الفصل الفصل 9 · 第9章

Now Jeanne was quite well again she thought she would like to return the

Fourville's visit, and also to call on the Couteliers. Julien had just

bought another carriage at a sale, a phaeton. It only needed one horse,

so they could go out twice a month, now, instead of once, and they used

it for the first time one bright December morning.

After driving for two hours across the Normandy plains they began to go

down to a little valley, whose sloping sides were covered with trees,

while the level ground at the bottom was cultivated. The ploughed fields

were followed by meadows, the meadows by a fen covered with tall reeds,

which waved in the wind like yellow ribbons, and then the road took a

sharp turn and the Chateau de la Vrillette came in sight. It was built

between a wooded slope on the one side and a large lake on the other,

the water stretching from the chateau wall to the tall fir-trees which

covered the opposite acclivity.

The carriage had to pass over an old draw-bridge and under a vast Louis

XIII. archway before it drew up in front of a handsome building of the

same period as the archway, with brick frames round the windows and

slated turrets. Julien pointed out all the different beauties of the

mansion to Jeanne as if he were thoroughly acquainted with every nook

and corner of it.

"Isn't it a superb place?" he exclaimed. "Just look at that archway! On

the other side of the house, which looks on to the lake, there is a

magnificent flight of steps leading right down to the water. Four boats

are moored at the bottom of the steps, two for the comte and two for the

comtesse. The lake ends down there, on the right, where you can see that

row of poplars, and there the river, which runs to Fecamp, rises. The

place abounds in wild-fowl, and the comte passes all his time shooting.

Ah! it is indeed a lordly residence."

The hall door opened and the fair-haired comtesse came to meet her

visitors with a smile on her face. She wore a trailing dress like a

chatelaine of the middle ages, and, exactly suited to the place in which

she lived, she looked like some beautiful Lady of the Lake.

Four out of the eight drawing-room windows looked on to the lake, and

the water looked dull and dismal, overshadowed as it was by the gloomy

fir-trees which covered the opposite slope.

The comtesse took both Jeanne's hands in hers as if she had known her

for ages, placed her in a seat and then drew a low chair beside her for

herself, while Julien, who had regained all his old refinement during

the last five months, smiled and chatted in an easy, familiar way. The

comtesse and he talked about the rides they had had together. She

laughed a little at his bad horsemanship, and called him "The Tottering

Knight," and he too laughed, calling her in return "The Amazon Queen."

A gun went off just under the window, and Jeanne gave a little cry. It

was the comte shooting teal, and his wife called him in. There was the

splash of oars, the grating of a boat against the stone steps and then

the comte came in, followed by two dogs of a reddish hue, which lay down

on the carpet before the door, while the water dripped from their shaggy

coats.

The comte seemed more at his ease in his own house, and was delighted to

see the vicomte and Jeanne. He ordered the fire to be made up, and

Madeira and biscuits to be brought.

"Of course you will dine with us," he exclaimed.

Jeanne refused the invitation, thinking of Paul; and as he pressed her

to stay and she still persisted in her refusal, Julien made a movement

of impatience. Then afraid of arousing her husband's quarrelsome temper,

she consented to stay, though the idea of not seeing Paul till the next

day was torture to her.

They spent a delightful afternoon. First of all the visitors were taken

to see the springs which flowed from the foot of a moss-covered rock

into a crystal basin of water which bubbled as if it were boiling, and

then they went in a boat among the dry reeds, where paths of water had

been formed by cutting down the rushes.

The comte rowed (his two dogs sitting each side of him with their noses

in the air) and each vigorous stroke of the oars lifted the boat half

out of the water and sent it rapidly on its way. Jeanne let her hand

trail in the water, enjoying the icy coolness, which seemed to soothe

her, and Julien and the comtesse, well wrapped up in rugs, sat in

smiling silence in the stern of the boat, as if they were too happy to

talk.

The evening drew on, and with it the icy, northerly wind came over the

withered reeds. The sun had disappeared behind the firs, and it made one

cold only to look at the crimson sky, covered with tiny, red

fantastically-shaped clouds.

They all went in to the big drawing-room where an enormous fire was

blazing. The room seemed to be filled with an atmosphere of warmth and

comfort, and the comte gayly took up his wife in his strong arms like a

child, and gave her two hearty kisses on her cheeks.

Jeanne could not help smiling at this good-natured giant to whom his

moustaches gave the appearance of an ogre. "What wrong impressions of

people one forms every day," she thought; and, almost involuntarily, she

glanced at Julien. He was standing in the doorway his eyes fixed on the

comte and his face very pale. His expression frightened her and, going

up to him, she asked:

"What is the matter? are you ill?"

"There's nothing the matter with me," he answered, churlishly. "Leave me

alone. I only feel cold."

Dinner was announced and the comte begged permission for his dogs to

come into the dining-room. They came and sat one on each side of their

master, who every minute threw them some scrap of food. The animals

stretched out their heads, and wagged their tails, quivering with

pleasure as he drew their long silky ears through his fingers.

