by Eugène Sue
Perhaps, alas! it will be even so with the feelings and impressions that fill my mind at the present time.
In spite of which I cannot help believing that they will last for ever.
Ah, my father! my father! you told me a very dreadful, a very dangerous truth, when you affirmed that forgetfulness was the only reality of our lives.
Thus, then, will I open this journal that I believed was closed for ever.
I believed, too, that my heart was closed to all tender and happy impressions.
But since I can still suffer, I will continue to write:
Three months ago on a cloudy autumn morning I went out early. A cold, thick fog was falling. I followed the edge of the forest, and was walking dreamily along, while behind me came an old black pony, the venerable Black that my cousin Hélène used to ride so often in the old days.
As I went along thus, with my head bowed towards the ground, I saw the newly made tracks of a great wild boar.
Having lately been seeking to divert myself by violent exercise, I had brought thirty fox-hounds over from London, and begun to hunt in fairly good style, to the great delight of old Lefort, one of my father’s “whippers-in,” whom I had retained as head keeper.
In following, out of curiosity, the trace of the boar, whose presence in the forest had been unknown up to this time, I left the edge of the woods and plunged deep into the undergrowth. After walking about three leagues I arrived at a little farm, called the ferme des Prés, which was situated on the confines of immense fields. Here I lost trace of the wild boar.
This farm had recently been leased to a widow, named Madame Kerouët. My superintendent had spoken to me of the great activity of this woman, who came from the neighbourhood of Nantes, the death of her husband having caused her to quit the place that she helped him to farm in Brittany. I thought I would profit by the chance that had led me to the farm to make the acquaintance of my new tenant.
La ferme dee Prés was in a very picturesque situation. Its principal building, surrounded by a vast courtyard, backed up on the edge of the forest. This habitation, which had formerly been a hunting lodge, was built in the form of a little castle, flanked by two towers. An arched doorway, surmounted by a coat-of-arms, led in to the ground floor. Time had given a gray colouring to these old walls, which were built with antique solidity. The tiles of the roof were all covered with moss, and clouds of pigeons swarmed around the pointed cone of one of the towers which had been changed into a pigeon-house.
Contrary to the custom of most of our farmers, the courtyard of the farm, instead of being littered with rubbish, was extremely clean and well kept The ploughs, the harrows, the drills, were all newly painted of a fine olive-green colour, and were symmetrically arranged under a vast shed, along with the harness of the workhorses and yokes of the oxen.
A thick trellis divided the courtyard in its entire length, and separated it into two parts, one of which was given up to fowls of every kind, while the other was well sprinkled sand the colour of yellow ochre, and led up to the arched door of the little manor-house, on each side of which were great clumps of hollyhocks and sunflowers.
I was examining with satisfaction the exterior of the farmhouse, when I heard with the greatest surprise the harmonious warbling of a sweet, clear voice.
These sounds seemed to come from a little window.
It was high and narrow, and was placed near the middle of one of the towers, where it was curtained by the thick vines of the morning-glory and nasturtiums.
After preluding thus, the voice was silent for awhile, but soon broke out again, singing the romance of the willow from Rossini’s “Othello.”
The voice was of remarkable quality, and showed high cultivation. It was very expressive, and full of sweetness and sadness.
I was greatly astonished. The song had ceased and I was still listening, when I saw a woman of fifty or thereabouts appear on the sill of the little arched doorway. She wore a black dress and a cap which was as white as the snow.
When she noticed me, she gave me a look of uneasy interrogation.
She was of medium height, sturdy, brown-eyed, and sunburnt. Her face had a remarkable expression of frankness and good temper.
“What can I do to serve you, monsieur?” she asked, with a half courtesy, which was no doubt due to my poor old pony, and my costume of gentleman-farmer, as the English say.
“It is beginning to rain, madame. Will you permit me to wait here awhile under shelter, and tell me if I am very far from the village of Blémur?”
