by Émile Zola
CHAPTER I
On quitting Plassans by the Rome Gate, on the southern side of the town,you will find, on the right side of the road to Nice, and a little waypast the first suburban houses, a plot of land locally known as the AireSaint-Mittre.
This Aire Saint-Mittre is of oblong shape and on a level with thefootpath of the adjacent road, from which it is separated by a strip oftrodden grass. A narrow blind alley fringed with a row of hovels bordersit on the right; while on the left, and at the further end, it is closedin by bits of wall overgrown with moss, above which can be seen thetop branches of the mulberry-trees of the Jas-Meiffren--an extensiveproperty with an entrance lower down the road. Enclosed upon threesides, the Aire Saint-Mittre leads nowhere, and is only crossed bypeople out for a stroll.
In former times it was a cemetery under the patronage of Saint-Mittre, agreatly honoured Provencal saint; and in 1851 the old people of Plassanscould still remember having seen the wall of the cemetery standing,although the place itself had been closed for years. The soil had beenso glutted with corpses that it had been found necessary to open a newburial-ground at the other end of town. Then the old abandoned cemeteryhad been gradually purified by the dark thick-set vegetation which hadsprouted over it every spring. The rich soil, in which the gravediggerscould no longer delve without turning up some human remains, waspossessed of wondrous fertility. The tall weeds overtopped the wallsafter the May rains and the June sunshine so as to be visible from thehigh road; while inside, the place presented the appearance of a deep,dark green sea studded with large blossoms of singular brilliancy.Beneath one's feet amidst the close-set stalks one could feel that thedamp soil reeked and bubbled with sap.
Among the curiosities of the place at that time were some largepear-trees, with twisted and knotty boughs; but none of the housewivesof Plassans cared to pluck the large fruit which grew upon them. Indeed,the townspeople spoke of this fruit with grimaces of disgust. No suchdelicacy, however, restrained the suburban urchins, who assembled inbands at twilight and climbed the walls to steal the pears, even beforethey were ripe.
The trees and the weeds with their vigorous growth had rapidlyassimilated all the decomposing matter in the old cemetery ofSaint-Mittre; the malaria rising from the human remains interredthere had been greedily absorbed by the flowers and the fruit; so thateventually the only odour one could detect in passing by was the strongperfume of wild gillyflowers. This had merely been a question of a fewsummers.
At last the townspeople determined to utilise this common property,which had long served no purpose. The walls bordering the roadway andthe blind alley were pulled down; the weeds and the pear-trees uprooted;the sepulchral remains were removed; the ground was dug deep, and suchbones as the earth was willing to surrender were heaped up in acorner. For nearly a month the youngsters, who lamented the loss ofthe pear-trees, played at bowls with the skulls; and one nightsome practical jokers even suspended femurs and tibias to all thebell-handles of the town. This scandal, which is still remembered atPlassans, did not cease until the authorities decided to have the bonesshot into a hole which had been dug for the purpose in the new cemetery.All work, however, is usually carried out with discreet dilatorinessin country towns, and so during an entire week the inhabitants saw asolitary cart removing these human remains as if they had been mererubbish. The vehicle had to cross Plassans from end to end, and owing tothe bad condition of the roads fragments of bones and handfuls of richmould were scattered at every jolt. There was not the briefest religiousceremony, nothing but slow and brutish cartage. Never before had a townfelt so disgusted.
For several years the old cemetery remained an object of terror.Although it adjoined the main thoroughfare and was open to all comers,it was left quite deserted, a prey to fresh vegetable growth. The localauthorities, who had doubtless counted on selling it and seeinghouses built upon it, were evidently unable to find a purchaser. Therecollection of the heaps of bones and the cart persistently joltingthrough the streets may have made people recoil from the spot; orperhaps the indifference that was shown was due to the indolence, therepugnance to pulling down and setting up again, which is characteristicof country people. At all events the authorities still retainedpossession of the ground, and at last forgot their desire to dispose ofit. They did not even erect a fence round it, but left it open to allcomers. Then, as time rolled on, people gradually grew accustomed tothis barren spot; they would sit on the grass at the edges, walk about,or gather in groups. When the grass had been worn away and thetrodden soil had become grey and hard, the old cemetery resembled abadly-levelled public square. As if the more effectually to efface thememory of all objectionable associations, the inhabitants slowly changedthe very appellation of the place, retaining but the name of the saint,which was likewise applied to the blind alley dipping down at one cornerof the field. Thus there was the Aire Saint-Mittre and the ImpasseSaint-Mittre.
All this dates, however, from some considerable time back. For morethan thirty years now the Aire Saint-Mittre has presented a differentappearance. One day the townspeople, far too inert and indifferent toderive any advantage from it, let it, for a trifling consideration,to some suburban wheelwrights, who turned it into a wood-yard. At thepresent day it is still littered with huge pieces of timber thirty orforty feet long, lying here and there in piles, and looking like loftyoverturned columns. These piles of timber, disposed at intervals fromone end of the yard to the other, are a continual source of delightto the local urchins. In some places the ground is covered with fallenwood, forming a kind of uneven flooring over which it is impossible towalk, unless one balance one's self with marvellous dexterity. Troops ofchildren amuse themselves with this exercise all day long. You will seethem jumping over the big beams, walking in Indian file along the narrowends, or else crawling astride them; various games which generallyterminate in blows and bellowings. Sometimes, too, a dozen of them willsit, closely packed one against the other, on the thin end of a poleraised a few feet from the ground, and will see-saw there for hourstogether. The Aire Saint-Mittre thus serves as a recreation ground,where for more than a quarter of a century all the little suburbanragamuffins have been in the habit of wearing out the seats of theirbreeches.
The strangeness of the place is increased by the circumstance thatwandering gipsies, by a sort of traditional custom always select thevacant portions of it for their encampments. Whenever any caravanarrives at Plassans it takes up its quarters on the Aire Saint-Mittre.The place is consequently never empty. There is always some strange bandthere, some troop of wild men and withered women, among whom groups ofhealthy-looking children roll about on the grass. These people livein the open air, regardless of everybody, setting their pots boiling,eating nameless things, freely displaying their tattered garments, andsleeping, fighting, kissing, and reeking with mingled filth and misery.
The field, formerly so still and deserted, save for the buzzing ofhornets around the rich blossoms in the heavy sunshine, has thus becomea very rowdy spot, resounding with the noisy quarrels of the gipsies andthe shrill cries of the urchins of the suburb. In one corner there is aprimitive saw-mill for cutting the timber, the noise from which servesas a dull, continuous bass accompaniment to the sharp voices. The woodis placed on two high tressels, and a couple of sawyers, one of whomstands aloft on the timber itself, while the other underneath is halfblinded by the falling sawdust, work a large saw to and fro forhours together, with rigid machine-like regularity, as if they werewire-pulled puppets. The wood they saw is stacked, plank by plank, alongthe wall at the end, in carefully arranged piles six or eight feet high,which often remain there several seasons, and constitute one of thecharms of the Aire Saint-Mittre. Between these stacks are mysterious,retired little alleys leading to a broader path between the timber andthe wall, a deserted strip of verdure whence only small patches ofsky can be seen. The vigorous vegetation and the quivering, deathlikestillness of the old cemetery still reign in this path. In all thecountry round Plassans there is no spot more instinct
with languor,solitude, and love. It is a most delightful place for love-making. Whenthe cemetery was being cleared the bones must have been heaped up inthis corner; for even to-day it frequently happens that one's foot comesacross some fragment of a skull lying concealed in the damp turf.
