Title: Catherine's coquetries : A tale of French country life
Author: Debans, Camille
Language: English
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COQUETRIES ***



  CATHERINE’S COQUETRIES

  _A Tale of French Country Life_

  BY

  CAMILLE DEBANS

  TRANSLATED BY LEON MEAD

  ILLUSTRATED

  NEW YORK:

  WM. L. ALLISON COMPANY,

  PUBLISHERS.



  COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY

  WORTHINGTON COMPANY.



  [Illustration]

  CATHERINE’S COQUETRIES.

  A TALE OF FRENCH PEASANT LIFE.



CHAPTER I.

A GAME THAT ENDS BADLY.


“Bravo, Sidonie!”

“Ah, but he escapes her, the scamp!”

Thus shout the spectators as they watch a poor young lame girl chase,
with all her energy, a young fellow of two and twenty, who makes all
possible effort to elude her.

Sidonie’s right hand clasps an important adjunct of the homely game--a
little cluster of red raspberries. In the absorbed ardor of pursuit the
“Little Crook,” as they call her, holds it quite mechanically, and from
her tightly clinched fingers trickle drops of the crimson juice as she
runs.

“Good, little one, good,” cries the little old man, who is highly
amused at the endeavors of the unfortunate lame girl.

Sidonie makes a fresh start--this time determined to catch the
fugitive. The aspect of the afflicted girl as she hobbles about on
limbs of unequal length does not engender among these peasants any
particular feeling of compassion. None of her companions ever dreamed
of offering her pity. She perfectly enjoys the game. She would be
utterly astounded and piqued if any one manifested an open sympathy on
account of her deformity. With that great endurance so natural among
hardy peasants, and often so inexplicable to the city born and bred,
she pursues the young man. After running in a straight line a short
distance, he suddenly changes his tactics. A tree--several for that
matter, but one in particular--stands near by. He runs behind it and
awaits Sidonie, his hands clasping the trunk. Reaching the tree she
fully expects to seize him. But he pretends to go to the right, and as
she confidently advances he makes for another tree to the left, and so
the game is prolonged. And the brave girl, always smiling, continues
the pursuit, until at length Bruno, the young peasant, slips and falls
upon the sward, and before he can recover himself, Sidonie holds him
down and daubs his face over and over again with the juice of her
crushed raspberries.

Everybody approaches to congratulate “Little Crook,” who laughs in
glee at her triumph. Her good-natured adversary joins in the ensuing
merriment.

What game are they playing? Indeed, it has no name as yet, for it has
just been invented by Catherine, the wife of Madame le Hausseur’s
gamekeeper; but its novelty has rendered it at once popular among the
country lads and lasses.

The game continues for perhaps an hour, and more than one pretty face
is smeared with the bright red juice. If a kiss is taken now and then,
who complains of that? Surely not the lovely Catherine, who, though
married to the gamekeeper, is not averse to a friendly caress. In
truth, it is oftenest after her that the young men give chase--she is
so gay, so bright, so little scandalized by the familiarities of her
young adorers. Presently her turn comes to play the pursuer’s _rôle_.
She selects Bruno as her victim. Graceful, Diana-like in form, and
charming in her abandon, she bounds through the bushes.

In the background of this living picture stand the great trees--chiefly
beeches and oaks--as erect as proud sentinels, their wide-spread
branches forming a grateful shade where the peasants are sitting in
sociable groups. In the clearing, just in front of the older people,
who are watching with enjoyment the sport of the younger ones, is a
dense mass of raspberry bushes that are fairly loaded down with ripe
fruit. Never before have raspberries been so abundant in this locality.
Under a tree are ranged all sizes and kinds of baskets. Soon in the hot
July sunshine old and young will begin to gather this wild crop, which
may be had for the picking. Some have come solely for the purpose of
improving each shining hour of this Sunday morning in obtaining as much
of the fruit as possible. Others think a little diversion is not out of
order on such an occasion. And so the impromptu game proposed by the
vivacious wife of the gamekeeper has been eagerly approved by a dozen
or more participants.

Bruno now runs breathlessly after Catherine, but she is too fleet of
foot to be caught. Animated and happy, the gamekeeper’s wife is wholly
absorbed in the sport, and triumphs because she is able to distance her
pursuer.

At length, a towering, broad-shouldered fellow, with a confident air,
is seen coming along the footpath. By his side walks a queer little
being, with uneven steps, misshapen body, short, twisted legs, and
enormous arms. Both stop to watch the game--the first like a man who
cannot be induced to enter into any such frivolous pastime; the other
like a man incapable of doing so by reason of his poor physique.

“Good-morning, Andoche,” salutes Catherine as she passes the deformed
little man, who smiles with a wry, disagreeable face.

“Good-morning, Madame Catherine,” he returns, with a look of malice in
his eyes. Then turning to the other he remarks, “You will see how she
will manage to invite you to join in.”

Bruno, running at a swift pace, passes before the newcomers. The young
woman, making a sudden _detour_, again approaches them, and asks in a
voice of admirable nonchalance:

“Would you not like to play for a while, Monsieur Firmin?”

“Ah, what did I tell you?” exclaims Andoche, bursting into laughter.

“Will you be one of us?” continues the young woman.

“I do not know the game, but I will play,” responds Firmin.

Catherine, by an adroit manœuvre, leads the waiting Bruno to one
side and smilingly makes him a sign. He throws himself upon Firmin
and besmears his face with berry juice. Firmin’s surprise quickly
curdles into anger. Like a giant he resents the treatment, but it is
quite unnecessary for him to give poor Bruno such a resistless blow.
Advancing to interpose hasten Rosalie, Félicité, Suzanne, Justine,
Nicholas, Mathieu, Constant, and others. Firmin has not time to give a
second blow. He strikes out only once, but that is quite sufficient.

Catherine briefly explains the nature of the game. During her
explanation the jeering Andoche regards her insolently, and when she
has finished he observes: “It is not a proper or neat game for Sunday,
when one is quite clean and fresh.”

“And now,” continues Catherine, coolly, paying no heed to the sneer of
Andoche, “it is your turn to run after some one, and decorate her face
if you catch her.”

“I will, then, run after you,” declares this young Antinous, rather
stupidly.

“How foolish!” exclaims the disagreeable Andoche. “If you expect to
catch Madame Catherine, you will have to double your speed.”

Firmin does not notice the evil slur in the old man’s suggestion. As
soon as he dashes forth, all seek to evade him.

Catherine, blushing a little in spite of herself, leaves the open
glade and gains the forest. In two or three long strides Firmin might
overtake her, but she is too quick for him, because she darts first to
the right and then to the left so skilfully that the great fellow, each
time going as straight as an arrow, overleaps her by several feet and
so loses her, much to the amusement of the others.

“What a goose!” grumbles that beast of an Andoche. “She will lead as
far as you care to follow her.”

Though the beautiful Catherine is evidently fatigued, Firmin cannot
catch her. Now she disappears from view behind the raspberry hedges,
some minutes perhaps elapsing before she and her pursuer are again
seen. Sometimes the gamekeeper’s wife reappears with a little grimace
on her face, for the game begins to pall. The cries of enthusiasm cease.

But Catherine remains indefatigable. Old Andoche continues to jeer,
and finally in his garrulous, cynical voice cries: “How interesting it
would be should Monsieur Barrau happen to pass this way! He might not
be altogether pleased at the sight.”

Scarcely has Andoche finished speaking when through the trees they
see the gleam of a musket. The branches are pushed aside, and a man
clad in velvet, with long gaiters extending from his knees, makes his
appearance, followed by a dog which as he bounds to and fro barks
joyously.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER II.

THE ALTERCATION.


Savin Barrau was naturally a soldier. As Catherine was a beautiful
woman, so was Savin a distinguished-looking man. His regular-featured
face wore an expression of hauteur and valor, as though he often had
stood in the face of death. But upon his lips one could have fancied
there lurked a smile both touching and tender. His handsome dark eyes
brightened his face to an extraordinary degree. Brave and noble he
seemed as he stood gazing upon the scene.

“Ah, ha,” said the vindictive Andoche, “I have brought trouble to our
charming Madame Catherine with my remarks, I fear. Another time I shall
hold my tongue.”

Savin approached, carrying his gun in his left hand. His dog Patachaud
was still bounding at his side. A feeling of restlessness possessed
the crowd, hitherto so joyous. A jealous glitter suddenly came into
Barrau’s eyes. He could not disguise his disapproval of his wife’s
frivolity.

Every one thought Catherine would discontinue the game and run to meet
him. But no. Either bravado or the testy consciousness of her virtue
led her to continue it. Firmin, who as yet had not perceived Barrau,
darted after her with increased zest. The gamekeeper came forward with
even tread.

“Ah, some game seems to be in progress,” said he as he halted.

His wife and Firmin now disappeared from view. A look of displeasure
clouded Savin’s features. With a military gesture he rested his hand
on his knee. The dog continuing to leap upon him, he shouted: “Down,
Patachaud, down, sir!” a little rudely.

A profound silence enveloped the scene. Every one was impressed, for
all knew the keeper’s mood. Why indeed should the coquettish Catherine
so vex her brave husband? Presently she again came in sight. Merrily
she went toward Savin, smiled up at him, and seizing his shoulders
swung around him, without a thought of abandoning the game.

Certainly Savin’s look of displeasure should have warned her to
desist, but that look she obstinately refused to see. Fortified by her
husband’s tall figure, Catherine stood panting and laughing, while
Firmin foolishly advanced toward her in pursuit.

At this juncture, the gamekeeper, impatiently tapping the ground with
his foot, exclaimed: “Come, come! this is a little too bold.”

“Now for a storm,” murmured Andoche. “Firmin would have passed the time
better by drinking a couple of glasses of beer with me.”

Firmin stupidly stared at Barrau, with an air of indifference; while
Catherine, vexed at Savin’s interference, addressed him brusquely in
these words: “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“Not much. You have played too long. You must go and rest.”

“But we have not yet gathered the berries.”

“Well, let the others do that. Come, let us go.”

“Oh, no, indeed,” said Catherine, perversely. “You may go on if you
like, but I----”

“Come along, Catherine. Do not provoke me.”

A hard look entered her eyes. To be led away before everybody appeared
to her, at that moment, the acme of humiliation. It was wiser to
concede to her husband’s wishes, she well knew, for he loved her
ardently, and had only her welfare at heart. But she did not wish to
seem so meek before her friends. Indeed, she would show them that she
was not to be bullied.

“It would have been surprising had you not come to spoil all our sport.
But, as I said before, you may go. I shall remain longer.”

“Poor little one,” said Andoche, hatefully.

The gamekeeper’s wife turned toward a group of peasants, some of whom
were regarding her approvingly, others with displeasure.

“Catherine,” said Barrau, in vibrating tones, “I am the master, you
understand, and never shall I submit to being laughed at by a Firmin.”

“Pooh! You always see evil in everything. Am I doing wrong? Whenever
I try to enjoy myself you are angry. In order to please you, I ought
always to stay at home. But I don’t care for that sort of life--not I.”

“Come!”

“No.”

Savin was visibly disturbed. His resolute face looked pained. He said
nothing, but going straight up to his wife, he took her by the arm and
forced her to go by his side. Vexed with rage, she attempted to free
herself, but in vain. Her husband held her closely. But rather than go
with him she fell to the ground, sobbing.

“Catherine, my girl, come,” urged Savin, more gently. “Do not be a
baby; come willingly. People are mocking at us.”

Did the young woman believe her husband would weaken? Or did she think
it dramatic to make a scene? Who knows? At all events, she raised
her hand to strike her husband on the face, when he, foreseeing the
intention, arrested the blow. His movement was so rapid that he did not
realize what strength he exerted in seizing her fingers. Held as firmly
as though she were in a vice, Catherine uttered a little cry of pain.

“You hurt me, Savin. See! You hurt me!”

But the gamekeeper, swayed by his anger, did not listen to her
complaint.

“A blow!” cried he. “You wished to strike me--_you_! Before all these
people!”

Catherine reiterated her complaint.

“Be quiet,” said her husband, in tones of thunder. “Do not forget that
I am Savin Barrau. You will have cause to remember this twentieth of
July. Ask my pardon!”

At these words Catherine made another effort to release herself from
his grasp, but Savin held her all the more firmly.

“Apologize, I tell you!”

“I will not!”

Pride overcame her pain. Her arm was aching terribly, but--she would
never yield. Drops of perspiration stood on her forehead. Her heart
within her seemed to stop beating. Though ready to faint, she still
would have resisted, but her suffering was too great.

“Pardon me,” she cried, at length, in a grieved voice.

“You will not do so again?” demanded Savin, severely.

“No, no. Release me!”

“You will never again do so rude a thing?”

“No. Oh, how you hurt me!”

Savin dropped her arm and pushed her toward the pathway.

“Come, let us go,” said he.

Catherine, humiliated and angry, did not resist. Without once turning
her head, Madame Barrau walked away, bewildered and wretched.

No one had thought of interfering between the man and wife. Country
people, as a rule, have great respect for strength and authority.
Savin’s behavior seemed to them quite the natural sequence of
Catherine’s.

A profound silence reigned for several minutes. By tacit consent all
waited until the gamekeeper and his wife were beyond hearing, and then
soon enough each tongue began to wag. Catherine was very pretty, and
therefore could not escape calumny. More than one venomous smile was to
be seen on the lips of her enemies.

“Did you see what a look she gave him when they started?”

“And how vexed she was because he came?”

“She could have strangled him,” said Andoche, wickedly.

“Poor Barrau! how sad!”

Bruno alone was silent. Now and then he opened his mouth as though
he had something to say, but he closed it again without speaking.
Amid the babble Firmin ventured a word. He had been a valet in Paris,
and more than one pretty chambermaid had smiled upon him: so he felt
himself to be quite a squire of dames.

“Madame Barrau is such a fine-looking woman that her husband ought to
be satisfied if--if--don’t you know?”

Every one save Bruno burst into laughter. He turned pale, clinched
his fists, and muttered something to himself. Finally he said with
vehemence, as he planted himself before Firmin: “You are a scoundrel.
You, at least, have no right to say anything. I repeat, you are a
scoundrel!”

“Ah, my dear fellow, how excited you are!”

“You know very well that Madame Catherine is an honest woman. I will
answer for it, and I forbid you to say a word to the contrary.”

“You forbid me! You forbid me!” retorted Firmin, pale and exasperated.
“And what if I laugh in your face?”

“I will break your head as I would a cat’s,” cried Bruno, more and more
enraged.

“Ah, ha!” said Andoche, in his maddening way: “_you_ are then in love
with Madame Catherine?”

“I also forbid you to speak like that, Andoche. Indeed, one ought never
to allow drunkards in company.”

He must be a hot-brained fellow to speak like that--this young Bruno.

Fair-skinned, slight, graceful, and blond, the son of Mother Mathurine
would have been taken anywhere for a gentleman. But he could not boast
that strength of limb and muscle which distinguished the young fellows
with whom he had often come in contact, and who were always ready for a
quarrel.

Firmin was as strong as an ox, and Andoche, the old blacksmith, had
sinews of steel. Young Bruno could hardly expect to enter the lists
with either, and he was rather foolhardy to challenge a dispute.
Firmin and Andoche Grignon were both well enough settled in life, in a
pecuniary way; while young Bruno was but the son of a poor mother, who
passed as a good woman, though his father had insisted upon remaining
away from home for over twenty years.

Bruno’s last remark lent a sharp piquancy to the situation. The women
were quite elated at the prospect of a dispute; while the men crowded
around, fearing lest they should lose a word. Andoche frowned and his
face assumed an ugly expression. He never hesitated to give a blow, and
his two short arms had a terrible reputation at Quarré, Rouvray, and
Trinquelin.

“Who ever saw such an insolent cur?” said he, livid with rage.

For an answer Bruno struck his fist full upon the fat, red face of the
stupefied Andoche. The blacksmith, for such he was, in his ill-fitting
clothes, stood gaping, with his mouth and eyes wide open--struck dumb
for a moment by the young man’s temerity. Had he been inebriated, as
was often the case, he would not have hesitated. But now he seemed half
afraid, until Firmin’s jeering voice goaded him to violence.

“Good heavens!” roared Andoche, desperately, “take that!” And he
planted a cruel blow upon Bruno’s chest. Poor Bruno! he fell in a heap
upon the grass. Andoche, making the most of his advantage, then leaped
upon his adversary. The unfortunate fellow, brave to the last, rose
to his knees only to receive another stinging blow. Firmin, meanwhile,
showed himself the coward by urging the blacksmith to greater violence.
Andoche again furiously seized the young man by the throat and would
have strangled him, but for a new-comer, a man brawny and wiry, who
stepped forward, suddenly took the blacksmith himself by the throat and
pressed him so hard that, muttering a cry of pain, he relaxed his hold
upon Bruno and tried to get away.

“The Bear!” he cried, in a stifled voice. He scarcely found himself
released, when in a spasm of rage Bruno’s adversary started to punish
the man who had interfered. But the tables were turned. With no great
effort “the Bear” took Andoche between his iron hands, raised and
hurled him to the ground. A stronger man than Andoche was master of the
field.

“It is cowardly,” said he, “to beat a fellow like that. Andoche, let
Firmin and Bruno settle the dispute. Bruno is courageous, and Firmin is
cowardly. That statement is but just. But you! I should have thought
you more honorable!”

“What a shock you gave me!” pitifully cried Andoche, who had no desire
to prolong the fight.

“What caused the row? Bruno is not the lad to be incensed for nothing.”

“They were doubting the purity of Madame Catherine,” said Bruno.

“The gamekeeper’s wife?” queried “the Bear,” with some agitation.

“Yes, Madame Barrau, if you please.”

“Well, well,” said “the Bear,” with an assumed nonchalance. Then after
a slight pause he added: “It is none of my affair. But if again I catch
you attacking a man like little Bruno, Andoche, I will dash you to
pieces.”

The blacksmith, remembering his last lesson, hung his head and said
nothing.

“Bruno, my lad, come with me,” said “the Bear,” as he turned to go. But
Bruno did not wish to retreat under another’s protection like a coward.

“No, thank you,” he said: “I will remain.”

“So be it,” returned “the Bear.” “Man is a free agent.”

And the shaggy-haired, strongly built man shambled away without asking
if Andoche intended to renew the fight, which was far from Andoche’s
wish. He had received a lesson. The women, however, continued to score
and revile Catherine. Said one old gossip: “Well, that fool of a Savin
has no more than he deserves. When a man marries he ought not to choose
a girl who is neither a peasant nor a lady.”

“Come, come!” said Bruno, irritably.

“Ah, ha! you are sensitive on the subject, eh?”

But the interest in the discussion soon flagged, and presently they
began to pick berries.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER III.

THE CORNER OF THE WOOD.


Under arches of foliage made beautiful by an occasional stray gleam of
sunshine, Savin and Catherine walked homeward in silence.

With tears trickling down her cheeks and suffusing her long eyelashes,
the young woman put one foot before the other like an automaton, and
saw nothing but the black earth under her feet. She took no notice of
the trees and blossoming flowers, of the delicate blue gentians that
fringed the path, of the soothing peace of nature.

At any other time Catherine would have gloried in the picture. The
sylvan verdure, the fragrant air, the exquisite landscape had always
appealed to her sense of the beautiful. But now, with downcast eyes,
she cared not for the charming spectacle.

Savin, too, was an ardent admirer of nature, and he passionately loved
the grand old forest. But now, jealous and discontented, he walked
moodily along, while Patachaud, leaping by his side, in vain pleaded
for attention.

For a long time Barrau and his wife proceeded without speaking,
each keeping to his or her own path and brooding over the sorrowful
situation. And yet how charming they were--she with her raven hair
and lustrous dark eyes, straight aquiline nose, and perfect mouth; and
he, a man of thirty-two, with the carriage of a soldier, and a strong
intellectual face, a rich deep voice, and skin bronzed by the summer
sun. A blond mustache gave to his face a look which the French are
accustomed to trace back to their ancestors the Gauls. Certainly there
could not have been found in all the countryside two handsomer persons
than Savin and Catherine. Faithfully and fondly, too, had they loved
each other, and until now had been happy. But a little coquetry and
ardent love for pleasure on the one hand, and jealousy on the other,
had spoiled it all, and--who could tell?--might lead to the direst
misery.

Barrau did not know how imprudent it is for a man to take the conceit
out of a pretty woman, and Catherine did not realize how hard it is to
attempt to dissuade a strong man from what he considers right.

And so they, at length, reached the border of the wood--she ruminating
upon vengeance, and he almost tragically annoyed by the thought that
they had given cause for scandal to the gossips they had left behind.

Finally, the path became more devious, and as they advanced the
magnificent beauty of the scene burst upon them. Through an opening
in the trees the sun burned like a ball of fire. From every hand were
wafted strains of rapturous melody. Thousands of feathered songsters
were joining in one grand chorus of praise to God.

Affected in spite of himself, Savin’s face became more gentle, while
Catherine’s softened almost to tenderness. But the moment of possible
reconciliation passed, and home was reached.

Upon a small bluff, half hidden by trees, stood a cosy little cottage,
built of wood and brick. As if conscious of its modest architectural
pretensions, the _chalet_ was quite enveloped in a network of clematis
and woodbine, and a rustic veranda afforded a picturesque effect to the
tiny villa. Behind it the forest plunged into a vast ravine, at the
bottom of which brawled a little brook among the rocks. The mid-day
sunlight beat upon the _façade_ of the cottage and radiantly glinted
the leaves of the surrounding trees, among which a dozen or more
poplars extended a grateful shade over the little garden.

Catherine and Savin did not linger without, but entered the house
together. The former, throwing upon the table the fichu she had worn,
seated herself by the open window and began nervously tapping the floor
with her foot.

A quarrel seemed imminent. Once more in their own home Catherine knew
her husband would cease to be vehement. Barrau seated himself on one
side of the table and watched Patachaud as he eagerly drank a cup
of water which was always ready for him. Two strangers passed by,
remarking on the flowers which covered the cottage roof.

At length, Barrau rose from his chair and broke the silence by saying:
“We must have dinner now, Catherine.”

“You are hungry, then,” said she, with reproach. “Well, then, go and
eat. I do not prevent you. Surely in order to keep so _strong_ as you
are, you must eat heartily.”

Her words cut him to his soul’s quick.

“Do not be rebellious, Catherine. Come, now.”

She bounded to her feet and bent upon him her flashing eyes.

“It is I who am wrong, then. I am the culprit, eh? You strike me, and
then call me rebellious. Indeed, I ought to rebel, and for good, too.”

“Catherine,” said Savin severely.

“Ah, why did I marry a common brutal soldier?”

Barrau blushed. The thrust struck home.

“Enough! Enough!” said he, rudely; “I am the master here, at least. And
any honest woman should not make such a remark.”

“Indeed! I am a worthless jade, am I? A coquette? A good-for-nothing?”

Savin made an impatient gesture.

“Say it,” she went on; “do not hesitate.”

As though to prevent further disagreement, Savin started to go, but
his anger forced him to stop and say: “Ah, well, yes. Yes, then! A
woman who compromises herself in the presence of evil tongues has no
self-respect.”

“Take care!” cried Catherine, advancing toward him in anger.

“Take care yourself, my child. Do your duty and be circumspect is all I
ask. But no more coquetry, you understand, or----”

“Or--you will kill me, perhaps. Well, then, do it. Kill me, if you
will.”

“Madame,” said he, solemnly, “I do not come from a family of assassins.”

Catherine’s face turned livid. She fell heavily to the floor, and Savin
could have bitten his tongue out for his cruel words.



[Illustration]



CHAPTER IV.

THE STAMPEDE.


Three weeks later. The annual cattle show at St. Benoit is about to
open. St. Benoit is the great region for fine cattle in France. From
miles around the farmers and peasants assemble to exhibit the beasts
they have fattened to sell in Paris at a reasonable profit.

Every road is crowded. Oxen, cows, and sheep fill the thoroughfares and
byways, and the quaint rural habitations are gayly decorated with flags
and streamers. Not a drop of rain has fallen since the famous day of
the raspberry _fête_, and each morning the sun has risen in the east
with more scorching radiance.

The large hamlet of St. Benoit, perfectly suited to such a fair, is
crowded in spite of its size. As the sun climbs above the horizon,
the cattle accumulate in greater numbers. The peasants are in the
best of good spirits, and talk is heard and laughter rings on all
sides. Perhaps the buyers are treated with rather more deference than
the sellers, but those who come neither to buy nor to sell address
themselves to the various schemes of pleasure. The fair is for
everybody, and, at all events, it offers an admirable opportunity to
“eat, drink, and be merry.”

The two public houses of the place are not without guests, and the
respective landlords are gathering in a goodly supply of the _sine
qua non_ of life and not stopping to count the centimes. More than one
young rascal, with nothing to sell and no money to buy, finds his way
to the village inn and does not leave there thirsty. Among this class
are two men who make more noise than all the rest, and who await the
inevitable fistic encounter with interest. One of them is Andoche the
blacksmith, an expert in his trade, but still more skilful in spoiling
wine by drinking it.

As he sits just outside the door of the public house, at one of the
tables, he appears ill at ease. In the rural portions of France people
do not like to drink conspicuously, but in Paris it is different.
The peasant, conscious that he might better spend his money in some
other direction, prefers to take his libations under cover or behind
a screen. To get tipsy is all well enough, he thinks; but it is not
necessary that the whole world should witness the process from start to
finish.

At length, Andoche and his friend proceed to the fair-grounds, not
because they prefer to do so, but for the very simple reason that
Jeanrobert, the landlord, will not trust either for another centime’s
worth. Andoche cannot hope to find another man so generous as Fadard,
with whom he has taken his last tipple. Fadard is either an old man
who seems to have petrified in his youth, or a young man who too soon
has been claimed by a precocious old age. Fadard does not belong in
the town, but everybody knows him, for several times in the course of
a year he comes to pay his respects--as he claims--to one Léocadia
Faillot, who passes as his cousin. Evil tongues, like those of Rosalie
and Victoire, make up all sorts of stories in regard to them; but they
really do Mlle. Faillot an injustice. The fact is, this dried-up old
young or young old man is actually a _relative_, who only comes to see
her to borrow money now and then.

