บทที่ บทที่ 11 · 第11章

Jeanne was confined to her room for three months and everyone despaired

of her life, but very, very gradually health and strength returned to

her. Her father and Aunt Lison had come to live at the chateau, and they

nursed her day and night. The shock she had sustained had entirely upset

her nervous system; she started at the least noise, and the slightest

emotion caused her to go off into long swoons. She had never asked the

details of Julien's death. Why should she? Did she not already know

enough? Everyone except herself thought it had been an accident, and

she never revealed to anyone the terrible secret of her husband's

adultery, and of the comte's sudden, fearful visit the day of the

catastrophe.

Her soul was filled with the sweet, tender memories of the few, short

hours of bliss she owed to her husband, and she always pictured him to

herself as he had been when they were betrothed, and when she had adored

him in the only moments of sensual passion of her life. She forgot all

his faults and harshness; even his infidelity seemed more pardonable now

that death stood between him and her. She felt a sort of vague gratitude

to this man who had clasped her in his arms, and she forgave him the

sorrows he had caused her, and dwelt only on the happy moments they had

passed together.

As time wore on and month followed month, covering her grief and

memories with the dust of forgetfulness, Jeanne devoted herself entirely

to her son. The child became the idol, the one engrossing thought, of

the three beings over whom he ruled like any despot; there was even a

sort of jealousy between his three slaves, for Jeanne grudged the hearty

kisses he gave the baron when the latter rode him on his knees, and Aunt

Lison, who was neglected by this baby, as she had always been by

everyone, and was regarded as a servant by this master who could not

talk yet, would go to her room and cry as she compared the few kisses,

which she had so much difficulty in obtaining, with the embraces the

child so freely lavished on his mother and grandfather.

Two peaceful, uneventful years were passed thus in devoted attention to

the child; then, at the beginning of the third winter, it was arranged

that they should all go to Rouen until the spring. But they had hardly

arrived at the damp, old house before Paul had such a severe attack of

bronchitis, that pleurisy was feared. His distracted mother was

convinced that no other air but that of Les Peuples agreed with him, and

they all went back there as soon as he was well.

Then came a series of quiet, monotonous years. Jeanne, her father, and

Aunt Lison spent all their time with the child, and were continually

going into raptures over the way he lisped, or with his funny sayings

and doings. Jeanne lovingly called him "Paulet," and, when he tried to

repeat the word, he made them all laugh by pronouncing it "Poulet," for

he could not speak plainly. The nickname "Poulet" clung to him, and

henceforth he was never called anything else. He grew very quickly, and

one of the chief amusements of his "three mothers," as the baron called

them, was to measure his height. On the wainscoting, by the drawing-room

door, was a series of marks made with a penknife, showing how much the

boy had grown every month, and these marks, which were called "Poulet's

ladder," were of great importance in everyone's eyes.

Then there came a very unexpected addition to the important personages

of the household--the dog Massacre, which Jeanne had neglected since all

her attention had been centered in her son. Ludivine fed him, and he

lived quite alone, and always on the chain, in an old barrel in front of

the stables. Paul noticed him one morning, and at once wanted to go and

kiss him. The dog made a great fuss over the child, who cried when he

was taken away, so Massacre was unchained, and henceforth lived in the

house. He became Paul's inseparable friend and companion; they played

together, and lay down side by side on the carpet to go to sleep, and

soon Massacre shared the bed of his playfellow, who would not let the

dog leave him. Jeanne lamented sometimes over the fleas, and Aunt Lison

felt angry with the dog for absorbing so much of the child's affection,

affection for which she longed, and which, it seemed to her, this animal

had stolen.

At long intervals visits were exchanged with the Brisevilles and the

Couteliers, but the mayor and the doctor were the only regular visitors

at the chateau.

The brutal way in which the priest had killed the dog, and the

suspicions he had instilled into her mind about the time of Julien's and

Gilberte's horrible death, had roused Jeanne's indignation against the

God who could have such ministers, and she had entirely ceased to attend

church. From time to time the abbe inveighed in outspoken terms against

the chateau, which, he said, was inhabited by the Spirit of Evil, the

Spirit of Everlasting Rebellion, the Spirit of Errors and of Lies, the

Spirit of Iniquity, the Spirit of Corruption and Impurity; it was by all

these names that he alluded to the baron.

The church was deserted, and when the cure happened to walk past any

fields in which the ploughmen were at work, the men never ceased their

task to speak to him, or turned to touch their hats. He acquired the

reputation of being a wizard because he cast out the devil from a woman

who was possessed, and the peasants believed he knew words to dispel

charms. He laid his hands on cows that gave thin milk, discovered the

whereabouts of things which had been lost by means of a mysterious

incantation, and devoted his narrow mind to the study of all the

ecclesiastical books in which he could find accounts of the devil's

apparitions upon earth, or descriptions of his resources and stratagems,

and the various ways in which he manifested his power and exercised his

influence.

