by Hector Malot
CHAPTER I
MY VILLAGE HOME
I was a foundling. But until I was eight years of age I thought I had amother like other children, for when I cried a woman held me tightly inher arms and rocked me gently until my tears stopped falling. I nevergot into bed without her coming to kiss me, and when the December windsblew the icy snow against the window panes, she would take my feetbetween her hands and warm them, while she sang to me. Even now I canremember the song she used to sing. If a storm came on while I was outminding our cow, she would run down the lane to meet me, and cover myhead and shoulders with her cotton skirt so that I should not get wet.
When I had a quarrel with one of the village boys she made me tell herall about it, and she would talk kindly to me when I was wrong andpraise me when I was in the right. By these and many other things, bythe way she spoke to me and looked at me, and the gentle way she scoldedme, I believed that she was my mother.
My village, or, to be more exact, the village where I was brought up,for I did not have a village of my own, no birthplace, any more than Ihad a father or mother--the village where I spent my childhood wascalled Chavanon; it is one of the poorest in France. Only sections ofthe land could be cultivated, for the great stretch of moors was coveredwith heather and broom. We lived in a little house down by the brook.
Until I was eight years of age I had never seen a man in our house; yetmy adopted mother was not a widow, but her husband, who was astone-cutter, worked in Paris, and he had not been back to the villagesince I was of an age to notice what was going on around me.Occasionally he sent news by some companion who returned to the village,for there were many of the peasants who were employed as stone-cuttersin the city.
"Mother Barberin," the man would say, "your husband is quite well, andhe told me to tell you that he's still working, and to give you thismoney. Will you count it?"
That was all. Mother Barberin was satisfied, her husband was well and hehad work.
Because Barberin was away from home it must not be thought that he wasnot on good terms with his wife. He stayed in Paris because his workkept him there. When he was old he would come back and live with hiswife on the money that he had saved.
One November evening a man stopped at our gate. I was standing on thedoorstep breaking sticks. He looked over the top bar of the gate andcalled to me to know if Mother Barberin lived there. I shouted yes andtold him to come in. He pushed open the old gate and came slowly up tothe house. I had never seen such a dirty man. He was covered with mudfrom head to foot. It was easy to see that he had come a distance on badroads. Upon hearing our voices Mother Barberin ran out.
"I've brought some news from Paris," said the man.
Something in the man's tone alarmed Mother Barberin.
"Oh, dear," she cried, wringing her hands, "something has happened toJerome!"
"Yes, there is, but don't get scared. He's been hurt, but he ain't dead,but maybe he'll be deformed. I used to share a room with him, and as Iwas coming back home he asked me to give you the message. I can't stopas I've got several miles to go, and it's getting late."
But Mother Barberin wanted to know more; she begged him to stay tosupper. The roads were so bad! and they did say that wolves had beenseen on the outskirts of the wood. He could go early in the morning.Wouldn't he stay?
Yes, he would. He sat down by the corner of the fire and while eatinghis supper told us how the accident had occurred. Barberin had beenterribly hurt by a falling scaffold, and as he had had no business tobe in that particular spot, the builder had refused to pay an indemnity.
"Poor Barberin," said the man as he dried the legs of his trousers,which were now quite stiff under the coating of mud, "he's got no luck,no luck! Some chaps would get a mint o' money out of an affair likethis, but your man won't get nothing!"
"No luck!" he said again in such a sympathetic tone, which showedplainly that he for one would willingly have the life half crushed outof his body if he could get a pension. "As I tell him, he ought to suethat builder."
"A lawsuit," exclaimed Mother Barberin, "that costs a lot of money."
"Yes, but if you win!"
Mother Barberin wanted to start off to Paris, only it was such aterrible affair ... the journey was so long, and cost so much!
The next morning we went into the village and consulted the priest. Headvised her not to go without first finding out if she could be of anyuse. He wrote to the hospital where they had taken Barberin, and a fewdays later received a reply saying that Barberin's wife was not to go,but that she could send a certain sum of money to her husband, becausehe was going to sue the builder upon whose works he had met with theaccident.
Days and weeks passed, and from time to time letters came asking formore money. The last, more insistent than the previous ones, said thatif there was no more money the cow must be sold to procure the sum.