Nobody, however, now thinks of the bodies that once slept under thatturf. In the daytime only the children go behind the piles of wood whenplaying at hide and seek. The green path remains virginal, unknown toothers who see nought but the wood-yard crowded with timber and greywith dust. In the morning and afternoon, when the sun is warm, the wholeplace swarms with life. Above all the turmoil, above the ragamuffinsplaying among the timber, and the gipsies kindling fires under theircauldrons, the sharp silhouette of the sawyer mounted on his beam standsout against the sky, moving to and fro with the precision of clockwork,as if to regulate the busy activity that has sprung up in this spotonce set apart for eternal slumber. Only the old people who sit on theplanks, basking in the setting sun, speak occasionally among themselvesof the bones which they once saw carted through the streets of Plassansby the legendary tumbrel.
When night falls the Aire Saint-Mittre loses its animation, and lookslike some great black hole. At the far end one may just espy the dyingembers of the gipsies' fires, and at times shadows slink noiselesslyinto the dense darkness. The place becomes quite sinister, particularlyin winter time.
One Sunday evening, at about seven o'clock, a young man stepped lightlyfrom the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and, closely skirting the walls, tookhis way among the timber in the wood-yard. It was in the early part ofDecember, 1851. The weather was dry and cold. The full moon shone withthat sharp brilliancy peculiar to winter moons. The wood-yard did nothave the forbidding appearance which it wears on rainy nights; illuminedby stretches of white light, and wrapped in deep and chilly silence, itspread around with a soft, melancholy aspect.
For a few seconds the young man paused on the edge of the yard and gazedmistrustfully in front of him. He carried a long gun, the butt-end ofwhich was hidden under his jacket, while the barrel, pointed towards theground, glittered in the moonlight. Pressing the weapon to his side, heattentively examined the square shadows cast by the piles of timber. Theground looked like a chess-board, with black and white squares clearlydefined by alternate patches of light and shade. The sawyers' tresselsin the centre of the plot threw long, narrow fantastic shadows,suggesting some huge geometrical figure, upon a strip of bare greyground. The rest of the yard, the flooring of beams, formed a greatcouch on which the light reposed, streaked here and there with theslender black shadows which edged the different pieces of timber. In thefrigid silence under the wintry moon, the motionless, recumbent poles,stiffened, as it were, with sleep and cold, recalled the corpses ofthe old cemetery. The young man cast but a rapid glance round the emptyspace; there was not a creature, not a sound, no danger of being seen orheard. The black patches at the further end caused him more anxiety, butafter a brief examination he plucked up courage and hurriedly crossedthe wood-yard.
As soon as he felt himself under cover he slackened his pace. He was nowin the green pathway skirting the wall behind the piles of planks. Herehis very footsteps became inaudible; the frozen grass scarcely crackledunder his tread. He must have loved the spot, have feared no danger,sought nothing but what was pleasant there. He no longer concealedhis gun. The path stretched away like a dark trench, except that themoonrays, gliding ever and anon between the piles of timber, thenstreaked the grass with patches of light. All slept, both darkness andlight, with the same deep, soft, sad slumber. No words can describe thecalm peacefulness of the place. The young man went right down the path,and stopped at the end where the walls of the Jas-Meiffren form anangle. Here he listened as if to ascertain whether any sound might becoming from the adjoining estate. At last, hearing nothing, he stoopeddown, thrust a plank aside, and hid his gun in a timber-stack.
An old tombstone, which had been overlooked in the clearing of theburial-ground, lay in the corner, resting on its side and forming a highand slightly sloping seat. The rain had worn its edges, and moss wasslowly eating into it. Nevertheless, the following fragment of aninscription, cut on the side which was sinking into the ground, mightstill have been distinguished in the moonlight: "_Here lieth . . . Marie. . . died . . ._" The finger of time had effaced the rest.
When the young man had concealed his gun he again listened attentively,and still hearing nothing, resolved to climb upon the stone. The wallbeing low, he was able to rest his elbows on the coping. He could,however, perceive nothing except a flood of light beyond the row ofmulberry-trees skirting the wall. The flat ground of the Jas-Meiffrenspread out under the moon like an immense sheet of unbleached linen;a hundred yards away the farmhouse and its outbuildings formed a stillwhiter patch. The young man was still gazing anxiously in that directionwhen, suddenly, one of the town clocks slowly and solemnly struck seven.He counted the strokes, and then jumped down, apparently surprised andrelieved.
He seated himself on the tombstone, like one who is prepared towait some considerable time. And for about half an hour he remainedmotionless and deep in thought, apparently quite unconscious of thecold, while his eyes gazed fixedly at a mass of shadow. He had placedhimself in a dark corner, but the beams of the rising moon had graduallyreached him, and at last his head was in the full light.
He was a strong, sturdy-looking lad, with a fine mouth, and softdelicate skin that bespoke youthfulness. He looked about seventeen yearsof age, and was handsome in a characteristic way.
His thin, long face looked like the work of some master sculptor; hishigh forehead, overhanging brows, aquiline nose, broad flat chin, andprotruding cheek bones, gave singularly bold relief to his countenance.Such a face would, with advancing age, become too bony, as fleshless asthat of a knight errant. But at this stage of youth, with chin and cheeklightly covered with soft down, its latent harshness was attenuated bythe charming softness of certain contours which had remained vague andchildlike. His soft black eyes, still full of youth, also lent delicacyto his otherwise vigorous countenance. The young fellow would probablynot have fascinated all women, as he was not what one calls a handsomeman; but his features, as a whole, expressed such ardent and sympatheticlife, such enthusiasm and energy, that they doubtless engaged thethoughts of the girls of his own part--those sunburnt girls of theSouth--as he passed their doors on sultry July evenings.
He remained seated upon the tombstone, wrapped in thought, andapparently quite unconscious of the moonlight which now fell uponhis chest and legs. He was of middle stature, rather thick-set, withover-developed arms and a labourer's hands, already hardened by toil;his feet, shod with heavy laced boots, looked large and square-toed.His general appearance, more particularly the heaviness of his limbs,bespoke lowly origin. There was, however, something in him, in theupright bearing of his neck and the thoughtful gleams of his eyes, whichseemed to indicate an inner revolt against the brutifying manual labourwhich was beginning to bend him to the ground. He was, no doubt, anintelligent nature buried beneath the oppressive burden of race andclass; one of those delicate refined minds embedded in a rough envelope,from which they in vain struggle to free themselves. Thus, in spite ofhis vigour, he seemed timid and restless, feeling a kind of unconsciousshame at his imperfection. An honest lad he doubtless was, whose veryignorance had generated enthusiasm, whose manly heart was impelled bychildish intellect, and who could show alike the submissiveness ofa woman and the courage of a hero. On the evening in question he wasdressed in a coat and trousers of greenish corduroy. A soft felt hat,placed lightly on the back of his head, cast a streak of shadow over hisbrow.
