Kabanata Kabanata 8 · 第8章

Rosalie had left the house and the time of Jeanne's confinement was

drawing near. The sorrow she had gone through had taken away all

pleasure from the thought of becoming a mother, and she waited for the

child's birth without any impatience or curiosity, her mind entirely

filled with her presentiment of coming evils.

Spring was close at hand. The bare trees still trembled in the cold

wind, but, in the damp ditches, the yellow primroses were already

blossoming among the decaying autumn leaves. The rain-soaked fields, the

farm-yards and the commons exhaled a damp odor, as of fermenting

liquor, and little green leaves peeped out of the brown earth and

glistened in the sun.

A big, strongly-built woman had been engaged in Rosalie's place, and she

now supported the baroness in her dreary walks along the avenue, where

the track made by her foot was always damp and muddy.

Jeanne, low-spirited and in constant pain, leant on her father's arm

when she went out, while on her other side walked Aunt Lison, holding

her niece's hand, and thinking nervously, of this mysterious suffering

that she would never know. They would all three walk for hours without

speaking a word, and, while they were out, Julien went all over the

country on horseback, for he had suddenly become very fond of riding.

The baron, his wife, and the vicomte, paid a visit to the Fourvilles

(whom Julien seemed to know very well, though no one at the chateau knew

exactly how the acquaintance had begun), and another duty call was paid

to the Brisevilles, and those two visits were the only break in their

dull, monotonous life.

One afternoon, about four o'clock, two people on horseback trotted up to

the chateau. Julien rushed into his wife's room in great excitement:

"Make haste and go down," he exclaimed. "Here are the Fourvilles. They

have come simply to make a neighborly call as they know the condition

you are in. Say I am out but that I shall be in soon. I am just going to

change my coat."

Jeanne went downstairs and found in the drawing-room a gigantic man with

big, red moustaches, and a pale, pretty woman with a sad-looking face,

sentimental eyes and hair of a dead gold that looked as if the sun had

never caressed it. When the fair-haired woman had introduced the big man

as her husband, she said:

"M. de Lamare, whom we have met several times, has told us how unwell

you are, so we thought we would not put off coming to see you any

longer. You see we have come on horseback, so you must look upon this

simply as a neighborly call; besides, I have already had the pleasure of

receiving a visit from your mother and the baron."

She spoke easily in a refined, familiar way, and Jeanne fell in love

with her at once. "In her I might, indeed, find a friend," she thought.

The Comte de Fourville, unlike his wife, seemed as much out of place in

a drawing-room as a bull in a china shop. When he sat down he put his

hat on a chair close by him, and then the problem of what he should do

with his hands presented itself to him. First he rested them on his

knees, then on the arms of his chair, and finally joined them as if in

prayer.

Julien came in so changed in appearance that Jeanne stared at him in

mute surprise. He had shaved himself and looked as handsome and charming

as when he was wooing her. His hair, just now so coarse and dull, had

been brushed and sprinkled with perfumed oil till it had recovered its

soft shining waves, and his large eyes, which seemed made to express

nothing but love, had their old winning look in them. He made himself as

amiable and fascinating as he had been before his marriage. He pressed

the hairy paw of the comte, who seemed much relieved by his presence,

and kissed the hand of the comtesse, whose ivory cheek became just

tinged with pink.

When the Fourvilles were going away the comtesse said:

"Will you come for a ride on Thursday, vicomte?" And as Julien bowed and

replied, "I shall be very pleased, madame," she turned and took Jeanne's

hand, saying to her, affectionately:

"When you are well again we must all three go for long rides together.

We could make such delightful excursions if you would."

Then she gracefully caught up the skirt of her riding-habit and sprang

into the saddle as lightly as a bird, and her husband, after awkwardly

raising his hat, leapt on his huge horse, feeling and looking at his

ease as soon as he was mounted.

"What charming people!" cried Julien, as soon as they were out of sight.

"We may, indeed, think ourselves lucky to have made their acquaintance."

