I saw that Brulette was inclined to blame Joseph very severely, and I thought I ought to defend him a little. "I don't approve of his conduct so far as it shows ingratitude to you, Thérence," I said, "but inasmuch as you are now able to judge him quite fairly, won't you admit that at the bottom of his heart there was a sense of respect for you and a fear of deceiving you? All the world is not like you, my beautiful girl of the woods, and I think that very few persons have a pure enough heart and courage enough to go straight to the point and tell things just as they are. You have an amount of strength and virtue in you of which Joseph, and many others in his place, would be wholly incapable."
"I don't understand you," said Thérence.
"I do," said Brulette; "Joseph feared, perhaps, to put himself in the way of being charmed by your beauty, and of loving you for that, without giving you his whole heart as you deserved."
"Oh!" cried Thérence, scarlet with wounded pride, "that is just what I complain of. Say it boldly. Joseph feared to entice me into wrong-doing. He took no account of my good sense or my honor. Well, his respect would have consoled me; his fear is humiliating. Never mind, Brulette, I forgive him, because I no longer suffer, and I feel myself above him; but nothing can ever take out of my heart the sense that Joseph was ungrateful to me, and took a low view of his duty. I would ask you to let us say no more about it, if I were not obliged to tell you the rest; but I must speak, otherwise you will not know what to think of my brother's conduct."
"Ah, Thérence!" said Brulette, "I long to know what were the consequences of that misfortune which troubled us all so much over there."
"My brother did not do as we expected," replied Thérence. "Instead of hiding his unfortunate secret in distant places, he retraced his steps at the end of a week, and went to find the Carmelite friar in his convent, which is over by Montluçon. 'Brother Nicolas,' he said to him, 'I can't live with such a weight on my heart. You told me to confess myself to God, but there is such a thing as justice on this earth; it may not be practised, but it is none the less a law from heaven. I must confess before men, and bear the blame and the penalty I deserve.' 'One moment, my son,' answered the friar; 'men invented the penalty of death, which God disapproves, and they might kill you deliberately for having killed another unintentionally.' 'That is not possible,' said my brother; 'I never intended to kill him, and I can prove it.' 'To prove it you must call witnesses,' said the monk, 'and that will compromise your comrades and your chief, who is my nephew, and no more a murderer than you in his heart; you will expose them all to be harassed by the law, and you will see them forced to betray the oaths of your fraternity. Come, stay here in my convent, and wait for me. I will undertake to settle the matter, provided you won't ask me too closely how I have done it.'
"Thereupon the friar went to consult his abbé, who sent him to the bishop, whom we call in our parts the chief priest, as they did in the olden time, and who is the bishop of Montluçon. The chief priest, who has a right to be heard by the chief judges, said and did things we know nothing about. Then he sent for my brother and said to him, 'My son, confess yourself to me as you would to God.' When Huriel had told him the whole truth, from end to end, the bishop said: 'Repent and do penance, my son. The matter is settled before men; you have nothing to dread in future; but you must appease the wrath of God, and in order to do that, I desire you to leave the company and brotherhood of the muleteers, who are men without religion and whose secret practices are contrary to the laws of heaven and earth.' My brother having humbly remarked to him that there were honest folk among them, the chief priest replied: 'So much the worse; if those honest folk refused to take the oaths they require, the society would cease to do evil, and would become a corporation of working-men as respectable as any other.' My brother thought over these words of the chief priest, and would have wished to reform the practices of his fraternity rather than do away with them altogether. He went to meet an assembly of muleteers and talked to them very sensibly,—so they told me; but after listening to him quietly, they answered that they neither could nor would change any of their customs. Whereupon he paid his forfeit and sold his mules, keeping only the clairin for our use. So Brulette, you are not going to see a muleteer, but a good, steady wood-cutter who works for his father."
"And who may find it very hard to get accustomed to such work," said Brulette, hiding the pleasure this news gave her.
"If he did find it hard to change his ways of life," answered Thérence, "he is well consoled when he remembers how afraid you were of the muleteers, and that in your country they are looked upon as an abomination. But now that I have satisfied your impatience to know how my brother got out of his troubles, I must tell you something more about Joseph, which may make you angry, Brulette, though it will also astonish you."