After dinner, when Jeanne and Julien began to say good-bye, the comte

insisted on their staying to see some fishing by torchlight. They and

the comtesse stood on the steps leading down to the lake, while the

comte got into his boat with a servant carrying a lighted torch and a

net. The torch cast strange trembling reflections over the water, its

dancing glimmers even lighting up the firs beyond the reeds; and

suddenly, as the boat turned round, an enormous fantastic shadow was

thrown on the background of the illumined wood. It was the shadow of a

man, but the head rose above the trees and was lost against the dark

sky, while the feet seemed to be down in the lake. This huge creature

raised its arms as if it would grasp the stars; the movement was a rapid

one, and the spectators on the steps heard a little splash.

The boat tacked a little, and the gigantic shadow seemed to run along

the wood, which was lighted up as the torch moved with the boat; then it

was lost in the darkness, then reappeared on the chateau wall, smaller,

but more distinct; and the loud voice of the comte was heard exclaiming:

"Gilberte, I have caught eight!"

The oars splashed, and the enormous shadow remained standing in the same

place on the wall, but gradually it became thinner and shorter; the head

seemed to sink lower and the body to get narrower, and when M. de

Fourville came up the steps, followed by the servant carrying the torch,

it was reduced to his exact proportions, and faithfully copied all his

movements. In the net he had eight big fish which were still quivering.

As Jeanne and Julien were driving home, well wrapped up in cloaks and

rugs which the Fourvilles had lent them,

"What a good-hearted man that giant is," said Jeanne, almost to herself.

"Yes," answered Julien; "but he makes too much show of his affection,

sometimes, before people."

A week after their visit to the Fourvilles, they called on the

Couteliers, who were supposed to be the highest family in the province,

and whose estate lay near Cany. The new chateau, built in the reign of

Louis XIV, lay in a magnificent park, entirely surrounded by walls, and

the ruins of the old chateau could be seen from the higher parts of the

grounds.

A liveried servant showed the visitors into a large, handsome room. In

the middle of the floor an enormous Sevres vase stood on a pedestal,

into which a crystal case had been let containing the king's autograph

letter, offering this gift to the Marquis Leopold Herve Joseph Germer de

Varneville, de Rollebosc de Coutelier. Jeanne and Julien were looking at

this royal present when the marquis and marquise came in, the latter

wearing her hair powdered.

The marquise thought her rank constrained her to be amiable, and her

desire to appear condescending made her affected. Her husband was a big

man, with white hair brushed straight up all over his head, and a

haughtiness in his voice, in all his movements, in his every attitude

which plainly showed the esteem in which he held himself. They were

people who had a strict etiquette for everything, and whose feelings

seemed always stilted, like their words.

They both talked on without waiting for an answer, smiled with an air of

indifference, and behaved as if they were accomplishing a duty imposed

upon them by their superior birth, in receiving the smaller nobles of

the province with such politeness. Jeanne and Julien tried to make

themselves agreeable, though they felt ill at ease, and when the time

came to conclude their visit they hardly knew how to retire, though they

did not want to stay any longer. However, the marquise, herself, ended

the visit naturally and simply by stopping short the conversation, like

a queen ending an audience.

"I don't think we will call on anyone else, unless you want to," said

Julien, as they were going back. "The Fourvilles are quite as many

friends as I want."

And Jeanne agreed with him.

Dark, dreary December passed slowly away. Everyone stayed at home like

the winter before, but Jeanne's thoughts were too full of Paul for her

ever to feel dull. She would hold him in her arms covering him with

those passionate kisses which mothers lavish on their children, then

offering the baby's face to his father:

"Why don't you kiss him?" she would say. "You hardly seem to love him."

Julien would just touch the infant's smooth forehead with his lips,

holding his body as far away as possible, as if he were afraid of the

little hands touching him in their aimless movements. Then he would go

quickly out of the room, almost as though the child disgusted him.

The mayor, the doctor, and the cure came to dinner occasionally, and

sometimes the Fourvilles, who had become very intimate with Jeanne and

her husband. The comte seemed to worship Paul. He nursed the child on

his knees from the time he entered Les Peuples to the time he left,

sometimes holding him the whole afternoon, and it was marvelous to see

how delicately and tenderly he touched him with his huge hands. He would

tickle the child's nose with the ends of his long moustaches, and then

suddenly cover his face with kisses almost as passionate as Jeanne's. It

was the great trouble of his life that he had no children.

March was bright, dry, and almost mild. The Comtesse Gilberte again

proposed that they should all four go for some rides together, and

Jeanne, a little tired of the long weary evenings and the dull,

monotonous days, was only too pleased at the idea and agreed to it at

once. It took her a week to make her riding-habit, and then they

commenced their rides.

They always rode two and two, the comtesse and Julien leading the way,

and the comte and Jeanne about a hundred feet behind. The latter couple

talked easily and quietly as they rode along, for, each attracted by the

other's straightforward ways and kindly heart, they had become fast

friends. Julien and the comtesse talked in whispers alternated by noisy

bursts of laughter, and looked in each other's eyes to read there the

things their lips did not utter, and often they would break into a

gallop, as if impelled by a desire to escape alone to some country far

away.