In the centre of the market-place, the Mayor, a large, solemn old man,
stands talking with four or five equally aged citizens. He is a hardy
old man of eighty-five years, strong as an oak, straight as a classic
marble pillar, but avaricious, penurious, and cunning in the extreme.
He owes his administrative position alone to his skilful management in
once conducting a herd of cattle through the circuitous pathways of
Forêt-au-Duc. A more truly imposing sight than that of the sturdy old
man driving his oxen, and making them obey with a simple touch of the
lash, could scarcely be found. As he stands near the cattle, suddenly
a refractory bull, seizing his opportunity, lowers his horns as if to
strike.

“Pardon me, Father Jerome,” speaks a voice behind him at this moment,
“but, at your age, a blow from a bull would be an ugly present.”

“It is you, then, Savin, my boy. Thanks for your caution. And how is
Madame Catherine to-day?”

Savin’s face takes on a glowering look.

“For good health, my wife has no equal,” he replies, evasively.

“Well, well, that is certainly a blessing. But does she remain as
indifferent?”

“There is no change, good father,” answered Savin, sadly.

Madame Barrau herself now joins the group, and so the subject is
dropped. While they greet Catherine with due courtesy, it is plain to
see that a barrier divides the husband and wife. Catherine remains but
a moment, and then excuses herself to speak with an acquaintance. As
for Savin, he waits an instant after her departure, and then turning
upon his heel walks away in an opposite direction.

“Noble fellow,” observes the Mayor, as Savin disappears from view. “I
fear he has made a bitter mistake.”

“What! In marrying D’Angerolles’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“Opinions differ as to that. Some say he loved her in secret for many
months, while that sot of an Andoche declares that he was caught in a
trap.”

“She is not the wife for him, that is certain.”

“Be that as it may, he has been captured by the fair Catherine.
How--nobody knows.”

“Ah, but somebody knows,” insists Parjeau, with emphasis.

“Who?”

“Why, Andoche, to be sure. He is coming this way. Shall I call him?”

“Yes, on condition that he is sober. When in his cups he respects
neither man nor beast.”

Celestin Parjeau beckons to the blacksmith, but the latter, fearing
lest he lose a chance to gain another “smile,” pretends not to see the
signal. One of the little urchins playing near by is sent to bring him,
and so Andoche is obliged to join them.

“The gamekeeper,” he begins, “you want to know about him? A very
delicate subject to discuss, because one cannot speak openly. The
army teaches us two great duties. One is never to imbibe spirituous
liquors to excess, and the other is to be generous in dealing with all
questions of sentiment, especially where a woman is concerned, and
practically to say nothing. I am a soldier and have had experience in
those things.”

“You are drunk again,” remarks the Mayor, candidly.

“I? Indeed, no! You may place Parjeau there in my arms, and I will
carry him straight as a die to the post road.”

“Well, if you are not intoxicated, you at least are talking
nonsense--cheap nonsense.”

“But I have more to say.”

“Well, proceed, but be quick about it.”

“You were speaking of Savin, eh? A man who is the soul of honor, and
generous, too, by the saints. Being a sergeant-major he knows the world
as it stands. He has seen service, too, and----”

“To the point,” cry his hearers, impatiently.

“Ah, well, why pursue the subject? You all know D’Angerolles’s story.”

“Yes. He was suspected of shooting----”

“Suspected?”

“Yes, Andoche. It was but a mere suspicion.”

“They found old Martin dead on his doorstep. D’Angerolles had passed by
only twenty-five minutes before, with his gun on his shoulder, and as
a report was heard but a moment previous to his quitting the mill, you
understand, it looked more than suspicious.”

“But, Andoche, D’Angerolles had no motive or object in killing Martin.”

“Vengeance is strong.”

“But he never said a word against the old man.”

“That counts for nothing.”

“But how is Savin concerned?”

“True--I had forgotten. Savin, full of sympathy and kind-heartedness,
took D’Angerolles’s part in the affair and bravely upheld him from
beginning to end. Nobody could speak aught against Catherine’s father
before him.”

“Did he love her at that time?”

“It appears not. But her youth, after her father’s death, appealed to
him. She was all alone and unprotected from the taunts of malevolent
persons who went so far as to call her the daughter of an assassin.
None spoke to her save to insult her, and her life was wretched. Poor
child! She cried day and night. Somebody advised her to go away--to
Paris--where no questions would be asked. But Savin came to the
rescue. He learned how cruelly people were talking about her and he
was incensed. He picked many a quarrel on her account. Among others
Rosalie did not hesitate to calumniate Mademoiselle d’Angerolles and to
insinuate that between her and Savin too intimate relations existed. At
this Barrau was furious, of course, and the upshot of it all was that
he protected Catherine by making her his wife. Nobody now dares to say
a word. But it was a queer thing, after all. Had she been a peasant,
it would have seemed different. But her father was a gentleman, and it
appears she has no common talent for learning.”

“That is nothing derogatory to her character, my friend.”

“No, but we do not live like Parisians here. A different _ménage_ might
better please the haughty Catherine.”

“Pshaw! Her lot should be a happy one.”

“Come, come,” breaks out Andoche, “let us drink to our Mayor’s health.”

“Thanks, thanks, Andoche; but none for me, if you please.”

“Upon my invitation? I beg you will not refuse,” returns Andoche, with
mock politeness. “As a soldier and gentleman, however, I will have the
grace to excuse you should you insist.”

The Mayor, Parjeau, and others refuse, and the blacksmith turns to join
his companion, Fadard. The fair progresses, the business transactions
being concluded with more celerity as the heat becomes more intense.
The sun tortures the animals like the close heat of a furnace fire.
Those that by fortunate chance are near wells or ponds can leap in and
cool themselves in the water, but the rest--that is to say, ninety
per cent. of them--raise their parched heads toward heaven as if
seeking some rain-cloud to refresh themselves. Besides, the flies, the
mosquitoes, and especially the gnats exasperate them to desperation.

There is perhaps no person on the face of the earth more invulnerable
to the sun’s rays than the French peasant. To-day, however, there is a
general admission that it is intolerably hot. Some, fearing that even
their cattle may die of sunstroke, place them under shelter without
reference to whether they can be sold. But many poor beasts are left to
suffer, and their piteous lowing is distinctly heard above the hum and
din of the fair.

The Mayor, with his experienced eye, surveys the scene on all sides.
Like a mariner who feels a coming storm before any sign is evident
to his eyes, Father Jerome has the air of a man who foresees danger.
Walking in the shade of the great trees, he touches his neighbor’s
elbow and says: “My friend, this heat is going to play bad pranks on
us.”

“What makes you think so?” demands Parjeau.

“_Mon Dieu!_ It is not well to predict evil, but do you see those eight
or ten yoke of oxen down there by Simmonet’s mill? Well, there it will
begin--the stampede, I mean. Do you see that great ox rearing in the
air and----”

The sense of danger makes him silent, and rushing to the nearest house
he shouts at the top of his voice: “A stampede! A stampede! Call the
women and children in quickly!”

“What! Is old Father Jerome crazy?” cries Andoche, who remains seated
at a table, half overcome by his potations. Others at once realize the
danger, and shouts of “A stampede!” resound in the ears of the peasants
like the peals of a tocsin.

Among marching armies as well as sleeping camps sometimes a terrible
fright takes possession of soldiers. The horror-stricken men, without
a moment’s pause, throw down their arms and run here and there in mad
confusion. How many times has a general, sure of his campaign, seen
victory vanish because of a sudden panic without reason and for which
nobody (?) is responsible.

So with these cattle that a moment since were quiet and under control.
Some nameless terror, like an insidious simoom, has seized the herd.
The fury spreads like magic, and they madly plunge and rear, and turn
the market-place into a scene of wild and noisy chaos. The danger is
supreme. “A stampede!” The appalling announcement echoes like a peal of
thunder throughout the startled fair.

Then suddenly an ominous stillness prevails, and for half a minute
not a movement is made among the frightened people who are watching
the spectacle from a neighboring cottage. But an unearthly bellowing
breaks the brief silence, and with heads erect and glittering eyes the
cattle madly paw the ground, upturning stones and tearing up the earth
until thick, blinding clouds of dust obscure the landscape. Who now can
doubt the danger? The merciless sun goads the herd to frenzy.

Fadard, intoxicated but still prudent, followed by Andoche, approaches
the door of the _cabaret_[A] where they have been dawdling. A cloud of
hot dust fills their eyes and nostrils, and they gladly seek refuge
within.

[Footnote A: A drinking pavilion.]

At the same moment the distracted beasts make another dash. Like demons
they career about the market-place, trampling upon and killing each
other in their desperate struggle to reach the exit gates. Through
these they plunge and go tearing along the highway, the earth seeming
to tremble beneath their feet. The little booths by the wayside are
far from safe. A part of Andoche’s jacket is carried away impaled upon
the horn of a bull which has dashed against the wall of the _cabaret_.
Consternation fills the hearts of the villagers. All who have dear ones
abroad on the road or in the fields are pale with anguish. Children,
too, are missing, and the suspense is heart-breaking. What will be the
sequel? They hardly dare look out to see if the storm and fury have at
all abated.

Under a cart-shed at the end of the market-place stands a huddled group
of men. They await the end. Suddenly a little child, about two years
old, runs out of a wood-chopper’s house and starts across the road
along which a part of the herd is still rushing like a whirlwind.

“He will be killed!” yelled some one, as a young heifer racing forward
just overleaps the boy.

But a special providence seems to protect children, and for the nonce
the little fellow escapes. He miraculously reaches the shed unharmed.
There is not a man in the cart-shed who is not thrilled with the desire
to go and save other little ones from certain death. To be sure, many
sit rooted to the spot, lacking the courage to move; but not all of
them are cowards.

Just as a young girl ventures to cross the road, an enormous bull comes
thundering along. She is in imminent peril. Who will attempt an heroic
act of rescue? A sickening fear seizes the spectators. Onward course
the foaming animals, following in the dusty wake of their formidable
leader.

Not an instant too soon some one rushes out of a neighboring cottage
and, clasping the young girl in his arms, prepares to shield her from
the oncoming cattle. His presence of mind is remarkable; but no time is
left for escape, for the herd is upon him. He makes one more effective
move--he hurls the little maid into a clump of rushes, where she falls
heavily, but beyond the pale of danger. He rolls under the trampling
hoofs, and the whole battalion of beasts passes over the body of one
who has attempted the impossible. What a terrible sight! He is crushed
and bruised, but they expect to find him a shapeless mass.

“Who is he?” shout a hundred or more people nearly in unison.

“I believe he is Bruno Volane,” answers a peasant of Trinquelin.

“It’s just like him,” observes an old woman, “to rush to certain death.
Ah! but he is brave.”

By this time the people, too, are in a panic. Husbands and wives and
parents and children have become separated, and terrible havoc has been
made by the cattle along the roads, and valuable beasts are lost or
killed. The adjacent country looks not unlike a battle-field. Here and
there the wounded beasts lie bleeding upon the ground. The market-place
shows traces of an unusual struggle and of hard usage; the cottages are
battered, windows knocked out and doors unhinged.

This stampede surpasses anything in the way of a calamity ever known in
the annals of St. Benoit.

At length, a man armed with a cudgel strides forth as if to encounter
the foe. Each advancing bull is driven into the ring by the man Andoche
calls “the Bear.” He is a singular-looking figure as he stands there,
with his unkempt beard and hair fluttering in the breeze.

Rushing to the spot where Bruno has fallen, L’Ours (“the Bear”) takes a
guarded attitude and then strikes out in every direction, beating down
the cattle right and left.

“He will be killed!” cries some one. “Why should he go to Bruno’s aid
now? The fellow must certainly be dead.”

“Have you not noticed that L’Ours always happens around when Mother
Mathurine’s son is in danger?”

“Yes--how strange it is!”

“And why is it?” asks Rosalie, who is always prying into others’
affairs, being the most inquisitive of women.

“Why? Why? Go and ask _him_. Perhaps he will tell you.”

Meanwhile L’Ours is beating off the infuriated animals, and the panic
gradually subsides. Seizing Bruno with one hand and protecting himself
with the other, he speeds to a neighboring cottage, regardless of the
disorder and confusion that prevail.

The house in question belongs to an eccentric personage, well known
throughout the country for his benevolence. Assistance is never
withheld from the worthy seeker by Monsieur Eugène. Day and night he is
always ready to give advice or succor to the unfortunate, and one can
enter his house without going through the form of knocking. A welcome
is always certain and the latch-string is never within.

Without ceremony, therefore, L’Ours enters the cottage, and advancing
to a couch gently places his burden on the counterpane. A crowd of
curious people has followed and now enters in procession. Bruno’s eyes
and cheeks are ghastly with blood and his lips are set and colorless.
As he lies motionless upon the bed Jean Manant (L’Ours) begins to feel
his hands and limbs with anxious haste.

“Nothing broken here,” he remarks, stroking the unfortunate’s left leg.
“Nor there, nor there,” he continues, probing Bruno’s arms and chest.
Large beads of perspiration stand on his forehead and tears fall from
his eyes like rain.

Monsieur Eugène arrives at this moment.

“What is the matter?” he inquires solicitously.

Jean makes no reply, and Brigitte Martinet and Félicité Mafflu proceed
in discordant concert to relate the adventure. As both speak at
once and each has a different version to tell, Eugène is unable to
understand a word. So calling Catherine, who is lingering near the
door, he says: “Madame Barrau, will you have the kindness to explain
the situation? Come, Brigitte, let Madame speak.”

Catherine comes forward. All are surprised at her lack of emotion. In
a few words she tells Monsieur Eugène all the circumstances: how Bruno
rushed to the child’s rescue, and how Jean bravely fought his way to
Bruno’s prostrate body and carried him here.

“Remarkable!” exclaims Monsieur in cheerful tones. “And now, good
people, do me the favor to wait outside in the yard until we see what
can be done. Too many here will be an inconvenience, but one or two of
you may stay to assist.”

Catherine and Sidonie, the little cripple, remain, but the others file
slowly out into the yard. As she is leaving an old peasant woman is
motioned to remain. She is a nonentity, but a woman who will follow
Monsieur Eugène’s directions to the letter without a quiver of the
eyelids or the lips. Nothing astonishes her, for she is like an
iceberg--immovable and unfathomable. In the village there are people
who declare she never speaks. Jeannille Marselon is a curiosity to the
villagers, who years since have ceased trying to thaw out this living
icicle.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER V.

SIDONIE.


Scarcely had the door closed upon the crowd when Monsieur Eugène threw
off his coat, and bending over Bruno’s prostrate form said:

“First let us see if there is life.”

With these words he rested his head on Bruno’s chest. Jean Manant could
hardly breathe, so deep was his dread of the possible truth; while
poor little Sidonie was choked with anguish. After a moment of cruel
suspense Eugène raised his head sadly, as if to regain his breath, and
then once more inclined his ear.

Jean Manant and Sidonie were in despair. Catherine alone remained calm
and collected. A few more moments of suspense passed, and then with a
little cry Monsieur Eugène sprang up.

“He is living. His heart is beating, though faintly,” said he. “Wait!”

He immediately selected a lance from an unpretentious little surgeon’s
case near by and summoned the three women to help him.

“Here, Jeannille,” he quickly called, “support Bruno’s head and
shoulders--like that. And you, Madame Barrau, will you kindly hold his
wrist firmly? You are not easily frightened, are you? I am going to
bleed him.”

“All right,” answered Catherine, without a sign of flinching, as she
seized his wrist, but poor Sidonie was trembling like an aspen-leaf.

Under the lance the vein was opened and there spurted out a stream of
blood, the sight of which nearly distracted the little lame girl.

“Good! good!” said Monsieur Eugène, with a smile.

“Is he saved?” asked Jean in a trembling whisper.

“At all events, the chances are in his favor.”

“But those cattle must have crushed his bones,” insisted Manant, who
was still possessed by a horrible doubt.

“Jean, my boy, it is a miracle; but, barring more or less severe
contusions, Bruno has escaped.”

Still incredulous, Jean regarded Monsieur Eugène steadily for half a
minute as if to read the truth in the latter’s face. Calmly Eugène
returned his gaze and soon Jean’s doubts vanished, for a sigh fell from
Bruno’s lips.

A great joy illumined Manant’s face and Sidonie lifted her eyes in
prayer. Old Jeannille sat unmoved and impenetrable. Catherine looked at
the young man a little curiously. He seemed too slender and delicate a
fellow to be so daring. His white arm was like a woman’s. Indeed, what
woman in St. Benoit could not boast of more muscle than he? And his
slender wrist inspired a sort of pity in her breast.

“Poor fellow!” she murmured to herself, as she reflected how ardently,
though respectfully, Bruno loved her--not daring to confess it.

Poor fellow, indeed!

Sidonie gazed upon his shapely form in mute admiration. How perfect he
seemed to her. How noble and graceful. Ah! could he but learn to love
her!

Bruno moved gently. Another sigh--a deeper one than before--came from
his lips. Monsieur Eugène was bathing his wounds with arnica and
bandaging them. Bruno’s long-fringed drooping eyelids feebly opened,
and he slowly looked around him.

Catherine affected an air of cool indifference, but Sidonie wore a look
of absolute devotion. Bruno abruptly changed his gaze from the lame
girl’s enraptured face to Madame Barrau’s, and his own became radiant
for a moment. A bit of color crept into his cheeks. Catherine continued
to hold his wrist while the vein was bleeding, and the contact of her
soft hand sent a delicious magnetic thrill through his body.

“Thank you, Madame Catherine,” he murmured--hardly above a whisper--and
then, with a smile on his lips, he again fainted away.

Catherine also smiled, but in a spirit of triumph, and Jeannille turned
upon her a look of such frigidity that the gamekeeper’s wife, blushing
and disconcerted, asked if the operation was not nearly over.

“A moment more; but if you are tired Jean will relieve you,” answered
Monsieur Eugène. Jean Manant did not require a second bidding. With a
delicacy that was wonderful in so clumsy a man, he took Bruno’s arm in
his hands. In a few minutes Bruno returned to consciousness.

“Where do you suffer?” asked Monsieur Eugène.

“I am not in pain,” said Bruno, his eyes riveted on Catherine’s face.
Just then the door slammed.

“Who’s there?” shouted Eugène, impatiently.

“It is I, Monsieur,” answered the awkward Firmin, as he entered.

“What do you want? Didn’t they tell you I was engaged and did not wish
to be disturbed?”

“But important business brings me.”

“Well, well, speak quickly.”

“I wish to ask Monsieur my rights.”

“In what respect?”

“Monsieur knows of the stampede. Well, I had just bought a pair of oxen
from Carassol, who lives at Bocasse, but they had not been surrendered
to me when the stampede commenced.”

“Well?”

“Well, they did like all the rest. They ran away.”

“Ah! And Carassol claims that the transaction was concluded in good
faith and that he is not responsible for the oxen?”

“Exactly.”

“Let us see, Finnin. Had you been drinking?”

“To speak honestly, a little, Monsieur.”

“That is right--be honest. Do you know where Carassol’s oxen were
standing?”

“Near the watering-trough.”

“And you wish my opinion in the matter? Listen. Carassol must assist
you to recover the oxen, and you must make a diligent search for them.”

“But I have paid for the beasts.”

“Then Carassol is in the right.”

“I will go to law about it.”

“You will lose the case, my boy.”

“Well, we shall see,” returned Firmin, who, seeing Catherine,
immediately approached her.

“Ah, good-day, Madame Barrau. Are you well? I perceive that you are
charming as ever.”

Blushing a little at this bold overture, Catherine answered quietly
with a word. Firmin assumed such an offensive manner toward her that,
obliged to treat it as insolence, she prepared to leave. Firmin, too,
showed his intention to depart.

“_Au revoir_,” said he. “Thanks for your advice, Monsieur.”

Catherine, with disgust, turning to go, observed near the door old
Jeannille, who was staring at her with cold, penetrating eyes.

Catherine again changed color. “It seems as though she were playing the
spy on me,” she thought. “Can it be that my husband has put a watch
over me? If I knew that to be the fact----”

Always impulsive, Catherine now imagined the worst. She fancied she had
discovered a plot in which everybody was arrayed against her. “This is
the third time I have caught that old hag watching me as if she would
read my thoughts.”

Firmin, meanwhile, was walking by her side.

“Go away,” said Catherine disdainfully. “One would think you had taken
it upon yourself to compromise me.”

The man certainly was a sot, but he possessed an enormous amount of
vanity. Catherine’s words therefore flattered his self-conceit.

“Upon my honor, Madame----”

Firmin for several years had served as valet to a Parisian gentleman,
and he once had heard his master speak thus to a great lady. So
thinking to please Catherine he made use of the high-sounding phrase,
adding _sotto voce_ in her ear: “Meet me to-morrow at three o’clock at
Bemacle’s Cross, _chère_ madame,” and without waiting for her reply he
passed on ahead with rapid step.

Catherine shrugged her shoulders. A feeling of indignation took
possession of her. She redoubled her pace and proceeded home. Since the
day when Savin humiliated her before the peasants she had been enraged
and miserable. “On my knees,” she would repeat a dozen times a day,
“he compelled me to ask pardon. On my knees!” And through her brain
all sorts of schemes of vengeance were flitting. With all the force
of her darker nature she had begun to hate the valiant soldier whose
generosity she should have recognized and reciprocated. Haunted by the
idea that ever since that memorable day people had distrusted her, she
felt able less and less to strive against the evil spirit to which she
had fallen a prey.

On every side as she walked homeward an extraordinary confusion
reigned. Many were engaged in a search after the missing cattle. The
men taunted each other and quarrelled, and more than one peasant, after
searching in vain for his cow, ox, or bull, took the one nearest him
and declared without hesitation that it belonged to him. Nobody can be
more ferocious than the peasant who loses his worldly goods, and in the
present instance more than fifty had been dispossessed.

Fadard stood leaning against the wall in the bar-room of the inn
when Andoche entered. His face had been rendered hideous by a large
gash--the result of a blow from a bottle. Night was approaching. The
sun, in a flood of glowing crimson and amber, was sinking beyond the
world’s west. The leaves of the tall poplars were gently soughing as
the twilight breeze, prodigal with caresses, wooed them into soothing
accents. Still the wrathy peasants haggled and disputed the claims
of possession as the animals slowly and with great difficulty were
recaptured. No one claimed the dead cattle. The controversy was alone
confined to the living. The sun in a final burst of glory flashed a
brilliant farewell to this section of the earth as Madame Barrau,
excited to hatred and anger and imagining all kinds and degrees of
troubles to be hers, went on her way with downcast eyes. Once, however,
she glanced at the parting orb, whose lustrous rays recalled to her
mind Bruno’s look of joy when he beheld her beside the couch.

If Catherine had allowed herself to remember only Savin’s generosity
instead of harboring wicked thoughts; if she had studied the situation
and reflected a little, she would have realized what a meagre sacrifice
of self-love would have won her husband over to devotion once more. But
this effort seemed to her out of the question. She only remembered that
if Savin did not love her two other men did. Had not Firmin and Bruno
evinced how much she was to be desired? Ah! they would know--either one
of them--how to appreciate her beauty and fine qualities. Thus onward
she walked, with vengeance in her heart.

Beyond the village comparative calm prevailed. Here no disputes were
heard. On the rustic little bridge she met Mother Mathurine. The poor
woman was hurrying toward St. Benoit.

“Have you seen Bruno, Madame Catherine?” she asked, with heart-broken
sobs.

“Do not take on so, Mother Mathurine. He is safe. Monsieur Eugène is
taking care of him.”

“Tell me the worst, Madame,” pleaded the old woman.

“I have, Madame. It is true--but he owes his life to Jean Manant.”

“To _him_? Did _he_ save him?”

“Yes, Madame. From under the trampling herd he rescued him.”

“_Again!_ Thanks, Madame Catherine. But I must hasten to Bruno’s side.
I may be able to do something for him.”

And with quickened steps Mother Mathurine proceeded to Monsieur
Eugène’s house, where she arrived a few moments later, breathless and
trembling. Through the yard all instinctively made way for her to pass.

“Where is my son?” she asked, hoarsely. They pointed to the front room.
Seeing her enter, Monsieur Eugène came forward to speak to her.

“One moment before you embrace Bruno. He has just fainted again.”

“You would tell me he is dead!”

“No! no! He is living and doing well. But you may embrace a brave lad
here and thank him for his courage,” and Monsieur Eugène pointed to
Jean Manant.

Mother Mathurine, turning, seized his hands and kissed them.

“Mother Mathurine,” cried the brawny Jean, somewhat embarrassed, “do
not thank _me_.”

“What! When you have saved his life for the fourth time! _Mon Dieu!_
What courage!”

“It was nothing,” answered he, astonished that his action in Bruno’s
behalf should be judged so meritorious.

At this moment Bruno stirred.

“Bruno wants to embrace you,” observed Monsieur Eugène to Mother
Mathurine.

“O Bruno! Naughty, careless boy,” she cried. “Did you not promise me
that you would not again expose yourself to danger? You will be the
death of me--running so many risks.”

“What could I do, mother? Could I leave a child to die without raising
a finger to save her?”

“O my boy! You know how much I love you. Do not torment me again. Be
more careful in the future.”

“But you forget, mother, that my friend Jean comes in time to save me
always,” and he seized Manant’s hand, the latter trying to conceal
his emotion. Some one was silently weeping tears of joy in a secluded
corner of the room. Poor little Sidonie! Ordinarily she would have
hastened to embrace Mother Mathurine. But now a fear possessed her and
she could not trust herself to speak. For worlds she would not expose
her swollen eyes that Bruno might see what she endured.

“Are you suffering now?” asked Mother Mathurine.

“My body seems broken, but I have no actual pain,” answered Bruno.

“What a miracle that your brain was not crushed. God be praised!” said
the grateful mother. “But can you not come home?”

“I believe so.”

“No imprudence, if you please,” expostulated Eugène. “Bruno must remain
here for a few days or a week if necessary.”

“You are too good, Monsieur Eugène,” said the young man. “Already I
have given you so much trouble. With Jean’s assistance I can easily go
home.”

Sidonie was hoping that Bruno would mention her presence. The poor girl
was looking reproachfully at him when Mother Mathurine noticed her for
the first time.

“Why, Sidonie, child! You have been very quiet. How long have you been
here? Come and kiss me.”

“Madame Catherine also assisted Monsieur Eugène when he bled my arm.
_She_ held it for him,” broke out Bruno, unconsciously wounding the
already suffering Sidonie.

“Yes, I know. I met her on the way here. Poor Catherine! She looked
unhappy!”

“But she ought to be the happiest woman in the village,” said Monsieur
Eugène earnestly.

