Sons of the Soil

CHAPTER X

THE SAD­NESS OF A HAP­PY WOM­AN

At the mo­ment when the gen­er­al was get­ting in­to his caleche to go to the Pre­fec­ture, the count­ess and the two gen­tle­men reached the gate of the Avonne, where, for the last eigh­teen months, Michaud and his wife Olympe had made their home.

Whose re­mem­bered the pavil­ion in the state in which we late­ly de­scribed it would have sup­posed it had been re­built. The bricks fall­en or bro­ken by time, and the ce­ment lack­ing to their edges, were re­placed; the slate roof had been cleaned, and the ef­fect of the white balustrade against its bluish back­ground re­stored the gay char­ac­ter of the ar­chi­tec­ture. The ap­proach­es to the build­ing, for­mer­ly choked up and sandy, were now cared for by the man whose du­ty it was to keep the park road­ways in or­der. The poul­try-​yard, sta­bles, and cow-​shed, rel­egat­ed to the build­ings near the pheas­antry and hid­den by clumps of trees, in­stead of af­flict­ing the eye with their foul de­tails, now blend­ed those soft mur­murs and coo­ings and the sound of flap­ping wings, which are among the most de­light­ful ac­com­pa­ni­ments of Na­ture's eter­nal har­mo­ny, with the pe­cu­liar rustling sounds of the for­est. The whole scene pos­sessed the dou­ble charm of a nat­ural, un­touched for­est and the el­egance of an En­glish park. The sur­round­ings of the pavil­ion, in keep­ing with its own ex­te­ri­or, pre­sent­ed a cer­tain no­ble, dig­ni­fied, and cor­dial ef­fect; while the hand of a young and hap­py wom­an gave to its in­te­ri­or a very dif­fer­ent look from what it wore un­der the coarse ne­glect of Courte­cuisse.

Just now the rich sea­son of the year was putting forth its nat­ural splen­dors. The per­fume of the flowerbeds blend­ed with the wild odor of the woods; and the mead­ows near by, where the grass had been late­ly cut, sent up the fra­grance of new-​mown hay.

When the count­ess and her guests reached the end of one of the wind­ing paths which led to the pavil­ion, they saw Madame Michaud, sit­ting in the open air be­fore the door, em­ployed in mak­ing a ba­by's gar­ment. The young wom­an thus placed, thus em­ployed, added the hu­man charm that was need­ed to com­plete the scene,--a charm so touch­ing in its ac­tu­al­ity that painters have com­mit­ted the er­ror of en­deav­or­ing to con­vey it in their pic­tures. Such artists for­get that the SOUL of a land­scape, if they rep­re­sent it tru­ly, is so grand that the hu­man el­ement is crushed by it; where­as such a scene added to Na­ture lim­its her to the pro­por­tions of the per­son­al­ity, like a frame to which the mind of the spec­ta­tor con­fines it. When Poussin, the Raf­faelle of France, made a land­scape ac­ces­so­ry to his Shep­herds of Ar­ca­dia he per­ceived plain­ly enough that man be­comes diminu­tive and ab­ject when Na­ture is made the prin­ci­pal fea­ture on a can­vas. In that pic­ture Au­gust is in its glo­ry, the har­vest is ready, all sim­ple and strong hu­man in­ter­ests are rep­re­sent­ed. There we find re­al­ized in na­ture the dream of many men whose un­cer­tain life of min­gled good and evil harsh­ly mixed makes them long for peace and rest.

Let us now re­late, in few words, the ro­mance of this home. Justin Michaud did not re­ply very cor­dial­ly to the ad­vances made to him by the il­lus­tri­ous colonel of cuirassiers when first of­fered the sit­ua­tion of bailiff at Les Aigues. He was then think­ing of re-​en­ter­ing the ser­vice. But while the ne­go­ti­ations, which nat­ural­ly took him to the Ho­tel Mont­cor­net, were go­ing on, he met the count­ess's head wait­ing-​maid. This young girl, who was en­trust­ed to Madame de Mont­cor­net by her par­ents, wor­thy farm­ers in the neigh­bor­hood of Alen­con, had hopes of a lit­tle for­tune, some twen­ty or thir­ty thou­sand francs, when the heirs were all of age. Like oth­er farm­ers who mar­ry young, and whose own par­ents are still liv­ing, the fa­ther and moth­er of the girl, be­ing pinched for im­me­di­ate means, placed her with the young count­ess. Madame de Mont­cor­net had her taught to sew and to make dress­es, ar­ranged that she should take her meals alone, and was re­ward­ed for the care she be­stowed on Olympe Charel by one of those un­con­di­tion­al at­tach­ments which are so pre­cious to Parisians.

