One thing gave me still more to think about in the following days. It was discovered in Aulnières that Joseph every now and then stayed out at night.
People joked about it, thinking he had a love-affair; but it was no use following and watching him, no one ever saw him turn to inhabited parts, or speak to a living person. He went away across the fields into the open country so quickly and slyly that it was impossible to find out his secret. He returned about dawn, and went to work like the rest; but instead of being weary, he seemed livelier and more contented than usual.
This was noticed three times in the course of the winter, which was very long and very severe that year. But neither the snow nor the north wind was able to keep Joseph from going off at night when the fancy took him. People imagined he was one of those who walk or work in their sleep; but it was nothing of the kind, as you will see.
On Christmas Eve, as Véret, the sabot-maker, was on his way to keep the midnight feast with his parents at Ourouer, he saw under the big elm Râteau, not the giant who is said to walk under it with a rake on his shoulder, but a tall dark man who did not have a good face, and who was whispering quite low to another man not so tall, and who had a more Christian kind of look. Véret was not actually afraid, and he passed near enough to listen to what they were saying. But as soon as the other two saw him, they separated. The dark man made off, nobody knows where, and his comrade, coming up to Véret, said to him in a strangled sort of voice,—
"Where are you going, Denis Véret?"
The shoemaker began to be uneasy; and knowing that you must not speak to the things of darkness, especially near an evil tree, he continued his way without looking round; but he was followed by the being he took to be a spirit, who walked behind, keeping step with him.
When they reached the end of the open ground the pursuer turned to the left, saying, "Good-night, Denis Véret!"
And then for the first time Véret recognized Joseph, and laughed at his own fears; but still without being able to imagine for what purpose and in whose company Joseph had come to the big elm between one and two o'clock in the morning.
When this last affair came to my knowledge I felt very sorry, and reproached myself for not trying to turn Joseph from the evil ways he seemed to be taking. But I had let so much time elapse I did not like to take the matter up then. I spoke to Brulette, who only made fun of it; from which I began to believe they had a secret love for each other of which I had been the dupe, like other folks who tried to see magic in it and only saw fire.
I was more grieved than angry. Joseph, so slack at his work and so cranky, seemed to me a weak stay and a poor companion for Brulette. I could have told her that (putting myself entirely out of the question) she could have played a better game with her cards; but I was afraid to say it, thinking I might make her angry, and so lose her friendship, which seemed to me very sweet, even without her other favors.
One night, coming home, I found Joseph sitting on the edge of the fountain which is called the Font de Fond. My house, then known by the name of "God's crossing," because it was built where two roads, since altered, crossed each other, looked out upon that fine greensward which you saw not long ago sold and cut up as waste land,—a great misfortune for the poor, who used it as a common to feed their beasts, but hadn't enough money to buy it. It was a wide bit of pasture-land, very green, and watered here and there by the brook, which was not kept within bounds but ran as it pleased through the grass, cropped short by the flocks, and always pleasing to the eye as it stretched away in the distance.
I contented myself with bidding Joseph good-evening; but he rose and walked beside me, as if seeking a conversation, and seemed so agitated that I was quite uneasy about him.
"What's the matter with you?" I said at last, seeing that he was talking at random, and twisting his body and groaning as though he had stepped on an ant-hill.
"How can you ask me?" he said, impatiently. "Is it nothing to you? Are you deaf?"
"Who? why? what is it?" I cried, thinking he must see some vision, and not very anxious to share it.
Then I listened, and heard in the distance the sound of a bagpipe, which seemed to me natural enough.
"Well," I said, "that's only some musician returning from a wedding over at Berthenoux. Why should that annoy you?"
Joseph answered with an air of decision,—
"That is Carnat's bagpipe, but he is not playing it; it is some one more clumsy even than he."
"Clumsy? Do you call Carnat clumsy with the bagpipe?"
"Not clumsy with his hands, but clumsy in his ideas, Tiennet. Poor man, he is not worthy of the blessing of a bagpipe! and that fellow who is trying it now deserves that the good God should stop his breath."
"That's very strange talk, and I don't know where you have picked it up. How do you know that is Carnat's bagpipe? It seems to me that bagpipes are all alike, and grunt in the same way. I do hear that the one down there is not properly played, and the tune is rather choked off; but that doesn't trouble me, for I couldn't do as well. Do you think you could do any better?"
"I don't know; but there are certainly some who can play better than that fellow and better than Carnat, his master. There are some who have got at the truth of the thing."
"Do you know them? Where are the people that you are talking about?"