As the neighbouring clock struck the half hour, he suddenly started fromhis reverie. Perceiving that the white moonlight was shining full uponhim, he gazed anxiously ahead. Then he abruptly dived back into theshade, but was unable to recover the thread of his thoughts. He nowrealised that his hands and feet were becoming very cold, and impatienceseized hold of him. So he jumped upon the stone
again, and once moreglanced over the Jas-Meiffren, which was still empty and silent.Finally, at a loss how to employ his time, he jumped down, fetchedhis gun from the pile of planks where he had concealed it, and amusedhimself by working the trigger. The weapon was a long, heavy carbine,which had doubtless belonged to some smuggler. The thickness of the buttand the breech of the barrel showed it to be an old flintlock which hadbeen altered into a percussion gun by some local gunsmith. Such firearmsare to be found in farmhouses, hanging against the wall over thechimney-piece. The young man caressed his weapon with affection; twentytimes or more he pulled the trigger, thrust his little finger into thebarrel, and examined the butt attentively. By degrees he grew full ofyouth enthusiasm, combined with childish frolicsomeness, and ended bylevelling his weapon and aiming at space, like a recruit going throughhis drill.
It was now very nearly eight o'clock, and he had been holding his gunlevelled for over a minute, when all at once a low, panting call, lightas a breath, came from the direction of the Jas-Meiffren.
"Are you there, Silvere?" the voice asked.
Silvere dropped his gun and bounded on to the tombstone.
"Yes, yes," he replied, also in a hushed voice. "Wait, I'll help you."
Before he could stretch out his arms, however, a girl's head appearedabove the wall. With singular agility the damsel had availed herself ofthe trunk of a mulberry-tree, and climbed aloft like a kitten. The easeand certainty with which she moved showed that she was familiar withthis strange spot. In another moment she was seated on the coping ofthe wall. Then Silvere, taking her in his arms, carried her, though notwithout a struggle, to the seat.
"Let go," she laughingly cried; "let go, I can get down alone verywell." And when she was seated on the stone slab she added:
"Have you been waiting for me long? I've been running, and am quite outof breath."
Silvere made no reply. He seemed in no laughing humour, but gazedsorrowfully into the girl's face. "I wanted to see you, Miette," hesaid, as he seated himself beside her. "I should have waited all nightfor you. I am going away at daybreak to-morrow morning."
Miette had just caught sight of the gun lying on the grass, and with athoughtful air, she murmured: "Ah! so it's decided then? There's yourgun!"
"Yes," replied Silvere, after a brief pause, his voice still faltering,"it's my gun. I thought it best to remove it from the house to-night;to-morrow morning aunt Dide might have seen me take it, and have feltuneasy about it. I am going to hide it, and shall fetch it just beforestarting."
Then, as Miette could not remove her eyes from the weapon which he hadso foolishly left on the grass, he jumped up and again hid it among thewoodstacks.
"We learnt this morning," he said, as he resumed his seat, "that theinsurgents of La Palud and Saint Martin-de-Vaulx were on the march, andspent last night at Alboise. We have decided to join them. Some of theworkmen of Plassans have already left the town this afternoon; those whostill remain will join their brothers to-morrow."
He spoke the word brothers with youthful emphasis.
"A contest is becoming inevitable," he added; "but, at any rate, we haveright on our side, and we shall triumph."
Miette listened to Silvere, her eyes meantime gazing in front of her,without observing anything.
"'Tis well," she said, when he had finished speaking. And after a freshpause she continued: "You warned me, yet I still hoped. . . . However,it is decided."
Neither of them knew what else to say. The green path in the desertedcorner of the wood-yard relapsed into melancholy stillness; only themoon chased the shadows of the piles of timber over the grass. The twoyoung people on the tombstone remained silent and motionless in thepale light. Silvere had passed his arm round Miette's waist, and she wasleaning against his shoulder. They exchanged no kisses, naught butan embrace in which love showed the innocent tenderness of fraternalaffection.
Miette was enveloped in a long brown hooded cloak reaching to her feet,and leaving only her head and hands visible. The women of the lowerclasses in Provence--the peasantry and workpeople--still wear theseample cloaks, which are called pelisses; it is a fashion which must havelasted for ages. Miette had thrown back her hood on arriving. Living inthe open air and born of a hotblooded race, she never wore a cap. Herbare head showed in bold relief against the wall, which the moonlightwhitened. She was still a child, no doubt, but a child ripening intowomanhood. She had reached that adorable, uncertain hour when thefrolicsome girl changes to a young woman. At that stage of life abud-like delicacy, a hesitancy of contour that is exquisitely charming,distinguishes young girls. The outlines of womanhood appear amidstgirlhood's innocent slimness, and woman shoots forth at first allembarrassment, still retaining much of the child, and ever andunconsciously betraying her sex. This period is very unpropitious forsome girls, who suddenly shoot up, become ugly, sallow and frail, likeplants before their due season. For those, however, who, like Miette,are healthy and live in the open air, it is a time of delightfulgracefulness which once passed can never be recalled.
Miette was thirteen years of age, and although strong and sturdy did notlook any older, so bright and childish was the smile which lit up hercountenance. However, she was nearly as tall as Silvere, plump and fullof life. Like her lover, she had no common beauty. She would not havebeen considered ugly, but she might have appeared peculiar to many youngexquisites. Her rich black hair rose roughly erect above her forehead,streamed back like a rushing wave, and flowed over her head and necklike an inky sea, tossing and bubbling capriciously. It was very thickand inconvenient to arrange. However, she twisted it as tightly aspossible into coils as thick as a child's fist, which she wound togetherat the back of her head. She had little time to devote to her toilette,but this huge chignon, hastily contrived without the aid of any mirror,was often instinct with vigorous grace. On seeing her thus naturallyhelmeted with a mass of frizzy hair which hung about her neck andtemples like a mane, one could readily understand why she always wentbareheaded, heedless alike of rain and frost.
Under her dark locks appeared her low forehead, curved and golden like acrescent moon. Her large prominent eyes, her short tip-tilted nose withdilated nostrils, and her thick ruddy lips, when regarded apart from oneanother, would have looked ugly; viewed, however, all together, amidstthe delightful roundness and vivacious mobility of her countenance, theyformed an ensemble of strange, surprising beauty. When Miette laughed,throwing back her head and gently resting it on her right shoulder, sheresembled an old-time Bacchante, her throat distending with sonorousgaiety, her cheeks round like those of a child, her teeth large andwhite, her twists of woolly hair tossed by every outburst of merriment,and waving like a crown of vine leaves. To realise that she was only achild of thirteen, one had to notice the innocence underlying her fullwomanly laughter, and especially the child-like delicacy of her chin andsoft transparency of her temples. In certain lights Miette's sun-tannedface showed yellow like amber. A little soft black down already shadedher upper lip. Toil too was beginning to disfigure her small hands,which, if left idle, would have become charmingly plump and delicate.