Sometimes it seemed as if something irritated Gilberte. Her sharp tones

would be borne on the breeze to the ears of the couple loitering behind,

and the comte would say to Jeanne, with a smile:

"I don't think my wife got out of bed the right side this morning."

One evening, as they were returning home, the comtesse began to spur her

mare, and then pull her in with sudden jerks on the rein.

"Take care, or she'll run away with you," said Julien two or three

times.

"So much the worse for me; it's nothing to do with you," she replied, in

such cold, hard tones that the clear words rang out over the fields as

if they were actually floating in the air.

The mare reared, kicked, and foamed at the mouth and the comte cried out

anxiously:

"Do take care what you are doing, Gilberte!"

Then, in a fit of defiance, for she was in one of those obstinate moods

that will brook no word of advice, she brought her whip heavily down

between the animal's ears. The mare reared, beat the air with her fore

legs for a moment, then, with a tremendous bound, set off over the plain

at the top of her speed. First she crossed a meadow, then some ploughed

fields, kicking up the wet heavy soil behind her, and going at such a

speed that in a few moments the others could hardly distinguish the

comtesse from her horse.

Julien stood stock still, crying: "Madame! Madame!" The comte gave a

groan, and, bending down over his powerful steed, galloped after his

wife. He encouraged his steed with voice and hand, urged it on with whip

and spur, and it seemed as though he carried the big animal between his

legs, and raised it from the ground at every leap it took. The horse

went at an inconceivable speed, keeping a straight line regardless of

all obstacles; and Jeanne could see the two outlines of the husband and

wife diminish and fade in the distance, till they vanished altogether,

like two birds chasing each other till they are lost to sight beyond the

horizon.

Julien walked his horse up to his wife, murmuring angrily: "She is mad

to-day." And they both went off after their friends, who were hidden in

a dip in the plain. In about a quarter of an hour they saw them coming

back, and soon they came up to them.

The comte, looking red, hot and triumphant, was leading his wife's

horse. The comtesse was very pale; her features looked drawn and

contracted, and she leant on her husband's shoulder as if she were going

to faint. That day Jeanne understood, for the first time, how madly the

comte loved his wife.

All through the following month the comtesse was merrier than she had

ever been before. She came to Les Peuples as often as she could, and was

always laughing and jumping up to kiss Jeanne. She seemed to have found

some unknown source of happiness, and her husband simply worshiped her

now, following her about with his eyes and seeking every pretext for

touching her hand or her dress.

"We are happier now than we have ever been before," he said, one

evening, to Jeanne. "Gilberte has never been so affectionate as she is

now; nothing seems to vex her or make her angry. Until lately I was

never quite sure that she loved me, but now I know she does."

Julien had changed for the better also; he had become gay and

good-tempered, and their friendship seemed to have brought peace and

happiness to both families.

The spring was exceptionally warm and forward. The sun cast his warm

rays upon the budding trees and flowers from early morn until the sweet,

soft evening. It was one of those favored years when the world seems to

have grown young again, and nature to delight in bringing everything to

life once more.

Jeanne felt a vague excitement in the presence of this reawakening of

the fields and woods. She gave way to a sweet melancholy and spent hours

languidly dreaming. All the tender incidents of her first hours of love

came back to her, not that any renewal of affection for her husband

stirred her heart; _that_ had been completely destroyed; but the soft

breeze which fanned her cheek and the sweet perfume which filled the air

seemed to breathe forth a tender sigh of love which made her pulse beat

quicker. She liked to be alone, and in the warm sunshine, to enjoy these

vague, peaceful sensations which aroused no thoughts.

One morning she was lying thus half-dormant, when suddenly she saw in

her mind that sunlit space in the little wood near Etretat where for the

first time she had felt thrilled by the presence of the man who loved

her then, where he had for the first time timidly hinted at his hopes,

and where she had believed that she was going to realize the radiant

future of her dreams. She thought she should like to make a romantic,

superstitious pilgrimage to the wood, and she felt as if a visit to that

sunny spot would in some way alter the course of her life.

Julien had gone out at daybreak, she did not know whither, so she

ordered the Martins' little white horse, which she sometimes rode, to be

saddled, and set off.

It was one of those calm days when there is not a leaf nor a blade of

grass stirring. The wind seemed dead, and everything looked as though

it would remain motionless until the end of time; even the insects had

disappeared. A burning, steady heat descended from the sun in a golden

mist, and Jeanne walked her horse along, enjoying the stillness, and

every now and then looking up at a tiny white cloud which hung like a

snowy fleece in the midst of the bright blue sky. She went down into the

valley leading to the sea, between the two great arches which are called

the gates of Etretat, and went slowly towards the wood.

The sunlight poured down through the foliage which, as yet, was not very

thick, and Jeanne wandered along the little paths unable to find the

spot where she had sat with Julien. She turned into a long alley and, at

the other end of it, saw two saddle-horses fastened to a tree; she

recognized them at once; they were Gilberte's and Julien's. Tired of

being alone and pleased at this unexpected meeting, she trotted quickly

up to them, and when she reached the two animals, which were waiting

quietly as if accustomed to stand like this, she called aloud. There was

no answer.

