by Ouida
“What!” she screamed, “nine good Christians fearful of one daughter of hell? Fie! for shame! Look; my leaden Peter is round my neck! Is he not stronger than she any day?”
In a moment more, thus girded at and guarded at the same time, they were through the door and on the mud floor of the hearth, close to her, casting hasty glances at the poor dead body on the hearth, whose fires they had left to die out all through that bitter winter. They came about her in a fierce, gesticulating, breathless troop, flourishing their sticks in her eyes, and casting at her a thousand charges in one breath.
Flandrin stood a little aloof, sheepishly on the threshold, wishing he had never said a word of the death of Manon Dax to his good wife and neighbors.
“You met that poor saint and killed her in the snow with your witcheries!” one cried.
“You have stifled that poor babe where it lay!” cried another.
“A good woman like that!” shrieked a third, “who was well and blithe and praising God only a day ago, for I saw her myself come down the hill for our well water!”
“It is as you did with the dear little Rémy, who will be lame all his life through you,” hissed a fourth. “You are not fit to live; you spit venom like a toad.”
“Are you alive, my angels?” said a fifth, waking the three children noisily, and rousing their piercing cries. “Are you alive after that witch has gazed on you? It is a miracle! The saints be praised!”
Folle-Farine stood mute and erect for the moment, not comprehending why they thus with one accord fell upon her. She pointed to the bodies on the hearth, with one of those grave and dignified gestures which were her birthright.
“She was cold and hungry,” she said curtly, her mellow accent softening and enriching the provincial tongue which she had learned from those amidst whom she dwelt. “She had fallen, and was dying. I brought her here. The young child was killed by the snow. I stayed with the rest because they were frightened, and alone. There is no more to tell. What of it?”
“Thou hadst better come away. What canst thou prove?” whispered Flandrin to his wife.
He was afraid of the storm he had invoked, and would fain have stilled it. But that was beyond his power. The women had not come forth half a league in the howling winds of a midwinter daybreak only to go back with a mere charity done, and with no vengeance taken.
They hissed, they screamed, they hurled their rage at her; they accused her of a thousand crimes; they filled the hut with clamor as of a thousand tongues; they foamed, they spat, they struck at her with their sticks; and she stood quiet, looking at them, and the old dead face of Manon Dax lay upward in the dim light.
The eldest boy struggled in the grasp of the peasant woman who had seized him, and stretched his arms, instead, to the one who had fed him and whose hand he had held all through his restless slumber in that long and dreary night.
The woman covered his eyes with a scream.
“Ah — h!” she moaned, “see how the innocent child is bewitched! It is horrible!”
“Look on that; — oh, infernal thing!” cried Flandrin’s wife, lifting up her treasured figure of Peter. “You dare not face that blessed image. See — see all of you — how she winces, and turns white!”
Folle-Farine had shrunk a little as the child had called her. Its gesture of affection was the first that she had ever seen towards her in any human thing.
She laughed aloud as the image of Peter was thrust in her face. She saw it was some emblem and idol of their faith, devoutly cherished. She stretched her hand out, wrenched it away, trampled on it, and tossed it through the doorway into the snow, where it sank and disappeared. Then she folded her arms, and waited for them.
There was a shriek at the blasphemy of the impious act; then they rushed on her.
They came inflamed with all the fury which abject fear and bigoted hatred can beget in minds of the lowest and most brutal type. They were strong, rude, ignorant, fanatical peasants, and they abhorred her, and they believed no child of theirs to be safe in its bed while she walked alive abroad. Beside such women, when in wrath and riot, the tiger and the hyena are as the lamb and the dove.
They set on her with furious force; they flung her, they trod on her, they beat her, they kicked her with their wood-shod feet, with all the malignant fury of the female animal that fights for its offspring’s and its own security.
Strong though she was, and swift, and full of courage, she had no power against the numbers who had thrown themselves on her, and borne her backward by dint of their united effort, and held her down to work their worst on her. She could not free herself to return their blows, nor lift herself to wrestle with them; she could only deny them the sweetness of wringing from her a single cry, and that she did. She was mute while the rough hands flew at her, the sticks struck at her, the heavy feet were driven against her body, and the fierce fingers clutched at her hair, and twisted and tore it, — she was quite mute throughout.
“Prick her in the breast, and see if the devil be still in her. I have heard say there is no better way to test a witch!” cried Flandrin’s wife, writhing in rage for the outrage to the Petrus.
Her foes needed no second bidding; they had her already prostrate in their midst, and a dozen eager, violent hands seized a closer grip upon her, pulled her clothes from her chest, and, holding her down on the mud floor, searched with ravenous eyes for the signet marks of hell. The smooth, soft skin baffled them; its rich and tender hues were without spot or blemish.
“What matter, — what matter?” hissed Rose Flandrin. “When our fathers hunted witches in the old time, did they stop for that? Draw blood, and you will see.”
She clutched a jagged, rusty nail from out the wall, and leaned over her prey.
“It is the only babe that will ever cling to thee!” she cried, with a laugh, as the nail drew blood above the heart.
