บทที่ บทที่ 27 · PART V. CHAPTER III.

. PART V. CHAPTER III.

The winter ploughing had commenced, and Jean, that cold grey February

afternoon, had just arrived with his plough at his big patch of ground

on the plain, where he still had a good couple of hours' work before

him. It was a strip at the edge of the field that he was going to

plough, intending to sow it with a new variety of Scotch wheat, a

course which had been recommended by his old master, Hourdequin, who

had moreover promised him several bushels of seed-corn.

Jean at once set to work, beginning at the spot where he had left off

on the previous day; and, putting his plough into position and grasping

hold of the arms, he started his horse, shouting in a gruff voice:

"Gee woh! Gee woh!"

Violent rains, coming after excessive heat, had so stiffened the clayey

soil that it was with great difficulty that the plough-share and

coulter broke off the strips of earth through which they cut. The heavy

clods could be heard grating against the mould-board as the latter

turned them over, burying the manure with which the field was covered.

Every now and then a stone or some other obstacle gave the plough a

sudden shock.

"Gee woh! Gee woh!" cried Jean, as grasping the handles with his

outstretched arms he guided the plough so correctly that the furrows

were as straight as if they had been traced out by rule and line.

Meanwhile his horse, keeping its head down and burying its hoofs in the

soil, drew the plough forward with a steady regular motion. Whenever

the implement got clogged, Jean jerked off the earth and weeds, and

then it glided on again, leaving the rich soil behind it upraised,

quivering and trembling, as though alive, and with its very entrails

exposed.

He reached the end of the furrow, and then turned round and commenced a

new one. Presently he became affected by a sort of intoxication due to

the strong odour exhaled by the disturbed soil, an odour suggestive of

damp recesses where the seed would germinate. His slow monotonous gait

and his fixed gaze completed his feeling of dazed abstraction. He would

never succeed in becoming a genuine peasant, he thought. He was not a

native of the soil, and he still retained the feelings of a town-bred

workman, of a trooper who had served through the campaign in Italy; and

things that the peasants could not see or feel were very visible and

apparent to him--the great mournful peacefulness of the plain and the

deep breathing of the soil beneath the sunshine and the showers. He had

always had visions of retiring into the peace of the country, but how

foolish he must have been to imagine that it was only necessary to lay

down the gun and the plane and to grasp hold of the plough to satisfy

his taste for tranquillity! Though the soil might be peaceful and

kindly to those that loved it, the villages that clung to it like nests

of vermin, full of human insects that preyed upon its flesh, sufficed

to dishonour and pollute it. He could remember no sufferings in his

previous life equal to those which he had endured since his arrival at

La Borderie, now a long time ago.

Being obliged to raise the arms a little in order to ease the plough,

a slight unevenness in the furrow annoyed him, and he began to display

still greater care in guiding his horse.

"Gee woh! Gee woh!"

Yes, indeed, what troubles he had gone through during these last ten

years! First, there was his long period of waiting for Françoise, and

then his warfare with the Buteaus. Not a day had passed without some

painful event or without some angry words. And now that he had got

Françoise, now that they had been married for a couple of years, could

he say that he was at last happy? Though he himself still loved her, he

had divined that she did not love him, and that she never would love

him as he wished to be loved, unreservedly, with her whole heart and

soul. They lived together in peaceful harmony, indeed, and they were

prospering in their work and saving money. But that was not everything.

He could feel that she was cold and reserved, and occupied by other

thoughts than of himself when he held her in his arms. She was now five

months gone with child, but even this fact had not brought the husband

and wife into closer sympathy; and Jean felt more and more the feeling

which he had first experienced on the day they had taken possession

of their house, the feeling that his wife still looked upon him as a

stranger, a native of another country, born no one knew where; a man

whose thoughts were not those of the villagers of Rognes; who seemed to

her to be even differently made, and who could never be really united

with her, even though he was the father of the child she bore within

her.