Believing himself specially called to combat this invisible, harmful

Power, the priest had learnt all the forms given in religious manuals to

exorcise the devil. He fancied Satan lurked in every shadow, and the

phrase _Sieut leo rugiens circuit, quaerens quem devoret_ was continually

on his lips. People began to be afraid of his strange power; even his

fellow-clergy (ignorant country priests to whom Beelzebub was an article

of their faith, and who, perplexed by the minute directions for the

rites to be observed in case of any manifestations of the Evil One's

power, at last confounded religion with magic) regarded the Abbe Tolbiac

as somewhat of a wizard, and respected him as much for the supernatural

power he was supposed to possess as for the irreproachable austerity of

his life.

The cure never bowed to Jeanne if he chanced to meet her, and such a

state of things worried and grieved Aunt Lison, who could not understand

how anyone could systematically stay away from church. Everyone took it

for granted that she was religious and confessed and communicated at

proper intervals, and no one ever tried to find out what her views on

religion really were. Whenever she was quite alone with Paul, Lison

talked to him, in whispers, about the good God. The child listened to

her with a faint degree of interest when she related the miracles which

had been performed in the old times, and, when she told him he must love

the good God, very, very dearly, he sometimes asked:

"Where is he, auntie?"

She would point upwards and answer: "Up there, above the sky, Poulet;

but you must not say anything about it," for she feared the baron would

be angry if he knew what she was teaching the boy. One day, however,

Poulet startled her by asserting: "The good God is everywhere except in

church," and she found he had been talking to his grandfather about what

she had told him.

Paul was now ten years old; his mother looked forty. He was strong,

noisy, and boldly climbed the trees, but his education had, so far, been

very neglected. He disliked lessons, would never settle down to them,

and, if ever the baron managed to keep him reading a little longer than

usual, Jeanne would interfere, saying:

"Let him go and play, now. He is so young to be tired with books."

In her eyes he was still an infant, and she hardly noticed that he

walked, ran, and talked like a man in miniature. She lived in constant

anxiety lest he should fall down, or get too cold or too hot, or

overload his stomach, or not eat as much as his growth demanded.

When the boy was twelve years old a great difficulty arose about his

first communion. Lise went to Jeanne's room one morning, and pointed out

to her that the child could not be permitted to go any longer without

religious instruction, and without performing the simplest sacred

duties. She called every argument to her aid, and gave a thousand

reasons for the necessity of what she was urging, dwelling chiefly upon

the danger of scandal. The idea worried Jeanne, and, unable to give a

decided answer, she replied that Paul could very well go on as he was

for a little longer. A month after this discussion with Lise, Jeanne

called on the Vicomtesse de Briseville.

"I suppose it will be Paul's first communion this year," said the

vicomtesse, in the course of conversation.

"Yes, madame," answered Jeanne, taken unawares.

These few words had the effect of deciding her, and, without saying

anything about it to her father, she asked Lise to take the child to the

catechism class. Everything went on smoothly for a month; then Poulet

came back, one evening, with a sore throat, and the next day he began to

cough. His frightened mother questioned him as to the cause of his cold

and he told her that he had not behaved very well in class, so the cure

had sent him to wait at the door of the church, where there was a

draught from the porch, until the end of the lesson. After that Jeanne

kept him at home, and taught him his catechism herself; but the Abbe

Tolbiac refused to admit him to communion, in spite of all Lison's

entreaties, alleging, as his reason, that the boy had not been properly

prepared.

The following year he refused him again, and the baron was so

exasperated that he said plainly there was no need for Paul to believe

in such foolery as this absurd symbol of transubstantiation, to become a

good and honest man. So it was resolved to bring the boy up in the

Christian faith, but not in the Catholic Church, and that he should

decide his religion for himself when he reached his majority.

A short time afterwards, Jeanne called on the Brisevilles and received

no visit in return. Knowing how punctilious they were in all matters of

etiquette, she felt very much surprised at the omission, until the

Marquise de Coutelier haughtily told her the reason of this neglect.

Aware that her husband's rank and wealth made her the queen of the

Normandy aristocracy, the marquise ruled in queen-like fashion, showing

herself gracious or severe as occasions demanded. She never hesitated to

speak as she thought, and reproved, or congratulated, or corrected

whenever she thought fit. When Jeanne called on her she addressed a few

icy words to her visitor, then said in a cold tone: "Society divides

itself naturally into two classes: those who believe in God, and those

who do not. The former, however lowly they may be, are our friends and

equals; with the latter we can have nothing to do."

Jeanne felt that she was being attacked, and replied:

"But cannot one believe in God without constantly attending church?"

"No, madame. Believers go to pray to God in his church, as they would go

to visit their friends at their houses."