Miette and Silvere long remained silent. They were reading their ownanxious thoughts, and, as they pondered upon the unknown terrors of themorrow, they tightened their mutual embrace. Their hearts communed witheach other, they understood how useless and cruel would be any verbalplaint. The girl, however, could at last no longer contain herself,and, choking with emotion, she gave expression, in one phrase, to theirmutual misgivings.
"You will come back again, won't you?" she whispered, as she hung onSilvere's neck.
Silvere made no reply, but, half-stifling, and fearing lest he shouldgive way to tears like herself, he kissed her in brotherly fashionon the cheek, at a loss for any other consolation. Then disengagingthemselves they again lapsed into silence.
After a moment Miette shuddered. Now that she no longer leant againstSilvere's shoulder she was becoming icy cold. Yet she would not haveshuddered thus had she been in this deser
ted path the previous evening,seated on this tombstone, where for several seasons they had tasted somuch happiness.
"I'm very cold," she said, as she pulled her hood over her head.
"Shall we walk about a little?" the young man asked her. "It's not yetnine o'clock; we can take a stroll along the road."
Miette reflected that for a long time she would probably not have thepleasure of another meeting--another of those evening chats, the joy ofwhich served to sustain her all day long.
"Yes, let us walk a little," she eagerly replied. "Let us go as far asthe mill. I could pass the whole night like this if you wanted to."
They rose from the tombstone, and were soon hidden in the shadow of apile of planks. Here Miette opened her cloak, which had a quiltedlining of red twill, and threw half of it over Silvere's shoulders,thus enveloping him as he stood there close beside her. The same garmentcloaked them both, and they passed their arms round each other's waist,and became as it were but one being. When they were thus shrouded in thepelisse they walked slowly towards the high road, fearlessly crossingthe vacant parts of the wood-yard, which looked white in the moonlight.Miette had thrown the cloak over Silvere, and he had submitted to itquite naturally, as though indeed the garment rendered them a similarservice every evening.
The road to Nice, on either side of which the suburban houses are built,was, in the year 1851, lined with ancient elm-trees, grand and giganticruins, still full of vigour, which the fastidious town council hasreplaced, some years since, by some little plane-trees. When Silvere andMiette found themselves under the elms, the huge boughs of which castshadows on the moonlit footpath, they met now and again black formswhich silently skirted the house fronts. These, too, were amorouscouples, closely wrapped in one and the same cloak, and strolling in thedarkness.
This style of promenading has been instituted by the young lovers ofSouthern towns. Those boys and girls among the people who mean to marrysooner or later, but who do not dislike a kiss or two in advance, knowno spot where they can kiss at their ease without exposing themselves torecognition and gossip. Accordingly, while strolling about the suburbs,the plots of waste land, the footpaths of the high road--in fact,all these places where there are few passers-by and numerous shadynooks--they conceal their identity by wrapping themselves in these longcloaks, which are capacious enough to cover a whole family. The parentstolerate these proceedings; however stiff may be provincial propriety,no apprehensions, seemingly, are entertained. And, on the other hand,nothing could be more charming than these lovers' rambles, which appealso keenly to the Southerner's fanciful imagination. There is a veritablemasquerade, fertile in innocent enjoyments, within the reach of the mosthumble. The girl clasps her sweetheart to her bosom, enveloping him inher own warm cloak; and no doubt it is delightful to be able to kissone's sweetheart within those shrouding folds without danger of beingrecognised. One couple is exactly like another. And to the belatedpedestrian, who sees the vague groups gliding hither and thither, 'tismerely love passing, love guessed and scarce espied. The loversknow they are safely concealed within their cloaks, they converse inundertones and make themselves quite at home; most frequently they donot converse at all, but walk along at random and in silence, contentin their embrace. The climate alone is to blame for having in the firstinstance prompted these young lovers to retire to secluded spots in thesuburbs. On fine summer nights one cannot walk round Plassans withoutcoming across a hooded couple in every patch of shadow falling from thehouse walls. Certain places, the Aire Saint-Mittre, for instance, arefull of these dark "dominoes" brushing past one another, gliding softlyin the warm nocturnal air. One might imagine they were guests invitedto some mysterious ball given by the stars to lowly lovers. When theweather is very warm and the girls do not wear cloaks, they simply turnup their over-skirts. And in the winter the more passionate lovers makelight of the frosts. Thus, Miette and Silvere, as they descended theNice road, thought little of the chill December night.
They passed through the slumbering suburb without exchanging a word,but enjoying the mute delight of their warm embrace. Their hearts wereheavy; the joy which they felt in being side by side was tinged with thepainful emotion which comes from the thought of approaching severance,and it seemed to them that they could never exhaust the mingledsweetness and bitterness of the silence which slowly lulled theirsteps. But the houses soon grew fewer, and they reached the end of theFaubourg. There stands the entrance to the Jas-Meiffren, an iron gatefixed to two strong pillars; a low row of mulberry-trees being visiblethrough the bars. Silvere and Miette instinctively cast a glance insideas they passed on.
Beyond the Jas-Meiffren the road descends with a gentle slope to avalley, which serves as the bed of a little rivulet, the Viorne, a brookin summer but a torrent in winter. The rows of elms still extended thewhole way at that time, making the high road a magnificent avenue, whichcast a broad band of gigantic trees across the hill, which was plantedwith corn and stunted vines. On that December night, under the clearcold moonlight, the newly-ploughed fields stretching away on either handresembled vast beds of greyish wadding which deadened every sound in theatmosphere. The dull murmur of the Viorne in the distance alone sent aquivering thrill through the profound silence of the country-side.
When the young people had begun to descend the avenue, Miette's thoughtsreverted to the Jas-Meiffren which they had just left behind them.
"I had great difficulty in getting away this evening," she said. "Myuncle wouldn't let me go. He had shut himself up in a cellar, where hewas hiding his money, I think, for he seemed greatly frightened thismorning at the events that are taking place."
Silvere clasped her yet more lovingly. "Be brave!" said he. "The timewill come when we shall be able to see each other freely the whole daylong. You must not fret."
"Oh," replied the girl, shaking her head, "you are very hopeful. For mypart I sometimes feel very sad. It isn't the hard work which grieves me;on the contrary, I am often very glad of my uncle's severity, and thetasks he sets me. He was quite right to make me a peasant girl; I shouldperhaps have turned out badly, for, do you know, Silvere, there aremoments when I fancy myself under a curse. . . . I feel, then, that Ishould like to be dead. . . . I think of you know whom."
As she spoke these last words, her voice broke into a sob. Silvereinterrupted her somewhat harshly. "Be quiet," he said. "You promised notto think about it. It's no crime of yours. . . . We love each other verymuch, don't we?" he added in a gentler tone. "When we're married you'llhave no more unpleasant hours."
"I know," murmured Miette. "You are so kind, you sustain me. But what amI to do? I sometimes have fears and feelings of revolt. I think at timesthat I have been wronged, and then I should like to do something wicked.You see I pour forth my heart to you. Whenever my father's name isthrown in my face, I feel my whole body burning. When the urchins cryat me as I pass, 'Eh, La Chantegreil,' I lose all control of myself, andfeel that I should like to lay hold of them and whip them."
