The countess and Olympe were just then standing before a window from which they could see Michaud approaching the abbe and Blondet, who were walking up and down the wide, semi-circular gravelled space which repeated on the park side of the pavilion the exterior half-moon; they were conversing earnestly.
“Where is she?” said the countess; “you make me anxious to see her.”
“She is gone to carry milk to Mademoiselle Gaillard at the gate of Conches; she will soon be back, for it is more than an hour since she started.”
“Well, I’ll go and meet her with those gentlemen,” said Madame de Montcornet, going downstairs.
Just as the countess opened her parasol, Michaud came up and told her that the general had left her a widow for probably two days.
“Monsieur Michaud,” said the countess, eagerly, “don’t deceive me, there is something serious going on. Your wife is frightened, and if there are many persons like Pere Fourchon, this part of the country will be uninhabitable — ”
“If it were so, madame,” answered Michaud, laughing, “we should not be in the land of the living, for nothing would be easier than to make away with us. The peasant’s grumble, that is all. But as to passing from growls to blows, from pilfering to crime, they care too much for life and the free air of the fields. Olympe has been saying something that frightened you, but you know she is in state to be frightened at nothing,” he added, drawing his wife’s hand under his arm and pressing it to warn her to say no more.
“Cornevin! Juliette!” cried Madame Michaud, who soon saw the head of her old cook at the window. “I am going for a little walk; take care of the premises.”
Two enormous dogs, who began to bark, proved that the effectiveness of the garrison at the gate of the Avonne was not to be despised. Hearing the dogs, Cornevin, an old Percheron, Olympe’s foster-father, came from behind the trees, showing a head such as no other region than La Perche can manufacture. Cornevin was undoubtedly a Chouan in 1794 and 1799.
The whole party accompanied the countess along that one of the six forest avenues which led directly to the gate of Conches, crossing the Silver-spring rivulet. Madame de Montcornet walked in front with Blondet. The abbe and Michaud and his wife talked in a low voice of the revelation that had just been made to the countess of the state of the country.
“Perhaps it is providential,” said the abbe; “for if madame is willing, we might, perhaps, by dint of benefits and constant consideration of their wants, change the hearts of these people.”
At about six hundred feet from the pavilion and below the brooke, the countess caught sight of a broken red jug and some spilt milk.
“Something has happened to the poor child!” she cried, calling to Michaud and his wife, who were returning to the pavilion.
“A misfortune like Perrette’s,” said Blondet, laughing.
“No; the poor child has been surprised and pursued, for the jug was thrown outside the path,” said the abbe, examining the ground.
“Yes, that is certainly La Pechina’s step,” said Michaud; “the print of the feet, which have turned, you see, quickly, shows sudden terror. The child must have darted in the direction of the pavilion, trying to get back there.”
Every one followed the traces which the bailiff pointed out as he walked along examining them. Presently he stopped in the middle of the path about a hundred feet from the broken jug, where the girl’s foot-prints ceased.
“Here,” he said, “she turned towards the Avonne; perhaps she was headed off from the direction of the pavilion.”
“But she has been gone more than an hour,” cried Madame Michaud.
Alarm was in all faces. The abbe ran towards the pavilion, examining the state of the road, while Michaud, impelled by the same thought, went up the path towards Conches.
“Good God! she fell here,” said Michaud, returning from a place where the footsteps stopped near the brook, to that where they had turned in the road, and pointing to the ground, he added, “See!”
The marks were plainly seen of a body lying at full length on the sandy path.
“The footprints which have entered the wood are those of some one who wore knitted soles,” said the abbe.
“A woman, then,” said the countess.
“Down there, by the broken pitcher, are the footsteps of a man,” added Michaud.
“I don’t see traces of any other foot,” said the abbe, who was tracking into the wood the prints of the woman’s feet.
“She must have been lifted and carried into the wood,” cried Michaud.
“That can’t be, if it is really a woman’s foot,” said Blondet.