Olympe Charel, a pret­ty Nor­man girl, rather stout, with fair hair of a gold­en tint, an an­imat­ed face light­ed by in­tel­li­gent eyes, and dis­tin­guished by a fine­ly curved thor­ough­bred nose, with a maid­en­ly air in spite of a cer­tain sway­ing Span­ish man­ner of car­ry­ing her­self, pos­sessed all the points that a young girl born just above the lev­el of the mass­es is like­ly to ac­quire from what­ev­er close com­pan­ion­ship a mis­tress is will­ing to al­low her. Al­ways suit­ably dressed, with mod­est bear­ing and man­ner, and able to ex­press her­self well, Michaud was soon in love with her,--all the more when he found that his sweet­heart's dowry would one day be con­sid­er­able. The ob­sta­cles came from the count­ess, who could not bear to part with so in­valu­able a maid; but when Mont­cor­net ex­plained to her the af­fairs at Les Aigues, she gave way, and the mar­riage was no longer de­layed, ex­cept to ob­tain the con­sent of the par­ents, which, of course, was quick­ly giv­en.

Michaud, like his gen­er­al, looked up­on his wife as a su­pe­ri­or be­ing, to whom he owed mil­itary obe­di­ence with­out a sin­gle reser­va­tion. He found in the peace of his home and his busy life out-​of-​doors the el­ements of a hap­pi­ness sol­diers long for when they give up their pro­fes­sion,--enough work to keep his body healthy, enough fa­tigue to let him know the charms of rest. In spite of his well-​known in­tre­pid­ity, Michaud had nev­er been se­ri­ous­ly wound­ed, and he had none of those phys­ical pains which of­ten sour the tem­per of vet­er­ans. Like all re­al­ly strong men, his tem­per was even; his wife, there­fore, loved him ut­ter­ly. From the time they took up their abode in the pavil­ion, this hap­py home was the scene of a long hon­ey-​moon in har­mo­ny with Na­ture and with the art whose cre­ations sur­round­ed them,--a cir­cum­stance rare in­deed! The things about us are sel­dom in keep­ing with the con­di­tion of our souls!

The pic­ture was so pret­ty that the count­ess stopped short and point­ed it out to Blon­det and the abbe; for they could see Madame Michaud from where they stood, with­out her see­ing them.

“I al­ways come this way when I walk in the park,” said the count­ess, soft­ly. “I de­light in look­ing at the pavil­ion and its two tur­tle-​doves, as much as I de­light in a fine view.”

She leaned sig­nif­icant­ly on Blon­det's arm, as if to make him share sen­ti­ments too del­icate for words but which all wom­en feel.

“I wish I were a gate-​keep­er at Les Aigues,” said Blon­det, smil­ing. “Why! what trou­bles you?” he added, notic­ing an ex­pres­sion of sad­ness on the count­ess's face.

“Noth­ing,” she replied.

Wom­en are al­ways hid­ing some im­por­tant thought when they say, hyp­ocrit­ical­ly, “It is noth­ing.”

“A wom­an may be the vic­tim of ideas which would seem very flim­sy to you,” she added, “but which, to us, are ter­ri­ble. As for me, I en­vy Olympe's lot.”

“God hears you,” said the abbe, smil­ing as though to soft­en the stern­ness of his re­mark.

Madame de Mont­cor­net grew se­ri­ous­ly un­easy when she no­ticed an ex­pres­sion of fear and anx­iety in Olympe's face and at­ti­tude. By the way a wom­an draws out her nee­dle or sets her stitch­es an­oth­er wom­an un­der­stands her thoughts. In fact, though wear­ing a rose-​col­ored dress, with her hair care­ful­ly braid­ed about her head, the bailiff's wife was think­ing of mat­ters that were out of keep­ing with her pret­ty dress, the glo­ri­ous day, and the work her hands were en­gaged on. Her beau­ti­ful brow, and the glance she turned some­times on the ground at her feet, some­times on the fo­liage around, ev­ident­ly see­ing noth­ing, be­trayed some deep anx­iety,--all the more un­con­scious­ly be­cause she sup­posed her­self alone.