This question was nothing but a pretext to gain time, and try to discover the Desdemona.
“The village of Blémur, blessed Virgin! but you will never get there before the black night, monsieur, though you have got a famous little horse there,” said the fermière, as she examined Black with the eye of a connoisseur.
“Must I follow the highroad of the forest to go to Blémur?”
“Straight ahead, monsieur; one way you go to Blémur, and the other way to the Château de Serval, and it is three good leagues, they say so at least, for I haven’t been very long in this part of the country.”
“Then you will allow me, madame, to wait here under the shed until the shower is over?”
“I can do better than that, monsieur; you will be much better off here in the house, come in if you please.”
“I will be very glad to accept your offer, madame, though seeing such a beautifully kept shed, I could easily fancy myself in a salon.”
This compliment pleased Madame Kerouët immensely, for she said, in an important way:
“Ah, dame! that is the way we always keep our farms in our Brittany.”
All the while I was talking with the fermi’rè I had not taken my eyes off the little window in the tower; several times I fancied I saw a white hand cautiously push aside some branches of the verdure which covered the window.
Madame Kerouët preceded me into the farmhouse. I tied up Black, and followed the good woman into her home.
To the left of the entrance door was a kitchen ornamented with all its accessories of copper and tin, which two strong peasant girls were busily scouring and which shone like gold and silver.
On the right we entered a great chamber, where there were two beds with twisted columns hung with curtains of green serge which were embroidered in red. These two beds were separated by a high chimneypiece where a good fire of pine cones was flaming. On the mantelpiece the only ornaments were an old looking-glass with its frame of red lacquer, and two wax statuettes under glass shades, — a St. John with his lamb, and a St. Genevieve with her fawn.
Between the two windows with their little diamond panes there hung on the wall an antique clock called a cuckoo; it was of gray wood painted with pink and blue flowers, and its two weights hung down on two cords of unequal length.
There was a spinning-wheel, a great armchair covered with tapestry, which was sacred to the mistress, a chair for Desdemona, two stools for the servant-maids, and a dresser loaded with faience. These articles, with a round, well-waxed walnut table, completed the furniture of the room, which served as a parlour, dining-room, and bedroom.
From the diamond window-panes to the floor everything shone with cleanliness. From the brown beams which crossed the ceiling were hanging long garlands of grapes dried for use in winter, and the whitewashed walls were ornamented with a set of coloured engravings framed in black wood, which illustrated the story of the Prodigal Son.
The mistress received my compliments on the neatness of her house with evident pride. While I was speaking the door opened, and the young woman who sang so well came in. When she saw me, she blushed, and started out again.
“Stay with us, Marie,” Madame Kerouët said to her, affectionately.
I could not look on the enchanting beauty of that face without thinking of the Holy Virgins of Raphael.
My admiration was so marked, my astonishment so great, on finding such beauty hidden in a farmhouse, — and I took no pain
s to conceal my feelings, — that Marie was quite taken back.
“This is my niece, monsieur,” said the fermière, who neither noticed my surprise nor Desdemona’s trouble.
“She is the daughter of my poor brother, lieutenant in the Old Guard, who was killed at Waterloo. Thanks to the protection of Monseigneur the Bishop of Nantes, we were permitted to send Marie to St. Denis, where she was educated like a demoiselle. She remained there until her marriage, which took place at Nantes about a year ago.” Madame Kerouët said this with a sigh. Then she continued: “But sit down, monsieur; and thou, Marie, go get a bottle of wine and a bit of warm galette.”
“A thousand thanks, madame,” said I, “I would rather not take anything. As soon as the rain is over I will continue on my journey.”
To keep herself in countenance, Marie sat down to her aunt’s spinning-wheel.
“Perhaps you are on your way to the Château de Serval?”
“Non, madame; I told you I was going to Blémur.”
“Ah, yes, to be sure, to Blémur; pardon, monsieur, — so much the better for you.”