Still Folle-Farine made no sound and asked no mercy. She was powerless, defenseless, flung on her back amidst her tormentors, fastened down by treading feet and clinching hands; she could resist in nothing, she could not stir a limb; still she kept silence, and her proud eyes looked unquailing into the hateful faces bent to hers.
The muscles and nerves of her body quivered with a mighty pang, her chest heaved with the torture of indignity, her heart fluttered like a wounded bird, — not at the physical pain, but at the shame of these women’s gaze, the loathsome contact of their hands.
The iron pierced deeper, but they could not make her speak. Except for her eyes, which glowed with a dusky fire as they glanced to and fro, seeking escape, she might have been a statue of olive-wood, flung down by ruffians to make a bonfire.
“If one were to drive the nail to the head, she would not feel!” cried the women, in furious despair, and were minded, almost, to put her to that uttermost test.
Suddenly, from the doorway, Flandrin raised an alarm:
“There is our notary close at hand, on the road on his mule! Hist! Come out quickly! You know how strict he is, and how he forbids us ever to try and take the law into our own keeping. Quick — as you love your lives — quick!”
The furies left their prey, and scattered and fled; the notary was a name of awe to them, for he was a severe man but just.
They seized the children, went out with them into the road, closed the hut door behind them, and moved down the hill, the two younger wailing sadly, and the eldest trying to get from them and go back.
The women looked mournful and held their heads down, and comforted the little ones; Flandrin himself went to his cattle in the meadow.
“Is anything amiss?” the old white-haired notary asked, stopping his gray mule at sight of the little cavalcade.
The women, weeping, told him that Manon Dax was dead, and the youngest infant likewise — of cold, in the night, as they supposed. They dared to say no more, for he had many times rebuked them for their lack of charity and their bigoted cruelties and superstitions, and they were quaking with fear lest he should by any ch
ance enter the cottage and see their work.
“Flandrin, going to his cow, saw her first, and he came to us and told us,” they added, crossing themselves fervently, and hushing little Bernardou, who wanted to get from them and return; “and we have taken the poor little things to carry them home; we are going to give them food, and warm them awhile by the stove, and then we shall come back and do all that is needful for the beloved dead who are within.”
“That is well. That is good and neighborly of you,” said the notary, who liked them, having married them all, and registered all their children’s births, and who was a good old man, though stern.
He promised them to see for his part that all needed by the law and by the church should be done for their old lost neighbor; and then he urged his mule into a trot, for he had been summoned to a rich man’s sick-bed in that early winter morning, and was in haste lest the priest should be beforehand with him there.
“How tender the poor are to the poor! Those people have not bread enough for themselves, and yet they burden their homes with three strange mouths. Their hearts must be true at the core, if their tongues sometimes be foul,” he mused, as he rode the mule down through the fog.
The women went on, carrying and dragging the children with them, in a sullen impatience.
“To think we should have had to leave that fiend of Yprès!” they muttered in their teeth. “Well, there is one thing, she will not get over the hurt for days. Her bones will be stiff for many a week. That will teach her to leave honest folk alone.”
And they traversed the road slowly, muttering to one another.
“Hold thy noise, thou little pig!” cried Flandrin’s wife, pushing Bernardou on before her. “Hold thy noise, I tell you, or I will put you in the black box in a hole in the ground, along with thy great-grandmother.”
But Bernardou wept aloud, refusing to be comforted or terrified into silence. He was old enough to know that never more would the old kindly withered brown face bend over him as he woke in the morning, nor the old kindly quavering voice croon him country ballads and cradle songs at twilight by the bright wood fire.
Little by little the women carrying the children crept down the slippery slope, half ice and half mud in the thaw, and entered their own village, and therein were much praised for their charity and courage.
For when they praise, as when they abuse, villages are loud of voice and blind of eye almost as much as are the cities.
Their tongues and those of their neighbors clacked all day long, noisily and bravely, of their good and their great deeds; they had all the sanctity of martyrdom, and all the glory of victory, in one. True, they have left all their house and field-work half done. “But the Holy Peter will finish it in his own good time, and avenge himself for his outrage,” mused the wife of Flandrin, sorrowing over her lost Petrus in the snowdrift, and boxing the ears of little Bernardou to make him cease from his weeping, where he was huddled in her chimney corner.
When they went back with their priest at noon to the hut of old Manon Dax to make her ready for her burial, they trembled inwardly lest they should find their victim there, and lest she should lift up her voice in accusation against them. Their hearts misgave them sorely. Their priest, a cobbler’s son, almost as ignorant as themselves, save that he could gabble a few morsels of bad Latin, would be, they knew, on their side; but they were sensible that they had let their fury hurry them into acts that could easily be applauded by their neighbors, but not so easily justified to the law.
“For the law is overgood,” said Rose Flandrin, “and takes the part of all sorts of vile creatures. It will protect a rogue, a brigand, a bullock, a dog, a witch, a devil — anything, — except now and then an honest woman.”
But their fears were groundless; she was gone; the hut when they entered it had no tenants, except the lifeless famished bodies of the old grandam and the year-old infant.
