Bab Bab 7 · 第7章

The young couple got into the habit of playing cards; every day after

lunch Jeanne played several games of bezique with her husband, while he

smoked his pipe and drank six or eight glasses of brandy. When they had

finished playing, Jeanne went upstairs to her bedroom, and, sitting by

the window, worked at a petticoat flounce she was embroidering, while

the wind and rain beat against the panes. When her eyes ached she looked

out at the foamy, restless sea, gazed at it for a few minutes, and then

took up her work again.

She had nothing else to do, for Julien had taken the entire management

of the house into his hands, that he might thoroughly satisfy his

longing for authority and his mania for economy. He was exceedingly

stingy; he never gave the servants anything beyond their exact wages,

never allowed any food that was not strictly necessary. Every morning,

ever since she had been at Les Peuples, the baker had made Jeanne a

little Normandy cake, but Julien cut off this expense, and Jeanne had to

content herself with toast.

Wishing to avoid all arguments and quarrels, she never made any remark,

but each fresh proof of her husband's avarice hurt her like the prick of

a needle. It seemed so petty, so odious to her, brought up as she had

been in a family where money was never thought of any importance. How

often she had heard her mother say: "Money is made to be spent"; but now

Julien kept saying to her: "Will you never be cured of throwing money

away?" Whenever he could manage to reduce a salary or a bill by a few

pence he would slip the money into his pocket, saying, with a pleased

smile:

"Little streams make big rivers."

Jeanne would sometimes find herself dreaming as she used to do before

she was married. She would gradually stop working, and with her hands

lying idle in her lap and her eyes fixed on space, she built castles in

the air as if she were a young girl again. But the voice of Julien,

giving an order to old Simon, would call her back to the realities of

life, and she would take up her work, thinking, "Ah, that is all over

and done with now," and a tear would fall on her fingers as they pushed

the needle through the stuff.

Rosalie, who used to be so gay and lively, always singing snatches of

songs as she went about her work, gradually changed also. Her plump

round cheeks had fallen in and lost their brightened color, and her skin

was muddy and dark. Jeanne often asked her if she were ill, but the

little maid always answered with a faint blush, "No, madame," and got

away as quickly as she could. Instead of tripping along as she had

always done, she now dragged herself painfully from room to room, and

seemed not even to care how she looked, for the peddlers in vain spread

out their ribbons and corsets and bottles of scent before her; she never

bought anything from them now.

At the end of January, the heavy clouds came across the sea from the

north, and there was a heavy fall of snow. In one night the whole plain

was whitened, and, in the morning the trees looked as if a mantle of

frozen foam had been cast over them.

Julien put on his high boots, and passed his time in the ditch between

the wood and the plain, watching for the migrating birds. Every now and

then his shots would break the frozen silence of the fields, and hordes

of black crows flew from the trees in terror. Jeanne, tired of staying

indoors, would go out on the steps of the house, where, in the stillness

of this snow-covered world, she could hear the bustle of the farms, or

the far-away murmur of the waves and the soft continual rustle of the

falling snow.

On one of these cold, white mornings she was sitting by her bedroom

fire, while Rosalie, who looked worse and worse every day, was slowly

making the bed. All at once Jeanne heard a sigh of pain behind her.

Without turning her head, she asked:

"What is the matter with you, Rosalie?"

The maid answered as she always did:

"Nothing, madame," but her voice seemed to die away as she spoke.

Jeanne had left off thinking about her, when she suddenly noticed that

she could not hear the girl moving. She called: "Rosalie."

There was no answer. Then she thought that the maid must have gone

quietly out of the room without her hearing her, and she cried in a

louder tone: "Rosalie!" Again she received no answer, and she was just

stretching out her hand to ring the bell, when she heard a low moan

close beside her. She started up in terror.

Rosalie was sitting on the floor with her back against the bed, her legs

stretched stiffly out, her face livid, and her eyes staring straight

before her. Jeanne rushed to her side.

"Oh, Rosalie! What is the matter? what is it?" she asked in affright.

The maid did not answer a word, but fixed her wild eyes on her mistress

and gasped for breath, as if tortured by some excruciating pain. Then,

stiffening every muscle in her body, and stifling a cry of anguish

between her clenched teeth, she slipped down on her back, and all at

once, something stirred underneath her dress, which clung tightly round

her legs. Jeanne heard a strange, gushing noise, something like the

death-rattle of someone who is suffocating, and then came a long low

wail of pain; it was the first cry of suffering of a child entering the

world.

The sound came as a revelation to her, and, suddenly losing her head,

she rushed to the top of the stairs, crying:

"Julien! Julien!"

"What do you want?" he answered, from below.

