Bab Bab 4 · 第4章

The baron went into Jeanne's room before she was up one morning soon

after the christening of the boat, and sat down at the foot of the bed.

"M. le Vicomte de Lamare has proposed for you," he said.

Jeanne would have liked to hide her head under the bed-clothes.

"We told him we must think over his proposal before we could give him an

answer," continued the baron, who was smiling. "We did not wish to

arrange anything without first consulting you; your mother and I made no

objection to the marriage, but at the same time we did not make any

promise. You are a great deal richer than he is, but when the happiness

of a life is at stake the question of money ought not to be considered.

He has no relations, so if you married him we should gain a son, whereas

if you married anyone else you would have to go among strangers, and we

should lose our daughter. We like the young fellow, but the question is,

do you like him?"

"I am quite willing to marry him, papa," she stammered out, blushing to

the roots of her hair.

The baron looked into her eyes, and said with a smile: "I thought as

much, mademoiselle."

Until that evening Jeanne hardly knew what she was doing. She went

through everything mechanically, feeling thoroughly worn out with

fatigue, although she had done nothing to tire her. The vicomte came

about six o'clock and found her sitting with her mother under the

plane-tree, and Jeanne's heart beat wildly as the young man came calmly

towards them. He kissed the baroness's fingers, then, raising the young

girl's trembling hand to his lips, he imprinted on it a long, tender

kiss of gratitude.

The happy betrothal time began. The young couple spent their days

sitting on the slope leading to the waste land beyond the wood, or

walking up and down the baroness's avenue, she with her eyes fixed on

the dusty track her mother's foot had made, he talking of the future.

Once the marriage agreed to, they wanted it to take place as soon as

possible, so it was decided that they should be married in six weeks'

time, on the 15th of August, and that they should start on their wedding

tour almost immediately afterwards. When Jeanne was asked to what

country she should like to go, she chose Corsica, where they would be

more alone than in Italy.

They awaited the time of their union without very much impatience,

vaguely desiring more passionate embraces, and yet satisfied with a

slight caress, a pressure of the hand, a gaze so long that each seemed

to read the other's heart through their eyes.

No one was to be asked to the wedding besides Aunt Lison, the baroness's

sister, who was a lady-boarder in a convent at Versailles.

After their father's death the baroness wanted her sister to live with

her, but the old maid was convinced that she was a nuisance to

everybody, and always in the way, and she took apartments in one of the

convents which open their doors to the solitary and unhappy, though she

occasionally spent a month or two with her relations. She was a small

woman with very little to say, and always kept in the background; when

she stayed with the baroness she was only seen at meal times, the rest

of the day she spent shut up in her room. She had a kind, rather

old-looking face, although she was only forty-two, with sad, meek eyes.

Her wishes had always been sacrificed to those of everyone else. As a

child she had always sat quietly in some corner, never kissed because

she was neither pretty nor noisy, and as a young girl no one had ever

troubled about her. Her sister, following the example of her parents,

always thought of her as of someone of no importance, almost like some

object of furniture which she was accustomed to see every day but which

never occupied her thoughts.

She seemed ashamed of her name, Lise, because it was so girlish and

pretty, and when there seemed no likelihood of her marrying, "Lise" had

gradually changed to "Lison." Since the birth of Jeanne she had become

"Aunt Lison," a sort of poor relation whom everyone treated with a

careless familiarity which hid a good-natured contempt. She was prim and

very timid even with her sister and brother-in-law, who liked her as

they liked everyone, but whose affection was formed of an indifferent

kindness, and an unconscious compassion.

Sometimes when the baroness was speaking of the far-away time of her

childhood she would say to fix a date: "It was about the time of Lison's

mad attempt." She never said anything more, and there was a certain

mystery about this "mad attempt."

One evening, when she was about nineteen years old, Lise had tried to

drown herself. No one could understand the reason of this act of folly;

there was nothing in her life or habits to at all account for it. She

had been rescued half-dead, and her parents, shocked at the deed, had

not attempted to discover its cause, but had only talked about her "mad

attempt," in the same way as they had spoken of the accident to the

horse Coco, when he had broken his leg in a ditch and had to be killed.

