by Émile Zola
CHAPTER V
The high roads stretched far way, white with moonlight.
The insurrectionary army was continuing its heroic march through thecold, clear country. It was like a mighty wave of enthusiasm. The thrillof patriotism, which transported Miette and Silvere, big children thatthey were, eager for love and liberty, sped, with generous fervour,athwart the sordid intrigues of the Macquarts and the Rougons. Atintervals the trumpet-voice of the people rose and drowned the prattleof the yellow drawing-room and the hateful discourses of uncle Antoine.And vulgar, ignoble farce was turned into a great historical drama.
On quitting Plassans, the insurgents had taken the road to Orcheres.They expected to reach that town at about ten o'clock in the morning.The road skirts the course of the Viorne, following at some height thewindings of the hillocks, below which the torrent flows. On the left,the plain spreads out like an immense green carpet, dotted here andthere with grey villages. On the right, the chain of the Garrigues rearsits desolate peaks, its plateaux of stones, its huge rusty bouldersthat look as though they had been reddened by the sun. The high road,embanked along the riverside, passes on amidst enormous rocks, betweenwhich glimpses of the valley are caught at every step. Nothing could bewilder or more strikingly grand than this road out of the hillside. Atnight time, especially, it inspires one with a feeling of deep awe. Theinsurgents advanced under the pale light, along what seemed the chiefstreet of some ruined town, bordered on either side with fragmentsof temples. The moon turned each rock into a broken column, crumblingcapital, or stretch of wall pierced with mysterious arches. On highslumbered the mass of the Garrigues, suffused with a milky tinge, andresembling some immense Cyclopean city whose towers, obelisks, housesand high terraces hid one half of the heavens; and in the depths below,on the side of the plain, was a spreading ocean of diffused light,vague and limitless, over which floated masses of luminous haze. Theinsurrectionary force might well have thought they were following somegigantic causeway, making their rounds along some military road built onthe shore of a phosphorescent sea, and circling some unknown Babel.
On the night in question, the Viorne roared hoarsely at the foot ofthe rocks bordering the route. Amidst the continuous rumbling of thetorrent, the insurgents could distinguish the sharp, wailing notes ofthe tocsin. The villages scattered about the plain, on the other side ofthe river, were rising, sounding alarm-bells, and lighting signal fires.Till daybreak the marching column, which the persistent tolling ofa mournful knell seemed to pursue in the darkness, thus beheld theinsurrection spreading along the valley, like a train of powder. Thefires showed in the darkness like stains of blood; echoes of distantsongs were wafted to them; the whole vague distance, blurred by thewhitish vapours of the moon, stirred confusedly, and suddenly broke intoa spasm of anger. For leagues and leagues the scene remained the same.
These men, marching on under the blind impetus of the fever with whichthe events in Paris had inspired Republican hearts, became elated atseeing that long stretch of country quivering with revolt. Intoxicatedwith enthusiastic belief in the general insurrection of which theydreamed, they fancied that France was following them; on the other sideof the Viorne, in that vast ocean of diffused light, they imagined therewere endless files of men rushing like themselves to the defence of theRepublic. All simplicity and delusion, as multitudes so often are, theyimagined, in their uncultured minds, that victory was easy and certain.They would have seized and shot as a traitor any one who had thenasserted that they were the only ones who had the courage of theirduty, and that the rest of the country, overwhelmed with fright, waspusillanimously allowing itself to be garrotted.
They derived fresh courage, too, from the welcome accorded to themby the few localities that lay along their route on the slopes of theGarrigues. The inhabitants rose _en masse_ immediately the little armydrew near; women ran to meet them, wishing them a speedy victory, whilemen, half clad, seized the first weapons they could find and rushed tojoin their ranks. There was a fresh ovation at every village, shouts ofwelcome and farewell many times reiterated.
Towards daybreak the moon disappeared behind the Garrigues and theinsurgents continued their rapid march amidst the dense darkness ofa winter night. They were now unable to distinguish the valley or thehills; they heard only the hoarse plaints of the bells, sounding throughthe deep obscurity like invisible drums, hidden they knew not where, butever goading them on with despairing calls.
Miette and Silvere went on, all eagerness like the others. Towardsdaybreak, the girl suffered greatly from fatigue; she could only walkwith short hurried steps, and was unable to keep up with the longstrides of the men who surrounded her. Nevertheless she courageouslystrove to suppress all complaints; it would have cost her too muchto confess that she was not as strong as a boy. During the first fewleagues of the march Silvere gave her his arm; then, seeing that thestandard was gradually slipping from her benumbed hands, he tried totake it in order to relieve her; but she grew angry, and would onlyallow him to hold it with one hand while she continued to carry it onher shoulder. She thus maintained her heroic demeanour with childishstubbornness, smiling at the young man each time he gave her a glance ofloving anxiety. At last, when the moon hid itself, she gave way in thesheltering darkness. Silvere felt her leaning more heavily on his arm.He now had to carry the flag, and hold her round the waist to preventher from stumbling. Nevertheless she still made no complaint.
"Are you very tired, poor Miette?" Silvere asked her.
"Yea, a little tired," she replied in a weary tone.
"Would you like to rest a bit?"
She made no reply; but he realised that she was staggering. He thereuponhanded the flag to one of the other insurgents and quitted the ranks,almost carrying the girl in his arms. She struggled a little, she feltso distressed at appearing such a child. But he calmed her, telling herthat he knew of a cross-road which shortened the distance by one half.They would be able to take a good hour's rest and reach Orcheres at thesame time as the others.
It was then six o'clock. There must have been a slight mist rising fromthe Viorne, for the darkness seemed to be growing denser. The youngpeople groped their way along the slope of the Garrigues, till they cameto a rock on which they sat down. Around them lay an abyss of darkness.They were stranded, as it were, on some reef above a dense void. Andathwart that void, when the dull tramp of the little army had died away,they only heard two bells, the one clear toned and ringing doubtless attheir feet, in some village across the road; and the other far-off andfaint, responding, as it were, with distant sobs to the feverish plaintsof the first. One might have thought that these bells were recounting toeach other, through the empty waste, the sinister story of a perishingworld.
Miette and Silvere, warmed by their quick march, did not at first feelthe cold. They remained silent, listening in great dejection to thesounds of the tocsin, which made the darkness quiver. They could noteven see one another. Miette felt frightened, and, seeking for Silvere'shand, clasped it in her own. After the feverish enthusiasm which forseveral hours had carried them along with the others, this sudden haltand the solitude in which they found themselves side by side left themexhausted and bewildered as though they had suddenly awakened from astrange dream. They felt as if a wave had cast them beside the highway,then ebbed back and left them stranded. Irresistible reaction plungedthem into listless stupor; they forgot their enthusiasm; they thought nomore of the men whom they had to rejoin; they surrendered themselves tothe melancholy sweetness of finding themselves alone, hand in hand, inthe midst of the wild darkness.
"You are not angry with me?" the girl at length inquired. "I couldeasily walk the whole night with you; but they were running too quickly,I could hardly breathe."
"Why should I be angry with you?" the young man said.
"I don't know. I was afraid you might not love me any longer. I wish Icould have taken long strides like you, and have walked along withoutstopping. You will think I am a child."
Silvere smiled, and M
iette, though the darkness prevented her fromseeing him, guessed that he was doing so. Then she continued withdetermination: "You must not always treat me like a sister. I want to beyour wife some day."
Forthwith she clasped Silvere to her bosom, and, still with her armsabout him, murmured: "We shall grow so cold; come close to me that wemay be warm."
Then they lapsed into silence. Until that troublous hour, they had lovedone another with the affection of brother and sister. In their ignorancethey still mistook their feelings for tender friendship, althoughbeneath their guileless love their ardent blood surged more wildlyday by day. Given age and experience, a violent passion of southernintensity would at last spring from this idyll. Every girl who hangs ona youth's neck is already a woman, a woman unconsciously, whom a caressmay awaken to conscious womanhood. When lovers kiss on the cheeks, it isbecause they are searching, feeling for one another's lips. Lovers aremade by a kiss. It was on that dark and cold December night, amid thebitter wailing of the tocsin, that Miette and Silvere exchanged one ofthose kisses that bring all the heart's blood to the lips.
They remained silent, close to one another. A gentle glow soonpenetrated them, languor overcame them, and steeped them in feverishdrowsiness. They were quite warm at last, and lights seemed to flitbefore their closed eyelids, while a buzzing mounted to their brains.This state of painful ecstasy, which lasted some minutes, seemedendless to them. Then, in a kind of dream, their lips met. The kiss theyexchanged was long and greedy. It seemed to them as if they had neverkissed before. Yet their embrace was fraught with suffering and theyreleased one another. And the chilliness of the night having cooledtheir fever, they remained in great confusion at some distance one fromthe other.
Meantime the bells were keeping up their sinister converse in thedark abyss which surrounded the young people. Miette, trembling andfrightened, did not dare to draw near to Silvere again. She did not evenknow if he were still there, for she could no longer hear him move. Thestinging sweetness of their kiss still clung to their lips, to whichpassionate phrases surged, and they longed to kiss once more. But shamerestrained them from the expression of any such desire. They felt thatthey would rather never taste that bliss again than speak of it aloud.If their blood had not been lashed by their rapid march, if the darknesshad not offered complicity, they would, for a long time yet, havecontinued kissing each other on the cheeks like old playfellows.Feelings of modesty were coming to Miette. She remembered Justin'scoarseness. A few hours previously she had listened, without a blush,to that fellow who called her a shameless girl. She had wept withoutunderstanding his meaning, she had wept simply because she guessed thatwhat he spoke of must be base. Now that she was becoming a woman, shewondered in a last innocent transport whether that kiss, whose burningsmart she could still feel, would not perhaps suffice to cover her withthe shame to which her cousin had referred. Thereupon she was seizedwith remorse, and burst into sobs.
"What is the matter; why are you crying?" asked Silvere in an anxiousvoice.
"Oh, leave me," she faltered, "I do not know."
Then in spite of herself, as it were, she continued amidst her tears:"Ah! what an unfortunate creature I am! When I was ten years oldpeople used to throw stones at me. To-day I am treated as the vilest ofcreatures. Justin did right to despise me before everybody. We have beendoing wrong, Silvere."
The young man, quite dismayed, clasped her in his arms again, tryingto console her. "I love you," he whispered, "I am your brother. Whysay that we have been doing wrong? We kissed each other because we werecold. You know very well that we used to kiss each other every eveningbefore separating."
"Oh! not as we did just now," she whispered. "It must be wrong, for astrange feeling came over me. The men will laugh at me now as I pass,and they will be right in doing so. I shall not be able to defendmyself."
The young fellow remained silent, unable to find a word to calm theagitation of this big child, trembling at her first kiss of love. Heclasped her gently, imagining that he might calm her by his embrace.She struggled, however, and continued: "If you like, we will go away; wewill leave the province. I can never return to Plassans; my uncle wouldbeat me; all the townspeople would point their fingers at me--" Andthen, as if seized with sudden irritation, she added: "But no! I amcursed! I forbid you to leave aunt Dide to follow me. You must leave meon the highway."
"Miette, Miette!" Silvere implored; "don't talk like that."
"Yes. I want to please you. Be reasonable. They have turned me out likea vagabond. If I went back with you, you would always be fighting for mysake, and I don't want that."
At this the young man again pressed a kiss upon her lips, murmuring:"You shall be my wife, and nobody will then dare to hurt you."
"Oh! please, I entreat you!" she said, with a stifled cry; "don't kissme so. You hurt me."
Then, after a short silence: "You know quite well that I cannot be yourwife now. We are too young. You would have to wait for me, and meanwhileI should die of shame. You are wrong in protesting; you will be forcedto leave me in some corner."
At this Silvere, his fortitude exhausted, began to cry. A man's sobsare fraught with distressing hoarseness. Miette, quite frightened asshe felt the poor fellow shaking in her arms, kissed him on the face,forgetting she was burning her lips. But it was all her fault. She wasa little simpleton to have let a kiss upset her so completely. Shenow clasped her lover to her bosom as if to beg forgiveness for havingpained him. These weeping children, so anxiously clasping one another,made the dark night yet more woeful than before. In the distance, thebells continued to complain unceasingly in panting accents.
"It is better to die," repeated Silvere, amidst his sobs; "it is betterto die."
"Don't cry; forgive me," stammered Miette. "I will be brave; I will doall you wish."
When the young man had dried his tears: "You are right," he said; "wecannot return to Plassans. But the time for cowardice has not yet come.If we come out of the struggle triumphant, I will go for aunt Dide, andwe will take her ever so far away with us. If we are beaten----"
He stopped.
"If we are beaten?" repeated Miette, softly.
"Then be it as God wills!" continued Silvere, in a softer voice. "I mostlikely shall not be there. You will comfort the poor woman. That wouldbe better."
"Ah! as you said just now," the young girl murmured, "it would be betterto die."
At this longing for death they tightened their embrace. Miette reliedupon dying with Silvere; he had only spoken of himself, but she feltthat he would gladly take her with him into the earth. They would therebe able to love each other more freely than under the sun. AuntDide would die likewise and join them. It was, so to say, a rapidpresentiment, a desire for some strange voluptuousness, to whichHeaven, by the mournful accents of the tocsin, was promising earlygratification. To die! To die! The bells repeated these words withincreasing passion, and the lovers yielded to the calls of the darkness;they fancied they experienced a foretaste of the last sleep, in thedrowsiness into which they again sank, whilst their lips met once more.
Miette no longer turned away. It was she, now, who pressed her lips toSilvere's, who sought with mute ardour for the delight whose stingingsmart she had not at first been able to endure. The thought ofapproaching death had excited her; she no longer felt herself blushing,but hung upon her love, while he in faltering voice repeated: "I loveyou! I love you!"
