Part 27 (1/2)
”You may perhaps know him,” replied the farmer, touching the brim of his hat. ”He is employed on the line; his name is Francois Lumineau.”
The inspector said carelessly:
”Lumineau? Ah, yes, one of the men on the line. Been here four months?”
”Five,” returned the father.
”Maybe. A stout, red-faced fellow, somewhat lazy. Do you want to speak to him?”
”Yes.”
”Very well. If you know where he lives, go to him there. You can do your business with him when he goes home to his dinner. Foot pa.s.sengers are not allowed on the lines, my good man.” And as he went away, the inspector grumbled: ”These peasants think they have the right to go anywhere, as if they were in their own fields.”
The farmer controlling himself on Francois' account, made no reply. He left the railway station and began wandering among the broad, deserted streets with their rows of low-built houses on either side; rain had been falling since early morning. The people he stopped to inquire of did not know Cafe la Faucille, the name of which he had learned from the Maraichins who came to the fairs of La Roche. At length, by means of the sign-board, he found it out for himself, in the outskirts of the town. Like the others in the street it was a little one-storied house, with one window. Pus.h.i.+ng open the door, Toussaint Lumineau found himself in a coffee shop, furnished with deal tables, cane stools, and a gla.s.s cupboard, wherein were displayed bottles of wine and spirits, and on a counter at the foot were a few plates of cold meat, between two boxes of sweet biscuits. n.o.body was there. Lumineau took his stand in the middle of the shop; the bell, set ringing by the farmer's entrance, continued to sound more and more feebly. Before it had altogether ceased, an inner door opposite opened, emitting a whiff of cookery, and a woman, without cap, her hair very much dressed, came forward in a mincing manner.
Although he stood with his back to the light she at once recognised the new-comer, coloured vividly, let fall the corner of her ap.r.o.n she was holding in both hands, and stopped short.
”Oh,” she said, ”it is you, father! What a surprise! How long it is since we have seen you!”
”Yes, true. A very long time.”
She hesitated, glad to see her father, and not daring to say so, not knowing his object in coming, and whether she ought to ask him to sit down, to kiss him, or to keep her distance as one who may not hope to be forgiven.
Her eyes were fixed on him. However, the words, not hard, the gentle tones and voice that trembled, rea.s.sured her; and she asked:
”May I kiss you, father, despite all?”
He suffered her embrace, but did not return the kiss. Then sitting on a stool, while Eleonore went to the other side of the table, he looked at his daughter with melancholy curiosity to see in what way she had changed. Eleonore, standing near the wall, embarra.s.sed by the penetrating gaze, began fastening the collar of her grey woollen dress, drawing down the sleeves over her bare arms, then twisted a ring she was wearing on her right hand.
”I did not expect,” she stammered, casting down her eyes.... ”It has quite startled me to see you again! Francois will be astonished too.
He comes in at eleven every day, sometimes half-past. Father, you will have something to eat?”
He made a negative gesture.
”A gla.s.s of wine? You will not refuse that?”
For all answer, Toussaint Lumineau said:
”Do you know what has happened at home, Eleonore?”
Suddenly the slight amount of self-possession she had a.s.sumed left her. She drew back still further. Her light blue eyes a.s.sumed an expression of fear, while she glanced towards the street as if, perchance, the expected help were coming from that direction. Then, obliged to speak, leaning her head against the wall, with eyes downcast:
”Yes,” she said. ”He came to La Roche. He wanted to see Francois.”
”What!” exclaimed Toussaint Lumineau, rising and pus.h.i.+ng back the stool. ”Andre? You have spoken to Andre?”
”Very early on Monday he came. His face had a look on it that is always coming back to me when I am alone. Oh! a look as of a world of sorrow. He pushed open the door, like you did, and said: 'Francois, I am going away from La Fromentiere, because you are not there!' I am sure, father, it is a blow to you ... but do not be angry, for we said nothing to induce him to go. We were even sorry on your account.”
She had put out her hand as if to ward the old man off; but she saw at once that there was nothing to fear, and the outstretched hand fell beside the dingy plastered wall. For Toussaint Lumineau was crying as he looked at her. The tears were coursing down his face, wrinkled by suffering. He wanted to know everything, and asked:
”Did he speak of me?”