Bruno’s countenance assumed a peculiar expression, while Madame
Mathurine, who understood matters, drew little Sidonie closer to her
side. “Ah, my dear,” she said in a whisper, “if it ever depends upon
me it is you he shall choose.” Sidonie clasped Mother Mathurine with
gracious joy.

By the side of Monsieur Eugène old Jeannille sat as though transfixed,
with her eyes sharply directed at the lame girl. One by one the stars
began to blossom in the heavens. Night was come. Nature had fallen
asleep and the beautiful silver lights were keeping guard on high.

With renewed thanks to his kind benefactor Bruno, assisted by Mother
Mathurine, Jean, and Sidonie, started for home. Sidonie’s face beamed
with pleasure as the young man leaned his right arm on her shoulder.
Happy Sidonie! How tender were her thoughts for him! She stepped with
great care lest her limp should bother him.

The moon now hanging high in the heavens lent an enchantment to the
scene, touching with its mellow light the grand old trees and tender
flowers. A silence more eloquent than words fell upon the little train;
but all in their hearts thanked God for the beautiful night and for
preserving the well-beloved Bruno from a violent death.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER VI.

DARK DAYS.


October with its kaleidoscopic dress comes on apace. Upon seeing the
woods made glorious by the regal hues of gold and scarlet, we are
tempted to say that the ending season is not less beautiful in its
way than the beginning one. Great yellow patches on the foliage gleam
in the wan sunlight. Nature is ablaze with color. The holly boughs
are flaunting their bold red berries in the face of the wind, and
everywhere the leaves in brilliant confusion flutter through the air.

Now and then in the distance a gun’s report is heard. The gamekeepers
are now on the alert for prowling poachers. Water stands in the
ditches. The fog is dense at night and in the morning, and the meadows
already are often too cold for the flocks. The old belfry in the
village--its greatest pride--is a mass of vines, now turned to vivid
crimson.

At the door of his little shop stands Andoche the blacksmith, adorned
with his leather apron. His brawny arms are bare to the elbows. In one
uplifted hand he holds a glass of wine, while with the other he holds
Firmin by the arm.

“My friend,” says he, “your affairs do not concern me in the least. You
are old enough to know how to conduct yourself. But if you wish to hear
a bit of good advice I will say--_beware!_”

“Of what? Of whom?”

“Of everybody in general and in particular of--Madame Catherine.”

“The gamekeeper’s wife?” said Firmin, with an egotistical leer.

“To be sure. There are not _two_ Catherines.”

“Why do you say ‘beware’?”

“Why? Are you a fool?”

“I hope not.”

“Well, my friend, you now have the appearance----”

“O Andoche!”

“Well, old comrade. I may be a drunkard, but you can make up your mind
to one thing--my eyes are wide open just the same.”

“And what do you see _in particular_ just at present?”

“That you are making a fool of yourself, and I am not the only one who
thinks so.”

Firmin makes an indignant gesture, as though in protest against the
assertion or assumption that a man of his importance should be so
regarded by his friends; as though he could be led about by the nose!
He--Firmin!

“Your health, Firmin,” adds Andoche, touching his visitor’s glass.

“Here’s to you,” returns Firmin, in a preoccupied manner.

The blacksmith, having drained his glass to the dregs with one toss
of the hand, goes on to say: “My friend, I have not lived in the city
and frequented the haunts of society like you--though I was once in
garrison at Château Thierry--but I have a grain or two of common sense,
and were I in your place I should not prowl around the little cottage
over there like a dog.”

“And why, pray, should I not visit the gamekeeper’s house?”

“Because there are more poachers than millionnaires in the world.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Nothing; only Savin Barrau is a man who attends strictly to his own
business.”

“And how does that concern me?”

“Ah, so you do not understand? Well, then, come into my shop and I will
explain. Now then,” he continues as they seat themselves inside the
little shop, “only four days ago Savin was shot at by some poacher on
his mistress’ preserves.”

“So I heard. Well?”

“The bullet missed that time, but who knows whether he will escape the
next?”

“That does not concern me.”

“But don’t you see, you simpleton, that if Savin is killed, the world
will say you, egged on by Catherine, committed the deed?”

“What? You mean----”

“If such a thing should occur, there are two of you to prove an alibi.”

“Two? How so?”

“Bruno also might be suspected.”

“That young scamp? But she cares nothing for him.”

“Has she said so?”

“Yes, a dozen times.”

“Ah, so she converses with you frequently, eh? But, my friend, that is
not the only danger you encounter. You, too, are sometimes given to
poaching.”

“I?”

“Oh, yes. I know a thing or two about dogs myself, and the young hound
crouching there by the forge with such a harmless air is the finest
hunter in St. Benoit, and we all know the country is not wanting in
good dogs.”

“And what of that, if you please?”

“Nothing at all, my friend, only should Catherine’s husband catch you
at it a shot from his gun would soon put an end to you, and the law
would exonerate him. Poachers always get the worst of it in those
cases.”

Firmin turns visibly pale. True valor is quite an unknown quantity in
his composition.

“Your health, my boy,” repeats Andoche, “and take my advice: Be careful
what you do. Everybody knows Madame Catherine’s love of coquetry. It
is not that she cares for you--oh, no! but she hates her husband.
If Barrau at any time since the raspberry _fête_ had but asked
forgiveness, she would have turned her back on you fast enough, you may
be sure.”

In spite of Firmin’s rising indignation, Andoche continues: “And if she
were not so often twitted by the village girls of being at odds with
Savin, she might now, even, overlook the humiliation she endured that
day. But Rosalie and Félicité are always mocking her on the subject,
and it only adds fuel to the flame. There will be trouble one of these
days, mark my words, and as you are my friend, I advise you to keep out
of it.”

A man of Firmin’s character and disposition, however, never accepts
good advice. His egotism is too great, his mind too stupid for that. So
now, with a supercilious smile, Firmin listens to Andoche’s not wholly
unreasonable or irrelevant harangue.

“You can accept my advice or not, as you choose, my friend. But were I
in your place, I should much prefer to pass my time with old Andoche,
tinkling the merry glass of wine, than to throw myself away on a
designing woman.”

Firmin indulges in a burst of laughter.

“So that is your opinion, is it? Well, well--let us drink a bumper and
change the subject, for I am not a little weary of it, old fellow.
Here’s to you and to all good counselors.”

And so for the time the subject is dropped. Andoche, however, poor sot
that he is, has expressed opinions that are not altogether wrong.

For over two months Catherine has daily become more sullen and
capricious. At times her face wears a terrible expression, and though
she has lost none of her beauty, still, under the influence of the
fixed idea that haunts her, she appears less gracious and agreeable. In
her face lurks a defiant, scornful expression, which does not become
her, and her smile is constrained and bitter. To those who know her
well but one solution is evident.

Her thirst for revenge is inordinate. She evinces it in her actions.
And Savin lacks that suppleness of discernment to characterize it as a
craving for revenge, and thus obtusely fails to endeavor to turn her
mind into other channels. He simply accepts his wife’s silence, and, to
him, only odd conduct as a sudden caprice.

“When she is ready to do so she will return to my heart’s shelter,” he
thinks, little imagining the true state of the case.

The love and magnanimity he displayed by rescuing her from the
wretched thraldom of her position after the D’Angerolles _esclandre_,
he assumes, have rendered Catherine ever grateful to him, and have
precluded all chance of prolonged anger on her part toward him who has
so definitely proven his passion for her. And thus reflecting and
thus reasoning, he waits for her to manifest some sign of her desire
for a reconciliation. But as time goes on and Madame Barrau reveals
more quixotic tendencies, he becomes impatient. There is naught more
fatiguing than the existence of two people who, forced to dwell under
the same roof, are at war with each other. Then each word has a special
meaning. Every step, gesture, and movement may be misinterpreted
by the injured one. The torture of mind endured nearly amounts to
frenzy. For a day it is a terrible ordeal; for months it is a cruel
nightmare. Barrau has a magnanimous nature, and if Catherine should
come to him with one expression of regret he would take her in his arms
eagerly and lovingly. But no. Catherine remains frigid in feeling and
manner. Accordingly Savin, showing an equal disposition to maintain an
obstinate silence, allows his animosity to ripen. He is exasperated and
unhappy over their relations. To go on living in this way will soon be
unbearable. But he constantly asks himself what is to be done.

Catherine is quite as miserable. “What! I am not yet twenty, and must
I live all my life under this horrible yoke? Surely death will be
preferable. Ah, if he but loved me. But he despises me.”

And thus she rebels--racking her brains for some means of escape.
Unfortunately, she has not the nature which can forgive and forget.
To punish the man who has treated her like a slave--yes, like a
_slave_--that is her one idea. But how? That is not yet clear to her.

“Only to be free! only to be free!” she repeats. But how? No solution
occurs to her mind until one day she finds herself saying: “What if
Savin should die?” In justice, however, be it said, she rejects that
thought as too horrible. “Wretched creature that I am to think of it!”
she cries.

Alas! how bitter are her reflections. And as she looks out upon the
late autumn landscape and watches the scattering leaves of red and
gold, again she thinks: “After all, he may not live long. Stronger men
than he have been vanquished by a bad cold--a sudden fever.”

And in imagination she sees him, pale and emaciated, reduced by
sickness to a shadow--in a proper condition to be humiliated. At this
very moment Barrau appears at the gate, and his powerful step resounds
on the gravel. Patachaud dances about him with canine glee. Graceful,
young, and vigorous, with broad shoulders and magnificent physique, the
gamekeeper advances, opens the door, and enters.

His presence arouses Catherine from her sullen revery.

“Fool! that I should dream of his becoming ill. Why, he is made of
iron.”

And brooding over her wretched existence, the idea of her husband’s
death seems less revolting to her.

“It would be still better if he killed me himself,” she inwardly
declares; “I deserve it.”

But a contemptuous smile (or is it a commiserating look?) from Savin
serves to dispel all thoughts save those of hatred from her breast.



[Illustration]



CHAPTER VII.

THE INVITATION.


A merry little troop lined the way leading into the forest. Song and
mirth echoed through the trees as the happy band tripped along the
road, their object being to invite the Barraus to a wedding. In certain
rural parts of France it is the custom for the engaged couple, their
relatives and best friends to visit in a body those they desire to
invite to the wedding, and the future bridegroom, if it be a woman
addressed, or the future bride, if it be a man, offers sugar-plums,
which if accepted signifies that the implied invitation to the wedding
is likewise accepted. In refusing, one also refuses to be present
at the wedding. Moreover, a solemn obligation is involved in the
acceptance. Those who partake of the sweet almonds are expected not
only to join in the festivities, but to furnish a wedding-gift. Eggs,
game, fruit, vegetables, and articles of food are usually the principal
presents received by the happy couple.

The marriage of pretty little Suzanne Perrogon with Jacques Percier was
about to be celebrated. Suzanne was the niece of Jeannille Marselon,
whose strange character was referred to in the preceding chapter.
Jacques owned a pretty little house and lot--an inheritance from his
mother. In the contract he exacted the promise that his wife should
engage herself formally, after the birth of her first child, as a
wet-nurse in Paris, which is frequently done by the peasants of Morvan
and of other sections. As a matter of fact, hundreds of marriage
contracts contain such a provision.

For a period of some sixty years Morvan was one of the poorest and
most destitute provinces of France. The soil was unyieldingly sterile
and the climate cruel. The people found it extremely difficult to
subsist on black bread alone, and the outlook for them seemed gloomy
enough, until the idea occurred to one of the female Morvandelles--as
they are called--to seek the position of wet-nurse in Paris. After a
time wet-nursing became a means of livelihood for many peasant women,
an industry, so to speak. These women proved to be the agents of
civilization in the Morvan, and by degrees they brought not only money
there, but certain ideas of luxury and of social propriety. The more
intelligent women, while pursuing their vocation among well-bred and
even distinguished families, acquired a certain refinement of manner,
and to them the little province owed its increased prosperity and
enlightenment. It is true, the hard-earned money too often found its
way into the pockets of the wine-seller, who became the richest man in
the village in a short time; but times were better than ever before in
the Morvan, and the peasants rejoiced in their good fortune.

In small provincial towns to which strangers seldom come the
inhabitants are all, or nearly all, related to each other. For
instance, Andoche claimed relationship with everybody in the village.
He professed to be a grand-nephew of Jeannille Marselon; and as the
villagers did not deny it, he established his claims by virtue of the
axiom--“silence gives consent.”

He accompanied the procession on the invitation tour. Perhaps his
superfluous jollity was due to the fact that he held in his arms a
demijohn which Monsieur Eugène had just presented to the betrothed.
Having persuaded Jacques Percier that he was fainting with thirst,
the future groom reluctantly consented to let Andoche test the wine.
Without further ceremony Andoche offered a sip to everybody, extending
his politeness so far as to permit nobody to drink alone--which he said
meant bad luck.

By the time he reached Barrau’s cottage his spirits were very much
elevated and his dangerous tongue wagged incessantly.

“Attention! Halt! Right about face!” he shouted as Savin appeared
at the door. The latter was pleased at the spectacle, and his face
brightened as he thought what a pleasant diversion it would be for
Catherine.

“Come in, Jacques,” said Savin, “and welcome, Suzanne. Happy to see you
all.”

The little party entered joyously, but the face of Catherine froze the
words upon their tongues, the smiles upon their lips. Pale, stern, and
relentless, she scarcely replied to those who addressed her.

“She will bring bad luck upon us with that terrible look,” thought
Suzanne.

Jacques Percier spoke to Catherine, extending the usual compliments and
saying: “Madame Barrau, our happiness will not be complete unless you
are present at our marriage. Will you accept a bonbon?”

He offered her the box. She stepped back a little.

“I thank you, Jacques,” said she. “May you be happy as you deserve to
be.”

A look of disappointment passed over his face, and noticing it
Catherine added: “It is not for me to accept or to decline. I am not
mistress here.”

“Then you, Monsieur Savin, will you not--” But before Jacques had
finished speaking Savin took two _dragées_ from the box, eating one and
giving the other to his wife.

“Catherine exaggerates,” said he. “There are some things that a
wife cannot do without consulting her husband, but she accepts your
invitation, I am sure, and so do I, with pleasure. You will please
accept from me a roebuck--if Madame le Hausseur allows me to kill one.”

Catherine bit her lips in mortification and vexation. But Savin had
broken the ice, and when he brought out some fine old curaçoa the
callers regaled themselves freely and all became merry again.

As soon as they had gone Catherine said petulantly: “You need no longer
fear that I shall be too gay. I could not be so if I tried.”

“I never objected to your having a good time--in a proper way,” replied
Barrau gently, but with an unmistakable accent of firmness.

“But if I am not to dance it will be absurd for me to go to the
wedding.”

“Nobody will prevent you from dancing.”

“Yes, so you say _to-day_; but when the time comes you will be just as
jealous as ever, and I shall have to suffer for it.”

“Why talk so foolishly? You only weary me with this useless discussion.”

“I know it.”

“But believe me, my child, a woman who will excite her husband’s
jealousy is either a coquette or a wilful vixen. It rests with you
whether Suzanne’s wedding-day shall be an agreeable one to us.”

“Agreeable! I suppose it would be so to you if I neither raised my
eyes, nor opened my mouth, nor danced with Bruno, nor Firmin, nor
Andoche, or any young man whatsoever. But if old Father Mathieu, or
Grassy, or Monsieur the Mayor should be so good as to invite me, then I
may accept with alacrity. Bah!”

Savin, who had hoped to pave the way toward a reconciliation, now saw
the folly of the endeavor and replied nothing. Whistling to Patachaud
and taking his gun, he left the house.

“What a wretched existence!” he muttered as he disappeared under the
frost-touched trees.

Left alone, Catherine raised her arms toward heaven with an expression
of utter despair. “_Mon Dieu!_ how dearly would I pay for freedom,” she
cried.

Savin, on the other hand, soothed by the quiet atmosphere of the woods,
flattered himself that upon reflection Catherine would understand
the conciliatory spirit which had prompted him to accept the wedding
invitation. The wedding would be a diversion for Catherine, and he made
up his mind not to dictate to or upbraid her whatever she might do;
even if she danced with Bruno or Firmin, both of whom he disapproved.
He resolved to bring about a reconciliation if possible, and he thought
this little concession on his part would accomplish it. Knowing his
wife’s love for gayety, he felt confident that a day’s unrestrained
enjoyment would dispel the cloud and restore her to good-nature once
more. And the brave-hearted fellow smiled to himself as he thought of
his home again blessed with peace and happiness.

On the narrow path which plunged down a steep declivity into a ravine
he encountered Fadard, the friend of Andoche and the cousin of
Mademoiselle Faillot.

The man was proceeding, with the assistance of his cane, like a
sober-minded citizen.

“Ah! it is Monsieur Fadard,” said Barrau; “and where the devil did you
come from?”

“From Dun les Places. I have cut across country, as you see.”

The gamekeeper examined Fadard’s shoes and trousers. They bore no
traces of mud, and there were swamps in the region of which he had
spoken.

“And you are going to see Mademoiselle Faillot?” asked Barrau.

“Just so,” returned Fadard.

Savin continued to question him in order to study him the more closely.
There seemed something suspicious in the man’s movements. Why was he
prowling about this gloomy, forsaken spot, which bore an ill name among
the peasants and which most people avoided? The trees were so dense
that scarcely a bit of light penetrated into the forest, and it was
still and lonely here on this chill autumn day. Fadard’s deceitful air
was obvious to Barrau, who faced him with a stern countenance on which
suspicion was plainly written. Before this look Fadard’s eyes fell.

“At what time did you set out from Dun?”

“At two o’clock,” replied Fadard tartly.

“You must be a good walker to have come so far in so short a time.”

As Barrau spoke he fancied he spied something concealed under the
other’s clothing. Fadard appeared ill at ease.

“Another time,” continued Savin, “you had better take the main road.
One sometimes has a bad encounter in such places as this.”

While speaking he put his hand familiarly on Fadard’s shoulder. The
latter lost countenance, and without reflecting that he compromised
himself in so doing, he turned and fled.

“Ah! it seems that Monsieur Fadard has something to conceal. And what
cause has he to fear me, unless, as I suspect, he is a poacher?”

His first thought was to chase the runaway, but he abandoned the idea
as useless. One might as well hunt for a needle in a haystack as for a
man in this wilderness.

“Never mind. He will come back again some day, unless his cowardice
gets the better of him.”

And smiling at the thought, Savin went on his way.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER VIII.

THE WEDDING.


The day of Suzanne’s wedding came, bringing with it no change for the
better in the home of the Barraus. Hostility still existed. Savin
was as usual sad at heart, and Catherine was visibly indifferent
and disdainful. She always dressed in excellent taste and in attire
that, however simple, accentuated her extraordinary beauty. Formerly
the D’Angerolles had known luxury and affluence, and Catherine had
inherited a becoming air of stateliness. Her dignity and grace made her
the acknowledged belle of the province.

As Savin gazed upon her he could not conceal his admiration, and gently
laying his hand on her shoulder he said: “Naughty little woman, you
have no equal if you would but consent to listen to reason.”

But Catherine remained mute and indifferent to his caress. Savin
courteously opened the door for her to pass out, and soon they were on
their way to the _fête_.

Any one seeing them as they walked together, he with his military air
and remarkable physique, and she enveloped in a white mantle which set
off her queenly figure to the best advantage, would have been tempted
to exclaim: “What a fine couple!” as indeed they were.

Before the blacksmith’s shop Fadard, with his hands in his pockets,
was whistling a hunter’s song. An expression of malice dominated his
features, but when the Barraus passed by he saluted them with a smile
that succeeded in its attempt to be sarcastic.

“Good-morning, Fadard,” returned Savin. “You seem in better spirits
than when I last saw you.”

Fadard said nothing, but he continued to smile in a supercilious
manner. Catherine glanced at him. Their eyes met and the young woman
read a sort of challenge in his look. He was ready to go to the
wedding, but he was waiting for Andoche, who had not yet completed his
toilet.

“Bah! how I hate water,” muttered Andoche. “The bother of going to
_fêtes_ is that one must souse in water. I never drink the stuff and I
heartily dislike to handle it. Thank fortune, I am ready,” he said at
length as he arranged his necktie. “Let’s be off.”

In front of the conjugal cottage many of the guests had assembled, and
a bevy of boys and girls merrily danced and frolicked on the green,
while the old fogies, calmly seated under the trees, discussed the
frivolity of the young and the wisdom of the old.

Within the cottage all was confusion. Nothing seemed to be in place.
The babel of voices and scampering of feet were fairly deafening. The
merrymakers continued to arrive. Two or three ancient carry-alls,
weighted down with village boys and girls who were shouting at the top
of their voices, drove up and discharged their load at the cottage
door. Greetings and embraces followed, and all gave themselves up to
the enjoyment of the hour.

The musicians finally came, and after drinking with Andoche, all fell
in line for the wedding-march to the Mayor’s office. It was a pretty
sight. Two hundred guests, walking two by two, followed the bride.
The head of the little procession passed the house of Monsieur Eugène
before the last pair started.

A wedding in the provinces is considered a great affair. The day
is given over to enjoyment. Business is suspended and the whole
countryside joins in the festivities. In this particular wedding
every one was interested, for the bride and groom were both popular
favorites. To be sure, many a girl thought Jacques a simpleton to
choose Suzanne, and many a lad declared Suzanne was throwing herself
away; but still the occasion was a serene and happy one. The church
service, as well as the ceremony at the Mayor’s, was successfully
performed. During the former, Savin quietly stood watching his wife,
whose face was cold and joyless.

As they left the church a young fellow who had been serving as
kitchen-boy in Paris set off some fire-crackers and hurled them down
before the bridal party. The village maidens were frightened at the
noise and feared their dresses would catch fire. But many laughed
as, accompanied by fireworks and listening to impromptu jests, the
procession returned to the cottage.

Near by, in the granary, a feast had been prepared. Twenty good
servants had been engaged to wait upon the guests. Suzanne’s
grandmother, a little woman with bright, sharp eyes, superintended
the banquet, and a better table was never spread in the Morvan. The
old lady ordered the waiters about with a martial air. As the party
approached, she despatched one of her aids to the kitchen.

“Ursule,” said she, “run to the kitchen and see if all is ready.”

The lusty, buxom girl addressed disappeared into the adjoining
apartment. And the kitchen! What a poem! Half hidden by blue smoke and
savory steam, a dozen cooks were preparing the most tempting viands.
An ox was roasting. All kinds of game, meats, vegetables, preserves,
fruits, sweetmeats, _hors d’œuvres_ and spices were abundantly
provided. Seven days of culinary labor had been consumed in the
preparation for the banquet, and nothing had been left undone to make
it a success. An appetizing odor filled the air, and every guest longed
to begin the feast. Those in the village who, in a spirit of economy,
had declined the invitation--not feeling inclined to contribute a
present--now regretted their action.

“How delicious and savory it smells,” said Mademoiselle Faillot, who
had declined the invitation. “Dear! dear! if I had only known such a
princely feast was to be prepared, I certainly should have accepted.
But perhaps it is not yet too late. I will try.”

As the wedding party approached, she planted herself in the road. She
was an ugly-looking, avaricious, cunning woman; but she knew well how
to dissemble, and as the bride advanced, her face was wreathed in
patronizing smiles.

“My dear Suzanne,” said she, “how beautiful you are. I knew you would
make a pretty bride, but you are simply lovely--a hundred times beyond
my expectations.”

“You are very kind, Mademoiselle Léocadia,” returned Suzanne, blushing
with pleasure.

“Yes, indeed. You far surpass our last bride, Jeanne, in loveliness.
And yet you know how everybody raved about her.”

“How is it that you are not one of the merrymakers?” asked Madame
Percier, the groom’s mother.

“Well, I was afraid I should be obliged to go to Château Chinon to-day;
but my cousin did my errand for me. If I had only known----”

“You would have accepted,” anticipated Suzanne.

“Yes, but you see I refused the _dragée_----”

“Oh, never mind that,” said the bride graciously. “Pray come to the
banquet.”

“No, thank you kindly, but I made a stupid mistake, and I must abide by
it. I should have dearly loved to see you beside Jacques and to have
admired you in the dance, but I must respect the custom in regard to
weddings.”

“The custom! Pooh! Come, come, Mademoiselle, you must join us,” said
Jacques as he gently took her arm. “Here is Mademoiselle Léocadia who
is going to dine with us,” cried he to the rest. Mademoiselle Faillot
protested in a hypocritical manner, inwardly elated the while at the
success of her manœuvre.

Reaching the granary the tables were soon filled, and Léocadia
found herself occupying a seat of honor near the bride and groom.
Her flattery had proven effective, as it usually did, and the day’s
enjoyment was secured to her. When, however, Suzanne’s grandmother
saw Mademoiselle Faillot so comfortably settled she looked somewhat
disappointed.

“I feared she would try to get in some way--the viper,” was the old
lady’s observation. But there was nothing to be done about it.

The feast was a grand success. Everybody ate and drank to his or her
heart’s content, and the quantity of wine consumed loosened the tongues
of all present to such an extent that for a while the place was a very
good imitation of a pandemonium.

At length Suzanne rose and addressed the company.

“Who wants to dance?” she loudly inquired.

Immediately fifty boys and girls, among them Catherine, Sidonie,
Félicité, and Jeanne, pressed forward.

“My old grandmother danced at my marriage,” said Grandma Marion, “and I
will take a turn out of compliment to my little Suzanne.”

And the agile, bright little old woman kept her word, amid the applause
of all present. Fadard, the worse off for wine, approached Catherine to
ask for the first dance.

“Madame,” said he, “will you polka with me?”

“I cannot say, Monsieur. You must ask my husband.”

“Oh, come, come.”

“You are surprised, it seems. Isn’t my husband the master?”

“Yes, of course. But I supposed it hardly would be necessary to ask
permission for----”

“You were wrong, then.”

“Very well, I will go and ask your husband.”

And turning on his heel, Andoche’s friend started in quest of Savin,
with a sinister expression on his face.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER IX.

CLOUDS.


Savin was still sitting at the table. Though he had finished eating and
drinking he still remained there, not wishing to move lest his wife
should think he was following her to spy upon her actions. Fadard had
the effrontery to accost him and ask permission to dance with Catherine.

“Madame Barrau,” replied the gamekeeper, “is at liberty to do as she
pleases.”