“Just as I was en­vy­ing her! What can have sad­dened her?” whis­pered the count­ess to the abbe.

“Madame,” he replied in the same tone, “tell me why man is of­ten seized with vague and un­ac­count­able pre­sen­ti­ments of evil in the very midst of some per­fect hap­pi­ness?”

“Abbe!” said Blon­det, smil­ing, “you talk like a bish­op. Napoleon said, 'Noth­ing is stolen, all is bought!'”

“Such a max­im, ut­tered by those im­pe­ri­al lips, takes the pro­por­tions of so­ci­ety it­self,” replied the priest.

“Well, Olympe, my dear girl, what is the mat­ter?” said the count­ess go­ing up to her for­mer maid. “You seem sad and thought­ful; is it a lover's quar­rel?”

Madame Michaud's face, as she rose, changed com­plete­ly.

“My dear,” said Emile Blon­det, in a fa­ther­ly tone, “I should like to know what clouds that brow of yours, in this pavil­ion where you are al­most as well lodged as the Comte d'Ar­tois at the Tu­ileries. It is like a nest of nightin­gales in a grove! And what a hus­band we have! --the bravest fel­low of the young garde, and a hand­some one, who loves us to dis­trac­tion! If I had known the ad­van­tages Mont­cor­net has giv­en you here I should have left my di­atrib­ing busi­ness and made my­self a bailiff.”

“It is not the place for a man of your tal­ent, mon­sieur,” replied Olympe, smil­ing at Blon­det as an old ac­quain­tance.

“But what trou­bles you, dear?” said the count­ess.

“Madame, I'm afraid--”

“Afraid! of what?” said the count­ess, ea­ger­ly; for the word re­mind­ed her of Mouche and Four­chon.

“Afraid of the wolves, is that it?” said Emile, mak­ing Madame Michaud a sign, which she did not un­der­stand.

“No, mon­sieur,--afraid of the peas­ants. I was born in Le Perche, where of course there are some bad peo­ple, but I had no idea how wicked peo­ple could be un­til I came here. I try not to med­dle in Michaud's af­fairs, but I do know that he dis­trusts the peas­ants so much that he goes armed, even in broad day­light, when he en­ters the for­est. He warns his men to be al­ways on the alert. Ev­ery now and then things hap­pen about here that bode no good. The oth­er day I was walk­ing along the wall, near the source of that lit­tle sandy rivulet which comes from the for­est and en­ters the park through a cul­vert about five hun­dred feet from here,--you know it, madame? it is called Sil­ver Spring, be­cause of the star-​flow­ers Bouret is said to have sown there. Well, I over­heard the talk of two wom­en who were wash­ing their linen just where the path to Conch­es cross­es the brook; they did not know I was there. Our house can be seen from that point, and one old wom­an point­ed it out to the oth­er, say­ing: 'See what a lot of mon­ey they have spent on the man who turned out Courte­cuisse.' 'They ought to pay a man well when they set him to ha­rass poor peo­ple as that man does,' an­swered the oth­er. 'Well, it won't be for long,' said the first one; 'the thing is go­ing to end soon. We have a right to our wood. The late Madame al­lowed us to take it. That's thir­ty years ago, so the right is ours.' 'We'll see what we shall see next win­ter,' replied the sec­ond. 'My man has sworn the great oath that all the gen­darmerie in the world sha'n't keep us from get­ting our wood; he says he means to get it him­self, and if the worst hap­pens so much the worse for them!' 'Good God!' cried the oth­er; 'we can't die of cold, and we must bake bread to eat! They want for noth­ing, _those oth­ers_! the wife of that scoundrel of a Michaud will be tak­en care of, I war­rant you!' And then, Madame, they said such hor­ri­ble things of me and of you and of Mon­sieur le comte; and they fi­nal­ly de­clared that the farms would all be burned, and then the chateau.”

“Bah!” said Emile, “idle talk! They have been rob­bing the gen­er­al, and they will not be al­lowed to rob him any longer. These peo­ple are fu­ri­ous, that's the whole of it. You must re­mem­ber that the law and the gov­ern­ment are al­ways strongest ev­ery­where, even in Bur­gundy. In case of an out­break the gen­er­al could bring a reg­iment of cav­al­ry here, if nec­es­sary.”

