Part 9 (2/2)
”No.”
”Francois, it must be that military service has changed your heart towards us.”
”That may be.”
”But say that you will not leave us?”
The young man put his hand into his coat pocket, and held out the letter.
”I have to be there at noon to-morrow,” he said. ”If you don't believe me, read for yourself.”
The father stretched out his hand across the team for the letter, trembling so much that he could scarcely take it. Once in his hands, without opening it, in a sudden access of indignation he crumpled and tore it into atoms, then crushed the pieces under his sabots into the soft earth.
”There,” he cried, ”is an end to the letter. Now are you going?”
”That alters nothing,” returned Francois.
He would have pa.s.sed his father, but a powerful hand was laid upon his shoulders, a voice commanded:
”Stay here!”
And the son was constrained to stay.
”Who engaged you, Francois?”
”The head of the office.”
”No; who advised you? You did not do this thing by yourself, you had the help of some gentleman. Who was it?”
The young man hesitated for a moment, then, feeling himself a prisoner, stammered out:
”M. Meffray.”
With one thrust the farmer sent him flying.
”Run; harness La Rousse to the dog-cart. Quick! I am going myself to M. Meffray.”
So he shouted in his rage. But when he saw his son obey him and take the path towards the farm--when he found himself alone in the far end of his field, he was seized with anguish. So far he had ever found help in the difficulties of his life; this time, taken unawares by danger in the full swing of work, he turned him slowly round as if moved by habit, and searched the landscape as far as his eyes would carry, for a helper, a support, someone who should defend his cause and advise with him. His oxen standing still, looked at him out of their large soft eyes. The first object he saw, in among the trees, was the belfry of Sallertaine. He shook his head. No, the Cure, the good old friend he consulted so willingly, could do nothing. Toussaint Lumineau knew him to be powerless against town officials and authorities, all the great unknown outside the parish. His gaze left the church, pa.s.sed over the farm without stopping, but rested awhile on the pointed roofs of La Fromentiere. Ah! were the Marquis but there! He feared nothing: neither uniforms, nor t.i.tles, nor long words that poor uncultured people could not understand. And expense was nothing to him. He would have made the journey from Paris to prevent a _Maraichin_ from leaving the soil. Alas! the Chateau was empty. No longer the Master to appeal to.... The old farmer's eyes fell upon the two newly made furrows rising before him to the ash-tree on the hill; then it struck him that Mathurin was waiting and wondering, and that he must say something to prevent his growing uneasy.
”Ohe!” cried he, ”Lumineau!”
Over the curve of the hill, through the still air, a voice replied:
”Here I am. You are not coming up again?”
”No; the chain has snapped. I must take back the team.”
”All right.”
<script>