On the grass, which looked as if someone had rested there, lay a woman's

glove and two whips. Julien and Gilberte had evidently sat down and then

gone farther on, leaving the horses tied to the tree. Jeanne wondered

what they could be doing, and getting off her horse, she leant against

the trunk of a tree and waited for a quarter of an hour or twenty

minutes. She stood quite motionless, and two little birds flew down onto

the grass close by her. One of them hopped round the other, fluttering

his outstretched wings, and chirping and nodding his little head; all at

once they coupled. Jeanne watched them, as surprised as if she had

never known of such a thing before; then she thought: "Oh, of course!

It is springtime."

Then came another thought--a suspicion. She looked again at the glove,

the whips and the two horses standing riderless; then she sprang on her

horse with an intense longing to leave this place. She started back to

Les Peuples at a gallop. Her brain was busy reasoning, connecting

different incidents and thinking it all out.

How was it that she had never noticed anything, had never guessed this

before? How was it that Julien's frequent absence from home, his renewed

attention to his toilet, his better temper had told her nothing? Now she

understood Gilberte's nervous irritability, her exaggerated affection

for herself and the bliss in which she had appeared to be living lately,

and which had so pleased the comte.

She pulled up her horse for she wanted to think calmly, and the quick

movement confused her ideas. After the first shock she became almost

indifferent; she felt neither jealousy nor hatred, only contempt. She

did not think about Julien at all, for nothing that he could do would

have astonished her, but the twofold treachery of the comtesse, who had

deceived her friend as well as her husband, hurt her deeply. So everyone

was treacherous, and untrue and faithless! Her eyes filled with tears,

for sometimes it is as bitter to see an illusion destroyed as to witness

the death of a friend. She resolved to say nothing more about her

discovery. Her heart would be dead to everyone but Paul and her parents,

but she would bear a smiling face.

When she reached home she caught up her son in her arms, carried him to

her room and pressed her lips to his face again and again, and for a

whole hour she played with and caressed him.

Julien came in to dinner in a very good temper and full of plans for his

wife's pleasure.

"Won't your father and mother come and stay with us this year?" he said.

Jeanne almost forgave him his infidelity, so grateful was she to him for

making this proposal. She longed to see the two people she loved best

after Paul, and she passed the whole evening in writing to them, and

urging them to come as soon as possible.

They wrote to say they would come on the twentieth of May; it was then

the seventh, and Jeanne awaited their arrival with intense impatience.

Besides her natural desire to see her parents, she felt it would be such

a relief to have near her two honest hearts, two simple-minded beings

whose life and every action, thought and desire had always been upright

and pure. She felt she stood alone in her honesty among all this guilt.

She had learnt to dissimulate her feelings, to meet the comtesse with an

outstretched hand and a smiling face, but her sense of desolation

increased with her contempt for her fellow-men.

Every day some village scandal reached her ears which filled her with

still greater disgust and scorn for human frailty. The Couillards'

daughter had just had a child and was therefore going to be married. The

Martins' servant, who was an orphan, a little girl only fifteen years

old, who lived near, and a widow, a lame, poverty-stricken woman who was

so horribly dirty that she had been nicknamed La Crotte, were all

pregnant; and Jeanne was continually hearing of the misconduct of some

girl, some married woman with a family, or of some rich farmer who had

been held in general respect.

This warm spring seemed to revive the passions of mankind as it revived

the plants and the flowers; but to Jeanne, whose senses were dead, and

whose wounded heart and romantic soul were alone stirred by the warm

springtide breezes, and who only dreamed of the poetic side of love,

these bestial desires were revolting and hateful. She was angry with

Gilberte, not for having robbed her of her husband, but for having

bespattered herself with this filth. The comtesse was not of the same

class as the peasants, who could not resist their brutal desires; then

how could she have fallen into the same abomination?

The very day that her parents were to arrive, Julien increased his

wife's disgust by telling her laughingly, as though it were something

quite natural and very funny, that the baker having heard a noise in his

oven the day before, which was not baking day, had gone to see what it

was, and instead of finding the stray cat he expected to see, had

surprised his wife, "who was certainly not putting bread into the oven."

"The baker closed the mouth of the oven," went on Julien, "and they

would have been suffocated if the baker's little boy, who had seen his

mother go into the oven with the blacksmith, had not told the neighbors

what was going on." He laughed as he added, "That will give a nice

flavor to the bread. It is just like a tale of La Fontaine's."

For some time after that Jeanne could not touch bread.

When the post-chaise drew up before the door with the baron's smiling

face looking out of the window, Jeanne felt fonder of her parents and

more pleased to see them than she had ever been before; but when she saw

her mother she was overcome with surprise and grief. The baroness looked

ten years older than when she had left Les Peuples six months before.

Her huge, flabby cheeks were suffused with blood, her eyes had a glazed

look, and she could not move a step unless she was supported on either

side; she drew her breath with so much difficulty that only to hear her

made everyone around her draw theirs painfully also.

The baron, who had lived with her and seen her every day, had not

noticed the gradual change in his wife, and if she had complained or

said her breathing and the heavy feeling about her heart were getting

worse, he had answered:

"Oh, no, my dear. You have always been like this."