Only those who have lived in the country with the peasants know whatdistress there is in these three words, "Sell the cow." As long as theyhave their cow in the shed they know that they will not suffer fromhunger. We got butter from ours to put in the soup, and milk to moistenthe potatoes. We lived so well from ours that until the time of which Iwrite I had hardly ever tasted meat. But our cow not only gave usnourishment, she was our friend. Some people imagine that a cow is astupid animal. It is not so, a cow is most intelligent. When we spoke toours and stroked her and kissed her, she understood us, and with her biground eyes which looked so soft, she knew well enough how to make usknow what she wanted and what she did not want. In fact, she loved usand we loved her, and that is all there is to say. However, we had topart with her, for it was only by the sale of the cow that Barberin'shusband would be satisfied.
A cattle dealer came to our house, and after thoroughly examiningRousette,--all the time shaking his head and saying that she would notsuit him at all, he could never sell her again, she had no milk, shemade bad butter,--he ended by saying that he would take her, but onlyout of kindness because Mother Barberin was an honest good woman.
Poor Rousette, as though she knew what was happening, refused to comeout of the barn and began to bellow.
"Go in at the back of her and chase her out," the man said to me,holding out a whip which he had carried hanging round his neck.
"No, that he won't," cried mother. Taking poor Rousette by the loins,she spoke to her softly: "There, my beauty, come ... come along then."
Rousette could not resist her, and then, when she got to the road, theman tied her up behind his cart and his horse trotted off and she had tofollow.
We went back to the house, but for a long time we could hear herbellowing. No more milk, no butter! In the morning a piece of bread, atnight some potatoes with salt.
Shrove Tuesday happened to be a few days after we had sold the cow. Theyear before Mother Barberin had made a feast for me with pancakes andapple fritters, and I had eaten so many that she had beamed and laughedwith pleasure. But now we had no Rousette to give us milk or butter, sothere would be no Shrove Tuesday, I said to myself sadly.
But Mother Barberin had a surprise for me. Although she was not in thehabit of borrowing, she had asked for a cup of milk from one of theneighbors, a piece of butter from another, and when I got home aboutmidday she was emptying the flour into a big earthenware bowl.
"Oh," I said, going up to her, "flour?"
"Why, yes," she said, smiling, "it's flour, my little Remi, beautifulflour. See what lovely flakes it makes."
Just because I was so anxious to know what the flour was for I did notdare ask. And besides I did not want her to know that I remembered thatit was Shrove Tuesday for fear she might feel unhappy.
"What does one make with flour?" she asked, smiling at me.
"Bread."
"What else?"
"Pap."
"And what else?"
"Why, I don't know."
"Yes, you know, only as you are a good little boy, you don't dare say.You know that to-day is Pancake day, and because you think we
haven'tany butter and milk you don't dare speak. Isn't that so, eh?
"Oh, Mother."
"I didn't mean that Pancake day should be so bad after all for my littleRemi. Look in that bin."
I lifted up the lid quickly and saw some milk, butter, eggs, and threeapples.
"Give me the eggs," she said; "while I break them, you peel the apples."
While I cut the apples into slices, she broke the eggs into the flourand began to beat the mixture, adding a little milk from time to time.When the paste was well beaten she placed the big earthenware bowl onthe warm cinders, for it was not until supper time that we were to havethe pancakes and fritters. I must say frankly that it was a very longday, and more than once I lifted up the cloth that she had thrown overthe bowl.
"You'll make the paste cold," she cried; "and it won't rise well."
But it was rising well, little bubbles were coming up on the top. Andthe eggs and milk were beginning to smell good.
"Go and chop some wood," Mother Barberin said; "we need a good clearfire."
At last the candle was lit.
"Put the wood on the fire!"
She did not have to say this twice; I had been waiting impatiently tohear these words. Soon a bright flame leaped up the chimney and thelight from the fire lit up all the kitchen. Then Mother Barberin tookdown the frying pan from its hook and placed it on the fire.
"Give me the butter!"
With the end of her knife she slipped a piece as large as a nut into thepan, where it melted and spluttered. It was a long time since we hadsmelled that odor. How good that butter smelled! I was listening to itfizzing when I heard footsteps out in our yard.
Whoever could be coming to disturb us at this hour? A neighbor perhapsto ask for some firewood. I couldn't think, for just at that momentMother Barberin put her big wooden spoon into the bowl and was pouringa spoonful of the paste into the pan, and it was not the moment to letone's thoughts wander. Somebody knocked on the door with a stick, thenit was flung open.
"Who's there?" asked Mother Barberin, without turning round.
A man had come in. By the bright flame which lit him up I could see thathe carried a big stick in his hand.
"So, you're having a feast here, don't disturb yourselves," he saidroughly.
"Oh, Lord!" cried Mother Barberin, putting the frying pan quickly on thefloor, "is it you, Jerome."
Then, taking me by the arm she dragged me towards the man who hadstopped in the doorway.
"Here's your father."