"God is everywhere, madame, and not only in the churches," answered

Jeanne, feeling very hurt. "I believe in his goodness and mercy from the

bottom of my heart, but when there are certain priests between him and

me, I can no longer realize his presence."

"The priest is the standard-bearer of the church, madame," said the

marquise, rising, "and, whoever does not follow that flag is as much our

enemy as the church's."

Jeanne had risen also. "You believe in the God of a sect, madame," she

replied, quivering with indignation. "_I_ believe in the God whom every

upright man reveres," and, with a bow, she left the marquise.

Among themselves the peasants also blamed Jeanne for not sending Poulet

to his first communion. They themselves did not go to mass, and never

took the sacrament, or at least, only at Easter when the Church formally

commanded it; but when it came to the children, that was a different

matter, and not one of them would have dared to bring a child up outside

the common faith, for, after all, "Religion is Religion."

Jeanne was quite conscious of the disapproval with which everyone

regarded her conduct, but such inconsistency only roused her

indignation, and she scorned the people who could thus quiet their

consciences so easily, and hide the cowardly fears which lurked at the

bottom of their hearts under the mask of righteousness.

The baron undertook to direct Paul's studies, and began to instruct him

in Latin. The boy's mother had but one word to say on the subject,

"Whatever you do, don't tire him," and, while lessons were going on, she

would anxiously hang round the door of the school-room, which her father

had forbidden her to enter, because, at every moment, she interrupted

his teaching to ask: "You're sure your feet are not cold, Poulet?" or

"Your head does not ache, does it, Poulet?" or to admonish the master

with: "Don't make him talk so much, he will have a sore throat."

As soon as lessons were over the boy went into the garden with his

mother and aunt. They were all three very fond of gardening, and took

great pleasure and interest in planting and pruning, in watching the

seeds they had sown come up and blossom, and in cutting flowers for

nosegays. Paul devoted himself chiefly to raising salad plants. He had

the entire care of four big beds in the kitchen garden, and there he

cultivated lettuce, endive, cos-lettuce, mustardcress, and every other

known kind of salad. He dug, watered, weeded, and planted, and made his

two mothers work like day laborers, and for hours together they knelt on

the borders, soiling their hands and dresses as they planted the

seedlings in the holes they made with their forefingers in the mold.

Poulet was almost fifteen; he had grown wonderfully, and the highest

mark on the drawing-room wall was over five feet from the ground, but in

mind he was still an ignorant, foolish child, for he had no opportunity

of expanding his intellect, confined as he was to the society of these

two women and the good-tempered old man who was so far behind the times.

At last one evening the baron said it was time for the boy to go to

college. Aunt Lison withdrew into a dark corner in horror at the idea,

and Jeanne began to sob.

"Why does he want to know so much?" she replied. "We will bring him up

to be a gentleman farmer, to devote himself to the cultivation of his

property, as so many noblemen do, and he will pass his life happily in

this house, where we have lived before him and where we shall die. What

more can he want?"

The baron shook his head.

"What answer will you make if he comes to you a few years hence, and

says: 'I am nothing, and I know nothing through your selfish love. I

feel incapable of working or of becoming anyone now, and yet I know I

was not intended to lead the dull, pleasureless life to which your

short-sighted affection has condemned me.'"

Jeanne turned to her son with the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh, Poulet, you will never reproach me for having loved you too much,

will you?"

"No, mamma," promised the boy in surprise.

"You swear you will not?"

"Yes, mamma."

"You want to stay here, don't you?"

"Yes, mamma."

"Jeanne, you have no right to dispose of his life in that way," said the

baron, sternly. "Such conduct is cowardly--almost criminal. You are

sacrificing your child to your own personal happiness."

Jeanne hid her face in her hands, while her sobs came in quick

succession.

"I have been so unhappy--so unhappy," she murmured, through her tears.

"And now my son has brought peace and rest into my life, you want to

take him from me. What will become of me--if I am left--all alone now?"

Her father went and sat down by her side. "And am I no one, Jeanne?" he

asked, taking her in his arms. She threw her arms round his neck, and

kissed him fondly. Then in a voice still choked with tears and sobs:

"Yes, perhaps you are right papa, dear," she answered; "and I was

foolish; but I have had so much sorrow. I am quite willing for him to go

to college now."

Then Poulet, who hardly understood what was going to be done with him,

began to cry too, and his three mothers kissed and coaxed him and told

him to be brave. They all went up to bed with heavy hearts, and even the

baron wept when he was alone in his own room, though he had controlled

his emotion downstairs. It was resolved to send Paul to the college at

Havre at the beginning of the next term, and during the summer he was

more spoilt than ever. His mother moaned as she thought of the

approaching separation and she got ready as many clothes for the boy as

if he had been about to start on a ten years' journey.