After her marriage, Françoise, in her exasperation against the Buteaus,

had brought a piece of stamped paper from Cloyes, one Saturday, with

the intention of making a will and leaving everything that belonged to

her to her husband, for she had been told that the house and the land

would revert to her sister supposing she died without issue, and that

her husband would not be able to claim anything save the furniture and

cash. Subsequently, however, she seemed to have thought better of the

matter, for the sheet of stamped paper still lay in a drawer quite

white. This had been a source of much secret pain to Jean, not from any

mercenary feeling, but because he looked upon his wife's remissness

as implying a want of affection for himself. But, indeed, it mattered

nothing, now that a youngster was coming into the world! What would be

the use of making a will under those circumstances? And yet despite

such reflections as these, his heart felt very heavy whenever he opened

the drawer and saw the piece of stamped paper which had now become

useless.

Jean stopped ploughing to give his horse a little breathing-time,

and the sharp, frosty wind enabled him to shake off his abstraction.

He slowly let his gaze wander to the blank horizon, over the immense

plain, where, far away in the distance, other ploughs were at work,

looking blurred and hazy in the dull grey atmosphere. He was now

surprised to perceive old Fouan, who had come from Rognes along the new

road, in compliance with one of those instinctive cravings which he

still experienced at times, to look once more at some field or other.

On catching sight of him, Jean lowered his head, and for a moment or

two concentrated his gaze upon the gaping furrow and the eviscerated

soil at his feet. It was firm and yellow beneath the surface, the

upturned clods seemingly revealing young and healthy earth, while

the manure was buried in a bed of rich fecundity. As Jean gazed

downwards, his thoughts grew confused and strangely intermingled. How

odd it seemed that one should have to grub up the soil in this way

to get bread! What a source of worry it was that he was not loved by

Françoise! Then came more vague reflections about other matters, about

the growth of the crops, about his little one who would soon be born,

and about all the toil which folks underwent, often without being any

the happier for it.

Then he grasped the arms of the plough again, and shouted his

deep-toned cry:

"Gee woh! Gee woh!"

He was just finishing his ploughing when Delhomme, who was returning

on foot from a neighbouring farm, stopped to call to him from the edge

of the field.

"Hallo! Corporal, have you heard the news? We're going to have war it

seems."

Jean left go of his plough and drew himself up, surprised to feel such

a shock at his heart.

"War! How's that?" he asked.

"With the Prussians, so they say. It is all in the newspapers."

With a fixed gaze Jean pictured Italy, the battles fought there, and

all the carnage from which he had been fortunate enough to escape

without a single wound. Then his most ardent wish had been to live a

quiet life in some peaceful nook, but now these few words shouted from

the roadway by a passer-by, this thought of war, had sufficed to send

his blood surging hotly through his veins!

"Ah, well, if the Prussians are making game of us," said he, "we can't

let ourselves be flouted by them!"

Delhomme, however, looked upon the matter differently. He shook his

head gravely, and declared that it would be the ruination of the

country districts if the Cossacks came back again, as in Napoleon's

time. Fighting did no one any good. It would be much better to try to

arrange affairs peaceably.

"I say this," he added, "in the interests of others, for I have just

been depositing some money with Monsieur Baillehache, so that, whatever

happens, Nénesse, who has to draw in the conscription to-morrow, won't

have to join the ranks."

"Ah, yes, and it's the same with me," said Jean, who had now calmed

down. "I've served my time, and owe them nothing further, and I'm

married, too; so, whether they go to war or not, it won't make any

difference to me. Ah! so it's to be with the Prussians this time! Well,

we shall give them a good hiding, just as we did the Austrians, and

then there'll be an end of the matter."

"Good evening, Corporal!"

"Good evening!"

Then Delhomme went on his way again. Presently he stopped to tell the

news to some one else; and then, further on, he told it a third time,

and so the report of the threatened approach of war quickly flew across

La Beauce, through the mournful greyish atmosphere.

Jean having finished his ploughing, determined to go at once to La

Borderie, to get the seed-corn which had been promised to him. He took

the horse out of the plough, and sprang on to its back, leaving the

plough in a corner of the field. As he was riding off, he again thought

of Fouan and looked round for him, but could not see him. He thereupon

concluded that the old man had taken shelter from the cold behind a

rick of straw which was standing in Buteau's field.