She gasped out, "It's Rosalie who--who--" but before she could say any

more Julien was rushing up the stairs two at a time; he dashed into the

bedroom, raised the girl's clothes, and there lay a creased, shriveled,

hideous, little atom of humanity, feebly whining and trying to move its

limbs. He got up with an evil look on his face, and pushed his

distracted wife out of the room, saying:

"This is no place for you. Go away and send me Ludivine and old Simon."

Jeanne went down to the kitchen trembling all over, to deliver her

husband's message, and then afraid to go upstairs again, she went into

the drawing-room, where a fire was never lighted, now her parents were

away. Soon she saw Simon run out of the house, and come back five

minutes after with Widow Dentu, the village midwife. Next she heard a

noise on the stairs which sounded as if they were carrying a body, then

Julien came to tell her that she could go back to her room. She went

upstairs and sat down again before her bedroom fire, trembling as if she

had just witnessed some terrible accident.

"How is she?" she asked.

Julien, apparently in a great rage, was walking about the room in a

preoccupied, nervous way. He did not answer his wife for some moments,

but at last he asked, stopping in his walk:

"Well, what do you mean to do with this girl?"

Jeanne looked at her husband as if she did not understand his question.

"What do you mean?" she said. "I don't know; how should I?"

"Well, anyhow, we can't keep that child in the house," he cried,

angrily.

Jeanne looked very perplexed, and sat in silence for some time. At last

she said:

"But, my dear, we could put it out to nurse somewhere?"

He hardly let her finish her sentence.

"And who'll pay for it? Will you?"

"But surely the father will take care of it," she said, after another

long silence. "And if he marries Rosalie, everything will be all right."

"The father!" answered Julien, roughly; "the father! Do you know who is

the father? Of course you don't. Very well, then!"

Jeanne began to get troubled: "But he certainly will not forsake the

girl; it would be such a cowardly thing to do. We will ask her his name,

and go and see him and force him to give some account of himself."

Julien had become calmer, and was again walking about the room.

"My dear girl," he replied, "I don't believe she will tell you the man's

name, or me either. Besides, suppose he wouldn't marry her? You must see

that we can't keep a girl and her illegitimate child in our house."

But Jeanne would only repeat, doggedly:

"Then the man must be a villain; but we will find out who he is, and

then he will have us to deal with instead of that poor girl."

Julien got very red.

"But until we know who he is?" he asked.

She did not know what to propose, so she asked Julien what he thought

was the best thing to do. He gave his opinion very promptly.

"Oh, I should give her some money, and let her and her brat go to the

devil."

That made Jeanne very indignant.

"That shall never be done," she declared; "Rosalie is my foster-sister,

and we have grown up together. She has erred, it is true, but I will

never turn her out-of-doors for that, and, if there is no other way out

of the difficulty, I will bring up the child myself."

"And we should have a nice reputation, shouldn't we, with our name and

connections?" burst out Julien. "People would say that we encouraged

vice, and sheltered prostitutes, and respectable people would never come

near us. Why, what can you be thinking of? You must be mad!"

"I will never have Rosalie turned out," she repeated, quietly. "If you

will not keep her here, my mother will take her back again. But we are

sure to find out the name of the father."

At that, he went out of the room, too angry to talk to her any longer,

and as he banged the door after him he cried:

"Women are fools with their absurd notions!"

In the afternoon Jeanne went up to see the invalid. She was lying in

bed, wide awake, and the Widow Dentu was rocking the child in her arms.

As soon as she saw her mistress Rosalie began to sob violently, and when

Jeanne wanted to kiss her, she turned away and hid her face under the

bed-clothes. The nurse interfered and drew down the sheet, and then

Rosalie made no further resistance, though the tears still ran down her

cheeks.

The room was very cold, for there was only a small fire in the grate,

and the child was crying. Jeanne did not dare make any reference to the

little one, for fear of causing another burst of tears, but she held

Rosalie's hand and kept repeating mechanically:

"It won't matter; it won't matter."

The poor girl glanced shyly at the nurse from time to time; the child's

cries seemed to pierce her heart, and sobs still escaped from her

occasionally, though she forced herself to swallow her tears. Jeanne

kissed her again, and whispered in her ear: "We'll take good care of it,

you may be sure of that," and then ran quickly out of the room, for

Rosalie's tears were beginning to flow again.

After that, Jeanne went up every day to see the invalid, and every day

Rosalie burst into tears when her mistress came into the room. The child

was put out to nurse, and Julien would hardly speak to his wife, for he

could not forgive her for refusing to dismiss the maid. One day he

returned to the subject, but Jeanne drew out a letter from her mother

in which the baroness said that if they would not keep Rosalie at Les

Peuples she was to be sent on to Rouen directly.