Though he was daring by nature, Fadard thought it wiser to make no
reply, and he was turning to withdraw when Andoche, flushed and
besotted by a too senseless indulgence in his “besetting sin,” seized
him by the lapel of his coat, saying: “_You_ want to dance? Did you say
you were thinking of dancing, at your age? It must have been a long
time since you last looked in a mirror--ha! ha! ha! So you want to
dance, eh?”

“And why shouldn’t I dance if I feel that way?”

“Fellow-citizens,” shouted Andoche in a high voice, pointing to Fadard,
“behold this gentleman. Is it not a broad hint on the part of the
ladies when they must needs ask their husbands’ consent to dance with
him? And just to think of it--he doesn’t know people are laughing at
him. My friend, you had much better remain in my society.”

Strange as it appeared, Fadard did not resent the blacksmith’s cutting
remarks, and he offered no reply. Doubtless his reasons were good
for not wishing to antagonize Andoche, or he certainly would have
retaliated there and then. He walked toward the dancing-room, and
rejoining Madame Barrau, acquainted her with Savin’s answer.

“So you see, madame, you are at liberty to dance with me or with
another, just as you choose.”

“Oh, no,” replied Catherine. “Not unless I am legally authorized to do
so.”

“You must be jesting.”

“No, indeed I am not.”

“But, believe me, Monsieur Barrau declared you are free to dance
whenever you please.”

“Yes, but that is not sufficient. Go back and bid him express himself
in due form of the law. His response, I fear, was illegal.”

Fadard intently regarded Catherine for a moment, but she so defiantly
returned his gaze that he was perplexed.

“Perhaps,” she added, “he was only making a fool of you.”

“You are, at all events,” he rejoined.

“Well!”

“Take care, my little woman. It will cost you dear to make fun of
Fadard.”

“You should say that to my husband. But perhaps it is only in dealing
with women that you are so brave.”

“Pooh! I would as soon tackle Monsieur Barrau as anybody else,” cried
Fadard, with rising anger. “Only let me find him in a tight corner----”

“Who?” thundered Savin from behind.

“Enough! We shall see,” answered Fadard as he sneaked away like a
whipped cur.

Catherine quickly apprised the other girls of Fadard’s discomfiture.
To hide his embarrassment, Fadard hastened to ask Jenny Fourès for the
next dance. The merriest, liveliest girl in the whole province was
Jenny, and the name of “Madcap” just suited her.

“Monsieur,” said she, “it seems to me you are not very polite.”

“How so, Mademoiselle?” asked Fadard.

“When a gentleman asks for a dance he takes off his cap, Monsieur.”

Fadard smiled. In the provinces the peasants, as a rule, wear little
skull-caps not unlike the Turkish fez, and in a dance they lend a
rather picturesque effect. It is the custom to touch the cap, without
removing it, when a man is asking for the pleasure of a dance. But
Jenny’s rebuke did not disconcert the gay Fadard in the least. He bowed
low, took off his cap, and again besought her for a dance.

A burst of laughter greeted his gallantry.

“I am indeed honored, Monsieur,” remarked Jenny coquettishly, “but I
cannot dance without my father’s permission. Go and ask him.”

“Ah, Madcap, you are joking. Come.”

But she would not listen. She disappeared in the crowd; while the
chagrined Fadard addressed another girl, who in a similar way answered:
“Go and ask my brother, Monsieur Fadard.”

Fadard by this time was furious. Not only was he deprived of a partner,
but he evidently was unpopular among the village girls. He resolved to
make one more attempt, and turning to Rosalie he asked for a dance.

“With pleasure, Monsieur, upon one condition.”

“You mean I must ask somebody’s permission, eh?”

“Oh, no. I shall be delighted to dance with you if you will kindly tell
me your age.”

His age was a tender point with Fadard, and he turned toward the
offender with a menacing gesture. Just at that moment Rosalie’s elderly
husband, who, though henpecked at home, was still the possessor of a
brawny pair of arms abroad, quickly settled the matter by administering
a severe fistic correction which landed Fadard in a corner, panting for
breath.

Recovering himself, the coward rushed off to relate his woes to
Andoche, hoping that the latter in his intoxicated condition would take
his part and avenge his wrongs.

But Andoche just then was enjoying himself too well to be beguiled into
a quarrel and an encounter. So Fadard seated himself beside Andoche,
who urged him to drown his grievances in the flowing bowl.

Meanwhile the dancing had begun. Nearly every one was thus engaged but
Catherine. She obstinately refused to participate in it. If Fadard
thought he alone was the victim of her caprice he was mistaken.
Resolved to pose as a martyr to her husband’s whims, she treated each
new-comer with the same answer, and many thinking she did not wish to
dance with them, sought other partners. Some, however, took her at her
word. Bruno would have given his life to have held her in his arms,
but she gave him the same response, and he went away in despair, poor
Sidonie watching him with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, that he could be consoled with one who would die for his
happiness,” she murmured to herself, not daring to speak to him openly.

After Bruno nearly all of the young men besought her, but Catherine
returned the one answer to them: “You must ask my husband’s permission.”

Firmin, taking her _au serieux_, went to Savin, who by this time was
thoroughly vexed and who retorted to the young man not a little harshly.

Savin was most disgusted at his wife’s conduct. Instead of profiting
by this occasion to settle their differences, Catherine played a
disagreeable and unexpected _rôle_. One by one the young men sought
him out to ask permission to dance with his wife. It became a painful
persecution to him; but when, at length, he divined her intention he
decided to make as light of the situation as possible.

“How stupid you are,” said he to the young men. “Don’t you see that
Catherine is only joking you?”

But the farce continued. Each moment brought a fresh applicant and
Savin’s patience was about exhausted. Besides, he felt that his
wife was making a fool of him, and that everybody was amused at the
little comedy being acted by Catherine and himself. To be made a
laughing-stock for the sake of his charming spouse he could not endure.
Everybody felt more or less oppressed by the heat of the room and
excited by the wine, and the gamekeeper was by no means an exception.
Irritated beyond forbearance, Savin approached his wife and bade her to
get ready to go home. Then he added: “You do not wish a reconciliation,
it seems. Very well.”

“Perhaps you have some complaint to make against me right here,”
remarked Catherine, with a provoking air.

Savin felt himself the object of a hundred eyes.

“I have no desire to pass for a fool whose wife may ridicule him at
will.”

“You will always pass for just what you are.”

“Catherine, pray do not get in a passion here.”

The young woman looked crestfallen and feigned fear. She hypocritically
looked to the right and to the left, as though seeking protection and
as though afraid of violence from her husband.

“You ought to be ashamed,” exclaimed Mademoiselle Faillot, coming up at
that moment, “to treat a woman in such a manner.”

“Please do not meddle in my affairs, Mademoiselle. I do not accuse you
of your little peccadilloes, nor do I _ask how you dispense the money
intrusted to you for the babes of wet-nurses that you have in charge_.”

“What! What is that?” shouted the old spinster, turning crimson with
rage.

“Mademoiselle, when one has a cousin like Fadard, one need have no
uneasiness.”

“Ah, indeed. Not so a man who has married the daughter of a criminal.”

The young bride now interposed. “Mademoiselle,” she said, “you were not
invited--at the last moment--to insult my friends.”

“Very well. Then your friends should not make any such insinuations.”

“Oh, if I had a husband like other husbands,” broke in Catherine, “all
would go well.”

For an instant Savin was beside himself. To intimate that he was
disturbing the festivities was more than the mildest of men could
endure. Had he not submitted for over two hours to everything
disagreeable for her sake? Besides, had not that Mademoiselle Faillot
insulted his wife? And then Catherine--his own wife--had as much as
declared that he was responsible for this disgraceful scene.

His brain was on fire with indignation. A few friends approached and
endeavored to calm him, but in vain. He stepped toward his wife with
a furious gesture. He was determined that she should leave the place.
Bruno, observing his threatening attitude, bounded with rage toward the
gamekeeper.

“You are a coward!” he fairly yelled, laying hold of Barrau’s collar.

Surprised and still more incensed, Savin took a backward step, prepared
to grapple with the young fellow. A terrible struggle seemed imminent,
for Barrau was a powerful, vigorous man, and L’Ours was not here to
defend Bruno this time. But Sidonie was, and the love she had for her
hero made her brave to defend him.

“Are you mad?” she cried, as she seized Bruno’s arm and dragged him
away. Barrau did not follow, as every spectator thought he would. He
turned toward his wife, and taking her arm pushed her forward.

“Come,” he said, sternly, “let us end this wretched row. We will go
home.”

For a moment there was silence, but just as the two reached the door
Fadard impertinently and loudly exclaimed: “Well, that is what you get
for inviting common people.”

Scarcely had he uttered these words when he was dealt hard blow on
the cheek by Savin. Smarting with pain, Fadard threw himself upon the
gamekeeper, but the latter adroitly warded off his fist and with one
movement left his antagonist knocked senseless on the floor.

Once more Barrau, with Catherine by his side, started for home. On the
face of one was written sullen determination; on that of the other
bitter despair.

Meanwhile old Jeannille Marselon, her hands crossed on her breast,
looked like a being from another world. Her eyes were transfixed and
her long, lank, sallow face seemed cold as marble--a face on which
the closest observer could not have discovered a sign of sensation or
emotion.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER X.

CONFESSIONS.


Sidonie, panting for breath but still determined, did not stop until
she had led Bruno behind the little hedge back of the cottage. Then,
astonished at her own temerity, she began to be conscious of a feeling
of bewildered embarrassment. What would they think of her?

Ah, in this desperate way she had confessed her love before the
world--and all for one who did not reciprocate her affection. Oh, the
shame of it! What should she do or say?

Until now Bruno himself had not guessed her secret. He had regarded her
as a kind and faithful friend--nothing more. At the same time he felt
that he had betrayed his secret, and he too was confused and silent.
Neither dreamed of speaking, and but this one thought possessed their
minds: “I have proclaimed my unrequited love to the world.”

About to go away, Sidonie raised her eyes and saw Bruno’s sad,
despairing face. Pity filled her soul.

“You are unhappy, Bruno,” she tenderly said, extending her hand in
sympathy, at whose readiness the astonished Bruno burst into sobs. The
pretty little cripple’s heart sank and tear-drops wet her long lashes.

“Oh, why--why do you love her so much?” she asked bitterly.

Bruno understood the reproach and jealousy that prompted the question.

“Can I help it?” he said impulsively. “Am I the master of my own heart?”

“You are bewitched,” she replied, with a shudder.

“Yes, there are moments when I feel powerless.”

“You wish, then, you were free from this thraldom? You wish that you
had never met her?”

“I do indeed. But since I know her I must love her.”

Sidonie was again tempted to go. It was agony to hear him speak thus
of another. And yet how cowardly to run away! No, she must summon the
courage to endure it.

“My good Sidonie,” continued Bruno, “how patient you are--how
sympathetic.”

“How long have you loved her?” ventured Sidonie.

“Even before she married Savin. But I never dared to tell her so. It
was like this, Sidonie: One day I was fishing in the Trinquelin brook
and she came down in the neighboring field. Let me see, that was four
months previous to the death of her father--and you know as well as I
that Monsieur d’Angerolles was never guilty of crime. The accusation
against him was all a network of lies.”

“Well, well, go on,” insisted Sidonie.

“She came into the meadow, as I said, and we joked together over the
fence, and finally she said she would try her luck at fishing for a
while. We cut some willow rods, and taking the bait and tackle we
proceeded along the stream, at intervals casting our lines in little
babbling pools and watching, with interest, for a bite.”

“And were you successful?”

“No. In the places where I cast there did not appear the sign of a
fish.”

“And Catherine?”

“Nearly every time her bait was taken, and I helped her unhook at least
a dozen fish.”

“I tell you, Bruno, she has a sorcerer’s power----”

“No, no. She had in her pocket a little bottle of pistachio, belonging
to her father, and she put some of the essence on the frog bait,
without my knowing it. You know pistachio attracts crabs.”

“And were you not jealous of her success?”

“No. I was only ashamed of my failure.”

“And what did she say?”

“She only laughed. We went on down the stream, and had a merry time;
but, Sidonie, promise that you will never repeat what I tell you.”

“Is it, then, so bad?”

“No; but I do not wish it to be known. If it should get back to
Catherine she might be offended.”

Sidonie, with a sad smile, replied: “Do not fear, I am not a tattler.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, Bruno.”

“Well, while Catherine was trying to extricate her hook from a stump
the overhanging branch to which she was clinging gave way. She slipped
and fell into the stream. The water was deep at that place and the
current strong. Realizing her danger, I plunged in after her.”

“How foolish!”

“Just as I jumped in Catherine rose to the surface, and I seized her
dress. We were instantly whirled among the rocks, but I protected her
as well as I could, and by grasping the rocks kept our heads above
water as we rushed down stream. In the mad race of the current we
were borne along until an enormous rock in the middle of the stream
offered me one chance of escape. With great difficulty I managed to
climb up on the rock with my burden. Catherine’s face was as white as
death. In this wood where the stream had carried us I could see on
the left an open space, and by picking my way from the big rock to
smaller ones that at stepping distances reached to the bank, I was soon
able to place her on the cool grass. Presently she revived. Her lids
fluttered and then opened, and for the first time I was thrilled by her
incomparable beauty.”

Sidonie trembled, but she asked him to continue.

“And then, because without my assistance she probably would have
drowned, I began to feel very near to her. However, I did not really
love her _then_, but she appealed to me. We were drenched, of course,
and the heat of the sun was not sufficient to dry our clothing; but
we were obliged to wait there until Catherine felt a little stronger.
Finally, she rose, looked at me for several seconds, and then silently
put her two arms around my neck, and then----”

Bruno abruptly paused, showing himself to be ill at ease. Just then a
little leaf falling, irresolutely, from a branch, at last reached the
ground. Sidonie’s eyes followed its course. A question came to her
lips, but she dared not ask it. At the same time Bruno was wondering if
he had not said too much. He did not wish to compromise Catherine; but
confession is good for the soul, and he could not resist the impulse to
give utterance to his pent-up feelings.

“Well, she kissed me twice, and then I knew----”

Again he paused. But an instant afterward he said: “She went away,
leaving me all the fish.”

“She was always a little bold, I think,” observed Sidonie, wiping her
eyes.

“No, do not say that. Would you not have done the same had I saved your
life?”

“Yes,” admitted poor Sidonie to herself.

“But,” pursued Bruno, “it would have been far better for me had she
simply thanked me.”

“You realize it, Bruno?”

“Yes, for from that time I have been wretched.”

“But she is married.”

“I know it, my good Sidonie. But still I love her--I love her! But I am
only a peasant and----”

“And what does that matter?”

“Oh, I do not know how to address her in language worthy of her or of
my love. I can only stupidly say, I love her.”

“Ah,” said Sidonie, pathetically, “I should not ask for more.”

“You--you! Perhaps not. But, don’t you see, with her it is different.
She is not a peasant by birth or education.”

Sidonie suffered keenly. Each word of Bruno’s stabbed her tender
heart. She felt that she must leave him. She longed to be alone. And
yet something held her rooted to the spot. All that Bruno had said
in regard to Catherine was but kindred to the feeling the lame girl
possessed for him.

“Oh,” continued Bruno, “could you but know what it is to love as I do!
It is a fever which consumes one! It is torture! Catherine! Catherine!
What would I not do for you? For you I would confront a hundred
dangers; for you I would lay down my life; for you----”

“Be silent!” shouted Sidonie, beside herself.

“Who,” he went on, not heeding her command, “can compare with her in
loveliness? Who is her equal? I would defend her against her husband!
I could kill Firmin did I not know her indifference to him. If at this
moment she were to say, ‘Lie at my feet until you die of love,’ I
should eagerly obey.”

Unable at this moment to control herself, Sidonie seized his hands, and
covering them with passionate kisses, exclaimed: “And I adore you--even
as you adore her.”

And turning away she disappeared, leaving Bruno utterly stupefied. When
at last he realized the situation, he was overpowered. His words must
have seemed so cruel to her.

“Oh, how miserable it all is! Poor, poor Sidonie! How I must have
wounded her loyal heart. Oh, why--why could I not have loved her
instead of Catherine? We might have been so happy! and now only misery
awaits us.”

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER XI.

TEMPTATION.


Bruno possessed an ardent poetic nature. In his boyhood he was a
day-dreamer. While his village comrades ravaged birds’ nests, played at
leap-frog, and in other ways distinguished themselves for mischief, he
was wandering alone by the river lost in revery. With his feet buried
in the cool ripples, he loved to watch the water and study the habits
of the finny tribes as they played about him.

He knew where the trout made a home under the rocks, and in the cool
summer evenings, with his legs bared to the thigh, he would surprise
them in their hiding-places and then a wild chase would follow. How
many times would his hand close over some little creature, only to find
the next moment that it had slipped from his fingers and escaped among
the pebbles.

As he grew into a tall, graceful boy of fifteen, however, he began to
think how he could best serve Mother Mathurine, and with a good will he
went to work. But most of his leisure time was devoted to trout-fishing
and he became an expert angler. Many a fine string of trout bore
witness to his skill, and the people of the village looked to him for a
supply when a present of that nature was to be made for a _fête_ or a
social party.

“Bruno’s trout always have the best flavor,” once remarked Andoche,
“and I do not understand how he coaxes them to bite.”

And now Bruno was grown to manhood.

One morning toward the end of November, after a successful expedition,
the result of which was a fine trout of enormous size, Bruno was
returning home by way of a secluded path through the woods, dreaming of
his love for Catherine, when he met the object of his thoughts face to
face.

The gamekeeper’s wife involuntarily stopped. Bruno’s face changed
color. At this moment Jacques Percier made his appearance. He quickly
passed by, but just as he was about to disappear behind a hedge of
walnut trees he turned and saw the gamekeeper’s wife still standing in
front of Bruno. Knowing Bruno’s mad infatuation for Catherine, Jacques
fancied he had stumbled upon a rendezvous, and the stupid fellow hid
himself behind the trees to watch proceedings.

Catherine approached closer to Bruno.

“You are a brave defender,” said she, referring to his action on the
day of Suzanne’s wedding.

“No, Madame--oh, no. It was nothing. Why do you say that?”

“You know perfectly well, Bruno,” she replied. “Ah, if you had only
told me your sentiments before my marriage.”

Bruno tremblingly whispered: “Do not speak like that, Catherine, for we
know not what may happen.”

“And why shouldn’t I say it? I express a regret. If I only had known
then what I know now.”

“Ah, then you know----”

“I know that you were exposed to death for my sake that day.”

“O Madame, surely you exaggerate.”

“At all events, I must admire your heroism. I know that at Suzanne’s
reception you tried to defend me against the man I have married. And
you do not wish me to reproach myself for not having guessed your
secret? Alas! the past cannot be changed, but if I were your wife----”

“I beg of you, be silent! I shall go mad.”

“Oh, I too am miserable. Still, that shall not prevent me from thanking
you.”

She extended her hand. Poor Bruno knew not what to do.

“It is not necessary to speak of the little I have done. It was but
selfishness on my part.”

Catherine, who was silent for a moment, decided to change the subject.

“You have there a fine fish,” she said, for want of a better theme.

“Will you not accept it, Madame?”

“Oh, no, my poor friend, no. What should I do with it? Should I not be
obliged to tell _him_ where I got it?”

Him! That word strangely impressed Bruno. For the second time she had
designated her husband without speaking his name, as though the sound
were odious to her.

“Never mind,” he said. “Take the trout, please. It will give me great
pleasure if you will.”

But Catherine refused. However, she did not pass on. From time to time
she made a motion as though about to speak. Her eyes were brighter
than usual, and a flush suffused her cheek. Bruno, supposing she had
something important to say, waited patiently. But soon her expression
changed. She looked at the young man long and earnestly. Then, as
though renouncing some idea as untimely or impracticable, she briefly
said: “Adieu, Bruno.”

“Adieu,” he returned, with a sigh.

They were about to separate, when, with an impulsive gesture, Catherine
turned resolutely and whispered in his ear: “Do you love me, Bruno?”

In answer, Bruno, seizing her hand, muttered a few unintelligible words.

“Tell me, Bruno,” persisted Catherine, wishing a coherent reply, “do
you love me?”

After all that she had said concerning her husband, and after all the
regret she had manifested, this question amounted to a confession.
Bruno took her passionately in his arms and rained kisses on her face.

“Then,” she continued, with a greater show of reserve, “what if I ask
of you something?”

“You have need of me!” cried Bruno in ecstasy. “Oh, speak, Madame; you
have only to command. I am eager to do your bidding.”

“Even wrong?”

“Even wrong--for your sake.”

“Yes, but you say that because you are excited, perhaps.”

“Ah, do not doubt me. Believe me, you have only to command, Madame
Catherine.”

“Well, then,” she began, but she stopped short, lost in thought.
“Bruno,” she went on finally, “go away from me. Leave me at once, for I
am utterly miserable.”

“No--not until I know what I can do for you.”

But Catherine was now unwilling to say another word. Remorse, or
shame, or both had subdued her first wild thought and she was silent.
Meanwhile Bruno was urging her to divulge what she desired him to do.
So long and so earnestly did he entreat her to speak, that at last she
muttered a few words in his ear.

The poor fellow grew deathly white and withdrew a step in terror. His
eyes were fixed upon those of Catherine, which glittered like steel.
In a moment a cry escaped his lips. Letting the trout fall upon the
ground, he lifted his arms and ran across the fields--not knowing what
he did.

Quite as troubled as he, Catherine unconsciously extended her arms as
though to call him back. But he did not look behind him, and she too
soon disappeared in the opposite direction.

What horrible proposition had Catherine made to Bruno? Cannot the
reader imagine?

Since the wedding of Jacques Percier and Suzanne, life had been all but
unendurable in the pretty little cottage at the corner of the wood.
Savin, convinced that his wife no longer loved him, experienced the
countless pangs of ruined affection. Catherine had continued to pose as
a martyr and he had persecuted her until she was indeed to be pitied.
He had brutally resolved to give her cause to complain. He had exacted
that the house should be irreproachably neat and orderly, and that the
meals should be ready precisely on the hour. The breach had widened day
by day. Savin had become more rude and Catherine more irreconcilable.
They had addressed each other only in terms of hatred or anger. Nearly
every day there had been disagreeable scenes between the two.

“Do not force me to use violence,” said Barrau savagely one day, at
which remark Catherine was naturally indignant. Both were at love’s
antipodes. All peace was at an end, and the more Catherine reflected
the more she felt that nothing but her husband’s death could bring
relief. And having an overwhelming desire to confide in somebody, she
had thought of Bruno. But now she perceived how revolting it must have
been to his noble mind. The words she had spoken had stunned and driven
him away. However, she would not have told Bruno had he not urged, nay
begged, her to do so. He had presumed, of course, that she was going
to propose an elopement, and while that would have been a serious
undertaking, he felt able to brave all for her. Once far away from St.
Benoit, he had dreamed of working for Catherine and devoting himself to
her happiness.

But when he heard the young woman proposing to kill Savin he could
scarcely trust his ears, and we already have seen with what fear
he fled from her. Like most of the peasants, Bruno was a very good
marksman. He could handle a gun with considerable skill, and the
idea had occurred to Catherine to address him just as she would have
made the same proposition, under similar circumstances, to Firmin,
Fadard, or even to Andoche, if the latter ever had had a thought for
anything but the bottle. But Bruno was desperately in love with her
and professedly willing to die for her sake. But she did not know that
Bruno would sooner cut off his right hand or tear out his heart than
lie in wait for an honest man to kill him. Not even for love’s sake
could he resort to treachery and villainy.

Noticing how Bruno received her terrible suggestion, she had been moved
to contrition.

“He did right to leave me in dismay, the honest fellow,” she had said
as she entered the cottage. “I could embrace him for refusing. Who
knows but that he may save my life a second time? Brave Bruno!”

Then her proposition in all its hideous blackness recurred to her. Her
past life loomed up before her mind’s eye and mercilessly mocked and
shamed her, and as she meditated--for the first time--she admitted to
herself that she had been to blame from the day of the raspberry _fête_
up to the time of Suzanne’s marriage. The crime she had contemplated
now seemed _impish_ and terrible. She repented of her wicked thoughts
and thanked God that Bruno’s conduct had created in her this feeling,
otherwise she might never have taken a step toward reconciliation.

Savin was in the forest. She now awaited him with some impatience.
Courageously she made up her mind to tender the first advances and
bring back her husband’s smile. All bickering should cease. The abyss
on the verge of which Bruno’s flight had arrested her now seemed so
dark and horrible. She would a thousand times rather endure the jeers
of Rosalie and of the rest than ever again give way to such demon
thoughts.

“Ah, well, I will make amends for all the harm I have done,” she
mentally resolved as she busied herself about the supper.

Barrau had gone to _Pierre qui Vire_. A legend is associated with this
place respecting the old Balance Rock. This rock leans against another
in such a way as to form a perfect balance, and the story goes that
each day when the town-clock at Vaumarin, a little village perched
upon the opposite mountain, strikes twelve, the rock turns over three
times. But some very precise people affirm that there is no town-clock
at Vaumarin to strike the hour, and so the legend suffers. Others,
however, declare that at midnight the rock, possessed of the devil,
slowly turns three times. Many excursions are made to the place to
watch the mysterious rock, especially by those who are not in the least
afraid of goblins. A more lonely, dreary spot on earth could not be
found. The rock is situated some three miles from any human habitation,
in the midst of a dense and gloomy forest. All the paths leading to it
are lined with deep ravines, some of them of frightful depth and filled
with a mass of tangled roots and projecting bowlders. Just at the foot
of Balance Rock an avalanche of stones has fallen, and these from time
to time tumble headlong over the precipice with a thunderous crash.
In awful confusion lie the rocks, forming such weird shapes as in the
night are enough to fill with dread the bravest heart.

At the bottom of the gorge, in a rock-formed bed, rush the torrents of
the Trinquelin River--as though to shun the grewsome spot. But amid
these most solitary and desolate surroundings a convent stands on the
granite rocks. A misanthropic priest founded it some twenty-five years
ago, imposing on its members a code of rules so severe that several
died within the first twelve months, and finally the code was somewhat
modified. In winter there always is great suffering within its walls,
but in the summer-time it is comfortable as well as beautiful.

Savin, walking along the river bank in the thick underbrush, was a prey
to bitter reflections. The cold, cheerless day did not tend to lighten
his mood. He felt that his whole life was a failure.

