CHAPTER II.

The Charentonne in its meanderings forms a number of islets. The stream is in itself inconsiderable, but it spreads itself through its shallow valley like a tangled skein, and cuts up the meadows with threads of water easily crossed on plank-bridges.

Much of the land in the bottom is marsh, into which a rill dives and disappears, but other portions are firm alluvial soil, producing rich crops of grass, flax, and here and there patches of corn.

On one of these islands, if islands they may be called, above the hamlet of La Couture, stood a cottage, in style resembling those we meet with in the southern counties of England, constructed of black timber and white plaster, and thatched. To the south, at its back, lay a dense growth of willow and poplar, screening the house from the sun, and giving it in winter a moist and mouldy appearance, but in summer one cool and refreshing. A considerable flower-garden occupied the front of the cottage, filled with superb roses, white, yellow, and red. Tall white and scarlet lilies leaned against the house, whose thatch was golden with house-leek, so that in the flower season the Isle des Hirondelles attracted the admiration of all who passed along the road to Ferrières.

In this cottage lived Matthias André, father of Gabrielle, whom the two priests are conducting across the foot-bridge towards him.

He was cleaning out the cow-house as they approached, littering fresh straw in the stall from which he had forked the manure. He was a middle-sized man, clad in knee-breeches and blue worsted half-stockings that covered the calves, but were cut short at the ankles. His sabots, which shod his otherwise bare feet, were stained and clotted with soil. His coarse linen shirt was open at the throat, exposing his hairy breast, and the sleeves were rolled to the elbows, so as to give free play to his brown muscular arms. A large felt hat, out of which the sun had extracted the colour, lay on the bench before the door, and his head was covered with a blue knitted conical cap, the peak and tassel of which hung over his right ear.

Labour and exposure had bronzed and corrugated the features of Matthias, oppression and want had stamped on them an expression of sullen despair. His brow was invariably knit, and his eyes were permanently depressed. He muttered to himself as he worked: he never sang, for his heart was never light. How can the heart be light that is weighed down, and galled with chains? The life of the peasant before the French Revolution was the life of a slave; he could not laugh, he could not even smile, for he had to struggle for bare existence with exactions which strangled him. He and his sons were like Laocoon and his children in the coils of the serpent that was laced round their limbs, that breathed poison into their lungs, and sucked the lifeblood from their hearts; and that serpent was the _Ancien Régime_.

Louis VI had enfranchised the serfs on the royal domain, and the nobles, after his example, gradually released theirs, finding that the peasant, with liberty and hope, worked better than the slave, and made the land more valuable. To them they sold or rented some of their acres. In 1315 appeared the order of Louis X, requiring all the nobles to emancipate their serfs, because ‘every man should be born free; therefore let the lords who have rights over the persons of men, take example from us, and bring all to freedom.’

The nobles, determined by their interest, obeyed; but down to 1789 serfs remained in France;--it was from the hands of the Church that the Revolution liberated them. To the last, the canons of the Cathedral of S. Claude, in Franche-Comté, refused to emancipate their slaves from the feudal right of _main morte_, which placed human beings, ransomed by the blood of Christ, on a level with the cattle. In Jura there were as many as ten thousand; but in Normandy serfage had disappeared in the thirteenth century. The serf became a small farmer, and free;--but at what price? The land was his on condition of paying a rent. Charges also, _real_, that is, paid in money or in fruits, and _personal_, that is, acquitted by service rendered free of expense to the landlord, weighed on the agriculturist.

The imposts which oppressed him were these:--First, the _Taille_ or tax. Of this there were two kinds, the _taux_ and the _taillon_. From these taxes the nobles and the churchmen were exempt. Of nobles there were in France some 83,000, and of churchmen some 200,000. The capitation was an impost direct and personal, which touched all. Calculated upon the presumed value of land and property which was taxable, it was arbitrary, and those who had access to, and credit with, the officers of comptrol, were lightly rated, whilst those without interest were obliged to pay according to an exaggerated estimate. By a succession of injustices, also, the capitation of some was fixed, whilst that of others varied. The duty of tenth was levied nominally on all; but nobles and ecclesiastics were privileged, and paid nothing on their woods, meadows, vines, and ponds, nor on arable land belonging to the home farm.

The _Corvée_, also, weighed only on the peasant. The name, according to etymologists, indicates the posture of a man bowed at the hardest labour. He who was amenable to the _corvée_ was required to work himself, and make his horses and oxen work, for his landlord and for government. By this means the roads and other public works were kept in repair.

Two grand sources of public revenue were the _Gabelle_ and the _Excise_. The gabelle, or monopoly of salt, pressed upon the peasant in two ways. The father of the family, obliged to pay for salt which he needed a price fifty times its value, was also required, under pain of imprisonment, to purchase a certain amount, determined by the clerks, and fixed according to the presumed consumption of his family. If he failed to purchase the requisite amount, or if he was suspected of being in possession of contraband goods, at any time of the day his house might be invaded by the officers of the Excise, and its contents examined.