Jeanne went to her own room and cried bitterly when she had taken her

parents upstairs. Then she went to her father and, throwing herself in

his arms, said, with her eyes still full of tears:

"Oh, how changed mother is! What is the matter with her? Do tell me what

is the matter with her?"

"Do you think she is changed?" asked the baron in surprise. "It must be

your fancy. You know I have been with her all this time, and to me she

seems just the same as she has always been; she is not any worse."

"Your mother is in a bad way," said Julien to his wife that evening. "I

don't think she's good for much now."

Jeanne burst into tears.

"Oh, good gracious!" went on Julien irritably. "I don't say that she is

dangerously ill. You always see so much more than is meant. She is

changed, that's all; it's only natural she should begin to break up at

her age."

In a week Jeanne had got accustomed to her mother's altered appearance

and thought no more about it, thrusting her fears from her, as people

always do put aside their fears and cares, with an instinctive and

natural, though selfish dislike of anything unpleasant.

The baroness, unable to walk, only went out for about half an hour every

day. When she had gone once up and down "her" avenue, she could not move

another step and asked to sit down on "her" seat. Some days she could

not walk even to the end of the avenue, and would say:

"Let us stop; my hypertrophy is too much for me to-day."

She never laughed as she used to; things which, the year before, would

have sent her into fits of laughter, only brought a faint smile to her

lips now. Her eyesight was still excellent, and she passed her time in

reading _Corinne_ and Lamartine's _Meditations_ over again, and in going

through her "Souvenir-drawer." She would empty on her knees the old

letters, which were so dear to her heart, place the drawer on a chair

beside her, look slowly over each "relic," and then put it back in its

place. When she was quite alone she kissed some of the letters as she

might have kissed the hair of some loved one who was dead.

Jeanne, coming into the room suddenly, sometimes found her in tears.

"What is the matter, mamma, dear?" she would ask.

"My souvenirs have upset me," the baroness would answer, with a

long-drawn sigh. "They bring to my mind so vividly the happy times which

are all over now, and make me think of people whom I had almost

forgotten. I seem to see them, to hear their voices, and it makes me

sad. You will feel the same, later on."

If the baron came in and found them talking like this, he would say:

"Jeanne, my dear, if you take my advice, you will burn all your

letters--those from your mother, mine, everyone's. There is nothing more

painful than to stir up the memories of one's youth when one is old."

But Jeanne, who had inherited her mother's sentimental instincts, though

she differed from her in nearly everything else, carefully kept all her

old letters to form a "souvenir-box" for her old age, also.

A few days after his arrival, business called the baron away again. The

baroness soon began to get better, and Jeanne, forgetting Julien's

infidelity and Gilberte's treachery, was almost perfectly happy. The

weather was splendid. Mild, starlit nights followed the soft evenings,

and dazzling sunrises commenced the glorious days. The fields were

covered with bright, sweet-smelling flowers, and the vast calm sea

glittered in the sun from morning till night.

One afternoon Jeanne went into the fields with Paul in her arms. She

felt an exquisite gladness as she looked now at her son, now at the

flowery hedgerows, and every minute she pressed her baby closely to her

and kissed him. The earth exhaled a faint perfume, and, as she walked

along, she felt as though her happiness were too great for her. Then she

thought of her child's future. What would he be? Sometimes she hoped he

would become a great and famous man. Sometimes she felt she would

rather he remained with her, passing his life in tender devotion to his

mother and unknown to the world. When she listened to the promptings of

her mother's heart, she wished him to remain simply her adored son; but

when she listened to her reason and her pride she hoped he would make a

name and become something of importance in the world.

She sat down at the edge of a ditch and studied the child's face as if

she had never really looked at it before. It seemed so strange to think

that this little baby would grow up, and walk with manly strides, that

these soft cheeks would become bearded, and the feeble murmur change to

a deep-toned voice.

Someone called her, and, looking up, she saw Marius running towards her.

Thinking he had come to announce some visitor, she got up, feeling vexed

at being disturbed. The boy was running as fast as his legs could carry

him.

"Madame!" he cried, when he was near enough to be heard. "Madame la

baronne is very ill."

Jeanne ran quickly towards the house, feeling as if a douche of cold

water had been poured down her spine. There was quite a little crowd

standing under the plane tree, which opened to let her through as she

rushed forward. There, in the midst, lay the baroness on the ground, her

head supported by two pillows, her face black, her eyes closed, and her

chest, which for the last twenty years had heaved so tumultuously,

motionless. The child's nurse was standing there; she took him from his

mother's arms, and carried him away.

"How did it happen? What made her fall?" asked Jeanne, looking up with

haggard eyes. "Send for the doctor immediately."

As she turned she saw the cure; he at once offered his services, and,

turning up his sleeves, began to rub the baroness with Eau de Cologne

and vinegar; but she showed no signs of returning consciousness.

"She ought to be undressed and put to bed," said the priest; and, with

his aid, Joseph Couillard, old Simon and Ludivine tried to raise the

baroness.

As they lifted her, her head fell backwards, and her dress, which they

were grasping, gave way under the dead weight of her huge body. They

were obliged to lay her down again, and Jeanne shrieked with horror.