“How is that, madame? Is the master of Serval inhospitable?”
“I don’t know anything about that, monsieur; but they do say that he has no more wish to see human faces than human faces have to see him,” replied Madame Kerouët.
“And why is that? Does he wish to live alone?”
“Hum, hum!” said the fermière, shaking her head, “I have only just come to these parts, and don’t know the truth of the ugly stories they tell about him; besides, monsieur, the count is our master, and a very good master, they say; so I won’t speak of what is none of my business. But, Marie, you are tangling all my flax again,” she called out to the young woman. “Never wilt thou know how to use a distaff; hand it to me.”
“And you, madame,” I said to Marie, “have you any more certain information than madame your aunt as to the redoubtable inhabitant of Serval?”
“No, monsieur, I have only heard them say that M. the count lived a very retired life; and as I love solitude myself, I can understand that others care for it as well.”
“You have so many means of charming your retreat, madame, that I can readily believe it must be attractive; in the first place, you are an excellent musician. I can say so, because I have just been fortunate enough to hear you sing.”
“And she can draw and paint, too,” added Madame Kerouët, admiringly.
“Then, madame,” said I to Marie, “I must beg you, in the name of the cherished occupation which we share in common, to ask your aunt to grant me the permission of making some sketches of this farm whose situation I find so charming.”
“You have no need of asking Marie’s aid for that,” said Madame Kerouët; “you can make as many sketches as you wish, it can do nobody any harm.” I thanked the fermière; and, not wishing to make too long a first visit, I mounted my pony and started off.
Through caprice, I desired to keep up my incognito, which would be easy enough for awhile at least, for the Field Farm was quite a distance from Serval, and the tenants and farm hands from the one place hardly ever came over to the other.
The day after my first interview with Marie I furnished myself with the complete outfit of an artist; for since my return to Serval, I, too, had sought distraction in painting, and, mounted on good old Black, I started for the Field Farm.
Thanks to my frequent visits, a certain amount of friendliness was established between Marie, her aunt, and myself.
As I never saw any M. Belmont, I supposed him to be on a journey, and asked no questions about him. I drew the farm from every point of view, and I gave two or three of the sketches to Madame Kerouët, who was enchanted with them. Very often Marie came out and sketched with me. She had a great deal of talent.
Contrary to the habit of most young girls, Marie had profited by the excellent education that is afforded in such establishments as St. Denis. Fond of learning, she had neglected none of her studies, none of the useful or agreeable arts that were taught in that institution; so that, being naturally gifted, she had cultivated her talents to the utmost To a solid, extended, and varied instruction, she added a real vocation for art. But Marie was quite unconscious of the rarity of such an assemblage of delightful talents. She never showed the least vanity in her superiority, but would often, with a schoolgirl’s satisfaction, tell me of her former successes in history, painting, or music, as I had heard other women tell of their triumphs in coquetry.
Marie was only eighteen, and had the happy and fanciful imagination of a child. When she was in a confidential mood, I found her to be simple, sweet-tempered, and gay. She possessed that innocent gaiety which is the outcome of a serene soul and a life of intelligent and noble occupation. The more I studied her guileless nature, the more attached to her I became.
I did not feel for Marie a violent and wild passion, but when she was near me I was so perfectly and entirely happy that I had no desire for anything further, nor any regret for the turmoil of a passionate love. Strangely, though Marie was so angelically beautiful, though her form was charming, I was more interested in her wit, her candour, and the thousand aspirations of her young soul, than in her physical perfections. I had never made her the least compliment on her beauty, but I had never made any secret of the interest I felt in her talents and her exquisite natural gifts.
Although she was a married woman, she possessed such a mysterious and virginal charm that my behaviour towards her was respectful and even singularly timid.
Madame Kerouët, Marie’s aunt, was a woman of rare good sense. She was high-minded and kind-hearted. Her piety, which was sweet and fervent, inspired her to do the most charitable actions. No poor person ever left the farm without having received, besides a trifling sum of money, some of those words of encouragement more precious than alms.