The abbe made a sign to Madame Michaud from be­hind the count­ess, telling her to say no more about her fears, which were doubt­less the ef­fect of that sec­ond sight which true pas­sion be­stows. The soul, dwelling ex­clu­sive­ly on one on­ly be­ing, grasps in the end the moral el­ements that sur­round it, and sees in them the mak­ings of the fu­ture. The wom­an who loves feels the same pre­sen­ti­ments that lat­er il­lu­mi­nate her moth­er­hood. Hence a cer­tain melan­choly, a cer­tain in­ex­pli­ca­ble sad­ness which sur­pris­es men, who are one and all dis­tract­ed from any such con­cen­tra­tion of their souls by the cares of life and the con­tin­ual ne­ces­si­ty for ac­tion. All true love be­comes to a wom­an an ac­tive con­tem­pla­tion, which is more or less lu­cid, more or less pro­found, ac­cord­ing to her na­ture.

“Come, my dear, show your home to Mon­sieur Emile,” said the count­ess, whose mind was so pre-​oc­cu­pied that she for­got La Pechi­na, who was the os­ten­si­ble ob­ject of her vis­it.

The in­te­ri­or of the re­stored pavil­ion was in keep­ing with its ex­te­ri­or. On the ground-​floor the old di­vi­sions had been re­placed, and the ar­chi­tect, sent from Paris with his own work­men (a cause of bit­ter com­plaint in the neigh­bor­hood against the mas­ter of Les Aigues), had made four rooms out of the space. First, an ante-​cham­ber, at the far­ther end of which was a wind­ing wood­en stair­case, be­hind which came the kitchen; on ei­ther side of the an­techam­ber was a din­ing-​room and a par­lor pan­elled in oak now near­ly black, with ar­mo­ri­al bear­ings in the di­vi­sions of the ceil­ings. The ar­chi­tect cho­sen by Madame de Mont­cor­net for the restora­tion of Les Aigues had tak­en care to put the fur­ni­ture of this room in keep­ing with its orig­inal dec­ora­tion.

At the time of which we write fash­ion had not yet giv­en an ex­ag­ger­at­ed val­ue to the relics of past ages. The carved set­tee, the high-​backed chairs cov­ered with tapestry, the con­soles, the clocks, the tall em­broi­dery frames, the ta­bles, the lus­tres, hid­den away in the sec­ond-​hand shops of Aux­erre and Ville-​aux-​Fayes were fifty per-​cent cheap­er than the mod­ern, ready-​made fur­ni­ture of the faubourg Saint An­toine. The ar­chi­tect had there­fore bought two or three cart­loads of well-​cho­sen old things, which, added to a few oth­ers dis­card­ed at the chateau, made the lit­tle sa­lon of the gate of the Avonne an artis­tic cre­ation. As to the din­ing-​room, he paint­ed it in browns and hung it with what was called a Scotch pa­per, and Madame Michaud added white cam­bric cur­tains with green bor­ders at the win­dows, ma­hogany chairs cov­ered with green cloth, two large buf­fets and a ta­ble, al­so in ma­hogany. This room, or­na­ment­ed with en­grav­ings of mil­itary scenes, was heat­ed by a porce­lain stove, on each side of which were sport­ing-​guns sus­pend­ed on the walls. These adorn­ments, which cost but lit­tle, were talked of through­out the whole val­ley as the last ex­treme of ori­en­tal lux­ury. Sin­gu­lar to say, they, more than any­thing else, ex­cit­ed the en­vy of Gaubertin, and when­ev­er he thought of his fixed de­ter­mi­na­tion to bring Les Aigues to the ham­mer and cut it in pieces, he re­served for him­self, “in pet­to,” this beau­ti­ful pavil­ion.

On the next floor three cham­bers suf­ficed for the house­hold. At the win­dows were muslin cur­tains which re­mind­ed a Parisian of the par­tic­ular taste and fan­cy of bour­geois re­quire­ments. Left to her­self in the dec­ora­tion of these rooms, Madame Michaud had cho­sen satin pa­pers; on the man­tel-​shelf of her bed­room--which was fur­nished in that vul­gar style of ma­hogany and Utrecht vel­vet which is seen ev­ery­where, with its high-​backed bed and canopy to which em­broi­dered muslin cur­tains are fas­tened--stood an al­abaster clock be­tween two can­de­labra cov­ered with gauze and flanked by two vas­es filled with ar­ti­fi­cial flow­ers pro­tect­ed by glass shades, a con­ju­gal gift of the for­mer cav­al­ry sergeant. Above, un­der the roof, the bed­rooms of the cook, the man-​of-​all-​work, and La Pechi­na had ben­efit­ed by the re­cent restora­tion.

