Part 11 (1/2)
”No,” he said, ”the thing is done; you will not make me alter it.
Besides, I arranged with Eleonore, who must have left La Fromentiere by now. You will not find her there when you go back.” He had taken off his hat in farewell, and was looking uneasily at his old father, who, leaning against the shaft with half-closed eyes, seemed about to swoon. Under the colonnade of the Halles there was not a soul; a few women in their shops round the Place were carelessly looking at the two men. After a moment, Francois drew a little nearer and held out his hand, doubtless to clasp that of his father for the last time; but seeing him approach the old man revived, motioned his son away, sprang into the cart, and las.h.i.+ng up La Rousse, drove off at a gallop.
CHAPTER VI.
THE APPEAL TO THE MASTER.
Eleonore had suffered herself to be persuaded. She had left her home.
Weak, and easily led, she had for months past listened too readily to the promptings of vanity and laziness, which, censured by her father at La Fromentiere, could be yielded to at will in the town. To have no more baking to do, no more cows to milk, to be in some sort a lady, to wear a hat trimmed with ribbons--such were the reasons for which she went out into the unknown, with only her brother, who would be away all day, for protector. Eleonore had yielded from force of example, and in complete ignorance of the step she was taking. Thus she cast herself adrift, and exposed herself to life in a suburb, to the familiarities of frequenters of the cafe, without dreaming of its dangers, with the utter ignorance of the peasant who knows nothing beyond the troubles incidental to life in the country.
The separation was accomplished. At the moment that the farmer drove away, intent upon the hope of still recovering his children, Eleonore had hurriedly left the shelter of the barn where she had been hiding, and, despite the entreaties of Marie-Rose and even of Mathurin, going from room to room she had hurriedly collected the little store of personal clothing and trinkets belonging to her. To all Rousille's pleading, as to the calmer adjurations of Mathurin, she had replied:
”It is Francois' wish, my dears! I cannot tell if I shall be happy; but it is too late now. My promise is given.”
She was so greatly in fear of seeing her father come back that she was almost frenzied with haste. Quickly she made up her bundle, went out from La Fromentiere, and reached the hollow road, where, crouching beneath the hedge, she waited for the steam tram that runs between Fromentiere and Chalons. There some hours later Francois was to rejoin her.
Meanwhile the farmer, driving La Rousse at her greatest speed, had returned home.
”Eleonore!” he had cried.
”Gone,” Mathurin had answered.
Then, half-mad with grief, the old man had flung the reins across the steaming beast, and without a word of explanation had stridden away in the direction of Sallertaine. Had he been actuated by a last hope and idea? Or did his deserted house inspire him with dread?
Night was falling. He had not yet returned. A damp, encircling mist, silent as death, enveloped all around. In the living-room of La Fromentiere, beside the fire that no one tended, beside the simmering pot that murmured as if in low plaint, the two remaining inmates of the farm sat watching, but how differently! Rousille, nervous, burning with fever, could not keep still; she was for ever rising from her chair, clasping her hands, and murmuring: ”My G.o.d, my G.o.d!” then going to the open door to look out, s.h.i.+vering, into the dark, thick night.
”Listen!” she said.
The cripple listened, then said:
”It is the goatherd of Malabrit taking home his flock.”
”Listen again!”
A distant sound of barking, borne on the silent air, died away in the stillness.
”That is not Bas-Rouge's bark,” returned Mathurin.
So from hour to hour, and minute to minute, a step, a cry, the rolling of a vehicle, would keep their senses on the alert.
What were they expecting? Their father, who came not. But Rousille, younger, more credulous, was expecting the others too, or if not both, at least one, either Francois or Eleonore, who, repentant--was it too much to hope--had come back. Oh, what joy it would be, what rapture to see one of them! It seemed as if the other would have the right to go if one came back to take his place in the home. The young girl felt raised out of herself as a vague sense of duty came over her; she, the only woman, the only one to act in her deserted home.
Mathurin sat in a stooping posture by the hearth, his feet wrapped in a rug, the glow of the fire reddening the beard crushed beneath his chin. For hours he had sat so, never moving, speaking as little as possible; from time to time tears rolled down his cheeks; at other times Rousille, looking at him, was astonished to see the shadow of a smile cross his face--a smile she could in nowise understand.
Nine o'clock struck.
”Mathurin,” exclaimed the girl, ”I am afraid that some misfortune has befallen father.”
”He may be talking over his trouble with the Cure, or the Mayor.”