When Folle-Farine had heard the hut door close, and the steps of her tormentors die away down the hill, she had tried vainly several times to raise herself from the floor, and had failed.
She had been so suddenly attacked and flung down and trampled on, that her brain had been deadened, and her senses had gone, for the first sharp moment of the persecution.
As she lifted herself slowly, and staggered to her feet, and saw the blood trickle where the nail had pierced her breast, she understood what had happened to her; her face grew savage and dark, her eyes fierce and lustful, like the eyes of some wild beast rising wounded in his lair.
It was not for the hurt she cared; it was the shame of defeat and outrage that stung her like a whip of asps.
She stood awhile looking at the face of the woman she had aided.
“I tried to help you,” she thought. “I was a fool. I might have known how they pay any good done to them.”
She was not surprised; her mind had been too deadened by a long course of ill usage to feel any wonder at the treatment she had been repaid with.
She hated them with the mute unyielding hatred of her race, but she hated herself more because she had yielded to the softness of sorrow and pity for any human thing; and more still because she had not been armed and on her guard, and had suffered them to prevail and to escape without her vengeance.
“I will never come out without a knife in my girdle again,” she thought — this was the lesson that her charity had brought her as its teaching.
She went out hardening her heart, as she crept through the doorway into the snow and the wind, so that she should not leave one farewell word or token of gentleness with the dead, that lay there so tranquil on the ashes of the hearth.
“She lied even in her last breath,” thought Folle-Farine. “She said that her God was good!”
She could hardly keep on her own homeward way. All her limbs were stiff and full of pain. The wound in her chest was scarcely more than skin deep, yet it smarted sorely and bled still. Her brain was dull, and her ears filled with strange noises from the force with which she had been flung backward on her head.
She had given her sheepskin to the children, as before her Phratos had done; and the peasants had carried the youngest of them away in it. The sharpness of the intense cold froze the blood in her as she crawled through a gap in the poplar hedge, and under the whitened brambles and grasses beyond, to get backward to the mill by the path that ran through the woods and pastures.
The sun had risen, but was obscured by fog, through which it shed a dull red ray here and there above the woods in the east.
It was a bitter morning, and the wind, though it had abated, was still rough, and drove the snow in clouds of powder hither and thither over the fields. She could only move very slowly; the thorns tearing her, the snow blinding her, the icicles lacerating her bare feet as she moved.
She wondered, dimly, why she lived. It seemed to her that the devil when he had made her, must have made her out of sport and cruelty, and then tossed her into the world to be a scapegoat and a football for any creature that might need one.
That she might end her own life never occurred to her; her intelligence was not awake enough to see that she need not bear its burden one hour more, so long as there was one pool in the woods deep enough to drown her under its green weeds and lily leaves any cool summer night; or that she had but to lie down then and there, where she was, on the snow, beneath the ice-dropping trees, and let the sleep that weighed on her eyelids come, dreamless and painless, and there would be an end of all for her, as for the frozen rabbits and the birds that strewed the upland meadows, starved and stiff.
She did not know; — and had she known, wretched though existence was to her, death would not have allured her. She saw that the dead might be slapped on their cheek, and could not lift their arm to strike again — a change that would not give her vengeance could have had no sweetness and no succor for her. The change she wanted was to live, and not to die.
By tedious and painful efforts, she dragged herself home by the way of the lanes and pastur
es; hungry, lame, bleeding, cold and miserable, her eyes burning like flame, her hands and her head hot with fever.
She made her way into the mill-yard and tried to commence her first morning’s work; the drawing of water from the well for the beasts and for the house, and the sweeping down of the old wide court round which the sheds and storehouses ran.
She never dreamed of asking either for food or pity, either for sympathy or remission of her labors.
She set to work at once, but for the only time since Phratos had brought her thither the strength and vigor of her frame had been beaten.
She was sick and weak; her hand sank off the handle of the windlass; and she dropped stupidly on the stone edge of the well, and sat there leaning her head on her hands.
The mastiff came and licked her face tenderly. The pigeons left the meal flung to them on the snow, and flew merrily about her head in pretty fluttering caresses. The lean cat came and rubbed its cheek softly against her, purring all the while.
The woman Pitchou saw her, and she called out of the window to her master, —
“Flamma! there is thy gad-about, who has not been abed all night.”
The old man heard, and came out of his mill to the well in the courtyard.
“Where hast been?” he asked sharply of her. “Pitchou says thou hast not lain in thy bed all night long. Is it so?”
Folle-Farine lifted her head slowly, with a dazed stupid pain in her eyes.
“Yes, it is true,” she answered, doggedly.
“And where hast been, then?” he asked, through his clinched teeth; enraged that his servant had been quicker of eye and of ear than himself.
A little of her old dauntless defiance gleamed in her face through its stupor and languor, as she replied to him with effort in brief phrases, —
“I went after old Manon Dax, to give her my supper. She died in the road, and I carried her home. The youngest child was dead too. I stayed there because the children were alone; I called to Flandrin and told him; he came with his wife and other women, and they said I had killed old Dax; they set on me, and beat me, and pricked me for a witch. It is no matter. But it made me late.”