One October morning, after a sleepless night, the baron, Jeanne, and

Aunt Lison went away with Poulet in the landau. They had already paid a

visit to fix upon the bed he was to have in the dormitory and the seat

he was to occupy in class, and this time Jeanne and Aunt Lison passed

the whole day in unpacking his things and arranging them in the little

chest of drawers. As the latter would not contain the quarter of what

she had brought, Jeanne went to the head master to ask if the boy could

not have another. The steward was sent for, and he said that so much

linen and so many clothes were simply in the way, instead of being of

any use, and that the rules of the house forbade him to allow another

chest of drawers, so Jeanne made up her mind to hire a room in a little

hotel close by, and to ask the landlord himself to take Poulet all he

wanted, directly the child found himself in need of anything.

They all went on the pier for the rest of the afternoon and watched the

ships entering and leaving the harbor; then, at nightfall, they went to

a restaurant for dinner. But they were too unhappy to eat, and the

dishes were placed before them and removed almost untouched as they sat

looking at each other with tearful eyes. After dinner they walked slowly

back to the college. Boys of all ages were arriving on every side, some

accompanied by their parents, others by servants. A great many were

crying, and the big, dim courtyard was filled with the sound of tears.

When the time came to say good-bye, Jeanne and Poulet clung to each

other as if they could not part, while Aunt Lison stood, quite

forgotten, in the background, with her face buried in her handkerchief.

The baron felt he too was giving way, so he hastened the farewells, and

took his daughter from the college. The landau was waiting at the door,

and they drove back to Les Peuples in a silence that was only broken by

an occasional sob.

Jeanne wept the whole of the following day, and the next she ordered the

phaeton and drove over to Havre. Poulet seemed to have got over the

separation already; It was the first time he had ever had any companions

of his own age, and, as he sat beside his mother, he fidgeted on his

chair and longed to run out and play. Every other day Jeanne went to see

him, and on Sundays took him out. She felt as though she had not energy

enough to leave the college between the recreation hours, so she waited

in the _parloir_ while the classes were going on until Poulet could come

to her again. At last the head master asked her to go up and see him,

and begged her not to come so often. She did not take any notice of his

request, and he warned her that if she still persisted in preventing her

son from enjoying his play hours, and in interrupting his work, he would

be obliged to dismiss him from the college. He also sent a note to the

baron, to the same effect, and thenceforth Jeanne was always kept in

sight at Les Peuples, like a prisoner. She lived in a constant state of

nervous anxiety, and looked forward to the holidays with more impatience

than her son. She began to take long walks about the country, with

Massacre as her only companion, and would stay out of doors all day

long, dreamily musing. Sometimes she sat on the cliff the whole

afternoon watching the sea; sometimes she walked, across the wood, to

Yport, thinking, as she went, of how she had walked there when she was

young, and of the long, long years which had elapsed since she had

bounded along these very paths, a hopeful, happy girl.

Every time she saw her son, it seemed to Jeanne as if ten years had

passed since she had seen him last; for every month he became more of a

man, and every month she became more aged. Her father looked like her

brother, and Aunt Lison (who had been quite faded when she was

twenty-five, and had never seemed to get older since) might have been

taken for her elder sister.

Poulet did not study very hard; he spent two years in the fourth form,

managed to get through the third in one twelvemonth, then spent two more

in the second, and was nearly twenty when he reached the rhetoric class.

He had grown into a tall, fair youth, with whiskered cheeks and a

budding moustache. He came over to Les Peuples every Sunday now, instead

of his mother going to see him; and as he had been taking riding lessons

for some time past, he hired a horse and accomplished the journey from

Havre in two hours.

Every Sunday Jeanne started out early in the morning to go and meet him

on the road, and with her went Aunt Lison and the baron, who was

beginning to stoop, and who walked like a little old man, with his hands

clasped behind his back as if to prevent himself from pitching forward

on his face. The three walked slowly along, sometimes sitting down by

the wayside to rest, and all the while straining their eyes to catch the

first glimpse of the rider. As soon as he appeared, looking like a black

speck on the white road, they waved their handkerchiefs, and he at once

put his horse at a gallop, and came up like a whirlwind, frightening

his mother and Aunt Lison, and making his grandfather exclaim, "Bravo!"

in the admiration of impotent old age.

Although Paul was a head taller than his mother, she always treated him

as if he were a child and still asked him, as in former years, "Your

feet are not cold, are they, Poulet?" If he went out of doors, after

lunch, to smoke a cigarette, she opened the window to cry: "Oh, don't go

out without a hat, you will catch cold in your head"; and when, at

night, he mounted his horse to return, she could hardly contain herself

for nervousness, and entreated her son not to be reckless.

"Do not ride too quickly, Poulet, dear," she would say. "Think of your

poor mother, who would go mad if anything happened to you, and be

careful."