"The little comtesse is delightful," answered Jeanne, feeling pleased

herself though she hardly knew why. "I am sure I shall like her; but the

husband seems a bear. How did you get to know them?"

"I met them one day at the Brisevilles," he replied, rubbing his hands

together cheerfully. "The husband certainly is a little rough, but he is

a true gentleman. He is passionately fond of shooting."

Nothing else happened until the end of July. Then, one Tuesday evening,

as they were all sitting under the plane-tree beside a little table, on

which stood two liqueur glasses and a decanter of brandy, Jeanne

suddenly turned very white and put both her hands to her side with a

cry. A sharp pain had shot through her and at once died away. In about

ten minutes came another one, hardly so severe but of longer duration

than the first. Her father and husband almost carried her indoors, for

the short distance between the plane-tree and her room seemed miles to

her; she could not stifle her moans, and, overpowered by an intolerable

sense of heaviness and weight, she implored them to let her sit down and

rest.

The child was not expected until September but, in case of accident, a

horse was harnessed and old Simon galloped off after the doctor. He came

about midnight and at once recognized the signs of a premature

confinement. The actual pain had a little diminished, but Jeanne felt an

awful deathly faintness, and she thought she was going to die, for Death

is sometimes so close that his icy breath can almost be felt.

The room was full of people. The baroness lay back in an armchair

gasping for breath; the baron ran hither and thither, bringing all

manner of things and completely losing his head; Julien walked up and

down looking very troubled, but really feeling quite calm, and the Widow

Dentu, whom nothing could surprise or startle, stood at the foot of the

bed with an expression suited to the occasion on her face.

Nurse, mid-wife and watcher of the dead, equally ready to welcome the

new-born infant, to receive its first cry, to immerse it in its first

bath and to wrap it in its first covering, or to hear the last word, the

last death-rattle, the last moan of the dying, to clothe them in their

last garment, to sponge their wasted bodies, to draw the sheet about

their still faces, the Widow Dentu had become utterly indifferent to any

of the chances accompanying a birth or a death.

Every now and then Jeanne gave a low moan. For two hours it seemed as if

the child would not be born yet, after all; but about daybreak the

pains recommenced and soon became almost intolerable. As the involuntary

cries of anguish burst through her clenched teeth, Jeanne thought of

Rosalie who had hardly even moaned, and whose bastard child had been

born without any of the torture such as she was suffering. In her

wretched, troubled mind she drew comparisons between her maid and

herself, and she cursed God Whom, until now, she had believed just. She

thought in angry astonishment of how fate favors the wicked, and of the

unpardonable lies of those who hold forth inducements to be upright and

good.

Sometimes the agony was so great that she could think of nothing else,

her suffering absorbing all her strength, her reason, her consciousness.

In the intervals of relief her eyes were fixed on Julien, and then she

was filled with a mental anguish as she thought of the day her maid had

fallen at the foot of this very bed with her new-born child--the brother

of the infant that was now causing her such terrible pain. She

remembered perfectly every gesture, every look, every word of her

husband as he stood beside the maid, and now she could see in his

movements the same _ennui_, the same indifference for her suffering as

he had felt for Rosalie's; it was the selfish carelessness of a man whom

the idea of paternity irritates.

She was seized by an excruciating pain, a spasm so agonizing that she

thought, "I am going to die! I am dying!" And her soul was filled with a

furious hatred; she felt she must curse this man who was the cause of

all her agony, and this child which was killing her. She strained every

muscle in a supreme effort to rid herself of this awful burden, and then

it felt as if her whole inside were pouring away from her, and her

suffering suddenly became less.

The nurse and the doctor bent over her and took something away; and she

heard the choking noise she had heard once before, and then the low cry

of pain, the feeble whine of the new-born child filled her ears and

seemed to enter her poor, exhausted body till it reached her very soul;

and, in an unconsciousness movement she tried to hold out her arms.

With the child was born a new joy, a fresh rapture. In one second she

had been delivered from that terrible pain and made happier than she had

ever been before, and she revived in mind and body as she realized, for

the first time, the pleasure of being a mother.

