who should naturally be inclined to innocence and truth, a child as she is, who does not as yet know the meaning of evil, even she listens to this infernal calumny, and believes in it, as if she knew how it stung! Since this is so, others will believe it too; as the larger part of people living mortal life are old in evil, almost everybody win think that because I love Madame Blanchet, and she loves me, there must be something dishonorable in it."
Then poor François undertook a careful examination of his conscience, and searched his memory to see whether, by any fault of his, he were responsible for Sévère's wicked gossip; whether he had behaved wisely in all respects, or whether, by a lack of prudence and discretion, he had involuntarily given rise to evil thinking. But it was in vain that he reflected, for he could not believe that he had appeared guilty of what had never even crossed his mind.
Still absorbed in thought and reverie, he went on saying to himself:
"Suppose that my liking had turned to loving, what harm would it be in God's sight, now that she is a widow and her own mistress? I have given a good part of my fortune to her and Jeannie, but I still have a considerable share left, and she would not wrong her child if she married me. It would not be self-seeking on my part to desire this, and nobody could make her believe that my love for her is self-interested. I am a foundling, but she does not care for that. She has loved me with a mother's love, which is the strongest of all affections, and now she might love me in another way. I see that her enemies will force me to leave her if I do not marry her, and I should rather die than leave her a second time. Besides, she needs my help, and I should be a coward to leave her affairs in such disorder when I have strength as well as money with which to serve her. Yes, all I have should belong to her, and as she often talks to me about paying me back in the end, I must put that idea out of her head, by sharing all things in common with her, in accordance with the permission of God and the law. She must keep her good name for her son's sake, and she can save it only by marrying me. How is it that I never thought of this before, and that I needed to hear it suggested by a serpent's tongue? I was too simple-minded and unsuspecting; and my poor mother is too charitable to others to take to heart the injuries which are done her. Everything tends toward good, by the will of Heaven; and Madame Sévère, who was plotting mischief, has done me the service of teaching me my duty."
Without indulging any longer in meditation or wonder, François set off on his way home, determined to speak of his plan to Madame Blanchet without loss of time, and on his knees to entreat her to accept him as her protector, in the name of God, and for eternal life.
When he reached Cormouer, he saw Madeleine spinning on her door-step, and for the first time in his life her face had the effect of making him timid and confused. He was in the habit of walking straight up to her, looking her full in the face to ask her how she did; but this time he paused on the little bridge as if he were examining the mill-dam, and only looked at her out of the corners of his eyes.
When she turned toward him, he moved farther away, not understanding himself what his trouble was, or why a matter which, a few minutes ago, had seemed to him so natural and opportune, should suddenly become so awkward to confess.
Madeleine called him.
"Come here to me," said she, "for I have something to say to you, dear François. We are alone, so come and sit down beside me, and open your heart to me, as if I were your father-confessor, for I want to hear the truth from you."
François was reassured by Madeleine's words, and he sat down beside her.
"I promise, my dear mother," said he, "to open my heart to you as I do to God, and to give you a true confession."
He fancied that something had come to her ears which had brought her to the same conclusion as himself; he was delighted, and waited to hear what she had to say.
"François," she went on, "you are in your twenty-first year, and it is time for you to think of marrying; you are not opposed to it, I hope?"
"No, I am not opposed to anything you wish," answered François, blushing with pleasure; "go on, my dear Madeleine."
"Good!" said she. "I expected this, and I have guessed the right thing. Since you wish it, I wish it too, and perhaps I thought of it before you did. I was waiting to see whether the person in question cared for you, and I think that if she does not as yet, she will, very soon. Don't you think so, too, and shall I tell you where you stand? Why do you look at me with such a puzzled expression? Don't I speak clearly enough? I see that you are shy about it, and I must help you out. Well, the poor child pouted all the morning because you teased her a little yesterday, and I dare say she thinks you do not love her. But I know that you do love her, and if you scold her sometimes for her little caprices it is because you are a trifle jealous. You must not hold back for that, François. She is young and pretty; but though there is some danger in this, if she truly loves you she will willingly submit herself to you."