“Olympe, my dear, you did not tell me all,” said the count­ess, en­ter­ing Madame Michaud's bed­room, and leav­ing Emile and the abbe on the stair­way, whence they de­scend­ed when they heard her shut the door.

Madame Michaud, to whom the abbe had con­trived to whis­per a word, was now anx­ious to say no more about her fears, which were re­al­ly greater than she had in­ti­mat­ed, and she there­fore be­gan to talk of a mat­ter which re­mind­ed the count­ess of the ob­ject of her vis­it.

“I love Michaud, madame, as you know. Well, how would you like to have, in your own house, a ri­val al­ways be­side you?”

“A ri­val?”

“Yes, madame; that swarthy girl you gave me to take care of loves Michaud with­out know­ing it, poor thing! The child's con­duct, long a mys­tery to me, has been cleared up in my mind for some days.”

“Why, she is on­ly thir­teen years old!”

“I know that, madame. But you will ad­mit that a wom­an who is three months preg­nant and means to nurse her child her­self may have some fears; but as I did not want to speak of this be­fore those gen­tle­men, I talked a great deal of non­sense when you ques­tioned me,” said the gen­er­ous crea­ture, adroit­ly.

Madame Michaud was not re­al­ly afraid of Genevieve Nis­eron, but for the last three days she was in mor­tal ter­ror of some dis­as­ter from the peas­antry.

“How did you dis­cov­er this?” said the count­ess.

“From ev­ery­thing and from noth­ing,” replied Olympe. “The poor lit­tle thing moves with the slow­ness of a tor­toise when she is obliged to obey me, but she runs like a lizard when Justin asks for any­thing, she trem­bles like a leaf at the sound of his voice; and her face is that of a saint as­cend­ing to heav­en when she looks at him. But she knows noth­ing about love; she has no idea that she loves him.”

“Poor child!” said the count­ess with a smile and tone that were full of naivete.

“And so,” con­tin­ued Madame Michaud, an­swer­ing with a smile the smile of her late mis­tress, “Genevieve is gloomy when Justin is out of the house; if I ask her what she is think­ing of she replies that she is afraid of Mon­sieur Rigou, or some such non­sense. She thinks peo­ple en­vy her, though she is as black as the in­side of a chim­ney. When Justin is pa­trolling the woods at night the child is as anx­ious as I am. If I open my win­dow to lis­ten for the trot of his horse, I see a light in her room, which shows me that La Pechi­na (as they call here) is watch­ing and wait­ing too. She nev­er goes to bed, any more than I do, till he comes in.”

“Thir­teen!” ex­claimed the count­ess; “un­for­tu­nate child!”

“Un­for­tu­nate? no. This pas­sion will save her.”

“From what?” asked Madame de Mont­cor­net.

“From the fate which over­takes near­ly all the girls of her age in these parts. Since I have taught her clean­li­ness she is much less ug­ly than she was; in fact, there is some­thing odd and wild about her which at­tracts men. She is so changed that you would hard­ly rec­og­nize her. The son of that in­fa­mous innkeep­er of the Grand-​I-​Vert, Nico­las, the worst fel­low in the whole dis­trict, wants her; he hunts her like game. Though I can't be­lieve that Mon­sieur Rigou, who changes his ser­vant-​girls ev­ery year or two is per­se­cut­ing such a lit­tle fright, it is quite cer­tain that Nico­las Ton­sard is. Justin told me so. It would be a dread­ful fate, for the peo­ple of this val­ley ac­tu­al­ly live like beasts; but Justin and our two ser­vants and I watch her care­ful­ly. There­fore don't be un­easy, madame; she nev­er goes out alone ex­cept in broad day­light, and then on­ly as far as the gate of Conch­es. If by chance she fell in­to an am­bush, her feel­ing for Justin would give her strength and wit to es­cape; for all wom­en who have a pref­er­ence in their hearts can re­sist a man they hate.”