"Your mother's as great a fool as you are," cried Julien; but he did not

say anything more about sending Rosalie away, and a fortnight later the

maid was able to get up and perform her duties again.

One morning Jeanne made her sit down, and holding both her hands in

hers;

"Now, then, Rosalie, tell me all about it," she said, looking her

straight in the face.

Rosalie began to tremble.

"All about what, madame?" she said, timidly.

"Who is the father of your child?" asked Jeanne.

A look of despair came over the maid's face, and she struggled to

disengage her hands from her mistress's grasp, but Jeanne kissed her, in

spite of her struggles, and tried to console her.

"It is true you have been weak," she said, "but you are not the first to

whom such a misfortune has happened, and, if only the father of the

child marries you, no one will think anything more about it; we would

employ him, and he could live here with you."

Rosalie moaned as if she were being tortured, and tried to get her hands

free that she might run away.

"I can quite understand how ashamed you feel," went on Jeanne, "but you

see that I am not angry, and that I speak kindly to you. I wish to know

this man's name for your own good, for I fear, from your grief, that he

means to abandon you, and I want to prevent that. Julien will see him,

and we will make him marry you, and we shall employ you both; we will

see that he makes you happy."

This time Rosalie made so vigorous an effort that she succeeded in

wrenching her hands away from her mistress, and she rushed from the room

as if she were mad.

"I have tried to make Rosalie tell me her seducer's name," said Jeanne

to her husband at dinner that evening, "but I did not succeed in doing

so. Try and see if she will tell you, that we may force the wretch to

marry her."

"There, don't let me hear any more about all that," he said, angrily.

"You wanted to keep this girl, and you have done so, but don't bother me

about her."

He seemed still more irritable since Rosalie's confinement than he had

been before. He had got into the habit of shouting at his wife, whenever

he spoke to her, as if he were always angry, while she, on the contrary,

spoke softly, and did everything to avoid a quarrel; but she often cried

when she was alone in her room at night. In spite of his bad temper,

Julien had resumed the marital duties he had so neglected since his

wedding tour, and it was seldom now that he let three nights pass

without accompanying his wife to her room.

Rosalie soon got quite well again, and with better health came better

spirits, but she always seemed frightened and haunted by some strange

dread. Jeanne tried twice more to make her name her seducer, but each

time she ran away, without saying anything. Julien suddenly became

better tempered, and his young wife began to cherish vague hopes, and to

regain a little of her former gayety; but she often felt very unwell,

though she never said anything about it.

For five weeks the crisp, shining snow had lain on the frozen ground; in

the daytime there was not a cloud to be seen, and at night the sky was

strewn with stars. Standing alone in their square courtyards, behind the

great frosted trees, the farms seemed dead beneath their snowy shrouds.

Neither men nor cattle could go out, and the only sign of life about the

homesteads and cottages was the smoke that went straight up from the

chimneys into the frosty air.

The grass, the hedges and the wall of elms seemed killed by the cold.

From time to time the trees cracked, as if the fibers of their branches

were separating beneath the bark, and sometimes a big branch would break

off and fall to the ground, its sap frozen and dried up by the intense

cold.

Jeanne thought the severe weather was the cause of her ill-health, and

she longed for the warm spring breezes. Sometimes the very idea of food

disgusted her, and she could eat nothing; at other times she vomited

after every meal, unable to digest the little she did eat. She had

violent palpitations of the heart, and she lived in a constant and

intolerable state of nervous excitement.

One evening, when the thermometer was sinking still lower, Julien

shivered as he left the dinner table (for the dining-room was never

sufficiently heated, so careful was he over the wood), and rubbing his

hands together:

"It's too cold to sleep alone to-night, isn't it, darling?" he whispered

to his wife, with one of his old good-tempered laughs.

Jeanne threw her arms round his neck, but she felt so ill, so nervous,

and she had such aching pains that evening, that, with her lips close to

his, she begged him to let her sleep alone.

"I feel so ill to-night," she said, "but I am sure to be better

to-morrow."

"Just as you please, my dear," he answered. "If you are ill, you must

take care of yourself." And he began to talk of something else.

Jeanne went to bed early. Julien, for a wonder, ordered a fire to be

lighted in his own room; and when the servant came to tell him that "the

fire had burnt up," he kissed his wife on the forehead and said

good-night.

The very walls seemed to feel the cold, and made little cracking noises

as if they were shivering. Jeanne lay shaking with cold; twice she got

up to put more logs on the fire, and to pile her petticoats and dresses

on the bed, but nothing seemed to make her any warmer. There were

nervous twitchings in her legs, which made her toss and turn restlessly

from side to side. Her feet were numbed, her teeth chattered, her hands

trembled, her heart beat so slowly that sometimes it seemed to stop

altogether; and she gasped for breath as if she could not draw the air

into her lungs.