“Happiness is but a chimera,” he said, “a myth to dream about, but not
to realize.”

Suddenly a gunshot echoed through the ravine from rock to rock. A ball
whizzed past his ear. He raised his rifle and garrisoned himself behind
a rock. But at that moment a cunning little doe, wounded and bleeding,
fell at his feet with a moan. There was a crackling of leaves. A
well-directioned jump landed a man near his victim, which after a spasm
or two was dead.

“So it is that rascal,” muttered Savin as he stood gazing at Firmin,
who stooped to pick up his game.

“You seem to own everything about this region,” Savin said ironically.

Firmin, surprised at the gamekeeper’s presence, made a backward leap.

“It’s no use. You may as well surrender,” added Savin sternly.

Firmin was about to make a break for the woods, when Savin raised his
rifle.

“If you take two more steps you are a dead man,” he coolly warned.

Firmin stopped.

“Perhaps you do not know,” continued Savin, “that it is a grave offence
to kill the females.”

“Well, make your complaint,” growled Firmin.

Savin took a step forward, grasped the poacher by the collar, and went
on: “To speak candidly, I have more to complain of than the mere loss
of a doe. For more than three months now, thanks to your impudence and
vanity, I have been deprived of contentment. You have been the cause of
my misfortune.”

“Who says so?”

“I do, and my word has never been doubted.”

“Well, what do you want?” asked Firmin, who, as we know, was not a lion
in the way of courage.

“We are alone, entirely alone,” pursued Barrau, with awful complacence,
“and we will settle this matter right here. You have been paying court
to my wife.”

“I?”

“You would deny it? You are afraid I will kill you, eh? Well, you have
reason to fear. Who will prevent me if I wish to do so? You have been
caught poaching--and I am a gamekeeper. There is the proof of your
guilt,” pointing to the doe. “And I should only have to accuse you of
having fired at me. Self-defence would be my plea. What judge would
hesitate to acquit me--to congratulate me?”

While speaking Savin held his rifle in readiness. Pale and trembling,
Firmin looked about as though invoking aid.

“But reassure yourself,” observed Savin, lowering his rifle. “I am not
an assassin. You have wounded and disgraced me, however, and I cannot
let it pass; so I have a proposition to make.”

Firmin breathed more freely. Since Barrau was not going to kill him
what had he to worry about? Raising his head proudly, he said: “Well,
what is it?”

“They say you have been a _valet de chambre_ in the city and know
something about the polite doings of society. If that is true, you must
know what a duel is. My rifle is loaded and you have ammunition. Load
your weapon and we will fight.”

The challenge did not seem to frighten Firmin. Surely, he thought,
Savin will not insist.

“How do you mean?” queried Firmin curiously.

“We will take position fifty paces apart, and then each may take ten
steps forward before firing.”

“But that is not a duel,” said Firmin solemnly.

“Then choose a better course; but be quick about it.”

“I do not wish to fight at all,” replied the poacher.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Barrau, with an effort to contain himself.

“No, I do not. You have mentioned your wife. Well, if she is indiscreet
you must take better care of her. I am not to blame, and why should I
expose myself to death when I have accumulated a neat little sum to
enjoy after working hard for eighteen months? No, indeed, I am not such
a fool.”

“You coward! Heavens! what a craven you are!”

Firmin’s head drooped and he blushed. Then he rallied.

“But,” said he, “it would be no duel without witnesses.”

“I expected you would find some excuse,” said Barrau impatiently.
“Perhaps you prefer a duel with swords. Schemer! You want to get away
and then mock me. But that will not work. You must fight.”

“I say no. If I wounded you or killed you, I should be branded as an
assassin. No, thanks.”

“Very well, then; I shall be obliged to kill you outright.”

Savin again raised his rifle, and Firmin was again terrified. Nightfall
was not far off, and to be murdered in this ghostly spot was a horrible
thought.

It was appallingly obvious to Firmin that he was in Barrau’s power.
Nothing would prevent the latter from proving his innocence should he
carry out his threat.

Approaching Firmin, Savin seized him by the collar and shook him
violently.

“Will you fight?”

Firmin began to cry for help. Savin, who intended only to give him
a thorough scare, now proceeded to administer a rather vigorous
chastisement. At length, when he concluded he had taught the lesson to
its completion he stopped. But anon he acted as though about to repeat
it, Firmin meanwhile fairly quaking with fear. Then, turning on his
heel, Savin walked away, leaving Firmin prostrate on the ground.

As soon as the gamekeeper was lost to sight in the woods Firmin, with a
muttered curse, seized the doe and went his way. Hatred burned in his
breast, and it was depicted on every lineament of his wicked face. His
thirst for vengeance was consuming him.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER XII.

A VILLAIN’S OFFER.


Irritated beyond expression, Savin proceeded homeward, and, as it
happened, the first man he met was Andoche--about a mile from St.
Benoit.

The blacksmith was a little the worse for liquor, but that was by no
means a novelty in him.

“Well, well,” he remarked, as he and Barrau came face to face, “I see
you have two guns. Have you been capturing somebody?”

“Better than that,” returned Savin, whose anger increased the more he
recalled his recent experience.

“Oh, with what have you regaled him? For I will wager it is Firmin’s
rifle.”

“Quite right, Andoche. And permit me to add that your friend Firmin is
the biggest coward in the country.”

“_Mon Dieu!_ Have you just discovered that?”

“I did not know that such a craven existed on the face of the earth.
No.”

“How did you find it out at last?”

“I was down at Balance Rock, and he killed a young doe under my very
nose.”

“A doe? Indeed that is a crime. And so you got angry and thumped him
without further ceremony, eh?”

“No; but I demanded satisfaction.”

“_À propos_ of what?”

“Of my wife,” replied Savin, laconically.

At that moment Jacques Percier, with his usual stupid demeanor, came
across the fields and joined them. He heard Barrau’s last words, and
quite naturally inferred that Bruno also figured in the subject of
conversation.

“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” said he, cheerfully.

“Good-afternoon, Percier.”

“Your wife!” repeated the blacksmith in surprise.

“Yes. You know she is indiscreet. I do not for a moment believe
anything further; but she is imprudent and I am greatly disturbed by
it.”

“Perhaps you are too hard upon her.”

“No, I only ask her love and respect.”

“Well,” interposed Jacques, with the pompous air of a bridegroom, “we
all expect that.”

“At all events, I have given the rascal a good lesson.”

“And he deserved it,” replied Jacques, thinking all the time Savin was
speaking of Bruno.

In a voice vibrating with anger, Barrau then related the details of the
occurrence at Balance Rock, not, however, mentioning Firmin’s name,
since Andoche knew of whom he was speaking.

In the mean time, one by one, the little group increased. Other
peasants listened to Savin’s story. When he had finished Jacques
Percier, with his great globe-like eyes fixed upon Barrau’s face,
foolishly asked: “Then you, too, saw them embrace each other?”

Barrau sprang forward in a frenzy. “Where? When?” he cried.

Andoche slyly touched Jacques’s foot, and the latter saw his mistake.
But Savin, taking him savagely by the collar, shouted: “Did you see
him embrace my wife?”

“Don’t strangle me,” cried Percier. “It isn’t my fault if Madame
Catherine----”

“Answer me,” insisted Barrau, shaking Jacques violently. “Answer me!
Did you see them embrace?”

“Well, yes! There!”

“You must be mistaken,” interposed Andoche.

“Let him explain, if you please,” requested Savin. “When was this?”

“After dinner.”

“To-day? Where?”

“In the walnut grove.”

“At what hour?”

“About half-past three.”

“Imbecile! It is impossible!”

“Oh, well,” said Jacques, with a titter, “just as you say, of course.”

This reply exasperated Barrau.

“I tell you it is impossible, and I do not know what should prevent me
from punishing you for lying.”

“Lying?” repeated Jacques, with rising indignation.

“Yes, lying; for I met him myself, and thrashed him, at about four
o’clock, at Balance Rock.”

Percier was astounded.

“Surely you are speaking of Bruno,” said Jacques at length.

“Was it, then, Bruno who embraced Catherine in the walnut grove?”

Ashamed of his stupidity, Suzanne’s husband remained silent for a
moment, and then essayed to repair his mistake. But Savin, refusing to
listen to his ridiculous explanations, turned angrily away and took
the nearest path for his home.

“There are beasts that never ought to open their mouths,” growled
Andoche, as soon as Savin was out of hearing.

“You mean me?” inquired Jacques.

“No--oh, no. I mean Napoleon I., of course.”

“Well, how did I know that everybody was in love with his wife, eh?”

“There will be a great scene when he reaches home, and you will be the
cause, you simpleton. _Mon Dieu!_ That man told the truth who said that
the wicked are less to be feared than fools, because they sometimes
keep quiet, while fools never do.”

Barrau took long strides, and he breathed as with difficulty. If he
had encountered Catherine at that moment, a terrible catastrophe might
have been the result. His mind, travelling faster than his limbs,
was occupied with reflections that may be summarized thus: “What
effrontery! In open daylight to caress a blackguard like that Bruno.
They were right in predicting that I should repent of my contract. The
coquette! But is it true? Bah! What interest would he have in making
up such a story? But perhaps he did not really see it. Perhaps--but
no! Jacques is not a liar. Oh, miserable woman! To make herself the
laughing-stock of the whole country. But who knows?”

He paused a moment, and then went on: “Like all deceived husbands, I
was unable to believe that such a misfortune could come to me, that
such shame could enter my home. In all St. Benoit there is not a
fireside where they are not mocking me.”

Barrau’s love and vanity were equally wounded. His anger knew no
bounds, and by the time he reached the cottage he was half mad with
doubt and sorrow.

Hearing his step on the walk, Catherine came out to meet him, her face
softened by smiles and her general manner indicating that she desired
a reconciliation. While awaiting Savin she had arranged a little
confession she now purposed to offer. If on this day Firmin had kept
out of Savin’s path, conjugal harmony would have been restored, for
Catherine was resolved to make the _amende honorable_. But fatality
willed it otherwise.

As Barrau approached, he saw his wife standing by the door. Irritated
to a state of madness, he fancied he perceived in her friendly attitude
and advances only deception, and in his brutality as a betrayed husband
he raised the butt of his gun and struck her without a word of warning
or explanation. Never afterward could the misguided fellow forgive
himself or forget that scene.

Catherine stood silent and immovable. Never had she dreamed of this.
Not only had he insulted her, but the blow had given her pain; but the
latter was as nothing compared to the fury which took possession of her
brain. Springing to her feet, she made one bound for his throat, and a
pitiful struggle ensued. Catherine was naturally the first to yield,
and she cried for help. Her cries brought Barrau partially to his
senses. He stopped and stepped back, leaving his wife leaning against
the buffet, panting for breath.

A moment’s silence intervened, and then seizing her arm he exclaimed:
“You are lost, do you know it? And as for that villain Bruno--I will
kill him! Do you understand?”

“Oh, it is Bruno, then, that you want to kill? Well, he is no coward.”

“Shameless woman!”

“Cruel monster!”

After uttering these words Catherine, with the manner of a maniac,
rushed up the staircase and locked herself in her room, resolved to
wait until the morrow before breaking with the man from whom there was
now nothing to hope.

“He does not dare to come here,” she mentally exclaimed as she crossed
the apartment.

Left to himself, Barrau speedily repented of his infamous conduct. To
assault a woman, be she ever so culpable, is a dishonorable, shameful
proceeding, and to think that he, a soldier and gentleman, had been
guilty of such a thing. He was mortified and penitent. But when he
thought of Bruno and Firmin his heart seemed bursting with indignation.
He foresaw greater trouble and despair claimed him as her own. “If I
could die,” he whispered to himself, “all would be settled. But no.
That is a cowardly thought. However, this state of affairs must end.
To-morrow she will probably go away. If she doesn’t I shall return to
my old lodgings in the barracks.”

The night passed and neither slept. A prey to melancholy thoughts and
schemes of vengeance, each paced the floor through the long watches of
darkness, lonely and wretched.

At about nine o’clock on the following morning Catherine descended the
stairs and passed the exhausted Savin, who was asleep in a chair. With
nervous step she left the house and started toward the village.

At the pond where Rosalie and others were engaged in washing
clothes, tongues were wagging industriously. The latest gossip
was in everybody’s mouth. For the moment Firmin was the subject of
conversation. He had just passed by and they had persuaded him to tell
his grievance.

When Catherine crossed the little bridge under which the women were at
work, all tongues ceased. Andoche alone saluted her with a sarcastic
“Good-morning,” adding, “and did you pass a pleasant night?”

Catherine hastened on without replying. The village, the meadows, the
forest, the people, all seemed hateful to her. To leave the country was
all that she now desired. But she wished to be free to go where she
liked and to do as she pleased, to which end she was going to consult
with Monsieur Eugène.

“I have had enough of this wretched life. The courts shall separate us,
and I will go to earn my living in Paris or elsewhere.”

As she proceeded some peasants bowed to her, but she did not notice
them. Upon arriving at Monsieur Eugène’s house she knocked, and old
Jeannette, the servant, opened the door.

“Is your master at home?”

“Yes, Madame. Will you come in?”

Monsieur Eugène was occupied for the moment with a land-owner who was
consulting him as to whether he should sell a piece of property, so
the maid ushered Catherine into a waiting-room where a man was also
waiting. Upon seeing him Catherine stepped backward toward the door,
but the man, greatly excited, rose to his feet and said: “Your husband,
then, has lost his senses?”

“Yes, Monsieur Firmin, I fear so.”

“But that is no reason why he should insult me.”

“Is it on your account that he has been tempted to kill me?” demanded
Madame Barrau.

“Without doubt, since it is on your account that he has insulted me.
He has boasted all over the country of having thrashed me, of having
broken my head.”

“And it is not true?”

“No, it is not true,” he declared with bravado.

No witnesses to his chastisement having been present, Firmin had
decided to tell his own story. If the gamekeeper had said nothing
concerning the encounter at Balance Rock, Firmin doubtless would have
kept silent. But to have it proclaimed abroad was too much of a shock
to his _amour propre_ to pass over in silence.

Early on this day, therefore, he had come to consult with Monsieur
Eugène as to the best method of summoning Savin to court. But all along
the road he had been twitted about his encounter with Barrau, and upon
his arrival at the counselor’s house he was fairly boiling with rage.
He had been asked to wait, but he was restless and disturbed, when the
door had opened and Catherine had walked in. But she was more angered
than Firmin and her words were nettling and impetuous.

“If he has not struck you down,” she said, with the intention of
pushing him to the last extremity, “be sure he will do it, and that,
too, before the world.”

“He does not dare!”

“Bah! Who is to prevent him, eh? Are _you_ the man to do it?”

“Take care, Madame Catherine Barrau! Don’t excite me beyond all reason.
It wouldn’t take much urging for me to kill him--your charming husband.”

“Come, now, I defy you! You are too much of a coward!”

Though they were speaking in muffled tones, they were thoroughly
aroused and the energy of mad passion controlled their words.

“If only you could have loved me, fair tigress,” said Firmin in a
whisper, overcome by her imperial beauty.

“I do not love people who are the laughing-stock of the village.
Everybody is making fun of you. Were you less a coward Savin would have
paid for his insults from you before this. Bruno would have found a way
to have punished him.”

Bruno! Catherine well knew how to touch Firmin’s jealousy. For a month
she had listened to his advances half condescendingly, but Bruno’s name
always strangely affected him. Was Bruno his rival? At any rate, her
way of exasperating him was successful.

“The gamekeeper shall die before to-morrow morning!” said he
desperately.

“Nonsense!”

“I swear it! And it will be so much the worse for you.”

“So much the worse for me! How so?” she inquired, trying to appear
unconcerned and succeeding only in looking terribly in earnest. Without
answering her question Firmin, after a brief hesitation, held out his
hand.

“Is it agreed?” he asked with a significant look.

In reply Catherine raised her hand and the compact was sealed.

“In order to accomplish my purpose, he must remain out to-night.”

“He shall do so.”

“When you hear a gunshot----”

He stopped. It was useless to continue or to explain, and as his
consultation with Monsieur Eugène was now objectless, he left the house.

Catherine, however, was not yet ready to make her adieus. Her errand
was still to be performed.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER XIII.

THE CONSULTATION.


Scarcely had the outer door closed upon Firmin when Monsieur Eugène
finished his interview with the land-owner, and presently Catherine was
asked to come into his office.

A strange man was Monsieur Eugène. He was rich in many good qualities,
but he had one fault, or rather an unfortunate failing, which had
practically destroyed those gifts of nature which would have made him a
great success had he but devoted himself to one profession or one art.

Having received a liberal education in other branches, Eugène Bertier
went to Paris to study medicine. For three years he applied himself to
this science with an unusual enthusiasm. Not a student in the college
could compare with him in diligence or knowledge. He was held up as
an example to the other students, and was very popular among the
foremost surgeons in the institution. One day a little child, a girl of
fourteen, was brought to the hospital. She was a winsome, intelligent
little thing who had been cruelly burned in a fire while attempting to
save a baby brother. From the first moment he saw her Eugène gained an
affection almost paternal for the little girl--his No. 17, as he called
her, being his seventeenth patient.

The principal doctor said to him: “Monsieur Bertier, I place this
little girl in your charge. I believe that you can cure her.”

Eugène accepted the trust, saying: “Yes, I am sure of it.”

The little girl had the utmost confidence in her young physician,
and seeing with what tenderness he dressed her burns, she bore the
pain with rare fortitude. The right side of her body was a mass of
sores. With compressed lips she endured the agony of having the cotton
changed, not a cry escaping her. When the pain was less intense, when
she was comparatively easy, the young doctor questioned her concerning
her family and home life, winning her confidence by his kind and
sympathetic manner. Alas! little Madelaine’s story was a sad one. Her
father, a well-born, honest, and worthy man, becoming financially
embarrassed, had ended his troubles by committing suicide. He had left
four children and a nervous, sickly wife to battle with the world.
The mother soon afterward had died, and young Madelaine had been left
to provide for her little brothers and sister--not for long, however,
for in trying to save her youngest charge, who perished in a fire, she
herself had been terribly burned, and the two other children had been
handed over to charity.

Quite simply she told her story, as though her pain and suffering were
but natural and merited. Monsieur Eugène was touched. “First,” he
mentally concluded, “let me cure her and then I will see what can be
done.”

Every day he brought to her some delicacy: a basket of fruit, a
nosegay, or some bonbons. Never was a brother more devoted to a sister
than was he to the afflicted child. The treatment to which he resorted
seemed certain. It was now only a question of time, and each day the
affection between the two grew stronger.

“Fortunately I am rich, and when she is strong enough I will establish
her in a little flower-stall wherever she wishes it to be located.”

Then the hot weather came and Eugène redoubled his precautions and
care. One day, however, he found a little white spot upon the flesh
where the burn had resisted his treatment.

Calling the chief surgeon, he showed him the spot and expressed his own
fears in a whisper. “That is nothing,” said the surgeon. “Don’t worry
about it.”

He prescribed another application, but on the following day Madelaine
was worse. Then Eugène called in consultation the most famous
practitioners in all Paris, but in vain.

Twenty-four hours later the young girl died in his arms. Science had
failed to save her.

The grief-stricken young physician thus depreciated the art of healing:
“For what purpose is science? What matters it how hard one studies or
how deeply one delves into scientific research if one can do nothing
at a time like this? Science, after all, is only an illusion, and the
scientists are humbugs. I do not wish to deceive those who come to me
in confidence. I will renounce this so-called science. I will not be a
physician.”

His decision was irrevocable. But as he was by nature fond of work he
could not remain idle or aimless, and accordingly three months later
he began the study of painting. After four years in this pursuit
he abandoned it to study law. Whatever he undertook he did well,
and his brilliant attainments won for him the respect of every one.
But he spoiled everything by always and at every step exacting of
himself perfection. The men with whom he came in contact must be
irreproachable. To see wickedness and immorality on all sides was
terrible to him. The means which men employed to succeed in life
disgusted him. Here and there he saw that men of brains often fell
short of success, while dull and irresponsible men were on the top wave
of prosperity, and these glimpses of life shocked his too sensitive
nature.

It is a decided mistake not to take humanity for what it is worth,
without stopping to speculate and to moralize. But poor Eugène could
not understand the frailty of mankind, and so one day at the age of
thirty-five, disillusioned, not knowing what to do, regretting his own
unworthiness, but convinced that a man truly honest and pure-minded
will strive to make his own life unimpeachable before criticising the
foibles of others, he realized how little real good he had done in the
world. Visions of the fields and hedges of Morvan came to his mind, and
finally he returned to his native town to put all his knowledge and
acquirements at the service of his unsophisticated neighbors.

Twenty years later he still dwelt at St. Benoit, where a fellow-citizen
could not construct a house, fell a tree, marry a girl, make a will,
buy a meadow or undertake a lawsuit without consulting Monsieur Eugène.
Always good-natured and generous, he gave himself up unreservedly to
all their interests. He cured their wounds, settled their disputes,
and advised them in their conduct, and only asked in return a little
gratitude.

To say that Monsieur Eugène did not nourish vague regrets would hardly
be true. But he had acquired, with years, a certain indifference to
what might have been, which contributed greatly to his tranquillity of
mind.

When Catherine entered he asked her to sit down for a moment while he
wrote a few lines. Monsieur Eugène’s library was an artistic, beautiful
room. Rare volumes filled the shelves and exquisite _objets d’art_ and
unique _vertu_ were scattered about in profusion. All these things,
however, were quite lost upon the ordinary peasant who came to him
for advice. Only a few, like Catherine and Savin, could appreciate
his taste, the rest declaring that Monsieur Eugène was _bizarre_ and
eccentric in this particular. Catherine was too much excited to contain
herself, and stepping up to his desk she simply said: “Monsieur Eugène,
I want to procure a separation.”

“What! Has Savin been unkind to you?”

“Yes, and moreover he struck me on the shoulder. I will not stand such
indignities, of course, and besides, we are both unhappy together, so
it will be far better if we are separated.”

“Was any one present at your quarrel?”

“No.”

“That is unfortunate, for witnesses are necessary in such a case. A
tribunal would not be satisfied with your word alone.”

“Ah! and what if he kills me in the mean time?”

“My dear Catherine, I do not say the law is always agreeable. I only
tell you what the law is.”

“Then it is impossible for me to free myself from him?”

“No. If Savin confesses that he struck you, that will suffice.”

“Then he will confess it, for he desires a separation quite as much as
I do.”

“Very well. Have you any money?”

“Why? Do I need much?”

“Certainly.”

“What! must I be subjected to insult, maltreatment, and abuse because I
have no money?”

“Alas!”

“_Mon Dieu!_ And then the world is astonished because a man is tempted
to kill his wife or a woman to----”

“Say no more, Catherine. The words may cost you dear.”

“But how unreasonable!”

“The law provides, however, in cases like yours, that if one of
the parties be really a worthy object of judiciary assistance, the
government will furnish it.”

“Then I shall seek such aid. How can I do so?”

“Wait one minute and tell me, is it true that you permitted Bruno to
embrace you yesterday in the walnut grove?”

Catherine blushed and lowered her eyes.

“Be frank with me, Catherine. I am your friend.”

“Well, yes, it is true; but if you only knew the circumstances----”

“Listen, Catherine. You have been very indiscreet, and naturally your
husband is mad with jealousy and wounded pride.”

“O Monsieur, do not discuss the question. I understand all you would
say; but do you not think I can obtain the assistance you speak of?”

“Candidly, no. You cannot.”

“But why?”

“Because you have been at fault, and inquiries will be made regarding
your character, and Savin’s as well.”

“What of that?”

“Everybody knows Savin and admires him. The magistrates will learn
about the raspberry _fête_ last summer and its consequences. Besides,
you have been most imprudent in your attitude toward Firmin and Bruno.”

“But, Monsieur----”

“My child, even if you had the necessary means to push a lawsuit, I
should still advise you to desist.”

“Why?”

“Because Savin married you under most peculiar circumstances, and you
must not forget his generosity and magnanimity in shielding you against
the world. Most women would adore such a man, no matter how jealous he
was. Such a man never has any difficulty in finding friends to defend
him.”

“I have nothing more to say, Monsieur. Good-morning,” said Catherine,
as she hastened with an injured look toward the door.

Understanding her feelings, Monsieur Eugène quietly rose and opened the
door for her. Sad and troubled, Catherine went away. As she was passing
the inn she heard a loud discussion going on. Andoche’s voice could be
heard above all the others, but Firmin too was talking loudly, trying
to defend himself against their taunts.

“She is pretty, to be sure, Firmin,” Fadard was saying, “but you must
run a great risk.”

“Can it be that you have been to the war?” asked another.

“What a gay cavalier you are,” declared a third.

“May you live to grow old,” cried Fadard, sarcastically.

“Stop!” shouted Firmin, at last, “or you will be sorry.”

“About what?”

“Well, you just wait long enough and he will do you up in the same
way, Monsieur; and then we shall see how much there is to your boasted
bravery. You are as much of a poacher as anybody.”

“Look out--here comes Savin’s wife.”

“Well, she will shut his mouth quick enough.”

Firmin seized a bottle and brandished it over the head of Nicolas, the
last speaker. Andoche interposed, and Firmin, availing himself of the
opportunity to escape, ran out of the inn and soon overtook Catherine
on the road. She greeted him with an air of hauteur.

“I know what a coward you are,” she said. “I see I can look to you for
nothing.”

“I will kill him to-night.”

“Oh, come, you are only boasting.”

“I will kill him, I tell you!”

“And _I_ don’t believe you.”

With a savage gesture Firmin turned and left her.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER XIV.

CRIME.


In her soul Catherine felt quite positive that Firmin would not dare
perpetrate the act he had voluntarily promised to do; still she
resolved to keep Savin out that night, if possible. By a grim fatality,
however, Savin went abroad on his own account.

When Catherine reached home she found him still sound asleep. Overcome
by fatigue, he had dropped into slumber without removing his clothes
several hours before. At about five o’clock in the afternoon he awoke
with a sudden start, ate a bit of luncheon, and then set to work
cleaning his gun, being thus and in other ways engaged until nearly ten
o’clock, when without a word he shouldered his weapon and started out
of the house.

To Catherine there was something grewsomely suggestive in the departure
of the man whom she might never see again alive.

Involuntarily she advanced as though to call him back. But pride,
in collusion with baser feelings, conquered her, and the wretched
woman lingered with her hand on the door-knob until the sound of his
retreating steps had died away and all was still.