Since then Lise had been thought very weak-minded, and everyone around

her gradually came to look upon her with the mild contempt with which

her relations regarded her; even little Jeanne, perceiving with the

quickness of a child how her parents treated her aunt, never ran to kiss

her or thought of performing any little services for her. No one ever

went to her room, and Rosalie, the maid, alone seemed to know where it

was situated. If anyone wanted to speak to her a servant was sent to

find her, and if she could not be found no one troubled about her, no

one thought of her, no one would ever have dreamt of saying:

"Dear me! I have not seen Lison this morning."

When she came down to breakfast of a morning, little Jeanne went and

held up her face for a kiss, and that was the only greeting she

received. She had no position in the house and seemed destined never to

be understood even by her relations, never able to gain their love or

confidence, and when she died she would leave no empty chair, no sense

of loss behind her.

When anyone said "Aunt Lison" the words caused no more feeling of

affection in anyone's heart than if the coffee pot or sugar basin had

been mentioned. She always walked with little, quick, noiseless steps,

never making any noise, never stumbling against anything, and her hands

seemed to be made of velvet, so light and delicate was their handling

of anything she touched.

Lison arrived at the chateau about the middle of July, quite upset by

the idea of the marriage; she brought a great many presents which did

not receive much attention as she was the giver, and the day after her

arrival no one noticed she was there. She could not take her eyes off

the sweethearts, and busied herself about the trousseau with a strange

energy, a feverish excitement, working in her room, where no one came to

see her, like a common seamstress. She was always showing the baroness

some handkerchiefs she had hemmed, or some towels on which she had

embroidered the monogram, and asking:

"Do you like that, Adelaide?"

The baroness would carelessly look at the work and answer:

"Don't take so much trouble over it, my dear Lison."

About the end of the month, after a day of sultry heat, the moon rose in

one of those warm, clear nights which seem to draw forth all the hidden

poetry of the soul. The soft breeze fluttered the hangings of the quiet

drawing-room, and the shaded lamp cast a ring of soft light on the table

where the baroness and her husband were playing cards. Aunt Lison was

sitting by them knitting, and the young people were leaning against the

open window, looking out at the garden as it lay bathed in light.

The shadows of the linden and the plane tree fell on the moonlit grass

which stretched away to the shadows of the wood.

Irresistibly attracted by the beauty of the sight, Jeanne turned and

said:

"Papa, we are going for a walk on the grass."

"Very well, my dear," answered the baron, without looking up from his game.

Jeanne and the vicomte went out and walked slowly down the grass till

they reached the little wood at the bottom. They stayed out so long that

at last the baroness, feeling tired and wanting to go to her room, said:

"We must call in the lovers."

The baron glanced at the moonlit garden, where the two figures could be

seen walking slowly about.

"Leave them alone," he answered, "it is so pleasant out of doors; Lison

will wait up for them; won't you, Lison?"

The old maid looked up, and answered in her timid voice: "Oh, yes,

certainly."

The baron helped his wife to rise, and, tired himself by the heat of the

day,

"I will go to bed, too," he said. And he went upstairs with the

baroness.

Then Aunt Lison got up, and, leaving her work on the arm of the easy

chair, leant out of the window and looked at the glorious night. The two

sweethearts were walking backwards and forwards across the grass,

silently pressing each other's hands, as they felt the sweet influence

of the visible poetry that surrounded them.

Jeanne saw the old maid's profile in the window, with the lighted lamp

behind.

"Look," she said, "Aunt Lison is watching us."

"Yes, so she is," answered the vicomte in the tone of one who speaks

without thinking of what he is saying; and they continued their slow

walk and their dreams of love. But the dew was falling, and they began

to feel chilled.

"We had better go in now," said Jeanne.

They went into the drawing-room, and found Aunt Lison bending over the

knitting she had taken up again; her thin fingers were trembling as if

they were very tired. Jeanne went up to her.

"Aunt, we will go to bed now," she said.

The old maid raised her eyes; they were red as if she had been crying,

but neither of the lovers noticed it. Suddenly the young man saw that

Jeanne's thin slippers were quite wet, and fearing she would catch cold:

"Are not your dear little feet cold?" he asked affectionately.