But at this Miette shook her head, as if to say it was not true. Withher free and ardent nature she had a secret instinct of the meaning andpurposes of life, and though she was right willing to die she would fainhave known life first. At last, growing calmer, she gently rested herhead on the young man's shoulder, without uttering a word. Silverekissed her again. She tasted those kisses slowly, seeking their meaning,their hidden sweetness. As she felt them course through her veins,she interrogated them, asking if they were all love, all passion. Butlanguor at last overcame her, and she fell into gentle slumber. Silverehad enveloped her in her pelisse,
drawing the skirt around himself atthe same time. They no longer felt cold. The young man rejoiced to find,from the regularity of her breathing, that the girl was now asleep;this repose would enable them to proceed on their way with spirit. Heresolved to let her slumber for an hour. The sky was still black, andthe approach of day was but faintly indicated by a whitish line in theeast. Behind the lovers there must have been a pine wood whose musicalawakening it was that the young man heard amidst the morning breezes.And meantime the wailing of the bells grew more sonorous in thequivering atmosphere, lulling Miette's slumber even as it hadaccompanied her passionate fever.
Until that troublous night, these young people had lived through oneof those innocent idylls that blossom among the toiling masses, thoseoutcasts and folks of simple mind amidst whom one may yet occasionallyfind amours as primitive as those of the ancient Greek romances.
Miette had been scarcely nine years old at the time when her father wassent to the galleys for shooting a gendarme. The trial of Chantegreilhad remained a memorable case in the province. The poacher boldlyconfessed that he had killed the gendarme, but he swore that the latterhad been taking aim at him. "I only anticipated him," he said, "Idefended myself; it was a duel, not a murder." He never desisted fromthis line of argument. The presiding Judge of the Assizes could not makehim understand that, although a gendarme has the right to fire upon apoacher, a poacher has no right to fire upon a gendarme. Chantegreilescaped the guillotine, owing to his obviously sincere belief in his owninnocence, and his previous good character. The man wept like a childwhen his daughter was brought to him prior to his departure for Toulon.The little thing, who had lost her mother in her infancy, dwelt at thistime with her grandfather at Chavanoz, a village in the passes of theSeille. When the poacher was no longer there, the old man and thegirl lived upon alms. The inhabitants of Chavanoz, all sportsmen andpoachers, came to the assistance of the poor creatures whom the convicthad left behind him. After a while, however, the old man died of grief,and Miette, left alone by herself, would have had to beg on the highroads, if the neighbours had not remembered that she had an aunt atPlassans. A charitable soul was kind enough to take her to this aunt,who did not, however, receive her very kindly.
Eulalie Chantegreil, the spouse of _meger_ Rebufat, was a big, dark,stubborn creature, who ruled the home. She led her husband by the noise,said the people of the Faubourg of Plassans. The truth was, Rebufat,avaricious and eager for work and gain, felt a sort of respect for thisbig creature, who combined uncommon vigour with strict sobriety andeconomy.
Thanks to her, the household thrived. The _meger_ grumbled one eveningwhen, on returning home from work, he found Miette installed there. Buthis wife closed his mouth by saying in her gruff voice: "Bah, the littlething's strongly built, she'll do for a servant; we'll keep her and savewages."
This calculation pleased Rebufat. He went so far as to feel the littlething's arms, and declared with satisfaction that she was sturdy for herage. Miette was then nine years old. From the very next day he made useof her. The work of the peasant-woman in the South of France is muchlighter than in the North. One seldom sees them employed in digging theground, carrying loads, or doing other kinds of men's work. They bindsheaves, gather olives and mulberry leaves; perhaps their most laboriouswork is that of weeding. Miette worked away willingly. Open-air lifewas her delight, her health. So long as her aunt lived she was alwayssmiling. The good woman, in spite of her roughness, at last loved heras her own child; she forbade her doing the hard work which her husbandsometimes tried to force upon her, saying to the latter:
"Ah! you're a clever fellow! You don't understand, you fool, that if youtire her too much to-day, she won't be able to do anything to-morrow!"
This argument was decisive. Rebufat bowed his head, and carried the loadwhich he had desired to set on the young girl's shoulders.
The latter would have lived in perfect happiness under the secretprotection of her aunt Eulalie, but for the teasing of her cousin, whowas then a lad of sixteen, and employed his idle hours in hating andpersecuting her. Justin's happiest moments were those when by means ofsome gross falsehood he succeeded in getting her scolded. Whenever hecould tread on her feet, or push her roughly, pretending not to haveseen her, he laughed and felt the delight of those crafty folks whorejoice at other people's misfortunes. Miette, however, would stare athim with her large black childish eyes gleaming with anger and silentscorn, which checked the cowardly youngster's sneers. In reality he wasterribly afraid of his cousin.
The young girl was just attaining her eleventh year when her auntEulalie suddenly died. From that day everything changed in the house.Rebufat gradually come to treat her like a farm-labourer. He overwhelmedher with all sorts of rough work, and made use of her as a beast ofburden. She never even complained, however, thinking that she had a debtof gratitude to repay him. In the evening, when she was worn out withfatigue, she mourned for her aunt, that terrible woman whose latentkindliness she now realised. However, it was not the hard work thatdistressed her, for she delighted in her strength, and took a pride inher big arms and broad shoulders. What distressed her was her uncle'sdistrustful surveillance, his continual reproaches, and the irritatedemployer-like manner he assumed towards her. She had now become astranger in the house. Yet even a stranger would not have been so badlytreated as she was. Rebufat took the most unscrupulous advantage ofthis poor little relative, whom he pretended to keep out of charity. Sherepaid his harsh hospitality ten times over with her work, and yet nevera day passed but he grudged her the bread she ate. Justin especiallyexcelled in wounding her. Since his mother had been dead, seeing herwithout a protector, he had brought all his evil instincts into play intrying to make the house intolerable to her. The most ingenious torturewhich he invented was to speak to Miette of her father. The poor girl,living away from the world, under the protection of her aunt, who hadforbidden any one ever to mention the words "galleys" or "convict"before her, hardly understood their meaning. It was Justin who explainedit to her by relating, in his own manner, the story of the murder of thegendarme, and Chantegreil's conviction. There was no end to the horribleparticulars he supplied: the convicts had a cannonball fastened to oneankle by a chain, they worked fifteen hours a day, and all died undertheir punishment; their prison, too, was a frightful place, the horrorsof which he described minutely. Miette listened to him, stupefied, hereyes full of tears. Sometimes she was roused to sudden violence, andJustin quickly retired before her clenched fists. However, he took asavage delight in thus instructing her as to the nature of prisonlife. When his father flew into a passion with the child for any littlenegligence, he chimed in, glad to be able to insult her without danger.And if she attempted to defend herself, he would exclaim: "Bah! badblood always shows itself. You'll end at the galleys like your father."
At this Miette sobbed, stung to the heart, powerless and overwhelmedwith shame.
She was already growing to womanhood at this period. Of precociousnature, she endured her martyrdom with extraordinary fortitude. Sherarely gave way, excepting when her natural pride succumbed to hercousin's outrages. Soon even, she was able to bear, without a tear, theincessant insults of this cowardly fellow, who ever watched her while hespoke, for fear lest she should fly at his face. Then, too, she learntto silence him by staring at him fixedly. She had several times feltinclined to run away from the Jas-Meiffren; but she did not do so,as her courage could not brook the idea of confessing that she wasvanquished by the persecution she endured. She certainly earned herbread, she did not steal the Rebufats' hospitality; and this convictionsatisfied her pride. So she remained there to continue the struggle,stiffening herself and living on with the one thought of resistance. Herplan was to do her work in silence, and revenge herself for all harshtreatment by mute contempt. She knew that her uncle derived too muchadvantage from her to listen readily to the insinuations of Justin,who longed to get her turned out of doors. And in a defiant spirit sheresolved that she would not go away of her own accord.
Her continuous voluntary silence was full of strange fancies. Passingher days in the enclosure, isolated from all the world, she formed ideasfor herself which would have strangely shocked the good people of theFaubourg. Her father's fate particularly occupied her thoughts. AllJustin's abuse recurred to her; and she ended by accepting the chargeof murder, saying to herself, however, that her father had done wellto kill the gendarme who had tried to kill him. She had learnt the realstory from a labourer who had worked for a time at the Jas-Meiffren.From that moment, on the few occasions when she went out, she no longereven turned if the ragamuffins of the Faubourg followed her, crying:"Hey! La Chantegreil!"
She simply hastened her steps homeward, with lips compressed, and black,fierce eyes. Then after shutting the gate, she perhaps cast one longglance at the gang of urchins. She would have become vicious, havelapsed into fierce pariah savagery, if her childishness had notsometimes gained the mastery. Her extreme youth brought her littlegirlish weaknesses which relieved her. She would then cry with shame forherself and her father. She would hide herself in a stable so that shemight sob to her heart's content, for she knew that, if the others sawher crying, they would torment her all the more. And when she had weptsufficiently, she would bathe her eyes in the kitchen, and then againsubside into uncomplaining silence. It was not interest alone, however,which prompted her to hide herself; she carried her pride in herprecocious strength so far that she was unwilling to appear a child. Intime she would have become very unhappy. Fortunately she was saved bydiscovering the latent tenderness of her loving nature.
The well in the yard of the house occupied by aunt Dide and Silvere wasa party-well. The wall of the Jas-Meiffren cut it in halves. Formerly,before the Fouques' property was united to the neighbouring estate, themarket-gardeners had used this well daily. Since the transfer of theFouques' ground, however, as it was at some distance from the outhouses,the inmates of the Jas, who had large cisterns at their disposal, didnot draw a pail of water from it in a month. On the other side, onecould hear the grating of the pulley every morning when Silvere drew thewater for aunt Dide.
One day the pulley broke. The young wheelwright made a good strong oneof oak, and put it up in the evening after his day's work. To do thishe had to climb upon the wall. When he had finished the job he remainedresting astride the coping, and surveyed with curiosity the largeexpanse of the Jas-Meiffren. At last a peasant-girl, who was weeding theground a few feet from him, attracted his attention. It was in July, andthe air was broiling, although the sun had already sank to the horizon.The peasant-girl had taken off her jacket. In a white bodice, with acoloured neckerchief tied over her shoulders, and the sleeves of herchemise turned up as far as her elbows, she was squatting amid the foldsof her blue cotton skirt, which was secured to a pair of braces crossedbehind her back. She crawled about on her knees as she pulled up thetares and threw them into a basket. The young man could only see herbare, sun-tanned arms stretching out right and left to seize someoverlooked weed. He followed this rapid play of her arms complacently,deriving a singular pleasure from seeing them so firm and quick. Theyoung person had slightly raised herself on noticing that he wasno longer at work, but had again lowered her head before he coulddistinguish her features. This shyness kept him in suspense. Like aninquisitive lad he wondered who this weeder could be, and while helingered there, whistling and beating time with a chisel, the lattersuddenly slipped out of his hand. It fell into the Jas-Meiffren,striking the curb of the well, and then bounding a few feet from thewall. Silvere looked at it, leaning forward and hesitating to get over.But the peasant-girl must have been watching the young man askance, forshe jumped up without saying anything, picked up the chisel, and handedit to Silvere, who then perceived that she was a mere child. He wassurprised and rather intimidated. The young girl raised herself towardshim in the red glare of the sunset. The wall at this spot was low, butnevertheless too high for her to reach him. So he bent low over thecoping, while she still raised herself on tiptoes. They did not speak,but looked at each other with an air of smiling confusion. The young manwould indeed have liked to keep the girl in that position. She turned tohim a charming head, with handsome black eyes, and red lips, which quiteastonished and stirred him. He had never before seen a girl so near;he had not known that lips and eyes could be so pleasant to look at.Everything about the girl seemed to possess a strange fascination forhim--her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, her blue cotton skirthanging from braces which stretched with the motion of her shoulders.Then his glance glided along the arm which was handing him the tool; asfar as the elbow this arm was of a golden brown, as though clothed withsun-burn; but higher up, in the shadow of the tucked-up sleeve, Silvereperceived a bare, milk-white roundness. At this he felt confused;however, he leant further over, and at last managed to grasp the chisel.The little peasant-girl was becoming embarrassed. Still they remainedthere, smiling at each other, the child beneath with upturned face, andthe lad half reclining on the coping of the wall. They could not partfrom each other. So far they had not exchanged a word, and Silvere evenforgot to say, "Thank you."
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Marie," replied the peasant-girl; "but everybody calls me Miette."
Again she raised herself slightly, and in a clear voice inquired in herturn: "And yours?"
"My name is Silvere," the young workman replied.
A pause ensued, during which they seemed to be listening complacently tothe music of their names.
"I'm fifteen years old," resumed Silvere. "And you?"
"I!" said Miette; "oh, I shall be eleven on All Saints' Day."
The young workman made a gesture of surprise. "Ah! really!" he said,laughing, "and to think I took you for a woman! You've such big arms."
She also began to laugh, as she lowered her eyes to her arms. Then theyceased speaking. They remained for another moment gazing and smiling ateach other. And finally, as Silvere seemingly had no more questions toask her, Miette quietly withdrew and went on plucking her weeds, withoutraising her head. The lad for his part remained on the wall for a while.The sun was setting; a stream of oblique rays poured over the yellowsoil of the Jas-Meiffren, which seemed to be all ablaze--one would havesaid that a fire was running along the ground--and, in the midst of theflaming expanse, Silvere saw the little stooping peasant-girl, whosebare arms had resumed their rapid motion. The blue cotton skirt wasnow becoming white; and rays of light streamed over the child'scopper-coloured arms. At last Silvere felt somewhat ashamed of remainingthere, and accordingly got off the wall.