She wanted to see her child. It had not any hair or nails, for it had

come before its time, but when she saw this human larva move its limbs

and open its mouth, and when she touched its wrinkled little face, her

heart overflowed with happiness, and she knew that she would never feel

weary of life again, for her love for the atom she held in her arms

would be so absorbing that it would make her indifferent to everything

else.

From that time her child was her chief, her only care, and she idolized

it more, perhaps, because she had been so deceived in her love and

disappointed in her hopes. She insisted on having the cot close to her

bed, and, when she could get up, she sat by the window the whole day

rocking the cradle with her foot. She was even jealous of the wet-nurse,

and when the hungry baby held out its arms and mouth towards the big

blue-veined breast, she felt as if she would like to tear her son from

this strong, quiet peasant woman's arms, and strike and scratch the

bosom to which he clung so eagerly.

She embroidered his fine robes herself, putting into them the most

elaborate work; he was always surrounded by a cloud of lace and wore the

handsomest caps. The only thing she could talk about was the baby's

clothes, and she was always interrupting a conversation to hold up a

band, or bib, or some especially pretty ribbon for admiration, for she

took no notice of what was being said around her as she turned and

twisted some tiny garment about in her hands, and held it up to the

light to see better how it looked.

"Don't you think he will look lovely in that?" she was always asking,

and her mother and the baron smiled at this all-absorbing affection; but

Julien would exclaim, impatiently, "What a nuisance she is with that

brat!" for his habits had been upset and his overweening importance

diminished by the arrival of this noisy, imperious tyrant, and he was

half-jealous of the scrap of humanity who now held the first place in

the house. Jeanne could hardly bear to be away from her baby for an

instant, and she even sat watching him all night through as he lay

sleeping in his cradle. These vigils and this continual anxiety began to

tell upon her health. The want of sleep weakened her and she grew

thinner and thinner, until, at last, the doctor ordered the child to be

separated from her.

It was in vain that she employed tears, commands and entreaties. Each

night the baby slept with his nurse, and each night his mother rose from

her bed and went, barefooted, to put her ear to the keyhole and listen

if he was sleeping quietly. Julien found her there one night as he was

coming in late from dining at the Fourvilles, and after that she was

locked into her room every evening to compel her to stay in bed.

The child was to be named Pierre Simon Paul (they were going to call him

Paul) and at the end of August he was christened, the baron being

godfather, and Aunt Lison godmother. At the beginning of September Aunt

Lison went away, and her absence was as unnoticed as her presence had

been.

One evening, after dinner, the cure called at the chateau. There seemed

an air of mystery about him, and, after a few commonplace remarks, he

asked the baron and baroness if he could speak to them in private for a

few moments. They all three walked slowly down the avenue talking

eagerly as they went, while Julien, feeling uneasy and irritated at this

secrecy, was left behind with Jeanne. He offered to accompany the priest

when he went away, and they walked off towards the church where the

angelus was ringing. It was a cool, almost cold, evening, and the others

soon went into the house. They were all beginning to feel a little

drowsy when the drawing-room door was suddenly thrown open and Julien

came in looking very vexed. Without stopping to see whether Jeanne was

there or not, he cried to the baron, as soon as he entered the room:

"Upon my soul you must be mad to go and give twenty thousand francs to

that girl!"

They were all taken too much by surprise to make any answer, and he went

on, too angry to speak distinctly: "I can't understand how you can be

such fools! But there I suppose you will keep on till we haven't a sou

left!"

The baron, recovering himself, a little, tried to check his son-in-law:

"Be quiet!" he exclaimed. "Don't you see that your wife is in the room?"

"I don't care if she is," answered Julien, stamping his foot. "Besides,

she ought to know about it. It is depriving her of her rightful

inheritance."

Jeanne had listened to her husband in amazement, utterly at a loss to

know what it was all about:

"Whatever is the matter?" she asked.