Aunt Lison's fingers trembled so they could no longer hold the work; her

ball of wool rolled across the floor, and, hiding her face in her hands,

she began to sob convulsively. For a moment Jeanne and the vicomte stood

looking at her in mute surprise, then Jeanne, feeling frightened, knelt

down beside her, drew away her hands from her face, and asked in dismay:

"What is it, Aunt Lison? What is the matter with you?"

The poor, old maid, trembling all over, stammered out in a broken voice:

"When he asked you--'Are--are not your dear little feet--cold?'--I--I

thought how no one had--had ever said anything like that to me."

Jeanne felt full of pity for her aunt, but it seemed very funny to think

of anyone making love to Lison, and the vicomte turned his head away to

hide his laughter. Lison started up, left her wool on the ground and her

knitting on the armchair, and abruptly leaving the room, groped her way

up the dark staircase to her bedroom.

The two young people looked at one another, feeling sorry for her, and

yet rather amused.

"Poor auntie," murmured Jeanne.

"She must be a little mad this evening," replied Julien.

They were holding each other's hands as if they could not make up their

minds to say good-night, and very gently they exchanged their first kiss

before Aunt Lison's empty chair. The next day they had forgotten all

about the old maid's tears.

The fortnight before her marriage, Jeanne passed calmly and peacefully,

as if she were almost exhausted by the number of pleasant hours she had

lately had. The morning of the eventful day she had no time to think;

she was only conscious of a great sense of nothingness within her, as if

beneath her skin, her flesh, and blood, and bones had vanished, and she

noticed how her fingers trembled when she touched anything.

She did not regain her self-possession till she was going through the

marriage service. Married! She was married! Everything which had

happened since dawn seemed a dream, and all around her seemed changed;

people's gestures had a new meaning; even the hours of the day did not

seem to be in their right places. She felt stunned at the change. The

day before nothing had been altered in her life; her dearest hope had

only become nearer--almost within her grasp. She had fallen asleep a

girl, now she was a woman. She had crossed the barrier which hides the

future with all its expected joys and fancied happiness, and she saw

before her an open door; she was at last going to realize her dreams.

After the ceremony they went into the vestry, which was nearly empty,

for there were no wedding guests; but when they appeared at the door of

the church a loud noise made the bride start and the baroness shriek; it

was a salvo fired by the peasants, who had arranged to salute the bride,

and the shots could be heard all the way to Les Peuples.

Breakfast was served for the family, the cure from Yport, the Abbe

Picot, and the witnesses. Then everyone went to walk in the garden till

dinner was ready. The baron and the baroness, Aunt Lison, the mayor, and

the abbe walked up and down the baroness's path, and the priest from

Yport strode along the other avenue reading his breviary.

From the other side of the chateau came the noisy laughter of the

peasants drinking cider under the apple-trees. The whole countryside in

its Sunday garb was in the court, and the girls and young men were

playing games and chasing each other.

Jeanne and Julien went across the wood, and at the top of the slope

stood silently looking at the sea. It was rather chilly, although it was

the middle of August; there was a north wind, and the sun was shining in

the midst of a cloudless sky, so the young couple crossed the plain to

find shelter in the wooded valley leading to Yport. In the coppice no

wind could be felt, and they left the straight road and turned into a

narrow path running under the trees.

They could hardly walk abreast, and he gently put his arm round her

waist; she did not say anything, but her heart throbbed, and her breath

came quickly; the branches almost touched their heads, and they often

had to bend low to pass under them. She broke off a leaf; underneath it

lay two lady-birds looking like delicate, red shells.

"Look, it's a husband and wife," she said, innocently, feeling a little

more at ease.

Julien's mouth brushed her ear.

"To-night you will be my little wife," he said.

Although she had learnt a great deal since she had been living among the

fields, as yet only the poetical side of love had presented itself to

her mind, and she did not understand him. Was she not already his wife?

Then he began to drop little kisses on her forehead, and on her neck

just where some soft, stray hairs curled; instinctively she drew her

head away from him, startled and yet enraptured by these kisses to which

she was not accustomed. Looking up they found they had reached the end

of the wood. She stopped, a little confused at finding herself so far

from home; what would everyone think?