One Saturday morning she received a letter from Paul to say he should

not come to Les Peuples as usual, the following day, as he had been

invited to a party some of his college friends had got up. The whole of

Sunday Jeanne was tortured by a presentiment of evil, and when Thursday

came, she was unable to bear her suspense any longer, and went over to

Havre.

Paul seemed changed, though she could hardly tell in what way. He seemed

more spirited, and his words and tones were more manly.

"By the way, mamma, we are going on another excursion and I sha'n't come

to Les Peuples next Sunday, as you have come to see me to-day," he said,

all at once, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jeanne felt as much surprised and stunned as if he had told her he was

going to America; then, when she was again able to speak:

"Oh, Poulet," she exclaimed, "what is the matter with you? Tell me what

is going on."

He laughed and gave her a kiss.

"Why, nothing at all, mamma. I am only going to enjoy myself with some

friends, as everyone does at my age."

She made no reply, but when she was alone in the carriage, her head was

filled with new and strange ideas. She had not recognized her Poulet,

her little Poulet, as of old; she perceived for the first time that he

was grown up, that he was no longer hers, that henceforth he was going

to live his own life, independently of the old people. To her he seemed

to have changed entirely in a day. What! Was this strong, bearded,

firm-willed lad her son, her little child who used to make her help him

plant his lettuces?

Paul only came to Les Peuples at very long intervals for the next three

months, and even when he was there, it was only too plain that he longed

to get away again as soon as possible, and that, each evening, he tried

to leave an hour earlier. Jeanne imagined all sorts of things, while the

baron tried to console her by saying: "There, let him alone, the boy is

twenty years old, you know."

One morning, a shabbily dressed old man who spoke with a German accent

asked for "Matame la vicomtesse." He was shown in, and, after a great

many ceremonious bows, pulled out a dirty pocketbook, saying:

"I have a leetle paper for you," and then unfolded, and held out a

greasy scrap of paper.

Jeanne read it over twice, looked at the Jew, read it over again, then

asked:

"What does it mean?"

"I vill tell you," replied the man obsequiously. "Your son wanted a

leetle money, and, as I know what a goot mother you are, I lent him

joost a leetle to go on vith."

Jeanne was trembling. "But why did he not come to me for it?"

The Jew entered into a long explanation about a gambling debt which had

had to be paid on a certain morning before midday, that no one would

lend Paul anything as he was not yet of age, and that his "honor would

have been compromised," if he, the Jew, had not "rendered this little

service" to the young man. Jeanne wanted to send for the baron, but her

emotion seemed to have taken all the strength from her limbs, and she

could not rise from her seat.

"Would you be kind enough to ring?" she said to the money-lender, at

last.

He feared some trick, and hesitated for a moment.

"If I inconvenience you, I vill call again," he stammered.

She answered him by a shake of the head, and when he had rung they

waited in silence for the baron. The latter at once understood it all.

The bill was for fifteen hundred francs. He paid the Jew a thousand,

saying to him:

"Don't let me see you here again," and the man thanked him, bowed, and

went away.

Jeanne and the baron at once went over to Havre, but when they arrived

at the college they learnt that Paul had not been there for a month. The

principal had received four letters, apparently from Jeanne, the first

telling him that his pupil was ill, the others to say how he was getting

on, and each letter was accompanied by a doctor's certificate; of

course they were all forged. Jeanne and her father looked at each other

in dismay when they heard this news, and the principal feeling very

sorry for them took them to a magistrate that the police might be set to

find the young man.

Jeanne and the baron slept at an hotel that night, and the next day Paul

was discovered at the house of a fast woman. His mother and grandfather

took him back with them to Les Peuples and the whole of the way not a

word was exchanged. Jeanne hid her face in her handkerchief and cried,

and Paul looked out of the window with an air of indifference.

Before the end of the week they found out that, during the last three

months, Paul had contracted debts to the amount of fifteen thousand

francs, but the creditors had not gone to his relations about the money,

because they knew the boy would soon be of age. Poulet was asked for no

explanation and received no reproof, as his relations hoped to reform

him by kindness. He was pampered and caressed in every way; the choicest

dishes were prepared for him, and, as it was springtime, a boat was

hired for him at Yport, in spite of Jeanne's nervousness, that he might

go sailing whenever he liked; the only thing that was denied him was a

horse, for fear he should ride to Havre. He became very irritable and

passionate and lived a perfectly aimless life. The baron grieved over

his neglected studies, and even Jeanne, much as she dreaded to be parted

from him again, began to wonder what was to be done with him.

One evening he did not come home. It was found, on inquiry, that he had

gone out in a boat with two sailors, and his distracted mother hurried

down to Yport, without stopping even to put anything over her head. On

the beach she found a few men awaiting the return of the boat, and out

on the sea was a little swaying light, which was drawing nearer and

nearer to the shore. The boat came in, but Paul was not on board; he had

ordered the men to take him to Havre, and had landed there.