In the evening, preoccupied with his adventure, he endeavoured toquestion aunt Dide. Perhaps she would know who this Miette was who hadsuch black eyes and such red lips. But, since she had lived in the housein the alley, the old woman had never once given a look behind the wallof the little yard. It was, to her, like an impassable rampart, whichshut off her past. She did not know--she did not want to know--whatthere might now be on the other side of that wall, in that old enclosureof the Fouques, where she had buried her love, her heart and her flesh.As soon as Silvere began to question her she looked at him with childishterror. Was he, then, going to stir up the ashes of those days now deadand gone, and make her weep like her son Antoine had done?
"I don't know," she said in a hasty voice; "I no longer go out, I neversee anybody."
Silvere waited the morrow with considerable impatience. And as soonas he got to his master's workshop, he drew his fellow-workmen intoconversation. He did not say anything about his interview with Miette;but spoke vaguely of a girl whom he had seen from a distance in theJas-Meiffren.
"Oh! that's La Chantegreil!" cried one of the workmen.
There was no necessity for Silvere to question them further, for theytold him the story of the poacher Chantegreil and his daughter Miette,with that unreasoning spite which is felt for social outcasts. The girl,in particular, they treated in a foul manner; and the insulting gibeof "daughter of a galley-slave" constantly rose to their lips like anincontestabl
e reason for condemning the poor, dear innocent creature toeternal disgrace.
However, wheelwright Vian, an honest, worthy fellow, at last silencedhis men.
"Hold your tongues, you foul mouths!" he said, as he let fall theshaft of a cart that he had been examining. "You ought to be ashamed ofyourselves for being so hard upon the child. I've seen her, the littlething looks a very good girl. Besides, I'm told she doesn't mind work,and already does as much as any woman of thirty. There are some lazyfellows here who aren't a match for her. I hope, later on, that she'llget a good husband who'll stop this evil talk."
Silvere, who had been chilled by the workmen's gross jests and insults,felt tears rise to his eyes at the last words spoken by Vian. However,he did not open his lips. He took up his hammer, which he had laid downnear him, and began with all his might to strike the nave of a wheelwhich he was binding with iron.
In the evening, as soon as he had returned home from the workshop, heran to the wall and climbed upon it. He found Miette engaged upon thesame labour as the day before. He called her. She came to him, with hersmile of embarrassment, and the charming shyness of a child who frominfancy had grown up in tears.
"You're La Chantegreil, aren't you?" he asked her, abruptly.
She recoiled, she ceased smiling, and her eyes turned sternly black,gleaming with defiance. So this lad was going to insult her, like theothers! She was turning her back upon him, without giving an answer,when Silvere, perplexed by her sudden change of countenance, hastened toadd: "Stay, I beg you--I don't want to pain you--I've got so many thingsto tell you!"
She turned round, still distrustful. Silvere, whose heart was full, andwho had resolved to relieve it, remained for a moment speechless, notknowing how to continue, for he feared lest he should commit a freshblunder. At last he put his whole heart in one phrase: "Would you likeme to be your friend?" he said, in a voice full of emotion. And asMiette, in surprise, raised her eyes, which were again moist andsmiling, he continued with animation: "I know that people try to vexyou. It's time to put a stop to it. I will be your protector now. ShallI?"
The child beamed with delight. This proffered friendship roused her fromall her evil dreams of taciturn hatred. Still she shook her head andanswered: "No, I don't want you to fight on my account. You'd havetoo much to do. Besides which, there are persons from whom you cannotprotect me."
Silvere wished to declare that he would defend her against the wholeworld, but she closed his mouth with a coaxing gesture, as she added: "Iam satisfied to have you as a friend."
They then conversed together for a few minutes, lowering their voices asmuch as possible. Miette spoke to Silvere of her uncle and her cousin.For all the world she would not have liked them to catch him astridethe coping of the wall. Justin would be implacable with such a weaponagainst her. She spoke of her misgivings with the fright of a schoolgirlon meeting a friend with whom her mother has forbidden her to associate.Silvere merely understood, however, that he would not be able to seeMiette at his pleasure. This made him very sad. Still, he promised thathe would not climb upon the wall any more. They were both endeavouringto find some expedient for seeing each other again, when Miette suddenlybegged him to go away; she had just caught sight of Justin, who wascrossing the grounds in the direction of the wall. Silvere quicklydescended. When he was in the little yard again, he remained by the wallto listen, irritated by his flight. After a few minutes he ventured toclimb again and cast a glance into the Jas-Meiffren, but he saw Justinspeaking with Miette, and quickly withdrew his head. On the followingday he could see nothing of his friend, not even in the distance; shemust have finished her work in that part of the Jas. A week passed inthis fashion, and the young people had no opportunity of exchanging asingle word. Silvere was in despair; he thought of boldly going to theRebufats to ask for Miette.
The party-well was a large one, but not very deep. On either side ofthe wall the curb formed a large semicircle. The water was only ten ortwelve feet down at the utmost. This slumbering water reflected the twoapertures of the well, two half-moons between which the shadow of thewall cast a black streak. On leaning over, one might have fancied in thevague light that the half-moons were two mirrors of singular clearnessand brilliance. Under the morning sunshine, when the dripping of theropes did not disturb the surface of the water, these mirrors, thesereflections of the heavens, showed like white patches on the greenwater, and in them the leaves of the ivy which had spread along the wallover the well were repeated with marvellous exactness.
One morning, at an early hour, Silvere, as he came to draw water foraunt Dide, bent over the well mechanically, just as he was taking holdof the rope. He started, and then stood motionless, still leaning over.He had fancied that he could distinguish in the well the face of a younggirl who was looking at him with a smile; however, he had shaken therope, and the disturbed water was now but a dim mirror that no longerreflected anything clearly. Silvere, who did not venture to stir, andwhose heart beat rapidly, then waited for the water to settle. Asits ripples gradually widened and died away, he perceived the imagereappearing. It oscillated for a long time, with a swing which lenta vague, phantom-like grace to its features, but at last it remainedstationary. It was the smiling countenance of Miette, with her headand shoulders, her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, and her bluebraces. Silvere next perceived his own image in the other mirror. Then,knowing that they could see each other, they nodded their heads. Forthe first moment, they did not even think of speaking. At last theyexchanged greetings.
"Good morning, Silvere."
"Good morning, Miette."
They were surprised by the strange sound of their voices, which becamesingularly soft and sweet in that damp hole. The sound seemed, indeed,to come from a distance, like the soft music of voices heard of anevening in the country. They understood that it would suffice to speakin a whisper in order to hear each other. The well echoed the faintestbreath. Leaning over its brink, they conversed while gazing at oneanother's reflection. Miette related how sad she had been the last week.She was now working at the other end of the Jas, and could only get outearly in the morning. Then she made a pout of annoyance which Silveredistinguished perfectly, and to which he replied by nodding his headwith an air of vexation. They were exchanging all those gestures andfacial expressions that speech entails. They cared but little for thewall which separated them now that they could see each other in thosehidden depths.
"I knew," continued Miette, with a knowing look, "that you came here todraw water every morning at the same hour. I can hear the grating of thepulley from the house. So I made an excuse, I pretended that the waterin this well boiled the vegetables better. I thought that I might comehere every morning to draw water at the same time as you, so as to saygood morning to you without anyone suspecting it."
She smiled innocently, as though well pleased with her device, andended by saying: "But I did not imagine we should see each other in thewater."
It was, in fact, this unhoped-for pleasure which so delighted them. Theyonly spoke to see their lips move, so greatly did this new frolic amusetheir childish natures. And they resolved to use all means in theirpower to meet here every morning. When Miette had said that she must goaway, she told Silvere that he could draw his pail of water. But he didnot dare to shake the rope; Miette was still leaning over--he could seeher smiling face, and it was too painful to him to dispel that smile. Ashe slightly stirred his pail, the water murmured, and the smile faded.Then he stopped, seized with a strange fear; he fancied that he hadvexed her and made her cry. But the child called to him, "Go on! go on!"with a laugh which the echo prolonged and rendered more sonorous. Sheherself then nosily sent down a pail. There was a perfect tempest.Everything disappeared under the black water. And Silvere made up hismind to fill two pitchers, while listening to the retreating steps ofMiette on the other side of the wall.
From that day, the young people never missed their assignations. Theslumbering water, the white mirrors in which they gazed at one another,impa
rted to their interviews a charm which long sufficed their playful,childish imaginations. They had no desire to see each other face toface: it seemed much more amusing to them to use the well as a mirror,and confide their morning greetings to its echo. They soon came to lookupon the well as an old friend. They loved to bend over the motionlesswater that resembled molten silver. A greenish glimmer hovered below,in a mysterious half light, and seemed to change the damp hole into somehiding-place in the depths of a wood. They saw each other in a sortof greenish nest bedecked with moss, in the midst of fresh water andfoliage. And all the strangeness of the deep spring, the hollow towerover which they bent, trembling with fascination, added unconfessed anddelightful fear to their merry laughter. The wild idea occurred to themof going down and seating themselves on a row of large stones whichformed a kind of circular bench at a few inches above the water. Theywould dip their feet in the latter, converse there for hours, and noone would think of coming to look for them in such a spot. But whenthey asked each other what there might be down there, their vague fearsreturned; they thought it quite sufficient to let their reflected imagesdescend into the depths amidst those green glimmers which tinged thestones with strange moire-like reflections, and amidst those mysteriousnoises which rose from the dark corners. Those sounds issuing from theinvisible made them particularly uneasy; they often fancied that voiceswere replying to their own; and then they would remain silent, detectinga thousand faint plaints which they could not understand. These camefrom the secret travail of the moisture, the sighs of the atmosphere,the drops that glided over the stones, and fell below with thesonorousness of sobs. They would nod affectionately to each otherin order to reassure themselves. Thus the attraction which kept themleaning over the brink had a tinge of secret terror, like all poignantcharms. But the well still remained their old friend. It was suchan excellent pretext for meeting! Justin, who watched Miette's everymovement, never suspected the cause of her eagerness to go and draw somewater every morning. At times, he saw her from the distance, leaningover and loitering. "Ah! the lazy thing!" he muttered; "how fond she isof dawdling about!" How could he suspect that, on the other side of thewall, there was a wooer contemplating the girl's smile in the water, andsaying to her: "If that red-haired donkey Justin should illtreat you,just tell me of it, and he shall hear from me!"
This amusement lasted for more than a month. It was July then; themornings were sultry; the sun shone brightly, and it was quite apleasure to come to that damp spot. It was delightful to feel the coldbreath of the well on one's face, and make love amidst this spring waterwhile the skies were kindling their fires. Miette would arrive out ofbreath after crossing the stubble fields; as she ran along, her hairfell down over her forehead and temples; and it was with flushed faceand dishevelled locks that she would lean over, shaking with laughter,almost before she had had time to set her pitcher down. Silvere, whowas almost always the first at the well, felt, as he suddenly saw hersmiling face in the water, as keen a joy as he would have experiencedhad she suddenly thrown herself into his arms at the bend of a pathway.Around them the radiant morning hummed with mirth; a wave of warm light,sonorous with the buzzing of insects, beat against the old wall, theposts, and the curbstone. They, however, no longer saw the shower ofmorning sunshine, nor heard the thousand sounds rising from the ground;they were in the depths of their green hiding-place, under the earth, inthat mysterious and awesome cavity, and quivered with pleasure as theylingered there enjoying its fresh coolness and dim light.
On some mornings, Miette, who by nature could not long maintain acontemplative attitude, began to tease; she would shake the rope, andmake drops of water fall in order to ripple the mirrors and deface thereflections. Silvere would then entreat her to remain still; he, whosefervour was deeper than hers, knew no keener pleasure than that ofgazing at his love's image reflected so distinctly in every feature.But she would not listen to him; she would joke and feign a rough oldbogey's voice, to which the echo imparted a raucous melodiousness.
"No, no," she would say in chiding fashion; "I don't love you to-day!I'm making faces at you; see how ugly I am."
And she laughed at seeing the fantastic forms which their spreadingfaces assumed as they danced upon the disturbed water.
One morning she got angry in real earnest. She did not find Silvere atthe trysting-place, and waited for him for nearly a quarter of an hour,vainly making the pulley grate. She was just about to depart in a ragewhen he arrived. As soon as she perceived him she let a perfect tempestloose in the well, shook her pail in an irritated manner, and made theblackish water whirl and splash against the stones. In vain did Silveretry to explain that aunt Dide had detained him. To all his excuses shereplied: "You've vexed me; I don't want to see you."
The poor lad, in despair, vainly questioned that sombre cavity, now sofull of lamentable sounds, where, on other days, such a bright visionusually awaited him amid the silence of the stagnant water. He had to goaway without seeing Miette. On the morrow, arriving before the time,he gazed sadly into the well, hearing nothing, and thinking that theobstinate girl would not come, when she, who was already on the otherside slyly watching his arrival, bent over suddenly with a burst oflaughter. All was at once forgotten.
In this wise the well was the scene of many a little drama and comedy.That happy cavity, with its gleaming mirrors and musical echoes, quicklyripened their love. They endowed it with such strange life, so filled itwith their youthful love, that, long after they had ceased to come andlean over the brink, Silvere, as he drew water every morning, wouldfancy he could see Miette's smiling face in the dim light that stillquivered with the joy they had set there.
That month of playful love rescued Miette from her mute despair. Shefelt a revival of her affections, her happy childish carelessness, whichhad been held in check by the hateful loneliness in which she lived.The certainty that she was loved by somebody, and that she was no longeralone in the world, enabled her to endure the persecutions of Justinand the Faubourg urchins. A song of joy, whose glad notes drowned theirhootings, now sounded in her heart. She thought of her father withtender compassion, and did not now so frequently yield to dreams ofbitter vengeance. Her dawning love cooled her feverish broodingslike the fresh breezes of the dawn. At the same time she acquired theinstinctive cunning of a young girl in love. She felt that she mustmaintain her usual silent and rebellious demeanour if she were to escapeJustin's suspicions. But, in spite of her efforts, her eyes retained asweet unruffled expression when the lad bullied her; she was no longerable to put on her old black look of indignant anger. One morning heheard her humming to herself at breakfast-time.