"Let us go back," she said.

He withdrew his arm from her waist, and as they turned round they came

face to face, so close together that she felt his breath on her cheek.

They looked into each other's eyes, each seeking to read the other's

soul, and trying to learn its secrets by a determined, penetrating gaze.

What would each be like? What would be the life they were commencing

together? What joys, what disillusions did married life reserve for

them? Suddenly Julien placed his hands on his wife's shoulders, and

pressed on her lips such a kiss as she had never before received, a kiss

which thrilled her whole being, a kiss which gave her such a strange

shock that she almost fell to the ground. She wildly pushed him from

her.

"Let us go back. Let us go back," she stammered out.

He did not make any answer, but took both her hands and held them in his

own, and they walked back to the house in silence.

At dusk a simple dinner was served, but there was a restraint upon the

conversation. The two priests, the mayor, and the four farmers, who had

been invited as witnesses, alone indulged in a little coarse gayety

which generally accompanies a wedding, and when the laughter died away

the mayor would try to revive it with a jest. It was about nine o'clock

when the coffee was served. Out of doors, under the apple-trees, the

open-air ball had just commenced; the tapers which had been hung on the

branches made the leaves look the color of verdigris, and through the

open windows of the dining-room all the revelry could be seen. The

rustics skipped round, howling a dance-tune, accompanied by two violins

and a clarionet, the musicians being perched upon a kitchen table. The

noisy voices of the peasants sometimes entirely drowned the sound of the

instruments, and the thin music sounded as if it was dropping from the

sky in little bits, a few notes being scattered every now and then.

Two big barrels, surrounded by flaming torches, provided drink for the

crowd, and two servants did nothing but rinse glasses and bowls in a

tub, and then hold them, dripping wet, under the taps whence flowed a

crimson stream of wine, or a golden stream of cider. The thirsty dancers

crowded round, stretched out their hands to get hold of any drinking

vessel, and poured the liquid down their dust-filled throats. Bread,

butter, cheese, and sausages were laid on a table, and everyone

swallowed a mouthful from time to time. As they watched this healthy,

noisy fete, the melancholy guests in the dining-room felt that they too

would have liked to join the dance, to drink from the great casks, and

eat a slice of bread-and-butter and a raw onion.

"By Jove! they are enjoying themselves!" said the mayor, beating time to

the music with his knife. "It makes one think of the wedding feast at

Ganache."

There was a murmur of suppressed laughter.

"You mean at Cana," replied the Abbe Picot, the natural enemy of every

civil authority.

But the mayor held his ground.

"No, M. le cure, I know quite well what I am saying; when I say Ganache,

I mean Ganache."

After dinner they went among the peasants for a little while, and then

the guests took their leave. The baron and his wife had a little quarrel

in a low voice. Madame Adelaide, more out of breath than ever, seemed to

be refusing something her husband was asking her to do; and at last she

said almost out loud: "No, my dear, I cannot. I shouldn't know how to

begin." The baron abruptly left her, and went up to Jeanne.

"Will you come for a walk with me, my child?" he said.

"If you like, papa," she answered, feeling a little uneasy.

As soon as they were outside the door they felt the wind in their

faces--a cold, dry wind which drove the clouds across the sky, and made

the summer night feel like autumn. The baron pressed his daughter's arm

closely to him, and affectionately pressed her hand. For some minutes

they walked on in silence; he could not make up his mind to begin, but,

at last, he said:

"My pet, I have to perform a very difficult duty which really belongs to

your mother; as she refuses to do what she ought, I am obliged to take

her place. I do not know how much you already know of the laws of

existence; there are some things which are carefully hidden from

children, from girls especially, for girls ought to remain pure-minded

and perfectly innocent until the hour their parents place them in the

arms of the man who, henceforth, has the care of their happiness; it is

his duty to raise the veil drawn over the sweet secret of life. But, if

no suspicion of the truth has crossed their minds, girls are often

shocked by the somewhat brutal reality which their dreams have not

revealed to them. Wounded in mind, and even in body, they refuse to

their husband what is accorded to him as an absolute right by both human

and natural laws. I cannot tell you any more, my darling; but remember

this, only this, that you belong entirely to your husband."