After a savage pause she resumed: "As for you, you're a man; you'regoing to fight; you're very lucky."
Silvere had let her speak on. After a few steps he observed sorrowfully:"You are wrong, Miette; yours is bad anger. You shouldn't rebel againstjustice. As for me, I'm going to fight in defence of our common rights,not to gratify any personal animosity."
"All the same," the young girl continued, "I should like to be a man andhandle a gun. I feel that it would do me good."
Then, as Silvere remained silent, she perceived that she had displeasedhim. Her feverishness subsided, and she whispered in a supplicatingtone: "You are not angry with me, are you? It's your departure whichgrieves me and awakens such ideas. I know very well you are right--thatI ought to be humble."
Then she began to cry, and Silvere, moved by her tears, grasped herhands and kissed them.
"See, now, how you pass from anger to tears, like a child," he saidlovingly. "You must be reasonable. I'm not scolding you. I only want tosee you happier, and that depends largely u
pon yourself."
The remembrance of the drama which Miette had so sadly evoked cast atemporary gloom over the lovers. They continued their walk with bowedheads and troubled thoughts.
"Do you think I'm much happier than you?" Silvere at last inquired,resuming the conversation in spite of himself. "If my grandmother hadnot taken care of me and educated me, what would have become of me? Withthe exception of my Uncle Antoine, who is an artisan like myself, andwho taught me to love the Republic, all my other relations seem to fearthat I might besmirch them by coming near them."
He was now speaking with animation, and suddenly stopped, detainingMiette in the middle of the road.
"God is my witness," he continued, "that I do not envy or hate anybody.But if we triumph, I shall have to tell the truth to those finegentlemen. Uncle Antoine knows all about this matter. You'll see when wereturn. We shall all live free and happy."
Then Miette gently led him on, and they resumed their walk.
"You dearly love your Republic?" the girl asked, essaying a joke. "Doyou love me as much?"
Her smile was not altogether free from a tinge of bitterness. She wasthinking, perhaps, how easily Silvere abandoned her to go and scour thecountry-side. But the lad gravely replied: "You are my wife, to whom Ihave given my whole heart. I love the Republic because I love you. Whenwe are married we shall want plenty of happiness, and it is to procure ashare of that happiness that I'm going way to-morrow morning. You surelydon't want to persuade me to remain at home?"
"Oh, no!" cried the girl eagerly. "A man should be brave! Courageis beautiful! You must forgive my jealousy. I should like to be asstrong-minded as you are. You would love me all the more, wouldn't you?"
After a moment's silence she added, with charming vivacity andingenuousness: "Ah, how willingly I shall kiss you when you come back!"
This outburst of a loving and courageous heart deeply affected Silvere.He clasped Miette in his arms and printed several kisses on her cheek.As she laughingly struggled to escape him, her eyes filled with tears ofemotion.
All around the lovers the country still slumbered amid the deepstillness of the cold. They were now half-way down the hill. On the topof a rather lofty hillock to the left stood the ruins of a windmill,blanched by the moon; the tower, which had fallen in on one side, aloneremained. This was the limit which the young people had assigned totheir walk. They had come straight from the Faubourg without casting asingle glance at the fields between which they passed. When Silvere hadkissed Miette's cheek, he raised his head and observed the mill.
"What a long walk we've had!" he exclaimed. "See--here is the mill. Itmust be nearly half-past nine. We must go home."
But Miette pouted. "Let us walk a little further," she implored; "only afew steps, just as far as the little cross-road, no farther, really."
Silvere smiled as he again took her round the waist. Then they continuedto descend the hill, no longer fearing inquisitive glances, for they hadnot met a living soul since passing the last houses. They neverthelessremained enveloped in the long pelisse, which seemed, as it were, anatural nest for their love. It had shrouded them on so many happyevenings! Had they simply walked side by side, they would have feltsmall and isolated in that vast stretch of country, whereas, blendedtogether as they were, they became bolder and seemed less puny. Betweenthe folds of the pelisse they gazed upon the fields stretching on bothsides of the road, without experiencing that crushing feeling with whichfar-stretching callous vistas oppress the human affections. It seemedto them as though they had brought their house with them; they felt apleasure in viewing the country-side as from a window, delighting in thecalm solitude, the sheets of slumbering light, the glimpses of naturevaguely distinguishable beneath the shroud of night and winter, thewhole of that valley indeed, which while charming them could not thrustitself between their close-pressed hearts.
All continuity of conversation had ceased; they spoke no more of others,nor even of themselves. They were absorbed by the present, pressing eachother's hands, uttering exclamations at the sight of some particularspot, exchanging words at rare intervals, and then understanding eachother but little, for drowsiness came from the warmth of their embrace.Silvere forgot his Republican enthusiasm; Miette no longer reflectedthat her lover would be leaving her in an hour, for a long time, perhapsfor ever. The transports of their affection lulled them into a feelingof security, as on other days, when no prospect of parting had marredthe tranquility of their meetings.
They still walked on, and soon reached the little crossroad mentioned byMiette--a bit of a lane which led through the fields to a village on thebanks of the Viorne. But they passed on, pretending not to noticethis path, where they had agreed to stop. And it was only some minutesafterwards that Silvere whispered, "It must be very late; you will gettired."
"No; I assure you I'm not at all tired," the girl replied. "I could walkseveral leagues like this easily." Then, in a coaxing tone, she added:"Let us go down as far as the meadows of Sainte-Claire. There we willreally stop and turn back."
Silvere, whom the girl's rhythmic gait lulled to semi-somnolence, madeno objection, and their rapture began afresh. They now went on moreslowly, fearing the moment when they would have to retrace their steps.So long as they walked onward, they felt as though they were advancingto the eternity of their mutual embrace; the return would meanseparation and bitter leave-taking.
The declivity of the road was gradually becoming more gentle. In thevalley below there are meadows extending as far as the Viorne, whichruns at the other end, beneath a range of low hills. These meadows,separated from the high-road by thickset hedges, are the meadows ofSainte-Claire.
"Bah!" exclaimed Silvere this time, as he caught sight of the firstpatches of grass: "we may as well go as far as the bridge."
At this Miette burst out laughing, clasped the young man round the neck,and kissed him noisily.
At the spot where the hedges begin, there were in those days two elmsforming the end of the long avenue, two colossal trees larger than anyof the others. The treeless fields stretch out from the high road, likea broad band of green wool, as far as the willows and birches by theriver. The distance from the last elms to the bridge is scarcely threehundred yards. The lovers took a good quarter of an hour to cover thatspace. At last, however slow their gait, they reached the bridge, andthere they stopped.