“It must be some trick of that wretch, Nicolas,” said Michaud. “He has been watching La Pechina for some time. Only this morning I stood two hours under the bridge of the Avonne to see what he was about. A woman may have helped him.”
“It is dreadful!” said the countess.
“They call it amusing themselves,” added the priest, in a sad and grieved tone.
“Oh! La Pechina would never let them keep her,” said the bailiff; “she is quite able to swim across the river. I shall look along the banks. Go home, my dear Olympe; and you gentlemen and madame, please to follow the avenue towards Conches.”
“What a country!” exclaimed the countess.
“There are scoundrels everywhere,” replied Blondet.
“Is it true, Monsieur l’abbe,” asked Madame de Montcornet, “that I saved the poor child from the clutches of Rigou?”
“Every young girl over fiften years of age whom you may protect at the chateau is saved from that monster,” said the abbe. “In trying to get possession of La Pechina from her earliest years, the apostate sought to satisfy both his lust and his vengeance. When I took Pere Niseron as sexton I told him what Rigou’s intentions were. That is one of the causes of the late mayor’s rancor against me; his hatred grew out of it. Pere Niseron said to him solemnly that he would kill him if any harm came to Genevieve, and he made him responsible for all attempts upon the poor child’s honor. I can’t help thinking that this pursuit of Nicolas is the result of some infernal collusion with Rigou, who thinks he can do as he likes with these people.”
“Doesn’t he fear the law?”
“In the first place, he is father-in-law of the prosecuting-attorney,” said the abbe, pausing to listen. “And then,” he resumed, “you have no conception of the utter indifference of the rural police to what is done around them. So long as the peasants do not burn the farm-houses and buildings, commit no murders, poison no one, and pay their taxes, they let them do as they like; and as these people are not restrained by any religious principle, horrible things happen every day. On the other side of the Avonne helpless old men are afraid to stay in their own homes, for they are allowed nothing to eat; they wander out into the fields as far as their tottering legs can bear them, knowing well that if they take to their beds they will die for want of food. Monsieur Sarcus, the magistrate, tells me that if they arrested and tried all criminals, the costs would ruin the municipality.”
“Then he at least sees how things are?” said Blondet.
“Monseigneur thoroughly understands the condition of the valley, and especially the state of this district,” continued the abbe. “Religion alone can cure such evils; the law seems to me powerless, modified as it is now — ”
The words were interrupted by loud cries from the woods, and the countess, preceded by Emile and the abbe, sprang bravely into the brushwood in the direction of the sounds.
CHAPTER XI. THE OARISTYS, EIGHTEENTH ECLOGUE OF THEOCRITUS
LITTLE ADMIRED ON THE POLICE CALENDAR
The sagacity of a savage, which Michaud’s new occupation had developed among his faculties, joined to an acquaintance with the passions and interests of Blangy, enabled him partially to understand a third idyll in the Greek style, which poor villagers like Tonsard, and middle-aged rich men like Rigou, translate freely — to use the classic word — in the depths of their count
ry solitudes.
Nicolas, Tonsard’s second son, had drawn an unlucky number at a recent conscription. Two years earlier his elder brother had been pronounced, through the influence of Soudry, Gaubertin, and Sarcus the rich, unfit for military service, on account of a pretended weakness in the muscles of the right arm; but as Jean-Louis had since wielded instruments of husbandry with remarkable force and skill, a good deal of talk on the subject had gone through the district. Soudry, Rigou, and Gaubertin, who were the special protectors of the family, had warned Tonsard that he must not expect to save Nicolas, who was tall and vigorous, from being recruited if he drew a fatal number. Nevertheless Gaubertin and Rigou were so well aware of the importance of conciliating bold men able and willing to do mischief, if properly directed against Les Aigues, that Rigou held out certain hopes of safety to Tonsard and his son. The late monk was occasionally visited by Catherine Tonsard who was very devoted to her brother Nicolas; on one such occasion Rigou advised her to appeal to the general and the countess.
“They may be glad to do you this service to cajole you; in that case, it is just so much gained from the enemy,” he said. “If the Shopman refuses, then we shall see what we shall see.”