Then she sought her bed, but her intention to go to sleep calmly was
frustrated. In a short time she began to weigh her means of defence in
case she were complicated in the proposed crime.

The night was characterized by a dry, cold atmosphere. An occasional
gust of wind shivered the leaves of the trees, among which the silver
gleams of the high-poised moon fantastically played. The stillness
would have been continuous but for the shrill interruptions of watchful
owls.

Thoughtfully Savin strode on, taking the road which led to the
Trinquelin, by a descent into a ravine.

Overcome with a sudden remorse, Catherine left her bed, and opening a
window gazed out into the night. After several minutes of unpleasant
silence she heard stealthy footsteps approaching, and soon a man’s
figure appeared to view. The sight filled Catherine with a double sense
of horror. She opened the window and in a loud voice cried: “Firmin, go
home!”

But the unresponsive figure only hastened on in the gloom of the
oak-trees. Hurrying out of the house, Catherine was bent on overtaking
the person ahead of her. As she advanced she gave earnest utterance to
the words: “Stop, Firmin! Abandon your object! Pray come back! I am
unwilling----”

But the figure had disappeared.

“It is fate,” murmured the young woman, who was shaking like an aspen
leaf.

Eleven o’clock sounded. As the night advanced Catherine was torn the
more by conflicting emotions. Love and despair grappled her heart. The
more she thought of Savin as lost to her forever, the greater seemed
her love for him. And yet she could not help but feel that he had
humiliated her before the world.

At a little past midnight she heard carriage wheels. The horses’ hoofs
clattered over the frozen road, and then passing the cottage at the
corner of the wood their echoes grew fainter and fainter until they no
longer could be heard. Was her husband’s wounded or death-cold form
being borne away in that late-hour vehicle? Catherine asked herself
this question with a cold shudder, as she crouched down beside her
chamber window and waited. Perchance to distract her thoughts she
began to count the branches of the trees in front of the cottage. But
this was a vain and mocking pastime. Every rustle of the leaves to her
alarmed senses seemed like the report of a gun. Even the creaking of
the floor under her weight as she moved startled her. Once more she
went to bed, but only to toss about in dire distress.

The terrible situation appalled her; and the more she considered it,
the more atrocious seemed the part she was playing. Visions of Savin
her husband, he who had protected her against the world, the man to
whom she owed everything--wounded and perhaps dying at that very
moment--haunted her. And yet, he had humiliated her. Yes; but what a
fearful vengeance--that he should die because of a few vehement words!

Two o’clock. O God! Would the night never pass? Perhaps, after all, he
was safe. “Firmin is such a coward! Who knows if he would dare carry
out his threat? Why do I torment myself about it? When Firmin sees
Savin, he will not dare lift his little finger. God be praised! Firmin
is a poltroon--_that_ I know, and why should I fear?”

Half-past two.

“How the hours creep! Oh, what if Firmin should attack him from behind?
Yes, that is what he would do--the coward! He would take him unawares.
And _I_ am the cause! Oh, no, no! It cannot be!”

Catherine hurriedly dressed herself, determined to seek her husband and
end her apprehensive suspense. As she crossed the threshold the air
made her shiver and she turned back, and while searching for her shawl
she regained a share of her wonted composure.

“After all,” she reflected aloud, “I am foolish. If Firmin, as is
probable, becomes frightened and runs home, I shall only get deeper
into trouble. At this hour all is settled, one way or the other, but
Savin probably is quite safe and uninjured. Firmin is too much of a
coward to carry out his threat. And why should I show such an interest,
anyway? Why, indeed?”

In a nearly tranquil mood she again seated herself at the window. But
her tranquillity did not last long. Soon she was assailed by doubts and
emotions that brought fresh tears to her eyes.

“But what if he be dead at this instant? What if he were so far from
here that I could not have heard the report?”

A revulsive paroxysm of grief and remorse made her moan piteously.

“Who knows but that he may be dying with no one near to help him?”

How terrible is remorse! Catherine, during those moments of suspense,
suffered untold anguish, and when at last she could endure it no
longer, she snatched up her wrap and rushed out into the night. The
clock tinkled four as she closed the door behind her. Possessed with
the one idea of finding her husband, she hurried on, but just as she
entered the wood she heard a loud reverberating report.

“O God! I am too late!” cried the distracted woman, as she fell on her
knees like a sobbing suppliant. Soon, however, she recovered herself in
a measure, but instead of flying to Savin’s side, her one thought was
to get home as rapidly as possible.

“They must find me alone and asleep,” she murmured, “when they come to
break the news.”

In her confusion it did not occur to her that Savin might be only
wounded and that immediate relief might save him. Nor did she dream
that anybody could have seen her leave the house--only to return
precipitately after the shot was fired, and lock the door, which all
night had remained unlocked, behind her.

Mounting the staircase she entered her bed-room and prepared for bed.
But her every nerve was on the alert. The ticking of the little clock
on the mantelpiece sounded like a cannon in her ears. What a dreadful
suspense! Would they never come? In a waiting, listening attitude she
seated herself by the window.

“Do I hear footsteps on the walk?” she asked herself. “No, it is only
the beating of my heart.”

A death-like soundlessness prevailed.

“Oh, what a demon is that Firmin! I would kill him if he stood before
me now,” she exclaimed.

Five o’clock sounded.

“I hear a step on the pebbles. Thank Heaven! somebody is coming. Good
God! how my heart throbs. But I must feign sleep or I am lost. They are
knocking at the door. Now to play my part. Oh, Holy Mother, forgive my
sin! Remorse--no, it is my conscience--makes me cowardly.”

Tremblingly she leaned out of the window and looked.

“God be praised!” she cried. “It is Savin.”

Mad with joy, and penitent as Magdalen, she sped down-stairs, drew the
bolt, tore open the door, and seizing Savin’s arm attempted to lead him
within.

“At last!” she breathlessly cried. She noticed nothing strange in
his appearance, so delighted was she to know that he was living. The
gamekeeper surveyed his wife with unsteady eyes. Any other person would
have seen that the poor fellow was wounded. Catherine saw nothing of
the sort. His expression was awful in its intensity. Convinced that his
wife was the cause of his wounds, he had dragged himself home to avenge
himself, should he retain sufficient strength. With superhuman effort
he had walked the whole distance alone. Blind to everything but the one
thought that Savin had been spared to her, she attempted to embrace him.

“Miserable hypocrite!” he shouted. And with a great effort he raised
his hand and struck her face.

“So violence and brutality are to be the reward for my penitence. Very
well,” she wildly exclaimed, her better feelings again overpowered.

Without hesitation she slammed the door in Savin’s face and turned the
key. Losing his balance, Savin uttered a groan as he fell on the steps
with a thud.

Again the young woman mounted the staircase in anger.

“Why do I ever try to conciliate him?” she said to herself. “Twice he
has repulsed me when I have tried to bring about amiable relations. But
I have finished. Let him strike me again if he dares.”

Now that she had seen him safe and well, as she supposed, her anxiety
ceased. She reproached herself for having passed the night in worrying.
“What a night I have passed! And all for nothing! But it is over now.
I shall never be such a fool again.”

By some strange fatality, each time either of them had made overtures
to the other some awkward step on the part of the latter had prevented
a reconciliation. Reflecting upon this fact, Catherine became the
more incensed. Seated upon the edge of her bed she waited. At about
half-past six she heard approaching footsteps. Suddenly an awful shriek
was given, and then followed the sound of running feet. Catherine
listened with every nerve on the alert. Soon a voice said: “Firmin is
the man who dealt this blow--the ruffian!”

“What can have happened?” Catherine asked herself, as she crept to the
window and looked out. The heavens away in the east were violet and
rose tinted; while Aurora, beautiful as a dream, was ascending the sky.

“He is dead,” said a voice under the window.

“Dead, dead!” repeated Catherine, her eyes dilating with horror.
“Merciful heavens! Not dead?”

She vaguely comprehended that they were speaking of her husband. A low
murmur of voices arose from the spot where the gamekeeper lay; but the
peasants, superstitiously awed, dared not touch the body, and all were
speaking in suppressed tones. More than one whispered to his neighbor
that Madame Catherine might be able to name the murderer.

“She is a D’Angerolles, you know,” added another, significantly.

Every moment some new-comer joined the crowd which surrounded poor
Savin’s body.

“Come, let us go inside,” at last suggested one of the men. But upon
trying the door he found it locked, and knocked loudly. Endeavoring to
compose herself, Catherine hastily arranged her dress, and crossed the
room toward the staircase. In passing before the mirror that surmounted
the mantelpiece she involuntarily looked in the glass. By the dim gray
light a shadow seemed to rest upon her face.

“My God! what is it?” she cried in terror.

Lighting a candle, she gazed once more into the little glass. In the
glimmering, flickering light she saw upon her livid cheek the traces of
a bloody hand. Savin’s five fingers, which had been covered with blood
from his wound, when he struck his wife, had left their imprint on her
face. In a moment more she would have faced the throng with those marks
upon her face--by which her husband had branded her as a criminal.

“Look! Madame Catherine has struck a light. She must be coming down,”
said Mathieu.

“Hadn’t we better break it to her gently?” suggested somebody.

“Bah!” replied a woman. “She probably knew all about it before we did.”

Meantime Catherine washed away the stains as well as she could, but it
seemed to her as though some of them never could be effaced. Down below
all wondered why she was so long in coming. At length, after washing
her face several times, she descended the stairs.

When she appeared on the threshold, her countenance, mobile and
composed, was scrutinized by all, and suspiciously by many. On the
doorstep, just as he had fallen, lay poor Savin. Catherine saw him, and
a desolate cry escaped her. Falling on her knees she drew his head upon
her lap, and with a passionate moan, more of remorse than of despair,
she stroked his cold face. But to the spectators present it seemed but
a bit of clever acting, and they manifested signs of distrust of her.

“She is playing a _rôle_,” cried Mathieu, sneeringly, but he was
in error. For as she now looked upon his pale dead face, so drawn
and still, all hatred of her husband disappeared, and her being was
scourged by the thought that he had met his death because of her.

Suddenly a wild hope filled her heart. Leaning over her husband’s
prostrate form, she pressed her ear against his breast.

“He still lives!” she cried. “He lives!”

Realizing that her hope was not in vain, her tears ceased to well up in
her swollen eyes.

“Help me,” she commanded, as she tried to lift the body in her arms.
Several in the crowd came forward to assist her. Her emotion nearly
convinced them of her innocence, and only one among them, Andoche,
intuitively felt that she was guilty, and yet sincere in her grief.

A mattress was brought from the house and the gamekeeper was carefully
placed upon it.

“You, Lucien,” said Catherine, to a little boy of fifteen who was
standing near, “you must run to Quarré and bring Monsieur Morris, the
doctor, at once.”

When he was removed within, Catherine laved Savin’s wounds. A single
discharge of lead had entered the chest on the left side a little below
the heart. Profuse bleeding had rendered him insensible, but his heart
was still beating.

“He is not dead! No, no! He breathes!” Catherine kept repeating.
“Listen, George, don’t you hear him breathe?”

George was a young student of Trinquelin who possessed no little
intelligence.

“Yes, he is living,” he declared. So great was her joy at this
assurance that all now felt fully convinced of her innocence.

Meanwhile, Andoche, who alone felt undeceived, left the others,
determined to follow the trail of blood which indicated the way the
wounded man had taken. This trail led him to a little crossway where
all signs ceased. At the right a tuft of high shoots had two or three
broken branches, and the leaves were scattered. This, then, had been
the scene of the assassination. The murderer had posted himself behind
the accusing shrubbery and had fired at short range.

Little Lucien returned with the doctor, who at a moment’s notice
had mounted his horse, anxious to answer so extraordinary a
summons. Already the intelligence had spread with that rapidity so
characteristic of bad news, and from Quarré to Trinquelin the matter
was being discussed.

It was now broad daylight. Just behind the doctor was observed
approaching the Chief of Police and one of his subordinates. A great
commotion now prevailed. Since the day of the great stampede no such
crowd had collected within a radius of twenty miles. From St. Benoit,
from Trinquelin, Bordichon, and all the neighboring villages, people
had assembled. When Bruno heard the startling news he entered his home
completely prostrated.

“Poor Catherine! Poor little woman!” he cried, in his grief. He did
not doubt that she was the cause of Savin’s death, and he was utterly
wretched in the consciousness that his love for her neither increased
nor diminished with this discovery.

From all sides rose one cry. All were unanimous in their decision:
“Firmin is the guilty man.”

When the doctor examined Savin, all looked anxiously for his verdict.
At last it came:

“He is not dead, but there is no hope of saving him,” he said, soberly.

Catherine gave one heart-rending shriek and threw herself at the
doctor’s feet.

“Oh, save him! Save him, I beseech you!” she cried in anguish.

“My poor woman, I am powerless. He can live but a few moments.”

By this time the gendarmes had entered the yard and were seeking
information.

“There are only two men capable of killing Barrau,” said one red-haired
old gossip who felt it her duty to say something.

“Who are they?”

“Why, Madame Barrau’s lovers, of course.”

“You mean Firmin?”

“Yes, and Bruno, too.”

“What, young Bruno?”

“Why not?”

At this moment little Sidonie appeared. From the instant she learned of
the crime she had been a prey to tormenting doubts. Bruno’s words on
the day of the wedding recurred to her mind.

“For her,” he had said, “I would be capable of anything--even of crime.”

“Of crime,” repeated the lame girl, who, though she trembled like a
leaf, possessed an unshaken love for Bruno.

She arrived just in time to hear Bruno accused. A burning desire to
defend him filled her soul, but another feeling kept her silent. The
moment had not come to take up his defence. When the accusation became
formal, then would be her time.

The conversation was continued, everybody having a word to say on the
subject.

“Young Bruno,” said Suzanne the bride, “surely he is too honorable to
have dreamed of such a thing. Oh, no!”

“That is all very well to say,” returned the red-haired gossip, “but
when a man is in love with a coquette, he sometimes comes pretty near
being a villain.”

“You are an old scandal-monger, Madame Calasse, permit me to say,”
broke in Andoche, who had just returned from his tour of investigation.

“Well, nobody asked your opinion, sir,” she retorted.

“No: I give it unsolicited, and nobody here can prevent me, either.”

“You scoundrel!”

“You viper!”

“Come, come,” interposed Sidonie, indignantly. “Don’t dispute in the
presence of death. A poor soul is dying.”

“Pooh, little simpleton! You are a great one to talk. You will have
enough to do if _you_ stand up for Bruno.”

“That is my affair,” replied Sidonie.

Just then Barrau made a movement. In a sort of convulsion he turned
upon his right side.

For a moment the doctor seemed encouraged.

“Perhaps he can name his murderer,” said the Chief of Police.

“There is no need of that. We all know,” ejaculated one of the women.

This statement was greeted with an indecent burst of laughter from
Mademoiselle Faillot, who had come into the house, as it seemed, solely
for the purpose of destroying by her innuendos the good impression
which Catherine had created.

But the Chief of Police, Monsieur Banastre, was a loyal, intelligent
soldier, and was endowed with a tact rarely found among men.

“My good woman,” said he to Rosalie, “it is for _us_ to find out the
criminal. You need not play the spy.”

“What!” gasped Léocadia, “you do not care for our information, then?
Why, the police are supposed to protect----”

“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Banastre, “do not waste your eloquence upon
me. Rosalie wishes to imply that the presumable assassin is Firmin, the
valet.”

“Certainly,” Léocadia answered.

“Ah, well, as yet we do not know. Everybody says it, doubtless
everybody thinks it, but I should prefer to hear from the wounded man.”

“From the dead!” solemnly remarked Dr. Morris.

The two men made a military salute, and the people superstitiously
crossed themselves.

Catherine, at the dead man’s side, was weeping bitterly, and praying
with a fervor of which she had felt incapable eight days before. It was
a sad scene, but Banastre perceived what it was his duty to do.

“Show me the home of Firmin Valeau,” he sternly ordered.

Little Sidonie came forward and pointed out the way.

“You see the little red roof there--quite new?” she asked.

“Is that it?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Thanks, little one.--Come, Plagnolles, we must go.”

With regular tread they started down the slope, followed by many
curious peasants. Now that Savin was dead, why should they remain
longer here?

But by the time the chief and his assistant entered the little
enclosure of which Firmin was proprietor, many had lingered behind to
discuss the crime by themselves, and to express their opinions without
fear of reprimand.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER XV.

WHO IS GUILTY?


As soon as Savin’s death was announced, Bruno resolved at once to keep
away from the house. From the fact that he would be forced, perhaps, to
exchange glances with Catherine, he feared lest he might involuntarily
accuse her of the deed by a facial tremor or an uncontrollable gesture.
But the suspense of waiting for the news at home was maddening. His
imagination caused him to suffer the greatest anxiety, and the poor
fellow started at every sound, expecting to see Catherine led away by
the gendarmes, followed by a mob of curiosity-seekers and mockers. A
tender pity filled his heart. What could he do to save her? That was
his one thought as he stood by the window.

He remembered having read in the journals how under such circumstances
the mob sometimes tried to stone the prisoner. At this idea the blood
leaped to his face and his look became savage. To run madly to her
assistance was the one wish of his heart, but reason checked him. And
then, how could he forsake Mother Mathurine?

Soon, however, he saw the gendarmes take the road leading to his
cottage. They knew of his love for Madame Barrau. Perhaps he was
suspected and would be arrested. Cold beads of perspiration stood
on his forehead, but he nevertheless experienced a sense of joy. To
sacrifice himself for Catherine was perhaps the only manner in which
he could prove his love--a joy truly, but a joy half stifled by a
revulsion of horror. Such infamy was unworthy of him.

At this moment old Jeannille Marselon, his neighbor, appeared solemnly
upon the doorstep. With closed lips, crossed hands, and stern eyes she
stood watching the agents of justice as they approached. Then she fixed
her melancholy eyes on Bruno. Nothing was more embarrassing than a
penetrating glance from the eye of old Jeannille. Bruno felt his lids
contract a little under the intense look she gave him, and he could
well understand how he would be trembling now had he been guilty of the
crime. She lingered for a moment, and then with a steady gait started
to join the little procession, which had stopped in front of Firmin’s
cottage.

Upon discovering that suspicion had fallen upon the valet a strange
feeling of disappointment took possession of Bruno. In a burst of
jealousy he reproached himself for not having attracted the suspicion
of which Firmin was the object.

“He dared to do it, and yet he does not love her as I do. I would die
for her,” he inwardly said. A consuming, all-absorbing passion, indeed,
must have ruled him, that his mind should entertain such reflections.
But how little reason was there for jealousy!

The gendarmes did not find Firmin at his house, but they were not
surprised. A murderer who, after the deed was done, would quietly
remain in his house to be arrested, would be a simpleton. Nevertheless,
the crowd was disappointed.

Banastre was about to send Plagnolles to Quarré to telegraph to
Avallon, when a little band of men halted in front of the house. Four
stalwart fellows were carrying upon a stretcher the body of a man. A
cry of surprise was uttered by more than one spectator, for the wounded
man was none other than Firmin himself. And in what a state!

His muscles were drawn up in pain, and his face was the picture of
defiant suffering. A clamor of voices arose.

“It is he!” cried the bystanders.

Banastre and Plagnolles at once established order, and Firmin was
placed in the lower hall of his house.

What could have happened? How had Firmin been found, and how had he
been wounded? All sorts of guesses were made by the curious crowd, and
some most unreasonable ideas were suggested. Rosalie, as usual, had her
say.

“Of course, Barrau defended himself, and Firmin must have received a
blow in the legs or stomach,” she observed. Upon the same theme others
expatiated.

“Or else,” put in Mathieu, “Firmin was ashamed of his cowardice day
before yesterday, and, as it was moonlight, he proposed to fight it
out, as Savin wished.”

“That must be it,” said Nicolas. “Savin was killed and Firmin is
wounded.”

“Oh, but that is not half so interesting,” protested the heartless
Rosalie.

“Cruel frog,” exclaimed Andoche, doubtless thinking that a more
insulting epithet than that of an aquatic animal could not be
conceived--he himself being so averse to water.

“But no,” said a young fellow of sixteen, “Felicien Collas says he has
not been shot.”

“What is the matter, then?”

“His leg is broken.”

“How did that happen?” inquired Mathieu, vexed that he had not guessed
aright.

“How? How? Go and ask Cremailly of Trinquelin.”

Cremailly was the proprietor of a mill, and just now he held the
attention of the listeners. Under the calm but piercing gaze of
Jeannille Marselon he related how Firmin had broken his leg under
conditions and at a moment when he could not be accused of murder.

“Well, tell us all you know about it,” urged Rosalie.

“Last evening at a quarter to eleven I opened the sluice for the night,
and was going to bed, when I heard a noise at the door.”

“’Twas Firmin, eh?” interrupted Mathieu.

“Wait a moment. Don’t be in such a rush. At first I felt too frightened
to go to see who it was, but----”

“I believe you,” cried Andoche, rudely interrupting him. “Well, go on.”

“Well, soon I heard my name called.”

“That reassured you.”

“A little, but not much. It was my wife Charlotte----”

“Ah! We all know she isn’t afraid of any man.”

“No, not she. She said, ‘Go and see who it is, goose, or I will get up
and go myself.’”

“Then you decided to open the door, of course.”

“Not quite yet; but Charlotte was just about getting up, so----”

“You are a brave and noble fellow, Cremailly. Accept my compliments,”
again interrupted Andoche.

“For what?”

“I will tell you on the day of my wedding.”

“But you are married now.”

“Well, well, stupid, what did your wife do?”

“Oh, she got to the door first and found Firmin lying on the ground
with a broken leg.”

“How did it happen?”

“I do not know. Charlotte asked him how he came there. You know the
mountain, in that locality, slopes to the river. Well, he pretends he
tumbled down from above.”

“That is a curious explanation.”

“But I have an idea,” continued Cremailly, in suppressed tones, “that
the scamp was surprised by some luckless husband--you know he is a
wheedler--and was obliged to save himself by jumping out of some
window.”

“Yes, but whose window?”

“That I do not know. But as he was found by our door, it could not have
been far from us.”

“Charlotte could guess better, perhaps, than you.”

“Maybe, women are so quick.”

“Did he have a gun?”

“Firmin? Yes, it laid at his side.”

“Was it loaded, do you know?”

“Yes, two cartridges.”

“Well, then it could not have been Firmin who killed the gamekeeper,”
said Andoche.

At the same moment Monsieur Banastre, after interrogating the wounded
man, the bearers of the stretcher and Madame Cremailly, came to the
same conclusion. Some seven or eight inhabitants of Trinquelin who had
just arrived gave the same evidence as the mill owner. If the valet’s
limb was fractured at eleven o’clock in the evening, he certainly could
not have fired the bullet which killed Barrau at four o’clock on the
succeeding morning.

Being summoned, Dr. Morris declared and demonstrated, without any
hesitation, that the accident must have taken place on the previous
evening. And so Firmin was declared innocent, absolutely innocent, and
was no longer of special interest to the crowd.

Thus evidently thought Jeannille Marselon, for no sooner had the doctor
spoken than she left, without having opened her mouth. Curiosity led
her to Barrau’s house, where the attention of the gendarmes would now
probably be directed. The crowd there was still great, for nearly
every moment some new-comer appeared, and although a large number had
followed the gendarmes to Firmin’s house, yet there was no lack of
people about poor Catherine’s. Jeannille Marselon, with that tranquil
and patient manner of people who act without speaking, glided quietly
into the room and took her place in the front rank of spectators.
Apparently it was of interest to her to see; for when she approached
the body she arranged her dress, adjusted her cap, and took up her
position with her penetrating gaze fixed upon Savin’s face. Then she
studied Catherine’s countenance, which was troubled and remorseful.

At first, Catherine did not notice Jeannille, but in a few minutes she
raised her eyes and perceived the stern, silent old woman watching her.
A vague uneasiness seized her. While the woman scanned her countenance,
Catherine dropped her eyes. Again something constrained her to look
up. The same steady gaze met her eyes. It was insufferable. She rose,
advanced a few steps, and then turned her back upon the woman, but
she still felt that awful look penetrating her inward self. She could
endure it no longer. A vivid red mounted to her forehead, and she in
turn gazed into Jeannille’s eyes defiantly. But only for an instant.
She put her hand to her cheek. The remembrance of the five bloody
fingers made her start aghast. Could it be that the tell-tale marks
were still upon her face? Terror chilled the blood in her veins. The
flesh seemed to burn in her cheek. It must be--the marks remained
visible. That hand! that dreadful hand! Oh, how could she escape it?
She covered her face with her hand. The illusion grew so strong she
fancied she felt the warm blood oozing through her fingers. A desolate
cry escaped her lips. “I am lost,” she inwardly cried. “I am lost, and
those people are torturing me! That hand! that hand!”

She examined the faces surrounding her. No; all looked kindly and
sympathetic. Jeannille alone remained unfathomable--her terrible eyes
fixed upon Catherine’s features. Unable to bear it, Catherine ascended
the stairs and rushed to the mirror. Nothing! The skin was fair as
ever. Not a trace of blood was there.

Descending she again kneeled by her husband’s body, but her own was
shaken by convulsions. She concealed her cheek with her hand, as though
afraid the blood-stains would again become visible. Soon the gendarmes
reappeared, this time accompanied by the justice of the peace, Monsieur
Bérard.

Firmin had triumphantly established his innocence, and Banastre had
said to him, a trifle naïvely: “Ah, well, you can boast of having had a
rare escape by so opportunely breaking your leg; otherwise you would
now be on the way to Auxerre prison. Everybody was of one mind in
accusing you.”

“If Firmin is not guilty,” said the justice of the peace, addressing
Banastre, as they were proceeding to Savin’s house, “who is? That is
the question.”

The Chief of Police only replied by a shrug of the shoulders.

“Have you received no hints which might put you on the track?”

Léocadia Faillot, at that moment, passed by with Rosalie. Monsieur
Bérard’s question impressed her.

“For my part,” she said to her companion, in a voice sufficiently loud
for Banastre and Bérard to hear, “I believe that if Firmin did not kill
the gamekeeper, it was not because he did not want to do it.”

“Why?” asked Rosalie.

“Well, he probably set out for that purpose.”

“Take care, Mam’selle Léocadia, somebody might hear you.”

“Well, I should like to know what he was doing behind the rocks of
Trinquelin at eleven o’clock at night.”

“Good heavens, yes!”