When Jean arrived at La Borderie, and had tethered his horse, he called

without eliciting any response. Everybody appeared to be at work away

from the house. However, he went into the kitchen and stamped on the

floor with his feet, and presently heard Jacqueline's voice proceeding

from the cellar where the dairy was. Access to it was obtained through

a trap-door opening at the foot of the staircase, and so awkwardly

placed that an accident was always being feared.

"Who's there?" she called.

Jean had squatted down on the top step of the steep little staircase,

and she recognised him from below.

"Ah! so it's you, Corporal?"

He, too, could now see Jacqueline in the semi-darkness of the dairy,

which was lighted merely by a grating in the wall. She was busily

working among the bowls and the pans, from which the whey was dripping

slowly into a stone trough. Her sleeves were rolled back as far as her

arm-pits, and her arms were white with cream.

"Well, why don't you come down? You're not afraid of me, are you?"

She addressed him in the same familiar manner as of yore, and she

laughed in her old enticing way. Jean, however, felt ill at ease, and

did not move.

"I've come for the seed-corn," he said, "that the master promised me."

"Oh yes, I know. Wait a moment, and I'll come up."

When she emerged into the full light, Jean saw that she was looking

very fresh and glowing; and her bare, white arms exhaled a pleasant

odour of milk. She looked at him with her pretty, mischievous eyes, and

ended by asking, in a bantering way:

"Well, aren't you going to kiss me? There's no reason that you should

get stiff and unpleasant just because you're married."

Then he kissed her, trying to make the sounding salutes which he

imprinted on both her cheeks seem mere marks of friendship. But her

presence disturbed him, and recollections of the past sent his blood

thrilling through his veins. He had never felt like this with his wife,

although he loved her so much.

"Come along," now continued Jacqueline, "and I'll show you the

seed-corn. Every one is out, even the servant-girl is away at market."

She crossed the yard, and then, entering the barn, stepped behind a

pile of sacks. The seed was lying there in a heap on some boards. Jean

had followed her, feeling somewhat disturbed at finding himself alone

with her in this dim, out-of-the-way spot. He now suddenly began to

affect a deep interest in the seed-corn, which was of a fine new Scotch

variety.

"How big the grains are!" said he.

Jacqueline, however, began to speak in her cooing tones, and quickly

brought him to a subject which had greater interest for her.

"Your wife is in the family-way, eh? Tell me, now, does she make

herself as pleasant with you as I did?"

Jean turned very red, and Jacqueline took a malicious delight in seeing

him thus disturbed. Presently some sudden reflection cast a gloom over

her face.

"I've had a good many troubles, you know," she continued, "but,

happily, they are all over now, and they have ended to my advantage."

The fact was that Hourdequin's son, Léon, the captain, who had not been

seen at La Borderie for years past, had one day suddenly arrived there.

He had observed, that same night, that Jacqueline occupied his mother's

bedroom, and this had led him to make inquiries, whereupon he speedily

learnt exactly how matters stood. For a little while Jacqueline

trembled with uneasy alarm, for she had formed the ambitious design of

marrying Hourdequin, and thus securing the reversion of the farm. The

captain, however, played his cards too clumsily. He wanted to extricate

his father from Jacqueline's meshes by letting himself be surprised

in bed with the young woman. But he showed his hand too openly, and

Jacqueline affected airs of the nicest virtue, screaming, weeping, and

declaring to Hourdequin that she would leave the house at once, since

she was no longer treated with respect in it. Then there was a terrible

scene between the two men. The son tried to open his father's eyes, but

this only made matters worse; and two hours later the captain left the

house again, exclaiming, as he crossed the threshold, that he would

rather lose everything than acquiesce in the present state of affairs,

and that if he ever returned, it would only be to kick the hussy out of

doors.