The police sought him in vain; he was nowhere to be found, and the woman

who had hidden him once before had sold all her furniture, paid her

rent, and disappeared also, without leaving any trace behind her. In

Paul's room at Les Peuples two letters were found from this creature

(who seemed madly in love with him) saying that she had obtained the

necessary money for a journey to England. The three inmates of the

chateau lived on, gloomy and despairing, through all this mental

torture. Jeanne's hair, which had been gray before, was now quite white,

and she sometimes asked herself what she could have done, that Fate

should so mercilessly pursue her. One day she received the following

letter from the Abbe Tolbiac:

"Madame: The hand of God has been laid heavily upon you. You

refused to give your son to him, and he has delivered him over to a

prostitute; will you not profit by this lesson from heaven? God's

mercy is infinite, and perhaps he will pardon you if you throw

yourself at his feet. I am his humble servant, and I will open his

door to you when you come and knock."

Jeanne sat for a long time with this letter lying open on her knees.

Perhaps, after all, the priest's words were true; and all her religious

doubts and uncertainties returned to harass her mind. Was it possible

that God could be vindictive and jealous like men? But if he was not

jealous, he would no longer be feared and loved, and, no doubt, it was

that we might the better know him, that he manifested himself to men, as

influenced by the same feeling as themselves. Then she felt the fear,

the cowardly dread, which urges those who hesitate and doubt to seek the

safety of the Church, and one evening, when it was dark, she stealthily

ran to the vicarage, and knelt at the foot of the fragile-looking priest

to solicit absolution. He only promised her a semi-pardon, as God could

not shower all his favors on a house which sheltered such a man as the

baron. "Still, you will soon receive a proof of the divine mercy," said

the priest.

Two days later, Jeanne did indeed receive a letter from her son, and in

the excess of her grief, she looked upon it as the forerunner of the

consolation promised by the abbe. The letter ran thus:

"My Dear Mother: Do not be uneasy about me. I am at London, and in

good health, but in great need of money. We have not a sou, and

some days we have to go without anything to eat. She who is with

me, and whom I love with all my heart, has spent all she had (some

five thousand francs) that she might remain with me, and you will,

of course, understand that I am bound in honor to discharge my debt

to her at the very first opportunity. I shall soon be of age, but

it would be very good of you if you would advance me fifteen

thousand francs of what I inherit from papa; it would relieve me

from great embarrassments.

"Good-bye, mother dear; I hope soon to see you again, but in the

meantime, I send much love to grandfather, Aunt Lison and yourself.

Your son,

"Vicomte Paul de Lamare."

Then he had not forgotten her, for he had written to her! She did not

stop to think that it was simply to ask her for money; he had not any

and some should be sent him; what did money matter? He had written to

her!

She ran to show the letter to the baron, the tears streaming from her

eyes. Aunt Lison was called, and, word by word, they read over this

letter which spoke of their loved one, and lingered over every sentence.

Jeanne, transported from the deepest despair to a kind of intoxication

of joy, began to take Paul's part.

"Now he has written, he will come back," she said. "I am sure he will

come back."

"Still he left us for this creature," said the baron, who was calm

enough to reason; "and he must love her better than he does us, since he

did not hesitate in his choice between her and his home."

The words sent a pang of anguish through Jeanne's heart, and within her

sprang up the fierce, deadly hatred of a jealous mother against the

woman who had robbed her of her son. Until then her every thought had

been, for Paul, and she had hardly realized that this creature was the

cause of all his errors; but the baron's argument had suddenly brought

this rival who possessed such fatal influence vividly to her mind, and

she felt that between this woman and herself there must be a determined,

bitter warfare. With that thought came another one as terrible--that

she would rather lose her son than share him with this other; and all

her joy and delight vanished.

The fifteen thousand francs were sent, and for five months nothing more

was heard of Paul. At the end of that time a lawyer came to the chateau

to see about his inheritance. Jeanne and the baron acceded to all his

demands without any dispute, even giving up the money to which the

mother had a right for her lifetime, and when he returned to Paris, Paul

found himself the possessor of a hundred and twenty thousand francs.

During the next six months only four short letters were received from

him, giving news of his doings in a few, concise sentences, and ending

with formal protestations of affection.

"I am not idle," he said. "I have obtained a post in connection with the

Stock Exchange, and I hope some day to see my dear relations at Les

Peuples."

He never mentioned his mistress, but his silence was more significant

than if he had written four pages about her; and, in these icy letters,

Jeanne could perceive the influence of this unknown woman who was, by

instinct, the implacable enemy of every mother.