The road to Nice ran up in front of them, along the opposite slope ofthe valley. But they could only see a small portion of it, as it takes asudden turn about half a mile from the bridge, and is lost to view amongthe wooded hills. On looking round they caught sight of the other endof the road, that which they had just traversed, and which leads ina direct line from Plassans to the Viorne. In the beautiful wintermoonlight it looked like a long silver ribbon, with dark edgings tracedby the rows of elms. On the right and left the ploughed hill-land showedlike vast, grey, vague seas intersected by this ribbon, this roadwaywhite with frost, and brilliant as with metallic lustre. Up above, on alevel with the horizon, lights shone from a few windows in the Faubourg,resembling glowing sparks. By degrees Miette and Silvere had walkedfully a league. They gazed at the intervening road, full of silentadmiration for the vast amphitheatre which rose to the verge of theheavens, and over which flowed bluish streams of light, as over thesuperposed rocks of a gigantic waterfall. The strange and colossalpicture spread out amid deathlike stillness and silence. Nothing couldhave been of more sovereign grandeur.
Then the young people, having leant against the parapet of the bridge,gazed beneath them. The Viorne, swollen by the rains, flowed on with adull, continuous sound. Up and down stream, despite the darkness whichfilled the hollows, they perceived the black lines of the trees growingon the banks; here and there glided the moonbeams, casting a trail ofmolten metal, as it were, over the water, which glittered and dancedlike rays of light on the scales of some live animal. The gleams dartedwith a mysterious charm along the gray torrent, betwixt the vaguephantom-like foliage. You might have thought this an en
chanted valley,some wondrous retreat where a community of shadows and gleams lived afantastic life.
This part of the river was familiar to the lovers; they had often comehere in search of coolness on warm July nights; they had spent hourshidden among the clusters of willows on the right bank, at the spotwhere the meadows of Sainte-Claire spread their verdant carpet to thewaterside. They remembered every bend of the bank, the stones on whichthey had stepped in order to cross the Viorne, at that season as narrowas a brooklet, and certain little grassy hollows where they had indulgedin their dreams of love. Miette, therefore, now gazed from the bridge atthe right bank of the torrent with longing eyes.
"If it were warmer," she sighed, "we might go down and rest awhilebefore going back up the hill." Then, after a pause, during whichshe kept her eyes fixed on the banks, she resumed: "Look down there,Silvere, at that black mass yonder in front of the lock. Do youremember? That's the brushwood where we sat last Corpus Christi Day."
"Yes, so it is," replied Silvere, softly.
This was the spot where they had first ventured to kiss each other onthe cheek. The remembrance just roused by the girl's words brought bothof them a delightful feeling, an emotion in which the joys of thepast mingled with the hopes of the morrow. Before their eyes, with therapidity of lightening, there passed all the delightful evenings theyhad spent together, especially that evening of Corpus Christi Day, withthe warm sky, the cool willows of the Viorne, and their own loving talk.And at the same time, whilst the past came back to their hearts fullof a delightful savour, they fancied they could plunge into the unknownfuture, see their dreams realised, and march through life arm inarm--even as they had just been doing on the highway--warmly wrapped inthe same cloak. Then rapture came to them again, and they smiled in eachother's eyes, alone amidst all the silent radiance.
Suddenly, however, Silvere raised his head and, throwing off the cloak,listened attentively. Miette, in her surprise, imitated him, at a lossto understand why he had started so abruptly from her side.
Confused sounds had for a moment been coming from behind the hillsin the midst of which the Nice road wends its way. They suggested thedistant jolting of a procession of carts; but not distinctly, so loudwas the roaring of the Viorne. Gradually, however, they became morepronounced, and rose at last like the tramping of an army on the march.Then amidst the continuous growing rumble one detected the shouts of acrowd, strange rhythmical blasts as of a hurricane. One could even havefancied they were the thunderclaps of a rapidly approaching storm whichwas already disturbing the slumbering atmosphere. Silvere listenedattentively, unable to tell, however, what were those tempest-likeshouts, for the hills prevented them from reaching him distinctly.Suddenly a dark mass appeared at the turn of the road, and then the"Marseillaise" burst forth, formidable, sung as with avenging fury.
"Ah, here they are!" cried Silvere, with a burst of joyous enthusiasm.
Forthwith he began to run up the hill, dragging Miette with him. On theleft of the road was an embankment planted with evergreen oaks, up whichhe clambered with the young girl, to avoid being carried away by thesurging, howling multitude.
When he had reached the top of the bank and the shadow of the brushwood,Miette, rather pale, gazed sorrowfully at those men whose distant songhad sufficed to draw Silvere from her embrace. It seemed as if thewhole band had thrust itself between them. They had been so happy a fewminutes before, locked in each other's arms, alone and lost amidst theoverwhelming silence and discreet glimmer of the moon! And now Silvere,whose head was turned away from her, who no longer seemed even consciousof her presence, had eyes only for those strangers whom he called hisbrothers.
The band descended the slope with a superb, irresistible stride. Therecould have been nothing grander than the irruption of those few thousandmen into that cold, still, deathly scene. The highway became a torrent,rolling with living waves which seemed inexhaustible. At the bend in theroad fresh masses ever appeared, whose songs ever helped to swell theroar of this human tempest. When the last battalions came in sight theuproar was deafening. The "Marseillaise" filled the atmosphere asif blown through enormous trumpets by giant mouths, which cast it,vibrating with a brazen clang, into every corner of the valley. Theslumbering country-side awoke with a start--quivering like a beaten drumresonant to its very entrails, and repeating with each and every echothe passionate notes of the national song. And then the singing wasno longer confined to the men. From the very horizon, from the distantrocks, the ploughed land, the meadows, the copses, the smallest bitsof brushwood, human voices seemed to come. The great amphitheatre,extending from the river to Plassans, the gigantic cascade over whichthe bluish moonlight flowed, was as if filled with innumerable invisiblepeople cheering the insurgents; and in the depths of the Viorne, alongthe waters streaked with mysterious metallic reflections, there was nota dark nook but seemed to conceal human beings, who took up each refrainwith yet greater passion. With air and earth alike quivering, the wholecountry-side cried for vengeance and liberty. So long as the little armywas descending the slope, the roar of the populace thus rolled on insonorous waves broken by abrupt outbursts which shook the very stones inthe roadway.
Silvere, pale with emotion, still listened and looked on. The insurgentswho led the van of that swarming, roaring stream, so vague and monstrousin the darkness, were rapidly approaching the bridge.
"I thought," murmured Miette, "that you would not pass throughPlassans?"
"They must have altered the plan of operations," Silvere replied; "wewere, in fact, to have marched to the chief town by the Toulon road,passing to the left of Plassans and Orcheres. They must have leftAlboise this afternoon and passed Les Tulettes this evening."
The head of the column had already arrived in front of the young people.The little army was more orderly than one would have expected from aband of undisciplined men. The contingents from the various towns andvillages formed separate battalions, each separated by a distance of afew paces. These battalions were apparently under the orders of certainchiefs. For the nonce the pace at which they were descending thehillside made them a compact mass of invincible strength. There wereprobably about three thousand men, all united and carried away by thesame storm of indignation. The strange details of the scene were notdiscernible amidst the shadows cast over the highway by the loftyslopes. At five or six feet from the brushwood, however, where Mietteand Silvere were sheltered, the left-hand embankment gave place toa little pathway which ran alongside the Viorne; and the moonlight,flowing through this gap, cast a broad band of radiance across the road.When the first insurgents reached this patch of light they weresuddenly illumined by a sharp white glow which revealed, with singulardistinctness, every outline of visage or costume. And as the variouscontingents swept on, the young people thus saw them emerge, fiercelyand without cessation, from the surrounding darkness.