The feudal rights to grinding the corn, and pressing the grapes and apples, were also grievous restrictions on the liberty of the farmer and peasant. His landlord might imprison him for crushing the wheat he grew in a hand-quern, and for squeezing enough apples to fill a bottle with cider.

The _Champart_ was another feudal right. The farmer was bound to yield to his lord not only a share of his harvest, but also he was not permitted to reap and garner his own corn till the portion due to the proprietor had been removed from his field. In addition to all these burdens came the _Tithe_; wheat, barley, rye, and oats were at first alone tithable. But the conversion of arable land into pasture and into fields of lucerne, sanfoin, and clover, to escape this tax, affected the income of the clergy, and they claimed the right of taking the tenth of cattle and of tithing wool. Nobles and roturiers resisted this claim, and numerous law-suits were the result,--suits rendered so expensive by the corruptions existing in courts of justice, that the vast majority of sufferers paid the tenth of their goods to the clergy rather than risk all to the lawyers.

Matthias André removed his blue cap to the curés as they approached. He bore them no grudge,--they were fellow-sufferers; but he was wont to grind his teeth as the nobleman or the provost drove by, and he would curse the monk who came to exact the convent dues.

‘Good evening to you, neighbour André,’ said Jean Lebertre; ‘we have brought you your daughter. She is a little upset, frightened by the impertinence of a--well, of a gentleman.’

‘Of a rascal,’ interrupted Lindet.

‘She shall tell you the story,’ said the priest of La Couture, thrusting the girl forward; ‘she can do so better than I; all I know of it is, that my friend here rescued her from a gentleman who was treating her with insolence.’

‘How was it, child?’ asked Matthias, casting his fork from him with such violence that it stuck into the soil and remained upright.

Gabrielle moved towards the seat.

‘Yes, sit down,’ said Lebertre; ‘poor child, you are greatly overcome.’

Gabrielle sank upon the bench. She still trembled in all her limbs. Removing her white cap, which was disarranged, her beautiful dark hair fell in waves down her back and touched the seat she occupied. The fear which had distended her eyes had now deserted them, and the irises recovered their usual soft and dewy light. The peachy colour also returned to cheeks that had been blanched, but the delicate rosy lips still quivered with excitement. Clasping her hands on her lap, and shaking the locks from her temples, she looked up beseechingly at her father, and said, in gentle entreaty,--

‘My father! Let me not go to the château again.’

‘Tell me what took place.’

‘It was M. Berthier, my father. You know how I have feared him. Why did you send me to the château?’

‘Go on, child.’

She suddenly clasped her hands over her brow, threw her head forward, and resting her elbows on her lap, said:--‘Promise me! I am not to go near that place again.’

‘Is time so common an article that I can afford to waste it thus?’ exclaimed André. ‘Go on with your story, or I shall return to littering the cow-stall.’

‘My father!’

‘Well!’

‘I am not to go there again!’

With a curse the peasant flung himself towards his fork, tore it out of the ground, and recommenced his work. He continued carrying into the cow-shed bundles of straw and spreading them, with apparent forgetfulness of his daughter, and indifference to her trouble. She remained with her head in her hands, crying. Lebertre spoke to her, but her grief had now obtained the mastery over her, and she could not answer him.

‘Let her cry herself out,’ said Lindet.

After the first paroxysm was over, she sprang up, ran to her father, cast her arms about him, and placing her chin upon his breast, looked up into his eyes. This was an old trick of hers. Matthias never looked any one in the face, and when his daughter wished to meet his gaze, she acted thus.

‘I will tell you all now,’ she said. ‘Come, sit by me on the bench.’

‘I have no time at present,’ he answered, sullenly. ‘Besides, I can guess a great deal.’

‘You shall listen to me,’ said the girl; ‘I will not let you go till you have heard everything.’

She removed the manure-fork from his hand, and led him to the door of the cow-shed. He would not go farther, he would not seat himself beside her, as she had asked. He yielded to her request in one particular, but not in another. It was his way,--his pride, to do whatever he was asked with a bad grace. He supported himself against one side-post, with his head down, and the knuckle of his forefinger between his teeth; she leaned against the other jamb.

‘I went round to the houses, as usual, selling my bunches of roses; I sold one to Madame Laborde, and two to the Demoiselles Bréant; and M. François Corbelin, the musician, bought one, but he did not pay me,--he had no money with him to-day, but he promised for next time. Then I went to the château of M. des Pintréaux, but the ladies did not want any of my roses; and then I walked on with my basket to the Château Malouve. The lackeys told me that Monsieur was not in, but that he was a little way along the road, and that I was to take him my roses, as he particularly wished to purchase them, he wanted them all; so I walked on, but I was distressed, for I did not like to meet M. Berthier alone. He always addresses me in a way that gives me pain, and he makes his jokes, so that I am ashamed.’

‘Well, well, go on.’

‘So, my father, after I had shown him my basket----’

‘Then you found him?’