"I should like," said François, much disappointed, "to know whom you are talking of, my dear mother, for I am wholly at a loss."
"Really!" said Madeleine; "don't you know what I mean? Am I dreaming, or are you trying to keep a secret from me?"
"A secret from you!" said François, taking Madeleine's hand. He soon dropped it, and took up instead the corner of her apron, which he crumpled as if he were provoked, then lifted toward his lips as if about to kiss it, and finally let go just as he had done with her hand. He was first inclined to cry; then he felt angry, and then giddy, all in succession.
Madeleine was amazed.
"You are in trouble, my child," she cried, "and this means that you are in love—that all does not go as you wish. I can assure you that Mariette has a good heart; she, too, is distressed, and if you speak openly with her she will tell you, in return, that she thinks of no one but you."
François sprang up, and walked up and down the courtyard for some time in silence; then he returned to Madeleine's side.
"I am very much surprised to hear what you have in your mind, Madame Blanchet; this never once occurred to me, and I am well aware that Mariette has no liking for me, and that I am not to her taste."
"Oh, come!" said Madeleine; "you are speaking petulantly, my child! Don't you think I noticed how often you talked with her? Though I could not catch the meaning of what you said, it was evident that she understood very well, for her face glowed like a burning coal. Do you think I do not know that she runs away from the pasture every day, leaving her flock in charge of the first person she meets? Her sheep flourish at the expense of our wheat; but I do not want to cross her, or talk to her of sheep, when her head is full of nothing but love and marriage. The poor child is just of an age to guard her sheep ill, and her heart still worse. But it is great good luck for her, François, that instead of falling in love with one of those bad fellows whom I was so much afraid of her meeting at Sévère's, she had the good sense to think of you. It makes me, too, very happy to think that, when you are married to my sister-in-law, who is almost the same as a daughter to me, you will live with me and make part of my family, and that I may harbor you in my house, work with you, bring up your children, and thus repay your kindness to me. So, do not let your childish notions interfere with all the joys I have planned. Try to see clearly, and forget your jealousy. If Mariette is fond of dress, it is because she is anxious to please you. If she has been rather idle lately, it is only because she is thinking too much of you; and if she answers me sometimes rather sharply, she does so because she is vexed with your reprimands, and does not know whom to blame for them. The proof that she is good and desirous of mending her ways, is that she has recognized your goodness and wisdom, and wants you for her husband."
"You are good, my dear mother," said François, quite crestfallen. "Yes, it is you who are good, for you believe in the goodness of others and deceive yourself. I can tell you that, if Mariette is good, too, and I will not say she is not, lest I should injure her in your opinion, it is in a way very different from yours, and, consequently, very displeasing to me. Do not say anything more to me about her. I swear to you on my word and honor, on my heart and soul, that I am no more in love with her than I am with old Catherine, and if she has any regard for me, it is her own misfortune, because I cannot return it. Do not try to make her say she loves me; your tact would be at fault, and you would make her my enemy. It is quite the contrary; hear what she will say to you to-night, and let her marry Jean Aubard, whom she has made up her mind to accept. Let her marry as soon as possible, for she is out of place in your house. She is not happy there, and will not be a source of comfort to you."
"Jean Aubard!" exclaimed Madeleine; "he is not a proper person for her; he is a fool, and she is too clever to submit herself to a stupid man."
"He is rich, and she will not submit to him. She will manage him, and he is just the man for her. Will you not trust in your friend, my dear mother? You know that, up to this time, I have never given you any bad advice. Let the young girl go; she does not love you as she ought, and she does not know your worth."
"You say this because your feelings are hurt, François," said Madeleine, laying her hand on his head and moving it gently up and down, as if she were trying to shake the truth out of it François was exasperated that she would not believe him, and it was the first time in his life that there had been any dispute between them. He withdrew, saying in a dissatisfied tone of voice:
"Madame Blanchet, you are not just to me. I tell you that girl does not love you. You force me to say this, against my will; for I did not come here to bring distrust and strife. So, if I tell it to you, you may know that I am sure of it; and do you think I can love her after that? You cannot love me any more, if you will not believe me."
Wild with grief, François rushed off to weep all alone by the fountain.