“He had a gun, and _I_ believe he was lying in wait for the gamekeeper
when his leg gave out. I tell you that was it.”

“All the same, it has been proven that it could not have been Firmin.”

“Very true. But do you suppose that Firmin, who allowed himself to be
boxed on the ears once before by Savin, like the coward that he is,
would have had the courage to deal this blow unless somebody had goaded
him on?”

Rosalie lowered her voice considerably: “Do you mean Catherine?”

“To be sure.”

“Well, I did think so.”

“You know she is a D’Angerolles. They say that murder was in the
family.”

“Born in the blood, I suppose.”

“_Mon Dieu!_ yes.”

“Do the papers say so?”

“Yes, and the books, too. I have read them myself.”

“Holy Virgin!”

Rosalie was overpowered by this idea, and Monsieur Bérard, though
rather disgusted by Léocadia’s manner, nevertheless made a note of it.

“That is no proof, however, that she is guilty.”

“I do not say that she actually fired the bullet.”

“What do you say?” demanded the justice, peremptorily.

“I--nothing at all, sir,” responded Léocadia, hurriedly and in surprise.

After they reached Barrau’s house Monsieur Bérard began to gaze
attentively at the old woman’s face, that is to say, the face of
Léocadia Faillot, who with Rosalie had followed the two officials back
to the little cottage at the corner of the wood.

Léocadia Faillot was fifty-eight years old, but she might easily have
been taken to be ten years older; for she belonged to that category
of old maids who look as though they never had been young and pretty.
Wicked little eyes, a short flat face covered with furrows and
wrinkles, a head almost bald, and a long skinny neck were her principal
features; while with these her character was in perfect accord.

The justice regarded her for some time in silence, and then asked
Banastre who she was.

“Her name is Mademoiselle Faillot.”

“Ah, and what sort of a person is she?”

“I do not know exactly, but there are plenty who do. I would recommend
you, among others, to go to a certain Andoche Grignon, a blacksmith by
trade. He is generally drunk; but when he is sober, as he is to-day, he
is not wanting in good sense.”

“You must point him out.”

While these words were being exchanged Léocadia was circulating the
report that most likely Catherine would be arrested before long.

“Any one must be blind,” said she, “not to see that she is guilty. The
other person who committed the deed was but the instrument. She planned
it, you may be sure.”

Everybody knew that Léocadia hated the Barraus. Especially against
Savin she had cherished an irrepressible hatred. Now he was dead,
and the sum total of her hatred fell upon Catherine. If Léocadia was
possessed of a peculiar physiognomy, her moral qualities were equally
peculiar. By all she was considered an evil genius. Unmarried and
unloved, she had for more than a quarter of a century stirred up strife
among the villagers whenever occasion permitted. It seemed as though
she were the very incarnation of discord. Turning hot or cold according
to will, she influenced the mayor against the curate, the curate
against the community, the community against the bishopric. Malicious,
hypocritical, and treacherous, she was one day at peace and the next
day at war with her neighbors. Evilly disposed and disagreeable, she
yet practised a sort of ostensible good will, which led people to say:
“Well, perhaps she is like the devil--not so black as she’s painted.”

In the present case, as in all others, she put herself to the front
because it was her nature to embroil her acquaintances in rows.
Whenever any such occasion as this one presented itself, she had always
pushed herself into prominence. She was always ready to advise strange
things, and many feared her as a dangerous woman. By her insinuations
she hoped to secure Catherine’s arrest.

The examining magistrate would demand her presence at Auxerre, and, in
her own mind, she would be regarded as of great importance. Moreover,
Catherine d’Angerolles was too handsome to come out of this affair
unscathed. According to Léocadia, it would require a volume to relate
Catherine’s coquetries; and as she was the daughter of an assassin, and
had lived unhappily with her husband immediately prior to his death,
was it not reasonable to implicate her? And, in any event, Catherine
should suffer if Léocadia could bring it about. And so in less than
an hour Mademoiselle Faillot had persuaded nearly every one into her
way of thinking; and Catherine, the daughter of D’Angerolles, and not
universally popular, was but feebly defended.

“If Firmin had been unable to prove an alibi, she most likely would
have been arrested with him,” declared Léocadia.

“But,” returned Father Collas, with a sensible exhibition of
incredulity, “Monsieur Barrau having been a gamekeeper, it is more than
possible that a poacher----”

“A poacher?” interrupted Léocadia. “Who? Do you know any one in this
community capable of such a misdemeanor? Pray enlighten us.”

This outburst of taunting opposition prompted Father Collas to beat a
hasty retreat, and no one seemed equal to the task of answering it.

All sorts of reports concerning Catherine were voiced abroad, and alas!
how few were her defenders. Like a flock of sheep the majority followed
their leader, and accordingly, when Monsieur Bérard questioned some of
them, they echoed Léocadia’s opinions.

One man, however, had the courage of his own convictions, and that man
was Andoche Grignon, the blacksmith.

“Monsieur Bérard, I cannot say anything about it,” said he.

“Why?”

“Because I do not know any more than the rest.”

“Still you know that Madame Barrau has been a coquette; that she has
flirted a good deal.”

“That is to say, she has been fond of amusing herself, yes. But I have
known a great many women given to coquetry, and yet who would go no
further.”

“So you believe the woman is innocent?”

“No, sir, I do not say so, but simply that I believe nothing.”

“You have no opinion to give, then. Well, you must admit that she lived
at enmity with her husband for five months.”

“That is no proof. Here I have lived for seven years unhappily with my
wife--Madame Grignon. She is no angel either. But she never killed me.”

“Well, one thing is certain: Savin Barrau has been murdered.”

“Yes; and this morning, had you asked my opinion, I should not have
hesitated to accuse Firmin. And you see I would have been wrong. At
all events, Madame Barrau did not pull the trigger.”

“I agree with you.”

“But who did?” pursued Andoche, meditatively.

“Do you know Léocadia Faillot, by the way?”

“The universal legatee? Oh, yes.”

“Why do you call her that?”

“It is a title I have given her, because she inherits something from
everybody.”

“What do you think of her?”

“Between ourselves, she is a meddlesome old woman.”

“In what way?”

“When a good man or woman in the village is about to die, Mademoiselle
Faillot always appears upon the scene, and makes herself so useful that
the poor dying one offers her some token of appreciation, which she
accepts, and the moment all is over her tongue begins to wag as usual,
maligning the dead as well as the living.”

Monsieur Bérard smiled.

“So I call her the universal legatee. For the last twenty-five years
she has performed ministrations for the dying. In this way she has
earned her living, and to-day, were it not for Fadard, she would be a
rich woman.”

“Fadard? Who is he?”

“You must know him. The young man who looks like an old man.”

“Oh, yes, I know him. Is he here?”

“No, I have not seen him to-day.”

“Is he a relative of Mademoiselle Faillot?”

“Her cousin, so she says,” replied Andoche, with a funny little
gesture.

“How old is he, do you suppose?”

“That is a question which the Lord only knows how to answer.”

“Mademoiselle Faillot just now vehemently accused Catherine Barrau.”

“Oh, she would accuse her own father, were he living, rather than keep
silent. You will see that in less than forty-eight hours she will have
the whole town in an uproar.”

“How so?”

“She will try to establish two warring factions. That is her plan of
attack, and she never fails to accomplish her purpose. I tell you she
is a venomous creature.”

Andoche was right. Already in the Barraus’ yard two parties had
been formed. One accused Catherine, and the other, composed of less
adherents, proclaimed her innocence. Among those who were ready to
defend Catherine were brave little Sidonie, Suzanne the young bride,
and her stupid liege, Monsieur Eugène, who gave no little weight to the
cause, and some peasants of less importance.

Discussions were heard on every hand.

The justice of the peace did not dare to take sides, but it was evident
from the first that the daughter of D’Angerolles would be arrested, and
compelled, if possible, to reveal the name of her accomplice.

So matters stood, when all at once an incident occurred which changed
the whole aspect of affairs.



[Illustration]



CHAPTER XVI.

THE ACCUSED.


Since morning Bruno had remained at home, learning the news as best he
could from different sources, but not daring to go near Catherine for
fear of losing his self-possession.

In his heart he felt that Catherine was implicated. The proposition she
had made him in the walnut grove he was certain Firmin, a little later,
had accepted. He did not know that the valet was wounded, but thus far
free from the charge. At length, a young man from Quarré told him the
truth.

“If it is not Firmin, then who is it?” thought he, with the rest.
Presently the most harrowing news began to come to him from different
persons. Suspicion had now fallen upon Catherine, and the accusations
were multiplying against her. Finally, old Mathieu, in passing Mother
Mathurine’s cottage, shouted out: “It’s a pretty sure thing now against
Catherine. They will guillotine her fast enough.”

Bruno shuddered.

The investigation, then, had so far advanced that the method of
punishment was under discussion. Never until this day had the poor
fellow measured the greatness of his passion. An overmastering fear
came upon him. He could scarcely stand on account of weakness. The
blood rushed madly to his head. Catherine--Catherine accused of
murder! The idea that perhaps she was culpable was a torture to him. He
ran into his own chamber to prevent Mother Mathurine from observing his
condition of mind. Despairing and excited, he threw himself upon the
bed and cried aloud. He was nearly crazed with grief.

“What shall I do?” he wailed. “How can I save her? While I am living
she must not go to prison.”

Yes, but how could he prevent it? Could he fight against the world? Why
not carry her into the dense forest surrounding the town, and there
conceal her? But no, that was not practical. Intuition made him aware
that there was no time to be lost. But what could he do? His mental
anguish was lacerating. Suddenly a noise arrested his ear.

“They cannot enter now,” he exclaimed, springing to the door. But it
was only a cowherd--that was all. Words would fail to describe the
suffering of the motionless Bruno.

“Time passes and I must not be idle,” he remarked, as a thought flashed
through his brain. In a dream, as it were, the little blond head of
Sidonie passed before his eyes, and in a moment he seemed to hear her
voice saying: “But they will take you for an assassin, an accomplice!”

Meanwhile, at the Barrau cottage the proceedings revealed Catherine’s
peculiar attitude in regard to the affair. The justice of the peace had
found it necessary to interrogate her. With fixed eyes and half-open
mouth, she sat as though engrossed in one abstraction. Frequently she
raised her hand to her face, as though to brush away a stain. The
remembrance of that bloody hand was like an avenging fury. Besides,
the presence of Jeannille Marselon, whose look was mesmeric in its
influence, increased her nervousness.

Léocadia Faillot was gossiping as usual.

“She is feigning insanity,” said Léocadia. “See her face.”

There are people who take pleasure in giving pain. Mademoiselle Faillot
belonged to that genus. She derived pleasure in witnessing Catherine’s
misery.

To the questions propounded by the justice, Catherine answered: “I
do not know,” or “Oh, if he were _living_! He is my only judge, my
husband!”

“Fine words, indeed!” exclaimed Léocadia, derisively.

“Do you confess that you were implicated in your husband’s death?”

“No.”

“Do you deny it?”

“No.”

“Ah, ha! I knew she would pretend she had lost her head.”

So malicious did Léocadia look as she made this remark that Sidonie
indignantly reproved her. The little cripple had no reason either for
loving or defending Catherine, but she was too fair-minded not to take
her part when she saw others siding against her with Léocadia.

“You are a wicked woman, Mam’selle Léocadia, a very wicked woman!”

“Well, I am not an invalid or a cripple.”

“Who knows?” rejoined Sidonie.

Mademoiselle Faillot shrugged her shoulders, but continued her abuse.
Meanwhile the crowd began to threaten Catherine with death. Her only
answer was a smile, and that was irritating in the extreme. At length,
the justice decided to arrest her. Just then a young fellow, half
drunk, volunteered his opinion in these words: “It was your Bruno
Volane who dealt the blow for you, I fancy.”

“Bruno Volane,” said the magistrate. “Who is he?”

“Oh, another one of her lovers.”

“Poor fellow,” groaned Catherine.

The justice made inquiries. The crowd, led by Léocadia, demanded that
some one should be selected as the culprit. Bruno, for that purpose,
seemed as good as any one to them.

Monsieur Bérard heard many accusations, and then, after consulting with
Banastre, determined to go to Mother Mathurine’s cottage. A crowd of
people followed, and upon reaching the house they found Bruno in his
room, looking the image of woe.

“He was hiding,” sneered some one.

They conveyed him to the gamekeeper’s house.

“You are accused,” said the justice, “of having killed Savin Barrau.”

At these words a sigh of relief burst from Bruno’s lips.

“Yes, Monsieur, I killed him.”

The moment’s ensuing silence was broken by two voices--Catherine’s and
Sidonie’s.

“It is not true! It is not true!”

But it was the little lame girl who continued: “Do not listen,
Monsieur, do not listen! He is not capable of it, I assure you. The boy
is mad. I will tell you why he accuses himself.”

Sidonie spoke with a nervous volubility. Her timidity had fled;
her love alone remained invincible. Bruno, however, maddened by her
interference, persisted that he was guilty.

“I tell you I _am_ guilty. Be quiet, Sidonie. Why do you defend me?
What do you know about it?”

The justice gazed intently at Bruno. Jeannille Marselon also closely
scrutinized him, and for a moment appeared surprised. The crowd, for
a brief interval stupefied, soon recovered itself, and tongues began
wagging faster than ever.

“What did I tell you?” exclaimed Léocadia and Rosalie.

“I have suspected Bruno all along,” said another.

Banastre did not for an instant turn his eyes away from Bruno’s face.
He was puzzled. It scarcely seemed possible that one with such a frank
and guileless countenance could commit such a heinous crime.

“It must have been one of the two--Firmin or Bruno,” continued Léocadia.

“For Heaven’s sake, be quiet!” cried Sidonie.

“Why should I?” returned Mademoiselle Faillot. “It is you who ought to
go and hide yourself. Perhaps you dare say you love him, eh? He’s a
fine lover.”

“Yes, I do love him. God bless him!” exclaimed Sidonie, with a look of
utter devotion.

“I congratulate you. Unfortunately, however, it is Catherine Barrau
that _he_ loves, and he has done this deed to please _her_.”

“That is a falsehood, you slanderer!”

“You shall pay for this,” snarled Léocadia.

“We shall see,” retorted the lame girl.

“Silence!” shouted Monsieur Bérard, authoritatively. “I cannot permit
such wrangling. Keep still, every one of you, and remember that to
accuse a man of murder may cost you dear.”

“Well, I never saw such a man as that justice,” growled Léocadia.

Monsieur Bérard overheard these words.

“Bring that woman here,” he said to Banastre.

Protesting and crying, she was brought forward. Leading her by the arm,
Banastre placed her before the justice.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Léocadia Faillot.”

“Your age? No lying!”

“Fifty-eight.”

“Married or single?”

“Single.”

“Well, if you adhere to the opinion you expressed this morning, you
formally accuse this young man of assassination.”

“But, Monsieur, I am my own accuser,” declared Bruno.

“Pray, do not say that,” cried Sidonie, touching his arm.

“That is to say, I suppose him to be guilty, since he alone had any
interest in killing the keeper,” averred Léocadia, in answer to the
remark made by the justice.

“So that is your opinion?”

“However,” continued Léocadia, “it is very strange that you refuse to
believe his word when he confesses the deed. Everybody knows that day
before yesterday Bruno and Madame Barrau were seen together in the
walnut grove. Savin said he would teach Bruno a lesson. There is not
a man in the village who does not know of Bruno’s love for Catherine
Barrau. But if I were judge or gendarme it would not be long before I
had them both on the way to Avallon prison.”

“Do you pretend to dictate to me?”

“No, Monsieur, but----”

“Silence!”

Monsieur Bérard turned to Andoche: “Is this true?”

“In the main, yes.”

Sidonie, pale and trembling, at length approached Bruno.

“Why do you say such things, foolish boy? Don’t you see that will not
save her?”

Then going to Catherine the lame girl said: “Come, Madame, you as well
as I have protested that what Bruno declares is not true. But perhaps
you know the murderer. Then speak his name. Oh, tell us, I implore
you! Bruno did not do this foul deed. Oh, no! He has spent his life in
saving others.”

Many who heard Sidonie’s earnest words agreed with her. Catherine, in
turn, made the inquiry: “Was it you, Bruno? No.”

“Yes, Madame, it was I.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I swear it.”

Revolving the past in her mind, Catherine recalled Savin’s blow. The
criminal must be somebody whom Savin thought was sent by his wife, or
he would not have struck at her. And, therefore, Bruno, who had taken
to flight at her proposition, perhaps had reconsidered it and resolved
to carry it out.

“I am a wretched woman,” she said, with a crestfallen look. Presently
she once more withdrew to examine her cheek. It was burning, and she
imagined that the impression of Savin’s fingers was still there.

The justice and Banastre continued in consultation. They were at a loss
as to their duty. In the face of Bruno’s confession, the other evidence
seemed to put upon it a reasonable doubt, but finally they decided to
arrest Bruno. In vain did he protest that he alone was the criminal;
that Catherine was innocent.

“Very well. That the magistrate must decide,” asseverated the Chief of
Police.

For the time being the prisoners were locked up in two rooms in the
house. A guard was placed over them, and then the justice went home
with Monsieur Eugène. The people likewise sought their homes.

It was now eleven o’clock in the morning.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE WOODS.


Sidonie, the picture of sorrow, was leaning against the trunk of a
giant oak crying as though her heart would break. In her merry moods
she was never at a loss for friends, but in her sorrow she wept alone.

Her life seemed ended. She felt crushed and soul wounded. However,
when Mademoiselle Faillot approached her, and addressed her in mocking
terms, Sidonie staunchly defended herself.

“Don’t provoke me! Don’t provoke me, I say.”

“What! you threaten?”

“Never mind. Only go, I tell you!”

“Insolent hussy!” cried the enraged Léocadia.

“Take care!” replied Sidonie. “But for you no one would have believed
Bruno. You shall pay for it. The occasion for revenge always comes. And
I will find a way to get mine if I have to wait until the day of your
death.”

Mademoiselle Faillot did not like to have her death mentioned in such a
manner.

“Come, come, don’t talk so,” she said, meekly. Then, followed by a
number of her satellites, she walked away.

Jeannille Marselon, to whom none paid any attention, had planted
herself in front of the gamekeeper’s house and was watching the windows
of the rooms in which Bruno and Catherine were imprisoned. There she
stood as though turned to stone. As Léocadia, however, approached the
house, Jeannille quietly directed her steps toward Sidonie. Touching
the lame girl softly on the shoulder, she whispered: “_L’Ours!_”

Sidonie uttered a hopeful, joyful cry. Taking Jeannille’s hand she
raised it to her lips, saying: “I thank you!”

Then she rose with a radiant face. In every instance but one, where
death or danger had threatened Bruno, Jean Manant--L’Ours as he was
called--had come to his rescue.

“Why did I not think of him before, Aunt Jeannille? Do you know where
he is?”

“At Vaumarin.”

“Not so far but that I shall find him.”

The weather had changed. Immense clouds were chasing each other across
the heavens. A storm was imminent. But Sidonie knew no fear. Covered
with her mantle, a narrow cap on her head, and sabots on her feet, the
brave girl fared forth and soon disappeared among the forest trees.
Jeannille Marselon watched her little red skirt until she was lost to
view.

“Vaumarin,” she softly murmured. The place was seven good miles away,
and the roads were bad. Up hill and down dale for seven miles the
little maid must go and come back again, over the mountainous roads.
What love, what devotion impelled her! It was to save the man she
adored. If it were in his power Jean Manant would save Bruno. Of that
she was convinced. Never before had she attempted such an undertaking.
It was not the journey to Vaumarin she dreaded, but the return.

“Well,” she murmured to herself, “I will stay there awhile, and Jean
can come on at once.”

And so the lame girl hobbled on. At about one o’clock she reached a
darker and more dismal part of the wood. It began to snow.

“Better this than rain,” she thought. At first merry little flakes
danced before her eyes, tumbling pell-mell from above and fluttering
joyously about in her path. For a while the snow did not impede her
course. But when great flakes began to descend, covering her from head
to foot, powdering her fluffy hair, entering her mouth and filling her
eyes--it was more difficult to proceed.

A melancholy sort of darkness settled around her. She could not see
a dozen steps before her. The reader must have been in the depths of
a great forest, alone and unprotected, to understand the lame girl’s
sensations. The steady, silent downfall of snow alarmed her. She
imagined all kinds of terrible things. It seemed as though the snow
were preparing a shroud for her. She was now suffering intensely with
the cold. Time and again she stumbled against the trunk of a tree and
for a moment or more was unable to proceed. But she bravely started on
again, always with Bruno’s fate in her mind.

She stopped to remove her sabots, thinking she might go faster. But
fear possessed her and she fancied some one was lying in wait to strike
her. “Who then would save Bruno?” was her boding question. Terror
increased her pace. She looked to the right and to the left as though
expecting to see somebody dart out from the darkness and seize her. The
snow, the difficulty in advancing, the cold which was intense, and the
dampness which penetrated her clothing, all conduced to render her
situation anything but comfortable. And then to be alone in the awful
stillness! Rain falling upon dry dead leaves makes a gentle swish,
alike soothing and grateful; the wind, with its soughing monotone,
is companionable; but the snow, with its mysterious white stillness,
suggests a phantom--silent, lone, and solitary.

Shivering and shuddering little Sidonie sped on through the forest. Ere
long she became aware that she was approaching Vaumarin. What mattered
it to her that her garments were drenched, her feet sore and bleeding,
and her hands almost frozen? She was nearly there. It was for Bruno’s
sake that she had ventured forth.

While advancing toward one of the cottages she met a peasant with a
load of hay.

“Where is L’Ours?” she asked, in a voice which startled even herself.

“Ah, it is you, little one! You come from St. Benoit at this hour.
Well, well!”

“Where is Jean Manant?” repeated Sidonie, in a fever of excitement.

“This way, my girl, to the left. Walk down a little way and you will
hear his axe.”

Without even thanking him Sidonie started away, resolved to find him
before succumbing to her fatigue. If she only could see Jean and tell
her story, then she would not care what happened to herself. Bruno
must be saved! Soon she was rewarded by hearing the woodcutter’s axe.
Jean was wielding it. He was a powerful man, and with one stroke
at the heart of a giant tree it trembled and presently yielded to
his herculean blows. Around him on all sides lay enormous trees
with interlacing branches. Each trunk which had seemed slender and
unpretentious in life, now, prone on the ground, assumed larger
proportions, like certain men whose measurements while living cannot
be casually estimated. The snow made the progress of the work going on
around him difficult. Every tree was covered with feathery layers, and
the branches showed fantastic formations of all sorts. The glare was
blinding.

Ready to fall with fatigue, Sidonie ran from one man to another crying:
“Where is L’Ours? Where is he?”

One of the choppers pointed to the spot where Jean, with arms bare to
the elbow, was striking his last blow into the tottering tree.

Conscious only of the idea which for over two hours had sustained her,
Sidonie did not realize her danger. She hastened toward Jean Manant
with unsteady steps. He did not recognize her as he cried: “Look out
there, will you? You will be killed!”

The large oak-tree, wavering for an instant, fell toward Sidonie.
Jean uttered a desperate cry. Bracing himself against a broken trunk,
he pushed with all his might against the falling tree. His gigantic
strength deviated it from the course in which it started, and as it
crashed to the earth, a mass of twigs and splinters was showered
around. Sidonie had not been conscious of her peril, so centred were
her thoughts upon the man whom it was her dream to save.

“L’Ours! Bruno!” she gasped, and fainted at his feet.

Jean heard but the last exclamation.

The blood mounted to his head and perspiration broke out on his
forehead. After recognizing Sidonie he knew at once that something had
happened to Bruno. He must be in danger. But of what?

Sidonie remained inanimate upon the ground. Unused to seeing people in
fainting spells, he knew not what to do.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “cognac will revive her.”

He put his flask to Sidonie’s lips and soon afterward she opened her
eyes. Then Jean eagerly began to question her.

“He is accused of murder. Murder, Jean! But he is innocent.”

“Who accuses him?”

“_Mon Dieu!_” she cried, “he accuses himself.”

“What!” thundered Jean, picking up his coat.

“He will save him,” Sidonie joyously murmured.

“Get up and follow me,” he demanded, tersely.

With an effort she struggled to her feet, and he led her toward the
village. At the entrance to the little street stood a picturesque
cottage ingeniously made of twisted roots. It was Jean’s own handiwork,
and he lived very happily in this snug habitation.

Before he entered the house Sidonie said: “You are going to St. Benoit,
are you not?”

“Yes,” he replied.

On entering the house he shouted: “Wife, warm up something for the
little one. She is Bruno’s best friend.”

“Say not so, Jean, say not so.”

“Why, you love him, do you not?”

“Oh, if--but----”

“I owe him a favor. And I will save him if I can. You eat something,
change your clothing, and then we will start.”

He had seen the condition of her garments, and out of solicitude for
her had suggested that she discard them for dry ones.

“But why should I change my clothing? At the end of a quarter of an
hour I shall be as wet as ever.”

“No. You will see. But we must not waste time. Make haste,
child.--Wife, give her some dry clothing.”

Sidonie submitted. Jean’s wife, a bright, alert little woman, with
large brown eyes and a delicate skin, contrasted strongly with her
husband. “Beauty and the Beast” people called them. Jeanne appeared
surprisingly happy. There was not a wrinkle on her brow, and her frank,
honest eyes and smiling, tender mouth spoke well for her husband’s love
and care.

After donning some warm, dry clothing Sidonie ate with a keen relish
the homely little repast Jeanne had prepared, for nothing had she eaten
since morning.

“Now I am going to fix your feet, little one, so you can walk
comfortably,” said Jean, when she had finished.

Then he carefully bound up her bruised and bleeding feet in soft
linen rags, and Jeanne brought out a pair of soft woollen stockings
and rubbers of her own as further expedients of relief. Now, warm and
carefully protected against the dampness, the little lame girl regained
her fortitude and good spirits, and the reaction gave fresh vigor to
her weary limbs.

“Now come, my child,” said he, as he put on his coat. After tenderly
embracing his wife, he took Sidonie’s hand in his and together they
started for St. Benoit. As they walked along Sidonie acquainted him
with the facts of the case as well as she was able.

“Yes, I agree with you, little one. It surely was not Bruno who killed
Savin.”

“When I saw he had determined to criminate himself, I was perfectly
willing to die,” said Sidonie, with a sigh.