At last an armchair was brought from the drawing-room; the baroness was

placed in it, carried slowly indoors, then upstairs, and laid on the

bed. The cook was undressing her as best she could when the Widow Dentu

came in, as if, like the priest, she had "smelt death," as the servants

said. Joseph Couillard hurried off for the doctor, and the priest was

going to fetch the holy oil, when the nurse whispered in his ear:

"You needn't trouble to go, Monsieur le cure. I have seen too much of

death not to know that she is gone."

Jeanne, in desperation, begged them to tell her what she could do, what

remedies they had better apply. The cure thought that anyhow he might

pronounce an absolution, and for two hours they watched beside the

lifeless, livid body, Jeanne, unable to contain her grief, sobbing aloud

as she knelt beside the bed. When the door opened to admit the doctor,

she thought that with him came safety and consolation and hope, and she

rushed to meet him, trying to tell him, in a voice broken with sobs, all

the details of the catastrophe.

"She was walking--like she does every day--and she seemed quite well,

better even--than usual. She had eaten some soup and two eggs for lunch,

and--quite suddenly, without any warning she fell--and turned black,

like she is now; she has not moved since, and we have--tried everything

to restore her to consciousness--everything--"

She stopped abruptly for she saw the nurse making a sign to the doctor

to intimate that it was all over. Then she refused to understand the

gesture, and went on anxiously:

"Is it anything serious? Do you think there is any danger?"

He answered at last:

"I very much fear that--that life is extinct. Be brave and try to bear

up."

For an answer Jeanne opened her arms, and threw herself on her mother's

body. Julien came in. He made no sign of grief or pity, but stood

looking simply vexed; he had been taken too much by surprise to at once

assume an expression of sorrow.

"I expected it," he whispered. "I knew she could not live long."

He drew out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, knelt down and crossed

himself as he mumbled something, then rose and attempted to raise his

wife. She was clinging to the corpse, almost lying on it as she

passionately kissed it; they had to drag her away for she was nearly mad

with grief, and she was not allowed to go back for an hour.

Then every shadow of hope had vanished, and the room had been arranged

fittingly for its dead occupant. The day was drawing to a close, and

Julien and the priest were standing near one of the windows, talking in

whispers. The Widow Dentu, thoroughly accustomed to death, was already

comfortably dozing in an armchair. The cure went to meet Jeanne as she

came into the room, and taking both her hands in his, he exhorted her to

be brave under this sorrow, and attempted to comfort her with the

consolation of religion. Then he spoke of her dead mother's good life,

and offered to pass the night in prayers beside the body.

But Jeanne refused this offer as well as she could for her tears. She

wanted to be alone, quite alone, with her mother this last night.

"That cannot be," interposed Julien; "we will watch beside her

together."

She shook her head, unable to speak for some moments; then she said:

"She was my mother, and I want to watch beside her alone."

"Let her do as she wants," whispered the doctor; "the nurse can stay in

the next room," and Julien and the priest, thinking of their night's

rest, gave in.

The Abbe Picot knelt down, prayed for a few moments, then rose and went

out of the room, saying, "She was a saintly woman," in the same tone as

he always said, "Dominus vobiscum."

"Won't you have some dinner?" asked the vicomte in a perfectly ordinary

voice.

Jeanne, not thinking he was speaking to her, made no answer.

"You would feel much better if you would eat something," he went on

again.

"Let someone go for papa, directly," she said as if she had not heard

what he said; and he went out of the room to dispatch a mounted

messenger to Rouen.

Jeanne sank into a sort of stupor, as if she were waiting to give way to

her passion of regret until she should be alone with her mother. The

room became filled with shadows. The Widow Dentu moved noiselessly

about, arranging everything for the night, and at last lighted two

candles which she placed at the head of the bed on a small table covered

with a white cloth. Jeanne seemed unconscious of everything; she was

waiting until she should be alone.

When he had dined, Julien came upstairs again and asked for the second

time:

"Won't you have something to eat?"

His wife shook her head, and he sat down looking more resigned than sad,

and did not say anything more. They all three sat apart from one

another; the nurse dropped off to sleep every now and then, snored for a

little while, then awoke with a start. After some time Julien rose and

went over to his wife.

"Do you still want to be left alone?" he asked.

She eagerly took his hand in hers: "Oh, yes; do leave me," she answered.

He kissed her on the forehead, whispered, "I shall come and see you

during the night," then went away with the Widow Dentu, who wheeled her

armchair into the next room.

Jeanne closed the door and put both windows wide open. A warm breeze,

laden with the sweet smell of the hay, blew into the room, and on the

lawn, which had been mown the day before, she could see the heaps of dry

grass lying in the moonlight. She turned away from the window and went

back to the bed, for the soft, beautiful night seemed to mock her grief.

Her mother was no longer swollen as she had been when she died; she

looked simply asleep, only her sleep was more peaceful than it had ever

been before; the wind made the candles flicker, and the changing shadows

made the dead face look as though it moved and lived again. As Jeanne

gazed at it the memories of her early childhood came crowding into her

mind. She could see again her mother sitting in the convent parlor,

holding out the bag of cakes she had brought for her little girl; she

thought of all her little ways, her affectionate words, the way she used

to move, the wrinkles that came round her eyes when she laughed, the

deep sigh she always heaved when she sat down, and all her little, daily

habits, and as she stood gazing at the dead body she kept repeating,

almost mechanically: "She is dead; she is dead;" until at last she

realized all the horror of that word.