"You seem very gay, Chantegreil!" he said to her suspiciously, glancingkeenly at her from his lowering eyes. "I bet you've been up to some ofyour tricks again!"
She shrugged her shoulders, but she trembled inwardly; and she did allshe could to regain her old appearance of rebellious martyrdom. However,though Justin suspected some secret happiness, it was long before he wasable to discover how his victim had escaped him.
Silvere, on his side, enjoyed profound happiness. His daily meetingswith Miette made his idle hours pass pleasantly away. During hislong silent companionship with aunt Dide, he recalled one by one hisremembrances of the morning, revelling in their most trifling details.From that time forward, the fulness of his heart cloistered him yet morein the lonely existence which he had adopted with his grandmother. Hewas naturally fond of hidden spots, of solitary retirement, where hecould give himself up to his thoughts. At this period already he hadeagerly begun to read all the old odd volumes which he could pick up atbrokers' shops in the Faubourg, and which were destined to lead him toa strange and generous social religion and morality. Hisreading--ill-digested and lacking all solid foundation--gave himglimpses of the world's vanities and pleasures, especially with regardto women, which would have seriously troubled his mind if his hearthad not been contented. When Miette came, he received her at first asa companion, then as the joy and ambition of his life. In
the evening,when he had retired to the little nook where he slept, and hung his lampat the head of his strap-bedstead, he would find Miette on every page ofthe dusty old volume which he had taken at random from a shelf above hishead and was reading devoutly. He never came across a young girl, a goodand beautiful creature, in his reading, without immediately identifyingher with his sweetheart. And he would set himself in the narrative aswell. If he were reading a love story, it was he who married Miette atthe end, or died with her. If, on the contrary, he were perusing somepolitical pamphlet, some grave dissertation on social economy, workswhich he preferred to romances, for he had that singular partiality fordifficult subjects which characterises persons of imperfect scholarship,he still found some means of associating her with the tedious themeswhich frequently he could not even understand. For instance, he triedto persuade himself that he was learning how to be good and kind to herwhen they were married. He thus associated her with all his visionarydreamings. Protected by the purity of his affection against theobscenity of certain eighteenth-century tales which fell into his hands,he found particular pleasure in shutting himself up with her in thosehumanitarian Utopias which some great minds of our own time, infatuatedby visions of universal happiness have imagined. Miette, in his mind,became quite essential to the abolition of pauperism and the definitivetriumph of the principles of the Revolution. There were nights offeverish reading, when his mind could not tear itself from his book,which he would lay down and take up at least a score of times, nightsof voluptuous weariness which he enjoyed till daybreak like some secretorgie, cramped up in that tiny room, his eyes troubled by the flickeringyellow light, while he yielded to the fever of insomnia and schemedout new social schemes of the most absurdly ingenuous nature, in whichwoman, always personified by Miette, was worshipped by the nations ontheir knees.
He was predisposed to Utopian ideas by certain hereditary influences;his grandmother's nervous disorders became in him so much chronicenthusiasm, striving after everything that was grandiose and impossible.His lonely childhood, his imperfect education, had developed his naturaltendencies in a singular manner. However, he had not yet reached the agewhen the fixed idea plants itself in a man's mind. In the morning, afterhe had dipped his head in a bucket of water, he remembered his thoughtsand visions of the night but vaguely; nothing remained of his dreamssave a childlike innocence, full of trustful confidence and yearningtenderness. He felt like a child again. He ran to the well, solelydesirous of meeting his sweetheart's smile, and tasting the delightsof the radiant morning. And during the day, when thoughts of the futuresometimes made him silent and dreamy, he would often, prompted by somesudden impulse, spring up and kiss aunt Dide on both cheeks, whereat theold woman would gaze at him anxiously, perturbed at seeing his eyes sobright, and gleaming with a joy which she thought she could divine.
At last, as time went on, Miette and Silvere began to tire of onlyseeing each other's reflection. The novelty of their play was gone, andnow they began to dream of keener pleasures than the well could affordthem. In this longing for reality which came upon them, there was thewish to see each other face to face, to run through the open fields, andreturn out of breath with their arms around each other's waist, clingingclosely together in order that they might the better feel each other'slove. One morning Silvere spoke of climbing over the wall, and walkingin the Jas with Miette. But the child implored him not to perpetratesuch folly, which would place her at Justin's mercy. He then promised toseek some other means.
The wall in which the well was set made a sudden bend a few pacesfurther on, thereby forming a sort of recess, where the lovers would befree from observation, if they were to take shelter there. The questionwas how to reach this recess. Silvere could no longer entertain the ideaof climbing over, as Miette had appeared so afraid. He secretly thoughtof another plan. The little door which Macquart and Adelaide had set upone night long years previously had remained forgotten in this remotecorner. The owner of the Jas-Meiffren had not even thought of blockingit up. Blackened by damp and green with moss, its lock and hinges eatenaway with rust, it looked like a part of the old wall. Doubtless thekey was lost; the grass growing beside the lower boards, against whichslight mounds had formed, amply proved that no one had passed that wayfor many a long year. However, it was the lost key that Silvere hoped tofind. He knew with what devotion his aunt Dide allowed the relics of thepast to lie rotting wherever they might be. He searched the house for aweek without any result, and went stealthily night by night to see ifhe had at last put his hand on the right key during the daytime. In thisway he tried more than thirty keys which had doubtless come from the oldproperty of the Fouques, and which he found all over the place, againstthe walls, on the floors, and at the bottom of drawers. He was becomingdisheartened, when all at once he found the precious key. It was simplytied by a string to the street door latch-key, which always remained inthe lock. It had hung there for nearly forty years. Aunt Dide must everyday have touched it with her hand, without ever making up her mind tothrow it away, although it could now only carry her back sorrowfullyinto the past. When Silvere had convinced himself that it really openedthe little door, he awaited the ensuing day, dreaming of the joyfulsurprise which he was preparing for Miette. He had not told her for whathe had been searching.
On the morrow, as soon as he heard the girl set her pitcher down, hegently opened the door, sweeping away with a push the tall weeds whichcovered the threshold. Stretching out his head, he saw Miette leaningover the brink of the well, looking into the water, absorbed inexpectation. Thereupon, in a couple of strides, he reached the recessformed by the wall, and thence called, "Miette! Miette!" in a softvoice, which made her tremble. She raised her head, thinking he was onthe coping of the wall. But when she saw him in the Jas, at a few stepsfrom her, she gave a faint cry of surprise, and ran up to him. They tookeach other's hand, and looked at one another, delighted to be so near,thinking themselves far handsomer like this, in the warm sunshine. Itwas the middle of August, the Feast of the Assumption. In thedistance, the bells were pealing in the limpid atmosphere that so oftenaccompanies great days of festival, an atmosphere full of bright gaiety.
"Good morning, Silvere!"
"Good morning, Miette!"
The voices in which they exchanged their morning greetings soundedstrange to them. They knew only the muffled accents transmitted by theecho of the well. And now their voices seemed to them as clear as thenotes of a lark. And ah! how delightful it was in that warm corner, inthat holiday atmosphere! They still held each other's hands. Silvereleaning against the wall, Miette with her figure slightly thrownbackwards. They were about to tell each other all the soft things whichthey had not dared to confide to the reverberations of the well, whenSilvere, hearing a slight noise, started, and, turning pale, droppedMiette's hands. He had just seen aunt Dide standing before him erect andmotionless on the threshold of the doorway.
The grandmother had come to the well by chance. And on perceiving, inthe old black wall, the white gap formed by the doorway which Silverehad left wide open, she had experienced a violent shock. That open gapseemed to her like a gulf of light violently illumining her past. Sheonce more saw herself running to the door amidst the morning brightness,and crossing the threshold full of the transports of her nervous love.And Macquart was there awaiting her. She hung upon his neck and pressedagainst his bosom, whilst the rising sun, following her through thedoorway, which she had left open in her hurry, enveloped them withradiance. It was a sudden vision which roused her cruelly from theslumber of old age, like some supreme chastisement, and awakened amultitude of bitter memories within her. Had the well, had the entirewall, disappeared beneath the earth, she would not have been morestupefied. She had never thought that this door would open again. In hermind it had been walled up ever since the hour of Macquart's death. Andamidst her amazement she felt angry, indignant with the sacrilegioushand that had penetrated this violation, and left that white open spaceagape like a yawning tomb. She stepped forward, yielding to
a kind offascination, and halted erect within the framework of the door.
Then she gazed out before her, with a feeling of dolorous surprise. Shehad certainly been told that the old enclosure of the Fouques wasnow joined to the Jas-Meiffren; but she would never have thought theassociations of her youth could have vanished so completely. It seemedas though some tempest had carried off everything that her memorycherished. The old dwelling, the large kitchen-garden, the beds of greenvegetables, all had disappeared. Not a stone, not a tree of former timesremained. And instead of the scene amidst which she had grown up, andwhich in her mind's eye she had seen but yesterday, there lay a stripof barren soil, a broad patch of stubbles, bare like a desert.Henceforward, when, on closing her eyes, she might try to recall theobjects of the past, that stubble would always appear to her like ashroud of yellowish drugget spread over the soil, in which her youth layburied. In the presence of that unfamiliar commonplace scene her heartdied, as it were, a second time. Now all was completely, finally ended.She was robbed even of her dreams of the past. Then she began to regretthat she had yielded to the attraction of that white opening, of thatdoorway gaping upon the days which were now for ever lost.
She was about to retire and close the accursed door, without evenseeking to discover who had opened it, when she suddenly perceivedMiette and Silvere. And the sight of the two young lovers, who, withhanging heads, nervously awaited her glance, kept her on the threshold,quivering with yet keener pain. She now understood all. To the very end,she was destined to picture herself there, clasped in Macquart's armsin the bright sunshine. Yet a second time had the door served as anaccomplice. Where love had once passed, there was it passing again.'Twas the eternal and endless renewal, with present joys and futuretears. Aunt Dide could only see the tears, and a sudden presentimentshowed her the two children bleeding, with stricken hearts. Overwhelmedby the recollection of her life's sorrow, which this spot had justawakened within her, she grieved for her dear Silvere. She alone wasguilty; if she had not formerly had that door made Silvere would notnow be at a girl's feet in that lonely nook, intoxicating himself with abliss which prompts and angers the jealousy of death.
After a brief pause, she went up to the young man, and, without aword, took him by the hand. She might, perhaps, have left them there,chattering under the wall, had she not felt that she herself was, tosome extent, an accomplice in this fatal love. As she came back withSilvere, she turned on hearing the light footfall of Miette, who, havingquickly taken up her pitcher, was hastening across the stubble. She wasrunning wildly, glad at having escaped so easily. And aunt Dide smiledinvoluntarily as she watched her bound over the ground like a runawaygoat.
"She is very young," she murmured, "she has plenty of time."
She meant, no doubt, that Miette had plenty of time before her to sufferand weep. Then, turning her eyes upon Silvere, who with a glance ofecstasy had followed the child as she ran off in the bright sunshine,she simply added: "Take care, my boy; this sort of thing sometimes killsone."
These were the only words she spoke with reference to the incident whichhad awakened all the sorrows that lay slumbering in the depths of herbeing. Silence had become a real religion with her. When Silvere camein, she double-locked the door, and threw the key down the well. Inthis wise she felt certain that the door would no longer make her anaccomplice. She examined it for a moment, glad at seeing it reassume itsusual gloomy, barrier-like aspect. The tomb was closed once more; thewhite gap was for ever boarded up with that damp-stained mossy timberover which the snails had shed silvery tears.
In the evening, aunt Dide had another of those nervous attacks whichcame upon her at intervals. At these times she would often talk aloudand ramble incoherently, as though she was suffering from nightmare.That evening, while Silvere held her down on her bed, he heard herstammer in a panting voice such words as "custom-house officer," "fire,"and "murder." And she struggled, and begged for mercy, and dreamed aloudof vengeance. At last, as always happened when the attack was drawing toa close, she fell into a strange fright, her teeth chattering, while herlimbs quivered with abject terror. Finally, after raising herself intoa sitting posture, she cast a haggard look of astonishment at one andanother corner of the room, and then fell back upon the pillow, heavingdeep sighs. She was, doubtless, a prey to some hallucination. However,she drew Silvere to her bosom, and seemed to some degree to recognisehim, though ever and anon she confused him with someone else.
"There they are!" she stammered. "Do you see? They are going to takeyou, they will kill you again. I don't want them to--Send them away,tell them I won't; tell them they are hurting me, staring at me likethat--"
Then she turned to the wall, to avoid seeing the people of whom she wastalking. And after an interval of silence, she continued: "You are nearme, my child, aren't you? You must not leave me. I thought I was goingto die just now. We did wrong to make an opening in the wall. I havesuffered ever since. I was certain that door would bring us furthermisfortune--Oh! the innocent darlings, what sorrow! They will kill themas well, they will be shot down like dogs."
Then she relapsed into catalepsy; she was no longer even aware ofSilvere's presence. Suddenly, however, she sat up, and gazed at the footof her bed, with a fearful expression of terror.
"Why didn't you send them away?" she cried, hiding her white headagainst the young man's breast. "They are still there. The one with thegun is making signs that he is going to fire."
Shortly afterwards she fell into the heavy slumber that usuallyterminated these attacks. On the next day, she seemed to have forgotteneverything. She never again spoke to Silvere of the morning on which shehad found him with a sweetheart behind the wall.