As the cold crept higher and higher up her limbs, she was seized with a

terrible fear. She had never felt like this before; life seemed to be

gradually slipping away from her, and she thought each breath she drew

would be her last.

"I am going to die! I am going to die!" she thought; and, in her terror,

she jumped out of bed, and rang for Rosalie.

No one came; she rang again, and again waited for an answer, shuddering

and half-frozen; but she waited in vain. Perhaps the maid was sleeping

too heavily for the bell to arouse her, and, almost beside herself with

fear, Jeanne rushed out onto the landing without putting anything around

her, and with bare feet. She went noiselessly up the dark stairs, felt

for Rosalie's door, opened it, and called "Rosalie!" then went into the

room, stumbled against the bed, passed her hands over it, and found it

empty and quite cold, as if no one had slept in it that night.

"Surely she cannot have gone out in such weather as this," she thought.

Her heart began to beat so violently that it almost suffocated her, and

she went downstairs to rouse Julien, her legs giving way under her as

she walked. She burst open her husband's door, and hurried across the

room, spurred on by the idea that she was going to die and the fear that

she would become unconscious before she could see him again.

Suddenly she stopped with a shriek, for by the light of the dying fire

she saw Rosalie's head on the pillow beside her husband's. At her cry

they both started up, but she had already recovered from the first shock

of her discovery, and fled to her room, while Julien called after her,

"Jeanne! Jeanne!" She felt she could not see him or listen to his

excuses and his lies, and again rushing out of her room she ran

downstairs. The staircase was in total darkness, but filled with the

desire of flight, of getting away without seeing or hearing any more,

she never stayed to think that she might fall and break her limbs on the

stone stairs.

On the last step she sat down, unable to think, unable to reason, her

head in a whirl. Julien had jumped out of bed, and was hastily dressing

himself. She heard him moving about, and she started up to escape from

him. He came downstairs, crying: "Jeanne, do listen to me!"

No, she would not listen; he should not degrade her by his touch. She

dashed into the dining-room as if a murderer were pursuing her, looked

round for a hiding-place or some dark corner where she might conceal

herself, and then crouched down under the table. The door opened, and

Julien came in with a light in his hand, still calling, "Jeanne!

Jeanne!" She started off again like a hunted hare, tore into the

kitchen, round which she ran twice like some wild animal at bay, then,

as he was getting nearer and nearer to her, she suddenly flung open the

garden door, and rushed out into the night.

Her bare legs sank into the snow up to her knees, and this icy contact

gave her new strength. Although she had nothing on but her chemise she

did not feel the bitter cold; her mental anguish was too great for the

consciousness of any mere bodily pain to reach her brain, and she ran on

and on, looking as white as the snow-covered earth. She did not stop

once to take breath, but rushed on across wood and plain without knowing

or thinking of what she was doing. Suddenly she found herself at the

edge of the cliff. She instinctively stopped short, and then crouched

down in the snow and lay there with her mind as powerless to think as

her body to move.

All at once she began to tremble, as does a sail when caught by the

wind. Her arms, her hands, her feet, shook and twitched convulsively,

and consciousness returned to her. Things that had happened a long time

before came back to her memory; the sail in Lastique's boat with _him_,

their conversation, the dawn of their love; the christening of the boat;

then her thoughts went still farther back till they reached the night of

her arrival from the convent--the night she had spent in happy dreams.

And now, now! Her life was ruined; she had had all her pleasure; there

were no joys, no happiness, in store for her; and she could see the

terrible future with all its tortures, its deceptions, and despair.

Surely it would be better to die now, at once.

She heard a voice in the distance crying:

"This way! this way! Here are her footmarks!" It was Julien looking for

her.

Oh! she could not, she would not, see him again! Never again! From the

abyss before her came the faint sound of the waves as they broke on the

rocks. She stood up to throw herself over the cliff, and in a despairing

farewell to life, she moaned out that last cry of the dying--the word

that the soldier gasps out as he lies wounded to death on the

battlefield--"Mother!"

Then the thought of how her mother would sob when she heard of her

daughter's death, and how her father would kneel in agony beside her

mangled corpse, flashed across her mind, and in that one second she

realized all the bitterness of their grief. She fell feebly back on the

snow, and Julien and old Simon came up, with Marius behind them holding

a lantern. They drew her back before they dared attempt to raise her, so

near the edge of the cliff was she; and they did with her what they

liked, for she could not move a muscle. She knew that they carried her

indoors, that she was put to bed, and rubbed with hot flannels, and

then she was conscious of nothing more.