What did she know in reality? What did she guess? She began to tremble,

and she felt low-spirited, and overcome by a presentiment of something

terrible. When she and her father went in again they stopped in surprise

at the drawing-room door. Madame Adelaide was sobbing on Julien's

shoulder. Her noisy tears seemed to be forced from her, and issued at

the same time from her nose, mouth and eyes, and the amazed vicomte was

awkwardly supporting the huge woman, who had thrown herself in his arms

to ask him to be gentle with her darling, her pet, her dear child. The

baron hurried forward.

"Oh, pray do not make a scene, do not let us have any tears," he said,

taking hold of his wife, and seating her in an armchair while she wiped

her face. Then turning towards Jeanne:

"Now then, my dear, kiss your mother and go to bed," he said.

Ready to cry herself, Jeanne quickly kissed her parents and ran away.

Aunt Lison had already gone to her room, so the baron and his wife were

left alone with Julien. They all three felt very awkward, and could

think of nothing to say; the two men, in their evening-dress, remained

standing, looking into space, and Madame Adelaide leant back in her

armchair, her breast still heaved by an occasional sob. At last the

silence became unbearable, and the baron began to talk about the journey

the young couple were going to take in a few days.

Jeanne, in her room, was being undressed by Rosalie, whose tears fell

like rain; her trembling hands could not find the strings and pins, and

she certainly seemed a great deal more affected than her mistress. But

Jeanne did not notice her maid's tears; she felt as though she had

entered another world, and was separated from all she had known and

loved. Everything in her life seemed turned upside down; the strange

idea came to her: "Did she really love her husband?" He suddenly seemed

some stranger she hardly knew. Three months before she had not even been

aware of his existence, and now she was his wife. How had it happened?

Did people always plunge into marriage as they might into some uncovered

hole lying in their path? When she was in her night-dress she slipped

into bed, and the cold sheets made her shiver, and increased the

sensation of cold, and sadness and loneliness which had weighed on her

mind for two hours. Rosalie went away still sobbing, and Jeanne lay

still, anxiously awaiting the revelation she had partly guessed, and

that her father had hinted at in confused words--awaiting the unveiling

of love's great secret.

There came three soft knocks at the door, though she had heard no one

come upstairs. She started violently, and made no answer; there was

another knock, and then the door-handle was turned. She hid her head

under the clothes as if a thief had got into her room, and then came a

noise of boots on the boards, and all at once some one touched the bed.

She started again, and gave a little cry; then, uncovering her head, she

saw Julien standing beside the bed, looking at her with a smile.

"Oh, how you frightened me!" she said.

"Did you not expect me, then?" he asked.

She made no answer, feeling horribly ashamed of being seen in bed by

this man, who looked so grave and correct in his evening-dress. They did

not know what to say or do next; they hardly dared to look at one

another, in this decisive hour, on which the intimate happiness of their

life depended. Perhaps he vaguely felt what perfect self-possession,

what affectionate stratagems are needed not to hurt the modesty, the

extreme delicacy of a maiden's heart. He gently took her hand and kissed

it; then, kneeling by the bed as he would before an altar, he murmured,

in a voice soft as a sigh:

"Will you love me?"

She felt a little reassured, and raised her head, which was covered with

a cloud of lace.

"I love you already, dear," she said, with a smile.

He took his wife's little slender fingers in his mouth, and, his voice

changed by this living gag, he asked:

"Will you give me a proof of your love?"

The question frightened her again, and, only remembering her father's

words, and not quite understanding what she said:

"I am yours, dear," she answered.

He covered her hand with humid kisses, and, slowly rising, he bent

towards her face, which she again began to hide. Suddenly he threw one

arm across the bed, winding it around his wife over the clothes, and

slipped his other arm under the bolster, which he raised with her head

upon it; then he asked, in a low whisper:

"Then you will make room for me beside you?"

She had an instinctive fear, and stammered out: "Oh, not yet, I entreat

you."

He seemed disappointed and a little hurt; then he went on in a voice

that was still pleading, but a little more abrupt:

"Why not now, since we have got to come to it sooner or later?"

She did not like him for saying that, but, perfectly resigned and

submissive, she said, for the second time:

"I am yours, dear."

