“I shall go over to Benassis to-morrow, of course,” said Genestas to himself, “and I will see what he says before I make up my mind what to do with that fellow,” and with that he went to a farewell dinner given to him by his brother officers. He would be leaving Grenoble now in a very few days.
As the lieutenant-colonel returned after the dinner, his servant handed him a letter. It had been brought by a messenger, he said, who had waited a long while for an answer.
Genestas recognized Adrien’s handwriting, although his head was swimming after the toasts that had been drunk in his honor; probably, he thought, the letter merely contained a request to gratify some boyish whim, so he left it unopened on the table. The next morning, when the fumes of champagne had passed off, he took it up and began to read.
“Oh! you young rogue,” was his comment, “you know how to coax whenever you want something.”
The letter dropped from Genestas’ hands; it was some time before he could read any more.
“Ah! well, I must go over,” the soldier exclaimed.
He ordered his horse and started out. It was one of those still December mornings when the sky is covered with gray clouds. The wind was too light to disperse the thick fog, through which the bare trees and damp house fronts seemed strangely unfamiliar. The very silence was gloomy. There is such a thing as a silence full of light and gladness; on a bright day there is a certain joyousness about the slightest sound, but in such dreary weather nature is not silent, she is dumb. All sounds seemed to die away, stifled by the heavy air.
There was something in the gloom without him that harmonized with Colonel Genestas’ mood; his heart was oppressed with grief, and thoughts of death filled his mind. Involuntarily he began to think of the cloudless sky on that lovely spring morning, and remembered how bright the valley had looked when he passed through it for the first time; and now, in strong contrast with that day, the heavy sky above him was a leaden gray, there was no greenness about the hills, which were still waiting for the cloak of winter snow that invests them with a certain beauty of its own. There was something painful in all this bleak and bare desolation for a man who was traveling to find a grave at his journey’s end; the thought of that grave haunted him. The lines of dark pine-trees here and there along the mountain ridges against the sky seized on his imagination; they were in keeping with the officer’s mournful musings. Every time that he looked over the valley that lay before him, he could not help thinking of the trouble that had befallen the canton, of the man who had died so lately, and of the blank left by his death.
Before long, Genestas reached the cottage where he had asked for a cup of milk on his first journey. The sight of the smoke rising above the hovel where the charity-children were being brought up recalled vivid memories of Benassis and of his kindness of heart. The officer made up his mind to call there. He would give some alms to the poor woman for his dead friend’s sake. He tied his horse to a tree, and opened the door of the hut without knocking.
“Good-day, mother,” he said, addressing the old woman, who was sitting by the fire with the little ones crouching at her side. “Do you remember me?”
“Oh! quite well, sir! You came here one fine morning last spring and gave us two crowns.”
“There, mother! that is for you and the children.”
“Thank you kindly, sir. May Heaven bless you!”
“You must not thank me, mother,” said the officer; “it is all through M. Benassis that the money had come to you.”
The old woman raised her eyes and gazed at Genestas.
“Ah! sir,” she said, “he has left his property to our poor countryside, and made all of us his heirs; but we have lost him who was worth more than all, for it was he who made everything turn out well for us.”
“Good-bye, mother! Pray for him,” said Genestas, making a few playful cuts at the children with his riding-whip.
The old woman and her little charges went out with him; they watched him mount his horse and ride away.
He followed the road along the valley until he reached the bridle-path that led to La Fosseuse’s cottage. From the slope above the house he saw that the door was fastened and the shutters closed. In some anxiety he returned to the highway, and rode on under the poplars, now bare and leafless. Before long he overtook the old laborer, who was dressed in his Sunday best, and creeping slowly along the road. There was no bag of tools on his shoulder.
“Good-day, old Moreau!”
“Ah! good-day, sir.... I mind who you are now!” the old fellow exclaimed after a moment. “You are a friend of monsieur, our late mayor! Ah! sir, would it not have been far better if God had only taken a poor rheumatic old creature like me instead? It would not have mattered if He had taken me, but HE was the light of our eyes.”
“Do you know how it is that there is no one at home up there at La Fosseuse’s cottage?”
The old man gave a look at the sky.