As the first men passed through the light Miette instinctively clungto Silvere, although she knew she was safe, even from observation. Shepassed her arm round the young fellow's neck, resting her head againsthis shoulder. And with the hood of her pelisse encircling her paleface she gazed fixedly at that square patch of light as it was rapidlytraversed by those strange faces, transfigured by enthusiasm, with darkopen mouths full of the furious cry of the "Marseillaise." Silvere,whom she felt quivering at her side, then bent towards her and named thevarious contingents as they passed.
The column marched along eight abreast. In the van were a number of big,square-headed fellows, who seemed to possess the herculean strength andnaive confidence of giants. They would doubtless prove blind, intrepiddefenders of the Republic. On their shoulders they carried large axes,whose edges, freshly sharpened, glittered in the moonlight.
"Those are the woodcutters of the forests of the Seille," said Silvere."They have been formed into a corps of sappers. At a signal from theirleaders they would march as far as Paris, battering down the gates ofthe towns with their axes, just as they cut down the old cork-trees onthe mountain."
The young man spoke with pride of the heavy fists of his brethren. Andon seeing a band of labourers and rough-bearded men, tanned by thesun, coming along behind the woodcutters, he continued: "That is thecontingent from La Palud. That was the first place to rise. The men inblouses are labourers who cut up the cork-trees; the others in velveteenjackets must be sportsmen, poachers, and charcoal-burners living in thepasses of the Seille. The poachers knew your father, Miette. They havegood firearms, which they handle skilfully. Ah! if all were armed in thesame manner! We are short of muskets. See, the labourers have only gotcudgels!"
Miette, still speechless, looked on and listened. As Silvere spoke toher of her father, the blood surged to her cheeks. Her face burnt as shescrutinised the sportsmen with a strange air of mingled indignation andsympathy. From this moment she grew animated, yielding to the feverishquiver which the insurgents' songs awakened.
The column, which had just begun the "Marseillaise" afresh, was stillmarching down as though lashed on by the sharp blasts of the "Mistral."The men of La Palud were followed by another troop of workmen, amongwhom a goodly number of middle class folks in great-coats were to beseen.
"Those are the men of Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx," Silvere resumed. "That_bourg_ rose almost at the same time as La Palud. The masters joined theworkmen. There are some rich men there, Miette; men whose wealth wouldenable them to live peacefully at home, but who prefer to risk theirlives in defence of liberty. One can but admire them. Weapons are veryscarce, however; they've scarcely got a few fowling-pieces. But do yousee those men yonder, Miette, with red bands round their left elbows?They are the leaders."
The contingents descended the hill more rapidly than Silvere couldspeak. While he was naming the men from Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx, twobattalions had already crossed the ray of light which blanched theroadway.
"Did you see the insurgents from Alboise and Les Tulettes pass by justnow?" he asked. "I recognised Burgat the blacksmith. They must havejoined the band to-day. How they do run!"
Miette was now leaning forward, in order to see more of the little bandsdescribed to her by the young man. The quiver she felt rose from herbosom to her throat. Then a battalion larger and better disciplined thanthe others appeared. The insurgents composing it were nearly all dressedin blue blouses, with red sashes round their waists. One would havethought they were arrayed in uniform. A man on horseback, with a sabreat his side, was in the midst of them. And most of these improvisedsoldiers carried guns, probably carbines and old muskets of the NationalGuard.
"I don't know those," said Silvere. "The man on horseback must be thechief I've heard spoken of. He brought with him the contingents fromFaverolles and the neighbouring villages. The whole column ought to beequipped in the same manner."
He had no time to take breath. "Ah! see, here are the country people!"he suddenly cried.
Small groups of ten or twenty men at the most were now advancing behindthe men of Faverolles. They all wore the short jacket of the Southernpeasantry, and as they sang they brandished pitchforks and scythes. Someof them even only carried large navvies' shovels. Every hamlet, however,had sent its able-bodied men.
Silvere, who recognised the parties by their leaders, enumerated them infeverish tones. "The contingent from Chavanoz!" said he. "There areonly eight men, but they are strong; Uncle Antoine knows them. Here'sNazeres! Here's Poujols! They're all here; not one has failed to answerthe summons. Valqueyras! Hold, there's the parson amongst them; I'veheard about him, he's a staunch Republican."
He was becoming intoxicated with the spectacle. Now that each battalionconsisted of only a few insurgents he had to name them yet more hastily,and his precipitancy gave him the appearance of one in a frenzy.
"Ah! Miette," he continued, "what a fine march past! Rozan! Vernoux!Corbiere! And there are more still, you'll see. These have only gotscythes, but they'll mow down the troops as close as the grass in theirmeadows--Saint-Eutrope! Mazet! Les Gardes, Marsanne! The whole northside of the Seille! Ah, we shall be victorious! The whole country iswith us. Look at those men's arms, they are hard and black as iron.There's no end to them. There's Pruinas! Roches Noires! Those lastare smugglers: they are carrying carbines. Still more scythes andpitchforks, the contingents of country folk are still passing.Castel-le-Vieux! Sainte-Anne! Graille! Estourmel! Murdaran!"
His voice was husky with emotion as he finished naming these men, whoseemed to be borne away by a whirlwind as fast as he enumerated them.Erect, with glowing countenance, he pointed out the several contingentswith a nervous gesture. Miette followed his movements. The road belowattracted her like the depths of a precipice. To avoid slipping downthe incline she clung to the young man's neck. A strange intoxicationemanated from those men, who themselves were inebriated with clamour,courage, and confidence. Those beings, seen athwart a moonbeam, thoseyouths and those men in their prime, those old people brandishingstrange weapons and dressed in the most diverse costumes, from workingsmock to middle class overcoat, those endless rows of heads, whichthe hour and the circumstances endowed with an expression of fanaticalenergy and enthusiasm, gradually appeared to the girl like a whirling,impetuous torrent. At certain moments she fancied they were not ofthemselves moving, that they were really being carried away by the forceof the "Marseillaise," by that hoarse, sonorous chant. She could notdistinguish any conversation, she heard but a continuous volume ofsound, alternating from bass to shrill notes, as piercing as nailsdriven into one's flesh. This roar of revolt, this call to combat,to death, with its outbursts of indignation, its burning thirst forliberty, its remarkable blending of bloodthirsty and sublime impulses,unceasingly smote her heart, penetrating more deeply at each fierceoutburst, and filling her with the voluptuous pangs of a virgin martyrwho stands erect and smiles under the lash. And the crowd flowed on everamidst the same sonorous wave of sound. The march past, which did notreally last more than a few minutes, seemed to the young people to beinterminable.