The young people did not see each other for a couple of days. WhenMiette ventured to return to the well, they resolved not to recommencethe pranks which had upset aunt Dide. However, the meeting which hadbeen so strangely interrupted had filled them with a keen desire tomeet again in some happy solitude. Weary of the delights afforded by thewell, and unwilling to vex aunt Dide by seeing Miette again on the otherside of the wall, Silvere begged the girl to meet him somewhere else.She required but little pressing; she received the proposal with thewilling smile of a frolicsome lass who has no thought of evil. Whatmade her smile was the idea of outwitting that spy of a Justin. When thelovers had come to agreement, they discussed at length the choice of afavourable spot. Silvere proposed the most impossible trysting-places.He planned regular journeys, and even suggested meeting the young girlat midnight in the barns of the Jas-Meiffren. Miette, who was much morepractical, shrugged her shoulders, declaring she would try to think ofsome spot. On the morrow, she tarried but a minute at the well, justtime enough to smile at Silvere and tell him to be at the far end of theAire Saint-Mittre at about ten o'clock in the evening. One may besure that the young man was punctual. All day long Miette's choice hadpuzzled him, and his curiosity increased when he found himself in thenarrow lane formed by the piles of planks at the end of the plot ofground. "She will come this way," he said to himself, looking along theroad to Nice. But he suddenly heard a loud shaking of boughs behindthe wall, and saw a laughing head, with tumbled hair, appear above thecoping, whilst a joyous voice called out: "It's me!"
And it was, in fact, Miette, who had climbed like an urchin up one ofthe mulberry-trees, which even nowadays still border the boundary ofthe Jas-Meiffren. In a couple of leaps she reached the tombstone, halfburied in the corner at the end of the lane. Silvere watched her descendwith delight and surprise, without even thinking of helping her. As soonas she had alighted, however, he took both her hands in his, and said:"How nimble you are!--you climb better than I do."
It was thus that they met for the first time in that hidden corner wherethey were destined to pass such happy hours. From that evening forwardthey saw each other there nearly every night. They now only used thewell to warn each other of unforeseen obstacles to their meetings, ofa change of time, and of all the trifling little news that seemedimportant in their eyes, and
allowed of no delay. It sufficed for theone who had a communication to make to set the pulley in motion, for itscreaking noise could be heard a long way off. But although, on certaindays, they summoned one another two or three times in succession tospeak of trifles of immense importance, it was only in the evening inthat lonely little passage that they tasted real happiness. Miette wasexceptionally punctual. She fortunately slept over the kitchen, in aroom where the winter provisions had been kept before her arrival, andwhich was reached by a little private staircase. She was thus able to goout at all hours, without being seen by Rebufat or Justin. Moreover, ifthe latter should ever see her returning she intended to tell him sometale or other, staring at him the while with that stern look whichalways reduced him to silence.
Ah! how happy those warm evenings were! The lovers had now reached thefirst days of September, a month of bright sunshine in Provence. It washardly possible for them to join each other before nine o'clock. Miettearrived from over the wall, in surmounting which she soon acquired suchdexterity that she was almost always on the old tombstone before Silverehad time to stretch out his arms. She would laugh at her own strengthand agility as, for a moment, with her hair in disorder, she remainedalmost breathless, tapping her skirt to make it fall. Her sweetheartlaughingly called her an impudent urchin. In reality he much admiredher pluck. He watched her jump over the wall with the complacency of anolder brother supervising the exercises of a younger one. Indeed,there was yet much that was childlike in their growing love. On severaloccasions they spoke of going on some bird's-nesting expedition on thebanks of the Viorne.
"You'll see how I can climb," said Miette proudly. "When I lived atChavanoz, I used to go right up to the top of old Andre's walnut-trees.Have you ever taken a magpie's nest? It's very difficult!"
Then a discussion arose as to how one ought to climb a poplar. Miettestated her opinions, with all a boy's confidence.
However, Silvere, clasping her round the knees, had by this time liftedher to the ground, and then they would walk on, side by side, their armsencircling each other's waist. Though they were but children, fond offrolicsome play and chatter, and knew not even how to speak of love, yetthey already partook of love's delight. It sufficed them to press eachother's hands. Ignorant whither their feelings and their hearts weredrifting, they did not seek to hide the blissful thrills which theslightest touch awoke. Smiling, often wondering at the delight theyexperienced, they yielded unconsciously to the sweetness of new feelingseven while talking, like a couple of schoolboys, of the magpies' nestswhich are so difficult to reach.
And as they talked they went down the silent path, between the piles ofplanks and the wall of the Jas-Meiffren. They never went beyond the endof that narrow blind alley, but invariably retraced their steps. Theywere quite at home there. Miette, happy in the knowledge of theirsafe concealment, would often pause and congratulate herself on herdiscovery.
"Wasn't I lucky!" she would gleefully exclaim. "We might walk a long waywithout finding such a good hiding-place."
The thick grass muffled the noise of their footsteps. They were steepedin gloom, shut in between two black walls, and only a strip of dark sky,spangled with stars, was visible above their heads. And as they steppedalong, pacing this path which resembled a dark stream flowing beneaththe black star-sprent sky, they were often thrilled with undefinableemotion, and lowered their voices, although there was nobody to hearthem. Surrendering themselves as it were to the silent waves of night,over which they seemed to drift, they recounted to one another, withlovers' rapture, the thousand trifles of the day.
At other times, on bright nights, when the moonlight clearly outlinedthe wall and the timber-stacks, Miette and Silvere would romp about withall the carelessness of children. The path stretched out, alight withwhite rays, and retaining no suggestion of secrecy, and the young peoplelaughed and chased each other like boys at play, at times venturing evento climb upon the piles of timber. Silvere was occasionally obliged tofrighten Miette by telling her that Justin might be watching her fromover the wall. Then, quite out of breath, they would stroll sideby side, and plan how they might some day go for a scamper in theSainte-Claire meadows, to see which of the two would catch the other.
Their growing love thus accommodated itself to dark and clear nights.Their hearts were ever on the alert, and a little shade sufficed tosweeten the pleasure of their embrace, and soften their laughter. Thisdearly-loved retreat--so gay in the moonshine, so strangely thrillingin the gloom--seemed an inexhaustible source of both gaiety and silentemotion. They would remain there until midnight, while the town droppedoff to sleep and the lights in the windows of the Faubourg went out oneby one.
They were never disturbed in their solitude. At that late hour childrenwere no longer playing at hide-and-seek behind the piles of planks.Occasionally, when the young couple heard sounds in the distance--thesinging of some workmen as they passed along the road, or conversationcoming from the neighbouring sidewalks--they would cast stealthy glancesover the Aire Saint-Mittre. The timber-yard stretched out, empty ofall, save here and there some falling shadows. On warm evenings theysometimes caught glimpses of loving couples there, and of old mensitting on the big beams by the roadside. When the evenings grew colder,all that they ever saw on the melancholy, deserted spot was some gipsyfire, before which, perhaps, a few black shadows passed to and fro.Through the still night air words and sundry faint sounds were wafted tothem, the "good-night" of a townsman shutting his door, the closing of awindow-shutter, the deep striking of a clock, all the parting sounds ofa provincial town retiring to rest. And when Plassans was slumbering,they might still hear the quarrelling of the gipsies and the cracklingof their fires, amidst which suddenly rose the guttural voices of girlssinging in a strange tongue, full of rugged accents.
But the lovers did not concern themselves much with what went on in theAire Saint-Mittre; they hastened back into their own little privacy, andagain walked along their favourite retired path. Little did they carefor others, or for the town itself! The few planks which separated themfrom the wicked world seemed to them, after a while, an insurmountablerampart. They were so secluded, so free in this nook, situated though itwas in the very midst of the Faubourg, at only fifty paces from the RomeGate, that they sometimes fancied themselves far away in some hollow ofthe Viorne, with the open country around them. Of all the soundswhich reached them, only one made them feel uneasy, that of the clocksstriking slowly in the darkness. At times, when the hour sounded, theypretended not to hear, at other moments they stopped short as if toprotest. However, they could not go on for ever taking just anotherten minutes, and so the time came when they were at last obliged to saygood-night. Then Miette reluctantly climbed upon the wall again. But allwas not ended yet, they would linger over their leave-taking for agood quarter of an hour. When the girl had climbed upon the wall, sheremained there with her elbows on the coping, and her feet supportedby the branches of the mulberry-tree, which served her as a ladder.Silvere, perched on the tombstone, was able to take her hands again, andrenew their whispered conversation. They repeated "till to-morrow!" adozen times, and still and ever found something more to say. At lastSilvere began to scold.
"Come, you must get down, it is past midnight."
But Miette, with a girl's waywardness, wished him to descend first; shewanted to see him go away. And as he persisted in remaining, she endedby saying abruptly, by way of punishment, perhaps: "Look! I am going tojump down."
Then she sprang from the mulberry-tree, to the great consternation ofSilvere. He heard the dull thud of her fall, and the burst of laughterwith which she ran off, without choosing to reply to his last adieu. Forsome minutes he would remain watching her vague figure as it disappearedin the darkness, then, slowly descending, he regained the ImpasseSaint-Mittre.
During two years they came to the path every day. At the time of theirfirst meetings they enjoyed some beautiful warm nights. They mightalmost have fancied themselves in the month of May, the month ofseething sap, when a
pleasant odour of earth and fresh leaves pervadesthe warm air. This _renouveau_, this second spring, was like a gift fromheaven which allowed them to run freely about the path and tighten theirbonds of affection.
At last came rain, and snow, and frost. But the disagreeableness ofwinter did not keep them away. Miette put on her long brown pelisse, andthey both made light of the bad weather. When the nights were dry andclear, and puffs of wind raised the hoar frost beneath their footstepsand fell on their faces like taps from a switch, they refrained fromsitting down. They walked quickly to and fro, wrapped in the pelisse,their cheeks blue with cold, and their eyes watering; and they laughedheartily, quite quivering with mirth, at the rapidity of theirmarch through the freezing atmosphere. One snowy evening they amusedthemselves with making an enormous snowball, which they rolled intoa corner. It remained there fully a month, which caused them freshastonishment each time they met in the path. Nor did the rain frightenthem. They came to see each other through the heaviest downpours, thoughthey got wet to the skin in doing so. Silvere would hasten to the spot,saying to himself that Miette would never be mad enough to come; andwhen Miette arrived, he could not find it in his heart to scold her.In reality he had been expecting her. At last he sought some shelteragainst the inclement weather, knowing quite well that they wouldcertainly come out, however much they might promise one another not todo so when it rained. To find a shelter he only had to disturb one ofthe timber-stacks; pulling out several pieces of wood and arranging themso that they would move easily, in such wise that he could displace andreplace them at pleasure.
From that time forward the lovers possessed a sort of low and narrowsentry-box, a square hole, which was only big enough to hold themclosely squeezed together on a beam which they had left at the bottomof the little cell. Whenever it rained, the first to arrive would takeshelter here; and on finding themselves together again they would listenwith delight to the rain beating on the piles of planks. Before andaround them, through the inky blackness of the night, came a rush ofwater which they could not see, but which resounded continuously likethe roar of a mob. They were nevertheless quite alone, as though theyhad been at the end of the world or beneath the sea. They never felt sohappy, so isolated, as when they found themselves in that timber-stack,in the midst of some such deluge which threatened to carry them away atevery moment. Their bent knees almost reached the opening, and thoughthey thrust themselves back as far as possible, the spray of the rainbathed their cheeks and hands. The big drops, falling from the planks,splashed at regular intervals at their feet. The brown pelisse kept themwarm, and the nook was so small that Miette was compelled to sit almoston Silvere's knees. And they would chatter and then lapse into silence,overcome with languor, lulled by the warmth of their embrace and themonotonous beating of the shower. For hours and hours they remainedthere, with that same enjoyment of the rain which prompts littlechildren to stroll along solemnly in stormy weather with open umbrellasin their hands. After a while they came to prefer the rainy evenings,though their parting became more painful on those occasions. Miette wasobliged to climb the wall in the driving rain, and cross the puddles ofthe Jas-Meiffren in perfect darkness. As soon as she had left his arms,she was lost to Silvere amidst the gloom and the noise of the fallingwater. In vain he listened, he was deafened, blinded. However, theanxiety caused by this brusque separation proved an additional charm,and, until the morrow, each would be uneasy lest anything should havebefallen the other in such weather, when one would not even have turneda dog out of doors. Perchance one of them had slipped, or lost the way;such were the mutual fears which possessed them, and rendered their nextinterview yet more loving.
At last the fine days returned, April brought mild nights, and the grassin the green alley sprouted up wildly. Amidst the stream of life flowingfrom heaven and rising from the earth, amidst all the intoxication ofthe budding spring-time, the lovers sometimes regretted their wintersolitude, the rainy evenings and the freezing nights, during which theyhad been so isolated so far from all human sounds. At present the daysdid not draw to a close soon enough, and they grew impatient with thelagging twilights. When the night had fallen sufficiently for Miette toclimb upon the wall without danger of being seen, and they could at lastglide along their dear path, they no longer found there the solitudecongenial to their shy, childish love. People began to flock to the AireSaint-Mittre, the urchins of the Faubourg remained there, romping aboutthe beams, and shouting, till eleven o'clock at night. It even happenedoccasionally that one of them would go and hide behind the piles oftimber, and assail Miette and Silvere with boyish jeers. The fear ofbeing surprised amidst that general awakening of life as the seasongradually grew warmer, tinged their meetings with anxiety.