Then Julien turned to her, expecting her to side with him, as the loss

of the money would affect her also. He told her in a few words how her

parents were trying to arrange a marriage for Rosalie, and how the

maid's child was to have the farm at Barville, which was worth twenty

thousand francs at the very least. And he kept on repeating:

"Your parents must be mad, my dear, raving mad! Twenty thousand francs!

Twenty thousand francs! They can't be in their right senses! Twenty

thousand francs for a bastard!"

Jeanne listened to him quite calmly, astonished herself to find that she

felt neither anger nor sorrow at his meanness, but she was perfectly

indifferent now to everything which did not concern her child. The baron

was choking with anger, and at last he burst out, with a stamp of the

foot:

"Really, this is too much! Whose fault is it that this girl has to have

a dowry? You seem to forget who is her child's father; but, no doubt,

you would abandon her altogether if you had your way!"

Julien gazed at the baron for a few moments in silent surprise. Then he

went on more quietly:

"But fifteen hundred francs would have been ample to give her. All the

peasant-girls about here have children before they marry, so what does

it matter who they have them by? And then, setting aside the injustice

you will be doing Jeanne and me, you forget that if you give Rosalie a

farm worth twenty thousand francs everybody will see at once that there

must be a reason for such a gift. You should think a little of what is

due to our name and position."

He spoke in a calm, cool way as if he were sure of his logic and the

strength of his argument. The baron, disconcerted by this fresh view of

the matter, could find nothing to say in reply, and Julien, feeling his

advantage, added:

"But fortunately, nothing is settled. I know the man who is going to

marry her and he is an honest fellow with whom everything can yet be

satisfactorily arranged. I will see to the matter myself."

With that he went out of the room, wishing to avoid any further

discussion, and taking the silence with which his words were received to

mean acquiescence.

As soon as the door had closed after his son-in-law, the baron

exclaimed:

"Oh, this is more than I can stand!"

Jeanne, catching sight of her father's horrified expression, burst into

a clear laugh which rang out as it used to do whenever she had seen

something very funny:

"Papa, papa!" she cried. "Did you hear the tone in which he said 'twenty

thousand francs!'"

The baroness, whose smiles lay as near the surface as her tears,

quivered with laughter as she saw Jeanne's gayety, and thought of her

son-in-law's furious face, and his indignant exclamations and determined

attempt to prevent this money, which was not his, being given to the

girl he had seduced. Finally the baron caught the contagion and they all

three laughed till they ached as in the happy days of old. When they

were a little calmer, Jeanne said:

"It is very funny, but really I don't seem to mind in the least what he

says or does now. I look upon him quite as a stranger, and I can hardly

believe I am his wife. You see I am able to laugh at his--his want of

delicacy."

And the parents and child involuntarily kissed each other, with smiles

on their lips, though the tears were not very far from their eyes.

Two days after this scene, when Julien had gone out for a ride, a tall,

young fellow of about four or five-and-twenty, dressed in a brand-new

blue blouse, which hung in stiff folds, climbed stealthily over the

fence, as if he had been hiding there all the morning, crept along the

Couillards' ditch, and went round to the other side of the chateau where

Jeanne and her father and mother were sitting under the plane-tree. He

took off his cap and awkwardly bowed as he came towards them, and, when

he was within speaking distance, mumbled:

"Your servant, monsieur le baron, madame and company." Then, as no one

said anything to him he introduced himself as "Desire Lecoq."

This name failing to explain his presence at the chateau, the baron

asked:

"What do you want?"

The peasant was very disconcerted when he found he had to state his

business. He hesitated, stammered, cast his eyes from the cap he held in

his hands to the chateau roof and back again, and at last began:

"M'sieu l'cure has said somethin' to me about this business--" then,

fearing to say too much and thus injure his own interests, he stopped

short.

"What business?" asked the baron. "I don't know what you mean."

"About your maid--what's her name--Rosalie," said the man in a low

voice.

Jeanne, guessing what he had come about, got up and went away with her

child in her arms.

"Sit down," said the baron, pointing to the chair his daughter had just

left.