‘Yes; he was at no great distance. He laughed when I came towards him. He did not seem to care much for the roses, but looked at me with his horrible eyes, and he put his hand to my chin, and asked for a kiss, then I was frightened and ran from him; but he followed me, and I was so frightened that I could not run with my usual speed; my head was spinning, and I scarcely knew whither I was going; then, just as he caught me up, M. le Curé rescued me from him. God be praised!’

Matthias turned from the door-post to resume his pitchfork, but his daughter intercepted him once more.

‘My father,’ she entreated, ‘say that I am never to go again with my roses to M. Berthier!’

‘Did he pay you for the bunches he took?’

‘No; I ran away before he paid for them.’

‘You are a fool; you should have taken the money, and then run away.’

Lebertre now stepped forward to interfere.

‘It is not right, Matthias, that the poor child should be sent into such peril again.’

‘M. Berthier buys more bunches than any one else,’ answered André, moodily.

‘Dear father, I have too often to suffer the looks and smiles and jokes of those to whom I offer my bunches of flowers,’ said the girl, emboldened by finding that the priest took her part. ‘Let me work in the field every day with you. Let us dig up the garden, and turn it into a potato-field.’

‘Remember the risk to a young and pretty child,’ continued the curé, ‘in sending her round the country alone with her basket of flowers. The young gentlemen are gay and reckless; shame and sin enough have been wrought in this neighbourhood by them, and M. Berthier is notorious for his debaucheries. You are thrusting your child over a precipice.’

‘We must live,’ answered the peasant, fiercely. ‘Answer me this. Does not the sailor risk life for a small wage; does not the soldier jeopardy his for a gay coat and a liard a day? Is it not the mission of men--I do not mean of nobles, they are not men, they are gods--to labour and struggle for a subsistence in the midst of perils? Shall not my child, then, run some risks to win enough to satisfy the gnawing hunger in our vitals? Does not the doctor venture his health for the sake of a fee, and shall not this girl risk her honour to save her life?’

‘You imperil both your soul and hers.’

Matthias shrugged his shoulders.

Lindet strode up to him, caught his shoulders in his palms, and jerked his head upwards; their eyes met for a second, and in that second Lindet mastered his dogged humour. André threw it aside, and straightening himself, he beat his hands together, and cried out in an altered tone, full of bitterness and pain,--

‘My God! what are we poor but the cattle of the rich? We are theirs; what is the good of our attempting to resist their will? They possess our earnings, our labour, our life, our honour; ay! our souls are theirs, to ruin them if they like. Can anything I may do protect poor Gabrielle from M. Berthier, or any other great man who shall cast his lustful eyes on her? No. Let things take their course. Perhaps God will right our wrongs at the judgment. I wait for that. Thy kingdom come!’ he exclaimed, throwing up his hands to the sky. ‘And till then,--if it be God’s will that we should be the prey of the powerful,--that they should eat us up, and pollute our honour,--why, His will be done, we must even bear it.’

‘Do you love your daughter?’ asked Lebertre.

‘As much as I can afford,’ answered André, relapsing into his moody humour.

‘You do love her,’ said Lindet; ‘but you love yourself better.’

Matthias looked furtively at him.

‘I love her, indeed,’ he said, sadly; ‘but I have no thoughts for anything but how to stave off the great enemy.’

‘What great enemy?’ asked Lebertre.

‘Hunger,’ answered the peasant, passionately.

‘The child shall not take her flowers to the Château Malouve any more,’ said Lindet, firmly. ‘She shall take them instead to my brother Robert, and he will buy them. Mind, _instead_, not besides.’

‘Yes, monsieur!’ answered André. ‘Indeed, I do not desire that evil should befall my dear child, but hunger is imperious; and oh! last winter was so terrible, that I dare not face another such, so destitute of means as I have been.’

Dusk had by this time settled in, and the curés walked homewards. Their roads lay together as far as La Couture, which is almost a suburb of Bernay, and was, according to antiquaries, the original parish church of that town, before the erection of S. Cross.

‘See,’ said Lindet to his friend, as they parted at the door of the presbytery of La Couture; ‘see how want and poverty dry up the natural springs of love and virtue; and how the nobles, the Church, and the king, by their oppression of the peasant, are demoralising him. Believe me, if ever a day of reckoning should come, those natural feelings, which oppression has turned into gall, will overwhelm the oppressors. If once the people get the upper hand, mercy must not be expected; wrong-doing has long ago destroyed all the tenderer feelings of our poor.’

But he was wrong in thinking that they were destroyed. Frozen over they were, but not dried up.

That night, after André had gone up his ladder to the bed of straw on which he lay, and after several hours of darkness, Gabrielle woke up at the sound of sobs, and creeping lightly from her attic chamber to her father’s door, she saw him by the moonlight that flowed in at the unglazed window, kneeling against his bed, with his head laid upon his arm, and the moon illumining it, weeping convulsedly, and the white light glittered in his tears.