Autumn Glory Part 11

"No," he said, "the thing is done; you will not make me alter it.

Besides, I arranged with Eleonore, who must have left La Fromentiere by now. You will not find her there when you go back." He had taken off his hat in farewell, and was looking uneasily at his old father, who, leaning against the shaft with half-closed eyes, seemed about to swoon. Under the colonnade of the Halles there was not a soul; a few women in their shops round the Place were carelessly looking at the two men. After a moment, Francois drew a little nearer and held out his hand, doubtless to clasp that of his father for the last time; but seeing him approach the old man revived, motioned his son away, sprang into the cart, and lashing up La Rousse, drove off at a gallop.

CHAPTER VI.

THE APPEAL TO THE MASTER.

Eleonore had suffered herself to be persuaded. She had left her home.

Weak, and easily led, she had for months past listened too readily to the promptings of vanity and laziness, which, censured by her father at La Fromentiere, could be yielded to at will in the town. To have no more baking to do, no more cows to milk, to be in some sort a lady, to wear a hat trimmed with ribbons--such were the reasons for which she went out into the unknown, with only her brother, who would be away all day, for protector. Eleonore had yielded from force of example, and in complete ignorance of the step she was taking. Thus she cast herself adrift, and exposed herself to life in a suburb, to the familiarities of frequenters of the cafe, without dreaming of its dangers, with the utter ignorance of the peasant who knows nothing beyond the troubles incidental to life in the country.

The separation was accomplished. At the moment that the farmer drove away, intent upon the hope of still recovering his children, Eleonore had hurriedly left the shelter of the barn where she had been hiding, and, despite the entreaties of Marie-Rose and even of Mathurin, going from room to room she had hurriedly collected the little store of personal clothing and trinkets belonging to her. To all Rousille's pleading, as to the calmer adjurations of Mathurin, she had replied:

"It is Francois' wish, my dears! I cannot tell if I shall be happy; but it is too late now. My promise is given."

She was so greatly in fear of seeing her father come back that she was almost frenzied with haste. Quickly she made up her bundle, went out from La Fromentiere, and reached the hollow road, where, crouching beneath the hedge, she waited for the steam tram that runs between Fromentiere and Chalons. There some hours later Francois was to rejoin her.

Meanwhile the farmer, driving La Rousse at her greatest speed, had returned home.

"Eleonore!" he had cried.

"Gone," Mathurin had answered.

Then, half-mad with grief, the old man had flung the reins across the steaming beast, and without a word of explanation had stridden away in the direction of Sallertaine. Had he been actuated by a last hope and idea? Or did his deserted house inspire him with dread?

Night was falling. He had not yet returned. A damp, encircling mist, silent as death, enveloped all around. In the living-room of La Fromentiere, beside the fire that no one tended, beside the simmering pot that murmured as if in low plaint, the two remaining inmates of the farm sat watching, but how differently! Rousille, nervous, burning with fever, could not keep still; she was for ever rising from her chair, clasping her hands, and murmuring: "My G.o.d, my G.o.d!" then going to the open door to look out, shivering, into the dark, thick night.

"Listen!" she said.

The cripple listened, then said:

"It is the goatherd of Malabrit taking home his flock."

"Listen again!"

A distant sound of barking, borne on the silent air, died away in the stillness.

"That is not Bas-Rouge's bark," returned Mathurin.

So from hour to hour, and minute to minute, a step, a cry, the rolling of a vehicle, would keep their senses on the alert.

What were they expecting? Their father, who came not. But Rousille, younger, more credulous, was expecting the others too, or if not both, at least one, either Francois or Eleonore, who, repentant--was it too much to hope--had come back. Oh, what joy it would be, what rapture to see one of them! It seemed as if the other would have the right to go if one came back to take his place in the home. The young girl felt raised out of herself as a vague sense of duty came over her; she, the only woman, the only one to act in her deserted home.

Mathurin sat in a stooping posture by the hearth, his feet wrapped in a rug, the glow of the fire reddening the beard crushed beneath his chin. For hours he had sat so, never moving, speaking as little as possible; from time to time tears rolled down his cheeks; at other times Rousille, looking at him, was astonished to see the shadow of a smile cross his face--a smile she could in nowise understand.