Jacqueline, in her triumph, now made the mistake of imagining that

she merely had to ask for her own terms. She declared to Hourdequin

that after such treatment, with which, indeed, the whole country-side

was ringing, she would be compelled to leave him unless he made her

his wife. She even began to pack her boxes. The farmer, however,

upset by his quarrel with his son, rendered all the more angry by

a secret consciousness that he was in the wrong, and a feeling of

sorrowing regret for all that had occurred, gave her a couple of such

vigorous cuffs as almost shook the life out of her. And then she said

nothing more about going away, realising that she had been in too

great a hurry. Still, she was now absolute mistress of the house,

openly sleeping in the conjugal bedroom, taking her meals alone with

Hourdequin, giving orders to the servants, regulating the expenses,

keeping the keys of the safe, and behaving so despotically that the

farmer always consulted her before taking any step. He was failing

and ageing quickly, and Jacqueline trusted that she would be able to

overcome his last scruples and induce him to marry her when she had

quite exhausted his remaining manhood. In the meantime, as he had sworn

to disinherit his son, she used all her wiles to induce him to make a

will in her favour; and she already looked upon herself as the owner of

the farm, for she had succeeded in wringing a promise from Hourdequin

that he would leave it to her.

"If I've been knocking myself up for years past," she said to Jean, "it

certainly hasn't been out of love for his good looks."

Jean could not restrain a laugh. While speaking Jacqueline had been

plunging her bare arms again and again into the heap of corn, covering

her skin with a soft floury powder. Jean looked at her, and suddenly

gave utterance to a question which he speedily regretted.

"And are you as thick as ever with Tron?"

Jacqueline gave no sign of being offended. She spoke quite frankly, as

to an old friend.

"Oh, I'm very fond of him, the great stupid fellow; but he's really

very unreasonable. He's so dreadfully jealous, and we have terrible

scenes together sometimes. The master's the only one he'll tolerate,

and I really believe that he comes sometimes at nights and listens at

the door, to find out whether we are sleeping or not."

Jean laughed again; but Jacqueline seemed to consider it no laughing

matter. She felt a vague fear of that big fellow Tron, who was cunning

and treacherous, like all the men of Le Perche, she said. He had

threatened to strangle her if she proved unfaithful to him; and

consequently she now consorted with him in fear and trembling, despite

the charm that his huge limbs had for her. She herself was so slim that

this big fellow could have crushed her between his thumb and fingers.

At last, shrugging her shoulders with a pretty air, as much as to

say that she had conquered others quite as difficult to manage, she

continued:

"We used to get on better with one another than that, eh, Corporal?"

Still keeping her merry eyes fixed upon him, she began to pound

the corn again; while Jean fell a victim to her charms once more,

forgetting all about his departure from La Borderie, his marriage, and

the child that was soon to be born to him. He seized hold of her wrists

under the corn, and then slipped his hands up her arms, all velvety

with flour, till they reached her white child-like breast, to which her

habits of debauchery seemed to have imparted a firmer plumpness. This

was what she had been wishing to bring about ever since she had caught

sight of him at the mouth of the trap-door; and she felt an additional

malicious joy in taking him from another woman, and that woman his

lawful wife, and proving that it was still herself that he loved best.

He had already seized her in his arms and thrown her down, panting and

cooing, upon the heap of corn, when the shepherd Soulas, with his tall

fleshless figure, emerged from behind the sacks, coughing loudly and

spitting. Jacqueline hastily sprang to her feet, while Jean panted and

stammered out:

"Oh, this is it, is it? Well, I'll come back presently and take fifteen

bushels of it. What splendid stuff it is, isn't it?"

Jacqueline, bursting with anger, fixed her eyes on the shepherd, who

showed no signs of going away.

"It is really past all bearing!" she muttered between her clenched

teeth. "Whenever I think I am alone, he always contrives to turn up and

haunt me! But I'll have him sent off about his business!"

Jean, who had now recovered his calmness, hastily left the barn, and

went to unfasten his horse, without paying any attention to the signs

of Jacqueline, who would have concealed him in the conjugal bed-chamber

itself rather than have foregone her desire. Anxious to make his

escape, Jean said that he would return the next day, and he was setting

off on foot, leading his horse by the bridle, when Soulas, who had gone

outside to wait for him, intercepted him at the gate.

"So she's got even you back into her meshes again! Well, at any rate

just tell her to keep her tongue quiet, if she doesn't want to set mine

wagging. Ah, there will be a pretty business, by-and-bye, you'll see!"