“Poor child, I understand,” replied Jean, consolingly.

“It was Jeannille Marselon who thought of _you_ first.”

“Jeannille Marselon!”

“Yes. She said to me: ‘Go and find L’Ours, child.’”

“Brave woman! For once in her life she spoke well.”

“And so I came. I remembered your love for Bruno, and knew you would
help him if anybody would. And you _will_ save him, dear, good Jean,
won’t you?”

“Yes. He shall not go to prison.”

“Oh, Jean, how good you are!”

“No, no, child. It is he that is good and noble. Listen. No one knows
why I would die for Bruno. But I am going to tell _you_, because you
appreciate his worth.”

“Oh, yes, tell me.”

“Well, listen. Five years ago at the Rouvray fair, while passing the
ox-stalls, I received a terrible blow from the horn of a cow, on the
face. I was badly hurt and in a sorry plight, when Monsieur Morris the
doctor, passing by told me I must have the wound dressed. I made light
of it, but the doctor seized my arm and drew me into a little cottage,
the nearest one from the spot where we were standing. It was terribly
hot weather. You remember--in ’81.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.”

“As I said before, he took me by the arm and led me in. A widow and
her daughter occupied the cottage. The latter gave me a drink of cold
water, and from that moment I was not conscious what the doctor was
doing to my face. I was too much in love with the pretty young woman to
mind what he did. I watched her come and go, and my heart was hers from
that moment. You can guess who it was. Yes, it was Jeanne, God bless
her!”

Sidonie gave a little gasp. Jean did not realize that he was taking
long strides and that the little lame girl was desperately trying to
keep up with him. L’Ours continued, not noticing her discomfort:

“I said to myself, ‘God never made such a beautiful creature to be
mated with a man like me.’ When the doctor had finished I thanked
everybody--first Monsieur Morris, then the widow, and finally Jeanne.
She smiled at me, but I was so stupid I knew not what I said. But she
answered sweetly, and then I went away.”

“Jean, I cannot walk so fast,” interrupted Sidonie.

“Forgive me, little one. I forget.”

He stopped a moment for Sidonie to rest, and then they started on.

“I never remembered having seen such eyes as hers before, and such a
pretty mouth, dainty figure, and glossy hair. Well, when I went out I
forgot all about the fair and returned to the woods.”

Thoroughly exhausted, Sidonie said: “L’Ours, leave me here. I can go no
farther.”

“Why, little one?”

“You must go on to St. Benoit to save Bruno, and I can only hinder you.
I cannot walk.”

“Lean against my arm, child, and you can go better. We are just half
way now. Keep up your courage, child, I cannot leave you here.”

They again started.

“Once alone, I dreamed of her at will. I was mad with love.”

“Poor Jean! Yes, it is terrible.”

“You know--yes. I shall do for you what he did for me.”

“What?”

“Was I dreaming or waking, her face haunted me. I lost strength. I
could not eat or sleep, and for a year I suffered in silence. Sometimes
in the winter, in spite of cold and snow, I would set out for Rouvray.
I would watch her window, and when the light was extinguished I would
walk back four miles, rewarded by having seen her shadow on the
curtain. One night I met Fadard.”

“Jean, good Jean, I cannot go any farther. My feet are sinking from
under me. Leave me.”

“What! Leave you here? Oh, no! Would you die in the snow?”

“It would not matter.”

“Don’t be foolish. I dreamed of dying once, too, but Jeanne saved me.”

Sidonie had stumbled upon a stick, and Jean now stooped down and lifted
her upon his shoulder.

“What are you doing, Jean? You will be worn out and delayed if you
carry me.”

“You are like a bird, little one. Have no fear. We will go faster now.”

“Finish your story, Jean,” she requested at last.

“Well, time went on, and still I suffered. Bruno noticed it finally,
and asked me the trouble--Bruno, who had come to me with all his little
troubles. Like a fool, I began to cry. My heart was full and I told
him all. The following day he went away on foot to Rouvray, and he saw
Jeanne and her mother. I do not know what he said, but a week later he
brought us together. I could only look at her, with wide open eyes. It
was Jeanne who first spoke. She told me it would not be so disagreeable
to be my wife--she so pretty, so dainty, so winning, and I so ugly,
uncouth, and boorish. Well, I asked her if she could really love
me--and in three months we were married. And I am so happy! so happy!
And, Sidonie, my wife--ah, she loves me--ugly and clumsy as I am; and
it is to Bruno, who brought it about, that I owe my happiness. Bruno!
Yes, I would lay down my life for him. I owe him everything.”

Jean would have continued, but Sidonie, exhausted and benumbed with
cold, had fallen asleep in his arms.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER XVIII.

L’OURS.


At three o’clock the officers, prisoners, and onlookers arrived at St.
Benoit, and the examination soon commenced. It was his first criminal
case, and the magistrate began proceedings by questioning everybody
right and left in regard to the affair. Jacques Percier related the
walnut grove incident. Mademoiselle Faillot was asked her opinion of
the mystery, and Andoche was interrogated.

“It is as clear as day,” said the magistrate. The two prisoners were
then closely questioned. Bruno confessed that he was guilty of the
crime, and Catherine did not deny the statement.

“Nothing plainer,” said the magistrate, at last, to the justice.

“Permit me to say that one thing mystifies me,” returned the justice.
“More than one-half the peasants declare the young man innocent.”

“Just so, my dear justice. But nevertheless he is guilty.”

“And the gamekeeper’s wife herself has intimated that we must not
believe him.”

“Yes, I know that. But she is driven to an extremity by her love for
the unfortunate fellow. That is the most interesting part of the
affair.”

“But, on the other hand, Bruno declares that Madame Barrau knows
nothing that he did.”

“Of course. They are bent on shielding each other. That proves they are
both guilty. Well, we must take them to Avallon.--Banastre, will you
see to the conveyance? What time is it now?”

He consulted his watch.

“Ten minutes of four. We must be off in half an hour.”

Banastre went in quest of a vehicle for the prisoners, and the others
waited for further developments.

Andoche wondered why the officers did not visit the scene of the
murder, and so expressed himself.

“Well, what would they see?” disagreed old Mathieu. “The snow has
enveloped everything.”

Twenty minutes later the conveyance was ready, and Banastre entered
the court-room with handcuffs. Those who happened to look at Jeannille
Marselon at that moment saw a strange agitation written on her
features. On seeing the manacles Bruno made a gesture of revolt. The
exclamation, “I am innocent,” rose to his lips. Jeannille regarded him
with a troubled expression. Then she gazed toward the road leading to
Vaumarin, her long fingers moved convulsively. Nervously she directed
her steps toward Andoche, the blacksmith.

“I wish to speak to the justice,” she said, simply.

For more than a year Jeannille had not addressed a living person, save
Sidonie. Her remark created a sensation.

“Jeannille wants to speak, Jeannille wants to speak,” all cried in
concert. Every one eagerly awaited her next words. She must have
something decisive to say or she would not open her mouth, they
reasoned.

Andoche whispered to the young magistrate, and then Monsieur Bérard
explained that “Aunt” Jeannille was a strange woman, who had not spoken
aloud for months. Out of curiosity the magistrate decided to let her
speak.

“You have something of importance to communicate,” he said to her.

Jeannille looked at him for a moment and then turned her face toward
the forest.

“Here comes Jean--L’Ours,” she said.

For a moment they thought she must be mad. But every one was curious.
Half the inhabitants of the town, at least, were willing to believe
that L’Ours must have been born for the sole purpose of saving Bruno
from peril. Consequently to them the arrival of Jean Manant meant but
one thing--Bruno should be saved.

A few moments previous to his emerging from the forest L’Ours had
awakened Sidonie, and she, now entirely rested, had urged him to go on
and let her follow slowly. This he did, and with giant strides he soon
came in sight of the conveyance all ready to take to Avallon Bruno, who
stood on the doorstep in custody of a gendarme, with an excited crowd
around him. In another moment he stood beside Monsieur Bérard, to whom
he said: “You must not imprison that man!”

“Why? What have you to say about it?”

“I come to prove to you that Bruno is innocent of this crime, and I am
convinced that you will set him at liberty.”

The aspect of Jean Manant was not calculated to gain confidence. His
dark, swarthy skin, keen black eyes, and brawny arms did not fascinate
the average person. And the magistrate was not prepossessed in his
favor.

“Listen,” said L’Ours. “I am not here to make trouble. But I must
defend young Bruno. Neither you nor your gendarmes can take him away if
I say he shall not go.”

“Insolent----”

“No, I am not insolent, Monsieur. It is the truth. Ask anybody here.
Ask Andoche, for instance.”

Andoche, leaning toward Monsieur Bérard, said: “A blow from his fist
would prostrate any man here. No one would dare stand up against him.”

“Yes, yes; but what are his intentions?”

“We shall see presently.”

Not considering it necessary to discuss with the justice, L’Ours now
turned to Bruno, and putting his hand on the latter’s shoulder, said:
“Do you pretend that you killed the gamekeeper?”

“Yes; it was I,” replied Bruno, this time less resolutely.

“Well, my boy, you are lying--that is all.”

“Jean! Leave me!” gasped Bruno.

“No, I will not leave you.” Then to the officers he added: “Messieurs,
it will be worth your while to listen to me.”

“Gendarmes, we must enforce the law.”

L’Ours cast upon the young magistrate a look of contempt, but the
gendarmes came forward.

“Ah, pardon me! You refuse, then. Very well.”

And he assumed a fearlessly defensive attitude.

“But no!” he exclaimed, an instant afterward. “You represent justice.
Then _be_ just. Your duty is to listen. If you refuse to do so, there
is no justice in you.”

“Jean,” interrupted Bruno, “I pray you, be silent.”

“Anything but that, my son. You must hear me speak. I ask only five
minutes.”

Bruno did not know what Jean meant to say, but he shared in the belief
that Jean would save him in spite of himself. He feared that Jean would
throw all the responsibility of the crime on Catherine’s shoulders.

“Bruno pretends that he assassinated Monsieur Barrau last night,”
pursued Jean Manant.

“Yes, yes,” broke in Bruno, testily.

“Well, then let him reply to three questions that I shall put. At what
hour did he commit the crime?”

“At five o’clock in the morning.”

“Very well. With what weapon?”

“With my gun, Monsieur.”

“Very well. In what part of the wood?”

At this question Bruno hesitated. He but vaguely knew from hearsay the
spot where Savin had fallen. But, as we have seen, neither he nor any
one else but Andoche could have said positively where the crime had
been committed. Bruno, who had supposed that merely his confession
would be sufficient, did not know at first what to reply. But he did
not dare to hesitate long.

“About two hundred feet from here,” he said, with affected calmness.

“You must lead us to the spot.”

“Quite true,” assented the magistrate. “Yes, you must conduct us there.”

The officers had not bothered about going to the spot because the dying
man had been found on his own doorsteps. And in this respect they had
erred. Everybody at first had regarded Firmin as the assassin, but
after Bruno’s confession they concluded that they must have been
mistaken. Jean’s questions, however, again shifted the evidence from
Bruno to Firmin. Among a few the suspicion occurred that L’Ours had
asked Bruno to point out the place in the wood in order to save him.
Once in the depths of the forest, he might easily find means to free
Bruno from his captors and hide him in safety.

Bruno, resolved not to betray any embarrassment or confusion, answered
that he would conduct them to the spot. Thereupon he started for the
wood, followed by all, and when he had reached the fork in the road he
quickly turned down the path to the right. At this juncture Andoche
tapped him on the shoulder, saying: “You need go no farther, Bruno: you
are not the man who did this deed.”

“Ah, then you are convinced?” said L’Ours.

“What do you mean?” demanded Bruno, with a ferocious scowl.

“This morning, Monsieur Bérard, when you questioned me,” went on the
blacksmith, “I told you that I knew nothing. But now I can affirm that
Bruno did not kill Monsieur Savin.”

“Why?”

“Because he does not know where the crime was committed.”

“And do you know?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“This morning after reaching here I followed the traces of blood from
Savin’s wound, and finally I came to the place where he received the
fatal shot.”

“Andoche speaks in this manner,” sneered Bruno, “because the snow now
has obliterated all marks.”

“Well, show us the spot where the bullet was fired,” said Jean Manant.

Going about twenty paces farther, at random, Bruno stopped.

“Here is the spot,” he boldly asserted.

“What stupidity,” muttered Léocadia Faillot to herself. “Why can’t they
believe a man when he declares himself guilty? What a set of dunces!
If I were the justice, do you think I would listen to that bear of a
Manant or that soak of an Andoche?”

“My child,” said a deep voice behind her, “don’t be so positive of
that.”

It was Jeannille Marselon who spoke, and this was the third time she
had opened her mouth to-day. Léocadia answered her with an insolent
smile.

Meanwhile Bruno was requested to recount the circumstances of the
murder. Then in truth he faltered, realizing how difficult it was to
pass himself off for an assassin. So many wretched beings find it
impossible to prove their innocence; and behold, here was a man vainly
endeavoring to prove his guilt!

“It would be far easier, my boy, to establish your innocence,” said
Jean Manant, ironically.

“Leave me, L’Ours,” returned Bruno, with vehemence. “Do not trouble me
any more. Do you think I find it an agreeable duty to confess myself a
criminal?”

“You are no criminal.--Am I not right, Sidonie?”

The little cripple answered with a sigh. Her tears made a greater
impression upon Bruno than had all the preceding objurgations. The
evidence that he was causing her torment, as well as the thought that
she was wasting her love on him, stung his feelings. He who could not
see a woman or child in danger without rushing to the rescue was now
moved by the poor girl’s sorrow. But he soon rallied, and turning he
said: “I stood here, and the keeper came from that direction. I took
aim----”

Here he paused. Courage failed him. If they had accepted his word and
taken him to prison, all would have been well. But to rack his brains
to prove his guilt, that was another matter. To devise an infamous
scheme to criminate himself before his friends as well as his enemies,
that was too much. Speech deserted him.

“Come,” said L’Ours, “you do not know how to finish.--Monsieur Bérard,
send a gendarme for Bruno’s gun, and you will see that it did not serve
him last night.”

Plagnolles was despatched on the errand. L’Ours turned to the
blacksmith.

“Andoche, you will show us where the crime was committed. Come, let us
see.”

Whereat the young magistrate exclaimed: “Who is conducting these
proceedings?”

“Monsieur, I command no one. Andoche is a friend. I ask him to show me
the place.”

“Well.”

“Oh, you are not obliged to come with us. But there is no law to
prevent me from going.”

The young magistrate could see that he was losing ground. The case was
slipping out of his hands. Besides, L’Ours exerted an influence over
the peasants around him. Upon first seeing him they became confident
that he would save his _protégé_. And matters had so developed that he
had nearly gained his point. Nearly everybody regarded Jean Manant with
a mingled feeling of fear and admiration. He was the soul of justice,
and he played a noble part in probing the crime to the depths. Taking
Andoche’s arm he begged him to come. The blacksmith led him down the
path to the left of the fork in the road, and then about four hundred
yards into the forest. There he pointed out the broken and hanging
branches which he had discovered in the morning.

“Certainly it is now easy to perceive how the deed was done,” said
L’Ours. “The gamekeeper approached from the right, and the assassin
stood here----”

Jean in his enthusiasm leaped upon a little snow-bank, as he supposed,
but his foot struck against something hard and he slipped. At the same
instant a groan as it were from the bowels of the earth was heard.
This created a terrible commotion, and some of the spectators in their
fear made the sign of the cross. While the others were betraying
their alarm, Andoche leaned over the place where the sound was heard.
He and Jean together pushed away the snow, and a terrible sight met
their gaze. There lay extended upon the ground a man, cold and rigid;
while lying on his chest was a huge dog that held him by the throat,
his teeth fastened on each side of the windpipe. The strangled man
evidently had struggled to free himself, but failing in this he had
concentrated his forces in a terrible embrace to throttle his enemy.
But the dog was not a coward, and he had preferred to die rather than
leave his master unavenged. For the dog was Savin’s brave Patachaud.

The man whom he had killed had not relaxed his hold, and the courageous
beast was nearly choked when L’Ours providentially stepped upon the
snow-bank.

“Who is it?” cried Sidonie. “Tell us.”

“It is clear that Patachaud has defended his master, and that the dead
man was the murderer.”

Andoche tried to cover the dead man’s face, but he was too late.
Léocadia Faillot uttered a cry.

It was Fadard.

A profound, stifling silence ensued. All felt that it was the duty of
the magistrate to draw deductions. Finally he spoke.

“Is this not the man we questioned this morning?”

“Yes, Monsieur. It is Fadard.”

“He must, then, be the assassin.”

“No!” cried Léocadia, “no, Monsieur. He is a relative of mine. I know
him intimately.”

“Nevertheless, the gamekeeper’s dog has choked him to death, to avenge
his master.”

“The keeper’s dog,” ranted the woman, “was mad, and threw himself at
the neck of my cousin, who was the first person the cur happened to
meet.”

While Léocadia was speaking the released Patachaud, once more on his
feet, made for the house of his master at a limping pace.

Mademoiselle Faillot continued to defend Fadard with violent energy.
With a savage movement she pushed away the blacksmith, and falling on
her knees beside the dead man lifted his head on her lap and called
him tenderly by name. Every one was astounded at her affectionate
demonstrations. A strange tenderness was to be detected in her voice
and manner, foreign to Léocadia’s character.

“I am sorry it gives you pain, Mademoiselle,” said Jean Manant, “but he
is Monsieur Barrau’s murderer.”

“I tell you he is not,” cried the grief-stricken woman, facing Jean
with a glare of hatred.

“I have my revenge sooner than I expected,” said Sidonie, inaudibly.

“The dog _must_ have been mad. My poor Cyprien! And then to have killed
Savin, he must have had a weapon,” continued Léocadia. “He had no gun,
you see.”

“We must prove that,” said L’Ours. They hunted around in the snow and
soon produced a Lefancheux rifle.

“But that is Barrau’s,” urged Mademoiselle Faillot.

“Very likely,” said Jean, again making a search, this time assisted by
Banastre among others.

Sidonie was triumphant, and Bruno now dared to hope that Catherine’s
innocence would be established as well as his own. Tears of joy sprang
to his eyes. All were now searching for the weapon through which Barrau
had lost his life. Presently the gendarme Plagnolles returned with
Bruno’s gun. It was a primitive weapon, both as to appearance and use,
and under the breech the copper cap was covered with verdigris. It was
not necessary for a man to be a _connoisseur_ to observe that this
weapon had been idle for more than a month.

“The young man has deceived us,” said the magistrate. “This gun has not
been used recently.”

“Ah, here it is,” exclaimed Jean Manant, at this juncture, bringing
to light another rifle. This was not so old as Bruno’s, but there was
nothing modern about it. Jean Manant quickly detected that one of the
cartridges was missing. It became more and more evident that Fadard was
the guilty man.

“Monsieur Morris extracted the lead from poor Barrau’s chest, this
morning,” said Sidonie. “Let us compare its size with that of the
cartridges in the gun just found.”

“A good notion, little one,” said Jean, suiting the action to the word.
The bullet taken from Savin’s body exactly fitted the cartridge in the
barrel of Fadard’s rifle, and his guilt was now fully established.

Léocadia alone attempted to explain the case differently.

“But Savin Barrau forced Firmin to fight with him. Why may he not have
pushed Fadard to the wall and made him fire in self-defence?”

“Impossible! Savin was close to the muzzle of the gun that shot him.”

Mademoiselle Faillot reflected for a moment and then scrutinized the
oak-tree which had been slightly blazed by the shot.

“Pardon me, but between the point where my cousin stood and this spot
there must have been quite a distance. It was dark. The two adversaries
may have found themselves all at once in close proximity, and Savin may
have hidden behind the bushes. Then----”

As she spoke she shook the tree with a feverish hand, and the snow
fluttered down, revealing at the fork of one of the branches a bit of
half-burned paper. The magistrate stepped forward and took it.

“It is the other wad,” said Andoche. “See, it exactly corresponds with
the one I just took out.”

All was now conclusively proven. The magistrate handed Andoche the two
wads, who in turn gave them to Jean Manant to adjust, when Rosalie,
who was looking over his shoulder, remarked that the two fragments
of paper looked like parts of a letter, and that the handwriting was
Léocadia’s.

“Look! There near the burned part it is signed.”

Jean could not resist the temptation to look. Léocadia, having heard
Rosalie’s remark, advanced to seize the paper; but Jean, divining her
intention, quickly turned it over to the magistrate.

“Monsieur,” he said, “this paper should be seen by you.”

After silently perusing the scrap, the magistrate turned to the
wretched woman.

“This man,” said he, pointing to Fadard’s body, “was then your son.”

Léocadia gave one cry of baffled rage, as she stared at the mocking
faces of the crowd around her. The reason for her persistent defence
was now understood, and her grief was indeed unfeigned.

When it became known that Léocadia was the mother of Fadard, there was
great excitement in St. Benoit. She had posed long as a virtuous woman,
and always had been the first to cast a stone at her fallen sisters.
And now to know that she was a _declassée_ piqued their dull faculties
of discernment. Some in their spite seized stones and would have hurled
them at her, had not compassion for her grief deterred them. After all,
she manifested the possession of a mother’s heart in her bosom. That
was, perhaps, her only virtue. And as she prostrated herself by the
side of her dead son, they turned away, silent in the presence of such
anguish.

On the way back to the cottage traces of blood were found here and
there.

“Madame Catherine is innocent at last,” cried Bruno, unable longer
to restrain himself, as they neared the house. “Thank God! she is
innocent.”

Sidonie heard these words and staggered as though struck to the heart.
No word of gratitude for her noble effort to save him crossed his lips.
His one thought was for Catherine.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER XIX.

CATHERINE’S LAST WORDS.


Forty-eight hours later the gamekeeper was buried. L’Ours, leaving the
cemetery with Sidonie, passed the cottage of Mother Mathurine.

“Bruno,” said he, stopping at the gate, “Madame Catherine wishes to see
you.”

“Me?” asked Bruno, turning pale.

Sidonie visibly trembled as, noticing his expression, she inwardly
said: “How he loves her!”

“What does she want of me?” demanded Bruno, with glowing face, when he
had recovered his self-possession.

A wild dream that she, now being free, could love him filled his heart
with rapture.

“She wishes to do what is right,” replied Jean, “and has a word to say
to you.”

“Must I go at once?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I am ready.”

“Come, little one. You must accompany us.”

“Oh, no! Why should I go?”

“Because she wishes to speak to you, too.”

A quarter of an hour afterward the three entered Catherine’s presence.

“Thanks, Jean, for bringing them here; and you, my young friends, I
thank you for coming.”

“Now I must go,” said Jean. “Good-by--all.”

He opened the door, and Sidonie watched him anxiously as he departed.

Catherine asked them to be seated.

She was no longer the charming, gracious woman they had known. Two
days of sorrow and shame and remorse had changed her into a sad-eyed
woman, and every feature betrayed the suffering she had undergone. She
extended her hand to little Sidonie.

“You love Bruno, little one, do you not? Tell me frankly.”

“Yes,” murmured Sidonie, hiding her blushing face.

“Then, my children, you must be married. My shadow must not stand
between you.”

Bruno quickly rose.

“No, no, Madame. If I were to marry, I should choose Sidonie. But I
shall never marry.”

“Why?”

“You know the reason, Madame.”

“Because of your love for me?”

Bruno was silent.

“You are wrong. A strange infatuation has governed you, which time and
our brave little Sidonie will cure. At heart I am responsible for my
husband’s death, because I wished it, and I even suggested to two men
the idea of avenging me. One of those men was Firmin; the other was
you, Bruno.”

Bruno here made an impatient gesture, as though to silence her. But
she continued in a low tone: “You see, it was not for the sake of
friendship, but to be revenged. But I did not deceive you. You thought
me guilty.”

Bruno again tried to quiet her.

“Do not deny it, Bruno. When you confessed the crime it was to shield
me, for you believed me guilty. And so I was in intent, though I did
not perform the deed. All night I waited expecting to hear the shot
which should make me free. At last it came. And oh, the agony of that
moment!”

A profound stillness supervened. Sidonie, with tearful eyes, gazed at
Catherine. Bruno was deeply affected as he saw the once beautiful woman
torn with grief and remorse. In gasps she told them of the horrible
night she had passed; of the bloody fingers that seemed always to
clasp her cheek; of the ghastly discovery at early dawn. All this she
told them without trying to palliate her part in it. Her suffering was
pitiful.

“God knows how penitent I am, and to him alone can I turn in my anguish
and wickedness. Every moment those bloody fingers seem burning into my
flesh. That is my just punishment. It will follow me wherever I go. I
cannot escape. The blood of my innocent husband will be forever on my
head. My hands will wear the crimson stain so long as I live. My cheek
will always bear the marks of bloody fingers. My poor Savin’s legacy to
me is a legacy of blood!”

She paused in a paroxysm of passion.

“And now, Bruno, you understand why I bid you to marry our little
Sidonie. She will make you happy. She is worthy of your love.--And when
you are his wife, little one, remember and profit by my experience.
When I am gone----”

“Oh, do not speak in that way!” protested Sidonie.

“Child, I am going away from here--far away from the frightful spot of
my crime. I love my husband--too late, yes; but his memory shall be
sacred to me even unto death. And now, before I go, let me feel that
you two will be happy. You, my child, will be a true wife to him; but
if you are ever inclined to test his love and jealousy, think of me,
and be warned in time.”

“Fear not. Coquetry is not to my taste,” said the little cripple, sadly.

Bruno took her hand, and a smile of perfect love illumined her face.

Together they went away.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following morning, upon going to the corner of the wood, two
peasants found the Barrau cottage deserted. Under cover of the night,
Catherine, true to her word, had silently stolen away. No traces of
her were ever found, and to this day the people of St. Benoit speak in
mysterious tones of her disappearance, and with an air of superstitious
gravity tell the story of the gamekeeper’s murder.

At twenty-three a broken heart may heal, and one day in the springtime
a pleasant little wedding _fête_ was given in honor of Sidonie and her
devoted Bruno.

Jeannille Marselon was present, and, though she did not speak, for
once her face brightened with interest while she watched the lovelight
shining in Bruno’s eyes as he bent down to kiss the upturned face, and
to stroke the golden tresses of his fair young bride.


THE END.



  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

  1. Original spellings have been standardised only when a dominant
     version was found.
  2. Misspellings of words that occur only once have been corrected.
  3. Enclosed italic font in _underscores_.



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