Part 16 (1/2)

Adoration of the Holy One; forgetfulness of earth; pardon for sin; union in prayer; equality of all men in the light of eternal promises.

The tones rang out into s.p.a.ce and interlocked with a vibration, and were as garlands flung from one belfry to another. Among the toilers of the fields, cattle drivers, sowers, there were but few who did not obey the summons. Along roads deserted all the week were to be seen families hastening, pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing one another, of those who lived at the remotest portions of the parish; while those who lived nearer took it more leisurely. On the ca.n.a.l, which, broadening at the foot of the church, forms the quay of Sallertaine, boats were constantly moving hither and thither.

Towards evening the bells had ceased; the frequenters of inn parlours too had betaken themselves to their farms, lying peacefully in the light of the setting sun. Universal silence reigned over the land.

Quiet as it was on working-days, at the close of the week it seemed sunk in meditation and silence; dominical truce that had its great significance, when weary souls refresh themselves, and whole families unite in calm and meditation to review their living and their dead.

But to-day the quiet was to be of short duration.

Mathurin and Andre were lying under the shade of the elms that afforded provisional shelter to the harrows and ploughs close by the old stonework gateway. The cripple, leaning against the cross-bars of a harrow, was resting after the fatigue and excitement of the morning.

Andre, from concern for him, had not gone into town again with his father, but lying at full-length on the gra.s.s was reading the paper aloud, pausing every now and then to make his comments on the news, and, as a travelled man, to explain the whereabouts of places and countries--Clermont Ferrand, India, j.a.pan, the while twirling his little fair moustache, a very youthful and ingenuous self-sufficiency showing itself in his frank, merry face. At about four o'clock, to the left of Sallertaine, was heard the sound of a bugle, coming apparently from the open marsh between the parishes of Lumineau and Seullans.

Mathurin roused from the torpor into which he had sunk, looked at Andre, who at the first sound of the bugle had let fall the paper, and with uplifted face and straining ears was listening to the call.

”It is the cadets,” said his brother, ”they are out this afternoon.

Soon they will be leaving.”

”They are playing the call of the 'Cha.s.seurs d'Afrique,'” returned Andre, a light in his eyes. ”I recognise it. Is there anyone of our old regiment in the Marais?”

”Yes, the son of a gooseherd in Fief; he served his time with the Zouaves.”

They were silent, both men listening to the bugling of the ex-Zouave, their thoughts very different. Andre with eyes fixed on the distant marshland was seeing in imagination a white town, with narrow streets, and a troop of hors.e.m.e.n emerging from a crenulated gateway, its arches echoing with the ring of their horses' hoofs.

Mathurin, watching the expression on his brother's face, thought: ”His heart is still with the regiment.” For an instant his features distended, his eyes dilated as those of a wild beast detecting its prey, then he returned to his one idea.

”Driot,” he exclaimed after a while, ”you like that music?”

”I should think so.”

”Do you regret the regiment?”

”No, that I don't. No one does.”

”Then what was the attraction out there?”

The young man looked inquiringly into his brother's face as though to say, why should he want to know, then answered:

”The country----Hark! that's the reveille now.”

The sounds of the bugle, sharp, incisive, stopped. Now five or six strong untrained voices struck up ”Le chant du depart.” Occasional words reached the listeners where they lay. ”Mourir pour la patrie ...

le plus beau ... d'envie.” The rest was lost in s.p.a.ce.

Meanwhile the sounds were approaching; the two brothers motionless under the elms, each pursuing the train of thought evoked by the first notes of the bugle, could hear the conscripts of Sallertaine coming up the hill towards them.

Toussaint Lumineau, on his way home from vespers with his friend Ma.s.sonneau, heard them also. Ma.s.sonneau, an old tenant farmer, tall and thin, with skin as dark as a ripe ear of corn, the cartilages of his neck standing out like the breast-bone of a fowl, had acquired his name of ”Le Glorieux” from a nervous twitch he had, which caused his chin to jerk upwards at every instant; Lumineau and he were discussing the latest events of La Fromentiere. The two men represented the age and wisdom of the Marais; moreover, they could tell the names and nicknames of every living soul at Sallertaine, their history and parentage. As they reached the last houses of the town, both simultaneously stopped and turned their faces windward.

”Do you hear, Glorieux?” exclaimed Lumineau. ”They are bugling and singing, poor boys! But the parents of those who are going may well weep.”

”Yes,” returned Ma.s.sonneau, with a twitch of the chin, ”the parents are to be pitied.”

”I could name them, everyone, from only hearing their lad's voices,”