Nine o'clock struck.

"Mathurin," exclaimed the girl, "I am afraid that some misfortune has befallen father."

"He may be talking over his trouble with the Cure, or the Mayor."

"So I tell myself; yet, all the same, I am frightened."

"That's because you are not accustomed to wait as I am. What do you want to do?"

"To go towards Sallertaine to meet him."

"Go, if you like."

Rousille ran to her room to get her black cloak. When she came back, looking like a little nun, she found that Mathurin had thrown off the rug, and was standing up. His crutches were lying on the ground, and by an effort of will he stood nearly upright, resting one hand on the table, the other on the back of his chair. He looked at his sister with an air of pride and of suppressed pain, perspiration standing on his forehead.

"Rousille," he said, "what should you do if father did not come back?"

"Oh, don't say such things," she exclaimed, covering her eyes with her hand. "And do not exert yourself to stand like that; you make me feel quite ill!"

"Well, I," continued Mathurin gravely, "should take the management here. I feel strong enough. I feel that I am recovering."

"Sit down; sit down, I beg of you. You will fall."

But he remained standing until she reached the door. Scarce had she crossed the threshold before she heard the human ma.s.s sink together with a groan. She turned back, saw that he was in a sitting posture on the chair, pressing both hands to his side, doubtless to still his fast-beating heart; then noiselessly, timid as a fawn rising out of the bracken, she ran into the courtyard, and out on to the road.

The rising moon had lessened the mist, already one could see a considerable distance; in another hour it would be clear moonlight.

Avoiding the shade of the hedges, Marie-Rose followed the middle of the path that, leading past the dwarf orchard, skirted the meadows; she was frightened, almost running, nor did she slacken speed until she reached the edge of the Marais, where the road suddenly widening like a river that falls into the sea, mingled its gra.s.ses with those of the marshland. Then, rea.s.sured by the moonlight, she stood still and listened. Where could her father be?

She hoped to hear footsteps on the road, or even Bas-Rouge's bark. But no; in the dream-like mist that incessantly formed and dispersed about her, amid the dim moving lights and shadows around, there was but one sound, that of the distant roll of the sea against the sh.o.r.es of La Vendee. She was about to turn, follow the d.y.k.e to reach the bridge of Sallertaine and its familiar houses, when a well-known whistle, like that of a plover, met her ear. Could it be possible?

The young girl's blood rushed to her heart; she stopped short in rapture and astonishment, without strength to look behind her.

Motionless she stood, listening to the coming of one her heart had recognised. He came by the road she had come, from the thickets of La Fromentiere. Erect, trembling, she stood on the gra.s.s-grown road, felt two hands placed on her shoulders, then a rush of air that moved the right side of her cloak, and a man had lightly sprung in front of her, with the words:

"It is I, Rousille. I have not frightened you?"

There he was in his brown coat, stick in hand, looking well pleased at his piece of audacity.

Notwithstanding her distress, Rousille could not repress a cry of joy.

A smile rose to her face like an air bubble on troubled waters that none can hinder, and that widens as it goes.

"Oh how happy I am!" she said. But then quickly resumed: "No, I am wrong to speak like that. You do not know of our trouble at home.

Francois has gone, Eleonore has gone; I am all alone there, and I have come out to find father, who has not come home. I have no time to spare for you, Jean Nesmy. It would be wrong!"

He watched the smile fade from her face in the moonlight; and as she drew her cloak about her to resume her way, he said hurriedly:

"I know all, Rousille. For the last three days I have been at Chalons trying to find a situation as near here as possible. I have not found one. But this evening I heard of Francois' going; it is the talk of the town in one way and another. I ran at once to La Fromentiere, keeping out of sight. I watched you in the garden, in the barn. Since sundown I have heard you crying; but the farmer was the only one I saw go out."

"Where is he--at Sallertaine?"

"No; he went, but came back. I was in hiding about here. He pa.s.sed just where we are now standing, and he was gesticulating and talking to himself as if he were demented."