The woman who was lying there--mamma--little mother--Madame Adelaide,

was dead! She would never move, never speak, never laugh, never say,

"Good morning, Jeannette"; never sit opposite her husband at the dinner

table again. She was dead. She would be enclosed in a coffin, placed

beneath the ground, and that would be the end; they would never see her

again. It could not be possible! What! She, her daughter, had now no

mother! Had she indeed lost for ever this dear face, the first she had

ever looked upon, the first she had ever loved, this kindly loving

mother, whose place in her heart could never be filled? And in a few

hours even this still, unconscious face would have vanished, and then

there would be nothing left her but a memory. She fell on her knees in

despair, wringing her hands and pressing her lips to the bed.

"Oh, mother, mother! My darling mother!" she cried, in a broken voice

which was stifled by the bed-covering.

She felt she was going mad; mad, like the night she had fled into the

snow. She rushed to the window to breathe the fresh air which had not

passed over the corpse or the bed on which it lay. The new-mown hay, the

trees, the waste land and the distant sea lay peacefully sleeping in the

moonlight, and the tears welled up into Jeanne's eyes as she looked out

into the clear, calm night. She went back to her seat by the bedside and

held her mother's dead hand in hers, as if she were lying ill instead of

dead. Attracted by the lighted candles, a big, winged insect had entered

through the open window and was flying about the room, dashing against

the wall at every moment with a faint thud. It disturbed Jeanne, and she

looked up to see where it was, but she could only see its shadow moving

over the white ceiling.

Its buzzing suddenly ceased, and then, besides the regular ticking of

the clock, Jeanne noticed another fainter rustling noise. It was the

ticking of her mother's watch, which had been forgotten when her dress

had been taken off and thrown at the foot of the bed, and the idea of

this little piece of mechanism still moving while her mother lay dead,

sent a fresh pang of anguish through her heart. She looked at the time.

It was hardly half-past ten, and as she thought of the long night to

come, she was seized with a horrible dread.

She began to think of her own life--of Rosalie, of Gilberte--of all her

illusions which had been, one by one, so cruelly destroyed. Life

contained nothing but misery and pain, misfortune and death; there was

nothing true, nothing honest, nothing but what gave rise to suffering

and tears. Repose and happiness could only be expected in another

existence, when the soul had been delivered from its early trials. Her

thoughts turned to the unfathomable mystery of the soul, but, as she

reasoned about it, her poetic theories were invariably upset by others,

just as poetic and just as unreal. Where was now her mother's soul, the

soul which had forsaken this still, cold body? Perhaps it was far away,

floating in space. But had it entirely vanished like the perfume from a

withered flower, or was it wandering like some invisible bird freed from

its cage? Had it returned to God, or was it scattered among the new

germs of creation? It might be very near; perhaps in this very room,

hovering around the inanimate body it had left, and at this thought

Jeanne fancied she felt a breath, as if a spirit had passed by her. Her

blood ran cold with terror; she did not dare turn round to look behind

her, and she sat motionless, her heart beating wildly.

At that moment the invisible insect again commenced its buzzing, noisy

flight, and Jeanne trembled from head to foot at the sound. Then, as she

recognized the noise, she felt a little reassured, and rose and looked

around. Her eyes fell on the escritoire with the sphinxes' heads, the

guardian of the "souvenirs." As she looked at it she thought it would be

fulfilling a sacred, filial duty, which would please her mother as she

looked down on her from another world, to read these letters, as she

might have done a holy book during this last watch.

She knew it was the correspondence of her grandfather and grandmother,

whom she had never known; and it seemed as if her hands would join

theirs across her mother's corpse, and so a sacred chain of affection

would be formed between those who had died so long ago, their daughter

who had but just joined them, and her child who was still on earth.

She opened the escritoire and took out the letters; they had been

carefully tied into ten little packets, which were laid side by side in

the lowest drawer. A refinement of sentimentality prompted her to place

them all on the bed in the baroness's arms; then she began to read.

They were old-fashioned letters with the perfume of another century

about them, such as are treasured up in every family. The first

commenced "My dearie"; another "My little darling"; then came some

beginning "My pet"--"My beloved daughter," then "My dear child"--"My

dear Adelaide"--"My dear daughter," the commencements varying as the

letters had been addressed to the child, the young girl, and, later on,

to the young wife. They were all full of foolish, loving phrases, and

news about a thousand insignificant, homely events, which, to a

stranger, would have seemed too trivial to mention: "Father has an

influenza; Hortense has burnt her finger; Croquerat, the cat, is dead;

the fir tree which stood on the right-hand side of the gate has been cut

down; mother lost her mass book as she was coming home from church, she

thinks someone must have stolen it," and they talked about people whom

Jeanne had never known, but whose names were vaguely familiar to her.