As Thérence said that with a spice of malice and a laugh, Brulette showed no uneasiness, and told her to explain.
"You must know," continued Thérence, "that we have spent the last three months in the forest of Montaigu, where we met Joseph, in good health, but serious as usual, and still wrapped up in himself. If you want to know where he now is, I will tell you that we have left him there with my father, who is helping him to get admitted to the association of bagpipers; for you know, or you don't know, that they too, are a fraternity, and have secret practices which others know nothing about. At first Joseph was rather embarrassed at seeing us. He seemed ashamed to speak to me and might have avoided us altogether if my father, after reproaching him for his want of confidence and friendship, had not pressed him to remain,—for he knew he could still be useful to him. When Joseph perceived that I was quite at my ease and had no unkind recollections, he made bold to ask for the return of our friendship, and he even tried to excuse his conduct; but my father, who would not let him lay a finger on my wound, turned the matter into a joke, and made him go to work, both in the woods and at his music, so as to bring the matter to an end as soon as possible. I was a good deal astonished that he never mentioned any of you, and I questioned him without getting a word out of him. Neither my brother nor I had heard anything of you (until last week, when we came through the village of Huriel). We were much worried about you, and my father told Joseph rather sharply that if he had letters from his own people he ought at least to tell us whether you were dead or alive. Joseph answered shortly, in a voice that sounded very hollow: 'Everybody is well, and so am I.' My father, who never beats about the bush, told him to speak out, but he answered stiffly, 'I tell you, master, that our friends over there are well and quite contented, and if you will give me your daughter in marriage I shall be contented too.' At first we thought he was crazy, and tried to make a joke of it, though his manner made us rather uneasy. But he returned to the subject two days later, and asked me if I had any regard for him. I took no other revenge for his tardy offer than to say, 'Yes, Joseph, I have as much regard for you as Brulette has.' He drew in his lips, lowered his head, and did not say another word. But my brother, having questioned him later, received this reply: 'Huriel, I no longer think of Brulette, and I beg you never to mention her to me again.' We could get nothing more out of him except that he was resolved, as soon as he should be received into the fraternity of bagpipers, to begin his service for a time in his own country, and prove to his mother that he was able to support her; after which he intended to take her to live with him in La Marche or the Bourbonnais, provided I would become his wife. This brought about a grand explanation between my father, my brother, and myself. Both tried to make me own that I might be induced to consent. But Joseph had come back too late for me, and I had made too many reflections about him. I quietly refused, feeling no longer any regard for him, and conscious also that he had none for me. I am too proud a girl to be taken as a remedy for disappointment. I supposed you had written him to put an end to his hopes."
"No," said Brulette, "I did not, and it is only by the mercy of God that he has forgotten me. Perhaps it was that he began to know you better, my Thérence."
"No, no," cried the girl of the woods, resolutely, "If it was not disappointment at your refusal, it was pique at my cure. He only cared for me because I had ceased to care for him. If that is his love, it is not mine, Brulette. All or nothing; yes for life, in all frankness; or no for life, with all freedom. There's that child waking up," she continued, interrupting herself, "and I want to take you to my new abode for a moment; it is in the old castle of Chassin."
"But won't you tell us," said Brulette, who was very much puzzled by all she heard, "how and why you are in this part of the country?"
"You are in too much of a hurry to know," replied Thérence; "I want you to see first."
Taking Brulette round the neck with her beautiful bare arm, well browned by the sun, she led her away without giving her time to take Charlot, whom she herself caught up like a bundle under her other arm, although he was now as heavy as a little calf.
The fief of Chassin was once a castle, as I have heard say, with seignorial rights and laws; but at the time of which I am telling, nothing remained of the building but the porch, which was a structure of some importance, heavily built, and so arranged that there were lodging-rooms on both sides of it. It seemed that the part of the building which I have called a porch, the use of which is difficult to explain at the present time (on account of its peculiar construction), was really a vaulted chamber leading to other buildings; for as to those that still remain around the courtyard, which are only miserable stables and dilapidated barns, I don't know what uses they could have been put to, or what comfort could have been found in them. There were still, at the time of which I am speaking, three or four unfurnished rooms which seemed quite ancient, but if any great lord ever took his pleasure in them he must have wanted very little of that article.