Jean, however, passed on his way with a rough gesture, refusing to mix

himself up any further in the matter. He was full of shame; annoyed

at the thought of what he had so nearly done. He had believed that

he really loved Françoise, and yet he had never felt one of these

impetuous thrills of desire for her! Could it be that he really loved

Jacqueline more than his wife? Had a passion for the hussy been

smouldering within him all this time? All the past woke up within him

into fresh life, and he was angered at himself to feel that he would

certainly return to Jacqueline in spite of all his desire to the

contrary. Then he excitedly sprang on to his horse and galloped off, so

as to get back to Rognes as soon as possible.

That same afternoon it happened that Françoise had gone to cut a

bundle of lucern for her cows. It was generally her task to do this,

and she settled to do it on that particular afternoon as she relied

on finding her husband in the field, ploughing. She did not care to

trust herself there alone, for fear she might come across the Buteaus,

who, in their anger at no longer having the whole field to themselves,

were perpetually seeking any excuse for a violent quarrel. She took

a scythe with her, and counted upon the horse for bringing back the

bundle of lucern. As she neared the field, she was surprised not to

see her husband there, though she had not warned him of her intention

to come. The plough was still there, but where could Jean have gone?

She felt still more nervous when she observed Buteau and Lise standing

at the edge of the field, shaking their arms with a show of anger. She

fancied that they had just stopped for a moment on their way back from

some neighbouring village, for they were wearing their Sunday clothes,

and had no appearance of being engaged in work. For a moment she felt

inclined to turn back and make her escape. Then she felt indignant at

her own alarm; surely she was not going to be afraid of cutting lucern

on her own land! So she continued to walk forward at the same pace, and

carrying the scythe on her shoulder.

As a matter of fact, whenever Françoise met Buteau, and especially

when he was alone, she was always overcome with nervous confusion.

For two years she had not spoken a single word to him, but she never

could see him without her whole body being thrilled with emotion. This

emotion might be caused by anger, or it might be the result of some

very different feeling. Several times she had seen him in front of her

on this same road when she had been going up to her plot of lucern;

and he would turn his head round two or three times and glance at her

with his yellow-streaked grey eyes. Then she would feel a slight thrill

pass through her body, and would quicken her steps in spite of all her

efforts not to do so; while Buteau, on the other hand, would slacken

his pace, and so she would find herself compelled to pass him, and,

as she did so, their eyes would meet just for a second. Then she was

troubled with the disturbing but pleasant consciousness that he was

just behind her; and she felt enervated and scarcely able to continue

walking. The last time they had met in this way, she had been so

overcome that she had fallen down at full length in an attempt to jump

from the road into her patch of lucern; and Buteau had nearly burst

with laughter at the sight.

That evening, when Buteau maliciously told his wife of her sister's

tumble, they glanced at each other with gleaming eyes in which the

same thought was expressed. If the hussy had killed herself and her

unborn child her husband would take nothing, and the land and house

would return to themselves! They had learnt from La Grande the story

of the postponed will, which had now become unnecessary on account

of Françoise's condition. But they never had any luck! There was no

chance of fortune putting both mother and child out of their way at a

single stroke! They returned to the subject as they went to bed, and

talked about the death of Françoise and her unborn baby merely for the

sake of talking. Talking of folks' death doesn't kill them; still, if

Françoise, now, really died without an heir, what a stroke of luck it

would be! What a heavenly retribution! In the bitterness of her hate,

Lise actually swore that her sister was no longer her sister, and that

she would willingly hold her head on the block if that was all that

was wanted to enable them to return to their own house, from which the

wicked drab had so treacherously evicted them.

Buteau was not quite so vindictive, and he declared, that he would

be sufficiently pleased for the present if the youngster were to

perish before it was born. Françoise's condition was a source of

much irritation to him, for the birth of a child would destroy all

his obstinately entertained hopes, and definitely deprive him of the

property. As the husband and wife got into bed together, and Lise blew

out the candle, she broke out into a peculiar little laugh, and said

that, so long as a youngster had not actually come into the world,

it could easily be prevented from making its appearance. After lying

silent for some time in the darkness, Buteau asked his wife what she

meant. Then cuddling close up to his side, and holding her mouth to his

ear, she made a very singular confession. Last month, she said, she had

been troubled to find herself in the family way again, and so, without

saying anything about it to him, she had gone off to consult La Sapin,

an old woman living at Magnolles, who had the reputation of being a

witch. A pretty reception he'd have given her if she had told him how

matters stood. La Sapin, however, had quickly put everything right. It

was a very simple affair.