"I don't know. But somewhere truth must be, and when one has neither time nor means to search for it, one's only chance is to meet it."
"So your head is running on music, is it, José? I never should have thought it. I have always known you as mute as a fish, never catching nor humming a tune. When you used to practise on the cornstalks like the herd-boys, you made such a jumble of the tunes that nobody recognized them. In the matter of music we all thought you more simple than children, who fancy they can play the bagpipes with reeds; if you are not satisfied with Carnat, who keeps such good time for dancing, and manages his fingers so skilfully, I am more than ever sure your ear can't be good."
"Yes, yes," said Joseph, "you are right to reprove me, for I say foolish things and talk of what I know nothing about. Well, good-night, Tiennet; forget what I said, for it is not what I wanted to say; but I will think it over and try to tell you better another time."
And off he went, quickly, as if sorry for having spoken; but Brulette, who came out of our house just then with my sister, called to him and brought him back to me, saying,—
"It is time to put an end to these tales. Here is my cousin, who has heard so much gossip about Joseph that she begins to think he is a werewolf; the thing must be cleared up, once for all."
"Let it be as you say," said Joseph, "for I am tired of being taken for a sorcerer; I would rather be thought an idiot."
"You are neither an idiot nor crazy," returned Brulette; "but you are very obstinate, my poor José. You must know, Tiennet, that the lad has nothing wrong in his head, except a fancy for music, which is not so unreasonable as it is dangerous."
"Then," answered I, "I understand what he was saying to me just now. But where the devil did he pick up these ideas?"
"Wait a minute!" said Brulette; "we must not irritate him unjustly. Don't be in a hurry to say he can't make music; though perhaps you think, like his mother and my grandfather, that his mind is as dense to that as it used to be to the catechism. But I can tell you that Mariton, and grandfather, and you are the ones who know nothing about it. Joseph can't sing,—not that he is short of breath, but because he can't make his throat do as he wants it; and as he isn't able to satisfy himself he prefers not to use a voice he doesn't know how to manage. Therefore, naturally enough, he wants to play upon some instrument which has a voice in place of his own, and which can sing for him whatever comes in his head. It is because he has failed to get this borrowed voice that our poor lad is so sad and dreamy and wrapped up in himself."
"It is exactly as she tells you," remarked Joseph, who seemed comforted to hear the young girl lift his thoughts out of his heart and make me comprehend them. "But she does not tell you that she has a voice for me, so sweet, so clear, which repeats so correctly the music she hears that ever since I was a child my greatest pleasure is to listen to her."
"Yes," said Brulette, "but we always had a crow to pick with each other. I liked to do as all the other little girls who kept their flocks did; that is, sing at the top of my voice so that I could be heard a long distance. Screaming like that, I outdid my strength and spoilt all, and hurt José's ears. Then, after I settled down to singing reasonably, he thought I had a good memory for all the tunes that were singable, those which pleased the lad and those that put him in a rage; and more than once I've known him turn his back on me suddenly and rush off without a word, though he had asked me to sing. For that matter, he is not always civil or kind; but as it is he, I laugh instead of getting angry. I know very well he'll come back, for his memory is not sure, and when he has heard an air that pleases him he comes to me for it, and he is pretty sure to find it in my head."
I remarked to Brulette that as Joseph had such a poor memory he didn't seem to me born to play the bagpipes.
"Oh nonsense!" she said, "it is just there that you have got to turn your opinion wrong side out. You see, my poor Tiennet, that neither you nor I know the truth of the thing, as José says. But by dint of living with him and his visions I have come to understand what he either does not know or dares not say. The 'truth of the thing' is that José thinks he can invent his own music; and he does invent it, for sure. He has succeeded in making a flute out of a reed, and he plays upon it; I don't know how, for he won't let me, nor any one else, hear him. When he wants to play he goes off, on Sundays and sometimes at night, into lonely places where he can flute as he likes; but when I ask him to play for me he answers that he does not yet know what he wants to know, and that he can't do as I ask until it is worth while. That's why, ever since he invented his instrument, he goes off on Sundays and sometimes, during the week, at night, when his music grips him hard. So you see, Tiennet, that it is all very harmless. But it is time we should have an explanation between us three; for José has now set his mind on spending his next wages—up to this time he has always given them to his mother—in buying a bagpipe; and, as he knows he is a poor hand at farm-labor and yet his heart is set on relieving his mother of hard work, he wants to take up the business of playing the bagpipe because, true enough, it pays well."
"It would be a good idea," said my sister, who was listening to us, "if Joseph really has a talent for it. But, before buying the bagpipe, it is my opinion he ought to know something about using it."