Rigou foresaw that the general’s refusal would pass as one wrong the more done by the land-owner to the peasantry, and would bind Tonsard by an additional motive of gratitude to the coalition, in case the crafty mind of the innkeeper could suggest to him some plausible way of liberating Nicolas.
Nicolas, who was soon to appear before the examining board, had little hope of the general’s intervention because of the harm done to Les Aigues by all the members of the Tonsard family. His passion, or to speak more correctly, his caprice and obstinate pursuit of La Pechina, were so aggravated by the prospect of his immediate departure, which left him no time to seduce her, that he resolved on attempting violence. The child’s contempt for her prosecutor, plainly shown, excited the Lovelace of the Grand-I-Vert to a hatred whose fury was equalled only by his desires. For the last three days he had been watching La Pechina, and the poor child knew she was watched. Between Nicolas and his prey the same sort of understanding existed which there is between the hunter and the game. When the girl was at some little distance from the pavilion she saw Nicolas in one of the paths which ran parallel to the walls of the park, leading to the bridge of the Avonne. She could easily have escaped the man’s pursuit had she appealed to her grandfather; but all young girls, even the most unsophisticated, have a strange fear, possibly instinctive, of trusting to their natural protectors under the like circumstances.
Genevieve had heard Pere Niseron take an oath to kill any man, no matter who he was, who should dare to touch (that was his word) his granddaughter. The old man thought the child amply protected by the halo of white hair and honor which a spotless life of three-score years and ten had laid upon his brow. The vision of bloody scenes terrifies the imagination of young girls so that they need not dive to the bottom of their hearts for other numerous and inquisitive reasons which seal their lips.
When La Pechina started with the milk which Madame Michaud had sent to the daughter of Gaillard, the keeper of the gate of Conches, whose cow had just calved, she looked about her cautiously, like a cat when it ventures out onto the street. She saw no signs of Nicolas; she listened to the silence, as the poet says, and hearing nothing, she concluded that the rascal had gone to his day’s work. The peasants were just beginning to cut the rye; for they were in the habit of getting in their own harvests first, so as to benefit by the best strength of the mowers. But Nicolas was not a man to mind losing a day’s work, — especially now that he expected to leave the country after the fair at Soulanges and begin, as the country people say, the new life of a soldier.
When La Pechina, with the jug on her head, was about half-way, Nicolas slid like a wild-cat down the trunk of an elm, among the branches of which he was hiding, and fell like a thunderbolt in front of the girl, who flung away her pitcher and trusted to her fleet legs to regain the pavilion. But a hundred feet farther on, Catherine Tonsard, who was on the watch, rushed out of the wood and knocked so violently against the flying girl that she was thrown down. The violence of the fall made her unconscious. Catherine picked her up and carried her into the woods to the middle of a tiny meadow where the Silver-spring brook bubbled up.
Catherine Tonsard was tall and strong, and in every respect the type of woman whom painters and sculptors take, as the Republic did in former days, for their figures of Liberty. She charmed the young men of the valley of the Avonne with her voluminous bosom, her muscular legs, and a waist as robust as it was flexible; with her plump arms, her eyes that could flash and sparkle, and her jaunty air; with the masses of hair twisted in coils around her head, her masculine forehead and her red lips curling with that same ferocious smile which Eugene Delacroix and David (of Angers) caught and represented so admirably. True image of the People, this fiery and swarthy creature seemed to emit revolt through her piercing yellow eyes, blazing with the insolence of a soldier. She inherited from her father so violent a nature that the whole family, except Tonsard, and all who frequented the tavern feared her.
“Well, how are you now?” she said to La Pechina as the latter recovered consciousness.
Catherine had placed her victim on a little mound beside the brook and was bringing her to her senses with dashes of cold water. “Where am I?” said the child, opening her beautiful black eyes through which a sun-ray seemed to glide.
“Ah!” said Catherine, “if it hadn’t been for me you’d have been killed.”
“Thank you,” said the girl, still bewildered; “what happened to me?”