“It was about her that I came,” said the count­ess, “and I lit­tle thought my vis­it could be so use­ful to you. That child, you know, can't re­main thir­teen; and she will prob­ably grow bet­ter-​look­ing.”

“Oh, madame,” replied Olympe, smil­ing, “I am quite sure of Justin. What a man! what a heart!-- If you on­ly knew what a depth of grat­itude he feels for his gen­er­al, to whom, he says, he owes his hap­pi­ness. He is on­ly too de­vot­ed; he would risk his life for him here, as he would on the field of bat­tle, and he for­gets some­times that he will one day be fa­ther of a fam­ily.”

“Ah! I once re­gret­ted los­ing you,” said the count­ess, with a glance that made Olympe blush; “but I re­gret it no longer, for I see you hap­py. What a sub­lime and no­ble thing is mar­ried love!” she added, speak­ing out the thought she had not dared ex­press be­fore the abbe.

Vir­ginie de Troisville dropped in­to a revery, and Madame Michaud kept si­lence.

“Well, at least the girl is hon­est, is she not?” said the count­ess, as if wak­ing from a dream.

“As hon­est as I am my­self, madame.”

“Dis­creet?”

“As the grave.”

“Grate­ful?”

“Ah! madame; she has mo­ments of hu­mil­ity and gen­tle­ness to­wards me which seem to show an an­gel­ic na­ture. She will kiss my hands and say the most up­set­ting things. 'Can we die of love?' she asked me yes­ter­day. 'Why do you ask me that?' I said. 'I want to know if love is a dis­ease.'”

“Did she re­al­ly say that?”

“If I could re­mem­ber her ex­act words I would tell you a great deal more,” replied Olympe; “she ap­pears to know much more than I do.”

“Do you think, my dear, that she could take your place in my ser­vice. I can't do with­out an Olympe,” said the count­ess, smil­ing in a rather sad way.

“Not yet, madame,--she is too young; but in two years' time, yes. If it be­comes nec­es­sary that she should go away from here I will let you know. She ought to be ed­ucat­ed, and she knows noth­ing of the world. Her grand­fa­ther, Pere Nis­eron, is a man who would let his throat be cut soon­er than tell a lie; he would die of hunger in a bak­er's shop; he has the strength of his opin­ions, and the girl was brought up to all such prin­ci­ples. La Pechi­na would con­sid­er her­self your equal; for the old man has made her, as he says, a re­pub­li­can,--just as Pere Four­chon has made Mouche a bo­hemi­an. As for me, I laugh at such ideas, but you might be dis­pleased. She would re­vere you as her bene­fac­tress, but nev­er as her su­pe­ri­or. It can't be oth­er­wise; she is wild and free like the swal­lows--her moth­er's blood counts for a good deal in what she is.”

“Who was her moth­er?”

“Doesn't madame know the sto­ry?” said Olympe. “Well, the son of the old sex­ton at Blangy, a splen­did fel­low, so the peo­ple about here tell me, was draft­ed at the great con­scrip­tion. In 1809 young Nis­eron was still on­ly an ar­tillery­man, in a corps d'armee sta­tioned in Il­lyr­ia and Dal­ma­tia when it re­ceived sud­den or­ders to ad­vance through Hun­gary and cut off the re­treat of the Aus­tri­an army in case the Em­per­or won the bat­tle of Wa­gram. Michaud told me all about Dal­ma­tia, for he was there. Nis­eron, be­ing so hand­some a man, cap­ti­vat­ed a Mon­tene­grin girl of Za­hara among the moun­tains, who was not averse to the French gar­ri­son. This lost her the good-​will of her com­pa­tri­ots, and life in her own town be­came im­pos­si­ble af­ter the de­par­ture of the French. Zena Kropoli, called in de­ri­sion the French­wom­an, fol­lowed the ar­tillery, and came to France af­ter the peace. Au­guste Nis­eron asked per­mis­sion to mar­ry her; but the poor wom­an died at Vin­cennes in Jan­uary, 1810, af­ter giv­ing birth to a daugh­ter, our Genevieve. The pa­pers nec­es­sary to make the mar­riage le­gal ar­rived a few days lat­er. Au­guste Nis­eron then wrote to his fa­ther to come and take the child, with a wet­nurse he had got from its own coun­try; and it was lucky he did, for he was killed soon af­ter by the burst­ing of a shell at Mon­tereau. Reg­is­tered by the name of Genevieve and bap­tized at Soulanges, the lit­tle Dal­ma­tian was tak­en un­der the pro­tec­tion of Made­moi­selle La­guerre, who was touched by her sto­ry. It seems as if it were the des­tiny of the child to be tak­en care of by the own­ers of Les Aigues! Pere Nis­eron ob­tained its clothes, and now and then some help in mon­ey from Made­moi­selle.”

