Part 16

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.

"I did not wish to let the day go by without paying my respects to your grandfather," he said; "and now, as I really am tired, I shall go and spend the night with Tiennet, if I don't inconvenience him."

I answered that it would give me pleasure, and took him to my house where, after we were in bed, he said: "Tiennet, I am really on the point of departure. I came here only to get away from the woods of Alleu, for I was sick of them."

"That's the worst of you, Joseph; you were there with friends who took the place of those you left here in the same way--"

"Well, it is what I choose to do," he said, rather shortly; then in a milder tone he added: "Tiennet, Tiennet, there are some things one can tell, and others which force us to keep silence. You hurt me to-day in telling me I could never please Brulette."

"Joseph, I never said anything of the kind, for the reason that I don't know if you really care for her."

"You do know it," he replied; "and you blame me for not having opened my heart to you. But how could I? I am not one of those who tell their secrets willingly. It is my misfortune; I believe I have really no other illness than one sole idea, always stretching toward the same end, and always beaten back when it rises to my lips. Listen to me now, while I do feel able to talk; for God knows how soon I may fall mute again. I love; and I see plainly I am not loved. So many years have passed in this way (for I loved Brulette when we were little children) that I have grown accustomed to the pain. I have never flattered myself that I could please her; I have lived in the belief that she would never care for me. Lately, however, I saw by her coming to the Bourbonnais that I was something to her, and it gave me strength and the will not to die. But I soon perceived that she met some one over there who suited her better than I."

"I know nothing about it," I replied; "but if it were so, that some one you speak of gave you no ground for complaint or reproach."

"That is true," said Joseph; "and my anger is unjust,--all the more because Huriel, knowing Brulette to be an honest girl, and not being able to marry her so long as he remains in the fraternity of muleteers, has himself done what he could to separate from her. I can still hope to return to Brulette hereafter, more worthy of her than I have been; but I cannot bear to stay here now, for I am still nothing better than I was in the past. There is something in the manner and language of every one who speaks to me that seems to mean: 'You are sick, you are thin, you are ugly, you are feeble, you know nothing new and nothing good that can interest us in you.' Yes, Tiennet, what I tell you is exactly so; my mother seemed frightened by my face when she saw me, and she cried so when she kissed me that the pain of seeing her was greater than the joy. This evening, too, Brulette looked annoyed when I came in, and her grandfather, good and kind as he always is to me, seemed uneasy lest I should stay too long. Now don't tell me that I imagined all that. Like all those who speak little, I see much. My time has not yet come; I must go, and the sooner the better."

"I think you ought to take at least a few days' rest," I said; "for I fancy you mean to go to a great distance, and I do not think it friendly in you to give us unnecessary anxiety."

"You need not be anxious, Tiennet. I have all the strength I want, and I shall not be ill again. I have learned one thing; and that is that frail bodies, to which God has given slender physical powers, are provided with a force of will which carries them farther than the vigorous health of others. I was not exaggerating when I told you over there that I became, as it were, a new man on seeing Huriel fight so boldly; and that I was wide awake in the night when I heard his voice saying to me, 'Come, cheer up! I am a man, and as long as you are not one you will count for nothing.' I want therefore to shake myself free of my poor nature, and return here some day as good to look at and better to hear than all Brulette's other lovers."

"But," I said, "suppose she makes her choice before you return? She is going on nineteen, and for a girl as much courted as she is it is time to decide."

"She will decide only between Huriel and me," answered Joseph, in a confident tone. "There is no one but him and myself who are capable of teaching her to love. Excuse me, Tiennet; I know, or at least I believe, that you dreamed of it."

"Yes," I replied, "but I don't dream of it any longer."

"Well for you!" said Joseph; "for you could never have been happy with her. She has tastes and ideas which don't belong to the ground she has grown in; she needs another wind to rock her; the one that blows here is not pure enough and it might wither her. She feels all this, though she may not know how to say it; and I tell you that unless Huriel is treacherous, I shall find her still free, a year or two hence."

So saying, Joseph, as if wearied out by letting himself talk so much, dropped his head on his pillow and went to sleep. For the last hour I had been struggling to keep awake, for I was tired out myself. I slept soundly, and when at daybreak I called him he did not answer. I looked about, and he was gone without awaking any one.

Brulette went the next day to see Mariton, to break the news to her, and find out what had passed between her and her son. She would not let me accompany her, and told me on her return that she could not get Mariton to say much, because her master Benoît was ill and even in some danger from congestion of the brain. I concluded, therefore, that the woman, being obliged to nurse her master, had not had time to talk with her son as much as he would have liked, and consequently he had become jealous, as his nature led him to be at such times.

"That is very likely," said Brulette, "for the wiser Joseph gets through ambition the more exacting he becomes. I think I liked him better when he was simple and submissive as he used to be."

When I related to Brulette all that he had said to me the night before, she replied: "If he really has so high an ambition, we should only hamper him by showing an anxiety he does not wish for. Leave him in God's care! If I were the flirt you declared I was in former times, I should be proud to be the cause of his endeavoring to improve his mind and his career; but I am not; and my feeling is chiefly regret that he does nothing for his mother or himself."