Then, too, they began to stifle in the narrow lane. Never had itthrobbed with so ardent a quiver; never had that soil, in which thelast bones left of the former cemetery lay mouldering, sent forth suchoppressive and disturbing odours. They were still too young to relishthe voluptuous charm of that secluded nook which the springtide filledwith fever. The grass grew to their knees, they moved to and fro withdifficulty, and certain plants, when they crushed their young shoots,sent forth a pungent odour which made them dizzy. Then, seized withstrange drowsiness and staggering with giddiness, their feet asthough entangled in the grass, they would lean against the wall, withhalf-closed eyes, unable to move a step. All the soft languor from theskies seemed to penetrate them.
With the petulance of beginners, impatient and irritated at this suddenfaintness, they began to think their retreat too confined, and decidedto ramble through the open fields. Every evening came fresh frolics.Miette arrived with her pelisse; they wrapped themselves in it, andthen, gliding past the walls, reached the high-road and the opencountry, the broad fields where the wind rolled with full strength,like the waves at high tide. And here they no longer felt stifled; theyrecovered all their youthfulness, free from the giddy intoxication bornof the tall rank weeds of the Aire Saint-Mittre.
During two summers they rambled through the district. Every rock ledge,every bed of turf soon knew them; there was not a cluster of trees, ahedge, or a bush, which did not become their friend. They realized theirdreams: they chased each other wildly over the meadows of Sainte-Claire,and Miette ran so well that Silvere had to put his best foot forwardto catch her. Sometimes, too, they went in search of magpies' nests.Headstrong Miette, wishing to show how she had climbed trees atChavanoz, would tie up her skirts with a piece of string, and ascend thehighest poplars; while Silvere stood trembling beneath, with his armsoutstretched to catch her should she slip. These frolics so turned themfrom thoughts of love that one evening they almost fought like a coupleof lads coming out of school. But there were nooks in the country sidewhich were not healthful for them. So long as they rambled on they werecontinually shouting with laughter, pushing and teasing one another.They covered miles and miles of ground; sometimes they went as far asthe chain of the Garrigues, following the narrowest paths and cuttingacross the fields. The region belonged to them; they lived there as in aconquered territory, enjoying all that the earth and the sky could givethem. Miette, with a woman's lack of scruple, did not hesitate to plucka bunch of grapes, or a cluster of green almonds, from the vinesand almond-trees whose boughs brushed her as she passed; and at thisSilvere, with his absolute ideas of honesty, felt vexed, although hedid not venture to find fault with the girl, whose occasional sulkingdistressed him. "Oh! the bad girl!" thought he, childishly exaggeratingthe matter, "she would make a thief of me." But Miette would thereuponforce his share of the stolen fruit into his mouth. The artifices heemployed, such as holding her round the waist, avoiding the fruit trees,and making her run after him when they were near the vines, so asto keep her out of the way of temptation, quickly exhausted hisimagination. At last there was nothing to do but to make her sitdown. And then they again began to experience their former stiflingsensations. The gloomy valley of the Viorne particularly disturbedthem. When weariness brought them to the banks of the torren
t, all theirchildish gaiety seemed to disappear. A grey shadow floated under thewillows, like the scented crape of a woman's dress. The children feltthis crape descend warm and balmy from the voluptuous shoulders of thenight, kiss their temples and envelop them with irresistible languor. Inthe distance the crickets chirped in the meadows of Sainte-Claire,and at their feet the ripples of the Viorne sounded like lovers'whispers--like the soft cooing of humid lips. The stars cast a rain ofsparkles from the slumbering heavens. And, amidst the throbbing of thesky, the waters and the darkness, the children reposing on the grasssought each other's hands and pressed them.
Silvere, who vaguely understood the danger of these ecstasies, wouldsometimes jump up and propose to cross over to one of the islets leftby the low water in the middle of the stream. Both ventured forth, withbare feet. Miette made light of the pebbles, refusing Silvere's help,and it once happened that she sat down in the very middle of the stream;however, there were only a few inches of water, and she escaped withnothing worse than a wet petticoat. Then, having reached the island,they threw themselves on the long neck of sand, their eyes on a levelwith the surface of the river whose silvery scales they saw quiveringfar away in the clear night. Then Miette would declare that they werein a boat, that the island was certainly floating; she could feel itcarrying her along. The dizziness caused by the rippling of the wateramused them for a moment, and they lingered there, singing in anundertone, like boatmen as they strike the water with their oars. Atother times, when the island had a low bank, they sat there as on a bedof verdure, and let their bare feet dangle in the stream. And then forhours they chatted together, swinging their legs, and splashing thewater, delighted to set a tempest raging in the peaceful pool whosefreshness cooled their fever.
These footbaths suggested a dangerous idea to Miette. Nothing wouldsatisfy her but a complete bath. A little above the bridge over theViorne there was a very convenient spot, she said, barely three or fourfeet deep and quite safe; the weather was so warm, it would be so niceto have the water up to their necks; besides which, she had been dyingto learn to swim for such a long time, and Silvere would be able toteach her. Silvere raised objections; it was not prudent at night time;they might be seen; perhaps, too they might catch cold. However, nothingcould turn Miette from her purpose. One evening she came with a bathingcostume which she had made out of an old dress; and Silvere was thenobliged to go back to aunt Dide's for his bathing drawers. Theirproceedings were characterised by great simplicity. Miette disrobedherself beneath the shade of a stout willow; and when both were ready,enveloped in the blackness which fell from the foliage around them, theygaily entered the cool water, oblivious of all previous scruples, andknowing in their innocence no sense of shame. They remained in the riverquite an hour, splashing and throwing water into each other's faces;Miette now getting cross, now breaking out into laughter, while Silveregave her her first lesson, dipping her head under every now and again soas to accustom her to the water. As long as he held her up she threw herarms and legs about violently, thinking she was swimming; but directlyhe let her go, she cried and struggled, striking the water with heroutstretched hands, clutching at anything she could get hold of, theyoung man's waist or one of his wrists. She leant against him for aninstant, resting, out of breath and dripping with water; and then shecried: "Once more; but you do it on purpose, you don't hold me."
At the end of a fortnight, the girl was able to swim. With her limbsmoving freely, rocked by the stream, playing with it, she yielded formand spirit alike to its soft motion, to the silence of the heavens,and the dreaminess of the melancholy banks. As she and Silvere swamnoiselessly along, she seemed to see the foliage of both banks thickenand hang over them, draping them round as with a huge curtain. Whenthe moon shone, its rays glided between the trunks of the trees, andphantoms seemed to flit along the river-side in white robes. Miette feltno nervousness, however, only an indefinable emotion as she followedthe play of the shadows. As she went onward with slower motion, the calmwater, which the moon converted into a bright mirror, rippled ather approach like a silver-broidered cloth; eddies widened and lostthemselves amid the shadows of the banks, under the hanging willowbranches, whence issued weird, plashing sounds. At every stroke sheperceived recesses full of sound; dark cavities which she hastenedto pass by; clusters and rows of trees, whose sombre masses werecontinually changing form, stretching forward and apparently followingher from the summit of the bank. And when she threw herself on her back,the depths of the heavens affected her still more. From the fields, fromthe distant horizon, which she could no longer see, a solemn lingeringstrain, composed of all the sighs of the night, was wafted to her.
She was not of a dreamy nature; it was physically, through the medium ofeach of her senses, that she derived enjoyment from the sky, the river,and the play of light and shadow. The river, in particular, bore heralong with endless caresses. When she swam against the current she wasdelighted to feel the stream flow rapidly against her bosom and limbs.She dipped herself in it yet more deeply, with the water reaching to herlips, so that it might pass over her shoulders, and envelop her, fromchin to feet, with flying kisses. Then she would float, languid andquiescent, on the surface, whilst the ripples glided softly between hercostume and her skin. And she would also roll over in the still poolslike a cat on a carpet; and swim from the luminous patches wherethe moonbeams were bathing, to the dark water shaded by the foliage,shivering the while, as though she had quitted a sunny plain and thenfelt the cold from the boughs falling on her neck.
She now remained quite silent in the water, and would not allow Silvereto touch her. Gliding softly by his side, she swam on with the lightrustling of a bird flying across the copse, or else she would circleround him, a prey to vague disquietude which she did not comprehend.He himself darted quickly away if he happened to brush against her.The river was now but a source of enervating intoxication, voluptuouslanguor, which disturbed them strangely. When they emerged from theirbath they felt dizzy, weary, and drowsy. Fortunately, the girl declaredone evening that she would bathe no more, as the cold water made theblood run to her head. And it was in all truth and innocence that shesaid this.
Then their long conversations began anew. The dangers to which theinnocence of their love had lately been exposed had left no other tracein Silvere's mind than great admiration for Miette's physical strength.She had learned to swim in a fortnight, and often, when they racedtogether, he had seen her stem the current with a stroke as rapid as hisown. He, who delighted in strength and bodily exercises, felt athrill of pleasure at seeing her so strong, so active and adroit. Heentertained at heart a singular admiration for her stout arms. Oneevening, after one of the first baths that had left them so playful,they caught each other round the waist on a strip of sand, and wrestledfor several minutes without Silvere being able to throw Miette. Atlast, indeed, it was the young man who lost his balance, while the girlremained standing. Her sweetheart treated her like a boy, and it wasthose long rambles of theirs, those wild races across the meadows, thosebirds' nests filched from the tree crests, those struggles and violentgames of one and another kind that so long shielded them and their lovefrom all impurity.
Then, too, apart from his youthful admiration for his sweetheart'sdashing pluck, Silvere felt for her all the compassionate tenderness ofa heart that ever softened towards the unfortunate. He, who could neversee any forsaken creature, a poor man, or a child, walking barefootedalong the dusty roads, without a throb of pity, loved Miette becausenobody else loved her, because she virtually led an outcast's hard life.When he saw her smile he was deeply moved by the joy he brought her.Moreover, the child was a wildling, like himself, and they were of thesame mind in hating all the gossips of the Faubourg. The dreams in whichSilvere indulged in the daytime, while he plied his heavy hammer roundthe cartwheels in his master's shop, were full of generous enthusiasm.He fancied himself Miette's redeemer. All his reading rushed to hishead; he meant to marry his sweetheart some day, in order to raise herin the eyes of the worl
d. It was like a holy mission that he imposedupon himself, that of redeeming and saving the convict's daughter. Andhis head was so full of certain theories and arguments, that he did nottell himself these things in simple fashion, but became lost in perfectsocial mysticism; imagining rehabilitation in the form of an apotheosisin which he pictured Miette seated on a throne, at the end of the CoursSauvaire, while the whole town prostrated itself before her, entreatingher pardon and singing her praises. Happily he forgot all these finethings as soon as Miette jumped over the wall, and said to him on thehigh road: "Let us have a race! I'm sure you won't catch me."
However, if the young man dreamt like this of the glorification of hissweetheart, he also showed such passion for justice that he often madeher weep on speaking to her about her father. In spite of the softeningeffect which Silvere's friendship had had upon her, she still at timesgave way to angry outbreaks of temper, when all the stubbornness andrebellion latent in her nature stiffened her with scowling eyes andtightly-drawn lips. She would then contend that her father had donequite right to kill the gendarme, that the earth belongs to everybody,and that one has the right to fire a gun when and where one likes.Thereupon Silvere, in a grave voice, explained the law to her as heunderstood it, with strange commentaries which would have startled thewhole magistracy of Plassans. These discussions took place most often insome remote corner of the Sainte-Claire meadows. The grassy carpet of adusky green hue stretched further than they could see, undotted even bya single tree, and the sky seemed colossal, spangling the bare horizonwith the stars. It seemed to the young couple as if they were beingrocked on a sea of verdure. Miette argued the point obstinately; sheasked Silvere if her father should have let the gendarme kill him, andSilvere, after a momentary silence, replied that, in such a case, itwas better to be the victim than the murderer, and that it was a greatmisfortune for anyone to kill a fellow man, even in legitimate defence.The law was something holy to him, and the judges had done right insending Chantegreil to the galleys. At this the girl grew angry, andalmost struck her sweetheart, crying out that he was as heartless as therest. And as he still firmly defended his ideas of justice, she finishedby bursting into sobs, and stammering that he was doubtless ashamedof her, since he was always reminding her of her father's crime. Thesediscussions ended in tears, in mutual emotion. But although the childcried, and acknowledged that she was perhaps wrong, she still retaineddeep within her a wild resentful temper. She once related, with heartylaughter, that she had seen a gendarme fall off his horse and break hisleg. Apart from this, Miette only lived for Silvere. When he asked herabout her uncle and cousin, she replied that "She did not know;" andif he pressed her, fearing that they were making her too unhappy at theJas-Meiffren, she simply answered that she worked hard, and that nothinghad changed. She believed, however, that Justin had at last found outwhat made her sing in the morning, and filled her eyes with delight. Butshe added: "What does it matter? If ever he comes to disturb us we'llreceive him in such a way that he won't be in a hurry to meddle with ouraffairs any more."
Now and again the open country, their long rambles in the fresh air,wearied them somewhat. They then invariably returned to the AireSaint-Mittre, to the narrow lane, whence they had been driven by thenoisy summer evenings, the pungent scent of the trodden grass, all thewarm oppressive emanations. On certain nights, however, the path provedcooler, and the winds freshened it so that they could remain therewithout feeling faint. They then enjoyed a feeling of delightful repose.Seated on the tombstone, deaf to the noise of the children and gipsies,they felt at home again. Silvere had on various occasions pickedup fragments of bones, even pieces of skulls, and they were fond ofspeaking of the ancient burial-ground. It seemed to them, in theirlively fancies, that their love had shot up like some vigorous plant inthis nook of soil which dead men's bones had fertilised. It had grown,indeed, like those wild weeds, it had blossomed as blossom the poppieswhich sway like bare bleeding hearts at the slightest breeze. Andthey ended by fancying that the warm breaths passing over them, thewhisperings heard in the gloom, the long quivering which thrilled thepath, came from the dead folk sighing their departed passions intheir faces, telling them the stories of their bridals, as they turnedrestlessly in their graves, full of a fierce longing to live and loveagain. Those fragments of bone, they felt convinced of it, were full ofaffection for them; the shattered skulls grew warm again by contact withtheir own youthful fire, the smallest particles surrounded them withpassionate whispering, anxious solicitude, throbbing jealousy. And whenthey departed, the old burial-ground seemed to groan. Those weeds,in which their entangled feet often stumbled on sultry nights, werefingers, tapered by tomb life, that sprang up from the earth to detainthem and cast them into each other's arms. That pungent and penetratingodour exhaled by the broken stems was the fertilising perfume, themighty quintessence of life which is slowly elaborated in the grave,and intoxicates the lovers who wander in the solitude of the paths.The dead, the old departed dead, longed for the bridal of Miette andSilvere.