Buteau listened to his wife without showing either approval or

disapproval, and his satisfaction at what had occurred could only be

gathered from the joking way in which he observed that Lise should

have brought the prescription away with her for Françoise's advantage.

Lise, too, seemed merry, and, grasping her husband closely in her arms,

she whispered to him that La Sapin had taught her something else, oh,

such a funny trick! What was it? asked Buteau. Well, a man could undo

what a man had done, replied Lise. He had only got to make the sign

of the cross on a woman three times and say an _Ave_ backwards, and

if there were a little one, it would disappear immediately. Buteau

began to laugh, and they both affected incredulity, but they still

retained so much of the ancient superstition of their race, that they

were privately inclined to believe what they pretended to disbelieve.

Indeed, everybody knew that the old witch of Magnolles had turned a cow

into a weasel, and had brought a dead man to life again. Surely it must

be true if she said it was! The idea made Buteau grin. Would it really

be effectual? Stay, now, why shouldn't he really try it on Françoise,

suggested Lise, he and she knew all about each other? Buteau, however,

now protested against this allegation, as his wife, showing signs of

jealousy, began to pinch and thump him; and they presently fell asleep

in one another's arms.

Ever since that night they had been haunted by the thought of the child

that was coming into the world to deprive them of the house and land

for ever; and they never met the younger sister without immediately

glancing at her condition. Thus as they now saw her coming up the road,

on this afternoon when she wanted to cut some lucern, they took her

measure with their eyes, and were quite startled to notice how swiftly

matters were advancing, and how little time there was left in which to

take any steps.

"The devil take him," cried Buteau, going forward to examine the

furrows; "the blackguard has filched off a good foot of our land! It's

as plain as possible; see, there's the boundary-stone!"

Françoise had continued to approach with leisurely, easy steps,

concealing her feeling of uneasy alarm. She now understood the cause

of the Buteaus' angry gestures. Jean's plough must have sliced off a

strip of their land. Disputes were continually arising on this score,

and not a month passed without some quarrel taking place as to the

boundary-line. Blows and litigation seemed likely to be the inevitable

result.

"You are trespassing on our land," cried Buteau, raising his voice,

"and I shall prosecute you!"

The young woman, however, stepped up to her patch of lucern, without

even turning her head.

"Don't you hear us?" now screamed Lise, in a towering rage. "Come and

look at the boundary-stone for yourself, if you think we're liars!

You'll have to make good the damage!"

Her sister's persistent silence and contemptuous air now so thoroughly

enraged her that she lost all control over herself, and rushed up to

her, clenching her fists.

"So you think you can flout us as you please, do you, hussy? I am your

elder sister, and I'll teach you to treat me with proper respect; and

I'll make you go down on your knees and beg my pardon for all your

impertinence to me!"

She was now standing in front of Françoise, mad with hate and anger,

hesitating whether she should kill her sister with her fists, or

whether she should kick her to death or knock out her brains with a

stone.

"Down on your knees, hussy, down on your knees!"

Still persisting in her silence, Françoise now spat in her sister's

face, just as she had done on the evening of the ejectment. Lise then

broke out into a roar, but Buteau immediately interposed, and thrust

her violently aside.

"Get away!" he said; "this is my business."

Ah, yes, she would gladly get away, and leave him to settle the matter.

He was at perfect liberty to wring her sister's neck or break her back;

he might cut her up and give her flesh to the dogs, or he might make

her his drab; and, so far from trying to prevent him, she would do all

she could to help him. She now braced herself up and glanced round her,

keeping watch so that no one should come and interfere with whatever

her husband chose to do. The vast grey plain stretched out beneath the

gloomy sky, and not a single human being was in view.

"Now's the time! There's no one in sight!"