She was touched by these simple details which seemed to reveal all her

mother's life and inmost thoughts to her. She looked at the corpse as it

lay there, and suddenly she began to read the letters aloud, as though

to console and gladden the dead heart once more; and a smile of

happiness seemed to light up the face. As she finished reading them,

Jeanne threw the letters on the foot of the bed, resolving to place them

all in her mother's coffin.

She untied another packet. These were in another handwriting, and the

first ran thus:

"I cannot live without your kisses. I love you madly."

There was nothing more, not even a signature. Jeanne turned the paper

over, unable to understand it. It was addressed clearly enough to

"Madame la baronne Le Perthuis des Vauds."

She opened the next:

"Come to-night as soon as he has gone out. We shall have at least

one hour together. I adore you."

A third:

"I have passed a night of longing and anguish. I fancied you in my

arms, your mouth quivering beneath mine, your eyes looking into my

eyes. And then I could have dashed myself from the window, as I

thought that, at that very moment, you were sleeping beside him, at

the mercy of his caresses."

Jeanne stopped in amazement. What did it all mean? To whom were these

words of love addressed? She read on, finding in every letter the same

distracted phrases, the same assignations, the same cautions, and, at

the end, always the five words: "Above all, burn this letter." At last

she came to an ordinary note, merely accepting an invitation to dinner;

it was signed "Paul d'Ennemare." Why, that was the man of whom the baron

still spoke as "Poor old Paul," and whose wife had been the baroness's

dearest friend!

Then into Jeanne's mind came a suspicion which at once changed to a

certainty--he had been her mother's lover! With a sudden gesture of

loathing, she threw from her all these odious letters, as she would have

shaken off some venomous reptile, and, running to the window, she wept

bitterly. All her strength seemed to have left her; she sank on the

ground, and, hiding her face in the curtains to stifle her moans, she

sobbed in an agony of despair. She would have crouched there the whole

night if the sound of someone moving in the next room had not made her

start to her feet. Perhaps it was her father! And all these letters were

lying on the bed and on the floor! He had only to come in and open one,

and he would know all!

She seized all the old, yellow papers--her grandparents' epistles, the

love letters, those she had not unfolded, those that were still lying in

the drawer--and threw them all into the fireplace. Then she took one of

the candles which were burning on the little table, and set fire to this

heap of paper. A bright flame sprang up at once, lighting up the room,

the bed and the corpse with a bright, flickering light, and casting on

the white bed-curtain a dark, trembling shadow of the rigid face and

huge body.

When there was nothing left but a heap of ashes in the bottom of the

grate, Jeanne went and sat by the window, as though now she dare not sit

by the corpse. The tears streamed from her eyes, and, hiding her face

in her hands, she moaned out in heartbroken tones: "Oh, poor mamma! Poor

mamma!"

Then a terrible thought came to her: Suppose her mother, by some strange

chance, was not dead; suppose she was only in a trance-like sleep and

should suddenly rise and speak! Would not the knowledge of this horrible

secret lessen her, Jeanne's, love for her mother? Should she be able to

kiss her with the same respect, and regard her with the same esteem as

before? No! She knew it would be impossible; and the thought almost

broke her heart.

The night wore on; the stars were fading, and a cool breeze sprang up.

The moon was slowly sinking towards the sea over which she was shedding

her silver light, and the memory of that other night she had passed at

the window, the night of her return from the convent, came back to

Jeanne. Ah! how far away was that happy time! How changed everything

was, and what a different future lay before her from what she had

pictured then! Over the sky crept a faint, tender tinge of pink, and the

brilliant dawn seemed strange and unnatural to her, as she wondered how

such glorious sunrises could illumine a world in which there was no joy

or happiness.

A slight sound startled her, and looking round she saw Julien.

"Well, are you not very tired?" he said.

"No," she answered, feeling glad that her lonely vigil had come to an

end.

"Now go and rest," said her husband.

She pressed a long sorrowful kiss on her mother's face; then left the

room.

That day passed in attending to those melancholy duties that always

surround a death; the baron came in the evening, and cried a great deal

over his wife. The next day the funeral took place; Jeanne pressed her

lips to the clammy forehead for the last time, drew the sheet once more

over the still face, saw the coffin fastened down, and then went to

await the people who were to attend the funeral.

Gilberte arrived first, and threw herself into Jeanne's arms, sobbing

violently. The carriages began to drive up, and voices were heard in the

hall. The room gradually filled with women with whom Jeanne was not

acquainted; then the Marquise de Coutelier and the Vicomtesse de

Briseville arrived, and went up to her and kissed her. She suddenly

perceived that Aunt Lison was in the room, and she gave her such an

affectionate embrace, that the old maid was nearly overcome. Julien came

in dressed in deep mourning; he seemed very busy, and very pleased that

all these people had come. He whispered some question to his wife about

the arrangements, and added in a low tone:

"It will be a very grand funeral; all the best families are here."

Then he went away again, bowing to the ladies as he passed down the

room.

Aunt Lison and the Comtesse Gilberte stayed with Jeanne while the burial

was taking place. The comtesse repeatedly kissed her, murmuring: "Poor

darling, poor darling," and when the Comte de Fourville came to take his

wife home, he wept as if he had lost his own mother.

* * * * *