Truly, Miette was but a child. She had turned pale at the approach ofthe band, she had wept for the loss of love, but she was a brave child,whose ardent nature was easily fired by enthusiasm. Thus ardent emotionshad gradually got possession of her, and she became as courageous asa youth. She would willingly have seized a weapon and followed theinsurgents. As the muskets and scythes filed past, her white teethglistened longer and sharper between her red lips, like the fangs ofa young wolf eager to bite and tear. And as she listened to Silvereenumerating the contingents from the country-side with ever-increasinghaste, the pace of the column seemed to her to accelerate still more.She soon fancied it all a cloud of human dust swept along by a tempest.Everything began to whirl before her. Then she closed her eyes; big hottears were rolling down her cheeks.
Silvere's eyelashes were also moist. "I don't see the men who leftPlassans this afternoon," he murmured.
He tried to distinguish the end of the column, which was still hidden bythe darkness. Suddenly he cried with joyous exultation: "Ah, here theyare! They've got the banner--the banner has been entrusted to them!"
Then he wanted to leap from the slope in order to join his companions.At this moment, however, the insurgents halted. Words of command ranalong the column, the "Marseillaise" died out in a final rumble, andone could only hear the confused murmuring of the still surging crowd.Silvere, as he listened, caught the orders which were passed on from onecontingent to another; they called the men of Plassans to the van. Then,as each battalion ranged itself alongside the road to make way for thebanner, the young man reascended the embankment, dragging Miette withhim.
"Come," he said; "we can get across the river before they do."
When they were on the top, among the ploughed land, they ran along to amill whose lock bars the river. Then they crossed the Viorne on aplank placed there by the millers, and cut across the meadows ofSainte-Claire, running hand-in-hand, without exchanging a word. Thecolumn threw a dark line over the highway, which they followed alongsidethe hedges. There were some gaps in the hawthorns, and at last Silvereand Mi
ette sprang on to the road through one of them.
In spite of the circuitous way they had come, they arrived at the sametime as the men of Plassans. Silvere shook hands with some of them. Theymust have thought he had heard of the new route they had chosen, and hadcome to meet them. Miette, whose face was half-concealed by her hood,was scrutinised rather inquisitively.
"Why, it's Chantegreil," at last said one of the men from the Faubourgof Plassans, "the niece of Rebufat, the _meger_[*] of the Jas-Meiffren."
[*] A _meger_ is a farmer in Provence who shares the expenses and profits of his farm with the owner of the land.
"Where have you sprung from, gadabout?" cried another voice.
Silvere, intoxicated with enthusiasm, had not thought of the distresswhich his sweetheart would feel at the jeers of the workmen. Miette, allconfusion, looked at him as if to implore his aid. But before hecould even open his lips another voice rose from the crowd, brutallyexclaiming:
"Her father's at the galleys; we don't want the daughter of a thief andmurderer amongst us."
At this Miette turned dreadfully pale.
"You lie!" she muttered. "If my father did kill anybody, he neverthieved!"
And as Silvere, pale and trembling more than she, began to clench hisfists: "Stop!" she continued; "this is my affair."
Then, turning to the men, she repeated with a shout: "You lie! You lie!He never stole a copper from anybody. You know it well enough. Why doyou insult him when he can't be here?"
She drew herself up, superb with indignation. With her ardent, half-wildnature she seemed to accept the charge of murder composedly enough, butthat of theft exasperated her. They knew it, and that was why folks,from stupid malice, often cast the accusation in her face.
The man who had just called her father a thief was merely repeatingwhat he had heard said for many years. The girl's defiant attitudeonly incited the workmen to jeer the more. Silvere still had his fistsclenched, and matters might have become serious if a poacher fromthe Seille, who had been sitting on a heap of stones at the roadsideawaiting the order to march, had not come to the girl's assistance.
"The little one's right," he said. "Chantegreil was one of us. I knewhim. Nobody knows the real facts of his little matter. I always believedin the truth of his deposition before the judge. The gendarme whom hebrought down with a bullet, while he was out shooting, was no doubttaking aim at him at the time. A man must defend himself! At all eventsChantegreil was a decent fellow; he committed no robbery."
As often happens in such cases, the testimony of this poacher sufficedto bring other defenders to Miette's aid. Several workmen also professedto have known Chantegreil.
"Yes, yes, it's true!" they all said. "He wasn't a thief. There aresome scoundrels at Plassans who ought to be sent to prison in his place.Chantegreil was our brother. Come, now, be calm, little one."
Miette had never before heard anyone speak well of her father. He wasgenerally referred to as a beggar, a villain, and now she found goodfellows who had forgiving words for him, and declared him to be anhonest man. She burst into tears, again full of the emotion awakened inher by the "Marseillaise;" and she bethought herself how she might thankthese men for their kindness to her in misfortune. For a moment sheconceived the idea of shaking them all by the hand like a man. But herheart suggested something better. By her side stood the insurgentwho carried the banner. She touched the staff, and, to express hergratitude, said in an entreating tone, "Give it to me; I will carry it."
The simple-minded workmen understood the ingenuous sublimity of thisform of gratitude.
"Yes," they all cried, "Chantegreil shall carry the banner."
However, a woodcutter remarked that she would soon get tired, and wouldnot be able to go far.
"Oh! I'm quite strong," she retorted proudly, tucking up her sleeves andshowing a pair of arms as big as those of a grown woman. Then as theyhanded her the flag she resumed, "Wait just a moment."
Forthwith she pulled off her cloak, and put it on again after turningthe red lining outside. In the clear moonlight she appeared to bearrayed in a purple mantle reaching to her feet. The hood resting on theedge of her chignon formed a kind of Phrygian cap. She took the flag,pressed the staff to her bosom, and held herself upright amid the foldsof that blood-coloured banner which waved behind her. Enthusiastic childthat she was, her countenance, with its curly hair, large eyes moistwith tears, and lips parted in a smile, seemed to rise with energeticpride as she turned it towards the sky. At that moment she was thevirgin Liberty.
The insurgents burst into applause. The vivid imagination of thoseSoutherners was fired with enthusiasm at the sudden apparition of thisgirl so nervously clasping their banner to her bosom. Shouts rose fromthe nearest group:
"Bravo, Chantegreil! Chantegreil for ever! She shall remain with us;she'll bring us luck!"
They would have cheered her for a long time yet had not the order toresume the march arrived. Whilst the column moved on, Miette pressedSilvere's hand and whispered in his ear: "You hear! I shall remain withyou. Are you glad?"
Silvere, without replying, returned the pressure. He consented. In fact,he was deeply affected, unable to resist the enthusiasm which fired hiscompanions. Miette seemed to him so lovely, so grand, so saintly! Duringthe whole climb up the hill he still saw her before him, radiant, amidsta purple glory. She was now blended with his other adored mistress--theRepublic. He would have liked to be in action already, with his gun onhis shoulder. But the insurgents moved slowly. They had orders to makeas little noise as possible. Thus the column advanced between therows of elms like some gigantic serpent whose every ring had a strangequivering. The frosty December night had again sunk into silence, andthe Viorne alone seemed to roar more loudly.
On reaching the first houses of the Faubourg, Silvere ran on in front tofetch his gun from the Aire Saint-Mittre, which he found slumbering inthe moonlight. When he again joined the insurgents they had reachedthe Porte de Rome. Miette bent towards him, and with her childish smileobserved: "I feel as if I were at the procession on Corpus Christi Daycarrying the banner of the Virgin."