The count­ess and Olympe were just then stand­ing be­fore a win­dow from which they could see Michaud ap­proach­ing the abbe and Blon­det, who were walk­ing up and down the wide, se­mi-​cir­cu­lar grav­elled space which re­peat­ed on the park side of the pavil­ion the ex­te­ri­or half-​moon; they were con­vers­ing earnest­ly.

“Where is she?” said the count­ess; “you make me anx­ious to see her.”

“She is gone to car­ry milk to Made­moi­selle Gail­lard at the gate of Conch­es; she will soon be back, for it is more than an hour since she start­ed.”

“Well, I'll go and meet her with those gen­tle­men,” said Madame de Mont­cor­net, go­ing down­stairs.

Just as the count­ess opened her para­sol, Michaud came up and told her that the gen­er­al had left her a wid­ow for prob­ably two days.

“Mon­sieur Michaud,” said the count­ess, ea­ger­ly, “don't de­ceive me, there is some­thing se­ri­ous go­ing on. Your wife is fright­ened, and if there are many per­sons like Pere Four­chon, this part of the coun­try will be un­in­hab­it­able--”

“If it were so, madame,” an­swered Michaud, laugh­ing, “we should not be in the land of the liv­ing, for noth­ing would be eas­ier than to make away with us. The peas­ant's grum­ble, that is all. But as to pass­ing from growls to blows, from pil­fer­ing to crime, they care too much for life and the free air of the fields. Olympe has been say­ing some­thing that fright­ened you, but you know she is in state to be fright­ened at noth­ing,” he added, draw­ing his wife's hand un­der his arm and press­ing it to warn her to say no more.

“Cornevin! Juli­ette!” cried Madame Michaud, who soon saw the head of her old cook at the win­dow. “I am go­ing for a lit­tle walk; take care of the premis­es.”

Two enor­mous dogs, who be­gan to bark, proved that the ef­fec­tive­ness of the gar­ri­son at the gate of the Avonne was not to be de­spised. Hear­ing the dogs, Cornevin, an old Percheron, Olympe's fos­ter-​fa­ther, came from be­hind the trees, show­ing a head such as no oth­er re­gion than La Perche can man­ufac­ture. Cornevin was un­doubt­ed­ly a Chouan in 1794 and 1799.

The whole par­ty ac­com­pa­nied the count­ess along that one of the six for­est av­enues which led di­rect­ly to the gate of Conch­es, cross­ing the Sil­ver-​spring rivulet. Madame de Mont­cor­net walked in front with Blon­det. The abbe and Michaud and his wife talked in a low voice of the rev­ela­tion that had just been made to the count­ess of the state of the coun­try.

“Per­haps it is prov­iden­tial,” said the abbe; “for if madame is will­ing, we might, per­haps, by dint of ben­efits and con­stant con­sid­er­ation of their wants, change the hearts of these peo­ple.”

At about six hun­dred feet from the pavil­ion and be­low the brooke, the count­ess caught sight of a bro­ken red jug and some spilt milk.

“Some­thing has hap­pened to the poor child!” she cried, call­ing to Michaud and his wife, who were re­turn­ing to the pavil­ion.

“A mis­for­tune like Per­rette's,” said Blon­det, laugh­ing.

“No; the poor child has been sur­prised and pur­sued, for the jug was thrown out­side the path,” said the abbe, ex­am­in­ing the ground.

“Yes, that is cer­tain­ly La Pechi­na's step,” said Michaud; “the print of the feet, which have turned, you see, quick­ly, shows sud­den ter­ror. The child must have dart­ed in the di­rec­tion of the pavil­ion, try­ing to get back there.”

Ev­ery one fol­lowed the traces which the bailiff point­ed out as he walked along ex­am­in­ing them. Present­ly he stopped in the mid­dle of the path about a hun­dred feet from the bro­ken jug, where the girl's foot-​prints ceased.

“Here,” he said, “she turned to­wards the Avonne; per­haps she was head­ed off from the di­rec­tion of the pavil­ion.”

