Mysteries of Paris Volume II Part 46

La Louve shrugged her shoulders.

"Do you think he would take me for his wife?"

"Except his poaching, has he ever committed any other culpable action?"

"No; he is a poacher on the river, as he was in the woods; and he is right. Are not fish, like game, the property of those who can take them? Where is the mark of their owner?"

"Well, suppose, having renounced this, he wishes to become an honest man; suppose that he inspired, by the frankness of his good resolutions, enough confidence in an unknown benefactor to be given a place--as gamekeeper, for instance. To a poacher, it would be to his liking. It is the same trade, only lawful."

"Lord! yes; it is life in the woods."

"Only this place would be given to him on the sole condition that he would marry you and take you with him."

"I go with Martial?"

"Yes; you would be happy, you say, to live together in a forest. Would you not like better, instead of a miserable poacher's hut where you would hide yourselves like criminals, to have a nice little cottage, of which you should be the active, industrious housekeeper?"

"You make fun of me. Can this be possible?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SCAFFOLD]

"Who knows? though it is only a castle."

"Ah, true; very well."

"I say, La Louve, it seems to me I already see you established in your cottage in the forest, with your husband, and two or three children.

What happiness!"

"Children! Martial!" cried La Louve; "oh, yes, they would be _proudly_ loved."

"How much company they would be for you in your solitude. Then, when they began to grow up, they could render you some a.s.sistance. The smallest could pick up the dead branches for your fire; the largest could drive to pasture the cow which has been given to your husband for his activity; for, having been a poacher himself, he would make all the better gamekeeper."

"Just so; that's true. Ah, these castles in the air are amusing. Tell me some more, La Goualeuse."

"They will be very much pleased with your husband. You will receive from his master some presents; a nice garden. But marry! you will have to work, La Louve, from morning to night." "Oh, if that was all, once along with Martial, work wouldn't make me afraid. I have strong arms."

"And you would have enough to occupy them, I answer for it. There is so much to do. There are the meals to prepare, clothes to mend; one day the washing, another day the baking, or the house to clean from top to bottom; so that the other gamekeepers would say, 'Oh, there is not a housekeeper like Martial's wife; from cellar to garret her house is as nice as a new pin; and the children always so neat and clean. It is because she is so industrious.'"

"Tell me, La Goualeuse, is it true I would be called Madame Martial?"

"It is a great deal better than to be called La Louve, is it not?"

"Certainly; I prefer the name of any man to the name of a beast. But, bah! bah! wolf I am born, and wolf I shall die."

"Who knows? Do not recoil from a hard but honest life that brings happiness. So, work would not alarm you?"

"Oh, no."

"And then, besides, it is not all labor: there are moments of repose.

In the winter evenings, while your children are asleep, and your husband smoking his pipe, cleaning his gun, or caressing his dogs, you could have a nice quiet time."

"Bah! bah! a quiet time, sit with my arms folded. Goodness, no; I would prefer to mend the family linen in the evening, in the chimney-corner; that is not so tiresome. The days are so short in winter."

At the words of Fleur-de-Marie, La Louve forgot more and more of the present in these dreams of the future. La Louve did not conceal the wild tastes with which her lover had inspired her. Fleur-de-Marie had thought, with reason, that if her companion would suffer herself to be sufficiently moved at this picture of a rough, poor, and solitary life, to ardently desire to live such a one, this woman would deserve interest and pity.

Enchanted at seeing her companion listen with curiosity, La Goualeuse continued, smiling: "And, then you see _Madame Martial_--let me call you so, what do you care?"

"On the contrary, it flatters me," said La Louve, shrugging her shoulders, but smiling. "What folly--to play _Madame!_ What children we are! Never mind, go on--it is amusing. You said, then----"

"I say, Madame Martial, that in speaking of your mode of living in winter, in the woods, we only think of the worst part of the season."

"No, that is not the worst. To hear the wind whistle at night in the forest, and from time to time the wolves howl, far off--far off; I would not find it tiresome, not I, if I am alongside of a good fire, with my man and my brats; or even all alone with my children, while he is gone to make his rounds. Oh! a gun doesn't frighten me. If I had my children to defend, I'd be good then. La Louve would take good care of her cubs!"