Buteau then stepped up to Françoise; and, as the young woman saw him

advancing with stern-set face and stiff-braced arms, she thought he

was going to thrash her. She still held her scythe, but she began

to tremble, and Buteau seizing hold of the implement by the handle,

tore it from her and tossed it into the lucern. Her only means of

escaping him was by stepping backwards. She continued doing so till she

reached the adjoining field, making for the rick which stood there,

as though she hoped to use it in some way as a protecting rampart.

Buteau followed her up quite leisurely; and he, on his part, seemed

to be wishing to drive her towards the rick. His arms were slightly

extended, and his face was broadened by a silent grin which disclosed

his gums. Suddenly it flashed upon Françoise that he did not mean to

thrash her. No, it was something very different that he meant; that

something which she had so long refused him. She now began to tremble

still more violently, and she felt as though all her strength were

failing her; she who had always so valiantly resisted and belaboured

him, and sworn that he should never gain his ends! But she was no

longer the high-spirited girl she had been; she had just completed her

twenty-third year, on Saint Martin's Day, and she was now a woman, with

the fresh bloom already taken off her by hard work, though her lips

were still red and her eyes as big as crown-pieces. She felt such a

sensation of flushed languor that her limbs seemed quite enervated and

lifeless.

Buteau, still continuing to force her backwards, at last spoke in a

deep, excited voice.

"You know very well that all is not over between us. This time I mean

to succeed!"

He had now managed to bring her to a stand against the rick; and

he abruptly took her by the shoulders and threw her upon her back.

Dazed and enervated though she was, for a moment or two she began to

struggle and fight, instinctively prompted thereto by her old habits of

resistance. Buteau, however, dodged her kicks.

"What difference can it make to you, you silly idiot?" said he. "You

needn't be afraid!"

Françoise now burst into tears, and seemed taken with a sort of

fit. Though she made no further effort to defend herself, she was so

violently shaken by nervous contortions that Buteau could not succeed

in his purpose. His anger at being thus foiled maddened him, and,

turning towards his wife, he cried out:

"You damned helpless idiot, what are you standing staring there for.

Come and help me!"

Lise had remained standing bolt upright some ten yards away, without

ever stirring; now scanning the distance to see if any one was coming,

and now glancing at Françoise and Buteau, without any sign of feeling

on her face. When her husband called her, she did not evince the

slightest hesitation, but strode up to him, and seizing hold of her

sister, she sat down upon her as heavily as if she wanted to crush her.

Finally Buteau proved victorious. He was just rising when old Fouan

popped out his head from behind the rick, where he had sought shelter

from the cold. The old man had seen all, and it evidently frightened

him, for he at once concealed himself behind the straw again.

Buteau having risen to his feet, Lise looked at him keenly. In his

eagerness he had forgotten all about the three signs of the cross,

and the _Ave_ repeated backwards. His wife stood frenzied with wild

indignation. It was merely for his own pleasure that he done the deed!

Françoise, however, left him no time for explanations. For a moment she

had remained lying motionless on the ground, as though she had fainted

beneath a sensation such as she had never before experienced. The truth

had suddenly dawned upon her. She loved Buteau! She never had, and

never would, love any other. This discovery filled her with shame, and

she was angered against herself at finding how false she was to her

own ingrained ideas of justice. A man who did not belong to her! A man

who belonged to that sister whom she now so hated! The only man in the

world whom she could not possess without being false to her own oath!

Springing wildly to her feet, with her hair dishevelled and her clothes

all disarranged, she spat out the anger that was raging within her in

spasmodic bursts of abuse.

"You filthy swine! Yes, both of you! you're both filthy swine! You have

ruined and destroyed me! People have been guillotined for doing less

than you've done! I will tell Jean, you filthy swine, and he'll settle

your accounts for you!"

Buteau shrugged his shoulders, and smiled his leering smile. He felt

immensely satisfied, now that he had at last succeeded in gaining his

ends.

"Nonsense, my dear! You were dying for it!"

This bantering speech had the effect of completing Lise's exasperation,

and she vented all her rising anger against her husband upon her sister.

"It's quite true, you drab; I saw you!" she shouted. "I always said

that all my troubles came from you! Will you dare to say now that you

didn't debauch my husband, yes, debauch him directly after we were

married, when you were only a child whom I still whipped?"