They were never afraid. The sympathy which seemed to hover around themthrilled them and made them love the invisible beings whose soft touchthey often imagined they could feel, like a gentle flapping of wings.Sometimes they were saddened by sweet melancholy, and could notunderstand what the dead desired of them. They went on basking in theirinnocent love, amidst this flood of sap, this abandoned cemetery, whoserich soil teemed with life, and imperiously demanded their union. Theystill remained ignorant of the meaning of the buzzing voices which theyheard ringing in their ears, the sudden glow which sent the blood flyingto their faces.
They often questioned each other about the remains which theydiscovered. Miette, after a woman's fashion, was partial to lugubrioussubjects. At each new discovery she launched into endless suppositions.If the bone were small, she spoke of some beautiful girl a prey toconsumption, or carried off by fever on the eve of her marriage; if thebone were large, she pictured some big old man, a soldier or a judge,some one who had inspired others with terror. For a long time thetombstone particularly engaged their attention. One fine moonlight nightMiette distinguished some half-obliterated letters on one side of it,and thereupon she made Silvere scrape the moss away with his knife. Thenthey read the mutilated inscription: "Here lieth . . . Marie . . .died . . ." And Miette, finding her own name on the stone, was quiteterror-stricken. Silvere called her a "big baby," but she could notrestrain her tears. She had received a stab in the heart, she said; shewould soon die, and that stone was meant for her. The young man himselffelt alarmed. However, he succeeded in shaming the child out of thesethoughts. What! she so courageous, to dream about such trifles! Theyended by laughing. Then they avoided speaking of it again. But inmelancholy moments, when the cloudy sky saddened the pathway, Miettecould not help thinking of that dead one, that unknown Marie, whosetomb had so long facilitated their meetings. The poor girl's bones wereperhaps still lying there. And at this thought Miette one evening had astrange whim, and asked Silvere to turn the stone over to see what mightbe under it. He refused, as though it were sacrilege, and his refusalstrengthened Miette's fancies with regard to the dear phantom which boreher name. She positively insisted that the girl had died young, asshe was, and in the very midst of her love. She even began to pity thestone, that stone which she climbed so nimbly, and on which they hadsat so often, a stone which death had chilled, and which their love hadwarmed again.
"You'll see, this tombstone will bring us misfortune," she added. "Ifyou were to die, I should come and lie here, and then I should like tohave this stone set over my body."
At this, Silvere, choking with emotion, scolded her for thinking of suchmournful things.
And so, for nearly two years, their love grew alike in the narrowpathway and the open country. Their idyll passed through the chillingrains of December and the burning solicitations of July, free from alltouch of impurity, ever retaining the sweet charm of some old Greeklove-tale, all the naive hesitancy of youth which desires but knows not.In vain did
the long-departed dead whisper in their ears. They carriednothing away from the old cemetery but emotional melancholy and a vaguepresentiment of a short life. A voice seemed to whisper to them thatthey would depart amidst their virginal love, long ere the bridal daywould give them wholly to each other. It was there, on the tombstone andamong the bones that lay hidden beneath the rank grass, that they hadfirst come to indulge in that longing for death, that eager desire tosleep together in the earth, that now set them stammering and sighingbeside the Orcheres road, on that December night, while the two bellsrepeated their mournful warnings to one another.
Miette was sleeping calmly, with her head resting on Silvere's chestwhile he mused upon their past meeting, their lovely years of unbrokenhappiness. At daybreak the girl awoke. The valley now spread out clearlyunder the bright sky. The sun was still behind the hills, but a streamof crystal light, limpid and cold as spring-water, flowed from thepale horizon. In the distance, the Viorne, like a white satin ribbon,disappeared among an expanse of red and yellow land. It was a boundlessvista, with grey seas of olive-trees, and vineyards that looked likehuge pieces of striped cloth. The whole country was magnified by theclearness of the atmosphere and the peaceful cold. However, sharp gustsof wind chilled the young people's faces. And thereupon they sprang totheir feet, cheered by the sight of the clear morning. Their melancholyforebodings had vanished with the darkness, and they gazed with delightat the immense expanse of the plain, and listened to the tolling of thetwo bells that now seemed to be joyfully ringing in a holiday.
"Ah! I've had a good sleep!" Miette cried. "I dreamt you were kissingme. Tell me now, did you kiss me?"
"It's very possible," Silvere replied laughing. "I was not very warm. Itis bitterly cold."
"I only feel cold in the feet," Miette rejoined.
"Well! let us have a run," said Silvere. "We have still two good leaguesto go. You will get warm."
Thereupon they descended the hill and ran until they reached the highroad. When they were below they raised their heads as if to say farewellto that rock on which they had wept while their kisses burned theirlips. But they did not again speak of that ardent embrace which hadthrilled them so strongly with vague, unknown desire. Under the pretextof walking more quickly they did not even take each other's arm. Theyexperienced some slight confusion when they looked at one another,though why they could not tell. Meantime the dawn was rising aroundthem. The young man, who had sometimes been sent to Orcheres by hismaster, knew all the shortest cuts. Thus they walked on for more thantwo leagues, along dingle paths by the side of interminable ledges andwalls. Now and again Miette accused Silvere of having taken her thewrong way; for, at times--for a quarter of an hour at a stretch--theylost all sight of the surrounding country, seeing above the walls andhedges nothing but long rows of almond-trees whose slender branchesshowed sharply against the pale sky.
All at once, however, they came out just in front of Orcheres. Loudcries of joy, the shouting of a crowd, sounded clearly in the limpidair. The insurrectionary forces were only now entering the town. Mietteand Silvere went in with the stragglers. Never had they seen suchenthusiasm. To judge from the streets, one would have thought it was aprocession day, when the windows are decked with the finest drapery tohonour the passage of the Canopy. The townsfolk welcomed the insurgentsas though they were deliverers. The men embraced them, while the womenbrought them food. Old men were to be seen weeping at the doors. And thejoyousness was of an essentially Southern character, pouring forth inclamorous fashion, in singing, dancing, and gesticulation. As Miettepassed along she was carried away by a _farandole_[*] which spreadwhirling all round the Grand' Place. Silvere followed her. His thoughtsof death and his discouragement were now far away. He wanted to fight,to sell his life dearly at least. The idea of a struggle intoxicatedhim afresh. He dreamed of victory to be followed by a happy life withMiette, amidst the peacefulness of the universal Republic.
[*] The _farandole_ is the popular dance of Provence.
The fraternal reception accorded them by the inhabitants of Orcheresproved to be the insurgents' last delight. They spent the day amidstradiant confidence and boundless hope. The prisoners, CommanderSicardot, Messieurs Garconnet, Peirotte and the others, who had beenshut up in one of the rooms at the mayor's, the windows of whichoverlooked the Grand' Place, watched the _farandoles_ and wild outburstsof enthusiasm with surprise and dismay.
"The villains!" muttered the Commander, leaning upon a window-bar, asthough bending over the velvet-covered hand-rest of a box at a theatre:"To think that there isn't a battery or two to make a clean sweep of allthat rabble!"
Then he perceived Miette, and addressing himself to Monsieur Garconnet,he added: "Do you see, sir, that big girl in red over yonder? Howdisgraceful! They've even brought their mistresses with them. If thiscontinues much longer we shall see some fine goings-on."
Monsieur Garconnet shook his head, saying something about "unbridledpassions," and "the most evil days of history." Monsieur Peirotte, aswhite as a sheet, remained silent; he only opened his lips once, to sayto Sicardot, who was still bitterly railing: "Not so loud, sir; not soloud! You will get us all massacred."
As a matter of fact, the insurgents treated the gentlemen with thegreatest kindness. They even provided them with an excellent dinner inthe evening. Such attentions, however, were terrifying to such a quakeras the receiver of taxes; the insurgents he thought would not treat themso well unless they wished to make them fat and tender for the day whenthey might wish to devour them.
At dusk that day Silvere came face to face with his cousin, DoctorPascal. The latter had followed the band on foot, chatting with theworkmen who held him in the greatest respect. At first he had strivento dissuade them from the struggle; and then, as if convinced by theirarguments, he had said to them with his kindly smile: "Well, perhaps youare right, my friends; fight if you like, I shall be here to patch upyour arms and legs."
Then, in the morning he began to gather pebbles and plants along thehigh road. He regretted that he had not brought his geologist's hammerand botanical wallet with him. His pockets were now so full of stonesthat they were almost bursting, while bundles of long herbs peered forthfrom the surgeon's case which he carried under his arm.
"Hallo! You here, my lad?" he cried, as he perceived Silvere. "I thoughtI was the only member of the family here."
He spoke these last words with a touch of irony, as if deriding theintrigues of his father and his uncle Antoine. Silvere was very gladto meet his cousin; the doctor was the only one of the Rougons whoever shook hands with him in the street, and showed him any sincerefriendship. Seeing him, therefore, still covered with dust from themarch, the young man thought him gained over to the Republican cause,and was much delighted thereat. He talked to the doctor, with youthfulmagniloquence, of the people's rights, their holy cause, and theircertain triumph. Pascal smiled as he listened, and watched the youth'sgestures and the ardent play of his features with curiosity, as thoughhe were studying a patient, or analysing an enthusiasm, to ascertainwhat might be at the bottom of it.
"How you run on! How you run on!" he finally exclaimed. "Ah! you areyour grandmother's true grandson." And, in a whisper, he added, likesome chemist taking notes: "Hysteria or enthusiasm, shameful madnessor sublime madness. It's always those terrible nerves!" Then, againspeaking aloud, as if summing up the matter, he said: "The family iscomplete now. It will count a hero among its members."
Silvere did not hear him. He was still talking of his dear Republic.Miette had dropped a few paces off; she was still wrapped in her largered pelisse. She and Silvere had traversed the town arm-in-arm.The sight of this tall red girl at last puzzled Pascal, and againinterrupting his cousin, he asked him: "Who is this child with you?"
"She is my wife," Silvere gravely answered.
The doctor opened his eyes wide, for he did not understand. He was veryshy with women; however, he raised his hat to Miette as he went away.
The night proved an anxious one. Forebod
ings of misfortune swept overthe insurgents. The enthusiasm and confidence of the previous eveningseemed to die away in the darkness. In the morning there were gloomyfaces; sad looks were exchanged, followed by discouraging silence.Terrifying rumours were now circulating. Bad news, which the leadershad managed to conceal the previous evening, had spread abroad, thoughnobody in particular was known to have spoken. It was the work ofthat invisible voice, which, with a word, throws a mob into a panic.According to some reports Paris was subdued, and the provinces hadoffered their hands and feet, eager to be bound. And it was added thata large party of troops, which had left Marseilles under the command ofColonel Masson and Monsieur de Bleriot, the prefect of the department,was advancing by forced marches to disperse the insurrectionary bands.This news came like a thunderbolt, at once awakening rage and despair.These men, who on the previous evening had been all aglow with patrioticfever, now shivered with cold, chilled to their hearts by the shamefulsubmissiveness of prostrate France. They alone, then, had had thecourage to do their duty! And now they were to be left to perish amidstthe general panic, the death-like silence of the country; they hadbecome mere rebels, who would be hunted down like wild beasts; they,who had dreamed of a great war, of a whole nation in revolt, and ofthe glorious conquest of the people's rights! Miserably baffled andbetrayed, this handful of men could but weep for their dead faith andtheir vanished dreams of justice. There were some who, while tauntingFrance with her cowardice, flung away their arms, and sat down by theroadside, declaring that they would there await the bullets of thetroops, and show how Republicans could die.
Although these men had nothing now but death or exile before them,there were very few desertions from their ranks. A splendid feeling ofsolidarity kept them together. Their indignation turned chiefly againsttheir leaders, who had really proved incapable. Irreparable mistakeshad been committed; and now the insurgents, without order or discipline,barely protected by a few sentries, and under the command of irresolutemen, found themselves at the mercy of the first soldiers that mightarrive.
They spent two more days at Orcheres, Tuesday and Wednesday, thus losingtime and aggravating the situation. The general, the man with the sabre,whom Silvere had pointed out to Miette on the Plassans road, vacillatedand hesitated under the terrible responsibility that weighed upon him.On Thursday he came to the conclusion that the position of Orchereswas a decidedly dangerous one; so towards one o'clock he gave orders tomarch, and led his little army to the heights of Sainte-Roure. That was,indeed, an impregnable position for any one who knew how to defend it.The houses of Sainte-Roure rise in tiers along a hill-side; behind thetown all approach is shut off by enormous rocks, so that this kind ofcitadel can only be reached by the Nores plain, which spreads out at thefoot of the plateau. An esplanade, converted into a public walk plantedwith magnificent elms, overlooks the plain. It was on this esplanadethat the insurgents encamped. The hostages were imprisoned in the Hotelde la Mule-Blanche, standing half-way along the promenade. The nightpassed away heavy and black. The insurgents spoke of treachery. As soonas it was morning, however, the man with the sabre, who had neglected totake the simplest precautions, reviewed the troops. The contingents weredrawn up in line with their backs turned to the plain. They presenteda wonderful medley of costume, some wearing brown jackets, othersdark greatcoats, and others again blue blouses girded with red sashes.Moreover, their arms were an equally odd collection: there were newlysharpened scythes, large navvies' spades, and fowling-pieces withburnished barrels glittering in the sunshine. And at the very momentwhen the improvised general was riding past the little army, a sentry,who had been forgotten in an olive-plantation, ran up gesticulating andshouting:
"The soldiers! The soldiers!"