"Oh! I believe you--you are very brave; but coward me prefers spring to winter. Oh! the spring, Madame Martial, the spring! when the leaves burst forth; when the pretty wood-flowers blossom, which smell so good--so good, that the air is perfumed. Then it is that your children will tumble gayly on the new gra.s.s, and the forest will become so thick and bushy, that your house can hardly be seen for the foliage; I think I can see it from here. There is a bower before the door that your husband has planted, which shades the seat of turf where he sleeps during the heat of the day, while you go and come, and tell the children not to wake their father. I do not know if you have remarked it, but at noon in the middle of summer, it is as silent in the woods as during the night. Not a leaf stirs, not a bird is heard to sing."

"That is true," repeated La Louve, mechanically, who, forgetting more and more the reality, believed almost that she saw displayed before her eyes the smiling pictures described by the poetic imagination of Fleur-de-Marie, instinctively a lover of the beauties of nature.

Delighted with the profound attention which her companion lent her, she continued, allowing herself to be carried away by the charm of the thoughts she evoked. "There is one thing that I like almost as well as the silence of the woods; it is the patter of the large drops of rain in the summer, falling on the leaves; do you like this also?"

"Oh yes--I like also, very much, the summer rain."

"When the trees, moss, and gra.s.s are all well moistened, what a fine fresh odor! And then, how the sun, peeping through the trees, makes all the drops of water sparkle which hang from the leaves after the shower. Have you remarked this also?"

"Yes, but I didn't remember it till you told it me. How droll it is!

you tell it so well, La Goualeuse, that one seems to see everything as you speak; and--I do not know how to explain this to you; but what you have said--smells good--is refreshing--like the summer rain of which you spoke."

Thus, like the beautiful and the good, poetry is often contagious. La Louve's brutal and savage nature had to submit in everything to the influence of Fleur-de-Marie. She added, smiling, "We must not believe that we are alone in loving the summer rain. How happy the birds are!

how they shake their wings in warbling joyously--not more joyously, however, than your children, free, gay, and lively as they are: see how, at the close of day, the youngest runs through the woods to meet his brother, who brings the heifers from the pasture; they soon heard the tinkling of their bells."

"Why, La Goualeuse, it seems to me that I can see the smallest, yet the boldest, who has been placed by his brother, who sustains him, astride the back of one of the cows."

"And one would say that the poor beast knew what burden she was bearing, she walks with so much precaution.

"But now it is supper time: your eldest, while the cattle were grazing, has amused himself in filling a basket for you with wild strawberries, which he has brought covered with violets."

"Strawberries and violets--oh! that must be a balm. But where the mischief do you get such ideas, La Goualeuse?"

"In the woods, where the strawberries ripen, where the violets bloom; it is only to look and collect, Madame Martial. But let us speak of the housekeeping: it is night, you must milk your cows, prepare the supper under the arbor, for you hear your husband's dogs bark, and soon the voice of their master, who, tired as he is, comes home singing. And why should he not sing, when, on a fine summer evening, with a contented mind, he regains his house, where a good wife and fine children await him?"

"True, one could not do otherwise than sing," said La Louve, becoming more and more thoughtful.

"At least, if one does not weep from joy," continued Fleur-de-Marie, herself affected. "And such tears are as sweet as songs. And then, when night has closed in, what happiness to remain under the arbor, to enjoy the serenity of a fine evening; to breathe the perfume of the forest; to hear the children prattle; to look at the stars! Then the heart is so full that it must be relieved by prayer. How not thank Him to whom one owes the freshness of the night, the perfume of the woods, the sweet light of the starry heavens? After these thanks or this prayer, you go to sleep peacefully until the morning, and then again you thank the Creator; for this poor, industrious, but calm and honest life, is that of every day."

"Of every day!" repeated La Louve, her head on her bosom, her eyes fixed, her breathing oppressed; "for it is true, G.o.d is good to give us the power to live happy on so little."

"Well, now, say," continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently, "say, ought he not be blessed and thanked next to Heaven, who would give you this peaceful and industrious life, instead of the miserable one you lead in the mud in the streets of Paris?"

The word "Paris" called La Louve to the reality.