"That's a matter of time and patience," said Brulette, "and there's no hindrance there. Don't you know that for some time past Carnat's son has been learning to play, so as to take his father's place."
"Yes," I answered, "and I see what will come of it. Carnat is old and some one might have a chance for his custom; but his son wants it, and will get it because he is rich and has influence in the neighborhood; while you, José, have neither money to buy your bagpipe nor a master to teach you, nor friends who like your music to push you on."
"That is true," replied Joseph, sadly; "I have nothing but my idea, my reed, and—her."
So saying he motioned towards Brulette, who took his hand affectionately as she answered:—
"José, I believe in what you have in your head, but I can't feel certain that you will ever get it out. To will and to do are not the same thing; to dream music and play the flute differ widely. I know what you have in your ears, in your brain, in your heart,—the music of the good God; for I saw it in your eyes when I was a little thing and you took me on your knee and said, in a weird kind of way, 'Listen, and don't make a noise, and try to remember what you hear.' Then I did listen faithfully, and all I heard was the wind talking in the trees, or the brook murmuring along the pebbles; but you, you heard something else, and you were so certain of it that I was, too, for sympathy. Well, my lad, keep the music that is so sweet and dear in your secret heart, but don't try to make yourself a piper by profession; for if you do, one of two things will happen. Either you will never make your bagpipes say what the wind and the brook whisper in your ear, or you will become such a fine and delicate musician that all the petty pipers in the countryside will pick a quarrel with you and prevent you from getting custom. They will wish you ill and do you harm, for that's their way to prevent others from sharing their profits and their fame. There are a dozen here and in the neighborhood who can't agree together, but who will join and support each other in keeping out a new hand. Your mother, who hears them talk on Sundays,—for they are thirsty folk and accustomed to drink late at night after the dances,—is very unhappy to think you want to join such a set of people. They are rough and ill-behaved, and always foremost in quarrels and fights. The habit of being at all festivals and idle resorts makes them drunkards and spendthrifts. In short, they are a tribe unlike any of the people belonging to you, among whom, she thinks, you will go to the bad. As for me, I think they are jealous and revengeful, and would try to crush your spirit, and perhaps your body, too. And so, José, I do ask you to at least put off your plan and lay aside your wishes, and even to give them up altogether, if it is not asking too much of your friendship for me, and for your mother and Tiennet."
As I supported Brulette's arguments, which seemed to me sound, Joseph was in despair; but presently he took courage and said:—
"I thank you for your advice, my friends, which I know is given for my good; but I beg you to leave me my freedom of mind for a short time longer. When I have reached a point I think I shall reach, I will ask you to hear me play the flute, or the bagpipe if it please God to enable me to buy one. Then, if you decide that my music is good for anything it will be worth while for me to make use of my talent and I will face the struggle for love of it. If not, I will go on digging the earth and amusing myself with my reed-pipe on Sundays, without making a living and so offending anybody. Promise me this, and I will have patience."
We made the promise, to quiet him, for he seemed more annoyed by our fears than touched by our sympathy. I looked in his face by the light of the stars, and saw it even more distinctly because the bright water of the fountain was before us like a mirror, which reflected on our faces the whiteness of the sky. I noticed that his eyes had the very color of the water and seemed as usual to be looking at things which the rest of us did not see.
A month later Joseph came to see me at my own house.
"The time has come," he said, with a clear look and a confident voice, "for the two persons whose judgment I trust to hear me play. I want Brulette to come here to-morrow night, because here we can be quiet by ourselves. I know your relations start on a pilgrimage to-morrow on account of that fever your brother had; so that you will be alone in the house, which is far enough in the country for no one to overhear us. I have spoken to Brulette, and she is willing to leave the village after nightfall; I shall wait for her on the lower road, and we can get here without any one seeing us. Brulette relies on you not to tell of it; and her grandfather, who approves of whatever she wishes, consents too, if you will make that promise, which I have given for you."
At the appointed hour I waited in front of my house, having closed all the doors and windows, so that the passers-by (if any there were) should think me in bed or absent. It was now spring; and as it had thundered during the day, the sky was still thick with clouds. Gusts of warm wind brought all the sweet smells of the month of May. I listened to the nightingales answering each other from distance to distance as far as I could hear, and I thought to myself that Joseph would be hard put to it to flute like them. I saw the lights of the houses in the village going out one by one; and about ten minutes after the last disappeared I found the couple I was waiting for close beside me. They had stepped so softly on the young grass and so close to the big bushes at the side of the road that I had neither seen nor heard them. I took them into the house, where the lamp was lit; and when I looked at them—she with her hair so coquettishly dressed, and he, as usual, cold and thoughtful—I could scarcely suppose them to be ardently tender lovers.