The peasant took the seat with a "Thank you, kindly," and then waited as

if he had nothing whatever to say. After a few moments, during which no

one spoke, he thought he had better say something, so he looked up to

the blue sky and remarked:

"What fine weather for this time of year to be sure. It'll help on the

crops finely." And then he again relapsed into silence.

The baron began to get impatient.

"Then you are going to marry Rosalie?" he said in a dry tone, going

straight to the point.

At that all the crafty suspicious nature of the Normandy peasant was on

the alert.

"That depends," he answered quickly. "Perhaps I am and perhaps I ain't,

that depends."

All this beating about the bush irritated the baron.

"Can't you give a straightforward answer?" he exclaimed. "Have you come

to say you will marry the girl or not?"

The man looked at his feet as though he expected to find advice there:

"If it's as M'sieu l'cure says," he replied, "I'll have her; but if it's

as M'sieu Julien says, I won't."

"What did M. Julien tell you?"

"M'sieu Julien told me as how I should have fifteen hundred francs; but

M'sieu l'cure told me as how I should 'ave twenty thousand. I'll have

her for twenty thousand, but I won't for fifteen hundred."

The baroness was tickled by the perplexed look on the yokel's face and

began to shake with laughter as she sat in her armchair. Her gayety

surprised the peasant, who looked at her suspiciously out of the corner

of his eye as he waited for an answer.

The baron cut short all this haggling.

"I have told M. le cure that you shall have the farm at Barville, which

is worth twenty thousand francs, for life, and then it is to become the

child's. That is all I have to say on the matter, and I always keep my

word. Now is your answer yes or no?"

A satisfied smile broke over the man's face, and, with a sudden

loquacity:

"Oh, then, I don't say no," he replied. "That was the only thing that

pulled me up. When M'sieu l'cure said somethin' to me about it in the

first place, I said yes at once, 'specially as it was to oblige M'sieu

l'baron who'd be sure to pay me back for it, as I says to myself. Ain't

it always the way, and doesn't one good turn always deserve another? But

M'sieu Julien comes up and then it was only fifteen 'undred francs. Then

I says to myself, 'I must find out the rights o' this and so I came

'ere. In coorse I b'lieved your word, M'sieu l'baron, but I wanted to

find out the rights o' the case. Short reck'nings make long friends,

don't they, M'sieu l'baron?"

He would have gone on like this till dinner-time if no one had

interrupted him, so the baron broke in with:

"When will you marry her?"

The question aroused the peasant's suspicions again directly.

"Couldn't I have it put down in writin' first?" he asked in a halting

way.

"Why bless my soul, isn't the marriage-contract good enough for you?"

exclaimed the baron, angered by the man's suspicious nature.

"But until I get that I should like it wrote down on paper," persisted

the peasant. "Havin' it down on paper never does no harm."

"Give a plain answer, now at once," said the baron, rising to put an end

to the interview. "If you don't choose to marry the girl, say so. I know

someone else who would be glad of the chance."

The idea of twenty thousand francs slipping from his hands into someone

else's, startled the peasant out of his cautiousness, and he at once

decided to say "yes":

"Agreed, M'sieu l'baron!" he said, holding out his hand as if he were

concluding the purchase of a cow. "It's done, and there's no going back

from the bargain."

The baron took his hand and cried to the cook:

"Ludivine! Bring a bottle of wine."

The wine was drunk and then the peasant went away, feeling a great deal

lighter-hearted than when he had come.

Nothing was said about this visit to Julien. The drawing up of the

marriage-contract was kept a great secret; then the banns were

published and Rosalie was married on the Monday morning. At the church a

neighbor stood behind the bride and bridegroom with a child in her arms

as an omen of good luck, and everyone thought Desire Lecoq very

fortunate. "He was born with a caul," said the peasants with a smile.

When Julien heard of the marriage he had a violent quarrel with the

baron and baroness and they decided to shorten their visit at Les

Peuples. Jeanne was sorry but she did not grieve as before when her

parents went away, for now all her hopes and thoughts were centered on

her son.

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