And yet it was among these ruins that happiness was awaiting some of those whose history I am telling you; and, as if there were something within each human being which tells him in advance of coming blessings, neither Brulette nor I saw anything sad or ugly in this old place. The grassy courtyard, surrounded on two sides by the ruins and on the other two by the moat and the little wood through which we passed; the great hedge, where I saw with surprise shrubs which are seen only in the gardens of the wealthy (showing that the place had once known care and beauty); the clumsy gateway, choked up with rubbish, where stone benches could still be seen, as if in former days some warder had had charge of this barrack then considered precious; the long brambles which ran from end to end of this squalid enclosure,—all these things, which made the whole place resemble a prison, closed, deserted, and forgotten, seemed as cheerful to our eyes as the springtide sun which was forcing its way in through the crevices and drying up the dampness. Perhaps, too, the sight of our old acquaintance, the clairin, who was feeding on the turf, gave us warning of the coming of a true friend. I think he recognized us, for he came up to be stroked, and Brulette could not refrain from kissing the white star on his forehead.
"This is my château," said Thérence, taking us into a room where her bed and other bits of furniture were already installed; "and there you see Huriel's room and my father's on the other side."
"Your father! then he is coming!" I cried, jumping for joy. "I am so glad, for there is no man under the sun I like better."
"And right you are," said Thérence, tapping my ear in sign of friendship. "And he likes you. Well, you will see him if you come back next week, and even—but it is too soon to speak of that. Here is the master."
Brulette blushed, thinking it was Huriel that Thérence meant; but it was only the foreign dealer who had bought the timber of the forest of Chassin.
I say "forest" because, no doubt, there were forests there once, which joined the small but beautiful growth of lofty trees that we saw beyond the river. As the name remains, it is to be supposed it was not bestowed for nothing. The conversation which ensued between Thérence and the wood-merchant explained to us very quickly the whole thing. He came from the Bourbonnais, and had long known the Head-Woodsman and his family as hard-working people who kept their word. Being in quest, through his business, of some tall masts for the king's navy, he had discovered these remains of a virgin forest (very rare indeed in our country), and had given the work of felling and trimming the trees to Père Bastien; and the latter had taken it all the more willingly because his son and daughter, knowing the place to be in our neighborhood, were delighted with the idea of spending the whole summer and perhaps part of the winter near us.
The Head-Woodsman was allowed the selection and management of his workmen under a contract with forfeiture between himself and the purchaser of the timber; and the latter had induced the owner of the estate to cede him the use, gratis, of the old castle, where he, a well-to-do tradesman, would have thought himself very ill-lodged, but where a family of wood-cutters might be far better off as the season grew late than in their usual lodges of logs and heather.
Huriel and his sister had arrived that morning; the one had immediately begun to install herself, the other had been making acquaintance with the wood, the land, and the people of the neighborhood.
We overheard the purchaser reminding Thérence, who talked business as well as any man, of a condition in his agreement with Père Bastien,—namely, that he would employ none but Bourbonnais workmen to prepare the trunks, inasmuch as they alone understood the work and would not spoil the finest pieces, like the laborers of our part of the country. "Very good," replied the woodland girl; "but for the branches and light-wood we shall employ whom we please. We do not think it wise to take all the work away from the people of the neighborhood, who might be annoyed and molest us in consequence. They are already ill-inclined to all who are not of their parish."
"Now listen, my dear Brulette," she said, when the dealer had departed, "it is my opinion that, if nothing detains you in your village, you might persuade your grandfather to employ his time very pleasantly here this summer. You have told me that he is still a good workman, and he would have to do with a good master,—I mean my father, who would let him work at his ease. You could lodge here at no expense and we would share the housekeeping together."
Then, while Brulette was burning with the desire to say yes, but not daring to betray herself, Thérence added, "If you hesitate, I shall think your heart is given in your own village and that my brother has come too late."
"Too late!" cried a ringing voice which came from the ivy-covered window. "God grant that those words be false!"