While I talked a little with Brulette, to do the honors of the house (which was quite a nice one, and I wanted her to take a fancy to it), Joseph, without a word to me, had set about tuning his flute. He found the damp weather had affected it, and he threw a handful of flax chips on the hearth to warm it. When the chips blazed up they cast a strong light upon his face, which was bent towards the fireplace; and I thought his look so strange that I called Brulette's attention to it in a low voice.
"You may think," I said to her, "that he hides by day and wanders off at night solely to surfeit himself with that flute; but I know that he has in him or about him some secret that he does not tell us."
"Bah!" she exclaimed, laughing; "just because Véret, the sabot-maker, fancies he saw him with a tall, dark man near the Râteau elm!"
"Perhaps Véret dreamed that," I answered; "but as for me, I know what I saw and heard in the forest."
"What did you see?" said José, suddenly, who had heard every word, though we spoke quite low. "What did you hear? You saw him who is my friend, but whom I cannot make known to you; and as for what you heard, you are going now to hear it again if it pleases you to do so."
Thereupon he blew into his flute, his eye on fire and his face blazing as if with fever.
Don't ask me what he played. I don't know if the devil would have understood it; as for me, I didn't, except that it seemed the same air I had heard among the brake, on the bagpipes. At that time I was so frightened that I didn't listen to it all; but now, whether it was that the music was longer, or that Joseph put some of his own into it, he never stopped fluting for a quarter of an hour, setting his fingers very delicately, never losing his breath, and getting such sounds out of his miserable reed that you would have thought, at times, there were three bagpipes going at once. At other times he played so softly that you could hear the cricket indoors and the nightingales without; and when José played low I confess I liked it,—though the whole together was so little like what we were accustomed to that it seemed to me a crazy racket.
"Oh, oh!" I exclaimed, when he had finished; "that's a mad sort of music! Where the devil did you learn that? What is the use of it? Is there any meaning in it?"
He did not answer, and seemed as if he had not heard me. He was looking at Brulette, who was leaning against a chair with her face turned to the wall.
As she did not say a word, José was seized with a rush of anger either against her or against himself, and I saw him make a motion as if to break his flute; but just at that moment the girl looked round, and I was much surprised to see great tears running down her cheeks.
Joseph ran to her and caught her hands.
"Tell me what you feel, my darling!" he cried; "let me know if it is pity for me that makes you cry, or whether it is pleasure."
"I don't know how pleasure in a thing like that could make me cry," she said. "Don't ask me if I feel pain or pleasure; all that I know is that I can't help crying."
"But what were you thinking of while I played?" said Joseph, looking fixedly at her.
"So many things that I can't give account of them," replied Brulette.
"Well, tell me one," he said, in a tone that was impatient and dictatorial.
"I did not think of anything," said Brulette, "but a thousand recollections of old times came into my mind. I seemed not to see you playing, though I heard you clearly enough; you appeared to be no older than when we lived together, and I felt as if you and I were driven by a strong wind, sometimes through the ripe wheat, sometimes into the long grass, at other times upon the running streams; and I saw the fields, the woods, the springs, the flowery meadows, and the birds in the sky among the clouds. I saw, too, in my dream, your mother and my grandfather sitting before the fires, and talking of things I could not understand; and all the while you were in the corner on your knees saying your prayers, and I thought I was asleep in my little bed. Then again I saw the ground covered with snow, and the willows full of larks, and the nights full of falling stars; and we looked at each other, sitting on a hillock, while the sheep made their little noise of nibbling the grass. In short, I dreamed so many things that they are all jumbled up in my head; and if they made me cry, it was not for grief, but because my mind was shaken in a way I can't at all explain to you."
"It is all right," said José. "What I saw and what I dreamed as I played you saw too! Thank you, Brulette. Through you I know now that I am not crazy, and that there is a truth in what we hear within us, as there is in what we see. Yes, yes," he said, taking long strides up and down the room and holding his flute above his head, "it speaks!—that miserable bit of reed! it says what we think; it shows what we see; it tells a tale as if with words; it loves like the heart, it lives, it has a being! And now, José the madman, José the idiot, José the starer, go back to your imbecility; you can afford to do so, for you are as powerful, and as wise, and as happy as others!"
So saying, he sat down and paid no further attention to anything about him.