Ponder as they would, the three lonely beings at the chateau could think

of no means by which they might rescue Paul from his present life. They

would have gone to Paris, but they knew that would be no good.

"We must let his passion wear itself out," said the baron; "sooner or

later he will return to us of his own accord." And the mournful days

dragged on.

Jeanne and Lison got into the habit of going to church together without

letting the baron know; and a long time passed without any news from

Paul. Then, one morning they received a desperate letter which

terrified them.

"My Dear Mother: I am lost; I shall have no resource left but to

blow out my brains if you do not help me. A speculation which held

out every hope of success has turned the wrong way, and I owe

eighty-five thousand francs. It means dishonor, ruin, the

destruction of all my future if I do not pay, and, I say again,

rather than survive the disgrace, I will blow my brains out. I

should, perhaps, have done so already, had it not been for the

brave and hopeful words of a woman, whose name I never mention to

you, but who is the good genius of my life.

"I send you my very best love, dear mother. Goodbye, perhaps for

ever.

"Paul."

Enclosed in the letter was a bundle of business papers giving the

details of this unfortunate speculation. The baron answered by return

post that they would help as much as they could. Then he went to Havre

to get legal advice, mortgaged some property and forwarded the money to

Paul. The young man wrote back three letters full of hearty thanks, and

said they might expect him almost immediately. But he did not come, and

another year passed away.

Jeanne and the baron were on the point of starting for Paris, to find

him and make one last effort to persuade him to return, when they

received a few lines saying he was again in London, starting a steamboat

company which was to trade under the name of "Paul Delamare & Co." "I am

sure to get a living out of it," he wrote, "and perhaps it will make my

fortune, At any rate I risk nothing, and you must at once see the

advantages of the scheme. When I see you again, I shall be well up in

the world; there is nothing like trade for making money, nowadays."

Three months later, the company went into liquidation, and the manager

was prosecuted for falsifying the books. When the news reached Les

Peuples, Jeanne had a hysterical fit which lasted several hours. The

baron went to Havre, made every inquiry, saw lawyers and attorneys, and

found that the Delamare Company had failed for two hundred and fifty

thousand francs. He again mortgaged his property, and borrowed a large

sum on Les Peuples and the two adjoining farms. One evening he was going

through some final formalities in a lawyer's office, when he suddenly

fell to the ground in an apoplectic fit. A mounted messenger was at once

dispatched to Jeanne, but her father died before she could arrive. The

shock was so great that it seemed to stun Jeanne and she could not

realize her loss. The body was taken back to Les Peuples, but the Abbe

Tolbiac refused to allow it to be interred with any sacred rites, in

spite of all the entreaties of the two women, so the burial took place

at night without any ceremony whatever. Then Jeanne fell into a state of

such utter depression that she took no interest in anything, and seemed

unable to comprehend the simplest things.

Paul, who was still in hiding in England, heard of his grandfather's

death through the liquidators of the company, and wrote to say he should

have come before, but he had only just heard the sad news. He concluded:

"Now you have rescued me from my difficulties, mother dear, I shall

return to France, and shall at once, come to see you."

Towards the end of that winter Aunt Lison, who was now sixty-eight, had

a severe attack of bronchitis. It turned to inflammation of the lungs,

and the old maid quietly expired.

"I will ask the good God to take pity on you, my poor little Jeanne,"

were the last words she uttered.

Jeanne followed her to the grave, saw the earth fall on the coffin, and

then sank to the ground, longing for death to take her also that she

might cease to think and to suffer. As she fell a big, strong peasant

woman caught her in her arms and carried her away as if she had been a

child; she took her back to the chateau, and Jeanne let herself be put

to bed by this stranger, who handled her so tenderly and firmly, and at

once fell asleep, for she had spent the last five nights watching beside

the old maid, and she was thoroughly exhausted by sorrow and fatigue. It

was the middle of the night when she again opened her eyes. A night-lamp

was burning on the mantelpiece, and, in the armchair, lay a woman

asleep. Jeanne did not know who it was, and, leaning over the side of

the bed, she tried to make out her features by the glimmering light of

the night-lamp. She fancied she had seen this face before, but she could

not remember when or where.

The woman was quietly sleeping, her head drooping on one shoulder, her

cap lying on the ground and her big hands hanging on each side of the

armchair. She was a strong, square-built peasant of about forty or

forty-five, with a red face and hair that was turning gray. Jeanne was

sure she had seen her before, but she had not the least idea whether it

was a long time ago or quite recently, and it worried her to find she

could not remember. She softly got out of bed, and went on tiptoe to see

the sleeping woman nearer. She recognized her as the peasant who had

caught her in her arms in the cemetery, and had afterwards put her to

bed; but surely she had known her in former times, under other

circumstances. And yet perhaps the face was only familiar to her because

she had seen it that day in the cemetery. Still how was it that the

woman was sleeping here?