And Huriel, handsome and fresh-looking as he always was when the charcoal no longer concealed him, sprang into the room and caught Brulette in his arms to kiss her on the cheeks; for he wouldn't stand on ceremony, and he had no notion of the rather icy behavior of the people in our parts. He seemed so glad, and talked so loud, and laughed so heartily that she could not be angry with him. He kneaded me like a bit of dough and jumped about the room as if joy and friendship had the effect of new wine.
All of a sudden he spied Charlot and stopped short, tried to look away, forced himself to say a few words which had no connection with the child, then sat down on his sister's bed and turned so pale that I thought he was going to faint away.
"What's the matter with him?" cried Thérence, amazed. Then, touching his head, she said, "Good heavens, it is a cold sweat! Do you feel ill?"
"No, no," said Huriel, rising and shaking himself. "It is joy—the sudden excitement—it is nothing."
Just then the mother of the bride came to ask why we had left the wedding, and whether Brulette or the child were ill. Seeing that we were detained by the company of strangers, she very politely invited Huriel and Thérence to come with us to the feast and to the dance. This woman, who was my aunt, being the sister of my father and Brulette's deceased father, seemed to me to know the secret of Charlot's birth; for she had asked no questions and had taken great care of him when brought to her house. I had even heard of her saying that he was a relative, and the people of Chassin had no suspicion about the child.
As Huriel, who was still troubled in mind, merely thanked my aunt without giving any decided answer, Thérence roused him with the remark that Brulette was obliged to go back to the wedding, and that if he did not go he might lose his opportunity of bringing about what they both desired. Huriel, however, was still uneasy and hesitating, when Brulette said to him, "Do you really not wish to dance with me to-day?"
"Do you speak true, Brulette?" he said, looking her in the eye. "Do you wish me for a partner?"
"Yes," she said, "for I remember how well you dance."
"Is that the only reason why you wish for me?"
Brulette was embarrassed, thinking that the fellow was too much in a hurry, yet not daring to play off her former coquettish little airs, so fearful was she of seeing him hurt or disappointed again. But Thérence tried to help her out by reproaching Huriel for asking too much the first day.
"You are right, sister," he answered. "And yet I cannot behave differently. Hear me, Brulette, and forgive me. You must promise to have no other partner but me at this wedding, or I cannot go at all."
"What a funny fellow!" cried my aunt, who was a lively little woman and took all things for the best. "A lover of yours, my Brulette? I see that plainly; and no half-hearted one either! But, my lad," she added, turning to Huriel, "I would have you know that it is not the custom in these parts to show all you feel; and no one dances several times running with a girl unless there has been promise of heart and hand."
"It is here as it is with us, my good dame," replied Huriel; "nevertheless, with or without promise of her heart, Brulette must now promise me her hand for the whole dance."
"If she wishes it, I shall not prevent her," said my aunt, "she is a sensible girl, who knows very well how to behave. I have done my duty in warning her that she will be talked about."
"Brother," said Thérence, "I think you are crazy. Is that the way to do with Brulette, whom you know to be so reserved, and who has never yet given you the rights you claim?"
"Yes, I may be mad, and she may be shy," said Huriel, "but all the same my madness must gain the day and her shyness lose it, and at once. I ask nothing more of her than to allow me to dance with her to the end of this wedding. If after that she does not wish to hear of me again, she is mistress of her actions."
"That is all very well," said my aunt, "but the harm will then have been done, and if you withdraw from her then who will repair it?"
"She knows that I shall not withdraw," said Huriel.
"If you know that," said my aunt to Brulette, "why don't you explain yourself? I really can't understand this matter at all. Did you engage yourself to this lad in the Bourbonnais?"
"No," said Huriel, without giving Brulette time to answer. "I have never asked her, never! What I now ask of her she, and she alone, without consulting any one, must decide to grant or not, as she chooses."
Brulette, trembling like a leaf, had turned to the wall and was hiding her face in her hands. If she was glad to find Huriel so resolute about her, she was also annoyed that he had no compassion for her natural hesitation and timidity. She was not made, like Thérence, to speak out a noble "yes" before all the world; so being, and not knowing how else to get out of the matter, she took refuge in her eyes and began to cry.