A nightmare--but was it a nightmare?--haunted her. She thought she was

in bed in her own room; it was broad daylight, but she could not get up,

though she did not know why she could not. She heard a noise on the

boards--a scratching, rustling noise--and all at once a little gray

mouse ran over the sheet. Then another one appeared, and another which

came running towards her chest. Jeanne was not frightened; she wanted to

take hold of the little animal, and put out her hand towards it, but she

could not catch it.

Then came more mice--ten, twenty, hundreds, thousands, sprang up on all

sides. They ran up the bed-posts, and along the tapestry, and covered

the whole bed. They got under the clothes, and Jeanne could feel them

gliding over her skin, tickling her legs, running up and down her body.

She could see them coming from the foot of the bed to get inside and

creep close to her breast, but when she struggled and stretched out her

hands to catch one, she always clutched the air. Then she got angry, and

cried out, and wanted to run away; she fancied someone held her down,

and that strong arms were thrown around her to prevent her moving, but

she could not see anyone. She had no idea of the time that all this

lasted; she only knew that it seemed a very long while.

At last she became conscious again--conscious that she was tired and

aching, and yet better than she had been. She felt very, very weak. She

looked round, and did not feel at all surprised to see her mother

sitting by her bedside with a stout man whom she did not know. She had

forgotten how old she was, and thought she was a little child again, for

her memory was entirely gone.

"See, she is conscious," said the stout man.

The baroness began to cry, and the big man said:

"Come, come, madame le baronne; I assure you there is no longer any

danger, but you must not talk to her; just let her sleep."

It seemed to Jeanne that she lay for a long time in a doze, which became

a heavy sleep if she tried to think of anything. She had a vague idea

that the past contained something dreadful, and she was content to lie

still without trying to recall anything to her memory. But one day, when

she opened her eyes, she saw Julien standing beside the bed, and the

curtain which hid everything from her was suddenly drawn aside, and she

remembered what had happened.

She threw back the clothes and sprang out of bed to escape from her

husband; but as soon as her feet touched the floor she fell to the

ground, for she was too weak to stand. Julien hastened to her

assistance, but when he attempted to raise her, she shrieked and rolled

from side to side to avoid the contact of his hands. The door opened,

and Aunt Lison and the Widow Dentu hurried in, closely followed by the

baron and his wife, the latter gasping for breath.

They put Jeanne to bed again, and she closed her eyes and pretended to

be asleep that she might think undisturbed. Her mother and aunt busied

themselves around her, saying from time to time:

"Do you know us now, Jeanne, dear?"

She pretended not to hear them, and made no answer; and in the evening

they went away, leaving her to the care of the nurse. She could not

sleep all that night, for she was painfully trying to connect the

incidents she could remember, one with the other; but there seemed to be

gaps in her memory which she could not bridge over. Little by little,

however, all the facts came back to her, and then she tried to decide

what she had better do. She must have been very ill, or her mother and

Aunt Lison and the baron would not have been sent for; but what had

Julien said? Did her parents know everything? And where was Rosalie?

The only thing she could do was to go back to Rouen with her father and

mother; they could all live there together as they used to do, and it

would be just the same as if she had not been married.

The next day she noticed and listened to all that went on around her,

but she did not let anyone see that she understood everything and had

recovered her full senses. Towards evening, when no one but the baroness

was in her room, Jeanne whispered softly:

"Mother, dear!"

She was surprised to hear how changed her own voice was, but the

baroness took her hands, exclaiming:

"My child! my dear little Jeanne! Do you know me, my pet?"

"Yes, mother. But you mustn't cry; I want to talk to you seriously. Did

Julien tell you why I ran out into the snow?"

"Yes, my darling. You have had a very dangerous fever."

"That was not the reason, mamma; I had the fever afterwards. Hasn't he

told you why I tried to run away, and what was the cause of the fever?"

"No, dear."

"It was because I found Rosalie in his bed."

The baroness thought she was still delirious, and tried to soothe her.

"There, there, my darling; lie down and try to go to sleep."

But Jeanne would not be quieted.

"I am not talking nonsense now, mamma dear, though I dare say I have

been lately," she said. "I felt very ill one night, and I got up and

went to Julien's room; there I saw Rosalie lying beside him. My grief

nearly drove me mad, and I ran out into the snow, meaning to throw

myself over the cliff."

"Yes, darling, you have been ill; very ill indeed," answered the

baroness.

"It wasn't that, mamma. I found Rosalie in Julien's bed, and I will not

stay with him any longer. You shall take me back to Rouen with you."

The doctor had told the baroness to let Jeanne have her own way in

everything, so she answered:

"Very well, my pet."

Jeanne began to lose patience.

"I see you don't believe me," she said pettishly. "Go and find papa;

perhaps he'll manage to understand that I am speaking the truth."