“What time is it, sir? The sun has not shone all day,” he said.
“It is ten o’clock.”
“Oh! well, then, she will have gone to mass or else to the cemetery. She goes there every day. He has left her five hundred livres a year and her house for as long as she lives, but his death has fairly turned her brain, as you may say——”
“And where are you going, old Moreau?”
“Little Jacques is to be buried to-day, and I am going to the funeral. He was my nephew, poor little chap; he had been ailing for a long while, and he died yesterday morning. It really looked as though it was M. Benassis who kept him alive. That is the way! All these younger ones die!” Moreau added, half-jestingly, half-sadly.
Genestas reined in his horse as he entered the town, for he met Gondrin and Goguelat, each carrying a pickaxe and shovel. He called to them, “Well, old comrades, we have had the misfortune to lose him——”
“There, there, that is enough, sir!” interrupted Goguelat, “we know that well enough. We have just been cutting turf to cover his grave.”
“His life will make a grand story to tell, eh?”
“Yes,” answered Goguelat, “he was the Napoleon of our valley, barring the battles.”
As they reached the parsonage, Genestas saw a little group about the door; Butifer and Adrien were talking with M. Janvier, who, no doubt, had just returned from saying mass. Seeing that the officer made as though he were about to dismount, Butifer promptly went to hold the horse, while Adrien sprang forward and flung his arms about his father’s neck. Genestas was deeply touched by the boy’s affection, though no sign of this appeared in the soldier’s words or manner.
“Why, Adrien,” he said, “you certainly are set up again. My goodness! Thanks to our poor friend, you have almost grown into a man. I shall not forget your tutor here, Master Butifer.”
“Oh! colonel,” entreated Butifer, “take me away from here and put me into your regiment. I cannot trust myself now that M. le Maire is gone. He wanted me to go for a soldier, didn’t he? Well, then, I will do what he wished. He told you all about me, and you will not be hard on me, will you, M. Genestas?”
“Right, my fine fellow,” said Genestas, as he struck his hand in the other’s. “I will find something to suit you, set your mind at rest——And how is it with you, M. le Cure?”
“Well, like every one else in the canton, colonel, I feel sorrow for his loss, but no one knows as I do how irreparable it is. He was like an angel of God among us. Fortunately, he did not suffer at all; it was a painless death. The hand of God gently loosed the bonds of a life that was one continual blessing to us all.”
“Will it be intrusive if I ask you to accompany me to the cemetery? I should like to bid him farewell, as it were.”
Genestas and the cure, still in conversation, walked on together. Butifer and Adrien followed them at a few paces distance. They went in the direction of the little lake, and as soon as they were clear of the town, the lieutenant-colonel saw on the mountain-side a large piece of waste land enclosed by walls.
“That is the cemetery,” the cure told him. “He is the first to be buried in it. Only three months before he was brought here, it struck him that it was a very bad arrangement to have the churchyard round the church; so, in order to carry out the law, which prescribes that burial grounds should be removed a stated distance from human dwellings, he himself gave this piece of land to the commune. We are burying a child, poor little thing, in the new cemetery to-day, so we shall have begun by laying innocence and virtue there. Can it be that death is after all a reward? Did God mean it as a lesson for us when He took these two perfect natures to Himself? When we have been tried and disciplined in youth by pain, in later life by mental suffering, are we so much nearer to Him? Look! there is the rustic monument which has been erected to his memory.”
Genestas saw a mound of earth about twenty feet high. It was bare as yet, but dwellers in the district were already busily covering the sloping sides with green turf. La Fosseuse, her face buried in her hands, was sobbing bitterly; she was sitting on the pile of stones in which they had planted a great wooden cross, made from the trunk of a pine-tree, from which the bark had not been removed. The officer read the inscription; the letters were large, and had been deeply cut in the wood.
“Was it you, sir,” asked Genestas, “who——?”
“No,” answered the cure; “it is simply what is said everywhere, from the heights up there above us down to Grenoble, so the words have been carved here.”
Genestas remained silent for a few moments. Then he moved from where he stood and came nearer to La Fosseuse, who did not hear him, and spoke again to the cure.
“As soon as I have my pension,” he said, “I will come to finish my days here among you.”