Part 29 (2/2)
At times an expression of anguish crossed the face of Toussaint Lumineau as he followed with his eyes the quivering points of the osiers Rousille held out to him, as though they had been the masts of s.h.i.+ps labouring in the ocean. At other times he would look long and lingeringly at his one remaining child, and Rousille knew that she was fair to look upon. A violent squall struck the elm-trees, stripping them clear of leaves, and beating their branches against the roof of La Fromentiere. The rainspouts, the tiles, the rafters and walls, the very lizards in the barn groaned and creaked together--and the storm-cry groaned, wildly and madly, over the Marais.
Three hundred leagues away the melancholy whistle of a sirene awoke the echoes, the screw of a huge steamer parted the waters of the river and drew away slowly from sh.o.r.e, as though yet half inert and drifting. No sooner did the emigrants, outcasts of the old world, poor and hopelessly miserable, feel themselves afloat, than they were terrified. The thoughts of all on board flew back to their deserted homes. It was in the darkness of night that Andre Lumineau went forth.
The farmer threw back a handful of osiers into the vat, saying:
”Let us go in. My old hands can work no longer.”
But he did not stir. The man, alone, ceased chopping the poles of chestnut wood, and left the barn. Rousille, seeing that her father made no movement to rise, stayed where she was.
CHAPTER XVI.
HER FATHER'S BIDDING.
Evening had come, the evening of a February day, which casts its shadow so soon. Through the door of the barn came only a deceptive gleam, like that of a smouldering cinder, blotting out all form.
Toussaint Lumineau's arms had sunk on either side of his body; still sitting on the joist, his face uplifted in the dusk, he waited till the man should have crossed the yard. When he had seen the door of the house-place, where Mathurin was watching, open and shut, he lowered his eyes to his daughter.
”Rousille,” he said, ”are you still of the same mind concerning Jean Nesmy?”
The girl, kneeling on the ground, her profile indistinct in the darkness, slowly raised her head and stooped forward as though better to see him who spoke in so unexpected a manner. But she had nothing to conceal, she was not one of those who are timid and fearful; she only quieted her beating heart, which could have cried aloud with joy, and said, with apparent calm:
”Always, father. I have given him my love, and shall never withdraw it. Now that Andre is gone, I quite understand that I cannot leave you to go and live in the Bocage. But I shall never marry; I will stay with you and serve you.”
”Then you will not forsake me as they have done?”
”No, father, never.”
Her father rested his hand upon her shoulder, and the girl felt herself enveloped in a tenderness. .h.i.therto unknown. A hymn of thanksgiving pa.s.sed from soul to soul. Around them the wind and rain were raging.
”Rousille,” resumed the farmer, ”I have no longer a son to lean upon.
Andre was the last to betray me. Francois has refused to come back.
And yet La Fromentiere must continue ours.”
A firm, sweet voice answered:
”It must.”
”Then, little one,” continued her father, ”your wedding bells must ring!”
Rousille dared not understand. Still on her knees she drew a little closer so as to touch her father. She longed that daylight would come back to reveal the expression of the eyes fixed upon her. But the darkness was impenetrable.
”I had always hoped,” continued the farmer, ”that there would be one of my name to carry on the farm after me. G.o.d has refused me my desire. As for you, Rousille, I should have liked to have given you to a Maraichin like ourselves; one in like position, and from our part. Perhaps it was pride. Things have not turned out according to my wishes. Do you think that Jean Nesmy will consent to come back to La Fromentiere?”
”I am certain of it! I can answer for him. He will come back!”
<script>