The baroness rose slowly to her feet, dragged herself out of the room

with the aid of two sticks, and came back in a few minutes with the

baron. They sat down by the bedside, and Jeanne began to speak in her

weak voice. She spoke quite coherently, and she told them all about

Julien's odd ways, his harshness, his avarice, and, lastly, his

infidelity.

The baron could see that her mind was not wandering, but he hardly knew

what to say or think. He affectionately took her hand, like he used to

do when she was a child and he told her fairy tales to send her to

sleep.

"Listen, my dear," he said. "We must not do anything rashly. Don't let

us say anything till we have thought it well over. Will you promise me

to try and bear with your husband until we have decided what is best to

be done?"

"Very well," she answered; "but I will not stay here after I get well."

Then she added, in a whisper: "Where is Rosalie now?"

"You shall not see her any more," replied the baron.

But she persisted: "Where is she? I want to know."

He owned that she was still in the house, but he declared she should go

at once.

Directly he left Jeanne's room, his heart full of pity for his child and

indignation against her husband, the baron went to find Julien, and said

to him sternly:

"Monsieur, I have come to ask for an explanation of your behavior to my

daughter. You have not only been false to her, but you have deceived her

with your servant, which makes your conduct doubly infamous."

Julien swore he was innocent of such a thing, and called heaven to

witness his denial. What proof was there? Jeanne was just recovering

from brain fever, and of course her thoughts were still confused. She

had rushed out in the snow one night at the beginning of her illness, in

a fit of delirium, and how could her statement be believed when, on the

very night that she said she had surprised her maid in her husband's

bed, she was dashing over the house nearly naked, and quite unconscious

of what she was doing!

Julien got very angry, and threatened the baron with an action if he did

not withdraw his accusation; and the baron, confused by this indignant

denial, began to make excuses and to beg his son-in-law's pardon; but

Julien refused to take his outstretched hand.

Jeanne did not seem vexed when she heard what her husband had said.

"He is telling a lie, papa," she said, quietly; "but we will force him

to own the truth."

For two days she lay silent, turning over all sorts of things in her

mind; on the third morning she asked for Rosalie. The baron refused to

let the maid go up and told Jeanne that she had left. But Jeanne

insisted on seeing her, and said:

"Send someone to fetch her, then."

When the doctor came she was very excited because they would not let her

see the maid, and they told him what was the matter. Jeanne burst into

tears and almost shrieked: "I will see her! I will see her!"

The doctor took her hand and said in a low voice:

"Calm yourself, madame. Any violent emotion might have very serious

results just now, for you are _enceinte_."

Jeanne's tears ceased directly; even as the doctor spoke she fancied she

could feel a movement within her, and she lay still, paying no attention

to what was being said or done around her. She could not sleep that

night; it seemed so strange to think that within her was another life,

and she felt sorry because it was Julien's child, and full of fears in

case it should resemble its father.

The next morning she sent for the baron.

"Papa, dear," she said, "I have made up my mind to know the whole truth;

especially now. You hear, I _will_ know it, and you know, you must let

me do as I like, because of my condition. Now listen; go and fetch M. le

cure; he must be here to make Rosalie tell the truth. Then, as soon as

he is here, you must send her up to me, and you and mamma must come too;

but, whatever you do, don't let Julien know what is going on."

The priest came about an hour afterwards. He was fatter than ever, and

panted quite as much as the baroness. He sat down in an armchair and

began joking, while he wiped his forehead with his checked handkerchief

from sheer habit.

"Well, Madame la baronne, I don't think we are either of us getting

thinner; in my opinion we make a very handsome pair." Then turning to

the invalid, he said: "Ah, ah! my young lady, I hear we're soon to have

a christening, and that it won't be the christening of a boat either,

this time, ha, ha, ha!" Then he went on in a grave voice, "It will be

one more defender for the country, or," after a short silence, "another

good wife and mother like you, madame," with a bow to the baroness.

The door flew open and there stood Rosalie, crying, struggling, and

refusing to move, while the baron tried to push her in. At last he gave

her a sudden shake, and threw her into the room with a jerk, and she

stood in the middle of the floor, with her face in her hands, sobbing

violently. Jeanne started up as white as a sheet, and her heart could be

seen beating under her thin nightdress. It was some time before she

could speak, but at last she gasped out:

"There--there--is no--need for me to--question you. Your confusion in my

presence--is--is quite sufficient--proof--of your guilt."

She stopped for a few moments for want of breath, and then went on

again:

"But I wish to know all. You see that M. le cure is here, so you

understand you will have to answer as if you were at confession."