Then he went quickly into his dressing-room, and she could distinctly

hear the rustling of his clothes as he took them off, the jingling of

the money in his pockets, the noise his boots made as he let them drop

on the floor. All at once he ran across the room in his drawers and

socks to put his watch on the mantelpiece; then he returned to the other

room, where he moved about a little while longer. Jeanne turned quickly

over to the other side and shut her eyes when she heard him coming. She

nearly started out of bed when she felt a cold, hairy leg slide against

hers, and, distractedly hiding her face in her hands, she moved right to

the edge of the bed, almost crying with fear and horror. He took her in

his arms, although her back was turned to him, and eagerly kissed her

neck, the lace of her nightcap, and the embroidered collar of her

night-dress. Filled with a horrible dread, she did not move, and then

she felt his strong hands caressing her. She gasped for breath at this

brutal touch, and felt an intense longing to escape and hide herself

somewhere out of this man's reach. Soon he lay still, and she could feel

the warmth of his body against her back. She did not feel so frightened

then, and all at once the thought flashed across her mind that she had

only to turn round and her lips would touch his.

At last he seemed to get impatient, and, in a sorrowful voice, he said:

"Then you will not be my little wife?"

"Am I not your wife already?" she said, through her hands.

"Come now, my dear, don't try to make a fool of me," he answered, with a

touch of bad temper in his voice.

She felt very sorry when she heard him speak like that, and with a

sudden movement she turned towards him to ask his pardon. He

passionately seized her in his arms and imprinted burning kisses all

over her face and neck. She had taken her hands from her face and lay

still, making no response to his efforts, her thoughts so confused that

she could understand nothing, until suddenly she felt a sharp pain, and

then she began to moan and writhe in his arms.

What happened next? She did not know, for her head was in a whirl. She

was conscious of nothing more until she felt him raining grateful kisses

on her lips. Then he spoke to her and she had to answer; then he made

other attempts, which she repelled with horror, and as she struggled she

felt against her chest the thick hair she had already felt against her

leg, and she drew back in dismay. Tired at last of entreating her

without effect, he lay still on his back; then she could think. She had

expected something so different, and this destruction of her hopes, this

shattering of her expectations of delight, filled her with despair, and

she could only say to herself: "That, then, is what he calls being his

wife; that is it, that is it."

For a long time she lay thus, feeling very miserable, her eyes wandering

over the tapestry on the walls, with its tale of love. As Julien did not

speak or move, she slowly turned her head towards him, and then she saw

that he was asleep, with his mouth half opened and his face quite calm.

Asleep! she could hardly believe it, and it made her feel more

indignant, more outraged than his brutal passion had done. How could he

sleep on such a night? There was no novelty for him, then, in what had

passed between them? She would rather he had struck her, or bruised her

with his odious caresses till she had lost consciousness, than that he

should have slept. She leant on her elbow, and bent towards him to

listen to the breath which sometimes sounded like a snore as it passed

through his lips.

Daylight came, dim at first, then brighter, then pink, then radiant.

Julien opened his eyes, yawned, stretched his arms, looked at his wife,

smiled, and asked:

"Have you slept well, dear?"

She noticed with great surprise that he said "thou" to her now, and she

replied:

"Oh, yes; have you?"

"I? Oh, very well indeed," he answered, turning and kissing her. Then he

began to talk, telling her his plans, and using the word "economy" so

often that Jeanne wondered. She listened to him without very well

understanding what he said, and, as she looked at him, a thousand

thoughts passed rapidly through her mind.

Eight o'clock struck.

"We must get up," he said; "we shall look stupid if we stay in bed late

to-day;" and he got up first.

When he had finished dressing, he helped his wife in all the little

details of her toilet, and would not hear of her calling Rosalie. As he

was going out of the room, he stopped to say:

"You know, when we are by ourselves, we can call each other 'thee' and

'thou,' but we had better wait a little while before we talk like that

before your parents. It will sound quite natural when we come back after

our honeymoon." And then he went downstairs.

Jeanne did not go down till lunch-time; and the day passed exactly the

same as usual, without anything extraordinary happening. There was only

an extra man in the house.

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