“But she has been gone more than an hour,” cried Madame Michaud.

Alarm was in all faces. The abbe ran to­wards the pavil­ion, ex­am­in­ing the state of the road, while Michaud, im­pelled by the same thought, went up the path to­wards Conch­es.

“Good God! she fell here,” said Michaud, re­turn­ing from a place where the foot­steps stopped near the brook, to that where they had turned in the road, and point­ing to the ground, he added, “See!”

The marks were plain­ly seen of a body ly­ing at full length on the sandy path.

“The foot­prints which have en­tered the wood are those of some one who wore knit­ted soles,” said the abbe.

“A wom­an, then,” said the count­ess.

“Down there, by the bro­ken pitch­er, are the foot­steps of a man,” added Michaud.

“I don't see traces of any oth­er foot,” said the abbe, who was track­ing in­to the wood the prints of the wom­an's feet.

“She must have been lift­ed and car­ried in­to the wood,” cried Michaud.

“That can't be, if it is re­al­ly a wom­an's foot,” said Blon­det.

“It must be some trick of that wretch, Nico­las,” said Michaud. “He has been watch­ing La Pechi­na for some time. On­ly this morn­ing I stood two hours un­der the bridge of the Avonne to see what he was about. A wom­an may have helped him.”

“It is dread­ful!” said the count­ess.

“They call it amus­ing them­selves,” added the priest, in a sad and grieved tone.

“Oh! La Pechi­na would nev­er let them keep her,” said the bailiff; “she is quite able to swim across the riv­er. I shall look along the banks. Go home, my dear Olympe; and you gen­tle­men and madame, please to fol­low the av­enue to­wards Conch­es.”

“What a coun­try!” ex­claimed the count­ess.

“There are scoundrels ev­ery­where,” replied Blon­det.

“Is it true, Mon­sieur l'abbe,” asked Madame de Mont­cor­net, “that I saved the poor child from the clutch­es of Rigou?”

“Ev­ery young girl over fiften years of age whom you may pro­tect at the chateau is saved from that mon­ster,” said the abbe. “In try­ing to get pos­ses­sion of La Pechi­na from her ear­li­est years, the apos­tate sought to sat­is­fy both his lust and his vengeance. When I took Pere Nis­eron as sex­ton I told him what Rigou's in­ten­tions were. That is one of the caus­es of the late may­or's ran­cor against me; his ha­tred grew out of it. Pere Nis­eron said to him solemn­ly that he would kill him if any harm came to Genevieve, and he made him re­spon­si­ble for all at­tempts up­on the poor child's hon­or. I can't help think­ing that this pur­suit of Nico­las is the re­sult of some in­fer­nal col­lu­sion with Rigou, who thinks he can do as he likes with these peo­ple.”

“Doesn't he fear the law?”

“In the first place, he is fa­ther-​in-​law of the pros­ecut­ing-​at­tor­ney,” said the abbe, paus­ing to lis­ten. “And then,” he re­sumed, “you have no con­cep­tion of the ut­ter in­dif­fer­ence of the ru­ral po­lice to what is done around them. So long as the peas­ants do not burn the farm-​hous­es and build­ings, com­mit no mur­ders, poi­son no one, and pay their tax­es, they let them do as they like; and as these peo­ple are not re­strained by any re­li­gious prin­ci­ple, hor­ri­ble things hap­pen ev­ery day. On the oth­er side of the Avonne help­less old men are afraid to stay in their own homes, for they are al­lowed noth­ing to eat; they wan­der out in­to the fields as far as their tot­ter­ing legs can bear them, know­ing well that if they take to their beds they will die for want of food. Mon­sieur Sar­cus, the mag­is­trate, tells me that if they ar­rest­ed and tried all crim­inals, the costs would ru­in the mu­nic­ipal­ity.”

“Then he at least sees how things are?” said Blon­det.

“Mon­seigneur thor­ough­ly un­der­stands the con­di­tion of the val­ley, and es­pe­cial­ly the state of this dis­trict,” con­tin­ued the abbe. “Re­li­gion alone can cure such evils; the law seems to me pow­er­less, mod­ified as it is now--”

The words were in­ter­rupt­ed by loud cries from the woods, and the count­ess, pre­ced­ed by Emile and the abbe, sprang brave­ly in­to the brush­wood in the di­rec­tion of the sounds.