Little by little I discovered in this good woman a very treasure-house of kindness and practical virtue. Her conversations were always interesting to me, for she could tell me many curious facts concerning agriculture. Sometimes her perfect faith gave an elevation to her thoughts that surprised me, and I would say to myself, “What is the secret of a religion that can so illuminate a simple mind?”
I had been visiting the farm assiduously for two months when one day Madame Kerouët said to me:
“It must astonish you to see Marie thus living the life of a widow. As you are our friend I am going to tell you the whole sad story. Figure to yourself, monsieur, that my husband and I had the lease of a farm at Thouars near Nantes. The farm belonged to M. Duvallon, a rich ship-owner of the town, who owed the beginning of his fortune to having sailed as a pirate during the war with England.
“Though he was surly, M. Duvallon was kind; he was very fond of my husband. One day Kerouët told him about our niece, who was soon to come home from St. Denis. With her fine education, that dear child could not marry a peasant, and we were not rich enough to marry her to a monsieur. Seeing our state of embarrassment, M. Duvallon said to Kerouët: ‘If your niece is reasonable I will take it upon myself to settle her in life.’
“‘With whom?’ asked my husband.
“‘With one of my old comrades, a sea captain who wishes to give up the sea and live as a good bourgeois. He has just come here. He is rich. He is not a dandy, but he is as good as gold and as true as steel, and I am sure he will make your niece perfectly happy.’
“Kerouët came home and told me all this. It was a rare piece of good luck for us and, above all, for Marie, the poor orphan.
“This was in the month of October last year. Marie being now eighteen years old could no longer remain at St. Denis. So we sent for her to come to the farm, and arranged for a day on which M. Duvallon should bring his friend, M. Belmont, to see our niece before coming to any conclusion, you understand.
“That day, it was a Sunday, our farm was as clean as a pin. Kerouët, Marie, and I were all decked out in our best, when M. Duvallon arrives in a cabriolet with his friend. What c
ould we do, monsieur? Without doubt his friend was not what you call a joli garçon, but he had the cross of honour, the look of a brave man, and he seemed very well preserved for his age, which might be from forty-five to fifty.
“This monsieur was very amiable to us. From time to time I would look at Marie; she did not seem to be particularly taken with M. Belmont, but I knew she was reasonable, and then, monsieur, with her education I felt that what she needed above all things was a certain amount of means, and that we ought to sacrifice a great many things to that end. It was a misfortune, no doubt, but we were not in a position to choose. When those messieurs were gone, we told Marie frankly what it was all about.
“Dame! monsieur, we all shed a lot of tears, she and I and my poor Kerouët, for our poor dear child was very young, and M. Belmont was very old for her, but at least Marie would be provided for in the future and we could die in peace and tranquillity.
“She understood all that and was resigned, so the next day when M. Duvallon came back we gave him our word.
“For a fortnight M. Belmont came to see us every day. Folks say that sailors are rough and surly. He was very polite, very kind, very complaisant to Marie, so she ended by seeing him without dislike and was touched by the proofs of affection that he showed her.
“Then what was more pleasing to us was that Marie was not to be separated from us, for he meant to buy a little country-place near Thouars, and so we should be able to see each other every day.
“Well, at last she got so used to seeing M. Belmont that she consented to paint his portrait. She keeps it up there in her study in the tower, where she doesn’t permit any one to enter. It is as like as like can be.
“About the last of December, M. Belmont told us that he was going to Paris to buy the wedding presents, the marriage was to take place at Nantes during, the month of January. —
“At the end of a fortnight, M. Belmont came back with splendid things for Marie.
“Since the sad event which has separated us, I have remembered that after his return from Paris M. Belmont often seemed to be very much depressed; but he was always good and kind to us; only he insisted that instead of waiting until the first of February, the date fixed for the marriage, the wedding should take place sooner.