Rosalie had not moved from where the baron had pushed her; she made no

answer, but her sobs became almost shrieks. The baron, losing all

patience with her, seized her hands, drew them roughly from her face and

threw her on her knees beside the bed, saying:

"Why don't you say something? Answer your mistress."

She crouched down on the ground in the position in which Mary Magdalene

is generally depicted; her cap was on one side, her apron on the floor,

and as soon as her hands were free she again buried her face in them.

"Come, come, my girl," said the cure, "we don't want to do you any harm,

but we must know exactly what has happened. Now listen to what is asked

you and answer truthfully."

Jeanne was leaning over the side of the bed, looking at the girl.

"Is it not true that I found you in Julien's bed?" she asked.

"Yes, madame," moaned out Rosalie through her fingers.

At that the baroness burst into tears also, and the sound of her sobs

mingled with the maid's.

"How long had that gone on?" asked Jeanne, her eyes fixed on the maid.

"Ever since he came here," stammered Rosalie.

"Since he came here," repeated Jeanne, hardly understanding what the

words meant. "Do you mean since--since the spring?"

"Yes, madame."

"Since he first came to the house?"

"Yes, madame."

"But how did it happen? How did he come to say anything to you about

it?" burst out Jeanne, as if she could keep back the questions no

longer. "Did he force you, or did you give yourself to him? How could

you do such a thing?"

"I don't know," answered Rosalie, taking her hands from her face and

speaking as if the words were forced from her by an irresistible desire

to talk and to tell all. "The day he dined 'ere for the first time, 'e

came up to my room. He 'ad 'idden in the garret and I dursn't cry out

for fear of what everyone would say. He got into my bed, and I dunno'

how it was or what I did, but he did just as 'e liked with me. I never

said nothin' about it because I thought he was nice."

"But your--your child? Is it his?" cried Jeanne.

"Yes, madame," answered Rosalie, between her sobs. Then neither said

anything more, and the silence was only broken by the baroness's and

Rosalie's sobs.

The tears rose to Jeanne's eyes, and flowed noiselessly down her cheeks.

So her maid's child had the same father as her own! All her anger had

evaporated and in its place was a dull, gloomy, deep despair. After a

short silence she said in a softer, tearful voice.

"After we returned from--from our wedding tour--when did he begin

again?"

"The--the night you came back," answered the maid, who was now almost

lying on the floor.

Each word rung Jeanne's heart. He had actually left her for this girl

the very night of their return to Les Peuples! That, then, was why he

had let her sleep alone. She had heard enough now; she did not want to

know anything more, and she cried to the girl:

"Go away! go away!"

As Rosalie, overcome by her emotion, did not move, she called to her

father:

"Take her away! Carry her out of the room!"

But the cure, who had said nothing up to now, thought the time had come

for a little discourse.

"You have behaved very wickedly," he said to Rosalie, "very wickedly

indeed, and the good God will not easily forgive you. Think of the

punishment which awaits you if you do not live a better life henceforth.

Now you are young is the time to train yourself in good ways. No doubt

Madame la baronne will do something for you, and we shall be able to

find you a husband--"

He would have gone on like this for a long time had not the baron seized

Rosalie by the shoulders, dragged her to the door and thrown her into

the passage like a bundle of clothes.

When he came back, looking whiter even than his daughter, the cure began

again:

"Well, you know, all the girls round here are the same. It is a very bad

state of things, but it can't be helped, and we must make a little

allowance for the weakness of human nature. They never marry until they

are _enceintes_; never, madame. One might almost call it a local

custom," he added, with a smile. Then he went on indignantly: "Even the

children are the same. Only last year I found a little boy and girl from

my class in the cemetery together. I told their parents, and what do you

think they replied: 'Well, M'sieu l'cure, we didn't teach it them; we

can't help it.' So you see, monsieur, your maid has only done like the

others--"

"The maid!" interrupted the baron, trembling with excitement. "The maid!

What do I care about her? It's Julien's conduct which I think so

abominable, and I shall certainly take my daughter away with me." He

walked up and down the room, getting more and more angry with every step

he took. "It is infamous the way he has deceived my daughter, infamous!

He's a wretch, a villain, and I will tell him so to his face. I'll

horsewhip him within an inch of his life."

The cure was slowly enjoying a pinch of snuff as he sat beside the

baroness, and thinking how he could make peace. "Come now, M. le baron,

between ourselves he has only done like everyone else. I am quite sure

you don't know many husbands who are faithful to their wives, do you

now?" And he added in a sly, good-natured way: "I bet you, yourself,

have played your little games; you can't say conscientiously that you

haven't, I know. Why, of course you have! And who knows but what you

have made the acquaintance of some little maid just like Rosalie. I tell

you every man is the same. And your escapades didn't make your wife

unhappy, or lessen your affection for her; did they?"