“You stumbled over a root and fell flat in the road over there, as if shot. Ha! how you did run!”
“It was your brother who made me,” said La Pechina, remembering Nicolas.
“My brother? I did not see him,” said Catherine. “What did he do to you, poor fellow, that should make you fly as if he were a wolf? Isn’t he handsomer than your Monsieur Michaud?”
“Oh!” said the girl, contemptuously.
“See here, little one; you are laying up a crop of evils for yourself by loving those who persecute us. Why don’t you keep to our side?”
“Why don’t you come to church; and why do you steal things night and day?” asked the child.
“So you let those people talk you over!” sneered Catherine. “They love us, don’t they? — just as they love their food which they get out of us, and they want new dishes every day. Did you ever know one of them to marry a peasant-girl? Not they! Does Sarcus the rich let his son marry that handsome Gatienne Giboulard? Not he, though she is the daughter of a rich upholsterer. You have never been at the Tivoli ball at Soulanges in Socquard’s tavern; you had better come. You’ll see ‘em all there, these bourgeois fellows, and you’ll find they are not worth the money we shall get out of them when we’ve pulled them down. Come to the fair this year!”
“They say it’s fine, that Soulanges fair!” cried La Pechina, artlessly.
“I’ll tell you what it is in two words,” said Catherine. “If you are handsome, you are well ogled. What is the good of being as pretty as you are if you are not admired by the men? Ha! when I heard one of them say for the first time, ‘What a fine sprig of a girl!’ all my blood was on fire. It was at Socquard’s, in the middle of a dance; my grandfather, Fourchon, who was playing the clarionet, heard it and laughed. Tivoli seemed to me as grand and fine as heaven itself. It’s lighted up, my dear, with glass lamps, and you’ll think you are in paradise. All the gentlemen of Soulanges and Auxerre and Ville-aux-Fayes will be there. Ever since that first night I’ve loved the place where those words rang in my ears like military music. It’s worthy giving your eternity to hear such words said of you by a man you love.”
“Yes, perhaps,” replied La Pechina, thoughtfully.
“Then come, and get the praise of men; you’re sure of it!” cried Catherine. “Ha! you’ll have a fine chance, handsom
e as you are, to pick up good luck. There’s the son of Monsieur Lupin, Amaury, he might marry you. But that’s not all; if you only knew what comforts you can find there against vexation and worry. Why, Socquard’s boiled wine will make you forget every trouble you ever had. Fancy! it can make you dream, and feel as light as a bird. Didn’t you ever drink boiled wine? Then you don’t know what life is.”
The privilege enjoyed by older persons to wet their throats with boiled wine excites the curiosity of the children of the peasantry over twelve years of age to such a degree that Genevieve had once put her lips to a glass of boiled wine ordered by the doctor for her grandfather when ill. The taste had left a sort of magic influence in the memory of the poor child, which may explain the interest with which she listened, and on which the evil-minded Catherine counted to carry out a plan already half-successful. No doubt she was trying to bring her victim, giddy from the fall, to the moral intoxication so dangerous to young women living in the wilds of nature, whose imagination, deprived of other nourishment, is all the more ardent when the occasion comes to exercise it. Boiled wine, which Catherine had held in reserve, was to end the matter by intoxicating the victim.
“What do they put into it?” asked La Pechina.
“All sorts of things,” replied Catherine, glancing back to see if her brother were coming; “in the first place, those what d’ ye call ‘ems that come from India, cinnamon, and herbs that change you by magic, — you fancy you have everything you wish for; boiled wine makes you happy! you can snap your fingers at all your troubles!”
“I should be afraid to drink boiled wine at a dance,” said La Pechina.
“Afraid of what?” asked Catherine. “There’s not the slightest danger. Think what lots of people there will be. All the bourgeois will be looking at us! Ah! it is one of those days that make up for all our misery. See it and die, — for it’s enough to satisfy any one.”
“If Monsieur and Madame Michaud would only take me!” cried La Pechina, her eyes blazing.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 992