Just then the stranger opened her eyes and saw Jeanne standing beside

her. She started up, and they stood face to face, so close together that

they touched each other.

"How is it that you're out of bed?" said the peasant; "you'll make

yourself ill, getting up at this time of night. Go back to bed again."

"Who are you?" asked Jeanne.

The woman made no answer, but picked Jeanne up and carried her back to

bed as easily as if she had been a baby. She gently laid her down, and,

as she bent over her, she suddenly began to cover her cheeks, her hair,

her eyes with violent kisses, while the tears streamed from her eyes.

"My poor mistress! Mam'zelle Jeanne, my poor mistress! Don't you know

me?" she sobbed.

"Rosalie, my lass!" cried Jeanne, throwing her arms round the woman's

neck and kissing her; and, clasped in each other's arms they mingled

their tears and sobs together.

Rosalie dried her eyes the first. "Come now," she said, "you must be

good and not catch cold."

She picked up the clothes, tucked up the bed and put the pillow back

under the head of her former mistress, who lay choking with emotion as

the memories of days that were past and gone rushed back to her mind.

"How is it you have come back, my poor girl?" she asked.

"Do you think I was going to leave you to live all alone now?" answered

Rosalie.

"Light a candle and let me look at you," went on Jeanne.

Rosalie placed a light on the table by the bedside, and for a long time

they gazed at each other in silence.

"I should never have known you again," murmured Jeanne, holding out her

hand to her old servant. "You have altered very much, though not so much

as I have."

"Yes, you have changed, Madame Jeanne, and more than you ought to have

done," answered Rosalie, as she looked at this thin, faded, white-haired

woman, whom she had left young and beautiful; "but you must remember

it's twenty-four years since we have seen one another."

"Well, have you been happy?" asked Jeanne after a long pause.

"Oh, yes--yes, madame. I haven't had much to grumble at; I've been

happier than you--that's certain. The only thing that I've always

regretted is that I didn't stop here--" She broke off abruptly, finding

she had unthinkingly touched upon the very subject she wished to avoid.

"Well, you know, Rosalie, one cannot have everything one wants," replied

Jeanne gently; "and now you too are a widow, are you not?" Then her

voice trembled, as she went on, "Have you any--any other children?"

"No, madame."

"And what is your--your son? Are you satisfied with him?"

"Yes, madame; he's a good lad, and a hard-working one. He married about

six months ago, and he is going to have the farm now I have come back to

you."

"Then you will not leave me again?" murmured Jeanne.

"No fear, madame," answered Rosalie in a rough tone. "I've arranged all

about that."

And for some time nothing more was said.

Jeanne could not help comparing Rosalie's life with her own, but she had

become quite resigned to the cruelty and injustice of Fate, and she felt

no bitterness as she thought of the difference between her maid's

peaceful existence and her own.

"Was your husband kind to you?"

"Oh, yes, madame; he was a good, industrious fellow, and managed to put

by a good deal. He died of consumption."

Jeanne sat up in bed. "Tell me all about your life, and everything that

has happened to you," she said. "I feel as if it would do me good to

hear it."

Rosalie drew up a chair, sat down, and began to talk about herself, her

house, her friends, entering into all the little details in which

country people delight, laughing sometimes over things which made her

think of the happy times that were over, and gradually raising her voice

as she went on, like a woman accustomed to command, she wound up by

saying:

"Oh, I'm well off now; I needn't be afraid of anything. But I owe it

all to you," she added in a lower, faltering voice; "and now I've come

back I'm not going to take any wages. No! I won't! So, if you don't

choose to have me on those terms, I shall go away again."

"But you do not mean to serve me for nothing?" said Jeanne.

"Yes, I do, madame. Money! You give me money! Why, I've almost as much

as you have yourself. Do you know how much you will have after all these

loans and mortgages have been cleared off, and you have paid all the

interest you have let run on and increase? You don't know, do you? Well,

then, let me tell you that you haven't ten thousand livres a year; not

ten thousand. But I'm going to put everything straight, and pretty soon,

too."

She had again raised her voice, for the thought of the ruin which hung

over the house, and the way in which the interest money had been

neglected and allowed to accumulate roused her anger and indignation. A

faint, sad smile which passed over her mistress's face angered her still

more, and she cried:

"You ought not to laugh at it, madame. People are good for nothing

without money."

Jeanne took both the servant's hands in hers.

"I have never had any luck," she said slowly, as if she could think of

nothing else. "Everything has gone the wrong way with me. My whole life

has been ruined by a cruel Fate."

"You must not talk like that, madame," said Rosalie, shaking her head.

"You made an unhappy marriage, that's all. But people oughtn't to marry

before they know anything about their future husbands."

They went on talking about themselves and their past loves like two old

friends, and when the day dawned they had not yet told all they had to

say.

* * * * *