She now manifested the most violent jealousy, a jealousy which appeared

somewhat singular after all the complacence she had recently shown. If

Françoise had never been born, she thought, she herself would never

have had to share either property or husband! She hated her sister for

being younger and fresher and more attractive than herself.

"You're a liar!" cried Françoise, wild with anger. "You know that you

are lying!"

"A liar, am I? You'll tell me, I suppose, that you didn't pursue him

even into the cellar?"

"I! indeed! I'd a deal to do with it, hadn't I? You cow! you helped

him! Yes, and you'd have broken my back, if you could! You must either

be a filthy pimp, or else you wanted to murder me, you dirty drab!"

Lise replied by a violent blow, which so maddened Françoise that she

threw herself wildly upon her sister. Buteau stood sniggering with

his hands in his pockets, and made no attempt to interfere, like a

self-satisfied cock watching a couple of hens quarrelling for him.

The two women continued fighting savagely, tearing each other's caps

off, their faces clawed and bleeding, and their hands eagerly seeking

any spot where they might tear and rend. In scuffling and wrestling

they returned to the patch of lucern, and Lise suddenly broke out

into a loud roar, for Françoise had driven her nails deeply into her

neck Then, losing all self-control, the idea of murdering her sister

occurred to her. She had caught sight of the scythe lying on her left

hand. The handle had fallen across a clump of thistles, and the blade

was sticking point upwards in the air. Like a flash of lightning she

hurled Françoise on to the gleaming steel with all her force. The

unfortunate young woman tottered and fell, uttering a terrible shriek.

The blade of the scythe had pierced her side.

"Good God! good God!" stammered Buteau.

It was all over. A single second had settled it all; the irreparable

had been accomplished. Lise, dazed at seeing her wish so quickly

realised, stood watching her sister's severed dress as it reddened with

a stream of blood. Had the blade penetrated deeply enough to cut the

little one, that the blood flowed so plentifully? she wondered.

Old Fouan's pale face again peeped forth from behind the rick. He had

seen everything, and was perfectly stupefied.

Françoise lay quite still, and Buteau, who had stepped up to her, dared

not touch her. A gust of wind now darted over the field, and filled him

with a wild terror.

"She is dead! In God's name, let us bolt!"

He seized hold of Lise's hand, and they flew along the deserted road

as though they were possessed. The low, gloomy sky seemed as though it

was about to fall down upon their heads, and behind them the sound of

their galloping feet raised echoes which sounded as though a crowd of

people were in hot pursuit of them. They both ran wildly on over the

cropped and naked plain; Buteau, with his blouse swelling about him in

the wind, and Lise, with her hair all loose and dishevelled, carrying

her cap in her hand. And as they ran they both kept repeating the same

words, panting like hunted animals:

"She is dead! In God's name, let us bolt!"

Their strides grew longer, and soon they could not articulate

distinctly; still, as they fled wildly on, they gave vent to panting

exclamations which kept time, as it were, with their bounds:

"Dead! good God! Dead! good God! Dead! good God!"

Then they disappeared from sight.

Some minutes later, when Jean trotted up on his horse, he was filled

with terrible consternation.

"What--what has happened?" he cried.

Françoise had opened her eyes, but still lay rigidly motionless. She

gazed at Jean for a long time with her great troubled eyes, but she

said nothing. Her mind seemed to be far away, absorbed in thought.

"You are wounded! You are bleeding! Speak to me, I beseech you!"

Then he turned to old Fouan, who had at length ventured to approach.

"You were here? Tell me what has happened!"

Then Françoise spoke, but very slowly, as though she were thinking of

what she should say.

"I came to cut some grass--I fell on to my scythe--it went into me

here. Oh, it's all over with me!"

Her eyes sought those of Fouan, telling him, and him alone, other

things--things that only her own family should know. Dazed as was the

old man, he seemed to comprehend her meaning.

"Yes, that is what happened," he said; "she fell and wounded herself. I

was there, and saw it."

Jean galloped off to Rognes for a stretcher to carry his wife home. She

lost consciousness again on the journey, and they never expected to get

her to the house alive.