There was indescribable emotion. At first, they thought it a falsealarm. Forgetting all discipline, they rushed forward to the end of theesplanade in order to see the soldiers. The ranks were broken, and asthe dark line of troops appeared, marching in perfect order with a longglitter of bayonets, on the other side of the greyish curtain of olivetrees, there came a hasty and disorderly retreat, which sent a quiver ofpanic to the other end of the plateau. Nevertheless, the contingentsof La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx had again formed in line inthe middle of the promenade, and stood there erect and fierce. Awood-cutter, who was a head taller than any of his companions, shouted,as he waved his red neckerchief: "To arms, Chavanoz, Graille, Poujols,Saint-Eutrope! To arms, Les Tulettes! To arms, Plassans!"
Crowds streamed across the esplanade. The man with the sabre, surroundedby the folks from Faverolles, marched off with several of the countrycontingents--Vernoux, Corbiere, Marsanne, and Pruinas--to outflank theenemy and then attack him. Other contingents, from Valqueyras, Nazere,Castel-le-Vieux, Les Roches-Noires, and Murdaran, dashed to the left,scattering themselves in skirmishing parties over the Nores plain.
And meantime the men of the towns and villages that the wood-cutter hadcalled to his aid mustered together under the elms, there forming a darkirregular mass, grouped without regard to any of the rules of strategy,simply placed there like a rock, as it were, to bar the way or die. Themen of Plassans stood in the middle of this heroic battalion. Amid thegrey hues of the blouses and jackets, and the bluish glitter of theweapons, the pelisse worn by Miette, who was holding the banner withboth hands, looked like a large red splotch--a fresh and bleeding wound.
All at once perfect silence fell. Monsieur Peirotte's pale face appearedat a window of the Hotel de la Mule-Blanche. And he began to speak,gesticulating with his hands.
"Go in, close the shutters," the insurgents furiously shouted; "you'llget yourself killed."
Thereupon the shutters were quickly closed, and nothing was heard savethe regular, rhythmical tramp of the soldiers who were drawing near.
A minute, that seemed an age, went by. The troops had disappeared,hidden by an undulation of the ground; but over yonder, on the side ofthe Nores plain, the insurgents soon perceived the bayonets shootingup, one after another, like a field of steel-eared corn under the risingsun. At that moment Silvere, who was glowing with feverish agitation,fancied he could see the gendarme whose blood had stained his hands. Heknew, from the accounts of his companions, that Rengade was not dead,that he had only lost an eye; and he clearly distinguished the unluckyman with his empty socket bleeding horribly. The keen recollection ofthis gendarme, to whom he had not given a thought since his departurefrom Plassans, proved unbearable. He was afraid that fear might get thebetter of him, and he tightened his hold on his carbine, while a mistgathered before his eyes. He felt a longing to discharge his gunand fire at the phantom of that one-eyed man so as to drive it away.Meantime the bayonets were still and ever slowly ascending.
When the heads of the soldiers appeared on a level with the esplanade,Silvere instinctively turned to Miette. She stood there with flushedface, looking taller than ever amidst the folds of the red banner; shewas indeed standing on tiptoes in order to see the troops, and nervousexpectation made her nostrils quiver and her red lips part so as toshow her white, eager, gleaming teeth. Silvere smiled at her. But he hadscarcely turned his head when a fusillade burst out. The soldiers, whocould only be seen from their shoulders upwards, had just fired theirfirst volley. It seemed to Silvere as though a great gust of wind waspassing over his head, while a shower of leaves, lopped off by thebullets, fell from the elms. A sharp sound, like the snapping of a deadbranch, made him look to his right. Then, prone on the ground, he sawthe big wood-cutter, he who was a head taller than the others. There wasa little black hole in the middle of his forehead. And thereupon Silverefired straight before him, without taking aim, reloaded and fired againlike a madman or an unthinking wild beast, in haste only to kill. Hecould not even distinguish the soldiers now; smoke, resembling strips ofgrey muslin, was floating under the elms. The leaves still rained uponthe insurgents, for the troops were firing too high. Every now and then,athwart the fierce crackling of the fusillade, the young man heard asigh or a low rattle, and a rush was made a
mong the band as if to makeroom for some poor wretch clutching hold of his neighbours as he fell.The firing lasted ten minutes.
Then, between two volleys some one exclaimed in a voice of terror:"Every man for himself! _Sauve qui peut!_" This roused shouts andmurmurs of rage, as if to say, "The cowards! Oh! the cowards!" sinisterrumours were spreading--the general had fled; cavalry were sabring theskirmishers in the Nores plain. However, the irregular firing did notcease, every now and again sudden bursts of flame sped through theclouds of smoke. A gruff voice, the voice of terror, shouted yet louder:"Every man for himself! _Sauve qui peut!_" Some men took to flight,throwing down their weapons and leaping over the dead. The others closedtheir ranks. At last there were only some ten insurgents left. Two moretook to flight, and of the remaining eight three were killed at onedischarge.
The two children had remained there mechanically without understandinganything. As the battalion diminished in numbers, Miette raised thebanner still higher in the air; she held it in front of her withclenched fists as if it were a huge taper. It was completely riddledby bullets. When Silvere had no more cartridges left in his pocket, heceased firing, and gazed at the carbine with an air of stupor. It wasthen that a shadow passed over his face, as though the flapping wingsof some colossal bird had brushed against his forehead. And raising hiseyes he saw the banner fall from Miette's grasp. The child, her handsclasped to her breast, her head thrown back with an expression ofexcruciating suffering, was staggering to the ground. She did not uttera single cry, but sank at last upon the red banner.
"Get up; come quickly," Silvere said, in despair, as he held out hishand to her.
But she lay upon the ground without uttering a word, her eyes wide open.Then he understood, and fell on his knees beside her.
"You are wounded, eh? tell me? Where are you wounded?"
She still spoke no word; she was stifling, and gazing at him out of herlarge eyes, while short quivers shook her frame. Then he pulled away herhands.
"It's there, isn't it? it's there."
And he tore open her bodice, and laid her bosom bare. He searched, butsaw nothing. His eyes were brimming with tears. At last under the leftbreast he perceived a small pink hole; a single drop of blood stainedthe wound.
"It's nothing," he whispered; "I'll go and find Pascal, he'll put youall right again. If you could only get up. Can't you move?"
The soldiers were not firing now; they had dashed to the left in pursuitof the contingents led away by the man with the sabre. And in the centreof the esplanade there only remained Silvere kneeling beside Miette'sbody. With the stubbornness of despair, he had taken her in his arms. Hewanted to set her on her feet, but such a quiver of pain came upon thegirl that he laid her down again, and said to her entreatingly: "Speakto me, pray. Why don't you say something to me?"
She could not; she slowly, gently shook her hand, as if to say thatit was not her fault. Her close-pressed lips were already contractingbeneath the touch of death. With her unbound hair streaming around her,and her head resting amid the folds of the blood-red banner, all herlife now centred in her eyes, those black eyes glittering in her whiteface. Silvere sobbed. The glance of those big sorrowful eyes filled himwith distress. He read in them bitter, immense regret for life. Miettewas telling him that she was going away all alone, and before theirbridal day; that she was leaving him ere she had become his wife. Shewas telling him, too, that it was he who had willed that it shouldbe so, that he should have loved her as other lovers love theirsweethearts. In the hour of her agony, amidst that stern conflictbetween death and her vigorous nature, she bewailed her fate in goinglike that to the grave. Silvere, as he bent over her, understood howbitter was the pang. He recalled their caresses, how she had hung roundhis neck, and had yearned for his love, but he had not understood, andnow she was departing from him for evermore. Bitterly grieved at thethought that throughout her eternal rest she would remember him solelyas a companion and playfellow, he kissed her on the bosom while his hottears fell upon her lips. Those passionate kisses brought a last gleamof joy to Miette's eyes. They loved one another, and their idyll endedin death.
But Silvere could not believe she was dying. "No, you will see, it willprove only a trifle," he declared. "Don't speak if it hurts you. Wait, Iwill raise your head and then warm you; your hands are quite frozen."
But the fusillade had begun afresh, this time on the left, in the oliveplantations. A dull sound of galloping cavalry rose from the plain.At times there were loud cries, as of men being slaughtered. Andthick clouds of smoke were wafted along and hung about the elms on theesplanade. Silvere for his part no longer heard or saw anything. Pascal,who came running down in the direction of the plain, saw him stretchedupon the ground, and hastened towards him, thinking he was wounded. Assoon as the young man saw him, he clutched hold of him and pointed toMiette.
"Look," he said, "she's wounded, there, under the breast. Ah! how goodof you to come! You will save her."
At that moment, however, a slight convulsion shook the dying girl. Apain-fraught shadow passed over her face, and as her contracted lipssuddenly parted, a faint sigh escaped from them. Her eyes, still wideopen, gazed fixedly at the young man.
Then Pascal, who had stooped down, rose again, saying in a low voice:"She is dead."
Dead! Silvere reeled at the sound of the word. He had been kneelingforward, but now he sank back, as though thrown down by Miette's lastfaint sigh.
"Dead! Dead!" he repeated; "it is not true, she is looking at me. Seehow she is looking at me!"
Then he caught the doctor by the coat, entreating him to remain there,assuring him that he was mistaken, that she was not dead, and that hecould save her if he only would. Pascal resisted gently, saying, in hiskindly voice: "I can do nothing for her, others are waiting for me. Letgo, my poor child; she is quite dead."
At last Silvere released his hold and again fell back. Dead! Dead! Stillthat word, which rang like a knell in his dazed brain! When he was alonehe crept up close to the corpse. Miette still seemed to be lookingat him. He threw himself upon her, laid his head upon her bosom, andwatered it with his tears. He was beside himself with grief. He pressedhis lips wildly to her, and breathed out all his passion, all his soul,in one long kiss, as though in the hope that it might bring her to lifeagain. But the girl was turning cold in spite of his caresses. He felther lifeless and nerveless beneath his touch. Then he was seized withterror, and with haggard face and listless hanging arms he remainedcrouching in a state of stupor, and repeating: "She is dead, yet she islooking at me; she does not close her eyes, she sees me still."
This fancy was very sweet to him. He remained there perfectly still,exchanging a long look with Miette, in whose glance, deepened by death,he still seemed to read the girl's lament for her sad fate.
In the meantime, the cavalry were still sabring the fugitives over theNores plain; the cries of the wounded and the galloping of the horsesbecame more distant, softening like music wafted from afar through theclear air. Silvere was no longer conscious of the fighting. He didnot even see his cousin, who mounted the slope again and crossed thepromenade. Pascal, as he passed along, picked up Macquart's carbinewhich Silvere had thrown down; he knew it, as he had seen it hangingover aunt Dide's chimney-piece, and he thought he might as well save itfrom the hands of the victors. He had scarcely entered the Hotel de laMule-Blanche, whither a large number of the wounded had been taken, whena band of insurgents, chased by the soldiers like a herd of cattle, oncemore rushed into the esplanade. The man with the sabre had fled; it wasthe last contingents from the country who were being exterminated. Therewas a terrible massacre. In vain did Colonel Masson and the prefect,Monsieur de Bleriot, overcome by pity, order a retreat. The infuriatedsoldiers continued firing upon the mass, and pinning isolated fugitivesto the walls with their bayonets. When they had no more enemies beforethem, they riddled the facade of the Mule-Blanche with bullets. Theshutters flew into splinters; one window which had been left half-openwas torn out, and there was a loud
rattle of broken glass. Pitifulvoices were crying out from within; "The prisoners! The prisoners!" Butthe troops did not hear; they continued firing. All at once CommanderSicardot, growing exasperated, appeared at the door, waved his arms, andendeavoured to speak. Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, with hisslim figure and scared face, stood by his side. However, another volleywas fired, and Monsieur Peirotte fell face foremost, with a heavy thud,to the ground.
Silvere and Miette were still looking at each other. Silvere hadremained by the corpse, through all the fusillade and the howls ofagony, without even turning his head. He was only conscious of thepresence of some men around him, and, from a feeling of modesty, he drewthe red banner over Miette's breast. Then their eyes still continued togaze at one another.
The conflict, however, was at an end. The death of the receiver oftaxes had satiated the soldiers. Some of these ran about, scouring everycorner of the esplanade, to prevent the escape of a single insurgent.A gendarme who perceived Silvere under the trees, ran up to him, andseeing that it was a lad he had to deal with, called: "What are youdoing there, youngster?"
Silvere, whose eyes were still fixed on those of Miette, made no reply.
"Ah! the bandit, his hands are black with powder," the gendarmeexclaimed, as he stooped down. "Come, get up, you scoundrel! You knowwhat you've got to expect."
Then, as Silvere only smiled vaguely and did not move, the other lookedmore attentively, and saw that the corpse swathed in the banner was thatof a girl.
"A fine girl; what a pity!" he muttered. "Your mistress, eh? yourascal!"
Then he made a violent grab at Silvere, and setting him on his feet ledhim away like a dog that is dragged by one leg. Silvere submitted insilence, as quietly as a child. He just turned round to give anotherglance at Miette. He felt distressed at thus leaving her alone under thetrees. For the last time he looked at her from afar. She was still lyingthere in all her purity, wrapped in the red banner, her head slightlyraised, and her big eyes turned upward towards heaven.