The baron stood still in confusion. It was true that he had done the

same himself, and not only once or twice, but as often as he had got the

chance; his wife's presence in the house had never made any difference,

when the servants were pretty. And was he a villain because of that?

Then why should he judge Julien's conduct so severely when he had never

thought that any fault could be found with his own?

Though her tears were hardly dried, the idea of her husband's pranks

brought a slight smile to the baroness's lip, for she was one of those

good-natured, tender-hearted, sentimental women to whom love adventures

are an essential part of existence.

Jeanne lay back exhausted, thinking, with open unseeing eyes, of all

this painful episode. The expression that had wounded her most in

Rosalie's confession was: "I never said anything about it because I

thought he was nice." She, his wife, had also thought him "nice," and

that was the sole reason why she had united herself to him for life, had

given up every other hope, every other project to join her destiny to

his. She had plunged into marriage, into this pit from which there was

no escape, into all this misery, this grief, this despair, simply

because, like Rosalie, she had thought him "nice."

The door was flung violently open and Julien came in, looking perfectly

wild with rage. He had seen Rosalie moaning on the landing, and guessing

that she had been forced to speak, he had come to see what was going on;

but at the sight of the priest he was taken thoroughly aback.

"What is it? What is the matter?" he asked, in a voice which trembled

in spite of his efforts to make it sound calm.

The baron, who had been so violent just before, dared say nothing after

the cure's argument, in case his son-in-law should quote his own

example; the baroness only wept more bitterly than before, and Jeanne

raised herself on her hands and looked steadily at this man who was

causing her so much sorrow. Her breath came and went quickly, but she

managed to answer:

"The matter is that we know all about your shameful conduct

ever since--ever since the day you first came here; we know

that--that--Rosalie's child is yours--like--like mine, and that they

will be--brothers."

Her grief became so poignant at this thought that she hid herself under

the bedclothes and sobbed bitterly. Julien stood open-mouthed, not

knowing what to say or do. The cure again interposed.

"Come, come, my dear young lady," he said, "you mustn't give way like

that. See now, be reasonable."

He rose, went to the bedside, and laid his cool hand on this despairing

woman's forehead. His simple touch seemed to soothe her wonderfully; she

felt calmer at once, as if the large hand of this country priest,

accustomed to gestures of absolution and sympathy, had borne with it

some strange, peace-giving power.

"Madame, we must always forgive," said the good-natured priest. "You are

borne down by a great grief, but God, in His mercy, has also sent you a

great joy, since He has permitted you to have hopes of becoming a

mother. This child will console you for all your trouble and it is in

its name that I implore, that I adjure, you to forgive M. Julien. It

will be a fresh tie between you, a pledge of your husband's future

fidelity. Can you steel your heart against the father of your unborn

child?"

Too weak to feel either anger or resentment, and only conscious of a

crushed, aching, exhausted sensation, she made no answer. Her nerves

were thoroughly unstrung, and she clung to life but by a very slender

thread.

The baroness, to whom resentment seemed utterly impossible and whose

mind was simply incapable of bearing any prolonged strain, said in a low

tone:

"Come, Jeanne!"

The cure drew Julien close to the bed and placed his hand in his wife's,

giving it a little tap as if to make the union more complete. Then,

dropping his professional pulpit tone, he said, with a satisfied air:

"There! that's done. Believe me, it is better so."

The two hands, united thus for an instant, loosed their clasp directly.

Julien, not daring to embrace Jeanne, kissed his mother-in-law, then

turned on his heel, took the baron (who, in his heart, was not sorry

that everything had finished so quietly) by the arm, and drew him from

the room to go and smoke a cigar.

Then the tired invalid went to sleep and the baroness and the priest

began to chat in low tones. The abbe talked of what had just occurred

and proceeded to explain his ideas on the subject, while the baroness

assented to everything he said with a nod.

"Very well, then, it's understood," he said, in conclusion. "You give

the girl the farm at Barville and I will undertake to find her a good,

honest husband. Oh, you may be sure that with twenty thousand francs we

shall not want candidates for her hand. We shall have an _embarras de

choix_."

The baroness was smiling happily now, though two tears still lingered on

her cheeks.

"Barville is worth twenty thousand francs, at the very least," she said;

"and you understand that it is to be settled on the child though the

parents will have it as long as they live."

Then the cure shook hands with the baroness, and rose to go.

"Don't get up, Madame la baronne, don't get up," he exclaimed. "I know

the value of a step too well myself."

As he went out he met Aunt Lison coming to see her patient. She did not

notice that anything extraordinary had happened. No one had told her

anything, and, as usual, she had not the slightest idea of what was

going on.

* * * * *